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diff --git a/75247-0.txt b/75247-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc6dfdf --- /dev/null +++ b/75247-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4674 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75247 *** + + + + + + + MODERN + PLAYS + + EDITED BY + R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON + + AND + N. ERICHSEN + + _Authorised Translation_ + + _All Rights Reserved_ + + + + + THE COMING OF PEACE + + (_A FAMILY CATASTROPHE_) + + BY GERHART HAUPTMANN + + TRANSLATED BY + JANET ACHURCH + AND + C. E. WHEELER + + [Illustration] + + LONDON + DUCKWORTH & CO. + 3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. + MDCCCC + + + + +PREFACE + + +A few words about the author of “Friedensfest,” which is here translated +as “The Coming of Peace,” will possibly be of interest to readers. +Gerhart Hauptmann, who is still a comparatively young man, is as +yet little known to English readers, and wholly unknown to English +play-goers, except for the performance of this play under the auspices +of the Stage Society on the 10th of June 1900, which has given occasion +for this translation. In German-speaking countries he is recognised by +many as the greatest modern dramatist with the single exception of Henrik +Ibsen. + +He is certainly the only dramatist who, writing under the inspiration of +the great Norwegian poet, can by any remotest possibility be considered +to have advanced a step beyond his master in dramatic treatment of the +inner social forces of modern life. + +It is not my intention here to do more than draw attention to the place +Friedensfest occupies chronologically among its author’s works, and to +point out its probable source of inspiration. Those who wish to trace the +author’s career up to three years ago—he is now only thirty-eight—may +be recommended to read “Gerhart Hauptmann, sein Lebensgang und seine +Dichtung,” written just after the publication of “Die Versunkene Glocke,” +by Dr Paul Schlenther, the gifted critic, now manager of the Vienna +Court Theatre. I may, perhaps, be allowed to quote the final sentences of +that book to show the high hopes entertained in Germany of Hauptmann’s +future. “At thirty-five years old,” writes Dr Schlenther, “he is a famous +man. He stands at life’s zenith. Half the Scriptural age lies behind him. +The best years of the strength and ripeness of manhood lie close ahead of +him. We wait for what shall come.” + +“Friedensfest” was played in 1890, when Hauptmann was twenty-seven, +eight years before these lines were penned. It was preceded by “Vor +Sonnenaufgang” in 1889—the first utterance which gave more than local +fame to its author—and was succeeded by “Einsame Menschen” in 1891. Of +his later works “Die Weber” and “Hannele” have already been translated +into English. + +In “Friedensfest” and “Einsame Menschen” the influence of Ibsen can +be traced more distinctly than in any of Hauptmann’s other works. +“Friedensfest” recalls in many respects Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” without any +servile copying on the part of the younger author—who has presented his +characters with a power and originality, a truth and subtlety peculiarly +his own. Moreover he has not been so relentless as Ibsen. Although the +“Family Catastrophe,” as he calls it, is gloomy enough, in a sense +the play ends more hopefully; the doom has not fallen on the younger +members of the Scholz family, with whose hereditary qualities the play +chiefly deals, and we are permitted to hope, if we choose, that it may +never fall. Hauptmann’s genius shows itself here of a softer and less +uncompromising mould than Ibsen’s. We feel that in as far as the play has +any tendency, it leans rather towards meliorism than pessimism. Like +Ibsen’s later works, however, it is more objective in treatment than +“Ghosts”—more a “family document” pure and simple, than a “tendency” +drama. + +But it is not my business here to tell the story of the play or to +attempt any interpretation. I have merely helped to render it into +English. + +In translating, we have tried to give the broken, elliptical language +in which Hauptmann’s characters express themselves, as faithfully +as possible—to keep the half-finished sentences and interjaculatory +outbursts without losing anything of the meaning of the play. Here and +there, the rude colloquialism of the speakers, especially of Mrs Scholz +and Friebe, have rendered our task almost impossible. We can only plead +that we have done our best. + + JANET ACHURCH. + + + + +THE COMING OF PEACE + + + + +PERSONS + + + DR FRITZ SCHOLZ, aged 68. + MINNA SCHOLZ, _his wife_, aged 46. + AUGUSTA, } aged 29. + ROBERT, } _their children_, aged 28. + WILLIAM, } aged 26. + _So far as possible the above should show a family likeness._ + MRS BUCHNER, aged 42. + IDA, _her daughter_, aged 20. + FRIEBE, _servant to the Scholzs_, aged 50. + +The Play takes place on Christmas Eve 188—, in a lonely country house, +near Erkner, in Brandenburg. + + + + +SCENE. + + + A high, roomy, white-washed Hall—hung with old-fashioned + pictures—horns and heads of different animals. A chandelier of + stag’s horns hanging from the middle of the roof-tree is filled + with fresh candles. At the back, in the middle of the wall, + is a porch, which projects into the hall, with a glass door, + through which is seen the heavy carved oaken door of the house. + On the top of the porch is a stuffed moorcock: right and left + above the level of the porch are windows—frozen and partly dim + with snow. + + To the left is an open arch, built like a gateway—which leads + by the staircase to the upper stories. Two low doors in the + same wall lead—one to the cellar, the other to the kitchen. + + Two other doors in the opposite wall both open into one room; + between these stands an old grandfather’s clock, on the top of + which squats a stuffed screech-owl. The furniture of the room + consists of heavy old oak chairs and tables: parallel to the + left wall is a table covered with a white cloth. Down the stage + to the left is a small iron stove, the flue of which runs along + the wall. All the doors are gaily coloured, the panels filled + with old-fashioned paintings of parrots, etc. + + + + +ACT I + + + The hall is decorated with green branches. A Christmas tree + is lying on the stone flags. Friebe, sitting on the top of + the cellar steps, is making a socket for it; Mrs Buchner and + Mrs Scholz, standing on either side of the table, are busy + fastening gay coloured wax candles into their holders. Mrs + Buchner is a healthy looking, well nourished, friendly faced + woman, simple, genuine and very neatly dressed: wears her hair + smooth: her movements are decided and she is entirely at her + ease. Her whole appearance expresses an unusual cordiality + which is thoroughly sincere, even if at times her manner + suggests affectation. Her way of speaking is fluent and clear, + and in moments of excitement declamatory; an atmosphere of + peace and well-being seems to emanate from her. Mrs Scholz, on + the contrary, is a woman who looks older than she is, showing + signs of premature old age. She is unhealthily fat, with a + sallow skin. Her dress is untidy, her hair grey and unkempt; + she wears spectacles. Mrs Scholz is fidgety in her movements, + restless, has generally a tearful or whining way of speaking + and is evidently in a continual state of excitement. Whilst Mrs + Buchner seems only to live for others, Mrs Scholz is completely + occupied with herself. + + On the table stand two five-branched candlesticks, fitted with + candles; but neither these nor the candles in the chandelier + are lighted. There is a lamp burning. + +FRIEBE (_striking a blow with his hatchet_). + +Not a stroke fails me! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ffff!!! But I can’t stand it, Friebe! How often have I told you.... You +might easily break the hatchet. The idea! chopping wood on stone! + +FRIEBE. + +You leave that to me! What! wasn’t I ten years in the regiment? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +In the regiment? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +He was head man in the royal forests. + +FRIEBE. + +Not—(_he strikes again_) a blessed—(_strikes_) stroke! + + [_He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens + the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small, + already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His + small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and + stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades. + His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil, + boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size, + so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap + considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his + coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box + and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm, + he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it._ + +FRIEBE. + +A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (_with condescending +superiority to the women_) you don’t think so—eh? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that. + +FRIEBE. + +Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is— + +MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting him impatiently_). + +We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said, +“send Friebe for me.” + +FRIEBE. + +H’m—tch—for all I care! + + [_Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous + gesture._ + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Are you vexed with him? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my +husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old +snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must have _him_ about the whole day, +or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man? + + [_Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside, + she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against + it as though to prevent some one from coming in._] + +MRS SCHOLZ (_most violently startled_). + +Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Why?—what—? + + [_Augusta is tall, lanky, and noticeably thin: she is dressed + in the height of fashion but without any taste. Fur jacket, + fur cap and muff. The face and the feet are long: the face + is sharply cut and bitter featured, with thin lips tightly + pressed together. She wears a lorgnette. Her nature unites + with her mother’s excitability, something of a pathologically + disagreeable character. Her personality diffuses round it an + atmosphere of discontent, dissatisfaction and comfortlessness._] + +AUGUSTA. + +Out there!—as true as I’m here—someone—was following me. + +MRS BUCHNER (_pointing to the clock_). + +William, perhaps.—No! not yet. The train can’t be in yet. (_To Augusta_) +Wait a moment! + + [_She puts out her hand to open the door._ + +AUGUSTA. + +No! No!—No! No! + +MRS BUCHNER (_in a cooing manner_). + +You’re nervous, dear child. (_She goes into the porch and opens the outer +door, a little timidly._) Is anyone there?—(_Resolutely_) Is anybody +there? (_Pause—no answer._) + +MRS SCHOLZ (_irritated_). + +Fine doings! As if I hadn’t had enough excitement—it’s enough to kill +one. You’re always complaining of _something_. + +AUGUSTA (_snappishly_). + +Complaining! Complaining!—Haven’t I got enough to complain about? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You behave charmingly to your mother, I must say. + +AUGUSTA. + +Oh! what do you expect? Who could help being frightened—in pitch +darkness—absolutely alone— + +MRS BUCHNER (_putting her arms round Augusta’s waist from +behind—soothingly_). + +Madcap! Madcap! to flare up like that for nothing! Come now. (_Helping +her to take off her jacket, etc._) There!—you see?— + +AUGUSTA. + +Ah! but it is _true_, Mrs Buchner! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Now my dear people, listen! Four long days already since we came +to stay with you. I’ve been thinking—sha’n’t we drop all these +formalities?—Mayn’t I call you Augusta? Eh?—Good—then—(_embraces her and +kisses Mrs Scholz_). + +MRS SCHOLZ (_before she responds to the embrace_). + +Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy. + +MRS BUCHNER (_to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove_). + +There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice? + +AUGUSTA. + +Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you +faint! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Did the minister speak well? + +AUGUSTA. + +I know one thing; if _I_ were poor, I’d have been off after the great +man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +O—o—h! but it’s a great blessing for the poor people. + + [_A fresh, clear woman’s voice is heard singing._ + + “When beneath the linden leaves + The blossom clings, + Memory in my spirit weaves + Dreams of bygone springs.” + + [_Ida comes through the stairway. She is twenty years old, + and wears a close-clinging black woollen dress. She has a + fine, fully matured figure, a very small head, and, on this + first entrance, her long yellow hair is loose. She has an air + of quiet contentment about her, a subdued cheerfulness and + confident expectation of happiness. Although the expression of + her clever face is generally bright, it deepens at times into + a sudden seriousness, showing that she is unaffectedly lost in + her own thoughts._] + +IDA (_a towel laid over her shoulders and some cardboard boxes under her +arm_). + +Has anybody come? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Augusta has given us a fine fright. + +IDA (_pointing back up the stairs_). + +It’s not so very comfortable upstairs, either. I hurried (_laughing_) so +that I could come down. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But, child! Robert has the room over you now. + +IDA (_putting the boxes on the table, opens them and takes out various +things_). + +Well, if he has, the place is always empty. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Your hair should be nearly dry by now, eh? + +IDA (_turning her head lovingly, and throwing back her hair_). + +Just feel! + +MRS BUCHNER (_doing so_). + +Oh dear—you should have washed it earlier, child! + +IDA. + +What a bother the old mane is; I’ve been scorching myself at the stove +for the last half hour (_taking from one of the boxes a yellow silk purse +and holding it out to Augusta_). Pretty colour, eh?—It’s only just a +little joke; has he had many purses? + +AUGUSTA (_busy with her jacket, which she is brushing; shrugs her +shoulders_). + +Don’t know (_she looks critically with her short-sighted eyes at the +purse_). H’m, h’m, rather loosely knitted (_immediately returning to her +jacket_). The plush is done for. + +IDA (_displaying a little box of cigars_). + +I—_am_ pleased—to think you have never dressed a Christmas tree! + +AUGUSTA. + +If you come to think of it—it’s really not the sort of thing for grown-up +people! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +No indeed! If ever I’d suggested one, my husband would have never let +me hear the end of it. With my dear parents—Ah! when I remember—what +a beautiful family life that was. Never a Christmas without a tree! +(_Imitating her father’s gait and manner._) And then in the evening when +father came from the office and brought the beau—u—tiful gingerbread +with him (_joining thumb and fore-finger as if she held a piece of the +famous cake between them—she puts them to her mouth_). Ah yes—those days +are gone. My husband—he wouldn’t even eat his dinner with us—he lived +upstairs—we down—a perfect hermit. If one wanted anything from him—good +Lord—the only way was to get hold of Friebe. + +AUGUSTA (_feeding the stove_). + +Oh don’t go on like that everlastingly! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Don’t pile up the stove in that senseless fashion! + +AUGUSTA. + +Can’t we even have the room warm then? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +All the heat flies up the chimney to-day. + +AUGUSTA (_demurring crossly_). + +Is that a reason for letting it go quite out? