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Plays by August Strindberg, First Series

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Title: Plays by August Strindberg, First Series

Author: August Strindberg

Translator: Edwin Björkman


        
Release date: April 14, 2014 [eBook #45375]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG, FIRST SERIES ***
PLAYS

BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG




[Illustration--August Strindberg]




PLAYS

BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG



THE DREAM PLAY

THE LINK

THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part I

THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part II


TRANSLATED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

EDWIN BJÖRKMAN


NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1912




NOTE

This translation is authorised by
Mr. Strindberg, and he has also
approved the selection of the
plays included in this volume.




CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUGUST STRINDBERG'S MAIN WORKS
THE DREAM PLAY
THE LINK
THE DANCE of DEATH, PART I
THE DANCE of DEATH, PART II




INTRODUCTION


To the first volume of his remarkable series of autobiographical
novels, August Strindberg gave the name of "The Bondwoman's
Son." The allusion was twofold--to his birth and to the position
which fate, in his own eyes, seemed to have assigned him both as
man and artist.

If we pass on to the third part of his big trilogy, "To
Damascus," also an autobiographical work, but written nearly
twenty years later, we find _The Stranger_, who is none but the
author, saying: "I was the Bondwoman's Son, concerning whom it
was writ--Cast out this bondwoman and her son; for the son of
the bondwoman shall not be heir with the free woman's son.'"

And _The Lady_, back of whom we glimpse Strindberg's second
wife, replies: "Do you know why Ishmael was cast out? It is to
be read a little further back--because he was a scoffer! And
then it is also said: 'He will be a wild man; his hand will be
against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he
shall dwell in opposition to all his brethren.'"

These quotations should be read in conjunction with still
another, taken from Strindberg's latest play, "The Great
Highway," which, while being a sort of symbolical summary of his
life experience, yet pierces the magic circle of self-concern
within which too often he has remained a captive. There _The
Hermit_ asks: "You do not love your fellow-men?" And Strindberg,
masquerading as _The Hunter_, cries in answer: "Yes, far too
much, and fear them for that reason, too."

August Strindberg was born at Stockholm, Sweden, on January
22, 1849. His father was a small tradesman, who had lost his
business just before August was born, but who had the energy and
ability to start all over again as a steam-ship agent, making a
decided success of his second venture. The success, however, was
slow in coming, and the boy's earliest years were spent in the
worst kind of poverty--that poverty which has to keep up outward
appearances.

The mother had been a barmaid in one of the numerous inns
forming one of the Swedish capital's most characteristic
features. There the elder Strindberg had met her and fallen
deeply in love with her. August was their third child, born a
couple of months after their relationship had become legalized
in spite of bitter opposition from the husband's family. Other
children followed, many of them dying early, so that August
could write in later years that one of his first concrete
recollections was of the black-jacketed candy which used to be
passed around at every Swedish funeral.

Though the parents were always tired, and though the little
home was hopelessly overcrowded--ten persons living in three
rooms--yet the family life was not without its happiness. Only
August seemed to stand apart from the rest, having nothing in
common with his parents or with the other children. In fact, a
sort of warfare seems to have been raging incessantly between
him and his elder brothers. Thus a character naturally timid and
reserved had those traits developed to a point where its whole
existence seemed in danger of being warped.

At school he was not much happier, and as a rule he regarded
the tasks set him there as so much useless drudgery. Always and
everywhere he seemed in fear of having his personality violated,
until at last that apprehension, years later, took on a form
so morbid that it all but carried him across the limits of
rationality. With this suspiciousness of his environment went,
however, a keen desire to question and to understand. He has
said of himself that the predominant traits of his character
have been "doubt and sensitiveness to pressure." In these two
traits much of his art will, indeed, find its explanation.

At the age of thirteen he lost his mother, and less than a year
later his father remarried--choosing for his second wife the
former housekeeper. That occurrence made the boy's isolation at
home complete. During the years that followed he threw himself
with his usual passionate surrender into religious broodings and
practices. This mood lasted until he left for the university
at Upsala. He was then eighteen. During his first term at the
university he was so poor that he could buy no books. Worse
even--he could not buy the wood needed to heat the bare garret
where he lived.

Returning to Stockholm, he tried to teach in one of the public
schools--the very school which he had attended during the
unhappiest part of his childhood. From that time dates the theme
of eternal repetition, of forced return to past experiences,
which recurs constantly in his works. Another recurring theme is
that of unjust punishment, and it has also come out of his own
life--from an occasion when, as a boy of eight, he was suspected
of having drunk some wine that was missing, and when, in spite
of his indignant protests, he was held guilty and finally
compelled to acknowledge himself so in order to escape further
punishment.

But while still teaching school, he made certain acquaintances
that set his mind groping for some sort of literary expression.
He tried time and again to write verse, only to fail--until
one day, in a sort of trance, he found himself shaping words
into measured lines, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had
accomplished the feat held beyond him. From the first the stage
drew him, and his initial work was a little comedy, concerning
which nothing is known now. Then he wrote another one-act play
with the Danish sculptor Thorvaldsen for central figure, and
this was accepted by the Royal Theatre and actually played
with some success. Finally he produced a brief historical play
in prose, "The Outlaw," which was spurned by the critics and
the public, but which brought him the personal good-will and
financial support of King Charles XV.

Thus favoured, he returned to the university with the thought
of taking a degree. Instead he read everything not required in
the courses, quarrelled with every professor to whom he had to
submit himself for examination, and spent the major part of his
time with a set of youngsters whose sole ambition was to make
literature. Of that coterie, Strindberg was the only one to
reach the goal which all dreamt of. On the sudden death of the
king, when his little stipend ceased, he went up to the capital
again, bent on staying away for ever from the university.

During the next couple of years, he studied medicine for a
while, tried himself as an actor, conducted a trade journal, and
failed rather than succeeded to make a living as a hack writer
for various obscure newspapers. All this life he has pictured
with biting humour in his first big novel, "The Red Room."
At last, when he was twenty-three and had withdrawn in sheer
desperation to one of the little islands between Stockholm and
the open sea, he conceived and completed a five-act historical
play, named "Master Olof," after Arch-bishop Olaus Petri, the
Luther of Sweden.

The three main figures of that play, _Master Olof, King
Gustavus Vasa_, and _Gert the Printer_, were designed by the
author to represent three phases of his own character. The
_King_ was the opportunist, _Olof_ the idealist, and _Gert_ the
"impossibilist." The title first chosen for the play was "The
Renegade." It was suggested by the cry with which _Gert_ greets
the surrender of _Olof_ in the final scene.

The indifference shown that first big work came near turning
Strindberg away from a literary career for ever. It took him
several years to recover from the shock of disappointment--a
shock the more severe because he felt so uncertain of his own
gifts. But those years of seeming inactivity were not lost. He
had obtained a position in the Royal Library, which gave him a
living and free access to all the books he wanted. At first he
sought forgetfulness in the most exotic studies, such as the
Chinese language. The honours of the savant tempted him, and he
wrote a monograph which was accepted by the French Institute.

Gradually, however, he was drawn back to his own time. And there
was hardly a field of human thought to which he did not give
some attention. Already as a student at Upsala, his conception
of life had been largely determined by the study of the Danish
individualistic philosopher Kierkegaard, the English determinist
Buckle, and the German pessimist Eduard von Hartmann. Among
novelists, Hugo and Dickens were his favourites. They together
with the brothers de Goncourt, and not Zola, helped principally
to shape his artistic form until he was strong enough to stand
wholly on his own feet.

At the age of twenty-six he met the woman who was to play the
double part of muse and fate to him. She was already married.
In the end she obtained a divorce and became Strindberg's wife.
To begin with they were very happy, and under the stimulus of
this unfamiliar feeling Strindberg began once more to write--but
now in a manner such that recognition could no longer be denied
him. The novel already mentioned was his first popular success.
It drew bitter attacks from the conservative elements, but the
flavour of real life pervading it conquered all opposition.
To this day that first work of social criticism has not been
forgiven Strindberg by the official guardians of Swedish
literature.

After a while Strindberg threw himself with passion into the
study of Swedish history. One of the results was a daring work
named "The Swedish People," which is still, next to the Bible,
the most read book among the Swedes in this country. He wrote
also a series of short stories on historical themes which
combined artistic value with a truly remarkable insight into the
life of by-gone days. This series was named "Swedish Events and
Adventures." About the same time he administered some scathing
strictures on social and political conditions in a volume of
satirical essays entitled "The New Kingdom."

His plays from this period include "The Secret of the Guild" and
"Sir Bengt's Lady," both historical dramas of romantic nature.
To these must be added his first fairy play, "The Wanderings
of Lucky-Per," concerning which he declared recently that it
was meant for children only and must not be counted among his
more serious efforts. But this play has from the start been a
great favourite with the public, combining in its rapidly moving
scenes something of a modern "Everyman" and not a little of a
Swedish "Peer Gynt."

After he had resigned from the Royal Library and retired to
Switzerland for the purpose of devoting all his time to writing,
he produced the volume of short stories, "Marriage," which led
him up to the first turning point in his artistic career. It
dealt with modern marital conditions in a manner meant to reveal
the economic reefs on which so many unions are wrecked. His
attitude toward women had already become critical in that work,
but it was not yet hostile.

The book was confiscated. Criminal proceedings were brought
against its publisher. The charge was that it spoke offensively
of rites held sacred by the established religion of Sweden.
Everybody knew that this was a mere pretext, and that the true
grievance against the book lay in its outspoken utterances on
questions of sex morality. Urged by friends, Strindberg hastened
home and succeeded in assuming the part of defendant in place of
the publisher. The jury freed him, and the youth of the country
proclaimed him their leader and spokesman.

But the impression left on Strindberg's mind by that episode was
very serious and distinctly unfavourable. As in his childhood,
when he found himself disbelieved though telling the truth, so
he felt now more keenly than anything else the questioning of
his motives, which he knew to be pure. And the leaders of the
feminist movement, then particularly strong in Sweden, turned
against him with a bitterness not surpassed by that which
Ibsen had to face from directly opposite quarters after the
publication of "A Doll's House." Add finally that his marriage,
which had begun so auspiciously, was rapidly changing into
torture for both parties concerned in it.

Yet his growing embitterment did not make itself felt at once.
In 1885 he published four short stories meant to em-body the
onward trend of the modern spirit and the actual materialisation
of some of its fondest dreams. Collectively he named those
stories "Real Utopias," and they went far toward winning him a
reputation in Germany, where he was then living.

But with the appearance of the second part of "Marriage" in
1886, it was plain that a change had come over him. Its eighteen
stories constituted an unmistakable protest against everything
for which the feminist movement stood. The efforts of Ibsen and
Björnson to abolish the so-called "double code of morality"--one
for men and another one for women were openly challenged on the
ground that different results made male and female "immorality"
two widely different things. Right here it should be pointed
out, however, that Strindberg always, and especially in his
later years, has demanded as high a measure of moral purity from
men as from women--the real distinction between him and the two
great Norwegians lying in the motives on which he based that
demand.

The second part of "Marriage" shows a change not only in spirit
but in form, and this change becomes more accentuated in every
work published during the next few years. Until then Strindberg
had shown strong evidence of the Romantic origin of his art.
From now on, and until the ending of the great mental crisis in
the later nineties, he must be classed as an ultra-naturalist,
with strong materialistic and sceptical leanings. At the same
time he becomes more and more individualistic in his social
outlook, spurning the mass which, as he then felt, had spurned
him. And after a while the works of Nietzsche came to complete
what his personal experience had begun. His attitude toward
woman, as finally developed during this period, may be summed up
in an allegation not only of moral and mental but of biological
inferiority. And though during his later life he has retracted
much and softened more of what he said in those years of rampant
masculine rebellion, he continues to this day to regard women as
an intermediary biological form, standing between the man and
the child.

With the publication, in 1887, of "The Father," a modern
three-act tragedy, Strindberg reached a double climax. That work
has been hailed as one of his greatest, if not the greatest,
as far as technical perfection is concerned. At the same time
it presents that duel of the sexes--which to him had taken the
place of love--in its most startling and hideous aspects. The
gloom of the play is almost unsurpassed. The ingeniousness of
its plot may well be called infernal. By throwing doubt on her
husband's rights as father of the child held to be theirs in
common, the woman in the play manages to undermine the reason of
a strong and well-balanced man until he becomes transformed into
a raving maniac.

"The Comrades," a modern four-act comedy, portrays the marriage
of two artists and shows the woman as a mental parasite, drawing
both her inspiration and her skill from the husband, whom she
tries to shake off when she thinks him no longer needed for her
success. Then came the play of his which is perhaps the most
widely known--I mean the realistic drama which, for want of a
better English equivalent, must be named here "Miss Juliet." It
embodied some startling experiments in form and has undoubtedly
exercised a distinct influence on the subsequent development
of dramatic technique. On the surface it appears to offer
little more than another version of the sex duel, but back of
the conflict between man and woman we discover another one,
less deep-going perhaps, but rendered more acute by existing
conditions. It is the conflict between the upper and partly
outlived elements of society and its still unrefined, but
vitally unimpaired, strata. And it is the stronger vitality,
here represented by the man, which carries the day.

The rest of Strindberg's dramatic productions during this
middle, naturalistic period, lasting from 1885 to 1894, included
eight more one-act plays, several of which rank very high, and
another fairy play, "The Keys to Heaven," which probably marks
his nearest approach to a purely negative conception of life.

Paralleling the plays, we find a series of novels and short
stories dealing with the people on those islands where
Strindberg fifteen years earlier had written his "Master
Olof." Two things make these works remarkable: first, the rare
understanding shown in them of the life led by the tough race
that exists, so to speak, between land and sea; and secondly,
their genuine humour, which at times, as in the little story
named "The Tailor Has a Dance," rises into almost epic
expression. The last of these novels, "At the Edge of the Sea,"
embodies Strindberg's farthest advance into Nietzschean dreams
of supermanhood. But led by his incorruptible logic, he is
forced to reduce those dreams to the absurdity which they are
sure to involve whenever the superman feels himself standing
apart from ordinary humanity.

Finally he wrote, during the earlier part of this marvellously
prolific period, five autobiographical novels. One of these was
not published until years later. Three others were collectively
known as "The Bondwoman's Son," and carried his revelations up
to the time of his marriage. The first volume in the series is
especially noteworthy because of its searching and sympathetic
study of child psychology. But all the novels in this series
are of high value because of the sharp light they throw on
social conditions. Strindberg's power as an acute and accurate
observer has never been questioned, and it has rarely been more
strikingly evidenced than in his autobiographical writings. A
place by itself, though belonging to the same series, is held by
"A Fool's Confession," wherein Strindberg laid bare the tragedy
of his first marriage. It is the book that has exposed him to
more serious criticism than any other. He wrote it in French and
consented to its publication only as a last means of escaping
unendurable financial straits. Against his vain protests,
unauthorised translations were brought out in German and Swedish.

The dissolution of his marriage occurred in 1891. The
circumstances surrounding that break were extremely painful
to Strindberg. Both the facts of the legal procedure and
the feelings it evoked within himself have been almost
photographically portrayed in the one-act play, "The Link,"
which forms part of this volume. The "link" which binds man and
woman together even when their love is gone and the law has
severed all external ties is the child--and it is always for the
offspring that Strindberg reserves his tenderest feelings and
greatest concern.

After the divorce Strindberg left for Germany, where his works
in the meantime had been making steady headway. A couple of
years later he was taken up in France, and there was a time
during the first half of the nineties, when he had plays running
simultaneously at half a dozen Parisian theatres. While at
Berlin, he met a young woman writer of Austrian birth who soon
after became his second wife. Their marriage lasted only a few
years, and while it was not as unhappy as the first one, it
helped to bring on the mental crisis for which Strindberg had
been heading ever since the prosecution of "Marriage," in 1884.

He ceased entirely to write and plunged instead into scientific
speculation and experimentation. Chemistry was the subject
that had the greatest fascination for him, and his dream was
to prove the transmutability of the elements. In the course
of a prolonged stay at Paris, where he shunned everybody and
risked both health and life in his improvised laboratory,
his mental state became more and more abnormal, without ever
reaching a point where he ceased to realise just what was going
on within himself. He began to have psychic experiences of a
character that to him appeared distinctly supernatural. At the
same time he was led by the reading of Balzac to the discovery
of Swedenborg. By quick degrees, though not without much
mental suffering, he rejected all that until then had to him
represented life's highest truths. From being a materialistic
sceptic, he became a believing mystic, to whom this world seemed
a mere transitory state of punishment, a "hell" created by his
own thoughts.

The crisis took him in the end to a private sanitarium kept by
an old friend in the southern part of Sweden, but it would be
far from safe to assume that he ever reached a state of actual
insanity. His return to health began in 1896 and was completed
in a year. In 1897 he resumed his work of artistic creation once
more, and with a new spirit that startled those who had held him
lost for ever. First of all a flood of personal experiences and
impressions needed expression. This he accomplished by his two
autobiographical novels, "Inferno" and "Legends," the former
of which must be counted one of the most remarkable studies in
abnormal psychology in the world's literature. Next came "The
Link" and another one-act play. In 1898 he produced the first
two parts of "To Damascus," a play that--in strikingly original
form, and with a depth of thought and feeling not before
achieved--embodied his own soul's long pilgrimage in search of
internal and external harmony. The last part of the trilogy was
not added until 1904.

Then followed ten years of production so amazing that it
surpassed his previous high-water mark during the middle
eighties, both in quality and quantity. Once for all the mood
and mode of his creation had been settled. He was still a
realist in so far as faithfulness to life was concerned, but
the reality for which he had now begun to strive was spiritual
rather than material. He can, during this final period, only be
classed as a symbolist, but of the kind typified by Ibsen in the
series of masterpieces beginning with "Rosmersholm" and ending
with "Little Eyolf."

More and more as he pushes on from one height to another, he
manages to fuse the two offices of artist and moralist without
injury to either of them. His view of life is still pessimistic,
but back of man's earthly disappointments and humiliations and
sufferings he glimpses a higher existence to which this one
serves merely as a preparation. Everything that happens to
himself and to others seems to reveal the persistent influence
of secret powers, pulling and pushing, rewarding and punishing,
but always urging and leading man to some goal not yet bared to
his conscious vision. Resignation, humility, kindness become
the main virtues of human existence. And the greatest tragedy
of that existence he sees in man's--that is, his own--failure
to make all his actions conform to those ideals. Thus, in the
closing line of his last play, "The Great Highway," he pleads
for mercy as one who has suffered more than most "from the
inability to be that which we will to be."

Among the earliest results of his autumnal renascence was a
five-act historical drama named "Gustavus Vasa." It proved the
first of a dozen big plays dealing with the main events in his
country's history from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century.
As a rule they were built about a monarch whose reign marked
some national crisis. Five stand out above the rest in artistic
value: "Gustavus Vasa," "Erie XIV," "Gustavus Adolphus,"
"Charles XII," and "The Last Knight." At once intensely
national and broadly human in their spirit, these plays won for
Strindberg a higher place in his countrymen's hearts than he
had ever before held--though notes of discord were not missing
on account of the freedom with which he exposed and demolished
false idols and outlived national ideals. As they stand to-day,
those dramas have in them so much of universal appeal that I
feel sure they must sooner or later win the same attention in
the English-speaking countries that they have already received
in Germany.

While thus recalling the past to new life, he was also busy
with another group of plays embodying what practically amounts
to a new dramatic form. The literary tendency underlying them
might be defined as realistic symbolism or impressionistic
mysticism--you can take your choice! The characters in those
plays are men and women very much belonging to our own day. They
speak as you or I might do. And yet there is in them and about
them a significance surpassing not only that of the ordinary
individual, but also that of ordinary poetical portrayals of
such individuals.

"There Are Crimes and Crimes," "Christmas," "Easter," and
"Midsummer" are the principal plays belonging to this group.
With them must be classed the trio of fairy or "dream" plays
written under the acknowledged influence of Maeterlinck. In the
first of these, the charming dramatic legend named "Swanwhite,"
the impetus received from the Belgian makes itself clearly felt.
In the last of them, "The Dream Play," Strindberg has worked out
a form that is wholly new and wholly his own. As the play in
question forms part of this volume, I shall not need to speak of
it here in the manner it would otherwise deserve.

Related to the group just described, and yet not confinable
within it, stands the double drama, "The Dance of Death," which
also appears in this volume. Numerous critics have declared
it Strindberg's greatest play, and there is much in the work
to warrant such a judgment. Its construction is masterly. Its
characters are almost shockingly real. And yet the play as a
whole is saturated with that sense of larger relationships which
we are wont to dispose of by calling it "mysticism." Like all
of Strindberg's work belonging to this period, it constitutes
a huge piece of symbolism--but the subject of its symbolical
interpretation seems to be nothing less than the sum of human
interrelationships.

During the last three or four years of the decade we are now
dealing with, Strindberg was very much interested in the project
of establishing a theatre at Stockholm, where nothing but his
own productions were to be staged. The plan was actually carried
out and a building arranged that held only about two hundred
people. It was called the Intimate Theatre. There Strindberg
made some highly interesting experiments in the simplification
and standardising of scenery, until at last some of his plays
were given with no other accessories than draperies. The effects
thus obtained proved unexpectedly successful. For this stage
Strindberg wrote five dramas which he defined as "chamber
plays." In form they harked back to "Miss Juliet," and they were
meant to be played without interruptions. But in spirit they
were marked by the same blend of mysticism and realism that
forms such a striking feature of "The Dream Play," for instance.
Add to these another fairy play, "The Slippers of Abu Casem,"
and a final autobiographical drama named "The Great Highway,"
and we get a total of twenty-nine dramatic works in ten years.
For more critical treatment of Strindberg's art I would refer
the reader to my articles in _The Forum_ of February and March,
1912.

But at the same time Strindberg's pen was no less active in
other fields. There are two more autobiographical volumes, two
novels displaying vast social canvasses, four collections of
short stories, and one collection of poems; also three bulky
volumes named collectively "The Blue Books" and containing the
most wonderful medley of scientific speculations, philosophical
pronouncements, personal polemics, and aphoristic embodiments
of the author's rich store of wisdom; and finally a score of
pamphlets--analytical studies of Shakespeare plays, instructions
to the members of the Intimate Theatre, satirical studies of
contemporary social and literary conditions, propositions for
a more complete democratisation of the government, and so
on almost endlessly. And notwithstanding much supercilious
criticism as well as some warranted regrets for the tone at
times employed in these works, it is pretty generally admitted
that Strindberg never has approached any topic without saying
something worth while about it.

