PARIAH, OR THE OUTCASTOne-Act PlayCHARACTERSMR. X., an archeologistMR. Y., a traveller from AmericaBoth middle-aged[SCENE—Simple room in a country house; door and window at back, through which one sees a country landscape. In the middle of the room a large dining table; on one side of it books and writing materials and on the other side some antiques, a microscope, insect boxes, alcohol jars. To the left of scene a book-shelf, and all the other furnishings are those of a country gentleman. Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying an insect net and a botanical tin box. He goes directly to the book-shelf, takes down a book and reads stealthily from it. The after-service bell of a country church rings. The landscape and room are flooded with sunshine. Now and then one hears the clucking of hens outside. Mr. X. comes in also in shirt-sleeves. Mr. Y. starts nervously, returns the book to its place, and pretends to look for another book on the shelf.]MR. X. What oppressive heat! We'll surely have a thunder-shower.MR. Y. Yes? What makes you think so?MR. X. The bells sound like it, the flies bite so, and the hens are cackling. I wanted to go fishing, but I couldn't find a single worm. Don't you feel rather nervous?MR. Y. [Reflectively]. I? Well, yes.MR. X. But you always look as if you expected a thunder-shower.MR. Y. Do I?MR. X. Well, as you are to start off on your travels again tomorrow, it's not to be wondered at if you have the knapsack fever. What's the news? Here's the post. [Takes up letters from the table.] Oh, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter. Nothing but debts, debts! Did you ever have any debts?MR. Y. [Reflecting]. No-o-o.MR. X. Well, then, of course you can't understand how it feels to have unpaid bills come in. [He reads a letter.] The rent owing—the landlord clamoring—and my wife in despair. And I, I sitting up to my elbows in gold. [Opens an iron-mounted case, which stands on the table. They both sit down, one on each side of the case.] Here is six thousand crowns' worth of gold that I've dug up in two weeks. This bracelet alone would bring the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I should be able to make a brilliant career for myself. The first thing I should do would be to have drawings made and cuts of the figures for my treatises. After that I would print—and then clear out. Why do you suppose I don't do this?MR. Y. It must be because you are afraid of being found out.MR. X. Perhaps that, too. But don't you think that a man of my intelligence should be able to manage it so that it wouldn't be found out? I always go alone to dig out there on the hills—without witnesses. Would it be remarkable to put a little something in one's pockets?MR. Y. Yes, but disposing of it, they say, is the dangerous part.MR. X. Humph, I should of course have the whole thing smelted, and then I should have it cast into ducats—full weight, of course—MR. Y. Of course!MR. X. That goes without saying. If I wanted to make counterfeit money—well, it wouldn't be necessary to dig the gold first. [Pause.] It's remarkable, nevertheless, that if some one were to do what I can't bring myself to do, I should acquit him. But I should not be able to acquit myself. I should be able to put up a brilliant defense for the thief; prove that this gold wasres nullius, or no one's, and that it got into the earth before there were any land rights; that even now it belongs to no one but the first comer, as the owner had never accounted it part of his property, and so on.MR. Y. And you would not be able to do this if—h'm!—the thief had stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector's mania, of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,—isn't that so?MR. X. You mean that I wouldn't be able to acquit him if he had stolen through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon. That is simple theft, that is!MR. Y. And that you would not pardon?MR. X. H'm! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had dug up on some one else's property.MR. Y. That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need could not?MR. X. Yes, that's the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition.MR. Y. And you count it a great virtue that you cannot—h'm—steal?MR. X. With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess this gold is not lacking in me. Why don't I take it then? I cannot; it's an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are![Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.]MR. X. How close it is! I think we'll have some thunder.[Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.]MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder?MR. Y. One should be careful.[They sit again at table.]MR. X. You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels, collecting insects for a little museum.MR. Y. Oh, don't bother about me.MR. X. That's what you always say when I get tired of talking about myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy. We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid; you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there before the mirror and I see your back, it's as if I were looking at another person. [Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.] Oh, you can't see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,—well, I don't wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden, as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders across your white shirt—it looks like—like a big brand, a trade mark on a packing box.MR. Y. [Rising]. I believe I will suffocate—if the shower doesn't break and come soon.MR. X. It will come soon. Just be quiet. And the back of your neck, too, it looks as if there were another head on it, with the face of another type than you. You are so terribly narrow between the ears that I sometimes wonder if you don't belong to another race. [There is flash of lightning.] That one looked as if it struck at the sheriff's.MR. Y. [Worried]. At the—sh-sheriff's!MR. X. Yes, but it only looked so. But this thunder won't amount to anything. Sit down now and let's have a talk, as you are off again tomorrow.—It's queer that, although I became intimate with you so soon, you are one of those people whose likeness I cannot recall when they are out of my sight. When you are out in the fields and I try to recall your face, another acquaintance always comes to mind—some one who doesn't really look like you, but whom you resemble nevertheless.MR. Y. Who is that?MR. X. I won't mention the name. However, I used to have dinner at the same place for many years, and there at the lunch counter I met a little blond man with pale, worried eyes. He had an extraordinary faculty of getting about in a crowded room without shoving or being shoved. Standing at the door, he could reach a slice of bread two yards away; he always looked as if he was happy to be among people, and whenever he ran into an acquaintance he would fall into rapturous laughter, embrace him, and do the figure eight around him, and carry on as if he hadn't met a human being for years; if any one stepped on his toes he would smile as if he were asking pardon for being in the way. For two years I used to see him, and I used to amuse myself trying to figure out his business and character, but I never asked any one who he was,—I didn't want to know, as that would have put an end to my amusement. That man had the same indefinable characteristics as you; sometimes I would make him out an undergraduate teacher, an under officer, a druggist, a government clerk, or a detective, and like you, he seemed to be made up of two different pieces and the front didn't fit the back. One day I happened to read in the paper about a big forgery by a well-known civil official. After that I found out that my indefinable acquaintance had been the companion of the forger's brother, and that his name was Stråman; and then I was informed that the afore-mentioned Stråman had been connected with a free library, but that he was then a police reporter on a big newspaper. How could I then get any connection between the forgery, the police, and the indefinable man's appearance? I don't know, but when I asked a man if Stråman had ever been convicted, he answered neither yes nor no—he didn't know. [Pause.]MR. Y. Well, was he ever—convicted?MR. X. No, he had not been convicted.[Pause.]MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of bumping into people?MR. X. Yes.MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward?MR. X. No, I didn't want to.MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been convicted?MR. X. Yes, indeed.[Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.]MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly.MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal attitude towards people's conduct? Are you a Christian?MR. X. No,—of course I couldn't be,—as you've just heard. The Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who have served time, ought to understand that.MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How—do—you—know—that?MR. X. It's plain to be seen.MR. Y. How? How can you see it?MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave at the bank at Malmö when I go there with you tomorrow morning.MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmö.MR. X. No?MR. Y. No.MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless.MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers—MR. X.—Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,—and it was then that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here. Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmö, where you have not gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America just to see Malmö; and every morning you have walked southward three miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmö; also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on thestate prison. Do you see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid?MR. Y. Now you hate me.MR. X. No.MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must.MR. X. No—see, here's my hand.MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand].MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that?MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after knowing—MR. X.—And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on equal footing,—in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how it happened? Will you?MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal. You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say, involuntarily—[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord, spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!—Let me open the window a little. I think the thunder shower-has passed over.MR. X. Go ahead.MR. Y. [Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and false accents]. Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some means—not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal. I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn't a death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as security; as many as I wanted, for that matter—but, as I've said, it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual calligraphy—you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand—[He takes up the pen] like this, and before I knew what I was doing it started to write,—of course I don't want to imply that there was anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it—because I don't believe in such things!