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Leave me in peace! + +AUGUSTA (_throwing the shovel noisily back into the box_). + +Have it your own way! + + [_Exit Augusta in a rage._] + +IDA. + +Ah, Gussie! stay with us!—Just wait—I’ll soon bring her round. + + [_Goes out after her._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_with resignation_). + +All my children are like that!—ah—what a girl! There’s no holding her! +First she wants one thing, then another:—all of a sudden—she takes it +into her head—she must study. She’ll stick upstairs and not say a word +for weeks; and the next thing is—she’s no use—nobody wants her.—Oh, +good Heavens, yes—you’re to be envied—a sweet little thing like _your_ +daughter—— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Oh, but Gussie too!— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +How charmingly she plays the piano, and that delicious voice—How I love +to listen to a voice like that! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Why don’t you ever play now? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh that would be a fine thing. The little peace I have would be done for. +Augusta is so nervous—just like her father—he’d run away from the piano +as if he were hunted. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +You should hear your William play now; he has improved!—What would Ida be +without him! She’s learnt all she knows from him. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah yes! so you told me. Oh, he’s full of talent, there’s no doubt of +that! It was a pleasure to teach him. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes! and he looks back with such affection on the time when his little +mother gave him his first lessons. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Does he?—Good Lord, yes! those were pleasant times. Then I used to +think—every thing turns out differently—Oh! I’m so agitated! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +So agitated?—What about? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Why—about his coming—how does he look now—really? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Well—strong—healthy. You’ll be proud of your son. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +I’m really surprised that the boy’s coming. It’s gone to my heart +many a time. And the notepaper he’s cost me—and never once answered +his old mother: how have you brought him to it? That’s what I can’t +understand—that I _can’t_ understand. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I?—Oh! no! it was Ida who persuaded him. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Robert doesn’t trouble himself much about us either, but at least he +comes once a year at Christmas time for a few days: that’s not much to be +grateful for—but William—six whole years he’s not been here—neither he +nor my husband—for six whole years. Does she get on with him? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Ida?—Very well in every way. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, that’s extraordinary. You simply can’t imagine _how_ reserved +the boy always was—just like his father. No playfellows, no school +friends,—nothing. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes, yes, that’s how he was with us at first. He never would come near +the house, except for the music-lesson. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Later, though, he came? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Well,—yes. He said we mustn’t worry him, and when he felt able he’d come +of his own accord. We had the sense to let him have his own way, and +sure enough, after waiting for him half a year, in fact,—when we’d given +up waiting, he came—and afterwards, day after day, little by little, he +became quite different. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You must have bewitched him—his engagement alone—that’s what I can’t get +over. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear +husband was one. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he +can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is +terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less +so because he _has_ kept it to himself. At all costs he must get over +that, even in this matter too. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy +mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an +inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my +husband and I, but that’s _our_ business, no human being has a right to +interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I, +of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the +house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was +no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else +did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +William may have been _much_ to blame—I’m convinced of that. But think, +to have repented for years, and— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +No—no! Good heavens, what can you be thinking of! It’s not so easily got +over; that would be worse still. It’s very good of you to have taken so +to the boy, and it’s nice too that he’s coming—as indeed why shouldn’t +he? But, after all, what’s the good of it? It’s not so easy to fill up +a gulf—yes, yes, there _are_ gulfs—that’s what they are, gulfs—deep +gulfs—in our family. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Still I can’t help thinking that we—that those of us with firm, honest +intentions— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Intentions, intentions! don’t talk to me! I know better! One can intend, +and intend, and intend, hundreds of things, and nothing gets any further. +No, no!—it’s quite another thing with your daughter. She is so—and +William is so—and both are what they are.—Much too good a sort for one of +us—much, much too good.—Oh, Lord, yes!—intentions!—Ah yes! all these good +intentions—Your intentions are all very well, but whether they lead to +anything—I doubt it! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +But I hope it—all the more. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, it may be. I’ll say nothing to spoil it. In spite of everything, my +heart goes out to the boy; only it excites me so, I’m frightened; and, +mind you, it won’t be all as easy as you think. + +IDA (_enters right; to Mrs Scholz, sweetly_). + +Little mother-in-law, she’s gilding the nuts. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Time’s getting on, Ida! You must make yourself beautiful, he may be here +at any moment. + +IDA (_startled_). + +What? Already! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh, don’t trouble! She’s much too beautiful for him as it is. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I’ve put the blue out for you (_calling after Ida_), and put on the +brooch; don’t forget. + + [_Exit Ida._ + +MRS BUCHNER (_continuing, to Mrs Scholz_). + +She doesn’t care a bit for jewellery. + + [_The outer door of the house opens and shuts._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Wait—who—(_to Mrs Buchner_) please will you—I can’t see him yet—I— + +MRS BUCHNER (_calling up the stairs_). + +Ida! your William is here. + + [_Dr Scholz enters through the glass door. He is unusually + tall, broad-shouldered, very bloated. The face is fat, + complexion muddy, the eyes sometimes glittering, with wandering + glances, but usually dull and lack-lustre. He has a grey, + stubbly beard, partially covering his cheeks; his movements + are clumsy and tremulous; he speaks brokenly, as if with his + mouth full; stumbles over syllables, and is interrupted by + gasping inspirations. He is slovenly dressed: a velvet vest, + coat and trousers of nondescript colour, once brown—cap with a + large peak, stone-grey in colour, peculiar in shape; red silk + neckerchief, linen creased. He uses a large Turkish pocket + handkerchief. On entering he carries a malacca cane with a + staghorn crook in his right hand, and has flung about him a + large military cloak, over his left arm a fur foot-bag._ + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Servus! servus! + +MRS SCHOLZ (_staring at him as if at an apparition_). + +Fritz!— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +As you see. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_throwing her arms about him with a scream_). + +Fritz!! + +AUGUSTA (_opens the door L., starts back_). + +Father! + + [_Mrs Buchner goes off backwards through the left door, her + eyes fixed on Dr Scholz._ + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Yes, yes, yes, it’s I. But first of all—is Friebe there? + +FRIEBE (_peeping through kitchen door, starts—coming forward_). + +The doctor! (_He rushes to him and seizes and kisses both his hands._) +Now, would anyone have believed it! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +St!—Just go and see—see that the house door is shut. + + [_Friebe nods and obeys with joyful alacrity._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But Fritz, tell me—only tell me, my mind’s all confused (_weeping, +embraces him_). Ah Fritz! what grief you’ve caused me all this long, long +time. + +DR SCHOLZ (_putting his wife gently from him_). + +Ah well, my life too—we’d better not begin with reproaches. You’re just +the same doleful old thing (_with gentle bitterness_). Anyhow I should +certainly not have troubled you—if it hadn’t been for—(_Friebe takes his +cloak, etc._) There are times in life, dear Minna—if one has powerful +enemies as I have— + + [_Friebe goes out through the stairway with the Dr’s + belongings._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_pretending to be cross_). + +Nobody _made_ you come, Fritz. Here there has always been a safe, cosy +home;—you could have lived so comfortably here. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Don’t be cross—you don’t understand. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah yes! I’m only a simpleton, I suppose,—but really, you weren’t +answerable to anyone; it wasn’t at all necessary for you— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +—St! It was very necessary (_half mysteriously_). After guilt, atonement; +after sin, chastisement. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (_From here +to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety +towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to see William +come in._) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only +let us. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +It was all my fault, all of it. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +There, now you are unjust again. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me, +that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night +could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and +always just in front of _my_ door. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +No—? oh you!—you don’t understand! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Mean!—I should think they are.—However, we can speak of that later. I +have rather a headache—(_puts his hand on the back of his head_). There! +that’s another disgraceful thing! I know well enough whom I have to +thank for that! I’ll just see whether I can’t drive it away with a sound +sleep—I am very tired. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But there’s no fire upstairs, Fritz! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Think of that. From Vienna without stopping and no fire!—Never mind; +Friebe will have seen to that. Tell me about Friebe—I mean—is he still as +trustworthy? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Friebe is—what he always was. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +I was sure of it—well for the present—(_after he has pressed his wife’s +hand, he turns with a deep thoughtful expression and goes towards +the staircase. Noticing the Christmas tree, he stops and looks at it +forlornly._) What is that? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_disturbed, shamefaced, and a little frightened_). + +We’re keeping Christmas. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Keeping Christmas!—(_after a long pause, lost in memories_) It’s a +long—long—time (_turning and speaking with real emotion_). And you—you’ve +grown quite white! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Yes, Fritz—both of us! + + [_Dr Scholz nodding turns away and goes off through stairway L._ + +MRS BUCHNER (_entering quickly from R._). + +So your husband has come back? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +It’s as though—as if—I don’t know—Christ! what am I to think! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +That it is a gift, dear friend, for which we must all be thankful. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah! what he looks like! How he has lived! What an existence!—from one +country to another, from one town to—ah! he’s gone through something! + + [_Mrs Buchner is going to stairway._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What are you going to do? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Tell Ida of the joyful event. + + [_Goes off through stairway._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh yes!—no, no,—what are you thinking of! We mustn’t let that out. If my +husband finds out that anyone but himself lives up there, I should get +into nice trouble. + +MRS BUCHNER (_from the stairs_). + +I’ll go very gently. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Yes, quite gently.—That would be dreadful! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I’m going quite gently. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!—Well—very, very gently! + +AUGUSTA (_hastily entering from R._). + +Father is here? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_beside herself_). + +Why, of course! And now what’s to be done! The next thing will be +William—Oh! the deadly fear I’ve been in! if he and his father were to +meet! Any minute he may come in! What an experience to go through for an +old woman like me! + +AUGUSTA. + +What an extraordinary sensation, mamma, extraordinary!—We were so used +to—It’s like a man risen from the dead after long years.—I’m frightened, +mamma. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Do you suppose he’s come to the end of his money? + +AUGUSTA. + +Now—that would be—Well! I—that would be the last straw! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, in that case, how should we manage at all! We might as well go and +beg at once. + + [_Ida fully dressed enters from stairway, presses Augusta’s + hand joyfully._ + +IDA. + +Gussie! (_winningly_) It’s really true! Oh! I am so glad. + + [_Mrs Scholz and Augusta show a certain painful emotion._ + + [_Robert enters from one of the doors R.; he is of middle + height, slender, pale-faced, and haggard-looking. His eyes + are sunken, and at times glitter feverishly; moustache and + imperial. He smokes Turkish tobacco out of a noticeably + short-stemmed pipe._ + +ROBERT (_lightly_). + +You’re going to have it warm here, mother. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Now _he’s_ beginning! + +AUGUSTA. + +For all I care! + + [_Steals sidelong glances at Ida’s dress._ + +ROBERT (_to Ida, who has looked at him reproachfully_). + +Yes, that’s how I’m made, Miss Ida! + +IDA (_shaking her head at him incredulously_). + +No! no! + +AUGUSTA (_exploding_). + +You’re too maddening, Robert! + +ROBERT. + +Not intentionally! Don’t _get_ mad! + + [_Augusta makes a contemptuous gesture._ + +ROBERT. + +And then——? + +AUGUSTA. + +And then!—And then!—Bosh! + +ROBERT (_with simulated astonishment_). + +I beg your pardon—I thought—but you no longer depend on mere outward +charms! + +IDA (_soothingly_). + +Oh! Mr Robert! + +ROBERT. + +H’m, mustn’t I defend myself? + +AUGUSTA (_half choked with tears_). + +Just like you! Just like you. Your whole—my age—it’s infamous of you! +Mrs Buchner! isn’t it too mean of him? To me! I—I who have stuck to +mother—through the best—most beautiful time of my young life!—whilst all +of you—I—just as if I’d been a servant-girl! + +ROBERT. + +On my word!