Outwardly Strindberg's life has been very quiet since he
returned to his native country in 1897. A third marriage,
contracted in 1901 and dissolved three years later, served only
to reconcile him once for all to the solitude that has always
surrounded him more or less, even in the midst of admiring
or condemning multitudes. He is now sixty-three years old,
and the last news indicates that, at last, his iron health is
failing him. In the sheltered nook which he has established
for himself at Stockholm, he busies himself with philological
studies, interrupted mainly by visits from his children, of
which there are five from the three marriages. Two of these--his
eldest daughter, who is now happily married, and the youngest,
a vivacious lass of nine to whom "The Slippers of Abu Casem"
was dedicated--are in the habit of calling daily. Flowers and
music are what he loves next to his children and his work. From
that corner where he hears nothing but echoes of the storms
that are still raging at times about his public utterances, he
follows with keen eye whatever is happening in the world of
deeds as well as in the world of letters. And in the meantime
his fame is steadily spreading and growing. On the European
continent his name is constantly mentioned together with those
of Ibsen and Björnson. In the English-speaking countries it has
hitherto remained merely a name. The time has surely come for
a realisation of some of the things that name stands for, and
it is my earnest hope that this volume may help to change a
condition that reflects more on those who do not know than on
him who is not known.

In regard to the style of my translations, I wish to quote
some words written before the task now finished had ever been
suggested to me. They are from an article on "Slaughtering
Strindberg," which appeared in "The Drama," of August, 1911:

"Strindberg is the man who has raised modern Swedish to its
utmost potency of beauty and power. It may also be said, and
with equal truth, that he has made the literary language of this
country truly modern. This he has achieved not by polishing
study-born mannerisms, but by watching and developing the
living idiom that flows from the lips of men and women around
him--observed at home and in the office, on the street and in
the restaurant, while loving and dying, while chatting and
quarrelling. Never was a man more keen on catching the life
breath of his own time, and never was a man more scornful of
mere fads and fashions, born one moment and forgotten in the
next. To transplant the work of such a man may be difficult, but
it involves no impossibility, provided only that we observe his
own practical attitude toward what constitutes 'good form' and
'bad form' in a pulsing and growing language. We, on this side
of the ocean, ought to be able to read Strindberg and receive
impressions virtually identical with those received by a Swedish
reader at Stockholm. And I believe that it will be easier to
find equivalents for his clean-cut and flexible prose out of
what is called English here than out of what bears that name in
England."

Finally, I wish to mention that the prologue now attached
to "The Dream Play" has never before been published in any
language. It was written last year as an afterthought, and was
by the author kindly placed at my disposal in manuscript.




A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUGUST STRINDBERG'S MAIN WORKS


_Plays_: "Hermione," 1869; "The Outlaw," 1871; "Master Olof,"
1872; "The Secret of the Guild," 1880; "Sir Bengt's Lady,"
1882; "The Wanderings of Lucky-Per," 1883; "The Father," 1887;
"The Comrades," 1888; "Miss Juliet," 1888; "Creditors," 1890;
"Pariah," 1890; "Samum," 1890; "The Stronger," 1890; "The
Keys of Heaven," 1892; "The First Warning," 1893; "Debit and
Credit," 1893; "Mother-Love," 1893; "Facing Death," 1893;
"Playing with Fire," 1897; "The Link," 1897; "To Damascus," I
and II, 1898; "There are Crimes and Crimes," 1899; "Christmas,"
1899; "Gustavus Vasa," 1899; "Eric XIV," 1899; "The Saga of
the Folkungs," 1899; "Gustavus Adolphus," 1900; "The Dance of
Death," I and II, 1901; "Easter," 1901; "Midsummer," 1901;
"Engelbreckt," 1901; "Charles XII," 1901; "The Crown Bride,"
1902; "Swanwhite," 1902; "The Dream Play," 1902; "Gustavus III,"
1903; "Queen Christina," 1903; "The Nightingale of Wittenberg,"
1903; "To Damascus," III, 1904; "Storm," 1907; "The Burned
Lot," 1907; "The Spook Sonata," 1907; "The Pelican," 1907; "The
Slippers of Abu Casem," 1908; "The Last Knight," 1908; "The
National Director," 1909; "The Earl of Bjällbo," 1909; "The
Black Glove," 1909; "The Great Highway," 1909.

_Novels and Short-story Collections_: "The Red Room," 1879;
"Swedish Events and Adventures," 1882-91; "Marriage," I, 1884;
"Real Utopias," 1885; "Marriage," II, 1886; "The People at
Hemsö," 1887; "Fisher Folks," 1888; "Chandalah," 1889; "At the
Edge of the Sea," 1890; "Fables," 1890-7; "Sagas," 1903; "The
Gothic Rooms," 1904; "Historical Miniatures," 1905; "New Swedish
Events," 1906; "Black Flags," 1907; "The Scapegoat," 1907.

_Autobiographical Fiction_: "The Bondwoman's Son," I--III,
1886-7; "The Author," 1887; "A Fool's Confession," 1888;
"Inferno," 1897; "Legends," 1898; "Fairhaven and Foulstrand,"
1902; "Alone," 1903.

_History, Essays, Etc_.: "The New Kingdom," 1882; "The Swedish
People," 1882; "Little Studies of Plants and Animals," 1888;
"Among French Peasants," 1889; "A Blue Book," I--III, 1907-8;
"Speeches to the Swedish Nation," 1910; "Religious Renascence,"
1910; "The Origins of Our Mother Tongue," 1910; "Biblical Proper
Names," 1910.




THE DREAM PLAY

1902




A REMINDER

As he did in his previous dream play,[1] so in this one the
author has tried to imitate the disconnected but seemingly
logical form of the dream. Anything may happen; everything
is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist. On an
insignificant background of reality, imagination designs and
embroiders novel patterns: a medley of memories, experiences,
free fancies, absurdities and improvisations.

The characters split, double, multiply, vanish, solidify, blur,
clarify. But one consciousness reigns above them all--that
of the dreamer; and before it there are no secrets, no
incongruities, no scruples, no laws. There is neither judgment
nor exoneration, but merely narration. And as the dream is
mostly painful, rarely pleasant, a note of melancholy and of
pity with all living things runs right through the wabbly tale.
Sleep, the liberator, plays often a dismal part, but when the
pain is at its worst, the awakening comes and reconciles the
sufferer with reality, which, however distressing it may be,
nevertheless seems happy in comparison with the torments of the
dream.

[Footnote 1: The trilogy "To Damascus."]




PROLOGUE


      _The background represents cloud banks that resemble
      corroding slate cliffs with ruins of castles and
      fortresses_.

      _The constellations of Leo, Virgo, and Libra are
      visible, and from their midst the planet Jupiter is
      shining with a strong light_.

      THE DAUGHTER OF INDRA _stands on the topmost cloud_.

THE VOICE OF INDRA [_from above_].

Where are you, daughter, where?

THE DAUGHTER.

Here, father, here.

THE VOICE.

You've lost your way, my child--beware, you sink--How got you
there?

THE DAUGHTER.

    I followed from ethereal heights the ray
    Of lightning, and for car a cloud I took--
    It sank, and now my journey downward tends.
    O, noble father, Indra, tell what realms
    I now draw near? The air is here so close,
    And breathing difficult.

THE VOICE.

    Behind you lies the second world; the third
    Is where you stand. From Cukra, morning star
    You have withdrawn yourself to enter soon
    The vapoury circle of the earth. For mark
    The Seventh House you take. It's Libra called:
    There stands the day-star in the balanced hour
    When Fall gives equal weight to night and day.

THE DAUGHTER.

    You named the earth--is that the ponderous world
    And dark, that from the moon must take its light?

THE VOICE.

    It is the heaviest and densest sphere
    Of all that travel through the space.

THE DAUGHTER.

    And is it never brightened by the sun?

THE VOICE.

    Of course, the sun does reach it--now and then--

THE DAUGHTER.

    There is a rift, and downward goes my glance----

THE VOICE.

    What sees my child?

THE DAUGHTER.

    I see--O beautiful!--with forests green,
    With waters blue, white peaks, and yellow fields

THE VOICE.

    Yes, beautiful as all that Brahma made--
    But still more beautiful it was of yore,
    In primal morn of ages. Then occurred
    Some strange mishap; the orbit was disturbed;
    Rebellion led to crime that called for check----

THE DAUGHTER.

    Now from below I hear some sounds arise--
    What sort of race is dwelling there?

THE VOICE.

    See for yourself--Of Brahma's work no ill
    I say: but what you hear, it is their speech.

THE DAUGHTER.

    It sounds as if--it has no happy ring!

THE VOICE.

    I fear me not--for even their mother-tongue
    Is named complaint. A race most hard to please,
    And thankless, are the dwellers on the earth

THE DAUGHTER.

    O, say not so--for I hear cries of joy,
    Hear noise and thunder, see the lightnings flash--
    Now bells are ringing, fires are lit,
    And thousand upon thousand tongues
    Sing praise and thanks unto the heavens on high--
    Too harshly, father, you are judging them.

THE VOICE.

    Descend, that you may see and hear, and then
    Return and let me know if their complaints
    And wailings have some reasonable ground----

THE DAUGHTER.

    Well then, I go; but, father, come with me.

THE VOICE.

    No, there below I cannot breathe----

THE DAUGHTER.

    Now sinks the cloud--what sultriness--I choke!
    I am not breathing air, but smoke and steam--
    With heavy weight it drags me down,
    And I can feel already how it rolls--
    Indeed, the best of worlds is not the third

THE VOICE.

    The best I cannot call it, nor the worst.
    Its name is Dust; and like them all, it rolls:
    And therefore dizzy sometimes grows the race,
    And seems to be half foolish and half mad--
    Take courage, child--a trial, that is all!

THE DAUGHTER. [_Kneeling as the cloud sinks downward_]

    I sink!

_Curtain_.



      _The background represents a forest of gigantic
      hollyhocks in bloom. They are white, pink, crimson,
      sulphureous, violet; and above their tops is seen
      the gilded roof of a castle, the apex of which is
      formed by a bud resembling a crown. At the foot of
      the castle walls stand a number of straw ricks,
      and around these stable litter is scattered. The
      side-scenes, which remain unchanged throughout the
      play, show conventionalised frescoes, suggesting
      at once internal decoration, architecture, and
      landscape_.

      _Enter_ THE GLAZIER _and_ THE DAUGHTER.


THE DAUGHTER. The castle is growing higher and higher above the
ground. Do you see how much it has grown since last year?

THE GLAZIER. [_To himself_] I have never seen this castle
before--have never heard of a castle that grew, but--[_To_ THE
DAUGHTER, _with firm conviction_] Yes, it has grown two yards,
but that is because they have manured it--and it you notice, it
has put out a wing on the sunny side.

THE DAUGHTER. Ought it not to be blooming soon, as we are
already past midsummer?

THE GLAZIER. Don't you see the flower up there?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, I see! [_Claps her hands_] Say, father, why
do flowers grow out of dirt?

THE GLAZIER, [_Simply_] Because they do not feel at home in the
dirt, and so they make haste to get up into the light in order
to blossom and die.

THE DAUGHTER. Do you know who lives in that castle?

THE GLAZIER. I have known it, but cannot remember.

THE DAUGHTER. I believe a prisoner is kept there--and he must be
waiting for me to set him free.

THE GLAZIER. And what is he to pay for it?

THE DAUGHTER. One does not bargain about one's duty. Let us go
into the castle.

THE GLAZIER. Yes, let us go in.

_They go toward the background, which opens and slowly
disappears to either side_.

_The stage shows now a humble, bare room, containing only a
table and a few chairs. On one of the chairs sits an officer,
dressed in a very unusual yet modern uniform. He is tilting the
chair backward and beating the table with his sabre_.

THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes to the officer, from whose hand she gently
takes the sabre_] Don't! Don't!

THE OFFICER. Oh, Agnes dear, let me keep the sabre.

THE DAUGHTER. No, you break the table. [_To_ THE GLAZIER] Now
you go down to the harness-room and fix that window pane. We'll
meet later.

      [THE GLAZIER _goes out_.

THE DAUGHTER. You are imprisoned in your own rooms--I have come
to set you free.

THE OFFICER. I have been waiting for you, but I was not sure you
were willing to do it.

THE DAUGHTER. The castle is strongly built; it has seven walls,
but--it can be done!--Do you want it, or do you not?

THE OFFICER. Frankly speaking, I cannot tell--for in either
case I shall suffer pain. Every joy that life brings has to be
paid for with twice its measure of sorrow. It is hard to stay
where I am, but if I buy the sweets of freedom, then I shall
have to suffer twice as much--Agnes, I'll rather endure it as it
is, if I can only see you.

THE DAUGHTER. What do you see in me?

THE OFFICER. Beauty, which is the harmony of the universe--There
are lines of your body which are nowhere to be found, except
in the orbits of the solar system, in strings that are singing
softly, or in the vibrations of light--You are a child of
heaven----

THE DAUGHTER. So are you.

THE OFFICER. Why must I then keep horses, tend stable, and cart
straw?

THE DAUGHTER. So that you may long to get away from here.

THE OFFICER. I am longing, but it is so hard to find one's way
out.

THE DAUGHTER. But it is a duty to seek freedom in the light.

THE OFFICER. Duty? Life has never recognised any duties toward
me.

THE DAUGHTER. You feel yourself wronged by life?

THE OFFICER. Yes, it has been unjust----

      _Now voices are heard from behind a 'partition, which
      a moment later is pulled away_. THE OFFICER _and_
      THE DAUGHTER _look in that direction and stop as if
      paralysed in the midst of a gesture_.

      _At a table sits_ THE MOTHER, _looking very sick. In
      front of her a tallow candle is burning, and every
      little while she trims it with, a pair of snuffers.
      The table is piled with new-made shirts, and these
      she is marking with a quill and ink. To the left
      stands a brown-coloured wardrobe_.

THE FATHER. [_Holds out a silk mantilla toward_ THE MOTHER _and
says gently_] You don't want it?

THE MOTHER. A silk mantilla for me, my dear--of what use would
that be when I am going to die shortly?

THE FATHER. Do you believe what the doctor says?

THE MOTHER. Yes, I believe also what he says, but still more
what the voice says in here.

THE FATHER. [_Sadly_] It is true then?--And you are thinking of
your children first and last.

THE MOTHER. That has been my life and my reason for living--my
joy and my sorrow

THE FATHER. Christine, forgive me--everything!

THE MOTHER. What have I to forgive? Dearest, you forgive _me_!
We have been tormenting each other. Why? That we may not know.
We couldn't do anything else--However, here is the new linen for
the children. See that they change twice a week--Wednesdays and
Sundays--and that Louise washes them--their whole bodies--Are
you going out?

THE FATHER. I have to be in the Department at eleven o'clock.

THE MOTHER. Ask Alfred to come in before you go.

THE FATHER. [_Pointing to_ THE OFFICER] Why, he is standing
right there, dear heart.

THE MOTHER. So my eyes are failing, too--Yes, it is turning
dark. [_Trims the candle_] Come here, Alfred.

      THE FATHER _goes out through the middle of the wall,
      nodding good-bye as he leaves_.

      THE OFFICER _goes over to_ THE MOTHER.

THE MOTHER. Who is that girl?

THE OFFICER, [_Whispers_] It is Agnes.

THE MOTHER. Oh, is that Agnes?--Do you know what they say?--That
she is a daughter of the god Indra who has asked leave to
descend to the earth in order that she may find out what the
conditions of men are--But don't say anything about it.

THE OFFICER. A child of the gods, indeed!

THE MOTHER. [_Aloud_] My Alfred, I must soon part from you and
from the other children--But let me first speak a word to you
that bears on all the rest of your life.

THE OFFICER. [_Sadly_] Speak, mother.

THE MOTHER. Only a word: don't quarrel with God!

THE OFFICER. What do you mean, mother?

THE MOTHER. Don't go around feeling that life has wronged you.

THE OFFICER. But when I am treated unjustly----

THE MOTHER. You are thinking of the time when you were unjustly
punished for having taken a penny that later turned up?

THE OFFICER. Yes, and that one wrong gave a false twist to my
whole life----

THE MOTHER. Perhaps. But please take a look into that wardrobe
now----

THE OFFICER. [_Embarrassed_] You know, then? It is----

THE MOTHER. The Swiss Family Robinson--for which----

THE OFFICER. Don't say any more!

THE MOTHER. For which your brother was punished--and which you
had torn and hidden away.

THE OFFICER. Just think that the old wardrobe is still standing
there after twenty years--We have moved so many times, and my
mother died ten years ago.

THE MOTHER. Yes, and what of it? You are always asking all sorts
of questions, and in that way you spoil the better part of your
life--There is Lena, now.

LENA. [_Enters_] Thank you very much, ma'am, but I can't go to
the baptism.

THE MOTHER. And why not, my girl?

LENA. I have nothing to put on.

THE MOTHER. I'll let you use my mantilla here

LENA. Oh, no, ma'am, that wouldn't do!

THE MOTHER. Why not?--It is not likely that I'll go to any more
parties.

THE OFFICER. And what will father say? It is a present from
him----

THE MOTHER. What small minds----

THE FATHER. [_Puts his head through the wall_] Are you going to
lend my present to the servant girl?

THE MOTHER. Don't talk that way! Can you not remember that I
was a servant girl also? Why should you offend one who has done
nothing?

THE FATHER. Why should you offend me, your husband?

THE MOTHER. Oh, this life! If you do anything nice, there is
always somebody who finds it nasty. If you act kindly to one, it
hurts another. Oh, this life!

      _She trims the candle so that it goes out. The stage
      turns dark and the partition is pushed back to its
      former position_.

THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied.

THE OFFICER. You think so?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, life is hard--but love overcomes everything.
You shall see for yourself.

      [_They go toward the background.

      The background is raised and a new one revealed,
      showing an old, dilapidated party-wall. In the
      centre of it is a gate closing a passageway. This
      opens upon a green, sunlit space, where is seen a
      tremendous blue monk's-hood (aconite). To the left of
      the gate sits_ THE PORTRESS. _Her head and shoulders
      are covered by a shawl, and she is crocheting at a
      bed-spread with a star-like pattern. To the right of
      the gate is a billboard, which_ THE BILLPOSTER _is
      cleaning. Beside him stands a dipnet with a green
      pole. Further to the right is a door that has an
      air-hole shaped like a four-leaved clover. To the
      left of the gate stands a small linden tree with
      coal-black trunk and a few pale-green leaves. Near it
      is a small air-hole leading into a cellar._[1]

THE DAUGHTER. [_Going to_ THE PORTRESS] Is the spread not done
yet?

THE PORTRESS. No, dear. Twenty-six years on such a piece of work
is not much.

THE DAUGHTER. And your lover never came back?

THE PORTRESS. No, but it was not his fault. He had to go--poor
thing! That was thirty years ago now.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] She belonged to the ballet?
Up there in the opera-house?

THE BILLPOSTER. She was number one--but when _he_ went, it was
as if her dancing had gone with him--and so she didn't get any
more parts.

THE DAUGHTER. Everybody complains--with their eyes, at least,
and often with words also----

THE BILLPOSTER. I don't complain very much--not now, since I
have a dipnet and a green cauf[2]----

THE DAUGHTER. And that can make you happy?

THE BILLPOSTER. Oh, I'm so happy, so--It was the dream of my
youth, and now it has come true. Of course, I have grown to be
fifty years----

THE DAUGHTER. Fifty years for a dipnet and a cauf----

THE BILLPOSTER. A _green_ cauf--mind you, _green_----

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE PORTRESS] Let me have the shawl now,
and I shall sit here and watch the human children. But you must
stand behind me and tell me about everything.

      [_She takes the shawl and sits down at the gate._

THE PORTRESS. This is the last day, and the house will be closed
up for the season. This is the day when they learn whether their
contracts are to be renewed.

THE DAUGHTER. And those that fail of engagement----

THE PORTRESS. O, Lord have mercy! I pull the shawl over my head
not to see them.

THE DAUGHTER. Poor human creatures!

THE PORTRESS. Look, here comes one--She's not one of the chosen.
See, how she cries.

      THE SINGER _enters from the right; rushes through the
      gate with her handkerchief to her eyes; stops for a
      moment in the passageway beyond the gate and leans
      her head against the wall; then out quickly_.

THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied!

THE PORTRESS. But look at this one. That's the way a happy
person looks.

      THE OFFICER _enters through the passageway; dressed
      in Prince Albert coat and high hat, and carrying a
      bunch of roses in one hand; he is radiantly happy_.

THE PORTRESS. He's going to marry Miss Victoria.

THE OFFICER. [_Far down on the stage, looks up and sings_]
Victoria!

THE PORTRESS. The young lady will be coming in a moment.

THE OFFICER. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table is set,
the wine is on ice--Oh, permit me to embrace you, ladies! [_He
embraces_ THE PORTRESS _and_ THE DAUGHTER. _Sings_] Victoria!

A WOMAN'S VOICE FROM ABOVE. [_Sings_] I am here!

THE DAUGHTER. Do you know me?

THE OFFICER. No, I know one woman only--Victoria. Seven years
I have come here to wait for her--at noon, when the sun touched
the chimneys, and at night, when it was growing dark. Look at
the asphalt here, and you will see the path worn by the steps
of a faithful lover. Hooray! She is mine. [_Sings_] Victoria!
[_There is no reply_] Well, she is dressing, I suppose.
[_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] There is the dipnet, I see. Everybody
belonging to the opera is crazy about dipnets--or rather about
fishes--because the fishes are dumb and cannot sing!--What is
the price of a thing like that?

THE BILLPOSTER. It is rather expensive.

THE OFFICER. [_Sings_] Victoria! [_Shakes the linden tree_]
Look, it is turning green once more. For the eighth time.
[_Sings_] Victoria!--Now she is fixing her hair. [_To_ THE
DAUGHTER] Look here, madam, could I not go up and get my bride?

THE PORTRESS. Nobody is allowed on the stage.