—it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action—when I sat and copied the beautiful autograph time after time—without, of course, any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well [Throws the pen down with violence] and then I forgot the whole thing. That night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table and the note in memory—and when I got up I was driven to the table absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk, of consequence, had disappeared—there was no wavering—it was almost as if I were fulfilling a precious duty—and I wrote. [Springs to his feet.] What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion, as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about such a case?MR. X. [Bored]. To be honest, your story does not quite convince me. There are holes in it,—but that may be clue to your not being able to remember all the details,—and I have read a few things about criminal inspirations—and I recall—h'm—but never mind. You have had your punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we won't discuss it further.MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty.MR. X. But haven't you that?MR. Y. No, I haven't.MR. X. Well, you see, that's what bothers me, that's what bothers me. Don't you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes, indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the criminal should be considered so too. It's strange—well, it doesn't matter; I'll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never had any scruples.MR. Y. [Very interested]. You—did?MR. X. Yes—I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand?MR. Y. [Cheerily]. Oh, what nonsense!MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it.MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get out of it?MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days' hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger, but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result that he never awakened again—he died on the spot.MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up?MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science. Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life.MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life?MR. X. In that instance, yes.MR. Y. But the feeling of guilt, the "restoration of balance?"MR. X. I had no guilty feeling, its I had committed no crime. I had received and given blows as a boy, and it was only ignorance of the effect of blows on old people that caused the fatality.MR. Y. Yes, but it is two years' hard labor for homicide—just as much as for—forgery.MR. X. You may believe I have thought of that too, and many a night have I dreamed that I was in prison. Ugh! is it as terrible as it's said to be behind bolts and bars?MR. Y. Yes, it is terrible. First they disfigure your exterior by cutting off your hair, so if you did not look like a criminal before, you do afterward, and when you look at yourself in the mirror, you become convinced that you are a desperado.MR. X. It's the mask that they pull off; that's not a bad idea.MR. Y. You jest! Then they cut down your rations, so that every day, every hour you feel a distinct difference between life and death; all life's functions are repressed; you feel yourself grovelling, and your soul, which should be bettered and uplifted there, is put on a starvation cure, driven back a thousand years in time; you are only allowed to read what was written for the barbarians of the migratory period; you are allowed to hear about nothing but that which can never come to pass in heaven, but what happens on earth remains a secret; you are torn from your own environment, moved down out of your class; you come under those who come under you; you have visions of living in the bronze age, feel as if you went about in an animal's skin, lived in a cave, and ate out of a trough! Ugh!MR. X. That's quite rational. Any one who behaves as if he belonged to the bronze age ought to live in the historic costume.MR. Y. [Spitefully]. You scoff, you, you who have behaved like a man of the stone age! And you are allowed to live in the gold age!MR. X. [Searchingly and sharp]. What do you mean by that last expression—the gold age?MR. Y. [Insidiously]. Nothing at all.MR. X. That's a lie; you are too cowardly to state your whole meaning.MR. Y. Am I cowardly? Do you think that? I wasn't cowardly when I dared to show myself in this neighborhood, where I have suffered what I have.—Do you know what one suffers from most when one sits in there? It is from the fact that the others are not sitting in there too.MR. X. What others?MR. Y. The unpunished.MR. X. Do you allude to me?MR. Y. Yes.MR. X. I haven't committed any crime.MR. Y. No? Haven't you?MR. X. No. An accident is not a crime.MR. Y. So, it's an accident to commit murder?MR. X. I haven't committal any murder.MR. Y. So? Isn't it murder to slay a man?MR. X. No, not always. There is manslaughter, homicide, assault resulting in death, with the subdivisions, with or without intent. However, now I am really afraid of you, for you belong in the most dangerous category of human beings, the stupid.MR. Y. So you think that I am stupid? Now listen! Do you want me to prove that I am very shrewd?MR. X. Let me hear.MR. Y. Will you admit that I reason shrewdly and logically when I say this? You met with an accident which might have brought you two years of hard labor. You have escaped the ignominious penalty altogether. Here sits a man who also has been the victim of an accident, an unconscious suggestion, and forced to suffer two years of hard labor. This man can wipe out the stain he has unwittingly brought upon himself only through scientific achievement; but for the attainment of this he must have money—much money, and that immediately. Doesn't it seem to you that the other man, the unpunished one, would restore the balance of human relations if he were sentenced to a tolerable fine? Don't you think so?MR. X. [Quietly]. Yes.MR. Y. Well, we understand each other.—H'm! How much do you consider legitimate?MR. X. Legitimate? The law decrees that a man's life is worth at the minimum fifty crowns. But as the deceased had no relatives, there's nothing to be said on that score.MR. Y. Humph, you will not understand? Then I must speak more plainly. It is to me that you are to pay the fine.MR. X. I've never heard that a homicide should pay a fine to a forger, and there is also no accuser.MR. Y. No? Yes, you have me.MR. X. Ah, now things are beginning to clear up. How much do you ask to become accomplice to the homicide?MR. Y. Six thousand crowns.Mr. X. That's too much. Where am I to get it? [Mr. Y. points to the case.] I don't want to do that, I don't want to become a thief.MR. Y. Don't pretend. Do you want me to believe that you haven't dipped into that case before now?MR. X. [As to himself]. To think that I could make such a big mistake! But that's the way it always is with bland people. One is fond of gentle people, and then one believes so easily that he is liked; and just on account of that I have been a little watchful of those of whom I've been fond. So you are fully convinced that I have helped myself from that case?MR. Y. Yes, I'm sure of it.MR. X. And you will accuse me if you do not receive the six thousand crowns?MR. Y. Absolutely. You can't get out of it, so it's not worth while trying to do so.MR. X. Do you think I would give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, and my confrères a thief for comrade? That shall never happen. Now I'll go to the sheriff and give myself up.MR. Y. [Springs up and gets his things together]. Wait a moment.MR. X. What for?M$. Y. [Stammering]. I only thought—that as I'm not needed—I wouldn't need to be present—and could go.MR. X. You cannot. Sit down at your place at the table, where you've been sitting, and we will talk a little.MR. Y. [Sits, after putting on a dark coat]. What's going to happen now?MR. X. [Looking into mirror]. Now everything is clear to me! Ah!MR. Y. [Worried]. What do you see now that's so remarkable?MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief, a simple, common thief. Just now, when you sat there in your shirt-sleeves, I noticed that something was wrong about my book-shelf, but I couldn't make out what it was, as I wanted to listen to you and observe you. Now, since you have become my antagonist, my sight is keener, and since you have put on that black coat, that acts as a color contrast against the red backs of the books, which were not noticeable before against your red suspenders, I see that you have been there and read your forgery story in Bernheim's essay on hypnotic suggestion, and returned the book upside down. So you stole that story too! In consequence of all this I consider that I have the right to conclude that you committed your crime through need, or because you were addicted to pleasures.MR. Y. Through need. If you knew—MR. X. Ifyouknew in what need I have lived, and lived, and still live! But this is no time for that. To continue, that you have served time is almost certain, but that was in America, for it was American prison life that you described; another thing is almost as certain—that you have not served out your sentence here.MR. Y. How can you say that?MR. X. Wait until the sheriff comes and you will know. [Mr. Y. rises.] Do you see? The first time I mentioned the sheriff in connection with the thunderbolt, you wanted to run then, too; and when a man has been in that prison he never wants to go to the windmill hill every day to look at it, or put himself behind a window-pane to—to conclude, you have served one sentence, but not another. That's why you were so difficult to get at. [Pause.]MR. Y. [Completely defeated]. May I go now?MR. X. Yes, you may go now.MR. Y. [Getting his things together]. Are you angry with me?MR. X. Yes. Would you like it better if I pitied you?MR. Y. [Wrathfully]. Pity! Do you consider yourself better than I am?MR. X. Of course I do, as Iambetter. I am more intelligent than you are, and of more worth to the common weal.MR. Y. You are pretty crafty, but not so crafty as I am. I stand in check myself, but, nevertheless, the next move you can be checkmated.MR. X. [Fixing Mr. Y. with his eye]. Shall we have another bout? What evil do you intend to do now?MR. Y. That is my secret.MR. X. May I look at you?—You think of writing an anonymous letter to my wife, disclosing my secret.MR. Y. Yes, and you cannot prevent it. You dare not have me imprisoned, so you must let me go; and when I have gone I can do what I please.MR. X. Ah, you devil! You've struck my Achilles heel—will you force me to become a murderer?MR. Y. You couldn't become one! You timid creature!MR. X. You see, then, there is a difference in people after all, and you feel within you that I cannot commit such deeds as you, and that is your advantage. But think if you forced me to deal with you as I did with the coachman![Lifts his hand as if to strike. Mr. Y. looks hard at Mr. X.]MR. Y. You can't do it. He who dared not take his salvation out of the case couldn't do that.MR. X. Then you don't believe that I ever took from the case?MR. Y. You were too cowardly, just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she is married to a murderer.MR. X. You are a different kind of being from me—whether stronger or weaker I do not know—more criminal or not—that doesn't concern me. But you are the stupider, that's proven. Because you were stupid when you forged a man's name instead of begging as I have had to do; you were stupid when you stole out of my book—didn't you realize that I read my books? You were stupid when you thought that you were more intelligent than I am and that you could fool me into becoming a thief; you were stupid when you thought, that the restoration of balance would be accomplished by the world's having two thieves instead of one, and you were most stupid when you believed that I have built my life's happiness without having laid the cornerstone securely. Go and write your anonymous letter to my wife about her husband being a homicide—that she knew as my fiancée. Do you give up now?MR. Y. Can I go?MR. X. Now youshallgo—immediately. Your things will follow you.CURTAIN.EASTERCHARACTERSMRS. HEYSTELIS, her son. Instructor in a preparatory schoolELEONORA, her daughterCHRISTINE, Elis' fiancéeBENJAMIN, a freshmanLINDKVIST[Scene for the entire play.