The Dramatic Works of Gerhart Hauptmann, Volume I
by Gerhart Hauptmann · English · Gutenberg #9971 · 645,617 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Dramatic Works of Gerhart Hauptmann, Volume I
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Dramatic Works of Gerhart Hauptmann, Volume I
Author: Gerhart Hauptmann
Editor: Ludwig Lewisohn
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9971]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9971
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Thomas Berger and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF GERHART HAUPTMANN, VOLUME I ***
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Thomas Berger
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE DRAMATIC WORKS
OF
GERHART HAUPTMANN
(Authorized Edition)
Edited By LUDWIG LEWISOHN
Assistant Professor in The Ohio State University
VOLUME ONE: SOCIAL DRAMAS
1912
PREFACE
The present edition of Hauptmann's works contains all of his plays with
the exception of a few inconsiderable fragments and the historical drama
_Florian Geyer_. The latter has been excluded by reason of its great
length, its divergence from the characteristic moods of Hauptmann's art,
and that failure of high success which the author himself has implicitly
acknowledged. The arrangement of the volumes follows, with such
modifications as the increase of material has made necessary, the method
used by Hauptmann in the first and hitherto the only collected edition of
his dramas. Five plays are presented here which that edition did not
include, and hence the present collection gives the completest view now
attainable of Hauptmann's activity as a dramatist.
The translation of the plays, seven of which are written entirely in
dialect, offered a problem of unusual difficulty. The easiest solution,
that namely, of rendering the speech of the Silesian peasants or the
Berlin populace into some existing dialect of English, I was forced to
reject at once. A very definite set of associative values would thus have
been gained for the language of Hauptmann's characters, but of values
radically different from those suggested in the original. I found it
necessary, therefore, to invent a dialect near enough to the English of
the common people to convince the reader or spectator, yet not so near to
the usage of any class or locality as to interpose between him and
Hauptmann's characters an Irish or a Cockney, a Southern or a New England
atmosphere. Into this dialect, with which the work of my collaborators
has been made to conform, I have sought to render as justly and as
exactly as possible the intensely idiomatic speech that Hauptmann
employs. In doing this I have had to take occasional liberties with my
text, but I have tried to reduce these to a minimum, and always to make
them serve a closer interpretation of the original shade of thought or
turn of expression. The rendering of the plays written in normal literary
prose or verse needs no such explanation nor the plea for a measure of
critical indulgence which that explanation implies.
I owe hearty thanks to Dr. Hauptmann for the promptness and cordiality
with which he has either rectified or confirmed my view of the
development and meaning of his thought and art as stated in the
Introduction, and to my wife for faithful assistance in the preparation
of these volumes.
LUDWIG LEWISOHN.
COLUMBUS, O., June, 1912.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
_By the Editor._
BEFORE DAWN (Vor Sonnenaufgang)
_Translated by the Editor._
THE WEAVERS (Die Weber)
_Translated by Mary Morison._
THE BEAVER COAT (Der Biberpelz)
_Translated by the Editor._
THE CONFLAGRATION (Der rote Hahn)
_Translated by the Editor._
INTRODUCTION
I
Gerhart Hauptmann, the most distinguished of modern German dramatists,
was born in the Silesian village of Obersalzbrunn on November 15, 1862.
By descent he springs immediately from the common people of his native
province to whose life he has so often given the graveness of tragedy and
the permanence of literature. His grandfather, Ehrenfried, felt in his
own person the bitter fate of the Silesian weavers and only through
energy and good fortune was enabled to change his trade to that of a
waiter. By 1824 he was an independent inn-keeper and was followed in the
same business by the poet's father, Robert Hauptmann. The latter, a man
of solid and not uncultivated understanding, married Marie Straehler,
daughter of one of the fervent Moravian households of Silesia, and had
become, when his sons Carl and Gerhart were born, the proprietor of a
well-known and prosperous hotel, _Zur Preussischen Krone_.
From the village-school of Obersalzbrunn, where he was but an idle pupil,
Gerhart was sent in 1874 to the _Realschule_ at Breslau. Here, in the
company of his older brothers, Carl and Georg, the lad remained for
nearly four years, having impressed his teachers most strongly, it
appears, by a lack of attention. For this reason, but also perhaps
because his father, injured by competitors and by a change in local
conditions, had lost his independence, Gerhart was withdrawn from school
in 1878. He was next to become a farmer and, to this end, was placed in
the pious family of an uncle. Gradually, however, artistic impulses began
to disengage themselves--he had long modelled in a desultory way--and in
October, 1880, at the advice of his maturer brother Carl Hauptmann
proceeded to Breslau and was enrolled as a student in the Royal College
of Art.
The value of this restless shifting in his early years is apparent. For
the discontent that marked his unquiet youth made for a firm retention of
impressions. Observation, in the saying of Balzac, springs from
suffering, and Hauptmann saw the Silesian country-folk and the artists of
Breslau with an almost morbid exactness of vision. Actual conflict
sharpened his insight. Three weeks after entering the art-school he
received a disciplinary warning and early in 1881 he was rusticated for
eleven weeks. Nevertheless he remained in Breslau until April, 1882, when
he joined his brother Carl and became a special student at the University
of Jena. Here he heard lectures by Liebmann, Eucken and Haeckel. But the
academic life did not hold him long. Scarcely a year passed and Hauptmann
is found at Hamburg, the guest of his future parents-in-law and his
brother's. Thence he set out on an Italian journey, travelling by way of
Spain and the South of France to Genoa, and visiting Naples, Capri and
Rome. Although his delight in these places was diminished by his keen
social consciousness, he returned to Italy the following year (1884) and,
for a time, had a sculptor's studio in Rome. Overtaken here by typhoid
fever, he was nursed back to health by his future wife, Marie Thienemann,
and returned to Germany to gather strength at the Thienemann country
house.
So far, sculpture had held him primarily; it was now that the poetic
impulse asserted itself. Seeking a synthesis of these tendencies in a
third art, Hauptmann determined, for a time, to adopt the calling of an
actor. To this end he went to Berlin. Here, however, the interest in
literature soon grew to dominate every other and, in 1885, the year of
his marriage to Fraulein Thienemann, he published his first work:
_Promethidenlos_.
The poem is romantic and amorphous and gives but the faintest promise of
the masterly handling of verse to be found in _The Sunken Bell_ and
_Henry of Aue_. Its interest resides solely in its confirmation of the
facts of Hauptmann's development. For the hero of _Promethidenlos_
vacillates between poetry and sculpture, but is able to give himself
freely to neither art because of his overwhelming sense of social
injustice and human suffering. And this, in brief, was the state of
Hauptmann's mind when, in the autumn of 1885, he settled with his young
wife in the Berlin suburb of Erkner.
The years of his residence here are memorable and have already become the
subject of study and investigation. And rightly so; for during this time
there took place that impact of the many obscure tendencies of the age
upon the most sensitive and gifted of German minds from which sprang the
naturalistic movement. That movement dominated literature for a few
years. Then, in Hauptmann's own temper and in his own work, arose a
vigorous idealistic reaction which, blending with the severe technique
and incorruptible observation of naturalism, went far toward
producing--for a second time--a new vision and a new art. The conditions
amid which this development originated are essential to a full
understanding of Hauptmann's work.
II
At the end of the Franco-Prussian war, united Germany looked forward to a
literary movement commensurate with her new greatness. That movement did
not appear. It was forgotten that men in the maturity of their years and
powers could not suddenly change character and method and that the rise
of a new generation was needed. So soon, however, as the first members of
that generation became articulate, a bitter and almost merciless warfare
arose in literature and in the drama. The brothers Heinrich and Julius
Hart, vigorous in both critical and creative activity, asserted as early
as 1882 that German literature was then, at its best, the faint imitation
of an outworn classicism, and the German drama a transference of the
basest French models. It is easy to see to-day that their view was
partisan and narrow. Neither Wilbrandt and Heyse, on the one hand, nor
Lindau and L'Arronge, on the other, represented the whole literary
activity of the empire. It is equally easy, however, to understand their
impatience with a literature which, upon the whole, lacked any breath of
greatness, and handled the stuff of human life with so little freshness,
incisiveness and truth.
What direction was the new literature to take? The decisive influence
was, almost necessarily, that of the naturalistic writers of France. For
the tendencies of these men coincided with Germany's growing interest in
science and growing rejection of traditional religion and philosophy.
Tolstoi, Ibsen and Strindberg each contributed his share to the movement.
But all the young critics of the eighties fought the battles of Zola with
him and repeated, sometimes word for word, the memorable creed of French
naturalism formulated long before by the Goncourt brothers: "The
modern--everything for the artist is there: in the sensation, the
intuition of the contemporary, of this spectacle of life with which one
rubs elbows!" Such, with whatever later developments, was the central
doctrine of young Germany in the eighties; such the belief that gradually
expressed itself in a number of definite organisations and publications.
The most noteworthy of these, prior to the founding of the _Freie Bühne_,
were the magazine _Die Gesellschaft_ (1885), edited by Michael Conrad,
the most ardent of German Zolaists, and the society _Durch_ (1886), in
which the revolutionary spirits of Berlin united to promulgate the art
canons of the future. "Literature and criticism," Conrad declared, must
first of all be "liberated from the tyranny of the conventional young
lady:" the programme of _Durch_ announced that the poet must give
creative embodiment to the life of the present, that he shall show us
human beings of flesh and blood and depict their passions with implacable
fidelity; that the ideal of art was no longer the Antique, but the
Modern. Nor was there wanting creative activity in the spirit of these
views. Franzos and Kretzer, to name but a few, originated the modern
realistic novel in Germany, and Liliencron brought back vigour and
concreteness to the lyric.
Into the tense atmosphere of this literary battle Hauptmann was cast when
he took up his residence at Erkner. The house he occupied was the last in
the village, half buried in woods and with far prospects over the heaths
and deep green, melancholy waters of Brandenburg. Hither came, among many
others, the brothers Hart, the novelist Kretzer, Wilhelm Bölsche, the
inexhaustible prophet of the new science and the new art, and finally,
the founder of German naturalism as distinguished from that of
France--Arno Holz, The efforts of all these men harmonised with
Hauptmann's mood. Naturalistic art goes for its subject matter to the
forgotten and disinherited of the earth, and it was with these that
Hauptmann was primarily concerned. He read Darwin and Karl Marx,
Saint-Simon and Zola. He was absorbed not by any problem of art but by
the being and fate of humanity itself.
Under these influences and governed by such thoughts, he began his career
as a man of letters anew. But his progress was slow and uncertain. In
1887 he published in Conrad's _Gesellschaft_ an episodic story,
_Bahnwärter Thiel_, weak in narrative technique and obviously inspired by
Zola. Even the sudden expansion of human characters into demonic symbols
of their ruling passions is imitated. The medium clearly irked him and
gave him no opportunity for personal expression. For many months his
activity was tentative and fruitless. Early in 1889, however, Arno Holz,
known until then only by a volume of brave and resonant verse, visited
Erkner and brought with him his theory of "consistent naturalism" as
illustrated by _Papa Hamlet_ and _Die Familie Selicke_, sketches and a
drama in manuscript. This meeting gave Hauptmann one of those
illuminating technical hints which every creative artist knows. It
brought him an immediate method such as neither Tolstoi nor Dostoievsky
had been able to bring, and decided him for naturalism and for the drama.
He had found himself at last. During a visit to his parents he gave
himself up to intense labour and returned to Berlin in the spring of 1889
with his first drama, _Before Dawn_, completed.
The play might have waited indefinitely for performance, had not Otto
Brahm and Paul Schlenther, both critical thinkers of some significance,
founded the free stage society (_Freie Bühne_) earlier in the same year.
It was the aim of this society to give at least eight annual performances
in the city of Berlin which should be wholly free from the influence of
the censor and from the pressure of economic needs. The greater number of
the first series of performances had already been prepared for by a
selection of foreign plays--Tolstoi, Goncourt, Ibsen, Björnsen,
Strindberg--when, at the last moment, a young German dramatist presented
himself and succeeded in having his play accepted. Thus the society, long
since dead, had the good fortune of fulfilling the function for which it
was created: it launched the naturalistic movement; it cradled the modern
drama of Germany.
The first performance of _Before Dawn_ (Oct. 20, 1889) was tumultuous. It
recalled the famous _Hernani_ battle of French romanticism. But the
victory of Hauptmann was not long in doubt. With his third play he
conquered the national stage of which he has since been, with whatever
variations of immediate success, the undisputed master.
III
The "consistent naturalism" of Holz and his collaborator Johannes Schlaf
is the technical foundation of Hauptmann's work. He has long transcended
its narrow theory and the shallow positivism on which it was based. It
discarded verse and he has written great verse; it banished the past from
art and he has gone to legend and history for his subjects; it forbade
the use of symbols and he has, at times, made an approach to his meaning
unnecessarily difficult. But Hauptmann has never quite abandoned the
practice of that form of art which resulted from the theories of Holz.
From history and poetry he has always returned to the naturalistic drama.
_Rose Bernd_ follows _Henry of Aue_, and _Griselda_ immediately preceded
_The Rats_. Nor is this all. The methods of naturalism have followed him
into the domains of poetry and of the past. His verse is scrupulously
devoid of rhetoric; the psychology of his historic plays is sober and
human. Hence it is clear that an analysis of the consistent naturalism of
German literature is, with whatever modifications, an analysis of
Hauptmann's work in its totality. Like nearly all the greater dramatists
he had his forerunners and his prophets: he proceeds from a school of art
and thought which, even in transcending, he illustrates.
The consistent naturalists, then, aimed not to found a new art but, in
any traditional sense, to abandon it. They desired to reduce the
conventions of technique to a minimum and to eliminate the writer's
personality even where Zola had admitted its necessary presence--in the
choice of subject and in form. For style, the very religion of the French
naturalistic masters, there was held to be no place, since there was to
be, in this new literature, neither direct exposition, however
impersonal, nor narrative. In other words, none of the means of
representation were to be used by which art achieves the illusion of
life; since art, in fact, was no longer to create the illusion of
reality, but to _be_ reality. The founders of the school would have
admitted that the French had done much by the elimination of intrigue and
a liberal choice of theme. They would still have seen--and rightly
according to their premises--creative vision and not truth even in the
oppressive pathology of _Germinie Lacerteux_ and the morbid brutalities
of _La Terre_. The opinion of Flaubert that any subject suffices, if the
treatment be excellent, was modified into: there must be neither
intentional choice of theme nor stylistic treatment. For style supposes
rearrangement, personal vision, unjust selection of detail, and
literature must be an exact rendition of the actual.
Stated so baldly the doctrine of consistent naturalism verges on the
absurd. Eliminate selection of detail and personal vision, and art
becomes not only coextensive with life, but shares its confusion and its
apparent purposelessness. It loses all interpretative power and ceases to
be art. Practically, however, the doctrine led to a very definite
form--the naturalistic drama. For, if all indirect treatment of life be
discarded, nothing is left but the recording of speech and, if possible,
of speech actually overheard. The juxtaposition of such blocks of
scrupulously rendered conversation constitutes, in fact, the earliest
experiments of Arno Holz. Under the creative energy of Hauptmann,
however, the form at once grew into drama, but a drama which sought to
rely as little as possible upon the traditional devices of dramaturgic
technique. There was to be no implication of plot, no culmination of the
resulting struggle in effective scenes, no superior articulateness on the
part of the characters. A succession of simple scenes was to present a
section of life without rearrangement or heightening. There could be no
artistic beginning, for life comes shadowy from life; there could be no
artistic ending, for the play of life ends only in eternity.
The development of the drama in such a direction had, of course, been
foreshadowed. The plays of Ibsen's middle period tend to a simpler
rendering of life, and the cold intellect of Strindberg had rejected the
"symmetrical dialogue" of the French drama in order "to let the brains of
men work unhindered." But Hauptmann carries the same methods
extraordinarily far and achieves a poignant verisimilitude that rivals
the pity and terror of the most memorable drama of the past.
These methods lead, naturally, to the exclusion of several devices. Thus
Hauptmann, like Ibsen and Shaw, avoids the division of acts into scenes.
The coming and going of characters has the unobtrusiveness but seldom
violated in life, and the inevitable artifices are held within rigid
bounds. In some of his earlier dramas he also observed the unities of
time and place, and throughout his work practices a close economy in
these respects. It goes without saying that he rejects the monologue, the
unnatural reading of letters, the _raisonneur_ or commenting and
providential character, the lightly motivised confession--all the
devices, in brief, by which the conventional playwright blandly
transports information across the footlights, or unravels the artificial
knot which he has tied.
In dialogue, the medium of the drama, Hauptmann shows the highest
originality and power. Beside the speech of his characters all other
dramatic speech, that of Ibsen, of Tolstoi in _The Power of Darkness_, or
of Pinero, seems conscious and unhuman. Nor is that power a mere control
of dialect. Johannes Vockerat and Michael Kramer, Dr. Scholz and
Professor Crampton speak with a human raciness and native truth not
surpassed by the weavers or peasants of Silesia. Hauptmann has heard the
inflections of the human voice, the faltering and fugitive eloquence of
the living word not only with his ear but with his soul.
External devices necessarily contribute to this effect. Thus Hauptmann
renders all dialect with phonetic accuracy and correct differentiation.
In _Before Dawn_, Hoffmann, Loth, Dr. Schimmelpfennig and Helen speak
normal High German; all the other characters speak Silesian except the
imported footman Edward, who uses the Berlin dialect. In _The Beaver
Coat_ the various gradations of that dialect are scrupulously set down,
from the impudent vulgarity of Leontine and Adelaide, to the occasional
consonantal slips of Wehrhahn. The egregious Mrs. Wolff, in the same
play, cannot deny her Silesian origin. Far finer shades of character are
indicated by the amiable elisions of Mrs. Vockerat Senior in _Lonely
Lives_, the recurrent crassness of Mrs. Scholz in _The Reconciliation_,
and the solemn reiterations of Michael Kramer. Nor must it be thought
that such characterisation has anything in common with the set phrases of
Dickens. From the richness and variety of German colloquial speech, from
the deep brooding of the German soul over the common things and the
enduring emotions of life, Hauptmann has caught the authentic accents
that change dramatic dialogue into the speech of man.
IV
In the structure of his drama Hauptmann met and solved an even more
difficult problem than in the character of his dialogue. The whole
tradition of structural technique rests upon a more or less arbitrary
rearrangement of life. _Othello_, the noblest of tragedies, no less than
the most trivial French farce, depends for the continuity of its mere
action on an improbable artifice. Desdemona's handkerchief may almost be
taken to symbolise that element in the drama which Hauptmann studiously
denies himself. And he does so by reason of his more intimate contact
with the normal truth of things. In life, for instance, the conflict of
will with will, the passionate crises of human existence are but rarely
concentrated into a brief space of time or culminate in a highly salient
situation. Long and wearing attrition, and crises that are seen to have
been such only in the retrospect of calmer years are the rule. In so
telling a bit of dramatic writing as the final scene in Augier's _Le
gendre de M. Poirier_ the material of life has been dissected into mere
shreds and these have been rewoven into a pattern as little akin to
reality as the flowers and birds of a Persian rug. Instead of such
effective rearrangement Hauptmann contents himself with the austere
simplicity of that succession of action which observation really affords.
He shapes his material as little as possible. The intrusion of a new
force into a given setting, as in _Lonely Lives_, is as violent an
interference with the sober course of things as he admits. From his
noblest successes, _The Weavers_, _Drayman Henschel_, _Michael Kramer_,
the artifice of complication is wholly absent.
It follows that his fables are simple and devoid of plot, that comedy and
tragedy must inhere in character and that conflict must grow from the
clash of character with environment or of character with character in its
totality. In other words: since the adventurous and unwonted are rigidly
excluded, dramatic complication can but rarely, with Hauptmann, proceed
from action. For the life of man is woven of "little, nameless,
unremembered acts" which possess no significance except as they
illustrate character and thus, link by link, forge that fate which is
identical with character. The constant and bitter conflict in the world
does not arise from pointed and opposed notions of honour and duty held
at some rare climacteric moment, but from the far more tragic grinding of
a hostile environment upon man or of the imprisonment of alien souls in
the cage of some social bondage.
These two motives, appearing sometimes singly, sometimes blended, are
fundamental to Hauptmann's work. In _The Reconciliation_ an unnatural
marriage has brought discord and depravity upon earth; in _Lonely Lives_
a seeker after truth is throttled by a murky world; in _The Weavers_ the
whole organization of society drives men to tragic despair; in _Colleague
Crampton_ a cold blooded woman all but destroys the gentle-hearted
painter; in _The Beaver Coat_ the motive is ironically inverted and a
base shrewdness triumphs over the stupid social machine; in _Rose Bernd_
traditional righteousness hounds a pure spirit out of life; and in
_Gabriel Schilling's Flight_, his latest play, Hauptmann returns to a
favourite motive: woman, strong through the narrowness and intensity of
her elemental aims, destroying man, the thinker and dreamer, whose will,
dissipated in a hundred ideal purposes, goes under in the unequal
struggle.
The fable and structure of _Michael Kramer_ illustrate Hauptmann's
typical themes and methods well. The whole of the first act is
exposition. It is not, however, the exposition of antecedent actions or
events, but wholly of character. The conditions of the play are entirely
static. Kramer's greatness of soul broods over the whole act. Mrs.
Kramer, the narrow-minded, nagging wife, and Arnold, the homely, wretched
boy with a spark of genius, quail under it. Michaline, the brave,
whole-hearted girl, stands among these, pitying and comprehending all. In
the second act one of Arnold's sordid and piteous mistakes comes to
light. An inn-keeper's daughter complains to Kramer of his son's
grotesque and annoyingly expressed passion for her. Kramer takes his son
to task and, in one of the noblest scenes in the modern drama, wrestles
with the boy's soul. In the third act the inn is shown. Its rowdy,
semi-educated habitués deride Arnold with coarse gibes. He cannot tear
himself away. Madly sensitive and conscious of his final superiority over
a world that crushes him by its merely brutal advantages, he is goaded to
self-destruction. In the last act, in the presence of his dead son,
Michael Kramer cries out after some reconciliation with the silent
universe. The play is done and nothing has happened. The only action is
Arnold's suicide and that action has no dramatic value. The significance
of the play lies in the unequal marriage between Kramer and his wife, in
Arnold's character--in the fact that such things _are_, and that in our
outlook upon the whole of life we must reckon with them.
Hauptmann's simple management of a pregnant fable may be admirably
observed, finally, by comparing _Lonely Lives_ and _Rosmersholm_.
