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diff --git a/old/13030-8.txt b/old/13030-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..20b60bd --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13030-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25803 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The German Classics of The Nineteenth and +Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IX, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IX + Friedrich Hebbel and Otto Ludwig + +Author: Various + +Release Date: July 26, 2004 [EBook #13030] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMAN CLASSICS *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Jayam Subramanian and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +VOLUME IX + + + +FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +OTTO LUDWIG + + + + + +THE GERMAN CLASSICS + +Masterpieces of German Literature + + + + +TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH + + + +Patrons' Edition IN TWENTY VOLUMES + + + + +ILLUSTRATED + +1914 + + + +CONTENTS OF VOLUME IX + + +Friedrich Hebbel + + The Life of Friedrich Hebbel. By William Guild Howard + + Maria Magdalena. Translated by Paul Bernard Thomas + + Siegfried's Death. Translated by Katherine Royce + + Anna. Translated by Frances H. King + + On Theodor Körner and Heinrich von Kleist. Translated by Frances H. King + + Ludolf Wienbarg's _The Dramatists of the Present Day_. Translated by + Frances H. King + + Review of Heinrich von Kleist's Play, _The Prince of Homburg, or The + Battle of Fehrbellin_. Translated by Frances H. King + + Recollections of My Childhood. Translated by Frances H. King Extracts + from the Journal of Friedrich Hebbel + + +Otto Ludwig + + The Life of Otto Ludwig. By Alexander R. Hohlfeld + + The Hereditary Forester. Translated by Alfred Remy + + Between Heaven and Earth. Translated by Muriel Almon + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME IX + + +Summer Day. By Arnold Bucklin Frontispiece + +Friedrich Hebbel 2 + +Death as Cup-Bearer. By Alfred Rethel 30 + +Death Playing the Finale at the Masquerade. By Alfred Rethel 60 + +Death as Friend. By Alfred Rethel 78 + +Title Page of the Nibelungenlied. By Peter Cornelius 82 + +Siegfried's Return from the Saxon War. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 100 + +The Quarrel of the Queens. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 122 + +Kriemhild finds the Slain Siegfried. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 150 + +Kriemhild accuses Hagen of the Murder of Siegfried. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 170 + +The Battle between the Huns and the Nibelungs. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 190 + +Gunther and Hagen brought Captive before Kriemhild. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 222 + +The Death of Kriemhild. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 246 + +Otto Ludwig 268 + +The Finding of Moses. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 300 + +Moses on Mt. Sinai. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 330 + +Jacob and Rachel at the Well. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 360 + +Jacob's Journey. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 390 + +David being Stoned by Sinei. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 420 + +The Death of Eli. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 450 + +Josiah hears the Law. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 480 + +The Prophet Jeremiah. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 510 + + + + +EDITOR'S NOTE + +The painters represented here alongside with the two writers to whom +this volume is devoted, are Cornelius, Schnorr von Carolsfeld, Rethel, +and Kaulbach. These men were not only contemporary with Hebbel and +Ludwig, but may indeed be called their artistic counterparts. Though +widely differentiated by individual temper and talent, these painters +and poets belong to the same phase of mid-century German literature and +art: the striving of Romanticism beyond itself, the struggle for a new +style uniting depth of feeling and terseness of delineation, the longing +for a new view of life harmonizing the worship of the past with the +demands of modern society and the problems of the day. Hence the heroic +note in the work of these painters and poets, hence their predilection +for great historical or mythological or religious subjects, hence their +leaning toward tragic conflicts in every day situations, hence their all +too conscious striving for pointed effects; hence, also, the inspiring +influence emanating from their best productions. + +KUNO FRANCKE. + + + + +THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + + + +By WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M., + +Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University + + +The greatest German dramatists of the middle of the nineteenth century +were Franz Grillparzer, Friedrich Hebbel, and Otto Ludwig. In a caustic +epigram written in 1855, Grillparzer set forth that Dame Poetry, for +some years a widow and now ailing, needed a husband, but could find +none; and we remember that the heroine of _Libussa_ rejects the wise +Lapak, the strong Biwoy, and the rich Domaslaw because she desires in +one man, united, the qualities which separately dominate the three. With +more charity, Grillparzer might have more fully recognized the poet in +Hebbel or Ludwig; but we may be permitted to think of these three +dramatists as not unlike the three suitors for the hand of Libussa: +Grillparzer was rich, Ludwig was wise, and Hebbel was strong. Each of +them was somewhat deficient in the qualities of the other two; each, +however, was a personality, and Hebbel one of the most powerful that +ever lived. + +Hebbel's career is a long battle against all but insuperable obstacles. +Born at Wesselburen in the present province of Schleswig-Holstein on +March 18, 1813, he was the son of a poor stone mason--so poor that, as +Hebbel said, poverty had taken the place of his soul. Though Klaus +Hebbel was a well-meaning man, he was a slave to the inexorable _non +possumus_ of penury. In winter, especially, lack of work made even the +provision of daily bread often difficult and sometimes impossible for +him. But Friedrich Hebbel's childhood, full of hardship as it was, was +not cheerless. The father did what he could; and the mother, at whatever +sacrifice to herself, could nearly always do something for the children. +The greatest hardship was caused by the father's hostility to these +maternal concessions to childish desires; for to him, whose life was +labor, unproductive use of time was a crime. He thought it a matter of +course that his son should become a laboring man like himself, and it is +little less than a miracle that this did not happen. The mother, to be +sure, fostered the boy's more ambitious hopes; the death of the father +in Hebbel's fourteenth year was perhaps a blessing in disguise; +undoubtedly the happiest chance in Hebbel's boyhood, so far as external +events are concerned, was the fact that he won the favor of a real +teacher in his schoolmaster Dethlefsen, who not only gave his education +the proper start, but also recommended him, as his best scholar, to the +local magistrate, J.J. Mohr. + +For nearly eight years (1827 to 1835) Hebbel was in Mohr's employ, first +as an errand boy, and ultimately as a clerk, to whom more and more +official business was intrusted. He lived in the household of his +superior, continued in the magistrate's library the assiduous reading +which he had begun with Dethlefsen's books, and acquired, along with the +habits of official accuracy, something of the ways of a higher social +station than that to which he had been born. His contact with the world +of affairs and with litigation also considerably broadened his outlook, +though it was often the seamy side of life that he saw, and his own +early necessities had sharpened his sense of the essential tragedy of +existence. Among the young people of the town Hebbel was as active and +inventive as any; he wrote verses, took part in amateur theatricals, and +was a leader in many undertakings that had not amusement as their sole +object. + +From the beginning Hebbel shows extraordinary sensitiveness to esthetic +appeal and a disposition to dreamy imaginativeness. The Bible, the +Protestant hymnal, pre-classical prose and poetry of the eighteenth +century, as well as contemporary romantic fiction, including Jean Paul, +Hoffmann, and Heine, touched his fancy and stirred him to emulation. + +[Illustration: FRIEDRICH HEBBEL] + +As a boy, he is said to have composed a tragedy _Evolia, the Captain of +Robbers_, which his mother confiscated and burned. His early poems are +echoes of Klopstock, Matthisson, Hölty, Bürger, and other predecessors; +but especially of Schiller, whose moral seriousness and sonorous +language alike inspired the serious and rhetorically gifted youth. The +influence of Schiller, however, marks no epoch in the poetic development +of Hebbel; it dominates the period of adolescence. The sense of poetry +was aroused in him as a boy, he said, by Paul Gerhardt's hymn "The woods +are now at rest" (_Nun ruhen alle Wãlder_); the discovery of what poetry +is he made in 1830, when he read Uhland's _Minstrel's Curse_ and +perceived that the sole principle of art is not to write, like Schiller, +eloquently about ideas, but "to make in a particular phenomenon the +universal intuitively perceptible." + +Having published poems and stories from 1829 on in a local newspaper, +Hebbel, in 1831, seeking a wider audience at the same time that he +longed for a larger sphere of activity, submitted specimens of his work +to Amalie Schoppe in Hamburg, the editress of a fashion paper; and in +this and the following years she printed a considerable number of his +productions. Moreover, she took a genuine personal interest in his +ambitions; and after several plans had proved abortive, she succeeded +in collecting for him a small sum of money and the promise of other +material aid in a plan that should give a firm foundation for the +structure of his hopes: he should come to Hamburg and prepare for the +study of law. Accordingly, on the fourteenth of February, 1835, he left +his modest but secure position in Wesselburen for the alluring great +world where he felt that he belonged, but where he was destined to toil +and to suffer, in a struggle for existence which only a hardy +North-German peasant could have endured. + +Hebbel came to Hamburg as a young man of twenty-two, far ahead of his +years in knowledge, judgment, and capacity, but still unacquainted with +rudimentary things belonging to higher education, such as Latin grammar. +He could not find the right tone in dealing with his benefactors, and he +suffered unspeakable humiliation in the conflict of a proud and +independent spirit with the subjection which inconsiderate well-wishers +imposed upon him. He learned more by private reading and by association +with students in a Scientific Society than he learned in school; and to +one woman, Elise Lensing, who became his friend and angel of mercy, he +owed more than to the whole aggregation of those who gave him money and +meals. Somewhat more than eight years his senior, in respect to +experience of the world and training in the finer graces of life his +superior, she aided, encouraged, and loved him, well aware that his +feeling for her was, at the most, admiration and gratitude, and that the +intimate union and companionship which soon became for him an +indispensable solace could never lead to marriage. + +In Hamburg Hebbel began the diary which, continued throughout his life, +is the most valuable source of information about him that we have, and +which, being the repository of his meditations as well as the record of +his experiences, is one of the most remarkable documents of the kind +ever composed. He wrote and published a number of poems, and began +several short stories. More significant, however, was the development +of his critical faculty, which found in the Scientific Society a free +field for exercise. Here, on the twenty-eighth of July, 1835, Hebbel +read a paper on Theodor Körner and Heinrich von Kleist which, in spite +of a rather juvenile tone, shows a maturity of insight quite +unparalleled in the critical literature of that day. It is greatly to +Hebbel's credit, and was to his profit, as the sequel showed, that +against the opinion of his generation he could demonstrate the poetic +excellence of Kleist and could distinguish in Körner between the heroic +patriot and the mediocre poet; for it was a dramatic masterpiece that +Hebbel analyzed in Kleist's _Prince of Hamburg_, and in this analysis he +formulated views that remained the canons of all his subsequent activity +as a playwright. The study of Kleist gave him for the drama the same +sort of illumination that Uhland had given him for lyric poetry. + +Though Hebbel was unable to acquire in Hamburg a certificate of +preparedness for the university, he soon felt ready for university +studies, and after some difficulty persuaded his benefactors to give him +the balance of the fund that they had collected, and consent to his +going to Heidelberg. In March, 1836, he departed thither, with less than +eighty thalers in his pocket. He could be admitted only as a special +student; nevertheless, he was hospitably received by members of the +faculty of law, and attended their lectures. But the romantic scenery of +Heidelberg, and, the reading of Goethe and Shakespeare, whom he now for +the first time studied thoroughly, were more fruitful and suggestive to +him than jurisprudence, however much he was interested in "cases" as +examples of human experience. Such a "case" he treated in _Anna_, the +first short story with which he was satisfied, and which indeed is +worthy of his model in this _genre_, Kleist. Other narratives, and a few +poems, testify to a closer approach to nature and a less morbid attitude +toward life than had appeared in the earlier works. Hebbel was now +finishing his apprenticeship, wisely restraining the impulse to +dramatize until in the less exacting forms he had mastered the means of +expression. But everything pointed toward literature as a calling, and +before the year was out Hebbel resolved to migrate to Munich, still, to +be sure, a student, but from the moment of his arrival living there +under the name and title of _Literat_. + +The journey to Munich Hebbel made afoot, leaving Heidelberg on September +12, 1836. He passed through Strassburg, and thought of Goethe as he +climbed the tower of the cathedral; he visited the Suabian poets at +Stuttgart and Tübingen, and was deeply disappointed with the kindly but +undemonstrative Uhland; and he reached Munich on September the +twenty-ninth. Here he remained until March, 1839. + +Hebbel's two and a half years in Munich, years of solitude, unheard-of +privation, illness, and battling against despair, came near to wearing +out the physical man, and were, through long-continued insufficient +nourishment, the cause of the disease to which he finally succumbed; but +they were also the finishing school of the personality that henceforth +unflinchingly faced the world and demanded to be heard. Hebbel provided +for his material needs partly by journalistic work, to which he was +ill-adapted, but chiefly through the limitless bounty of Elise +Lensing--for months at a time the only being with whom, and only by +correspondence, he had human intercourse. He heard the lectures of +Schelling and Görres at the university; but, as at Heidelberg, he, +gained most by prodigious reading in literature, history; and +philosophy. His savage melancholy found relief in grimly humorous +narratives and gloomy poems. At the time of his greatest wretchedness he +conceived the plots of comedies, "ridiculing something by the +representation of nothing." But we note that his reading now begins to +suggest to him innumerable subjects for tragedies, such as Napoleon, +Alexander the Great, Julian the Apostate, the Maid of Orleans, Judith +and Holofernes, Golo and Genoveva,--all of them characters the key to +whose destiny lay in their personalities, and in whom Hebbel saw the +destiny of mankind typified. Still more directly, however, the tragedy +of human life was brought home to him--not merely through his personal +struggle for existence, but through the death of Emil Rousseau, a dear +friend who had followed him from Heidelberg to Munich, the death of his +mother, for whose necessities he had of late been able to do but little, +and misfortune in the family of Anton Schwarz, a cabinet maker, with +whose daughter, Beppy, Hebbel had been on too intimate terms. Hebbel's +dramas _Judith_, _Genoveva_, and _Maria Magdalena_ all germinated during +these terrible years of the sojourn in Munich. + +But the actual output of these years was not large. Attempts to publish +a volume of poems and a volume of short stories had failed. +Nevertheless, Hebbel was no longer an unknown quantity in the world of +letters when, in the early spring of 1839, he decided to return to +Hamburg. Hope of aid from Campe, Heine's publisher, and from Gutzkow, +the editor of a paper published by Campe, encouraged this decision. But +Hebbel was really going home, going back to Elise, after having +accomplished the purpose of his pilgrimage, even though for lack of +money he could not take with him a doctor's degree. He came as a man who +could do things for which the world gives a man a living. The return +journey, lasting from the eleventh to the thirty-first of March, 1839, +amid alternate freezing and thawing, was a tramp, than which only the +retreat from Moscow could have been more frightful; but Hebbel +accomplished it, more concerned for the little dog that accompanied him +than for his own sufferings. And it appeared that he had wisely chosen +to return; for he found opportunity for critical work in Gutzkow's +_Telegraph_, and Campe published the works which in rapid succession he +now completed: _Judith_ (1840), _Genoveva_ (1841), _The Diamond_ (1841; +printed in 1847), and _Poems_ (1842). + +These publications won fame for Hebbel and yielded some immediate +pecuniary gain. But although he had reached the goal of his ambition in +having become a poet, and a dramatist whose first play had appeared on +the stage, he still lacked a settled occupation and a sure income. +Having been born a Danish subject, he conceived the idea of a direct +appeal to Christian VIII. of Denmark for such an appointment as the king +might be persuaded to give him. In spite of the unacademic course of his +studies and his lack of strictly professional training, he thought of a +professorship of esthetics at Kiel. Even in those days, when +professorships could be had on easier terms than now, this was a wild +dream. But Hebbel did not appeal to his sovereign in vain. He spent the +winter of 1842-43 in Copenhagen, where the Danish-German dramatist +Oehlenschläger smoothed his path to royal favor; and after two audiences +with Christian VIII. he was granted a pension of six hundred thalers a +year for two years, in order that by traveling he might learn more of +the world and cultivate his poetic talents. His first expression of +gratitude for this privilege was the tragedy _Maria Magdalena_, begun at +Hamburg in May, finished at Paris in December, 1843, and dedicated to +the king. + +Hebbel's departure for Paris, in September, 1843, did not mean for him +what Heine's settlement there twelve years before had meant for +Heine--the beginning of a new life. Hebbel's knowledge of French was +very imperfect, and he was as much isolated in Paris as he had been in +Munich; he did not seek stimulus from without so much as freedom to +develop the ideas that were teeming in his mind. When he left Hamburg, +however, he was destined never to return thither except as a visitor, +and started on the long, roundabout way to an unforeseen new home in +Vienna. He had been but little over a month in Paris when he learned of +the death of the little son that Elise had borne him three years before. +He was deeply grieved both for himself and for the despairing mother, to +whom he offered all the comfort he could give, not excepting marriage, +as soon as he should ever be able to provide for her. In May, 1844, +Elise bore him another son who, dying in 1847, was never seen by his +father. Hebbel did not forget what he owed to the mother of his +children, but he felt the debt more and more as an obligation, in the +fulfilment of which there was no prospect of satisfaction to either. +Despite the fact that she had a hundred times declared to him that he +was free, all her dreaming and planning tended solely to keep him bound. +He, who had been her pupil, had now far outgrown her capacity to +understand his endeavors and achievements; and he felt that he could +sacrifice much for her, but not himself, his personality, and his +mission. And so the unwholesome relation wore on, with aggravating +burdensomeness, to the inevitable crisis. + +In the fall of 1844 Hebbel journeyed from Paris to Rome. He had met few +notables in Paris--Heine, Felix Bamberg, and Arnold Ruge almost complete +the tale--but in Italy he, like Goethe, made the acquaintance of a group +of German artists, and followed their leadership in the study of ancient +art. He enjoyed this study in natural, unaffected appreciation of the +beautiful; and a certain artistic polish distinguishes the poems which +nature and art in Italy inspired him to write. The Italian journey, +however, was far from being a renaissance to him as it had been to +Goethe. Hebbel remained a Northern artist. Vesuvius impressed him, but +Pompeii proved a disappointment; it was laid out, he said, like any +other city. He departed from Rome in October, 1845, richer in the +friendship of distinguished men--including Hermann Hettner--and in +accumulated experience, but not as one to whom the _Ponte Molle_ is a +bridge of sighs. + +Hebbel's design was to return to Hamburg by way of Vienna. In Vienna, +which he reached on the fourth of November, 1845, he was cordially +received in literary circles. Men of influence promised their good +offices in getting his plays performed, but failed to take effective +measures, and he was about to continue his journey when the romantic +enthusiasm of two young barons Zerboni gave him an _entrée_ into +aristocratic society, and he tarried. Ere long he had decided to stay +for life. In Christine Enghaus, the leading lady at the +_Hofburgtheater_, he found the feminine counterpart to his masculine +nature; and on the twenty-sixth of May, 1846, they were married. + +From every point of view this marriage proved so perfect that we may +well question whether anything whatever ought to have been allowed to +stand in the way of it. To Elise, of course, it seemed an outrage--the +more so that she was entirely mistaken as to the character of Christine; +and with furious bitterness she reproached Hebbel for violating her most +sacred rights in his infatuation for an actress. The storm broke, but it +cleared the air for both; and upon the death of her second son in 1847, +Elise came at Christine's invitation to Vienna and spent a year in the +Hebbel household. + +Hebbel himself rightly dated an epoch in his life from his marriage and +the renewed productivity which followed upon it. He enjoyed now for the +first time not only freedom from economic worries but also complete +serenity of mind. Outwardly, indeed, he still had to keep up his +offensive and defensive warfare. Beyond the circle of his immediate +adherents, only the more enlightened of his contemporaries, such as +Ruge, Hettner, and Theodor Vischer, perceived what he was aiming at, and +his own public discussions were so abstruse and repellent that it is no +wonder they were misunderstood. Grillparzer declared that he was groping +in esthetic fog. Julian Schmidt recognized his power and the poetic +charm of many of his passages, but thought him in danger of crossing the +line which separates sense from nonsense, genius from insanity. Hebbel +was restive under criticism, and the method of his polemics tended +rather to exasperate than to conciliate his adversaries. Meanwhile +_Maria Magdalena_ and _Judith_ were performed at the _Hofburgtheater_, +with Christine as the heroine. But in 1850 Heinrich Laube became +director of this theatre, and he not only rejected one play of Hebbel's +after another, but also withdrew from Christine the leading parts which +she had heretofore taken in the regular repertory. + +The new epoch in Hebbel's dramatic activity really began in 1848. The +fruits of his sojourn in Italy, _A Tragedy in Sicily_ (1846), _Julia_ +(1847), and _New Poems_ (published in 1847) were mediocre stragglers in +the train of his first successes. But _Herodes and Mariamne_, begun in +1847 and completed in November, 1848, is the first of a new series of +masterpieces. Mariamne, Hebbel said, was not simply written for +Christine, she _was_ Christine. _The Ruby_, which followed in the spring +of 1849, is a graceful dramatization of a fairy-tale written ten years +before in Munich; _Michel Angelo_ (1850), a satire on his critics, is a +slight but clever refutation of ignorant presumption. _Agnes Bernauer_ +(1851) is a worthy successor of _Herodes and Mariamne_; _Gyges and his +Ring_ (1854) is the most poetic and perhaps the most characteristic of +his dramas. The trilogy on the _Nibelungen_ (1855-1860) was Hebbel's +last great work, ranking with Grillparzer's _Golden Fleece_ and +Schiller's _Wallenstein_; and if he had lived to complete _Demetrius_, +we should have had another remarkable drama, on a subject which Schiller +too was destined to leave unfinished. + +In the fifties, Hebbel accompanied Christine on professional trips to +North Germany, and had ample occasion to observe the spread of his +influence. In 1852 he was fêted at Munich in connection with the +production there of _Agnes Bernauer_. In 1858 he attended a performance +of _Genoveva_ in Weimar, and was decorated with an order by the Grand +Duke. In 1861 the Nibelungen trilogy was performed for the first time in +Weimar, with Christine as Brunhild and Kriemhild; and in the following +year Hebbel, who had even thought of going to live at Weimar, was the +guest of the Grand Duke at his castle in Wilhelmsthal. Though in Vienna +honors came later, Hebbel felt himself to be during these years at the +summit of his existence. In 1855 he bought a country home at Orth near +Gmunden in the Salzkammergut, and to the idyllic atmosphere of that +retreat he owed the inspiration for the epic poem _Mother and Child_ +(1857), his gentlest treatment of a tragic theme. In 1857 he issued a +definitive edition of his _Poems_, dedicated to Uhland, "the first poet +of the present time." In 1854 _Genoveva_, in modified form, was +successfully presented as _Magellone_ at the _Burgtheater_, with +Christine as the heroine. But Hebbel's first Viennese triumph did not +come until February 19, 1863, when Christine played Brunhild in the +first and second parts of the _Nibelungen_. On his deathbed he received +the news that the Berlin Schiller Prize had been awarded to him for the +_Nibelungen_. Hebbel died on the thirteenth of December, 1863. Christine +out-lived him by nearly half a century, until the twenty-ninth of June, +1910. + +Rightly or wrongly, Hebbel regarded himself as the creator of a new form +of drama, setting in at a step beyond Shakespeare and Schiller, and +attacking problems in the manner suggested, but not fully developed, by +Goethe. Shakespeare and Schiller, he said, locate the conflict in the +breast of the hero: shall he, or shall he not, endeavor to attain the +object of his desire, against forces which oppose him from without, and +which have their allies in his own conscience, in his own sense of right +and wrong? He desires the wrong, or neglects the right, and for his +tragic fault atones with death. We pity the unfortunate individual, +console ourselves, however, with the inviolability of the moral law, and +profit by his example: only those are free whose will chooses to be +moral. But Goethe, in the dramatically conceived _Elective Affinities_, +focuses attention not upon the doings of individuals, but upon the +sanctions of the law which a power superior to their wills forces them +to break. And so Hebbel, passing over the individual, as one of myriads, +directs inquiry into the causes that make him what he is, that make him +do what he does, that prevent him from doing what at the same time they +impel him to attempt; and he reveals, back of the individual typical +phenomenon, an irreconcilable conflict in the very condition and +definition of its existence. This conflict has its roots in the dualism +of all being. + +The corner-stone of Martin Luther's system of morals was the paradox: "A +Christian is a sovereign lord over all things, and is subject to nobody; +a Christian is a duty-bound servant of all things, and is subject to +everybody." In other words, a man's soul is his own and is superior to +all the things of the flesh; but through his body he is made dependent +upon the life-giving earth, and subject to the laws which those other +"bodies" in the community in which he lives make for the common defense +and the general welfare. Hebbel carried the antithesis farther, asking +what is the soul, and what is the body? And he answered, in effect, that +the soul is indeed the very essence of personality, but is no original, +self-begotten, and self-sufficient entity--on the contrary, it is a +fragment, a participant in the animating principle of the universe--and +that the body is indeed the medium of contact between person and person, +but is also the separating barrier of soul from soul, and of the +individual soul from the soul of the world. The body is the form or +vessel which vouchsafes to the soul individual existence, and which the +soul, by its very impulse to activity, wears out and destroys. Birth is +a prophecy of destruction and a doom to death. + +But life is activity, the soul is a motive force, self-assertion and +self-preservation are heaven's first law. Self-assertion, however, is +nothing but the operation of communicated and committed animation, and +self-preservation nothing but the postponement of the day of surrender. +Self-preservation is impossible; self-assertion is a challenge to the +assertiveness of other selves, as well as a hastener of dissolution. The +self follows its native bent, and its native impulse is for expansion; +but it thus, as a fraction, leaves, on its centrifugal path, the course +of the great world spirit from which it separates; and as both a +separate entity and a member of a community it must, in its attempt at +self-realization, meet the constraint which the community, whose only +object is likewise self-realization and self-preservation, puts upon all +within its power. The law is negative and repressive, self-interest is +positive and assertive; between the two there is no possible +reconciliation--at most a compromise--so that in the last analysis it +appears that the assertion of individual will as such is immoral, that +is, contrary to the will of the community; and is sinful, for it is not +the will of God, but the will of a particularized individual, however +godly he may be. There are differences in degree, but not in kind, among +immoralities and sins, with corresponding degrees of punitive +repression; but the potential tragic conflict is constant, and there is +as little doubt about the eminent domain of the State as about the +supremacy of God. + +The laws of God are changeless and eternal, but human morality is a +local and temporal development. As the character of an individual is the +product of disposition and experience, so his fate is humanly determined +by the particular forms of custom and law established in the community +in which his lot is cast. But these change from time to time, and in +periods of change the disparity between public and private interest is +most conspicuous: the progressive individual bears not only the burden +of proof but also the dead weight of public inertia. Only at infinity +can the parallel antithetical interests coincide. Nevertheless, the +world gradually effects self-correction by the evolution of new +syntheses from the thesis and antithesis ever and anon presented for +trial and judgment as between liberal and conservative forces. + +Hebbel's drama, then, is the representation of a process, the process of +life, by which things come into being. It reveals the individual in the +making, and discusses the validity of the institutions that condition +his life or cause his death. There is no question of guilt and +atonement. Protagonist and antagonist are right, each in his way and +from his point of view; the conflict may arise from excess of goodness +as well as from excess of evil; but the representative of the whole +prevails of necessity over the champion of a single interest; and in the +knowledge of this truth, rather than in the futile attempt to modify the +relation, we must seek our freedom. Hebbel's plays are historical: +character in its setting of circumstances is the only character really +and fully comprehensible. They are sociological: exhibiting the +ceaseless collision of individualistic and collectivistic tendencies, +they teach forbearance, and patience, and the will to face the +facts--_tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner_. And they are modern: +treating problems of character and _milieu_, they disdain the +adventitious aids of eloquence and theatrical splendor, and speak to us +with the directness, often with the bluntness, of nature herself. Hebbel +was no naturalist, in the sense of one who seeks but to reproduce +phenomena in all their details, sordid, trivial, or vulgar, if such they +be. But through Ibsen, who esteemed him alone among his German +predecessors, he became a factor in the recent naturalistic movement; +and he might have saved it from many an aberration, if his example had +been more closely followed. + +Hebbel strikingly revealed his independence and originality at the +beginning of his public career, by his new conception of old and +familiar subjects. His Judith is a totally different person from the +heroine of the Apocrypha. The Biblical Judith is a widow who slays a +public enemy, and returns unscathed amid the plaudits of the multitude. +But Hebbel's Judith is a widow who has never been a wife, a woman who +seems to have been appointed by Providence to do a great deed in His +service, who takes the duty upon herself only to find that as a woman +she is unequal to it; for as a woman she loves the manly heathen. She +kills him, as she set out to do; but the motive for her act is personal +revenge for a personal outrage; and she returns to Bethulia broken in +spirit and appalled at the thought that she may bear a son by +Holofernes. The attempt to make of herself an impersonal instrument in +the hands of the Almighty--certainly a laudable undertaking--is her only +fault, and is tragic because inconsistent with the character of +womanhood, which the Almighty has also ordained. Compared with the iron +necessity of her being, to which Judith succumbs, the accidental and +improbable fault of Schiller's Maid of Orleans seems as trivial as it is +conventional. + +Similarly, in the conception of the story of Genoveva, Hebbel shifted +attention from the saint to the sinner. In the centre of his _Genoveva_ +stands Golo, the unfortunate young man whose good instincts are made +criminal because the faults and errors of others excite them, and +because his desire, justifiable according to nature, is directed toward +a woman who is bound to another in a wedlock which, from the side of the +husband at least, is only formally correct. In Golo's crime and +atonement we accordingly see a great deal more than the operation of the +moral law: we see how crime is begotten of innocence; and instead of +thinking of the wretched creature, we think of the Creator who has so +ordained it, and at whose central position in the moral universe there +can be neither good nor evil, but an equilibrium of forces which become +one or the other, and may become either when the equilibrium is +disturbed. Good and evil, mutually exclusive qualities in the world of +appearance, are, in the world of ideas, complementary conceptions, +different aspects of one and the same thing. + +Golo appears, despite his crimes, less guilty than Siegfried, the +husband of Genoveva; and in his case a divine impulse, love, becomes an +evil because it happens to collide with an institution, marriage, which +we are here justified in calling human, since, though it has a social +sanction, it lacks the evidence of divine approval. Clara, in _Maria +Magdalena_, is chargeable with but the minimum of guilt, and perishes +because, too honest and dutiful to safeguard her own interests in a +stern and selfish community, she cannot otherwise preserve for her +father that unassailable reputation which is, in his imperfect ethics, +the highest good. The tragedy in this play is the tragedy of pharisaical +_bourgeois_ society itself. There is no collision between high and low, +such as constituted the plot of the _tragédies bourgeoises_ of the +eighteenth century--e.g., Lessing's _Emilia Galotti_, Schiller's _Cabal +and Love_--but the stubborn hardness of the middle-class society in its +typical representative is unable to meet a crisis; and by the +banishment, or the condemnation to suicide, of its most promising +members, this society pronounces its own doom. Altruism is contrary to +the custom, that is, to the morals of this community, and for that +reason is forbidden and suppressed. + +Another community in which altruism is unusual and discredited is Judæa +just before the birth of Christ. Herod the king is a masterful ruler and +a benefactor; but the end justifies the means that he adopts, and he is +no respecter of persons. He does not even respect the person of his +wife. The love of Mariamne is the one sure rock upon which he can rest +when the earthquake, threatening at every moment, comes to shatter his +throne and engulf him. He loves her too with a passion which dreams of +union so perfect that death cannot break it, so perfect that one of them +would wish to die at the moment when the soul of the other left the +body. This is Mariamne's dream also, but Herod cannot trust her to +fulfil it. Not once, but twice, upon going to the wars, he leaves orders +that Mariamne shall be slain if he is killed; and these orders are an +assassination of her soul. The community can execute an individual; but +one individual can only assassinate another. In the ancient orient a +wife was a precious possession, entirely subject to the will of her +husband, and liable to be burned in his funeral pyre. Herod represents +such an ancient, oriental point of view; but Judæa is on the eve of +becoming occidental and modern. Herod represents the law and has the +power to crush the insurgent personality of Mariamne: he has not the +power to slay the infant Savior, nor to hinder the coming of the day +when every human soul is known to be an object of divine concern. + +That play of Hebbel's in which the dualism of all being is most +conspicuously tragic is _Agnes Bernauer_. Agnes is the daughter of a +barber and surgeon, and is so beautiful that she is commonly known as +the angel of Augsburg. Albrecht, the son and sole heir of the reigning +duke Ernst, comes to Augsburg, falls in love with her, and, in spite of +friendly warning, marries her; for she has loved him at first sight, +too. As persons, they do what is right for them to do; their marriage +has been performed by a priest of the church; and they feel that it has +divine sanction. But Albrecht is not an ordinary person; he is the heir +to the throne, and public exigencies require that the succession shall +be guaranteed. This marriage, however, is illegal--a board of +incorruptible judges so finds it; it causes sedition and threatens +interminable strife. Duke Ernst is deliberate and patient in dealing +with the unprecedented case. He waits until he can wait no longer. +Albrecht will not give up Agnes, nor Agnes give up him; Ernst respects +the sacrament of wedlock by which they are united, and only after two +and a half years does he sign the warrant by which Agnes was duly +condemned to death. Agnes dies in perfect innocence and constancy, a +victim of social convention. But Albrecht, whose disregard of this +convention was rebellion, and whose vengeance for his wife's death +brings him to the point of parricide, is made to see, not merely because +excommunication accompanies the ban of the empire on him as a rebel, but +also because of the instructive words and actions of his father, that +the social organization he has defied has itself a divine sanction, and +that a prince, standing by common consent at the head of that +organization, cannot with impunity undermine the basis of his +sovereignty. Devotion to him is like loyalty to the national ensign. The +ensign is nothing in itself, but it symbolizes the idea of the State; +and the prince is also the representative of an idea, which he must +continue to represent in its entirety, or he ceases to be the prince. +This lesson Albrecht learns when, like Kleist's _Prince of Homburg_, he +is made judge in his own case, and when he perceives at the cost of what +personal sacrifice his father has done his duty. The State prevails over +Albrecht as it prevails over Agnes, whose only fault was that she did +not immure her beauty in a nunnery. + +The sanction of tradition and custom which Albrecht and Agnes could not +break in _Agnes Bernauer_ Hebbel most impressively demonstrated in +_Gyges and his Ring_. Kandaules, King of Lydia, is a rash innovator in +both public and private life. He despises rusty swords and uncomfortable +crowns, he means to do away with silly prejudices, and, like Herod, +regarding his wife as a precious possession only, he procures for his +friend Gyges an opportunity to see her unveiled. But she, an Indian +princess, is, in Christine Hebbel's words, a convolution of veils; her +veil is inseparable from herself; and the brutal violation of her +modesty is a less forgivable crime than the taking of her life would be. +The wearing of a veil may be a foolish custom; but use and want hallow +even the trivial. Half of our law is based upon precedent, and we are +protected at every turn by unwritten law, which is nothing else than +precedent. Mankind needs to repose in the security of this protection. +Woe to him, said Hebbel, who disturbs the sleep of the world! Changes +must come, but rarely in the way of revolution. + +The tragedy of the Nibelungen Hebbel approached somewhat differently +from the other subjects that he treated. He had his own conception of +the tragic content of the matter, of course; but he found that the +author of the _Nibelungenlied_, a dramatist from head to foot, has so +clearly presented the tragic aspects of the story that the modern +dramatist need only make himself the interpreter of the medieval epic +poet. Herewith Hebbel's trilogy is at once distinguished from such other +modern treatments of the subject as Geibel's _Brunhild_ or Wagner's +_Nibelungen Ring_. Geibel eliminated everything supernatural; Wagner +made use chiefly of the Old Norse versions of the story; Hebbel, on the +contrary, dramatized what he regarded as the significant content of the +Middle High German poem, retaining its mythological, Christian, +chivalrous, historical, and legendary elements. The mythological +elements of the epic are indeed indistinct survivals of earlier ages. +Hebbel leaned somewhat upon Norse myths in his reproduction of them, +though it was part of his plan to preserve a certain indistinctness and +mystery in these undramatic presuppositions. Similarly, he made more of +the element of Christianity than is made of it by the _Nibelungenlied_. +In both epic and drama the Burgundians are only formally Christian; the +cardinal principles of heathen ethics, tribal loyalty and vengeance, are +entirely unaffected by the Christian doctrine of forgiveness. In the +play, however, the transition from one system to the other is much more +strongly emphasized than in the poem. The heathen ethics lead to the +mutual destruction of those who profess them, and out of the ruins of +the old civilization a new world rises heralded by Theodoric of Verona, +who accepts the sovereignty relinquished by Attila the Hun, "in His name +who died on the cross." + +The downfall of two peoples follows in the train of personal calamity. +Siegfried, foreordained by the ancient gods to become the husband of +Brunhild, neglects in the adventurous days of youth to woo her, and +undertakes for the price of Kriemhild's hand to secure her as a wife for +Gunther. Hidden in his cloak of invisibility, he twice overcomes +Brunhild, thereby committing against her the same kind of outrage as +Herod's against Mariamne, and that of Gyges against Rhodope. Through no +direct fault of Siegfried's the fraud is discovered; it is an offense to +the queen, which insults the State. Gunther the king will not punish it, +for he is under personal obligations to the offender; but he takes no +effective measures to prevent punishment by Hagen, who, though his loyal +motives are mixed with envy, acts within his rights as the prime +minister. But Siegfried, being vulnerable in only one spot, cannot be +challenged to open combat; he has to be slain by stealth; so that +Hagen's act is not strictly to be called murder, and the Burgundians, +even though their sense of solidarity should not require them to make +common cause with him against Kriemhild, might with some show of reason +confirm his oath that he is no murderer. Siegfried put himself outside +the pale of humanity when he assumed the dragon's skin. Dragons are +hunted to death. Only men are tried and executed. + +We have chosen to examine Hebbel's principal plays from the point of +view of their idea, for the reason that, as said above, it was primarily +the idea which Hebbel found important in every individual phenomenon. He +did not treat cases and conditions for the sake of merely representing +life on the stage, but for the sake of exemplifying, in representations +of life, the fundamental irreconcilability of the expansive and +repressive forces which struggle in every individual. His characters are +certainly persons, not abstract constructions; the action in his plays +moves relentlessly forward, with no lack of inventiveness on his part or +of sensuous impressiveness on the part of his inventions; he seldom +fails to convince our understanding that in his dramatic debate each +side is adequately represented, and that the side which at length +prevails is the stronger under the presuppositions of time and place; it +would be unfair, furthermore, to deny the appeal that he makes to our +sympathy. But, on the other hand, he is not free from suggestions of +artifice; his characters are abnormally introspective and +self-explanatory, and they reveal a talent for logical exposition which +belongs rather to Friedrich Hebbel than to men of like passions with +ourselves. In the unsought, accidental, ingenuous details which +ingratiate themselves in spite, or perhaps because of their +insignificance, he is not to be compared with Grillparzer; nor, in the +capacity to create a poetic atmosphere, with Otto Ludwig. His language +is rugged and masculine; his style, frequently forensic. Taken as a +whole, his work furnishes more abundant food for thought than objects +of _naïve_ esthetic enjoyment; but, like Grillparzer's, his plays were +written for the stage; and proper enactment has seldom failed to produce +with them an effect of power worthy of his powerful personality, which +swam against the tide, knowing that the tide would turn and that the +flood would bear him to the haven. + + * * * * * + + + + +_FRIEDRICH HEBBEL_ + + * * * * * + + + +MARIA MAGDALENA + + +DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + +Master ANTONY, _a joiner_ + +_His Wife_ + +CLARA, _his daughter_ + +CARL, _his son_ + +LEONARD + +_A Secretary_ WOLFRAM, a merchant_ + +ADAM, _a bailiff_ + +_Another bailiff_ + +_A Boy_ + +_A Maid_ + +_Place. A fair-sized town_ + + + +MARIA MAGDALENA (1844) + +TRANSLATED BY PAUL BERNARD THOMAS + +ACT I + +_A Room in the Joiner's House._ + +SCENE I + +_Enter_ CLARA; _the_ MOTHER. + +CLARA. + +Your wedding dress? Oh, how well it becomes you! It looks as if it had +been made today! + +MOTHER. + +Yes, child, fashion keeps on going forward until it can go no farther +and has to turn around and go back. This dress has already been out of +style and in again ten times. + +CLARA. + +But this time it is not exactly in style, dear mother! The sleeves are +too wide! It must not annoy you! + +MOTHER (_smiling_). + +I should have to be you for that! CLARA. + +And so this is the way you looked! But surely you carried a bunch of +flowers too, didn't you? + +MOTHER. + +I should hope so! Else why do you think I nursed that sprig of myrtle in +the pot for so many years? + +CLARA. + +I have often asked you to, but you have never before put it on. You have +always said: It is no longer my wedding dress; it is my shroud now, and +that is something one should not play with. I got so that I couldn't +even look at it any more, because, hanging there so white, it always +made me think of your death, and of the day when the old women would try +to pull it on over your head. Why then today? + +MOTHER. + +When one is very sick, as I was, and does not know whether one is going +to get well again or not, a great many things revolve in one's head. +Death is more terrible than you think--oh, it is awful! It casts a +shadow over the world; one after the other it blows out all the lights +that shine with such cheerful brightness all around us, the kindly eyes +of husband and children cease to sparkle, and it grows dark everywhere. +But deep in the heart it strikes a light, which burns brightly and +reveals a great deal one does not care to see. I am not conscious of +ever having done a wrong; I have walked in God's ways, I have done my +best about the home, I have brought you and your brother up to fear God, +and I have kept together the fruits of your father's hard work. I have +always managed to lay aside an extra penny for the poor, and if now and +then I have turned somebody away, because I felt out of sorts or because +too many came, it wasn't a very great misfortune for him, because I was +sure to call him back and give him twice as much. Oh, what does it all +amount to? People dread the last hour when it threatens to come, writhe +like a worm over it, and implore God to let them live, just as a servant +implores his master to let him do something over again that he has +done poorly, so that he may not come short in his wages on pay-day. + +CLARA. + +Don't talk in that way, dear mother! It weakens you. + +MOTHER. + +No, child, it does me good! Am I not well and strong again now? Did +not the Lord call me merely to let me know that my festal robe was not +yet pure and spotless? And did he not permit me to come back from the +very edge of the grave, and grant me time to prepare myself for the +heavenly wedding? He was not as kind as that to those five Virgins in +the Gospel, about whom I had you read to me last night. And that is the +reason why today, when I am going to the Holy Communion, I put this +dress on. I wore it the day I made the best and most pious resolutions +of my life; I want it to remind me of those which I have not yet carried +out. + +CLARA. + +You still talk as you did in your illness! + + + +SCENE II + +CARL (_enters_). + +Good morning, mother! Well, Clara, I suppose you might put up with me, +if I were not your brother? + +CLARA. + +A gold chain? Where did you get that? + +CARL. + +Why do I sweat so? Why do I work two hours longer than the others every +evening? You are impertinent! + +MOTHER. + +A quarrel on Sunday morning? Shame on you, Carl! + +CARL. + +Mother, haven't you got a gulden for me? + +MOTHER. + +I haven't any money except for the housekeeping! + +CARL. + +Well, give me some of that then! I won't grumble if you make the +pancakes thinner for the next two weeks. You have often done so before! +I know that all right! When you were saving up for Clara's white dress, +we didn't have anything decent to eat for a month. I shut my eyes, but I +knew right well that a new hair ribbon or some other bit of finery was +on the way. So let me get something out of it too, for once! + +MOTHER. + +You are absolutely shameless! + +CARL. + +I haven't much time, else--[_He starts to go_.] + +MOTHER. + +Where are you going? + +CARL. + +I won't tell you, and then, when the old growler asks you where I am, +you can answer without blushing that you don't know. Anyway I don't need +your gulden--it is best not to draw all your water from one well. + +[_To himself_.] + +Here at home they always think the worst things they can about me; why +shouldn't I take pleasure in keeping them worried? Why should I say +that, since I don't get my gulden, I shall have to go to church, unless +a friend helps me out of my predicament? + + + +SCENE III + +CLARA. + +What does he mean by that? + +MOTHER. + +Oh, he grieves me terribly! Yes, yes, your father is right! Those are +the consequences! He is just as insolent now in demanding a gulden as he +was cunning in pleading for a piece of sugar when he was a little +curly-headed baby. I wonder if he would not demand the gulden now, if I +had refused him the sugar then? That often hurts me! And I think he +doesn't even love me! Did you ever once see him cry during my illness? + +CLARA. + +I didn't see him very often at best--almost never except at the table. +He had more appetite than I! + +MOTHER (_quickly_). + +That was natural! He had to work so hard! + +CLARA. + +To be sure! And how strange men are! They are more ashamed of their +tears than they are of their sins! A clenched fist--why not exhibit +that? But red eyes!--And father too! The afternoon they opened your vein +and no blood came, he sobbed at his work-bench until it moved my very +soul! But when I went up to him and stroked his cheeks, what did he say? +"See if you can't get this accursèd splinter out of my eye! I have so +much to do and can't accomplish anything!" + +MOTHER (_smiling_). + +Yes! yes!--I never see Leonard any more, by the way. How does that +happen? + +CLARA. + +Let him stay away! + +MOTHER. + +I hope you are not seeing him anywhere else, except here at the house! + +CLARA. + +Is it because I stay out too long when I go to the well in the evening +that you have reason to suspect that? + +MOTHER. + +No, not that. But it was just for that reason that I gave him permission +to come here to the house, so that he wouldn't lie in wait for you out +there in the dark. My mother would never allow that, either! + +CLARA. + +I don't see him at all! + +MOTHER. + +Have you had a quarrel? Otherwise I think I might like him--he is so +steady! If he only amounted to something! In my time he would not have +had to wait long. Then gentlemen were eager for a good penman, as lame +people are for their crutch, for they were rare. Even we humble people +could use one. Today he would compose for a son a New Year's greeting to +his father and receive for the gilded initials alone enough to buy a +child's doll with. Tomorrow the father would give him a sly wink and +have him read the greeting aloud, secretly and behind closed doors, so +as not to be surprised and have his ignorance discovered. That meant +double pay. Then penmen were jolly people and made the price of beer +high. It is different now. Now we old folks, not knowing anything about +reading and writing, must allow ourselves to be made fun of by +nine-year-old children. The world is steadily growing wiser; perhaps the +time is yet to come when people who can't walk a tight-rope will have to +feel ashamed of it! + +CLARA. + +The bell is ringing! + +MOTHER. + +Well, child, I will pray for you. And as far as Leonard is concerned, +love him as he loves God--no more and no less. That is what my old +mother said to me when she died and gave me her blessing. I have kept it +long enough; now you have it! + +CLARA (_hands her a nosegay_). + +There! + +MOTHER. + +That certainly comes from Carl. + +CLARA (_nods; then aside_.) + +Would it were so! Anything that is to give her real pleasure has to come +from him! + +MOTHER. + +Oh, he is so good--and he likes me! [_Exit_.] + +CLARA (_looks after her through the window_). + +There she goes! Three times I have dreamt that she was lying in her +coffin, and now--oh, these awful dreams! I am not going to care about +dreams any more; I will take no pleasure in a good dream, and then I +shall not have to worry about the bad one that follows it. How firmly +and confidently she steps out! She is already close to the church-yard. +I wonder who will be the first person she meets? It would signify +nothing--no, I mean only [_she shudders_]--the gravedigger! He has just +finished digging a grave and is climbing out of it! She greets him and +glances smilingly down into the dismal hole! She throws the nosegay into +it and enters the church! + +[_A choir is heard_.] + +They are singing: _Praise ye the Lord_. + +[_She folds her hands_.] + +Yes! yes! If my mother had died, I should never have recovered from it, +for--[_Glances toward Heaven_.] But Thou art kind, Thou art merciful! I +would that I believed with the Catholics, so that I might offer Thee +something! I would empty the whole of my little box of savings and buy +Thee a beautiful gilded heart, and twine it with roses. Our pastor says +that sacrifices mean nothing to Thee, because everything is Thine, and +one should not offer Thee something Thou already hast. And yet +everything in the house belongs to my father too; and still he likes it +when I buy a piece of cloth with his money and embroider it and put it +on his plate for his birthday. Yes, and he honors me by wearing it only +on great holidays, at Christmas or Whitsuntide. Once I saw a little mite +of a Catholic girl carrying some cherries up to the altar. They were the +first the child had had that year, and I could see how she longed to eat +them. Still she resisted the innocent desire, and, in order to put an +end to the temptation, hurriedly threw them down. The priest, who was +just about to pick up the chalice, looked on with a scowl, and the child +hastened timidly away. But the Mary above the altar smiled gently, as if +she would have liked to step out of her frame and overtake the child and +kiss her.--I did it for her! Here comes Leonard. Oh, dear! + + + +SCENE IV + +LEONARD (_outside the door_). + +Are you dressed? + +CLARA. + +Why so polite, so considerate? I am no princess, you know. + +LEONARD (_enters_). + +I thought you were not alone! In passing by I thought I saw your +neighbor Babbie standing by the window. + +CLARA. + +And so that is why-- + +LEONARD. + +You are forever so irritable! One can stay away from here for two weeks, +rain and sunshine can have alternated ten times, and, when one does +finally come again, he finds the same old cloud darkening your face! + +CLARA. + +Things used to be different! + +LEONARD. + +Correct! If you had always looked as you do now, we should never have +become good friends! + +CLARA. + +What of it? + +LEONARD. + +So you feel yourself as free of me as that, do you? Perhaps it serves me +right! Then [_significantly_] your recent toothache was a mere pretext! + +CLARA. + +Oh, Leonard, it was not right of you! + +LEONARD. + +Not right for me to seek to bind to me the greatest treasure that I +have--for that is what you are to me--with the firmest of all bonds? And +especially at a time when I stood in danger of losing it? Do you think I +did not see the furtive glances you exchanged with the Secretary? That +was a triumphant day of joy for me! I take you to the dance and-- +CLARA. + +You never stop saying things that hurt me! I looked at the Secretary, +why should I deny it? But only on account of the moustache he had grown +at the University, and which-- + +[_She checks herself_.] + +LEONARD. + +Becomes him so well--isn't that it? Isn't that what you started to say? +Oh, you women! Anything that looks like a soldier, even a caricature of +one, you like. To me the fop's ridiculous little oval face, with that +tuft of hair in the middle of it, looked like a little white rabbit +hiding behind a bush. I am bitter toward him--I won't try to conceal it. +He held me back from you long enough! + +CLARA. + +I didn't praise him, did I? You don't need to run him down! + +LEONARD. + +You still seem to take a lot of interest in him. + +CLARA. + +We used to play together as children, and afterward--you know very well! + +LEONARD. + +Oh yes, I know! And that's just why! + +CLARA. + +Then I think it was only natural, seeing him again for the first time +in a long while that way, for me to look at him and be astonished to see +how big and--[_She checks herself_.] + +LEONARD. + +Why did you blush then, when he looked back at you? + +CLARA. + +I thought he was looking at the little mole on my left cheek to see if +it, too, had grown bigger! You know I always imagine people are looking +at that when they stare at me so, and it always makes me blush. I have a +feeling as if it _were_ growing larger, as long as they look at it! + +LEONARD. + +However that may be, it got on my nerves, and I thought to myself: This +very evening I will put her to the test! If she wants to become my wife, +she knows that she risks nothing. If she says no, then-- + +CLARA. + +Oh, you said a bad, bad word, when I pushed you back and jumped up from +the bench. The moon, which up to that time had shone in through the +foliage with such kindly consideration for me, at that moment sank +shrewdly behind the wet clouds. I wanted to hurry away, but felt +something holding me. At first I thought it was you, but it was the +rose-bush, whose thorns held my dress like teeth. You outraged my heart, +so that I no longer trusted it myself. You stood before me like one +demanding the payment of a debt! I--Oh, God! + +[Illustration: ALFRED RETHEL DEATH AS CUP-BEARER] + +LEONARD. + +I cannot yet regret it. I knew it was the only way I could have kept you +to myself. The old girlhood love was opening its eyes again, and I could +not close them quickly enough! + +CLARA. + +When I got home, I found my mother ill, mortally ill. She had been +stricken suddenly, as if by an invisible hand. My father had wanted to +send for me, but she would not consent to his doing so, not wishing to +interrupt my happiness. And how I felt when I heard that! I held myself +aloof, I did not dare to touch her, I trembled! She took it for childish +anxiety and motioned me over to her; when I slowly drew near her, she +held me down and kissed my desecrated mouth. I lost control of myself; I +wanted to confess to her, to cry out what I thought and felt: It is my +fault that you are lying there! I tried to do so, but tears and sobs +choked my voice. She reached for my father's hand, and said with a +blissful glance at me: What a heart! + +LEONARD. + +She is well again. I have come to congratulate her, and--what do you +think? + +CLARA. + +What? + +LEONARD. + +To ask your father for your hand. + +CLARA. + +Oh! + +LEONARD. + +Don't you want me to? + +CLARA. + +Want you to? It will mean my death, if I do not become your wife pretty +soon! But you do not know my father! He does not understand why we are +in such a hurry--he cannot understand why, and we cannot tell him why! +And he has declared a hundred times that he will never give his daughter +to any man unless he has not only, as he says, love in his heart for +her, but also bread in his cupboard for her. He will say: Wait another +year or two, my son.--And what will be your answer? + +LEONARD. You foolish girl, that difficulty is disposed of! I have the +position now--I am cashier! + +CLARA. + +You cashier? And the other applicant, the pastor's nephew? + +LEONARD. + +Was drunk when he came to the examination, bowed to the stove instead of +to the burgomaster, and when he sat down knocked three cups off the +table. You know how hot-headed the old fellow is. "Sir!" he exclaimed +angrily, but he restrained himself and bit his lip. Nevertheless his +eyes glared through his spectacles like the eyes of a serpent about to +spring, and his whole body became rigid. Then we started computing and, +ha! ha!--my rival computed with a multiplication table of his own +invention that gave entirely new results. "He's way off in his +reckoning!" said the burgomaster, and, glancing in my direction, held +out his hand to me with the appointment. It smelled terribly of tobacco, +but I took it and raised it humbly to my lips.--Here it is now, signed +and sealed! + +CLARA. + +That comes-- + +LEONARD. + +Unexpectedly, doesn't it? Well, it was not altogether an accident +either. Why didn't I come to see you for two weeks? + +CLARA. + +How do I know? I think it was because we got angry at each other the +Sunday before! + +LEONARD. + +Oh, I was cunning enough to bring about that little disagreement on +purpose--so that I could stay away without its astonishing you too much! + +CLARA. + +I don't understand you! + +LEONARD. + +I suppose not. I took advantage of the time to pay court to the +burgomaster's little hump-backed niece, whom the old fellow thinks so +much of, and who is his right hand, just as the bailiff is his left. +Understand me correctly! I didn't say anything nice to her about +herself, except perhaps a compliment regarding her hair, which everybody +knows is red--so I just told her some nice things she liked to hear +about you. + +CLARA. + +About me? + +LEONARD. + +Why should I keep still about it? I did it with the best of +intentions--as if I had never intended to deal seriously with you, as +if--enough! That lasted until I got this in my hands, and the credulous +little man-crazy fool will find out what I meant when she hears the +banns of our marriage published in the church. + +CLARA. + +Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +Child! child! You be as innocent as a dove, and I will be as wise as a +serpent. Then, since a man and his wife are one, we shall entirely +satisfy the demand of the Gospel. + +[_Laughs_.] + +Neither was it altogether an accident that young Hermann was drunk at +the most important moment of his life. You have surely never heard that +the fellow is given to drinking? + +CLARA. + +Not a word. + +LEONARD. + +The fact made the execution of my scheme all the easier. It was done +with three glasses. I had a couple of friends of mine waylay him. "May +one drink to your health?"--"Not now!"--"Oh, that is all arranged, you +know. Your uncle"--"And now, drink, my brother, drink!"--This morning +when I was on my way to you, he stood leaning on the bridge and gazing +dejectedly down at the river. I greeted him sarcastically, and asked him +if he had dropped anything into the water. "Yes," he answered, without +looking up, "and perhaps it would be well for me to jump in after it." + +CLARA. + +You bad man! Get out of my sight! + +LEONARD. + +You mean it? + +[_Moves, as if to go_.] + +CLARA. + +Oh, my God, I am chained to this man! + +LEONARD. + +Don't be a baby! And now one more word in confidence: Does your father +still keep the thousand thalers in the apothecary shop? + +CLARA. + +I know nothing about it. + +LEONARD. + +Nothing about so important a matter? + +CLARA. + +Here comes my father. + +LEONARD. + +Understand me! The apothecary is said to be on the verge of +bankruptcy--that's why I asked! + +CLARA. + +I must go into the kitchen! [_Exit_.] + +LEONARD (_alone_). + +Well, I guess there is nothing to be got here! I can't understand it at +all; for Master Antony is one of those fellows whose ghost, if you +should accidentally put one too many letters on his gravestone, would +haunt you until you took it off. For he would regard it as dishonest to +appropriate more of the alphabet than he was properly entitled to. + + + +SCENE V + +_Enter_ LEONARD; _Master_ ANTONY. + +ANTONY. + +Good morning, Mr. Cashier! [_He takes off his cap and puts on a woolen +cap_.] Is it permissible for an old man to keep his head covered? + +LEONARD. + +You know then-- + +ANTONY. + +Since yesterday evening. When I was going over in the dusk to take the +deceased miller's measure for his final sleeping room, I heard a couple +of your good friends slandering you. I thought right away: I guess +Leonard has not broken his neck.--At the house I heard more about it +from the sexton, who had come to console the widow, and, incidentally, +to get drunk. + +LEONARD. + +And you had to let Clara find out about it from me? + +ANTONY. + +If you didn't care enough about it to give the girl that pleasure +yourself, why should I do it? I don't light any candles in my house +except those that belong to me. Then I know that nobody is going to come +and blow them out, just as we are beginning to enjoy them. + +LEONARD. + +Surely you don't think that I-- + +ANTONY. + +Think? About you? About anybody? I smooth over boards with my plane, but +I never smooth over men with my thoughts. I stopped that sort of +foolishness long ago. When I see a tree growing, I think to myself: It +will soon be blossoming; and when it sprouts: It will soon bear fruit. +In that I never see myself disappointed, and for that reason I don't +give up the old habit. But about men I never think anything, good or +bad, and then I don't have to turn alternately red and white when they +disappoint my fears one minute and my hopes the next. I merely observe +them and use the evidence of my eyes, which likewise do not think, but +only see. I thought I had made a complete observation of you, but now +that I find you here I must confess that it was only half an +observation. + +LEONARD. + +Master Antony, you have it all upside down. Trees are dependent upon +wind and weather, whereas men have laws and rules in themselves to +govern them. + +ANTONY. + +Do you think so? Yes, we old people owe hearty thanks to death for +allowing us to run around so long among you young folks, thereby giving +us an opportunity to educate ourselves. Formerly the stupid world used +to think that the father was there to educate his son. But now the son +is supposed to give his father the final touch of perfection, so that +the poor, simple man will not need to feel ashamed of himself before the +worms in his grave. God be praised! I have a fine teacher in my son Carl +who, without sparing his old child by indulgence, takes the field +against my prejudices. He taught me two new lessons this very morning, +and in the most clever way, without opening his mouth and without even +letting me see him--yes, by that very means. In the first place, he +showed me that it is not necessary for a man to keep his word; in the +second, that it is superfluous to go to church and freshen up one's +memory of God's laws. Yesterday evening he promised me that he would go, +and I counted on his doing it, for I thought to myself: He will want to +thank the gracious Creator for the recovery of his mother. But he wasn't +there, and I was very comfortable all alone in my pew, which, to be +sure, is a little too short for two persons anyway. I wonder if he would +like it if I myself were to act in accordance with the new doctrine, by +not keeping my word with him? I have promised him a new suit for his +birthday, and I might take the opportunity to test his joy over my +docility. But prejudice! Prejudice! I shall not do it! + +LEONARD. + +Perhaps he was not well-- + +ANTONY. + +Possibly! I need only to ask my wife, then I am sure to hear that he is +sick. For she tells me the truth about everything else in the world, but +never about the boy. And even if he was not sick!--There too the younger +generation has the advantage over us old folks, in that they can find +their spiritual edification anywhere, and can do their worshipping when +they are out trapping birds, or taking a walk, or sitting in the +ale-house. "Our Father who art in Heaven"--"Good day, Peter, shall I +see you at the dance this evening?"--"Hallowed be Thy name"--"Yes, laugh +if you will, Catherine, but it is true"--"Thy will be done"--"The devil +take me, I am not shaved yet!"--and so forth. And each one pronounces +the blessing on himself, for he is a man just as much as the preacher, +and the power that emanates from a black garb certainly exists in a blue +one as well. Nor have I anything to say against it; even if you want to +intersperse the seven petitions with seven glasses, what of it? I can't +prove to anybody that beer and religion don't mix well, and perhaps it +will some day get into the liturgy as a new way of taking the Eucharist. +Frankly, I myself, old sinner that I am, am not strong enough to keep +pace with fashion; I cannot catch up worship in the street, as if it +were a cockchafer; for me the chirping of swallows and sparrows cannot +take the place of the organ. If I want to feel my heart exalted, I must +hear the heavy, iron doors of the church close behind me and think to +myself that they are the doors of the world. The dismal high walls with +their narrow windows, that admit but a dim remnant of the bold garish +daylight as if they were sifting it, must surround me on all sides. And +in the distance I must be able to see the charnel-house, with its +death-head cut in the wall. Oh well, better is better. + +LEONARD. + +You are too particular about it! + +ANTONY. + +Of course! Of course! And today, as an honest man, I must confess that +what I have been saying did not hold good; for I lost my reverent mood +in church, being annoyed by the vacant seat beside me, and found it +again under the pear-tree in my garden. You are astonished? But look! I +went sadly and dejectedly home, like one whose harvest has been ruined +by hail; for children are like fields--we sow good corn in them and +weeds sprout up. Under the pear-tree, which the caterpillars have half +eaten up, I stood still. "Yes," I thought, "the boy is like this tree, +empty and barren." Then I suddenly imagined that I was very thirsty, and +absolutely had to go over to the tavern. I deceived myself--it wasn't to +get a glass of beer that I wanted to go; it was to seek out the young +man and take him to task in the tavern, where I knew he was sure to be. +I was just about to start, when the sensible old tree let fall a juicy +pear right at my feet, as if to say: Take that for your thirst, and for +slandering me by comparing me with that good-for-nothing son of yours. I +deliberated a moment, took a bite of it, and went into the house. + +LEONARD. + +Do you know that the apothecary is on the verge of bankruptcy? + +ANTONY. + +What do I care? + +LEONARD. + +Don't you care at all + +ANTONY. + +Surely! I am a Christian--the man has several children! + +LEONARD. + +And still more creditors. The children, too, are creditors in a way. + +ANTONY. + +Happy is he who is neither the one nor the other! + +LEONARD. + +I thought you yourself-- + +ANTONY. + +That was settled up long ago. + +LEONARD. + +You are a prudent man; of course you immediately demanded your money +when you saw that the green-grocer was about to fail. + +ANTONY. + +Yes, I need not tremble any more with the fear of losing it--it was lost +long ago! + +LEONARD. + +You are joking! + +ANTONY. + +In all seriousness! + +CLARA (_looks in at the door_). + +Did you call, father? + +ANTONY. + +Are your ears beginning to ring already? We had not talked about you +yet! + +CLARA. + +The weekly paper! + +LEONARD. + +You are a philosopher! + +ANTONY. + +What do you mean by that? + +LEONARD. + +You know how to compose yourself. + +ANTONY. + +I wear a mill-stone as a cravat sometimes, instead of going to the river +with it. That gives one a strong back. + +LEONARD. + +Let him who can imitate you. + +ANTONY. + +He who has such a gallant fellow to help him bear it, as I seem to have +found in you, ought to be able to dance under the burden. You have grown +quite pale. I call that sympathy! + +LEONARD. + +I hope you don't misunderstand me! + +ANTONY. + +Certainly not! + +[_He drums on a dresser._] + +That wood is not transparent, is it? + +LEONARD. + +I do not understand you! + +ANTONY. + +How foolish it was of our grandfather Adam to take Eve, when she was +naked and destitute, and did not even bring a fig-leaf with her. We two, +you and I, would have scourged her out of Paradise as a tramp! What do +you think? + +LEONARD. + +You are exasperated with your son.--I have come to you regarding your +daughter-- + +ANTONY. + +You had better be careful!--Perhaps I'll not say no! + +LEONARD. + +I hope you will not. And I will tell you what I think: The patriarchs +themselves never used to scorn the dowries of their women. Jacob loved +Rachel and courted her seven years, but he also liked the fat rams and +sheep that he earned in her father's service. That, I think, was not to +his discredit, and to outdo him in anything would be to put him to the +blush. I should have liked very much to see your daughter bring a +couple of hundred thalers with her; and that was quite natural, because +she herself would thereby be so much the better off with me. If a girl +brings her bed in her trunk, then she will not have to card wool and +spin yarn. In this case it will not be so, but what of it? We'll make a +Sunday dinner out of Lenten fare, and a Christmas feast out of Sunday's +roast. In that way we'll make out all right! + +ANTONY (_offers him his hand_). + +You talk well, and God smiles on your words. Well, I will forget that +for fourteen days at tea-time my daughter put a cup on the table for you +in vain. And now that you are to be my son-in-law, I will tell you where +the thousand thalers are! + +LEONARD (_aside_). + +So they are gone then! Well, I shall not have to go out of my way to +please the old werewolf, even if he is my father-in-law! + +ANTONY. + +Things went hard with me in my early years. I was no more of a bristly +hedgehog than you when I came into the world, but I have gradually grown +to be one. At first all the quills in my case pointed inward, and people +found pleasure in pricking and pinching my soft smooth skin, and were +amused to see me flinch when the points penetrated into my very heart +and bowels. But the thing did not appeal to me; I turned my skin inside +out and then the quills pricked their fingers and I had peace. + +LEONARD (_to himself_). + +Safe from the very devil, methinks! + +ANTONY. + +My father, by not allowing himself any rest day or night, worked himself +to death in his thirtieth year, and my mother nourished me as well as +she could with her spinning. I grew up without learning anything. When I +became larger and was still unable to earn any money, I would gladly +have disaccustomed myself to eating; but when now and then at noon I +would pretend to be sick and push back my plate, what did it mean? It +meant that in the evening my stomach would compel me to announce myself +well again! My greatest grief was that I was so unskilled. I used to +blame myself for it, as if it were my own fault, as if in my mother's +womb I had been supplied with nothing but teeth to eat with, as if I had +purposely left behind me there all the useful capabilities and assets. I +used to blush with shame when the sun shone on me. Just after my +confirmation the man whom they buried yesterday, Master Gebhard, came +into our house. He scowled and made a wry face, as he always used to +frown when he had anything good in mind to do. Then he said to my +mother: "Did you bring your youngster into the world in order to let him +eat the very nose and ears off your head?" I felt ashamed and put the +loaf of bread, from which I was just on the point of cutting off a +piece, back into the cupboard again. My mother took offense at his +well-meant words; she stopped her wheel and replied vehemently that her +son was a fine good fellow. "Well, we will see about that," said the +Master. "If he wants to, he can come right now, just as he stands there, +into my workshop with me. I do not ask any money for teaching him; he +will get his board, and his clothes I will also supply; and if he wants +to get up early and go to bed late, opportunities will not be wanting +for him to earn a little money on the side for his old mother." My +mother began to cry and I to dance. When we finally came to an +agreement, the Master closed up his ears, walked out, and motioned me to +follow. I did not need to put a hat on, for I had none. Without saying +good-by to my mother, I went after him. And on the following Sunday, +when I was allowed to go back to her little room for the first time, he +gave me half a ham to take with me. God's blessing on the good man's +grave! I still hear his half-angry: "Tony, under your coat with it, so +my wife won't see it!" + +LEONARD. + +You are not crying? + +ANTONY (_dries his eyes_). + +Yes, I can never think of that without its starting the tears, no matter +how well the source of them may have been stopped up. Oh well, that's +all right! If I should ever get the dropsy, I shall at any rate not have +to draw off these drops too. + +[_With a sudden turn._] + +What do you think about it?--Supposing on a Sunday afternoon you went +over to smoke a pipe of tobacco with a friend, a friend to whom you owed +everything in the world; and supposing you found him greatly confused +and perturbed, a knife in his hand--the same knife you had used a +thousand times to cut his evening bread--and holding it, covered with +blood, at his neck, and nervously drawing his handkerchief up to his +chin-- + +LEONARD. + +And that is the way old Gebhard went about to the end of his days. + +ANTONY. + +On account of the scar. And supposing you arrived in time to help save +him, but to do it you had not only to wrench the knife out of his hand +and bandage the wound, but you had also to give over a paltry thousand +thalers that you had saved up; and, furthermore, you had to do it all +absolutely on the sly, so as to induce the sick man to accept it, what +would you do? + +LEONARD. + +Being a free and single man, without wife and child, I would sacrifice +the money. + +ANTONY. + +And if you had ten wives, like the Turks, and as many children as were +promised to Father Abraham, and if you took only one second to think +about it, you would be--Well, you are to be my son-in-law! Now you know +where the money is. Today I could tell you, for my old Master is buried; +a month ago I would have kept the secret even on my death-bed. I slipped +the note under the dead man's head before they nailed up the coffin. If +I had known how to write, I would have written underneath: "Honestly +paid!" But, ignorant as I am, there was nothing for me to do but tear +the paper in two. Now he will sleep in peace--and I hope that I shall +too, when they stretch me out beside him. + + + +SCENE VI + +MOTHER (_enters hurriedly_). + +Do you still know me? + +ANTONY (_pointing to the wedding dress_). + +The frame, yes--that is perfectly preserved; but the picture--not so +well. It seems to be covered with cobwebs. Oh, well! there has been time +enough for it. + +MOTHER. + +Have I not a frank husband? Still, I do not need to praise him +specially--frankness is a virtue of married men! + +ANTONY. + +Are you sorry that you were better gilded at twenty than you are at +fifty? + +MOTHER. + +Certainly not! If I were, I ought to be ashamed both for myself and for +you! + +ANTONY. + +Give me a kiss then! I am shaved and look better than usual. + +MOTHER. + +I say yes, merely to test you, to see if you still understand the art. +It is a long time since such a thing has occurred to you! + +ANTONY. + +Good mother, I will not ask you to close my eyes; that is a hard thing +to do, and I will take it off your hands. I will do that final service +of love for you. But you must grant me time, understand, to harden and +prepare myself for it, so that I won't make a botch of it. It would have +been much too soon! + +MOTHER. + +Thank God that we are still going to have a little time together! + +ANTONY. + +I hope so too! You have your old red cheeks again! + +MOTHER. + +A comical fellow, our new grave-digger! He was digging a grave this +morning when I passed through the church-yard. I asked him whom it was +for. "For whomsoever God wills," he said. "Perhaps for myself. The same +thing may happen to me that happened to my grandfather; he too had dug +one on chance once, and at night when he came home from the Inn he fell +into it and broke his neck." + +LEONARD (_who, up to this time, has been reading the weekly paper_). + +The fellow doesn't come from here--he can tell all the lies he likes. + +MOTHER. + +I asked him: "Why don't you wait until somebody orders a grave dug?" "I +was invited to a wedding today," he said, "and I am enough of a prophet +to know that I would still feel the effects of it in my head tomorrow if +I went. Now of course _some_ body has been inconsiderate enough to go and +die, so that in the morning I would have to get up early and would not +be able to sleep it off." + +ANTONY. + +"You clown!" I would have said, "supposing now the grave doesn't fit?" + +MOTHER. + +I said that too, but he shook sharp answers out of his sleeve, as the +devil does fleas. "I took the measurement for Veit, the weaver," he +said, "who, like King Saul, towers a head above everybody else. Now, +come who may, he will not find his house too small; and if it is too +large, that doesn't hurt anybody but me, for, as an honest man, I never +charge for a single foot more than the length of the coffin." I threw my +flowers into the grave and said: "Now it is occupied!" + +ANTONY. + +I think the fellow was only joking, and even that is sinful enough. To +dig graves in advance is to set the trap of death too soon; the +scoundrel who does it ought to be driven out of the business. + +[_To LEONARD, who is still reading._] + +What's the news? Is there any philanthropist looking for a poor widow, +who can use a few hundred thalers, or, _vice versa_, a poor widow +looking for a philanthropist who can supply them? + +LEONARD. + +The police announce the theft of some jewelry. Strange enough! It seems +that, in spite of the hard times, there are still people among us who +can own jewels! + +ANTONY. + +The theft of some jewelry? Where? + +LEONARD. + +Over at Wolfram's. + +ANTONY. + +At--impossible! Carl polished a desk there a few days ago! + +LEONARD. + +They were taken from a desk. Right! + +MOTHER (_to Master_ ANTONY). + +May God forgive you for saying that! + +ANTONY. + +You are right--it was a vile thought! + +MOTHER. + +To your son you are only half a father! I must tell you that! + +ANTONY. + +Wife! We'll not discuss that today! + +MOTHER. + +He is not like you--but is that any reason why he must be bad? + +ANTONY. + +Then where is he now? The noon hour struck long ago! I'll wager the +dinner is burning and spoiling, because Clara has secret orders not to +set the table until he is here! + +MOTHER. + +Where do you think he is? At the worst he is only bowling, and he has to +go the longest way about so that you won't see him. Naturally it takes +him a long time to get back!--I cannot see what you have against the +innocent game. + +ANTONY. + +Against the game? Nothing whatever! Noble men must have some way to pass +the time. Without the king of hearts, the real kings would often find +life tedious; and if bowling balls had not been invented, who knows +whether princes and barons would not be using our heads for the purpose? +But an ordinary workingman cannot do anything worse than spend his +hard-earned money on games. We must respect that which we have +laboriously earned in the sweat of our brows; we must hold it high and +precious, unless we are to lose our bearings and regard all our works +and doings with contempt. How can I strain all my nerves to earn a +thaler which I intend to throw away? + +[_The door-bell is heard outside._] + + + +SCENE VII + +_Enter_ ADAM, _a Bailiff; another Bailiff._ + +ADAM (_to Master_ ANTONY). + +Now, you just go ahead and pay your wager! No people in red coats with +blue trimmings [_with emphasis_] shall ever enter your house, eh?--Well, +here are two of us! + +[_To the other bailiff._] + +Why don't you keep your hat on, as I do? Who is going to observe +formalities among people of his own class? + +ANTONY. + +Your own class? You blackguard! + +ADAM. + +You are right--we are not among our own class! Scoundrels and thieves +are not of our class! [_Points to the dresser._] Open that up! And then +three steps away--so that you can't sneak anything out of it! + +ANTONY. + +What? What? + +CLARA (_enters with things to set the table_). + +Shall I--[_She stops, speechless._] + +ADAM (_exhibits a paper_). + +Can you read writing? + +ANTONY. + +Should I be able to do what even my schoolmaster could not do? + +ADAM. + +Then listen! Your son has stolen some jewelry! We have the thief +already! Now we are here to search the house! + +MOTHER (_falls down and dies_). + +Oh, God! + +CLARA. + +Mother! Mother! How her eyes roll! + +LEONARD. + +I will fetch a doctor! + +ANTONY. + +Not necessary! That is the last look! I have seen it a hundred times! +Good night, Theresa! You died when you heard it! Let them write that on +your gravestone! + +LEONARD. + +But perhaps it is [_starts to go_]--awful! But lucky for me! + +[_Exit._] + +ANTONY (_pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket and throws them down_). + +There! Unlock everything! Drawer after drawer! Bring the ax! The key to +the trunk is lost! Ha! Scoundrels and thieves! [_He turns his pockets +inside out._] I find nothing here! + +SECOND BAILIFF. + +Master Antony, calm yourself! Everybody knows that you are the most +honest man in town! + +ANTONY. + +So? So? + +[_Laughs._] + +Yes, + +I have used up all the honesty in the family! There, poor boy! There was +none left for him! She too [_points to the dead body_] was much too +virtuous!--Who knows whether or not the daughter--[_Suddenly to CLARA_] + +What do you think, my innocent child? + +CLARA. + +Father! + +SECOND BAILIFF (_to ADAM_). + +Have you no pity? + +ADAM. + +Pity? Am I prying into the old fellow's pockets? Am I forcing him to +take off his stockings and turn his shoes inside out? I meant to start +out with doing that--for I hate him like poison, ever since that time in +the tavern when he--you know what I refer to, and you would feel +insulted too, if you had any self respect about you! + +[_To CLARA._] + +Where is your brother's room? + +CLARA (_points_). + +Back there! + +[_Both Bailiffs, exeunt._] + +CLARA. + +Father, he is innocent! He must be innocent! He is your son, my brother! + +ANTONY. + +Innocent, and a matricide? + +[_Laughs._] + +A MAID (_enters with a letter to CLARA_). + +From the cashier, Mr. Leonard. + +ANTONY. + +You need not read it! He declares himself free of you! + +[_Claps his hands._] + +Bravo, scoundrel + +CLARA (_reads it_). + +Yes! Yes! Oh, my God + +ANTONY. + +Let him go! + +CLARA. + +Father, father, I cannot-- + +ANTONY. + +You cannot? Cannot? What do you mean? Are you?-- + +Both BAILIFFS reenter. + +ADAM (_spitefully_). + +Seek and ye shall find! + +SECOND BAILIFF (_to ADAM_). + +What do you mean by that? Did it turn out so today? + +ADAM. + +Hold your tongue! + +[_Exeunt both._] + +ANTONY. + +He is innocent--and you--you-- + +CLARA. + +Father, you are terrible! + +ANTONY (_grasps her hand very gently_). + +Dear daughter, Carl is only a bungler. He has killed his mother, and +what does it mean? His father remains alive! So, come to his aid--you +cannot ask him to do everything alone. You must make an end of me! The +old trunk still looks rugged, doesn't it? But it has begun to totter +already--it will not cost you much trouble to fell it! You need not +reach for the ax. You have a pretty face--I have never praised you, but +today I will tell you, so that you may acquire courage and confidence. +Your eyes, nose, mouth are surely admired! Become--You understand +me?--Or tell me, I have an idea that you are already-- + +CLARA (_almost crazy, throws herself with uplifted arms at the feet of +her mother, and cries out like a child_). + +Mother! Mother! + +ANTONY. + +Take your mother's hand and swear to me that you are what you should be! + +CLARA. + +I--swear--that--I--will--never--bring--disgrace-on--you! + +ANTONY. + +Good! + +[_He puts on his hat._] + +It is beautiful weather! We will go out and run the gauntlet! Up the +street! Down the street! + +[_Exeunt._] + + + +ACT II + +_A Room in the Master Joiner's House._ + + + +SCENE I + +ANTONY (_rises from the table_). + +CLARA (_starts to clear off the dishes_). + +ANTONY. + +Have you lost your appetite again? + +CLARA. + +Father, I have had enough. + +ANTONY. + +But you have taken nothing! + +CLARA. + +I ate out in the kitchen. + +ANTONY. + +A bad appetite means a guilty conscience. Oh, well, we shall see--or was +there poison in the soup, as I dreamt yesterday? Perhaps some wild +hemlock got in with the other vegetables by mistake, when they were +gathered?--In that case you did well! + +CLARA. Great Heavens! + +ANTONY. + +Forgive me! I--Away with your pale sad look, which you stole from our +Savior's Mother! One should look ruddy when one is young! There is but +one who might show such a face, and he does not do it! Hey! A box on the +ear for every man who says "ouch!" when he cuts his finger! No man has +any right to do that now, for here stands a man who--ugh!--self-praise +stinks!--But what did I do when our neighbor started to nail down the +cover of your mother's coffin? + +CLARA. + +You wrenched the hammer away from him and did it yourself, and said: +"This is my masterpiece!" The preceptor, who was just then leading the +choir boys in the dirge over by the door, thought you had gone crazy. + +ANTONY. + +Crazy? + +[_Laughs._] + +Crazy. Yes, yes, it is a wise head that cuts itself off at the right +time. Mine must be too firmly fastened on, or else--We squat down in the +world and imagine ourselves sitting behind the stove in a good inn. +Suddenly a light is placed on the table and, behold! we find ourselves +sitting in a den of thieves! There is a bing! bang! on all sides, but no +harm it done--fortunately we have hearts of stone! + +CLARA. + +Yes, father, so it is. + +ANTONY. + +What do you know about it? Do you think you have a right to curse with +me because your clerk has deserted you? There will be another to take +you walking Suliday afternoons, another to tell you that your cheeks are +rosy and your eyes blue, and still another to take you as his wife, if +you deserve it! Wait until you have borne the burdens of life in +chastity and honor for thirty years, and have endured sorrow and death +and every human adversity with uncomplaining patience; then let your +son, who ought to stuff a soft pillow for your old head, come and so +overwhelm you with disgrace that you would like to cry out to the earth: +Swallow me, if it does not sicken thee, for I am muddier than thou! Then +you may utter all the curses that I suppress in my bosom, then you may +tear your hair and beat your breasts!--You have that advantage over me, +for you are not a man! + +CLARA. + +Oh, Carl! + +ANTONY. + +I wonder what I shall do when I see him again before me, when he comes +home some evening before candlelight with his hair shaved off--for +hair-dressing is not allowed in the penitentiary--and stammers out a +good evening, keeping his hand on the door-knob? I shall do something, +that is certain--but what? + +[_Gnashes his teeth._] + +And if they keep him locked up for ten years, he shall find me, for I +shall live until then--that much I know! Mark you, Death, what I say: +From now on I am a stone in front of your scythe! It shall fly to pieces +before it shall budge me! + +CLARA (_grasps his hand_). + +Father, you ought to lie down and rest for half an hour! + +ANTONY. + +To dream that you are about to be confined? And then to fly into a +passion and seize you, and afterward bethink myself too late and say: +"Dear daughter, I did not know what I was doing!" Thank you! My sleep +has dismissed the magician and employed a prophet, who points out +loathsome things to me with his bloody finger! I don't know how it +is--everything seems possible to me now. Ugh! I shudder at the future as +at a glass of water seen under the microscope--is that the right word, +Mr. Precentor? You have spelled it out for me often enough! I looked +through one once in Nuremburg at the fair, and couldn't drink any more +water all day long. Last night I saw my dear Carl with a pistol in his +hand; when I looked closer into his eyes he pulled the trigger. I heard +a cry, but could see nothing on account of the smoke. When it cleared +away, I saw no shattered skull--but my fine son had in the mean time +come to be a rich man; he was standing and counting gold pieces from one +hand into the other. His face--the Devil take me!--a man could have no +calmer one after working all day and closing the door of his workshop +behind him at night! Well, that's a thing one might prevent! One might +take the law into one's own hands, and afterward present one's self +before the supreme Judge! + +CLARA. + +Calm yourself! + +ANTONY. + +Get well again you mean to say! Why am I sick? Yes, doctor, hand me the +drink that shall make me well! Your brother is the worst of sons; be you +the best of daughters! Like a worthless bankrupt I stand before the eyes +of the world! I owed it a fine man to take the place of this weak +invalid, and I cheated it with a scoundrel! Be you such a woman as your +mother was, and then people will say: It does not come from his parents +that the boy went wrong, for the daughter treads the path of +righteousness and excels all others. + +[_With terrible coldness._] + +And I will do my part in the matter; I will make it easier for you than +it is for others. The moment I see anybody point his fingers at you, I +shall [with a motion toward his neck_] shave myself, and then, I swear +to you, I shall shave off head and all. Then you may say I did it from +fright, because a horse ran away in the street, or because the cat +overturned a chair on the floor, or because a mouse ran up my legs. +Anybody that knows me, to be sure, will shake his head at that, for I +am not easily frightened--but what difference does that make? I could +not endure to live in a world where the people would refrain from +spitting at me simply out of pity. + +CLARA. + +Merciful God! What shall I do? + +ANTONY. + +Nothing, nothing, dear child! I am too severe with you--I realize it. Do +nothing--be just as you are, and it is all right. Oh, I have suffered +such rank injustice that I myself must do injustice in order not to +succumb to it when it grips me so hard! Listen! Not long ago I was going +across the street when I met that pock-marked thief, Fritz, whom I had +thrown into jail a few years ago because for the third time he had shown +himself light-fingered in my house. Formerly the scoundrel never even +dared to look at me; now he walked boldly up and offered me his hand. I +felt like boxing his ears, but I bethought myself and did not even spit. +We have been cousins for a week now, and it is proper for relatives to +greet each other! The minister, the sympathetic man who visited me +yesterday, said that no man had anybody to look out for but himself, and +that it was unchristian pride for me to hold myself responsible for the +sins of my son; otherwise Adam would have to take it just as much to +heart as I. Sir, I verily believe that it no longer troubles our first +ancestor in Paradise when one of his descendants begins to rob and +murder.--But did not he himself tear his hair over Cain? No, no, it is +too much! Sometimes I find myself looking around at my shadow to see if +it too has not grown blacker. For I can endure anything and everything, +and have given proof of it, but not disgrace! Put on my back what +burdens you choose, but do not sever the nerve that holds me together! + +CLARA. + +Father, Carl has not yet confessed anything, and they have found nothing +on him. + +ANTONY. + +What difference does that make to me? I have gone around the town and +inquired at the different drinking-places about his debts. They amount +to more than he could have earned under me in a quarter of a year even +were he three times as industrious as he is! Now I know why he always +left off work two hours later than I every evening, and why, in spite of +that, he got up before me in the morning. But he soon saw that it all +did no good, or else that it was too much trouble for him and took too +long; so he embraced the opportunity when it presented itself! + +CLARA. + +You always believe the worst things you can of Carl! You have always +done so! I wonder if you still remember how-- + +ANTONY. + +You talk as your mother would, and I will answer you as I used to answer +her--I will keep quiet! + +CLARA. + +And supposing Carl is acquitted? Supposing the jewels are found again? + +ANTONY. + +Then I would employ a lawyer and stake my last shirt to find out whether +or not the burgomaster was justified in throwing the son of an honest +citizen into prison. If he was, then I would submit; for a thing that +can befall anybody I also must accept with resignation. And if to my +misfortune it cost me a thousand times as much as it does others, I +would attribute it to fate. And if God struck me down for it, I would +fold my hands and say: "Lord, Thou knowest why!" If he was not +justified, if it should appear that the man with the gold chain around +his neck acted too hastily, because be thought of nothing except the +fact that the merchant who missed his jewels was his brother-in-law, +then people would find out whether the law has anywhere a gap in it, +whether the king, who doubtless knows that justice is the one demand his +subjects make in return for loyalty and obedience, and who least of all +would wish to remain under obligation to one of the humblest of them, +would allow that gap to remain unfilled. But all this is useless talk! +The boy has no more chance of coming through this trial unscathed, than +your mother has of rising from her grave alive! From him, neither now +nor ever shall I have any consolation! And for that reason do you not +forget what you owe me--keep your oath to me so that I shall not have to +keep mine to you! [_goes out, but returns again._] I shall come home +late tonight, for I am going out in the mountains to the old +lumber-dealer's. He is the only man who still looks me in the eye as he +used to, because he knows nothing of my disgrace. He is deaf; nobody can +tell him anything without yelling himself hoarse, and even then he hears +it all wrong.--So he finds out nothing! + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE II + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Oh, God! God! Have pity on me I Have pity on the old man! Take me to +Thee! There is no other way to help him! The sunlight lies like a golden +blanket on the street, and the children try to seize it with their +hands. The birds fly hither and thither, and the flowers and weeds do +not tire of growing higher. Everything is alive, everything wishes to be +alive! Oh, Death! Thousands of sick people are at this moment shuddering +with fear of thee! He who called for thee in the restless night, because +he could no longer endure his sufferings, now finds his bed soft and +downy again. I call upon thee! Spare him whose soul shrinks most +fearsomely from thee, and let him live until the beautiful world +becomes again gray and desolate! Take me in his stead! I shall not +shudder when thou givest me thy cold hand; I shall grasp it and follow +thee more bravely than ever yet a child of God has followed thee! + + + +SCENE III + +_Enter the Merchant,_ WOLFRAM. + +WOLFRAM. + +Good day, Miss Clara! Is your father at home? + +CLARA. + +He has just gone out. + +WOLFRAM. + +I have come--my jewels have been found! + +CLARA. + +Oh, father! Why are you not here?--He has forgotten his +spectacles--there they lie! Oh, if he only notices it and returns for +them!--How then? Where Who had them? + +WOLFRAM. + +My wife--tell me frankly, Miss: Have you ever heard anything strange +about my wife? + +CLARA. + +Yes! + +WOLFRAM. + +That she--[_Points to his brow._] Is that it? + +CLARA. + +That she is not altogether in her right mind, to be sure! + +WOLFRAM (_bursting out_). + +My God! My God! All in vain! Not a single +servant that I have ever taken into my house have I allowed to leave me; +to each one I have paid double wages and closed my eyes to all +remissness, in order to buy their silence! And yet--the false, +ungrateful creatures! Oh, my poor children! Only for your sake did I +seek to conceal it! + +CLARA. + +Do not blame your servants! Surely it is not their fault! Ever since +your neighbor's house burned down, and your wife stood at the open +window laughing and clapping her hands at the fire, yes, and even +puffing out her cheeks and blowing at it, as if she wanted to make it +burn more furiously, people have had to choose between taking her for +the devil himself or for a lunatic. And there were hundreds who saw +that! + +WOLFRAM. + +That is true. And now, since the whole town knows about my misfortune, +it would be foolish for me to exact a promise of you to keep still about +it! So listen! The theft for which your brother is in prison was +committed by a lunatic! + +CLARA. + +Your own wife! + +WOLFRAM. + +That she, who was once the noblest and most sympathetic soul in the +world, has become malicious and mischievous; that she shouts and screams +with joy when an accident happens before her eyes, when a maid breaks a +glass or cuts her finger--I knew that long ago; but that she also takes +things in the house and puts them out of sight, hides money and tears up +papers--that, alas! I found out too late--only this noon! I had laid +myself down on the bed and was just about to fall asleep, when I became +conscious that she had tiptoed noiselessly up beside me, and was +watching me intently to see if I were yet asleep. I closed my eyes +tighter. Then she took the key from the pocket of my vest, which was +hanging over a chair, unlocked my desk, took out a roll of gold pieces, +locked the desk again and put back the key. I was horrified! But I +restrained myself, so as not to disturb her. She went out of the room +and I crept after her on tiptoe. She climbed up to the attic and threw +the gold into an old chest, which has been standing there empty since +the days of my grandfather. Then she glanced timidly around the room, +and, without seeing me, hurried out again. I lighted a taper and +searched the chest; in it I found my youngest daughter's doll, a pair of +the maid's slippers, a ledger, several letters, and, alas! or, God be +praised!--which shall I say?--away down underneath, the jewels! + +CLARA. + +Oh, my poor mother! It is too terrible! + +WOLFRAM. + +God knows I would gladly sacrifice the jewelry if, by so doing, I could +undo what has already been done! But the fault is not mine! That my +suspicions, in spite of my profound respect for your father, fell on +your brother, was natural; he had polished the desk, and with him the +jewels had disappeared. I noticed it almost immediately, for I had +occasion to take some papers out of the drawer in which they lay. Still +it did not occur to me to take stringent measures to arrest him +immediately. Merely as a preliminary, I told Adam, the bailiff, about +the matter, and besought him to keep his investigations absolutely +secret. But he would not listen to the idea of sparing anybody; he +declared he must and would bring the case to court at once, for, he +said, your brother was a drunkard and a debt-contractor. And he has, +alas, so much influence with the burgomaster that he can put through +anything he wants to. The man seems to bear a bitter grudge against your +father--I do not know why, but it was impossible to soothe him; he held +his hands over his ears and called out, as he was hurrying away: "If you +had given me the jewelry, it would not have made me as happy as this!" + +CLARA. + +Once in the tavern the bailiff put his glass down on the table by my +father's and nodded to him as if he wanted to touch glasses with him. My +father then took his away, and said: "People in red coats and blue +trimmings used to have to drink out of glasses with wooden feet. Also +they used to have to wait out in front of the window, or, if it was +raining, by the door, and respectfully remove their hats when the +landlord handed them the drink. Moreover, if they felt a desire to touch +glasses with anybody, they waited until neighbor Hangman happened in." +Oh, God! What is not possible in this world! My mother had to pay for +that with an untimely death! + +WOLFRAM. + +One should never anger anybody, and least of all bad people! Where is +your father? + +CLARA. + +In the mountains at the lumber-dealer's. + +WOLFRAM. + +I'll ride out and hunt him up. I have already been at the burgomaster's, +but unfortunately found him out. Otherwise your brother would be here +now. But the Secretary has already dispatched a messenger! You will see +him before evening! [_Exit._] + + + +SCENE IV + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Now I should rejoice! Oh, God! And I can think of nothing except: Now it +is you alone! And yet I have a feeling as though something must occur to +me at once that would set everything right again! + + + +SCENE V + +_Enter, the_ SECRETARY. + +SECRETARY. + +Good day! + +CLARA (_seizes a chair to keep from falling_). + +He! Oh, if only _he_ had not come back! + +SECRETARY. Your father is not at home? + +CLARA. + +No! + +SECRETARY. + +I bring you good news. Your brother--No, Clara, I cannot talk to you in +this formal way. All these tables, chairs, and cupboards that I know so +well--Good day, old friend! + +[_He nods to a cup-board._] + +How are you? You have not changed a bit!--around which we used to romp +as children--it seems to me they will put their heads together and +deride me as a fool, unless I quickly assume another tone. I must "thou" +you, as I used to do! If you do not like it, just say to yourself: The +big boy is dreaming, I will awaken him, I will step in front of him and +draw myself up to my full height [_With gestures_], and let him see that +it is no longer a little child that stands before him--[_He points to a +scratch on the door_]--that shows how big you were at eleven!--but a +very proper, grown-up girl, who could reach the sugar when it is upon +the sideboard! Surely you remember! That was the place, the firm +fortress, where it was safe from us even without being locked up. We +used to amuse ourselves by slapping flies, when it stood there, because +we could not endure to see them flying around happily and enjoying what +we ourselves were unable to reach. + +CLARA. + +I should think people would forget about such things when they had +hundreds and thousands of books to study. + +SECRETARY. + +Indeed they do forget it! To be sure, what does one not forget over +Justinian and Gaius? Small boys who persistently resist their A B C's +know very well why they do it; they have a presentiment that if they do +not apply themselves too hard to the primer they will never have to +struggle with the Bible. But it is a downright shame! People deceive the +innocent souls! They are shown the red rooster with the basket full of +eggs on the last page, so that of their own accord they say: "Ah!" And +then there is no more holding back; they go tearing down the hill to Z, +and so forth and so forth, until all of a sudden they find themselves in +the midst of the _Corpus Juris_, and are horrified when they realize +what a wilderness the accursed twenty-four letters have enticed them +into--the letters, which, in the beginning, formed themselves, in a +merry dance, only into nice-tasting and nice-smelling words such as +"cherry" and "rose." + +CLARA. + +And [_Absent-mindedly, and without interest_]--what happens then? + +SECRETARY. + +That depends upon the difference of temperament. Some work themselves +through. Those usually come forth into daylight again after three or +four years, but looking somewhat thin and pale; however, one must not +blame them for that; I myself am one of that kind. Others lie down in +the middle of the forest; they intend merely to rest themselves, but +they seldom get up again. I myself have a friend who has been drinking +his beer for three years already in the shade of the _Lex Julia_; he +selected the place on account of its name--it recalls pleasant memories. +Still others give up in despair and turn back; those are the stupid +ones; people let them out of one thicket only on condition that they +will run at full speed into another. And then there are some who are +still worse, and who don't get anywhere! + +[_To himself._] + +How one chatters when one has something in his mind and does not know +how to bring it out! + +CLARA. + +Everything is bright and cheerful today; that's because it is such +beautiful weather. + +SECRETARY. + +Yes, in weather like this the owls fall out of their nests, the bats +kill themselves because they feel the devil has created them, the mole +burrows so deep into the earth that he cannot find his way out again and +must pitifully suffocate unless he bores through to the other side and +emerges again in America. Today every ear of corn shoots up twice as +high, and every poppy grows twice as red as usual, even if only out of +shame at not having been so at first. Shall man remain behind? Shall he +defraud the dear Lord of the only reward which His world offers Him--a +happy face and a bright eye, which mirrors and at the same time +transfigures all this gloriousness? Truly, when I see one of these +recluses sneaking out of his door in the morning, his brow furrowed with +wrinkles, and staring at the sky as if it were a vault of +blotting-paper, I often think to myself: It is going to rain soon; God +will have to let down the curtain of clouds, so that that sour face will +not irritate Him. They ought to take legal action against fellows like +that on the ground that they are thwarters of merry parties and +destroyers of harvest weather. How are you going to render thanks for +your life if not by living? Sing joyously, bird, or else you will not +deserve your voice! + +CLARA. + +Oh, that is true, so true! It almost makes me cry! + +SECRETARY. + +It was not meant for you. That for eight days you have been breathing +more heavily than you used to, I well understand--I know your father. +But, God be praised! I can make your heart free again, and for that very +purpose I am here. You shall see your brother again this very evening, +and people shall point their fingers, not at him, but at those who cast +him into prison. Does that deserve a kiss, a sisterly kiss, if it cannot +be any other kind? Or shall we play blindman's buff for it?--If I do not +catch you in ten minutes, I am to go away without the kiss and take a +box on the ear into the bargain. + +CLARA (_to herself_). + +I feel as if I had suddenly grown to be a thousand years old, and time +were standing still with me. I can go neither backwards nor forwards! +Oh, all this brazen sunshine and cheerfulness round about me! + +SECRETARY. + +You do not answer me. To be sure, I forgot--you are engaged. Oh, girl! +Why did you do that to me? And yet have I any right to complain? She is +like all that is dear and good, and all that is dear and good should +have made me think of her. And yet to me she was for years as if she no +longer existed in the world! For that reason she--If it only were a +fellow before whom one had to cast down one's eyes! But this Leonard-- + +CLARA (_suddenly, when she hears the name_). + +I must go to him. That is just it--I am no longer the sister of a +thief!--Oh, God! what shall I do? Leonard will, he must! He needs only +not to be a fiend! Everything will be as it used to be [_Shudders_]--as +it used to be! + +[_To the SECRETARY._] + +Do not be offended, Frederick!--Why are my legs so heavy all of a +sudden? + +SECRETARY. + +You will-- + +CLARA. + +To Leonard! Where else should I go? Only that one road lies before me in +this world! + +SECRETARY. + +You love him, then! Well-- + +CLARA (_wildly_). + +Love him? It is either he or death! Does anybody wonder that I choose +him? I would not do it had I only myself to consider! + +SECRETARY. + +He or death? Girl, thus speaks Despair, or-- + +CLARA. + +Do not make me frantic! Do not mention that word again! You! It is you I +love! There! I cry it out to you as if I were already wandering on the +other side of the grave, where no one blushes any more, where cold and +naked forms glide past one another, because the fearful, holy presence +of God has entirely consumed in every one all thought of others. + +SECRETARY. + +Me? Still me? Clara, I divined it when I saw you out in the garden. + +CLARA. + +Did you? Oh, the other too! + +[_Gloomily, as if she were alone._] + +He stepped up in front of me--he or I!--Oh, my heart, my accursed heart! +In order to prove to him, prove to myself, that it was not so, or to +stifle it if it were so, I did what now [_Breaks out into tears_]--God +in Heaven! I would have pity on myself, were I Thou, and Thou I! + +SECRETARY. + +Clara, be my wife! I came to look once more into your eyes in the old +way. Had you not understood the look I should have gone away again +without speaking. Everything that I am and have I now offer to you. It +is little, but it may grow to be more. I should have been here long ago, +but your mother was sick, and then she died. + +[Illustration: Alfred Rethel DEATH PLAYING THE FINALE] + +CLARA (_laughs crazily_). + +SECRETARY. + +Take courage, girl! The fellow has your word--that worries you. And, to +be sure, it is a damnable thing! How could you-- + +CLARA. + +Oh, ask me everything that conspires to drive a poor girl crazy! Scorn +and derision from all sides when you went to the University, and did not +let me hear from you.--"She still thinks of him!" "She thinks that +child's play was meant seriously!" "Does she receive any letters from +him?"--And then, too, my mother: "Stay with people of your class!" +"Pride never succeeds!" "Leonard is a very nice fellow; everybody is +surprised that you look at him over your shoulder so!" And added to all +the rest, my own heart: "If he has forgotten you, show him that you +too--" Oh, God! + +SECRETARY. + +I am to blame. I realize it. Well, what is difficult is not necessarily +impossible. I will get him to release you. Perhaps-- + +CLARA. + +Release me? There! + +[_Throws LEONARD'S letter to him._] + +SECRETARY (_reads_). + +As cashier, I--your brother--thief--very sorry--but out of consideration +for my office, I cannot help it--[_To CLARA._] He wrote you that on the +very day your mother died? For he adds his condolence on her sudden +death! + +CLARA. + +I suppose so! + +SECRETARY. + +The Devil take him! Great God, the cats, snakes and other monsters +which, so to speak, slipped through Thy fingers at Creation, so +delighted Beelzebub that he imitated Thy patterns--but he finished them +off better than Thou didst; he put them in a human skin, and now they +stand in rank and file with the rest of Thy humanity, and one does not +recognize them until they begin to scratch and sting! + +[_To CLARA._] + +But it is well, indeed it is fine! + +[_He tries to embrace her._] + +Come! Forever! With this kiss-- + +CLARA (_sinks into his arms_). + +No, not forever! Only to keep me from falling--but no kiss! + +SECRETARY. + +Girl, you do not love him, you have your release-- + +CLARA (_gloomily, straightening herself up again_). + +And yet I must go to him, I must throw myself on my knees before him and +cry out: "Behold my father's white hairs! Take me!" + +SECRETARY. + +Unhappy girl! Do I understand you? + +CLARA. + +Yes! + +SECRETARY. + +No man can overlook that! Think of having to cast down one's eyes before +a man into whose face one would like to spit! + +[_He presses CLARA wildly to him._] + +Poor, poor girl! + +CLARA. + +Go now, go! + +SECRETARY (_to himself, brooding_). + +Or else one would have to shoot the dog who knows of it. Oh, that he had +some courage about him! That he would stand up and fight! That one could +force him to it! I should not be afraid of missing him! + +CLARA. + +I beg of you! + +SECRETARY (_going_). + +As soon as it grows dark! + +[_He returns and grasps CLARA's hand._] + +Girl, you stand before me--[_He turns away._] + +Thousands of your sex would have kept it a secret with shrewd cunning, +and only in an hour of sweet forgetfulness would have confided it +coaxingly to the ear and soul of their husbands. I feel what I owe you! + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Oh, my heart, lock yourself up! Crush yourself together so that not +another drop of that blood may escape which would kindle again the +congealing life in my veins! For a moment a feeling akin to hope arose +in you again! Now for the first time I am conscious of it! + +[_Laughs._] + +No! No man can, overlook that! And if--could you yourself overlook it? +Would you have had the courage to grasp a hand that--No! no! Such evil +courage you would not have! You would with your own hands have to lock +yourself into your hell, if any one tried to open the door from the +outside. You are forever--Oh, alas, that the pain is intermittent, that +the piercing agony sometimes ceases! That is the reason why it lasts so +long! The tortured man imagines he is resting when the torturer merely +pauses to get his breath. It is like a drowning man's catching his +breath on the waves, when the current that has drawn him under spews him +forth again only to seize him once more and draw him down. He has +nothing but a double, futile fight for life!-- + +Well, Clara?--Yes, father, I am going! Your daughter will not drive you +to self-destruction! Soon I shall be the wife of that man, or--God! No! +I do not go begging for happiness--it is misery, the deepest misery that +I beg for! You will give me my misery!--Away! Where is the letter? + +[_She takes it._] + +Three wells you pass on your way to him! You must not halt at any of +them, Clara--you have not yet the right to do that! + +[_Exit._] + + + +ACT III + + + +SCENE I + +_LEONARD'S Room._ + +LEONARD (_at a table covered with documents, writing_). + +That makes the sixth sheet since dinner! How good a man feels when he is +doing his duty! Now anybody that wanted to could come through the door, +even the king himself! I should rise, but I should not feel embarrassed! +I make just one exception--that is the old joiner! But, after all, he +cannot do much to me! Poor Clara! I am sorry for her. I cannot think of +her without uneasiness! If only it were not for that one cursed evening! +It was really more jealousy than love that made me so frantic, and she +must have yielded to me only to silence my reproaches--for she was as +cold as death toward me! She has some bad days ahead of her! Oh, well, I +too shall suffer considerable annoyance! Let everybody bear his own +burden! Above all things I must make the affair with the little humpback +secure, so that she cannot escape me when the storm breaks out! Then I +shall have the burgomaster on my side, and shall have nothing to fear! + + + +SCENE II + +_Enter, CLARA._ + +CLARA. + +Good evening, Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +Clara! [_To himself._] + +This is something I did not expect! + +[_Aloud._] + +Did you not receive my letter? Surely--Perhaps you are coming for your +father to pay the taxes! How much is it? + +[_He fumbles in a ledger._] + +I really ought to have it in my head! + +CLARA. + +I have come to give back your letter! Read it again! + +LEONARD (_reads it with great seriousness_). + +It is a perfectly sensible letter! How can a man who has public money in +trust marry into a family to which [_he swallows a word_]--to which your +brother belongs? + +CLARA. + +Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +But perhaps the whole town is mistaken! Your brother is not in prison? +He never was in prison? You are not the sister of a--of your brother? + +CLARA. + +Leonard, I am my father's daughter! Not as the sister of an accused, +innocent man, who has been set free--for my brother is at liberty--not +as a girl who trembles before undeserved disgrace, for [_in a low +voice_] I tremble still more before you, only as the daughter of the old +man who gave me life, do I stand here! + +LEONARD. + +And you wish?-- + +CLARA. + +Can you ask? Oh, that I might go away! My father will cut his throat, +unless--Marry me! + +LEONARD. + +Your father-- + +CLARA. + +He has sworn it! Marry me! + +LEONARD. + +Hand and neck are near cousins--they never do harm to each other! Don't +be anxious! + +CLARA. + +He has sworn it! Marry me! And, afterward, kill me! I will thank you +even more for the latter than for the former! + +LEONARD. + +Do you love me? Did your heart prompt you to come here? Am I the man +without whom you cannot live and die? + +CLARA. + +Answer that yourself! + +LEONARD. + +Can you swear that you love me? That you love me as a girl loves a man +to whom she is to bind herself forever? + +CLARA. + +No, that I cannot swear! But this I can swear Whether I love you or do +not love you, that you shall never know! I will wait on you, I will work +for you, you need give me nothing to eat, I will support myself, I will +do sewing and spinning for other people at night, I will go hungry when +I have nothing to do, I will rather bite a piece out of my own arm than +go to my father and let him suspect anything! When you beat me, because +your dog is not at hand, or because you have kicked him out, I will +rather swallow my own tongue than emit a cry which will betray to the +neighbors what is going on. I cannot promise that my skin will not show +the welts caused by your whip, for that is not in my power. But I will +lie about it, I will say that I fell head foremost against the cupboard, +or that I slipped on the floor because it was too smooth--that I will do +before anybody has time to ask me where the black and blue marks came +from!--Marry me! I shall not live long! And if it lasts too long for +you, if you do not care to meet the expenses of the divorce proceedings +necessary to get rid of me, them buy some poison of the apothecary and +put it somewhere as if it were for your rats. I will take it without +your even nodding to me, and tell the neighbors with my dying breath +that I took it for pulverized sugar! + +LEANARD. + +A man of whom you expect all this will certainly not surprise you if he +says no! + +CLARA. + +Then may God not frown too severely on me if I come before he calls me! +If I had myself alone to consider I would endure it patiently. If the +world kicked me in my misery, instead of standing by me, I would bear it +submissively and regard it as just punishment for I know not what! I +would love my child, even if it had your features, and I would cry so +much before the poor innocent thing that, when it grew older and wiser, +it would certainly not despise and curse its mother. But it is not +myself alone; and on Judgement Day I shall much more easily find an +answer to the Judge's question: why did you drive your father to it? + +LEANARD. + +You talk as if you were the first woman and the last to find herself in +your predicament! Thousands have gone through it before you and +submitted to their fate. Thousands after you will be confronted with the +same situation and accept their fate. Are all these others strumpets, +that you are so anxious to stand in the corner by yourself? They also +had fathers who invented a score of new oaths when they first heard of +it, and talked about murder and homicide! Afterward they were ashamed of +themselves and repented their oaths and blasphemies; they sat down and +rocked the child, or fanned the flies away! + +CLARA. + +I readily believe that you fail to understand why anybody in the world +should keep an oath. + + + +SCENE III + +_Enter a boy_ + +BOY. + +Here are some flowers! I am not to say from whom they come! + +LEANARD. + +Oh, what pretty flowers! + +[_He beats his brow._] + +The devil! How stupid of me! I should have sent Some! How can I get out +of it? I do not understand such things, and the little girl will take it +to heart! She has nothing else to think about! + +[_He takes the flowers._] + +But I shall not keep all of them. + +[_To_ Clara] How about it? These here signify repentance and shame, +don't they? Did you not say that to me once? + +CLARA (_nods_.) + +LEANARD (_To the boy_). + +See here, boy, these are for me. I fasten them on me here, you +see--where my heart is. These, these dark red ones, which burn like a +dismal fire, you may take back. Do you understand? As soon as my apples +are ripe, you may come for some! + +BOY. + +That is a long time off! + +[_Exit_.] + + + +SCENE IV + +LEANARD. + +Yes, you see, Clara; you spoke about keeping one's word. Just because I +am a man of my word I must answer you again as I have already answered +once before. A week ago I wrote you a letter--you cannot deny it--there +it lies! [_He hands her the letter, which she takes mechanically_.] I +had reason--your brother--you say he is acquitted--I am glad of that! +But during these eight days I have entered into a new relation. I had a +right to do it, for you did not protest against my letter at the right +time! I was free in my own conscience, as well as before the law. Now +you come to me--but I have already given my promise and received +another's! [_To himself._] I would it were so!--The other girl is +already in the same predicament as you are! I am sorry for you, but [_He +strokes her hair, and she permits it, as if she were absolutely +unconscious of it_]--you understand?--One cannot trifle with the +burgomaster! + +CLARA (_absent-mindedly_). + +Trifle with him! + +LEONARD. + +See! You are getting sensible! And as far as your father is concerned, +you can say it boldly to his face that he alone is to blame. Do not +stare at me so; do not shake your head! It is so, girl, it is so! Just +tell him that! He'll understand it all right, and repent! I'll vouch +for that! [_To himself._] Any man who gives away his daughter's dowry +must not be surprised if she remains an old maid. When I think of that +my back gets stiff, and I could wish that the old fellow were here to +receive a lecture. Why must I be such a monster?--Only because he was a +fool! Whatever happens as a result of that, he is to blame for it! That +is obvious! + +[_To CLARA._] + +Or would you prefer to have me talk with him myself? For your sake I +will risk a black eye and go to him. He may be rough with me, he may +throw the boot-jack at my head, but he will have to swallow the truth in +spite of the stomach-ache it gives him, and let you rest in peace!--Is +he at home? + +CLARA (_stands up straight_). + +I thank you! + +[_Starts to go._] + +LEONARD. + +Shall I go over with you? I have the courage! + +CLARA. + +I thank you as I would thank a serpent which had wound itself around me +and unwound itself and sprung away again, because another prey enticed +it. I know that I have been bitten, I know that it deserts me only +because it does not seem worth the trouble to suck out what little +marrow there is left in my bones. But still I thank the snake, for now I +shall have a quiet death. Yes, man, I am not mocking; to me it is as if +I had seen through your breast down into the abyss of hell, and whatever +may be my lot in the awful eternity to come, I shall never have anything +more to do with you, and that is a consolation! And just as the +unfortunate person whom a viper has stung cannot be blamed for opening +his veins in terror and disgust, in order that his poisoned blood may +stream swiftly forth, so perhaps God in His everlasting mercy will take +pity on me when He looks down upon you and me and sees what you have +made of me! For how _could_ I do it, when I never, never _should_ have +done it?--One thing more: My father knows nothing, he does not even +suspect anything! And that he may never find out I shall quit the world +this very day! If I thought for one moment that you [_she takes a step, +wildly, toward him_]--oh, but that is foolishness! You would be only all +the better pleased to see them all stand and shake their heads and +inquire in vain of one another why it happened! + +LEONARD. + +Things will happen--what is one to do, Clara? + +CLARA. + +Away from here! The man can talk! + +[_She starts to go._] + +LEONARD. + +Do you think that I believe you? + +CLARA. + +No! + +LEONARD. + +Thank God, you cannot be a suicide without being an infanticide as well! + +CLARA. + +Better both than a parricide! Oh, I know that one cannot atone for one +sin with another! But what I now do affects me alone! If I hand the +knife to my father the blow strikes him as well as me! It strikes me in +any case! That gives me courage and strength in all my distress! Things +will go well with you on earth! + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE V + +LEONARD (_alone_). + +"I must, I must marry her!" And why must I? She is going to do a crazy +thing in order to keep her father from doing one. Where lies the +necessity of my doing a still crazier thing in order to ward off hers? I +cannot admit the necessity--at least not until I see before me the man +who wants to get ahead of me with the most insane act of all! And if he +thinks as I do about it there will be no end! That sounds quite +sensible, and yet--I must follow her! Here comes somebody! Thank +God!--Nothing is more ignominious than to have to be at variance with +one's own thoughts! A rebellion in the head, in which one brings forth +viper after viper and each one tries to eat the other or bite his tail, +is the worst of all! + + + +SCENE VI + +_Enter the SECRETARY._ + +SECRETARY. + +Good evening! + +LEONARD. + +Mr. Secretary? To what do I owe the honor-- + +SECRETARY. + +Leonard, you will see at once! + +LEONARD. + +You say Leonard to me?--To be sure, we used to be schoolmates! + +SECRETARY. + +And we may perhaps be death-mates too! + +[_He draws forth two pistols._] + +Do you know how to handle these? + +LEONARD. + +I do not understand you! + +SECRETARY (_cocks one of them_). + +Do you see?--This is how it is done! Then you aim at me, as I am now +doing at you, and pull the trigger! So! + +LEONARD. + +What are you talking about? + +SECRETARY. + +One of us two must die! Die! And immediately! + +LEONARD. + +Die? + +SECRETARY. + +You know why! + +LEONARD. + +By God, no! + +SECRETARY. + +No matter--it will occur to you all right when you are dying! + +LEONARD. + +I have no idea-- + +SECRETARY. + +Bethink yourself! Otherwise I might take you for a mad dog that has +unwittingly bitten the one I love most on earth, and shoot you down as +such! But for half an hour more I must let you pass as my equal! + +LEONARD. + +But don't talk so loud! If anybody should hear you-- + +SECRETARY. + +If anybody could hear me you would have called him long ago! Well? + +LEONARD. + +If it is about the girl--I can marry her, you know! I had, in fact, half +made up my mind to do it, when she herself was here! + +SECRETARY. + +She was here! And has gone away again without having seen you contrite +and repentant at her feet? Come! Come! + +LEONARD. + +I beg of you! You see before you a man who is ready to do anything that +you dictate. This very evening I will betroth myself to her. + +SECRETARY. + +That I shall do, no one else. If the world itself hung on it you should +not even touch the hem of her dress again! Come! Into the woods with me! +But mark this! I shall take you by the arm, and if on the way you emit a +single cry--[_He holds up a pistol._] I trust you believe me! +Nevertheless, that you may not feel tempted, we will take the road +through the garden behind the house! + +LEONARD. + +One of them is for me--give it to me! + +SECRETARY. + +So that you can throw it away and compel me to murder you or let you +escape! Is that why you want it? Be patient, until we are on the spot! +Then I shall divide with you honestly! + +LEONARD (_goes, and accidentally knocks his drinking-glass from the +table_). + +Shall I never take another drink? + +SECRETARY. + +Courage, my lad! Perhaps it will go well with you! God and the devil +seem to be forever fighting for the world! Who knows which is master +just now? + +[_Seizes him by the arm; exeunt both._] + + + +SCENE VII + +_A Room in the Joiner's House; enter CARL._ + +CARL. + +Nobody at home! Had I not known about the rat-hole under the threshold +where they always hide the key when they all go out, I could not have +got in! Well, that would not have made any difference! I could run +around the city twenty times now and imagine to myself that there was no +greater pleasure in the world than that of using one's legs! Let's have +a light! + +[_He strikes a light._] + +I'll bet the tinder-box is in the same old place, for we have twice ten +commandments in this house! The hat belongs on the third nail, not on +the fourth! At half past nine one has to be tired! Before Martinmas one +must not shiver; after Martinmas one must not sweat! That stands on a +line with: Thou shalt love and fear God! I am thirsty! + +[_Calls._] + +Mother! Fie! As if I had forgotten that she lies where even the +innkeeper's boots no longer has to open his nut-cracker mouth with a +"Yes, sir!" when he is called! I did not weep when I heard the funeral +bell in my dark cell, but--Redcoat, you would not even let me roll the +last ball at the bowling alley, although I already had it in my hand. +Well, I shall not leave you time for a last breath when I meet you +alone, and that may happen this very evening! I know where you are to be +found about ten o'clock! Afterward, aboard ship!--I wonder where Clara +is? I am as hungry as I am thirsty! Today is Thursday--they have veal +broth for dinner. If it were winter, they would have had cabbage--before +Shrove-Tuesday white cabbage--after Shrove-Tuesday, green cabbage! That +is as fixed as Thursday's having to come when Wednesday has passed, so +that it cannot say to Friday: You go in my place--my feet are sore! + + + +SCENE VIII + +_Enter, CLARA._ + +CARL. + +At last!--You should not kiss so much! Whenever four red lips meet a +bridge for the devil is built!--What have you there? + +CLARA. + +Where? What? + +CARL. + +Where? What?--In your hand! + +CLARA. + +Nothing! + +CARL. + +Nothing? Is it a secret? + +[_He snatches LEONARD'S letter._] + +Give me that! When the father is not here the brother is guardian! + +CLARA. + +I held fast to the scrap of paper, and yet the evening wind is so strong +that it blows the tiles off the roofs. As I was passing the church one +fell right in front of me, so that my foot struck against it. Oh, God! I +thought--one more! And I stood still. That would have been fine; they +would have buried me and said: "She met with an accident!"--But I waited +in vain for the second. + +CARL (_has read the letter_). + +Thunder and--I'll lame the hand that wrote that!--Bring me a bottle of +wine! Or is your savings box empty? + +CLARA. + +There is one more in the house. I had bought it secretly for mother's +birthday and put it aside. Tomorrow would have been the day--[_She turns +away._] + +CARL. + +Give it to me! + +CLARA (_brings the wine_). + +CARL (_drinks quickly_). + +Now we can start in again--planing, sawing, +hammering, and, in between, eating, drinking, and sleeping, so that we +can go on planing, sawing, and hammering, and on Sundays do a bit of +praying into the bargain! I thank Thee, O Lord, that I may plane, saw, +and hammer! + +[_Drinks._] + +Long live every good dog that is tied to a chain, and yet does not snap +at everything around him! + +[_He drinks again._] + +And once more: Here's to his health! + +CLARA. + +Carl, do not drink so much! Father says the devil lurks in wine! + +CARL. + +And the priest says God lurks in wine! [_He drinks._] Let us see who is +right! The bailiff was here at the house--how did he behave himself? + +CLARA. + +As if he had been in a den of thieves. No sooner had he opened his mouth +than mother fell over and was dead! + +CARL. + +Good! If you hear tomorrow that the fellow has been found dead, then do +not curse the murderer! + +CLARA. + +Surely you are not going to-- + +CARL. + +Am I his only enemy? Has he not been often attacked already? Among so +many it might be difficult to find the right man to attribute the deed +to, unless he left his cane or hat on the spot! [_He drinks._] Whoever +it is: Good success to him! + +CLARA. + +Brother, you talk-- + +CARL. + +Don't you like it? Never mind! You will not see me very much longer! + +CLARA (_shudders with terror_). + +No! + +CARL. + +No? So you know already that I am going to sea? Do my thoughts crawl +around on my forehead, that you can read them so easily? Or did the old +man fly into a passion in his old way and threaten to shut me out of the +house? Bah! That would be very much the same thing as if the jailer had +sworn to me: You shall not stay in prison any longer--I am going to +shove you out into the open again! + +CLARA. + +You do not understand me! + +CARL (_sings_). + + A ship lies in the offing, + A-sporting with the winds. + +Yes indeed, there is nothing to bind me to the bench here any longer! +Mother is dead, there is no longer any one to stop eating fish after +every storm, and that has been my wish from boyhood. Away! I shall not +prosper here--at least not until I know for sure that luck no longer +favors the brave fellow who stakes his life on the game, who throws back +onto the table the copper coin that he has received from the great +treasure, in order to see whether luck will pocket it or return it to +him gilded! + +CLARA. + +And are you going away to leave your father all alone? He is sixty years +old! + +CARL. + +Alone? Aren't you going to be left? + +CLARA. + +I? + +CARL. + +You! His pet child! What sort of weeds are growing in your head +that you ask me that? By going, I leave his joy with him and free him of +his everlasting annoyance! Why shouldn't I do it? Once and for all we +cannot get along together. He can't get things contracted enough to suit +him. He would like to close his fist and creep inside it. I would like +to strip off my skin like a baby's coat--if it were only practicable! + +[_Sings_] + + The anchor they are heaving, + I trow they'll soon be leaving, + Now look! Away she spins. + +Tell me yourself: Did he doubt my guilt for a single instant? And did he +not find the usual consolation in his over-wise: "Just as I expected!" +"I have always thought so!" "It could not end in any other way!" If it +had been you, he would have killed himself! I should like to see him if +you were to suffer a woman's fate! It would be to him as if he himself +had become pregnant--and by the devil besides! + +CLARA. + +Oh, what anguish! Yes, I must go! Away! + +CARL. + +What do you mean by that? + +CLARA. + +I must go into the kitchen! What else should I mean? + +[_Clasping her forehead._] + +Yes! That too! Just to hear that I came home again! + +[_Exit._] + +CARL. + +She acts very strangely! + +[_Sings_] + + A bold and saucy sea-gull + Sweeps round, as if possessed-- + +CLARA. [_Reënters._] + +The last thing is done! Father's supper is on the fire! As I closed the +kitchen door behind me, I thought to myself: You are never to enter +there again! I shuddered in my very soul! Thus I shall go out of the +room too, thus out of the house, thus out of the world! + +CARL. [_Sings; he continues to walk back and forth; CLARA remains in the +background._] + + Aloft the sun is burning, + The fishes, glancing, turning, + Circle about their guest. + +CLARA. + +Why do I not do it then? Shall I never do it? Am I going to continue +putting it off from day to day, as I am now doing from one minute to the +next, until--certainly! Then, away! Away! And yet I stand still! I have +a feeling as if imploring hands were raised in my womb, as if +eyes--[_She sits down on a chair._] What does it mean? Am I too weak to +do it? Then ask yourself if you are strong enough to see your father +with his throat cut!--[_She rises._] No! No!--Our Father, Who art in +Heaven, hallowed be Thy name--God! God! My poor head! I cannot even +pray! Brother! Brother! Help me! + +CARL. + +What's the matter with you + +CLARA. + +The Lord's Prayer! + +[_She bethinks herself._] + +It seemed to me as if I were already lying in the water and sinking, and +had not yet prayed! I [_suddenly_]--Forgive us our trespasses, as we +forgive those that trespass against us! That is it! Yes! Yes! Certainly +I forgive him! I shall think no more of him!--Good night, Carl! + +CARL. + +Are you going to bed so soon? Good night! + +CLARA. [_Like a child, repeating the Lord's Prayer._] + +Forgive us-- + +CARL. + +You might bring me a glass of water first--but it must be absolutely +fresh! + +CLARA (_quickly_). + +I will bring it to you from the well! + +CARL. + +All right! If you want to. It is not far, you know. + +CLARA. + +Thank you! Thank you! That was the last thing that still troubled me! +The deed itself would have betrayed me! Now people will say: She had an +accident! She fell in! + +CARL. + +Be careful of yourself! The board has probably not been nailed down +yet! + +CLARA. + +It is bright moonlight!--Oh, God, I am coming only because otherwise my +father would come! Forgive me, as I--have mercy on me--mercy--[_Exit._] + + +SCENE IX + +CARL (_sings_). + + I fain would be aboard her, + My kingdom's on the sea. + +Yes, but first [_He looks at the clock._]--What time is it?--Nine +o'clock. + + A lad that's young and growing + Must e'en be up and going, + No matter where, says he. + + + +SCENE X + +_Enter, Master ANTONY._ + +ANTONY. + +I should have an apology to make to you, but if I forgive you for +contracting secret debts and pay them off for you into the bargain, you +will probably allow me to omit the apology? + +CARL. + +The one is good, the other is not necessary. As soon as I sell my +Sunday clothes I shall myself be able to satisfy the people who have a +claim of a few thalers against me. And that I shall do tomorrow, for as +a sailor [_To himself_]--There, it is out! [_Aloud_]--I shall no longer +need them! + +ANTONY. + +What kind of talk is that again? + +CARL. + +This is not the first time you have heard it, but today you may answer +me as you will! My mind is made up! + +ANTONY. + +You are of age, that is true! + +CARL. + +And just because I am of age I am not defiant about it! For in my +opinion birds and fishes should not quarrel over the question whether it +is better in the water or in the air. Just one thing--either you will +never see me again, or else you will clap me on the shoulder and say: +Well done! + +ANTONY. + +We'll wait and see! I shall not have to pay off the fellow that I have +taken on in your place. That's all. + +CARL. + +I thank you. + +ANTONY. + +Tell me: Did the bailiff, instead of taking you by the shortest way to +the burgomaster, really lead you around through the whole town and-- + +CARL. + +Up the street, down the street, across the marketplace like a carnival +ox! But do not doubt it--I shall settle up with him too before I go! +ANTONY. + +I do not blame you for that, but I forbid you to do it! CARL. + +Ho! + +ANTONY. + +I'll not let you out of my sight! I myself would run to the man's aid, +if you tried to attack him! + +CARL. + +I thought that you loved my mother too! + +ANTONY. + +I shall prove it! + + + +SCENE XI + +SECRETARY (_staggers in; he is pale, and is holding a handkerchief +against his breast_). Where is Clara? [_He falls into a chair_.] +God!--Good evening! Thank Heaven that I had time to get here!--Where is +she? + +CARL. + +She went to--Where is she? Her talk--I am afraid--[_Exit_.] + +[Illustration: DEATH AS FRIEND _From a Drawing by Alfred Rethel_] + +SECRETARY. + +She is avenged! The scoundrel is done for! But I too am--Oh, why did it +have to be?--God! Now I cannot-- + +ANTONY. + +What's the matter with you? What ails you? + +SECRETARY. + +It is nearly up with me! Give me your hand on it, that you will not cast +off your daughter--do you hear?--will not cast her off, if she-- + +ANTONY. + +That is strange talk! Why should I, pray--Ha! My eyes are opening!--Was +I right after all in suspecting?-- + +SECRETARY. + +Give me your hand! + +ANTONY. + +No! + +[_He puts both hands into his pockets._] + +But I will clear the way for her--she knows that! I have told her so. + +SECRETARY (_horrified_). + +You told her!--unhappy girl! Now for the first time I quite understand-- + +CARL (_rushes in_). + +Father! Father! There is somebody lying in the well! If only it is not-- + +ANTONY. + +The long ladder! Hooks! Ropes! Why do you delay? Quick! Even were it the +bailiff! + +CARL. + +Everything is already there! The neighbors arrived before me! If only it +is not Clara!-- + +ANTONY. + +Clara? + +[_He grasps the table._] + +CARL. + +She went to draw water, and they found her handkerchief! + +SECRETARY. + +Scoundrel, I know now why your bullet hit the mark! It is she! + +ANTONY. + +Go and find out! + +[_He, sits down._] + +I cannot! + +[_Exit CARL._] + +And yet-- + +[_Rises again._] + +If [_to the SECRETARY_] I understood you correctly, everything is all +right! + +CARL (_reënters_). + +Clara! Dead! Her head terribly crushed on the edge of the well, as +she--Father, she did not fall in, she jumped in! A maid saw her! + +ANTONY. + +Let her think before she speaks! It is not light enough for her to have +distinguished things with certainty! SECRETARY. Do you doubt it? You +would like to, but you cannot! Think only of what you said to her! You +pointed out to her the road to death! I, I alone am to blame that she +did not turn back! When you suspected her misery, you thought only of +the tongues that would hiss at you, but not of the worthlessness of the +snakes to which they belonged! Then you uttered a word that drove her to +despair! And I, instead of catching her in my arms when her heart was +bursting with nameless anguish before me, thought only of the scoundrel +who could make light of it. And now I pay with my life for having made +myself so dependent upon a man who was worse than I! And you too, who +stand there so stolidly, you too will say one day: Daughter, I would to +God you had not spared me the head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging of the +Pharisees about me! It crushes me more deeply that you cannot sit by my +death-bed and wipe the sweat of anguish from my brow! + +ANTONY. + +She spared me nothing! People have seen it! + +SECRETARY. + +She did the best she could! You did not deserve to have her act succeed! + +ANTONY. + +Or she did not! + +[_Tumult outside._] + +CARL. They are coming with her! + +[_Starts to go._] + +ANTONY (_immovable, as to the end; calls after him_). + +Into the back room, where your mother stood! + +SECRETARY. + +Away to meet her! + +[_He attempts to rise, but falls back._] + +Oh, Carl! + +CARL (_helps him up and leads him away_). + +ANTONY. + +I no longer understand the world! + +[_Stands brooding._] + + * * * * * + + + + +SIEGFRIED'S DEATH + + + A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS + + By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + + + DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + + + KING GUNTHER + + HAGEN TRONJE + + DANK WART + + VOLKER + + GISELHER + + GERENOT + + WULF _Warrior_ + + TRUCES _Warrior_ + + RUMOLT + + SIEGFRIED + + UTE + + KRIEMHILD + + BRUNHILDA, _Queen of Iceland_ + + FRIGGA, _her nurse_ + + A CHAPLAIN + + A CHAMBERLAIN + + _Warriors, Populace, Maidens, Dwarfs_ + + + +SIEGFRIED'S DEATH (1862) + +TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE ROYCE + + + + ACT I + + _Iceland, BRUNHILDA'S castle. Early morning._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter BRUNHILDA and FRIGGA from opposite sides._ + + BRUNHILDA. + + From whence so early? Dewy is thy hair + And blood-stained are thy garments. + + FRIGGA. + + I have made + A sacrifice unto the ancient gods, + Before the moon was gone. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The ancient gods! + The cross rules now, and Thor and Odin dwell + As devils in deep hell. + + FRIGGA. + + And dost thou fear + Them less for that? Their curses still may fall + Upon us, though their blessings are withheld, + And willingly I sacrificed the ram. + Oh, wouldst thou kill one too! Thy need is great + Above all others. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Mine? + + FRIGGA. + + Another time. + I long had meant to tell thee, and today + At last the hour has come. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I've always thought + That at thy death the hour would come to me, + So did not importune thee. + + FRIGGA. + + Mark me now! + From our volcano came there suddenly + An aged man and left with me a child, + A tablet, too, with runes. + +[Illustration: Peter Cornelius Title Page of the Nibelungenlied] + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Twas in the night? + + FRIGGA. + + How dost thou know? + + BRUNHILDA. + + When on thee falls the moonlight--On + thy face, thou speakest oft aloud, + Betraying much. + + FRIGGA. + + And thou didst harken to me? + At midnight we were watching with our dead--Our + beauteous Queen. The old man's hair was white, + And longer than a woman's. Like a cloak + It hung about him, flowing softly down. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The spirit of the mountain! + + FRIGGA. + + Naught know I!-- + No syllable he spoke. The little maid + Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown + That glittered brightly o'er the dead Queen's brow. + We marveled that it fitted her. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The child? + + FRIGGA. + + The little maid; and it was none too large, + Nor later did it bind her. + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Twas like mine! + + FRIGGA. + + Like thine it was! And, yet more wonderful. + The child was like the maid that lay there dead + Within the mother's arms and disappeared + As had it ne'er existed--yes, so like + That only by the breathing could we know + The living from the dead. It seemed to us + That nature must have formed one body twice, + With life for one child only. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Had the Queen + A new-born baby in her arms? + + FRIGGA. + + Her life + She gave to bear her child, and with her died + The little maid. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou didst not tell me that. + FRIGGA. I never thought to tell thee. Sorrow broke + The mother's heart that she could never show + Her baby to her lord. For many years + This priceless joy in vain he had desired, + And, just a month before the child was born, + A sudden death o'ertook him. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Tell me more! + + FRIGGA. + + We sought the aged man, but he was gone. + The glowing mountain that had been cleft through + As one might split an apple, slowly now + Was drawn together there before our eyes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The old man came no more? + + FRIGGA. + + Now hark to me! + Next morning to the grave we bore our Queen; + But when the priest was ready to baptize + The little maid, his arm fell helpless down, + Nor could he touch her forehead with the dew + Of holy water, and his good right arm + He never lifted more. + + BRUNHILDA. + + What, never more! + + FRIGGA. + + The man was old, and so we marveled not. + We called another priest. The holy dew + He sprinkled on the child. The blessed words + Of benediction halted on his tongue, + Nor hath his speech returned. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And now the third? + + FRIGGA. + + For him we waited long. We had to seek + In other lands afar, where of the tale + None knew. At last this priest baptized the child. + His holy office ended, down he fell + Upon the ground and nevermore arose! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And did the baby live + + FRIGGA. + + She throve apace, + And strong she grew. Her playful ways to us + Were signs what we should do or leave undone. + They ne'er deceived us, for the runes had said + That we might trust them ever. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Frigga! Frigga! + + FRIGGA. + + Thou art indeed the maid! Now dost thou know + Not in the gloomy caverns of the dead, + In Hecla where the ancient gods still dwell, + Among the Norns, among the Valkyries, + Seek thou the mother that gave birth to thee! + Oh, that no drop of holy water e'er + Had touched thy brow! Then were we wiser far. + + BRUNHILDA. + + What dost thou murmur? + + FRIGGA. + + How then did it hap + That on this morning we were not in bed, + But fully robed had tarried in the hall? + Our teeth were chattering and our lips were blue. + + BRUNHILDA. + + A sudden sleep o'erwhelmed us, that was all. + + FRIGGA. + + But had it ever happened? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Not before. + + FRIGGA. + + Then hark! The old man came and tried to speak. + It almost seems as if I'd seen him stand + And grasp thy shoulder; and he threatened me, + But heavy was thy sleep. Thou should'st not hear + What fate awaits thee if thou dost persist. + So offer sacrifice and then be free. + Oh, had I paid no heed unto the priest, + Howe'er he urged me! But the sacred runes + I had not read aright.--Come, sacrifice, + For danger cometh nigh. + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis nigh? + + FRIGGA. + + Alas! + Thou knowest that the fiery sea is quenched + That flamed around thy castle. + BRUNHILDA. Yet the knight + Still lingers who should wield the magic sword + And on his war-horse gallop through the flames, + When he had won proud Fafner's ill-starred hoard. + + FRIGGA. + + I may have erred. But yet this second sign + Cannot deceive me, for I long have known + That when the fateful hour shall come to thee, + Clear vision doth await thee. Sacrifice! + Mayhap the ancient gods surround thee now + Invisibly, and they will straight appear + With the first blood-drops of thine offering. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I do not fear. + + [_Trumpets are heard._] + + FRIGGA. + + The trumpets! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Hast thou ne'er + Heard them before. + + FRIGGA. + + Never before with dread. + The time for lopping thistle-heads is past, + And iron helms arise before thee now. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Come hither all! For I will let her see + Brunhilda still can conquer! While the sea + Of fire still flamed I hastened forth to meet ye, + And friendly, as a trusty dog will spring + To give his master room, my faithful fire + Drew back before me, sank on either hand; + The road stands open now, but not my heart. + [_She ascends her throne._] + Now fling the portals wide and let them in! + Whoever here may come, his head is mine! + + + + SCENE II + + _The gates are opened. Enter SIEGFRIED, GUNTHER, HAGEN and VOLKER_ + + BRUNHILDA. + + Who cometh seeking death? + + (_To SIEGFRIED._) + + Ah! Is it thou? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am not seeking death, nor will I sue. + And too much honor dost thou yield to me + In greeting Gunther's guide before himself, + For I am but his helper. + + BRUNHILDA (_turning to GUNTHER_). + + Then 'tis thou? + And know'st thou what is toward? + + GUNTHER. + + Full well I know! + + SIEGFRIED. + + The rumor of thy beauty spreads abroad, + But further still the fame of thy hard heart. + And who hath gazed but once in thy deep eyes + Will nevermore forget, e'en in his cups, + That dreadful death beside thee always stands. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Tis true! Who cannot conquer, he must die, + And all his servants with him. Smilest thou? + Be not so proud! For if thou cam'st to me + As thou could'st hold a beaker full of wine + On high above thy head and still could'st gaze + On me as on a picture, yet I swear + That thou shalt fall as any other falls. + + (_TO GUNTHER._) + + But thee I counsel, if thine ears can hear, + List to my maidens! Bid them tell the tale + Of heroes that my hand hath laid full low! + The chance may hap among them there is one + Hath tried his strength with thee. There may be one + Hath laid thee conquered at his very feet! + + HAGEN. + + Ne'er was King Gunther conquered. That I vow! + + SIEGFRIED. + + High stands his castle by the Rhine at Worms, + And rich are all the treasures of his land; + Yet o'er all heroes stands he higher still, + And richer far in honors is our King. + + HAGEN. + + Thy hand, thou lowlander! Thou speakest well! + + VOLKER. + + And would it be so hard to leave this land + Amidst the ocean's desert solitude-- + Of thy free will to leave it, and the King + To follow forth to life from night and hell? + This land is like no other on the earth.-- + A desert waste, a rockbound wilderness; + All living things have fled long since in fear, + And if thou lovest it, 'tis only this, + That thou wast born the last of all thy race. + Above, the storms rage ever, and the sea + Forever surgeth and the fiery mount + In labor moaneth, while the fearful light + That streameth ruddy from the firmament, + As streams the blood from sacrificial stone, + Is such as devils only may endure.-- + To breathe the air is like to drinking blood! + + BRUNHILDA. + + What knowest thou of this my wilderness? + Naught have I lacked from that fair world of thine. + And if I longed for aught, that would I take. + Remember that! Brunhilda needs no gifts! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Did I not tell ye true? To arms! To arms! + By force must she be brought from her wild home! + And once 'tis done, then will she give thee thanks. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Perchance that is not true. And knowest thou + The sacrifice thou askest? Thou know'st not, + And no man knoweth. Harken now to me, + And ask yourselves how I'll defend my rights. + With us the time is motionless; we know + Nor spring nor summer nor the autumntide. + The visage of the year is e'er the same, + And we within the land are changeless too. + But although nothing grows and blooms with us, + As in the sunlight of your distant home, + Still in our darkness ripen precious fruits + That in your land ye neither sow nor reap. + In the fierce joy of battle I delight + To conquer every haughty foe that comes + To steal my freedom. And I have my youth, + My glorious youth, and all the joy of life, + Which still suffice me, and, ere these I lose, + The benediction of the fates will fall + Invisibly upon me. I shall be + Their consecrated priestess evermore. + + FRIGGA. + + Is't possible? My offering sufficed? + + BRUNHILDA. + + The solid earth shall open 'neath my feet + Revealing all that's hidden in its depths; + And I shall hear the singing of the stars, + And their celestial music understand. + And still another joy shall be my share, + A third one, all impossible to grasp. + + FRIGGA. + + 'Tis thou, 'tis Odin, hast unsealed her eyes! + In the deep night her ear was closed to thee-- + Yet now she sees the spinning of the Norns. + + BRUNHILDA (_rising to her full height, with fixed and dreaming + eyes_). + + There comes a morning when I do not go + To hunt for bears, or find the great sea-snake + That's frozen in the ice, and set him free, + So that his struggles may not smite the stars. + I leave the castle early, bravely mount + My faithful steed. He bears me joyfully, + But suddenly I halt. Before my feet + The earth has turned to air, and shuddering + I wheel about. Behind me 'tis the same! + All is transparent--glowing clouds beneath, + As overhead. My maidens prattle still. + I call them--Are ye blind? Do ye see naught? + We float in empty space! They are amazed, + They shake their heads in silence, while they press + About me closer. Frigga whispers me: + And has thine hour come? Ah, now I see! + The solid earth is crystal to my gaze, + And what I deemed were clouds were but the web + Of gold and silver threads that, glistening, + Lay tangled in the depths. + + FRIGGA. + + Thy triumph comes! + + BRUNHILDA. + + An evening comes. All's changed, and lingering + We sit here late together. Suddenly, + As they were dead, the maidens fall; their words + Are frozen on their lips. I needs must go + Upon the tower, for above me rings + The sep'rate music of each farthest star. + At first 'tis only music to mine ear, + But with the dawn I murmur as in sleep: + The King will die ere nightfall and his son + Will never see the daylight, for he dies + Within his mother's womb! The others say + That so I told my tale, but I know naught + Of how I learned it. Soon I understand, + And swift the rumor flies from pole to pole + And distant people flock as now to me, + But not with swords to battle with me here-- + Nay, humbly come they, laying by their crowns, + To hear my dreams and strive to understand + The meaning of my murmurings. For my eyes + Can see the future, in my hands I hold + The key to all the treasures of this world. + Far above all I rule, untouched by fate, + And yet the fates I know. But I forget. + That even more is promised me. There roll + Whole centuries away--millenniums-- + I feel them not! Yet finally I ask: + Where then is death? My tresses answer me-- + I see them in the mirror--they are black, + The snow has never touched them, and I say: + This is the third gift. Death comes not to me. + + [_She sinks back, and the maidens support + her_.] + + FRIGGA. + + Why fear I still? For were it[1] Balmung's lord, + She hath a shield that will protect her now. + He'll fall, e'en if she loves but yet resists, + And she will struggle, since her fate she knows. + + BRUNHILDA (_rising again_). + + I spoke! What said I? + + FRIGGA. + + Take thy bow, my child. + Thy dart will fly today as ne'er before, + All else may wait! + + BRUNHILDA (_to the knights_). + + Come on! + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ BRUNHILDA). + + Thou swear'st + To follow us if thou art overcome? + + BRUNHILDA (_laughs_). + + I swear! + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well! And I'll prepare the ship! + + BRUNHILDA (_while going away addresses_ FRIGGA). + + Go now into the trophy hall and drive + The nail that will be needed. + + (_To the knights_.) + + Follow me! + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + ACT II + + _Worms. Courtyard of the Castle_. + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ RUMOLT _and_ GISELHER, _meeting_. + + GISELHER. + + Now, Rumolt, will a single tree be left? + For weeks now thou hast brought whole forests in + And grimly thou provid'st the wedding feast, + As if men, dwarfs, and elves were all to come. + + RUMOLT. + + I make me ready, and if I should find + A single kettle that's not full enough, + I'll seize the lazy cook and throw him in + And use the scullion-boy to stir the stew. + + GISELHER. + + Art thou so certain what the end will be? + + RUMOLT. + + I am, for Siegfried woos. The man who takes + Two noble princes captive, sends them home + As though they were no more than frightened hares, + Will not be daunted by a witch-wife now. + + GISELHER. + + There thou art right! We have good hostages + Since we have Lüdegast and Lüdeger! + They meant to bring a host of armèd men, + A greater than e'er Burgundy had seen. + Yet humbly here as prisoners they came, + Nor needed any guard upon their way. + So cook, my man, we shall not want for guests! + + [GERENOT _enters_.] + + And here's the hunter! + + GERENOT. + + But he brings no game! + I was upon the tower and saw the Rhine + All covered o'er with ships. + + RUMOLT. + + It is the bride! + I'll send my men to drive the beasts about, + That from the noisy turmoil in the court + The sound shall reach afar and prove to her + The welcome that awaits her! + + [_Trumpets are heard_.] + + GERENOT. + + 'Tis too late! + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED, _with retinue_. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Here am I once again! + + GISELHER. + + Without my brother? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, fear not! As his messenger I come!-- + And yet I bear the message not for thee! + 'Tis for thy Lady Mother, and I hope + That I may see thy sister Kriemhild, too. + + GISELHER. + + Brave knight, that shalt thou, for we owe to thee + Our thanks for capturing the noble Danes. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I wish that I had never sent them here. + + GISELHER. + + Why so? Thou hadst no better way to prove + What we have gained in winning thy right arm, + For truly are the Princes stalwart men! + + SIEGFRIED. + + It may be! Yet had I not done the deed, + Perhaps some bird had flown and spread abroad + The rumor that the Danes had slain me there, + And I might ask how Kriemhild heard the tale. + + GISELHER. + + But as it is they help thy cause enough! + That one can take good metal and alloy + And beat them into trumpets smooth and round, + I long have known. But that one could shape men + In such a way I knew not, but these two + Show us the work of such a smith as thou. + They praised thee--If thou hadst been there to hear, + Thy cheeks would still flame scarlet! Yet 'twas not + With measured praise, as men will praise their foe, + Thinking to lessen thus the burning shame + Of their own downfall. No, 'twas heartfelt praise. + But you should hear Kriemhilda tell the tale. + Unweariedly she asked them o'er and o'er.-- + She's coming now. + + + + SCENE III + + _Enter_ UTE _and_ KRIEMHILD. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I pray you! + + GISELHER. + + What's thy wish? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I never longed to have my father by, + That he might teach me how to bear my arms, + But ah! today I need my mother so, + That I might ask her how to use my tongue. + + GISELHER. + + Give me thy hand, since thou art shamefaced too. + They call me here "the child." Now let them see + A "child" may lead a lion! + + [_He leads_ SIEGFRIED _to the women_.] + + 'Tis the knight + From Netherland! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Fair ladies, do not fear, + Because I've come alone. + + UTE. + + Brave Siegfried, no! + We do not fear, for thou art not the man + Who's left alone when all but he are dead, + To bear his tale, a messenger of woe. + Thou comest to announce a daughter dear, + And Kriemhild hath a sister. + + SIEGFRIED. + + So it is, + My Queen! + + GISELHER. + + So is it! Nothing more? And scarce + Those few words could he utter! Dost thou grudge + The king his bride? Or hast thou lamed thy tongue + In battle? That was never known before. + But no, for thou could'st use it fast enough + To tell me of Brunhilda's dark brown eyes + And raven tresses. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Prithee, say not so! + + GISELHER. + + How hotly he denies it! See him raise + On high three fingers, swearing that he loves + Blue eyes--light hair! + + UTE. + + This is an arrant rogue! + He is nor boy nor man, sapling nor tree. + And long hath he outgrown his mother's rod, + Nor ever hath he felt his father's whip. + Ungoverned is he as a yearling colt, + That's never known the bridle or the whip. + We must forgive or punish him! + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Twere not + So easy as you think! To break a colt + Is difficult, and many limp away + Ashamed, and cannot mount him! + + UTE. + + Then once more + He 'scapes his punishment! + + GISELHER. + + As a reward, + I'll tell a secret to thee. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Giselher! + + GISELHER. + + What hast thou to conceal? Be not afraid! + I do not know thy secret, nor will blow + The ashes from thy embers.--Never fear! + + UTE. + + What is it then? + + GISELHER. + + I have myself forgotten. + When a man's sister blushes rosy-red, + 'Tis natural a brother is surprised + And seeks to know the reason.--Never mind! + The secret I'll recall before I die, + And then shall Siegfried learn it. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou may'st jeer, + For I forget my message utterly, + And ere I've given word that you should don + Your festal garments, do the trumpets blow, + And Gunther and his train bring in the bride! + + GISELHER. + + Dost thou not see the steward hastening? + Thy very coming told enough to him! + But I will help! + + [_He goes to_ RUMOLT.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + A noble messenger + May not be paid with gifts! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Indeed he may! + + KRIEMHILD (_fastens her bracelet and in so doing drops her + handkerchief)_. + + SIEGFRIED (_snatches at the handkerchief)_. + + This is my gift. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Pray, no! 'Twere all unworthy! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Jewels I value as another, dust. + And houses can I build of gold and silver, + Yet lack I such a kerchief! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Take it then! + It is my handiwork. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And thy free gift? + + KRIEMHILD. + + My noble Siegfried, yes, 'tis my free gift. + + UTE. + + I crave thy pardon--it is time to go! + + [_Exit, with_ KRIEMHILD.] + + + + SCENE IV + + SIEGFRIED. + + A Roland[2] would have stood as stood I here! + I wonder that the sparrows did not nest + Within my hair. + + + + SCENE V + + _Enter the_ CHAPLAIN. + + CHAPLAIN (_advances_). + + Your pardon, noble sir, + Has Brunhild been baptized? + + SIEGFRIED. + + She is baptized. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then 'tis a Christian land from which she + comes? + + SIEGFRIED. + + They fear the cross. + + CHAPLAIN (_steps back again_). + + Perchance 'tis there as here! + Where men will place it next to Wotan's tree + Right gladly, for they do not surely know + If magic may not dwell there; as we see + Devoutest Christians hesitate to break + A heathen image, for some remnant still + Awakes within them of the olden fear + Before those staring eyes. + + + SCENE VI + + _Flourish of trumpets_. BRUNHILDA, FRIGGA, GUNTHER, HAGEN, VOLKER, + _retainers_, KRIEMHILD _and_ UTE _approach them from the castle_. + + GUNTHER. + + And here's the castle! + My mother's coming now to welcome thee, + Kriemhilda too. + + VOLKER (_to BRUNHILDA, _as the women approach each other_). + + Are they no gain to thee? + + HAGEN. + + Siegfried, a word! Thy trick availed us naught. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Availed us naught? Was she not vanquished then? + Is she not here? + + HAGEN. + + What profit is in that? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Why, all! + + HAGEN. + + But nay! Who cannot take by force + Her first caress will master nevermore + This maid, and Gunther is not strong enough. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And has he tried? + + HAGEN. + + Why else should I complain? + In full sight of the castle! She at first + Resisted him, as it befits a maid, + And as our mothers may have done of old; + But when she saw that but the lightest touch + Sufficed to drive the ardent wooer forth, + She grew enraged, and, when he tarried still, + She seized and held him with her outstretched arm + Above the Rhine. A shame it was to him, + A shame to all of us. + + SIEGFRIED. + + She is a witch! + + HAGEN. + + Chide not, but help! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I think that if the priest + But married them-- + + HAGEN. + + Were that old hag not there, + The woman that attends her! All day long + She spies and questions, and she sits by her + As the embodiment of wise old age. + I fear the nurse the most. + + UTE (_to_ KRIEMHILD _and_ BRUNHILDA). + + Now love each other, + And may the circlet that your arms have twined + In this first joyful moment widen out + Further and further to a perfect ring + Within which you may wander, side by side, + Sharing your joys in harmony complete! + Yours is a privilege that I had not, + For what I might not say unto my lord + I had to bear in silence; but at least + I could not speak complainingly of him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Let us be like two sisters. + + BRUNHILDA. + + For your sake + Your son and brother may imprint the seal + Upon my lips that stamps me as his maid + Before the nightfall comes, for I am still + Unblemished and untouched like some young tree, + And were it not for your sweet gentleness + Forever would I hold this shame afar. + + UTE. + + Thou speak'st of shame? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Forgive me for that word; + I speak but as I feel. And I am strange + Here in your world, and as my rugged land + Would surely terrify you, were you there, + So does your land alarm me, for I feel + That here I could not have been born at all--Yet + must I live here!--Is the sky so blue + Forever? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nearly all the time 'tis blue. + + BRUNHILDA. + + We know not blue, unless we see blue eyes, + And those we only have with ruddy hair + And milk-white faces! Is it always still, + And does the wind blow never? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Sometimes storms + O'erwhelm the land, and then the day is night + With thunderpeals and lightning. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Would it come + Today!--'Twould be a greeting from my home! + I cannot well endure the brilliant light; + It pains me and it makes me feel so bare, + As if no garment here were thick enough! + And are those flowers--red and gold and green? + + KRIEMHILD. Thou ne'er hast seen them, yet thou know'st their hues? + + BRUNHILDA. Of precious stones there is with us no lack-- + Though never white or black ones; yet my hands + Have taught me white, and raven is my hair. + + KRIEMHILD. Thou canst not know of fragrance! + + [_She plucks a violet for her_.] + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh how sweet! + And is't that tiny flower that breathes it forth-- + The only one my eye did not observe? + I'd love to give the flower a pretty name-- + But surely it is named. + + KRIEMHILD. + + The little flower + Is lowlier than all, and none thy foot + More easily had crushed, for it appears + To be ashamed that it is more than grass, + And so it hides its head; but yet it drew + A gentle word from thee, the first we've heard. + So let it be a token that within + Our land is much that's hidden from thy gaze + That will delight thee. + + BRUNHILDA. + + That I hope indeed-- + For I need joy! Thou know'st not what it is + To be a woman, yet to overcome + A man in every combat and to gain + His strength that ebbs away as flows his blood, + And from the steaming blood breathe in new force-- + To feel yourself grow stronger, braver yet, + And then, when victory is surer still-- + + [_Turning suddenly_] + + Frigga, I ask again! What did I see-- + Before that latest contest, what said I? + + FRIGGA. + + It seemed thy spirit must have seen this land. + + BRUNHILDA. + + This land! + + FRIGGA. + + Thou didst rejoice. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I rejoiced!-- + Thine eyes, however, flamed. + + FRIGGA. + + Because I saw + Thy happiness. + + BRUNHILDA. + + These warriors looked to me + As white as snow. + + FRIGGA. + + They had been ever so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Wherefore didst thou conceal the dream so long? + + FRIGGA. + + It is but now that it is clear to me, + Now that I can compare. + + BRUNHILDA. + + If I rejoiced + When my prophetic vision saw this land, + I must rejoice again. + + FRIGGA. + + Thou surely shalt! + +[Illustration: SIEGFRIED'S RETURN FROM THE SAXON WAR _From the +Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + + BRUNHILDA. + + And yet it seems to me the vision dealt + With stars and metals too. + + FRIGGA. + + Yes, that is so. + Thou said'st the stars gleamed still more brightly here. + But yet that gold and silver were but dull. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Was't so? + + FRIGGA (_to_ HAGEN). + + Is't not the truth? + + HAGEN. + + I paid no heed. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I beg you all to treat me as a child; + Though I shall grow up faster than another. + Yet now I am no better. + + (_To_ FRIGGA.) + + That was all? + + FRIGGA. + + Yes, all! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then all is well! Then all is well! + + UTE (_to_ GUNTHER, _who has approached_). + + My son, if she's too bitter toward thee now, + But give her time! The clamor of the crows + And ravens that she heard could never make + Her heart grow softer, but 'twill soften now + With the lark's song and with the nightingale. + + HAGEN. So speaks the minstrel when he is in love, + And plays with foolish puppies. 'Tis enough! + The maiden must have time to find her heart, + But for the princess, hold her to her word; + By right of conquest she's already thine.--Then + claim thy rights! + + (_He calls_.) + + Chaplain! + + (_And starts on_.) + + GUNTHER. + + I'll follow thee! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Wait, Gunther, wait! What didst thou promise me! + + GUNTHER. + + May I, my Kriemhild, choose a spouse for thee? + + KRIEMHILD. + + My lord and brother, be it as thou wilt! + + GUNTHER (_to_ UTE). + + I have no opposition then to fear? + + UTE. + + Thou art the king, thy handmaids, she and I. + + GUNTHER. + + I beg thee then amongst my kinsfolk here: + Redeem an oath for them and me, and give + Thy hand to noble Siegfried. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I've no power + To speak as I could wish to, when I gaze + Upon thy face, and of my stammering tongue + Perchance thou hast already heard enough. + And so I ask thee as the hunter asks, + But that I blow no feathers from my hat, + To hide my fear: O maiden, wilt thou me? + Yet lest thou err'st through my simplicity, + And unenlightened actest in the dark, + So let me tell thee, ere thou answer'st me, + How my own mother blames me oftentimes. + She says that I am surely strong enough + To conquer all the world, but yet to rule + The smallest molehill I'm too simple far. + And if I do not lose my very eyes + 'Tis only that the thing's impossible. + Thou may'st believe the half of what she says, + The other half though, I can well disprove. + For if I once have won thee, I will show + The world how I can keep unharmed mine own. + Again I ask thee: Kriemhild, wilt thou me? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Why dost thou smile, my mother? I have not + Forgotten what I dreamed, the shudder still + Creeps over me and warns me more and more, + But still I say with dauntless courage: Yes! + + BRUNHILDA (_steps between_ KRIEMHILD _and_ SIEGFRIED). + + Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + What wilt thou? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I will prove myself + Thy sister. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now? Wherein? + + BRUNHILDA (_to_ SIEGFRIED). + + How dost thou dare + Aspire to her, the daughter of a king? + How dost thou dare, a vassal such as thou, + A serving man! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Cam'st thou not as guide, + As messenger departed? + + (_To_ GUNTHER.) + + Canst thou suffer + And aid him in such boldness? + + GUNTHER. + + Siegfried is + The first of all our warriors. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Grant him then + The foremost seat beside thy very throne. + + GUNTHER. + + In treasure, he is richer far than I. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Is that his claim upon thy sister? Shame! + + GUNTHER. + + A thousand of my enemies he's slain. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The man who conquered me thanks him for that? + + GUNTHER. + + He is a king as I am. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Yet he ranks + Himself amongst thy servants? + + GUNTHER. + + I will solve + This riddle for thee when thou art mine own. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Ere I am thine thy secret will I know. + + UTE. + + Thou wilt refuse to call me mother then? + Oh tarry not too long, for I am old. + And worn with many sorrows! + + BRUNHILDA. + + As I swore, + I'll go with him to church, and I will be + Most willingly thy daughter--not his wife. + + HAGEN (_to_ FRIGGA). + + Pray quiet her! + + FRIGGA. + + What need is there of me? + For if he once has overcome Brunhild, + The second time he surely will not fail; + And self-defense is every maiden's right. + + SIEGFRIED (_taking_ KRIEMHILD _by the hand_). + + That all may know me henceforth as a king, + The Niblung's treasure do I give to thee. + And now thy duty and my right I claim. + + [_He kisses her_.] + + HAGEN. + + To church! + + FRIGGA. + + Does Siegfried hold the Niblung's hoard? + + HAGEN. + + Thou heard'st! The trumpets! + + FRIGGA. + + And is Balmung[3] his? + + HAGEN. + + Why not? Musicians! Wedding music here! + + [_Loud and joyful music. Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + SCENE VII + + _The great hall. Enter_ TRUCHS _and_ WULF. _Dwarfs bring treasures + across the stage._ + + TRUCHS. + + I am for Kriemhild. + + WULF. + + And for Brunhild I. + + TRUCHS. + + And why, if thou wilt tell me? + + WULF. + + Where would be + The play of rival lances, if we all + Should wear one color? + + TRUCHS. + + Why, I grant thee that! + The reason is sufficient, otherwise + It were mere madness. + + WULF. + + Say it not so loud, + For many heroes swear by Brunhild now. + + TRUCHS. + + They are as different as day and night. + + WULF. + + Who says they're not? Yet many love the + night. + + [_Points to the dwarfs_.] + + What are they bringing? + + TRUCHS. + + It must be the hoard, + The treasure of the Niblungs Siegfried won. + He's called the dwarfs for escort duty here, + And bade them bring the treasure, and I'm told + It is the marriage portion for his bride. + + WULF. + + Uncanny are these dwarfs, with hollow backs! + But turn one over--there's a kneading trough! + + TRUCHS. + + And ever with the dragons is their home + Within the earth and in the mountain caves.-- + First cousins to the moles they are. + + WULF. + + But strong! + + TRUCHS. + + And clever are they too! One need not seek + For mandrakes[4] if one has these dwarfs for + friends. + + WULF (_pointing toward the treasure_). + + He who owns that needs neither of the two. + + TRUCHS. + + I love it not. It is an ancient saw + That magic gold is thirstier for blood + Than ever was the driest sponge for water; + And, more than all, the Niblung heroes tell + The strangest tales! + + WULF. + + Of ravens was the talk. + What was it then? I heard it not aright. + + TRUCHS. + + A raven flew and lit upon the gold, + When it was carried to the ship, and there + He croaked till Siegfried, who could understand, + At first stopped up his ears and would not hear, + And whistled. Then the precious stones he threw + To drive the bird, and when it would not fly, + At last in desperation cast his spear. + + WULF. + + Why, that is strange! For Siegfried is at heart + As gentle as he's brave. + + [_Horns are heard._] + + They call for us! + They're gath'ring! Ho, Brunhilda! + + TRUCHS. + + Kriemhild, ho! + + [_Exeunt. Other warriors, who meanwhile have assembled, + join them and repeat the cry. It grows dark gradually._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + _Enter HAGEN and SIEGFRIED._ + + SIEGFRIED. + + But Hagen! Why didst thou make signs to me + To leave the banquet? I shall nevermore + Sit at this table as I sit today. + Pray grant me this one day, I only ask + A just reward. + + HAGEN. + + Your task is not yet done. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Let be till morning, for a minute's worth + A year today. I still can count the words + That I have spoken to my loving bride; + Then let me have one evening with my wife. + + HAGEN. + + Without good reason I will ne'er disturb + A lover or a drunkard. It avails + No longer to resist! What Brunhild said + Thou'st heard, and now her wedding gayety + Thou may'st behold, for at the feast she weeps! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And can I dry her tears? + + HAGEN. + + She'll keep her word, + The threat that she has sworn, there is no doubt; + That endless shame would follow may we doubt + Still less. Dost thou not understand me now? + + SIEGFRIED. + + What follows them + + HAGEN. + + That thou must conquer her. + + [_GUNTHER approaches._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + What, I? + + HAGEN. + + Now listen! Gunther goes with her + Into the chamber.[5] In the Tarnhelm thou + Must follow. Quickly he demands a kiss + Ere she has raised her veil.--She grants it not. + He grapples with her.--She laughs mockingly. + He quenches, as by accident, the light-- + Exclaims: So much is jest, 'tis earnest now. + It will not be on shore as on the ship! + Then shalt thou seize her and so master her + That she shall beg for mercy and for life. + And when thy part is done, then shall the king + Demand her oath to be his humblest maid, + And thou shalt vanish as thou cam'st. + + GUNTHER. + + Wilt thou + But do me this one service now, my friend, + I vow I'll never ask thee then for more. + + HAGEN. + + He must and will. The task he has begun, + How should he then not finish? + + SIEGFRIED. + + If I would! + For truly you demand a deed from me + That I might well refuse another time + Than on my wedding day to do for you-- + How could I pray? What should I tell Kriemhild? + She has so much already to forgive, + The very ground is hot beneath my feet. + Should I repeat the misdeed once again + She never could forgive me in her life. + + HAGEN. + + When a young daughter from her mother parts + And leaves the room where once the cradle stood, + Into the bridal chamber she must pass, + The farewell is a long one, know my friend. + There's time enough for thee, and so--agreed! + + (_As SIEGFRIED refuses his hand._) + + Brunhilda now is like a wounded deer, + Who'd let it with the arrow run away? + A noble hunter sends the second shaft. + The lost is ever lost, nor may return. + The haughty heiress of the Valkyries + And Norns is dying. Give the final stroke! + A happy woman laughs tomorrow morn + And only says: I had a troubled dream! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I know not, something warns me. + + HAGEN. + + Will Frau Ute + Be ready ere thou art? Nay, there's no fear, + For three times yet will she call Kriemhild back + To bless her and embrace her. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I refuse. + + HAGEN. + + What? If this moment came a messenger + In haste announcing that thy father lay + Sick unto death, would'st thou not call at once + For thy good steed? And surely would thy bride + Speed thy departure! Yet a father may, + Though old, recover. Honor wounded once + By cruel wrong, nor mended speedily, + Will never from the dead be raised again. + The honor of the king's the guiding star + Which brings or light or darkness to the knights, + As to the king himself. O woe to him + Who hesitates and robs him of one ray. + Had I thy strength I'd sue to thee no more, + But do the deed myself with pride and joy. + And yet by magic was Brunhilda won, + And magic arts must finish now the task. + Then do it! Must I kneel? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I like it not! + Who would have dreamed of this! And yet it lay + So very near! O nature three times blest! + In all my life no deed I've shunned like this; + Yet what thou say'st is true. So let it be. + + GUNTHER. + + I'll go and give my mother but a hint-- + + HAGEN. + + No, no! No woman! We're already three + And have, I hope, no tongue to tell the tale. + Let death the fourth one in our compact be! + + [_Exeunt omnes._] + + + + ACT III + + _Morning. Courtyard of the castle. The cathedral is at one side._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ RUMOLT _and_ DANKWART _armed._ + + RUMOLT. + + Three dead! + + DANKWART. + + For yesterday it was enough, + For that was but the prelude! Now there'll be + Another tale to tell. + + RUMOLT. + + These Nibelungs + Are e'er prepared for death; they bring their shrouds + And each man wears both shroud and sword at once. + + DANKWART. + + The customs are so strange in northern lands! + For as the mountains grow more rugged still + And cheerful oaks make way for sombre firs, + Just so does man grow gloomy, till at last + He's wholly lost and but the brute remains! + First comes a race that cannot even sing, + And next another race that cannot laugh, + Then follows one that's dumb, and so it goes. + + + + SCENE II + + _Music. A great procession._ WULF _and_ TRUCHS _among the warriors._ + + RUMOLT (_joining_ DANKWART). + + Will Hagen be content? + + DANKWART. + + I think he will. + This is a summons, as it were, to war! + Yet he is right, for this strange princess needs + Quite other morning serenades than sings + The lark that warbles in the linden tree. + + [_They pass by._] + + + + SCENE III + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED _with_ KRIEMHILD. + + KRIEMHILD (_calling attention to her attire_). + + Wilt thou not thank me? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, what dost thou mean? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But look at me! + + SIEGFRIED. That thou art living, smiling, + I give thee thanks, and that thine eyes are blue-- + I love not black-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou dost but praise the Lord + In his handmaiden! Did I make myself, + Thou simple fellow? Did I choose the eyes + Thou dost admire? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yet love, methinks, might dream + E'en such strange fancies! One fair morn in May + When all things glistened as they glisten now, + Two crystal dewdrops, clearer than the rest, + Were hanging on the harebells bluest spray; + And thou hast stolen them, and evermore + All heaven's in thine eyes. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then rather give + Thy thanks to me that as a child I fell + So wisely. My blue eyes I might have lost + The day I only marked my temple here! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, let me kiss the scar! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy healing art + Would be but lost. No balsam craves the wound + That's long since healed. But tell me more! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I thank + Thy mouth-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + With words? + + SIEGFRIED (_about to embrace her_). + + But may I thank thee so? + + KRIEMHILD (_draws back_). + + Dost think that I invite thee? + + SIEGFRIED. + + With words then + For thy words! No, for sweeter yet than words, + Thy murmuring of tender secret things + My ear finds precious, as my lips thy kiss. + I thank thee for thy secret gazing forth + To see us throwing weights to win the prize. + Oh, had I dreamed of it! And for thy scorn + And mockery-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + A maiden's pride to soothe + For tarrying, thou thinkest? Cruel friend! + I told thee in the dark! But wilt thou see + My blushes now when in the light of day + Thou tellest me the tale? My foolish blood + Flushes and pales so fast, my mother says + That I am like a rose-bush that sends forth + Red buds and white upon a single stem-- + Else hadst thou never found my secret out. + For I could feel the burning of my cheeks, + When yestermorn my brother teased me so. + I saw no way but to confess to thee. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Then may he start the noblest stag today! + + KRIEMHILD. + + And may he miss him! Yes, I wish it too.-- + see thou art just like my uncle, Hagen, + Who, if one lays a garment by his bed, + That one has made in secret, will not heed + Unless perchance it is too tight. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And why? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou only see'st God's and nature's gifts + In all that's mine, but my own handiwork, + The raiment that adorns me, thou see'st not-- + Not even the fair girdle that I wear. + + SIEGFRIED. + + The girdle's gay, and yet I'd rather wind + About thy waist the rainbow's lovely hue; + Methinks that ye would suit each other well. + + KRIEMHILD. + + But bring it me at night and I will change, + Yet do not throw it down like this I wear. + 'Tis but by chance I did not lose thy gift. + + SIEGFRIED. + + What sayest thou? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But for the precious stones, + It might be underneath the table still, + But fire is a thing one cannot hide. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Is that my gift? + + KRIEMHILD. + + It is. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But thou art dreaming! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I found it in the room. + + SIEGFRIED. + + It is thy mother's! + She must have let it fall. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It is not hers! + For well I know her ornaments. I thought + It had been taken from the Niblung's hoard; + To give thee joy I put it on at once. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I thank thee, but the girdle I know not! + + KRIEMHILD (_takes the girdle off_). + + Then for my golden girdle make thou room + Which thou concealest! I was all attired, + And only put it on to honor thee, + My mother also, for this golden one + She gave to me. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But that is very strange!-- + 'Twas lying on the floor? + + KRIEMHILD. + + It was. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And crumpled? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I see you know it well! The second trick + Succeeded like the first, and now I have + My task twice over! + + [_She starts to put the girdle on again._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + No! For God's sake, no! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Art thou in earnest? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + 'Twas with that she strove + To tie my hands. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Art laughing? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + Then I raged, + And put forth all my strength. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nay, thou art not? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I snatched at something. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That I'll soon believe. + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I thrust it, when she grasped for it again, + Into my bosom, and--Now give it me! + No well is deep enough to hide it in; + With a great stone I'll sink it in the Rhine! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I must have lost it--Give it me! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Where didst thou get this girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, this is + A dark and fearful secret; thou should'st seek + To learn no whit about it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yet thou hast + Confided one still greater, and I know + The place where Death may strike the fatal blow. + + SIEGFRIED. + + That I alone protect! + + KRIEMHILD. + + And there are two + To guard the other! + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I was far too quick. + + KRIEMHILD (_covers her face_). + + Thou gav'st thy oath to me! Why didst thou that? + I had not even asked it. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Still I swear, + I ne'er have known a woman! + + KRIEMHILD (_holds up the girdle_). + + SIEGFRIED. + + That was used + To bind me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + If a lion told the tale + 'Twere less incredible! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And yet 'tis true. + + KRIEMHILD. + + This hurts me most! To such a man as thou, + The sin itself, however black it be, + Is more becoming than the cloak of lies + Wherewith he fain would hide it. + + _Enter_ GUNTHER _and_ BRUNHILDA. + + SIEGFRIED. + + We must go! + They come! + + KRIEMHILD. + + But who! Does Brunhild know the girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Pray hide it quickly! + + KRIEMHILD. + + No, I'll show it them! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I pray thee hide it. Then thou shalt know all. + + KRIEMHILD (_hiding the girdle_). + + So Brunhilda knows the girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Listen then! + + [_Both follow the procession._] + + + + SCENE IV + + BRUNHILDA. + + Was that not Kriemhild? + + GUNTHER. + + Yes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + How long does she + Tarry beside the Rhine? + + GUNTHER. + + She'll soon depart, + For Siegfried must go home. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I'll grant him leave, + And willingly dispense with his farewell. + + GUNTHER. + + But dost thou hate him so? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I cannot bear + To see thy noble sister sink so low. + + GUNTHER. + + She does as thou dost. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Nay, thou art a man! + This name which was of old to me the call + To arms, now fills my heart with joy and pride! + Yes, Gunther, I am wonderfully changed. + Thou see'st it too? There's something I might ask, + But yet I do not! + + GUNTHER. + + Thou'rt my noble wife! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis sweet to hear that word, and now it seems + As strange to me that once I used to ride + To battle on my horse and hurl my spear, + As it would seem to see thee turn the spit! + I cannot bear the sight of weapons now, + And my own shield I find too heavy far; + I tried to lay it by, but had to call + My maid. I'd rather watch the spiders spin + And see the little birds that build their nests, + Than go with thee! + + GUNTHER. + + Yet this time thou must go! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I know why. Forgive me! What I thought + Was weakness was but magnanimity, + For thou would'st not disgrace me on the ship + When I defied thee! Naught of that there dwelt + Within my heart, and therefore has the strength + That some caprice of nature gave to me + Departed from me, and returned to thee! + + GUNTHER. + + Since thou art gentle, then be reconciled + With Siegfried too! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh, name him not to me! + + GUNTHER. + + There is no reason thou shouldst hate him so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And if I have none? When a king descends + To fill the humble office of a guide + And carry messages, it is indeed + As strange as if a man should take the place + Of his own horse, the saddle on his back, + Or bay and hunt in service of his hound. + But if it pleases him, what's that to me! + + GUNTHER. + + It was not so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Still stranger 't is to see + His noble stature tow'ring high above + All other men, so that it even seems + That he has gathered all the royal crowns + Of all the world to forge them into one, + And thus to show the world for the first time + A perfect picture of true majesty. + For it is true, while still upon the earth + More crowns than one are gleaming, none is round, + And for the sun's full circle even thou + Wearest a crescent pale upon thy head. + + GUNTHER. + + But see. Thou hast already viewed the man + With other eyes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I greeted him ere thee. + Then slay him--challenge him--win my revenge! + + GUNTHER. + + Brunhilda! He's the husband of my sister, + And so his blood is mine. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Do battle then + With him and lay him low upon the ground, + And let me see thy rightful majesty + When he is as a footstool for thy feet! + + GUNTHER. + + Our custom is not so. + BRUNHILDA. I will not yield; + His downfall I must see. Thou hast the heart + Of life, and he the glitter and the show. + But blow away this magic which e'er holds + The gaze of fools upon him. If Kriemhild + Casts down those eyes in shame, that now she lifts + Almost too proudly when she's by his side, + 'Twill do no damage, and I promise thee + Far richer love if thou wilt do the deed. + + GUNTHER. + + He too is strong. + + BRUNHILDA. + + That he the dragon slew + And conquered Alberich, does not compare + With thy great prowess. For in thee and me + Have man and woman for eternity + Fought the last battle for supremacy. + Thou art the victor, and I ask no more + Than still to see those honors deck thy brow + Of which I was so jealous. For thou art + The strongest man of all; so cast him down + From golden clouds to earth for my delight, + And leave him naked, destitute, and bare-- + Then let him live a hundred years or more. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + SCENE V + + _Enter_ FRIGGA _and_ UTE. + + UTE. + + Brunhilda looks already happier + Than yesterday. + + FRIGGA. + + My Queen, she truly is. + + UTE. + + I thought it would be so. + + FRIGGA. + + But I did not! + Her mind is strangely altered, 'twould astound + Me not a whit now if her nature too + Should alter and her hair should change to blonde + Instead of raven tresses that of old + So richly waved beneath my golden comb. + + UTE. + + Thou dost not grieve, I trust? + + FRIGGA. + + I'm more amazed. + If this heroic woman thou hadst reared + As I have done, and knew all that I know, + Then would thy wonder be no less than mine. + + UTE (_turning to go back into the castle_). + + Do what thou canst! + + FRIGGA. + + I surely have done more + Than ever thou couldst dream of. How this came + I cannot tell, but if she's happy now + I am content, and of the olden time + She hath forgotten never will I tell. + + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter_ KRIEMHILD _and_ BRUNHILDA, _hand in hand. A large number of + warriors and people gather._ + + KRIEMHILD. + + Wouldst thou not watch the combat from afar + Rather than join the fray? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Hast thou tried both, + That thus thou canst compare them? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I'd not bear + The heat of battle. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then thou shouldst not try + To judge of it!--No insult I intend. + Nay, do not draw thy hand away from mine! + It may be so, and yet I thought this joy + Were but for me alone. + + KRIEMHILD. + + What dost thou mean? + + BRUNHILDA. Surely no woman can rejoice to see + Her husband conquered. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Never! + + BRUNHILDA. Nor deceive + Herself if in the fray he's not unhorsed, + Because his conqueror spares him. + + KRIEMHILD. Surely not. + + BRUNHILDA. What then! + + KRIEMHILD. But I am quite secure from that? + Thou smilest? + + BRUNHILDA. Over-confident art thou. + + KRIEMHILD. It is my right! + + BRUNHILDA. It may not come to proof, + And even a dream is sweet--so slumber on, + And I will never wake thee. + + KRIEMHILD. What say'st thou? + My noble husband is too gentle far + To grieve the rulers of his royal realm, + Else had he made a sceptre long ago + Of his good sword and held it forth so far + That its great shadow covered all the earth. + For all the lands are subject unto him, + And should but one deny it, I would ask + That land from him to make a flower bed. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Kriemhild, what then would be my husband's place? + + KRIEMHILD. + He is my brother, and the standard's his + Whereby one weighs all others. None weighs him. + + BRUNHILDA. + + No, for he is the standard of the world! + And as 'tis gold decides the worth of things, + So he the worth of heroes and of knights. + Thou must not contradict me, dearest child, + And in return I'll listen patiently + If thou wilt only teach me how to sew. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Brunhilda! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Nay, I did not speak in scorn; + I long to sew, and needle-work is not + My birthright like the throwing of the lance, + For which I never sought a master's aid, + More than I needed aid to stand or walk. + + KRIEMHILD. + + If 'tis thy wish, we can begin at once; + And since thou best enjoyest making wounds + We'll take the bodkin for embroidery. + I have a pattern!-- + + [_She is about to show the girdle._] + No, I have it not. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou lookest on thy sister coldly now. + But 'tis not friendly to withdraw thy hand + From my fond clasp before I give it up-- + At least our custom is the contrary. + And canst thou not be reconciled to know + The sceptre of thy dreams is given now + Into thy brother's hands? Thou art his sister, + And that should comfort thee. A brother's fame + Is half thine own, so thou shouldst yield to me, + Before all other women, honor's crown + That once for all could never have been thine, + For no one could have paid for it as I. + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis thus perverted nature takes revenge. + Thou didst resist love's rule as no one else, + And now this blindness is thy penalty. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou speakest of thyself and not of me! + We need not quarrel, for the whole world knows + That ere my mother bore me, 'twas my fate + The strongest knight alone should conquer me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I can believe it. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Well? + + KRIEMHILD (_laughs_). + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then thou art mad! + Perchance thou fear'st that we shall be too harsh + With all the vassals? Yet thou need'st not fear! + I plant no flower beds in conquered lands, + And only once will I claim precedence + If thou art not too proud and obstinate,-- + Here at the church today and nevermore. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Indeed I'd never have denied it thee, + But, since my husband's honor is at stake, + I will not yield one step. + + BRUNHILDA. + + He will command + That thou shalt yield. + + KRIEMHILD. + + How dare'st thou scorn him so! + + BRUNHILDA. + + He made way for thy brother in my hall, + As vassals for their lord, and he refused + My proffered greeting!--That did not seem strange + While I still thought him--as he called himself-- + A serving-man, a messenger to me. + But now it all seems changed. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And how is that? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I've seen a wolf slip silently away + Before a bear, and then I've seen the bear + Flee from the mountain bull. Though he's not sworn, + Yet is he still a vassal. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Say no more! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Wilt threaten me? Do not forget thyself! + I have my senses--see that thou keep thine: + There must have been some cause beneath all this. + + KRIEMHILD. + + There was! And if thou shouldst suspect the cause, + How thou wouldst shudder. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Shudder! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yes, indeed! + But do not fear! I love thee even now + Too fondly. Never can I hate thee so + That I will tell the cause. Had aught like that + Befallen me, today I'd dig my grave + With my own hands. Brunhilda, never fear! + I will not make thee the most wretched soul + That draws the breath of life upon the earth! + Then keep thy pride, for pity makes me dumb. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou boastest, Kriemhild! I despise thee now! + + KRIEMHILD. + + My husband's concubine despises me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Put her in chains! She rages! Bind her then! + + KRIEMHILD (_draws out the girdle_). + + Know'st thou this girdle? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Well I do. 'Tis mine. + And since I see it in a stranger's hands + It must be that 'twas stolen in the night. + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Twas stolen! 'Twas no thief that gave it me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Who then? + + KRIEMHILD. + + The man who overpowered thee! + But not my brother! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy fierce strength + Had surely strangled Gunther, then perchance + Thou would'st have loved the dead as punishment. + My husband gave it me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis false! + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis true! + Now scorn him if thou canst! Wilt now consent + That I may pass before thee through the door? + + (_To her women._) + + Now follow. She shall see me prove my rights! + + [_They leave and enter the cathedral._] + + [Illustration: "SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD THE QUARREL OF THE QUEENS"] + + + + SCENE VII + + BRUNHILDA. + + Where are the lords of Burgundy!--Oh Frigga! + Didst thou hear that? + + FRIGGA. + + I heard, and I believe it. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh this is death! 'Tis true? + + FRIGGA. + + She said too much, + Surely too much--but this is plain to me, + That thou hast been betrayed! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis not a lie? + + FRIGGA. + + 'Twas Balmung's master. On the shore he stood + When died the flames. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then he rejected me. + For I was on the rampart and I know + He saw me. But his heart was full of her. + + FRIGGA. + + That thou mayst know what thou hast lost by fraud, + I too deceived thee! + + BRUNHILDA (_without listening to her_). + + Hence the haughty calm + With which he gazed upon me! + + FRIGGA. + + Not alone + This narrow country, but the whole wide earth + Was meant to be thy kingdom, and to thee + The stars should tell their message. Even death + Should lose his fell dominion over thee! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Speak not of that! + + FRIGGA. + + Why not? Thy glories lost + Thou'lt not regain, but yet thou canst avenge + Thy wrongs, my child! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I will have revenge! + Despised and scorned! Oh, woman, in his arms + If thou hast mocked at me a single night, + Thou shalt weep bitterly for many years! + I will--Alas! I am as weak as she. + + [_Throws herself on FRIGGA's bosom._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + _Enter_ GUNTHER, HAGEN, DANKWART, RUMOLT, GERENOT, GISELHER _and_ + SIEGFRIED. + + HAGEN. + + What then is wrong? + + BRUNHILDA (_drawing herself up to her full height, to + GUNTHER_). + + Am I concubine? + + GUNTHER. + + A concubine? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thy sister calls me so! + + HAGEN (_to FRIGGA_). + + What happened here? + + FRIGGA. + + Ye are discovered now! + We know the conqueror, and Kriemhild vows + That he was twice a victor. + + HAGEN + + (_to GUNTHER_). + He has told! + + [_He speaks to him aside._] + + + + SCENE IX + + KRIEMHILD (_who has meanwhile come out of the cathedral_). + + Forgive me, Siegfried, for the wrong I did! + Yet if thou knewest how she slandered thee-- + + GUNTHER (to SIEGFRIED). + + Hast thou then boasted? + + SIEGFRIED (_laying his hand on KRIEMHILD's head_). + By her life I swear, + I never did. + + HAGEN. + + No oath is needed here! + He only told the truth. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And even that + Upon compulsion! + HAGEN. That I do not doubt! + The tale can wait the telling. 'Tis our part + To separate the women, for we know + That serpents' crests may ever rise again + If they too soon gaze in each other's eyes. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I'm soon departing hence. Come, Kriemhild, come! + + KRIEMHILD (_to BRUNHILDA_). + + If thou couldst know how thou didst anger me, + Then even thou-- + + BRUNHILDA (_turns away_). + + KRIEMHILD. + + Since thou dost love my brother, + How canst thou hate the means that gave thee him + To be his bride? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh, Oh! + + HAGEN. + + Away! Away! + + SIEGFRIED (_leading KRIEMHILD away_). + + There's been no tattling here, as you shall see. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + SCENE X + + HAGEN. + + Come, gather round and vote without delay + The doom of death. + + GUNTHER. + + Hagen, what sayest thou? + + HAGEN. + + Have we not cause enough? There stands the Queen + And burning tears are streaming from her eyes. + For shame she weeps! + + (_To BRUNHILDA._) + + Oh, thou heroic Queen, + To whom alone my homage I do yield, + The man who shamed thee so must surely die! + + GUNTHER. Hagen! + + HAGEN (_to BRUNHILDA_). + + The man must die unless thou wilt + Forego revenge and plead for him thyself. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I'll touch no food till judgment is fulfilled. + + HAGEN. + + Forgive me that I spoke before my king! + I only strove to make the matter plain, + Yet free decision is thy royal right-- + So make thy choice between thy bride and him. + + GISELHER. + + Thou canst not mean it! For a trifling fault, + Thou wouldst not slay the truest man on earth? + My King! My brother! Say it is not so! + + HAGEN. + + Will ye rear bastards here within your court? + I doubt me if the proud Burgundians + Will crown them! Yet thou art the master here! + + GERENOT. + + Brave Siegfried soon will quell all murmurings, + If we ourselves cannot perform the task. + + HAGEN (_to_ GUNTHER). + + Thou speakest not. 'Tis well. The rest is mine! + + GISELHER. + + In bloody counsels I will take no part! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE XI + + BRUNHILDA. + + Frigga, I tell thee he or I must die! + + FRIGGA. + + 'Tis he must die! + + BRUNHILDA. + + I was not merely scorned, + But passed from hand to hand. They bartered + me! + + FRIGGA. + + They bartered thee! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Too mean to be his wife, + I was the price for which he bought him one. + + FRIGGA. + + The price, my child! + + BRUNHILDA. + + O this is worse than murder! + And I will have revenge, revenge, revenge! + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + ACT IV + + + _Worms._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Great hall._ GUNTHER _with his warriors._ HAGEN _carries a spear._ + + HAGEN. + + A blind man e'en can hit a linden leaf; + At fifty paces I will wager you + With this good spear to split a hazelnut. + + GISELHER. + + Why dost thou choose this day to show thy skill? + We've always known thy arms would never rust. + + HAGEN. + + He comes! Now show me you can wear dark looks + And altered bearing although none has lost + His father. + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter SIEGFRIED._ + + SIEGFRIED. + + Ho, ye knights! And hear ye not + The hounds give tongue, and hark! Our youngest hunter + Impatient tries his horn! To horse! Away! + + HAGEN. + + The day is fair! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And have you not been told + That bears have ventured in the very stalls, + And that the eagles wait before the doors + And watch when they are opened for a child + That may stray out? + + VOLKER. + + Indeed that has been known. + + SIEGFRIED. + + While we were courting no one thought to hunt. + Then come, and we'll drive back the enemy, + And hack and hew him. + + HAGEN. Friend, more need have we + To grind our swords and nail our spear-heads firm. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And why? + + HAGEN. + + Thou'st dallied all these last few days + With honeyed words, else hadst thou well known why. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am about to say farewell, ye know! + Yet speak, what's toward? + + HAGEN. + + Danes and Saxons too + Again are coming. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Are the princes dead, + Who swore allegiance to us? + + HAGEN. + + Nay, not dead; + They're leading on the army. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Lüdegast + And Lüdeger, who were my prisoners, + Set free without a ransom? + + GUNTHER. + + Yesterday + Renounced they every oath. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Their messengers-- + You surely must have hewn them limb from limb? + Has every vulture had his share of them? + + HAGEN. + + So speakest thou? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Such vipers' messengers + One tramples like a viper. Fiends of hell! + Now feel I my first anger! I believed + That often I knew hatred, but I erred; + 'Twas but less love I felt. For I can hate + Nothing but broken vows and treachery, + Hypocrisy and all the coward's sins + That seek their victim as the spider crawls + Upon its hollow legs. How can it be + That such brave men (for surely they were brave), + Could so besmirch themselves? Oh, my dear friends, + Stand not so coldly by and gaze on me + As though you thought me mad, as though I knew + No longer great from small! We've never known + What outrage is till now. Our reckoning + May we strike calmly out to the last score. + Only these two are guilty. + + GISELHER. + + Shameful 'tis. + The way they praised thee echoes in my ear. + When came this messenger? + + HAGEN. + + 'Twas even now. + Didst thou not see him. He made haste to leave + As soon as he had done his errand here, + Nor tarried for his messenger's reward. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, shame that you did not chastise the man + For impudence! A raven would have come + And plucked his eyes out, and in very scorn + Have cast them forth again before his lord. + That was the only answer that was due. + This is no lawful feud, this is no war + That right and custom sanction--'tis the chase + Of evil beasts! Nay, Hagen, do not smile! + The headsman's ax should be our weapon now, + So that we should not soil our noble blades, + And, since the ax is iron like the sword, + It were a shame to use it till we find + No rope would be enough to hang the dogs. + + HAGEN. + + Thou say'st! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou mockest at me as it seems. + 'Tis strange, for trifles used to anger thee! + I know thou art an older man than I, + But 'tis not youth that's speaking through me now, + Nor is it indignation that 'twas I + Who begged thy mercy for them. Nay, I stand + For the whole world. As calls a bell to prayer, + So calls my tongue to vengeance every one + Who stands as man amidst his fellow-men. + + GUNTHER. + + 'Tis so. + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ HAGEN). + + Know'st thou betrayal? Treachery + Gaze on the traitor! Smile then if thou canst. + To open combat dost thou challenge him + And dost o'erthrow him. But thou art too proud, + If not too noble, to thrust home thy sword, + And so thou set'st him free, and givest him + His weapons once again that thou hadst won. + He does not rage at thee and thrust them back; + He gives thee humble thanks and praises sweet + And swears with thousand oaths to be thy man. + But when, the honeyed words still in thine ear, + Thou lay'st thy weary limbs upon thy couch, + Bare and defenseless as a helpless child, + Then creeps the traitor up and murders thee, + And even while thou diest spits on thee. + + GUNTHER (_to_ HAGEN). + + What dost thou say to that? + + HAGEN (_to_ GUNTHER). + + This noble wrath + Gives me such courage that I ask our friend + If he will grant us escort yet once more. + + SIEGFRIED. + + With my own Nib'lungs will I go alone, + For it is by my fault this trouble comes + To ye again! Howe'er I longed to show + My bride unto my mother and to win + For the first time her undivided praise, + It may not be while yet these hypocrites + Have ovens for their bread and flowing springs + To slake their thirst! I will at once put off + My homeward journey, and I promise you + That I will take them living, and henceforth + Before my castle shall they lie in chains + And bay like hounds whene'er I come or go, + Since, as it seems, they have the souls of dogs! + + [_He hastens away_.] + + + + SCENE III + + HAGEN. + + He'll surely rush to her in all his rage, + And when he leaves, then I will seek her out. + + GUNTHER. + + I'll move in this no further. + + HAGEN. + + What, my King? + + GUNTHER. + + Bid heralds come once more and let them say + That there is peace again. + + HAGEN. + + It shall be done + When I have talked with Kriemhild privately + And learned the secret from her. + + GUNTHER. + + Hast thou then + No bowels of compassion? Thy hard heart + No pity feeleth yet? + + HAGEN. + + Speak plainly, lord; + I cannot understand. + + GUNTHER. + + He shall not die. + + HAGEN. + + He lives while thou commandest. If I stood + Behind him in the woods and poised my spear, + But shake thy head, and for this traitor dies + A beast. + + GUNTHER. + + Not traitor, no! Was it his fault + That he brought back the girdle carelessly + And Kriemhild found it? It escaped him there, + As clings an arrow in a warrior's mail + If after battle 'tis not shaken off, + And only by its rattling is it marked. + I ask you one and all: was it his fault? + + HAGEN. + + No! No! Who says so? Nor was he to blame + For lacking clever wits to clear himself, + For doubtless he blushed crimson at th' attempt. + + GUNTHER. + + What then remains? + + HAGEN. + + Brunhilda's oath remains. + + GISELHER. + + Then let her slay him if she wants his blood. + + HAGEN. + + We're quarreling like children. May one not + Collect his weapons, though he knoweth not + When he may need to use them? One explores + An unknown land and finds its passes out. + Then why not, pray, a hero? I will try + My fortune now with Kriemhild, if it were + Only that this fine ruse that we have planned + Might not be all in vain. She'll not betray + The secret to me unless he hath told + The matter to her. Then you may decide + Whether to use the knowledge I may gain; + And you may really do, if so you please, + What I shall but pretend, and so in war + Protect the place where death may find him out. + But you must know where is his mortal spot. + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE IV + + GISELHER (_to_ GUNTHER). + + Thou hast returned to thine own loyalty + And faithfulness, or else I'd say: this trick + Is far beneath a king! + + VOLKER. + + Thy angry mood + Is natural; thou wast thyself deceived. + + GISELHER. + + That was not why. Yet let us not dispute + When all is well again. + + VOLKER. + + When all is well? + + GISELHER. + + Is it not well? + + VOLKER. + + They tell me that the Queen + In mourning robes is clad, and food and drink + Refuses--even water. + + GUNTHER. + + True, alas! + + VOLKER. + + How then is't well? What Hagen said is true. + She's not like others; for the breath of time + Her wounds can never heal, nor give her peace. + And we must face the question: He or she! + Thou sayest truly, Siegfried's not to blame + That to him clung the girdle like a snake, + And was discovered. That is pure mischance; + But this mischance is deadly, and thou canst + Determine only whom it shall destroy. + + GISELHER. + + Let that one die who hath no will to live! + + GUNTHER. + + Oh, fearful choice! + + VOLKER. + + I warned thee long ago, + From starting on this course, but now at last + We see the end. + + DANKWART. + + And is it not our law, + That even blunders bring their penalty + He who runs through his bosom friend by night + Because he bore his lance too carelessly, + Can never free himself with all his tears, + However hot and bitter they may flow.-- + The price is blood. + + GUNTHER. + + Now I will go to her. + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE V + + VOLKER. + + There comes Kriemhild with Hagen. She's distressed, + As he predicted. Let us go. + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter_ HAGEN _and_ KRIEMHILD. + + HAGEN. + + Thou com'st + So early to the hall? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I could not bear + To linger in my chamber. + + HAGEN. + + Saw I not + Thy husband parting from thee? He was flushed, + And angry were his looks. Is there not peace + Between yourself and Siegfried once again? + Is he not kind and gentle with his bride? + Tell me, and I will talk with him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, no! + Did nothing else remind me of that day, + That evil day, 'twould be a dream that's past. + My lord hath spared me every unkind word. + + HAGEN. + + I'm glad he is so gentle. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I could wish + That he would blame me, yet perchance he knows + I blame myself enough! + + HAGEN. + + Be not too harsh! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I know how bitterly I wounded her! + I'll not forgive myself. I'd rather far + Have felt the hurt myself than injured her. + + HAGEN. + + And this it is that drove thee from thy room? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, no! 'twould make me hide myself away! + I am so anxious for him! + + HAGEN. + + Dost thou fear? + + KRIEMHILD. + + There is another war. + + HAGEN. + + Yes, that is true. + + KRIEMHILD. + + The lying scoundrels! + + HAGEN. + + Be not overwrought + Nor cease thy preparations for the voyage. + Work tranquilly and do not be disturbed, + For thou canst put away his armor last. + What am I saying! For he wears no mail, + Nor doth he need to wear it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thinkest thou + + HAGEN. + + I well might laugh. If any other wife + So sighed, I'd say: Out of a thousand darts + But one could touch him, and that one would break. + But thee I ridicule and must advise + Let thy stray fancy sing some wiser song. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou speak'st of arrows! Arrows are the thing + That most I dread. I know an arrow's point + Needs at the most the space of my thumb nail + To penetrate, and yet it kills a man. + + HAGEN. + + Especially if 'tis a poisoned dart. + These savages, who broke the bulwark down, + The bulwark of our life and of the state, + Which we hold sacred even in our wars, + Would do a deed like this as soon as that. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou see'st! + + HAGEN. + + How can thy Siegfried come to harm? + He is secure. And if there were such shafts + That straighter flew than fly the sun's own rays, + He'd shake them off as we shake off the snow; + And this he knows, and so his confidence + Abandons him no moment in the fray. + We were not born beneath an aspen tree, + Yet we nigh tremble at the deeds he dares. + And heartily he laughs at this sometimes, + And we laugh too. For iron you may thrust + Into the fire--it changes into steel. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I shudder! + + HAGEN. + + Child, thou art but newly wed, + Or I'd rejoice at thy timidity. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Hast thou forgotten, or hast thou not heard + What in the ballads hath oft times been sung, + That Siegfried may be wounded in one spot? + + HAGEN. + + I'd quite forgotten that, although 'tis true. + I recollect, he spoke of it himself. + It seems to me he told us of a leaf, + But what it signified I cannot say. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It was a linden leaf. + + HAGEN. + + Oh yes! But say, + How could a linden leaf have done him harm? + For that's a riddle like no other one. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It floated down upon him on the breeze + When he was bathing in the dragon's blood, + And he is vulnerable where it fell. + HAGEN. He would have seen it if it fell in front!-- + What matters it? Thou see'st thy nearest kin, + Thy brothers even, who would shield him still + Were but the shadow of a danger nigh, + Know nothing of his vulnerable spot. + What dost thou fear? Thy anguish is for naught. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I fear the Valkyries, for I have heard + They always choose the noblest warriors; + If they direct the dart, it ne'er can miss. + + HAGEN. + + But then he only needs a trusty squire. + Who shall protect his back. Think'st thou not so? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I think I should sleep sounder. + + HAGEN. + + Mark my words! + If he--thou know'st it almost happened once-- + Should fall from out his skiff and in the Rhine + Should sink because his weapons drew him down + To feed the greedy fishes, I would plunge + To save our Siegfried, or else I myself + Would die with him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And is thy thought so noble? + + HAGEN. + + So I think! And if the red cock lit + In darkest night upon his castle roof, + And he, half smothered and but half awake, + Should fail to find the way that leads to life, + I'd bear him from the flames in my own arms, + And should I not succeed, with him I'd die. + + KRIEMHILD (_turns about to embrace him_). + + Then must I-- + + HAGEN (_refusing the caress_). + + Do not! But I swear, I'd do it. + Though only lately had I sworn that oath. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy kinsman he became but recently! + And dost thou really mean it? That thou would'st + Thyself?-- + + HAGEN. + + I mean it, for he'll fight for me, + And no least one of all the thousand wonders + His sword can do, has he refused to me; + And so I'll shelter him! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I had not dared + To hope for that! + + HAGEN. + + But I must know the spot, + And thou must show it to me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That is true! + Between his shoulders is it, half across. + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis target height! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh uncle, you will not + Avenge on him the crime that's mine alone? + + HAGEN. + + What dost thou dream of? + + KRIEMHILD. It was jealousy + That blinded me, or else her boastfulness + Would not have roused my anger. + + HAGEN. + + Jealousy! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am ashamed! But even if that night + The blows were all, and that I will believe, + I grudge Brunhilda even blows from him. + + HAGEN. + + Be patient! She'll forget it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Is it true + That she'll not eat or drink? + + HAGEN. + + She always fasts + This time of year, for 'tis the Norns' own week, + And still in Iceland 'tis a sacred time. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Three days have now passed by! + + HAGEN. + + What's that to us? + But hush! They're coming. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Well + + HAGEN. + + Were it not wise + To broider on his tunic a small cross? + Forsooth our care is needless, and he would + Deride thee if thou shouldst but tell thy fear. + Yet since I now have made myself his guard + I would not aught neglect. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That will I do. + + [_She goes to meet_ UTE _and the Chaplain_.] + + + + SCENE VII + + HAGEN (_following her_). + + Thy hero now is as a stag to me. + Had he not broken silence, he were safe, + And yet I surely knew that could not be. + If one's transparent as an insect is, + That looks now red, now green, as is its food, + One must beware of any mysteries, + Lest e'en the vitals show the secret forth! + + + + SCENE VIII + + UTE _and the Chaplain come forward_. + + CHAPLAIN. + + There is no image of it in this world! + You strive to liken it and comprehend, + Yet here all signs and measures too must fail. + But kneel before the Lord in fervent prayer, + And when contrition and humility + Have made you lose yourself, you may be drawn, + A moment only, as the lightning flash + Does tarry upon earth, to heavenly heights. + + UTE. + + And can that happen? + + CHAPLAIN. + + Stephen, blessed saint, + Saw, when the furious horde of angry Jews + Were stoning him, the gates of paradise + Standing ajar, and he rejoiced and sang. + His suffering body only they destroyed, + But 'twas to him as if the murderous band + That thought to kill him in their fury blind + Could only rend the garment he had doffed. + + UTE (_to_ KRIEMHILD _who has joined them_). + + + Take heed, Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I do. + + CHAPLAIN. + + That was the power + Of faith; And ye must also learn the curse + Of unbelief. Saint Peter, who has charge + Of sword and keys of our most holy church, + Loved and instructed in the faith a youth, + And brought him up. One day upon a rock + The youth was standing, and the stormy sea + Around him surged in fury. Then he thought + Of how his Lord and Master left the ship, + And trustingly obeyed the slightest sign + The Saviour gave, and walked upon the deep + That tossed and threatened him with certain death. + A dizziness came o'er him at the thought + Of such a trial, for the wonder seemed + Beyond the bounds of reason, then he caught + A corner of the rock and clung to it, + Crying aloud: All, all, yet spare me this! + Then breathed the Lord, and suddenly the stone + Began to melt away. He sank and sank, + And lost all hope, until for very fear + He sprang from off the rock into the flood. + The breath of the Eternal stilled the sea, + And made it solid and it bore him up, + As kindly earth bears up both ye and me. + Repentantly he said: Thy will be done! + + UTE. + + In all eternity! + + KRIEMHILD. + + My Father, pray + That He who changes water and firm rock, + Will shield my Siegfried. For each sep'rate year + Of happy life vouchsafed me by his side + An altar will I build unto a saint. + + [_Exit_ KRIEMHILD.] + + CHAPLAIN. + + The miracle astounds thee. Let me tell + The tale of how I won my friar's cowl. + The Angles are my kin, a heathen folk, + And as a heathen was I born and reared, + And turbulent I was; at fifteen years + The sword was girded on me. Then appeared + The Lord's first messenger among my tribe. + They scorned him and despised him, and at last + They slew him. Queen, I stood and saw it all, + And, driven by the others, gave to him + With this right hand I nevermore shall use, + Although the arm's not helpless as you think, + The final blow. But then I heard him pray. + He prayed for me, and his pure soul expired + With the Amen. The heart within my breast + Was changed from that time forth. I threw my sword + Upon the ground, and put his garment on + And went to preach the Gospel of the Cross. + + UTE. + + Here comes my son! Oh, couldst thou bring again + To this distracted land the peace we've lost + So utterly! + + [_Exeunt_.] + + + + SCENE IX + + _Enter_ GUNTHER _with_ HAGEN _and the others_. + + GUNTHER. + + It is as I have said, + She reckons on the deed as we believe + That autumn brings us apples. The old nurse + Has tried to rouse her, and has quietly + Bestrewn her chamber all with grains of wheat; + They lie there undisturbed. + + GISELHER. + + How can it be + That she should venture life for life to stake? + + HAGEN. + + I marvel at her also. + + GUNTHER. And withal + She neither drives nor urges, as with things + Bound up with time and place and human will + 'Twere natural to do. She questions not + Nor changes countenance, but sits amazed + That any man should speak and not announce-- + The deed is done! + + HAGEN. + + But I must tell thee this: + His spell is on her, and her very hate + Is rooted deep in love! + + GUNTHER. + + Believ'st thou so? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis not such love as binds, a man and wife, + In holy union. + + GUNTHER. + + How then? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis a charm, + A magic, that would keep her race alive. + So drives the giantess to seek her mate, + Joyless and choiceless, since they are the last. + + GUNTHER. + + Is there no hope? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis death must break the spell. + Her blood congeals when his has ceased to flow. + His destiny it was that he should slay + The dragon and then take the dragon's road. + + [_A tumult is heard_.] + + GUNTHER. + + What may that be? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis those false messengers. + And Dankwart drives them forth. He does it well. + Lovers will hear it even while they kiss. + + + + SCENE X + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED; _as_ HAGEN _notices hint_. + + HAGEN. + + By all the fiends of hell! No! ten times no! + It were disgrace for us, and Siegfried thinks + Assuredly as I do. Here he comes! + Now speak, thou may'st decide it.-- + + (_As_ DANKWART _enters_.) + + Though thy word + Can alter nothing more. The answer's gone. + + (_To_ DANKWART.) + + Thou surely hast not spared to scourge them well + + (_To_ SIEGFRIED.) + + Yet set thy seal upon it even so! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What's this? + + HAGEN. + + The dogs have come again to sue + For peace. I ordered that the worthless knaves + With scourges should be driven from the court + Before they gave their message. + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Twas well done! + + HAGEN. + + The King indeed reproves me, for he thinks + We know not what has happened. + + SIEGFRIED. + + What? Not know? + I know! For when a wolf is chased along, + He harms not those before him! + + HAGEN. + + That is true! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And more than that! Behind them is a horde + Of savage tribesmen who will never sow, + And yet they want to reap. + + HAGEN. + + Now do you see? + + SIEGFRIED. + + But you should show no mercy on the wolf + Because he has no time to guard himself. + + HAGEN. + + We surely shall not. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Come, we'll help the foxes + And drive him to his final hiding place, + Within the foxes' bellies. + + HAGEN. + + That we'll do; + Yet let us not exert ourselves in vain, + And so--Let's hunt today. + + GISELHER. + + I will not go. + + GERENOT. + + Nor will I either. + + SIEGFRIED. + + You are young and brave, + Yet follow not the chase, but bide at home? + They would have had to tie me, and the cords + I would have gnawed in two. Oh huntsman's joy! + If one could only sing it! + + HAGEN. + + Wilt thou go? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Go!--Friend, I am so full of rage and wrath + That I could quarrel now with any man, + And so I long for bloodshed. + + HAGEN. + + And I too! + + + + SCENE XI + + _Enter_ KRIEMHILD. + + KRIEMHILD. + + You're going hunting? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yes, and pray command + What I shall bring thee. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried, stay at home! + + SIEGFRIED. + + My child, one thing thou canst not learn too soon, + Thou must not beg a man to stay at home, + But beg him: Take me too! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then, may I go? + + HAGEN. + + That may not be! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Why not? She's not afraid! + And surely she has often gone before. + Bring falcons here! For she shall take the birds, + And we the beasts. There'll be more pleasure so. + + HAGEN. + + One woman hides her shame within her room-- + Her rival rideth gaily to the hunt? + 'Twould look like taunting her. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I had not thought. + Ah well, it may not be. + KRIEMHILD. Then change again + Thy garments! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yet again? Thy every wish + I'll follow, not thy fancies. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou'rt severe. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But let me go! The breeze will change my mood. + Tomorrow night I'll make my peace with thee. + + HAGEN. + + Then come! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I will. But now my farewell kiss. + + [_He embraces_ KRIEMHILD.] + + Thou'lt not deny me? Thou'lt not say, tomorrow, + As I do? Thou art noble. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, come back! + + SIEGFRIED. + + But what a strange desire! What's wrong, I pray? + I go a-hunting with my own good friends, + And if the lofty mountains do not fall + And bury us, we cannot suffer harm. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Alas! That is the very thing I dreamed. + + SIEGFRIED. + + My child, the hills stand firm. + + KRIEMHILD (_throws her arms around him once more_). + + Come back! Come back! + + [_Exeunt warriors_.] + + + + SCENE XII + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried! + + SIEGFRIED (_appears once more_). + + What now? + + KRIEMHILD. + + If thou wouldst not be angry-- + + HAGEN (_follows SIEGFRIED hastily_). + + Well, hast thou got thy spindle yet? + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ KRIEMHILD). + + Thou Nearest, + The hounds can be no longer held in leash; + What dost thou wish? + + HAGEN. + + Oh wait, pray, for thy flax! + And spin it in the moonlight with the elves. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now go! I longed to see thee once again! + + [HAGEN _and_ SIEGFRIED _go out_.] + + + + SCENE XIII + + KRIEMHILD. + + And should I call him to me ten times more + I'd never find the heart to tell it him. + How can we do what straightway we repent! + + + SCENE XIV + + _Enter_ GERENOT _and_ GISELHER. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Are you not gone? The Lord hath sent them here! + My dearest brothers, earnestly I beg + Vouchsafe me my desire, though to you + It seems but foolish. Go ye with my lord + Where'er he goes, and keep behind his back. + + GERENOT. + + We are not going. We've no wish to go. + + KRIEMHILD. + + No wish to go! + + GISELHER. + + What say'st thou? We've no time! + We've much to do before our men march forth. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And is all that intrusted to your youth? + If I am dear to you, if you have not + Forgotten that one mother nourished us, + Ride after them. + + GISELHER. + + They're long since in the wood. + + GERENOT. + + And then thou hast one brother with him, + now, + + KRIEMHILD. + + I beg of you! + + GISELHER. + + We must collect the arms, + As thou shalt see. + + [_Starts to go_.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then tell me one thing more + Is Hagen Siegfried's friend? + + GERENOT. + + Why not, I pray? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But has he ever praised him? + + GISELHER. + + It is praise + If Hagen does not blame, and I've not heard + That he found fault with Siegfried. + + [_Both leave_.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + Most of all + This frightens me. They are not with my lord! + + + + SCENE XV + + _Enter_ FRIGGA. + + KRIEMHILD. + + How, nurse? Art seeking me? + + FRIGGA. + + I seek for none. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then is there something wanted for the Queen? + + FRIGGA. + + There is not. She needs nothing. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nothing still? + But can she not forgive? + + FRIGGA. + + I do not know! + She has had no occasion to forgive; + She never was offended. I heard horns. + Is there a hunt? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Hast thou then ordered it? + + FRIGGA. + + I--No! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE XVI + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, had I only told it him! + Oh, my beloved, no woman host thou known, + I see it now! Else nevermore hadst thou + Unto a trembling girl who doth betray + Herself through fear, intrusted such a secret. + Still do I hear the playful whispered words + With which thou told'st it to me when I praised + The dragon's death. And then I made thee swear + To tell no other soul in all the world, + And now--Oh birds that circle overhead, + Oh snow white doves that fly about me now, + Take pity on me, warn him, fly to him! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + ACT V + + + _Oden Forest_. + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ HAGEN, GUNTHER, VOLKER, DANKWART _and serving men_. + + HAGEN. + + This is the place. The spring is gushing forth, + The bushes cover it. If I stand here, + I can impale the man who stoops to drink + Against the rock. + + GUNTHER. + + I've given no command. + + HAGEN. + + When thou hast taken thought thou wilt command. + There is no other way, and there will come + No second day like this one. Therefore speak, + Or if thou wilt not speak, be still! + + (_To the serving men_.) + + Hello! + 'Tis here we rest! + + [_The serving men prepare a meal_.] + + GUNTHER. + + Thou'st always hated him. + + HAGEN. + + I'll not deny that gladly to this work + I lend my hand, and I would surely meet + In combat any man who came between + My enemy and me, and yet the deed + I hold not for that reason less than just. + + GUNTHER. + + And yet my brothers spoke against the deed + And turned their backs upon us. + + HAGEN. + + Had they then + The courage to warn him and hinder us? + They must have felt that we are in the right, + And it is but their youth that makes them shrink + From blood that is not shed in open fight. + + GUNTHER. + + It must be so. + + HAGEN. + + Why he has bought off death + And so ennobled murder. + + (_To the serving men_.) + + Sound the horns, + And call the hunt together. For 'tis time + That we should eat. + + [_The horns are blown_.] + + Now take things as they are + And leave it all to me. If thou art not + Offended, or forgivest what is past, + So be it, yet forbid thy servant not + To rescue and avenge thy noble wife! + She will not break the solemn oath she swore. + If she's deceived in her firm trust in us--Her + confidence that we'll redeem the pledge--Then + all the joy of life that once again, + May be aroused within her youthful heart + When shadows deepen and the end is near, + Will be transformed into one dreadful curse, + One final imprecation upon thee! + + GUNTHER. + + There still is time. + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED _with_ RUMOLT _and huntsmen_. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I'm here! And now ye hunters, + Where are your spoils? Mine were to follow me + Upon a wagon, but the wagon broke. + + HAGEN. + + A lion is the game I chase today, + But I have failed to find one. + + SIEGFRIED. + + That I know, + For I myself have killed him!--Food is spread. + Sound trumpets in his praise who ordered that, + For now we feel the need. Accursed ravens, + Here too? Now blow your bugles till they burst! + I've thrown near every kind of game I killed + At this black flock; at last I threw a fox, + But still they would not fly, and yet I hate + Nothing so much in all the woodland green + As that deep black--'tis like the devil's hue. + The doves have never flocked around me so! + Shall we stay here to pass the night? + + GUNTHER. + + We thought-- + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well, the choice is fitting, and there gapes + A hollow tree. I'll take it for myself. + For all my life have I been used to that, + And I know nothing better than at night + On soft dry wood to lay my weary head, + And so to dream, half waking, half asleep, + To count the passing hours by the birds + That waken slowly, softly, one by one, + Each singing in his turn. Then tick, tick, tick! + Now it is two. Tock, tock, and one must stretch! + Kiwitt, kiwitt! The sun is blinking now, + And now its eyes are open. Chanticleer + Bids all arise, lest they should sneeze. + + VOLKER. + + I know! + It is as if Time wakened them himself, + As in the dark he feels his way along, + To beat the rhythm of his pace for him. + In measured intervals, as from the glass + Trickles the sand, and as the shadow long + Creeps on the dial, so there follow now + The mountain cock, the blackbird and the thrush, + And none disturbs the other as by day, + Nor coaxes him to warble ere his time. + I've watched it oft myself. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I too.--My brother, + Thou art not happy. + + GUNTHER. + + But I am! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, no! + I have seen people at a wedding feast, + And following a bier, and so I know + How different they look. Now let us do + As strangers might, who'd never met before + Until by accident within the wood + They meet, and one has this, the other that, + And so they put together all they have, + And thus with joy receive and also give. + 'Tis well! For I bring meat of every kind, + And I will give to you a mountain bull, + Five boars and thirty, even forty stags, + And pheasants too, as many as you will, + Not mentioning the lion and the bear, + All this for one small beaker of cool wine. + + DANKWART. + + Alas! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What's Wrong? + + HAGEN. + + The wine has been forgotten. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yes, I'll believe it. That may well befall + A hunter who is resting from the chase + And has a red hot coal for his own tongue + Inside his mouth. Well, I must seek myself, + Although I cannot scent it like a, hound-- + But let it be--I'll never spoil your sport! + + [_He seeks._] + + There is none here, nor here! Where is the cask? + I pray thee, minstrel, save me, else I'll lose + The tongue that has till now been wagging so. + + HAGEN. + + And that may happen, for--there is no wine. + + SIEGFRIED. + + The devil and his fiends may take your hunt + If I am not to have a hunter's fare! + Whose duty was it to provide the drink? + + HAGEN. + + Mine! Yet I did not know where we should be, + + [Illustration: Schnorr von Carolsfeld KRIEMHILD FINDS THE SLAIN + SIEGFRIED] + + And sent the wine to Spessart, where it seems + There are no thirsty men. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Give thanks who will! + But have we then no water? Must a man + Be satisfied with evening dew, and lap + The drops from off the leaves? + + HAGEN. + + But hold thy tongue! + Thine ear will bring thee comfort! + + SIEGFRIED (_listens_). + + Hark, a spring! + Oh welcome stream! 'Tis true I love thee more + When thou, instead of welling from the stone + So suddenly and rushing to my mouth, + Thy winding way pursuest through the grape; + For from thy journey many things thou bring'st, + That fill our heads with foolish gaiety. + Yet even so be praised. + + [_He goes to the spring._] + + Ah no! I must + Do penance first and ye shall witness bear + That I have done it. I'm the thirstiest man + Among you all and I will drink the last, + Because I was so harsh with poor Kriemhild. + + HAGEN. + + Then I'll begin. + + [_He goes to the spring._] + + SIEGFRIED (_to GUNTHER_). + + Pray look more cheerfully. + I know a way to reconcile thy bride; + Brunhilda's kisses shall ere long be thine. + My joy I will forego as long as thou. + + HAGEN (_comes back and lays aside his weapons_). + + The weapons will impede me when I stoop. + + [_Retires again._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + Before the full assemblage of thy folk, + Kriemhild will sue for pardon ere we go. + This pledge was freely given, but she longs + To leave and hide her blushes. + + HAGEN (_returns_). + + Cold as ice! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Who next? + + VOLKER. + + First let us eat. + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well! + [_He goes toward the spring but turns back again._] + + Ah yes! + + [_He lays aside his weapons. Exit._] + + HAGEN (_pointing to the weapons_). + + Away with them! + + DANKWART (_carries the weapons away_). + + HAGEN (_who has taken up his own weapons again and has + meanwhile kept his back turned toward_ GUNTHER; _takes + a running start and throws his spear_). + + SIEGFRIED (_cries out_). + + My friends! + + HAGEN (_exclaims_). + + Not quiet yet? + + (_To the others._) + + No word with him, whatever he may say! + + SIEGFRIED (_crawls forward_). + + Murdered--while I was drinking! Gunther, Gunther? + Have I deserved this from thee? In thy need + I stood by thee. + + HAGEN. + + Lop branches from the trees, + We need a bier. Quick, choose the strongest limbs, + For heavy is a dead man. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am slain, + But yet not wholly! + + [_He springs up._] + + Where then is my sword? + They've taken it! Oh, by thy manhood, Hagen, + Give the dead man a sword! I challenge thee + E'en now to mortal combat! + + HAGEN. + + In his mouth + He has his enemy, yet seeks him still. + + SIEGFRIED. + + My life drips from me like a candle spent, + And e'en my sword this murderer denies, + Though granting it would render him less vile. + For shame! Such cowardice! He fears my thumb, + For that is all that's left of me. + + [_He stumbles over his shield._] + + My shield! + My faithful shield, I'll throw thee at the hound! + + [_He stoops over the shield, but cannot lift it, and rises + unsteadily once more._] + + As if 'twere nailed there! E'en for this revenge + 'Tis now too late! + + HAGEN. + + Oh, if this chatterer + Would maim his foolish tongue between his teeth + Where it has sinned so long all unreproved-- + His idle tongue that is not silenced yet!-- + Then would he have revenge, for that alone + Has brought him to this pass. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou liest! 'Twas + Thine envy! + + HAGEN. + + Silence! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Threats for a dead man? + Aimed I so true that thou dost fear me still? + Then draw, for now I fall, and thou canst dare + To spit upon me like a heap of dust, + For here I lie-- + + [_He falls to the ground._] + + And you are free from Siegfried! + Yet know, the blow that slew him killed you too, + For who will trust you? They will drive you forth + As I had driven the Danes. + + HAGEN. + + This simpleton! + He hath not grasped our trick! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Then 'tis not true? + Oh, horrible, that men should lie like this! + Ah well! You are alone in this! And folk + Will always curse you too, whene'er they curse. + They'll say: Toads, vipers and Burgundians! + Nay you are first: Burgundians, vipers, toads. + For all is lost to you--nobility + And honor, fame and all, are lost with me! + There is no bound nor limit now for crime, + The arm indeed may pierce the heart, but when + The heart is dead the arm is useless too. + My wife! My poor, foreboding, tender wife-- + How wilt thou bear the blow! If Gunther's heart + Still means to do one deed of faith and love, + May he be kind to thee!--Yet rather go + Unto my father!--Hearest thou, Kriemhild? + + [_He dies._] + + HAGEN. + + He's silent now. Small merit is in that! + + DANKWART. + + What shall we tell? + + HAGEN. + + Some stupid tale of thieves + Who killed him in the forest. It is true + None will believe it, yet I think that none + Will call us liars. Once again we stand + Where none will dare to call us to account; + For we're like fire and water. Till the Rhine + Seeks out some lie to justify its floods, + And fire explains why it has broken forth, + We need not fear accusers. Thou, my King, + Gav'st no commands--thou should'st remember that! + The blame is mine alone. Now bear him forth! + + [_Exeunt with the body._] + + + + SCENE III + + _KRIEMHILD'S room. Deep night._ + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis far too early yet. It is my blood + That wakened me, and not the cock I heard, + Or seemed to hear. + + [_She goes to the window and opens it partly._] + + The stars are shining still, + It surely is an hour yet till mass. + Today I long to go to church and pray. + + + + SCENE IV + + _Enter UTE softly._ + + UTE. + + Already up, Kriemhild? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am amazed + That thou art up, for thou hast always slept + More soundly after dawn and claimed thy right + To have thy daughter wake thee, as thou her + So long ago. + + UTE. + + Today I could not sleep, + I heard strange sounds. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And didst thou mark them too? + + UTE. + + It was like people trying to be still. + + KRIEMHILD. + + So I was right? + + UTE. + + They seemed to hold their breath, + Yet dropped a sword that clanged! On tiptoe walked, + And yet upset the brazier! Hushed the dog, + Yet trod upon his paw. + + KRIEMHILD. + + They have perhaps + Returned. + + UTE. + + The hunters? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Once it seemed to me + That some one softly crept up to my door. + I thought it must be Siegfried. + UTE. Didst thou make + Some sign that thou wast wakeful? + + KRIEMHILD. + + No. + + UTE. + + Indeed + It might then have been Siegfried, but 'twould be + Almost too soon. + + KRIEMHILD. + + To me it seems so too! + And then he did not knock. + + UTE. + + The hunt was not, + Or so I think, to bring us game for food; + They wanted our poor farmers to have peace, + Who have been threatening to burn their ploughs + Because the wild boar harvests where they sow! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Was that it? + + UTE. + + Child, thou art already dressed, + Yet hast not any maid with thee? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I thought + That I would learn who woke the first of all. + Besides, it was a pastime. + + UTE. + + Each in turn, + My candle in my hand, I gazed upon. + For each year brings a different kind of sleep. + Fifteen and sixteen sleep like five and six, + But seventeen brings dreams, and eighteen, thoughts, + And nineteen brings desires-- + + + + SCENE V + + _A Chamberlain cries out before the door._ + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Almighty God! + + UTE. + + What is it? What is wrong? + + CHAMBERLAIN (_enters_). + + I almost fell. + + UTE. + + And that was why you called? + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Some one is dead! + + UTE. + + What's that? + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + A dead man lying at the door! + + UTE. + + A dead man? + + KRIEMHILD (_falls_). + + Then 'tis Siegfried, 'tis my lord! + + UTE (_catches her in her arms_). + + Impossible! + + (_To the CHAMBERLAIN._) + + Bring light! + + [_CHAMBERLAIN brings a light and then nods his head._] + + UTE. + + 'Tis Siegfried? Go! + Awaken all! + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Help, help! + + [_The maidens rush in._] + + UTE. + + O piteous wife! + + KRIEMHILD (_rising_). + + Brunhild commanded, Hagen did the deed!-- + A light! + + UTE. + + My child! + + KRIEMHILD (_seizes a torch_). + + 'Tis he! I know, I know! + Let no one tread on him; for thou didst hear + The servants stumble over him.--The servants! + Yet once great kings made way for him. + + UTE. + + The light! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I'll place it there myself. + + [_She opens the door and falls to the floor._] + + Oh Mother, Mother, + Why didst thou bear thy child! Oh thou dear head, + But let me kiss thee. I'll not seek thy mouth, + For all to me is precious. Thou canst not + Forbid me as thou would'st perhaps.--Thy lips-- + 'Tis too much pain! + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + She's dying. + + UTE. + + I could wish + That she might die! + + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter GUNTHER with DANKWART, RUMOLT, GISELHER and GERENOT._ + + UTE (_approaching GUNTHER_). + + My son, what deed was this? + + GUNTHER. + + I fain would weep myself. Yet of his death + You've heard already? By the holy words + Of our good priest you were to learn of this. + I went to tell him in the night. + + UTE (_with a motion of the head_). + + Thou see'st + The dead man told his story for himself. + + GUNTHER (_aside to DANKWART_). + + But how was this? + + DANKWART. + + My brother bore him here! + + GUNTHER. + + For shame! + + DANKWART. + + From his intent he'd not desist, + And when he came again he laughed and said: + This is my gratitude for his farewell. + + + + SCENE VII + + _Enter the Chaplain._ + + GUNTHER (_going to meet him_). + + Too late! + + CHAPLAIN. + + And such a man slain in the woods! + + DANKWART. + + The robber's spear was guided by blind chance, + So that it struck the spot. In such a way + A child may kill a giant. + + UTE (_still busying herself with the maidens over KRIEMHILD_). + + Rise, Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Another parting? No, I'll cling to him, + And to the grave together will we go, + Or you must leave him here. But half my love + I gave him living. Now that he is dead + I know it. Were it the reverse! His eyes + I never yet had kissed! All, all is new! + We thought we'd time before us. + + UTE. + + Come my child! + We cannot leave him lying in the dust. + KRIEMHILD. Oh that is true! The costliest and rarest + Today shall be as naught. + + [_She rises._] + + Here, take the keys! + + [_She throws down keys._] + + There'll be no festivals again! The silk, + The wondrous golden garments, and the linen-- + Bring everything. Be sure to gather flowers-- + He loved them so! And you must cut them all, + Even the little buds that have not bloomed. + For whom then should they blossom? Lay them all + Within his coffin, then my bridal robes, + And lay him softly down, and I'll do so, + + [_She stretches out her arms._] + + And I will be his covering! + + GUNTHER (_to his followers_). + + Your oath! + Let no one harm her more. + + KRIEMHILD (_turns around_). + + The murderer's here? + Away, for fear the blood should flow again! + No! No! Come here! + + [_She lays hold of DANKWART._] + + That Siegfried may bear witness! + + [_She wipes her hand on her dress._] + + Alas, alas! My right hand nevermore + May dare to touch him. Does the blood gush forth? + O Mother, look! I cannot! No? Then these + But hide the deed. I seek the murderer. + If Hagen Tronje's here, let him come forth! + He is not guilty--I'll give him my hand. + + UTE. + + My child-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now go and hear Brunhilda laugh. + She's eating too, and drinking. + + UTE. + + It was robbers-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + I know them well. + + [_She takes GISELHER and GERENOT by the hand._] + + Thou wast not with them there! + Thou didst not go! + + UTE. + + But hear me! + + RUMOLT. + + Through the wood + We had been scattered; for it was his wish, + And 'tis our custom too. We found him dying + At our next meeting place. + + KRIEMHILD. + + You found him there? + What did he say? A word! His dying word! + I will believe thy tale, if thou canst tell, + And if it is no curse. But oh, beware! + For sooner would a rose bloom from thy mouth + Than thou imagine what thou didst not hear. + + (_As RUMOLT hesitates._) + + It is a lie! + + CHAPLAIN. + + 'Tis possible! I've heard + A magpie dropped a knife that killed a man + Who could not have been reached by human hands. + And what a wingéd thief by chance could do + Because his gleaming booty burdened him, + A robber well might do. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, holy father, + Thou knowest not! + + DANKWART. + + Princess, thy grief is sacred, + But yet unjust and blind. Our warriors here, + Our noblest will bear witness-- + + [_Meanwhile the door has been closed and the body is no longer + visible._] + + KRIEMHILD (_who observes this_). Halt! Who dares-- + + [_She hastens to the door._] + + UTE. + + Stop, stop! He was but gently lifted up + As thou thyself would'st wish. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, give him back! + Else they will rob me, they will bury him + Where I shall never find him! + + CHAPLAIN. + + To the church! + I'll follow him, for now he's God's alone. + + [_Exit._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + KRIEMHILD. + + So be it! To the church! + (_To GUNTHER._) + + 'Twas robbers then? + I bid thee gather all thy kindred there + To try the test of murder. + + GUNTHER. + + Be it so. + + KRIEMHILD. + + But bring them one and all, for now I find + That some are missing. Call the absent too! + + [_Exeunt omnes; the men and women by + different doors._] + + + + + SCENE IX + + _In the cathedral. Torches. The Chaplain with other priests is at one + side before an iron door. At the main entrance of the cathedral about + sixty of_ HAGEN's _kindred are assembled. Finally_ HAGEN, GUNTHER _and + the others. Knocking is heard._ + + CHAPLAIN. + + Who knocks + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + A great king from the Netherlands + Whose crowns are as the fingers on his hands. + + CHAPLAIN. + + I know him not. + + [_The knocking is repeated._] + + + Who knocks? + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + A warrior brave, + Whose trophies are as many as his teeth. + + CHAPLAIN. + + I know him not. + + [_The knocking is repeated._] + + Who knocks? + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + Thy brother Siegfried, + Whose sins are as the hairs upon his head. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then open! + + [_The door is opened and_ SIEGFRIED's _body + is brought in on the bier._ KRIEMHILD _and_ + UTE _with their maidens follow him._] + + CHAPLAIN (_turning toward the bier_). + + Thou art welcome, my dead brother, + For peace thou seekest here! + [_To the women whom he keeps away from + the coffin by coming between them and it, + while it is being set down._] + + Be welcome too, + If you are seeking peace as Siegfried is. + + [_He holds up the cross before KRIEMHILD._] + + Thou turn'st away from this most holy cross? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I come to ask for justice and for truth. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Thou seekest vengeance, and the Lord hath said, + Vengeance is mine. It is the Lord alone + Who sees what's hidden. He alone requites. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am a woman, weak, half crushed to earth; + No warrior can I strangle with my hair. + What vengeance then is left for me, I pray? + + CHAPLAIN. + + Why should'st thou search to find thine enemy, + Unless thou seek'st on him to take revenge? + His Judge knows all, and is not that enough? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I do not want to curse the innocent. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then curse thou no man, and 'twill not befall!-- + Thou poor frail child created but from dust + And ashes, with no strength to breast the wind, + Thy burden's great, well may'st thou cry to heaven, + Yet gaze on Him who bore a greater still! + In humblest guise He came upon the earth, + And took upon Himself the sins of men, + And suffered for atonement all the griefs + That ever there have been throughout all time-- + The griefs that follow fallen mortals still. + He suffered in thy sorrow more than thou! + And heavenly power flowed from out His lips + And all the angels floated round his head, + But Jesus Christ was faithful unto death-- + Unto His shameful death upon the cross. + This sacrifice He brought thee in his love, + In pity that we may not comprehend. + Wilt thou deny thine offering to Him? + Then let them bury him! And turn thou back! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy work is done, and I will now do mine! + + [_She goes and stands at the head of the + coffin._] + + Approach the bier, the dread ordeal begins! + + CHAPLAIN (_goes also to the coffin and stands at the foot. + Three trumpet blasts are heard_). + + HAGEN (_to GUNTHER_). + + + What then has happened? + + GUNTHER. + + Murder has been done. + + HAGEN. + + Why stand I here? + + GUNTHER. + + Suspicion rests on thee. + + HAGEN. + + My kin are gathered here. Of my fair name + I'll question them.--Are ye prepared to swear + That Hagen Tronje is no murderer? + + ALL EXCEPT GISELHER. + + We are prepared. + + HAGEN. + + Thou'rt silent, Giselher? + Wilt thou not for thine uncle take thine oath + That Hagen Tronje is no murderer? + + GISELHER (_raising his hand_). + + I am prepared. + + HAGEN. + + Ye need not take the oath. + + [_He goes forward to_ KRIEMHILD _in the + cathedral._] + + Thou see'st, my kin will clear me when I will, + 'Tis needless that I now approach the bier, + Yet will I stand there and will be the first! + + [_He walks slowly to the bier._] + + UTE. + + Oh Kriemhild, do not look. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Perchance he lives! + My Siegfried! Had he strength to speak one word + Or gaze but once upon me! + + UTE. + + My poor child, + It is but nature, moving once again. + Ghastly enough! + + CHAPLAIN. + + It is the hand of God, + That softly stirs once more these sacred springs + Because He must inscribe the sign of Cain. + + HAGEN (_bending over the coffin_). + + The scarlet blood! I ne'er believed the sign! + But now I see it here with mine own eyes. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yet thou canst stand and gaze? + + [_She springs toward him._] + + Away, thou fiend! + Who knows but every drop of blood gives pain, + That thy foul, murderous presence draws from him! + + HAGEN. + + Fair Kriemhild, if a dead man's blood still boils, + Why may not mine? I am a living man. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Away! Away! I'd seize thee with my hands, + Had I but some one who would back them off + And cast them from me that I might be clean-- + For washing would not cleanse them, even if + I dipped them in thy blood. Away! Away! + So stood'st thou not to deal the deadly blow, + Thy wolfish eyes fixed on him steadily, + With fiendish grin disclosing thy intent + Before the time! But slyly didst thou creep + Behind him, ever shrinking from his gaze, + As wild beasts do that fear the human eye, + And peered to find the spot, that I--Thou dog, + What was thine oath to me? + + HAGEN. + + To shelter him + From fire and water. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Not from human foes? + + HAGEN. + + That too, and I'd have done it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou didst mean + To murder him thyself? + + HAGEN. + + To punish him! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Was murder ever called a punishment + Since heaven and earth began? + HAGEN. I'd challenged him + To mortal combat, thou may'st take my word, + But none might tell the hero from the dragon, + And dragons must be killed. So proud a knight, + Why did he hide him in the dragon's skin! + + KRIEMHILD. + + The dragon's skin! He had to slay him first, + And with the dragon slew he all the world! + The forest depths with all their monstrous beasts, + And every warrior that had feared to slay + The dreadful dragon, Hagen with the rest! + Thy slander cannot harm him. But the dart + Thine envy borrowed from thy wickedness. + And folk will tell of his nobility + As long as men still dwell upon the earth, + And just so long they'll tell thy tale of shame. + + HAGEN. + + So be it then! + + [_He takes_ SIEGFRIED'S _sword, Balmung, from + beside the body._] + + And now 'twill never end! + + [_He girds on the sword and walks slowly + back to his kindred._] + + KRIEMHILD. + + To murder foul is added robbery! + + (_To_ GUNTHER.) + + A judgment, Gunther! Judgment I demand. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Remember Him who on the cross forgave! + + KRIEMHILD. + + A judgment! If the king denies it me, + The blood of Siegfried stains his mantle too. + + UTE. Cease, Kriemhild! Thou wilt ruin thy whole house! + + KRIEMHILD. + + So be it! For the measure's over full! + + [_She turns toward_ SIEGFRIED'S _body and falls upon the bier._] + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: Siegfried's wonderful sword is named Balmung.] + +[Footnote 2: The reference is to a passage in the _Chanson de Roland_. +Roland was in command of a rear guard and was warned of the approach of +a large force of Saracens. His comrade Oliver begged him to sound his +horn and summon Charlemagne and his forces. Roland would not blow the +horn until nearly all his men were slain. At last, however, the Saracens +learned of Charlemagne's approach and fled. Roland then blew his horn +once more and died alone on the field as he heard Charlemagne's battle +cry.--TRANSLATOR.] + +[Footnote 3: Balmung is the name of Siegfried's magical sword.] + +[Footnote 4: The Mandrake is a plant growing in the Mediterranean region +and belonging to the potato family. It was early famed for its poisonous +and narcotic qualities. Love philtres were also made from its roots, and +an old High German story tells of little images made from the root, thus +endowed with the power of prophecy and respected as oracles. Probably +Hebbel refers to the German tradition, as he is speaking of the dwarfs +who are both small and wise. The German name of the plant is +_Alraune_.--TRANSLATOR.] + +[Footnote 5: The translator finds that authorities and versions of the +tale differ as to Siegfried's _"Kappe."_ In Maurice Grau's +Götterdaemmerung libretto it is called in the English translation +"Tarnhelm," and Siegfried hangs it to his belt when not in use. Dippold +in his account of the Nibelung tale speaks of the _Tarn kappe_ or magic +_cap_ of darkness which _renders the wearer invisible._ But the +_Encyclopaedia Britannica_ speaks of the "cape of darkness" and Heath's +_Dictionary_ gives cap first, but calls _Tarn kappe_ "hiding cape." In +either case invisibility was obtained.--TRANSLATOR.] + + + + +ANNA (1836) + +BY FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + "Mild the air, and heaven blue, + Fragrant flowers full of dew, + And at even dance and play, + That is quite too much, I say." + +Anna, the young servant maid, was gaily singing this song one bright +Sunday morning, while busily engaged in washing up the kitchen and dairy +crockery. At that moment Baron Eichenthal, in whose service she had been +for the last six months, passed by, wearing a green damask +dressing-gown. He was a decrepit young man, full of spleen and whims. +"What's the meaning of this yodelling!" he demanded haughtily, pausing +in front of her--"You know that I cannot bear frivolity." + +Anna blushed violently: she remembered that her severe master would have +been very pleased to find her frivolous a few evenings ago in the +summerhouse. A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but forcibly +suppressing it, she started to take up a white porcelain soup-tureen, +and, in a violent struggle with her natural fearlessness, let it fall to +the ground. The valuable dish broke and the Baron, who had already taken +a few steps forward, turned around, his face flaming with anger. + +"What!" he exclaimed loudly, and strode up to the girl, "would you cool +your temper on my mother's kitchen crockery, you little sneak, because +your stubborn spirit will not allow you to accept a well-merited reproof +quietly, as becomes you?" And with that, scolding and storming, he gave +her, right and left, box after box on the ear, while she, stunned, gazed +at him, like a child, bereft of speech, indeed almost of her senses, +still holding the handle of the tureen in one hand, and involuntarily +pressing the other against her breast. + +She was first aroused from this state, which bordered on a swoon, by the +mocking laughter of the chamber-maid Frederika, who, more easy going +than she, gladly allowed the Baron to trifle wantonly with her and pinch +her cheeks or play with her curls. The insolent wench looked at her +derisively, and called out, "That will give you a good appetite for the +kermess, Miss Prude." + +The Baron, however, laughed loudly and placing his arms akimbo, said: +"You might just as well give up all desire for dance and play; I +withdraw the permission accorded by my mother, you shall take care of +the house. Is there nothing then for her to do today?" he continued, +talking to himself. Frederika whispered something to him. "Right," he +shouted, "she shall comb the flax until late at night; do you hear?" +Anna, completely bewildered, nodded her head, and then sank down +powerless on her knees; at the same time, however, she instinctively +snatched up a brass utensil, and, while the hot, uncontrollable tears +overflowed her eyes, she began to scour it bright. + +The gardener had witnessed the foregoing scene from a distance. Fresh +and blooming as she was, he had long pursued her with attentions, but in +vain; coming up at that moment, he greeted her and asked maliciously how +she was? "Oh, oh," she moaned, quivering spasmodically, and springing, +up she clutched at the sneering fellow's breast and face. + +"Madwoman," he cried, growing frightened, and, defending himself with +all his masculine strength, pushed her away. She stared after him with +wide-open eyes as though not realizing what she had done; then, as if +coming to her senses, returned to her work, which she continued without +interruption, except at times unconsciously heaving a loud sigh, until +at midday she was called to the kitchen to dinner. Here nothing but +faces expressing malicious joy at her discomfiture awaited her, and more +or less suppressed laughter and tittering, which grew stronger and more +pitiless as she continued to gaze down at her plate with burning cheeks, +and replied not a word to the volley of allusions. + +The maids, already partly decked out in their finery, exchanged +bantering remarks, bearing unmistakable reference to her, on the score +of the lovers whom they had found, or hoped to find, and the flat-nosed +scullion, encouraged to commit the impertinence by the winks of the head +farm-hand and the coachman, asked Anna if he might not borrow her +red-flowered apron and the hat with the gay-colored ribbons that +Frederick, the Major's man, had given her at Christmas. She would +certainly not need these things in the flax-room, he said, and he hoped +by means of them to win the good graces of a girl who had no finery. + +"Boy," she cried with white trembling lips, "I'll not cook you any milk +soup another time when you are sick in bed, and no one bothers himself +about you!" and shoving back her plate, she snatched up the empty +water-pails, which it was her duty to fill afresh at the well, and went +out. + +"Fie," said John, an old servant, who, having grown gray in the service +of his lordship's father, was now eating the bread of charity in the +house of Baron Eichenthal. "It is wrong to spoil the wench's food and +drink with bitter words." + +"Pshaw!" retorted the gardener, "it will not hurt her. Since that +lean-bodied toady, Frederick, has been running after her, she's as +proud as though she had angled a nobleman!" + +"Pride comes before a fall!" said Lizzie, the buxom little cook, with a +tender glance at the phlegmatic head farm-hand. "Do you know that she +laces?" + +"Why shouldn't she be proud," interjected the coachman, "isn't she the +schoolmaster's daughter!" + +Frederika, the chambermaid, came into the kitchen with a heated face. +"Isn't Anna here?" she asked, drying her forehead with her silk +handkerchief. "The master has just gone to bed, he joked a good +deal"--here she coughed, as the others cast significant glances at one +another and laughed--"and I am to tell her that she is to begin combing +the flax right away, and"--this she added on her own authority--"she +must not stop work until ten o'clock." + +"I'll give her the message, Rika!" answered Lizzie. Frederika tripped +out again. + +"Doesn't she lace too?" asked the head farm-hand. + +"Chut! Chut!" whispered John, and jingled his fork against his plate in +embarrassment. Anna entered the kitchen with her load of water. + +"Anna," began Lizzie officiously, "I am to tell you--" + +"I know all about it already," answered Anna drily, in a steady voice. +"I met the messenger. Where is the key to the flax-room hanging?" + +"Over there on the nail!" replied the cook, and pointed with her finger +to the place. + +Anna, composed, because inwardly crushed, took the key, and while the +others went off to their trunks in order to complete their toilet before +a three groschen mirror, she went hastily into the flax-room, the +windows of which looked out upon the castle courtyard and the high-road. +She sat down, her face turned toward the windows so that she could see +all the merry-makers on their way from the village to the kermess and +hear their gay talk. She began to work with gloomy industry. Although at +times she unconsciously sank into a fit of brooding, she would +immediately start up again terrified, as though bitten by a snake or +tarantula, and continue her labor with increased, indeed, with unnatural +zeal. Only once during the entire long afternoon did she get up from her +low, hard, wooden stool, and that was when her fellow servants drove +quickly down the castle yard in comfortable rack wagons drawn by fast +horses. But with a loud laugh, as though in self-derision, she sat down +again, and, although she grew so thirsty in all the heat and dust that +her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, she did not even drink the +coffee that old Bridget, who on an occasion like this of today used to +take care of the house for the maids, compassionately brought her toward +four or five o'clock. + +When night gradually came on she went into the kitchen, without +smoothing back the locks of hair that hung wildly about her face. Making +no answer to Bridget's friendly invitation to remain there and share +with her a tempting dish of baked potatoes, she took a candle out of the +candle box, and holding her hand over it to protect it against the +draught, went back into the flax-room. It was not long before there was +a knock at the window, and when she had opened the door Frederick +entered hastily, dripping with perspiration. + +"I must see what is the matter," he said, almost breathless and tearing +open his waist-coat, "they are whispering all kinds of things." + +"You see!" answered Anna quickly, then stopped short and arranged her +bodice, which had been pushed somewhat awry. + +"Your master is a scoundrel!" blustered Frederick, gnashing his teeth. + +"Yes, yes!" said Anna. + +"I should like to meet him up there on the cliff," cried Frederick, "oh, +it's abominable!" + +"How hot you are," said Anna, gently taking his hand. "Have you been +dancing already?" + +"I have been drinking wine, five or six glasses," rejoined Frederick. +"Come, Anna, dress yourself, you shall go with me in spite of every +devil who tries to interfere." + +"No, no, no!" said Anna. + +"But I say yes," Frederick flared out in a passion, and put his arm +around her waist, "I say yes!" + +"Most certainly not!" Anna answered softly, embracing him +affectionately. + + +KRIEMHILD ACCUSES HAGEN OF THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED + +_From the painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_ [Illustration] + +"You shall, I wish it," cried Frederick, releasing her. + +Anna, without making any answer, took up the flax-comb and looked down +on the ground before her. + +"Will you, or will you not?" persisted +Frederick, and stepped right in front of her. + +"How could I?" returned Anna, looking confidingly in his eyes, and +laying her hand on her heart. + +"Very well," cried Frederick. "You +will not. God damn me if I ever see you again!" He rushed out like a mad +man. + +"Frederick," cried Anna after him, "Do stay, stay a moment, listen how +the wind is howling." + +She was starting to hurry after him when her dress brushed against the +candle placed low down on an oak-block; it fell over and set fire to the +flax which burst at once into powerful flames. Frederick, crazed with +wine and anger, forced himself, as usually happens in such moments, to +sing a song as he strode out into the night, which had turned out to be +very stormy. The familiar tones, in wild hilarity, penetrated to where +Anna was. "Oh! oh!" she sighed from the depth of her heart. Then for the +first time she noticed that half of the room was already on fire. +Beating with her hands and stamping with her feet she threw herself upon +the greedy flames which, hot and burning, leaped toward her and scorched +her. Frederick's voice died away in the distance in a last halloo. +"Pshaw, why should I put it out, let it be!" she cried, and slamming the +door behind her with all her might, she hurried out with a horrible +laugh, involuntarily following the same path through the garden that +Frederick had taken. + +Soon, however, she sank down, exhausted, almost fainting, in a meadow +which adjoined the garden, and groaning aloud pressed her face into the +cold, wet grass. Thus she lay for a long time. + +Then from far and near the fire and alarm bells sounded, hollow and +terrifying. She half raised herself, but did not look around. Above her +the sky was blood-red and full of sparks; an unnatural heat was +spreading, and increasing from minute to minute. The wind howled and +roared, the flames crackled, wails and shouts resounded. She lay down +again at full length on the ground, and it seemed to her as though she +could sleep. But the next moment she was frightened out of this +death-like state by the words of two people hurrying past her, one of +whom cried out, "Lord have mercy on us! the village is already burning!" +She pulled herself together then with a superhuman effort, and hurried, +with flying hair, down to the village, which adjoined the burning side +of the castle. There, in more than one place the inflammable straw roofs +had already burst into flame. + +The wind grew stronger and stronger. Most of the inhabitants, with the +exception of the children and decrepit old people, were more than four +miles away at the kermess. Had the necessary men been on the spot the +miserable fire apparatus could have offered only a vain resistance to +the league of the two dread elements. Since the summer had been +unusually dry, even water was lacking. + +Distress, danger, confusion, increased every minute. A little boy ran +about crying, "O God, O God, my little sister!" And when he was asked, +"Where is your sister?" he repeated his horrifying cry, as though, +incapable of every intelligent thought, he had not understood the +question. + +One old woman had to be forcibly dragged from her house. "My hen," she +moaned, "my poor little hen!" And indeed it was touching to see how the +little creature fluttered terrified from one corner to the other in the +suffocating smoke, and yet, because in better days it was probably +accustomed not to cross the threshold, it would not allow itself to be +driven through the open door into the air, even by its mistress. + +Anna, weeping, screaming, beating her breast, and then again laughing, +rushed into every kind of danger with the reckless daring of despair. +She rescued, extinguished, and was an object at once of surprise, +admiration, and uncanny mystery to all the others. At last they +despaired of being able even to arrest the fire, which, continuing to +spread, threatened to reduce the whole village to ashes. It was then +that they saw her sink down on her knees in a burning house and gaze up +to Heaven, wringing her hands. + +The pastor called out, "For God's sake, rescue the heroic girl, the +roof is falling in!" Anna, still on her knees, hearing his words, +stuck out her tongue at him with a gesture of violent abhorrence, and +laughed crazily. At this moment Frederick appeared. Hardly had he +perceived the terrible danger in which she was placed than, growing +deathly pale, he rushed toward the house which seemed about to +collapse. She, however, noticing him at once, sprang up terrified and +cried, "Don't, Frederick, don't; I, I am guilty, there--there." She +pointed with her hand to the place where the castle lay, and, in order +to make any rescue impossible, hurried up the already burning ladder, +which led to the garret of the house. The ladder, too far consumed by +the fire, broke under her, and at the same moment the roof fell in, +forming a wall of flame. They heard one more piercing cry; then there +was silence. + +Baron Eichenthal arrived. As soon as Frederick caught sight of him he +rushed up to him and before the Baron could defend himself kicked him in +the abdomen, so that he fell over backward to the ground; then Frederick +quietly gave himself up to the peasants, who at the order of the justice +of the peace were trying to overpower him. + +When the Baron learned next morning what had happened to Anna, he +ordered them to search for her bones among the ashes and to bury them in +the potter's field. This was done. + + + + +ON THEODOR KÖRNER AND HEINRICH VON +KLEIST (1835) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +Not only in the history of the world but in the history of literature as +well, we meet with strange aberrations on the part of entire epochs in +their estimate of individual men, rightly or wrongly raised above their +environment. Exactly what the age happens to demand, what fits in with +its restless activity, that is what it rewards and values. We cannot +deny, indeed, that every generation has the right to require the poet, +as well as its other sons, to consult its needs so far as possible. But +it is seldom satisfied with this; he must confer his benefits in the +most agreeable way, and whether or not he is weak enough to humor it in +this, determines, as a rule, whether it will take him fondly in its +arms, or will crush him. These reflections were recently aroused in me +when a volume of Heinrich von Kleist's writings came into my possession +together with a volume of Theodor Körner's works, and I trust that the +Scientific Society will not consider them too unimportant to be +developed in some detail. + +In the two poets named we see two remarkable examples of the +above-mentioned aberration of an entire epoch. While the first of the +two, Heinrich von Kleist, possesses all the qualities that go to make up +the great poet and at the same time the true German, the other, Theodor +Körner, has only enthusiasm for those qualities; but while Kleist +refuses to forget his own dignity in the interests of the times, and +finally strives to unite these interests with the highest mission of +art, Körner prefers to throw himself submissively into the vortex. For +this reason Kleist was maligned, ignored, and misjudged during his +lifetime, scorned at his death, and forgotten by immediate posterity, +whereas Körner was enthusiastically received and applauded, and when he +descended into his early grave, was mourned by the whole world. I would +gladly pass by his grave in silence, and leave him the laurels which he +purchased with his death; but I see no reason why he should swell the +number of our fathers' sins, and should neglect an act of justice, which +will, in any case, be performed some day by our grandchildren, and then +perhaps with a smile of pity for us. + +Before we go farther it will be necessary to establish, so far as +possible, certain conceptions of art in general, and of the branches of +art cultivated by Körner and Kleist. I purposely say "so far as +possible;" for it would not be easy to expound a complete conception of +art before one set forth a complete conception of the human soul, of +which art might be called the most comprehensive phenomenon. We must +therefore infer this conception from the effects of art, so far as they +appear; but as these effects are infinite the conception may be +something very different from a barrier erected for the purpose of a +mere provisional designation, which ceases to exist the moment that it +pleases genius to overstep it. We find this possibility confirmed when +we examine how the conception in question has changed in German +literature alone, during the various epochs of its relatively short +history. + +In the day of Gessner, Bodmer, and the like, who saw a muse in every +sheep and every herdsman, the imitation of nature was the gospel in +which every one believed. This, at best, meant nothing at all, and +closely analyzed, it is half nonsensical, in so far as this definition +presupposes art to be something that exists outside the domain of +nature. But man belongs within the domain of nature; he must be +included within this domain, and at most can complete or enlarge it; +and for this reason alone art can never imitate a whole of which it is +a part. + +Hereupon men went a step farther, and defined art as "imitation of the +beautiful." We should have less cause to object to this definition if +the question on which everything depends in this case had not been left +unanswered; if they had not left undecided what it was they meant by +"imitation of the beautiful." They were indeed very soon ready with an +explanation, calling that "beautiful" which reveals an agreeable unity +in variety. Unfortunately they could not prevail upon themselves to +grant the proposition: "All is beautiful or nothing," which follows +immediately from the first; for they had overlooked the fact that the +word "agreeable" was superfluous, since every unity, because it gives a +clear impression and permits us to look into the unviolated order of +nature, appeals to us "agreeably"--I must use this word because it +expresses _the least badly_ the feeling which I would describe. Now, +however, in spite of all reluctance, they had to acknowledge that in the +domain of art there were many phenomena in which no such narrow-minded +imitation of the beautiful, as was demanded, could be shown to exist, +but which nevertheless could not be denied recognition. It was truly +remarkable how they tried to find an escape from this dilemma. They +admitted that ugliness could sometimes form an ingredient in a work of +art, by which means it became possible for the artist to arouse certain +mixed sensations in default of purely agreeable sensations. Mark well, +"in default of purely agreeable sensations!" As though the incapacity or +the momentary embarrassment of the artist, and the inadequacy of a +chosen subject, could do away with a law of art once recognized as +supreme. It is just as though the political law-giver should modify the +prohibition of stealing by the clause: "if, namely, thou canst earn +something in an honest manner." Striking it is, that even Lessing should +cling to such definitions and employ all his ingenuity to prove their +tenableness. It goes to show that the taste of a nation never--as may +very well be imagined--precedes the genius, but always limps along +behind him. Still more striking it is that they could feel the +inadequacy of the accepted definition, that they could come so near to +the real remedy, and yet could overlook it. It seems to me, namely, that +everything could have been adjusted, if they had made the same demands +on the artist's work that they made on the subject chosen by him. This +is so plain that it needs no demonstration. + +If I should be asked to state my conception of art--it is understood +that here, as elsewhere, that only the art of poetry is in question--I +would base it on the unconditional freedom of the artist, and say: Art +should seize upon life in all its various forms, and represent it. It is +obvious that this cannot be accomplished by mere copying. The artist +must afford life something more than a morgue, where it is prepared for +burial. We wish to see the point from which life starts and the one +where it loses itself, as a single wave, in the great sea of infinite, +effect. That this effect is a twofold one, and that it can turn inward +as well as outward, is of course self-evident. For the rest--be it said +incidentally--here is the point from which a parallel can be drawn +between the phenomena of real life and those of life embodied in art. + +I will now review the separate branches of art at which Körner and +Kleist have tried their hand. We find that they are lyric poetry, drama, +and narrative. All three have to do with the representation of life, and +if a division can be made it can only be based upon the various ways in +which life is wont to manifest itself. Life manifests itself either as a +reaction upon outward impressions, or lacking these, directly from +within. When it works directly from within, we usually designate the +form under which it appears as feeling. Feeling is the element of lyric +poetry; the art of limiting and representing it makes the lyric poet. +Let no one object that there are feelings enough which arise in +consequence of outward impressions, and that these too have been +expressed sufficiently often by the poets; I am very much inclined to +distinguish between the results of these impressions and the feelings +which well up from the depths of the soul in consecrated moments; and in +any case, these alone are a worthy subject for the lyric poet; for only +in them does the whole man actually live, they only are the product of +his whole being. I hate examples because they are either make-shifts or +will-o'-the-wisps, but here I must add that in Uhland's song, "A short +while hence I dreamed," I find such a feeling expressed. + +The drama represents the thought which seeks to become a deed through +action or suffering. The narrative is really not a pure form, but a +combination of the lyric and dramatic elements,--a combination which +differs from the drama in that it develops the outer life from the +inner, whereas in the drama the inner proceeds from the outer. + +Let us now examine what Theodor Körner and Heinrich von Kleist have +accomplished, in the first place, as lyric poets. Kleist (unhappily) has +left us very little in this field, Körner (again unhappily) all the +more. Körner's war-songs have, in this stage of our investigation, the +precedence over his other lyric productions, for two reasons: in the +first place, they found the largest public and earned for their author, +beside the royalties, the title of a German Tyrtaeus; and in the second +place, Theodor Körner's soul was most ardently engrossed with the +supposed and the real sufferings of his time, with the dignity and the +misfortune of his people, and with the necessity and sacredness of the +war. Let no one scent any bombast in all this, but, on the contrary, let +him admire my cleverness in condensing into three lines, everything that +Theodor Körner expressed in a whole volume, in _Lyre and Sword_! If, +therefore, his war-songs are bad, we shall be justified in concluding +that we need expect still less from his other poems, in which he is +concerned with sentiments which certainly affected him more slightly +than those which placed the sword in his hand. I turn over the index of +his war-songs, and find _Call to the German Nation, Before the Battle, +Germany_,--in short, titles that all point to material very often +handled, and therefore grown trivial. I do not, indeed, immediately +conclude therefrom that the poems are trivial, but I have the right to +conclude that the man who attempts such worn out subjects must be either +a very great or a very small poet. May I be permitted to analyze one of +these poems? I will choose, as the most significant, the well known +_Battle Song of the Confederation_. In this poem the poet has striven +to collect everything that could serve to make the soldiers who were to +take part in the battle of Danneberg more indifferent to the bullets. I +should not, however, have liked to advise the commanding general +actually to use it for this purpose. Mr. Körner quite forgets with what +sort of people he is dealing when, in the third strophe, he expects the +soldiers to let themselves be slaughtered for German art and German +song. This is more than a joke, for I have the right to demand that a +_Battle-Song_ of the Confederation shall be comprehensible and +intelligible to all who are to take part in the battle; and art and song +are, in any case, not important enough to be named together with the +causes that made the fighting of a battle necessary, together with the +enslavement of a people; quite apart from the fact that both, art and +song, belong to those national treasures which are most secure in the +time of hostile invasion. But in order not to give my logic a bad +reputation, I will begin at the beginning. Mr. Körner not only began +there but even ended there--this in parenthesis. The first strophe aims +to give the picture of a battle; but it is fortunate that we already +know, from the superscription, with what battle we are concerned; we +should scarcely find it out from this first strophe, which finishes, but +does not complete the picture. In the second strophe we learn rather +more; we learn that the beloved German oak is broken, that the +language--thank God, not the women--has been violated, and we find it +quite natural that revenge should blaze up at last, even though we +cannot escape a slight feeling of surprise that dishonor, shame and such +like, already lay _behind_ those heroes, and therefore had been endured. +We have already tasted of the sweets of the third strophe; in spite of +this, we see there is a great deal still remaining in this strophe, a +happy hope, a golden future, a whole heaven, etc., etc.--it must be the +fault of my eyes that, notwithstanding, I can see nothing at all in it. +In the fourth strophe courage comes along on regular seven league boots, +and I wish the critic had as much reason to be satisfied with its +contents, as had the Fatherland, to which a splendid vow is sworn +therein. The fifth strophe contains a real human sentiment; it might +exclaim with Falstaff, "Heaven send me better company!" In the sixth +strophe we learn that the poet was not blustering in the fourth strophe, +but that the fighting is really going to begin: at the same time it +contains the principal beauty of the song, namely the end. Now, I ask, +apart from the school-boyish, crude composition of the poem, which +throws suspicion merely on the taste, not precisely on the power, of a +poet--where is even the faintest tinge of poetry? And the muse was a +battle! + +We have finished, then, with the poetic part of this poem; it now +remains to investigate in how far it is a real German product, that is +to say, such an one as could have been produced only on German soil by a +German. Every one will find that it might very easily have been written +by some person from the Sultan's seraglio, and used by any people who +found themselves in a like situation. Even the French, although it is +directed against them, could gain inspiration from it, if their good +taste did not preserve them from doing so. Let no one throw the German +oaks (strophe four) in my way; I must stumble along over whole oak +trees. + +Let us now compare with Körner's _Battle-Song of the Confederation_, +Kleist's poem _To Germany_, as I believe it is called. I am glad that I +am not able to characterize the separate strophes of _this_ poem; they +are, what the divisions of a poem should be, nothing, when they are +detached from the whole. "Germans," exclaims the poet--"Your forests +have long been cleared, serpents and foxes ye have destroyed, only the +Frenchman I still see slinking!" This is a folk song; the vast, the +great, is associated with the simplest and most familiar objects, and +the figures chosen are not only beautiful, but at the same time +inevitable. + +I will pass on to consider the achievements of Körner and Heinrich von +Kleist in the field of the drama. In this both have been very active, +but in order to avoid boredom for a time at least, I shall begin with +the analysis of a piece by Kleist, choosing first a tragedy, his _Prince +of Homburg_ which, to be sure, is entitled simply "a drama" by its +author. I do not know whether he did this because of the circumstances +that the Prince, as the hero of the piece, happily escapes with his +life, or, what is more likely, in order to humor the public, who think +the tragic can only exist where there are rivers of blood; neither will +I censure it, but only call attention to the fact that in my opinion +that which makes a tragedy lies only in the _struggle_ of the +individual, never in the outcome of this struggle. The outcome is in the +hands of the gods, says an old proverb, well then, acts of the gods--as +events may very well be called which are the effects of fate--can never +be anything else for the dramatic poet than what curtain and wings are +for the stage; they limit without completing. I defined drama, above, as +a representation of the thought which seeks to become a deed through +action or suffering. What this thought may be like--upon that very +little depends; but that it really should be there, that it should fill +the entire man, so much, of a surety, is necessary. What is, then, the +thought that, in the play under discussion, fills the soul of the Prince +o£ Homburg, the chief hero? We find it expressed in scene two of the +second act, in the place where the Prince says to Kottwitz, who reminds +him, the man thirsting for deeds, of the Elector's orders: + + "Orders? Eh, Kottwitz, do you ride so slow? + Have you not heard the orders of your heart?" + +The thought is this: strength stands above the law, and courage +recognizes no other barrier but itself. Kleist, in the fifth scene of +the first act, with which the fifth scene of the fifth act corresponds, +_appears_ to have taken pains to set up as the lever of the piece, not +so much this thought as rather a mere accident, namely the inattention +of the Prince when the plan of battle was being dictated, but it is +really only in appearance. For though he makes Hohenzollern, properly +enough, lay great stress on this circumstance, that signifies little; +only if the Prince himself--a thing which never happens--had laid stress +upon it, could it have had an influence on the economy of the piece. Let +us proceed to a more detailed development of the tragedy. + +The historical part of it is based on the famous battle which the +Elector Frederick William of Brandenburg fought against the Swedes at +Fehrbellin. The story of the play is briefly as follows: The Prince of +Homburg, to whom has been confided the commandment of the cavalry of the +Mark of Brandenburg, arbitrarily disobeys the orders given him, and +advances too soon. He wins the battle, but is placed on trial before a +court martial by Frederick William and condemned to death for +insubordination. + +And truly--I should add, if I did not know that poetic enthusiasm is +very ridiculous in a criticism--the action is brought before us with +such power that this tragedy may very well be compared to a German oak, +on which every branch flourishes luxuriantly, and whose summit is nearer +to heaven than to earth. The whole play contains nothing but characters, +not a single puppet--which can seldom be said of the work of even the +greatest master--and I regret that I can develop in detail only the +character of the Prince of Homburg, and, for the others, can merely +touch upon those sides which come into contact with him. + +I am not inclined, like Zimmermann, to see in the first scene simply an +endeavor on the part of the poet to provide a mystic background for his +picture. I do not see why a young man, who happens to be afflicted with +the sleep-walking malady, should not walk in his sleep even on the night +before a battle, and why a young hero who has long been nursing the most +high-flown thoughts concerning glory and immortality, should not, on +such a night, make himself an oak-wreath. In the day time, to be sure, +an occupation of that sort would not look very well, but night is the +realm of phantasy and the wreath is the emblem of glory. Then, too, I +find that this first scene--the naturalness of which I hope I have +proved--is of deep significance for the play. In order to explain +psychologically the Prince's headstrong disobedience of the Elector's +express order, a great excitement of mind was needed. Now I really do +not know where Kleist could better have derived this than precisely from +a half-waking dream, in which the Prince supposedly received in advance +all that constituted the highest goal of his hopes, and which should +have been the most valued fruit of his endeavors--the making of the +wreath points to this, and the fourth scene of the first act confirms +it. The absent-mindedness which this dream causes in the Prince in the +fifth scene, and particularly the monologue with which the first act +closes, prove that I am not mistaken in my opinion concerning the +significance which the poet placed upon the scene in question. + +In the second act we must first notice the second scene. In this the +real action begins and ends. That which precedes and that which follows +are connected with it like cause and effect. The Prince wrests the +victory from the enemy, and earns for himself death. Then the eighth +scene of this act is of the greatest importance; in it the Prince +declares his love to Princess Nathalie of Orange. I am minded to count +this scene among the most important dramatic achievements ever +accomplished by the greatest poets of Germany. Let us picture the +exposition that introduces it. A rumor has been spread abroad that the +Elector has fallen in the battle. The Electress, with her ladies, is a +prey to the greatest anxiety. Homburg arrives and confirms the rumor. +Nathalie says:[6] + + "Who now will lead us in this terrible war + And keep these Swedes in subjugation?-- + + THE PRINCE of HOMBURG (_taking her hand_). + + I, lady, take upon myself your cause! + The Elector hoped, before the year turned tide, + To see the Marches free. So be it! I + Executor will be on that last will. + + NATHALIE. + My cousin, dearest cousin! + + PRINCE. + Nathalie! + What holds the future now in store for you? + + NATHALIE. + Oh, I am orphaned now a second time. + + PRINCE. + Oh, friend, sweet friend, were this dark hour not given + To grief, to be its own, thus would I speak: + Oh, twine your branches here about this breast! + + NATHALIE. + My dear, good cousin! + + PRINCE. + Will you, will you?" + +I believe that during this love-scene, lovers will not be the only ones +to find amusement, though this is the case as a rule. The tenth scene of +this act is the turning point of the play. The Prince hastens to the +Elector with the conquered flags, rejoicing in the victory and in the +certitude that the latter still lives. The Elector commands that his +sword be taken from him and orders a court martial to be convoked. Let +us not overlook what this scene is in itself, through the contrasts +presented. It is moreover the chief argument for the correctness of the +opinion I have already expressed concerning the idea of the play. For +the Prince is far from being sensible of the fault committed, and when +Hohenzollern says to him, + + "The ordinance demands obedience," he replies bitterly: "So--so, + so, so!" + +And later: + + "My cousin Frederick hopes to play the Brutus-- + By God, in me he shall not find a son + Who shall revere him 'neath the hangman's axe!" etc. + +He cannot as yet be just to the Elector, because he is still too +indulgent to himself. + +In the first scene of the third act he has come a step nearer the truth. +He calls himself a plant which has burst into bloom too swiftly and +opulently. But he still says, + + "Come, was it such a capital offense, + Two little seconds ere the order said, + To have laid low the stoutness of the Swede?" + + +The dignity of the code of war, upon which the Elector's mode of action +is based, still lies too remote from his comprehension; therefore he is +persuaded that: + + "Ere, at a kerchief's fall, he yields this heart, + That loves him truly, to the muskets' fire, + Ere that, I say, he'll lay his own breast bare + And spill his own blood, drop by drop, in dust." + + +And when Hohenzollern lets fall a word about the mission of the Swedish +ambassador to ask for the hand of the Princess of Orange, the Prince is +even inclined to think _unworthily_ of the Elector. He is capable of +believing that the Elector will let him die because the Princess has be +trothed herself to him. This is genuinely psychological, and here, where +Homburg's character begins to appear in a dubious light, is actually the +real touch-stone of it. That he loves and admires the Elector, he has +already proved, that he has taken great trouble to find a reason for the +latter's conduct that is not unworthy of him, is self-evident; for the +human heart knows no greater pain than to have given admiration where it +should have bestowed contempt. When, therefore, the Prince nevertheless +believes that his betrothal to Nathalie has provoked the Elector's +severity, he shows thereby that he has absolutely no comprehension of +the dignity and necessity of the code of war, that consequently his +violation of the ordinance could not have been caused by boyish +petulancy, but by a grievous error, which, as an error, could be +forgiven in a man. But for that very reason it is not inconsistent with +his heroic character for him to exclaim "Oh, friend! Then help me! Save +me! I am lost!" For a man shows himself as such when he gives up for +lost a possession which is lost, not when he, like a madman, renounces +everything for the sake of making fine phrases: and the Prince only does +his duty when he tries in whatever way he can, to rescue his life from +the despotic will of an individual. In the fifth scene, where he +implores the Electress to intercede for him, he says: + + "You would not speak thus, mother mine, if death + Had ever terribly encompassed you + As it doth me. With potencies of heaven, + You and my lady, these who serve you, all + The world that rings me round, seem blest to save + The very stable-boy, the meanest, least, + That tends your horses, pleading I could hang + About his neck crying: Oh, save me, thou!" + +Even that is, in my opinion, fine and human, for it is the first +ebullition of emotion; and when is the feeling of painful loss ever +separated from the lively desire to preserve the endangered possession? +I do not make this statement because I believe I am saying something +new, but because I think it is something old which has not been +sufficiently taken to heart. For the rest, this fifth scene is very +beautiful and produces a deep effect. Who does not feel annihilated +with the Prince when he exclaims: + + "Since I beheld my grave, life, life, I want, + And do not ask if it be kept with honor." + +And farther on, + + "And tell him this, forget it not, that I + Desire Nathalie no more, for her + All tenderness within my heart is quenched." + +And how wonderful, how splendid does Nathalie appear in her calm +nobility! How absolutely true to nature it is that her strength first +begins gently and noiselessly to unfold its wings when the man, whom she +had looked upon as her ideal, from whom she had expected all things, has +succumbed. And how genuinely womanly are the words with which she +attempts to raise him up once more: + + "Return, young hero, to your prison walls, + And, on your passage, imperturbably + Regard once more the grave they dug for you. + It is not gloomier, nor more wide at all + Than those the battle showed a thousand times!" + +But poetic beauty is like the fragrance of flowers--it cannot be +described, but only perceived. + +Nathalie's character is rounded off in the first scene of the fourth act +when she begs the Elector to liberate Homburg. She could have borne the +death of the Prince, but this timorous misrepresentation of himself she +cannot bear: + + "I never guessed a man could sink so low + Whom history applauded as her hero. + For look--I am a woman and I shrink + From the mere worm that draws too near my foot; + But so undone, so void of all control, + So unheroic quite, though lion-like + Death fiercely came, he should not find me thus! + Oh, what is human greatness, human fame!" + +It is then that the Elector decides to make the Prince himself the judge +of his offense, and writes him the following letter: + + "My Prince of Homburg, when I made you prisoner + Because of your too premature attack, + I thought that I was doing what was right-- + No more; and reckoned on your acquiescence. + If you believe that I have been unjust, + Tell me I beg you in a word or two, + And forthwith I will send you back your sword." + +He gives this letter to Nathalie for her to deliver to the Prince. I +must set down the words with which she receives the letter: + + "I do not know and do not seek to know + What woke your favor, liege, so suddenly. + But truly this, I feel this in my heart, + You would not make ignoble sport of me. + The letter hold whate'er it may--I trust + That it hold pardon--and I thank you for it!" + +Many another writer would have believed it was not enough for Nathalie +to prove herself a heroine, but that she must stride onward with seven +league boots and become an Amazon as well. Kleist, however, had looked +deeply into feminine nature, he knew that woman's greatness only blooms +above the abyss, and that she loses her wings the moment that earth +again offers her a spot where she can safely and firmly tread. Nathalie +sighs only once: "Oh what is human greatness, human fame!" But she +rejoices when she has the saving letter of the Elector in her +possession, and, without troubling herself further about its contents, +she hastens, enraptured, to the Prince of Homburg. + +The Prince receives the letter. He reads it aloud while Nathalie +listens. She grows pale; for she feels what a man must do who is called +upon to be his own judge. Nevertheless she urges the Prince to write the +words which the Elector requires; she snatches the letter from the +Prince's hand; when he hesitates, she reminds him of the open grave he +has already seen. But neither is the Prince any longer in doubt +concerning the significance of the moment, concerning the Elector, +concerning his own guilt. He says, + + "I will not face the man who faces me + So nobly, with a knave's ignoble front! + Guilt, heavy guilt, upon my conscience weighs, + I fully do confess--" + +He writes this to the Elector, and Nathalie embraces him exclaiming: + + "And though twelve bullets made + You dust this instant, I could not resist + Caroling, sobbing, crying: 'Thus you please me!'" + +I would gladly follow the great poet through the fifth act also, but it +is not indispensable for the analysis of the play, as the _dénouement_ +is easy to foresee--namely that the Prince, after already suffering one +death through the relinquishment of that idea which has been the guiding +principle of his life hitherto, is spared a second death. Finally I must +add that I have not chosen the _Prince of Homburg_ as the subject of my +criticism because this tragedy is the most successful of all Kleist's +plays, but merely because it offers the best opportunity for drawing a +comparison between the dramatic achievements of Kleist and those of +Körner. And now, courage. We must start in with Körner and we will +choose that one of his products which is universally declared the +greatest, his _Zriny_. + +In discussing the _Prince of Homburg_ I could limit myself to a general +outline, as it is not possible that any one who reads the play could +ever have the least doubt whether the characters are correctly drawn. We +have not such an easy task with Körner's _Zriny_, but rather must take +the opposite way. In order not to overpass the limits of this essay, +however, we will pay less attention to the play as a totality, which, +indeed, can occupy our attention only if the first investigation prove +favorable to the author. + +The idea which kindles Zriny's enthusiasm is unconditional obedience to +Emperor and Fatherland. It must be admitted that it is an idea which may +have arisen in many a human breast in the year 1566, and which certainly +animated the heroic Zriny. It is not sufficient, however, for the +dramatic poet to give utterance to what fills the soul of his hero, for +that falls to the lot of history to perform. While the historian looks +upon every individual as a bomb, whose course and effect he must +calculate, but with whose origin he is but slightly concerned, it is the +affair of the dramatic poet--who, if he recognizes his high mission, +strives to complete history--to show how the character whom he has +chosen as a subject for treatment has become what he is. We find this, +for example, in Shakespeare, to go back to the Bible of the playwright. +Every passion which he describes we see as roots and tree at one and the +same time. Theodor Körner simplified the matter, he only shows us the +flame; whence it comes he leaves in doubt, and therefore has himself to +thank if we are undecided whether his heroes are pursuing +will-o'-the-wisps, or--to use his favorite metaphor--stars. I need not +call attention to the fact that this way is by far the easier. + + The plot of this play is sufficiently well known. I will + therefore turn immediately to a closer examination of the + several characters. Honor to whom honor is due; let Sultan + Soliman advance. I will not pause at the first scene in + which he appears, although even there he reveals damnable + weaknesses. After all a Turk may be forgiven for losing + his temper because his physician-in-ordinary does not know + how long he will live. In the second scene Körner has tried + to outline the hero who demands Vienna for his funeral + torch. He has not succeeded as well as he might. + + "Karl, Karl!"--cries Soliman in his beard--"If only thou + Thy Europe now would lie here at my feet" + +[Illustration: THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE HUNS AND THE NIBELUNGS _From the +Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + +Every other hero would have considered that in which Soliman beheld the +curse of his life to be the greatest favor fortune could have shown him. +I do not expect much from the hound--this parable is very well suited to +the Turks--who only fights with little yelping dogs. How far Mr. Körner +has succeeded in spreading the oriental coloring over his picture is +shown very plainly in the fourth scene, where Soliman receives his +generals with the words: + + "I greet you all, supporters of my throne, + Most welcome comrades of my victories, + I greet you all." + +Seldom has the sun shone upon a politer Turk than this Soliman, who, to +be sure, afterward throws around not only his oaths but his dagger. That +it is no merit of Körner if we behold in his Soliman a hero and a Turk, +must be evident to every one; but let us now examine whether he has +succeeded any better in representing the commander-in-chief and the +tyrant. We find both in the third scene of the third act. Mehmed reports +to the Sultan that the assault has been repulsed. + +"A curse upon thee!" + +answers the latter; then he inquires who gave the order for the retreat; +Mehmed answers that he did; the Janizaries had been slaughtered by the +thousands, but in vain, the army was exhausted, and it had been +impossible to wrest the victory from the enemy; he intended, however, to +bombard the castle the next night and was persuaded that the walls must +give way. Soliman flies into a passion: + + "But I from them will wrest it (the victory namely), must + wrest it!" + +In very truth an excellent commander-in-chief, who is not to be +persuaded by reasons such as Mehmed advanced, and who differs from a +child who is denied his will only in that he bellows where the child +screams. But--perhaps we have the tyrant before us where I thought I +perceived the nullity of the commander-in-chief. Let us read on: + + ALI. + + "Remember Malta! + + SOLIMAN. + + Death and Hell! Ali! + Remind me not of Malta, if thy head + Is dear to thee. More I endure from thee + Than does befit the great lord Soliman!" + +Really the beginning promises well. + + ALI. + + "My life is in thy hands, my Emperor! + + SOLIMAN. + + Since thou dost know that, yet didst freely speak + Thy heart's thought to me, I'll forgive thee. + For I love truth which knows no fear of death. + In token then of my imperial grace, + Thy council shall prevail; I'll not attack!" + +I think we do not need to tremble before a tyrant whose fury could be +appeased by Ali's paltry words. "My life is in thy hands, my Emperor!" +which must have been said to him often enough before. Let no one +reproach me if, henceforth, I keep silence on the subject of Soliman. +Offenses of this kind are not mere blunders, they are the sign of +complete incompetency on the part of the poet, and solely out of +curiosity, not because it is necessary to demonstrate my argument, I +shall continue to analyze Zriny, Helena, and the other marionettes. + +Zriny is an abortive copy of Wallenstein; his originality consists in +doing _for_ the Emperor, what the latter does _against_ him. Juranitsch +is Max Piccolomini the second, but has the misfortune to stand as far +_below_ the first as other people who also happened to be seconds, as +for example, Frederick the Second, Joseph the Second, etc., stood +_above_ their namesakes. In general, _Zriny_ has made it clear to me +that Körner, had he lived, would, without any doubt, have become a +second Schiller, namely, by completely absorbing the first. The +plagiarisms which the noble young man has indulged in, in this tragedy, +as regards the disposition of the scenes as well as in whole individual +speeches and sentences, surpass all belief. I shall perhaps point out +some of these in the course of my investigation of the characters. + +But before I investigate the claims to heroism of Körner's Zriny may I +be allowed to determine what are the qualities absolutely indispensable +for a hero. I will not place my demands very high, but circumspection +and firmness I may at least be allowed to require, besides mere courage. +Also a certain amount of modesty would not become him ill, perhaps we +may even demand this of the hero of a drama; for the dramatic poet must +not indeed in any sense idealize, but he should render only the +genuinely human, not the purely accidental, which, because accidental, +is rare. For an individual to be at the same time a hero and a braggart +is, however, quite accidental, and the result merely of a deficient or a +perverted education. If one wishes to find firmness in the fact that a +man knows in advance what he wants, that he forms his decision before he +is acquainted with the controlling circumstances, then certainly this +quality cannot be denied our Zriny. + + "His loyalty no nobler guerdon asks + Than to seek death, a joyful sacrifice, + For his own folk and his undying faith." + +But it seems to me that a desperate resolution is only justifiable when +it can no longer be avoided; whoever takes one before that, is cowardly +rather than brave; for he has not the strength to make the sacrifice at +the proper moment; therefore he tries, beforehand, to reason himself +into being courageous. When Zriny, however, speaks the words quoted, he +has already in his possession the letter of the Emperor, informing him +that he need hope for no relief; but he cannot know yet how long Soliman +will continue to assault Szigeth, and there is likewise no need to +inspire his companions with courage by these words, in which he boasts +of his own courage, for they were every one of them heroes. I fail, +therefore, to find in his braggadocio the firmness that is worthy of a +great man, and this is a fault which I may be permitted to charge to Mr. +Körner's account; for he intended it to form part of his Zriny's +character. The dear man has an even smaller share of circumspection: +read but the sixth scene of the second act where he ponders the +question, what he shall do with his wife and child. Truly, when he +decides to leave them in the fortress, so that the garrison shall not +lose courage, I cannot suppress the thought that the daughter has +already had an illegitimate child and the wife has been a heroine in the +wrong place; for if he had considered them worth a straw, he could not, +for such a reason, have exposed them to such a danger. And is that a +courageous garrison which is calm because it believes itself to be still +safe? And shall its eyes never be opened simply because it sees that the +danger is shared for a while by the wife and child of the +commander--for whom, as Zriny himself remarks, there are secret passages +which can be used in case of necessity. Mr. Zriny did not consider all +this; his circumspection, therefore, is surely not very great. Just one +sample of the noble simplicity and modesty of this hero: + + "Thou knowest me, Maximilian, + I thank thee for thy high imperial trust, + Thou knowest Zriny, thou dost not mistake." + +It is nauseating to continue, I have the impression at this moment that +I am trying to prove that a soap-bubble is really only a soap-bubble. +Just one word more about Helena. The tender child, who faints away at +the end of the first act when Juranitsch takes leave of her to go into +battle, has made such progress in bravery in the seventh scene of the +second act, that she exclaims: + +"Yes, father, father, send us not from thee!" + +and at the conclusion of the fourth (indeed it is time, for in the next +act the piece comes to an end) she even says: + +"Yes, let us die! What care we for the sun!" + +Spare your sympathy, reader or spectator; you must not think that you +have to do with men who care anything for their lives, and who therefore +are making a sacrifice--no indeed! They have nothing in common with such +a weakling as you. + +I hope I shall not be accused of hastiness--I must hurry on to the end, +for there are just as many absurdities in _Zriny_ as there are +verses--if from all this I draw the conclusion that Theodor Körner had +not the slightest talent for the drama. I promised, a while ago, to +specify some plagiarisms from Schiller, but I may safely refer to the +whole book. Instead I will make a few more remarks on the death-scene of +Helena, scene six, act five. + +This scene is not badly constructed. I will not, indeed, examine too +closely how far love made it justifiable for a girl to ask of her lover +to kill her. For once we will take Helena's word for it that under +similar circumstances she would have done the like had Juranitsch +demanded it, and then she, as well as the poet, is held excused. We will +only listen to what Juranitsch answers when she has made her wish clear +to him. He says: + +"Thee, I must kill? Thee? no, I cannot kill thee!" + +This would be human, but listen to what follows: + + "--When the storm wind + O'erthrows the oak and rages 'mongst the pines, + It leaves unharmed the tender floweret, + Its thunders change to gentle whisp'ring zephyrs + And shall I wilder be than the wild storm? + Shall I destroy life's loveliest vernal wreath? + In cruelty the boisterous elements + Surpassing, shall I break this floweret + To touch which destiny's hand has yet not dared?" + +I ask you is it possible to surpass such trivial nonsense? + +I shall say no more concerning Körner's individual scenes. This is not +committing an injustice; for it is absolutely unimportant, so far as our +investigation is concerned, whether and in how far Körner had the +ability to construct a tragedy, since this faculty--as Goethe's example +shows us--has nothing to do with poetry in itself. There is no need for +us to draw the parallel between the _Prince of Homburg_ and _Zriny_; it +is quite evident. One reproach, however, which might be made by an +attentive reader, I must anticipate: namely, I might be asked why I have +subjected the two principal characters of Körner's tragedy to a regular +police examination, and, instead of accepting them in their totality, +have required them to render account in how far they were heroes, +commanders, tyrants, etc. But since they are, like all creations of mere +talent, nothing but arrows which are shot from a certain bow-string +toward a certain target, it follows that they can only be judged by the +deflections from their course. Herein--be it remarked incidentally--lies +the difference, often perceived but seldom explained, between the +characters portrayed by Schiller and those portrayed by Goethe. +Schiller's characters--to use a play on words which for once expresses +the truth--are beautiful because they are self-contained; Goethe's +characters because they are unrestrained. Schiller delineates the man +who is complete in his own strength, and, a man of iron, is tried by +circumstances; for this reason Schiller was great only in the historical +drama. Goethe delineates the endless creations of the moment, the +eternal modifications of the man caused by every step that he takes; +this is the token by which we may recognize genius, and it seems to me +that I have discovered it also in Heinrich von Kleist. + +At this moment, when I would pass on to review the achievements of +Körner and Kleist in the field of comedy, I remember that I was not +sufficiently definite, above, when developing my conception of the +drama. I should have added that I cannot, strictly speaking, count +comedy as a form of drama, but must include it in the category of +dialogue narrative. If one recalls to mind the purpose of high-class +comedy--"to describe individual ages and classes," one must admit that I +am entitled to do so. I must remark in advance that neither Körner nor +Kleist has done anything for high-class comedy. But Kleist in his +_Broken Pitcher_ has drawn a comic character-picture which is so full of +life that it reminds us of Shakespeare, if of any one, while Körner in +his _Nightwatchman_ has drawn nothing but a funny caricature; with the +former the character shapes the situations, whereas with the latter the +situations shape the characters, if I may use this expression. I should +be giving myself a great deal of unnecessary trouble if I should engage +in a further analysis of the two comedies which I have mentioned, since +at all events I could only adduce sundry details, and such details in +this case prove absolutely nothing; for the only safe criterion of the +truly comic is that the picture as a whole, apart from what wit has done +for it, should arouse interest as an organic adaptation of nature. With +the rascally, lustful, country judge, Adam, in the _Broken Pitcher_, +this is certainly the case; one can safely take away from him the few +witty sallies which he indulges in: but what the nightwatchman Schwalbe +would become if one attempted the same procedure with him, I should not +like to decide; probably a clown, who has been deprived of his wooden +sword and cap and bells, and whose plain, honest features show that he +has only executed such droll antics for the sake of his bread and +butter. Schwalbe is merely ridiculous, but Adam is comic; the +difference, to define it more clearly, consists in this; every +caricature, because it diverges from laws which are eternal and +necessary, without standing in eternity as a peculiarly constructed +whole, has a tinge of incongruity, consequently of ridiculousness; while +only that caricature of nature can be comic of which the divergences are +self-consistent, which shows therefore that it is founded _in itself_. +The poet should take only the comic as a subject of treatment; for he +can never lay stress upon detached separate phenomena, if he cannot +prove the connection between them and the general whole, if they do not +constitute for him a window through which he looks down into Nature's +breast. It is easy to calculate, accordingly, how high Theodor Körner's +services to the comedy should be rated, provided he has actually +succeeded with his smaller things, _The Nightwatchman, The Green +Domino_, etc., in furnishing amusing farces. To accomplish this, nothing +was required but natural gaiety combined with a talent for +representation, and many men who were anything but poets have been +equipped with both. + +It still remains for us to estimate what Körner and Kleist have achieved +in narrative. In this field Körner has produced such mere trifles that +it would be unjust for one to infer from them the least thing touching +his characteristics, as it probably never occurred to him to consider +himself a story-writer. Heinrich von Kleist's novels and stories, on the +other hand, belong among the best that German literature possesses. +Almost all the narratives of our writers, with the exception of a few +productions by Hoffmann and Tieck, suffer, if I may say so, from the +monstrousness of the subjects chosen, if they do indeed rise at all +above mediocrity. There is, however, no very deep psychological insight +needed in order to know how the whole man will be affected by an event +which sweeps down upon him like a stormwind, and very ordinary talents +may safely attempt tasks of this kind; just as, for example, every +painter with some technical skill can represent despair, fear, terror, +all those emotions, in short, which only permit of one expression; +whereas a Rembrandt is required, if a gipsy encampment is to be +pictured. Kleist, therefore, set himself other tasks; he knew and had +perhaps experienced in his own person, that life's process of +destruction is not a deluge but a shower, and that man is superior to +every great fatality, but subject to every pettiness. He proceeded from +this theory of life, when he delineated his _Michael Kohlhaas_, and I +maintain that in no German novel have the hideous depths of life been +projected upon the surface in such vivid fashion as in this, when the +theft by a squire, of two miserable horses, forms the first link in a +chain, which extends upward from the horse-dealer Kohlhaas to the ruler +of the Holy Roman Empire, and crushes a world by coiling round it. I +should like to analyze the novel more in detail, but am glad that the +limits of my essay, or rather the patience of my readers and auditors, +do not permit me to do so; for the members of the society will thus feel +prompted the sooner to acquaint and familiarize themselves with the +works of Heinrich von Kleist, if they have not already done so. + +While hastening on to the close, I must, in accordance with the +introduction to this essay, call attention to the fact that Kleist, no +less than Körner, did not leave unheeded the claims that his country +properly made upon him in the portentous age in which he lived. In his +breast, as in that of his contemporaries, there glowed the flame of +enthusiasm for the honor and freedom of his people; and the oppression +that they endured, the internal and external slavery in which he beheld +them sunk, placed the pistol in his hand. I mention this because it has +been imputed to the poet Körner as a great merit that he was at the same +time a martyr. But Kleist could behold his country unworthily treated +without for that reason having unworthy thoughts of the man who was +treading it in the dust; he was great enough to be able to forgive +Napoleon the pain which he could not endure. He wrote no war-songs for +patriotic journeymen-tailors and high-minded counter-jumpers, but he +described Hermann's Battle and the battle of Fehrbellin; he called the +dead to life in order to arouse the living. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 6: The extracts from _The Prince of Homburg_ are taken from +Mr. Hagedorn's translation, Volume IV of THE GERMAN CLASSICS.] + + + + +LUDOLF WIENBARG'S "THE DRAMATISTS OF +THE PRESENT DAY" + +A REVIEW (1839) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +It is probable that no German who is able to appreciate the power of the +theatre, its silent influence on the people, and the consequent reaction +on the development of dramatic talent, has looked on indifferently at +the decay and complete ruin of our stage. The drama of a nation, +conceived in a worthy sense, represents that nation in its +self-consciousness; it is the burning-mirror which receives the separate +rays of the nation's innermost being while passing history is enticing +them out of the depths, which condenses and concentrates them and thus +kindles one century by means of another, and calls to life one glorious +deed by means of another. Tragedy represents a people in its relation to +the most important problems, its own as well as those of humanity in +general. Comedy paints it in its natural aberrations and abnormalities, +in its tendencies and endeavors which are directed earthward. Both must +subsist together, in common development, and on an equal elevation, if +we are to sum up the entire life of a nation, and give a true, eternal +picture of its will-power and capacity, of its vacillations and defeats. +This is the object which dramatic literature must always keep in view if +it would be effectual. To be sure, it is possible to conceive a still +higher species of drama, a tragedy which deals with man only in the +abstract, with man in himself, in his mysterious relation to God and +Nature; a comedy which lays nationalities themselves in their coffin and +gaudily dresses up the corpse. But it is still an open question whether, +under such a general domination of the idea of humanity as is +presupposed in that case, art can continue to exist at all; and at any +rate the time of this spirit-like domination is still far off, although +literature has witnessed the production of many dramatic poems which +seem to be designed for it. + +It was many years ago that Tieck, on the subject of some wretched stuff +by Clauren, made the remark that we had at last reached the cellar and +must begin to ascend again. He was right in his remark, but, unhappily, +not in the hope with which he accompanied it. Very far from hastening to +leave the cellar, we have found it very comfortable down there; we have +made ourselves at home as well as we could, and are hideously satisfied! +Instead of the heroic spirit of our past ages, Jack Pudding now staggers +out of the wings in a torn jacket and shows us what kind of humor is +engendered by stupidity and brandy, when they have a rendezvous in the +head of a porter. If Schiller and Goethe dare once to come out of their +exile, then Nestroy's plum-pudding jinnee steps in their path, and they +of course modestly give way to him. The magic worlds of Shakespeare and +Calderon are already suffocated in their birth by the head-shaking of +the stage-manager who must keep his machinery together for Raimund's +bedlam hocus-pocus. Let us be just, however, let us remember that our +theatre, in spite of the great talents which have been dedicated to it, +was not what it should have been, even in its most brilliant period, and +this perhaps not quite through its own fault. We have never had a real +comedy; farces and absurdities take its place, and the critics +themselves, if we except Schlegel, never seemed to divine that tragedy +and comedy sprout from one and the same root, and that the former +absolutely cannot unfold in all its greatness if the latter remains +behind it. Confining the conception of comedy to the narrow etymological +meaning of its name, and inferring the intrinsic impossibility of the +poem from the accidental lack of a poet, we have imagined that we could +not have a comedy, when on the contrary we, precisely, should and ought +to have the very best, for reasons which cannot be developed thus in +passing. Our tragedy, on the other hand, wished to take the second step +before the first; it was not satisfied to start out to conquer the world +from our own territory; it preferred to wander about as a homeless +vagabond among all the peoples of the earth; and only when it had fully +persuaded itself that one cannot grow fat off begged bread did it return +in shame to its mother's breast. But, in Germany, in the meantime, the +enthusiasm which can seldom or never be re-awakened had evaporated, and +when _Wallenstein_ and _William Tell_, when _Hermann's Battle_ and the +_Prince of Homburg_ appeared, the fusion of the theatre with life, which +might perhaps have still been possible at the time of _Iphigenia_, was +no longer to be thought of. People had become used to looking upon the +stage as a source of amusement, and, as a rule, whatever sinks to the +level of a pastime is forever degraded. This was the cause of all the +evil; this was the reason why for a long time dogs and monkeys, +prestidigitators and modern athletes, celebrated their triumphs where +art should have proclaimed her most profound oracles, and where a people +should have found refreshment and elevation in quiet self-enjoyment, in +the mild exertion of all their powers, and in the sensation of arousing +their most secret sympathies and antipathies. + +Wienbarg believes that a turning point has now been reached. To this +belief we owe his present literary contribution "which consists in +seeking critically to elucidate, in irregularly appearing pamphlets, +modern dramatic literature--especially book-dramas, which are rarely or +not at all seen on the stage. He is guided in his selection each time by +some dramatic-educational purpose for author and public, and continually +bears in mind an ideal centre of taste in the historic-poetic +consciousness of the nation." Such an undertaking, carried out by a man +who combines insight into the subject with the gift of presenting it as +the times require, deserves full recognition. Only that criticism which +knows how to make itself respected, can regain for the muse of the drama +her temple, the stage; this cannot be done by the muse herself, who, +every time she seeks to enter, is, with the politest of bows, shoved +into the corner again by her noble priesthood. Criticism must, in view +of the voluntary poverty of our repertory, draw attention to the +neglected riches of our dramatic literature; it must, by +characterization and analysis, act as mediator between the genius of the +poet and the talent of the actor, and it sins heavily against the +present when it turns its attention chiefly to the recent past which has +not yet been canonized. It can, as a general rule, never look back often +enough. + +Wienbarg begins with Uhland. From the point of view he has chosen he was +quite right to leave unnoticed for the present Heinrich von Kleist's +magnificent _Hermann's Battle_ and _Prince of Homburg._ Of all our poets +Uhland has unearthed in the purest form the treasure of German +nationality: all the dreaming and longing, the hoping and enduring, but +also all the courage, all the strength which steps into the first rank +only in battle, not on the parade ground. One cannot blame Uhland +without blaming Germany at the same time, but one can praise Uhland +without at the same time praising Germany; for all poetry idealizes +because it frames as in a mirror, but on account of its limits it +compresses scattered details into a seemingly well ordered whole, which, +however, does not by any means exist so harmoniously in nature. Uhland's +poetry is a tear, forced from the flashing dark eye by the intolerable +pain which dilates the heart and finds no more room there; but how much +more beautiful is the pain than the wound, and how much more beautiful +is the tear than the pain! Such tears are suffocated deeds. If our +supineness and sentimentality only did not so often degrade holy water +to the base uses of ablution! + +Wienbarg introduces his characterization of Uhland with some excellent +remarks. We cannot take enough to heart what he says on page 17: "Our +literature is a ghost, most of the species of poetry are spectres, and +faith or unbelief in them is called esthetics. Fresh young life is +sucked out, architectonic powers are misused in order to spiritualize +and propagate lifeless forms and satisfy the vanity of literature by +means of so-called works of art." If philosophy is destroyed by +systematizing how much more so is poetry, which can exist only so long +as it is free. The instinct to make an end of everything, and wilfully +and arbitrarily to pen up what is not confined to time and space, is the +ugliest trait in human nature. Life, in whatever phase it may be, always +has a form, though sometimes one not to be seized with hands; it is +always in fermentation, never in putrefaction; but its form is lost when +we try to bring it into harmony with the tyrannical generalities which +are bequeathed from grandfather to grandchild; then it congeals, and the +stream that might have afforded us the most delicious bath can, at the +most, be transformed into a sledge-road. Protect yourself against the +sea but do not strive to hamper and dam up its movement; if this ever +succeeded, the sea would become a swamp, and all of you--not only the +sailors--would die a miserable death. To begin with, it is a misfortune +that human society requires the form of the State, which cannot be +traced back to any primitive foundation; for the individual tendencies +and developments that are most full of genius are thus nipped in the +bud, and it is an open question whether those that remain, which to be +sure are better protected against wind and weather inside the ramparts +and walls than elsewhere, can, even when yielding their most abundant +profits, make compensation for those that are held back and crushed. +Will you go even further than necessity forces you; will you compel the +spirit, even in its most peculiar sphere, to accept a constitution under +the lamblike innocent name of esthetics? Of what advantage will it be to +you? You can then, to be sure, lawfully scold and punish; today you can +lock up a sentiment in the guardhouse for drunkenness: tomorrow you can +drag off a thought to imprisonment for offense against your sovereign +majesty; and the day after you can send a phantasy to the mad house on +account of its all too bold flight. Life is its own law and its own +rule, but you never want to adore the god until after you have crucified +him. As long as the tree is green you cut off its branches, and out of +the dried hewn-down one you make, not an axle for your mill-wheel, but +an idol. + +What Wienbarg says of Uhland, the ballad-writer, is very pretty, but it +was refuted before it was even written. Uhland, the ballad-writer, is +not the dramatic poet, "broken into a thousand pieces;" the poems +appeared in 1815, the first drama in 1818. I would not advance this +superficial argument if it were not connected with an essential one. All +these full, flowing songs and romances were finished before the nobly +calm power that called them into being concentrated itself for the +creation of a dramatic work; and in truth they do not bear on their +forehead the red fever spot of aspiration groping in the dark, which +does not find what it seeks and therefore clasps in its arms the object +over which it stumbles; they breathe that smiling, lovely, self-absorbed +contentment, without which there may be intoxication, but no joy, no +life. It is true that through the songs as well as through the ballads, +the dramatic genius which was later to produce _Duke Ernest_ and _Louis +the Bavarian_ already treads softly like a sleep-walker; this it is +which gives them the firm form, the deeper meaning which is so +scandalously lacking in those good people who now and then innocently +versify a legend or some trifling emotion. But the dramatic element is, +strange as this assertion may sound, just as much an essential in +poetry--one without which poetry would crumble away into dust--as the +lyrical; from the former, poetry receives its body; from the latter, its +soul, and both are mutually dependent upon one another. Is not suffering +itself, only action turned inward! + +On page twenty-one we read: "Do you know what it is that I love in +Uhland's imperfect dramas? It is the pure, vital, German-dramatic +poetry, which, piercing the tawdry veneer of culture and the +prevailingly wretched appearances of our life, strikes fire from the +bed-rock of spiritual life itself, and with its divining rod points to +the golden veins in the foundations of the national character. +German-dramatic! that is the right word! and this is saying a great +deal, for German and dramatic are contradictory terms. Just because +Uhland is so German-dramatic he might give our theatre the national +consecration which it lacks, and which alone can assure it intrinsic +worth and dignity, efficacy and stability. Goethe's _Goetz_ is not +adapted to the stage, and it will be difficult for the scissors to make +it so. Schiller's _Wallenstein_, in spite of its extensiveness, is only +a character picture; the Thirty Years' War merely peeps through shyly +now and again when the Duke's eloquence fails him, and when Max and +Thekla take a rest from their love-making. With all due respect for the +great dead, from whose laurel tree I do not intend to pluck a single +leaf, be it said that the piece has something ridiculous about it when +it is played; it is a thunderstorm during which two turtle-doves are +billing and cooing. There is some difference in _William Tell_, Bertha +and Rudenz are more modest and more sparing with their sighs, tears, and +premonitions. But the depicted situation is accidental, and under +similar circumstances is repeated everywhere, therefore one cannot judge +the Germanic nature by it--even if we include Switzerland as a +representative of this nature--any more than one can judge of a man by +the portrait which has been made of him during his illness. Neither am I +able to find the spectacle of the strength that breaks external fetters +so edifying as many others do: Why did it allow itself to be enchained? +Kleist's _Hermann's Battle_ and his _Prince of Homburg_ carry us, the +one too far back and the other too far forward. Uhland chose historic +events better than Kleist, he treated them more worthily and more nobly +than Schiller. For this reason, if for no other, he stands in the +foreground of this discussion." + +In the same place the question is raised: What is the conception of +religion or fate from which our tragic drama has emanated? Wienbarg +skips over the question, or at least takes the answers to it too +lightly. Nevertheless here is the root of the whole tree. Human nature +and human destiny, these are the two riddles that the drama strives to +solve. The difference between the drama of the ancients and the drama of +the moderns lies in this: the ancients sought to illumine the labyrinths +of fate by means of the torch of poetry; we moderns try to refer human +nature, in whatever form or contortion it presents itself before us, to +certain eternal and changeless principles, as to an immovable +foundation. What to us is the means, was to them the end, and _vice +versa._ + +With the ancients the suffering results from the action; their tragedy +was really a triumph of instinct. The first bold lightning flash of +half-awakened consciousness illuminated the empty Olympus, and because +man found the halls of the gods deserted, he sought in his own breast a +centre for the circle of his existence. But when, revolving around +himself and thereby denying the pole of the world, he stood, in his +stubborn isolation, in the way of the great whole, the invisible +fly-wheel which drives the universe seized him with tremendous power and +flung him mockingly into an abyss. He felt that he had sinned, and +did not know in what way. He found himself justified in his earthly +relations and yet could not shake off the oppressive nightmare of a +secret monstrous guilt. Then he shudderingly divined that sin can go +further than knowledge, that in things and in events, as well as in +human thought and feeling, there lies a mysterious final something, +which, of whatever nature it may be and whatever its effect, must be +regarded as holy. Let us remember Oedipus and the way in which in this +drama one riddle is always solved by another riddle. + +In the modern drama, on the contrary, the suffering as a rule first +begets action. The hero gets into the whirlpool, he does not himself +know how, but when near destruction he shows himself to be a brave, +fearless swimmer. This comes from the attempt, not so much to reconcile, +as to compare the idea of Freedom with the idea of Necessity. Modern +tragedy has, therefore, when placed beside the ancient, a sickly hue, +which is still further intensified by the circumstance that its point of +departure is the individual. I should like to have time to indicate all +the consequences of these opposite conceptions. + +If I should be asked to express in brief the fundamental idea of modern +tragedy I should find it in the harsh fetters that bind the highest +nobility of human nature, in suffering and death, and in the resistance +of the world--occasioned thereby, nay presupposed as a necessity--which +the world offers to all greatness as it strives for self-realization. + +Wienbarg, after his general preliminary remarks, proceeds to make an +analysis of Uhland's drama, _Louis the Bavarian._ It is excellent and +accomplishes everything that it should accomplish, by combining the +characterization of the poet with the characterization of the German +drama in its totality, of which totality the individual drama is an +organic part. Of course every reader will wish that Wienbarg had +rendered the tragedy, _Duke Ernest_, the same friendly service, of which +Uhland's dramas, in their unostentatious simplicity, stand so much in +need, if they are ever to receive the appreciation which they deserve. +Were it fitting to prolong the criticism of a criticism to such an +extent, I should myself attempt to elucidate this most German of +tragedies in all its ramifications; perhaps this will be done in another +place. We are rich and consider ourselves poor; we have the diamonds, +and there shall not be wanting people who know how to cut them. May the +second part of Wienbarg's treatise very soon appear! Many a one is now +pushing forward the hand on the horologe of time and hastening nothing +thereby but the hour of his own execution. Wienbarg is not one of these. + + + + +REVIEW OF HEINRICH VON KLEIST'S PLAY + + +THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG, OR THE BATTLE OF +FEHRBELLIN (1850) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG is one of the most peculiar creations of the +German mind, for the reason that in it, through the mere horror of +death, through death's darkening shadow, has been achieved what in all +other tragedies (this work is a tragedy) is achieved only through death +itself: that is to say, the moral purification and apotheosis of the +hero. The whole drama is planned to bring about this result, and what +Tieck, in a well known passage, declares to be, the kernel of it, namely +the illustration of what subordination is, in reality is only the means +to an end. Neither do I agree with Tieck when he remarks further that +the sleep-walking scene with which the piece begins, and the final +_dénouement_ connected with it add to the other merits of the drama by +lending it the charm of a pleasing and attractive fairy-tale. On the +contrary, this feature is to be censured because it is disturbing, and +if, as in _Käthchen of Heilbronn_, it were intimately inwoven in the +organism of the work it would deprive the latter of its claim to be +considered a classic. For man must not be forced to do penance for the +mischief which the moon causes; otherwise we might be obliged to call it +a tragedy if a man, having climbed up to the apex of the roof in his +sleep, and been spied there by his sweetheart, who, in the first terror +of surprise, called his name, should fall at her feet crushed to pieces! +Happily, however, we can eliminate the whole sleep-walking episode and +the work continues to be what it is; it stands immovable on a solid +psychological foundation, and the rank weeds of Romanticism, have only +twined themselves around it like superfluous arabesques. That, indeed, +must not be understood to mean that half of the first and half of the +last act could be struck out. If such a barbaric procedure were +possible, Kleist would not be what, he is, a true poet, whom, like every +original God-given growth, one must accept as a whole or must reject as +a whole. No, we shall have to leave the Prince his garland-wreathing and +the glove which he catches as a consequence of it. But the incident is +by no means essential to the rest of the drama. The structure has, +beside these artificial supports, other very different and entirely +solid ones, and there is no need to enlarge upon the former unless one +is animated with a desire to find fault. Here we have a youth who had +the misfortune to have fortune smile upon him prematurely, and who loves +where perhaps--he has as yet no certainty of it--he should not love; +what more is needed to enable us to comprehend the arrogance displayed +in the first catastrophe and the pusillanimity in the second? Kleist has +put a set of pulleys in motion where the simplest lever would have +sufficed, but the pulleys have been connected with the lever, and the +purpose has been thoroughly accomplished, though not by the most direct, +and therefore the best means. + +The action, conceived from the point of view just described, is, briefly +summed up, as follows: It is the evening, or rather the night, before +the battle of Fehrbellin. The Great Elector, surrounded by his family, +has gathered his generals about him and is making known to them, by his +field-marshal, the plan which he has devised for the battle on the +morrow. Each officer, Homburg among them, is informed what part he is to +play in the bloody work of the following day; the Prince receives the +most difficult post for one of his age and temperament, since he is to +remain outside the firing line with the cavalry which he commands during +the actual battle, and not until the victory is practically won can he +come into action; even then he is to await a definite order from the +Elector, and is merely to assist in completely routing the vanquished +enemy. Here, be it noted, his ordeal already begins. It is not an +accident that the Elector has assigned him a post which must necessarily +bring him into conflict with his passions and the demands of his blood; +the sovereign does it purposely in order that he may learn to control +both. The Prince is scarcely listening to the field-marshal when his +turn comes; he is absent-minded, for Nathalie, the Princess of Orange, +an orphan who has taken refuge at the Brandenburg Court, and whom he +secretly loves, is present, and the Electress is leaving with her and +the other ladies while his orders are being dictated. However, be +scarcely requires such pedantic instructions, for he sees in a battle +only an opportunity for personal distinction in one form or another, not +a moral task which can be properly executed only in one way. +Nevertheless, he learns from his friend Hohenzollern exactly what the +service requires of him; but of what avail is it? His friend can only +lend him his ears, not his judgment, and thus the first act ends, +conformably to this stage of his development, with a monologue, in which +we learn that he is only thinking of the laurels and the girl at whose +feet he will lay them, not of his duty and his country. Thus we see that +the sleep-walking scene, and all that is connected with it, can easily +be omitted; the exposition is complete without it, and therein lies the +actual proof of the correctness of my view of the work. A youth always +dreams of the man whom he already believes himself to be; there is +therefore no need of a double-dream. The glove might have been replaced +by a glance from the Princess, surprised unawares, followed by a sudden +blush. Was it intended for me or for you? That is enough to occupy a +youth to such an extent that he would pay no attention to Mars himself +were he to descend to earth. The battle takes place and what was to be +expected, occurs. The Prince attacks too soon, and the victory is indeed +gained, but it is not as complete a one as it would have been possible +to win. He knows very well what he is doing; it is impossible that he +should not know it, and therefore the poet might have spared himself the +carefully detailed description of his absent-mindedness in the first +act. Colonel Kottwitz, who is second in command, reminds him, with the +gruffness of an old man who might be at the same time his father and his +teacher, of the order that he should await from his sovereign, and +another officer even advises that his sword be taken from him. But he +curtly inquires of old Kottwitz whether he has not received the order +from his own heart, and he uses violence to the officer, then he dashes +away crying: "Now, gentlemen, the countersign: A knave who follows not +his general to the fight!" He arrives on the battlefield itself just at +the moment when the rumor is spreading that the Elector has fallen. He +performs marvels of valor, and we learn how much he loved his sovereign +by seeing how he avenges him. This is one of the most brilliant episodes +of the plot, and, truly, it alone is worth more than a whole catalogue +full of the ordinary dramas that one hears applauded in our theatres. +Sprinkled with blood, he hurries then into the peasant's but where the +Electress, with her court of ladies, has had to take refuge because a, +wheel of her coach broke while on the journey, and here he meets his +Nathalie. The women, who have also heard the terrible rumor, are +crushed; the Electress has fainted and the Princess, overcome by the +gravity of the situation, laments in a few simple, touching words her +complete loneliness. The Prince had not betrayed his affection for her +at the Elector's Court, but now that fortune seems to have abandoned the +fatherless and motherless girl, who was entirely dependent upon her +powerful uncle, he allows his heart to utter the first sound, and to +this sound she responds. Here we catch a gleam of his native, inborn +nobility of soul, which at the end of the whole purifying process is to +shine forth in perfect serenity, and we feel air unshakable confidence +in him. This love scene, which is brought about by death, belongs to the +highest sphere of art, and even the embarrassment which is evident in +the words exchanged between the Prince and the Princess, is warranted by +the relation in which they have hitherto stood to one another. They do +not dare to speak out plainly. + +The scene is hardly over when the rumor which occasioned it is proved to +be false. The Elector lives and is already on the road to Berlin; the +battle has decided the whole war, and peace promptly follows. There is +infinite rejoicing, above all in the soul of the Prince. In the emotion +of his overflowing heart he tells the Electress his sweet secret, and +begs for her consent; she answers, "Not a suppliant on earth could I +deny today, whate'er he ask, and you, our battle-hero, least of all." He +is the happiest of mortals, and challenging "Caesar Divus" himself, as a +rival in Fortune's favor, he, with the ladies, follows his sovereign to +Berlin. + +We must lay the proper weight upon this phase if we wish to comprehend +the further development of the tragedy. Arrived in Berlin he hurries at +once to the Elector, and places at his feet three flags captured from +the enemy. The Elector asks him sternly whether he was in command at +Fehrbellin, and when the Prince, in astonishment, replies in the +affirmative, he orders his sword to be taken from him. It had been +reported to the Elector that the Prince was wounded, and before knowing +definitely whether Homburg or Colonel Kottwitz-whom he believed to be +also capable of the deed-had led the cavalry into battle before +receiving the order, the Sovereign had declared that the commanding +officer was to be summoned before a court-martial and condemned to death +without respect of person. Now he simply carries out the sentence. The +Prince does not comprehend in the slightest; he would find it just as +natural if the trees should begin to speak and the stones to fly. He +must indeed obey, but as he gives up his sword, he declares bitterly +that if his "Cousin Frederick" wishes to play the rôle of Brutus, he +will not find in him a son who reveres him even under the executioner's +ax. That is all the more natural, as he is conscious of what he felt and +did on the battlefield in the moment when he received the news of the +death of his present judge. His friends try to calm him. The Elector +pays no attention to his passionate behavior, but with calm majesty +reads the inscriptions on the Swedish flags, and the Prince is led off +to prison. The noblest style is maintained throughout this scene, which +would have delighted the English of Shakespeare's day. + +In the third act we find the Prince somewhat changed, but not to any +great extent. After thinking over the matter in solitude he has finally +grasped that the Elector could not allow the violation of his express +command to pass without some sort of punishment. But is it not +sufficient punishment for him to have spent some days in prison, and +does he not, moreover, deserve a reward because he entered it +voluntarily and did not strangle the jailer? Therefore he knows +positively that the first person to visit him will announce that he is +free, and when his friend Hohenzollern enters his cell, he exclaims +"Well, then, I'm free of my imprisonment." But when the latter examines +his position with very different eyes, when, by producing a series of +threatening facts each one more ominous than the other, he gradually +silences the Prince's emotion, which demonstrates exactly what the +Elector can do and what he cannot do, when he even tells him at last +that the death warrant is about to be brought for signature to the +Elector's cabinet, the Prince finally loses his foolish feeling of +security, and then of course he goes to the opposite extreme. Nay, when +the anxious Hohenzollern further informs him that the Swedish +ambassador, who has arrived on the occasion of the peace negotiations, +would ask the hand of the Princess of Orange for his master, but that +the Princess seems to have made her choice already and thus is +apparently thwarting the Elector's plan, and when he asks the Prince if +he is not in some way tangled up in all this, the latter cries out +despairingly "I am lost," and hurries off to the Electress to entreat +her to intervene in his behalf. + +On the way he receives a last impressive confirmation of the seriousness +of his situation. He sees his grave being dug by torchlight. In the +apartment of the Electress now takes place the much decried scene, which +people refuse to comprehend, and therefore, of course, will not forgive +the poet for writing. The Prince, in the presence of the girl he loves, +begs for his life. He does so in the most ignominious fashion; indeed, +in order to remove what he considers one of the worst rocks of offense, +he even renounces Nathalie, while she stands by shuddering at the state +of humiliation in which she beholds her heart's ideal. Certainly that is +utterly unworthy of a hero and of a man, and we may unquestionably +depend upon it that the poet, who in the same piece created the Elector +beside the Prince, knew that as well as any of us. In fact, this scene +has no other purpose than to show us that the Prince is not yet either a +hero or a man, and that along the path he has trodden so far nobody can +become either the one or the other. Up to this time he has led a hollow, +sham existence, which could very well fill his head with giddy +intoxication, but could not put any real backbone into him. Now, +however, the true meaning of life, at least in one form, in the form of +love, has at last come close enough to him to make the continuation of +this sham existence impossible; therein lies the real import of the +scene in which he and Nathalie declare their love, the great +significance of which I pointed out above. If that had not taken place +he would probably have become a duelling-celebrity, and after the first +shock of surprise he would have been able to show the same contempt of +death as a professional fencer accustomed to the duelling-ground, who, +with perfect right, considers life--his own namely--to be a mere cipher; +he would have awaited the bullets defiantly, with his arms crossed à la +Napoleon, and the Elector would have had him shot, would indeed have +been forced to have him shot. He can no longer sink to such depths as +that now, but still less can he find the real moral strength soberly to +make up his mind to take voluntary leave of the world; for he has as yet +no feeling of completed existence and of duty performed to take away +with him; his life is still a blank. Therefore at this moment he must +act exactly as he does act; to be sure, the poet must not leave him in +this doubtful stage for any length of time; but neither, indeed, does he +do so. The Electress considers that any further step would be useless, +as she has already of her own accord done her utmost. Nathalie, however, +with death in her heart, promises to venture one last word with her +uncle for the fallen man, but bitterly advises the Prince in any case to +take another look at his grave, and to persuade himself that it is not +one whit gloomier than the battle has showed it a thousand times. + +In the fourth act Nathalie keeps her promise, and the Elector sends her +with a mysterious letter to the Prince in his prison. He tells her +laconically that the Prince is saved just as surely as pardon lies in +his own wish. She brings the letter to the prisoner and he reads: "If +you believe that I have been unjust, tell me, I beg you, in a word or +two, and forthwith I will send you back your sword." Such words could be +used only by the majesty which would be revered even without a crown, +and the Prince feels it at once. "I cannot tell him that!" he cries out +when Nathalie presses him to write as the letter bids him. "What +matter?" he answers curtly, when she assures him that the regiment has +been detailed, which is to render the burial honors above his grave by +the thunder of their muskets. "I will tell him 'You did right!'" he +cries, when she continues to urge him; and he does so! He realizes that +the sovereign who summons him to judge himself, cannot have acted thus +toward him, in order to play the Brutus, or from heartless despotism. It +becomes clear to him that war, yes the State itself, rests upon the +principle of subordination, and that the commander must first perform in +his own person what he would require from his subordinates. He +determines,--and this too, be it noted, in the presence of the girl he +loves,--to make satisfaction to the offended code of war, and thus crush +again the Hydra of anarchy, which his arbitrary action, crowned with +victory though it was, might very well lead to. "And though twelve +bullets made you bite the dust this instant," cries Nathalie transported +with admiration, "I could not resist rejoicing, sobbing, crying: 'Thus +you please me.'" Truly she is right; now the man and the hero is +complete and never again in all eternity can he be seized with another +paroxysm of hollow self-glorification or of petty cowardice--which, +indeed, were intimately connected one with the other. The Prince has +become a stoutly forged link in the moral order of the universe, and the +more difficult it was for him, the more firmly he will endure. Whoever +does not find in this scene complete compensation for the preceding one +with the Electress--in which it is rooted like the flower in the black +earth; and whoever does not understand at the same time that the one was +not possible without the other, and that cause and effect cannot be +separated, to that person I must deny all capability of comprehending a +drama in its totality. The change effected by the Elector is one of the +most sublime conceptions that any literature can show, and is very far +from having an equal in our own. + +The fifth act brings the necessary test. The Elector is entreated on all +sides to pardon the Prince; his family, the army, the Princess, all urge +him, indeed the latter--a fine touch--repeats the offense of her lover. +On her own authority, she calls a regiment of which she is chief, to +Fehrbellin, in order that the officers there may also sign their names +to a petition which is being circulated, and thus she could, in her +turn, actually be amenable to a court martial. The Elector allows +nothing to be wrung from him by coaxing or by bullying, but no one who +has an idea of the structure of the play need tremble any longer for the +Prince. It can already be seen that the Elector has no intention of +allowing matters to be carried to extremities from the leniency with +which he is inclined to treat old Kottwitz, who has suddenly arrived +with the cavalry, with out his knowledge and, as he believes, without +his orders. When Kottwitz presses him hard, and heatedly assures him +that at the very first opportunity he will repeat the act of the Prince, +which he once condemned but now must approve,--since for one case where +the impulse of the heart, the sudden instinct, does harm, there are ten +in which it alone can lead to the goal,--the Elector answers that lie +does not know how to convince him, but he will call an advocate who is +able to teach the old gentleman better than he can what discipline and +obedience are. Then he sends for the Prince, and the latter, solemnly +and of his own accord, declares before the entire body of generals that +he wishes by a voluntary death to glorify the code of war, which he had +criminally violated in the sight of the whole army, and that the only +favor he asks of the Elector, to whose just sentence he bows +unconditionally, is that he will not try, on behalf of the King of +Sweden, to force Nathalie's inclinations. This is granted him and he +returns to prison, which he leaves immediately after, to start, with +bandaged eyes, on the way which he perforce must think his last, and in +the moment when he expects the end he deservedly receives from the hands +of the Elector his life, his freedom, and his love. + +Of course the romantic accessories of the first act have an +unsatisfactory sequel in the last, as the poet here too feels obliged +to take a roundabout road instead of the direct one. But we surely do +not need to prove thus late that the fault is quite as immaterial here +as there. + +It is without doubt obvious to every one that in this drama the +evolution of an important man is presented with absolute directness, in +a way in which it is done nowhere else; that we gaze into the +characteristic medley of rough forces and wild impulses which as a rule +are the original ingredients of such a man, and that we accompany him +from the lowest stage up to the zenith, where the unrestrained roving +comet, that in its disorderliness was exposed to the danger of +self-destruction, is transformed into a clear self-dependent fixed star. +Do we need any other proof that the work is capable of producing a most +unprecedented effect? Even though it gave us nothing but the deep +psychological unfolding of this evolution, such an effect would perforce +be produced, for our dramatic authors, on general principles, seldom +give us opportunity to become acquainted with more than the outside skin +of the man, which, to be sure, is the same for Napoleon as for his most +insignificant corporal. In exceptional cases when they allow us a +glimpse into the heart and reins, they expect us to take a narrow +interest in a peculiarly organized individual, and are wanting in every +kind of background. However the psychological side in our drama is, with +extraordinary art, reduced to a mere substratum, out of which an +entirely new figure of tragedy develops, which combines in a wonderful +fashion the deepest tragic shudder with the gentle transports of a hope +that is not extinguished even in the blackest night. We are reminded of +a smiling May morning over which the first thunderstorm breaks with a +horrible crash; and that is a triumph of dramatic technique. + +I would gladly examine the innumerable beauties of detail of this drama, +and in particular call attention to the central points of the plot, +abounding in the most vigorous life, into which a situation or a +character or the action itself is sometimes concentrated. But this +would lead me too far afield; moreover, since the most glaring +differences of opinion usually crop up precisely on this subject, I +could not avoid the dangerous ground on which, according to Goethe's +profound saying, the categorical imperative and the authority of the man +who pronounces it, form the last court of appeal. Or if some one, with a +liking for gaudy paint and iridescent rags, should prefer a puppet show +to the living figures of the piece, vital to their very finger tips, +but, to be sure, going about in very simple, sometimes even slovenly +garments, how could we decide the matter otherwise than in the well +known manner of Cato? The categorical imperative which occasionally +found favor with the old Romans is, however, terribly unpopular with the +Germans. + +One question, notwithstanding, I dare not leave unanswered, the question +of how it is possible that the Prince of Homburg, in view of its great +literary importance and its abundant vitality, could up to this time +have met with so very little success on the stage? The answer is easy. +The great public, who in general suppose the poetical to lie in that +which is opposed to real life, has a strange conception of dramatic +heroism, and the greater part of the critics who should instruct the +public unfortunately share the same opinion. Because, in most cases, the +hero is entirely finished and manufactured to the last filament when he +makes his appearance in the drama, it is taken for granted that it must +be so under all circumstances. Therefore it follows that the poet fares +badly when, instead of leaving the development exclusively to the +action, he occasionally transfers it in part to the principal character, +and thus does not arouse the sympathy which he needs for his hero until +the end of the piece, instead of doing so in the very beginning. For we +immediately take for granted, even when we already know the poet, that +he has made a mistake, that he is growing enthusiastic over something +imperfect, immature, immoral, and that he demands of us to be +enthusiastic with him. That puts us out of humor, we do not await the +end, and even when we do, and become aware of his real intention, we +only partly abandon our former prejudice. This has already been proved +on various occasions. Kleist, in his _Prince of Homburg_, moreover, +touched what in his day was a most sensitive spot--when Theodor Körner +made his characters run a race to see who could die first. Fear of death +and a hero! That was really going too far! It was an insult to every +ensign "You ask a piece of bread and butter of me! I will not give you +that! But my life you may have with pleasure!" + + + + +RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD (1846-1854) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +At the time of my birth my father possessed a small house, with a garden +adjoining, in which stood some fruit trees; in particular one very +productive pear-tree. In the house there were three dwellings, the most +pleasant and roomy of which we occupied; its principal advantage +consisted in the fact that it was situated on the sunny side. The other +two were rented. The one opposite to us was inhabited by an old mason, +Claus Ohl, and his little stooping wife, and the third, to which a +back-entrance through the garden gave access, by the family of a day +laborer. The tenants never changed, and for us children they belonged to +the house, just like Father and Mother, from whom indeed, as regards +loving attentions bestowed upon us, they differed but little, if at all. + +Our garden was surrounded by other gardens. On one side was the garden +of a jovial master-joiner who loved to tease me. Even now I cannot +understand how he could take his own life, as he did, later on. Once +when I was a very little boy I had said to him over the hedge, with a +precociously knowing look: "Neighbor, it is very cold!" and he never +grew weary of repeating this remark to me, especially in the hot summer +months. + +Next to the garden of the joiner was that of the minister. It was +inclosed by a high board fence, which prevented us children from looking +over, but not from peeping through cracks and chinks. This afforded us +infinite pleasure in the springtime when the beautiful strange flowers +which filled the garden, came up again; but we trembled lest the +minister should catch sight of us. We felt an unbounded reverence for +him, which may have been inspired by his serious, severe, sallow face +and his cold glance, as much as by his position and his functions, which +seemed to us very imposing, such as, for example, walking behind the +hearses, which always passed in front of our house. Whenever he looked +over at us, as he occasionally did, we stopped playing and crept back +into the house. + +On another side an old well formed the boundary between our garden and +the next. Shaded by trees and deep, as it was, with its rickety wooden +roof covered with dark green moss, I never could look at it without a +shudder. The longish quadrangle was closed by the garden of a dairy-man +who was treated with the greatest respect by the whole neighborhood on +account of the cows which he owned--and by the courtyard of a dresser of +white leather, the most ill-humored of men. My mother always said of him +that he looked as if he had swallowed one person and was just about to +catch another by the head and take the first bite. + +This was the atmosphere in which I lived as a child. It could not have +been more restricted, and yet its impressions live on to the present +day. Still the merry joiner looks at me over the hedge, the morose +minister over the board fence. Still I see the strapping, corpulent +dairy-man standing in his doorway, with his hands in his pockets, in +token that they are not empty; still I look upon the dresser of white +leather, with his bilious yellow face, to whom the mere red cheeks of a +child were an insult, and who always seemed more terrible to me when he +began to smile. Still I sit upon the little bench under the spreading +pear-tree, and while refreshing myself in its shade, wait to see if a +fruit, prematurely ripened by worm-holes, will not drop from its sun-lit +top branches; and the well, the roof of which had to be repaired every +little while, still inspires me with a feeling of dread. + +[Illustration: GUNTHER AND HAGEN BROUGHT CAPTIVE BEFORE KRIEMHILD _From +the Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + +II + +My father was of a very serious disposition in his home, outside of it +he was gay and talkative. He had acquired a reputation on account of his +talent for telling fairy-tales; many years passed, however, before we +heard them with our own ears. He could not bear to hear us laugh or make +any noise; on the other hand he was fond of singing hymns, and indeed +worldly songs as well, in the twilight of the long winter evenings, and +loved to have us join in. My mother was excessively good-hearted and +somewhat quick-tempered; the most touching kindliness shone from her +blue eyes; when she felt passionately agitated, she began to cry. I was +her favorite; my brother, two years younger than I, was my father's +favorite. The reason was that I resembled my mother, and my brother +seemed to resemble my father, though this was by no means the case, as +was proved later. + +My parents lived on the best of terms with one another so long as there +was bread in the house. There were painful scenes at times when it was +lacking. This seldom occurred in summer, but often happened in winter +when work was scarce. Although these scenes never degenerated into +violence, I cannot remember the time when they were not more terrible to +me than anything else, and for that very reason I may not pass over them +in silence. + +I can remember an unpleasant incident of another kind which took place +in my earliest childhood. It is the first that I recollect and it may +have happened in my third year, if not in my second. I can tell about it +without offending against the sacred memory of my parents; for whoever +sees in it anything out of the ordinary is not acquainted with the lower +classes. My father when following his trade generally had his meals +provided by the persons for whom he worked. Then we at home, like all +other families, ate our usual midday meal. Occasionally, however, he had +to furnish his own food, in return for extra wages. Then dinner was +deferred, and in order to ward off hunger a simple bread and butter +sandwich was partaken of at twelve o'clock. It was an economical +arrangement for the little household which could not afford two large +meals. On one such day my mother baked some pancakes, certainly more to +please us children than to satisfy any desire of her own. We ate them +with the utmost relish and promised not to say anything about them to +our father in the evening. When he arrived we had already gone to bed +and were sound asleep. I do not know whether he may have been accustomed +to find us still up and the contrary event made him suspect that the +rule of the household had been broken. Suffice it to say he awoke me, +petted me, took me in his arms and asked me what I had eaten. +"Pancakes," I answered, sleepily. He then proceeded to reproach my +mother with it. She had nothing to say, and placed his food before him, +throwing me a glance, however, which foretold evil to come. When we were +alone again the next day, she, to use her own expression, gave me with a +rod a forcible lesson in silence. At other times, on the contrary, she +inculcated in me the strictest love of truth. One would be inclined to +think that these contradictions might have had disastrous consequences. +It was not the case and never will be the case, for life entails many +other similar ones, and human nature can adapt itself even to them. +Certain it is that I acquired one piece of information which it is +better for a child to acquire late or not at all, namely, that at times +the father wishes one thing, and the mother another. + +I do not remember that I really went hungry in my earliest childhood, as +I did later, but I do recollect that my mother sometimes had to content +herself with looking on while we children ate, and did so gladly, +because otherwise we could not have had our fill. + +III + +The principal charm of childhood consists in the fact that every +creature down to the household pets is friendly and kindly disposed +toward children; for out of this arises a feeling of security which +disappears with the first step out into the hostile world and never +returns. This is especially the case among the lower classes. The child +cannot play before the door without being presented with a flower by the +neighboring servant-maid who has been sent across the street to make a +purchase, or to draw water. The fruit-woman throws it a cherry or a pear +out of her basket, or a prosperous burgher perhaps even gives it a small +coin with which it can buy itself a roll. The driver cracks his whip in +passing; the musician as he goes by draws some tones from his +instrument, and whoever does none of all these things at least asks its +name and age, or smiles at it. To be sure, the child must be kept neat +and clean. + +My brother and I came in for a bountiful share of this goodwill, +especially on the part of the tenants of our house, our special +neighbors who were almost as much to us as our mother and more than our +severe father. In summer they had their work and could not pay much +attention to us, but then at that season it was not necessary that they +should, as we played in the garden from early till late, from one +bed-time to the next, and the butterflies were company enough. But in +winter, in the rain and snow, when we were confined to the house, almost +everything that entertained and enlivened us came from them. + +The wife of the day laborer, Meta by name, was a gigantic figure, +somewhat bent forward, with a stern Old-Testament face, of which I was +vividly reminded by Michaelangelo's Cumæan sybil in the Sistine Chapel. +She usually came over to us at twilight in the long winter evenings, +with a red cloth wound around her head, and stayed until the lights were +lit. Then she told us stories of witches and goblins, that sounded more +impressive from her lips than from any other. We heard of the Blocksberg +and the witches-Sabbath; the broomstick, so contemptible in appearance, +acquired a weird importance, and the dark hole in the chimney, which in +every house, and therefore in ours also, can be misused in such +malignant fashion by the powers of hell and their handmaids, inspired us +with dread. I can still remember perfectly the impression made upon me +by the story of the wicked miller's wife, who transformed herself at +night into a cat, and how I consoled myself with the fact that in the +end she did indeed receive due punishment for this wicked prank. The +cat, namely, when once starting out on her nightly walk, had a paw +chopped off by the miller's apprentice, who thought she looked +suspicious, and the next day the miller's wife lay in bed with a bloody +right arm minus a hand. + +When the light was lit we usually went over to neighbor Ohl's, and in +his room we certainly felt more at ease than in Meta's company. Neighbor +Ohl was a man whom I have never seen cross, no matter how often he had +occasion to be so. With an empty stomach, indeed with what in his case +meant more, an empty pipe, he danced, sang, and whistled something for +us whenever we came; and in spite of his considerably reddened +nose--which, according to a tale of my mother's, I once wished for +longingly when looking up at him while being danced upon his knees--and +in spite of the felt cap tapering to a point, which he wore continually, +his always friendly, merry face still gleams before me like a star. +There had been a time when he was the only mason in the place and the +employer of from twenty to thirty journeymen, of whom many later set up +as masters and took the work away from him. At that time, so it was said +later, he could have assured himself a future free from care if he had +not visited the bowling alley too often, and loved a good glass of wine +too well. But whoever bore evil fortune as he did, could not be +reproached for careless enjoyment of the good. I cannot think of him +without emotion; how would it be possible for me to do sot He once, at +fair-time, presented my brother and me with a kettle-drum and a trumpet +which he had, with the greatest difficulty, obtained on credit from the +toy merchant, and as his poverty did not permit him to pay off the small +debt until much later, he had to submit to being dunned for it years +after, when I, already tall and knowing beyond my years, was walking at +his side. He was inexhaustible in inventing ways to amuse us, and as +with children nothing is necessary but goodwill, he never failed to do +so. It was a source of great delight to us when he took a piece of chalk +in his hand, sat himself down with us at his round table and began to +draw-mills, houses, animals, and all sorts of other things. At the same +time he cracked the merriest jokes, which still resound in my ears. Even +the chief of his pleasures was not one for him if we did not share it. +It consisted in drinking slowly a half jug of brandy, in remembrance of +better days, and in smoking a pipe at the same time, on Sunday morning +after the sermon and before dinner. We each had to have a thimble full +of this brandy or he did not enjoy it himself. The drink was certainly +not the best thing for us, but the quantity was small enough to prevent +disastrous consequences. My father, however, forbade this kind of Sunday +treat when he came to find out about it. This troubled the good old man +exceedingly, but did not prevent him, I am forced to add, from having us +drink with him again; only this took place quite secretly, and he +urgently recommended us to keep out of our father's way, so that he +should not have occasion to kiss one of us and thus discover the +transgression. It was a kiss, to wit pressed upon my father's lips, that +had betrayed the secret the first time. + +Sometimes one or the other of his two unmarried brothers, who as a rule +tramped around the country and were probably good-for-nothings, would +spend the winter with him. They always found a ready welcome and +remained until the spring or hunger drove them away. He never turned +them out. Small as his piece of bread might be he gladly divided it once +again, but when he had nothing at all, then indeed he could not give +away anything. It was a regular treat for us when Uncle Hans or Johann +arrived, for they brought news of the world to our nest. They told us of +woods and their adventures in them; of robbers and murderers whom they +had escaped from with great difficulty; of the dark giblet stew which +they had eaten in lonely forest-taverns, and of men's fingers and toes +which they pretended to have found at last in the bottom of the dish. + +The swaggering, parasitic brothers-in-law were extremely unwelcome to +the housewife, for she did not bear the burden of existence as +light-heartedly as her husband did, and she knew they would not leave +again so long as there was a piece of bacon hanging in the chimney; but +she contented herself with complaining in private, and at times pouring +out her heart to my mother. She, too, was fond of us children, and in +summer, as often as she could, she presented us with red and white +currants, which she, in turn, begged from a stingy friend. I, however, +avoided her too close proximity, for she made it her business to cut my +nails as often as it was necessary, and I detested this on account of +the prickly feeling in the nerve ends which it caused. She read the +Bible diligently, and long before I could read it myself I received from +her my first strong, nay terrible, impression from this gloomy book, +when she read to me out of Jeremiah the horrible passage in which the +angry prophet foretells that in the time of great distress the mothers +would slaughter their own children and eat them. I can remember yet with +what terror this passage inspired me when I heard it, perhaps because I +did not know whether it referred to the past or to the future, to +Jerusalem or to Wesselburen, and because I was myself a child and had a +mother. + + IV + +In my fourth year I was sent to a primary-school. It was kept by an old +spinster, Susanna by name, of tall and masculine stature, with friendly +blue eyes, which shone forth like candles from out a pale grayish face. +We children were planted around the walls of the spacious chamber which +served as school-room, and which was rather dark. The boys were on one +side, the girls on the other; Susanna's table, piled high with school +books, stood in the middle, and she herself, a white clay pipe in her +mouth and a cup of tea before her, sat behind it in an ancestral arm +chair which inspired no little respect. Before her lay a long ruler, +which, however, was not used for drawing lines but for chastising us +when we were no longer to be held in check by frowning and clearing of +the throat. A cornucopia full of currants, destined as a reward for +extraordinary virtues, lay beside it. The raps, however, fell more +regularly than the currants; indeed, the cornucopia, sparingly as +Susanna made use of the contents, was sometimes completely empty; we +thus learned Kant's categorical imperative sufficiently early. + +Children large and small were called up to the table from time to time, +the more advanced pupils for instruction in writing, the multitude to +repeat their lessons and to receive raps on the fingers with the ruler, +or currants, as the case might be. A sullen maid-servant, who even +occasionally took a hand in inflicting punishment, went up and down the +room, and was at times occupied in a most unpleasant manner with the +youngest pupils, for which reason she kept sharp watch that they should +not partake too freely of the sweet things which they brought with them. + +Behind the house was a small yard, adjoining which was Susanna's little +garden. During recess we played our games in the yard; the garden was +kept locked up from us. It was full of flowers, whose fantastic shapes I +can still see swaying in the sultry summer wind. Susanna, when in a good +humor, used sometimes to pluck a few of these flowers for us, not, +however, until it was nearly time for them to fade; before that she +would not rob of a particle of their adornment the neatly laid-out, +carefully-weeded beds, between which ran footpaths that hardly seemed +wide enough for the birds to hop on. Susanna, moreover, distributed her +gifts with great partiality. The children of well-to-do parents received +the best and were allowed to give voice to their desires, which were +frequently lacking in modesty, without being reproved; the poorer had to +be satisfied with what remained, and received nothing at all if they did +not await the act of grace in silence. This was most flagrantly apparent +at Christmas time. Then a great distribution of cakes and nuts took +place, but in most faithful adherence to the words of the Gospel: "To +him who hath, shall be given." The daughters of the parish clerk, a +mightily respected person, the sons of the doctor, and so forth, were +loaded with half-dozens of cakes, with whole handkerchiefs full of nuts; +on the contrary the poor devils whose prospects for Christmas Eve, +unlike those of the rich children, were entirely dependent upon +Susanna's charitable hands, were scantily portioned off. The reason was +that Susanna counted upon return gifts, doubtless was forced to count +upon them, and could not expect any from people who even had difficulty +in getting together the school-money. I was not entirely neglected, as +Susanna received her tribute from our pear-tree regularly every autumn, +and besides, on account of my "good head," I enjoyed a sort of advantage +over many of the others. Nevertheless I too felt the difference, and in +especial had much to suffer from the maid-servant, who put a spiteful +construction upon my most innocent actions; for example, she once +interpreted the pulling out of my handkerchief as a sign that I wished +to have it filled, which drove the most burning blushes to my cheeks and +tears to my eyes. As soon as I became conscious of Susanna's partiality +and the injustice of her maid I stepped outside the magic circle of +childhood. It occurred very early. + +V + +Two incidents which took place in this school-room are still vividly +present before me. I remember, to begin with, that I received there my +first awful impression of nature and the invisible power which prophetic +man surmises behind it. The child has a period, which lasts a fairly +long time, when it believes that the whole world is subject to its +parents, at least to the father who always remains standing somewhat +mysteriously in the background, and when it would be just as likely to +beg them for good weather as for a plaything. This period naturally +comes to an end when the child, to its astonishment, undergoes the +experience that things occur which are quite as unwelcome to its parents +as a beating is to itself, and with this period disappears a great part +of the mystic spell which surrounds the sacred head of the father: +indeed not until it is past does real human independence begin. My eyes +were opened on this subject by a fearful thunderstorm, which was +accompanied by a cloud burst and hail. + +It was a sultry afternoon, one of those which scorch up the earth and +roast all its creatures. We children sat around on our benches, lazy and +depressed, with our catechisms or primers. Susanna herself nodded +sleepily, and indulgently allowed to pass unnoticed the jokes and +teasing, by means of which we tried to keep ourselves awake. Not even +the flies were buzzing, except the very small ones which are always +lively, when all of a sudden the first thunderclap sounded and +reverberated, crashing and roaring, among the worm-eaten rafters of the +old, dilapidated house. In the most desperate combination, such as only +occurs during storms in the north, a clatter of hail stones now +followed, which in less than a minute demolished all the window-panes on +the windy side, and immediately after this, indeed in the midst of it, +came a downpour of rain which seemed to be the prelude of a new deluge. +We children, starting up terrified, ran about screaming and clamoring. +Susanna herself lost her head, and her maid succeeded in closing the +shutters only when there was nothing more to be saved; and there needed +only the Egyptian darkness added to the flood which had already +overtaken us, to heighten the general terror and increase the prevailing +confusion. In the pauses between one thunderclap and the next Susanna +did indeed collect herself somewhat and tried to calm and comfort her +charges, who according to their age were either hanging on to her apron +or crouching by themselves with closed eyes in the corners of the room. +But suddenly a bluish flame of lightning flashed once more through the +cracks of the shutters and the words died on her lips, while the maid, +almost as frightened as the youngest child, howled and screamed out, +"The good God is angry!" When it was dark again in the room she added +with pedagogical moroseness, "You're all of you good for nothing, +anyhow!" These words, no matter how odious the mouth from which they +fell, made a deep impression on me; they forced me to look upward, above +myself and above everything which surrounded me, and kindled in me the +spark of religious emotion. + +On my return from school to my father's house, I found there, too, the +horrors of devastation. Our pear-tree had lost not only its young fruit +but likewise all its beautiful leaves, and stood there bare as in +winter: what is more, a very fruitful plum-tree, which used to supply +not only ourselves but half the town besides, and, at the very least, +our fairly numerous kinsfolk, had even been despoiled of the richest of +its branches, and in its mutilation looked like a man with a broken arm. +Though my mother found a sorry comfort in the fact that our pig was now +supplied with dainty fare for a week, I could derive none at all from +it, and even the pieces of glass lying around in abundance--from which +the most excellent mirrors could be made in the easiest way in the world +by sticking them together with damp earth--offered scarcely any +compensation for the irrecoverably lost autumn pleasures. Now, however, +I understood all at once why my father always went to church on Sunday, +and, why I was never allowed to put on a clean shirt without saying: +"God's mercy upon us!" when I did so. I had learned to know the Lord of +Lords; his angry servants, thunder and lightning, hail and storm, had +opened wide the portals of my heart to him, and he had entered in all +his majesty. + +What had taken place in my soul was made manifest shortly afterward. For +one evening when once again the wind blew mightily down the chimney, +and the rain beat hard upon the roof as I was being put to bed, the +mechanical babbling of my lips was suddenly transformed into a real, +anxious prayer, and therewith the spiritual navel-string, which up to +that time had bound me exclusively to my parents, was broken. Indeed +things soon went so far that I began to complain to God of my father and +mother when I thought I had been unjustly treated by them. + +Further there is connected with this school-room my first and perhaps +most bitter martyrdom. In order to make plain what I would say I must +explain a little. Even in the infant-school all the elements are to be +found which the maturer man later encounters in an intensified degree, +in the world. Brutality, deceit, vulgar cleverness, hypocrisy, all are +represented, and a pure mind always stands there, like Adam and Eve in +the picture, among the wild beasts. How much of this is to be ascribed +to nature, how much to early education, or rather to neglect in the +home, must remain undecided here; the fact admits of no doubt. This, +then, was likewise the case in Wesselburen. Every species was to be met +with, from the brutal boy who plucked the feathers from the living birds +and pulled the legs off the flies, down to the light-fingered little +rascal, who stole the bright colored book-marks out of the primers of +his comrades. The fate which their better-behaved fellow-pupils--who +were condemned to suffer on that account--sometimes angrily prophesied +for the young sinners, when the good boys had happened to be the object +of their jeers or their malicious tricks, was fulfilled to the letter in +the case of more than one of them. The gamins always have instinct +enough to know whom their sting will strike first and sharpest, and +therefore I was, for a time, the one most exposed to their spite. +Sometimes a boy pretended to be reading very zealously in the catechism, +which he held close before his face, but instead he whispered over the +top of the page all sorts of scurrilous things in my ear, and asked me +if I were still stupid enough to believe that children came out of the +well, and that the stork fetched them up? Sometimes another called to me +"If you want an apple, take it out of my pocket, I brought one along for +you!" And when I did so, he cried! "Susanna, I am being robbed," and +denied having said anything to me. A third even spat upon his book and +then began to howl and declared with a brazen face that I had done it. + +Although I was almost the only one exposed to vexations of this kind, +partly because I felt them most keenly, and partly because they +succeeded best with me on account of my extreme unwariness, there were +other annoyances which all, without exception, had to put up with. +Foremost among these was the bragging of certain overgrown young rogues +who were considerably ahead of us others in years, but in spite of that +still sat on the A.B.C. bench, and from time to time played truant. +They got nothing out of it at the time but double and threefold boredom, +for as they dared not go home and could not find any playmates, there +was nothing for them to do but crouch down behind a hedge or lurk in a +dried-up ditch until the hour of deliverance struck, and then to mingle +with us on the way home as though they really had been where they +belonged. But they knew how to make up for it and get some fun for +themselves afterward, when they came back to school and related their +adventures. They would tell us how once their father had gone by right +close to the hedge, the cane with which he used to thrash them in his +hand, and yet had not noticed them; how another time their mother, +accompanied by the spitz dog, had come up to the ditch, the dog had +smelt them out, their mother had discovered them, but the lie that they +had been sent there by Susanna herself to pick camomile flowers for her, +had helped them through in spite of all. Then they plumed themselves +like old soldiers who are telling their heroic deeds to wondering +recruits, and the moral always was: we risk the whip and the cane, you +at most the switch, and yet you do not dare to do anything. + +This was irritating and all the more so as it was not possible +absolutely to deny the truth of their assertions. Hence when the son of +a cobbler once came to school with his back black and blue, and told us +his father had caught him and punished him severely with his shoemaker's +stirrup, but that he was only going to try it now all the oftener, for +he was no coward, I also determined to show my courage, and that, too, +that very afternoon. + +When, therefore, my mother sent me away at the usual hour, provided with +two juicy pears to quench my thirst, I did not go to Susanna's, but +crept, with a beating heart and anxiously peering behind me, into the +woodshed of our neighbor, the joiner, encouraged and assisted to do so +by his son, who was much older than I and already worked in his father's +shop. It was very hot and my hiding place was both dark and close; the +two pears did not last long, besides I could not eat them without some +twinges of conscience, and an old cat cowering in the background with +her young ones, who growled fiercely at my least movement, did not +contribute very much to my amusement. The sin carried its punishment +along with it; I counted every quarter and every half hour of the clock, +the strokes of which penetrated from the high tower to where I was with +a harsh, and it seemed to me, threatening sound. I tormented myself +wondering whether I could get out of the shed again without being +noticed, and I thought only very rarely and fleetingly of the triumph +which I hoped to celebrate on the morrow. + +It was already getting rather late when my mother came into the garden +and glancing gaily and contentedly about her, went over to the well to +draw some water. She almost passed directly in front of me, and that in +itself arrested my breathing. But how was it with me when my confidant +suddenly asked her if she knew where Christian was, and to her +astonished reply, "With Susanna!" rejoined half mischievously, half +maliciously "No! no, with the cat!" and winking and blinking showed her +my hiding place! Beside myself with rage, I sprang out and would have +kicked the grinning traitor. My mother, however, her whole face aflame, +set her pail down on one side and seized me by the arms and hair to take +me to school after all. I tore myself away, I rolled on the ground, I +howled and screamed, but in vain. The discovery of such a criminal in +her quiet darling, whom every one praised, incensed her so that she +would not listen to me, but dragged me away by force; and my continued +resistance had no other result than to cause all the windows on the +street to be opened and all heads to pop out. When I arrived my +companions were just being dismissed; they crowded around me, however, +and heaped mockery and derision upon me, while Susanna, who may have +realized that the lesson was too severe, tried to pacify me. Since that +day I believe I know how the man feels who runs the gauntlet. + +VI + +I should really have mentioned, above, a third experience, but this +last, whether in retrospect one rate it high or low, is, in any case, so +unique and incomparable in the life of man that one dares not place it +in the same category with any other. In Susanna's gloomy school-room, +namely, I learned to know love, and that, too, in the very same hour in +which I entered it; therefore in my fourth year. + +The first love! Who does not smile when he reads these words; before +whose vision does not an Aennchen or a Gretchen hover, who once seemed +to him to wear a starry crown and be arrayed in the blue of heaven and +the gold of the morning, and who now perhaps--it would be criminal to +paint the reverse of the picture. But who does not say to himself, too, +that at that time he was carried, as though on wings, past every +honey-cup in the garden of earth, too quickly indeed to become +intoxicated, but slowly enough to breathe in the sacred morning +fragrance. It is therefore with emotion that I now smile when I think of +the beautiful May morning on which actually took place that great event, +long since resolved upon, repeatedly deferred, and at last unalterably +appointed for a definite day--I mean my departure from the paternal home +to school. "He will cry!" said Meta on the evening before, and nodded +sibylline fashion, as though she knew everything. "He will not cry, but +he will get up too late!" rejoined neighbor Ohl's wife. "He will behave +bravely, and be out of his bed at the right time, too!" threw in the +good-natured old man. Then he added, "I have something for him, and I'll +give it to him when he comes in at my door at seven o'clock tomorrow +morning, washed and combed." + +At seven o'clock I was at our neighbor's and as a reward was presented +with a little wooden cuckoo. Up to half past seven I was in good spirits +and played with our pug-dog, at quarter to eight I began to weaken, but +toward eight I was a man again, because Meta entered with a face full of +malicious enjoyment, and I sat out courageously, the new primer, with +John Ballhorn's egg-laying cock under my arm. My mother went with me in +order to introduce me ceremoniously; the pug followed; I was not yet +entirely forsaken, and stood in Susanna's presence before I realized it. +In school-master fashion Susanna patted me on the cheek and stroked back +my hair. My mother, in a severe tone which she had great pains in +assuming, bade me be industrious and obedient, and departed hastily, so +as not to allow her emotion to get the better of her; the pug was +undecided for some little time, but at last he went off to join her. I +was presented with a gold paper saint, then my place was shown me and I +was incorporated into the humming, buzzing child-beehive, which, glad of +the interruption, had watched the scene inquisitively. + +It was some time before I dared to look up, for I felt that I was being +inspected and this embarrassed me. At last I did so, and my first glance +fell upon a pale, slender girl who sat directly opposite to me; she was +called Emilia and was the daughter of the parish clerk. A thrill of +emotion passed through me, the blood rushed to my heart, but a feeling +of shame also mingled at once with my first sensation, and I dropped my +eyes to the ground again as quickly as though they had committed a +crime. + +From this hour I could not banish Emilia from my mind. School, formerly +so much feared, now became my favorite abiding place, because there only +could I see her; Sundays and holidays, which separated me from her, were +as hateful to me as they would otherwise have been welcome; I was +genuinely unhappy if she happened to stay away. She hovered before me +wherever I went and I never grew tired of repeating her name softly to +myself when I was alone; her black eyebrows and her very rosy lips, in +particular, were always present before me; on the other hand, I do not +remember that her voice made any impression upon me, although later +everything, for me, depended upon that. + +It can easily be understood that I soon gained out of all this the +reputation of being the most constant attendant at school and the best +pupil. I felt rather strangely about it though, for I knew very well +that it was not the primer which attracted me to Susanna's, and that it +was not in order to learn to read quickly that I spelled away so +busily. However, no one must ever be allowed to divine what was going on +with me, and least of all Emilia. I avoided her most anxiously, so as, +by any and all means, to keep from betraying myself. When the games in +common nevertheless brought us together, I was hostile toward her rather +than in the least friendly. I pulled her back hair in order to touch her +at least for once, and hurt her in doing it, so as not to arouse +suspicion. Once, however, nature forcibly asserted itself, because put +to too severe a test. One afternoon in the romping hour which always +preceded lessons--for the children assembled slowly and Susanna liked to +take a midday nap--a distressing sight greeted me as I entered the +school-room; Emilia was being ill-treated by a boy, and he was one of my +best comrades. He pulled her about and buffeted her lustily, and I bore +it, though not without great difficulty and with ever increasing, silent +exasperation. At last, however, he drove her into a corner, and when he +let her out again, her mouth was bleeding, probably because he had +scratched her somewhere. Then I could control myself no longer, the +sight of the blood drove me mad, I fell upon him, threw him to the +ground and gave him back his thumps and slaps double and threefold. But +Emilia, far from being grateful to me, herself called for aid and +assistance for her enemy when I showed no signs of desisting, and thus +betrayed involuntarily that she liked him better than the avenger. +Susanna, awakened from her slumbers by the noise, hurried to the scene +and, naturally being cross and angry, demanded strict account of my +sudden outburst of rage. What I stammered and stuttered forth in excuse +was incomprehensible and foolish, and thus I received a rude +chastisement as a reward for my first gallant service. My affection for +Emilia lasted until my eighteenth year and passed through very many +phases; I must therefore often refer to it again. + +VII + +Even in my earliest years my imagination was very vivid. When I was put +to bed in the evening the rafters above me began to crawl, from every +nook and corner of the room distorted visages made grimaces, and the +most familiar objects, such as the cane on which I myself used to ride, +the foot of the table, yes, even the coverlet on my bed with its flowers +and figures, grew strange and filled me with terror. I believe it is +well to distinguish here between the vague general fear, which is +natural to all children without exception, and a greater one which +embodies its terrifying images in clear-cut distinct forms and really +makes them objective to the young soul. The former fear was shared by my +brother, who lay beside me, but his eyes always closed very soon and +then he slept quietly until bright daylight; the latter tormented me +alone, and not only did it keep sleep far from me, but when sleep +finally came, often frightened it away again and made me call for help +in the middle of the night. How deeply the phantasms of this same fear +impressed themselves upon me can be gathered from the fact that they +return in full force in every serious illness. As soon as the feverishly +seething blood rushes over my brain and drowns my consciousness, the +oldest devils, driving out and disarming all laterborn ones, come back +again, and that best shows, without doubt, how they must once have +tortured me. + +But by day, as well, my imagination was unusually, and perhaps +unhealthily, active. Ugly people, for example, whom my brother laughed +at and mimicked, filled me with dread. A little hunch-backed tailor--on +either side of whose triangular, deathly-pale face, immoderately long +ears stood out, ears moreover which were bright red and +transparent--could not pass by without my running with screams into the +house; and it almost caused my death when he once, in a passion, +followed me, scolding and calling me a stupid youngster, and upbraiding +my mother because he thought she was making him play the bug-bear in her +domestic discipline. I could not endure the sight of a bone and buried +even the smallest one that came to light in our garden; nay later, when +in Susanna's school, I obliterated with my nails the word "rib" in my +catechism, because it always brought before me the disgusting object +which it designated as vividly as though the object itself lay there in +repulsive decay before my eyes. On the other hand, a rose-leaf, which a +breeze blew to me over the hedge, was as much to me as--nay, more than +the rose itself was to others, and words like tulip and lily, cherry and +apricot, apple and pear, immediately transplanted me into spring, +summer, and autumn; so that in the primer I liked to spell aloud the +pieces in which they occurred better than any others, and grew angry +each time when it was not my turn to do so. Only, unhappily, in the +world one needs the diminishing glass much oftener than the magnifying, +and this holds good even of the beautiful days of youth, except in very +rare cases. For as it is said of horses that they respect man only +because, on account of the construction of their eye, they see in him a +giant, so the child endowed with imagination stands still before a grain +of sand only because it seems to him an insuperable mountain. Things in +themselves therefore cannot set the standard here; on the contrary, one +must inquire about the shadows which they cast; hence the father can +often laugh while the son is enduring the tortures of hell because the +scales by which they weigh are fundamentally different. + +An incident, comical in itself, belongs in this place because it throws +a very clear light precisely on this point, so important for education. +I was once sent to get a roll for dinner. The baker's wife handed it to +me and good-humoredly gave me at the same time an old nut-cracker, which +had probably turned up somewhere when she was cleaning house. I had +never seen a nut-cracker before. I was not acquainted with any of its +hidden qualities, and took it like any other doll which appealed to me +by reason of its red cheeks and staring eyes. Joyously starting on my +way home and pressing the nut-cracker, like a newly acquired favorite, +tenderly to my breast, I noticed all of a sudden that it opened its jaws +and in gratitude for my caresses showed me its cruel white teeth. One +may imagine my fright! I shrieked loudly, I ran across the street as +though pursued, but I had not sense or courage enough to throw the demon +away, and as it naturally sometimes closed its mouth and sometimes +opened it again, according to the movements I made while running, I +could not help considering it alive, and arrived home half dead. Here I +was, of course, laughed at and enlightened as to the truth, at last even +scolded. It was all of no avail. It was impossible for me to become +reconciled again to the monster although I recognized its innocence, and +I did not rest until I had received permission to give it away to +another boy. When my father learned of the matter he was of the opinion +that there was no other youngster alive to whom such a thing could +happen. That was very possible, for there was perhaps no other at whom +the cousins of the nut-cracker had made faces from the floor and from +the walls in the evening when he was just going to sleep. This very +night the activity of my seething imagination culminated in a dream, +which was so monstrous and left such an impression upon me that for that +very reason it returned seven times in succession. It seemed to me as +though the dear Lord, of whom I had already heard so much, had stretched +a rope between heaven and earth, had set me upon it, and placed Himself +beside it to swing me. Then without rest or pause I flew up and down +with dizzy speed; now I was high up among the clouds, my hair fluttering +in the wind, and I held on convulsively and closed my eyes; now I was so +near the earth again that I could plainly see the yellow sand and the +little red and white stones--indeed could even reach them with my toes. +I wished to throw myself off; that, however, required resolution, and +before I succeeded, I went up in the air again, and there was nothing +for me to do but seize the rope once more so as not to fall and be +dashed to pieces. The week in which this dream occurred was perhaps the +most terrible one of all my childhood, for the memory of it did not +leave me the whole day. When, in spite of my struggles, I was put to bed +I carried the fear of its return with me, even immediately into my sleep +so that it was no wonder the dream continually recurred, until by +degrees it faded out. + +VIII + +I remained in Susanna's school until my sixth year and learned there to +read fluently. I was not permitted to learn to write yet on account of +my youth, as it was said; it was the last thing that Susanna had to +teach and therefore she prudently held it in reserve. But I had already +started with the first necessary exercises in memory; for as soon as the +youngster had been promoted from the sexless frock to trousers, and from +the primer to the catechism, he had to learn by heart the ten +commandments and the chief articles of the Christian Faith as Doctor +Martin Luther, the great reformer, formulated them three hundred years +ago for the guidance of the Protestant Church. Memorizing went no +farther and the tremendous dogmas, which without explanation or +elucidation passed from the book into the undeveloped childish brain, +became transformed into wonderful and in part grotesque pictures. These, +however, did the young mind no manner of harm, but gave it a healthy +impetus and stirred it up to prophetic activity. For what does it matter +if the child, when it hears of original sin, or of death and the devil, +forms a conception or a fantastic image of those profound symbols? To +fathom them is the task of our whole lifetime, but the developing man is +warned at the very beginning of an all-disposing higher power, and I +doubt if the same end could be reached by early initiation into the +mysteries of the rule of three or into the wisdom of Æsop's fables. The +remarkable part of it was, to be sure, that in my imagination Luther +came to stand almost directly beside Moses and Jesus Christ, but without +doubt the reason was that his thundering "What is that?" always +resounded immediately after the majestic laconic utterances of Jehovah, +and that moreover his rough, expressive face, out of which the spirit +speaks all the more forcibly because it must manifestly first gain the +victory over the thick resisting flesh, was reproduced in the front of +the catechism in heavy black ink. But so far as I know that had no more +injurious consequences for me than my belief in the real horns and claws +of the devil, or in the scythe of death, and I learned, as soon as there +was any necessity for it, to distinguish perfectly between the Saviour +and the reformer. + +For the rest the modest acquisitions that I had made at Susanna's +sufficed to procure for me a certain respect at home. To Master Ohl it +was immensely impressive that I soon knew better than he himself all +that the true Christian believes, and my mother was almost moved to +tears when for the first time I read the evening blessing aloud by +lamp-light, without faltering or stammering. Indeed she felt so edified +that she gave over to me forever the office of reader, the duties of +which I hereafter performed for a considerable length of time with much +zeal and not without self-complacency. + +Toward the end of my sixth year a great change, nay a complete +transformation, took place in the school-system in Holstein, and +consequently in that of my own little fatherland. Up to that time the +State had not interfered at all in primary instruction and but little in +the secondary. Parents could send their children wherever they wished +and the primary schools were purely private institutions, about which +even the ministers scarcely troubled themselves, and which often sprang +up in the most curious manner. Thus Susanna had arrived in Wesselburen +one stormy autumn evening, in wooden shoes, without a penny, and an +entire stranger. She had been given a night's lodging, for sweet +charity's sake, by the compassionate widow of a pastor. The latter +discovers that the pilgrim can read and write and also knows quite a +little about the Bible and thereupon makes her on the spot the +proposition to remain in the town, in her very house, and teach. The +youth of the place, or at least the crawling part of the same, had, as +it happened, just been orphaned. The former teacher, for a long time +highly praised on account of his strict discipline, had undressed a +saucy little girl and set her upon a hot stove in punishment for some +naughtiness, perhaps in order to procure still greater praise thereby, +and that had been too much for even the most unqualified reverers of the +rod. Susanna was quite alone in the world, and did not know where she +should turn or what she should take up. She therefore gladly, although +according to her own words not without misgivings, exchanged the +accustomed labor with her hands for the difficult labor with her head, +and the speculation succeeded perfectly, and in the shortest space of +time imaginable. + +To the boys and girls of more advanced age severe, sombre gymnasiums and +grammar-schools did indeed open their doors. These were under a sort of +supervision and in case of necessity were recruited by the secular arm, +if new comers did not enlist of their own accord. But in these +institutions too, only the merest manual training was given, in spite of +the pompous sounding names which they flaunted, and which to this hour +have remained a mystery to me. A brother of my mother's, universally +admired on account of his talents--whom the principal, though by no +means over modest, had dismissed with the solemn declaration that he +could teach him nothing further because he knew as much as he +himself--was indeed a mighty calligrapher, and decorated his New Year's +cards with tints and flourishes in India ink as the old printers Fust +and Schöffer did their incunabula, but nevertheless he could not achieve +a single grammatical sentence. + +These conditions, undeniably defective and much in need of improvement, +were now once and for all to be brought to an end. The people were to be +educated from the cradle up, superstition was to be exterminated root +and branch. Whether thorough consideration was given to that which +should have been considered above everything else must remain in doubt; +for the conception of culture is extremely relative, and just as the +most disgusting intoxication follows the nipping from every bottle, so +superficial encyclopedical knowledge, which at the most can be made +broad, engenders precisely the most repulsive kind of arrogance. It will +no longer bow to any authority and yet never penetrates to the depths in +which the multifarious logical inconsistencies and contradictions find +their own solution. + +Probably the right method was adopted when they founded normal schools +on the one hand and primary schools on the other, so that the essence +which had been distilled in the former and poured into the empty +schoolmaster heads in the form of rationalism, could from the latter +spread itself immediately over the whole land. The result was that a +somewhat superstitious generation was followed by an excessively +overwise one; for it is astonishing how the grandchild feels when he +knows that a nocturnal fiery meteor is composed merely of inflammable +gases, while his grandfather sees in it the devil trying to enter some +chimney or other with his shining money bags. + +But however the matter may have stood in general,--and I repeat my +conviction that in this case the happy medium is hard to find,--to me +the reform was a great blessing. For Wesselburen, like the other towns, +acquired an elementary school and a man was chosen as teacher of it +whose name I cannot write down without a feeling of the deepest +gratitude, because in spite of his modest position, he exercised an +immeasurable influence on my development. He was called Franz Christian +Detlefsen and came to us from the neighboring town of Eiderstedt, where +he had already held a small official position. + +IX + +No house is so small as not to seem to the child who has been born in it +like a world whose wonders and mysteries he discovers only little by +little. Even the poorest cottage has at least a garret to which a ladder +leads up, and with what feelings is this climbed for the first time! +Some old rubbish is sure to be found up there, which, useless and +forgotten, points back to days long past, and reminds us of men whose +last bone has already moldered to dust. Behind the chimney there is +surely a worm-eaten, wooden chest which excites curiosity. The dust is +lying on it hand high, the lock is still there, but there is no need to +look for the key; for one can forage in it wherever one wants, and when +with fear and trembling the child does so, he pulls out a torn boot, or +the broken distaff of a spinning wheel which was laid aside half a +century ago. Shuddering he flings away the double find, because +involuntarily he asks himself where is the leg that wore the boot and +where is the hand that set the wheel in motion. But the mother carefully +picks up the one or the other because she happens to need a strap which +can be cut out of grandfather's boot, or because she believes that she +can start the fire again with great-aunt's distaff. + +[Illustration: THE DEATH OF KRIEMHILD _From the Painting by Schnorr von +Carolsfeld_] + +Even though the chest had found its way into the tiled stove during the +last hard winter, when people were even forced to burn dried cakes of +dung, there is still hidden away in the garret a rusty sickle which once +went off to the fields, shining and merry, and stretched low at one +swing of the arm a thousand golden-green stalks; and above it hangs the +uncanny scythe which a farm-hand once ran into a long time ago, so that +he cut off his nose--it having hung too far down over the garret hatch, +and he having mounted the ladder too quickly. Beside them the mice are +squeaking in the corners, a couple perhaps jump out of their holes and +after executing a short dance creep back into them again; a little +shiny white weasel is visible for a moment, lifting its clever little +head and forepaws in the air, peering and sniffing; and the single +sunbeam that enters through some hidden chink is so perfectly like a +gold thread that one would like to wind it around one's finger at once. + +The cottage is not provided with a cellar but the burgher-house is, +though not indeed on account of the wine but of the potatoes and +turnips. The poorer classes keep these out doors under a goodly pile of +earth, which they raise above them in the autumn, and in winter, in time +of hard frost, carefully cover over with straw or dung as well. + +Now to reach the cellar is really much more difficult than to climb to +the attic, but where is the child who does not know how to satisfy this +longing too in one way or another! He can go to the neighbors and hang +on coaxingly to the maid's apron when she goes down to get something, or +can even watch for the moment when the door is left open by mistake, and +venture down on his own account. That is dangerous to be sure, for the +door may be suddenly closed, and the sixteen-legged spiders, that crawl +around the walls in the most hideous deformed shapes, as well as the +trickling greenish water that gathers in the cavities intentionally left +here and there, do not invite one to tarry long. But what does it +matter? One has one's throat after all, and whoever screams lustily will +be heard sooner or later. Now if the house itself suffices, under all +circumstances, to make such an impression upon the child, how must the +town strike him! When he is taken along by mother or father for the +first time, he surely does not start to walk through the tangle of +streets without a feeling of astonishment, and it is still less likely +that he reaches home again without experiencing a sensation of +giddiness. Nay, be perhaps brings back lasting typical conceptions of +many objects, lasting in the sense that in after life they imperceptibly +stretch and widen _ad infinitum_, but never allow themselves to be +effaced; for the primitive impressions of things are indestructible and +maintain themselves against all later ones, no matter how far these, in +themselves, may surpass the old. For me too, then, it was a moment never +to be forgotten, and one whose influence continues to be felt to the +present day, when my mother took me with her for the first time on the +evening walk which she indulged in on Sundays and holidays during the +beautiful summer months. Good gracious, how large this Wesselburen was! +Five-year old legs were nearly tired out before they had made the entire +round! And what did one not meet on the road! The very names of the +streets and squares sounded so puzzling and fantastic! "Now we are on +the Lollard's Foot! That is White Meadow! This way goes over to Bell +Mountain! There stands the Oak Nest!" The less apparent reason there was +for these names, the more certain it seemed that they concealed some +mystery! And then the objects themselves! The church whose pealing voice +I had already heard so often; the graveyard with its dark trees and its +crosses and tombstones; a very old house, in which a, "forty-eighter" +had lived, and in the cellar of which a treasure was said to lie buried, +over which the devil kept watch; and, finally, a big fish-pond: all +these details coalesced in my mind, as though like the limbs of a +gigantic animal they were organically related, into one huge general +picture, and the autumn moon shed a bluish light over it. Since that +time I have seen St. Peter's and every German cathedral, I have been to +Pere la Chaise and the Pyramid of Cestius, but whenever I think in +general of churches, graveyards and the like, they still hover before me +today in the shape in which I saw them on that evening. + +X + +About the same time that I exchanged Susanna's gloomy room for the +newly-built bright and pleasant primary-school, my father also had to +leave his little house and move into a hired lodging. That was a strange +contrast for me. School had broadened: I gazed out of clear windows with +wide frames of fir wood, instead of trying my curious eyes on green +glass bottle panes with dirty leaden rims; and the daylight, which at +Susanna's always commenced later and stopped earlier than it should, now +came into its full rights. I sat at a comfortable table with a desk and +an ink bottle; the odor of fresh wood and paint, which still has some +charm for me, threw me into a sort of joyous ecstasy, and when, on +account of my reading, I was told by the inspecting minister, to +exchange the third bench, which I had modestly chosen, for the first, +and moreover to take one of the highest places on the latter, my cup of +felicity was nearly full. + +Our home, on the contrary, had shrunk and grown darker; there was no +more garden now in which I could romp with my comrades when the weather +was fine, no hallway to receive us hospitably when it rained and blew. I +was restricted to a narrow room in which I myself could hardly move +around and into which I dared not bring any playmates, and to the space +before the door, where it was seldom that any one would stay with me +very long, as the street ran directly past it. + +The reason for this change, which brought about such serious +consequences, was strange enough. My father at the time of his marriage +had, by going security, laden himself with another's debt, and would no +doubt have been driven out much earlier if his creditor had not +fortunately had to serve a long term in the penitentiary in punishment +for an act of incendiarism. He was one of those terrible men who do evil +for evil's sake, and prefer the crooked path even when the straight one +would lead them more quickly and surely to the goal. He had that +lowering, wicked, diabolical look in his eyes which no one can endure, +and which in a childlike age may have begotten belief in witches and +sorcerers, because enjoyment of evil finds expression in it, indeed it +seems of necessity to be forced to increase evil. A tavern and general +store-keeper by profession and more than prosperous for his station, he +might have led the most peaceful and merry existence possible, but he +absolutely had to be at enmity with God and the world, and to give free +rein to a truly devilish humor, such as I have never come across +elsewhere, even in detective stories. + +Thus he once, with the greatest friendliness, allowed his wife, at her +request, to go to confession on Saturday, but forbade her to take the +communion on Sunday, in accordance with the Protestant custom, because +she had not asked his permission to do so. When any one of his neighbors +happened to be raising a fine young horse, he would go to him and offer +an absurdly low price for the animal. If the other refused it, he would +say: "I would think about it, and bear in mind the old rule, that one +should hand over everything that has once been bargained for; who knows +what may happen!" And surely enough the horse, in spite of careful +watching, would sooner or later be found in the meadow or in the stable +with the tendons of its feet cut and would have to be stabbed to death; +so that in the end he could buy whatever happened to please his fancy. +He willingly assisted his son-in-law in declaring a fraudulent +bankruptcy, and perhaps even beguiled him into it, but when the latter, +after having perjured himself, demanded the embezzled goods back again, +he laughed him to scorn and dared him to go to law. However he was +surprised by his own maid-servant while committing arson and taken in +the very act, in spite of his cleverness and his equally great luck, and +it was to this circumstance that my father, who had been talked into +going security by all sorts of cunning deceptive promises, owed the few +years of quiet possession which he enjoyed during his short lifetime. + +As soon as the penitentiary had given its charge back to the community +we were obliged to leave the abode in which our grandparents had shared +joy and sorrow for over half a century. It seemed like the end of the +world to my brother and myself when the old pieces of furniture, which +up till then had scarcely been moved from their places even when the +rooms were whitewashed, suddenly emigrated into the street; when the +respectable old Dutch striking-clock that never went correctly and +always caused confusion, all at once found itself hanging on a branch of +the pear tree, brightly illuminated by the beams of the May sun, while +under it stood insecurely the round worm-eaten dining-table which, when +there happened to be very little on it, had so often elicited from us +the wish that we could have everything that had ever been eaten off it. +However, the whole affair was also, quite naturally, in the nature of a +spectacle for us, and as in the course of clearing out, a bright colored +pipe-head that I had lost a long time before came to light again in some +rat hole or other, and, moreover, various odds and ends, which the other +families who were moving out with us had come across when dusting in the +corners and did not consider worth taking along, fell to our share--since +we could make use of the least thing--the day soon began to seem like a +holiday. We parted, not indeed without emotion but still without sorrow, +from the house in which we had been born. + +I did not learn what it really meant until later, though to be sure it +was soon enough. Without realizing it myself I had, up to that time, +been a little aristocrat, and now ceased to be one. This is how it was. +In the same way that the peasant proprietor and the rich burgher look +down However, in the end, all this had a very good effect upon me. I had +been up to that time a dreamer, who in the daytime liked to creep away +behind the hedge or the well, and in the evening cowered in my mother's +lap, or in that of one of our women neighbors, and begged to be told +fairy and ghost stories. Now I was driven out into active life. It was a +question of defending one's skin, and though I engaged in my first +scuffle only "after long hesitation and many, by no means heroic efforts +to escape," yet the result was such, that I no longer tried to avoid the +second, and began at the third or fourth quite to relish the idea. Our +declarations of war were even more laconic than those of the Romans or +Spartans. The challenger looked over at his opponent during +school-hours, when the teacher had turned his back for a moment, +clenched his right fist and laid it over his mouth, or rather over his +jaw; the opponent repeated the symbolic sign the next moment that it was +safe to do so, without by even so much as a look requiring a more +specific manifesto, and at midday, in the churchyard, in the vicinity of +an old vault, before which there, was a grass plot, the affair was +settled in the presence of the whole school, with natural weapons, by +wrestling and pounding, in extreme cases also by biting and scratching. +I never indeed rose to the rank of a genuine triarian, who made it a +point of honor to go about the whole year with a black eye or a swollen +nose, but I very soon lost the reputation for being a good child, which +I owed to my mother and which up to that time had meant so much to me, +and, to make up for it, rose in my father's estimation, who behaved +toward his sons as Frederick the Great did toward his officers, +punishing them if they fought and mocking them if they allowed +themselves to be trifled with. Once my opponent, while I was lying on +top of him pounding him at my ease, bit my finger through to the bone, +so that for weeks I could not use my hand for writing. That was, +however, the most dangerous wound that I can remember, and, as sometimes +happens later in life also, it led to the forming of an intimate +friendship. + + + + +EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF FRIEDRICH + +HEBBEL + + +Reflections on the world, life, and books, but chiefly on myself, in the +form of a journal. + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES A. KING + +(1836) + + +At the moment in which we conceive an ideal, there arises in God the +thought of creating it. + +Social life in all its _nuances_ is no mere confluence of meaningless +accidents; it is the product of the experience of whole millenniums, and +our task is to apprehend the correctness of these experiences. + +A poetic idea cannot be expressed allegorically; allegory is the +ebb-tide at once of the intellect and of the productive power. + +Nature eternally repeats the same thought in ever widening expansion; +therefore the drop is an image of the sea. + +Poetic and plastic art are alike in being both formative; that is to +say, they are intended to bring to view a limited amount of matter in +definite relations which are fixed by nature; and when the poet gives +expression to an idea, the process is exactly the same as when a painter +or sculptor represents the noble or beautiful outlines of a body. + +"Throw away so that thou shalt not lose!" is the best rule of life. + +There are said to have been people who, when a limb had been amputated, +still felt pain in the severed member. Twofold mode of all being: what +has _been_ from the beginning and what has only _become_. _Cogito ergo +sum_; am I not much more under the dominion of the thinking faculty +within me than the latter is under my dominion? Individuality is not so +much the goal as the way, and not so much the best way as the only one. + +Two human beings are always two extremes. + +Words are monuments not of what mankind has thought for centuries about +certain subjects but only of the fact that it has thought about them. +The difference is considerable. + +A really great genius can never chance upon an age which would make it +impossible for him to allow free play to his superior powers. If he +chances upon a dull, exhausted, empty century,--well then, this century +is his problem. + +Most of my knowledge about myself I have gained in moments when I +perceived the peculiarities of other people. + +It is a sign of mediocre intelligence to be able to fix one's attention +upon details when contemplating a great work of art; on the other hand, +it is a sign of the mediocrity of a work of art (poetic or plastic) if +one cannot get beyond the details, if they, so to speak, impede the way +to the whole. + +Goethe says in regard to _Michael Kohlhaas_ that one should not single +out such cases in the general course of human events. That is true in so +far as one should not draw any conclusions therefrom to the detriment of +mankind. But it seems to me that it is precisely to exceptions of this +sort that the poet must turn his attention, in order to show that they, +as well as common-place events, have their origin in what is most +genuinely human. + +Man cannot abstract his ego from the universe. As firmly as he is +interwoven with the universe and life, just so firmly does he believe +that life and the universe are interwoven with him. + +(1837) + +It takes a great deal of time merely to perceive where the enigmatical +in many things is actually located. Many simply introduce logic into +their poetry and believe this is equivalent to motivation. + +All reasoning (and here belongs what Schiller, under the trade mark of +the sentimental, would smuggle in as poetry) is onesided and allows the +heart and mind no further activity than simply to deny or affirm. On the +contrary, all that is actual and objective (and here belong the +so-called natural sounds, which reveal the innermost essence of a state +or a human personality) is infinite, and offers to those who are in +sympathy and to those who are not the widest scope for the employment of +all their powers. + +Philosophy strives ever and always for the absolute, and yet that is +properly speaking the task of poetry. + +With every human being (let him be who he will) disappears from the +world a mystery, that, owing to his peculiar construction, he alone +could reveal, and that no one will reveal after him. + +It is dangerous to think in images, but it cannot always be avoided; for +often, especially in regard to the highest things, image and thought are +identical. + +A miracle is easier to repeat than to explain. Thus the artist continues +the act of creation in the highest sense, without being able to +comprehend it. + +(1838) + +God Himself when, in order to attain great ends, He exerts a direct +influence upon an individual, and thus allows Himself an arbitrary +interference (if we put the case we must use expressions that fit it) in +the world's machinery, cannot protect His tool from being crushed by the +same wheel which this individual has arrested for a moment or has turned +in another direction. This is surely the principal tragic motif which +underlies the history of the Maid of Orleans. A tragedy which should +reflect this idea would produce a great impression through the glimpse +it would afford into the eternal order of nature, which God Himself may +not disturb with impunity. + +When the poet attempts to delineate characters by making them speak, he +must be careful not to allow them to speak about their own inner life. +All their utterances must relate to something external; only then does +their inner nature come out vividly and expressively, for it fashions +itself only in reflections of the world and of life. + +To depict two kindred characters one by means of the other, to have them +mutually reflect one another without their becoming aware of it, would +surely be the triumph of delineation. + +It is a masterly trait in the _Prince of Homburg_ that the suspicion +that the Elector has had the Prince condemned to death, not so much on +account of the act of overhastiness committed on the battlefield as for +another reason, does not arise spontaneously in the Prince's soul, but +is first awakened by Hohenzollern's questioning. + +A double process must take place in the mind of the true poet before it +can evolve anything. The crude matter must be resolved into an idea, and +the idea must condense again into a form. Man is the continuation of the +act of creation, an eternally growing, never completed creation, which +prevents the termination of the world and keeps it from congealing and +hardening. It is highly significant (this thought led me to the one I +have just expressed) that everything which exists as a human conception +is never wholly and perfectly--only fragmentarily--embodied in nature, +and everything which exists perfectly and completely in nature eludes +human conception, man's own nature not excepted. Thus we know and define +right and wrong, virtue and innocence (the latter as soon as we have +lost it), but not life itself, etc. Where knowledge has been vouchsafed +us, there nature requires our coöperation. + +The first and last aim of art is to render intuitively perceptible the +process of life itself, to show how the soul of man develops in the +atmosphere surrounding him, let it be suited to him or not, how good +engenders evil within him, and evil in turn produces something less +evil, and how this eternal growth has a limit so far as our apprehension +is concerned, but none at all in reality; this is symbolization. It is +an error when men say that only the fully developed is matter for the +poet; on the contrary, what is in process of development, what is first +begotten in conflict with the elements of creation, that is matter for +him. What is finished can be only a plaything of the waves, it can +only be destroyed and devoured by them; can art have anything to do +with that which is most common, in other words, most universal? But what +is in process of development must pass from one form into another at the +hands of the poet, it must never as formless soft clay dissolve before +our eyes into chaos and confusion; it must always, in a certain sense, +be at the same time a finished product, just as in the universe we never +encounter naked raw material. Man exists only because of his future; an +inexplicable mystery, but one that may not be denied. Man, therefore, +cannot be brought before us as something complete in himself; for not +how he affects the world but how the world affects him arouses our +interest and is of importance to us; the great forces and powers outside +of him find embodiment by exerting an influence over him, and thus lose +their formidableness, the riddle of the universe is solved as soon as it +finds utterance, and even though at the end a question remains, we can +bear this much easier than an empty nothing. + +Not only in art but in history as well life sometimes assumes a form, +and art should not seek her subjects and her themes where this has +occurred. + +God was a mystery to Himself before the creation; He had to create in +order to understand Himself. If only some one thing had been completely +explained, then everything would be explained. + +The motives before a deed are usually transformed during the deed, and +at least seem quite different after the deed: this is an important +circumstance which most dramatists overlook. + +Lyric poetry has something childlike about it, dramatic poetry something +manly, epic poetry something senile. + +Two hands can indeed clasp one another but cannot grow together. This is +the relation of one individuality to another. + +(1840) + +From my conception of form many consequences ensue of the most varied +kind. In reference to lyric poetry: the whole emotional life is a +shower, the emotion which is singled out is a drop illumined by the sun. +Dramatic poetry: form is the point where divine and human strength +neutralize one another. + +The true idyll results when a man is represented as happy and complete +in himself within his own appointed sphere. So long as he remains within +this sphere fate has no power over him. + +Poetry of the highest kind is the true historiography. It grasps the +result of historical processes and holds it fast in imperishable images +as, for example, Sophocles has done with the idea of Hellenism. + +All life is a struggle of the individual with the universe. + +Duality pervades all our intuitions and thoughts and every moment of our +being, and is our supreme, our last idea. Beside it we, have absolutely +no fundamental idea. Life and death, health and sickness, time and +eternity: we can imagine and picture to ourselves how one gradually +shades off into the other, but not that which lies behind these divided +dualities as a common solvent and reconciliation. (1841) + +_Antigone_, representing as it does a romantic individual subject in a +classical form, is the masterpiece of tragic art. + +Life is the attempt of the defiantly refractory part to tear itself +loose from the whole and to exist for itself, an attempt that succeeds +just so long as the strength endures which was robbed from the whole by +the individual separation. + +"What a man can become, that he is already." God will not lay the +decisive weight on the sins committed by sinful individuals against one +another but only on the sins committed against the idea itself, and +there actual and merely possible sins are one and the same. + +(1843) + +Expiation in tragedy occurs in the interest of the community, not in +that of the individual, the hero, and it is not at all necessary, +although it is better, that he himself should be conscious of it. Life +is the great river, individualities are drops; tragic individualities +are, however, blocks of ice which must be liquefied again, and in order +that this may be possible they must break and wear themselves away one +against the other. + +There is only one necessity, which is that the world should continue to +exist; what happens to individuals in the world is of no consequence. +The evil that they commit must be punished because it endangers the +existence of the world; but there is no reason why they should be +indemnified for the misfortune that befalls them. + +(1844) + +Absolutely everything depends upon a right conception of guilt. Guilt +must not, in any direction, be confounded with the subordinate +conception of sin, which even in the modern drama--where indeed it +finds, for reasons which are not far to seek, a wider scope than in the +ancient--must always be merged again into the conception of guilt, if +the drama is to rise above the anecdotal to the symbolical. For the +conception of tragic guilt can be developed only from life itself, from +the original incongruity between idea and phenomenon--which incongruity +manifests itself in the phenomenon as extravagance, the natural +consequence of the instinct of self-preservation and self-assertion, the +first and most legitimate of all instincts. But it cannot be developed +from one of the many consequences of this original incongruity, which +lead us too far down into the errors and aberrations of the individual +to allow the working out of the highest dramatic possibilities. So, too, +the conception of tragic expiation should be developed only from +extravagance, which, since it is irrepressible in the phenomenon, +represses the phenomenon, and thus frees the idea again from its +imperfect form. It is true the original incongruity between idea and +phenomenon remains unremoved and unovercome; but it is evident that in +the sphere of life, which art, so long as it understands itself, will +never go beyond, nothing can be removed that lies outside this sphere, +and that art reaches its supreme goal when it seizes upon the immediate +consequence of this incongruity, extravagance, and points out in it the +element of self-destruction; but leaves the incongruity enshrouded in +the darkness of creation, unexplained, as a fact immediately posited. + +(1845) + +A genuine drama may be compared to one of those great buildings which +have almost as many passages and rooms below the earth as above it. +Ordinary people only know the former; the architect knows the latter +also. + +A king has less right than any other person to be an individual. + +(1846) + +In the poet humanity dreams. Decidedly, a dream is for the spirit what +sleep is for the body. + +As every crystallization is dependent upon certain physical conditions, +so every individualization of human nature depends upon the state of +the historical epoch in which it occurs. To represent these +modifications of human nature in their relative necessity is the main +task which poetry has to fulfill in contradistinction to history, and +here it can, if it attains to pure form, render a supreme service. But +it is difficult to separate the merely incidental from the main task and +then besides to avoid subjective moods; so that we scarcely have even +the beginnings of such poems as now hover before my mind. + +(1847) + +To present the necessary, but in the form of the accidental: that is the +whole secret of dramatic style. + +If the characters do not negate the moral idea, what does it matter that +the piece affirms it? The negation of the individual factors must be so +very decided, precisely in order to give emphasis to the affirmation of +the whole. + +Human institutions require a man to be a man like other men; but man, +whoever and whatever he may be, wishes to be an individual, indeed is, +as such, individualized. Hence the rupture. + +Let the understanding question in a work of art, but do not let it +answer. + +(1848) + +The understanding no more makes poetry than salt makes food, but it is +necessary to poetry as salt is to food. + +(1849) + +One does not sit down to play on the piano in order to verify +mathematical laws. Just as little does one write poetry in order to +demonstrate something. Oh, if people would only learn to comprehend +that! Indeed the beauty of all the higher activity of man is precisely +the fact, that ends which the individual never even thinks of are +attained thereby. + +(1853) + +The process of dramatic individualization is perhaps best illustrated by +comparison to water. Everywhere water is water and man is man, but as +the former acquires a mysterious flavor from every stratum of earth that +it flows or trickles through, so man acquires a peculiarity from his +time, his nation, history, and fate. + +(1857) Man would perhaps still have as acute senses as animals, if +thinking did not divert him from the outer world. + +(1859) + +Ideas are the same thing in the drama that counterpoint is in music; +nothing in themselves but the primary condition for everything. + +(1861) + +(Concerning my _Nibelungen_.) + +It seems to me that a purely human tragedy, natural in all its motifs, +can be constructed upon the mythical foundation inseparable from this +subject, and that so far as my powers permit I have constructed one. The +mysticism of the background should at most remind us that what we hear +in this poem is not the seconds' clock, which measures off the existence +of gnats and ants, but the clock that marks the hours only. Let the +reader who is nevertheless disturbed by the mythical foundation consider +that, if he examines closely, he will also discover such a basis in man +himself, and that, too, in the mere man, in the representative of the +species, and not only in the more specific branch of the same, in the +individual. Or may man's fundamental qualities, either physical or +mental, be accounted for, that is to say, can they be deduced from any +other organic canon than the one which has been posited once for all +with man himself, and which cannot be traced farther back to a final +primitive cause of things, or be critically resolved into its +components? Are they not in part, as for example most of the passions, +opposed to reason and conscience, therefore to the very faculties of man +which, being quite general and disinterested, may most safely be +designated as those which connect him immediately with the universe, and +has this contradiction ever been explained away? Why, then, in art +negate an act upon which is founded even our view of nature? + +Otto Prechtler related to me the following incident. When Grillparzer +made my acquaintance upon my arrival in Vienna he said to Prechtler: "No +one on earth will be able to influence this man. One person might have +done so, but he is dead; I mean Goethe." A few years later he added, "I +was mistaken, not even Goethe would have been able to influence him." + +(1863) + +I do not know the world, for although I myself represent a piece of it, +this is such a minutely small part that no conclusion as to the true +nature of the world can be deduced therefrom. Man, however, I know, for +I am myself a man, and even though I do not know how he originates in +the world, yet I know very well how, having once originated, he reacts +upon it. I therefore conscientiously respect the laws of the human soul; +in reference to everything else, however, I believe that imagination +draws inspiration from the same depths out of which the world itself +arose, that is to say, the multifarious series of phenomena which exists +at present, but which at some future time, may perhaps be replaced by +another. + +(To Siegmund Englaender.) + +--You wish to believe in the poet as you believe in the Deity; why +ascend so high into the region of clouds, where everything ceases to be, +even analogy? Would you not probably attain more if you descended to the +beast and ascribed to the artistic faculty an intermediate stage between +the instinct of the beast and the consciousness of man? There at least +we are in the sphere of experience, and have the prospect of +ascertaining something real by applying two known quantities to an +unknown one. The beast leads a dream life which nature herself +immediately regulates and strictly adapts to those purposes, by the +attainment of which, on the one hand, the creature itself subsists, but, +on the other, the world continues. The artist leads a similar dream +life, naturally only as an artist, and probably from the same cause; for +the cosmic laws hardly come any more clearly into his field of vision +than the organic laws come into that of the beast, and yet he cannot +round off and complete any of his images without going back to them. Why +then should nature not do for him what she does for the beast? You will, +however, find in general--to go still deeper--that the processes of life +have nothing to do with consciousness, and artistic generation is the +highest of all processes; they differ from the logical precisely in that +they absolutely cannot be traced back to definite factors. Who has ever +closely watched evolution in any of its phases, and what has the +impregnation theory of physiology, in spite of the microscopic detailed +description of the working apparatus, done for the solution of the +fundamental mystery? Can it explain even a humpback? On the other hand, +there can be no complex which it would not be possible to follow up in +all its involutions and finally to resolve. The structure of the +universe is revealed to us, we can, if we like, play the fiddle for the +dance of the heavenly bodies; but the sprouting blade of grass is a +riddle and will always remain one. You would therefore be perfectly +right in laughing at Newton if he wanted to "play the naïve child" and +declare that the falling apple had inspired him with the idea of the +system of gravitation, whereas it may very well have given him the +impetus which started him to reflect upon the subject. On the other +hand, you would wrong Dante if you should doubt that Heaven and Hell had +arisen in colossal outline before his soul at the mere sight of a wood, +half in light and half in shadow. For systems are not dreamed, but +neither are works of art made by minute calculations, nor, what amounts +to the same thing, since thinking is only a higher kind of arithmetic, +thought out. The artistic imagination is the organ which drains those +depths of the world which are inaccessible to the other faculties, and +in accordance herewith, my mode of viewing things puts, in place of the +false realism which takes the part for the whole, only the true realism, +which also comprises what does not lie on the surface. For the rest, +this false realism is not curtailed thereby, for even though one can no +more prepare oneself for writing poetry than for dreaming, yet dreams +will always reflect daily and yearly impressions, and no less do poems +reflect the sympathies and antipathies of the author. I believe all +these propositions are simple and comprehensible. Whoever refuses to +recognize them must throw the half of literature overboard, for example +_Edipus at Colonus_ (for geography knows nothing of sacred groves), +Shakespeare's _Tempest_ (for there is no such thing as magic), _Hamlet_ +and _Macbeth_ (for only a fool is afraid of ghosts, etc.); nay he must +also--and this even he who might be ready to make the other sacrifices +would find it hard to bring himself to do--he must also place the French +at the head of what remains; for where can one find realists like +Voltaire, etc.? This, to me, seems to demonstrate my proposition, at +least the counter-test is made. + + + + +THE LIFE OF OTTO LUDWIG + +By A.R. HOHLFELD, Ph.D. + +Professor of German Literature, University of Wisconsin + + +The career of Otto Ludwig belongs to a sad period in nineteenth century +literature in Germany. Sad not because of any lack of works of +originality and power, but sad because of the wanton neglect with which +the German public of those years treated its ablest and most forceful +writers. The historian Treitschke, in an essay probably written not long +after the death of Otto Ludwig, sarcastically says in direct reference +to the latter's tragic life: "No nation reads more books than ours, none +buys fewer." To be sure, Germany was then a poor country and its readers +had some excuse for being economical in supplying their literary wants. +But there was no excuse for the notorious narrowness of vision and +judgment shown by many of the leading critics, theatres, and literary +journals of that time. Writers of mediocre talent were praised to the +skies. But old Grillparzer, Hebbel and Ludwig, Keller, Raabe, Storm, and +others who brought a really new and vital message were left to bear the +burden of neglect, if not of animosity. No wonder that in foreign lands, +after the middle of the nineteenth century, contemporary German +literature fell into an almost universal disrepute from which it is only +slowly recovering at present. Foreign critics were justified in judging +the significance of the literary output of Germany by those writers on +whom the Germans themselves were placing the seal of national approval. +Zschokke, Gerstäcker, Auerbach, Spielhagen, not to mention the +ubiquitous Mühlbach or Marlitt or Polko--these were the names which in +America, for instance, figured most prominently in the magazines between +1850 and 1880. [Illustration: OTTO LUDWIG] [Blank Page] Their works +were reviewed and translated. They were considered as the +representatives of Germany in the literary parliament of nations, while +those of her men of letters whom we have since learned to recognize as +the real forces of her mid-century literature remained unknown. Of +Ludwig, who clearly belongs to this more select group, the _Atlantic +Monthly_ and the _North American Review_, for obvious reasons, reviewed +at some length his _Studies in Shakespeare_; but, as far as the present +writer's knowledge goes, not one of his works was ever translated in +this country until the _Hereditary Forester_ appeared in _Poet Lore_ +only a few years ago. + +Otto Ludwig was born in 1813 in Eisfeld, a small town picturesquely +situated in the foothills of the southern slope of the Thuringian +Forest, and his entire life was spent within the limited confines of +Thuringia and Saxony. Leipzig and Dresden, not much over one hundred +English miles to the northeastward of Eisfeld, were the only two larger +cities with which he ever became acquainted, and, even when living +there, it was characteristic of him to take refuge in some rustic suburb +or near-by village. Ludwig's parents belonged to the "leading families" +of their town and were in very comfortable circumstances at the time of +his birth and early childhood. Sudden reverses, however, soon interfered +with the boy's prospects in life. At the age of twelve, he lost his +father, six years later his mother. After the father's death a +well-to-do uncle took it upon himself to care for the boy, whom he +intended to be his heir and his successor in business. But neither the +imaginative, nervously sensitive mother, nor the well-meaning but +happy-go-lucky uncle were able to furnish that guidance which the +delicate and prematurely contemplative youth needed. After only a short +period of irregular schooling, Ludwig, sixteen years old, had to enter +his uncle's business; but a few years of apprenticeship convinced even +the uncle that the young man was hardly on his right track as a salesman +of groceries. A renewed effort to take up systematic school work with +the view of preparing for one of the learned professions did not prove +any more successful, and, in 1833, Ludwig, who had always shown an +unusual talent for music and enjoyed excellent instruction in it, +decided to become a musician. Continuing his secluded life at Eisfeld he +devoted himself for years to the leisurely study and composition of +music, until a few successful amateur performances of some operatic +compositions of his attracted attention to him in musical circles in +Meiningen, the near-by ducal residence. He was granted a scholarship +amply sufficient to permit him to perfect his musical education at +Leipzig under Mendelssohn, then the renowned director of the famous +_Gewandhaus_ concerts. But the large city only deterred the shy recluse, +Mendelssohn showed little appreciation for Ludwig's efforts to cultivate +a realistically characteristic style of musical expression, and finally +a severe spell of illness came to make the Leipzig venture a complete +failure. + +After a year's absence we thus find Ludwig again at home. But his +experiences in the great world were not to be without consequences. +While he was at Leipzig his homesickness had made him paint in rosy +colors the dreamy hermit-life at Eisfeld. Now, however, after his +return, he became keenly conscious of the pettiness and inadequacy of +his surroundings and of the lack of well-defined purpose in his life +thus far. It was during this period of introspection and doubt that he +finally decided to devote himself to a literary career. He took up the +study of English, plunged into Shakespeare and Goethe, and worked +assiduously on a number of dramatic and novelistic ventures. In 1843 he +again left Eisfeld, this time for good, and first turned to Leipzig and +then to Dresden. Efforts to get some of his dramas accepted by the +Leipzig and Dresden theatres continued to prove fruitless. But in 1844, +after his uncle's death, he had come into possession of a small fortune, +and as his habits were always exceedingly frugal, he now saw before +himself the assurance of a few years free from all care. In +characteristic fashion he again created for himself a quiet retreat, +partly in the idyllic surroundings of Meissen, partly in Meissen itself, +the charmingly picturesque town of historic fame not far from Dresden, +on the Elbe. He soon became engaged to a lovable young woman, who +entered heart and soul into all of his hopes and plans, and with but +brief interruptions he continued to live here in rustic retirement, +until the year 1850 at last was destined to bring him recognition and +fame. + +Thus far none of Ludwig's writings, aside from a mere trifle or two, had +found their way before the public. As many as five or six regular dramas +had been completed, but none had been printed, none performed. But now +he finished his _Hereditary Forester_ and with it made a deep impression +upon his influential friend Eduard Devrient, the famous actor of the +Dresden court theatre. Through Devrient's mediation the drama was +accepted at Dresden and, although its reception by the public was at +first a divided one, it was at once recognized by friend and foe as a +literary and theatrical event of great significance. Though late, yet +all of a sudden, Ludwig, like Byron, awoke to find himself famous. When, +in 1852, he at last felt able to marry the woman of his love, his life +battle seemed to have been won for good. In the same year, 1852, he +published his second great drama, _The Maccabeans_, which, though not +attaining the popularity of the _Hereditary Forester_, did even more +perhaps to enhance the poet's fame. He could now count among the +steadily widening circle of his friends and admirers men like Julian +Schmidt, the prominent critic and editor, Gustav Freytag, and Berthold +Auerbach. At Auerbach's suggestion, Ludwig for awhile turned to +narrative literature and in the years 1855 and 1856 published his two +best stories, the _Heiterethei_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_--the +former again the more popular, the latter of higher literary merit. +These brief years from 1850 to 1856 were the zenith of Ludwig's career, +the height of his productivity as an artist and of his success and +happiness as a man. But already the shadows were gathering which were to +cast such a deep gloom over the last years of the poet's life. + +In 1856 he was again stricken by what seemed to be the same mysterious +illness, never fully explained, that had befallen him in Leipzig. He +recovered, to be sure, for the time being, but his ailments returned +again and again. From about 1860 Ludwig practically never was a well +man. Confined to the house and soon to his bed, he slowly wasted away. +The tenderest care of his devoted wife and the affection of a few loyal +friends could do but little to relieve the most excruciating pain or to +keep away the actual want that began to knock at his door. Ludwig had +never learned to look upon his art as a commercial asset; his few +published works had never brought him much return, and his own slender +means had for some time been exhausted. Some gifts of honor were +bestowed upon the invalid by authors' societies and princely patrons, +but they came too late to prevent the inevitable. As late as 1859 Ludwig +still had hope for the future. "I see before me," he wrote in his diary, +"a veritable world of conceptions and forms which I might conquer if, +freed from the weight that keeps me down, I could take wings again. I +believe it would not be too late yet." It was not to be. Successful +production of a high order would probably have been impossible under +such circumstances in any case. With Ludwig it was further prevented by +an obstacle of a psychological nature. As the feeling of health and +strength and ease of mind departed from him, there came in its place an +ever growing, almost morbid, spirit of self-questioning criticism and +doubt. As the springs of creative energy ceased flowing, Ludwig thought +he could replenish them by turning to theory and analysis. In the free +intervals between the attacks of his illness, when his mind worked as +vigorously as ever, the luckless poet filled volume upon volume with +esthetic and ethical reflections upon poetry and literature. From +Shakespeare especially he thought he might be able to wrest those last +secrets of an art which tantalizingly hovered before his vision. In +these studies, fragmentary, ill-organized, not prepared for publication +as they are, we nevertheless possess a veritable treasure-house of +soundest reflection and subtlest intuition on many of the fundamental +questions of poetry, especially of the drama. They have often been +compared with Lessing's _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, of which, in many +respects, they are the worthiest continuation. But in this unequal +struggle Ludwig became less and less able to give life and color to his +own conceptions or to be satisfied with his results when he had done so. +How many could safely try to measure up to a standard taken directly +from Shakespeare! Plan upon plan was started and laid aside. A field of +ruins, disquieting, threatening, piled up around the lonesome fighter +who slowly succumbed beneath the crushing greatness of his vision. +Noble, but also tragic beyond words it is when, shortly before his +death, Ludwig declared to one of his friends that even in his suffering +no poet had ever been to him such a source of strength as Shakespeare, +to whom he owed far more than the clarification of his ideals of art. +Thus the mariner sang the praises of the ocean as it was about to engulf +his shipwrecked craft. Ludwig died in Dresden in February, 1865, +fifty-two years of age. Of his three surviving children, two sons came +to this western hemisphere and attained, in successful business and +professional life, to positions of honor and influence among the German +element of Southern Brazil. + +Aside from the posthumous _Studies_ just spoken of, Ludwig's fame as a +writer rests entirely on the two dramas, the _Hereditary Forester_ and +_The Maccabæans_, and on the two long novel-like stories, the +_Heiterethei_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_. They represent practically +everything that he ever published during his lifetime. The few +insignificant lyrics, the additional dramas and stories, partly +completed and partly fragmentary, which have become known after his +death, have added no new traits to the picture of Ludwig as it will +remain in the history of German literature, and they can well be omitted +from consideration in this brief appreciation. It must be admitted that +it is a rare phenomenon to see lasting fame and influence built on such +a slender amount of work and on so brief a period of productivity. But +within this limited range Ludwig must be recognized as a writer of +unusual powers of observation and sympathy, of imagination and embodying +execution. Truthful to himself and to the ideals of his art, +uninfluenced by the popular demands of the day or by any desire for gain +or fame, free from everything that smacks of sham or artifice, he +succeeded in creating works that speak to us with the robustness and +authority of life itself and yet are ennobled by the graces of a +selective and restraining art. + +In his _Hereditary Forester_ Ludwig produced one of the best +middle-class tragedies of modern literature, combining in it, as indeed +he had set out to do, highest literary merit with impelling +effectiveness upon the stage. "It is exceedingly easy," he said, "to +write a poetic drama if one does not care to keep an eye upon the stage, +or one that is a successful stage play, but without poetry. * * * I +shall do what I can to help create that really healthy condition of the +drama which consists in the intimate union of poetry and the stage." +Following in the footsteps of Schiller in his _Intrigue and Love_ and of +Hebbel in his _Maria Magdalena_, he has not attained, it is true, the +massive solidity of the latter, nor has he breathed into his drama that +lofty spirit of social challenge that wings the former. On close +inspection, the construction of Ludwig's drama shows undeniable flaws of +motivation. The playwright has allowed too free a play to chance and +slender probability. The spirit of the revolutionary unrest of 1848 is +in the background, especially in the tavern scene of the third act, but +it does not in any way organically connect the family tragedy which we +witness with the broad movements of contemporary public life. But the +play is indeed, as Ludwig desired it to be, "a declaration of war +against the unnaturalness and conventionalities of our latter-day stage +literature." The life-like characters which it portrays, the convincing +language which they speak, the carefully drawn _milieu_ in which they +move, the intense struggle of passions in which they are engaged-these +are all handled with a skill as rare as it is artistically true to life. +And even though the atmosphere enveloping it all seems to combine the +realism of Ludwig's maturity with the romantic pre-disposition of his +earlier works, it remains in fine keeping with that shadowy forest-world +which forms the setting of the play. + +Ludwig's next drama, _The Maccabæans_, was of a radically different +mold. From prose we pass to verse, from humble middle-class life to the +traditional grandeur of classical tragedy, from the narrow circle of +domestic happenings to a Shakespearean canvas of broad historical +associations, from contemporary Germany to those heroic struggles in +which, in the second century, B.C., the Jews under the leadership of +Judas Maccabæus defended their national and religious freedom against +Syrian oppression. In this drama also, certain faults of construction +are evident. There is a lack of central unity of interest, in part due, +no doubt, to the long processes of development which the play underwent +before completion. But again, there is the same masterly technique in +all matters of detail, a wonderful strength and beauty of language, +subtle and convincing character-portrayal and a splendid realization of +that ethnic atmosphere of Jewish life and character in which the drama +moves and from which its conflicts spring. + +Of the two stories of Ludwig, the _Heiterethei_ is in every way the +lighter; nevertheless, it is one of the best of those famous stories +from peasant life in which German literature is so rich. More artistic +than Jeremias Gotthelf and in a deeper sense truer to life than +Auerbach, Ludwig has here created a popular tale of great charm and +power. The "poetic realism" of his manner and the subdued ethical +didacticism of his purpose have been skillfully united in forming an +excellent example of truly popular art. The story is that of the gradual +mellowing and final happy marriage of two young people who, with the +best of hearts, are veritable firebrands of self-willed defiance to +everything suggesting outside interference. The nickname of the girl, +"Heiterethei," given her on account of her bright and sunny disposition, +explains the title of the story. And it must not be left unsaid that, +despite the underlying seriousness of the character-development +portrayed, the story as a whole is characterized by a sovereign play of +humor, at times a bit grotesque and boisterous, maybe, but none the less +irresistible in its quaint charm and deeper meaning. + +In _Between Heaven and Earth_, Ludwig finally achieved his masterpiece, +creating a work in which vision and workmanship are both on the highest +level and thoroughly worthy of each other. No "hero" in the traditional +sense, no glamor of what is commonly regarded as "poetic," no broad +social background, no philosophic outlook, but within a narrow, and if +you will, commonplace range, the author here permits us to get same of +the profoundest glimpses of human life and character. It is a story of +slaters working on steep roofs and tall church spires; and as does their +scaffolding, so the poet tries to move along "between heaven and earth," +his feet and eyes firmly fastened to life's realities, his heart and +soul lifted into the realm of the ideal, the eternal. Thus interpreted, +the title of the story may indeed be taken as a symbol of that principle +of "poetic realism" which Ludwig strove for and of which the story is +one of the best embodiments. The technique of the work, to be sure, is +that of Ludwig's day, not of our own. There are long descriptions and +reflections and a good deal of direct psychological analysis, in all of +which the narrator does not hesitate to speak from his subjective point +of view. Such a method modern theorists would feign stamp as a crime +against the spirit of epic art, as though a novel were a drama, and +genuine narration did not by nature participate of both the objective +and subjective manner of presentation. But even if these things were +undeniable flaws of technique, which we are far from admitting, they +certainly cannot mar genuine art in its essential beauty and appeal. The +Thuringian landscape and the life of the small town embedded in it, the +tragic happenings in the Nettenmair family, the slow processes of +soul-life in the two hostile brothers and the martyred woman between +them--all this is made to live before our eyes with such simple and yet +absolutely adequate means that we get from it that deep and satisfying +feeling of harmony of content and form that characterizes a true +masterpiece of art. Character drawing and milieu painting, always +Ludwig's strong points, have again been most felicitously handled. With +equal success the author has developed the plot of the story which, in a +few memorable scenes, attains to truly dramatic scope and power. More +admirable than everything else, however, is the subtly realistic +treatment of the psychological processes in Fritz Nettenmair. His +gradual deterioration, step by step, from self-indulgent joviality, +through envy and jealousy, to the hatred of despair that does not even +shrink from fratricide, is depicted with masterly insight and +consistency. This phase of Ludwig's art strikes us as fresh and modern +today, and it must have appeared like a revelation to a generation that +did not yet, know Flaubert's _Madame Bovary_ or George Eliot's _Adam +Bede_. + +Considered in his totality as man and as artist, Ludwig cannot be +counted among the names of the very first rank in German nineteenth +century literature. To him cannot be assigned the unequivocal greatness +of a Kleist, a Hebbel, a Keller. The narrowness of the circumstances of +his life and the invalidism of his mature years combined with, and no +doubt were aided by, an apparent lack of robustness and forcefulness of +character and temperament, and thus conspired to keep him from attaining +that victorious self-assertion, that sovereign balance between volition +and power, without which true greatness in the full sense of the word is +impossible. But among the leading names of second rank, his will always +occupy a place of distinction. If his was not the work of a Messiah, it +was that of a John the Baptist. Having been nurtured in the traditions +of the romanticism of Tieck, E.T.A. Hoffmann, and Jean Paul, he was +one of the first to experience the artistic charm and possibilities of +unidealized reality and to respond to its call. It was he who seems to +have coined the phrase, even if he was not first to formulate the +principle, of that restrained or "artistic realism" that tries to set +its standards half-way between subjectively idealistic and objectively +naturalistic art. Even his extravagant admiration for Shakespeare was +chiefly due to the fact that he saw in his art the supreme embodiment of +this principle. Ludwig did not renounce beauty of art except where it +infringed upon the one thing needful--essential truthfulness to reality, +especially in all that pertains to what Hebbel called "the laws of the +human soul." Many of the utterances of Ludwig's _Studies_ are as +startlingly modern, not to say Ibsenesque, as similar ones in Hebbel's +_Diaries_, in their frank recognition of the solemn claims of reality, +even ugly reality, upon the honest artist who endeavors to interpret +life in its entirety. For art, too, like all other achievements of human +culture, according to Ludwig, must render service unto life. It is its +function to furnish insight into life, mastery over life. "Rather no +poetry at all," he exclaims, "than a poetry that robs us of the joy of +living, that makes us unproductive in life, that, instead of nerving us +for life, unnerves us for it." + +In German literature Ludwig thus occupies a not unimportant place. Far +more penetrating and far more artistic than "realists" like Auerbach or +Spielhagen he paved the way for the coming of Anzengruber who, in turn, +anticipated the realism of the moderns in more, ways than is generally +recognized. Ludwig will always be a figure of prominence in the history +of the modern middle-class tragedy, in the development of the story +dealing with village life, in the efforts to emphasize the value of a +literature close to the native soil, in the attempts of German criticism +to fathom the secret of Shakespearean art. More than that, however. When +the final account of the gradual evolution of nineteenth century realism +will some time be written from another than a one-sidedly French point +of view, a place of honorable recognition will be due to the thoughtful +and forceful author of the _Studies_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 6: The extracts from _The Prince of Homburg_ are taken from +Mr. Hagedorn's translation, Volume IV of THE GERMAN CLASSICS.] + + * * * * * + + + + +OTTO LUDWIG + + * * * * * + + + + + THE HEREDITARY FORESTER + + A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS + + * * * * * + + DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + + + +STEIN, _a rich manufacturer and country gentleman_. + +ROBERT, _his son_. + +CHRISTIAN ULRICH, _forester on the estate of Düsterwalde, called "The +Hereditary Forester_." + +SOPHY, _his wife_. + +ANDREW, _forester's assistant _} +MARY } _their children_. +WILLIAM } + +WILKENS, _a wealthy farmer, uncle of_ SOPHY. + +_The Pastor of Waldenrode_. + +MÖLLER, _Stein's bookkeeper_. + +GODFREY, _a hunter_. + +WEILER, _keeper in Ulrich's forest_. + +_The proprietor of the "Boundary Inn."