—The interior of a glass-enclosed piazza, furnished like a living-room. A large door at the middle back leading out into the garden with fence and garden gate visible. Beyond one sees the tops of trees (indicating that the house is situated on a height), and in the distance the cathedral and another high building loom against the sky. The glass windows which extend across the entire back of scene are hung with flowered yellow cretonne, which can be drawn open. A mirror hangs on the panel between door and window on the left. Below the mirror is a calendar. To the right of door a writing table covered with books and writing materials. A telephone is also on it. To L. of door is a dining table, stove and bureau. At R. in foreground it small sewing table with lamp on it. Near it are two arm-chairs. A hanging lamp at center. Outside in the street an electric light. At L. there is a door leading from piazza to the house, at R. a door leading to the kitchen. Time, the present.]ACT I.[Thursday before Easter. The music before curtain is: Haydn: Sieben Worte des Erlösers. Introduction: Maestoso Adagio.][A ray of sunlight falls across the room and strikes one of the chairs near the sewing table. In the other chair, untouched by the sunshine, sits Christine, running strings thro' muslin sash-curtains. Elis enters wearing a winter overcoat, unbuttoned. He carries a bundle of legal documents which he puts on the writing table. After that he takes off his overcoat and hangs it at L.]ELIS. Hello, sweetheart.CHRISTINE. Hello, Elis.ELIS [Looks around]. The double windows are off, the floor scoured, fresh curtains at the windows—yes, it is spring again! The ice has gone out of the river, and the willows are beginning to bud on the banks—yes, spring has come and I can put away my winter overcoat. [Weighs his overcoat in his hand and hangs it up.] You know, it's so heavy—just as tho' it had absorbed the weight of the whole winter's worries, the sweat and dust of the school-room.CHRISTINE. But you have a vacation now.ELIS. Yes, Easter. Five days to enjoy, to breathe, to forget. [Takes Christine's hand a minute, and then seats himself in arm-chair.] Yes, the sun has come again. It left us in November. How well I remember the day it disappeared behind the brewery across the street. Oh, this winter, this long winter.CHRISTINE [With a gesture toward kitchen]. Sh! Sh!ELIS. I'll be quiet—But I'm so happy that it's over with. Oh, the warm sun! [Rubs his hands as tho' bathing them in the sunshine.] I want to bathe in the sunshine and light after all the winter gloom—CHRISTINE. Sh! Sh!ELIS. Do you know, I believe that good luck is coming our way—that hard luck is tired of us.CHRISTINE. What makes you think so?ELIS. Why, as I was going by the cathedral just now a white dove flew down and alighted in front of me, and dropped a little branch it was carrying right at my feet.CHRISTINE. Did you notice what kind of branch it was?ELIS. Of course it couldn't have been an olive branch, but I believe it was a sign of peace—and I felt the life-giving joy of spring. Where's mother?CHRISTINE [Points toward kitchen]. In the kitchen.ELIS [Quietly and closing his eyes]. I hear the spring! I can tell that the double windows are off, I hear the wheel hubs so plainly. And what's that?—a robin chirping out in the orchard, and they are hammering down at the docks and I can smell the fresh paint on the steamers.CHRISTINE. Can you feel all that—here in town?ELIS. Here? It's true we arehere, but I was up there, in the North, where our home lies. Oh, how did we ever get into this dreadful city where the people all hate each other and where one is always alone? Yes, it was our daily bread that led the way, but with the bread came the misfortunes: father's criminal act and little sister's illness. Tell me, do you know whether mother has ever been to see father since he's been in prison?CHRISTINE. Why, I think she's been there this very day.ELIS. What did she have to say about it?CHRISTINE. Nothing—she wouldn't talk about it.ELIS. Well, one thing at least has been gained, and that is the quiet that followed the verdict after the newspapers had gorged themselves with the details. One year is over: and then we can make a fresh start.CHRISTINE. I admire your patience in this suffering.ELIS. Don't. Don't admire anything about me. I am full of faults—you know it.CHRISTINE. If you were only suffering for your own faults—but to be suffering for another!ELIS. What are you sewing on?CHRISTINE. Curtains for the kitchen, you dear.ELIS. It looks like a bridal veil. This fall you will be my bride, won't you, Christine?CHRISTINE. Yes—but—let's think of summer first.ELIS. Yes, summer! [Takes out the check book.] You see the money is already in the bank, and when school is over we will start for the North, for our home land among the lakes. The cottage stands there just as it did when we were children, and the linden trees. Oh, that it were summer already and I could go swimming in the lake! I feel as if this family dishonor has besmirched me so that I long to bathe, body and soul, in the clear lake waters.CHRISTINE. Have you heard anything from Eleonora?ELIS. Yes—poor little sister! She writes me letters that tear my heart to pieces. She wants to get out of the asylum—and home, of course. But the doctor daren't let her go. She would do things that might lead to prison, he says. Do you know, I feel terribly conscience-stricken sometimes—CHRISTINE [Starting]. Why?ELIS. Because I agreed with all the rest of them that it was best to put her there.CHRISTINE. My dear, you are always accusing yourself. It was fortunate she could be taken care of like that—poor little thing!ELIS. Well, perhaps you're right. It is best so. She is as well off there as she could be anywhere. When I think of how she used to go about here casting gloom over every attempt at happiness, how her fate weighed us down like a nightmare, then I am tempted to feel almost glad about it. I believe the greatest misfortune that could happen would be to see her cross this threshold. Selfish brute that I am!CHRISTINE. Human being that you are!ELIS. And yet—I suffer—suffer at the thought of her misery and my father's.CHRISTINE. It seems as tho' some were born to suffer.ELIS. You poor Christine—to be drawn into this family, which was cursed from the beginning! Yes, doomed!CHRISTINE. You don't know whether it's all trial or punishment, Elis. Perhaps I can help you through the struggles.ELIS. Do you think mother has a clean dress tie for me?CHRISTINE [Anxiously]. Are you going out?ELIS. I'm going out to dinner. Peter won the debate last night, you know, and he's giving a dinner tonight.CHRISTINE. And you're going to that dinner?ELIS. You mean that perhaps I shouldn't because he has proven such an unfaithful friend and pupil?CHRISTINE. I can't deny that I was shocked by his unfaithfulness, when he promised to quote from your theories and he simply plundered them without giving you any credit.ELIS. Ah, that's the way things go, but I am happy in the consciousness that "this have I done."CHRISTINE. Has he invited you to the dinner?ELIS. Why, that's true—come to think of it, he didn't invite me. That's very strange. Why didn't I think of that before! Why, he's been talking for years as though I were to be the guest of honor at that dinner, and he has told others that. But if I am not invited—then of course it's pretty plain that I'm snubbed, insulted, in fact. Well, it doesn't matter. It isn't the first time—nor the last. [Pause.]CHRISTINE. Benjamin is late. Do you think he will pass his examinations?ELIS. I certainly do—in Latin particularly.CHRISTINE. Benjamin is a good boy!ELIS. Yes, but he's somewhat of a grumbler. You know of course why he is living here with us?CHRISTINE. IS it because—ELIS. Because—my father was the boy's guardian and spent his fortune for him, as he did—for so many others. Can you fancy, Christine, what agony it is for me as their instructor to see those fatherless boys, who have been robbed of their inheritance, suffering the humiliations of free scholars? I have to think constantly of their misery to be able to forgive them their cruel glances.CHRISTINE. I believe that your father is truly better off than you.ELIS. Truly!CHRISTINE. But Elis, we should think of summer, and not of the past.ELIS. Yes, of summer! Do you know, I was awakened last night by some students singing that old song, "Yes, I am coming, glad winds, take this greeting to the country, to the birds—Say that I love them, tell birch and linden, lake and mountain, that I am coming back to them—to behold them again as in my childhood hours—" [He rises—moved.] Shall I ever go back to them, shall I ever go out from this dreadful city, from Ebal, accursed mountain, and behold Gerizim again? [Seats himself near the door.]CHRISTINE. Aye, aye—that you shall!ELIS. But do you think my birches and lindens will look as they used to—don't you think the same dark veil will shroud them that has been lying over all nature and life for us ever since the day when father—[Points to the empty arm-chair which is in the shadow.] Look, the sun has gone.CHRISTINE. It will come again and stay longer.ELIS. That's true. As the days lengthen the shadows shorten.CHRISTINE. Yes, Elis, we are going toward the light, believe me.ELIS. Sometimes I believe that, and when I think of all that has happened, all the misery, and compare it with the present—then I am happy. Last year you were not sitting there, for you had gone away from me and broken off our betrothal. Do you know, that was the darkest time of all. I was dying literally bit by bit; but then you came back to me—and I lived. Why did you go away from me?CHRISTINE. Oh; I don't know—it seems to me now as if there was no reason. I had an impulse to go—and I went, as tho' I were walking in my sleep. When I saw you again I awoke—and was happy.ELIS. And now we shall go on together forevermore. If you left me now I should die in earnest.—Here comes mother. Say nothing, let her live in her imaginary world in which she believes that father is a martyr and that all those he sacrificed are rascals.MRS. HEYST [Comes from kitchen. She is paring an apple. She is simply dressed and speaks in an innocent voice]. Good afternoon, children. Will you have your apple dumpling hot or cold?ELIS. Cold, mother dear.MRS. HEYST. That's right, my boy, you always know what you want and say so. But you aren't like that, Christine. Elis gets that from his father; he always knew what he wanted and said so frankly, and people don't like that—so things went badly with him. But his day will come, and he'll get his rights and the others will get their just deserts. Wait now, what was it I had to tell you? Oh, yes, what do you think? Lindkvist has come here to live! Lindkvist, the biggest rascal of them all!ELIS [Rises, disturbed]. Hashecome here?MRS. HEYST. Yes, indeed, he's come to live right across the street from us.ELIS. So now we must see him coming and going day in and day out. That too!MRS. HEYST. Just let me have a talk with him, and he'll never show his face again! For I happen to know a few things about him! Well, Elis, how did Peter come out?ELIS. Oh, finely!MRS. HEYST. I can well believe that! When do you thinkyouwill join the debating club?ELIS. When I can afford it!MRS. HEYST. "When I can afford it." Humph, that isn't a very good answer! And Benjamin—did he get through his examinations all right?ELIS. We don't know yet; but he'll soon be here.MRS. HEYST. Well, I don't quite like the way Benjamin goes around looking so conscious of his privileges in this house—but we shall take him down soon enough. But he's a good boy just the same. Oh, yes, there's a package for you, Elis. [Goes out to kitchen and comes back directly with a package.]ELIS. Mother does keep track of everything, doesn't she? I sometimes believe that she is not so simple minded as she seems to be.MRS. HEYST. See, here's the package. Lina received it. Perhaps it is an Easter present!ELIS. I'm afraid of presents since the time I received a box of cobblestones. [Puts the package on the table.]MRS. HEYST. Now I must go back to my duties in the kitchen. Don't you think it is too cold with the door open?ELIS. Not at all, mother.MRS. HEYST. Elis, you shouldn't hang your overcoat there. It looks so disorderly. Now, Christine, will my curtains be ready soon?CHRISTINE. In just a few minutes, mother.MRS. HEYST [To Elis]. Yes, I like Peter; he is my favorite among your friends. But aren't you going to his dinner this evening, Elis?ELIS. Yes, I suppose so.MRS. HEYST. Now, why did you go and say that you wanted your apple dumpling cold when you are going out to dinner? You're so undecided, Elis. But Peter isn't like that.