Are you speaking of your dead wife?
'Tis of her, of her exackly that I'm speakin'. She can't find no rest in the grave. She comes an' she goes an' she finds no rest.—I curry the horses; there she stands. I take a sieve from the feed-bin, an' I see her sittin' behind the door. I mean to go to bed in the little room; 'tis she that's lyin' in the bed an' lookin' at me.—She's hung a watch aroun' my neck; she knocks at the wall; she scratches on the panes.—She puts her finger on my breast an' I'm that smothered, I has to gasp for air. No, no, I know best. You got to go through a thing like that before you know what it is. You can't tell about It. I've gone through a deal—you c'n believe me.
Henschel, this is my last word to you: Gather all the strength you havein you; plant yourself firmly on both legs. Go and consult a physician.Tell yourself that you are ill, very ill, but drive these phantoms away.They are mere cobwebs of the brain, mere fancies.
That's what you said that there time, too. Just so or somethin' like it you said.
Very likely, and I'm willing to stand by it now. What you did in the matter of your marriage, it was your entire right to do. There was no question of any sin or guilt.
WERMELSKIRCH steps forward.
Henschel, come over to me. We'll light the gas and play cards. We'll drink beer or whatever you want to and smoke a pipe with it; then the ghosts can come if they want to. In two hours it will be bright daylight. Then we can drink some coffee and take a walk. The devil is in this if you can't be made to be your old self again.
Maybe so; we c'n try it all right.
Well then, come along.
I won't go to your place no more.
On account of that little nonsense the other day? That was only a misunderstanding. And all that has been cleared up. I simply won't let Hauffe come in any more. The fellow is always drunk; that's a fact. Things are often said in heat that simply enter at one ear and pass out at the other. And that's the way to treat such incidents, I always do.
An' that'd be best too. You're quite right. But no—I won't be comin' into the barroom no more. I'm goin' to travel about a good bit, I think. Maybe they won't follow me all roun'. An' now sleep well. I'm feelin' sleepy too.
How would it be, Henschel, if you came up with me? There's light upstairs and my office is heated. There we can all three play a little game. I wouldn't lie down to-night anyhow.
Yes, yes; we could be doin' that together. 'Tis long since I've touched a card.
That's right. Go on up. You wouldn't be able to sleep nohow.
I'm not goin'! Y' understand me now?
Well, if you're goin' to stay, then I won't. God knows what you'll be up to this night. You'll begin to be playin' aroun' with knives again. Yes, that's what he did yesterday. A body's not sure o' her life no more.
You won't see me goin' up there. He advised me to do what I did, an' then he was the first one to despise me for doin' it.
Henschel, I never despised you. You're an honourable fellow, through and through; don't talk nonsense now. There are certain fates that come upon men. And what one has to bear is not easy. You have grown ill, but you have remained a good man. And for that truth I'll put my hand in the fire!
Maybe that's true too, Mr. Siebenhaar.—Let it be; we'll talk about somethin' else. 'Tisn't your fault; I always said that. An' I can't blame my brother-in law neither. He knows where he gets all that from, 'Tis she herself goes roun' to people an' tells 'em. She's everywhere—now here an' now there. I s'pose she was with her brother too.
Who is it that goes about among people? Not a soul is thinking of that affair of the other night, That's quite forgotten by this time.
It sticks to me—it does—turn it any way you please.Sheknows how to go about it. She's everywhere, an' she'll persuade folks. An' even, if people was goin' to be silent for my sake an' wasn't after me like so many dogs—nothin' c'n do any good. It'll stick to me.
Henschel, we won't go away until you've put that, out of your mind. You must calm, yourself entirely.
Oh, I'm sensible now an' quiet, reel quiet.
Very well. In that case we can talk quite frankly. You see for yourself how your wife repents. That waiter fellow is gone; he's far away by this time and you'll never set your eyes on him again. Anyone may fall into sin—no matter who it is. And so take each other's hands. Bury that matter, hide it out of sight and be at peace.
I don't has to make no peace with her. [To HANNE.] I c'n give you my hand! I don't mind. That you've gone an' made a mistake—the Lord c'n judge that in this world. I won't condemn you on that account.—If only … about Gustel … if only we could know somethin' … about that … for certain!