_ + +FREI } +LINDENSCHMIED} _Poachers_. +KATHARINE } + +BASTIAN, _Stein's valet_. + +_Two porters._ + +_The scene is alternately the forester's house at Düsterwalde and +Stein's mansion at Waldenrode; once, in Act III, the Frontier Inn and +the Dell._ + + + +THE HEREDITARY FORESTER (1850) + +TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M. + +Professor of Modern Languages, Brooklyn Commercial High School. + + + +ACT I + +_The_ FORESTER'S _house at Düsterwalde_. + +_In the back of the room a folding door and a closet; at either side +ordinary doors. On the right, a window; on the left, in the rear, the +stove; more to the front a cuckoo-clock; then a rack where several +rifles are hanging, among them two double-barreled ones, hunter's bags +and similar utensils; and a book shelf on which are a Bible and +hymn-books._ + + +SCENE I + +_Behind the scenes musicians are heard playing._ WEILER, _looking about +him, slowly through the centre door; the_ FORESTER'S _wife at the same +time from the left with an air of being very busy. Then_ ANDREW, +WILLIAM, _and finally_ MARY. + +SOPHY. There, the musicians have come already. I wonder where I put the +cellar-key. The musicians must have something to drink. You here, +Weiler? + +WEILER. + +Yes, I'm here. But where is the old man--the forester? + +SOPHY. + +My husband? Isn't he outside? + +WEILER. + +I want to see him about the wood-cutters. + +SOPHY. + +Can't you wait? + +WEILER. + +Wait? Bless you, no. I have my hands full. + +SOPHY. + +Then get along with you! + +WEILER (_quietly filling his short clay pipe with tobacco_). + +Yes. + +SOPHY. + +Is he perhaps already with Herr Stein-- + +WEILER. + +Yes; the sand was already strewn on Tuesday. And the garlands outside at +the door. If I do not mistake we are today celebrating the engagement of +Miss Mary to Mr. Robert Stein? Then they will be even more chummy when +he can say "my father-in-law, Mr. Stein." And that is by no means all. +Now Stein has also bought the estate where Ulrich is forester. The fat +lawyer from town fixed up the deeds yesterday. And this morning Stein +got out of bed as proprietor of Düsterwalde. + +SOPHY. + +The table here-- + +WEILER (_while they carry the table together, on the left_). + +Won't Ulrich have an easy time of it, now that his old friend has become +his master, and is going to be his father-in-law into the bargain! + +SOPHY. + +Nearer the stove. We must get in one more table. + +WEILER (_chuckling to himself_). + +Regular ale-house politicians those two, Stein and Ulrich. Every day +they have a row. + +SOPHY. + +What are you talking there about a row? They're only fooling. + +[_Exit in a hurry; reënters immediately afterward_.] + +WEILER (_going as far as the door, gesticulating behind her_). + +Fooling? Don't you believe it! The one is hot-headed, the other +obstinate. Ever since there was talk of buying the estate, the clearing +of the forest has been the daily apple of discord. Rich people always +pretend to know something, even if they don't know the first thing. Now +Stein thinks that by cutting down every other row of trees in the forest +the first would have more light and room for growing. Maybe Godfrey has +hunted that up in some old book. But when he comes with that theory to +Ulrich he strikes the wrong man. Only day before yesterday I thought +they were going to eat each other up, so that nothing would remain of +either of them. Stein says: "The forest will be _cleared_." The +forester: "The forest will _not_ be cleared." Stein: "But it _shall_ be +cleared." The forester: "It _shall not_ be cleared." Stein jumps up, +buttons his coat, two buttons at a time, knocks down two chairs, and is +gone. Well, I thought, that is the end of the friendship! But Lord bless +my soul! That happened the night before last, and early yesterday +morning--it was scarcely dawn--who comes whistling from the castle and +knocks at the forester's window, as though nothing had happened? That's +Stein. And who has already been waiting for a quarter of an hour and +grunts forth from under his white moustache, "I'm coming?" That's +Ulrich. And now both of them, without asking each other's pardon, go +together out into the forest, as though there never had been a quarrel! +Nobody takes any notice of it any longer. At night they quarrel, in the +morning they go together into the forest, as though it could not be +otherwise. But does he treat his boy any differently? Robert? Does he? +Didn't he want to leave home half a dozen times? And afterward he is too +good. Queer business that! + +[During the last words he has retreated step by step before the table +which ANDREW and WILLIAM are carrying in and placing against the table +which already stands on the left in the direction from the footlights to +the back of stage.] + +SOPHY. + +Put it here. That's it. And now chairs, boys. From the upper room. +Weiler might-- + +[ANDREW and WILLIAM exeunt.] + +WEILER (in a hurry, making ready to go). + +Well, if Weiler did not have his hands full! Outside with the +wood-cutters--then with the fir-seed and with the salt--there--I don't +know where my head's standing with all the work. And the old man-- + +[A pantomime expressive of ULRICH'S severity.] + +SOPHY. + +Well, I don't want to be to blame if you neglect anything. + +[Exit.] + +WEILER (very calmly). + +All right! + +[Laying his finger against his nose.] + +But I wonder whether he will still always be the first to patch up +differences? I mean Stein. Now that he is the forester's master? Well; I +don't want to prophesy, but--the master is always right because he is +the master. Humph! I wish something serious would come to pass. At any +rate, I am getting tired of merry faces again. + +[Enter ANDREW and WILLIAM, carrying chairs.] + +SOPHY. Seven, eight, nine, ten, chairs. + +[Counts once more, softly.] + +Correct! + +WEILER. + +That was a queer expression that Godfrey had on his face yesterday, Mr. +Andrew. I bet you had another quarrel with him. + +SOPHY. + +With that vindictive brutal fellow? + +[_She sets the table._] + +ANDREW. + +Who can live in peace with him? + +SOPHY. + +Well, what's done can't be undone. But you'd better look out for him. + +WEILER. + +So say I. For there is not a muscle in that fellow's body which is not +wicked. + +ANDREW. + +I am not afraid of him. + +SOPHY. + +Come, William; run into the garden. Get me some crown-imperials, +snap-dragons, larkspurs--something big, so that it will look like +something in the glass. The Steins will soon be here with Mr. Möller, +the bookkeeper. + +WEILER. + +The old bachelor-- + +SOPHY. + +Just look, Andrew, whether cousin Wilkens isn't coming yet. + +[_ANDREW and WILLIAM exeunt._] + +WEILER. + +Wilkens is coming too? + +SOPHY (with emphasis). + +Mr. Wilkens? He will not stay away when his niece's daughter announces +her engagement. + +WEILER. + +No, indeed. He has money, has Mr. Wilkens. The richest farmer for miles +around. I also was Mr. Weiler once, before my creditors closed up my +coffee store. Then they jammed the "Mr." in the door and there it is +still. Now people say simply "Weiler"--"Weiler might"--"As long as +Weiler is here," etc. Sometimes, when I am in the humor, I get angry +over it. A strange pleasure, to get angry, but it is a pleasure. Hey! +There comes the bride-to-be. + +[_MARY appears; during the following dialogue the women set the +table._] + +WEILER. + +My! Like a squirrel! + +SOPHY. + +Weiler means to pay you a compliment, Mary. He has a peculiar manner. + +WEILER. + +That is true. It does not matter whether the flattery is coarse or fine. +If a woman only notices that one means to flatter her, she is satisfied. +It is just as when boys stroke a kitten. Whether they pet it gently or +roughly, whether it likes it or not, it cannot help purring. + +MARY. + +And I presume you mean to pet me with this comparison. + +WEILER. + +If you feel obliged to purr it must have been a petting. + +MARY (looking out of the window). + +He is coming, mother. + +SOPHY. + +Who? Robert? + +WEILER. + +I had better be off to my wood-cutters. Otherwise the old man will make +a row. + +[Exit.] + +SOPHY (calling after him). + +If you cannot come in I will save your portion. An uncomfortable fellow! +And it is not likely that he will acquire polite manners at this late +day. That is a relic of his better days. And for that reason your father +is indulgent with him because they were old comrades. Godfrey also was +one of them. When he had wasted his property in drink he fell in with +Stein. + +[_Surveying the table_.] + +Here at the head the father of the bridegroom; next to him your father; +then the good droll pastor. If it had not been for him, Robert would +have gone long ago. + +MARY. + +Mother, at that time Robert was so wild, so impetuous-- + +SOPHY. + +You are right. At that time the pastor and we could scarcely +keep him. [_Counts once more the afore-mentioned persons_.] Then here +Mr. Möller; and there your godfather, my cousin Mr. Wilkens; then I +myself here; there Robert and you; finally, at the foot, Andrew and +William. How the time passes! If I think back to my engagement day! Then +I was not as happy as I am today. + +MARY. + +Mother, I wonder whether every girl that is to become a bride feels as I +do? SOPHY. Not every one has such good cause to be glad as you have. + +MARY. + +But is it gladness that I feel? I am so depressed, mother, so-- + +SOPHY. + +Of course. You are like the flower on which clings a dewdrop. It hangs +its head, and yet the dew is no burden. + +MARY. + +I feel as if it were wrong of me to leave my father, even if it is to go +with Robert. + +SOPHY. + +The Bible says, "A woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her +husband."--But my case was quite different from yours. Your father was a +stately man, no longer quite young, but tall and straight like a pine. +At that time his beard was still black as coal. Many a girl that would +gladly have married him set her cap at him; that I knew. But to me he +seemed too serious, too severe. He took everything so seriously, and he +cared nothing for amusements. It was no easy matter to accommodate +myself to him. I never had to worry about the means of subsistence; and +if I should say that he ever treated me harshly, I should be telling a +lie; even if he pretended to be harsh. + +MARY. + +And that was all you had expected? Was that all. + +SOPHY. + +As if the good Lord could grant everything that is dreamt of by the +heart of a girl who herself does not know what she desires! But here +comes Robert. We will be quite merry, so that no gloomy thoughts will +come to him. + + + +SCENE II + +_Enter_ ROBERT. + +ROBERT. + +Good morning, mother dear. Good morning, Mary. + +SOPHY. + +Good morning, Mr. Bridegroom-to-be. + +ROBERT. + +How glad I am to see you so cheerful. But you Mary? You are +sad, Mary? And I am so joyful, so over-joyful. The whole morning I have +been in the forest. Where the bushes glistened brightest with the dew, +there I penetrated, so that the moist branches should strike my heated +face. There I threw myself down on the grass. But I could not stay +anywhere. It seemed that nothing could relieve me but weeping aloud. And +you--at other times as blithe and gay as a deer--you are sad? Sad on +this day? + +SOPHY. She surely is glad, dear Robert. But you have known her ever +since she was a little child; when others proclaim their happiness, she +hides hers in silence. MARY. No, Robert. Sad I surely am not. I only +have a feeling of solemnity; it has been upon me the whole morning. +Wherever I go, it seems to me as though I were in church. And-- + +ROBERT. + +And what? + +MARY. + +And that now my life is soon to be broken off behind me, as if it were +sinking away from under me, and that a new life is to begin, one so +entirely new--don't be offended, good Robert! This to me is so +strange--gives me such a feeling of anxiety! + +ROBERT. + +A new life? A life so entirely new? Why, Mary, it is still the old life, +only more beautiful. It is still the dear old tree under which we are +sitting, only it is in bloom now. + +MARY. + +Besides, the thought that I am to leave my father and my mother! The old +I see passing away, the new I do not see coming; the old I must leave, +the new I cannot reach. + +ROBERT. + +Must you indeed leave your father? Do we not all remain together? Has +not my father for this very reason bought the estate of Düsterwalde? + +SOPHY. + +That is the anxiety which comes over one in spring; one knows not whence +it comes, nor why. And yet in spring one knows that everything will +become more and more beautiful, and still one feels anxious. One is +merely afraid of happiness. Now that my dearest wishes are about to be +fulfilled--do I not experience the same sensation? I might almost wish +that a roast were burnt, or that a piece of the fine china were broken. +Happiness is like the sun: There must be a little shade if man is to be +comfortable. I will just go to see whether a little shade of that sort +has not been cast in the kitchen. + +[_Exit to the left_.] + +MARY (_after she and_ ROBERT _have been standing in silence facing each +other_). + +Is anything wrong with you, Robert? + +ROBERT. + +With me? No. Perhaps-- + +MARY. + +You are still angry with your father? And he is so good! + +ROBERT. + +That is just the trouble, that he is so good. Oh, his kindness is almost +more difficult to bear than his violent temper! His anger only hurts, +his kindness humiliates; over against his anger I set my pride--but what +can I set against his kindness? + +MARY. + +And you wanted to go away, you wicked Robert, and leave us all! + +ROBERT. + +I wanted to go, but I am still here. Oh! That was a wretched time! I +despaired of everything; of you, Mary; of myself; but all that is now +past. There must be a little shade, only not too much. Let us go out, +Mary. It is so close here in the house. The musicians shall play us the +merriest piece they know. [_They are about to go_.] + + + +SCENE III + +_The same. Enter the_ FORESTER, _his Wife behind him. As soon as_ MARY +_sees the_ FORESTER, _she leaves_ ROBERT _and embraces her father_. + +FORESTER. + +Get out, wench! [_Tearing himself free_.] Is this the sun's ray after a +rainy day, that the gadflies come buzzing about one's head? Have you +filled Robert's ears with lamentations, you women folks? You silly girl +there! + +[_Pushes_ MARY _from him_.] + +I have something to say to Robert. I have been looking for you, Mr. +Stein. + +ROBERT. + +Mr. Stein? No longer Robert? + +FORESTER. + +Everything has its due season, familiar speech and formal speech. When +the women folks are gone-- + +SOPHY. + +Don't worry, we'll retreat, you old bear. Don't be afraid to talk. + +FORESTER. + +All right. As soon as you are out. + +ROBERT (_leads her out_). + +Don't be angry, mother dear. + +SOPHY. + +If I were to mind him, I should never cease being angry. + +FORESTER. + +Close the door! Do you hear? + +SOPHY. + +Hush, hush! + +FORESTER. + +Who is master here? Confound it! + + + +SCENE IV + +_The_ FORESTER; ROBERT. _The_ FORESTER, _when they are alone becomes +embarrassed, and walks up and down for some time_. + +ROBERT. + +You wished to say-- + +FORESTER. + +Quite right-- + +[_Wipes the perspiration from his forehead_.] + +Well; sit down, Mr. Stein. + +ROBERT. + +These preparations-- + +[FORESTER _points to a chair at the end of the table_. ROBERT _seats +himself_.] + +FORESTER (_takes the Bible from the shelf, seats himself opposite_) + +ROBERT,(_puts on his spectacles, opens the book and clears his throat_). + +Proverbs, chapter 31, verse 10: "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her +price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in +her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and +not evil all the days of her life." [7] + +[_Short pause; then he calls brusquely toward_ _the window, while he +remains seated_.] + +William, be careful out there! And then further on, verse 30. You'll +trample down all the boxweed, confound you! "Favor is deceitful, and +beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be +praised."--Robert! + +ROBERT (_starting_). + +Father Ulrich-- + +FORESTER. + +Again, Ecclesiasticus, verse so and so--Mr. Stein-- + +ROBERT. + +Once more "Mister." + +FORESTER. + +I see I shall have to use the familiar form of address. Otherwise I +shall not be able to speak my mind.--Robert-- + +ROBERT. + +You are so solemn! + +FORESTER. + +Solemn? Perhaps so. But this affair is enough to make one solemn. I am +not a heathen. + +[_Strikes an attitude_.] So you are decided with God's help, Robert-- + +ROBERT. Well-- + +FORESTER. + +Hang it!--Don't look at me that way!--You intend to marry, Robert? + +ROBERT (_rises, surprised_). + +Why, you know that-- + +FORESTER. + +That's true. But there must be some sort of introduction. Never mind, +sit down. However, you must give me a chance to finish what I have to +say. On other occasions I am not afraid to talk, but now that I am about +to preach a sermon, it strikes me just as if I were to see the pastor in +his cassock trying to chase a hare. + +[_Relieved_.] + +Now, then; at last I have struck the trail. Suppose a stag from Lützdorf +is roaming about. You understand, Robert? Now give me your attention. +This fork here represents the stag. Right here, do you see? Here is the +salt-cellar: that's you. And the wind blows from the direction of that +plate. What are you going to do now in order to stalk the stag? Hey? + +[_Trying to assist him_.] + +You--well? + +ROBERT. + +I must-- + +FORESTER (_nodding assent_). + +You must-- + +[_Makes a pantomime_.] + +ROBERT. + +I must get to the windward of him. + +FORESTER. + +Get to the windward. Correct. Do you begin to see what I am driving at? +You must get to the windward of him. That's it! Do you see now? That is +the reason why I had to have a talk with you. + +[_Solemnly_.] + +You must get to the windward of the stag. + +[_Rises_.] + +And now--make her happy--Robert--my Mary. + +[_About to go_.] + +ROBERT. + +But what has all this to do with Mary? + +FORESTER. + +Why, you have not yet understood me? Look here! The stag must not have +an inkling that you are very anxious about him; and much less a woman. +You make too much fuss about the women. Children must not know how +dearly one loves them; anything but that! But women even less so. In +reality, they are nothing but grown-up children, only more shrewd. And +the children are already shrewd enough.--Sit down, Robert, I must tell +you something. + +[_They sit at the edge of the table, facing the audience_.] + +When that Mary of mine was four years old--no taller than this--I once +came home later than usual. "Where is Mary?" I ask. One child says: "In +her room;" the other: "In front of the house. She'll be here pretty +soon." But one guess was as far from the truth as the other. Evening +comes, night comes--Mary does not appear. I go outside. In the garden, +in the adjoining shrubbery, on the rocks of the dell, in the whole +forest--not a trace of Mary. In the meantime my wife is looking for her +at your house, then at every house in the village, but nowhere can she +find a trace of Mary. Can it be possible that some one should have +kidnapped her? Why, she was as beautiful as a wax-doll, my Mary. The +whole night I never touched my bed. Even at that time Mary was +everything to me. The next morning I alarm the entire village. Not a +person fails to respond. All were passionately fond of Mary. At least I +wished to bury the corpse. In the dell, you know, the thicket of +firs--under the cliffs where on the other side of the brook the old +footpath runs high along the rocks-next to it the willows. This time I +crawl through the whole thicket. In the midst of it is the small open +meadows; there at last I see something red and white. Praised be heaven! +It is she--and neither dead nor ill, no, safe and sound in the green +grass; and after her sleep her little cheeks were as red as peonies, +Robert. But-- + +[_He looks about him and lowers his voice_.] + +I hope she is not listening. + +[_Draws closer to_ ROBERT; _whenever he forgets himself, he immediately +lowers his voice_.] + +I say: "Is it you, really?" "Of course," she says, and rubs her eyes so +that they sparkle. "And you are alive," I say; "and did not die," I say, +"of hunger and fear?" I say. "Half a day and a whole, night alone in the +forest, in the very thickest of the forest! Come," I say, "that in the +meantime mother may not die of anxiety," I say. Says she: "Wait a while, +father." "But, why and for what?" "Till the child comes again," says +she. "And let us take it with us, please, father. It is a dear child." +"But who, in all the world, is this child?" I ask. "The one that came to +me," says she, "when I ran away from you a little while ago after the +yellow butterfly, and when all at once I was quite alone in the forest +and wanted to cry and call after you, and who picked berries for me and +played with me so nicely." "A little while ago?" I say. "Did not the +night come since then?" I say. But she would not believe that. We looked +for the child and--naturally did not find it. Men no longer have faith +in anything, but I know what I know. Do you understand, Robert? Say +nothing. It seems to me I were committing a sacrilege if I should say it +right out. There, shake hands with me without saying anything. All +right, Robert.--For heaven's sake, don't let her hear what we are saying +about her. + +[_Goes softly to the door; looks out_.] MARY (_outside_). + +Do you want anything, father? + +FORESTER (_nods secretly toward_ ROBERT, _then brusquely_). + +Nothing. And don't you come in again before I-- + +[_Comes back; speaks just above a whisper_.] + +Do you see? That's the way to treat her. You make far too much fuss +about that girl. She is [_still more softly_] a girl that any father +might be proud of, and I think she is going to be a wife after God's own +heart. I have such a one. Do you see, I don't mind telling you, because +I know you are not going to repeat it to her. For she must not know it; +otherwise all my pains would go for nothing. And pains it certainly cost +me till I got her so far; pains, I tell you. I advise you not to spoil +my girl, whom I have gone to so much trouble to bring up properly. + +ROBERT. + +You may think,--but I don't understand you at all. + +FORESTER. + +There's just the rub! You don't do it purposely. But, confound it! Don't +make such a fuss over the girl, do you hear? If you go on this way, she +will have you in her pocket within a month. The women always want to +rule; all their thoughts and aspirations tend to that end, without being +themselves aware of it. And when they finally do rule, they are unhappy +in spite of it; I know more than one instance of this. I only look +inside the door, and I know for certain what sort of figure the man +cuts. I only look at the cattle. If the dog or the cat is not well +trained, neither are the children; and the wife still less. Hey? My wife +does not yet know me as far as that here [_points to his heart_] is +concerned. And if she should ever get hold of that secret--then good-by, +authority! The wife may be an angel, but the man must act like a bear. +And especially a huntsman. That's part of the business, just as much as +the moustache and the green coat. + +ROBERT. + +But could it not be possible that-- + +FORESTER (_eagerly_). No, Robert. Once and for all, no! There is no way +out of it. Either he trains her, or she trains him.--For example; let me +give you only one instance how to go about it. My wife cannot see any +human being suffer; now the poor wretches come in troops, and I should +like to know what is to come of it all, if I were to praise her to her +face. Therefore I grumble and swear like a trooper, but at the same time +I gradually withdraw, so that she has full liberty. And when I notice +that she is through, then I come along again, as if by accident, and +keep on grumbling and swearing. Then people say: "The Hereditary +Forester is harder on the poor than the devil himself, but his wife and +his girl, they are angels from heaven." And they say this so that I +should hear it; and hear it I do. But I pretend not to notice it, and +laugh in my sleeve; and to keep up appearances I bluster all the +more.--It seems the guests are arriving. Robert, my wife, and my girl, +my Mary--if I at some time--you understand me, Robert. Give me your +hand. God is looking down on us. + +[_Wipes his eyes_.] + +The deuce! Confound it! Don't let the cat out of the bag to the +women--and you rule her as it ought to be. + +[_He turns around to hide his emotion, with gestures expressive of his +vexation that he cannot control himself. At the door he encounters the +following_]: + + + +SCENE V + +_The same_. STEIN; MÖLLER; WILKENS; MARY; SOPHY. _They exchange +greetings with the_ FORESTER. + +STEIN. + +What's your hurry, old man? Have you already had a row with him? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. I have given the young gentleman a lecture on the subject of +women-folks. + +STEIN. + +High treason against the majesty of petticoat-government? And you permit +that, madam? + +SOPHY. + +A little more, a little less--when one has to put up with so much! + +FORESTER. + +And now can anybody say that this woman is not clever enough to get one +under her thumb. But let us have cards. I had to promise Stein that he +should have his revenge today before lunch-- + +STEIN. Revenge I must have. + +[_The_ FORESTER _and_ STEIN _sit down opposite each other on the right +side of the stage and play cards_.] + +SOPHY (_watches them a moment; then to_ ROBERT, _while going to and fro +with an air of being very busy_). + +I hope to heaven they are not going to discuss the clearing of the +forest today. + +MÖLLER (_on the left side, stepping up to_ WILKENS _and pointing to_ +MARY, _who is talking to her mother and_ ROBERT). + +That is what I call a fine-looking bride! + +WILKENS. + +And she is not a beggar's child either, Sir. + +MÖLLER (_politely_). + +Who does not know that Mr. Wilkens is her mother's uncle? + +WILKENS (_flattered_). + +Well, well! + +MÖLLER. + +And Mr. Wilkens need not be ashamed, I believe, of the firm of Stein and +Son. + +WILKENS (_calmly_). + +By no means. + +MÖLLER (_with great enthusiasm_). + +Sir! The firm of Stein and Son! I have served the firm twenty years. +That is my honor and my pride. For me the firm is wife and child! + +WILKENS. + +I do not doubt it. + +MÖLLER. + +The foremost houses of Germany would consider it an honor to ally +themselves in marriage with Stein and Son. + +WILKENS. I am sure of it. + +[_Turns to the bridal couple_.] + +MÖLLER (_angrily to himself_). + +And that fellow parades his peasant's pride, as if Stein and Son ought +to esteem it a high honor to ally themselves with that forester's goose. +His forty-five will be divided into three parts, and only after his +death. The only daughter of Löhlein & Co. with her eighty! That were +quite a different capital for our business; and cash down today! This +mesalliance is unpardonable. But what can one do? One must [_A waltz is +heard without_] dance off one's vexation. May I have the honor, madam +[_to_ SOPHY] on the lawn? + +[_Bows with an old bachelor's jauntiness_.] + +STEIN. + +I wonder whether I'll get decent cards! + +SOPHY. + +I guess we'll have time for that? + +WILKENS. + +Old Wilkens is not yet going to sit in a corner. + +[_Fumbles in his pocket_.] + +Wilkens must also contribute his dollar for the benefit of the +musicians. I hope I have your permission, Mr. Bridegroom? + +[MÖLLER _leads out_ SOPHY; WILKENS _leads_ MARY; ROBERT _follows_.] + + + +SCENE VI + +STEIN; _the_ FORESTER. + +STEIN (_throwing down his cards_). + +Have I a single trump? + +FORESTER (_calling_). + +Twenty in spades. + +STEIN (_taking up his cards again; impatiently_). + +Why not forty? Talking about spades reminds me--have you considered that +matter about the clearing? + +FORESTER. That fellow is a-- + +[_They continue to play_.] + +STEIN. + +What fellow? + +FORESTER. + +The fellow who hatched that scheme. + +STEIN. + +Do you mean me? + +FORESTER. + +Your Godfrey there-- + +STEIN (_getting excited: with emphasis_). + +_My_ Godfrey? + +FORESTER (_growing more and more calm and cheerful_). + + +Well, for all I care, mine, then. + +STEIN. + +Why do you always drag him in? + +FORESTER. + +Never mind him, then. + +STEIN. + +As if I--it is you--whenever an opportunity offers, you, you drag him +in. You can't get rid of him. Like dough he sticks to your teeth. + +FORESTER (_very calmly_). + +As, for example, just now. + +STEIN. + +You have made up your mind to annoy me. + +FORESTER. + +Nonsense! You only want to pick a quarrel. STEIN. I? But why do you +immediately trump, when I play a wrong card? + +FORESTER. + +Playing a wrong card means losing the game. + +STEIN (_throwing down his cards_). + +Well, there you have the whole business! + +[_Jumps up_.] + +FORESTER. I deal. + +[_Shuffles calmly and deals_.] + +STEIN (_has taken a few steps_). + +I am not going to play any more with you. + +FORESTER (_unconcerned_). + +But it is my turn to deal. + +STEIN (_sits down again_). + +Obstinate old fellow! + +FORESTER. + +You immediately lose your temper. + +STEIN (_taking his cards; still angry_). + +You would not give in, even if it were as clear as day that you are +wrong! + + + +SCENE VII + +_The same. Enter_ MÖLLER, _leading in_ SOPHY; WILKENS. _The waltz +outside is finished_. + +SOPHY. + +But now I think that-- + +FORESTER. + +One more turn. + +SOPHY. + +Everything is ready-- + +FORESTER. + +The pastor-- + +SOPHY. + +He sent word that we are not to wait lunch for him. But he would be here +at eleven o'clock sharp for the betrothal. + +FORESTER. + +Then sit down and eat. + +STEIN. + +Please, do not let us detain you. + +FORESTER. + +It is immaterial whether we sit here or there. Now then! Forty in +spades. + +[_Continuing to play_.] + +STEIN. + +All right! Go ahead. + +FORESTER (_triumphantly_). + +Are not you thinking of Godfrey again? And the clearing? Hey? + +STEIN (_controlling himself_). + +Now you see-- + +FORESTER (_more excited_). + +That the fellow is a fool--Queens are trumps. + +STEIN. + +I'm bearing in mind that we are not alone. + +FORESTER (_excited by the game_). + +And trump--and trump!--the forest shall be cleared! + +STEIN. + +That will do, I say. The idea was mine. + +FORESTER. + +And trump. + +STEIN. + +And if I--[_He controls himself_.] + +FORESTER (_triumphantly_). + +Well, what then? + +[_Puts the cards together_.] + +STEIN (_making a desperate effort to contain himself_). + +And if I should wish to have it so--if I should insist upon it--then-- +FORESTER. + +Everything would remain as it is. + +STEIN. + +The forest would be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +Nothing of the kind. + +STEIN. + +We'll see about that. And now the forest _shall_ be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +It shall _not_. + +STEIN. + +Sir! + +FORESTER (_laughing_). + +Mr. Stein! + +STEIN. + +It's all right! It's all right! + +FORESTER (_very calmly_). + +As it is. + +STEIN. + +Not another word-- + +FORESTER. + +And not a tree-- + +STEIN (_rises_). + +No contradiction and no sarcasm! That I request. That I insist upon. I +am the master of Düsterwalde. + +FORESTER. + +And I am the forester of Düsterwalde. + +[STEIN _is getting more and more excited. He shows plainly that the +presence of other persons increases his sensitiveness, and he makes an +evident effort to control his temper. The_ FORESTER _treats the matter +lightly, as an every-day affair_. SOPHY _with increasing anxiety looks +from one to the other_. WILKENS _does not move a muscle of his face_. +MÖLLER _exhibits his sympathy by accompanying his master's words with +appropriate gestures. The entire pantomimic by-play is very rapid_.] + +STEIN. + +You are my servant, and I command: The forest shall be cleared. If not, +you are no longer my servant. The forest shall be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +Old hot-head! + +STEIN. + +Either you obey, or you are no longer forester. + +FORESTER. + +Stuff and nonsense! + +STEIN. + +And I shall put Godfrey in your place. + +FORESTER. + +Quite right. Congratulations. + +STEIN (_buttons his coat_). + +The forest shall be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +The forest shall not be cleared. + +SOPHY (_stepping between the two_). + +But-- + +STEIN. + +I regret this exceedingly.--Mr. Möller!--I bid everybody good-day. + +[_Exit_.] + +MÖLLER. + +Bravo! At last he has spoken his mind in a manner worthy of Stein and +Son. Yours truly. + +[_Follows_ STEIN.] + +FORESTER. + +I deal-- + +[_He looks up while shuffling the cards_.] + +But--well, let him go. If he can't sit for an hour without exploding, +the old powder-bag-- + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The_ FORESTER _remains seated imperturbably_. SOPHY _stands beside his +chair_. WILKENS _steps up to the_ FORESTER. + +SOPHY. + +But what in the world is going to come of this? + +WILKENS. + +He should have gone after him. + +FORESTER. The old hot-head! + +SOPHY. + +I am absolutely dumbfounded. On the very day of betrothal! + +WILKENS. + +But for the sake of a few miserable trees he surely is not going to-- + +FORESTER. + +Miserable trees? Thunder! In my forest there is no miserable +tree!--Nonsense. There is no cause for lamentation. + +WILKENS. + +But Mr. Stein-- + +FORESTER. + +Is not going to run far. When his anger has subsided, he will be the +first one to--he is better than I. + +WILKENS. + +But-- + +FORESTER. + +Hang it! You always have a "But." That's the way he goes on every day. +For twenty years-- + +WILKENS. + +But today he is your master. + +FORESTER. + +Master or not. The forest shall not be cleared. WILKENS. But you will +lose your place. + +FORESTER. + +To Godfrey? Idle talk! Stein himself can't bear Godfrey, and he knows +what I am worth to him. I need not sing my own praise. Show me a forest +anywhere in the whole district that can be compared to mine.--Do you +hear? Why, there he is back again. Sit down. And if he comes in, act as +if nothing had happened. + + + +SCENE IX _The same. Enter_ MÖLLER _rapidly; later_, ANDREW. + +FORESTER (_not looking up_). + +Well, I deal. + +[_Takes the cards, notices his mistake_.] + +Is that you, Mr. Möller? + +MÖLLER (_pompously_). + +At your service. + +FORESTER. + +Well, sit down. Has he cooled down again, the old hot-head? Why doesn't +he come in? I suppose he expects me to fetch him? + +[_Is about to go_.] + +MÖLLER. + +Mr. Stein sends me to ask you, sir, whether you have changed your mind. + +FORESTER. + +I should say not! + +MÖLLER. + +That you will clear the forest? + +FORESTER. + +That I will _not_ clear the forest. + +MÖLLER. + +That means, that you are going to resign your position as forester. + +FORESTER. + +That means--that you are a fool. + +MÖLLER (_very pompously_). + +I have been commissioned by Mr. Adolf Friedrich Stein, head of the firm +of Stein and Son, in case you should still persist in your refusal to +execute the command of your master, to announce to you your dismissal, +and to notify Godfrey immediately that he is forester of Düsterwalde. + +FORESTER. + +And that would be a great pleasure to you-- + +MÖLLER. + +I am not to be considered in this matter. What is to be considered is +the firm of Stein and Son, whom I have the honor to represent. I give +you five minutes time for consideration. + +[_Steps to the window_.] + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD THE FINDING OF MOSES] + +FORESTER. + +Dismiss me? Dismiss me? Do you know what that means? Dismiss a man who +has served faithfully for forty years? Good heavens, sir! If I should do +what he wishes--then I deserved to be dismissed. Clear the forest! And +the mountain faces north and northwest, absolutely exposed-- + +WILKENS. + +Well! But this is not a question of your trees. + +FORESTER. + +So that the wind can rush in and break down everything. Hang it! +Nonsense! He does not mean it at all. If he only comes to his senses-- + +WILKENS. + +That's just what I say. Until it comes to the actual cutting down, one +has time to think a hundred times. And don't you see that it is not at +all the cutting down that Mr. Stein is concerned about? He is only +concerned about maintaining his authority. If he is the master he +necessarily must be right. + +FORESTER. + +But he is wrong, and I shall not give my consent to anything that is +wrong. For forty years I have disregarded my own interest for the sake +of what was intrusted to my care; I have-- + +WILKENS. + +Well. My opinion is, that if for forty years you have had such tender +regard for your trees, you might now, for once, have a similar regard +for your wife and children and yourself. + +FORESTER. + +Do you know that to Stein there may result from this a loss of six +thousand dollars? Do you? Of that sum I should deprive him if I +consented. And would you have some one come along and say: "Ulrich gave +his consent to that? In fifteen years there might have been such a +forest of timber, that a forester's heart would have swelled with pride, +and--" + +WILKENS. + +Well. That might still-- + +FORESTER. + +After the cursed wind from the direction of Hersbruck once has made +havoc in it? You talk as you understand it. + +SOPHY (_anxiously_). + +But what is to become of us? + +FORESTER. + +We are honest people, and such we shall remain. WILKENS. Well! As if +honesty entered even remotely into this question! + +FORESTER. + +But, gracious heavens! What else does enter? Hey? Am I to play the +sycophant? Just try to kick me! You'll soon learn better. And laugh in +my sleeve? Only no honest, fearless word! That is your peasant's +philosophy. As long as they don't touch your pocket-book, you put up +with anything. If you are not compelled-- + +WILKENS (_self-satisfied_). + +Well, yes. If the peasant is not compelled, he moves neither hand nor +foot. There he is quite right. That is the peasant's philosophy. And, I +tell you, this peasant's philosophy is not so foolish. Had you practised +this philosophy, you would have done your duty, and not a penny's worth +more; you would have spent your money on yourself, your wife and your +children, and not to increase somebody else's wealth. In that case, it +would not concern you now what becomes of it.--Whose bread I eat, his +praise I sing. You are paid to be servant, not master. When, therefore, +your master says: The forest shall be cleared-- + +FORESTER. + +Then I must see to it that it is not done. The honest man comes before +the servant. + +WILKENS. + +Well. Now we are just as far as we were at the beginning. + +[_Turns away_.] + +SOPHY. + +You are not going? You are my only consolation, cousin. No doubt, he +will change his mind. He has the greatest respect for you, cousin. + +WILKENS. + +I notice he has. + +SOPHY. + +The betrothal!--Mary! How unfortunate that the pastor has not yet +arrived! Cousin, if you only would-- + +_Enter_ ANDREW. + +WILKENS. + +His head is as hard as iron. Can any one make anything plain to him? +MÖLLER (_who until now has been looking out of the window without saying +anything, looks at his watch, and then turns pompously to the_ +FORESTER). + +Sir, I should like to ask you for your final decision. + +FORESTER. + +What I have said, I have said. + +[_Takes a few steps, then stops_.] + +And moreover, he can't do it; I mean, dismiss me. He has no right to +dismiss me. First of all he must produce evidence that I have deserved +it. He has no right to dismiss me without any cause whatever. + +MÖLLER (_with authority_). + +So you will not clear the forest? Say it plainly: You will not? + +FORESTER. + +If it was not sufficiently plain to you before, then: No! I can't state +it more plainly. I will not be a scoundrel, and he cannot dismiss an +honest man. Is that plain, definite and unmistakable? I am forester, and +I remain forester--and the forest shall not be cleared. That you may +tell your master and your Godfrey and whomever you please. + +SOPHY. + +Have only a little patience with him. I am sure Mr. Stein does not mean +it, and you have been so kind already-- + +MÖLLER. + +If the decision rested with me, with me, Justus Möller,--what would I +not do to please you, madam? But I am here as the representative of +Stein and Son. + +FORESTER. + +And if he thinks he has a right, let him act accordingly. But you, +woman, do not insult my good right by asking favors of the wrong-doer. +Good-day, Mr. Möller. Is there anything else you desire? Nothing? Have +you anything else to tell me? + +MÖLLER (_very pompously_). + +Nothing beyond the fact that your incumbency of the post of forester +ceases with the present moment. Here is your salary--a half year in +advance. In consideration whereof, as soon as possible, within three +days at the latest, you will vacate this house, so that the present +forester may move in, upon whom, from this moment on, rests the sole +responsibility for the forest. + +[_The_ FORESTER _is obliged to sit down_.] + +SOPHY (_to_ ANDREW, _whom she has been compelled to restrain all the +while, and who now rushes toward the door_). + +Where are you going, Andrew? + +ANDREW. + +I am going to tell Robert what his father-- + +SOPHY. + +Don't you dare to-- + +ANDREW. + +Let me go, mother, before I lay hands on that fellow there-- + +[_Exit in violent anger_.] + +FORESTER. + +Never mind. Never mind! Keep quiet, woman. + +[_Rises_.] + +Good-day, Mr. Möller. You have left some money behind you, sir. Better +take it, or I'll throw it after you. + +[_Steps to the window and whistles_.] + +MÖLLER. + +You see, madam, it gives me pain to discharge my duty. I am going to +Godfrey. + +FORESTER (_without turning toward him_). + +Good luck on the way! + + + +SCENE X + +_The_ FORESTER _is standing at the window whistling_. WILKENS _is +looking for his cane and hat_. SOPHY _in perplexity looks from one to +the other. As he is about to leave_, MÖLLER _encounters_ ROBERT _and_ +ANDREW, _who come rushing in_. MARY _is clinging to the arm of_ ROBERT +_whom she tries to calm_. + +ROBERT (_entering angrily_). + +He shall give in. He shall not spoil the beautiful day. + +ANDREW. + +Go to your father. He commenced this quarrel. + +MÖLLER. + +It is lucky that I meet you, Mr. Stein. I am commissioned to beg you to +come home at once. + +[_Exit_.] + +ROBERT. + +Ulrich, you yield; you must yield. + +FORESTER (_turning away from the window_). + +You, Mr. Stein? What do you want from me? Mary, you go out there! What +do you want from the man whom your father intends to dismiss? + +ROBERT. + +But why will you not consent? + +ANDREW. + +Because he wishes to remain an honest man, and will not suffer himself +to be made a scoundrel by you. [_The_ FORESTER _makes a sign to him to +be silent_.] + +ROBERT. + +I am not talking to you now, Andrew. + + +FORESTER. + +You are here with your father's consent, Mr. Stein? Moreover--sir, and +if your father had the power to take from me my position and my +honor--the fact that I have an irreproachable child, that is something +he cannot take from me. And any one else--hey? Young man, on this point +I am touchy. Do you understand? + +SOPHY. + +But will you fall out even with your last friend? + +FORESTER. + +Mary's reputation is at stake. If he is a friend, he knows without my +telling him what he has to do. + +ROBERT. + +I know what I have to do; but you do not. Otherwise you would +not risk your children's happiness for a whim--for-- + +FORESTER. + +Ho! ho! Tell that to your father, young man! + +ROBERT. + +For your obstinacy. I have your word, and Mary has mine; I am a man, and +will be no scoundrel. + +FORESTER. + +And because you will not be a scoundrel, I am to be one? Shall people +say: "Ulrich caused a quarrel between father and son?" Sir, my girl is +too good to have it said of her that she stole into your family. Mr. +Stein, this is my home. You know what I mean. + +SOPHY. + +At least let the children-- + +FORESTER. + +Do something foolish? And you look on; and afterward you can do nothing +better than weep. + +ROBERT. + +Mary, whatever befall-- + +FORESTER. + +I do not know whether I know Mary. If I am mistaken in her then it is +better you go with him at once. + +MARY. + +Father, he is so true. + +FORESTER. + +Very well. Go with him. + +SOPHY. + +So inflexible-- + +ROBERT. In the name of heaven, Mary, which has +destined us for one another-- + +FORESTER (_as before, to his wife_). + +And let me advise you not to--Do you hear, if it should come to pass-- + + +[_Turns with her toward the background_.] + +ANDREW (_bursting out_). + +Now it's enough! Mary, either you go or he goes. + +SOPHY. + +Now you are beginning too, Andrew! [_Goes to him on the left side of the +stage_.] + +ANDREW. + +I have been silent long enough. Let me alone, mother. His father has +insulted my father; I will not allow this fellow to insult my sister +also. + +ROBERT. + +You belong to me, Mary. I should like to see him who--keep your hands +off! + +MARY. + +Robert, it is my brother! + +ANDREW (_threatening_). + +Only one step further, or-- + +ROBERT. + +Away, I say; for God's sake-- + +ANDREW. + +You are no match for me-- + +ROBERT. + +Not with the point of your finger shall you touch what belongs to me. I +defy you all-- + +ANDREW. + +Do you hear that, father? + +FORESTER (_stepping between the two_). + +Back there, fellow! Who is master in this house? + +ANDREW. + +If you are master, father, then show that you are. Otherwise let me show +it to that fellow there. + +FORESTER. + +Andrew, go over there, and say not another word! + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +Will you mind what I say? + +[ANDREW _pulls a rifle from the wall_.] + +FORESTER. + +What are you doing there? + +ANDREW (_with suppressed rage_). + +Nothing. Here in the house you are master. Outside no one is master; +outside we all are. + +FORESTER. + +In my forest I am master. + +ANDREW. + +But not a step beyond. + +FORESTER. + +What do you mean? Answer! + +ANDREW. + +Nothing particular, father. Only that fellow there need know.--If you +are not concerned about your own honor--I shall protect Mary's honor. +That is for him who dares to come near Mary. + +SOPHY. + +What words are those? + +ROBERT. + +Idle words. It is children that are afraid of words. + +ANDREW. + +There will be something more than words, as surely as I am a man. + +ROBERT. + +If you were a man you would not threaten, you-- + +ANDREW. + +If we were somewhere else, you would not taunt-- + +FORESTER. + +Andrew! + +ROBERT. + +Make room-- + +ANDREW. + +Get out, I say-- + +[FORESTER _almost at the same time puts his finger in his mouth and +gives a shrill whistle_.] + +ANDREW. + +If you no longer-- + +FORESTER (_stepping between the two_). + +Rebellious boys! Hold your peace! Don't you dare to strike, either one +of you! You confounded fellow! When I need a guardian I certainly shall +not select a greenhorn. Is it I who is master here or is it some one +else? What business have you here, fellow? Get you gone into the forest; +look after Weiler that he does not loaf; then take out a dozen maple +trees from the nursery and put them up in damp moss; see to it that the +messenger from Haslau does not have to wait when he comes. Not a word! +Along with you! + +[ANDREW _obeys and goes, after having cast a threatening look at_ +ROBERT, _to which the latter replies_.] + +FORESTER. + +And you, Mr. Stein; good-day, Mr. Stein. You know what I mean. + +SOPHY. + +If you would intercede with your father; but gently and kindly! And if +you would bring him back! + +MARY. + +Then I should see how truly you love me, Robert. + +FORESTER (_less roughly_). + +Don't come again before that. Good-by, Robert. And leave that girl +alone. + +ROBERT. + +I am going. But come what may, I shall not resign my claim upon Mary. +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY. + +Is everything to turn out unlucky today? And you, cousin, are you also +going to leave us? + +WILKENS. + +Well! If one insists on running his head through a wall, I'm not the +fool to hold my hand in between. + +[_Exit_.] + + + +ACT II + +_In the Manor House_ + + + +SCENE I + +STEIN _alone, seated._ + +STEIN. + +Confound his obstinacy! The whole fine day spoiled! Otherwise +we should now be at table. I suppose he is right after all, that this +clearing serves no goad purpose. But is that a reason why he should put +me into this rage? It is true, I should have been wiser than he. +Probably my excitement was also partly to blame.--I am only sorry for +his wife--and the children. I am going to--[_Rises, then sits down +again._] Do what? Repair one foolish action with another? Be as rash in +yielding as I was in taking offense? The old hotspur! But that shall +serve me as a lesson. + +[_Short pause. Then he rises again, takes his cane and hat and throws +both down again._] + +No, it won't do--It simply will not do. Well! I should make myself +ridiculous forever! This time he must come to me; I can't help him. But +perhaps he has already--isn't that Möller? + +[_Hastens toward the person coming in._] + + + +SCENE II + +ROBERT; STEIN. + +ROBERT (_entering, in a passion_). + +You will ruin my happiness, father? + +STEIN (_surprised, indignant_). + +Robert! + +ROBERT. + +You have no right to do that. + +STEIN. + +That's the last straw! Now you too must come along and set me fuming. + +ROBERT. + +Father, you have me fetched away from the betrothal festivities like a +child from his playthings. But I am no child to whom one gives and takes +away as one likes. I have your word, and you must keep it. Do you intend +to sacrifice my happiness to a whim? Paternal authority cannot go so +far. + +STEIN. + +But tell me, what is your object in saying this? + +ROBERT. + +I wish to ask you whether you intend to bring about a reconciliation +between the forester and yourself. + +STEIN. + +Boy, how can you dare to ask? Do you mean to call me to account? Go to +that obstinate fellow. It is he that is in the wrong; it is he that must +yield! + +ROBERT. + +I just came from the forester; he referred me to you. + +STEIN. + +I can do nothing. And now leave me in peace. + +ROBERT. + +You will do nothing toward a reconciliation? + +STEIN. + +Nothing, unless he yields. And now go your ways. + +ROBERT. + +If you will do nothing toward a reconciliation I shall never again cross +his threshold. Andrew and I have become mortal enemies. Perhaps this +very day I shall face him in an encounter for life and death. Come what +may, I have done everything I was able to do. Father, no blame can +attach to me. If a catastrophe takes place--you could have prevented it, +the forester could have prevented it. Mary is mine, and neither you nor +the forester shall take her from me. + +STEIN. + +Are you mad, boy? To your room this moment! Do you hear? + +ROBERT. + +Father, I ask you-- + +STEIN. + +You shall obey, not ask! + +ROBERT. + +Your anger carries you away. Father, I implore you, do not tear open the +wound which healed only because I made allowance for your excited state. +I shall wait till you have become calm; till you are again master of +yourself. + +STEIN. + +You see that I am master of myself. You try to provoke me by all means, +and you do not succeed. But now not another word! Not a sound! + +ROBERT (_beside himself_). + +Not a word? A hundred words, a thousand words; as many as I have breath +to utter. I _will_ speak; until I have relieved myself of this load on +my heart, I will speak! You may forbid your Möller, your blacksmiths to +speak, not me! Show your impatience as much as you want, remain or +go--speak I _will_. Once for all you shall know that I will no longer +stand being treated like a boy, that I will be free, that I can stand on +my own feet, that you shall be obliged to respect me, that I will be +neither your toy nor any man's! + +STEIN. + +Do you threaten me with the old song? I know it by heart. You are still +here? I thought you had gone. Oh, indeed! You mean to speak, do you? +Speak, do what you wish. I shall not prevent you. + +ROBERT (_calmly, with the accent of determination_). + +And if you wished to prevent me, it were too late. I insist upon my +right, even if it should cost my own or another's life. But I hold you +and the forester responsible. + +STEIN (_who is beginning to repent his anger_). + +Boy-- + +ROBERT. + +Farewell--perhaps forever! [_Rushes out_.] + + + +SCENE III + +STEIN _alone; later, the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN (_forgetting himself, going a few steps after him_). + +Where are you going? Robert! My boy!--Curse it! I have scarcely got over +my anger, and the next moment--But does it not seem as though all had +entered into a conspiracy to keep me in a turmoil of excitement? If he +really has had a falling out and meets those hotspurs--But I cannot run +after him. Will he come back? + +_Enter the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +You, parson? You find me here. + +PASTOR. + +I have heard of the affair. + +[_Shakes hands_.] + +STEIN. + +Robert, my boy-- + +PASTOR. + +Almost knocked me down. He wants to leave home again, hey? We'll manage +to hold him. + +STEIN. + +And with that obstinate old fellow-- + +PASTOR. + +I know. It's the old story again, the everlasting story, the ending of +which one always knows in advance. + +STEIN. + +But this time one cannot be so certain. + +PASTOR. + +True. It is more complicated than usual, because at the same time the +affair of the young gentleman was mixed up with it. Moreover, the young +gentleman this time has also had words with Andrew. However-- + +STEIN. + +Isn't that he who is coming along there? + + + +SCENE IV + +MÖLLER; STEIN; _the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +You, Möller? What is the prospect? Will he yield? + +MÖLLER. + +So little does he think of yielding that he even wishes me to tell you, +you have not the power to dismiss him. + +STEIN. + +He thinks I have not the power? + +[_More composed_.] + +If he only thought I had not the intention!--And you have tried +everything? + +MÖLLER. + +Everything. + +STEIN. + +Did you also threaten him with Godfrey? As if he were to be appointed +forester, as if you were to deliver to him his commission immediately, +in case-- + +MÖLLER. + +As if I were to?--My instructions were more definite. I bring you +Godfrey's respectful acknowledgment; he accepts the position. + +STEIN. + +He ac--he accepts it? He really accepts it? What an obliging man he is, +that Godfrey! And you into the bargain--with your haste. Have you +entirely lost your senses, sir? The whole thing was intended to scare +Ulrich. I wanted him to listen to reason--to yield. And if in the first +heat I actually did say it as you understood it, you should have +interpreted it differently. You know that in my heart I am not thinking +of dismissing that old man who is worth a thousand times more--but you +understand it, you understood it right, but--now that it is too late, I +recall you always opposed this marriage. + +MÖLLER. + +I have served the firm of Stein and Son for twenty years, time enough to +learn at last that one can serve too faithfully. I have done nothing but +execute your instructions literally. And if, in spite of that, you +persist in misjudging me, then this must be my consolation. I have never +compromised the dignity of Stein and Son. + +[_Sits down to work_.] + +STEIN. + +Then the dignity of Stein and Son may thank you for what you have done; +I shall not. [_Pause_.] And yet, when one considers the matter calmly, +what else was to be done? After all that took place? Don't be uneasy; I +simply asserted myself as master. + +PASTOR. + +That is quite a new sensation! + +STEIN. + +Now I have confronted him with that confounded alternative, +before old Wilkens there. Surely, I cannot--confound the rash word!--a +word that in my innermost heart I did not mean seriously, and which now +becomes fate, because I did not take the pains to keep that word under +control. + +PASTOR. + +Indeed! it is exceedingly disagreeable for discretion to acknowledge the +debts that passion has contracted. Why, in the name of common sense, did +you not have your quarrel by yourselves, as usual? + +STEIN (_who has been walking up and down_). + +No, it will not do. And yet, if I think of those hot-headed +boys--Möller, please send immediately for my Robert; send some one to +find him and tell him that I must speak with him. + +[_Exit_ MÖLLER, _and returns soon_.] + +STEIN. + +I can't help the obstinate old fellow; this time _he_ must knuckle +under. I cannot go back on my word; that he must see himself. And by +this time he also may have come to his senses. But in order that he may +see that I am ready to do whatever I can toward a reconciliation, +without losing my dignity--how would it be, parson, if you went to see +him? His post, I dare say, he must resign for the time being; but his +present salary he may--yes, he shall draw twice the amount. He may +regard it as a pension, until further notice. I should think--after all, +his is the chief fault in this business--in this way he is let off +easily enough for his share. + +PASTOR. + +I am going at once. + +STEIN. + +And I shall accompany you part of the way. I ought not to walk all +alone. + +[_Exeunt to the left_.] + + + +SCENE V + +MÖLLER _alone; later,_ GODFREY. + +MÖLLER. + +Even if the marriage with Miss Löhlein should not come to pass, at least +Stein and Son have asserted themselves. It used to turn my stomach to +see how he always was the first to make up. This time I am satisfied +with my chief, and will not mind his rebuke. But who is making that +noise out there? [_At the door_.] It is lucky that they went through the +rooms. It is Godfrey. And in what condition! What sort of man do you +call that? [_Leads in _GODFREY, _who is intoxicated_.] + +GODFREY (_while still behind the scenes_). + +Where is Stein? Hey there, fellow! Stein, I say! Is that you, Möller? + +MÖLLER (_with a patronizing air_). + +There can be no doubt that it is you. What do you want here? + +GODFREY (_while_ MÖLLER _pushes him down on a chair_). + +Thank him, why, I must thank him. Fetch Stein. Thank him, for that's the +fashion. + +MÖLLER. + +In this condition? + +GODFREY (_while_ MÖLLER _is obliged to hold him forcibly down on the +chair_). + +Condition? What's my condition to you? That I want to express my thanks +is condition enough. Let me alone with my condition. Is he in? Hey? + +MÖLLER. + +Nobody is in there. Be glad that nobody is in. You are past all help. +You have made up your mind not to get along. Those who have your +interest at heart can never do anything for your advantage without your +doing something that counteracts their efforts a hundredfold, so that +everything is spoiled. My master already repents having given you the +post, and now you at once give him an opportunity-- + +GODFREY. + +You stupid fellow, you. With your patronizing air, hang it! As if you +did not want to make a break between Stein and Ulrich because of that +Löhlein girl. I should know that, even if I were as stupid as that +confounded, patronizing fellow of a Möller. That's all I have to say. +And what of it, that I am forester for a day? For it won't be two days +before those two cronies are again one heart and one soul; after that +it's all over with my forester's job. You think you are a decent fellow, +because you are not thirsty. It will last one day--for one day I shall +be sp--spite-forester--and that day I have turned to account, my dear +fellow--with Ulrich's Andrew--turned to account, my dear fellow. Come, +my dear fellow, for I am jolly, my dear fellow. You patronizing fellow +of a Möller. [_Embrace him_.] + +MÖLLER (_ashamed and very much embarrassed, trying to keep him off_). + +For heaven's sake, what are you thinking of? If any one should see this! +Shame on you! + +[_Making an effort to recover his dignity_.] + +You have hatched a scheme with Ulrich's Andrew, have you? + +GODFREY. + +Scheme, scheme! I have had a talk with him, do you know? Because of +yesterday, you know? and because of my grudge against his old man, you +know? You know nothing, you know? When he hears it he'll bite his white +beard with rage, the old man will. + +MÖLLER. + +But what the deuce could you have put into Andrew's head? + +GODFREY. + +What? Nothing. You'll learn it soon enough. Hey? Thirst, thirst--that is +my wail, that is my chronic ill-health, my misery; that is the cause of +my gout; that will kill me while I am still young. Where is Stein? + +MÖLLER. + +Now come along to my room and drink a cup of black coffee, so that you +may recover your senses. Then I must go to the blast-furnace. I'll take +you along as far as the mill in the dell, and then you go the rest of +the way to your home. One has to tie your hands, if you are not to drive +away your good fortune. + +GODFREY (_while_ MÖLLER _is leading him off_). + +Where is he? Hey, there! Where is he? Stein! + + + +SCENE VI + +_In the_ FORESTER's _house_. + +SOPHY _alone; then_ WEILER; _and, later, the_ FORESTER. + +SOPHY (_closing the window_). + +Robert hasn't come back yet, nor the pastor. + +WEILER (_entering through the centre door_). + +Bless my soul, if he don't come to grief! But who, in thunder, is really +forester? I wonder whether the mistress has saved me anything? But, +anyhow, I have no appetite. Well! + +SOPHY. + +I suppose it has become cold by this time. + +[_Takes from the oven a plate with food, from the closet bread, etc., +and puts it on the table to the left_.] + +WEILER. + +We shall all be cold some day. + +[_Sits down to eat_.] + +FORESTER (_has entered from the side_). + +Have you found the trail of the stag from Lützdorf again? + +WEILER. + +Stalking about. But that's the way it goes. As soon as they are man and +wife, master and servant--then love and friendship fly out of the +window. + +FORESTER. + +What do you mean by "stalking about?" + +WEILER. + +On his four legs he stood by the boundary forest in the oats, and was +eating. + +FORESTER. + +Who? + +WEILER. + +The stag from Lützdorf. + +FORESTER (_emphatically_). + +A stag does not--eat; he browses. + +WEILER. + +All right! + +SOPHY (_waiting on him_). + +But what is your news? + +WEILER. + +Well-- + +SOPHY. + +I wonder whether I shall hear anything now? If I don't care to know +anything, then you never get through talking. + +FORESTER (_stands before him; severely_). + +Weiler, do you hear? + +WEILER. + +Well, Godfrey. Today he has grown six inches; he immediately put on his +laced hat, girded on his hunting knife and drank two bitters and a half +dozen glasses of whisky more than usual; in consequence he has need of a +road that's broader than the ordinary by half. + +FORESTER. + +Have you done eating? + +WEILER. + +Almost. But tell me, who is now the real forester of Düsterwalde? The +other fellow is already giving orders to the woodcutters for the +clearing, so he must be the forester. But you also act as if you were +still forester. + +FORESTER. + +You may be sure, I still am. I am forester of Düsterwalde, and nobody +else. + +WEILER. + +You intend to carry your point? But I'll tell you who is in the right +nowadays [_makes a pantomime of counting money_]--whoever has the +longest breath.--Who is coming there in such a hurry? + + + +SCENE VII + +WILKENS _enters as hurriedly as his figure permits_. WEILER _eating_; +FORESTER; SOPHY. + +WILKENS (_while entering_). + +But what in the world has happened here? Good-day to you all. + +SOPHY (_alarmed_). + +Happened! But for heaven's sake--has anything happened? + +FORESTER. + +You immediately lose your head. + +WILKENS. + +You'll see, you obstinate fellow! + +SOPHY. + +But what is the meaning of all this? + +WILKENS. + +How should I know? On the road I meet that crazy John, and he is +gesticulating with his arms as if he were striking some one, and points +in the direction of the forester's house-- + +FORESTER. + +He was pointing toward the forest; he meant to call attention to the +clearing-- + +WILKENS. + +I really was going in another direction, but I thought I'd better see. +And immediately I see some one standing absorbed in thought, not far +from the house. It's Andrew. You ask him, I say to myself. Well! As he +hears me coming he starts up, gives me a wild look, and--is gone. I call +after him. Well! It seems he has forgotten his name. I run after him, +but he--disappears, as if he had an evil conscience. + +SOPHY. + +I wonder what that can mean. + + +FORESTER (_calls out of the window, with authority_). + +Andrew! + +WILKENS. + +There he comes. + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The same. The_ PASTOR; WEILER _seated_. WEILER. + +It's the pastor! [_All exchange greetings_.] + +SOPHY. + +God be praised! Our good pastor! + +FORESTER. + +You are under the impression that you are coming to the betrothal, +pastor, but-- + +PASTOR. + +I know all that has been going on here. + +FORESTER. + +Mr. Stein-- + +PASTOR. + +I have just come from him. And the message I have to give you--I know, +you will not receive it less kindly because I am the messenger. + +SOPHY. + +If you come from Mr. Stein, then everything may still end well. But, +pastor, you do not know how obstinate that man is. + +PASTOR. + +How so? I know everything. But yet he is not the chief culprit; +otherwise I should not be here as Stein's ambassador. He is willing to +take the first step. + +WILKENS. + +I should not take it, if I were the master. + +PASTOR. + +Yes, old friend Ulrich, Stein is sorry that his impetuosity was the +cause of spoiling this beautiful day. + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear that, cousin Wilkens? + +PASTOR. + +The threat about dismissal was not meant as seriously as it sounded. + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear, Weiler? + +PASTOR. + +That the matter should rest there-- + +FORESTER. + +Should rest there? Pray, what does he mean by that? + +PASTOR. + +He means that he could not retract his word immediately without making +himself ridiculous. He thinks you would see this yourself. + +FORESTER (_drawling_). + +Indeed? And Godfrey? + +PASTOR (_shrugs his shoulders_). + +Is forester of Düsterwalde for the +time being. That cannot be helped-- + +FORESTER. + +That is what you say. But I tell you Godfrey is not. I am the forester +of Düsterwalde. That I am, and that I remain, until Mr. Stein proves +that I have not acted in accordance with my duty. + +PASTOR. + +But, in order that you might see how ready he is, for his part, to +redress his share of the wrong and to reëstablish the old comfortable +relation, you are to draw the double amount of your present salary as a +pension. + +[FORESTER _walks up and down, and whistles_.] + +PASTOR. + +Thus far my message, old friend; and now-- + +FORESTER (_stops in front of the pastor_). + +For what, sir? Does he think of buying my honor with it? Sir, my honor +is not to be bought with money. + +[_Walks up and down, and whistles_.] + +PASTOR. + +But, queer old friend-- + +WILKENS. + +Yes, if he would only listen to one! + +FORESTER (_as before_). + +Is that pension to be given from charity? I need no charity. I can +work. I will have nothing gratis. I accept no alms. I know he cannot +dismiss me, if I have not been unfaithful. That I know from several +instances--for example, hunter Rupert in Erdmansgrün. If I allowed +myself to be dismissed without protest, it would be tantamount to a +confession that I were dishonest. Nothing could be proved against +Rupert, and he remained in his position. And who will employ a man that +has been dismissed? Sir, from my father and grandfather I have inherited +my honor, and I owe it to my children and children's children. Before me +my father occupied this post, and my grandfather before my father. +Throughout the whole valley people call me the Hereditary Forester. I am +the first of my race to be dismissed. Go out into my forest, sir, and if +it is not a sight to gladden your soul--Sir, I have planted the forest +as far as the church-yard. There my father and grandfather lie buried, +and upon their tombstones you may read their masters' testimony: "They +were honorable men and faithful servants." They are resting under green +pine trees, as behooves huntsmen. Sir, and if my grandchild should ever +come there and ask: "But why is he who planted the pines not resting +under them? Why have we no business there? Was he a scoundrel, that his +master had the right to dismiss him?" And when they are looking for my +grave, and find it behind the church-yard wall? Sir, if you can live +without your honor, it is well for you--or, rather, it is wicked of you. +But you see, sir, for me there is only one choice: either by the side of +my father and grandfather under the pine trees--or behind the +church-yard wall. Sir, I am forester here, or Mr. Stein would be obliged +to proclaim publicly that he has treated me as only a scoundrel would +treat a man. My money I have spent for his forest. I will take out +nothing but the staff with which I shall go forth into the world to seek +in my old age a new position. But from me the disgrace must be removed, +and to him it must ever remain attached. I am within my right, and I +will maintain it. WILKENS. Within your right? Well! What will you do +with your right? Right costs money. Right is a plaything for the rich, +as horses and carriages. Well! With your talk about right and wrong! +Your right, that is your obstinacy. You will even go so far as to snatch +the clothes from the bodies of your wife and children, just to keep your +obstinacy warm. + +PASTOR. + +But-- + + + +SCENE IX + +_The same. Enter_ WILLIAM. + +WILLIAM. + +Father, Andrew is outside, and refuses to come in. I told him that you +had called him. + +SOPHY. + +Come, William, let us go out to Andrew. + +FORESTER. + +Keep quiet, woman. Are you going to make him completely crazy with your +lamentations? Either you keep quiet, or you go in there, and I shall +lock you in. + +[_Goes solemnly to the rear door_.] + +Andrew! Come in at once! Do you hear? + + + +SCENE X + +_The same. Enter_ ANDREW. ANDREW _at the door; when he sees the people +he is going to withdraw_. + +FORESTER. + +Andrew, you come in. Before your superior! + + +[_Seats himself as if preparing for trial_.] + +_The_ FORESTER, SOPHY, WEILER, WILLIAM _on the left. The_ PASTOR, +WILKENS _on the right_. ANDREW, _who dares not look any one in the face, +in the centre_. + +FORESTER. + +Come here, forester's assistant Andrew Ulrich. Where do you come from? + +ANDREW. From the nursery, father. + +FORESTER. + +Where is your rifle, Andrew Ulrich? + +[ANDREW _is silent_.] + +FORESTER. + +Who has it? + +ANDREW (_in a hollow voice_). + +Godfrey. + +[FORESTER _rises involuntarily_.] + +SOPHY (_in great alarm_). + +Ulrich! + +FORESTER (_sits down again_). + +Here no one has anything to say, except the forester's assistant Ulrich +and his superior. Andrew-- + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +Why do you not look at me? + +ANDREW. + +I no longer can look any one in the face. I want to go to America as +cabin-boy. Let me go, father. + +FORESTER. + +Boy, it is your duty to answer when your superior asks. What is it that +Godfrey has? Out with it! + +ANDREW. + +I was just at my task of taking out the maple trees in the nursery-- + +FORESTER. + +As I had ordered you. + +ANDREW. + +Then came-- + +FORESTER. + +Godfrey? Go on, Andrew Ulrich. + +ANDREW. + +With six woodcutters from the Brandsberg-- + +FORESTER. + +From--go on, Andrew Ulrich. + +ANDREW. + +He was intoxicated-- + +WEILER (_half audibly_). + +As usual-- + +[_When the forester casts a look at him, he pretends not to have said +anything_.] + +ANDREW. + +And so were the woodcutters. He had them pass the bottle round. "Here we +begin," he said. "Ulrich has made a fine mess of it," he said; "for that +reason he is dismissed." When he had said that I stepped forward +forward-- + +FORESTER. + +You stepped forward?-- + +[_Rises_.] + +ANDREW. + +And said he was a miserable slanderer. And that, moreover, he had no +business to give orders in the forest. + +FORESTER (_straightens himself_). + +In the forest. + +ANDREW. + +And that he should go where he belonged. + +FORESTER (_emphatically_). + +Where he belonged. + +[_Sits down_.] + +And he-- + +ANDREW. + +Laughed. + +FORESTER (_rises and sits down again; whistles, and drums on the +table_). + +Go on. + +ANDREW. + +And said: "What does that fellow want?" + +FORESTER (_in a loud voice_). + +Andrew! + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +And you? Go on, go on. + +ANDREW. + +"Hasn't he plants from my forest in his hand?" [_Lowering his voice._] + +"Hold that thief who steals wood and plants." + +FORESTER (_short pause_). + +And they-- + +ANDREW. + +Held me. + +FORESTER. + +And you-- + +ANDREW. + +They were too many. My resistance was of no avail-- + +FORESTER (_acting as if he were present at the fight_). + +Was of no avail. They were six against one. + +ANDREW. + +I was furious when I saw what he intended to do. They took off my +clothes. I told him to shoot me, otherwise I would shoot him if he let +me escape with my life. At that he laughed. They--had--to hold--me. + +FORESTER (_jumps up_). + +And he-- + +ANDREW (_reluctantly, imploring_). + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +And he--he-- + +ANDREW. + +He-- + +FORESTER (_faintly_). + +He-- + +ANDREW (_beside himself_). + +Father, I cannot say it. No man in God's world has ever dared to do that +to me! + +FORESTER (_drawing a deep breath_). + +Be quiet now. Say it later--Andrew. + +[_Pause. He passes by ANDREW, who now steps over to SOPHY._] + +Fine weather today, pastor. All at once the old rheumatism in my arm +begins to bother me again.--And the gnats are flying so low. We shall +have a thunderstorm before the day is over.--Andrew, he did--I never +did, and a stranger--a--say nothing, Andrew--I understand you. + +[_Goes up and down._] + +SOPHY (_to ANDREW_). + +How unfortunate that you provoked Godfrey yesterday! + +WEILER. + +Haven't I foretold it? + +SOPHY. + +You are deathly pale. I will give you some drops-- + +FORESTER (_drawn up to his full height, stops before_ ANDREW. SOPHY +_timidly draws back_). + +Listen, Andrew. And you, Weiler. + +[WEILER _advances_.] + +Open your ears! Whoever comes into my forest with a gun--you challenge +him! You understand? + +WEILER. + +Well, yes. + +FORESTER. + +Those are your instructions. You challenge him! I am forester, and +nobody else, and you are my servants. The master and his son may pass. +But whoever else comes into my forest with a gun--do you hear?--be he +who he may--whether he wears a green coat or not--he is a poacher, he is +to be challenged--"Stop! Down with your gun!" As is provided in the +regulations. If he throws it down--all right. If he does not throw it +down--fire! As is provided in the regulations. And you, William, go +without delay to town to see lawyer Schirmer. You tell him the whole +affair. He is to draw up a complaint against Stein and his Godfrey, and +is to file it with the court. Don't forget anything, William: that my +father and grandfather held the position; that people call me the +Hereditary Forester; the case of Rupert in Erdmansgrün. It probably will +not be necessary, but one cannot be too careful. Don't forget that the +forest is exposed toward the north and west and that Stein intends to +dismiss me because I refuse to act as a scoundrel toward him. If you go +now, you can be home before night. Andrew and I will accompany you as +far as the Boundary Inn. There Andrew can wait for you in the evening +when you return. + +[_To_ ANDREW, _who is examining the guns_.] + +Take the double-barreled one with the yellow strap, Andrew. I am going +to take the other. + +ANDREW (_does as told_). + +Mother, a muffler; I feel chilly. + +SOPHY (_takes one from the closet_). + +But you really should stay home, Andrew, after that outrage. + +[_Helps him to tie the muffler around his neck.] + +WILKENS. + +And you don't see that you are absolutely in the wrong? You will be +wilfully blind? + +PASTOR. + +You wish to begin a suit because of your dismissal? You cannot do that. + +FORESTER (_who in the meantime has girded on his hunting knife_). + +I cannot do that? Then it is right that he wishes to dismiss me? + +PASTOR. + +It certainly is unfair; wrong before the tribunal of the heart, but not +before the law. + +FORESTER. + +Whatever is right before the heart must also be right before the law. + +PASTOR. + +If you would permit me to explain to you-- + +FORESTER. + +Explain? Here everything is clear, except your cobwebs of the brain by +means of which those gentlemen would like to puzzle you, so that you +might lose confidence in your own common-sense. Those Buts and those +Ifs! I know all about that! The Buts and the Ifs--they originate +entirely in the head; the heart knows nothing of them; they are the +creators of intrigues. Very well, sir, go ahead with your explanation. +But confine yourself to plain Yes and No. Anything outside of that is a +nuisance. The Buts and Ifs are a nuisance. Mr. Stein intends to rob me +of my honor; he intends to reward my fidelity and my honesty with +disgrace; in my sixty-fifth year I am to stand before the world as a +scoundrel. Now, Sir, Yes or No--is that right? + +PASTOR. + +I am to answer Yes or No? Indeed, it is not right in the ordinary sense, +but-- + +FORESTER (_interrupts triumphantly_). + +Then it is not right? And if it is not right, it must be wrong. And for +this purpose the courts are there, that no wrong shall be done. No man +shall make me doubt my good right. And I shall break friendship forever +with him who says another word to me about yielding. Amen! If only a But +were required to make wrong right, then I would rather live among the +savages, then I would rather be the most miserable beast on God's earth +than a human being. Are you ready, boys? + +ANDREW _and_ WILLIAM. + +Yes. + +FORESTER. + +Come then, boys. Everything else may go to the devil, sir. But right, +sir, right must remain right! + +[_Exeunt_.] + + + +ACT III + +_The Boundary Inn._ + + + +SCENE I + +LINDENSCHMIED; HOST. _Enter_ MÖLLER, _after him_ FREI. + +MÖLLER. + +Host, let me have a drink. [_Aside_.] I guess he will find his way home; +Godfrey will. From the mill in the Dell it is scarcely a quarter of an +hour to his house.--Good evening. + +FREI (_still without_). + +Let's take a drink while we are passing. + +[_Enters_.] + +I am going over to the duke's estate. There they are having a jolly +time. + +HOST. + +God save us from that sort of jollity! Your health, Mr. Möller! + +MÖLLER. + +Fine company! + +HOST. + +Will you not take a seat, Mr. Möller? + +MÖLLER. + +Thank you. I still have to go to the blast-furnace this evening; my men +have gone ahead. + +[_Aside, while putting the glass to his lips_.] + +To the happy consummation of the marriage with Löhlein and Co! + +FREI. + +Over yonder things are going topsy-turvy, and with us here the crisis +will come today or tomorrow. The Hereditary Forester has already +barricaded himself in his house. + +HOST. + +Nonsense! He! He is conscientiousness personified! + +FREI. + +One is conscientious as long as it pays. That man is a fool who remains +so one hour longer. He or his people are going to shoot Godfrey wherever +they find him. + +[_Makes a gesture_.] + +And the Hereditary Forester does not waste many words. In that respect I +know the old fellow with his white moustache. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_laughing hoarsely_). + +Is that so? + +FREI (_looks at him_). + +Do you mean to say you are going to take Godfrey's part? Hey, +Lindenschmied? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_as before_). + +Godfrey's-- + +FREI. + +Every child knows how much you love him! + +LINDENSCHMIED (_with a gesture, as before_). + +Ha! Ha! + +FREI. + +Weiler himself heard the Hereditary Forester say it. And, I tell you, +what the Hereditary Forester says--that's as good as if another fellow +had already done it. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +He'll look out for his skin, the Hereditary Forester will. + +[_Softly._] + +If there were no judges that sit around the green table, and if there +were no-- + +[_Indicates by a pantomime that he means the hangman._] + +FREI. + +His reign is at an end. He--For now it is + +[_Strikes the table._] + +Liberty! Long life to the Hereditary Forester! And whoever has any evil +intentions toward him--I am alluding to no one-- + +MÖLLER (_hurriedly_). + +Here, host. Almost eight o'clock! + +HOST. + +Are you in such a hurry, Mr. Möller? + +MÖLLER. + +At the blast-furnace they are waiting for me. + +HOST. + +Your change-- + +MÖLLER (_already at the door_). + +Never mind! Credit it to me for tomorrow. + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE II + +LINDENSCHMIED; HOST; FREI. + +FREI (_rises, shaking his fist after him_). + +Nothing shall be credited to you and fellows of your kind. Everything +shall be paid to you. Lindenschmied, are you coming along to the duke's +estate? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +I'm going my own way. [_Advances._] + +Those judges around the green table! The idea, that an honest fellow +should be frightened when a leaf rustles, and look behind him to see +whether the constable isn't after him! + +FREI. + +We'll knock it down--the green table--I tell you. We'll see to it that +in ten years from now nobody will be able to get any information as to +what sort of thing a constable ever was. Now it is Liberty, and Order +has ceased to exist: everybody can do what he pleases. No more +constables, no green table, I tell you. No tower, no chains. If the Lord +had created the hares expressly for the nobleman, he would at once have +stamped his coat of arms into their fur. That would have been an easy +matter for a person like the Lord. Now men know that those who are in +prisons are martyrs worthy of veneration, and that the noblemen are +rascals, be they ever so honest. And the industrious people are rascals, +for it is their fault that honest people who do not like to work are +poor. That you can read printed in the newspapers. And if the Hereditary +Forester gets hold of Godfrey [_pantomime_] nobody can hurt him for +that; for Godfrey got honest people into prison, when they had stolen. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +And he will not be punished? No? And another fellow neither, if he does +it? + +FREI. + +Another fellow neither, I tell you. Over yonder the honest people set +fire to the castle and plundered it; several people lost their lives in +the affair; nobody cares a fig. Lucky he who now has an old grudge. And +Ulrich need not run far. Godfrey is reeling around there in the Dell; +he's lost his hat-- + +LINDENSCHMIED (_puts his hands with convulsive haste into his pockets_). + +And nothing--absolutely nothing--not even a blunt knife about me! + + + +SCENE III + +_The same. Enter ANDREW._ + +ANDREW (_entering_). + +Isn't it close in here! [_Takes off his muffler._] Good evening. + +[_Wraps the muffler around the lock of the gun, and puts the gun next to +him against the wall._] + +I advise every one not to touch this; the gun is loaded. + +[_To the host._] + +I do not know what is the matter with me. All at once I began to feel so +badly out there. I was going to wait for my brother at the boundary. +HOST. + +Make yourself at home, Mr. Andrew. + +ANDREW. + +I suppose William has not yet come. + +[_Throws himself on a bench, puts his arms upon the table and rests his +head upon them._] + +FREI (_rattles his glass on the table_). + +Let me have another one, host. And it is a favor that I now drink in +your place, when you still charge for it. In a week from now you will +have to provide the stuff, and no honest man need pay you a penny for +it, I tell you. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_from this point on incessantly casting furtive glances +sometimes at_ ANDREW, _sometimes at the gun_). + +If he would only go to sleep--that fellow! + +[_Leaning across the table, secretly to_ FREI.] + +There in the Dell, you say?--And are you quite sure, Frei, that nothing +will be punished any longer? + +FREI. + +Superstition, I tell you! If you do something, and they hang you, you +may call me a rascal for the rest of your life. Look here! What formerly +was called fidelity and honesty, that's a tale with which old grannies +used to humbug us. And a fellow that keeps his word is a scoundrel; such +a one I would not trust as far as the door. The common people are +essentially honest, because they are the common people. You ought to +hear those gentlemen over there talk; there was a professor among them; +he ought to know. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_leads him aside_). + +But what about conscience? And about the hereafter? + +FREI. + +All superstition! Nothing else, let me tell you. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +That's what I always thought. But formerly a person was not allowed to +say such things. + +FREI. + +They humbugged people with heaven and hell, so that our noble +and gracious master might keep his hares all to himself. They have +drummed a conscience into poor people in their childhood, so that they +should submit patiently when the rich are living in luxury and +extravagance. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +And he is in the Dell? + +[HOST _becomes attentive._] + +FREI. + +Who? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +That-- + +[_Buttons his coat._] + +FREI. + +Where are you going? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +To pay debts before another day comes. + +[_While he watches_ ANDREW _furtively, he fumbles with his left hand in +his vest-pocket, in order to pay the host_.] + +Why, I can't get it out with-- + +FREI. + +The fingers of your left hand are stiff. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_with a pantomime_). + +Those of my right will soon become crooked. + +FREI. + +Have you had a stroke? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_laughing hoarsely_). + +Yes, a leaden one. Two ounces of powder and three of buckshot. + +[_Constantly speaks in a subdued voice, so as not to awaken_ ANDREW.] +A memorandum from that fellow in the Dell. + +FREI. + +From Godfrey? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +Because I coined money out of the deer belonging to the owner of +Strahlau. There was enough uncoined money running about in the forest. + +FREI. + +Let me have another one, host. + +[_Holds out his glass._] + +LINDENSCHMIED (_lost in thought, alone in the foreground_). + +Six times I ran out where he was to pass; but he did not come. At that +time conscience was still the fashion. Then I thought: "It is not to be +now," and postponed it to some time when he should come along by +accident, so that I should be obliged to see that it was to be. For +whole nights it choked me like a nightmare and wasted my body, that I +should not lay hands on him, and now--ha! ha! ha! + +[_Gives a short convulsive laugh, thus rousing himself out of his +thoughts; looks around embarrassed._] + +FREI. + +Did you laugh, Lindenschmied? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +I don't know whether it was me. + +FREI. + +You have a queer laugh. Are you going along, Lindenschmied, into +the ducal territory? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_slaps him on the shoulder_). + +Man, now we have liberty! I have my own way. + +FREI. + +I don't care. + +[_Steps to the background to the host_.] + +What do I owe you on this last occasion that it is necessary to pay? +There; give me change. + +HOST. + +You have had three, four-- + +[LINDENSCHMIED _has availed himself of the moment when no one is looking +at him to take away_ ANDREW'S _gun furtively, and hurries out with it_.] + +FREI. + +What is the time, host? + +HOST. + +Past eight. + +FREI (_going out_). + +Good-by. + + + +SCENE IV + +HOST; ANDREW. + +ANDREW (_starts up_). + +Eight? Now William may come. + +HOST (_approaches_ ANDREW _timidly_). + +You are an honest man. To you I may unburden my mind. They are an +abominable set--those that just left. They let fall some words. Godfrey +is drunk in the Dell, and Lindenschmied, his mortal enemy, has gone +after him. And what didn't he say! He was talking of making his fingers +crooked. And that fellow is capable of everything! + +ANDREW. + +You believe Lindenschmied intends to have Godfrey's life? + +HOST. + +I have said nothing. If I expose their plot, they will burn my house +over my head. And if I do nothing-- + +[_Walks up and down_.] + +ANDREW (_was about to rise, but sits down again_). + +To save that fellow? Let happen to him what God permits. I will not turn +a finger to save him. + +HOST (_as before_). + +What shall I do? + +ANDREW. + +Father says: When a person is in distress every decent man must come to +his assistance, and when it's all over he may ask: Whom did I assist? + +[Illustration: MOSES ON MT. SINAI SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD]. + +HOST. + +Perhaps I had better inform? But-- + +ANDREW (_rises with sudden decision_). + +I am going. I will see whether I can find Godfrey. I am sure nothing +will happen to William. It is only a few steps from here to the house. +What am I looking for? My muffler. There in my temples something is +hammering and buzzing. What did I do with it? I tied it around the gun. + +[_When he cannot find it_.] + +But where is my gun? + +HOST. + +You miss your gun? + +ANDREW. + +I put it right here. The one with the yellow strap. + +HOST. + +Only a moment ago I saw it standing there. + +ANDREW. + +Did you take it up, perhaps? + +HOST. + +I? I have not touched it. Good heavens! If Lindenschmied--you were +resting, and I was just counting. What is to be done? + +ANDREW. + +Nothing. I go without my gun. I have no time to get another one from +home. + +HOST. + +But unarmed-- + +ANDREW. + +Never mind! If that pain in my chest only does not become worse. + +[_At the door_.] + +I only hope I shall not be too late. + +[_From without_.] + +Good-night, host. + +[_Exeunt both_.] + + + +SCENE V + +_In the Dell. Picturesque forest glen; in the background the brook right +across the stage; on the other side rocks, along which a steep, narrow +path runs parallel with the brook. Twilight._ + +_Enter_ ROBERT _with a gun on his shoulder_; KATHARINE. + +KATHARINE. + +How gruesome it is here! We have gone a long way from the mansion. Where +are we now, Mr. Robert? + +ROBERT. + +In the Dell, Katharine. + +KATHARINE. + +In the Dell? Where one is never safe? Where there are always poachers +from across the Duchy's frontier? + +[_Looks about timidly_.] + +ROBERT. + +Don't be afraid, little one. We have a reliable companion with us-- + +[_Putting his hand on his gun_.] + +Do you see over there? + +KATHARINE. + +Something glimmering like a white wall with dark shutters-- + +ROBERT. + +That is the forester's house. + +KATHARINE. + +Really? Yes, thank heaven! Now I see the stag's horns on +the roof-tree outlined against the evening sky. + +ROBERT. + +Here is the letter. But you must not carry it so openly in your hand. +Have you thought of some pretext, in case the old man should meet you? + +KATHARINE (_bashful, and smiling with self-satisfaction_). + +Oh, Mr. Robert, do you suppose a girl is so stupid? Don't worry about +that. My little sisters take knitting and sewing lessons from the young +lady--so-- + +ROBERT (_folds the letter, which he was reading_). + +Here it is, Katharine. But give that letter only into Mary's or her +mother's hands; to no one else, neither to Andrew nor William. Only into +her own or her mother's hands. + +KATHARINE. + +But must I go all alone so far? + +ROBERT. + +It is scarcely two gunshots. Nobody must see me in the vicinity of the +forester's house. When you go home, you follow the road. Only in case +you should not succeed in delivering the letter come back. + +KATHARINE. + +But surely you will not go away? + +ROBERT. + +No, Katharine, I shall remain here. + +[_Exit_ KATHARINE.] + + + +SCENE VI + +ROBERT, _alone; later_, GODFREY; finally MÖLLER _with two workingmen_. + +ROBERT (_looks for some time after_ KATHARINE; _then walks up and +down_). + +I wonder whether she will come? Whether she will leave her father for my +sake? + +[_Stops_.] + +I shall go into the world as a hunter. I am young, strong, and +understand my profession thoroughly--why should I not succeed? + +[_Losing himself in thought_.] + +And then--when I come home from the forest--healthily tired out by my +work in the open air--and she has been watching for me--and comes to +meet me--and takes my gun, so as to have something to carry--and hangs +it on her shoulder--and my hunter's house standing like that one +yonder--the trees rustling--and I holding her in my arms, exclaiming +jubilantly: Only that happiness is happiness which one owes to one's own +efforts!--And then-- + +[_The report of a gun is heard, and startles him_.] + +GODFREY (_still behind the scenes, groaning_). + +Scoundrel! + +ROBERT. + +What is that? + +GODFREY (_staggers upon the scene_; ROBERT _hurries toward him and +catches him just as he is falling down_). + +I--am--done for-- + +ROBERT. + +Godfrey! For heaven's sake! Has some one shot you? Hallo! Is nobody +near? Hallo! Help! + +MÖLLER (_behind the scenes_). + +Hurry up, men! Over there! The shouting comes from the path! + +ROBERT. + +People are coming. Come here, come here! Help! + +MÖLLER (_as before_). + +That is Mr. Robert's voice. + +ROBERT. + +If help is to be of any avail here, it must come quickly. + +[_Opens_ GODFREY'S _coat and vest_.] + +MÖLLER. + +To be sure, it is you, Mr. Stein. + +[_Enters with two workingmen_.] + +But-- + +ROBERT. + +Möller, is that you? Look here what has happened!--Are you still alive, +Godfrey? + +GODFREY. + +Still--but-- + +MÖLLER (_coming up_). + +Godfrey! Merciful heavens! + +ROBERT. + +Shot from ambush. The bullet entered at the back. + +MÖLLER. + +Godfrey, speak! Who did it? + +GODFREY. + +He had--the rifle--with the yellow strap-- + +ROBERT. + +Andrew's rifle? + +GODFREY. + +He--threatened--to shoot me-- + +ROBERT. + +It is not possible. + +MÖLLER. + +Was it Andrew, Godfrey? + +GODFREY. + +Andrew--yes-- + +MÖLLER. + +He is dying. + +[_Pause_.] + +Take him up, men. And you, Mr. Stein--this here is a nest of murderers. +Come along. There are others about here lying in ambush. Just now we met +Weiler with a gun--that vicious fellow. He was out spying, that's clear. +It is a regular hunt. Come along! But, for heaven's sake, why will you +not-- + +ROBERT. + +Never mind! Go ahead. + +MÖLLER. + +But what do you intend to do? And your father--if I leave you alone in +danger--if I do not bring you home with me! How will he ever believe me, +that I tried to persuade you? + +ROBERT. + +Why, you have witnesses here with you. When I say a thing I mean it--I +am going to stay here. + +[_Walks up and down in agitation_.] + +MÖLLER. + +Well, come along, men. You have heard it. + +[_While going out_.] + +Good heavens! How will it all end? + +[_The men have lifted up the corpse; exeunt with_ MÖLLER.] + + + +SCENE VII + +ROBERT, _alone; then_ ANDREW; _finally_ LINDENSCHMIED. + +ROBERT. + +Disgraceful! Disgraceful! Could it be possible that Andrew was capable +of this kind of revenge? And I must believe it--I must! The dying man +said it; he had threatened him with it--it was his gun--and all this is +real--here the murdered man died--here is--with his blood he wrote it in +the turf, so that I can have no doubt. And such men stand between me and +my happiness? Take a firm stand, Robert; here everything is at stake. +You are dealing with men who are afraid of no crime. Who comes there? It +is Andrew himself. [_Shouting to_ ANDREW, _who is not yet visible_.] +Come on! If you are looking for me, murderer! You shall not find me +defenseless and unwary as Godfrey-- + +ANDREW (_entering, pale and tottering_). + +Godfrey?-- + +ROBERT. + +There they carry him. He has been murdered, and you have done it. + +ANDREW (_angrily_). + +I, Robert? + +ROBERT. + +The murdered man recognized you and your gun--and your conscience +betrays you. + +ANDREW. + +Hear me--for God's sake! + +[LINDENSCHMIED _comes stealing along the rocky path in the background_.] + +ROBERT. + +Flee, murderer! Every step carries you nearer the gallows! Here is the +blood that accuses you, and you yourself carry the confession on your +pale face. The fever that shakes you testifies against you. + +ANDREW. + +May the fever rack your bones, shameless liar! The gun was stolen from +me by Lindenschmied, who was on the lookout for Godfrey. I hurried after +him as soon as I learned it. I fell in a swoon--by sheer will-force I +recovered from the swoon--and-- + +ROBERT. + +You say it is Lindenschmied who-- + +ANDREW. + +If you do not believe me, look there toward the rocky path-- + +ROBERT. + +Murderer, stand! Or I shoot you down! + +[LINDENSCHMIED _hurries across the stage on the rocky path._ ROBERT +_follows him below_.] + +ANDREW (_totters after him_). + +Be careful, Robert! The man is desperate--it is a matter of life and +death. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +Stand back! I'll shoot. + +ROBERT (_also behind the scenes_). + +Down with your gun, and stand! + +ANDREW. + +He is taking aim--jump aside, Robert! + +[_Two shots are heard in succession_.] + +Now it is done! + +[_Disappears in the bushes_.] + + * * * * * + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The Manor House_. + +_Enter_ STEIN, _uneasy; then_ BASTIAN; _later, the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +I wonder whether Möller forgot to send some one to look for Robert? Or +should the boy--that quarrel with Andrew! Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _appears at the door_.] + +Where is the bookkeeper? + +BASTIAN. + +Toward evening he went to the blast-furnace. + +STEIN. + +Hasn't Robert been home again since noon? + +BASTIAN. + +Mr. Robert made preparations for a journey, and then went away with +Katharine, the Steward's daughter. + +[STEIN _makes a sign of dismissal. Exit_ BASTIAN.] + +STEIN. + +And the pastor--he might have been back long ago. + +BASTIAN (_at the door_). The pastor. + +STEIN. In the nick of time! + +[_The_ PASTOR _appears_.] + +STEIN (_shakes hands with him_). + +At last! At last! Have you good news? + +PASTOR (_shrugging his shoulders_). + +It might be better. + +STEIN. + +Did you meet that hothead, Robert? + +PASTOR. + +No. + +STEIN. + +I was in hopes, because you stayed away so long, that you would bring +him with you. + +PASTOR. + +A sick person, to whom I was called while on my way to you, kept me +until now. + +STEIN. + +Then fancy that you are coming from a sick person to one more seriously +sick. If impatience, dissatisfaction with oneself, evil presentiments, +were diseases, then I should be a dangerous patient.--But your answer--I +don't even give you time to catch your breath. [_Motions to him to take +a seat; sits down, but rises again_.] If at least I could remain seated! +Six times I mechanically took my hat in my hand; to that extent my old +habit of being together with the forester makes my hands and feet twitch +worse than the gout. In the meantime a thought struck me--but first of +all: How do matters stand with the obstinate old fellow? + +PASTOR. + +Your offer did not exactly meet with the kindest reception. And yet, who +knows whether, after all, he had not agreed to it, if unfortunately the +affair with Andrew-- + +STEIN. + +With Andrew? What affair? + +[_Jumps up_.] + +You don't mean to say he has come to blows with Robert? + +PASTOR. + +This time only with Godfrey-- + +STEIN (_sits down again_). + +You see I am trembling with impatience. + +PASTOR. + +Godfrey, intoxicated as usual, treated him like a prowling thief, had +him whipped-- + +[STEIN _jumps up again_.] + +PASTOR. + +Then it was no wonder that the old man would no longer listen to +anything, and gave orders to treat as a poacher every one, except you, +who enters the forest with a gun. + +STEIN (_who has been walking up and down_). + +Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _appears at the door_.] + +As soon as Möller comes the scoundrel shall be deposed, the brute shall +be locked up--do you hear? + +BASTIAN. + +The bookkeeper? + +STEIN. + +Godfrey--and Möller with him, if he--come, pastor. + +[_Takes his hat and cane. Exit_ BASTIAN.] + +PASTOR. + +You intend-- + +STEIN. + +You ask?--I am going to the old man! I am going to brush away those +caprices in spite of all Wilkens and Möllers! + +PASTOR. + +That's right! I am with you. [_Rises_.] + +STEIN (_stops_). + +Wait a moment, parson. Am I to have had that good idea in vain? Listen, +what came into my mind a little while ago--as if straight from heaven! +Parson, what do you say if this very day I should transfer Düsterwalde +to Robert as his own independent property? He could reinstate the old +man with all honors, and nobody's dignity would be hurt. I shall +immediately draw up the deed of transfer. Go quickly to the forester's +house, parson. + +PASTOR. + +With this message-- + +STEIN. + +Before the old man, or the hotheaded boys, or all three, do something +impetuous which-- + +[_Makes preparations for writing_.] + +PASTOR. + +And tomorrow-- + +STEIN. + +As if today had never been-- + +PASTOR. + +Mr. Stein comes as usual around the corner of the forester's house and +knocks at the window, and the white moustache inside grunts his +"Immediately--" + +STEIN. + +And if you meet Robert-- + +PASTOR. + +I shall be the first one to congratulate the new proprietor of +Düsterwalde. + +STEIN. + +And today you bring them all along--the old man, the boys, the mother +and the bride. Then[_advances to the pastor at the door_], +as a preliminary celebration we'll crack a bottle of my oldest +Johannisberger. But what is the matter out there? Who comes rushing up +the stairs? + +[_At the door_.] What has happened? + + + +SCENE IX + +_The same_: MÖLLER, _then_ BASTIAN. + +MÖLLER (_comes in, beside himself_). + +Horrible! Horrible! + +STEIN. + +But what is the matter? + +MÖLLER. + +A murder!--A dreadful murder! + +STEIN. + +But, man alive, speak-- + +MÖLLER. + +Mr. Robert-- + +STEIN. My son! + +[_Falls into a chair_.] + +PASTOR. + +Has Robert been murdered? + +[_Goes anxiously up to_ STEIN.] + +_Enter_ BASTIAN. + +MÖLLER. + +Not yet. Not yet, I hope. But--I am quite beside myself. Ulrich's Andrew +has already shot and killed Godfrey. Those from the forester's house +have instituted a regular hunt for their enemies. I had Godfrey carried +home. He looks horrible. The bullet entered at the left side of the +spine. He died in Mr. Robert's arms. I asked him: Was it Andrew, +Godfrey? It was Andrew, he said--it was Andrew--and lay down a dead man. +I implored Mr. Robert to come home for God's sake; he was quite beside +himself, and would not come. And I had not gone two hundred steps with +my men, when two more shots were fired behind us. + +STEIN (_rises, beside himself_). + +Mount your horse at once--ride till it drops dead--only be quick--get +soldiers from the town--surround the whole forest--catch that murderer's +band from the forester's house! You, Bastian, get quickly my Lüttich +rifle, the one that's loaded--then call the workingmen--have them +armed--to--where was it, Möller? + +MÖLLER. + +At the first bridge--in the Dell, scarcely ten minutes beyond the +forester's house. + +PASTOR. + +God grant that the worst may still be prevented! + +STEIN (_stamps his foot_). + +Bastian! Bastian! Why are you still standing there! Make haste! + +[_Exit_ MÖLLER.] + +And I--while--Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _brings the rifle_. STEIN _tears it from him_.] + +I am coming! +Robert, hold your own! I am coming! + +[_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + +ACT IV + +_Twilight. The_ FORESTER'S _House._ + + + +SCENE I + +WILKENS; SOPHY. + +WILKENS. + +Your husband has been dismissed. There is no doubt about that. And if he +desires to remain here he is going just the wrong way about it. Stein +certainly cannot afford to allow Ulrich to gain his point by defiance +and revolt. Godfrey now is forester. Well, Godfrey is a brutal fellow; +but here he is in the right. If now they should come together, your +husband and Godfrey? And each is going to treat the other as a poacher? +Or if Godfrey should come across Andrew once more? And if he does what +his father commanded him? Or if Andrew and young Stein come together? +Well? And viewed in the most charitable light, Ulrich is a dismissed +man, whom nobody will wish to employ after this open rebellion of which +he has been guilty. And what is then to become of you and your +children? + +SOPHY. + +I am sure you will not withdraw your aid from us. If you would only talk +to him once more! + +WILKENS. + +After the trump that he has played? Even if it were not for that, I +value my breath too much to preach to deaf ears. You and your children +must leave him. That I said to myself a little while ago, while on my +way, and made a solemn resolution to bring this about; and I came back +to tell you. Before you have a corpse or a murderer in the house-- + +SOPHY (_throws up her hands in terror_). + +Matters surely cannot come to that pass! + +WILKENS. + +Well. I see you'll risk it. You also are a queer mother. But I am not so +indifferent as you, and I will not have a catastrophe on my conscience, +if I can prevent it. I have most to lose by this. To be brief: If you +leave him and come with your children to me, I shall have it settled +that very hour that you and your children are to be my heirs. Till +tomorrow noon you have plenty of time to consider the matter. If by noon +tomorrow you are at the Boundary Inn, where I will wait for you, then +we'll go at once into town to the notary; if you are not there--all +right also. But I'll be a scoundrel--and you know I am as good as my +word--and cursed be my hand, if after that it ever gives a piece of +bread either to you or your children. + +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY (_quite overcome; then follows him anxiously and hastily_). + +But, cousin! Cousin Wilkens! + + + +SCENE II + +MARY _alone; then_ SOPHY _returning_. + +MARY (_has a letter in her hand_). + +Why did I take it till I had considered matters?--and then I had it in +my hand. And Katharine, too, was so quickly gone!--I should not have +taken it! + +SOPHY (_reappearing_). + +Those cruel men! Prayers avail nothing. What have you there, Mary? + +MARY. + +A letter from Robert. + +SOPHY. + +If your father should see that! + +MARY. + +I cannot understand at all how I came to accept it; but I felt so sorry +for Robert. Katharine told me he was down in the Dell, and waiting. Then +I again recollected my dream of last night. + +SOPHY. + +A dream? + +MARY. + +I dreamt I was at the spring among the willows in my favorite spot, and +was sitting among the many colored flowers and looking up into the sky. +There I saw a thunder-storm, and I became as depressed as if I were to +die. And the child, you know, the one that had been with me fourteen +years ago when I lost my way, was sitting beside me and said: Poor Mary! +and pulled the bridal wreath out of my hair, and in place of it fastened +to my bosom a large blood-red rose. Then I fell backwards into the +grass, I knew not how. Yonder in the village the bells were ringing, and +the singing of the birds, the chirping of the crickets, the soft evening +breeze in the willows above me--all that seemed like a lullaby. And the +turf sank down with me lower and ever lower, and the chimes and the +singing sounded ever more distant--the sky became blue once more, and I +felt so light and free-- + +SOPHY. + +A strange dream! Have you opened the letter? + +MARY. + +No, mother. And I do not wish to do so. + +SOPHY. + +At least don't let your father see it. Alas, Mary! we shall be obliged +to leave your father! + +MARY. + +Leave father? We? + +SOPHY. + +He is coming. Do not betray anything! Put away the letter. Put the Bible +there before you, so that be may not suspect anything. I will try once +more--if he thinks we are going away, he perhaps may yet give in, and we +may stay. + + + +SCENE III + +_The stage is becoming darker and darker._ + +_The_ FORESTER; SOPHY; MARY. + +FORESTER. + +William not yet back? + +SOPHY. + +I have not seen him. + +[FORESTER _steps to the window, and, lost in thought, drums against the +panes_. SOPHY _begins packing_.] + +MARY. + +But, mother-- + +SOPHY. + +Be quiet now, Mary, and don't take part in the conversation. + +FORESTER (_has turned around and watched his wife for some time_). + +What are you doing there? + +SOPHY (_without looking up_). + +I am packing some dresses--if I have to go away-- + +FORESTER. + + We don't have to go. There is a law to prevent that. + +SOPHY (_shaking her head_). _Your_ law? [_Continues packing_.] + +_I_ shall be obliged to go away with the children. + +FORESTER (_surprised_). + +You are going to-- + +SOPHY. + +If you don't come to terms with Stein-- + +FORESTER. + +If-- + +SOPHY. + +You need not get angry, Ulrich. You cannot act otherwise, and neither +can I. I do not reproach you; I say nothing, absolutely nothing. You +persist in regarding as your enemy whoever counsels you to yield--and +cousin Wilkens is going to disinherit the children if you remain +obstinate, and if I and the children are not in his house by noon +tomorrow. Under the circumstances I can do nothing but go in silence. + +FORESTER (_drawing a deep breath_). + +You wish-- + +SOPHY. I wish nothing. You wish and cousin Wilkens wishes. You cruel men +decree our fate, and--we must bear it. If you would give in, then, +indeed, we might stay. Do you believe I am going with a light heart? As +far as I am concerned, I should be willing to stand by you till death. +But for the children's sake and--for your sake also. + +FORESTER (_gloomily_). + +How for my sake? + +SOPHY. + +You are dismissed, you have no resources; and another position at your +age--after your affair with Stein--you might-- + +FORESTER (_violently_). + +Accept charity? For my wife and children? + +SOPHY. + +Don't become angry. I don't say: Yield. I will press nothing upon you. +You cannot yield, and I--cannot remain--unless you yield. If we must +part [_Her voice shakes_]--then let us part amicably. Let us forgive +each other for what one party does against the interests of the other, +or [_with gentle reproach_]--for what the other party thinks is being +done against his interests. + +FORESTER. + +You intend, then, going to Wilkens? + +SOPHY. + +I must. + +FORESTER. + +And the children are to go also? + +SOPHY. + +It is for their sake that I go. + +FORESTER. + +Will you not also take Nero along? Out there? The dog? Why should the +dog remain longer with his dismissed master? Take the dog along. And +when I get my rights, as I am bound to get them--and stand before the +world no longer as a scoundrel--then--why, then the dog may come back +again. You think he is not going to leave me? Surely the dumb beast is +not going to be more stupid than human beings are? Wife and children are +prudent, and only such a poor beast is going to be stupid? One ought to +kick the beast for such stupidity. An old man, a ruined man, who in his +old age would be branded as a scoundrel, if Stein had his will, and such +a beast refuses to see reason? After fifty years of faithful service +thrown out of my position as a scoundrel, because I refuse to be a +scoundrel--and I have sacrificed my own money into the bargain, and the +poor beast in its kennel is going to show more gratitude than the rich +Stein in his mansion? In that case one should simply blow out the brains +of the whole brood of beasts, if they served no other purpose but to +make man bow his head in shame before them. [_Walks up and down; turns +to her with emotion_.] We are to be two? After twenty-five years?--Very +well! Then from now on may each suffer alone--as long as the heart holds +out! + +SOPHY. + +Ulrich-- + +[_She is obliged to restrain_ MARY, _who wishes to throw herself at the_ +FORESTER's _feet_]. + +FORESTER. + +From now on we are two. Go away! Go away! Wilkens is rich, and I am a +poor man in spite of my right. You're going after the money. I'll not +prevent you. But if you say you have acted rightly--then--and now the +matter is disposed of. Not one more word about it. + + + +SCENE IV + +_The same. Enter_ WILLIAM. + +FORESTER (_seated on the right of the stage_). + +Come here, William. Where did you leave Andrew? + +WILLIAM. + +I waited for him a quarter of an hour at the Boundary Inn. + +FORESTER. + +Perhaps he thought you were coming later-- + +SOPHY (_aside_). + +Andrew has not come back with him? I can't get my uncle's words out of +my head. + +[MARY _lights the lamp and puts it on the table by the_ FORESTER.] + +FORESTER. + +Did you ask the lawyer how long it would be before the matter is +settled? Till I have my rights? + +WILLIAM. + +He refuses to institute proceedings. + +SOPHY (_drawing a deep breath; aside_). + +Then there is still some hope left! + +FORESTER (_rises; quite perplexed_). + +He refuses-- + +WILLIAM. + +He says you are not in the right, father. + +FORESTER. + +Not in the right? + +[_Is obliged to sit down_.] + +SOPHY (_as before_). + +If he only would yield. + +WILLIAM. + +He said state officials could not be deposed, unless it could +be proved against them that they deserved it. But you were not a state +official; your master was not the state, but he who owned the forest, +the owner of the estate. + +FORESTER (_with suppressed anger_). + +Then, if I were an official of the state, Stein would not be allowed to +do me an injustice. And because I am not, he is allowed to brand me as a +scoundrel?--You did not understand him rightly, William! + +WILLIAM. + +He repeated it to me three times-- + +FORESTER. + +Because you did not represent the matter to him as it is--that already +your great-grandfather had been forester of Düsterwalde, and your +grandfather after him, and that for forty years, throughout the whole +valley, people have called me the Hereditary Forester. + +WILLIAM. + +That, he said, was an honor to both masters and servants; but before the +court nothing could be based on it. + +FORESTER. + +But he does not know that Stein wants to depose me, because +I had his best interests at heart, that the forest is exposed on the +north and west. A lawyer does not know that a forest is like a vault, +where one stone always holds and supports the others. Thus the vault can +withstand any force, but take out only a dozen stones from the centre, +and the whole thing comes tumbling about your ears. + +WILLIAM. + +At such arguments he only shrugged his shoulders. + +FORESTER (_growing more excited_). + +And my money that I have put into it? And all the trees that I planted +with my own hands? Hey? Which the wind now shall wantonly break? + +WILLIAM. + +At that he only smiled. He said you might be a very honest man, but in +court that would prove nothing. + +FORESTER (_rises_). + +If one is an honest man, that proves nothing? Then one must be a rascal, +if he is to prove anything in court?--But how about Rupert of +Erdmansgrün--hey, William? + +WILLIAM. + +He happened to have been a state official. After I had left +him, I even went to another lawyer. This man laughed right in my face. +But to that fellow I spoke my mind like a hunter's son. + +FORESTER. + +You did well. But what about Andrew? Hey? + +WILLIAM. + +He said that you had been deposed at the time that Andrew went into the +forest. You ought to know yourself that no stranger is allowed to take +plants from a forest according to his own inclination, without the +knowledge and consent of the forester. That then Godfrey was the lawful +forester, and consequently Andrew had no one to blame but himself, if he +was treated as a poacher. And that Andrew himself must understand it +would be wiser to take his punishment quietly, and not stir up the +matter any further; and he might be glad to have come off so easily. + +[_The_ FORESTER _has seated himself again; pauses; then whistles, and +drums on the table_.] + +SOPHY (_watching him with anxiety_). + +When he becomes so calm-- + +FORESTER. + +So I must remain a scoundrel before the world? Very well!--Why don't you +pack your things, you women-folk? William, get me a bottle of wine. + +SOPHY. + +You are going to drink wine? And you know it is not good for you, +Ulrich? And just now, in your present state of vexation-- + +FORESTER. + +I must get my mind off the subject. + +SOPHY. + +You always become so excited after wine. If you drink now it may be your +death. + +FORESTER. + +Better to drink oneself to death than live as a scoundrel! And a +scoundrel I must remain before the world. William, a bottle and a glass. +Have matters come to that pass, that I am no longer master in my own +house? Hurry up, there! + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + +SOPHY. + +If only you would change your mind! But you will not do it, and--I must +leave you. + +FORESTER. + +That matter is settled, woman, and my resolution is taken. None of your +lamentations! Tomorrow I am going. Since I am not an official of the +State and--today I intend to be right jolly. + +[WILLIAM _brings wine; the_ FORESTER _pours out and drinks repeatedly, +every time a full glass. Between glasses he whistles and drums_.] + +FORESTER. + +Put that light away, so that I may not see my shadow. + +[WILLIAM _puts the lamp on the table near the women, seats himself by +them and takes the still opened Bible before him_.] + +SOPHY (_aside and to Mary_). + +Andrew still stays out, and it has been dark for a long while. And +tomorrow I must go. Now I say indeed: I must go; and yet I am not sure +that, when the moment comes, I shall have the strength of mind to carry +out my intention--after we have lived together for twenty years, sharing +joys and sorrows! And to say farewell to the forest with its green +leaves which all day long looks into every window! How still it will +seem to us, when during the entire day we no longer shall hear the +rustling of the trees, the singing of the birds, and the sound of the +wood-cutter's ax. And the old cuckoo-clock there--it was ticking when I +was a bride, and now you too have been betrothed here! There in that +corner you raised yourself on your feet for the first time, Mary, and +began to walk, and took three steps; and there where your father is +sitting, I sat and wept for joy. Is that what life is? An everlasting +bidding farewell? If, after all, I were to remain? And yet when I think +of all the things uncle said might happen! If Robert's letter--William, +please go into the garden. I must have left the glass by the spring, or +in the arbor or somewhere thereabouts. + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + + + +SCENE V + +_The same, without_ WILLIAM. SOPHY _and_ MARY _in front of the stage +busied with the lamp. The_ FORESTER _sometimes seated in the rear, +sometimes walking up and down past the table to the window_. + +SOPHY (_having waited till_ WILLIAM _is out_). + +Suppose you find out what Robert has been writing. + +MARY. + +You mean I should open the letter, mother? + +SOPHY. + +Perhaps everything can still be arranged, and Robert writes us how. If +you will not open it, give me the letter. If I do it, you have nothing +to reproach yourself for. + +[_Opens it_.] + +If I only could read by lamp-light. If I put on my spectacles, he would +notice it. Read it to me, Mary. + +MARY. + +You want me to read it, mother? + +SOPHY. + +If I give you permission, you may surely do so. Put it there next to the +Bible. And if he comes near, or his attention is attracted, you read +from the Bible. + +MARY. + +But what? + +SOPHY. + +Whatever your eyes light upon. If I cough, you read from the Bible. +First the letter. + +MARY (_reads_). + +"Dear Mary. I have so much to-- + +SOPHY. + +He is getting up again from his chair. Read from the Bible till he is at +the window. + +MARY. + +"Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth: as he hath +caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again." + +[FORESTER _drums on the window_.] + +SOPHY (_constantly watching him_). + +Now the letter, Mary. Till I cough. + +MARY. + +"I have so much to tell you. Sometime during the evening or the night +come to the Dell by the spring under the willows. There I shall wait for +you. Come, Mary. Tomorrow morning I am going out into the world to win +happiness for you and for me. If you do not come, I know what you mean, +and you will never see me again." + +SOPHY. + +He intends to go? Out into the world? Forever, if you do not go? Then +everything would be lost! + +MARY. + +"You will never again see your Robert." + +SOPHY (_coughs, just as the_ FORESTER _is turning away from the +window_). + +From the Bible, Mary. + +MARY. + +"As he hath caused a blemish in a man, so it shall be done to him again. +Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger as for one of +your own country: for I am the Lord, your God." + +FORESTER (_has become attentive; stops_). + +What is that there about law? + +MARY. + +"Ye shall have one manner of law--" + +FORESTER. + +"Ye shall have one manner"--Where is that? + +MARY. + +Here, father. Up there at the left. + +FORESTER. + +Put a mark there where that begins, what you have read there about the +law. Do you see now that I am right? Even if I have to put up with +injustice? That my old heart here is no liar? "Ye shall have one manner +of law"--not a special one for officials of the State. At that time the +Law was still sound; then it did not live in dusty, moldy offices. It +was administered under the gates in the open air, as we read there. If I +had my way, the courts ought to have sessions in the forest; in the +forest man's heart remains sound; there one knows what is right and what +is wrong without Ifs and Buts. With their secret tricks they have put a +string of Ifs and Buts to it; in their dusty, moldy offices it has +become sick and blunt and withered, so that they can turn and twist it +as they like. And now what is right must be put in writing and have a +seal to it, otherwise it is not to be recognized as right. Now they have +deprived a man's word of all value and degraded it, since one is only +bound by what one has sworn to, what one has under seal and in writing. +Out of the good old right they have made a turn-coat, so that an old +man, whose honor was never sullied by the slightest blemish, must stand +as a rascal before men--because they in their offices have two rights +instead of one. + +[_Sits down and drinks_.] + +SOPHY. + +The night is advancing further and further, and Andrew does not come. +And with such talk one becomes doubly frightened. If you went to +Robert-- + +MARY. + +To Robert? What, in the world, are you thinking of, mother? + +SOPHY. + +That it is God's finger--that letter of Robert's. + +MARY. + +I am to go to Robert? Now? To the Dell? + +SOPHY. + +What is to prevent it? You are not afraid. + +MARY. + +The idea of being afraid! + +[_Proudly_.] + +Ulrich's daughter! + +SOPHY. + +How often have you not been out at a more advanced hour of the night! + +MARY. + +But then father knew it. If I have father's permission and yours, I know +that an angel stands behind every tree. And father said: "If I am +mistaken in Mary"-- + +SOPHY. + +I cannot slip away, without his noticing it, as well as you +can. The matter might still have taken a favorable turn, but it was not +to be. And your dream? You felt so light, the sky became so blue--you +see, in the Dell by the spring under the willows, there the sorrow that +weighs on you and on us all is to end. + +MARY (_shaking her head_). + +Do you really think so, mother? + +SOPHY. + +If you would go. We might then remain with father, Robert would try once +more to persuade his father, uncle Wilkens also would yield, and when +you wear the bridal wreath a second time it would be even more becoming +to you. + +MARY. + +I am to deceive my father, mother? In that case I believe no good could +ever come to me again in this world. + +SOPHY. + +You would have the satisfaction of knowing that you went for his sake. +Perhaps if, tomorrow, he must go forth into misery, or if they confine +him in the tower, or if something still worse happens-- + +MARY. + +To father? + +SOPHY. + +Yes. Then you will think, perhaps too late: "Had I only gone!" + +MARY. + +But mother, if I were in the forest, and father should meet me? Or if he +should find us together? + +SOPHY. + +We must ask him, whether he is going to stay home. + +MARY. + +I cannot look at him without feeling as if my heart were bursting. + +SOPHY. + +Ask him on account of the soup. + +MARY. + +I shall ask him at once. + +[_She approaches the_ FORESTER _timidly, stands next to him without his +noticing her_.] + +SOPHY (_encouraging her_). + +Don't be a child. + +MARY (_softly_). + +Father! + +[_She bends over him, beside herself with pity_.] + +Father, poor father! + +[_Is going to embrace him_.] + +FORESTER (_looking about, roughly_). + +What's the matter? No lamentations! + +SOPHY (_as_ MARY _stands disconcerted_). + +Mary-- + +MARY (_controls herself_). + +Are you again going into the forest tonight? + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +MARY. + +Because-- + +SOPHY (_interrupts, for fear_ MARY _might tell the truth_). + +Because of the soup; she wants to know whether she is to warm it. + +FORESTER. + +No. And what are you waiting for, you silly wench? + +[_Turns away. As_ MARY _hesitates, calls out roughly_.] + +Do you hear? + +MARY (_goes back to_ SOPHY). + +Mother, he has been crying! I saw a tear hanging on his eye-lash, +mother! And I am about to deceive him! + +SOPHY. + +He is crying because in his old age he has to go forth into +misery.--And as to you--why, you are not obliged to go. + +MARY. + +If you speak in that way, mother!--I am going. + +SOPHY. + +Then say good-night to him. It is time. Afterward I shall help you climb +out of the window. At this moment Robert is already waiting. You can be +back soon. + +MARY. + +Yes, mother, I will go. But not for Robert's sake, mother, nor for mine; +only for father's sake. I will tell him: "Robert," I will say to him, +"you will yet find a girl, more beautiful and better than myself, but my +father will not find another child, if I leave him." I will tell him: +"Robert," I will say to him, "I will forget you! God will give me +strength that I may be able to forget you. Remain away from me, so that +I may not see you again." God will help me, mother, will he not? He +will, for I did love Robert so much. + +SOPHY. + +Now go. Say good-night and don't betray yourself. + +[MARY _stands by the_ FORESTER.] + +SOPHY. + +Mary wants to say good-night to you. + +FORESTER. + +Can't you say it yourself, silly thing? + +MARY (_mastering her emotion_). + +Good-night, father. + +FORESTER. + +Good-night. You need not wait for me tomorrow when you are going to your +uncle. Perhaps I shall have gone out by that time. I have an errand; +don't know whether I shall come back tomorrow. And take Nero along--and +whatever else is there; take everything along. I no longer need +anything--but my tools, my short rifle and--powder and bullets. The +other rifles you may sell. Go to Wilkens, you poor thing, he perhaps +will get Robert for you yet--after I have gone; after people have once +forgotten that your father was a dismissed man. + +MARY. + +Good-night. + +[_Beside herself_.] + +Good-night, father! + +FORESTER. + +Wench, that is a good-night as if forever.--You are right, Mary. Such a +stain as I am upon your good reputation must be removed. Go, Mary. Do +you hear, Mary? + +MARY. + +You shall remain, father. And if you go, I go with you. + +FORESTER. + +The way I have to go one goes alone. Go, Mary. + +SOPHY. + +Go to bed, Mary. + +FORESTER. + +Good-night. And now it's enough. You know I cannot bear lamentations. + +MARY. + +You are not going without me, father. You cannot live without me, +father. Father, I now feel that in my heart. + +FORESTER (_protesting_). + +Yes, I can. What doesn't such a greenhorn feel! + +MARY. + +You turn away, father, so that I should not see you crying. Father, +pretend you are ferocious, as much as you like-- + +FORESTER (_wants to disengage himself_). + +Silly thing there-- + +MARY. + +I am going with you. You insist upon your right, and I upon mine, and +that is, that I must not leave you. Father, I feel now for the first +time that I love no one in the world as much as you. Tomorrow we go +together--if you must go. I am going to put on William's clothes. There +are still green forests in the world. And surely you shall not hear me +complaining. Don't be afraid of that. Why, I can cry during the nights, +when you don't see it. But then you will see it by my eyes in the +daytime. Why, I must not cry at all! I will only laugh and skip along +before you and sing--the beautiful hunting songs.--You see, father, this +is the last tear for Robert! And it is already dried, do you see? I am +sure that we shall still find happiness in this world--if you must go, +father. And if it is not to be, we will thank God and pray, if He only +keeps us honest. Then we will think: It is asking too much, if we also +wish to be happy. Have I not you? Have not you your good conscience and +your Mary? What more do we need? + +[_Hanging on his neck_.] + +FORESTER (_who has been warding her off constantly, almost furious, +because he can scarcely control his emotion_). + +Indeed, indeed! Stupid thing! + +[_More calmly_.] + +And a "table--spread--thyself," a "gold--mule--stretch-thyself," and the +fairy-story is complete. Now go to bed, Mary. + +[_Roughly_.] + +Do you hear? + +SOPHY. + +Come, Mary. + +MARY (_at the door of her room she looks around, and runs again to him; +embracing him, beside herself_). + +Good-night, good-night! + +[_She hurries to her room;_ SOPHY _follows_.] + +FORESTER (_looking after her_). + +My girl, my poor girl! It must not be here that I make an end of +myself!--Confound it. Shame on you, old-- + + + +SCENE VI + +WEILER; _The_ FORESTER. + +WEILER (_greets him with a silent nod; he is very much excited; hangs +the rifle on the rack and busies himself with the hunting utensils_). + +Well! + +FORESTER (_notices him_). + +Is it you? + +[_Lapses again into his thoughts_.] + +WEILER. + +It's me. + +FORESTER. + +Where are you coming from at this time? + +WEILER. + +From the forest. At the fence I had a talk with your William. So, after +all, you are dismissed. + +FORESTER. + +Because there are two kinds of right. + +WEILER. + +And didn't you know that before? + +FORESTER. + +You have your pay for three months in advance. + +WEILER. + +And may go. I know that too. Where is your William? Why, to be sure! I +just met him. And your Andrew? + +FORESTER (_half absent-mindedly_). + +Not at home. + +WEILER. + +But I suppose you know where your Andrew is? + +FORESTER (_impatiently_). + +What else do you want? Leave me alone! + +WEILER. + +All right. It's none of my business. + +FORESTER. + +Therefore I think you'd better go. + +WEILER. + +But to come back to Andrew. You don't know where he is? + +FORESTER. + +Always harping on Andrew? If you have something to say, don't be like a +thunderstorm that keeps threatening for hours. + +WEILER (_points toward the window_). + +Some one is coming up across the Lautenberg. The plovers were screeching +as if in fear. I expected it. It was too sultry. Ulrich [_approaches +him_] an hour ago some one was shot. + +FORESTER. + +You know who? + +WEILER. + +You don't know it? If your Andrew were home-- + +FORESTER. + +Always Andrew! You know something about him! + +WEILER. + +Well. The rifle--tell me, did Andrew have the one with the yellow strap? + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +WEILER (_as if lost in meditation_). + +Surely I know your rifle-- + +FORESTER. + +Do you want to drive me mad? + +WEILER. + +You haven't it in the house? + +FORESTER. + +I won't answer you any more. I'm ugly enough as it is. I have been +drinking wine. + +WEILER. + +Take good care that you are not mistaken. + +FORESTER. + +Take good care that I don't take you by the collar. + +WEILER. + +It's no joke-- + +FORESTER. + +You shall see that it is not. + +WEILER. + +I know nothing but what I have heard and seen. And now sit down. I don't +feel like standing long. It seems to me that I must look like my +clay-pipe there. + +[_The_ FORESTER _sitting down at the table to the right;_ WEILER _has +drawn a chair close to him, and talks hurriedly in an uncanny, subdued +voice_.] + +A little while ago, as I was quitting work and going away from my +wood-cutters, I heard a shot from the direction of the Dell. I thought +perhaps it was you, and went in that direction. But it must have been +Robert Stein. He was walking up and down there by the first bridge like +a sentinel. I thought to myself: What can he be waiting for? Not for +game; for in that case one doesn't run up and down; I thought: You must +get to the bottom of this. You get behind the high oak. There you can +see everything and can't be seen. But I was hardly there, when I heard a +commotion behind me. And what was it I heard? Your Andrew and Robert in +a most violent dispute. I could not understand anything clearly, but one +could hear that they were after each other for life and death. I was +just about to creep closer, when they already came rushing along. The +one on the further side of the brook on the rocky path, the other on +this side. The one on this side was Robert with his gun against his +cheek. Two steps from me he stopped--"Stand or I shoot." On the rocky +path no two persons can pass each other. There it is--"Man, fight for +your life." And now, pif! paf!--two shots in succession. The bullet from +the one on the rock whistled between me and Robert into the bushes. But +Robert's bullet--Ulrich, I have heard many a shot, but never such a one. +One could hear by the sound of the lead, it scented human life. I do not +know what sensation I felt when he on the other side collapsed like a +wounded stag-- + +FORESTER. + +Andrew? + +WEILER. + +Who else could it have been? Hey? Perhaps he's home? Perhaps you know +where else he is? And the person that was shot had the rifle with the +yellow strap. He held it tight. The strap really glistened in the +twilight like a signal of distress. It was a weird sound, as the iron +parts of the gun in falling struck the rocks and the corpse tumbled +after it, breaking the bushes--till there was a splash in the brook +below, as if it started in terror. And when, after this, there succeeded +such a strange stillness, as if it had to bethink itself of what had +really happened, I had a sensation as though some one were pursuing me. +I should have been back half an hour ago, if I had not lost my way--I, +who know every tree thereabouts. Now you may imagine how I felt! Not +until I had reached the second bridge there toward Haslau, did I have +courage to stop a moment to take breath--there where the brook is +roaring among the rocks. Accidentally I looked down. There the brook was +playing with a colored rag. Do you know it, perhaps? + +[_Takes out_ ANDREW'S _muffler, and holds it before the_ FORESTER'S +_eyes; the latter snatches it from his hand_.] + +FORESTER. + +All sorts of shapes before my eyes--the wine-- + +[_Holds it sometimes far, sometimes near, without being able to see +it_.] + +WEILER (_short pause_). + +You are so quiet. Is something wrong with you? + +[FORESTER _draws a single loud breath, and still keeps holding the +muffler mechanically before him, without seeing it_.] + +WEILER. + +Your face is quite distorted. I am going to call your wife. + +FORESTER (_makes a movement, as if he were pushing a load from him with +utmost exertion_). + +Never mind! A slight dizziness. Have not been bled recently; the wine +into the bargain--it's already passing away--say nothing to any one +about this. + +[_Rises with difficulty_.] + +WEILER. + +So they have had a regular stand-up fight, Andrew and Robert! But what +do you intend to do now? As a dismissed man? If that fellow says: "I +challenged the poacher, he did not throw down his gun?" You know better +than any one that a hunter may then shoot. He is not even obliged to +challenge; if he only hits the mark, he is also in the right. And +whoever, like your Andrew, has fallen the height of two stories from the +rock into the water, his tongue will cease wagging even without powder +and lead. You know the law, as it is nowadays. And they will lock you up +into the bargain because of insubordination. I am sorry for you. I +should not like to be you. Hey? + +FORESTER. + +The thunderstorm has already passed the Lautenberg, do you hear? If you +delay any longer you will be caught in the rain. + +WEILER. + +There was lightning some time ago. As I came along the hill with the +larch-firs, the whole country was lighted up. Then I saw Robert still +walking up and down by the willows below. + +[FORESTER _goes to the door so that_ WEILER _may see he is waiting for +his departure_.] + +WEILER. + +Are you going once more to the lawyer? That might do some good if you +were an official of the state. But what are you going to do when you are +not? + +FORESTER. + +Nothing. + +WEILER. + +Whoever believes it-- + +FORESTER. + +Fool that you are! I'm going to bed. + +WEILER. + +It isn't late enough for that. + +FORESTER. + +I am going to lock the door and the shutters. + +WEILER (_as he has no alternative, hesitating_). + +Now then, sleep well, Ulrich--if you can. + +[_Exit, the_ FORESTER _after him_.] + + + +SCENE VII + +_Enter_ SOPHY; _then the_ FORESTER _and_ WILLIAM. + +SOPHY (_coming out of_ MARY'S _room_). + +Now she may be where the willows begin. + +[_At the window_.] + +He is closing the shutters. I must close Mary's for appearance's sake, +so that she can climb in when she returns. And Andrew not yet back! All +at once a feeling comes over me, as if I should not have allowed Mary to +go. + +_Enter the_ FORESTER _with_ WILLIAM. SOPHY _goes again into_ MARY'S +_room_. + +WILLIAM (_while entering_). + +Father, Lora Kramer came to the fence, and said that Stein was beside +himself--that shots had been heard in the forest--that Robert was +missing, and that Stein had sent Möller into town; he was to get the +soldiers; they were to arrest the whole band of murderers from the +hunter's house, he said. She also said that Möller had passed Kramer's +house at full gallop. They might be expected to arrive before one +o'clock. + +FORESTER (_while_ SOPHY _steps out of_ MARY'S _room_). + +What have you still to do outside? + +[_Looks about him_.] + +WILLIAM. + +In the garden, father. Mother, there was nothing in the arbor. + +SOPHY (_remains at the door_). + +Then somebody must have brought it in. + +[_To the_ FORESTER.] + +Are you looking for anything? + +FORESTER. + +I? No. Yes, the rifle with the yellow strap. Where can that be? Perhaps +in Mary's-- + +SOPHY (_involuntarily covering the door, quickly_). + +There is no rifle in Mary's room. + +WILLIAM. + +To be sure, Andrew took it along when he went to accompany me. + +FORESTER. True. [_Shows the muffler_.] + +There, I have somebody's muffler in my pocket! Is it yours, William? + +SOPHY. + +The red and yellow muffler? That belongs to Andrew. + +FORESTER. + +He left it around yesterday, and absentmindedly I must have put it in my +pocket. + +SOPHY. + +Yesterday? Only today, before you went, I gave it to him. + +FORESTER. + +You gave it to--all right! + +SOPHY (_comes nearer_). + +Yes, yes. That is Andrew's muffler. + +[_She examines it_.] + +Here is his monogram. + +FORESTER (_wishes to take it from her_). + +Give it to me. + +SOPHY. + +It is wet!--And what blood is that upon the muffler? + +FORESTER. + +Blood? + +[_Suppresses his emotion_.] + +It's from my hand. I cut it on the lock of the gun. Never mind! + +SOPHY (_busies herself on the other side of the stage_). + +FORESTER. + +William, come here. Read to me. There in the Bible, begin where the +book-mark is. + +WILLIAM. + +In the middle of the chapter? + +FORESTER. + +Beginning at the mark there. Go on! + +[_Gets his hat_.] + +WILLIAM (_reads_). + +"And he that blasphemeth the name of the Lord, he shall--" + +FORESTER. + +That isn't it. + +[_Hangs the gun over his shoulder_.] + +WILLIAM. + +"And he that killeth any man"--is that it? + +FORESTER (_profoundly moved, comes a step nearer_). + +No--but go on reading. + +[_He stands next to_ WILLIAM. _During the following he involuntarily +takes off his hat, and folds his hands_.] + +WILLIAM. + +"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death. And he that +killeth a beast shall make it good; beast for beast. And if a man cause +a blemish on his neighbor; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him; +breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; as he hath caused a +blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again. And he that killeth +a beast, he shall restore it: and he that killeth a man, he shall be put +to death." + +FORESTER. + +He shall be put to death. + +WILLIAM. + +"Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger, as for one +of your own country: for I am the Lord your God." + +FORESTER. + +Amen. + +[_Puts on his hat and is about to go; turns back_.] + +When did she say they might be there, William? + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JACOB AND RACHEL AT THE WELL] + +WILLIAM. + +The soldiers? + +FORESTER. + +Before-- + +WILLIAM. + +Before one o'clock. + +FORESTER. + +There's time enough. + +WILLIAM. + +For what, father? + +FORESTER. + +For--getting a sound sleep. + +WILLIAM. + +Father, how strangely you look at me? + +FORESTER. + +Go to bed, William. + +[_As_ SOPHY _enters_.] + +Shake hands with your mother. + +SOPHY (_surprised_). + +Are you going out now, Christian? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. + +SOPHY. + +Did Weiler pick up the trail of the stag again? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. Maybe. + +SOPHY. + +How you look! One might be afraid of you, if one did not know how it is +with you when you have taken wine. + +FORESTER. + +For that reason I want to go out into the open air. + +SOPHY. + +At such times you see everything different from what it is. You may fall +into the abyss. + +FORESTER. + +Then you cut the leaf there from the Bible and put it into my coffin. + +SOPHY. + +How you talk! + +FORESTER. + +GO to bed, William. + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + +Pray--or do not pray-- + +SOPHY. + +What is the matter with you, Christian? Why am I so anxious? Stay, for +God's sake, stay! Your business surely can wait. + +FORESTER. + +No. It must be done even today. [_Going_.] + +SOPHY (_about to follow him_). + +Ulrich-- + +FORESTER (_turning around at the door, softly to himself_). + +"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth." + +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY (_recoiling from the glare of the sheet-lightning which is seen +through the open door_). + +God have mercy on us! + +[_At the door_.] + +Ulrich! + +[_In far-away voice, outside_.] + +Ulrich! + + + +ACT V + +_The_ FORESTER'S _House. Night. For a short time the stage remains +empty_. + + + +SCENE I + +SOPHY (_alone, comes in with a lamp, looks into_ MARY'S _room, puts the +lamp upon the table, goes to the window, opens the shutter through which +the reflection of the sheet-lightning is visible, looks out; then she +closes shutter and window, takes the lamp again, and looks once more +into_ MARY'S _room. At intervals she listens and betrays great +anxiety_.) + +Not yet! What if he's encountered her! What if he's met them together! +She ought to be back by this time. Oh, why did I let her go? And Andrew +does not come, either! And then this sultry, stormy night! + +[_Listens_.] + +Surely, that was she? At last! God be praised! + +[_Looks into the room_.] + +No. It is not she. The wind blew open the half-closed shutter. + + + +SCENE II + +WILLIAM, _in his shirt-sleeves_; SOPHY. + +WILLIAM. + +Are the soldiers there, mother? + +[_At the door of_ MARY'S _room_.] + +Mother, where is father? + +[SOPHY _is startled, and quickly closes the door_.] + +WILLIAM. + +And Mary? She is not in her room? + +SOPHY. + +What ideas you get into your head! + +WILLIAM. + +Her bed is still as if it had just been made. + +SOPHY (_listens, frightened_). + +Is that your father? William, say nothing about this before your father! + +WILLIAM. + +I'm the fellow to play the informer! But you must tell me where Mary is. + SOPHY. + +Gone to the Dell to ask Robert-- + +WILLIAM. + +Mother, we beg at nobody's door. I am going to fetch her. + +SOPHY. + +In this storm? + +WILLIAM (_puts on his jacket_). + +He would be a fine hunter's boy who is afraid of a little bit of +lightning. Only tell me which way Mary went. The one below along the +brook? All right. She is not like the others, but she is only a girl. +And they are afraid. + +[_Exit_.] + + + +SCENE III + +SOPHY (_alone; after him_). + +William! William! [_Comes back_.] + +He is gone! And the storm is getting worse. A fog below, and the +thunderstorm above coming nearer. And another one is coming on from the +Brandsberg. And Ulrich outside, and none of the children at home. And I +all alone in this solitary hunter's house in the midst of the forest, +and at such an hour of the night! + +[_A door is heard slamming; she starts up_.] + +Merciful God! It is he! If he should look into the room and should not +see Mary! Or-- + + + +SCENE IV + +_Enter the_ FORESTER _in haste; pale and distracted_; SOPHY. + +SOPHY (_going to meet him_). + +Back already?--[_Correcting herself_] at last? + +FORESTER (_looking shyly about_). + +Did anybody ask for me? + +SOPHY. + +No. Are they pursuing you? + +FORESTER. + +Who? + +SOPHY. + +Godfrey-- + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +SOPHY. + +Because you come in as if you were being hunted. + +FORESTER. + +I meant the soldiers.--Why do I see Mary everywhere! In the Dell-- + +SOPHY (_is frightened_). + +In the Dell! + +[_Aside_.] + +Good Heavens! + +FORESTER. + +And all the way back I heard her walking behind me. + +SOPHY. + +On your way back-- + +FORESTER. + +Whenever I walked, I heard her behind me; whenever I stood still, she +also stood still, but I did not look around. + +SOPHY (_relieved_). + +You did not look around? + +FORESTER. + +Why, I knew it was nothing. I have a feeling as though even now she were +still standing behind me. + +SOPHY (_wishes to divert him from the subject_). + +Did you shoot anything? Is it outside? + +FORESTER (_shuddering involuntarily_). + +Outside? + +SOPHY. + +Before the door. What a strange look you give me! What is that on your +clothes? + +FORESTER (_turns away involuntarily_). + +What is it? + +SOPHY. + +A spot-- + +FORESTER. + +What you see-- + +SOPHY. + +Why will you not let me see it? + +FORESTER. + +It is nothing. + +[_Turns to the table at the right, takes down his gun_.] + +Is the soup warm? My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. + +SOPHY (_takes a plate and spoon from the closet, goes to the stove where +she pours out the soup_). + +If he should look into the room! What I ask, I ask only in anxiety to +have him forget about Mary. + +[_She puts the soup before the_ FORESTER _on the table to the right; +listens_.] + +Isn't there a noise in the room? + +[_Walks about the_ FORESTER'S _chair, so as to distract him_.] + +Ulrich, don't you think that Robert could still restore the old friendly +relations? + +[FORESTER _makes a movement_.] + +SOPHY. + +Why do you start so? + +FORESTER. + +Don't wake up Mary! Wasn't there some one at the window? + +SOPHY. + +That is the old rose-bush outside, which is always nodding so anxiously +and knocking at the window, as if it had to prevent a catastrophe, and +nobody paid any attention to it. + +[_Pause; aside_.] + +It is so still. I must keep on talking, otherwise he can hear me +breathing, and will notice my anxiety--and also that he may not hear +Mary when she climbs in at the window. + +[_Listening repeatedly_.] + +The whole evening I have been thinking about it. Only yesterday Robert +said to me-- + +FORESTER. + +Always Robert-- + +SOPHY (_has seated herself by his side_). + +We were walking along the willows, where the pine-thicket is, under the +rock, in the Dell-- + +FORESTER (_violently_). + +Don't mention that-- + +SOPHY. + +How you start! It was at sunset; and as I looked around, something was +coming out from under the pines--so red. I--frightened--For God's sake, +I say, why, that is blood! + +[FORESTER _throws down his spoon and rises_.] + +SOPHY. + +Then the evening glow was reflected in the water.--But what is the +matter with you? + +FORESTER. + +Always with your Dell. What do you care about the Dell? + +SOPHY. + +Did something happen to you there? People say the place is haunted. +Robert said so to me yesterday. They say that there is an accursed spot! +There some one committed a murd-- + +FORESTER (_seizes his gun_). + +What do you know? + +SOPHY (_recoiling in terror_). + +Ulrich!-- + +FORESTER. + +Will you keep quiet? + +SOPHY (_stops before him, shuddering, filled with a presentiment_). + +Ulrich! What have you done? + +FORESTER (_has recovered his self-possession_). + +Stuff and nonsense! Is this a night for such stories? + +[_Lost in thought_.] + +SOPHY. + +Go ahead. Whether an hour sooner, or an hour later. You have me on your +conscience. + +[_Sinks down upon a chair to the left_.] + +FORESTER (_pause; then he walks slowly up and down, and gradually comes +near her, hesitating_). + +I must tell you something, Sophy--if you do not already know it; it will +not let me rest. I am in the right; but--and then I cannot tell--is it +true or is it only an oppressive dream?--a dream in which one cannot do +what one wishes--and exhausts oneself--because one must always do what +one does not wish. Come here! Do you hear? Place your hand on the Bible. + +SOPHY. + +Great God! What can be the meaning of this! + +FORESTER. + +It would be horrible if I had been obliged to kill her, and after all +everything were only--and then I should have in vain--Sophy! + +[_Quite close to her; softly_.] + +There is a report that a corpse is lying in the Dell! + +SOPHY. + +You are drunk or mad! + +FORESTER. + +I am in my right mind. Look at me, woman! Do you believe in a God in +Heaven? Very well, Very well! Then place your hand upon the Bible, right +here. There my right is written. Now say after me: "As truly as I hope +to be saved--" + +SOPHY (_faintly_). + +As truly as I hope to be saved-- + +FORESTER. + +"So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear." + +SOPHY. + +So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear. + +[_Is obliged to sit down_.] + +FORESTER. + +And now give heed.--It is short--no But and no If about it--it is clear +as the right--and right must remain right--else we need no God in +Heaven! [_After he has made several attempts to begin, in a dejected and +low voice, while he leads her to the footlights_.] Do not be frightened. +Robert shot our Andrew, and I--I have executed judgment upon him. + +SOPHY. + +Oh, God! [_She can scarcely keep herself on her feet; wants to go to the +chair. He supports her_.] + +FORESTER. + +I have judged him. As it is written there--"Eye for eye, tooth for +tooth." I have judged him, because the courts no longer judge right. +They have two kinds of law, and here it is written: "Ye shall have one +manner of law." I have not murdered him, I have executed judgment upon +him. [_He walks up and down, then loses himself in thought at the place +where he believes_ SOPHY _still to be, who totters to the chair_.] But I +do not know whether it did happen--what has happened. My brain is so +wild and confused--[_Recollects with difficulty_] but I suppose it +really did happen--what has happened--and as it was about to +happen--what has happened--I saw Mary before my eyes, as if she put +herself in front of him and made a sign to me to stop, and cried: "It +is"--well, you know who! It was a delusion; it was only in my +imagination. After I have had wine, I always am in a state that I see +things which do not exist. And if it should have been she--the bullet +then was no longer under any control. + +SOPHY. + +Almighty God! + +[_She drags herself with difficulty into_ MARY'S _room_.] + +FORESTER (_does not notice it and, staring before him, continues as if +she were still standing beside him_). + +It was not she. How could Mary have come there? It is nothing but the +effect of the wine, that today I see her everywhere. But nevertheless I +was frightened until I saw it had only been the smoke from the gun. +Everything was turning around before my eyes. But when the smoke had +cleared away--that was only a moment--then I saw him--still standing as +before, but only for a moment--then he collapsed--then had happened what +did happen. Then I folded my hands over my gun, and said: "You have been +judged according to your desert." And I prayed: "God have mercy on his +poor soul." Then a swarm of owls flew up and screeched. That sounded as +though they said Amen. Then I stood again erect on my feet. For God and +Earth and Heaven and every creature demand justice. + +[_He loses himself in a brown study_.] + + + +SCENE V + +_The_ FORESTER, _lost in thought, alone. Then_ STEIN _and the_ PASTOR, +_at first only heard behind the scenes_. + +STEIN (_still outside_). + +Ulrich! + +FORESTER (_awaking, mechanically_). + +Stein! + +STEIN (_as above_). + +Do you hear? + +FORESTER (_the connection of the events suddenly flashes upon him_). + +It did happen! + +[_Makes a movement as if to seize his gun; but controls himself_.] + +No! Not an iota more than my right! + +STEIN (_entering, the_ PASTOR _behind him_). + +Where is your Andrew, Ulrich? + +FORESTER. + +What do you want with my Andrew? + +STEIN. + +To demand my Robert from him. + +FORESTER. + +Your Robert?--From my Andrew?--Look here! + +[_Shows the muffler_.] + +PASTOR. + +For Heaven's sake!--There is blood on the muffler! + +STEIN. + +What is that? + +FORESTER. + +That is my Andrew's blood, and your Robert spilled it. And you sent +your Möller for the soldiers! And you made me a scoundrel before the +world--with your two kinds of right--so that you may twist it as you +like! But here--[_striking his breast_] there still is a right! That +neither you nor your lawyers can twist. + + + +SCENE VI + +ANDREW, _still without_. STEIN, FORESTER, PASTOR. + +ANDREW (_outside, in a low voice_). + +Father-- + +PASTOR. + +Who calls? + +STEIN. + +Is not that Andrew's voice? + +FORESTER (_continuing_). + +Here it is written: "Ye shall have one manner of law." And the law has +judged you. "And he that killeth any man he--" + +ANDREW. + +Father! + +FORESTER (_trembling, staring at the door, with smothered voice, +mechanically_). + +"He--he--shall--surely--be--put to death"-- + +_Enter_ ANDREW. + +STEIN (_going toward him_). + +God be thanked! Andrew, you live! + +FORESTER (_makes a great effort_). + +It is not true. He is dead. He must be dead. + +ANDREW. + +Father! + +FORESTER (_stretching out his hand, as if warding him off_). + +Who are you? + +ANDREW (_more and more alarmed_). + +Do you not know your Andrew any more? + +FORESTER. + +_My_ Andrew is dead. If you lie slain in the Dell--then you shall be my +Andrew--then everything is well--then we will rejoice--then we will +sing: Lord God, we praise Thee! + +PASTOR. + +He is demented! + +STEIN. + +Andrew, my Robert-- + +ANDREW. + +You have my muffler which Lindenschmied stole from me before he killed +Godfrey? + +STEIN. + +Lindenschmied killed Godfrey? And my Robert-- + +ANDREW. + +Robert was pursuing him. He compelled Robert to shoot him. + +FORESTER. + +He? He had your gun? + +ANDREW. + +Stolen it with my muffler. + +FORESTER. + +And Robert did-- + +ANDREW. + +Lindenschmied was not mortally wounded. I had his wound dressed in the +mill, and had him removed before the magistrate-- + +FORESTER (_gradually collapsing_). + +I am in the wrong! + +[_Sinks down upon a chair_.] + +ANDREW. + +That is the reason why I am so late. + +FORESTER (_rises; goes to_ STEIN _with his gun in his hand_). + +Stein, do to me according to my desert. + +STEIN. + +What do you mean? + +FORESTER. + +"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth"-- + +STEIN (_looking at the_ PASTOR). + +What does he mean by that again? + +FORESTER. + +Weiler thought that Lindenschmied with the gun was my Andrew. Your +Robert wounded Lindenschmied, and I--killed your Robert for this! + +PASTOR. + +Almighty God! + +ANDREW (_at the same time_). + +Robert! + +FORESTER (_almost simultaneously_). + +Shoot me! + +STEIN (_has seized the gun_). + +You murderer! + +[_The_ PASTOR _arrests his arm_.] + +ANDREW. + +You shot Robert, father? Robert lives! + +STEIN. + +He lives? + +PASTOR. + +He lives? + +FORESTER. + +He lives? + +ANDREW. + +He lives, as surely as I live! + +FORESTER. + +It was only a dream? Can it be that I am not a murderer? That I am an +honorable man? + +PASTOR. + +That you are, Ulrich. Drive away that unfortunate delusion. + +STEIN. + +Man alive, to what might you have provoked me! + +[_Puts away the gun_.] + +FORESTER. + +You saw him? When did you see him, Andrew? Now, Andrew? Just +now, Andrew? + +ANDREW. + +Just now, as I was coming home, I met two men from the mill with a +stretcher. Robert had just called them out of their beds; they were +going to the Dell; Robert had gone ahead of them. + +FORESTER. + +To the Dell? + +PASTOR. + +With a stretcher? + +STEIN. + +What can be behind all this? + +FORESTER (_has gone to the door of_ MARY'S _room; releases the latch_). + +Thanks be to God! + +[_Listening_.] + +I hear her breathing. Oh, she sleeps a peaceful sleep. I am oppressed +with a world of cares, and she takes them from my heart with her breath. +Do you hear, Pastor, do you hear? + +STEIN. + +The unfortunate man! His delusion is returning. + +PASTOR (_after an anxious pause, during which the_ FORESTER _has not +taken his eyes from the_ PASTOR'S _face_). + +I hear nothing. That is your own heavy breathing that you hear. + +FORESTER (_begins to collapse again_). + +My own heavy breathing that I hear-- + +[_Summons up courage, opens the door_.] + +My eyes deceive me? Where she is not, there I see her; and where she is, +there I do not see her. Pastor, for God's sake, tell me: "There lives +Mary." + +[_He has convulsively clutched the_ PASTOR'S _arm_.] + +PASTOR. + +I do not see her. The bed there is untouched, the windows open--your +wife-- + +FORESTER (_rushes into the room_). + +Woman! Woman! Poor, poor woman! + + + +SCENE VII + +SOPHY, _like a ghost; can hardly stand or speak; dragged in forcibly by +the_ FORESTER. + +FORESTER. + +Where is my child? + +ANDREW. + +Mother, what ails you? + +[_He supports her on one side, the_ PASTOR _on the other_.] + +SOPHY. + +Andrew! At least one! + +FORESTER (_shakes her_). + +My child! My child! Where is my child? + +SOPHY (_with repulsion, but faintly_). + +Leave me, you-- + +FORESTER. + +My Mary! + +SOPHY. + +To the Dell--you-- + +FORESTER. + +Creature, you lie! + +SOPHY. + +To Robert-- + +FORESTER. + +Yes, she met me--in the fog--as I was coming-- + +SOPHY. + +That was William. + +FORESTER. + +It was Mary, woman; Mary! + +PASTOR. + +She cannot answer any more. She has fainted. + +STEIN. + +Take her away from the madman! + +FORESTER. + +You mean to say that I--my own child-- + +ANDREW. + +Mother! Mother! + +[_He and the_ PASTOR _are busy about her, at the table to the right_.] + +STEIN (_who in the meantime is trying to keep the_ FORESTER _away from +her_). + +Hands off, you madman! + +FORESTER. + +Madman? God grant that I am! + +[_A knock is heard; he steps back in horror and stretches out his hands +toward the door, as if warding off something_.] + + +Nonsense! What do you want, the whole lot of you? Why, that is Mary. She +is standing outside, and does not dare to come in, because she ran out +in the night. She hasn't the courage. I am severe--oh, I am severe! +Silly wench! + +[_Stands up straight_.] + +Come what may! + +[_He rushes toward the door; before he reaches it, another knock is +heard; he steps back again horrified and powerless_.] + +The raging fever has seized me--nothing else. These are the +symptoms--chattering of the teeth and chills along the spine. +Elderberry-tea--a night or two of perspiration! What has the knocking to +do with my fever? Why does not some one open, some one call her in? Why +are you all so pale and tongueless? Has some one told a fairy-tale, and +are you afraid? My Mary was a living fairy-tale--she is-she is, I mean +to say. That Mary could be dead--but she would not give me such pain! +She knows that I cannot live without my Mary. Do you hear her giggling +outside? Now she will come skipping in and hold her hands over my eyes, +as she is accustomed to do, and I must not spoil her fun. Oh, it +is--[_Attempts to laugh, but sobs_.]--a--[_Beside himself_.]--After all, +it has to be! Come in! + +[_Attempts to go to the door, but with eyes closed sinks into a chair on +the left_.] + + + +SCENE VIII + +ROBERT, WILLIAM, _then two men with a covered stretcher, which they put +down. The men go away_. + +STEIN. + +Robert! + +[_Going toward him_.] + +Do you see, Ulrich? He lives! + +ROBERT (_embracing him, pale and distracted_). + +Father! Father! + +STEIN. + +What has happened to you? + +ROBERT. + +Would that the murderer had killed me! Father Ulrich, be a man! + +FORESTER (_making a supreme effort to collect his energies_). + +Go on! I will see whether I am a man. + +[ROBERT _removes the covering_.] + +STEIN. + +Great God! + +SOPHY (_who, supported by_ ANDREW _and the_ PASTOR, _has +fallen upon her knees by the stretcher_). + +Mary! + +ANDREW. + +Oh, God! It is Mary! + +STEIN. + +How did this happen? Explain it, Robert. + +PASTOR. + +It is dreadfully clear to me. + +ROBERT (_with difficulty maintaining his self-possession_). + +She was praying: "God, let me belong only to my father." I was about to +say to her: "Mary, you are going to give me up?" Then she rushed upon +me, as if she wished to protect me with her own body, made a sign and +called in the direction of the forest. I saw no one; I did not +understand her; I was about to ask: "What is the matter, Mary?" +when--the report of a gun--she sank down in my arms; I threw myself over +her; a bullet had penetrated her heart. + +SOPHY. + +That was her dream. + +STEIN (_holds_ ROBERT _in his embrace, almost simultaneously_). + +She died for you! + +FORESTER. + +She saw me aim at him, and ran purposely into the course of my bullet. I +wanted to judge and--have judged myself. Crime and punishment at the +same moment! I was praying: "God have mercy on his poor soul!" I prayed +for myself, and the owls screeched Amen, and meant me! + +ROBERT (_recoils, horrified_). + +Almighty God--he himself!-- + +STEIN. + +You did not do it consciously. A fearful madness urged you against your +will. + +PASTOR. + +Do not be so obstinate, man; God does not measure the deed according to +a superficial standard. Innocence and crime are at the extreme poles of +human nature. But often it is merely a quicker pulse that separates the +innocent from the criminal. + +FORESTER. + +Give me words of life instead of your cobwebs of the brain--no If and +no But. Tell me something, so that I must believe it! Your words do not +convince me. Why do you offer consolation to my head? Offer consolation +to my heart, if you can. Can you with your consolation restore my child +to life, so that she will rush into my arms? In that case keep on +consoling me. Every word that fails to restore my child to life slays +her once more. + +STEIN. + +Flee to America; I will procure passports for you; all my money is +yours. Your wife and your children are mine! + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear, Andrew, what that man there is saying? He wants to give you +money. Buy a hand-organ with it. Go about to the fairs, and sing of the +old murderer who shot his child--for no reason, for no reason at all in +the world. You need no picture. Take the old woman there along with you. +No painter can paint the story as it stands written upon her face. +Praise the child. Represent her more beautiful than she was--if you +can--as you imagine the most beautiful angel, and then say: "And yet she +was a thousand times more beautiful!" And represent the old murderer so +that people will shed a waterfall of tears for the child, and that every +street-urchin will shake his fist at the old fellow. And he who hears +this story and does not give you with chattering teeth his last penny, +though he had ten starving children at home, and does not pray to God +for the child and curse the old murderer that shot her, must have a +heart like the old murderer's who committed the deed. Do not say: "The +man was honest throughout his life and avoided evil and believed in a +God, and did not permit the least taint upon his honor." If you do, they +will not believe you. Say: He looked like a wolf; do not say: His beard +was white when he committed the crime. If you do, no one will give you +anything; none will believe that one can be so old and yet such an +abandoned villain. And on the lower part of your organ have a picture +painted--how the old murderer blows out his brains and walks as a ghost +during the night--and on the spot where the crime was perpetrated he +sits moaning at midnight with his fiery eyes and white beard--and there +no breeze wafts coolness, and there no dew falls and no rain--there grow +poisonous weeds--the spot is accursed like himself--and the animal that +accidentally strays there bellows with fear--and man is shaken as with +the ague. And have an angel painted from whose mouth proceeds a scroll +on which is written: "There sits he whom God has marked. Abel was a man, +and Cain was only his brother; but this was a child, and he that slew +her was her father. For Cain, there is still a hope of salvation, but +for the old murderer of his child, none--none--none!" Oh! Some comfort! +Some comfort! Only a shadow of comfort! For this I would give my +salvation, if I had any hope of salvation. I will ask God whether there +is any comfort for me! + +[_He takes the Bible and reads, at first trembling in every limb, with +panting breath_.] + +"And he that killeth any--" + +PASTOR. + +No further, Ulrich. Let me show you words of life, words of humanity: +"'As I live,' saith the Lord God, 'I have no pleasure in the death of +the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live.'" + +FORESTER (_who keeps a firm hold of the Bible, and breaks away from the_ +PASTOR, _almost simultaneously_). + +Leave me alone, you inhuman creatures, with your humanity! + +[_He continues reading. With every word his manner becomes more calm and +certain, the sound of his voice stronger_.] + +"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death." + +[_Lays down the Bible_.] + +STEIN. + +Does he find solace in these words? + +PASTOR. + +Let him have such comfort as consoles him. + +FORESTER (_takes up the Bible again; his manner assumes an expression +of joyousness_). + +That is certainty, that is promise, that convinces me--no But and no If. +"And he that killeth a man shall surely be put to death." That means: +Then it is expiated, then it is wiped out, and he is pure once more. + +[_Puts on his hat and buttons his coat_.] + +I am going before the magistrate. + +[_About to go_.] + +STEIN. + +And you think they are going to put you to death? + +[FORESTER _stops and turns around_.] + +PASTOR. + +People more guilty than you have been pardoned. + +FORESTER. + +Pardoned to be imprisoned--hey? Like Leutner? He--Indeed, they don't +judge right in those courts, not as it is written here. I know very +well--but--never mind!--All right!-- + +[_Takes his gun_.] + +STEIN. + +What do you intend to do? + +FORESTER. + +Nothing, I must take along the rifle with which the deed was done. O, +they are particular about that! Farewell, Andrew, William. Take good +care of your mother. + +[_Shakes hands with everybody_.] + +Stein, Pastor, Robert, Sophy--she has fainted. God will soon let her +come after me. Bury my child. Have the bells ring; lay her bridal wreath +upon her coffin. O, I am an old woman! When we meet again I shall be a +murderer no longer. + +[_Makes with his hand a sign of farewell_.] + +STEIN. + +You want-- + +FORESTER (_turns around at the door_). + +My sight--and then--[_Points upward to heaven_.]--to meet my child. + +[_Exit. Short pause, during which the others look after him with +surprise and emotion_.] + +STEIN (_seized with a sudden apprehension_). + +If the other barrel is still loaded--quick--after him-- + +[_Outside the door a shot is heard_.] + +Too late! I suspected it! + +ANDREW, WILLIAM (_rushing out_). + +Father! + +ROBERT (_in the open door, rooted to the spot through horror and pain at +what he sees_). + +He has his right! + +STEIN (_also at the door_). + +A second time his own judge! + +PASTOR (_stepping to the others_). + +May God do unto him according to his faith. + +[_Exeunt_.] + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 7: Translation of the King James version.] + + + + + +BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH (1856) + + +By OTTO LUDWIG + +TRANSLATED AND CONDENSED BY MURIEL ALMON + + +The little garden lies between the dwelling-house and the slate shed; +whoever goes from one to the other must pass it. As you go from the +house to the shed it is on your left; on the right there is a yard +with a woodshed and a stable, separated from the neighboring house by +a trellis-fence. Every morning the house opens twelve green shutters +onto one of the busiest streets of the town, the shed opens a large +gray door on a back street; the roses on the bushes that have been +trained to grow like trees in the little garden can look out into the +lane which connects its two larger sisters. On the other side of the +lane stands a tall house which, in elegant seclusion, does not deign +to bestow a glance on the smaller one. Its eyes are open only to the +doings of the main street; if you look nearer at its closed eyes +facing the narrow street, you soon see the reason for its eternal +sleep--they are only a sham, painted on the outer wall. + +Not all sides of the house that belongs to the little garden look as +decorative as the one on the main street. There, a pale rose-colored +tint contrasts not too sharply with the green window-shutters and the +blue slate roof. The weather side of the house, on the narrow street, +looks as if it were clad in an armor of slate from top to toe; the +other gable-end joins directly on to the row of houses of which it is +the beginning or the end; at the back, however, it is an example of +the proverb that everything has its weak point. There, an upstairs +piazza has been built onto the house, not unlike half a crown of +thorns. Supported by roughly-hewn wooden posts it runs along the upper +story and expands toward the left into a little room. There is no +direct entrance to it from the upper story of the house. To reach the +"gallery chamber" from there one must leave the house by the back +door, walk perhaps six steps along the wall, past the dog-kennel, to +the wooden stairs, resembling those of a henhouse, and after climbing +these must wander the whole length of the piazza to the left. + +If all the structures are not equally ornamental and if piazza, stable +and shed stand out noticeably against the dwelling-house, yet there is +nowhere lacking a quality which adorns more than beauty of form and +shining ornamentation. Extreme cleanliness smiles at the observer from +the most hidden corners. In the little garden it reaches such a pitch +that it hardly dares to smile. The garden does not look as if it were +cleaned with a hoe and broom; it looks as if it had been brushed. The +little beds that stand out so sharply against the yellow gravel of the +walks look, not as if they had been dug by a cord, but as if they were +drawn on the ground with a ruler and compasses, the box edging has the +air of being daily attended to by the most accurate barber in town +with comb and razor. And yet the blue coat which, if one stands on the +piazza, one may see twice daily stepping into the little garden and +every day at exactly the same minute, is still more neatly kept than +the garden. When, after doing various pieces of work, the old +gentleman leaves the garden again--and every day he goes at the same +minute, just as punctually as he comes--the white apron over his blue +coat shines with such unblemished whiteness that it is really +incomprehensible why the old gentleman should have put it on. When he +moves about among the tall rose-bushes which seem to have taken the +old gentleman's bearing for a model, each of his steps is like the +other, none is longer or fails to keep the regularity of his tempo. If +one looks at him closer as he stands thus in the middle of his +creation, one sees that he has merely copied externally that of which +nature has created the model in himself. The regularity of the +different parts of his tall figure seems to have been as accurately +measured as the beds of the little garden. When nature formed him, her +countenance must have borne the same expression of conscientiousness +as the old man's face--an expression which, because of its strength, +would appear to be obstinacy if an expression of loving gentleness, +indeed almost of dreamy enthusiasm, were not mixed with it. And even +now nature seems to watch over him with the same care that his eye +shows when it looks over his little garden. His hair, cut short at the +back and twisted above his brow into a so-called "corkscrew-curl," is +of the same unblemished whiteness that is shown by his neckerchief, +waistcoat, collar and the apron over his buttoned-up coat. Here, in +his little garden, he completes the finished picture that it presents; +away from home his appearance and personality must appear a little +odd. His hat still has the high pointed crown, his blue overcoat the +narrow collar and padded shoulders of a long vanished fashion. These +offer opportunities enough for bad jokes; but no one makes them. It is +as if there were an invisible something emanating from the stately +figure that prevents the rise of flippant thoughts. + +When the older inhabitants of the town, meeting Herr Nettenmair, pause +in their conversation to greet him respectfully, it is not alone the +magic something that has this effect. They know what it is that they +respect in the old gentleman; when he has passed, their eyes follow +him as they stand, still in silence, until he has disappeared round +the corner; then it may well be that a hand is raised and an extended +forefinger tells more eloquently than lips could of a long life +adorned with all the virtues of a good citizen and untarnished by a +single misdeed. He is never seen in a public place, unless indeed +something relating to the common welfare is to be discussed or +started. The recreation which he allows himself he seeks in his little +garden. At other times he sits over his ledgers or stands in the shed +superintending the loading and unloading of the slate which comes from +his own quarry and which he sells all over the country and far beyond +its borders. A widowed sister-in-law looks after his house for him +and her sons manage the business of slating which is connected with +the trade in slate and is scarcely inferior to it in size. It is their +uncle's spirit, the spirit of orderliness, of conscientiousness to the +point of obstinacy, that rests upon the nephews and gains and keeps +for them such confidence that they are sent for from far away wherever +a slater is needed to roof a new building or to make extensive repairs +to an old one. + +It is a peculiar life that goes on in the house with the green +window-shutters. The sister-in-law, still a beautiful woman, little +younger than the master of the house, treats him with a kind of silent +respect, or even veneration. And her sons do the same. The old +gentleman shows his sister-in-law a respectful consideration, a sort +of chivalry that has something touching in its grave reserve; toward +his nephews he displays the fondness of a father. Yet even there +something lies between them that lends to their whole intercourse +something of considerate formality. + +The sabbath-like peace that now spreads its wings above the most +strenuous activity of the dwellers in the house did not always hover +there. There was a time when bitter sorrow that came from stolen +happiness, and wild desires divided its inmates, when even the menace +of murder cast its shadow into the house; when despair at self-created +misery wandered, wringing its hands in the still night, from the back +door, up the stairs and along the piazza and down again by the path +between the little garden and the stable-yard to the shed, creeping +restlessly to the front again and again to the back. + +What, at that time, made the hearts in the house swell to the +bursting-point, what went on in the shadowed souls and issued from +them in part, in the self-forgetfulness of fear, or became a deed, a +deed of desperation--all that may pass through the memory of the man +with whom we have been occupied. It is thirty-one years today since he +returned to his home town from a long absence. So we turn back the +thirty-one years and find a young man instead of the old one whom we +leave. He is tall, but not so strong; and, like the old man, he wears +his brown hair cut short at the back and brushed into a +"corkscrew-curl" above his high white forehead. The sternness of the +old man does not yet appear in his face, and the scar of mental pain +endured has not yet been stamped upon his good-humored expression. Yet +he is far from showing the light-hearted carelessness usually +belonging to his age and the easy-going manners that are so frequently +habitual with the traveling journeyman. The high road still leads him +through the dense woods; but from the town, far down below, the sound +of St. George's bells rises up to the height, as impossible to +restrain as a mother flying to the loved child that comes toward her. +Home! How much lies in this one short syllable! What swells within the +human heart when the voice of home, the tone of the bells, calls a +welcome to him who is returning from abroad, the tone that called the +child to church, the boy to his confirmation and his first communion, +that spoke to him every hour! In the idea of home, all our good angels +embrace one another. + +Tears gathered in our young wanderer's serious and yet kindly eyes. If +he had not been ashamed he would have sobbed aloud. He felt as if he +had only dreamed his sojourn away from home and, now that he was +awake, could scarcely remember the dream; as if he had only dreamed +that he had grown to be a man while abroad; as if it had always seemed +to him in his dreams that he was only dreaming abroad in order, when +he should wake up at home, to be able to tell about it. It might have +been noticed that, in spite of all this inward agitation of the +moment, he did not fail to see the cobweb that the breeze from home +laid as a greeting against his coat collar, and that he carefully +dried his tears so that they might not fall on his neckerchief, and +that he removed the last, tiniest scraps of the silver thread with the +most persistent patience before he gave himself up to his feeling for +home with his whole soul. And even his attachment to his home was in +part only an expression of his obstinate need of cleanliness which +made him regard everything alien that threatened to fly against him as +dirt; and this need in turn sprang from the warmth of feeling with +which he embraced everything that stood in closer relation to his +personality. The clothes on his body were a piece of home to him, from +which he must ward off everything strange. + +Now the road turned; the mountain ridge which had closed it in up to +this point was now left behind to one side and the top of a spire +appeared above the young growth. It was the top of St. George's +steeple. The young wanderer paused. Natural as it was that the highest +building of the town should become visible to him before the others, +the tender meaning with which his fancy imbued the fact made him +forget that it was so. The slate roof of the church and steeple needed +repairs. This work had been given to his father; and it was the +reason, or at least the pretext, for his father's calling him back +home sooner than he had intended. Perhaps tomorrow he would begin his +part of the work. There, above the wide arch through which he saw the +bells moving, the steeple door had been placed. There the two beams +would have to be pushed out to bear the ladder on which he should +climb up to the broach-post to fasten to it the rope of the +contrivance in which he would make his airy circuit of the roof. And +as it was his nature to bind the cords of his heart to the objects +with which his work brought him in touch, he saw a greeting in the +sudden appearance of the spire and involuntarily reached out toward it +as if he would press a hand offered him in friendship. Then the +thought of the work quickened his step, till a clearing in the wood +and his arrival on the highest slope of the mountain showed him his +whole home town lying at his feet. + +Again he stopped. There stood his father's house with the slate shed +behind it, not far from it the house where she had lived at the time +he went away. Now she lived in his father's house, was his father's +daughter, his brother's wife; and from now on he was to live in the +same house with her and to see her daily as his sister-in-law. His +heart beat harder at the thought of her. But it did not allow any of +the hopes which had formerly been bound up with her memory to rise. +His affection had become that of a brother for a sister, and what +moved him now was more like anxiety. He knew that she thought of him +with dislike. She was the only one in his father's whole house who +looked forward to his coming with displeasure. How had this all come +about? Had there not been a time when she seemed to be fond of him, +when she had apparently liked to meet him as much as she later avoided +him? Down below there, in front of the town, the shooting-house stood +surrounded by gardens. How much bigger the trees round the house had +grown since he had waved his last greeting to it from this height! +Shortly before he had stood there under that acacia--it had been a +beautiful spring evening, the most beautiful he thought he had ever +known--at the Whitsuntide shooting. Within all the other young people +were dancing; he walked happily round outside the house in which he +knew her to be dancing. Even now he still felt embarrassed with girls +and women and did not know how to talk to them; at that time he had +felt even more so. How dearly he would have loved to tell her--how +much he had to tell her, when he was alone, and how well he knew how +to say it; and if chance ordained that he met her alone (it was +wonderful how busy chance seemed to be in arranging such meetings) the +thought that now the moment had come drove all the blood to his heart, +the words from his tongue back into their hiding-place in the depths +of his soul. Thus it had been when, her cheeks still glowing from the +dance, she had come out of the house alone. She seemed to be concerned +only with getting cool; she fanned herself with her white scarf, but +her cheeks only grew the redder. He felt that she had seen him, that +she expected him to come nearer; and it was the knowledge that he +understood her that dyed her cheeks redder--that drove her, as he +hesitated, back again into the hall. Perhaps, too, she had heard a +third person coming. His brother came out of another door of the hall. +He had seen the two standing silently opposite each other, perhaps had +also seen the girl's blush. "Are you looking for Beate?" asked our +hero to hide his embarrassment. "No," answered his brother, "she is +not at the dance--and it's just as well. Nothing can come of it, after +all; I must get another--and until I find one, Bohemian beer is my +sweetheart." + +There was something wild in his brother's speech. Our hero looked at +him amazed and at the same time disturbed. "Why can nothing come of +it?" he asked. "And what is the matter with you?" + +"Oh, yes, you think I ought to be like you, pious and patient so long +as there is no thread on your coat. But I am another kind of fellow, +and if anybody upsets my calculations I have to let off steam. Why can +nothing come of it? Because the old man in the blue coat won't have +it." + +"Father called you into the little garden yesterday--" + +"Yes, and raised his white eyebrows, which are drawn with a ruler, an +inch and a half. 'I thought it was so. You are going with Beate, the +collector's daughter. That comes to an end today!'" + +"Is it possible? And why?" + +"Did you ever know old Blue-coat to give any 'why'? And did you ever +ask him 'But why, father?' He didn't say so, but I know why it has to +come to an end with me and Beate. I've been expecting it the whole +week; whenever he raised his hand I thought he was pointing to the +little garden and was ready to follow him like a poor sinner. That is +the place where he gives his cabinet orders. The collector is said not +to be in very good circumstances. There is some gossip about his +spending more than his pay. And--well, you are a quill-driver, too, +like old Blue-coat. But what can the girl do? Or I? Well, the affair +must stop--but I'm sorry about the girl, and I must see how I can +forget her. I must drink or get another one." + +Our hero was accustomed to his brother's manner; he knew that the +words were not intended to be as wild as they sounded, and his brother +was showing his love and respect for their father by the fact of his +obedience; still our hero would have liked to see them shown in speech +as well as in action. It seemed to Apollonius as if there were +something unclean on his brother's soul and involuntarily he stroked +the other's coat collar several times with his hand as if he could +brush it off him from outside. Dust had collected on the collar during +the dance; when he had removed it he felt as if he had really removed +what had troubled him. + +The subject of their conversation changed. They began to speak of the +girl who had just been out, fanning herself to get cool; Apollonius +certainly did not know that he was responsible for this. Just as the +girl was the goal to which all his lines of thought led, so, too, when +once he began to speak of her he could not escape from his theme. He +forgot his brother so completely that at last he was really talking to +himself. His brother now seemed for the first time to perceive all the +beautiful and good things in her that the hero lauded with unconscious +eloquence. He agreed with more and more enthusiasm until he broke into +a wild laugh which roused the hero from his self-forgetfulness and +dyed his cheeks as red as those of the girl had been a short time +before. + +"And so you slink about round the hall where she is dancing with +others, and if she shows herself you haven't the heart to draw her +into conversation. Wait, I will be your ambassador. From now on she +shall dance no turn except with me, so that no one else shall cross +your plans. I know how to get on with girls. Let me take your part for +you." + +Our hero was frightened at the thought that the girl should learn that +very day what he felt for her. Besides, he was ashamed of his own +embarrassed and awkward behavior to her, and of what she must think of +him when she knew that he needed a mediator. He had already raised his +hand to stop his brother when the appearance of the girl herself +caused everything else to grow dark to him. Quietly and alone, as +before, she stepped out of the door. Beneath the scarf with which she +had fanned herself she seemed to glance furtively about her. Again he +saw her cheeks grow redder. Had she seen him? But she turned her face +in the opposite direction. She seemed to be looking for something in +the grass in front of her. He saw her pick a little flower, lay it on +a bench and, after she had stood for a time as if in doubt whether she +should pick it up again or not, with quick decision turn again to the +door. A half involuntary movement of her arm seemed to tell him to +take it, that it was picked for him. Once more a wave of red rushed up +over her face to her dark brown hair, and the haste with which she +disappeared in the door seemed intended to prevent a regret which +might give rise to anxiety as to how her conduct would be understood. + +The brother, who seemed not to have noticed anything of all this, had +continued to speak in his lively, vehement fashion; his words were +lost; our hero would have had to have had two lives in order to hear +them, for all the one he possessed was in his eyes. Now he saw his +brother rushing away toward the hall. He thought of detaining him, but +it was too late. In vain he hurried after him up to the door. There +the flower absorbed him again which the girl had left lying for some +finder, for a happy one, if _he_ found it for whom it was intended. +And while his lips continued to call softly and mechanically to his +brother, who no longer heard him, to keep silence, he was inwardly +asking himself: "Was it really I for whom she laid the flower here? +Did she lay it here for any one?" His heart answered both questions +with a happy "Yes," while at the same time the thing that his brother +intended to do troubled him. + +If it was a sign of love from her and for him, then it was the last. + +Twice he glanced surreptitiously into the hall when the door was +opened; he saw her dancing with his brother and then, when they were +resting after the dance, he saw his brother talking persuasively to +her in his hasty way. "Now he is talking of me," he thought, his whole +face burning. He rushed into the shade of the bushes when she left the +hall. His brother took her home. He followed them at as great a +distance as he thought necessary to prevent her seeing him. When his +brother came back from accompanying her he stepped away from the door. +He felt naked with shame. His brother had noticed him nevertheless. He +said: "She won't hear of you yet; I don't know whether she means it, +or whether it is just airs. I shall meet her again. No tree falls at +one stroke. But I must confess, you have good taste. I don't know +where my eyes have been up to now. She's away ahead of Beate; and +that's saying a good deal!" + +From then on his brother had danced untiringly with Walter's +Christiane and spoken for Apollonius and always, after he had taken +her home, he came and gave our hero an account of his efforts on his +behalf. For a long time he was uncertain whether it was only +affectation, or whether she really looked with disfavor on our hero. +He repeated conscientiously what he had said in our hero's praise, and +how she had answered his questions and assurances. He still had hope +after our hero had already given it up. And her behavior toward the +latter would have compelled him to realize that he could expect no +return of his affection, even if he had not known what answers she +gave his brother. She avoided him wherever she saw him as assiduously +as she had formerly seemed to seek him. And had it really been he whom +she had sought before, if indeed she had sought any one? + +A hundred times his brother urged him to waylay her and press his own +suit. He exerted all his inventive power to procure him an opportunity +of speaking to her alone. Our hero refused to be urged or to accept +his offers. After all, it was useless. All that he might accomplish +would be to make her still more angry. + +"I can't stand by any longer and see you growing thinner and paler all +the time," said his brother one evening, after he had reported how +unsuccessfully he had spoken for him again that day. "You must go away +from here for a while; that will have good results for you in two +ways. When I tell her that it is on her account that you have gone out +into the world, perhaps she will turn. Believe me, I know the +long-haired tribe, and I know how to treat them. You must write her a +touching letter for good-by; I will deliver it, and I'll manage to +soften her heart. And if it can't be accomplished, it will do you good +to be away from here where everything reminds you of her, for a +year--or several years. And finally, strange places will make another +man of you, who will know better how to get round the apron-wearers. +You must learn to dance; that's already half the battle. And anyway, +the old Blue-coat has been asked by his cousin in Cologne to send one +of us to him; I read it the other day in a letter that had fallen out +of his pocket. Just tell him that you have gathered something of the +sort from several things he has said lately and that you are ready to +go if he wants you to. Or let me do that. You are too honest." + +And he really did arrange it. It is a question whether our hero would +have been able voluntarily to make up his mind to leave home. He could +not understand how any one could live anywhere else but in his home +town; to him it had always seemed like a fairy tale that there were +other towns and people living in them. He had not imagined the life +and doings of these people as real, like those of the inhabitants of +his home, but as a kind of shadow-play that existed only for the +looker-on, not for the shadows themselves. His brother, who knew how +to treat the old man, led the conversation up to the cousin in Cologne +as if by chance, and was clever enough to interpret the suggestions +that Herr Nettenmair made in his diplomatic way as preliminary hints +and connect them with others that referred to our hero. After frequent +conversations he seemed to take it as the express desire of the old +man that Apollonius should go to his cousin in Cologne. This put the +idea into the old man's mind and, as it passed for his own, he brooded +over it in his own way. There was little work to do at the time, and +there seemed to be no prospect of its increasing materially for some +time. A pair of hands could be spared; if they remained in the +business all the workers would be condemned to semi-idleness. The old +man could stand nothing as little as what he called dawdling. The only +thing that was lacking was that our hero should resist. He knew +nothing of his brother's plans. The latter had wisely not initiated +him into them, because he knew him too well to expect his support in a +matter that he would have rejected as both underhand and disrespectful +to his father. + +"You want to send Apollonius to Cologne," said his brother to the old +man one afternoon; "but will he want to go? I don't think so. You will +have to send me out on my travels. Apollonius won't go--at least not +today, nor tomorrow." + +That was enough. That very evening the old man beckoned our hero to +follow him into the little garden. He stopped in front of the old +pear-tree and, removing a little twig that was growing out of its +trunk, said: "Tomorrow you will go to your cousin in Cologne." + +With a rapid movement he turned toward his son, and saw with +astonishment that Apollonius nodded his head obediently. It seemed +almost to displease him that he should have no self-will to break. +Did he think that the poor boy was nursing defiant thoughts, even if +he did not express them, and did he want to break down even the +defiance of thoughts? "You pack your knapsack this very day, do you +hear?" he shouted at him. + +"Yes, father," said Apollonius. + +"You start tomorrow at sunrise." After he had seemed to try almost to +force a defiant answer, he may have regretted his anger. He made a +gesture of dismissal; Apollonius went obediently. The old man followed +him, and several times he came up to the brothers' room with milder +sternness to remind his son, who was packing, of this and that which +he was not to forget. + +And the last of four strokes was just ringing out from the tower of +St. George's when the door of the house with the green shutters +opened, and our young wanderer stepped out, accompanied by his +brother. At the same spot where he now stood looking down on the town +lying below him, his brother had taken farewell of him, and he had +looked after him a long, long time. "Perhaps I can win her for you +after all," his brother had said; "and then I'll write you so at once. +And if you can't get her, she isn't the only one in the world. I can +tell you, you are as good-looking a fellow as any; and if you'll only +lay aside your stupid way you can get on with any of them. Once for +all, things are so that the girls can't court us--and I shouldn't even +want one that threw herself at my head of her own accord. And what can +a lively girl do with a dreamer? Our cousin in Cologne is said to have +a couple of pretty daughters. And now, good-by. I will deliver your +letter today." With that his brother had left him. + +"Yes," said Apollonius to himself as he looked after him. "He is +right. Not because of my cousin's daughters, or any other girl, no +matter how pretty she might be. If I had been different perhaps I need +not have had to go away now. Was it I for whom she laid the flower +there at the Whitsuntide shooting? Did she want to meet me then, and +before then? Who knows how hard it has become for her! And having done +all that in vain must she not have felt ashamed? Oh, she is right not +to want to have anything more to do with me. I must learn to be +different." + +And this resolution had been no bloomless bud. His cousin's house in +Cologne did not encourage dreaming of any kind. Apollonius found an +entirely different family life there from that in his own home. His +old cousin was as full of life as the youngest member of the family. +Loneliness was impossible. A lively sense of the ridiculous +[Illustration: Jacob's Journey. Schnorr Von Carolsfeld] [Blank Page] +prevented the growth of any kind of peculiarity. Every one had to be +on his guard; no one could let himself go. + +Apollonius could not have avoided growing to be another man, even if +he had not wanted to change; and he recognized clearly that it was a +piece of good fortune that had led him to his cousin. He lost more and +more of his dreaminess; before long his cousin could put the most +difficult task into the young man's hands and he would complete it, +without the aid of another's advice, so satisfactorily that his cousin +was obliged to confess to himself that even he would not have begun +the matter more thoroughly, carried it on more energetically, finished +it more speedily and happily. Soon the youth was able to form his own +opinion of the way in which the business at home had been carried on. +He was obliged to acknowledge that it had not been the most practical +way, in fact, that some of his father's orders could not but be called +wrong-headed; then he reproached himself bitterly for his unfilial +criticism, endeavored to justify his father's actions to himself, and, +if he found that impossible, forced himself to believe that the old +man must have had his good reasons and it could only be that he +himself was too limited in knowledge to be able to guess them. + +Letters came from his brother. In the first one he wrote that he was +now clear in his mind about the girl to this extent, that her +harshness toward Apollonius was due to her fondness for another whom +he could not bring her to name. In the next, one in which he scarcely +spoke of the girl, Apollonius read between the lines a certain pity +for himself, the reason for which he knew not how to find. The third +gave this reason only too clearly. His brother himself was the object +of the girl's secret affection. She had given him various signs of +this, after he had renounced his former sweetheart in accordance with +his father's will. He had suspected nothing of this; and when he had +approached her as a suitor on his brother's behalf, shame and the +conviction that he himself did not love her had sealed her lips. + +Now Apollonius realized with pain that he had been mistaken when he +believed that those dumb signs had been meant for him. He wondered that +he had not seen that he was in error at the time. Had not his brother +been as near to her as he when she laid down the flower which the wrong +man found? And when she had met him alone so intentionally +unintentionally--indeed, when he called to mind the moments that +dominated his dreams--she had sought his brother, that was why she had +been so startled to meet him, that was why she had fled every time as +soon as she had recognized him, as soon as she found him whom she was +not seeking. She did not talk to him, but she could joke for a quarter +of an hour at a time with his brother. + +These thoughts characterized hours, days and weeks of pain that lay +deep within him, but his cousin's confidence which he had to reward by +living up to it, the healing effect of busy and purposeful work, the +manliness which both these things had already ripened in him, all held +their own in the struggle and came out of it strengthened. + +A later letter which he received from his brother announced that old +Walther had discovered the inclination of the girl's heart and that he +and the old gentleman in the blue coat had decided that Apollonius' +brother should marry the girl. The old gentleman's "should" was a +"must;" Apollonius knew that as well as his brother. The girl's +affection had touched his brother; she was beautiful and good; should +he oppose his father's will for Apollonius' sake, for the sake of a +love that was without hope? Being certain of Apollonius' consent +beforehand, he had resigned himself to the decree of heaven. + +Throughout the first half of the following letter, in which he +announced his marriage, this pious mood echoed. After many cordial +words of comfort came his brother's apology, or rather justification, +for having allowed two years to elapse between this letter and the +last one. Then followed a description of his domestic happiness; his +young wife who still clung to him with all the fire of her girlish +love, had borne him a girl and a boy. In the mean time his father had +been afflicted by an ailment of the eyes, and had grown constantly +less able to conduct the business alone in his sovereign manner. This +had made him grow odder and odder. After he had left the reins in his +son's hands for a time, the old imperative desire to rule, intensified +by the monotony of enforced idleness, had caused him to rouse himself +once more. Finally, however, he had been obliged to realize that +things could not go on in his way. To subordinate himself to another +merely as an advisory assistant, and particularly when the other was +his own son who until recently had carried out his commands without +being consulted and without any will of his own, this proved to be +impossible for the old man. He found occupation in the little garden. +There he could remove the old, think of something new, and again make +room for something newer; and he did so. Ruling unrestrictedly in the +little green realm in which from now on no "why" might be heard, +where, beside the law of nature, only one other governed and that his +will, he forgot or seemed to forget that he had formerly borne a +mightier sceptre. + +But his brother's following letters were not so full of the business +and of the odd old gentleman as they were of the festivities of the +shooting society of the home town and of a club which had been formed +to keep its pleasures separate from those of the lower classes. In all +the descriptions of bird and target shooting, concerts and balls of +which he and his young wife appeared as the centre, shone the utmost +gratification of the writer's vanity. Only in a postscript to the last +letter did he mention the more serious fact that the town wanted to +have repairs made to the tower and roof of St. George's, and that the +work had been entrusted to him. The old gentleman in the blue coat +urged him to ask Apollonius to return to his home town and the +business. It was his brother's opinion that Apollonius would not care +to leave the life in Cologne of which he had become fond for such a +trifling matter. The repairs could be completed in a short time with +the present working force. There were only a few damaged places on the +tower and roof. Moreover, apart from his wife's dislike of Apollonius +which he had continued to combat in vain, it would be a useless +torture to his brother to refresh in his mind all that he must be glad +to have forgotten. He would easily find an excuse for refusing to obey +a command which only oddity had suggested. The conclusion of the +letter contained a teasing insinuation of a relation between our hero +and his cousin's youngest daughter, of which his home town was +talking. His brother sent his regards to her as his future +sister-in-law. + +Although no such relation existed, Apollonius acknowledged to himself +that it was only for him to call it into being. He knew that he could +become his cousin's son-in-law if he wished. The girl was pretty, +good, and fond of him, as was her sister. But he looked on her only as +a sister; he had never felt a wish that she might be more to him. He +believed he had conquered his love for Christiane; he did not know +that after all it was only she that stood between him and his cousin's +daughter, as she would have stood between him and any other woman. +When he learned that Christiane loved his brother, he had taken from +his breast the little metal box in which he had carried the flower +ever since the evening when he had picked it up in the mistaken +belief that it had been laid there for him. When Christiane became his +brother's wife, he packed up the box with the flower and sent it to +him. He could not throw away what had once been dear to him--but he +might no longer possess it. Only he had a right to the flower for whom +it had been intended, to whom belonged the hand which had bestowed it. + +His father called him back; he must obey. But it was more than mere +obedience that awoke in him. He not only went; he went gladly. His +father's words conveyed to him a permission rather than an order. When +the spring sun penetrates into a room that has been uninhabited and +closed for the winter we see that what has lain on the floor like dry +mummies was really sleeping life. Now it moves and stretches itself +and becomes a buzzing cloud and swarms up jubilantly into the golden +ray. Not his father alone, every house in his home-town, every hill, +every garden about it, every tree within it, called him. His brother, +his sister--this was the name he gave Christiane--called him. Yet, she +did not call him. She felt a dislike of him, a dislike so strong that +for six years his brother had struggled in vain to overcome it. He +felt as if he must go home on that account if on no other; he must +show her that he did not deserve her dislike, that he was worthy to be +her brother. He wrote this to his brother in the letter which +announced his intention to obey and named the day on which they might +expect him. He was able to assure him that recollections of the time +that was gone would not torture him, that his brother's anxiety was +groundless. + +It had come to that--the thought of her did not awaken any of the old +hopes. When he looked down from the height he asked himself: "Shall I +succeed in becoming a brother to her who is now my sister?" + +He has arrived at the door of the paternal home. In vain he has +scanned the windows, seeking for some familiar face. Now a thickset +man in a black coat comes rushing out. He dashes out so hastily, +embraces him so wildly, presses him so close to his white waistcoat, +lays his cheek so near his cheek and keeps it there so long that one +must choose to believe either that he loves his brother to the utmost +or--that he does not want him to look into his eyes. But at last he +has to let go of him; he takes him by the right arm and draws him into +the door. + +"It's fine that you've come! It's grand that you've come! It really +wasn't necessary--simply an idea of the old man's, and he has nothing +more to say about the business. But it really is splendid of you; I'm +only sorry that you're making your betrothed's eyes red for nothing." +He said the words "your betrothed" so distinctly and in such a loud +tone that they could be heard and understood in the living room. +Apollonius searched his brother's face with moist eyes, as if to check +off, point by point, whether everything was still there that had been +so dear to him. His brother did nothing to help him; he looked only at +what lay between Apollonius' chin and toes. + +"Father wanted it," said Apollonius easily; "and what you say of a +betrothed--" + +His brother interrupted him; he laughed loudly in his old manner, so +that even if Apollonius had gone on speaking he could not have been +understood. "That's all right! That's all right! And once more, it's +splendid that you've come to visit us, and we won't let you go for a +fortnight at least, whether you want to or not. Don't mind her," he +added softly, pointing through the doorway with his right hand while +he opened the door with his left. + +The young wife was standing at a cupboard with the contents of which +she was busy, her back toward the door. She turned, in an embarrassed +and not quite friendly manner, and only toward her husband. Her +brother-in-law could still see nothing but a part of her right cheek, +with a burning blush upon it. Whatever other criticism might be made +of her behavior, an unmistakable honesty showed itself in it, an +incapability of pretending to be otherwise than she was. She stood +there as if she were preparing herself to hear an expected insult. +Apollonius went up to her and took her hand, which at first she seemed +to want to draw away and then allowed to lie motionless in his. He was +glad to greet his sister-in-law. He begged her not to be displeased at +his coming and hoped by earnest endeavor to conquer the unmistakable +dislike that she felt for him. + + * * * * * + +However considerate and courteous were the terms in which he clothed +his pleading and hope, yet he expressed both only in thought. That +everything was just as he had imagined it and yet so entirely +different robbed him of all ease and courage. + +His brother put a welcome end to the painful pause, for his wife did +not utter a syllable in reply. He pointed to the children. They were +still crowding, unconfused by all that oppressed their elders and +which they did not notice or understand, about their new uncle; and he +was glad of the opportunity to bend down to them and to have to answer +a thousand questions. + +"They're a forward brood," said their father. He pointed to the +children, but he looked furtively at his wife. "For all that I'm +surprised to see how soon you have become acquainted--and intimate at +once," he added. Perchance he continued his last remark in thought: +"it seems that you know how to become intimate quickly and to make +others intimate with you!" A shade as of anxiety spread over his red +face. But his anxiety was not about the children; otherwise he would +have looked at the children and not at his wife. + +Apollonius was talking more and more eagerly to the children. He had +failed to hear the remark or he did not want to let the angry woman +know whose face he carried so vividly within him. He would have +recognized the little ones, if they had met him by chance, as his +brother's children by their resemblance to their mother. But the +question how they had become so quickly intimate with him ought to +have been put to old Valentine. It was he who had been continually +telling them about the uncle who was soon coming to see them--perhaps +only so as to be able to talk with some one about what he liked to +talk of so much. The brother and the sister-in-law avoided such +conversations, and the father did not make himself familiar enough +with the old fellow to talk with him about matters which might give +him an excuse to drop into any kind of intimacy. Old Valentine would +also have been able to say that the children had not met their uncle +just by chance. They had come to find him. Old Valentine had thought +of how love that has waited long hurries to meet thousands of +homecomers; it had hurt him to think that his favorite alone should +fail to find any greeting before he knocked at his father's door. + +Apollonius suddenly ceased speaking. He was shocked to think that his +embarrassment had caused him to forget his father. His brother +understood his start and said with relief: "He's in the little +garden." Apollonius jumped up and hurried out. + +There, among his beds, crouched the figure of the old gentleman. He +was still following old Valentine's shears with his critical hands as +the servant slipped along on his knees before him. He found many an +inequality which the fellow had to remove at once. It was no wonder. +Twice every minute old Valentine thought: "Now he's coming!" And when +he thought thus the shears cut crookedly right into the bog. And the +old gentleman would have growled in quite another manner if the same +thought had not made uncertain the hand that was now his eye. + +Apollonius stood before his father and could not speak for pain. He +had long known that his father was blind and had often pictured him to +himself in sorrowful thought. At such times he had seen him looking as +usual, only with a shield over his eyes. He had thought of him sitting +or leaning on old Valentine, but never as he now saw him, the tall +figure helpless as a child, the trembling and uncertain hands feeling +their way. Now he knew for the first time what it meant to be blind. + +Valentine laid the shears down and laughed or cried on his knees; it +could not be said what he did. The old gentleman first inclined his +head to one side as if listening, then he pulled himself together. +Apollonius saw that his father felt his blindness to be something of +which he must be ashamed. He saw how the old man exerted himself to +avoid every movement that might recall the fact that he was blind. The +old gentleman felt that the new-comer was somewhere near him. But +where? On which side? Apollonius understood that his father felt this +uncertainty with shame, and forced himself to cry with a voice that +almost failed him. "Father! Dear father!" He dropped on his knees +beside the old man and wanted to throw both arms around him. His +father made a motion which seemed to beg for forbearance, though it +was only intended to keep the young man away from him. Apollonius +threw the arms his father had refused around his own breast to hold +the pain there which, if it had risen and crossed his lips, would have +betrayed to his father how deeply he felt the latter's misery. The +same consideration made old Valentine turn his involuntary motion to +help the old gentleman to stand upright, into a movement to pick up +the shears which lay between him and his master. He too wanted to hide +from the son what could not be hidden, so faithfully and deeply had he +learned to live in the father's feelings. + +The old gentleman had risen and held out his hand to his son much as +if the latter had been absent as many days as he had been years. "You +must be tired and hungry! I am somewhat troubled with my eyes--but it +is of no consequence. As regards the business, talk to Fritz. I have +given it up. I want to have peace. But that is not the real reason; +young people must become independent some time. It makes them more +eager to work." + +He came a step nearer his son. He seemed to be carrying on a struggle +within himself. He wanted to say something which no one should hear +except his son. But he was silent. Why did he suppress what he wanted +to say? Did it concern the business, or the honor of the house? And +did he know or suspect that the one who was now responsible for both +in his place was standing leaning against the gate of the little +garden and could hear what he said to the new-comer, or, if he spoke +secretly to him, could at least see that he did so? Was this why he +had had Apollonius called home from abroad? And did the expression of +a "why" now still seem to him incompatible with his position? + +It was a curious party at the midday meal. The old gentleman dined +alone in his little room as usual. The children too had been sent +away, and did not come in again until after the meal. The young wife +was more in the kitchen or elsewhere out of the room than at the +table; and if she did once sit down there for a few minutes, she was +as dumb as she had been when Apollonius greeted her; the resentful +cloud did not pass from her forehead. Fritz was accustomed to his +father's condition, which pierced Apollonius' heart with the keenness +of new-felt pain. He talked only of the old man's oddities; old +Blue-coat did not know what he wanted himself, and made life +needlessly unpleasant for himself and all the others in the house. If +Apollonius began to talk of the business, of the repairs to be made to +the roof of St. George's, his brother spoke of pleasures with which he +was glad to be able to make his brother's stay with him more +agreeable--and he always mentioned this stay as he would a passing +visit. When Apollonius told him he had not come to enjoy himself but +to work, he laughed as if it were an incomparable joke that Apollonius +should want to help to do nothing, and showed that he understood wit, +however dry might be its expression. Then, when his wife had gone out +of the room, he asked about his brother's understanding with his +cousin's daughter, and then laughed again at his brother wag, in whom +no one would recognize the old dreamer. + +After dinner the children came in again, and with them more life and +easy familiarity. While the old conditions still confronted Apollonius +as new and strange, to the children what was new had already become +old and familiar. All the afternoon Fritz, and apparently his wife +too, were occupied only with a ball that was to be given. Fritz forgot +more and more whatever might have caused him uneasiness, in thinking +of the impression that he, as the chief person, would make on the +new-comer at the festivity, and made use of the time till it should +begin in giving him a foretaste of the affair by means of tales and +hints dropped of the honor and attention shown him on such occasions +by the most prominent citizens. He became noticeably more cheerful, +and walked more and more proudly up and down the room. The creaking of +his well-polished shoes said for the present, before the guests at the +ball could do so: "Ah, there he is! Ah, there he is!" And when at +intervals he jingled the money in his trousers-pockets all the corners +of the hall rang with: "Now the fun will begin! Now the fun will +begin!" And thither among those who were welcoming the guests--but he +was no longer walking, he was gliding, swimming on the music--every +dance was a jubilant overture on the name Nettenmair--he felt no +floor, no feet, no legs beneath him, he scarcely still felt young Frau +Nettenmair swimming along beside him, hanging to his right fin, the +most beautiful among the beautiful, just as he was the most jovial +among the jovial, the thumb on the hand of the ball. + +And two hours later cries of "There he is!" really did ring from all +sides and all the corners shouted: "Now the fun will begin!" Wherever +they passed chairs were offered them. No hand was shaken as often and +as long as that of jovial Fritz Nettenmair, no member of the company +had so much sincere praise poured into his ears as he. But then, how +agreeable he was! How condescendingly he accepted all this deserved +homage! How witty he showed himself; how pleasantly he laughed! And +not at his own jokes alone--there was no art in that; they were so +brilliant that he had to laugh even if he didn't want to--he laughed +at others too, little as they deserved it, compared with his. There +were people, to be sure, who paid little attention to him, but he did +not notice them; and those who showed it more plainly were +"Philistines, everyday fellows, insignificant people," as he whispered +to his brother with contemptuous pity. It was quite peculiar: +everyone's greater or lesser importance as a man and a citizen could +be measured with perfect exactitude by the degree of his admiration +for Fritz Nettenmair. + +When the dancing began Fritz drew his brother into a room at the side. +"You must dance," he said. "My wife would turn you down, and that +would be unpleasant for me. I will bring you a partner who is firm on +her feet and can keep you in time. Pluck up heart, boy, even if it +doesn't go smoothly all at once." + +In the excitement of vanity Fritz Nettenmair had forgotten six years. +His brother was still to him the dreamer of old whom he forced to +dance at times for his pleasure. Now, when, paying no attention to his +refusal, he led the girl to Apollonius, the latter resigned himself so +as not to appear impolite. + +Fritz Nettenmair was the best-natured fellow in the world as long as +he knew himself to be the sole object of the general admiration. In +such a mood he could perform deeds of sacrifice for those who threw +his brilliance into the shade. So it was now. As he sat among the +important people, treating them to champagne, and read in his wife's +eyes the gratification with which she saw him overwhelmed with honors, +a feeling crept over him as if he had forgiven his brother a great +wrong, and he felt himself to be an extraordinarily noble man, who +deserved all these marks of honor and who yet with wonderful modesty +condescended to allow himself to be touched by them. He saw that his +brother was no longer the dreamer of old; but he forgave him that too. +All eyes were directed toward the handsome dancer and his skilful +carriage. Fritz teased his wife, and, in the certainty that he must +far outshine his brother, he felt the additional gratification of +forgiving any amount of wrong that Apollonius had never done him. + +But, oh the ungrateful one! He would not allow himself to be outshone. +Fritz Nettenmair danced jovially, as one who is at home in the world +and knows how to treat the species that wears long hair and aprons; +his brother was a stiff figure in comparison. He did not keep time +with his head, nor, if the step was made with the left foot on the +down beat, throw the upper part of his body to the right and vice +versa; he did not now and again, with the boldness of a genius, slide +across the hall and outdistance other couples. He danced neither +jovially nor as one who is familiar with the world and knows how to +treat the species that wears long hair and aprons; yet all eyes +remained fixed on him, and Fritz Nettenmair outdid himself in vain. + +It was the dullest ball that Fritz Nettenmair had ever experienced; it +could not have been more so if Fritz Nettenmair had stayed at home. +Fritz Nettenmair proclaimed the fact with mighty oaths, and the +important people who had drunk his champagne agreed with him in his +opinion, as they always did. + +Some of the important women expressed to Frau Nettenmair their +righteous and friendly indignation at her brother-in-law. That he had +not asked his sister-in-law for the first dance betrayed an +unpardonable disparagement of her. Frau Nettenmair, who felt the +universal wrong done to her husband as deeply as if it had been done +to herself, said that her brother-in-law had long known that she would +only have turned him down if he had. But still Apollonius was only +admired and honored more and more, and consequently the ball only +became still duller. It became so dull, in fact, that Fritz Nettenmair +left with his wife at an hour when as a rule he was only just +beginning to be really jovial. Nevertheless he heaped coals of fire on +his ungrateful brother's head. He asked the girl in his brother's name +to allow Apollonius to accompany her home. Then he went out of the +little room at the side into the hall again to his wife, and with her +left the house, to the unfeigned despair of the important people, who +were still thirsty for champagne. + +After he had performed his enforced knightly service for his lady, +Apollonius found the door of the paternal home open and all its +inmates already asleep. At least there was no light to be seen +anywhere and everything was still. His brother had assigned to him the +little room at the left of the second-story piazza. Fortunately for +Apollonius, the six years had not altered the house as they had its +inmates. He went softly through the back door, past Moldau who growled +in a friendly way and whose rough neck he stroked full of gratitude +for this sign of constancy, mounted the stairs, walked the length of +the piazza and found a bed in his little room. But before he undressed +he still sat for a long time on the chair by the window and compared +what he had found with what he had left. Before he lay down for the +night he had determined on his future course of action. The next +morning he must learn what he was to do here, his relation to his +father's house must be clearly settled. If there was no work for him, +he would be on his way back to Cologne before the day was over. + +He was up with the sun; but he had long to wait before it pleased his +brother to rise from his couch. He made use of the time to take a walk +to St. George's; he wanted to see for himself what was to be done +there. When he came back again he met his brother and a gentleman with +him who were just about to leave the living room. Apollonius knew the +gentleman as the inspector of buildings from the town council. They +greeted each other. They had already spoken to each other the day +before at the ball, where the gentleman had not proved himself to be a +prominent man and citizen, but, on the contrary, had joined the +Philistines, everyday fellows, and insignificant people. Apparently he +was not displeased to meet Apollonius just now. After the customary +exchange of courtesies he explained the purpose of his presence. A +final conference of experts was to take place that morning to consider +what was to be done to the roof of the church and the tower, so that +the result could be reported at a meeting of the council in the +afternoon and a decision reached. Fritz Nettenmair and the inspector +were on the way to St. George's, where they knew that the rest of the +experts were already assembled. + +Fritz, as he said, did not want to trouble his visitor by making him +participate in business in which he was not concerned; just as +little--but he did not say this--did he want to leave him alone at +home. He asked him to be at the house in the woods, from which he +would fetch him to go for a walk. Apollonius assured him quite easily +that he would rather be present at the meeting; and when the inspector +went so far as to ask him to go with him as another expert, no pretext +could be found on which this could be prevented. Perhaps Fritz +Nettenmair had a suspicion that he would soon have a great deal more +to forgive the newcomer. + +They found the rest of the meeting, two strange master-slaters and the +official builders of the council, carpenter, masons, and tinsmiths, +waiting for them at the tower-door. Several scaffoldings had already +been fastened to the roof so that it could be examined; the conference +took place in the church-loft nearest the largest of them. Apollonius +stood modestly a few steps away in order to hear and, if he were +asked, to speak. He had carefully examined the roof beforehand and +formed his own opinion of the matter. + +The two strange slaters stated that they thought extensive repairs +were necessary. Fritz Nettenmair, on the contrary, was convinced that +with a few patches which he enumerated, nothing more need be done for +years. The builders, carpenter, masons and tinsmith eagerly agreed +with him; all of them jovial and prominent men at yesterday's ball who +conscientiously believed that if you drank a man's champagne, his was +the opinion you must hold. The strange slaters knew very well that the +Council feared the expense of more extensive repairs and had postponed +those that had long been highly necessary from year to year. As, +moreover, they had no prospect of being intrusted with the repairs +themselves, they did not give themselves unnecessary trouble to aid in +forcing upon Herr Fritz Nettenmair work and profit for which he +himself seemed to care nothing at all. Hence in the course of the +discussion they became more and more convinced that, whatever way you +looked at the matter, Herr Fritz Nettenmair too was right. The +inspector, a good man, perhaps grasped their motives and those of the +prominent men. For a time he had listened in silence with a +dissatisfied face, when he remembered Apollonius. He saw something in +the latter's expression that seemed to correspond to his own opinion. +"And what do you say?" he asked, turning to him. + +Apollonius modestly came a step nearer. + +"I wish you would look at the matter as carefully as possible," said +the councilman. + +Apollonius replied that he had already done so. + +"I need not draw your attention to the fact that the matter is very +important," continued the councilman. + +Apollonius bowed. The councilman repressed what he had been about to +say. With all its softness and mildness, such strict conscientiousness +and obstinate honesty was expressed in the young man's countenance, +that the councilman was almost ashamed of the admonition he had been +on the point of giving him. + +Apollonius began by stating the results of the examination he had +made. He explained the condition of the places he had been able to +test and what might be inferred from that as regarded the others. As +the church accounts showed, no extensive repairs had been made to the +church roof for eighty years. Even though the slate itself, if the +material was good, might defy the elements for a long time yet, this +was not true of the nails with which the slates were fastened to the +lathing and planking. And wherever he had tested them he had found the +nails either entirely destroyed or very nearly so. + +It was unavoidably necessary to re-lay the entire slate covering and +to replace with new material the rotten spots in the lathing and +planking. Another winter would make the condition of the roof so much +worse that there was nothing to be gained by postponing the repairs +with the object of saving the interest, for, without greater loss, the +repairs could at the most be delayed only till the next year. He led +those assembled to places which might serve as samples. He did not +draw the conclusion himself, but knew how to use the cleverness which +he had learnt from his cousin to force his opponents to do that for +him. + +The councilman's confidence in and respect for our Apollonius grew +visibly. During the rest of the discussion he appealed almost entirely +to him and shook his hand cordially when the left the meeting. If the +undertaking should receive the approval of the Council, which he now +no longer doubted, he hoped that Apollonius would take an active part +in it, and he requested him to write out a report as to the most +practical method of beginning it. Apollonius thanked him modestly for +his confidence, of which he would try to show himself worthy. As to +his taking part in the work itself, he replied that his father, as the +master, would have to decide. + +"I'll go with you at once," said the councilman, "and speak to him." + +Even though Fritz had conducted the business until now and was +regarded and treated by the important people as the master, still he +was not. The old man had let him become master just as little as he +had formally made over the business to him; he wanted to reserve to +himself a sovereign power of interference wherever he should find it +necessary. + +He heard the two approaching while still at a distance and groped his +way to a bench in his arbor. There he was sitting when they entered. +After greetings had passed the councilman asked after Herr +Nettenmair's health. + +"Thank you," replied the old gentleman, "I am somewhat troubled with +my eyes--but it is of no consequence." He smiled as he spoke, and the +councilman exchanged a glance with Apollonius that won the latter's +whole soul. Then he told the old man the whole conference, and made +Apollonius blush in his modesty so that it was long before his usual +color came back. The old man pulled his shield lower down on his face, +that no one might see the thoughts which were oddly struggling with +one another there. + +Any one who could have seen beneath the shield would have thought at +first that the old gentleman was glad; the shade of suspicion with +which he had received Apollonius the day before disappeared. He need +not be afraid, then, that this son would make common cause with his +brother against him! Indeed, a something appeared on his countenance +that seemed to rejoice malignantly at the elder's humiliation. Perhaps +he might have interfered, as was his way, with a laconic: "You will +take my place from now on, Apollonius, do you hear?" if the councilman +had not sung Apollonius' praise and if it had not been so well +deserved. + +"Yes," he said in his diplomatic manner of hiding his thoughts by only +half expressing them; "yes, indeed, youth! he is young." "And yet so +efficient already!" supplemented the councilman. + +The old gentleman inclined his head. One who was interested, as was +the councilman, might believe that he nodded. But he said: "It's the +young men that are all-important today in the world!" Yes, he felt +proud that his son was so efficient, ashamed that he himself was +blind, glad that Fritz could now no longer do as he liked, that the +honor of the home had gained one guardian more, afraid that the +efficiency in which he rejoiced would make him himself superfluous. +And he could do nothing to prevent it; he could do nothing more, he +was nothing more. And as if Apollonius had expressed that, he rose +stiffly erect, as if to show that his son was triumphing too early. + +The councilman begged the old gentleman to keep his son at home during +the time that the repairs were being made and to allow him to work at +them. The old gentleman was silent for a time as if he were waiting +for Apollonius to refuse to stay. Then he seemed to assume that +Apollonius refused for, with his harsh brevity, he commanded: "You are +to stay; do you hear?" + +Apollonius went to his little room to unpack his things. He was still +thus engaged when the news came that the town council had approved the +repairs. + +So it was settled: he was to stay. He was to be allowed to work for +his beloved home and to apply what he had learnt while abroad. + +After he had arranged all his things in his room, he at once set to +work on the report which the councilman had requested. The repairs had +been decided upon on his advice, he was concerned in them not alone as +one of his father's "hands," as a mere workman; he felt that he had +taken upon himself in addition a special moral obligation toward his +home town; he must do everything in his power to fulfil it. He would +not have needed such an incentive; even without it he would have done +all that he could; he did not know himself well enough to know that. + +In this exalted mood it appeared to him easy to overcome whatever +threatened, on the part of his brother and his sister-in-law, to make +his stay uncomfortable. After all, his brother wished him to go only +on account of his sister-in-law's dislike of him and that could be +conquered by enduring, honest effort. He had never offended his +brother; he