Smitten with her?
[Somewhat reproachfully.] George!!!
Sh, sh--silence!
[During following scene,Marienoiselessly clears off the table.]
[Enters.] I should not have dared to annoy the ladies at this early hour, if----
[Laughingly.] Eight o'clock is not so very early in the country, my dear Pastor; you will soon learn that here.
And how is the good old pastor?
[Doubtfully shrugging his shoulders.] Well!
[Alarmed.] He is not worse, I hope?
At the age of eighty, my dear lady, one cannot be said to be growing stronger.
Ah, I see, Pastor, you are somewhat of a philosopher. Will you take something?
You are very kind. A good glass of brandy is half the morning sun.
Now that is a manly word, Pastor.
Oh! thank you! Your health![Drinks.]
Will you take something, George?
No thank you, uncle, not now.
When did you arrive, Pastor?
Just three weeks ago.
And do you like our town?
Very much indeed, thank you. I find the whole world beautiful; but the surroundings here are exceptionally so. Yes, this place to me seems doubly attractive, for here every one seems smiling and happy---- Pardon me. Miss, you have dropped the napkin.
[Mariesmilingly bows her acknowledgment.]
[Gertrudeexits, stifling a laugh.]
Pastor, you will pardon this rudeness, she is still a child.
Oh, certainly, certainly; for she is right. I have not yet been able to overcome my old tendency to play the gallant in the presence of ladies--and in this frock--I know--I must look somewhat ridiculous.
Tell me. Pastor, how did you happen to obtain this position?
Well, you see, that, too, is partly connected with this coat. There were four of us, classmates--who, after graduating, were eagerly awaiting the call to save the sinful world--and among them, myself the only one who was, what you might say, in fairly good financial circumstances. We were now and then compelled, first one and then the other, to present ourselves at the board of directors--and as a consequence my coat suffered severely. Now it really never fitted any one of my comrades and at my suggestion we finally purchased a coat, that came nearer fitting each of us, striking a happy medium, as it were, to every one's satisfaction. Then, about four weeks ago, an ex-fellow-student--the curate of the cathedral--came to us, with this information: "Ye holy men, list ye to me. In yon Lithuanian mountains lives a minister of the gospel, who, on account of his extreme age and feebleness, is incapacitated from properly performing his duties. And as there are four of you, I propose that you draw straws and leave it to chance who shall be the favored one." At that the others unanimously declared: "No, he who has shared with us his clothing shall be the favored one"--and--well, here I am and, I fear, not half as pious as I look.
Ah, courage, Pastor, courage----
Pray do not think that I am ashamed of my calling; believe me, like our Lord and Master, my heart aches for suffering humanity, and therefore it has ever been my desire to follow in His footsteps. Besides, it was my father's wish. You must know my father is a well-to-do farmer--there are no really large estates in the lowlands--but he has considerable--yes, I might say, a great deal of money--and owing to my early surroundings, I'm afraid I am much better suited for a farmer than a minister of the gospel. But I will not give up, and continue to struggle and rid myself of all my bad habits. Your health!
Do you know, Pastor, I am beginning to like you! Do you wish to remain here and take the old pastor's place?
I really would like----
Very well, my vote you shall have!
You are very kind, indeed. With such a position I should be quite content, and to complete my happiness----but, by-the-bye, the object of my visit was, really, the bridal-sermon. I am afraid our good old pastor will not be able now----
Ah----
[Simultaneously.] Will not be equal to the exertion, you mean; ah--I feared as much.
Therefore, if you will allow me--unless you desired some one else----
Pastor, if we had not already heard you in the pulpit I would deny your request, point blank, as you are practically a stranger to us. But your ways and sentiments please me, and therefore--what say you, wife? [She nods.]--And you, George?
Oh, I don't know; but unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a great deal of sympathy between us, eh, Pastor?
Now I must confess that is rather meaningless, at least so far as I am concerned; for my sympathy extends towards the whole world.
At any rate I am glad----
[Jestingly.] Then will you kindly leave us for awhile? I desire to inquire into your past record.
[Shakes his finger laughingly.] With pleasure, if you promise not to be too severe on me.[Exit.]
Now, then, with your kind permission, I will take a few notes----
Certainly, Pastor!
This young gentleman, your nephew, is especially close to the family, is he not?
Correct!
Pardon me, but may I ask in what way?