THE OFFICER. Seven years I have been coming here. Seven times
three hundred and sixty-five makes two thousand five hundred and
fifty-five. [_Stops and pokes at the door with the four-leaved
clover hole_] And I have been looking two thousand five hundred
and fifty-five times at that door without discovering where it
leads. And that clover leaf which is to let in light--for whom
is the light meant? Is there anybody within? Does anybody live
there?

THE PORTRESS. I don't know. I have never seen it opened.

THE OFFICER. It looks like a pantry door which I saw once
when I was only four years old and went visiting with the maid
on a Sunday afternoon. We called at several houses--on other
maids--but I did not get beyond the kitchen anywhere, and I had
to sit between the water barrel and the salt box. I have seen
so many kitchens in my days, and the pantry was always just
outside, with small round holes bored in the door, and one big
hole like a clover leaf--But there cannot be any pantry in the
opera-house as they have no kitchen. [_Sings_] Victoria!--Tell
me, madam, could she have gone out any other way?

THE PORTRESS. No, there is no other way.

THE OFFICER. Well, then I shall see her here.

      STAGE PEOPLE _rush out and are closely watched by_
      THE OFFICER _as they pass_.

THE OFFICER. Now she must soon be coming--Madam, that blue
monk's-hood outside--I have seen it since I was a child. Is it
the same?--I remember it from a country rectory where I stopped
when I was seven years old--There are two doves, two blue doves,
under the hood--but that time a bee came flying and went into
the hood. Then I thought: now I have you! And I grabbed hold
of the flower. But the sting of the bee went through it, and I
cried--but then the rector's wife came and put damp dirt on the
sting--and we had strawberries and cream for dinner--I think it
is getting dark already. [_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] Where are you
going?

THE BILLPOSTER. Home for supper.

THE OFFICER. [_Draws his hand across his eyes_] Evening? At
this time?--O, please, may I go in and telephone to the Growing
Castle?

THE DAUGHTER. What do you want there?

THE OFFICER. I am going to tell the Glazier to put in double
windows, for it will soon be winter, and I am feeling horribly
cold. [_Goes into the gatekeeper's lodge_.

THE DAUGHTER. Who is Miss Victoria?

THE PORTRESS. His sweetheart.

THE DAUGHTER. Right said! What she is to us and others matters
nothing to him. And what she is to him, that alone is her real
self.

      _It is suddenly turning dark_.

THE PORTRESS. [_Lights a lantern_] It is growing dark early
to-day.

THE DAUGHTER. To the gods a year is as a minute.

THE PORTRESS. And to men a minute may be as long as a year.

THE OFFICER. [_Enters again, looking dusty; the roses are
withered_] She has not come yet?

THE PORTRESS. No.

THE OFFICER. But she will come--She will come! [_Walks up and
down_] But come to think of it, perhaps I had better call off
the dinner after all--as it is late? Yes, I will do that.

      [_Goes back into the lodge and telephones_.

THE PORTRESS. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Can I have my shawl back now?

THE DAUGHTER. No, dear, be free a while. I shall attend to your
duties--for I want to study men and life, and see whether things
really are as bad as they say.

THE PORTRESS. But it won't do to fall asleep here--never sleep
night or day----

THE DAUGHTER. No sleep at night?

THE PORTRESS. Yes, if you are able to get it, but only with the
bell string tied around the wrist--for there are night watchmen
on the stage, and they have to be relieved every third hour.

THE DAUGHTER. But that is torture!

THE PORTRESS. So you think, but people like us are glad enough
to get such a job, and if you only knew how envied I am----

THE DAUGHTER. Envied?--Envy for the tortured?

THE PORTRESS. Yes--But I can tell you what is harder than all
drudging and keeping awake nights, harder to bear than draught
and cold and dampness--it is to receive the confidences of all
the unhappy people up there--They all come to me. Why? Perhaps
they read in the wrinkles of my face some runes that are graved
by suffering and that invite confessions--In that shawl, dear,
lie hidden thirty years of my own and other people's agonies.

THE DAUGHTER. It is heavy, and it burns like nettles.

THE PORTRESS. As it is your wish, you may wear it. When it grows
too burdensome, call me, and I shall relieve you.

THE DAUGHTER. Good-bye. What can be done by you ought not to
surpass my strength.

THE PORTRESS. We shall see!--But be kind to my poor friends, and
don't grow impatient of their complaints.

      [_She disappears through the passageway. Complete
      darkness covers the stage, and while it lasts the
      scene is changed so that the linden tree appears
      stripped of all its leaves. Soon the blue monk's-hood
      is withered, and when the light returns, the verdure
      in the open space beyond the passageway has changed
      into autumnal brown_.

THE OFFICER. [_Enters when it is light again. He has gray hair
and a gray beard. His clothes are shabby, his collar is soiled
and wrinkled. Nothing but the bare stems remain of the bunch of
roses. He walks to and fro_] To judge by all signs, Summer is
gone and Fall has come. The linden shows it, and the monk's-hood
also. [_Walks_] But the Fall is _my_ Spring, for then the opera
begins again, and then she must come. Please, madam, may I sit
down a little on this chair?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, sit down, friend--I am able to stand.

THE OFFICER. [_Sits down_] If I could only get some sleep, then
I should feel better--[_He falls asleep for a few moments. Then
he jumps up and walks back and forth again. Stops at last in
front of the door with the clover leaf and pokes at_] This door
here will not leave me any peace--what is behind it? There must
be something. [_Faint dance music is heard from above_] Oh, now
the rehearsals have begun. [_The light goes out and flares up
again, repeating this rhythmically as the rays of a lighthouse
come and go_] What does this mean? [_Speaking in time with the
blinkings of the light_] Light and dark--light and dark?

THE DAUGHTER. [_Imitating him_] Night and day--night and day! A
merciful Providence wants to shorten your wait. Therefore the
days are flying in hot pursuit of the nights.

      _The light shines unbrokenly once more_.

      THE BILLPOSTER _enters with his dipnet and his
      implements_.

THE OFFICER. There is the Billposter with his dipnet. Was the
fishing good?

THE BILLPOSTER. I should say so. The Summer was hot and a little
long--the net turned out pretty good, but not as I had expected.

THE OFFICER. [_With emphasis_] Not as I had expected!--That is
well said. Nothing ever was as I expected it to be--because the
thought is more than the deed, more than the thing.

      _Walks to and fro, striking at the wall with the rose
      stems so that the last few leaves fall off_.

THE BILLPOSTER. Has she not come down yet?

THE OFFICER. Not yet, but she will soon be here--Do you know
what is behind that door, Billposter?

THE BILLPOSTER. No, I have never seen that door open yet.

THE OFFICER. I am going to telephone for a locksmith to come and
open it. [_Goes into the lodge_.

      [THE BILLPOSTER _posts a bill and goes toward the
      right_.

THE DAUGHTER. What is the matter with the dipnet?

THE BILLPOSTER. Matter? Well, I don't know as there is anything
the matter with it--but it just didn't turn out as I had
expected, and the pleasure of it was not so much after all.

THE DAUGHTER. How did you expect it to be?

THE BILLPOSTER. How?--Well, I couldn't tell exactly----

THE DAUGHTER. I can tell you! You had expected it to be what it
was not. It had to be green, but not that kind of green.

THE BILLPOSTER. You have it, madam. You understand it all--and
that is why everybody goes to you with his worries. If you would
only listen to me a little also----

THE DAUGHTER. Of course, I will!--Come in to me and pour out
your heart. [_She goes into the lodge_.

      [THE BILLPOSTER _remains outside, speaking to her.
      The stage is darkened again. When the light is turned
      on, the tree has resumed its leaves, the monk's-hood
      is blooming once more, and the sun is shining on the
      green space beyond the passageway_.

      THE OFFICER _enters. Now he is old and white-haired,
      ragged, and wearing worn-out shoes. He carries the
      bare remnants of the rose stems. Walks to and fro
      slowly, with the gait of an aged man. Reads on the
      posted bill_.

      A BALLET GIRL _comes in from the right_.

THE OFFICER. Is Miss Victoria gone?

THE BALLET GIRL. No, she has not gone yet.

THE OFFICER. Then I shall wait. She will be coming soon, don't
you think?

THE BALLET GIRL. Oh, yes, I am sure.

THE OFFICER. Don't go away now, for I have sent word to the
locksmith, so you will soon see what is behind that door.

THE BALLET GIRL. Oh, it will be awfully interesting to see that
door opened. That door, there, and the Growing Castle--have you
heard of the Growing Castle?

THE OFFICER. Have I?--I have been a prisoner in it.

THE BALLET GIRL. No, was that you? But why do they keep such a
lot of horses there?

THE OFFICER. Because it is a stable castle, don't you know.

THE BALLET GIRL. [_With confusion_] How stupid of me not to
guess that!

      A MALE CHORUS SINGER _enters from the right_.

THE OFFICER. Has Miss Victoria gone yet?

THE CHORUS SINGER. [_Earnestly_] No, she has not. She never goes
away.

THE OFFICER. That is because she loves me--See here, don't go
before the locksmith comes to open the door here.

THE CHORUS SINGER. No, is the door going to be opened? Well,
that will be fun!--I just want to ask the Portress something.

      THE PROMPTER enters from the right.

THE OFFICER. Is Miss Victoria gone yet?

THE PROMPTER. Not that I know of.

THE OFFICER. Now, didn't I tell you she was waiting for
me!--Don't go away, for the door is going to be opened.

THE PROMPTER. Which door?

THE OFFICER. Is there more than one door?

THE PROMPTER. Oh, I know--that one with the clover leaf. Well,
then I have got to stay--I am only going to have a word with
the Portress.

      THE BALLET GIRL, THE CHORUS SINGER, and THE PROMPTER
      gather beside THE BILLPOSTER in front of the lodge
      window and talk by turns to THE DAUGHTER.

      THE GLAZIER enters through the gate.

THE OFFICER. Are you the locksmith?

THE GLAZIER. No, the locksmith had visitors, and a glazier will
do just as well.

THE OFFICER. Yes, of course, of course--but did you bring your
diamond along?

THE GLAZIER. Why, certainly!--A glazier without his diamond,
what would that be?

THE OFFICER. Nothing at all!--Let us get to work then.

      [_Claps his hands together_.

      ALL _gather in a ring around the door_.

      _Male members of the chorus dressed as Master Singers
      and Ballet Girls in costumes from the opera "Aïda"
      enter from the right and join the rest_.

THE OFFICER. Locksmith--or glazier--do your duty!

      THE GLAZIER _goes up to the door with the diamond in
      his hand_.

THE OFFICER. A moment like this will not occur twice in a man's
life. For this reason, my friends, I ask you--please consider
carefully----

A POLICEMAN. [_Enters_] In the name of the law, I forbid the
opening of that door!

THE OFFICER. Oh, Lord! What a fuss there is as soon as anybody
wants to do anything new or great. But we will take the matter
into court--let us go to the Lawyer. Then we shall see whether
the laws still exist or not--Come along to the Lawyer.

      _Without lowering of the curtain, the stage changes
      to a lawyer's office, and in this manner. The gate
      remains, but as a wicket in the railing running clear
      across the stage. The gatekeeper's lodge turns into
      the private enclosure of the Lawyer, and it is now
      entirely open to the front. The linden, leafless,
      becomes a hat tree. The billboard is covered with
      legal notices and court decisions. The door with the
      four-leaved clover hole forms part of a document
      chest_.

      THE LAWYER, _in evening dress and white necktie, is
      found sitting to the left, inside the gate, and in
      front of him stands a desk covered with papers. His
      appearance indicates enormous sufferings. His face
      is chalk-white and full of wrinkles, and its shadows
      have a purple effect. He is ugly, and his features
      seem to reflect all the crimes and vices with which
      he has been forced by his profession to come into
      contact_.

      _Of his two clerks, one has lost an arm, the other an
      eye_.

      _The people gathered to witness "the opening of the
      door" remain as before, bid they appear now to be
      waiting for an audience with the Lawyer. Judging
      by their attitudes, one would think they had been
      standing there forever_.

      THE DAUGHTER, _still wearing the shawl, and_ THE
      OFFICER _are near the footlights_.

THE LAWYER. [Goes _over to_ THE DAUGHTER] Tell me, sister, can
I have that shawl? I shall keep it here until I have a fire in
my grate, and then I shall burn it with all its miseries and
sorrows.

THE DAUGHTER. Not yet, brother. I want it to hold all it
possibly can, and I want it above all to take up your agonies
--all the confidences you have received about crime, vice,
robbery, slander, abuse----

THE LAWYER. My dear girl, for such a purpose your shawl would
prove totally insufficient. Look at these walls. Does it not
look as if the wall-paper itself had been soiled by every
conceivable sin? Look at these documents into which I write
tales of wrong. Look at myself--No smiling man ever comes here;
nothing is to be seen here but angry glances, snarling lips,
clenched fists--And everybody pours his anger, his envy, his
suspicions, upon me. Look--my hands are black, and no washing
will clean them. See how they are chapped and bleeding--I can
never wear my clothes more than a few days because they smell
of other people's crimes--At times I have the place fumigated
with sulphur, but it does not help. I sleep near by, and I
dream of nothing but crimes--Just now I have a murder case in
court--oh, I can stand that, but do you know what is worse than
anything else?--That is to separate married people! Then it is
as if something cried way down in the earth and up there in the
sky--as if it cried treason against the primal force, against
the source of all good, against love--And do you know, when
reams of paper have been filled with mutual accusations, and at
last a sympathetic person takes one of the two apart and asks,
with a pinch of the ear or a smile, the simple question: what
have you really got against your husband?--or your wife?--then
he, or she, stands perplexed and cannot give the cause.
Once--well, I think a lettuce salad was the principal issue;
another time it was just a word--mostly it is nothing at all.
But the tortures, the sufferings--these I have to bear--See how
I look! Do you think I could ever win a woman's love with this
countenance so like a criminal's? Do you think anybody dares to
be friendly with me, who has to collect all the debts, all the
money obligations, of the whole city?--It is a misery to be man!

THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied!

THE LAWYER. They are. And what people are living on puzzles me.
They marry on an income of two thousand, when they need four
thousand. They borrow, of course--everybody borrows. In some
sort of happy-go-lucky fashion, by the skin of their teeth, they
manage to pull through--and thus it continues to the end, when
the estate is found to be bankrupt. Who pays for it at last no
one can tell.

THE DAUGHTER. Perhaps He who feeds the birds.

THE LAWYER. Perhaps. But if He who feeds the birds would only
pay a visit to this earth of His and see for Himself how the
poor human creatures fare--then His heart would surely fill with
compassion.

THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied!

THE LAWYER. Yes, that is the truth!--[_To_ THE OFFICER] What do
you want?

THE OFFICER. I just wanted to ask if Miss Victoria has gone yet.

THE LAWYER. No, she has not; you can be sure of it--Why are you
poking at my chest over there?

THE OFFICER. I thought the door of it looked exactly----

THE LAWYER. Not at all! Not at all!

      _All the church bells begin to ring_.

THE OFFICER. Is there going to be a funeral?

THE LAWYER. No, it is graduation day--a number of degrees will
be conferred, and I am going to be made a Doctor of Laws.
Perhaps you would also like to be graduated and receive a laurel
wreath?

THE OFFICER. Yes, why not. That would be a diversion, at least.

THE LAWYER. Perhaps then we may begin upon this solemn function
at once--But you had better go home and change your clothes.

      [THE OFFICER _goes out_.

      _The stage is darkened and the following changes are
      made. The railing stays, but it encloses now the
      chancel of a church. The billboard displays hymn
      numbers. The linden hat tree becomes a candelabrum.
      The Lawyer's desk is turned into the desk of the
      presiding functionary, and the door with the clover
      leaf leads to the vestry_.

      _The chorus of Master Singers become heralds with
      staffs, and the Ballet Girls carry laurel wreaths.
      The rest of the people act as spectators_.

      _The background is raised, and the new one thus
      discovered represents a large church organ, with the
      keyboards below and the organist's mirror above_.

      _Music is heard. At the sides stand figures
      symbolising the four academic faculties: Philosophy,
      Theology, Medicine, and Jurisprudence_.

      _At first the stage is empty for a few moments_.

      HERALDS _enter from the right_.

      BALLET GIRLS _follow with laurel wreaths carried high
      before them_.

      THREE GRADUATES _appear one after another from the
      left, receive their wreaths from the_ BALLET GIRLS,
      _and go out to the right_.

      THE LAWYER _steps forward to get his wreath_.

      The BALLET GIRLS _turn away from him and refuse to
      place the wreath on his head. Then they withdraw from
      the stage_.

      THE LAWYER, _shocked, leans against a column. All
      the others withdraw gradually until only_ THE LAWYER
      _remains on the stage_.

THE DAUGHTER. [_Enters, her head and shoulders covered by a
white veil_] Do you see, I have washed the shawl! But why are
you standing there? Did you get your wreath?

THE LAWYER. No, I was not held worthy.

THE DAUGHTER. Why? Because you have defended the poor, put in a
good word for the wrong-doing, made the burden easier for the
guilty, obtained a respite for the condemned? Woe upon men: they
are not angels--but they are to be pitied!

THE LAWYER. Say nothing evil of men--for after all it is my task
to voice their side.

THE DAUGHTER. [_Leaning against the organ_] Why do they strike
their friends in the face?

THE LAWYER. They know no better.

THE DAUGHTER. Let us enlighten them. Will you try? Together with
me?

THE LAWYER. They do not accept enlightenment--Oh, that our
plaint might reach the gods of heaven!

THE DAUGHTER. It shall reach the throne--[_Turns toward the
organ_] Do you know what I see in this mirror?--The world turned
the right way!--Yes indeed, for naturally we see it upside down.

THE LAWYER. How did it come to be turned the wrong way?

THE DAUGHTER. When the copy was taken----

THE LAWYER. You have said it! The copy--I have always had the
feeling that it was a spoiled copy. And when I began to recall
the original images, I grew dissatisfied with everything. But
men called it soreheadedness, looking at the world through the
devil's eyes, and other such things.

THE DAUGHTER. It is certainly a crazy world! Look at the four
faculties here. The government, to which has fallen the task
of preserving society, supports all four of them. Theology,
the science of God, is constantly attacked and ridiculed by
philosophy, which declares itself to be the sum of all wisdom.
And medicine is always challenging philosophy, while refusing
entirely to count theology a science and even insisting on
calling it a mere superstition. And they belong to a common
Academic Council, which has been set to teach the young
respect--for the university. It is a bedlam. And woe unto him
who first recovers his reason!

THE LAWYER. Those who find it out first are the theologians. As
a preparatory study, they take philosophy, which teaches them
that theology is nonsense. Later they learn from theology that
philosophy is nonsense. Madmen, I should say!

THE DAUGHTER. And then there is jurisprudence which serves all
but the servants.

THE LAWYER. Justice, which, when it wants to do right, becomes
the undoing of men. Equity, which so often turns into iniquity!

THE DAUGHTER. What a mess you have made of it, you man-children.
Children, indeed!--Come here, and I will give you a wreath--one
that is more becoming to you. [_Puts a crown of thorns on his
head_] And now I will play for you.

_She sits down at the keyboards, but instead of organ-notes
human voices are heard_.

VOICES OF CHILDREN. O Lord everlasting!

      [_Last note sustained_.

VOICES OF WOMEN. Have mercy upon us!

      [_Last note sustained_.

VOICES OF MEN. [_Tenors_] Save us for Thy mercy's sake!

      [_Last note sustained_.

VOICES OF MEN. [Basses] Spare Thy children, O Lord, and deliver
us from Thy wrath!

ALL. Have mercy upon us! Hear us! Have pity upon the mortals!--?
O Lord eternal, why art Thou afar?--Out of the depths we call
unto Thee: Make not the burden of Thy children too heavy! Hear
us! Hear us!

      _The stage turns dark_. THE DAUGHTER _rises and draws
      close to_ THE LAWYER. _By a change of light, the
      organ becomes Fingal's Cave. The ground-swell of the
      ocean, which can be seen rising and falling between
      the columns of basalt, produces a deep harmony that
      blends the music of winds and waves_.

THE LAWYER. Where are we, sister?

THE DAUGHTER. What do you hear?

THE LAWYER. I hear drops falling----

THE DAUGHTER. Those are the tears that men are weeping--What
more do you hear?

THE LAWYER. There is sighing--and whining--and wailing----

THE DAUGHTER. Hither the plaint of the mortals has reached--and
no farther. But why this never-ending wailing? Is there then
nothing in life to rejoice at?

THE LAWYER. Yes, what is most sweet, and what is also most
bitter--love--wife and home--the highest and the lowest!

THE DAUGHTER. May I try it?

THE LAWYER. With me?

THE DAUGHTER. With you--You know the rocks, the
stumbling-stones. Let us avoid them.

THE LAWYER. I am so poor.

THE DAUGHTER. What does that matter if we only love each other?
And a little beauty costs nothing.

THE LAWYER. I have dislikes which may prove your likes.

THE DAUGHTER. They can be adjusted.

THE LAWYER. And if we tire of it?

THE DAUGHTER. Then come the children and bring with them a
diversion that remains for ever new.

THE LAWYER. You, you will take me, poor and ugly, scorned and
rejected?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes--let us unite our destinies.

THE LAWYER. So be it then!

_Curtain_.


[Footnote 1: Though the author says nothing about it here,
subsequent stage directions indicate a door and a window behind
the place occupied by THE PORTRESS. Both lead into her room or
lodge, which contains a telephone.]

[Footnote 2: A floating wooden box with holes in it used to hold
fish.]



      _An extremely plain room inside_ THE LAWYER's
      _office. To the right, a big double bed covered by
      a canopy and curtained in. Next to it, a window. To
      the left, an iron heater with cooking utensils on top
      of it_. CHRISTINE _is pasting paper strips along the
      cracks of the double windows. In the background, an
      open door to the office. Through the door are visible
      a number of poor clients waiting for admission_.

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste.

THE DAUGHTER. [_Pale and emaciated, sits by the stove_] You shut
out all the air. I choke!

CHRISTINE. Now there is only one little crack left.

THE DAUGHTER. Air, air--I cannot breathe!

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste.

THE LAWYER. That's right, Christine! Heat is expensive.

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, it feels as if my lips were being glued
together.

THE LAWYER. [_Standing in the doorway, with a paper in his
hand_] Is the child asleep?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, at last.