would willingly subordinate himself to him in the +business. It did not occur to him that we can offend without knowing +it or wishing to do so, in fact, that duty may command us to offend. +It did not occur to him that his brother might have offended him. He +did not know that one can also hate him whom one has offended, not +only the offender. + +Below, near the shed, a disagreeable-looking workman stood grinning in +front of Fritz Nettenmair and said: "I understand some one at the +first glance. Oh, yes, Herr Apollonius knows what he's about! But it's +of no consequence. That won't last long!" Fritz Nettenmair gnawed his +nails and ignored the gesture that was intended to excite him to ask +what the fellow meant when he said, that would not last long. He went +toward the living room and as he went he flew out quietly at somebody +who was not there: "Uprightness? Knowledge of business, as that +Philistine of an inspector says? I know why you're forcing your way in +and insinuating yourself in here, you fluff-picker! Pretend to be as +innocent as you like, I"--he made the gesture that meant: "I am one +who know life and the species that wears long hair and aprons!" With +this he turned toward the door, but his movement was not jovial, as +usual. + +How many people think they know the world, and know only themselves! + + * * * * * + +Between heaven and earth lies the slater's realm. Far below is the +noisy tumult of the wanderers of the earth, high above are the +wanderers of the sky, the silent clouds in their vast course. For +months, years, decades, this realm has no inhabitants but the +restlessly fluttering race of cawing jackdaws. But one day the narrow +door halfway up the tower-roof is opened; invisible hands push two +scaffolding timbers out, part way into space. To the spectator below +it looks as if they wanted to build a bridge of straws into the sky. +The jackdaws have fled to the pommel of the steeple and to the +weather-vane and look down from there, ruffling their feathers with +fear. The timbers stand out only a few feet from the door and the +invisible hands cease pushing. Then a hammering begins in the heart of +the tower-loft. The sleeping owls start up and tumble staggeringly out +of their scuttles into the open eye of the day. The jackdaws hear it +with horror; the child of man below on the firm earth does not catch +the sound, the clouds above on the sky pass over it untroubled. The +pounding continues a long time; then it ceases and two or three short +boards follow the timbers and are laid across them. Behind them appear +a man's head and a pair of vigorous arms. One hand holds the nail, the +other swings the hammer that strikes it until the boards are firmly +nailed down. The "flying" scaffold is ready. Thus the builder calls +it, for whom it may become a bridge to heaven, without his desiring +it. Then from the scaffold the ladder is built and, if the tower roof +is very high, ladder upon ladder. Nothing holds it together but iron +hooks, nothing holds it firm but two pairs of hands on the scaffold +and, at the top, the broach-post against which it leans. Once it is +tied fast to the broach-post and at the bottom, the slater no longer +sees any danger in mounting it, however anxious the dizzy man may feel +down on the firm earth when he looks up and thinks the ladder made of +match-wood glued together, like a child's Christmas toy. But before he +has bound the ladder fast--and in order to do that he must climb it +once--the slater may commend his poor soul to God. Then he is indeed +between heaven and earth. He knows that the slightest shift of the +ladder--and a single false step may shift it--will dash him helplessly +down to certain death. Stop the clang of the bells beneath him, it may +startle him! The spectators far below on the earth involuntarily clasp +their hands breathlessly; the jackdaws, who have been driven from +their last place of refuge by the ascending figure, caw as they +flutter wildly round his head; only the clouds in the sky pursue their +way above him, untouched. Only the clouds? No. The daring man on the +ladder goes on as calmly as they. He is no vain dare-devil wantonly +bent on making himself talked of; he goes his dangerous way in the +course of his calling. He knows that the ladder is firm; he himself +has built the scaffold, he knows that it is firm; he knows that his +heart is strong and his tread sure. He does not look down where the +earth holds out her green arms luringly, he does not look up where +from the procession of clouds in the sky the fatal giddiness may drop +down on his steady eye. The centre of the rungs is the pathway of his +glance, and he stands on top. No heaven exists for him, no earth, +nothing but the broach-post and the ladder which he ties together with +his rope. The knot is made; the spectators breathe with relief and +give utterance in all the streets to their admiration for the daring +man and his doings high up between heaven and earth. For a week the +children of the town play at being slaters. + +But now the daring man begins his work indeed. He fetches up another +rope and lays it as a rotary ring round the post below the pommel of +the steeple. To this he fastens his tackle with three blocks, to the +tackle the rings of his hanging seat. A board to sit on with two +places cut out to allow his legs to hang down, and with a low, curved +back, on either side boxes for slates, nails and tools; in front, +between the places for his legs, a little anvil on which he hammers +the slate to the shape he wants it with his slater's hammer; this +apparatus, held by four strong cables which unite above to form two +rings for the hooks of the tackle, is the hanging-seat as he calls it, +the light craft in which he sails round the roof of the steeple high +in the air. By means of the tackle he easily pulls himself up or lets +himself down as high or as low as he likes; the ring above turns round +the steeple with the tackle and hanging-seat in whichever direction he +desires. A gentle kick against the roof sets the whole in motion, for +him to stop where he pleases. Soon no one stands below any longer +looking up; the slater at work is no longer any novelty. The children +turn again to their old games. The jackdaws grow accustomed to him; +they regard him as a bird, like themselves, only bigger, but +peaceful, as they are; and the clouds in the sky have never troubled +themselves about him from the beginning. The ladies envy him his view. +Who can look out so freely across the green plain and see how +mountains range themselves behind mountains, first green, then growing +bluer and bluer to where the sky, even bluer than they, rests on the +last ones! But he troubles himself as little about the mountains as +the clouds trouble themselves about him. Day after day he works on +with iron and claw-hammer, day after day he hammers slates and drives +in nails, till he is done with hammering and nailing. One day man, +tackle, ladder and scaffolding have disappeared. The removal of the +ladder is just as dangerous as its setting up; but no one below folds +his hands, no mouth extols the achievement of the man between heaven +and earth. The crows wonder for a whole week and then it seems to them +as if years ago they had dreamt of some odd bird. Far below the tumult +of the wanderers of the earth still sounds, high above the wanderers +of the sky, the silent clouds still continue in their vast course, but +no one flies around the steep roof save the cawing swarm of jackdaws. + +It was proposed to put the whole management of the repairs in +Apollonius' hands. In order not to hurt his brother's feelings, he +begged the council to arrange differently. He was so anxious not to +hurt his brother that he did not even say why he asked this. His work +in Cologne had accustomed him to act independently; he foresaw that +his brother, as he had found him again, would be the cause of many a +hindrance. He knew that he was taking a heavy burden upon himself when +he promised the inspector that the work itself should not suffer by +reason of the two-headed management. The honest man, who guessed +Apollonius' purpose and only respected him the more on that account, +obtained the consent of the council for him, and silently resolved +that wherever it should be necessary he would take the part of his +favorite and uphold the latter's orders against those of his brother. + +It was a difficult task that Apollonius had set himself; it was much +more difficult than he knew. His presence at home had not pleased his +brother from the beginning; Apollonius attributed that to the +influence of his sister-in-law; since then he had grown even more +estranged from him--and no wonder! Apollonius had already become +acquainted with his brother's vanity and greed for honor, and what had +happened since then had made the latter feel himself slighted in favor +of Apollonius. His sister-in-law's dislike Apollonius thought he could +overcome in time by honest endeavor, his brother's injured greed of +honor by outward subordination. If there was no further obstacle in +the way, he might hope to perform the task, difficult as it seemed. +But what lay between him and his brother was something different, very +different, from what he thought; and that he did not know it only made +it more dangerous. It was a suspicion, born of the consciousness of +guilt. Whatever he did to clear the apparent obstacles out of the way +could only increase the real one. + +Apollonius soon saw that the system to which he had become accustomed +in Cologne, the rapid and carefully planned coöperation, did not exist +here, nor even such methodical management as his father had formerly +maintained. The slater had to wait for fifteen minutes and longer at a +time for the slates; the tenders dawdled and had a good excuse for +doing so in the slackness and laziness of the cutters and sorters. His +brother laughed half compassionately at Apollonius' complaint. Such +system as he demanded did not exist anywhere and was not even +possible. In his own mind he made fun again of the dreamer who was so +unpractical. And even if the system had been possible the work was +done by the day. Wasted time was paid for just the same as that +properly applied. And when Apollonius himself tried to put an end to +the old method of jogging along, his brother saw in him again the +time-server of the inspector and the council, while he saw himself as +the straightforward man who disdained such tricks. He persuaded +himself that Apollonius wanted to unseat him altogether, and had even +worse intentions in his mind--in which, however, he should not succeed +with all his cunning, although he had come home on purpose to do so. +And still he thought the dreamer would make a fool of himself if he +tried to carry out what he himself, who knew the world, could not +succeed in doing;--he who was keener in action than even old Blue-coat +had been in his day. + +Fritz Nettenmair thought he was outdoing the old gentleman when he +whistled still more shrilly on his fingers, coughed still more +wrathfully and spat still more decisively. The qualities in the old +gentleman that had really commanded respect, the consistency which, +even where it degenerated into obstinacy, compelled esteem, the calm, +self-contained dignity of a capable personality--these he failed to +see. Not possessing them himself, he lacked also the desire to +perceive them in others. Just as his figure was absolutely at variance +with the bearing of the old gentleman which he sought artificially to +assume, so too his lack of repose and inward stability constantly +contradicted it. He seemed merely to have borrowed the old gentleman's +diplomatic manner of speaking in order to show his own superficiality +and emptiness. Then at times he would suddenly lapse from the stiff +demeanor of the wearer of the blue coat into his own patronizing +joviality and onto a plane where joking rubs out with dirty fingers +the line between superior and subordinate as if it had never existed. +Then when he forcibly jerked himself back just as suddenly into the +person of authority, he did not regain the respect he had lost, he +merely offended. To all this was added the fact that he knew himself +to be excelled by some of his workmen, and in difficult cases was +obliged to let them do as they liked. + +Apollonius, on the contrary, had by nature and by virtue of the +training that he had received at his cousin's what his brother lacked; +he possessed dignity of personality, consistency to the point of +obstinacy. His inward sureness made him authoritative; he did not have +to exert himself to be so--he was raised above the necessity of +demanding respect by visible effort which so seldom attains its +purpose, indeed usually defeats it. And so he succeeded in doing what +he wanted. Soon the work was being carried on in the most systematic +order, and all those concerned seemed to feel contented under the +change--all except Fritz Nettenmair. The rapid coöperation that moved +as on the track of an invisible necessity made the figure in the blue +coat in which he felt himself so big, superfluous. Another reason for +uneasiness was that the new system came from his brother; from him +whom he already had so much to forgive and whom he wanted less and +less to forgive. He did not know, or did not want to know, what charm +a self-contained personality exercises, although he himself was +obliged to acknowledge it against his will, and still less that he +lacked this and that his brother possessed it. He had agreed in his +own mind that his brother had used means which he was pleased to feel +himself too noble to apply. In that way Apollonius had won the people +away from him. The latter had no suspicion of what was going on in his +brother's breast; he was on his guard against him, as one must be +against cunning persons, for such enemies can only be defeated with +their own weapons. The brotherly friendliness and respect with which +Apollonius treated him was a mask behind which he thought he could +certainly hide his sinister plans; he would pay him back and make him +more easily harmless if he hid his watchfulness behind the same mask. +Apollonius' good-natured willingness outwardly to subordinate himself +to him appeared to his brother like derision in which the workmen, won +over by the deceitful one, knowingly took part. In his sensitiveness, +he himself resorted to the means that he assumed his brother employed. +He was prevented from opposing him openly by the fact that Apollonius +impressed him himself, even though he would not have acknowledged +this to be the reason. He laid the blue coat of thunder aside and +descended to the very lowest rung of his joviality. He began by hints +and then gradually by words to show his sympathy with the workmen who +groaned beneath the tyranny of a time-serving intruder, as he proved +to them; as he had not the courage to incite them to open rebellion he +sought to lead them to commit single petty acts of mutiny. He began to +treat them to food and drink daily. They ate and drank, but remained +as before in the course that Apollonius marked out for them. + +The common man has a child's keen eye for the strong points and +weaknesses of his superior. This endeavor, which they saw through, +lost Fritz Nettenmair the last vestige of the men's respect; it taught +them, if they did not already know it, in whose bad books they might +safely come, in whose they might not. And if they had been uncertain, +the inspector's different behavior toward the two brothers might have +determined them. And as they were not so finely organized, and also +had not the same reasons as Fritz Nettenmair, their opinion made +itself undisguisedly plain. They took liberties with him which showed +him that the success of his condescension was entirely different from +what he had intended. Then he drew the cloud of the blue coat once +more wrathfully about him, whistled more shrilly than ever, so that +the big bell on the other side resounded, was doubly bombastic and +raised his shoulders as high again toward his black head. The wrath +and decision of his former coughing and spitting was child's play to +those he displayed now. But the workmen soon knew that this went on +only in Apollonius' absence; and his chance appearance, like the +rising full moon, disconcerted the heaviest thunder-storms. + +Fritz Nettenmair was obliged to despair of reëstablishing his lost +importance on the scene of the repairs. Naturally he added also the +result of his mistaken measures to Apollonius' ever-growing account. +The feeling that he was superfluous seized him as it had his father, +but not with quite the same effect. What the little garden was to the +old gentleman the slate-shed now became to the elder son; at least as +long as he saw Apollonius on the hanging-seat or on the church roof. +But now he also brought the blue coat with him into the living room. +His children--and this was easy as he himself did not trouble himself +about them--had also been won over by his brother, by reprehensible +means, of course. The reprehensible means were just those which he +himself never applied: unintentional kindness and love that was wise +in its severity. But even in his wife he began to see more and more +one who was to some extent his brother's ally in the latter's +conspiracy against him. He saw this long before he had the slightest +real cause to do so, and that was the shadow that his guilt threw +across the future of his imagination. Its old law was to compel him, +by reason of the wrongness of his means of defense, to make of this +shadow a real, living form and to place it in his life as a +retributive force. + +Vague, premonitory fear that fluttered by in momentary clear +intervals, seemed to tell him that his changed behavior toward his +wife must hasten this change. At such times he suddenly became doubly +pleasant and jovial with her; but even this joviality bore something +of the nature of the sultry soil from which it grew. + +One cure for such a disease is highly praised; that is diversion, +self-forgetfulness. As if the navigator should forget himself at sight +of the threatening reef, as if every one should forget himself +wherever double foresight is necessary! Fritz Nettenmair took the +cure. + +From now on he was never missing at a ball or any public amusement; +he felt himself to have fled the danger forever if he were absent only +for an hour from the place where he saw it threatening. He was more +out of his house than in it--and not he alone. He thought the cure +still more necessary for his wife than for himself. His vengeful +self-consciousness assumed what lay as a mere possibility in the +future to be a reality of the present. And his wife was still so much +on his side that she was now angry with his brother to whose influence +she attributed the change in her husband's behavior--only not in the +way in which it really was responsible. + +Apollonius, who was oppressed by all this as by a heavy cloud, an +uncomprehended intuitive feeling, understood only this: his brother +and his sister-in-law avoided him. He kept away from the places to +which they went. The inmost need of his nature, the tendency to gather +together rather than to dissipate, in itself, would have led him to do +so. Solitude became a better cure for him than diversion proved to be +for the other two. He saw how different his sister-in-law was from +what she had seemed to him to be before. He was obliged to +congratulate himself that his dearest hopes had not been fulfilled. +His work gave him enough sense of himself; whatever gaps remained the +children filled. + +And the old man in the blue coat? Has he in his blindness no suspicion +of the clouds that are piling up all about his house? Or is it such a +suspicion that grips him at times when, meeting Apollonius, he +exchanges indifferent words with him? Then two powers strive on his +brow which his son, confronted by the shield over his father's eyes, +does not see. He wants to ask something but he does not ask. So thick +is the cloud that the old man has spun about him like a cocoon that +there is no longer any way through it from him out into the world nor +any, leading from outside in to him. He behaves as if he knew about +everything. If he did not do so, he would show the world his +helplessness and himself challenge it to abuse this helplessness. And +if he should ask would people tell him the truth? No! He believes the +world to be as obdurate toward him as he is toward it. He does not +ask. He listens where he knows he is not seen listening, straining +feverishly to catch every sound. And in every sound he hears something +that is not there; his strained imagination builds boulders of it that +crush his breast, but he does not ask. He dreams of nothing but of +things that bring disgrace on him and his house. + +It is the nature of guilt that it entangles not alone its author in +new guilt. It has the magic power of drawing into its fermenting +circle all who surround him and of ripening in him whatever is bad to +fresh guilt. Well for him who successfully defends his unblemished +heart against this magic power! Even if he cannot save the guilty one +himself, he may be an angel to the others. Here are these four human +beings with all their differences of individuality, held together in +one knot of life which is being consumed by the guilt of one! What +destiny will they spin for themselves, the people in the house with +the green shutters? + +Weeks had now passed since Apollonius' return and still he had not +realized his sister-in-law's fears. During the first few days Fritz +Nettenmair read in her demeanor a convulsive effort to pull herself +together, a desperate endeavor to be prepared; now this gave way to +something that appeared to be amazement. He, and he alone, saw how she +began to observe his brother more and more courageously when he did +not suspect that her gaze rested upon him. She seemed to be comparing +his personality, his behavior with her expectation. Fritz Nettenmair +felt in her soul how little the two agreed. He took pains to nurse his +young wife's dislike of her brother-in-law back to its old strength. +He did so, feeling all the time how vain his effort was; for a single +glance at his brother's gentle, upright countenance must tear down +what it had taken him days laboriously to build up. He felt how +delicately he ought to go to work and how roughly he really did so; +for the same power that sharpened his feeling for the degree carried +him beyond it as soon as he came to act. He knew that what he had +begun must complete its course to his ruin. He sought forgetfulness +and drew his wife ever deeper with him into the whirlpool of +diversion. + +Medicines taken in too large doses are said to have the opposite of +the desired effect. Thus it was with Fritz Nettenmair's medicine; at +least as regarded his young wife. In the midst of every-day domestic +work she had formerly longed for the festival of pleasure; now that +this had become her every-day atmosphere her longing was for the quiet +life of her home. Satiated with the marks of honor bestowed upon her +husband by the important people, she now began for the first time to +notice that there were other people who measured him according to a +different standard. She began to compare, and the important people +fell lower and lower in her eyes beside the every-day people. She +thought of the dull ball on the evening of Apollonius' arrival. + +She was sitting in the garden sewing while the old gentleman dreamt +his heavy midday dreams. She felt so peculiarly happy at home. Her +boys were playing at her feet, as quietly as if the old gentleman had +been present, or no, not like that, for if he had been in the little +garden they would not have dared to go in there at all. The little +girl had thrown her arms round her mother, who seemed herself to be +still a girl, so chaste did she appear. Now the child raised her +little head with old-fashioned earnestness, looked meditatively at her +mother and said: "Whatever can be the reason?" + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD DAVID BEING STONED BY SINAI] + +"Reason of what?" asked her mother. + +"Whenever you have been with us and then go away, he looks after you +so sadly." + +"Who?" asked her mother. + +"Why, Uncle Apollonius. Who else could it be? Did you scold him, or +slap him as you do me when I take sugar without asking? You must have +done something to him, or he wouldn't be so sorry." + +The little girl went on chattering and soon forgot her uncle over a +butterfly. Not so her mother. She no longer heard what the child said. +What a queer feeling was this that had come over her, happy and +unhappy at the same time! She had let her needle fall without noticing +it. Was she startled? It seemed to her that she was startled, much as +she would have been if she had been speaking to some one and suddenly +realized that it was not the person she thought. She had thought that +Apollonius wanted to insult her, and now the child told her that she +had insulted him. She looked up and saw Apollonius coming from the +shed toward the house. At the same moment another man stood between +her and him as if he had grown up out of the earth. It was Fritz +Nettenmair. She had not heard him approaching. + +After putting an indifferent question he went on with strange haste to +speak of the "dull ball." He repeated what people had said about it, +told her how offended every one felt that Apollonius had not asked her +for a dance, not even for the first one. It was curious that when he +reminded her of it now she felt it more keenly than ever; but not with +anger, only with sad pain. She did not say so; she did not need to. +Fritz Nettenmair was like a man in a magnetic sleep; from the leaf of +a tree, from a picket in the fence, from a white wall he read, with +closed eyes, what his wife felt. + +"We shall soon get rid of him, I think," he went on as if he had not +been reading from the stable-wall. "There is no room here for two +households. And Anne is accustomed to plenty of space." + +That was the name of the girl with whom Apollonius had been obliged to +dance at the dull ball and see home afterward. Since then she had +often been at the house on pretexts which her crimson cheek branded as +lies. Her father too, a much-respected citizen, had sought Apollonius' +acquaintance, and Fritz Nettenmair had furthered the matter in every +way he could. + +"Anne?" cried his wife as if shocked. + +"It's good that she can't lie," thought Fritz Nettenmair with relief. +But it occurred to him that her inability to disguise her feelings +would also promote his brother's evil plan. He had sought to make her +jealous as a last resort. That had been foolish of him, and he already +regretted it. She could not pretend; and even if he were still the +dreamer of old, her excitement could not but betray to him what was +going on in her breast, could not but betray it to herself. And +then--once more he had reached the point to which every conclusion led +him; he saw her awakening to an understanding of herself. "And +then"--he forced the words out so that every syllable tore itself on +his teeth--"and then--she'll learn to know what it means!" + +His brother expected him in the living-room. "Of course, now that he +knows I saw him, he must make some excuse for having passed by here +when he thought she was alone." Thus thought Fritz, and followed his +brother. + +Apollonius was really waiting for him in the living-room. He wanted to +see his brother in order to warn him against the evil-looking workman. +He had heard much that was suspicious about him, and knew that his +brother trusted him implicitly. "And so you order me to send him +away?" asked Fritz; and this time he could not help allowing his spite +to gleam through his disguise. From the tone in which he spoke +Apollonius could not fail to read his real feeling. It was: "So you +want to force your way even into the shed too, and drive me out of it. +Try it, if you dare!" + +Apollonius looked into his brother's eyes with unconcealed pain. He +brushed the lapel of his brother's coat as if he would wipe away +whatever clouded the relations between them, and said: "Have I done +anything to hurt you?" + +"Me?" laughed his brother. His laughter was intended to mean: "I'm +sure I don't know what!" But it really meant: "Do you ever do anything +else, do you ever want to do anything else, but just what you know +will hurt me?" + +"For a long time I have wanted to say something to you," went on +Apollonius, "I will tomorrow; you are not in the right humor today. +You had to know what I have told you about the workman, and it wasn't +meant as you have taken it." + +"Of course! Of course!" laughed Fritz. "I'm convinced that it wasn't +so meant." + +Apollonius went and Fritz supplemented his speech with, "it was not +meant as you would have me believe, old fox. And wasn't it meant as I +took it? You think--The workman is a bad fellow; but you would never +have warned me if you hadn't needed an excuse." He turned on his heel +with a movement that suggested his feeling of superiority. In his +desolate state of mind it had pleased him to make successful use of +his father's diplomatic method of concealing his thoughts by half +expressing them. + +His pleasure was short-lived; his old worry fastened him again to the +rack. And a newer one had been added to it. He had neglected the +business. In his master's absence from the shed the workman had had +opportunity enough to steal, and had certainly made use of it. It was +long since Fritz had done any work at the church; Apollonius had been +obliged to engage another workman and put him in his brother's place. +He had earned nothing now for a long time and yet never missed any +public amusement. The esteem of the important people showed a growing +inclination to fall, and could only be kept up by increasing +quantities of champagne. He had plunged himself into debt, and +continued to add to his obligations daily. And yet the moment was +bound to come when the appearance of prosperity which he had been at +such pains to sustain would disappear. + +Anne Wohlig had often been at the house since Apollonius' arrival; and +Christiane, with the credulity which in simple souls is the natural +consequence of their own truthfulness, had seen nothing suspicious in +her most far-fetched pretexts. This was not so today. She had suddenly +grown so keen-sighted that what she recognized to be an excuse assumed +in her eyes the proportions of an unpardonable crime. She disliked any +girl that could be so double-faced, and she herself was too honest to +hide her opinion. Anne sought the reason for Christiane's treatment of +her in the latter's dislike of her brother-in-law. It was well known +that she begrudged the poor fellow his brother's affection. She +herself had said that she would turn him down if he should dare to ask +her for a dance. And Apollonius' appearance showed that she made it +impossible for him to enjoy his stay in his father's house. Vexation +made Anne honest, too, and she expressed her thoughts as far as she +could without touching on the delicate point of her own feeling for +Apollonius. Christiane was now obliged to hear the same reproach from +a stranger's mouth that she had already heard from her own child. + +The girl went. Apollonius, on his way back from his brother, passed by +again. He was still in time to see Anne leaving. But nothing showed in +his face to confirm Christiane's only half understood fear. + +The child had said: "You have done something to him." Anne had said: +"You hate him, you won't let him enjoy himself." And the sad glance +that he sent after her--she herself caught him now and then +unnoticed--said the same thing. Like a flash of joyous light it came +into her mind that he did not look sadly after Anne--nor joyfully +either. His gaze was as indifferent as it was with every one else. She +had been told: "You hate him, you have offended him and you want to +hurt him." And she had believed that he hated her, that he wanted to +hurt her. And had he not done so? She looks back into the time long +past when he insulted her. It is long now since she had felt angry +with him for it; she had only feared a fresh insult. Could she still +be angry, when he had become such a different man, when she herself +knew that he would not offend her, when people said, and his own sad +glance confirmed it, that she offended him? And she let her thoughts +run back eagerly, so eagerly that the music sounded again about her +and she sat again among her girl friends, in her white dress with the +pink sash, in the shooting-house, on the bench in front of the +windows; and she got up again, driven by a vague impulse and, +dreaming, made her way among the dancers to the door--there she saw +outside, was it not the same face that looked after her now when she +passed, so honest, so gentle in its sadness? Was it not the same +peculiar sympathy now as then, that followed her every step and never +left her? Then, she had avoided him and looked at him no more, for he +was false. False? Is he false again? Is he still false? + + * * * * * + +All day long Fritz Nettenmair thought of what it could be that +Apollonius wanted to say to him tomorrow: "Tomorrow, because I am not +in the humor for it today? In the humor? I've let the fox see my hand. +If I hadn't, he would have blurted it out; now I have warned him and +made him cautious. I am too honest with a player who cheats so; I am +bound to lose. Good; I will be 'in the humor' tomorrow, I'll act as +though I were blind and deaf, as if I didn't see what it is he is +trying to do, even if it were still clearer. A cobweb on the lapel of +my coat so that he may have something to brush off! I can't bear to +have a fellow like that look into my face--the hypocrite!" + +Thus prepared and resolved to outdo the fox in cunning, even though it +should put his self-control to the severest test, Apollonius found his +brother waiting for him the following day. Apollonius too had resolved +on his course. He was determined not to let himself be confused today +by any mood of his brother's; everything depended on shutting off the +source of all these moods. Fritz wished him the most unembarrassed, +jovial good morning that he could command. + +"If you will listen to me calmly and in a spirit of brotherliness," +said Apollonius, "I hope that this will be the best kind of a morning +for you and me and all of us." + +"And all of us," repeated Fritz and put nothing of his explanation of +the three words into his tone. "I know that you always think of us +all, so speak out merrily from your heart; I'll do the same." + +Apollonius omitted his intended introduction. He had learnt to be wise +and cautious; but to be wise and cautious toward a brother would have +seemed to him to be duplicity. Even if he had known of his brother's +duplicity he, unlike the latter, would never have thought of meeting +him with the same weapons. Even in the face of his experience he would +have persuaded himself that he was mistaken. + +"I think, Fritz," he, began cordially, "we should have been different +toward each other from what we have been." He good-naturedly took half +the blame on himself. In his own mind his brother put the whole of it +on him, and was about to assure him jovially of the contrary when +Apollonius continued. "Things have not been the same as they used to +be between us, nor as they should be. The reason for this, as far as I +know, is only your wife's dislike of me. Or do you know of any other?" + +"I know of none," said his brother shrugging his shoulders +regretfully; but he thought of Apollonius' return against his advice, +of the ball, of the conference in the church loft, of his being pushed +aside in the matter of the repairs, of his brother's whole plan, of +that part of it that had been and of that part which was still to be +carried out. He thought that Apollonius was occupied only in trying to +put it into execution, and of how much depended on his guessing +Apollonius' next intention and bringing it to naught. + +While he was thinking this, Apollonius went on speaking, with no idea +of what was passing in his brother's mind. "I do not know what it can +be that has made your wife dislike me. I only know that it cannot be +anything that I have done intentionally. Can you tell me what it is? I +do not want to accuse her; it is possible that there is something +about me that displeases her. And if so, then it is certainly nothing +that should be praised or spared. And I should be the very last to +spare myself if I only knew what it is. If you know, please tell me. +If it is anything bad you must not spare me, even if it should cause +you pain to tell me. If you know it and don't tell me, that can be the +only reason. But you would not offend me by telling me, really, +Fritz."-- + +Fritz Nettenmair did what Apollonius had just done; in his own mind he +measured his brother by himself. The result was bound to be to +Apollonius' disadvantage. Apollonius took his thoughtful silence for +an answer. + +"If you do not know," he went on, "let us go to her together and ask +her. I must know what I ought to do. Our life cannot go on like this. +What would father say if he knew? I reproach myself day and night that +he does not know. It is better for us all, Fritz. Come, let us not put +it off." + +Fritz Nettenmair heard only his brother's presumptuous demand that he +should take him to her! That he should take him to her now! Did +Apollonius already know of her state and want to take advantage of it? +The question was superfluous; if they saw each other now they could +not fail to understand each other. And then it would be there, the +thing that for weeks he had not allowed himself an hour's rest in +trying to prevent. Then it would come to pass, the thing of which he +knew that it must come and the coming of which he had yet made +desperate efforts to hinder. They must not see each other face to face +now; they must not see each other now until he had built a new +dividing wall between them. Of what? He had no leisure to think of +that now. He must have some pretext on which to prevent the meeting, +must have time to find an excuse. And merely to gain time he said +laughingly: + +"Of course! Ask her freely and cheerfully. Whoever asks is told. But +how do you come to think of that just now? Just now?" A thought that +flashed overwhelmingly into his mind involuntarily expressed itself in +this question. Apollonius was already at the door. He turned back to +his brother, and answered with a gladness that seemed fiendish to the +latter because he did not look into the other's honest face. If he +had, Apollonius would have caught something of the devilish fear that +disfigured his brother's countenance. And still, perhaps he would not. +He might have thought his brother ill, so entirely was he without the +slightest suspicion of anything in his proposal that could inspire his +brother with fear. In fact he thought that what pleased him must +please his brother also. + +"Before," replied Apollonius, "I was obliged to fear that I should +make her still more angry. And that would have been even more +disagreeable for you than for me." + +His brother laughed and nodded in his jovial way with his head and +shoulders merely for the sake of doing something. And his: "And now?" +sounded as if it were half stifled with laughter, not with anything +else. + +"Your wife has been different for some time," went on Apollonius +confidingly. + +"She is"--answered Fritz Nettenmair's start against his will and +wanted to say what he considered her to be. It was an evil word. But +would he himself who had made her that tell him so? No, it has not yet +come to pass, what he fears. And even if it is bound to come; he can +still delay it. He forces himself not to give utterance to his +excitement. He would like to ask: "And how do you know that she--is +different?" But he knows that his voice would tremble and betray him. +He must know who has told his brother. Has he already spoken to her? +Has he read it in her eyes at a distance? Or is there a third person +involved--an enemy whom he already hates before he knows whether he +exists? + +Apollonius seems to have caught something of his brother's unfortunate +gift of reading another's thoughts. His brother does not ask; his face +is turned away; he is seeking like a desperate man and cannot find; +and yet Apollonius answers him. "Your little Annie told me," he said, +and laughed as he thought of the child. "'Uncle,' said the odd little +thing, 'mother is not so cross with you any more; go to her and say +you won't do it any more; then she'll be kind again and will give you +sugar.' That's how she put the idea into my head. It's wonderful how +it sometimes seems as if an angel were speaking out of a child's +mouth. Your little Annie may have been an angel to us all." + +Fritz Nettenmair laughed so boisterously at the child that Apollonius' +laughter caught fire again from his. But Fritz knew that it was a +devil that had spoken out of the child's mouth. Yet he laughed--so +hard that it did not strike Apollonius how forced and disconnected his +reply was. "Well then, tomorrow, as far as I'm concerned, or even this +afternoon; now I can't possibly spare the time. Now I'll go down with +you to St. George's. I have a necessary errand to do tomorrow! Oh, the +confounded child!" + +Apollonius had no suspicion how seriously the laughing "confounded" +was meant. He said, still laughing at the child himself, "Good. We'll +ask tomorrow then. And then everything will be different. I am looking +forward to it as gladly as the child, and you are too, I know, Fritz. +We'll make it a very different life from what we have been leading." +Kindhearted Apollonius rejoiced so heartily at his brother's joy! He +continued to do so even after he was up again on his swinging seat, +flying round the church roof. + +Just as restlessly hovered about his brother's fear the sinister +something that hung above him and threatened to engulf him; still more +industriously did his heart hammer away at the crumbling plans to +hinder the fall: but the ship of his thoughts did not hang between +heaven and earth, held by the light of heaven. It pitched deeper and +ever deeper between earth and hell, and hell branded him ever darker +with its fire. + +Toward evening Christiane was suddenly aroused from her dreaming by +two men's voices. She was sitting in the grass not far from the closed +door of the shed. Fritz and his brother had just entered the shed from +the street at the back. She heard him teasing his brother about Anne +Wohlig. Anne was the best match in the whole town--and Apollonius was +a rascal who knew the world and the species that wore long hair and +aprons. Anne was already sewing away at her outfit, and her cousins +were carrying the news of her approaching marriage to Apollonius from +house to house. Christiane heard her husband ask when the wedding was +to be. She had been about to move away; now she forgot to go, she +forgot to breathe. And then she almost gave a jubilant shout: +Apollonius had said that he was not going to marry at all, either Anne +or any one else. + +His brother laughed. "Then that's why the evening you came back you +didn't dance with any one but Anne and took her home afterward?" + +"I would have danced with your wife," replied Apollonius. "You warned +me that she would turn me down because she was so set against me. Then +I didn't want to dance at all. You brought Anne up to me, and when you +went you asked her if I might see her home. I couldn't do anything +else under the circumstances. I have never thought of Anne in +connection with--" + +"Marriage?" interrupted his brother laughing. "Well, she's pretty +enough to--amuse yourself with too, and it's worth the trouble to make +her perfectly mad about you. + +"Fritz!" exclaimed Apollonius, displeased. "But you're not in +earnest," he added to soothe himself. "I know you know me better; but +even in fun it isn't right to jest lightly about a respectable girl." + +"Pshaw," said his brother, "if she behaves like that herself! What +does she come to the house for and throw herself at your head?" + +"She hasn't done that," answered Apollonius hotly. "She is a good +girl, and comes here without any thought of wrong." + +"Yes, or you would have put her right," laughed Fritz, and there was +mockery in his voice. + +"Did I know what she thought?" said Apollonius. "You've teased her +about me and me about her. I have done nothing that could have +awakened any such thoughts in her. I should have thought it a sin." + +The men went back the way they had come. It did not occur to +Christiane that they might have come along the path where she stood. +All that was open and true in her rose in indignation against her +husband. It was not other people who had lied to him; he himself was +false. He had lied to her and to Apollonius and she had erred and had +hurt Apollonius, Apollonius who was so good that he could not bear to +hear Anne made fun of, who had certainly never made fun of her. +Everything had been a lie from the beginning. Her husband was +persecuting Apollonius because he was false and Apollonius was good. +Her inmost heart turned away from the persecutor and toward the +persecuted. Out of the rebellion of all her emotions a new and sacred +feeling rose triumphant, and she gave herself up to it with the +complete abandon of innocence. She did not know it. Oh, that she might +never learn to know it! As soon as she learnt to know it would +become a sin.--And already the steps were rustling through the grass +that were to bring her the bitter knowledge. + +Fritz Nettenmair had to erect a new dividing wall before he could +bring his brother to his wife. He came for this purpose. His gait was +uneven. He was still choosing and could not decide. He became even +more uncertain when he stood before her. He read what she felt in her +face; it was too honest to conceal anything; it knew too little of +what it spoke to think it must hide this feeling. He felt that he +could do nothing more with her by repeating the old slanders. He knew +that petty absurdities are better fitted to destroy a growing interest +than are gross faults. He imitated Apollonius going back along a way +along which he had already passed with a light, for fear that he might +have let a spark fall; he showed how his brother could not rest at +night for thinking that perhaps a workman had not deserved the harsh +word that he had spoken to him in the heat of the moment, how he +sprang up out of bed to straighten the position of a ruler that he had +left lying crooked on the table. At the same time Fritz kept on +blowing imaginary fluff from his sleeves. He saw indeed that his +efforts were having an opposite effect to what he wished. Irritated by +this he went on to stronger measures. He pitied poor Anne whom +Apollonius had made fall in love with him by hypocrisy, and told how +coarsely he made fun of her in public. + +A dark red had come into his young wife's cheeks. Frank, simple +natures have a deep hatred of all duplicity, perhaps because they feel +instinctively how defenseless they stand before such an enemy. She was +trembling with emotion as she rose and said: "_You_ might do that; he +could not." + +Fritz Nettenmair was startled. In the sight of the figure that stood +before him full of contempt there was something that disarmed him. It +was the power of truth, the loftiness of innocence confronting the +sinner. He pulled himself together with an effort. "Did he tell you +so? Have you got so far already?" he said, forcing the words out +between his teeth. Christiane wanted to go into the house; he stopped +her. She wanted to tear herself away. + +"You have lied about everything," she said. "You have lied to him. You +have lied to me. I heard what you said to him just now in the shed." + +Fritz Nettenmair drew a breath of relief. So she did not know +everything. "Was I not obliged to?" he said, his eye scarcely able to +stand the purity of her gaze. "Was I not obliged to in order to +prevent your disgrace? Do you want the fluff-picker to despise you?" +Now her eyes made him drop his. "Do you know what you are? Ask him +what a woman is who forgets her honor and her duty. Of whom do you +think as you should think only of your husband? When you creep about +like a wench in love wherever you think you will see him? And you +think that people are blind. Ask him what he calls that kind of a +woman? Oh, people have fine names for a woman of that sort." + +He saw how she started, shocked. Her arm quivered in his hand. He saw +she was beginning to understand him, was beginning to understand +herself. He had feared her obstinacy--and behold, she was breaking +down! The angry red faded in her cheek and a blush of shame flushed +wildly over its pallor. He saw her eyes seek the ground as if she felt +the gaze of all men fixed upon her, as if the shed, the fence, the +trees all had eyes and they were all staring into hers. He saw how in +the suddenness of her perception she called herself one of the women +for whom people have such fine names. + +The pain poured its rain over her burning cheeks that bled with shame +and her tears were like oil; the fire grew when a voice sounded from +the shed and his tread was heard. She tried to tear herself violently +away and looked up with a half wild, half imploring glance that, +dying, sank again to the ground before the thousand eyes that were +fixed upon her. He saw that the eye of the man who was coming through +the shed was the most terrible of all to her. He was again in +possession of all his courage. + +"Tell him,"--he forced the words out softly--"what you want of him. If +he is as you think he is he must despise you." + +Fritz Nettenmair held the struggling woman fast with the strength of +the victor until he had beckoned to Apollonius, who stepped +questioningly out of the shed, to come over to him. He let her go and +she fled into the house. Apollonius, shocked, stopped halfway up to +him. + +"You see how she is," Fritz said to him. "I told her you wanted to ask +her. If you like we will go after her, and she must confess to us. +I'll see whether my wife can safely insult my brother, who is so +good." + +Apollonius had to restrain him. Fritz would not consent at first. +Finally he said: "Well, now you see, at least, that it is not my +fault. Oh, I am so sorry!" + +There was an involuntary dismay in the last words which Apollonius +connected with the failure at a reconciliation. Fritz Nettenmair +repeated them softly, and this time they sounded like a mockery of +Apollonius, like mocking regret at the failure of a sly trick. + +Christiane had rushed into the living-room and bolted the door behind +her. She was not thinking of Fritz; but Apollonius might come in. She +turned over and over the feverish thought of fleeing out into the +world. But wherever she thought of herself, on the steepest mountain, +in the deepest valley, he met her and saw what it was that she wanted +and he had to despise her. Little Annie was in the room; she had not +noticed the child. All the mother's life was engaged in her inward +struggle; Annie could not tell from her mother's look what was going +on within her. She drew her mother onto a chair, threw her arms round +her in her usual fashion and looked up into her face. Her gaze struck +her mother as if it came from Apollonius' eyes. Little Annie said: + +"Do you know, Mother, Uncle 'Lonius"--the mother jumped up and pushed +the child away from her as if it had been he himself. "Don't tell me +anything more about--don't tell me anything more about him!" she said +with such angry fear that the little girl stopped speaking and began +to cry. Little Annie did not see the fear, she saw only the anger in +her mother's action. It was anger at herself. The little girl lied +when she told her uncle of her mother's anger at him. He did not need +to be told. Had he not seen her red cheek himself, when she fled from +his and his brother's question; the same red of angry dislike with +which she had received him when he came home? Oh, from then on life +was curiously sultry in the house with the green shutters for days and +weeks. + +Fritz Nettenmair was very little at home. From early in the morning +till late at night he sat in a public house from which the door in the +church roof and the hanging seat on the tower could be seen. He was +more jovial than ever, and treated everybody in order to forget +himself in their insincere admiration. + +In the shed and in the slate quarry the disagreeable-looking workman +took his place. Until he came home late at night, the workman wandered +back and forth in the passage leading from the living-room to the +shed. There had been some cases of theft in the neighborhood, and the +workman stood watch; Fritz Nettenmair had become a very anxious man +about his home. Other people wondered at Fritz Nettenmair's confidence +in the workman. Apollonius warned him repeatedly. Of course! He had +good reason not to desire any watch kept, least of all by this workman +who did not like him. And that was just why Fritz Nettenmair trusted +the workman and would not listen to warnings. When Fritz Nettenmair +said to his brother: "I am so sorry," he had just caught sight of the +workman. The latter's grin showed him that the workman saw through him +and knew what it was that he feared. He ground his teeth; half an hour +later he intrusted him with the watch and his place in the shed and +the quarry. It needed but few words. The workman understood what Fritz +told him that he must do; he also understood what Fritz did not tell +him and what he must do nevertheless. Fritz Nettenmair had as little +confidence in the fellow's honesty in the business as had Apollonius; +but the man's dishonesty there secured him his honesty where he needed +it more. + +The old gentleman in the blue coat had worse dreams than ever; he +listened more anxiously than ever to every fleeting sound, heard more +in it, and added ever greater loads to what lay on his breast. But he +did not ask. + +It was late one evening. From the tavern window Fritz Nettenmair had +seen Apollonius leave his hanging seat and tie it to the scaffold. +According to his custom, he hurried out of the restaurant so as to get +home before Apollonius. He found his wife in the living-room, busy +about her household work. The workman came in and made his customary +report. Then he whispered something to his master and went. + +Fritz Nettenmair sat down at the table with his wife. He usually sat +there until the sound of the workman's shuffling tread in the hall +told him that Apollonius had gone to bed. Then he went back again to +his tavern; he knew that the house was safe from thieves, the workman +was on the watch. + +The feeling that he had his wife in his hand and that she resigned +herself to the situation with suffering had until now aided the wine +to cast over him a faint reflection of the jovial condescension which +formerly had shone like the sun from every button of his clothes. +Today the reflection was unusually faint--perhaps because her eye had +not sought the ground when it met his glance. He put a few indifferent +questions, and then said: "You have been merry today." He wanted her +to feel that he knew everything that went on in the house even when he +was not there. "You were singing." + +She looked at him calmly and said: "Yes, and tomorrow I'll sing again. +I don't know why I shouldn't." + +He got up noisily from his chair and walked up and down with heavy +steps. He wanted to intimidate her. She rose quietly, and stood there +as if expecting an attack that she did not fear. He stepped close to +her, laughed hoarsely and made a gesture which he intended to frighten +her into stepping back. She did not do so. But the crimson of hurt +feelings spread over her cheeks. She had grown keen-sighted, +distrustful of her husband. She knew that he had her and Apollonius +watched. + +"And did he tell you nothing more?" she asked. "Who?" shouted Fritz. +He raised his shoulders and thought he looked like the old man in the +blue coat. His wife did not answer. + +Presently she said softly, "I have come to be at peace with myself," +and this was written so brightly in her eyes that the man began to +walk up and down again in order not to have to look at them. "I am at +peace with myself. The thoughts came to me; I was not to blame for +that, and I did not call them into my mind. I did not know they were +evil. Then I fought with them and I will not tire as long as I live. +In my soul I went to my dear mother's bed where she died, and I saw +her lying there and laid three fingers on her heart. I promised her +that I will do and suffer nothing dishonorable and I begged her with +tears to help me not to do or suffer anything dishonorable. I promised +and begged until all my fear had gone away, and I knew that I was an +honorable woman and would remain an honorable woman. And no one may +despise me. Whatever you may do to me, I am not afraid and will not +defend myself. But you shall not do anything to the child. You do not +know how strong I am and what I can do. I will not have it; that I +tell you." + +His glance passed fearfully by the slender figure without touching her +pale, beautiful countenance; he knew that an angel stood there and +threatened him. Oh, he realized, he felt how strong she was; he felt +how powerfully the resolution of an honest heart protects. But only +against him! His weakness made him feel that. He felt that no one who +had the power of belief could fail to believe her. He had gambled away +this right in the crooked game. He would have had to believe her, if +he had not known that what must come, would come. Not she nor any one +could prevent it. He had fallen into the hands of the spirit of his +guilt, the thought of retribution, which drove him irresistibly to +bring about what he wished to prevent; the long steady habit of +thinking this thought had buried him too deep. Hope and trust were +alien to the thought; hate was more akin to it. And it was hate that +he called to his aid.--Outside the workman's feet shuffled on the +sanded floor of the hall. The house was safe from thieves: he could +leave it again. + +Fritz Nettenmair was as jovial in the tavern that night as he could +possibly be. His flatterers were thirsty, and pleased with his +condescension. He drank, pushed the guests' hats down over their ears, +performed many another tender caress with his stick and his hand, and +laughed admiringly at them as brilliant jokes. He did everything to +forget himself; but he did not succeed. + +If he could only have changed with his wife, who during this time was +sitting solitary at home! The thing for which he longed--to forget +himself--was the very thing against which she must be on her guard. +What he must do, what he could not avert by any effort, was the thing +for which she strove unavailingly--to remember herself. All her +thoughts spoke to her of Apollonius. She thought she was avoiding him, +and now she saw that he had fled from her. She ought to be glad, and +it hurt her. Her cheeks burned again. It was peculiar that she herself +regarded her position more sternly or more mildly according to whether +Apollonius in her thoughts judged it more sternly or more mildly. He +had become to her the involuntary standard by which to measure things. +Did he know what she was, and despise her? He was so gentle and +indulgent; he did not ridicule Anne, did not despise her. Even before +he came, did she already have thoughts that she should not have had +and did he guess them? And he was sorry for her, and that was why he +looked after her with such a sad glance when she went? Yes! Of course! +And now he fled from her in order to spare her: the sight of him +should not arouse thoughts in her that had better sleep till she +herself slept in her coffin. Perhaps he himself had said so to her +husband, or written; and the latter had chosen dislike as a means of +curing her. + +Was it chance that at this moment she glanced at her husband's desk? +She saw that he had forgotten to take the key out of the lock. She +remembered that he had never been so careless before. Usually she +would have taken no notice of it; now she remembered that if he knew +her to be there he had never left the room even for a moment without +locking the desk and taking the key with him. Apollonius' letters lay +in the top right-hand drawer; usually her glance avoided the spot. Now +she opened the desk and drew out the drawer. Her hands trembled, her +whole form quivered--not for fear that her husband might surprise her +in what she was doing. She must know how it stood between her, +Apollonius, and her husband; she would have asked the latter, she +would not have come to her own aid if she could have trusted him. She +trembled in expectation of what she should find. Had she any +premonition of what it would be? + +There were many letters in the drawer; all of them lay open and +unfolded. She touched them all, one after another, before she read +them. With each one that she touched a fresh flush spread over her +cheeks, as if she touched Apollonius himself, and involuntarily she +drew back her hand. Now a little metal box fell from one of the +letters back into the drawer; the box flew open and out of it fell a +small, dry blossom--a little bluebell. It was just such a one that she +had once laid on the bench that he might find it. She was startled. +That one, Apollonius had auctioned off the same evening with ridicule +and mockery among his comrades, asking them what they would give and +finally, amid the general laughter, solemnly knocked it down to his +brother. He had brought it to her and told her about it while they +were dancing and Apollonius had looked in at the hall window, +mockingly, as his brother had said. That one she had pulled to pieces; +all the young people had danced over the ruins. The blossom in the box +was another one. The letter must tell from whom it was or to whom +Apollonius sent it. + +And yet it was the same flower. She read it. What feelings took +possession of her as she read that it was the same one. Tear after +tear fell on the paper and out of them mounted a rosy haze and veiled +the narrow walls of the little room. Oh, it was a world of happiness, +of laughing and crying with happiness that rose from the tears; every +one shone more like a rainbow, every one cried: "She was yours!" And +the last one lamented: "And she has been stolen from you!" The flower +was from her; he carried it on his breast in yearning, hope, and fear, +until she of whom he thought when he touched it had become his +brother's. He was so good that he had thought it a sin to keep the +poor blossom away from the man who had stolen the giver from him. And +she might have clung to such a man, might have enfolded him in the +arms of her yearning and never let him go! She could have done it, +might have done it, should have done it! It would not have been a sin; +it would have been a sin if she had not done so. And now it was a sin +because the other had defrauded him and her, the other who now +tormented her about what he himself had made sinful, who forced her to +sin--for be forced her to hate him, and that too was a sin and his +fault. With terribly sweet fear she thought of the nearness of the man +who should be a stranger to her, who was not a stranger to her, from +whom in the dread of her weakness she saw no escape. She fled from +him, from herself, into the room where her children slept, where her +mother had died. There, where such peace had come to her, she heard +the slight movement of the innocent little slumberers whose guardian +God had made her, heard their quiet breathing whispering into the +still, dark night. She went from bed to bed, sank motionless on her +knees before each, and pressed her forehead against the sharp edges of +the bedsteads. + +From the tower of St. George's the bells rang as the step of time +passed over her; and he did not cease his march. She lay, her hot +hands clasped, a long, long time. Then from the gentle web of her +feelings there rose, silvery as the sound of Easter morning bells, the +thought: why are you afraid of him? And she saw all her angels +kneeling About her and he was one of her angels, the most beautiful +and the strongest and the gentlest. And she might look up to him as +one looks up to his angels. She rose and went back into the other +room. She spread the letters out on the table and then laid herself to +rest. She meant their possessor to know, when he came home and found +the letters, that she had read them. It was hard for her to part with +them; but they did not belong to her. She took away only the little +box with the withered flower, and meant to tell him in the morning +that she had done so. + +Fritz Nettenmair still sat on all alone in the wine-tavern. His head +hung wearily down on his breast. He justified to himself his hatred +and his course of action. His brother and she were false; his brother +and she were guilty, not he who sat here squandering what belonged to +his children. He who had stolen her heart away from him might look +after them. Just at the moment when he had succeeded in convincing +himself, the door of the bedroom at home opened. His wife had got up +out of bed again and put back the box containing the flower with the +letters. Apollonius had not kept it, neither might she. Her husband +had not yet thought of going home when she once more pulled the covers +over her chaste limbs. In the thought that thence-forward Apollonius +should be her lode-star, and that if she acted as he did she would +remain pure and safe from evil, she fell asleep and smiled in her +slumber like a carefree child. + +Apollonius knew little of his brother's mode of life. Fritz Nettenmair +hid it from him through the involuntary restraint that Apollonius' +efficient personality laid upon him, though he would not have +acknowledged it to any one, least of all to himself. And the workmen +knew that they might not go to Apollonius with anything that looked +like tale-bearing, least of all where his brother was concerned, whom +he would have liked to see respected by them all more than himself. +But he had noticed that Fritz looked on him as an intruder on his +rights who robbed him of all pleasure in his business and occupation. +From the day of his return Apollonius had not felt happy at home. He +was a burden to those whom he loved most; he often thought of Cologne, +where he knew himself to be welcome. Until now the moral obligation +had held him which he had taken upon himself in respect to the +repairs. These were nearing completion with rapid strides. Thus his +thought was at liberty to demand realization; and he imparted it to +his brother. + +It was difficult for Apollonius at first to convince his brother that +he was in earnest in his intention to return to Cologne. Fritz took it +for a sly pretext meant to reassure him. Man gives up a fear with as +much difficulty as he does a hope. And he would have had to confess to +himself that he had done wrong to the two whom he had become so +accustomed to accusing of having done wrong to him that he felt a kind +of satisfaction in so doing. He would have had to forgive his brother +for a second wrong which the latter had suffered from him. He did not +become reconciled until he had succeeded in seeing again in his +brother the dreamer of old and in his intention a piece of +foolishness, until he saw in it an involuntary confession that his +brother had recognized in him a superior opponent and was leaving in +despair of ever being able to carry out his evil plan. Then at once +all his old jovial condescension waked as from a winter sleep. His +boots creaked again: "There he is!" and his dangling seal once more +voiced the triumphant shout: "Now the fun will begin!" His boots +drowned what his head said to him of the unavoidable consequences of +his extravagance, of his descent in the general esteem. It seemed to +him that everything would be just as it had been, once his brother was +away. Looking ahead, he even believed in his extraordinary magnanimity +in forgiving his brother for having been there. He stood before his +brother in all his old greatness, in which he confronted the intruder +as the sole head of the business; with his most condescending laugh he +waved to his brother the assurance that he would manage to get the old +man in the blue coat to consent; he himself must send Apollonius away. + +The young wife felt as if her angel were about to leave her. She felt +that she was safer from him when near him than when he was at a +distance; for all the charm that forbade her desires to be sinful fell +upon her from his honest eyes. + +Apollonius had also told the councilman of his decision. It hurt him +that the good man--who usually approved of everything that Apollonius +wanted to do, in advance, as if the latter could not do anything that +he would not be obliged to approve--received his news with odd, +wondering, monosyllabic coldness. He pressed him to tell him the +reason for this change. The two good men understood each other easily. +After recovering from his surprise at finding Apollonius in ignorance +of it, the councilman told him what he knew of his brother's mode of +life and expressed the opinion that his father's house and business +could not exist without Apollonius' aid. He promised to make further +inquiries about the matter, and was soon able to enlighten Apollonius +as to the details. Here and there in the town his brother owed not +inconsiderable sums; the slate business, particularly of late, had +been so carelessly and unconscientiously carried on that some +customers of many years' standing had already withdrawn their +patronage, and others were about to do so. Apollonius was frightened. +He thought of his father, of his sister-in-law and of her children. He +thought of himself too, but it was just his own strong sense of honor +that made him first imagine what the proud, upright, blind old man +would have to suffer under the disgrace of a possible bankruptcy. He +would be able to earn his bread; but his brother's wife and children? +And they were not accustomed to hardship. He had heard that +Christiane's inheritance from her parents had been considerable. He +took heart. Perhaps the situation could still be saved. And he wanted +to save it. He would not stop at any sacrifice of time and strength +and property. If he could not hinder the decline, at least those who +were dear to him should not want. + +The staunch councilman rejoiced at his favorite's view of the matter, +on which indeed he had reckoned; he had thought it odd that Apollonius +had not shown it before. He offered him his aid, saying that he had +neither wife nor child and that God had permitted him to acquire +something so that he might help a friend with it. Apollonius did not +as yet accept his offer. He wanted first to see how matters stood and +to feel sure that he could remain an honest man if he took his friend +at his word. + +Hard days came for Apollonius. His old father must as yet know +nothing, and, if it were possible to uphold his honor, should never +learn that it had tottered. In his treatment of his brother Apollonius +required all his firmness and all his gentleness. + +After having found out who the creditors were and what the various +sums amounted to, Apollonius examined the condition of the business +and found it even more confused than he had feared. The books were in +disorder; for some time no more entries had been made at all. Letters +from customers were found complaining of the poor quality of the +material delivered and of carelessness in the execution of their +orders; others, with bills inclosed, were from the owner of the quarry +who did not want to take any new orders on credit until the old ones +were paid. The greater part of Christiane's fortune was gone; +Apollonius had to force his brother to produce the remains of it. He +was obliged to threaten him with court proceedings. What did not +Apollonius, with his punctilious love of order, suffer in the midst of +such confusion! What did he not go through, with his intense love of +his family, in having to act thus toward his brother! And yet the +latter saw in every utterance, every act of this man who was suffering +so, only badly concealed triumph. After infinite pains Apollonius +succeeded in getting a comprehensive survey of the state of affairs. +If the creditors could be persuaded to have patience and the customers +who had transferred their business could be won back again, it would +be possible, with strict economy, industry and conscientiousness, to +save the honor of the house; and, by untiring effort, he might succeed +in assuring to his brother's children at least an unincumbered +business as their inheritance. + +Apollonius wrote at once to the customers and then went to his +brother's creditors. The former agreed to give the house another +trial. Among the latter he had the pleasure of learning what +confidence he had already won in his home town. In every case if he +would stand security the creditor was willing to allow the sum owing +to remain as a loan, at low interest, to be gradually paid off. Some +of them even wanted to intrust him with cash in addition. He did not +attempt to test the sincerity of these offers by accepting them, and +thus only added to the confidence that those who made them felt in +him. Then he modestly and gently explained to his brother what he had +done and still wanted to do. Reproaches could not do any good, and he +thought that admonitions were superfluous where the necessity was so +plain. If from now on Apollonius, acting alone and independently, took +over the management of the whole, of the business and of the +household, his brother surely could not see in his conduct any +voluntary derogation. In a matter in which he had staked his honor he +must have a free hand. + +Above all things the selling end of the business must once more be +brought up to its former standing. The quality of the material +delivered by the owner of the quarry had steadily deteriorated, and +his brother had been obliged to accept it in order to get any material +at all. The other creditors' offers, to let the money owing them stand +as loans, he accepted, in order to settle the quarry owner's old +account with what could at once be liquidated of the remnant of +Christiane's fortune, and to pay cash at once for a new order. Thus it +was possible to obtain good material again at a reasonable price and +to satisfy his purchasers. The owner of the quarry, who on this +occasion made Apollonius' acquaintance and saw something of his +knowledge of the material and of its treatment, made him an offer, as +he himself was old and tired of work, to lease him the quarry. The +conditions under which he was willing to do this would have allowed +Apollonius to reckon on large profits; but as long as he had only +himself to depend upon in his difficult situation, he could not divide +his strength among several enterprises. + +Apollonius made his plan for the first year and fixed a certain sum +which his brother was to receive from him weekly for his household +expenses. He dismissed as many of the hands as he could possibly +spare. He put the faithful Valentine in charge during the time that he +himself was obliged to be busy about affairs outside. There was a +well-founded suspicion that the disagreeable-looking workman had been +guilty of various dishonest acts. Fritz Nettenmair, who clung to the +guardian of his honor as to its last bulwark, did everything he could +to justify him and thus to keep him in the house. He explained that he +had given the man express orders to do all the things of which he was +accused. Apollonius would have liked to have made a legal complaint +against the fellow, but he was obliged to be content with paying him +off and forbidding him the house. Apollonius was inexorable, gentle +though he was in putting his reasons before his brother. Any +unprejudiced person would have to admit that he could not do +otherwise, that the fellow must go. And with a savage laugh Fritz +Nettenmair, too, thought, when he was alone, "Of course he must go!" +Whatever Apollonius showed him, strictness and gentleness merely +strengthened him in the belief that relaxed its hold upon him the less +the longer he nourished it and that grew the thirstier for his heart's +blood the longer he fed it from that fount. He saw no further obstacle +to prevent his brother's criminal intention from succeeding. + +From now on his state of mind alternated between despairing +resignation to what could no longer be prevented, what had already +probably taken place, and feverish endeavors to prevent it +notwithstanding. In accordance with these two moods his behavior +toward Apollonius took the form of unconcealed obstinacy or of +cringing and vigilant dissimulation. When the first mood governed him +he sought forgetfulness day and night. Unfortunately the discharged +workman had found employment in a quarry near by and was his companion +on many a night. The important people turned away from him, and +revenged themselves on him with unconcealed contempt for the desire +that he had awakened in them and could no longer satisfy. He avoided +them, and followed the workman into places where the latter was at +home. There he sounded his jovial condescension an octave lower. The +gin-shops now rang with his jokes; and they took on more and more the +character of the surroundings. + + +Roofs that are covered with metal or tiles usually require repairing +only after a number of years have elapsed; it is different with slate +roofs. While the roof is being covered damage to the slates from the +scaffolds and the workmen's feet cannot be avoided. And such damage +often does not become apparent until afterward. Often more +considerable repairs are required during the three years immediately +following the covering of the roof than for fifty years afterward. The +roof of St. George's added its testimony to the truth of this old +experience. The slate roof of the tower, on the contrary, which +Apollonius had attended to alone, bore gratifying witness to its +maker's obstinate conscientiousness. The jackdaws who inhabited it +would have been left in peace by his swinging seat for a long time if +an old master-tinsmith had not chosen to show his ecclesiastical +leanings by donating a tin ornament. This wreath of tin flowers which +Apollonius was to lay around the tower roof was now the cause of his +once more fastening his ladder to the broach-post. A little more than +six months had elapsed since he had taken it down. + +In the meantime his strenuous efforts had not been without success. He +had kept his old customers and won new ones in addition. His creditors +had their interest and a small payment on the principal for the first +year; confidence in Apollonius and respect for him grew from day to +day and with them grew his hope and his strength, for which he paid by +redoubled exertions. If only the same thing could have been said of +his brother, of the understanding between him and his wife! + +It was fortunate for Apollonius that he had to put his whole soul into +his purpose, that he had no time to follow his brother with his eye +and heart, to see how the man whom he was trying to save sank deeper +and deeper. When he rejoiced in his success, he did so from a feeling +of loyalty to his brother and his brother's family; Fritz saw +something quite different in his rejoicing and thought of nothing but +of how to destroy it. + +In the beginning he had given his wife the greater part of the money +that he received weekly for his household expenses. Then he began to +keep back more and more and finally he carried the whole of it into +the places where the need of buying flatterers by treating them had +followed him more faithfully than had the respect of the town. The +experience he had had with the "important" people had not converted +him. His wife had been obliged to get on with less and less. Old +Valentine saw her distress, and from now on the house money went +through his, instead of her husband's, hands. Finally Valentine became +her treasurer, and never gave her more than she needed at the moment +because money was no longer safe from her husband in her hands. + +She used what time she had from her housekeeping and her children in +doing different pieces of work which Valentine, as her agent, sold for +her. The money that she thus received she used partly--she herself +would rather go hungry even though she could not see her children do +so--to adorn the living-room with all kinds of things that she knew +that Apollonius loved. And yet she knew that Apollonius never came in +there, that he never saw it. But then, she would not have done it if +she had known that he would see it. Her husband saw it as often as he +came into the room. Nothing escaped his eyes that might act as an +excuse for his anger and his hatred. Then he began to abuse +Apollonius, and in such terms as if he too must now show how much it +is possible to acquire of another person's manner. + +If the children were present it was his wife's first care to send them +away. They must not witness his roughness and learn to despise their +father--not for his sake but for their own. He did not betray how glad +he was to be rid of the "spies." He feared that the children would +complain of him to Apollonius. He did not think that his wife would +complain herself, although he assumed that she and Apollonius met each +other. Everything that he saw in the room was to him a fresh proof of +his shame. How could he believe that it was for any other purpose than +to be noticed by Apollonius? Then, when she told him that he might +abuse her, only not Apollonius, the keen eye of jealousy showed him +what pleasure she took in suffering for Apollonius. He reproached her +with it, and she did not deny it. She said to him: "Because he suffers +for me and for my children. He gives what he has been at great pains +to save to take the place of the weekly sum of which the father has +robbed his children." + +"And he tells you that? He tells you that!" said the man, laughing +with savage joy at having trapped her into a confession that she met +him. + +"Not he," returned his wife angrily, because the man she despised was +judging Apollonius by himself. "Old Valentine told me." She went on to +tell him that Valentine had sold as his own the watch that Apollonius +had brought with him from Cologne. Apollonius had forbidden him to +tell her. + +"And also to tell you that he forbade him?" laughed her husband. And +there was something of contempt in his laugh. Such things might indeed +be believed of the dreamer; but now he would not believe it of him. +"Of course!" he laughed still more wildly. "Even a stupider fellow +than that dreamer knows that no woman will do it for nothing. The +worst of them thinks herself worth something. One with such hair and +such eyes and such a body!" He seized her by the hair and gazed into +her eyes with a glance before which purity must blush; only depravity +could meet it and laugh. He took her blush for a confession and +laughed still more wildly. "You want to say that I am worse than he. +Ha, Ha! You're right; I married such a woman. He wouldn't have done +that. He isn't bad enough for that!" + +Old Valentine must have failed to keep his word, or else Apollonius +passed the door by chance when his brother believed him far away. He +heard his brother's savage outbreak of anger, he heard the clear tone +of the wife's voice, still clear and melodious in spite of her +excitement. He heard them both without understanding what they were +saying. He was shocked. He had not imagined that the breach between +them had gone so far. And he was the cause of this breach. He must do +what he could to improve matters. + +His brother stood in his threatening attitude as if turned to stone +when he caught sight of Apollonius entering. He had the feeling of a +man suddenly surprised while doing a wrong. If Apollonius had turned +on him as he deserved he would have groveled before him. But +Apollonius wanted to reconcile them, and said so calmly and from his +heart. He might indeed have known, for he had experienced it often +enough, that his gentleness only gave his brother the courage to be +sneeringly obstinate. It was the same this time. Fritz sneered at him, +laughing savagely, and said that he was making an excuse where he was +master. Was that the reason he had made himself master of the house? +He knew that in Apollonius' place he would have behaved quite +differently. He would have let the woman feel it whom he knew to be in +his power. He was an honest fellow, and did not need to pretend to be +so sweet. It occurred to him, moreover, how often he had sneaked about +the door in vain, hoping to surprise Apollonius in the room. Now he +was in the room. He had come in because he had not expected to find +him. It was Apollonius who must be startled, Apollonius was the person +caught, not he. The reconciliation was merely the first excuse on +which Apollonius had seized. That was why he was so meek. That was why +his wife was frightened--she had been trying to make him believe that +Apollonius never came into the room. That was why she looked up at him +so pleadingly. The contemptuous gaze with which she had just measured +him had suddenly been torn from her consciously guilty face with the +mask of pretended innocence. Now he knew with certainty: there was no +longer anything to prevent; nothing remained to him but retribution. +Now he could show his brother that he knew him, had always known him. + +He pointed to his wife. "She's begging me to go. Why should I? I'll +look out of the window. That will do just as well. I shan't see what +you are doing." + +Apollonius did not understand him. Christiane knew that he did not, +without looking at him. She tried to leave the room. She could not +endure to be humiliated in Apollonius' presence till she was nothing +but dirt under his feet. Her husband held her with a savage grip. He +seized her with the swoop of a bird of prey. She would have had to +scream aloud if her mental torture had not deadened her physical pain. + +"Don't mind her wanting to go away," gasped Fritz Nettenmair, stifled +with unnatural laughter, and held his brother with his eye as he held +his wife with his hand. "You needn't be afraid. Just as soon as I turn +my back she will be here again. Go on, talk to each other. Go on, tell +him that you can't bear him; I believe it of course; what won't a man +believe if a woman like you tells him so? And you, give her some of +your teachings from Cologne, where you learnt everything, how to drive +your brother out of his house and business so as to--hm--well--Ha, ha! +Why don't you tell her? A woman ought to be willing. Oh, such a +willing woman is--go on, tell her what that kind of a woman is. She +doesn't know it yet, innocent as she is! Ha, ha!" + +Apollonius understood nothing of what he heard and saw; but the abuse +of a man's strength on a helpless woman filled him with indignation. +Involuntarily this feeling carried him away. It doubled his strength, +which was far superior to his brother's at all times, when he gripped +him by the arm that held his wife so that it let go its prey and +dropped as if paralyzed. Christiane tried to leave the room, but she +collapsed helplessly. Apollonius caught her and laid her on the sofa, +supported against its back. Then he stood before his brother like a +wrathful angel. + +"I have tried to win you by gentleness, but you are not worthy of it. +I have endured much at your hands and will continue to endure," said +Apollonius; "you are my brother. You blame me for having driven you +into misfortune; God is my witness that I have done everything that I +knew to hold you back. For whom have I done what you reproach me with +doing, if not for you, and for the sake of your honor and to save your +wife and your children? Who compelled me to be hard on you? For whom +do I work? For whom am I doing all that I do? If you knew how it hurts +me to have you force me to tell you what I am doing for you! God +knows, you force me to it; I have never done it yet, not with others, +nor with myself. You know that you are only seeking an excuse to be +unbrotherly toward me. I know it, and will continue to endure you as I +have done till now. But that you should make an excuse of your wife's +dislike of me to torture her too, and to treat her as no good man +treats a good woman, that I will not stand." + +Fritz Nettenmair burst into a horrible laugh. His brother had put him +to shame in every way, and now still wanted to play the virtuous hero +to him, the innocently offended, the chivalrous protector of the +innocently offended woman. "A good woman! Such a good woman! Oh yes +indeed! Is she not? You say so--and you are a good man. Ha, ha! Who +should know better whether a woman is good or not than such a good +man? You have not robbed me of everything? You have still to rob me of +my reason so that I shall believe your fairy-tale. She dislikes you? +She can't bear you? Oh, you don't know yet how much she dislikes you. +I need only be away, then she will tell you. Then it will be bad for +you! She will strangle you to make you believe her. When I am present +she won't tell you. A woman won't tell a thing like that when her +husband is there--a good woman, as she is. Why don't you say that you +can't bear her either? Oh, I have no longer any sense! I'll believe +anything that you two tell me!" + +Forgetting everything but his passion, Fritz Nettenmair was convinced +that Christiane and Apollonius had invented the fairy-tale of her +dislike. + +Apollonius stood shocked. He was obliged to say to himself what he did +not want to believe. His brother read in his face terror at the light +that was breaking in on him, dismay and pain at the misconstruction +put upon his conduct. And everything that he saw was so genuine that +even he was obliged to believe it. He was silenced by the thoughts +that pierced his brain like strokes of lightning. So it might still +have been prevented after all; what must come might still have been +hindered! And again it was he, himself--But Apollonius--he saw that in +spite of his confusion--still doubted and could not believe. So he +might still destroy the effects of his madness, might still perhaps +prevent, still hinder what must come, even if it were only for today +and tomorrow. But how? Should he make a wild joke out of the whole +scene? Such jokes were not unusual with him, and in his mind +Apollonius once more became the dreamer of old who believed everything +that was told him. He broke into a laugh, a fearful caricature of the +jovial laugh with which he had formerly been accustomed to reward his +own sallies. That was a confounded joke, that Apollonius could be made +to believe that Fritz Nettenmair was jealous! Jovial Fritz Nettenmair +jealous! Jovial Fritz Nettenmair! And, better still, of him. He had +never heard a more confounded joke than that! He read in his wife's +face how relieved she was at the turn he had given to the scene. He +dared to appeal to her to confirm the fact that it was a confounded +joke. Her "yes" made him still bolder. Now he laughed at his wife who +could be "confounded" enough to reproach him angrily with having made +her dependent on the favor of the man she hated, and explained +laughingly that it was such things that gave rise to little quarrels +in married life. He laughed at Apollonius for taking such a little +dispute so seriously. He asked to be shown the married people who +didn't have such disagreements now and then. It was easy to see that +Apollonius was still a bachelor! + +Apollonius heard the councilman's voice in the hall, asking for him; +he went out quickly so that the councilman should not come in and be a +witness to the scene. His brother heard them going away together. He +was far from being reassured yet. When he went out Apollonius' face +had shown that he was still struggling with the thought that had +dawned on him. + +Two passions were fighting against each other in Fritz Nettenmair's +soul. The dissolute habit of forgetting himself in drink drew him out +of the house by a hundred chains; jealous fear held him at home with a +thousand talons. If his brother had not yet thought of what he might +have if he liked, he himself had now introduced the thought into his +mind. All day long he turned his fear over and over and did not let +his wife out of his sight. Not until it had all grown quiet around +him, till his wife had put the children to bed and laid herself to +rest, till he no longer saw any light in Apollonius' windows, did the +talons relax their hold and the chains draw the stronger. He locked +the back door which separated Apollonius from the rest of the house, +he even bolted it as well, and locked the door of the stairs leading +to the piazza and finally the door at which he went out. He had cause +for haste without knowing it. The disagreeable-looking workman could +not stay much longer. Fritz Nettenmair did not yet know that +Apollonius had been to the quarry owner and succeeded in having the +workman dismissed, had talked to the police and brought it about that +the workman might no longer let himself be seen in the neighborhood on +the morrow. The workman was ready for his departure; from the public +house he was going straight out into the wide world. He only wanted to +take leave of his former master and tell him something more before he +went. + +There was little left in the world to which Fritz Nettenmair was +attached. The road that he had been traveling led farther and farther +down from what he loved most; it was irretrievably lost to him. He +would never again be the centre of admiration and flattery. All that +still bound him to his wife was the searing chain of jealousy. He +never had been fond of his father; he hated his brother. He knew +himself to be hated or, in his madness, believed himself to be hated. +Little Annie would have clung to him with all the strength of a +child's heart longing to be loved, but he drove her away from him with +hatred; to him she was "the spy." To one man alone did his heart +cling, to the one who least deserved it. He knew that the man had +cheated him, had helped to ruin him, and still he clung to him. The +man hated Apollonius, he was the only person besides himself who hated +Apollonius and therefore Apollonius' brother clung to him! + +Fritz Nettenmair accompanied the workman a part of his way. The +workman wanted to walk faster, so he thanked him for his company, +intending to proceed alone. When others part their last words are of +what they both love; Fritz Nettenmair's and the workman's last words +were of their hatred. The workman knew that Apollonius would have +liked to have put him in the penitentiary, if he could. As the two now +stood facing each other at parting, the workman measured the other +with his eye. It was an evil, lurking glance, a grimly surreptitious +glance that asked Fritz Nettenmair, without intending to be heard, +whether he was ready for something which the workman did not name. +Then he said, in a hoarse voice which would have struck the other but +that Fritz Nettenmair was accustomed to it: "What was it I wanted to +say? Oh, yes, you will soon be in mourning. I saw him the other day." +He did not need to mention any name, Fritz Nettenmair knew whom he +meant. "There are people who see more than others," the workman +continued, "there are people who can see in a slater's face if he is +doomed to fall that year, who see him being carried home, and see him +lying there, only he is not there any more. An old slater told me the +secret of how to see with the 'second sight.' I have it. And now +farewell. Meet it with resignation when they carry him home." + +The workman had left him; his steps were already growing faint in the +distance. Fritz Nettenmair still stood and gazed into the white-gray +fog into which the workman had disappeared. The layers of fog hung +horizontally above the meadows by the street spread out like a cloth. +They rose and melted together, forming strange shapes, they curled, +floated apart and sank down again only to rear themselves once more. +They hung on the branches of the willows by the way, now veiling them, +now leaving them free, till it seemed uncertain whether the fog was +dissolving into trees or the trees into fog. It was a dreamlike +activity, untiring movement without aim or purpose. It was a picture +of what was going on in Fritz Nettenmair's soul, such a true picture +that he did not know whether he was looking at something outside or +something within himself. There came a hazy bending down and wringing +of hands about a pale figure on the ground, then a slowly moving +funeral procession, and now it was his enemy, his brother who lay +there, whom they carried. Now malicious joy flamed up sharply, died +down and pity took its place, now both were mixed and one tried to +hide the other. The figure lying there, whom they carried, Fritz +forgave everything. He wept over him; for in the intervals of the +funeral song the merry dance-tune sounded softly which the future +struck up: "There he comes! Now the fun will begin!" And beside the +dead lay a second corpse, invisible, his fear of what must come if his +poor brother did not lie dead. And in the coffin, Fritz Nettenmair's +old jovial happiness put forth new buds. Fritz Nettenmair felt himself +to be an angel; he wished that his brother need not die, because--he +knew that his brother must die. + +He was still walking in the fog when the pavement of the town sounded +again under his feet. He had forgotten a past, he forgot the present, +for the future was his again. And he was one who--as he turned into +his street the old words rang as jovially as they ever did. + +It gave him a curious feeling to think that through the door which he +had just opened a coffin was going to be carried out. Involuntarily he +stood aside as if to let the procession pass him. "We must submit," he +said softly, as if repeating to himself what he would have to answer +some one offering him consolation when once the time had come, "We +must submit to what is unalterable." And as he raised his shoulders in +accompaniment to the words, he perceived a faint glimmer of light. He +looked up; the light came through the crack between the lower part of +the shutter and the window ledge. There was a light in there, in the +living-room. "So late?" He gasped; the load lies again on his breast. +His brother was still alive; and what must come if he were not to die, +might still come before he died, or--it was already here! How swiftly +his hands moved--and yet the door was locked again quietly in an +instant! Just as softly and just as quickly he went to the back door. +It was not open, but the key was only turned once in the lock, and +Fritz Nettenmair could swear to it that he turned it twice before he +went. He felt his way to the door of the room; he found the latch and +gently pressed it; the door opened; a faint glimmer shone out into the +hall. It came from a covered light on the table; beside the table a +small bed stood in the shadow. It was little Annie's bed, and her +mother was sitting beside it. + +Christiane did not notice the opening of the door. Her head was bent +low down over the bed; she was singing softly and did not know what +she was singing; she was listening full of fear, but not to her song; +she would cry if the tears did not dim her eyes. But now the color +might come back to the child's cheek again, the strange expression +about the child's eyes and mouth might disappear, and she might fail +to see it and might fear in vain. It seemed to her as if the color +must come and the expression change if she only tried hard enough to +notice this coming and going. And at the same time she was able to +think how suddenly this thing had come that had made her so afraid; +how little Annie in the bed beside her own, suddenly cried out in a +strange voice and then could not speak any more; how she jumped up and +dressed; how she waked Valentine in her distress, and he, without her +knowledge, waked Apollonius. The old fellow had tried all the keys in +the house until he found that the key of the shed opened the back +door; she did not know that. So much the more vividly did she picture +how Apollonius came in, how she felt at his unexpected appearance, +full of terror and shame and yet wonderfully tranquillized. Apollonius +had fetched the doctor at once and medicines. He had stood by the bed +and bent over little Annie as she did now. He had looked at her full +of pain and said that little Annie's illness was owing to the discord +between herself and her husband, and that she would not get well +unless this ceased. He had told her of the miracles that are possible +to a mother and of how men and women can and must conquer themselves. +Then he had given Valentine a few more orders relating to little Annie +and had left, fearing that his brother, in his error, might otherwise +believe that he wanted to drive him away from the sick-bed of his +children. Apollonius had said that little Annie would not get well +again if the discord did not cease. He had said that people can and +must conquer themselves; Christiane determined to conquer herself +because he had said so. A mother could do miracles for her child; if +she thought of Apollonius' face when he spoke thus, the greatest +miracle must become possible to her. + +Fritz Nettenmair entered. He thought of nothing but that Apollonius +must have been there, even if he were not there any longer. Everything +danced before his eyes he was in such a fury. He would have flown at +his wife if he had not seen old Valentine sitting at the door of the +bedroom. He meant to wait till the old man had left the room, and +crept to the chair at the window where he had always sat formerly, +when he was such a different man. His wife heard his soft tread; she +could not see his face. It seemed to her that he knew of little +Annie's condition and walked so softly on that account. She looked at +little Annie with a glance that said, that what she was about to do +now she would do for the sake of her sick child; a glance at the door +by which he had gone out added: "And because he said I should." + +"Here is father, Annie," she said. In reality she was talking to her +husband who sat at the window, but she could not turn her face toward +him, could not address her words directly to him. "You always asked +for him, you know. You thought that when he came he would be as he +used to be before you were sick. Mother wants him to be like that +too--for your sake." + +Her voice came from so deep down in her chest that the man had to +force himself to control his rage. He thought: "She is speaking so +sweetly so as to deceive me. They planned that when he was here." And +the soft tones in which she continued only caused his anger to swell +more wrathfully. + +"And you won't go to Heaven yet, will you Annie? You're such a good +little girl and you'll stay with father and mother. If only--you +mustn't be afraid of father, you silly little Annie, because he speaks +so loud. He doesn't mean to be cross." + +She stopped; she expected an answer from the father, not from the +child. She expected that he would come to the bed and speak to the +child as she had done, and through the child with her. Whatever she +might think of him, the child was his child, after all, and it was +ill. + +The man remained silent and sat on quietly in his chair. For the +length of time that it takes to say half the Lord's Prayer there was +no sound but the ticking of the clock; and that grew faster and faster +like the beating of a human heart that feels misfortune approaching. +The flame of the light flickered as with fear. + +Valentine rose from his chair to attend to the light. + +There was a sound of wheezing in the child's chest; she wanted to +speak and could not. She wanted to stretch out her hands toward her +father, and she could not. She could do nothing but hold out the arms +of her soul to her father. But her father's soul did not see the +beseeching arms; it held its wrath convulsively in its hands and had +no hand free for the child. Valentine stepped away from the light and +went out to give vent to his feelings in tears. The man rose and +approached his wife softly without her noticing him. He wanted to +surprise her, and he succeeded. She started, frightened, as she +suddenly saw facing her across the bed a distorted human countenance. +She started, and he said through his teeth: "You are frightened? Do +you know why?" + +She meant to tell him herself that Apollonius had been there, but she +had not yet had an opportunity; she did not dare to do so at the sick +child's bedside, because she knew that he would fly into a rage; +whenever she could she had spared the child the sight of his roughness +while she was still well; now it might frighten the little girl to +death. She did not answer him, but looked at him beseechingly, +indicating the child by a glance. + +"He was here! Wasn't he here?" he asked, not for information but to +show that he did not need any. He raised his clenched fist; little +Annie struggled to sit up. He did not see it; but his wife saw it, and +her terror grew. She clasped her hands, she looked at him with a +glance in which there was everything that a woman can promise, that a +woman can threaten. He saw only her terror at his knowing what had +happened--and his fist descended on her forehead. + +There was a shriek. The child writhed in convulsions; the mother, who +had fallen upon her, wept loudly. Valentine hurried in, Fritz +Nettenmair went into the bedroom. He did not know which was uppermost +in him, gratified revenge or fright at what he had done. He sank down +on the bed as if the blow that he struck had stunned himself. He only +half heard Valentine running for the doctor. In the same state he +heard the latter come and go, and in the same state he listened to see +if he could hear Apollonius' voice whispering and his soft tread. He +did not dare to show himself; shame restrained him. He justified his +behavior and called little Annie's illness just a desire to be +coddled. "Children think they're dying one day, and the next they're +more lively than ever," he said to himself. + +His feverish listening and efforts to reassure himself turned into +feverish dreaming. Between waking and sleeping he heard quiet steps in +the next room, quiet voices, quiet weeping, and at intervals silence. + +The quiet weeping that grows loud and is controlled again as if a +sleeper were near whom it will not wake, that breaks out again as if +it could not wake the sleeper, and again grows soft as if it were +frightened at itself for being so loud when every one is quiet: who +does not know such weeping? Who does not guess what it means, even if +he does not know it? + +Fritz Nettenmair knew it, half asleep; there was a dead person in the +next room. They had brought him home. "We must submit to what is +unalterable." + +For the first time for many months he slept quietly again. + +And why should he not? The quiet weeping turned into a merry waltz. +"There he is! Now the fun will begin"--the words rang triumphantly +from the "Red Eagle Tavern" in the distance, into his sleep. + +But the quiet steps and the quiet voices were real, and they +continued; and there was a dead body in the next room, the beautiful, +dead body of a child. The breach between the parents had made the +child ill; pain at her father's savage attack on her mother had broken +her little heart. + +When the new day sent its first glimmer of light through his window, +Apollonius rose from the chair on which he had sat ever since his +return to his room. There was something solemn in the manner in which +he stood upright. He seemed to say to himself: "If it is as I fear, I +must act for us both; it is for that that I am a man. I have sworn to +uphold my father's house and his honor, and I will do what I have +sworn to do, in every sense." + +Fritz Nettenmair woke at last. He knew nothing more of the +dream-scenes of the night. He only knew that his wife had magnified +the "spy's" desire to be coddled into an illness so that she might +have an excuse for being together with "him." He began to think of how +he should put an end to this coddling. With this idea in his mind he +stepped through the door and stood--before a dead body. A shudder ran +over him. The dead child lay there before him like a sign to warn him: +"You shall not go farther on the way that you have taken!" There the +child lay, his child, and she was dead. The child stood before him, an +accuser and a witness. She bore witness for her mother. The mother had +known that she was dying; and at the deathbed of her child not even +the lowest creature would do what he had thought her capable of doing. +The child accused him. He had struck a mother at the side of her +child's deathbed. No man can do that, not even if the woman were +guilty. And she was not; the child testified to that. Now he knew that +the pale, dumb countenance of the mother had cried: "You will kill the +child; don't strike!" And he had struck nevertheless. He had killed +the child. That thought fell on him like a thunder-bolt, so that he +collapsed before the child's bed, across which he had struck her +mother, before the bed in which his child had died because he struck +her mother. + +There he lay a long time. The bolt that struck him down had lighted +the past with cruel distinctness: he had seen them both innocent whom +he persecuted. And there was no guilt but his. He alone had built up +the misery that lay crushingly upon him, load on load, guilt on guilt. +But after all it was not yet too late! He heard his wife's quiet step +in the hall coming toward the door of the room. He heard the door +open. If little Annie had been standing in the door of the bedroom +then, she would have smiled. He meant to be kind, he meant to be again +as he had been before little Annie had been taken sick. He held out +his hand to the woman as she entered. She saw him and started. She was +as white as little Annie's body, even her lips, usually so crimson, +were white. Her neck, her beautiful arms, her soft hands were white, +her eyes that were always so shining, were dull. All the life in her +had withdrawn to the deepest recesses of her heart and there wept for +her dead child. When she saw him her whole body began to tremble. In +two steps she stood between him and the body; as if she still wanted +to protect the child from him. And yet it was not that. Neither fear +nor dread quivered about her little mouth; it was firmly closed. It +was a different feeling that drew her beautifully arched eyebrows +together and flamed in her usually so gentle eyes. He saw: this was no +longer the woman who had spoken melting words of peace; she had died +with her child in the terrible night just past. The woman who stood +before him was no longer the mother who looked at him with hope, whose +child he could save; it was the mother whose child he had killed. It +was a mother who drove the murderer away from the holy place where her +child lay. He spoke--Oh, if he had but spoken yesterday! Yesterday she +had yearned for the words; today she did not hear them. + +"Give me your hand, Christiane," he said. She drew her hand back +convulsively, as if he had already touched her. "I have been +mistaken," he continued; "I will believe you, I see myself; I will not +do it again! You are better than I." + +"The child is dead," she said, and even her voice sounded pale. "Don't +leave me without comfort in my terrible fear. If I can become +different I can only do so now, and if you give me your hand and raise +me up," said the man. She looked at the child, not at him. + +"The child is dead," she repeated. Did that mean it was indifferent to +her what became of him now that his improvement could no longer save +the child? The man half raised himself; he gripped her hand with a +strength full of fear and held it fast. + +"Christiane," he sobbed wildly, "Here I lie like a worm. Don't tread +on me! Don't tread on me! For God's sake, have mercy. I could never +forget it, if I had lain here like a worm in vain. Think of it! For +God's sake, think of it; you have me in your hand now. You can make of +me what you will. I hold you responsible. You will be to blame for +anything that may come after this."--She had finally succeeded in +withdrawing her hand from his grasp; she held it away from herself as +if she looked at it with loathing because he had touched it. + +"The child is dead," she said. He understood that she said: "Between +me and the murderer of my child there can never be anything more in +common, neither on earth nor in heaven." + +He rose. A word of forgiveness might perhaps have saved him! Perhaps! +Who knows! He staggered back into the bedroom. Christiane did not see +him go, but she felt that his presence no longer profaned the place in +which lay the sacred image of her maternal sorrow. Weeping softly, she +sank down over her dead child. + + +In the meantime Apollonius had begun the decorating of the tower-roof +of St. George's. He had built a scaffold, fastened his ladder to the +broach-post, put a hempen ring on it, attached his tackle to the ring +and hung his swinging-seat on the pulley. The tin ornamentation, which +consisted of single long pieces, was intended to represent two +garlands festooned around the spire. + +Apollonius was industrious at his work. The mastertinsmith, who was +anxious to see his decorations completed as soon as possible, had less +ground to complain of Apollonius than the latter had to be +dissatisfied with him. At first the master urged Apollonius; soon +Apollonius had to drive the master on. A part of the top garland which +was to hang in a festoon over the door in the roof was lacking. +Apollonius could not finish his work until he had the material for it. +A neighboring village required his services for minor repairs. Leaving +his tackle hanging from the tower of St. George's he went to Brambach. + +The next day old Valentine knocked at the living-room door. He had +already been there several times and gone away again. His entire being +expressed uneasiness. He was so preoccupied with something that he had +on his mind that he thought he must have failed to hear the answer to +his knock and laid his ear to the key-hole as if he assumed that it +must still be there to hear if he only listened hard enough. His +anxiety aroused him from his absent-mindedness. He knocked a second +and a third time and, still receiving no answer, plucked up courage to +open the door and go in. The young wife had avoided him for some time. +She did so now, too, but today he had to speak to her. She +intentionally sat at some distance from the windows, near the bedroom +door. The old man did not perceive that she was as uneasy as he, and +that his presence made her even more so. He apologized for his +intrusion. When she made a movement to leave the room, he assured her +that he would not remain long and that he would not have forced +himself upon her had he not been impelled to do so by something which +was perhaps very important. He hoped that it was not so, but still, it +might be. She listened and looked more and more anxiously now at the +windows, now at the door. Her demeanor showed plainly that she hoped +if he had anything to say to her he would say it as quickly as he +could. + +Valentine began: "Master Fritz is on the roof of St. George's. I saw +him just now in the church-yard." + +"And did he look this way? Did he see you coming into the house?" +asked Christiane breathlessly. + +"God forbid!" replied the old man. "He is working like the devil +today, not even thinking of anything to eat and drink. When a man +works like that--" Valentine stopped and completed the sentence to +himself--"he has some end in view." Christiane was silent. She was +struggling with the desire to confide her whole anxiety to the +faithful old soul. He saw nothing of this. "Our neighbor, over there," +he continued, "has times, you know, when he cannot sleep at all. The +night before Master Apollonius went to Brambach he was at his kitchen +window and saw somebody sneaking from the back of our house into the +shed." He did not say whom the neighbor had seen, he probably expected +the young wife to ask. But she had not even heard his story. "The +previous evening," he went on, "before Master Apollonius left for +Brambach, he tried to get together the things he wanted to take with +him; he examined everything, as he always does, but he could not make +up his mind what to take. And it is so strange that Master Fritz has +become so industrious all of a sudden." + +Apollonius' name roused Christiane; she listened as the old man +continued: "It occurred to me for the first time, just now, when our +neighbor told me that somebody had crept into the shed. I wondered +what he could be wanting there, and at night too. And when I looked up +and saw Master Fritz working so hard, an uneasy feeling came over me +and drove me into the shed as if I were being chased with a stick. +There, I imagined what any one who had sneaked in there might have +done. First I saw the ax that belongs with the other tools lying near +the door. I thought to myself: did he do anything with the ax? And +again I imagined what any one who had crept in there at night might +have done with it. It occurred to me that he might have done something +to the ladders. But I found nothing wrong there. Nor was there +anything wrong with the swinging-seat that still lay there. Then I +began to look at the pulleys and last of all at the tackle. It seemed +as if one of the ropes had been worn a little by rubbing against +something hard. I thought to myself: 'that often happens,' and was +about to lay it down again, but then I thought: 'there is nothing else +wrong, and if somebody crept in here at night he meant to do +something, and if he had the ax then he did something with that.' I +looked a little closer and--merciful Heavens!--the rope had been cut +into in several different places. I threw it over the beam and hung on +it; the cuts gaped open. I believe if the seat were hung on it the +rope would break." The old man had become quite pale. Christiane hung +breathlessly on his every word; she had fallen back in her chair and +could scarcely speak. + +"It was not so the evening before," he continued. "Master Apollonius +has an eye for every detail. He would have discovered it. I think the +person who cut the rope watched Master Apollonius as he examined +everything, and thought he would not look them over again before he +used them. That is the reason why he crept in at night." + +"Valentine!" cried the young wife, seizing him by the shoulders, half +as if she wanted to compel him to tell the truth, half as if to +support herself, "he did not take it with him? Valentine, tell me!" + +"No, not that one," said Valentine. "But the other seat that was +there, and the tackle belonging to it." + +"And was that cut too?" she asked with ever increasing fear. He +replied: "I do not know. But the man who did it had no idea which one +Master Apollonius would take with him." + +The woman trembled so violently that the old man forgot his fears +concerning Apollonius in his fear concerning her. He had to support +her to prevent her from falling. She pushed him away and half +imploringly, half threateningly, cried: "Oh, save him, Valentine, save +him. Oh God, it is I who have done it!" She prayed to God to save him, +and then moaned that he was dead and that it was her fault. She called +Apollonius by the tenderest names and entreated him not to die. +Valentine, in his distress, sought for words to comfort her and in so +doing found comfort for himself; or if there were no real comfort, at +least there was the hope that Apollonius was already on his way home. +He had certainly examined the tackle again. If he had met with an +accident they would have heard of it by now. He had to repeat this a +dozen times before she understood what he meant. And now she began to +expect the bearer of the terrible tidings, and started at every sound. +She even imagined her own sobbing to be his voice. Finally Valentine, +infected by her desperate terror and not knowing what else to do, ran +to fetch the old gentleman, thinking that he might know how to save +Apollonius, if it were still possible. + +The old gentleman sat in his little room. As he withdrew deeper and +deeper into the clouds that separated him from the outer world, even +his little garden finally became strange to him. Especially the +eternal question: "How are you, Herr Nettenmair?" had driven him to +the house. He felt that people no longer believed his: "I am somewhat +troubled with my eyes, but it is a matter of no consequence," and in +every question he heard only a mockery. Much as Apollonius suffered +with him, his father's isolation and increasing unsociability were not +altogether unwelcome to him; for the deeper his brother sank, the more +difficult it had become to conceal from the old gentleman the +condition of the house; and to exclude busybodies from the garden was +impossible. Apollonius did not know that his father suffered tortures +in his room equal to those from which he wanted to protect him. Here +the old gentleman sat the livelong day, crouched down in his leather +chair behind the table, and brooded over all the possibilities of +dishonor that might come to his house; or he strode up and down with +hasty step, the flush in his sunken cheeks and the vehement gestures +of his arms betraying all too plainly how in his thoughts he did his +utmost to avert impending calamity. His was a condition which would +eventually lead to complete insanity, if the external world did not +throw a bridge across to him and force him to leave his isolation. + +This was what happened on that day. Force of habit compelled old +Valentine, without his being conscious of the fact, to open the door +gently, and gently to step in; but the old gentleman, with his +morbidly acute perception, discerned at once the unusual. His +anticipation naturally took the same course which all his thoughts +pursued. Some disgrace must be threatening the house so to alter +Valentine's usual manner; and it must be a terrible one indeed thus to +upset the old fellow and break through his assumed composure. The old +gentleman trembled as he arose from his chair. He struggled with +himself as to whether he should ask. It was not necessary. The old +fellow confessed, unasked. With nervous haste he related his fears and +his reasons for them. The old gentleman was startled, in spite of the +fact that his imagination had prepared him for the truth; but +Valentine observed none of this in his exterior, he listened to him as +always, as if he were relating matters of the utmost indifference. +When Valentine had finished, the sharpest eye could no longer have +perceived the slightest tremor in the tall, stately figure. The old +gentleman had the firm ground of reality under his feet once more; he +was again the old gentleman in the blue coat. He stood as austere as +of yore before his servant; so austere and so quiet was he that his +bearing inspired Valentine with courage. "Imagination!" he exclaimed +in his old grim manner. "Are none of the journeymen around?" Valentine +called one who was just about to fetch slate. The old gentleman +despatched him to Brambach to bid Apollonius return home at once. "If +you think he won't go quickly enough for you, you fussy old woman, +tell him to hurry so that you may soon learn that you've worked +yourself into a state about nothing. But no word of this to anybody +and lock up the wife so that she can't do anything silly." Valentine +obeyed. The old gentleman's assurance, and the fact that something had +really been done, had a more powerful effect upon him than a hundred +good arguments. He imparted his encouragement to Christiane. He was in +too great haste to tell her upon what grounds it was based. If he had +had time for that he would probably have left her less reassured. +Nothing was further from himself than the suspicion that the old +gentleman, while characterizing his fears as idle fancies, and +pretending to send the messenger only to reassure him and the young +wife, was inwardly convinced of the guilt of his elder son and of the +danger, if not actual death, of his younger son. + +"Now," said Herr Nettenmair, when Valentine had returned to him, "the +old fool has of course told our neighbor the fairy-tale that he spun +out of thin air, and the young wife has confided it to all the gossips +in town!" + +Valentine noticed nothing of the feverish suspense with which the old +gentleman awaited an answer to the question which he had disguised as +an exclamation. "I've done nothing of the kind," he replied earnestly. +The old gentleman's supposition had wounded him. "In the first place I +didn't really think myself that anything was very wrong yet; and Frau +Nettenmair has not spoken to a soul since then." + +The old gentleman took hope anew. During Valentine's absence he had +given way for a moment to all the anguish that a father cannot but +feel under such circumstances; but then he reasoned with himself that +there was no use in wasting time in idle complaint as long as +something might still be done. Even if Valentine and Christiane had +told nobody what they knew, other things of the same sort might have +become known. Such a criminal thought does not originate by chance; it +is the blossom of a poisonous tree with trunk and branches. Valentine +had to tell him all that had happened since Apollonius' return home. +It was the story of a wanton, inordinate, pleasure-seeking spendthrift +who in spite of the efforts of his better brother had sunk to the +level of an ordinary libertine and drunkard; of a faithful brother +who, compelled by the necessity of rescuing the honor of business and +home, had shouldered the care of everything and as a reward was being +persecuted unto death by the degraded prodigal. + +The old gentleman sat motionless. Only the blush that burned ever +warmer on his thin cheeks betrayed what he suffered for the honor of +his house. Otherwise he seemed to know it all, already. That was his +old manner, which he perhaps made use of now because he thought that +Valentine would then be less likely to conceal or alter facts against +his better knowledge. His inward agitation prevented him from +perceiving in what strong contradiction this semblance of calm stood +to his morbid sense of honor. Valentine did not endeavor to deepen the +shadows which fell upon Fritz Nettenmair's conduct, but, knowing the +old gentleman as he thought he did, he deemed it necessary to place +Apollonius' actions in the brightest possible light. But he only half +knew the old gentleman after all. He miscalculated the effect that he +would produce when he praised the filial tenderness with which +Apollonius had withheld all news of danger from his father's ears. +Thus he undid what a simple tale, describing the son's efforts to save +that which the old gentleman held most dear, had accomplished. The +father saw only a realization of the fear which Apollonius' diligence +had awakened in him. In unfilial fashion Apollonius had concealed the +danger from him in order to be able to take the whole credit for the +rescue to himself. Or he looked upon his father as a helpless, blind +old man who was not, and could not be anything but an incumbrance. +This latter feeling the old gentleman could forgive him less than the +former, even in face of his grief over his son's death, which he now +deemed a certainty. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he +became that things would never have come to such a pass if he had +known about it and taken the matter in hand, and that Apollonius in +fact had only his own ambitious desires to thank for his death. These +thoughts, however, had to give way before immediate necessity. What he +knew concerning Fritz was enough to strengthen suspicion once it was +aroused, but not to create it in the first place unless there were +some additional reason of which he knew nothing. He must learn from +his guilty son himself if such existed. He had made up his mind what +to do in any case. He called for his hat and cane. At any other time +Valentine would have been astonished at this command, perhaps even +frightened. But when one is wrought up over something unusual, only +the usual seems unexpected, only that which calls to mind the old +quiet state of affairs. As the old gentleman made ready to depart, he +pointed out to Valentine once more how foolish and groundless his +fears were. "Who knows," he said grimly, "what our neighbor saw? How +could he recognize anybody at night, so far off? And you with your ax +story! If the rope should break by chance or any other accident happen +to the boy in Brambach, of course you would be sure and certain that +it was your imaginary ax-slashes that had done it, and that the man +whom our neighbor pretends to have seen sneaking into the shed, had +made them. And if you say a word or make mysterious hints about all +that you imagine in your silly pate, the whole town will be full of it +in no time. Not because what you have invented is probable enough for +any sensible man to believe, but just because people are glad to speak +ill of anybody. God will take care that nothing happens to the boy. +But of course it might happen, and maybe it has already happened. How +easy it is for an accident to happen to anybody, specially to a slater +who hovers between heaven and earth like a bird, and yet has not the +wings of a bird. That is why the slater's calling is such a noble +calling; the slater is the most manifest picture of how Providence +holds the man who works at an honest profession safe in its hands. But +if Providence lets him fall, there is a reason for it, and nobody has +a right to go around spinning yarns which will bring unhappiness and +even disgrace on somebody else. I am sure this affair will soon show +itself as it really is and not as your fears have led you to imagine. +For--" + +The old gentleman had reached this point in his speech when some one +was heard outside setting down a load. He stood for a moment dumb, +petrified. Valentine looked through the window and saw that it was the +journeyman tinner unloading. + +"It's Jörg," said he, "who is bringing the tin garlands." + +"And you get frightened and think they are bringing, goodness knows +whom. Where is Fritz?" + +"On the church roof," replied Valentine. + +"Good," said Herr Nettenmair. "Tell the tinner to come in when he has +done--." Valentine did so. Until he came Herr Nettenmair continued his +lecture in a somewhat lower tone. Then he turned to where the +workman's respect made itself audible in a quiet clearing of the +throat and asked him if he had time to accompany him to the church +roof of St. George's where his elder son was at work. The tinner +assented. Valentine ventured the suggestion that it would be better to +send for Fritz. The old gentleman said grimly: "I must speak to him up +there. It is about the repairs." He turned again to the tinner and +said with condescending grimness: "I shall take your arm. I am having +a little trouble with my eyes, but it is a matter of no consequence." + +The appearance of the old gentleman on the street was calculated to +create a sensation. He would certainly have been stopped by a hundred +hand-shakers and interrogators if something had not diverted public +attention. A hurried, whispered rumor ran through the streets. Two or +three stood together in little groups awaiting the approach of a third +or fourth, who would give them to understand that he knew what it was +that was responsible for the formation of the ten or twelve similar +groups standing around. Then somebody would whisper it as he passed +rapidly by, beginning always with a: "Haven't you heard?" which was +generally brought forth by a: "What has happened?" Herr Nettenmair did +not need to ask; he knew without being told what had happened, but he +did not dare to appear as if he knew. The journeyman thought Herr +Nettenmair was going to sink down beside him, but the old gentleman +had only struck his foot: "it was of no consequence." The journeyman +questioned a hurrying passer-by. "A slater has been killed in +Brambach." "How?" asked the journeyman. "A rope broke; nothing further +is known." Herr Nettenmair felt that the journeyman was frightened, +and that he was frightened at the thought that it was the son of the +man he was leading who had been killed. He said: "It was probably in +Tambach. They have made a mistake. It is of no consequence." The +journeyman did not know what to think of Herr Nettenmair's +indifference. The latter kept repeating to himself, as a burning flush +came into his cheeks: "Yes, it must be. It must be." He thought of a +way in which one can escape all courts, all investigations. It must +have been a hard way of which he thought, for he clenched his teeth, +as he shook his head and said: "It must be, now it must be." As if in +a dream the journeyman led the old gentleman up the tower steps of St. +George's. The people were right, Herr Nettenmair was certainly a queer +man! + +The old gentleman had said he had to speak to his son on the +church-roof--about some repairs. He had spoken unconsciously in his +diplomatic way. + +It had to be on the church-roof, and it was about some repairs--but +not about those of the church-roof. + +Between heaven and earth is the slater's realm. Between heaven and +earth, high up on the roof of St. George's Fritz Nettenmair was at +work when the old gentleman was led up the steps to him. He had fled +here to escape the eyes of men which he imagined riveted upon him; he +had fled here to escape his own thoughts in a fury of diligence. But +he had brought with him all the demons of hell, and, industriously as +he toiled, the moisture that stood on his brow was not the warm sweat +of honest labor, but the cold sweat born of a guilty conscience. In +agonized haste he hammered and nailed slate together as if he were +nailing fast the universe which otherwise would crumble to pieces in a +quarter of an hour. But his soul was not where he hammered; it was +where ropes were constantly breaking and luckless slaters plunging +headlong to certain death. Now he heard voices, and the sound of one +of them struck like the blow of a hammer on his tortured heart. It was +the only voice which he did not expect to hear. Would he to whom it +belonged ask, "Where is thy brother Abel?" No. He wanted to tell his +son that his brother had met with disaster, that it was a day of +misfortune and that he must not work any more. And if he should ask, +the answer was almost as old as the human race; "Am I my brother's +keeper?" It seemed like a relief to him when he remembered that his +father was blind. For he knew that he could not endure his father's +seeing eyes. He hammered and nailed more and more hurriedly. He would +elude his father if he could, but the roof-truss was small, and the +old gentleman's voice was already at the roof door. He would not +notice him until he was compelled. He heard him say: "This is far +enough. My compliments to your master, and here is something for you. +Drink my health with it." Fritz Nettenmair, listening, heard his +father sit down on the empty board in the dormer window and knew that +his tall figure filled the entire opening. He heard the journeyman's +thanks and his footsteps as they gradually receded. + +"Beautiful weather," said Herr Nettenmair. The son realized that the +father wanted to know if anybody else were near by. There came no +answer, the words died in Fritz Nettenmair's breast, he hammered +always louder and more vehemently. He wished the hour, the day, his +life were at an end. "Fritz!" called the old gentleman. He called +again and yet again. At last Fritz Nettenmair was compelled to answer. +He thought of the call, "Cain, where art thou?" and responded "Here, +father," and hammered on. + +"The slate is solid," said the old man, indifferently; "I can tell by +the sound; it does not split." + +"Yes," replied Fritz with chattering teeth, "it will let no water +through." + +"It is better than it used to be," continued his father, "they have +got deeper into the quarry. You seem to be alone." A "Yes" died on the +son's lips. "The deeper it lies, the stronger the slate is. Is there +no other scaffold near?" + +"None." + +"Good. Come here. Here in front of me!"-- + +"What do you want me to do?" + +"To come here. What has to be said must be said softly." + +Fritz Nettenmair went and stood before his father, shaking all over. +He knew that he was blind and yet he sought to avoid his glance. The +old man struggled for composure but not a line of his withered face +betrayed the struggle, only the length of his silence and his +breathing, which sounded like the tired echo of the creaking swing of +the pendulum on the tower clock near-by, might have suggested it. +These preparations awoke in Fritz Nettenmair a premonition of what was +to come. He strove for defiance. "If he in his distrust has surmised +it, who can prove it? And if he could prove it, he would never tell, +of that I am sure. Otherwise why does he speak so softly? He may say +what he will--I know nothing, it was not I. I have done nothing." The +muscles of his face quivered; an expression of wild defiance played +upon his features. The old gentleman said no word. The sound of +traffic in the streets rose muffled to the heights, violet shadows lay +on all below, about Apollonius' swinging seat trembled the sun's last +ray. + +"Where is your brother?" came at last from between the father's teeth. + +"I do not know. How should I know?" answered the son defiantly. + +"You do not know?" It was only a whisper but every word struck like +thunder in the soul of the son. "I will tell you. Yonder in Brambach +he lies dead. The rope broke with him, and you had made slits in it +with the ax. Our neighbor saw you sneaking into the shed. You +threatened before your wife that you would do it. The whole town knows +it, they are carrying it now to the courts. The first person who comes +up these steps will be the bailiff to lead you before the judge." + +Fritz Nettenmair broke down completely; the scaffolding creaked +beneath him. The old gentleman listened. If the miserable wretch +should fall over the edge of the scaffolding, he would be plunged into +the depths and all would be over. All that had to be, would be! A lark +soared above them scattering its merry _Tirili_ over trees and houses. +Happier mortals heard the song from afar; workmen let their spades +rest, children their whips and tops; with eyes turned heavenward all +sought the soaring, singing bird and hearkened with bated breath. Herr +Nettenmair did not hear the lark; he also held his breath, but he was +listening to what was happening below, not above. It was nothing that +sounded like the song of a lark which he wanted to hear. There was a +rumbling, and a broken cry of anguish. At first he listened full of +hope, then filled with despair. On the boards of the scaffolding +before him he heard the rattle of heavy breathing. Fate, which might +have stretched out a sympathizing, helping hand, had not done so. He +must do it, for it must be done. If he did not, people would point +their finger at the children and say: "It was their father who slew +his brother and died on the gallows" or "in the penitentiary." And +when it was long forgotten the children would only need to appear and +it would be called into life again; people would point with their +fingers and turn from them in horror. The confidence of the world +which one inherits from one's parents is the capital with which one +begins life. Confidence must be placed in man before he deserves it, +in order that he may learn to deserve it. Who would place confidence +in children branded with a father's guilt? The flush on his thin +cheeks burned brighter, his sunken breast panted heavily. +Involuntarily he pointed forward with his arm. Fritz Nettenmair +divined his meaning, tried to pull himself together, and would have +sunk helplessly down again if he had not supported himself with both +hands. Lying thus on his hands and knees before the old gentleman he +cried out in an agony of fear, "What do you want, father? What have +you in mind?" + +"I want to see," said the old gentleman in a shrill whisper, "whether +I must do it or whether you will do what must be done. For it must be +done. Nobody knows anything as yet which could lead to an +investigation before the courts except me, your wife and Valentine. +For myself I can answer, but not for them; they may betray what they +know. If you should fall now from the scaffolding, so that people +could think it was an accident, the great disgrace would be prevented. +The slater who meets his death through accident stands before the +world as an honest man--honest as the soldier who dies on the +battle-field. You are not worthy of such a death, you bankrupt soul. +The hangman should drag you on a cowhide to the gallows, you villain, +who have murdered your brother and have tried to poison the future of +your innocent children and my past life which has been always full of +honor. You have brought down disgrace enough on your house, you shall +not bring more. They shall never say of me, that my son, or of my +grandchildren, that their father, died on the gallows or in the +penitentiary. Say the Lord's Prayer, now, if you can still pray. Then +turn as if you were going back to your work and step with your right +foot over the scaffolding. If I say the shock of your brother's death +made you dizzy, the courts and the town will believe me. That is the +return for a life that has been different from yours. If you will not +do it of your own accord, I shall go with you and you will have me too +on your conscience. People know that I have trouble with my eyes; they +will say that I stumbled and tried to hold on to you and dragged you +down with me. My life is of no value after what I have heard today, +but your children's is just beginning. And no disgrace shall be +attached to them, as truly as my name is Nettenmair. Make up your mind +now what is to be done. I shall count thirty--by the pendulum there." + +Fritz Nettenmair had listened to his father's words with growing +horror. That his deed had not yet become generally known, gave him +hope. Fear of impending death aroused his energies. He took refuge +again in defiance. Vehemently he declared: "I do not know what you +want. I am innocent. I do not know what you mean by an ax." He +expected his father to enter into his protest, even if sceptically at +first. But the old gentleman began calmly to count--"one--two--" + +"Father!" he cried with increasing fear, and his mocking defiance +broke into a wail. "Only listen to me. The courts would listen and you +will not. I will throw myself over because you want me to be dead; I +will die, though I am innocent. But at least listen to me." The old +gentleman gave no answer; he counted on. The miserable man saw that +sentence had been pronounced. His father would not believe him no +matter what he said, and he knew that what the stubborn old man +undertook, he always carried out, unrelentingly. First he decided to +acquiesce in his fate; then the thought came to him that he would +plead again; and then it occurred to him that he could push the old +man aside and make his escape; then that he could hang on to something +in some way when the old man caught hold of him and not fall with him. +Nobody could blame him for this. Through all these thoughts he saw +shudderingly what awaited him if he escaped and the courts should +seize him. It was better to die now. But on the other side of death +something still more terrible awaited him. He looked back and lived +his whole life through in a moment to see if the eternal Judge would +find pardon for him. His thoughts became confused, he was now here, +now there, and had forgotten why. He saw the mist gathering in which +the workman had disappeared and at the same time he looked into the +bright windows of the Red Eagle inn where he heard voices: "There he +comes--now the fun will begin." He stood on the street corners and +counted, and the boards beneath Apollonius would not break, nor the +ropes above him; he stood before his wife and, leaning over little +Annie's dying bedside, said, "Do you know why you are frightened?" and +reached out his hand to give the fatal blow; also he lay as if in a +fever dream before his father and brooded in anxious, terrible fear. +Then it was as if he had come to himself again and unending time had +elapsed between the moment when his father began to count and the +present. Everything must be all right by now, only he must try to +recall whether he had pushed his father aside and thus made his escape +or whether he had held back when his father attempted to drag him down +with him. But there he still lay, and there his father still sat. He +heard him count "nine" and stop. Consciousness forsook him completely. +The old gentleman had in truth ceased to count. His sharp ear heard a +hurrying footstep on the stairs. He seized hold of his son and held +fast as if to be sure that he did not escape him. So cold and lifeless +was the son's body that the father knew it was not necessary to hold +him; he must be unconscious. A new uneasiness awoke in him. If the son +had lost consciousness, he must be hidden from strange eyes, for this +unconsciousness might in some way arouse suspicion. He arose and +turned away from the window in the direction of the newcomer. He was +undecided whether he would stand before the window covering it with +his body or go forward to meet the intruder. + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JOSIAH HEARS THE LAW] + +The journeyman whom he had sent to Brambach, for it was he who was +approaching in such haste, coughed as he came up the stairs. He could +keep him back from the scaffolding and most likely prevent him from +seeing that somebody was lying there if he went to meet him; if he +stood in front of the window it was probable that he would not be able +to cover the whole space. The old gentleman felt now for the first +time how his strength had been broken by what he had gone through that +day. The journeyman, however, observed nothing unusual as Herr +Nettenmair, leaning on the rafters of the stairs, barred the way. + +"Shall I tell him to come to you here, Herr Nettenmair?" asked the +journeyman. + +"Tell whom?" Herr Nettenmair had difficulty in retaining his +artificial composure. + +"He will be home by this time," responded the journeyman. The old +gentleman did not repeat his question; he held fast to the rafter on +which he was leaning. "He was already on his way home," continued the +journeyman. "I came with him as far as the gate. Then he sent me to +the tinner's to see if the tin was ready at last. Jörg told me that he +had already brought it to the house and had just come from the roof of +St. George's where he had led you and I thought because you were in +such a hurry to see Herr Apollonius, I would ask you if I must tell +him to come up here." + +Herr Nettenmair ran his hand up and down the rafter as if he had only +taken hold of it to examine it. But, feeling that his hands trembled, +he gave up the examination. As grimly as he could, he replied, "I +shall come down myself." Wait at the landing until I call you. The +journeyman obeyed. Herr Nettenmair drew a deep breath when he knew he +was no longer observed. This breath became a sob. The terrible strain +which he had undergone was beginning to find an end, and the agony of +the father which had been swallowed up till now in passionate fear for +the honor of the house, asserted itself. But he knew that his good +son's life would hang in the same danger as long as the wicked son +lived near him. He had foreseen this contingency and had mapped out a +plan of action. He felt his way back to the window. Fritz Nettenmair +in the meanwhile had recovered consciousness and been able to rise. +The old gentleman bade him come in from the scaffolding and said: +"Tomorrow before sunrise you will no longer be here. See if you can +become another man in America. Here you are in disgrace, and can only +bring disgrace. You will follow me home. I will give you money, you +will make ready for the trip. You have done nothing for your wife and +children for years. I will take care of them. Do you hear?" + +Fritz Nettenmair reeled. He had just looked inevitable death in the +face and now he might live! Live where nobody knew what he done, where +every chance sound would not frighten him with the vision of the +bailiff. + +"Apollonius did not fall," continued the old gentleman, and Fritz +Nettenmair's bright, new heaven sank into nothingness. The old spectre +held him again in its grasp. He loved again the woman from whom he had +just wanted to flee. The old gentleman had awaited his son's assent. +"You will go," he said, when the son remained silent. "You will go. +Tomorrow before day-break you will be on your way to America, or I +shall be on my way to the court. If disgrace must be, it is better to +have disgrace alone and not disgrace combined with murder. Remember, I +have sworn it. Take your choice." + +The old gentleman called to the journeyman to come up to him and lead +him home. + + * * * * * + +The rumor which the old gentleman had heard on his way to St. +George's, had penetrated to the street where the house with the green +shutters stands. One passer-by said to another: "Have you heard the +news? A slater has been killed in Brambach." The young wife sprang +from her chair but sank fainting to the floor. A second time Valentine +forgot his fears for Apollonius in his anxiety about her. He sat near +her as she lay on the floor and held her head in his trembling hands. +At last she made a slight movement. He helped her raise the upper part +of her body and supported her. She brushed her disheveled hair from +her face and looked about her. Her gaze was such a strange tense one +that Valentine's fear increased. She nodded her head and said in a low +voice, "Yes!" Valentine knew that she was saying to herself that she +had really heard the terrible news and had not dreamed it. She sat for +a long time motionless, hearing no word of all that Valentine spoke to +her--not even when he tried to prove that Apollonius could not be +dead, that he was too careful and too good for an accident to happen +to him. He would have given his life to help her, but he knew not how. +So he talked on and on, hoping by ceaseless chatter to help her and +himself over the anguish of the moment. + +At last she found tears. Valentine lived again; he saw that she was +saved. He read it in her face, which, open as she herself, could +conceal nothing. He sat and listened with joyful attention to her +weeping, as if it were a beautiful song she was singing him. He +listened to the pure melody of her voice as she wept, the melody which +she had not lost when, leaning over little Anne's dying bed, she had +uttered the twofold cry of pain and horror. She wept her heart out and +arose without help from Valentine. Then she prepared to go out. There +was something solemn and resolute in her bearing. Valentine perceived +it with astonishment and dread. He asked anxiously if she were going +anywhere. She nodded her head. "But I must not let you," he said. "The +old gentleman made me solemnly vow." + +"I must," she replied. "I must go to the court. I must say that I am +guilty. I must suffer my punishment. Their grandfather will take care +of my children. I would like to tell them to lay him by little Anne's +side, he loved her so. I should like to lie there too, but they won't +allow that. No, I won't say anything to them about that." + +"Won't you stay until the old gentleman comes back? Then I shall be +free of my responsibility." He hoped that Herr Nettenmair would find +some way to dissuade her from her purpose. + +The young wife nodded assent. "I will wait that long," she said. + +Anxiety and hope drove Valentine out of the house to see if Herr +Nettenmair were anywhere in sight. Christine took her hymn-book from +the desk and sat down at the table. + +When Valentine returned he was no longer the same man who had gone +out. He was confused and embarrassed, but in a very different way from +what he had been before. He appeared constantly on the point of doing +or saying something, became suddenly frightened and did and said +something entirely different, and then seemed uncertain whether he +should not be frightened at that too. At first the young wife did not +notice the change in him, but soon she began to watch him curiously +and with increasing apprehension. Gradually she became infected by his +behavior. When he laughed involuntarily she glowed with hope, and when +he put on a long face she clasped her hands convulsively together and +turned pale; sometimes she pressed her hands to her beating heart, +sometimes to her burning, hammering temples. At last Valentine +considered her sufficiently prepared, to abandon the weather topic. +"It is a day," said he, "when men might rise from the dead, and who +knows--but please, for my sake, don't be frightened." She became +frightened, however. She said to herself, "But it isn't possible." And +she was all the more frightened because it was not only possible but +certain. "Look toward the back of the house," sobbed Valentine, +attempting to laugh. She had looked before he told her to do so. She +held fast to the door post as she heard footsteps in the shed. But +even the door post no longer stood firmly, she herself stood no longer +on firm ground; she rocked dizzily between heaven and earth. When she +saw him coming, there was nothing in the world for her except the man +for whom she had suffered weeks of death-agony; everything whirled +about her in a circle, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the trees, +the sky and the green earth; it was as if the whole world would sink +from under her and drag her into its vortex if she did not hold fast +to him. She felt herself fall to the ground, and then she knew nothing +more. + +Apollonius caught her as she fell. He stood and held in his arms the +beautiful woman whom he loved, who loved him. She was pale and seemed +dead. He did not carry her into the room, he did not let her fall to +the ground, he did nothing to revive her. He stood bewildered; he did +not know what had happened to him, he had to collect himself. +Valentine had not yet spoken with him, he had only heard from the +journeyman who was hastening to St. George's that Apollonius was +following him and would soon be there. Apollonius had been detained at +the gate for a moment by the nail-smith. He had then made haste to +obey his father's command which he, however, found surprising, as he +could discover no reason for it. He had heard of the slater's death in +Tambach; but he did not know that rumor had confused the names of the +two places, and that it was possible for anybody to believe that the +accident had occurred to him. Absolutely unprepared for that which was +to happen in the next moment, he came through the shed. He had meant +to go straight to his father in his room, when, seeing Christiane fall +fainting to the ground, he hastened toward her. Now he held her in his +arms. Slowly her deep blue eyes opened. She looked at him and +recognized him. She did not know how she had come into his arms, she +did not know that she lay there, she knew only that he lived. She wept +and laughed at the same time, and put both arms around him to be sure +that he was there. She asked in yearning, anxious eagerness: "Is it +you? Are you really here? Are you still alive? You didn't fall? I +didn't kill you? You are you, and I am I? But he--he may come." She +gazed about wildly. "He will kill you. He will not rest till he has +killed you." She clasped him to her as if she wanted to cover him with +her body from the enemy, then she forgot all fears in the certainty +that he still lived, and she laughed and wept and asked him again if +it were really he, and if he were alive. But she must warn him. She +must tell him everything that the other had done--and what he had +threatened to do to him. She must do it quickly; any minute he might +come. Warning, sweet unconscious love-words, weeping, laughter, +blessed gladness, fear, anguish over lost happiness, bride-like +embarrassment, forgetfulness of the world in the one moment which was +life to her--all this trembled through each quivering word she +uttered. "He lied to you and to me. He told me that you jeered at me +and that you had offered my flower to the highest bidder. You know, at +the Whitsun feast, the little blue-bell that I laid there. And you +sent it to him. I saw it. I did not know why I was sorry for you. Then +he told me during the dance that you had laughed at me. You went away, +and he told me you made fun of me in your letters. That hurt me. You +don't know how it hurt, even though I did not know why. Father wanted +me to marry him. And when you came I was afraid of you, but I was +still sorry for you and I loved you though I did not know it. It was +he who first told me so. Then I avoided you--I didn't want to become a +bad woman--and I still don't want to. Then he compelled me to lie. And +he made threats of what he would do to you. He would see to it that +you fell and were killed. It was only a joke, he said, but if I told +you, then he would do it in earnest. Since then I have not slept a +night, I have sat up in my bed and been full of deadly fear. I saw you +in danger and could not tell you and could not help you. And he made +slits in the rope with the ax the night before you went to Brambach. +Valentine told me that our neighbor had seen him creeping into the +shed. I thought you were dead, and I wanted to die too. For I was the +cause of your death, when I would die a thousand times to save you. +And now you are alive and I cannot grasp it. Everything is just as it +was, the trees, the shed, the sky, and you are not dead. And I wanted +to die because you were dead. And now you are alive, and I don't know +whether it is true or whether I am dreaming. Is it true? Tell me, is +it true? I will believe anything you say. And if you tell me that I +must die, I will die. But he may be coming! Perhaps he has been +listening! Tell Valentine to go to the court and have him taken away, +so that he can do you no more harm." + +Thus the feverish woman went on raving, laughing and weeping in his +arms. Forgetting everything, like a child playing on the edge of an +abyss of which it knows nothing, she unconsciously called into life a +danger more deadly than the one which had just been averted, more +threatening than the one from which she wanted to guard the man with +her body. She did not realize what her passionate movements, the +sweetness of her reckless abandon, her caresses, her warm, throbbing +embraces must arouse in the man who loved her; that she was doing +everything that could make the man whose uprightness and honor she +trusted so blindly, forget uprightness and honor in the tumult of his +blood. She had no idea what a conflict she was kindling in him, and +how hard, if not impossible she was making the victory. Now he knew +that the woman in his arms was his, that his brother had defrauded him +of her and her of him. Now he knew it, while the woman in his arms +revealed to him the greatness of the happiness of which his brother +had robbed him. The brother had stolen her and had ill-treated her; +and for all that he had suffered and done for his brother's sake, he +now persecuted him and sought his life. Did the woman belong to him +who had stolen and ill-treated her, to him whom she hated--or to him +from whom she had been infamously stolen, who loved her and whom she +loved? These were not clearly defined thoughts, but countless detached +sensations which, borne along in a stream of deep, wild feeling, +rushed through his veins and made taut the muscles in his arms--to +clasp to his heart that which was his! But a vague, dark fear rose +counter to this current and stiffened his muscles in a convulsive +cramp--the feeling that he wanted to do something and did not know +what it was or where it might lead him, a far-off recollection that he +had made a vow and would break it if he now let himself be carried +away. He struggled for a long time beneath the flow of intoxicating +sounds before he realized that he was struggling and that the thing +for which he struggled was clearness, the fundamental requirement of +his nature. At last this clearness came to him and said: "The vow that +you have made is to uphold the honor of your house, and what you want +to do now will destroy it forever." He was the man, and must answer +for himself and for her. The treachery of which he with a touch, with +a glance, might be guilty toward this woman whose trust in him was so +unbounded, stood before him in all its blackness. There still stood, +protectingly, a holy reserve between him and her, which a single +touch, a single glance might dispel forever. He looked anxiously about +for a helper. If only Valentine would come! Then he would have to let +her go from his arms. Valentine did not come. But shame at his +weakness that sought help from without, became his helper. He gently +laid the defenseless woman down. Not until he felt the soft limbs slip +from his grasp did he lose her. He had to turn away and could not +choke back a loud sob. Just then the youngest boy peeped curiously +into the yard. He hastened to him, took him in his arms, pressed him +to his heart and placed him between him and her. It was strange; the +pressure with which he clasped the child to his heart relieved his +wild yearning and his tense muscles relaxed. In the child he had +clasped her to his heart in the only way he dared hold her close to +him. + +She saw him place the child between him and her and understood him. A +burning flush rose to the roots of her brown, unruly locks. She knew +now for the first time that she had lain in his arms, had embraced +him, had talked to him as only unforbidden love may talk. She saw now +for the first time the abyssmal danger in which she had placed him and +herself. She raised herself up on her knees, as if she wanted to +beseech him not to despise her. Then it occurred to her that her +husband might have been listening and might still carry out his +threat. Through her joy over his escape she might still be his +destruction. He saw all this and suffered with her. He had gained the +conflict with himself not to show her what was going on within him, +but he had not yet fought the inward struggle to its end. He leaned +toward her and said "Above us and your husband is God. Go in now, +sister, my dear, good sister." She dared not look up but through her +closed lids she saw the benevolence, the deep, inexhaustible +kindliness, the indelible respect for man which shone in his eyes and +played about his gentle mouth. And as he was her conscious and +unconscious standard, so now she knew that she was not bad, could not +become so, he would carry her in his strong arms, protected, as a +mother carries her child. Herr Nettenmair came from the shed toward +them accompanied by the journey-man. Fritz Nettenmair who followed +them saw Apollonius lead Christiane to the house door. + +When Herr Nettenmair came home, nothing was to be read in his crusty +face of all that he had suffered and planned that day. The young wife +and Valentine had to listen to a sermon on unfounded imaginings, for +the story had proved to be as it was, not as Valentine had imagined it +in his fear. He spoke of Fritz Nettenmair's trip as one which his son +had had in contemplation for a long time but to which he had not +consented until today. Apollonius was told to bring the account books +into the old gentleman's room at once. + +He had to read them aloud to the old gentleman; a curiously +purposeless task, for neither of them had his mind on the figures. And +moreover the old gentleman behaved as if he knew all about everything +already. Valentine came and received various instructions relative to +the departure of the elder son. An hour later he returned, having +performed his duties. He told how Fritz Nettenmair was looking forward +to his new life in America. They would be astonished when they saw him +again. He could hardly await the time. The old gentleman's courage +revived. Grimly he commanded Apollonius to go to bed; the work they +had begun could be continued another time. + +Disquieted, like a tortured spirit, now wringing his hands, now +clenching his fists, Fritz Nettenmair wandered from the shed to the +house and from the house again to the shed. With each round he made, +his soul rose up in the wildest defiance and sank again into +despairing helplessness. His heart cried out for a word of love. His +arms stretched out convulsively to press something to his heart which +was his, that he might know he was not lost. For nobody is lost who +has somebody in the world to love. Endowed of a sudden with renewed +strength, he hastened through the house door into the room where his +children lay. A night-light protected by a shade shone brightly enough +for the father to see his children. He sank on his knees before the +nearest little bed. A long forgotten sound rose to his lips and he +whispered it, yearningly as never before. "Fritz!" He only wanted to +clasp his children to his heart once, to see their love and then to +go; to go and become another man, a better one, a happier one. The +little fellow awakened: he thought his mother had called. Smilingly he +opened his eyes and--shivered with fright. He feared the man standing +at his bedside; one he knew so well, and yet more strange than a +stranger to him. It was the man who had given him such angry glances, +the man from whom his mother had locked him in his room that he might +not see what the man did to her. But he had got up trembling and +listened at the door; and clenched his little fists in powerless rage. + +"Fritz," said the father anxiously, "I am going away and I shall not +come back. But I will send you beautiful apples and picture-books, and +think of you a thousand times a minute." + +"I don't want them," replied the boy, frightened but defiant. "Uncle +'Lonius gives me apples. I don't want yours." + +"Don't you love me either?" asked the father in a breaking voice at +the second little bed. George took flight into his brother's bed. +There the children clung to each other in fright. Scorn and repugnance +were reflected in George's face. "I love mother and I love Uncle +'Lonius, but I don't like you. Let me alone; I'll tell Uncle 'Lonius." + +Fritz Nettenmair laughed in wild mockery, and at the same time sobbed +in impotent pain. The children were no longer his. He was no longer +their father. Yet they were his children! And he had to go away and +leave them; and those whom he hated, who had ruined everything for +him, would be happy through his going. He became even more miserable +than he had already been. He saw his wife lying before him in her +beauty, and the desire entered his mind to destroy this beauty. But +his recollection of the moment when he lay stretched before his +father, prepared for death, was mightier than the desire and banished +it. The picture of that moment lived strong within him, only there was +an exchange of persons. He painted it with more and more vivid colors. +And now it was a fierce joy that drove him again from the house to the +shed and from the shed to the house. His arms moved in violent +gesticulation. The moon rose. The house with the green shutters lay +there so peaceful in its shimmer. No passer-by would have divined the +unrest concealed behind its walls; none would have suspected the +thought that hell was brewing there in a ruined vessel. + + * * * * * + Apollonius was exhausted from watching and struggling. He needed +rest. The next morning he had to complete the garlanding of the +tower-roof, and then take down his swinging-seat, block and pulley, +iron ring and ladder. His step must be firm, his eye clear. For the +single hour that remained before work was to begin, he did not wish to +undress and go to bed. He sat down in his wooden chair. There sleep +came to him sooner than he expected--but it was not the kind of sleep +he needed; it was an uninterrupted disturbing dream. Christiane lay in +his arms as she had lain the day before; he struggled again, but this +time he did not conquer, he clasped her to him. When he opened his +eyes, it was day and time to go to work. He was in a more excited +state of mind than when he had left his father. He hoped that the +visions of his dream which had intensified his old desires and his +pangs of conscience concerning them would retreat before the fresh +morning air and the sobering effect of a cold water rub. But this did +not happen; they stayed with him and would not let go of him, not even +during his work. The breath of her warm lips lingered on his cheek, he +felt himself always in her throbbing embrace; passionate upbraidings +of his brother rose again and again in his heart. He did not know +himself any longer. In addition to the reproaches he made himself for +his evil thoughts, came dissatisfaction because he knew he was not +putting his whole mind on his work. Usually he worked his cheerful, +industrious self into each task he performed, and it was bound to be +good and lasting. But today it seemed to him that he was hammering +unrighteous thoughts into his work, that he was forging out of them an +evil charm, and that the result could not be good nor enduring. + +The slater must work thoughtfully. The man who undertakes repairs today +must rely upon the faithfulness of him who stood decades, perhaps +centuries ago where he stands now. The lack of conscientiousness that +rivets a roof-hook slovenly today may be the cause of a good man's death +fifty years hence when he hangs his ladder on that hook. Behind the +struggle of his conscience against the visions of his sinful dream +lurked, like a dark cloud, the fear that in his distraction he might be +forging a future disaster for somebody. + +His work was done. The new tin decoration gleamed in the sun around +the dark surface of the slate roof. Ring, tackle, swinging-seat and +ladder had been removed; the workmen who had assisted at the removal +had gone again. Apollonius had taken down the "flying" scaffold and +the poles on which it rested; he stood alone on the narrow board which +formed the path from the cross-beam to the roof-door. He stood +thinking. He felt as if he had forgotten to drive in nails somewhere. +He looked in the slate and nail boxes of his swinging-seat which hung +near him on a beam. The sound of a mysterious hurrying step came to +his ears from the tower stairs. He paid no attention to it, for just +then he found a sheet of lead lying among his things. He had brought +with him the exact number of sheets that he needed. So this was +evidently one that he had forgotten; in his distracted state of mind +he had overlooked one of the riveting points. From the door he looked +up and down the surface of the roof. If the mistake had happened on +this side of the tower he could perhaps rectify it without his seat. +Perhaps the ladder would suffice to reach the required point. And so +it proved to be. About six feet above him, near the roof-hook he had +taken out a slate and had neglected to replace it with a sheet of lead +and to fasten the garland to it. In the meantime the mysterious steps +were coming ever nearer; the man in such haste had now reached the end +of the stone stairs and was climbing the ladder to the roof. The clock +below rumbled. It was almost two. Apollonius had not yet had dinner, +but when there was a flaw of any kind in his work he could not rest +until he had rectified it. He had gone back to fetch the ladder. It +lay on the beam near the swinging-seat. As he stooped to get it he +felt himself seized and pushed with wild violence toward the door. +Instinctively he caught hold of the lower edge of a beam with his +right hand while with his left he sought in vain for support. This +movement brought him face to face with his assailant. Horrified he saw +the distorted, wild features of his brother. + +"You shall have her all to yourself, or down you go with me." + +"Away!" cried Apollonius. In his angry pain all his reproaches against +his brother mounted into his face. Exerting all his strength he pushed +him back with his free hand. + +"So you show your true face, at last?" mocked Fritz Nettenmair in +still greater rage. "You have dislodged me from every place that I +possessed; now it is my turn. You shall have me on your conscience, +you fluff-picker. Throw me over, or down you go with me!" + +Apollonius saw no deliverance. The hand with which he held desperately +to the sharp edge of the beam was well-nigh exhausted. With all his +strength he would have to seize his brother by the arms, turn him +round and push him over if he did not want to be dragged down with +him. And yet he cried: "I will not!" + +"Very well," groaned Fritz. "You want to put the blame of this too on +me; you want to make me do this too. Your sanctimoniousness shall now +have an end." Apollonius would have sought a new hold, but he knew +that his brother would take advantage of the instant when he let go +his present one. Fritz was already just on the point of making a +violent dash at him. Apollonius' hand was slipping from the edge of +the beam. He would be lost if he did not find some new hold. He could +perhaps make a jump and catch the beam with both hands; but then his +brother, by the force of his own onset, would certainly fall through +the door. A vision of his honest, proud, old father, of the young wife +and her children, rose before him, and he remembered the vow that he +had made to himself; he was their only support--he must live. One +spring and he had caught the beam in his arms; at the same moment his +brother rushed headlong past him. The weights below rattled, and the +clock struck two. The jackdaws, disturbed in their rest by the +struggle, swooped wildly down to the roof-door and fluttered about in +a croaking cloud. There was the sound of a heavy body striking on the +street pavement far below. A cry went up from all sides. Pale living +faces looked on a paler dead one which lay all bloody on the pavement. +Ghastly haste, screams, a clasping of hands, a running hither and +thither, spread like a whirlwind from the church-yard to the farthest +corner of the town. But the clouds high above in the sky heeded it not +and continued on their vast course unmoved. They see so much +self-created misery below them that a single instance cannot touch +them. + +Everything in the world has its use, if not in itself or for him who +does it or who has it, then at least for others. So that which had +brought disgrace on the house of Nettenmair was now a guard against +greater disgrace. Fritz Nettenmair's love of drink was known +everywhere; everybody had seen him drunk; it was no wonder that all +who learned of his death attributed it to this vice. It was well that +nobody outside of the Nettenmair household knew that he had intended +to go to America; it was also well that, to avoid attracting attention +upon his return, he had worn his ordinary workman's clothes in the +mail coach with only his overcoat thrown over them. The coat had got +lost on the way and those who had a right to its restitution naturally +put in no claim for it. It did not occur to anybody to attach much +importance to this scarcely-noticed incident, as it was not necessary +to piece a story together when a complete one was already at hand. +Moreover, before the deed he had gone to his usual place of +recreation, had drunk heavily, and, after boasting in his foolhardy +way that he would now perform his master-piece, had left the tavern +for St. George's much intoxicated. All these outward circumstances +served to confirm the generally accepted opinion. By a fortunate +chance there had been no workmen at St. George's; of the struggle that +had taken place before the fall nobody knew anything except Apollonius +and the jackdaws who lived there. As soon as the inspector learned of +Fritz's death he looked up Apollonius, whom he found sitting exhausted +at the foot of the tower, and told him the story that was going the +rounds. It entered nobody's head to question Apollonius. They all told +him about it instead of letting him tell. He therefore kept silence +about that which nobody questioned. The courts found no reason to make +an investigation, and the danger which had menaced the honor of the +family passed quietly over. + +One evening a black bier was seen before the house with the green +shutters. At a distance stood groups of women and children, now +whispering softly to one another, now peering eagerly in one direction +with a curiosity that at times became impatient. Here and there a long +black coat and a three-cornered hat came down the street in solemn +gloom and vanished behind the bier into the house. At last the door +opened. The coffin stood on the bier, the pall covered both; gently, +in rhythmical motion, there appeared a black moving mass; now they +were in their places; the pall-bearers adjusted their hats. The +procession moved, rippling, wavering. On top gleamed bright the hammer +which Valentine had polished, and told that what they were now +surrendering to earth had worked honestly between heaven and earth. +The sweet tears of the old women washed away whatever stains clung to +his memory. Inwardly they made a vow that none who belonged to them +should ever become a slater. The slater's calling is a dangerous one, +between heaven and earth; the man who lay beneath the black pall, +between the boards, silent as he was, preached that with poignant +eloquence. They turned their eyes toward the old gentleman who was led +by two mourners. He seemed to embody the very spirit of honest burial. +But when their gaze fell upon Apollonius they forgot the mildness with +which they had just judged; they unburied the dead man from the cool +funeral flowers that covered his human nakedness. The hammer lying +above him would have been covered with the dark rust of shame had it +not been for Apollonius. Then they looked at the young wife, and, +according to the way of their sex, the mourners became match-makers. +And indeed they had right on their side; a bonnier couple or one +better suited could scarce have been found in the whole town. The +procession passed by the Red Eagle, where a ball was in progress at +which Fritz Nettenmair was missing--surely a dull affair! The +procession went the same way that Fritz Nettenmair had gone after he +had talked with the workman. He had then seen in spirit his brother +lying beneath the black fluttering pall and himself following as a +mourner. The procession went on, still keeping to the streets that +Fritz Nettenmair had trodden on that occasion. Outside the town-gate +the willows melted again into mist or the mist into willows. Here and +there mist-men carried mist-coffins near the real one. At the +cross-ways, where Fritz Nettenmair had seen the journeyman disappear +in the mist, he himself disappeared. In Tambach they were bearing the +journeyman to burial. The two must have had much to say to each other. +Fritz Nettenmair could have told the workman how carefully he had +carried out the thought sown by him, even to the cutting of the rope; +and the workman could have told his former master how he became a +victim to the cuts thus made. The pastor who preached the sermon over +Fritz Nettenmair's grave, who was buried with all the honors due to +his standing or to be bought with money, did not know what an +awe-inspiring theme had eluded him. + +The last word of the funeral sermon had died away, the last spadeful +of earth had fallen on the coffin, the mourners had gone home; it +became night, and again day, and again night, and again and again day +and night; other things drove Fritz Nettenmair's unfortunate death +from the minds of the townsmen--and still other things these things. A +stone was erected over his grave, and his honest death was vouched for +by a sculptor and impressed with chisel-strokes upon forgetful +posterity. One might think that the dark cloud that had hovered over +the house with the green shutters would have burst in the storm that +dashed the older son from the tower-roof of St. George's to the +pavement below, and that life would now be bright there, as its outer +aspect promised. One might indeed think so if one saw only the young +widow and her children. The three strong young beings raised their +drooping heads as soon as the burden which had oppressed them was +lifted. The young widow did not look as if she had been a wife, still +less an unhappy wife; from day to day she seemed more like a bridal +maiden or a maidenly bride. And why should she not? Did she not know +that he loved her? Did she not love him? Did not the teasing words of +others, even if she did not think of it herself, remind her that her +love was no longer a forbidden one? The marriage was so natural, so +necessary according to traditional ideas that those who were too old +or too dignified to jest took it as a matter of course without +mentioning it, and did not mention it merely because they took it as a +matter of course. + +In his diplomatic fashion the old gentleman made various intimations +that if he had remained at the head of things all would have happened +differently. What Apollonius had spoiled, he would now carry out to +the best possible end. Necessity had placed him at the helm again, and +he would remain there. He forgot that he had twice been forced to the +acknowledgment that when one becomes old, control in the business is +only possible when one need not see through strange eyes. He was to +experience this now for a third time. Since the night before his older +son met a violent death, Herr Nettenmair had resumed his position as +manager of the business. Apollonius reported to him daily concerning +the progress of current work and received orders. When a piece of work +has once been fairly started it can go on by itself and requires from +the superintendent nothing but inspection and an occasional stimulus. +If, however, something new is to be undertaken, a groove must be +sought in which it can run, and the groove must be the shortest, +surest, and most profitable. Clear-seeing eyes are needed, with a +quick power to grasp. That Apollonius possessed these the old +gentleman perceived on the first occasion. It pertained to a +particularly difficult piece of work. Apollonius put it before him +with such clearness that the old gentleman believed he saw it with his +bodily eyes. It was a case, however, in which his experience failed +him. To Apollonius it presented no difficulties. He pointed out three +or four different ways in which it could be done and reduced the old +gentleman to such a state of confusion that he could scarcely conceal +it. A curious, wild train of contradictory sensations rushed through +his brain--joy and pride in his son, then pain that he was nothing and +never could be any more, then shame and wrath that his son knew this +and triumphed over him; the desire to curb him and show him that he +still was lord and master. But even if he wanted to carry his point, +would his son obey? There was no way to preserve even the appearance +of leadership save through his diplomatic art. In a grim voice he gave +commands which were utterly unnecessary, because they pertained to +things which would have been done as a matter of course without +command. In new matters he angrily disapproved of all suggestions made +by Apollonius; but the commands which he finally gave were always in +general accordance with that which Apollonius had suggested as most +expedient. Afterward he made excuses to himself and found something +that would have been much better than Apollonius' suggestion. He was +convinced that if he only had his eyesight everything would be +different. Sometimes he gave himself up unreservedly to his joy and +pride in his son's efficiency; but this feeling was soon replaced by +the wrathful necessity to exert his diplomatic art. Apollonius +realized the restraint that he was imposing upon his father quite as +little as he did his father's pride in him. He was glad that he had +nothing more to conceal from the old gentleman concerning the +business, and that obedience to him did not interfere with the +fulfilment of his vow. The sky above the house with the green shutters +took on a brighter, bluer hue. But the spirit of the house still +wandered about wringing its hands. When the clock struck two in the +morning it stood in the arbor before the door to Apollonius' room and +raised its pallid arms pleadingly toward heaven. + +The business increased under Apollonius' diligent hand; the orders +were twice as many as they had formerly been. The postman brought +great piles of letters into the house. Apollonius accepted an +advantageous offer made by the owner and leased the slate quarry. He +understood the management of the works from his stay in Cologne, and +he employed a former acquaintance from that city whom he knew to be an +expert in the business and reliable in his dealings. His choice was a +good one; the man was energetic, but in spite of this fact much +additional work fell on Apollonius. The councilman shook his head +sometimes doubtfully, fearing that Apollonius had over-estimated his +strength. It did not strike the young widow how seldom Apollonius came +into the living-room. The children, whom he often called to him to +perform little services whereby they might learn, kept up the +intercourse. They could testify that Apollonius had very little time. +She went to his room frequently, but always when he was not at home. +She adorned the doors and walls with everything she had which she knew +he loved, and she spent many hours there at work. She noticed the +pallor of his face, which seemed to become greater each time she saw +him. As she was but a mirror of his feelings, his pallor reflected +itself in her. She would have liked to cheer him up, but she did not +seek to be near him; her presence seemed to have the opposite effect +upon him from what she desired. He was always friendly and full of +chivalrous respect toward her. This at least comforted her to a +certain extent. She had endowed him with all the virtues that she +knew; among these she had not forgotten truthfulness, the first of +them all to her. Therefore she knew that he would not compel himself +to show respect to her if he did not feel it. He made merry sometimes, +especially when he saw her eyes fixed anxiously upon his pale face, +but she noticed that her society did not make him healthier or more +cheerful. She would have liked to ask him what was the matter. When he +stood before her she did not dare. When she was alone she asked him. +Many nights through she thought of ways to entice the confession from +him and talked with him. Surely if he had heard her weep, had heard +how sweetly and tenderly she cajoled and pleaded, had heard the dear +names she gave him, he would have told her what ailed him. Her whole +life was between heart and mouth; and when her heart whispered in her +ear what she had said, she flushed rosily and hid her blushes deep +beneath the covers from herself and the listening night. + +She confided her fears to the old inspector. "Is it a wonder?" he +asked, "when a person sits all day long for a year and a half over his +business and all night long over books and letters? And then all the +anxiety he had about his--God forgive him, he is dead and one should +not speak ill of the dead--about his brother; and then the fright, +which made me ill for three days, over--and when his widow is there +too--I never did like him much, least of all toward the end. But youth +is so! I warned him a hundred times, the brave fellow! And now the +confounded quarry! Such conscientiousness! He is one who would never +consider his own health." The councilman gave the young widow a long +lecture which was not in the least meant for her. Then they agreed +that Apollonius ought to have a doctor whether he wanted him or not; +and the councilman immediately went to the best physician in town. The +physician promised to do all that was possible. He called on +Apollonius, who put up with him because those whom he loved desired +it. The doctor felt his pulse, came again and again, prescribed and +re-prescribed; Apollonius became ever paler and gloomier. At last the +good man declared that here was a malady against which all art was +useless. So deep-seated was the trouble that no remedy of his could +reach it. + +Apollonius knew that no physician could cure his illness. The +councilman had only partly divined the cause. Overwork had merely +watered the soil for the parasite growth which was gnawing at +Apollonius' inmost being. The first symptoms seemed of a physical +nature. As his brother had plunged to death before him, the clock +below had struck the hour of two. Since then every sound of a bell +frightened him. What aroused more serious apprehension was an attack +of dizziness. All the horrors of that day did not obliterate the +feeling of uneasiness which had taken possession of him when he +discovered the inexactitude in his work. Every time a bell sounded it +seemed to him a warning. Early the next morning he went to the +roof-door with his ladder in his hand. He had already noticed how +insecure his step was as he climbed the tower stairs; now, when +through the open door the distant mountains began to nod so curiously +to him and the firm tower to rock beneath him, he became frightened. +That was dizziness, the slater's worst, most malicious enemy when it +takes sudden hold of him on a swaying ladder between heaven and earth. +In vain Apollonius strove to overcome it; he had to give up his +purpose for the day. No way had ever been so hard for Apollonius as +the tower stairs down from St. George's. What would happen? How could +he fulfil his vow if this dizziness did not leave him? On the same day +he had some work to do on the tower of St. Nicholas. There he had to +venture into more dangerous places than at St. George's; the bells +rang at the most critical instant; he felt no trace of dizziness. +Joyfully he hastened back to St. George's, but again the ladder +trembled under his feet, the mountains nodded, the tower rocked. He +was on the lowest rung of the ladder when the clock began to strike +the hour. The sound penetrated every nerve of his body; he had to hold +fast to the railing until the last echo had died away. He made attempt +after attempt, and climbed all ladders and towers with his old +sureness of foot; only at St. George's did dizziness return. There he +had hammered his sinful thoughts into his work; he had felt at the +time that he was forging an evil charm, a coming disaster. Day and +night the picture followed him of the place where he had forgotten to +insert the sheet of lead and to rivet the decoration. The flaw was +like an evil spot, a spot where a crime had been begun or completed +and where no grass grows, no shadow falls; like an open wound which +does not heal until it has been avenged, like an empty grave which +does not close until it has received its denizen. If only the gap were +closed the charm would lose its potency. He might authorize a workman +to do the job, but the thought of leaving his neglected work to +another brought a flush of shame to his pale cheeks. The sheet of lead +nailed by another would be certain to fall; the gap cried out for him, +and he alone could close it. Or the destruction which he had forged +there would seize hold of the workman, dizziness would overtake him +and he would plunge into the depths. + +Since his brother's wife had lain in his arms he had lived a double +life. During the day he worked outside and at night he sat in his room +among his books, all that went on mechanically; in spite of his +efforts his heart was only half in his work; the other half lived its +own life, hovering with the jackdaws about the flaw in the tower-roof +and brooding over the coming disaster which he had forged that +morning. His soul fought ever anew the battle with his brother. Was it +his brother's fall that he had forged? Perhaps it would have been +possible to save the madman. Anxiously he sought for possibilities, +and shrank with horror from the thought that he might find one. All +his good qualities became overwrought--his loyalty, his +conscientiousness, his scrupulousness. He did not try to put his +shortcomings upon his brother; with loving hand he took his brother's +guilt and placed it on his own shoulders. It became ever clearer in +his mind that he might have saved his brother. He could have found +some way if his heart and head had not been full of wild, forbidden +desires, if he had not been full of wrath against the madman instead +of feeling pity for him. With his evil thoughts he had forged disaster +for his brother. Without those thoughts his work would have been +finished and his brother would not have found him in the tower, would +have come too late and would have repented of his resolve. Or, if he +had still been there, he was the stronger, cooler headed, and he +should have found a way to prevent the calamity. + +It was natural that people should chaff him about the marriage that +seemed a necessity to them. He had to confess to himself that they +were right and that his desires were no longer forbidden ones. But the +fact that they had once been so cast its shadow over the blameless +present. His love seemed sullied to him. Reason and love might say +what they would, he felt that there would be guilt in the marriage. +And so it came that Christiane's presence brought him no cheer. There +were moments when his gloom struck him as a sort of illness and he +hoped that it would pass over. But even then he drew no nearer to +Christiane, much as his heart yearned for her. He continued the same +as on that day when he placed the child between him and her. She +remained pure and holy to him. + +To the old gentleman with his external sense of honor, a life like +Apollonius' and Christiane's, without the consecration of the church, +was a grave offense. Only under the name of her husband could +Apollonius, without disgrace, be the protector and supporter of the +beautiful young widow and her children. According to his way he +pronounced the ultimatum. He fixed the time for the wedding. The +indispensable half-year of mourning was over; in a week the betrothal +should be announced, three weeks later the marriage should take place. + +Life in the house with the green shutters grew more and more sultry. +The new clouds which had gathered invisibly about it threatened a +storm severer than that in which the old ones had been dispelled. The +young widow had no choice but to play the part of the affianced; she +was rallied about her wedding garment, and, adjusting herself to the +situation, she began preparations. Tears fell upon her work, and joy +had an ever smaller and smaller part in it. She saw the condition of +the man she loved become hourly worse; and she could not fail to know +that the approaching marriage was to blame. The paler and more fragile +he became, the gentler and more full of respect was his conduct toward +her. There was something in it that seemed like pitying pain and an +unexpressed prayer for forgiveness of a wrong, an insult of which he +felt himself guilty toward her. + +Apollonius was compelled to come to a decision. He could not. The +yawning discord in his soul became ever greater. If he resolved to +renounce happiness, the phantom of guilt disappeared and happiness +stretched out alluring arms toward him. She loved him and had always +loved him, only him; all the world approved, in fact demanded it of +him. He saw her before she had been stolen from him, how she had laid +the little blue-bell down for him, all rosy beneath the brown curling +locks which struggled to be free; then, pale under the ill-treatment +of the brother who had stolen her from him, pale for him; then +trembling before his brother's threats, trembling for him; then +laughing, weeping, full of anguish and full of happiness in his arms. +His brother's fall had made this woman free. He had known that when he +let his brother fall. If he should wed his brother's wife, who had +become free through the fall, he would make himself guilty of this +fall. If he received the reward of the deed, the deed was also his. If +he took her, the feeling would never leave him; he would be unhappy +and would make her unhappy with him. For her sake and for his he must +refrain. When he came to this decision, he realized how unsubstantial +his conclusions were, viewed with the clear eye of the spirit; and +yet, if he tried to reach out for happiness, the dark feeling of guilt +hovered over him like an icy frost about a flower, and his soul could +do nothing against its annihilating power. And the bells of St. +George's continued to ring their warning. What made Apollonius' +agitation even more feverish was the knowledge that the flaw in his +work had not been corrected. It rained incessantly, the gap yawned +wide, the boarding greedily drank in the water, the wood was bound to +rot. If the winter cold increased, the water would freeze in the wood +and injure the slate. The town, which trusted to his sense of duty, +would suffer harm through him. Each night the stroke of two awakened +him from sleep. Shadows mingled with his fever-dreams. The reproaches +of his inward and outward yearning for purity blended. The open wound +cried aloud for justice, the open grave for him who would close it. +And it was he whom the bells called to justice, he who must close the +grave before the disaster he had forged should descend upon an +innocent head. He must climb to the tower and correct the flaw. But +when he got there, it struck two, dizziness seized hold of him and +dragged him down after his brother. From day to day, from hour to +hour, the beautiful young widow saw him grow paler and became pale +with him. Only the old gentleman in his blindness did not see the +cloud which was lowering so threateningly. The air was very sultry in +the house with the green shutters. No one who looks at the little +house now would suspect how sultry it once was there. + +It was on the night before the appointed betrothal day. Snow had +fallen, and then great cold had suddenly set in. For several nights +the so-called St. Elmo's fire had been seen darting tongues of flame +from the tops of the towers to the gleaming stars of heaven. In spite +of the dry cold, the inhabitants of the district felt a curious +heaviness in their limbs. There was no air stirring. The people looked +at one another as if each were asking the other if he too felt the +same uneasiness. Odd prophecies of war, sickness and famine went from +mouth to mouth. The more intelligent smiled, but were themselves +unable to refrain from clothing their inward gloom in corresponding +pictures of some impending disaster. All day long dark clouds, of +different form and color from what the wintry sky is accustomed to +display, had been gathering. Their blackness would have been in +unbearably glaring contrast to the snow which covered mountains and +valley and hung like candied sugar on the leafless boughs, if their +dark reflection had not somewhat deadened the dazzling splendor. Here +and there the firm outline of the cloud-castles softened and seemed to +hang down over earth like drooping breasts. These bore more nearly the +aspect of ordinary snow-clouds, and their dull reddish gray served to +unite the leaden blackness of the higher plane with earth's drab +whiteness and dingy appearance. The whole mass hung motionless over +the town. The blackness increased. Two hours after midday it was +already night in the streets. Dwellers on the ground floor drew down +their blinds; in the windows of the upper stories appeared one light +after another. In the public squares of the town, where a greater +portion of the sky could be seen, groups of people stood, looking now +upward into the heavens, now into the long, doubtful faces around +them. They told of the ravens that had come in great flocks into the +suburbs, they pointed to the deep, restless, uneven fluttering of the +jackdaws around St. George's and St. Nicholas', they spoke of +earthquakes, of land-slides and even of the Judgment Day. The more +courageous thought it was only a violent thunder-storm. But even that +seemed serious enough. The river and the so-called fire-pond, the +waters of which could, at a moment's notice, be let into any part of +the town by means of subterranean channels, were both frozen. Some +hoped the danger would pass by. But each time they looked up at the +sky they saw that the dark cloud-mass had not changed its position. +Two hours after midday it had stood there; toward midnight it still +stood there unmoved. Only it seemed to have become heavier and had +sunk lower. How could it move when there was not a breath of air in +motion, and to scatter and dispel such a mass as this a hurricane +would have been required! + +It struck twelve from St. George's tower. The last stroke seemed +unable to die away. But the deep trembling murmur that hung on so long +was no longer the dying tone of the bell. For now it began to grow; as +if on a thousand wings it came rushing and surging and pushed angrily +against the houses that would retard it; whistling and shrieking, it +drove through every crevice that it met, and blustered about the house +until it found another rift to drive out of again; it tore shutters +open and slammed them furiously, it squeezed its way groaningly +between adjacent walls, whistled madly round street corners, lost +itself in a thousand currents, found itself again and rushed headlong +into a raging stream, careered up and down with savage joy, jolted +everything that stood fast, trilled with wild-playing fingers on the +rusty vanes and weather-cocks and laughed shrilly at their groans; it +blew the snow from one roof to another, swept it from the street, +chased it onto steep walls where it crouched with fear in all the +window chinks, and whirled great, dancing fir-trees of snow before it +in its mad course. + +Seeing that a storm was imminent, no one had taken off his clothes. +The town and county storm night-watch, as well as the fire company, +had been gathered together for hours. Herr Nettenmair had sent his son +to the main guard-room in the town hall to represent him there as the +master-slater of the town. The two journeymen sat with the tower +watchman, one at St. George's, one at St. Nicholas'. The other +municipal workmen entertained one another in the guard-room as well as +they could. The building inspector looked anxiously at Apollonius, +who, feeling his friend's eye fixed upon him, rose, to conceal from +him if possible his brooding state of mind. At this very moment the +storm broke forth with renewed violence. From the town-hall tower it +struck one. The sound of the bell whimpered in the grip of the storm +which dragged it along in its wild chase. Apollonius stepped to the +window as if to see what was happening outside. A gigantic, +sulphur-blue tongue leaped into the room, sprang twice trembling upon +stove, wall and people, and then, leaving no trace, was swallowed up +in itself again. The tempest raged on: but, even as the storm had +seemed born out of the last sound of St. George's bell, there now +arose a something out of the raging which exceeded it in force as far +as the raging had exceeded the sound of the bell. An invisible world +seemed to tear it to pieces in the air. The storm raged and panted +with the fury of the tiger which cannot destroy what it holds in its +grasp; the deep, majestic rolling that outsounded it was the roar of +the lion which has his foot on the enemy--the triumphant expression of +struggle satisfied by action. + +"That struck somewhere!" said one. Apollonius thought: "If it should +strike St. George's tower, where the gap is, and I should have to +climb up, and the clock should strike two, and"--he could think no +further. A cry for help, a cry of fire resounded through storm and +thunder. "The lightning has struck!" was the cry on the street. "It +has struck St. George's tower! Quick to St. George's! Fire! Help! +Fire! St. George's! Fire in the tower of St. George's!" Horns blew, +drums beat. And always the storm and peal after peal of thunder! Then +the cry came: "Where is Nettenmair? If anybody can help it is +Nettenmair. Fire! Fire! At St. George's! Nettenmair! Where is +Nettenmair? The tower of St. George's is on fire!" + +The councilman saw Apollonius turn pale, his form sink more deeply +into itself than before. "Where is Nettenmair?" was again the cry from +the street. Then came a dark flush over his pale cheeks and his +slender figure rose to its full height. He buttoned his coat quickly, +and drew the strap of his cap firmly under his chin. "If I stay," he +said to the councilman, as he turned to go, "remember my father, my +brother's wife and the children." The councilman was taken aback. The +young man's "if I stay" sounded like "I shall stay." A presentiment +came over the friend that here was something that had to do with the +salvation of Apollonius' soul. But the expression on Apollonius' face +was no longer one of suffering; nor was it anxious or wild. In spite +of apprehension and alarm, the stout-hearted man felt something like +joyful hope. It was indeed the old Apollonius again who stood before +him, with the same quiet, modest resoluteness that had won his heart +at the first sight of the young man. "If he would only remain so!" +thought the inspector. He had no time to reply. He pressed his hand. +Apollonius felt all that this hand-pressure wanted to say. Compassion +crept over him for the good old man, and something like regret for the +anxiety he had caused him and would still cause him. He said with his +old-time smile: "For such cases I am always prepared. But there is no +time to spare. Good-by for a while!" Apollonius, who moved more +quickly than the councilman, was soon out of sight. All the way to St. +George's, amid the cries, the horns, drums, storm and thunder, the +councilman kept repeating to himself: "Either I shall never see the +good fellow again, or he will be well when he returns." He did not try +to explain to himself how he had come to this conclusion. There was no +time. His duty as municipal inspector demanded his entire attention. + +The cry "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" greeted Apollonius on all +sides and echoed in the distance. The confidence of his +fellow-citizens awakened in him a renewed sense of his own worth. +When, upon returning from afar, he had seen his native town stretched +out before him, he had dedicated himself to her and her service. The +opportunity now presented itself to show whether he had meant this vow +in earnest. He reviewed in his mind all the possible forms of danger +and how they could best be met. A fire-sprinkler lay ready in the +roof-truss, and cloths were at hand to dip into water and protect the +places most in danger. The journeyman had been instructed to have hot +water ready. The beams were connected everywhere by ladders. For the +first time since his return from Brambach he threw his whole soul into +his work. Before real necessity and its demands the visions of his +brooding fancy receded like dissolving shadows. All his old elasticity +and buoyancy were [Illustration: The Prophet Jeremiah] [Blank Page] +called into being again, intensified by the feeling of relief which +had taken possession of him. Thoughts can be refuted by thoughts, +against feelings they are a very weak weapon. In vain had his spirit +seen the way of salvation; he had fallen a victim to the general +apathy about him. Now a strong, healthful feeling sprang up in +opposition to the strong, morbid ones and devoured them in the ardor +of its flame. He knew, without any special thought on the subject, +that he had found the solution which brings redemption, and that this +was the cause of his renewed being. He knew that dizziness would not +overcome him, but if he should remain it would be a sacrifice made to +duty, not to guilt, and God and the gratitude of the town would assume +in his stead the responsibility for his loved ones. + +St. George's Square was thronged with people who gazed in troubled +fear at the roof of the tower. The ancient building stood like a rock +in the fierce battle which the brightness of lightning and the old +night waged untiringly about it. A thousand glowing arms embraced the +tower with such ardor that it seemed as if it would be consumed in +their glow; like a great surging sea the light broke upon its walls, +only to fall back again before the power of night which engulfed all +in its dark flood. The mass of pale faces, pressed close together at +the foot of the tower, flashed into view during momentary gleams of +light but were soon lost again in dreary blackness. The storm tore at +their hats and coats, blew hair into their faces, struck them with +flapping garments and pelted them with glistening drops of snow, as if +it wanted to make them atone for the wounds it received when it beat +as rain on the rocky ribs of the tower. And as the people now +appeared, now disappeared in alternating light and darkness, so also +their confused attempts at conversation were drowned at every turn by +storm and thunder. + +Somebody called out in self-consolation: "It was a harmless flash; +though it struck, nothing caught fire." Somebody else thought that the +flame might still break out. A third became angry; he took this +suggestion as a wish that the flame might break out. He had been +comforted by the first thought; he had to avenge himself for the +uneasiness which the suggestion created in his mind. Trembling with +cold and anxiety, many stared up stupidly with blinded eyes into space +and knew not even why. A hundred voices explained what misfortune +would befall the town, must befall it, if the lightning had really +struck and the tower had caught fire. Some told of the nature of +slate, how it melts in fire and is carried as slack through the air, +often setting fire to a whole city at the same time. Others lamented +that the storm would further a possible fire, and that there would be +no water with which to extinguish it. Still others said that if there +were any water it would freeze in the engines and be of no avail. Most +of them depicted with fearful eloquence the course that the fire would +take. If the burning truss should fall the storm would blow it right +where there was a thick cluster of houses, quite near the tower. This +was the most dangerous place in the whole town in case of fire, for +there were numberless frame verandas in narrow courts, boarded gable +roofs and shingle-covered sheds, all crowded so closely together that +it would be impossible for a fire-engine to be squeezed in among them +or for the firemen to get at their work. If the burning truss should +fall on this side, as it most certainly would, the entire portion of +the town that lay before the wind would be irretrievably lost. These +reflections reduced the timid to such a state of mind that every new +flash seemed to them the inevitable fire. That nobody could see more +than one side of the tower at a time tended to increase the +misapprehension. It was curious, but from all sides the cry was heard: +"Where? Where?" Storm and thunder prevented mutual understanding. +Everybody wanted to see for himself. Wild excitement prevailed. + +"Where did it strike?" asked Apollonius, who had just arrived. "On the +side toward Brambach," answered many voices. Apollonius pushed his way +through the crowd. With long strides he hastened toward the tower +steps. He had come considerably in advance of his more deliberate +associates. In the tower his questions were to no purpose. The people +in the tower thought that though the lightning had struck it had not +set fire to anything; still they were on the point of gathering +together their best things to flee from the danger. Only the +journeyman, whom he found occupied at the stove, remained +self-possessed. Apollonius hastened with lanterns to the truss, to +hang them there. The ladder steps did not tremble beneath his feet; he +was in too great haste to notice it. There seemed to be no trace of +incipient fire in the truss. Neither the odor of sulphur, which +denotes fire by lightning, nor ordinary smoke was perceptible. +Apollonius heard his associates on the steps. He called to them that +he was there. Just at that moment a blue light flashed through all the +tower-windows followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. +Apollonius stood for an instant, stunned. If he had not unconsciously +caught hold of a beam, he would have fallen to the ground from the +shock. A thick fume of sulphur took his breath away. He sprang to the +nearest window to obtain fresh air. The workmen farther from where it +had struck had not been stunned, but stood motionless with fright on +the topmost flight of steps. "Come!" cried Apollonius. "Quick! the +water! The sprinkler! It must have struck on this side--that's where +the pressure and the smell of sulphur came from. Quick, water and the +sprinkler at the door!" The master-carpenter, standing on the ladder +steps, called, coughing, "But the smoke!" "Quick!" replied Apollonius, +"the door will give more air than we want." The mason and the +chimney-sweep followed the carpenter, who carried the hose with the +sprinkler, as quickly as he could, up the ladder steps. The others +brought buckets of cold water, the journeyman a pail of hot water to +pour over the cold to prevent its freezing. + +At such moments he who remains calm inspires confidence; to the +self-possessed man of action others defer without question. The wooden +passage-way to the door was narrow, but through Apollonius' +intelligent directions room was immediately found for all. Next to +Apollonius stood the carpenter, then the sprinkler, then the mason. +The sprinkler was so turned that the two men had the levers before +them. Two strong men could work it. Behind the mason stood the +journeyman who was to pour hot water on the cold as often as was +necessary. Others performed the journeyman's previous duty; they +melted snow and ice and kept the water thus obtained in the watchman's +warm room so that it should not freeze again. Still others were ready +to serve as carriers and formed a sort of double line between roof and +watchman's room. While Apollonius was explaining to the carpenter and +mason, in rapid words and signs, his plan of action which they then +carried into effect, he had taken hold of the roof-ladder with his +right hand and was reaching out with his left toward the bolt of the +door. The workmen were all full of hope, but when the storm whistled +in through the opened door, tore the carpenter's cap from his head, +blew masses of fine snow against the beams, howled, rattled, and +blustered against the ridge of the roof, while flash after flash of +lightning broke through the dark opening, the bravest among them +wanted to withdraw his hand from the futile work. Apollonius had to +stand with his back to the door to get his breath. Then gripping the +lath-work above the door, with both hands, he bent his head back in +order to get a look at the roof from the outside. "It can still be +saved," he cried with an effort so that he could be heard above the +storm and the uninterrupted rolling of the thunder. He seized the tube +of the shorter hose, the lower end of which the carpenter had screwed +onto the sprinkler, and wound the upper part around his body. "When I +pull twice on the hose start the sprinkler; we'll save the church and +perhaps the town." With his right hand propped against the lath-work +he swung himself out of the door; in his left hand he held the light +roof-ladder which he wanted to hang on the next hook above the door. +This seemed impossible to the workmen. The storm would certainly tear +the ladder down, and all too possibly the man with it. It came in well +for Apollonius that the wind pressed the ladder against the surface of +the roof. There was plenty of light by which to find the hook; but the +fine snow which flurried about and, rolling down from the roof, struck +him in the eyes, was a hindrance. He could feel, however, that the +ladder hung securely. There was no time to lose; he swung himself up +on it. He had to trust more to the strength and sureness of his arms +and hands than to a secure footing as he climbed upward, for the storm +swayed man and ladder to and fro like a bell. Above, to one side of +the topmost rung of the ladder, blue flames with yellow points leaped +forth from under the gap and licked the edges of the slate roof. The +lightning had struck two feet below the point where the sheet of lead +was lacking. A short hour ago he had been frightened by the thought of +the mere possibility that the lightning could strike there and that he +would have to climb up--a series of dark, deadly fever visions had +risen before him: now, all had happened as he had pictured it--but the +gap was like any other part of the tower-roof and he stood on the +ladder, free from all dizziness, pervaded only by a keen, strong +desire to avert impending danger from church and town. Yes, something +that had enhanced his vague fears now proved to be of distinct +advantage to him. The water which had been pouring into the hole for +weeks, and which was now frozen in the wood, prevented the flame from +obtaining the upper hand as quickly as it would otherwise have done. +The area taken possession of by the fire up to the present time was +small. The frost in the boarding had stubbornly beat back the leaping, +ever-returning flames and it would take time before they could +permanently strike root and from their vantage point do further +destruction. If they had united in one big flame and overstepped the +space below the hole protected by the frost, the fire would soon have +grown to gigantic proportions and the church, perhaps the town, have +succumbed to the combined force of fire and storm. He saw that there +was still time to save, and he needed the strength that this thought +gave. The ladder not only swung backward and forward, it moved up and +down. What could be the cause of that? If the beams of the roof were +loose--but he knew that that was not the case--this movement would be +impossible. But the trouble was that the ladder was not hanging on the +hook; he had hung it on a projecting tin oak-leaf which formed part of +the roof's decoration, near one of the rivets, and he had neglected to +fasten the other end of the garland on which the ladder hung. His +weight was pulling on it now and dragging it and the ladder gradually +down. An inch more and the leaf would be horizontal, the ladder would +slide off it and he and the ladder together would fall into the +tremendous depth below. His newly-acquired courage was to be put to +the test. Six inches from the leaf was the hook. He took three +cautious steps up the tottering ladder; then, seizing hold of the hook +with his left hand and holding fast, he raised the ladder with his +right hand from the leaf to the hook. It hung securely. He let go the +hook and, holding fast to a rung of the ladder with both hands, +stepped back onto it again. And now the slates below the hole began to +glow; it would not be long before the burning particles carried +destruction far and near. Apollonius drew his claw-hammer from his +belt; a few strokes with the tool and the slate fell, splintering +below. Now he could see clearly the very small area of burning +surface; his confidence increased. He pressed twice on the hose and +the sprinkler began to work. First he held the nozzle toward the hole +so that the lath-work above might be the better protected from the +flame. The sprinkler proved to be powerful; the water that penetrated +beneath the edge of the slate shivered it into small bits. The flames +cracked and leaped angrily under the gushing water; only when the jet +was turned directly upon them, and then more by means of its +smothering power than its inherent qualities, did it finally vanquish +them. + +The surface of the fire lay black before him; there was no hissing in +response to the jet from the hose. Far below him the works of the +clock rattled. It struck two! Two strokes! Two! And he stood and did +not plunge headlong into space. How different in reality from what his +feverish forebodings had threatened! In his brooding, waking dreams he +had stood at the top of the tower, it had struck two, a great +dizziness had come over him and dragged him down, to expiate a dark +crime. But now he stood there in reality, the ladder swayed in the +storm, snowdust flurried about him, lightning darted around him, the +sheet of snow on roofs, mountains and valley shimmered bright with +each gleaming flash, it struck two below him, the tone of the bells, +rent by the storm, wailed in the tumult, and he stood, stood free from +all dizziness and did not fall. He knew that no guilt was attached to +him, he had done his duty where thousands would have failed, he had +saved the town which he loved with all his soul, from a terrible +danger. But there was no vainglory in his heart, only a prayer of +thanksgiving. His thoughts were not of the people who would praise +him, but of those who would breathe freely again, of the misery that +had been prevented, of the happiness that would be preserved. For the +first time in many months he felt what it means to breathe freely. +This night had brought gladness to him. With joy he looked back on the +vow that he had made. To men like Apollonius, the highest blessing of +a good deed is that it gives courage for new good deeds. + +The throng below still cried: "Where? Where?" and crowded close +together when the second stroke occurred. They stood for a moment +paralyzed with fear. "Thank the Lord! It was harmless this time too!" +exclaimed one voice. "No! No! It is burning. God have mercy!" replied +others; sharp eyes saw in the darkness that appeared between the +flashes little blue flames leaping like candles over the slate. These +flames sought one another and when they found one another they blazed +up convulsively into a larger flame, then fled dancingly away and +shivered into pieces. The storm bent and blew them here and there; +sometimes they seemed to die out, but suddenly they leaped up brighter +than ever. They were growing, one could see that, but their growth was +not rapid. Much more rapid and vehement was the new cry of fire that +swelled through the town. In anxious suspense the gaze of all was +riveted on the one small spot. "Help! Now! It can still be put out!" +And again through storm and thunder sounded the agonized cry: +"Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" A voice called, "He is in the +tower." All hearts felt relief when they heard that. And most of them +did not know him, even among those who called out for him, and those +who did not know him cried out loudest. In moments of general +helplessness the crowd clings to a name, to a mere word. Some thus +thrust from themselves the calls of conscience which demanded personal +effort, personal risk, and these are they who are most merciless in +their judgment of the helper if he is unable to help. The rest are +happy if they can delude themselves for the moment. "What could he +do?" cried one. "Help! Rescue!" cried others. "Even if one had wings, +he would not dare the ascent in such a storm." "Nettenmair surely +would." In the depths of their hearts, however, even the most +confident knew that he would not. The thought that the flame could be +extinguished if it were only accessible aggravated the general spirit +of uneasiness. It prevented that dull submission which the inevitable +with gentle severity compels. When the door opened and the suspended +ladder became visible, and it seemed as if somebody were going to dare +the deed, the effect on the crowd was as terrifying as the stroke +itself had been. And the ladder hung and swayed in the air with the +man who was climbing upward, enveloped in snow, encircled by +lightning; the ladder that seemed cut from a splinter swinging with +the man like a bell in the awful heights. Every one held his breath. +The same expression of horror stared from hundreds of unlike faces at +the man on high. None believed in the daring feat--and yet they saw +the man who dared. It was like something that was at the same time +dream and reality. Nobody believed in it, and yet each one stood +himself on the ladder while under him swung the light splinter in +storm and lightning and thunder, high between heaven and earth. And +again they stood below on the firm earth and looked upward; and yet if +the man should fall it would be they who fell. The people on the firm +ground held convulsively to their own hands, to their canes, to their +clothes, that they might not fall from the terrible height. They stood +secure, and yet at the same time they hung over the abyss of death, +for years, for a lifetime; the past had never been; and yet they had +only been hanging on high for a moment. They forgot the peril to the +town and their own, in the peril of the man above them whose peril was +their own. They saw that the fire was quenched, the danger to the town +was over; they knew it as in a dream when one knows that he dreams; it +was a mere thought without a living meaning. Only when the man had +climbed down the ladder, had disappeared into the door and drawn the +ladder after him, only when the people no longer clung to their own +hands, canes, and clothes, only then did admiration battle with +anxiety, only then did the exultant cry: "Hurrah! Brave fellow!" +become smothered in the lament: "He is lost!" A trembling old voice +began to sing: "Now thank we all our God!" When the aged man came to +the line: "Who has protected us," a great consciousness seemed to +sweep over the people of what might have been lost and what had been +rescued for them. Absolute strangers fell into one another's arms, +each embraced in his neighbor the loved ones whom he might have lost +and who had been saved. All united in the singing of the hymn; the +sounds of thanksgiving swelled through the whole town, soared over the +streets and squares where the people stood who had feared to go +closer, entered the houses, penetrated into the innermost chambers, +rose to the remotest garrets. The sick man in his lonely bed, the old +man in the chair where weakness had bound him, little children who did +not know the meaning of the hymn or of the danger that had been +averted, all joined in the song of praise. The town was one great +church, and storm and thunder the giant organ. Again the cry was +heard: "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair? Where is our helper? Where is +our rescuer? Where is the brave fellow? Where is the noble man?" Wind +and storm were forgotten. Everybody pushed forward, looking for the +man who was being called on all sides. The tower of St. George's was +besieged. The carpenter appeared, saying that Nettenmair had lain down +in the watchman's room to rest for a few moments. The carpenter was +beset with questions. Had he been injured at all? Would his health +suffer? The carpenter could tell nothing except that Nettenmair had +done more than a man is capable of doing in the ordinary course of +events. In such supreme moments man is a different being; later he +marvels himself at the power he displayed. But everything must be paid +for. It would not surprise the carpenter if, after the tremendous +exertion, Nettenmair should sleep for three days and nights at a +stretch. The people seemed prepared to wait on the steps for that +length of time, in order to see the brave man as soon as he waked. In +the meantime a prominent man had begun to take up a collection in the +market-place. Money, of course, could not reward such a deed as had +been performed that day; but at least they could show their gratitude +to the courageous doer. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, +acknowledged misers hastened home to fetch their contribution, +regardless of the fact that in an hour they would regret having done +so. Not many of the well-to-do refused to contribute, all the poor +gave their share. The collector was astonished at the rich success of +his efforts. + +Apollonius rested for half an hour. Before he lay down he saw that the +lanterns were carefully put out. He closed the door, and had the +sprinkler emptied and the hose brought into the watchman's room so +that the frost could do no harm to them. He was able to stand no +longer. The councilman, who had come to him in the meantime, had to +compel him almost with force, to go down to the watchman's room. His +friend then bolted the door, made Apollonius take off his frozen +clothes, and sat down like a mother at his bedside. Apollonius could +not sleep, but the old man did not allow him to speak. He had brought +rum and sugar with him, and there was hot water enough; but +Apollonius, who had never drunk anything strong, declined the grog +with thanks. In the meantime the workman had brought clothes. +Apollonius assured them that he felt perfectly himself again but that +he felt a hesitancy about getting out of bed. Laughingly the old man +gave him his clothes. Apollonius had undressed under the bedclothes +and in the same way he now dressed beneath them. The councilman turned +his back to him and looked laughingly out of the window at storm and +lightning; whether his smiles were over Apollonius' bashfulness or +from pure joy at having his favorite again he did not know. He had +often regretted having remained a bachelor, now he was almost glad. He +had a son at any rate, and as good a one as a father could wish. + +Trouble now began for Apollonius. He was torn from arm to arm; even +women of prominence kissed and embraced him. His hands were so shaken +and squeezed that for three days he had no feeling in them. He did not +lose, however, his naturally noble bearing. His modest, blushing +embarrassment in the face of so much enthusiastic thanks and admiring +praise, became him as well as his brave, determined conduct in time of +danger. Those who did not already know him were amazed; they had +formed a very different conception of him: dark, bold-eyed, audacious, +overflowing with spirits, in fact almost wild. Still they had to +acknowledge that his appearance was not at variance with his deed. His +maidenly blushes lent an added charm to the tall manly figure, and the +modest embarrassment of his honest face, which seemed in no way to +realize what he had done, was very winning; his gentle thoughtfulness +and quiet simplicity placed his achievement in a still more pleasing +light, for it was plainly to be seen that vanity and ambition had +played no part in it. + + * * * * * + +We pass now in spirit over a period of three decades and return to the +man with whom we were occupied at the beginning of our tale. We left +him in the arbor of his little garden. The bells of St. George's +called the dwellers of the town to morning service; they sounded also +in the garden behind the house with the green shutters. There he sits +every Sunday at this time. When the bells call to afternoon service he +is seen wending his way to church with his silver-headed cane in his +hand. Nobody sees the old gentleman without greeting him with +reverence. It has been nearly thirty years, but there are still people +who lived through that remarkable night. They can tell those who do +not know what the man with the silver-headed cane did for the town on +that night. And to what he set on foot the next day the stones +themselves bear witness. Just outside of the town, on the road to +Brambach, not far from the rifle-range there rises a stately building +with a pleasant garden. It is the new town hospital. Every stranger +who goes to it learns that its conception originated with Herr +Nettenmair. He also has to listen to the entire story of that night, +and of Herr Nettenmair's brave deed, who was then a young man; and how +a collection was taken up for him, and how he gave this money to the +town as a nucleus for the hospital, and how rich citizens, inspired by +his example, donated and bequeathed until, after a number of years, an +additional contribution from the town completed the sum necessary for +the erection of the building. + +When Herr Nettenmair returns from church he spends the rest of Sunday +in his little room where he still lives; or he takes a walk to the +slate quarry, which now belongs to him, or rather to his nephews. The +fulfilment of the vow which he made to himself has continued to be the +aim of his life. Everything that he has done he has done for his +brother's family, he has considered himself only the administrator. If +he happens to see a pretty little girl anywhere, he thinks of dear +little dead Annie. His memory is as conscientious as he himself, for +he always calls the child to him, strokes her hair, and it would be +strange indeed if he did not find in the pocket of his blue coat +something or other wrapped up in nice clean paper which he produces to +bring forth a word of thanks from the little mouth. The child, +however, cannot enjoy herself to the full until he has gone, for, in +spite of his friendliness, his tall figure has something so grave and +solemn about it that her joy is usually swallowed up in respect. +During the week Herr Nettenmair sits over his books and letters, or +superintends the packing and unpacking, the chipping and sorting of +the slate. Punctually at twelve o'clock he has his dinner in his room, +punctually at six his evening meal; this takes a quarter of an hour. +Then, rubbing his hand gently over the old sofa, he rises and, if it +is summer time, exercises for three-quarters of an hour in his garden. +On the stroke of a quarter to one and a quarter to seven he latches +the door behind him. On Sunday it is different; then he sits for a +whole hour in the arbor and gazes up at the church roof of St. +George's. There is little for us to tell; the reader knows all that +goes on in Nettenmair's soul, and what he reads from the church tower. +The reader also knows to whom the aged but still beautiful face +belongs that sometimes peers through the trellised arbor at the old +man. The lock which is now white was dark brown and full, falling over +an unwrinkled forehead, the cheeks glowed with youthful strength, the +lips were red and smiling and the blue eyes gleamed when she hastened +to meet the man who had rescued the town. He kissed her gently on the +brow and called her "Sister." She understood what he meant. Even at +that time she looked up to the man with the submission, nay, the +devotion with which she now hangs on his every word; but at that time +there was another feeling as well that showed itself in her open +countenance. + +The old gentleman flew into a rage when Apollonius told him of his +determination not to marry. He gave his son his choice between +considering the honor of the family or returning to Cologne. +Apollonius' heart found it harder than his head to convince his father +that it devolved upon him alone to uphold the honor of the family and +that he must remain. He knew that he could keep his word only by +remaining true to his determination. But he could not tell his father +this, for if the old man should discover the true relation existing +between the two young people he would insist upon the marriage more +strongly than ever. Then he would also have to tell him how his +brother had met his death, and that would cause his father unnecessary +pain. He did not realize that his father in his heart was convinced +that his brother had taken his own life. The two men, so closely +related, did not understand each other. Apollonius assumed that his +father had the same inward sense of honor which he himself possessed; +and the father saw in his son's refusal and in his argument of having +to maintain the position of the family, nothing but the old obstinacy +contending that his presence was indispensable and not even taking the +trouble to conceal itself--he thought that in his son's eyes he was +nothing but a blind, helpless old man. And what caused and furthered +their misunderstanding was reserve, that family trait which they held +in common. On the same morning a delegation had tendered Apollonius +the thanks of the town and its most prominent citizens had vied with +each other in giving tokens of esteem and respect. This was cause +enough to arouse arrogance in an ambitious soul, and cause enough for +the old gentleman, who considered that Apollonius had such a soul, to +believe in this arrogance. The old gentleman had to admit that his son +was indispensable and dared assert neither right nor might against +him. The emotion and mental exertion on the day before the death of +his eldest son had undermined his strength; he collapsed entirely now +and became each day queerer and more sensitive. He no longer demanded +subserviency from Apollonius; he found a certain self-tormenting +pleasure in reproaching his son with unfilial conduct, and in +continually giving expression to his bitter regret that such an +industrious son should have to put up with so much from an overbearing +old father who was not, and never could be, anything any more. At the +same time he rejoiced in his eccentric fashion over the industry of +his son, the growing honor and increasing fortunes of his house. He +lived to see the purchase of the slate quarry which Apollonius had +previously leased. The son endured his father's eccentricities with +the same loving, untiring patience which he had exhibited toward his +brother. He lived only in the thought of fulfilling as completely as +lay within his power the vow that he had made to himself, and in this +vow he had included his father. The success of his work gave him +strength to bear all little annoyances with cheerfulness. + +On the day after the winter night's storm he had told the old building +inspector the whole story of his inner life. The councilman, who till +the day of his death clung to Apollonius with all his soul, remained +the latter's only companion, as he was the only person with whom he +could hold intimate intercourse without being untrue to his own +nature. + +For several days after the storm Apollonius had to lie in bed. A +burning fever had taken hold of him. At first the physician pronounced +his illness a very serious one, but in reality it was only the body +fighting triumphant battle against the general suffering which had +found mental absolution in the resolve of that night. The sympathy of +the town manifested itself in various touching ways. The old +councilman and Valentine were his nurses. The one whom nature through +love and gratitude had determined upon as the best nurse for the sick +man, Apollonius did not call to his bed, and she dared not go +uncalled. Throughout his illness, however, she took up her abode in +the little trellised arbor and remained there so as to be as near to +him as possible. When he slept the old councilman beckoned to her to +enter. Then she stood with folded hands behind the screen at the foot +of his bed and accompanied his every breath with anxiety and hope. +Unconsciously her gentle breathing regulated itself by his. For hours +she stood looking through a crack in the screen at the sick man. He +knew nothing of her presence, and yet the inspector could see how his +sleep became easier, his face more smiling. There was no bottle from +which he took his medicine which, without his knowing it, he did not +receive from her hand, no plaster, no application which she had not +prepared; no cloth, no cover touched him which she had not warmed on +her breast, kissed with her loving lips. When he talked with the +councilman about her, she saw that he was more anxious concerning her +than himself; when he sent friendly, comforting messages to her she +trembled behind the screen with joy. She rested but little; and when +the cold night wind blew flakes of snow through the loose blinds onto +her warm face, when her own breath, frozen on the pillow, touched +icily throat, chin and bosom, she was happy in the thought that she +was allowed to suffer something for him who had suffered all for her. +In those nights sacred love conquered earthly love in her; out of the +pain of sweet, disappointed desire which yearned to possess, arose his +image surrounded once more by that halo of unattainable glory in which +she had known him of yore. + +Apollonius recovered quickly. And now began the joint life of these +two people. They saw each other but seldom. He lived in his little +room by himself. Valentine brought him his meals, as always. The +children were often with him. If the two happened to meet, he greeted +her with friendly reserve and she returned his greeting. If they had +anything to discuss together it happened each time as if by chance +that either the maid was present or the children and Valentine. But no +day passed without some silent token of courteous respect. On Sundays, +when he came in from his garden, he brought a bouquet of flowers with +him which Valentine then presented to her. He could have made a +brilliant marriage, gallant lovers sued for her hand; but he repelled +all offers and she all suitors. So passed days, weeks, months, years, +decades. The old gentleman died and was buried. The good councilman +followed, and then Valentine. The children grew to be youths. The +unruly lock over the widow's brow, Apollonius' corkscrew-curl, turned +gray; the children became men, strong and gentle like their teacher +and master; lock and curl were silver white; the life of the two +remained the same. + +Now the reader knows all the past which the old man, sitting in his +arbor, reads from St. George's tower when the bells call for Sunday +morning service. Today he looks forward into the future, rather than +backward into the past. For his older nephew is soon to lead Anna +Wohlig's daughter to the altar of St. George's, and then home; not to +the house with the green shutters, however, but to the big house close +by. The pink-tinted house is too small for the growing business--and +besides the new household would not find room there; Herr Nettenmair +has bought the big house across the way. The youngest nephew is going +to Cologne. The old cousin who did so much for Apollonius has been +dead for many years; also the son has died, leaving his large business +to his only child who is the betrothed of Fritz Nettenmair's younger +son. There will be a double wedding at St. George's. The two old +people will then live alone in the house with the green shutters. For +a long time the old gentleman has wanted to hand over the business to +his nephews, but the young men have steadfastly refused till now. The +older nephew insists that his uncle shall remain at the head; the old +gentleman does not wish to do so. A part of the councilman's estate, +which he inherited, he has reserved for himself for his lifetime; +everything else, and that is by no means little, for Herr Nettenmair +is considered a rich man, he will give over to his nephews; what he +has reserved for himself will go at his death to the new town +hospital. He has made good his word; he will go down to his grave with +unsullied name. + +The future bride protests against accepting all that her mother-in-law +wants to give her. There is but one thing that the old lady wishes to +keep for herself; it is a little tin box with a withered flower, and +it lies with her Bible and hymn-book, as sacred to the owner as these. + +The bells still call. The roses on the tall bushes are fragrant as of +yore; a white-throat sits on the bush beneath the old pear-tree and +sings; a gentle breeze steals through the garden and even the box +around the circular beds rustles its dark leaves. The old gentleman +looks musingly at the tower of St. George's; the beautiful matron's +face peers through the trellis at him. The bells call it, the +white-throat sings it, the roses breathe it, the gentle breeze +whispers it, the beautiful aged faces speak it, from the tower roof of +St. George's you may read it: "Men tell of the happiness and +unhappiness that heaven brings them! What men call happiness and +unhappiness is but the raw material. It lies within man himself to +mold that material as he will. It is not heaven that brings happiness; +man prepares happiness for himself, and raises heaven in his own +breast. Man need take no care to go to heaven, if heaven but comes to +him. Who carries not heaven within himself may search in vain for it +through all the universe. Be guided by reason, but encroach not upon +the sacred bounds of feeling. Turn not disapprovingly from the world +as it is, but seek to be just to it, and it will be just to thee. In +this sense let thy path be + +BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The German Classics of The Nineteenth +and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IX, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMAN CLASSICS *** + +***** This file should be named 13030-8.txt or 13030-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/0/3/13030/ + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Jayam Subramanian and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/13030-8.zip b/old/13030-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c04f9ea --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13030-8.zip diff --git a/old/13030.txt b/old/13030.