Hauptmann was undoubtedly indebted to Ibsen for his problem and for the
main elements of the story: a modern thinker is overcome by the orthodox
and conservative world in which he lives. And that world conquers largely
because he cannot be united to the woman who is his inspiration and his
strength. In handling this fable two difficult questions were to be
answered by the craftsman: by what means does the hostile environment
crush the protagonist? Why cannot he take the saving hand that is held
out to him? Ibsen practically shirks the answer to the first question.
For it is not the bitter zealot Kroll, despite his newspaper war and his
scandal-mongering, who breaks Rosmer's strength. It is fate, fate in the
dark and ancient sense. "The dead cling to Rosmersholm"--that is the
keynote of the play. The answer to the second question is interwoven with
an attempt to rationalise the fatality that broods over Rosmersholm. The
dead cling to it because a subtle and nameless wrong has been committed
against them. And that sin has been committed by the woman who could save
Rosmer. At the end of the second act Rebecca refuses to be his wife. The
reason for that refusal, dimly prefigured, absorbs his thoughts, and
through two acts of consummate dramaturgic suspense the sombre history is
gradually unfolded. And no vague phrases concerning the ennobling of
humanity can conceal the central fact: the play derives its power from a
traditional plot and a conventional if sound motive--crime and its
discovery, sin and its retribution.
In _Lonely Lives_ the two questions apparently treated in _Rosmersholm_
are answered, not in the terms of effective dramaturgy, but of life
itself. Johannes Vockerat lives in the midst of the world that must undo
him--subtly irritated by all to which his heart clings. Out of that world
he has grown and he cannot liberate himself from it. His good wife and
his admirable parents are bound to the conventional in no base or
fanatical sense. He dare scarcely tell them that their preoccupations,
that their very love, slay the ideal in his soul. And so the pitiless
attrition goes on. There is no action: there is being. The struggle is
rooted in the deep divisions of men's souls, not in unwonted crime or
plotting. And Anna Mahr, the free woman of a freer world, parts from
Johannes because she recognises their human unfitness to take up the
burden of tragic sorrow which any union between them must create. The
time for such things has not come, and may never come. Thus Johannes is
left desolate, powerless to face the unendurable emptiness and decay that
lie before him, destroyed by the conflicting loyalties to personal and
ideal ends which are fundamental to the life of creative thought.
V
Drama, then, which relies so little upon external action, but finds
action rather in "every inner conflict of passions, every consequence
of diverging thoughts," must stress the obscurest expression of such
passions and such thoughts. Since its fables, furthermore, are to arise
from the immediate data of life, it must equally emphasise the
significant factor of those common things amid which man passes his
struggle. And so the naturalistic drama was forced to introduce elements
of narrative and exposition usually held alien to the _genre_. Briefly,
it has dealt largely and powerfully with atmosphere, environment and
gesture; it has expanded and refined the stage-direction beyond all
precedent and made of it an important element in dramatic art.
The playwrights of the middle of the last century who made an effort to
lead the drama back to reality, knew nothing of this element. Augier
does not even suspect its existence; in Robertson it is a matter of
"properties" and "business." Any appearance of this kind Hauptmann
avoids. The play is not to remind us of the stage, but of life. A
difference in vision and method difficult to estimate divides Robertson's
direction: "Sam. (astonished L. corner)" from Hauptmann's "Mrs. John
rises mechanically and cuts a slice from a loaf of bread, as though under
the influence of suggestion." Robertson indicates the conventionalised
gesture of life; Hauptmann its moral and spiritual density.
The descriptive stage direction, effectively used by Ibsen, is further
expanded by Hauptmann. But it remains impersonal and never becomes direct
comment or even argument as in Shaw. It is used not only to suggest the
scene but, above all, its atmosphere, its mood. Through it Hauptmann
shows his keen sense of the interaction of man and his world and of the
high moral expressiveness of common things. To define the mood more
clearly he indicates the hour and the weather. The action of _Rose Bernd_
opens on a bright Sunday morning in May, that of _Drayman Henschel_
during a bleak February dawn. The desperate souls in _The Reconciliation_
meet on a snow-swept Christmas Eve; the sun has just set over the lake in
which Johannes Vockerat finds final peace. In these indications Hauptmann
rarely aims at either irony or symbolism. He is guided by a sense for the
probabilities of life which he expresses through such interactions
between the moods of man and nature as experience seems to offer. Only in
_The Maidens of the Mount_ has the suave autumnal weather a deeper
meaning, for it was clearly Hauptmann's purpose in this play
"To build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea."
Hauptmann has also become increasingly exacting in demanding that the
actor simulate the personal appearance of his characters as they arose in
his imagination. In his earlier plays the descriptions of men and women
are at times brief; in _The Rats_ even minor figures are visualised with
remarkable completeness. Pastor Spitta, for instance, is thus introduced:
"Sixty years old. A village parson, somewhat 'countrified.' One might
equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. He
is of vigorous appearance--short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat,
broad face like Luther's. He wears a slouch hat, spectacles, and carries
a cane and a coat over his arm. His clumsy boots and the state of his
other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and
weather." Such directions obviously tax the mimetic art of the stage to
the very verge of its power. Thus, by the precision of his directions
both for the scenery and the persons of each play, and by unmistakable
indications of gesture and expression at all decisive moments of dramatic
action, Hauptmann has placed within narrow limits the activity of both
stage manager and actor. He alone is the creator of his drama, and no
alien factitiousness is allowed to obscure its final aim--the creation of
living men.
VI
In the third act of Hauptmann's latest naturalistic play, _The Rats_
(1911), the ex-stage manager Hassenrenter is drawn by his pupil, young
Spitta, into an argument on the nature of tragedy. "Of the heights of
humanity you know nothing," Hassenrenter hotly declares. "You asserted
the other day that in certain circumstances a barber or a scrubwoman
could as fitly be the subject of tragedy as Lady Macbeth or King Lear."
And Spitta reaffirms his heresy in the sentence: "Before art as before
the law all men are equal." From this doctrine Hauptmann has never
departed, although his interpretation of it has not been fanatical.
Throughout his work, however, there is a careful disregard of several
classes of his countrymen: the nobility, the bureaucracy (with the
notable exception of Wehrhahn in _The Beaver Coat_), the capitalists. He
has devoted himself in his prose plays to the life of the common people,
of the middle classes, and of creative thinkers.
The delineation of all these characters has two constant qualities:
objectivity and justice. The author has not merged the sharp outlines of
humanity into the background of his own idiosyncrasy. Ibsen's characters
speak and act as though they had suddenly stepped from another world and
were still haunted by a breath of their strange doom; the people of Shaw
are often eloquent exponents of a theory of character and society which
would never have entered their minds. Hauptmann's men and women are
themselves. No trick of speech, no lurking similarity of thought unites
them. The nearer any two of them tend to approach a recognisable type,
the more magnificently is the individuality of each vindicated. The
elderly middle-class woman, harassed by ignoble cares ignobly borne,
driven by a lack of fortitude into querulousness, and into injustice by
the selfishness of her affections, is illustrated both in Mrs. Scholz and
Mrs. Kramer. But, in the former, bodily suffering and nervous terror have
slackened the moral fibre, and this abnormality speaks in every word and
gesture. Mrs. Kramer is simply average, with the tenacity and the
corroding power of the average.
Another noteworthy group is that of the three Lutheran clergymen: Kolin
in _Lonely Lives_, Kittelhaus in _The Weavers_, and Spitta in _The Rats_.
Kolin has the utter sincerity which can afford to be trivial and not
cease to be lovable; Kittelhaus is the conscious time-server whose
opinions might be anything; Spitta struggles for his official
convictions, half blinded by the allurements of a world which it is his
duty to denounce. Each is wholly himself; no hint of critical irony
defaces his character; and thus each is able, implicitly, to put his case
with the power inherent in the genuinely and recognisably human. From the
same class of temperaments--one that he does not love--Hauptmann has had
the justice to draw two characters of basic importance in _Lonely Lives_.
The elder Vockerats are excessively limited in their outlook upon life.
It is, indeed, in its time and place, an impossible outlook. These two
people have nothing to recommend them save their goodness, but it is a
goodness so keenly felt, so radiantly human, that the conflict of the
play is deepened and complicated by the question whether the real tragedy
be not the pain felt by these kindly hearts, rather than the destruction
of their more arduous son.
All these may be said to be minor characters. Some of them are, in that
they scarcely affect the fable involved. But in no other sense are there
minor figures in Hauptmann's plays. A few lines suffice, and a human
being stands squarely upon the living earth, with all his mortal
perplexities in his words and voice. Such characters are the tutor
Weinhold in _The Weavers_, the painter Lachmann in _Michael Kramer_, Dr.
Boxer in _The Conflagration_ and Dr. Schimmelpfennig in _Before Dawn_.
In his artists and thinkers Hauptmann has illustrated the excessive
nervousness of the age. Michael Kramer rises above it; Johannes Vockerat
and Gabriel Schilling succumb. And beside these men there usually arises
the sharply realised figure of the destroying woman--innocent and
helpless in Käthe Vockerat, trivial and obtuse in Alwine Lachmann, or
impelled by a devouring sexual egotism in Eveline Schilling and Hanna
Elias.
Hauptmann's creative power culminates, however, as he approaches the
common folk. These are of two kinds: the Berlin populace and the Silesian
peasants. The world of the former in all its shrewdness, impudence and
varied lusts he has set down with quiet and cruel exactness in _The
Beaver Coat_ and _The Conflagration_. Mrs. Wolff, the protagonist of both
plays, rises into a figure of epic breadth--a sordid and finally almost
tragic embodiment of worldliness and cunning. When he approaches the
peasants of his own countryside his touch is less hard, his method not
quite so remorseless. And thus, perhaps, it comes about that in the face
of these characters the art of criticism can only set down a
confirmatory: "They are!" Old Deans in _The Heart of Midlothian_,
Tulliver and the Dodson sisters in _The Mill on the Floss_ illustrate the
nature of Hauptmann's incomparable projection of simple men and women.
Here, in Dryden's phrase, is God's plenty: the morose pathos of Beipst
(_Before Dawn_); the vanity and faithfulness of Friebe (_The
Reconciliation_); the sad fatalism of Hauffe (_Drayman Henschel_); the
instinctive kindliness of the nurse and the humorous fortitude of Mrs.
Lehmann (_Lonely Lives_); the vulgar good nature of Liese Bänsch
(_Michael Kramer_); the trivial despair of Pauline and the primitive
passion of Mrs. John (_The Rats_); the massive greatness of old Hilse's
rock-like patience and the sudden impassioned protest of Luise (_The
Weavers_); the deep trouble of Henschel's simple soul and the hunted
purity of Rose Bernd--these qualities and these characters transcend the
convincingness of mere art. Like the rain drenched mould, the black trees
against the sky, the noise of the earth's waters, they are among the
abiding elements of a native and familiar world.
VII
Such, then, is the naturalistic drama of Hauptmann. By employing the real
speech of man, by emphasising being rather than action, by creating the
very atmosphere and gesture of life, it succeeds in presenting characters
whose vital truth achieves the intellectual beauty and moral energy of
great art.
Early in his career, however, an older impulse stirred in Hauptmann. He
remembered that he was a poet. Pledged to naturalism by personal loyalty
and public combat he broke through its self-set limitations tentatively
and invented for that purpose the dream-technique of _The Assumption of
Hannele_(1893). Pure imagination was outlawed in those years and verse
was a pet aversion of the consistent naturalists. Hence both were
transferred to the world of dreams which has an unquestionable reality,
however subjective, but in which the will cannot govern the shaping
faculties of the soul. The letter of the naturalistic law was adhered to,
though Hannele's visions have a richness and sweetness, the verses of the
angels a winsomeness and majesty which transcend any possible dream of
the poor peasant child, The external encouragement which the attempt met
was great, for with it Hauptmann conquered the Royal Playhouse in Berlin.
Three years later he openly vindicated the possibility of the modern
poetic drama by writing _The Sunken Bell_, his most far-reaching success
both on the stage and in the study. In it appears for the first time the
disciplinary effect of naturalism upon literature in its loftiest mood.
The blank verse is the best in the German drama, the only German blank
verse, in truth, that satisfies an ear trained on the graver and more
flexible harmony of English; the lyrical portions are of sufficient if
inferior beauty. But there is no trace of the pseudo-heroic psychology of
the romantic play. The interpretation of life is thoroughly poetic, but
it is based on fact. The characters have tangible reality; they have the
idiosyncrasies of men. The pastor is profoundly true, and so is Magda,
though the interpretative power of poetry raises both into the realm of
the enduringly significant. Similarly Heinrich is himself, but also the
creative worker of all time. Driven by his ideal from the warm
hearthstones of men, he falters upon that frosty height: seeking to
realise impersonal aims and rising to a hardy rapture, he is broken in
strength at last by the "still, sad music of humanity."
Except for the half humorous and not wholly successful interlude of
_Schluck and Jau_, Hauptmann neglected the poetic drama until 1902, when
he presented on the boards of the famous _Burgtheater_ at Vienna, _Henry
of Aue_. There is little doubt but that this play will ultimately rank as
the most satisfying poetic drama of its time. Less derivative and
uncertain in quality than the plays of Stephen Phillips, less fantastic
and externally brilliant than those of Rostand, it has a soundness of
subject matter, a serene nobility of mood, a solidity of verse technique
above the reach of either the French or the English poet. Hauptmann chose
as his subject the legend known for nearly seven hundred years through
the beautiful Middle High German poem of Hartmann von der Aue--the legend
of that great knight and lord who was smitten with leprosy, and whom,
according to the mediaeval belief, a pure maiden desired to heal through
the shedding of her blood. But God, before the sacrifice could be
consummated, cleansed the knight's body and permitted to him and the
maiden a united temporal happiness. This story Hauptmann takes exactly as
he finds it. But the characters are made to live with a new life. The
stark mediaeval conventions are broken and the old legend becomes living
truth. The maiden is changed from an infant saint fleeing a vale of tears
into a girl in whom the first sweet passions of life blend into an
exaltation half sexual and half religious, but pure with the purity of a
great flame. The miracle too remains, but it is the miracle of love that
subdues the despairing heart, that reconciles man to his universe, and
that slays the imperiousness of self. Thus Henry, firmly individualised
as he is, becomes in some sense, like all the greater protagonists of the
drama, the spirit of man confronting eternal and recurrent problems. The
minor figures--Gottfried, Brigitte, Ottacker--have the homely and
delightful truth that is the gift of naturalism to modern, literature.
Hauptman's next play was a naturalistic tragedy, one of the best in that
order, _Rose Bernd._ Then followed, from 1905 to 1910, a series of plays
in which he let the creative imagination range over time and space. In
_Elga_ he tells the story of an old sorrow by means of the dream-technique
of _Hannele;_ in _And Pippa Dances,_ he lets the flame of life and love
flicker its iridescent glory before man and super-man, savage and artist;
in _The Maidens of the Mount_ he celebrates the dream of life which is
life's dearest part; in _Charlemagne's Hostage_ and in _Griselda_ he
returns to the interpretation and humanising of history and legend.
The last of these plays is the most characteristic and important. It
takes up the old story of patient Grizzel which the Clerk of Oxford told
Chaucer's pilgrims on the way to Canterbury. But a new motive animates
the fable. Not to try her patience, not to edify womankind, does the
count rob Griselda of her child. His burning and exclusive love is
jealous of the pangs and triumphs of her motherhood in which he has no
share. It is passion desiring the utter absorption of its object that
gives rise to the tragic element of the story. But over the whole drama
there plays a blithe and living air in which, once more, authentic human
beings are seen with their smiling or earnest faces.
A stern and militant naturalistic drama, _The Rats_ (1911), and yet
another play of the undoing of the artist through the woman, _Gabriel
Schilling's Flight_ (1912), close, for the present, the tale of
Hauptmann's dramatic works.
VIII
These works, viewed in their totality, take on a higher significance than
resides in the literary power of any one of them. Hauptmann's career
began in the years when the natural sciences, not content with their
proper triumphs, threatened to engulf art, philosophy and religion; in
the years when a keen and tender social consciousness, brooding over the
temporal welfare of man, lost sight of his eternal good. And so Hauptmann
begins by illustrating the laws of heredity and pleading, through a
creative medium, for social justice. The tacit assumptions of these early
plays are stringently positivistic: body and soul are the obverse and
reverse of a single substance; earth is the boundary of man's hopes.
With _The Assumption of Hannele_ a change comes over the spirit of his
work. A thin, faint voice vibrates in that play--the voice of a soul
yearning for a warmer ideal. But the rigorous teachers of Hauptmann's
youth had graven their influence upon him, and the new faith announced by
Heinrich in _The Sunken Bell_ is still a kind of scientific paganism. In
_Michael Kramer_ (1900), however, he has definitely conquered the
positivistic denial of the overwhelming reality of the ultimate problems.
For it is after some solution of these that the great heart of Kramer
cries out. In _Henry of Aue_ the universe, no longer a harsh and
monstrous mechanism, irradiates the human soul with the spirit of its own
divinity. These utterances are, to be sure, dramatic and objective. But
the author chooses his subject, determines the spirit of its treatment
and thus speaks unmistakably.
Nor is directer utterance lacking, "The Green Gleam," Hauptmann writes in
the delicately modelled prose of his _Griechischer Frühling_, "the Green
Gleam, which mariners assert to have witnessed at times, appears at the
last moment before the sun dips below the horizon.... The ancients must
have known the Green Gleam.... I do not know whether that be true, but I
feel a longing within me to behold it. I can imagine some Pure Fool,
whose life consisted but in seeking it over lands and seas, in order to
perish at last in the radiance of that strange and splendid light. Are we
not all, perhaps, upon a similar quest? Are we not beings who have
exhausted the realm of the senses and are athirst for other delights for
both our senses and our souls?" The author of _Before Dawn_ has gone a
long journey in the land of the spirit to the writing of these words, and
of still others in _Gabriel Schilling's Flight_: "Behind this visible
world another is hidden, so near at times that one might knock at its
gate...." But it is the journey which man himself has gone upon during
the intervening years.
Thus Hauptmann's work has not only created a new technique of the drama;
it has not only added unforgettable figures to the world of the
imagination: it has also mirrored and interpreted the intellectual
history of its time. His art sums up an epoch--an epoch full of knowledge
and the restraints of knowledge, still prone, so often, before the
mechanical in life and thought; but throughout all its immedicable
scepticism full of strange yearnings and visited by flickering dreams;
and even in its darkest years and days still stretching out hands in love
of a farther shore. Once more the great artist, his vision fixed
primarily upon his art, has most powerfully interpreted man to his own
mind.
LUDWIG LEWISOHN.
BEFORE DAWN
_The first performance of this drama took place on October 20 in the
Lessing Theatre under the management of the Free Stage society. I
take the occasion of the appearance of a new edition to express my
hearty thanks to the directors of that society and, more especially,
to Messrs. Otto Brahm and Paul Schlenther. May the future prove that,
by defying petty considerations and by helping to give life to a work
that had its origin in pure motives, they have deserved well of
German art.
GERHART HAUPTMANN
Charlottenburg, October 20, 1889_
_ACTING CHARACTERS_
KRAUSE, _Farmer._
MRS. KRAUSE, _his second wife._
HELEN, MARTHA, _KRAUSE'S daughters by his first marriage._
HOFFMANN, _Engineer, MARTHA'S husband._
WILHELM KAHL, _MRS. KRAUSE'S nephew._
MRS. SPILLER, _MRS. KRAUSE'S companion._
ALFRED LOTH.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG.
BEIPST, _Workingman on KRAUSE'S farm._
GUSTE, LIESE, MARIE _Maid-servants on KRAUSE'S farm._
BAER, _called "Hopping Baer."_
EDWARD, _HOFFMANN'S servant._
MIELE, _MRS. KRAUSE'S housemaid._
THE COACHMAN'S WIFE.
GOLISCH, _a Cowherd._
A PACKET POST CARRIER.
THE FIRST ACT
_The room is low: the floor is covered with excellent rugs. Modern
luxury seems grafted upon the bareness of the peasant. On the wall,
behind the dining-table, hangs a picture which represents a waggon
with four horses driven by a carter in a blue blouse._
_MIELE, a vigorous peasant girl with a red, rather slow-witted face,
opens the middle door and permits ALFRED LOTH to enter. LOTH is of
middle height, broad-shouldered, thick-set, decided but somewhat
awkward in his movements. His hair is blond, his eyes blue, his small
moustache thin and very light; his whole face is bony and has an
equably serious expression. His clothes are neat but nothing less
than fashionable: light summer overcoat, a wallet hanging from the
shoulder; cane._
MIELE
Come in, please. I'll call Mr. Hoffmann right off. Won't you take a seat?
[_The glass-door that leads to the conservatory is violently thrust
open, and a peasant woman, her face bluish red with rage, bursts in.
She is not much better dressed than a washerwoman: naked, red arms,
blue cotton-skirt and bodice, red dotted kerchief. She is in the
early forties; her face is hard, sensual, malignant. The whole figure
is, otherwise, well preserved._
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Screams._] The hussies!... That's right!... The vicious critters!...
Out with you! We don't give nothin'!... [_Half to MIELE, half to LOTH._]
He can work, he's got arms. Get out! You don't get nothin' here!
LOTH
But Mrs.... Surely you will ... my name is Loth ... I am ... I'd like to
... I haven't the slightest in....
MIELE
He wants to speak to Mr. Hoffmann.
MRS. KRAUSE
Oho! beggin' from my son-in-law. We know that kind o' thing! He ain't got
nothin'; everything he's got he gets from us. Nothin' is his'n.
[_The door to the right is opened and HOFFMANN thrusts his head in._
HOFFMANN
Mother, I must really beg of you! [_He enters and turns to LOTH._] What
can I ... Alfred! Old man! Well, I'll be blessed. You? That certainly is
... well, that certainly is a great notion!
[_HOFFMANN is thirty-three years old, slender, tall, thin. In his
dress he affects the latest fashion, his hair is carefully tended; he
wears costly rings, diamond-studs in his shirt-front and charms on
his watch chain. His hair and moustache are black; the latter is
luxurious and is most scrupulously cared for. His face is pointed,
bird-like, the expression blurred, the eyes dark, lively, at times
restless._
LOTH
It's by the merest accident, you know ...
HOFFMANN
[_Excited._] Nothing pleasanter could have ... Do take your things off,
first of all! [_He tries to help him off with his wallet._]--Nothing
pleasanter or more unexpected could possibly--[_he has relieved LOTH of
his hat and cane and places both on a chair near the door_]--could
possibly have happened to me just now--[_coming back_]--no, decidedly,
nothing.