You c'n both kill me this minute. May I drop dead if I did any harm toGustel!!
That's what I've been sayin': It'll stick to me.—Well, we c'n talk it over again to-morrow. Before we get through talkin' about that, many a drop o' water'll have time to run into the sea, I'm thinkin'.
Why don't you build a comfortable fire and cook a cup of hot coffee. After rain comes the sunshine. That's the way it is between married people. There will be storms in every marriage. But after the storm everything grows greener. The main thing is: Bye, baby, bye—[He imitates the gesture of one rocking a child in his arms.]—That's the right way. That's the thing that you two must get for yourselves. [Jovially patting HENSCHEL'S shoulder.] That's what the old man likes. You two must get together and buy a toy like that. Confound it, Henschel! It would be queer if that weren't easy. A giant of a man like you! Good night all.
Everything changes. One must have courage.
Just keep cool and dress warmly—that's it!
SIEBENHAAR and WERMELSKIRCH withdraw. HENSCHEL goes slowly to the door and is about to lock it again.
You're to leave that open!
All right; I don't mind.—What are you doin' there?
[Who has been bending down before the oven, draws herself up quickly.] I'm makin' a fire. Don't you see that?
[Sitting down, heavily by the table.] For my part you c'n light the lamp too.
[He pulls out the drawer of the table.
What are you lookin' for?
Nothin'.
Then you c'n push it back in. [She steps forward and shuts the drawer.]I s'ppose you want to wake Berthel up?
[Pause.]
Monday he's goin'. Then we'll be alone.
Who's goin' on Monday?
Siebenhaar. The Lord knows how we'll get along with the new owner.
He's a rich man. He won't borrow money of you at least.
—Hanne, one of us two'll have to go. One of us two. Yes, yes,'tis true.You c'n look at me. That can't be changed.
I'm to go away? You want to drive me away?
We'll see about that later—whohas to go! Maybe 'twill be me, an' maybe 'twill be you. If I was to go … I know this for sure—you wouldn't be scared about yourself. You're able to look after the business like a man.—But 's I said: it don't matter about me.
If one of us has to go—I'll go. I'm still strong enough. I'll leave an' nobody needn't see me no more. The horses an' the waggons—they're all yours. You got the business from your father an' you can't go an' leave it. I'll go an' then the trouble'll be over.
'Tis easy sayin' that. We got to consider one thing at a time.
There's no use in drawin' it out. What's over and done with is over.
[Rising heavily and going toward the adjoining room.] An' Berthel? What's to become o' the lass?
She'll have to go to father, over in Quolsdorf.
[At the door of the bedroom.] Let it be. To-morrow is another day. Everythin' changes, as Siebenhaar says. To-morrow, maybe, everythin' 'll look different.
[Pause.]
[Invisible in the next room.] Berthel is sweating all over again.
That won't do her no harm to be sweatin' a bit. The drops are runnin' down my neck too. Oh, what a life—[She opens a window.]—a body'd rather be dead.
What are you talkin' about? I don't understand.
Lie down on your side an' leave me alone.
Are you comin' too?
It's most day now.
[She winds the clock.]
Who's windin' the clock?
You're to keep still now. If Berthel was to wake up it'd be a fine to do. She'd howl for half an hour. [She sits down at the table and leans both elbows upon it.] 'Twould be best if a body got up an' went away,
SIEBENHAAR peers in.
SIEBENHAAR I'm lookin' in once more. Is your husband calmer now?
Yes, yes, he lay down to sleep. [She calls.] Husband! Wilhelm!
Sh! You'd better be grateful. Hurry and go to bed yourself.
There's nothin' else left to do. I'll go an' try. [She goes to the door of the bedroom, stands still as if spellbound and listens.] Wilhelm! You might answer.—[Louder and more frightened.] Wilhelm! You're not to frighten me this way! Maybe you think I don't know that you're still awake!!—[In growing terror.]—Wilhelm, I tell you!… [BERTHEL has waked up and wails.] Berthel, you look out an' keep still! Keep still or I don't know what'll happen!—Wilhelm! Wilhelm!