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ff1376 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13030.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25803 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The German Classics of The Nineteenth and +Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IX, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IX + Friedrich Hebbel and Otto Ludwig + +Author: Various + +Release Date: July 26, 2004 [EBook #13030] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMAN CLASSICS *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Jayam Subramanian and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +VOLUME IX + + + +FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +OTTO LUDWIG + + + + + +THE GERMAN CLASSICS + +Masterpieces of German Literature + + + + +TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH + + + +Patrons' Edition IN TWENTY VOLUMES + + + + +ILLUSTRATED + +1914 + + + +CONTENTS OF VOLUME IX + + +Friedrich Hebbel + + The Life of Friedrich Hebbel. By William Guild Howard + + Maria Magdalena. Translated by Paul Bernard Thomas + + Siegfried's Death. Translated by Katherine Royce + + Anna. Translated by Frances H. King + + On Theodor Koerner and Heinrich von Kleist. Translated by Frances H. King + + Ludolf Wienbarg's _The Dramatists of the Present Day_. Translated by + Frances H. King + + Review of Heinrich von Kleist's Play, _The Prince of Homburg, or The + Battle of Fehrbellin_. Translated by Frances H. King + + Recollections of My Childhood. Translated by Frances H. King Extracts + from the Journal of Friedrich Hebbel + + +Otto Ludwig + + The Life of Otto Ludwig. By Alexander R. Hohlfeld + + The Hereditary Forester. Translated by Alfred Remy + + Between Heaven and Earth. Translated by Muriel Almon + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME IX + + +Summer Day. By Arnold Bucklin Frontispiece + +Friedrich Hebbel 2 + +Death as Cup-Bearer. By Alfred Rethel 30 + +Death Playing the Finale at the Masquerade. By Alfred Rethel 60 + +Death as Friend. By Alfred Rethel 78 + +Title Page of the Nibelungenlied. By Peter Cornelius 82 + +Siegfried's Return from the Saxon War. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 100 + +The Quarrel of the Queens. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 122 + +Kriemhild finds the Slain Siegfried. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 150 + +Kriemhild accuses Hagen of the Murder of Siegfried. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 170 + +The Battle between the Huns and the Nibelungs. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 190 + +Gunther and Hagen brought Captive before Kriemhild. By Schnorr von +Carolsfeld 222 + +The Death of Kriemhild. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 246 + +Otto Ludwig 268 + +The Finding of Moses. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 300 + +Moses on Mt. Sinai. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 330 + +Jacob and Rachel at the Well. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 360 + +Jacob's Journey. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 390 + +David being Stoned by Sinei. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 420 + +The Death of Eli. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 450 + +Josiah hears the Law. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 480 + +The Prophet Jeremiah. By Schnorr von Carolsfeld 510 + + + + +EDITOR'S NOTE + +The painters represented here alongside with the two writers to whom +this volume is devoted, are Cornelius, Schnorr von Carolsfeld, Rethel, +and Kaulbach. These men were not only contemporary with Hebbel and +Ludwig, but may indeed be called their artistic counterparts. Though +widely differentiated by individual temper and talent, these painters +and poets belong to the same phase of mid-century German literature and +art: the striving of Romanticism beyond itself, the struggle for a new +style uniting depth of feeling and terseness of delineation, the longing +for a new view of life harmonizing the worship of the past with the +demands of modern society and the problems of the day. Hence the heroic +note in the work of these painters and poets, hence their predilection +for great historical or mythological or religious subjects, hence their +leaning toward tragic conflicts in every day situations, hence their all +too conscious striving for pointed effects; hence, also, the inspiring +influence emanating from their best productions. + +KUNO FRANCKE. + + + + +THE LIFE OF FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + + + +By WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M., + +Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University + + +The greatest German dramatists of the middle of the nineteenth century +were Franz Grillparzer, Friedrich Hebbel, and Otto Ludwig. In a caustic +epigram written in 1855, Grillparzer set forth that Dame Poetry, for +some years a widow and now ailing, needed a husband, but could find +none; and we remember that the heroine of _Libussa_ rejects the wise +Lapak, the strong Biwoy, and the rich Domaslaw because she desires in +one man, united, the qualities which separately dominate the three. With +more charity, Grillparzer might have more fully recognized the poet in +Hebbel or Ludwig; but we may be permitted to think of these three +dramatists as not unlike the three suitors for the hand of Libussa: +Grillparzer was rich, Ludwig was wise, and Hebbel was strong. Each of +them was somewhat deficient in the qualities of the other two; each, +however, was a personality, and Hebbel one of the most powerful that +ever lived. + +Hebbel's career is a long battle against all but insuperable obstacles. +Born at Wesselburen in the present province of Schleswig-Holstein on +March 18, 1813, he was the son of a poor stone mason--so poor that, as +Hebbel said, poverty had taken the place of his soul. Though Klaus +Hebbel was a well-meaning man, he was a slave to the inexorable _non +possumus_ of penury. In winter, especially, lack of work made even the +provision of daily bread often difficult and sometimes impossible for +him. But Friedrich Hebbel's childhood, full of hardship as it was, was +not cheerless. The father did what he could; and the mother, at whatever +sacrifice to herself, could nearly always do something for the children. +The greatest hardship was caused by the father's hostility to these +maternal concessions to childish desires; for to him, whose life was +labor, unproductive use of time was a crime. He thought it a matter of +course that his son should become a laboring man like himself, and it is +little less than a miracle that this did not happen. The mother, to be +sure, fostered the boy's more ambitious hopes; the death of the father +in Hebbel's fourteenth year was perhaps a blessing in disguise; +undoubtedly the happiest chance in Hebbel's boyhood, so far as external +events are concerned, was the fact that he won the favor of a real +teacher in his schoolmaster Dethlefsen, who not only gave his education +the proper start, but also recommended him, as his best scholar, to the +local magistrate, J.J. Mohr. + +For nearly eight years (1827 to 1835) Hebbel was in Mohr's employ, first +as an errand boy, and ultimately as a clerk, to whom more and more +official business was intrusted. He lived in the household of his +superior, continued in the magistrate's library the assiduous reading +which he had begun with Dethlefsen's books, and acquired, along with the +habits of official accuracy, something of the ways of a higher social +station than that to which he had been born. His contact with the world +of affairs and with litigation also considerably broadened his outlook, +though it was often the seamy side of life that he saw, and his own +early necessities had sharpened his sense of the essential tragedy of +existence. Among the young people of the town Hebbel was as active and +inventive as any; he wrote verses, took part in amateur theatricals, and +was a leader in many undertakings that had not amusement as their sole +object. + +From the beginning Hebbel shows extraordinary sensitiveness to esthetic +appeal and a disposition to dreamy imaginativeness. The Bible, the +Protestant hymnal, pre-classical prose and poetry of the eighteenth +century, as well as contemporary romantic fiction, including Jean Paul, +Hoffmann, and Heine, touched his fancy and stirred him to emulation. + +[Illustration: FRIEDRICH HEBBEL] + +As a boy, he is said to have composed a tragedy _Evolia, the Captain of +Robbers_, which his mother confiscated and burned. His early poems are +echoes of Klopstock, Matthisson, Hoelty, Buerger, and other predecessors; +but especially of Schiller, whose moral seriousness and sonorous +language alike inspired the serious and rhetorically gifted youth. The +influence of Schiller, however, marks no epoch in the poetic development +of Hebbel; it dominates the period of adolescence. The sense of poetry +was aroused in him as a boy, he said, by Paul Gerhardt's hymn "The woods +are now at rest" (_Nun ruhen alle Walder_); the discovery of what poetry +is he made in 1830, when he read Uhland's _Minstrel's Curse_ and +perceived that the sole principle of art is not to write, like Schiller, +eloquently about ideas, but "to make in a particular phenomenon the +universal intuitively perceptible." + +Having published poems and stories from 1829 on in a local newspaper, +Hebbel, in 1831, seeking a wider audience at the same time that he +longed for a larger sphere of activity, submitted specimens of his work +to Amalie Schoppe in Hamburg, the editress of a fashion paper; and in +this and the following years she printed a considerable number of his +productions. Moreover, she took a genuine personal interest in his +ambitions; and after several plans had proved abortive, she succeeded +in collecting for him a small sum of money and the promise of other +material aid in a plan that should give a firm foundation for the +structure of his hopes: he should come to Hamburg and prepare for the +study of law. Accordingly, on the fourteenth of February, 1835, he left +his modest but secure position in Wesselburen for the alluring great +world where he felt that he belonged, but where he was destined to toil +and to suffer, in a struggle for existence which only a hardy +North-German peasant could have endured. + +Hebbel came to Hamburg as a young man of twenty-two, far ahead of his +years in knowledge, judgment, and capacity, but still unacquainted with +rudimentary things belonging to higher education, such as Latin grammar. +He could not find the right tone in dealing with his benefactors, and he +suffered unspeakable humiliation in the conflict of a proud and +independent spirit with the subjection which inconsiderate well-wishers +imposed upon him. He learned more by private reading and by association +with students in a Scientific Society than he learned in school; and to +one woman, Elise Lensing, who became his friend and angel of mercy, he +owed more than to the whole aggregation of those who gave him money and +meals. Somewhat more than eight years his senior, in respect to +experience of the world and training in the finer graces of life his +superior, she aided, encouraged, and loved him, well aware that his +feeling for her was, at the most, admiration and gratitude, and that the +intimate union and companionship which soon became for him an +indispensable solace could never lead to marriage. + +In Hamburg Hebbel began the diary which, continued throughout his life, +is the most valuable source of information about him that we have, and +which, being the repository of his meditations as well as the record of +his experiences, is one of the most remarkable documents of the kind +ever composed. He wrote and published a number of poems, and began +several short stories. More significant, however, was the development +of his critical faculty, which found in the Scientific Society a free +field for exercise. Here, on the twenty-eighth of July, 1835, Hebbel +read a paper on Theodor Koerner and Heinrich von Kleist which, in spite +of a rather juvenile tone, shows a maturity of insight quite +unparalleled in the critical literature of that day. It is greatly to +Hebbel's credit, and was to his profit, as the sequel showed, that +against the opinion of his generation he could demonstrate the poetic +excellence of Kleist and could distinguish in Koerner between the heroic +patriot and the mediocre poet; for it was a dramatic masterpiece that +Hebbel analyzed in Kleist's _Prince of Hamburg_, and in this analysis he +formulated views that remained the canons of all his subsequent activity +as a playwright. The study of Kleist gave him for the drama the same +sort of illumination that Uhland had given him for lyric poetry. + +Though Hebbel was unable to acquire in Hamburg a certificate of +preparedness for the university, he soon felt ready for university +studies, and after some difficulty persuaded his benefactors to give him +the balance of the fund that they had collected, and consent to his +going to Heidelberg. In March, 1836, he departed thither, with less than +eighty thalers in his pocket. He could be admitted only as a special +student; nevertheless, he was hospitably received by members of the +faculty of law, and attended their lectures. But the romantic scenery of +Heidelberg, and, the reading of Goethe and Shakespeare, whom he now for +the first time studied thoroughly, were more fruitful and suggestive to +him than jurisprudence, however much he was interested in "cases" as +examples of human experience. Such a "case" he treated in _Anna_, the +first short story with which he was satisfied, and which indeed is +worthy of his model in this _genre_, Kleist. Other narratives, and a few +poems, testify to a closer approach to nature and a less morbid attitude +toward life than had appeared in the earlier works. Hebbel was now +finishing his apprenticeship, wisely restraining the impulse to +dramatize until in the less exacting forms he had mastered the means of +expression. But everything pointed toward literature as a calling, and +before the year was out Hebbel resolved to migrate to Munich, still, to +be sure, a student, but from the moment of his arrival living there +under the name and title of _Literat_. + +The journey to Munich Hebbel made afoot, leaving Heidelberg on September +12, 1836. He passed through Strassburg, and thought of Goethe as he +climbed the tower of the cathedral; he visited the Suabian poets at +Stuttgart and Tuebingen, and was deeply disappointed with the kindly but +undemonstrative Uhland; and he reached Munich on September the +twenty-ninth. Here he remained until March, 1839. + +Hebbel's two and a half years in Munich, years of solitude, unheard-of +privation, illness, and battling against despair, came near to wearing +out the physical man, and were, through long-continued insufficient +nourishment, the cause of the disease to which he finally succumbed; but +they were also the finishing school of the personality that henceforth +unflinchingly faced the world and demanded to be heard. Hebbel provided +for his material needs partly by journalistic work, to which he was +ill-adapted, but chiefly through the limitless bounty of Elise +Lensing--for months at a time the only being with whom, and only by +correspondence, he had human intercourse. He heard the lectures of +Schelling and Goerres at the university; but, as at Heidelberg, he, +gained most by prodigious reading in literature, history; and +philosophy. His savage melancholy found relief in grimly humorous +narratives and gloomy poems. At the time of his greatest wretchedness he +conceived the plots of comedies, "ridiculing something by the +representation of nothing." But we note that his reading now begins to +suggest to him innumerable subjects for tragedies, such as Napoleon, +Alexander the Great, Julian the Apostate, the Maid of Orleans, Judith +and Holofernes, Golo and Genoveva,--all of them characters the key to +whose destiny lay in their personalities, and in whom Hebbel saw the +destiny of mankind typified. Still more directly, however, the tragedy +of human life was brought home to him--not merely through his personal +struggle for existence, but through the death of Emil Rousseau, a dear +friend who had followed him from Heidelberg to Munich, the death of his +mother, for whose necessities he had of late been able to do but little, +and misfortune in the family of Anton Schwarz, a cabinet maker, with +whose daughter, Beppy, Hebbel had been on too intimate terms. Hebbel's +dramas _Judith_, _Genoveva_, and _Maria Magdalena_ all germinated during +these terrible years of the sojourn in Munich. + +But the actual output of these years was not large. Attempts to publish +a volume of poems and a volume of short stories had failed. +Nevertheless, Hebbel was no longer an unknown quantity in the world of +letters when, in the early spring of 1839, he decided to return to +Hamburg. Hope of aid from Campe, Heine's publisher, and from Gutzkow, +the editor of a paper published by Campe, encouraged this decision. But +Hebbel was really going home, going back to Elise, after having +accomplished the purpose of his pilgrimage, even though for lack of +money he could not take with him a doctor's degree. He came as a man who +could do things for which the world gives a man a living. The return +journey, lasting from the eleventh to the thirty-first of March, 1839, +amid alternate freezing and thawing, was a tramp, than which only the +retreat from Moscow could have been more frightful; but Hebbel +accomplished it, more concerned for the little dog that accompanied him +than for his own sufferings. And it appeared that he had wisely chosen +to return; for he found opportunity for critical work in Gutzkow's +_Telegraph_, and Campe published the works which in rapid succession he +now completed: _Judith_ (1840), _Genoveva_ (1841), _The Diamond_ (1841; +printed in 1847), and _Poems_ (1842). + +These publications won fame for Hebbel and yielded some immediate +pecuniary gain. But although he had reached the goal of his ambition in +having become a poet, and a dramatist whose first play had appeared on +the stage, he still lacked a settled occupation and a sure income. +Having been born a Danish subject, he conceived the idea of a direct +appeal to Christian VIII. of Denmark for such an appointment as the king +might be persuaded to give him. In spite of the unacademic course of his +studies and his lack of strictly professional training, he thought of a +professorship of esthetics at Kiel. Even in those days, when +professorships could be had on easier terms than now, this was a wild +dream. But Hebbel did not appeal to his sovereign in vain. He spent the +winter of 1842-43 in Copenhagen, where the Danish-German dramatist +Oehlenschlaeger smoothed his path to royal favor; and after two audiences +with Christian VIII. he was granted a pension of six hundred thalers a +year for two years, in order that by traveling he might learn more of +the world and cultivate his poetic talents. His first expression of +gratitude for this privilege was the tragedy _Maria Magdalena_, begun at +Hamburg in May, finished at Paris in December, 1843, and dedicated to +the king. + +Hebbel's departure for Paris, in September, 1843, did not mean for him +what Heine's settlement there twelve years before had meant for +Heine--the beginning of a new life. Hebbel's knowledge of French was +very imperfect, and he was as much isolated in Paris as he had been in +Munich; he did not seek stimulus from without so much as freedom to +develop the ideas that were teeming in his mind. When he left Hamburg, +however, he was destined never to return thither except as a visitor, +and started on the long, roundabout way to an unforeseen new home in +Vienna. He had been but little over a month in Paris when he learned of +the death of the little son that Elise had borne him three years before. +He was deeply grieved both for himself and for the despairing mother, to +whom he offered all the comfort he could give, not excepting marriage, +as soon as he should ever be able to provide for her. In May, 1844, +Elise bore him another son who, dying in 1847, was never seen by his +father. Hebbel did not forget what he owed to the mother of his +children, but he felt the debt more and more as an obligation, in the +fulfilment of which there was no prospect of satisfaction to either. +Despite the fact that she had a hundred times declared to him that he +was free, all her dreaming and planning tended solely to keep him bound. +He, who had been her pupil, had now far outgrown her capacity to +understand his endeavors and achievements; and he felt that he could +sacrifice much for her, but not himself, his personality, and his +mission. And so the unwholesome relation wore on, with aggravating +burdensomeness, to the inevitable crisis. + +In the fall of 1844 Hebbel journeyed from Paris to Rome. He had met few +notables in Paris--Heine, Felix Bamberg, and Arnold Ruge almost complete +the tale--but in Italy he, like Goethe, made the acquaintance of a group +of German artists, and followed their leadership in the study of ancient +art. He enjoyed this study in natural, unaffected appreciation of the +beautiful; and a certain artistic polish distinguishes the poems which +nature and art in Italy inspired him to write. The Italian journey, +however, was far from being a renaissance to him as it had been to +Goethe. Hebbel remained a Northern artist. Vesuvius impressed him, but +Pompeii proved a disappointment; it was laid out, he said, like any +other city. He departed from Rome in October, 1845, richer in the +friendship of distinguished men--including Hermann Hettner--and in +accumulated experience, but not as one to whom the _Ponte Molle_ is a +bridge of sighs. + +Hebbel's design was to return to Hamburg by way of Vienna. In Vienna, +which he reached on the fourth of November, 1845, he was cordially +received in literary circles. Men of influence promised their good +offices in getting his plays performed, but failed to take effective +measures, and he was about to continue his journey when the romantic +enthusiasm of two young barons Zerboni gave him an _entree_ into +aristocratic society, and he tarried. Ere long he had decided to stay +for life. In Christine Enghaus, the leading lady at the +_Hofburgtheater_, he found the feminine counterpart to his masculine +nature; and on the twenty-sixth of May, 1846, they were married. + +From every point of view this marriage proved so perfect that we may +well question whether anything whatever ought to have been allowed to +stand in the way of it. To Elise, of course, it seemed an outrage--the +more so that she was entirely mistaken as to the character of Christine; +and with furious bitterness she reproached Hebbel for violating her most +sacred rights in his infatuation for an actress. The storm broke, but it +cleared the air for both; and upon the death of her second son in 1847, +Elise came at Christine's invitation to Vienna and spent a year in the +Hebbel household. + +Hebbel himself rightly dated an epoch in his life from his marriage and +the renewed productivity which followed upon it. He enjoyed now for the +first time not only freedom from economic worries but also complete +serenity of mind. Outwardly, indeed, he still had to keep up his +offensive and defensive warfare. Beyond the circle of his immediate +adherents, only the more enlightened of his contemporaries, such as +Ruge, Hettner, and Theodor Vischer, perceived what he was aiming at, and +his own public discussions were so abstruse and repellent that it is no +wonder they were misunderstood. Grillparzer declared that he was groping +in esthetic fog. Julian Schmidt recognized his power and the poetic +charm of many of his passages, but thought him in danger of crossing the +line which separates sense from nonsense, genius from insanity. Hebbel +was restive under criticism, and the method of his polemics tended +rather to exasperate than to conciliate his adversaries. Meanwhile +_Maria Magdalena_ and _Judith_ were performed at the _Hofburgtheater_, +with Christine as the heroine. But in 1850 Heinrich Laube became +director of this theatre, and he not only rejected one play of Hebbel's +after another, but also withdrew from Christine the leading parts which +she had heretofore taken in the regular repertory. + +The new epoch in Hebbel's dramatic activity really began in 1848. The +fruits of his sojourn in Italy, _A Tragedy in Sicily_ (1846), _Julia_ +(1847), and _New Poems_ (published in 1847) were mediocre stragglers in +the train of his first successes. But _Herodes and Mariamne_, begun in +1847 and completed in November, 1848, is the first of a new series of +masterpieces. Mariamne, Hebbel said, was not simply written for +Christine, she _was_ Christine. _The Ruby_, which followed in the spring +of 1849, is a graceful dramatization of a fairy-tale written ten years +before in Munich; _Michel Angelo_ (1850), a satire on his critics, is a +slight but clever refutation of ignorant presumption. _Agnes Bernauer_ +(1851) is a worthy successor of _Herodes and Mariamne_; _Gyges and his +Ring_ (1854) is the most poetic and perhaps the most characteristic of +his dramas. The trilogy on the _Nibelungen_ (1855-1860) was Hebbel's +last great work, ranking with Grillparzer's _Golden Fleece_ and +Schiller's _Wallenstein_; and if he had lived to complete _Demetrius_, +we should have had another remarkable drama, on a subject which Schiller +too was destined to leave unfinished. + +In the fifties, Hebbel accompanied Christine on professional trips to +North Germany, and had ample occasion to observe the spread of his +influence. In 1852 he was feted at Munich in connection with the +production there of _Agnes Bernauer_. In 1858 he attended a performance +of _Genoveva_ in Weimar, and was decorated with an order by the Grand +Duke. In 1861 the Nibelungen trilogy was performed for the first time in +Weimar, with Christine as Brunhild and Kriemhild; and in the following +year Hebbel, who had even thought of going to live at Weimar, was the +guest of the Grand Duke at his castle in Wilhelmsthal. Though in Vienna +honors came later, Hebbel felt himself to be during these years at the +summit of his existence. In 1855 he bought a country home at Orth near +Gmunden in the Salzkammergut, and to the idyllic atmosphere of that +retreat he owed the inspiration for the epic poem _Mother and Child_ +(1857), his gentlest treatment of a tragic theme. In 1857 he issued a +definitive edition of his _Poems_, dedicated to Uhland, "the first poet +of the present time." In 1854 _Genoveva_, in modified form, was +successfully presented as _Magellone_ at the _Burgtheater_, with +Christine as the heroine. But Hebbel's first Viennese triumph did not +come until February 19, 1863, when Christine played Brunhild in the +first and second parts of the _Nibelungen_. On his deathbed he received +the news that the Berlin Schiller Prize had been awarded to him for the +_Nibelungen_. Hebbel died on the thirteenth of December, 1863. Christine +out-lived him by nearly half a century, until the twenty-ninth of June, +1910. + +Rightly or wrongly, Hebbel regarded himself as the creator of a new form +of drama, setting in at a step beyond Shakespeare and Schiller, and +attacking problems in the manner suggested, but not fully developed, by +Goethe. Shakespeare and Schiller, he said, locate the conflict in the +breast of the hero: shall he, or shall he not, endeavor to attain the +object of his desire, against forces which oppose him from without, and +which have their allies in his own conscience, in his own sense of right +and wrong? He desires the wrong, or neglects the right, and for his +tragic fault atones with death. We pity the unfortunate individual, +console ourselves, however, with the inviolability of the moral law, and +profit by his example: only those are free whose will chooses to be +moral. But Goethe, in the dramatically conceived _Elective Affinities_, +focuses attention not upon the doings of individuals, but upon the +sanctions of the law which a power superior to their wills forces them +to break. And so Hebbel, passing over the individual, as one of myriads, +directs inquiry into the causes that make him what he is, that make him +do what he does, that prevent him from doing what at the same time they +impel him to attempt; and he reveals, back of the individual typical +phenomenon, an irreconcilable conflict in the very condition and +definition of its existence. This conflict has its roots in the dualism +of all being. + +The corner-stone of Martin Luther's system of morals was the paradox: "A +Christian is a sovereign lord over all things, and is subject to nobody; +a Christian is a duty-bound servant of all things, and is subject to +everybody." In other words, a man's soul is his own and is superior to +all the things of the flesh; but through his body he is made dependent +upon the life-giving earth, and subject to the laws which those other +"bodies" in the community in which he lives make for the common defense +and the general welfare. Hebbel carried the antithesis farther, asking +what is the soul, and what is the body? And he answered, in effect, that +the soul is indeed the very essence of personality, but is no original, +self-begotten, and self-sufficient entity--on the contrary, it is a +fragment, a participant in the animating principle of the universe--and +that the body is indeed the medium of contact between person and person, +but is also the separating barrier of soul from soul, and of the +individual soul from the soul of the world. The body is the form or +vessel which vouchsafes to the soul individual existence, and which the +soul, by its very impulse to activity, wears out and destroys. Birth is +a prophecy of destruction and a doom to death. + +But life is activity, the soul is a motive force, self-assertion and +self-preservation are heaven's first law. Self-assertion, however, is +nothing but the operation of communicated and committed animation, and +self-preservation nothing but the postponement of the day of surrender. +Self-preservation is impossible; self-assertion is a challenge to the +assertiveness of other selves, as well as a hastener of dissolution. The +self follows its native bent, and its native impulse is for expansion; +but it thus, as a fraction, leaves, on its centrifugal path, the course +of the great world spirit from which it separates; and as both a +separate entity and a member of a community it must, in its attempt at +self-realization, meet the constraint which the community, whose only +object is likewise self-realization and self-preservation, puts upon all +within its power. The law is negative and repressive, self-interest is +positive and assertive; between the two there is no possible +reconciliation--at most a compromise--so that in the last analysis it +appears that the assertion of individual will as such is immoral, that +is, contrary to the will of the community; and is sinful, for it is not +the will of God, but the will of a particularized individual, however +godly he may be. There are differences in degree, but not in kind, among +immoralities and sins, with corresponding degrees of punitive +repression; but the potential tragic conflict is constant, and there is +as little doubt about the eminent domain of the State as about the +supremacy of God. + +The laws of God are changeless and eternal, but human morality is a +local and temporal development. As the character of an individual is the +product of disposition and experience, so his fate is humanly determined +by the particular forms of custom and law established in the community +in which his lot is cast. But these change from time to time, and in +periods of change the disparity between public and private interest is +most conspicuous: the progressive individual bears not only the burden +of proof but also the dead weight of public inertia. Only at infinity +can the parallel antithetical interests coincide. Nevertheless, the +world gradually effects self-correction by the evolution of new +syntheses from the thesis and antithesis ever and anon presented for +trial and judgment as between liberal and conservative forces. + +Hebbel's drama, then, is the representation of a process, the process of +life, by which things come into being. It reveals the individual in the +making, and discusses the validity of the institutions that condition +his life or cause his death. There is no question of guilt and +atonement. Protagonist and antagonist are right, each in his way and +from his point of view; the conflict may arise from excess of goodness +as well as from excess of evil; but the representative of the whole +prevails of necessity over the champion of a single interest; and in the +knowledge of this truth, rather than in the futile attempt to modify the +relation, we must seek our freedom. Hebbel's plays are historical: +character in its setting of circumstances is the only character really +and fully comprehensible. They are sociological: exhibiting the +ceaseless collision of individualistic and collectivistic tendencies, +they teach forbearance, and patience, and the will to face the +facts--_tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner_. And they are modern: +treating problems of character and _milieu_, they disdain the +adventitious aids of eloquence and theatrical splendor, and speak to us +with the directness, often with the bluntness, of nature herself. Hebbel +was no naturalist, in the sense of one who seeks but to reproduce +phenomena in all their details, sordid, trivial, or vulgar, if such they +be. But through Ibsen, who esteemed him alone among his German +predecessors, he became a factor in the recent naturalistic movement; +and he might have saved it from many an aberration, if his example had +been more closely followed. + +Hebbel strikingly revealed his independence and originality at the +beginning of his public career, by his new conception of old and +familiar subjects. His Judith is a totally different person from the +heroine of the Apocrypha. The Biblical Judith is a widow who slays a +public enemy, and returns unscathed amid the plaudits of the multitude. +But Hebbel's Judith is a widow who has never been a wife, a woman who +seems to have been appointed by Providence to do a great deed in His +service, who takes the duty upon herself only to find that as a woman +she is unequal to it; for as a woman she loves the manly heathen. She +kills him, as she set out to do; but the motive for her act is personal +revenge for a personal outrage; and she returns to Bethulia broken in +spirit and appalled at the thought that she may bear a son by +Holofernes. The attempt to make of herself an impersonal instrument in +the hands of the Almighty--certainly a laudable undertaking--is her only +fault, and is tragic because inconsistent with the character of +womanhood, which the Almighty has also ordained. Compared with the iron +necessity of her being, to which Judith succumbs, the accidental and +improbable fault of Schiller's Maid of Orleans seems as trivial as it is +conventional. + +Similarly, in the conception of the story of Genoveva, Hebbel shifted +attention from the saint to the sinner. In the centre of his _Genoveva_ +stands Golo, the unfortunate young man whose good instincts are made +criminal because the faults and errors of others excite them, and +because his desire, justifiable according to nature, is directed toward +a woman who is bound to another in a wedlock which, from the side of the +husband at least, is only formally correct. In Golo's crime and +atonement we accordingly see a great deal more than the operation of the +moral law: we see how crime is begotten of innocence; and instead of +thinking of the wretched creature, we think of the Creator who has so +ordained it, and at whose central position in the moral universe there +can be neither good nor evil, but an equilibrium of forces which become +one or the other, and may become either when the equilibrium is +disturbed. Good and evil, mutually exclusive qualities in the world of +appearance, are, in the world of ideas, complementary conceptions, +different aspects of one and the same thing. + +Golo appears, despite his crimes, less guilty than Siegfried, the +husband of Genoveva; and in his case a divine impulse, love, becomes an +evil because it happens to collide with an institution, marriage, which +we are here justified in calling human, since, though it has a social +sanction, it lacks the evidence of divine approval. Clara, in _Maria +Magdalena_, is chargeable with but the minimum of guilt, and perishes +because, too honest and dutiful to safeguard her own interests in a +stern and selfish community, she cannot otherwise preserve for her +father that unassailable reputation which is, in his imperfect ethics, +the highest good. The tragedy in this play is the tragedy of pharisaical +_bourgeois_ society itself. There is no collision between high and low, +such as constituted the plot of the _tragedies bourgeoises_ of the +eighteenth century--e.g., Lessing's _Emilia Galotti_, Schiller's _Cabal +and Love_--but the stubborn hardness of the middle-class society in its +typical representative is unable to meet a crisis; and by the +banishment, or the condemnation to suicide, of its most promising +members, this society pronounces its own doom. Altruism is contrary to +the custom, that is, to the morals of this community, and for that +reason is forbidden and suppressed. + +Another community in which altruism is unusual and discredited is Judaea +just before the birth of Christ. Herod the king is a masterful ruler and +a benefactor; but the end justifies the means that he adopts, and he is +no respecter of persons. He does not even respect the person of his +wife. The love of Mariamne is the one sure rock upon which he can rest +when the earthquake, threatening at every moment, comes to shatter his +throne and engulf him. He loves her too with a passion which dreams of +union so perfect that death cannot break it, so perfect that one of them +would wish to die at the moment when the soul of the other left the +body. This is Mariamne's dream also, but Herod cannot trust her to +fulfil it. Not once, but twice, upon going to the wars, he leaves orders +that Mariamne shall be slain if he is killed; and these orders are an +assassination of her soul. The community can execute an individual; but +one individual can only assassinate another. In the ancient orient a +wife was a precious possession, entirely subject to the will of her +husband, and liable to be burned in his funeral pyre. Herod represents +such an ancient, oriental point of view; but Judaea is on the eve of +becoming occidental and modern. Herod represents the law and has the +power to crush the insurgent personality of Mariamne: he has not the +power to slay the infant Savior, nor to hinder the coming of the day +when every human soul is known to be an object of divine concern. + +That play of Hebbel's in which the dualism of all being is most +conspicuously tragic is _Agnes Bernauer_. Agnes is the daughter of a +barber and surgeon, and is so beautiful that she is commonly known as +the angel of Augsburg. Albrecht, the son and sole heir of the reigning +duke Ernst, comes to Augsburg, falls in love with her, and, in spite of +friendly warning, marries her; for she has loved him at first sight, +too. As persons, they do what is right for them to do; their marriage +has been performed by a priest of the church; and they feel that it has +divine sanction. But Albrecht is not an ordinary person; he is the heir +to the throne, and public exigencies require that the succession shall +be guaranteed. This marriage, however, is illegal--a board of +incorruptible judges so finds it; it causes sedition and threatens +interminable strife. Duke Ernst is deliberate and patient in dealing +with the unprecedented case. He waits until he can wait no longer. +Albrecht will not give up Agnes, nor Agnes give up him; Ernst respects +the sacrament of wedlock by which they are united, and only after two +and a half years does he sign the warrant by which Agnes was duly +condemned to death. Agnes dies in perfect innocence and constancy, a +victim of social convention. But Albrecht, whose disregard of this +convention was rebellion, and whose vengeance for his wife's death +brings him to the point of parricide, is made to see, not merely because +excommunication accompanies the ban of the empire on him as a rebel, but +also because of the instructive words and actions of his father, that +the social organization he has defied has itself a divine sanction, and +that a prince, standing by common consent at the head of that +organization, cannot with impunity undermine the basis of his +sovereignty. Devotion to him is like loyalty to the national ensign. The +ensign is nothing in itself, but it symbolizes the idea of the State; +and the prince is also the representative of an idea, which he must +continue to represent in its entirety, or he ceases to be the prince. +This lesson Albrecht learns when, like Kleist's _Prince of Homburg_, he +is made judge in his own case, and when he perceives at the cost of what +personal sacrifice his father has done his duty. The State prevails over +Albrecht as it prevails over Agnes, whose only fault was that she did +not immure her beauty in a nunnery. + +The sanction of tradition and custom which Albrecht and Agnes could not +break in _Agnes Bernauer_ Hebbel most impressively demonstrated in +_Gyges and his Ring_. Kandaules, King of Lydia, is a rash innovator in +both public and private life. He despises rusty swords and uncomfortable +crowns, he means to do away with silly prejudices, and, like Herod, +regarding his wife as a precious possession only, he procures for his +friend Gyges an opportunity to see her unveiled. But she, an Indian +princess, is, in Christine Hebbel's words, a convolution of veils; her +veil is inseparable from herself; and the brutal violation of her +modesty is a less forgivable crime than the taking of her life would be. +The wearing of a veil may be a foolish custom; but use and want hallow +even the trivial. Half of our law is based upon precedent, and we are +protected at every turn by unwritten law, which is nothing else than +precedent. Mankind needs to repose in the security of this protection. +Woe to him, said Hebbel, who disturbs the sleep of the world! Changes +must come, but rarely in the way of revolution. + +The tragedy of the Nibelungen Hebbel approached somewhat differently +from the other subjects that he treated. He had his own conception of +the tragic content of the matter, of course; but he found that the +author of the _Nibelungenlied_, a dramatist from head to foot, has so +clearly presented the tragic aspects of the story that the modern +dramatist need only make himself the interpreter of the medieval epic +poet. Herewith Hebbel's trilogy is at once distinguished from such other +modern treatments of the subject as Geibel's _Brunhild_ or Wagner's +_Nibelungen Ring_. Geibel eliminated everything supernatural; Wagner +made use chiefly of the Old Norse versions of the story; Hebbel, on the +contrary, dramatized what he regarded as the significant content of the +Middle High German poem, retaining its mythological, Christian, +chivalrous, historical, and legendary elements. The mythological +elements of the epic are indeed indistinct survivals of earlier ages. +Hebbel leaned somewhat upon Norse myths in his reproduction of them, +though it was part of his plan to preserve a certain indistinctness and +mystery in these undramatic presuppositions. Similarly, he made more of +the element of Christianity than is made of it by the _Nibelungenlied_. +In both epic and drama the Burgundians are only formally Christian; the +cardinal principles of heathen ethics, tribal loyalty and vengeance, are +entirely unaffected by the Christian doctrine of forgiveness. In the +play, however, the transition from one system to the other is much more +strongly emphasized than in the poem. The heathen ethics lead to the +mutual destruction of those who profess them, and out of the ruins of +the old civilization a new world rises heralded by Theodoric of Verona, +who accepts the sovereignty relinquished by Attila the Hun, "in His name +who died on the cross." + +The downfall of two peoples follows in the train of personal calamity. +Siegfried, foreordained by the ancient gods to become the husband of +Brunhild, neglects in the adventurous days of youth to woo her, and +undertakes for the price of Kriemhild's hand to secure her as a wife for +Gunther. Hidden in his cloak of invisibility, he twice overcomes +Brunhild, thereby committing against her the same kind of outrage as +Herod's against Mariamne, and that of Gyges against Rhodope. Through no +direct fault of Siegfried's the fraud is discovered; it is an offense to +the queen, which insults the State. Gunther the king will not punish it, +for he is under personal obligations to the offender; but he takes no +effective measures to prevent punishment by Hagen, who, though his loyal +motives are mixed with envy, acts within his rights as the prime +minister. But Siegfried, being vulnerable in only one spot, cannot be +challenged to open combat; he has to be slain by stealth; so that +Hagen's act is not strictly to be called murder, and the Burgundians, +even though their sense of solidarity should not require them to make +common cause with him against Kriemhild, might with some show of reason +confirm his oath that he is no murderer. Siegfried put himself outside +the pale of humanity when he assumed the dragon's skin. Dragons are +hunted to death. Only men are tried and executed. + +We have chosen to examine Hebbel's principal plays from the point of +view of their idea, for the reason that, as said above, it was primarily +the idea which Hebbel found important in every individual phenomenon. He +did not treat cases and conditions for the sake of merely representing +life on the stage, but for the sake of exemplifying, in representations +of life, the fundamental irreconcilability of the expansive and +repressive forces which struggle in every individual. His characters are +certainly persons, not abstract constructions; the action in his plays +moves relentlessly forward, with no lack of inventiveness on his part or +of sensuous impressiveness on the part of his inventions; he seldom +fails to convince our understanding that in his dramatic debate each +side is adequately represented, and that the side which at length +prevails is the stronger under the presuppositions of time and place; it +would be unfair, furthermore, to deny the appeal that he makes to our +sympathy. But, on the other hand, he is not free from suggestions of +artifice; his characters are abnormally introspective and +self-explanatory, and they reveal a talent for logical exposition which +belongs rather to Friedrich Hebbel than to men of like passions with +ourselves. In the unsought, accidental, ingenuous details which +ingratiate themselves in spite, or perhaps because of their +insignificance, he is not to be compared with Grillparzer; nor, in the +capacity to create a poetic atmosphere, with Otto Ludwig. His language +is rugged and masculine; his style, frequently forensic. Taken as a +whole, his work furnishes more abundant food for thought than objects +of _naive_ esthetic enjoyment; but, like Grillparzer's, his plays were +written for the stage; and proper enactment has seldom failed to produce +with them an effect of power worthy of his powerful personality, which +swam against the tide, knowing that the tide would turn and that the +flood would bear him to the haven. + + * * * * * + + + + +_FRIEDRICH HEBBEL_ + + * * * * * + + + +MARIA MAGDALENA + + +DRAMATIS PERSONAE + +Master ANTONY, _a joiner_ + +_His Wife_ + +CLARA, _his daughter_ + +CARL, _his son_ + +LEONARD + +_A Secretary_ WOLFRAM, a merchant_ + +ADAM, _a bailiff_ + +_Another bailiff_ + +_A Boy_ + +_A Maid_ + +_Place. A fair-sized town_ + + + +MARIA MAGDALENA (1844) + +TRANSLATED BY PAUL BERNARD THOMAS + +ACT I + +_A Room in the Joiner's House._ + +SCENE I + +_Enter_ CLARA; _the_ MOTHER. + +CLARA. + +Your wedding dress? Oh, how well it becomes you! It looks as if it had +been made today! + +MOTHER. + +Yes, child, fashion keeps on going forward until it can go no farther +and has to turn around and go back. This dress has already been out of +style and in again ten times. + +CLARA. + +But this time it is not exactly in style, dear mother! The sleeves are +too wide! It must not annoy you! + +MOTHER (_smiling_). + +I should have to be you for that! CLARA. + +And so this is the way you looked! But surely you carried a bunch of +flowers too, didn't you? + +MOTHER. + +I should hope so! Else why do you think I nursed that sprig of myrtle in +the pot for so many years? + +CLARA. + +I have often asked you to, but you have never before put it on. You have +always said: It is no longer my wedding dress; it is my shroud now, and +that is something one should not play with. I got so that I couldn't +even look at it any more, because, hanging there so white, it always +made me think of your death, and of the day when the old women would try +to pull it on over your head. Why then today? + +MOTHER. + +When one is very sick, as I was, and does not know whether one is going +to get well again or not, a great many things revolve in one's head. +Death is more terrible than you think--oh, it is awful! It casts a +shadow over the world; one after the other it blows out all the lights +that shine with such cheerful brightness all around us, the kindly eyes +of husband and children cease to sparkle, and it grows dark everywhere. +But deep in the heart it strikes a light, which burns brightly and +reveals a great deal one does not care to see. I am not conscious of +ever having done a wrong; I have walked in God's ways, I have done my +best about the home, I have brought you and your brother up to fear God, +and I have kept together the fruits of your father's hard work. I have +always managed to lay aside an extra penny for the poor, and if now and +then I have turned somebody away, because I felt out of sorts or because +too many came, it wasn't a very great misfortune for him, because I was +sure to call him back and give him twice as much. Oh, what does it all +amount to? People dread the last hour when it threatens to come, writhe +like a worm over it, and implore God to let them live, just as a servant +implores his master to let him do something over again that he has +done poorly, so that he may not come short in his wages on pay-day. + +CLARA. + +Don't talk in that way, dear mother! It weakens you. + +MOTHER. + +No, child, it does me good! Am I not well and strong again now? Did +not the Lord call me merely to let me know that my festal robe was not +yet pure and spotless? And did he not permit me to come back from the +very edge of the grave, and grant me time to prepare myself for the +heavenly wedding? He was not as kind as that to those five Virgins in +the Gospel, about whom I had you read to me last night. And that is the +reason why today, when I am going to the Holy Communion, I put this +dress on. I wore it the day I made the best and most pious resolutions +of my life; I want it to remind me of those which I have not yet carried +out. + +CLARA. + +You still talk as you did in your illness! + + + +SCENE II + +CARL (_enters_). + +Good morning, mother! Well, Clara, I suppose you might put up with me, +if I were not your brother? + +CLARA. + +A gold chain? Where did you get that? + +CARL. + +Why do I sweat so? Why do I work two hours longer than the others every +evening? You are impertinent! + +MOTHER. + +A quarrel on Sunday morning? Shame on you, Carl! + +CARL. + +Mother, haven't you got a gulden for me? + +MOTHER. + +I haven't any money except for the housekeeping! + +CARL. + +Well, give me some of that then! I won't grumble if you make the +pancakes thinner for the next two weeks. You have often done so before! +I know that all right! When you were saving up for Clara's white dress, +we didn't have anything decent to eat for a month. I shut my eyes, but I +knew right well that a new hair ribbon or some other bit of finery was +on the way. So let me get something out of it too, for once! + +MOTHER. + +You are absolutely shameless! + +CARL. + +I haven't much time, else--[_He starts to go_.] + +MOTHER. + +Where are you going? + +CARL. + +I won't tell you, and then, when the old growler asks you where I am, +you can answer without blushing that you don't know. Anyway I don't need +your gulden--it is best not to draw all your water from one well. + +[_To himself_.] + +Here at home they always think the worst things they can about me; why +shouldn't I take pleasure in keeping them worried? Why should I say +that, since I don't get my gulden, I shall have to go to church, unless +a friend helps me out of my predicament? + + + +SCENE III + +CLARA. + +What does he mean by that? + +MOTHER. + +Oh, he grieves me terribly! Yes, yes, your father is right! Those are +the consequences! He is just as insolent now in demanding a gulden as he +was cunning in pleading for a piece of sugar when he was a little +curly-headed baby. I wonder if he would not demand the gulden now, if I +had refused him the sugar then? That often hurts me! And I think he +doesn't even love me! Did you ever once see him cry during my illness? + +CLARA. + +I didn't see him very often at best--almost never except at the table. +He had more appetite than I! + +MOTHER (_quickly_). + +That was natural! He had to work so hard! + +CLARA. + +To be sure! And how strange men are! They are more ashamed of their +tears than they are of their sins! A clenched fist--why not exhibit +that? But red eyes!--And father too! The afternoon they opened your vein +and no blood came, he sobbed at his work-bench until it moved my very +soul! But when I went up to him and stroked his cheeks, what did he say? +"See if you can't get this accursed splinter out of my eye! I have so +much to do and can't accomplish anything!" + +MOTHER (_smiling_). + +Yes! yes!--I never see Leonard any more, by the way. How does that +happen? + +CLARA. + +Let him stay away! + +MOTHER. + +I hope you are not seeing him anywhere else, except here at the house! + +CLARA. + +Is it because I stay out too long when I go to the well in the evening +that you have reason to suspect that? + +MOTHER. + +No, not that. But it was just for that reason that I gave him permission +to come here to the house, so that he wouldn't lie in wait for you out +there in the dark. My mother would never allow that, either! + +CLARA. + +I don't see him at all! + +MOTHER. + +Have you had a quarrel? Otherwise I think I might like him--he is so +steady! If he only amounted to something! In my time he would not have +had to wait long. Then gentlemen were eager for a good penman, as lame +people are for their crutch, for they were rare. Even we humble people +could use one. Today he would compose for a son a New Year's greeting to +his father and receive for the gilded initials alone enough to buy a +child's doll with. Tomorrow the father would give him a sly wink and +have him read the greeting aloud, secretly and behind closed doors, so +as not to be surprised and have his ignorance discovered. That meant +double pay. Then penmen were jolly people and made the price of beer +high. It is different now. Now we old folks, not knowing anything about +reading and writing, must allow ourselves to be made fun of by +nine-year-old children. The world is steadily growing wiser; perhaps the +time is yet to come when people who can't walk a tight-rope will have to +feel ashamed of it! + +CLARA. + +The bell is ringing! + +MOTHER. + +Well, child, I will pray for you. And as far as Leonard is concerned, +love him as he loves God--no more and no less. That is what my old +mother said to me when she died and gave me her blessing. I have kept it +long enough; now you have it! + +CLARA (_hands her a nosegay_). + +There! + +MOTHER. + +That certainly comes from Carl. + +CLARA (_nods; then aside_.) + +Would it were so! Anything that is to give her real pleasure has to come +from him! + +MOTHER. + +Oh, he is so good--and he likes me! [_Exit_.] + +CLARA (_looks after her through the window_). + +There she goes! Three times I have dreamt that she was lying in her +coffin, and now--oh, these awful dreams! I am not going to care about +dreams any more; I will take no pleasure in a good dream, and then I +shall not have to worry about the bad one that follows it. How firmly +and confidently she steps out! She is already close to the church-yard. +I wonder who will be the first person she meets? It would signify +nothing--no, I mean only [_she shudders_]--the gravedigger! He has just +finished digging a grave and is climbing out of it! She greets him and +glances smilingly down into the dismal hole! She throws the nosegay into +it and enters the church! + +[_A choir is heard_.] + +They are singing: _Praise ye the Lord_. + +[_She folds her hands_.] + +Yes! yes! If my mother had died, I should never have recovered from it, +for--[_Glances toward Heaven_.] But Thou art kind, Thou art merciful! I +would that I believed with the Catholics, so that I might offer Thee +something! I would empty the whole of my little box of savings and buy +Thee a beautiful gilded heart, and twine it with roses. Our pastor says +that sacrifices mean nothing to Thee, because everything is Thine, and +one should not offer Thee something Thou already hast. And yet +everything in the house belongs to my father too; and still he likes it +when I buy a piece of cloth with his money and embroider it and put it +on his plate for his birthday. Yes, and he honors me by wearing it only +on great holidays, at Christmas or Whitsuntide. Once I saw a little mite +of a Catholic girl carrying some cherries up to the altar. They were the +first the child had had that year, and I could see how she longed to eat +them. Still she resisted the innocent desire, and, in order to put an +end to the temptation, hurriedly threw them down. The priest, who was +just about to pick up the chalice, looked on with a scowl, and the child +hastened timidly away. But the Mary above the altar smiled gently, as if +she would have liked to step out of her frame and overtake the child and +kiss her.--I did it for her! Here comes Leonard. Oh, dear! + + + +SCENE IV + +LEONARD (_outside the door_). + +Are you dressed? + +CLARA. + +Why so polite, so considerate? I am no princess, you know. + +LEONARD (_enters_). + +I thought you were not alone! In passing by I thought I saw your +neighbor Babbie standing by the window. + +CLARA. + +And so that is why-- + +LEONARD. + +You are forever so irritable! One can stay away from here for two weeks, +rain and sunshine can have alternated ten times, and, when one does +finally come again, he finds the same old cloud darkening your face! + +CLARA. + +Things used to be different! + +LEONARD. + +Correct! If you had always looked as you do now, we should never have +become good friends! + +CLARA. + +What of it? + +LEONARD. + +So you feel yourself as free of me as that, do you? Perhaps it serves me +right! Then [_significantly_] your recent toothache was a mere pretext! + +CLARA. + +Oh, Leonard, it was not right of you! + +LEONARD. + +Not right for me to seek to bind to me the greatest treasure that I +have--for that is what you are to me--with the firmest of all bonds? And +especially at a time when I stood in danger of losing it? Do you think I +did not see the furtive glances you exchanged with the Secretary? That +was a triumphant day of joy for me! I take you to the dance and-- +CLARA. + +You never stop saying things that hurt me! I looked at the Secretary, +why should I deny it? But only on account of the moustache he had grown +at the University, and which-- + +[_She checks herself_.] + +LEONARD. + +Becomes him so well--isn't that it? Isn't that what you started to say? +Oh, you women! Anything that looks like a soldier, even a caricature of +one, you like. To me the fop's ridiculous little oval face, with that +tuft of hair in the middle of it, looked like a little white rabbit +hiding behind a bush. I am bitter toward him--I won't try to conceal it. +He held me back from you long enough! + +CLARA. + +I didn't praise him, did I? You don't need to run him down! + +LEONARD. + +You still seem to take a lot of interest in him. + +CLARA. + +We used to play together as children, and afterward--you know very well! + +LEONARD. + +Oh yes, I know! And that's just why! + +CLARA. + +Then I think it was only natural, seeing him again for the first time +in a long while that way, for me to look at him and be astonished to see +how big and--[_She checks herself_.] + +LEONARD. + +Why did you blush then, when he looked back at you? + +CLARA. + +I thought he was looking at the little mole on my left cheek to see if +it, too, had grown bigger! You know I always imagine people are looking +at that when they stare at me so, and it always makes me blush. I have a +feeling as if it _were_ growing larger, as long as they look at it! + +LEONARD. + +However that may be, it got on my nerves, and I thought to myself: This +very evening I will put her to the test! If she wants to become my wife, +she knows that she risks nothing. If she says no, then-- + +CLARA. + +Oh, you said a bad, bad word, when I pushed you back and jumped up from +the bench. The moon, which up to that time had shone in through the +foliage with such kindly consideration for me, at that moment sank +shrewdly behind the wet clouds. I wanted to hurry away, but felt +something holding me. At first I thought it was you, but it was the +rose-bush, whose thorns held my dress like teeth. You outraged my heart, +so that I no longer trusted it myself. You stood before me like one +demanding the payment of a debt! I--Oh, God! + +[Illustration: ALFRED RETHEL DEATH AS CUP-BEARER] + +LEONARD. + +I cannot yet regret it. I knew it was the only way I could have kept you +to myself. The old girlhood love was opening its eyes again, and I could +not close them quickly enough! + +CLARA. + +When I got home, I found my mother ill, mortally ill. She had been +stricken suddenly, as if by an invisible hand. My father had wanted to +send for me, but she would not consent to his doing so, not wishing to +interrupt my happiness. And how I felt when I heard that! I held myself +aloof, I did not dare to touch her, I trembled! She took it for childish +anxiety and motioned me over to her; when I slowly drew near her, she +held me down and kissed my desecrated mouth. I lost control of myself; I +wanted to confess to her, to cry out what I thought and felt: It is my +fault that you are lying there! I tried to do so, but tears and sobs +choked my voice. She reached for my father's hand, and said with a +blissful glance at me: What a heart! + +LEONARD. + +She is well again. I have come to congratulate her, and--what do you +think? + +CLARA. + +What? + +LEONARD. + +To ask your father for your hand. + +CLARA. + +Oh! + +LEONARD. + +Don't you want me to? + +CLARA. + +Want you to? It will mean my death, if I do not become your wife pretty +soon! But you do not know my father! He does not understand why we are +in such a hurry--he cannot understand why, and we cannot tell him why! +And he has declared a hundred times that he will never give his daughter +to any man unless he has not only, as he says, love in his heart for +her, but also bread in his cupboard for her. He will say: Wait another +year or two, my son.--And what will be your answer? + +LEONARD. You foolish girl, that difficulty is disposed of! I have the +position now--I am cashier! + +CLARA. + +You cashier? And the other applicant, the pastor's nephew? + +LEONARD. + +Was drunk when he came to the examination, bowed to the stove instead of +to the burgomaster, and when he sat down knocked three cups off the +table. You know how hot-headed the old fellow is. "Sir!" he exclaimed +angrily, but he restrained himself and bit his lip. Nevertheless his +eyes glared through his spectacles like the eyes of a serpent about to +spring, and his whole body became rigid. Then we started computing and, +ha! ha!--my rival computed with a multiplication table of his own +invention that gave entirely new results. "He's way off in his +reckoning!" said the burgomaster, and, glancing in my direction, held +out his hand to me with the appointment. It smelled terribly of tobacco, +but I took it and raised it humbly to my lips.--Here it is now, signed +and sealed! + +CLARA. + +That comes-- + +LEONARD. + +Unexpectedly, doesn't it? Well, it was not altogether an accident +either. Why didn't I come to see you for two weeks? + +CLARA. + +How do I know? I think it was because we got angry at each other the +Sunday before! + +LEONARD. + +Oh, I was cunning enough to bring about that little disagreement on +purpose--so that I could stay away without its astonishing you too much! + +CLARA. + +I don't understand you! + +LEONARD. + +I suppose not. I took advantage of the time to pay court to the +burgomaster's little hump-backed niece, whom the old fellow thinks so +much of, and who is his right hand, just as the bailiff is his left. +Understand me correctly! I didn't say anything nice to her about +herself, except perhaps a compliment regarding her hair, which everybody +knows is red--so I just told her some nice things she liked to hear +about you. + +CLARA. + +About me? + +LEONARD. + +Why should I keep still about it? I did it with the best of +intentions--as if I had never intended to deal seriously with you, as +if--enough! That lasted until I got this in my hands, and the credulous +little man-crazy fool will find out what I meant when she hears the +banns of our marriage published in the church. + +CLARA. + +Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +Child! child! You be as innocent as a dove, and I will be as wise as a +serpent. Then, since a man and his wife are one, we shall entirely +satisfy the demand of the Gospel. + +[_Laughs_.] + +Neither was it altogether an accident that young Hermann was drunk at +the most important moment of his life. You have surely never heard that +the fellow is given to drinking? + +CLARA. + +Not a word. + +LEONARD. + +The fact made the execution of my scheme all the easier. It was done +with three glasses. I had a couple of friends of mine waylay him. "May +one drink to your health?"--"Not now!"--"Oh, that is all arranged, you +know. Your uncle"--"And now, drink, my brother, drink!"--This morning +when I was on my way to you, he stood leaning on the bridge and gazing +dejectedly down at the river. I greeted him sarcastically, and asked him +if he had dropped anything into the water. "Yes," he answered, without +looking up, "and perhaps it would be well for me to jump in after it." + +CLARA. + +You bad man! Get out of my sight! + +LEONARD. + +You mean it? + +[_Moves, as if to go_.] + +CLARA. + +Oh, my God, I am chained to this man! + +LEONARD. + +Don't be a baby! And now one more word in confidence: Does your father +still keep the thousand thalers in the apothecary shop? + +CLARA. + +I know nothing about it. + +LEONARD. + +Nothing about so important a matter? + +CLARA. + +Here comes my father. + +LEONARD. + +Understand me! The apothecary is said to be on the verge of +bankruptcy--that's why I asked! + +CLARA. + +I must go into the kitchen! [_Exit_.] + +LEONARD (_alone_). + +Well, I guess there is nothing to be got here! I can't understand it at +all; for Master Antony is one of those fellows whose ghost, if you +should accidentally put one too many letters on his gravestone, would +haunt you until you took it off. For he would regard it as dishonest to +appropriate more of the alphabet than he was properly entitled to. + + + +SCENE V + +_Enter_ LEONARD; _Master_ ANTONY. + +ANTONY. + +Good morning, Mr. Cashier! [_He takes off his cap and puts on a woolen +cap_.] Is it permissible for an old man to keep his head covered? + +LEONARD. + +You know then-- + +ANTONY. + +Since yesterday evening. When I was going over in the dusk to take the +deceased miller's measure for his final sleeping room, I heard a couple +of your good friends slandering you. I thought right away: I guess +Leonard has not broken his neck.--At the house I heard more about it +from the sexton, who had come to console the widow, and, incidentally, +to get drunk. + +LEONARD. + +And you had to let Clara find out about it from me? + +ANTONY. + +If you didn't care enough about it to give the girl that pleasure +yourself, why should I do it? I don't light any candles in my house +except those that belong to me. Then I know that nobody is going to come +and blow them out, just as we are beginning to enjoy them. + +LEONARD. + +Surely you don't think that I-- + +ANTONY. + +Think? About you? About anybody? I smooth over boards with my plane, but +I never smooth over men with my thoughts. I stopped that sort of +foolishness long ago. When I see a tree growing, I think to myself: It +will soon be blossoming; and when it sprouts: It will soon bear fruit. +In that I never see myself disappointed, and for that reason I don't +give up the old habit. But about men I never think anything, good or +bad, and then I don't have to turn alternately red and white when they +disappoint my fears one minute and my hopes the next. I merely observe +them and use the evidence of my eyes, which likewise do not think, but +only see. I thought I had made a complete observation of you, but now +that I find you here I must confess that it was only half an +observation. + +LEONARD. + +Master Antony, you have it all upside down. Trees are dependent upon +wind and weather, whereas men have laws and rules in themselves to +govern them. + +ANTONY. + +Do you think so? Yes, we old people owe hearty thanks to death for +allowing us to run around so long among you young folks, thereby giving +us an opportunity to educate ourselves. Formerly the stupid world used +to think that the father was there to educate his son. But now the son +is supposed to give his father the final touch of perfection, so that +the poor, simple man will not need to feel ashamed of himself before the +worms in his grave. God be praised! I have a fine teacher in my son Carl +who, without sparing his old child by indulgence, takes the field +against my prejudices. He taught me two new lessons this very morning, +and in the most clever way, without opening his mouth and without even +letting me see him--yes, by that very means. In the first place, he +showed me that it is not necessary for a man to keep his word; in the +second, that it is superfluous to go to church and freshen up one's +memory of God's laws. Yesterday evening he promised me that he would go, +and I counted on his doing it, for I thought to myself: He will want to +thank the gracious Creator for the recovery of his mother. But he wasn't +there, and I was very comfortable all alone in my pew, which, to be +sure, is a little too short for two persons anyway. I wonder if he would +like it if I myself were to act in accordance with the new doctrine, by +not keeping my word with him? I have promised him a new suit for his +birthday, and I might take the opportunity to test his joy over my +docility. But prejudice! Prejudice! I shall not do it! + +LEONARD. + +Perhaps he was not well-- + +ANTONY. + +Possibly! I need only to ask my wife, then I am sure to hear that he is +sick. For she tells me the truth about everything else in the world, but +never about the boy. And even if he was not sick!--There too the younger +generation has the advantage over us old folks, in that they can find +their spiritual edification anywhere, and can do their worshipping when +they are out trapping birds, or taking a walk, or sitting in the +ale-house. "Our Father who art in Heaven"--"Good day, Peter, shall I +see you at the dance this evening?"--"Hallowed be Thy name"--"Yes, laugh +if you will, Catherine, but it is true"--"Thy will be done"--"The devil +take me, I am not shaved yet!"--and so forth. And each one pronounces +the blessing on himself, for he is a man just as much as the preacher, +and the power that emanates from a black garb certainly exists in a blue +one as well. Nor have I anything to say against it; even if you want to +intersperse the seven petitions with seven glasses, what of it? I can't +prove to anybody that beer and religion don't mix well, and perhaps it +will some day get into the liturgy as a new way of taking the Eucharist. +Frankly, I myself, old sinner that I am, am not strong enough to keep +pace with fashion; I cannot catch up worship in the street, as if it +were a cockchafer; for me the chirping of swallows and sparrows cannot +take the place of the organ. If I want to feel my heart exalted, I must +hear the heavy, iron doors of the church close behind me and think to +myself that they are the doors of the world. The dismal high walls with +their narrow windows, that admit but a dim remnant of the bold garish +daylight as if they were sifting it, must surround me on all sides. And +in the distance I must be able to see the charnel-house, with its +death-head cut in the wall. Oh well, better is better. + +LEONARD. + +You are too particular about it! + +ANTONY. + +Of course! Of course! And today, as an honest man, I must confess that +what I have been saying did not hold good; for I lost my reverent mood +in church, being annoyed by the vacant seat beside me, and found it +again under the pear-tree in my garden. You are astonished? But look! I +went sadly and dejectedly home, like one whose harvest has been ruined +by hail; for children are like fields--we sow good corn in them and +weeds sprout up. Under the pear-tree, which the caterpillars have half +eaten up, I stood still. "Yes," I thought, "the boy is like this tree, +empty and barren." Then I suddenly imagined that I was very thirsty, and +absolutely had to go over to the tavern. I deceived myself--it wasn't to +get a glass of beer that I wanted to go; it was to seek out the young +man and take him to task in the tavern, where I knew he was sure to be. +I was just about to start, when the sensible old tree let fall a juicy +pear right at my feet, as if to say: Take that for your thirst, and for +slandering me by comparing me with that good-for-nothing son of yours. I +deliberated a moment, took a bite of it, and went into the house. + +LEONARD. + +Do you know that the apothecary is on the verge of bankruptcy? + +ANTONY. + +What do I care? + +LEONARD. + +Don't you care at all + +ANTONY. + +Surely! I am a Christian--the man has several children! + +LEONARD. + +And still more creditors. The children, too, are creditors in a way. + +ANTONY. + +Happy is he who is neither the one nor the other! + +LEONARD. + +I thought you yourself-- + +ANTONY. + +That was settled up long ago. + +LEONARD. + +You are a prudent man; of course you immediately demanded your money +when you saw that the green-grocer was about to fail. + +ANTONY. + +Yes, I need not tremble any more with the fear of losing it--it was lost +long ago! + +LEONARD. + +You are joking! + +ANTONY. + +In all seriousness! + +CLARA (_looks in at the door_). + +Did you call, father? + +ANTONY. + +Are your ears beginning to ring already? We had not talked about you +yet! + +CLARA. + +The weekly paper! + +LEONARD. + +You are a philosopher! + +ANTONY. + +What do you mean by that? + +LEONARD. + +You know how to compose yourself. + +ANTONY. + +I wear a mill-stone as a cravat sometimes, instead of going to the river +with it. That gives one a strong back. + +LEONARD. + +Let him who can imitate you. + +ANTONY. + +He who has such a gallant fellow to help him bear it, as I seem to have +found in you, ought to be able to dance under the burden. You have grown +quite pale. I call that sympathy! + +LEONARD. + +I hope you don't misunderstand me! + +ANTONY. + +Certainly not! + +[_He drums on a dresser._] + +That wood is not transparent, is it? + +LEONARD. + +I do not understand you! + +ANTONY. + +How foolish it was of our grandfather Adam to take Eve, when she was +naked and destitute, and did not even bring a fig-leaf with her. We two, +you and I, would have scourged her out of Paradise as a tramp! What do +you think? + +LEONARD. + +You are exasperated with your son.--I have come to you regarding your +daughter-- + +ANTONY. + +You had better be careful!--Perhaps I'll not say no! + +LEONARD. + +I hope you will not. And I will tell you what I think: The patriarchs +themselves never used to scorn the dowries of their women. Jacob loved +Rachel and courted her seven years, but he also liked the fat rams and +sheep that he earned in her father's service. That, I think, was not to +his discredit, and to outdo him in anything would be to put him to the +blush. I should have liked very much to see your daughter bring a +couple of hundred thalers with her; and that was quite natural, because +she herself would thereby be so much the better off with me. If a girl +brings her bed in her trunk, then she will not have to card wool and +spin yarn. In this case it will not be so, but what of it? We'll make a +Sunday dinner out of Lenten fare, and a Christmas feast out of Sunday's +roast. In that way we'll make out all right! + +ANTONY (_offers him his hand_). + +You talk well, and God smiles on your words. Well, I will forget that +for fourteen days at tea-time my daughter put a cup on the table for you +in vain. And now that you are to be my son-in-law, I will tell you where +the thousand thalers are! + +LEONARD (_aside_). + +So they are gone then! Well, I shall not have to go out of my way to +please the old werewolf, even if he is my father-in-law! + +ANTONY. + +Things went hard with me in my early years. I was no more of a bristly +hedgehog than you when I came into the world, but I have gradually grown +to be one. At first all the quills in my case pointed inward, and people +found pleasure in pricking and pinching my soft smooth skin, and were +amused to see me flinch when the points penetrated into my very heart +and bowels. But the thing did not appeal to me; I turned my skin inside +out and then the quills pricked their fingers and I had peace. + +LEONARD (_to himself_). + +Safe from the very devil, methinks! + +ANTONY. + +My father, by not allowing himself any rest day or night, worked himself +to death in his thirtieth year, and my mother nourished me as well as +she could with her spinning. I grew up without learning anything. When I +became larger and was still unable to earn any money, I would gladly +have disaccustomed myself to eating; but when now and then at noon I +would pretend to be sick and push back my plate, what did it mean? It +meant that in the evening my stomach would compel me to announce myself +well again! My greatest grief was that I was so unskilled. I used to +blame myself for it, as if it were my own fault, as if in my mother's +womb I had been supplied with nothing but teeth to eat with, as if I had +purposely left behind me there all the useful capabilities and assets. I +used to blush with shame when the sun shone on me. Just after my +confirmation the man whom they buried yesterday, Master Gebhard, came +into our house. He scowled and made a wry face, as he always used to +frown when he had anything good in mind to do. Then he said to my +mother: "Did you bring your youngster into the world in order to let him +eat the very nose and ears off your head?" I felt ashamed and put the +loaf of bread, from which I was just on the point of cutting off a +piece, back into the cupboard again. My mother took offense at his +well-meant words; she stopped her wheel and replied vehemently that her +son was a fine good fellow. "Well, we will see about that," said the +Master. "If he wants to, he can come right now, just as he stands there, +into my workshop with me. I do not ask any money for teaching him; he +will get his board, and his clothes I will also supply; and if he wants +to get up early and go to bed late, opportunities will not be wanting +for him to earn a little money on the side for his old mother." My +mother began to cry and I to dance. When we finally came to an +agreement, the Master closed up his ears, walked out, and motioned me to +follow. I did not need to put a hat on, for I had none. Without saying +good-by to my mother, I went after him. And on the following Sunday, +when I was allowed to go back to her little room for the first time, he +gave me half a ham to take with me. God's blessing on the good man's +grave! I still hear his half-angry: "Tony, under your coat with it, so +my wife won't see it!" + +LEONARD. + +You are not crying? + +ANTONY (_dries his eyes_). + +Yes, I can never think of that without its starting the tears, no matter +how well the source of them may have been stopped up. Oh well, that's +all right! If I should ever get the dropsy, I shall at any rate not have +to draw off these drops too. + +[_With a sudden turn._] + +What do you think about it?--Supposing on a Sunday afternoon you went +over to smoke a pipe of tobacco with a friend, a friend to whom you owed +everything in the world; and supposing you found him greatly confused +and perturbed, a knife in his hand--the same knife you had used a +thousand times to cut his evening bread--and holding it, covered with +blood, at his neck, and nervously drawing his handkerchief up to his +chin-- + +LEONARD. + +And that is the way old Gebhard went about to the end of his days. + +ANTONY. + +On account of the scar. And supposing you arrived in time to help save +him, but to do it you had not only to wrench the knife out of his hand +and bandage the wound, but you had also to give over a paltry thousand +thalers that you had saved up; and, furthermore, you had to do it all +absolutely on the sly, so as to induce the sick man to accept it, what +would you do? + +LEONARD. + +Being a free and single man, without wife and child, I would sacrifice +the money. + +ANTONY. + +And if you had ten wives, like the Turks, and as many children as were +promised to Father Abraham, and if you took only one second to think +about it, you would be--Well, you are to be my son-in-law! Now you know +where the money is. Today I could tell you, for my old Master is buried; +a month ago I would have kept the secret even on my death-bed. I slipped +the note under the dead man's head before they nailed up the coffin. If +I had known how to write, I would have written underneath: "Honestly +paid!" But, ignorant as I am, there was nothing for me to do but tear +the paper in two. Now he will sleep in peace--and I hope that I shall +too, when they stretch me out beside him. + + + +SCENE VI + +MOTHER (_enters hurriedly_). + +Do you still know me? + +ANTONY (_pointing to the wedding dress_). + +The frame, yes--that is perfectly preserved; but the picture--not so +well. It seems to be covered with cobwebs. Oh, well! there has been time +enough for it. + +MOTHER. + +Have I not a frank husband? Still, I do not need to praise him +specially--frankness is a virtue of married men! + +ANTONY. + +Are you sorry that you were better gilded at twenty than you are at +fifty? + +MOTHER. + +Certainly not! If I were, I ought to be ashamed both for myself and for +you! + +ANTONY. + +Give me a kiss then! I am shaved and look better than usual. + +MOTHER. + +I say yes, merely to test you, to see if you still understand the art. +It is a long time since such a thing has occurred to you! + +ANTONY. + +Good mother, I will not ask you to close my eyes; that is a hard thing +to do, and I will take it off your hands. I will do that final service +of love for you. But you must grant me time, understand, to harden and +prepare myself for it, so that I won't make a botch of it. It would have +been much too soon! + +MOTHER. + +Thank God that we are still going to have a little time together! + +ANTONY. + +I hope so too! You have your old red cheeks again! + +MOTHER. + +A comical fellow, our new grave-digger! He was digging a grave this +morning when I passed through the church-yard. I asked him whom it was +for. "For whomsoever God wills," he said. "Perhaps for myself. The same +thing may happen to me that happened to my grandfather; he too had dug +one on chance once, and at night when he came home from the Inn he fell +into it and broke his neck." + +LEONARD (_who, up to this time, has been reading the weekly paper_). + +The fellow doesn't come from here--he can tell all the lies he likes. + +MOTHER. + +I asked him: "Why don't you wait until somebody orders a grave dug?" "I +was invited to a wedding today," he said, "and I am enough of a prophet +to know that I would still feel the effects of it in my head tomorrow if +I went. Now of course _some_ body has been inconsiderate enough to go and +die, so that in the morning I would have to get up early and would not +be able to sleep it off." + +ANTONY. + +"You clown!" I would have said, "supposing now the grave doesn't fit?" + +MOTHER. + +I said that too, but he shook sharp answers out of his sleeve, as the +devil does fleas. "I took the measurement for Veit, the weaver," he +said, "who, like King Saul, towers a head above everybody else. Now, +come who may, he will not find his house too small; and if it is too +large, that doesn't hurt anybody but me, for, as an honest man, I never +charge for a single foot more than the length of the coffin." I threw my +flowers into the grave and said: "Now it is occupied!" + +ANTONY. + +I think the fellow was only joking, and even that is sinful enough. To +dig graves in advance is to set the trap of death too soon; the +scoundrel who does it ought to be driven out of the business. + +[_To LEONARD, who is still reading._] + +What's the news? Is there any philanthropist looking for a poor widow, +who can use a few hundred thalers, or, _vice versa_, a poor widow +looking for a philanthropist who can supply them? + +LEONARD. + +The police announce the theft of some jewelry. Strange enough! It seems +that, in spite of the hard times, there are still people among us who +can own jewels! + +ANTONY. + +The theft of some jewelry? Where? + +LEONARD. + +Over at Wolfram's. + +ANTONY. + +At--impossible! Carl polished a desk there a few days ago! + +LEONARD. + +They were taken from a desk. Right! + +MOTHER (_to Master_ ANTONY). + +May God forgive you for saying that! + +ANTONY. + +You are right--it was a vile thought! + +MOTHER. + +To your son you are only half a father! I must tell you that! + +ANTONY. + +Wife! We'll not discuss that today! + +MOTHER. + +He is not like you--but is that any reason why he must be bad? + +ANTONY. + +Then where is he now? The noon hour struck long ago! I'll wager the +dinner is burning and spoiling, because Clara has secret orders not to +set the table until he is here! + +MOTHER. + +Where do you think he is? At the worst he is only bowling, and he has to +go the longest way about so that you won't see him. Naturally it takes +him a long time to get back!--I cannot see what you have against the +innocent game. + +ANTONY. + +Against the game? Nothing whatever! Noble men must have some way to pass +the time. Without the king of hearts, the real kings would often find +life tedious; and if bowling balls had not been invented, who knows +whether princes and barons would not be using our heads for the purpose? +But an ordinary workingman cannot do anything worse than spend his +hard-earned money on games. We must respect that which we have +laboriously earned in the sweat of our brows; we must hold it high and +precious, unless we are to lose our bearings and regard all our works +and doings with contempt. How can I strain all my nerves to earn a +thaler which I intend to throw away? + +[_The door-bell is heard outside._] + + + +SCENE VII + +_Enter_ ADAM, _a Bailiff; another Bailiff._ + +ADAM (_to Master_ ANTONY). + +Now, you just go ahead and pay your wager! No people in red coats with +blue trimmings [_with emphasis_] shall ever enter your house, eh?--Well, +here are two of us! + +[_To the other bailiff._] + +Why don't you keep your hat on, as I do? Who is going to observe +formalities among people of his own class? + +ANTONY. + +Your own class? You blackguard! + +ADAM. + +You are right--we are not among our own class! Scoundrels and thieves +are not of our class! [_Points to the dresser._] Open that up! And then +three steps away--so that you can't sneak anything out of it! + +ANTONY. + +What? What? + +CLARA (_enters with things to set the table_). + +Shall I--[_She stops, speechless._] + +ADAM (_exhibits a paper_). + +Can you read writing? + +ANTONY. + +Should I be able to do what even my schoolmaster could not do? + +ADAM. + +Then listen! Your son has stolen some jewelry! We have the thief +already! Now we are here to search the house! + +MOTHER (_falls down and dies_). + +Oh, God! + +CLARA. + +Mother! Mother! How her eyes roll! + +LEONARD. + +I will fetch a doctor! + +ANTONY. + +Not necessary! That is the last look! I have seen it a hundred times! +Good night, Theresa! You died when you heard it! Let them write that on +your gravestone! + +LEONARD. + +But perhaps it is [_starts to go_]--awful! But lucky for me! + +[_Exit._] + +ANTONY (_pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket and throws them down_). + +There! Unlock everything! Drawer after drawer! Bring the ax! The key to +the trunk is lost! Ha! Scoundrels and thieves! [_He turns his pockets +inside out._] I find nothing here! + +SECOND BAILIFF. + +Master Antony, calm yourself! Everybody knows that you are the most +honest man in town! + +ANTONY. + +So? So? + +[_Laughs._] + +Yes, + +I have used up all the honesty in the family! There, poor boy! There was +none left for him! She too [_points to the dead body_] was much too +virtuous!--Who knows whether or not the daughter--[_Suddenly to CLARA_] + +What do you think, my innocent child? + +CLARA. + +Father! + +SECOND BAILIFF (_to ADAM_). + +Have you no pity? + +ADAM. + +Pity? Am I prying into the old fellow's pockets? Am I forcing him to +take off his stockings and turn his shoes inside out? I meant to start +out with doing that--for I hate him like poison, ever since that time in +the tavern when he--you know what I refer to, and you would feel +insulted too, if you had any self respect about you! + +[_To CLARA._] + +Where is your brother's room? + +CLARA (_points_). + +Back there! + +[_Both Bailiffs, exeunt._] + +CLARA. + +Father, he is innocent! He must be innocent! He is your son, my brother! + +ANTONY. + +Innocent, and a matricide? + +[_Laughs._] + +A MAID (_enters with a letter to CLARA_). + +From the cashier, Mr. Leonard. + +ANTONY. + +You need not read it! He declares himself free of you! + +[_Claps his hands._] + +Bravo, scoundrel + +CLARA (_reads it_). + +Yes! Yes! Oh, my God + +ANTONY. + +Let him go! + +CLARA. + +Father, father, I cannot-- + +ANTONY. + +You cannot? Cannot? What do you mean? Are you?-- + +Both BAILIFFS reenter. + +ADAM (_spitefully_). + +Seek and ye shall find! + +SECOND BAILIFF (_to ADAM_). + +What do you mean by that? Did it turn out so today? + +ADAM. + +Hold your tongue! + +[_Exeunt both._] + +ANTONY. + +He is innocent--and you--you-- + +CLARA. + +Father, you are terrible! + +ANTONY (_grasps her hand very gently_). + +Dear daughter, Carl is only a bungler. He has killed his mother, and +what does it mean? His father remains alive! So, come to his aid--you +cannot ask him to do everything alone. You must make an end of me! The +old trunk still looks rugged, doesn't it? But it has begun to totter +already--it will not cost you much trouble to fell it! You need not +reach for the ax. You have a pretty face--I have never praised you, but +today I will tell you, so that you may acquire courage and confidence. +Your eyes, nose, mouth are surely admired! Become--You understand +me?--Or tell me, I have an idea that you are already-- + +CLARA (_almost crazy, throws herself with uplifted arms at the feet of +her mother, and cries out like a child_). + +Mother! Mother! + +ANTONY. + +Take your mother's hand and swear to me that you are what you should be! + +CLARA. + +I--swear--that--I--will--never--bring--disgrace-on--you! + +ANTONY. + +Good! + +[_He puts on his hat._] + +It is beautiful weather! We will go out and run the gauntlet! Up the +street! Down the street! + +[_Exeunt._] + + + +ACT II + +_A Room in the Master Joiner's House._ + + + +SCENE I + +ANTONY (_rises from the table_). + +CLARA (_starts to clear off the dishes_). + +ANTONY. + +Have you lost your appetite again? + +CLARA. + +Father, I have had enough. + +ANTONY. + +But you have taken nothing! + +CLARA. + +I ate out in the kitchen. + +ANTONY. + +A bad appetite means a guilty conscience. Oh, well, we shall see--or was +there poison in the soup, as I dreamt yesterday? Perhaps some wild +hemlock got in with the other vegetables by mistake, when they were +gathered?--In that case you did well! + +CLARA. Great Heavens! + +ANTONY. + +Forgive me! I--Away with your pale sad look, which you stole from our +Savior's Mother! One should look ruddy when one is young! There is but +one who might show such a face, and he does not do it! Hey! A box on the +ear for every man who says "ouch!" when he cuts his finger! No man has +any right to do that now, for here stands a man who--ugh!--self-praise +stinks!--But what did I do when our neighbor started to nail down the +cover of your mother's coffin? + +CLARA. + +You wrenched the hammer away from him and did it yourself, and said: +"This is my masterpiece!" The preceptor, who was just then leading the +choir boys in the dirge over by the door, thought you had gone crazy. + +ANTONY. + +Crazy? + +[_Laughs._] + +Crazy. Yes, yes, it is a wise head that cuts itself off at the right +time. Mine must be too firmly fastened on, or else--We squat down in the +world and imagine ourselves sitting behind the stove in a good inn. +Suddenly a light is placed on the table and, behold! we find ourselves +sitting in a den of thieves! There is a bing! bang! on all sides, but no +harm it done--fortunately we have hearts of stone! + +CLARA. + +Yes, father, so it is. + +ANTONY. + +What do you know about it? Do you think you have a right to curse with +me because your clerk has deserted you? There will be another to take +you walking Suliday afternoons, another to tell you that your cheeks are +rosy and your eyes blue, and still another to take you as his wife, if +you deserve it! Wait until you have borne the burdens of life in +chastity and honor for thirty years, and have endured sorrow and death +and every human adversity with uncomplaining patience; then let your +son, who ought to stuff a soft pillow for your old head, come and so +overwhelm you with disgrace that you would like to cry out to the earth: +Swallow me, if it does not sicken thee, for I am muddier than thou! Then +you may utter all the curses that I suppress in my bosom, then you may +tear your hair and beat your breasts!--You have that advantage over me, +for you are not a man! + +CLARA. + +Oh, Carl! + +ANTONY. + +I wonder what I shall do when I see him again before me, when he comes +home some evening before candlelight with his hair shaved off--for +hair-dressing is not allowed in the penitentiary--and stammers out a +good evening, keeping his hand on the door-knob? I shall do something, +that is certain--but what? + +[_Gnashes his teeth._] + +And if they keep him locked up for ten years, he shall find me, for I +shall live until then--that much I know! Mark you, Death, what I say: +From now on I am a stone in front of your scythe! It shall fly to pieces +before it shall budge me! + +CLARA (_grasps his hand_). + +Father, you ought to lie down and rest for half an hour! + +ANTONY. + +To dream that you are about to be confined? And then to fly into a +passion and seize you, and afterward bethink myself too late and say: +"Dear daughter, I did not know what I was doing!" Thank you! My sleep +has dismissed the magician and employed a prophet, who points out +loathsome things to me with his bloody finger! I don't know how it +is--everything seems possible to me now. Ugh! I shudder at the future as +at a glass of water seen under the microscope--is that the right word, +Mr. Precentor? You have spelled it out for me often enough! I looked +through one once in Nuremburg at the fair, and couldn't drink any more +water all day long. Last night I saw my dear Carl with a pistol in his +hand; when I looked closer into his eyes he pulled the trigger. I heard +a cry, but could see nothing on account of the smoke. When it cleared +away, I saw no shattered skull--but my fine son had in the mean time +come to be a rich man; he was standing and counting gold pieces from one +hand into the other. His face--the Devil take me!--a man could have no +calmer one after working all day and closing the door of his workshop +behind him at night! Well, that's a thing one might prevent! One might +take the law into one's own hands, and afterward present one's self +before the supreme Judge! + +CLARA. + +Calm yourself! + +ANTONY. + +Get well again you mean to say! Why am I sick? Yes, doctor, hand me the +drink that shall make me well! Your brother is the worst of sons; be you +the best of daughters! Like a worthless bankrupt I stand before the eyes +of the world! I owed it a fine man to take the place of this weak +invalid, and I cheated it with a scoundrel! Be you such a woman as your +mother was, and then people will say: It does not come from his parents +that the boy went wrong, for the daughter treads the path of +righteousness and excels all others. + +[_With terrible coldness._] + +And I will do my part in the matter; I will make it easier for you than +it is for others. The moment I see anybody point his fingers at you, I +shall [with a motion toward his neck_] shave myself, and then, I swear +to you, I shall shave off head and all. Then you may say I did it from +fright, because a horse ran away in the street, or because the cat +overturned a chair on the floor, or because a mouse ran up my legs. +Anybody that knows me, to be sure, will shake his head at that, for I +am not easily frightened--but what difference does that make? I could +not endure to live in a world where the people would refrain from +spitting at me simply out of pity. + +CLARA. + +Merciful God! What shall I do? + +ANTONY. + +Nothing, nothing, dear child! I am too severe with you--I realize it. Do +nothing--be just as you are, and it is all right. Oh, I have suffered +such rank injustice that I myself must do injustice in order not to +succumb to it when it grips me so hard! Listen! Not long ago I was going +across the street when I met that pock-marked thief, Fritz, whom I had +thrown into jail a few years ago because for the third time he had shown +himself light-fingered in my house. Formerly the scoundrel never even +dared to look at me; now he walked boldly up and offered me his hand. I +felt like boxing his ears, but I bethought myself and did not even spit. +We have been cousins for a week now, and it is proper for relatives to +greet each other! The minister, the sympathetic man who visited me +yesterday, said that no man had anybody to look out for but himself, and +that it was unchristian pride for me to hold myself responsible for the +sins of my son; otherwise Adam would have to take it just as much to +heart as I. Sir, I verily believe that it no longer troubles our first +ancestor in Paradise when one of his descendants begins to rob and +murder.--But did not he himself tear his hair over Cain? No, no, it is +too much! Sometimes I find myself looking around at my shadow to see if +it too has not grown blacker. For I can endure anything and everything, +and have given proof of it, but not disgrace! Put on my back what +burdens you choose, but do not sever the nerve that holds me together! + +CLARA. + +Father, Carl has not yet confessed anything, and they have found nothing +on him. + +ANTONY. + +What difference does that make to me? I have gone around the town and +inquired at the different drinking-places about his debts. They amount +to more than he could have earned under me in a quarter of a year even +were he three times as industrious as he is! Now I know why he always +left off work two hours later than I every evening, and why, in spite of +that, he got up before me in the morning. But he soon saw that it all +did no good, or else that it was too much trouble for him and took too +long; so he embraced the opportunity when it presented itself! + +CLARA. + +You always believe the worst things you can of Carl! You have always +done so! I wonder if you still remember how-- + +ANTONY. + +You talk as your mother would, and I will answer you as I used to answer +her--I will keep quiet! + +CLARA. + +And supposing Carl is acquitted? Supposing the jewels are found again? + +ANTONY. + +Then I would employ a lawyer and stake my last shirt to find out whether +or not the burgomaster was justified in throwing the son of an honest +citizen into prison. If he was, then I would submit; for a thing that +can befall anybody I also must accept with resignation. And if to my +misfortune it cost me a thousand times as much as it does others, I +would attribute it to fate. And if God struck me down for it, I would +fold my hands and say: "Lord, Thou knowest why!" If he was not +justified, if it should appear that the man with the gold chain around +his neck acted too hastily, because be thought of nothing except the +fact that the merchant who missed his jewels was his brother-in-law, +then people would find out whether the law has anywhere a gap in it, +whether the king, who doubtless knows that justice is the one demand his +subjects make in return for loyalty and obedience, and who least of all +would wish to remain under obligation to one of the humblest of them, +would allow that gap to remain unfilled. But all this is useless talk! +The boy has no more chance of coming through this trial unscathed, than +your mother has of rising from her grave alive! From him, neither now +nor ever shall I have any consolation! And for that reason do you not +forget what you owe me--keep your oath to me so that I shall not have to +keep mine to you! [_goes out, but returns again._] I shall come home +late tonight, for I am going out in the mountains to the old +lumber-dealer's. He is the only man who still looks me in the eye as he +used to, because he knows nothing of my disgrace. He is deaf; nobody can +tell him anything without yelling himself hoarse, and even then he hears +it all wrong.--So he finds out nothing! + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE II + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Oh, God! God! Have pity on me I Have pity on the old man! Take me to +Thee! There is no other way to help him! The sunlight lies like a golden +blanket on the street, and the children try to seize it with their +hands. The birds fly hither and thither, and the flowers and weeds do +not tire of growing higher. Everything is alive, everything wishes to be +alive! Oh, Death! Thousands of sick people are at this moment shuddering +with fear of thee! He who called for thee in the restless night, because +he could no longer endure his sufferings, now finds his bed soft and +downy again. I call upon thee! Spare him whose soul shrinks most +fearsomely from thee, and let him live until the beautiful world +becomes again gray and desolate! Take me in his stead! I shall not +shudder when thou givest me thy cold hand; I shall grasp it and follow +thee more bravely than ever yet a child of God has followed thee! + + + +SCENE III + +_Enter the Merchant,_ WOLFRAM. + +WOLFRAM. + +Good day, Miss Clara! Is your father at home? + +CLARA. + +He has just gone out. + +WOLFRAM. + +I have come--my jewels have been found! + +CLARA. + +Oh, father! Why are you not here?--He has forgotten his +spectacles--there they lie! Oh, if he only notices it and returns for +them!--How then? Where Who had them? + +WOLFRAM. + +My wife--tell me frankly, Miss: Have you ever heard anything strange +about my wife? + +CLARA. + +Yes! + +WOLFRAM. + +That she--[_Points to his brow._] Is that it? + +CLARA. + +That she is not altogether in her right mind, to be sure! + +WOLFRAM (_bursting out_). + +My God! My God! All in vain! Not a single +servant that I have ever taken into my house have I allowed to leave me; +to each one I have paid double wages and closed my eyes to all +remissness, in order to buy their silence! And yet--the false, +ungrateful creatures! Oh, my poor children! Only for your sake did I +seek to conceal it! + +CLARA. + +Do not blame your servants! Surely it is not their fault! Ever since +your neighbor's house burned down, and your wife stood at the open +window laughing and clapping her hands at the fire, yes, and even +puffing out her cheeks and blowing at it, as if she wanted to make it +burn more furiously, people have had to choose between taking her for +the devil himself or for a lunatic. And there were hundreds who saw +that! + +WOLFRAM. + +That is true. And now, since the whole town knows about my misfortune, +it would be foolish for me to exact a promise of you to keep still about +it! So listen! The theft for which your brother is in prison was +committed by a lunatic! + +CLARA. + +Your own wife! + +WOLFRAM. + +That she, who was once the noblest and most sympathetic soul in the +world, has become malicious and mischievous; that she shouts and screams +with joy when an accident happens before her eyes, when a maid breaks a +glass or cuts her finger--I knew that long ago; but that she also takes +things in the house and puts them out of sight, hides money and tears up +papers--that, alas! I found out too late--only this noon! I had laid +myself down on the bed and was just about to fall asleep, when I became +conscious that she had tiptoed noiselessly up beside me, and was +watching me intently to see if I were yet asleep. I closed my eyes +tighter. Then she took the key from the pocket of my vest, which was +hanging over a chair, unlocked my desk, took out a roll of gold pieces, +locked the desk again and put back the key. I was horrified! But I +restrained myself, so as not to disturb her. She went out of the room +and I crept after her on tiptoe. She climbed up to the attic and threw +the gold into an old chest, which has been standing there empty since +the days of my grandfather. Then she glanced timidly around the room, +and, without seeing me, hurried out again. I lighted a taper and +searched the chest; in it I found my youngest daughter's doll, a pair of +the maid's slippers, a ledger, several letters, and, alas! or, God be +praised!--which shall I say?--away down underneath, the jewels! + +CLARA. + +Oh, my poor mother! It is too terrible! + +WOLFRAM. + +God knows I would gladly sacrifice the jewelry if, by so doing, I could +undo what has already been done! But the fault is not mine! That my +suspicions, in spite of my profound respect for your father, fell on +your brother, was natural; he had polished the desk, and with him the +jewels had disappeared. I noticed it almost immediately, for I had +occasion to take some papers out of the drawer in which they lay. Still +it did not occur to me to take stringent measures to arrest him +immediately. Merely as a preliminary, I told Adam, the bailiff, about +the matter, and besought him to keep his investigations absolutely +secret. But he would not listen to the idea of sparing anybody; he +declared he must and would bring the case to court at once, for, he +said, your brother was a drunkard and a debt-contractor. And he has, +alas, so much influence with the burgomaster that he can put through +anything he wants to. The man seems to bear a bitter grudge against your +father--I do not know why, but it was impossible to soothe him; he held +his hands over his ears and called out, as he was hurrying away: "If you +had given me the jewelry, it would not have made me as happy as this!" + +CLARA. + +Once in the tavern the bailiff put his glass down on the table by my +father's and nodded to him as if he wanted to touch glasses with him. My +father then took his away, and said: "People in red coats and blue +trimmings used to have to drink out of glasses with wooden feet. Also +they used to have to wait out in front of the window, or, if it was +raining, by the door, and respectfully remove their hats when the +landlord handed them the drink. Moreover, if they felt a desire to touch +glasses with anybody, they waited until neighbor Hangman happened in." +Oh, God! What is not possible in this world! My mother had to pay for +that with an untimely death! + +WOLFRAM. + +One should never anger anybody, and least of all bad people! Where is +your father? + +CLARA. + +In the mountains at the lumber-dealer's. + +WOLFRAM. + +I'll ride out and hunt him up. I have already been at the burgomaster's, +but unfortunately found him out. Otherwise your brother would be here +now. But the Secretary has already dispatched a messenger! You will see +him before evening! [_Exit._] + + + +SCENE IV + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Now I should rejoice! Oh, God! And I can think of nothing except: Now it +is you alone! And yet I have a feeling as though something must occur to +me at once that would set everything right again! + + + +SCENE V + +_Enter, the_ SECRETARY. + +SECRETARY. + +Good day! + +CLARA (_seizes a chair to keep from falling_). + +He! Oh, if only _he_ had not come back! + +SECRETARY. Your father is not at home? + +CLARA. + +No! + +SECRETARY. + +I bring you good news. Your brother--No, Clara, I cannot talk to you in +this formal way. All these tables, chairs, and cupboards that I know so +well--Good day, old friend! + +[_He nods to a cup-board._] + +How are you? You have not changed a bit!--around which we used to romp +as children--it seems to me they will put their heads together and +deride me as a fool, unless I quickly assume another tone. I must "thou" +you, as I used to do! If you do not like it, just say to yourself: The +big boy is dreaming, I will awaken him, I will step in front of him and +draw myself up to my full height [_With gestures_], and let him see that +it is no longer a little child that stands before him--[_He points to a +scratch on the door_]--that shows how big you were at eleven!--but a +very proper, grown-up girl, who could reach the sugar when it is upon +the sideboard! Surely you remember! That was the place, the firm +fortress, where it was safe from us even without being locked up. We +used to amuse ourselves by slapping flies, when it stood there, because +we could not endure to see them flying around happily and enjoying what +we ourselves were unable to reach. + +CLARA. + +I should think people would forget about such things when they had +hundreds and thousands of books to study. + +SECRETARY. + +Indeed they do forget it! To be sure, what does one not forget over +Justinian and Gaius? Small boys who persistently resist their A B C's +know very well why they do it; they have a presentiment that if they do +not apply themselves too hard to the primer they will never have to +struggle with the Bible. But it is a downright shame! People deceive the +innocent souls! They are shown the red rooster with the basket full of +eggs on the last page, so that of their own accord they say: "Ah!" And +then there is no more holding back; they go tearing down the hill to Z, +and so forth and so forth, until all of a sudden they find themselves in +the midst of the _Corpus Juris_, and are horrified when they realize +what a wilderness the accursed twenty-four letters have enticed them +into--the letters, which, in the beginning, formed themselves, in a +merry dance, only into nice-tasting and nice-smelling words such as +"cherry" and "rose." + +CLARA. + +And [_Absent-mindedly, and without interest_]--what happens then? + +SECRETARY. + +That depends upon the difference of temperament. Some work themselves +through. Those usually come forth into daylight again after three or +four years, but looking somewhat thin and pale; however, one must not +blame them for that; I myself am one of that kind. Others lie down in +the middle of the forest; they intend merely to rest themselves, but +they seldom get up again. I myself have a friend who has been drinking +his beer for three years already in the shade of the _Lex Julia_; he +selected the place on account of its name--it recalls pleasant memories. +Still others give up in despair and turn back; those are the stupid +ones; people let them out of one thicket only on condition that they +will run at full speed into another. And then there are some who are +still worse, and who don't get anywhere! + +[_To himself._] + +How one chatters when one has something in his mind and does not know +how to bring it out! + +CLARA. + +Everything is bright and cheerful today; that's because it is such +beautiful weather. + +SECRETARY. + +Yes, in weather like this the owls fall out of their nests, the bats +kill themselves because they feel the devil has created them, the mole +burrows so deep into the earth that he cannot find his way out again and +must pitifully suffocate unless he bores through to the other side and +emerges again in America. Today every ear of corn shoots up twice as +high, and every poppy grows twice as red as usual, even if only out of +shame at not having been so at first. Shall man remain behind? Shall he +defraud the dear Lord of the only reward which His world offers Him--a +happy face and a bright eye, which mirrors and at the same time +transfigures all this gloriousness? Truly, when I see one of these +recluses sneaking out of his door in the morning, his brow furrowed with +wrinkles, and staring at the sky as if it were a vault of +blotting-paper, I often think to myself: It is going to rain soon; God +will have to let down the curtain of clouds, so that that sour face will +not irritate Him. They ought to take legal action against fellows like +that on the ground that they are thwarters of merry parties and +destroyers of harvest weather. How are you going to render thanks for +your life if not by living? Sing joyously, bird, or else you will not +deserve your voice! + +CLARA. + +Oh, that is true, so true! It almost makes me cry! + +SECRETARY. + +It was not meant for you. That for eight days you have been breathing +more heavily than you used to, I well understand--I know your father. +But, God be praised! I can make your heart free again, and for that very +purpose I am here. You shall see your brother again this very evening, +and people shall point their fingers, not at him, but at those who cast +him into prison. Does that deserve a kiss, a sisterly kiss, if it cannot +be any other kind? Or shall we play blindman's buff for it?--If I do not +catch you in ten minutes, I am to go away without the kiss and take a +box on the ear into the bargain. + +CLARA (_to herself_). + +I feel as if I had suddenly grown to be a thousand years old, and time +were standing still with me. I can go neither backwards nor forwards! +Oh, all this brazen sunshine and cheerfulness round about me! + +SECRETARY. + +You do not answer me. To be sure, I forgot--you are engaged. Oh, girl! +Why did you do that to me? And yet have I any right to complain? She is +like all that is dear and good, and all that is dear and good should +have made me think of her. And yet to me she was for years as if she no +longer existed in the world! For that reason she--If it only were a +fellow before whom one had to cast down one's eyes! But this Leonard-- + +CLARA (_suddenly, when she hears the name_). + +I must go to him. That is just it--I am no longer the sister of a +thief!--Oh, God! what shall I do? Leonard will, he must! He needs only +not to be a fiend! Everything will be as it used to be [_Shudders_]--as +it used to be! + +[_To the SECRETARY._] + +Do not be offended, Frederick!--Why are my legs so heavy all of a +sudden? + +SECRETARY. + +You will-- + +CLARA. + +To Leonard! Where else should I go? Only that one road lies before me in +this world! + +SECRETARY. + +You love him, then! Well-- + +CLARA (_wildly_). + +Love him? It is either he or death! Does anybody wonder that I choose +him? I would not do it had I only myself to consider! + +SECRETARY. + +He or death? Girl, thus speaks Despair, or-- + +CLARA. + +Do not make me frantic! Do not mention that word again! You! It is you I +love! There! I cry it out to you as if I were already wandering on the +other side of the grave, where no one blushes any more, where cold and +naked forms glide past one another, because the fearful, holy presence +of God has entirely consumed in every one all thought of others. + +SECRETARY. + +Me? Still me? Clara, I divined it when I saw you out in the garden. + +CLARA. + +Did you? Oh, the other too! + +[_Gloomily, as if she were alone._] + +He stepped up in front of me--he or I!--Oh, my heart, my accursed heart! +In order to prove to him, prove to myself, that it was not so, or to +stifle it if it were so, I did what now [_Breaks out into tears_]--God +in Heaven! I would have pity on myself, were I Thou, and Thou I! + +SECRETARY. + +Clara, be my wife! I came to look once more into your eyes in the old +way. Had you not understood the look I should have gone away again +without speaking. Everything that I am and have I now offer to you. It +is little, but it may grow to be more. I should have been here long ago, +but your mother was sick, and then she died. + +[Illustration: Alfred Rethel DEATH PLAYING THE FINALE] + +CLARA (_laughs crazily_). + +SECRETARY. + +Take courage, girl! The fellow has your word--that worries you. And, to +be sure, it is a damnable thing! How could you-- + +CLARA. + +Oh, ask me everything that conspires to drive a poor girl crazy! Scorn +and derision from all sides when you went to the University, and did not +let me hear from you.--"She still thinks of him!" "She thinks that +child's play was meant seriously!" "Does she receive any letters from +him?"--And then, too, my mother: "Stay with people of your class!" +"Pride never succeeds!" "Leonard is a very nice fellow; everybody is +surprised that you look at him over your shoulder so!" And added to all +the rest, my own heart: "If he has forgotten you, show him that you +too--" Oh, God! + +SECRETARY. + +I am to blame. I realize it. Well, what is difficult is not necessarily +impossible. I will get him to release you. Perhaps-- + +CLARA. + +Release me? There! + +[_Throws LEONARD'S letter to him._] + +SECRETARY (_reads_). + +As cashier, I--your brother--thief--very sorry--but out of consideration +for my office, I cannot help it--[_To CLARA._] He wrote you that on the +very day your mother died? For he adds his condolence on her sudden +death! + +CLARA. + +I suppose so! + +SECRETARY. + +The Devil take him! Great God, the cats, snakes and other monsters +which, so to speak, slipped through Thy fingers at Creation, so +delighted Beelzebub that he imitated Thy patterns--but he finished them +off better than Thou didst; he put them in a human skin, and now they +stand in rank and file with the rest of Thy humanity, and one does not +recognize them until they begin to scratch and sting! + +[_To CLARA._] + +But it is well, indeed it is fine! + +[_He tries to embrace her._] + +Come! Forever! With this kiss-- + +CLARA (_sinks into his arms_). + +No, not forever! Only to keep me from falling--but no kiss! + +SECRETARY. + +Girl, you do not love him, you have your release-- + +CLARA (_gloomily, straightening herself up again_). + +And yet I must go to him, I must throw myself on my knees before him and +cry out: "Behold my father's white hairs! Take me!" + +SECRETARY. + +Unhappy girl! Do I understand you? + +CLARA. + +Yes! + +SECRETARY. + +No man can overlook that! Think of having to cast down one's eyes before +a man into whose face one would like to spit! + +[_He presses CLARA wildly to him._] + +Poor, poor girl! + +CLARA. + +Go now, go! + +SECRETARY (_to himself, brooding_). + +Or else one would have to shoot the dog who knows of it. Oh, that he had +some courage about him! That he would stand up and fight! That one could +force him to it! I should not be afraid of missing him! + +CLARA. + +I beg of you! + +SECRETARY (_going_). + +As soon as it grows dark! + +[_He returns and grasps CLARA's hand._] + +Girl, you stand before me--[_He turns away._] + +Thousands of your sex would have kept it a secret with shrewd cunning, +and only in an hour of sweet forgetfulness would have confided it +coaxingly to the ear and soul of their husbands. I feel what I owe you! + +CLARA (_alone_). + +Oh, my heart, lock yourself up! Crush yourself together so that not +another drop of that blood may escape which would kindle again the +congealing life in my veins! For a moment a feeling akin to hope arose +in you again! Now for the first time I am conscious of it! + +[_Laughs._] + +No! No man can, overlook that! And if--could you yourself overlook it? +Would you have had the courage to grasp a hand that--No! no! Such evil +courage you would not have! You would with your own hands have to lock +yourself into your hell, if any one tried to open the door from the +outside. You are forever--Oh, alas, that the pain is intermittent, that +the piercing agony sometimes ceases! That is the reason why it lasts so +long! The tortured man imagines he is resting when the torturer merely +pauses to get his breath. It is like a drowning man's catching his +breath on the waves, when the current that has drawn him under spews him +forth again only to seize him once more and draw him down. He has +nothing but a double, futile fight for life!-- + +Well, Clara?--Yes, father, I am going! Your daughter will not drive you +to self-destruction! Soon I shall be the wife of that man, or--God! No! +I do not go begging for happiness--it is misery, the deepest misery that +I beg for! You will give me my misery!--Away! Where is the letter? + +[_She takes it._] + +Three wells you pass on your way to him! You must not halt at any of +them, Clara--you have not yet the right to do that! + +[_Exit._] + + + +ACT III + + + +SCENE I + +_LEONARD'S Room._ + +LEONARD (_at a table covered with documents, writing_). + +That makes the sixth sheet since dinner! How good a man feels when he is +doing his duty! Now anybody that wanted to could come through the door, +even the king himself! I should rise, but I should not feel embarrassed! +I make just one exception--that is the old joiner! But, after all, he +cannot do much to me! Poor Clara! I am sorry for her. I cannot think of +her without uneasiness! If only it were not for that one cursed evening! +It was really more jealousy than love that made me so frantic, and she +must have yielded to me only to silence my reproaches--for she was as +cold as death toward me! She has some bad days ahead of her! Oh, well, I +too shall suffer considerable annoyance! Let everybody bear his own +burden! Above all things I must make the affair with the little humpback +secure, so that she cannot escape me when the storm breaks out! Then I +shall have the burgomaster on my side, and shall have nothing to fear! + + + +SCENE II + +_Enter, CLARA._ + +CLARA. + +Good evening, Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +Clara! [_To himself._] + +This is something I did not expect! + +[_Aloud._] + +Did you not receive my letter? Surely--Perhaps you are coming for your +father to pay the taxes! How much is it? + +[_He fumbles in a ledger._] + +I really ought to have it in my head! + +CLARA. + +I have come to give back your letter! Read it again! + +LEONARD (_reads it with great seriousness_). + +It is a perfectly sensible letter! How can a man who has public money in +trust marry into a family to which [_he swallows a word_]--to which your +brother belongs? + +CLARA. + +Leonard! + +LEONARD. + +But perhaps the whole town is mistaken! Your brother is not in prison? +He never was in prison? You are not the sister of a--of your brother? + +CLARA. + +Leonard, I am my father's daughter! Not as the sister of an accused, +innocent man, who has been set free--for my brother is at liberty--not +as a girl who trembles before undeserved disgrace, for [_in a low +voice_] I tremble still more before you, only as the daughter of the old +man who gave me life, do I stand here! + +LEONARD. + +And you wish?-- + +CLARA. + +Can you ask? Oh, that I might go away! My father will cut his throat, +unless--Marry me! + +LEONARD. + +Your father-- + +CLARA. + +He has sworn it! Marry me! + +LEONARD. + +Hand and neck are near cousins--they never do harm to each other! Don't +be anxious! + +CLARA. + +He has sworn it! Marry me! And, afterward, kill me! I will thank you +even more for the latter than for the former! + +LEONARD. + +Do you love me? Did your heart prompt you to come here? Am I the man +without whom you cannot live and die? + +CLARA. + +Answer that yourself! + +LEONARD. + +Can you swear that you love me? That you love me as a girl loves a man +to whom she is to bind herself forever? + +CLARA. + +No, that I cannot swear! But this I can swear Whether I love you or do +not love you, that you shall never know! I will wait on you, I will work +for you, you need give me nothing to eat, I will support myself, I will +do sewing and spinning for other people at night, I will go hungry when +I have nothing to do, I will rather bite a piece out of my own arm than +go to my father and let him suspect anything! When you beat me, because +your dog is not at hand, or because you have kicked him out, I will +rather swallow my own tongue than emit a cry which will betray to the +neighbors what is going on. I cannot promise that my skin will not show +the welts caused by your whip, for that is not in my power. But I will +lie about it, I will say that I fell head foremost against the cupboard, +or that I slipped on the floor because it was too smooth--that I will do +before anybody has time to ask me where the black and blue marks came +from!--Marry me! I shall not live long! And if it lasts too long for +you, if you do not care to meet the expenses of the divorce proceedings +necessary to get rid of me, them buy some poison of the apothecary and +put it somewhere as if it were for your rats. I will take it without +your even nodding to me, and tell the neighbors with my dying breath +that I took it for pulverized sugar! + +LEANARD. + +A man of whom you expect all this will certainly not surprise you if he +says no! + +CLARA. + +Then may God not frown too severely on me if I come before he calls me! +If I had myself alone to consider I would endure it patiently. If the +world kicked me in my misery, instead of standing by me, I would bear it +submissively and regard it as just punishment for I know not what! I +would love my child, even if it had your features, and I would cry so +much before the poor innocent thing that, when it grew older and wiser, +it would certainly not despise and curse its mother. But it is not +myself alone; and on Judgement Day I shall much more easily find an +answer to the Judge's question: why did you drive your father to it? + +LEANARD. + +You talk as if you were the first woman and the last to find herself in +your predicament! Thousands have gone through it before you and +submitted to their fate. Thousands after you will be confronted with the +same situation and accept their fate. Are all these others strumpets, +that you are so anxious to stand in the corner by yourself? They also +had fathers who invented a score of new oaths when they first heard of +it, and talked about murder and homicide! Afterward they were ashamed of +themselves and repented their oaths and blasphemies; they sat down and +rocked the child, or fanned the flies away! + +CLARA. + +I readily believe that you fail to understand why anybody in the world +should keep an oath. + + + +SCENE III + +_Enter a boy_ + +BOY. + +Here are some flowers! I am not to say from whom they come! + +LEANARD. + +Oh, what pretty flowers! + +[_He beats his brow._] + +The devil! How stupid of me! I should have sent Some! How can I get out +of it? I do not understand such things, and the little girl will take it +to heart! She has nothing else to think about! + +[_He takes the flowers._] + +But I shall not keep all of them. + +[_To_ Clara] How about it? These here signify repentance and shame, +don't they? Did you not say that to me once? + +CLARA (_nods_.) + +LEANARD (_To the boy_). + +See here, boy, these are for me. I fasten them on me here, you +see--where my heart is. These, these dark red ones, which burn like a +dismal fire, you may take back. Do you understand? As soon as my apples +are ripe, you may come for some! + +BOY. + +That is a long time off! + +[_Exit_.] + + + +SCENE IV + +LEANARD. + +Yes, you see, Clara; you spoke about keeping one's word. Just because I +am a man of my word I must answer you again as I have already answered +once before. A week ago I wrote you a letter--you cannot deny it--there +it lies! [_He hands her the letter, which she takes mechanically_.] I +had reason--your brother--you say he is acquitted--I am glad of that! +But during these eight days I have entered into a new relation. I had a +right to do it, for you did not protest against my letter at the right +time! I was free in my own conscience, as well as before the law. Now +you come to me--but I have already given my promise and received +another's! [_To himself._] I would it were so!--The other girl is +already in the same predicament as you are! I am sorry for you, but [_He +strokes her hair, and she permits it, as if she were absolutely +unconscious of it_]--you understand?--One cannot trifle with the +burgomaster! + +CLARA (_absent-mindedly_). + +Trifle with him! + +LEONARD. + +See! You are getting sensible! And as far as your father is concerned, +you can say it boldly to his face that he alone is to blame. Do not +stare at me so; do not shake your head! It is so, girl, it is so! Just +tell him that! He'll understand it all right, and repent! I'll vouch +for that! [_To himself._] Any man who gives away his daughter's dowry +must not be surprised if she remains an old maid. When I think of that +my back gets stiff, and I could wish that the old fellow were here to +receive a lecture. Why must I be such a monster?--Only because he was a +fool! Whatever happens as a result of that, he is to blame for it! That +is obvious! + +[_To CLARA._] + +Or would you prefer to have me talk with him myself? For your sake I +will risk a black eye and go to him. He may be rough with me, he may +throw the boot-jack at my head, but he will have to swallow the truth in +spite of the stomach-ache it gives him, and let you rest in peace!--Is +he at home? + +CLARA (_stands up straight_). + +I thank you! + +[_Starts to go._] + +LEONARD. + +Shall I go over with you? I have the courage! + +CLARA. + +I thank you as I would thank a serpent which had wound itself around me +and unwound itself and sprung away again, because another prey enticed +it. I know that I have been bitten, I know that it deserts me only +because it does not seem worth the trouble to suck out what little +marrow there is left in my bones. But still I thank the snake, for now I +shall have a quiet death. Yes, man, I am not mocking; to me it is as if +I had seen through your breast down into the abyss of hell, and whatever +may be my lot in the awful eternity to come, I shall never have anything +more to do with you, and that is a consolation! And just as the +unfortunate person whom a viper has stung cannot be blamed for opening +his veins in terror and disgust, in order that his poisoned blood may +stream swiftly forth, so perhaps God in His everlasting mercy will take +pity on me when He looks down upon you and me and sees what you have +made of me! For how _could_ I do it, when I never, never _should_ have +done it?--One thing more: My father knows nothing, he does not even +suspect anything! And that he may never find out I shall quit the world +this very day! If I thought for one moment that you [_she takes a step, +wildly, toward him_]--oh, but that is foolishness! You would be only all +the better pleased to see them all stand and shake their heads and +inquire in vain of one another why it happened! + +LEONARD. + +Things will happen--what is one to do, Clara? + +CLARA. + +Away from here! The man can talk! + +[_She starts to go._] + +LEONARD. + +Do you think that I believe you? + +CLARA. + +No! + +LEONARD. + +Thank God, you cannot be a suicide without being an infanticide as well! + +CLARA. + +Better both than a parricide! Oh, I know that one cannot atone for one +sin with another! But what I now do affects me alone! If I hand the +knife to my father the blow strikes him as well as me! It strikes me in +any case! That gives me courage and strength in all my distress! Things +will go well with you on earth! + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE V + +LEONARD (_alone_). + +"I must, I must marry her!" And why must I? She is going to do a crazy +thing in order to keep her father from doing one. Where lies the +necessity of my doing a still crazier thing in order to ward off hers? I +cannot admit the necessity--at least not until I see before me the man +who wants to get ahead of me with the most insane act of all! And if he +thinks as I do about it there will be no end! That sounds quite +sensible, and yet--I must follow her! Here comes somebody! Thank +God!--Nothing is more ignominious than to have to be at variance with +one's own thoughts! A rebellion in the head, in which one brings forth +viper after viper and each one tries to eat the other or bite his tail, +is the worst of all! + + + +SCENE VI + +_Enter the SECRETARY._ + +SECRETARY. + +Good evening! + +LEONARD. + +Mr. Secretary? To what do I owe the honor-- + +SECRETARY. + +Leonard, you will see at once! + +LEONARD. + +You say Leonard to me?--To be sure, we used to be schoolmates! + +SECRETARY. + +And we may perhaps be death-mates too! + +[_He draws forth two pistols._] + +Do you know how to handle these? + +LEONARD. + +I do not understand you! + +SECRETARY (_cocks one of them_). + +Do you see?--This is how it is done! Then you aim at me, as I am now +doing at you, and pull the trigger! So! + +LEONARD. + +What are you talking about? + +SECRETARY. + +One of us two must die! Die! And immediately! + +LEONARD. + +Die? + +SECRETARY. + +You know why! + +LEONARD. + +By God, no! + +SECRETARY. + +No matter--it will occur to you all right when you are dying! + +LEONARD. + +I have no idea-- + +SECRETARY. + +Bethink yourself! Otherwise I might take you for a mad dog that has +unwittingly bitten the one I love most on earth, and shoot you down as +such! But for half an hour more I must let you pass as my equal! + +LEONARD. + +But don't talk so loud! If anybody should hear you-- + +SECRETARY. + +If anybody could hear me you would have called him long ago! Well? + +LEONARD. + +If it is about the girl--I can marry her, you know! I had, in fact, half +made up my mind to do it, when she herself was here! + +SECRETARY. + +She was here! And has gone away again without having seen you contrite +and repentant at her feet? Come! Come! + +LEONARD. + +I beg of you! You see before you a man who is ready to do anything that +you dictate. This very evening I will betroth myself to her. + +SECRETARY. + +That I shall do, no one else. If the world itself hung on it you should +not even touch the hem of her dress again! Come! Into the woods with me! +But mark this! I shall take you by the arm, and if on the way you emit a +single cry--[_He holds up a pistol._] I trust you believe me! +Nevertheless, that you may not feel tempted, we will take the road +through the garden behind the house! + +LEONARD. + +One of them is for me--give it to me! + +SECRETARY. + +So that you can throw it away and compel me to murder you or let you +escape! Is that why you want it? Be patient, until we are on the spot! +Then I shall divide with you honestly! + +LEONARD (_goes, and accidentally knocks his drinking-glass from the +table_). + +Shall I never take another drink? + +SECRETARY. + +Courage, my lad! Perhaps it will go well with you! God and the devil +seem to be forever fighting for the world! Who knows which is master +just now? + +[_Seizes him by the arm; exeunt both._] + + + +SCENE VII + +_A Room in the Joiner's House; enter CARL._ + +CARL. + +Nobody at home! Had I not known about the rat-hole under the threshold +where they always hide the key when they all go out, I could not have +got in! Well, that would not have made any difference! I could run +around the city twenty times now and imagine to myself that there was no +greater pleasure in the world than that of using one's legs! Let's have +a light! + +[_He strikes a light._] + +I'll bet the tinder-box is in the same old place, for we have twice ten +commandments in this house! The hat belongs on the third nail, not on +the fourth! At half past nine one has to be tired! Before Martinmas one +must not shiver; after Martinmas one must not sweat! That stands on a +line with: Thou shalt love and fear God! I am thirsty! + +[_Calls._] + +Mother! Fie! As if I had forgotten that she lies where even the +innkeeper's boots no longer has to open his nut-cracker mouth with a +"Yes, sir!" when he is called! I did not weep when I heard the funeral +bell in my dark cell, but--Redcoat, you would not even let me roll the +last ball at the bowling alley, although I already had it in my hand. +Well, I shall not leave you time for a last breath when I meet you +alone, and that may happen this very evening! I know where you are to be +found about ten o'clock! Afterward, aboard ship!--I wonder where Clara +is? I am as hungry as I am thirsty! Today is Thursday--they have veal +broth for dinner. If it were winter, they would have had cabbage--before +Shrove-Tuesday white cabbage--after Shrove-Tuesday, green cabbage! That +is as fixed as Thursday's having to come when Wednesday has passed, so +that it cannot say to Friday: You go in my place--my feet are sore! + + + +SCENE VIII + +_Enter, CLARA._ + +CARL. + +At last!--You should not kiss so much! Whenever four red lips meet a +bridge for the devil is built!--What have you there? + +CLARA. + +Where? What? + +CARL. + +Where? What?--In your hand! + +CLARA. + +Nothing! + +CARL. + +Nothing? Is it a secret? + +[_He snatches LEONARD'S letter._] + +Give me that! When the father is not here the brother is guardian! + +CLARA. + +I held fast to the scrap of paper, and yet the evening wind is so strong +that it blows the tiles off the roofs. As I was passing the church one +fell right in front of me, so that my foot struck against it. Oh, God! I +thought--one more! And I stood still. That would have been fine; they +would have buried me and said: "She met with an accident!"--But I waited +in vain for the second. + +CARL (_has read the letter_). + +Thunder and--I'll lame the hand that wrote that!--Bring me a bottle of +wine! Or is your savings box empty? + +CLARA. + +There is one more in the house. I had bought it secretly for mother's +birthday and put it aside. Tomorrow would have been the day--[_She turns +away._] + +CARL. + +Give it to me! + +CLARA (_brings the wine_). + +CARL (_drinks quickly_). + +Now we can start in again--planing, sawing, +hammering, and, in between, eating, drinking, and sleeping, so that we +can go on planing, sawing, and hammering, and on Sundays do a bit of +praying into the bargain! I thank Thee, O Lord, that I may plane, saw, +and hammer! + +[_Drinks._] + +Long live every good dog that is tied to a chain, and yet does not snap +at everything around him! + +[_He drinks again._] + +And once more: Here's to his health! + +CLARA. + +Carl, do not drink so much! Father says the devil lurks in wine! + +CARL. + +And the priest says God lurks in wine! [_He drinks._] Let us see who is +right! The bailiff was here at the house--how did he behave himself? + +CLARA. + +As if he had been in a den of thieves. No sooner had he opened his mouth +than mother fell over and was dead! + +CARL. + +Good! If you hear tomorrow that the fellow has been found dead, then do +not curse the murderer! + +CLARA. + +Surely you are not going to-- + +CARL. + +Am I his only enemy? Has he not been often attacked already? Among so +many it might be difficult to find the right man to attribute the deed +to, unless he left his cane or hat on the spot! [_He drinks._] Whoever +it is: Good success to him! + +CLARA. + +Brother, you talk-- + +CARL. + +Don't you like it? Never mind! You will not see me very much longer! + +CLARA (_shudders with terror_). + +No! + +CARL. + +No? So you know already that I am going to sea? Do my thoughts crawl +around on my forehead, that you can read them so easily? Or did the old +man fly into a passion in his old way and threaten to shut me out of the +house? Bah! That would be very much the same thing as if the jailer had +sworn to me: You shall not stay in prison any longer--I am going to +shove you out into the open again! + +CLARA. + +You do not understand me! + +CARL (_sings_). + + A ship lies in the offing, + A-sporting with the winds. + +Yes indeed, there is nothing to bind me to the bench here any longer! +Mother is dead, there is no longer any one to stop eating fish after +every storm, and that has been my wish from boyhood. Away! I shall not +prosper here--at least not until I know for sure that luck no longer +favors the brave fellow who stakes his life on the game, who throws back +onto the table the copper coin that he has received from the great +treasure, in order to see whether luck will pocket it or return it to +him gilded! + +CLARA. + +And are you going away to leave your father all alone? He is sixty years +old! + +CARL. + +Alone? Aren't you going to be left? + +CLARA. + +I? + +CARL. + +You! His pet child! What sort of weeds are growing in your head +that you ask me that? By going, I leave his joy with him and free him of +his everlasting annoyance! Why shouldn't I do it? Once and for all we +cannot get along together. He can't get things contracted enough to suit +him. He would like to close his fist and creep inside it. I would like +to strip off my skin like a baby's coat--if it were only practicable! + +[_Sings_] + + The anchor they are heaving, + I trow they'll soon be leaving, + Now look! Away she spins. + +Tell me yourself: Did he doubt my guilt for a single instant? And did he +not find the usual consolation in his over-wise: "Just as I expected!" +"I have always thought so!" "It could not end in any other way!" If it +had been you, he would have killed himself! I should like to see him if +you were to suffer a woman's fate! It would be to him as if he himself +had become pregnant--and by the devil besides! + +CLARA. + +Oh, what anguish! Yes, I must go! Away! + +CARL. + +What do you mean by that? + +CLARA. + +I must go into the kitchen! What else should I mean? + +[_Clasping her forehead._] + +Yes! That too! Just to hear that I came home again! + +[_Exit._] + +CARL. + +She acts very strangely! + +[_Sings_] + + A bold and saucy sea-gull + Sweeps round, as if possessed-- + +CLARA. [_Reenters._] + +The last thing is done! Father's supper is on the fire! As I closed the +kitchen door behind me, I thought to myself: You are never to enter +there again! I shuddered in my very soul! Thus I shall go out of the +room too, thus out of the house, thus out of the world! + +CARL. [_Sings; he continues to walk back and forth; CLARA remains in the +background._] + + Aloft the sun is burning, + The fishes, glancing, turning, + Circle about their guest. + +CLARA. + +Why do I not do it then? Shall I never do it? Am I going to continue +putting it off from day to day, as I am now doing from one minute to the +next, until--certainly! Then, away! Away! And yet I stand still! I have +a feeling as if imploring hands were raised in my womb, as if +eyes--[_She sits down on a chair._] What does it mean? Am I too weak to +do it? Then ask yourself if you are strong enough to see your father +with his throat cut!--[_She rises._] No! No!--Our Father, Who art in +Heaven, hallowed be Thy name--God! God! My poor head! I cannot even +pray! Brother! Brother! Help me! + +CARL. + +What's the matter with you + +CLARA. + +The Lord's Prayer! + +[_She bethinks herself._] + +It seemed to me as if I were already lying in the water and sinking, and +had not yet prayed! I [_suddenly_]--Forgive us our trespasses, as we +forgive those that trespass against us! That is it! Yes! Yes! Certainly +I forgive him! I shall think no more of him!--Good night, Carl! + +CARL. + +Are you going to bed so soon? Good night! + +CLARA. [_Like a child, repeating the Lord's Prayer._] + +Forgive us-- + +CARL. + +You might bring me a glass of water first--but it must be absolutely +fresh! + +CLARA (_quickly_). + +I will bring it to you from the well! + +CARL. + +All right! If you want to. It is not far, you know. + +CLARA. + +Thank you! Thank you! That was the last thing that still troubled me! +The deed itself would have betrayed me! Now people will say: She had an +accident! She fell in! + +CARL. + +Be careful of yourself! The board has probably not been nailed down +yet! + +CLARA. + +It is bright moonlight!--Oh, God, I am coming only because otherwise my +father would come! Forgive me, as I--have mercy on me--mercy--[_Exit._] + + +SCENE IX + +CARL (_sings_). + + I fain would be aboard her, + My kingdom's on the sea. + +Yes, but first [_He looks at the clock._]--What time is it?--Nine +o'clock. + + A lad that's young and growing + Must e'en be up and going, + No matter where, says he. + + + +SCENE X + +_Enter, Master ANTONY._ + +ANTONY. + +I should have an apology to make to you, but if I forgive you for +contracting secret debts and pay them off for you into the bargain, you +will probably allow me to omit the apology? + +CARL. + +The one is good, the other is not necessary. As soon as I sell my +Sunday clothes I shall myself be able to satisfy the people who have a +claim of a few thalers against me. And that I shall do tomorrow, for as +a sailor [_To himself_]--There, it is out! [_Aloud_]--I shall no longer +need them! + +ANTONY. + +What kind of talk is that again? + +CARL. + +This is not the first time you have heard it, but today you may answer +me as you will! My mind is made up! + +ANTONY. + +You are of age, that is true! + +CARL. + +And just because I am of age I am not defiant about it! For in my +opinion birds and fishes should not quarrel over the question whether it +is better in the water or in the air. Just one thing--either you will +never see me again, or else you will clap me on the shoulder and say: +Well done! + +ANTONY. + +We'll wait and see! I shall not have to pay off the fellow that I have +taken on in your place. That's all. + +CARL. + +I thank you. + +ANTONY. + +Tell me: Did the bailiff, instead of taking you by the shortest way to +the burgomaster, really lead you around through the whole town and-- + +CARL. + +Up the street, down the street, across the marketplace like a carnival +ox! But do not doubt it--I shall settle up with him too before I go! +ANTONY. + +I do not blame you for that, but I forbid you to do it! CARL. + +Ho! + +ANTONY. + +I'll not let you out of my sight! I myself would run to the man's aid, +if you tried to attack him! + +CARL. + +I thought that you loved my mother too! + +ANTONY. + +I shall prove it! + + + +SCENE XI + +SECRETARY (_staggers in; he is pale, and is holding a handkerchief +against his breast_). Where is Clara? [_He falls into a chair_.] +God!--Good evening! Thank Heaven that I had time to get here!--Where is +she? + +CARL. + +She went to--Where is she? Her talk--I am afraid--[_Exit_.] + +[Illustration: DEATH AS FRIEND _From a Drawing by Alfred Rethel_] + +SECRETARY. + +She is avenged! The scoundrel is done for! But I too am--Oh, why did it +have to be?--God! Now I cannot-- + +ANTONY. + +What's the matter with you? What ails you? + +SECRETARY. + +It is nearly up with me! Give me your hand on it, that you will not cast +off your daughter--do you hear?--will not cast her off, if she-- + +ANTONY. + +That is strange talk! Why should I, pray--Ha! My eyes are opening!--Was +I right after all in suspecting?-- + +SECRETARY. + +Give me your hand! + +ANTONY. + +No! + +[_He puts both hands into his pockets._] + +But I will clear the way for her--she knows that! I have told her so. + +SECRETARY (_horrified_). + +You told her!--unhappy girl! Now for the first time I quite understand-- + +CARL (_rushes in_). + +Father! Father! There is somebody lying in the well! If only it is not-- + +ANTONY. + +The long ladder! Hooks! Ropes! Why do you delay? Quick! Even were it the +bailiff! + +CARL. + +Everything is already there! The neighbors arrived before me! If only it +is not Clara!-- + +ANTONY. + +Clara? + +[_He grasps the table._] + +CARL. + +She went to draw water, and they found her handkerchief! + +SECRETARY. + +Scoundrel, I know now why your bullet hit the mark! It is she! + +ANTONY. + +Go and find out! + +[_He, sits down._] + +I cannot! + +[_Exit CARL._] + +And yet-- + +[_Rises again._] + +If [_to the SECRETARY_] I understood you correctly, everything is all +right! + +CARL (_reenters_). + +Clara! Dead! Her head terribly crushed on the edge of the well, as +she--Father, she did not fall in, she jumped in! A maid saw her! + +ANTONY. + +Let her think before she speaks! It is not light enough for her to have +distinguished things with certainty! SECRETARY. Do you doubt it? You +would like to, but you cannot! Think only of what you said to her! You +pointed out to her the road to death! I, I alone am to blame that she +did not turn back! When you suspected her misery, you thought only of +the tongues that would hiss at you, but not of the worthlessness of the +snakes to which they belonged! Then you uttered a word that drove her to +despair! And I, instead of catching her in my arms when her heart was +bursting with nameless anguish before me, thought only of the scoundrel +who could make light of it. And now I pay with my life for having made +myself so dependent upon a man who was worse than I! And you too, who +stand there so stolidly, you too will say one day: Daughter, I would to +God you had not spared me the head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging of the +Pharisees about me! It crushes me more deeply that you cannot sit by my +death-bed and wipe the sweat of anguish from my brow! + +ANTONY. + +She spared me nothing! People have seen it! + +SECRETARY. + +She did the best she could! You did not deserve to have her act succeed! + +ANTONY. + +Or she did not! + +[_Tumult outside._] + +CARL. They are coming with her! + +[_Starts to go._] + +ANTONY (_immovable, as to the end; calls after him_). + +Into the back room, where your mother stood! + +SECRETARY. + +Away to meet her! + +[_He attempts to rise, but falls back._] + +Oh, Carl! + +CARL (_helps him up and leads him away_). + +ANTONY. + +I no longer understand the world! + +[_Stands brooding._] + + * * * * * + + + + +SIEGFRIED'S DEATH + + + A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS + + By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + + + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + + KING GUNTHER + + HAGEN TRONJE + + DANK WART + + VOLKER + + GISELHER + + GERENOT + + WULF _Warrior_ + + TRUCES _Warrior_ + + RUMOLT + + SIEGFRIED + + UTE + + KRIEMHILD + + BRUNHILDA, _Queen of Iceland_ + + FRIGGA, _her nurse_ + + A CHAPLAIN + + A CHAMBERLAIN + + _Warriors, Populace, Maidens, Dwarfs_ + + + +SIEGFRIED'S DEATH (1862) + +TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE ROYCE + + + + ACT I + + _Iceland, BRUNHILDA'S castle. Early morning._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter BRUNHILDA and FRIGGA from opposite sides._ + + BRUNHILDA. + + From whence so early? Dewy is thy hair + And blood-stained are thy garments. + + FRIGGA. + + I have made + A sacrifice unto the ancient gods, + Before the moon was gone. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The ancient gods! + The cross rules now, and Thor and Odin dwell + As devils in deep hell. + + FRIGGA. + + And dost thou fear + Them less for that? Their curses still may fall + Upon us, though their blessings are withheld, + And willingly I sacrificed the ram. + Oh, wouldst thou kill one too! Thy need is great + Above all others. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Mine? + + FRIGGA. + + Another time. + I long had meant to tell thee, and today + At last the hour has come. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I've always thought + That at thy death the hour would come to me, + So did not importune thee. + + FRIGGA. + + Mark me now! + From our volcano came there suddenly + An aged man and left with me a child, + A tablet, too, with runes. + +[Illustration: Peter Cornelius Title Page of the Nibelungenlied] + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Twas in the night? + + FRIGGA. + + How dost thou know? + + BRUNHILDA. + + When on thee falls the moonlight--On + thy face, thou speakest oft aloud, + Betraying much. + + FRIGGA. + + And thou didst harken to me? + At midnight we were watching with our dead--Our + beauteous Queen. The old man's hair was white, + And longer than a woman's. Like a cloak + It hung about him, flowing softly down. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The spirit of the mountain! + + FRIGGA. + + Naught know I!-- + No syllable he spoke. The little maid + Reached forth her hands and grasped the golden crown + That glittered brightly o'er the dead Queen's brow. + We marveled that it fitted her. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The child? + + FRIGGA. + + The little maid; and it was none too large, + Nor later did it bind her. + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Twas like mine! + + FRIGGA. + + Like thine it was! And, yet more wonderful. + The child was like the maid that lay there dead + Within the mother's arms and disappeared + As had it ne'er existed--yes, so like + That only by the breathing could we know + The living from the dead. It seemed to us + That nature must have formed one body twice, + With life for one child only. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Had the Queen + A new-born baby in her arms? + + FRIGGA. + + Her life + She gave to bear her child, and with her died + The little maid. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou didst not tell me that. + FRIGGA. I never thought to tell thee. Sorrow broke + The mother's heart that she could never show + Her baby to her lord. For many years + This priceless joy in vain he had desired, + And, just a month before the child was born, + A sudden death o'ertook him. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Tell me more! + + FRIGGA. + + We sought the aged man, but he was gone. + The glowing mountain that had been cleft through + As one might split an apple, slowly now + Was drawn together there before our eyes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The old man came no more? + + FRIGGA. + + Now hark to me! + Next morning to the grave we bore our Queen; + But when the priest was ready to baptize + The little maid, his arm fell helpless down, + Nor could he touch her forehead with the dew + Of holy water, and his good right arm + He never lifted more. + + BRUNHILDA. + + What, never more! + + FRIGGA. + + The man was old, and so we marveled not. + We called another priest. The holy dew + He sprinkled on the child. The blessed words + Of benediction halted on his tongue, + Nor hath his speech returned. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And now the third? + + FRIGGA. + + For him we waited long. We had to seek + In other lands afar, where of the tale + None knew. At last this priest baptized the child. + His holy office ended, down he fell + Upon the ground and nevermore arose! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And did the baby live + + FRIGGA. + + She throve apace, + And strong she grew. Her playful ways to us + Were signs what we should do or leave undone. + They ne'er deceived us, for the runes had said + That we might trust them ever. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Frigga! Frigga! + + FRIGGA. + + Thou art indeed the maid! Now dost thou know + Not in the gloomy caverns of the dead, + In Hecla where the ancient gods still dwell, + Among the Norns, among the Valkyries, + Seek thou the mother that gave birth to thee! + Oh, that no drop of holy water e'er + Had touched thy brow! Then were we wiser far. + + BRUNHILDA. + + What dost thou murmur? + + FRIGGA. + + How then did it hap + That on this morning we were not in bed, + But fully robed had tarried in the hall? + Our teeth were chattering and our lips were blue. + + BRUNHILDA. + + A sudden sleep o'erwhelmed us, that was all. + + FRIGGA. + + But had it ever happened? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Not before. + + FRIGGA. + + Then hark! The old man came and tried to speak. + It almost seems as if I'd seen him stand + And grasp thy shoulder; and he threatened me, + But heavy was thy sleep. Thou should'st not hear + What fate awaits thee if thou dost persist. + So offer sacrifice and then be free. + Oh, had I paid no heed unto the priest, + Howe'er he urged me! But the sacred runes + I had not read aright.--Come, sacrifice, + For danger cometh nigh. + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis nigh? + + FRIGGA. + + Alas! + Thou knowest that the fiery sea is quenched + That flamed around thy castle. + BRUNHILDA. Yet the knight + Still lingers who should wield the magic sword + And on his war-horse gallop through the flames, + When he had won proud Fafner's ill-starred hoard. + + FRIGGA. + + I may have erred. But yet this second sign + Cannot deceive me, for I long have known + That when the fateful hour shall come to thee, + Clear vision doth await thee. Sacrifice! + Mayhap the ancient gods surround thee now + Invisibly, and they will straight appear + With the first blood-drops of thine offering. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I do not fear. + + [_Trumpets are heard._] + + FRIGGA. + + The trumpets! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Hast thou ne'er + Heard them before. + + FRIGGA. + + Never before with dread. + The time for lopping thistle-heads is past, + And iron helms arise before thee now. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Come hither all! For I will let her see + Brunhilda still can conquer! While the sea + Of fire still flamed I hastened forth to meet ye, + And friendly, as a trusty dog will spring + To give his master room, my faithful fire + Drew back before me, sank on either hand; + The road stands open now, but not my heart. + [_She ascends her throne._] + Now fling the portals wide and let them in! + Whoever here may come, his head is mine! + + + + SCENE II + + _The gates are opened. Enter SIEGFRIED, GUNTHER, HAGEN and VOLKER_ + + BRUNHILDA. + + Who cometh seeking death? + + (_To SIEGFRIED._) + + Ah! Is it thou? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am not seeking death, nor will I sue. + And too much honor dost thou yield to me + In greeting Gunther's guide before himself, + For I am but his helper. + + BRUNHILDA (_turning to GUNTHER_). + + Then 'tis thou? + And know'st thou what is toward? + + GUNTHER. + + Full well I know! + + SIEGFRIED. + + The rumor of thy beauty spreads abroad, + But further still the fame of thy hard heart. + And who hath gazed but once in thy deep eyes + Will nevermore forget, e'en in his cups, + That dreadful death beside thee always stands. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Tis true! Who cannot conquer, he must die, + And all his servants with him. Smilest thou? + Be not so proud! For if thou cam'st to me + As thou could'st hold a beaker full of wine + On high above thy head and still could'st gaze + On me as on a picture, yet I swear + That thou shalt fall as any other falls. + + (_TO GUNTHER._) + + But thee I counsel, if thine ears can hear, + List to my maidens! Bid them tell the tale + Of heroes that my hand hath laid full low! + The chance may hap among them there is one + Hath tried his strength with thee. There may be one + Hath laid thee conquered at his very feet! + + HAGEN. + + Ne'er was King Gunther conquered. That I vow! + + SIEGFRIED. + + High stands his castle by the Rhine at Worms, + And rich are all the treasures of his land; + Yet o'er all heroes stands he higher still, + And richer far in honors is our King. + + HAGEN. + + Thy hand, thou lowlander! Thou speakest well! + + VOLKER. + + And would it be so hard to leave this land + Amidst the ocean's desert solitude-- + Of thy free will to leave it, and the King + To follow forth to life from night and hell? + This land is like no other on the earth.-- + A desert waste, a rockbound wilderness; + All living things have fled long since in fear, + And if thou lovest it, 'tis only this, + That thou wast born the last of all thy race. + Above, the storms rage ever, and the sea + Forever surgeth and the fiery mount + In labor moaneth, while the fearful light + That streameth ruddy from the firmament, + As streams the blood from sacrificial stone, + Is such as devils only may endure.-- + To breathe the air is like to drinking blood! + + BRUNHILDA. + + What knowest thou of this my wilderness? + Naught have I lacked from that fair world of thine. + And if I longed for aught, that would I take. + Remember that! Brunhilda needs no gifts! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Did I not tell ye true? To arms! To arms! + By force must she be brought from her wild home! + And once 'tis done, then will she give thee thanks. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Perchance that is not true. And knowest thou + The sacrifice thou askest? Thou know'st not, + And no man knoweth. Harken now to me, + And ask yourselves how I'll defend my rights. + With us the time is motionless; we know + Nor spring nor summer nor the autumntide. + The visage of the year is e'er the same, + And we within the land are changeless too. + But although nothing grows and blooms with us, + As in the sunlight of your distant home, + Still in our darkness ripen precious fruits + That in your land ye neither sow nor reap. + In the fierce joy of battle I delight + To conquer every haughty foe that comes + To steal my freedom. And I have my youth, + My glorious youth, and all the joy of life, + Which still suffice me, and, ere these I lose, + The benediction of the fates will fall + Invisibly upon me. I shall be + Their consecrated priestess evermore. + + FRIGGA. + + Is't possible? My offering sufficed? + + BRUNHILDA. + + The solid earth shall open 'neath my feet + Revealing all that's hidden in its depths; + And I shall hear the singing of the stars, + And their celestial music understand. + And still another joy shall be my share, + A third one, all impossible to grasp. + + FRIGGA. + + 'Tis thou, 'tis Odin, hast unsealed her eyes! + In the deep night her ear was closed to thee-- + Yet now she sees the spinning of the Norns. + + BRUNHILDA (_rising to her full height, with fixed and dreaming + eyes_). + + There comes a morning when I do not go + To hunt for bears, or find the great sea-snake + That's frozen in the ice, and set him free, + So that his struggles may not smite the stars. + I leave the castle early, bravely mount + My faithful steed. He bears me joyfully, + But suddenly I halt. Before my feet + The earth has turned to air, and shuddering + I wheel about. Behind me 'tis the same! + All is transparent--glowing clouds beneath, + As overhead. My maidens prattle still. + I call them--Are ye blind? Do ye see naught? + We float in empty space! They are amazed, + They shake their heads in silence, while they press + About me closer. Frigga whispers me: + And has thine hour come? Ah, now I see! + The solid earth is crystal to my gaze, + And what I deemed were clouds were but the web + Of gold and silver threads that, glistening, + Lay tangled in the depths. + + FRIGGA. + + Thy triumph comes! + + BRUNHILDA. + + An evening comes. All's changed, and lingering + We sit here late together. Suddenly, + As they were dead, the maidens fall; their words + Are frozen on their lips. I needs must go + Upon the tower, for above me rings + The sep'rate music of each farthest star. + At first 'tis only music to mine ear, + But with the dawn I murmur as in sleep: + The King will die ere nightfall and his son + Will never see the daylight, for he dies + Within his mother's womb! The others say + That so I told my tale, but I know naught + Of how I learned it. Soon I understand, + And swift the rumor flies from pole to pole + And distant people flock as now to me, + But not with swords to battle with me here-- + Nay, humbly come they, laying by their crowns, + To hear my dreams and strive to understand + The meaning of my murmurings. For my eyes + Can see the future, in my hands I hold + The key to all the treasures of this world. + Far above all I rule, untouched by fate, + And yet the fates I know. But I forget. + That even more is promised me. There roll + Whole centuries away--millenniums-- + I feel them not! Yet finally I ask: + Where then is death? My tresses answer me-- + I see them in the mirror--they are black, + The snow has never touched them, and I say: + This is the third gift. Death comes not to me. + + [_She sinks back, and the maidens support + her_.] + + FRIGGA. + + Why fear I still? For were it[1] Balmung's lord, + She hath a shield that will protect her now. + He'll fall, e'en if she loves but yet resists, + And she will struggle, since her fate she knows. + + BRUNHILDA (_rising again_). + + I spoke! What said I? + + FRIGGA. + + Take thy bow, my child. + Thy dart will fly today as ne'er before, + All else may wait! + + BRUNHILDA (_to the knights_). + + Come on! + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ BRUNHILDA). + + Thou swear'st + To follow us if thou art overcome? + + BRUNHILDA (_laughs_). + + I swear! + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well! And I'll prepare the ship! + + BRUNHILDA (_while going away addresses_ FRIGGA). + + Go now into the trophy hall and drive + The nail that will be needed. + + (_To the knights_.) + + Follow me! + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + ACT II + + _Worms. Courtyard of the Castle_. + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ RUMOLT _and_ GISELHER, _meeting_. + + GISELHER. + + Now, Rumolt, will a single tree be left? + For weeks now thou hast brought whole forests in + And grimly thou provid'st the wedding feast, + As if men, dwarfs, and elves were all to come. + + RUMOLT. + + I make me ready, and if I should find + A single kettle that's not full enough, + I'll seize the lazy cook and throw him in + And use the scullion-boy to stir the stew. + + GISELHER. + + Art thou so certain what the end will be? + + RUMOLT. + + I am, for Siegfried woos. The man who takes + Two noble princes captive, sends them home + As though they were no more than frightened hares, + Will not be daunted by a witch-wife now. + + GISELHER. + + There thou art right! We have good hostages + Since we have Luedegast and Luedeger! + They meant to bring a host of armed men, + A greater than e'er Burgundy had seen. + Yet humbly here as prisoners they came, + Nor needed any guard upon their way. + So cook, my man, we shall not want for guests! + + [GERENOT _enters_.] + + And here's the hunter! + + GERENOT. + + But he brings no game! + I was upon the tower and saw the Rhine + All covered o'er with ships. + + RUMOLT. + + It is the bride! + I'll send my men to drive the beasts about, + That from the noisy turmoil in the court + The sound shall reach afar and prove to her + The welcome that awaits her! + + [_Trumpets are heard_.] + + GERENOT. + + 'Tis too late! + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED, _with retinue_. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Here am I once again! + + GISELHER. + + Without my brother? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, fear not! As his messenger I come!-- + And yet I bear the message not for thee! + 'Tis for thy Lady Mother, and I hope + That I may see thy sister Kriemhild, too. + + GISELHER. + + Brave knight, that shalt thou, for we owe to thee + Our thanks for capturing the noble Danes. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I wish that I had never sent them here. + + GISELHER. + + Why so? Thou hadst no better way to prove + What we have gained in winning thy right arm, + For truly are the Princes stalwart men! + + SIEGFRIED. + + It may be! Yet had I not done the deed, + Perhaps some bird had flown and spread abroad + The rumor that the Danes had slain me there, + And I might ask how Kriemhild heard the tale. + + GISELHER. + + But as it is they help thy cause enough! + That one can take good metal and alloy + And beat them into trumpets smooth and round, + I long have known. But that one could shape men + In such a way I knew not, but these two + Show us the work of such a smith as thou. + They praised thee--If thou hadst been there to hear, + Thy cheeks would still flame scarlet! Yet 'twas not + With measured praise, as men will praise their foe, + Thinking to lessen thus the burning shame + Of their own downfall. No, 'twas heartfelt praise. + But you should hear Kriemhilda tell the tale. + Unweariedly she asked them o'er and o'er.-- + She's coming now. + + + + SCENE III + + _Enter_ UTE _and_ KRIEMHILD. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I pray you! + + GISELHER. + + What's thy wish? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I never longed to have my father by, + That he might teach me how to bear my arms, + But ah! today I need my mother so, + That I might ask her how to use my tongue. + + GISELHER. + + Give me thy hand, since thou art shamefaced too. + They call me here "the child." Now let them see + A "child" may lead a lion! + + [_He leads_ SIEGFRIED _to the women_.] + + 'Tis the knight + From Netherland! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Fair ladies, do not fear, + Because I've come alone. + + UTE. + + Brave Siegfried, no! + We do not fear, for thou art not the man + Who's left alone when all but he are dead, + To bear his tale, a messenger of woe. + Thou comest to announce a daughter dear, + And Kriemhild hath a sister. + + SIEGFRIED. + + So it is, + My Queen! + + GISELHER. + + So is it! Nothing more? And scarce + Those few words could he utter! Dost thou grudge + The king his bride? Or hast thou lamed thy tongue + In battle? That was never known before. + But no, for thou could'st use it fast enough + To tell me of Brunhilda's dark brown eyes + And raven tresses. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Prithee, say not so! + + GISELHER. + + How hotly he denies it! See him raise + On high three fingers, swearing that he loves + Blue eyes--light hair! + + UTE. + + This is an arrant rogue! + He is nor boy nor man, sapling nor tree. + And long hath he outgrown his mother's rod, + Nor ever hath he felt his father's whip. + Ungoverned is he as a yearling colt, + That's never known the bridle or the whip. + We must forgive or punish him! + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Twere not + So easy as you think! To break a colt + Is difficult, and many limp away + Ashamed, and cannot mount him! + + UTE. + + Then once more + He 'scapes his punishment! + + GISELHER. + + As a reward, + I'll tell a secret to thee. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Giselher! + + GISELHER. + + What hast thou to conceal? Be not afraid! + I do not know thy secret, nor will blow + The ashes from thy embers.--Never fear! + + UTE. + + What is it then? + + GISELHER. + + I have myself forgotten. + When a man's sister blushes rosy-red, + 'Tis natural a brother is surprised + And seeks to know the reason.--Never mind! + The secret I'll recall before I die, + And then shall Siegfried learn it. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou may'st jeer, + For I forget my message utterly, + And ere I've given word that you should don + Your festal garments, do the trumpets blow, + And Gunther and his train bring in the bride! + + GISELHER. + + Dost thou not see the steward hastening? + Thy very coming told enough to him! + But I will help! + + [_He goes to_ RUMOLT.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + A noble messenger + May not be paid with gifts! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Indeed he may! + + KRIEMHILD (_fastens her bracelet and in so doing drops her + handkerchief)_. + + SIEGFRIED (_snatches at the handkerchief)_. + + This is my gift. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Pray, no! 'Twere all unworthy! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Jewels I value as another, dust. + And houses can I build of gold and silver, + Yet lack I such a kerchief! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Take it then! + It is my handiwork. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And thy free gift? + + KRIEMHILD. + + My noble Siegfried, yes, 'tis my free gift. + + UTE. + + I crave thy pardon--it is time to go! + + [_Exit, with_ KRIEMHILD.] + + + + SCENE IV + + SIEGFRIED. + + A Roland[2] would have stood as stood I here! + I wonder that the sparrows did not nest + Within my hair. + + + + SCENE V + + _Enter the_ CHAPLAIN. + + CHAPLAIN (_advances_). + + Your pardon, noble sir, + Has Brunhild been baptized? + + SIEGFRIED. + + She is baptized. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then 'tis a Christian land from which she + comes? + + SIEGFRIED. + + They fear the cross. + + CHAPLAIN (_steps back again_). + + Perchance 'tis there as here! + Where men will place it next to Wotan's tree + Right gladly, for they do not surely know + If magic may not dwell there; as we see + Devoutest Christians hesitate to break + A heathen image, for some remnant still + Awakes within them of the olden fear + Before those staring eyes. + + + SCENE VI + + _Flourish of trumpets_. BRUNHILDA, FRIGGA, GUNTHER, HAGEN, VOLKER, + _retainers_, KRIEMHILD _and_ UTE _approach them from the castle_. + + GUNTHER. + + And here's the castle! + My mother's coming now to welcome thee, + Kriemhilda too. + + VOLKER (_to BRUNHILDA, _as the women approach each other_). + + Are they no gain to thee? + + HAGEN. + + Siegfried, a word! Thy trick availed us naught. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Availed us naught? Was she not vanquished then? + Is she not here? + + HAGEN. + + What profit is in that? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Why, all! + + HAGEN. + + But nay! Who cannot take by force + Her first caress will master nevermore + This maid, and Gunther is not strong enough. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And has he tried? + + HAGEN. + + Why else should I complain? + In full sight of the castle! She at first + Resisted him, as it befits a maid, + And as our mothers may have done of old; + But when she saw that but the lightest touch + Sufficed to drive the ardent wooer forth, + She grew enraged, and, when he tarried still, + She seized and held him with her outstretched arm + Above the Rhine. A shame it was to him, + A shame to all of us. + + SIEGFRIED. + + She is a witch! + + HAGEN. + + Chide not, but help! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I think that if the priest + But married them-- + + HAGEN. + + Were that old hag not there, + The woman that attends her! All day long + She spies and questions, and she sits by her + As the embodiment of wise old age. + I fear the nurse the most. + + UTE (_to_ KRIEMHILD _and_ BRUNHILDA). + + Now love each other, + And may the circlet that your arms have twined + In this first joyful moment widen out + Further and further to a perfect ring + Within which you may wander, side by side, + Sharing your joys in harmony complete! + Yours is a privilege that I had not, + For what I might not say unto my lord + I had to bear in silence; but at least + I could not speak complainingly of him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Let us be like two sisters. + + BRUNHILDA. + + For your sake + Your son and brother may imprint the seal + Upon my lips that stamps me as his maid + Before the nightfall comes, for I am still + Unblemished and untouched like some young tree, + And were it not for your sweet gentleness + Forever would I hold this shame afar. + + UTE. + + Thou speak'st of shame? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Forgive me for that word; + I speak but as I feel. And I am strange + Here in your world, and as my rugged land + Would surely terrify you, were you there, + So does your land alarm me, for I feel + That here I could not have been born at all--Yet + must I live here!--Is the sky so blue + Forever? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nearly all the time 'tis blue. + + BRUNHILDA. + + We know not blue, unless we see blue eyes, + And those we only have with ruddy hair + And milk-white faces! Is it always still, + And does the wind blow never? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Sometimes storms + O'erwhelm the land, and then the day is night + With thunderpeals and lightning. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Would it come + Today!--'Twould be a greeting from my home! + I cannot well endure the brilliant light; + It pains me and it makes me feel so bare, + As if no garment here were thick enough! + And are those flowers--red and gold and green? + + KRIEMHILD. Thou ne'er hast seen them, yet thou know'st their hues? + + BRUNHILDA. Of precious stones there is with us no lack-- + Though never white or black ones; yet my hands + Have taught me white, and raven is my hair. + + KRIEMHILD. Thou canst not know of fragrance! + + [_She plucks a violet for her_.] + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh how sweet! + And is't that tiny flower that breathes it forth-- + The only one my eye did not observe? + I'd love to give the flower a pretty name-- + But surely it is named. + + KRIEMHILD. + + The little flower + Is lowlier than all, and none thy foot + More easily had crushed, for it appears + To be ashamed that it is more than grass, + And so it hides its head; but yet it drew + A gentle word from thee, the first we've heard. + So let it be a token that within + Our land is much that's hidden from thy gaze + That will delight thee. + + BRUNHILDA. + + That I hope indeed-- + For I need joy! Thou know'st not what it is + To be a woman, yet to overcome + A man in every combat and to gain + His strength that ebbs away as flows his blood, + And from the steaming blood breathe in new force-- + To feel yourself grow stronger, braver yet, + And then, when victory is surer still-- + + [_Turning suddenly_] + + Frigga, I ask again! What did I see-- + Before that latest contest, what said I? + + FRIGGA. + + It seemed thy spirit must have seen this land. + + BRUNHILDA. + + This land! + + FRIGGA. + + Thou didst rejoice. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I rejoiced!-- + Thine eyes, however, flamed. + + FRIGGA. + + Because I saw + Thy happiness. + + BRUNHILDA. + + These warriors looked to me + As white as snow. + + FRIGGA. + + They had been ever so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Wherefore didst thou conceal the dream so long? + + FRIGGA. + + It is but now that it is clear to me, + Now that I can compare. + + BRUNHILDA. + + If I rejoiced + When my prophetic vision saw this land, + I must rejoice again. + + FRIGGA. + + Thou surely shalt! + +[Illustration: SIEGFRIED'S RETURN FROM THE SAXON WAR _From the +Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + + BRUNHILDA. + + And yet it seems to me the vision dealt + With stars and metals too. + + FRIGGA. + + Yes, that is so. + Thou said'st the stars gleamed still more brightly here. + But yet that gold and silver were but dull. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Was't so? + + FRIGGA (_to_ HAGEN). + + Is't not the truth? + + HAGEN. + + I paid no heed. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I beg you all to treat me as a child; + Though I shall grow up faster than another. + Yet now I am no better. + + (_To_ FRIGGA.) + + That was all? + + FRIGGA. + + Yes, all! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then all is well! Then all is well! + + UTE (_to_ GUNTHER, _who has approached_). + + My son, if she's too bitter toward thee now, + But give her time! The clamor of the crows + And ravens that she heard could never make + Her heart grow softer, but 'twill soften now + With the lark's song and with the nightingale. + + HAGEN. So speaks the minstrel when he is in love, + And plays with foolish puppies. 'Tis enough! + The maiden must have time to find her heart, + But for the princess, hold her to her word; + By right of conquest she's already thine.--Then + claim thy rights! + + (_He calls_.) + + Chaplain! + + (_And starts on_.) + + GUNTHER. + + I'll follow thee! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Wait, Gunther, wait! What didst thou promise me! + + GUNTHER. + + May I, my Kriemhild, choose a spouse for thee? + + KRIEMHILD. + + My lord and brother, be it as thou wilt! + + GUNTHER (_to_ UTE). + + I have no opposition then to fear? + + UTE. + + Thou art the king, thy handmaids, she and I. + + GUNTHER. + + I beg thee then amongst my kinsfolk here: + Redeem an oath for them and me, and give + Thy hand to noble Siegfried. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I've no power + To speak as I could wish to, when I gaze + Upon thy face, and of my stammering tongue + Perchance thou hast already heard enough. + And so I ask thee as the hunter asks, + But that I blow no feathers from my hat, + To hide my fear: O maiden, wilt thou me? + Yet lest thou err'st through my simplicity, + And unenlightened actest in the dark, + So let me tell thee, ere thou answer'st me, + How my own mother blames me oftentimes. + She says that I am surely strong enough + To conquer all the world, but yet to rule + The smallest molehill I'm too simple far. + And if I do not lose my very eyes + 'Tis only that the thing's impossible. + Thou may'st believe the half of what she says, + The other half though, I can well disprove. + For if I once have won thee, I will show + The world how I can keep unharmed mine own. + Again I ask thee: Kriemhild, wilt thou me? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Why dost thou smile, my mother? I have not + Forgotten what I dreamed, the shudder still + Creeps over me and warns me more and more, + But still I say with dauntless courage: Yes! + + BRUNHILDA (_steps between_ KRIEMHILD _and_ SIEGFRIED). + + Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + What wilt thou? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I will prove myself + Thy sister. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now? Wherein? + + BRUNHILDA (_to_ SIEGFRIED). + + How dost thou dare + Aspire to her, the daughter of a king? + How dost thou dare, a vassal such as thou, + A serving man! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Cam'st thou not as guide, + As messenger departed? + + (_To_ GUNTHER.) + + Canst thou suffer + And aid him in such boldness? + + GUNTHER. + + Siegfried is + The first of all our warriors. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Grant him then + The foremost seat beside thy very throne. + + GUNTHER. + + In treasure, he is richer far than I. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Is that his claim upon thy sister? Shame! + + GUNTHER. + + A thousand of my enemies he's slain. + + BRUNHILDA. + + The man who conquered me thanks him for that? + + GUNTHER. + + He is a king as I am. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Yet he ranks + Himself amongst thy servants? + + GUNTHER. + + I will solve + This riddle for thee when thou art mine own. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Ere I am thine thy secret will I know. + + UTE. + + Thou wilt refuse to call me mother then? + Oh tarry not too long, for I am old. + And worn with many sorrows! + + BRUNHILDA. + + As I swore, + I'll go with him to church, and I will be + Most willingly thy daughter--not his wife. + + HAGEN (_to_ FRIGGA). + + Pray quiet her! + + FRIGGA. + + What need is there of me? + For if he once has overcome Brunhild, + The second time he surely will not fail; + And self-defense is every maiden's right. + + SIEGFRIED (_taking_ KRIEMHILD _by the hand_). + + That all may know me henceforth as a king, + The Niblung's treasure do I give to thee. + And now thy duty and my right I claim. + + [_He kisses her_.] + + HAGEN. + + To church! + + FRIGGA. + + Does Siegfried hold the Niblung's hoard? + + HAGEN. + + Thou heard'st! The trumpets! + + FRIGGA. + + And is Balmung[3] his? + + HAGEN. + + Why not? Musicians! Wedding music here! + + [_Loud and joyful music. Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + SCENE VII + + _The great hall. Enter_ TRUCHS _and_ WULF. _Dwarfs bring treasures + across the stage._ + + TRUCHS. + + I am for Kriemhild. + + WULF. + + And for Brunhild I. + + TRUCHS. + + And why, if thou wilt tell me? + + WULF. + + Where would be + The play of rival lances, if we all + Should wear one color? + + TRUCHS. + + Why, I grant thee that! + The reason is sufficient, otherwise + It were mere madness. + + WULF. + + Say it not so loud, + For many heroes swear by Brunhild now. + + TRUCHS. + + They are as different as day and night. + + WULF. + + Who says they're not? Yet many love the + night. + + [_Points to the dwarfs_.] + + What are they bringing? + + TRUCHS. + + It must be the hoard, + The treasure of the Niblungs Siegfried won. + He's called the dwarfs for escort duty here, + And bade them bring the treasure, and I'm told + It is the marriage portion for his bride. + + WULF. + + Uncanny are these dwarfs, with hollow backs! + But turn one over--there's a kneading trough! + + TRUCHS. + + And ever with the dragons is their home + Within the earth and in the mountain caves.-- + First cousins to the moles they are. + + WULF. + + But strong! + + TRUCHS. + + And clever are they too! One need not seek + For mandrakes[4] if one has these dwarfs for + friends. + + WULF (_pointing toward the treasure_). + + He who owns that needs neither of the two. + + TRUCHS. + + I love it not. It is an ancient saw + That magic gold is thirstier for blood + Than ever was the driest sponge for water; + And, more than all, the Niblung heroes tell + The strangest tales! + + WULF. + + Of ravens was the talk. + What was it then? I heard it not aright. + + TRUCHS. + + A raven flew and lit upon the gold, + When it was carried to the ship, and there + He croaked till Siegfried, who could understand, + At first stopped up his ears and would not hear, + And whistled. Then the precious stones he threw + To drive the bird, and when it would not fly, + At last in desperation cast his spear. + + WULF. + + Why, that is strange! For Siegfried is at heart + As gentle as he's brave. + + [_Horns are heard._] + + They call for us! + They're gath'ring! Ho, Brunhilda! + + TRUCHS. + + Kriemhild, ho! + + [_Exeunt. Other warriors, who meanwhile have assembled, + join them and repeat the cry. It grows dark gradually._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + _Enter HAGEN and SIEGFRIED._ + + SIEGFRIED. + + But Hagen! Why didst thou make signs to me + To leave the banquet? I shall nevermore + Sit at this table as I sit today. + Pray grant me this one day, I only ask + A just reward. + + HAGEN. + + Your task is not yet done. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Let be till morning, for a minute's worth + A year today. I still can count the words + That I have spoken to my loving bride; + Then let me have one evening with my wife. + + HAGEN. + + Without good reason I will ne'er disturb + A lover or a drunkard. It avails + No longer to resist! What Brunhild said + Thou'st heard, and now her wedding gayety + Thou may'st behold, for at the feast she weeps! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And can I dry her tears? + + HAGEN. + + She'll keep her word, + The threat that she has sworn, there is no doubt; + That endless shame would follow may we doubt + Still less. Dost thou not understand me now? + + SIEGFRIED. + + What follows them + + HAGEN. + + That thou must conquer her. + + [_GUNTHER approaches._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + What, I? + + HAGEN. + + Now listen! Gunther goes with her + Into the chamber.[5] In the Tarnhelm thou + Must follow. Quickly he demands a kiss + Ere she has raised her veil.--She grants it not. + He grapples with her.--She laughs mockingly. + He quenches, as by accident, the light-- + Exclaims: So much is jest, 'tis earnest now. + It will not be on shore as on the ship! + Then shalt thou seize her and so master her + That she shall beg for mercy and for life. + And when thy part is done, then shall the king + Demand her oath to be his humblest maid, + And thou shalt vanish as thou cam'st. + + GUNTHER. + + Wilt thou + But do me this one service now, my friend, + I vow I'll never ask thee then for more. + + HAGEN. + + He must and will. The task he has begun, + How should he then not finish? + + SIEGFRIED. + + If I would! + For truly you demand a deed from me + That I might well refuse another time + Than on my wedding day to do for you-- + How could I pray? What should I tell Kriemhild? + She has so much already to forgive, + The very ground is hot beneath my feet. + Should I repeat the misdeed once again + She never could forgive me in her life. + + HAGEN. + + When a young daughter from her mother parts + And leaves the room where once the cradle stood, + Into the bridal chamber she must pass, + The farewell is a long one, know my friend. + There's time enough for thee, and so--agreed! + + (_As SIEGFRIED refuses his hand._) + + Brunhilda now is like a wounded deer, + Who'd let it with the arrow run away? + A noble hunter sends the second shaft. + The lost is ever lost, nor may return. + The haughty heiress of the Valkyries + And Norns is dying. Give the final stroke! + A happy woman laughs tomorrow morn + And only says: I had a troubled dream! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I know not, something warns me. + + HAGEN. + + Will Frau Ute + Be ready ere thou art? Nay, there's no fear, + For three times yet will she call Kriemhild back + To bless her and embrace her. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I refuse. + + HAGEN. + + What? If this moment came a messenger + In haste announcing that thy father lay + Sick unto death, would'st thou not call at once + For thy good steed? And surely would thy bride + Speed thy departure! Yet a father may, + Though old, recover. Honor wounded once + By cruel wrong, nor mended speedily, + Will never from the dead be raised again. + The honor of the king's the guiding star + Which brings or light or darkness to the knights, + As to the king himself. O woe to him + Who hesitates and robs him of one ray. + Had I thy strength I'd sue to thee no more, + But do the deed myself with pride and joy. + And yet by magic was Brunhilda won, + And magic arts must finish now the task. + Then do it! Must I kneel? + + SIEGFRIED. + + I like it not! + Who would have dreamed of this! And yet it lay + So very near! O nature three times blest! + In all my life no deed I've shunned like this; + Yet what thou say'st is true. So let it be. + + GUNTHER. + + I'll go and give my mother but a hint-- + + HAGEN. + + No, no! No woman! We're already three + And have, I hope, no tongue to tell the tale. + Let death the fourth one in our compact be! + + [_Exeunt omnes._] + + + + ACT III + + _Morning. Courtyard of the castle. The cathedral is at one side._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ RUMOLT _and_ DANKWART _armed._ + + RUMOLT. + + Three dead! + + DANKWART. + + For yesterday it was enough, + For that was but the prelude! Now there'll be + Another tale to tell. + + RUMOLT. + + These Nibelungs + Are e'er prepared for death; they bring their shrouds + And each man wears both shroud and sword at once. + + DANKWART. + + The customs are so strange in northern lands! + For as the mountains grow more rugged still + And cheerful oaks make way for sombre firs, + Just so does man grow gloomy, till at last + He's wholly lost and but the brute remains! + First comes a race that cannot even sing, + And next another race that cannot laugh, + Then follows one that's dumb, and so it goes. + + + + SCENE II + + _Music. A great procession._ WULF _and_ TRUCHS _among the warriors._ + + RUMOLT (_joining_ DANKWART). + + Will Hagen be content? + + DANKWART. + + I think he will. + This is a summons, as it were, to war! + Yet he is right, for this strange princess needs + Quite other morning serenades than sings + The lark that warbles in the linden tree. + + [_They pass by._] + + + + SCENE III + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED _with_ KRIEMHILD. + + KRIEMHILD (_calling attention to her attire_). + + Wilt thou not thank me? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, what dost thou mean? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But look at me! + + SIEGFRIED. That thou art living, smiling, + I give thee thanks, and that thine eyes are blue-- + I love not black-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou dost but praise the Lord + In his handmaiden! Did I make myself, + Thou simple fellow? Did I choose the eyes + Thou dost admire? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yet love, methinks, might dream + E'en such strange fancies! One fair morn in May + When all things glistened as they glisten now, + Two crystal dewdrops, clearer than the rest, + Were hanging on the harebells bluest spray; + And thou hast stolen them, and evermore + All heaven's in thine eyes. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then rather give + Thy thanks to me that as a child I fell + So wisely. My blue eyes I might have lost + The day I only marked my temple here! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, let me kiss the scar! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy healing art + Would be but lost. No balsam craves the wound + That's long since healed. But tell me more! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I thank + Thy mouth-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + With words? + + SIEGFRIED (_about to embrace her_). + + But may I thank thee so? + + KRIEMHILD (_draws back_). + + Dost think that I invite thee? + + SIEGFRIED. + + With words then + For thy words! No, for sweeter yet than words, + Thy murmuring of tender secret things + My ear finds precious, as my lips thy kiss. + I thank thee for thy secret gazing forth + To see us throwing weights to win the prize. + Oh, had I dreamed of it! And for thy scorn + And mockery-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + A maiden's pride to soothe + For tarrying, thou thinkest? Cruel friend! + I told thee in the dark! But wilt thou see + My blushes now when in the light of day + Thou tellest me the tale? My foolish blood + Flushes and pales so fast, my mother says + That I am like a rose-bush that sends forth + Red buds and white upon a single stem-- + Else hadst thou never found my secret out. + For I could feel the burning of my cheeks, + When yestermorn my brother teased me so. + I saw no way but to confess to thee. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Then may he start the noblest stag today! + + KRIEMHILD. + + And may he miss him! Yes, I wish it too.-- + see thou art just like my uncle, Hagen, + Who, if one lays a garment by his bed, + That one has made in secret, will not heed + Unless perchance it is too tight. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And why? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou only see'st God's and nature's gifts + In all that's mine, but my own handiwork, + The raiment that adorns me, thou see'st not-- + Not even the fair girdle that I wear. + + SIEGFRIED. + + The girdle's gay, and yet I'd rather wind + About thy waist the rainbow's lovely hue; + Methinks that ye would suit each other well. + + KRIEMHILD. + + But bring it me at night and I will change, + Yet do not throw it down like this I wear. + 'Tis but by chance I did not lose thy gift. + + SIEGFRIED. + + What sayest thou? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But for the precious stones, + It might be underneath the table still, + But fire is a thing one cannot hide. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Is that my gift? + + KRIEMHILD. + + It is. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But thou art dreaming! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I found it in the room. + + SIEGFRIED. + + It is thy mother's! + She must have let it fall. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It is not hers! + For well I know her ornaments. I thought + It had been taken from the Niblung's hoard; + To give thee joy I put it on at once. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I thank thee, but the girdle I know not! + + KRIEMHILD (_takes the girdle off_). + + Then for my golden girdle make thou room + Which thou concealest! I was all attired, + And only put it on to honor thee, + My mother also, for this golden one + She gave to me. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But that is very strange!-- + 'Twas lying on the floor? + + KRIEMHILD. + + It was. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And crumpled? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I see you know it well! The second trick + Succeeded like the first, and now I have + My task twice over! + + [_She starts to put the girdle on again._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + No! For God's sake, no! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Art thou in earnest? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + 'Twas with that she strove + To tie my hands. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Art laughing? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + Then I raged, + And put forth all my strength. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nay, thou art not? + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I snatched at something. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That I'll soon believe. + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I thrust it, when she grasped for it again, + Into my bosom, and--Now give it me! + No well is deep enough to hide it in; + With a great stone I'll sink it in the Rhine! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I must have lost it--Give it me! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Where didst thou get this girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Nay, this is + A dark and fearful secret; thou should'st seek + To learn no whit about it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yet thou hast + Confided one still greater, and I know + The place where Death may strike the fatal blow. + + SIEGFRIED. + + That I alone protect! + + KRIEMHILD. + + And there are two + To guard the other! + + SIEGFRIED (_to himself_). + + I was far too quick. + + KRIEMHILD (_covers her face_). + + Thou gav'st thy oath to me! Why didst thou that? + I had not even asked it. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Still I swear, + I ne'er have known a woman! + + KRIEMHILD (_holds up the girdle_). + + SIEGFRIED. + + That was used + To bind me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + If a lion told the tale + 'Twere less incredible! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And yet 'tis true. + + KRIEMHILD. + + This hurts me most! To such a man as thou, + The sin itself, however black it be, + Is more becoming than the cloak of lies + Wherewith he fain would hide it. + + _Enter_ GUNTHER _and_ BRUNHILDA. + + SIEGFRIED. + + We must go! + They come! + + KRIEMHILD. + + But who! Does Brunhild know the girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Pray hide it quickly! + + KRIEMHILD. + + No, I'll show it them! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I pray thee hide it. Then thou shalt know all. + + KRIEMHILD (_hiding the girdle_). + + So Brunhilda knows the girdle? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Listen then! + + [_Both follow the procession._] + + + + SCENE IV + + BRUNHILDA. + + Was that not Kriemhild? + + GUNTHER. + + Yes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + How long does she + Tarry beside the Rhine? + + GUNTHER. + + She'll soon depart, + For Siegfried must go home. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I'll grant him leave, + And willingly dispense with his farewell. + + GUNTHER. + + But dost thou hate him so? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I cannot bear + To see thy noble sister sink so low. + + GUNTHER. + + She does as thou dost. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Nay, thou art a man! + This name which was of old to me the call + To arms, now fills my heart with joy and pride! + Yes, Gunther, I am wonderfully changed. + Thou see'st it too? There's something I might ask, + But yet I do not! + + GUNTHER. + + Thou'rt my noble wife! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis sweet to hear that word, and now it seems + As strange to me that once I used to ride + To battle on my horse and hurl my spear, + As it would seem to see thee turn the spit! + I cannot bear the sight of weapons now, + And my own shield I find too heavy far; + I tried to lay it by, but had to call + My maid. I'd rather watch the spiders spin + And see the little birds that build their nests, + Than go with thee! + + GUNTHER. + + Yet this time thou must go! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I know why. Forgive me! What I thought + Was weakness was but magnanimity, + For thou would'st not disgrace me on the ship + When I defied thee! Naught of that there dwelt + Within my heart, and therefore has the strength + That some caprice of nature gave to me + Departed from me, and returned to thee! + + GUNTHER. + + Since thou art gentle, then be reconciled + With Siegfried too! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh, name him not to me! + + GUNTHER. + + There is no reason thou shouldst hate him so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + And if I have none? When a king descends + To fill the humble office of a guide + And carry messages, it is indeed + As strange as if a man should take the place + Of his own horse, the saddle on his back, + Or bay and hunt in service of his hound. + But if it pleases him, what's that to me! + + GUNTHER. + + It was not so. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Still stranger 't is to see + His noble stature tow'ring high above + All other men, so that it even seems + That he has gathered all the royal crowns + Of all the world to forge them into one, + And thus to show the world for the first time + A perfect picture of true majesty. + For it is true, while still upon the earth + More crowns than one are gleaming, none is round, + And for the sun's full circle even thou + Wearest a crescent pale upon thy head. + + GUNTHER. + + But see. Thou hast already viewed the man + With other eyes. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I greeted him ere thee. + Then slay him--challenge him--win my revenge! + + GUNTHER. + + Brunhilda! He's the husband of my sister, + And so his blood is mine. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Do battle then + With him and lay him low upon the ground, + And let me see thy rightful majesty + When he is as a footstool for thy feet! + + GUNTHER. + + Our custom is not so. + BRUNHILDA. I will not yield; + His downfall I must see. Thou hast the heart + Of life, and he the glitter and the show. + But blow away this magic which e'er holds + The gaze of fools upon him. If Kriemhild + Casts down those eyes in shame, that now she lifts + Almost too proudly when she's by his side, + 'Twill do no damage, and I promise thee + Far richer love if thou wilt do the deed. + + GUNTHER. + + He too is strong. + + BRUNHILDA. + + That he the dragon slew + And conquered Alberich, does not compare + With thy great prowess. For in thee and me + Have man and woman for eternity + Fought the last battle for supremacy. + Thou art the victor, and I ask no more + Than still to see those honors deck thy brow + Of which I was so jealous. For thou art + The strongest man of all; so cast him down + From golden clouds to earth for my delight, + And leave him naked, destitute, and bare-- + Then let him live a hundred years or more. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + SCENE V + + _Enter_ FRIGGA _and_ UTE. + + UTE. + + Brunhilda looks already happier + Than yesterday. + + FRIGGA. + + My Queen, she truly is. + + UTE. + + I thought it would be so. + + FRIGGA. + + But I did not! + Her mind is strangely altered, 'twould astound + Me not a whit now if her nature too + Should alter and her hair should change to blonde + Instead of raven tresses that of old + So richly waved beneath my golden comb. + + UTE. + + Thou dost not grieve, I trust? + + FRIGGA. + + I'm more amazed. + If this heroic woman thou hadst reared + As I have done, and knew all that I know, + Then would thy wonder be no less than mine. + + UTE (_turning to go back into the castle_). + + Do what thou canst! + + FRIGGA. + + I surely have done more + Than ever thou couldst dream of. How this came + I cannot tell, but if she's happy now + I am content, and of the olden time + She hath forgotten never will I tell. + + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter_ KRIEMHILD _and_ BRUNHILDA, _hand in hand. A large number of + warriors and people gather._ + + KRIEMHILD. + + Wouldst thou not watch the combat from afar + Rather than join the fray? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Hast thou tried both, + That thus thou canst compare them? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I'd not bear + The heat of battle. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then thou shouldst not try + To judge of it!--No insult I intend. + Nay, do not draw thy hand away from mine! + It may be so, and yet I thought this joy + Were but for me alone. + + KRIEMHILD. + + What dost thou mean? + + BRUNHILDA. Surely no woman can rejoice to see + Her husband conquered. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Never! + + BRUNHILDA. Nor deceive + Herself if in the fray he's not unhorsed, + Because his conqueror spares him. + + KRIEMHILD. Surely not. + + BRUNHILDA. What then! + + KRIEMHILD. But I am quite secure from that? + Thou smilest? + + BRUNHILDA. Over-confident art thou. + + KRIEMHILD. It is my right! + + BRUNHILDA. It may not come to proof, + And even a dream is sweet--so slumber on, + And I will never wake thee. + + KRIEMHILD. What say'st thou? + My noble husband is too gentle far + To grieve the rulers of his royal realm, + Else had he made a sceptre long ago + Of his good sword and held it forth so far + That its great shadow covered all the earth. + For all the lands are subject unto him, + And should but one deny it, I would ask + That land from him to make a flower bed. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Kriemhild, what then would be my husband's place? + + KRIEMHILD. + He is my brother, and the standard's his + Whereby one weighs all others. None weighs him. + + BRUNHILDA. + + No, for he is the standard of the world! + And as 'tis gold decides the worth of things, + So he the worth of heroes and of knights. + Thou must not contradict me, dearest child, + And in return I'll listen patiently + If thou wilt only teach me how to sew. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Brunhilda! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Nay, I did not speak in scorn; + I long to sew, and needle-work is not + My birthright like the throwing of the lance, + For which I never sought a master's aid, + More than I needed aid to stand or walk. + + KRIEMHILD. + + If 'tis thy wish, we can begin at once; + And since thou best enjoyest making wounds + We'll take the bodkin for embroidery. + I have a pattern!-- + + [_She is about to show the girdle._] + No, I have it not. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou lookest on thy sister coldly now. + But 'tis not friendly to withdraw thy hand + From my fond clasp before I give it up-- + At least our custom is the contrary. + And canst thou not be reconciled to know + The sceptre of thy dreams is given now + Into thy brother's hands? Thou art his sister, + And that should comfort thee. A brother's fame + Is half thine own, so thou shouldst yield to me, + Before all other women, honor's crown + That once for all could never have been thine, + For no one could have paid for it as I. + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis thus perverted nature takes revenge. + Thou didst resist love's rule as no one else, + And now this blindness is thy penalty. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou speakest of thyself and not of me! + We need not quarrel, for the whole world knows + That ere my mother bore me, 'twas my fate + The strongest knight alone should conquer me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I can believe it. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Well? + + KRIEMHILD (_laughs_). + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then thou art mad! + Perchance thou fear'st that we shall be too harsh + With all the vassals? Yet thou need'st not fear! + I plant no flower beds in conquered lands, + And only once will I claim precedence + If thou art not too proud and obstinate,-- + Here at the church today and nevermore. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Indeed I'd never have denied it thee, + But, since my husband's honor is at stake, + I will not yield one step. + + BRUNHILDA. + + He will command + That thou shalt yield. + + KRIEMHILD. + + How dare'st thou scorn him so! + + BRUNHILDA. + + He made way for thy brother in my hall, + As vassals for their lord, and he refused + My proffered greeting!--That did not seem strange + While I still thought him--as he called himself-- + A serving-man, a messenger to me. + But now it all seems changed. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And how is that? + + BRUNHILDA. + + I've seen a wolf slip silently away + Before a bear, and then I've seen the bear + Flee from the mountain bull. Though he's not sworn, + Yet is he still a vassal. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Say no more! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Wilt threaten me? Do not forget thyself! + I have my senses--see that thou keep thine: + There must have been some cause beneath all this. + + KRIEMHILD. + + There was! And if thou shouldst suspect the cause, + How thou wouldst shudder. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Shudder! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yes, indeed! + But do not fear! I love thee even now + Too fondly. Never can I hate thee so + That I will tell the cause. Had aught like that + Befallen me, today I'd dig my grave + With my own hands. Brunhilda, never fear! + I will not make thee the most wretched soul + That draws the breath of life upon the earth! + Then keep thy pride, for pity makes me dumb. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thou boastest, Kriemhild! I despise thee now! + + KRIEMHILD. + + My husband's concubine despises me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Put her in chains! She rages! Bind her then! + + KRIEMHILD (_draws out the girdle_). + + Know'st thou this girdle? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Well I do. 'Tis mine. + And since I see it in a stranger's hands + It must be that 'twas stolen in the night. + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Twas stolen! 'Twas no thief that gave it me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Who then? + + KRIEMHILD. + + The man who overpowered thee! + But not my brother! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy fierce strength + Had surely strangled Gunther, then perchance + Thou would'st have loved the dead as punishment. + My husband gave it me! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis false! + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis true! + Now scorn him if thou canst! Wilt now consent + That I may pass before thee through the door? + + (_To her women._) + + Now follow. She shall see me prove my rights! + + [_They leave and enter the cathedral._] + + [Illustration: "SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD THE QUARREL OF THE QUEENS"] + + + + SCENE VII + + BRUNHILDA. + + Where are the lords of Burgundy!--Oh Frigga! + Didst thou hear that? + + FRIGGA. + + I heard, and I believe it. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh this is death! 'Tis true? + + FRIGGA. + + She said too much, + Surely too much--but this is plain to me, + That thou hast been betrayed! + + BRUNHILDA. + + 'Tis not a lie? + + FRIGGA. + + 'Twas Balmung's master. On the shore he stood + When died the flames. + + BRUNHILDA. + + Then he rejected me. + For I was on the rampart and I know + He saw me. But his heart was full of her. + + FRIGGA. + + That thou mayst know what thou hast lost by fraud, + I too deceived thee! + + BRUNHILDA (_without listening to her_). + + Hence the haughty calm + With which he gazed upon me! + + FRIGGA. + + Not alone + This narrow country, but the whole wide earth + Was meant to be thy kingdom, and to thee + The stars should tell their message. Even death + Should lose his fell dominion over thee! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Speak not of that! + + FRIGGA. + + Why not? Thy glories lost + Thou'lt not regain, but yet thou canst avenge + Thy wrongs, my child! + + BRUNHILDA. + + And I will have revenge! + Despised and scorned! Oh, woman, in his arms + If thou hast mocked at me a single night, + Thou shalt weep bitterly for many years! + I will--Alas! I am as weak as she. + + [_Throws herself on FRIGGA's bosom._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + _Enter_ GUNTHER, HAGEN, DANKWART, RUMOLT, GERENOT, GISELHER _and_ + SIEGFRIED. + + HAGEN. + + What then is wrong? + + BRUNHILDA (_drawing herself up to her full height, to + GUNTHER_). + + Am I concubine? + + GUNTHER. + + A concubine? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Thy sister calls me so! + + HAGEN (_to FRIGGA_). + + What happened here? + + FRIGGA. + + Ye are discovered now! + We know the conqueror, and Kriemhild vows + That he was twice a victor. + + HAGEN + + (_to GUNTHER_). + He has told! + + [_He speaks to him aside._] + + + + SCENE IX + + KRIEMHILD (_who has meanwhile come out of the cathedral_). + + Forgive me, Siegfried, for the wrong I did! + Yet if thou knewest how she slandered thee-- + + GUNTHER (to SIEGFRIED). + + Hast thou then boasted? + + SIEGFRIED (_laying his hand on KRIEMHILD's head_). + By her life I swear, + I never did. + + HAGEN. + + No oath is needed here! + He only told the truth. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And even that + Upon compulsion! + HAGEN. That I do not doubt! + The tale can wait the telling. 'Tis our part + To separate the women, for we know + That serpents' crests may ever rise again + If they too soon gaze in each other's eyes. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I'm soon departing hence. Come, Kriemhild, come! + + KRIEMHILD (_to BRUNHILDA_). + + If thou couldst know how thou didst anger me, + Then even thou-- + + BRUNHILDA (_turns away_). + + KRIEMHILD. + + Since thou dost love my brother, + How canst thou hate the means that gave thee him + To be his bride? + + BRUNHILDA. + + Oh, Oh! + + HAGEN. + + Away! Away! + + SIEGFRIED (_leading KRIEMHILD away_). + + There's been no tattling here, as you shall see. + + [_Exeunt._] + + + + SCENE X + + HAGEN. + + Come, gather round and vote without delay + The doom of death. + + GUNTHER. + + Hagen, what sayest thou? + + HAGEN. + + Have we not cause enough? There stands the Queen + And burning tears are streaming from her eyes. + For shame she weeps! + + (_To BRUNHILDA._) + + Oh, thou heroic Queen, + To whom alone my homage I do yield, + The man who shamed thee so must surely die! + + GUNTHER. Hagen! + + HAGEN (_to BRUNHILDA_). + + The man must die unless thou wilt + Forego revenge and plead for him thyself. + + BRUNHILDA. + + I'll touch no food till judgment is fulfilled. + + HAGEN. + + Forgive me that I spoke before my king! + I only strove to make the matter plain, + Yet free decision is thy royal right-- + So make thy choice between thy bride and him. + + GISELHER. + + Thou canst not mean it! For a trifling fault, + Thou wouldst not slay the truest man on earth? + My King! My brother! Say it is not so! + + HAGEN. + + Will ye rear bastards here within your court? + I doubt me if the proud Burgundians + Will crown them! Yet thou art the master here! + + GERENOT. + + Brave Siegfried soon will quell all murmurings, + If we ourselves cannot perform the task. + + HAGEN (_to_ GUNTHER). + + Thou speakest not. 'Tis well. The rest is mine! + + GISELHER. + + In bloody counsels I will take no part! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE XI + + BRUNHILDA. + + Frigga, I tell thee he or I must die! + + FRIGGA. + + 'Tis he must die! + + BRUNHILDA. + + I was not merely scorned, + But passed from hand to hand. They bartered + me! + + FRIGGA. + + They bartered thee! + + BRUNHILDA. + + Too mean to be his wife, + I was the price for which he bought him one. + + FRIGGA. + + The price, my child! + + BRUNHILDA. + + O this is worse than murder! + And I will have revenge, revenge, revenge! + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + + ACT IV + + + _Worms._ + + + + SCENE I + + _Great hall._ GUNTHER _with his warriors._ HAGEN _carries a spear._ + + HAGEN. + + A blind man e'en can hit a linden leaf; + At fifty paces I will wager you + With this good spear to split a hazelnut. + + GISELHER. + + Why dost thou choose this day to show thy skill? + We've always known thy arms would never rust. + + HAGEN. + + He comes! Now show me you can wear dark looks + And altered bearing although none has lost + His father. + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter SIEGFRIED._ + + SIEGFRIED. + + Ho, ye knights! And hear ye not + The hounds give tongue, and hark! Our youngest hunter + Impatient tries his horn! To horse! Away! + + HAGEN. + + The day is fair! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And have you not been told + That bears have ventured in the very stalls, + And that the eagles wait before the doors + And watch when they are opened for a child + That may stray out? + + VOLKER. + + Indeed that has been known. + + SIEGFRIED. + + While we were courting no one thought to hunt. + Then come, and we'll drive back the enemy, + And hack and hew him. + + HAGEN. Friend, more need have we + To grind our swords and nail our spear-heads firm. + + SIEGFRIED. + + And why? + + HAGEN. + + Thou'st dallied all these last few days + With honeyed words, else hadst thou well known why. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am about to say farewell, ye know! + Yet speak, what's toward? + + HAGEN. + + Danes and Saxons too + Again are coming. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Are the princes dead, + Who swore allegiance to us? + + HAGEN. + + Nay, not dead; + They're leading on the army. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Luedegast + And Luedeger, who were my prisoners, + Set free without a ransom? + + GUNTHER. + + Yesterday + Renounced they every oath. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Their messengers-- + You surely must have hewn them limb from limb? + Has every vulture had his share of them? + + HAGEN. + + So speakest thou? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Such vipers' messengers + One tramples like a viper. Fiends of hell! + Now feel I my first anger! I believed + That often I knew hatred, but I erred; + 'Twas but less love I felt. For I can hate + Nothing but broken vows and treachery, + Hypocrisy and all the coward's sins + That seek their victim as the spider crawls + Upon its hollow legs. How can it be + That such brave men (for surely they were brave), + Could so besmirch themselves? Oh, my dear friends, + Stand not so coldly by and gaze on me + As though you thought me mad, as though I knew + No longer great from small! We've never known + What outrage is till now. Our reckoning + May we strike calmly out to the last score. + Only these two are guilty. + + GISELHER. + + Shameful 'tis. + The way they praised thee echoes in my ear. + When came this messenger? + + HAGEN. + + 'Twas even now. + Didst thou not see him. He made haste to leave + As soon as he had done his errand here, + Nor tarried for his messenger's reward. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, shame that you did not chastise the man + For impudence! A raven would have come + And plucked his eyes out, and in very scorn + Have cast them forth again before his lord. + That was the only answer that was due. + This is no lawful feud, this is no war + That right and custom sanction--'tis the chase + Of evil beasts! Nay, Hagen, do not smile! + The headsman's ax should be our weapon now, + So that we should not soil our noble blades, + And, since the ax is iron like the sword, + It were a shame to use it till we find + No rope would be enough to hang the dogs. + + HAGEN. + + Thou say'st! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou mockest at me as it seems. + 'Tis strange, for trifles used to anger thee! + I know thou art an older man than I, + But 'tis not youth that's speaking through me now, + Nor is it indignation that 'twas I + Who begged thy mercy for them. Nay, I stand + For the whole world. As calls a bell to prayer, + So calls my tongue to vengeance every one + Who stands as man amidst his fellow-men. + + GUNTHER. + + 'Tis so. + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ HAGEN). + + Know'st thou betrayal? Treachery + Gaze on the traitor! Smile then if thou canst. + To open combat dost thou challenge him + And dost o'erthrow him. But thou art too proud, + If not too noble, to thrust home thy sword, + And so thou set'st him free, and givest him + His weapons once again that thou hadst won. + He does not rage at thee and thrust them back; + He gives thee humble thanks and praises sweet + And swears with thousand oaths to be thy man. + But when, the honeyed words still in thine ear, + Thou lay'st thy weary limbs upon thy couch, + Bare and defenseless as a helpless child, + Then creeps the traitor up and murders thee, + And even while thou diest spits on thee. + + GUNTHER (_to_ HAGEN). + + What dost thou say to that? + + HAGEN (_to_ GUNTHER). + + This noble wrath + Gives me such courage that I ask our friend + If he will grant us escort yet once more. + + SIEGFRIED. + + With my own Nib'lungs will I go alone, + For it is by my fault this trouble comes + To ye again! Howe'er I longed to show + My bride unto my mother and to win + For the first time her undivided praise, + It may not be while yet these hypocrites + Have ovens for their bread and flowing springs + To slake their thirst! I will at once put off + My homeward journey, and I promise you + That I will take them living, and henceforth + Before my castle shall they lie in chains + And bay like hounds whene'er I come or go, + Since, as it seems, they have the souls of dogs! + + [_He hastens away_.] + + + + SCENE III + + HAGEN. + + He'll surely rush to her in all his rage, + And when he leaves, then I will seek her out. + + GUNTHER. + + I'll move in this no further. + + HAGEN. + + What, my King? + + GUNTHER. + + Bid heralds come once more and let them say + That there is peace again. + + HAGEN. + + It shall be done + When I have talked with Kriemhild privately + And learned the secret from her. + + GUNTHER. + + Hast thou then + No bowels of compassion? Thy hard heart + No pity feeleth yet? + + HAGEN. + + Speak plainly, lord; + I cannot understand. + + GUNTHER. + + He shall not die. + + HAGEN. + + He lives while thou commandest. If I stood + Behind him in the woods and poised my spear, + But shake thy head, and for this traitor dies + A beast. + + GUNTHER. + + Not traitor, no! Was it his fault + That he brought back the girdle carelessly + And Kriemhild found it? It escaped him there, + As clings an arrow in a warrior's mail + If after battle 'tis not shaken off, + And only by its rattling is it marked. + I ask you one and all: was it his fault? + + HAGEN. + + No! No! Who says so? Nor was he to blame + For lacking clever wits to clear himself, + For doubtless he blushed crimson at th' attempt. + + GUNTHER. + + What then remains? + + HAGEN. + + Brunhilda's oath remains. + + GISELHER. + + Then let her slay him if she wants his blood. + + HAGEN. + + We're quarreling like children. May one not + Collect his weapons, though he knoweth not + When he may need to use them? One explores + An unknown land and finds its passes out. + Then why not, pray, a hero? I will try + My fortune now with Kriemhild, if it were + Only that this fine ruse that we have planned + Might not be all in vain. She'll not betray + The secret to me unless he hath told + The matter to her. Then you may decide + Whether to use the knowledge I may gain; + And you may really do, if so you please, + What I shall but pretend, and so in war + Protect the place where death may find him out. + But you must know where is his mortal spot. + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE IV + + GISELHER (_to_ GUNTHER). + + Thou hast returned to thine own loyalty + And faithfulness, or else I'd say: this trick + Is far beneath a king! + + VOLKER. + + Thy angry mood + Is natural; thou wast thyself deceived. + + GISELHER. + + That was not why. Yet let us not dispute + When all is well again. + + VOLKER. + + When all is well? + + GISELHER. + + Is it not well? + + VOLKER. + + They tell me that the Queen + In mourning robes is clad, and food and drink + Refuses--even water. + + GUNTHER. + + True, alas! + + VOLKER. + + How then is't well? What Hagen said is true. + She's not like others; for the breath of time + Her wounds can never heal, nor give her peace. + And we must face the question: He or she! + Thou sayest truly, Siegfried's not to blame + That to him clung the girdle like a snake, + And was discovered. That is pure mischance; + But this mischance is deadly, and thou canst + Determine only whom it shall destroy. + + GISELHER. + + Let that one die who hath no will to live! + + GUNTHER. + + Oh, fearful choice! + + VOLKER. + + I warned thee long ago, + From starting on this course, but now at last + We see the end. + + DANKWART. + + And is it not our law, + That even blunders bring their penalty + He who runs through his bosom friend by night + Because he bore his lance too carelessly, + Can never free himself with all his tears, + However hot and bitter they may flow.-- + The price is blood. + + GUNTHER. + + Now I will go to her. + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE V + + VOLKER. + + There comes Kriemhild with Hagen. She's distressed, + As he predicted. Let us go. + + [_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter_ HAGEN _and_ KRIEMHILD. + + HAGEN. + + Thou com'st + So early to the hall? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I could not bear + To linger in my chamber. + + HAGEN. + + Saw I not + Thy husband parting from thee? He was flushed, + And angry were his looks. Is there not peace + Between yourself and Siegfried once again? + Is he not kind and gentle with his bride? + Tell me, and I will talk with him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, no! + Did nothing else remind me of that day, + That evil day, 'twould be a dream that's past. + My lord hath spared me every unkind word. + + HAGEN. + + I'm glad he is so gentle. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I could wish + That he would blame me, yet perchance he knows + I blame myself enough! + + HAGEN. + + Be not too harsh! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I know how bitterly I wounded her! + I'll not forgive myself. I'd rather far + Have felt the hurt myself than injured her. + + HAGEN. + + And this it is that drove thee from thy room? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, no! 'twould make me hide myself away! + I am so anxious for him! + + HAGEN. + + Dost thou fear? + + KRIEMHILD. + + There is another war. + + HAGEN. + + Yes, that is true. + + KRIEMHILD. + + The lying scoundrels! + + HAGEN. + + Be not overwrought + Nor cease thy preparations for the voyage. + Work tranquilly and do not be disturbed, + For thou canst put away his armor last. + What am I saying! For he wears no mail, + Nor doth he need to wear it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thinkest thou + + HAGEN. + + I well might laugh. If any other wife + So sighed, I'd say: Out of a thousand darts + But one could touch him, and that one would break. + But thee I ridicule and must advise + Let thy stray fancy sing some wiser song. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou speak'st of arrows! Arrows are the thing + That most I dread. I know an arrow's point + Needs at the most the space of my thumb nail + To penetrate, and yet it kills a man. + + HAGEN. + + Especially if 'tis a poisoned dart. + These savages, who broke the bulwark down, + The bulwark of our life and of the state, + Which we hold sacred even in our wars, + Would do a deed like this as soon as that. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou see'st! + + HAGEN. + + How can thy Siegfried come to harm? + He is secure. And if there were such shafts + That straighter flew than fly the sun's own rays, + He'd shake them off as we shake off the snow; + And this he knows, and so his confidence + Abandons him no moment in the fray. + We were not born beneath an aspen tree, + Yet we nigh tremble at the deeds he dares. + And heartily he laughs at this sometimes, + And we laugh too. For iron you may thrust + Into the fire--it changes into steel. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I shudder! + + HAGEN. + + Child, thou art but newly wed, + Or I'd rejoice at thy timidity. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Hast thou forgotten, or hast thou not heard + What in the ballads hath oft times been sung, + That Siegfried may be wounded in one spot? + + HAGEN. + + I'd quite forgotten that, although 'tis true. + I recollect, he spoke of it himself. + It seems to me he told us of a leaf, + But what it signified I cannot say. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It was a linden leaf. + + HAGEN. + + Oh yes! But say, + How could a linden leaf have done him harm? + For that's a riddle like no other one. + + KRIEMHILD. + + It floated down upon him on the breeze + When he was bathing in the dragon's blood, + And he is vulnerable where it fell. + HAGEN. He would have seen it if it fell in front!-- + What matters it? Thou see'st thy nearest kin, + Thy brothers even, who would shield him still + Were but the shadow of a danger nigh, + Know nothing of his vulnerable spot. + What dost thou fear? Thy anguish is for naught. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I fear the Valkyries, for I have heard + They always choose the noblest warriors; + If they direct the dart, it ne'er can miss. + + HAGEN. + + But then he only needs a trusty squire. + Who shall protect his back. Think'st thou not so? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I think I should sleep sounder. + + HAGEN. + + Mark my words! + If he--thou know'st it almost happened once-- + Should fall from out his skiff and in the Rhine + Should sink because his weapons drew him down + To feed the greedy fishes, I would plunge + To save our Siegfried, or else I myself + Would die with him. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And is thy thought so noble? + + HAGEN. + + So I think! And if the red cock lit + In darkest night upon his castle roof, + And he, half smothered and but half awake, + Should fail to find the way that leads to life, + I'd bear him from the flames in my own arms, + And should I not succeed, with him I'd die. + + KRIEMHILD (_turns about to embrace him_). + + Then must I-- + + HAGEN (_refusing the caress_). + + Do not! But I swear, I'd do it. + Though only lately had I sworn that oath. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy kinsman he became but recently! + And dost thou really mean it? That thou would'st + Thyself?-- + + HAGEN. + + I mean it, for he'll fight for me, + And no least one of all the thousand wonders + His sword can do, has he refused to me; + And so I'll shelter him! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I had not dared + To hope for that! + + HAGEN. + + But I must know the spot, + And thou must show it to me. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That is true! + Between his shoulders is it, half across. + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis target height! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh uncle, you will not + Avenge on him the crime that's mine alone? + + HAGEN. + + What dost thou dream of? + + KRIEMHILD. It was jealousy + That blinded me, or else her boastfulness + Would not have roused my anger. + + HAGEN. + + Jealousy! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am ashamed! But even if that night + The blows were all, and that I will believe, + I grudge Brunhilda even blows from him. + + HAGEN. + + Be patient! She'll forget it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Is it true + That she'll not eat or drink? + + HAGEN. + + She always fasts + This time of year, for 'tis the Norns' own week, + And still in Iceland 'tis a sacred time. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Three days have now passed by! + + HAGEN. + + What's that to us? + But hush! They're coming. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Well + + HAGEN. + + Were it not wise + To broider on his tunic a small cross? + Forsooth our care is needless, and he would + Deride thee if thou shouldst but tell thy fear. + Yet since I now have made myself his guard + I would not aught neglect. + + KRIEMHILD. + + That will I do. + + [_She goes to meet_ UTE _and the Chaplain_.] + + + + SCENE VII + + HAGEN (_following her_). + + Thy hero now is as a stag to me. + Had he not broken silence, he were safe, + And yet I surely knew that could not be. + If one's transparent as an insect is, + That looks now red, now green, as is its food, + One must beware of any mysteries, + Lest e'en the vitals show the secret forth! + + + + SCENE VIII + + UTE _and the Chaplain come forward_. + + CHAPLAIN. + + There is no image of it in this world! + You strive to liken it and comprehend, + Yet here all signs and measures too must fail. + But kneel before the Lord in fervent prayer, + And when contrition and humility + Have made you lose yourself, you may be drawn, + A moment only, as the lightning flash + Does tarry upon earth, to heavenly heights. + + UTE. + + And can that happen? + + CHAPLAIN. + + Stephen, blessed saint, + Saw, when the furious horde of angry Jews + Were stoning him, the gates of paradise + Standing ajar, and he rejoiced and sang. + His suffering body only they destroyed, + But 'twas to him as if the murderous band + That thought to kill him in their fury blind + Could only rend the garment he had doffed. + + UTE (_to_ KRIEMHILD _who has joined them_). + + + Take heed, Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I do. + + CHAPLAIN. + + That was the power + Of faith; And ye must also learn the curse + Of unbelief. Saint Peter, who has charge + Of sword and keys of our most holy church, + Loved and instructed in the faith a youth, + And brought him up. One day upon a rock + The youth was standing, and the stormy sea + Around him surged in fury. Then he thought + Of how his Lord and Master left the ship, + And trustingly obeyed the slightest sign + The Saviour gave, and walked upon the deep + That tossed and threatened him with certain death. + A dizziness came o'er him at the thought + Of such a trial, for the wonder seemed + Beyond the bounds of reason, then he caught + A corner of the rock and clung to it, + Crying aloud: All, all, yet spare me this! + Then breathed the Lord, and suddenly the stone + Began to melt away. He sank and sank, + And lost all hope, until for very fear + He sprang from off the rock into the flood. + The breath of the Eternal stilled the sea, + And made it solid and it bore him up, + As kindly earth bears up both ye and me. + Repentantly he said: Thy will be done! + + UTE. + + In all eternity! + + KRIEMHILD. + + My Father, pray + That He who changes water and firm rock, + Will shield my Siegfried. For each sep'rate year + Of happy life vouchsafed me by his side + An altar will I build unto a saint. + + [_Exit_ KRIEMHILD.] + + CHAPLAIN. + + The miracle astounds thee. Let me tell + The tale of how I won my friar's cowl. + The Angles are my kin, a heathen folk, + And as a heathen was I born and reared, + And turbulent I was; at fifteen years + The sword was girded on me. Then appeared + The Lord's first messenger among my tribe. + They scorned him and despised him, and at last + They slew him. Queen, I stood and saw it all, + And, driven by the others, gave to him + With this right hand I nevermore shall use, + Although the arm's not helpless as you think, + The final blow. But then I heard him pray. + He prayed for me, and his pure soul expired + With the Amen. The heart within my breast + Was changed from that time forth. I threw my sword + Upon the ground, and put his garment on + And went to preach the Gospel of the Cross. + + UTE. + + Here comes my son! Oh, couldst thou bring again + To this distracted land the peace we've lost + So utterly! + + [_Exeunt_.] + + + + SCENE IX + + _Enter_ GUNTHER _with_ HAGEN _and the others_. + + GUNTHER. + + It is as I have said, + She reckons on the deed as we believe + That autumn brings us apples. The old nurse + Has tried to rouse her, and has quietly + Bestrewn her chamber all with grains of wheat; + They lie there undisturbed. + + GISELHER. + + How can it be + That she should venture life for life to stake? + + HAGEN. + + I marvel at her also. + + GUNTHER. And withal + She neither drives nor urges, as with things + Bound up with time and place and human will + 'Twere natural to do. She questions not + Nor changes countenance, but sits amazed + That any man should speak and not announce-- + The deed is done! + + HAGEN. + + But I must tell thee this: + His spell is on her, and her very hate + Is rooted deep in love! + + GUNTHER. + + Believ'st thou so? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis not such love as binds, a man and wife, + In holy union. + + GUNTHER. + + How then? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis a charm, + A magic, that would keep her race alive. + So drives the giantess to seek her mate, + Joyless and choiceless, since they are the last. + + GUNTHER. + + Is there no hope? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis death must break the spell. + Her blood congeals when his has ceased to flow. + His destiny it was that he should slay + The dragon and then take the dragon's road. + + [_A tumult is heard_.] + + GUNTHER. + + What may that be? + + HAGEN. + + 'Tis those false messengers. + And Dankwart drives them forth. He does it well. + Lovers will hear it even while they kiss. + + + + SCENE X + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED; _as_ HAGEN _notices hint_. + + HAGEN. + + By all the fiends of hell! No! ten times no! + It were disgrace for us, and Siegfried thinks + Assuredly as I do. Here he comes! + Now speak, thou may'st decide it.-- + + (_As_ DANKWART _enters_.) + + Though thy word + Can alter nothing more. The answer's gone. + + (_To_ DANKWART.) + + Thou surely hast not spared to scourge them well + + (_To_ SIEGFRIED.) + + Yet set thy seal upon it even so! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What's this? + + HAGEN. + + The dogs have come again to sue + For peace. I ordered that the worthless knaves + With scourges should be driven from the court + Before they gave their message. + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Twas well done! + + HAGEN. + + The King indeed reproves me, for he thinks + We know not what has happened. + + SIEGFRIED. + + What? Not know? + I know! For when a wolf is chased along, + He harms not those before him! + + HAGEN. + + That is true! + + SIEGFRIED. + + And more than that! Behind them is a horde + Of savage tribesmen who will never sow, + And yet they want to reap. + + HAGEN. + + Now do you see? + + SIEGFRIED. + + But you should show no mercy on the wolf + Because he has no time to guard himself. + + HAGEN. + + We surely shall not. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Come, we'll help the foxes + And drive him to his final hiding place, + Within the foxes' bellies. + + HAGEN. + + That we'll do; + Yet let us not exert ourselves in vain, + And so--Let's hunt today. + + GISELHER. + + I will not go. + + GERENOT. + + Nor will I either. + + SIEGFRIED. + + You are young and brave, + Yet follow not the chase, but bide at home? + They would have had to tie me, and the cords + I would have gnawed in two. Oh huntsman's joy! + If one could only sing it! + + HAGEN. + + Wilt thou go? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Go!--Friend, I am so full of rage and wrath + That I could quarrel now with any man, + And so I long for bloodshed. + + HAGEN. + + And I too! + + + + SCENE XI + + _Enter_ KRIEMHILD. + + KRIEMHILD. + + You're going hunting? + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yes, and pray command + What I shall bring thee. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried, stay at home! + + SIEGFRIED. + + My child, one thing thou canst not learn too soon, + Thou must not beg a man to stay at home, + But beg him: Take me too! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then, may I go? + + HAGEN. + + That may not be! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Why not? She's not afraid! + And surely she has often gone before. + Bring falcons here! For she shall take the birds, + And we the beasts. There'll be more pleasure so. + + HAGEN. + + One woman hides her shame within her room-- + Her rival rideth gaily to the hunt? + 'Twould look like taunting her. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I had not thought. + Ah well, it may not be. + KRIEMHILD. Then change again + Thy garments! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yet again? Thy every wish + I'll follow, not thy fancies. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou'rt severe. + + SIEGFRIED. + + But let me go! The breeze will change my mood. + Tomorrow night I'll make my peace with thee. + + HAGEN. + + Then come! + + SIEGFRIED. + + I will. But now my farewell kiss. + + [_He embraces_ KRIEMHILD.] + + Thou'lt not deny me? Thou'lt not say, tomorrow, + As I do? Thou art noble. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, come back! + + SIEGFRIED. + + But what a strange desire! What's wrong, I pray? + I go a-hunting with my own good friends, + And if the lofty mountains do not fall + And bury us, we cannot suffer harm. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Alas! That is the very thing I dreamed. + + SIEGFRIED. + + My child, the hills stand firm. + + KRIEMHILD (_throws her arms around him once more_). + + Come back! Come back! + + [_Exeunt warriors_.] + + + + SCENE XII + + KRIEMHILD. + + Siegfried! + + SIEGFRIED (_appears once more_). + + What now? + + KRIEMHILD. + + If thou wouldst not be angry-- + + HAGEN (_follows SIEGFRIED hastily_). + + Well, hast thou got thy spindle yet? + + SIEGFRIED (_to_ KRIEMHILD). + + Thou Nearest, + The hounds can be no longer held in leash; + What dost thou wish? + + HAGEN. + + Oh wait, pray, for thy flax! + And spin it in the moonlight with the elves. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now go! I longed to see thee once again! + + [HAGEN _and_ SIEGFRIED _go out_.] + + + + SCENE XIII + + KRIEMHILD. + + And should I call him to me ten times more + I'd never find the heart to tell it him. + How can we do what straightway we repent! + + + SCENE XIV + + _Enter_ GERENOT _and_ GISELHER. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Are you not gone? The Lord hath sent them here! + My dearest brothers, earnestly I beg + Vouchsafe me my desire, though to you + It seems but foolish. Go ye with my lord + Where'er he goes, and keep behind his back. + + GERENOT. + + We are not going. We've no wish to go. + + KRIEMHILD. + + No wish to go! + + GISELHER. + + What say'st thou? We've no time! + We've much to do before our men march forth. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And is all that intrusted to your youth? + If I am dear to you, if you have not + Forgotten that one mother nourished us, + Ride after them. + + GISELHER. + + They're long since in the wood. + + GERENOT. + + And then thou hast one brother with him, + now, + + KRIEMHILD. + + I beg of you! + + GISELHER. + + We must collect the arms, + As thou shalt see. + + [_Starts to go_.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then tell me one thing more + Is Hagen Siegfried's friend? + + GERENOT. + + Why not, I pray? + + KRIEMHILD. + + But has he ever praised him? + + GISELHER. + + It is praise + If Hagen does not blame, and I've not heard + That he found fault with Siegfried. + + [_Both leave_.] + + KRIEMHILD. + + Most of all + This frightens me. They are not with my lord! + + + + SCENE XV + + _Enter_ FRIGGA. + + KRIEMHILD. + + How, nurse? Art seeking me? + + FRIGGA. + + I seek for none. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Then is there something wanted for the Queen? + + FRIGGA. + + There is not. She needs nothing. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Nothing still? + But can she not forgive? + + FRIGGA. + + I do not know! + She has had no occasion to forgive; + She never was offended. I heard horns. + Is there a hunt? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Hast thou then ordered it? + + FRIGGA. + + I--No! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + SCENE XVI + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, had I only told it him! + Oh, my beloved, no woman host thou known, + I see it now! Else nevermore hadst thou + Unto a trembling girl who doth betray + Herself through fear, intrusted such a secret. + Still do I hear the playful whispered words + With which thou told'st it to me when I praised + The dragon's death. And then I made thee swear + To tell no other soul in all the world, + And now--Oh birds that circle overhead, + Oh snow white doves that fly about me now, + Take pity on me, warn him, fly to him! + + [_Exit_.] + + + + ACT V + + + _Oden Forest_. + + + + SCENE I + + _Enter_ HAGEN, GUNTHER, VOLKER, DANKWART _and serving men_. + + HAGEN. + + This is the place. The spring is gushing forth, + The bushes cover it. If I stand here, + I can impale the man who stoops to drink + Against the rock. + + GUNTHER. + + I've given no command. + + HAGEN. + + When thou hast taken thought thou wilt command. + There is no other way, and there will come + No second day like this one. Therefore speak, + Or if thou wilt not speak, be still! + + (_To the serving men_.) + + Hello! + 'Tis here we rest! + + [_The serving men prepare a meal_.] + + GUNTHER. + + Thou'st always hated him. + + HAGEN. + + I'll not deny that gladly to this work + I lend my hand, and I would surely meet + In combat any man who came between + My enemy and me, and yet the deed + I hold not for that reason less than just. + + GUNTHER. + + And yet my brothers spoke against the deed + And turned their backs upon us. + + HAGEN. + + Had they then + The courage to warn him and hinder us? + They must have felt that we are in the right, + And it is but their youth that makes them shrink + From blood that is not shed in open fight. + + GUNTHER. + + It must be so. + + HAGEN. + + Why he has bought off death + And so ennobled murder. + + (_To the serving men_.) + + Sound the horns, + And call the hunt together. For 'tis time + That we should eat. + + [_The horns are blown_.] + + Now take things as they are + And leave it all to me. If thou art not + Offended, or forgivest what is past, + So be it, yet forbid thy servant not + To rescue and avenge thy noble wife! + She will not break the solemn oath she swore. + If she's deceived in her firm trust in us--Her + confidence that we'll redeem the pledge--Then + all the joy of life that once again, + May be aroused within her youthful heart + When shadows deepen and the end is near, + Will be transformed into one dreadful curse, + One final imprecation upon thee! + + GUNTHER. + + There still is time. + + + + SCENE II + + _Enter_ SIEGFRIED _with_ RUMOLT _and huntsmen_. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I'm here! And now ye hunters, + Where are your spoils? Mine were to follow me + Upon a wagon, but the wagon broke. + + HAGEN. + + A lion is the game I chase today, + But I have failed to find one. + + SIEGFRIED. + + That I know, + For I myself have killed him!--Food is spread. + Sound trumpets in his praise who ordered that, + For now we feel the need. Accursed ravens, + Here too? Now blow your bugles till they burst! + I've thrown near every kind of game I killed + At this black flock; at last I threw a fox, + But still they would not fly, and yet I hate + Nothing so much in all the woodland green + As that deep black--'tis like the devil's hue. + The doves have never flocked around me so! + Shall we stay here to pass the night? + + GUNTHER. + + We thought-- + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well, the choice is fitting, and there gapes + A hollow tree. I'll take it for myself. + For all my life have I been used to that, + And I know nothing better than at night + On soft dry wood to lay my weary head, + And so to dream, half waking, half asleep, + To count the passing hours by the birds + That waken slowly, softly, one by one, + Each singing in his turn. Then tick, tick, tick! + Now it is two. Tock, tock, and one must stretch! + Kiwitt, kiwitt! The sun is blinking now, + And now its eyes are open. Chanticleer + Bids all arise, lest they should sneeze. + + VOLKER. + + I know! + It is as if Time wakened them himself, + As in the dark he feels his way along, + To beat the rhythm of his pace for him. + In measured intervals, as from the glass + Trickles the sand, and as the shadow long + Creeps on the dial, so there follow now + The mountain cock, the blackbird and the thrush, + And none disturbs the other as by day, + Nor coaxes him to warble ere his time. + I've watched it oft myself. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I too.--My brother, + Thou art not happy. + + GUNTHER. + + But I am! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Oh, no! + I have seen people at a wedding feast, + And following a bier, and so I know + How different they look. Now let us do + As strangers might, who'd never met before + Until by accident within the wood + They meet, and one has this, the other that, + And so they put together all they have, + And thus with joy receive and also give. + 'Tis well! For I bring meat of every kind, + And I will give to you a mountain bull, + Five boars and thirty, even forty stags, + And pheasants too, as many as you will, + Not mentioning the lion and the bear, + All this for one small beaker of cool wine. + + DANKWART. + + Alas! + + SIEGFRIED. + + What's Wrong? + + HAGEN. + + The wine has been forgotten. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Yes, I'll believe it. That may well befall + A hunter who is resting from the chase + And has a red hot coal for his own tongue + Inside his mouth. Well, I must seek myself, + Although I cannot scent it like a, hound-- + But let it be--I'll never spoil your sport! + + [_He seeks._] + + There is none here, nor here! Where is the cask? + I pray thee, minstrel, save me, else I'll lose + The tongue that has till now been wagging so. + + HAGEN. + + And that may happen, for--there is no wine. + + SIEGFRIED. + + The devil and his fiends may take your hunt + If I am not to have a hunter's fare! + Whose duty was it to provide the drink? + + HAGEN. + + Mine! Yet I did not know where we should be, + + [Illustration: Schnorr von Carolsfeld KRIEMHILD FINDS THE SLAIN + SIEGFRIED] + + And sent the wine to Spessart, where it seems + There are no thirsty men. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Give thanks who will! + But have we then no water? Must a man + Be satisfied with evening dew, and lap + The drops from off the leaves? + + HAGEN. + + But hold thy tongue! + Thine ear will bring thee comfort! + + SIEGFRIED (_listens_). + + Hark, a spring! + Oh welcome stream! 'Tis true I love thee more + When thou, instead of welling from the stone + So suddenly and rushing to my mouth, + Thy winding way pursuest through the grape; + For from thy journey many things thou bring'st, + That fill our heads with foolish gaiety. + Yet even so be praised. + + [_He goes to the spring._] + + Ah no! I must + Do penance first and ye shall witness bear + That I have done it. I'm the thirstiest man + Among you all and I will drink the last, + Because I was so harsh with poor Kriemhild. + + HAGEN. + + Then I'll begin. + + [_He goes to the spring._] + + SIEGFRIED (_to GUNTHER_). + + Pray look more cheerfully. + I know a way to reconcile thy bride; + Brunhilda's kisses shall ere long be thine. + My joy I will forego as long as thou. + + HAGEN (_comes back and lays aside his weapons_). + + The weapons will impede me when I stoop. + + [_Retires again._] + + SIEGFRIED. + + Before the full assemblage of thy folk, + Kriemhild will sue for pardon ere we go. + This pledge was freely given, but she longs + To leave and hide her blushes. + + HAGEN (_returns_). + + Cold as ice! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Who next? + + VOLKER. + + First let us eat. + + SIEGFRIED. + + 'Tis well! + [_He goes toward the spring but turns back again._] + + Ah yes! + + [_He lays aside his weapons. Exit._] + + HAGEN (_pointing to the weapons_). + + Away with them! + + DANKWART (_carries the weapons away_). + + HAGEN (_who has taken up his own weapons again and has + meanwhile kept his back turned toward_ GUNTHER; _takes + a running start and throws his spear_). + + SIEGFRIED (_cries out_). + + My friends! + + HAGEN (_exclaims_). + + Not quiet yet? + + (_To the others._) + + No word with him, whatever he may say! + + SIEGFRIED (_crawls forward_). + + Murdered--while I was drinking! Gunther, Gunther? + Have I deserved this from thee? In thy need + I stood by thee. + + HAGEN. + + Lop branches from the trees, + We need a bier. Quick, choose the strongest limbs, + For heavy is a dead man. + + SIEGFRIED. + + I am slain, + But yet not wholly! + + [_He springs up._] + + Where then is my sword? + They've taken it! Oh, by thy manhood, Hagen, + Give the dead man a sword! I challenge thee + E'en now to mortal combat! + + HAGEN. + + In his mouth + He has his enemy, yet seeks him still. + + SIEGFRIED. + + My life drips from me like a candle spent, + And e'en my sword this murderer denies, + Though granting it would render him less vile. + For shame! Such cowardice! He fears my thumb, + For that is all that's left of me. + + [_He stumbles over his shield._] + + My shield! + My faithful shield, I'll throw thee at the hound! + + [_He stoops over the shield, but cannot lift it, and rises + unsteadily once more._] + + As if 'twere nailed there! E'en for this revenge + 'Tis now too late! + + HAGEN. + + Oh, if this chatterer + Would maim his foolish tongue between his teeth + Where it has sinned so long all unreproved-- + His idle tongue that is not silenced yet!-- + Then would he have revenge, for that alone + Has brought him to this pass. + + SIEGFRIED. + + Thou liest! 'Twas + Thine envy! + + HAGEN. + + Silence! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Threats for a dead man? + Aimed I so true that thou dost fear me still? + Then draw, for now I fall, and thou canst dare + To spit upon me like a heap of dust, + For here I lie-- + + [_He falls to the ground._] + + And you are free from Siegfried! + Yet know, the blow that slew him killed you too, + For who will trust you? They will drive you forth + As I had driven the Danes. + + HAGEN. + + This simpleton! + He hath not grasped our trick! + + SIEGFRIED. + + Then 'tis not true? + Oh, horrible, that men should lie like this! + Ah well! You are alone in this! And folk + Will always curse you too, whene'er they curse. + They'll say: Toads, vipers and Burgundians! + Nay you are first: Burgundians, vipers, toads. + For all is lost to you--nobility + And honor, fame and all, are lost with me! + There is no bound nor limit now for crime, + The arm indeed may pierce the heart, but when + The heart is dead the arm is useless too. + My wife! My poor, foreboding, tender wife-- + How wilt thou bear the blow! If Gunther's heart + Still means to do one deed of faith and love, + May he be kind to thee!--Yet rather go + Unto my father!--Hearest thou, Kriemhild? + + [_He dies._] + + HAGEN. + + He's silent now. Small merit is in that! + + DANKWART. + + What shall we tell? + + HAGEN. + + Some stupid tale of thieves + Who killed him in the forest. It is true + None will believe it, yet I think that none + Will call us liars. Once again we stand + Where none will dare to call us to account; + For we're like fire and water. Till the Rhine + Seeks out some lie to justify its floods, + And fire explains why it has broken forth, + We need not fear accusers. Thou, my King, + Gav'st no commands--thou should'st remember that! + The blame is mine alone. Now bear him forth! + + [_Exeunt with the body._] + + + + SCENE III + + _KRIEMHILD'S room. Deep night._ + + KRIEMHILD. + + 'Tis far too early yet. It is my blood + That wakened me, and not the cock I heard, + Or seemed to hear. + + [_She goes to the window and opens it partly._] + + The stars are shining still, + It surely is an hour yet till mass. + Today I long to go to church and pray. + + + + SCENE IV + + _Enter UTE softly._ + + UTE. + + Already up, Kriemhild? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am amazed + That thou art up, for thou hast always slept + More soundly after dawn and claimed thy right + To have thy daughter wake thee, as thou her + So long ago. + + UTE. + + Today I could not sleep, + I heard strange sounds. + + KRIEMHILD. + + And didst thou mark them too? + + UTE. + + It was like people trying to be still. + + KRIEMHILD. + + So I was right? + + UTE. + + They seemed to hold their breath, + Yet dropped a sword that clanged! On tiptoe walked, + And yet upset the brazier! Hushed the dog, + Yet trod upon his paw. + + KRIEMHILD. + + They have perhaps + Returned. + + UTE. + + The hunters? + + KRIEMHILD. + + Once it seemed to me + That some one softly crept up to my door. + I thought it must be Siegfried. + UTE. Didst thou make + Some sign that thou wast wakeful? + + KRIEMHILD. + + No. + + UTE. + + Indeed + It might then have been Siegfried, but 'twould be + Almost too soon. + + KRIEMHILD. + + To me it seems so too! + And then he did not knock. + + UTE. + + The hunt was not, + Or so I think, to bring us game for food; + They wanted our poor farmers to have peace, + Who have been threatening to burn their ploughs + Because the wild boar harvests where they sow! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Was that it? + + UTE. + + Child, thou art already dressed, + Yet hast not any maid with thee? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I thought + That I would learn who woke the first of all. + Besides, it was a pastime. + + UTE. + + Each in turn, + My candle in my hand, I gazed upon. + For each year brings a different kind of sleep. + Fifteen and sixteen sleep like five and six, + But seventeen brings dreams, and eighteen, thoughts, + And nineteen brings desires-- + + + + SCENE V + + _A Chamberlain cries out before the door._ + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Almighty God! + + UTE. + + What is it? What is wrong? + + CHAMBERLAIN (_enters_). + + I almost fell. + + UTE. + + And that was why you called? + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Some one is dead! + + UTE. + + What's that? + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + A dead man lying at the door! + + UTE. + + A dead man? + + KRIEMHILD (_falls_). + + Then 'tis Siegfried, 'tis my lord! + + UTE (_catches her in her arms_). + + Impossible! + + (_To the CHAMBERLAIN._) + + Bring light! + + [_CHAMBERLAIN brings a light and then nods his head._] + + UTE. + + 'Tis Siegfried? Go! + Awaken all! + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + Help, help! + + [_The maidens rush in._] + + UTE. + + O piteous wife! + + KRIEMHILD (_rising_). + + Brunhild commanded, Hagen did the deed!-- + A light! + + UTE. + + My child! + + KRIEMHILD (_seizes a torch_). + + 'Tis he! I know, I know! + Let no one tread on him; for thou didst hear + The servants stumble over him.--The servants! + Yet once great kings made way for him. + + UTE. + + The light! + + KRIEMHILD. + + I'll place it there myself. + + [_She opens the door and falls to the floor._] + + Oh Mother, Mother, + Why didst thou bear thy child! Oh thou dear head, + But let me kiss thee. I'll not seek thy mouth, + For all to me is precious. Thou canst not + Forbid me as thou would'st perhaps.--Thy lips-- + 'Tis too much pain! + + CHAMBERLAIN. + + She's dying. + + UTE. + + I could wish + That she might die! + + + + SCENE VI + + _Enter GUNTHER with DANKWART, RUMOLT, GISELHER and GERENOT._ + + UTE (_approaching GUNTHER_). + + My son, what deed was this? + + GUNTHER. + + I fain would weep myself. Yet of his death + You've heard already? By the holy words + Of our good priest you were to learn of this. + I went to tell him in the night. + + UTE (_with a motion of the head_). + + Thou see'st + The dead man told his story for himself. + + GUNTHER (_aside to DANKWART_). + + But how was this? + + DANKWART. + + My brother bore him here! + + GUNTHER. + + For shame! + + DANKWART. + + From his intent he'd not desist, + And when he came again he laughed and said: + This is my gratitude for his farewell. + + + + SCENE VII + + _Enter the Chaplain._ + + GUNTHER (_going to meet him_). + + Too late! + + CHAPLAIN. + + And such a man slain in the woods! + + DANKWART. + + The robber's spear was guided by blind chance, + So that it struck the spot. In such a way + A child may kill a giant. + + UTE (_still busying herself with the maidens over KRIEMHILD_). + + Rise, Kriemhild! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Another parting? No, I'll cling to him, + And to the grave together will we go, + Or you must leave him here. But half my love + I gave him living. Now that he is dead + I know it. Were it the reverse! His eyes + I never yet had kissed! All, all is new! + We thought we'd time before us. + + UTE. + + Come my child! + We cannot leave him lying in the dust. + KRIEMHILD. Oh that is true! The costliest and rarest + Today shall be as naught. + + [_She rises._] + + Here, take the keys! + + [_She throws down keys._] + + There'll be no festivals again! The silk, + The wondrous golden garments, and the linen-- + Bring everything. Be sure to gather flowers-- + He loved them so! And you must cut them all, + Even the little buds that have not bloomed. + For whom then should they blossom? Lay them all + Within his coffin, then my bridal robes, + And lay him softly down, and I'll do so, + + [_She stretches out her arms._] + + And I will be his covering! + + GUNTHER (_to his followers_). + + Your oath! + Let no one harm her more. + + KRIEMHILD (_turns around_). + + The murderer's here? + Away, for fear the blood should flow again! + No! No! Come here! + + [_She lays hold of DANKWART._] + + That Siegfried may bear witness! + + [_She wipes her hand on her dress._] + + Alas, alas! My right hand nevermore + May dare to touch him. Does the blood gush forth? + O Mother, look! I cannot! No? Then these + But hide the deed. I seek the murderer. + If Hagen Tronje's here, let him come forth! + He is not guilty--I'll give him my hand. + + UTE. + + My child-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + Now go and hear Brunhilda laugh. + She's eating too, and drinking. + + UTE. + + It was robbers-- + + KRIEMHILD. + + I know them well. + + [_She takes GISELHER and GERENOT by the hand._] + + Thou wast not with them there! + Thou didst not go! + + UTE. + + But hear me! + + RUMOLT. + + Through the wood + We had been scattered; for it was his wish, + And 'tis our custom too. We found him dying + At our next meeting place. + + KRIEMHILD. + + You found him there? + What did he say? A word! His dying word! + I will believe thy tale, if thou canst tell, + And if it is no curse. But oh, beware! + For sooner would a rose bloom from thy mouth + Than thou imagine what thou didst not hear. + + (_As RUMOLT hesitates._) + + It is a lie! + + CHAPLAIN. + + 'Tis possible! I've heard + A magpie dropped a knife that killed a man + Who could not have been reached by human hands. + And what a winged thief by chance could do + Because his gleaming booty burdened him, + A robber well might do. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, holy father, + Thou knowest not! + + DANKWART. + + Princess, thy grief is sacred, + But yet unjust and blind. Our warriors here, + Our noblest will bear witness-- + + [_Meanwhile the door has been closed and the body is no longer + visible._] + + KRIEMHILD (_who observes this_). Halt! Who dares-- + + [_She hastens to the door._] + + UTE. + + Stop, stop! He was but gently lifted up + As thou thyself would'st wish. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Oh, give him back! + Else they will rob me, they will bury him + Where I shall never find him! + + CHAPLAIN. + + To the church! + I'll follow him, for now he's God's alone. + + [_Exit._] + + + + SCENE VIII + + KRIEMHILD. + + So be it! To the church! + (_To GUNTHER._) + + 'Twas robbers then? + I bid thee gather all thy kindred there + To try the test of murder. + + GUNTHER. + + Be it so. + + KRIEMHILD. + + But bring them one and all, for now I find + That some are missing. Call the absent too! + + [_Exeunt omnes; the men and women by + different doors._] + + + + + SCENE IX + + _In the cathedral. Torches. The Chaplain with other priests is at one + side before an iron door. At the main entrance of the cathedral about + sixty of_ HAGEN's _kindred are assembled. Finally_ HAGEN, GUNTHER _and + the others. Knocking is heard._ + + CHAPLAIN. + + Who knocks + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + A great king from the Netherlands + Whose crowns are as the fingers on his hands. + + CHAPLAIN. + + I know him not. + + [_The knocking is repeated._] + + + Who knocks? + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + A warrior brave, + Whose trophies are as many as his teeth. + + CHAPLAIN. + + I know him not. + + [_The knocking is repeated._] + + Who knocks? + + VOICE FROM WITHOUT. + + Thy brother Siegfried, + Whose sins are as the hairs upon his head. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then open! + + [_The door is opened and_ SIEGFRIED's _body + is brought in on the bier._ KRIEMHILD _and_ + UTE _with their maidens follow him._] + + CHAPLAIN (_turning toward the bier_). + + Thou art welcome, my dead brother, + For peace thou seekest here! + [_To the women whom he keeps away from + the coffin by coming between them and it, + while it is being set down._] + + Be welcome too, + If you are seeking peace as Siegfried is. + + [_He holds up the cross before KRIEMHILD._] + + Thou turn'st away from this most holy cross? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I come to ask for justice and for truth. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Thou seekest vengeance, and the Lord hath said, + Vengeance is mine. It is the Lord alone + Who sees what's hidden. He alone requites. + + KRIEMHILD. + + I am a woman, weak, half crushed to earth; + No warrior can I strangle with my hair. + What vengeance then is left for me, I pray? + + CHAPLAIN. + + Why should'st thou search to find thine enemy, + Unless thou seek'st on him to take revenge? + His Judge knows all, and is not that enough? + + KRIEMHILD. + + I do not want to curse the innocent. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Then curse thou no man, and 'twill not befall!-- + Thou poor frail child created but from dust + And ashes, with no strength to breast the wind, + Thy burden's great, well may'st thou cry to heaven, + Yet gaze on Him who bore a greater still! + In humblest guise He came upon the earth, + And took upon Himself the sins of men, + And suffered for atonement all the griefs + That ever there have been throughout all time-- + The griefs that follow fallen mortals still. + He suffered in thy sorrow more than thou! + And heavenly power flowed from out His lips + And all the angels floated round his head, + But Jesus Christ was faithful unto death-- + Unto His shameful death upon the cross. + This sacrifice He brought thee in his love, + In pity that we may not comprehend. + Wilt thou deny thine offering to Him? + Then let them bury him! And turn thou back! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thy work is done, and I will now do mine! + + [_She goes and stands at the head of the + coffin._] + + Approach the bier, the dread ordeal begins! + + CHAPLAIN (_goes also to the coffin and stands at the foot. + Three trumpet blasts are heard_). + + HAGEN (_to GUNTHER_). + + + What then has happened? + + GUNTHER. + + Murder has been done. + + HAGEN. + + Why stand I here? + + GUNTHER. + + Suspicion rests on thee. + + HAGEN. + + My kin are gathered here. Of my fair name + I'll question them.--Are ye prepared to swear + That Hagen Tronje is no murderer? + + ALL EXCEPT GISELHER. + + We are prepared. + + HAGEN. + + Thou'rt silent, Giselher? + Wilt thou not for thine uncle take thine oath + That Hagen Tronje is no murderer? + + GISELHER (_raising his hand_). + + I am prepared. + + HAGEN. + + Ye need not take the oath. + + [_He goes forward to_ KRIEMHILD _in the + cathedral._] + + Thou see'st, my kin will clear me when I will, + 'Tis needless that I now approach the bier, + Yet will I stand there and will be the first! + + [_He walks slowly to the bier._] + + UTE. + + Oh Kriemhild, do not look. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Perchance he lives! + My Siegfried! Had he strength to speak one word + Or gaze but once upon me! + + UTE. + + My poor child, + It is but nature, moving once again. + Ghastly enough! + + CHAPLAIN. + + It is the hand of God, + That softly stirs once more these sacred springs + Because He must inscribe the sign of Cain. + + HAGEN (_bending over the coffin_). + + The scarlet blood! I ne'er believed the sign! + But now I see it here with mine own eyes. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Yet thou canst stand and gaze? + + [_She springs toward him._] + + Away, thou fiend! + Who knows but every drop of blood gives pain, + That thy foul, murderous presence draws from him! + + HAGEN. + + Fair Kriemhild, if a dead man's blood still boils, + Why may not mine? I am a living man. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Away! Away! I'd seize thee with my hands, + Had I but some one who would back them off + And cast them from me that I might be clean-- + For washing would not cleanse them, even if + I dipped them in thy blood. Away! Away! + So stood'st thou not to deal the deadly blow, + Thy wolfish eyes fixed on him steadily, + With fiendish grin disclosing thy intent + Before the time! But slyly didst thou creep + Behind him, ever shrinking from his gaze, + As wild beasts do that fear the human eye, + And peered to find the spot, that I--Thou dog, + What was thine oath to me? + + HAGEN. + + To shelter him + From fire and water. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Not from human foes? + + HAGEN. + + That too, and I'd have done it. + + KRIEMHILD. + + Thou didst mean + To murder him thyself? + + HAGEN. + + To punish him! + + KRIEMHILD. + + Was murder ever called a punishment + Since heaven and earth began? + HAGEN. I'd challenged him + To mortal combat, thou may'st take my word, + But none might tell the hero from the dragon, + And dragons must be killed. So proud a knight, + Why did he hide him in the dragon's skin! + + KRIEMHILD. + + The dragon's skin! He had to slay him first, + And with the dragon slew he all the world! + The forest depths with all their monstrous beasts, + And every warrior that had feared to slay + The dreadful dragon, Hagen with the rest! + Thy slander cannot harm him. But the dart + Thine envy borrowed from thy wickedness. + And folk will tell of his nobility + As long as men still dwell upon the earth, + And just so long they'll tell thy tale of shame. + + HAGEN. + + So be it then! + + [_He takes_ SIEGFRIED'S _sword, Balmung, from + beside the body._] + + And now 'twill never end! + + [_He girds on the sword and walks slowly + back to his kindred._] + + KRIEMHILD. + + To murder foul is added robbery! + + (_To_ GUNTHER.) + + A judgment, Gunther! Judgment I demand. + + CHAPLAIN. + + Remember Him who on the cross forgave! + + KRIEMHILD. + + A judgment! If the king denies it me, + The blood of Siegfried stains his mantle too. + + UTE. Cease, Kriemhild! Thou wilt ruin thy whole house! + + KRIEMHILD. + + So be it! For the measure's over full! + + [_She turns toward_ SIEGFRIED'S _body and falls upon the bier._] + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 1: Siegfried's wonderful sword is named Balmung.] + +[Footnote 2: The reference is to a passage in the _Chanson de Roland_. +Roland was in command of a rear guard and was warned of the approach of +a large force of Saracens. His comrade Oliver begged him to sound his +horn and summon Charlemagne and his forces. Roland would not blow the +horn until nearly all his men were slain. At last, however, the Saracens +learned of Charlemagne's approach and fled. Roland then blew his horn +once more and died alone on the field as he heard Charlemagne's battle +cry.--TRANSLATOR.] + +[Footnote 3: Balmung is the name of Siegfried's magical sword.] + +[Footnote 4: The Mandrake is a plant growing in the Mediterranean region +and belonging to the potato family. It was early famed for its poisonous +and narcotic qualities. Love philtres were also made from its roots, and +an old High German story tells of little images made from the root, thus +endowed with the power of prophecy and respected as oracles. Probably +Hebbel refers to the German tradition, as he is speaking of the dwarfs +who are both small and wise. The German name of the plant is +_Alraune_.--TRANSLATOR.] + +[Footnote 5: The translator finds that authorities and versions of the +tale differ as to Siegfried's _"Kappe."_ In Maurice Grau's +Goetterdaemmerung libretto it is called in the English translation +"Tarnhelm," and Siegfried hangs it to his belt when not in use. Dippold +in his account of the Nibelung tale speaks of the _Tarn kappe_ or magic +_cap_ of darkness which _renders the wearer invisible._ But the +_Encyclopaedia Britannica_ speaks of the "cape of darkness" and Heath's +_Dictionary_ gives cap first, but calls _Tarn kappe_ "hiding cape." In +either case invisibility was obtained.--TRANSLATOR.] + + + + +ANNA (1836) + +BY FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + "Mild the air, and heaven blue, + Fragrant flowers full of dew, + And at even dance and play, + That is quite too much, I say." + +Anna, the young servant maid, was gaily singing this song one bright +Sunday morning, while busily engaged in washing up the kitchen and dairy +crockery. At that moment Baron Eichenthal, in whose service she had been +for the last six months, passed by, wearing a green damask +dressing-gown. He was a decrepit young man, full of spleen and whims. +"What's the meaning of this yodelling!" he demanded haughtily, pausing +in front of her--"You know that I cannot bear frivolity." + +Anna blushed violently: she remembered that her severe master would have +been very pleased to find her frivolous a few evenings ago in the +summerhouse. A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but forcibly +suppressing it, she started to take up a white porcelain soup-tureen, +and, in a violent struggle with her natural fearlessness, let it fall to +the ground. The valuable dish broke and the Baron, who had already taken +a few steps forward, turned around, his face flaming with anger. + +"What!" he exclaimed loudly, and strode up to the girl, "would you cool +your temper on my mother's kitchen crockery, you little sneak, because +your stubborn spirit will not allow you to accept a well-merited reproof +quietly, as becomes you?" And with that, scolding and storming, he gave +her, right and left, box after box on the ear, while she, stunned, gazed +at him, like a child, bereft of speech, indeed almost of her senses, +still holding the handle of the tureen in one hand, and involuntarily +pressing the other against her breast. + +She was first aroused from this state, which bordered on a swoon, by the +mocking laughter of the chamber-maid Frederika, who, more easy going +than she, gladly allowed the Baron to trifle wantonly with her and pinch +her cheeks or play with her curls. The insolent wench looked at her +derisively, and called out, "That will give you a good appetite for the +kermess, Miss Prude." + +The Baron, however, laughed loudly and placing his arms akimbo, said: +"You might just as well give up all desire for dance and play; I +withdraw the permission accorded by my mother, you shall take care of +the house. Is there nothing then for her to do today?" he continued, +talking to himself. Frederika whispered something to him. "Right," he +shouted, "she shall comb the flax until late at night; do you hear?" +Anna, completely bewildered, nodded her head, and then sank down +powerless on her knees; at the same time, however, she instinctively +snatched up a brass utensil, and, while the hot, uncontrollable tears +overflowed her eyes, she began to scour it bright. + +The gardener had witnessed the foregoing scene from a distance. Fresh +and blooming as she was, he had long pursued her with attentions, but in +vain; coming up at that moment, he greeted her and asked maliciously how +she was? "Oh, oh," she moaned, quivering spasmodically, and springing, +up she clutched at the sneering fellow's breast and face. + +"Madwoman," he cried, growing frightened, and, defending himself with +all his masculine strength, pushed her away. She stared after him with +wide-open eyes as though not realizing what she had done; then, as if +coming to her senses, returned to her work, which she continued without +interruption, except at times unconsciously heaving a loud sigh, until +at midday she was called to the kitchen to dinner. Here nothing but +faces expressing malicious joy at her discomfiture awaited her, and more +or less suppressed laughter and tittering, which grew stronger and more +pitiless as she continued to gaze down at her plate with burning cheeks, +and replied not a word to the volley of allusions. + +The maids, already partly decked out in their finery, exchanged +bantering remarks, bearing unmistakable reference to her, on the score +of the lovers whom they had found, or hoped to find, and the flat-nosed +scullion, encouraged to commit the impertinence by the winks of the head +farm-hand and the coachman, asked Anna if he might not borrow her +red-flowered apron and the hat with the gay-colored ribbons that +Frederick, the Major's man, had given her at Christmas. She would +certainly not need these things in the flax-room, he said, and he hoped +by means of them to win the good graces of a girl who had no finery. + +"Boy," she cried with white trembling lips, "I'll not cook you any milk +soup another time when you are sick in bed, and no one bothers himself +about you!" and shoving back her plate, she snatched up the empty +water-pails, which it was her duty to fill afresh at the well, and went +out. + +"Fie," said John, an old servant, who, having grown gray in the service +of his lordship's father, was now eating the bread of charity in the +house of Baron Eichenthal. "It is wrong to spoil the wench's food and +drink with bitter words." + +"Pshaw!" retorted the gardener, "it will not hurt her. Since that +lean-bodied toady, Frederick, has been running after her, she's as +proud as though she had angled a nobleman!" + +"Pride comes before a fall!" said Lizzie, the buxom little cook, with a +tender glance at the phlegmatic head farm-hand. "Do you know that she +laces?" + +"Why shouldn't she be proud," interjected the coachman, "isn't she the +schoolmaster's daughter!" + +Frederika, the chambermaid, came into the kitchen with a heated face. +"Isn't Anna here?" she asked, drying her forehead with her silk +handkerchief. "The master has just gone to bed, he joked a good +deal"--here she coughed, as the others cast significant glances at one +another and laughed--"and I am to tell her that she is to begin combing +the flax right away, and"--this she added on her own authority--"she +must not stop work until ten o'clock." + +"I'll give her the message, Rika!" answered Lizzie. Frederika tripped +out again. + +"Doesn't she lace too?" asked the head farm-hand. + +"Chut! Chut!" whispered John, and jingled his fork against his plate in +embarrassment. Anna entered the kitchen with her load of water. + +"Anna," began Lizzie officiously, "I am to tell you--" + +"I know all about it already," answered Anna drily, in a steady voice. +"I met the messenger. Where is the key to the flax-room hanging?" + +"Over there on the nail!" replied the cook, and pointed with her finger +to the place. + +Anna, composed, because inwardly crushed, took the key, and while the +others went off to their trunks in order to complete their toilet before +a three groschen mirror, she went hastily into the flax-room, the +windows of which looked out upon the castle courtyard and the high-road. +She sat down, her face turned toward the windows so that she could see +all the merry-makers on their way from the village to the kermess and +hear their gay talk. She began to work with gloomy industry. Although at +times she unconsciously sank into a fit of brooding, she would +immediately start up again terrified, as though bitten by a snake or +tarantula, and continue her labor with increased, indeed, with unnatural +zeal. Only once during the entire long afternoon did she get up from her +low, hard, wooden stool, and that was when her fellow servants drove +quickly down the castle yard in comfortable rack wagons drawn by fast +horses. But with a loud laugh, as though in self-derision, she sat down +again, and, although she grew so thirsty in all the heat and dust that +her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, she did not even drink the +coffee that old Bridget, who on an occasion like this of today used to +take care of the house for the maids, compassionately brought her toward +four or five o'clock. + +When night gradually came on she went into the kitchen, without +smoothing back the locks of hair that hung wildly about her face. Making +no answer to Bridget's friendly invitation to remain there and share +with her a tempting dish of baked potatoes, she took a candle out of the +candle box, and holding her hand over it to protect it against the +draught, went back into the flax-room. It was not long before there was +a knock at the window, and when she had opened the door Frederick +entered hastily, dripping with perspiration. + +"I must see what is the matter," he said, almost breathless and tearing +open his waist-coat, "they are whispering all kinds of things." + +"You see!" answered Anna quickly, then stopped short and arranged her +bodice, which had been pushed somewhat awry. + +"Your master is a scoundrel!" blustered Frederick, gnashing his teeth. + +"Yes, yes!" said Anna. + +"I should like to meet him up there on the cliff," cried Frederick, "oh, +it's abominable!" + +"How hot you are," said Anna, gently taking his hand. "Have you been +dancing already?" + +"I have been drinking wine, five or six glasses," rejoined Frederick. +"Come, Anna, dress yourself, you shall go with me in spite of every +devil who tries to interfere." + +"No, no, no!" said Anna. + +"But I say yes," Frederick flared out in a passion, and put his arm +around her waist, "I say yes!" + +"Most certainly not!" Anna answered softly, embracing him +affectionately. + + +KRIEMHILD ACCUSES HAGEN OF THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED + +_From the painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_ [Illustration] + +"You shall, I wish it," cried Frederick, releasing her. + +Anna, without making any answer, took up the flax-comb and looked down +on the ground before her. + +"Will you, or will you not?" persisted +Frederick, and stepped right in front of her. + +"How could I?" returned Anna, looking confidingly in his eyes, and +laying her hand on her heart. + +"Very well," cried Frederick. "You +will not. God damn me if I ever see you again!" He rushed out like a mad +man. + +"Frederick," cried Anna after him, "Do stay, stay a moment, listen how +the wind is howling." + +She was starting to hurry after him when her dress brushed against the +candle placed low down on an oak-block; it fell over and set fire to the +flax which burst at once into powerful flames. Frederick, crazed with +wine and anger, forced himself, as usually happens in such moments, to +sing a song as he strode out into the night, which had turned out to be +very stormy. The familiar tones, in wild hilarity, penetrated to where +Anna was. "Oh! oh!" she sighed from the depth of her heart. Then for the +first time she noticed that half of the room was already on fire. +Beating with her hands and stamping with her feet she threw herself upon +the greedy flames which, hot and burning, leaped toward her and scorched +her. Frederick's voice died away in the distance in a last halloo. +"Pshaw, why should I put it out, let it be!" she cried, and slamming the +door behind her with all her might, she hurried out with a horrible +laugh, involuntarily following the same path through the garden that +Frederick had taken. + +Soon, however, she sank down, exhausted, almost fainting, in a meadow +which adjoined the garden, and groaning aloud pressed her face into the +cold, wet grass. Thus she lay for a long time. + +Then from far and near the fire and alarm bells sounded, hollow and +terrifying. She half raised herself, but did not look around. Above her +the sky was blood-red and full of sparks; an unnatural heat was +spreading, and increasing from minute to minute. The wind howled and +roared, the flames crackled, wails and shouts resounded. She lay down +again at full length on the ground, and it seemed to her as though she +could sleep. But the next moment she was frightened out of this +death-like state by the words of two people hurrying past her, one of +whom cried out, "Lord have mercy on us! the village is already burning!" +She pulled herself together then with a superhuman effort, and hurried, +with flying hair, down to the village, which adjoined the burning side +of the castle. There, in more than one place the inflammable straw roofs +had already burst into flame. + +The wind grew stronger and stronger. Most of the inhabitants, with the +exception of the children and decrepit old people, were more than four +miles away at the kermess. Had the necessary men been on the spot the +miserable fire apparatus could have offered only a vain resistance to +the league of the two dread elements. Since the summer had been +unusually dry, even water was lacking. + +Distress, danger, confusion, increased every minute. A little boy ran +about crying, "O God, O God, my little sister!" And when he was asked, +"Where is your sister?" he repeated his horrifying cry, as though, +incapable of every intelligent thought, he had not understood the +question. + +One old woman had to be forcibly dragged from her house. "My hen," she +moaned, "my poor little hen!" And indeed it was touching to see how the +little creature fluttered terrified from one corner to the other in the +suffocating smoke, and yet, because in better days it was probably +accustomed not to cross the threshold, it would not allow itself to be +driven through the open door into the air, even by its mistress. + +Anna, weeping, screaming, beating her breast, and then again laughing, +rushed into every kind of danger with the reckless daring of despair. +She rescued, extinguished, and was an object at once of surprise, +admiration, and uncanny mystery to all the others. At last they +despaired of being able even to arrest the fire, which, continuing to +spread, threatened to reduce the whole village to ashes. It was then +that they saw her sink down on her knees in a burning house and gaze up +to Heaven, wringing her hands. + +The pastor called out, "For God's sake, rescue the heroic girl, the +roof is falling in!" Anna, still on her knees, hearing his words, +stuck out her tongue at him with a gesture of violent abhorrence, and +laughed crazily. At this moment Frederick appeared. Hardly had he +perceived the terrible danger in which she was placed than, growing +deathly pale, he rushed toward the house which seemed about to +collapse. She, however, noticing him at once, sprang up terrified and +cried, "Don't, Frederick, don't; I, I am guilty, there--there." She +pointed with her hand to the place where the castle lay, and, in order +to make any rescue impossible, hurried up the already burning ladder, +which led to the garret of the house. The ladder, too far consumed by +the fire, broke under her, and at the same moment the roof fell in, +forming a wall of flame. They heard one more piercing cry; then there +was silence. + +Baron Eichenthal arrived. As soon as Frederick caught sight of him he +rushed up to him and before the Baron could defend himself kicked him in +the abdomen, so that he fell over backward to the ground; then Frederick +quietly gave himself up to the peasants, who at the order of the justice +of the peace were trying to overpower him. + +When the Baron learned next morning what had happened to Anna, he +ordered them to search for her bones among the ashes and to bury them in +the potter's field. This was done. + + + + +ON THEODOR KOeRNER AND HEINRICH VON +KLEIST (1835) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +Not only in the history of the world but in the history of literature as +well, we meet with strange aberrations on the part of entire epochs in +their estimate of individual men, rightly or wrongly raised above their +environment. Exactly what the age happens to demand, what fits in with +its restless activity, that is what it rewards and values. We cannot +deny, indeed, that every generation has the right to require the poet, +as well as its other sons, to consult its needs so far as possible. But +it is seldom satisfied with this; he must confer his benefits in the +most agreeable way, and whether or not he is weak enough to humor it in +this, determines, as a rule, whether it will take him fondly in its +arms, or will crush him. These reflections were recently aroused in me +when a volume of Heinrich von Kleist's writings came into my possession +together with a volume of Theodor Koerner's works, and I trust that the +Scientific Society will not consider them too unimportant to be +developed in some detail. + +In the two poets named we see two remarkable examples of the +above-mentioned aberration of an entire epoch. While the first of the +two, Heinrich von Kleist, possesses all the qualities that go to make up +the great poet and at the same time the true German, the other, Theodor +Koerner, has only enthusiasm for those qualities; but while Kleist +refuses to forget his own dignity in the interests of the times, and +finally strives to unite these interests with the highest mission of +art, Koerner prefers to throw himself submissively into the vortex. For +this reason Kleist was maligned, ignored, and misjudged during his +lifetime, scorned at his death, and forgotten by immediate posterity, +whereas Koerner was enthusiastically received and applauded, and when he +descended into his early grave, was mourned by the whole world. I would +gladly pass by his grave in silence, and leave him the laurels which he +purchased with his death; but I see no reason why he should swell the +number of our fathers' sins, and should neglect an act of justice, which +will, in any case, be performed some day by our grandchildren, and then +perhaps with a smile of pity for us. + +Before we go farther it will be necessary to establish, so far as +possible, certain conceptions of art in general, and of the branches of +art cultivated by Koerner and Kleist. I purposely say "so far as +possible;" for it would not be easy to expound a complete conception of +art before one set forth a complete conception of the human soul, of +which art might be called the most comprehensive phenomenon. We must +therefore infer this conception from the effects of art, so far as they +appear; but as these effects are infinite the conception may be +something very different from a barrier erected for the purpose of a +mere provisional designation, which ceases to exist the moment that it +pleases genius to overstep it. We find this possibility confirmed when +we examine how the conception in question has changed in German +literature alone, during the various epochs of its relatively short +history. + +In the day of Gessner, Bodmer, and the like, who saw a muse in every +sheep and every herdsman, the imitation of nature was the gospel in +which every one believed. This, at best, meant nothing at all, and +closely analyzed, it is half nonsensical, in so far as this definition +presupposes art to be something that exists outside the domain of +nature. But man belongs within the domain of nature; he must be +included within this domain, and at most can complete or enlarge it; +and for this reason alone art can never imitate a whole of which it is +a part. + +Hereupon men went a step farther, and defined art as "imitation of the +beautiful." We should have less cause to object to this definition if +the question on which everything depends in this case had not been left +unanswered; if they had not left undecided what it was they meant by +"imitation of the beautiful." They were indeed very soon ready with an +explanation, calling that "beautiful" which reveals an agreeable unity +in variety. Unfortunately they could not prevail upon themselves to +grant the proposition: "All is beautiful or nothing," which follows +immediately from the first; for they had overlooked the fact that the +word "agreeable" was superfluous, since every unity, because it gives a +clear impression and permits us to look into the unviolated order of +nature, appeals to us "agreeably"--I must use this word because it +expresses _the least badly_ the feeling which I would describe. Now, +however, in spite of all reluctance, they had to acknowledge that in the +domain of art there were many phenomena in which no such narrow-minded +imitation of the beautiful, as was demanded, could be shown to exist, +but which nevertheless could not be denied recognition. It was truly +remarkable how they tried to find an escape from this dilemma. They +admitted that ugliness could sometimes form an ingredient in a work of +art, by which means it became possible for the artist to arouse certain +mixed sensations in default of purely agreeable sensations. Mark well, +"in default of purely agreeable sensations!" As though the incapacity or +the momentary embarrassment of the artist, and the inadequacy of a +chosen subject, could do away with a law of art once recognized as +supreme. It is just as though the political law-giver should modify the +prohibition of stealing by the clause: "if, namely, thou canst earn +something in an honest manner." Striking it is, that even Lessing should +cling to such definitions and employ all his ingenuity to prove their +tenableness. It goes to show that the taste of a nation never--as may +very well be imagined--precedes the genius, but always limps along +behind him. Still more striking it is that they could feel the +inadequacy of the accepted definition, that they could come so near to +the real remedy, and yet could overlook it. It seems to me, namely, that +everything could have been adjusted, if they had made the same demands +on the artist's work that they made on the subject chosen by him. This +is so plain that it needs no demonstration. + +If I should be asked to state my conception of art--it is understood +that here, as elsewhere, that only the art of poetry is in question--I +would base it on the unconditional freedom of the artist, and say: Art +should seize upon life in all its various forms, and represent it. It is +obvious that this cannot be accomplished by mere copying. The artist +must afford life something more than a morgue, where it is prepared for +burial. We wish to see the point from which life starts and the one +where it loses itself, as a single wave, in the great sea of infinite, +effect. That this effect is a twofold one, and that it can turn inward +as well as outward, is of course self-evident. For the rest--be it said +incidentally--here is the point from which a parallel can be drawn +between the phenomena of real life and those of life embodied in art. + +I will now review the separate branches of art at which Koerner and +Kleist have tried their hand. We find that they are lyric poetry, drama, +and narrative. All three have to do with the representation of life, and +if a division can be made it can only be based upon the various ways in +which life is wont to manifest itself. Life manifests itself either as a +reaction upon outward impressions, or lacking these, directly from +within. When it works directly from within, we usually designate the +form under which it appears as feeling. Feeling is the element of lyric +poetry; the art of limiting and representing it makes the lyric poet. +Let no one object that there are feelings enough which arise in +consequence of outward impressions, and that these too have been +expressed sufficiently often by the poets; I am very much inclined to +distinguish between the results of these impressions and the feelings +which well up from the depths of the soul in consecrated moments; and in +any case, these alone are a worthy subject for the lyric poet; for only +in them does the whole man actually live, they only are the product of +his whole being. I hate examples because they are either make-shifts or +will-o'-the-wisps, but here I must add that in Uhland's song, "A short +while hence I dreamed," I find such a feeling expressed. + +The drama represents the thought which seeks to become a deed through +action or suffering. The narrative is really not a pure form, but a +combination of the lyric and dramatic elements,--a combination which +differs from the drama in that it develops the outer life from the +inner, whereas in the drama the inner proceeds from the outer. + +Let us now examine what Theodor Koerner and Heinrich von Kleist have +accomplished, in the first place, as lyric poets. Kleist (unhappily) has +left us very little in this field, Koerner (again unhappily) all the +more. Koerner's war-songs have, in this stage of our investigation, the +precedence over his other lyric productions, for two reasons: in the +first place, they found the largest public and earned for their author, +beside the royalties, the title of a German Tyrtaeus; and in the second +place, Theodor Koerner's soul was most ardently engrossed with the +supposed and the real sufferings of his time, with the dignity and the +misfortune of his people, and with the necessity and sacredness of the +war. Let no one scent any bombast in all this, but, on the contrary, let +him admire my cleverness in condensing into three lines, everything that +Theodor Koerner expressed in a whole volume, in _Lyre and Sword_! If, +therefore, his war-songs are bad, we shall be justified in concluding +that we need expect still less from his other poems, in which he is +concerned with sentiments which certainly affected him more slightly +than those which placed the sword in his hand. I turn over the index of +his war-songs, and find _Call to the German Nation, Before the Battle, +Germany_,--in short, titles that all point to material very often +handled, and therefore grown trivial. I do not, indeed, immediately +conclude therefrom that the poems are trivial, but I have the right to +conclude that the man who attempts such worn out subjects must be either +a very great or a very small poet. May I be permitted to analyze one of +these poems? I will choose, as the most significant, the well known +_Battle Song of the Confederation_. In this poem the poet has striven +to collect everything that could serve to make the soldiers who were to +take part in the battle of Danneberg more indifferent to the bullets. I +should not, however, have liked to advise the commanding general +actually to use it for this purpose. Mr. Koerner quite forgets with what +sort of people he is dealing when, in the third strophe, he expects the +soldiers to let themselves be slaughtered for German art and German +song. This is more than a joke, for I have the right to demand that a +_Battle-Song_ of the Confederation shall be comprehensible and +intelligible to all who are to take part in the battle; and art and song +are, in any case, not important enough to be named together with the +causes that made the fighting of a battle necessary, together with the +enslavement of a people; quite apart from the fact that both, art and +song, belong to those national treasures which are most secure in the +time of hostile invasion. But in order not to give my logic a bad +reputation, I will begin at the beginning. Mr. Koerner not only began +there but even ended there--this in parenthesis. The first strophe aims +to give the picture of a battle; but it is fortunate that we already +know, from the superscription, with what battle we are concerned; we +should scarcely find it out from this first strophe, which finishes, but +does not complete the picture. In the second strophe we learn rather +more; we learn that the beloved German oak is broken, that the +language--thank God, not the women--has been violated, and we find it +quite natural that revenge should blaze up at last, even though we +cannot escape a slight feeling of surprise that dishonor, shame and such +like, already lay _behind_ those heroes, and therefore had been endured. +We have already tasted of the sweets of the third strophe; in spite of +this, we see there is a great deal still remaining in this strophe, a +happy hope, a golden future, a whole heaven, etc., etc.--it must be the +fault of my eyes that, notwithstanding, I can see nothing at all in it. +In the fourth strophe courage comes along on regular seven league boots, +and I wish the critic had as much reason to be satisfied with its +contents, as had the Fatherland, to which a splendid vow is sworn +therein. The fifth strophe contains a real human sentiment; it might +exclaim with Falstaff, "Heaven send me better company!" In the sixth +strophe we learn that the poet was not blustering in the fourth strophe, +but that the fighting is really going to begin: at the same time it +contains the principal beauty of the song, namely the end. Now, I ask, +apart from the school-boyish, crude composition of the poem, which +throws suspicion merely on the taste, not precisely on the power, of a +poet--where is even the faintest tinge of poetry? And the muse was a +battle! + +We have finished, then, with the poetic part of this poem; it now +remains to investigate in how far it is a real German product, that is +to say, such an one as could have been produced only on German soil by a +German. Every one will find that it might very easily have been written +by some person from the Sultan's seraglio, and used by any people who +found themselves in a like situation. Even the French, although it is +directed against them, could gain inspiration from it, if their good +taste did not preserve them from doing so. Let no one throw the German +oaks (strophe four) in my way; I must stumble along over whole oak +trees. + +Let us now compare with Koerner's _Battle-Song of the Confederation_, +Kleist's poem _To Germany_, as I believe it is called. I am glad that I +am not able to characterize the separate strophes of _this_ poem; they +are, what the divisions of a poem should be, nothing, when they are +detached from the whole. "Germans," exclaims the poet--"Your forests +have long been cleared, serpents and foxes ye have destroyed, only the +Frenchman I still see slinking!" This is a folk song; the vast, the +great, is associated with the simplest and most familiar objects, and +the figures chosen are not only beautiful, but at the same time +inevitable. + +I will pass on to consider the achievements of Koerner and Heinrich von +Kleist in the field of the drama. In this both have been very active, +but in order to avoid boredom for a time at least, I shall begin with +the analysis of a piece by Kleist, choosing first a tragedy, his _Prince +of Homburg_ which, to be sure, is entitled simply "a drama" by its +author. I do not know whether he did this because of the circumstances +that the Prince, as the hero of the piece, happily escapes with his +life, or, what is more likely, in order to humor the public, who think +the tragic can only exist where there are rivers of blood; neither will +I censure it, but only call attention to the fact that in my opinion +that which makes a tragedy lies only in the _struggle_ of the +individual, never in the outcome of this struggle. The outcome is in the +hands of the gods, says an old proverb, well then, acts of the gods--as +events may very well be called which are the effects of fate--can never +be anything else for the dramatic poet than what curtain and wings are +for the stage; they limit without completing. I defined drama, above, as +a representation of the thought which seeks to become a deed through +action or suffering. What this thought may be like--upon that very +little depends; but that it really should be there, that it should fill +the entire man, so much, of a surety, is necessary. What is, then, the +thought that, in the play under discussion, fills the soul of the Prince +oL Homburg, the chief hero? We find it expressed in scene two of the +second act, in the place where the Prince says to Kottwitz, who reminds +him, the man thirsting for deeds, of the Elector's orders: + + "Orders? Eh, Kottwitz, do you ride so slow? + Have you not heard the orders of your heart?" + +The thought is this: strength stands above the law, and courage +recognizes no other barrier but itself. Kleist, in the fifth scene of +the first act, with which the fifth scene of the fifth act corresponds, +_appears_ to have taken pains to set up as the lever of the piece, not +so much this thought as rather a mere accident, namely the inattention +of the Prince when the plan of battle was being dictated, but it is +really only in appearance. For though he makes Hohenzollern, properly +enough, lay great stress on this circumstance, that signifies little; +only if the Prince himself--a thing which never happens--had laid stress +upon it, could it have had an influence on the economy of the piece. Let +us proceed to a more detailed development of the tragedy. + +The historical part of it is based on the famous battle which the +Elector Frederick William of Brandenburg fought against the Swedes at +Fehrbellin. The story of the play is briefly as follows: The Prince of +Homburg, to whom has been confided the commandment of the cavalry of the +Mark of Brandenburg, arbitrarily disobeys the orders given him, and +advances too soon. He wins the battle, but is placed on trial before a +court martial by Frederick William and condemned to death for +insubordination. + +And truly--I should add, if I did not know that poetic enthusiasm is +very ridiculous in a criticism--the action is brought before us with +such power that this tragedy may very well be compared to a German oak, +on which every branch flourishes luxuriantly, and whose summit is nearer +to heaven than to earth. The whole play contains nothing but characters, +not a single puppet--which can seldom be said of the work of even the +greatest master--and I regret that I can develop in detail only the +character of the Prince of Homburg, and, for the others, can merely +touch upon those sides which come into contact with him. + +I am not inclined, like Zimmermann, to see in the first scene simply an +endeavor on the part of the poet to provide a mystic background for his +picture. I do not see why a young man, who happens to be afflicted with +the sleep-walking malady, should not walk in his sleep even on the night +before a battle, and why a young hero who has long been nursing the most +high-flown thoughts concerning glory and immortality, should not, on +such a night, make himself an oak-wreath. In the day time, to be sure, +an occupation of that sort would not look very well, but night is the +realm of phantasy and the wreath is the emblem of glory. Then, too, I +find that this first scene--the naturalness of which I hope I have +proved--is of deep significance for the play. In order to explain +psychologically the Prince's headstrong disobedience of the Elector's +express order, a great excitement of mind was needed. Now I really do +not know where Kleist could better have derived this than precisely from +a half-waking dream, in which the Prince supposedly received in advance +all that constituted the highest goal of his hopes, and which should +have been the most valued fruit of his endeavors--the making of the +wreath points to this, and the fourth scene of the first act confirms +it. The absent-mindedness which this dream causes in the Prince in the +fifth scene, and particularly the monologue with which the first act +closes, prove that I am not mistaken in my opinion concerning the +significance which the poet placed upon the scene in question. + +In the second act we must first notice the second scene. In this the +real action begins and ends. That which precedes and that which follows +are connected with it like cause and effect. The Prince wrests the +victory from the enemy, and earns for himself death. Then the eighth +scene of this act is of the greatest importance; in it the Prince +declares his love to Princess Nathalie of Orange. I am minded to count +this scene among the most important dramatic achievements ever +accomplished by the greatest poets of Germany. Let us picture the +exposition that introduces it. A rumor has been spread abroad that the +Elector has fallen in the battle. The Electress, with her ladies, is a +prey to the greatest anxiety. Homburg arrives and confirms the rumor. +Nathalie says:[6] + + "Who now will lead us in this terrible war + And keep these Swedes in subjugation?-- + + THE PRINCE of HOMBURG (_taking her hand_). + + I, lady, take upon myself your cause! + The Elector hoped, before the year turned tide, + To see the Marches free. So be it! I + Executor will be on that last will. + + NATHALIE. + My cousin, dearest cousin! + + PRINCE. + Nathalie! + What holds the future now in store for you? + + NATHALIE. + Oh, I am orphaned now a second time. + + PRINCE. + Oh, friend, sweet friend, were this dark hour not given + To grief, to be its own, thus would I speak: + Oh, twine your branches here about this breast! + + NATHALIE. + My dear, good cousin! + + PRINCE. + Will you, will you?" + +I believe that during this love-scene, lovers will not be the only ones +to find amusement, though this is the case as a rule. The tenth scene of +this act is the turning point of the play. The Prince hastens to the +Elector with the conquered flags, rejoicing in the victory and in the +certitude that the latter still lives. The Elector commands that his +sword be taken from him and orders a court martial to be convoked. Let +us not overlook what this scene is in itself, through the contrasts +presented. It is moreover the chief argument for the correctness of the +opinion I have already expressed concerning the idea of the play. For +the Prince is far from being sensible of the fault committed, and when +Hohenzollern says to him, + + "The ordinance demands obedience," he replies bitterly: "So--so, + so, so!" + +And later: + + "My cousin Frederick hopes to play the Brutus-- + By God, in me he shall not find a son + Who shall revere him 'neath the hangman's axe!" etc. + +He cannot as yet be just to the Elector, because he is still too +indulgent to himself. + +In the first scene of the third act he has come a step nearer the truth. +He calls himself a plant which has burst into bloom too swiftly and +opulently. But he still says, + + "Come, was it such a capital offense, + Two little seconds ere the order said, + To have laid low the stoutness of the Swede?" + + +The dignity of the code of war, upon which the Elector's mode of action +is based, still lies too remote from his comprehension; therefore he is +persuaded that: + + "Ere, at a kerchief's fall, he yields this heart, + That loves him truly, to the muskets' fire, + Ere that, I say, he'll lay his own breast bare + And spill his own blood, drop by drop, in dust." + + +And when Hohenzollern lets fall a word about the mission of the Swedish +ambassador to ask for the hand of the Princess of Orange, the Prince is +even inclined to think _unworthily_ of the Elector. He is capable of +believing that the Elector will let him die because the Princess has be +trothed herself to him. This is genuinely psychological, and here, where +Homburg's character begins to appear in a dubious light, is actually the +real touch-stone of it. That he loves and admires the Elector, he has +already proved, that he has taken great trouble to find a reason for the +latter's conduct that is not unworthy of him, is self-evident; for the +human heart knows no greater pain than to have given admiration where it +should have bestowed contempt. When, therefore, the Prince nevertheless +believes that his betrothal to Nathalie has provoked the Elector's +severity, he shows thereby that he has absolutely no comprehension of +the dignity and necessity of the code of war, that consequently his +violation of the ordinance could not have been caused by boyish +petulancy, but by a grievous error, which, as an error, could be +forgiven in a man. But for that very reason it is not inconsistent with +his heroic character for him to exclaim "Oh, friend! Then help me! Save +me! I am lost!" For a man shows himself as such when he gives up for +lost a possession which is lost, not when he, like a madman, renounces +everything for the sake of making fine phrases: and the Prince only does +his duty when he tries in whatever way he can, to rescue his life from +the despotic will of an individual. In the fifth scene, where he +implores the Electress to intercede for him, he says: + + "You would not speak thus, mother mine, if death + Had ever terribly encompassed you + As it doth me. With potencies of heaven, + You and my lady, these who serve you, all + The world that rings me round, seem blest to save + The very stable-boy, the meanest, least, + That tends your horses, pleading I could hang + About his neck crying: Oh, save me, thou!" + +Even that is, in my opinion, fine and human, for it is the first +ebullition of emotion; and when is the feeling of painful loss ever +separated from the lively desire to preserve the endangered possession? +I do not make this statement because I believe I am saying something +new, but because I think it is something old which has not been +sufficiently taken to heart. For the rest, this fifth scene is very +beautiful and produces a deep effect. Who does not feel annihilated +with the Prince when he exclaims: + + "Since I beheld my grave, life, life, I want, + And do not ask if it be kept with honor." + +And farther on, + + "And tell him this, forget it not, that I + Desire Nathalie no more, for her + All tenderness within my heart is quenched." + +And how wonderful, how splendid does Nathalie appear in her calm +nobility! How absolutely true to nature it is that her strength first +begins gently and noiselessly to unfold its wings when the man, whom she +had looked upon as her ideal, from whom she had expected all things, has +succumbed. And how genuinely womanly are the words with which she +attempts to raise him up once more: + + "Return, young hero, to your prison walls, + And, on your passage, imperturbably + Regard once more the grave they dug for you. + It is not gloomier, nor more wide at all + Than those the battle showed a thousand times!" + +But poetic beauty is like the fragrance of flowers--it cannot be +described, but only perceived. + +Nathalie's character is rounded off in the first scene of the fourth act +when she begs the Elector to liberate Homburg. She could have borne the +death of the Prince, but this timorous misrepresentation of himself she +cannot bear: + + "I never guessed a man could sink so low + Whom history applauded as her hero. + For look--I am a woman and I shrink + From the mere worm that draws too near my foot; + But so undone, so void of all control, + So unheroic quite, though lion-like + Death fiercely came, he should not find me thus! + Oh, what is human greatness, human fame!" + +It is then that the Elector decides to make the Prince himself the judge +of his offense, and writes him the following letter: + + "My Prince of Homburg, when I made you prisoner + Because of your too premature attack, + I thought that I was doing what was right-- + No more; and reckoned on your acquiescence. + If you believe that I have been unjust, + Tell me I beg you in a word or two, + And forthwith I will send you back your sword." + +He gives this letter to Nathalie for her to deliver to the Prince. I +must set down the words with which she receives the letter: + + "I do not know and do not seek to know + What woke your favor, liege, so suddenly. + But truly this, I feel this in my heart, + You would not make ignoble sport of me. + The letter hold whate'er it may--I trust + That it hold pardon--and I thank you for it!" + +Many another writer would have believed it was not enough for Nathalie +to prove herself a heroine, but that she must stride onward with seven +league boots and become an Amazon as well. Kleist, however, had looked +deeply into feminine nature, he knew that woman's greatness only blooms +above the abyss, and that she loses her wings the moment that earth +again offers her a spot where she can safely and firmly tread. Nathalie +sighs only once: "Oh what is human greatness, human fame!" But she +rejoices when she has the saving letter of the Elector in her +possession, and, without troubling herself further about its contents, +she hastens, enraptured, to the Prince of Homburg. + +The Prince receives the letter. He reads it aloud while Nathalie +listens. She grows pale; for she feels what a man must do who is called +upon to be his own judge. Nevertheless she urges the Prince to write the +words which the Elector requires; she snatches the letter from the +Prince's hand; when he hesitates, she reminds him of the open grave he +has already seen. But neither is the Prince any longer in doubt +concerning the significance of the moment, concerning the Elector, +concerning his own guilt. He says, + + "I will not face the man who faces me + So nobly, with a knave's ignoble front! + Guilt, heavy guilt, upon my conscience weighs, + I fully do confess--" + +He writes this to the Elector, and Nathalie embraces him exclaiming: + + "And though twelve bullets made + You dust this instant, I could not resist + Caroling, sobbing, crying: 'Thus you please me!'" + +I would gladly follow the great poet through the fifth act also, but it +is not indispensable for the analysis of the play, as the _denouement_ +is easy to foresee--namely that the Prince, after already suffering one +death through the relinquishment of that idea which has been the guiding +principle of his life hitherto, is spared a second death. Finally I must +add that I have not chosen the _Prince of Homburg_ as the subject of my +criticism because this tragedy is the most successful of all Kleist's +plays, but merely because it offers the best opportunity for drawing a +comparison between the dramatic achievements of Kleist and those of +Koerner. And now, courage. We must start in with Koerner and we will +choose that one of his products which is universally declared the +greatest, his _Zriny_. + +In discussing the _Prince of Homburg_ I could limit myself to a general +outline, as it is not possible that any one who reads the play could +ever have the least doubt whether the characters are correctly drawn. We +have not such an easy task with Koerner's _Zriny_, but rather must take +the opposite way. In order not to overpass the limits of this essay, +however, we will pay less attention to the play as a totality, which, +indeed, can occupy our attention only if the first investigation prove +favorable to the author. + +The idea which kindles Zriny's enthusiasm is unconditional obedience to +Emperor and Fatherland. It must be admitted that it is an idea which may +have arisen in many a human breast in the year 1566, and which certainly +animated the heroic Zriny. It is not sufficient, however, for the +dramatic poet to give utterance to what fills the soul of his hero, for +that falls to the lot of history to perform. While the historian looks +upon every individual as a bomb, whose course and effect he must +calculate, but with whose origin he is but slightly concerned, it is the +affair of the dramatic poet--who, if he recognizes his high mission, +strives to complete history--to show how the character whom he has +chosen as a subject for treatment has become what he is. We find this, +for example, in Shakespeare, to go back to the Bible of the playwright. +Every passion which he describes we see as roots and tree at one and the +same time. Theodor Koerner simplified the matter, he only shows us the +flame; whence it comes he leaves in doubt, and therefore has himself to +thank if we are undecided whether his heroes are pursuing +will-o'-the-wisps, or--to use his favorite metaphor--stars. I need not +call attention to the fact that this way is by far the easier. + + The plot of this play is sufficiently well known. I will + therefore turn immediately to a closer examination of the + several characters. Honor to whom honor is due; let Sultan + Soliman advance. I will not pause at the first scene in + which he appears, although even there he reveals damnable + weaknesses. After all a Turk may be forgiven for losing + his temper because his physician-in-ordinary does not know + how long he will live. In the second scene Koerner has tried + to outline the hero who demands Vienna for his funeral + torch. He has not succeeded as well as he might. + + "Karl, Karl!"--cries Soliman in his beard--"If only thou + Thy Europe now would lie here at my feet" + +[Illustration: THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE HUNS AND THE NIBELUNGS _From the +Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + +Every other hero would have considered that in which Soliman beheld the +curse of his life to be the greatest favor fortune could have shown him. +I do not expect much from the hound--this parable is very well suited to +the Turks--who only fights with little yelping dogs. How far Mr. Koerner +has succeeded in spreading the oriental coloring over his picture is +shown very plainly in the fourth scene, where Soliman receives his +generals with the words: + + "I greet you all, supporters of my throne, + Most welcome comrades of my victories, + I greet you all." + +Seldom has the sun shone upon a politer Turk than this Soliman, who, to +be sure, afterward throws around not only his oaths but his dagger. That +it is no merit of Koerner if we behold in his Soliman a hero and a Turk, +must be evident to every one; but let us now examine whether he has +succeeded any better in representing the commander-in-chief and the +tyrant. We find both in the third scene of the third act. Mehmed reports +to the Sultan that the assault has been repulsed. + +"A curse upon thee!" + +answers the latter; then he inquires who gave the order for the retreat; +Mehmed answers that he did; the Janizaries had been slaughtered by the +thousands, but in vain, the army was exhausted, and it had been +impossible to wrest the victory from the enemy; he intended, however, to +bombard the castle the next night and was persuaded that the walls must +give way. Soliman flies into a passion: + + "But I from them will wrest it (the victory namely), must + wrest it!" + +In very truth an excellent commander-in-chief, who is not to be +persuaded by reasons such as Mehmed advanced, and who differs from a +child who is denied his will only in that he bellows where the child +screams. But--perhaps we have the tyrant before us where I thought I +perceived the nullity of the commander-in-chief. Let us read on: + + ALI. + + "Remember Malta! + + SOLIMAN. + + Death and Hell! Ali! + Remind me not of Malta, if thy head + Is dear to thee. More I endure from thee + Than does befit the great lord Soliman!" + +Really the beginning promises well. + + ALI. + + "My life is in thy hands, my Emperor! + + SOLIMAN. + + Since thou dost know that, yet didst freely speak + Thy heart's thought to me, I'll forgive thee. + For I love truth which knows no fear of death. + In token then of my imperial grace, + Thy council shall prevail; I'll not attack!" + +I think we do not need to tremble before a tyrant whose fury could be +appeased by Ali's paltry words. "My life is in thy hands, my Emperor!" +which must have been said to him often enough before. Let no one +reproach me if, henceforth, I keep silence on the subject of Soliman. +Offenses of this kind are not mere blunders, they are the sign of +complete incompetency on the part of the poet, and solely out of +curiosity, not because it is necessary to demonstrate my argument, I +shall continue to analyze Zriny, Helena, and the other marionettes. + +Zriny is an abortive copy of Wallenstein; his originality consists in +doing _for_ the Emperor, what the latter does _against_ him. Juranitsch +is Max Piccolomini the second, but has the misfortune to stand as far +_below_ the first as other people who also happened to be seconds, as +for example, Frederick the Second, Joseph the Second, etc., stood +_above_ their namesakes. In general, _Zriny_ has made it clear to me +that Koerner, had he lived, would, without any doubt, have become a +second Schiller, namely, by completely absorbing the first. The +plagiarisms which the noble young man has indulged in, in this tragedy, +as regards the disposition of the scenes as well as in whole individual +speeches and sentences, surpass all belief. I shall perhaps point out +some of these in the course of my investigation of the characters. + +But before I investigate the claims to heroism of Koerner's Zriny may I +be allowed to determine what are the qualities absolutely indispensable +for a hero. I will not place my demands very high, but circumspection +and firmness I may at least be allowed to require, besides mere courage. +Also a certain amount of modesty would not become him ill, perhaps we +may even demand this of the hero of a drama; for the dramatic poet must +not indeed in any sense idealize, but he should render only the +genuinely human, not the purely accidental, which, because accidental, +is rare. For an individual to be at the same time a hero and a braggart +is, however, quite accidental, and the result merely of a deficient or a +perverted education. If one wishes to find firmness in the fact that a +man knows in advance what he wants, that he forms his decision before he +is acquainted with the controlling circumstances, then certainly this +quality cannot be denied our Zriny. + + "His loyalty no nobler guerdon asks + Than to seek death, a joyful sacrifice, + For his own folk and his undying faith." + +But it seems to me that a desperate resolution is only justifiable when +it can no longer be avoided; whoever takes one before that, is cowardly +rather than brave; for he has not the strength to make the sacrifice at +the proper moment; therefore he tries, beforehand, to reason himself +into being courageous. When Zriny, however, speaks the words quoted, he +has already in his possession the letter of the Emperor, informing him +that he need hope for no relief; but he cannot know yet how long Soliman +will continue to assault Szigeth, and there is likewise no need to +inspire his companions with courage by these words, in which he boasts +of his own courage, for they were every one of them heroes. I fail, +therefore, to find in his braggadocio the firmness that is worthy of a +great man, and this is a fault which I may be permitted to charge to Mr. +Koerner's account; for he intended it to form part of his Zriny's +character. The dear man has an even smaller share of circumspection: +read but the sixth scene of the second act where he ponders the +question, what he shall do with his wife and child. Truly, when he +decides to leave them in the fortress, so that the garrison shall not +lose courage, I cannot suppress the thought that the daughter has +already had an illegitimate child and the wife has been a heroine in the +wrong place; for if he had considered them worth a straw, he could not, +for such a reason, have exposed them to such a danger. And is that a +courageous garrison which is calm because it believes itself to be still +safe? And shall its eyes never be opened simply because it sees that the +danger is shared for a while by the wife and child of the +commander--for whom, as Zriny himself remarks, there are secret passages +which can be used in case of necessity. Mr. Zriny did not consider all +this; his circumspection, therefore, is surely not very great. Just one +sample of the noble simplicity and modesty of this hero: + + "Thou knowest me, Maximilian, + I thank thee for thy high imperial trust, + Thou knowest Zriny, thou dost not mistake." + +It is nauseating to continue, I have the impression at this moment that +I am trying to prove that a soap-bubble is really only a soap-bubble. +Just one word more about Helena. The tender child, who faints away at +the end of the first act when Juranitsch takes leave of her to go into +battle, has made such progress in bravery in the seventh scene of the +second act, that she exclaims: + +"Yes, father, father, send us not from thee!" + +and at the conclusion of the fourth (indeed it is time, for in the next +act the piece comes to an end) she even says: + +"Yes, let us die! What care we for the sun!" + +Spare your sympathy, reader or spectator; you must not think that you +have to do with men who care anything for their lives, and who therefore +are making a sacrifice--no indeed! They have nothing in common with such +a weakling as you. + +I hope I shall not be accused of hastiness--I must hurry on to the end, +for there are just as many absurdities in _Zriny_ as there are +verses--if from all this I draw the conclusion that Theodor Koerner had +not the slightest talent for the drama. I promised, a while ago, to +specify some plagiarisms from Schiller, but I may safely refer to the +whole book. Instead I will make a few more remarks on the death-scene of +Helena, scene six, act five. + +This scene is not badly constructed. I will not, indeed, examine too +closely how far love made it justifiable for a girl to ask of her lover +to kill her. For once we will take Helena's word for it that under +similar circumstances she would have done the like had Juranitsch +demanded it, and then she, as well as the poet, is held excused. We will +only listen to what Juranitsch answers when she has made her wish clear +to him. He says: + +"Thee, I must kill? Thee? no, I cannot kill thee!" + +This would be human, but listen to what follows: + + "--When the storm wind + O'erthrows the oak and rages 'mongst the pines, + It leaves unharmed the tender floweret, + Its thunders change to gentle whisp'ring zephyrs + And shall I wilder be than the wild storm? + Shall I destroy life's loveliest vernal wreath? + In cruelty the boisterous elements + Surpassing, shall I break this floweret + To touch which destiny's hand has yet not dared?" + +I ask you is it possible to surpass such trivial nonsense? + +I shall say no more concerning Koerner's individual scenes. This is not +committing an injustice; for it is absolutely unimportant, so far as our +investigation is concerned, whether and in how far Koerner had the +ability to construct a tragedy, since this faculty--as Goethe's example +shows us--has nothing to do with poetry in itself. There is no need for +us to draw the parallel between the _Prince of Homburg_ and _Zriny_; it +is quite evident. One reproach, however, which might be made by an +attentive reader, I must anticipate: namely, I might be asked why I have +subjected the two principal characters of Koerner's tragedy to a regular +police examination, and, instead of accepting them in their totality, +have required them to render account in how far they were heroes, +commanders, tyrants, etc. But since they are, like all creations of mere +talent, nothing but arrows which are shot from a certain bow-string +toward a certain target, it follows that they can only be judged by the +deflections from their course. Herein--be it remarked incidentally--lies +the difference, often perceived but seldom explained, between the +characters portrayed by Schiller and those portrayed by Goethe. +Schiller's characters--to use a play on words which for once expresses +the truth--are beautiful because they are self-contained; Goethe's +characters because they are unrestrained. Schiller delineates the man +who is complete in his own strength, and, a man of iron, is tried by +circumstances; for this reason Schiller was great only in the historical +drama. Goethe delineates the endless creations of the moment, the +eternal modifications of the man caused by every step that he takes; +this is the token by which we may recognize genius, and it seems to me +that I have discovered it also in Heinrich von Kleist. + +At this moment, when I would pass on to review the achievements of +Koerner and Kleist in the field of comedy, I remember that I was not +sufficiently definite, above, when developing my conception of the +drama. I should have added that I cannot, strictly speaking, count +comedy as a form of drama, but must include it in the category of +dialogue narrative. If one recalls to mind the purpose of high-class +comedy--"to describe individual ages and classes," one must admit that I +am entitled to do so. I must remark in advance that neither Koerner nor +Kleist has done anything for high-class comedy. But Kleist in his +_Broken Pitcher_ has drawn a comic character-picture which is so full of +life that it reminds us of Shakespeare, if of any one, while Koerner in +his _Nightwatchman_ has drawn nothing but a funny caricature; with the +former the character shapes the situations, whereas with the latter the +situations shape the characters, if I may use this expression. I should +be giving myself a great deal of unnecessary trouble if I should engage +in a further analysis of the two comedies which I have mentioned, since +at all events I could only adduce sundry details, and such details in +this case prove absolutely nothing; for the only safe criterion of the +truly comic is that the picture as a whole, apart from what wit has done +for it, should arouse interest as an organic adaptation of nature. With +the rascally, lustful, country judge, Adam, in the _Broken Pitcher_, +this is certainly the case; one can safely take away from him the few +witty sallies which he indulges in: but what the nightwatchman Schwalbe +would become if one attempted the same procedure with him, I should not +like to decide; probably a clown, who has been deprived of his wooden +sword and cap and bells, and whose plain, honest features show that he +has only executed such droll antics for the sake of his bread and +butter. Schwalbe is merely ridiculous, but Adam is comic; the +difference, to define it more clearly, consists in this; every +caricature, because it diverges from laws which are eternal and +necessary, without standing in eternity as a peculiarly constructed +whole, has a tinge of incongruity, consequently of ridiculousness; while +only that caricature of nature can be comic of which the divergences are +self-consistent, which shows therefore that it is founded _in itself_. +The poet should take only the comic as a subject of treatment; for he +can never lay stress upon detached separate phenomena, if he cannot +prove the connection between them and the general whole, if they do not +constitute for him a window through which he looks down into Nature's +breast. It is easy to calculate, accordingly, how high Theodor Koerner's +services to the comedy should be rated, provided he has actually +succeeded with his smaller things, _The Nightwatchman, The Green +Domino_, etc., in furnishing amusing farces. To accomplish this, nothing +was required but natural gaiety combined with a talent for +representation, and many men who were anything but poets have been +equipped with both. + +It still remains for us to estimate what Koerner and Kleist have achieved +in narrative. In this field Koerner has produced such mere trifles that +it would be unjust for one to infer from them the least thing touching +his characteristics, as it probably never occurred to him to consider +himself a story-writer. Heinrich von Kleist's novels and stories, on the +other hand, belong among the best that German literature possesses. +Almost all the narratives of our writers, with the exception of a few +productions by Hoffmann and Tieck, suffer, if I may say so, from the +monstrousness of the subjects chosen, if they do indeed rise at all +above mediocrity. There is, however, no very deep psychological insight +needed in order to know how the whole man will be affected by an event +which sweeps down upon him like a stormwind, and very ordinary talents +may safely attempt tasks of this kind; just as, for example, every +painter with some technical skill can represent despair, fear, terror, +all those emotions, in short, which only permit of one expression; +whereas a Rembrandt is required, if a gipsy encampment is to be +pictured. Kleist, therefore, set himself other tasks; he knew and had +perhaps experienced in his own person, that life's process of +destruction is not a deluge but a shower, and that man is superior to +every great fatality, but subject to every pettiness. He proceeded from +this theory of life, when he delineated his _Michael Kohlhaas_, and I +maintain that in no German novel have the hideous depths of life been +projected upon the surface in such vivid fashion as in this, when the +theft by a squire, of two miserable horses, forms the first link in a +chain, which extends upward from the horse-dealer Kohlhaas to the ruler +of the Holy Roman Empire, and crushes a world by coiling round it. I +should like to analyze the novel more in detail, but am glad that the +limits of my essay, or rather the patience of my readers and auditors, +do not permit me to do so; for the members of the society will thus feel +prompted the sooner to acquaint and familiarize themselves with the +works of Heinrich von Kleist, if they have not already done so. + +While hastening on to the close, I must, in accordance with the +introduction to this essay, call attention to the fact that Kleist, no +less than Koerner, did not leave unheeded the claims that his country +properly made upon him in the portentous age in which he lived. In his +breast, as in that of his contemporaries, there glowed the flame of +enthusiasm for the honor and freedom of his people; and the oppression +that they endured, the internal and external slavery in which he beheld +them sunk, placed the pistol in his hand. I mention this because it has +been imputed to the poet Koerner as a great merit that he was at the same +time a martyr. But Kleist could behold his country unworthily treated +without for that reason having unworthy thoughts of the man who was +treading it in the dust; he was great enough to be able to forgive +Napoleon the pain which he could not endure. He wrote no war-songs for +patriotic journeymen-tailors and high-minded counter-jumpers, but he +described Hermann's Battle and the battle of Fehrbellin; he called the +dead to life in order to arouse the living. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 6: The extracts from _The Prince of Homburg_ are taken from +Mr. Hagedorn's translation, Volume IV of THE GERMAN CLASSICS.] + + + + +LUDOLF WIENBARG'S "THE DRAMATISTS OF +THE PRESENT DAY" + +A REVIEW (1839) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +It is probable that no German who is able to appreciate the power of the +theatre, its silent influence on the people, and the consequent reaction +on the development of dramatic talent, has looked on indifferently at +the decay and complete ruin of our stage. The drama of a nation, +conceived in a worthy sense, represents that nation in its +self-consciousness; it is the burning-mirror which receives the separate +rays of the nation's innermost being while passing history is enticing +them out of the depths, which condenses and concentrates them and thus +kindles one century by means of another, and calls to life one glorious +deed by means of another. Tragedy represents a people in its relation to +the most important problems, its own as well as those of humanity in +general. Comedy paints it in its natural aberrations and abnormalities, +in its tendencies and endeavors which are directed earthward. Both must +subsist together, in common development, and on an equal elevation, if +we are to sum up the entire life of a nation, and give a true, eternal +picture of its will-power and capacity, of its vacillations and defeats. +This is the object which dramatic literature must always keep in view if +it would be effectual. To be sure, it is possible to conceive a still +higher species of drama, a tragedy which deals with man only in the +abstract, with man in himself, in his mysterious relation to God and +Nature; a comedy which lays nationalities themselves in their coffin and +gaudily dresses up the corpse. But it is still an open question whether, +under such a general domination of the idea of humanity as is +presupposed in that case, art can continue to exist at all; and at any +rate the time of this spirit-like domination is still far off, although +literature has witnessed the production of many dramatic poems which +seem to be designed for it. + +It was many years ago that Tieck, on the subject of some wretched stuff +by Clauren, made the remark that we had at last reached the cellar and +must begin to ascend again. He was right in his remark, but, unhappily, +not in the hope with which he accompanied it. Very far from hastening to +leave the cellar, we have found it very comfortable down there; we have +made ourselves at home as well as we could, and are hideously satisfied! +Instead of the heroic spirit of our past ages, Jack Pudding now staggers +out of the wings in a torn jacket and shows us what kind of humor is +engendered by stupidity and brandy, when they have a rendezvous in the +head of a porter. If Schiller and Goethe dare once to come out of their +exile, then Nestroy's plum-pudding jinnee steps in their path, and they +of course modestly give way to him. The magic worlds of Shakespeare and +Calderon are already suffocated in their birth by the head-shaking of +the stage-manager who must keep his machinery together for Raimund's +bedlam hocus-pocus. Let us be just, however, let us remember that our +theatre, in spite of the great talents which have been dedicated to it, +was not what it should have been, even in its most brilliant period, and +this perhaps not quite through its own fault. We have never had a real +comedy; farces and absurdities take its place, and the critics +themselves, if we except Schlegel, never seemed to divine that tragedy +and comedy sprout from one and the same root, and that the former +absolutely cannot unfold in all its greatness if the latter remains +behind it. Confining the conception of comedy to the narrow etymological +meaning of its name, and inferring the intrinsic impossibility of the +poem from the accidental lack of a poet, we have imagined that we could +not have a comedy, when on the contrary we, precisely, should and ought +to have the very best, for reasons which cannot be developed thus in +passing. Our tragedy, on the other hand, wished to take the second step +before the first; it was not satisfied to start out to conquer the world +from our own territory; it preferred to wander about as a homeless +vagabond among all the peoples of the earth; and only when it had fully +persuaded itself that one cannot grow fat off begged bread did it return +in shame to its mother's breast. But, in Germany, in the meantime, the +enthusiasm which can seldom or never be re-awakened had evaporated, and +when _Wallenstein_ and _William Tell_, when _Hermann's Battle_ and the +_Prince of Homburg_ appeared, the fusion of the theatre with life, which +might perhaps have still been possible at the time of _Iphigenia_, was +no longer to be thought of. People had become used to looking upon the +stage as a source of amusement, and, as a rule, whatever sinks to the +level of a pastime is forever degraded. This was the cause of all the +evil; this was the reason why for a long time dogs and monkeys, +prestidigitators and modern athletes, celebrated their triumphs where +art should have proclaimed her most profound oracles, and where a people +should have found refreshment and elevation in quiet self-enjoyment, in +the mild exertion of all their powers, and in the sensation of arousing +their most secret sympathies and antipathies. + +Wienbarg believes that a turning point has now been reached. To this +belief we owe his present literary contribution "which consists in +seeking critically to elucidate, in irregularly appearing pamphlets, +modern dramatic literature--especially book-dramas, which are rarely or +not at all seen on the stage. He is guided in his selection each time by +some dramatic-educational purpose for author and public, and continually +bears in mind an ideal centre of taste in the historic-poetic +consciousness of the nation." Such an undertaking, carried out by a man +who combines insight into the subject with the gift of presenting it as +the times require, deserves full recognition. Only that criticism which +knows how to make itself respected, can regain for the muse of the drama +her temple, the stage; this cannot be done by the muse herself, who, +every time she seeks to enter, is, with the politest of bows, shoved +into the corner again by her noble priesthood. Criticism must, in view +of the voluntary poverty of our repertory, draw attention to the +neglected riches of our dramatic literature; it must, by +characterization and analysis, act as mediator between the genius of the +poet and the talent of the actor, and it sins heavily against the +present when it turns its attention chiefly to the recent past which has +not yet been canonized. It can, as a general rule, never look back often +enough. + +Wienbarg begins with Uhland. From the point of view he has chosen he was +quite right to leave unnoticed for the present Heinrich von Kleist's +magnificent _Hermann's Battle_ and _Prince of Homburg._ Of all our poets +Uhland has unearthed in the purest form the treasure of German +nationality: all the dreaming and longing, the hoping and enduring, but +also all the courage, all the strength which steps into the first rank +only in battle, not on the parade ground. One cannot blame Uhland +without blaming Germany at the same time, but one can praise Uhland +without at the same time praising Germany; for all poetry idealizes +because it frames as in a mirror, but on account of its limits it +compresses scattered details into a seemingly well ordered whole, which, +however, does not by any means exist so harmoniously in nature. Uhland's +poetry is a tear, forced from the flashing dark eye by the intolerable +pain which dilates the heart and finds no more room there; but how much +more beautiful is the pain than the wound, and how much more beautiful +is the tear than the pain! Such tears are suffocated deeds. If our +supineness and sentimentality only did not so often degrade holy water +to the base uses of ablution! + +Wienbarg introduces his characterization of Uhland with some excellent +remarks. We cannot take enough to heart what he says on page 17: "Our +literature is a ghost, most of the species of poetry are spectres, and +faith or unbelief in them is called esthetics. Fresh young life is +sucked out, architectonic powers are misused in order to spiritualize +and propagate lifeless forms and satisfy the vanity of literature by +means of so-called works of art." If philosophy is destroyed by +systematizing how much more so is poetry, which can exist only so long +as it is free. The instinct to make an end of everything, and wilfully +and arbitrarily to pen up what is not confined to time and space, is the +ugliest trait in human nature. Life, in whatever phase it may be, always +has a form, though sometimes one not to be seized with hands; it is +always in fermentation, never in putrefaction; but its form is lost when +we try to bring it into harmony with the tyrannical generalities which +are bequeathed from grandfather to grandchild; then it congeals, and the +stream that might have afforded us the most delicious bath can, at the +most, be transformed into a sledge-road. Protect yourself against the +sea but do not strive to hamper and dam up its movement; if this ever +succeeded, the sea would become a swamp, and all of you--not only the +sailors--would die a miserable death. To begin with, it is a misfortune +that human society requires the form of the State, which cannot be +traced back to any primitive foundation; for the individual tendencies +and developments that are most full of genius are thus nipped in the +bud, and it is an open question whether those that remain, which to be +sure are better protected against wind and weather inside the ramparts +and walls than elsewhere, can, even when yielding their most abundant +profits, make compensation for those that are held back and crushed. +Will you go even further than necessity forces you; will you compel the +spirit, even in its most peculiar sphere, to accept a constitution under +the lamblike innocent name of esthetics? Of what advantage will it be to +you? You can then, to be sure, lawfully scold and punish; today you can +lock up a sentiment in the guardhouse for drunkenness: tomorrow you can +drag off a thought to imprisonment for offense against your sovereign +majesty; and the day after you can send a phantasy to the mad house on +account of its all too bold flight. Life is its own law and its own +rule, but you never want to adore the god until after you have crucified +him. As long as the tree is green you cut off its branches, and out of +the dried hewn-down one you make, not an axle for your mill-wheel, but +an idol. + +What Wienbarg says of Uhland, the ballad-writer, is very pretty, but it +was refuted before it was even written. Uhland, the ballad-writer, is +not the dramatic poet, "broken into a thousand pieces;" the poems +appeared in 1815, the first drama in 1818. I would not advance this +superficial argument if it were not connected with an essential one. All +these full, flowing songs and romances were finished before the nobly +calm power that called them into being concentrated itself for the +creation of a dramatic work; and in truth they do not bear on their +forehead the red fever spot of aspiration groping in the dark, which +does not find what it seeks and therefore clasps in its arms the object +over which it stumbles; they breathe that smiling, lovely, self-absorbed +contentment, without which there may be intoxication, but no joy, no +life. It is true that through the songs as well as through the ballads, +the dramatic genius which was later to produce _Duke Ernest_ and _Louis +the Bavarian_ already treads softly like a sleep-walker; this it is +which gives them the firm form, the deeper meaning which is so +scandalously lacking in those good people who now and then innocently +versify a legend or some trifling emotion. But the dramatic element is, +strange as this assertion may sound, just as much an essential in +poetry--one without which poetry would crumble away into dust--as the +lyrical; from the former, poetry receives its body; from the latter, its +soul, and both are mutually dependent upon one another. Is not suffering +itself, only action turned inward! + +On page twenty-one we read: "Do you know what it is that I love in +Uhland's imperfect dramas? It is the pure, vital, German-dramatic +poetry, which, piercing the tawdry veneer of culture and the +prevailingly wretched appearances of our life, strikes fire from the +bed-rock of spiritual life itself, and with its divining rod points to +the golden veins in the foundations of the national character. +German-dramatic! that is the right word! and this is saying a great +deal, for German and dramatic are contradictory terms. Just because +Uhland is so German-dramatic he might give our theatre the national +consecration which it lacks, and which alone can assure it intrinsic +worth and dignity, efficacy and stability. Goethe's _Goetz_ is not +adapted to the stage, and it will be difficult for the scissors to make +it so. Schiller's _Wallenstein_, in spite of its extensiveness, is only +a character picture; the Thirty Years' War merely peeps through shyly +now and again when the Duke's eloquence fails him, and when Max and +Thekla take a rest from their love-making. With all due respect for the +great dead, from whose laurel tree I do not intend to pluck a single +leaf, be it said that the piece has something ridiculous about it when +it is played; it is a thunderstorm during which two turtle-doves are +billing and cooing. There is some difference in _William Tell_, Bertha +and Rudenz are more modest and more sparing with their sighs, tears, and +premonitions. But the depicted situation is accidental, and under +similar circumstances is repeated everywhere, therefore one cannot judge +the Germanic nature by it--even if we include Switzerland as a +representative of this nature--any more than one can judge of a man by +the portrait which has been made of him during his illness. Neither am I +able to find the spectacle of the strength that breaks external fetters +so edifying as many others do: Why did it allow itself to be enchained? +Kleist's _Hermann's Battle_ and his _Prince of Homburg_ carry us, the +one too far back and the other too far forward. Uhland chose historic +events better than Kleist, he treated them more worthily and more nobly +than Schiller. For this reason, if for no other, he stands in the +foreground of this discussion." + +In the same place the question is raised: What is the conception of +religion or fate from which our tragic drama has emanated? Wienbarg +skips over the question, or at least takes the answers to it too +lightly. Nevertheless here is the root of the whole tree. Human nature +and human destiny, these are the two riddles that the drama strives to +solve. The difference between the drama of the ancients and the drama of +the moderns lies in this: the ancients sought to illumine the labyrinths +of fate by means of the torch of poetry; we moderns try to refer human +nature, in whatever form or contortion it presents itself before us, to +certain eternal and changeless principles, as to an immovable +foundation. What to us is the means, was to them the end, and _vice +versa._ + +With the ancients the suffering results from the action; their tragedy +was really a triumph of instinct. The first bold lightning flash of +half-awakened consciousness illuminated the empty Olympus, and because +man found the halls of the gods deserted, he sought in his own breast a +centre for the circle of his existence. But when, revolving around +himself and thereby denying the pole of the world, he stood, in his +stubborn isolation, in the way of the great whole, the invisible +fly-wheel which drives the universe seized him with tremendous power and +flung him mockingly into an abyss. He felt that he had sinned, and +did not know in what way. He found himself justified in his earthly +relations and yet could not shake off the oppressive nightmare of a +secret monstrous guilt. Then he shudderingly divined that sin can go +further than knowledge, that in things and in events, as well as in +human thought and feeling, there lies a mysterious final something, +which, of whatever nature it may be and whatever its effect, must be +regarded as holy. Let us remember Oedipus and the way in which in this +drama one riddle is always solved by another riddle. + +In the modern drama, on the contrary, the suffering as a rule first +begets action. The hero gets into the whirlpool, he does not himself +know how, but when near destruction he shows himself to be a brave, +fearless swimmer. This comes from the attempt, not so much to reconcile, +as to compare the idea of Freedom with the idea of Necessity. Modern +tragedy has, therefore, when placed beside the ancient, a sickly hue, +which is still further intensified by the circumstance that its point of +departure is the individual. I should like to have time to indicate all +the consequences of these opposite conceptions. + +If I should be asked to express in brief the fundamental idea of modern +tragedy I should find it in the harsh fetters that bind the highest +nobility of human nature, in suffering and death, and in the resistance +of the world--occasioned thereby, nay presupposed as a necessity--which +the world offers to all greatness as it strives for self-realization. + +Wienbarg, after his general preliminary remarks, proceeds to make an +analysis of Uhland's drama, _Louis the Bavarian._ It is excellent and +accomplishes everything that it should accomplish, by combining the +characterization of the poet with the characterization of the German +drama in its totality, of which totality the individual drama is an +organic part. Of course every reader will wish that Wienbarg had +rendered the tragedy, _Duke Ernest_, the same friendly service, of which +Uhland's dramas, in their unostentatious simplicity, stand so much in +need, if they are ever to receive the appreciation which they deserve. +Were it fitting to prolong the criticism of a criticism to such an +extent, I should myself attempt to elucidate this most German of +tragedies in all its ramifications; perhaps this will be done in another +place. We are rich and consider ourselves poor; we have the diamonds, +and there shall not be wanting people who know how to cut them. May the +second part of Wienbarg's treatise very soon appear! Many a one is now +pushing forward the hand on the horologe of time and hastening nothing +thereby but the hour of his own execution. Wienbarg is not one of these. + + + + +REVIEW OF HEINRICH VON KLEIST'S PLAY + + +THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG, OR THE BATTLE OF +FEHRBELLIN (1850) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +THE PRINCE OF HOMBURG is one of the most peculiar creations of the +German mind, for the reason that in it, through the mere horror of +death, through death's darkening shadow, has been achieved what in all +other tragedies (this work is a tragedy) is achieved only through death +itself: that is to say, the moral purification and apotheosis of the +hero. The whole drama is planned to bring about this result, and what +Tieck, in a well known passage, declares to be, the kernel of it, namely +the illustration of what subordination is, in reality is only the means +to an end. Neither do I agree with Tieck when he remarks further that +the sleep-walking scene with which the piece begins, and the final +_denouement_ connected with it add to the other merits of the drama by +lending it the charm of a pleasing and attractive fairy-tale. On the +contrary, this feature is to be censured because it is disturbing, and +if, as in _Kaethchen of Heilbronn_, it were intimately inwoven in the +organism of the work it would deprive the latter of its claim to be +considered a classic. For man must not be forced to do penance for the +mischief which the moon causes; otherwise we might be obliged to call it +a tragedy if a man, having climbed up to the apex of the roof in his +sleep, and been spied there by his sweetheart, who, in the first terror +of surprise, called his name, should fall at her feet crushed to pieces! +Happily, however, we can eliminate the whole sleep-walking episode and +the work continues to be what it is; it stands immovable on a solid +psychological foundation, and the rank weeds of Romanticism, have only +twined themselves around it like superfluous arabesques. That, indeed, +must not be understood to mean that half of the first and half of the +last act could be struck out. If such a barbaric procedure were +possible, Kleist would not be what, he is, a true poet, whom, like every +original God-given growth, one must accept as a whole or must reject as +a whole. No, we shall have to leave the Prince his garland-wreathing and +the glove which he catches as a consequence of it. But the incident is +by no means essential to the rest of the drama. The structure has, +beside these artificial supports, other very different and entirely +solid ones, and there is no need to enlarge upon the former unless one +is animated with a desire to find fault. Here we have a youth who had +the misfortune to have fortune smile upon him prematurely, and who loves +where perhaps--he has as yet no certainty of it--he should not love; +what more is needed to enable us to comprehend the arrogance displayed +in the first catastrophe and the pusillanimity in the second? Kleist has +put a set of pulleys in motion where the simplest lever would have +sufficed, but the pulleys have been connected with the lever, and the +purpose has been thoroughly accomplished, though not by the most direct, +and therefore the best means. + +The action, conceived from the point of view just described, is, briefly +summed up, as follows: It is the evening, or rather the night, before +the battle of Fehrbellin. The Great Elector, surrounded by his family, +has gathered his generals about him and is making known to them, by his +field-marshal, the plan which he has devised for the battle on the +morrow. Each officer, Homburg among them, is informed what part he is to +play in the bloody work of the following day; the Prince receives the +most difficult post for one of his age and temperament, since he is to +remain outside the firing line with the cavalry which he commands during +the actual battle, and not until the victory is practically won can he +come into action; even then he is to await a definite order from the +Elector, and is merely to assist in completely routing the vanquished +enemy. Here, be it noted, his ordeal already begins. It is not an +accident that the Elector has assigned him a post which must necessarily +bring him into conflict with his passions and the demands of his blood; +the sovereign does it purposely in order that he may learn to control +both. The Prince is scarcely listening to the field-marshal when his +turn comes; he is absent-minded, for Nathalie, the Princess of Orange, +an orphan who has taken refuge at the Brandenburg Court, and whom he +secretly loves, is present, and the Electress is leaving with her and +the other ladies while his orders are being dictated. However, be +scarcely requires such pedantic instructions, for he sees in a battle +only an opportunity for personal distinction in one form or another, not +a moral task which can be properly executed only in one way. +Nevertheless, he learns from his friend Hohenzollern exactly what the +service requires of him; but of what avail is it? His friend can only +lend him his ears, not his judgment, and thus the first act ends, +conformably to this stage of his development, with a monologue, in which +we learn that he is only thinking of the laurels and the girl at whose +feet he will lay them, not of his duty and his country. Thus we see that +the sleep-walking scene, and all that is connected with it, can easily +be omitted; the exposition is complete without it, and therein lies the +actual proof of the correctness of my view of the work. A youth always +dreams of the man whom he already believes himself to be; there is +therefore no need of a double-dream. The glove might have been replaced +by a glance from the Princess, surprised unawares, followed by a sudden +blush. Was it intended for me or for you? That is enough to occupy a +youth to such an extent that he would pay no attention to Mars himself +were he to descend to earth. The battle takes place and what was to be +expected, occurs. The Prince attacks too soon, and the victory is indeed +gained, but it is not as complete a one as it would have been possible +to win. He knows very well what he is doing; it is impossible that he +should not know it, and therefore the poet might have spared himself the +carefully detailed description of his absent-mindedness in the first +act. Colonel Kottwitz, who is second in command, reminds him, with the +gruffness of an old man who might be at the same time his father and his +teacher, of the order that he should await from his sovereign, and +another officer even advises that his sword be taken from him. But he +curtly inquires of old Kottwitz whether he has not received the order +from his own heart, and he uses violence to the officer, then he dashes +away crying: "Now, gentlemen, the countersign: A knave who follows not +his general to the fight!" He arrives on the battlefield itself just at +the moment when the rumor is spreading that the Elector has fallen. He +performs marvels of valor, and we learn how much he loved his sovereign +by seeing how he avenges him. This is one of the most brilliant episodes +of the plot, and, truly, it alone is worth more than a whole catalogue +full of the ordinary dramas that one hears applauded in our theatres. +Sprinkled with blood, he hurries then into the peasant's but where the +Electress, with her court of ladies, has had to take refuge because a, +wheel of her coach broke while on the journey, and here he meets his +Nathalie. The women, who have also heard the terrible rumor, are +crushed; the Electress has fainted and the Princess, overcome by the +gravity of the situation, laments in a few simple, touching words her +complete loneliness. The Prince had not betrayed his affection for her +at the Elector's Court, but now that fortune seems to have abandoned the +fatherless and motherless girl, who was entirely dependent upon her +powerful uncle, he allows his heart to utter the first sound, and to +this sound she responds. Here we catch a gleam of his native, inborn +nobility of soul, which at the end of the whole purifying process is to +shine forth in perfect serenity, and we feel air unshakable confidence +in him. This love scene, which is brought about by death, belongs to the +highest sphere of art, and even the embarrassment which is evident in +the words exchanged between the Prince and the Princess, is warranted by +the relation in which they have hitherto stood to one another. They do +not dare to speak out plainly. + +The scene is hardly over when the rumor which occasioned it is proved to +be false. The Elector lives and is already on the road to Berlin; the +battle has decided the whole war, and peace promptly follows. There is +infinite rejoicing, above all in the soul of the Prince. In the emotion +of his overflowing heart he tells the Electress his sweet secret, and +begs for her consent; she answers, "Not a suppliant on earth could I +deny today, whate'er he ask, and you, our battle-hero, least of all." He +is the happiest of mortals, and challenging "Caesar Divus" himself, as a +rival in Fortune's favor, he, with the ladies, follows his sovereign to +Berlin. + +We must lay the proper weight upon this phase if we wish to comprehend +the further development of the tragedy. Arrived in Berlin he hurries at +once to the Elector, and places at his feet three flags captured from +the enemy. The Elector asks him sternly whether he was in command at +Fehrbellin, and when the Prince, in astonishment, replies in the +affirmative, he orders his sword to be taken from him. It had been +reported to the Elector that the Prince was wounded, and before knowing +definitely whether Homburg or Colonel Kottwitz-whom he believed to be +also capable of the deed-had led the cavalry into battle before +receiving the order, the Sovereign had declared that the commanding +officer was to be summoned before a court-martial and condemned to death +without respect of person. Now he simply carries out the sentence. The +Prince does not comprehend in the slightest; he would find it just as +natural if the trees should begin to speak and the stones to fly. He +must indeed obey, but as he gives up his sword, he declares bitterly +that if his "Cousin Frederick" wishes to play the role of Brutus, he +will not find in him a son who reveres him even under the executioner's +ax. That is all the more natural, as he is conscious of what he felt and +did on the battlefield in the moment when he received the news of the +death of his present judge. His friends try to calm him. The Elector +pays no attention to his passionate behavior, but with calm majesty +reads the inscriptions on the Swedish flags, and the Prince is led off +to prison. The noblest style is maintained throughout this scene, which +would have delighted the English of Shakespeare's day. + +In the third act we find the Prince somewhat changed, but not to any +great extent. After thinking over the matter in solitude he has finally +grasped that the Elector could not allow the violation of his express +command to pass without some sort of punishment. But is it not +sufficient punishment for him to have spent some days in prison, and +does he not, moreover, deserve a reward because he entered it +voluntarily and did not strangle the jailer? Therefore he knows +positively that the first person to visit him will announce that he is +free, and when his friend Hohenzollern enters his cell, he exclaims +"Well, then, I'm free of my imprisonment." But when the latter examines +his position with very different eyes, when, by producing a series of +threatening facts each one more ominous than the other, he gradually +silences the Prince's emotion, which demonstrates exactly what the +Elector can do and what he cannot do, when he even tells him at last +that the death warrant is about to be brought for signature to the +Elector's cabinet, the Prince finally loses his foolish feeling of +security, and then of course he goes to the opposite extreme. Nay, when +the anxious Hohenzollern further informs him that the Swedish +ambassador, who has arrived on the occasion of the peace negotiations, +would ask the hand of the Princess of Orange for his master, but that +the Princess seems to have made her choice already and thus is +apparently thwarting the Elector's plan, and when he asks the Prince if +he is not in some way tangled up in all this, the latter cries out +despairingly "I am lost," and hurries off to the Electress to entreat +her to intervene in his behalf. + +On the way he receives a last impressive confirmation of the seriousness +of his situation. He sees his grave being dug by torchlight. In the +apartment of the Electress now takes place the much decried scene, which +people refuse to comprehend, and therefore, of course, will not forgive +the poet for writing. The Prince, in the presence of the girl he loves, +begs for his life. He does so in the most ignominious fashion; indeed, +in order to remove what he considers one of the worst rocks of offense, +he even renounces Nathalie, while she stands by shuddering at the state +of humiliation in which she beholds her heart's ideal. Certainly that is +utterly unworthy of a hero and of a man, and we may unquestionably +depend upon it that the poet, who in the same piece created the Elector +beside the Prince, knew that as well as any of us. In fact, this scene +has no other purpose than to show us that the Prince is not yet either a +hero or a man, and that along the path he has trodden so far nobody can +become either the one or the other. Up to this time he has led a hollow, +sham existence, which could very well fill his head with giddy +intoxication, but could not put any real backbone into him. Now, +however, the true meaning of life, at least in one form, in the form of +love, has at last come close enough to him to make the continuation of +this sham existence impossible; therein lies the real import of the +scene in which he and Nathalie declare their love, the great +significance of which I pointed out above. If that had not taken place +he would probably have become a duelling-celebrity, and after the first +shock of surprise he would have been able to show the same contempt of +death as a professional fencer accustomed to the duelling-ground, who, +with perfect right, considers life--his own namely--to be a mere cipher; +he would have awaited the bullets defiantly, with his arms crossed a la +Napoleon, and the Elector would have had him shot, would indeed have +been forced to have him shot. He can no longer sink to such depths as +that now, but still less can he find the real moral strength soberly to +make up his mind to take voluntary leave of the world; for he has as yet +no feeling of completed existence and of duty performed to take away +with him; his life is still a blank. Therefore at this moment he must +act exactly as he does act; to be sure, the poet must not leave him in +this doubtful stage for any length of time; but neither, indeed, does he +do so. The Electress considers that any further step would be useless, +as she has already of her own accord done her utmost. Nathalie, however, +with death in her heart, promises to venture one last word with her +uncle for the fallen man, but bitterly advises the Prince in any case to +take another look at his grave, and to persuade himself that it is not +one whit gloomier than the battle has showed it a thousand times. + +In the fourth act Nathalie keeps her promise, and the Elector sends her +with a mysterious letter to the Prince in his prison. He tells her +laconically that the Prince is saved just as surely as pardon lies in +his own wish. She brings the letter to the prisoner and he reads: "If +you believe that I have been unjust, tell me, I beg you, in a word or +two, and forthwith I will send you back your sword." Such words could be +used only by the majesty which would be revered even without a crown, +and the Prince feels it at once. "I cannot tell him that!" he cries out +when Nathalie presses him to write as the letter bids him. "What +matter?" he answers curtly, when she assures him that the regiment has +been detailed, which is to render the burial honors above his grave by +the thunder of their muskets. "I will tell him 'You did right!'" he +cries, when she continues to urge him; and he does so! He realizes that +the sovereign who summons him to judge himself, cannot have acted thus +toward him, in order to play the Brutus, or from heartless despotism. It +becomes clear to him that war, yes the State itself, rests upon the +principle of subordination, and that the commander must first perform in +his own person what he would require from his subordinates. He +determines,--and this too, be it noted, in the presence of the girl he +loves,--to make satisfaction to the offended code of war, and thus crush +again the Hydra of anarchy, which his arbitrary action, crowned with +victory though it was, might very well lead to. "And though twelve +bullets made you bite the dust this instant," cries Nathalie transported +with admiration, "I could not resist rejoicing, sobbing, crying: 'Thus +you please me.'" Truly she is right; now the man and the hero is +complete and never again in all eternity can he be seized with another +paroxysm of hollow self-glorification or of petty cowardice--which, +indeed, were intimately connected one with the other. The Prince has +become a stoutly forged link in the moral order of the universe, and the +more difficult it was for him, the more firmly he will endure. Whoever +does not find in this scene complete compensation for the preceding one +with the Electress--in which it is rooted like the flower in the black +earth; and whoever does not understand at the same time that the one was +not possible without the other, and that cause and effect cannot be +separated, to that person I must deny all capability of comprehending a +drama in its totality. The change effected by the Elector is one of the +most sublime conceptions that any literature can show, and is very far +from having an equal in our own. + +The fifth act brings the necessary test. The Elector is entreated on all +sides to pardon the Prince; his family, the army, the Princess, all urge +him, indeed the latter--a fine touch--repeats the offense of her lover. +On her own authority, she calls a regiment of which she is chief, to +Fehrbellin, in order that the officers there may also sign their names +to a petition which is being circulated, and thus she could, in her +turn, actually be amenable to a court martial. The Elector allows +nothing to be wrung from him by coaxing or by bullying, but no one who +has an idea of the structure of the play need tremble any longer for the +Prince. It can already be seen that the Elector has no intention of +allowing matters to be carried to extremities from the leniency with +which he is inclined to treat old Kottwitz, who has suddenly arrived +with the cavalry, with out his knowledge and, as he believes, without +his orders. When Kottwitz presses him hard, and heatedly assures him +that at the very first opportunity he will repeat the act of the Prince, +which he once condemned but now must approve,--since for one case where +the impulse of the heart, the sudden instinct, does harm, there are ten +in which it alone can lead to the goal,--the Elector answers that lie +does not know how to convince him, but he will call an advocate who is +able to teach the old gentleman better than he can what discipline and +obedience are. Then he sends for the Prince, and the latter, solemnly +and of his own accord, declares before the entire body of generals that +he wishes by a voluntary death to glorify the code of war, which he had +criminally violated in the sight of the whole army, and that the only +favor he asks of the Elector, to whose just sentence he bows +unconditionally, is that he will not try, on behalf of the King of +Sweden, to force Nathalie's inclinations. This is granted him and he +returns to prison, which he leaves immediately after, to start, with +bandaged eyes, on the way which he perforce must think his last, and in +the moment when he expects the end he deservedly receives from the hands +of the Elector his life, his freedom, and his love. + +Of course the romantic accessories of the first act have an +unsatisfactory sequel in the last, as the poet here too feels obliged +to take a roundabout road instead of the direct one. But we surely do +not need to prove thus late that the fault is quite as immaterial here +as there. + +It is without doubt obvious to every one that in this drama the +evolution of an important man is presented with absolute directness, in +a way in which it is done nowhere else; that we gaze into the +characteristic medley of rough forces and wild impulses which as a rule +are the original ingredients of such a man, and that we accompany him +from the lowest stage up to the zenith, where the unrestrained roving +comet, that in its disorderliness was exposed to the danger of +self-destruction, is transformed into a clear self-dependent fixed star. +Do we need any other proof that the work is capable of producing a most +unprecedented effect? Even though it gave us nothing but the deep +psychological unfolding of this evolution, such an effect would perforce +be produced, for our dramatic authors, on general principles, seldom +give us opportunity to become acquainted with more than the outside skin +of the man, which, to be sure, is the same for Napoleon as for his most +insignificant corporal. In exceptional cases when they allow us a +glimpse into the heart and reins, they expect us to take a narrow +interest in a peculiarly organized individual, and are wanting in every +kind of background. However the psychological side in our drama is, with +extraordinary art, reduced to a mere substratum, out of which an +entirely new figure of tragedy develops, which combines in a wonderful +fashion the deepest tragic shudder with the gentle transports of a hope +that is not extinguished even in the blackest night. We are reminded of +a smiling May morning over which the first thunderstorm breaks with a +horrible crash; and that is a triumph of dramatic technique. + +I would gladly examine the innumerable beauties of detail of this drama, +and in particular call attention to the central points of the plot, +abounding in the most vigorous life, into which a situation or a +character or the action itself is sometimes concentrated. But this +would lead me too far afield; moreover, since the most glaring +differences of opinion usually crop up precisely on this subject, I +could not avoid the dangerous ground on which, according to Goethe's +profound saying, the categorical imperative and the authority of the man +who pronounces it, form the last court of appeal. Or if some one, with a +liking for gaudy paint and iridescent rags, should prefer a puppet show +to the living figures of the piece, vital to their very finger tips, +but, to be sure, going about in very simple, sometimes even slovenly +garments, how could we decide the matter otherwise than in the well +known manner of Cato? The categorical imperative which occasionally +found favor with the old Romans is, however, terribly unpopular with the +Germans. + +One question, notwithstanding, I dare not leave unanswered, the question +of how it is possible that the Prince of Homburg, in view of its great +literary importance and its abundant vitality, could up to this time +have met with so very little success on the stage? The answer is easy. +The great public, who in general suppose the poetical to lie in that +which is opposed to real life, has a strange conception of dramatic +heroism, and the greater part of the critics who should instruct the +public unfortunately share the same opinion. Because, in most cases, the +hero is entirely finished and manufactured to the last filament when he +makes his appearance in the drama, it is taken for granted that it must +be so under all circumstances. Therefore it follows that the poet fares +badly when, instead of leaving the development exclusively to the +action, he occasionally transfers it in part to the principal character, +and thus does not arouse the sympathy which he needs for his hero until +the end of the piece, instead of doing so in the very beginning. For we +immediately take for granted, even when we already know the poet, that +he has made a mistake, that he is growing enthusiastic over something +imperfect, immature, immoral, and that he demands of us to be +enthusiastic with him. That puts us out of humor, we do not await the +end, and even when we do, and become aware of his real intention, we +only partly abandon our former prejudice. This has already been proved +on various occasions. Kleist, in his _Prince of Homburg_, moreover, +touched what in his day was a most sensitive spot--when Theodor Koerner +made his characters run a race to see who could die first. Fear of death +and a hero! That was really going too far! It was an insult to every +ensign "You ask a piece of bread and butter of me! I will not give you +that! But my life you may have with pleasure!" + + + + +RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD (1846-1854) + +By FRIEDRICH HEBBEL + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES H. KING + + +At the time of my birth my father possessed a small house, with a garden +adjoining, in which stood some fruit trees; in particular one very +productive pear-tree. In the house there were three dwellings, the most +pleasant and roomy of which we occupied; its principal advantage +consisted in the fact that it was situated on the sunny side. The other +two were rented. The one opposite to us was inhabited by an old mason, +Claus Ohl, and his little stooping wife, and the third, to which a +back-entrance through the garden gave access, by the family of a day +laborer. The tenants never changed, and for us children they belonged to +the house, just like Father and Mother, from whom indeed, as regards +loving attentions bestowed upon us, they differed but little, if at all. + +Our garden was surrounded by other gardens. On one side was the garden +of a jovial master-joiner who loved to tease me. Even now I cannot +understand how he could take his own life, as he did, later on. Once +when I was a very little boy I had said to him over the hedge, with a +precociously knowing look: "Neighbor, it is very cold!" and he never +grew weary of repeating this remark to me, especially in the hot summer +months. + +Next to the garden of the joiner was that of the minister. It was +inclosed by a high board fence, which prevented us children from looking +over, but not from peeping through cracks and chinks. This afforded us +infinite pleasure in the springtime when the beautiful strange flowers +which filled the garden, came up again; but we trembled lest the +minister should catch sight of us. We felt an unbounded reverence for +him, which may have been inspired by his serious, severe, sallow face +and his cold glance, as much as by his position and his functions, which +seemed to us very imposing, such as, for example, walking behind the +hearses, which always passed in front of our house. Whenever he looked +over at us, as he occasionally did, we stopped playing and crept back +into the house. + +On another side an old well formed the boundary between our garden and +the next. Shaded by trees and deep, as it was, with its rickety wooden +roof covered with dark green moss, I never could look at it without a +shudder. The longish quadrangle was closed by the garden of a dairy-man +who was treated with the greatest respect by the whole neighborhood on +account of the cows which he owned--and by the courtyard of a dresser of +white leather, the most ill-humored of men. My mother always said of him +that he looked as if he had swallowed one person and was just about to +catch another by the head and take the first bite. + +This was the atmosphere in which I lived as a child. It could not have +been more restricted, and yet its impressions live on to the present +day. Still the merry joiner looks at me over the hedge, the morose +minister over the board fence. Still I see the strapping, corpulent +dairy-man standing in his doorway, with his hands in his pockets, in +token that they are not empty; still I look upon the dresser of white +leather, with his bilious yellow face, to whom the mere red cheeks of a +child were an insult, and who always seemed more terrible to me when he +began to smile. Still I sit upon the little bench under the spreading +pear-tree, and while refreshing myself in its shade, wait to see if a +fruit, prematurely ripened by worm-holes, will not drop from its sun-lit +top branches; and the well, the roof of which had to be repaired every +little while, still inspires me with a feeling of dread. + +[Illustration: GUNTHER AND HAGEN BROUGHT CAPTIVE BEFORE KRIEMHILD _From +the Painting by Schnorr von Carolsfeld_] + +II + +My father was of a very serious disposition in his home, outside of it +he was gay and talkative. He had acquired a reputation on account of his +talent for telling fairy-tales; many years passed, however, before we +heard them with our own ears. He could not bear to hear us laugh or make +any noise; on the other hand he was fond of singing hymns, and indeed +worldly songs as well, in the twilight of the long winter evenings, and +loved to have us join in. My mother was excessively good-hearted and +somewhat quick-tempered; the most touching kindliness shone from her +blue eyes; when she felt passionately agitated, she began to cry. I was +her favorite; my brother, two years younger than I, was my father's +favorite. The reason was that I resembled my mother, and my brother +seemed to resemble my father, though this was by no means the case, as +was proved later. + +My parents lived on the best of terms with one another so long as there +was bread in the house. There were painful scenes at times when it was +lacking. This seldom occurred in summer, but often happened in winter +when work was scarce. Although these scenes never degenerated into +violence, I cannot remember the time when they were not more terrible to +me than anything else, and for that very reason I may not pass over them +in silence. + +I can remember an unpleasant incident of another kind which took place +in my earliest childhood. It is the first that I recollect and it may +have happened in my third year, if not in my second. I can tell about it +without offending against the sacred memory of my parents; for whoever +sees in it anything out of the ordinary is not acquainted with the lower +classes. My father when following his trade generally had his meals +provided by the persons for whom he worked. Then we at home, like all +other families, ate our usual midday meal. Occasionally, however, he had +to furnish his own food, in return for extra wages. Then dinner was +deferred, and in order to ward off hunger a simple bread and butter +sandwich was partaken of at twelve o'clock. It was an economical +arrangement for the little household which could not afford two large +meals. On one such day my mother baked some pancakes, certainly more to +please us children than to satisfy any desire of her own. We ate them +with the utmost relish and promised not to say anything about them to +our father in the evening. When he arrived we had already gone to bed +and were sound asleep. I do not know whether he may have been accustomed +to find us still up and the contrary event made him suspect that the +rule of the household had been broken. Suffice it to say he awoke me, +petted me, took me in his arms and asked me what I had eaten. +"Pancakes," I answered, sleepily. He then proceeded to reproach my +mother with it. She had nothing to say, and placed his food before him, +throwing me a glance, however, which foretold evil to come. When we were +alone again the next day, she, to use her own expression, gave me with a +rod a forcible lesson in silence. At other times, on the contrary, she +inculcated in me the strictest love of truth. One would be inclined to +think that these contradictions might have had disastrous consequences. +It was not the case and never will be the case, for life entails many +other similar ones, and human nature can adapt itself even to them. +Certain it is that I acquired one piece of information which it is +better for a child to acquire late or not at all, namely, that at times +the father wishes one thing, and the mother another. + +I do not remember that I really went hungry in my earliest childhood, as +I did later, but I do recollect that my mother sometimes had to content +herself with looking on while we children ate, and did so gladly, +because otherwise we could not have had our fill. + +III + +The principal charm of childhood consists in the fact that every +creature down to the household pets is friendly and kindly disposed +toward children; for out of this arises a feeling of security which +disappears with the first step out into the hostile world and never +returns. This is especially the case among the lower classes. The child +cannot play before the door without being presented with a flower by the +neighboring servant-maid who has been sent across the street to make a +purchase, or to draw water. The fruit-woman throws it a cherry or a pear +out of her basket, or a prosperous burgher perhaps even gives it a small +coin with which it can buy itself a roll. The driver cracks his whip in +passing; the musician as he goes by draws some tones from his +instrument, and whoever does none of all these things at least asks its +name and age, or smiles at it. To be sure, the child must be kept neat +and clean. + +My brother and I came in for a bountiful share of this goodwill, +especially on the part of the tenants of our house, our special +neighbors who were almost as much to us as our mother and more than our +severe father. In summer they had their work and could not pay much +attention to us, but then at that season it was not necessary that they +should, as we played in the garden from early till late, from one +bed-time to the next, and the butterflies were company enough. But in +winter, in the rain and snow, when we were confined to the house, almost +everything that entertained and enlivened us came from them. + +The wife of the day laborer, Meta by name, was a gigantic figure, +somewhat bent forward, with a stern Old-Testament face, of which I was +vividly reminded by Michaelangelo's Cumaean sybil in the Sistine Chapel. +She usually came over to us at twilight in the long winter evenings, +with a red cloth wound around her head, and stayed until the lights were +lit. Then she told us stories of witches and goblins, that sounded more +impressive from her lips than from any other. We heard of the Blocksberg +and the witches-Sabbath; the broomstick, so contemptible in appearance, +acquired a weird importance, and the dark hole in the chimney, which in +every house, and therefore in ours also, can be misused in such +malignant fashion by the powers of hell and their handmaids, inspired us +with dread. I can still remember perfectly the impression made upon me +by the story of the wicked miller's wife, who transformed herself at +night into a cat, and how I consoled myself with the fact that in the +end she did indeed receive due punishment for this wicked prank. The +cat, namely, when once starting out on her nightly walk, had a paw +chopped off by the miller's apprentice, who thought she looked +suspicious, and the next day the miller's wife lay in bed with a bloody +right arm minus a hand. + +When the light was lit we usually went over to neighbor Ohl's, and in +his room we certainly felt more at ease than in Meta's company. Neighbor +Ohl was a man whom I have never seen cross, no matter how often he had +occasion to be so. With an empty stomach, indeed with what in his case +meant more, an empty pipe, he danced, sang, and whistled something for +us whenever we came; and in spite of his considerably reddened +nose--which, according to a tale of my mother's, I once wished for +longingly when looking up at him while being danced upon his knees--and +in spite of the felt cap tapering to a point, which he wore continually, +his always friendly, merry face still gleams before me like a star. +There had been a time when he was the only mason in the place and the +employer of from twenty to thirty journeymen, of whom many later set up +as masters and took the work away from him. At that time, so it was said +later, he could have assured himself a future free from care if he had +not visited the bowling alley too often, and loved a good glass of wine +too well. But whoever bore evil fortune as he did, could not be +reproached for careless enjoyment of the good. I cannot think of him +without emotion; how would it be possible for me to do sot He once, at +fair-time, presented my brother and me with a kettle-drum and a trumpet +which he had, with the greatest difficulty, obtained on credit from the +toy merchant, and as his poverty did not permit him to pay off the small +debt until much later, he had to submit to being dunned for it years +after, when I, already tall and knowing beyond my years, was walking at +his side. He was inexhaustible in inventing ways to amuse us, and as +with children nothing is necessary but goodwill, he never failed to do +so. It was a source of great delight to us when he took a piece of chalk +in his hand, sat himself down with us at his round table and began to +draw-mills, houses, animals, and all sorts of other things. At the same +time he cracked the merriest jokes, which still resound in my ears. Even +the chief of his pleasures was not one for him if we did not share it. +It consisted in drinking slowly a half jug of brandy, in remembrance of +better days, and in smoking a pipe at the same time, on Sunday morning +after the sermon and before dinner. We each had to have a thimble full +of this brandy or he did not enjoy it himself. The drink was certainly +not the best thing for us, but the quantity was small enough to prevent +disastrous consequences. My father, however, forbade this kind of Sunday +treat when he came to find out about it. This troubled the good old man +exceedingly, but did not prevent him, I am forced to add, from having us +drink with him again; only this took place quite secretly, and he +urgently recommended us to keep out of our father's way, so that he +should not have occasion to kiss one of us and thus discover the +transgression. It was a kiss, to wit pressed upon my father's lips, that +had betrayed the secret the first time. + +Sometimes one or the other of his two unmarried brothers, who as a rule +tramped around the country and were probably good-for-nothings, would +spend the winter with him. They always found a ready welcome and +remained until the spring or hunger drove them away. He never turned +them out. Small as his piece of bread might be he gladly divided it once +again, but when he had nothing at all, then indeed he could not give +away anything. It was a regular treat for us when Uncle Hans or Johann +arrived, for they brought news of the world to our nest. They told us of +woods and their adventures in them; of robbers and murderers whom they +had escaped from with great difficulty; of the dark giblet stew which +they had eaten in lonely forest-taverns, and of men's fingers and toes +which they pretended to have found at last in the bottom of the dish. + +The swaggering, parasitic brothers-in-law were extremely unwelcome to +the housewife, for she did not bear the burden of existence as +light-heartedly as her husband did, and she knew they would not leave +again so long as there was a piece of bacon hanging in the chimney; but +she contented herself with complaining in private, and at times pouring +out her heart to my mother. She, too, was fond of us children, and in +summer, as often as she could, she presented us with red and white +currants, which she, in turn, begged from a stingy friend. I, however, +avoided her too close proximity, for she made it her business to cut my +nails as often as it was necessary, and I detested this on account of +the prickly feeling in the nerve ends which it caused. She read the +Bible diligently, and long before I could read it myself I received from +her my first strong, nay terrible, impression from this gloomy book, +when she read to me out of Jeremiah the horrible passage in which the +angry prophet foretells that in the time of great distress the mothers +would slaughter their own children and eat them. I can remember yet with +what terror this passage inspired me when I heard it, perhaps because I +did not know whether it referred to the past or to the future, to +Jerusalem or to Wesselburen, and because I was myself a child and had a +mother. + + IV + +In my fourth year I was sent to a primary-school. It was kept by an old +spinster, Susanna by name, of tall and masculine stature, with friendly +blue eyes, which shone forth like candles from out a pale grayish face. +We children were planted around the walls of the spacious chamber which +served as school-room, and which was rather dark. The boys were on one +side, the girls on the other; Susanna's table, piled high with school +books, stood in the middle, and she herself, a white clay pipe in her +mouth and a cup of tea before her, sat behind it in an ancestral arm +chair which inspired no little respect. Before her lay a long ruler, +which, however, was not used for drawing lines but for chastising us +when we were no longer to be held in check by frowning and clearing of +the throat. A cornucopia full of currants, destined as a reward for +extraordinary virtues, lay beside it. The raps, however, fell more +regularly than the currants; indeed, the cornucopia, sparingly as +Susanna made use of the contents, was sometimes completely empty; we +thus learned Kant's categorical imperative sufficiently early. + +Children large and small were called up to the table from time to time, +the more advanced pupils for instruction in writing, the multitude to +repeat their lessons and to receive raps on the fingers with the ruler, +or currants, as the case might be. A sullen maid-servant, who even +occasionally took a hand in inflicting punishment, went up and down the +room, and was at times occupied in a most unpleasant manner with the +youngest pupils, for which reason she kept sharp watch that they should +not partake too freely of the sweet things which they brought with them. + +Behind the house was a small yard, adjoining which was Susanna's little +garden. During recess we played our games in the yard; the garden was +kept locked up from us. It was full of flowers, whose fantastic shapes I +can still see swaying in the sultry summer wind. Susanna, when in a good +humor, used sometimes to pluck a few of these flowers for us, not, +however, until it was nearly time for them to fade; before that she +would not rob of a particle of their adornment the neatly laid-out, +carefully-weeded beds, between which ran footpaths that hardly seemed +wide enough for the birds to hop on. Susanna, moreover, distributed her +gifts with great partiality. The children of well-to-do parents received +the best and were allowed to give voice to their desires, which were +frequently lacking in modesty, without being reproved; the poorer had to +be satisfied with what remained, and received nothing at all if they did +not await the act of grace in silence. This was most flagrantly apparent +at Christmas time. Then a great distribution of cakes and nuts took +place, but in most faithful adherence to the words of the Gospel: "To +him who hath, shall be given." The daughters of the parish clerk, a +mightily respected person, the sons of the doctor, and so forth, were +loaded with half-dozens of cakes, with whole handkerchiefs full of nuts; +on the contrary the poor devils whose prospects for Christmas Eve, +unlike those of the rich children, were entirely dependent upon +Susanna's charitable hands, were scantily portioned off. The reason was +that Susanna counted upon return gifts, doubtless was forced to count +upon them, and could not expect any from people who even had difficulty +in getting together the school-money. I was not entirely neglected, as +Susanna received her tribute from our pear-tree regularly every autumn, +and besides, on account of my "good head," I enjoyed a sort of advantage +over many of the others. Nevertheless I too felt the difference, and in +especial had much to suffer from the maid-servant, who put a spiteful +construction upon my most innocent actions; for example, she once +interpreted the pulling out of my handkerchief as a sign that I wished +to have it filled, which drove the most burning blushes to my cheeks and +tears to my eyes. As soon as I became conscious of Susanna's partiality +and the injustice of her maid I stepped outside the magic circle of +childhood. It occurred very early. + +V + +Two incidents which took place in this school-room are still vividly +present before me. I remember, to begin with, that I received there my +first awful impression of nature and the invisible power which prophetic +man surmises behind it. The child has a period, which lasts a fairly +long time, when it believes that the whole world is subject to its +parents, at least to the father who always remains standing somewhat +mysteriously in the background, and when it would be just as likely to +beg them for good weather as for a plaything. This period naturally +comes to an end when the child, to its astonishment, undergoes the +experience that things occur which are quite as unwelcome to its parents +as a beating is to itself, and with this period disappears a great part +of the mystic spell which surrounds the sacred head of the father: +indeed not until it is past does real human independence begin. My eyes +were opened on this subject by a fearful thunderstorm, which was +accompanied by a cloud burst and hail. + +It was a sultry afternoon, one of those which scorch up the earth and +roast all its creatures. We children sat around on our benches, lazy and +depressed, with our catechisms or primers. Susanna herself nodded +sleepily, and indulgently allowed to pass unnoticed the jokes and +teasing, by means of which we tried to keep ourselves awake. Not even +the flies were buzzing, except the very small ones which are always +lively, when all of a sudden the first thunderclap sounded and +reverberated, crashing and roaring, among the worm-eaten rafters of the +old, dilapidated house. In the most desperate combination, such as only +occurs during storms in the north, a clatter of hail stones now +followed, which in less than a minute demolished all the window-panes on +the windy side, and immediately after this, indeed in the midst of it, +came a downpour of rain which seemed to be the prelude of a new deluge. +We children, starting up terrified, ran about screaming and clamoring. +Susanna herself lost her head, and her maid succeeded in closing the +shutters only when there was nothing more to be saved; and there needed +only the Egyptian darkness added to the flood which had already +overtaken us, to heighten the general terror and increase the prevailing +confusion. In the pauses between one thunderclap and the next Susanna +did indeed collect herself somewhat and tried to calm and comfort her +charges, who according to their age were either hanging on to her apron +or crouching by themselves with closed eyes in the corners of the room. +But suddenly a bluish flame of lightning flashed once more through the +cracks of the shutters and the words died on her lips, while the maid, +almost as frightened as the youngest child, howled and screamed out, +"The good God is angry!" When it was dark again in the room she added +with pedagogical moroseness, "You're all of you good for nothing, +anyhow!" These words, no matter how odious the mouth from which they +fell, made a deep impression on me; they forced me to look upward, above +myself and above everything which surrounded me, and kindled in me the +spark of religious emotion. + +On my return from school to my father's house, I found there, too, the +horrors of devastation. Our pear-tree had lost not only its young fruit +but likewise all its beautiful leaves, and stood there bare as in +winter: what is more, a very fruitful plum-tree, which used to supply +not only ourselves but half the town besides, and, at the very least, +our fairly numerous kinsfolk, had even been despoiled of the richest of +its branches, and in its mutilation looked like a man with a broken arm. +Though my mother found a sorry comfort in the fact that our pig was now +supplied with dainty fare for a week, I could derive none at all from +it, and even the pieces of glass lying around in abundance--from which +the most excellent mirrors could be made in the easiest way in the world +by sticking them together with damp earth--offered scarcely any +compensation for the irrecoverably lost autumn pleasures. Now, however, +I understood all at once why my father always went to church on Sunday, +and, why I was never allowed to put on a clean shirt without saying: +"God's mercy upon us!" when I did so. I had learned to know the Lord of +Lords; his angry servants, thunder and lightning, hail and storm, had +opened wide the portals of my heart to him, and he had entered in all +his majesty. + +What had taken place in my soul was made manifest shortly afterward. For +one evening when once again the wind blew mightily down the chimney, +and the rain beat hard upon the roof as I was being put to bed, the +mechanical babbling of my lips was suddenly transformed into a real, +anxious prayer, and therewith the spiritual navel-string, which up to +that time had bound me exclusively to my parents, was broken. Indeed +things soon went so far that I began to complain to God of my father and +mother when I thought I had been unjustly treated by them. + +Further there is connected with this school-room my first and perhaps +most bitter martyrdom. In order to make plain what I would say I must +explain a little. Even in the infant-school all the elements are to be +found which the maturer man later encounters in an intensified degree, +in the world. Brutality, deceit, vulgar cleverness, hypocrisy, all are +represented, and a pure mind always stands there, like Adam and Eve in +the picture, among the wild beasts. How much of this is to be ascribed +to nature, how much to early education, or rather to neglect in the +home, must remain undecided here; the fact admits of no doubt. This, +then, was likewise the case in Wesselburen. Every species was to be met +with, from the brutal boy who plucked the feathers from the living birds +and pulled the legs off the flies, down to the light-fingered little +rascal, who stole the bright colored book-marks out of the primers of +his comrades. The fate which their better-behaved fellow-pupils--who +were condemned to suffer on that account--sometimes angrily prophesied +for the young sinners, when the good boys had happened to be the object +of their jeers or their malicious tricks, was fulfilled to the letter in +the case of more than one of them. The gamins always have instinct +enough to know whom their sting will strike first and sharpest, and +therefore I was, for a time, the one most exposed to their spite. +Sometimes a boy pretended to be reading very zealously in the catechism, +which he held close before his face, but instead he whispered over the +top of the page all sorts of scurrilous things in my ear, and asked me +if I were still stupid enough to believe that children came out of the +well, and that the stork fetched them up? Sometimes another called to me +"If you want an apple, take it out of my pocket, I brought one along for +you!" And when I did so, he cried! "Susanna, I am being robbed," and +denied having said anything to me. A third even spat upon his book and +then began to howl and declared with a brazen face that I had done it. + +Although I was almost the only one exposed to vexations of this kind, +partly because I felt them most keenly, and partly because they +succeeded best with me on account of my extreme unwariness, there were +other annoyances which all, without exception, had to put up with. +Foremost among these was the bragging of certain overgrown young rogues +who were considerably ahead of us others in years, but in spite of that +still sat on the A.B.C. bench, and from time to time played truant. +They got nothing out of it at the time but double and threefold boredom, +for as they dared not go home and could not find any playmates, there +was nothing for them to do but crouch down behind a hedge or lurk in a +dried-up ditch until the hour of deliverance struck, and then to mingle +with us on the way home as though they really had been where they +belonged. But they knew how to make up for it and get some fun for +themselves afterward, when they came back to school and related their +adventures. They would tell us how once their father had gone by right +close to the hedge, the cane with which he used to thrash them in his +hand, and yet had not noticed them; how another time their mother, +accompanied by the spitz dog, had come up to the ditch, the dog had +smelt them out, their mother had discovered them, but the lie that they +had been sent there by Susanna herself to pick camomile flowers for her, +had helped them through in spite of all. Then they plumed themselves +like old soldiers who are telling their heroic deeds to wondering +recruits, and the moral always was: we risk the whip and the cane, you +at most the switch, and yet you do not dare to do anything. + +This was irritating and all the more so as it was not possible +absolutely to deny the truth of their assertions. Hence when the son of +a cobbler once came to school with his back black and blue, and told us +his father had caught him and punished him severely with his shoemaker's +stirrup, but that he was only going to try it now all the oftener, for +he was no coward, I also determined to show my courage, and that, too, +that very afternoon. + +When, therefore, my mother sent me away at the usual hour, provided with +two juicy pears to quench my thirst, I did not go to Susanna's, but +crept, with a beating heart and anxiously peering behind me, into the +woodshed of our neighbor, the joiner, encouraged and assisted to do so +by his son, who was much older than I and already worked in his father's +shop. It was very hot and my hiding place was both dark and close; the +two pears did not last long, besides I could not eat them without some +twinges of conscience, and an old cat cowering in the background with +her young ones, who growled fiercely at my least movement, did not +contribute very much to my amusement. The sin carried its punishment +along with it; I counted every quarter and every half hour of the clock, +the strokes of which penetrated from the high tower to where I was with +a harsh, and it seemed to me, threatening sound. I tormented myself +wondering whether I could get out of the shed again without being +noticed, and I thought only very rarely and fleetingly of the triumph +which I hoped to celebrate on the morrow. + +It was already getting rather late when my mother came into the garden +and glancing gaily and contentedly about her, went over to the well to +draw some water. She almost passed directly in front of me, and that in +itself arrested my breathing. But how was it with me when my confidant +suddenly asked her if she knew where Christian was, and to her +astonished reply, "With Susanna!" rejoined half mischievously, half +maliciously "No! no, with the cat!" and winking and blinking showed her +my hiding place! Beside myself with rage, I sprang out and would have +kicked the grinning traitor. My mother, however, her whole face aflame, +set her pail down on one side and seized me by the arms and hair to take +me to school after all. I tore myself away, I rolled on the ground, I +howled and screamed, but in vain. The discovery of such a criminal in +her quiet darling, whom every one praised, incensed her so that she +would not listen to me, but dragged me away by force; and my continued +resistance had no other result than to cause all the windows on the +street to be opened and all heads to pop out. When I arrived my +companions were just being dismissed; they crowded around me, however, +and heaped mockery and derision upon me, while Susanna, who may have +realized that the lesson was too severe, tried to pacify me. Since that +day I believe I know how the man feels who runs the gauntlet. + +VI + +I should really have mentioned, above, a third experience, but this +last, whether in retrospect one rate it high or low, is, in any case, so +unique and incomparable in the life of man that one dares not place it +in the same category with any other. In Susanna's gloomy school-room, +namely, I learned to know love, and that, too, in the very same hour in +which I entered it; therefore in my fourth year. + +The first love! Who does not smile when he reads these words; before +whose vision does not an Aennchen or a Gretchen hover, who once seemed +to him to wear a starry crown and be arrayed in the blue of heaven and +the gold of the morning, and who now perhaps--it would be criminal to +paint the reverse of the picture. But who does not say to himself, too, +that at that time he was carried, as though on wings, past every +honey-cup in the garden of earth, too quickly indeed to become +intoxicated, but slowly enough to breathe in the sacred morning +fragrance. It is therefore with emotion that I now smile when I think of +the beautiful May morning on which actually took place that great event, +long since resolved upon, repeatedly deferred, and at last unalterably +appointed for a definite day--I mean my departure from the paternal home +to school. "He will cry!" said Meta on the evening before, and nodded +sibylline fashion, as though she knew everything. "He will not cry, but +he will get up too late!" rejoined neighbor Ohl's wife. "He will behave +bravely, and be out of his bed at the right time, too!" threw in the +good-natured old man. Then he added, "I have something for him, and I'll +give it to him when he comes in at my door at seven o'clock tomorrow +morning, washed and combed." + +At seven o'clock I was at our neighbor's and as a reward was presented +with a little wooden cuckoo. Up to half past seven I was in good spirits +and played with our pug-dog, at quarter to eight I began to weaken, but +toward eight I was a man again, because Meta entered with a face full of +malicious enjoyment, and I sat out courageously, the new primer, with +John Ballhorn's egg-laying cock under my arm. My mother went with me in +order to introduce me ceremoniously; the pug followed; I was not yet +entirely forsaken, and stood in Susanna's presence before I realized it. +In school-master fashion Susanna patted me on the cheek and stroked back +my hair. My mother, in a severe tone which she had great pains in +assuming, bade me be industrious and obedient, and departed hastily, so +as not to allow her emotion to get the better of her; the pug was +undecided for some little time, but at last he went off to join her. I +was presented with a gold paper saint, then my place was shown me and I +was incorporated into the humming, buzzing child-beehive, which, glad of +the interruption, had watched the scene inquisitively. + +It was some time before I dared to look up, for I felt that I was being +inspected and this embarrassed me. At last I did so, and my first glance +fell upon a pale, slender girl who sat directly opposite to me; she was +called Emilia and was the daughter of the parish clerk. A thrill of +emotion passed through me, the blood rushed to my heart, but a feeling +of shame also mingled at once with my first sensation, and I dropped my +eyes to the ground again as quickly as though they had committed a +crime. + +From this hour I could not banish Emilia from my mind. School, formerly +so much feared, now became my favorite abiding place, because there only +could I see her; Sundays and holidays, which separated me from her, were +as hateful to me as they would otherwise have been welcome; I was +genuinely unhappy if she happened to stay away. She hovered before me +wherever I went and I never grew tired of repeating her name softly to +myself when I was alone; her black eyebrows and her very rosy lips, in +particular, were always present before me; on the other hand, I do not +remember that her voice made any impression upon me, although later +everything, for me, depended upon that. + +It can easily be understood that I soon gained out of all this the +reputation of being the most constant attendant at school and the best +pupil. I felt rather strangely about it though, for I knew very well +that it was not the primer which attracted me to Susanna's, and that it +was not in order to learn to read quickly that I spelled away so +busily. However, no one must ever be allowed to divine what was going on +with me, and least of all Emilia. I avoided her most anxiously, so as, +by any and all means, to keep from betraying myself. When the games in +common nevertheless brought us together, I was hostile toward her rather +than in the least friendly. I pulled her back hair in order to touch her +at least for once, and hurt her in doing it, so as not to arouse +suspicion. Once, however, nature forcibly asserted itself, because put +to too severe a test. One afternoon in the romping hour which always +preceded lessons--for the children assembled slowly and Susanna liked to +take a midday nap--a distressing sight greeted me as I entered the +school-room; Emilia was being ill-treated by a boy, and he was one of my +best comrades. He pulled her about and buffeted her lustily, and I bore +it, though not without great difficulty and with ever increasing, silent +exasperation. At last, however, he drove her into a corner, and when he +let her out again, her mouth was bleeding, probably because he had +scratched her somewhere. Then I could control myself no longer, the +sight of the blood drove me mad, I fell upon him, threw him to the +ground and gave him back his thumps and slaps double and threefold. But +Emilia, far from being grateful to me, herself called for aid and +assistance for her enemy when I showed no signs of desisting, and thus +betrayed involuntarily that she liked him better than the avenger. +Susanna, awakened from her slumbers by the noise, hurried to the scene +and, naturally being cross and angry, demanded strict account of my +sudden outburst of rage. What I stammered and stuttered forth in excuse +was incomprehensible and foolish, and thus I received a rude +chastisement as a reward for my first gallant service. My affection for +Emilia lasted until my eighteenth year and passed through very many +phases; I must therefore often refer to it again. + +VII + +Even in my earliest years my imagination was very vivid. When I was put +to bed in the evening the rafters above me began to crawl, from every +nook and corner of the room distorted visages made grimaces, and the +most familiar objects, such as the cane on which I myself used to ride, +the foot of the table, yes, even the coverlet on my bed with its flowers +and figures, grew strange and filled me with terror. I believe it is +well to distinguish here between the vague general fear, which is +natural to all children without exception, and a greater one which +embodies its terrifying images in clear-cut distinct forms and really +makes them objective to the young soul. The former fear was shared by my +brother, who lay beside me, but his eyes always closed very soon and +then he slept quietly until bright daylight; the latter tormented me +alone, and not only did it keep sleep far from me, but when sleep +finally came, often frightened it away again and made me call for help +in the middle of the night. How deeply the phantasms of this same fear +impressed themselves upon me can be gathered from the fact that they +return in full force in every serious illness. As soon as the feverishly +seething blood rushes over my brain and drowns my consciousness, the +oldest devils, driving out and disarming all laterborn ones, come back +again, and that best shows, without doubt, how they must once have +tortured me. + +But by day, as well, my imagination was unusually, and perhaps +unhealthily, active. Ugly people, for example, whom my brother laughed +at and mimicked, filled me with dread. A little hunch-backed tailor--on +either side of whose triangular, deathly-pale face, immoderately long +ears stood out, ears moreover which were bright red and +transparent--could not pass by without my running with screams into the +house; and it almost caused my death when he once, in a passion, +followed me, scolding and calling me a stupid youngster, and upbraiding +my mother because he thought she was making him play the bug-bear in her +domestic discipline. I could not endure the sight of a bone and buried +even the smallest one that came to light in our garden; nay later, when +in Susanna's school, I obliterated with my nails the word "rib" in my +catechism, because it always brought before me the disgusting object +which it designated as vividly as though the object itself lay there in +repulsive decay before my eyes. On the other hand, a rose-leaf, which a +breeze blew to me over the hedge, was as much to me as--nay, more than +the rose itself was to others, and words like tulip and lily, cherry and +apricot, apple and pear, immediately transplanted me into spring, +summer, and autumn; so that in the primer I liked to spell aloud the +pieces in which they occurred better than any others, and grew angry +each time when it was not my turn to do so. Only, unhappily, in the +world one needs the diminishing glass much oftener than the magnifying, +and this holds good even of the beautiful days of youth, except in very +rare cases. For as it is said of horses that they respect man only +because, on account of the construction of their eye, they see in him a +giant, so the child endowed with imagination stands still before a grain +of sand only because it seems to him an insuperable mountain. Things in +themselves therefore cannot set the standard here; on the contrary, one +must inquire about the shadows which they cast; hence the father can +often laugh while the son is enduring the tortures of hell because the +scales by which they weigh are fundamentally different. + +An incident, comical in itself, belongs in this place because it throws +a very clear light precisely on this point, so important for education. +I was once sent to get a roll for dinner. The baker's wife handed it to +me and good-humoredly gave me at the same time an old nut-cracker, which +had probably turned up somewhere when she was cleaning house. I had +never seen a nut-cracker before. I was not acquainted with any of its +hidden qualities, and took it like any other doll which appealed to me +by reason of its red cheeks and staring eyes. Joyously starting on my +way home and pressing the nut-cracker, like a newly acquired favorite, +tenderly to my breast, I noticed all of a sudden that it opened its jaws +and in gratitude for my caresses showed me its cruel white teeth. One +may imagine my fright! I shrieked loudly, I ran across the street as +though pursued, but I had not sense or courage enough to throw the demon +away, and as it naturally sometimes closed its mouth and sometimes +opened it again, according to the movements I made while running, I +could not help considering it alive, and arrived home half dead. Here I +was, of course, laughed at and enlightened as to the truth, at last even +scolded. It was all of no avail. It was impossible for me to become +reconciled again to the monster although I recognized its innocence, and +I did not rest until I had received permission to give it away to +another boy. When my father learned of the matter he was of the opinion +that there was no other youngster alive to whom such a thing could +happen. That was very possible, for there was perhaps no other at whom +the cousins of the nut-cracker had made faces from the floor and from +the walls in the evening when he was just going to sleep. This very +night the activity of my seething imagination culminated in a dream, +which was so monstrous and left such an impression upon me that for that +very reason it returned seven times in succession. It seemed to me as +though the dear Lord, of whom I had already heard so much, had stretched +a rope between heaven and earth, had set me upon it, and placed Himself +beside it to swing me. Then without rest or pause I flew up and down +with dizzy speed; now I was high up among the clouds, my hair fluttering +in the wind, and I held on convulsively and closed my eyes; now I was so +near the earth again that I could plainly see the yellow sand and the +little red and white stones--indeed could even reach them with my toes. +I wished to throw myself off; that, however, required resolution, and +before I succeeded, I went up in the air again, and there was nothing +for me to do but seize the rope once more so as not to fall and be +dashed to pieces. The week in which this dream occurred was perhaps the +most terrible one of all my childhood, for the memory of it did not +leave me the whole day. When, in spite of my struggles, I was put to bed +I carried the fear of its return with me, even immediately into my sleep +so that it was no wonder the dream continually recurred, until by +degrees it faded out. + +VIII + +I remained in Susanna's school until my sixth year and learned there to +read fluently. I was not permitted to learn to write yet on account of +my youth, as it was said; it was the last thing that Susanna had to +teach and therefore she prudently held it in reserve. But I had already +started with the first necessary exercises in memory; for as soon as the +youngster had been promoted from the sexless frock to trousers, and from +the primer to the catechism, he had to learn by heart the ten +commandments and the chief articles of the Christian Faith as Doctor +Martin Luther, the great reformer, formulated them three hundred years +ago for the guidance of the Protestant Church. Memorizing went no +farther and the tremendous dogmas, which without explanation or +elucidation passed from the book into the undeveloped childish brain, +became transformed into wonderful and in part grotesque pictures. These, +however, did the young mind no manner of harm, but gave it a healthy +impetus and stirred it up to prophetic activity. For what does it matter +if the child, when it hears of original sin, or of death and the devil, +forms a conception or a fantastic image of those profound symbols? To +fathom them is the task of our whole lifetime, but the developing man is +warned at the very beginning of an all-disposing higher power, and I +doubt if the same end could be reached by early initiation into the +mysteries of the rule of three or into the wisdom of AEsop's fables. The +remarkable part of it was, to be sure, that in my imagination Luther +came to stand almost directly beside Moses and Jesus Christ, but without +doubt the reason was that his thundering "What is that?" always +resounded immediately after the majestic laconic utterances of Jehovah, +and that moreover his rough, expressive face, out of which the spirit +speaks all the more forcibly because it must manifestly first gain the +victory over the thick resisting flesh, was reproduced in the front of +the catechism in heavy black ink. But so far as I know that had no more +injurious consequences for me than my belief in the real horns and claws +of the devil, or in the scythe of death, and I learned, as soon as there +was any necessity for it, to distinguish perfectly between the Saviour +and the reformer. + +For the rest the modest acquisitions that I had made at Susanna's +sufficed to procure for me a certain respect at home. To Master Ohl it +was immensely impressive that I soon knew better than he himself all +that the true Christian believes, and my mother was almost moved to +tears when for the first time I read the evening blessing aloud by +lamp-light, without faltering or stammering. Indeed she felt so edified +that she gave over to me forever the office of reader, the duties of +which I hereafter performed for a considerable length of time with much +zeal and not without self-complacency. + +Toward the end of my sixth year a great change, nay a complete +transformation, took place in the school-system in Holstein, and +consequently in that of my own little fatherland. Up to that time the +State had not interfered at all in primary instruction and but little in +the secondary. Parents could send their children wherever they wished +and the primary schools were purely private institutions, about which +even the ministers scarcely troubled themselves, and which often sprang +up in the most curious manner. Thus Susanna had arrived in Wesselburen +one stormy autumn evening, in wooden shoes, without a penny, and an +entire stranger. She had been given a night's lodging, for sweet +charity's sake, by the compassionate widow of a pastor. The latter +discovers that the pilgrim can read and write and also knows quite a +little about the Bible and thereupon makes her on the spot the +proposition to remain in the town, in her very house, and teach. The +youth of the place, or at least the crawling part of the same, had, as +it happened, just been orphaned. The former teacher, for a long time +highly praised on account of his strict discipline, had undressed a +saucy little girl and set her upon a hot stove in punishment for some +naughtiness, perhaps in order to procure still greater praise thereby, +and that had been too much for even the most unqualified reverers of the +rod. Susanna was quite alone in the world, and did not know where she +should turn or what she should take up. She therefore gladly, although +according to her own words not without misgivings, exchanged the +accustomed labor with her hands for the difficult labor with her head, +and the speculation succeeded perfectly, and in the shortest space of +time imaginable. + +To the boys and girls of more advanced age severe, sombre gymnasiums and +grammar-schools did indeed open their doors. These were under a sort of +supervision and in case of necessity were recruited by the secular arm, +if new comers did not enlist of their own accord. But in these +institutions too, only the merest manual training was given, in spite of +the pompous sounding names which they flaunted, and which to this hour +have remained a mystery to me. A brother of my mother's, universally +admired on account of his talents--whom the principal, though by no +means over modest, had dismissed with the solemn declaration that he +could teach him nothing further because he knew as much as he +himself--was indeed a mighty calligrapher, and decorated his New Year's +cards with tints and flourishes in India ink as the old printers Fust +and Schoeffer did their incunabula, but nevertheless he could not achieve +a single grammatical sentence. + +These conditions, undeniably defective and much in need of improvement, +were now once and for all to be brought to an end. The people were to be +educated from the cradle up, superstition was to be exterminated root +and branch. Whether thorough consideration was given to that which +should have been considered above everything else must remain in doubt; +for the conception of culture is extremely relative, and just as the +most disgusting intoxication follows the nipping from every bottle, so +superficial encyclopedical knowledge, which at the most can be made +broad, engenders precisely the most repulsive kind of arrogance. It will +no longer bow to any authority and yet never penetrates to the depths in +which the multifarious logical inconsistencies and contradictions find +their own solution. + +Probably the right method was adopted when they founded normal schools +on the one hand and primary schools on the other, so that the essence +which had been distilled in the former and poured into the empty +schoolmaster heads in the form of rationalism, could from the latter +spread itself immediately over the whole land. The result was that a +somewhat superstitious generation was followed by an excessively +overwise one; for it is astonishing how the grandchild feels when he +knows that a nocturnal fiery meteor is composed merely of inflammable +gases, while his grandfather sees in it the devil trying to enter some +chimney or other with his shining money bags. + +But however the matter may have stood in general,--and I repeat my +conviction that in this case the happy medium is hard to find,--to me +the reform was a great blessing. For Wesselburen, like the other towns, +acquired an elementary school and a man was chosen as teacher of it +whose name I cannot write down without a feeling of the deepest +gratitude, because in spite of his modest position, he exercised an +immeasurable influence on my development. He was called Franz Christian +Detlefsen and came to us from the neighboring town of Eiderstedt, where +he had already held a small official position. + +IX + +No house is so small as not to seem to the child who has been born in it +like a world whose wonders and mysteries he discovers only little by +little. Even the poorest cottage has at least a garret to which a ladder +leads up, and with what feelings is this climbed for the first time! +Some old rubbish is sure to be found up there, which, useless and +forgotten, points back to days long past, and reminds us of men whose +last bone has already moldered to dust. Behind the chimney there is +surely a worm-eaten, wooden chest which excites curiosity. The dust is +lying on it hand high, the lock is still there, but there is no need to +look for the key; for one can forage in it wherever one wants, and when +with fear and trembling the child does so, he pulls out a torn boot, or +the broken distaff of a spinning wheel which was laid aside half a +century ago. Shuddering he flings away the double find, because +involuntarily he asks himself where is the leg that wore the boot and +where is the hand that set the wheel in motion. But the mother carefully +picks up the one or the other because she happens to need a strap which +can be cut out of grandfather's boot, or because she believes that she +can start the fire again with great-aunt's distaff. + +[Illustration: THE DEATH OF KRIEMHILD _From the Painting by Schnorr von +Carolsfeld_] + +Even though the chest had found its way into the tiled stove during the +last hard winter, when people were even forced to burn dried cakes of +dung, there is still hidden away in the garret a rusty sickle which once +went off to the fields, shining and merry, and stretched low at one +swing of the arm a thousand golden-green stalks; and above it hangs the +uncanny scythe which a farm-hand once ran into a long time ago, so that +he cut off his nose--it having hung too far down over the garret hatch, +and he having mounted the ladder too quickly. Beside them the mice are +squeaking in the corners, a couple perhaps jump out of their holes and +after executing a short dance creep back into them again; a little +shiny white weasel is visible for a moment, lifting its clever little +head and forepaws in the air, peering and sniffing; and the single +sunbeam that enters through some hidden chink is so perfectly like a +gold thread that one would like to wind it around one's finger at once. + +The cottage is not provided with a cellar but the burgher-house is, +though not indeed on account of the wine but of the potatoes and +turnips. The poorer classes keep these out doors under a goodly pile of +earth, which they raise above them in the autumn, and in winter, in time +of hard frost, carefully cover over with straw or dung as well. + +Now to reach the cellar is really much more difficult than to climb to +the attic, but where is the child who does not know how to satisfy this +longing too in one way or another! He can go to the neighbors and hang +on coaxingly to the maid's apron when she goes down to get something, or +can even watch for the moment when the door is left open by mistake, and +venture down on his own account. That is dangerous to be sure, for the +door may be suddenly closed, and the sixteen-legged spiders, that crawl +around the walls in the most hideous deformed shapes, as well as the +trickling greenish water that gathers in the cavities intentionally left +here and there, do not invite one to tarry long. But what does it +matter? One has one's throat after all, and whoever screams lustily will +be heard sooner or later. Now if the house itself suffices, under all +circumstances, to make such an impression upon the child, how must the +town strike him! When he is taken along by mother or father for the +first time, he surely does not start to walk through the tangle of +streets without a feeling of astonishment, and it is still less likely +that he reaches home again without experiencing a sensation of +giddiness. Nay, be perhaps brings back lasting typical conceptions of +many objects, lasting in the sense that in after life they imperceptibly +stretch and widen _ad infinitum_, but never allow themselves to be +effaced; for the primitive impressions of things are indestructible and +maintain themselves against all later ones, no matter how far these, in +themselves, may surpass the old. For me too, then, it was a moment never +to be forgotten, and one whose influence continues to be felt to the +present day, when my mother took me with her for the first time on the +evening walk which she indulged in on Sundays and holidays during the +beautiful summer months. Good gracious, how large this Wesselburen was! +Five-year old legs were nearly tired out before they had made the entire +round! And what did one not meet on the road! The very names of the +streets and squares sounded so puzzling and fantastic! "Now we are on +the Lollard's Foot! That is White Meadow! This way goes over to Bell +Mountain! There stands the Oak Nest!" The less apparent reason there was +for these names, the more certain it seemed that they concealed some +mystery! And then the objects themselves! The church whose pealing voice +I had already heard so often; the graveyard with its dark trees and its +crosses and tombstones; a very old house, in which a, "forty-eighter" +had lived, and in the cellar of which a treasure was said to lie buried, +over which the devil kept watch; and, finally, a big fish-pond: all +these details coalesced in my mind, as though like the limbs of a +gigantic animal they were organically related, into one huge general +picture, and the autumn moon shed a bluish light over it. Since that +time I have seen St. Peter's and every German cathedral, I have been to +Pere la Chaise and the Pyramid of Cestius, but whenever I think in +general of churches, graveyards and the like, they still hover before me +today in the shape in which I saw them on that evening. + +X + +About the same time that I exchanged Susanna's gloomy room for the +newly-built bright and pleasant primary-school, my father also had to +leave his little house and move into a hired lodging. That was a strange +contrast for me. School had broadened: I gazed out of clear windows with +wide frames of fir wood, instead of trying my curious eyes on green +glass bottle panes with dirty leaden rims; and the daylight, which at +Susanna's always commenced later and stopped earlier than it should, now +came into its full rights. I sat at a comfortable table with a desk and +an ink bottle; the odor of fresh wood and paint, which still has some +charm for me, threw me into a sort of joyous ecstasy, and when, on +account of my reading, I was told by the inspecting minister, to +exchange the third bench, which I had modestly chosen, for the first, +and moreover to take one of the highest places on the latter, my cup of +felicity was nearly full. + +Our home, on the contrary, had shrunk and grown darker; there was no +more garden now in which I could romp with my comrades when the weather +was fine, no hallway to receive us hospitably when it rained and blew. I +was restricted to a narrow room in which I myself could hardly move +around and into which I dared not bring any playmates, and to the space +before the door, where it was seldom that any one would stay with me +very long, as the street ran directly past it. + +The reason for this change, which brought about such serious +consequences, was strange enough. My father at the time of his marriage +had, by going security, laden himself with another's debt, and would no +doubt have been driven out much earlier if his creditor had not +fortunately had to serve a long term in the penitentiary in punishment +for an act of incendiarism. He was one of those terrible men who do evil +for evil's sake, and prefer the crooked path even when the straight one +would lead them more quickly and surely to the goal. He had that +lowering, wicked, diabolical look in his eyes which no one can endure, +and which in a childlike age may have begotten belief in witches and +sorcerers, because enjoyment of evil finds expression in it, indeed it +seems of necessity to be forced to increase evil. A tavern and general +store-keeper by profession and more than prosperous for his station, he +might have led the most peaceful and merry existence possible, but he +absolutely had to be at enmity with God and the world, and to give free +rein to a truly devilish humor, such as I have never come across +elsewhere, even in detective stories. + +Thus he once, with the greatest friendliness, allowed his wife, at her +request, to go to confession on Saturday, but forbade her to take the +communion on Sunday, in accordance with the Protestant custom, because +she had not asked his permission to do so. When any one of his neighbors +happened to be raising a fine young horse, he would go to him and offer +an absurdly low price for the animal. If the other refused it, he would +say: "I would think about it, and bear in mind the old rule, that one +should hand over everything that has once been bargained for; who knows +what may happen!" And surely enough the horse, in spite of careful +watching, would sooner or later be found in the meadow or in the stable +with the tendons of its feet cut and would have to be stabbed to death; +so that in the end he could buy whatever happened to please his fancy. +He willingly assisted his son-in-law in declaring a fraudulent +bankruptcy, and perhaps even beguiled him into it, but when the latter, +after having perjured himself, demanded the embezzled goods back again, +he laughed him to scorn and dared him to go to law. However he was +surprised by his own maid-servant while committing arson and taken in +the very act, in spite of his cleverness and his equally great luck, and +it was to this circumstance that my father, who had been talked into +going security by all sorts of cunning deceptive promises, owed the few +years of quiet possession which he enjoyed during his short lifetime. + +As soon as the penitentiary had given its charge back to the community +we were obliged to leave the abode in which our grandparents had shared +joy and sorrow for over half a century. It seemed like the end of the +world to my brother and myself when the old pieces of furniture, which +up till then had scarcely been moved from their places even when the +rooms were whitewashed, suddenly emigrated into the street; when the +respectable old Dutch striking-clock that never went correctly and +always caused confusion, all at once found itself hanging on a branch of +the pear tree, brightly illuminated by the beams of the May sun, while +under it stood insecurely the round worm-eaten dining-table which, when +there happened to be very little on it, had so often elicited from us +the wish that we could have everything that had ever been eaten off it. +However, the whole affair was also, quite naturally, in the nature of a +spectacle for us, and as in the course of clearing out, a bright colored +pipe-head that I had lost a long time before came to light again in some +rat hole or other, and, moreover, various odds and ends, which the other +families who were moving out with us had come across when dusting in the +corners and did not consider worth taking along, fell to our share--since +we could make use of the least thing--the day soon began to seem like a +holiday. We parted, not indeed without emotion but still without sorrow, +from the house in which we had been born. + +I did not learn what it really meant until later, though to be sure it +was soon enough. Without realizing it myself I had, up to that time, +been a little aristocrat, and now ceased to be one. This is how it was. +In the same way that the peasant proprietor and the rich burgher look +down However, in the end, all this had a very good effect upon me. I had +been up to that time a dreamer, who in the daytime liked to creep away +behind the hedge or the well, and in the evening cowered in my mother's +lap, or in that of one of our women neighbors, and begged to be told +fairy and ghost stories. Now I was driven out into active life. It was a +question of defending one's skin, and though I engaged in my first +scuffle only "after long hesitation and many, by no means heroic efforts +to escape," yet the result was such, that I no longer tried to avoid the +second, and began at the third or fourth quite to relish the idea. Our +declarations of war were even more laconic than those of the Romans or +Spartans. The challenger looked over at his opponent during +school-hours, when the teacher had turned his back for a moment, +clenched his right fist and laid it over his mouth, or rather over his +jaw; the opponent repeated the symbolic sign the next moment that it was +safe to do so, without by even so much as a look requiring a more +specific manifesto, and at midday, in the churchyard, in the vicinity of +an old vault, before which there, was a grass plot, the affair was +settled in the presence of the whole school, with natural weapons, by +wrestling and pounding, in extreme cases also by biting and scratching. +I never indeed rose to the rank of a genuine triarian, who made it a +point of honor to go about the whole year with a black eye or a swollen +nose, but I very soon lost the reputation for being a good child, which +I owed to my mother and which up to that time had meant so much to me, +and, to make up for it, rose in my father's estimation, who behaved +toward his sons as Frederick the Great did toward his officers, +punishing them if they fought and mocking them if they allowed +themselves to be trifled with. Once my opponent, while I was lying on +top of him pounding him at my ease, bit my finger through to the bone, +so that for weeks I could not use my hand for writing. That was, +however, the most dangerous wound that I can remember, and, as sometimes +happens later in life also, it led to the forming of an intimate +friendship. + + + + +EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF FRIEDRICH + +HEBBEL + + +Reflections on the world, life, and books, but chiefly on myself, in the +form of a journal. + +TRANSLATED BY FRANCES A. KING + +(1836) + + +At the moment in which we conceive an ideal, there arises in God the +thought of creating it. + +Social life in all its _nuances_ is no mere confluence of meaningless +accidents; it is the product of the experience of whole millenniums, and +our task is to apprehend the correctness of these experiences. + +A poetic idea cannot be expressed allegorically; allegory is the +ebb-tide at once of the intellect and of the productive power. + +Nature eternally repeats the same thought in ever widening expansion; +therefore the drop is an image of the sea. + +Poetic and plastic art are alike in being both formative; that is to +say, they are intended to bring to view a limited amount of matter in +definite relations which are fixed by nature; and when the poet gives +expression to an idea, the process is exactly the same as when a painter +or sculptor represents the noble or beautiful outlines of a body. + +"Throw away so that thou shalt not lose!" is the best rule of life. + +There are said to have been people who, when a limb had been amputated, +still felt pain in the severed member. Twofold mode of all being: what +has _been_ from the beginning and what has only _become_. _Cogito ergo +sum_; am I not much more under the dominion of the thinking faculty +within me than the latter is under my dominion? Individuality is not so +much the goal as the way, and not so much the best way as the only one. + +Two human beings are always two extremes. + +Words are monuments not of what mankind has thought for centuries about +certain subjects but only of the fact that it has thought about them. +The difference is considerable. + +A really great genius can never chance upon an age which would make it +impossible for him to allow free play to his superior powers. If he +chances upon a dull, exhausted, empty century,--well then, this century +is his problem. + +Most of my knowledge about myself I have gained in moments when I +perceived the peculiarities of other people. + +It is a sign of mediocre intelligence to be able to fix one's attention +upon details when contemplating a great work of art; on the other hand, +it is a sign of the mediocrity of a work of art (poetic or plastic) if +one cannot get beyond the details, if they, so to speak, impede the way +to the whole. + +Goethe says in regard to _Michael Kohlhaas_ that one should not single +out such cases in the general course of human events. That is true in so +far as one should not draw any conclusions therefrom to the detriment of +mankind. But it seems to me that it is precisely to exceptions of this +sort that the poet must turn his attention, in order to show that they, +as well as common-place events, have their origin in what is most +genuinely human. + +Man cannot abstract his ego from the universe. As firmly as he is +interwoven with the universe and life, just so firmly does he believe +that life and the universe are interwoven with him. + +(1837) + +It takes a great deal of time merely to perceive where the enigmatical +in many things is actually located. Many simply introduce logic into +their poetry and believe this is equivalent to motivation. + +All reasoning (and here belongs what Schiller, under the trade mark of +the sentimental, would smuggle in as poetry) is onesided and allows the +heart and mind no further activity than simply to deny or affirm. On the +contrary, all that is actual and objective (and here belong the +so-called natural sounds, which reveal the innermost essence of a state +or a human personality) is infinite, and offers to those who are in +sympathy and to those who are not the widest scope for the employment of +all their powers. + +Philosophy strives ever and always for the absolute, and yet that is +properly speaking the task of poetry. + +With every human being (let him be who he will) disappears from the +world a mystery, that, owing to his peculiar construction, he alone +could reveal, and that no one will reveal after him. + +It is dangerous to think in images, but it cannot always be avoided; for +often, especially in regard to the highest things, image and thought are +identical. + +A miracle is easier to repeat than to explain. Thus the artist continues +the act of creation in the highest sense, without being able to +comprehend it. + +(1838) + +God Himself when, in order to attain great ends, He exerts a direct +influence upon an individual, and thus allows Himself an arbitrary +interference (if we put the case we must use expressions that fit it) in +the world's machinery, cannot protect His tool from being crushed by the +same wheel which this individual has arrested for a moment or has turned +in another direction. This is surely the principal tragic motif which +underlies the history of the Maid of Orleans. A tragedy which should +reflect this idea would produce a great impression through the glimpse +it would afford into the eternal order of nature, which God Himself may +not disturb with impunity. + +When the poet attempts to delineate characters by making them speak, he +must be careful not to allow them to speak about their own inner life. +All their utterances must relate to something external; only then does +their inner nature come out vividly and expressively, for it fashions +itself only in reflections of the world and of life. + +To depict two kindred characters one by means of the other, to have them +mutually reflect one another without their becoming aware of it, would +surely be the triumph of delineation. + +It is a masterly trait in the _Prince of Homburg_ that the suspicion +that the Elector has had the Prince condemned to death, not so much on +account of the act of overhastiness committed on the battlefield as for +another reason, does not arise spontaneously in the Prince's soul, but +is first awakened by Hohenzollern's questioning. + +A double process must take place in the mind of the true poet before it +can evolve anything. The crude matter must be resolved into an idea, and +the idea must condense again into a form. Man is the continuation of the +act of creation, an eternally growing, never completed creation, which +prevents the termination of the world and keeps it from congealing and +hardening. It is highly significant (this thought led me to the one I +have just expressed) that everything which exists as a human conception +is never wholly and perfectly--only fragmentarily--embodied in nature, +and everything which exists perfectly and completely in nature eludes +human conception, man's own nature not excepted. Thus we know and define +right and wrong, virtue and innocence (the latter as soon as we have +lost it), but not life itself, etc. Where knowledge has been vouchsafed +us, there nature requires our cooeperation. + +The first and last aim of art is to render intuitively perceptible the +process of life itself, to show how the soul of man develops in the +atmosphere surrounding him, let it be suited to him or not, how good +engenders evil within him, and evil in turn produces something less +evil, and how this eternal growth has a limit so far as our apprehension +is concerned, but none at all in reality; this is symbolization. It is +an error when men say that only the fully developed is matter for the +poet; on the contrary, what is in process of development, what is first +begotten in conflict with the elements of creation, that is matter for +him. What is finished can be only a plaything of the waves, it can +only be destroyed and devoured by them; can art have anything to do +with that which is most common, in other words, most universal? But what +is in process of development must pass from one form into another at the +hands of the poet, it must never as formless soft clay dissolve before +our eyes into chaos and confusion; it must always, in a certain sense, +be at the same time a finished product, just as in the universe we never +encounter naked raw material. Man exists only because of his future; an +inexplicable mystery, but one that may not be denied. Man, therefore, +cannot be brought before us as something complete in himself; for not +how he affects the world but how the world affects him arouses our +interest and is of importance to us; the great forces and powers outside +of him find embodiment by exerting an influence over him, and thus lose +their formidableness, the riddle of the universe is solved as soon as it +finds utterance, and even though at the end a question remains, we can +bear this much easier than an empty nothing. + +Not only in art but in history as well life sometimes assumes a form, +and art should not seek her subjects and her themes where this has +occurred. + +God was a mystery to Himself before the creation; He had to create in +order to understand Himself. If only some one thing had been completely +explained, then everything would be explained. + +The motives before a deed are usually transformed during the deed, and +at least seem quite different after the deed: this is an important +circumstance which most dramatists overlook. + +Lyric poetry has something childlike about it, dramatic poetry something +manly, epic poetry something senile. + +Two hands can indeed clasp one another but cannot grow together. This is +the relation of one individuality to another. + +(1840) + +From my conception of form many consequences ensue of the most varied +kind. In reference to lyric poetry: the whole emotional life is a +shower, the emotion which is singled out is a drop illumined by the sun. +Dramatic poetry: form is the point where divine and human strength +neutralize one another. + +The true idyll results when a man is represented as happy and complete +in himself within his own appointed sphere. So long as he remains within +this sphere fate has no power over him. + +Poetry of the highest kind is the true historiography. It grasps the +result of historical processes and holds it fast in imperishable images +as, for example, Sophocles has done with the idea of Hellenism. + +All life is a struggle of the individual with the universe. + +Duality pervades all our intuitions and thoughts and every moment of our +being, and is our supreme, our last idea. Beside it we, have absolutely +no fundamental idea. Life and death, health and sickness, time and +eternity: we can imagine and picture to ourselves how one gradually +shades off into the other, but not that which lies behind these divided +dualities as a common solvent and reconciliation. (1841) + +_Antigone_, representing as it does a romantic individual subject in a +classical form, is the masterpiece of tragic art. + +Life is the attempt of the defiantly refractory part to tear itself +loose from the whole and to exist for itself, an attempt that succeeds +just so long as the strength endures which was robbed from the whole by +the individual separation. + +"What a man can become, that he is already." God will not lay the +decisive weight on the sins committed by sinful individuals against one +another but only on the sins committed against the idea itself, and +there actual and merely possible sins are one and the same. + +(1843) + +Expiation in tragedy occurs in the interest of the community, not in +that of the individual, the hero, and it is not at all necessary, +although it is better, that he himself should be conscious of it. Life +is the great river, individualities are drops; tragic individualities +are, however, blocks of ice which must be liquefied again, and in order +that this may be possible they must break and wear themselves away one +against the other. + +There is only one necessity, which is that the world should continue to +exist; what happens to individuals in the world is of no consequence. +The evil that they commit must be punished because it endangers the +existence of the world; but there is no reason why they should be +indemnified for the misfortune that befalls them. + +(1844) + +Absolutely everything depends upon a right conception of guilt. Guilt +must not, in any direction, be confounded with the subordinate +conception of sin, which even in the modern drama--where indeed it +finds, for reasons which are not far to seek, a wider scope than in the +ancient--must always be merged again into the conception of guilt, if +the drama is to rise above the anecdotal to the symbolical. For the +conception of tragic guilt can be developed only from life itself, from +the original incongruity between idea and phenomenon--which incongruity +manifests itself in the phenomenon as extravagance, the natural +consequence of the instinct of self-preservation and self-assertion, the +first and most legitimate of all instincts. But it cannot be developed +from one of the many consequences of this original incongruity, which +lead us too far down into the errors and aberrations of the individual +to allow the working out of the highest dramatic possibilities. So, too, +the conception of tragic expiation should be developed only from +extravagance, which, since it is irrepressible in the phenomenon, +represses the phenomenon, and thus frees the idea again from its +imperfect form. It is true the original incongruity between idea and +phenomenon remains unremoved and unovercome; but it is evident that in +the sphere of life, which art, so long as it understands itself, will +never go beyond, nothing can be removed that lies outside this sphere, +and that art reaches its supreme goal when it seizes upon the immediate +consequence of this incongruity, extravagance, and points out in it the +element of self-destruction; but leaves the incongruity enshrouded in +the darkness of creation, unexplained, as a fact immediately posited. + +(1845) + +A genuine drama may be compared to one of those great buildings which +have almost as many passages and rooms below the earth as above it. +Ordinary people only know the former; the architect knows the latter +also. + +A king has less right than any other person to be an individual. + +(1846) + +In the poet humanity dreams. Decidedly, a dream is for the spirit what +sleep is for the body. + +As every crystallization is dependent upon certain physical conditions, +so every individualization of human nature depends upon the state of +the historical epoch in which it occurs. To represent these +modifications of human nature in their relative necessity is the main +task which poetry has to fulfill in contradistinction to history, and +here it can, if it attains to pure form, render a supreme service. But +it is difficult to separate the merely incidental from the main task and +then besides to avoid subjective moods; so that we scarcely have even +the beginnings of such poems as now hover before my mind. + +(1847) + +To present the necessary, but in the form of the accidental: that is the +whole secret of dramatic style. + +If the characters do not negate the moral idea, what does it matter that +the piece affirms it? The negation of the individual factors must be so +very decided, precisely in order to give emphasis to the affirmation of +the whole. + +Human institutions require a man to be a man like other men; but man, +whoever and whatever he may be, wishes to be an individual, indeed is, +as such, individualized. Hence the rupture. + +Let the understanding question in a work of art, but do not let it +answer. + +(1848) + +The understanding no more makes poetry than salt makes food, but it is +necessary to poetry as salt is to food. + +(1849) + +One does not sit down to play on the piano in order to verify +mathematical laws. Just as little does one write poetry in order to +demonstrate something. Oh, if people would only learn to comprehend +that! Indeed the beauty of all the higher activity of man is precisely +the fact, that ends which the individual never even thinks of are +attained thereby. + +(1853) + +The process of dramatic individualization is perhaps best illustrated by +comparison to water. Everywhere water is water and man is man, but as +the former acquires a mysterious flavor from every stratum of earth that +it flows or trickles through, so man acquires a peculiarity from his +time, his nation, history, and fate. + +(1857) Man would perhaps still have as acute senses as animals, if +thinking did not divert him from the outer world. + +(1859) + +Ideas are the same thing in the drama that counterpoint is in music; +nothing in themselves but the primary condition for everything. + +(1861) + +(Concerning my _Nibelungen_.) + +It seems to me that a purely human tragedy, natural in all its motifs, +can be constructed upon the mythical foundation inseparable from this +subject, and that so far as my powers permit I have constructed one. The +mysticism of the background should at most remind us that what we hear +in this poem is not the seconds' clock, which measures off the existence +of gnats and ants, but the clock that marks the hours only. Let the +reader who is nevertheless disturbed by the mythical foundation consider +that, if he examines closely, he will also discover such a basis in man +himself, and that, too, in the mere man, in the representative of the +species, and not only in the more specific branch of the same, in the +individual. Or may man's fundamental qualities, either physical or +mental, be accounted for, that is to say, can they be deduced from any +other organic canon than the one which has been posited once for all +with man himself, and which cannot be traced farther back to a final +primitive cause of things, or be critically resolved into its +components? Are they not in part, as for example most of the passions, +opposed to reason and conscience, therefore to the very faculties of man +which, being quite general and disinterested, may most safely be +designated as those which connect him immediately with the universe, and +has this contradiction ever been explained away? Why, then, in art +negate an act upon which is founded even our view of nature? + +Otto Prechtler related to me the following incident. When Grillparzer +made my acquaintance upon my arrival in Vienna he said to Prechtler: "No +one on earth will be able to influence this man. One person might have +done so, but he is dead; I mean Goethe." A few years later he added, "I +was mistaken, not even Goethe would have been able to influence him." + +(1863) + +I do not know the world, for although I myself represent a piece of it, +this is such a minutely small part that no conclusion as to the true +nature of the world can be deduced therefrom. Man, however, I know, for +I am myself a man, and even though I do not know how he originates in +the world, yet I know very well how, having once originated, he reacts +upon it. I therefore conscientiously respect the laws of the human soul; +in reference to everything else, however, I believe that imagination +draws inspiration from the same depths out of which the world itself +arose, that is to say, the multifarious series of phenomena which exists +at present, but which at some future time, may perhaps be replaced by +another. + +(To Siegmund Englaender.) + +--You wish to believe in the poet as you believe in the Deity; why +ascend so high into the region of clouds, where everything ceases to be, +even analogy? Would you not probably attain more if you descended to the +beast and ascribed to the artistic faculty an intermediate stage between +the instinct of the beast and the consciousness of man? There at least +we are in the sphere of experience, and have the prospect of +ascertaining something real by applying two known quantities to an +unknown one. The beast leads a dream life which nature herself +immediately regulates and strictly adapts to those purposes, by the +attainment of which, on the one hand, the creature itself subsists, but, +on the other, the world continues. The artist leads a similar dream +life, naturally only as an artist, and probably from the same cause; for +the cosmic laws hardly come any more clearly into his field of vision +than the organic laws come into that of the beast, and yet he cannot +round off and complete any of his images without going back to them. Why +then should nature not do for him what she does for the beast? You will, +however, find in general--to go still deeper--that the processes of life +have nothing to do with consciousness, and artistic generation is the +highest of all processes; they differ from the logical precisely in that +they absolutely cannot be traced back to definite factors. Who has ever +closely watched evolution in any of its phases, and what has the +impregnation theory of physiology, in spite of the microscopic detailed +description of the working apparatus, done for the solution of the +fundamental mystery? Can it explain even a humpback? On the other hand, +there can be no complex which it would not be possible to follow up in +all its involutions and finally to resolve. The structure of the +universe is revealed to us, we can, if we like, play the fiddle for the +dance of the heavenly bodies; but the sprouting blade of grass is a +riddle and will always remain one. You would therefore be perfectly +right in laughing at Newton if he wanted to "play the naive child" and +declare that the falling apple had inspired him with the idea of the +system of gravitation, whereas it may very well have given him the +impetus which started him to reflect upon the subject. On the other +hand, you would wrong Dante if you should doubt that Heaven and Hell had +arisen in colossal outline before his soul at the mere sight of a wood, +half in light and half in shadow. For systems are not dreamed, but +neither are works of art made by minute calculations, nor, what amounts +to the same thing, since thinking is only a higher kind of arithmetic, +thought out. The artistic imagination is the organ which drains those +depths of the world which are inaccessible to the other faculties, and +in accordance herewith, my mode of viewing things puts, in place of the +false realism which takes the part for the whole, only the true realism, +which also comprises what does not lie on the surface. For the rest, +this false realism is not curtailed thereby, for even though one can no +more prepare oneself for writing poetry than for dreaming, yet dreams +will always reflect daily and yearly impressions, and no less do poems +reflect the sympathies and antipathies of the author. I believe all +these propositions are simple and comprehensible. Whoever refuses to +recognize them must throw the half of literature overboard, for example +_Edipus at Colonus_ (for geography knows nothing of sacred groves), +Shakespeare's _Tempest_ (for there is no such thing as magic), _Hamlet_ +and _Macbeth_ (for only a fool is afraid of ghosts, etc.); nay he must +also--and this even he who might be ready to make the other sacrifices +would find it hard to bring himself to do--he must also place the French +at the head of what remains; for where can one find realists like +Voltaire, etc.? This, to me, seems to demonstrate my proposition, at +least the counter-test is made. + + + + +THE LIFE OF OTTO LUDWIG + +By A.R. HOHLFELD, Ph.D. + +Professor of German Literature, University of Wisconsin + + +The career of Otto Ludwig belongs to a sad period in nineteenth century +literature in Germany. Sad not because of any lack of works of +originality and power, but sad because of the wanton neglect with which +the German public of those years treated its ablest and most forceful +writers. The historian Treitschke, in an essay probably written not long +after the death of Otto Ludwig, sarcastically says in direct reference +to the latter's tragic life: "No nation reads more books than ours, none +buys fewer." To be sure, Germany was then a poor country and its readers +had some excuse for being economical in supplying their literary wants. +But there was no excuse for the notorious narrowness of vision and +judgment shown by many of the leading critics, theatres, and literary +journals of that time. Writers of mediocre talent were praised to the +skies. But old Grillparzer, Hebbel and Ludwig, Keller, Raabe, Storm, and +others who brought a really new and vital message were left to bear the +burden of neglect, if not of animosity. No wonder that in foreign lands, +after the middle of the nineteenth century, contemporary German +literature fell into an almost universal disrepute from which it is only +slowly recovering at present. Foreign critics were justified in judging +the significance of the literary output of Germany by those writers on +whom the Germans themselves were placing the seal of national approval. +Zschokke, Gerstaecker, Auerbach, Spielhagen, not to mention the +ubiquitous Muehlbach or Marlitt or Polko--these were the names which in +America, for instance, figured most prominently in the magazines between +1850 and 1880. [Illustration: OTTO LUDWIG] [Blank Page] Their works +were reviewed and translated. They were considered as the +representatives of Germany in the literary parliament of nations, while +those of her men of letters whom we have since learned to recognize as +the real forces of her mid-century literature remained unknown. Of +Ludwig, who clearly belongs to this more select group, the _Atlantic +Monthly_ and the _North American Review_, for obvious reasons, reviewed +at some length his _Studies in Shakespeare_; but, as far as the present +writer's knowledge goes, not one of his works was ever translated in +this country until the _Hereditary Forester_ appeared in _Poet Lore_ +only a few years ago. + +Otto Ludwig was born in 1813 in Eisfeld, a small town picturesquely +situated in the foothills of the southern slope of the Thuringian +Forest, and his entire life was spent within the limited confines of +Thuringia and Saxony. Leipzig and Dresden, not much over one hundred +English miles to the northeastward of Eisfeld, were the only two larger +cities with which he ever became acquainted, and, even when living +there, it was characteristic of him to take refuge in some rustic suburb +or near-by village. Ludwig's parents belonged to the "leading families" +of their town and were in very comfortable circumstances at the time of +his birth and early childhood. Sudden reverses, however, soon interfered +with the boy's prospects in life. At the age of twelve, he lost his +father, six years later his mother. After the father's death a +well-to-do uncle took it upon himself to care for the boy, whom he +intended to be his heir and his successor in business. But neither the +imaginative, nervously sensitive mother, nor the well-meaning but +happy-go-lucky uncle were able to furnish that guidance which the +delicate and prematurely contemplative youth needed. After only a short +period of irregular schooling, Ludwig, sixteen years old, had to enter +his uncle's business; but a few years of apprenticeship convinced even +the uncle that the young man was hardly on his right track as a salesman +of groceries. A renewed effort to take up systematic school work with +the view of preparing for one of the learned professions did not prove +any more successful, and, in 1833, Ludwig, who had always shown an +unusual talent for music and enjoyed excellent instruction in it, +decided to become a musician. Continuing his secluded life at Eisfeld he +devoted himself for years to the leisurely study and composition of +music, until a few successful amateur performances of some operatic +compositions of his attracted attention to him in musical circles in +Meiningen, the near-by ducal residence. He was granted a scholarship +amply sufficient to permit him to perfect his musical education at +Leipzig under Mendelssohn, then the renowned director of the famous +_Gewandhaus_ concerts. But the large city only deterred the shy recluse, +Mendelssohn showed little appreciation for Ludwig's efforts to cultivate +a realistically characteristic style of musical expression, and finally +a severe spell of illness came to make the Leipzig venture a complete +failure. + +After a year's absence we thus find Ludwig again at home. But his +experiences in the great world were not to be without consequences. +While he was at Leipzig his homesickness had made him paint in rosy +colors the dreamy hermit-life at Eisfeld. Now, however, after his +return, he became keenly conscious of the pettiness and inadequacy of +his surroundings and of the lack of well-defined purpose in his life +thus far. It was during this period of introspection and doubt that he +finally decided to devote himself to a literary career. He took up the +study of English, plunged into Shakespeare and Goethe, and worked +assiduously on a number of dramatic and novelistic ventures. In 1843 he +again left Eisfeld, this time for good, and first turned to Leipzig and +then to Dresden. Efforts to get some of his dramas accepted by the +Leipzig and Dresden theatres continued to prove fruitless. But in 1844, +after his uncle's death, he had come into possession of a small fortune, +and as his habits were always exceedingly frugal, he now saw before +himself the assurance of a few years free from all care. In +characteristic fashion he again created for himself a quiet retreat, +partly in the idyllic surroundings of Meissen, partly in Meissen itself, +the charmingly picturesque town of historic fame not far from Dresden, +on the Elbe. He soon became engaged to a lovable young woman, who +entered heart and soul into all of his hopes and plans, and with but +brief interruptions he continued to live here in rustic retirement, +until the year 1850 at last was destined to bring him recognition and +fame. + +Thus far none of Ludwig's writings, aside from a mere trifle or two, had +found their way before the public. As many as five or six regular dramas +had been completed, but none had been printed, none performed. But now +he finished his _Hereditary Forester_ and with it made a deep impression +upon his influential friend Eduard Devrient, the famous actor of the +Dresden court theatre. Through Devrient's mediation the drama was +accepted at Dresden and, although its reception by the public was at +first a divided one, it was at once recognized by friend and foe as a +literary and theatrical event of great significance. Though late, yet +all of a sudden, Ludwig, like Byron, awoke to find himself famous. When, +in 1852, he at last felt able to marry the woman of his love, his life +battle seemed to have been won for good. In the same year, 1852, he +published his second great drama, _The Maccabeans_, which, though not +attaining the popularity of the _Hereditary Forester_, did even more +perhaps to enhance the poet's fame. He could now count among the +steadily widening circle of his friends and admirers men like Julian +Schmidt, the prominent critic and editor, Gustav Freytag, and Berthold +Auerbach. At Auerbach's suggestion, Ludwig for awhile turned to +narrative literature and in the years 1855 and 1856 published his two +best stories, the _Heiterethei_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_--the +former again the more popular, the latter of higher literary merit. +These brief years from 1850 to 1856 were the zenith of Ludwig's career, +the height of his productivity as an artist and of his success and +happiness as a man. But already the shadows were gathering which were to +cast such a deep gloom over the last years of the poet's life. + +In 1856 he was again stricken by what seemed to be the same mysterious +illness, never fully explained, that had befallen him in Leipzig. He +recovered, to be sure, for the time being, but his ailments returned +again and again. From about 1860 Ludwig practically never was a well +man. Confined to the house and soon to his bed, he slowly wasted away. +The tenderest care of his devoted wife and the affection of a few loyal +friends could do but little to relieve the most excruciating pain or to +keep away the actual want that began to knock at his door. Ludwig had +never learned to look upon his art as a commercial asset; his few +published works had never brought him much return, and his own slender +means had for some time been exhausted. Some gifts of honor were +bestowed upon the invalid by authors' societies and princely patrons, +but they came too late to prevent the inevitable. As late as 1859 Ludwig +still had hope for the future. "I see before me," he wrote in his diary, +"a veritable world of conceptions and forms which I might conquer if, +freed from the weight that keeps me down, I could take wings again. I +believe it would not be too late yet." It was not to be. Successful +production of a high order would probably have been impossible under +such circumstances in any case. With Ludwig it was further prevented by +an obstacle of a psychological nature. As the feeling of health and +strength and ease of mind departed from him, there came in its place an +ever growing, almost morbid, spirit of self-questioning criticism and +doubt. As the springs of creative energy ceased flowing, Ludwig thought +he could replenish them by turning to theory and analysis. In the free +intervals between the attacks of his illness, when his mind worked as +vigorously as ever, the luckless poet filled volume upon volume with +esthetic and ethical reflections upon poetry and literature. From +Shakespeare especially he thought he might be able to wrest those last +secrets of an art which tantalizingly hovered before his vision. In +these studies, fragmentary, ill-organized, not prepared for publication +as they are, we nevertheless possess a veritable treasure-house of +soundest reflection and subtlest intuition on many of the fundamental +questions of poetry, especially of the drama. They have often been +compared with Lessing's _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, of which, in many +respects, they are the worthiest continuation. But in this unequal +struggle Ludwig became less and less able to give life and color to his +own conceptions or to be satisfied with his results when he had done so. +How many could safely try to measure up to a standard taken directly +from Shakespeare! Plan upon plan was started and laid aside. A field of +ruins, disquieting, threatening, piled up around the lonesome fighter +who slowly succumbed beneath the crushing greatness of his vision. +Noble, but also tragic beyond words it is when, shortly before his +death, Ludwig declared to one of his friends that even in his suffering +no poet had ever been to him such a source of strength as Shakespeare, +to whom he owed far more than the clarification of his ideals of art. +Thus the mariner sang the praises of the ocean as it was about to engulf +his shipwrecked craft. Ludwig died in Dresden in February, 1865, +fifty-two years of age. Of his three surviving children, two sons came +to this western hemisphere and attained, in successful business and +professional life, to positions of honor and influence among the German +element of Southern Brazil. + +Aside from the posthumous _Studies_ just spoken of, Ludwig's fame as a +writer rests entirely on the two dramas, the _Hereditary Forester_ and +_The Maccabaeans_, and on the two long novel-like stories, the +_Heiterethei_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_. They represent practically +everything that he ever published during his lifetime. The few +insignificant lyrics, the additional dramas and stories, partly +completed and partly fragmentary, which have become known after his +death, have added no new traits to the picture of Ludwig as it will +remain in the history of German literature, and they can well be omitted +from consideration in this brief appreciation. It must be admitted that +it is a rare phenomenon to see lasting fame and influence built on such +a slender amount of work and on so brief a period of productivity. But +within this limited range Ludwig must be recognized as a writer of +unusual powers of observation and sympathy, of imagination and embodying +execution. Truthful to himself and to the ideals of his art, +uninfluenced by the popular demands of the day or by any desire for gain +or fame, free from everything that smacks of sham or artifice, he +succeeded in creating works that speak to us with the robustness and +authority of life itself and yet are ennobled by the graces of a +selective and restraining art. + +In his _Hereditary Forester_ Ludwig produced one of the best +middle-class tragedies of modern literature, combining in it, as indeed +he had set out to do, highest literary merit with impelling +effectiveness upon the stage. "It is exceedingly easy," he said, "to +write a poetic drama if one does not care to keep an eye upon the stage, +or one that is a successful stage play, but without poetry. * * * I +shall do what I can to help create that really healthy condition of the +drama which consists in the intimate union of poetry and the stage." +Following in the footsteps of Schiller in his _Intrigue and Love_ and of +Hebbel in his _Maria Magdalena_, he has not attained, it is true, the +massive solidity of the latter, nor has he breathed into his drama that +lofty spirit of social challenge that wings the former. On close +inspection, the construction of Ludwig's drama shows undeniable flaws of +motivation. The playwright has allowed too free a play to chance and +slender probability. The spirit of the revolutionary unrest of 1848 is +in the background, especially in the tavern scene of the third act, but +it does not in any way organically connect the family tragedy which we +witness with the broad movements of contemporary public life. But the +play is indeed, as Ludwig desired it to be, "a declaration of war +against the unnaturalness and conventionalities of our latter-day stage +literature." The life-like characters which it portrays, the convincing +language which they speak, the carefully drawn _milieu_ in which they +move, the intense struggle of passions in which they are engaged-these +are all handled with a skill as rare as it is artistically true to life. +And even though the atmosphere enveloping it all seems to combine the +realism of Ludwig's maturity with the romantic pre-disposition of his +earlier works, it remains in fine keeping with that shadowy forest-world +which forms the setting of the play. + +Ludwig's next drama, _The Maccabaeans_, was of a radically different +mold. From prose we pass to verse, from humble middle-class life to the +traditional grandeur of classical tragedy, from the narrow circle of +domestic happenings to a Shakespearean canvas of broad historical +associations, from contemporary Germany to those heroic struggles in +which, in the second century, B.C., the Jews under the leadership of +Judas Maccabaeus defended their national and religious freedom against +Syrian oppression. In this drama also, certain faults of construction +are evident. There is a lack of central unity of interest, in part due, +no doubt, to the long processes of development which the play underwent +before completion. But again, there is the same masterly technique in +all matters of detail, a wonderful strength and beauty of language, +subtle and convincing character-portrayal and a splendid realization of +that ethnic atmosphere of Jewish life and character in which the drama +moves and from which its conflicts spring. + +Of the two stories of Ludwig, the _Heiterethei_ is in every way the +lighter; nevertheless, it is one of the best of those famous stories +from peasant life in which German literature is so rich. More artistic +than Jeremias Gotthelf and in a deeper sense truer to life than +Auerbach, Ludwig has here created a popular tale of great charm and +power. The "poetic realism" of his manner and the subdued ethical +didacticism of his purpose have been skillfully united in forming an +excellent example of truly popular art. The story is that of the gradual +mellowing and final happy marriage of two young people who, with the +best of hearts, are veritable firebrands of self-willed defiance to +everything suggesting outside interference. The nickname of the girl, +"Heiterethei," given her on account of her bright and sunny disposition, +explains the title of the story. And it must not be left unsaid that, +despite the underlying seriousness of the character-development +portrayed, the story as a whole is characterized by a sovereign play of +humor, at times a bit grotesque and boisterous, maybe, but none the less +irresistible in its quaint charm and deeper meaning. + +In _Between Heaven and Earth_, Ludwig finally achieved his masterpiece, +creating a work in which vision and workmanship are both on the highest +level and thoroughly worthy of each other. No "hero" in the traditional +sense, no glamor of what is commonly regarded as "poetic," no broad +social background, no philosophic outlook, but within a narrow, and if +you will, commonplace range, the author here permits us to get same of +the profoundest glimpses of human life and character. It is a story of +slaters working on steep roofs and tall church spires; and as does their +scaffolding, so the poet tries to move along "between heaven and earth," +his feet and eyes firmly fastened to life's realities, his heart and +soul lifted into the realm of the ideal, the eternal. Thus interpreted, +the title of the story may indeed be taken as a symbol of that principle +of "poetic realism" which Ludwig strove for and of which the story is +one of the best embodiments. The technique of the work, to be sure, is +that of Ludwig's day, not of our own. There are long descriptions and +reflections and a good deal of direct psychological analysis, in all of +which the narrator does not hesitate to speak from his subjective point +of view. Such a method modern theorists would feign stamp as a crime +against the spirit of epic art, as though a novel were a drama, and +genuine narration did not by nature participate of both the objective +and subjective manner of presentation. But even if these things were +undeniable flaws of technique, which we are far from admitting, they +certainly cannot mar genuine art in its essential beauty and appeal. The +Thuringian landscape and the life of the small town embedded in it, the +tragic happenings in the Nettenmair family, the slow processes of +soul-life in the two hostile brothers and the martyred woman between +them--all this is made to live before our eyes with such simple and yet +absolutely adequate means that we get from it that deep and satisfying +feeling of harmony of content and form that characterizes a true +masterpiece of art. Character drawing and milieu painting, always +Ludwig's strong points, have again been most felicitously handled. With +equal success the author has developed the plot of the story which, in a +few memorable scenes, attains to truly dramatic scope and power. More +admirable than everything else, however, is the subtly realistic +treatment of the psychological processes in Fritz Nettenmair. His +gradual deterioration, step by step, from self-indulgent joviality, +through envy and jealousy, to the hatred of despair that does not even +shrink from fratricide, is depicted with masterly insight and +consistency. This phase of Ludwig's art strikes us as fresh and modern +today, and it must have appeared like a revelation to a generation that +did not yet, know Flaubert's _Madame Bovary_ or George Eliot's _Adam +Bede_. + +Considered in his totality as man and as artist, Ludwig cannot be +counted among the names of the very first rank in German nineteenth +century literature. To him cannot be assigned the unequivocal greatness +of a Kleist, a Hebbel, a Keller. The narrowness of the circumstances of +his life and the invalidism of his mature years combined with, and no +doubt were aided by, an apparent lack of robustness and forcefulness of +character and temperament, and thus conspired to keep him from attaining +that victorious self-assertion, that sovereign balance between volition +and power, without which true greatness in the full sense of the word is +impossible. But among the leading names of second rank, his will always +occupy a place of distinction. If his was not the work of a Messiah, it +was that of a John the Baptist. Having been nurtured in the traditions +of the romanticism of Tieck, E.T.A. Hoffmann, and Jean Paul, he was +one of the first to experience the artistic charm and possibilities of +unidealized reality and to respond to its call. It was he who seems to +have coined the phrase, even if he was not first to formulate the +principle, of that restrained or "artistic realism" that tries to set +its standards half-way between subjectively idealistic and objectively +naturalistic art. Even his extravagant admiration for Shakespeare was +chiefly due to the fact that he saw in his art the supreme embodiment of +this principle. Ludwig did not renounce beauty of art except where it +infringed upon the one thing needful--essential truthfulness to reality, +especially in all that pertains to what Hebbel called "the laws of the +human soul." Many of the utterances of Ludwig's _Studies_ are as +startlingly modern, not to say Ibsenesque, as similar ones in Hebbel's +_Diaries_, in their frank recognition of the solemn claims of reality, +even ugly reality, upon the honest artist who endeavors to interpret +life in its entirety. For art, too, like all other achievements of human +culture, according to Ludwig, must render service unto life. It is its +function to furnish insight into life, mastery over life. "Rather no +poetry at all," he exclaims, "than a poetry that robs us of the joy of +living, that makes us unproductive in life, that, instead of nerving us +for life, unnerves us for it." + +In German literature Ludwig thus occupies a not unimportant place. Far +more penetrating and far more artistic than "realists" like Auerbach or +Spielhagen he paved the way for the coming of Anzengruber who, in turn, +anticipated the realism of the moderns in more, ways than is generally +recognized. Ludwig will always be a figure of prominence in the history +of the modern middle-class tragedy, in the development of the story +dealing with village life, in the efforts to emphasize the value of a +literature close to the native soil, in the attempts of German criticism +to fathom the secret of Shakespearean art. More than that, however. When +the final account of the gradual evolution of nineteenth century realism +will some time be written from another than a one-sidedly French point +of view, a place of honorable recognition will be due to the thoughtful +and forceful author of the _Studies_ and _Between Heaven and Earth_. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 6: The extracts from _The Prince of Homburg_ are taken from +Mr. Hagedorn's translation, Volume IV of THE GERMAN CLASSICS.] + + * * * * * + + + + +OTTO LUDWIG + + * * * * * + + + + + THE HEREDITARY FORESTER + + A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS + + * * * * * + + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + + + +STEIN, _a rich manufacturer and country gentleman_. + +ROBERT, _his son_. + +CHRISTIAN ULRICH, _forester on the estate of Duesterwalde, called "The +Hereditary Forester_." + +SOPHY, _his wife_. + +ANDREW, _forester's assistant _} +MARY } _their children_. +WILLIAM } + +WILKENS, _a wealthy farmer, uncle of_ SOPHY. + +_The Pastor of Waldenrode_. + +MOeLLER, _Stein's bookkeeper_. + +GODFREY, _a hunter_. + +WEILER, _keeper in Ulrich's forest_. + +_The proprietor of the "Boundary Inn."_ + +FREI } +LINDENSCHMIED} _Poachers_. +KATHARINE } + +BASTIAN, _Stein's valet_. + +_Two porters._ + +_The scene is alternately the forester's house at Duesterwalde and +Stein's mansion at Waldenrode; once, in Act III, the Frontier Inn and +the Dell._ + + + +THE HEREDITARY FORESTER (1850) + +TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M. + +Professor of Modern Languages, Brooklyn Commercial High School. + + + +ACT I + +_The_ FORESTER'S _house at Duesterwalde_. + +_In the back of the room a folding door and a closet; at either side +ordinary doors. On the right, a window; on the left, in the rear, the +stove; more to the front a cuckoo-clock; then a rack where several +rifles are hanging, among them two double-barreled ones, hunter's bags +and similar utensils; and a book shelf on which are a Bible and +hymn-books._ + + +SCENE I + +_Behind the scenes musicians are heard playing._ WEILER, _looking about +him, slowly through the centre door; the_ FORESTER'S _wife at the same +time from the left with an air of being very busy. Then_ ANDREW, +WILLIAM, _and finally_ MARY. + +SOPHY. There, the musicians have come already. I wonder where I put the +cellar-key. The musicians must have something to drink. You here, +Weiler? + +WEILER. + +Yes, I'm here. But where is the old man--the forester? + +SOPHY. + +My husband? Isn't he outside? + +WEILER. + +I want to see him about the wood-cutters. + +SOPHY. + +Can't you wait? + +WEILER. + +Wait? Bless you, no. I have my hands full. + +SOPHY. + +Then get along with you! + +WEILER (_quietly filling his short clay pipe with tobacco_). + +Yes. + +SOPHY. + +Is he perhaps already with Herr Stein-- + +WEILER. + +Yes; the sand was already strewn on Tuesday. And the garlands outside at +the door. If I do not mistake we are today celebrating the engagement of +Miss Mary to Mr. Robert Stein? Then they will be even more chummy when +he can say "my father-in-law, Mr. Stein." And that is by no means all. +Now Stein has also bought the estate where Ulrich is forester. The fat +lawyer from town fixed up the deeds yesterday. And this morning Stein +got out of bed as proprietor of Duesterwalde. + +SOPHY. + +The table here-- + +WEILER (_while they carry the table together, on the left_). + +Won't Ulrich have an easy time of it, now that his old friend has become +his master, and is going to be his father-in-law into the bargain! + +SOPHY. + +Nearer the stove. We must get in one more table. + +WEILER (_chuckling to himself_). + +Regular ale-house politicians those two, Stein and Ulrich. Every day +they have a row. + +SOPHY. + +What are you talking there about a row? They're only fooling. + +[_Exit in a hurry; reenters immediately afterward_.] + +WEILER (_going as far as the door, gesticulating behind her_). + +Fooling? Don't you believe it! The one is hot-headed, the other +obstinate. Ever since there was talk of buying the estate, the clearing +of the forest has been the daily apple of discord. Rich people always +pretend to know something, even if they don't know the first thing. Now +Stein thinks that by cutting down every other row of trees in the forest +the first would have more light and room for growing. Maybe Godfrey has +hunted that up in some old book. But when he comes with that theory to +Ulrich he strikes the wrong man. Only day before yesterday I thought +they were going to eat each other up, so that nothing would remain of +either of them. Stein says: "The forest will be _cleared_." The +forester: "The forest will _not_ be cleared." Stein: "But it _shall_ be +cleared." The forester: "It _shall not_ be cleared." Stein jumps up, +buttons his coat, two buttons at a time, knocks down two chairs, and is +gone. Well, I thought, that is the end of the friendship! But Lord bless +my soul! That happened the night before last, and early yesterday +morning--it was scarcely dawn--who comes whistling from the castle and +knocks at the forester's window, as though nothing had happened? That's +Stein. And who has already been waiting for a quarter of an hour and +grunts forth from under his white moustache, "I'm coming?" That's +Ulrich. And now both of them, without asking each other's pardon, go +together out into the forest, as though there never had been a quarrel! +Nobody takes any notice of it any longer. At night they quarrel, in the +morning they go together into the forest, as though it could not be +otherwise. But does he treat his boy any differently? Robert? Does he? +Didn't he want to leave home half a dozen times? And afterward he is too +good. Queer business that! + +[During the last words he has retreated step by step before the table +which ANDREW and WILLIAM are carrying in and placing against the table +which already stands on the left in the direction from the footlights to +the back of stage.] + +SOPHY. + +Put it here. That's it. And now chairs, boys. From the upper room. +Weiler might-- + +[ANDREW and WILLIAM exeunt.] + +WEILER (in a hurry, making ready to go). + +Well, if Weiler did not have his hands full! Outside with the +wood-cutters--then with the fir-seed and with the salt--there--I don't +know where my head's standing with all the work. And the old man-- + +[A pantomime expressive of ULRICH'S severity.] + +SOPHY. + +Well, I don't want to be to blame if you neglect anything. + +[Exit.] + +WEILER (very calmly). + +All right! + +[Laying his finger against his nose.] + +But I wonder whether he will still always be the first to patch up +differences? I mean Stein. Now that he is the forester's master? Well; I +don't want to prophesy, but--the master is always right because he is +the master. Humph! I wish something serious would come to pass. At any +rate, I am getting tired of merry faces again. + +[Enter ANDREW and WILLIAM, carrying chairs.] + +SOPHY. Seven, eight, nine, ten, chairs. + +[Counts once more, softly.] + +Correct! + +WEILER. + +That was a queer expression that Godfrey had on his face yesterday, Mr. +Andrew. I bet you had another quarrel with him. + +SOPHY. + +With that vindictive brutal fellow? + +[_She sets the table._] + +ANDREW. + +Who can live in peace with him? + +SOPHY. + +Well, what's done can't be undone. But you'd better look out for him. + +WEILER. + +So say I. For there is not a muscle in that fellow's body which is not +wicked. + +ANDREW. + +I am not afraid of him. + +SOPHY. + +Come, William; run into the garden. Get me some crown-imperials, +snap-dragons, larkspurs--something big, so that it will look like +something in the glass. The Steins will soon be here with Mr. Moeller, +the bookkeeper. + +WEILER. + +The old bachelor-- + +SOPHY. + +Just look, Andrew, whether cousin Wilkens isn't coming yet. + +[_ANDREW and WILLIAM exeunt._] + +WEILER. + +Wilkens is coming too? + +SOPHY (with emphasis). + +Mr. Wilkens? He will not stay away when his niece's daughter announces +her engagement. + +WEILER. + +No, indeed. He has money, has Mr. Wilkens. The richest farmer for miles +around. I also was Mr. Weiler once, before my creditors closed up my +coffee store. Then they jammed the "Mr." in the door and there it is +still. Now people say simply "Weiler"--"Weiler might"--"As long as +Weiler is here," etc. Sometimes, when I am in the humor, I get angry +over it. A strange pleasure, to get angry, but it is a pleasure. Hey! +There comes the bride-to-be. + +[_MARY appears; during the following dialogue the women set the +table._] + +WEILER. + +My! Like a squirrel! + +SOPHY. + +Weiler means to pay you a compliment, Mary. He has a peculiar manner. + +WEILER. + +That is true. It does not matter whether the flattery is coarse or fine. +If a woman only notices that one means to flatter her, she is satisfied. +It is just as when boys stroke a kitten. Whether they pet it gently or +roughly, whether it likes it or not, it cannot help purring. + +MARY. + +And I presume you mean to pet me with this comparison. + +WEILER. + +If you feel obliged to purr it must have been a petting. + +MARY (looking out of the window). + +He is coming, mother. + +SOPHY. + +Who? Robert? + +WEILER. + +I had better be off to my wood-cutters. Otherwise the old man will make +a row. + +[Exit.] + +SOPHY (calling after him). + +If you cannot come in I will save your portion. An uncomfortable fellow! +And it is not likely that he will acquire polite manners at this late +day. That is a relic of his better days. And for that reason your father +is indulgent with him because they were old comrades. Godfrey also was +one of them. When he had wasted his property in drink he fell in with +Stein. + +[_Surveying the table_.] + +Here at the head the father of the bridegroom; next to him your father; +then the good droll pastor. If it had not been for him, Robert would +have gone long ago. + +MARY. + +Mother, at that time Robert was so wild, so impetuous-- + +SOPHY. + +You are right. At that time the pastor and we could scarcely +keep him. [_Counts once more the afore-mentioned persons_.] Then here +Mr. Moeller; and there your godfather, my cousin Mr. Wilkens; then I +myself here; there Robert and you; finally, at the foot, Andrew and +William. How the time passes! If I think back to my engagement day! Then +I was not as happy as I am today. + +MARY. + +Mother, I wonder whether every girl that is to become a bride feels as I +do? SOPHY. Not every one has such good cause to be glad as you have. + +MARY. + +But is it gladness that I feel? I am so depressed, mother, so-- + +SOPHY. + +Of course. You are like the flower on which clings a dewdrop. It hangs +its head, and yet the dew is no burden. + +MARY. + +I feel as if it were wrong of me to leave my father, even if it is to go +with Robert. + +SOPHY. + +The Bible says, "A woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her +husband."--But my case was quite different from yours. Your father was a +stately man, no longer quite young, but tall and straight like a pine. +At that time his beard was still black as coal. Many a girl that would +gladly have married him set her cap at him; that I knew. But to me he +seemed too serious, too severe. He took everything so seriously, and he +cared nothing for amusements. It was no easy matter to accommodate +myself to him. I never had to worry about the means of subsistence; and +if I should say that he ever treated me harshly, I should be telling a +lie; even if he pretended to be harsh. + +MARY. + +And that was all you had expected? Was that all. + +SOPHY. + +As if the good Lord could grant everything that is dreamt of by the +heart of a girl who herself does not know what she desires! But here +comes Robert. We will be quite merry, so that no gloomy thoughts will +come to him. + + + +SCENE II + +_Enter_ ROBERT. + +ROBERT. + +Good morning, mother dear. Good morning, Mary. + +SOPHY. + +Good morning, Mr. Bridegroom-to-be. + +ROBERT. + +How glad I am to see you so cheerful. But you Mary? You are +sad, Mary? And I am so joyful, so over-joyful. The whole morning I have +been in the forest. Where the bushes glistened brightest with the dew, +there I penetrated, so that the moist branches should strike my heated +face. There I threw myself down on the grass. But I could not stay +anywhere. It seemed that nothing could relieve me but weeping aloud. And +you--at other times as blithe and gay as a deer--you are sad? Sad on +this day? + +SOPHY. She surely is glad, dear Robert. But you have known her ever +since she was a little child; when others proclaim their happiness, she +hides hers in silence. MARY. No, Robert. Sad I surely am not. I only +have a feeling of solemnity; it has been upon me the whole morning. +Wherever I go, it seems to me as though I were in church. And-- + +ROBERT. + +And what? + +MARY. + +And that now my life is soon to be broken off behind me, as if it were +sinking away from under me, and that a new life is to begin, one so +entirely new--don't be offended, good Robert! This to me is so +strange--gives me such a feeling of anxiety! + +ROBERT. + +A new life? A life so entirely new? Why, Mary, it is still the old life, +only more beautiful. It is still the dear old tree under which we are +sitting, only it is in bloom now. + +MARY. + +Besides, the thought that I am to leave my father and my mother! The old +I see passing away, the new I do not see coming; the old I must leave, +the new I cannot reach. + +ROBERT. + +Must you indeed leave your father? Do we not all remain together? Has +not my father for this very reason bought the estate of Duesterwalde? + +SOPHY. + +That is the anxiety which comes over one in spring; one knows not whence +it comes, nor why. And yet in spring one knows that everything will +become more and more beautiful, and still one feels anxious. One is +merely afraid of happiness. Now that my dearest wishes are about to be +fulfilled--do I not experience the same sensation? I might almost wish +that a roast were burnt, or that a piece of the fine china were broken. +Happiness is like the sun: There must be a little shade if man is to be +comfortable. I will just go to see whether a little shade of that sort +has not been cast in the kitchen. + +[_Exit to the left_.] + +MARY (_after she and_ ROBERT _have been standing in silence facing each +other_). + +Is anything wrong with you, Robert? + +ROBERT. + +With me? No. Perhaps-- + +MARY. + +You are still angry with your father? And he is so good! + +ROBERT. + +That is just the trouble, that he is so good. Oh, his kindness is almost +more difficult to bear than his violent temper! His anger only hurts, +his kindness humiliates; over against his anger I set my pride--but what +can I set against his kindness? + +MARY. + +And you wanted to go away, you wicked Robert, and leave us all! + +ROBERT. + +I wanted to go, but I am still here. Oh! That was a wretched time! I +despaired of everything; of you, Mary; of myself; but all that is now +past. There must be a little shade, only not too much. Let us go out, +Mary. It is so close here in the house. The musicians shall play us the +merriest piece they know. [_They are about to go_.] + + + +SCENE III + +_The same. Enter the_ FORESTER, _his Wife behind him. As soon as_ MARY +_sees the_ FORESTER, _she leaves_ ROBERT _and embraces her father_. + +FORESTER. + +Get out, wench! [_Tearing himself free_.] Is this the sun's ray after a +rainy day, that the gadflies come buzzing about one's head? Have you +filled Robert's ears with lamentations, you women folks? You silly girl +there! + +[_Pushes_ MARY _from him_.] + +I have something to say to Robert. I have been looking for you, Mr. +Stein. + +ROBERT. + +Mr. Stein? No longer Robert? + +FORESTER. + +Everything has its due season, familiar speech and formal speech. When +the women folks are gone-- + +SOPHY. + +Don't worry, we'll retreat, you old bear. Don't be afraid to talk. + +FORESTER. + +All right. As soon as you are out. + +ROBERT (_leads her out_). + +Don't be angry, mother dear. + +SOPHY. + +If I were to mind him, I should never cease being angry. + +FORESTER. + +Close the door! Do you hear? + +SOPHY. + +Hush, hush! + +FORESTER. + +Who is master here? Confound it! + + + +SCENE IV + +_The_ FORESTER; ROBERT. _The_ FORESTER, _when they are alone becomes +embarrassed, and walks up and down for some time_. + +ROBERT. + +You wished to say-- + +FORESTER. + +Quite right-- + +[_Wipes the perspiration from his forehead_.] + +Well; sit down, Mr. Stein. + +ROBERT. + +These preparations-- + +[FORESTER _points to a chair at the end of the table_. ROBERT _seats +himself_.] + +FORESTER (_takes the Bible from the shelf, seats himself opposite_) + +ROBERT,(_puts on his spectacles, opens the book and clears his throat_). + +Proverbs, chapter 31, verse 10: "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her +price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in +her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and +not evil all the days of her life." [7] + +[_Short pause; then he calls brusquely toward_ _the window, while he +remains seated_.] + +William, be careful out there! And then further on, verse 30. You'll +trample down all the boxweed, confound you! "Favor is deceitful, and +beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be +praised."--Robert! + +ROBERT (_starting_). + +Father Ulrich-- + +FORESTER. + +Again, Ecclesiasticus, verse so and so--Mr. Stein-- + +ROBERT. + +Once more "Mister." + +FORESTER. + +I see I shall have to use the familiar form of address. Otherwise I +shall not be able to speak my mind.--Robert-- + +ROBERT. + +You are so solemn! + +FORESTER. + +Solemn? Perhaps so. But this affair is enough to make one solemn. I am +not a heathen. + +[_Strikes an attitude_.] So you are decided with God's help, Robert-- + +ROBERT. Well-- + +FORESTER. + +Hang it!--Don't look at me that way!--You intend to marry, Robert? + +ROBERT (_rises, surprised_). + +Why, you know that-- + +FORESTER. + +That's true. But there must be some sort of introduction. Never mind, +sit down. However, you must give me a chance to finish what I have to +say. On other occasions I am not afraid to talk, but now that I am about +to preach a sermon, it strikes me just as if I were to see the pastor in +his cassock trying to chase a hare. + +[_Relieved_.] + +Now, then; at last I have struck the trail. Suppose a stag from Luetzdorf +is roaming about. You understand, Robert? Now give me your attention. +This fork here represents the stag. Right here, do you see? Here is the +salt-cellar: that's you. And the wind blows from the direction of that +plate. What are you going to do now in order to stalk the stag? Hey? + +[_Trying to assist him_.] + +You--well? + +ROBERT. + +I must-- + +FORESTER (_nodding assent_). + +You must-- + +[_Makes a pantomime_.] + +ROBERT. + +I must get to the windward of him. + +FORESTER. + +Get to the windward. Correct. Do you begin to see what I am driving at? +You must get to the windward of him. That's it! Do you see now? That is +the reason why I had to have a talk with you. + +[_Solemnly_.] + +You must get to the windward of the stag. + +[_Rises_.] + +And now--make her happy--Robert--my Mary. + +[_About to go_.] + +ROBERT. + +But what has all this to do with Mary? + +FORESTER. + +Why, you have not yet understood me? Look here! The stag must not have +an inkling that you are very anxious about him; and much less a woman. +You make too much fuss about the women. Children must not know how +dearly one loves them; anything but that! But women even less so. In +reality, they are nothing but grown-up children, only more shrewd. And +the children are already shrewd enough.--Sit down, Robert, I must tell +you something. + +[_They sit at the edge of the table, facing the audience_.] + +When that Mary of mine was four years old--no taller than this--I once +came home later than usual. "Where is Mary?" I ask. One child says: "In +her room;" the other: "In front of the house. She'll be here pretty +soon." But one guess was as far from the truth as the other. Evening +comes, night comes--Mary does not appear. I go outside. In the garden, +in the adjoining shrubbery, on the rocks of the dell, in the whole +forest--not a trace of Mary. In the meantime my wife is looking for her +at your house, then at every house in the village, but nowhere can she +find a trace of Mary. Can it be possible that some one should have +kidnapped her? Why, she was as beautiful as a wax-doll, my Mary. The +whole night I never touched my bed. Even at that time Mary was +everything to me. The next morning I alarm the entire village. Not a +person fails to respond. All were passionately fond of Mary. At least I +wished to bury the corpse. In the dell, you know, the thicket of +firs--under the cliffs where on the other side of the brook the old +footpath runs high along the rocks-next to it the willows. This time I +crawl through the whole thicket. In the midst of it is the small open +meadows; there at last I see something red and white. Praised be heaven! +It is she--and neither dead nor ill, no, safe and sound in the green +grass; and after her sleep her little cheeks were as red as peonies, +Robert. But-- + +[_He looks about him and lowers his voice_.] + +I hope she is not listening. + +[_Draws closer to_ ROBERT; _whenever he forgets himself, he immediately +lowers his voice_.] + +I say: "Is it you, really?" "Of course," she says, and rubs her eyes so +that they sparkle. "And you are alive," I say; "and did not die," I say, +"of hunger and fear?" I say. "Half a day and a whole, night alone in the +forest, in the very thickest of the forest! Come," I say, "that in the +meantime mother may not die of anxiety," I say. Says she: "Wait a while, +father." "But, why and for what?" "Till the child comes again," says +she. "And let us take it with us, please, father. It is a dear child." +"But who, in all the world, is this child?" I ask. "The one that came to +me," says she, "when I ran away from you a little while ago after the +yellow butterfly, and when all at once I was quite alone in the forest +and wanted to cry and call after you, and who picked berries for me and +played with me so nicely." "A little while ago?" I say. "Did not the +night come since then?" I say. But she would not believe that. We looked +for the child and--naturally did not find it. Men no longer have faith +in anything, but I know what I know. Do you understand, Robert? Say +nothing. It seems to me I were committing a sacrilege if I should say it +right out. There, shake hands with me without saying anything. All +right, Robert.--For heaven's sake, don't let her hear what we are saying +about her. + +[_Goes softly to the door; looks out_.] MARY (_outside_). + +Do you want anything, father? + +FORESTER (_nods secretly toward_ ROBERT, _then brusquely_). + +Nothing. And don't you come in again before I-- + +[_Comes back; speaks just above a whisper_.] + +Do you see? That's the way to treat her. You make far too much fuss +about that girl. She is [_still more softly_] a girl that any father +might be proud of, and I think she is going to be a wife after God's own +heart. I have such a one. Do you see, I don't mind telling you, because +I know you are not going to repeat it to her. For she must not know it; +otherwise all my pains would go for nothing. And pains it certainly cost +me till I got her so far; pains, I tell you. I advise you not to spoil +my girl, whom I have gone to so much trouble to bring up properly. + +ROBERT. + +You may think,--but I don't understand you at all. + +FORESTER. + +There's just the rub! You don't do it purposely. But, confound it! Don't +make such a fuss over the girl, do you hear? If you go on this way, she +will have you in her pocket within a month. The women always want to +rule; all their thoughts and aspirations tend to that end, without being +themselves aware of it. And when they finally do rule, they are unhappy +in spite of it; I know more than one instance of this. I only look +inside the door, and I know for certain what sort of figure the man +cuts. I only look at the cattle. If the dog or the cat is not well +trained, neither are the children; and the wife still less. Hey? My wife +does not yet know me as far as that here [_points to his heart_] is +concerned. And if she should ever get hold of that secret--then good-by, +authority! The wife may be an angel, but the man must act like a bear. +And especially a huntsman. That's part of the business, just as much as +the moustache and the green coat. + +ROBERT. + +But could it not be possible that-- + +FORESTER (_eagerly_). No, Robert. Once and for all, no! There is no way +out of it. Either he trains her, or she trains him.--For example; let me +give you only one instance how to go about it. My wife cannot see any +human being suffer; now the poor wretches come in troops, and I should +like to know what is to come of it all, if I were to praise her to her +face. Therefore I grumble and swear like a trooper, but at the same time +I gradually withdraw, so that she has full liberty. And when I notice +that she is through, then I come along again, as if by accident, and +keep on grumbling and swearing. Then people say: "The Hereditary +Forester is harder on the poor than the devil himself, but his wife and +his girl, they are angels from heaven." And they say this so that I +should hear it; and hear it I do. But I pretend not to notice it, and +laugh in my sleeve; and to keep up appearances I bluster all the +more.--It seems the guests are arriving. Robert, my wife, and my girl, +my Mary--if I at some time--you understand me, Robert. Give me your +hand. God is looking down on us. + +[_Wipes his eyes_.] + +The deuce! Confound it! Don't let the cat out of the bag to the +women--and you rule her as it ought to be. + +[_He turns around to hide his emotion, with gestures expressive of his +vexation that he cannot control himself. At the door he encounters the +following_]: + + + +SCENE V + +_The same_. STEIN; MOeLLER; WILKENS; MARY; SOPHY. _They exchange +greetings with the_ FORESTER. + +STEIN. + +What's your hurry, old man? Have you already had a row with him? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. I have given the young gentleman a lecture on the subject of +women-folks. + +STEIN. + +High treason against the majesty of petticoat-government? And you permit +that, madam? + +SOPHY. + +A little more, a little less--when one has to put up with so much! + +FORESTER. + +And now can anybody say that this woman is not clever enough to get one +under her thumb. But let us have cards. I had to promise Stein that he +should have his revenge today before lunch-- + +STEIN. Revenge I must have. + +[_The_ FORESTER _and_ STEIN _sit down opposite each other on the right +side of the stage and play cards_.] + +SOPHY (_watches them a moment; then to_ ROBERT, _while going to and fro +with an air of being very busy_). + +I hope to heaven they are not going to discuss the clearing of the +forest today. + +MOeLLER (_on the left side, stepping up to_ WILKENS _and pointing to_ +MARY, _who is talking to her mother and_ ROBERT). + +That is what I call a fine-looking bride! + +WILKENS. + +And she is not a beggar's child either, Sir. + +MOeLLER (_politely_). + +Who does not know that Mr. Wilkens is her mother's uncle? + +WILKENS (_flattered_). + +Well, well! + +MOeLLER. + +And Mr. Wilkens need not be ashamed, I believe, of the firm of Stein and +Son. + +WILKENS (_calmly_). + +By no means. + +MOeLLER (_with great enthusiasm_). + +Sir! The firm of Stein and Son! I have served the firm twenty years. +That is my honor and my pride. For me the firm is wife and child! + +WILKENS. + +I do not doubt it. + +MOeLLER. + +The foremost houses of Germany would consider it an honor to ally +themselves in marriage with Stein and Son. + +WILKENS. I am sure of it. + +[_Turns to the bridal couple_.] + +MOeLLER (_angrily to himself_). + +And that fellow parades his peasant's pride, as if Stein and Son ought +to esteem it a high honor to ally themselves with that forester's goose. +His forty-five will be divided into three parts, and only after his +death. The only daughter of Loehlein & Co. with her eighty! That were +quite a different capital for our business; and cash down today! This +mesalliance is unpardonable. But what can one do? One must [_A waltz is +heard without_] dance off one's vexation. May I have the honor, madam +[_to_ SOPHY] on the lawn? + +[_Bows with an old bachelor's jauntiness_.] + +STEIN. + +I wonder whether I'll get decent cards! + +SOPHY. + +I guess we'll have time for that? + +WILKENS. + +Old Wilkens is not yet going to sit in a corner. + +[_Fumbles in his pocket_.] + +Wilkens must also contribute his dollar for the benefit of the +musicians. I hope I have your permission, Mr. Bridegroom? + +[MOeLLER _leads out_ SOPHY; WILKENS _leads_ MARY; ROBERT _follows_.] + + + +SCENE VI + +STEIN; _the_ FORESTER. + +STEIN (_throwing down his cards_). + +Have I a single trump? + +FORESTER (_calling_). + +Twenty in spades. + +STEIN (_taking up his cards again; impatiently_). + +Why not forty? Talking about spades reminds me--have you considered that +matter about the clearing? + +FORESTER. That fellow is a-- + +[_They continue to play_.] + +STEIN. + +What fellow? + +FORESTER. + +The fellow who hatched that scheme. + +STEIN. + +Do you mean me? + +FORESTER. + +Your Godfrey there-- + +STEIN (_getting excited: with emphasis_). + +_My_ Godfrey? + +FORESTER (_growing more and more calm and cheerful_). + + +Well, for all I care, mine, then. + +STEIN. + +Why do you always drag him in? + +FORESTER. + +Never mind him, then. + +STEIN. + +As if I--it is you--whenever an opportunity offers, you, you drag him +in. You can't get rid of him. Like dough he sticks to your teeth. + +FORESTER (_very calmly_). + +As, for example, just now. + +STEIN. + +You have made up your mind to annoy me. + +FORESTER. + +Nonsense! You only want to pick a quarrel. STEIN. I? But why do you +immediately trump, when I play a wrong card? + +FORESTER. + +Playing a wrong card means losing the game. + +STEIN (_throwing down his cards_). + +Well, there you have the whole business! + +[_Jumps up_.] + +FORESTER. I deal. + +[_Shuffles calmly and deals_.] + +STEIN (_has taken a few steps_). + +I am not going to play any more with you. + +FORESTER (_unconcerned_). + +But it is my turn to deal. + +STEIN (_sits down again_). + +Obstinate old fellow! + +FORESTER. + +You immediately lose your temper. + +STEIN (_taking his cards; still angry_). + +You would not give in, even if it were as clear as day that you are +wrong! + + + +SCENE VII + +_The same. Enter_ MOeLLER, _leading in_ SOPHY; WILKENS. _The waltz +outside is finished_. + +SOPHY. + +But now I think that-- + +FORESTER. + +One more turn. + +SOPHY. + +Everything is ready-- + +FORESTER. + +The pastor-- + +SOPHY. + +He sent word that we are not to wait lunch for him. But he would be here +at eleven o'clock sharp for the betrothal. + +FORESTER. + +Then sit down and eat. + +STEIN. + +Please, do not let us detain you. + +FORESTER. + +It is immaterial whether we sit here or there. Now then! Forty in +spades. + +[_Continuing to play_.] + +STEIN. + +All right! Go ahead. + +FORESTER (_triumphantly_). + +Are not you thinking of Godfrey again? And the clearing? Hey? + +STEIN (_controlling himself_). + +Now you see-- + +FORESTER (_more excited_). + +That the fellow is a fool--Queens are trumps. + +STEIN. + +I'm bearing in mind that we are not alone. + +FORESTER (_excited by the game_). + +And trump--and trump!--the forest shall be cleared! + +STEIN. + +That will do, I say. The idea was mine. + +FORESTER. + +And trump. + +STEIN. + +And if I--[_He controls himself_.] + +FORESTER (_triumphantly_). + +Well, what then? + +[_Puts the cards together_.] + +STEIN (_making a desperate effort to contain himself_). + +And if I should wish to have it so--if I should insist upon it--then-- +FORESTER. + +Everything would remain as it is. + +STEIN. + +The forest would be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +Nothing of the kind. + +STEIN. + +We'll see about that. And now the forest _shall_ be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +It shall _not_. + +STEIN. + +Sir! + +FORESTER (_laughing_). + +Mr. Stein! + +STEIN. + +It's all right! It's all right! + +FORESTER (_very calmly_). + +As it is. + +STEIN. + +Not another word-- + +FORESTER. + +And not a tree-- + +STEIN (_rises_). + +No contradiction and no sarcasm! That I request. That I insist upon. I +am the master of Duesterwalde. + +FORESTER. + +And I am the forester of Duesterwalde. + +[STEIN _is getting more and more excited. He shows plainly that the +presence of other persons increases his sensitiveness, and he makes an +evident effort to control his temper. The_ FORESTER _treats the matter +lightly, as an every-day affair_. SOPHY _with increasing anxiety looks +from one to the other_. WILKENS _does not move a muscle of his face_. +MOeLLER _exhibits his sympathy by accompanying his master's words with +appropriate gestures. The entire pantomimic by-play is very rapid_.] + +STEIN. + +You are my servant, and I command: The forest shall be cleared. If not, +you are no longer my servant. The forest shall be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +Old hot-head! + +STEIN. + +Either you obey, or you are no longer forester. + +FORESTER. + +Stuff and nonsense! + +STEIN. + +And I shall put Godfrey in your place. + +FORESTER. + +Quite right. Congratulations. + +STEIN (_buttons his coat_). + +The forest shall be cleared. + +FORESTER. + +The forest shall not be cleared. + +SOPHY (_stepping between the two_). + +But-- + +STEIN. + +I regret this exceedingly.--Mr. Moeller!--I bid everybody good-day. + +[_Exit_.] + +MOeLLER. + +Bravo! At last he has spoken his mind in a manner worthy of Stein and +Son. Yours truly. + +[_Follows_ STEIN.] + +FORESTER. + +I deal-- + +[_He looks up while shuffling the cards_.] + +But--well, let him go. If he can't sit for an hour without exploding, +the old powder-bag-- + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The_ FORESTER _remains seated imperturbably_. SOPHY _stands beside his +chair_. WILKENS _steps up to the_ FORESTER. + +SOPHY. + +But what in the world is going to come of this? + +WILKENS. + +He should have gone after him. + +FORESTER. The old hot-head! + +SOPHY. + +I am absolutely dumbfounded. On the very day of betrothal! + +WILKENS. + +But for the sake of a few miserable trees he surely is not going to-- + +FORESTER. + +Miserable trees? Thunder! In my forest there is no miserable +tree!--Nonsense. There is no cause for lamentation. + +WILKENS. + +But Mr. Stein-- + +FORESTER. + +Is not going to run far. When his anger has subsided, he will be the +first one to--he is better than I. + +WILKENS. + +But-- + +FORESTER. + +Hang it! You always have a "But." That's the way he goes on every day. +For twenty years-- + +WILKENS. + +But today he is your master. + +FORESTER. + +Master or not. The forest shall not be cleared. WILKENS. But you will +lose your place. + +FORESTER. + +To Godfrey? Idle talk! Stein himself can't bear Godfrey, and he knows +what I am worth to him. I need not sing my own praise. Show me a forest +anywhere in the whole district that can be compared to mine.--Do you +hear? Why, there he is back again. Sit down. And if he comes in, act as +if nothing had happened. + + + +SCENE IX _The same. Enter_ MOeLLER _rapidly; later_, ANDREW. + +FORESTER (_not looking up_). + +Well, I deal. + +[_Takes the cards, notices his mistake_.] + +Is that you, Mr. Moeller? + +MOeLLER (_pompously_). + +At your service. + +FORESTER. + +Well, sit down. Has he cooled down again, the old hot-head? Why doesn't +he come in? I suppose he expects me to fetch him? + +[_Is about to go_.] + +MOeLLER. + +Mr. Stein sends me to ask you, sir, whether you have changed your mind. + +FORESTER. + +I should say not! + +MOeLLER. + +That you will clear the forest? + +FORESTER. + +That I will _not_ clear the forest. + +MOeLLER. + +That means, that you are going to resign your position as forester. + +FORESTER. + +That means--that you are a fool. + +MOeLLER (_very pompously_). + +I have been commissioned by Mr. Adolf Friedrich Stein, head of the firm +of Stein and Son, in case you should still persist in your refusal to +execute the command of your master, to announce to you your dismissal, +and to notify Godfrey immediately that he is forester of Duesterwalde. + +FORESTER. + +And that would be a great pleasure to you-- + +MOeLLER. + +I am not to be considered in this matter. What is to be considered is +the firm of Stein and Son, whom I have the honor to represent. I give +you five minutes time for consideration. + +[_Steps to the window_.] + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD THE FINDING OF MOSES] + +FORESTER. + +Dismiss me? Dismiss me? Do you know what that means? Dismiss a man who +has served faithfully for forty years? Good heavens, sir! If I should do +what he wishes--then I deserved to be dismissed. Clear the forest! And +the mountain faces north and northwest, absolutely exposed-- + +WILKENS. + +Well! But this is not a question of your trees. + +FORESTER. + +So that the wind can rush in and break down everything. Hang it! +Nonsense! He does not mean it at all. If he only comes to his senses-- + +WILKENS. + +That's just what I say. Until it comes to the actual cutting down, one +has time to think a hundred times. And don't you see that it is not at +all the cutting down that Mr. Stein is concerned about? He is only +concerned about maintaining his authority. If he is the master he +necessarily must be right. + +FORESTER. + +But he is wrong, and I shall not give my consent to anything that is +wrong. For forty years I have disregarded my own interest for the sake +of what was intrusted to my care; I have-- + +WILKENS. + +Well. My opinion is, that if for forty years you have had such tender +regard for your trees, you might now, for once, have a similar regard +for your wife and children and yourself. + +FORESTER. + +Do you know that to Stein there may result from this a loss of six +thousand dollars? Do you? Of that sum I should deprive him if I +consented. And would you have some one come along and say: "Ulrich gave +his consent to that? In fifteen years there might have been such a +forest of timber, that a forester's heart would have swelled with pride, +and--" + +WILKENS. + +Well. That might still-- + +FORESTER. + +After the cursed wind from the direction of Hersbruck once has made +havoc in it? You talk as you understand it. + +SOPHY (_anxiously_). + +But what is to become of us? + +FORESTER. + +We are honest people, and such we shall remain. WILKENS. Well! As if +honesty entered even remotely into this question! + +FORESTER. + +But, gracious heavens! What else does enter? Hey? Am I to play the +sycophant? Just try to kick me! You'll soon learn better. And laugh in +my sleeve? Only no honest, fearless word! That is your peasant's +philosophy. As long as they don't touch your pocket-book, you put up +with anything. If you are not compelled-- + +WILKENS (_self-satisfied_). + +Well, yes. If the peasant is not compelled, he moves neither hand nor +foot. There he is quite right. That is the peasant's philosophy. And, I +tell you, this peasant's philosophy is not so foolish. Had you practised +this philosophy, you would have done your duty, and not a penny's worth +more; you would have spent your money on yourself, your wife and your +children, and not to increase somebody else's wealth. In that case, it +would not concern you now what becomes of it.--Whose bread I eat, his +praise I sing. You are paid to be servant, not master. When, therefore, +your master says: The forest shall be cleared-- + +FORESTER. + +Then I must see to it that it is not done. The honest man comes before +the servant. + +WILKENS. + +Well. Now we are just as far as we were at the beginning. + +[_Turns away_.] + +SOPHY. + +You are not going? You are my only consolation, cousin. No doubt, he +will change his mind. He has the greatest respect for you, cousin. + +WILKENS. + +I notice he has. + +SOPHY. + +The betrothal!--Mary! How unfortunate that the pastor has not yet +arrived! Cousin, if you only would-- + +_Enter_ ANDREW. + +WILKENS. + +His head is as hard as iron. Can any one make anything plain to him? +MOeLLER (_who until now has been looking out of the window without saying +anything, looks at his watch, and then turns pompously to the_ +FORESTER). + +Sir, I should like to ask you for your final decision. + +FORESTER. + +What I have said, I have said. + +[_Takes a few steps, then stops_.] + +And moreover, he can't do it; I mean, dismiss me. He has no right to +dismiss me. First of all he must produce evidence that I have deserved +it. He has no right to dismiss me without any cause whatever. + +MOeLLER (_with authority_). + +So you will not clear the forest? Say it plainly: You will not? + +FORESTER. + +If it was not sufficiently plain to you before, then: No! I can't state +it more plainly. I will not be a scoundrel, and he cannot dismiss an +honest man. Is that plain, definite and unmistakable? I am forester, and +I remain forester--and the forest shall not be cleared. That you may +tell your master and your Godfrey and whomever you please. + +SOPHY. + +Have only a little patience with him. I am sure Mr. Stein does not mean +it, and you have been so kind already-- + +MOeLLER. + +If the decision rested with me, with me, Justus Moeller,--what would I +not do to please you, madam? But I am here as the representative of +Stein and Son. + +FORESTER. + +And if he thinks he has a right, let him act accordingly. But you, +woman, do not insult my good right by asking favors of the wrong-doer. +Good-day, Mr. Moeller. Is there anything else you desire? Nothing? Have +you anything else to tell me? + +MOeLLER (_very pompously_). + +Nothing beyond the fact that your incumbency of the post of forester +ceases with the present moment. Here is your salary--a half year in +advance. In consideration whereof, as soon as possible, within three +days at the latest, you will vacate this house, so that the present +forester may move in, upon whom, from this moment on, rests the sole +responsibility for the forest. + +[_The_ FORESTER _is obliged to sit down_.] + +SOPHY (_to_ ANDREW, _whom she has been compelled to restrain all the +while, and who now rushes toward the door_). + +Where are you going, Andrew? + +ANDREW. + +I am going to tell Robert what his father-- + +SOPHY. + +Don't you dare to-- + +ANDREW. + +Let me go, mother, before I lay hands on that fellow there-- + +[_Exit in violent anger_.] + +FORESTER. + +Never mind. Never mind! Keep quiet, woman. + +[_Rises_.] + +Good-day, Mr. Moeller. You have left some money behind you, sir. Better +take it, or I'll throw it after you. + +[_Steps to the window and whistles_.] + +MOeLLER. + +You see, madam, it gives me pain to discharge my duty. I am going to +Godfrey. + +FORESTER (_without turning toward him_). + +Good luck on the way! + + + +SCENE X + +_The_ FORESTER _is standing at the window whistling_. WILKENS _is +looking for his cane and hat_. SOPHY _in perplexity looks from one to +the other. As he is about to leave_, MOeLLER _encounters_ ROBERT _and_ +ANDREW, _who come rushing in_. MARY _is clinging to the arm of_ ROBERT +_whom she tries to calm_. + +ROBERT (_entering angrily_). + +He shall give in. He shall not spoil the beautiful day. + +ANDREW. + +Go to your father. He commenced this quarrel. + +MOeLLER. + +It is lucky that I meet you, Mr. Stein. I am commissioned to beg you to +come home at once. + +[_Exit_.] + +ROBERT. + +Ulrich, you yield; you must yield. + +FORESTER (_turning away from the window_). + +You, Mr. Stein? What do you want from me? Mary, you go out there! What +do you want from the man whom your father intends to dismiss? + +ROBERT. + +But why will you not consent? + +ANDREW. + +Because he wishes to remain an honest man, and will not suffer himself +to be made a scoundrel by you. [_The_ FORESTER _makes a sign to him to +be silent_.] + +ROBERT. + +I am not talking to you now, Andrew. + + +FORESTER. + +You are here with your father's consent, Mr. Stein? Moreover--sir, and +if your father had the power to take from me my position and my +honor--the fact that I have an irreproachable child, that is something +he cannot take from me. And any one else--hey? Young man, on this point +I am touchy. Do you understand? + +SOPHY. + +But will you fall out even with your last friend? + +FORESTER. + +Mary's reputation is at stake. If he is a friend, he knows without my +telling him what he has to do. + +ROBERT. + +I know what I have to do; but you do not. Otherwise you would +not risk your children's happiness for a whim--for-- + +FORESTER. + +Ho! ho! Tell that to your father, young man! + +ROBERT. + +For your obstinacy. I have your word, and Mary has mine; I am a man, and +will be no scoundrel. + +FORESTER. + +And because you will not be a scoundrel, I am to be one? Shall people +say: "Ulrich caused a quarrel between father and son?" Sir, my girl is +too good to have it said of her that she stole into your family. Mr. +Stein, this is my home. You know what I mean. + +SOPHY. + +At least let the children-- + +FORESTER. + +Do something foolish? And you look on; and afterward you can do nothing +better than weep. + +ROBERT. + +Mary, whatever befall-- + +FORESTER. + +I do not know whether I know Mary. If I am mistaken in her then it is +better you go with him at once. + +MARY. + +Father, he is so true. + +FORESTER. + +Very well. Go with him. + +SOPHY. + +So inflexible-- + +ROBERT. In the name of heaven, Mary, which has +destined us for one another-- + +FORESTER (_as before, to his wife_). + +And let me advise you not to--Do you hear, if it should come to pass-- + + +[_Turns with her toward the background_.] + +ANDREW (_bursting out_). + +Now it's enough! Mary, either you go or he goes. + +SOPHY. + +Now you are beginning too, Andrew! [_Goes to him on the left side of the +stage_.] + +ANDREW. + +I have been silent long enough. Let me alone, mother. His father has +insulted my father; I will not allow this fellow to insult my sister +also. + +ROBERT. + +You belong to me, Mary. I should like to see him who--keep your hands +off! + +MARY. + +Robert, it is my brother! + +ANDREW (_threatening_). + +Only one step further, or-- + +ROBERT. + +Away, I say; for God's sake-- + +ANDREW. + +You are no match for me-- + +ROBERT. + +Not with the point of your finger shall you touch what belongs to me. I +defy you all-- + +ANDREW. + +Do you hear that, father? + +FORESTER (_stepping between the two_). + +Back there, fellow! Who is master in this house? + +ANDREW. + +If you are master, father, then show that you are. Otherwise let me show +it to that fellow there. + +FORESTER. + +Andrew, go over there, and say not another word! + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +Will you mind what I say? + +[ANDREW _pulls a rifle from the wall_.] + +FORESTER. + +What are you doing there? + +ANDREW (_with suppressed rage_). + +Nothing. Here in the house you are master. Outside no one is master; +outside we all are. + +FORESTER. + +In my forest I am master. + +ANDREW. + +But not a step beyond. + +FORESTER. + +What do you mean? Answer! + +ANDREW. + +Nothing particular, father. Only that fellow there need know.--If you +are not concerned about your own honor--I shall protect Mary's honor. +That is for him who dares to come near Mary. + +SOPHY. + +What words are those? + +ROBERT. + +Idle words. It is children that are afraid of words. + +ANDREW. + +There will be something more than words, as surely as I am a man. + +ROBERT. + +If you were a man you would not threaten, you-- + +ANDREW. + +If we were somewhere else, you would not taunt-- + +FORESTER. + +Andrew! + +ROBERT. + +Make room-- + +ANDREW. + +Get out, I say-- + +[FORESTER _almost at the same time puts his finger in his mouth and +gives a shrill whistle_.] + +ANDREW. + +If you no longer-- + +FORESTER (_stepping between the two_). + +Rebellious boys! Hold your peace! Don't you dare to strike, either one +of you! You confounded fellow! When I need a guardian I certainly shall +not select a greenhorn. Is it I who is master here or is it some one +else? What business have you here, fellow? Get you gone into the forest; +look after Weiler that he does not loaf; then take out a dozen maple +trees from the nursery and put them up in damp moss; see to it that the +messenger from Haslau does not have to wait when he comes. Not a word! +Along with you! + +[ANDREW _obeys and goes, after having cast a threatening look at_ +ROBERT, _to which the latter replies_.] + +FORESTER. + +And you, Mr. Stein; good-day, Mr. Stein. You know what I mean. + +SOPHY. + +If you would intercede with your father; but gently and kindly! And if +you would bring him back! + +MARY. + +Then I should see how truly you love me, Robert. + +FORESTER (_less roughly_). + +Don't come again before that. Good-by, Robert. And leave that girl +alone. + +ROBERT. + +I am going. But come what may, I shall not resign my claim upon Mary. +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY. + +Is everything to turn out unlucky today? And you, cousin, are you also +going to leave us? + +WILKENS. + +Well! If one insists on running his head through a wall, I'm not the +fool to hold my hand in between. + +[_Exit_.] + + + +ACT II + +_In the Manor House_ + + + +SCENE I + +STEIN _alone, seated._ + +STEIN. + +Confound his obstinacy! The whole fine day spoiled! Otherwise +we should now be at table. I suppose he is right after all, that this +clearing serves no goad purpose. But is that a reason why he should put +me into this rage? It is true, I should have been wiser than he. +Probably my excitement was also partly to blame.--I am only sorry for +his wife--and the children. I am going to--[_Rises, then sits down +again._] Do what? Repair one foolish action with another? Be as rash in +yielding as I was in taking offense? The old hotspur! But that shall +serve me as a lesson. + +[_Short pause. Then he rises again, takes his cane and hat and throws +both down again._] + +No, it won't do--It simply will not do. Well! I should make myself +ridiculous forever! This time he must come to me; I can't help him. But +perhaps he has already--isn't that Moeller? + +[_Hastens toward the person coming in._] + + + +SCENE II + +ROBERT; STEIN. + +ROBERT (_entering, in a passion_). + +You will ruin my happiness, father? + +STEIN (_surprised, indignant_). + +Robert! + +ROBERT. + +You have no right to do that. + +STEIN. + +That's the last straw! Now you too must come along and set me fuming. + +ROBERT. + +Father, you have me fetched away from the betrothal festivities like a +child from his playthings. But I am no child to whom one gives and takes +away as one likes. I have your word, and you must keep it. Do you intend +to sacrifice my happiness to a whim? Paternal authority cannot go so +far. + +STEIN. + +But tell me, what is your object in saying this? + +ROBERT. + +I wish to ask you whether you intend to bring about a reconciliation +between the forester and yourself. + +STEIN. + +Boy, how can you dare to ask? Do you mean to call me to account? Go to +that obstinate fellow. It is he that is in the wrong; it is he that must +yield! + +ROBERT. + +I just came from the forester; he referred me to you. + +STEIN. + +I can do nothing. And now leave me in peace. + +ROBERT. + +You will do nothing toward a reconciliation? + +STEIN. + +Nothing, unless he yields. And now go your ways. + +ROBERT. + +If you will do nothing toward a reconciliation I shall never again cross +his threshold. Andrew and I have become mortal enemies. Perhaps this +very day I shall face him in an encounter for life and death. Come what +may, I have done everything I was able to do. Father, no blame can +attach to me. If a catastrophe takes place--you could have prevented it, +the forester could have prevented it. Mary is mine, and neither you nor +the forester shall take her from me. + +STEIN. + +Are you mad, boy? To your room this moment! Do you hear? + +ROBERT. + +Father, I ask you-- + +STEIN. + +You shall obey, not ask! + +ROBERT. + +Your anger carries you away. Father, I implore you, do not tear open the +wound which healed only because I made allowance for your excited state. +I shall wait till you have become calm; till you are again master of +yourself. + +STEIN. + +You see that I am master of myself. You try to provoke me by all means, +and you do not succeed. But now not another word! Not a sound! + +ROBERT (_beside himself_). + +Not a word? A hundred words, a thousand words; as many as I have breath +to utter. I _will_ speak; until I have relieved myself of this load on +my heart, I will speak! You may forbid your Moeller, your blacksmiths to +speak, not me! Show your impatience as much as you want, remain or +go--speak I _will_. Once for all you shall know that I will no longer +stand being treated like a boy, that I will be free, that I can stand on +my own feet, that you shall be obliged to respect me, that I will be +neither your toy nor any man's! + +STEIN. + +Do you threaten me with the old song? I know it by heart. You are still +here? I thought you had gone. Oh, indeed! You mean to speak, do you? +Speak, do what you wish. I shall not prevent you. + +ROBERT (_calmly, with the accent of determination_). + +And if you wished to prevent me, it were too late. I insist upon my +right, even if it should cost my own or another's life. But I hold you +and the forester responsible. + +STEIN (_who is beginning to repent his anger_). + +Boy-- + +ROBERT. + +Farewell--perhaps forever! [_Rushes out_.] + + + +SCENE III + +STEIN _alone; later, the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN (_forgetting himself, going a few steps after him_). + +Where are you going? Robert! My boy!--Curse it! I have scarcely got over +my anger, and the next moment--But does it not seem as though all had +entered into a conspiracy to keep me in a turmoil of excitement? If he +really has had a falling out and meets those hotspurs--But I cannot run +after him. Will he come back? + +_Enter the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +You, parson? You find me here. + +PASTOR. + +I have heard of the affair. + +[_Shakes hands_.] + +STEIN. + +Robert, my boy-- + +PASTOR. + +Almost knocked me down. He wants to leave home again, hey? We'll manage +to hold him. + +STEIN. + +And with that obstinate old fellow-- + +PASTOR. + +I know. It's the old story again, the everlasting story, the ending of +which one always knows in advance. + +STEIN. + +But this time one cannot be so certain. + +PASTOR. + +True. It is more complicated than usual, because at the same time the +affair of the young gentleman was mixed up with it. Moreover, the young +gentleman this time has also had words with Andrew. However-- + +STEIN. + +Isn't that he who is coming along there? + + + +SCENE IV + +MOeLLER; STEIN; _the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +You, Moeller? What is the prospect? Will he yield? + +MOeLLER. + +So little does he think of yielding that he even wishes me to tell you, +you have not the power to dismiss him. + +STEIN. + +He thinks I have not the power? + +[_More composed_.] + +If he only thought I had not the intention!--And you have tried +everything? + +MOeLLER. + +Everything. + +STEIN. + +Did you also threaten him with Godfrey? As if he were to be appointed +forester, as if you were to deliver to him his commission immediately, +in case-- + +MOeLLER. + +As if I were to?--My instructions were more definite. I bring you +Godfrey's respectful acknowledgment; he accepts the position. + +STEIN. + +He ac--he accepts it? He really accepts it? What an obliging man he is, +that Godfrey! And you into the bargain--with your haste. Have you +entirely lost your senses, sir? The whole thing was intended to scare +Ulrich. I wanted him to listen to reason--to yield. And if in the first +heat I actually did say it as you understood it, you should have +interpreted it differently. You know that in my heart I am not thinking +of dismissing that old man who is worth a thousand times more--but you +understand it, you understood it right, but--now that it is too late, I +recall you always opposed this marriage. + +MOeLLER. + +I have served the firm of Stein and Son for twenty years, time enough to +learn at last that one can serve too faithfully. I have done nothing but +execute your instructions literally. And if, in spite of that, you +persist in misjudging me, then this must be my consolation. I have never +compromised the dignity of Stein and Son. + +[_Sits down to work_.] + +STEIN. + +Then the dignity of Stein and Son may thank you for what you have done; +I shall not. [_Pause_.] And yet, when one considers the matter calmly, +what else was to be done? After all that took place? Don't be uneasy; I +simply asserted myself as master. + +PASTOR. + +That is quite a new sensation! + +STEIN. + +Now I have confronted him with that confounded alternative, +before old Wilkens there. Surely, I cannot--confound the rash word!--a +word that in my innermost heart I did not mean seriously, and which now +becomes fate, because I did not take the pains to keep that word under +control. + +PASTOR. + +Indeed! it is exceedingly disagreeable for discretion to acknowledge the +debts that passion has contracted. Why, in the name of common sense, did +you not have your quarrel by yourselves, as usual? + +STEIN (_who has been walking up and down_). + +No, it will not do. And yet, if I think of those hot-headed +boys--Moeller, please send immediately for my Robert; send some one to +find him and tell him that I must speak with him. + +[_Exit_ MOeLLER, _and returns soon_.] + +STEIN. + +I can't help the obstinate old fellow; this time _he_ must knuckle +under. I cannot go back on my word; that he must see himself. And by +this time he also may have come to his senses. But in order that he may +see that I am ready to do whatever I can toward a reconciliation, +without losing my dignity--how would it be, parson, if you went to see +him? His post, I dare say, he must resign for the time being; but his +present salary he may--yes, he shall draw twice the amount. He may +regard it as a pension, until further notice. I should think--after all, +his is the chief fault in this business--in this way he is let off +easily enough for his share. + +PASTOR. + +I am going at once. + +STEIN. + +And I shall accompany you part of the way. I ought not to walk all +alone. + +[_Exeunt to the left_.] + + + +SCENE V + +MOeLLER _alone; later,_ GODFREY. + +MOeLLER. + +Even if the marriage with Miss Loehlein should not come to pass, at least +Stein and Son have asserted themselves. It used to turn my stomach to +see how he always was the first to make up. This time I am satisfied +with my chief, and will not mind his rebuke. But who is making that +noise out there? [_At the door_.] It is lucky that they went through the +rooms. It is Godfrey. And in what condition! What sort of man do you +call that? [_Leads in _GODFREY, _who is intoxicated_.] + +GODFREY (_while still behind the scenes_). + +Where is Stein? Hey there, fellow! Stein, I say! Is that you, Moeller? + +MOeLLER (_with a patronizing air_). + +There can be no doubt that it is you. What do you want here? + +GODFREY (_while_ MOeLLER _pushes him down on a chair_). + +Thank him, why, I must thank him. Fetch Stein. Thank him, for that's the +fashion. + +MOeLLER. + +In this condition? + +GODFREY (_while_ MOeLLER _is obliged to hold him forcibly down on the +chair_). + +Condition? What's my condition to you? That I want to express my thanks +is condition enough. Let me alone with my condition. Is he in? Hey? + +MOeLLER. + +Nobody is in there. Be glad that nobody is in. You are past all help. +You have made up your mind not to get along. Those who have your +interest at heart can never do anything for your advantage without your +doing something that counteracts their efforts a hundredfold, so that +everything is spoiled. My master already repents having given you the +post, and now you at once give him an opportunity-- + +GODFREY. + +You stupid fellow, you. With your patronizing air, hang it! As if you +did not want to make a break between Stein and Ulrich because of that +Loehlein girl. I should know that, even if I were as stupid as that +confounded, patronizing fellow of a Moeller. That's all I have to say. +And what of it, that I am forester for a day? For it won't be two days +before those two cronies are again one heart and one soul; after that +it's all over with my forester's job. You think you are a decent fellow, +because you are not thirsty. It will last one day--for one day I shall +be sp--spite-forester--and that day I have turned to account, my dear +fellow--with Ulrich's Andrew--turned to account, my dear fellow. Come, +my dear fellow, for I am jolly, my dear fellow. You patronizing fellow +of a Moeller. [_Embrace him_.] + +MOeLLER (_ashamed and very much embarrassed, trying to keep him off_). + +For heaven's sake, what are you thinking of? If any one should see this! +Shame on you! + +[_Making an effort to recover his dignity_.] + +You have hatched a scheme with Ulrich's Andrew, have you? + +GODFREY. + +Scheme, scheme! I have had a talk with him, do you know? Because of +yesterday, you know? and because of my grudge against his old man, you +know? You know nothing, you know? When he hears it he'll bite his white +beard with rage, the old man will. + +MOeLLER. + +But what the deuce could you have put into Andrew's head? + +GODFREY. + +What? Nothing. You'll learn it soon enough. Hey? Thirst, thirst--that is +my wail, that is my chronic ill-health, my misery; that is the cause of +my gout; that will kill me while I am still young. Where is Stein? + +MOeLLER. + +Now come along to my room and drink a cup of black coffee, so that you +may recover your senses. Then I must go to the blast-furnace. I'll take +you along as far as the mill in the dell, and then you go the rest of +the way to your home. One has to tie your hands, if you are not to drive +away your good fortune. + +GODFREY (_while_ MOeLLER _is leading him off_). + +Where is he? Hey, there! Where is he? Stein! + + + +SCENE VI + +_In the_ FORESTER's _house_. + +SOPHY _alone; then_ WEILER; _and, later, the_ FORESTER. + +SOPHY (_closing the window_). + +Robert hasn't come back yet, nor the pastor. + +WEILER (_entering through the centre door_). + +Bless my soul, if he don't come to grief! But who, in thunder, is really +forester? I wonder whether the mistress has saved me anything? But, +anyhow, I have no appetite. Well! + +SOPHY. + +I suppose it has become cold by this time. + +[_Takes from the oven a plate with food, from the closet bread, etc., +and puts it on the table to the left_.] + +WEILER. + +We shall all be cold some day. + +[_Sits down to eat_.] + +FORESTER (_has entered from the side_). + +Have you found the trail of the stag from Luetzdorf again? + +WEILER. + +Stalking about. But that's the way it goes. As soon as they are man and +wife, master and servant--then love and friendship fly out of the +window. + +FORESTER. + +What do you mean by "stalking about?" + +WEILER. + +On his four legs he stood by the boundary forest in the oats, and was +eating. + +FORESTER. + +Who? + +WEILER. + +The stag from Luetzdorf. + +FORESTER (_emphatically_). + +A stag does not--eat; he browses. + +WEILER. + +All right! + +SOPHY (_waiting on him_). + +But what is your news? + +WEILER. + +Well-- + +SOPHY. + +I wonder whether I shall hear anything now? If I don't care to know +anything, then you never get through talking. + +FORESTER (_stands before him; severely_). + +Weiler, do you hear? + +WEILER. + +Well, Godfrey. Today he has grown six inches; he immediately put on his +laced hat, girded on his hunting knife and drank two bitters and a half +dozen glasses of whisky more than usual; in consequence he has need of a +road that's broader than the ordinary by half. + +FORESTER. + +Have you done eating? + +WEILER. + +Almost. But tell me, who is now the real forester of Duesterwalde? The +other fellow is already giving orders to the woodcutters for the +clearing, so he must be the forester. But you also act as if you were +still forester. + +FORESTER. + +You may be sure, I still am. I am forester of Duesterwalde, and nobody +else. + +WEILER. + +You intend to carry your point? But I'll tell you who is in the right +nowadays [_makes a pantomime of counting money_]--whoever has the +longest breath.--Who is coming there in such a hurry? + + + +SCENE VII + +WILKENS _enters as hurriedly as his figure permits_. WEILER _eating_; +FORESTER; SOPHY. + +WILKENS (_while entering_). + +But what in the world has happened here? Good-day to you all. + +SOPHY (_alarmed_). + +Happened! But for heaven's sake--has anything happened? + +FORESTER. + +You immediately lose your head. + +WILKENS. + +You'll see, you obstinate fellow! + +SOPHY. + +But what is the meaning of all this? + +WILKENS. + +How should I know? On the road I meet that crazy John, and he is +gesticulating with his arms as if he were striking some one, and points +in the direction of the forester's house-- + +FORESTER. + +He was pointing toward the forest; he meant to call attention to the +clearing-- + +WILKENS. + +I really was going in another direction, but I thought I'd better see. +And immediately I see some one standing absorbed in thought, not far +from the house. It's Andrew. You ask him, I say to myself. Well! As he +hears me coming he starts up, gives me a wild look, and--is gone. I call +after him. Well! It seems he has forgotten his name. I run after him, +but he--disappears, as if he had an evil conscience. + +SOPHY. + +I wonder what that can mean. + + +FORESTER (_calls out of the window, with authority_). + +Andrew! + +WILKENS. + +There he comes. + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The same. The_ PASTOR; WEILER _seated_. WEILER. + +It's the pastor! [_All exchange greetings_.] + +SOPHY. + +God be praised! Our good pastor! + +FORESTER. + +You are under the impression that you are coming to the betrothal, +pastor, but-- + +PASTOR. + +I know all that has been going on here. + +FORESTER. + +Mr. Stein-- + +PASTOR. + +I have just come from him. And the message I have to give you--I know, +you will not receive it less kindly because I am the messenger. + +SOPHY. + +If you come from Mr. Stein, then everything may still end well. But, +pastor, you do not know how obstinate that man is. + +PASTOR. + +How so? I know everything. But yet he is not the chief culprit; +otherwise I should not be here as Stein's ambassador. He is willing to +take the first step. + +WILKENS. + +I should not take it, if I were the master. + +PASTOR. + +Yes, old friend Ulrich, Stein is sorry that his impetuosity was the +cause of spoiling this beautiful day. + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear that, cousin Wilkens? + +PASTOR. + +The threat about dismissal was not meant as seriously as it sounded. + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear, Weiler? + +PASTOR. + +That the matter should rest there-- + +FORESTER. + +Should rest there? Pray, what does he mean by that? + +PASTOR. + +He means that he could not retract his word immediately without making +himself ridiculous. He thinks you would see this yourself. + +FORESTER (_drawling_). + +Indeed? And Godfrey? + +PASTOR (_shrugs his shoulders_). + +Is forester of Duesterwalde for the +time being. That cannot be helped-- + +FORESTER. + +That is what you say. But I tell you Godfrey is not. I am the forester +of Duesterwalde. That I am, and that I remain, until Mr. Stein proves +that I have not acted in accordance with my duty. + +PASTOR. + +But, in order that you might see how ready he is, for his part, to +redress his share of the wrong and to reestablish the old comfortable +relation, you are to draw the double amount of your present salary as a +pension. + +[FORESTER _walks up and down, and whistles_.] + +PASTOR. + +Thus far my message, old friend; and now-- + +FORESTER (_stops in front of the pastor_). + +For what, sir? Does he think of buying my honor with it? Sir, my honor +is not to be bought with money. + +[_Walks up and down, and whistles_.] + +PASTOR. + +But, queer old friend-- + +WILKENS. + +Yes, if he would only listen to one! + +FORESTER (_as before_). + +Is that pension to be given from charity? I need no charity. I can +work. I will have nothing gratis. I accept no alms. I know he cannot +dismiss me, if I have not been unfaithful. That I know from several +instances--for example, hunter Rupert in Erdmansgruen. If I allowed +myself to be dismissed without protest, it would be tantamount to a +confession that I were dishonest. Nothing could be proved against +Rupert, and he remained in his position. And who will employ a man that +has been dismissed? Sir, from my father and grandfather I have inherited +my honor, and I owe it to my children and children's children. Before me +my father occupied this post, and my grandfather before my father. +Throughout the whole valley people call me the Hereditary Forester. I am +the first of my race to be dismissed. Go out into my forest, sir, and if +it is not a sight to gladden your soul--Sir, I have planted the forest +as far as the church-yard. There my father and grandfather lie buried, +and upon their tombstones you may read their masters' testimony: "They +were honorable men and faithful servants." They are resting under green +pine trees, as behooves huntsmen. Sir, and if my grandchild should ever +come there and ask: "But why is he who planted the pines not resting +under them? Why have we no business there? Was he a scoundrel, that his +master had the right to dismiss him?" And when they are looking for my +grave, and find it behind the church-yard wall? Sir, if you can live +without your honor, it is well for you--or, rather, it is wicked of you. +But you see, sir, for me there is only one choice: either by the side of +my father and grandfather under the pine trees--or behind the +church-yard wall. Sir, I am forester here, or Mr. Stein would be obliged +to proclaim publicly that he has treated me as only a scoundrel would +treat a man. My money I have spent for his forest. I will take out +nothing but the staff with which I shall go forth into the world to seek +in my old age a new position. But from me the disgrace must be removed, +and to him it must ever remain attached. I am within my right, and I +will maintain it. WILKENS. Within your right? Well! What will you do +with your right? Right costs money. Right is a plaything for the rich, +as horses and carriages. Well! With your talk about right and wrong! +Your right, that is your obstinacy. You will even go so far as to snatch +the clothes from the bodies of your wife and children, just to keep your +obstinacy warm. + +PASTOR. + +But-- + + + +SCENE IX + +_The same. Enter_ WILLIAM. + +WILLIAM. + +Father, Andrew is outside, and refuses to come in. I told him that you +had called him. + +SOPHY. + +Come, William, let us go out to Andrew. + +FORESTER. + +Keep quiet, woman. Are you going to make him completely crazy with your +lamentations? Either you keep quiet, or you go in there, and I shall +lock you in. + +[_Goes solemnly to the rear door_.] + +Andrew! Come in at once! Do you hear? + + + +SCENE X + +_The same. Enter_ ANDREW. ANDREW _at the door; when he sees the people +he is going to withdraw_. + +FORESTER. + +Andrew, you come in. Before your superior! + + +[_Seats himself as if preparing for trial_.] + +_The_ FORESTER, SOPHY, WEILER, WILLIAM _on the left. The_ PASTOR, +WILKENS _on the right_. ANDREW, _who dares not look any one in the face, +in the centre_. + +FORESTER. + +Come here, forester's assistant Andrew Ulrich. Where do you come from? + +ANDREW. From the nursery, father. + +FORESTER. + +Where is your rifle, Andrew Ulrich? + +[ANDREW _is silent_.] + +FORESTER. + +Who has it? + +ANDREW (_in a hollow voice_). + +Godfrey. + +[FORESTER _rises involuntarily_.] + +SOPHY (_in great alarm_). + +Ulrich! + +FORESTER (_sits down again_). + +Here no one has anything to say, except the forester's assistant Ulrich +and his superior. Andrew-- + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +Why do you not look at me? + +ANDREW. + +I no longer can look any one in the face. I want to go to America as +cabin-boy. Let me go, father. + +FORESTER. + +Boy, it is your duty to answer when your superior asks. What is it that +Godfrey has? Out with it! + +ANDREW. + +I was just at my task of taking out the maple trees in the nursery-- + +FORESTER. + +As I had ordered you. + +ANDREW. + +Then came-- + +FORESTER. + +Godfrey? Go on, Andrew Ulrich. + +ANDREW. + +With six woodcutters from the Brandsberg-- + +FORESTER. + +From--go on, Andrew Ulrich. + +ANDREW. + +He was intoxicated-- + +WEILER (_half audibly_). + +As usual-- + +[_When the forester casts a look at him, he pretends not to have said +anything_.] + +ANDREW. + +And so were the woodcutters. He had them pass the bottle round. "Here we +begin," he said. "Ulrich has made a fine mess of it," he said; "for that +reason he is dismissed." When he had said that I stepped forward +forward-- + +FORESTER. + +You stepped forward?-- + +[_Rises_.] + +ANDREW. + +And said he was a miserable slanderer. And that, moreover, he had no +business to give orders in the forest. + +FORESTER (_straightens himself_). + +In the forest. + +ANDREW. + +And that he should go where he belonged. + +FORESTER (_emphatically_). + +Where he belonged. + +[_Sits down_.] + +And he-- + +ANDREW. + +Laughed. + +FORESTER (_rises and sits down again; whistles, and drums on the +table_). + +Go on. + +ANDREW. + +And said: "What does that fellow want?" + +FORESTER (_in a loud voice_). + +Andrew! + +ANDREW. + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +And you? Go on, go on. + +ANDREW. + +"Hasn't he plants from my forest in his hand?" [_Lowering his voice._] + +"Hold that thief who steals wood and plants." + +FORESTER (_short pause_). + +And they-- + +ANDREW. + +Held me. + +FORESTER. + +And you-- + +ANDREW. + +They were too many. My resistance was of no avail-- + +FORESTER (_acting as if he were present at the fight_). + +Was of no avail. They were six against one. + +ANDREW. + +I was furious when I saw what he intended to do. They took off my +clothes. I told him to shoot me, otherwise I would shoot him if he let +me escape with my life. At that he laughed. They--had--to hold--me. + +FORESTER (_jumps up_). + +And he-- + +ANDREW (_reluctantly, imploring_). + +Father-- + +FORESTER. + +And he--he-- + +ANDREW. + +He-- + +FORESTER (_faintly_). + +He-- + +ANDREW (_beside himself_). + +Father, I cannot say it. No man in God's world has ever dared to do that +to me! + +FORESTER (_drawing a deep breath_). + +Be quiet now. Say it later--Andrew. + +[_Pause. He passes by ANDREW, who now steps over to SOPHY._] + +Fine weather today, pastor. All at once the old rheumatism in my arm +begins to bother me again.--And the gnats are flying so low. We shall +have a thunderstorm before the day is over.--Andrew, he did--I never +did, and a stranger--a--say nothing, Andrew--I understand you. + +[_Goes up and down._] + +SOPHY (_to ANDREW_). + +How unfortunate that you provoked Godfrey yesterday! + +WEILER. + +Haven't I foretold it? + +SOPHY. + +You are deathly pale. I will give you some drops-- + +FORESTER (_drawn up to his full height, stops before_ ANDREW. SOPHY +_timidly draws back_). + +Listen, Andrew. And you, Weiler. + +[WEILER _advances_.] + +Open your ears! Whoever comes into my forest with a gun--you challenge +him! You understand? + +WEILER. + +Well, yes. + +FORESTER. + +Those are your instructions. You challenge him! I am forester, and +nobody else, and you are my servants. The master and his son may pass. +But whoever else comes into my forest with a gun--do you hear?--be he +who he may--whether he wears a green coat or not--he is a poacher, he is +to be challenged--"Stop! Down with your gun!" As is provided in the +regulations. If he throws it down--all right. If he does not throw it +down--fire! As is provided in the regulations. And you, William, go +without delay to town to see lawyer Schirmer. You tell him the whole +affair. He is to draw up a complaint against Stein and his Godfrey, and +is to file it with the court. Don't forget anything, William: that my +father and grandfather held the position; that people call me the +Hereditary Forester; the case of Rupert in Erdmansgruen. It probably will +not be necessary, but one cannot be too careful. Don't forget that the +forest is exposed toward the north and west and that Stein intends to +dismiss me because I refuse to act as a scoundrel toward him. If you go +now, you can be home before night. Andrew and I will accompany you as +far as the Boundary Inn. There Andrew can wait for you in the evening +when you return. + +[_To_ ANDREW, _who is examining the guns_.] + +Take the double-barreled one with the yellow strap, Andrew. I am going +to take the other. + +ANDREW (_does as told_). + +Mother, a muffler; I feel chilly. + +SOPHY (_takes one from the closet_). + +But you really should stay home, Andrew, after that outrage. + +[_Helps him to tie the muffler around his neck.] + +WILKENS. + +And you don't see that you are absolutely in the wrong? You will be +wilfully blind? + +PASTOR. + +You wish to begin a suit because of your dismissal? You cannot do that. + +FORESTER (_who in the meantime has girded on his hunting knife_). + +I cannot do that? Then it is right that he wishes to dismiss me? + +PASTOR. + +It certainly is unfair; wrong before the tribunal of the heart, but not +before the law. + +FORESTER. + +Whatever is right before the heart must also be right before the law. + +PASTOR. + +If you would permit me to explain to you-- + +FORESTER. + +Explain? Here everything is clear, except your cobwebs of the brain by +means of which those gentlemen would like to puzzle you, so that you +might lose confidence in your own common-sense. Those Buts and those +Ifs! I know all about that! The Buts and the Ifs--they originate +entirely in the head; the heart knows nothing of them; they are the +creators of intrigues. Very well, sir, go ahead with your explanation. +But confine yourself to plain Yes and No. Anything outside of that is a +nuisance. The Buts and Ifs are a nuisance. Mr. Stein intends to rob me +of my honor; he intends to reward my fidelity and my honesty with +disgrace; in my sixty-fifth year I am to stand before the world as a +scoundrel. Now, Sir, Yes or No--is that right? + +PASTOR. + +I am to answer Yes or No? Indeed, it is not right in the ordinary sense, +but-- + +FORESTER (_interrupts triumphantly_). + +Then it is not right? And if it is not right, it must be wrong. And for +this purpose the courts are there, that no wrong shall be done. No man +shall make me doubt my good right. And I shall break friendship forever +with him who says another word to me about yielding. Amen! If only a But +were required to make wrong right, then I would rather live among the +savages, then I would rather be the most miserable beast on God's earth +than a human being. Are you ready, boys? + +ANDREW _and_ WILLIAM. + +Yes. + +FORESTER. + +Come then, boys. Everything else may go to the devil, sir. But right, +sir, right must remain right! + +[_Exeunt_.] + + + +ACT III + +_The Boundary Inn._ + + + +SCENE I + +LINDENSCHMIED; HOST. _Enter_ MOeLLER, _after him_ FREI. + +MOeLLER. + +Host, let me have a drink. [_Aside_.] I guess he will find his way home; +Godfrey will. From the mill in the Dell it is scarcely a quarter of an +hour to his house.--Good evening. + +FREI (_still without_). + +Let's take a drink while we are passing. + +[_Enters_.] + +I am going over to the duke's estate. There they are having a jolly +time. + +HOST. + +God save us from that sort of jollity! Your health, Mr. Moeller! + +MOeLLER. + +Fine company! + +HOST. + +Will you not take a seat, Mr. Moeller? + +MOeLLER. + +Thank you. I still have to go to the blast-furnace this evening; my men +have gone ahead. + +[_Aside, while putting the glass to his lips_.] + +To the happy consummation of the marriage with Loehlein and Co! + +FREI. + +Over yonder things are going topsy-turvy, and with us here the crisis +will come today or tomorrow. The Hereditary Forester has already +barricaded himself in his house. + +HOST. + +Nonsense! He! He is conscientiousness personified! + +FREI. + +One is conscientious as long as it pays. That man is a fool who remains +so one hour longer. He or his people are going to shoot Godfrey wherever +they find him. + +[_Makes a gesture_.] + +And the Hereditary Forester does not waste many words. In that respect I +know the old fellow with his white moustache. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_laughing hoarsely_). + +Is that so? + +FREI (_looks at him_). + +Do you mean to say you are going to take Godfrey's part? Hey, +Lindenschmied? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_as before_). + +Godfrey's-- + +FREI. + +Every child knows how much you love him! + +LINDENSCHMIED (_with a gesture, as before_). + +Ha! Ha! + +FREI. + +Weiler himself heard the Hereditary Forester say it. And, I tell you, +what the Hereditary Forester says--that's as good as if another fellow +had already done it. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +He'll look out for his skin, the Hereditary Forester will. + +[_Softly._] + +If there were no judges that sit around the green table, and if there +were no-- + +[_Indicates by a pantomime that he means the hangman._] + +FREI. + +His reign is at an end. He--For now it is + +[_Strikes the table._] + +Liberty! Long life to the Hereditary Forester! And whoever has any evil +intentions toward him--I am alluding to no one-- + +MOeLLER (_hurriedly_). + +Here, host. Almost eight o'clock! + +HOST. + +Are you in such a hurry, Mr. Moeller? + +MOeLLER. + +At the blast-furnace they are waiting for me. + +HOST. + +Your change-- + +MOeLLER (_already at the door_). + +Never mind! Credit it to me for tomorrow. + +[_Exit._] + + + +SCENE II + +LINDENSCHMIED; HOST; FREI. + +FREI (_rises, shaking his fist after him_). + +Nothing shall be credited to you and fellows of your kind. Everything +shall be paid to you. Lindenschmied, are you coming along to the duke's +estate? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +I'm going my own way. [_Advances._] + +Those judges around the green table! The idea, that an honest fellow +should be frightened when a leaf rustles, and look behind him to see +whether the constable isn't after him! + +FREI. + +We'll knock it down--the green table--I tell you. We'll see to it that +in ten years from now nobody will be able to get any information as to +what sort of thing a constable ever was. Now it is Liberty, and Order +has ceased to exist: everybody can do what he pleases. No more +constables, no green table, I tell you. No tower, no chains. If the Lord +had created the hares expressly for the nobleman, he would at once have +stamped his coat of arms into their fur. That would have been an easy +matter for a person like the Lord. Now men know that those who are in +prisons are martyrs worthy of veneration, and that the noblemen are +rascals, be they ever so honest. And the industrious people are rascals, +for it is their fault that honest people who do not like to work are +poor. That you can read printed in the newspapers. And if the Hereditary +Forester gets hold of Godfrey [_pantomime_] nobody can hurt him for +that; for Godfrey got honest people into prison, when they had stolen. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +And he will not be punished? No? And another fellow neither, if he does +it? + +FREI. + +Another fellow neither, I tell you. Over yonder the honest people set +fire to the castle and plundered it; several people lost their lives in +the affair; nobody cares a fig. Lucky he who now has an old grudge. And +Ulrich need not run far. Godfrey is reeling around there in the Dell; +he's lost his hat-- + +LINDENSCHMIED (_puts his hands with convulsive haste into his pockets_). + +And nothing--absolutely nothing--not even a blunt knife about me! + + + +SCENE III + +_The same. Enter ANDREW._ + +ANDREW (_entering_). + +Isn't it close in here! [_Takes off his muffler._] Good evening. + +[_Wraps the muffler around the lock of the gun, and puts the gun next to +him against the wall._] + +I advise every one not to touch this; the gun is loaded. + +[_To the host._] + +I do not know what is the matter with me. All at once I began to feel so +badly out there. I was going to wait for my brother at the boundary. +HOST. + +Make yourself at home, Mr. Andrew. + +ANDREW. + +I suppose William has not yet come. + +[_Throws himself on a bench, puts his arms upon the table and rests his +head upon them._] + +FREI (_rattles his glass on the table_). + +Let me have another one, host. And it is a favor that I now drink in +your place, when you still charge for it. In a week from now you will +have to provide the stuff, and no honest man need pay you a penny for +it, I tell you. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_from this point on incessantly casting furtive glances +sometimes at_ ANDREW, _sometimes at the gun_). + +If he would only go to sleep--that fellow! + +[_Leaning across the table, secretly to_ FREI.] + +There in the Dell, you say?--And are you quite sure, Frei, that nothing +will be punished any longer? + +FREI. + +Superstition, I tell you! If you do something, and they hang you, you +may call me a rascal for the rest of your life. Look here! What formerly +was called fidelity and honesty, that's a tale with which old grannies +used to humbug us. And a fellow that keeps his word is a scoundrel; such +a one I would not trust as far as the door. The common people are +essentially honest, because they are the common people. You ought to +hear those gentlemen over there talk; there was a professor among them; +he ought to know. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_leads him aside_). + +But what about conscience? And about the hereafter? + +FREI. + +All superstition! Nothing else, let me tell you. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +That's what I always thought. But formerly a person was not allowed to +say such things. + +FREI. + +They humbugged people with heaven and hell, so that our noble +and gracious master might keep his hares all to himself. They have +drummed a conscience into poor people in their childhood, so that they +should submit patiently when the rich are living in luxury and +extravagance. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +And he is in the Dell? + +[HOST _becomes attentive._] + +FREI. + +Who? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +That-- + +[_Buttons his coat._] + +FREI. + +Where are you going? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +To pay debts before another day comes. + +[_While he watches_ ANDREW _furtively, he fumbles with his left hand in +his vest-pocket, in order to pay the host_.] + +Why, I can't get it out with-- + +FREI. + +The fingers of your left hand are stiff. + +LINDENSCHMIED (_with a pantomime_). + +Those of my right will soon become crooked. + +FREI. + +Have you had a stroke? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_laughing hoarsely_). + +Yes, a leaden one. Two ounces of powder and three of buckshot. + +[_Constantly speaks in a subdued voice, so as not to awaken_ ANDREW.] +A memorandum from that fellow in the Dell. + +FREI. + +From Godfrey? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +Because I coined money out of the deer belonging to the owner of +Strahlau. There was enough uncoined money running about in the forest. + +FREI. + +Let me have another one, host. + +[_Holds out his glass._] + +LINDENSCHMIED (_lost in thought, alone in the foreground_). + +Six times I ran out where he was to pass; but he did not come. At that +time conscience was still the fashion. Then I thought: "It is not to be +now," and postponed it to some time when he should come along by +accident, so that I should be obliged to see that it was to be. For +whole nights it choked me like a nightmare and wasted my body, that I +should not lay hands on him, and now--ha! ha! ha! + +[_Gives a short convulsive laugh, thus rousing himself out of his +thoughts; looks around embarrassed._] + +FREI. + +Did you laugh, Lindenschmied? + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +I don't know whether it was me. + +FREI. + +You have a queer laugh. Are you going along, Lindenschmied, into +the ducal territory? + +LINDENSCHMIED (_slaps him on the shoulder_). + +Man, now we have liberty! I have my own way. + +FREI. + +I don't care. + +[_Steps to the background to the host_.] + +What do I owe you on this last occasion that it is necessary to pay? +There; give me change. + +HOST. + +You have had three, four-- + +[LINDENSCHMIED _has availed himself of the moment when no one is looking +at him to take away_ ANDREW'S _gun furtively, and hurries out with it_.] + +FREI. + +What is the time, host? + +HOST. + +Past eight. + +FREI (_going out_). + +Good-by. + + + +SCENE IV + +HOST; ANDREW. + +ANDREW (_starts up_). + +Eight? Now William may come. + +HOST (_approaches_ ANDREW _timidly_). + +You are an honest man. To you I may unburden my mind. They are an +abominable set--those that just left. They let fall some words. Godfrey +is drunk in the Dell, and Lindenschmied, his mortal enemy, has gone +after him. And what didn't he say! He was talking of making his fingers +crooked. And that fellow is capable of everything! + +ANDREW. + +You believe Lindenschmied intends to have Godfrey's life? + +HOST. + +I have said nothing. If I expose their plot, they will burn my house +over my head. And if I do nothing-- + +[_Walks up and down_.] + +ANDREW (_was about to rise, but sits down again_). + +To save that fellow? Let happen to him what God permits. I will not turn +a finger to save him. + +HOST (_as before_). + +What shall I do? + +ANDREW. + +Father says: When a person is in distress every decent man must come to +his assistance, and when it's all over he may ask: Whom did I assist? + +[Illustration: MOSES ON MT. SINAI SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD]. + +HOST. + +Perhaps I had better inform? But-- + +ANDREW (_rises with sudden decision_). + +I am going. I will see whether I can find Godfrey. I am sure nothing +will happen to William. It is only a few steps from here to the house. +What am I looking for? My muffler. There in my temples something is +hammering and buzzing. What did I do with it? I tied it around the gun. + +[_When he cannot find it_.] + +But where is my gun? + +HOST. + +You miss your gun? + +ANDREW. + +I put it right here. The one with the yellow strap. + +HOST. + +Only a moment ago I saw it standing there. + +ANDREW. + +Did you take it up, perhaps? + +HOST. + +I? I have not touched it. Good heavens! If Lindenschmied--you were +resting, and I was just counting. What is to be done? + +ANDREW. + +Nothing. I go without my gun. I have no time to get another one from +home. + +HOST. + +But unarmed-- + +ANDREW. + +Never mind! If that pain in my chest only does not become worse. + +[_At the door_.] + +I only hope I shall not be too late. + +[_From without_.] + +Good-night, host. + +[_Exeunt both_.] + + + +SCENE V + +_In the Dell. Picturesque forest glen; in the background the brook right +across the stage; on the other side rocks, along which a steep, narrow +path runs parallel with the brook. Twilight._ + +_Enter_ ROBERT _with a gun on his shoulder_; KATHARINE. + +KATHARINE. + +How gruesome it is here! We have gone a long way from the mansion. Where +are we now, Mr. Robert? + +ROBERT. + +In the Dell, Katharine. + +KATHARINE. + +In the Dell? Where one is never safe? Where there are always poachers +from across the Duchy's frontier? + +[_Looks about timidly_.] + +ROBERT. + +Don't be afraid, little one. We have a reliable companion with us-- + +[_Putting his hand on his gun_.] + +Do you see over there? + +KATHARINE. + +Something glimmering like a white wall with dark shutters-- + +ROBERT. + +That is the forester's house. + +KATHARINE. + +Really? Yes, thank heaven! Now I see the stag's horns on +the roof-tree outlined against the evening sky. + +ROBERT. + +Here is the letter. But you must not carry it so openly in your hand. +Have you thought of some pretext, in case the old man should meet you? + +KATHARINE (_bashful, and smiling with self-satisfaction_). + +Oh, Mr. Robert, do you suppose a girl is so stupid? Don't worry about +that. My little sisters take knitting and sewing lessons from the young +lady--so-- + +ROBERT (_folds the letter, which he was reading_). + +Here it is, Katharine. But give that letter only into Mary's or her +mother's hands; to no one else, neither to Andrew nor William. Only into +her own or her mother's hands. + +KATHARINE. + +But must I go all alone so far? + +ROBERT. + +It is scarcely two gunshots. Nobody must see me in the vicinity of the +forester's house. When you go home, you follow the road. Only in case +you should not succeed in delivering the letter come back. + +KATHARINE. + +But surely you will not go away? + +ROBERT. + +No, Katharine, I shall remain here. + +[_Exit_ KATHARINE.] + + + +SCENE VI + +ROBERT, _alone; later_, GODFREY; finally MOeLLER _with two workingmen_. + +ROBERT (_looks for some time after_ KATHARINE; _then walks up and +down_). + +I wonder whether she will come? Whether she will leave her father for my +sake? + +[_Stops_.] + +I shall go into the world as a hunter. I am young, strong, and +understand my profession thoroughly--why should I not succeed? + +[_Losing himself in thought_.] + +And then--when I come home from the forest--healthily tired out by my +work in the open air--and she has been watching for me--and comes to +meet me--and takes my gun, so as to have something to carry--and hangs +it on her shoulder--and my hunter's house standing like that one +yonder--the trees rustling--and I holding her in my arms, exclaiming +jubilantly: Only that happiness is happiness which one owes to one's own +efforts!--And then-- + +[_The report of a gun is heard, and startles him_.] + +GODFREY (_still behind the scenes, groaning_). + +Scoundrel! + +ROBERT. + +What is that? + +GODFREY (_staggers upon the scene_; ROBERT _hurries toward him and +catches him just as he is falling down_). + +I--am--done for-- + +ROBERT. + +Godfrey! For heaven's sake! Has some one shot you? Hallo! Is nobody +near? Hallo! Help! + +MOeLLER (_behind the scenes_). + +Hurry up, men! Over there! The shouting comes from the path! + +ROBERT. + +People are coming. Come here, come here! Help! + +MOeLLER (_as before_). + +That is Mr. Robert's voice. + +ROBERT. + +If help is to be of any avail here, it must come quickly. + +[_Opens_ GODFREY'S _coat and vest_.] + +MOeLLER. + +To be sure, it is you, Mr. Stein. + +[_Enters with two workingmen_.] + +But-- + +ROBERT. + +Moeller, is that you? Look here what has happened!--Are you still alive, +Godfrey? + +GODFREY. + +Still--but-- + +MOeLLER (_coming up_). + +Godfrey! Merciful heavens! + +ROBERT. + +Shot from ambush. The bullet entered at the back. + +MOeLLER. + +Godfrey, speak! Who did it? + +GODFREY. + +He had--the rifle--with the yellow strap-- + +ROBERT. + +Andrew's rifle? + +GODFREY. + +He--threatened--to shoot me-- + +ROBERT. + +It is not possible. + +MOeLLER. + +Was it Andrew, Godfrey? + +GODFREY. + +Andrew--yes-- + +MOeLLER. + +He is dying. + +[_Pause_.] + +Take him up, men. And you, Mr. Stein--this here is a nest of murderers. +Come along. There are others about here lying in ambush. Just now we met +Weiler with a gun--that vicious fellow. He was out spying, that's clear. +It is a regular hunt. Come along! But, for heaven's sake, why will you +not-- + +ROBERT. + +Never mind! Go ahead. + +MOeLLER. + +But what do you intend to do? And your father--if I leave you alone in +danger--if I do not bring you home with me! How will he ever believe me, +that I tried to persuade you? + +ROBERT. + +Why, you have witnesses here with you. When I say a thing I mean it--I +am going to stay here. + +[_Walks up and down in agitation_.] + +MOeLLER. + +Well, come along, men. You have heard it. + +[_While going out_.] + +Good heavens! How will it all end? + +[_The men have lifted up the corpse; exeunt with_ MOeLLER.] + + + +SCENE VII + +ROBERT, _alone; then_ ANDREW; _finally_ LINDENSCHMIED. + +ROBERT. + +Disgraceful! Disgraceful! Could it be possible that Andrew was capable +of this kind of revenge? And I must believe it--I must! The dying man +said it; he had threatened him with it--it was his gun--and all this is +real--here the murdered man died--here is--with his blood he wrote it in +the turf, so that I can have no doubt. And such men stand between me and +my happiness? Take a firm stand, Robert; here everything is at stake. +You are dealing with men who are afraid of no crime. Who comes there? It +is Andrew himself. [_Shouting to_ ANDREW, _who is not yet visible_.] +Come on! If you are looking for me, murderer! You shall not find me +defenseless and unwary as Godfrey-- + +ANDREW (_entering, pale and tottering_). + +Godfrey?-- + +ROBERT. + +There they carry him. He has been murdered, and you have done it. + +ANDREW (_angrily_). + +I, Robert? + +ROBERT. + +The murdered man recognized you and your gun--and your conscience +betrays you. + +ANDREW. + +Hear me--for God's sake! + +[LINDENSCHMIED _comes stealing along the rocky path in the background_.] + +ROBERT. + +Flee, murderer! Every step carries you nearer the gallows! Here is the +blood that accuses you, and you yourself carry the confession on your +pale face. The fever that shakes you testifies against you. + +ANDREW. + +May the fever rack your bones, shameless liar! The gun was stolen from +me by Lindenschmied, who was on the lookout for Godfrey. I hurried after +him as soon as I learned it. I fell in a swoon--by sheer will-force I +recovered from the swoon--and-- + +ROBERT. + +You say it is Lindenschmied who-- + +ANDREW. + +If you do not believe me, look there toward the rocky path-- + +ROBERT. + +Murderer, stand! Or I shoot you down! + +[LINDENSCHMIED _hurries across the stage on the rocky path._ ROBERT +_follows him below_.] + +ANDREW (_totters after him_). + +Be careful, Robert! The man is desperate--it is a matter of life and +death. + +LINDENSCHMIED. + +Stand back! I'll shoot. + +ROBERT (_also behind the scenes_). + +Down with your gun, and stand! + +ANDREW. + +He is taking aim--jump aside, Robert! + +[_Two shots are heard in succession_.] + +Now it is done! + +[_Disappears in the bushes_.] + + * * * * * + + + +SCENE VIII + +_The Manor House_. + +_Enter_ STEIN, _uneasy; then_ BASTIAN; _later, the_ PASTOR. + +STEIN. + +I wonder whether Moeller forgot to send some one to look for Robert? Or +should the boy--that quarrel with Andrew! Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _appears at the door_.] + +Where is the bookkeeper? + +BASTIAN. + +Toward evening he went to the blast-furnace. + +STEIN. + +Hasn't Robert been home again since noon? + +BASTIAN. + +Mr. Robert made preparations for a journey, and then went away with +Katharine, the Steward's daughter. + +[STEIN _makes a sign of dismissal. Exit_ BASTIAN.] + +STEIN. + +And the pastor--he might have been back long ago. + +BASTIAN (_at the door_). The pastor. + +STEIN. In the nick of time! + +[_The_ PASTOR _appears_.] + +STEIN (_shakes hands with him_). + +At last! At last! Have you good news? + +PASTOR (_shrugging his shoulders_). + +It might be better. + +STEIN. + +Did you meet that hothead, Robert? + +PASTOR. + +No. + +STEIN. + +I was in hopes, because you stayed away so long, that you would bring +him with you. + +PASTOR. + +A sick person, to whom I was called while on my way to you, kept me +until now. + +STEIN. + +Then fancy that you are coming from a sick person to one more seriously +sick. If impatience, dissatisfaction with oneself, evil presentiments, +were diseases, then I should be a dangerous patient.--But your answer--I +don't even give you time to catch your breath. [_Motions to him to take +a seat; sits down, but rises again_.] If at least I could remain seated! +Six times I mechanically took my hat in my hand; to that extent my old +habit of being together with the forester makes my hands and feet twitch +worse than the gout. In the meantime a thought struck me--but first of +all: How do matters stand with the obstinate old fellow? + +PASTOR. + +Your offer did not exactly meet with the kindest reception. And yet, who +knows whether, after all, he had not agreed to it, if unfortunately the +affair with Andrew-- + +STEIN. + +With Andrew? What affair? + +[_Jumps up_.] + +You don't mean to say he has come to blows with Robert? + +PASTOR. + +This time only with Godfrey-- + +STEIN (_sits down again_). + +You see I am trembling with impatience. + +PASTOR. + +Godfrey, intoxicated as usual, treated him like a prowling thief, had +him whipped-- + +[STEIN _jumps up again_.] + +PASTOR. + +Then it was no wonder that the old man would no longer listen to +anything, and gave orders to treat as a poacher every one, except you, +who enters the forest with a gun. + +STEIN (_who has been walking up and down_). + +Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _appears at the door_.] + +As soon as Moeller comes the scoundrel shall be deposed, the brute shall +be locked up--do you hear? + +BASTIAN. + +The bookkeeper? + +STEIN. + +Godfrey--and Moeller with him, if he--come, pastor. + +[_Takes his hat and cane. Exit_ BASTIAN.] + +PASTOR. + +You intend-- + +STEIN. + +You ask?--I am going to the old man! I am going to brush away those +caprices in spite of all Wilkens and Moellers! + +PASTOR. + +That's right! I am with you. [_Rises_.] + +STEIN (_stops_). + +Wait a moment, parson. Am I to have had that good idea in vain? Listen, +what came into my mind a little while ago--as if straight from heaven! +Parson, what do you say if this very day I should transfer Duesterwalde +to Robert as his own independent property? He could reinstate the old +man with all honors, and nobody's dignity would be hurt. I shall +immediately draw up the deed of transfer. Go quickly to the forester's +house, parson. + +PASTOR. + +With this message-- + +STEIN. + +Before the old man, or the hotheaded boys, or all three, do something +impetuous which-- + +[_Makes preparations for writing_.] + +PASTOR. + +And tomorrow-- + +STEIN. + +As if today had never been-- + +PASTOR. + +Mr. Stein comes as usual around the corner of the forester's house and +knocks at the window, and the white moustache inside grunts his +"Immediately--" + +STEIN. + +And if you meet Robert-- + +PASTOR. + +I shall be the first one to congratulate the new proprietor of +Duesterwalde. + +STEIN. + +And today you bring them all along--the old man, the boys, the mother +and the bride. Then[_advances to the pastor at the door_], +as a preliminary celebration we'll crack a bottle of my oldest +Johannisberger. But what is the matter out there? Who comes rushing up +the stairs? + +[_At the door_.] What has happened? + + + +SCENE IX + +_The same_: MOeLLER, _then_ BASTIAN. + +MOeLLER (_comes in, beside himself_). + +Horrible! Horrible! + +STEIN. + +But what is the matter? + +MOeLLER. + +A murder!--A dreadful murder! + +STEIN. + +But, man alive, speak-- + +MOeLLER. + +Mr. Robert-- + +STEIN. My son! + +[_Falls into a chair_.] + +PASTOR. + +Has Robert been murdered? + +[_Goes anxiously up to_ STEIN.] + +_Enter_ BASTIAN. + +MOeLLER. + +Not yet. Not yet, I hope. But--I am quite beside myself. Ulrich's Andrew +has already shot and killed Godfrey. Those from the forester's house +have instituted a regular hunt for their enemies. I had Godfrey carried +home. He looks horrible. The bullet entered at the left side of the +spine. He died in Mr. Robert's arms. I asked him: Was it Andrew, +Godfrey? It was Andrew, he said--it was Andrew--and lay down a dead man. +I implored Mr. Robert to come home for God's sake; he was quite beside +himself, and would not come. And I had not gone two hundred steps with +my men, when two more shots were fired behind us. + +STEIN (_rises, beside himself_). + +Mount your horse at once--ride till it drops dead--only be quick--get +soldiers from the town--surround the whole forest--catch that murderer's +band from the forester's house! You, Bastian, get quickly my Luettich +rifle, the one that's loaded--then call the workingmen--have them +armed--to--where was it, Moeller? + +MOeLLER. + +At the first bridge--in the Dell, scarcely ten minutes beyond the +forester's house. + +PASTOR. + +God grant that the worst may still be prevented! + +STEIN (_stamps his foot_). + +Bastian! Bastian! Why are you still standing there! Make haste! + +[_Exit_ MOeLLER.] + +And I--while--Bastian! + +[BASTIAN _brings the rifle_. STEIN _tears it from him_.] + +I am coming! +Robert, hold your own! I am coming! + +[_Exeunt omnes_.] + + + +ACT IV + +_Twilight. The_ FORESTER'S _House._ + + + +SCENE I + +WILKENS; SOPHY. + +WILKENS. + +Your husband has been dismissed. There is no doubt about that. And if he +desires to remain here he is going just the wrong way about it. Stein +certainly cannot afford to allow Ulrich to gain his point by defiance +and revolt. Godfrey now is forester. Well, Godfrey is a brutal fellow; +but here he is in the right. If now they should come together, your +husband and Godfrey? And each is going to treat the other as a poacher? +Or if Godfrey should come across Andrew once more? And if he does what +his father commanded him? Or if Andrew and young Stein come together? +Well? And viewed in the most charitable light, Ulrich is a dismissed +man, whom nobody will wish to employ after this open rebellion of which +he has been guilty. And what is then to become of you and your +children? + +SOPHY. + +I am sure you will not withdraw your aid from us. If you would only talk +to him once more! + +WILKENS. + +After the trump that he has played? Even if it were not for that, I +value my breath too much to preach to deaf ears. You and your children +must leave him. That I said to myself a little while ago, while on my +way, and made a solemn resolution to bring this about; and I came back +to tell you. Before you have a corpse or a murderer in the house-- + +SOPHY (_throws up her hands in terror_). + +Matters surely cannot come to that pass! + +WILKENS. + +Well. I see you'll risk it. You also are a queer mother. But I am not so +indifferent as you, and I will not have a catastrophe on my conscience, +if I can prevent it. I have most to lose by this. To be brief: If you +leave him and come with your children to me, I shall have it settled +that very hour that you and your children are to be my heirs. Till +tomorrow noon you have plenty of time to consider the matter. If by noon +tomorrow you are at the Boundary Inn, where I will wait for you, then +we'll go at once into town to the notary; if you are not there--all +right also. But I'll be a scoundrel--and you know I am as good as my +word--and cursed be my hand, if after that it ever gives a piece of +bread either to you or your children. + +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY (_quite overcome; then follows him anxiously and hastily_). + +But, cousin! Cousin Wilkens! + + + +SCENE II + +MARY _alone; then_ SOPHY _returning_. + +MARY (_has a letter in her hand_). + +Why did I take it till I had considered matters?--and then I had it in +my hand. And Katharine, too, was so quickly gone!--I should not have +taken it! + +SOPHY (_reappearing_). + +Those cruel men! Prayers avail nothing. What have you there, Mary? + +MARY. + +A letter from Robert. + +SOPHY. + +If your father should see that! + +MARY. + +I cannot understand at all how I came to accept it; but I felt so sorry +for Robert. Katharine told me he was down in the Dell, and waiting. Then +I again recollected my dream of last night. + +SOPHY. + +A dream? + +MARY. + +I dreamt I was at the spring among the willows in my favorite spot, and +was sitting among the many colored flowers and looking up into the sky. +There I saw a thunder-storm, and I became as depressed as if I were to +die. And the child, you know, the one that had been with me fourteen +years ago when I lost my way, was sitting beside me and said: Poor Mary! +and pulled the bridal wreath out of my hair, and in place of it fastened +to my bosom a large blood-red rose. Then I fell backwards into the +grass, I knew not how. Yonder in the village the bells were ringing, and +the singing of the birds, the chirping of the crickets, the soft evening +breeze in the willows above me--all that seemed like a lullaby. And the +turf sank down with me lower and ever lower, and the chimes and the +singing sounded ever more distant--the sky became blue once more, and I +felt so light and free-- + +SOPHY. + +A strange dream! Have you opened the letter? + +MARY. + +No, mother. And I do not wish to do so. + +SOPHY. + +At least don't let your father see it. Alas, Mary! we shall be obliged +to leave your father! + +MARY. + +Leave father? We? + +SOPHY. + +He is coming. Do not betray anything! Put away the letter. Put the Bible +there before you, so that be may not suspect anything. I will try once +more--if he thinks we are going away, he perhaps may yet give in, and we +may stay. + + + +SCENE III + +_The stage is becoming darker and darker._ + +_The_ FORESTER; SOPHY; MARY. + +FORESTER. + +William not yet back? + +SOPHY. + +I have not seen him. + +[FORESTER _steps to the window, and, lost in thought, drums against the +panes_. SOPHY _begins packing_.] + +MARY. + +But, mother-- + +SOPHY. + +Be quiet now, Mary, and don't take part in the conversation. + +FORESTER (_has turned around and watched his wife for some time_). + +What are you doing there? + +SOPHY (_without looking up_). + +I am packing some dresses--if I have to go away-- + +FORESTER. + + We don't have to go. There is a law to prevent that. + +SOPHY (_shaking her head_). _Your_ law? [_Continues packing_.] + +_I_ shall be obliged to go away with the children. + +FORESTER (_surprised_). + +You are going to-- + +SOPHY. + +If you don't come to terms with Stein-- + +FORESTER. + +If-- + +SOPHY. + +You need not get angry, Ulrich. You cannot act otherwise, and neither +can I. I do not reproach you; I say nothing, absolutely nothing. You +persist in regarding as your enemy whoever counsels you to yield--and +cousin Wilkens is going to disinherit the children if you remain +obstinate, and if I and the children are not in his house by noon +tomorrow. Under the circumstances I can do nothing but go in silence. + +FORESTER (_drawing a deep breath_). + +You wish-- + +SOPHY. I wish nothing. You wish and cousin Wilkens wishes. You cruel men +decree our fate, and--we must bear it. If you would give in, then, +indeed, we might stay. Do you believe I am going with a light heart? As +far as I am concerned, I should be willing to stand by you till death. +But for the children's sake and--for your sake also. + +FORESTER (_gloomily_). + +How for my sake? + +SOPHY. + +You are dismissed, you have no resources; and another position at your +age--after your affair with Stein--you might-- + +FORESTER (_violently_). + +Accept charity? For my wife and children? + +SOPHY. + +Don't become angry. I don't say: Yield. I will press nothing upon you. +You cannot yield, and I--cannot remain--unless you yield. If we must +part [_Her voice shakes_]--then let us part amicably. Let us forgive +each other for what one party does against the interests of the other, +or [_with gentle reproach_]--for what the other party thinks is being +done against his interests. + +FORESTER. + +You intend, then, going to Wilkens? + +SOPHY. + +I must. + +FORESTER. + +And the children are to go also? + +SOPHY. + +It is for their sake that I go. + +FORESTER. + +Will you not also take Nero along? Out there? The dog? Why should the +dog remain longer with his dismissed master? Take the dog along. And +when I get my rights, as I am bound to get them--and stand before the +world no longer as a scoundrel--then--why, then the dog may come back +again. You think he is not going to leave me? Surely the dumb beast is +not going to be more stupid than human beings are? Wife and children are +prudent, and only such a poor beast is going to be stupid? One ought to +kick the beast for such stupidity. An old man, a ruined man, who in his +old age would be branded as a scoundrel, if Stein had his will, and such +a beast refuses to see reason? After fifty years of faithful service +thrown out of my position as a scoundrel, because I refuse to be a +scoundrel--and I have sacrificed my own money into the bargain, and the +poor beast in its kennel is going to show more gratitude than the rich +Stein in his mansion? In that case one should simply blow out the brains +of the whole brood of beasts, if they served no other purpose but to +make man bow his head in shame before them. [_Walks up and down; turns +to her with emotion_.] We are to be two? After twenty-five years?--Very +well! Then from now on may each suffer alone--as long as the heart holds +out! + +SOPHY. + +Ulrich-- + +[_She is obliged to restrain_ MARY, _who wishes to throw herself at the_ +FORESTER's _feet_]. + +FORESTER. + +From now on we are two. Go away! Go away! Wilkens is rich, and I am a +poor man in spite of my right. You're going after the money. I'll not +prevent you. But if you say you have acted rightly--then--and now the +matter is disposed of. Not one more word about it. + + + +SCENE IV + +_The same. Enter_ WILLIAM. + +FORESTER (_seated on the right of the stage_). + +Come here, William. Where did you leave Andrew? + +WILLIAM. + +I waited for him a quarter of an hour at the Boundary Inn. + +FORESTER. + +Perhaps he thought you were coming later-- + +SOPHY (_aside_). + +Andrew has not come back with him? I can't get my uncle's words out of +my head. + +[MARY _lights the lamp and puts it on the table by the_ FORESTER.] + +FORESTER. + +Did you ask the lawyer how long it would be before the matter is +settled? Till I have my rights? + +WILLIAM. + +He refuses to institute proceedings. + +SOPHY (_drawing a deep breath; aside_). + +Then there is still some hope left! + +FORESTER (_rises; quite perplexed_). + +He refuses-- + +WILLIAM. + +He says you are not in the right, father. + +FORESTER. + +Not in the right? + +[_Is obliged to sit down_.] + +SOPHY (_as before_). + +If he only would yield. + +WILLIAM. + +He said state officials could not be deposed, unless it could +be proved against them that they deserved it. But you were not a state +official; your master was not the state, but he who owned the forest, +the owner of the estate. + +FORESTER (_with suppressed anger_). + +Then, if I were an official of the state, Stein would not be allowed to +do me an injustice. And because I am not, he is allowed to brand me as a +scoundrel?--You did not understand him rightly, William! + +WILLIAM. + +He repeated it to me three times-- + +FORESTER. + +Because you did not represent the matter to him as it is--that already +your great-grandfather had been forester of Duesterwalde, and your +grandfather after him, and that for forty years, throughout the whole +valley, people have called me the Hereditary Forester. + +WILLIAM. + +That, he said, was an honor to both masters and servants; but before the +court nothing could be based on it. + +FORESTER. + +But he does not know that Stein wants to depose me, because +I had his best interests at heart, that the forest is exposed on the +north and west. A lawyer does not know that a forest is like a vault, +where one stone always holds and supports the others. Thus the vault can +withstand any force, but take out only a dozen stones from the centre, +and the whole thing comes tumbling about your ears. + +WILLIAM. + +At such arguments he only shrugged his shoulders. + +FORESTER (_growing more excited_). + +And my money that I have put into it? And all the trees that I planted +with my own hands? Hey? Which the wind now shall wantonly break? + +WILLIAM. + +At that he only smiled. He said you might be a very honest man, but in +court that would prove nothing. + +FORESTER (_rises_). + +If one is an honest man, that proves nothing? Then one must be a rascal, +if he is to prove anything in court?--But how about Rupert of +Erdmansgruen--hey, William? + +WILLIAM. + +He happened to have been a state official. After I had left +him, I even went to another lawyer. This man laughed right in my face. +But to that fellow I spoke my mind like a hunter's son. + +FORESTER. + +You did well. But what about Andrew? Hey? + +WILLIAM. + +He said that you had been deposed at the time that Andrew went into the +forest. You ought to know yourself that no stranger is allowed to take +plants from a forest according to his own inclination, without the +knowledge and consent of the forester. That then Godfrey was the lawful +forester, and consequently Andrew had no one to blame but himself, if he +was treated as a poacher. And that Andrew himself must understand it +would be wiser to take his punishment quietly, and not stir up the +matter any further; and he might be glad to have come off so easily. + +[_The_ FORESTER _has seated himself again; pauses; then whistles, and +drums on the table_.] + +SOPHY (_watching him with anxiety_). + +When he becomes so calm-- + +FORESTER. + +So I must remain a scoundrel before the world? Very well!--Why don't you +pack your things, you women-folk? William, get me a bottle of wine. + +SOPHY. + +You are going to drink wine? And you know it is not good for you, +Ulrich? And just now, in your present state of vexation-- + +FORESTER. + +I must get my mind off the subject. + +SOPHY. + +You always become so excited after wine. If you drink now it may be your +death. + +FORESTER. + +Better to drink oneself to death than live as a scoundrel! And a +scoundrel I must remain before the world. William, a bottle and a glass. +Have matters come to that pass, that I am no longer master in my own +house? Hurry up, there! + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + +SOPHY. + +If only you would change your mind! But you will not do it, and--I must +leave you. + +FORESTER. + +That matter is settled, woman, and my resolution is taken. None of your +lamentations! Tomorrow I am going. Since I am not an official of the +State and--today I intend to be right jolly. + +[WILLIAM _brings wine; the_ FORESTER _pours out and drinks repeatedly, +every time a full glass. Between glasses he whistles and drums_.] + +FORESTER. + +Put that light away, so that I may not see my shadow. + +[WILLIAM _puts the lamp on the table near the women, seats himself by +them and takes the still opened Bible before him_.] + +SOPHY (_aside and to Mary_). + +Andrew still stays out, and it has been dark for a long while. And +tomorrow I must go. Now I say indeed: I must go; and yet I am not sure +that, when the moment comes, I shall have the strength of mind to carry +out my intention--after we have lived together for twenty years, sharing +joys and sorrows! And to say farewell to the forest with its green +leaves which all day long looks into every window! How still it will +seem to us, when during the entire day we no longer shall hear the +rustling of the trees, the singing of the birds, and the sound of the +wood-cutter's ax. And the old cuckoo-clock there--it was ticking when I +was a bride, and now you too have been betrothed here! There in that +corner you raised yourself on your feet for the first time, Mary, and +began to walk, and took three steps; and there where your father is +sitting, I sat and wept for joy. Is that what life is? An everlasting +bidding farewell? If, after all, I were to remain? And yet when I think +of all the things uncle said might happen! If Robert's letter--William, +please go into the garden. I must have left the glass by the spring, or +in the arbor or somewhere thereabouts. + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + + + +SCENE V + +_The same, without_ WILLIAM. SOPHY _and_ MARY _in front of the stage +busied with the lamp. The_ FORESTER _sometimes seated in the rear, +sometimes walking up and down past the table to the window_. + +SOPHY (_having waited till_ WILLIAM _is out_). + +Suppose you find out what Robert has been writing. + +MARY. + +You mean I should open the letter, mother? + +SOPHY. + +Perhaps everything can still be arranged, and Robert writes us how. If +you will not open it, give me the letter. If I do it, you have nothing +to reproach yourself for. + +[_Opens it_.] + +If I only could read by lamp-light. If I put on my spectacles, he would +notice it. Read it to me, Mary. + +MARY. + +You want me to read it, mother? + +SOPHY. + +If I give you permission, you may surely do so. Put it there next to the +Bible. And if he comes near, or his attention is attracted, you read +from the Bible. + +MARY. + +But what? + +SOPHY. + +Whatever your eyes light upon. If I cough, you read from the Bible. +First the letter. + +MARY (_reads_). + +"Dear Mary. I have so much to-- + +SOPHY. + +He is getting up again from his chair. Read from the Bible till he is at +the window. + +MARY. + +"Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth: as he hath +caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again." + +[FORESTER _drums on the window_.] + +SOPHY (_constantly watching him_). + +Now the letter, Mary. Till I cough. + +MARY. + +"I have so much to tell you. Sometime during the evening or the night +come to the Dell by the spring under the willows. There I shall wait for +you. Come, Mary. Tomorrow morning I am going out into the world to win +happiness for you and for me. If you do not come, I know what you mean, +and you will never see me again." + +SOPHY. + +He intends to go? Out into the world? Forever, if you do not go? Then +everything would be lost! + +MARY. + +"You will never again see your Robert." + +SOPHY (_coughs, just as the_ FORESTER _is turning away from the +window_). + +From the Bible, Mary. + +MARY. + +"As he hath caused a blemish in a man, so it shall be done to him again. +Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger as for one of +your own country: for I am the Lord, your God." + +FORESTER (_has become attentive; stops_). + +What is that there about law? + +MARY. + +"Ye shall have one manner of law--" + +FORESTER. + +"Ye shall have one manner"--Where is that? + +MARY. + +Here, father. Up there at the left. + +FORESTER. + +Put a mark there where that begins, what you have read there about the +law. Do you see now that I am right? Even if I have to put up with +injustice? That my old heart here is no liar? "Ye shall have one manner +of law"--not a special one for officials of the State. At that time the +Law was still sound; then it did not live in dusty, moldy offices. It +was administered under the gates in the open air, as we read there. If I +had my way, the courts ought to have sessions in the forest; in the +forest man's heart remains sound; there one knows what is right and what +is wrong without Ifs and Buts. With their secret tricks they have put a +string of Ifs and Buts to it; in their dusty, moldy offices it has +become sick and blunt and withered, so that they can turn and twist it +as they like. And now what is right must be put in writing and have a +seal to it, otherwise it is not to be recognized as right. Now they have +deprived a man's word of all value and degraded it, since one is only +bound by what one has sworn to, what one has under seal and in writing. +Out of the good old right they have made a turn-coat, so that an old +man, whose honor was never sullied by the slightest blemish, must stand +as a rascal before men--because they in their offices have two rights +instead of one. + +[_Sits down and drinks_.] + +SOPHY. + +The night is advancing further and further, and Andrew does not come. +And with such talk one becomes doubly frightened. If you went to +Robert-- + +MARY. + +To Robert? What, in the world, are you thinking of, mother? + +SOPHY. + +That it is God's finger--that letter of Robert's. + +MARY. + +I am to go to Robert? Now? To the Dell? + +SOPHY. + +What is to prevent it? You are not afraid. + +MARY. + +The idea of being afraid! + +[_Proudly_.] + +Ulrich's daughter! + +SOPHY. + +How often have you not been out at a more advanced hour of the night! + +MARY. + +But then father knew it. If I have father's permission and yours, I know +that an angel stands behind every tree. And father said: "If I am +mistaken in Mary"-- + +SOPHY. + +I cannot slip away, without his noticing it, as well as you +can. The matter might still have taken a favorable turn, but it was not +to be. And your dream? You felt so light, the sky became so blue--you +see, in the Dell by the spring under the willows, there the sorrow that +weighs on you and on us all is to end. + +MARY (_shaking her head_). + +Do you really think so, mother? + +SOPHY. + +If you would go. We might then remain with father, Robert would try once +more to persuade his father, uncle Wilkens also would yield, and when +you wear the bridal wreath a second time it would be even more becoming +to you. + +MARY. + +I am to deceive my father, mother? In that case I believe no good could +ever come to me again in this world. + +SOPHY. + +You would have the satisfaction of knowing that you went for his sake. +Perhaps if, tomorrow, he must go forth into misery, or if they confine +him in the tower, or if something still worse happens-- + +MARY. + +To father? + +SOPHY. + +Yes. Then you will think, perhaps too late: "Had I only gone!" + +MARY. + +But mother, if I were in the forest, and father should meet me? Or if he +should find us together? + +SOPHY. + +We must ask him, whether he is going to stay home. + +MARY. + +I cannot look at him without feeling as if my heart were bursting. + +SOPHY. + +Ask him on account of the soup. + +MARY. + +I shall ask him at once. + +[_She approaches the_ FORESTER _timidly, stands next to him without his +noticing her_.] + +SOPHY (_encouraging her_). + +Don't be a child. + +MARY (_softly_). + +Father! + +[_She bends over him, beside herself with pity_.] + +Father, poor father! + +[_Is going to embrace him_.] + +FORESTER (_looking about, roughly_). + +What's the matter? No lamentations! + +SOPHY (_as_ MARY _stands disconcerted_). + +Mary-- + +MARY (_controls herself_). + +Are you again going into the forest tonight? + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +MARY. + +Because-- + +SOPHY (_interrupts, for fear_ MARY _might tell the truth_). + +Because of the soup; she wants to know whether she is to warm it. + +FORESTER. + +No. And what are you waiting for, you silly wench? + +[_Turns away. As_ MARY _hesitates, calls out roughly_.] + +Do you hear? + +MARY (_goes back to_ SOPHY). + +Mother, he has been crying! I saw a tear hanging on his eye-lash, +mother! And I am about to deceive him! + +SOPHY. + +He is crying because in his old age he has to go forth into +misery.--And as to you--why, you are not obliged to go. + +MARY. + +If you speak in that way, mother!--I am going. + +SOPHY. + +Then say good-night to him. It is time. Afterward I shall help you climb +out of the window. At this moment Robert is already waiting. You can be +back soon. + +MARY. + +Yes, mother, I will go. But not for Robert's sake, mother, nor for mine; +only for father's sake. I will tell him: "Robert," I will say to him, +"you will yet find a girl, more beautiful and better than myself, but my +father will not find another child, if I leave him." I will tell him: +"Robert," I will say to him, "I will forget you! God will give me +strength that I may be able to forget you. Remain away from me, so that +I may not see you again." God will help me, mother, will he not? He +will, for I did love Robert so much. + +SOPHY. + +Now go. Say good-night and don't betray yourself. + +[MARY _stands by the_ FORESTER.] + +SOPHY. + +Mary wants to say good-night to you. + +FORESTER. + +Can't you say it yourself, silly thing? + +MARY (_mastering her emotion_). + +Good-night, father. + +FORESTER. + +Good-night. You need not wait for me tomorrow when you are going to your +uncle. Perhaps I shall have gone out by that time. I have an errand; +don't know whether I shall come back tomorrow. And take Nero along--and +whatever else is there; take everything along. I no longer need +anything--but my tools, my short rifle and--powder and bullets. The +other rifles you may sell. Go to Wilkens, you poor thing, he perhaps +will get Robert for you yet--after I have gone; after people have once +forgotten that your father was a dismissed man. + +MARY. + +Good-night. + +[_Beside herself_.] + +Good-night, father! + +FORESTER. + +Wench, that is a good-night as if forever.--You are right, Mary. Such a +stain as I am upon your good reputation must be removed. Go, Mary. Do +you hear, Mary? + +MARY. + +You shall remain, father. And if you go, I go with you. + +FORESTER. + +The way I have to go one goes alone. Go, Mary. + +SOPHY. + +Go to bed, Mary. + +FORESTER. + +Good-night. And now it's enough. You know I cannot bear lamentations. + +MARY. + +You are not going without me, father. You cannot live without me, +father. Father, I now feel that in my heart. + +FORESTER (_protesting_). + +Yes, I can. What doesn't such a greenhorn feel! + +MARY. + +You turn away, father, so that I should not see you crying. Father, +pretend you are ferocious, as much as you like-- + +FORESTER (_wants to disengage himself_). + +Silly thing there-- + +MARY. + +I am going with you. You insist upon your right, and I upon mine, and +that is, that I must not leave you. Father, I feel now for the first +time that I love no one in the world as much as you. Tomorrow we go +together--if you must go. I am going to put on William's clothes. There +are still green forests in the world. And surely you shall not hear me +complaining. Don't be afraid of that. Why, I can cry during the nights, +when you don't see it. But then you will see it by my eyes in the +daytime. Why, I must not cry at all! I will only laugh and skip along +before you and sing--the beautiful hunting songs.--You see, father, this +is the last tear for Robert! And it is already dried, do you see? I am +sure that we shall still find happiness in this world--if you must go, +father. And if it is not to be, we will thank God and pray, if He only +keeps us honest. Then we will think: It is asking too much, if we also +wish to be happy. Have I not you? Have not you your good conscience and +your Mary? What more do we need? + +[_Hanging on his neck_.] + +FORESTER (_who has been warding her off constantly, almost furious, +because he can scarcely control his emotion_). + +Indeed, indeed! Stupid thing! + +[_More calmly_.] + +And a "table--spread--thyself," a "gold--mule--stretch-thyself," and the +fairy-story is complete. Now go to bed, Mary. + +[_Roughly_.] + +Do you hear? + +SOPHY. + +Come, Mary. + +MARY (_at the door of her room she looks around, and runs again to him; +embracing him, beside herself_). + +Good-night, good-night! + +[_She hurries to her room;_ SOPHY _follows_.] + +FORESTER (_looking after her_). + +My girl, my poor girl! It must not be here that I make an end of +myself!--Confound it. Shame on you, old-- + + + +SCENE VI + +WEILER; _The_ FORESTER. + +WEILER (_greets him with a silent nod; he is very much excited; hangs +the rifle on the rack and busies himself with the hunting utensils_). + +Well! + +FORESTER (_notices him_). + +Is it you? + +[_Lapses again into his thoughts_.] + +WEILER. + +It's me. + +FORESTER. + +Where are you coming from at this time? + +WEILER. + +From the forest. At the fence I had a talk with your William. So, after +all, you are dismissed. + +FORESTER. + +Because there are two kinds of right. + +WEILER. + +And didn't you know that before? + +FORESTER. + +You have your pay for three months in advance. + +WEILER. + +And may go. I know that too. Where is your William? Why, to be sure! I +just met him. And your Andrew? + +FORESTER (_half absent-mindedly_). + +Not at home. + +WEILER. + +But I suppose you know where your Andrew is? + +FORESTER (_impatiently_). + +What else do you want? Leave me alone! + +WEILER. + +All right. It's none of my business. + +FORESTER. + +Therefore I think you'd better go. + +WEILER. + +But to come back to Andrew. You don't know where he is? + +FORESTER. + +Always harping on Andrew? If you have something to say, don't be like a +thunderstorm that keeps threatening for hours. + +WEILER (_points toward the window_). + +Some one is coming up across the Lautenberg. The plovers were screeching +as if in fear. I expected it. It was too sultry. Ulrich [_approaches +him_] an hour ago some one was shot. + +FORESTER. + +You know who? + +WEILER. + +You don't know it? If your Andrew were home-- + +FORESTER. + +Always Andrew! You know something about him! + +WEILER. + +Well. The rifle--tell me, did Andrew have the one with the yellow strap? + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +WEILER (_as if lost in meditation_). + +Surely I know your rifle-- + +FORESTER. + +Do you want to drive me mad? + +WEILER. + +You haven't it in the house? + +FORESTER. + +I won't answer you any more. I'm ugly enough as it is. I have been +drinking wine. + +WEILER. + +Take good care that you are not mistaken. + +FORESTER. + +Take good care that I don't take you by the collar. + +WEILER. + +It's no joke-- + +FORESTER. + +You shall see that it is not. + +WEILER. + +I know nothing but what I have heard and seen. And now sit down. I don't +feel like standing long. It seems to me that I must look like my +clay-pipe there. + +[_The_ FORESTER _sitting down at the table to the right;_ WEILER _has +drawn a chair close to him, and talks hurriedly in an uncanny, subdued +voice_.] + +A little while ago, as I was quitting work and going away from my +wood-cutters, I heard a shot from the direction of the Dell. I thought +perhaps it was you, and went in that direction. But it must have been +Robert Stein. He was walking up and down there by the first bridge like +a sentinel. I thought to myself: What can he be waiting for? Not for +game; for in that case one doesn't run up and down; I thought: You must +get to the bottom of this. You get behind the high oak. There you can +see everything and can't be seen. But I was hardly there, when I heard a +commotion behind me. And what was it I heard? Your Andrew and Robert in +a most violent dispute. I could not understand anything clearly, but one +could hear that they were after each other for life and death. I was +just about to creep closer, when they already came rushing along. The +one on the further side of the brook on the rocky path, the other on +this side. The one on this side was Robert with his gun against his +cheek. Two steps from me he stopped--"Stand or I shoot." On the rocky +path no two persons can pass each other. There it is--"Man, fight for +your life." And now, pif! paf!--two shots in succession. The bullet from +the one on the rock whistled between me and Robert into the bushes. But +Robert's bullet--Ulrich, I have heard many a shot, but never such a one. +One could hear by the sound of the lead, it scented human life. I do not +know what sensation I felt when he on the other side collapsed like a +wounded stag-- + +FORESTER. + +Andrew? + +WEILER. + +Who else could it have been? Hey? Perhaps he's home? Perhaps you know +where else he is? And the person that was shot had the rifle with the +yellow strap. He held it tight. The strap really glistened in the +twilight like a signal of distress. It was a weird sound, as the iron +parts of the gun in falling struck the rocks and the corpse tumbled +after it, breaking the bushes--till there was a splash in the brook +below, as if it started in terror. And when, after this, there succeeded +such a strange stillness, as if it had to bethink itself of what had +really happened, I had a sensation as though some one were pursuing me. +I should have been back half an hour ago, if I had not lost my way--I, +who know every tree thereabouts. Now you may imagine how I felt! Not +until I had reached the second bridge there toward Haslau, did I have +courage to stop a moment to take breath--there where the brook is +roaring among the rocks. Accidentally I looked down. There the brook was +playing with a colored rag. Do you know it, perhaps? + +[_Takes out_ ANDREW'S _muffler, and holds it before the_ FORESTER'S +_eyes; the latter snatches it from his hand_.] + +FORESTER. + +All sorts of shapes before my eyes--the wine-- + +[_Holds it sometimes far, sometimes near, without being able to see +it_.] + +WEILER (_short pause_). + +You are so quiet. Is something wrong with you? + +[FORESTER _draws a single loud breath, and still keeps holding the +muffler mechanically before him, without seeing it_.] + +WEILER. + +Your face is quite distorted. I am going to call your wife. + +FORESTER (_makes a movement, as if he were pushing a load from him with +utmost exertion_). + +Never mind! A slight dizziness. Have not been bled recently; the wine +into the bargain--it's already passing away--say nothing to any one +about this. + +[_Rises with difficulty_.] + +WEILER. + +So they have had a regular stand-up fight, Andrew and Robert! But what +do you intend to do now? As a dismissed man? If that fellow says: "I +challenged the poacher, he did not throw down his gun?" You know better +than any one that a hunter may then shoot. He is not even obliged to +challenge; if he only hits the mark, he is also in the right. And +whoever, like your Andrew, has fallen the height of two stories from the +rock into the water, his tongue will cease wagging even without powder +and lead. You know the law, as it is nowadays. And they will lock you up +into the bargain because of insubordination. I am sorry for you. I +should not like to be you. Hey? + +FORESTER. + +The thunderstorm has already passed the Lautenberg, do you hear? If you +delay any longer you will be caught in the rain. + +WEILER. + +There was lightning some time ago. As I came along the hill with the +larch-firs, the whole country was lighted up. Then I saw Robert still +walking up and down by the willows below. + +[FORESTER _goes to the door so that_ WEILER _may see he is waiting for +his departure_.] + +WEILER. + +Are you going once more to the lawyer? That might do some good if you +were an official of the state. But what are you going to do when you are +not? + +FORESTER. + +Nothing. + +WEILER. + +Whoever believes it-- + +FORESTER. + +Fool that you are! I'm going to bed. + +WEILER. + +It isn't late enough for that. + +FORESTER. + +I am going to lock the door and the shutters. + +WEILER (_as he has no alternative, hesitating_). + +Now then, sleep well, Ulrich--if you can. + +[_Exit, the_ FORESTER _after him_.] + + + +SCENE VII + +_Enter_ SOPHY; _then the_ FORESTER _and_ WILLIAM. + +SOPHY (_coming out of_ MARY'S _room_). + +Now she may be where the willows begin. + +[_At the window_.] + +He is closing the shutters. I must close Mary's for appearance's sake, +so that she can climb in when she returns. And Andrew not yet back! All +at once a feeling comes over me, as if I should not have allowed Mary to +go. + +_Enter the_ FORESTER _with_ WILLIAM. SOPHY _goes again into_ MARY'S +_room_. + +WILLIAM (_while entering_). + +Father, Lora Kramer came to the fence, and said that Stein was beside +himself--that shots had been heard in the forest--that Robert was +missing, and that Stein had sent Moeller into town; he was to get the +soldiers; they were to arrest the whole band of murderers from the +hunter's house, he said. She also said that Moeller had passed Kramer's +house at full gallop. They might be expected to arrive before one +o'clock. + +FORESTER (_while_ SOPHY _steps out of_ MARY'S _room_). + +What have you still to do outside? + +[_Looks about him_.] + +WILLIAM. + +In the garden, father. Mother, there was nothing in the arbor. + +SOPHY (_remains at the door_). + +Then somebody must have brought it in. + +[_To the_ FORESTER.] + +Are you looking for anything? + +FORESTER. + +I? No. Yes, the rifle with the yellow strap. Where can that be? Perhaps +in Mary's-- + +SOPHY (_involuntarily covering the door, quickly_). + +There is no rifle in Mary's room. + +WILLIAM. + +To be sure, Andrew took it along when he went to accompany me. + +FORESTER. True. [_Shows the muffler_.] + +There, I have somebody's muffler in my pocket! Is it yours, William? + +SOPHY. + +The red and yellow muffler? That belongs to Andrew. + +FORESTER. + +He left it around yesterday, and absentmindedly I must have put it in my +pocket. + +SOPHY. + +Yesterday? Only today, before you went, I gave it to him. + +FORESTER. + +You gave it to--all right! + +SOPHY (_comes nearer_). + +Yes, yes. That is Andrew's muffler. + +[_She examines it_.] + +Here is his monogram. + +FORESTER (_wishes to take it from her_). + +Give it to me. + +SOPHY. + +It is wet!--And what blood is that upon the muffler? + +FORESTER. + +Blood? + +[_Suppresses his emotion_.] + +It's from my hand. I cut it on the lock of the gun. Never mind! + +SOPHY (_busies herself on the other side of the stage_). + +FORESTER. + +William, come here. Read to me. There in the Bible, begin where the +book-mark is. + +WILLIAM. + +In the middle of the chapter? + +FORESTER. + +Beginning at the mark there. Go on! + +[_Gets his hat_.] + +WILLIAM (_reads_). + +"And he that blasphemeth the name of the Lord, he shall--" + +FORESTER. + +That isn't it. + +[_Hangs the gun over his shoulder_.] + +WILLIAM. + +"And he that killeth any man"--is that it? + +FORESTER (_profoundly moved, comes a step nearer_). + +No--but go on reading. + +[_He stands next to_ WILLIAM. _During the following he involuntarily +takes off his hat, and folds his hands_.] + +WILLIAM. + +"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death. And he that +killeth a beast shall make it good; beast for beast. And if a man cause +a blemish on his neighbor; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him; +breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; as he hath caused a +blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again. And he that killeth +a beast, he shall restore it: and he that killeth a man, he shall be put +to death." + +FORESTER. + +He shall be put to death. + +WILLIAM. + +"Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger, as for one +of your own country: for I am the Lord your God." + +FORESTER. + +Amen. + +[_Puts on his hat and is about to go; turns back_.] + +When did she say they might be there, William? + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JACOB AND RACHEL AT THE WELL] + +WILLIAM. + +The soldiers? + +FORESTER. + +Before-- + +WILLIAM. + +Before one o'clock. + +FORESTER. + +There's time enough. + +WILLIAM. + +For what, father? + +FORESTER. + +For--getting a sound sleep. + +WILLIAM. + +Father, how strangely you look at me? + +FORESTER. + +Go to bed, William. + +[_As_ SOPHY _enters_.] + +Shake hands with your mother. + +SOPHY (_surprised_). + +Are you going out now, Christian? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. + +SOPHY. + +Did Weiler pick up the trail of the stag again? + +FORESTER. + +Yes. Maybe. + +SOPHY. + +How you look! One might be afraid of you, if one did not know how it is +with you when you have taken wine. + +FORESTER. + +For that reason I want to go out into the open air. + +SOPHY. + +At such times you see everything different from what it is. You may fall +into the abyss. + +FORESTER. + +Then you cut the leaf there from the Bible and put it into my coffin. + +SOPHY. + +How you talk! + +FORESTER. + +GO to bed, William. + +[_Exit_ WILLIAM.] + +Pray--or do not pray-- + +SOPHY. + +What is the matter with you, Christian? Why am I so anxious? Stay, for +God's sake, stay! Your business surely can wait. + +FORESTER. + +No. It must be done even today. [_Going_.] + +SOPHY (_about to follow him_). + +Ulrich-- + +FORESTER (_turning around at the door, softly to himself_). + +"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth." + +[_Exit_.] + +SOPHY (_recoiling from the glare of the sheet-lightning which is seen +through the open door_). + +God have mercy on us! + +[_At the door_.] + +Ulrich! + +[_In far-away voice, outside_.] + +Ulrich! + + + +ACT V + +_The_ FORESTER'S _House. Night. For a short time the stage remains +empty_. + + + +SCENE I + +SOPHY (_alone, comes in with a lamp, looks into_ MARY'S _room, puts the +lamp upon the table, goes to the window, opens the shutter through which +the reflection of the sheet-lightning is visible, looks out; then she +closes shutter and window, takes the lamp again, and looks once more +into_ MARY'S _room. At intervals she listens and betrays great +anxiety_.) + +Not yet! What if he's encountered her! What if he's met them together! +She ought to be back by this time. Oh, why did I let her go? And Andrew +does not come, either! And then this sultry, stormy night! + +[_Listens_.] + +Surely, that was she? At last! God be praised! + +[_Looks into the room_.] + +No. It is not she. The wind blew open the half-closed shutter. + + + +SCENE II + +WILLIAM, _in his shirt-sleeves_; SOPHY. + +WILLIAM. + +Are the soldiers there, mother? + +[_At the door of_ MARY'S _room_.] + +Mother, where is father? + +[SOPHY _is startled, and quickly closes the door_.] + +WILLIAM. + +And Mary? She is not in her room? + +SOPHY. + +What ideas you get into your head! + +WILLIAM. + +Her bed is still as if it had just been made. + +SOPHY (_listens, frightened_). + +Is that your father? William, say nothing about this before your father! + +WILLIAM. + +I'm the fellow to play the informer! But you must tell me where Mary is. + SOPHY. + +Gone to the Dell to ask Robert-- + +WILLIAM. + +Mother, we beg at nobody's door. I am going to fetch her. + +SOPHY. + +In this storm? + +WILLIAM (_puts on his jacket_). + +He would be a fine hunter's boy who is afraid of a little bit of +lightning. Only tell me which way Mary went. The one below along the +brook? All right. She is not like the others, but she is only a girl. +And they are afraid. + +[_Exit_.] + + + +SCENE III + +SOPHY (_alone; after him_). + +William! William! [_Comes back_.] + +He is gone! And the storm is getting worse. A fog below, and the +thunderstorm above coming nearer. And another one is coming on from the +Brandsberg. And Ulrich outside, and none of the children at home. And I +all alone in this solitary hunter's house in the midst of the forest, +and at such an hour of the night! + +[_A door is heard slamming; she starts up_.] + +Merciful God! It is he! If he should look into the room and should not +see Mary! Or-- + + + +SCENE IV + +_Enter the_ FORESTER _in haste; pale and distracted_; SOPHY. + +SOPHY (_going to meet him_). + +Back already?--[_Correcting herself_] at last? + +FORESTER (_looking shyly about_). + +Did anybody ask for me? + +SOPHY. + +No. Are they pursuing you? + +FORESTER. + +Who? + +SOPHY. + +Godfrey-- + +FORESTER. + +Why? + +SOPHY. + +Because you come in as if you were being hunted. + +FORESTER. + +I meant the soldiers.--Why do I see Mary everywhere! In the Dell-- + +SOPHY (_is frightened_). + +In the Dell! + +[_Aside_.] + +Good Heavens! + +FORESTER. + +And all the way back I heard her walking behind me. + +SOPHY. + +On your way back-- + +FORESTER. + +Whenever I walked, I heard her behind me; whenever I stood still, she +also stood still, but I did not look around. + +SOPHY (_relieved_). + +You did not look around? + +FORESTER. + +Why, I knew it was nothing. I have a feeling as though even now she were +still standing behind me. + +SOPHY (_wishes to divert him from the subject_). + +Did you shoot anything? Is it outside? + +FORESTER (_shuddering involuntarily_). + +Outside? + +SOPHY. + +Before the door. What a strange look you give me! What is that on your +clothes? + +FORESTER (_turns away involuntarily_). + +What is it? + +SOPHY. + +A spot-- + +FORESTER. + +What you see-- + +SOPHY. + +Why will you not let me see it? + +FORESTER. + +It is nothing. + +[_Turns to the table at the right, takes down his gun_.] + +Is the soup warm? My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. + +SOPHY (_takes a plate and spoon from the closet, goes to the stove where +she pours out the soup_). + +If he should look into the room! What I ask, I ask only in anxiety to +have him forget about Mary. + +[_She puts the soup before the_ FORESTER _on the table to the right; +listens_.] + +Isn't there a noise in the room? + +[_Walks about the_ FORESTER'S _chair, so as to distract him_.] + +Ulrich, don't you think that Robert could still restore the old friendly +relations? + +[FORESTER _makes a movement_.] + +SOPHY. + +Why do you start so? + +FORESTER. + +Don't wake up Mary! Wasn't there some one at the window? + +SOPHY. + +That is the old rose-bush outside, which is always nodding so anxiously +and knocking at the window, as if it had to prevent a catastrophe, and +nobody paid any attention to it. + +[_Pause; aside_.] + +It is so still. I must keep on talking, otherwise he can hear me +breathing, and will notice my anxiety--and also that he may not hear +Mary when she climbs in at the window. + +[_Listening repeatedly_.] + +The whole evening I have been thinking about it. Only yesterday Robert +said to me-- + +FORESTER. + +Always Robert-- + +SOPHY (_has seated herself by his side_). + +We were walking along the willows, where the pine-thicket is, under the +rock, in the Dell-- + +FORESTER (_violently_). + +Don't mention that-- + +SOPHY. + +How you start! It was at sunset; and as I looked around, something was +coming out from under the pines--so red. I--frightened--For God's sake, +I say, why, that is blood! + +[FORESTER _throws down his spoon and rises_.] + +SOPHY. + +Then the evening glow was reflected in the water.--But what is the +matter with you? + +FORESTER. + +Always with your Dell. What do you care about the Dell? + +SOPHY. + +Did something happen to you there? People say the place is haunted. +Robert said so to me yesterday. They say that there is an accursed spot! +There some one committed a murd-- + +FORESTER (_seizes his gun_). + +What do you know? + +SOPHY (_recoiling in terror_). + +Ulrich!-- + +FORESTER. + +Will you keep quiet? + +SOPHY (_stops before him, shuddering, filled with a presentiment_). + +Ulrich! What have you done? + +FORESTER (_has recovered his self-possession_). + +Stuff and nonsense! Is this a night for such stories? + +[_Lost in thought_.] + +SOPHY. + +Go ahead. Whether an hour sooner, or an hour later. You have me on your +conscience. + +[_Sinks down upon a chair to the left_.] + +FORESTER (_pause; then he walks slowly up and down, and gradually comes +near her, hesitating_). + +I must tell you something, Sophy--if you do not already know it; it will +not let me rest. I am in the right; but--and then I cannot tell--is it +true or is it only an oppressive dream?--a dream in which one cannot do +what one wishes--and exhausts oneself--because one must always do what +one does not wish. Come here! Do you hear? Place your hand on the Bible. + +SOPHY. + +Great God! What can be the meaning of this! + +FORESTER. + +It would be horrible if I had been obliged to kill her, and after all +everything were only--and then I should have in vain--Sophy! + +[_Quite close to her; softly_.] + +There is a report that a corpse is lying in the Dell! + +SOPHY. + +You are drunk or mad! + +FORESTER. + +I am in my right mind. Look at me, woman! Do you believe in a God in +Heaven? Very well, Very well! Then place your hand upon the Bible, right +here. There my right is written. Now say after me: "As truly as I hope +to be saved--" + +SOPHY (_faintly_). + +As truly as I hope to be saved-- + +FORESTER. + +"So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear." + +SOPHY. + +So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear. + +[_Is obliged to sit down_.] + +FORESTER. + +And now give heed.--It is short--no But and no If about it--it is clear +as the right--and right must remain right--else we need no God in +Heaven! [_After he has made several attempts to begin, in a dejected and +low voice, while he leads her to the footlights_.] Do not be frightened. +Robert shot our Andrew, and I--I have executed judgment upon him. + +SOPHY. + +Oh, God! [_She can scarcely keep herself on her feet; wants to go to the +chair. He supports her_.] + +FORESTER. + +I have judged him. As it is written there--"Eye for eye, tooth for +tooth." I have judged him, because the courts no longer judge right. +They have two kinds of law, and here it is written: "Ye shall have one +manner of law." I have not murdered him, I have executed judgment upon +him. [_He walks up and down, then loses himself in thought at the place +where he believes_ SOPHY _still to be, who totters to the chair_.] But I +do not know whether it did happen--what has happened. My brain is so +wild and confused--[_Recollects with difficulty_] but I suppose it +really did happen--what has happened--and as it was about to +happen--what has happened--I saw Mary before my eyes, as if she put +herself in front of him and made a sign to me to stop, and cried: "It +is"--well, you know who! It was a delusion; it was only in my +imagination. After I have had wine, I always am in a state that I see +things which do not exist. And if it should have been she--the bullet +then was no longer under any control. + +SOPHY. + +Almighty God! + +[_She drags herself with difficulty into_ MARY'S _room_.] + +FORESTER (_does not notice it and, staring before him, continues as if +she were still standing beside him_). + +It was not she. How could Mary have come there? It is nothing but the +effect of the wine, that today I see her everywhere. But nevertheless I +was frightened until I saw it had only been the smoke from the gun. +Everything was turning around before my eyes. But when the smoke had +cleared away--that was only a moment--then I saw him--still standing as +before, but only for a moment--then he collapsed--then had happened what +did happen. Then I folded my hands over my gun, and said: "You have been +judged according to your desert." And I prayed: "God have mercy on his +poor soul." Then a swarm of owls flew up and screeched. That sounded as +though they said Amen. Then I stood again erect on my feet. For God and +Earth and Heaven and every creature demand justice. + +[_He loses himself in a brown study_.] + + + +SCENE V + +_The_ FORESTER, _lost in thought, alone. Then_ STEIN _and the_ PASTOR, +_at first only heard behind the scenes_. + +STEIN (_still outside_). + +Ulrich! + +FORESTER (_awaking, mechanically_). + +Stein! + +STEIN (_as above_). + +Do you hear? + +FORESTER (_the connection of the events suddenly flashes upon him_). + +It did happen! + +[_Makes a movement as if to seize his gun; but controls himself_.] + +No! Not an iota more than my right! + +STEIN (_entering, the_ PASTOR _behind him_). + +Where is your Andrew, Ulrich? + +FORESTER. + +What do you want with my Andrew? + +STEIN. + +To demand my Robert from him. + +FORESTER. + +Your Robert?--From my Andrew?--Look here! + +[_Shows the muffler_.] + +PASTOR. + +For Heaven's sake!--There is blood on the muffler! + +STEIN. + +What is that? + +FORESTER. + +That is my Andrew's blood, and your Robert spilled it. And you sent +your Moeller for the soldiers! And you made me a scoundrel before the +world--with your two kinds of right--so that you may twist it as you +like! But here--[_striking his breast_] there still is a right! That +neither you nor your lawyers can twist. + + + +SCENE VI + +ANDREW, _still without_. STEIN, FORESTER, PASTOR. + +ANDREW (_outside, in a low voice_). + +Father-- + +PASTOR. + +Who calls? + +STEIN. + +Is not that Andrew's voice? + +FORESTER (_continuing_). + +Here it is written: "Ye shall have one manner of law." And the law has +judged you. "And he that killeth any man he--" + +ANDREW. + +Father! + +FORESTER (_trembling, staring at the door, with smothered voice, +mechanically_). + +"He--he--shall--surely--be--put to death"-- + +_Enter_ ANDREW. + +STEIN (_going toward him_). + +God be thanked! Andrew, you live! + +FORESTER (_makes a great effort_). + +It is not true. He is dead. He must be dead. + +ANDREW. + +Father! + +FORESTER (_stretching out his hand, as if warding him off_). + +Who are you? + +ANDREW (_more and more alarmed_). + +Do you not know your Andrew any more? + +FORESTER. + +_My_ Andrew is dead. If you lie slain in the Dell--then you shall be my +Andrew--then everything is well--then we will rejoice--then we will +sing: Lord God, we praise Thee! + +PASTOR. + +He is demented! + +STEIN. + +Andrew, my Robert-- + +ANDREW. + +You have my muffler which Lindenschmied stole from me before he killed +Godfrey? + +STEIN. + +Lindenschmied killed Godfrey? And my Robert-- + +ANDREW. + +Robert was pursuing him. He compelled Robert to shoot him. + +FORESTER. + +He? He had your gun? + +ANDREW. + +Stolen it with my muffler. + +FORESTER. + +And Robert did-- + +ANDREW. + +Lindenschmied was not mortally wounded. I had his wound dressed in the +mill, and had him removed before the magistrate-- + +FORESTER (_gradually collapsing_). + +I am in the wrong! + +[_Sinks down upon a chair_.] + +ANDREW. + +That is the reason why I am so late. + +FORESTER (_rises; goes to_ STEIN _with his gun in his hand_). + +Stein, do to me according to my desert. + +STEIN. + +What do you mean? + +FORESTER. + +"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth"-- + +STEIN (_looking at the_ PASTOR). + +What does he mean by that again? + +FORESTER. + +Weiler thought that Lindenschmied with the gun was my Andrew. Your +Robert wounded Lindenschmied, and I--killed your Robert for this! + +PASTOR. + +Almighty God! + +ANDREW (_at the same time_). + +Robert! + +FORESTER (_almost simultaneously_). + +Shoot me! + +STEIN (_has seized the gun_). + +You murderer! + +[_The_ PASTOR _arrests his arm_.] + +ANDREW. + +You shot Robert, father? Robert lives! + +STEIN. + +He lives? + +PASTOR. + +He lives? + +FORESTER. + +He lives? + +ANDREW. + +He lives, as surely as I live! + +FORESTER. + +It was only a dream? Can it be that I am not a murderer? That I am an +honorable man? + +PASTOR. + +That you are, Ulrich. Drive away that unfortunate delusion. + +STEIN. + +Man alive, to what might you have provoked me! + +[_Puts away the gun_.] + +FORESTER. + +You saw him? When did you see him, Andrew? Now, Andrew? Just +now, Andrew? + +ANDREW. + +Just now, as I was coming home, I met two men from the mill with a +stretcher. Robert had just called them out of their beds; they were +going to the Dell; Robert had gone ahead of them. + +FORESTER. + +To the Dell? + +PASTOR. + +With a stretcher? + +STEIN. + +What can be behind all this? + +FORESTER (_has gone to the door of_ MARY'S _room; releases the latch_). + +Thanks be to God! + +[_Listening_.] + +I hear her breathing. Oh, she sleeps a peaceful sleep. I am oppressed +with a world of cares, and she takes them from my heart with her breath. +Do you hear, Pastor, do you hear? + +STEIN. + +The unfortunate man! His delusion is returning. + +PASTOR (_after an anxious pause, during which the_ FORESTER _has not +taken his eyes from the_ PASTOR'S _face_). + +I hear nothing. That is your own heavy breathing that you hear. + +FORESTER (_begins to collapse again_). + +My own heavy breathing that I hear-- + +[_Summons up courage, opens the door_.] + +My eyes deceive me? Where she is not, there I see her; and where she is, +there I do not see her. Pastor, for God's sake, tell me: "There lives +Mary." + +[_He has convulsively clutched the_ PASTOR'S _arm_.] + +PASTOR. + +I do not see her. The bed there is untouched, the windows open--your +wife-- + +FORESTER (_rushes into the room_). + +Woman! Woman! Poor, poor woman! + + + +SCENE VII + +SOPHY, _like a ghost; can hardly stand or speak; dragged in forcibly by +the_ FORESTER. + +FORESTER. + +Where is my child? + +ANDREW. + +Mother, what ails you? + +[_He supports her on one side, the_ PASTOR _on the other_.] + +SOPHY. + +Andrew! At least one! + +FORESTER (_shakes her_). + +My child! My child! Where is my child? + +SOPHY (_with repulsion, but faintly_). + +Leave me, you-- + +FORESTER. + +My Mary! + +SOPHY. + +To the Dell--you-- + +FORESTER. + +Creature, you lie! + +SOPHY. + +To Robert-- + +FORESTER. + +Yes, she met me--in the fog--as I was coming-- + +SOPHY. + +That was William. + +FORESTER. + +It was Mary, woman; Mary! + +PASTOR. + +She cannot answer any more. She has fainted. + +STEIN. + +Take her away from the madman! + +FORESTER. + +You mean to say that I--my own child-- + +ANDREW. + +Mother! Mother! + +[_He and the_ PASTOR _are busy about her, at the table to the right_.] + +STEIN (_who in the meantime is trying to keep the_ FORESTER _away from +her_). + +Hands off, you madman! + +FORESTER. + +Madman? God grant that I am! + +[_A knock is heard; he steps back in horror and stretches out his hands +toward the door, as if warding off something_.] + + +Nonsense! What do you want, the whole lot of you? Why, that is Mary. She +is standing outside, and does not dare to come in, because she ran out +in the night. She hasn't the courage. I am severe--oh, I am severe! +Silly wench! + +[_Stands up straight_.] + +Come what may! + +[_He rushes toward the door; before he reaches it, another knock is +heard; he steps back again horrified and powerless_.] + +The raging fever has seized me--nothing else. These are the +symptoms--chattering of the teeth and chills along the spine. +Elderberry-tea--a night or two of perspiration! What has the knocking to +do with my fever? Why does not some one open, some one call her in? Why +are you all so pale and tongueless? Has some one told a fairy-tale, and +are you afraid? My Mary was a living fairy-tale--she is-she is, I mean +to say. That Mary could be dead--but she would not give me such pain! +She knows that I cannot live without my Mary. Do you hear her giggling +outside? Now she will come skipping in and hold her hands over my eyes, +as she is accustomed to do, and I must not spoil her fun. Oh, it +is--[_Attempts to laugh, but sobs_.]--a--[_Beside himself_.]--After all, +it has to be! Come in! + +[_Attempts to go to the door, but with eyes closed sinks into a chair on +the left_.] + + + +SCENE VIII + +ROBERT, WILLIAM, _then two men with a covered stretcher, which they put +down. The men go away_. + +STEIN. + +Robert! + +[_Going toward him_.] + +Do you see, Ulrich? He lives! + +ROBERT (_embracing him, pale and distracted_). + +Father! Father! + +STEIN. + +What has happened to you? + +ROBERT. + +Would that the murderer had killed me! Father Ulrich, be a man! + +FORESTER (_making a supreme effort to collect his energies_). + +Go on! I will see whether I am a man. + +[ROBERT _removes the covering_.] + +STEIN. + +Great God! + +SOPHY (_who, supported by_ ANDREW _and the_ PASTOR, _has +fallen upon her knees by the stretcher_). + +Mary! + +ANDREW. + +Oh, God! It is Mary! + +STEIN. + +How did this happen? Explain it, Robert. + +PASTOR. + +It is dreadfully clear to me. + +ROBERT (_with difficulty maintaining his self-possession_). + +She was praying: "God, let me belong only to my father." I was about to +say to her: "Mary, you are going to give me up?" Then she rushed upon +me, as if she wished to protect me with her own body, made a sign and +called in the direction of the forest. I saw no one; I did not +understand her; I was about to ask: "What is the matter, Mary?" +when--the report of a gun--she sank down in my arms; I threw myself over +her; a bullet had penetrated her heart. + +SOPHY. + +That was her dream. + +STEIN (_holds_ ROBERT _in his embrace, almost simultaneously_). + +She died for you! + +FORESTER. + +She saw me aim at him, and ran purposely into the course of my bullet. I +wanted to judge and--have judged myself. Crime and punishment at the +same moment! I was praying: "God have mercy on his poor soul!" I prayed +for myself, and the owls screeched Amen, and meant me! + +ROBERT (_recoils, horrified_). + +Almighty God--he himself!-- + +STEIN. + +You did not do it consciously. A fearful madness urged you against your +will. + +PASTOR. + +Do not be so obstinate, man; God does not measure the deed according to +a superficial standard. Innocence and crime are at the extreme poles of +human nature. But often it is merely a quicker pulse that separates the +innocent from the criminal. + +FORESTER. + +Give me words of life instead of your cobwebs of the brain--no If and +no But. Tell me something, so that I must believe it! Your words do not +convince me. Why do you offer consolation to my head? Offer consolation +to my heart, if you can. Can you with your consolation restore my child +to life, so that she will rush into my arms? In that case keep on +consoling me. Every word that fails to restore my child to life slays +her once more. + +STEIN. + +Flee to America; I will procure passports for you; all my money is +yours. Your wife and your children are mine! + +FORESTER. + +Do you hear, Andrew, what that man there is saying? He wants to give you +money. Buy a hand-organ with it. Go about to the fairs, and sing of the +old murderer who shot his child--for no reason, for no reason at all in +the world. You need no picture. Take the old woman there along with you. +No painter can paint the story as it stands written upon her face. +Praise the child. Represent her more beautiful than she was--if you +can--as you imagine the most beautiful angel, and then say: "And yet she +was a thousand times more beautiful!" And represent the old murderer so +that people will shed a waterfall of tears for the child, and that every +street-urchin will shake his fist at the old fellow. And he who hears +this story and does not give you with chattering teeth his last penny, +though he had ten starving children at home, and does not pray to God +for the child and curse the old murderer that shot her, must have a +heart like the old murderer's who committed the deed. Do not say: "The +man was honest throughout his life and avoided evil and believed in a +God, and did not permit the least taint upon his honor." If you do, they +will not believe you. Say: He looked like a wolf; do not say: His beard +was white when he committed the crime. If you do, no one will give you +anything; none will believe that one can be so old and yet such an +abandoned villain. And on the lower part of your organ have a picture +painted--how the old murderer blows out his brains and walks as a ghost +during the night--and on the spot where the crime was perpetrated he +sits moaning at midnight with his fiery eyes and white beard--and there +no breeze wafts coolness, and there no dew falls and no rain--there grow +poisonous weeds--the spot is accursed like himself--and the animal that +accidentally strays there bellows with fear--and man is shaken as with +the ague. And have an angel painted from whose mouth proceeds a scroll +on which is written: "There sits he whom God has marked. Abel was a man, +and Cain was only his brother; but this was a child, and he that slew +her was her father. For Cain, there is still a hope of salvation, but +for the old murderer of his child, none--none--none!" Oh! Some comfort! +Some comfort! Only a shadow of comfort! For this I would give my +salvation, if I had any hope of salvation. I will ask God whether there +is any comfort for me! + +[_He takes the Bible and reads, at first trembling in every limb, with +panting breath_.] + +"And he that killeth any--" + +PASTOR. + +No further, Ulrich. Let me show you words of life, words of humanity: +"'As I live,' saith the Lord God, 'I have no pleasure in the death of +the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live.'" + +FORESTER (_who keeps a firm hold of the Bible, and breaks away from the_ +PASTOR, _almost simultaneously_). + +Leave me alone, you inhuman creatures, with your humanity! + +[_He continues reading. With every word his manner becomes more calm and +certain, the sound of his voice stronger_.] + +"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death." + +[_Lays down the Bible_.] + +STEIN. + +Does he find solace in these words? + +PASTOR. + +Let him have such comfort as consoles him. + +FORESTER (_takes up the Bible again; his manner assumes an expression +of joyousness_). + +That is certainty, that is promise, that convinces me--no But and no If. +"And he that killeth a man shall surely be put to death." That means: +Then it is expiated, then it is wiped out, and he is pure once more. + +[_Puts on his hat and buttons his coat_.] + +I am going before the magistrate. + +[_About to go_.] + +STEIN. + +And you think they are going to put you to death? + +[FORESTER _stops and turns around_.] + +PASTOR. + +People more guilty than you have been pardoned. + +FORESTER. + +Pardoned to be imprisoned--hey? Like Leutner? He--Indeed, they don't +judge right in those courts, not as it is written here. I know very +well--but--never mind!--All right!-- + +[_Takes his gun_.] + +STEIN. + +What do you intend to do? + +FORESTER. + +Nothing, I must take along the rifle with which the deed was done. O, +they are particular about that! Farewell, Andrew, William. Take good +care of your mother. + +[_Shakes hands with everybody_.] + +Stein, Pastor, Robert, Sophy--she has fainted. God will soon let her +come after me. Bury my child. Have the bells ring; lay her bridal wreath +upon her coffin. O, I am an old woman! When we meet again I shall be a +murderer no longer. + +[_Makes with his hand a sign of farewell_.] + +STEIN. + +You want-- + +FORESTER (_turns around at the door_). + +My sight--and then--[_Points upward to heaven_.]--to meet my child. + +[_Exit. Short pause, during which the others look after him with +surprise and emotion_.] + +STEIN (_seized with a sudden apprehension_). + +If the other barrel is still loaded--quick--after him-- + +[_Outside the door a shot is heard_.] + +Too late! I suspected it! + +ANDREW, WILLIAM (_rushing out_). + +Father! + +ROBERT (_in the open door, rooted to the spot through horror and pain at +what he sees_). + +He has his right! + +STEIN (_also at the door_). + +A second time his own judge! + +PASTOR (_stepping to the others_). + +May God do unto him according to his faith. + +[_Exeunt_.] + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[Footnote 7: Translation of the King James version.] + + + + + +BETWEEN HEAVEN AND EARTH (1856) + + +By OTTO LUDWIG + +TRANSLATED AND CONDENSED BY MURIEL ALMON + + +The little garden lies between the dwelling-house and the slate shed; +whoever goes from one to the other must pass it. As you go from the +house to the shed it is on your left; on the right there is a yard +with a woodshed and a stable, separated from the neighboring house by +a trellis-fence. Every morning the house opens twelve green shutters +onto one of the busiest streets of the town, the shed opens a large +gray door on a back street; the roses on the bushes that have been +trained to grow like trees in the little garden can look out into the +lane which connects its two larger sisters. On the other side of the +lane stands a tall house which, in elegant seclusion, does not deign +to bestow a glance on the smaller one. Its eyes are open only to the +doings of the main street; if you look nearer at its closed eyes +facing the narrow street, you soon see the reason for its eternal +sleep--they are only a sham, painted on the outer wall. + +Not all sides of the house that belongs to the little garden look as +decorative as the one on the main street. There, a pale rose-colored +tint contrasts not too sharply with the green window-shutters and the +blue slate roof. The weather side of the house, on the narrow street, +looks as if it were clad in an armor of slate from top to toe; the +other gable-end joins directly on to the row of houses of which it is +the beginning or the end; at the back, however, it is an example of +the proverb that everything has its weak point. There, an upstairs +piazza has been built onto the house, not unlike half a crown of +thorns. Supported by roughly-hewn wooden posts it runs along the upper +story and expands toward the left into a little room. There is no +direct entrance to it from the upper story of the house. To reach the +"gallery chamber" from there one must leave the house by the back +door, walk perhaps six steps along the wall, past the dog-kennel, to +the wooden stairs, resembling those of a henhouse, and after climbing +these must wander the whole length of the piazza to the left. + +If all the structures are not equally ornamental and if piazza, stable +and shed stand out noticeably against the dwelling-house, yet there is +nowhere lacking a quality which adorns more than beauty of form and +shining ornamentation. Extreme cleanliness smiles at the observer from +the most hidden corners. In the little garden it reaches such a pitch +that it hardly dares to smile. The garden does not look as if it were +cleaned with a hoe and broom; it looks as if it had been brushed. The +little beds that stand out so sharply against the yellow gravel of the +walks look, not as if they had been dug by a cord, but as if they were +drawn on the ground with a ruler and compasses, the box edging has the +air of being daily attended to by the most accurate barber in town +with comb and razor. And yet the blue coat which, if one stands on the +piazza, one may see twice daily stepping into the little garden and +every day at exactly the same minute, is still more neatly kept than +the garden. When, after doing various pieces of work, the old +gentleman leaves the garden again--and every day he goes at the same +minute, just as punctually as he comes--the white apron over his blue +coat shines with such unblemished whiteness that it is really +incomprehensible why the old gentleman should have put it on. When he +moves about among the tall rose-bushes which seem to have taken the +old gentleman's bearing for a model, each of his steps is like the +other, none is longer or fails to keep the regularity of his tempo. If +one looks at him closer as he stands thus in the middle of his +creation, one sees that he has merely copied externally that of which +nature has created the model in himself. The regularity of the +different parts of his tall figure seems to have been as accurately +measured as the beds of the little garden. When nature formed him, her +countenance must have borne the same expression of conscientiousness +as the old man's face--an expression which, because of its strength, +would appear to be obstinacy if an expression of loving gentleness, +indeed almost of dreamy enthusiasm, were not mixed with it. And even +now nature seems to watch over him with the same care that his eye +shows when it looks over his little garden. His hair, cut short at the +back and twisted above his brow into a so-called "corkscrew-curl," is +of the same unblemished whiteness that is shown by his neckerchief, +waistcoat, collar and the apron over his buttoned-up coat. Here, in +his little garden, he completes the finished picture that it presents; +away from home his appearance and personality must appear a little +odd. His hat still has the high pointed crown, his blue overcoat the +narrow collar and padded shoulders of a long vanished fashion. These +offer opportunities enough for bad jokes; but no one makes them. It is +as if there were an invisible something emanating from the stately +figure that prevents the rise of flippant thoughts. + +When the older inhabitants of the town, meeting Herr Nettenmair, pause +in their conversation to greet him respectfully, it is not alone the +magic something that has this effect. They know what it is that they +respect in the old gentleman; when he has passed, their eyes follow +him as they stand, still in silence, until he has disappeared round +the corner; then it may well be that a hand is raised and an extended +forefinger tells more eloquently than lips could of a long life +adorned with all the virtues of a good citizen and untarnished by a +single misdeed. He is never seen in a public place, unless indeed +something relating to the common welfare is to be discussed or +started. The recreation which he allows himself he seeks in his little +garden. At other times he sits over his ledgers or stands in the shed +superintending the loading and unloading of the slate which comes from +his own quarry and which he sells all over the country and far beyond +its borders. A widowed sister-in-law looks after his house for him +and her sons manage the business of slating which is connected with +the trade in slate and is scarcely inferior to it in size. It is their +uncle's spirit, the spirit of orderliness, of conscientiousness to the +point of obstinacy, that rests upon the nephews and gains and keeps +for them such confidence that they are sent for from far away wherever +a slater is needed to roof a new building or to make extensive repairs +to an old one. + +It is a peculiar life that goes on in the house with the green +window-shutters. The sister-in-law, still a beautiful woman, little +younger than the master of the house, treats him with a kind of silent +respect, or even veneration. And her sons do the same. The old +gentleman shows his sister-in-law a respectful consideration, a sort +of chivalry that has something touching in its grave reserve; toward +his nephews he displays the fondness of a father. Yet even there +something lies between them that lends to their whole intercourse +something of considerate formality. + +The sabbath-like peace that now spreads its wings above the most +strenuous activity of the dwellers in the house did not always hover +there. There was a time when bitter sorrow that came from stolen +happiness, and wild desires divided its inmates, when even the menace +of murder cast its shadow into the house; when despair at self-created +misery wandered, wringing its hands in the still night, from the back +door, up the stairs and along the piazza and down again by the path +between the little garden and the stable-yard to the shed, creeping +restlessly to the front again and again to the back. + +What, at that time, made the hearts in the house swell to the +bursting-point, what went on in the shadowed souls and issued from +them in part, in the self-forgetfulness of fear, or became a deed, a +deed of desperation--all that may pass through the memory of the man +with whom we have been occupied. It is thirty-one years today since he +returned to his home town from a long absence. So we turn back the +thirty-one years and find a young man instead of the old one whom we +leave. He is tall, but not so strong; and, like the old man, he wears +his brown hair cut short at the back and brushed into a +"corkscrew-curl" above his high white forehead. The sternness of the +old man does not yet appear in his face, and the scar of mental pain +endured has not yet been stamped upon his good-humored expression. Yet +he is far from showing the light-hearted carelessness usually +belonging to his age and the easy-going manners that are so frequently +habitual with the traveling journeyman. The high road still leads him +through the dense woods; but from the town, far down below, the sound +of St. George's bells rises up to the height, as impossible to +restrain as a mother flying to the loved child that comes toward her. +Home! How much lies in this one short syllable! What swells within the +human heart when the voice of home, the tone of the bells, calls a +welcome to him who is returning from abroad, the tone that called the +child to church, the boy to his confirmation and his first communion, +that spoke to him every hour! In the idea of home, all our good angels +embrace one another. + +Tears gathered in our young wanderer's serious and yet kindly eyes. If +he had not been ashamed he would have sobbed aloud. He felt as if he +had only dreamed his sojourn away from home and, now that he was +awake, could scarcely remember the dream; as if he had only dreamed +that he had grown to be a man while abroad; as if it had always seemed +to him in his dreams that he was only dreaming abroad in order, when +he should wake up at home, to be able to tell about it. It might have +been noticed that, in spite of all this inward agitation of the +moment, he did not fail to see the cobweb that the breeze from home +laid as a greeting against his coat collar, and that he carefully +dried his tears so that they might not fall on his neckerchief, and +that he removed the last, tiniest scraps of the silver thread with the +most persistent patience before he gave himself up to his feeling for +home with his whole soul. And even his attachment to his home was in +part only an expression of his obstinate need of cleanliness which +made him regard everything alien that threatened to fly against him as +dirt; and this need in turn sprang from the warmth of feeling with +which he embraced everything that stood in closer relation to his +personality. The clothes on his body were a piece of home to him, from +which he must ward off everything strange. + +Now the road turned; the mountain ridge which had closed it in up to +this point was now left behind to one side and the top of a spire +appeared above the young growth. It was the top of St. George's +steeple. The young wanderer paused. Natural as it was that the highest +building of the town should become visible to him before the others, +the tender meaning with which his fancy imbued the fact made him +forget that it was so. The slate roof of the church and steeple needed +repairs. This work had been given to his father; and it was the +reason, or at least the pretext, for his father's calling him back +home sooner than he had intended. Perhaps tomorrow he would begin his +part of the work. There, above the wide arch through which he saw the +bells moving, the steeple door had been placed. There the two beams +would have to be pushed out to bear the ladder on which he should +climb up to the broach-post to fasten to it the rope of the +contrivance in which he would make his airy circuit of the roof. And +as it was his nature to bind the cords of his heart to the objects +with which his work brought him in touch, he saw a greeting in the +sudden appearance of the spire and involuntarily reached out toward it +as if he would press a hand offered him in friendship. Then the +thought of the work quickened his step, till a clearing in the wood +and his arrival on the highest slope of the mountain showed him his +whole home town lying at his feet. + +Again he stopped. There stood his father's house with the slate shed +behind it, not far from it the house where she had lived at the time +he went away. Now she lived in his father's house, was his father's +daughter, his brother's wife; and from now on he was to live in the +same house with her and to see her daily as his sister-in-law. His +heart beat harder at the thought of her. But it did not allow any of +the hopes which had formerly been bound up with her memory to rise. +His affection had become that of a brother for a sister, and what +moved him now was more like anxiety. He knew that she thought of him +with dislike. She was the only one in his father's whole house who +looked forward to his coming with displeasure. How had this all come +about? Had there not been a time when she seemed to be fond of him, +when she had apparently liked to meet him as much as she later avoided +him? Down below there, in front of the town, the shooting-house stood +surrounded by gardens. How much bigger the trees round the house had +grown since he had waved his last greeting to it from this height! +Shortly before he had stood there under that acacia--it had been a +beautiful spring evening, the most beautiful he thought he had ever +known--at the Whitsuntide shooting. Within all the other young people +were dancing; he walked happily round outside the house in which he +knew her to be dancing. Even now he still felt embarrassed with girls +and women and did not know how to talk to them; at that time he had +felt even more so. How dearly he would have loved to tell her--how +much he had to tell her, when he was alone, and how well he knew how +to say it; and if chance ordained that he met her alone (it was +wonderful how busy chance seemed to be in arranging such meetings) the +thought that now the moment had come drove all the blood to his heart, +the words from his tongue back into their hiding-place in the depths +of his soul. Thus it had been when, her cheeks still glowing from the +dance, she had come out of the house alone. She seemed to be concerned +only with getting cool; she fanned herself with her white scarf, but +her cheeks only grew the redder. He felt that she had seen him, that +she expected him to come nearer; and it was the knowledge that he +understood her that dyed her cheeks redder--that drove her, as he +hesitated, back again into the hall. Perhaps, too, she had heard a +third person coming. His brother came out of another door of the hall. +He had seen the two standing silently opposite each other, perhaps had +also seen the girl's blush. "Are you looking for Beate?" asked our +hero to hide his embarrassment. "No," answered his brother, "she is +not at the dance--and it's just as well. Nothing can come of it, after +all; I must get another--and until I find one, Bohemian beer is my +sweetheart." + +There was something wild in his brother's speech. Our hero looked at +him amazed and at the same time disturbed. "Why can nothing come of +it?" he asked. "And what is the matter with you?" + +"Oh, yes, you think I ought to be like you, pious and patient so long +as there is no thread on your coat. But I am another kind of fellow, +and if anybody upsets my calculations I have to let off steam. Why can +nothing come of it? Because the old man in the blue coat won't have +it." + +"Father called you into the little garden yesterday--" + +"Yes, and raised his white eyebrows, which are drawn with a ruler, an +inch and a half. 'I thought it was so. You are going with Beate, the +collector's daughter. That comes to an end today!'" + +"Is it possible? And why?" + +"Did you ever know old Blue-coat to give any 'why'? And did you ever +ask him 'But why, father?' He didn't say so, but I know why it has to +come to an end with me and Beate. I've been expecting it the whole +week; whenever he raised his hand I thought he was pointing to the +little garden and was ready to follow him like a poor sinner. That is +the place where he gives his cabinet orders. The collector is said not +to be in very good circumstances. There is some gossip about his +spending more than his pay. And--well, you are a quill-driver, too, +like old Blue-coat. But what can the girl do? Or I? Well, the affair +must stop--but I'm sorry about the girl, and I must see how I can +forget her. I must drink or get another one." + +Our hero was accustomed to his brother's manner; he knew that the +words were not intended to be as wild as they sounded, and his brother +was showing his love and respect for their father by the fact of his +obedience; still our hero would have liked to see them shown in speech +as well as in action. It seemed to Apollonius as if there were +something unclean on his brother's soul and involuntarily he stroked +the other's coat collar several times with his hand as if he could +brush it off him from outside. Dust had collected on the collar during +the dance; when he had removed it he felt as if he had really removed +what had troubled him. + +The subject of their conversation changed. They began to speak of the +girl who had just been out, fanning herself to get cool; Apollonius +certainly did not know that he was responsible for this. Just as the +girl was the goal to which all his lines of thought led, so, too, when +once he began to speak of her he could not escape from his theme. He +forgot his brother so completely that at last he was really talking to +himself. His brother now seemed for the first time to perceive all the +beautiful and good things in her that the hero lauded with unconscious +eloquence. He agreed with more and more enthusiasm until he broke into +a wild laugh which roused the hero from his self-forgetfulness and +dyed his cheeks as red as those of the girl had been a short time +before. + +"And so you slink about round the hall where she is dancing with +others, and if she shows herself you haven't the heart to draw her +into conversation. Wait, I will be your ambassador. From now on she +shall dance no turn except with me, so that no one else shall cross +your plans. I know how to get on with girls. Let me take your part for +you." + +Our hero was frightened at the thought that the girl should learn that +very day what he felt for her. Besides, he was ashamed of his own +embarrassed and awkward behavior to her, and of what she must think of +him when she knew that he needed a mediator. He had already raised his +hand to stop his brother when the appearance of the girl herself +caused everything else to grow dark to him. Quietly and alone, as +before, she stepped out of the door. Beneath the scarf with which she +had fanned herself she seemed to glance furtively about her. Again he +saw her cheeks grow redder. Had she seen him? But she turned her face +in the opposite direction. She seemed to be looking for something in +the grass in front of her. He saw her pick a little flower, lay it on +a bench and, after she had stood for a time as if in doubt whether she +should pick it up again or not, with quick decision turn again to the +door. A half involuntary movement of her arm seemed to tell him to +take it, that it was picked for him. Once more a wave of red rushed up +over her face to her dark brown hair, and the haste with which she +disappeared in the door seemed intended to prevent a regret which +might give rise to anxiety as to how her conduct would be understood. + +The brother, who seemed not to have noticed anything of all this, had +continued to speak in his lively, vehement fashion; his words were +lost; our hero would have had to have had two lives in order to hear +them, for all the one he possessed was in his eyes. Now he saw his +brother rushing away toward the hall. He thought of detaining him, but +it was too late. In vain he hurried after him up to the door. There +the flower absorbed him again which the girl had left lying for some +finder, for a happy one, if _he_ found it for whom it was intended. +And while his lips continued to call softly and mechanically to his +brother, who no longer heard him, to keep silence, he was inwardly +asking himself: "Was it really I for whom she laid the flower here? +Did she lay it here for any one?" His heart answered both questions +with a happy "Yes," while at the same time the thing that his brother +intended to do troubled him. + +If it was a sign of love from her and for him, then it was the last. + +Twice he glanced surreptitiously into the hall when the door was +opened; he saw her dancing with his brother and then, when they were +resting after the dance, he saw his brother talking persuasively to +her in his hasty way. "Now he is talking of me," he thought, his whole +face burning. He rushed into the shade of the bushes when she left the +hall. His brother took her home. He followed them at as great a +distance as he thought necessary to prevent her seeing him. When his +brother came back from accompanying her he stepped away from the door. +He felt naked with shame. His brother had noticed him nevertheless. He +said: "She won't hear of you yet; I don't know whether she means it, +or whether it is just airs. I shall meet her again. No tree falls at +one stroke. But I must confess, you have good taste. I don't know +where my eyes have been up to now. She's away ahead of Beate; and +that's saying a good deal!" + +From then on his brother had danced untiringly with Walter's +Christiane and spoken for Apollonius and always, after he had taken +her home, he came and gave our hero an account of his efforts on his +behalf. For a long time he was uncertain whether it was only +affectation, or whether she really looked with disfavor on our hero. +He repeated conscientiously what he had said in our hero's praise, and +how she had answered his questions and assurances. He still had hope +after our hero had already given it up. And her behavior toward the +latter would have compelled him to realize that he could expect no +return of his affection, even if he had not known what answers she +gave his brother. She avoided him wherever she saw him as assiduously +as she had formerly seemed to seek him. And had it really been he whom +she had sought before, if indeed she had sought any one? + +A hundred times his brother urged him to waylay her and press his own +suit. He exerted all his inventive power to procure him an opportunity +of speaking to her alone. Our hero refused to be urged or to accept +his offers. After all, it was useless. All that he might accomplish +would be to make her still more angry. + +"I can't stand by any longer and see you growing thinner and paler all +the time," said his brother one evening, after he had reported how +unsuccessfully he had spoken for him again that day. "You must go away +from here for a while; that will have good results for you in two +ways. When I tell her that it is on her account that you have gone out +into the world, perhaps she will turn. Believe me, I know the +long-haired tribe, and I know how to treat them. You must write her a +touching letter for good-by; I will deliver it, and I'll manage to +soften her heart. And if it can't be accomplished, it will do you good +to be away from here where everything reminds you of her, for a +year--or several years. And finally, strange places will make another +man of you, who will know better how to get round the apron-wearers. +You must learn to dance; that's already half the battle. And anyway, +the old Blue-coat has been asked by his cousin in Cologne to send one +of us to him; I read it the other day in a letter that had fallen out +of his pocket. Just tell him that you have gathered something of the +sort from several things he has said lately and that you are ready to +go if he wants you to. Or let me do that. You are too honest." + +And he really did arrange it. It is a question whether our hero would +have been able voluntarily to make up his mind to leave home. He could +not understand how any one could live anywhere else but in his home +town; to him it had always seemed like a fairy tale that there were +other towns and people living in them. He had not imagined the life +and doings of these people as real, like those of the inhabitants of +his home, but as a kind of shadow-play that existed only for the +looker-on, not for the shadows themselves. His brother, who knew how +to treat the old man, led the conversation up to the cousin in Cologne +as if by chance, and was clever enough to interpret the suggestions +that Herr Nettenmair made in his diplomatic way as preliminary hints +and connect them with others that referred to our hero. After frequent +conversations he seemed to take it as the express desire of the old +man that Apollonius should go to his cousin in Cologne. This put the +idea into the old man's mind and, as it passed for his own, he brooded +over it in his own way. There was little work to do at the time, and +there seemed to be no prospect of its increasing materially for some +time. A pair of hands could be spared; if they remained in the +business all the workers would be condemned to semi-idleness. The old +man could stand nothing as little as what he called dawdling. The only +thing that was lacking was that our hero should resist. He knew +nothing of his brother's plans. The latter had wisely not initiated +him into them, because he knew him too well to expect his support in a +matter that he would have rejected as both underhand and disrespectful +to his father. + +"You want to send Apollonius to Cologne," said his brother to the old +man one afternoon; "but will he want to go? I don't think so. You will +have to send me out on my travels. Apollonius won't go--at least not +today, nor tomorrow." + +That was enough. That very evening the old man beckoned our hero to +follow him into the little garden. He stopped in front of the old +pear-tree and, removing a little twig that was growing out of its +trunk, said: "Tomorrow you will go to your cousin in Cologne." + +With a rapid movement he turned toward his son, and saw with +astonishment that Apollonius nodded his head obediently. It seemed +almost to displease him that he should have no self-will to break. +Did he think that the poor boy was nursing defiant thoughts, even if +he did not express them, and did he want to break down even the +defiance of thoughts? "You pack your knapsack this very day, do you +hear?" he shouted at him. + +"Yes, father," said Apollonius. + +"You start tomorrow at sunrise." After he had seemed to try almost to +force a defiant answer, he may have regretted his anger. He made a +gesture of dismissal; Apollonius went obediently. The old man followed +him, and several times he came up to the brothers' room with milder +sternness to remind his son, who was packing, of this and that which +he was not to forget. + +And the last of four strokes was just ringing out from the tower of +St. George's when the door of the house with the green shutters +opened, and our young wanderer stepped out, accompanied by his +brother. At the same spot where he now stood looking down on the town +lying below him, his brother had taken farewell of him, and he had +looked after him a long, long time. "Perhaps I can win her for you +after all," his brother had said; "and then I'll write you so at once. +And if you can't get her, she isn't the only one in the world. I can +tell you, you are as good-looking a fellow as any; and if you'll only +lay aside your stupid way you can get on with any of them. Once for +all, things are so that the girls can't court us--and I shouldn't even +want one that threw herself at my head of her own accord. And what can +a lively girl do with a dreamer? Our cousin in Cologne is said to have +a couple of pretty daughters. And now, good-by. I will deliver your +letter today." With that his brother had left him. + +"Yes," said Apollonius to himself as he looked after him. "He is +right. Not because of my cousin's daughters, or any other girl, no +matter how pretty she might be. If I had been different perhaps I need +not have had to go away now. Was it I for whom she laid the flower +there at the Whitsuntide shooting? Did she want to meet me then, and +before then? Who knows how hard it has become for her! And having done +all that in vain must she not have felt ashamed? Oh, she is right not +to want to have anything more to do with me. I must learn to be +different." + +And this resolution had been no bloomless bud. His cousin's house in +Cologne did not encourage dreaming of any kind. Apollonius found an +entirely different family life there from that in his own home. His +old cousin was as full of life as the youngest member of the family. +Loneliness was impossible. A lively sense of the ridiculous +[Illustration: Jacob's Journey. Schnorr Von Carolsfeld] [Blank Page] +prevented the growth of any kind of peculiarity. Every one had to be +on his guard; no one could let himself go. + +Apollonius could not have avoided growing to be another man, even if +he had not wanted to change; and he recognized clearly that it was a +piece of good fortune that had led him to his cousin. He lost more and +more of his dreaminess; before long his cousin could put the most +difficult task into the young man's hands and he would complete it, +without the aid of another's advice, so satisfactorily that his cousin +was obliged to confess to himself that even he would not have begun +the matter more thoroughly, carried it on more energetically, finished +it more speedily and happily. Soon the youth was able to form his own +opinion of the way in which the business at home had been carried on. +He was obliged to acknowledge that it had not been the most practical +way, in fact, that some of his father's orders could not but be called +wrong-headed; then he reproached himself bitterly for his unfilial +criticism, endeavored to justify his father's actions to himself, and, +if he found that impossible, forced himself to believe that the old +man must have had his good reasons and it could only be that he +himself was too limited in knowledge to be able to guess them. + +Letters came from his brother. In the first one he wrote that he was +now clear in his mind about the girl to this extent, that her +harshness toward Apollonius was due to her fondness for another whom +he could not bring her to name. In the next, one in which he scarcely +spoke of the girl, Apollonius read between the lines a certain pity +for himself, the reason for which he knew not how to find. The third +gave this reason only too clearly. His brother himself was the object +of the girl's secret affection. She had given him various signs of +this, after he had renounced his former sweetheart in accordance with +his father's will. He had suspected nothing of this; and when he had +approached her as a suitor on his brother's behalf, shame and the +conviction that he himself did not love her had sealed her lips. + +Now Apollonius realized with pain that he had been mistaken when he +believed that those dumb signs had been meant for him. He wondered that +he had not seen that he was in error at the time. Had not his brother +been as near to her as he when she laid down the flower which the wrong +man found? And when she had met him alone so intentionally +unintentionally--indeed, when he called to mind the moments that +dominated his dreams--she had sought his brother, that was why she had +been so startled to meet him, that was why she had fled every time as +soon as she had recognized him, as soon as she found him whom she was +not seeking. She did not talk to him, but she could joke for a quarter +of an hour at a time with his brother. + +These thoughts characterized hours, days and weeks of pain that lay +deep within him, but his cousin's confidence which he had to reward by +living up to it, the healing effect of busy and purposeful work, the +manliness which both these things had already ripened in him, all held +their own in the struggle and came out of it strengthened. + +A later letter which he received from his brother announced that old +Walther had discovered the inclination of the girl's heart and that he +and the old gentleman in the blue coat had decided that Apollonius' +brother should marry the girl. The old gentleman's "should" was a +"must;" Apollonius knew that as well as his brother. The girl's +affection had touched his brother; she was beautiful and good; should +he oppose his father's will for Apollonius' sake, for the sake of a +love that was without hope? Being certain of Apollonius' consent +beforehand, he had resigned himself to the decree of heaven. + +Throughout the first half of the following letter, in which he +announced his marriage, this pious mood echoed. After many cordial +words of comfort came his brother's apology, or rather justification, +for having allowed two years to elapse between this letter and the +last one. Then followed a description of his domestic happiness; his +young wife who still clung to him with all the fire of her girlish +love, had borne him a girl and a boy. In the mean time his father had +been afflicted by an ailment of the eyes, and had grown constantly +less able to conduct the business alone in his sovereign manner. This +had made him grow odder and odder. After he had left the reins in his +son's hands for a time, the old imperative desire to rule, intensified +by the monotony of enforced idleness, had caused him to rouse himself +once more. Finally, however, he had been obliged to realize that +things could not go on in his way. To subordinate himself to another +merely as an advisory assistant, and particularly when the other was +his own son who until recently had carried out his commands without +being consulted and without any will of his own, this proved to be +impossible for the old man. He found occupation in the little garden. +There he could remove the old, think of something new, and again make +room for something newer; and he did so. Ruling unrestrictedly in the +little green realm in which from now on no "why" might be heard, +where, beside the law of nature, only one other governed and that his +will, he forgot or seemed to forget that he had formerly borne a +mightier sceptre. + +But his brother's following letters were not so full of the business +and of the odd old gentleman as they were of the festivities of the +shooting society of the home town and of a club which had been formed +to keep its pleasures separate from those of the lower classes. In all +the descriptions of bird and target shooting, concerts and balls of +which he and his young wife appeared as the centre, shone the utmost +gratification of the writer's vanity. Only in a postscript to the last +letter did he mention the more serious fact that the town wanted to +have repairs made to the tower and roof of St. George's, and that the +work had been entrusted to him. The old gentleman in the blue coat +urged him to ask Apollonius to return to his home town and the +business. It was his brother's opinion that Apollonius would not care +to leave the life in Cologne of which he had become fond for such a +trifling matter. The repairs could be completed in a short time with +the present working force. There were only a few damaged places on the +tower and roof. Moreover, apart from his wife's dislike of Apollonius +which he had continued to combat in vain, it would be a useless +torture to his brother to refresh in his mind all that he must be glad +to have forgotten. He would easily find an excuse for refusing to obey +a command which only oddity had suggested. The conclusion of the +letter contained a teasing insinuation of a relation between our hero +and his cousin's youngest daughter, of which his home town was +talking. His brother sent his regards to her as his future +sister-in-law. + +Although no such relation existed, Apollonius acknowledged to himself +that it was only for him to call it into being. He knew that he could +become his cousin's son-in-law if he wished. The girl was pretty, +good, and fond of him, as was her sister. But he looked on her only as +a sister; he had never felt a wish that she might be more to him. He +believed he had conquered his love for Christiane; he did not know +that after all it was only she that stood between him and his cousin's +daughter, as she would have stood between him and any other woman. +When he learned that Christiane loved his brother, he had taken from +his breast the little metal box in which he had carried the flower +ever since the evening when he had picked it up in the mistaken +belief that it had been laid there for him. When Christiane became his +brother's wife, he packed up the box with the flower and sent it to +him. He could not throw away what had once been dear to him--but he +might no longer possess it. Only he had a right to the flower for whom +it had been intended, to whom belonged the hand which had bestowed it. + +His father called him back; he must obey. But it was more than mere +obedience that awoke in him. He not only went; he went gladly. His +father's words conveyed to him a permission rather than an order. When +the spring sun penetrates into a room that has been uninhabited and +closed for the winter we see that what has lain on the floor like dry +mummies was really sleeping life. Now it moves and stretches itself +and becomes a buzzing cloud and swarms up jubilantly into the golden +ray. Not his father alone, every house in his home-town, every hill, +every garden about it, every tree within it, called him. His brother, +his sister--this was the name he gave Christiane--called him. Yet, she +did not call him. She felt a dislike of him, a dislike so strong that +for six years his brother had struggled in vain to overcome it. He +felt as if he must go home on that account if on no other; he must +show her that he did not deserve her dislike, that he was worthy to be +her brother. He wrote this to his brother in the letter which +announced his intention to obey and named the day on which they might +expect him. He was able to assure him that recollections of the time +that was gone would not torture him, that his brother's anxiety was +groundless. + +It had come to that--the thought of her did not awaken any of the old +hopes. When he looked down from the height he asked himself: "Shall I +succeed in becoming a brother to her who is now my sister?" + +He has arrived at the door of the paternal home. In vain he has +scanned the windows, seeking for some familiar face. Now a thickset +man in a black coat comes rushing out. He dashes out so hastily, +embraces him so wildly, presses him so close to his white waistcoat, +lays his cheek so near his cheek and keeps it there so long that one +must choose to believe either that he loves his brother to the utmost +or--that he does not want him to look into his eyes. But at last he +has to let go of him; he takes him by the right arm and draws him into +the door. + +"It's fine that you've come! It's grand that you've come! It really +wasn't necessary--simply an idea of the old man's, and he has nothing +more to say about the business. But it really is splendid of you; I'm +only sorry that you're making your betrothed's eyes red for nothing." +He said the words "your betrothed" so distinctly and in such a loud +tone that they could be heard and understood in the living room. +Apollonius searched his brother's face with moist eyes, as if to check +off, point by point, whether everything was still there that had been +so dear to him. His brother did nothing to help him; he looked only at +what lay between Apollonius' chin and toes. + +"Father wanted it," said Apollonius easily; "and what you say of a +betrothed--" + +His brother interrupted him; he laughed loudly in his old manner, so +that even if Apollonius had gone on speaking he could not have been +understood. "That's all right! That's all right! And once more, it's +splendid that you've come to visit us, and we won't let you go for a +fortnight at least, whether you want to or not. Don't mind her," he +added softly, pointing through the doorway with his right hand while +he opened the door with his left. + +The young wife was standing at a cupboard with the contents of which +she was busy, her back toward the door. She turned, in an embarrassed +and not quite friendly manner, and only toward her husband. Her +brother-in-law could still see nothing but a part of her right cheek, +with a burning blush upon it. Whatever other criticism might be made +of her behavior, an unmistakable honesty showed itself in it, an +incapability of pretending to be otherwise than she was. She stood +there as if she were preparing herself to hear an expected insult. +Apollonius went up to her and took her hand, which at first she seemed +to want to draw away and then allowed to lie motionless in his. He was +glad to greet his sister-in-law. He begged her not to be displeased at +his coming and hoped by earnest endeavor to conquer the unmistakable +dislike that she felt for him. + + * * * * * + +However considerate and courteous were the terms in which he clothed +his pleading and hope, yet he expressed both only in thought. That +everything was just as he had imagined it and yet so entirely +different robbed him of all ease and courage. + +His brother put a welcome end to the painful pause, for his wife did +not utter a syllable in reply. He pointed to the children. They were +still crowding, unconfused by all that oppressed their elders and +which they did not notice or understand, about their new uncle; and he +was glad of the opportunity to bend down to them and to have to answer +a thousand questions. + +"They're a forward brood," said their father. He pointed to the +children, but he looked furtively at his wife. "For all that I'm +surprised to see how soon you have become acquainted--and intimate at +once," he added. Perchance he continued his last remark in thought: +"it seems that you know how to become intimate quickly and to make +others intimate with you!" A shade as of anxiety spread over his red +face. But his anxiety was not about the children; otherwise he would +have looked at the children and not at his wife. + +Apollonius was talking more and more eagerly to the children. He had +failed to hear the remark or he did not want to let the angry woman +know whose face he carried so vividly within him. He would have +recognized the little ones, if they had met him by chance, as his +brother's children by their resemblance to their mother. But the +question how they had become so quickly intimate with him ought to +have been put to old Valentine. It was he who had been continually +telling them about the uncle who was soon coming to see them--perhaps +only so as to be able to talk with some one about what he liked to +talk of so much. The brother and the sister-in-law avoided such +conversations, and the father did not make himself familiar enough +with the old fellow to talk with him about matters which might give +him an excuse to drop into any kind of intimacy. Old Valentine would +also have been able to say that the children had not met their uncle +just by chance. They had come to find him. Old Valentine had thought +of how love that has waited long hurries to meet thousands of +homecomers; it had hurt him to think that his favorite alone should +fail to find any greeting before he knocked at his father's door. + +Apollonius suddenly ceased speaking. He was shocked to think that his +embarrassment had caused him to forget his father. His brother +understood his start and said with relief: "He's in the little +garden." Apollonius jumped up and hurried out. + +There, among his beds, crouched the figure of the old gentleman. He +was still following old Valentine's shears with his critical hands as +the servant slipped along on his knees before him. He found many an +inequality which the fellow had to remove at once. It was no wonder. +Twice every minute old Valentine thought: "Now he's coming!" And when +he thought thus the shears cut crookedly right into the bog. And the +old gentleman would have growled in quite another manner if the same +thought had not made uncertain the hand that was now his eye. + +Apollonius stood before his father and could not speak for pain. He +had long known that his father was blind and had often pictured him to +himself in sorrowful thought. At such times he had seen him looking as +usual, only with a shield over his eyes. He had thought of him sitting +or leaning on old Valentine, but never as he now saw him, the tall +figure helpless as a child, the trembling and uncertain hands feeling +their way. Now he knew for the first time what it meant to be blind. + +Valentine laid the shears down and laughed or cried on his knees; it +could not be said what he did. The old gentleman first inclined his +head to one side as if listening, then he pulled himself together. +Apollonius saw that his father felt his blindness to be something of +which he must be ashamed. He saw how the old man exerted himself to +avoid every movement that might recall the fact that he was blind. The +old gentleman felt that the new-comer was somewhere near him. But +where? On which side? Apollonius understood that his father felt this +uncertainty with shame, and forced himself to cry with a voice that +almost failed him. "Father! Dear father!" He dropped on his knees +beside the old man and wanted to throw both arms around him. His +father made a motion which seemed to beg for forbearance, though it +was only intended to keep the young man away from him. Apollonius +threw the arms his father had refused around his own breast to hold +the pain there which, if it had risen and crossed his lips, would have +betrayed to his father how deeply he felt the latter's misery. The +same consideration made old Valentine turn his involuntary motion to +help the old gentleman to stand upright, into a movement to pick up +the shears which lay between him and his master. He too wanted to hide +from the son what could not be hidden, so faithfully and deeply had he +learned to live in the father's feelings. + +The old gentleman had risen and held out his hand to his son much as +if the latter had been absent as many days as he had been years. "You +must be tired and hungry! I am somewhat troubled with my eyes--but it +is of no consequence. As regards the business, talk to Fritz. I have +given it up. I want to have peace. But that is not the real reason; +young people must become independent some time. It makes them more +eager to work." + +He came a step nearer his son. He seemed to be carrying on a struggle +within himself. He wanted to say something which no one should hear +except his son. But he was silent. Why did he suppress what he wanted +to say? Did it concern the business, or the honor of the house? And +did he know or suspect that the one who was now responsible for both +in his place was standing leaning against the gate of the little +garden and could hear what he said to the new-comer, or, if he spoke +secretly to him, could at least see that he did so? Was this why he +had had Apollonius called home from abroad? And did the expression of +a "why" now still seem to him incompatible with his position? + +It was a curious party at the midday meal. The old gentleman dined +alone in his little room as usual. The children too had been sent +away, and did not come in again until after the meal. The young wife +was more in the kitchen or elsewhere out of the room than at the +table; and if she did once sit down there for a few minutes, she was +as dumb as she had been when Apollonius greeted her; the resentful +cloud did not pass from her forehead. Fritz was accustomed to his +father's condition, which pierced Apollonius' heart with the keenness +of new-felt pain. He talked only of the old man's oddities; old +Blue-coat did not know what he wanted himself, and made life +needlessly unpleasant for himself and all the others in the house. If +Apollonius began to talk of the business, of the repairs to be made to +the roof of St. George's, his brother spoke of pleasures with which he +was glad to be able to make his brother's stay with him more +agreeable--and he always mentioned this stay as he would a passing +visit. When Apollonius told him he had not come to enjoy himself but +to work, he laughed as if it were an incomparable joke that Apollonius +should want to help to do nothing, and showed that he understood wit, +however dry might be its expression. Then, when his wife had gone out +of the room, he asked about his brother's understanding with his +cousin's daughter, and then laughed again at his brother wag, in whom +no one would recognize the old dreamer. + +After dinner the children came in again, and with them more life and +easy familiarity. While the old conditions still confronted Apollonius +as new and strange, to the children what was new had already become +old and familiar. All the afternoon Fritz, and apparently his wife +too, were occupied only with a ball that was to be given. Fritz forgot +more and more whatever might have caused him uneasiness, in thinking +of the impression that he, as the chief person, would make on the +new-comer at the festivity, and made use of the time till it should +begin in giving him a foretaste of the affair by means of tales and +hints dropped of the honor and attention shown him on such occasions +by the most prominent citizens. He became noticeably more cheerful, +and walked more and more proudly up and down the room. The creaking of +his well-polished shoes said for the present, before the guests at the +ball could do so: "Ah, there he is! Ah, there he is!" And when at +intervals he jingled the money in his trousers-pockets all the corners +of the hall rang with: "Now the fun will begin! Now the fun will +begin!" And thither among those who were welcoming the guests--but he +was no longer walking, he was gliding, swimming on the music--every +dance was a jubilant overture on the name Nettenmair--he felt no +floor, no feet, no legs beneath him, he scarcely still felt young Frau +Nettenmair swimming along beside him, hanging to his right fin, the +most beautiful among the beautiful, just as he was the most jovial +among the jovial, the thumb on the hand of the ball. + +And two hours later cries of "There he is!" really did ring from all +sides and all the corners shouted: "Now the fun will begin!" Wherever +they passed chairs were offered them. No hand was shaken as often and +as long as that of jovial Fritz Nettenmair, no member of the company +had so much sincere praise poured into his ears as he. But then, how +agreeable he was! How condescendingly he accepted all this deserved +homage! How witty he showed himself; how pleasantly he laughed! And +not at his own jokes alone--there was no art in that; they were so +brilliant that he had to laugh even if he didn't want to--he laughed +at others too, little as they deserved it, compared with his. There +were people, to be sure, who paid little attention to him, but he did +not notice them; and those who showed it more plainly were +"Philistines, everyday fellows, insignificant people," as he whispered +to his brother with contemptuous pity. It was quite peculiar: +everyone's greater or lesser importance as a man and a citizen could +be measured with perfect exactitude by the degree of his admiration +for Fritz Nettenmair. + +When the dancing began Fritz drew his brother into a room at the side. +"You must dance," he said. "My wife would turn you down, and that +would be unpleasant for me. I will bring you a partner who is firm on +her feet and can keep you in time. Pluck up heart, boy, even if it +doesn't go smoothly all at once." + +In the excitement of vanity Fritz Nettenmair had forgotten six years. +His brother was still to him the dreamer of old whom he forced to +dance at times for his pleasure. Now, when, paying no attention to his +refusal, he led the girl to Apollonius, the latter resigned himself so +as not to appear impolite. + +Fritz Nettenmair was the best-natured fellow in the world as long as +he knew himself to be the sole object of the general admiration. In +such a mood he could perform deeds of sacrifice for those who threw +his brilliance into the shade. So it was now. As he sat among the +important people, treating them to champagne, and read in his wife's +eyes the gratification with which she saw him overwhelmed with honors, +a feeling crept over him as if he had forgiven his brother a great +wrong, and he felt himself to be an extraordinarily noble man, who +deserved all these marks of honor and who yet with wonderful modesty +condescended to allow himself to be touched by them. He saw that his +brother was no longer the dreamer of old; but he forgave him that too. +All eyes were directed toward the handsome dancer and his skilful +carriage. Fritz teased his wife, and, in the certainty that he must +far outshine his brother, he felt the additional gratification of +forgiving any amount of wrong that Apollonius had never done him. + +But, oh the ungrateful one! He would not allow himself to be outshone. +Fritz Nettenmair danced jovially, as one who is at home in the world +and knows how to treat the species that wears long hair and aprons; +his brother was a stiff figure in comparison. He did not keep time +with his head, nor, if the step was made with the left foot on the +down beat, throw the upper part of his body to the right and vice +versa; he did not now and again, with the boldness of a genius, slide +across the hall and outdistance other couples. He danced neither +jovially nor as one who is familiar with the world and knows how to +treat the species that wears long hair and aprons; yet all eyes +remained fixed on him, and Fritz Nettenmair outdid himself in vain. + +It was the dullest ball that Fritz Nettenmair had ever experienced; it +could not have been more so if Fritz Nettenmair had stayed at home. +Fritz Nettenmair proclaimed the fact with mighty oaths, and the +important people who had drunk his champagne agreed with him in his +opinion, as they always did. + +Some of the important women expressed to Frau Nettenmair their +righteous and friendly indignation at her brother-in-law. That he had +not asked his sister-in-law for the first dance betrayed an +unpardonable disparagement of her. Frau Nettenmair, who felt the +universal wrong done to her husband as deeply as if it had been done +to herself, said that her brother-in-law had long known that she would +only have turned him down if he had. But still Apollonius was only +admired and honored more and more, and consequently the ball only +became still duller. It became so dull, in fact, that Fritz Nettenmair +left with his wife at an hour when as a rule he was only just +beginning to be really jovial. Nevertheless he heaped coals of fire on +his ungrateful brother's head. He asked the girl in his brother's name +to allow Apollonius to accompany her home. Then he went out of the +little room at the side into the hall again to his wife, and with her +left the house, to the unfeigned despair of the important people, who +were still thirsty for champagne. + +After he had performed his enforced knightly service for his lady, +Apollonius found the door of the paternal home open and all its +inmates already asleep. At least there was no light to be seen +anywhere and everything was still. His brother had assigned to him the +little room at the left of the second-story piazza. Fortunately for +Apollonius, the six years had not altered the house as they had its +inmates. He went softly through the back door, past Moldau who growled +in a friendly way and whose rough neck he stroked full of gratitude +for this sign of constancy, mounted the stairs, walked the length of +the piazza and found a bed in his little room. But before he undressed +he still sat for a long time on the chair by the window and compared +what he had found with what he had left. Before he lay down for the +night he had determined on his future course of action. The next +morning he must learn what he was to do here, his relation to his +father's house must be clearly settled. If there was no work for him, +he would be on his way back to Cologne before the day was over. + +He was up with the sun; but he had long to wait before it pleased his +brother to rise from his couch. He made use of the time to take a walk +to St. George's; he wanted to see for himself what was to be done +there. When he came back again he met his brother and a gentleman with +him who were just about to leave the living room. Apollonius knew the +gentleman as the inspector of buildings from the town council. They +greeted each other. They had already spoken to each other the day +before at the ball, where the gentleman had not proved himself to be a +prominent man and citizen, but, on the contrary, had joined the +Philistines, everyday fellows, and insignificant people. Apparently he +was not displeased to meet Apollonius just now. After the customary +exchange of courtesies he explained the purpose of his presence. A +final conference of experts was to take place that morning to consider +what was to be done to the roof of the church and the tower, so that +the result could be reported at a meeting of the council in the +afternoon and a decision reached. Fritz Nettenmair and the inspector +were on the way to St. George's, where they knew that the rest of the +experts were already assembled. + +Fritz, as he said, did not want to trouble his visitor by making him +participate in business in which he was not concerned; just as +little--but he did not say this--did he want to leave him alone at +home. He asked him to be at the house in the woods, from which he +would fetch him to go for a walk. Apollonius assured him quite easily +that he would rather be present at the meeting; and when the inspector +went so far as to ask him to go with him as another expert, no pretext +could be found on which this could be prevented. Perhaps Fritz +Nettenmair had a suspicion that he would soon have a great deal more +to forgive the newcomer. + +They found the rest of the meeting, two strange master-slaters and the +official builders of the council, carpenter, masons, and tinsmiths, +waiting for them at the tower-door. Several scaffoldings had already +been fastened to the roof so that it could be examined; the conference +took place in the church-loft nearest the largest of them. Apollonius +stood modestly a few steps away in order to hear and, if he were +asked, to speak. He had carefully examined the roof beforehand and +formed his own opinion of the matter. + +The two strange slaters stated that they thought extensive repairs +were necessary. Fritz Nettenmair, on the contrary, was convinced that +with a few patches which he enumerated, nothing more need be done for +years. The builders, carpenter, masons and tinsmith eagerly agreed +with him; all of them jovial and prominent men at yesterday's ball who +conscientiously believed that if you drank a man's champagne, his was +the opinion you must hold. The strange slaters knew very well that the +Council feared the expense of more extensive repairs and had postponed +those that had long been highly necessary from year to year. As, +moreover, they had no prospect of being intrusted with the repairs +themselves, they did not give themselves unnecessary trouble to aid in +forcing upon Herr Fritz Nettenmair work and profit for which he +himself seemed to care nothing at all. Hence in the course of the +discussion they became more and more convinced that, whatever way you +looked at the matter, Herr Fritz Nettenmair too was right. The +inspector, a good man, perhaps grasped their motives and those of the +prominent men. For a time he had listened in silence with a +dissatisfied face, when he remembered Apollonius. He saw something in +the latter's expression that seemed to correspond to his own opinion. +"And what do you say?" he asked, turning to him. + +Apollonius modestly came a step nearer. + +"I wish you would look at the matter as carefully as possible," said +the councilman. + +Apollonius replied that he had already done so. + +"I need not draw your attention to the fact that the matter is very +important," continued the councilman. + +Apollonius bowed. The councilman repressed what he had been about to +say. With all its softness and mildness, such strict conscientiousness +and obstinate honesty was expressed in the young man's countenance, +that the councilman was almost ashamed of the admonition he had been +on the point of giving him. + +Apollonius began by stating the results of the examination he had +made. He explained the condition of the places he had been able to +test and what might be inferred from that as regarded the others. As +the church accounts showed, no extensive repairs had been made to the +church roof for eighty years. Even though the slate itself, if the +material was good, might defy the elements for a long time yet, this +was not true of the nails with which the slates were fastened to the +lathing and planking. And wherever he had tested them he had found the +nails either entirely destroyed or very nearly so. + +It was unavoidably necessary to re-lay the entire slate covering and +to replace with new material the rotten spots in the lathing and +planking. Another winter would make the condition of the roof so much +worse that there was nothing to be gained by postponing the repairs +with the object of saving the interest, for, without greater loss, the +repairs could at the most be delayed only till the next year. He led +those assembled to places which might serve as samples. He did not +draw the conclusion himself, but knew how to use the cleverness which +he had learnt from his cousin to force his opponents to do that for +him. + +The councilman's confidence in and respect for our Apollonius grew +visibly. During the rest of the discussion he appealed almost entirely +to him and shook his hand cordially when the left the meeting. If the +undertaking should receive the approval of the Council, which he now +no longer doubted, he hoped that Apollonius would take an active part +in it, and he requested him to write out a report as to the most +practical method of beginning it. Apollonius thanked him modestly for +his confidence, of which he would try to show himself worthy. As to +his taking part in the work itself, he replied that his father, as the +master, would have to decide. + +"I'll go with you at once," said the councilman, "and speak to him." + +Even though Fritz had conducted the business until now and was +regarded and treated by the important people as the master, still he +was not. The old man had let him become master just as little as he +had formally made over the business to him; he wanted to reserve to +himself a sovereign power of interference wherever he should find it +necessary. + +He heard the two approaching while still at a distance and groped his +way to a bench in his arbor. There he was sitting when they entered. +After greetings had passed the councilman asked after Herr +Nettenmair's health. + +"Thank you," replied the old gentleman, "I am somewhat troubled with +my eyes--but it is of no consequence." He smiled as he spoke, and the +councilman exchanged a glance with Apollonius that won the latter's +whole soul. Then he told the old man the whole conference, and made +Apollonius blush in his modesty so that it was long before his usual +color came back. The old man pulled his shield lower down on his face, +that no one might see the thoughts which were oddly struggling with +one another there. + +Any one who could have seen beneath the shield would have thought at +first that the old gentleman was glad; the shade of suspicion with +which he had received Apollonius the day before disappeared. He need +not be afraid, then, that this son would make common cause with his +brother against him! Indeed, a something appeared on his countenance +that seemed to rejoice malignantly at the elder's humiliation. Perhaps +he might have interfered, as was his way, with a laconic: "You will +take my place from now on, Apollonius, do you hear?" if the councilman +had not sung Apollonius' praise and if it had not been so well +deserved. + +"Yes," he said in his diplomatic manner of hiding his thoughts by only +half expressing them; "yes, indeed, youth! he is young." "And yet so +efficient already!" supplemented the councilman. + +The old gentleman inclined his head. One who was interested, as was +the councilman, might believe that he nodded. But he said: "It's the +young men that are all-important today in the world!" Yes, he felt +proud that his son was so efficient, ashamed that he himself was +blind, glad that Fritz could now no longer do as he liked, that the +honor of the home had gained one guardian more, afraid that the +efficiency in which he rejoiced would make him himself superfluous. +And he could do nothing to prevent it; he could do nothing more, he +was nothing more. And as if Apollonius had expressed that, he rose +stiffly erect, as if to show that his son was triumphing too early. + +The councilman begged the old gentleman to keep his son at home during +the time that the repairs were being made and to allow him to work at +them. The old gentleman was silent for a time as if he were waiting +for Apollonius to refuse to stay. Then he seemed to assume that +Apollonius refused for, with his harsh brevity, he commanded: "You are +to stay; do you hear?" + +Apollonius went to his little room to unpack his things. He was still +thus engaged when the news came that the town council had approved the +repairs. + +So it was settled: he was to stay. He was to be allowed to work for +his beloved home and to apply what he had learnt while abroad. + +After he had arranged all his things in his room, he at once set to +work on the report which the councilman had requested. The repairs had +been decided upon on his advice, he was concerned in them not alone as +one of his father's "hands," as a mere workman; he felt that he had +taken upon himself in addition a special moral obligation toward his +home town; he must do everything in his power to fulfil it. He would +not have needed such an incentive; even without it he would have done +all that he could; he did not know himself well enough to know that. + +In this exalted mood it appeared to him easy to overcome whatever +threatened, on the part of his brother and his sister-in-law, to make +his stay uncomfortable. After all, his brother wished him to go only +on account of his sister-in-law's dislike of him and that could be +conquered by enduring, honest effort. He had never offended his +brother; he would willingly subordinate himself to him in the +business. It did not occur to him that we can offend without knowing +it or wishing to do so, in fact, that duty may command us to offend. +It did not occur to him that his brother might have offended him. He +did not know that one can also hate him whom one has offended, not +only the offender. + +Below, near the shed, a disagreeable-looking workman stood grinning in +front of Fritz Nettenmair and said: "I understand some one at the +first glance. Oh, yes, Herr Apollonius knows what he's about! But it's +of no consequence. That won't last long!" Fritz Nettenmair gnawed his +nails and ignored the gesture that was intended to excite him to ask +what the fellow meant when he said, that would not last long. He went +toward the living room and as he went he flew out quietly at somebody +who was not there: "Uprightness? Knowledge of business, as that +Philistine of an inspector says? I know why you're forcing your way in +and insinuating yourself in here, you fluff-picker! Pretend to be as +innocent as you like, I"--he made the gesture that meant: "I am one +who know life and the species that wears long hair and aprons!" With +this he turned toward the door, but his movement was not jovial, as +usual. + +How many people think they know the world, and know only themselves! + + * * * * * + +Between heaven and earth lies the slater's realm. Far below is the +noisy tumult of the wanderers of the earth, high above are the +wanderers of the sky, the silent clouds in their vast course. For +months, years, decades, this realm has no inhabitants but the +restlessly fluttering race of cawing jackdaws. But one day the narrow +door halfway up the tower-roof is opened; invisible hands push two +scaffolding timbers out, part way into space. To the spectator below +it looks as if they wanted to build a bridge of straws into the sky. +The jackdaws have fled to the pommel of the steeple and to the +weather-vane and look down from there, ruffling their feathers with +fear. The timbers stand out only a few feet from the door and the +invisible hands cease pushing. Then a hammering begins in the heart of +the tower-loft. The sleeping owls start up and tumble staggeringly out +of their scuttles into the open eye of the day. The jackdaws hear it +with horror; the child of man below on the firm earth does not catch +the sound, the clouds above on the sky pass over it untroubled. The +pounding continues a long time; then it ceases and two or three short +boards follow the timbers and are laid across them. Behind them appear +a man's head and a pair of vigorous arms. One hand holds the nail, the +other swings the hammer that strikes it until the boards are firmly +nailed down. The "flying" scaffold is ready. Thus the builder calls +it, for whom it may become a bridge to heaven, without his desiring +it. Then from the scaffold the ladder is built and, if the tower roof +is very high, ladder upon ladder. Nothing holds it together but iron +hooks, nothing holds it firm but two pairs of hands on the scaffold +and, at the top, the broach-post against which it leans. Once it is +tied fast to the broach-post and at the bottom, the slater no longer +sees any danger in mounting it, however anxious the dizzy man may feel +down on the firm earth when he looks up and thinks the ladder made of +match-wood glued together, like a child's Christmas toy. But before he +has bound the ladder fast--and in order to do that he must climb it +once--the slater may commend his poor soul to God. Then he is indeed +between heaven and earth. He knows that the slightest shift of the +ladder--and a single false step may shift it--will dash him helplessly +down to certain death. Stop the clang of the bells beneath him, it may +startle him! The spectators far below on the earth involuntarily clasp +their hands breathlessly; the jackdaws, who have been driven from +their last place of refuge by the ascending figure, caw as they +flutter wildly round his head; only the clouds in the sky pursue their +way above him, untouched. Only the clouds? No. The daring man on the +ladder goes on as calmly as they. He is no vain dare-devil wantonly +bent on making himself talked of; he goes his dangerous way in the +course of his calling. He knows that the ladder is firm; he himself +has built the scaffold, he knows that it is firm; he knows that his +heart is strong and his tread sure. He does not look down where the +earth holds out her green arms luringly, he does not look up where +from the procession of clouds in the sky the fatal giddiness may drop +down on his steady eye. The centre of the rungs is the pathway of his +glance, and he stands on top. No heaven exists for him, no earth, +nothing but the broach-post and the ladder which he ties together with +his rope. The knot is made; the spectators breathe with relief and +give utterance in all the streets to their admiration for the daring +man and his doings high up between heaven and earth. For a week the +children of the town play at being slaters. + +But now the daring man begins his work indeed. He fetches up another +rope and lays it as a rotary ring round the post below the pommel of +the steeple. To this he fastens his tackle with three blocks, to the +tackle the rings of his hanging seat. A board to sit on with two +places cut out to allow his legs to hang down, and with a low, curved +back, on either side boxes for slates, nails and tools; in front, +between the places for his legs, a little anvil on which he hammers +the slate to the shape he wants it with his slater's hammer; this +apparatus, held by four strong cables which unite above to form two +rings for the hooks of the tackle, is the hanging-seat as he calls it, +the light craft in which he sails round the roof of the steeple high +in the air. By means of the tackle he easily pulls himself up or lets +himself down as high or as low as he likes; the ring above turns round +the steeple with the tackle and hanging-seat in whichever direction he +desires. A gentle kick against the roof sets the whole in motion, for +him to stop where he pleases. Soon no one stands below any longer +looking up; the slater at work is no longer any novelty. The children +turn again to their old games. The jackdaws grow accustomed to him; +they regard him as a bird, like themselves, only bigger, but +peaceful, as they are; and the clouds in the sky have never troubled +themselves about him from the beginning. The ladies envy him his view. +Who can look out so freely across the green plain and see how +mountains range themselves behind mountains, first green, then growing +bluer and bluer to where the sky, even bluer than they, rests on the +last ones! But he troubles himself as little about the mountains as +the clouds trouble themselves about him. Day after day he works on +with iron and claw-hammer, day after day he hammers slates and drives +in nails, till he is done with hammering and nailing. One day man, +tackle, ladder and scaffolding have disappeared. The removal of the +ladder is just as dangerous as its setting up; but no one below folds +his hands, no mouth extols the achievement of the man between heaven +and earth. The crows wonder for a whole week and then it seems to them +as if years ago they had dreamt of some odd bird. Far below the tumult +of the wanderers of the earth still sounds, high above the wanderers +of the sky, the silent clouds still continue in their vast course, but +no one flies around the steep roof save the cawing swarm of jackdaws. + +It was proposed to put the whole management of the repairs in +Apollonius' hands. In order not to hurt his brother's feelings, he +begged the council to arrange differently. He was so anxious not to +hurt his brother that he did not even say why he asked this. His work +in Cologne had accustomed him to act independently; he foresaw that +his brother, as he had found him again, would be the cause of many a +hindrance. He knew that he was taking a heavy burden upon himself when +he promised the inspector that the work itself should not suffer by +reason of the two-headed management. The honest man, who guessed +Apollonius' purpose and only respected him the more on that account, +obtained the consent of the council for him, and silently resolved +that wherever it should be necessary he would take the part of his +favorite and uphold the latter's orders against those of his brother. + +It was a difficult task that Apollonius had set himself; it was much +more difficult than he knew. His presence at home had not pleased his +brother from the beginning; Apollonius attributed that to the +influence of his sister-in-law; since then he had grown even more +estranged from him--and no wonder! Apollonius had already become +acquainted with his brother's vanity and greed for honor, and what had +happened since then had made the latter feel himself slighted in favor +of Apollonius. His sister-in-law's dislike Apollonius thought he could +overcome in time by honest endeavor, his brother's injured greed of +honor by outward subordination. If there was no further obstacle in +the way, he might hope to perform the task, difficult as it seemed. +But what lay between him and his brother was something different, very +different, from what he thought; and that he did not know it only made +it more dangerous. It was a suspicion, born of the consciousness of +guilt. Whatever he did to clear the apparent obstacles out of the way +could only increase the real one. + +Apollonius soon saw that the system to which he had become accustomed +in Cologne, the rapid and carefully planned cooeperation, did not exist +here, nor even such methodical management as his father had formerly +maintained. The slater had to wait for fifteen minutes and longer at a +time for the slates; the tenders dawdled and had a good excuse for +doing so in the slackness and laziness of the cutters and sorters. His +brother laughed half compassionately at Apollonius' complaint. Such +system as he demanded did not exist anywhere and was not even +possible. In his own mind he made fun again of the dreamer who was so +unpractical. And even if the system had been possible the work was +done by the day. Wasted time was paid for just the same as that +properly applied. And when Apollonius himself tried to put an end to +the old method of jogging along, his brother saw in him again the +time-server of the inspector and the council, while he saw himself as +the straightforward man who disdained such tricks. He persuaded +himself that Apollonius wanted to unseat him altogether, and had even +worse intentions in his mind--in which, however, he should not succeed +with all his cunning, although he had come home on purpose to do so. +And still he thought the dreamer would make a fool of himself if he +tried to carry out what he himself, who knew the world, could not +succeed in doing;--he who was keener in action than even old Blue-coat +had been in his day. + +Fritz Nettenmair thought he was outdoing the old gentleman when he +whistled still more shrilly on his fingers, coughed still more +wrathfully and spat still more decisively. The qualities in the old +gentleman that had really commanded respect, the consistency which, +even where it degenerated into obstinacy, compelled esteem, the calm, +self-contained dignity of a capable personality--these he failed to +see. Not possessing them himself, he lacked also the desire to +perceive them in others. Just as his figure was absolutely at variance +with the bearing of the old gentleman which he sought artificially to +assume, so too his lack of repose and inward stability constantly +contradicted it. He seemed merely to have borrowed the old gentleman's +diplomatic manner of speaking in order to show his own superficiality +and emptiness. Then at times he would suddenly lapse from the stiff +demeanor of the wearer of the blue coat into his own patronizing +joviality and onto a plane where joking rubs out with dirty fingers +the line between superior and subordinate as if it had never existed. +Then when he forcibly jerked himself back just as suddenly into the +person of authority, he did not regain the respect he had lost, he +merely offended. To all this was added the fact that he knew himself +to be excelled by some of his workmen, and in difficult cases was +obliged to let them do as they liked. + +Apollonius, on the contrary, had by nature and by virtue of the +training that he had received at his cousin's what his brother lacked; +he possessed dignity of personality, consistency to the point of +obstinacy. His inward sureness made him authoritative; he did not have +to exert himself to be so--he was raised above the necessity of +demanding respect by visible effort which so seldom attains its +purpose, indeed usually defeats it. And so he succeeded in doing what +he wanted. Soon the work was being carried on in the most systematic +order, and all those concerned seemed to feel contented under the +change--all except Fritz Nettenmair. The rapid cooeperation that moved +as on the track of an invisible necessity made the figure in the blue +coat in which he felt himself so big, superfluous. Another reason for +uneasiness was that the new system came from his brother; from him +whom he already had so much to forgive and whom he wanted less and +less to forgive. He did not know, or did not want to know, what charm +a self-contained personality exercises, although he himself was +obliged to acknowledge it against his will, and still less that he +lacked this and that his brother possessed it. He had agreed in his +own mind that his brother had used means which he was pleased to feel +himself too noble to apply. In that way Apollonius had won the people +away from him. The latter had no suspicion of what was going on in his +brother's breast; he was on his guard against him, as one must be +against cunning persons, for such enemies can only be defeated with +their own weapons. The brotherly friendliness and respect with which +Apollonius treated him was a mask behind which he thought he could +certainly hide his sinister plans; he would pay him back and make him +more easily harmless if he hid his watchfulness behind the same mask. +Apollonius' good-natured willingness outwardly to subordinate himself +to him appeared to his brother like derision in which the workmen, won +over by the deceitful one, knowingly took part. In his sensitiveness, +he himself resorted to the means that he assumed his brother employed. +He was prevented from opposing him openly by the fact that Apollonius +impressed him himself, even though he would not have acknowledged +this to be the reason. He laid the blue coat of thunder aside and +descended to the very lowest rung of his joviality. He began by hints +and then gradually by words to show his sympathy with the workmen who +groaned beneath the tyranny of a time-serving intruder, as he proved +to them; as he had not the courage to incite them to open rebellion he +sought to lead them to commit single petty acts of mutiny. He began to +treat them to food and drink daily. They ate and drank, but remained +as before in the course that Apollonius marked out for them. + +The common man has a child's keen eye for the strong points and +weaknesses of his superior. This endeavor, which they saw through, +lost Fritz Nettenmair the last vestige of the men's respect; it taught +them, if they did not already know it, in whose bad books they might +safely come, in whose they might not. And if they had been uncertain, +the inspector's different behavior toward the two brothers might have +determined them. And as they were not so finely organized, and also +had not the same reasons as Fritz Nettenmair, their opinion made +itself undisguisedly plain. They took liberties with him which showed +him that the success of his condescension was entirely different from +what he had intended. Then he drew the cloud of the blue coat once +more wrathfully about him, whistled more shrilly than ever, so that +the big bell on the other side resounded, was doubly bombastic and +raised his shoulders as high again toward his black head. The wrath +and decision of his former coughing and spitting was child's play to +those he displayed now. But the workmen soon knew that this went on +only in Apollonius' absence; and his chance appearance, like the +rising full moon, disconcerted the heaviest thunder-storms. + +Fritz Nettenmair was obliged to despair of reestablishing his lost +importance on the scene of the repairs. Naturally he added also the +result of his mistaken measures to Apollonius' ever-growing account. +The feeling that he was superfluous seized him as it had his father, +but not with quite the same effect. What the little garden was to the +old gentleman the slate-shed now became to the elder son; at least as +long as he saw Apollonius on the hanging-seat or on the church roof. +But now he also brought the blue coat with him into the living room. +His children--and this was easy as he himself did not trouble himself +about them--had also been won over by his brother, by reprehensible +means, of course. The reprehensible means were just those which he +himself never applied: unintentional kindness and love that was wise +in its severity. But even in his wife he began to see more and more +one who was to some extent his brother's ally in the latter's +conspiracy against him. He saw this long before he had the slightest +real cause to do so, and that was the shadow that his guilt threw +across the future of his imagination. Its old law was to compel him, +by reason of the wrongness of his means of defense, to make of this +shadow a real, living form and to place it in his life as a +retributive force. + +Vague, premonitory fear that fluttered by in momentary clear +intervals, seemed to tell him that his changed behavior toward his +wife must hasten this change. At such times he suddenly became doubly +pleasant and jovial with her; but even this joviality bore something +of the nature of the sultry soil from which it grew. + +One cure for such a disease is highly praised; that is diversion, +self-forgetfulness. As if the navigator should forget himself at sight +of the threatening reef, as if every one should forget himself +wherever double foresight is necessary! Fritz Nettenmair took the +cure. + +From now on he was never missing at a ball or any public amusement; +he felt himself to have fled the danger forever if he were absent only +for an hour from the place where he saw it threatening. He was more +out of his house than in it--and not he alone. He thought the cure +still more necessary for his wife than for himself. His vengeful +self-consciousness assumed what lay as a mere possibility in the +future to be a reality of the present. And his wife was still so much +on his side that she was now angry with his brother to whose influence +she attributed the change in her husband's behavior--only not in the +way in which it really was responsible. + +Apollonius, who was oppressed by all this as by a heavy cloud, an +uncomprehended intuitive feeling, understood only this: his brother +and his sister-in-law avoided him. He kept away from the places to +which they went. The inmost need of his nature, the tendency to gather +together rather than to dissipate, in itself, would have led him to do +so. Solitude became a better cure for him than diversion proved to be +for the other two. He saw how different his sister-in-law was from +what she had seemed to him to be before. He was obliged to +congratulate himself that his dearest hopes had not been fulfilled. +His work gave him enough sense of himself; whatever gaps remained the +children filled. + +And the old man in the blue coat? Has he in his blindness no suspicion +of the clouds that are piling up all about his house? Or is it such a +suspicion that grips him at times when, meeting Apollonius, he +exchanges indifferent words with him? Then two powers strive on his +brow which his son, confronted by the shield over his father's eyes, +does not see. He wants to ask something but he does not ask. So thick +is the cloud that the old man has spun about him like a cocoon that +there is no longer any way through it from him out into the world nor +any, leading from outside in to him. He behaves as if he knew about +everything. If he did not do so, he would show the world his +helplessness and himself challenge it to abuse this helplessness. And +if he should ask would people tell him the truth? No! He believes the +world to be as obdurate toward him as he is toward it. He does not +ask. He listens where he knows he is not seen listening, straining +feverishly to catch every sound. And in every sound he hears something +that is not there; his strained imagination builds boulders of it that +crush his breast, but he does not ask. He dreams of nothing but of +things that bring disgrace on him and his house. + +It is the nature of guilt that it entangles not alone its author in +new guilt. It has the magic power of drawing into its fermenting +circle all who surround him and of ripening in him whatever is bad to +fresh guilt. Well for him who successfully defends his unblemished +heart against this magic power! Even if he cannot save the guilty one +himself, he may be an angel to the others. Here are these four human +beings with all their differences of individuality, held together in +one knot of life which is being consumed by the guilt of one! What +destiny will they spin for themselves, the people in the house with +the green shutters? + +Weeks had now passed since Apollonius' return and still he had not +realized his sister-in-law's fears. During the first few days Fritz +Nettenmair read in her demeanor a convulsive effort to pull herself +together, a desperate endeavor to be prepared; now this gave way to +something that appeared to be amazement. He, and he alone, saw how she +began to observe his brother more and more courageously when he did +not suspect that her gaze rested upon him. She seemed to be comparing +his personality, his behavior with her expectation. Fritz Nettenmair +felt in her soul how little the two agreed. He took pains to nurse his +young wife's dislike of her brother-in-law back to its old strength. +He did so, feeling all the time how vain his effort was; for a single +glance at his brother's gentle, upright countenance must tear down +what it had taken him days laboriously to build up. He felt how +delicately he ought to go to work and how roughly he really did so; +for the same power that sharpened his feeling for the degree carried +him beyond it as soon as he came to act. He knew that what he had +begun must complete its course to his ruin. He sought forgetfulness +and drew his wife ever deeper with him into the whirlpool of +diversion. + +Medicines taken in too large doses are said to have the opposite of +the desired effect. Thus it was with Fritz Nettenmair's medicine; at +least as regarded his young wife. In the midst of every-day domestic +work she had formerly longed for the festival of pleasure; now that +this had become her every-day atmosphere her longing was for the quiet +life of her home. Satiated with the marks of honor bestowed upon her +husband by the important people, she now began for the first time to +notice that there were other people who measured him according to a +different standard. She began to compare, and the important people +fell lower and lower in her eyes beside the every-day people. She +thought of the dull ball on the evening of Apollonius' arrival. + +She was sitting in the garden sewing while the old gentleman dreamt +his heavy midday dreams. She felt so peculiarly happy at home. Her +boys were playing at her feet, as quietly as if the old gentleman had +been present, or no, not like that, for if he had been in the little +garden they would not have dared to go in there at all. The little +girl had thrown her arms round her mother, who seemed herself to be +still a girl, so chaste did she appear. Now the child raised her +little head with old-fashioned earnestness, looked meditatively at her +mother and said: "Whatever can be the reason?" + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD DAVID BEING STONED BY SINAI] + +"Reason of what?" asked her mother. + +"Whenever you have been with us and then go away, he looks after you +so sadly." + +"Who?" asked her mother. + +"Why, Uncle Apollonius. Who else could it be? Did you scold him, or +slap him as you do me when I take sugar without asking? You must have +done something to him, or he wouldn't be so sorry." + +The little girl went on chattering and soon forgot her uncle over a +butterfly. Not so her mother. She no longer heard what the child said. +What a queer feeling was this that had come over her, happy and +unhappy at the same time! She had let her needle fall without noticing +it. Was she startled? It seemed to her that she was startled, much as +she would have been if she had been speaking to some one and suddenly +realized that it was not the person she thought. She had thought that +Apollonius wanted to insult her, and now the child told her that she +had insulted him. She looked up and saw Apollonius coming from the +shed toward the house. At the same moment another man stood between +her and him as if he had grown up out of the earth. It was Fritz +Nettenmair. She had not heard him approaching. + +After putting an indifferent question he went on with strange haste to +speak of the "dull ball." He repeated what people had said about it, +told her how offended every one felt that Apollonius had not asked her +for a dance, not even for the first one. It was curious that when he +reminded her of it now she felt it more keenly than ever; but not with +anger, only with sad pain. She did not say so; she did not need to. +Fritz Nettenmair was like a man in a magnetic sleep; from the leaf of +a tree, from a picket in the fence, from a white wall he read, with +closed eyes, what his wife felt. + +"We shall soon get rid of him, I think," he went on as if he had not +been reading from the stable-wall. "There is no room here for two +households. And Anne is accustomed to plenty of space." + +That was the name of the girl with whom Apollonius had been obliged to +dance at the dull ball and see home afterward. Since then she had +often been at the house on pretexts which her crimson cheek branded as +lies. Her father too, a much-respected citizen, had sought Apollonius' +acquaintance, and Fritz Nettenmair had furthered the matter in every +way he could. + +"Anne?" cried his wife as if shocked. + +"It's good that she can't lie," thought Fritz Nettenmair with relief. +But it occurred to him that her inability to disguise her feelings +would also promote his brother's evil plan. He had sought to make her +jealous as a last resort. That had been foolish of him, and he already +regretted it. She could not pretend; and even if he were still the +dreamer of old, her excitement could not but betray to him what was +going on in her breast, could not but betray it to herself. And +then--once more he had reached the point to which every conclusion led +him; he saw her awakening to an understanding of herself. "And +then"--he forced the words out so that every syllable tore itself on +his teeth--"and then--she'll learn to know what it means!" + +His brother expected him in the living-room. "Of course, now that he +knows I saw him, he must make some excuse for having passed by here +when he thought she was alone." Thus thought Fritz, and followed his +brother. + +Apollonius was really waiting for him in the living-room. He wanted to +see his brother in order to warn him against the evil-looking workman. +He had heard much that was suspicious about him, and knew that his +brother trusted him implicitly. "And so you order me to send him +away?" asked Fritz; and this time he could not help allowing his spite +to gleam through his disguise. From the tone in which he spoke +Apollonius could not fail to read his real feeling. It was: "So you +want to force your way even into the shed too, and drive me out of it. +Try it, if you dare!" + +Apollonius looked into his brother's eyes with unconcealed pain. He +brushed the lapel of his brother's coat as if he would wipe away +whatever clouded the relations between them, and said: "Have I done +anything to hurt you?" + +"Me?" laughed his brother. His laughter was intended to mean: "I'm +sure I don't know what!" But it really meant: "Do you ever do anything +else, do you ever want to do anything else, but just what you know +will hurt me?" + +"For a long time I have wanted to say something to you," went on +Apollonius, "I will tomorrow; you are not in the right humor today. +You had to know what I have told you about the workman, and it wasn't +meant as you have taken it." + +"Of course! Of course!" laughed Fritz. "I'm convinced that it wasn't +so meant." + +Apollonius went and Fritz supplemented his speech with, "it was not +meant as you would have me believe, old fox. And wasn't it meant as I +took it? You think--The workman is a bad fellow; but you would never +have warned me if you hadn't needed an excuse." He turned on his heel +with a movement that suggested his feeling of superiority. In his +desolate state of mind it had pleased him to make successful use of +his father's diplomatic method of concealing his thoughts by half +expressing them. + +His pleasure was short-lived; his old worry fastened him again to the +rack. And a newer one had been added to it. He had neglected the +business. In his master's absence from the shed the workman had had +opportunity enough to steal, and had certainly made use of it. It was +long since Fritz had done any work at the church; Apollonius had been +obliged to engage another workman and put him in his brother's place. +He had earned nothing now for a long time and yet never missed any +public amusement. The esteem of the important people showed a growing +inclination to fall, and could only be kept up by increasing +quantities of champagne. He had plunged himself into debt, and +continued to add to his obligations daily. And yet the moment was +bound to come when the appearance of prosperity which he had been at +such pains to sustain would disappear. + +Anne Wohlig had often been at the house since Apollonius' arrival; and +Christiane, with the credulity which in simple souls is the natural +consequence of their own truthfulness, had seen nothing suspicious in +her most far-fetched pretexts. This was not so today. She had suddenly +grown so keen-sighted that what she recognized to be an excuse assumed +in her eyes the proportions of an unpardonable crime. She disliked any +girl that could be so double-faced, and she herself was too honest to +hide her opinion. Anne sought the reason for Christiane's treatment of +her in the latter's dislike of her brother-in-law. It was well known +that she begrudged the poor fellow his brother's affection. She +herself had said that she would turn him down if he should dare to ask +her for a dance. And Apollonius' appearance showed that she made it +impossible for him to enjoy his stay in his father's house. Vexation +made Anne honest, too, and she expressed her thoughts as far as she +could without touching on the delicate point of her own feeling for +Apollonius. Christiane was now obliged to hear the same reproach from +a stranger's mouth that she had already heard from her own child. + +The girl went. Apollonius, on his way back from his brother, passed by +again. He was still in time to see Anne leaving. But nothing showed in +his face to confirm Christiane's only half understood fear. + +The child had said: "You have done something to him." Anne had said: +"You hate him, you won't let him enjoy himself." And the sad glance +that he sent after her--she herself caught him now and then +unnoticed--said the same thing. Like a flash of joyous light it came +into her mind that he did not look sadly after Anne--nor joyfully +either. His gaze was as indifferent as it was with every one else. She +had been told: "You hate him, you have offended him and you want to +hurt him." And she had believed that he hated her, that he wanted to +hurt her. And had he not done so? She looks back into the time long +past when he insulted her. It is long now since she had felt angry +with him for it; she had only feared a fresh insult. Could she still +be angry, when he had become such a different man, when she herself +knew that he would not offend her, when people said, and his own sad +glance confirmed it, that she offended him? And she let her thoughts +run back eagerly, so eagerly that the music sounded again about her +and she sat again among her girl friends, in her white dress with the +pink sash, in the shooting-house, on the bench in front of the +windows; and she got up again, driven by a vague impulse and, +dreaming, made her way among the dancers to the door--there she saw +outside, was it not the same face that looked after her now when she +passed, so honest, so gentle in its sadness? Was it not the same +peculiar sympathy now as then, that followed her every step and never +left her? Then, she had avoided him and looked at him no more, for he +was false. False? Is he false again? Is he still false? + + * * * * * + +All day long Fritz Nettenmair thought of what it could be that +Apollonius wanted to say to him tomorrow: "Tomorrow, because I am not +in the humor for it today? In the humor? I've let the fox see my hand. +If I hadn't, he would have blurted it out; now I have warned him and +made him cautious. I am too honest with a player who cheats so; I am +bound to lose. Good; I will be 'in the humor' tomorrow, I'll act as +though I were blind and deaf, as if I didn't see what it is he is +trying to do, even if it were still clearer. A cobweb on the lapel of +my coat so that he may have something to brush off! I can't bear to +have a fellow like that look into my face--the hypocrite!" + +Thus prepared and resolved to outdo the fox in cunning, even though it +should put his self-control to the severest test, Apollonius found his +brother waiting for him the following day. Apollonius too had resolved +on his course. He was determined not to let himself be confused today +by any mood of his brother's; everything depended on shutting off the +source of all these moods. Fritz wished him the most unembarrassed, +jovial good morning that he could command. + +"If you will listen to me calmly and in a spirit of brotherliness," +said Apollonius, "I hope that this will be the best kind of a morning +for you and me and all of us." + +"And all of us," repeated Fritz and put nothing of his explanation of +the three words into his tone. "I know that you always think of us +all, so speak out merrily from your heart; I'll do the same." + +Apollonius omitted his intended introduction. He had learnt to be wise +and cautious; but to be wise and cautious toward a brother would have +seemed to him to be duplicity. Even if he had known of his brother's +duplicity he, unlike the latter, would never have thought of meeting +him with the same weapons. Even in the face of his experience he would +have persuaded himself that he was mistaken. + +"I think, Fritz," he, began cordially, "we should have been different +toward each other from what we have been." He good-naturedly took half +the blame on himself. In his own mind his brother put the whole of it +on him, and was about to assure him jovially of the contrary when +Apollonius continued. "Things have not been the same as they used to +be between us, nor as they should be. The reason for this, as far as I +know, is only your wife's dislike of me. Or do you know of any other?" + +"I know of none," said his brother shrugging his shoulders +regretfully; but he thought of Apollonius' return against his advice, +of the ball, of the conference in the church loft, of his being pushed +aside in the matter of the repairs, of his brother's whole plan, of +that part of it that had been and of that part which was still to be +carried out. He thought that Apollonius was occupied only in trying to +put it into execution, and of how much depended on his guessing +Apollonius' next intention and bringing it to naught. + +While he was thinking this, Apollonius went on speaking, with no idea +of what was passing in his brother's mind. "I do not know what it can +be that has made your wife dislike me. I only know that it cannot be +anything that I have done intentionally. Can you tell me what it is? I +do not want to accuse her; it is possible that there is something +about me that displeases her. And if so, then it is certainly nothing +that should be praised or spared. And I should be the very last to +spare myself if I only knew what it is. If you know, please tell me. +If it is anything bad you must not spare me, even if it should cause +you pain to tell me. If you know it and don't tell me, that can be the +only reason. But you would not offend me by telling me, really, +Fritz."