—that has the true ring—try the stage! (_with an altered +manner: roughly_) Don’t play the fool; just think! you with a martyr’s +halo, that would be too funny! You’d have come off even worse anywhere +else than you have at home, that’s the truth of it! + +AUGUSTA. + +Mother! you can bear witness—haven’t I refused three proposals? + +ROBERT. + +Pff! If mother had only forked out the necessary money the gentlemen +would no doubt have included you in the bargain. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_stepping up to Robert, holding her hand out_). + +There, take a knife—cut it out of me—cut the money out of my hand! + +AUGUSTA. + +Listen to me! Would you like to see the letters of refusal? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_). + +Children! (_She makes a movement as if to bare her breast for a +death-stroke._) Here—rather kill me at once! Haven’t you so much pity for +me? Not so much? What? Ah! good Lord! Not five minutes! I never saw such +children; not five minutes can you keep peace! + +ROBERT. + +Exactly, that’s what I said: things are warming up again. + + [_Friebe comes importantly from the stairway; he whispers to + Mrs Scholz, whereupon she gives him a key. Friebe goes out + through cellar door. Robert has stood watching this proceeding._ + +ROBERT (_as Friebe disappears down the cellar steps_). + +Aha! + +AUGUSTA (_who has kept her eye on Robert: breaking out furiously_). + +You haven’t a shred of filial feeling!—not one shred! + +ROBERT. + +And then——? + +AUGUSTA. + +But you’re a good hand at acting—you lie abominably; and that’s the most +disgusting part of it. + +ROBERT. + +About father, do you mean? + +AUGUSTA. + +Especially about father. + +ROBERT (_shrugging his shoulders_). + +If you mean—— + +AUGUSTA. + +Yes—yes—that—_that_! Yes—for—if it were _not_ so, then, yes _then_ you +would be a scoundrel—— + +MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_). + +Will you two be quiet or—— + +ROBERT (_without noticing her_). + +Then I am a scoundrel—well and then?—— + + [_Ida, who for a long time has shown restless expectation goes + out through glass door._ + +AUGUSTA. + +Pfui! shameless! + +ROBERT. + +Shameless—just so. So I am. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Mr Robert! I don’t believe you—you are better than you would have us +believe—better than you yourself believe! + +ROBERT (_with slight but increasing sarcasm, coldly_). + +My dear Mrs Buchner! it is no doubt very kind of you—but as I said—I +hardly know—to what this honour—indeed I can lay no claim to your +indulgence. My self-esteem is at the present moment by no means so slight +that I feel the need of anyone to—— + +MRS BUCHNER (_slightly bewildered_). + +That isn’t at all what I mean—only—your _father_? + +ROBERT. + +My father for me is a certain Fritz Scholz, doctor of medicine. + +AUGUSTA. + +Oh yes—go on! + +ROBERT. + +And if I cannot feel towards this man quite so indifferent as towards any +other tomfool, it is because I—and then—(_he smokes_) because I—well just +this—I am myself to a certain extent the product of his folly. + +MRS BUCHNER (_hardly believing her ears_). + +Excuse me! I can’t follow you so far. How can you say such a thing?—It +really quite upsets me. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_to Mrs Buchner_). + +There, there!—You’ll see things in this house—— + +AUGUSTA. + +Now what do you mean by that, mother? We are—_what_ we are. Other people +who do—Lord knows what—they’re no better! + +ROBERT. + +As a matter of fact there are always simple souls to be found who are +never happy unless they can potter about tinkering their neighbours’ +affairs—exploded ideas!—Rubbish! + +MRS BUCHNER (_seizing Robert by both hands, with feeling_). + +Mr Robert! I feel under a distinct obligation to you. I’m quite charmed. +Honestly, you haven’t offended me in the least! + +ROBERT (_a little taken aback_). + +You are an extraordinary woman! + + [_Friebe comes from the cellar; he carries in his left + hand three bottles of red wine, the bottle necks between + his fingers, a bottle of cognac under his left arm. In his + right hand he has the cellar key. Advancing to Mrs Scholz, + importantly._]— + +FRIEBE. + +Now then—the cigars. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Good gracious, Friebe, I really don’t know— + +ROBERT. + +In the writing-table, mother. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah—yes!— + + [_She takes a bunch of keys and fumbles nervously for the right + one._ + +AUGUSTA. + +Why! you know the key of the desk! + +ROBERT. + +The one with the straight ward. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh yes! wait a minute! + +ROBERT. + +Give it to me. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Wait—wait—here—ah!—no!—I’m quite confused! (_handing Robert the bunch_). +There! + +ROBERT (_detaching the right key and passing it to Friebe_). + +There, I trust my father’s cigars may meet with your approval. + +FRIEBE. + +There you are! We shan’t get him away from them all day! (_bell rings +loudly_) Coming—coming! (_goes off upstairs_). + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Now the wine will soon come to an end!—Good heavens! What are we coming +to! All that wine. Always those strong, expensive cigars! I tell you he +will ruin himself! + +ROBERT. + +Well, it’s a free country! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +What do you mean? + +ROBERT. + +Everyone has a right to amuse himself in his own way. I, at any rate, +would not have my right interfered with, not even by law. H’m, it’s +extraordinary! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +What! + +ROBERT. + +Extraordinary! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Why do you look at me so critically? Is it something about me that is +_extraordinary_? + +ROBERT. + +Depends how you look at it! You’ve been with us several days, and you’ve +not yet thought of going—! + +AUGUSTA. + +What a way to talk! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +They _won’t_ stop! + + [_She shakes her head despairingly._ + +ROBERT (_with brutal candour_). + +Well mother, isn’t it true? Have any strangers ever been able to stand +us more than half a day? Haven’t they all cleared out?—The Schulzes—the +Lehmanns? + +AUGUSTA. + +As if we were dependent on strangers—for my part we’re enough for +ourselves. + +ROBERT. + +Oh _more_ than enough! (_Brutally_) I tell you, Mrs Buchner, they +would fly at each other’s throats before perfect strangers—like +wild beasts. Mother would tear off the tablecloth, father smash the +water-bottle—cheerful, eh?—Pretty scenes!—Charming impressions for +children! + +AUGUSTA. + +You ought to crawl out of sight for shame, you mean wretch, you! + + [_Goes off quickly._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You see? _This_ is what I’ve endured for years—_years_! + + [_Goes out in great agitation._ + +ROBERT (_going on, quite unmoved_). + +And no wonder. A man of forty marries a girl of sixteen and carries her +off to this godforsaken corner. A man who has served as surgeon in the +Turkish army, and travelled through Japan. A cultivated, enterprising +spirit, who works out the most daring projects—joins himself to a +woman who a few years before was firmly convinced, that America was +one of the stars in the sky. Truly I don’t exaggerate! Well, the +result—a stagnant, corrupt, fermenting swamp—out of which we have had +the doubtful advantage of growing—Horrible!—Love?—not a trace. Mutual +understanding?—respect?—not a touch—and this is the soil from which we +children have grown. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Mr Robert!—I want to beg you— + +ROBERT. + +All right! I don’t want to talk of it. Besides the story is— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +No, no!—I want to ask you for something—pressing. + +ROBERT. + +Ask me—what? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Couldn’t you—to please me—couldn’t you?—wouldn’t it be possible—just this +one evening—couldn’t you put off your mask? + +ROBERT. + +That’s good! Put off my mask? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes, for it’s not really you—it’s not really your own face that you show +us. + +ROBERT. + +What an idea! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Promise me—Mr Robert!— + +ROBERT. + +But I really don’t know— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +William—your brother William may come at any moment—and— + +ROBERT (_interrupting_). + +Mrs Buchner, if you would only—Believe me!—your efforts, I assure you, +are quite useless—all this will lead to nothing—absolutely nothing—it’s +all been spoilt for us—ruined—bungled from the very beginning—bungled +through every year of our lives. There’s nothing more to be done. +It all looks very—promising—Christmas tree—candles—presents—family +gathering—That’s only on top: a downright damnable lie—nothing else! And +now—Father!—If I didn’t know how unmanageable he is—on my honour I should +believe—that it was you—who brought him here— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Indeed no! That is just what has quickened my hopes. It is not chance, +it’s providence—and so from my heart I beg you to be kind and brotherly +to William. If you only knew how highly he speaks of you, with what love +and what respect— + +ROBERT (_interrupting_). + +H’m!—and what use will it be? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +What? + +ROBERT. + +Why should I be kind and brotherly to him? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +You ask that! + +ROBERT. + +Yes. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Well—at least not to spoil his return home for him. + +ROBERT. + +Oh, we don’t affect each other as you seem to think, and, besides, if you +imagine he is going to be overcome by a subtle emotion on first entering +here— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Your brother is so good—a really fine character!—He must have fought a +great fight before bringing himself to this point. He is coming with an +intense desire for reconciliation, that I can _assure_ you! + +ROBERT. + +I can’t understand all that. Reconciled—to what?—That’s what I can’t +see. As a rule, we understand one another fairly well in this family. +But this is quite beyond me! I’ve nothing to say against him, but on the +other hand there’s no disguising facts.—I ask you—do you imagine that +I have any exaggerated respect for my father?—Of course not.—Or that I +have any—love—for him?—Or any childlike feeling of gratitude?—You see, +I haven’t the slightest reason for any such feeling. In all our lives, +the most that we have ever been to each other, has been a source of +amusement. At moments, when we have blamed each other for our common +unhappiness, we have actually hated each other. Well, between father +and William this same hatred grew. That I understand well enough. That I +haven’t done what William did is perhaps an accident. So I have nothing +against him—_nota bene_, so long as I don’t see him. But if I see him, +then all my logic goes to the devil, for I am rather,—rather—h’m, what +shall I say?—Well, _then_ I only see the man who has struck my father, +not his, but _my_ father, struck him in the face! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Oh my God!— + +ROBERT. + +And then I can answer for nothing—you see?—absolutely for nothing. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +My God!—Was that it!—Struck him, you say?—In—the—f—, in the face? His own +father?— + +ROBERT. + +Just that. + +MRS BUCHNER (_half beside herself_). + +Oh my God!—But then—then I can indeed!—Ah! then I must speak to him at +once.—Your good old father—for— + +ROBERT (_quite startled_). + +To whom?— + +MRS BUCHNER (_bursting into tears_). + +To your poor dear old ill-treated father! + +ROBERT (_trying to restrain her_). + +For heaven’s sake what can you— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Let me go—I must—I must—! + + [_Goes through stairway._ + +ROBERT (_calling after her_). + +Mrs Buchner! (_Turning back_) Damned hysteria!— + + [_He shrugs his shoulders, and paces the room more than once; + he makes a movement as if to hurry after her, but finally + gives up the idea, and forces himself into a state of apparent + indifference; he first occupies himself with his pipe; knocks + it out, fills it with new tobacco from his pouch, lights it, + and seems for some minutes lost in the enjoyment of smoking. + Presently his interest is roused by the Christmas tree, and + turning to the presents on the table, he plants himself before + them; while surveying them, pipe in mouth, he laughs bitterly + more than once. Suddenly he starts, takes his pipe in his hand, + and bends low over the table: straightening himself, he seems + for the first time to discover that he is alone; looking round + as cautiously as a thief, he bends forward again, hastily + seizes the yellow silk purse, looks at it more closely, and + presses it with a sudden passionate movement to his lips. In + this movement he shows, as by a lightning flash, an eerie, + feverish passion. A noise startles him. Instantly the purse + lies where it was. On tiptoe he tries to slip away. Just as he + is disappearing through the door down R., he sees his mother + enter by the adjoining door, and on his part stands still. + Mrs Scholz goes heavily but quickly across the room to the + stairway, where she stands and listens._] + +ROBERT (_turning back_). + +I say, mother, what does that woman want? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_frightened_). + +Oh God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!!! How you startle one! + +ROBERT. + +What! (_puffs_) wh—(_puffs again_), what does Mrs—Mrs Buchner really want +here, I should like to know? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What _I_ want to know is, what your father—what _he_ really wants? Ah, +just tell me! what is it? + +ROBERT. + +Well, you’ll scarcely refuse him a roof over his head? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_perversely, almost in tears_). + +I really don’t see. It’s so long since he wanted me; one was at any rate +one’s own master; now it will begin all over again. The old worry!—now in +one’s old days, one will be ordered about like a little child! + +ROBERT. + +Oh! how you exaggerate! It’s always the same, you will exaggerate so. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Just you wait till he sees the empty greenhouse to-morrow. There’s waste +enough without my keeping another gardener; the bee-hives, they’re +gone too. No flowers need trouble themselves to grow for anything I +care, they only give you headaches; and then the insects——I don’t know +what he gets out of it; and for that, one must be ordered about like a +good-for-nothing! The first “hallo!” startles me out of my wits. Oh, this +world is no longer any good. + +ROBERT (_while Mrs Scholz speaks, shrugs his shoulders and turns to go, +then stops and answers_). + +Was it ever better, then? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Better! I should think so!! + +ROBERT. + +Really! that must have been before my time! + + [_Goes out through lower door._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_listening again on stairway_). + +When I remember—they’re talking upstairs (_she looks up, sees she is +alone, listens again uneasily, and finally goes out through stairway, one +hand up to her ear, her face expressing fright and curiosity_). + + [_Ida and William enter through the glass door: William is of + middle height, strong, healthy-looking; fair hair, cut short; + his clothes fit well without being foppish; overcoat, hat, + satchel. His left arm is laid round Ida’s shoulders. She has + her right arm thrown around him, and with gentle force is + pushing him on._] + +IDA. + +You see now, you’re inside! The worst is over already. + +WILLIAM. + +Ah no! + + [_Sighs heavily._ + +IDA. + +You may believe me how very glad your mother is—and Gussie too. (_She +pulls off his winter gloves_) Where did you get these from! + +WILLIAM. + +So you know my—mother now? + +IDA. + +All of them, dearest; we’re sworn friends already. + +WILLIAM. + +And how do you—like them? + +IDA. + +_Dear_ people, as you know very well. + +WILLIAM (_growing each moment more constrained and depressed, speaks as +though to himself_). + +Extraordinary! (_his eyes catch sight of the Christmas tree, he +immediately lowers them; starting involuntarily_). + +IDA. + +But, dearest, surely that’s not the first Christmas tree which you— + +WILLIAM. + +Yes, _here_, and you cannot possibly feel with me how—how—extraordinary—— + +IDA (_taking off his coat; he remains passive_). + +Please, please, Willy (_standing in front of him, his coat over her arm, +his hat and satchel in her hand_), Willy, look at me! (_encouragingly_) +straight—(_stands a moment drawn up to her full height, then puts the +things quickly to one side, and comes back to William_). You have +promised me! + +WILLIAM. + +Have you ever,—Ida,—have you ever seen a vaulted tomb hung with wreaths +and— + +IDA (_shocked_). + +Oh William! (_quite beside herself, throws her arms about him_) that _is_ +bad of you!