I will tell you. Pastor. It was in the year '67, when we had here in East Prussia, a terrible drought--a year of distress and--do you remember anything about it?
Very little, as I was then still quite young.
Ah, it was terrible! Potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. Of wheat and rye hardly a trace. We farmers, I tell you--! Then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide.
And the--your sister, still lives?
Thank God, no! but from that day----
Pardon the interruption; but I have heard your daughter, Miss Marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. Has that any connection with this year of distress?
And you didn't know that, Pastor--how she came into our house? Well, during that same terrible winter, we were returning one night, my husband and myself, from the town, where we had at our own expense erected a soup-kitchen--when suddenly, at the corner of the woods yonder, where the road makes a sharp turn, our horses shied--and there, in the middle of the road, we saw lying, a woman, with a child pressed closely to her bosom. She refused to stir and begged us to put her out of her misery. Of course, we took her into the sleigh at once--ah, she was in an awful condition----
I tell you, Pastor, it was months before we could rid the blankets of vermin.
And the child, the poor little thing----! But after being bathed and fed, and lying there, between the clean white covers, we both stood over its bed--the little thing, with its pinched face, laughed at us and stretched out its tiny hands--my husband said to me: "Wife, I believe this is our share of all this sorrow and misery that heaven has sent us."
For you must know. Pastor, that our own daughter, Gertrude was then not yet born.
No, not until three years later. Well, we bought the child from that miserable, drunken woman, in proper, legal form--determined and glad to get rid of her, for she did smell so of gin, I could not endure it any longer.
That is what the worst drunkards in these parts prefer to brandy.
Unfortunately!!!
But to come back to my nephew----
Pardon me, another question. What became of the mother?
Ah, that is a bad story--and just to-day----
Yes----
Oh--nothing, nothing. Anyway--that woman really did return, and as we did not want the child to see her, we gave her more money. Of course she remembered that and so finally she became a positive plague.
Oh, Henry, I have often thought since, perhaps a mother's heart prompted her----
You think so, eh? Then perhaps a mother's heart also prompted her to steal at the same time! for every time she honored us with a visit, something or other disappeared, until I grew suspicious, had her watched, she was caught red-handed--and, of course, a long term in prison was the result.
And the girl--does she know or suspect anything at all?
We told her, her mother was dead. But one day she really did see her.
How did that misfortune happen?
It was on her confirmation day, just as the girls left the church in a body, when we heard a cry. What had happened? Why, that woman had been lying in wait for the procession; when suddenly she appeared, seized her child, and kneeling before her in the road, passionately covered her hands and feet with kisses.
[Shuddering.] Horrible!!!!!!
I tore the child from her arms, of course, and carried her into the house. We had to make some kind of an explanation; a drunken vagabond, I told her! Did she believe it?--H'm?--Then she fell ill----
And how is it now?
[Humorously.] Why, Pastor, you seem very much interested.
[Enters.Gertrudefollows him in.] I presume I am pretty well done by this time.
We haven't even started with your case. The pastor is interested in something of far greater importance.
[With meaning and moved.] You must not believe that, Mr. von Harten; but there are lives whose fates are surrounded by so much mystery---- [with a glance atMarie,who enters L. with package of linen.]
[Who follows his glance.] Yes, yes, you are right.
If you will allow me, I will call again about the sermon.
[Giving him her hand.] Pastor, you know you are always welcome in this house.
Give my regards to our good old pastor. Towards evening we will see him, as usual.
Oh, I had almost forgotten! He desires me to ask you kindly, should you again favor him with eggnog, to please add a little more sugar, for the last was a trifle tart.
Why, of course, the poor old soul.
Do not say that, madame; for when the time has come when all our wishes and hopes and desires are concentrated upon a small quantity of sweets, our sufferings are near the end. And now, adieu. Miss Marie, adieu.
[Preoccupied.] Adieu.
[Pastorexits, accompanied byBrauer.]
[Gertrudeenters.]
Don't be afraid dear, no one will scold you.
Oh mama, I'm so ashamed of myself. When he arrived he seemed so jolly--and now--I am sure he is offended.
He was not offended, dear, only a little grave.
At any rate, what do you think of him, Marie?
[Glancing up from her work, sorting linen.] Of whom, mama dear?
Why, the new pastor.
Oh mama, my mind is so occupied, I hadn't given him a thought.
[Aside toGeorge.] Now you tell her, George.
Gertrude, how about our manzanillo-tree--any blossoms this morning?