-- + +Fritz Nettenmair did what Apollonius had just done; in his own mind he +measured his brother by himself. The result was bound to be to +Apollonius' disadvantage. Apollonius took his thoughtful silence for +an answer. + +"If you do not know," he went on, "let us go to her together and ask +her. I must know what I ought to do. Our life cannot go on like this. +What would father say if he knew? I reproach myself day and night that +he does not know. It is better for us all, Fritz. Come, let us not put +it off." + +Fritz Nettenmair heard only his brother's presumptuous demand that he +should take him to her! That he should take him to her now! Did +Apollonius already know of her state and want to take advantage of it? +The question was superfluous; if they saw each other now they could +not fail to understand each other. And then it would be there, the +thing that for weeks he had not allowed himself an hour's rest in +trying to prevent. Then it would come to pass, the thing of which he +knew that it must come and the coming of which he had yet made +desperate efforts to hinder. They must not see each other face to face +now; they must not see each other now until he had built a new +dividing wall between them. Of what? He had no leisure to think of +that now. He must have some pretext on which to prevent the meeting, +must have time to find an excuse. And merely to gain time he said +laughingly: + +"Of course! Ask her freely and cheerfully. Whoever asks is told. But +how do you come to think of that just now? Just now?" A thought that +flashed overwhelmingly into his mind involuntarily expressed itself in +this question. Apollonius was already at the door. He turned back to +his brother, and answered with a gladness that seemed fiendish to the +latter because he did not look into the other's honest face. If he +had, Apollonius would have caught something of the devilish fear that +disfigured his brother's countenance. And still, perhaps he would not. +He might have thought his brother ill, so entirely was he without the +slightest suspicion of anything in his proposal that could inspire his +brother with fear. In fact he thought that what pleased him must +please his brother also. + +"Before," replied Apollonius, "I was obliged to fear that I should +make her still more angry. And that would have been even more +disagreeable for you than for me." + +His brother laughed and nodded in his jovial way with his head and +shoulders merely for the sake of doing something. And his: "And now?" +sounded as if it were half stifled with laughter, not with anything +else. + +"Your wife has been different for some time," went on Apollonius +confidingly. + +"She is"--answered Fritz Nettenmair's start against his will and +wanted to say what he considered her to be. It was an evil word. But +would he himself who had made her that tell him so? No, it has not yet +come to pass, what he fears. And even if it is bound to come; he can +still delay it. He forces himself not to give utterance to his +excitement. He would like to ask: "And how do you know that she--is +different?" But he knows that his voice would tremble and betray him. +He must know who has told his brother. Has he already spoken to her? +Has he read it in her eyes at a distance? Or is there a third person +involved--an enemy whom he already hates before he knows whether he +exists? + +Apollonius seems to have caught something of his brother's unfortunate +gift of reading another's thoughts. His brother does not ask; his face +is turned away; he is seeking like a desperate man and cannot find; +and yet Apollonius answers him. "Your little Annie told me," he said, +and laughed as he thought of the child. "'Uncle,' said the odd little +thing, 'mother is not so cross with you any more; go to her and say +you won't do it any more; then she'll be kind again and will give you +sugar.' That's how she put the idea into my head. It's wonderful how +it sometimes seems as if an angel were speaking out of a child's +mouth. Your little Annie may have been an angel to us all." + +Fritz Nettenmair laughed so boisterously at the child that Apollonius' +laughter caught fire again from his. But Fritz knew that it was a +devil that had spoken out of the child's mouth. Yet he laughed--so +hard that it did not strike Apollonius how forced and disconnected his +reply was. "Well then, tomorrow, as far as I'm concerned, or even this +afternoon; now I can't possibly spare the time. Now I'll go down with +you to St. George's. I have a necessary errand to do tomorrow! Oh, the +confounded child!" + +Apollonius had no suspicion how seriously the laughing "confounded" +was meant. He said, still laughing at the child himself, "Good. We'll +ask tomorrow then. And then everything will be different. I am looking +forward to it as gladly as the child, and you are too, I know, Fritz. +We'll make it a very different life from what we have been leading." +Kindhearted Apollonius rejoiced so heartily at his brother's joy! He +continued to do so even after he was up again on his swinging seat, +flying round the church roof. + +Just as restlessly hovered about his brother's fear the sinister +something that hung above him and threatened to engulf him; still more +industriously did his heart hammer away at the crumbling plans to +hinder the fall: but the ship of his thoughts did not hang between +heaven and earth, held by the light of heaven. It pitched deeper and +ever deeper between earth and hell, and hell branded him ever darker +with its fire. + +Toward evening Christiane was suddenly aroused from her dreaming by +two men's voices. She was sitting in the grass not far from the closed +door of the shed. Fritz and his brother had just entered the shed from +the street at the back. She heard him teasing his brother about Anne +Wohlig. Anne was the best match in the whole town--and Apollonius was +a rascal who knew the world and the species that wore long hair and +aprons. Anne was already sewing away at her outfit, and her cousins +were carrying the news of her approaching marriage to Apollonius from +house to house. Christiane heard her husband ask when the wedding was +to be. She had been about to move away; now she forgot to go, she +forgot to breathe. And then she almost gave a jubilant shout: +Apollonius had said that he was not going to marry at all, either Anne +or any one else. + +His brother laughed. "Then that's why the evening you came back you +didn't dance with any one but Anne and took her home afterward?" + +"I would have danced with your wife," replied Apollonius. "You warned +me that she would turn me down because she was so set against me. Then +I didn't want to dance at all. You brought Anne up to me, and when you +went you asked her if I might see her home. I couldn't do anything +else under the circumstances. I have never thought of Anne in +connection with--" + +"Marriage?" interrupted his brother laughing. "Well, she's pretty +enough to--amuse yourself with too, and it's worth the trouble to make +her perfectly mad about you. + +"Fritz!" exclaimed Apollonius, displeased. "But you're not in +earnest," he added to soothe himself. "I know you know me better; but +even in fun it isn't right to jest lightly about a respectable girl." + +"Pshaw," said his brother, "if she behaves like that herself! What +does she come to the house for and throw herself at your head?" + +"She hasn't done that," answered Apollonius hotly. "She is a good +girl, and comes here without any thought of wrong." + +"Yes, or you would have put her right," laughed Fritz, and there was +mockery in his voice. + +"Did I know what she thought?" said Apollonius. "You've teased her +about me and me about her. I have done nothing that could have +awakened any such thoughts in her. I should have thought it a sin." + +The men went back the way they had come. It did not occur to +Christiane that they might have come along the path where she stood. +All that was open and true in her rose in indignation against her +husband. It was not other people who had lied to him; he himself was +false. He had lied to her and to Apollonius and she had erred and had +hurt Apollonius, Apollonius who was so good that he could not bear to +hear Anne made fun of, who had certainly never made fun of her. +Everything had been a lie from the beginning. Her husband was +persecuting Apollonius because he was false and Apollonius was good. +Her inmost heart turned away from the persecutor and toward the +persecuted. Out of the rebellion of all her emotions a new and sacred +feeling rose triumphant, and she gave herself up to it with the +complete abandon of innocence. She did not know it. Oh, that she might +never learn to know it! As soon as she learnt to know it would +become a sin.--And already the steps were rustling through the grass +that were to bring her the bitter knowledge. + +Fritz Nettenmair had to erect a new dividing wall before he could +bring his brother to his wife. He came for this purpose. His gait was +uneven. He was still choosing and could not decide. He became even +more uncertain when he stood before her. He read what she felt in her +face; it was too honest to conceal anything; it knew too little of +what it spoke to think it must hide this feeling. He felt that he +could do nothing more with her by repeating the old slanders. He knew +that petty absurdities are better fitted to destroy a growing interest +than are gross faults. He imitated Apollonius going back along a way +along which he had already passed with a light, for fear that he might +have let a spark fall; he showed how his brother could not rest at +night for thinking that perhaps a workman had not deserved the harsh +word that he had spoken to him in the heat of the moment, how he +sprang up out of bed to straighten the position of a ruler that he had +left lying crooked on the table. At the same time Fritz kept on +blowing imaginary fluff from his sleeves. He saw indeed that his +efforts were having an opposite effect to what he wished. Irritated by +this he went on to stronger measures. He pitied poor Anne whom +Apollonius had made fall in love with him by hypocrisy, and told how +coarsely he made fun of her in public. + +A dark red had come into his young wife's cheeks. Frank, simple +natures have a deep hatred of all duplicity, perhaps because they feel +instinctively how defenseless they stand before such an enemy. She was +trembling with emotion as she rose and said: "_You_ might do that; he +could not." + +Fritz Nettenmair was startled. In the sight of the figure that stood +before him full of contempt there was something that disarmed him. It +was the power of truth, the loftiness of innocence confronting the +sinner. He pulled himself together with an effort. "Did he tell you +so? Have you got so far already?" he said, forcing the words out +between his teeth. Christiane wanted to go into the house; he stopped +her. She wanted to tear herself away. + +"You have lied about everything," she said. "You have lied to him. You +have lied to me. I heard what you said to him just now in the shed." + +Fritz Nettenmair drew a breath of relief. So she did not know +everything. "Was I not obliged to?" he said, his eye scarcely able to +stand the purity of her gaze. "Was I not obliged to in order to +prevent your disgrace? Do you want the fluff-picker to despise you?" +Now her eyes made him drop his. "Do you know what you are? Ask him +what a woman is who forgets her honor and her duty. Of whom do you +think as you should think only of your husband? When you creep about +like a wench in love wherever you think you will see him? And you +think that people are blind. Ask him what he calls that kind of a +woman? Oh, people have fine names for a woman of that sort." + +He saw how she started, shocked. Her arm quivered in his hand. He saw +she was beginning to understand him, was beginning to understand +herself. He had feared her obstinacy--and behold, she was breaking +down! The angry red faded in her cheek and a blush of shame flushed +wildly over its pallor. He saw her eyes seek the ground as if she felt +the gaze of all men fixed upon her, as if the shed, the fence, the +trees all had eyes and they were all staring into hers. He saw how in +the suddenness of her perception she called herself one of the women +for whom people have such fine names. + +The pain poured its rain over her burning cheeks that bled with shame +and her tears were like oil; the fire grew when a voice sounded from +the shed and his tread was heard. She tried to tear herself violently +away and looked up with a half wild, half imploring glance that, +dying, sank again to the ground before the thousand eyes that were +fixed upon her. He saw that the eye of the man who was coming through +the shed was the most terrible of all to her. He was again in +possession of all his courage. + +"Tell him,"--he forced the words out softly--"what you want of him. If +he is as you think he is he must despise you." + +Fritz Nettenmair held the struggling woman fast with the strength of +the victor until he had beckoned to Apollonius, who stepped +questioningly out of the shed, to come over to him. He let her go and +she fled into the house. Apollonius, shocked, stopped halfway up to +him. + +"You see how she is," Fritz said to him. "I told her you wanted to ask +her. If you like we will go after her, and she must confess to us. +I'll see whether my wife can safely insult my brother, who is so +good." + +Apollonius had to restrain him. Fritz would not consent at first. +Finally he said: "Well, now you see, at least, that it is not my +fault. Oh, I am so sorry!" + +There was an involuntary dismay in the last words which Apollonius +connected with the failure at a reconciliation. Fritz Nettenmair +repeated them softly, and this time they sounded like a mockery of +Apollonius, like mocking regret at the failure of a sly trick. + +Christiane had rushed into the living-room and bolted the door behind +her. She was not thinking of Fritz; but Apollonius might come in. She +turned over and over the feverish thought of fleeing out into the +world. But wherever she thought of herself, on the steepest mountain, +in the deepest valley, he met her and saw what it was that she wanted +and he had to despise her. Little Annie was in the room; she had not +noticed the child. All the mother's life was engaged in her inward +struggle; Annie could not tell from her mother's look what was going +on within her. She drew her mother onto a chair, threw her arms round +her in her usual fashion and looked up into her face. Her gaze struck +her mother as if it came from Apollonius' eyes. Little Annie said: + +"Do you know, Mother, Uncle 'Lonius"--the mother jumped up and pushed +the child away from her as if it had been he himself. "Don't tell me +anything more about--don't tell me anything more about him!" she said +with such angry fear that the little girl stopped speaking and began +to cry. Little Annie did not see the fear, she saw only the anger in +her mother's action. It was anger at herself. The little girl lied +when she told her uncle of her mother's anger at him. He did not need +to be told. Had he not seen her red cheek himself, when she fled from +his and his brother's question; the same red of angry dislike with +which she had received him when he came home? Oh, from then on life +was curiously sultry in the house with the green shutters for days and +weeks. + +Fritz Nettenmair was very little at home. From early in the morning +till late at night he sat in a public house from which the door in the +church roof and the hanging seat on the tower could be seen. He was +more jovial than ever, and treated everybody in order to forget +himself in their insincere admiration. + +In the shed and in the slate quarry the disagreeable-looking workman +took his place. Until he came home late at night, the workman wandered +back and forth in the passage leading from the living-room to the +shed. There had been some cases of theft in the neighborhood, and the +workman stood watch; Fritz Nettenmair had become a very anxious man +about his home. Other people wondered at Fritz Nettenmair's confidence +in the workman. Apollonius warned him repeatedly. Of course! He had +good reason not to desire any watch kept, least of all by this workman +who did not like him. And that was just why Fritz Nettenmair trusted +the workman and would not listen to warnings. When Fritz Nettenmair +said to his brother: "I am so sorry," he had just caught sight of the +workman. The latter's grin showed him that the workman saw through him +and knew what it was that he feared. He ground his teeth; half an hour +later he intrusted him with the watch and his place in the shed and +the quarry. It needed but few words. The workman understood what Fritz +told him that he must do; he also understood what Fritz did not tell +him and what he must do nevertheless. Fritz Nettenmair had as little +confidence in the fellow's honesty in the business as had Apollonius; +but the man's dishonesty there secured him his honesty where he needed +it more. + +The old gentleman in the blue coat had worse dreams than ever; he +listened more anxiously than ever to every fleeting sound, heard more +in it, and added ever greater loads to what lay on his breast. But he +did not ask. + +It was late one evening. From the tavern window Fritz Nettenmair had +seen Apollonius leave his hanging seat and tie it to the scaffold. +According to his custom, he hurried out of the restaurant so as to get +home before Apollonius. He found his wife in the living-room, busy +about her household work. The workman came in and made his customary +report. Then he whispered something to his master and went. + +Fritz Nettenmair sat down at the table with his wife. He usually sat +there until the sound of the workman's shuffling tread in the hall +told him that Apollonius had gone to bed. Then he went back again to +his tavern; he knew that the house was safe from thieves, the workman +was on the watch. + +The feeling that he had his wife in his hand and that she resigned +herself to the situation with suffering had until now aided the wine +to cast over him a faint reflection of the jovial condescension which +formerly had shone like the sun from every button of his clothes. +Today the reflection was unusually faint--perhaps because her eye had +not sought the ground when it met his glance. He put a few indifferent +questions, and then said: "You have been merry today." He wanted her +to feel that he knew everything that went on in the house even when he +was not there. "You were singing." + +She looked at him calmly and said: "Yes, and tomorrow I'll sing again. +I don't know why I shouldn't." + +He got up noisily from his chair and walked up and down with heavy +steps. He wanted to intimidate her. She rose quietly, and stood there +as if expecting an attack that she did not fear. He stepped close to +her, laughed hoarsely and made a gesture which he intended to frighten +her into stepping back. She did not do so. But the crimson of hurt +feelings spread over her cheeks. She had grown keen-sighted, +distrustful of her husband. She knew that he had her and Apollonius +watched. + +"And did he tell you nothing more?" she asked. "Who?" shouted Fritz. +He raised his shoulders and thought he looked like the old man in the +blue coat. His wife did not answer. + +Presently she said softly, "I have come to be at peace with myself," +and this was written so brightly in her eyes that the man began to +walk up and down again in order not to have to look at them. "I am at +peace with myself. The thoughts came to me; I was not to blame for +that, and I did not call them into my mind. I did not know they were +evil. Then I fought with them and I will not tire as long as I live. +In my soul I went to my dear mother's bed where she died, and I saw +her lying there and laid three fingers on her heart. I promised her +that I will do and suffer nothing dishonorable and I begged her with +tears to help me not to do or suffer anything dishonorable. I promised +and begged until all my fear had gone away, and I knew that I was an +honorable woman and would remain an honorable woman. And no one may +despise me. Whatever you may do to me, I am not afraid and will not +defend myself. But you shall not do anything to the child. You do not +know how strong I am and what I can do. I will not have it; that I +tell you." + +His glance passed fearfully by the slender figure without touching her +pale, beautiful countenance; he knew that an angel stood there and +threatened him. Oh, he realized, he felt how strong she was; he felt +how powerfully the resolution of an honest heart protects. But only +against him! His weakness made him feel that. He felt that no one who +had the power of belief could fail to believe her. He had gambled away +this right in the crooked game. He would have had to believe her, if +he had not known that what must come, would come. Not she nor any one +could prevent it. He had fallen into the hands of the spirit of his +guilt, the thought of retribution, which drove him irresistibly to +bring about what he wished to prevent; the long steady habit of +thinking this thought had buried him too deep. Hope and trust were +alien to the thought; hate was more akin to it. And it was hate that +he called to his aid.--Outside the workman's feet shuffled on the +sanded floor of the hall. The house was safe from thieves: he could +leave it again. + +Fritz Nettenmair was as jovial in the tavern that night as he could +possibly be. His flatterers were thirsty, and pleased with his +condescension. He drank, pushed the guests' hats down over their ears, +performed many another tender caress with his stick and his hand, and +laughed admiringly at them as brilliant jokes. He did everything to +forget himself; but he did not succeed. + +If he could only have changed with his wife, who during this time was +sitting solitary at home! The thing for which he longed--to forget +himself--was the very thing against which she must be on her guard. +What he must do, what he could not avert by any effort, was the thing +for which she strove unavailingly--to remember herself. All her +thoughts spoke to her of Apollonius. She thought she was avoiding him, +and now she saw that he had fled from her. She ought to be glad, and +it hurt her. Her cheeks burned again. It was peculiar that she herself +regarded her position more sternly or more mildly according to whether +Apollonius in her thoughts judged it more sternly or more mildly. He +had become to her the involuntary standard by which to measure things. +Did he know what she was, and despise her? He was so gentle and +indulgent; he did not ridicule Anne, did not despise her. Even before +he came, did she already have thoughts that she should not have had +and did he guess them? And he was sorry for her, and that was why he +looked after her with such a sad glance when she went? Yes! Of course! +And now he fled from her in order to spare her: the sight of him +should not arouse thoughts in her that had better sleep till she +herself slept in her coffin. Perhaps he himself had said so to her +husband, or written; and the latter had chosen dislike as a means of +curing her. + +Was it chance that at this moment she glanced at her husband's desk? +She saw that he had forgotten to take the key out of the lock. She +remembered that he had never been so careless before. Usually she +would have taken no notice of it; now she remembered that if he knew +her to be there he had never left the room even for a moment without +locking the desk and taking the key with him. Apollonius' letters lay +in the top right-hand drawer; usually her glance avoided the spot. Now +she opened the desk and drew out the drawer. Her hands trembled, her +whole form quivered--not for fear that her husband might surprise her +in what she was doing. She must know how it stood between her, +Apollonius, and her husband; she would have asked the latter, she +would not have come to her own aid if she could have trusted him. She +trembled in expectation of what she should find. Had she any +premonition of what it would be? + +There were many letters in the drawer; all of them lay open and +unfolded. She touched them all, one after another, before she read +them. With each one that she touched a fresh flush spread over her +cheeks, as if she touched Apollonius himself, and involuntarily she +drew back her hand. Now a little metal box fell from one of the +letters back into the drawer; the box flew open and out of it fell a +small, dry blossom--a little bluebell. It was just such a one that she +had once laid on the bench that he might find it. She was startled. +That one, Apollonius had auctioned off the same evening with ridicule +and mockery among his comrades, asking them what they would give and +finally, amid the general laughter, solemnly knocked it down to his +brother. He had brought it to her and told her about it while they +were dancing and Apollonius had looked in at the hall window, +mockingly, as his brother had said. That one she had pulled to pieces; +all the young people had danced over the ruins. The blossom in the box +was another one. The letter must tell from whom it was or to whom +Apollonius sent it. + +And yet it was the same flower. She read it. What feelings took +possession of her as she read that it was the same one. Tear after +tear fell on the paper and out of them mounted a rosy haze and veiled +the narrow walls of the little room. Oh, it was a world of happiness, +of laughing and crying with happiness that rose from the tears; every +one shone more like a rainbow, every one cried: "She was yours!" And +the last one lamented: "And she has been stolen from you!" The flower +was from her; he carried it on his breast in yearning, hope, and fear, +until she of whom he thought when he touched it had become his +brother's. He was so good that he had thought it a sin to keep the +poor blossom away from the man who had stolen the giver from him. And +she might have clung to such a man, might have enfolded him in the +arms of her yearning and never let him go! She could have done it, +might have done it, should have done it! It would not have been a sin; +it would have been a sin if she had not done so. And now it was a sin +because the other had defrauded him and her, the other who now +tormented her about what he himself had made sinful, who forced her to +sin--for be forced her to hate him, and that too was a sin and his +fault. With terribly sweet fear she thought of the nearness of the man +who should be a stranger to her, who was not a stranger to her, from +whom in the dread of her weakness she saw no escape. She fled from +him, from herself, into the room where her children slept, where her +mother had died. There, where such peace had come to her, she heard +the slight movement of the innocent little slumberers whose guardian +God had made her, heard their quiet breathing whispering into the +still, dark night. She went from bed to bed, sank motionless on her +knees before each, and pressed her forehead against the sharp edges of +the bedsteads. + +From the tower of St. George's the bells rang as the step of time +passed over her; and he did not cease his march. She lay, her hot +hands clasped, a long, long time. Then from the gentle web of her +feelings there rose, silvery as the sound of Easter morning bells, the +thought: why are you afraid of him? And she saw all her angels +kneeling About her and he was one of her angels, the most beautiful +and the strongest and the gentlest. And she might look up to him as +one looks up to his angels. She rose and went back into the other +room. She spread the letters out on the table and then laid herself to +rest. She meant their possessor to know, when he came home and found +the letters, that she had read them. It was hard for her to part with +them; but they did not belong to her. She took away only the little +box with the withered flower, and meant to tell him in the morning +that she had done so. + +Fritz Nettenmair still sat on all alone in the wine-tavern. His head +hung wearily down on his breast. He justified to himself his hatred +and his course of action. His brother and she were false; his brother +and she were guilty, not he who sat here squandering what belonged to +his children. He who had stolen her heart away from him might look +after them. Just at the moment when he had succeeded in convincing +himself, the door of the bedroom at home opened. His wife had got up +out of bed again and put back the box containing the flower with the +letters. Apollonius had not kept it, neither might she. Her husband +had not yet thought of going home when she once more pulled the covers +over her chaste limbs. In the thought that thence-forward Apollonius +should be her lode-star, and that if she acted as he did she would +remain pure and safe from evil, she fell asleep and smiled in her +slumber like a carefree child. + +Apollonius knew little of his brother's mode of life. Fritz Nettenmair +hid it from him through the involuntary restraint that Apollonius' +efficient personality laid upon him, though he would not have +acknowledged it to any one, least of all to himself. And the workmen +knew that they might not go to Apollonius with anything that looked +like tale-bearing, least of all where his brother was concerned, whom +he would have liked to see respected by them all more than himself. +But he had noticed that Fritz looked on him as an intruder on his +rights who robbed him of all pleasure in his business and occupation. +From the day of his return Apollonius had not felt happy at home. He +was a burden to those whom he loved most; he often thought of Cologne, +where he knew himself to be welcome. Until now the moral obligation +had held him which he had taken upon himself in respect to the +repairs. These were nearing completion with rapid strides. Thus his +thought was at liberty to demand realization; and he imparted it to +his brother. + +It was difficult for Apollonius at first to convince his brother that +he was in earnest in his intention to return to Cologne. Fritz took it +for a sly pretext meant to reassure him. Man gives up a fear with as +much difficulty as he does a hope. And he would have had to confess to +himself that he had done wrong to the two whom he had become so +accustomed to accusing of having done wrong to him that he felt a kind +of satisfaction in so doing. He would have had to forgive his brother +for a second wrong which the latter had suffered from him. He did not +become reconciled until he had succeeded in seeing again in his +brother the dreamer of old and in his intention a piece of +foolishness, until he saw in it an involuntary confession that his +brother had recognized in him a superior opponent and was leaving in +despair of ever being able to carry out his evil plan. Then at once +all his old jovial condescension waked as from a winter sleep. His +boots creaked again: "There he is!" and his dangling seal once more +voiced the triumphant shout: "Now the fun will begin!" His boots +drowned what his head said to him of the unavoidable consequences of +his extravagance, of his descent in the general esteem. It seemed to +him that everything would be just as it had been, once his brother was +away. Looking ahead, he even believed in his extraordinary magnanimity +in forgiving his brother for having been there. He stood before his +brother in all his old greatness, in which he confronted the intruder +as the sole head of the business; with his most condescending laugh he +waved to his brother the assurance that he would manage to get the old +man in the blue coat to consent; he himself must send Apollonius away. + +The young wife felt as if her angel were about to leave her. She felt +that she was safer from him when near him than when he was at a +distance; for all the charm that forbade her desires to be sinful fell +upon her from his honest eyes. + +Apollonius had also told the councilman of his decision. It hurt him +that the good man--who usually approved of everything that Apollonius +wanted to do, in advance, as if the latter could not do anything that +he would not be obliged to approve--received his news with odd, +wondering, monosyllabic coldness. He pressed him to tell him the +reason for this change. The two good men understood each other easily. +After recovering from his surprise at finding Apollonius in ignorance +of it, the councilman told him what he knew of his brother's mode of +life and expressed the opinion that his father's house and business +could not exist without Apollonius' aid. He promised to make further +inquiries about the matter, and was soon able to enlighten Apollonius +as to the details. Here and there in the town his brother owed not +inconsiderable sums; the slate business, particularly of late, had +been so carelessly and unconscientiously carried on that some +customers of many years' standing had already withdrawn their +patronage, and others were about to do so. Apollonius was frightened. +He thought of his father, of his sister-in-law and of her children. He +thought of himself too, but it was just his own strong sense of honor +that made him first imagine what the proud, upright, blind old man +would have to suffer under the disgrace of a possible bankruptcy. He +would be able to earn his bread; but his brother's wife and children? +And they were not accustomed to hardship. He had heard that +Christiane's inheritance from her parents had been considerable. He +took heart. Perhaps the situation could still be saved. And he wanted +to save it. He would not stop at any sacrifice of time and strength +and property. If he could not hinder the decline, at least those who +were dear to him should not want. + +The staunch councilman rejoiced at his favorite's view of the matter, +on which indeed he had reckoned; he had thought it odd that Apollonius +had not shown it before. He offered him his aid, saying that he had +neither wife nor child and that God had permitted him to acquire +something so that he might help a friend with it. Apollonius did not +as yet accept his offer. He wanted first to see how matters stood and +to feel sure that he could remain an honest man if he took his friend +at his word. + +Hard days came for Apollonius. His old father must as yet know +nothing, and, if it were possible to uphold his honor, should never +learn that it had tottered. In his treatment of his brother Apollonius +required all his firmness and all his gentleness. + +After having found out who the creditors were and what the various +sums amounted to, Apollonius examined the condition of the business +and found it even more confused than he had feared. The books were in +disorder; for some time no more entries had been made at all. Letters +from customers were found complaining of the poor quality of the +material delivered and of carelessness in the execution of their +orders; others, with bills inclosed, were from the owner of the quarry +who did not want to take any new orders on credit until the old ones +were paid. The greater part of Christiane's fortune was gone; +Apollonius had to force his brother to produce the remains of it. He +was obliged to threaten him with court proceedings. What did not +Apollonius, with his punctilious love of order, suffer in the midst of +such confusion! What did he not go through, with his intense love of +his family, in having to act thus toward his brother! And yet the +latter saw in every utterance, every act of this man who was suffering +so, only badly concealed triumph. After infinite pains Apollonius +succeeded in getting a comprehensive survey of the state of affairs. +If the creditors could be persuaded to have patience and the customers +who had transferred their business could be won back again, it would +be possible, with strict economy, industry and conscientiousness, to +save the honor of the house; and, by untiring effort, he might succeed +in assuring to his brother's children at least an unincumbered +business as their inheritance. + +Apollonius wrote at once to the customers and then went to his +brother's creditors. The former agreed to give the house another +trial. Among the latter he had the pleasure of learning what +confidence he had already won in his home town. In every case if he +would stand security the creditor was willing to allow the sum owing +to remain as a loan, at low interest, to be gradually paid off. Some +of them even wanted to intrust him with cash in addition. He did not +attempt to test the sincerity of these offers by accepting them, and +thus only added to the confidence that those who made them felt in +him. Then he modestly and gently explained to his brother what he had +done and still wanted to do. Reproaches could not do any good, and he +thought that admonitions were superfluous where the necessity was so +plain. If from now on Apollonius, acting alone and independently, took +over the management of the whole, of the business and of the +household, his brother surely could not see in his conduct any +voluntary derogation. In a matter in which he had staked his honor he +must have a free hand. + +Above all things the selling end of the business must once more be +brought up to its former standing. The quality of the material +delivered by the owner of the quarry had steadily deteriorated, and +his brother had been obliged to accept it in order to get any material +at all. The other creditors' offers, to let the money owing them stand +as loans, he accepted, in order to settle the quarry owner's old +account with what could at once be liquidated of the remnant of +Christiane's fortune, and to pay cash at once for a new order. Thus it +was possible to obtain good material again at a reasonable price and +to satisfy his purchasers. The owner of the quarry, who on this +occasion made Apollonius' acquaintance and saw something of his +knowledge of the material and of its treatment, made him an offer, as +he himself was old and tired of work, to lease him the quarry. The +conditions under which he was willing to do this would have allowed +Apollonius to reckon on large profits; but as long as he had only +himself to depend upon in his difficult situation, he could not divide +his strength among several enterprises. + +Apollonius made his plan for the first year and fixed a certain sum +which his brother was to receive from him weekly for his household +expenses. He dismissed as many of the hands as he could possibly +spare. He put the faithful Valentine in charge during the time that he +himself was obliged to be busy about affairs outside. There was a +well-founded suspicion that the disagreeable-looking workman had been +guilty of various dishonest acts. Fritz Nettenmair, who clung to the +guardian of his honor as to its last bulwark, did everything he could +to justify him and thus to keep him in the house. He explained that he +had given the man express orders to do all the things of which he was +accused. Apollonius would have liked to have made a legal complaint +against the fellow, but he was obliged to be content with paying him +off and forbidding him the house. Apollonius was inexorable, gentle +though he was in putting his reasons before his brother. Any +unprejudiced person would have to admit that he could not do +otherwise, that the fellow must go. And with a savage laugh Fritz +Nettenmair, too, thought, when he was alone, "Of course he must go!" +Whatever Apollonius showed him, strictness and gentleness merely +strengthened him in the belief that relaxed its hold upon him the less +the longer he nourished it and that grew the thirstier for his heart's +blood the longer he fed it from that fount. He saw no further obstacle +to prevent his brother's criminal intention from succeeding. + +From now on his state of mind alternated between despairing +resignation to what could no longer be prevented, what had already +probably taken place, and feverish endeavors to prevent it +notwithstanding. In accordance with these two moods his behavior +toward Apollonius took the form of unconcealed obstinacy or of +cringing and vigilant dissimulation. When the first mood governed him +he sought forgetfulness day and night. Unfortunately the discharged +workman had found employment in a quarry near by and was his companion +on many a night. The important people turned away from him, and +revenged themselves on him with unconcealed contempt for the desire +that he had awakened in them and could no longer satisfy. He avoided +them, and followed the workman into places where the latter was at +home. There he sounded his jovial condescension an octave lower. The +gin-shops now rang with his jokes; and they took on more and more the +character of the surroundings. + + +Roofs that are covered with metal or tiles usually require repairing +only after a number of years have elapsed; it is different with slate +roofs. While the roof is being covered damage to the slates from the +scaffolds and the workmen's feet cannot be avoided. And such damage +often does not become apparent until afterward. Often more +considerable repairs are required during the three years immediately +following the covering of the roof than for fifty years afterward. The +roof of St. George's added its testimony to the truth of this old +experience. The slate roof of the tower, on the contrary, which +Apollonius had attended to alone, bore gratifying witness to its +maker's obstinate conscientiousness. The jackdaws who inhabited it +would have been left in peace by his swinging seat for a long time if +an old master-tinsmith had not chosen to show his ecclesiastical +leanings by donating a tin ornament. This wreath of tin flowers which +Apollonius was to lay around the tower roof was now the cause of his +once more fastening his ladder to the broach-post. A little more than +six months had elapsed since he had taken it down. + +In the meantime his strenuous efforts had not been without success. He +had kept his old customers and won new ones in addition. His creditors +had their interest and a small payment on the principal for the first +year; confidence in Apollonius and respect for him grew from day to +day and with them grew his hope and his strength, for which he paid by +redoubled exertions. If only the same thing could have been said of +his brother, of the understanding between him and his wife! + +It was fortunate for Apollonius that he had to put his whole soul into +his purpose, that he had no time to follow his brother with his eye +and heart, to see how the man whom he was trying to save sank deeper +and deeper. When he rejoiced in his success, he did so from a feeling +of loyalty to his brother and his brother's family; Fritz saw +something quite different in his rejoicing and thought of nothing but +of how to destroy it. + +In the beginning he had given his wife the greater part of the money +that he received weekly for his household expenses. Then he began to +keep back more and more and finally he carried the whole of it into +the places where the need of buying flatterers by treating them had +followed him more faithfully than had the respect of the town. The +experience he had had with the "important" people had not converted +him. His wife had been obliged to get on with less and less. Old +Valentine saw her distress, and from now on the house money went +through his, instead of her husband's, hands. Finally Valentine became +her treasurer, and never gave her more than she needed at the moment +because money was no longer safe from her husband in her hands. + +She used what time she had from her housekeeping and her children in +doing different pieces of work which Valentine, as her agent, sold for +her. The money that she thus received she used partly--she herself +would rather go hungry even though she could not see her children do +so--to adorn the living-room with all kinds of things that she knew +that Apollonius loved. And yet she knew that Apollonius never came in +there, that he never saw it. But then, she would not have done it if +she had known that he would see it. Her husband saw it as often as he +came into the room. Nothing escaped his eyes that might act as an +excuse for his anger and his hatred. Then he began to abuse +Apollonius, and in such terms as if he too must now show how much it +is possible to acquire of another person's manner. + +If the children were present it was his wife's first care to send them +away. They must not witness his roughness and learn to despise their +father--not for his sake but for their own. He did not betray how glad +he was to be rid of the "spies." He feared that the children would +complain of him to Apollonius. He did not think that his wife would +complain herself, although he assumed that she and Apollonius met each +other. Everything that he saw in the room was to him a fresh proof of +his shame. How could he believe that it was for any other purpose than +to be noticed by Apollonius? Then, when she told him that he might +abuse her, only not Apollonius, the keen eye of jealousy showed him +what pleasure she took in suffering for Apollonius. He reproached her +with it, and she did not deny it. She said to him: "Because he suffers +for me and for my children. He gives what he has been at great pains +to save to take the place of the weekly sum of which the father has +robbed his children." + +"And he tells you that? He tells you that!" said the man, laughing +with savage joy at having trapped her into a confession that she met +him. + +"Not he," returned his wife angrily, because the man she despised was +judging Apollonius by himself. "Old Valentine told me." She went on to +tell him that Valentine had sold as his own the watch that Apollonius +had brought with him from Cologne. Apollonius had forbidden him to +tell her. + +"And also to tell you that he forbade him?" laughed her husband. And +there was something of contempt in his laugh. Such things might indeed +be believed of the dreamer; but now he would not believe it of him. +"Of course!" he laughed still more wildly. "Even a stupider fellow +than that dreamer knows that no woman will do it for nothing. The +worst of them thinks herself worth something. One with such hair and +such eyes and such a body!" He seized her by the hair and gazed into +her eyes with a glance before which purity must blush; only depravity +could meet it and laugh. He took her blush for a confession and +laughed still more wildly. "You want to say that I am worse than he. +Ha, Ha! You're right; I married such a woman. He wouldn't have done +that. He isn't bad enough for that!" + +Old Valentine must have failed to keep his word, or else Apollonius +passed the door by chance when his brother believed him far away. He +heard his brother's savage outbreak of anger, he heard the clear tone +of the wife's voice, still clear and melodious in spite of her +excitement. He heard them both without understanding what they were +saying. He was shocked. He had not imagined that the breach between +them had gone so far. And he was the cause of this breach. He must do +what he could to improve matters. + +His brother stood in his threatening attitude as if turned to stone +when he caught sight of Apollonius entering. He had the feeling of a +man suddenly surprised while doing a wrong. If Apollonius had turned +on him as he deserved he would have groveled before him. But +Apollonius wanted to reconcile them, and said so calmly and from his +heart. He might indeed have known, for he had experienced it often +enough, that his gentleness only gave his brother the courage to be +sneeringly obstinate. It was the same this time. Fritz sneered at him, +laughing savagely, and said that he was making an excuse where he was +master. Was that the reason he had made himself master of the house? +He knew that in Apollonius' place he would have behaved quite +differently. He would have let the woman feel it whom he knew to be in +his power. He was an honest fellow, and did not need to pretend to be +so sweet. It occurred to him, moreover, how often he had sneaked about +the door in vain, hoping to surprise Apollonius in the room. Now he +was in the room. He had come in because he had not expected to find +him. It was Apollonius who must be startled, Apollonius was the person +caught, not he. The reconciliation was merely the first excuse on +which Apollonius had seized. That was why he was so meek. That was why +his wife was frightened--she had been trying to make him believe that +Apollonius never came into the room. That was why she looked up at him +so pleadingly. The contemptuous gaze with which she had just measured +him had suddenly been torn from her consciously guilty face with the +mask of pretended innocence. Now he knew with certainty: there was no +longer anything to prevent; nothing remained to him but retribution. +Now he could show his brother that he knew him, had always known him. + +He pointed to his wife. "She's begging me to go. Why should I? I'll +look out of the window. That will do just as well. I shan't see what +you are doing." + +Apollonius did not understand him. Christiane knew that he did not, +without looking at him. She tried to leave the room. She could not +endure to be humiliated in Apollonius' presence till she was nothing +but dirt under his feet. Her husband held her with a savage grip. He +seized her with the swoop of a bird of prey. She would have had to +scream aloud if her mental torture had not deadened her physical pain. + +"Don't mind her wanting to go away," gasped Fritz Nettenmair, stifled +with unnatural laughter, and held his brother with his eye as he held +his wife with his hand. "You needn't be afraid. Just as soon as I turn +my back she will be here again. Go on, talk to each other. Go on, tell +him that you can't bear him; I believe it of course; what won't a man +believe if a woman like you tells him so? And you, give her some of +your teachings from Cologne, where you learnt everything, how to drive +your brother out of his house and business so as to--hm--well--Ha, ha! +Why don't you tell her? A woman ought to be willing. Oh, such a +willing woman is--go on, tell her what that kind of a woman is. She +doesn't know it yet, innocent as she is! Ha, ha!" + +Apollonius understood nothing of what he heard and saw; but the abuse +of a man's strength on a helpless woman filled him with indignation. +Involuntarily this feeling carried him away. It doubled his strength, +which was far superior to his brother's at all times, when he gripped +him by the arm that held his wife so that it let go its prey and +dropped as if paralyzed. Christiane tried to leave the room, but she +collapsed helplessly. Apollonius caught her and laid her on the sofa, +supported against its back. Then he stood before his brother like a +wrathful angel. + +"I have tried to win you by gentleness, but you are not worthy of it. +I have endured much at your hands and will continue to endure," said +Apollonius; "you are my brother. You blame me for having driven you +into misfortune; God is my witness that I have done everything that I +knew to hold you back. For whom have I done what you reproach me with +doing, if not for you, and for the sake of your honor and to save your +wife and your children? Who compelled me to be hard on you? For whom +do I work? For whom am I doing all that I do? If you knew how it hurts +me to have you force me to tell you what I am doing for you! God +knows, you force me to it; I have never done it yet, not with others, +nor with myself. You know that you are only seeking an excuse to be +unbrotherly toward me. I know it, and will continue to endure you as I +have done till now. But that you should make an excuse of your wife's +dislike of me to torture her too, and to treat her as no good man +treats a good woman, that I will not stand." + +Fritz Nettenmair burst into a horrible laugh. His brother had put him +to shame in every way, and now still wanted to play the virtuous hero +to him, the innocently offended, the chivalrous protector of the +innocently offended woman. "A good woman! Such a good woman! Oh yes +indeed! Is she not? You say so--and you are a good man. Ha, ha! Who +should know better whether a woman is good or not than such a good +man? You have not robbed me of everything? You have still to rob me of +my reason so that I shall believe your fairy-tale. She dislikes you? +She can't bear you? Oh, you don't know yet how much she dislikes you. +I need only be away, then she will tell you. Then it will be bad for +you! She will strangle you to make you believe her. When I am present +she won't tell you. A woman won't tell a thing like that when her +husband is there--a good woman, as she is. Why don't you say that you +can't bear her either? Oh, I have no longer any sense! I'll believe +anything that you two tell me!" + +Forgetting everything but his passion, Fritz Nettenmair was convinced +that Christiane and Apollonius had invented the fairy-tale of her +dislike. + +Apollonius stood shocked. He was obliged to say to himself what he did +not want to believe. His brother read in his face terror at the light +that was breaking in on him, dismay and pain at the misconstruction +put upon his conduct. And everything that he saw was so genuine that +even he was obliged to believe it. He was silenced by the thoughts +that pierced his brain like strokes of lightning. So it might still +have been prevented after all; what must come might still have been +hindered! And again it was he, himself--But Apollonius--he saw that in +spite of his confusion--still doubted and could not believe. So he +might still destroy the effects of his madness, might still perhaps +prevent, still hinder what must come, even if it were only for today +and tomorrow. But how? Should he make a wild joke out of the whole +scene? Such jokes were not unusual with him, and in his mind +Apollonius once more became the dreamer of old who believed everything +that was told him. He broke into a laugh, a fearful caricature of the +jovial laugh with which he had formerly been accustomed to reward his +own sallies. That was a confounded joke, that Apollonius could be made +to believe that Fritz Nettenmair was jealous! Jovial Fritz Nettenmair +jealous! Jovial Fritz Nettenmair! And, better still, of him. He had +never heard a more confounded joke than that! He read in his wife's +face how relieved she was at the turn he had given to the scene. He +dared to appeal to her to confirm the fact that it was a confounded +joke. Her "yes" made him still bolder. Now he laughed at his wife who +could be "confounded" enough to reproach him angrily with having made +her dependent on the favor of the man she hated, and explained +laughingly that it was such things that gave rise to little quarrels +in married life. He laughed at Apollonius for taking such a little +dispute so seriously. He asked to be shown the married people who +didn't have such disagreements now and then. It was easy to see that +Apollonius was still a bachelor! + +Apollonius heard the councilman's voice in the hall, asking for him; +he went out quickly so that the councilman should not come in and be a +witness to the scene. His brother heard them going away together. He +was far from being reassured yet. When he went out Apollonius' face +had shown that he was still struggling with the thought that had +dawned on him. + +Two passions were fighting against each other in Fritz Nettenmair's +soul. The dissolute habit of forgetting himself in drink drew him out +of the house by a hundred chains; jealous fear held him at home with a +thousand talons. If his brother had not yet thought of what he might +have if he liked, he himself had now introduced the thought into his +mind. All day long he turned his fear over and over and did not let +his wife out of his sight. Not until it had all grown quiet around +him, till his wife had put the children to bed and laid herself to +rest, till he no longer saw any light in Apollonius' windows, did the +talons relax their hold and the chains draw the stronger. He locked +the back door which separated Apollonius from the rest of the house, +he even bolted it as well, and locked the door of the stairs leading +to the piazza and finally the door at which he went out. He had cause +for haste without knowing it. The disagreeable-looking workman could +not stay much longer. Fritz Nettenmair did not yet know that +Apollonius had been to the quarry owner and succeeded in having the +workman dismissed, had talked to the police and brought it about that +the workman might no longer let himself be seen in the neighborhood on +the morrow. The workman was ready for his departure; from the public +house he was going straight out into the wide world. He only wanted to +take leave of his former master and tell him something more before he +went. + +There was little left in the world to which Fritz Nettenmair was +attached. The road that he had been traveling led farther and farther +down from what he loved most; it was irretrievably lost to him. He +would never again be the centre of admiration and flattery. All that +still bound him to his wife was the searing chain of jealousy. He +never had been fond of his father; he hated his brother. He knew +himself to be hated or, in his madness, believed himself to be hated. +Little Annie would have clung to him with all the strength of a +child's heart longing to be loved, but he drove her away from him with +hatred; to him she was "the spy." To one man alone did his heart +cling, to the one who least deserved it. He knew that the man had +cheated him, had helped to ruin him, and still he clung to him. The +man hated Apollonius, he was the only person besides himself who hated +Apollonius and therefore Apollonius' brother clung to him! + +Fritz Nettenmair accompanied the workman a part of his way. The +workman wanted to walk faster, so he thanked him for his company, +intending to proceed alone. When others part their last words are of +what they both love; Fritz Nettenmair's and the workman's last words +were of their hatred. The workman knew that Apollonius would have +liked to have put him in the penitentiary, if he could. As the two now +stood facing each other at parting, the workman measured the other +with his eye. It was an evil, lurking glance, a grimly surreptitious +glance that asked Fritz Nettenmair, without intending to be heard, +whether he was ready for something which the workman did not name. +Then he said, in a hoarse voice which would have struck the other but +that Fritz Nettenmair was accustomed to it: "What was it I wanted to +say? Oh, yes, you will soon be in mourning. I saw him the other day." +He did not need to mention any name, Fritz Nettenmair knew whom he +meant. "There are people who see more than others," the workman +continued, "there are people who can see in a slater's face if he is +doomed to fall that year, who see him being carried home, and see him +lying there, only he is not there any more. An old slater told me the +secret of how to see with the 'second sight.' I have it. And now +farewell. Meet it with resignation when they carry him home." + +The workman had left him; his steps were already growing faint in the +distance. Fritz Nettenmair still stood and gazed into the white-gray +fog into which the workman had disappeared. The layers of fog hung +horizontally above the meadows by the street spread out like a cloth. +They rose and melted together, forming strange shapes, they curled, +floated apart and sank down again only to rear themselves once more. +They hung on the branches of the willows by the way, now veiling them, +now leaving them free, till it seemed uncertain whether the fog was +dissolving into trees or the trees into fog. It was a dreamlike +activity, untiring movement without aim or purpose. It was a picture +of what was going on in Fritz Nettenmair's soul, such a true picture +that he did not know whether he was looking at something outside or +something within himself. There came a hazy bending down and wringing +of hands about a pale figure on the ground, then a slowly moving +funeral procession, and now it was his enemy, his brother who lay +there, whom they carried. Now malicious joy flamed up sharply, died +down and pity took its place, now both were mixed and one tried to +hide the other. The figure lying there, whom they carried, Fritz +forgave everything. He wept over him; for in the intervals of the +funeral song the merry dance-tune sounded softly which the future +struck up: "There he comes! Now the fun will begin!" And beside the +dead lay a second corpse, invisible, his fear of what must come if his +poor brother did not lie dead. And in the coffin, Fritz Nettenmair's +old jovial happiness put forth new buds. Fritz Nettenmair felt himself +to be an angel; he wished that his brother need not die, because--he +knew that his brother must die. + +He was still walking in the fog when the pavement of the town sounded +again under his feet. He had forgotten a past, he forgot the present, +for the future was his again. And he was one who--as he turned into +his street the old words rang as jovially as they ever did. + +It gave him a curious feeling to think that through the door which he +had just opened a coffin was going to be carried out. Involuntarily he +stood aside as if to let the procession pass him. "We must submit," he +said softly, as if repeating to himself what he would have to answer +some one offering him consolation when once the time had come, "We +must submit to what is unalterable." And as he raised his shoulders in +accompaniment to the words, he perceived a faint glimmer of light. He +looked up; the light came through the crack between the lower part of +the shutter and the window ledge. There was a light in there, in the +living-room. "So late?" He gasped; the load lies again on his breast. +His brother was still alive; and what must come if he were not to die, +might still come before he died, or--it was already here! How swiftly +his hands moved--and yet the door was locked again quietly in an +instant! Just as softly and just as quickly he went to the back door. +It was not open, but the key was only turned once in the lock, and +Fritz Nettenmair could swear to it that he turned it twice before he +went. He felt his way to the door of the room; he found the latch and +gently pressed it; the door opened; a faint glimmer shone out into the +hall. It came from a covered light on the table; beside the table a +small bed stood in the shadow. It was little Annie's bed, and her +mother was sitting beside it. + +Christiane did not notice the opening of the door. Her head was bent +low down over the bed; she was singing softly and did not know what +she was singing; she was listening full of fear, but not to her song; +she would cry if the tears did not dim her eyes. But now the color +might come back to the child's cheek again, the strange expression +about the child's eyes and mouth might disappear, and she might fail +to see it and might fear in vain. It seemed to her as if the color +must come and the expression change if she only tried hard enough to +notice this coming and going. And at the same time she was able to +think how suddenly this thing had come that had made her so afraid; +how little Annie in the bed beside her own, suddenly cried out in a +strange voice and then could not speak any more; how she jumped up and +dressed; how she waked Valentine in her distress, and he, without her +knowledge, waked Apollonius. The old fellow had tried all the keys in +the house until he found that the key of the shed opened the back +door; she did not know that. So much the more vividly did she picture +how Apollonius came in, how she felt at his unexpected appearance, +full of terror and shame and yet wonderfully tranquillized. Apollonius +had fetched the doctor at once and medicines. He had stood by the bed +and bent over little Annie as she did now. He had looked at her full +of pain and said that little Annie's illness was owing to the discord +between herself and her husband, and that she would not get well +unless this ceased. He had told her of the miracles that are possible +to a mother and of how men and women can and must conquer themselves. +Then he had given Valentine a few more orders relating to little Annie +and had left, fearing that his brother, in his error, might otherwise +believe that he wanted to drive him away from the sick-bed of his +children. Apollonius had said that little Annie would not get well +again if the discord did not cease. He had said that people can and +must conquer themselves; Christiane determined to conquer herself +because he had said so. A mother could do miracles for her child; if +she thought of Apollonius' face when he spoke thus, the greatest +miracle must become possible to her. + +Fritz Nettenmair entered. He thought of nothing but that Apollonius +must have been there, even if he were not there any longer. Everything +danced before his eyes he was in such a fury. He would have flown at +his wife if he had not seen old Valentine sitting at the door of the +bedroom. He meant to wait till the old man had left the room, and +crept to the chair at the window where he had always sat formerly, +when he was such a different man. His wife heard his soft tread; she +could not see his face. It seemed to her that he knew of little +Annie's condition and walked so softly on that account. She looked at +little Annie with a glance that said, that what she was about to do +now she would do for the sake of her sick child; a glance at the door +by which he had gone out added: "And because he said I should." + +"Here is father, Annie," she said. In reality she was talking to her +husband who sat at the window, but she could not turn her face toward +him, could not address her words directly to him. "You always asked +for him, you know. You thought that when he came he would be as he +used to be before you were sick. Mother wants him to be like that +too--for your sake." + +Her voice came from so deep down in her chest that the man had to +force himself to control his rage. He thought: "She is speaking so +sweetly so as to deceive me. They planned that when he was here." And +the soft tones in which she continued only caused his anger to swell +more wrathfully. + +"And you won't go to Heaven yet, will you Annie? You're such a good +little girl and you'll stay with father and mother. If only--you +mustn't be afraid of father, you silly little Annie, because he speaks +so loud. He doesn't mean to be cross." + +She stopped; she expected an answer from the father, not from the +child. She expected that he would come to the bed and speak to the +child as she had done, and through the child with her. Whatever she +might think of him, the child was his child, after all, and it was +ill. + +The man remained silent and sat on quietly in his chair. For the +length of time that it takes to say half the Lord's Prayer there was +no sound but the ticking of the clock; and that grew faster and faster +like the beating of a human heart that feels misfortune approaching. +The flame of the light flickered as with fear. + +Valentine rose from his chair to attend to the light. + +There was a sound of wheezing in the child's chest; she wanted to +speak and could not. She wanted to stretch out her hands toward her +father, and she could not. She could do nothing but hold out the arms +of her soul to her father. But her father's soul did not see the +beseeching arms; it held its wrath convulsively in its hands and had +no hand free for the child. Valentine stepped away from the light and +went out to give vent to his feelings in tears. The man rose and +approached his wife softly without her noticing him. He wanted to +surprise her, and he succeeded. She started, frightened, as she +suddenly saw facing her across the bed a distorted human countenance. +She started, and he said through his teeth: "You are frightened? Do +you know why?" + +She meant to tell him herself that Apollonius had been there, but she +had not yet had an opportunity; she did not dare to do so at the sick +child's bedside, because she knew that he would fly into a rage; +whenever she could she had spared the child the sight of his roughness +while she was still well; now it might frighten the little girl to +death. She did not answer him, but looked at him beseechingly, +indicating the child by a glance. + +"He was here! Wasn't he here?" he asked, not for information but to +show that he did not need any. He raised his clenched fist; little +Annie struggled to sit up. He did not see it; but his wife saw it, and +her terror grew. She clasped her hands, she looked at him with a +glance in which there was everything that a woman can promise, that a +woman can threaten. He saw only her terror at his knowing what had +happened--and his fist descended on her forehead. + +There was a shriek. The child writhed in convulsions; the mother, who +had fallen upon her, wept loudly. Valentine hurried in, Fritz +Nettenmair went into the bedroom. He did not know which was uppermost +in him, gratified revenge or fright at what he had done. He sank down +on the bed as if the blow that he struck had stunned himself. He only +half heard Valentine running for the doctor. In the same state he +heard the latter come and go, and in the same state he listened to see +if he could hear Apollonius' voice whispering and his soft tread. He +did not dare to show himself; shame restrained him. He justified his +behavior and called little Annie's illness just a desire to be +coddled. "Children think they're dying one day, and the next they're +more lively than ever," he said to himself. + +His feverish listening and efforts to reassure himself turned into +feverish dreaming. Between waking and sleeping he heard quiet steps in +the next room, quiet voices, quiet weeping, and at intervals silence. + +The quiet weeping that grows loud and is controlled again as if a +sleeper were near whom it will not wake, that breaks out again as if +it could not wake the sleeper, and again grows soft as if it were +frightened at itself for being so loud when every one is quiet: who +does not know such weeping? Who does not guess what it means, even if +he does not know it? + +Fritz Nettenmair knew it, half asleep; there was a dead person in the +next room. They had brought him home. "We must submit to what is +unalterable." + +For the first time for many months he slept quietly again. + +And why should he not? The quiet weeping turned into a merry waltz. +"There he is! Now the fun will begin"--the words rang triumphantly +from the "Red Eagle Tavern" in the distance, into his sleep. + +But the quiet steps and the quiet voices were real, and they +continued; and there was a dead body in the next room, the beautiful, +dead body of a child. The breach between the parents had made the +child ill; pain at her father's savage attack on her mother had broken +her little heart. + +When the new day sent its first glimmer of light through his window, +Apollonius rose from the chair on which he had sat ever since his +return to his room. There was something solemn in the manner in which +he stood upright. He seemed to say to himself: "If it is as I fear, I +must act for us both; it is for that that I am a man. I have sworn to +uphold my father's house and his honor, and I will do what I have +sworn to do, in every sense." + +Fritz Nettenmair woke at last. He knew nothing more of the +dream-scenes of the night. He only knew that his wife had magnified +the "spy's" desire to be coddled into an illness so that she might +have an excuse for being together with "him." He began to think of how +he should put an end to this coddling. With this idea in his mind he +stepped through the door and stood--before a dead body. A shudder ran +over him. The dead child lay there before him like a sign to warn him: +"You shall not go farther on the way that you have taken!" There the +child lay, his child, and she was dead. The child stood before him, an +accuser and a witness. She bore witness for her mother. The mother had +known that she was dying; and at the deathbed of her child not even +the lowest creature would do what he had thought her capable of doing. +The child accused him. He had struck a mother at the side of her +child's deathbed. No man can do that, not even if the woman were +guilty. And she was not; the child testified to that. Now he knew that +the pale, dumb countenance of the mother had cried: "You will kill the +child; don't strike!" And he had struck nevertheless. He had killed +the child. That thought fell on him like a thunder-bolt, so that he +collapsed before the child's bed, across which he had struck her +mother, before the bed in which his child had died because he struck +her mother. + +There he lay a long time. The bolt that struck him down had lighted +the past with cruel distinctness: he had seen them both innocent whom +he persecuted. And there was no guilt but his. He alone had built up +the misery that lay crushingly upon him, load on load, guilt on guilt. +But after all it was not yet too late! He heard his wife's quiet step +in the hall coming toward the door of the room. He heard the door +open. If little Annie had been standing in the door of the bedroom +then, she would have smiled. He meant to be kind, he meant to be again +as he had been before little Annie had been taken sick. He held out +his hand to the woman as she entered. She saw him and started. She was +as white as little Annie's body, even her lips, usually so crimson, +were white. Her neck, her beautiful arms, her soft hands were white, +her eyes that were always so shining, were dull. All the life in her +had withdrawn to the deepest recesses of her heart and there wept for +her dead child. When she saw him her whole body began to tremble. In +two steps she stood between him and the body; as if she still wanted +to protect the child from him. And yet it was not that. Neither fear +nor dread quivered about her little mouth; it was firmly closed. It +was a different feeling that drew her beautifully arched eyebrows +together and flamed in her usually so gentle eyes. He saw: this was no +longer the woman who had spoken melting words of peace; she had died +with her child in the terrible night just past. The woman who stood +before him was no longer the mother who looked at him with hope, whose +child he could save; it was the mother whose child he had killed. It +was a mother who drove the murderer away from the holy place where her +child lay. He spoke--Oh, if he had but spoken yesterday! Yesterday she +had yearned for the words; today she did not hear them. + +"Give me your hand, Christiane," he said. She drew her hand back +convulsively, as if he had already touched her. "I have been +mistaken," he continued; "I will believe you, I see myself; I will not +do it again! You are better than I." + +"The child is dead," she said, and even her voice sounded pale. "Don't +leave me without comfort in my terrible fear. If I can become +different I can only do so now, and if you give me your hand and raise +me up," said the man. She looked at the child, not at him. + +"The child is dead," she repeated. Did that mean it was indifferent to +her what became of him now that his improvement could no longer save +the child? The man half raised himself; he gripped her hand with a +strength full of fear and held it fast. + +"Christiane," he sobbed wildly, "Here I lie like a worm. Don't tread +on me! Don't tread on me! For God's sake, have mercy. I could never +forget it, if I had lain here like a worm in vain. Think of it! For +God's sake, think of it; you have me in your hand now. You can make of +me what you will. I hold you responsible. You will be to blame for +anything that may come after this."--She had finally succeeded in +withdrawing her hand from his grasp; she held it away from herself as +if she looked at it with loathing because he had touched it. + +"The child is dead," she said. He understood that she said: "Between +me and the murderer of my child there can never be anything more in +common, neither on earth nor in heaven." + +He rose. A word of forgiveness might perhaps have saved him! Perhaps! +Who knows! He staggered back into the bedroom. Christiane did not see +him go, but she felt that his presence no longer profaned the place in +which lay the sacred image of her maternal sorrow. Weeping softly, she +sank down over her dead child. + + +In the meantime Apollonius had begun the decorating of the tower-roof +of St. George's. He had built a scaffold, fastened his ladder to the +broach-post, put a hempen ring on it, attached his tackle to the ring +and hung his swinging-seat on the pulley. The tin ornamentation, which +consisted of single long pieces, was intended to represent two +garlands festooned around the spire. + +Apollonius was industrious at his work. The mastertinsmith, who was +anxious to see his decorations completed as soon as possible, had less +ground to complain of Apollonius than the latter had to be +dissatisfied with him. At first the master urged Apollonius; soon +Apollonius had to drive the master on. A part of the top garland which +was to hang in a festoon over the door in the roof was lacking. +Apollonius could not finish his work until he had the material for it. +A neighboring village required his services for minor repairs. Leaving +his tackle hanging from the tower of St. George's he went to Brambach. + +The next day old Valentine knocked at the living-room door. He had +already been there several times and gone away again. His entire being +expressed uneasiness. He was so preoccupied with something that he had +on his mind that he thought he must have failed to hear the answer to +his knock and laid his ear to the key-hole as if he assumed that it +must still be there to hear if he only listened hard enough. His +anxiety aroused him from his absent-mindedness. He knocked a second +and a third time and, still receiving no answer, plucked up courage to +open the door and go in. The young wife had avoided him for some time. +She did so now, too, but today he had to speak to her. She +intentionally sat at some distance from the windows, near the bedroom +door. The old man did not perceive that she was as uneasy as he, and +that his presence made her even more so. He apologized for his +intrusion. When she made a movement to leave the room, he assured her +that he would not remain long and that he would not have forced +himself upon her had he not been impelled to do so by something which +was perhaps very important. He hoped that it was not so, but still, it +might be. She listened and looked more and more anxiously now at the +windows, now at the door. Her demeanor showed plainly that she hoped +if he had anything to say to her he would say it as quickly as he +could. + +Valentine began: "Master Fritz is on the roof of St. George's. I saw +him just now in the church-yard." + +"And did he look this way? Did he see you coming into the house?" +asked Christiane breathlessly. + +"God forbid!" replied the old man. "He is working like the devil +today, not even thinking of anything to eat and drink. When a man +works like that--" Valentine stopped and completed the sentence to +himself--"he has some end in view." Christiane was silent. She was +struggling with the desire to confide her whole anxiety to the +faithful old soul. He saw nothing of this. "Our neighbor, over there," +he continued, "has times, you know, when he cannot sleep at all. The +night before Master Apollonius went to Brambach he was at his kitchen +window and saw somebody sneaking from the back of our house into the +shed." He did not say whom the neighbor had seen, he probably expected +the young wife to ask. But she had not even heard his story. "The +previous evening," he went on, "before Master Apollonius left for +Brambach, he tried to get together the things he wanted to take with +him; he examined everything, as he always does, but he could not make +up his mind what to take. And it is so strange that Master Fritz has +become so industrious all of a sudden." + +Apollonius' name roused Christiane; she listened as the old man +continued: "It occurred to me for the first time, just now, when our +neighbor told me that somebody had crept into the shed. I wondered +what he could be wanting there, and at night too. And when I looked up +and saw Master Fritz working so hard, an uneasy feeling came over me +and drove me into the shed as if I were being chased with a stick. +There, I imagined what any one who had sneaked in there might have +done. First I saw the ax that belongs with the other tools lying near +the door. I thought to myself: did he do anything with the ax? And +again I imagined what any one who had crept in there at night might +have done with it. It occurred to me that he might have done something +to the ladders. But I found nothing wrong there. Nor was there +anything wrong with the swinging-seat that still lay there. Then I +began to look at the pulleys and last of all at the tackle. It seemed +as if one of the ropes had been worn a little by rubbing against +something hard. I thought to myself: 'that often happens,' and was +about to lay it down again, but then I thought: 'there is nothing else +wrong, and if somebody crept in here at night he meant to do +something, and if he had the ax then he did something with that.' I +looked a little closer and--merciful Heavens!--the rope had been cut +into in several different places. I threw it over the beam and hung on +it; the cuts gaped open. I believe if the seat were hung on it the +rope would break." The old man had become quite pale. Christiane hung +breathlessly on his every word; she had fallen back in her chair and +could scarcely speak. + +"It was not so the evening before," he continued. "Master Apollonius +has an eye for every detail. He would have discovered it. I think the +person who cut the rope watched Master Apollonius as he examined +everything, and thought he would not look them over again before he +used them. That is the reason why he crept in at night." + +"Valentine!" cried the young wife, seizing him by the shoulders, half +as if she wanted to compel him to tell the truth, half as if to +support herself, "he did not take it with him? Valentine, tell me!" + +"No, not that one," said Valentine. "But the other seat that was +there, and the tackle belonging to it." + +"And was that cut too?" she asked with ever increasing fear. He +replied: "I do not know. But the man who did it had no idea which one +Master Apollonius would take with him." + +The woman trembled so violently that the old man forgot his fears +concerning Apollonius in his fear concerning her. He had to support +her to prevent her from falling. She pushed him away and half +imploringly, half threateningly, cried: "Oh, save him, Valentine, save +him. Oh God, it is I who have done it!" She prayed to God to save him, +and then moaned that he was dead and that it was her fault. She called +Apollonius by the tenderest names and entreated him not to die. +Valentine, in his distress, sought for words to comfort her and in so +doing found comfort for himself; or if there were no real comfort, at +least there was the hope that Apollonius was already on his way home. +He had certainly examined the tackle again. If he had met with an +accident they would have heard of it by now. He had to repeat this a +dozen times before she understood what he meant. And now she began to +expect the bearer of the terrible tidings, and started at every sound. +She even imagined her own sobbing to be his voice. Finally Valentine, +infected by her desperate terror and not knowing what else to do, ran +to fetch the old gentleman, thinking that he might know how to save +Apollonius, if it were still possible. + +The old gentleman sat in his little room. As he withdrew deeper and +deeper into the clouds that separated him from the outer world, even +his little garden finally became strange to him. Especially the +eternal question: "How are you, Herr Nettenmair?" had driven him to +the house. He felt that people no longer believed his: "I am somewhat +troubled with my eyes, but it is a matter of no consequence," and in +every question he heard only a mockery. Much as Apollonius suffered +with him, his father's isolation and increasing unsociability were not +altogether unwelcome to him; for the deeper his brother sank, the more +difficult it had become to conceal from the old gentleman the +condition of the house; and to exclude busybodies from the garden was +impossible. Apollonius did not know that his father suffered tortures +in his room equal to those from which he wanted to protect him. Here +the old gentleman sat the livelong day, crouched down in his leather +chair behind the table, and brooded over all the possibilities of +dishonor that might come to his house; or he strode up and down with +hasty step, the flush in his sunken cheeks and the vehement gestures +of his arms betraying all too plainly how in his thoughts he did his +utmost to avert impending calamity. His was a condition which would +eventually lead to complete insanity, if the external world did not +throw a bridge across to him and force him to leave his isolation. + +This was what happened on that day. Force of habit compelled old +Valentine, without his being conscious of the fact, to open the door +gently, and gently to step in; but the old gentleman, with his +morbidly acute perception, discerned at once the unusual. His +anticipation naturally took the same course which all his thoughts +pursued. Some disgrace must be threatening the house so to alter +Valentine's usual manner; and it must be a terrible one indeed thus to +upset the old fellow and break through his assumed composure. The old +gentleman trembled as he arose from his chair. He struggled with +himself as to whether he should ask. It was not necessary. The old +fellow confessed, unasked. With nervous haste he related his fears and +his reasons for them. The old gentleman was startled, in spite of the +fact that his imagination had prepared him for the truth; but +Valentine observed none of this in his exterior, he listened to him as +always, as if he were relating matters of the utmost indifference. +When Valentine had finished, the sharpest eye could no longer have +perceived the slightest tremor in the tall, stately figure. The old +gentleman had the firm ground of reality under his feet once more; he +was again the old gentleman in the blue coat. He stood as austere as +of yore before his servant; so austere and so quiet was he that his +bearing inspired Valentine with courage. "Imagination!" he exclaimed +in his old grim manner. "Are none of the journeymen around?" Valentine +called one who was just about to fetch slate. The old gentleman +despatched him to Brambach to bid Apollonius return home at once. "If +you think he won't go quickly enough for you, you fussy old woman, +tell him to hurry so that you may soon learn that you've worked +yourself into a state about nothing. But no word of this to anybody +and lock up the wife so that she can't do anything silly." Valentine +obeyed. The old gentleman's assurance, and the fact that something had +really been done, had a more powerful effect upon him than a hundred +good arguments. He imparted his encouragement to Christiane. He was in +too great haste to tell her upon what grounds it was based. If he had +had time for that he would probably have left her less reassured. +Nothing was further from himself than the suspicion that the old +gentleman, while characterizing his fears as idle fancies, and +pretending to send the messenger only to reassure him and the young +wife, was inwardly convinced of the guilt of his elder son and of the +danger, if not actual death, of his younger son. + +"Now," said Herr Nettenmair, when Valentine had returned to him, "the +old fool has of course told our neighbor the fairy-tale that he spun +out of thin air, and the young wife has confided it to all the gossips +in town!" + +Valentine noticed nothing of the feverish suspense with which the old +gentleman awaited an answer to the question which he had disguised as +an exclamation. "I've done nothing of the kind," he replied earnestly. +The old gentleman's supposition had wounded him. "In the first place I +didn't really think myself that anything was very wrong yet; and Frau +Nettenmair has not spoken to a soul since then." + +The old gentleman took hope anew. During Valentine's absence he had +given way for a moment to all the anguish that a father cannot but +feel under such circumstances; but then he reasoned with himself that +there was no use in wasting time in idle complaint as long as +something might still be done. Even if Valentine and Christiane had +told nobody what they knew, other things of the same sort might have +become known. Such a criminal thought does not originate by chance; it +is the blossom of a poisonous tree with trunk and branches. Valentine +had to tell him all that had happened since Apollonius' return home. +It was the story of a wanton, inordinate, pleasure-seeking spendthrift +who in spite of the efforts of his better brother had sunk to the +level of an ordinary libertine and drunkard; of a faithful brother +who, compelled by the necessity of rescuing the honor of business and +home, had shouldered the care of everything and as a reward was being +persecuted unto death by the degraded prodigal. + +The old gentleman sat motionless. Only the blush that burned ever +warmer on his thin cheeks betrayed what he suffered for the honor of +his house. Otherwise he seemed to know it all, already. That was his +old manner, which he perhaps made use of now because he thought that +Valentine would then be less likely to conceal or alter facts against +his better knowledge. His inward agitation prevented him from +perceiving in what strong contradiction this semblance of calm stood +to his morbid sense of honor. Valentine did not endeavor to deepen the +shadows which fell upon Fritz Nettenmair's conduct, but, knowing the +old gentleman as he thought he did, he deemed it necessary to place +Apollonius' actions in the brightest possible light. But he only half +knew the old gentleman after all. He miscalculated the effect that he +would produce when he praised the filial tenderness with which +Apollonius had withheld all news of danger from his father's ears. +Thus he undid what a simple tale, describing the son's efforts to save +that which the old gentleman held most dear, had accomplished. The +father saw only a realization of the fear which Apollonius' diligence +had awakened in him. In unfilial fashion Apollonius had concealed the +danger from him in order to be able to take the whole credit for the +rescue to himself. Or he looked upon his father as a helpless, blind +old man who was not, and could not be anything but an incumbrance. +This latter feeling the old gentleman could forgive him less than the +former, even in face of his grief over his son's death, which he now +deemed a certainty. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he +became that things would never have come to such a pass if he had +known about it and taken the matter in hand, and that Apollonius in +fact had only his own ambitious desires to thank for his death. These +thoughts, however, had to give way before immediate necessity. What he +knew concerning Fritz was enough to strengthen suspicion once it was +aroused, but not to create it in the first place unless there were +some additional reason of which he knew nothing. He must learn from +his guilty son himself if such existed. He had made up his mind what +to do in any case. He called for his hat and cane. At any other time +Valentine would have been astonished at this command, perhaps even +frightened. But when one is wrought up over something unusual, only +the usual seems unexpected, only that which calls to mind the old +quiet state of affairs. As the old gentleman made ready to depart, he +pointed out to Valentine once more how foolish and groundless his +fears were. "Who knows," he said grimly, "what our neighbor saw? How +could he recognize anybody at night, so far off? And you with your ax +story! If the rope should break by chance or any other accident happen +to the boy in Brambach, of course you would be sure and certain that +it was your imaginary ax-slashes that had done it, and that the man +whom our neighbor pretends to have seen sneaking into the shed, had +made them. And if you say a word or make mysterious hints about all +that you imagine in your silly pate, the whole town will be full of it +in no time. Not because what you have invented is probable enough for +any sensible man to believe, but just because people are glad to speak +ill of anybody. God will take care that nothing happens to the boy. +But of course it might happen, and maybe it has already happened. How +easy it is for an accident to happen to anybody, specially to a slater +who hovers between heaven and earth like a bird, and yet has not the +wings of a bird. That is why the slater's calling is such a noble +calling; the slater is the most manifest picture of how Providence +holds the man who works at an honest profession safe in its hands. But +if Providence lets him fall, there is a reason for it, and nobody has +a right to go around spinning yarns which will bring unhappiness and +even disgrace on somebody else. I am sure this affair will soon show +itself as it really is and not as your fears have led you to imagine. +For--" + +The old gentleman had reached this point in his speech when some one +was heard outside setting down a load. He stood for a moment dumb, +petrified. Valentine looked through the window and saw that it was the +journeyman tinner unloading. + +"It's Joerg," said he, "who is bringing the tin garlands." + +"And you get frightened and think they are bringing, goodness knows +whom. Where is Fritz?" + +"On the church roof," replied Valentine. + +"Good," said Herr Nettenmair. "Tell the tinner to come in when he has +done--." Valentine did so. Until he came Herr Nettenmair continued his +lecture in a somewhat lower tone. Then he turned to where the +workman's respect made itself audible in a quiet clearing of the +throat and asked him if he had time to accompany him to the church +roof of St. George's where his elder son was at work. The tinner +assented. Valentine ventured the suggestion that it would be better to +send for Fritz. The old gentleman said grimly: "I must speak to him up +there. It is about the repairs." He turned again to the tinner and +said with condescending grimness: "I shall take your arm. I am having +a little trouble with my eyes, but it is a matter of no consequence." + +The appearance of the old gentleman on the street was calculated to +create a sensation. He would certainly have been stopped by a hundred +hand-shakers and interrogators if something had not diverted public +attention. A hurried, whispered rumor ran through the streets. Two or +three stood together in little groups awaiting the approach of a third +or fourth, who would give them to understand that he knew what it was +that was responsible for the formation of the ten or twelve similar +groups standing around. Then somebody would whisper it as he passed +rapidly by, beginning always with a: "Haven't you heard?" which was +generally brought forth by a: "What has happened?" Herr Nettenmair did +not need to ask; he knew without being told what had happened, but he +did not dare to appear as if he knew. The journeyman thought Herr +Nettenmair was going to sink down beside him, but the old gentleman +had only struck his foot: "it was of no consequence." The journeyman +questioned a hurrying passer-by. "A slater has been killed in +Brambach." "How?" asked the journeyman. "A rope broke; nothing further +is known." Herr Nettenmair felt that the journeyman was frightened, +and that he was frightened at the thought that it was the son of the +man he was leading who had been killed. He said: "It was probably in +Tambach. They have made a mistake. It is of no consequence." The +journeyman did not know what to think of Herr Nettenmair's +indifference. The latter kept repeating to himself, as a burning flush +came into his cheeks: "Yes, it must be. It must be." He thought of a +way in which one can escape all courts, all investigations. It must +have been a hard way of which he thought, for he clenched his teeth, +as he shook his head and said: "It must be, now it must be." As if in +a dream the journeyman led the old gentleman up the tower steps of St. +George's. The people were right, Herr Nettenmair was certainly a queer +man! + +The old gentleman had said he had to speak to his son on the +church-roof--about some repairs. He had spoken unconsciously in his +diplomatic way. + +It had to be on the church-roof, and it was about some repairs--but +not about those of the church-roof. + +Between heaven and earth is the slater's realm. Between heaven and +earth, high up on the roof of St. George's Fritz Nettenmair was at +work when the old gentleman was led up the steps to him. He had fled +here to escape the eyes of men which he imagined riveted upon him; he +had fled here to escape his own thoughts in a fury of diligence. But +he had brought with him all the demons of hell, and, industriously as +he toiled, the moisture that stood on his brow was not the warm sweat +of honest labor, but the cold sweat born of a guilty conscience. In +agonized haste he hammered and nailed slate together as if he were +nailing fast the universe which otherwise would crumble to pieces in a +quarter of an hour. But his soul was not where he hammered; it was +where ropes were constantly breaking and luckless slaters plunging +headlong to certain death. Now he heard voices, and the sound of one +of them struck like the blow of a hammer on his tortured heart. It was +the only voice which he did not expect to hear. Would he to whom it +belonged ask, "Where is thy brother Abel?" No. He wanted to tell his +son that his brother had met with disaster, that it was a day of +misfortune and that he must not work any more. And if he should ask, +the answer was almost as old as the human race; "Am I my brother's +keeper?" It seemed like a relief to him when he remembered that his +father was blind. For he knew that he could not endure his father's +seeing eyes. He hammered and nailed more and more hurriedly. He would +elude his father if he could, but the roof-truss was small, and the +old gentleman's voice was already at the roof door. He would not +notice him until he was compelled. He heard him say: "This is far +enough. My compliments to your master, and here is something for you. +Drink my health with it." Fritz Nettenmair, listening, heard his +father sit down on the empty board in the dormer window and knew that +his tall figure filled the entire opening. He heard the journeyman's +thanks and his footsteps as they gradually receded. + +"Beautiful weather," said Herr Nettenmair. The son realized that the +father wanted to know if anybody else were near by. There came no +answer, the words died in Fritz Nettenmair's breast, he hammered +always louder and more vehemently. He wished the hour, the day, his +life were at an end. "Fritz!" called the old gentleman. He called +again and yet again. At last Fritz Nettenmair was compelled to answer. +He thought of the call, "Cain, where art thou?" and responded "Here, +father," and hammered on. + +"The slate is solid," said the old man, indifferently; "I can tell by +the sound; it does not split." + +"Yes," replied Fritz with chattering teeth, "it will let no water +through." + +"It is better than it used to be," continued his father, "they have +got deeper into the quarry. You seem to be alone." A "Yes" died on the +son's lips. "The deeper it lies, the stronger the slate is. Is there +no other scaffold near?" + +"None." + +"Good. Come here. Here in front of me!"-- + +"What do you want me to do?" + +"To come here. What has to be said must be said softly." + +Fritz Nettenmair went and stood before his father, shaking all over. +He knew that he was blind and yet he sought to avoid his glance. The +old man struggled for composure but not a line of his withered face +betrayed the struggle, only the length of his silence and his +breathing, which sounded like the tired echo of the creaking swing of +the pendulum on the tower clock near-by, might have suggested it. +These preparations awoke in Fritz Nettenmair a premonition of what was +to come. He strove for defiance. "If he in his distrust has surmised +it, who can prove it? And if he could prove it, he would never tell, +of that I am sure. Otherwise why does he speak so softly? He may say +what he will--I know nothing, it was not I. I have done nothing." The +muscles of his face quivered; an expression of wild defiance played +upon his features. The old gentleman said no word. The sound of +traffic in the streets rose muffled to the heights, violet shadows lay +on all below, about Apollonius' swinging seat trembled the sun's last +ray. + +"Where is your brother?" came at last from between the father's teeth. + +"I do not know. How should I know?" answered the son defiantly. + +"You do not know?" It was only a whisper but every word struck like +thunder in the soul of the son. "I will tell you. Yonder in Brambach +he lies dead. The rope broke with him, and you had made slits in it +with the ax. Our neighbor saw you sneaking into the shed. You +threatened before your wife that you would do it. The whole town knows +it, they are carrying it now to the courts. The first person who comes +up these steps will be the bailiff to lead you before the judge." + +Fritz Nettenmair broke down completely; the scaffolding creaked +beneath him. The old gentleman listened. If the miserable wretch +should fall over the edge of the scaffolding, he would be plunged into +the depths and all would be over. All that had to be, would be! A lark +soared above them scattering its merry _Tirili_ over trees and houses. +Happier mortals heard the song from afar; workmen let their spades +rest, children their whips and tops; with eyes turned heavenward all +sought the soaring, singing bird and hearkened with bated breath. Herr +Nettenmair did not hear the lark; he also held his breath, but he was +listening to what was happening below, not above. It was nothing that +sounded like the song of a lark which he wanted to hear. There was a +rumbling, and a broken cry of anguish. At first he listened full of +hope, then filled with despair. On the boards of the scaffolding +before him he heard the rattle of heavy breathing. Fate, which might +have stretched out a sympathizing, helping hand, had not done so. He +must do it, for it must be done. If he did not, people would point +their finger at the children and say: "It was their father who slew +his brother and died on the gallows" or "in the penitentiary." And +when it was long forgotten the children would only need to appear and +it would be called into life again; people would point with their +fingers and turn from them in horror. The confidence of the world +which one inherits from one's parents is the capital with which one +begins life. Confidence must be placed in man before he deserves it, +in order that he may learn to deserve it. Who would place confidence +in children branded with a father's guilt? The flush on his thin +cheeks burned brighter, his sunken breast panted heavily. +Involuntarily he pointed forward with his arm. Fritz Nettenmair +divined his meaning, tried to pull himself together, and would have +sunk helplessly down again if he had not supported himself with both +hands. Lying thus on his hands and knees before the old gentleman he +cried out in an agony of fear, "What do you want, father? What have +you in mind?" + +"I want to see," said the old gentleman in a shrill whisper, "whether +I must do it or whether you will do what must be done. For it must be +done. Nobody knows anything as yet which could lead to an +investigation before the courts except me, your wife and Valentine. +For myself I can answer, but not for them; they may betray what they +know. If you should fall now from the scaffolding, so that people +could think it was an accident, the great disgrace would be prevented. +The slater who meets his death through accident stands before the +world as an honest man--honest as the soldier who dies on the +battle-field. You are not worthy of such a death, you bankrupt soul. +The hangman should drag you on a cowhide to the gallows, you villain, +who have murdered your brother and have tried to poison the future of +your innocent children and my past life which has been always full of +honor. You have brought down disgrace enough on your house, you shall +not bring more. They shall never say of me, that my son, or of my +grandchildren, that their father, died on the gallows or in the +penitentiary. Say the Lord's Prayer, now, if you can still pray. Then +turn as if you were going back to your work and step with your right +foot over the scaffolding. If I say the shock of your brother's death +made you dizzy, the courts and the town will believe me. That is the +return for a life that has been different from yours. If you will not +do it of your own accord, I shall go with you and you will have me too +on your conscience. People know that I have trouble with my eyes; they +will say that I stumbled and tried to hold on to you and dragged you +down with me. My life is of no value after what I have heard today, +but your children's is just beginning. And no disgrace shall be +attached to them, as truly as my name is Nettenmair. Make up your mind +now what is to be done. I shall count thirty--by the pendulum there." + +Fritz Nettenmair had listened to his father's words with growing +horror. That his deed had not yet become generally known, gave him +hope. Fear of impending death aroused his energies. He took refuge +again in defiance. Vehemently he declared: "I do not know what you +want. I am innocent. I do not know what you mean by an ax." He +expected his father to enter into his protest, even if sceptically at +first. But the old gentleman began calmly to count--"one--two--" + +"Father!" he cried with increasing fear, and his mocking defiance +broke into a wail. "Only listen to me. The courts would listen and you +will not. I will throw myself over because you want me to be dead; I +will die, though I am innocent. But at least listen to me." The old +gentleman gave no answer; he counted on. The miserable man saw that +sentence had been pronounced. His father would not believe him no +matter what he said, and he knew that what the stubborn old man +undertook, he always carried out, unrelentingly. First he decided to +acquiesce in his fate; then the thought came to him that he would +plead again; and then it occurred to him that he could push the old +man aside and make his escape; then that he could hang on to something +in some way when the old man caught hold of him and not fall with him. +Nobody could blame him for this. Through all these thoughts he saw +shudderingly what awaited him if he escaped and the courts should +seize him. It was better to die now. But on the other side of death +something still more terrible awaited him. He looked back and lived +his whole life through in a moment to see if the eternal Judge would +find pardon for him. His thoughts became confused, he was now here, +now there, and had forgotten why. He saw the mist gathering in which +the workman had disappeared and at the same time he looked into the +bright windows of the Red Eagle inn where he heard voices: "There he +comes--now the fun will begin." He stood on the street corners and +counted, and the boards beneath Apollonius would not break, nor the +ropes above him; he stood before his wife and, leaning over little +Annie's dying bedside, said, "Do you know why you are frightened?" and +reached out his hand to give the fatal blow; also he lay as if in a +fever dream before his father and brooded in anxious, terrible fear. +Then it was as if he had come to himself again and unending time had +elapsed between the moment when his father began to count and the +present. Everything must be all right by now, only he must try to +recall whether he had pushed his father aside and thus made his escape +or whether he had held back when his father attempted to drag him down +with him. But there he still lay, and there his father still sat. He +heard him count "nine" and stop. Consciousness forsook him completely. +The old gentleman had in truth ceased to count. His sharp ear heard a +hurrying footstep on the stairs. He seized hold of his son and held +fast as if to be sure that he did not escape him. So cold and lifeless +was the son's body that the father knew it was not necessary to hold +him; he must be unconscious. A new uneasiness awoke in him. If the son +had lost consciousness, he must be hidden from strange eyes, for this +unconsciousness might in some way arouse suspicion. He arose and +turned away from the window in the direction of the newcomer. He was +undecided whether he would stand before the window covering it with +his body or go forward to meet the intruder. + +[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JOSIAH HEARS THE LAW] + +The journeyman whom he had sent to Brambach, for it was he who was +approaching in such haste, coughed as he came up the stairs. He could +keep him back from the scaffolding and most likely prevent him from +seeing that somebody was lying there if he went to meet him; if he +stood in front of the window it was probable that he would not be able +to cover the whole space. The old gentleman felt now for the first +time how his strength had been broken by what he had gone through that +day. The journeyman, however, observed nothing unusual as Herr +Nettenmair, leaning on the rafters of the stairs, barred the way. + +"Shall I tell him to come to you here, Herr Nettenmair?" asked the +journeyman. + +"Tell whom?" Herr Nettenmair had difficulty in retaining his +artificial composure. + +"He will be home by this time," responded the journeyman. The old +gentleman did not repeat his question; he held fast to the rafter on +which he was leaning. "He was already on his way home," continued the +journeyman. "I came with him as far as the gate. Then he sent me to +the tinner's to see if the tin was ready at last. Joerg told me that he +had already brought it to the house and had just come from the roof of +St. George's where he had led you and I thought because you were in +such a hurry to see Herr Apollonius, I would ask you if I must tell +him to come up here." + +Herr Nettenmair ran his hand up and down the rafter as if he had only +taken hold of it to examine it. But, feeling that his hands trembled, +he gave up the examination. As grimly as he could, he replied, "I +shall come down myself." Wait at the landing until I call you. The +journeyman obeyed. Herr Nettenmair drew a deep breath when he knew he +was no longer observed. This breath became a sob. The terrible strain +which he had undergone was beginning to find an end, and the agony of +the father which had been swallowed up till now in passionate fear for +the honor of the house, asserted itself. But he knew that his good +son's life would hang in the same danger as long as the wicked son +lived near him. He had foreseen this contingency and had mapped out a +plan of action. He felt his way back to the window. Fritz Nettenmair +in the meanwhile had recovered consciousness and been able to rise. +The old gentleman bade him come in from the scaffolding and said: +"Tomorrow before sunrise you will no longer be here. See if you can +become another man in America. Here you are in disgrace, and can only +bring disgrace. You will follow me home. I will give you money, you +will make ready for the trip. You have done nothing for your wife and +children for years. I will take care of them. Do you hear?" + +Fritz Nettenmair reeled. He had just looked inevitable death in the +face and now he might live! Live where nobody knew what he done, where +every chance sound would not frighten him with the vision of the +bailiff. + +"Apollonius did not fall," continued the old gentleman, and Fritz +Nettenmair's bright, new heaven sank into nothingness. The old spectre +held him again in its grasp. He loved again the woman from whom he had +just wanted to flee. The old gentleman had awaited his son's assent. +"You will go," he said, when the son remained silent. "You will go. +Tomorrow before day-break you will be on your way to America, or I +shall be on my way to the court. If disgrace must be, it is better to +have disgrace alone and not disgrace combined with murder. Remember, I +have sworn it. Take your choice." + +The old gentleman called to the journeyman to come up to him and lead +him home. + + * * * * * + +The rumor which the old gentleman had heard on his way to St. +George's, had penetrated to the street where the house with the green +shutters stands. One passer-by said to another: "Have you heard the +news? A slater has been killed in Brambach." The young wife sprang +from her chair but sank fainting to the floor. A second time Valentine +forgot his fears for Apollonius in his anxiety about her. He sat near +her as she lay on the floor and held her head in his trembling hands. +At last she made a slight movement. He helped her raise the upper part +of her body and supported her. She brushed her disheveled hair from +her face and looked about her. Her gaze was such a strange tense one +that Valentine's fear increased. She nodded her head and said in a low +voice, "Yes!" Valentine knew that she was saying to herself that she +had really heard the terrible news and had not dreamed it. She sat for +a long time motionless, hearing no word of all that Valentine spoke to +her--not even when he tried to prove that Apollonius could not be +dead, that he was too careful and too good for an accident to happen +to him. He would have given his life to help her, but he knew not how. +So he talked on and on, hoping by ceaseless chatter to help her and +himself over the anguish of the moment. + +At last she found tears. Valentine lived again; he saw that she was +saved. He read it in her face, which, open as she herself, could +conceal nothing. He sat and listened with joyful attention to her +weeping, as if it were a beautiful song she was singing him. He +listened to the pure melody of her voice as she wept, the melody which +she had not lost when, leaning over little Anne's dying bed, she had +uttered the twofold cry of pain and horror. She wept her heart out and +arose without help from Valentine. Then she prepared to go out. There +was something solemn and resolute in her bearing. Valentine perceived +it with astonishment and dread. He asked anxiously if she were going +anywhere. She nodded her head. "But I must not let you," he said. "The +old gentleman made me solemnly vow." + +"I must," she replied. "I must go to the court. I must say that I am +guilty. I must suffer my punishment. Their grandfather will take care +of my children. I would like to tell them to lay him by little Anne's +side, he loved her so. I should like to lie there too, but they won't +allow that. No, I won't say anything to them about that." + +"Won't you stay until the old gentleman comes back? Then I shall be +free of my responsibility." He hoped that Herr Nettenmair would find +some way to dissuade her from her purpose. + +The young wife nodded assent. "I will wait that long," she said. + +Anxiety and hope drove Valentine out of the house to see if Herr +Nettenmair were anywhere in sight. Christine took her hymn-book from +the desk and sat down at the table. + +When Valentine returned he was no longer the same man who had gone +out. He was confused and embarrassed, but in a very different way from +what he had been before. He appeared constantly on the point of doing +or saying something, became suddenly frightened and did and said +something entirely different, and then seemed uncertain whether he +should not be frightened at that too. At first the young wife did not +notice the change in him, but soon she began to watch him curiously +and with increasing apprehension. Gradually she became infected by his +behavior. When he laughed involuntarily she glowed with hope, and when +he put on a long face she clasped her hands convulsively together and +turned pale; sometimes she pressed her hands to her beating heart, +sometimes to her burning, hammering temples. At last Valentine +considered her sufficiently prepared, to abandon the weather topic. +"It is a day," said he, "when men might rise from the dead, and who +knows--but please, for my sake, don't be frightened." She became +frightened, however. She said to herself, "But it isn't possible." And +she was all the more frightened because it was not only possible but +certain. "Look toward the back of the house," sobbed Valentine, +attempting to laugh. She had looked before he told her to do so. She +held fast to the door post as she heard footsteps in the shed. But +even the door post no longer stood firmly, she herself stood no longer +on firm ground; she rocked dizzily between heaven and earth. When she +saw him coming, there was nothing in the world for her except the man +for whom she had suffered weeks of death-agony; everything whirled +about her in a circle, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the trees, +the sky and the green earth; it was as if the whole world would sink +from under her and drag her into its vortex if she did not hold fast +to him. She felt herself fall to the ground, and then she knew nothing +more. + +Apollonius caught her as she fell. He stood and held in his arms the +beautiful woman whom he loved, who loved him. She was pale and seemed +dead. He did not carry her into the room, he did not let her fall to +the ground, he did nothing to revive her. He stood bewildered; he did +not know what had happened to him, he had to collect himself. +Valentine had not yet spoken with him, he had only heard from the +journeyman who was hastening to St. George's that Apollonius was +following him and would soon be there. Apollonius had been detained at +the gate for a moment by the nail-smith. He had then made haste to +obey his father's command which he, however, found surprising, as he +could discover no reason for it. He had heard of the slater's death in +Tambach; but he did not know that rumor had confused the names of the +two places, and that it was possible for anybody to believe that the +accident had occurred to him. Absolutely unprepared for that which was +to happen in the next moment, he came through the shed. He had meant +to go straight to his father in his room, when, seeing Christiane fall +fainting to the ground, he hastened toward her. Now he held her in his +arms. Slowly her deep blue eyes opened. She looked at him and +recognized him. She did not know how she had come into his arms, she +did not know that she lay there, she knew only that he lived. She wept +and laughed at the same time, and put both arms around him to be sure +that he was there. She asked in yearning, anxious eagerness: "Is it +you? Are you really here? Are you still alive? You didn't fall? I +didn't kill you? You are you, and I am I? But he--he may come." She +gazed about wildly. "He will kill you. He will not rest till he has +killed you." She clasped him to her as if she wanted to cover him with +her body from the enemy, then she forgot all fears in the certainty +that he still lived, and she laughed and wept and asked him again if +it were really he, and if he were alive. But she must warn him. She +must tell him everything that the other had done--and what he had +threatened to do to him. She must do it quickly; any minute he might +come. Warning, sweet unconscious love-words, weeping, laughter, +blessed gladness, fear, anguish over lost happiness, bride-like +embarrassment, forgetfulness of the world in the one moment which was +life to her--all this trembled through each quivering word she +uttered. "He lied to you and to me. He told me that you jeered at me +and that you had offered my flower to the highest bidder. You know, at +the Whitsun feast, the little blue-bell that I laid there. And you +sent it to him. I saw it. I did not know why I was sorry for you. Then +he told me during the dance that you had laughed at me. You went away, +and he told me you made fun of me in your letters. That hurt me. You +don't know how it hurt, even though I did not know why. Father wanted +me to marry him. And when you came I was afraid of you, but I was +still sorry for you and I loved you though I did not know it. It was +he who first told me so. Then I avoided you--I didn't want to become a +bad woman--and I still don't want to. Then he compelled me to lie. And +he made threats of what he would do to you. He would see to it that +you fell and were killed. It was only a joke, he said, but if I told +you, then he would do it in earnest. Since then I have not slept a +night, I have sat up in my bed and been full of deadly fear. I saw you +in danger and could not tell you and could not help you. And he made +slits in the rope with the ax the night before you went to Brambach. +Valentine told me that our neighbor had seen him creeping into the +shed. I thought you were dead, and I wanted to die too. For I was the +cause of your death, when I would die a thousand times to save you. +And now you are alive and I cannot grasp it. Everything is just as it +was, the trees, the shed, the sky, and you are not dead. And I wanted +to die because you were dead. And now you are alive, and I don't know +whether it is true or whether I am dreaming. Is it true? Tell me, is +it true? I will believe anything you say. And if you tell me that I +must die, I will die. But he may be coming! Perhaps he has been +listening! Tell Valentine to go to the court and have him taken away, +so that he can do you no more harm." + +Thus the feverish woman went on raving, laughing and weeping in his +arms. Forgetting everything, like a child playing on the edge of an +abyss of which it knows nothing, she unconsciously called into life a +danger more deadly than the one which had just been averted, more +threatening than the one from which she wanted to guard the man with +her body. She did not realize what her passionate movements, the +sweetness of her reckless abandon, her caresses, her warm, throbbing +embraces must arouse in the man who loved her; that she was doing +everything that could make the man whose uprightness and honor she +trusted so blindly, forget uprightness and honor in the tumult of his +blood. She had no idea what a conflict she was kindling in him, and +how hard, if not impossible she was making the victory. Now he knew +that the woman in his arms was his, that his brother had defrauded him +of her and her of him. Now he knew it, while the woman in his arms +revealed to him the greatness of the happiness of which his brother +had robbed him. The brother had stolen her and had ill-treated her; +and for all that he had suffered and done for his brother's sake, he +now persecuted him and sought his life. Did the woman belong to him +who had stolen and ill-treated her, to him whom she hated--or to him +from whom she had been infamously stolen, who loved her and whom she +loved? These were not clearly defined thoughts, but countless detached +sensations which, borne along in a stream of deep, wild feeling, +rushed through his veins and made taut the muscles in his arms--to +clasp to his heart that which was his! But a vague, dark fear rose +counter to this current and stiffened his muscles in a convulsive +cramp--the feeling that he wanted to do something and did not know +what it was or where it might lead him, a far-off recollection that he +had made a vow and would break it if he now let himself be carried +away. He struggled for a long time beneath the flow of intoxicating +sounds before he realized that he was struggling and that the thing +for which he struggled was clearness, the fundamental requirement of +his nature. At last this clearness came to him and said: "The vow that +you have made is to uphold the honor of your house, and what you want +to do now will destroy it forever." He was the man, and must answer +for himself and for her. The treachery of which he with a touch, with +a glance, might be guilty toward this woman whose trust in him was so +unbounded, stood before him in all its blackness. There still stood, +protectingly, a holy reserve between him and her, which a single +touch, a single glance might dispel forever. He looked anxiously about +for a helper. If only Valentine would come! Then he would have to let +her go from his arms. Valentine did not come. But shame at his +weakness that sought help from without, became his helper. He gently +laid the defenseless woman down. Not until he felt the soft limbs slip +from his grasp did he lose her. He had to turn away and could not +choke back a loud sob. Just then the youngest boy peeped curiously +into the yard. He hastened to him, took him in his arms, pressed him +to his heart and placed him between him and her. It was strange; the +pressure with which he clasped the child to his heart relieved his +wild yearning and his tense muscles relaxed. In the child he had +clasped her to his heart in the only way he dared hold her close to +him. + +She saw him place the child between him and her and understood him. A +burning flush rose to the roots of her brown, unruly locks. She knew +now for the first time that she had lain in his arms, had embraced +him, had talked to him as only unforbidden love may talk. She saw now +for the first time the abyssmal danger in which she had placed him and +herself. She raised herself up on her knees, as if she wanted to +beseech him not to despise her. Then it occurred to her that her +husband might have been listening and might still carry out his +threat. Through her joy over his escape she might still be his +destruction. He saw all this and suffered with her. He had gained the +conflict with himself not to show her what was going on within him, +but he had not yet fought the inward struggle to its end. He leaned +toward her and said "Above us and your husband is God. Go in now, +sister, my dear, good sister." She dared not look up but through her +closed lids she saw the benevolence, the deep, inexhaustible +kindliness, the indelible respect for man which shone in his eyes and +played about his gentle mouth. And as he was her conscious and +unconscious standard, so now she knew that she was not bad, could not +become so, he would carry her in his strong arms, protected, as a +mother carries her child. Herr Nettenmair came from the shed toward +them accompanied by the journey-man. Fritz Nettenmair who followed +them saw Apollonius lead Christiane to the house door. + +When Herr Nettenmair came home, nothing was to be read in his crusty +face of all that he had suffered and planned that day. The young wife +and Valentine had to listen to a sermon on unfounded imaginings, for +the story had proved to be as it was, not as Valentine had imagined it +in his fear. He spoke of Fritz Nettenmair's trip as one which his son +had had in contemplation for a long time but to which he had not +consented until today. Apollonius was told to bring the account books +into the old gentleman's room at once. + +He had to read them aloud to the old gentleman; a curiously +purposeless task, for neither of them had his mind on the figures. And +moreover the old gentleman behaved as if he knew all about everything +already. Valentine came and received various instructions relative to +the departure of the elder son. An hour later he returned, having +performed his duties. He told how Fritz Nettenmair was looking forward +to his new life in America. They would be astonished when they saw him +again. He could hardly await the time. The old gentleman's courage +revived. Grimly he commanded Apollonius to go to bed; the work they +had begun could be continued another time. + +Disquieted, like a tortured spirit, now wringing his hands, now +clenching his fists, Fritz Nettenmair wandered from the shed to the +house and from the house again to the shed. With each round he made, +his soul rose up in the wildest defiance and sank again into +despairing helplessness. His heart cried out for a word of love. His +arms stretched out convulsively to press something to his heart which +was his, that he might know he was not lost. For nobody is lost who +has somebody in the world to love. Endowed of a sudden with renewed +strength, he hastened through the house door into the room where his +children lay. A night-light protected by a shade shone brightly enough +for the father to see his children. He sank on his knees before the +nearest little bed. A long forgotten sound rose to his lips and he +whispered it, yearningly as never before. "Fritz!" He only wanted to +clasp his children to his heart once, to see their love and then to +go; to go and become another man, a better one, a happier one. The +little fellow awakened: he thought his mother had called. Smilingly he +opened his eyes and--shivered with fright. He feared the man standing +at his bedside; one he knew so well, and yet more strange than a +stranger to him. It was the man who had given him such angry glances, +the man from whom his mother had locked him in his room that he might +not see what the man did to her. But he had got up trembling and +listened at the door; and clenched his little fists in powerless rage. + +"Fritz," said the father anxiously, "I am going away and I shall not +come back. But I will send you beautiful apples and picture-books, and +think of you a thousand times a minute." + +"I don't want them," replied the boy, frightened but defiant. "Uncle +'Lonius gives me apples. I don't want yours." + +"Don't you love me either?" asked the father in a breaking voice at +the second little bed. George took flight into his brother's bed. +There the children clung to each other in fright. Scorn and repugnance +were reflected in George's face. "I love mother and I love Uncle +'Lonius, but I don't like you. Let me alone; I'll tell Uncle 'Lonius." + +Fritz Nettenmair laughed in wild mockery, and at the same time sobbed +in impotent pain. The children were no longer his. He was no longer +their father. Yet they were his children! And he had to go away and +leave them; and those whom he hated, who had ruined everything for +him, would be happy through his going. He became even more miserable +than he had already been. He saw his wife lying before him in her +beauty, and the desire entered his mind to destroy this beauty. But +his recollection of the moment when he lay stretched before his +father, prepared for death, was mightier than the desire and banished +it. The picture of that moment lived strong within him, only there was +an exchange of persons. He painted it with more and more vivid colors. +And now it was a fierce joy that drove him again from the house to the +shed and from the shed to the house. His arms moved in violent +gesticulation. The moon rose. The house with the green shutters lay +there so peaceful in its shimmer. No passer-by would have divined the +unrest concealed behind its walls; none would have suspected the +thought that hell was brewing there in a ruined vessel. + + * * * * * + Apollonius was exhausted from watching and struggling. He needed +rest. The next morning he had to complete the garlanding of the +tower-roof, and then take down his swinging-seat, block and pulley, +iron ring and ladder. His step must be firm, his eye clear. For the +single hour that remained before work was to begin, he did not wish to +undress and go to bed. He sat down in his wooden chair. There sleep +came to him sooner than he expected--but it was not the kind of sleep +he needed; it was an uninterrupted disturbing dream. Christiane lay in +his arms as she had lain the day before; he struggled again, but this +time he did not conquer, he clasped her to him. When he opened his +eyes, it was day and time to go to work. He was in a more excited +state of mind than when he had left his father. He hoped that the +visions of his dream which had intensified his old desires and his +pangs of conscience concerning them would retreat before the fresh +morning air and the sobering effect of a cold water rub. But this did +not happen; they stayed with him and would not let go of him, not even +during his work. The breath of her warm lips lingered on his cheek, he +felt himself always in her throbbing embrace; passionate upbraidings +of his brother rose again and again in his heart. He did not know +himself any longer. In addition to the reproaches he made himself for +his evil thoughts, came dissatisfaction because he knew he was not +putting his whole mind on his work. Usually he worked his cheerful, +industrious self into each task he performed, and it was bound to be +good and lasting. But today it seemed to him that he was hammering +unrighteous thoughts into his work, that he was forging out of them an +evil charm, and that the result could not be good nor enduring. + +The slater must work thoughtfully. The man who undertakes repairs today +must rely upon the faithfulness of him who stood decades, perhaps +centuries ago where he stands now. The lack of conscientiousness that +rivets a roof-hook slovenly today may be the cause of a good man's death +fifty years hence when he hangs his ladder on that hook. Behind the +struggle of his conscience against the visions of his sinful dream +lurked, like a dark cloud, the fear that in his distraction he might be +forging a future disaster for somebody. + +His work was done. The new tin decoration gleamed in the sun around +the dark surface of the slate roof. Ring, tackle, swinging-seat and +ladder had been removed; the workmen who had assisted at the removal +had gone again. Apollonius had taken down the "flying" scaffold and +the poles on which it rested; he stood alone on the narrow board which +formed the path from the cross-beam to the roof-door. He stood +thinking. He felt as if he had forgotten to drive in nails somewhere. +He looked in the slate and nail boxes of his swinging-seat which hung +near him on a beam. The sound of a mysterious hurrying step came to +his ears from the tower stairs. He paid no attention to it, for just +then he found a sheet of lead lying among his things. He had brought +with him the exact number of sheets that he needed. So this was +evidently one that he had forgotten; in his distracted state of mind +he had overlooked one of the riveting points. From the door he looked +up and down the surface of the roof. If the mistake had happened on +this side of the tower he could perhaps rectify it without his seat. +Perhaps the ladder would suffice to reach the required point. And so +it proved to be. About six feet above him, near the roof-hook he had +taken out a slate and had neglected to replace it with a sheet of lead +and to fasten the garland to it. In the meantime the mysterious steps +were coming ever nearer; the man in such haste had now reached the end +of the stone stairs and was climbing the ladder to the roof. The clock +below rumbled. It was almost two. Apollonius had not yet had dinner, +but when there was a flaw of any kind in his work he could not rest +until he had rectified it. He had gone back to fetch the ladder. It +lay on the beam near the swinging-seat. As he stooped to get it he +felt himself seized and pushed with wild violence toward the door. +Instinctively he caught hold of the lower edge of a beam with his +right hand while with his left he sought in vain for support. This +movement brought him face to face with his assailant. Horrified he saw +the distorted, wild features of his brother. + +"You shall have her all to yourself, or down you go with me." + +"Away!" cried Apollonius. In his angry pain all his reproaches against +his brother mounted into his face. Exerting all his strength he pushed +him back with his free hand. + +"So you show your true face, at last?" mocked Fritz Nettenmair in +still greater rage. "You have dislodged me from every place that I +possessed; now it is my turn. You shall have me on your conscience, +you fluff-picker. Throw me over, or down you go with me!" + +Apollonius saw no deliverance. The hand with which he held desperately +to the sharp edge of the beam was well-nigh exhausted. With all his +strength he would have to seize his brother by the arms, turn him +round and push him over if he did not want to be dragged down with +him. And yet he cried: "I will not!" + +"Very well," groaned Fritz. "You want to put the blame of this too on +me; you want to make me do this too. Your sanctimoniousness shall now +have an end." Apollonius would have sought a new hold, but he knew +that his brother would take advantage of the instant when he let go +his present one. Fritz was already just on the point of making a +violent dash at him. Apollonius' hand was slipping from the edge of +the beam. He would be lost if he did not find some new hold. He could +perhaps make a jump and catch the beam with both hands; but then his +brother, by the force of his own onset, would certainly fall through +the door. A vision of his honest, proud, old father, of the young wife +and her children, rose before him, and he remembered the vow that he +had made to himself; he was their only support--he must live. One +spring and he had caught the beam in his arms; at the same moment his +brother rushed headlong past him. The weights below rattled, and the +clock struck two. The jackdaws, disturbed in their rest by the +struggle, swooped wildly down to the roof-door and fluttered about in +a croaking cloud. There was the sound of a heavy body striking on the +street pavement far below. A cry went up from all sides. Pale living +faces looked on a paler dead one which lay all bloody on the pavement. +Ghastly haste, screams, a clasping of hands, a running hither and +thither, spread like a whirlwind from the church-yard to the farthest +corner of the town. But the clouds high above in the sky heeded it not +and continued on their vast course unmoved. They see so much +self-created misery below them that a single instance cannot touch +them. + +Everything in the world has its use, if not in itself or for him who +does it or who has it, then at least for others. So that which had +brought disgrace on the house of Nettenmair was now a guard against +greater disgrace. Fritz Nettenmair's love of drink was known +everywhere; everybody had seen him drunk; it was no wonder that all +who learned of his death attributed it to this vice. It was well that +nobody outside of the Nettenmair household knew that he had intended +to go to America; it was also well that, to avoid attracting attention +upon his return, he had worn his ordinary workman's clothes in the +mail coach with only his overcoat thrown over them. The coat had got +lost on the way and those who had a right to its restitution naturally +put in no claim for it. It did not occur to anybody to attach much +importance to this scarcely-noticed incident, as it was not necessary +to piece a story together when a complete one was already at hand. +Moreover, before the deed he had gone to his usual place of +recreation, had drunk heavily, and, after boasting in his foolhardy +way that he would now perform his master-piece, had left the tavern +for St. George's much intoxicated. All these outward circumstances +served to confirm the generally accepted opinion. By a fortunate +chance there had been no workmen at St. George's; of the struggle that +had taken place before the fall nobody knew anything except Apollonius +and the jackdaws who lived there. As soon as the inspector learned of +Fritz's death he looked up Apollonius, whom he found sitting exhausted +at the foot of the tower, and told him the story that was going the +rounds. It entered nobody's head to question Apollonius. They all told +him about it instead of letting him tell. He therefore kept silence +about that which nobody questioned. The courts found no reason to make +an investigation, and the danger which had menaced the honor of the +family passed quietly over. + +One evening a black bier was seen before the house with the green +shutters. At a distance stood groups of women and children, now +whispering softly to one another, now peering eagerly in one direction +with a curiosity that at times became impatient. Here and there a long +black coat and a three-cornered hat came down the street in solemn +gloom and vanished behind the bier into the house. At last the door +opened. The coffin stood on the bier, the pall covered both; gently, +in rhythmical motion, there appeared a black moving mass; now they +were in their places; the pall-bearers adjusted their hats. The +procession moved, rippling, wavering. On top gleamed bright the hammer +which Valentine had polished, and told that what they were now +surrendering to earth had worked honestly between heaven and earth. +The sweet tears of the old women washed away whatever stains clung to +his memory. Inwardly they made a vow that none who belonged to them +should ever become a slater. The slater's calling is a dangerous one, +between heaven and earth; the man who lay beneath the black pall, +between the boards, silent as he was, preached that with poignant +eloquence. They turned their eyes toward the old gentleman who was led +by two mourners. He seemed to embody the very spirit of honest burial. +But when their gaze fell upon Apollonius they forgot the mildness with +which they had just judged; they unburied the dead man from the cool +funeral flowers that covered his human nakedness. The hammer lying +above him would have been covered with the dark rust of shame had it +not been for Apollonius. Then they looked at the young wife, and, +according to the way of their sex, the mourners became match-makers. +And indeed they had right on their side; a bonnier couple or one +better suited could scarce have been found in the whole town. The +procession passed by the Red Eagle, where a ball was in progress at +which Fritz Nettenmair was missing--surely a dull affair! The +procession went the same way that Fritz Nettenmair had gone after he +had talked with the workman. He had then seen in spirit his brother +lying beneath the black fluttering pall and himself following as a +mourner. The procession went on, still keeping to the streets that +Fritz Nettenmair had trodden on that occasion. Outside the town-gate +the willows melted again into mist or the mist into willows. Here and +there mist-men carried mist-coffins near the real one. At the +cross-ways, where Fritz Nettenmair had seen the journeyman disappear +in the mist, he himself disappeared. In Tambach they were bearing the +journeyman to burial. The two must have had much to say to each other. +Fritz Nettenmair could have told the workman how carefully he had +carried out the thought sown by him, even to the cutting of the rope; +and the workman could have told his former master how he became a +victim to the cuts thus made. The pastor who preached the sermon over +Fritz Nettenmair's grave, who was buried with all the honors due to +his standing or to be bought with money, did not know what an +awe-inspiring theme had eluded him. + +The last word of the funeral sermon had died away, the last spadeful +of earth had fallen on the coffin, the mourners had gone home; it +became night, and again day, and again night, and again and again day +and night; other things drove Fritz Nettenmair's unfortunate death +from the minds of the townsmen--and still other things these things. A +stone was erected over his grave, and his honest death was vouched for +by a sculptor and impressed with chisel-strokes upon forgetful +posterity. One might think that the dark cloud that had hovered over +the house with the green shutters would have burst in the storm that +dashed the older son from the tower-roof of St. George's to the +pavement below, and that life would now be bright there, as its outer +aspect promised. One might indeed think so if one saw only the young +widow and her children. The three strong young beings raised their +drooping heads as soon as the burden which had oppressed them was +lifted. The young widow did not look as if she had been a wife, still +less an unhappy wife; from day to day she seemed more like a bridal +maiden or a maidenly bride. And why should she not? Did she not know +that he loved her? Did she not love him? Did not the teasing words of +others, even if she did not think of it herself, remind her that her +love was no longer a forbidden one? The marriage was so natural, so +necessary according to traditional ideas that those who were too old +or too dignified to jest took it as a matter of course without +mentioning it, and did not mention it merely because they took it as a +matter of course. + +In his diplomatic fashion the old gentleman made various intimations +that if he had remained at the head of things all would have happened +differently. What Apollonius had spoiled, he would now carry out to +the best possible end. Necessity had placed him at the helm again, and +he would remain there. He forgot that he had twice been forced to the +acknowledgment that when one becomes old, control in the business is +only possible when one need not see through strange eyes. He was to +experience this now for a third time. Since the night before his older +son met a violent death, Herr Nettenmair had resumed his position as +manager of the business. Apollonius reported to him daily concerning +the progress of current work and received orders. When a piece of work +has once been fairly started it can go on by itself and requires from +the superintendent nothing but inspection and an occasional stimulus. +If, however, something new is to be undertaken, a groove must be +sought in which it can run, and the groove must be the shortest, +surest, and most profitable. Clear-seeing eyes are needed, with a +quick power to grasp. That Apollonius possessed these the old +gentleman perceived on the first occasion. It pertained to a +particularly difficult piece of work. Apollonius put it before him +with such clearness that the old gentleman believed he saw it with his +bodily eyes. It was a case, however, in which his experience failed +him. To Apollonius it presented no difficulties. He pointed out three +or four different ways in which it could be done and reduced the old +gentleman to such a state of confusion that he could scarcely conceal +it. A curious, wild train of contradictory sensations rushed through +his brain--joy and pride in his son, then pain that he was nothing and +never could be any more, then shame and wrath that his son knew this +and triumphed over him; the desire to curb him and show him that he +still was lord and master. But even if he wanted to carry his point, +would his son obey? There was no way to preserve even the appearance +of leadership save through his diplomatic art. In a grim voice he gave +commands which were utterly unnecessary, because they pertained to +things which would have been done as a matter of course without +command. In new matters he angrily disapproved of all suggestions made +by Apollonius; but the commands which he finally gave were always in +general accordance with that which Apollonius had suggested as most +expedient. Afterward he made excuses to himself and found something +that would have been much better than Apollonius' suggestion. He was +convinced that if he only had his eyesight everything would be +different. Sometimes he gave himself up unreservedly to his joy and +pride in his son's efficiency; but this feeling was soon replaced by +the wrathful necessity to exert his diplomatic art. Apollonius +realized the restraint that he was imposing upon his father quite as +little as he did his father's pride in him. He was glad that he had +nothing more to conceal from the old gentleman concerning the +business, and that obedience to him did not interfere with the +fulfilment of his vow. The sky above the house with the green shutters +took on a brighter, bluer hue. But the spirit of the house still +wandered about wringing its hands. When the clock struck two in the +morning it stood in the arbor before the door to Apollonius' room and +raised its pallid arms pleadingly toward heaven. + +The business increased under Apollonius' diligent hand; the orders +were twice as many as they had formerly been. The postman brought +great piles of letters into the house. Apollonius accepted an +advantageous offer made by the owner and leased the slate quarry. He +understood the management of the works from his stay in Cologne, and +he employed a former acquaintance from that city whom he knew to be an +expert in the business and reliable in his dealings. His choice was a +good one; the man was energetic, but in spite of this fact much +additional work fell on Apollonius. The councilman shook his head +sometimes doubtfully, fearing that Apollonius had over-estimated his +strength. It did not strike the young widow how seldom Apollonius came +into the living-room. The children, whom he often called to him to +perform little services whereby they might learn, kept up the +intercourse. They could testify that Apollonius had very little time. +She went to his room frequently, but always when he was not at home. +She adorned the doors and walls with everything she had which she knew +he loved, and she spent many hours there at work. She noticed the +pallor of his face, which seemed to become greater each time she saw +him. As she was but a mirror of his feelings, his pallor reflected +itself in her. She would have liked to cheer him up, but she did not +seek to be near him; her presence seemed to have the opposite effect +upon him from what she desired. He was always friendly and full of +chivalrous respect toward her. This at least comforted her to a +certain extent. She had endowed him with all the virtues that she +knew; among these she had not forgotten truthfulness, the first of +them all to her. Therefore she knew that he would not compel himself +to show respect to her if he did not feel it. He made merry sometimes, +especially when he saw her eyes fixed anxiously upon his pale face, +but she noticed that her society did not make him healthier or more +cheerful. She would have liked to ask him what was the matter. When he +stood before her she did not dare. When she was alone she asked him. +Many nights through she thought of ways to entice the confession from +him and talked with him. Surely if he had heard her weep, had heard +how sweetly and tenderly she cajoled and pleaded, had heard the dear +names she gave him, he would have told her what ailed him. Her whole +life was between heart and mouth; and when her heart whispered in her +ear what she had said, she flushed rosily and hid her blushes deep +beneath the covers from herself and the listening night. + +She confided her fears to the old inspector. "Is it a wonder?" he +asked, "when a person sits all day long for a year and a half over his +business and all night long over books and letters? And then all the +anxiety he had about his--God forgive him, he is dead and one should +not speak ill of the dead--about his brother; and then the fright, +which made me ill for three days, over--and when his widow is there +too--I never did like him much, least of all toward the end. But youth +is so! I warned him a hundred times, the brave fellow! And now the +confounded quarry! Such conscientiousness! He is one who would never +consider his own health." The councilman gave the young widow a long +lecture which was not in the least meant for her. Then they agreed +that Apollonius ought to have a doctor whether he wanted him or not; +and the councilman immediately went to the best physician in town. The +physician promised to do all that was possible. He called on +Apollonius, who put up with him because those whom he loved desired +it. The doctor felt his pulse, came again and again, prescribed and +re-prescribed; Apollonius became ever paler and gloomier. At last the +good man declared that here was a malady against which all art was +useless. So deep-seated was the trouble that no remedy of his could +reach it. + +Apollonius knew that no physician could cure his illness. The +councilman had only partly divined the cause. Overwork had merely +watered the soil for the parasite growth which was gnawing at +Apollonius' inmost being. The first symptoms seemed of a physical +nature. As his brother had plunged to death before him, the clock +below had struck the hour of two. Since then every sound of a bell +frightened him. What aroused more serious apprehension was an attack +of dizziness. All the horrors of that day did not obliterate the +feeling of uneasiness which had taken possession of him when he +discovered the inexactitude in his work. Every time a bell sounded it +seemed to him a warning. Early the next morning he went to the +roof-door with his ladder in his hand. He had already noticed how +insecure his step was as he climbed the tower stairs; now, when +through the open door the distant mountains began to nod so curiously +to him and the firm tower to rock beneath him, he became frightened. +That was dizziness, the slater's worst, most malicious enemy when it +takes sudden hold of him on a swaying ladder between heaven and earth. +In vain Apollonius strove to overcome it; he had to give up his +purpose for the day. No way had ever been so hard for Apollonius as +the tower stairs down from St. George's. What would happen? How could +he fulfil his vow if this dizziness did not leave him? On the same day +he had some work to do on the tower of St. Nicholas. There he had to +venture into more dangerous places than at St. George's; the bells +rang at the most critical instant; he felt no trace of dizziness. +Joyfully he hastened back to St. George's, but again the ladder +trembled under his feet, the mountains nodded, the tower rocked. He +was on the lowest rung of the ladder when the clock began to strike +the hour. The sound penetrated every nerve of his body; he had to hold +fast to the railing until the last echo had died away. He made attempt +after attempt, and climbed all ladders and towers with his old +sureness of foot; only at St. George's did dizziness return. There he +had hammered his sinful thoughts into his work; he had felt at the +time that he was forging an evil charm, a coming disaster. Day and +night the picture followed him of the place where he had forgotten to +insert the sheet of lead and to rivet the decoration. The flaw was +like an evil spot, a spot where a crime had been begun or completed +and where no grass grows, no shadow falls; like an open wound which +does not heal until it has been avenged, like an empty grave which +does not close until it has received its denizen. If only the gap were +closed the charm would lose its potency. He might authorize a workman +to do the job, but the thought of leaving his neglected work to +another brought a flush of shame to his pale cheeks. The sheet of lead +nailed by another would be certain to fall; the gap cried out for him, +and he alone could close it. Or the destruction which he had forged +there would seize hold of the workman, dizziness would overtake him +and he would plunge into the depths. + +Since his brother's wife had lain in his arms he had lived a double +life. During the day he worked outside and at night he sat in his room +among his books, all that went on mechanically; in spite of his +efforts his heart was only half in his work; the other half lived its +own life, hovering with the jackdaws about the flaw in the tower-roof +and brooding over the coming disaster which he had forged that +morning. His soul fought ever anew the battle with his brother. Was it +his brother's fall that he had forged? Perhaps it would have been +possible to save the madman. Anxiously he sought for possibilities, +and shrank with horror from the thought that he might find one. All +his good qualities became overwrought--his loyalty, his +conscientiousness, his scrupulousness. He did not try to put his +shortcomings upon his brother; with loving hand he took his brother's +guilt and placed it on his own shoulders. It became ever clearer in +his mind that he might have saved his brother. He could have found +some way if his heart and head had not been full of wild, forbidden +desires, if he had not been full of wrath against the madman instead +of feeling pity for him. With his evil thoughts he had forged disaster +for his brother. Without those thoughts his work would have been +finished and his brother would not have found him in the tower, would +have come too late and would have repented of his resolve. Or, if he +had still been there, he was the stronger, cooler headed, and he +should have found a way to prevent the calamity. + +It was natural that people should chaff him about the marriage that +seemed a necessity to them. He had to confess to himself that they +were right and that his desires were no longer forbidden ones. But the +fact that they had once been so cast its shadow over the blameless +present. His love seemed sullied to him. Reason and love might say +what they would, he felt that there would be guilt in the marriage. +And so it came that Christiane's presence brought him no cheer. There +were moments when his gloom struck him as a sort of illness and he +hoped that it would pass over. But even then he drew no nearer to +Christiane, much as his heart yearned for her. He continued the same +as on that day when he placed the child between him and her. She +remained pure and holy to him. + +To the old gentleman with his external sense of honor, a life like +Apollonius' and Christiane's, without the consecration of the church, +was a grave offense. Only under the name of her husband could +Apollonius, without disgrace, be the protector and supporter of the +beautiful young widow and her children. According to his way he +pronounced the ultimatum. He fixed the time for the wedding. The +indispensable half-year of mourning was over; in a week the betrothal +should be announced, three weeks later the marriage should take place. + +Life in the house with the green shutters grew more and more sultry. +The new clouds which had gathered invisibly about it threatened a +storm severer than that in which the old ones had been dispelled. The +young widow had no choice but to play the part of the affianced; she +was rallied about her wedding garment, and, adjusting herself to the +situation, she began preparations. Tears fell upon her work, and joy +had an ever smaller and smaller part in it. She saw the condition of +the man she loved become hourly worse; and she could not fail to know +that the approaching marriage was to blame. The paler and more fragile +he became, the gentler and more full of respect was his conduct toward +her. There was something in it that seemed like pitying pain and an +unexpressed prayer for forgiveness of a wrong, an insult of which he +felt himself guilty toward her. + +Apollonius was compelled to come to a decision. He could not. The +yawning discord in his soul became ever greater. If he resolved to +renounce happiness, the phantom of guilt disappeared and happiness +stretched out alluring arms toward him. She loved him and had always +loved him, only him; all the world approved, in fact demanded it of +him. He saw her before she had been stolen from him, how she had laid +the little blue-bell down for him, all rosy beneath the brown curling +locks which struggled to be free; then, pale under the ill-treatment +of the brother who had stolen her from him, pale for him; then +trembling before his brother's threats, trembling for him; then +laughing, weeping, full of anguish and full of happiness in his arms. +His brother's fall had made this woman free. He had known that when he +let his brother fall. If he should wed his brother's wife, who had +become free through the fall, he would make himself guilty of this +fall. If he received the reward of the deed, the deed was also his. If +he took her, the feeling would never leave him; he would be unhappy +and would make her unhappy with him. For her sake and for his he must +refrain. When he came to this decision, he realized how unsubstantial +his conclusions were, viewed with the clear eye of the spirit; and +yet, if he tried to reach out for happiness, the dark feeling of guilt +hovered over him like an icy frost about a flower, and his soul could +do nothing against its annihilating power. And the bells of St. +George's continued to ring their warning. What made Apollonius' +agitation even more feverish was the knowledge that the flaw in his +work had not been corrected. It rained incessantly, the gap yawned +wide, the boarding greedily drank in the water, the wood was bound to +rot. If the winter cold increased, the water would freeze in the wood +and injure the slate. The town, which trusted to his sense of duty, +would suffer harm through him. Each night the stroke of two awakened +him from sleep. Shadows mingled with his fever-dreams. The reproaches +of his inward and outward yearning for purity blended. The open wound +cried aloud for justice, the open grave for him who would close it. +And it was he whom the bells called to justice, he who must close the +grave before the disaster he had forged should descend upon an +innocent head. He must climb to the tower and correct the flaw. But +when he got there, it struck two, dizziness seized hold of him and +dragged him down after his brother. From day to day, from hour to +hour, the beautiful young widow saw him grow paler and became pale +with him. Only the old gentleman in his blindness did not see the +cloud which was lowering so threateningly. The air was very sultry in +the house with the green shutters. No one who looks at the little +house now would suspect how sultry it once was there. + +It was on the night before the appointed betrothal day. Snow had +fallen, and then great cold had suddenly set in. For several nights +the so-called St. Elmo's fire had been seen darting tongues of flame +from the tops of the towers to the gleaming stars of heaven. In spite +of the dry cold, the inhabitants of the district felt a curious +heaviness in their limbs. There was no air stirring. The people looked +at one another as if each were asking the other if he too felt the +same uneasiness. Odd prophecies of war, sickness and famine went from +mouth to mouth. The more intelligent smiled, but were themselves +unable to refrain from clothing their inward gloom in corresponding +pictures of some impending disaster. All day long dark clouds, of +different form and color from what the wintry sky is accustomed to +display, had been gathering. Their blackness would have been in +unbearably glaring contrast to the snow which covered mountains and +valley and hung like candied sugar on the leafless boughs, if their +dark reflection had not somewhat deadened the dazzling splendor. Here +and there the firm outline of the cloud-castles softened and seemed to +hang down over earth like drooping breasts. These bore more nearly the +aspect of ordinary snow-clouds, and their dull reddish gray served to +unite the leaden blackness of the higher plane with earth's drab +whiteness and dingy appearance. The whole mass hung motionless over +the town. The blackness increased. Two hours after midday it was +already night in the streets. Dwellers on the ground floor drew down +their blinds; in the windows of the upper stories appeared one light +after another. In the public squares of the town, where a greater +portion of the sky could be seen, groups of people stood, looking now +upward into the heavens, now into the long, doubtful faces around +them. They told of the ravens that had come in great flocks into the +suburbs, they pointed to the deep, restless, uneven fluttering of the +jackdaws around St. George's and St. Nicholas', they spoke of +earthquakes, of land-slides and even of the Judgment Day. The more +courageous thought it was only a violent thunder-storm. But even that +seemed serious enough. The river and the so-called fire-pond, the +waters of which could, at a moment's notice, be let into any part of +the town by means of subterranean channels, were both frozen. Some +hoped the danger would pass by. But each time they looked up at the +sky they saw that the dark cloud-mass had not changed its position. +Two hours after midday it had stood there; toward midnight it still +stood there unmoved. Only it seemed to have become heavier and had +sunk lower. How could it move when there was not a breath of air in +motion, and to scatter and dispel such a mass as this a hurricane +would have been required! + +It struck twelve from St. George's tower. The last stroke seemed +unable to die away. But the deep trembling murmur that hung on so long +was no longer the dying tone of the bell. For now it began to grow; as +if on a thousand wings it came rushing and surging and pushed angrily +against the houses that would retard it; whistling and shrieking, it +drove through every crevice that it met, and blustered about the house +until it found another rift to drive out of again; it tore shutters +open and slammed them furiously, it squeezed its way groaningly +between adjacent walls, whistled madly round street corners, lost +itself in a thousand currents, found itself again and rushed headlong +into a raging stream, careered up and down with savage joy, jolted +everything that stood fast, trilled with wild-playing fingers on the +rusty vanes and weather-cocks and laughed shrilly at their groans; it +blew the snow from one roof to another, swept it from the street, +chased it onto steep walls where it crouched with fear in all the +window chinks, and whirled great, dancing fir-trees of snow before it +in its mad course. + +Seeing that a storm was imminent, no one had taken off his clothes. +The town and county storm night-watch, as well as the fire company, +had been gathered together for hours. Herr Nettenmair had sent his son +to the main guard-room in the town hall to represent him there as the +master-slater of the town. The two journeymen sat with the tower +watchman, one at St. George's, one at St. Nicholas'. The other +municipal workmen entertained one another in the guard-room as well as +they could. The building inspector looked anxiously at Apollonius, +who, feeling his friend's eye fixed upon him, rose, to conceal from +him if possible his brooding state of mind. At this very moment the +storm broke forth with renewed violence. From the town-hall tower it +struck one. The sound of the bell whimpered in the grip of the storm +which dragged it along in its wild chase. Apollonius stepped to the +window as if to see what was happening outside. A gigantic, +sulphur-blue tongue leaped into the room, sprang twice trembling upon +stove, wall and people, and then, leaving no trace, was swallowed up +in itself again. The tempest raged on: but, even as the storm had +seemed born out of the last sound of St. George's bell, there now +arose a something out of the raging which exceeded it in force as far +as the raging had exceeded the sound of the bell. An invisible world +seemed to tear it to pieces in the air. The storm raged and panted +with the fury of the tiger which cannot destroy what it holds in its +grasp; the deep, majestic rolling that outsounded it was the roar of +the lion which has his foot on the enemy--the triumphant expression of +struggle satisfied by action. + +"That struck somewhere!" said one. Apollonius thought: "If it should +strike St. George's tower, where the gap is, and I should have to +climb up, and the clock should strike two, and"--he could think no +further. A cry for help, a cry of fire resounded through storm and +thunder. "The lightning has struck!" was the cry on the street. "It +has struck St. George's tower! Quick to St. George's! Fire! Help! +Fire! St. George's! Fire in the tower of St. George's!" Horns blew, +drums beat. And always the storm and peal after peal of thunder! Then +the cry came: "Where is Nettenmair? If anybody can help it is +Nettenmair. Fire! Fire! At St. George's! Nettenmair! Where is +Nettenmair? The tower of St. George's is on fire!" + +The councilman saw Apollonius turn pale, his form sink more deeply +into itself than before. "Where is Nettenmair?" was again the cry from +the street. Then came a dark flush over his pale cheeks and his +slender figure rose to its full height. He buttoned his coat quickly, +and drew the strap of his cap firmly under his chin. "If I stay," he +said to the councilman, as he turned to go, "remember my father, my +brother's wife and the children." The councilman was taken aback. The +young man's "if I stay" sounded like "I shall stay." A presentiment +came over the friend that here was something that had to do with the +salvation of Apollonius' soul. But the expression on Apollonius' face +was no longer one of suffering; nor was it anxious or wild. In spite +of apprehension and alarm, the stout-hearted man felt something like +joyful hope. It was indeed the old Apollonius again who stood before +him, with the same quiet, modest resoluteness that had won his heart +at the first sight of the young man. "If he would only remain so!" +thought the inspector. He had no time to reply. He pressed his hand. +Apollonius felt all that this hand-pressure wanted to say. Compassion +crept over him for the good old man, and something like regret for the +anxiety he had caused him and would still cause him. He said with his +old-time smile: "For such cases I am always prepared. But there is no +time to spare. Good-by for a while!" Apollonius, who moved more +quickly than the councilman, was soon out of sight. All the way to St. +George's, amid the cries, the horns, drums, storm and thunder, the +councilman kept repeating to himself: "Either I shall never see the +good fellow again, or he will be well when he returns." He did not try +to explain to himself how he had come to this conclusion. There was no +time. His duty as municipal inspector demanded his entire attention. + +The cry "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" greeted Apollonius on all +sides and echoed in the distance. The confidence of his +fellow-citizens awakened in him a renewed sense of his own worth. +When, upon returning from afar, he had seen his native town stretched +out before him, he had dedicated himself to her and her service. The +opportunity now presented itself to show whether he had meant this vow +in earnest. He reviewed in his mind all the possible forms of danger +and how they could best be met. A fire-sprinkler lay ready in the +roof-truss, and cloths were at hand to dip into water and protect the +places most in danger. The journeyman had been instructed to have hot +water ready. The beams were connected everywhere by ladders. For the +first time since his return from Brambach he threw his whole soul into +his work. Before real necessity and its demands the visions of his +brooding fancy receded like dissolving shadows. All his old elasticity +and buoyancy were [Illustration: The Prophet Jeremiah] [Blank Page] +called into being again, intensified by the feeling of relief which +had taken possession of him. Thoughts can be refuted by thoughts, +against feelings they are a very weak weapon. In vain had his spirit +seen the way of salvation; he had fallen a victim to the general +apathy about him. Now a strong, healthful feeling sprang up in +opposition to the strong, morbid ones and devoured them in the ardor +of its flame. He knew, without any special thought on the subject, +that he had found the solution which brings redemption, and that this +was the cause of his renewed being. He knew that dizziness would not +overcome him, but if he should remain it would be a sacrifice made to +duty, not to guilt, and God and the gratitude of the town would assume +in his stead the responsibility for his loved ones. + +St. George's Square was thronged with people who gazed in troubled +fear at the roof of the tower. The ancient building stood like a rock +in the fierce battle which the brightness of lightning and the old +night waged untiringly about it. A thousand glowing arms embraced the +tower with such ardor that it seemed as if it would be consumed in +their glow; like a great surging sea the light broke upon its walls, +only to fall back again before the power of night which engulfed all +in its dark flood. The mass of pale faces, pressed close together at +the foot of the tower, flashed into view during momentary gleams of +light but were soon lost again in dreary blackness. The storm tore at +their hats and coats, blew hair into their faces, struck them with +flapping garments and pelted them with glistening drops of snow, as if +it wanted to make them atone for the wounds it received when it beat +as rain on the rocky ribs of the tower. And as the people now +appeared, now disappeared in alternating light and darkness, so also +their confused attempts at conversation were drowned at every turn by +storm and thunder. + +Somebody called out in self-consolation: "It was a harmless flash; +though it struck, nothing caught fire." Somebody else thought that the +flame might still break out. A third became angry; he took this +suggestion as a wish that the flame might break out. He had been +comforted by the first thought; he had to avenge himself for the +uneasiness which the suggestion created in his mind. Trembling with +cold and anxiety, many stared up stupidly with blinded eyes into space +and knew not even why. A hundred voices explained what misfortune +would befall the town, must befall it, if the lightning had really +struck and the tower had caught fire. Some told of the nature of +slate, how it melts in fire and is carried as slack through the air, +often setting fire to a whole city at the same time. Others lamented +that the storm would further a possible fire, and that there would be +no water with which to extinguish it. Still others said that if there +were any water it would freeze in the engines and be of no avail. Most +of them depicted with fearful eloquence the course that the fire would +take. If the burning truss should fall the storm would blow it right +where there was a thick cluster of houses, quite near the tower. This +was the most dangerous place in the whole town in case of fire, for +there were numberless frame verandas in narrow courts, boarded gable +roofs and shingle-covered sheds, all crowded so closely together that +it would be impossible for a fire-engine to be squeezed in among them +or for the firemen to get at their work. If the burning truss should +fall on this side, as it most certainly would, the entire portion of +the town that lay before the wind would be irretrievably lost. These +reflections reduced the timid to such a state of mind that every new +flash seemed to them the inevitable fire. That nobody could see more +than one side of the tower at a time tended to increase the +misapprehension. It was curious, but from all sides the cry was heard: +"Where? Where?" Storm and thunder prevented mutual understanding. +Everybody wanted to see for himself. Wild excitement prevailed. + +"Where did it strike?" asked Apollonius, who had just arrived. "On the +side toward Brambach," answered many voices. Apollonius pushed his way +through the crowd. With long strides he hastened toward the tower +steps. He had come considerably in advance of his more deliberate +associates. In the tower his questions were to no purpose. The people +in the tower thought that though the lightning had struck it had not +set fire to anything; still they were on the point of gathering +together their best things to flee from the danger. Only the +journeyman, whom he found occupied at the stove, remained +self-possessed. Apollonius hastened with lanterns to the truss, to +hang them there. The ladder steps did not tremble beneath his feet; he +was in too great haste to notice it. There seemed to be no trace of +incipient fire in the truss. Neither the odor of sulphur, which +denotes fire by lightning, nor ordinary smoke was perceptible. +Apollonius heard his associates on the steps. He called to them that +he was there. Just at that moment a blue light flashed through all the +tower-windows followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. +Apollonius stood for an instant, stunned. If he had not unconsciously +caught hold of a beam, he would have fallen to the ground from the +shock. A thick fume of sulphur took his breath away. He sprang to the +nearest window to obtain fresh air. The workmen farther from where it +had struck had not been stunned, but stood motionless with fright on +the topmost flight of steps. "Come!" cried Apollonius. "Quick! the +water! The sprinkler! It must have struck on this side--that's where +the pressure and the smell of sulphur came from. Quick, water and the +sprinkler at the door!" The master-carpenter, standing on the ladder +steps, called, coughing, "But the smoke!" "Quick!" replied Apollonius, +"the door will give more air than we want." The mason and the +chimney-sweep followed the carpenter, who carried the hose with the +sprinkler, as quickly as he could, up the ladder steps. The others +brought buckets of cold water, the journeyman a pail of hot water to +pour over the cold to prevent its freezing. + +At such moments he who remains calm inspires confidence; to the +self-possessed man of action others defer without question. The wooden +passage-way to the door was narrow, but through Apollonius' +intelligent directions room was immediately found for all. Next to +Apollonius stood the carpenter, then the sprinkler, then the mason. +The sprinkler was so turned that the two men had the levers before +them. Two strong men could work it. Behind the mason stood the +journeyman who was to pour hot water on the cold as often as was +necessary. Others performed the journeyman's previous duty; they +melted snow and ice and kept the water thus obtained in the watchman's +warm room so that it should not freeze again. Still others were ready +to serve as carriers and formed a sort of double line between roof and +watchman's room. While Apollonius was explaining to the carpenter and +mason, in rapid words and signs, his plan of action which they then +carried into effect, he had taken hold of the roof-ladder with his +right hand and was reaching out with his left toward the bolt of the +door. The workmen were all full of hope, but when the storm whistled +in through the opened door, tore the carpenter's cap from his head, +blew masses of fine snow against the beams, howled, rattled, and +blustered against the ridge of the roof, while flash after flash of +lightning broke through the dark opening, the bravest among them +wanted to withdraw his hand from the futile work. Apollonius had to +stand with his back to the door to get his breath. Then gripping the +lath-work above the door, with both hands, he bent his head back in +order to get a look at the roof from the outside. "It can still be +saved," he cried with an effort so that he could be heard above the +storm and the uninterrupted rolling of the thunder. He seized the tube +of the shorter hose, the lower end of which the carpenter had screwed +onto the sprinkler, and wound the upper part around his body. "When I +pull twice on the hose start the sprinkler; we'll save the church and +perhaps the town." With his right hand propped against the lath-work +he swung himself out of the door; in his left hand he held the light +roof-ladder which he wanted to hang on the next hook above the door. +This seemed impossible to the workmen. The storm would certainly tear +the ladder down, and all too possibly the man with it. It came in well +for Apollonius that the wind pressed the ladder against the surface of +the roof. There was plenty of light by which to find the hook; but the +fine snow which flurried about and, rolling down from the roof, struck +him in the eyes, was a hindrance. He could feel, however, that the +ladder hung securely. There was no time to lose; he swung himself up +on it. He had to trust more to the strength and sureness of his arms +and hands than to a secure footing as he climbed upward, for the storm +swayed man and ladder to and fro like a bell. Above, to one side of +the topmost rung of the ladder, blue flames with yellow points leaped +forth from under the gap and licked the edges of the slate roof. The +lightning had struck two feet below the point where the sheet of lead +was lacking. A short hour ago he had been frightened by the thought of +the mere possibility that the lightning could strike there and that he +would have to climb up--a series of dark, deadly fever visions had +risen before him: now, all had happened as he had pictured it--but the +gap was like any other part of the tower-roof and he stood on the +ladder, free from all dizziness, pervaded only by a keen, strong +desire to avert impending danger from church and town. Yes, something +that had enhanced his vague fears now proved to be of distinct +advantage to him. The water which had been pouring into the hole for +weeks, and which was now frozen in the wood, prevented the flame from +obtaining the upper hand as quickly as it would otherwise have done. +The area taken possession of by the fire up to the present time was +small. The frost in the boarding had stubbornly beat back the leaping, +ever-returning flames and it would take time before they could +permanently strike root and from their vantage point do further +destruction. If they had united in one big flame and overstepped the +space below the hole protected by the frost, the fire would soon have +grown to gigantic proportions and the church, perhaps the town, have +succumbed to the combined force of fire and storm. He saw that there +was still time to save, and he needed the strength that this thought +gave. The ladder not only swung backward and forward, it moved up and +down. What could be the cause of that? If the beams of the roof were +loose--but he knew that that was not the case--this movement would be +impossible. But the trouble was that the ladder was not hanging on the +hook; he had hung it on a projecting tin oak-leaf which formed part of +the roof's decoration, near one of the rivets, and he had neglected to +fasten the other end of the garland on which the ladder hung. His +weight was pulling on it now and dragging it and the ladder gradually +down. An inch more and the leaf would be horizontal, the ladder would +slide off it and he and the ladder together would fall into the +tremendous depth below. His newly-acquired courage was to be put to +the test. Six inches from the leaf was the hook. He took three +cautious steps up the tottering ladder; then, seizing hold of the hook +with his left hand and holding fast, he raised the ladder with his +right hand from the leaf to the hook. It hung securely. He let go the +hook and, holding fast to a rung of the ladder with both hands, +stepped back onto it again. And now the slates below the hole began to +glow; it would not be long before the burning particles carried +destruction far and near. Apollonius drew his claw-hammer from his +belt; a few strokes with the tool and the slate fell, splintering +below. Now he could see clearly the very small area of burning +surface; his confidence increased. He pressed twice on the hose and +the sprinkler began to work. First he held the nozzle toward the hole +so that the lath-work above might be the better protected from the +flame. The sprinkler proved to be powerful; the water that penetrated +beneath the edge of the slate shivered it into small bits. The flames +cracked and leaped angrily under the gushing water; only when the jet +was turned directly upon them, and then more by means of its +smothering power than its inherent qualities, did it finally vanquish +them. + +The surface of the fire lay black before him; there was no hissing in +response to the jet from the hose. Far below him the works of the +clock rattled. It struck two! Two strokes! Two! And he stood and did +not plunge headlong into space. How different in reality from what his +feverish forebodings had threatened! In his brooding, waking dreams he +had stood at the top of the tower, it had struck two, a great +dizziness had come over him and dragged him down, to expiate a dark +crime. But now he stood there in reality, the ladder swayed in the +storm, snowdust flurried about him, lightning darted around him, the +sheet of snow on roofs, mountains and valley shimmered bright with +each gleaming flash, it struck two below him, the tone of the bells, +rent by the storm, wailed in the tumult, and he stood, stood free from +all dizziness and did not fall. He knew that no guilt was attached to +him, he had done his duty where thousands would have failed, he had +saved the town which he loved with all his soul, from a terrible +danger. But there was no vainglory in his heart, only a prayer of +thanksgiving. His thoughts were not of the people who would praise +him, but of those who would breathe freely again, of the misery that +had been prevented, of the happiness that would be preserved. For the +first time in many months he felt what it means to breathe freely. +This night had brought gladness to him. With joy he looked back on the +vow that he had made. To men like Apollonius, the highest blessing of +a good deed is that it gives courage for new good deeds. + +The throng below still cried: "Where? Where?" and crowded close +together when the second stroke occurred. They stood for a moment +paralyzed with fear. "Thank the Lord! It was harmless this time too!" +exclaimed one voice. "No! No! It is burning. God have mercy!" replied +others; sharp eyes saw in the darkness that appeared between the +flashes little blue flames leaping like candles over the slate. These +flames sought one another and when they found one another they blazed +up convulsively into a larger flame, then fled dancingly away and +shivered into pieces. The storm bent and blew them here and there; +sometimes they seemed to die out, but suddenly they leaped up brighter +than ever. They were growing, one could see that, but their growth was +not rapid. Much more rapid and vehement was the new cry of fire that +swelled through the town. In anxious suspense the gaze of all was +riveted on the one small spot. "Help! Now! It can still be put out!" +And again through storm and thunder sounded the agonized cry: +"Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair?" A voice called, "He is in the +tower." All hearts felt relief when they heard that. And most of them +did not know him, even among those who called out for him, and those +who did not know him cried out loudest. In moments of general +helplessness the crowd clings to a name, to a mere word. Some thus +thrust from themselves the calls of conscience which demanded personal +effort, personal risk, and these are they who are most merciless in +their judgment of the helper if he is unable to help. The rest are +happy if they can delude themselves for the moment. "What could he +do?" cried one. "Help! Rescue!" cried others. "Even if one had wings, +he would not dare the ascent in such a storm." "Nettenmair surely +would." In the depths of their hearts, however, even the most +confident knew that he would not. The thought that the flame could be +extinguished if it were only accessible aggravated the general spirit +of uneasiness. It prevented that dull submission which the inevitable +with gentle severity compels. When the door opened and the suspended +ladder became visible, and it seemed as if somebody were going to dare +the deed, the effect on the crowd was as terrifying as the stroke +itself had been. And the ladder hung and swayed in the air with the +man who was climbing upward, enveloped in snow, encircled by +lightning; the ladder that seemed cut from a splinter swinging with +the man like a bell in the awful heights. Every one held his breath. +The same expression of horror stared from hundreds of unlike faces at +the man on high. None believed in the daring feat--and yet they saw +the man who dared. It was like something that was at the same time +dream and reality. Nobody believed in it, and yet each one stood +himself on the ladder while under him swung the light splinter in +storm and lightning and thunder, high between heaven and earth. And +again they stood below on the firm earth and looked upward; and yet if +the man should fall it would be they who fell. The people on the firm +ground held convulsively to their own hands, to their canes, to their +clothes, that they might not fall from the terrible height. They stood +secure, and yet at the same time they hung over the abyss of death, +for years, for a lifetime; the past had never been; and yet they had +only been hanging on high for a moment. They forgot the peril to the +town and their own, in the peril of the man above them whose peril was +their own. They saw that the fire was quenched, the danger to the town +was over; they knew it as in a dream when one knows that he dreams; it +was a mere thought without a living meaning. Only when the man had +climbed down the ladder, had disappeared into the door and drawn the +ladder after him, only when the people no longer clung to their own +hands, canes, and clothes, only then did admiration battle with +anxiety, only then did the exultant cry: "Hurrah! Brave fellow!" +become smothered in the lament: "He is lost!" A trembling old voice +began to sing: "Now thank we all our God!" When the aged man came to +the line: "Who has protected us," a great consciousness seemed to +sweep over the people of what might have been lost and what had been +rescued for them. Absolute strangers fell into one another's arms, +each embraced in his neighbor the loved ones whom he might have lost +and who had been saved. All united in the singing of the hymn; the +sounds of thanksgiving swelled through the whole town, soared over the +streets and squares where the people stood who had feared to go +closer, entered the houses, penetrated into the innermost chambers, +rose to the remotest garrets. The sick man in his lonely bed, the old +man in the chair where weakness had bound him, little children who did +not know the meaning of the hymn or of the danger that had been +averted, all joined in the song of praise. The town was one great +church, and storm and thunder the giant organ. Again the cry was +heard: "Nettenmair! Where is Nettenmair? Where is our helper? Where is +our rescuer? Where is the brave fellow? Where is the noble man?" Wind +and storm were forgotten. Everybody pushed forward, looking for the +man who was being called on all sides. The tower of St. George's was +besieged. The carpenter appeared, saying that Nettenmair had lain down +in the watchman's room to rest for a few moments. The carpenter was +beset with questions. Had he been injured at all? Would his health +suffer? The carpenter could tell nothing except that Nettenmair had +done more than a man is capable of doing in the ordinary course of +events. In such supreme moments man is a different being; later he +marvels himself at the power he displayed. But everything must be paid +for. It would not surprise the carpenter if, after the tremendous +exertion, Nettenmair should sleep for three days and nights at a +stretch. The people seemed prepared to wait on the steps for that +length of time, in order to see the brave man as soon as he waked. In +the meantime a prominent man had begun to take up a collection in the +market-place. Money, of course, could not reward such a deed as had +been performed that day; but at least they could show their gratitude +to the courageous doer. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, +acknowledged misers hastened home to fetch their contribution, +regardless of the fact that in an hour they would regret having done +so. Not many of the well-to-do refused to contribute, all the poor +gave their share. The collector was astonished at the rich success of +his efforts. + +Apollonius rested for half an hour. Before he lay down he saw that the +lanterns were carefully put out. He closed the door, and had the +sprinkler emptied and the hose brought into the watchman's room so +that the frost could do no harm to them. He was able to stand no +longer. The councilman, who had come to him in the meantime, had to +compel him almost with force, to go down to the watchman's room. His +friend then bolted the door, made Apollonius take off his frozen +clothes, and sat down like a mother at his bedside. Apollonius could +not sleep, but the old man did not allow him to speak. He had brought +rum and sugar with him, and there was hot water enough; but +Apollonius, who had never drunk anything strong, declined the grog +with thanks. In the meantime the workman had brought clothes. +Apollonius assured them that he felt perfectly himself again but that +he felt a hesitancy about getting out of bed. Laughingly the old man +gave him his clothes. Apollonius had undressed under the bedclothes +and in the same way he now dressed beneath them. The councilman turned +his back to him and looked laughingly out of the window at storm and +lightning; whether his smiles were over Apollonius' bashfulness or +from pure joy at having his favorite again he did not know. He had +often regretted having remained a bachelor, now he was almost glad. He +had a son at any rate, and as good a one as a father could wish. + +Trouble now began for Apollonius. He was torn from arm to arm; even +women of prominence kissed and embraced him. His hands were so shaken +and squeezed that for three days he had no feeling in them. He did not +lose, however, his naturally noble bearing. His modest, blushing +embarrassment in the face of so much enthusiastic thanks and admiring +praise, became him as well as his brave, determined conduct in time of +danger. Those who did not already know him were amazed; they had +formed a very different conception of him: dark, bold-eyed, audacious, +overflowing with spirits, in fact almost wild. Still they had to +acknowledge that his appearance was not at variance with his deed. His +maidenly blushes lent an added charm to the tall manly figure, and the +modest embarrassment of his honest face, which seemed in no way to +realize what he had done, was very winning; his gentle thoughtfulness +and quiet simplicity placed his achievement in a still more pleasing +light, for it was plainly to be seen that vanity and ambition had +played no part in it. + + * * * * * + +We pass now in spirit over a period of three decades and return to the +man with whom we were occupied at the beginning of our tale. We left +him in the arbor of his little garden. The bells of St. George's +called the dwellers of the town to morning service; they sounded also +in the garden behind the house with the green shutters. There he sits +every Sunday at this time. When the bells call to afternoon service he +is seen wending his way to church with his silver-headed cane in his +hand. Nobody sees the old gentleman without greeting him with +reverence. It has been nearly thirty years, but there are still people +who lived through that remarkable night. They can tell those who do +not know what the man with the silver-headed cane did for the town on +that night. And to what he set on foot the next day the stones +themselves bear witness. Just outside of the town, on the road to +Brambach, not far from the rifle-range there rises a stately building +with a pleasant garden. It is the new town hospital. Every stranger +who goes to it learns that its conception originated with Herr +Nettenmair. He also has to listen to the entire story of that night, +and of Herr Nettenmair's brave deed, who was then a young man; and how +a collection was taken up for him, and how he gave this money to the +town as a nucleus for the hospital, and how rich citizens, inspired by +his example, donated and bequeathed until, after a number of years, an +additional contribution from the town completed the sum necessary for +the erection of the building. + +When Herr Nettenmair returns from church he spends the rest of Sunday +in his little room where he still lives; or he takes a walk to the +slate quarry, which now belongs to him, or rather to his nephews. The +fulfilment of the vow which he made to himself has continued to be the +aim of his life. Everything that he has done he has done for his +brother's family, he has considered himself only the administrator. If +he happens to see a pretty little girl anywhere, he thinks of dear +little dead Annie. His memory is as conscientious as he himself, for +he always calls the child to him, strokes her hair, and it would be +strange indeed if he did not find in the pocket of his blue coat +something or other wrapped up in nice clean paper which he produces to +bring forth a word of thanks from the little mouth. The child, +however, cannot enjoy herself to the full until he has gone, for, in +spite of his friendliness, his tall figure has something so grave and +solemn about it that her joy is usually swallowed up in respect. +During the week Herr Nettenmair sits over his books and letters, or +superintends the packing and unpacking, the chipping and sorting of +the slate. Punctually at twelve o'clock he has his dinner in his room, +punctually at six his evening meal; this takes a quarter of an hour. +Then, rubbing his hand gently over the old sofa, he rises and, if it +is summer time, exercises for three-quarters of an hour in his garden. +On the stroke of a quarter to one and a quarter to seven he latches +the door behind him. On Sunday it is different; then he sits for a +whole hour in the arbor and gazes up at the church roof of St. +George's. There is little for us to tell; the reader knows all that +goes on in Nettenmair's soul, and what he reads from the church tower. +The reader also knows to whom the aged but still beautiful face +belongs that sometimes peers through the trellised arbor at the old +man. The lock which is now white was dark brown and full, falling over +an unwrinkled forehead, the cheeks glowed with youthful strength, the +lips were red and smiling and the blue eyes gleamed when she hastened +to meet the man who had rescued the town. He kissed her gently on the +brow and called her "Sister." She understood what he meant. Even at +that time she looked up to the man with the submission, nay, the +devotion with which she now hangs on his every word; but at that time +there was another feeling as well that showed itself in her open +countenance. + +The old gentleman flew into a rage when Apollonius told him of his +determination not to marry. He gave his son his choice between +considering the honor of the family or returning to Cologne. +Apollonius' heart found it harder than his head to convince his father +that it devolved upon him alone to uphold the honor of the family and +that he must remain. He knew that he could keep his word only by +remaining true to his determination. But he could not tell his father +this, for if the old man should discover the true relation existing +between the two young people he would insist upon the marriage more +strongly than ever. Then he would also have to tell him how his +brother had met his death, and that would cause his father unnecessary +pain. He did not realize that his father in his heart was convinced +that his brother had taken his own life. The two men, so closely +related, did not understand each other. Apollonius assumed that his +father had the same inward sense of honor which he himself possessed; +and the father saw in his son's refusal and in his argument of having +to maintain the position of the family, nothing but the old obstinacy +contending that his presence was indispensable and not even taking the +trouble to conceal itself--he thought that in his son's eyes he was +nothing but a blind, helpless old man. And what caused and furthered +their misunderstanding was reserve, that family trait which they held +in common. On the same morning a delegation had tendered Apollonius +the thanks of the town and its most prominent citizens had vied with +each other in giving tokens of esteem and respect. This was cause +enough to arouse arrogance in an ambitious soul, and cause enough for +the old gentleman, who considered that Apollonius had such a soul, to +believe in this arrogance. The old gentleman had to admit that his son +was indispensable and dared assert neither right nor might against +him. The emotion and mental exertion on the day before the death of +his eldest son had undermined his strength; he collapsed entirely now +and became each day queerer and more sensitive. He no longer demanded +subserviency from Apollonius; he found a certain self-tormenting +pleasure in reproaching his son with unfilial conduct, and in +continually giving expression to his bitter regret that such an +industrious son should have to put up with so much from an overbearing +old father who was not, and never could be, anything any more. At the +same time he rejoiced in his eccentric fashion over the industry of +his son, the growing honor and increasing fortunes of his house. He +lived to see the purchase of the slate quarry which Apollonius had +previously leased. The son endured his father's eccentricities with +the same loving, untiring patience which he had exhibited toward his +brother. He lived only in the thought of fulfilling as completely as +lay within his power the vow that he had made to himself, and in this +vow he had included his father. The success of his work gave him +strength to bear all little annoyances with cheerfulness. + +On the day after the winter night's storm he had told the old building +inspector the whole story of his inner life. The councilman, who till +the day of his death clung to Apollonius with all his soul, remained +the latter's only companion, as he was the only person with whom he +could hold intimate intercourse without being untrue to his own +nature. + +For several days after the storm Apollonius had to lie in bed. A +burning fever had taken hold of him. At first the physician pronounced +his illness a very serious one, but in reality it was only the body +fighting triumphant battle against the general suffering which had +found mental absolution in the resolve of that night. The sympathy of +the town manifested itself in various touching ways. The old +councilman and Valentine were his nurses. The one whom nature through +love and gratitude had determined upon as the best nurse for the sick +man, Apollonius did not call to his bed, and she dared not go +uncalled. Throughout his illness, however, she took up her abode in +the little trellised arbor and remained there so as to be as near to +him as possible. When he slept the old councilman beckoned to her to +enter. Then she stood with folded hands behind the screen at the foot +of his bed and accompanied his every breath with anxiety and hope. +Unconsciously her gentle breathing regulated itself by his. For hours +she stood looking through a crack in the screen at the sick man. He +knew nothing of her presence, and yet the inspector could see how his +sleep became easier, his face more smiling. There was no bottle from +which he took his medicine which, without his knowing it, he did not +receive from her hand, no plaster, no application which she had not +prepared; no cloth, no cover touched him which she had not warmed on +her breast, kissed with her loving lips. When he talked with the +councilman about her, she saw that he was more anxious concerning her +than himself; when he sent friendly, comforting messages to her she +trembled behind the screen with joy. She rested but little; and when +the cold night wind blew flakes of snow through the loose blinds onto +her warm face, when her own breath, frozen on the pillow, touched +icily throat, chin and bosom, she was happy in the thought that she +was allowed to suffer something for him who had suffered all for her. +In those nights sacred love conquered earthly love in her; out of the +pain of sweet, disappointed desire which yearned to possess, arose his +image surrounded once more by that halo of unattainable glory in which +she had known him of yore. + +Apollonius recovered quickly. And now began the joint life of these +two people. They saw each other but seldom. He lived in his little +room by himself. Valentine brought him his meals, as always. The +children were often with him. If the two happened to meet, he greeted +her with friendly reserve and she returned his greeting. If they had +anything to discuss together it happened each time as if by chance +that either the maid was present or the children and Valentine. But no +day passed without some silent token of courteous respect. On Sundays, +when he came in from his garden, he brought a bouquet of flowers with +him which Valentine then presented to her. He could have made a +brilliant marriage, gallant lovers sued for her hand; but he repelled +all offers and she all suitors. So passed days, weeks, months, years, +decades. The old gentleman died and was buried. The good councilman +followed, and then Valentine. The children grew to be youths. The +unruly lock over the widow's brow, Apollonius' corkscrew-curl, turned +gray; the children became men, strong and gentle like their teacher +and master; lock and curl were silver white; the life of the two +remained the same. + +Now the reader knows all the past which the old man, sitting in his +arbor, reads from St. George's tower when the bells call for Sunday +morning service. Today he looks forward into the future, rather than +backward into the past. For his older nephew is soon to lead Anna +Wohlig's daughter to the altar of St. George's, and then home; not to +the house with the green shutters, however, but to the big house close +by. The pink-tinted house is too small for the growing business--and +besides the new household would not find room there; Herr Nettenmair +has bought the big house across the way. The youngest nephew is going +to Cologne. The old cousin who did so much for Apollonius has been +dead for many years; also the son has died, leaving his large business +to his only child who is the betrothed of Fritz Nettenmair's younger +son. There will be a double wedding at St. George's. The two old +people will then live alone in the house with the green shutters. For +a long time the old gentleman has wanted to hand over the business to +his nephews, but the young men have steadfastly refused till now. The +older nephew insists that his uncle shall remain at the head; the old +gentleman does not wish to do so. A part of the councilman's estate, +which he inherited, he has reserved for himself for his lifetime; +everything else, and that is by no means little, for Herr Nettenmair +is considered a rich man, he will give over to his nephews; what he +has reserved for himself will go at his death to the new town +hospital. He has made good his word; he will go down to his grave with +unsullied name. + +The future bride protests against accepting all that her mother-in-law +wants to give her. There is but one thing that the old lady wishes to +keep for herself; it is a little tin box with a withered flower, and +it lies with her Bible and hymn-book, as sacred to the owner as these. + +The bells still call. The roses on the tall bushes are fragrant as of +yore; a white-throat sits on the bush beneath the old pear-tree and +sings; a gentle breeze steals through the garden and even the box +around the circular beds rustles its dark leaves. The old gentleman +looks musingly at the tower of St. George's; the beautiful matron's +face peers through the trellis at him. The bells call it, the +white-throat sings it, the roses breathe it, the gentle breeze +whispers it, the beautiful aged faces speak it, from the tower roof of +St. George's you may read it: "Men tell of the happiness and +unhappiness that heaven brings them! What men call happiness and +unhappiness is but the raw material. It lies within man himself to +mold that material as he will. It is not heaven that brings happiness; +man prepares happiness for himself, and raises heaven in his own +breast. Man need take no care to go to heaven, if heaven but comes to +him. Who carries not heaven within himself may search in vain for it +through all the universe. Be guided by reason, but encroach not upon +the sacred bounds of feeling. Turn not disapprovingly from the world +as it is, but seek to be just to it, and it will be just to thee. 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