—Shut the door when it gets chilly, so that you won't get sniffles.[Goes out R.]ELIS. The good old soul—and always Peter. Does she like to tease you about Peter?CHRISTINE [Surprised and hurt]. Me?ELIS [Disconcerted]. Old ladies have such queer notions, you know.CHRISTINE. What have you received for a present?ELIS [Opening package]. A birch rod!CHRISTINE. From whom?ELIS. It's anonymous. It's just an innocent joke on the schoolmaster. I shall put it in water—and it will blossom like Aaron's staff. "Rod of birch, which in my childhood's hour"—And so Lindkvist has come here to live!CHRISTINE. Well, what about him?ELIS. We owe him our biggest debt.CHRISTINE.Youdon't owe him anything.ELIS. Yes, one for all and all for one; the family's name is disgraced as long as we owe a farthing.CHRISTINE. Change your name!ELIS. Christine!CHRISTINE [Puts down work, which is finished]. Thanks, Elis, I was only testing you.ELIS. But you must not tempt me. Lindkvist is not a rich man, and needs what is due him.—When my father got through with it all it was like a battle-field of dead and wounded—and mother believes father is a martyr! Shall we go out and take a walk?CHRISTINE. And try to find the sunshine? Gladly!ELIS. I can't understand how it can be that our Saviour suffered for us and yet we must continue to suffer.CHRISTINE. Here comes Benjamin.ELIS. Can you see whether he looks happy or not?CHRISTINE [Looks out door]. He walks so slowly, he's stopped at the fountain—and bathing his eyes.ELIS. And this too!CHRISTINE. Walt until—ELIS. Tears! Tears!CHRISTINE. Patience.[Enter Benjamin. He has a kind face and seems very downcast. He carries several books and a portfolio.]ELIS. Well, how did you get along in Latin?BENJAMIN. Badly!ELIS. Let me see your examination paper. What did you do?BENJAMIN. I used "ut" with the indicative, altbo' I knew it should be the subjunctive.ELIS. Then you are lost! But how could you do that?BENJAMIN [Submissively]. I can't, explain it—I knew how it should be. I meant to do it right, but some way I wrote it wrong. [Seats himself dejectedly near dining table.]ELIS [Sinks dozen near writing desk and opens Benjamin's portfolio]. Yes, here it is—the indicative, oh!CHRISTINE [Faintly, with effort]. Well, better luck next time—life is long.ELIS. Terribly long.BENJAMIN. Yes, it is.ELIS [Sadly but without bitterness]. But that everything should come at the same time! You were my best pupil, so what can I expect of the others? My reputation as a teacher is lost. I shall not be allowed to teach any longer and so—complete ruin! [To Benjamin.] Don't take it to heart so—it is not your fault.CHRISTINE [With great effort]. Elis, courage, courage, for God's sake.ELIS. What shall I get it from?CHRISTINE. What you got it from before.ELIS. But things are not as they were. I seem to be in complete disgrace now.CHRISTINE. There is no disgrace in undeserved suffering. Don't be impatient. Be equal to the test, for it is just another test. I feel sure of that.ELIS. Can a year for Benjamin become less than three hundred and sixty-five days?CHRISTINE. Yes, a cheerful spirit makes the days shorter.ELIS [Smiling]. Blow upon the burn; that heals it, children are told.CHRISTINE. Be a child then, and let me tell you that. Think of your mother, how she bears everything.ELIS. Give me your hand; I am sinking. [Christine reaches out her hand to him.] Your hand trembles.—CHRISTINE. No, not that I know of—ELIS. You are not so strong as you seem to be—CHRISTINE. I do not feel any weakness—ELIS. Why can't you give me some strength then?CHRISTINE. I have none to spare!ELIS [Looking out of the window]. Do you see who that is coming?[Christine goes and looks out of window, then falls upon her knees, crushed.]CHRISTINE. This is too much!ELIS. Our creditor, he who can take our home and all our belongings away from us. He, Lindkvist, who has come here and ensconced himself in the middle of his web like a spider, to watch the flies—CHRISTINE. Let us run away!ELIS [At window]. No—no running away! Now when you grow weak I become strong—now he is coming up the street—and he casts his evil eye over toward his prey.CHRISTINE. Stand aside, at least.ELIS [Straightening himself]. No, he amuses me. His face lights up with pleasure, as tho' he could already see his victims in his trap. Come on! He is counting the steps up to our gate and he sees by the open door that we are at home.—But he has met some one and stands there talking.—He is talking about us, for he's pointing over here.CHRISTINE. If only he doesn't meet mother, so that she can't make him harsh with her angry words!—Oh, prevent that, Elis!ELIS. Now he is shaking his stick, as if he were protesting that in our case mercy shall not pass for justice. He buttons his overcoat to show that at least he hasn't yet had the very clothes on his back taken from him. I can tell by his mouth what he is saying. What shall I reply to him? "My dear sir, you are in the right. Take everything, it belongs to you."CHRISTINE. There is nothing else you could say.ELIS. Now he laughs. But it is a kind laugh, not a malicious one! Perhaps he isn't so mean after all, but he'll see that he gets every penny coming to him, nevertheless! If he would only come, and stop his blessed prating.—Now, he is swinging his stick again.—They always carry a stick, men who have debtors, and they always wear galoshes that say "Swish, swish," like lashes through the air—[Christine puts hand against his heart.] Do you hear how my heart beats? It sounds like an ocean steamer. Now, thank Heaven, he's taking his leave with his squeaking galoshes! "Swish, swish," like a switch! Oh, but he wears a watch charm! So he can't be utterly poverty-stricken. They always have watch charms of carnelian, like dried flesh that they have cut out of their neighbors' backs. Listen to the galoshes. "Angry, angrier, angriest, swish, swish." Watch him! The old wolf! He sees me! He sees me! He bows! He smiles! He waves his hand—and [Sinks down near the writing table, weeping] he has gone by!CHRISTINE. Praise be to God!ELIS [Rising]. He has gone by—but he will come again. Let's go out in the sunshine.CHRISTINE. And what about dining with Peter?ELIS. As I am not invited, I cannot go. For that matter, what should I do there in the festivity! Just go and meet an unfaithful friend! I should only make a pretense of not being hurt by what he has done.CHRISTINE. I'm glad, for then you will stay here with us.ELIS. I'd rather do that, as you know. Shall we go?CHRISTINE. Yes, this way.[Goes towards left. As Elis passes Benjamin he puts his hand on Benjamin's shoulder.]ELIS. Courage, boy![Benjamin hides his face in his hands.]ELIS [Takes the birch rod from the dining table and puts it behind the looking-glass]. It wasn't an olive branch that the dove was carrying—it was a birch rod![They go out.][Eleonora comes in from back: she is sixteen, with braids down her back. She carries an Easter lily in a pot. Without seeing, or pretending not to see Benjamin, she puts the lily on the dining table and then goes and gets a water-bottle from the sideboard and waters the plant. Then seats herself near dining table right opposite Benjamin and contemplates him and then imitates his gestures and movements.][Benjamin stares at her in astonishment.]ELEONORA [Points to lily]. Do you know what that is?BENJAMIN [Boyishly, simply]. It's an Easter lily—that's easy enough; but who are you?ELEONORA [Sweetly, sadly]. Well, who are you?BENJAMIN. My name is Benjamin and I live here with Mrs. Heyst.ELEONORA. Indeed! My name is Eleonora and I am the daughter of Mrs. Heyst.BENJAMIN. How strange no one ever said anything about you!ELEONORA. People do not talk about the dead!BENJAMIN. The dead?ELEONORA. I am dead civilly, for I have committed a very bad deed.BENJAMIN. You!ELEONORA. Yes, I spent a trust fund; but that wasn't so much, for it was money as ill-gotten as ill-spent—but that my poor old father should be blamed for it and be put in prison—you see, that can never be forgiven.BENJAMIN. So strangely and beautifully you talk! And I never thought of that—that my inheritance might have been ill-gotten.ELEONORA. One should not confine human beings, one should free them.BENJAMIN. You have freed me from a delusion.ELEONORA. You are a charity pupil?BENJAMIN. Yes, it is my sorrowful lot to have to live upon the charity of this poor family.ELEONORA. You must not use harsh words or I shall have to go away. I am so sensitive I cannot bear anything harsh. Nevertheless it's my fault that you are unhappy.BENJAMIN. Your father's fault, you mean.ELEONORA. That is the same thing, for he and I are one and the same person. [Pause.] Why are you so dejected?BENJAMIN. I have had a disappointment!ELEONORA. Should you be downcast on that account? "Rod and punishment bring wisdom, and he who hates punishment must perish—" What disappointment have you had?BENJAMIN. I have failed in my Latin examination—altho' I was so sure I would pass.ELEONORA. Just so; you were so sure, so sure, that you would even have laid a wager that you would get thro' it.BENJAMIN. I did have a bet on it.ELEONORA. I thought so. You see that's why it happened—because you were so sure.BENJAMIN. Do you think that was the reason?ELEONORA. Certainly it was! Pride goeth before a fall!BENJAMIN. I shall remember that the next time.ELEONORA. That is a worthy thought; those who are pleasing to God are of humble spirit.BENJAMIN. Do you read the Bible?ELEONORA. Yes, I read it!BENJAMIN. I mean, are you a believer?ELEONORA. Yes, I mean that I am. So much so that if you should speak wickedly about God, my benefactor, I would not sit at the same table with you.BENJAMIN. How old are you?ELEONORA. For me there is no time nor space. I am everywhere and whensoever. I am in my father's prison, and in my brother's school-room. I am in my mother's kitchen and in my sister's little shop far away. When all goes well with my sister and she makes good sales I feel her gladness, and when things go badly with her I suffer—but I suffer most when she does anything dishonest. Benjamin, your name is Benjamin, because you are the youngest of my friends; yes, all human beings are my friends, and if you will let me adopt you, I will suffer for you too.BENJAMIN. I don't quite understand the words you use, but I think I catch the meaning of your thoughts. And I will do whatever you want me to.ELEONORA. Will you begin then by ceasing to judge human beings, even when they are convicted criminals—BENJAMIN. Yes, but I want to have a reason for it. I have read philosophy, you see.ELEONORA. Oh, have you! Then you shall help me explain this from a great philosopher. He said, "Those that hate the righteous, they shall be sinners."BENJAMIN. Of course all logic answers that in the same way, that one can be doomed to commit crime—.ELEONORA. And that the crime itself is a punishment.BENJAMIN. That is pretty deep! One would think that that was Kant or Schopenhauer.ELEONORA. I don't know them.BENJAMIN. What book did you read that in?ELEONORA. In the Holy Scripture.BENJAMIN. Truly? Are there such things in it?ELEONORA. What an ignorant, neglected child you are! If I could bring you up!BENJAMIN. Little you!ELEONORA. I don't believe there is anything very wicked about you. You seem to me more good than bad.
MR. X., an archeologistMR. Y., a traveller from America
Both middle-aged
[SCENE—Simple room in a country house; door and window at back, through which one sees a country landscape. In the middle of the room a large dining table; on one side of it books and writing materials and on the other side some antiques, a microscope, insect boxes, alcohol jars. To the left of scene a book-shelf, and all the other furnishings are those of a country gentleman. Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying an insect net and a botanical tin box. He goes directly to the book-shelf, takes down a book and reads stealthily from it. The after-service bell of a country church rings. The landscape and room are flooded with sunshine. Now and then one hears the clucking of hens outside. Mr. X. comes in also in shirt-sleeves. Mr. Y. starts nervously, returns the book to its place, and pretends to look for another book on the shelf.]