LOTH
[_Taking off his wallet himself._] It's by the merest chance that I've
come upon you.
[_He places his wallet on the table in the foreground._
HOFFMANN
Sit down. You must be tired. Do sit down--please! D'you remember when you
used to come to see me you had a way of throwing yourself full-length on
the sofa so that the springs groaned. Sometimes they broke, too. Very
well, then, old fellow. Do as you used to do.
[_MRS. KRAUSE'S face has taken on an expression of great
astonishment. She has withdrawn. LOTH sits down on one of the chairs
that stand around the table in the foreground._
HOFFMANN
Won't you drink something? Whatever you say? Beer? Wine? Brandy? Coffee?
Tea? Everything's in the house.
[_HELEN comes reading from the conservatory. Her tall form, somewhat
too plump, the arrangement of her blond, unusually luxuriant hair,
the expression of her face, her modern gown, her gestures--in brief,
her whole appearance cannot quite hide the peasant's daughter._
HELEN
Brother, you might.... [_She discovers LOTH and withdraws quickly._] Oh,
I beg pardon.
[_Exit._
HOFFMANN
Stay here, do!
LOTH
Your wife?
HOFFMANN
No; her sister. Didn't you hear how she addressed me?
LOTH
No.
HOFFMANN
Good-looking, eh? But now, come on. Make up your mind. Coffee? Tea? Grog?
LOTH
No, nothing, thank you.
HOFFMANN
[_Offers him cigars._] Here's something for you then. No!... Not even
that?
LOTH
No, thank you.
HOFFMANN
Enviable frugality! [_He lights a cigar for himself and speaks the
while._] The ashes ... I meant to say, tobacco ... h-m ... smoke of
course ... doesn't bother you, does it?
LOTH
No.
HOFFMANN
Ah, if I didn't get that much ... Good Lord, life anyhow!--But now, do me
a favour; tell me something. Ten years--you've hardly changed much,
though--ten years, a nasty slice of time. How's Schn ... Schnurz? That's
what we called him, eh? And Fips, and the whole jolly bunch of those
days? Haven't you been able to keep your eye on any of them?
LOTH
Look here, is it possible you don't know?
HOFFMANN
What?
LOTH
That he shot himself.
HOFFMANN
Who? Who's done that sort o' thing again?
LOTH
Fips. Friedrich Hildebrandt.
HOFFMANN
Oh come, that's impossible.
LOTH
It's a fact. Shot himself in the Grunewald, on a very beautiful spot on
the shore of the Havelsee. I was there. You have a view toward Spandau.
HOFFMANN
Hm. Wouldn't have believed it of him. He wasn't much of a hero in other
ways.
LOTH
That's the very reason why he shot himself.--He was conscientious, very
conscientious.
HOFFMANN
Conscientious? I don't see.
LOTH
That was the very reason ... otherwise he would probably not have done
it.
HOFFMANN
I'm still in the dark.
LOTH
Well, you know what the colour of his political views was?
HOFFMANN
Oh, yes--green.
LOTH
Put it so, if you want to. You'll have to admit, at all events, that he
was a very gifted fellow. And yet for five years he had to work as a
stucco-worker, and for another five years he had to starve along, so to
speak, on his own hook, and in addition he modelled his little statues.
HOFFMANN
And they were revolting. I want to be cheered by art ... No, that kind of
art wasn't a bit to my taste.
LOTH
Not exactly to mine either. Certain ideas had bitten themselves into his
mind. However, last spring there was a competition for a monument. Some
two-penny princeling was to be immortalised, I believe. Fips competed
and--won. Shortly afterward, he killed himself.
HOFFMANN
I don't see that that throws any ray of light on his so-called
conscientiousness. I call that sort of thing silly and highfalutin.
LOTH
That is the common view.
HOFFMANN
I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I can't help sharing it.
LOTH
Well, it can make no difference to him now, what....
HOFFMANN
Oh, anyhow, let's drop the subject. At bottom I'm just as sorry for him
as you can be. But now that he is dead, the good fellow, tell me
something of yourself. What have you been doing? How has the world used
you?
LOTH
It has used me as it was my business to expect. Didn't you hear anything
about me at all? From the papers, I mean?
HOFFMANN
[_Somewhat embarrassed._] Not that I know of.
LOTH
Nothing of that business at Leipzig?
HOFFMANN
Ah, yes, that! Yes, yes ... I believe so ... but nothing definite.
LOTH
Well, then, the matter was as follows--
HOFFMANN
[_Laying his hand on LOTH'S arm._] Before you begin, won't you take
anything at all?
LOTH
Perhaps later.
HOFFMANN
Not even a little glass of brandy?
LOTH
No; that least of all.
HOFFMANN
Well, then I'll take a little ... There's nothing better for the stomach.
[_He gets a bottle and two little glasses from the sideboard and places
them on the table before LOTH._] Grand champagne, finest brand. I can
recommend it. Won't you really?
LOTH
No, thank you.
HOFFMANN
[_Tilting the contents of the glass into his mouth._] Ah-h--well, now I'm
all ears.
LOTH
To put it briefly, I got into a nasty mess.
HOFFMANN
The sentence was two years, wasn't it?
LOTH
Quite right. You seem to be informed after all. Yes, I was sentenced to
two years' imprisonment, and afterwards they expelled me from the
university too. And at that time I was just--twenty-one. However, during
those two years I wrote my first book on economics. In spite of that I
couldn't truthfully say that it was very good fun to be behind the bars.
HOFFMANN
Lord, what idiots we were! It's queer. And we had really taken the thing
into our heads in good earnest. I can't help thinking, old man, that it
was sheer puerility. The idea! A dozen green kids like ourselves to go to
America and found ... _we_ found ... a model state. Delicious notion!
LOTH
Puerility? Ah well, in some ways no doubt it was. We certainly
underestimated the difficulty of such an undertaking.
HOFFMANN
And that you really did go to America, in all seriousness, and with empty
hands ... Why, think, man, what it means to acquire land and foundation
for a model state with empty hands. That was almost cr ... At all events
it was unique in its naïveté.
LOTH
And yet I'm particularly satisfied with the result of my American trip.
HOFFMANN
[_Laughing with a touch of boisterousness._] Cold water treatment. That
was an excellent result, if that's what you mean....
LOTH
It may well be that I cooled down quite a little. But that process is
hardly peculiar to myself. It is one which every human being undergoes.
But it's a far cry from that to failing to realise the value of those ...
well, let's call them, our hotheaded days. And it wasn't so frightfully
simple-minded, as you represent it.
HOFFMANN
Well, I don't know about that.
LOTH
All you have to do is to think of the average silliness that surrounded
us in those days: the fraternity goings on at the universities, the
swilling, the duelling. And what was all the noise about? It was about
Hecuba, as Fips used to say. Well, we at least, didn't make a fuss about
Hecuba; we had our attention, fixed on the highest aims of humanity. And,
in addition to that, those silly times cleared me thoroughly of all
prejudices. I took my leave of sham religion and sham morality and a good
deal else....
HOFFMANN
I'm perfectly prepared to admit that much. If, when all's said and done,
I am an open-minded, enlightened man to-day, I owe it, as I wouldn't
dream of denying, to the days of our intercourse! I am the last man to
deny that. In fact I'm not in _any_ respect a monster. Only you mustn't
try to run your head through a stone wall.--You mustn't try to force out
the evils under which, more's the pity, the present generation suffers,
only to replace them by worse ones. What you've got to do is--to let
things take their natural course. What is to be, will be! You've got to
proceed practically, practically! And you will recall that I emphasised
that just as much in those days as now. And that principle has paid. And
that's just it. All of you, yourself included, proceed in a most
unpractical way.
LOTH
I wish you'd explain just how you mean that.
HOFFMANN
It's as simple as ... You don't make use of your capabilities. Take
yourself, for instance: a fellow with your knowledge, energy and what
not! What road would have been closed to you? Instead of going ahead,
what is it you do? You _compromise_ yourself, at the very start, to
_such_ a degree, that ... well, honestly, old man, didn't you regret it
once in a while?
LOTH
I can't very well regret the fact that I was condemned innocently.
HOFFMANN
As to that, of course, I can't judge.
LOTH
You will be able to do so at once when I tell you that the indictment
declared that I had called our club, "Vancouver Island," into being
purely for purposes of party agitation. In addition I was said to have
collected funds for party purposes. Now you know very well that we were
thoroughly in earnest in regard to our ambitions of founding a colony.
And, as far as collecting money goes--you have said yourself that we were
all empty-handed together. The indictment was a misrepresentation from
beginning to end, and, as a former member, you ought to....
HOFFMANN
Hold on, now. I wasn't really a member. As to the rest, of course, I
believe you. Judges are, after all, only human. You must consider that.
In any event, to proceed quite practically, you should have avoided the
very _appearance_ of that sort of thing. Take it all in all: I have
wondered at you often enough since then--editor of the _Workingmen's
Tribune_, the obscurest of hole and corner sheets--parliamentary
candidate of the dear mob! And what did you get out of it all? Don't
misunderstand me! I am the last man to be lacking in sympathy with the
common people. But _if_ something is to be effected, it must be effected
from above. In fact that's the only way in which anything can be done.
The people never know what they really need. It's this trying to lift
things from beneath that I call--running your head through a stone wall.
LOTH
I'm afraid I don't get a very clear notion of your drift.
HOFFMANN
What I mean? Well now, look at me! My hands are free: I am in a position
to do something for an ideal end.--I think I can say that the practical
part of my programme has been pretty well carried out. And all you
fellows, always with empty hands--what can you do?
LOTH
True. From what one hears you are in a fair way to become a Rothschild.
HOFFMANN
[_Flattered._] You do me too much honour--at least, for the present. Who
said that, anyhow? A man sticks to a good thing, and that, naturally,
brings its reward. But who was it said that?
LOTH
It was over there in Jauer. Two gentlemen were conversing at the next
table.
HOFFMANN
Aha! H-m. I have enemies. And what did they have to say?
LOTH
Nothing of importance. But I heard from them that you had retired for the
present to the estate of your parents-in-law.
HOFFMANN
People have a way of finding things out; haven't they? My dear friend,
you'd never believe how a man in my position is spied on at every step.
That's another one of the evils of wealth ... But it is this way, you
see: I'm expecting the confinement of my wife in the quiet and the
healthy air here.
LOTH
What do you do for a physician? Surely in such cases a good physician is
of the highest importance. And here, in this village....
HOFFMANN
Ah, but that's just it! The physician here is an unusually capable one.
And, do you know, I've found this out: in a doctor, conscientiousness
counts for more than genius.
LOTH
Perhaps it is an essential concomitant of a physician's genius.
HOFFMANN
Maybe so. Anyhow, our doctor _has_ a conscience. He's a bit of an
idealist--more or less our kind. His success among the miners and the
peasants is simply phenomenal! Sometimes, I must say, he isn't an easy
man to bear, he's got a mixture of hardness and sentimentality. But, as I
said before, I know how to value conscientiousness; no doubt about that.
But before I forget ... I do attach some importance to it ... a man ought
to know what he has to look out for ... Listen!... Tell me ... I see it
in your face. Those gentlemen at the next table had nothing good to say
of me? Tell me, please, what they did say.
LOTH
I really ought not to do that, for I was going to beg one hundred crowns
of you, literally beg, for there is hardly any chance of my ever being
able to return them.
HOFFMANN
[_Draws a cheque-book from his inner pocket, makes out a cheque and hands
it to LOTH._] Any branch of the Imperial Bank will cash it ... It's
simply a pleasure....
LOTH
Your promptness surpasses all expectation. Well, I accept it with,
gratitude, and you know--it could be worse spent.
HOFFMANN
[_Somewhat rhetorically._] A labourer is worthy of his hire. But now,
Loth, have the goodness to tell me what the gentlemen in question....
LOTH
I dare say they talked nonsense.
HOFFMANN
Tell me in spite of that, please. I'm simply interested, quite simply
interested--that's all.
LOTH
They discussed the fact that you had violently forced another man out of
his position here--a contractor named Mueller.
HOFFMANN
_Of_ course! The same old story.
LOTH
The man, they said, was betrothed to your present wife.
HOFFMANN
So he was. And what else?
LOTH
I tell you these things just as I heard them, for I assume that it is of
some importance to you to be acquainted with the exact nature of the
slander.
HOFFMANN
Quite right. And so?
LOTH
So far as I could make out this Mueller was said to have had the contract
for the construction of a stretch of mountain railroad here.
HOFFMANN
Yes, with a wretched capital of ten thousand crowns. When he came to see
that the money wouldn't go far enough, he was in haste to make a catch of
one of the Witzdorf farmers' daughters; the honour was to have fallen to
my wife.
LOTH
They said that he had his arrangement with the daughter, and you had made
yours with the father.--Next he shot himself, didn't he?--And you
finished the construction of his section of the road and made a great
deal of money out of it?
HOFFMANN
There's an element of truth in all that. Of course, I could give you a
very different notion of how those things hung together. Perhaps they
knew a few more of these edifying anecdotes.
LOTH
There was one thing, I am bound to tell you, that seemed to excite them
particularly: they computed what an enormous business you were doing in
coal now, and they called you--well, it wasn't exactly flattering. In
short they asserted that you had persuaded the stupid farmers of the
neighbourhood, over some champagne, to sign a contract by which the
exploitation of all the coal mined on their property was turned over to
you at a ridiculously small rental.
HOFFMANN
[_Touched on the raw, gets up._] I'll tell you something, Loth ... Pshaw,
why concern oneself with it at all. I vote that we think of supper. I'm
savagely hungry--yes, quite savagely.
[_He presses the button of an electric connection, the wire of which
hangs down over the sofa in the form of a green cord. The ringing of
an electric bell is heard._
LOTH
Well, if you want to keep me here, then have the kindness ... I'd like to
brush up a bit first.
HOFFMANN
In a moment--everything that's necessary ... [_EDWARD, a servant in
livery, enters._] Edward, take this gentleman to the guest chamber.
EDWARD
Very, well, sir.
HOFFMANN
[_Pressing LOTH'S hand._] I wonder if you'd mind coming down to supper in
about fifteen minutes--at most.
LOTH
That's ample time. See you later.
HOFFMANN
Yes, see you later.
[_EDWARD opens the door and lets LOTH precede him. Both go out.
HOFFMANN scratches the back of his head, looks thoughtfully at the
floor and then approaches the door at the right. He has just touched
the knob when HELEN, who has entered hastily by the glass door, calls
to him._
HELEN
Brother! Who was that?
HOFFMANN
That was one of my college chums, in fact, the oldest of them, Alfred
Loth.
HELEN
[_Quickly._] Has he gone again?
HOFFMANN
No; he's going to eat supper with us. Possibly ... yes, possibly he may
spend the night here.
HELEN
Heavens! Then I shan't come to supper.
HOFFMANN
But Helen!
HELEN
What is the use of my meeting cultivated people! I might just as well get
as boorish as all the rest here!
HOFFMANN
Oh, these eternal fancies! In fact you will do me a real favour if you
will order the arrangements for supper. Be so kind. I'd like to have
things a bit festive, because I believe that he has something up his
sleeve.
HELEN
What do you mean by that: has something up his sleeve?
HOFFMANN
Mole's work ... digging, digging.--You can't possibly understand that.
Anyhow, I may be mistaken, for I've avoided touching on that subject so
far. At all events, have everything as inviting as possible. That's the
easiest way, after all, of accomplishing something with people ...
Champagne, of course. Have the lobsters come from Hamburg?
HELEN
I believe they came this morning.
HOFFMANN
Very well. Then--lobsters! [_A violent knocking is heard._] Come in!
PARCEL POST CARRIER
[_Enters with a box under his arm. His voice has a sing-song
inflection._] A box.
HELEN
Where from?
PARCEL POST CARRIER
Ber-lin.
HOFFMANN
Quite right. No doubt the baby's outfit from Hertzog. [_He looks at the
package and takes the bill._] Yes, these are the things from Hertzog.
HELEN
This whole box full. Oh, that's overdoing!
_HOFFMANN pays the carrier._
PARCEL POST CARRIER
[_Still in his sing-song._] I wish you a good evening.
[_Exit._
HOFFMANN
Why is that overdoing?
HELEN
Why, because there's enough here to fit out at least three babies.
HOFFMANN
Did you take a walk with my wife?
HELEN
What am I to do if she's so easily tired?
HOFFMANN
Nonsense! Easily tired! She makes me utterly wretched! An hour and a half
... I wish, for goodness' sake, she would do as the doctor orders. What
is the use of having a doctor, if....
HELEN
Then put your foot down and get rid of that Spiller woman! What am I to
do against an old creature like that who always confirms her in her own
notions!
HOFFMANN
But what can I do--a man--a mere man? And, furthermore, you know my
mother-in-law! Don't you?
HELEN
[_Bitterly._] I do.
HOFFMANN
Where is she now?
HELEN
Spiller has been getting her up in grand style ever since Mr. Loth came.
She will probably go through one of her performances at supper.
HOFFMANN
[_Once more absorbed in his own thoughts and pacing the room,
violently._] This is the last time, I give you my word, that I'm going to
await such things in this house--the last time, so help me!
HELEN
Yes, you're lucky. You can go where you please.
HOFFMANN
In my house the wretched relapse into that frightful vice would most
certainly not have occurred.
HELEN
Don't make me responsible for it. She did not get the brandy from me! Get
rid of the Spiller woman, I tell you. Oh, if only I were a man!
HOFFMANN
[_Sighing._] Oh, if only it were over and done with!--[_Speaking from the
door to the right._] Anyhow, sister, do me the favour and have the
supper-table really appetising. I'll just attend to a little matter
meanwhile.
HELEN
[_Rings the electric bell. MIELE enters._] Miele, set the table, and tell
Edward to put champagne on ice and open four dozen oysters.
MIELE
[_With sullen impudence._] You c'n tell him yer-self. He don't take
orders from me. He's always sayin' he was hired by Mr. Hoffmann.
HELEN
Then, at least, send him in to me.
[_MIELE goes. HELEN steps in front of the mirror and adjusts various
details in her toilet. In the meantime EDWARD enters._
HELEN
[_Still before the mirror._] Edward, put champagne on ice and open
oysters. Mr. Hoffmann wishes it.
EDWARD
Very well, Miss.
[_As EDWARD leaves, a knocking is heard at the middle door._
HELEN
[_Startled._] Dear me! [_Timidly._] Come in! [_Louder and more firmly._]
Come in!
LOTH
[_Enters without bowing._] Ah, I beg pardon. I didn't mean to intrude. My
name is Loth.
_HELEN bows. Her gesture smacks of the dancing school._
HOFFMANN
[_His voice is heard through the closed door._] My dear people: don't be
formal! I'll be with you in a moment. Loth, my sister-in-law, Helen
Krause! And, sister, my friend, Alfred Loth! Please consider yourselves
introduced.
HELEN
Oh, what a way of....
LOTH
I don't take it ill of him. As I have often been told, I am myself more
than half a barbarian when correct manners are concerned. But if I
intruded upon you, I....
HELEN
Not in the least; oh, not in the least, believe me. [_A pause of
constraint._] Indeed, indeed, it is most kind of you to have looked up my
brother-in-law. He often complains that ... rather, regrets that the
friends of his youth have forgotten him so entirely.
LOTH
Yes, it just happened so this time. I've always been in Berlin and
thereabouts and had no idea what had become of Hoffmann. I haven't been
back in Silesia since my student days at Breslau.
HELEN
And so you came upon him quite by chance.
LOTH
Yes, quite--and, what is more, in the very spot where I've got to pursue
my investigations.
HELEN
Investigations in Witzdorf! In this wretched little hole. Ah, you're
jesting. It isn't possible.
LOTH
You say: wretched? Yet there is a very unusual degree of wealth here.
HELEN
Oh, of course, in that respect....
LOTH
I've been continually astonished. I can assure you that such farms are
not to be found elsewhere; they seem literally steeped in abundance.
HELEN
You are quite right. There's more than one stable here in which the cows
and horses feed from marble mangers and racks of German silver! It is all
due to the coal which was found under our fields and which turned the
poor peasants rich almost in the twinkling of an eye. [_She points to the
picture in the background._] Do you see--my grandfather was a freight
carter. The little property here belonged to him, but he could not get a
living out of his bit of soil and so he had to haul freight. That's a
picture of him in his blue blouse; they still wore blouses like that in
those days. My father, when he was young, wore one too.--No! When I said
"wretched" I didn't mean that. Only it's so desolate here. There's
nothing, nothing for the mind. Life is empty ... it's enough to kill one.
_MIELE and EDWARD pass to and fro, busy laying the table to the right
in the background._
LOTH
Aren't there balls or parties once in a while?
HELEN
Not even that! The farmers gamble, hunt, drink ... What is there to be
seen all the long day? [_She has approached the window and points out._]
_Such_ figures, mainly.
LOTH
H-m! Miners.
HELEN
Some are going to the mine, some are coming from the mine: all day, all
day ... At least, I seem always to see them. Do you suppose I even care
to go into the street alone? At most I slip through the back gate out
into the fields. And they are such a rough set! The way they stare at
one--so menacing and morose as if one were actually guilty of some crime.
Sometimes, in winter, when we go sleighing, they come in the darkness, in
great gangs, over the hills, through the storm, and, instead of making
way, they walk stubbornly in front of the horses. Then, sometimes the
farmers use the handles of their whips; it's the only way they can get
through. And then the miners curse behind us. Ugh! I've been so terribly
frightened sometimes!
LOTH
And isn't it strange that I have come here for the sake of these very
people of whom you are so much afraid.
HELEN
Oh, surely not....
LOTH
Quite seriously. These people interest me more than any one else here.
HELEN
No one excepted?
LOTH
No one.
HELEN
Not even my brother-in-law?
LOTH
No! For my interest in these people is different and of an altogether
higher nature. But you must forgive me ... You can't be expected to
follow me there.
HELEN
And why not? Indeed, I understand you very well ... [_She drops a letter
inadvertently which LOTH stoops to pick up._] Don't bother ... it's of no
importance; only an indifferent boarding-school correspondence.
LOTH
So you went to boarding-school?
HELEN
Yes, in Herrnhut. You mustn't think that I'm so wholly ... No, no, I do
understand.
LOTH
You see, these workingmen interest me for their own sake.
HELEN
To be sure. And a miner like that is very interesting, if you look upon
him in that way. Why, there are places where you never see one; but If
you have them daily before your eyes ...
LOTH
Even if you have them daily before your eyes, Miss Krause. Indeed. I
think that is necessary if one is to discover what is truly interesting
about them.