[She almost shrieks.
SIEBENHAAR looks in again.
What's the matter, Mrs. Henschel?
I call an' call an' he don't answer!
Are you crazy? Why do you do that?
—'Tis so still … Somethin's happened.
What?—[He takes up the candle and goes toward the bedroom door.]Henschel, have you fallen asleep?
[He enters the bedroom.
[Pause.]
[Not daring to follow him.] What is it? What is it? What's goin' on?
WERMELSKIRCH looks in.
Who's in there?
Mr. Siebenhaar.—'Tis so still. Nobody don't answer.—
[Very pale and holding BERTHEL on his arm hurries out of the bedroom.] Mrs. Henschel, take your child and go up to my wife.
[Already with the child in her arms.] For God's sake, what has happened?
You'll find that out all too soon.
[With a voice that is first repressed and at last rises to a scream.] O God, he's done hisself some harm!
[She runs out with the child.
Shall I call the doctor?
Too late! He could give no help here.
HAHN. HEINZEL. GOLISCH. KLEINERT.Field Labourers
A level, fertile landscape. It is a clear, warm, sunny morning in May. Diagonally from the middle to the foreground extends a path. The fields on either side are raised slightly above it. In the immediate foreground a small potato patch on which the green shoots are already visible. A shallow ditch, covered with field flowers, separates the path from the fields. To the left of the path on a slope about six feet in height an old cherry tree, to the right hazelnut and whitethorn bushes. Nearly parallel with this path, but at some distance in the background, the course of a brook is marked by willows and alder trees. Solitary groves of ancient trees add a park-like appearance to the landscape. In the background, left, from among bushes and tree-tops arise the gables and the church steeple of the village. A crucifix stands by the wayside in the foreground, right. It is Sunday.
ROSE BERND, a beautiful, vigorous peasant girl of twenty-two emerges, excited and blushing, from the bushes at the left and sits down on the slope, after having peered shyly and eagerly in all directions. Her skirt is caught up, her feet are bare, as are her arms and neck. She is busily braiding one of her long, blonde tresses. Shortly after her appearance a man comes stealthily from the bushes on the other side. It is the landowner and magistrate, CHRISTOPHER FLAMM. He, too, gives the impression of being embarrassed but at the same time amused. His personality is not undignified; his dress betrays something of the sportsman, nothing of the dandy—laced boots, hunter's hose, a leather bottle slung by a strap across his shoulder. Altogether FLAMM is robust, unspoiled, vivid and broad-shouldered and creates a thoroughly pleasant impression. He sits down on the slope at a carefully considered distance from ROSE. They look at each other silently and then break out into inextinguishable laughter.
[With rising boldness and delight sings ever louder and more heartily, beating time like a conductor.]
"In heath and under greenwood tree,There is the joy I choose for me!I am a huntsman boldI am a huntsman bold!"
[Is at first frightened by his singing; then, more and more amused, her embarrassment gives way to laughter.] Oh, but Mr. Flamm …
[With a touch of jaunty boldness.] Sing with me, Rosie!
Oh, but I can't sing, Mr. Flamm.
Ah, that isn't true, Rosie. Don't I hear you often and often singing out on the farm:
"A huntsman from the Rhineland …" Well!"Rides through the forest green."
But I don't know that song a bit, Mr. Flamm.
You're not to say Mr. Flamm! Come now!
"Girlie, come and moveHere to my favourite si-i-ide!"
[Anxiously.] The people will be comin' from church in a minute, Mr. Flamm.
Let 'em come! [He gets up and takes his rifle from the hollow cherry tree to the left.] I'd better hang it around again anyhow. So.—And now my hat and my pipe! Good. They can come whenever they please. [He has slung his gun across his shoulder, straightened his hat which is ornamented with a cock's feather, taken a short pipe out of his pocket and put it between his lips.] Look at the wild cherries. They're thick. [He picks up a handful of them and shows them to ROSE. With heartfelt conviction:] Rosie, I wish you were my wife!
Goodness, Mr. Flamm!
I do, so help me!
[Nervously trying to restrain him] Oh no, no!