THE LAWYER. [_Gently_] All this crying scares away my clients.

THE DAUGHTER. [_Pleasantly_] What can be done about it?

THE LAWYER. Nothing.

THE DAUGHTER. We shall have to get a larger place.

THE LAWYER. We have no money for it.

THE DAUGHTER. May I open the window--this bad air is suffocating.

THE LAWYER. Then the heat escapes, and we shall be cold.

THE DAUGHTER. It is horrible!--May we clean up out there?

THE LAWYER. You have not the strength to do any cleaning, nor
have I, and Christine must paste. She must put strips through
the whole house, on every crack, in the ceiling, in the floor,
in the walls.

THE DAUGHTER. Poverty I was prepared for, but not for dirt.

THE LAWYER. Poverty is always dirty, relatively speaking.

THE DAUGHTER. This is worse than I dreamed!

THE LAWYER. We are not the worst off by far. There is still food
in the pot.

THE DAUGHTER. But what sort of food?

THE LAWYER. Cabbage is cheap, nourishing, and good to eat.

THE DAUGHTER. For those who like cabbage--to me it is repulsive.

THE LAWYER. Why didn't you say so?

THE DAUGHTER. Because I loved you, I wanted to sacrifice my own
taste.

THE LAWYER. Then I must sacrifice my taste for cabbage to
you--for sacrifices must be mutual.

THE DAUGHTER. What are we to eat, then? Fish? But you hate fish?

THE LAWYER. And it is expensive.

THE DAUGHTER. This is worse than I thought it!

THE LAWYER. [_Kindly_] Yes, you see how hard it is--And the
child that was to become a link and a blessing--it becomes our
ruin.

THE DAUGHTER. Dearest, I die in this air, in this room, with
its backyard view, with its baby cries and endless hours of
sleeplessness, with those people out there, and their whinings,
and bickerings, and incriminations--I shall die here!

THE LAWYER. My poor little flower, that has no light and no
air----

THE DAUGHTER. And you say that people exist who are still worse
off?

THE LAWYER. I belong with the envied ones in this locality.

THE DAUGHTER. Everything else might be borne if I could only
have some beauty in my home.

THE LAWYER. I know you are thinking of flowers--and especially
of heliotropes--but a plant costs half a dollar, which will buy
us six quarts of milk or a peck of potatoes.

THE DAUGHTER. I could gladly get along without food if I could
only have some flowers.

THE LAWYER. There is a kind of beauty that costs nothing--but
the absence of it in the home is worse than any other torture to
a man with a sense for the beautiful.

THE DAUGHTER. What is it?

THE LAWYER. If I tell, you will get angry.

THE DAUGHTER. We have agreed not to get angry.

THE LAWYER. We have agreed--Everything can be over-come, Agnes,
except the short, sharp accents--Do you know them? Not yet!

THE DAUGHTER. They will never be heard between us.

THE LAWYER. Not as far as it lies on me!

THE DAUGHTER. Tell me now.

THE LAWYER. Well--when I come into a room, I look first of all
at the curtains--[_Goes over to the window and straightens
out the curtains_] If they hang like ropes or rags, then I
leave soon. And next I take a glance at the chairs--if they
stand straight along the wall, then I stay. [_Puts a chair
back against the wall_] Finally I look at the candles in their
sticks--if they point this way and that, then the whole house is
askew. [_Straightens up a candle on the chest of drawers_] This
is the kind of beauty, dear heart, that costs nothing.

THE DAUGHTER. _With bent head_] Beware of the short accents,
Axel!

THE LAWYER. They were not short.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, they were.

THE LAWYER. Well, I'll be----

THE DAUGHTER. What kind of language is that?

THE LAWYER. Pardon me, Agnes! But I have suffered as much from
your lack of orderliness as you have suffered from dirt. And I
have not dared to set things right myself, for when I do so, you
get as angry as if I were reproaching you--ugh! Hadn't we better
quit now?

THE DAUGHTER. It is very difficult to be married--it is more
difficult than anything else. One has to be an angel, I think!

THE LAWYER. I think so, too.

THE DAUGHTER. I fear I shall begin to hate you after this!

THE LAWYER. Woe to us then!--But let us forestall hatred. I
promise never again to speak of any untidiness--although it is
torture to me!

THE DAUGHTER. And I shall eat cabbage though it means agony to
me.

THE LAWYER. A life of common suffering, then! One's pleasure,
the other one's pain!

THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied!

THE LAWYER. You see that?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, but for heaven's sake, let us avoid the
rocks, now when we know them so well.

THE LAWYER. Let us try! Are we not decent and intelligent
persons? Able to forbear and forgive?

THE DAUGHTER. Why not smile at mere trifles?

THE LAWYER. We--only we--can do so. Do you know, I read this
morning--by the bye, where is the newspaper?

THE DAUGHTER. [_Embarrassed_] Which newspaper?

THE LAWYER. [_Sharply_] Do I keep more than one?

THE DAUGHTER. Smile now, and don't speak sharply--I used your
paper to make the fire with----

THE LAWYER. [_Violently_] Well, I'll be damned!

THE DAUGHTER. Why don't you smile?--I burned it because it
ridiculed what is holy to me.

THE LAWYER. Which is unholy to me! Yah! [_Strikes one clenched
fist against the open palm of the other hand_] I smile, I smile
so that my wisdom teeth show--Of course, I am to be nice, and I
am to swallow my own opinions, and say yes to everything, and
cringe and dissemble! [_Tidies the curtains around the bed_]
That's it! Now I am going to fix things until you get angry
again--Agnes, this is simply impossible!

THE DAUGHTER. Of course it is!

THE LAWYER. And yet we must endure--not for the sake of our
promises, but for the sake of the child!

THE DAUGHTER. You are right--for the sake of the child. Oh,
oh--we have to endure!

THE LAWYER. And now I must go out to my clients. Listen to
them--how they growl with impatience to tear each other, to get
each other fined and jailed--Lost souls!

THE DAUGHTER. Poor, poor people! And this pasting!

      [_She drops her head forward in dumb despair_.

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste.

      THE LAWYER _stands at the door, twisting the
      door-knob nervously_.

THE DAUGHTER. How that knob squeaks! It is as if you were
twisting my heart-strings----

THE LAWYER. I twist, I twist!

THE DAUGHTER. Don't!

THE LAWYER. I twist!

THE DAUGHTER. No!

THE LAWYER. I----

THE OFFICER. [_In the office, on the other side of the door,
takes hold of the knob_] Will you permit me?

THE LAWYER. [_Lets go his hold_] By all means. Seeing that you
have your degree!

THE OFFICER. Now all life belongs to me. Every road lies open.
I have mounted Parnassus. The laurel is won. Immortality, fame,
all is mine!

THE LAWYER. And what are you going to live on?

THE OFFICER. Live on?

THE LAWYER. You must have a home, clothes, food----

THE OFFICER. Oh, that will come--if you can only find somebody
to love you!

THE LAWYER. You don't say so!--You don't--Paste, Christine,
paste until they cannot breathe!

      [_Goes out backward, nodding_.

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste--until they cannot breathe.

THE OFFICER. Will you come with me now?

THE DAUGHTER. At once! But where?

THE OFFICER. To Fairhaven. There it is summer; there the sun is
shining; there we find youth, children, and flowers, singing and
dancing, feasting and frolicking.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I will go there.

THE OFFICER. Come!

THE LAWYER. [_Enters again_] Now I go back to my first
hell--this was the second and greater. The sweeter the hell, the
greater--And look here, now she has been dropping hair-pins on
the floor again. [_He picks up some hair-pins_.

THE OFFICER. My! but he has discovered the pins also.

THE LAWYER. Also?--Look at this one. You see two prongs, but it
is only one pin. It is two, yet only one. If I bend it open, it
is a single piece. If I bend it back, there are two, but they
remain one for all that. It means: these two are one. But if I
break--like this!--then they become two.

      [_Breaks the pin and throws the pieces away_.

THE OFFICER. All that he has seen!--But before breaking, the
prongs must diverge. If they point together, then it holds.

THE LAWYER. And if they are parallel, then they will never
meet--and it neither breaks nor holds.

THE OFFICER. The hair-pin is the most perfect of all created
things. A straight line which equals two parallel ones.

THE LAWYER. A lock that shuts when it is open.

THE OFFICER. And thus shuts in a braid of hair that opens up
when the lock shuts.

THE LAWYER. It is like this door. When I close it, then I
open--the way out--for you, Agnes!

      [_Withdraws and closes the door behind him_.

THE DAUGHTER. Well then?

      _The stage changes. The bed with its curtains becomes
      a tent_.

      _The stove stays as it was. The background is
      raised. To the right, in the foreground, are seen
      hills stripped of their trees by fire, and red
      heather growing between the blackened tree stumps.
      Red-painted pig-sties and outhouses. Beyond these, in
      the open, apparatus for mechanical gymnastics, where
      sick persons are being treated on machines resembling
      instruments of torture_.

      _To the left, in the foreground, the quarantine
      station, consisting of open sheds, with ovens,
      furnaces, and pipe coils_.

      _In the middle distance, a narrow strait_.

      _The background shows a beautiful wooded shore. Flags
      are flying on its piers, where ride white sailboats,
      some with sails set and some without. Little Italian
      villas, pavilions, arbors, marble statues are
      glimpsed through the foliage along the shore_.

      THE MASTER OF QUARANTINE, _made up like a blackamoor,
      is walking along the shore_.

THE OFFICER. [_Meets him and they shake hands_] Why,
Ordström![3] Have you landed here?

MASTER OF Q. Yes, here I am.

THE OFFICER. Is this Fairhaven?

MASTER OF Q. No, that is on the other side. This is Foulstrand.

THE OFFICER. Then we have lost our way.

MASTER OF Q. We?--Won't you introduce me?

THE OFFICER. No, that wouldn't do. [_In a lowered voice_] It is
Indra's own daughter.

MASTER OF Q. Indra's? And I was thinking of Varuna
himself--Well, are you not surprised to find me black in the
face?

THE OFFICER. I am past fifty, my boy, and at that age one has
ceased to be surprised. I concluded at once that you were bound
for some fancy ball this afternoon.

MASTER OF Q. Right you were! And I hope both of you will come
along.

THE OFFICER. Why, yes--for I must say--the place does not look
very tempting. What kind of people live here anyhow?

MASTER OF Q. Here you find the sick; over there, the healthy.

THE OFFICER. Nothing but poor folk on this side, I suppose.

MASTER OF Q. No, my boy, it is here you find the rich. Look at
that one on the rack. He has stuffed himself with paté de foie
gras and truffles and Burgundy until his feet have grown knotted.

THE OFFICER. Knotted?

MASTER OF Q. Yes, he has a case of knotted feet. And that one
who lies under the guillotine--he has swilled brandy so that his
backbone has to be put through the mangle.

THE OFFICER. There is always something amiss!

MASTER OF Q. Moreover, everybody living on this side has some
kind of canker to hide. Look at the fellow coming here, for
instance.

_An old dandy is pushed on the stage in a wheel-chair, he is
accompanied by a gaunt and grisly coquette in the sixties, to
whom_ THE FRIEND, _a man of about forty, is paying court_.

THE OFFICER. It is the major--our schoolmate!

MASTER OF Q. Don Juan. Can you see that he is still enamored of
that old spectre beside him? He does not notice that she has
grown old, or that she is ugly, faithless, cruel.

THE OFFICER. Why, that is love! And I couldn't have dreamt that
a fickle fellow like him would prove capable of loving so deeply
and so earnestly.

MASTER OF Q. That is a mighty decent way of looking at it.

THE OFFICER. I have been in love with Victoria myself--in fact I
am still waiting for her in the passageway----

MASTER OF Q. Oh, you are the fellow who is waiting in the
passageway?

THE OFFICER. I am the man.

MASTER OF Q. Well, have you got that door opened yet?

THE OFFICER. No, the case is still in court--THE BILLPOSTER is
out with his dipnet, of course, so that the taking of evidence
is always being put off--and in the meantime the Glazier has
mended all the window panes in the castle, which has grown half
a story higher--This has been an uncommonly good year--warm and
wet----

MASTER OF Q. But just the same you have had no heat comparing
with what I have here.

THE OFFICER. How much do you have in your ovens?

MASTER OF Q. When we fumigate cholera suspects, we run it up to
one hundred and forty degrees.

THE OFFICER. Is the cholera going again?

MASTER OF Q. Don't you know that?

THE OFFICER. Of course, I know it, but I forget so often what I
know.

MASTER OF Q. I wish often that I could forget--especially
myself. That is why I go in for masquerades and carnivals and
amateur theatricals.

THE OFFICER. What have you been up to then?

MASTER OF Q. If I told, they would say that I was boasting; and
if I don't tell, then they call me a hypocrite.

THE OFFICER. That is why you blackened your face?

MASTER OF Q. Exactly--making myself a shade blacker than I am.

THE OFFICER. Who is coming there?

MASTER OF Q. Oh, a poet who is going to have his mud bath.

      THE POET _enters with his eyes raised toward the sky
      and carrying a pail of mud in one hand_.

THE OFFICER. Why, he ought to be having light baths and air
baths.

MASTER OF Q. No, he is roaming about the higher regions so much
that he gets homesick for the mud--and wallowing in the mire
makes the skin callous like that of a pig. Then he cannot feel
the stings of the wasps.

THE OFFICER. This is a queer world, full of contradictions.

THE POET. [_Ecstatically_] Man was created by the god Phtah out
of clay on a potter's wheel, or a lathe--[_sceptically_], or any
damned old thing! [_Ecstatically_] Out of clay does the sculptor
create his more or less immortal masterpieces--[_sceptically_],
which mostly are pure rot. [_Ecstatically_] Out of clay they
make those utensils which are so indispensable in the pantry and
which generically are named pots and plates--[_sceptically_],
but what in thunder does it matter to me what they are called
anyhow? [_Ecstatically_] Such is the clay! When clay becomes
fluid, it is called mud--C'est mon affaire!--[_shouts_] Lena!

      Lena _enters with a pail in her hand_.

THE POET. Lena, show yourself to Miss Agnes--She knew you
ten years ago, when you were a young, happy and, let us say,
pretty girl--Behold how she looks now. Five children, drudgery,
baby-cries, hunger, ill-treatment. See how beauty has perished
and joy vanished in the fulfilment of duties which should have
brought that inner satisfaction which makes each line in the
face harmonious and fills the eye with a quiet glow.

MASTER OF Q. [_Covering the poet's mouth with his hand_] Shut
up! Shut up!

THE POET. That is what they all say. And if you keep silent,
then they cry: speak! Oh, restless humanity!

THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes to_ Lena] Tell me your troubles.

LENA. No, I dare not, for then they will be made worse.

THE DAUGHTER. Who could be so cruel?

LENA. I dare not tell, for if I do, I shall be spanked.

THE POET. That is just what will happen. But I will speak, even
though the blackamoor knock out all my teeth--I will tell that
justice is not always done--Agnes, daughter of the gods, do you
hear music and dancing on the hill over there?--Well, it is
Lena's sister who has come home from the city where she went
astray--you understand? Now they are killing the fatted calf;
but Lena, who stayed at home, has to carry slop pails and feed
the pigs.

THE DAUGHTER. There is rejoicing at home because the stray has
left the paths of evil, and not merely because she has come
back. Bear that in mind.

THE POET. But then they should give a ball and banquet every
night for the spotless worker that never strayed into paths of
error--Yet they do nothing of the kind, but when Lena has a free
moment, she is sent to prayer-meetings where she has to hear
reproaches for not being perfect. Is this justice?

THE DAUGHTER. Your question is so difficult to answer
because--There are so many unforeseen cases THE POET. That much
the Caliph, Haroun the Just, came to understand. He was sitting
on his throne, and from its height he could never make out what
happened below. At last complaints penetrated to his exalted
ears. And then, one fine day, he disguised himself and descended
unobserved among the crowds to find out what kind of justice
they were getting.

THE DAUGHTER. I hope you don't take me for Haroun the Just!

THE OFFICER. Let us talk of something else--Here come visitors.

_A white boat, shaped like a viking ship, with a dragon for
figure-head, with a pale-blue silken sail on a gilded yard, and
with a rose-red standard flying from the top of a gilded mast,
glides through the strait from the left._ He _and_ She _are
seated in the stern with their arms around each other_.

THE OFFICER. Behold perfect happiness, bliss without limits,
young love's rejoicing!

      _The stage grows brighter_.

HE. [_Stands up in the boat and sings_]

Hail, beautiful haven,
Where the Springs of my youth were spent,
Where my first sweet dreams were dreamt--
To thee I return,
But lonely no longer!
Ye hills and groves,
Thou sky o'erhead,
Thou mirroring sea,
Give greeting to her:
My love, my bride,
My light and my life!

      _The flags at the landings of Fairhaven are dipped in
      salute; white handkerchiefs are waved from verandahs
      and boats, and the air is filled with tender chords
      from harps and violins_.

THE POET. See the light that surrounds them! Hear how the air is
ringing with music!--Eros!

THE OFFICER. It is Victoria.

MASTER OF Q. Well, what of it?

THE OFFICER. It is his Victoria--My own is still mine. And
nobody can see _her_--Now you hoist the quarantine flag, and I
shall pull in the net.

[The MASTER OF QUARANTINE _waves a yellow flag._ THE OFFICER.
[_Pulling a rope that turns the boat toward Foulstrand_] Hold on
there!

      HE _and_ SHE _become aware of the hideous view and
      give vent to their horror_.

MASTER OF Q. Yes, it comes hard. But here every one must stop
who hails from plague-stricken places.

THE POET. The idea of speaking in such manner, of acting in such
a way, within the presence of two human beings united in love!
Touch them not! Lay not hands on love! It is treason!--Woe to
us! Everything beautiful must now be dragged down--dragged into
the mud!

      [HE _and_ SHE _step ashore, looking sad and
      shamefaced_.

HE. Woe to us! What have we done?

MASTER OF Q. It is not necessary to have done anything in order
to encounter life's little pricks.

SHE. So short-lived are joy and happiness!

HE. How long must we stay here?

MASTER OF Q. Forty days and nights.

SHE. Then rather into the water!

HE. To live here--among blackened hills and pig-sties?

THE POET. Love overcomes all, even sulphur fumes and carbolic
acid.

MASTER OF Q. [_Starts a fire in the stove; blue, sulphurous
flames break forth_] Now I set the sulphur going. Will you
please step in?

SHE. Oh, my blue dress will fade.

MASTER OF Q. And become white. So your roses will also turn
white in time.

HE. Even your cheeks--in forty days!

SHE. [_To_ The OFFICER] That will please you.

THE OFFICER. No, it will not!--Of course, your happiness was
the cause of my suffering, but--it doesn't matter--for I am
graduated and have obtained a position over there--heigh-ho
and alas! And in the Fall I shall be teaching school--teaching
boys the same lessons I myself learned during my childhood and
youth--the same lessons throughout my manhood and, finally, in
my old age--the self-same lessons! What does twice two make?
How many times can four be evenly divided by two?--Until I
get a pension and can do nothing at all--just wait around for
meals and the newspapers--until at last I am carted to the
crematorium and burned to ashes--Have you nobody here who is
entitled to a pension? Barring twice two makes four, it is
probably the worst thing of all--to begin school all over again
when one already is graduated; to ask the same questions until
death comes----

      _An elderly man goes by, with his hands folded behind
      his back_.

THE OFFICER. There is a pensioner now, waiting for himself to
die. I think he must be a captain who missed the rank of major;
or an assistant judge who was not made a chief justice. Many are
called but few are chosen--He is waiting for his breakfast now.

THE PENSIONER. No, for the newspaper--the morning paper.

THE OFFICER. And he is only fifty-four years old. He may spend
twenty-five more years waiting for meals and newspapers--is it
not dreadful?

THE PENSIONER. What is not dreadful? Tell me, tell me!

THE OFFICER. Tell that who can!--Now I shall have to teach
boys that twice two makes four. And how many times four can be
evenly divided by two. [_He clutches his head in despair_] And
Victoria, whom I loved and therefore wished all the happiness
life can give--now she has her happiness, the greatest one known
to her, and for this reason I suffer--suffer, suffer!

SHE. Do you think I can be happy when I see you suffering? How
can you think it? Perhaps it will soothe your pains that I am to
be imprisoned here for forty days and nights? Tell me, does it
soothe your pains?

THE OFFICER. Yes and no. How can I enjoy seeing you suffer? Oh!

SHE. And do you think my happiness can be founded on your
torments?

THE OFFICER. We are to be pitied--all of us!

ALL. [_Raise their arms toward the sky and utter a cry of
anguish that sounds like a dissonant chord_] Oh!

THE DAUGHTER. Everlasting One, hear them! Life is evil! Men are
to be pitied!

ALL. [_As before_] Oh!

      _For a moment the stage is completely darkened, and
      during that moment everybody withdraws or takes up
      a new position. When the light is turned on again,
      Foulstrand is seen in the background, lying in deep
      shadow. The strait is in the middle distance and
      Fairhaven in the foreground, both steeped in light.
      To the right, a corner of the Casino, where dancing
      couples are visible through the open windows. Three
      servant maids are standing outside on top of an empty
      box, with arms around each other, staring at the
      dancers within. On the verandah of the Casino stands
      a bench, where_ "Plain" EDITH _is sitting. She is
      bare-headed, with an abundance of tousled hair, and
      looks sad. In front of her is an open piano_.

      _To the left, a frame house painted yellow. Two
      children in light dresses are playing ball outside_.

      _In the centre of the middle distance, a pier with
      white sailboats tied to it, and flag poles with
      hoisted flags. In the strait is anchored a naval
      vessel, brig-rigged, with gun ports. But the entire
      landscape is in winter dress, with snow on the ground
      and on the bare trees_.

      THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE OFFICER _enter_.

THE DAUGHTER. Here is peace, and happiness, and leisure. No more
toil; every day a holiday; everybody dressed up in their best;
dancing and music in the early morning. [_To the maids_] Why
don't you go in and have a dance, girls?

THE MAIDS. We?

THE OFFICER. They are servants, don't you see!

THE DAUGHTER. Of course!--But why is Edith sitting there instead
of dancing?

      [EDITH _buries her face in her hands_.

THE OFFICER. Don't question her! She has been sitting there
three hours without being asked for a dance.