HELEN
Dear me! If it's so hard to discover--I mean what is interesting about
them!
LOTH
Well; it is interesting, for instance that these people, as you say,
always look so menacing and so morose.
HELEN
Why do you think that _that_ is particularly interesting?
LOTH
Because it is not the usual thing. The rest of us look that way only
sometimes and by no means always.
HELEN
Yes, but why do they always look so ... so full of hatred and so surly?
There must be some reason for that.
LOTH
Just so. And it is this very reason that I am anxious to discover.
HELEN
Oh, don't!... Now you're making fun of me! What good would it do you,
even if you knew that?
LOTH
One might perhaps find ways and means to remove the cause that makes
these people so joyless and so full of hatred; one might perhaps make
them happier.
HELEN
[_Slightly confused._] I must confess freely that now ... And yet perhaps
just now I begin to understand you a little. Only it is so strange, so
new, so utterly new ...
HOFFMANN
[_Entering through the door at the right. He has a number of letters in
his hand._] Well, here I am again.--Edward, see to it that these letters
reach the post-office before eight o'clock. [_He hands the letters to the
servant, who withdraws._] Well, dear people, now we can eat! Outrageously
hot here! September and such heat! [_He lifts a bottle of champagne from
the cooler. _] Veuve Cliquot! Edward knows my secret passions! [_He turns
to LOTH._] You've had quite a lively argument, eh? [_Approaches the
table, which has now been laid and which groans under delicacies. Rubbing
his hands._] Well, that looks very good indeed! [_With a sly look in
LOTH'S direction._] Don't you think it does?--By the way, sister! We're
going to have company: William Kahl. He has been seen in the yard.
_HELEN makes a gesture of disgust._
HOFFMANN
My dear girl! You almost act as if I ... How can I help it? D'you suppose
I invited him? [_Heavy steps are heard in the outer hall._] Ah!
"Misfortune strides apace!"
_KAHL enters without having first knocked. He is twenty-four years
old: a clumsy peasant who is evidently concerned, so far as possible,
to make a show not only as a refined but, more especially, as a
wealthy man. His features are coarse; his predominant expression is
one of stupid cunning. He wears a green jacket, a gay velvet
waist-coat, dark trousers and patent-leather top-boots. His
head-covering is a green forester's hat with a cock's feather. His
jacket has buttons of stag's horn and stag's teeth depend from his
watch-chain. He stammers._
KAHL
G-good evening everybody!
[_He sees LOTH, is much embarrassed and, standing still, cuts a
rather sorry figure._
HOFFMANN
[_Steps up to him and shakes hands with him encouragingly._] Good
evening, Mr. Kahl.
HELEN
[_Ungraciously._] Good evening.
KAHL
[_Strides with heavy steps diagonally across the room to HELEN and takes
her hand._] Evenin' t'you, Nellie.
HOFFMANN
[_To LOTH._] Permit me to introduce our neighbour's son, Mr. Kahl.
[_KAHL grins and fidgets with his hat. Constrained silence._
HOFFMANN
Come, let's sit down, then. Is anybody missing? Ah, our mama! Miele,
request Mrs. Krause to come to supper.
[_MIELE leaves by the middle door._
MIELE
[_Is heard in the hall, calling out._] Missus! Missus!! You're to come
down--to come'n eat!
[_HELEN and HOFFMANN exchange a look of infinite comprehension and
laugh. Then, by a common impulse, they look at LOTH._
HOFFMANN
[_To LOTH._] Rustic simplicity!
_MRS. KRAUSE appears, incredibly overdressed. Silk and costly jewels.
Her dress and bearing betray hard arrogance, stupid pride and
half-mad vanity._
HOFFMANN
Ah, there is mama! Permit me to introduce to you my friend Dr. Loth.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Half-curtsies, peasant-fashion._] I take the liberty! [_After a brief
pause._] Eh, but Doctor, you mustn't bear me a grudge, no, you mustn't at
all. I've got to excuse myself before you right away--[_she speaks with
increasing fluency_]--excuse myself on account o' the way I acted a while
ago. You know, y'understan', we' get a powerful lot o' tramps here right
along ... 'Tain't reasonable to believe the trouble we has with them
beggars. And they steals exackly like magpies. It ain't as we're stingy.
We don't have to be thinkin' and thinkin' before we spends a penny, no,
nor before we spends a pound neither. Now, old Louis Krause's wife, she's
a close one, worst kind you see, she wouldn't give a crittur that much!
Her old man died o' rage because he lost a dirty little two-thousand,
playin' cards. No, we ain't that kind. You see that sideboard over there.
That cost me two hundred crowns, not countin' the freight even. Baron
Klinkow hisself couldn't have nothin' better.
_MRS. SPILLER has entered shortly after MRS. KRAUSE. She is small,
slightly deformed and gotten up in her mistress's cast-off garments.
While MRS. KRAUSE is speaking she looks up at her with a certain
devout attention. She is about fifty-five years old. Every time she
exhales her breath she utters a gentle moan, which is regularly
audible, even when she speaks, as a soft_--m.
MRS. SPILLER
[_In a servile, affectedly melancholy, minor tone. Very softly._] His
lordship has exactly the identical sideboard--m--.
HELEN
[_To MRS. KRAUSE._] Mama, don't you think we had better sit down first
and then--
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Turns with lightning-like rapidity to HELEN and transfixes her with a
withering look; harshly and masterfully._] Is that proper?
[_She is about to sit down but remembers that grace has not been
said. Mechanically she folds her hands without, however, mastering
her malignity._
MRS. SPILLER
Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest. May thy gifts to us be blest.
[_All take their seats noisily. The embarrassing situation is tided
over by the passing and repassing of dishes, which takes some time._
HOFFMANN
[_To LOTH._] Help yourself, old fellow, won't you? Oysters?
LOTH
I'll try them. They're the first I've ever eaten.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Has just sucked down an oyster noisily._] This season, you mean.
LOTH
No, I mean at all.
[_MRS. KRAUSE and MRS. SPILLER exchange a look._
HOFFMANN
[_To KAHL, who is squeezing a lemon with his teeth._] Haven't seen you
for two days, Mr. Kahl. Have you been busy shooting mice?
KAHL
N-naw ...
HOFFMANN
[_To LOTH._] Mr. Kahl, I must tell you, is passionately fond of hunting.
KAHL
M-m-mice is i-infamous amphibies.
HELEN
[_Bursts out._] It's too silly. He can't see anything wild or tame
without killing it.
KAHL
Las' night I sh-shot our ol' s-sow.
LOTH
Then I suppose that shooting is your chief occupation.
MRS. KRAUSE
Mr. Kahl, he just does that fer his own private pleasure.
MRS. SPILLER
Forest, game and women--as his Excellency the Minister von Schadendorf
often used to say.
KAHL
'N d-day after t-t'morrow we're g-goin' t' have p-pigeon sh-sh-shooting.
LOTH
What is that--pigeon shooting?
HELEN
Ah, I can't bear such things. Surely it's a very merciless sport. Rough
boys who throw stones at window panes are better employed.
HOFFMANN
You go too far, Helen.
HELEN
I don't know. According to my feeling it's far more sensible to break
windows, than to tether pigeons to a post and then shoot bullets into
them.
HOFFMANN
Well, Helen, after all, you must consider ...
LOTH
[_Using his knife and fork with energy._] It is a shameful barbarity.
KAHL
Aw! _Them_ few pigeons!
MRS. SPILLER
[_To LOTH._] Mr. Kahl, you know, has m-more than two-hundred of them in
his dove-cote.
LOTH
All hunting is barbarity.
HOFFMANN
But an ineradicable one. Just now, for instance, five hundred live foxes
are wanted in the market, and all foresters in this neighbourhood and in
other parts of Germany are busy snaring the animals.
LOTH
What are all those foxes wanted for?
HOFFMANN
They are sent to England, where they will enjoy the honour of being
hunted from their very cages straight to death by members of the
aristocracy.
LOTH
Mohammedan or Christian--a beast's a beast.
HOFFMANN
May I pass you some lobster, mother?
MRS. KRAUSE
I guess so. They're good this here season.
MRS. SPILLER
Madame has such a delicate palate.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_To LOTH._] I suppose you ain't ever et lobsters neither, Doctor?
LOTH
Yes, I have eaten lobsters now and then--in the North, by the sea, in
Warnemuende, where I was born.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_To KAHL._] Times an' times a person don't know what _to_ eat no more.
Eh, William.
KAHL
Y-y're r-right there, cousin, G-God knows.
EDWARD
[_Is about to pour champagne into LOTH'S glass._] Champagne, sir.
LOTH
[_Covers his glass with his hand._] No, thank you.
HOFFMANN
Come now, don't be absurd.
HELEN
What? Don't you drink?
LOTH
No, Miss Krause.
HOFFMANN
Well, now, look here, old man. That is, you must admit, rather tiresome.
LOTH
If I were to drink I should only grow more tiresome.
HELEN
That is most interesting, Doctor.
LOTH
[_Untactfully._] That I grow even more tiresome when I drink wine?
HELEN
[_Somewhat taken aback._] No, oh, no. But that you do not drink ... do
not drink at all, I mean.
LOTH
And why is that particularly interesting?
HELEN
[_Blushing._] It is not the usual thing.
[_She grows redder and more embarrassed._
LOTH
[_Clumsily._] You are quite right, unhappily.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_To LOTH._] It costs us fifteen shillin's a bottle. You needn't be
scared to drink it. We gets it straight from Rheims; we ain't givin' you
nothin' cheap; we wouldn't want it ourselves.
MRS. SPILLER
Ah, you can believe--m-me, Doctor: if his Excellency, the Minister von
Schadendorf, had been able to keep _such_ a table ...
KAHL
I couldn't live without my wine.
HELEN
[_To LOTH._] Do tell us why you don't drink?
LOTH
I'll do that very gladly, I ...
HOFFMANN
Oh, pshaw, old fellow. [_He takes the bottle from the servant in order to
press the wine upon LOTH._] Just think how many merry hours we used to
spend in the old days ...
LOTH
Please don't take the trouble ...
HOFFMANN
Drink to-day--this one time.
LOTH
It's quite useless.
HOFFMANN
As a special favour to me.
[_HOFFMANN is about to pour the wine; LOTH resists. A slight conflict
ensues._
LOTH
No, no ... as I said before ... No!... no, thank you.
HOFFMANN
Don't be offended, but that, surely, is a mere foolish whim.
KAHL
[_To MRS. SPILLER._] A man that don't want nothin' has had enough.
[_MRS. SPILLER nods resignedly._
HOFFMANN
Anyhow, if you let a man have his will what more can you do for him. But
I can tell you this much: without a glass of wine at dinner ...
LOTH
And a glass of beer at breakfast ...
HOFFMANN
Very well; why not? A glass of beer is a very healthy thing.
LOTH
And a nip of brandy now and then ...
HOFFMANN
Ah, well, if one couldn't get that much out of life! You'll never succeed
in making an ascetic of me. You can't rob life of every stimulus.
LOTH
I'm not so sure of that. I am thoroughly content with the normal stimuli
that reach my nervous system.
HOFFMANN
And a company that sit together with dry throats always has been and
always will be a damnably weary and boresome one--with which, as a rule,
I'd care to have very little to do.
MRS. KRAUSE
An' all them aristocrats drinks a whole lot.
MRS. SPILLER
[_Devoutly confirming her mistress' remark by an inclination of her
body._] It is easy for gentlemen to drink a great deal of wine.
LOTH
[_To HOFFMANN._] My experience is quite to the contrary. As a rule, I am
bored at a table where a great deal is drunk.
HOFFMANN
Oh, of course, it's got to be done in moderation.
LOTH
What do you call moderation?
HOFFMANN
Well, so long as one is in possession of one's senses ...
LOTH
Aha! Then you do admit that, in general, the consumption of alcohol does
endanger the possession of one's senses? And for that reason, you see, I
find tavern parties such a bore.
HOFFMANN
Are you afraid of losing possession of your senses so easily?
KAHL
T'-t'other d-day I drank a b-bottle o' R-Rhine-wine, _an'_ another o'
ch-champagne. An' on top o' that an-n-nother o' B-Bordeaux--an' I wan't
drunk by half.
LOTH
[_To HOFFMANN._] Oh no. You know well enough that it was I who took you
fellows home when you'd been taking too much. And I still have the same
tough old system. No, I'm not afraid on that account.
HOFFMANN
Well, then, what is it?
HELEN
Yes, why is it really that you don't drink? Do tell us!
LOTH
[_To HOFFMANN._] In order to satisfy you then: I do not drink to-day, if
for no other reason but because I have given my word of honour to avoid
spirituous liquors.
HOFFMANN
In other words, you've sunk to the level of a temperance fanatic.
LOTH
I am a total abstainer.
HOFFMANN
And for how long, may one ask, have you gone in for this--
LOTH
For life.
HOFFMANN
[_Throws down his knife and fork and half starts up from his chair._]
Well, I'll be ... [_He sits down again._] Now, frankly, you must forgive
me, but I never thought you so--childish.
LOTH
You may call it so if you please.
HOFFMANN
But how in the world did you get into that kind of thing?
HELEN
Surely, for such a resolution you must have a very weighty cause--it
seems so to me, at least.
LOTH
Undoubtedly such a reason exists. You probably do not know, Miss Krause,
nor you either, Hoffmann, what an appalling part alcohol plays in modern
life ... Read Bunge, if you desire to gain an idea of it. I happen to
remember the statements of a writer named Everett concerning the
significance of alcohol in the life of the United States. His facts cover
a space of ten years. In these ten years, according to him, alcohol has
devoured directly a sum of three thousand millions of dollars and
indirectly of six hundred millions. It has killed three hundred thousand
people, it has driven thousands of others into prisons and poor-houses;
it has caused two thousand suicides at the least. It has caused the loss
of at least ten millions through fire and violent destruction; it has
rendered no less than twenty thousand women, widows, and no less than one
million children, orphans. Worst of all, however, are the far-reaching
effects of alcohol which extend to the third and fourth generation.--Now,
had I pledged myself never to marry, I might perhaps drink, but as it
is--My ancestors, as I happen to know, were all not only healthy and
robust but thoroughly temperate people. Every movement that I make, every
hardship that I undergo, every breath that I draw brings what I owe them
more deeply home to me. And that, you see, is the point; I am absolutely
determined to transmit undiminished to my posterity this heritage which
is mine.
MRS. KRAUSE
Look here, son-in-law, them miners o' ours do drink a deal too much. I
guess that's true.
KAHL
They swills like pigs.
HELEN
And such, things are hereditary?
LOTH
There are families who are ruined by it--families of dipsomaniacs.
KAHL
[_Half to MRS. KRAUSE; half to HELEN._] Your old man--he's goin' it
pretty fast, too.
HELEN
[_White as a sheet, vehemently._] Oh, don't talk nonsense.
MRS. KRAUSE
Eh, but listen to the impident hussy. You might think she was a princess!
You're tryin' to play bein' a grand lady, I s'ppose! That's the way she
goes fer her future husband. [_To LOTH, pointing to KAHL._] That's him,
you know; they're promised; it's all arranged.
HELEN
[_Jumping up._] Stop! or ... _Stop_, mother, or I ...
MRS. KRAUSE
Well, I do declare! Say, Doctor, is that what you call eddication, eh?
God knows, I treat her as if she was my own child, but that's a little
too much.
HOFFMANN
[_Soothingly._] Ah, mother, do me the favour....
MRS. KRAUSE
No-o! I don't see why. Such a goose like that ... That's an end o' all
justice ... such a sl...!
HOFFMANN
Oh, but mother, I must really beg of you to control--
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Doubly enraged._] Instead o' sich a crittur takin' a hand on the
farm.... God forbid! She pulls her sheets 'way over her ears. But her
Schillers and her Goethes and sich like stinkin' dogs--that can't do
nothin' but lie; they c'n turn her head. It's enough to make you sick!
[_She stops, quivering with rage._
HOFFMANN
[_Trying to pacify her._] Well, well--she will be all right now ...
perhaps it wasn't quite right ... perhaps....
[_He beckons to HELEN, who in her excitement has drawn aside, and the
girl, fighting down her tears, returns to her place._
HOFFMANN
[_Interrupting the painful silence that has followed, to LOTH._] Ah, yes
... what were we talking about? To be sure, of good old alcohol. [_He
raises his glass._] Well, mother, let us have peace. Come,--we'll drink a
toast in peace, and honour alcohol by being peaceful. [_MRS. KRAUSE,
although somewhat rebelliously, clinks glasses with him._] What, Helen,
and your glass is empty.... I say, Loth, you've made a proselyte.
HELEN
Ah ... no ... I....
MRS. SPILLER
But, dear Miss Helen, that looks sus--
HOFFMANN
You weren't always so very particular.
HELEN
[_Pertly._] I simply have no inclination to drink to-day. That's all.
HOFFMANN
Oh, I beg your pardon, very humbly indeed ... Let me see, what were we
talking about?
LOTH
We were saying that there were whole families of dipsomaniacs.
HOFFMANN
[_Embarrassed anew._] To be sure, to be sure, but ... er....
[_Growing anger is noticeable in the behaviour of MRS. KRAUSE. KAHL
is obviously hard put to it to restrain his laughter concerning
something that seems to furnish him immense inner amusement. HELEN
observes KAHL with burning eyes and her threatening glance has
repeatedly restrained him from saying something that is clearly on
the tip of his tongue. LOTH, peeling an apple with a good deal of
equanimity, has taken no notice of all this._
LOTH
What is more, you seem to be rather blessed with that sort of thing
hereabouts.
HOFFMANN
[_Almost beside himself._] Why? How? Blessed with what?
LOTH
With drunkards, of course.
HOFFMANN
H-m! Do you think so ... ah ... yes ... I dare say--the miners....
LOTH
Not only the miners. Here, in the inn, where I stopped before I came to
you, there sat a fellow, for instance, this way.
[_He rests both elbows on the table, supports his head, with his
hands and stares at the table._
HOFFMANN
Really?
[_His embarrassment has now reached its highest point; MRS. KRAUSE
coughs; HELEN still commands KAHL with her eyes. His whole body
quivers with internal laughter, but he is still capable of enough
self-command not to burst out._
LOTH
I'm surprised that you don't know this, well, one might almost say, this
matchless example of his kind. It's the inn next door to your house. I
was told that the man is an immensely rich farmer of this place who
literally spends his days and years in the same tap-room drinking
whiskey. Of course he's a mere animal to-day. Those frightfully vacant,
drink-bleared eyes with which he stared at me!
[_KAHL, who has restrained himself up to this point, breaks out in
coarse, loud, irrepressible laughter, so that LOTH and HOFFMANN, dumb
with astonishment, stare at him._
KAHL
[_Stammering out through his laughter._] By the Almighty, that was....
Oh, sure, sure--that was the ol' man.
HELEN
[_Jumps up, horrified and indignant. She crushes her napkin and flings it
on the table._] You are.... [_With a gesture of utter loathing._] Oh, you
are....
[_She withdraws swiftly._
KAHL
[_Violently breaking through the constraint which arises from his
consciousness of having committed a gross blunder._] Oh, pshaw!... It's
too dam' foolish! I'm goin' my own ways. [_He puts on his hat and says,
without turning back:_] Evenin'.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Calls out after him._] Don' know's I c'n blame you, William. [_She
folds her napkin and calls_:] Miele! [_MIELE enters._] Clear the table!
[_To herself, but audibly._] Sich a goose!
HOFFMANN
[_Somewhat angry._] Well, mother, honestly, I must say....
MRS. KRAUSE
You go and...!
[_Arises; exits quickly._
MRS. SPILLER
Madame--m--has had a good many domestic annoyances to-day--m--. I will
now respectfully take my leave.
[_She rises, prays silently with upturned eyes for a moment and then
leaves._
_MIELE and EDWARD clear the table. HOFFMANN has arisen and comes to
the foreground. He has a toothpick in his mouth. LOTH follows him._
HOFFMANN
Well, you see, that's the way women are.
LOTH
I can't say that I understand what it was about.
HOFFMANN
It isn't worth mentioning. Things like that happen in the most refined
families. It mustn't keep you from spending a few days with us....
LOTH
I should like to have made your wife's acquaintance. Why doesn't she
appear at all?
HOFFMANN
[_Cutting off the end of a fresh cigar._] Well, in her condition, you
understand ... women won't abandon their vanity. Come, let's go and take
a few turns in the garden.--Edward, serve coffee in the arbour!
EDWARD
Very well, sir.
[_HOFFMANN and LOTH disappear by way of the conservatory. EDWARD
leaves by way of the middle door and MIELE, immediately thereafter,
goes out, carrying a tray of dishes, by the same door. For a few
seconds the room is empty. Then enters_
HELEN
[_Wrought up, with tear-stained eyes, holding her handkerchief against
her mouth. From the middle door, by which she has entered, she takes a
few hasty steps to the left and listens at the door of HOFFMANN'S room._]
Oh, don't go! [_Hearing nothing there, she hastens over to the door of
the conservatory, where she also listens for a few moments with tense
expression. Folding her hands and in a tone of impassioned beseeching._]
Oh, don't go! Don't go!
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE SECOND ACT
_It is about four o'clock in the morning. The windows in the inn are
still lit. Through the gateway comes in the twilight of a pallid dawn
which, in the course of the action, develops into a ruddy glow, and
this, in its turn, gradually melts into bright daylight. Under the
gateway, on the ground, sits BEIPST and sharpens his scythe. As the
curtain rises, little more is visible than his dark outline which is
defined against the morning sky, but one hears the monotonous,
uninterrupted and regular beat of the scythe hammer on the anvil. For
some minutes this is the only sound audible. Then follows the solemn
silence of the morning, broken by the cries of roysterers who are
leaving the inn. The inn-door is slammed with a crash. The lights in
the windows go out. A distant barking of dogs is heard and a loud,
confused crowing of cocks. On the path from the inn to the house a
dark figure becomes visible which reels in zigzag lines toward the
farmyard. It is FARMER KRAUSE, who, as always, has been the last to
leave the inn._
FARMER KRAUSE
[_Has reeled against the fence, clings to it for support with both hands,
and roars with a somewhat nasal, drunken voice back at the inn._] The
garden'sh mine ... the inn'sh mi-ine ... ash of a' inn-keeper! Hi-hee!
[_After mumbling and growling unintelligibly he frees himself from the
fence and staggers into the yard, where, luckily, he gets hold of the
handles of a plough._] The farm'sh mi'ine. [_He drivels, half singing._]
Drink ... o ... lil' brother, drink ... o ... lil' brother ... brandy'sh
good t' give courash. Hi-hee--[_roaring aloud_]--ain' I a han'some man
... Ain' I got a han'some wife?... Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals?