Rosie, give me your dear, good, faithful little paw. [He holds her hand and sits down.] By heaven, Rosie! Look here, I'm a deucedly queer fellow! I'm damned fond of my dear old woman; that's as true as …
[Hiding her face in her arm.] You make me want to die o' shame.
Damned fond of her I tell you … but—[His patience snaps.]—this doesn't concern her a bit!
[Again tempted to laugh against her will.] Oh, but how you talk, Mr. Flamm!
[Filled with hearty admiration of her.] Oh, you're a lovely woman! You are lovely! You see: my wife and I … that's a queer bit of business, that is. Not the kind of thing that can be straightened out in a minute. You know Henrietta … She's sick. Nine solid years she's been bedridden; at most she creeps around in a wheel chair.—Confound it all, what good is that sort o' thing to me?
[He grasps her head and kisses her passionately.
[Frightened under his kisses.] The people are comin' from church!
They're not thinking of it! Why are you so worried about the people in church to-day?
Because August's in church too.
That long-faced gentry is always in church! Where else should they be? But, Rosie, it isn't even half past ten yet; and when the service is over the bells ring. No, and you needn't be worried about my wife either.
Oh, Christopher, she keeps lookin' at a body sometimes, so you want to die o' shame.
You don't know my old lady; that's it. She's bright; she can look through three board walls! But on that account …! She's mild and good as a lamb … even if she knew what there is between us; she wouldn't take our heads off.
Oh, no! For heaven's sake, Mr. Flamm!
Nonsense, Rosie! Have a pinch, eh? [He takes snuff.] I tell you once more: I don't care about anything! [Indignantly.] What is a man like me to do? What, I ask you? No, don't misunderstand me! Surely you know how seriously I think of our affair. Let me talk ahead once in a while.
Mr. Christie, you're so good to me …! [With a sudden ebullition of tenderness, tears in her eyes, she kisses FLAMM'S hand.] So good … but …
[Moved and surprised.] Good to you? No wonder! Deuce take me, Rosie. That's very little, being good to you. If I were free, I'd marry you. You see, I've lost the ordinary way in life! Not to speak of past affairs! I'm fit for … well, I wonder what Iamfit for! I might have been a royal chief forester to-day! And yet, when the governor died, I went straight home and threw over my career. I wasn't born for the higher functions of society. All this even is too civilised for me. A block house, a rifle, bear's ham for supper and a load of lead sent into the breeches of the first comer—that would be …!
But that can't be had, Mr. Flamm! And … things has got to end sometime.
[Half to himself.] Confound it all to everlasting perdition! Isn't there time enough left for that spindle-shanked hypocrite? Won't there be far too much left for that fellow anyway? No> girlie, I'd send him about his business.
Oh, but I've kept him danglin' long enough. Two years an' more he's been waitin'. Now he's urgent; he won't wait any longer. An' things can't go on this way no more.
[Enraged.] That's all nonsense; you understand. First you worked yourself to the bone for your father. You haven't the slightest notion of what life is, and now you want to be that bookbinder's pack horse. I don't see how people can be so vulgar and heartless as to make capital out of another human being in that way! If that's all you're looking forward to, surely there's time enough.
No, Christie … It's easy to talk that way, Mr. Flamm! But if you was put into such circumstances, you'd be thinkin' different too.—I know how shaky father's gettin'! An' the landlord has given us notice too. A new tenant is to move in, I believe! An' then it's father's dearest wish that everythin's straightened out.
Then let your father marry August Keil, if he's so crazy about the fellow. Why, he's positively obsessed. It's madness the way he's taken with that man!
You're unjust, Mr. Flamm; that's all.
Say rather … Well, what? What was I going to say?… I can't bear that sanctimonious phiz! My gorge rises at the sight of him. God forgive me, Rosie, and forgive you especially! Why shouldn't I be open with you? It may be that he has his merits. They say, too, that he's saved up a few shillings. But that's no reason why you should go and drown yourself in his paste-pot!