MR. X. What oppressive heat! We'll surely have a thunder-shower.
MR. Y. Yes? What makes you think so?
MR. X. The bells sound like it, the flies bite so, and the hens are cackling. I wanted to go fishing, but I couldn't find a single worm. Don't you feel rather nervous?
MR. Y. [Reflectively]. I? Well, yes.
MR. X. But you always look as if you expected a thunder-shower.
MR. Y. Do I?
MR. X. Well, as you are to start off on your travels again tomorrow, it's not to be wondered at if you have the knapsack fever. What's the news? Here's the post. [Takes up letters from the table.] Oh, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter. Nothing but debts, debts! Did you ever have any debts?
MR. Y. [Reflecting]. No-o-o.
MR. X. Well, then, of course you can't understand how it feels to have unpaid bills come in. [He reads a letter.] The rent owing—the landlord clamoring—and my wife in despair. And I, I sitting up to my elbows in gold. [Opens an iron-mounted case, which stands on the table. They both sit down, one on each side of the case.] Here is six thousand crowns' worth of gold that I've dug up in two weeks. This bracelet alone would bring the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I should be able to make a brilliant career for myself. The first thing I should do would be to have drawings made and cuts of the figures for my treatises. After that I would print—and then clear out. Why do you suppose I don't do this?
MR. Y. It must be because you are afraid of being found out.
MR. X. Perhaps that, too. But don't you think that a man of my intelligence should be able to manage it so that it wouldn't be found out? I always go alone to dig out there on the hills—without witnesses. Would it be remarkable to put a little something in one's pockets?
MR. Y. Yes, but disposing of it, they say, is the dangerous part.
MR. X. Humph, I should of course have the whole thing smelted, and then I should have it cast into ducats—full weight, of course—
MR. Y. Of course!
MR. X. That goes without saying. If I wanted to make counterfeit money—well, it wouldn't be necessary to dig the gold first. [Pause.] It's remarkable, nevertheless, that if some one were to do what I can't bring myself to do, I should acquit him. But I should not be able to acquit myself. I should be able to put up a brilliant defense for the thief; prove that this gold wasres nullius, or no one's, and that it got into the earth before there were any land rights; that even now it belongs to no one but the first comer, as the owner had never accounted it part of his property, and so on.
MR. Y. And you would not be able to do this if—h'm!—the thief had stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector's mania, of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,—isn't that so?
MR. X. You mean that I wouldn't be able to acquit him if he had stolen through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon. That is simple theft, that is!
MR. Y. And that you would not pardon?
MR. X. H'm! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had dug up on some one else's property.
MR. Y. That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need could not?
MR. X. Yes, that's the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition.
MR. Y. And you count it a great virtue that you cannot—h'm—steal?
MR. X. With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess this gold is not lacking in me. Why don't I take it then? I cannot; it's an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are!
[Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.]
MR. X. How close it is! I think we'll have some thunder.
[Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.]
MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder?
MR. Y. One should be careful.
[They sit again at table.]
MR. X. You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels, collecting insects for a little museum.
MR. Y. Oh, don't bother about me.
MR. X. That's what you always say when I get tired of talking about myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy. We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid; you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there before the mirror and I see your back, it's as if I were looking at another person. [Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.] Oh, you can't see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,—well, I don't wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden, as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders across your white shirt—it looks like—like a big brand, a trade mark on a packing box.
MR. Y. [Rising]. I believe I will suffocate—if the shower doesn't break and come soon.
MR. X. It will come soon. Just be quiet. And the back of your neck, too, it looks as if there were another head on it, with the face of another type than you. You are so terribly narrow between the ears that I sometimes wonder if you don't belong to another race. [There is flash of lightning.] That one looked as if it struck at the sheriff's.
MR. Y. [Worried]. At the—sh-sheriff's!
MR. X. Yes, but it only looked so. But this thunder won't amount to anything. Sit down now and let's have a talk, as you are off again tomorrow.—It's queer that, although I became intimate with you so soon, you are one of those people whose likeness I cannot recall when they are out of my sight. When you are out in the fields and I try to recall your face, another acquaintance always comes to mind—some one who doesn't really look like you, but whom you resemble nevertheless.
MR. Y. Who is that?
MR. X. I won't mention the name. However, I used to have dinner at the same place for many years, and there at the lunch counter I met a little blond man with pale, worried eyes. He had an extraordinary faculty of getting about in a crowded room without shoving or being shoved. Standing at the door, he could reach a slice of bread two yards away; he always looked as if he was happy to be among people, and whenever he ran into an acquaintance he would fall into rapturous laughter, embrace him, and do the figure eight around him, and carry on as if he hadn't met a human being for years; if any one stepped on his toes he would smile as if he were asking pardon for being in the way. For two years I used to see him, and I used to amuse myself trying to figure out his business and character, but I never asked any one who he was,—I didn't want to know, as that would have put an end to my amusement. That man had the same indefinable characteristics as you; sometimes I would make him out an undergraduate teacher, an under officer, a druggist, a government clerk, or a detective, and like you, he seemed to be made up of two different pieces and the front didn't fit the back. One day I happened to read in the paper about a big forgery by a well-known civil official. After that I found out that my indefinable acquaintance had been the companion of the forger's brother, and that his name was Stråman; and then I was informed that the afore-mentioned Stråman had been connected with a free library, but that he was then a police reporter on a big newspaper. How could I then get any connection between the forgery, the police, and the indefinable man's appearance? I don't know, but when I asked a man if Stråman had ever been convicted, he answered neither yes nor no—he didn't know. [Pause.]
MR. Y. Well, was he ever—convicted?
MR. X. No, he had not been convicted.
[Pause.]
MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of bumping into people?
MR. X. Yes.
MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward?
MR. X. No, I didn't want to.
MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been convicted?
MR. X. Yes, indeed.
[Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.]
MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly.
MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal attitude towards people's conduct? Are you a Christian?
MR. X. No,—of course I couldn't be,—as you've just heard. The Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who have served time, ought to understand that.
MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How—do—you—know—that?
MR. X. It's plain to be seen.
MR. Y. How? How can you see it?
MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave at the bank at Malmö when I go there with you tomorrow morning.
MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmö.
MR. X. No?
MR. Y. No.
MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless.
MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers—
MR. X.—Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,—and it was then that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here. Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmö, where you have not gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America just to see Malmö; and every morning you have walked southward three miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmö; also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on thestate prison. Do you see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid?
MR. Y. Now you hate me.
MR. X. No.
MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must.
MR. X. No—see, here's my hand.
MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand].
MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that?
MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after knowing—
MR. X.—And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on equal footing,—in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how it happened? Will you?
MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal. You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say, involuntarily—[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord, spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!—Let me open the window a little. I think the thunder shower-has passed over.
MR. X. Go ahead.
MR. Y. [Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and false accents]. Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some means—not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal. I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn't a death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as security; as many as I wanted, for that matter—but, as I've said, it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual calligraphy—you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand—[He takes up the pen] like this, and before I knew what I was doing it started to write,—of course I don't want to imply that there was anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it—because I don't believe in such things!—it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action—when I sat and copied the beautiful autograph time after time—without, of course, any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well [Throws the pen down with violence] and then I forgot the whole thing. That night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table and the note in memory—and when I got up I was driven to the table absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk, of consequence, had disappeared—there was no wavering—it was almost as if I were fulfilling a precious duty—and I wrote. [Springs to his feet.] What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion, as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about such a case?
MR. X. [Bored]. To be honest, your story does not quite convince me. There are holes in it,—but that may be clue to your not being able to remember all the details,—and I have read a few things about criminal inspirations—and I recall—h'm—but never mind. You have had your punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we won't discuss it further.
MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty.
MR. X. But haven't you that?
MR. Y. No, I haven't.
MR. X. Well, you see, that's what bothers me, that's what bothers me. Don't you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes, indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the criminal should be considered so too. It's strange—well, it doesn't matter; I'll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never had any scruples.
MR. Y. [Very interested]. You—did?
MR. X. Yes—I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand?
MR. Y. [Cheerily]. Oh, what nonsense!
MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it.
MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get out of it?
MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days' hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger, but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result that he never awakened again—he died on the spot.
MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up?
MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science. Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life.
MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life?
MR. X. In that instance, yes.
MR. Y. But the feeling of guilt, the "restoration of balance?"
MR. X. I had no guilty feeling, its I had committed no crime. I had received and given blows as a boy, and it was only ignorance of the effect of blows on old people that caused the fatality.
MR. Y. Yes, but it is two years' hard labor for homicide—just as much as for—forgery.
MR. X. You may believe I have thought of that too, and many a night have I dreamed that I was in prison. Ugh! is it as terrible as it's said to be behind bolts and bars?
MR. Y. Yes, it is terrible. First they disfigure your exterior by cutting off your hair, so if you did not look like a criminal before, you do afterward, and when you look at yourself in the mirror, you become convinced that you are a desperado.
MR. X. It's the mask that they pull off; that's not a bad idea.
MR. Y. You jest! Then they cut down your rations, so that every day, every hour you feel a distinct difference between life and death; all life's functions are repressed; you feel yourself grovelling, and your soul, which should be bettered and uplifted there, is put on a starvation cure, driven back a thousand years in time; you are only allowed to read what was written for the barbarians of the migratory period; you are allowed to hear about nothing but that which can never come to pass in heaven, but what happens on earth remains a secret; you are torn from your own environment, moved down out of your class; you come under those who come under you; you have visions of living in the bronze age, feel as if you went about in an animal's skin, lived in a cave, and ate out of a trough! Ugh!
MR. X. That's quite rational. Any one who behaves as if he belonged to the bronze age ought to live in the historic costume.
MR. Y. [Spitefully]. You scoff, you, you who have behaved like a man of the stone age! And you are allowed to live in the gold age!