      [_Goes into the yellow house on the left_.

THE DAUGHTER. What a cruel form of amusement!

THE MOTHER. [_In a low-necked dress, enters from the Casino and
goes up to_ EDITH] Why don't you go in as I told you?

EDITH. Because--I cannot throw myself at them. That I am ugly, I
know, and I know that nobody wants to dance with me, but I might
be spared from being reminded of it.

      _Begins to play on the piano, the Toccata Con Fuga,
      Op_. 10, by Sebastian Bach.

[Illustration: music.]

      _The waltz music from within is heard faintly at
      first. Then it grows in strength, as if to compete
      with the Bach Toccata_. EDITH _prevails over it and
      brings it to silence. Dancers appear in the doorway
      to hear her play. Everybody on the stage stands still
      and listens reverently_.

A NAVAL OFFICER. [_Takes_ ALICE, _one of the dancers, around the
waist and drags her toward the pier_] Come quick!

      EDITH _breaks off abruptly, rises and stares at the
      couple with an expression of utter despair; stands as
      if turned to stone_.

      _Now the front wall of the yellow house disappears,
      revealing three benches full of schoolboys. Among
      these_ THE OFFICER _is seen, looking worried and
      depressed. In front of the boys stands_ THE TEACHER,
      _bespectacled and holding a piece of chalk in one
      hand, a rattan cane in the other_.

THE TEACHER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] Well, my boy, can you tell me
what twice two makes?

      THE OFFICER _remains seated while he racks his mind
      without finding an answer_.

THE TEACHER. You must rise when I ask you a question.

THE OFFICER. [_Harassed, rises_] Two--twice--let me see. That
makes two-two.

THE TEACHER. I see! You have not studied your lesson.

THE OFFICER. [_Ashamed_] Yes, I have, but--I know the answer,
but I cannot tell it----

THE TEACHER. You want to wriggle out of it, of course. You know
it, but you cannot tell. Perhaps I may help you.

      [_Pulls his hair_.

THE OFFICER. Oh, it is dreadful, it is dreadful!

THE TEACHER. Yes, it is dreadful that such a big boy lacks all
ambition----

THE OFFICER. [_Hurt_] Big boy--yes, I am big--bigger than all
these others--I am full-grown, I am done with school--[_As if
waking up_] I have graduated--why am I then sitting here? Have I
not received my doctor's degree?

THE TEACHER. Certainly, but you are to sit here and mature, you
know. You have to mature--isn't that so?

THE OFFICER. [_Feels his forehead_] Yes, that is right, one
must mature--Twice two--makes two--and this I can demonstrate
by analogy, which is the highest form of all reasoning.
Listen!--Once one makes one; consequently twice two must make
two. For what applies in one case must also apply in another.

THE TEACHER. Your conclusion is based on good logic, but your
answer is wrong.

THE OFFICER. What is logical cannot be wrong. Let us test it.
One divided by one gives one, so that two divided by two must
give two.

THE TEACHER. Correct according to analogy. But how much does
once three make?

THE OFFICER. Three, of course.

THE TEACHER. Consequently twice three must also make three.

THE OFFICER. [_Pondering_] No, that cannot be right--it
cannot--or else--[_Sits down dejectedly_] No, I am not mature
yet.

THE TEACHER. No, indeed, you are far from mature.

THE OFFICER. But how long am I to sit here, then?

THE TEACHER. Here--how long? Do you believe that time and space
exist?--Suppose that time does exist, then you should be able to
say what time is. What is time?

THE OFFICER. Time--[_Thinks_] I cannot tell, but I know what it
is. Consequently I may also know what twice two is without being
able to tell it. And, teacher, can you tell what time is?

THE TEACHER. Of course I can.

ALL THE BOYS. Tell us then!

THE TEACHER. Time--let me see. [_Stands immovable until
one finger on his nose_] While we are talking, time flies.
Consequently time is something that flies while we talk.

A BOY. [_Rising_] Now you are talking, teacher, and while you
are talking, I fly: consequently I am time. [_Runs out_.

THE TEACHER. That accords completely with the laws of logic.

THE OFFICER. Then the laws of logic are silly, for Nils who ran
away, cannot be time.

THE TEACHER. That is also good logic, although it is silly.

THE OFFICER. Then logic itself is silly.

THE TEACHER. So it seems. But if logic is silly, then all the
world is silly--and then the devil himself wouldn't stay here to
teach you more silliness. If anybody treats me to a drink, we'll
go and take a bath.

THE OFFICER. That is a _posterus prius_, or the world turned
upside down, for it is customary to bathe first and have the
drink afterward. Old fogy!

THE TEACHER. Beware of a swelled head, doctor!

THE OFFICER. Call me captain, if you please. I am an officer,
and I cannot understand why I should be sitting here to get
scolded like a schoolboy----

THE TEACHER. [_With raised index finger_] We were to mature!

MASTER OF Q. [_Enters_] The quarantine begins.

THE OFFICER. Oh, there you are. Just think of it, this fellow
makes me sit among the boys although I am graduated.

MASTER OF Q. Well, why don't you go away?

THE OFFICER. Heaven knows!--Go away? Why, that is no easy thing
to do.

THE TEACHER. I guess not--just try!

THE OFFICER. [_To_ MASTER OF QUARANTINE] Save me! Save me from
his eye!

MASTER OF Q. Come on. Come and help us dance--We have to dance
before the plague breaks out. We must!

THE OFFICER. Is the brig leaving?

MASTER OF Q. Yes, first of all the brig must leave--Then there
will be a lot of tears shed, of course.

THE OFFICER. Always tears: when she comes and when she goes--Let
us get out of here.

      _They go out_. THE TEACHER _continues his lesson in
      silence_.

      THE MAIDS _that were staring through the window of
      the dance hall walk sadly down to the pier_. EDITH,
      _who has been standing like a statue at the piano,
      follows them_.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] Is there not one happy person
to be found in this paradise?

THE OFFICER. Yes, there is a newly married couple. Just watch
them.

      THE NEWLY MARRIED COUPLE _enter_.

HUSBAND. [_To his_ WIFE] My joy has no limits, and I could now
wish to die----

WIFE. Why die?

HUSBAND. Because at the heart of happiness grows the seed of
disaster. Happiness devours itself like a flame--it cannot burn
for ever, but must go out some time. And this presentiment of
the coming end destroys joy in the very hour of its culmination.

WIFE. Let us then die together--this moment!

HUSBAND. Die? All right! For I fear happiness--that cheat!
[_They go toward the water_.

THE DAUGHTER. Life is evil! Men are to be pitied!

THE OFFICER. Look at this fellow. He is the most envied mortal
in this neighbourhood.

      THE BLIND MAN _is led in_.

THE OFFICER. He is the owner of these hundred or more Italian
villas. He owns all these bays, straits, shores, forests,
together with the fishes in the water, the birds in the air,
the game in the woods. These thousand or more people are his
tenants. The sun rises upon his sea and sets upon his land----

THE DAUGHTER. Well--is he complaining also?

THE OFFICER. Yes, and with right, for he cannot see.

MASTER OF Q. He is blind.

THE DAUGHTER. The most envied of all!

THE OFFICER. Now he has come to see the brig depart with his son
on board.

THE BLIND MAN. I cannot see, but I hear. I hear the anchor bill
claw the clay bottom as when the hook is torn out of a fish and
brings up the heart with it through the neck--My son, my only
child, is going to journey across the wide sea to foreign lands,
and I can follow him only in my thought! Now I hear the clanking
of the chain--and--there is something that snaps and cracks like
clothes drying on a line--wet handkerchiefs perhaps. And I hear
it blubber and snivel as when people are weeping--maybe the
splashing of the wavelets among the seines--or maybe girls along
the shore, deserted and disconsolate--Once I asked a child why
the ocean is salt, and the child, which had a father on a long
trip across the high seas, said immediately: the ocean is salt
because the sailors shed so many tears into it. And why do the
sailors cry so much then?--Because they are always going away,
replied the child; and that is why they are always drying their
handkerchiefs in the rigging--And why does man weep when he is
sad? I asked at last--Because the glass in the eyes must be
washed now and then, so that we can see clearly, said the child.

      _The brig has set sail and is gliding off. The
      girls along the shore are alternately waving their
      handkerchiefs and wiping off their tears with them.
      Then a signal is set on the foremast--a red ball in a
      white field, meaning "yes." In response to it_ Alice
      _waves her handkerchief triumphantly_.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] What is the meaning of that
flag?

THE OFFICER. It means "yes." It is the lieutenant's troth--red
as the red blood of the arteries, set against the blue cloth of
the sky.

THE DAUGHTER. And how does "no" look?

THE OFFICER. It is blue as the spoiled blood in the veins--but
look, how jubilant Alice is.

THE DAUGHTER. And how Edith cries.

THE BLIND MAN. Meet and part. Part and meet. That is life. I met
his mother. And then she went away from me. He was left to me;
and now he goes.

THE DAUGHTER. But he will come back.

THE BLIND MAN. Who is speaking to me? I have heard that voice
before--in my dreams; in my youth, when vacation began; in the
early years of my marriage, when my child was born. Every time
life smiled at me, I heard that voice, like a whisper of the
south wind, like a chord of harps from above, like what I feel
the angels' greeting must be in the Holy Night----

      THE LAWYER _enters and goes up to whisper something
      into_ THE BLIND MAN's _ear_.

THE BLIND MAN. Is that so?

THE LAWYER. That's the truth. [_Goes to_ THE DAUGHTER] Now you
have seen most of it, but you have not yet tried the worst of it.

THE DAUGHTER. What can that be?

THE LAWYER. Repetition--recurrence. To retrace one's own tracks;
to be sent back to the task once finished--come!

THE DAUGHTER. Where?

THE LAWYER. To your duties.

THE DAUGHTER. What does that mean?

THE LAWYER. Everything you dread. Everything you do not want but
must. It means to forego, to give up, to do without, to lack--it
means everything that is unpleasant, repulsive, painful.

THE DAUGHTER. Are there no pleasant duties?

THE LAWYER. They become pleasant when they are done.

THE DAUGHTER. When they have ceased to exist--Duty is then
something unpleasant. What is pleasant then?

THE LAWYER. What is pleasant is sin.

THE DAUGHTER. Sin?

THE LAWYER. Yes, something that has to be punished. If I have
had a pleasant day or night, then I suffer infernal pangs and a
bad conscience the next day.

THE DAUGHTER. How strange!

THE LAWYER. I wake up in the morning with a headache; and then
the repetitions begin, but so that everything becomes perverted.
What the night before was pretty, agreeable, witty, is presented
by memory in the morning as ugly, distasteful, stupid. Pleasure
seems to decay, and all joy goes to pieces. What men call
success serves always as a basis for their next failure. My own
successes have brought ruin upon me. For men view the fortune
of others with an instinctive dread. They regard it unjust that
fate should favour any one man, and so they try to restore
balance by piling rocks on the road. To have talent is to be
in danger of one's life, for then one may easily starve to
death!--However, you will have to return to your duties, or I
shall bring suit against you, and we shall pass through every
court up to the highest--one, two, three!

THE DAUGHTER. Return?--To the iron stove, and the cabbage pot,
and the baby clothes----

THE LAWYER. Exactly! We have a big wash to-day, for we must wash
all the handkerchiefs----

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, must I do it all over again?

THE LAWYER. All life is nothing but doing things over again.
Look at the teacher in there--He received his doctor's degree
yesterday, was laurelled and saluted, climbed Parnassus and was
embraced by the monarch--and to-day he starts school all over
again, asks how much twice two makes, and will continue to do
so until his death--However, you must come back to your home!

THE DAUGHTER. I shall rather die!

THE LAWYER. Die?--That is not allowed. First of all, it is a
disgrace--so much so that even the dead body is subjected to
insults; and secondly, one goes to hell--it is a mortal sin!

THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human!

ALL. Hear!

THE DAUGHTER. I shall not go back with you to humiliation and
dirt--I am longing for the heights whence I came--but first the
door must be opened so that I may learn the secret--It is my
will that the door be opened!

THE LAWYER. Then you must retrace your own steps, cover the road
you have already travelled, suffer all annoyances, repetitions,
tautologies, recopyings, that a suit will bring with it----

THE DAUGHTER. May it come then--But first I must go into the
solitude and the wilderness to recover my own self. We shall
meet again! [_To_ THE POET] Follow me.

      _Cries of anguish are heard from a distance_. Woe!
      Woe! Woe!

THE DAUGHTER. What is that?

THE LAWYER. The lost souls at Foulstrand.

THE DAUGHTER. Why do they wail more loudly than usual to-day?

THE LAWYER. Because the sun is shining here; because here we
have music, dancing, youth. And it makes them feel their own
sufferings more keenly.

THE DAUGHTER. We must set them free.

THE LAWYER. Try it! Once a liberator appeared, and he was nailed
to a cross.

THE DAUGHTER. By whom?

THE LAWYER. By all the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. Who are they?

THE LAWYER. Are you not acquainted with all the right-minded?
Then you must learn to know them.

THE DAUGHTER. Were they the ones that prevented your graduation?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I know them!

_Curtain_.



      _On the shores of the Mediterranean. To the left,
      in the foreground, a white wall, and above it
      branches of an orange tree with ripe fruit on them.
      In the background, villas and a Casino placed on a
      terrace. To the right, a huge pile of coal and two
      wheel-barrows. In the background, to the right, a
      corner of blue sea_.

      _Two coalheavers, naked to the waist, their faces,
      hands, and bodies blackened by coal dust, are seated
      on the wheel-barrows. Their expressions show intense
      despair_.

      THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE LAWYER _in the background_.

THE DAUGHTER. This is paradise!

FIRST COALHEAVER. This is hell!

SECOND COALHEAVER. One hundred and twenty degrees in the shadow.

FIRST HEAVER. Let's have a bath.

SECOND HEAVER. The police won't let us. No bathing here.

FIRST HEAVER. Couldn't we pick some fruit off that tree?

SECOND HEAVER. Then the police would get after us.

FIRST HEAVER. But I cannot do a thing in this heat--I'll just
chuck the job----

SECOND HEAVER. Then the police will get you for sure!--
[_Pause_] And you wouldn't have anything to eat anyhow.

FIRST HEAVER. Nothing to eat? We, who work hardest, get least
food; and the rich, who do nothing, get most. Might one
not--without disregard of truth--assert that this is injustice
--What has the daughter of the gods to say about it?

THE DAUGHTER. I can say nothing at all--But tell me, what have
you done that makes you so black and your lot so hard?

FIRST HEAVER. What have we done? We have been born of poor and
perhaps not very good parents--Maybe we have been punished a
couple of times.

THE DAUGHTER. Punished?

FIRST HEAVER. Yes, the unpunished hang out in the Casino up
there and dine on eight courses with wine.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE LAWYER] Can that be true?

THE LAWYER. On the whole, yes.

THE DAUGHTER. You mean to say that every man at some time has
deserved to go to prison?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. You, too?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. Is it true that the poor cannot bathe in the sea?

THE LAWYER. Yes. Not even with their clothes on. None but those
who intend to take their own lives escape being fined. And those
are said to get a good drubbing at the police station.

THE DAUGHTER. But can they not go outside of the city, out into
the country, and bathe there?

THE LAWYER. There is no place for them--all the land is fenced
in.

THE DAUGHTER. But I mean in the free, open country.

THE LAWYER. There is no such thing--it all belongs to somebody.

THE DAUGHTER. Even the sea, the great, vast sea----

THE LAWYER. Even that! You cannot sail the sea in a boat and
land anywhere without having it put down in writing and charged
for. It is lovely!

THE DAUGHTER. This is not paradise.

THE LAWYER. I should say not!

THE DAUGHTER. Why don't men do something to improve their lot?

THE LAWYER. Oh, they try, of course, but all the improvers end
in prison or in the madhouse----

THE DAUGHTER. Who puts them in prison?

THE LAWYER. All the right-minded, all the respectable----

THE DAUGHTER. Who sends them to the madhouse?

THE LAWYER. Their own despair when they grasp the hopelessness
of their efforts.

THE DAUGHTER. Has the thought not occurred to anybody, that for
secret reasons it must be as it is?

THE LAWYER. Yes, those who are well off always think so.

THE DAUGHTER. That it is all right as it is?

FIRST HEAVER. And yet we are the foundations of society. If the
coal is not unloaded, then there will be no fire in the kitchen
stove, in the parlour grate, or in the factory furnace; then the
light will go out in streets and shops and homes; then darkness
and cold will descend upon you--and, therefore, we have to sweat
as in hell so that the black coals may be had--And what do you
do for us in return?

THE LAWYER. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Help them!--[_Pause_] That
conditions cannot be quite the same for everybody, I understand,
but why should they differ so widely?

      A GENTLEMAN _and_ A LADY _pass across the stage_.

THE LADY. Will you come and play a game with us?

THE GENTLEMAN. No, I must take a walk, so I can eat something
for dinner.

FIRST HEAVER. So that he _can_ eat something?

SECOND HEAVER. So that he _can_----?

      _Children enter and cry with horror when they catch
      sight of the grimy workers_.

FIRST HEAVER. They cry when they see us. They cry----

SECOND HEAVER. Damn it all!--I guess we'll have to pull out the
scaffolds soon and begin to operate on this rotten body----

FIRST HEAVER. Damn it, I say, too! [_Spits_.

THE LAWYER. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Yes, it is all wrong. And men
are not so very bad--but----

THE DAUGHTER. But----

THE LAWYER. But the government----

THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes out, hiding her face in her hands_] This is
not paradise.

COALHEAVERS. No, hell, that's what it is!

_Curtain_.


[Footnote 3: Means literally "wordspout."]


      _Fingal's Cave. Long green waves are rolling slowly
      into the cave. In the foreground, a siren buoy is
      swaying to and fro in time with the waves, but
      without sounding except at the indicated moment.
      Music of the winds. Music of the waves_.

      THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE POET.

THE POET. Where are you leading me?

THE DAUGHTER. Far away from the noise and lament of the
man-children, to the utmost end of the ocean, to the cave that
we name Indra's Ear because it is the place where the king of
the heavens is said to listen to the complaints of the mortals.

THE POET. What? In this place?

THE DAUGHTER. Do you see how this cave is built like a shell?
Yes, you can see it. Do you know that your ear, too, is built
in the form of a shell? You know it, but have not thought of
it. [_She picks up a shell from the beach_] Have you not as a
child held such a shell to your ear and listened--and heard the
ripple of your heart-blood, the humming of your thoughts in the
brain, the snapping of a thousand little worn-out threads in the
tissues of your body? All that you hear in this small shell.
Imagine then what may be heard in this larger one!

THE POET. [_Listening_] I hear nothing but the whispering of the
wind.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall interpret it for you. Listen. The
wail of the winds. [_Recites to subdued music_:

Born beneath the clouds of heaven,
Driven we were by the lightnings of Indra
Down to the sand-covered earth.
Straw from the harvested fields soiled our feet;
Dust from the high-roads,
Smoke from the cities,
Foul-smelling breaths,
Fumes from cellars and kitchens,
All we endured.
Then to the open sea we fled,
Filling our lungs with air,
Shaking our wings,
And laving our feet.

Indra, Lord of the Heavens,
Hear us!
Hear our sighing!
Unclean is the earth;
Evil is life;
Neither good nor bad
Can men be deemed.
As they can, they live,
One day at a time.
Sons of dust, through dust they journey;
Born out of dust, to dust they return.
Given they were, for trudging,
Feet, not wings for flying.
Dusty they grow--
Lies the fault then with them,
Or with Thee?

THE POET. Thus I heard it once----

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! The winds are still singing.

      [_Recites to subdued music_:

We, winds that wander,
We, the air's offspring,
Bear with us men's lament.

Heard us you have
During gloom-filled Fall nights,
In chimneys and pipes,
In key-holes and door cracks,
When the rain wept on the roof:
Heard us you have
In the snowclad pine woods
Midst wintry gloom:
Heard us you have,
Crooning and moaning
In ropes and rigging
On the high-heaving sea.

It was we, the winds,
Offspring of the air,
Who learned how to grieve
Within human breasts
Through which we passed--
In sick-rooms, on battle-fields,
But mostly where the newborn
Whimpered and wailed
At the pain of living.

We, we, the winds,
We are whining and whistling:
Woe! Woe! Woe!

THE POET. It seems to me that I have already----

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! Now the waves are singing.

      [_Recites to subdued music_:

We, we waves,
That are rocking the winds
To rest--
Green cradles, we waves!

Wet are we, and salty;
Leap like flames of fire--
Wet flames are we:
Burning, extinguishing;
Cleansing, replenishing;
Bearing, engendering.

We, we waves,
That are rocking the winds
To rest!

THE DAUGHTER. False waves and faithless! Everything on earth
that is not burned, is drowned--by the waves. Look at this.
[_Pointing to pile of debris_] See what the sea has taken
and spoiled! Nothing but the figure-heads remain of the
sunken ships--and the names: _Justice_, _Friendship, Golden
Peace, Hope_--this is all that is left of _Hope_--of fickle
_Hope_--Railings, tholes, bails! And lo: the life buoy--which
saved itself and let distressed men perish.

THE POET. [_Searching in the pile_] Here is the name-board of
the ship _Justice_. That was the one which left Fairhaven with
the Blind Man's son on board. It is lost then! And with it are
gone the lover of Alice, the hopeless love of Edith.

THE DAUGHTER. The Blind Man? Fairhaven? I must have been
dreaming of them. And the lover of Alice, "Plain" Edith,
Foulstrand and the Quarantine, sulphur and carbolic acid, the
graduation in the church, the Lawyer's office, the passageway
and Victoria, the Growing Castle and the Officer--All this I
have been dreaming----

THE POET. It was in one of my poems.

THE DAUGHTER. You know then what poetry is----

THE POET. I know then what dreaming is--But what is poetry?

THE DAUGHTER. Not reality, but more than reality--not dreaming,
but daylight dreams----

THE POET. And the man-children think that we poets are only
playing--that we invent and make believe.

THE DAUGHTER. And fortunate it is, my friend, for otherwise the
world would lie fallow for lack of ministration. Everybody would
be stretched on his back, staring into the sky. Nobody would be
touching plough or spade, hammer or plane.