No, Christopher! Don't talk that way! I musn't listen to such talk, the dear Lord knows!—August, he's been through a lot!—His sickness an' his misfortunes—that goes right to a person's soul …
A man can never understand you women folks. You're an intelligent and determined girl, and suddenly, on one point, your stupidity is simply astonishing—goose-like, silly! It goes straight to your soul, does it? From that point of view you might as well marry an ex-convict, if pity or stupidity are reasons. You ought to raise a bit of a row with your father for once! What's hurting August? He grew up in the orphan house and succeeded in making his way for all that. If you won't have him, his brethren in the Lord will find him another. They're expert enough at that!
[With decision.] No, that won't do. And—it has got to be, Mr. Flamm.—I'm not sorry for what's happened, though I've had my share o' sufferin' in quiet. All to myself, I mean. But never mind. An' nothin' can change that now. But it's got to come to an end some day—it can't never an' never go on this way.
Can't go on? What do you mean by that exactly?
Just … because things is no different in this world. I can't put him off no longer; an' father wouldn't bear with it. An' he's quite right in that matter. Dear Lord ha' mercy! 'Tis no easier on that account! But when it'll all be off a body's soul … I don't know—[She touches her breast.] they calls it, I believe, strain o' the heart, Oh, times are when I has real pains in my heart … An' a person can't feel that way all the time.
Well, then there's nothing more to be done just now. It's time for me to be getting home. [He gets up and throws the rifle across his shoulder.] Another time then, Rosie. Good-bye!
ROSE stares straight in front of her without answering.
What's the matter, Rosie? Won't there be another time?
ROSE shakes her head.
What, have I hurt you, Rosie?
There'll never be another time—like this—Mr. Flamm.
[With despairing passion.] Girl, I don't care if it costs me everything …
[He embraces her and kisses her again and again.
[Suddenly in extreme terror.] For the love o' … some one's comin', Mr. Flamm!
FLAMM in consternation, jumps up and disappears behind a bush.
ROSE gets up hastily, straightens her hair and her dress and looks anxiously about her. As no one appears she takes up the hoe and begins to weed the potato patch. After a while there approaches, unnoticed by her, the machinist ARTHUR STRECKMANN dressed in his Sunday coat. He is what would generally be called a handsome man—large, broad-shouldered, his whole demeanour full of self-importance. He has a blond beard that extends far down his chest. His garments, from his jauntily worn huntsman's hat to his highly polished boots, his walking coat and his embroidered waistcoat, are faultless and serve to show, in connection with his carriage, that STRECKMANN not only thinks very well of himself but is scrupulously careful of his person and quite conscious of his unusual good looks.
[As though but now becoming conscious of ROSE'S presence, in an affectedly well-modulated voice.] Good day, Rosie.
[Turns frightened.] Good day, Streckmann. [In an uncertain voice] Why, where did you come from? From church?
I went away a bit early.
[Excitedly and reproachfully.] What for? Couldn't you put up with the sermon?
[Boldly.] Oh, it's such beautiful weather out. An' that's why! I left my wife in the church too. A feller has got to be by himself once in a while.
I'd rather be in church.
That's where the women folks belongs.
I shouldn't wonder if you had your little bundle o' sins. You might ha' been prayin' a bit.
I'm on pretty good terms with the Lord. He don't keep such very particular accounts o' my sins.
Well, well!
No, he don't bother with me much.
A vain, fool—that's what you is!
STRECKMANN laughs in a deep and affected tone.
If you was a real man, you wouldn't have to go an' beat your wife at home.
[With a gleam in his eyes.] That shows that I'm a real man! That shows it! That's proper! A man's got to show you women that he's the master.
Don't be fancyin' such foolishness.
That's so, for all you say. Rightisright. An' I never failed to get what I was wantin' that way.
ROSE laughs constrainedly.
People says you're goin' to leave Flamm's service.
I'm not in Flamm's service at all. You see now that I'm doin' other things.
You were helpin' at Flamm's no later'n yesterday.
Maybe so! Maybe I was or maybe I wasn't! Look after your own affairs.
Is it true that your father has moved?
Where to?
With August over into Lachmann's house.
August hasn't even bought the house yet. Those people—they knows more than I.
An' they says too that you'll be celebratin' your weddin' soon.
They can be talkin' for all I care.