—that is too bad! that is really too, _too_ bad of you! + +WILLIAM (_putting her gently from him with suppressed emotion_). + +All that means nothing, nothing at all. (_Coldly repelling her._) Be +reasonable, be reasonable! + +IDA. + +Oh! what _is_ the matter with you! + +WILLIAM (_looking through the tree_). + +Everything else is as it used to be. Ida, you must really, really +remember what this all means to me. + +IDA. + +I’m getting so frightened, Willy! Perhaps, after all, it would have been +better to——Mother certainly did not know that it would be _so_ hard for +you,—and I—I only thought—because mother said—it wasn’t that _I_ wished +it—! But now, now that you’ve got so far, do—will you?—for my sake! Ah! +(_putting her arms round him_). + +WILLIAM (_drawn a little further into the room by Ida’s embrace, with +sighs of deep inward disturbance_). + +Every step forwards—what I have lived through in this very place! + +IDA. + +Only don’t stir that up! Don’t stir all that up! + +WILLIAM. + +See! now it’s getting clear to me—your mother should not have persuaded +me to this. She’s always so confident,—so—I knew—I told her—but that +simple absolute confidence! If only I hadn’t allowed myself to be blinded— + +IDA. + +Ah! how seriously you take everything, William! Believe me, you will +speak differently to-morrow,—as soon as you’ve once seen them all again. +Then you’ll at any rate have done your part; you will have proved that +you were in earnest in your wish to live at peace with your family. + +WILLIAM. + +To see it all again! all the old places! Everything comes back—so +vividly, you know—the past comes so close to me—so oppressively close—one +can—one is quite helpless— + +IDA (_embracing him with tears_). + +When I see you like this, William—ah, don’t think—for pity’s sake don’t +think I would have urged you. I am so frightfully sorry for you! + +WILLIAM. + +Ida, I can tell _you_!—I assure you—I must get away from here! That’s +evident.—I’m not equal to this struggle evidently; it might wreck me +altogether! You are such a child, Ida! a sweet, innocent child—how should +you know! Thank God indeed that you cannot even dream what I—what this +man whom you know—I can tell _you_—Hatred!—Bitterness!—the very moment I +came in— + +IDA. + +Shall we go? shall we go away? this minute? + +WILLIAM. + +Yes! For in these surroundings you—even you—I can scarcely separate you +in my mind from the rest! I’m losing you! It’s criminal in me the mere +fact that you should be here! + +IDA. + +If you could only explain, William, there must be—something terrible must +have happened here that— + +WILLIAM. + +Here! A crime—all the more terrible because it did not count as one. +Here my life was given to me, and here that same life—I can tell _you_, +was—I had almost said systematically destroyed, till it grew loathsome +to me—till I dragged it—bowed down like a beast of burden—crept about +with it—buried myself, hid myself.—What can I say—one suffers beyond +words!—Fury—hate—revenge—despair without ceasing, day and night; the same +gnawing devouring pain (_pointing to his forehead_) _here_ (_pointing to +his heart_) and _there_! + +IDA. + +Only—what can I do, William? I dare not trust myself to advise you in any +way, I am so— + +WILLIAM. + +You should have been contented to leave me with at least the happiness +that I had gained. It had all grown so mercifully dim, I realise now +_how_ dim! (_overcome with excitement, he sinks on to a chair_). + +IDA (_with a suppressed cry_). + +William! + +MRS BUCHNER (_rushing in through the stairway to William_). + +William! listen to me! Only remember now what has been said between us. +Now that I am so much to you—I implore you—now show your—yes, I demand +it—I demand it from you, as the mother of my child! William, it rests +with _you_ now—with you only, William! you have been terribly, terribly +to blame; you have a terrible debt to pay—you shall be happy again; I +have done it, I have spoken to your father—he— + +WILLIAM (_springs up, straight and stiff, with fixed eyes, stammering_):— + +F—F—father!—what—t—to my f—father (_he staggers and stumbles like one out +of his mind, and catches at his overcoat_) I— + +IDA (_frightened_). + +Willy! Willy! + +WILLIAM (_makes signs that he must not be stopped_). + +IDA. + +Ah, mother! William! you—you shouldn’t have told him so suddenly. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +William! are you a man! you cannot have deceived us. If you have still a +spark of love for us—for Ida, I demand it of you. I—a woman— + +IDA (_intercepts William, who has seized his outdoor things, flings her +arms round and holds him fast_). + +You shall not go—or else I—mother, if he goes, I go with him! + +WILLIAM. + +Why have you concealed this from me? + +IDA. + +Never! don’t think so badly of us! We have concealed nothing from you! +All of us, your mother, your sister, we had not an idea, any more than +you had; he only came a few minutes ago,—without letting anyone know +beforehand, and so, you see—I thought immediately— + +WILLIAM. + +Who has told you that? + +MRS BUCHNER (_in tears, seizing his hands_). + +You were terribly, terribly to blame. + +WILLIAM. + +So you know? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes, now. + +WILLIAM. + +Everything? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes, everything, and you see I was right: you were still dragging a load, +that was the secret. + +WILLIAM. + +You know that I—? + +MRS BUCHNER (_nods affirmatively_). + +WILLIAM. + +And Ida, is she to be sacrificed to a man like—like me? Does she know +it—do you know it, Ida, too? + +IDA. + +No, William, but whether I know it or not, that really does not matter. + +WILLIAM. + +No?—This hand, that you, that you have often,—this hand (_to Mrs +Buchner_), it _was_ that? + +MRS BUCHNER (_nods as before_). + +WILLIAM (_to Ida_). + +How shamefully I have deceived you! No, I can’t tell you—another time! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +William, I know what I am asking, but I—you _must_ humble yourself before +your poor father; till then you will never feel quite free! Call to him, +pray to him. Ah! William! you _must_! You must cling to his knees, and +if he spurns you with his foot, you must not defend yourself! You must +not speak a word! patient as a lamb! Believe me, a woman who wishes the +_best_ for you! + +WILLIAM. + +You _don’t_ know, you cannot know, what you are asking of me! Ah! you may +thank God, Mrs Buchner, that he has hidden the extent of your cruelty +from you! Infamous it may have been what I did! Sacrilegious!—But +what I have gone through, here—fought through, suffered—those fearful +tortures—he laid the full burden, all the burden on me, and at the end +of all, that accursed sin! But in spite of all (_after a long deep look +into Ida’s eyes, bracing himself as if to a firm resolution_), perhaps I +shall succeed—in spite of all! + + + + +ACT II + + + The room is empty. It is lighted partly by a lamp, with a red + shade, placed in the arch of the stairway, but principally from + the open doors of the side room. Here the company is seated at + table, as is evident from the ringing of glasses and clatter of + plates, knives and forks. + + [_Ida, followed at once by William, comes out of the side room._ + +IDA. + +At last! (_Coaxingly._) And now, you _must_ think of your father, Willy. +Don’t be angry with me, but since you have a favour to ask your father, +you mustn’t wait till he comes down to you. + +WILLIAM. + +Did father think of coming down to dinner? + +IDA. + +Of course! Mamma has— + + [_William seizes Ida suddenly in his arms and presses her to + him impulsively with passionate strength._ + +IDA. + +Oh—oh—you—If anyone—my hair will be all— + + [_William lets his arms fall nervelessly from round her, folds + his hands, hangs his head, and stands before her suddenly + sobered, like an arrested criminal._ + +(_Smoothing her hair._) Oh, what a rough boy you are, sometimes! + +WILLIAM. + +Rough you call it—I should call it something quite different. + +IDA. + +Oh, Willy! why are you so depressed again? All in a minute! Really, +you’re incorrigible! + +WILLIAM (_gripping her hand, puts his arm round her shoulders, makes her +walk with him quickly through the hall_). + +Incorrigible? Yes—you see—that’s just it; I’m afraid of nothing so much +as that I—as that—all your trouble with me will be thrown away, I’m so +terribly changeable! (_Touching his forehead._) There’s no peace here. +Any second might decide my fate! I’m afraid of myself! To be always +running away from one’s self. Have you any idea of what that means? Well, +that’s what I am, what I have been all my life. + +IDA. + +After all—but no, that won’t do— + +WILLIAM. + +But do say— + +IDA. + +I’ve often thought—really—it has seemed to me so often that—don’t be +angry—but that really there is nothing from which you need fly. I myself +sometimes think— + +WILLIAM. + +Ah, my dearest! You mustn’t—Did you notice Robert—did you see? + +IDA. + +No—what? + +WILLIAM. + +Did you see how he met me? He—you see—he _knows_ that I have to fly from +myself, he knows me. Just ask him, he will make it clear to you, that is +to say, he threatens to—Ah, I know better! Only just watch how he always +looks at me. He means me to be anxious, to be frightened—Ha! ha! ha! No, +my dear brother, we’re not so pitiful as all that yet! And now you _do_ +see, don’t you, Ida, that I daren’t let you—I mean, you mustn’t have any +illusions about me. There is only one way. I must be frank with you—I +must manage _that_ somehow—I fight for that. When you know me through +and through, then—I mean if you can bear with me, if you can still—love +me—then—that would be—then I think something might arise in me, something +brave, even proud—then I should _really_ live, and if they were all to +despise me—(_Ida nestles against him devotedly._) And now, before I go up +to father, I’ll tell you too—you know what I mean? + + [_Ida nods._ + +WILLIAM. + +Now you shall—I must force myself to tell you what this—between me and my +father—yes, Ida, I _will_ do it—(_They walk arm in arm._) Just imagine! +I was here on a visit.—No, I can’t begin like that, I must go farther +back. You know before that I had been making my own way for a long time. +I suppose I hadn’t told you that? + +IDA. + +No—But quietly, only not so much—Don’t excite yourself so, Willy! + +WILLIAM. + +You see—there again! I am a coward. I’ve never yet dared to tell you what +my life has been. In any case it’s a risk—it’s a risk—even to one’s self. +Ah! well, if I can’t even bring myself to that point, how shall I ever +manage to go up to father? + +IDA. + +Ah, don’t—don’t torture yourself so! just now, when you have so much to +bear! + +WILLIAM. + +Ah! you are afraid? You’re afraid of what you may hear? + +IDA. + +Sh! you must not speak like that. + +WILLIAM. + +Well then, just picture it. Father spent his life up there. He had always +lived alone till he met mother, and he soon fell back into the old +lonely, fantastic way of life. All of a sudden he descended on us—Robert +and me,—he never troubled his head about Augusta.... Ten solid hours a +day we pored over books; when I look at our prison—even to-day—it was +next his study—you must have seen it? + +IDA. + +The great room upstairs? + +WILLIAM. + +Yes, that one. Once we had entered that room, the sun might shine as +brightly as it liked through the windows, it was night for us inside. +Well, then, you see, we used to take refuge with mother; we simply ran +away from him; and then there used to be scenes—mother pulling me by one +arm, father by the other. It came to this, that Friebe had to carry us +upstairs. We defended ourselves: we used to bite his hands. Of course, +nothing was any use; our life only became more unendurable—but we +remained obstinate and—I know now—father began to hate us. We drove him +to such a point that one day he hunted us downstairs; he couldn’t endure +us any more, the very sight of us was hateful to him. + +IDA. + +But your father—you’ll admit he meant well—he wanted you to learn a great +deal, and so— + +WILLIAM. + +Up to a certain point he may have meant well—may have—but at that time +we were only boys of nine or ten and afterwards the good intentions +disappeared. On the contrary, his intention then was to let us go utterly +to ruin. Yes, yes, mother was a cipher. For five years we were left +to ourselves in the most reckless way: we were scamps and loafers. I +had one thing left—my music; Robert had nothing. But we took to other +things besides. We shall scarcely ever get over the effects of some +of _them_.—At last I suppose father’s conscience pricked him; there +were frightful scenes with mother. In the end we were packed off to an +Institution, and when I could not stand the slavery of that any more and +ran away, he had me stopped and sent to Hamburg. The good-for-nothing +should go to America. The good-for-nothing naturally ran away again. I +let my parents alone and starved and fought my own way through the world. +Robert has much the same experience to look back upon. Nevertheless, in +father’s eyes we have remained good-for-nothings: later on I was simple +enough to ask him for some help—as a right, not as charity; I wanted +to go to the Conservatoire. Then he wrote to me, on a postcard, “Be a +cobbler.” And so you see, Ida, we are in a way self-made men, but we’re +not particularly proud of it. + +IDA (_smiling_). + +Really, Willy, I can’t help it! I do sympathise with you so, but at this +moment I can’t help—Oh, don’t look so strangely at me, please—please— + +WILLIAM. + +Ah, Ida, it’s bitter, not a thing to laugh at. + +IDA (_breaking out_). + +It’s a feeling of _joy_, William! I must tell you! It may be selfish, +but I am so inexpressibly glad that you—that you can be so much in need +of—Ah, I will be so good to you, Willy. I see clearly what I have to +do. Ah! I am quite confused! I pity you so, but the more I pity you, +the more glad I am. Do you understand? I mean, I am thinking how I may +perhaps—everything—all the love that you have had to go without—I may +perhaps more than— + +WILLIAM. + +If I’m only worth it—for now something is coming for which I alone am to +blame—Years ago—no! it’s—I used to come afterwards on a sort of visit to +mother. Picture to yourself, Ida, when I saw all that misery again, just +imagine how I used to feel. + +IDA. + +Your mother—suffered very much? + +WILLIAM. + +I think differently now in many ways about mother. In any case, father +was most to blame. In those days it used to seem to me as if he kept +mother here against her will. I even wanted her to separate from him. + +IDA. + +But, your mother surely couldn’t— + +WILLIAM. + +She didn’t see it as I did. She hadn’t the courage. Well, what father +used to look like in my eyes, you can perhaps imagine. + +IDA. + +But William! Perhaps you too, were not quite just to your father—a man— + +WILLIAM (_without noticing Ida’s interruption._) + +Once I committed the folly of bringing a friend—nonsense! not a friend, a +chance acquaintance, a musical fellow. I brought him here with me. That +was quite refreshing for mother; she played duets with him every day for +a whole week, and then—frightful!