MR. X. [Searchingly and sharp]. What do you mean by that last expression—the gold age?
MR. Y. [Insidiously]. Nothing at all.
MR. X. That's a lie; you are too cowardly to state your whole meaning.
MR. Y. Am I cowardly? Do you think that? I wasn't cowardly when I dared to show myself in this neighborhood, where I have suffered what I have.—Do you know what one suffers from most when one sits in there? It is from the fact that the others are not sitting in there too.
MR. X. What others?
MR. Y. The unpunished.
MR. X. Do you allude to me?
MR. Y. Yes.
MR. X. I haven't committed any crime.
MR. Y. No? Haven't you?
MR. X. No. An accident is not a crime.
MR. Y. So, it's an accident to commit murder?
MR. X. I haven't committal any murder.
MR. Y. So? Isn't it murder to slay a man?
MR. X. No, not always. There is manslaughter, homicide, assault resulting in death, with the subdivisions, with or without intent. However, now I am really afraid of you, for you belong in the most dangerous category of human beings, the stupid.
MR. Y. So you think that I am stupid? Now listen! Do you want me to prove that I am very shrewd?
MR. X. Let me hear.
MR. Y. Will you admit that I reason shrewdly and logically when I say this? You met with an accident which might have brought you two years of hard labor. You have escaped the ignominious penalty altogether. Here sits a man who also has been the victim of an accident, an unconscious suggestion, and forced to suffer two years of hard labor. This man can wipe out the stain he has unwittingly brought upon himself only through scientific achievement; but for the attainment of this he must have money—much money, and that immediately. Doesn't it seem to you that the other man, the unpunished one, would restore the balance of human relations if he were sentenced to a tolerable fine? Don't you think so?
MR. X. [Quietly]. Yes.
MR. Y. Well, we understand each other.—H'm! How much do you consider legitimate?
MR. X. Legitimate? The law decrees that a man's life is worth at the minimum fifty crowns. But as the deceased had no relatives, there's nothing to be said on that score.
MR. Y. Humph, you will not understand? Then I must speak more plainly. It is to me that you are to pay the fine.
MR. X. I've never heard that a homicide should pay a fine to a forger, and there is also no accuser.
MR. Y. No? Yes, you have me.
MR. X. Ah, now things are beginning to clear up. How much do you ask to become accomplice to the homicide?
MR. Y. Six thousand crowns.
Mr. X. That's too much. Where am I to get it? [Mr. Y. points to the case.] I don't want to do that, I don't want to become a thief.
MR. Y. Don't pretend. Do you want me to believe that you haven't dipped into that case before now?
MR. X. [As to himself]. To think that I could make such a big mistake! But that's the way it always is with bland people. One is fond of gentle people, and then one believes so easily that he is liked; and just on account of that I have been a little watchful of those of whom I've been fond. So you are fully convinced that I have helped myself from that case?
MR. Y. Yes, I'm sure of it.
MR. X. And you will accuse me if you do not receive the six thousand crowns?
MR. Y. Absolutely. You can't get out of it, so it's not worth while trying to do so.
MR. X. Do you think I would give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, and my confrères a thief for comrade? That shall never happen. Now I'll go to the sheriff and give myself up.
MR. Y. [Springs up and gets his things together]. Wait a moment.
MR. X. What for?
M$. Y. [Stammering]. I only thought—that as I'm not needed—I wouldn't need to be present—and could go.
MR. X. You cannot. Sit down at your place at the table, where you've been sitting, and we will talk a little.
MR. Y. [Sits, after putting on a dark coat]. What's going to happen now?
MR. X. [Looking into mirror]. Now everything is clear to me! Ah!
MR. Y. [Worried]. What do you see now that's so remarkable?
MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief, a simple, common thief. Just now, when you sat there in your shirt-sleeves, I noticed that something was wrong about my book-shelf, but I couldn't make out what it was, as I wanted to listen to you and observe you. Now, since you have become my antagonist, my sight is keener, and since you have put on that black coat, that acts as a color contrast against the red backs of the books, which were not noticeable before against your red suspenders, I see that you have been there and read your forgery story in Bernheim's essay on hypnotic suggestion, and returned the book upside down. So you stole that story too! In consequence of all this I consider that I have the right to conclude that you committed your crime through need, or because you were addicted to pleasures.
MR. Y. Through need. If you knew—
MR. X. Ifyouknew in what need I have lived, and lived, and still live! But this is no time for that. To continue, that you have served time is almost certain, but that was in America, for it was American prison life that you described; another thing is almost as certain—that you have not served out your sentence here.
MR. Y. How can you say that?
MR. X. Wait until the sheriff comes and you will know. [Mr. Y. rises.] Do you see? The first time I mentioned the sheriff in connection with the thunderbolt, you wanted to run then, too; and when a man has been in that prison he never wants to go to the windmill hill every day to look at it, or put himself behind a window-pane to—to conclude, you have served one sentence, but not another. That's why you were so difficult to get at. [Pause.]
MR. Y. [Completely defeated]. May I go now?
MR. X. Yes, you may go now.
MR. Y. [Getting his things together]. Are you angry with me?
MR. X. Yes. Would you like it better if I pitied you?
MR. Y. [Wrathfully]. Pity! Do you consider yourself better than I am?
MR. X. Of course I do, as Iambetter. I am more intelligent than you are, and of more worth to the common weal.
MR. Y. You are pretty crafty, but not so crafty as I am. I stand in check myself, but, nevertheless, the next move you can be checkmated.
MR. X. [Fixing Mr. Y. with his eye]. Shall we have another bout? What evil do you intend to do now?
MR. Y. That is my secret.
MR. X. May I look at you?—You think of writing an anonymous letter to my wife, disclosing my secret.
MR. Y. Yes, and you cannot prevent it. You dare not have me imprisoned, so you must let me go; and when I have gone I can do what I please.
MR. X. Ah, you devil! You've struck my Achilles heel—will you force me to become a murderer?
MR. Y. You couldn't become one! You timid creature!
MR. X. You see, then, there is a difference in people after all, and you feel within you that I cannot commit such deeds as you, and that is your advantage. But think if you forced me to deal with you as I did with the coachman!
[Lifts his hand as if to strike. Mr. Y. looks hard at Mr. X.]
MR. Y. You can't do it. He who dared not take his salvation out of the case couldn't do that.
MR. X. Then you don't believe that I ever took from the case?
MR. Y. You were too cowardly, just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she is married to a murderer.
MR. X. You are a different kind of being from me—whether stronger or weaker I do not know—more criminal or not—that doesn't concern me. But you are the stupider, that's proven. Because you were stupid when you forged a man's name instead of begging as I have had to do; you were stupid when you stole out of my book—didn't you realize that I read my books? You were stupid when you thought that you were more intelligent than I am and that you could fool me into becoming a thief; you were stupid when you thought, that the restoration of balance would be accomplished by the world's having two thieves instead of one, and you were most stupid when you believed that I have built my life's happiness without having laid the cornerstone securely. Go and write your anonymous letter to my wife about her husband being a homicide—that she knew as my fiancée. Do you give up now?
MR. Y. Can I go?
MR. X. Now youshallgo—immediately. Your things will follow you.
MRS. HEYSTELIS, her son. Instructor in a preparatory schoolELEONORA, her daughterCHRISTINE, Elis' fiancéeBENJAMIN, a freshmanLINDKVIST
[Scene for the entire play.—The interior of a glass-enclosed piazza, furnished like a living-room. A large door at the middle back leading out into the garden with fence and garden gate visible. Beyond one sees the tops of trees (indicating that the house is situated on a height), and in the distance the cathedral and another high building loom against the sky. The glass windows which extend across the entire back of scene are hung with flowered yellow cretonne, which can be drawn open. A mirror hangs on the panel between door and window on the left. Below the mirror is a calendar. To the right of door a writing table covered with books and writing materials. A telephone is also on it. To L. of door is a dining table, stove and bureau. At R. in foreground it small sewing table with lamp on it. Near it are two arm-chairs. A hanging lamp at center. Outside in the street an electric light. At L. there is a door leading from piazza to the house, at R. a door leading to the kitchen. Time, the present.]
[Thursday before Easter. The music before curtain is: Haydn: Sieben Worte des Erlösers. Introduction: Maestoso Adagio.]
[A ray of sunlight falls across the room and strikes one of the chairs near the sewing table. In the other chair, untouched by the sunshine, sits Christine, running strings thro' muslin sash-curtains. Elis enters wearing a winter overcoat, unbuttoned. He carries a bundle of legal documents which he puts on the writing table. After that he takes off his overcoat and hangs it at L.]
ELIS. Hello, sweetheart.
CHRISTINE. Hello, Elis.
ELIS [Looks around]. The double windows are off, the floor scoured, fresh curtains at the windows—yes, it is spring again! The ice has gone out of the river, and the willows are beginning to bud on the banks—yes, spring has come and I can put away my winter overcoat. [Weighs his overcoat in his hand and hangs it up.] You know, it's so heavy—just as tho' it had absorbed the weight of the whole winter's worries, the sweat and dust of the school-room.
CHRISTINE. But you have a vacation now.
ELIS. Yes, Easter. Five days to enjoy, to breathe, to forget. [Takes Christine's hand a minute, and then seats himself in arm-chair.] Yes, the sun has come again. It left us in November. How well I remember the day it disappeared behind the brewery across the street. Oh, this winter, this long winter.
CHRISTINE [With a gesture toward kitchen]. Sh! Sh!
ELIS. I'll be quiet—But I'm so happy that it's over with. Oh, the warm sun! [Rubs his hands as tho' bathing them in the sunshine.] I want to bathe in the sunshine and light after all the winter gloom—
CHRISTINE. Sh! Sh!
ELIS. Do you know, I believe that good luck is coming our way—that hard luck is tired of us.
CHRISTINE. What makes you think so?
ELIS. Why, as I was going by the cathedral just now a white dove flew down and alighted in front of me, and dropped a little branch it was carrying right at my feet.
CHRISTINE. Did you notice what kind of branch it was?