[After a brief silence approaches her and stands before her with legs wide apart.] Right you are! You can marry him any time. A fine girl like you don't need to hurry so; she can have a real good time first! I laughed right in his face when he told me. There's no one believes him.
[Quickly.] Who's been sayin' it?
August Keil.
August himself? An' this is what he gets from his silly talkin'.
[After a silence.] August he's such a peevish kind….
I don't want to hear nothing. Leave me alone! Your quarrels don't concern me! One o' you is no better'n another.
Well, in some things—when it comes to bein' bold.
Oh, heavens! That boldness o' yours. We knows that. Go about an' asks the women folks a bit. No, August isn't that kind.
[Laughs with lascivious boastfulness.] I'm not denyin' that.
An' you couldn't.
[Looking at her sharply through half-closed lids.] It's not comfortable to make a fool o' me. What I wants of a woman—I gets.
[Jeeringly.] Oho!
Yes, oho! What would you wager, Rosie! You been makin' eyes at me many a time.
[He has approached and offered to put his arms around her.
Don't be foolish, Streckmann! Keep your hands off o' me!
If it was….
[Thrusts him away.] Streckmann! I've been tellin' you! I don't want to have nothin' to do with you men. Go your own way.
What am I doin' to you?—[After a silence with a smile that is half malicious, half embarrassed.] You wait! You'll be comin' to me one o' these days! I'm tellin' you: you'll be comin' to me yourself some day! You can act as much like a saint as you wants to.—D'you see that cross? D'you see that tree? Confound it! There's all kinds o' things! I've been no kind o' a saint myself! But … right under a cross … you might be sayin' just that … I'm not so very partic'lar, but I'd take shame at that. What would your father be sayin' or August? Now, just f'r instance: this pear tree is hollow. Well an' good. There was a rifle in there.
[Has been listening more and more intently in the course of her work. Deadly pale and quivering she bursts out involuntarily:] What are you sayin'?
Nothin'!—I'm sayin' nothin' more.—But when a feller hasn't no notion of nothin' an' is thinkin' no ill, a wench like you acts as high an' mighty!
[Losing self-control and leaping in front of him in her terror.] What is't you say?
[Calmly returning her terrible gaze.] I said: A wench like you.
An' what's the meanin' o' that?
That's got no special meanin'.
[Clenches her fists and pierces him with her eyes in an intense passion of rage, hate, terror and consternation until in the consciousness of her powerlessness she drops her arms and utters almost whiningly the words:] I'll know how to get my good right about this!
[Holding her right arm before her weeping eyes and wiping her face with the left, she returns, sobbing brokenly, to her work.
[Looks after her with his old expression of malicious coldness and determination. Gradually he is seized with a desire to laugh and finally bursts out:] That's the way things go! Don't worry a bit.—What do you take me for anyhow, Rose? What's the row about? This kind o' thing don't do no harm! Why shouldn't a person fool her neighbours? Why not? Who made 'em so stupid? Them as can do it are the finest women in the world! Of course, a man like me knows how things are! You can believe me—I've always known about you.
[Beside herself.] Streckmann! I'll do myself some harm! Do you hear? Or else go away from our bit o' patch! Go … I … something awful will happen, I tell you!
[Sits down and claps his flat hands over his knees.] For goodness' sake! Don't carry on so! D'you think I'll be goin' about everywhere an' tellin' what I know an' rakin' you over the coals? How does it concern me, I'd like to know, what your goin's on are?
I'll go home an' hang myself on a beam! That's what Mary Schubert did too.
That was a different thing with her! That girl had different things on her conscience! An' I didn't have nothin' to do with her.—But if every woman was to go an' hang herself on account o' what you've done—there wouldn't be no more women in this world. That sort o' thing happens wherever you look—everywhere—that's the way things is. O' course, I have to laugh. That father o' yours, he carries himself so high! The way he stares at a feller that's gone a bit off the narrow way. It's enough to make you want to go an' hide your face. Well—people ought to begin at home …
[Trembling in the terror of her heart.] O dear Lord, have mercy!
Can you deny that I'm right? You people stick in piety up to the very eyes—your father an' August Keil an' you too! A feller like me can't compete with you there.
[With a new outburst of despair.] It's a lie … a lie! You saw nothing!