HELEN
[_Comes swiftly from the house. It is plain that she has only slipped on
such garments as, in her hurry, she could find._] Papa!... dear papa!! Do
come in! [_She supports him by one arm, tries to lead him and draw him
toward the house._] Oh, do come ... do please come ... quick ... quick
... Come, oh, do, _do_ come!
FARMER KRAUSE
[_Has straightened himself up and tries to stand erect. Fumbling with
both hands he succeeds, with great pains, in extracting from his
breeches-pocket a purse bursting with coins. As the morning brightens, it
is possible to see the shabby garb of KRAUSE, which is in no respects
better than that of the commonest field labourer. He is about fifty years
old. His head is bare, his thin, grey hair is uncombed and matted. His
dirty shirt is open down to his waist. His leathern breeches, tied at the
ankles, were once yellow but are now shiny with dirt. They are held up by
a single embroidered suspender. On his naked feet he wears a pair of
embroidered bedroom slippers, the embroidery on which seems to be quite
new. He wears neither coat nor waist-coat and his shirtsleeves are
unbuttoned. After he has finally succeeded in extracting the purse, he
holds it in his right hand and brings it down repeatedly on the palm of
his left so that the coins ring and clatter, At the same time he fixes a
lascivious look on his daughter._] Hi-hee! The money'sh mi-ine! Hey?
How'd y' like couple o' crownsh?
HELEN
Oh, merciful God! [_She makes repeated efforts to drag him with her. At
one of these efforts he embraces her with the clumsiness of a gorilla and
makes several indecent gestures. HELEN utters suppressed cries for
help._] Let go! This minute! Let go-o!! Oh, please, papa, Oh-o!! [_She
weeps, then suddenly cries out in an extremity of fear, loathing and
rage:_] Beast! Swine!
[_She pushes him from her and KRAUSE falls to his full length on the
ground. BEIPST comes limping up from his seat under the gateway. He
and HELEN set about lifting KRAUSE._
FARMER KRAUSE
[_Stammers._] Drink ... o ... lil' brothersh ... drrr ...
[_KRAUSE is half-lifted up and tumbles into the house, dragging
BEIPST and HELEN with him. For a moment the stage remains empty. In
the house voices are heard and the slamming of doors. A single window
is lit, upon which BEIPST comes out of the house again. He strikes a
match against his leathern breeches in order to light the short pipe
that rarely leaves his mouth. While he is thus employed, KAHL is seen
slinking out of the house. He is in his stocking feet, but has slung
his coat loosely over his left arm and holds his bedroom slippers in
his left hand. In his right hand he holds his hat and his collar in
his teeth. When he has reached the middle of the yard, he sees the
face of BEIPST turned upon him. For a moment he seems undecided; then
he manages to grasp his hat and collar also with his left hand, dives
into his breeches' pocket and going up to BEIPST presses a coin into
the latter's hand._
KAHL
There, you got a crown ... but shut yer mouth!
[_He hastens across the yard and climbs over the picket fence at the
right._
[_BEIPST has lit his pipe with a fresh match. He limps to the gate,
sits down and begins sharpening his scythe anew. Again nothing is
heard for a time but the monotonous hammer blows and the groans of
the old man, which he interrupts by short oaths when his work will
not go to his liking. It has grown considerably lighter._
LOTH
[_Steps out of the house door, stands still, stretches himself, and
breathes deeply several times._] Ah! The morning air. [_Slowly he goes
toward the background until he reaches the gateway. To BEIPST._] Good
morning! Up so early?
BEIPST
[_Squinting at LOTH suspiciously. In a surly tone._] 'Mornin'. [_A brief
pause, whereupon BEIPST addresses his scythe which he pulls to and fro in
his indignation._] Crooked beast! Well, are ye goin' to? Eksch! Well,
well, I'll be ...
[_He continues to sharpen it._
LOTH
[_Has taken a seat between the handles of a cultivator._] I suppose
there's hay harvesting to-day?
BEIPST
[_Roughly._] Dam' fools go a-cuttin' hay this time o' year.
LOTH
Well, but you're sharpening a scythe?
BEIPST
[_To the scythe._] Eksch! You ol'...!
[_A brief pause._]
LOTH
Won't you tell me, though, why you are sharpening your scythe if it is
not time for the hay harvest?
BEIPST
Eh? Don't you need a scythe to cut fodder?
LOTH
So that's it. You're going to cut fodder?
BEIPST
Well, what else?
LOTH
And is it cut every morning?
BEIPST
Well, d' you want the beasts to starve?
LOTH
You must show me a little forbearance. You see, I'm a city man; and it
isn't possible for me to know things about farming very exactly.
BEIPST
City folks! Eksh! All of 'em I ever saw thought they knew it
all--better'n country folks.
LOTH
That isn't the case with me.--Can you explain to me, for instance, what
kind of an implement this is? I have seen one like it before, to be sure,
but the name--
BEIPST
That thing that ye're sittin' on? Why, they calls that a cultivator.
LOTH
To be sure--a cultivator. Is it used here?
BEIPST
Naw; more's the pity. He lets everything go to hell ... all the land ...
lets it go, the farmer does. A poor man would like to have a bit o'
land--you can't have grain growin' in your beard, you know. But no! He'd
rather let it go to the devil! Nothin' grows excep' weeds an' thistles.
LOTH
Well, but you can get those out with the cultivator, too. I know that the
Icarians had them, too, in order to weed thoroughly the land that had
been cleared.
BEIPST
Where's them I-ca ... what d'you, call 'em?
LOTH
The Icarians? In America.
BEIPST
They've got things like that there, too?
LOTH
Certainly.
BEIPST
What kind of people is them I-I-ca...?
LOTH
The Icarians? They are not a special people at all, but men of all
nations who have united for a common purpose. They own a considerable
tract of land in America which they cultivate together. They share both
the work and the profits equally. None of them is poor and there are no
poor people among them.
BEIPST
[_Whose expression had become a little more friendly, assumes, during
LOTH'S last speech, his former hostile and suspicious look. Without
taking further notice of LOTH he has, during the last few moments, given
his exclusive attention to his work._] Beast of a scythe!
[_LOTH, still seated, first observes the old man with a quiet smile
and then looks out into the awakening morning._
_Through the gateway are visible far stretches of clover field and
meadow. Between them meanders a brook whose course is marked by
alders and willows. A single mountain peak towers on the horizon. All
about, larks have begun their song, and their uninterrupted trilling
floats, now from near, now from far, into the farm yard._
LOTH
[_Getting up._] One ought to take a walk. The morning is magnificent.
[_The clatter of wooden shoes is heard. Some one is rapidly coming
down the stairs that lead from the stable loft. It is GUSTE._
GUSTE
[_A rather stout maid-servant. Her neck is bare, as are her arms and legs
below the knee. Her naked feet are stuck in wooden shoes. She carries a
burning lantern._] Good morning father Beipst!
[_BEIPST growls._]
GUSTE
[_Shading her eyes with her hand looks after LOTH through the gate._]
What kind of a feller is that?
BEIPST
[_Embittered._] He can make fools o' beggars ... He can lie like a parson
... Jus' let him tell you his stories. [_He gets up._] Get the
wheelbarrows ready, girl!
GUSTE
[_Who has been washing her legs at the well gets through before
disappearing into the cow stable._] Right away, father Beipst.
LOTH
[_Returns and gives BEIPST a tip._] There's something for you. A man can
always use that.
BEIPST
[_Thawing at once, quite changed and with sincere companionableness._]
Yes, yes, you're right there, and I thank ye kindly.--I suppose you're
the company of the son-in-law over there? [_Suddenly very voluble._] You
know, if you want to go walkin' out there, you know, toward the hill,
then you want to keep to the left, real close to the left, because to the
right, there's clefts. My son, he used to say, the reason of it was, he
used to say, was because they didn't board the place up right, the miners
didn't. They gets too little pay, he used to say, and then folks does
things just hit or miss, in the shafts you know.--You see? Over yonder?
Always to the left! There's holes on t'other side. It wasn't but only
last year and a butter woman, just as she was, sudden, sunk down in the
earth, I don't know how many fathoms down. Nobody knew whereto. So I'm
tellin' you--go to the left, to the left and you'll be safe.
[_A shot is heard. BEIPST starts up as though he had been struck and
limps out a few paces into the open._
LOTH
Who, do you think, is shooting so early?
BEIPST
Who would it be excep' that rascal of a boy?
LOTH
What boy?
BEIPST
Will Kahl--our neighbour's son here ... You just wait, you! I've seen
him, I tell you. He shoots larks.
LOTH
Why, you limp!
BEIPST
Yes, the Lord pity me. [_He shakes a threatening fist toward the
fields._] Eh, wait, you ... you...!
LOTH
What happened to your leg?
BEIPST
My leg?
LOTH
Yes.
BEIPST
Eh? Somethin' got into it.
LOTH
Do you suffer pain?
BEIPST
[_Grasping his leg._] There's a tugging pain in it, a confounded pain.
LOTH
Do you see a doctor about it?
BEIPST
Doctors? Eh, you know, they're all monkeys--one like another. Only our
doctor here--he's a mighty good man.
LOTH
And did he help you?
BEIPST
A little, maybe, when all's said. He kneaded my leg, you see, he squeezed
it, an' he punched it. But no,'t'ain't on that account. He is ... well, I
tell you, he's got compassion on a human bein', that's it. He buys the
medicine an' asks nothin'. An' he'll come to you any time ...
LOTH
Still, you must have come by that trouble somehow. Or did you always
limp?
BEIPST
Not a bit of it!
LOTH
Then I don't think I quite understand. There must have been some cause
...
BEIPST
How do I know? [_Once more he raises a menacing fist._] You jus' wait,
you--with your rattling!
KAHL
[_Appears within his own garden. In his right hand he carries a rifle by
the barrel, his left hand is closed. He calls across._] Good mornin',
Doctor!
_LOTH walks diagonally across the yard up to KAHL. In the meantime
GUSTE as well as another maid-servant named LIESE have each made
ready a wheel-barrow on which lie rakes and pitch-forks. They trundle
their wheel-barrows past BEIPST out into the fields. The latter,
sending menacing glances toward KAHL and making furtive gestures of
rage, shoulders his scythe and limps after them. BEIPST and the maids
disappear._
LOTH
[_To KAHL._] Good morning.
KAHL
D'you want for to see somethin' fine?
[_He stretches his closed hand across the fence._
LOTH
[_Going nearer._] What have you there?
KAHL
Guess!
[_He opens his hand at once._
LOTH
What? Is it really true--you shoot the larks. You good for nothing! Do
you know that you deserve to be beaten for such mischief?
KAHL
[_Stares at LOTH for some seconds in stupid amazement. Then, clenching
his fist furtively he says:_] You son of a...!
[_And swinging around, disappears toward the right._
[_For some moments the yard remains empty._]
_HELEN steps from the house door. She wears a light-coloured summer
dress and a large garden hat. She looks all around her, walks a few
paces toward the gate-way, stands still and gazes out. Hereupon she
saunters across the yard toward the right and turns into the path
that leads to the inn. Great bundles of various tea-herbs are slung
across the fence to dry. She stops to inhale their odours. She also
bends downward the lower boughs of fruit trees and admires the low
hanging, red-cheeked apples. When she observes LOTH coming toward her
from the inn, a yet greater restlessness comes over her, so that she
finally turns around and reaches the farm yard before LOTH. Here she
notices that the dove-cote is still closed and goes thither through
the little gate that leads into the orchard. While she is still busy
pulling down the cord which, blown about by the wind, has become
entangled somewhere, she is addressed by LOTH, who has come up in the
meantime._
LOTH
Good morning, Miss Krause.
HELEN
Good morning. See, the wind has blown the cord up there!
LOTH
Let me help you.
[_He also passes through the little gate, gets the cord down and
opens the dove-cote. The pigeons flutter out._
HELEN
Thank you so much!
LOTH
[_Has passed out by the little gate once more and stands there, leaning
against the fence. HELEN is on the other side of it. After a brief
pause._] Do you make a habit of rising so early?
HELEN
I was just going to ask you the same thing.
LOTH
I? Oh, no! But after the first night in a strange place it usually
happens so.
HELEN
Why does that happen?
LOTH
I have never thought about it. To what end?
HELEN
Oh, wouldn't it serve some end?
LOTH
None, at least, that is apparent and practical.
HELEN
And so everything that you do or think must have some practical end in
view.
LOTH
Exactly. Furthermore ...
HELEN
I would not have thought that of you.
LOTH
What, Miss Krause?
HELEN
It was with those very words that, day before yesterday, my stepmother
snatched "The Sorrows of Werther" from my hand.
LOTH
It is a foolish book.
HELEN
Oh, don't say that.
LOTH
Indeed, I must repeat it, Miss Krause. It is a book for weaklings.
HELEN
That may well be.
LOTH
How do you come across just that book? Do you quite understand it?
HELEN
I hope I do--at least, in part. It rests me to read it. [_After a
pause._] But if it _is_ a foolish book, as you say, could you recommend
me a better one?
LOTH
Read ... well, let me see ... do you know Dahn's "Fight for Rome"?
HELEN
No, but I'll buy the book now. Does it serve a practical end?
LOTH
No, but a rational one. It depicts men not as they are but such as, some
day, they ought to be. Thus it sets up an ideal for our imitation.
HELEN
[_Deeply convinced._] Ah, that is noble. [_A brief pause._] But perhaps
you can tell me something else. The papers talk so much about Zola and
Ibsen. Are they great authors?
LOTH
In the sense of being artists they are not authors at all, Miss Krause.
They are necessary evils. I have a genuine thirst for the beautiful and I
demand of art a clear, refreshing draught.--I am not ill; and what Zola
and Ibsen offer me is medicine.
HELEN
[_Quite involuntarily._] Ah, then perhaps, they might help me.
LOTH
[_Who has become gradually absorbed in his vision of the dewy orchard and
who now yields to it wholly._] How very lovely it is here. Look, how the
sun emerges from behind the mountain peak.--And you have so many apples
in your garden--a rich harvest.
HELEN
Three-fourths of them will be stolen this year just as last. There is
such great poverty hereabouts.
LOTH
I can scarcely tell you how deeply I love the country. Alas, the greater
part of _my_ harvest must be sought in cities. But I must try to enjoy
this country holiday thoroughly. A man like myself needs a bit of
sunshine and refreshment more than most people.
HELEN
[_Sighing._] More than others ... In what respect?
LOTH
It is because I am in the midst of a hard conflict, the end of which I
will not live to see.
HELEN
But are we not all engaged in such a conflict?
LOTH
No.
HELEN
Surely we are all engaged in some conflict?
LOTH
Naturally, but in one that may end.
HELEN
It _may_. Yon are right. But why cannot the other end--I mean the one in
which you are engaged, Mr. Loth?
LOTH
Your conflict, after all, can only be one for your personal happiness.
And, so far as is humanly speaking possible, the individual can attain
this. My struggle is a struggle for the happiness of all men. The
condition of my happiness would be the happiness of all; nothing could
content me until I saw an end of sickness and poverty, of servitude and
spiritual meanness. I could take my place at the banquet table of life
only as the last of its guests.
HELEN
[_With deep conviction._] Ah, then you are a truly, truly good, man!
LOTH
[_Somewhat embarrassed._] There is no merit in my attitude: it is an
inborn one. And I must also confess that my struggle in the interest of
progress affords me the highest satisfaction. And the kind of happiness I
thus win is one that I estimate far more highly than the happiness which
contents the ordinary self-seeker.
HELEN
Still there are very few people in whom such a taste is inborn.
LOTH
Perhaps it isn't wholly inborn. I think that we are constrained to it by
the essential wrongness of the conditions of life. Of course, one must
have a sense for that wrongness. There is the point. Now if one has that
sense and suffers consciously under the wrongness of the conditions in
question--why, then one becomes, necessarily, just what I am.
HELEN
Oh, if it were only clearer to me ... Tell me, what conditions, for
instance, do you call wrong?
LOTH
Well, it is wrong, for instance, that he who toils in the sweat of his
brow suffers want while the sluggard lives in luxury. It is wrong to
punish murder in times of peace and reward it in times of war. It is
wrong to despise the hangman and yet, as soldiers do, to bear proudly at
one's side a murderous weapon whether it be rapier or sabre. If the
hangman displayed his axe thus he would doubtless be stoned. It is wrong,
finally, to support as a state religion the faith of Christ which teaches
long-suffering, forgiveness and love, and, on the other hand, to train
whole nations to be destroyers of their own kind. These are but a few
among millions of absurdities. It costs an effort to penetrate to the
true nature of all these things: one must begin early.
HELEN
But how did you succeed in thinking of all this? It seems so simple and
yet one never thinks of it.
LOTH
In various ways: the course of my own personal development, conversation
with friends, reading and independent thinking. I found out the first
absurdity when I was a little boy. I once told a rather flagrant lie and
my father flogged me most soundly. Shortly thereafter I took a railroad
journey with my father and I discovered that my father lied, too, and
seemed to take the action quite as a matter of course. I was five years
old at that time and my father told the conductor that I was not yet four
in order to secure free transportation for me. Again, our teacher said to
us: be industrious, be honourable and you will invariably prosper in
life. But the man had uttered folly, and I discovered that soon enough.
My father was honourable, honest, and thoroughly upright, and yet a
scoundrel who is alive and rich to-day cheated him of his last few
thousands. And my father, driven by want, had to take employment under
this very scoundrel who owned a large soap factory.
HELEN
People like myself hardly dare think of such a thing as wrong. At most
one feels it to be so in silence. Indeed, one feels it often--and then--a
kind of despair takes hold of one.
LOTH
I recall one absurdity which presented itself to me as such with especial
clearness. I had always believed that murder is punished as a crime under
whatever circumstances. After the incident in question, however, it grew
to be clear to me that only the milder forms of murder are unlawful.
HELEN
How is that possible?
LOTH
My father was a boilermaster. We lived hard by the factory and our
windows gave on the factory yard. I saw a good many things there. There
was a workingman, for instance, who had worked in the factory for five
years. He began to have a violent cough and to lose flesh ... I recall
how my father told us about the man at table. His name was Burmeister and
he was threatened with pulmonary consumption if he worked much longer in
the soap factory. The doctor had told him so. But the man had eight
children and, weak and emaciated as he was, he couldn't find other work
anywhere. And so he _had_ to stay In the soap factory and his employer
was quite self-righteous because he kept him. He seemed to himself an
extraordinarily humane person.--One August afternoon--the heat was
frightful--Burmeister dragged himself across the yard with a wheelbarrow
full of lime. I was just looking out of the window when I noticed him
stop, stop again, and finally pitch over headlong on the cobblestones. I
ran up to him--my father came, other workingmen came up, but he could
barely gasp and his month was filled with blood. I helped carry him into
the house. He was a mass of limy rags, reeking with all kinds of
chemicals. Before we had gotten him into the house, he was dead.
HELEN
Ah, that is terrible.
LOTH
Scarcely a week later we pulled his wife out of the river into which the
waste lye of our factory was drained. And, my dear young lady, when one
knows things of that kind as I know them now--believe me--one can find no
rest. A simple little piece of soap, which makes no one else in the world
think of any harm, even a pair of clean, well-cared-for hands are enough
to embitter one thoroughly.
HELEN
I saw something like that once. And oh, it was frightful, frightful!
LOTH
What was that?
HELEN
The son of a workingman was carried in here half-dead. It's about--three
years ago.
LOTH
Had he been injured?
HELEN
Yes, over there in the Bear shaft.
LOTH
So it was a miner?
HELEN
Oh, yes. Most of the young men around here go to work in the mines.
Another son of the same man was also a trammer and also met with an
accident.
LOTH
And were they both killed?
HELEN
Yes, both ... Once the lift broke; the other time it was fire damp.--Old
Beipst has yet a third son and he has gone down to the mine too since
last Easter.
LOTH
Is it possible? And doesn't the father object?
HELEN
No, not at all. Only he is even more morose than he used to be. Haven't
you seen him yet?
LOTH
How could I?
HELEN
Why, he sat near here this morning, under the gateway.
LOTH
Oh! So he works on the farm here?
HELEN
He has been with us for years.
LOTH
Does he limp?
HELEN
Yes, quite badly, indeed.
LOTH
Ah--ha! And what was it that happened to his leg?
HELEN
That's a delicate subject. You have met Mr. Kahl?... But I must tell you
this story very softly. [_She draws nearer to LOTH._] His father, you
know, was just as silly about hunting as he is. When wandering
apprentices came into his yard he shot at them--sometimes only into the
air in order to frighten them. He had a violent temper too, and
especially when he had been drinking. Well, I suppose Beipst grumbled one
day--he likes to grumble, you know--and so the farmer snatched up his
rifle and fired at him. Beipst, you know, used to be coachman at the
Kahls.
LOTH
Outrage and iniquity wherever one goes.
HELEN
[_Growing more uncertain and excited in her speech._] Oh, I've had my own
thoughts often and often ... and I've felt so sick with pity for them
all, for old Beipst and ... When the farmers are so coarse and brutish
like--well, like Streckmann, who--lets his farm hands starve and feeds
sweetmeats to the dogs. I've often felt confused in my mind since I came
home from boarding-school ... I have my burden too!--But I'm talking
nonsense. It can't possibly interest you, and you will only laugh at me
to yourself.
LOTH
But, my dear Miss Krause, how can you think that? Why should I?
HELEN
How can you help it? You'll think anyhow: she's no better than the rest
here!
LOTH
I think ill of no one.
HELEN
Oh, you can't make me believe that--ever!
LOTH
But what occasion have I given, you to make you ...
HELEN
[_Almost in tears._] Oh, don't talk. You despise us; you may be sure that
you do. Why, how can you help despising us--[_tearfully_]--even my
brother-in-law, even me. Indeed, me above all, and you have--oh, you have
truly good reasons for it!
[_She quickly turns her back to LOTH, no longer able to master her
emotion, and disappears through the orchard into the background. LOTH
passes through the little gate and follows her slowly._
MRS. KRAUSE
[_In morning costume, ridiculously over-dressed, comes out of the house.
Her face is crimson with rage. She screams._] The low-lived hussy! Marie!
Marie!! Under my roof! Out with the brazen hussy!
[_She runs across the yard and disappears in the stable. MRS. SPILLER
appears in the house-door; she is crocheting. From within the stable
resound scolding and howling._
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Comes out of the stable driving the howling maid before her._] Slut of
a wench!--[_The maid almost screams._]--Git out o' here this minute! Pack
yer things 'n then git out!