THE POET. And you say this, Indra's daughter, you who belong in
part up there----

THE DAUGHTER. You do right in reproaching me. Too long have I
stayed down here taking mud baths like you--My thoughts have
lost their power of flight; there is clay on their wings--mire
on their feet--and I myself--[_raising her arms_] I sink, I
sink--Help me, father, Lord of the Heavens! [_Silence_] I can
no longer hear his answer. The ether no longer carries the
sound from his lips to my ear's shell the silvery thread has
snapped--Woe is me, I am earthbound!

THE POET. Do you mean to ascend--soon?

THE DAUGHTER. As soon as I have consigned this mortal shape to
the flames--for even the waters of the ocean cannot cleanse me.
Why do you question me thus?

THE POET. Because I have a prayer----

THE DAUGHTER. What kind of prayer?

THE POET. A written supplication from humanity to the ruler of
the universe, formulated by a dreamer.

THE DAUGHTER. To be presented by whom?

THE POET. By Indra's daughter.

THE DAUGHTER. Can you repeat what you have written?

THE POET. I can.

THE DAUGHTER. Speak it then.

THE POET. Better that you do it.

THE DAUGHTER. Where can I read it?

THE POET. In my mind--or here.

      [_Hands her a roll of paper._

THE DAUGHTER. [_Receives the roll, but reads without looking at
it_] Well, by me it shall be spoken then:

"Why must you be born in anguish?
Why, O man-child, must you always
Wring your mother's heart with torture
When you bring her joy maternal,
Highest happiness yet known?
Why to life must you awaken,
Why to light give natal greeting,
With a cry of anger and of pain?
Why not meet it smiling, man-child,
When the gift of life is counted
In itself a boon unmatched?
Why like beasts should we be coming,
We of race divine and human?
Better garment craves the spirit
Than one made of filth and blood!
Need a god his teeth be changing----"

--Silence, rash one! Is it seemly
For the work to blame its maker?
No one yet has solved life's riddle.

"Thus begins the human journey
O'er a road of thorns and thistles;
If a beaten path be offered.
It is named at once forbidden;
If a flower you covet, straightway
You are told it is another's;
If a field should bar your progress,
And you dare to break across it,
You destroy your neighbour's harvest;
Others then your own will trample,
That the measure may be evened!
Every moment of enjoyment
Brings to some one else a sorrow,
But your sorrow gladdens no one,
For from sorrow naught but sorrow springs.

"Thus you journey till you die,
And your death brings others' bread."

--Is it thus that you approach,
Son of Dust, the One Most High?

THE POET.

Could the son of dust discover
Words so pure and bright and simple
That to heaven they might ascend----?

Child of gods, wilt thou interpret
Mankind's grievance in some language
That immortals understand?

THE DAUGHTER. I will.

THE POET. [_Pointing to the buoy_] What is that floating
there?--A buoy?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes.

THE POET. It looks like a lung with a windpipe.

THE DAUGHTER. It is the watchman of the seas. When danger is
abroad, it sings.

THE POET. It seems to me as if the sea were rising and the waves
growing larger----

THE DAUGHTER. Not unlikely.

THE POET. Woe! What do I see? A ship bearing down upon the reef.

THE DAUGHTER. What ship can that be?

THE POET. The ghost ship of the seas, I think.

THE DAUGHTER. What ship is that?

THE POET. The _Flying Dutchman_.

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, that one. Why is he punished so hard, and why
does he not seek harbour?

THE POET. Because he had seven faithless wives.

THE DAUGHTER. And for this he should be punished?

THE POET. Yes, all the right-minded condemned him----

THE DAUGHTER. Strange world, this!--How can he then be freed
from his curse?

THE POET. Freed?--Oh, they take good care that none is set free.

THE DAUGHTER. Why?

THE POET. Because--No, it is not the _Dutchman_! It is an
ordinary ship in distress. Why does not the buoy cry out now?
Look, how the sea is rising--how high the waves are--soon we
shall be unable to get out of the cave! Now the ship's bell is
ringing--Soon we shall have another figure-head. Cry out, buoy!
Do your duty, watchman! [_The buoy sounds a four-voice chord
of fifths and sixths, reminding one of fog horns_] The crew is
signalling to us--but we are doomed ourselves.

THE DAUGHTER. Do you not wish to be set free?

THE POET. Yes, of course--of course, I wish it--but not just
now, and not by water.

THE CREW. [_Sings in quartet_] Christ Kyrie!

[Illustration: music.]

THE POET. Now they are crying aloud, and so is the sea, but no
one gives ear.

THE CREW. [_As before_] Christ Kyrie!

THE DAUGHTER. Who is coming there?

THE POET. Walking on the waters? There is only one who does
that--and it is not Peter, the Rock, for he sank like a stone----

      _A white light is seen shining over the water at some
      distance_.

THE CREW. Christ Kyrie!

THE DAUGHTER. Can this be He?

THE POET. It is He, the crucified----

THE DAUGHTER. Why--tell me--why was He crucified?

THE POET. Because He wanted to set free----

THE DAUGHTER. Who was it--I have forgotten--that crucified Him?

THE POET. All the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. What a strange world!

THE POET. The sea is rising. Darkness is closing in upon us. The
storm is growing----

      [THE CREW _set up a wild outcry_.

THE POET. The crew scream with horror at the sight of their
Saviour--and now--they are leaping overboard for fear of the
Redeemer----

      [THE CREW _utter another cry_.

THE POET. Now they are crying because they must die. Crying when
they are born, and crying when they pass away!

      [_The rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the
      cave_.

THE DAUGHTER. If I could only be sure that it is a ship----

THE POET. Really--I don't think it is a ship--It is a
two-storied house with trees in front of it--and--a telephone
tower--a tower that reaches up into the skies--It is the
modern Tower of Babel sending wires to the upper regions--to
communicate with those above----

THE DAUGHTER. Child, the human thought needs no wires to make a
way for itself--the prayers of the pious penetrate the universe.
It cannot be a Tower of Babel, for if you want to assail the
heavens, you must do so with prayer.

THE POET. No, it is no house--no telephone tower--don't you see?

THE DAUGHTER. What are you seeing?

THE POET. I see an open space covered with snow--a drill
ground--The winter sun is shining from behind a church on a
hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow--Now
a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds. They march
up along the tower, up the spire. Now they have reached the
cross, but I have a feeling that the first one who steps on the
gilded weathercock at the top must die. Now they are near it--a
corporal is leading them--ha-ha! There comes a cloud sweeping
across the open space, and right in front of the sun, of
course--now everything is gone--the water in the cloud put out
the sun's fire!--The light of the sun created the shadow picture
of the tower, but the shadow picture of the cloud swallowed the
shadow picture of the tower----

      _While_ THE POET _is still speaking, the stage is
      changed and shows once more the passageway outside
      the opera-house_.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE PORTRESS] Has the Lord Chancellor
arrived yet?

THE PORTRESS. No.

THE DAUGHTER. And the Deans of the Faculties?

THE PORTRESS. No.

THE DAUGHTER. Call them at once, then, for the door is to be
opened----

THE PORTRESS. Is it so very pressing?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is. For there is a suspicion that the
solution of the world-riddle may be hidden behind it. Call the
Lord Chancellor, and the Deans of the Four Faculties also.

      [THE PORTRESS _blows in a whistle_.

THE DAUGHTER. And do not forget the Glazier and his diamond, for
without them nothing can be done.

      STAGE PEOPLE _enter from the left as in the earlier
      scene_.

THE OFFICER. [_Enters from the background, in Prince Albert and
high hat, with a bunch of roses in his hand, looking radiantly
happy_] Victoria!

THE PORTRESS. The young lady will be coming in a moment.

THE OFFICER. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table is set,
the wine is on ice--Permit me to embrace you, madam! [_Embraces_
THE PORTRESS] Victoria!

A WOMAN'S VOICE FROM ABOVE. [_Sings_] I am here!

THE OFFICER. [_Begins to walk to and fro_] Good! I am waiting.

THE POET. It seems to me that all this has happened before----

THE DAUGHTER. So it seems to me also.

THE POET. Perhaps I have dreamt it.

THE DAUGHTER. Or put it in a poem, perhaps.

THE POET. Or put it in a poem.

THE DAUGHTER. Then you know what poetry is.

THE POET. Then I know what dreaming is.

THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that we have said all this to each
other before, in some other place.

THE POET. Then you may soon figure out what reality is.

THE DAUGHTER. Or dreaming!

THE POET. Or poetry!

      _Enter the_ LORD CHANCELLOR _and the_ DEANS _of the_
      THEOLOGICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, MEDICAL, _and_ LEGAL
      FACULTIES.

LORD CHANCELLOR. It is about the opening of that door, of
course--What does the Dean of the Theological Faculty think of
it?

DEAN OF THEOLOGY. I do not think--I believe--_Credo_----

DEAN OF PHILOSOPHY. I hold----

DEAN OF MEDICINE. I know----

DEAN OF JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt until I have evidence and
witnesses.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Now they are fighting again!--Well, what does
Theology believe?

THEOLOGY. I believe that this door must not be opened, because
it hides dangerous truths----

PHILOSOPHY. Truth is never dangerous.

MEDICINE. What is truth?

JURISPRUDENCE. What can be proved by two witnesses.

THEOLOGY. Anything can be proved by two false witnesses--thinks
the pettifogger.

PHILOSOPHY. Truth is wisdom, and wisdom, knowledge, is
philosophy itself--Philosophy is the science of sciences, the
knowledge of knowing, and all other sciences are its servants.

MEDICINE. Natural science is the only true science--and
philosophy is no science at all. It is nothing but empty
speculation.

THEOLOGY. Good!

PHILOSOPHY. [_To_ THEOLOGY] Good, you say! And what are you,
then? You are the arch-enemy of all knowledge; you are the very
antithesis of knowledge; you are ignorance and obscuration----

MEDICINE. Good!

THEOLOGY. [_To_ MEDICINE] You cry "good," you, who cannot see
beyond the length of your own nose in the magnifying glass; who
believes in nothing but your own unreliable senses--in your
vision, for instance, which may be far-sighted, near-sighted,
blind, purblind, cross-eyed, one-eyed, colour-blind, red-blind,
green-blind----

MEDICINE. Idiot!

THEOLOGY. Ass! [_They fight_.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Peace! One crow does not peck out the other's
eye.

PHILOSOPHY. If I had to choose between those two, Theology and
Medicine, I should choose--neither!

JURISPRUDENCE. And if I had to sit in judgment on the three of
you, I should find--all guilty! You cannot agree on a single
point, and you never could. Let us get back to the case in
court. What is the opinion of the Lord Chancellor as to this
door and its opening?

LORD CHANCELLOR. Opinion? I have no opinion whatever. I am
merely appointed by the government to see that you don't break
each other's arms and legs in the Council--while you are
educating the young! Opinion? Why, I take mighty good care to
avoid everything of the kind. Once I had one or two, but they
were refuted at once. Opinions are always refuted--by their
opponents, of course--But perhaps we might open the door now,
even with the risk of finding some dangerous truths behind it?

JURISPRUDENCE. What is truth? What is truth?

THEOLOGY. I am the truth and the life----

PHILOSOPHY. I am the science of sciences----

MEDICINE. I am the only exact science----

JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt---- [_They fight_.

THE DAUGHTER. Instructors of the young, take shame!

JURISPRUDENCE. Lord Chancellor, as representative of the
government, as head of the corps of instructors, you must
prosecute this woman's offence. She has told all of you to
take shame, which is an insult; and she has--in a sneering,
ironical sense--called you instructors of the young, which is a
slanderous speech.

THE DAUGHTER. Poor youth!

JURISPRUDENCE. She pities the young, which is to accuse us. Lord
Chancellor, you must prosecute the offence.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, I accuse you--you in a body--of sowing doubt
and discord in the minds of the young.

JURISPRUDENCE. Listen to her--she herself is making the young
question our authority, and then she charges us with sowing
doubt. Is it not a criminal act, I ask all the right-minded?

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Yes, it is criminal.

JURISPRUDENCE. All the right-minded have condemned you. Leave in
peace with your lucre, or else----

THE DAUGHTER. My lucre? Or else? What else?

JURISPRUDENCE. Else you will be stoned.

THE POET. Or crucified.

THE DAUGHTER. I leave. Follow me, and you shall learn the riddle.

THE POET. Which riddle?

THE DAUGHTER. What did he mean with "my lucre"?

THE POET. Probably nothing at all. That kind of thing we call
talk. He was just talking.

THE DAUGHTER. But it was what hurt me more than anything else!

THE POET. That is why he said it, I suppose--Men are that way.

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Hooray! The door is open.

LORD CHANCELLOR. What was behind the door?

THE GLAZIER. I can see nothing.

LORD CHANCELLOR. He cannot see anything--of course, he cannot!
Deans of the Faculties: what was behind that door?

THEOLOGY. Nothing! That is the solution of the world-riddle. In
the beginning God created heaven and the earth out of nothing----

PHILOSOPHY. Out of nothing comes nothing.

MEDICINE. Yes, bosh--which is nothing!

JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt. And this is a case of deception. I
appeal to all the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE POET] Who are the right-minded?

THE POET. Who can tell? Frequently all the right-minded consist
of a single person. To-day it is me and mine; to-morrow it is
you and yours. To that position you are appointed--or rather,
you appoint yourself to it.

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. We have been deceived.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Who has deceived you?

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. The Daughter!

LORD CHANCELLOR. Will the Daughter please tell us what she meant
by having this door opened?

THE DAUGHTER. No, friends. If I did, you would not believe me.

MEDICINE. Why, then, there is nothing there.

THE DAUGHTER. You have said it--but you have not understood.

MEDICINE. It is bosh, what she says!

ALL. Bosh!

THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE POET] They are to be pitied.

THE POET. Are you in earnest?

THE DAUGHTER. Always in earnest.

THE POET. Do you think the right-minded are to be pitied also?

THE DAUGHTER. They most of all, perhaps.

THE POET. And the four faculties, too?

THE DAUGHTER. They also, and not the least. Four heads, four
minds, and one body. Who made that monster?

ALL. She has not answered!

LORD CHANCELLOR. Stone her then!

THE DAUGHTER. I have answered.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Hear--she answers.

ALL. Stone her! She answers!

THE DAUGHTER. Whether she answer or do not answer, stone her!
Come, prophet, and I shall tell you the riddle--but far away
from here--out in the desert, where no one can hear us, no one
see us, for----

THE LAWYER. [_Enters and takes_ THE DAUGHTER _by the arm_] Have
you forgotten your duties?

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, heavens, no! But I have higher duties.

THE LAWYER. And your child?

THE DAUGHTER. My child--what of it?

THE LAWYER. Your child is crying for you.

THE DAUGHTER. My child! Woe, I am earth-bound! And this pain in
my breast, this anguish--what is it?

THE LAWYER. Don't you know?

THE DAUGHTER. No.

THE LAWYER. It is remorse.

THE DAUGHTER. Is that remorse?

THE LAWYER. Yes, and it follows every neglected duty; every
pleasure, even the most innocent, if innocent pleasures exist,
which seems doubtful; and every suffering inflicted upon one's
fellow-beings.

THE DAUGHTER. And there is no remedy?

THE LAWYER. Yes, but only one. It consists in doing your duty at
once----

THE DAUGHTER. You look like a demon when you speak that word
duty--And when, as in my case, there are two duties to be met?

THE LAWYER. Meet one first, and then the other.

THE DAUGHTER. The highest first--therefore, you look after my
child, and I shall do my duty----

THE LAWYER. Your child suffers because it misses you--can you
bear to know that a human being is suffering for your sake?

THE DAUGHTER. Now strife has entered my soul--it is rent in two,
and the halves are being pulled in opposite directions!

THE LAWYER. Such, you know, are life's little discords.

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, how it is pulling!

THE POET. If you could only know how I have spread sorrow and
ruin around me by the exercise of my calling--and note that
I say _calling_, which carries with it the highest duty of
all--then you would not even touch my hand.

THE DAUGHTER. What do you mean?

THE POET. I had a father who put his whole hope on me as his
only son, destined to continue his enterprise. I ran away from
the business college. My father grieved himself to death. My
mother wanted me to be religious, and I could not do what she
wanted--and she disowned me. I had a friend who assisted me
through trying days of need--and that friend acted as a tyrant
against those on whose behalf I was speaking and writing. And
I had to strike down my friend and benefactor in order to save
my soul. Since then I have had no peace. Men call me devoid of
honour, infamous--and it does not help that my conscience says,
"you have done right," for in the next moment it is saying, "you
have done wrong." Such is life.

THE DAUGHTER. Come with me into the desert.

THE LAWYER. Your child!

THE DAUGHTER. [_Indicating all those present_] Here are my
children. By themselves they are good, but if they only come
together, then they quarrel and turn into demons--Farewell!


      _Outside the castle. The same scenery as in the first
      scene of the first act. But now the ground in front
      of the castle wall is covered with flowers--blue
      monk's-hood or aconite. On the roof of the castle, at
      the very top of its lantern, there is a chrysanthemum
      bud ready to open. The castle windows are illuminated
      with candles_.

      THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE POET.

THE DAUGHTER. The hour is not distant when, with the help of the
flames, I shall once more ascend to the ether. It is what you
call to die, and what you approach in fear.

THE POET. Fear of the unknown.

THE DAUGHTER. Which is known to you.

THE POET. Who knows it?

THE DAUGHTER. All! Why do you not believe your prophets?

THE POET. Prophets have always been disbelieved. Why is that
so? And "if God has spoken, why will men not believe then?" His
convincing power ought to be irresistible.

THE DAUGHTER. Have you always doubted?

THE POET. No. I have had certainty many times. But after a while
it passed away, like a dream when you wake up.

THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human!

THE POET. You see and admit it?

THE DAUGHTER. I do.

THE POET. Listen! Was it not Indra that once sent his son down
here to receive the complaints of mankind?

THE DAUGHTER. Thus it happened--and how was he received?

THE POET. How did he fill his mission?--to answer with another
question.

THE DAUGHTER. And if I may reply with still another--was not
man's position bettered by his visit to the earth? Answer truly!

THE POET. Bettered?--Yes, a little. A very little--But instead
of asking questions--will you not tell the riddle?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes. But to what use? You will not believe me.

THE POET. In you I shall believe, for I know who you are.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall tell! In the morning of the ages,
before the sun was shining, Brahma, the divine primal force, let
himself be persuaded by Maya, the world-mother, to propagate
himself. This meeting of the divine primal matter with the
earth-matter was the fall of heaven into sin. Thus the world,
existence, mankind, are nothing but a phantom, an appearance, a
dream-image----

THE POET. My dream!

THE DAUGHTER. A dream of truth! But in order to free themselves
from the earth-matter, the offspring of Brahma seek privation
and suffering. There you have suffering as a liberator. But this
craving for suffering comes into conflict with the craving for
enjoyment, or love--do you now understand what love is, with its
utmost joys merged into its utmost sufferings, with its mixture
of what is most sweet and most bitter? Can you now grasp what
woman is? Woman, through whom sin and death found their way into
life?

THE POET. I understand!--And the end?

THE DAUGHTER. You know it: conflict between the pain of
enjoyment and the pleasure of suffering--between the pangs of
the penitent and the joys of the prodigal----

THE POET. A conflict it is then?

THE DAUGHTER. Conflict between opposites produces energy, as
fire and water give the power of steam----

THE POET. But peace? Rest?

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! You must ask no more, and I can no longer
answer. The altar is already adorned for the sacrifice--the
flowers are standing guard--the candles are lit--there are white
sheets in the windows--spruce boughs have been spread in the
gateway----

THE POET. And you say this as calmly as if for you suffering did
not exist!

THE DAUGHTER. You think so?--I have suffered all your
sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations were
so much more acute----

THE POET. Relate your sorrow!

THE DAUGHTER. Poet, could you tell yours so that not one word
went too far? Could your word at any time approach your thought?

THE POET. No, you are right! To myself I appeared like one
struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to my song,
I found it mere noise--for this reason, you see, I have always
felt ashamed when they praised me.

THE DAUGHTER. And then you ask me--Look me straight in the eye!

THE POET. I cannot bear your glance----

THE DAUGHTER. How could you bear my word then, were I to speak
in your tongue?

THE POET. But tell me at least before you go: from what did you
suffer most of all down here?

THE DAUGHTER. From--_being_: to feel my vision weakened by an
eye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my bright and
buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of fat. You have
seen a brain--what roundabout and sneaking paths----

THE POET. Well, that is because all the right-minded think
crookedly!

THE DAUGHTER. Malicious, always malicious, all of you!

THE POET. How could one possibly be otherwise?

THE DAUGHTER. First of all I now shake the dust from my
feet--the dirt and the clay--

      [_Takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire_.

THE PORTRESS. [_Puts her shawl into the fire_] Perhaps I may
burn my shawl at the same time? [_Goes out_.

THE OFFICER. [_Enters_] And I my roses, of which only the thorns
are left. [_Goes out_.

THE BILLPOSTER. [_Enters_] My bills may go, but never the
dipnet! [_Goes out_.

THE GLAZIER. [_Enters_] The diamond that opened the
door--good-bye! [_Goes out_.

THE LAWYER. [_Enters_] The minutes of the great process
concerning the pope's beard or the water loss in the sources of
the Ganges. [_Goes out_.

MASTER OF QUARANTINE. [_Enters_] A small contribution in shape
of the black mask that made me a blackamoor against my will!
[_Goes out_.

VICTORIA. [_Enters_] My beauty, my sorrow! [_Goes out_.

EDITH. [_Enters_] My plainness, my sorrow! [_Goes out_.

THE BLIND MAN. [_Enters; puts his hand into the fire_] I give my
hand for my eye. [_Goes out_.

      DON JUAN _in his wheel chair_; SHE _and_ THE FRIEND.

DON JUAN. Hurry up! Hurry up! Life is short!

      [_Leaves with the other two_.

THE POET. I have read that when the end of life draws near,
everything and everybody rushes by in continuous review--Is
this the end?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is my end. Farewell!

THE POET. Give us a parting word.

THE DAUGHTER. No, I cannot. Do you believe that your words can
express our thoughts?

DEAN OF THEOLOGY. [_Enters in a rage_] I am cast off by God and
persecuted by man; I am deserted by the government and scorned
by my colleagues! How am I to believe when nobody else believes?
How am I to defend a god that does not defend his own? Bosh,
that's what it is!