No? Saw nothing? Well, I'll be…! Then I must ha' been dreamin'. That's what it must ha' been! If that wasn't Squire Flamm from Diessdorf! I haven't had a drop o' anythin' to-day. Didn't he play at drivin' you by the braids o' your hair? Didn't he throw you into the grass? [With uncontrollable, hard laughter.] He had a good hold on you!
Streckmann, I'll beat your head in with my hoe!
[Still laughing.] Listen to that! What now? You're not goin' to cut up so rough! Why shouldn't you ha' done it? I don't blame you. First come, first served: that's the way o' the world.
[Weeping and moaning in her helpless grief and yet working convulsively.] A feller like that, presumes to …!
[Enraged and brutally.] It's you that presumes! 'Tisn't me that does! Not that I'd mind presumin' a good deal. If Flamm's good enough, it's certain that I am!
[Sobbing and crying out in her despair.] I've been a decent girl all my life long! Let anybody come an' say somethin' against me if he can! I took care o' three little brothers an' sisters! Three o'clock in the mornin' I've gotten up, an' not so much as taken a drop o' milk! An' people knows that! Every child knows it!
Well, you needn't make such a noise about it! The bells is ringin' and the people is comin' from church. You might be a bit sociable with a feller. You people are just burstin' with pride. Maybe it's true … things look as if it was. I'm not sayin' but what you're a good worker an' a good saver. But otherwise you're no better'n other folks.
[Gazing into the distance; in extreme fear.] Isn't that August that's comin' there?
[Looks in the same direction toward the village. Contemptuously:] Where? Oh, yes, that's him! There they both are! They're just walkin' around the parson's garden. Well, what about it? You think I ought to be gettin' away? I'm not afeard o' them psalm-singin' donkeys.
[In quivering fear.] Streckmann, I've saved up twelve crowns …
Rosie, you know you've saved more than that.
All right, I'll give you all my bit o' savin's! I don't care for the money … I'll bring it to you, to the last farthing. Streckmann, only have pity …
[She seeks to grasp his hands beseechingly, but he draws them away.
I takes no money.
Streckmann! For the sake o' all good things in the world …
Well now, I can't see why you don't act sensible.
If one person in the village finds that out….
It depends on you! Nobody needn't know. All you need to do is not to force it on 'em … [With sudden passion.] What's at the bottom of it?—I'm crazy about you …
Where's the woman or girl you're not crazy about!
Maybe it's so. I can't change things. A man like me who has to go the round o' all the estates in the country with his threshin' machine—he don't have worry because he's not talked about. I know best how it is with me. Before ever Flamm came—I'm not mentionin' August—I'd thrown an eye on you. An' nobody knows what it's cost me. [With iron stubbornness.] But the devil fetch me now! Come what may, Rosie! There's no more use tryin' to joke with me! I happened to come upon somethin' to-day!
An' what is it?
You'll see soon enough.
MARTHEL, ROSE'S younger sister, comes skipping along the field-path. She is neatly dressed in her Sunday garments and is still pronouncedly child-like.
[Calls out.] Rose, is that you? What are you doin' here?
I've got to finish hoein' the patch. Why didn't you stop to finish it o'Saturday?
Oh, dearie me, Rosie, if father sees you!
If there's a bit o' profit in it, he won't do nothing very bad. You let old Bernd alone for that!
Who is that, Rosie?
Oh, don't ask me!
Old BERND and AUGUST KEIL are approaching along the field-path from the village. The old, white-haired man, as well as the other who is about thirty-five years old, is dressed in his Sunday coat and each carries a hymn book. Old BERND has a white beard; his voice has a certain softness as though he had had and been cured of a severe pulmonary affection. One might imagine him to be a dignified retired family coachman. AUGUST KEIL, who is a bookbinder, has a pale face, thin, dark moustache and pointed beard. His hair is growing notably thin and he suffers from occasional nervous twitching. He is lean, narrow-chested; his whole appearance betrays the man of sedentary employment.
Isn't that Rosie?
Yes, father Bernd.
You can't nowise make the girl stop that. When the fit takes her, she's got to go an' toil—if it's weekday or holiday. [He is quite near her by this time.] Is there not time enough o' weekdays?