THE MAID
[_Catching sight of MRS. SPILLER, hurls her milking stool and pail from
her._] That's your doin'! I'll git even with you!
[_Sobbing, she runs up the stairs to the loft._
HELEN
[_Joining MRS. KRAUSE._] Why, what did she do?
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Roughly._] Any o' your business?
HELEN
[_Passionately, almost weeping._] Yes, it is my business.
MRS. SPILLER
[_Coming up quickly._] Dear Miss Helen, it's nothing fit for the ear of a
young lady ...
MRS. KRAUSE
An' I'd like to know why not! She ain't made o' sugar. The wench lay abed
with the hired man. Now you know it!
HELEN
[_In a commanding voice._] The maid shall stay for all that!
MRS. KRAUSE
Wench!
HELEN
Good! Then I'll tell father that you spend your nights just the same way
with William Kahl.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Strikes her full in the face._] There you got a reminder!
HELEN
[_Deathly pale, but even more firmly._] And I say the maid shall stay!
Otherwise I'll make it known--you ... with William Kahl ... your cousin,
my betrothed ... I'll tell the whole world.
MRS. KRAUSE
[_Her assurance breaking down._] Who can say it's so!
HELEN
I can. For I saw him this morning coming out of your bed-room ...
[_She goes swiftly into the house._
[_MRS. KRAUSE totters, almost fainting. MRS. SPILLER hurries to her
with smelling-salts._
MRS. SPILLER
Oh, Madame, Madame!
MRS. KRAUSE
Sp--iller; the maid c'n ss-stay!
THE CURTAIN FALLS QUICKLY
THE THIRD ACT
_Time: a few minutes after the incident between HELEN and her
step-mother in the yard. The scene is that of the first act._
_Dr. SCHIMMELPFENNIG sits at the table in the foreground to the left.
He is writing a prescription. His slouch hat, cotton gloves and cane
lie on the table before him. He is short and thick-set of figure; his
hair is black and clings in small, firm curls to his head; his
moustache is rather heavy. He wears a black coat after the pattern of
the Jaeger reform garments. He has the habit of stroking or pulling
his moustache almost uninterruptedly; the more excited he is, the
more violent is this gesture. When he speaks to HOFFMANN his
expression is one of enforced equanimity, but a touch of sarcasm
hovers about the corners of his mouth. His gestures, which are
thoroughly natural, are lively, decisive and angular. HOFFMANN walks
up and down, dressed in a silk dressing-gown and slippers. The table
in the background to the right is laid for breakfast: costly
porcelain, dainty rolls, a decanter with rum, etc._
HOFFMANN
Are you satisfied with my wife's appearance, doctor?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
She's looking well enough. Why not?
HOFFMANN
And do you think that everything will pass favourably?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
I hope so.
HOFFMANN
[_After a pause, with hesitation._] Doctor, I made up my mind--weeks
ago--to ask your advice in a very definite matter as soon as I came here.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Who has hitherto talked and written at the same time, lays his pen
aside, arises, and hands HOFFMANN the finished prescription._] Here ... I
suppose you'll have that filled quite soon. [_Taking up his hat, cane and
gloves._] Your wife complains of headaches, and so--[_looking into his
hat and adopting a dry, business-like tone_]--and so, before I forget:
try, if possible, to make it clear to your wife that she is in a measure
responsible for the new life that is to come into the world. I have
already said something to her of the consequences of tight lacing.
HOFFMANN
Certainly, doctor ... I'll do my very best to make it clear to her that
...
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Bowing somewhat awkwardly._] Good morning. [_He is about to go but
stops again._] Ah, yes, you wanted my advice ...
[_He regards HOFFMANN coldly._
HOFFMANN
If you can spare me a little while ... [_With a touch of affectation._]
You know about the frightful death of my first boy. You were near enough
to watch it. You know also what my state of mind was.--One doesn't
believe it at first, but--time does heal!... And, after all, I have cause
to be grateful now, since it seems that my dearest wish is about to be
fulfilled. You understand that I must do everything, everything--it has
cost me sleepless nights and yet I don't know yet, not even yet, just
what I must do to guard the unborn child from the terrible fate of its
little brother. And that is what I wanted to ask ...
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Dryly and business-like._] Separation from the mother is the
indispensable condition of a healthy development.
HOFFMANN
So it is that! Do you mean complete separation?... Is the child not even
to be in the same house with its mother?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Not if you are seriously concerned for the preservation of your child.
And your wealth permits you the greatest freedom of movement in this
respect.
HOFFMANN
Yes, thank God. I have already bought a villa with a very large park in
the neighbourhood of Hirschberg. Only I thought that my wife too ...
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Pulls at his moustache and stares at the floor. Thoughtfully._] Why
don't you buy a villa somewhere else for your wife?
[_HOFFMANN shrugs his shoulders._
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_As before._] Could you not, perhaps, engage the interest of your
sister-in-law for the task of bringing up this child?
HOFFMANN
If you knew, doctor, how many obstacles ... and, after all, she is a
young, inexperienced girl, and a mother _is_ a mother.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
You have my opinion. Good morning.
HOFFMANN
[_Overwhelming the doctor with excessive courtesy._] Good morning. I am
extremely grateful to you ...
[_Both withdraw through the middle door._
_HELEN enters. Her handkerchief is pressed to her mouth; she is
sobbing, beside herself, and lets herself fall on the sofa in the
foreground to the left. After a few moments, HOFFMANN reenters, his
hands full of newspapers._
HOFFMANN
Why, what is that? Tell me, sister, are things to go on this way much
longer? Since I came here not a day has passed on which I haven't seen
you cry.
HELEN
Oh!--what do _you_ know? If you had any sense for such things you'd be
surprised that you ever saw me when I didn't cry!
HOFFMANN
That isn't clear to me.
HELEN
Oh, but it is to me!
HOFFMANN
Look here, something must have happened!
HELEN
[_Jumps up and stamps her foot._] Ugh ... but I won't bear it any longer
... it's got to stop! I won't endure such things any more! I don't see
why ... I ...
[_Her sobs choke her._
HOFFMANN
Won't you tell me at least what the trouble is, so that I ...
HELEN
[_Bursting out with renewed passion._] I don't care what happens to me!
Nothing worse _could_. I've got a drunkard for a father, a beast--with
whom his ... his own daughter isn't safe.--An adulterous step-mother who
wants to turn me over to her lover ... And this whole life.--No, I don't
see that anyone can force me to be bad in spite of myself. I'm going
away! I'll run away! And if the people here won't let me go, then ...
rope, knife, gun ... I don't care! I don't want to take to drinking
brandy like my sister.
HOFFMANN
[_Frightened, grasps her arm._] Nellie, keep still, I tell you; keep
still about that.
HELEN
I don't care; I don't care one bit! I ... I'm ashamed of it all to the
very bottom of my soul. I wanted to learn something, to be something, to
have a chance--and what am I now?
HOFFMANN
[_Who has not released her arm, begins gradually to dram the girl over
toward the sofa. The tone of his voice now takes on an excessive
softness, an exaggerated, vibrant gentleness._] Nellie! Ah, I know right
well that you have many things to suffer here. But be calm...! You need
not tell one who knows. [_He puts his right hand caressingly upon her
shoulder and brings his face close to hers._] I can't bear to see you
weep. Believe me--it hurts me. But don't, don't see things in a worse
light than is needful--; and then: have you forgotten, that we are
both--you and I--so to speak--in the same position?--I have gotten into
this peasant atmosphere--do I fit into it? As little as you do yourself,
surely.
HELEN
If my--dear little mother had suspected this--when she ... when she
directed--that I should be--educated at Herrnhut! If she had rather ...
rather left me at home, then at least ... at least I wouldn't have known
anything else, and I would have grown up in this corruption, But now ...
HOFFMANN
[_Has gently forced HELEN down upon the sofa and now sits, pressed close,
beside her. In his consolations the sensual element betrays itself more
and more strongly._] Nellie! Look at me; let those things be. Let me be
your consolation, I needn't talk to you about your sister. [_He embraces
her more firmly. Passionately and feelingly._] Oh, if she were what you
are!... But as it is ... tell me: what can she be to me? Did you ever
hear of a man, Nellie, of a cultured man whose wife--[_he almost
whispers_]--is a prey to such an unhappy passion? One is afraid to utter
it aloud: a woman--and--brandy ... Now, do you think I am any happier?...
Think of my little Freddie! Well, am I, when all's said, any better off
than you are?... [_With increasing passion._] And so, you see, fate has
done us one kindness anyhow. It has brought us together. And we belong
together. Our equal sorrows have predestined us to be friends. Isn't it
so, Nellie?
[_He puts his arms wholly around her. She permits it but with an
expression which shows that she forces herself to mere endurance. She
has grown quite silent and seems, with quivering tension of soul, to
be awaiting some certainty, some consummation that is inevitably
approaching._
HOFFMANN
[_Tenderly._] You should consent to my plan; you should leave this house
and live with us. The baby that is coming needs a mother. Come and be a
mother to it; otherwise--[_passionately moved and sentimentally_]--it
will have no mother. And then: bring a little, oh, only a very little
brightness into my life! Do that! Oh, do that!
[_He is about to lean his head upon her breast. She jumps up,
indignant. In her expression are revealed contempt, surprise,
loathing and hatred._
HELEN
Oh, but you are, you are ... Now I know you thoroughly! Oh, I've felt it
dimly before. But now I am certain.
HOFFMANN
[_Surprised, put out of countenance._] What? Helen ... you're
unique--really.
HELEN
Now I know that you're not by one hair's breadth better ... indeed,
you're much worse--the worst of them all here!
HOFFMANN
[_Arises. With assumed coldness._] D'you know, your behaviour to-day is
really quite peculiar.
HELEN
[_Approaches him._] You have just one end in view. [_Almost whispering._]
But you have very different weapons from father and from my stepmother,
or from my excellent betrothed--oh, quite different. They are all lambs,
all of them, compared to you. Now, now, suddenly, that has become clear
as day to me.
HOFFMANN
[_With hypocritical indignation._] Helen, you seem really not to be in
your right mind; you're, suffering under a delusion.... [_He interrupts
himself and strikes his forehead._] Good Lord, of course! I see it all.
You have ... it's very early in the day, to be sure, but I'd wager ...
Helen! Have you been talking to Alfred Loth this morning?
HELEN
And why should I not have been talking to him? He is the kind of man
before whom we should all be hiding in shame if things went by rights.
HOFFMANN
So I was right!... That's it ... Aha ... well, to be sure ... then I have
no further cause for surprise. So he actually used the opportunity to go
for his benefactor a bit. Of course, one should really be prepared for
things of that kind.
HELEN
Do you know, I think that is really caddish.
HOFFMANN
I'm inclined to think so myself.
HELEN
He didn't breathe one syllable, not one, about you.
HOFFMANN
[_Slurring HELEN'S argument._] If things have reached that pass, then it
is really my duty, my duty, I say, as a relative toward an inexperienced
young girl like you ...
HELEN
Inexperienced girl! What is the use of this pretence?
HOFFMANN
[_Enraged._] Loth came into this house on my responsibility. Now I want
you to know that he is, to put it mildly, an exceedingly dangerous
fanatic--this Mr. Loth.
HELEN
To hear you saying that of Mr. Loth strikes me as so absurd, so laughably
absurd!
HOFFMANN
And he is a fanatic, furthermore, who has the gift of muddling the heads
not only of women, but even of sensible people,
HELEN
Well, now, you see, that again strikes me as so absurd. I only exchanged
a few words with Mr. Loth and ever since I feel a clearness about things
that does me so much good ...
HOFFMANN
[_In a rebukeful tone._] What I tell you is by no means absurd!
HELEN
One has to have a sense for the absurd, and that's what you haven't.
HOFFMANN
[_In the same manner._] That isn't what we're discussing. I assure you
once more that what I tell you is not at all absurd, but something that I
must ask you to take as actually true ... I have my own experience to
guide me. Notions like that befog one's mind; one rants of universal
brotherhood, of liberty and equality and, of course, transcends every
convention and every moral law.... In those old days, for the sake of
this very nonsense, we were ready to walk over the bodies of our parents
to gain our ends ... Heaven knows it. And he, I tell you, would be
prepared, in a given case, to do the same thing to-day.
HELEN
And how many parents, do you suppose, walk year in and out over the
bodies of their children without anybody's ...
HOFFMANN
[_Interrupting her._] That is _nonsense_! Why, that's the end of all....
I tell you to take care, in every ... I tell you emphatically, in _every_
respect. You won't find a trace of moral scrupulousness in that quarter.
HELEN
Oh, dear, how absurd that sounds again. I tell you, when once you begin
to take notice of things like that ... it's awfully interesting.
HOFFMANN
You may say what you please. I have warned you. Only I will tell you
quite in confidence: at the time of that incident I very nearly got into
the same damnable mess myself.
HELEN
But if he's such a dangerous man, why were you sincerely delighted
yesterday when he ...
HOFFMANN
Good Lord, I knew him when I was young. And how do you know that I didn't
have very definite reasons for ...
HELEN
Reasons? Of what kind?
HOFFMANN
Never mind.--Though, if he came; to-day, and if I knew what I do know
to-day--
HELEN
What is it that you know? I've told you already that he didn't utter one
word about you.
HOFFMANN
Well, you may depend on it that if that had been the case, I would have
thought it all over very carefully, and would probably have taken good
care not to keep him here. Loth is now and always will be a man whose
acquaintance compromises you. The authorities have an eye on him.
HELEN
Why? Has he committed a crime?
HOFFMANN
The less said about it the better. Just let this assurance be sufficient
for you: to go about the world to-day, entertaining his opinions, is far
worse and, above all, far more dangerous than stealing.
HELEN
I will remember.--But now--listen! After all your talk about Mr. Loth,
you needn't ask me any more what I think of you.--Do you hear?
HOFFMANN
[_With cold cynicism._] Do you suppose that I'm so greatly concerned to
know that? [_He presses the electric button._] And, anyhow, I hear him
coming in.
LOTH _enters._
HOFFMANN
Hallo! Did you sleep well, old man?
LOTH
Well, but not long. Tell me this, though: I saw a gentleman leaving the
house a while ago.
HOFFMANN
Probably the doctor. He was here a while ago. I told you about him,
didn't I?--this queer mixture of hardness and sentimentality.
_HELEN gives instructions to EDWARD, who has just entered. He leaves
and returns shortly, serving tea and coffee._
LOTH
This mixture, as you call him, happened to resemble an old friend of my
student days most remarkably. In fact, I could have taken my oath that it
was a certain--Schimmelpfennig.
HOFFMANN
[_Sitting down at the breakfast table._] That's quite
right--Schimmelpfennig.
LOTH
Quite right? You mean?
HOFFMANN
That his name is really Schimmelpfennig.
LOTH
Who? The doctor here?
HOFFMANN
Yes, certainly, the doctor.
LOTH
Now that is really strange enough. Then of course, it's he?
HOFFMANN
Well, you see, beautiful souls find each other on sea and shore. You'll
pardon me, won't you, if I begin? We were just about to sit down to
breakfast. Do take a seat yourself. You haven't had breakfast anywhere
else, have you?
LOTH
No.
HOFFMANN
Very well. Then sit down. [_Remaining seated himself he draws out a chair
for LOTH hereupon addressing EDWARD, who enters with tea and coffee._]
Ah, by the way, is Mrs. Krause coming down?
EDWARD
The madame and Mrs. Spiller are taking their breakfast upstairs.
HOFFMANN
Why, that has never before ...
HELEN
[_Pushing the dishes to rights._] Never mind. There's a reason.
HOFFMANN
Is that so?... Loth, help yourself!... Egg? Tea?
LOTH
I wonder if I could have a glass of milk?
HOFFMANN
With all the pleasure in the world.
HELEN
Edward, tell Miele to get some fresh milk.
HOFFMANN
[_Peeling an egg._] Milk--brrr! Horrible! [_Helping himself to salt and
pepper._] By the way, Loth, what brings you into these parts? Up to now
I've forgotten to ask you.
LOTH
[_Spreading butter on a roll._] I would like to study the local
conditions.
HOFFMANN
[_Looking up sharply._] That so?... What kind of conditions?
LOTH
To be precise: I want to study the condition of your miners.
HOFFMANN
Ah! In general that condition is a very excellent one, surely.
LOTH
Do you think so?--That would be a very pleasant fact ... Before I forget,
however. You can be of some service to me in the matter. You will deserve
very well of political economy, if you ...
HOFFMANN
I? How exactly?
LOTH
Well, you have the sole agency for the local mines?
HOFFMANN
Yes; and what of it?
LOTH
It will be very easy for you, in that case, to obtain permission for me
to inspect the mines. That is to say: I would like to go down into them
daily for at least a month, in order that I may gain a fairly accurate
notion of the management.
HOFFMANN
[_Carelessly._] And then, I suppose, you will describe what you've seen
down there?
LOTH
Yes, my work is to be primarily descriptive.
HOFFMANN
I'm awfully sorry, but I've nothing to do with that side of things. So
you just want to write about the miners, eh?
LOTH
That question shows how little of an economist you are.
HOFFMANN
[_Whose vanity is stung._] I beg your pardon! I hope you don't think ...
Why? I don't see why that isn't a legitimate question?... And, anyhow: it
wouldn't be surprising. One can't know everything.
LOTH
Oh, calm yourself. The matter stands simply thus: if I am to study the
situation of the miners in this district, it is of course unavoidably
necessary that I touch upon all the factors that condition their
situation.
HOFFMANN
Writings of that kind are sometimes full of frightful exaggerations.
LOTH
That is a fault which I hope to guard against.
HOFFMANN
That will be very praiseworthy. [_He has several times already cast brief
and searching glances at HELEN, who hangs with naive devoutness upon
LOTH'S lips. He does so again now and continues._] I say ... it's just
simply too queer for anything--how things will suddenly pop into a man's
mind. I wonder how things like that are brought about in the brain?
LOTH
What is it that has occurred to you so suddenly?
HOFFMANN
It's about you.--I thought of your be--... No, maybe it's tactless to
speak of your heart's secrets in the presence of a young lady.
HELEN
Perhaps it would be better for me to....
LOTH
Please stay. Miss Krause! By all means stay, at least as far as I'm
concerned. I've seen for some time what he's aiming at. There's nothing
in the least dangerous about it. [_To HOFFMANN._] You're thinking of my
betrothal, eh?
HOFFMANN
Since you mention it yourself, yes. I was, as a matter of fact, thinking
of your betrothal to Anna Faber.
LOTH
That was broken off, naturally, when I was sent to prison.
HOFFMANN
That wasn't very nice of your....
LOTH
It was, at least, honest in her! The letter in which she broke with me
showed her true face. Had she shown that before she would have spared
herself and me, too, a great deal.
HOFFMANN
And since that time your affections haven't taken root anywhere?
LOTH
No.
HOFFMANN
_Of_ course! I suppose you've capitulated along the whole line--forsworn
marriage as well as drink, eh? Ah, well, _à chacun son goût_.
LOTH
It's not my taste that decides in this matter, but perhaps my fate. I
told you once before, I believe, that I have made no renunciation in
regard to marriage. What I fear is this, that I won't find a woman who is
suitable for me,
HOFFMAN
That's a big order, Loth!
LOTH
I'm quite serious, though. It may be that one grows too critical as the
years go on and possesses too little healthy instinct. And I consider
instinct the best guarantee of a suitable choice.
HOFFMANN
[_Frivolously._] Oh, it'll be found again some day--[_laughing_]--the
necessary instinct, I mean.
LOTH
And, after all, what have I to offer a woman? I doubt more and more
whether I ought to expect any woman to content herself with that small
part of my personality which does not belong to my life's work. Then,
too, I'm afraid of the cares which a family brings.
HOFFMANN
Wh-at? The cares of a married man? Haven't you a head, and arms, eh?
LOTH
Obviously. But, as I've tried to tell you, my productive power belongs,
for the greater part, to my life's work and will always belong to it.
Hence it is no longer mine. Then, too, there would be peculiar
difficulties ...
HOFFMANN
Listen! Hasn't some one been sounding a gong?
LOTH
You consider all I've said mere phrase-making?
HOFFMANN
Honestly, it does sound a little hollow. After all, other people are not
necessarily savages, even if they are married. But some men act as though
they had a monopoly of all the good deeds that are to be done in the
world.
LOTH
[_With some heat._] Not at all! I'm not thinking of such a thing. If you
hadn't abandoned your life's work, your happy material situation would be
of the greatest assistance ...
HOFFMANN
[_Ironically._] So that would be one of your demands, too?
LOTH
Demands? How? What?
HOFFMANN
I mean that, in marrying, you would have an eye on money.
LOTH
Unquestionably.
HOFFMANN
And then--if I know you at all--there's quite a list of demands still to
come.
LOTH
So there is. The woman, for instance, must have physical and mental
health. That's a _conditio sine qua non_.
HOFFMANN
[_Laughing._] Better and better! I suppose then that a previous medical
examination of the lady would be necessary.
LOTH
[_Quite seriously_.] You must remember that I make demands upon myself
too.
HOFFMANN
[_More and more amused._] I know, I know! I remember your going through
all the literature of love once in order to determine quite
conscientiously whether that which you felt at that time for a certain
lady was really the tender passion. So, let's hear a few more of your
demands.
LOTH
My wife, for instance, would have to practice renunciation.
HELEN
If ... if ... Ah, I don't know whether it's right to ... but I merely
wanted to say that women, as a rule, are accustomed to renounce.
LOTH
For heaven's sake! You understand me quite wrongly. I did not mean
renunciation in the vulgar sense. I would demand renunciation only in so
far, or, rather, I would simply ask my wife to resign voluntarily and
gladly that part of myself which belongs to my chosen work. No, no, in
regard to every thing else, it is my wife who is to make demands--to
demand all that her sex has forfeited in the course of thousands of
years.
HOFFMANN
Oho, oho! Emancipation of woman! Really, that sudden turn was
admirable--now you are in the right channel. Fred Loth, or the agitator
in a vest-pocket edition. How would you formulate your demands in this
respect, or rather: to what degree would yam wife have to be
emancipated?--It really amuses me to hear you talk! Would she have to
smoke cigars? Wear breeches?
LOTH
Hardly that. I would want her, to be sure, to have risen above certain
social conventions. I should not want her, for instance, to hesitate, if
she felt genuine love for me, to be the first to make the avowal.
HOFFMANN
[_Has finished his breakfast. He jumps up in half-humorous, half-serious
indignation._] Do you know? That ... that is a really _shameless_ demand.