ELIS. Of course it couldn't have been an olive branch, but I believe it was a sign of peace—and I felt the life-giving joy of spring. Where's mother?
CHRISTINE [Points toward kitchen]. In the kitchen.
ELIS [Quietly and closing his eyes]. I hear the spring! I can tell that the double windows are off, I hear the wheel hubs so plainly. And what's that?—a robin chirping out in the orchard, and they are hammering down at the docks and I can smell the fresh paint on the steamers.
CHRISTINE. Can you feel all that—here in town?
ELIS. Here? It's true we arehere, but I was up there, in the North, where our home lies. Oh, how did we ever get into this dreadful city where the people all hate each other and where one is always alone? Yes, it was our daily bread that led the way, but with the bread came the misfortunes: father's criminal act and little sister's illness. Tell me, do you know whether mother has ever been to see father since he's been in prison?
CHRISTINE. Why, I think she's been there this very day.
ELIS. What did she have to say about it?
CHRISTINE. Nothing—she wouldn't talk about it.
ELIS. Well, one thing at least has been gained, and that is the quiet that followed the verdict after the newspapers had gorged themselves with the details. One year is over: and then we can make a fresh start.
CHRISTINE. I admire your patience in this suffering.
ELIS. Don't. Don't admire anything about me. I am full of faults—you know it.
CHRISTINE. If you were only suffering for your own faults—but to be suffering for another!
ELIS. What are you sewing on?
CHRISTINE. Curtains for the kitchen, you dear.
ELIS. It looks like a bridal veil. This fall you will be my bride, won't you, Christine?
CHRISTINE. Yes—but—let's think of summer first.
ELIS. Yes, summer! [Takes out the check book.] You see the money is already in the bank, and when school is over we will start for the North, for our home land among the lakes. The cottage stands there just as it did when we were children, and the linden trees. Oh, that it were summer already and I could go swimming in the lake! I feel as if this family dishonor has besmirched me so that I long to bathe, body and soul, in the clear lake waters.
CHRISTINE. Have you heard anything from Eleonora?
ELIS. Yes—poor little sister! She writes me letters that tear my heart to pieces. She wants to get out of the asylum—and home, of course. But the doctor daren't let her go. She would do things that might lead to prison, he says. Do you know, I feel terribly conscience-stricken sometimes—
CHRISTINE [Starting]. Why?
ELIS. Because I agreed with all the rest of them that it was best to put her there.
CHRISTINE. My dear, you are always accusing yourself. It was fortunate she could be taken care of like that—poor little thing!
ELIS. Well, perhaps you're right. It is best so. She is as well off there as she could be anywhere. When I think of how she used to go about here casting gloom over every attempt at happiness, how her fate weighed us down like a nightmare, then I am tempted to feel almost glad about it. I believe the greatest misfortune that could happen would be to see her cross this threshold. Selfish brute that I am!
CHRISTINE. Human being that you are!
ELIS. And yet—I suffer—suffer at the thought of her misery and my father's.
CHRISTINE. It seems as tho' some were born to suffer.
ELIS. You poor Christine—to be drawn into this family, which was cursed from the beginning! Yes, doomed!
CHRISTINE. You don't know whether it's all trial or punishment, Elis. Perhaps I can help you through the struggles.
ELIS. Do you think mother has a clean dress tie for me?
CHRISTINE [Anxiously]. Are you going out?
ELIS. I'm going out to dinner. Peter won the debate last night, you know, and he's giving a dinner tonight.
CHRISTINE. And you're going to that dinner?
ELIS. You mean that perhaps I shouldn't because he has proven such an unfaithful friend and pupil?
CHRISTINE. I can't deny that I was shocked by his unfaithfulness, when he promised to quote from your theories and he simply plundered them without giving you any credit.
ELIS. Ah, that's the way things go, but I am happy in the consciousness that "this have I done."
CHRISTINE. Has he invited you to the dinner?
ELIS. Why, that's true—come to think of it, he didn't invite me. That's very strange. Why didn't I think of that before! Why, he's been talking for years as though I were to be the guest of honor at that dinner, and he has told others that. But if I am not invited—then of course it's pretty plain that I'm snubbed, insulted, in fact. Well, it doesn't matter. It isn't the first time—nor the last. [Pause.]
CHRISTINE. Benjamin is late. Do you think he will pass his examinations?
ELIS. I certainly do—in Latin particularly.
CHRISTINE. Benjamin is a good boy!
ELIS. Yes, but he's somewhat of a grumbler. You know of course why he is living here with us?
CHRISTINE. IS it because—
ELIS. Because—my father was the boy's guardian and spent his fortune for him, as he did—for so many others. Can you fancy, Christine, what agony it is for me as their instructor to see those fatherless boys, who have been robbed of their inheritance, suffering the humiliations of free scholars? I have to think constantly of their misery to be able to forgive them their cruel glances.
CHRISTINE. I believe that your father is truly better off than you.
ELIS. Truly!
CHRISTINE. But Elis, we should think of summer, and not of the past.
ELIS. Yes, of summer! Do you know, I was awakened last night by some students singing that old song, "Yes, I am coming, glad winds, take this greeting to the country, to the birds—Say that I love them, tell birch and linden, lake and mountain, that I am coming back to them—to behold them again as in my childhood hours—" [He rises—moved.] Shall I ever go back to them, shall I ever go out from this dreadful city, from Ebal, accursed mountain, and behold Gerizim again? [Seats himself near the door.]
CHRISTINE. Aye, aye—that you shall!
ELIS. But do you think my birches and lindens will look as they used to—don't you think the same dark veil will shroud them that has been lying over all nature and life for us ever since the day when father—[Points to the empty arm-chair which is in the shadow.] Look, the sun has gone.
CHRISTINE. It will come again and stay longer.
ELIS. That's true. As the days lengthen the shadows shorten.
CHRISTINE. Yes, Elis, we are going toward the light, believe me.
ELIS. Sometimes I believe that, and when I think of all that has happened, all the misery, and compare it with the present—then I am happy. Last year you were not sitting there, for you had gone away from me and broken off our betrothal. Do you know, that was the darkest time of all. I was dying literally bit by bit; but then you came back to me—and I lived. Why did you go away from me?
CHRISTINE. Oh; I don't know—it seems to me now as if there was no reason. I had an impulse to go—and I went, as tho' I were walking in my sleep. When I saw you again I awoke—and was happy.
ELIS. And now we shall go on together forevermore. If you left me now I should die in earnest.—Here comes mother. Say nothing, let her live in her imaginary world in which she believes that father is a martyr and that all those he sacrificed are rascals.
MRS. HEYST [Comes from kitchen. She is paring an apple. She is simply dressed and speaks in an innocent voice]. Good afternoon, children. Will you have your apple dumpling hot or cold?
ELIS. Cold, mother dear.
MRS. HEYST. That's right, my boy, you always know what you want and say so. But you aren't like that, Christine. Elis gets that from his father; he always knew what he wanted and said so frankly, and people don't like that—so things went badly with him. But his day will come, and he'll get his rights and the others will get their just deserts. Wait now, what was it I had to tell you? Oh, yes, what do you think? Lindkvist has come here to live! Lindkvist, the biggest rascal of them all!
ELIS [Rises, disturbed]. Hashecome here?
MRS. HEYST. Yes, indeed, he's come to live right across the street from us.
ELIS. So now we must see him coming and going day in and day out. That too!
MRS. HEYST. Just let me have a talk with him, and he'll never show his face again! For I happen to know a few things about him! Well, Elis, how did Peter come out?
ELIS. Oh, finely!
MRS. HEYST. I can well believe that! When do you thinkyouwill join the debating club?
ELIS. When I can afford it!
MRS. HEYST. "When I can afford it." Humph, that isn't a very good answer! And Benjamin—did he get through his examinations all right?
ELIS. We don't know yet; but he'll soon be here.
MRS. HEYST. Well, I don't quite like the way Benjamin goes around looking so conscious of his privileges in this house—but we shall take him down soon enough. But he's a good boy just the same. Oh, yes, there's a package for you, Elis. [Goes out to kitchen and comes back directly with a package.]
ELIS. Mother does keep track of everything, doesn't she? I sometimes believe that she is not so simple minded as she seems to be.
MRS. HEYST. See, here's the package. Lina received it. Perhaps it is an Easter present!
ELIS. I'm afraid of presents since the time I received a box of cobblestones. [Puts the package on the table.]
MRS. HEYST. Now I must go back to my duties in the kitchen. Don't you think it is too cold with the door open?
ELIS. Not at all, mother.
MRS. HEYST. Elis, you shouldn't hang your overcoat there. It looks so disorderly. Now, Christine, will my curtains be ready soon?
CHRISTINE. In just a few minutes, mother.
MRS. HEYST [To Elis]. Yes, I like Peter; he is my favorite among your friends. But aren't you going to his dinner this evening, Elis?
ELIS. Yes, I suppose so.
MRS. HEYST. Now, why did you go and say that you wanted your apple dumpling cold when you are going out to dinner? You're so undecided, Elis. But Peter isn't like that.—Shut the door when it gets chilly, so that you won't get sniffles.[Goes out R.]
ELIS. The good old soul—and always Peter. Does she like to tease you about Peter?
CHRISTINE [Surprised and hurt]. Me?
ELIS [Disconcerted]. Old ladies have such queer notions, you know.
CHRISTINE. What have you received for a present?
ELIS [Opening package]. A birch rod!
CHRISTINE. From whom?
ELIS. It's anonymous. It's just an innocent joke on the schoolmaster. I shall put it in water—and it will blossom like Aaron's staff. "Rod of birch, which in my childhood's hour"—And so Lindkvist has come here to live!
CHRISTINE. Well, what about him?
ELIS. We owe him our biggest debt.
CHRISTINE.Youdon't owe him anything.
ELIS. Yes, one for all and all for one; the family's name is disgraced as long as we owe a farthing.
CHRISTINE. Change your name!
ELIS. Christine!
CHRISTINE [Puts down work, which is finished]. Thanks, Elis, I was only testing you.
ELIS. But you must not tempt me. Lindkvist is not a rich man, and needs what is due him.—When my father got through with it all it was like a battle-field of dead and wounded—and mother believes father is a martyr! Shall we go out and take a walk?