      [_Throws a book on the fire and goes out_.

THE POET. [_Snatches the book out of the fire_] Do you know what
it is? A martyrology, a calendar with a martyr for each day of
the year.

THE DAUGHTER. Martyr?

THE POET. Yes, one that has been tortured and killed on
account of his faith! Tell me why?--Do you think that all who
are tortured suffer, and that all who are killed feel pain?
Suffering is said to be salvation, and death a liberation.

CHRISTINE. [_With slips of paper_] I paste, I paste until there
is nothing more to paste----

THE POET. And if heaven should split in twain, you would try to
paste it together--Away!

CHRISTINE. Are there no double windows in this castle?

THE POET. Not one, I tell you.

CHRISTINE. Well, then I'll go. [_Goes out_.

THE DAUGHTER.

The parting hour has come, the end draws near.
And now farewell, thou dreaming child of man,
Thou singer, who alone knows how to live!
When from thy winged flight above the earth
At times thou sweepest downward to the dust,
It is to touch it only, not to stay!

And as I go--how, in the parting hour,
As one must leave for e'er a friend, a place,
The heart with longing swells for what one loves,
And with regret for all wherein one failed!
O, now the pangs of life in all their force
I feel: I know at last the lot of man
Regretfully one views what once was scorned;
For sins one never sinned remorse is felt;
To stay one craves, but equally to leave:
As if to horses tied that pull apart,
One's heart is split in twain, one's feelings rent,
By indecision, contrast, and discord.

Farewell! To all thy fellow-men make known
That where I go I shall forget them not;
And in thy name their grievance shall be placed
Before the throne. Farewell!

      _She goes into the castle. Music is heard. The
      background is lit up by the burning castle and
      reveals a wall of human faces, questioning, grieving,
      despairing. As the castle breaks into flames, the
      bud on the roof opens into a gigantic chrysanthemum
      flower_.

_Curtain_.




THE LINK

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT

1877




CHARACTERS

THE JUDGE, 27 _years_
THE PASTOR, 60 _years_
THE BARON, 42 _years_
THE BARONESS, 40 _years_
ALEXANDER EKLUND              }
EMMANUEL WICKBERG             }
CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG            }
ERIC OTTO BOMAN               }
ÄRENFRID SÖDERBERG            }
OLOF ANDERSSON OF WIK         } _Jurors_
CARL PETER ANDERSSON OF BERGA }
ALEX WALLIN                   }
ANDERS ERIC RUTH              }
SWEN OSCAR ERLIN              }
AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS         }
LUDWIG ÖSTMAN                 }
THE CLERK OF THE COURT
THE SHERIFF
THE CONSTABLE
THE LAWYER
ALEXANDERSSON, _a farmer_
ALMA JONSSON, _a servant girl_
THE MILKMAID
THE FARM HAND
SPECTATORS




THE LINK


_A court-room. Door and windows in the background. Through the
windows are seen the churchyard and the bell-tower. Door on the
right. On the left, the desk of the judge on a platform. The
front side of the desk is decorated in gold, with the judicial
emblems of the sword and the scales. On both sides of the desk
are placed chairs and small tables for the twelve jurors. In the
centre of the room, benches for the spectators. Along the sides
of the room are cupboards built into the walls. On the doors of
these are posted court notices and schedules of market tolls_.


SCENE I


THE SHERIFF _and_ THE CONSTABLE


THE SHERIFF. Did you ever see such a lot of people at the summer
sessions before?

THE CONSTABLE. Not in fifteen years, or since we had the big
murder at Alder Lake.

SHERIFF. Well, this story here is almost as good as a double
parricide. That the Baron and the Baroness are going to separate
is scandal enough, but when on top of it the families take to
wrangling about properties and estates, then it's easy to see
that there's going to be a hot time. The only thing wanting now
is that they get to fighting over the child, too, and then King
Solomon himself can't tell what's right.

CONSTABLE. What is there behind this case anyhow? Some say this
and some say that, but the blame ought to rest on somebody?

SHERIFF. I don't know about that. Sometimes it is nobody's
fault when two quarrel, and then again one alone is to blame
for the quarrel of two. Now take my old shrew, for instance,
she's running around at home scolding for dear life all by
herself when I am away, they tell me. Besides, this is not just
a quarrel, but a full-fledged criminal case, and in most such
one party is complainant, or the one that has been wronged, and
the other is defendant, or the one that has committed the crime.
But in this case it is not easy to tell who is guilty, for both
parties are at once complainants and defendants.

CONSTABLE. Well, well, queer things do happen these days. It's
as if the women had gone crazy. My old one has spells when she
says that I should bear children also, if there was any justice
in things--just as if the Lord didn't know how he made his own
creatures. And then I get long rigmaroles about her being human
also, just as if I didn't know that before, or had said anything
to the contrary; and of her being tired of acting as my servant
girl, when, for a fact, I am not much better than her hired man.

SHERIFF. So-o. So you have got that kind of plague in your house
too. Mine reads a paper she gets at the manor, and then she
tells me as something wonderful, one day, that some farmer's
lass has turned mason, and the next that an old woman has set
upon and beaten her sick husband. I cannot quite get at what's
the meaning of it all, but it looks most as if she was mad at me
for being a man.

CONSTABLE. Mighty queer, that's what it is. [_Offers snuff_]
Fine weather we're having. The rye is standing as thick as the
hairs in a fox fell, and we got over the black frosts without a
hitch.

SHERIFF. There is nothing of mine growing, and good years are
bad for me: no executions and no auctions. Do you know anything
about the new judge who is going to hold court to-day?

CONSTABLE. Not much, but I understand he's a youngster who has
just got his appointment and is going to sit for the first time
now----

SHERIFF. And they say he is religious. Hm!

CONSTABLE. Hm-hm!--They're taking an awful time over the church
services this year.

SHERIFF. [_Puts a big Bible on the judge's desk and a smaller
one on each one of the jurors' tables_] It cannot be long till
they're done now, for they have been at it most of an hour.

CONSTABLE. He's a wonder at preaching, is the Pastor, once he
gets going. [_Pause_] Are the parties to put in a personal
appearance?

SHERIFF. Both of them, so I guess we'll have some scrapping--
[_The bell in the tower begins to ring_] There, now they're
done--Just give the tables a wiping, and I think we are ready to
start.

CONSTABLE. And there's ink in all the wells?



SCENE II


_The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter_.


BARON. [_In a low voice to the_ BARONESS] Then, before we part
for a year, we are perfectly agreed on all points. First, no
recriminations in court?

BARONESS. Do you think I would care to lay open the intimate
details of our common life before a lot of curious peasants?

BARON. So much the better! And further: you keep the child
during the year of separation, provided it may visit me when I
so desire, and provided it is educated in accordance with the
principles laid down by me and approved by you?

BARONESS. Exactly!

BARON. And out of the income from the estate I give you three
thousand crowns during the year of separation?

BARONESS. Agreed.

BARON. Then I have nothing more to add, but ask only to bid you
good-bye. Why we part is known only to you and me, and for the
sake of our son no one else must know it. But for his sake I beg
you also: start no fight, lest we be goaded into soiling the
names of his parents. It is more than likely, anyhow, that life
in its cruelty will make him suffer for our divorce.

BARONESS. I don't care to fight as long as I may keep my child.

BARON. Let us then concentrate our attention on the child's
welfare and forget what has happened between us. And remember
another thing: if we fight about the child and question each
other's fitness to take care of it, the judge may take it away
from both of us and put it with some of those religious people
who will bring it up in hatred and contempt for its parents.

BARONESS. That's impossible!

BARON. Such, my dear, is the law.

BARONESS. It is a stupid law.

BARON. Maybe, but it holds; and for you no less than for others.

BARONESS. It is unnatural! And I should never submit to it.

BARON. You don't have to, as we have decided to raise no
objections against each other. We have never agreed before, but
on this one point we are at one, are we not: to part without
any kind of hostility? [_To the_ SHERIFF] Could the Baroness be
permitted to wait in that room over there?

SHERIFF. Certainly, walk right in.

      _The_ BARON _escorts the_ BARONESS _to the door on
      the right and leaves then himself through the door in
      the background_.



SCENE III


      _The_ SHERIFF. _The_ CONSTABLE. _The_ LAWYER. ALMA
      JONSSON. _The_ MILKMAID. _The_ FARM HAND.


LAWYER. [_To_ ALMA JONSSON] Look here, my girl: that you have
stolen, I don't doubt for a moment; but as your master has no
witnesses to it, you are not guilty. But as your master has
called you a thief in the presence of two witnesses, he is
guilty of slander. And now you are complainant and he defendant.
Remember this one thing: the first duty of a criminal is--to
deny!

ALMA JONSSON. But please, sir, didn't you just say I was no
criminal, and master was?

LAWYER. You are a criminal because you have committed a theft,
but as you have called for a lawyer, it is my unmistakable duty
to clear you and convict your master. Therefore, and for the
last time: deny! [_To the witnesses_] And as to the witnesses,
what are they going to testify? Listen: a good witness sticks
to the case. Now you must bear in mind that the question is
not whether Alma has stolen anything or not, but only whether
Alexandersson said that she had stolen. For, mark you, he has
no right to prove his assertions, but we have. Why it should
be so, the devil only knows! But that's none of your business.
Therefore: keep your tongues straight and your fingers on the
Bible!

MILKMAID. Lord, but I'm that scared, for I don't know what I'm
going to say!

FARM HAND. You say as I do, and then you won't be lying.



SCENE IV


      _The_ JUDGE _and the_ PASTOR _enter_.


JUDGE. Permit me to thank you for the sermon, Pastor.

PASTOR. Oh, don't mention it, Judge.

JUDGE. Yes--for, as you know, this is my first court. To tell
the truth, I have felt some fear of this career, into which I
have been thrown almost against my will. For one thing, the laws
are so imperfect, the judicial practices so uncertain, and human
nature so full of falsehood and dissimulation, that I have often
wondered how a judge could dare to express any definite opinion
at all. And to-day you have revived all my old fears.

PASTOR. To be conscientious is a duty, of course, but to be
sentimental about it won't do. And as everything else on this
earth is imperfect, there is no reason why we should expect
judges and judgments to be perfect.

JUDGE. That may be, but it does not prevent me from harbouring
a sense of tremendous responsibility, as I have men's fates in
my hand, and a word spoken by me may show its effects through
generations. I am especially thinking of this separation suit
started by the Baron and his wife, and I have to ask you--you
who have administered the two prescribed warnings before
the Vestry Board--what is your view concerning their mutual
relations and relative guilt?

PASTOR. In other words, Judge, you would either put me in your
own place or base your decision on my testimony. And all I can
do is to refer you to the minutes of the board.

JUDGE. Yes, the minutes--I know them. But it is just what does
not appear in the minutes that I need to know.

PASTOR. What charges the couple made against each other at the
private hearings must be my secret. And besides, how can I know
who told the truth and who lied? I have to tell you what I told
them: there is no reason why I should believe more in one than
in the other.

JUDGE. But were you not able to form some kind of opinion in the
matter during the hearings?

PASTOR. When I heard one, I formed one opinion, and another when
I was hearing the other. In a word: I have no settled view in
this question.

JUDGE. But I am to express a definite view--I, who know nothing
at all.

PASTOR. That is the heavy task of the judge, which I could never
undertake.

JUDGE. But there are witnesses to be heard? Evidence to be
obtained?

PASTOR. No, they are not accusing each other in public. And
furthermore: two false witnesses will furnish sufficient proof,
and a perjurer will do just as well. Do you think I would base
my judgment on servant gossip, on the loose-tongued chatter of
envious neighbours, or on the spiteful partisanship of relatives?

JUDGE. You are a terrible sceptic, Pastor.

PASTOR. Well, one gets to be so after sixty, and particularly
after having tended souls for forty years. The habit of lying
clings like original sin, and I believe that all men lie. As
children we lie out of fear; as grown-ups, out of interest,
need, instinct for self-preservation; and I have known those who
lied out of sheer kindliness. In the present case, and in so
far as this married couple is concerned, I fear you will find
it very hard to figure out who has told most of the truth, and
all I can do is to warn you against being caught in the snares
set by preconceived opinions. You were married not long ago
yourself, and you are still under the spell of the young woman's
witchery. For this reason you may easily become prejudiced in
favor of a young and charming lady, who is an unhappy wife and
a mother besides. On the other hand, you have also recently
become a father, and as such you cannot escape being moved by
the impending separation of the father from his child. Beware of
sympathy with either side, for sympathy with one is cruelty to
the other.

JUDGE. One thing will make my task more easy at least, and that
is their mutual agreement on the principal points.

PASTOR. Don't rely too much on that, for it is what they all
say. And when they appear in court, the smouldering fire breaks
into open flames. In this case a tiny spark will be enough to
start a conflagration. Here comes the jury. Well, good-by for a
while! I stay, although I shall not be seen.



SCENE V


      _The_ TWELVE JURORS _enter. The_ SHERIFF _rings a
      bell from the open doorway in the background. The
      members of the Court take their seats_. SPECTATORS
      _pour into the room_.


JUDGE. With a reminder of the provisions in Chapter Eleven,
Sections Five, Six, and Eight, of the Criminal Code, as to the
peace and order that must be maintained in Court, I hereby
declare the proceedings of the Court opened. [_Whispers to the_
CLERK OF THE COURT; _then_] Will the newly chosen jury please
take the oath.

JURORS. [_Rise, each one putting the fingers of one hand on the
Bible in front of him; then they speak in unison except when
their names are being read out_]

I, Alexander Eklund;
I, Emmanuel Wickberg;
I, Carl Johan Sjöberg;
I, Eric Otto Boman;
I, Ärenfrid Söderberg;
I, Olof Andersson of Wik;
I, Carl Peter Andersson of Berga;
I, Axel Wallin;
I, Anders Eric Ruth;
I, Swen Oscar Erlin;
I, August Alexander Vass;
I, Ludwig Östman;

[_all at once, keeping time and speaking with low voices in a
low pitch_] promise and swear by God and His Holy Gospel, that
I will and shall, according to my best reason and conscience,
judge rightly in all cases, no less for the poor than for the
rich, and decide in accordance with the law of God and that of
this country, as well as its legal statutes: [_in a higher pitch
and with raised voices_] never tamper with the law or further
any wrong, for the sake of either kinship by blood, kinship by
marriage, friendship, envy, ill-will, or fear; nor for the sake
of bribe or gift or any other cause, under any form whatsoever:
and not make him responsible who has no guilt, or set him free
who is guilty. [_Raising their voices still further_] Neither
before judgment nor afterward, neither to parties in court nor
to others, am I to discover such counsel as may be taken by the
Court behind closed doors. All this I will and shall faithfully
keep as an honest and upright judge, without fell deceit or
design--[_Pause_] So help God my life and soul!

[_The_ JURORS _sit down._

JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call the case of Alma Jonsson against
the farmer Alexandersson.



SCENE VI


      _Enter the_ LAWYER, ALEXANDERSSON, ALMA JONSSON,
      _the_ MILKMAID, _the_ FARM HAND.


SHERIFF, [_Calls out_] The servant girl Alma Jonsson and the
farmer Alexandersson.

LAWYER. I wish to present my power of attorney for the
complainant.

JUDGE. [_Examines the submitted document; then_] The servant
girl Alma Jonsson has had writ served on her former master,
Alexandersson, bringing charges under Chapter Sixteen, Section
Eight, of the Criminal Code, providing for imprisonment of not
more than six months, or a fine, because Alexandersson has
called her a thief without supporting his accusation or making
legal charges. What have you to say, Alexandersson?

ALEXANDERSSON. I called her a thief because I caught her
stealing.

JUDGE. Have you witnesses to her theft?

ALEXANDERSSON. No, as luck would have it, there's no witnesses,
for I mostly go about by myself.

JUDGE. Why did you not make a charge against her?

ALEXANDERSSON. Well, I never go to court. And then it isn't the
usage among us masters to prosecute household thefts, partly
because there are so many of 'em, and partly because we don't
like to spoil a servant's whole future.

JUDGE. Alma Jonsson, what have you to say in answer to this?

ALMA JONSSON. Ya-es----

LAWYER. You keep quiet! Alma Jonsson, who is not a defendant
in this case, but the complainant, asks to have her witnesses
heard in order that she may prove the slander uttered against
her by Alexandersson.

JUDGE. As Alexandersson has admitted the slander, I shall ask
for no witnesses. On the other hand, it is of importance for me
to know whether Alma Jonsson be guilty of the offence mentioned,
for if Alexandersson had reasonable grounds for his utterance,
this will be held a mitigating circumstance when sentence is
passed.

LAWYER. I must take exception to the statement made by the
Court, for by Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the Criminal
Code, one charged with slander is denied the right to bring
evidence as to the truth of his defamation.

JUDGE. Parties, witnesses, and spectators will retire so that
the Court may consider the case.

      [_All go out except the members of the Court_.



SCENE VII


      The COURT.


JUDGE. Is Alexandersson an honest and reliable man?

ALL THE JURORS. Alexandersson is a reliable man.

JUDGE. Is Alma Jonsson known as an honest servant?

ERIC OTTO BOMAN. I had to discharge Alma Jonsson last year for
petty thievery.

JUDGE. And nevertheless I have now to fine Alexandersson. There
is no way out of it. Is he poor?

LUDWIG ÖSTMAN. He's behind with his Crown taxes, and his crop
failed last year. So I guess the fine will be more than he can
carry.

JUDGE. And yet I can find no reason to postpone the case, as
it is a clear one, and Alexandersson has no right to prove
anything on his side. Has any one here anything to add or object?

ALEXANDER EKLUND. I would just ask leave to make a general
reflection. A case like this, where one not only innocent, but
offended against, has to take the punishment, while the thief
has his so-called honour restored, may easily bring about that
people grow less forbearing toward their fellow-men, and that
taking cases to court grows more common.

JUDGE. This is quite possible, but general reflections have no
place in the proceedings, and the Court has to make a decision.
Consequently my one question to the jury is: can Alexandersson
be held guilty under Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the
Criminal Code?

ALL THE JURORS. Yes.

JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call in the parties and the witnesses.



SCENE VIII


      ALL _return_.


JUDGE. In the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer
Alexandersson, Alexandersson is sentenced to pay a fine of one
hundred crowns for slander.

ALEXANDERSSON. But I saw her stealing with my own eyes!--That's
what one gets for being kind!

LAWYER. [_To_ ALMA JONSSON] What did I tell you! If you only
deny, everything is all right. Alexandersson acted like a fool
and denied nothing. If I had been his counsel, and he had
denied the charge, I should have challenged your witnesses, and
there you would have been!--Now we'll go out and settle up this
business.

[_Goes out with_ ALMA JONSSON _and the witnesses_.

ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Sheriff] And perhaps I have now got to
give Alma her papers and write down that she has been honest and
faithful?

SHERIFF. That's none of my concern!

ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Constable] And for a thing like this I
am to lose house and land! Who'd believe it, that justice means
honour for the thief and a flogging for him that's robbed! Damn
it!--Come and have a cup of coffee with a stick in it afterward,
Öman.

CONSTABLE. I'll come, but don't make a row.

ALEXANDERSSON. Yes, I'll be damned if I don't, even if it should
cost me three months!

CONSTABLE. Now please don't make a row--don't make a row!



SCENE IX


      _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter after awhile_.


JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call the separation suit of Baron
Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg.

SHERIFF. Separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife, born
Malmberg.

_The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter_.

JUDGE. In the proceedings entered against his wife, Baron
Sprengel declares his intention of not continuing the marriage,
and requests that, as the warnings of the Vestry Board have
proved fruitless, order be issued for a year's separation in bed
and board. What objection have you to make to this, Baroness?

BARONESS. To the separation I make no objection at all; if I can
only have my child. That is my condition.

JUDGE. The law recognises no conditions in a case like this, and
it is for the Court to dispose of the child.

BARONESS. Why, that's very peculiar!

JUDGE. For this reason it is of utmost importance that the
Court learn who has caused the dissension leading to this suit.
According to appended minutes of the Vestry Board, it appears
that the wife has admitted having at times shown a quarrelsome
and difficult disposition, while the husband has admitted no
fault. Thus, Baroness, you appear to have admitted----

BARONESS. That's a lie!

JUDGE. I find it difficult to believe that the minutes of the
Vestry Board, countersigned by the Pastor and eight other
trustworthy men, can be inaccurate.

BARONESS. The report is false!

JUDGE. Such remarks cannot be made with impunity before this
Court.

BARON. May I call attention to the fact that I have voluntarily
surrendered the child to the Baroness on certain conditions?

JUDGE. And I have to repeat once more what I said before,
namely, that the case will be decided by the Court and not
by the parties to it. Therefore: you deny having caused any
dissension, Baroness?

BARONESS. Indeed, I do! And it is not the fault of one that two
quarrel.

JUDGE. This is no quarrel, Baroness, but a criminal case;
and furthermore, you seem now to be displaying a contentious
temperament as well as inconsiderate behaviour.

BARONESS. Then you don't know my husband.

JUDGE. Will you please explain yourself, for I can base no
decision on mere insinuations.

BARON. Then I must ask to have the case dismissed, so that I can
obtain separation in other ways.

JUDGE. The case is already before the Court and will have to be
carried to its conclusion--Baroness, you maintain then that your
husband has caused the estrangement. Can this be proved?

BARONESS. Yes, it can be proved.

JUDGE. Please do so then, but bear in mind that it is a question
of depriving the Baron of his parental rights and also of his
rights to the property.

BARONESS. He has forfeited it many times over, and not the least
when he denied me sleep and food.

BARON. I feel compelled to state that I have never refused to
let the Baroness sleep. I have merely asked her not to sleep
in the afternoon, because thereby the house was neglected and
the child left without proper care. As to food, I have always
left such matters to my wife, and I have only objected to some
extravagant entertainments, as the neglected household could not
bear such expenses.

BARONESS. And he has let me lie sick without calling in a
physician.

BARON. The Baroness would always be taken sick when she could
not have her own way, but that kind of ailment did not last long
as a rule. After I had brought a specialist from the city, and
he had declared it to be nothing but tricks, I did not judge it
necessary to call a physician the next time the Baroness was
taken sick--because the new pier-glass cost fifty crowns less
than originally intended.