And I prophesy, too, that you'll go about with it unfulfilled to your
very end--unless you prefer to drop it first.
HELEN
[_Mastering her deep emotion with difficulty._] If you gentlemen will
excuse me now--the household ... You know [_to HOFFMANN_] that mama is
upstairs and so ...
HOFFMANN
Don't let us keep you.
_HELEN bows and withdraws._
HOFFMANN
[_Holding a match case in his hand and walking over to the cigar-box
which stands on the table._] There's no doubt ... you do get a man
excited ... it's almost uncanny. [_He takes a cigar from the box and sits
down on the sofa in the foreground, left. He cuts off the end of his
cigar, and, during what follows, he holds the cigar in his left, the
severed end between the fingers of his right hand._] In spite of all that
... it does amuse me. And then, you don't know how good it feels to pass
a few days in the country this way, away from all business matters. If
only to-day this confounded ... how late is it anyhow? Unfortunately I
have to go into town to a dinner to-day. It couldn't be helped: I had to
give this banquet. What are you going to do as a business man? Tit for
tat. The mine officials are used to that sort of thing.--Well, I've got
time enough to smoke another cigar--quite in peace, too.
[_He carries the cigar end to a cuspidor, sits down on the sofa again
and lights his cigar._]
LOTH
[_Stands at the table and turns the leaves of a deluxe volume._] "The
Adventures of Count Sandor."
HOFFMANN
You'll find that trash among all the farmers in the neighbourhood.
LOTH
[_Still turning the leaves._] How old is your sister-in-law?
HOFFMANN
She was twenty-one last August.
LOTH
Is she in delicate health?
HOFFMANN
Don't know. I hardly think so, though. Does she make that impression on
you?
LOTH
She really looks rather worried than ill.
HOFFMANN
Well, if you consider all the miseries with her step-mother ...
LOTH
She seems to be rather excitable, too.
HOFFMANN
In such an environment ... I should like to see any one who wouldn't
become excitable.
LOTH
She seems to possess a good deal of energy.
HOFFMANN
Stubbornness.
LOTH
Deep feeling, too?
HOFFMANN
Too much at times ...
LOTH
But if the conditions here are so unfortunate for her, why doesn't your
sister-in-law live with _your_ family?
HOFFMANN
You'd better ask her that! I've often enough made her the offer. Women
have these fancies, that's all. [_Holding the cigar in his mouth,
HOFFMANN takes out a note-book and adds a fete items._] You'll forgive
me, won't you, if I have to leave you alone after a while?
LOTH
Assuredly.
HOFFMANN
How long do you think of stay--
LOTH
I mean to look for a lodging very soon. Where does Schimmelpfennig live?
The best thing would be to go to see him. He would _probably_ be able to
secure one for me. I hope that I'll soon find a suitable place, otherwise
I'll spend the night at the inn next door.
HOFFMANN
Why should you? Of course you'll stay with us till morning, at least. To
be sure, I'm only a guest in this house myself, otherwise I'd naturally
ask you to ... you understand?
LOTH
Perfectly.
HOFFMANN
But do tell me, were you really quite serious when you said ...
LOTH
That I would spend the night at an inn...?
HOFFMANN
Nonsense ... Of course not!... I mean what you mentioned a while
ago--that business about your ridiculous descriptive essay?
LOTH
Why not?
HOFFMANN
I must confess that I thought you were jesting. [_He gets up and speaks
confidentially and half-humorously._] Now, you don't mean to say you're
really capable of undermining the ground here where a friend of yours has
been fortunate enough to get a firm foothold?
LOTH
You may take my word for it, Hoffmann; I had no idea that you were here.
If I had known that ...
HOFFMANN
[_Jumps up, delighted._] Very well, then; very well. If that's the way
things are. And I assure you I'm more than glad that I was not mistaken
in you. So now you do know that I am here. It goes without saying that
I'll make up to you all your travelling expenses and all extras. No, you
needn't be so excessively delicate. It's simply my duty as a friend ...
Now I recognise my excellent old friend again. But I tell you: for a time
I had very serious suspicions of you ... Now you ought to know this,
however. Frankly, I'm not as bad as I sometimes pretend to be, not by any
means. I have always honoured you, you and your sincere, single-minded
efforts. And I'm the last man to fail to attach weight to certain demands
of the exploited, oppressed masses, demands which are, most
unfortunately, only too well justified.--Oh, you may smile. I'll go
further and confess that there is just one party in parliament that has
any true ideals, and that's the party to which you belong! Only--as I
said before--we must go slowly, slowly!--not try to rush things through.
Everything is coming, surely coming about exactly as it ought to. Only
patience! Patience ...
LOTH
One must have patience. That is certain. But one isn't justified on that
account in folding one's hands in idleness.
HOFFMANN
Exactly my opinion.--As a matter of fact my thoughts have oftener been in
accord with you than my words. It's a bad habit of mine, I admit, I fell
into it in intercourse with people to whom I didn't always want to show
my hand.... Take the question, of woman, for instance ... You expressed a
good many things quite strikingly. [_He has, in the meantime, approached
the telephone, taken up the receiver and now speaks alternately into the
telephone and to LOTH._] My little sister-in-law, by the way, was all ear
... [_Into the telephone._] Frank! I want the carriage in ten minutes ...
[_To LOTH._] You made an impression on her ... [_Into the telephone._]
What--oh, nonsense!--well, that beats everything ... Then hitch up the
black horses at once ... [_To LOTH._] And why shouldn't you?... [_Into
the telephone._] Well, upon my...! To the milliner, you say? The madame?
The ma--! Well, very well, then. But at once! Oh, very well! Yes! What's
the--! [_He presses the button of the servants' bell. To LOTH._] You just
wait. Give me a chance to heap up the necessary mountain of shekels, and
maybe you'll see something happen ... [_EDWARD has entered._] Edward, my
leggings, my walking-coat! [_EDWARD withdraws_.] Maybe something will
happen then that you fellows wouldn't believe of me now ... If, at the
end of two or three days--you must stay with us so long by all means--I'd
consider it a real insult if you didn't--[_he slips out of his
dressing-gown_]--if, at the end of two or three days, you're ready to go.
I'll drive you over to the train.
_EDWARD enters carrying gaiters and walking-coat._
HOFFMANN
[_Permitting himself to be helped on with the coat._] So-o! [_Sitting
down on a chair._] Now the boots. [_After he has pulled on one of them._]
There's number one!
LOTH
Perhaps you didn't quite understand me after all.
HOFFMANN
Surely, that's quite possible. A fellow gets out of touch with things.
Nothing but musty business affairs. Edward, hasn't the mail come yet?
Wait a minute!--Do go up into my room. You'll find a document in a blue
cover on the left side of my desk. Get that and put it into the carriage.
_EDWARD goes through the door at the right, reappears through the
middle-door and then withdraws._
LOTH
I simply meant that you hadn't understood me in one particular respect.
HOFFMANN
[_Worrying his foot into the other shoe._] Ouch! There! [_He rises and
stamps his feet._] There we are. Nothing is more disagreeable than tight
shoes ... What were you saying just now?
LOTH
You were speaking of my departure ...
HOFFMANN
Well?
LOTH
But I thought I had explained that I must stay here for a specific
purpose.
HOFFMANN
[_In extreme consternation and thoroughly indignant at once._] Look
here!... That comes near being caddish!--Don't you know what you owe me
as your friend?
LOTH
Not, I hope, the betrayal of my cause!
HOFFMANN
[_Beside himself._] Well then--in that case--I haven't the slightest
motive for treating you as a friend. And so I tell you that I consider
your appearance and demeanour here--to put it mildly--incredibly
impudent.
LOTH
[_Quite calmly._] Perhaps you'll explain what gives you the right to use
such epithets ...
HOFFMANN
Yon want an explanation of that? That is going to an extreme! Not to feel
a thing like that it's necessary to have a rhinoceros-hide instead of
skin on one's back! You come here, enjoy my hospitality, thresh out a few
of your thread-bare phrases, turn my sister-in-law's head, go on about
old friendship and other pleasant things, and then you tell me quite
coolly: you're going to write a descriptive pamphlet about the local
conditions. Why, what do you take me to be, anyhow? D'you suppose I don't
know that these so-called essays are merely shameless libels?... You want
to write a denunciation like that, and about our coal district, of all
places! Are you so blind that you can't see whom such a rag would harm
most keenly? Only me, of course! I tell you, the trade that you
demagogues drive ought to be more firmly stamped out than has been done
up to now! What is it you do? You make the miners discontented,
presumptuous; you stir them up, embitter them, make them rebellious,
disobedient, wretched! Then you delude them with promises of mountains of
gold, and, in the meantime, grab out of their pockets the few pennies
that keep them from starving!
LOTH
Do you consider yourself unmasked now?
HOFFMANN
[_Brutally._] Oh, pshaw! You ridiculous, pompous wind-bag! What do you
suppose I care about being unmasked by you?--Go to work! Leave off this
silly drivelling!--Do something! Get ahead! I don't need to sponge on any
one for two-hundred marks!
[_He rushes out through the middle door._
_For several moments LOTH looks calmly after him. Then, no less
calmly, he draws a card case out of his inner pocket, takes a slip of
paper therefrom--HOFFMANN'S cheque--and tears it through several
times. Then he drops the scraps slowly into the coal-bin. Hereupon he
takes his hat and cane and turns to go. At this moment HELEN appears
on the threshold of the conservatory._
HELEN
[_Softly._] Mr. Loth!
LOTH
[_Quivers and turns._] Ah, it is you.--Well, then I can at least say
farewell to _you_.
HELEN
[_In spite of herself._] Did you feel the need of doing that?
LOTH
Yes! I did feel it, indeed. Probably, if you were in there, you heard
what has taken place here, and--in that case....
HELEN
I heard everything.
LOTH
In that case it won't astonish you to see me this house with so little
ceremony.
HELEN
No-o! I do understand--! But I should like you to feel less harshly
toward my brother-in-law. He always repents very quickly. I have
often....
LOTH
Quite possibly. But for that very reason what he has said just now
probably expresses his true opinion of me.--In fact, it is undoubtedly
his real opinion.
HELEN
Do you seriously believe that?
LOTH
Oh, yes, quite seriously. And so.... [_He walks toward her and takes her
hand._] I hope that life will be kind to you. [_He turns but at once
stops again._] I don't know...! or rather:--[_he looks calmly and
directly into HELEN'S face_]--I do know, I know--at this moment the
knowledge becomes clear--that it is not so easy for me to go away from
here ... and ... yes ... and ... well, yes...!
HELEN
But if I begged you--begged you truly--from my heart ... to stay a little
longer--
LOTH
So you do not share Hoffmann's opinion?
HELEN
No!--and that--that is just what I wanted to be sure--quite sure to tell
you, before ... before--you--went.
LOTH
[_Grasps her hand once more._] It helps me _much_ to hear you say that.
HELEN
[_Struggling with herself. Her excitement mounts rapidly and to the point
of unconsciousness. She stammers out half-chokingly._] And more, oh, more
I wanted to ... to tell you ... that I esteem and ... and ... honour you
as ... I've done no ... man before ... that I trust ... you ... that I'm
ready to ... to prove that ... that I feel toward you ...
[_She sinks, swooning into his arms._
LOTH
Helen!
THE CURTAIN DROPS QUICKLY
THE FOURTH ACT
_The farmyard, as in the second act. Time: a quarter of an hour after
HELEN'S avowal._
_MARIE and GOLISCH the cowherd drag a wooden chest down the stairs
that lead to the loft. LOTH comes from the house. He is dressed for
travelling and goes slowly and thoughtfully diagonally across the
yard. Before he turns into the path that leads to the inn, he comes
upon HOFFMANN, who is hurrying toward him through the gateway._
HOFFMANN
[_In top hat and kid gloves._] Don't be angry with me. [_He obstructs
LOTH'S way and grasps both of his hands._] I take it all back herewith
... Mention any reparation you demand ... I am ready to give you any!...
I'm most truly, most sincerely sorry.
LOTH
That helps neither of us very much.
HOFFMANN
Oh, if you would just ... Look here, now...! A man can't well do more
than that. I assure you that my conscience gave me no rest! I turned back
just before reaching Jauer.... That should convince you of the
seriousness of my feeling. Where were you going?
LOTH
To the inn--for the moment.
HOFFMANN
Oh, that's an affront you simply can't offer me ... no, you
mustn't--simply, I believe that I did hurt you badly, of course. And
probably it's not the kind of thing that can be wiped out with just a few
words. Only don't rob me of any chance ... of every possibility to prove
to you ... D'you hear? Now turn back and stay at least--at least until
to-morrow. Or till ... till I come back. I want to talk it all over with
you at leisure. You can't refuse me that favour.
LOTH
If you set so much store by it all....
HOFFMANN
A great deal!... on my honour!... I care immensely. So come, come! Don't
run away!
[_He leads LOTH, who offers no further resistance, back into the
house._
_The dismissed maid and the boy have, in the meantime, placed the
chest on a wheelbarrow and GOLISCH has put on the shoulder strap._
MARIE
[_Slipping a coin into GOLISCH'S hand._] There's somethin' fer you.
GOLISCH
[_Refusing it._] Keep yer penny.
MARIE
Aw! Ye donkey!
GOLISCH
Well, I don't care.
[_He takes the coin and puts it into his leathern purse._
MRS. SPILLER
[_Appears at one of the windows of the house and calls out:_] Marie.
MARIE
What d'ye want now?
MRS. SPILLER
[_Appearing almost immediately at the door of the house._] The madame's
willing to keep you, if you promise....
MARIE
A stinkin' lot I'll promise her. Go on, Golisch!
MRS. SPILLER
[_Approaching._] The madame is willing to increase your wages, if you....
[_Whispering suddenly._] What d'ye care, girl! She just gits kinder
rough now an' then.
MARIE
[_Furiously._] She c'n keep her dirty money to herself!--[_Tearfully._]
I'd rather starve! [_She follows GOLISCH, who has preceded her with the
wheelbarrow._] Naw, just to think of it!--It's enough to make you....
[_She disappears, as does MRS. SPILLER._
_Through the great gate comes BAER called HOPPING BAER. He is a lank
fellow with a vulture's neck and goitre. His feet and head are bare.
His breeches, badly ravelled at the bottom, scarcely reach below the
knee. The top of his head is bald. Such hair as he has, brown, dusty,
and clotted, hangs down over his shoulders. His gait is ostrich-like.
By a cord he draws behind him a child's toy waggon full of sand. His
face is beardless. His whole appearance shows him to be a
god-forsaken peasant lad in the twenties._
BAER
[_With a strangely bleating voice._] Sa--a--and! Sa--a--and!
_He crosses the yard and disappears between the house and the
stables. HOFFMANN and HELEN come from the house. HELEN is pale and
carries an empty glass in her hand._
HOFFMANN
[_To HELEN._] Entertain him a bit! You understand? Don't let him go. I
should hate to have him.--Injured vanity like that!... Good-bye!... Oh,
maybe I oughtn't to go at all? How is Martha doing?--I've got a queer
kind of feeling as if pretty soon.... Nonsense!--Good-bye! ... awful
hurry!... [_Calls out._] Franz! Give the horses their heads!
[_Leaves rapidly through the main gate._
_HELEN goes to the pump, fills her glass and empties it at one
draught. She empties half of another glass. She then sets the glass
on the pump and then strolls slowly, looking backward from time to
time, through the gate-may. BAER emerges from between the house and
the stables and stops with his waggon before the house door, where
MIELE takes some sand from him. In the meantime KAHL has become
visible at the right, beyond the dividing fence. He is in
conversation with MRS. SPILLER, who is on the hither side of the
fence and therefore close to the entrance of the yard. As the
conversation proceeds, both walk slowly along the fence._
MRS. SPILLER
[_Mildly agonised._] Ah yes--m--Mr. Kahl! I have--m--many a time thought
of--m--you when ... when our--m--dear Miss Helen ... She is so
to--m--speak betrothed to you and so--m--ah! I--m--must say ... in my
time...!
KAHL
[_Mounts a rustic bench under the oak-tree and fastens a bird trap to the
lowest branch._] When is th-that b-beast of a doctor goin' to git out o'
here? Ha?
MRS. SPILLER
Ah, Mr. Kahl! I don't--m--think so very soon.--Ah, Mr. Kahl, I--m--have,
so to speak, come--m--down in the world, but I--m--know--m--what
refinement is. In this respect, Mr. Kahl, I--must say--dear Miss
Helen isn't--m--acting quite right toward you. No--m--in that
respect, so to speak--m--I've never had anything with which
to--m--reproach myself--m--my conscience, dear Mr. Kahl, is as
pure in that--m--respect--so to speak, as new-fallen snow.
_BAER has finished the sale of his sand and, at this moment, passes
by KAHL in order to leave the yard._
KAHL
[_Discovers BAER and calls out._] Heres hopping Baer! Hop a bit!
_BAER takes a, huge leap._
KAHL
[_Bellowing with laughter._] Here, hopping Baer! Hop again!
MRS. SPILLER
Well--m--Mr. Kahl, what I want to say is--m--I have the
best--m--intentions toward you. You ought to observe very--m--carefully.
Something--m--is going on between our young lady and--m--
KAHL
If I could j-jist git my d-dogs on that son of a--... Jist once!
MRS. SPILLER
[_Mysteriously._] And I'm afraid you--m--don't know what kind of an
individual that--m--is. Oh, I am so--m--truly sorry for our dear young
lady. The wife of the bailiff--she has it straight from the office, I
think. He is said to be a--m--really dangerous person. The woman said her
husband had--m--orders, just think! actually--m--to keep his eye on him.
_LOTH comes from the house and looks about._
MRS. SPILLER
You see, now he is going--m--after our young lady. Oh, it's _too_
sad--m--for anything.
KAHL
Aw! You wait an' see!
[_Exit._
_MRS. SPILLER goes to the door of the house. In passing LOTH she
makes a deep bow. Then she disappears into the house._
_LOTH disappears slowly through the gateway. The coachman's wife, an
emaciated, worried, starved woman, emerges from between the house and
the stables. She carries a large pot hidden under her apron and
slinks off toward the cow-shed, looking about fearfully at every
moment. She disappears into the door of the stable. The two MAIDS,
each before her a wheel-barrow laden with clover, enter by the gate.
BEIPST, his pipe in his mouth and his scythe across his shoulder,
follows them, LIESE has wheeled her barrow in front of the left,
AUGUSTE hers in front of the right door of the barn, and both begin
to carry great armfuls of clover into the building._
LIESE
[_Coming back out of the stable._] Guste! D'ye know, Marie is gone.
AUGUSTE
Aw, don' tell me!
LIESE
Go in there'n ask the coachman's wife. She's gittin' her a drop o' milk.
BEIPST
[_Hangs up his scythe on the wall._] Ye'd better not let that Spiller
creature get wind o' it.
AUGUSTE
Oh, Lord, no! Who'd think o' it!
LIESE
A poor woman like that with eight--
AUGUSTE
Eight little brats. They wants to be fed!
LIESE
An' they wouldn't give her a drop o' milk even. It's low, that's what I
calls it.
AUGUSTE
Where is she milkin'?
LIESE
Way back there.
BEIPST
[_Fills his pipe. Holding his tobacco-pouch with his teeth he mumbles._]
Ye say Marie's gone?
LIESE
Yes, it's true an' certain. The parson's hired man slept with her.
BEIPST
[_Replacing the tobacco-pouch in his pocket._] Everybody feels that way
sometimes--even a woman. [_He lights his pipe and disappears through the
gateway. In going:_] I'm goin' fer a bit o' breakfast.
THE COACHMAN'S WIFE
[_Hiding the pot full of milk carefully under her apron, sticks her head
out of the stable door._] Anybody in sight?
LIESE
Ye c'n come if ye'll hurry. There ain't nobody. Come! Hurry!
THE COACHMAN'S WIFE
[_Passing by the maids._] It's fer the nursin' baby.
LIESE
[_Calling out after her._] Hurry! Some one's comin'.
_THE COACHMAN'S WIFE disappears between the house and the stable._
AUGUSTE
It's only the young Miss.
_The maids now finish unloading their wheelbarrows and then thrust
them under the doorway. They both go into the cow-shed._
_HELEN and LOTH enter by the gate._
LOTH
A disgusting fellow--this Kahl--an insolent sneak.
HELEN
I think in the arbour in front--[_They pass through the small gate into
the little garden by the house and into the arbour._] It's my favourite
place, I'm less disturbed there than anywhere if, sometimes, I want to
read something.
LOTH
It's a pretty place.--Really. [_Both sit down in the arbour, consciously
keeping at some distance from one another. An interval of silence. Then
LOTH._] You have very beautiful and abundant hair.
HELEN
Yes, my brother-in-law says so too. He thought he had scarcely seen
anyone with so much--not even in the city ... The braid at the top is as
thick as my wrist ... When I let it down, it reaches to my knees. Feel
it. It's like silk, isn't it?
LOTH
It is like silk.
[_A tremour passes through him. He bends down and kisses her hair._
HELEN
[_Frightened._] Ah, don't. If ...
LOTH
Helen! Were you in earnest a while ago?
HELEN
Oh, I am so ashamed--so deeply ashamed. What have I done? Why, I've
thrown myself at you. That's what I've done. I wonder what you take me
for?
LOTH
[_Draws nearer to her and takes her hand in his._] Ah, you mustn't let
_that_ trouble you.
HELEN
[_Sighing._] Oh, if Sister Schmittgen knew of that--I dare not imagine
it.
LOTH
Who is Sister Schmittgen?
HELEN
One of my teachers at boarding-school.
LOTH
How can you worry about Sister Schmittgen!
HELEN
She was very good.
[_Laughing heartily to herself suddenly._
LOTH
Why do you laugh all at once?
HELEN
[_Half between respect and jest._] Oh, when she stood in the choir and
sang--she had only one long tooth left--then she was supposed to sing:
"Trouble yourselves not, my people!"--and it always sounded like:
"'Rouble, 'rouble yourselves not, my people!" It was too funny. And we
always had to laugh so ... when it sounded through the chapel: "'Rouble,
'rouble!" [_She laughs more and more heartily. LOTH becomes infected by
her mirth. She seems so sweet to him at this moment that he wants to take
the opportunity to put his arms about her. HELEN wards him off._] An, no!
no! Just think! I threw myself at you!
LOTH
Oh, don't say such things!
HELEN
But it isn't my fault; you have only yourself to blame for it. Why do you
demand ...
_LOTH puts his arm about her once more and draws her closer to him.
At first she resists a little, then she yields and gazes, with frank
blessedness, into the joyous face of LOTH which bends above her.