You do too much, Rosie! There's no need o' that!
If our good pastor saw that, it'd hurt him to the very soul. He wouldn't trust his own eyes.
An' he's been askin' for you again.
[Suggestively.] They say, too, as he wants her to be his housekeeper.
[Noticing him for the first time.] Why, that's Streckmann!
Yes, here I am, life-size. That girl, she's as busy as an ant or a bee! She'll be workin' if her sides crack. She's got no time to be sleepin' in the church.
It's little sleepin' we does there, I tell you. You might better say that them as are out here do the sleepin' an' don't want no awakenin'. The Bridegroom is at hand …
An' that's certainly true! But the bride, meantime, runs off!
You're in a merry mood this day.
Yes, that I am. I could hug a curbstone … or the handle o' your collection bag. I do feel most uncommonly jolly. I could laugh myself sick.
[To ROSE.] Put up your things an' we'll go home! Not that way! That way I'm not goin' home with you! Put your hoe in the hollow of the tree! Carryin' that o' Sunday would give offence.
There's them that even gads about with guns.
An' devils that take no shame carryin' a whisky-bottle.
[He pulls his bottle out of his pocket.
Each man does those things on his own responsibility.
True. An' at his own expense! Come, take courage an' have a drink with me for once.
[He holds out the bottle to AUGUST who pays no attention to him.
You know well enough that August drinks no spirits!—Whereabouts is your threshin' machine now?
But you, father Bernd; you can't go an' refuse to take a drop with me! You've been a distiller yourself! My machine is on the great estate down below.
[Takes the bottle hesitatingly.] Just because it's you, Streckmann, otherwise I wouldn't be touchin' it. When I was manager of the estate, I had to do a good many things! But I never liked to distil the drink an' I didn't touch it in them days at all.
[To AUGUST who has placed a spade in the hollow of the cherry tree.] You just look at that tree! Piff, paff! All you got to do is to take your aim and let it fly.
There's people that goes hunting o' Sundays.
Squire Flamm.
Just so. We ha' met him. 'Tis bad. I'm sorry for them folks.
STRECKMANN throws cock-chafers at ROSE.
[Trembling.] Streckmann!
What's wrong?
What's the meanin' o' that?
Nothin'! We've got a little private quarrel!
You can have your little quarrels. But it'd be better if you had 'em without her.
[With malicious hostility.] You take care, August! Watch out!
Peace! Don't be quarrelsome! In God's name!
The dam' carrion always spits at me!
Carrion is a dead beast …!
August, let's be at peace. Father Bernd is right; people ought to like each other! An' it isn't Christian the way you act sour like! Come on now! Have a drink! You're not good-lookin', your worst enemy'd have to admit that, but you're fine when it comes to readin' an' writin' an' you've got your affairs pretty well arranged! Well, then, here's to your weddin'—an early one an' a merry one!
BERND takes the bottle and drinks since AUGUST remains quite unresponsive.
I take that real kind o' you, father Bernd.
When it comes to drinkin' to a happy weddin', I makes an exception!
Exactly! That's proper! That's right!—It isn't as if I was a horse-boy to-day as in the old times on the estate when you had the whip hand o' me. I've gotten to be a reputable kind o' feller. Anybody that's got a head on his shoulders makes his way.
God bestows his favours on them he wants to.—[To AUGUST.] Drink to a happy weddin'.
[Takes the bottle.] May God grant it! We don't have to drink to it.
[Slapping his thigh.] An' may he give plenty o' little Augusts, so that the grandfather can be glad. An' the oldest of 'em all must grow up to be a squire!—But now you ought to let Rosie have a drink too.
You're weepin', Rosie. What's troublin' you?
The tears keep runnin' out o' her eyes all the time.
[To ROSE.] Drink a drop, so's to let him have his will.
ROSE takes the bottle, overcoming her repugnance by a violent effort.
Right down with it now! Let's be jolly!
ROSE drinks trembling and hands back the bottle to AUGUST with undisguised disgust.
[Softly in his paternal pride to STRECKMANN.] There's a girl for you! He'd better keep a good hold o' her.