You don't mean to say you haven't looked after that beloved tree of yours this morning?
I have had no time, mama dear.
[ToGeorge.] Now tell her.
Marie, both Gertrude and myself insist, that you cease this endless drudgery for our sakes; it isn't right.
[Marie,humming, pays no heed--looks into space.]
See, she is not even listening.
What's that you are singing?
I--? Was I singing?
Well then, humming.
Oh yes, last night at the station I heard a strange song--some one in a fourth-class coach was singing. Listen. [Sings.] "Zwirio czenay, zwirio tenay--kam'mano bernyczo--Rid wid wil dai dai--Ne'r mano bernyczo."
And the Lithuanian text--you memorized it just from hearing it?
Certainly.
Well, where did you learn all that?
Why, I have always known it.
And could you translate it readily?
Oh, it means nothing, really--[makes one or two attempts.]--"here"--no! "I look here and I look there--where may be my lover? Rid wid will dai dai--Nowhere is my lover!"
[Enters during this, unseen by her, puts arms around her. She shrieks.] There, there--[caressing her.] Patience, my darling, some day you will have one--perhaps very soon. Why, what's the matter, dear?
[Leans on him in tearless sobbing.] Oh, you have frightened me so!
What is the matter with you this morning? What has happened?
I have already told you, nothing.
Tut, tut! something has gone wrong! I can see it--and now, I demand that you tell me the truth.
Well, then--yes!
What is it? Come, come, out with it.
Some one attacked me.
Attacked you?
Not far from here.
As you came from the station?
Yes.
Well, I never--but everyone around here knows you and your character; how did he look? was it a vagabond?
[Hesitatingly.] N--No. It was--a gentleman----
Did he lay hands on you, or even try to touch you?
No.
But you say he attacked you?
Attacked me--yes!
You mean he followed you?
Yes.
How far?
As far as the gate, which I opened quickly and then he disappeared.
[To the others.] Now, what do you say to that? [Georgeshrugs his shoulders.] There is something queer about it all. [ToMarie.] And that is what upset you so?
Oh, I am already much composed.
[Raises her head.] Yes--you look it.
Oh, papa, don't torment her so.
Now, then, go and take a good nap.
Not yet, papa dear, I can't. I must speak with George first. About the large bookcase--I really don't know where to place it.
But you can do that later, can't you?
I fear I might forget it.
Very well; I am going down to look after the cow. Will you come, wife?
[Rising and putting up her handwork.] Yes, dear.
[ToMarie.] And one thing more,--don't you put your foot outside of the gate without an escort hereafter! Understand? Not once!
But why not, papa dear?
After what has happened? But I never heard of such a thing--never, as long as I----
But, Henry, in broad daylight, it is hardly necessary----
No matter; I have my reasons for that; besides--well, I'll tell you later.
[In passing tapsMarieon cheek.] Now, pet, go and take a good rest.[Both exit.]
You must go, too, Gertrude!
[Peevishly.] But why should I?
You know, dear, your future home----
Ah, yes; those stupid furnishings! Do you know, I don't think a wedding half so much fun as Christmas. Now don't be long, will you? [Exit.]
[Pause.]
Why so deep in thought, suddenly?
I--? Oh, I was thinking. I was picturing to myself that cosy little nook, your corner room!
Marie, dear, how can I ever thank you for all the----
Don't speak of it, George, for I take great delight in having the furniture moved about; and then, I say to myself: "Here is where they will take their tea, and there they will while away their leisure hours"--so---- But, what I meant to tell you! Yesterday we had an accident--the large mirror in the parlor was broken. I know it portends ill----
What care I, so long as our friendship will not be broken.
But why should it?
It shall never be my fault, Marie.
Certainly never mine. But what I wanted to say,--I had the large mahogany bookcase repolished. Is that satisfactory?
Anything you choose to do is satisfactory to me.
[Hesitatingly.] And then--I must tell you, George, something important. When I unpacked the bookcase, I found a blue manuscript.
[Unsuspecting.] What kind of a manuscript?
George, you must not leave that lying around--not even hidden behind the books, especially now, when you take your wife to your home.
In heaven's name, what manuscript?
I believe--it contains some poems----
You believe--it contains some poems. I have missed it since early last winter; I thought I had lost it. Marie, now tell me truthfully, have you read its contents?
N--no!
Then why do you tell me not to leave it around?