—as true as I’m here he—not the shadow +of a possibility! Yet at the end of the week even the servants flung it +in her face! + +IDA. + +Forgive me! I don’t—I—flung what? + +WILLIAM. + +Mother—mother was supposed to—my mother—supposed to—just think, they +actually dared to accuse her of it openly, she—a secret understanding +with—that she—I taxed her with it—the girl who said it—insolent—the +coachman had told her. I went to the coachman, and he—he stuck to it—had +it from the master, from the master himself—, naturally I—was it possible +I could believe such a thing! At least I tried not to—until I myself +overheard—in the stables—father and the stable boy—you may believe my +very hands tingled when I heard him—about my mother. + +IDA. + +Only do be—try—don’t excite yourself so _fearfully_. You are quite— + +WILLIAM. + +I don’t know any more—I only know there is something in a man—his will is +a mere wisp of straw. One must go through it to—It swept over me like a +flood. A state like—and in this state I found myself suddenly in father’s +room. I saw him. He was doing something—I can’t remember what. And then +I—literally—I thrashed him—with these hands. + + [_He can scarcely hold himself up._ + + [_Ida dries the tears from her eyes. Pale and trembling she + stands some moments looking at William, then, crying quietly, + kisses him on the forehead._ + +WILLIAM. + +You angel of pity! (_The Doctor’s voice is heard on the stair._) And +now—if ever— + + [_He braces himself, Ida kisses him again. He has gripped her + hand. As the voice of the Doctor ceases, merry laughter is + heard from room R._ + +WILLIAM (_alluding to the laughter, as well as to the Doctor’s step, +heard descending the stairs_). + +You have a wonderful power. + + [_Another hand grip between them, and before Ida goes out she + turns round._ + +IDA (_again seizing William’s hand at door_). + +Be brave. + + [_Exit._ + +DR SCHOLZ (_still on the stairs_). + +Eh! Nonsense! To the right, Friebe. Eh! My elbow! leave go, leave go! +Confound you. + + [_During the Doctor’s approach William shows more and more + excitement. His colour changes quickly, he thrusts his hands + through his hair, breathes deeply, makes movements with his + right hand as though playing the piano. It is quite evident + that he is torn by different emotions, that his resolution is + shaken. He seems about to rush away, but is stopped by the + Doctor’s entrance. He has caught hold of the back of a chair + to support himself and stands there white and trembling. The + Doctor, drawn up to his full imposing height, measures his son + with a look in which terror, hate and contempt are expressed. + There is a silence. Friebe, who has entered with the Doctor, + whom he has led and lighted down the stairs, makes use of the + pause to slink away into the kitchen. William shows marked + signs of his mental conflict. He tries to speak, his voice + fails him, only his lips move noiselessly. He takes his hand + from the chair back and steps up to the old man. He stumbles, + staggers, and almost falls; stops and tries to speak again, and + cannot; drags himself nearer, and clasping his hands, sinks + at the old man’s feet. In Doctor Scholz’s face the expression + has changed from hate to astonishment, growing sympathy and + confusion._ + +DR SCHOLZ. + +My boy—my dear boy! My—(_he tries to raise him by his hands_.) Only get +up! (_He takes William’s head, which has sunk between both hands, and +turns it towards him._) My boy—only look at me! Ah! what is the matter? + + [_William moves his lips._ + +DR SCHOLZ (_with trembling voice_). + +What—what are you saying to me? + +WILLIAM. + +Father—I— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +What?—Do you mean? + +WILLIAM. + +I have—I h—ha—have— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Nonsense, nonsense. No more of such— + +WILLIAM. + +I have sinned against you— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Nonsense, nonsense. I don’t know what you are talking about! Bygones are +bygones! For my sake—my boy! + +WILLIAM. + +Only take it from me! Take this burden from me! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Forgiven and forgotten, boy! Forgiven and forgotten! + +WILLIAM. + +Thank— + + [_He draws a deep breath and loses consciousness._ + +DR SCHOLZ. + +My boy! What are you doing—what— + + [_He lifts William, quite unconscious, drags and puts him + in a large armchair near R. table. Whilst he does so, Ida, + Robert, Augusta, Mrs Scholz and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of + dining-room, Friebe out of the kitchen._ + +Some wine—quick, some wine. + + [_Ida in a moment goes and returns with wine._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!! water! sprinkle him with water! + + [_Dr Scholz puts wine to his mouth._ + +AUGUSTA. + +What was it? + +IDA (_pale and in tears, laying one cheek against William’s arm_). + +How icy cold he is. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But what has the boy got into such a state of excitement for? that’s what +I should like to know. That is completely— + +ROBERT (_seizes her hand and stops her_). + +Mother! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Sprinkle more water, more water, Doctor! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Tch! Tch! have none of you any Eau-de-Cologne? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes (_giving him small bottle_). Please— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Thanks. + + [_He wets the fainting man’s brow._ + +IDA (_to Doctor_). + +It is only—isn’t it? but (_she bursts into tears_) he looks so—just as if +he were—he looks like death. + + [_Robert comforts Ida._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Why, the poor boy’s in a cold sweat. + + [_Wipes his brow; William yawns._ + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Sh! + + [_He and the rest watch William in suspense. William clears his + throat, stretches himself, opens and shuts his eyes like one + overcome with sleep, lays his head back as if to sleep._ + +DR SCHOLZ (_audibly_). + +Thank God! + + [_He straightens himself, wipes his forehead with his + handkerchief, and half touched, half embarrassed, surveys the + others. Ida has fallen on her mother’s neck between laughter + and tears. Robert, hardly master of his emotion, stands with + clasped hands and glances at the others alternately. Augusta + goes hastily up and down, her handkerchief pressed to her + mouth, and every time she passes William pauses a moment to + look at him searchingly. Friebe goes out on tiptoe. The + Doctor’s eyes meet his wife’s; touched, she ventures timidly to + approach him, gently seizes his hand and pats his back._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Dear old man! + +AUGUSTA (_following her mother, embraces and kisses her father, who +suffers it without removing his hand from his wife’s_). + +My dearest father! + + [_Robert with sudden resolution steps up to his father and + shakes his hand. Mrs Scholz lets go of the Doctor’s hand + and leads Ida to him. Dr Scholz looks first at Ida, then at + William, and then at Mrs Buchner. Mrs Buchner nods assent. Dr + Scholz makes a grimace which expresses “I will say nothing + against it, I may be mistaken,” and then stretches out his + hand to the girl. Ida comes to him, takes his hand, bends over + it and kisses it. Dr Scholz immediately draws his hand back, + startled. William sighs deeply; all look at him. Augusta goes + off to the adjoining room, beckoning Mrs Scholz. Mrs Scholz + makes a sign to the Doctor that they should all go into the + next room because of William. Dr Scholz nods assentingly and + goes off quietly hand in hand with Mrs Scholz. Mrs Buchner, who + has signed to Ida to remain with William, also goes._ + +ROBERT (_in a low voice_). + +Miss Ida, would you—would you leave me to watch him? + +IDA (_with joyful surprise_). + +Yes, indeed. + + [_Presses his hand and goes off after the others. Robert draws + a chair near to William and sits down, watching him. After a + time he takes his pipe from his pocket, is about to light it, + then suddenly remembers the presence of his brother and puts it + back. William sighs and stretches his limbs._ + +ROBERT (_quickly, cautiously_). + +William! + +WILLIAM (_clears his throat, opens his eyes, not realising at first where +he is, and then as though Robert had only just spoken_). + +Yes. + +ROBERT. + +How do you feel now? + +WILLIAM (_after looking thoughtfully at Robert, in a weak voice_). + +Robert? Eh? + +ROBERT. + +Yes, it’s I, Robert. How do you feel? + +WILLIAM. + +Well, (_clears his throat_) quite well, now. + + [_He laughs constrainedly, makes a faint attempt to get up, but + fails._ + +ROBERT. + +Oh, that’s a little bit too soon, eh? + + [_William nods, sighs and shuts his eyes again as if exhausted. + Pause. William re-opens his eyes fully and speaks low but + clearly._ + +WILLIAM. + +What has been going on here? + +ROBERT. + +I think, Willy, it will be best if we let that be for the present. I’ll +assure you of _one thing_, it’s something that I, for one, would never +have believed possible. + +WILLIAM (_with emotion_). + +Nor I. + +ROBERT. + +How on earth should a fellow—ah, rubbish! It was absolutely impossible to +foresee it. All the same it happened. + +WILLIAM. + +It comes back to me now, little by little; it was pleasant. + + [_His eyes fill with tears._ + +ROBERT (_with a slight quiver in his voice_). + +Sentimental! Just like a woman! There’s one thing certain, our judgment +was pretty wide of the mark; we haven’t known the old man really; it’s no +use thinking we have. + +WILLIAM. + +Father? No, we were all so blind! so blind! + +ROBERT. + +Yes, God knows, we were. + +WILLIAM. + +How strange it seems. The old fellow really cares for us; he’s a real +good sort. + +ROBERT. + +He can be, and till now I never knew it. + +WILLIAM. + +A good deal is beginning to dawn on me. + +ROBERT. + +With my brain and so on, you know, I have grasped it long enough. +Everything that happened had to be; I never held father responsible—at +least, I haven’t for years. Certainly not for me—not for any of us. But +to-day I have really _felt_ it; and that, you know, is quite another +thing—Frankly, it’s taken me right off my balance. When I saw him so—so +anxious over you, it was like a blow to me; and now I shall always be +thinking:—That was there, living, in us.—Why on earth didn’t it show +itself before? In father—in you—and, by God! in me too. It was there in +us! And there he has been stifling it in himself—father, I mean—yes, and +we too, for years and years— + +WILLIAM. + +I see one thing: we not only show a different self to every one of our +fellow-creatures, but we _are_ fundamentally different to each. + +ROBERT. + +But why must it be so with us? Why must we for ever keep each other at +such a distance? + +WILLIAM. + +I’ll tell you why; because we have no natural goodness of heart. Take Ida +for instance: what you have got at by hard thinking is natural to her. +She never sits in judgment, she treats everything so gently, with such +sympathy, and that spares people so much—you understand—and I believe it +is that— + +ROBERT (_abruptly, rises_). + +How do you feel now? + +WILLIAM. + +I feel relieved—free. + +ROBERT. + +Ah! what’s the use of all that—H’m! what was I going to say—Perhaps it +will turn out all right for you. + +WILLIAM. + +What do you mean? + +ROBERT. + +What should I mean? For you and—for Ida, of course. + +WILLIAM. + +Perhaps! Those two have such a power—Mrs Buchner too—but particularly +Ida. I have thought that might save me—At first I checked myself— + +ROBERT (_thoughtfully_). + +Yes they have! they have a power, and just because of that—at first—I—to +be frank, I blamed you. + +WILLIAM. + +I felt it. + +ROBERT. + +Well just think. I heard something about an engagement, and then I saw +Ida; she was so merry, singing, up and down stairs, without the least +thought of— + +WILLIAM (_rising_). + +Well I understood you, I even felt you were right. What would you have! + +ROBERT. + +Well—I too am—I must admit it’s quite a different matter now—As I—as I +said—it was chiefly—Quite jolly again? + +WILLIAM. + +Perfectly. + +ROBERT. + +Then you’ll come along soon? + +WILLIAM. + +I’ll only just—you go first. + +ROBERT. + +Right. (_Going, stops._) I can’t help it—I’ve got to tell you. Your whole +conduct—about father, and—altogether—it’s something to admire. With my +cursed prejudices—I too—downright accused you. One—devil take it! It’s +a long time since I’ve had such a desire to spit at myself. You’re glad +to hear that, eh? Well, perhaps you’ll do me the favour to—if I—I’ve +certainly done my level best to vex you since you’ve been home, so—I’m +sorry for it—there! + +WILLIAM. + +Brother! + + [_They shake hands warmly._ + +ROBERT (_takes his hand quietly out of William’s, brings out his pipe, +lights it and puffs smoke, then says as if to himself_). + +Acrobatic soul! (_Puff, puff._) Well, well! (_He turns to go; before +opening the door R. he speaks over his shoulder to William._) I’ll send +her out to you. + +WILLIAM. + +Ah, never mind!—Well, if you really— + + [_Robert nods and disappears through the doorway. William draws + a deep breath, deep joy at what has happened possesses him._ + +IDA (_comes from the adjoining room, flies into his arms_.) + +Willy!!! + +WILLIAM. + +Now—you—you two golden hearts have set me free. A new life! You can’t +think how that inspires me. I seem quite great in my own eyes!—Ah, Ida, I +can only now realise—how frightfully that weighed upon me, and now I feel +such strength—such strength, Ida! You may rely on me, I will show him +what the “good-for-nothing” can do. I’ll give father proofs. I will show +him there is something in me: strength, living power as an artist, before +which all shall bow—the stiffest necks shall bend—I feel it! Only that +has crippled me. Now my fingers are twitching! I could compose, create— + +IDA. + +Ah you see! Now it’s all right! Now I have your own old self +again—Dearest, I could sob—I could—shout for joy. Wasn’t I right? Nothing +was dead in you, it only slept. It will all wake anew, as I always told +you. It _has_ awaked— + + [_She embraces and kisses him. Still embracing they pace the + room in silent happiness._ + +WILLIAM (_stopping, and looking with happy bewilderment first into her +eyes, then round the room_). + +In these cold dreary walls—what joy—like blooming spring! + + [_They kiss each other, closely entwined in silent happiness. + They continue walking._ + +IDA (_sings softly to the same tune as her song in Act I. roguishly_). + +Now you see how right I was. + + [_Mrs Scholz comes a step into the room, sees the lovers and is + going quickly out._ + +IDA (_noticing her, breaks off her song, and runs up to her_). + +You’re not to run away, little mother-in-law! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah, why not! You don’t need me. (_William embraces and kisses his mother +and helps to pull her into the room._) (_Crossly_) You are so awkward! +You are—you are pulling me to pieces. + +WILLIAM. + +Oh, mother! what does that matter to-day—Mother! You see quite another +man before you! (_Between his mother and Ida, holding a hand of each._) +Come, little old mother, look at one another in the eyes, give each other +your hands. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Silly fellow! + +WILLIAM. + +Kiss each other! + +MRS SCHOLZ (_after wiping her mouth with her apron_). + +There, stupid boy, if nothing else will do.—You needn’t use force to +us.—There, Ida! + + [_They kiss each other laughing._ + +WILLIAM. + +And now—peace! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +_Unberufen_, my boy! + + [_Friebe comes out of the kitchen carrying a steaming + punch-bowl, goes towards the next room._ + +WILLIAM. + +Oho! What have we here? Is it good, Friebe? + +FRIEBE (_crossing room_). + +Ay, if you was to set thirty such like in front of me, not a gulp would I +let down my throat. + +WILLIAM. + +Really not, Friebe? + +FRIEBE. + +There was a time—ay, yes—but now I’ve sworn off, ages ago. Now I drink +only—mostly bitters. + + [_Goes out._ + +IDA (_who has been tying William’s necktie and pulling his coat +straight_). + +There! now— + +WILLIAM. + +Thank you, darling.