CHRISTINE. And try to find the sunshine? Gladly!
ELIS. I can't understand how it can be that our Saviour suffered for us and yet we must continue to suffer.
CHRISTINE. Here comes Benjamin.
ELIS. Can you see whether he looks happy or not?
CHRISTINE [Looks out door]. He walks so slowly, he's stopped at the fountain—and bathing his eyes.
ELIS. And this too!
CHRISTINE. Walt until—
ELIS. Tears! Tears!
CHRISTINE. Patience.
[Enter Benjamin. He has a kind face and seems very downcast. He carries several books and a portfolio.]
ELIS. Well, how did you get along in Latin?
BENJAMIN. Badly!
ELIS. Let me see your examination paper. What did you do?
BENJAMIN. I used "ut" with the indicative, altbo' I knew it should be the subjunctive.
ELIS. Then you are lost! But how could you do that?
BENJAMIN [Submissively]. I can't, explain it—I knew how it should be. I meant to do it right, but some way I wrote it wrong. [Seats himself dejectedly near dining table.]
ELIS [Sinks dozen near writing desk and opens Benjamin's portfolio]. Yes, here it is—the indicative, oh!
CHRISTINE [Faintly, with effort]. Well, better luck next time—life is long.
ELIS. Terribly long.
BENJAMIN. Yes, it is.
ELIS [Sadly but without bitterness]. But that everything should come at the same time! You were my best pupil, so what can I expect of the others? My reputation as a teacher is lost. I shall not be allowed to teach any longer and so—complete ruin! [To Benjamin.] Don't take it to heart so—it is not your fault.
CHRISTINE [With great effort]. Elis, courage, courage, for God's sake.
ELIS. What shall I get it from?
CHRISTINE. What you got it from before.
ELIS. But things are not as they were. I seem to be in complete disgrace now.
CHRISTINE. There is no disgrace in undeserved suffering. Don't be impatient. Be equal to the test, for it is just another test. I feel sure of that.
ELIS. Can a year for Benjamin become less than three hundred and sixty-five days?
CHRISTINE. Yes, a cheerful spirit makes the days shorter.
ELIS [Smiling]. Blow upon the burn; that heals it, children are told.
CHRISTINE. Be a child then, and let me tell you that. Think of your mother, how she bears everything.
ELIS. Give me your hand; I am sinking. [Christine reaches out her hand to him.] Your hand trembles.—
CHRISTINE. No, not that I know of—
ELIS. You are not so strong as you seem to be—
CHRISTINE. I do not feel any weakness—
ELIS. Why can't you give me some strength then?
CHRISTINE. I have none to spare!
ELIS [Looking out of the window]. Do you see who that is coming?
[Christine goes and looks out of window, then falls upon her knees, crushed.]
CHRISTINE. This is too much!
ELIS. Our creditor, he who can take our home and all our belongings away from us. He, Lindkvist, who has come here and ensconced himself in the middle of his web like a spider, to watch the flies—
CHRISTINE. Let us run away!
ELIS [At window]. No—no running away! Now when you grow weak I become strong—now he is coming up the street—and he casts his evil eye over toward his prey.
CHRISTINE. Stand aside, at least.
ELIS [Straightening himself]. No, he amuses me. His face lights up with pleasure, as tho' he could already see his victims in his trap. Come on! He is counting the steps up to our gate and he sees by the open door that we are at home.—But he has met some one and stands there talking.—He is talking about us, for he's pointing over here.
CHRISTINE. If only he doesn't meet mother, so that she can't make him harsh with her angry words!—Oh, prevent that, Elis!
ELIS. Now he is shaking his stick, as if he were protesting that in our case mercy shall not pass for justice. He buttons his overcoat to show that at least he hasn't yet had the very clothes on his back taken from him. I can tell by his mouth what he is saying. What shall I reply to him? "My dear sir, you are in the right. Take everything, it belongs to you."
CHRISTINE. There is nothing else you could say.
ELIS. Now he laughs. But it is a kind laugh, not a malicious one! Perhaps he isn't so mean after all, but he'll see that he gets every penny coming to him, nevertheless! If he would only come, and stop his blessed prating.—Now, he is swinging his stick again.—They always carry a stick, men who have debtors, and they always wear galoshes that say "Swish, swish," like lashes through the air—[Christine puts hand against his heart.] Do you hear how my heart beats? It sounds like an ocean steamer. Now, thank Heaven, he's taking his leave with his squeaking galoshes! "Swish, swish," like a switch! Oh, but he wears a watch charm! So he can't be utterly poverty-stricken. They always have watch charms of carnelian, like dried flesh that they have cut out of their neighbors' backs. Listen to the galoshes. "Angry, angrier, angriest, swish, swish." Watch him! The old wolf! He sees me! He sees me! He bows! He smiles! He waves his hand—and [Sinks down near the writing table, weeping] he has gone by!
CHRISTINE. Praise be to God!
ELIS [Rising]. He has gone by—but he will come again. Let's go out in the sunshine.
CHRISTINE. And what about dining with Peter?
ELIS. As I am not invited, I cannot go. For that matter, what should I do there in the festivity! Just go and meet an unfaithful friend! I should only make a pretense of not being hurt by what he has done.
CHRISTINE. I'm glad, for then you will stay here with us.
ELIS. I'd rather do that, as you know. Shall we go?
CHRISTINE. Yes, this way.
[Goes towards left. As Elis passes Benjamin he puts his hand on Benjamin's shoulder.]
ELIS. Courage, boy!
[Benjamin hides his face in his hands.]
ELIS [Takes the birch rod from the dining table and puts it behind the looking-glass]. It wasn't an olive branch that the dove was carrying—it was a birch rod!
[They go out.]
[Eleonora comes in from back: she is sixteen, with braids down her back. She carries an Easter lily in a pot. Without seeing, or pretending not to see Benjamin, she puts the lily on the dining table and then goes and gets a water-bottle from the sideboard and waters the plant. Then seats herself near dining table right opposite Benjamin and contemplates him and then imitates his gestures and movements.]
[Benjamin stares at her in astonishment.]
ELEONORA [Points to lily]. Do you know what that is?
BENJAMIN [Boyishly, simply]. It's an Easter lily—that's easy enough; but who are you?
ELEONORA [Sweetly, sadly]. Well, who are you?
BENJAMIN. My name is Benjamin and I live here with Mrs. Heyst.
ELEONORA. Indeed! My name is Eleonora and I am the daughter of Mrs. Heyst.
BENJAMIN. How strange no one ever said anything about you!
ELEONORA. People do not talk about the dead!
BENJAMIN. The dead?
ELEONORA. I am dead civilly, for I have committed a very bad deed.
BENJAMIN. You!
ELEONORA. Yes, I spent a trust fund; but that wasn't so much, for it was money as ill-gotten as ill-spent—but that my poor old father should be blamed for it and be put in prison—you see, that can never be forgiven.
BENJAMIN. So strangely and beautifully you talk! And I never thought of that—that my inheritance might have been ill-gotten.
ELEONORA. One should not confine human beings, one should free them.
BENJAMIN. You have freed me from a delusion.
ELEONORA. You are a charity pupil?
BENJAMIN. Yes, it is my sorrowful lot to have to live upon the charity of this poor family.
ELEONORA. You must not use harsh words or I shall have to go away. I am so sensitive I cannot bear anything harsh. Nevertheless it's my fault that you are unhappy.
BENJAMIN. Your father's fault, you mean.
ELEONORA. That is the same thing, for he and I are one and the same person. [Pause.] Why are you so dejected?
BENJAMIN. I have had a disappointment!
ELEONORA. Should you be downcast on that account? "Rod and punishment bring wisdom, and he who hates punishment must perish—" What disappointment have you had?
BENJAMIN. I have failed in my Latin examination—altho' I was so sure I would pass.
ELEONORA. Just so; you were so sure, so sure, that you would even have laid a wager that you would get thro' it.
BENJAMIN. I did have a bet on it.
ELEONORA. I thought so. You see that's why it happened—because you were so sure.
BENJAMIN. Do you think that was the reason?
ELEONORA. Certainly it was! Pride goeth before a fall!
BENJAMIN. I shall remember that the next time.
ELEONORA. That is a worthy thought; those who are pleasing to God are of humble spirit.
BENJAMIN. Do you read the Bible?
ELEONORA. Yes, I read it!
BENJAMIN. I mean, are you a believer?
ELEONORA. Yes, I mean that I am. So much so that if you should speak wickedly about God, my benefactor, I would not sit at the same table with you.
BENJAMIN. How old are you?
ELEONORA. For me there is no time nor space. I am everywhere and whensoever. I am in my father's prison, and in my brother's school-room. I am in my mother's kitchen and in my sister's little shop far away. When all goes well with my sister and she makes good sales I feel her gladness, and when things go badly with her I suffer—but I suffer most when she does anything dishonest. Benjamin, your name is Benjamin, because you are the youngest of my friends; yes, all human beings are my friends, and if you will let me adopt you, I will suffer for you too.
BENJAMIN. I don't quite understand the words you use, but I think I catch the meaning of your thoughts. And I will do whatever you want me to.
ELEONORA. Will you begin then by ceasing to judge human beings, even when they are convicted criminals—
BENJAMIN. Yes, but I want to have a reason for it. I have read philosophy, you see.
ELEONORA. Oh, have you! Then you shall help me explain this from a great philosopher. He said, "Those that hate the righteous, they shall be sinners."
BENJAMIN. Of course all logic answers that in the same way, that one can be doomed to commit crime—.
ELEONORA. And that the crime itself is a punishment.
BENJAMIN. That is pretty deep! One would think that that was Kant or Schopenhauer.
ELEONORA. I don't know them.
BENJAMIN. What book did you read that in?
ELEONORA. In the Holy Scripture.
BENJAMIN. Truly? Are there such things in it?
ELEONORA. What an ignorant, neglected child you are! If I could bring you up!
BENJAMIN. Little you!
ELEONORA. I don't believe there is anything very wicked about you. You seem to me more good than bad.