Involuntarily, in the awkwardness of her very timidity, she kisses
his mouth. Both grow red; then LOTH returns her kiss. His caress is
long and heartfelt. A giving and taking of kisses--silent and
eloquent at once--is, for a time, all that passes between them. LOTH
is the first to speak._
LOTH
Nellie, dearest! Nellie is your name, isn't it?
HELEN
[_Kisses him._] Call me something else ... call me what you like best ...
LOTH
Dearest!...
_The exchange of kisses and of mutual contemplation is repeated._
HELEN
[_Held tight in LOTH'S arms, resting her head on his shoulder, looking up
at him with dim, happy eyes, whispers ecstatically._] Oh, how beautiful!
How beautiful!
LOTH
To die with you--thus ...
HELEN
[_Passionately._] To live!... [_She disengages herself from his
embrace._] Why die now?... now ...
LOTH
Yon must not misunderstand me. Always, in happy moments, it has come over
me with a sense of intoxication--the consciousness of the fact that it is
in our power, in my power, to embrace--you understand?
HELEN
To embrace death, if you desired it?
LOTH
[_Quite devoid of sentimentality._] Yes! And the thought of death has
nothing horrible in it for me. On the contrary, it seems like the thought
of a friend. One calls and knows surely that death will come. And so one
can rise above so many, many things--above one's past, above one's future
fate ... [_Looking at HELEN'S hand._] What a lovely hand you have.
[_He caresses it._
HELEN
Ah, yes!--so!...
[_She nestles anew in his arms._
LOTH
No, do you know, I haven't really lived--until now!
HELEN
Do you think I have?... And I feel faint--faint with happiness. Dear God,
how suddenly it all came ...
LOTH
Yes, it came all at once ...
HELEN
Listen, I feel this way: all the days of my life are like one day; but
yesterday and to-day are like a year--a whole year!
LOTH
Didn't I come till yesterday?
HELEN
Of course not! Naturally! That's just it!... Oh, and you don't even know
it!
LOTH
And surely it seems to me ...
HELEN
Doesn't it? Like a whole, long year! Doesn't it? [_Half jumping up._]
Wait...! Don't you hear ... [_They move away from each other._] Oh, but
I don't care one bit! I am so full of courage now.
[_She remains seated and invites LOTH with her eyes to move nearer,
which he does._
HELEN
[_In LOTH'S arms._] Dear, what are we going to do first?
LOTH
Your step-mother, I suppose, would send me packing.
HELEN
Oh, my step-mother ... that won't matter ... it doesn't even concern her!
I do as I please! I have my mother's fortune, you must know.
LOTH
Did you think on that account ...
HELEN
I am of age; father will have to give me my share.
LOTH
You are not, then, on good terms with everyone here?--Where has your
father gone to?
HELEN
Gone? You have?... Oh, you haven't seen my father yet?
LOTH
No; Hoffmann told me....
HELEN
Surely, you saw him once.
LOTH
Not that I know of. Where, dearest?
HELEN
I.... [_She bursts into tears._] No, I can't. I can't tell you ... it's
too, too fearful!
LOTH
So fearful? But, Helen, is anything wrong with your father?
HELEN
Oh, don't ask me! Not now, at least! Some time...!
LOTH
I will not urge you to tell me anything, dear, that you don't voluntarily
speak of. And, look, as far as the money is concerned ... if the worst
came ... though I don't exactly earn superfluous cash with my
articles--still, in the end, we could both manage to exist on it.
HELEN
And I wouldn't be idle either, would I? But the other way is better. My
inheritance Is more than enough.--And there's your life work ... no,
you're not to give that up under any circumstances ... now less than ever
...! Now you're to have your real chance to pursue it!
LOTH
[_Kissing her tenderly._] Dearest, best ...
HELEN
Oh, do you truly care...? Truly? Truly?
LOTH
Truly.
HELEN
You must say truly a hundred times.
LOTH
Truly and truly and truthfully.
HELEN
Oh, now, you're not playing fair!
LOTH
I am, though. That truthfully is equal to a hundred trulys.
HELEN
Oh? Is that the custom in Berlin?
LOTH
No, but it is here in Witzdorf.
HELEN
Oh! But now, look at my little finger and don't laugh.
LOTH
Gladly.
HELEN
Did you ever love any one before your first betrothed? Oh, now you _are_
laughing!
LOTH
I will tell you in all seriousness, dearest; indeed, I think it is my
duty.... In the course of my life a considerable number of women....
HELEN
[_With a quick and violent start, pressing her hand over his mouth._] For
the love of.... Tell me that some day, later, when we are old, when the
years have passed, when I shall say to you: "now!" Do you hear! Not
before!
LOTH
Just as you will.
HELEN
Rather tell me something sweet now!... Listen: repeat after me:
LOTH
What?
HELEN
I have loved--
LOTH
I have loved--
HELEN
Always you only--
LOTH
Always you only--
HELEN
All the days of my life--
LOTH
All the days of my life--
HELEN
And will love you only as long as I live--
LOTH
And will love you only as long as I live--and that is true so surely as I
am an honest man.
HELEN
[_Joyfully._] I didn't add that!
LOTH
But I did.
[_They kiss each other._
HELEN
[_Hums very softly._] "Thou in my heart art lying ..."
LOTH
But now you must confess too.
HELEN
Anything you like.
LOTH
Confess now! Am I the first?
HELEN
No.
LOTH
Who?
HELEN
[_Laughing out in the fullness of her joy._] Willy Kahl!
LOTH
[_Laughing._] Who else?
HELEN
Oh, no, there's no one else really. You must believe me ... Truly there
wasn't. Why should I tell you a falsehood?
LOTH
So there _was_ someone else?
HELEN
[_Passionately._] Oh, please, please, please, don't ask me now.
[_She hides her face in her hands and weeps apparently without any
reason._
LOTH
But ... but Nellie! I'm not insistent; I don't want to ...
HELEN
Later ... I'll tell you later ... not now!
LOTH
As I said before, dearest.
HELEN
There was some one--I want you to know--whom I ... because ... because
among wicked people he seemed the least wicked. Oh, it is so different
now. [_Weeping against LOTH'S neck: stormily._] Ah, if I only didn't have
to leave you at all any more! Oh, if I could only go away with you right
here on the spot!
LOTH
I suppose you have a very unhappy time in the house here?
HELEN
Oh, dear!--It's just frightful--the things that happen here. It's a life
like--that ... like that of the beasts of the field--Oh, I would have
died without you. I shudder to think of it!
LOTH
I believe it would calm you, dearest, if you would tell me everything
quite openly.
HELEN
Yes, to be sure. But I don't think I can bear to. Not now, at least, not
yet. And I'm really afraid to.
LOTH
You were at boarding-school, weren't you?
HELEN
My mother decided that I be sent--on her death-bed.
LOTH
Was your sister there with you?
HELEN
No, she was always at home ... And so when, four years ago, I came back
from school, I found a father--who ... a step-mother--who ... a sister
... guess, can't you guess what I mean!
LOTH
I suppose your step-mother is quarrelsome? Perhaps jealous? unloving?
HELEN
My father...?
LOTH
Well, in all probability he dances to her music. Perhaps she tyrannises
over him?
HELEN
Oh, if it were nothing else?... No! It is too frightful!--You can't
possibly guess that _that_ ... my father ... that it was _my_ father whom
you ...
LOTH
Don't weep, Nellie!... Look, you almost make me feel as though I ought to
insist that you tell ...
HELEN
No, no, it isn't possible. I haven't the strength!--not yet!
LOTH
But you're wearing yourself out this way!
HELEN
But I'm so ashamed, so boundlessly ashamed! Why, you will drive me from
you in horror...! It's beyond anything...! It's loathsome!
LOTH
Nellie, dear, you don't know me if you can think such things of me!
Repulse you! Drive you from me! Do I seem such a brute to you?
HELEN
My brother-in-law said that you would quite calmly ... But no, no, you
wouldn't? Would you?--You wouldn't just ruthlessly walk over me? Oh! you
won't! You mustn't! I don't know what _would_ become of me!
LOTH
But, dear, it's senseless to talk so. There's no earthly reason!
HELEN
But if there were a reason, it might happen!
LOTH
No! Not at all!
HELEN
But if you could think of a reason?
LOTH
There are reasons, to be sure; but they're not in question.
HELEN
And what kind of reasons?
LOTH
I would have to be ruthless only toward some one who would make me betray
my own most ideal self.
HELEN
And surely, I wouldn't want to do that! And yet I can't rid myself of the
feeling--
LOTH
What feeling, dearest?
HELEN
Perhaps it's just because I'm nothing but a silly girl. There's so little
to me--Why, I don't even know what it is--to have principles! Isn't that
frightful? But I just simply love you so! And you're so good, and so
great, and so very wise! I'm so afraid that you might, sometime,
discover--when I say something foolish, or do something--that it's all a
mistake, that I'm much too silly for you ... I'm really as worthless and
as silly as I can be!
LOTH
What shall I say to all that? You're everything to me, just everything in
the whole world. I can't say more!
HELEN
And I'm very strong and healthy, too ...
LOTH
Tell me, are your parents in good health?
HELEN
Indeed they are. That is, mother died in childbirth. But father is still
well; in fact he must have a very strong constitution. But ...
LOTH
Well, you see. Everything is ...
HELEN
But if my parents were not strong--;
LOTH
[_Kissing HELEN._] But then, they are, dear.
HELEN
But suppose they were not--?
_MRS. KRAUSE pushes open a window in the house and calls out into the
yard._
MRS. KRAUSE
Hey! Girls! Gi--rls!
LIESE
[_From within the cow-shed._] Yes, Missis?
MRS. KRAUSE
Run to Mueller's! It's startin'!
LIESE
What! To the midwife, ye mean?
MRS. KRAUSE
Are ye standin' on your ear?
[_She slams the window._
_LIESE runs out of the cow-shed with a little shawl over her head and
then out of the yard._
MRS. SPILLER
[_Calls._] Miss Helen! Oh, Miss Helen!
HELEN
What do you suppose is--?
MRS. SPILLER
[_Approaching the arbour._] Miss Helen!
HELEN
Oh, I know. It's my sister who--You must go, 'round that way!
[_LOTH withdraws rapidly by the right foreground. HELEN steps out
from the arbour._
MRS. SPILLER
Oh, Miss, there you are at last!
HELEN
What is it?
MRS. SPILLER
Ah--m--your sister.
[_She whispers into HELEN'S ear._
HELEN
My brother-in-law ordered that the doctor be sent for at any sign of--
MRS. SPILLER
Oh--m--dear Miss Helen--m--she doesn't really want a doctor. These
doctors--m--oh, these doctors--m--with God's help ...
_MIELE comes from the house._
HELEN
Miele, go at once for Dr. Schimmelpfennig!
MRS. KRAUSE
[_From the window, arrogantly._] Miele! You come up here!
HELEN
[_In a tone of command._] Miele, you go for the doctor! [_MIELE withdraws
into the house._] Well, then I must go myself ...
[_She goes into the house and comes back out at once carrying her
straw hat._
MRS. SPILLER
It'll go wrong--m--If you call the doctor, dear Miss Helen,--m--it will
surely go wrong!
_HELEN passes her by. MRS. SPILLER withdraws into the house, shaking
her head. As HELEN turns at the driveway KAHL is standing at the
boundary fence._
KAHL
[_Calls out to HELEN._] What's the matter over at your place?
_HELEN does not stop, nor does she deign to notice or answer KAHL._
KAHL
[_Laughing._] I guess ye got a pig killin'?
CURTAIN
THE FIFTH ACT
_The same room, as in the first act. Time: toward two o'clock in the
morning. The room is in complete darkness. Through the open middle
door light penetrates into it from the illuminated hall. The light
also falls clearly upon the wooden stairway that leads to the upper
floor. The conversation in this act--with very few exceptions--is
carried on in a muffled tone._
_EDWARD enters through the middle door, carrying a light. He lights
the hanging lamp (it is a gas lamp) over the corner table. While he
is thus employed, LOTH _also enters by the middle door._
EDWARD
O Lord! Such goin's on! It'd take a monster to be able to close a eye
here!
LOTH
I didn't even try to sleep. I have been writing.
EDWARD
You don't say! [_He succeeds in lighting the lamp._] There! Well, sure, I
guess it's hard enough, too ... Maybe you'd like to have paper and ink,
sir?
LOTH
Perhaps that would be ... If you would be so good, then, Mr. Edward?
EDWARD
[_Placing pen and ink on the table._] I'm always thinkin' that any honest
fellow has got to get all the work there's in every bone for every dirty
penny. You can't even get your rest o' nights. [_More and more
confidentially._] But this crew here! They don't do one thing--a lazy,
worthless crew, a--... I suppose, sir, that you've got to be at it early
and late too, like all honest folks, for your bit o' bread.
LOTH
I wish I didn't have to.
EDWARD
Me too, you betcher.
LOTH
I suppose Miss Helen is with her sister?
EDWARD
Yes, sir, an', honestly, she's a good girl, she is; hasn't budged since
it started.
LOTH
[_Looking at his watch._] The pains began at eleven o'clock in the
morning. So they've already lasted fifteen hours--fifteen long hours--!
EDWARD
Lord, yes!--And that's what they calls the weaker sex. But she's just
barely gaspin'.
LOTH
And is Mr. Hoffmann upstairs, too?
EDWARD
Yes, an' I can tell you, he's goin' on like a woman.
LOTH
Well, I suppose it isn't very easy to have to watch that.
EDWARD
You're right there, indeed. Dr. Schimmelpfennig came just now. There's a
man for you: rough as rough can be--but sugar ain't nothing to his real
feelings. But just tell me what's become of little, old Berlin in all
this ...
[_He interrupts himself with a_ Gee-rusa-lem! _as HOFFMANN and the
DOCTOR are seen coming down the stairs._
_HOFFMANN and DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG enter._
HOFFMANN
Surely--you will stay with us from now on.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Yes, I suppose I will stay now.
HOFFMANN
That's a very, very great consolation to me.--Will you have a glass of
wine? Surely you'll drink a glass of wine, Doctor?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
If you want to do something for me, have a cup of coffee prepared.
HOFFMANN
With pleasure. Edward! Coffee for the doctor! [_EDWARD withdraws._] Are
you...? Are you satisfied with the way things are going?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
So long as your wife's strength keeps up there is, at all events, no
direct danger. But why didn't you call in the young midwife? I remember
having recommended her to you.
HOFFMANN
My mother-in-law...! What is one to do? And, to be frank with you, my
wife has no confidence in the young woman either.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
But your ladies place confidence in this old fossil? Well, I hope they'll
... And I suppose you would like to go back upstairs?
HOFFMANN
Yes, honestly, I can't get much rest down here.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
It would be better undoubtedly if you were to go somewhere--out of the
house.
HOFFMANN
With the best will in the world, I--. [_LOTH arises from the sofa in the
dim foreground and approaches the two._] Hallo, Loth, there you are too!
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Surprised in the extreme._] Well, I'll be--!
LOTH
I heard that you were here. I would have looked you up to-morrow without
fail.
[_They shake hands cordially. HOFFMANN takes the opportunity to mash
down a glass of brandy at the side-board and then to creep back
upstairs on tiptoe._
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
So you've evidently forgotten--ha, ha, ha--that ridiculous old affair?
[_He lays aside his hat and cane._
LOTH
Long ago, Schimmel!
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Well, so have I, as you can well imagine. [_They shake hands once more._]
I've had so few pleasant surprises in this hole, that this one seems
positively queer to me. And it is strange that we should meet just here.
It _is_.
LOTH
And you faded clear out of sight. Otherwise I'd have routed you out long
ago.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Oh, I just dived below the surface like a seal. Made deep-sea
investigations. In about a year and a half I hope to emerge once more. A
man must be financially independent--do you know that?--In order to
achieve anything useful.
LOTH
So you, too, are making money here?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Naturally and as much as possible. What else is there to do here?
LOTH
You might have let some one hear from you!
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
I beg your pardon. But if I had been heard from, I would have heard from
you fellows--and I absolutely didn't want to hear. Nothingnothing. That
would simply have kept me from exploiting my diggings here.
_The two men walk slowly up and down the room._
LOTH
I see. But then you mustn't be surprised to hear that ... well, they all,
without an exception, really gave you up as hopeless.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
That's like them--the scamps! They'll be made to take notice.
LOTH
Schimmel--otherwise the "rough husk"!
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
I wish you had had to live here among the farmers for six years.
Hellhounds--every one of them.
LOTH
I can imagine that.--But how in the world did you get to Witzdorf?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
The way such things do happen! You remember I had to skin out from Jena
that time.
LOTH
Was that before my crash?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Yes, a short time after we'd given up living together. So I took up
medicine at Zuerich, first simply so as to have something against a time
of need. But then the thing began to interest me, and now I'm a doctor,
heart and soul.
LOTH
And about this place. How did you get here?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Very simply. When I got through I said to myself: first of all you've got
to have a sufficient pile. I thought of America, South and North America,
of Africa, Australia and the isles of the sea ... In the end it occurred
to me, however, that my escapade had become outlawed; and so I made up my
mind to creep back into the old trap.
LOTH
And how about your Swiss examinations?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Why, I simply had to go through the whole rigmarole once more.
LOTH
Man! You passed the state medical examination twice over?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Yes, luckily I then discovered this fat pasture here.
LOTH
Your toughness is certainly enviable.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
All very well, unless one collapses suddenly.--Well, it wouldn't matter
so greatly after all.
LOTH
Have you a very large practice?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Oh, yes. Occasionally I don't get to bed till five o'clock in the
morning. And at seven my consultation hour begins again.
_EDWARD comes in, bringing coffee._
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Sitting down at the table, to EDWARD._] Thank you, Edward.--[_To
LOTH._]--The way I swill coffee is--uncanny.
LOTH
You'd better give that up.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
What is one to do? [_He takes small swallows._] As I told you awhile
ago--another year; then--all this stops. At least, I hope so.
LOTH
Don't you intend to practice after that at all?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Don't think so. No--no more. [_He pushes back the tray with the dishes
and wipes his mouth._] By the way, let's see your hand. [_LOTH holds up
both his hands for inspection._] I see. You've taken no wife to your
bosom yet. Haven't found one, I suppose. I remember you always wanted
primaeval vigour in the woman of your choice on account of the soundness
of the strain. And you're quite right, too. If one takes a risk, it ought
to be a good one. Or maybe you've become less stringent in that respect.
LOTH
Not a bit! You may take your oath.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
I wish the farmers around here had such notions. But they're in a
wretched condition--degeneration along the whole line ... [_He has half
taken his cigar case from his inner pocket but lets it slip back and
arises as a sound penetrates through the door which is only ajar._] Wait
a moment! [_He goes on tiptoe to the door leading to the hall and
listens. A door is heard to open and close, and for several moments the
moans of the woman in labour are audible. The DOCTOR, turning to LOTH,
says softly._] Excuse me!
[_And goes out._
_For several seconds, while the slamming of doors is heard and the
sound of people running up and down the stairs, LOTH paces the room.
Then he sits down in the arm-chair in the foreground, right. HELEN
slips in and throws her arms about LOTH, who has not observed her
coming from, behind._
LOTH
[_Looking around and embracing her in turn._] Nellie! [_He drams her down
upon his knee in spite of her gentle resistance. HELEN weeps under his
kisses._] Don't cry, Nellie! Why are you crying so?
HELEN
Why? Oh, if I knew!... I keep thinking that I won't find you here. Just
now I had such a fright ...
LOTH
But why?
HELEN
Because I heard you go out of your room--Oh, and my sister--we poor, poor
women!--oh, she's suffering too much!
LOTH
The pain is soon forgotten and there is no danger of death.
HELEN
Oh, but she is praying so to die. She wails and wails: Do let me die!...
The doctor!
[_She jumps up and slips into the conservatory._
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_On entering._] I do really wish now that that little woman upstairs
would hurry a bit! [_He sits down beside the table, takes out his cigar
case again, extracts a cigar from it and lays the latter down on the
table._] You'll come over to my house afterward, won't you? I have a
necessary evil with two horses standing out there in which we can drive
straight over. [_He taps his cigar against the edge of the table._] Oh,
the holy state of matrimony! O Lord! [_Striking a match._] So you're
still pure, free, pious and merry?
LOTH
You might better have waited a few more days with that question.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_His cigar is lit now._] Oho! I see!--[_laughing_]--so you've caught on
to my tricks at last!
LOTH
Are you still so frightfully pessimistic in regard to women?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
_Fright_fully! [_Watching the drifting smoke of his cigar._] In other
years I was a pessimist, so to speak, by presentiment....
LOTH
Have you had very special experiences in the meantime?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
That's just it. My shingle reads: Specialist for Diseases of Women.--The
practice of medicine, I assure you, makes a man terribly wise ...
terribly ... sane ...; it's a specific against all kinds of delusions.
LOTH
[_Laughing._] Well, then we can fall back into our old tone at once. I
want you to know ... I haven't caught on to your tricks at all. Less than
ever now ... But I am to understand, I suppose, that you've exchanged
your old hobby?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Hobby?
LOTH
The question of woman was in those days in a certain way your pet
subject.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
I see! And why should I have exchanged it?
LOTH
If you think even worse of women than ...
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_Somewhat aroused. He gets up and walks to and fro while he is
speaking._] I don't think evil of women.--Not a bit!--I think evil only
of marrying ... of marriage ... of marriage and--at most, of men ... The
woman question, you think, has ceased to interest me? What do you suppose
I've worked here for, during six years, like a cart horse? Surely in
order to devote at last all the power that is in me to the solution of
that question. Didn't you know that from the beginning?
LOTH
How do you suppose I could have known it?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Well, as I said ... and I've already gathered a lot of very significant
material that will be of some service to me! Sh! I've got the bad habit
of raising my voice. [_He falls silent, listens, goes to the door and
comes back._] But what took you among these gold farmers?
LOTH
I would like to study the local conditions.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
[_In a repressed tone._] What a notion! [_Still more softly._] I can give
you plenty of material there too.
LOTH
To be sure. You must be thoroughly informed as to the conditions here.
How do things look among the families around here?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Miserable! There's nothing but drunkenness, gluttony, inbreeding and, in
consequence,--degeneration along the whole line.
LOTH
With exceptions, surely?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Hardly.
LOTH
[_Disquieted._] Didn't the temptation ever come to you to ... to marry a
daughter of one of these Witzdorf gold farmers?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
The devil! Man, what do you take me for? You might as well ask whether I
...
LOTH
[_Very pale._] But why ... why?
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG
Because ... Anything w
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/9971