—Is father in good spirits? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +He’s telling his tales. Often one can’t understand a word. + +WILLIAM. + +My heart is beginning to beat again. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +If only Robert would not drink so much! + +WILLIAM. + +Ah, mother, to-day!—to-day nothing matters! To-day— + +IDA. + +Now come along quickly, before you— + +WILLIAM (to _Mrs Scholz_). + +You’re coming too? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Only be off with you! Be off! + + [_Ida and William go into the next room. Mrs Scholz stands + thinking, draws her hand over her brow, and moved by a sudden + idea, goes to the door of the adjoining room where she listens._ + +FRIEBE (_steps in through the same door. He is evidently excited_). + +Missis! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What do you want? + +FRIEBE (_whispering mysteriously_). + +I’ve got a—surprise, Mrs Sch—olz— + +MRS SCHOLZ (_shrinking back_). + +You’ve been drinking! You— + +FRIEBE. + +I’ve been on the look out, all sorts of ways, and I’ve—got something to +tell you. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well? yes, yes! Only say quickly what you’ve got to say. + +FRIEBE. + +H’m, I only mean— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, speak then, Friebe. + +FRIEBE. + +I only mean—that’s not the way. In my position there are many things I +mustn’t talk about. I only mean your husband—he can’t possibly keep it up +much longer— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh Jesus! Jesus! Friebe! has he—has he—complained? then, O Jesus! is he +ill? + +FRIEBE. + +Ah, as to that, what should I know? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But what has he complained of? + +FRIEBE. + +That—I wasn’t to—tell— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Is it true though? (_Friebe nods._) But he can’t have spoken of his death? + +FRIEBE. + +Ah, more than that,—he’s said pretty things! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Now for goodness sake do try and speak clearly. Drunken creature! + +FRIEBE (_angry_). + +Yes, I’m—neither the gardener nor the boot boy; and as to what may +happen—I shouldn’t need—in every position what I want most—in my +position, but no!—Now you have the whole thing clear! + + [_He wheels round, goes off into the kitchen._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +The man’s gone crazy. + + [_Ida enters through door of the adjoining room, shuts it + behind her; opening it a little again she calls into the room._ + +IDA. + +Wait, good people. Quiet! No impatience! + +WILLIAM (_pressing into the room_). + +But I want to help. + +IDA. + +No one else, then. + + [_Ida and William light Christmas Tree candles._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +But, William, listen a minute. + +WILLIAM (_busy_). + +Directly, little mother.—Just ready. + + [_The Christmas Tree, the candelabra and the chandelier are + lighted. Ida removes a large table cover which has been thrown + over presents on the table. William goes to his mother._ + +IDA (_calls through door R_). + +Now! + + [_Mrs Scholz, who is just going to speak to William, is + interrupted by the entrance of Dr Scholz, who is followed by + Augusta, Robert and Mrs Buchner. Dr Scholz, his face reddened + with drinking._ + +DR SCHOLZ (_with affected astonishment_). + +Ah! Ah! + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Fairylike! + + [_Augusta smiles constrainedly; Robert goes about pipe in mouth + at first embarrassed, then smiling more and more ironically. + William notices this with great annoyance._ + +IDA (_draws William to the table where the presents lie_). + +Don’t laugh at me, Willy. + + [_Gives him his purse._ + +WILLIAM. + +But—Ida—I begged you— + +IDA. + +I crocheted it once for father. The year before his death he used it +often, and so I thought— + +WILLIAM (_with increasing embarrassment under Robert’s eyes_). + +Yes—yes.—Ever so many thanks, Ida! + +ROBERT. + +Things only want to be more practical. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_who has been led to the table by Mrs Buchner_). + +But what have you been doing! You cannot—I have nothing for you. (_Seeing +a crocheted shawl._) No, no! Only think!—You crocheted that for me—an old +woman like me? Well then, I do thank you, many, many times. + + [_They kiss one another._ + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Ah! I’m only too glad if it pleases you. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Beautiful—wonderful—lovely. The time and the trouble! I never! + +IDA. + +I’ve something for you too, Mr Robert, but you mustn’t laugh at me! + +ROBERT (_getting scarlet_). + +Ah! what now? + +IDA. + +I thought—your pipe—the next thing it will be burning your nose and +so I’ve had pity on you, and yesterday I—(_Shows a new pipe which she +has hitherto held behind her back and gives it to him._) Here is the +masterpiece! + + [_All amused._ + +ROBERT (_without taking the pipe_). + +You’re joking, Miss Ida! + +IDA. + +Ah well!—But I’m in deadly earnest over the present! + +ROBERT. + +No, no, I can’t believe that. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_aside to William_). + +Robert is unbearable! + +IDA. + +Ah, but no—really— + +ROBERT. + +You see, this thing here—I’ve got used to it—and of course you don’t +really mean it! + +IDA (_her eyes full of tears, conquering her hurt feelings; with +trembling voice_). + +Well, then, if you’d rather— + + [_Puts the present back on the table._ + +MRS BUCHNER (_who during the foregoing has several times spoken to Ida, +now hurries to her_). + +Ida, darling, have you forgotten? + +IDA. + +What, mamma? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +You know! (_To the others_) You’re all going to hear something. + + [_Ida, glad to hide her emotion in this way, goes hand in hand + with her mother into the next room._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_to Robert_). + +Why did you spoil her pleasure for her? + +WILLIAM (_twisting the ends of his moustache nervously; walks up and down +casting threatening glances at Robert_). + +ROBERT. + +What now? How do you mean? I don’t know what you want. + +AUGUSTA. + +Well, it certainly wasn’t exactly friendly. + +ROBERT. + +Do leave me alone. Besides, what should I do with it? + + [_Song and piano accompaniment from next room interrupt + speakers. All look at one another, startled._ + +IDA’S VOICE. + + Oh, come little children, + Oh, come one and all, + Come here to the manger + In Bethlehem’s stall. + Behold all the gladness + This wonderful night, + Our Father in Heaven + Has wrought in his might. + + [_Dr Scholz, noticing Robert’s behaviour, has grown steadily + gloomier. At the beginning of the song he looks nervously round + like someone who dreads being attacked and seeks as far as + possible without being noticed to establish a certain distance + between himself and the others._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_at the beginning of the song_). + +Ah! how beautiful! + + [_She listens for a moment with devotion, then breaks into + sobs. Robert moves slowly about; as the song continues makes a + grimace, as if to say, “Well, this is the last straw”; walks + further on, smiles ironically and several times shakes his + head. Passing Augusta, he says something to her half audibly. + Augusta, partly touched by the song, now breaks out. William + has been standing by the table, nervously drumming with his + fingers, a prey to conflicting emotions; now his face reddens + with resentment. Robert towards the end of the song appears + to suffer physically. The impossibility of escaping from the + impression of Ida’s tones appears to torture and embitter him + more and more. Just at the end of the verse, a word escapes him + involuntarily like the fragment of a soliloquy._ + +ROBERT. + +Child’s play! (_in a biting contemptuous tone_). + + [_All, including the Doctor, have heard him, and turn to him + with a shocked expression._ + +MRS SCHOLZ and AUGUSTA. + +Robert! + + [_Dr Scholz suppresses an explosion of violent anger. William, + white with rage, steps up to Robert._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_rushing towards him, embraces him_). + +William—for my sake! + +WILLIAM. + +All right, mother! + + [_He goes up and down controlling himself with difficulty. At + this moment the second verse begins; scarcely are the first + tones heard when with sudden resolution he goes to the door of + the adjoining room._ + +IDA. + + There lies he, oh children, + On hay and on straw, + And Joseph and Mary + Look on him with awe. + The honest souled shepherds + Kneel praying for love; + The choir of the angels + Sweeps singing above. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_standing in his way_). + +William, what are you going to do? + +WILLIAM (_breaking out_). + +She sha’n’t sing any more. + +AUGUSTA. + +You must be out of your mind! + +WILLIAM. + +Let me alone. I say she shall stop. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah, but do—you really are—Well then, you won’t see me any more this +evening. + +ROBERT. + +Stop, mother, let him see to it. It’s his affair. + +WILLIAM. + +Robert, don’t you go too far. Take my advice; you’ve already made one +touching scene; it only leaves you more unbearable. + +ROBERT. + +Quite true; made a touching scene! That’s just what I should call it. + + [_William goes again towards the side room._ + +MRS SCHOLZ (_again restraining him_). + +Oh God-oh-God-oh-God! My boy, why must you stop her? + + [_The second verse comes to an end._ + +WILLIAM. + +Because you’re none of you worthy of it, not one of you! + +ROBERT (_stepping close to William with an insolently expressive look in +his eyes_). + +You are, I suppose? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh Lord! you’re beginning again! + + [_The third verse begins._ + + The children are bringing + With joy and good cheer, + Milk, butter and honey + To Bethlehem here; + A basket of apples + All yellow and red, + A snowy white lambkin + With flower-crowned head. + +WILLIAM. + +She _shall_ stop! + +MRS SCHOLZ (_once more restraining him_). + +My boy!!! + +WILLIAM. + +Simply beneath contempt! It is blasphemy! It is a crime against these +people if we—I—yes, on my honour, I’m ashamed of you all. + +AUGUSTA (_piqued_). + +No, after all we are not so very specially bad and contemptible. + +WILLIAM. + +Aug—it makes me sick. + +AUGUSTA. + +Well, let it!—Yes, yes, of course _I’m_ to be shoved into the background; +you must always find fault with your sister. Whatever _she_ does is +wrong. It’s not a bit fair. But your Miss Ida— + +WILLIAM (_beside himself, interrupting_). + +Don’t dare to speak her name!! + +AUGUSTA. + +The idea! I shall talk about Ida if— + +WILLIAM. + +Leave her name out of it, I tell you. + +AUGUSTA. + +You’ve gone mad, I think. I _shall_—after all she’s not an angel from +heaven. + +WILLIAM (_screaming at her_). + +Silence, I say! + +AUGUSTA (_turning her back_). + +Pah! you’re just in love! + +WILLIAM (_seizing her roughly by the shoulder_). + +You creature! I— + +ROBERT (_seizing William’s arm, speaks slowly, emphasising each word_). + +Perhaps, William, you intend again—? + +WILLIAM. + +Devil! + +AUGUSTA. + +_You_ say that—_you_, who lifted your hand against your own father! + +DR SCHOLZ (_his voice trembling with rage, in a tone of absolute +command_). + +Augusta!—leave the room—this instant!!! + +AUGUSTA. + +Well!—I should like to know— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Leave the room this minute. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh, dear God, why can’t I die? Augusta, do you hear? (_crying_) Obey your +father! + +ROBERT. + +H’m—mother I should blame her if she did. She’s not a little child any +longer. Times have changed a bit, God knows. + +DR SCHOLZ. + +But I—_I_ have not changed. I am the master in this house—I’ll prove it +to you. + +ROBERT. + +Ridiculous! + +DR SCHOLZ (_screaming_). + +Scoundrels!—Wretches!—I disinherit you—I’ll throw you on the streets. + +ROBERT. + +That’s downright funny. + +DR SCHOLZ (_masters a frightful outburst of rage and speaks with ominous +quietness and firmness_). + +You or I—one of us leaves this house this moment. + +ROBERT. + +I, of course, with the greatest of pleasure. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_half commanding, half entreating_). + +Robert—stay! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +He shall go. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Fritz, listen to me. He is the only one—all these long lonely years, who +didn’t forget us. He— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +He or I!— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah, give way, Fritz—for my sake! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Leave me alone—_He or I!_ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah, I won’t ask you to meet each other—it can be arranged quite +easily—but— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Very well, I give way—I give way to you and your brood. You and your +brood—from to-day you have won the victory! + +WILLIAM. + +Stay, dear father—or if you go, let me go with you this time. + +DR SCHOLZ (_involuntarily stepping back between anger and terror_). + +Leave me alone! Good-for-nothing! (_fumbling among his things_) +Scoundrels and loafers!—Good-for-nothings! + +WILLIAM (_boiling over_). + +Father, you call us that—when it’s your doing that—Ah, Father dear, no, +no, I will say nothing. Let me go with you. I will stay with you. Let me +atone for all that I—(_Laying his hand on his father’s arm._) + +DR SCHOLZ (_as though paralysed with fright and horror, draws back_). + +Let go! I tell you—The army of the oppressors shall insuredly—shall +assuredly be brought to shame! Are they these people—these mighty ones +and these mighty ones—are they men? A man like me, who has his faults, +but still for all that is through and through—and up and down—and short +and sweet. + +WILLIAM. + +Father! father! dear father, come to yourself. Be your own self. + +DR SCHOLZ (_swaying with the rhythm of the words, half aloud_). + +And short and sweet—and through and through— + +WILLIAM (_embracing him, instinctively seeking to control his gestures_). + +Control yourself, pull yourself together! + +DR SCHOLZ (_defending himself; imploring like a little child_). + +Ah! don’t beat me! Don’t punish me! + +WILLIAM. + +But for God’s sake— + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Don’t beat me!—don’t beat me—again! + + [_He makes cramped efforts to free himself from William’s arms._ + +WILLIAM. + +May my hand perish!—Father dear, don’t think such a thing—dear father, +don’t dream it— + + [_Dr Scholz frees himself, flies from William calling for help._ + +WILLIAM. + +Father, you strike _me_, you beat _me_! + +DR SCHOLZ. + +Please! please, please help me. + + [_Ida appears at the door of the room, deathly white._ + +WILLIAM (_rushes to his father, puts his arms round him again_). + +Strike _me_! + +DR SCHOLZ (_sinking on a chair with William’s arms still round him_). + +I—ah—ah—a—ah! I think—it’s—all over—with me. + +WILLIAM. + +Father! + + [_Mrs Scholz and Augusta seize one another in terror. Robert, + deathly white, has not moved. His face has an expression of + unshakable determination._ + + + + +ACT III + + + Twilight. All lights are extinguished except a few on the + chandelier, and one on the Christmas tree. In front, near + the stove, William sits at the table, his back towards the + adjoining room, sunk in dreary hopeless meditation. Robert and + Mrs Scholz enter together from next room. + +MRS SCHOLZ (_looking worn out, in lowered tones_). + +No, my boy, don’t tell me! Now there’s no knowing what next. As soon as +trouble comes—Then, ah well! + +ROBERT. + +You’re not alone now, mother. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah, just listen to you! You know better. It’s too absurd. Where can you +be off to in the middle of the night! + +ROBERT. + +Oh, there are always trains and I _must_ go. I really can’t stand it any +longer; besides, it’s best for all of us! + +MRS SCHOLZ (_whimpering_). + +These last years it has always been pleasant. And now they’ve come +back!