JUDGE. All this is not of such nature that it can be considered
when such a serious case has to be decided. There must be some
deeper motives.

BARONESS. It ought to be counted a motive that the father will
not permit the mother to bring up her own child.

BARON. First of all, the Baroness left the care of the child to
a maid, and whenever she tried to assist, things went wrong.
Secondly, she tried to bring up the boy as a woman, and not as a
man. For instance, she dressed him as a girl until he was four
years old; and to this very day, when he is eight years old, he
carries his hair long as a girl, is forced to sew and crochet,
and plays with dolls; all of which I regard as injurious to the
child's normal development into a man. On the other hand, she
has amused herself by dressing up the daughters of our tenants
as boys, cutting their hair short, and putting them to work on
things generally handled by boys. In a word, I took charge of my
son's education because I noticed symptoms of mental derangement
which before this have led to offences against the Eighteenth
Chapter of the Criminal Code.

JUDGE. And yet you are now willing to leave the child in the
hands of the mother?

BARON. Yes, for I have never been able to contemplate such a
cruelty as to separate mother and child--and also because the
mother has promised to mend her ways. And for that matter, I had
only promised conditionally, and with the understanding that
the law was not to be invoked in the matter. But since we have
not been able to keep away from recriminations, I have changed
my mind--especially as, from being the complainant, I have been
turned into a defendant.

BARONESS. That's the way this man always keeps his promises.

BARON. My promises, like those of other people, have always been
conditional, and I have kept them as long as the conditions were
observed.

BARONESS. In the same way he had promised me personal freedom
within the marriage.

BARON. Naturally with the provision that the laws of decency
were kept inviolate; but when all bounds were exceeded, and
when ideas of license appeared under the name of freedom, then I
regarded my promise as annulled.

BARONESS. And for this reason he tormented me with the most
absurd jealousy, and that is generally enough to make a common
life unbearable. He even made himself ridiculous to the extent
of being jealous of the doctor.

BARON. This alleged jealousy may be reduced to an advice on my
part against the employment of a notorious and tattling masseur
for an ailment commonly treated by women--unless the Baroness is
having in mind the occasion when I showed our steward the door
for smoking in my drawing-room and offering cigars to my wife.

BARONESS. AS we have not been able to keep away from
scandal-mongering, it is just as well that the whole truth
should get out: the Baron has been guilty of adultery. Is not
this enough to make him unworthy of bringing up my child alone?

JUDGE. Can you prove this, Baroness?

BARONESS. Yes, I can, and here are letters that show.

JUDGE. [_Receiving the letters_] How long ago did this happen?

BARONESS. A year ago.

JUDGE. Of course, the time limit for prosecution has already
expired, but the fact itself weighs heavily against the husband
and may cause him to lose the child entirely as well as a part
of the marriage portion. Do you admit the truth of this charge,
Baron?

BARON. Yes, with remorse and mortification; but there were
circumstances which ought to be held extenuating. I was forced
into humiliating celibacy by the calculated coldness of the
Baroness, although I, and in all courtesy, asked as a favour,
what the law allowed me to demand as a right. I tired of buying
her love, she having prostituted our marriage by selling her
favours first for power and later for presents and money; and
in the end I found myself compelled, with the express consent of
the Baroness, to take up an irregular relationship.

JUDGE. Had you given your consent, Baroness?

BARONESS. No, that is not true! I demand proofs!

BARON. It is true, but I cannot prove it, since the only
witness, my wife, denies it.

JUDGE. What is unproved need not be untrue, but a com-pact of
this kind, trespassing upon prevailing laws, must be held a
_pactum turpe_ and invalid in itself. Baron, so far everything
is against you.

BARONESS. And as the Baron has confessed his guilt with remorse
and shame, I, who have now become complainant instead of
defendant, ask that the Court proceed to render a decision, as
further details are not needed.

JUDGE. In my capacity as presiding officer of this Court, I wish
to hear what the Baron has to say in justification, or at least
in palliation.

BARON. I have just admitted the charge of adultery and have
advanced as extenuating circumstances, partly that it was the
result of pressing need when, after ten years of married life,
I suddenly found myself unmarried, and partly that it was done
with the consent of the Baroness herself. As I have now come
to believe that all this was a trap set to make a case against
me, it is my duty, for the sake of my son, to hold back no
further----

BARONESS. [_Exclaims instinctively_] Axel!

BARON. What caused me to break my marital vows was the
faithlessness of the Baroness.

JUDGE. Baron, can you prove that the Baroness has been faithless
to you?

BARON. No! For I was concerned about the honour of the family,
and I destroyed all proofs that I obtained. But I still venture
to believe that, in this matter, the Baroness will stand by the
confession she once made to me.

JUDGE. Baroness, do you admit this offence as preceding and,
therefore, probably causing the lapse of the Baron?

BARONESS. No!

JUDGE. Are you willing to repeat under oath that you are
innocent of this charge?

BARONESS. Yes!

BARON. Good heavens! No, she must not do that! No perjury for my
sake!

JUDGE. I ask once more: is the Baroness willing to take the oath?

BARONESS. Yes.

BARON. Permit me to suggest that the Baroness just now appears
as complainant, and a complaint is not made under oath.

JUDGE. As you have charged her with a criminal offence, she is
defendant. What does the Jury hold?

EMMANUEL WICKBERG. As the Baroness is a party to this suit, it
seems to me that she can hardly be allowed to testify in her own
behalf.

SWEN OSCAR ERLIN. It seems to me that if the Baroness is to
testify under oath, then the Baron should also be allowed to do
so in the same matter, but as oath may not be put against oath,
the whole matter remains in the dark.

AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS. I should say that it is not a question of
testifying under oath here, but of taking an oath on one's own
innocence.

ANDERS ERIC RUTH. Well, isn't that the question which has to be
settled first of all?

AXEL WALLIN. But not in the presence of the parties, as the
deliberations of the Court are not public.

CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG. The right of the jury to express itself is
not limited or conditioned by secrecy.

JUDGE. Out of so many meanings I can get no guidance. But as the
guilt of the Baron can be proved, and that of the Baroness still
remains unproved, I must demand that the Baroness take oath on
her innocence.

BARONESS. I am ready!

JUDGE. No, wait a moment!--Baron, if you were granted time,
would you be able to produce evidence or witnesses in support of
your charge?

BARON. This I neither can nor will do, as I am not anxious to
see my dishonour made public.

JUDGE. The proceedings of the Court will be adjourned while I
consult with the chairman of the Vestry Board.

      [_Steps down and goes out to the right_.



SCENE X


      _The_ JURORS _confer in low tones among themselves_.

      _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _in the background_.

      _The_ SPECTATORS _form groups and talk_.


BARON. [_To the_ BARONESS] You do not shrink from perjuring
yourself?

BARONESS. I shrink from nothing when my child is concerned.

BARON. But if I have proofs?

BARONESS. Well, you have not.

BARON. The letters were burned, but certified copies of them are
still in existence.

BARONESS. You lie to frighten me!

BARON. To show you how deeply I love my child, and to save the
mother at least, as I seem to be lost, you--may have the proofs.
But don't be ungrateful.

      [_Hands her a bundle of letters_.

BARONESS. That you are a liar, I knew before, but that you were
scoundrel enough to have the letters copied, that I could never
have believed.

BARON. That is your thanks! But now both of us are lost.

BARONESS. Yes, let both go down--then there will be an end to
the fight----

BARON. Is it better for the child to lose both its parents and
be left alone in the world?

BARONESS. That will never occur!

BARON. Your absurd conceit, which makes you think yourself
above all laws and above other human beings, has lured you into
starting this fight, in which there can be only one loser: our
son! What were you thinking of when you began this attack,
which could not fail to provoke a defence? Not of the child, I
am sure. But of revenge, I suppose? Revenge for what? For my
discovery of your guilt?

BARONESS. The child? Were you thinking of the child when you
dragged me in the mire before this rabble?

BARON. Helen!--Like wild beasts we have clawed each other
bloody. We have laid our disgrace open to all these who take
pleasure in our ruin, for in this room we have not a single
friend. Our child will after this never be able to speak of his
parents as respectable people; he will not be able to start life
with a recommendation from father and mother; he will see the
home shunned, the old parents isolated and despised, and so the
time must come when he will flee us!

BARONESS. What do you want then?

BARON. Let us leave the country after selling the property.

BARONESS. And begin the same squabble all over again! I know
what will happen: for a week you will be tame, and then you will
abuse me.

BARON. Just think--now they are settling our fate in there.
You cannot hope for a good word from the Pastor, whom you have
just called a liar; and I, who am known to be no Christian, can
expect no mercy either. Oh, I wish I were in the woods, so that
I could crawl in under some big roots or put my head under a
rock--this is more shame than I can bear!

BARONESS. It is true that the minister hates both of us, and it
may happen as you say. Why don't you speak to him?

BARON. Of what? Making up?

BARONESS. Of anything you please, if it only be not too late!
Oh, if it should be too late!--What can that man Alexandersson
want that makes him prowl about us two all the time? I am afraid
of that man!

BARON. Alexandersson is a nice fellow.

BARONESS. Yes, he is nice to you, but not to me--I have observed
those glances before--Go and see the Pastor now; but take my
hand first--I am scared!

BARON. Of what, dear, of what?

BARONESS. I don't know--Everything, everybody!

BARON. But not of me?

BARONESS. No, not now! It is as if our clothes had been caught
in the mill wheels, and we had been dragged into the machinery.
What have we been doing? What have we been doing in our anger?
How they will enjoy themselves, all these who are now seeing
the Baron and the Baroness stripped naked and flogging each
other--Oh, I feel as if I were standing here without a rag to
cover me.

      [_She buttons her coat_.

BARON. Calm yourself, my dear. It is not exactly the proper
place to tell you what I have said before: that there is only
one friend and one home--but we might start over again!--Well,
heaven knows! No, we cannot do it. You have gone too far. It is
all over. And this last--yes, let it be the last! And it had
to come after all the rest. No, we are enemies for life! And
if I let you go away with the child now, then you might marry
again--I see that now. And my child might have a step-father;
and I should have to watch another man going about with my wife
and child--Or I might myself be going about with somebody else's
wench hanging on my arm. No! Either you or I! One of us must be
struck down! You or I!

BARONESS. You! For if I let you take the child, you might marry
again, and I might have to see another woman taking my place
with my own child. The mere thought of it could make me a
murderess! A step-mother for _my_ child!

BARON. You might have thought of it before! But when you saw me
champing at the chain of love that bound me to you, then you
believed me incapable of loving anybody but yourself.

BARONESS. Do you think I ever loved you?

BARON. Yes, once at least. When I had been faithless to you.
Then your love grew sublime. And your pretended scorn made
you irresistible. But my error caused you to respect me, too.
Whether it was the male or the criminal you admired most, I
don't know, but I believe it was both--it must have been both,
for you are the most typical woman I have ever met. And now you
are already jealous of a new wife whom I have never thought
of. What a pity that you became my mate! As my mistress, your
victory would have been unchallenged, and your infidelities
would only have seemed the bouquet of my new wine.

BARONESS. Yes, your love was always material.

BARON. Material as everything spiritual, and spiritual as all
that is material! My weakness for you, which gave strength to
my feeling, made you believe yourself the stronger, when you
were simply coarser, more ill-natured, and more unscrupulous
than I.

BARONESS. You the stronger? You, who never want the same thing
two minutes in a stretch! You, who as a rule never know what you
want!

BARON. Yes, I know perfectly well what I want, but there is room
in me for both love and hatred, and while I love you one minute,
I hate you the next. And just now I hate you!

BARONESS. Are you now thinking of the child also?

BARON. Yes, now and always! And do you know why? Because he is
our love that has taken flesh. He is the memory of our beautiful
hours, the link that unites our souls, the common ground where
we must ever meet without wishing to do so. And that is why
we shall never be able to part, even if our separation be
declared--Oh, if I could only hate you as I want to!



SCENE XI


      _The_ JUDGE _and the_ PASTOR _enter in conversation
      and remain in the foreground_.


JUDGE. Thus I recognize the utter hopelessness of seeking
justice or discovering truth. And it seems to me as if the laws
were a couple of centuries behind our ideas of right. Did I not
have to punish Alexandersson, who was innocent, and exonerate
the girl, who was guilty of theft? And as for this separation
suit, I know nothing at all about it at this minute, and I
cannot take upon my conscience to render a decision.

PASTOR. But a decision has to be rendered.

JUDGE. Not by me! I shall give up my place and choose another
profession.

PASTOR. Why, such a scandal would only bring you notoriety and
close every career to you. Keep on judging a few years, and you
will come to think it quite easy to crush human fates like egg
shells. And for that matter, if you want to stand clear of this
case, let yourself be outvoted by the jury. Then they must take
the responsibility on themselves.

JUDGE. That is a way--and I suspect that they will be
practically at one against me, for I have formed an opinion in
this matter, which, however, is wholly intuitive and, therefore,
not to be trusted--I thank you for your advice.

SHERIFF. [_Who has been talking with_ Alexandersson, _steps up
to the_ JUDGE] In my capacity of public prosecutor, I have to
report the farmer Alexandersson as a witness against Baroness
Sprengel.

JUDGE. In relation to the adultery charge?

SHERIFF. Yes.

JUDGE. [_To the_ PASTOR] Here is a new clue that may lead to a
solution.

PASTOR. Oh, there are lots of clues, if you can only get hold of
them.

JUDGE. But nevertheless it is horrible to see two persons who
have loved trying to ruin each other. It is like being in a
slaughter-house!

PASTOR. Well, that is love, Judge!

JUDGE. What then is hatred?

PASTOR. It is the lining of the coat.

[_The_ JUDGE _goes over and speaks to the_ Jurors.

BARONESS. [_Comes forward to the_ PASTOR] Help us, Pastor! Help
us!

PASTOR. I cannot, and as a clergyman, I must not. And
furthermore, did I not warn you not to play with such serious
matters? You thought it so simple to part! Well, part then! The
law will not prevent you, so don't put the blame on it.



SCENE XII


      All _as before_.

JUDGE. The Court will now resume its proceedings. According
to the report of the public prosecutor, Sheriff Wiberg, a new
witness has appeared against the Baroness and is ready to affirm
her guilt under the charge of adultery. Farmer Alexandersson!

ALEXANDERSSON. I am here.

JUDGE. How can you prove your assertion?

ALEXANDERSSON. I saw the offence committed.

BARONESS. He is lying! Let him bring proof!

ALEXANDERSSON. Proof? I'm a witness now, ain't I?

BARONESS. Your assertion is no proof, although you happen to be
called a witness for the moment.

ALEXANDERSSON. Maybe the witness has to have two more witnesses,
and those still others?

BARONESS. Yes, it might be needed when one cannot tell whether
the whole lot are lying or not.

BARON. The testimony of Alexandersson will not be required. I
beg leave to offer the Court all the correspondence by which
the marital infidelity of the Baroness stands completely
proved--Here are the originals; copies of them will be found in
the possession of defendant.

      [_The_ BARONESS _utters a cry but controls herself
      quickly_.

JUDGE. And yet, Baroness, you were willing to take the oath a
little while ago?

BARONESS. But I didn't take it! And now I think the Baron and I
may cry quits.

JUDGE. We do not let one crime cancel another. The account of
each one has to be settled separately.

BARONESS. Then I want to file a claim at once against the Baron
for my dowry which he has squandered.

JUDGE. If you have squandered your wife's dowry, Baron, it might
be well to settle that matter right here.

BARON. The Baroness brought with her six thousand crowns in
stock that was then unsalable and soon became wholly worthless.
As at the time of our marriage she held a position as a
telegrapher and declared herself unwilling to take support from
her husband, we made a marriage contract and agreed that each
one should be self-supporting. But she lost her position after
the marriage, and I have been supporting her ever since. To this
I had no objection whatever, but as she is now putting in bills,
I shall ask leave to present one of my own to meet hers. It
totals up to thirty-five thousand crowns, this being one-third
of the household expenses since the beginning of our marriage,
and I being willing to take two-thirds upon myself.

JUDGE. Have you this agreement in black and white, Baron?

BARON. I have not.

JUDGE. Have you any documents to prove the disposition of your
dowry, Baroness?

BARONESS. I didn't think at the time it would be necessary to
get anything in writing, as I supposed myself to be dealing with
honourable people.

JUDGE. Then this whole question cannot come under consideration
here. The jury will please step into the small court-room for
discussion of the case and formulation of a decision.



SCENE XIII


      _The_ JURY _and the_ JUDGE _go out to the right_.


ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Sheriff] This here justice is more than
I can get any sense out of.

SHERIFF. I think it would be wiser for you to go right home
now, or you might have the same experience as the farmer from
Mariestad. Did you ever hear of it?

ALEXANDERSSON. No.

SHERIFF. Well, he went to court as spectator, was dragged into
the case as witness, became a party to it, and ended up with a
flogging at the whipping-post.

ALEXANDERSSON. Oh, hell! But I believe it of 'em! I believe
anything of 'em! [_Goes out_.

      _The_ BARON _joins the_ BARONESS _in the foreground_.

BARONESS. You find it hard to keep away from me.

BARON. Now I have struck you down, and I am bleeding to death
myself, for your blood is mine----

BARONESS. And how clever you are at making out bills!

BARON. Only when it comes to counter-claims! Your courage is
that of despair, or that of a person sentenced to death. And
when you leave here, you will collapse. Then you will no longer
be able to load your sorrow and guilt on me, and you will be
suffering from remorse. Do you know why I have not killed you?

BARONESS. Because you did not dare!

BARON. No! Not even the thought of hell could have held me
back--for I don't believe in it. But this was the thought that
did it: even if you get the child, you will be gone in five
years. That is what the doctor tells me. And then the child
might be left without either father or mother. Think of it--all
alone in the world!

BARONESS. Five years!--It is a lie!

BARON. In five years! And then I am left behind with the child
whether you want it or not.

BARONESS. Oh no! For then my family will bring suit to get the
child away from you. I don't die when I die!

BARON. Evil never dies! That is so! But can you explain why you
grudge me the child, and grudge the child me, whom it needs?
Is it sheer malice--a craving for revenge that punishes the
child? [_The_ BARONESS _remains silent_] Do you know, I remarked
to the Pastor that I thought possibly you might have some
doubts concerning the child's parentage, and that this might
be a reason why you would not let me have the child, lest my
happiness be built on a false foundation. And he replied: No,
I don't think her capable of it--not of such a fine motive--I
don't think you know yourself what makes you so fanatical about
this one thing: it is the yearning for continued existence that
goads you into maintaining your hold. Our son has your body, but
my soul, and that soul you cannot rid him of. In him you will
have me back when you least expect it; in him you will find my
thoughts, my tastes, my passions, and for this reason you will
hate him one day, as you hate me now. That is what I fear!

BARONESS. You seem still a little afraid that he may become mine?

BARON. In your quality of mother and woman, you have a certain
advantage over me with our judges, and although justice may
throw dice blindfolded, there is always a little lead on one
side of each die.

BARONESS. You know how to pay compliments even in the moment of
separation. Perhaps you don't hate me as much as you pretend?

BARON. Frankly speaking, I think that I hate not so much you as
my dishonour, though you, too, come in for a share. And why this
hatred? Perhaps I have overlooked that you are near the forties,
and that a masculine element is making its appearance in you.
Perhaps it is this element that I notice in your kisses, in your
embraces--perhaps that is what I find so repulsive?

BARONESS. Perhaps. For the sorrow of my life has been, as you
well know, that I was not born a man.

BARON. Perhaps that became the sorrow of my life! And now you
try to avenge yourself on nature for having played with you, and
so you want to bring up your son as a woman. Will you promise me
one thing?

BARONESS. Will you promise me one thing?

BARON. What is the use of promising?

BARONESS. No, let us give no more promises.

BARON. Will you answer a question truthfully?

BARONESS. If I told the truth, you would think I lied.

BARON. Yes, so I should!

BARONESS. Can you see now that all is over, for ever?

BARON. For ever! It was for ever that we once swore to love each
other.

BARONESS. It is too bad that such oaths must be taken!

BARON. Why so? It is always a bond, such as it is.

BARONESS. I never could bear with bonds!

BARON. Do you think it would have been better for us not to bind
ourselves?

BARONESS. Better for me, yes.

BARON. I wonder. For then you could not have bound me.

BARONESS. Nor you me.

BARON. And so the result would have been the same--as when
you reduce fractions. Consequently: not the law's fault; not
our own; not anybody else's. And yet we have to assume the
responsibility! [_The_ SHERIFF _approaches_] So! Now the verdict
has been pronounced--Good-bye, Helen!

BARONESS. Good-bye--Axel!

BARON. It is hard to part! And impossible to live together. But
the fight is over at least!

BARONESS. If it were! I fear it is just about to begin.

SHERIFF. The parties will retire while the Court takes action.

BARONESS. Axel, a word before it is too late! After all, they
might take the child away from both of us. Drive home and take
the boy to your mother, and then we will flee from here, far
away!

BARON. I think you are trying to fool me again.

BARONESS. No, I am not. I am no longer thinking of you, or of
myself, or of my revenge. Save the child only! Listen, Axel--you
must do it!

BARON. I will. But if you are deceiving me--Never mind: I'll do
it!

      _Goes out quickly. The_ BARONESS _leaves through the
      door in the background_.



SCENE XIV


      _The_ JURY _and the_ JUDGE _enter and resume their
      seats_.


JUDGE. As we now have the case complete before us, I shall ask
each juror separately to state his opinion before decision is
rendered. Personally, I can only hold it reasonable that the
child be given to the mother, as both parties are equally to
blame for the estrangement, and as the mother must be held
better adapted to the care of the child than the father.
[_Silence_.

ALEXANDER EKLUND. According to prevailing law, it is the wife
who takes her rank and condition from the husband, not the
husband from the wife.

EMMANUEL WICKBERG. And the husband is the proper guardian of his
wife.

CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG. The ritual, which gives binding force to the
marriage, says that the wife should obey her husband, and so it
is clear to me that the man takes precedence of the woman.

ERIC OTTO BOMAN. And the children are to be brought up in the
faith of the father.

ÄRENFRID SÖDERBERG. From which may be concluded that children
follow the father and not the mother.

OLOF ANDERSSON OF WIK. But as in the case before us both man and
wife are equally guilty, and, judging by what has come to light,
equally unfit to rear a child, I hold 

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