—Since those Buchners came, everything’s turned upside down. + +ROBERT. + +Be glad that you have them, mother. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh, I could have managed quite well by myself. + +ROBERT. + +Father seems able to bear none of us about him—? + +MRS SCHOLZ (_crying_). + +Just as if I had done him any harm! Surely I have always been the same—I +have always done my best—Do be just, Robert!—I have cooked him his hot +dinners, he’s had his warm stockings— + +ROBERT. + +Ah, leave it alone, mother! What good is this everlasting lamentation? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Yes, that’s what you say. It’s all very well for you! But if you have +worried yourself sick all your life—if one has beaten one’s brain to +know:—Have I done _this_ right? have I done _that_ right?—and then +strange people come, and one sees them preferred! + +ROBERT. + +Ida is with him still? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +A perfect stranger!—Ah, I might as well be dead—and that lump!—that +Friebe!—Creature!—The airs he gives himself!—But Gussie’s let him have +it!—Gussie talked to him pretty straight! The fellow’s as impudent—he +wanted to push her out of the room. The girl was beside herself!—His own +daughter! No—You children! What my life has been!—I wouldn’t wish a dog +to lead it. + +ROBERT _(with a little sigh, involuntarily_). + +Father too! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What? + +ROBERT. + +Oh, nothing. I only said, father too. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What about him? + +ROBERT. + +Well, father too has had a good deal to bear. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well not from me, anyhow. I haven’t troubled him much. I’ve made no very +great claims. + +ROBERT (_sceptically_). + +Hja—tja—tja! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Just wait till I’m in my grave, then he’ll begin to see— + +ROBERT. + +Ah, leave it alone, mother! I’ve heard that hundreds of times. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Maybe! You’ll see too, and before very long either. + +ROBERT. + +Ah, mother, I don’t deny that you’ve had a lot to bear with through +father. You’ve both suffered. But I don’t see why you— + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Stuff and nonsense. I should like to know what has _he_ ever wanted for? + +ROBERT (_incautiously_). + +To be understood, if you will insist on knowing. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +I can’t make myself cleverer than I am. + +ROBERT. + +Nobody asked you to try. Besides—it’s the merest folly to talk of it so +much. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Now there’s an end of everything—(_Crying._) After all, it’s not my doing +that he lies there ill, and— + +ROBERT. + +I never said it was. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You did. That’s what you _did_ say. + +ROBERT. + +Ah, mother—I’d better go. I—mother, I really can’t stand any more. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +No! I should just like to know what I have to reproach myself with. I +have a good conscience. + +ROBERT. + +Then keep it, in God’s name keep it! (_With a movement of self-defence_) +Only, _leave off_. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You mean that money business, I suppose? + +ROBERT. + +I mean nothing. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +My parents earned it hardly enough, no woman would have put up with it! +Your father just pitched it out of window. + +ROBERT. + +But your uncle lied to you about it. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +You can’t be sure of that. + +ROBERT. + +And father earned the whole over again. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +He might as well have gambled with it. + + [_Robert laughs bitterly._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +I’m only a poor ignorant woman. Your father was always above me. His +mother was quite a lady too. But my father was once as poor as a rat. +I’ll never get the chill of poverty out of my blood! I can’t alter +myself. Well, it’s all the same!—for the year or two of life that’s left +me!—The Lord will deliver me in his own good time. + +ROBERT. + +I would rather be delivered _from_ the Lord. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +For shame! What a scoundrelly speech! Delivered from the Lord.—I might as +well take a dagger and stab myself here in the heart—Frightful!—Delivered +from the Lord!—Where should I have been if it had not been for the +Lord?—Are you really going away, Robert? + +ROBERT (_already on the stairs_). + +Oh, be quiet, mother! It’s peace I want, peace!— + + [_Goes up the stairs._ + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh dear, dear—yes—amongst you all, it isn’t an easy life! (_To William +who has remained the whole time at the table without paying attention to +them_) Just think!—You!—Robert’s going! + +WILLIAM. + +All the same to me! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What are you sitting there for?—That’s no use. Do be sensible. + +WILLIAM (_sighing_). + +Ah, yes! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +And sighing’s no use! Look at me, at my age—and if I were to squat myself +down like you!—What’s done is done! There’s no changing it now. Look +here! Read something! Get up, take a book and amuse yourself! + +WILLIAM (_sighing_). + +Oh mother, do let me alone—I’m troubling nobody!—Has Friebe come back +from the Doctor’s? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +No, that he hasn’t. It’s what I always say, as sure as one wants a +doctor, there isn’t one to be found. + +WILLIAM. + +It is serious, isn’t it, especially if—_that_ were to happen again? + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Ah God! Who knows! + + [_William stares at his mother, then with sudden passionate + sobs lets his head fall in his hands._ + +Yes, yes, my boy, who would have thought it! I’m not saying—I +blame no one, but just to-day you surely might have kept from +quarrelling.—However, we must just hope for the best.—At least his mind’s +not wandering any more. If Ida only doesn’t overlook anything! Any one of +us would have a hundred times more experience. Why he should have taken +so to Ida!—I don’t bite!—Though I will say in other ways—Ida—she’s really +a good girl—and you of all people! (_patting him on his shoulders_) You +may thank the Lord! You might wait long enough before you’d find another +one like Ida! (_Cautiously, confidentially_) Tell me,—are the Buchners +well off? + +WILLIAM (_roused_). + +Oh leave me alone! How should I know!—What do I care! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +What now!—I suppose I’ve a right to ask!—You’re a perfect bear! + +WILLIAM. + +Ah mother, let me alone.—If you have a spark of pity for me, let me +alone.—Don’t trouble about me, let me alone. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh yes, of course, I’m always in the way. An old woman—good for nothing +but to snap at. + + [_Augusta and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of Room R._ + +AUGUSTA. + +Mother! + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Oh Lord! What now? + +AUGUSTA. + +Friebe has just come. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Friebe has brought no doctor with him. + +AUGUSTA. + +Father asked him, and he said— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +He won’t _have any_ doctor! + +AUGUSTA. + +He’s furious, he’ll throw him out of the room. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Friebe won’t go again. + +AUGUSTA. + +You come and speak to Friebe. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +Yes, _you_ speak to him. It is so necessary! + +AUGUSTA. + +A doctor _must_ come—or I’ll go myself; I’m not afraid, not if I have to +run all the way to Friedrichshafen. + +MRS SCHOLZ. + +Well, why not?—But it’s the middle of the night, won’t—just let me come. + + [_Mrs Buchner, Mrs Scholz and Augusta go off hastily. Mrs + Buchner is scarcely out before she returns. Whilst speaking + she has looked several times furtively and with a grieved + expression at William, who is still in the same place, silent + and gloomy. Mrs Buchner looks round to make sure that William + and she are quite alone. At first quickly, then with hesitation + she approaches him._ + +WILLIAM (_raising his head as she goes to him_). + +What do you want?—I told you everything before. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +But I wouldn’t believe you; I couldn’t picture it to myself. + +WILLIAM. + +And now you believe it? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I—don’t—know. + +WILLIAM. + +Why do you lie to me?—Say straight out, yes. It was perfectly natural +that it would all turn out like this; so ridiculously natural. How in the +world I could have been so blind! + +MRS BUCHNER (_with feverish eagerness_). + +William, I take you to-day as I always have, for an honest, honourable +man. I assure you that not for one moment have I doubted you—even +now—when all at once I’m so afraid and anxious. + +WILLIAM (_lifts himself up, draws a deep breath as though oppressed_). + +It’s only what I—I’ve known it all along. + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I come to you, William, I speak to you frankly;—it has all come upon me +so suddenly. All at once I am so terribly anxious about Ida. + +WILLIAM. + +I must confess—only just now— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I know well you love the child. Nobody could love her more truly! I know +that with all your strength you will try to make my daughter happy;—it +won’t be your _will_ that will fail, but now I have—I have seen and +discovered so many things. It’s only now that I really understand +much—much of what you told me. I _didn’t_ understand you; I took you +for a pessimist—in some things I scarcely took you seriously!—I came +here with a firm, happy faith. I’m really ashamed! The confidence I had +in myself!—I, to fancy I could influence such natures!—a weak, simple +creature like me! But now I’m uneasy about it all—now all at once I feel +my heavy responsibility. I am responsible for my child—for my Ida. Every +mother is responsible for her child! Only tell me, William, tell me +yourself, that it will all come right—Say to me, “we shall be happy,” +you and Ida. Convince me that my fear, my dread, is needless—_William_— + + [_A pause._ + +WILLIAM. + +Why did you let it go so far?—I warned you—and warned you. What did +I say to you? I said, all of us, every one in this family, are sick, +incurables—I most of all. That we all drag with us—“Don’t give your +daughter to a maimed creature,” I said to you—Why wouldn’t you believe? + +MRS BUCHNER. + +I don’t know. I myself don’t know. + +WILLIAM. + +Now you have lulled me to rest, weakened my conscience—and now I have +been half mad with happiness—I have tasted—lived through moments! and +others besides. The most frightful battle of my life, and _now_ you +demand—now one must consider—perhaps, yes, perhaps— + +MRS BUCHNER. + +William! I honour you!—I know that you would make any sacrifice. But +Ida!—If it should be too late for her—if it were to be her ruin! + +WILLIAM. + +Why couldn’t you believe me? You don’t know what that cost me; now I have +built it up by painful steps—step by step—so painfully! This place lay +far behind me—I was almost saved. Now to pull it all down. Why need you +have let it go so far? _Why?_— + +MRS BUCHNER (_with tears_). + +I don’t know! I myself don’t know! I brought the child up. She was all +in all to me; to work for her happiness has been all I have lived for. +Then—_you_ came into our house. I grew fond of you—I thought of your +happiness too, I—perhaps I ought not to have done that. I thought perhaps +just as much of _your_ happiness—and—who knows?—In the end, most of +all—of—_your_ happiness! + + [_During a minute she and William look startled into each + other’s eyes._ + +WILLIAM. + +Mrs Buchner!!! + + [_Mrs Buchner, hiding her face in her hands, as if in shame, + goes off crying through the stairway. William follows her + mechanically a few steps, stops, tries to master his inward + excitement, then suddenly, shaken with weeping, leans for + support against the wall. Ida enters, her face pale, looking + serious and careworn, comes with gentle steps to William, + embraces him, pressing her cheek to his._ + +IDA. + +Ah, Willy, sad days are coming, and, and, yes, Willy, bright days will +come again. You mustn’t give way like that—so hopelessly. + +WILLIAM (_stammering passionately_). + +Ida!—You only! Dearest, sweetest! Only say how I can—how could I bear my +life now without you! Your voice, your words, your whole sweet wondrous +presence, your hands—your gentle, faithful hands. + +IDA. + +And what of _me_?—What do you think of my life without _you_? No, +love!—we will cling to each other and never let go, close, close, and +however long it lasts— + +WILLIAM. + +Yes, yes! but supposing anything were to happen? + +IDA. + +Oh, don’t speak like that! + +WILLIAM. + +I only mean—one can never tell—one of us might die. + +IDA. + +Ah, we are young. + +WILLIAM. + +Even then!—One day it must happen, some day, and I, at any rate, shall +never live to be old. + +IDA (_passionately_). + +Then I shall fasten my arms round you—press myself to you—Then I shall go +with you. + +WILLIAM. + +Ida! That is what one _says_. But you would never really do it. + +IDA. + +I would do it! + +WILLIAM. + +You think so now. You don’t know how quickly one forgets. + +IDA. + +I could not breathe without you. + +WILLIAM. + +That is what one fancies— + +IDA. + +No, no, no, William!— + +WILLIAM. + +But to love like that, would be a kind of madness. One shouldn’t put +everything on the turn of one card. + +IDA. + +I—don’t quite understand you. + +WILLIAM. + +Why—I—you see (_in irritable tones_). Ugh! Darling, it’s not an +enlivening subject!—How’s Father? + +IDA. + +He’s asleep now! but what _is_ the matter with you? + +WILLIAM (_walking about_). + +The feeling will come, no one knows how. (_Suddenly grinding his teeth_) +I tell you, there are moments—when that rage of despair seizes you, those +are the moments—I can well understand—in those moments a man might throw +himself head first from five stories high on to the pavement.—The idea +becomes positively alluring. + +IDA. + +God forbid! You mustn’t give way to such ideas, Willy! + +WILLIAM. + +Why not, I should like to know? What should such fellows as I do, +crawling between heaven and earth?—Useless creatures! Exterminate +themselves! That would be something. They would at least have done _one_ +useful thing. + +IDA. + +After all, it is not a thing to admire. You are overwrought and exhausted. + +WILLIAM (_in sharp, unyielding tones_). + +Leave me in peace, can’t you? What do you understand of all +that.—(_Shocked at himself, adds_) Ah, love! You must forgive me. You had +better leave me now—I can not bear to wound you. And in this mood, as I +feel now, I can’t answer for myself. + + [_Ida kisses him silently on the mouth, then goes into the + next room. William looks after her, stands still, shows fright + and astonishment in his face, and strikes his forehead, like + one who has detected himself on the track of an evil thought. + Meantime, Robert has come downstairs. Robert, his hat in his + right hand, overcoat and rug over his arm, rug straps in his + left hand, goes to the table and lays his things down on it._ + +WILLIAM (_after he has watched him a moment or two_). + +Where are you going? + +ROBERT. + +Away. + +WILLIAM. + +Now? + +ROBERT. + +Why not? (_spreading out his straps_) I’ve had enough of this and to +spare. In future mother—mother will celebrate Christmas without me! +(_Looks round at stove_) It’s cold here. + +WILLIAM. + +It’s freezing outside. + +ROBERT (_rolling up his rug_). + +There!—Is it? It was thawing about ten o’clock. + +WILLIAM. + +There’s a change. + +ROBERT. + +How’s one to get down the mountain and keep one’s footing? + +WILLIAM. + +There’s a fine moon. + +ROBERT. + +Yes, but still— + +WILLIAM. + +He’s not delirious any longer. + +ROBERT. + +H’m, h’m! + +WILLIAM. + +He won’t have a doctor. + +ROBERT. + +H’m, h’m! + +WILLIAM. + +It’s all come so suddenly, one hardly— + +ROBERT. + +H’m, yes! + +WILLIAM. + +It must have been latent in him. + +ROBERT. + +Of course, or he would not have come home. + +WILLIAM. + +I dread to think what’ll come of it. + +ROBERT. + +What’s one to do? + +WILLIAM. + +On my soul, I don’t know what _I_ should do if he died. Conscious as I +am, knowing what I now know!—I really did not know, and _now_ the added +remorse, the gnawing of conscience! Ah! well, what’s the use of it all? + +ROBERT. + +Eh! as to that! one would have enough to do. The old fellow is different, +not what we imagined, that’s true enough! But that doesn’t change +matters. + +WILLIAM. + +I tell you, it is sacred earnest to me—I would lay down this pitiful life +of mine gladly, if it would do him any good. + +ROBERT. + +To my thinking, there’s no sense in that. Now just look here! I go back +to my hot little den of an office, sit with my back to the fire, cross +my legs under the table, light this same old pipe, and write—in peace +and quietness of mind, I hope—the same old jokes, you know them,—the old +chestnuts—African traveller—nearly spent—h’m, and then I generally bring +along a caravan, which takes the article along with it.—My chief is well +satisfied, it gets copied in as many papers as possible—and, the main +thing is that—! Well, I sit there, and the gas jet hisses over my head +all day—a glance now and then into the court—the courtyard of a warehouse +like that has something marvellous about it—something even romantic, I +can tell you—in a word I’m not troubled with any bees in _my_ bonnet. + +WILLIAM. + +Rather be dead once for all. + +ROBERT. + +Matter of taste!—For me, that’s just an ideal nook—Is one to be always +getting shaken off one’s balance, always letting oneself be driven +crazy?—It’ll take me a good two or three days now to pick up my scattered +philosophy. + +WILLIAM. + +Say what you will, I call that cowardly. + +ROBERT. + +And then—If it is! Sooner or later, you will come to think as I do. +Father himself had at last got to that standpoint. Father and you, you +are as alike as two peas. You are both idealists of the same sort. In ’38 +father started on the barricades, and he finishes up as a hypochondriacal +hermit—One must get accustomed to the world and to oneself _in time_, +that’s the thing; before one has finished sowing one’s wild oats. + +WILLIAM. + +Or else work at oneself, to become something different. + +ROBERT. + +I think I see myself! What I am, I am. I have the right to _be_, whatever +I am. + +WILLIAM. + +Then claim your right openly. + +ROBERT. + +Not I, for I mean to _have_ it. The Philistine morality-mongers are in +the majority at present. Anyhow it’s time for me to be off. And if I +were to offer you a bit of advice, it would be, beware of so-called good +intentions! + +WILLIAM (_coldly_). + +How do you mean? + +ROBERT. + +Simply that; it’s no use to think of accomplishing something which +entirely contradicts one’s whole natural bent. + +WILLIAM. + +As, for instance? + +ROBERT. + +Oh!—for instance, fellows come to me sometimes, who babble ideals to me +till my head swims. Fight for the ideals of humanity, and—God knows what +all! I—fight for other people!—Childish!—Why, and what for? But _you_, +that just suits you. You would rush round like a runaway thief. “What a +wretch I have been,” you would keep on telling yourself! Aren’t I right? +Well, and then on the top would come the good intentions, and they get +hold of you, I know. _I_ used to go about hung round with hundreds of +those good intentions—for years together—and it’s not pleasant, I can +tell you. + +WILLIAM. + +I don’t really know what you are driving at. + +ROBERT. + +Nothing very definite. This unrest, from which you are suffering now, +has no doubt other causes—At least I—if I once noticed—there was a time +when I went through something of the sort, but once I noticed that the +business was likely to be stronger than I—I generally made short work of +it, and turned my back. + +WILLIAM. + +Is that a hint? + +ROBERT. + +Hint? I didn’t know—well, once more—good luck to you and— + +WILLIAM. + +But just tell me—it has a certain objective interest for me—only because— + +ROBERT. + +Pray, what do you want to know? + +WILLIAM. + +Just now you said something. + +ROBERT. + +How—just now? + +WILLIAM. + +When we were speaking of father. + +ROBERT. + +Ah, true, yes;—what did I say? + +WILLIAM. + +You said, it might perhaps turn out well for Ida and me. + +ROBERT. + +Ah, yes, your engagement;—was that what I said? + +WILLIAM. + +That’s what you said. + +ROBERT. + +H’m, I said many things. + +WILLIAM. + +That is to say, you have changed your mind about a good deal of what you +said. + +ROBERT. + +Quite true, so I have. + +WILLIAM. + +And even—about that—very thing— + +ROBERT. + +Your engagement? + +WILLIAM. + +Yes. + +ROBERT. + +It’s important to you? + +WILLIAM. + +Yes, perhaps. + +ROBERT. + +Yes. + +WILLIAM. + +You no longer think—that we— + +ROBERT. + +No. + +WILLIAM. + +Good—Thanks—You are candid—I thank you—But let us suppose,—say that I +_did_ turn my back on the whole affair—leave on one side all thought of +what it would cost _me_, say I were to go straight off with you—then +what—about—Ida? + +ROBERT. + +H’m, Ida—Ida?—(_Shrugs his shoulders._) H’m, yes. That’s not so +quickly—at least—that wouldn’t trouble me over much. + +WILLIAM. + +Ah! That’s your old selfishness!!! Now I recognise you. + +ROBERT. + +Selfish? How? No, that’s just your mistake! I am not deeply enough +interested to be selfish—interested in this particular matter, I mean. I +really don’t believe— + +WILLIAM. + +I know better. You don’t suppose _you_ can teach me how to understand +this girl? Once for all, it _is_ so. Depend upon it—she has that sort +of feeling for me, which—well, I can’t alter it. You needn’t think me +conceited—But, you see, what’s to become of her, if I should go? + +ROBERT. + +H’m, you really ask yourself—that—seriously— + +WILLIAM. + +Most seriously—I do—indeed. + +ROBERT. + +Just oblige me by answering this one question first. If you were to +_marry_, what would Ida become then? + +WILLIAM. + +That no one can know. + +ROBERT. + +Oh yes, but one can:—mother! + +WILLIAM. + +As if mother is to be compared with Ida! + +ROBERT. + +But you with father. + +WILLIAM. + +Every man is a _new_ man. + +ROBERT. + +That’s what you’d _like_ to believe! Let it alone. You’re asking too much +of yourself. You yourself are the embodied argument against it. + +WILLIAM. + +I don’t believe it. + +ROBERT. + +You _know_ it well enough. + +WILLIAM. + +After all one can make oneself into something. + +ROBERT. + +If one is brought up that way. + +WILLIAM. + +Tch! There’s no sense in talking about it. + +ROBERT. + +Entirely my opinion. + +WILLIAM. + +It leads to nothing! (_Breaking out, quite beside himself_) You all want +to ruin me—I’m the victim of a conspiracy! You’re all in league against +me; you want to destroy me—you all want to destroy me—utterly! + +ROBERT. + +Father’s very words. + +WILLIAM. + +Ridiculous—Your remarks are simply ridiculous—Haven’t I reason enough +for what I’m saying? Don’t you want to part me from Ida? It is—simply!—I +haven’t words enough!—The absurdity of it! The brutality beyond +belief!—_I_ am to have pity on Ida! Who has pity on _me_!—Tell me that! +Name me any one person—who? + +ROBERT. + +Naturally!—When that’s the way you speak, naturally! + +WILLIAM. + +The sacrifices demanded of me!—The most senseless outrageous sacrifices! +I’m— + +ROBERT. + +You can spare yourself the trouble of talking; if that’s the case—You are +in your rights, keep the girl. + +WILLIAM. + +If that’s the case! If what’s the case, pray? Just tell me! + +ROBERT. + +You spoke of—Ida a while ago—if I remember— + +WILLIAM. + +Well—what then? + +ROBERT. + +Now it seems you’re speaking of yourself—H’m, plainly—if you are +indifferent as to what becomes of the girl, if you have the desirable +dose of—well call it recklessness—if you take her, as you would a new +coat or hat or something— + +WILLIAM. + +Robert!—Heartless through and through as you are—you’re right this time. +I’m with you, out of this place—That is, I’ll go with you a little +way, not far, and now, now I’ve done with all of you—Yes, yes, now +I’m—don’t speak!—now I’ve really done—absolutely—(_Robert looks at him +astonished, and shrugs his shoulders. With increasing vehemence_) Don’t, +don’t trouble yourself—it’s no good! You can’t do it—you can’t take me +in with your harmless quiet. You’re in the right, but what has put you +in the right, what has made you so clear-sighted? Shall I tell you? +Jealousy—miserable _jealousy_—nothing else—simply pitiful malice!—You +know very well that I should fight honestly—try to be a little worthier +of her. You know very well that with her purity, this girl has power +to purify me!—But you don’t want that! You don’t want to see me +cleansed!—Why not?—Because you—you yourself must always be what you +have been—because it is _me_ she loves, and never you! And so the whole +evening you have shadowed me with your detective looks—for ever there to +remind me you know me for what I am! Yes! You are right!—I am sin-stained +through and through!—Nothing left of me is pure. Tainted, I have nothing +in common with her innocence—and I am determined not to commit this +crime. But you, Robert!—That makes you none the purer; give thanks that +you no longer can feel shame! + + [_Robert during the last part of William’s speech has taken his + things and gone towards the door. He stands, hand on the latch, + as if going to speak. Thinks better of it, shrugs his shoulders + resignedly, and goes out very quietly._ + +WILLIAM (_calling after him_). + +Robert! Robert! + +IDA (_coming from next room_). + +Whom are you calling? + +WILLIAM. + +Ah, it’s you. + +IDA. + +The doctor’s there, William, he says it is very serious, it— + + [_Voice of Mrs Scholz heard wailing, “My dear good husband. + Ah!—ah, my dear kind husband!”_ + +WILLIAM. + +What have I done! What have I done now? + +IDA. + +It crushes my heart. I would like not to ask you—but something +must—something’s the matter, Willy! + +WILLIAM. + +Nothing. I want to be out there in solitude again. That is where I should +be. Our place is there, Ida. + +IDA. + +Why?—I can’t understand. + +WILLIAM (_hastily and violently_). + +Yes, yes, yes—the old story—: I don’t understand, I don’t +understand!—Mother and father have spoken different languages all +their lives; you don’t understand, you don’t _know_ me! You have stale +schoolgirl illusions and I have nothing more to do with all that, only to +hide away from you, hide—hide away, until there’s nothing of me but the +miserable traitor and scoundrel— + + [_Ida, after looking dazed at William, bursts into tears._ + +WILLIAM. + +There, you see, this is my real self. I need only for one moment to +forget my part, the part I play before you and my true self appears. You +can’t bear me as I really am. You cry, and you _would_ cry, year out, +year in, if I did not have pity on you.—No, Ida, it must come to an end +between us. I’ve come to that fixed resolve. + +IDA (_throwing herself on his neck_). + +That’s not true! That is not, that never _shall_ be true. + +WILLIAM. + +Think what you have seen here to-day; shall we start the game +afresh?—Shall we build this home again? + +IDA. + +It would be different! It would be better, William. + +WILLIAM. + +How can you say that? + +IDA. + +I _feel_ it. + +WILLIAM. + +But you are throwing yourself to destruction, Ida! I am dragging you to +your ruin. + +IDA. + +I’m not afraid of that, William, not the least afraid! Only have +faith again! Only give me your hand again! Then I can be something to +you.—Don’t push me away. + +WILLIAM. + +Let me go!—You are in love for the first time!—You love an illusion. +I have thrown myself in the gutter time after time. I have degraded +womanhood with other women.—I am an outcast— + +IDA (_sobbing and crying, embraces him_). + +You are _mine_, you are _mine_! + +WILLIAM. + +I am not fit for you! + +IDA. + +Oh, _don’t_ say that! I am so small before you, so small!—Like a little, +little moth. William, I am nothing without you—everything through +you;—don’t take your hand away from me.—I am so lost without you. + +WILLIAM. + +IDA!!! I—? _I_— + + [_They embrace and kiss between laughing and crying._ + +I am not to take—my hand from you—what are you saying—what—why, you—bad— + +IDA. + +Now—promise me—now— + +WILLIAM. + +I _swear_ to you now— + + [_A piercing scream from the next room cuts his words short. + Startled and terrified they stand looking into each other’s + eyes. Voice of Mrs Scholz:—“My husband’s dying, my dear good + Fritz is dying, my husband!”—Loud crying._] + +WILLIAM. + +My God!—What?—Father!!! Father!!! + + [_Is about to rush into next room, Ida stops him._ + +IDA. + +William!—Control yourself, and—don’t go without me. + + [_Friebe comes shaking with sobs out of the next room and + disappears into the kitchen._] + +AUGUSTA (_follows Friebe in; stopping in front of William, she moans at +him_). + +Who—is to blame now, who—who? + + [_She sinks with head and arms on a table, a muffled moaning is + wrung from her. Mrs Scholz is still heard crying loudly in next + room._ + +WILLIAM (_breaking out_). + +Augusta! + +IDA (_her hands on William’s breast, in trembling tones_:) + +William—I think—your father—is dead. + + [_William is again near an outbreak, but Ida calms him; he + controls his emotion, possesses himself of Ida’s hand, which he + grips in his own, and hand in hand they go with firm and quiet + steps out into the next room._] + + + + +NOTES + + +Title-page. _The Coming of Peace._ This is a somewhat free translation +of the title of Hauptmann’s play. Friedensfest means literally the Feast +or Festival of Peace, but the English title we have chosen seemed more +euphonious and has besides a bearing on the end of the play, when the old +man at any-rate enters into his rest. + +P. 6. _O Gottogottogott!_ The effect of this exclamation, which Mrs +Scholz uses all through the play, cannot be reproduced in English. We +have tried, in the translation, by joining the words with a hyphen, to +give as far as might be the look of one word. Oh Godohgodohgod! would +only have puzzled readers. Even in speaking, the change from the _t_ to +_d_ makes the attempt to pronounce the exclamation as one word almost +impossible. Moreover to English eyes and ears “Oh God” of course carries +a weight quite incongruous in Mrs Scholz’s chatter. Here, as in many +other places, we were unable to arrive at an entirely satisfactory +equivalent for the German. + +P. 16. _That’s an inhuman hand!_ This cannot be called a _translation_. +Mrs Scholz says: “Aus dem Grabe wachsen solche Hände!” She here alludes +to an old German saying still quoted among the peasantry, which declares +that the hand of anyone guilty of striking a parent would, after death, +point upward from the grave in ceaseless self-accusation. We have been +unable to find any similar superstition in English folk-lore. + + + + +MODERN PLAYS + +EDITED BY + +R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON AND N. ERICHSEN. + + +_=NOW READY=_ + +HENRIK IBSEN + + “Love’s Comedy” (_Kjærlighedens Komedie_).—Professor C. H. + HERFORD + +EMILE VERHAEREN + + “The Dawn” (_Les Aubes_).—ARTHUR SYMONS + +AUGUST STRINDBERG + + “The Father” (_Fadren_).—N. ERICHSEN + +OSTROVSKY + + “The Storm.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT + +MAURICE MAETERLINCK + + “Intérieur.”—WILLIAM ARCHER + “La Mort de Tintagiles.” } + “Alladine et Palomides.” }—ALFRED SUTRO + 1 vol. + +GERHART HAUPTMANN + + “The Coming of Peace” (_Das Friedensfest_).—JANET ACHURCH and + C. E. WHEELER + + +_=EARLY VOLUMES=_ + +VILLIERS DE L’ISLE ADAM + + “La Révolte.” } + “L’Evasion.” }—THERESA BARCLAY + +SERGIUS STEPNIAK + + “The Convert.”—CONSTANCE GARNETT + +BRIEUX + + “Les Bienfaiteurs.”—LUCAS MALET + +Arrangements are also in progress with representative dramatists of +Spain, Italy, and other countries. Further translations have been +promised by Dr GARNETT, Messrs WALTER LEAF, G. A. GREENE, EDGAR PRESTAGE, +etc. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75247 *** |