The large living room in FLAMM'S house. The large, low room which is on a level with the ground has a door at the right leading to the outer hall. A second door in the rear hall leads into a smaller chamber, filled with hunting implements, etc., which FLAMM calls his den. When this door is open, garments and rifles and stuffed bird heads are to be seen covering the walls of the smaller room. In it stands, also, the chest of drawers in which FLAMM stores the documents kept by him as magistrate. The large room with its three windows on the left side, its dark beams and its furnishings creates an impression of home-likeness and comfort. In the left corner stands a large sofa covered with material of an old-fashioned, flowery pattern. Before it stands an extension table of oak. Above the door of the den hangs a glass case containing a group of stuffed partridges. Immediately to the right of this door a key-rack with keys. Not far from this stands a bookcase with glass doors which is filled with books. Upon this bookcase stands a stuffed owl and next to it hangs a cuckoo clock. A great tile oven of dappled blue occupies the right corner of the room. In all the three windows of the left wall are potted plants in bloom. The window beside the table is open as well as the one farther forward. In front of the latter MRS. FLAMM is sitting in an invalid's chair. All the windows have mull curtains. Not far from the window nearest to the spectator there is an old chest of drawers covered by a lace scarf upon which are to be seen glasses, bric-a-brac and family mementos of various kinds. On the wall above hang family photographs. Between the oven and the door that leads to the outer hall stands an old-fashioned grand piano and an embroidered piano-stool. The keyboard of the instrument is turned toward the tile oven. Above the piano there are glass cases containing a collection of butterflies. In the foreground, to the right, a brightly polished roller-top desk of oak with a simple chair. Several such chairs are set against the mall near the desk. Between the windows an old armchair covered with brown leather. Above the table a large brass lamp of English manufacture is suspended. Above the desk hangs the large photograph of a handsome little boy of five. The picture is in a simple wooden frame wreathed in fresh field flowers. On top of the desk a large globe of glass covers a dish of forget-me-nots. It is eleven o'clock in the forenoon on a magnificent day of late spring.
_MRS. FLAMM is an attractive, matronly woman of forty. She wears a smooth, black alpaca dress with a bodice of old-fashioned cut, a small cap of white lace on her head, a lace collar and soft lace cuffs which all but cover her emaciated, sensitive hands. A book and a handkerchief of delicate material lie in her lap. MRS. FLAMM'S features are not without magnanimity and impressiveness. Her eyes are light blue and piercing, her forehead high, her temples broad. Her hair, already gray and thin is plainly parted in the middle. From time to time she strokes it gently with her finger tips. The expression of her face betrays kindliness and seriousness without severity. About her eyes, her nose and her mouth there is a flicker of archness.
[Looks thoughtfully out into the open, sighs, becomes absorbed in her book for a moment, then listens and closes her book after inserting a bookmark. Finally she turns toward the door and speaks in a slightly raised, sympathetic voice.] Whoever is out there … come in! [A tap is heard, the door to the hall is slightly opened and the head of old BERND is seen.] Well, who is it? Ah, that's father Bernd, our deacon and trustee. Come right in! I'm not going to bite you.
We was wantin' to speak to the squire.
[He enters, followed by AUGUST KEIL. Both are once more in their best clothes.
Well, well, you do look solemn.
Good mornin', Missis.
Good day to you, father Bernd.—My husband was in his den there a minute ago. [Referring to AUGUST.] And there is your future son-in-law too.
Yes, by God's help, Mrs. Flamm.
Well, then, do take a seat. I suppose you want to make official announcement of the marriage? It's to be at last.
Yes, thanks be to God; everythin' is in readiness now.
I'm glad o' that. This waiting leads to very little. If something is to be, then 'tis better to have it done! So the girl has made up her mind to it at last?
Yes. An' it's like takin' a stone off my heart. She has kept us all hangin' about this long time. Now she wants to hurry of her own free will. She'd rather have the weddin' to-day than to-morrow.
I'm very glad of that, Mr. Keil! Very glad, indeed, Bernd. Christie! I think my husband will be here presently! So this matter has been adjusted at last! Well, father Bernd, I think you ought to feel that you're lucky! You must be well content.
An' so I am! You're right indeed, Mrs. Flamm! Day before yesterday we talked it all over. An' God has given us an especial blessin' too. For August went to see the lady of Gnadau an' she was so extraordinar' kind-hearted as to loan him a thousand crowns. An' with that he can go an' buy the Lachmann house now.
Is that true? Is that possible? Now there you see again how life is, father Bernd. When your master let you go without a bit o' pension or anything for your old age, you were quite desperate and hopeless. An' 'twas an unfeeling thing to do! But now God has turned everything to good.
So it is! But men has too little faith!
Well, then! Now you're well off! In the first place the house is right opposite the church, an' then it has a good bit o' land that goes with it! And Rose, well, I'm sure she knows how to manage. Yes, you can really be satisfied.
The blessin's that a lady like that can spread! Next to God … it's to her we owe the most. If I'd been in her service an' had ruined my health as I did workin' for my master, I wouldn't ha' had to complain.
You have nothing more to complain of now, Bernd.
My goodness, no! In one way not!
You can't count on gratitude in this world. My father was chief forester for forty years an' when he died my mother knew want for all that.—You have an excellent son-in-law. You can live in a pleasant house and you'll even have your own land to work on. And that everything goes from better to better—well, you can let your children see to that.
An' that's what I hope for too. No, I haven't no doubt o' that at all. A man who has worked himself up in the world that way by carryin' tracts …
Weren't you thinking once of being a missionary?
Unfortunately my health was too bad for that.
… An' learned readin' an' writin' an' his trade too the while, an' is so upright an' Christian—well, I feel that I can lay down my head in peace if it is to lay it down to my last sleep.
Do you know, by the way, father Bernd, that my husband is giving up his office as magistrate? He'll hardly marry your girl.
They're in a hurry….
I know, I know. Rose is helpin' along too. She was in to see me this morning. If you wouldn't mind, going to look … right behind the yard … Christie!… There he is….
[Not yet visible, calls:] Presently! In a moment!
It's official business.
FLAMM, without coat or waistcoat, appears in the door of his den. His gleaming white shirt is open in front. He is busy cleaning the barrels of a shotgun.
Here I am. The machinist Streckmann was here just now. I'd like to have my threshing done at once, but the machine is down there on the estate and they're far from being done … Dear me! Surely that's father Bernd.
Yes, Mr. Flamm, we have come here. We were wantin' to….
One thing after another! Patience! [He examines the barrels of the gun carefully.] If you have official business for the magistrate, you'd better wait a little while. Steckel will be my successor and he will take these matters a deal more solemnly.
[Holding her crocheting needle to her chin and observing her husband attentively.] Christie, what silly stuff are you talking?
[Who, pale from the first, has grown paler at the mention of STRECKMANN'S name, now arises solemnly and excitedly.] Your honour, we want to announce a marriage.—I am ready, by God's help, to enter into the holy state of matrimony.
[Stops looking at the gun. Lightly.] Is it possible? And are you in such a hurry about it?
[Banteringly.] How does that concern you, Christie? Dear me, let the good folks marry in peace! You're a reg'lar preacher, you are! If that man had his will, father Bernd, there wouldn't be hardly anything but single men and women.
Well, marriage is a risky business,—You're the bookbinder August Keil.
At your service.
You live over in Wandriss? And you've bought the Lachmann house?
Exactly.
And you want to open a book-shop?
A book and stationery shop. Yes. Probably,
He thinks o' sellin' mostly devotional books.
There's some land that belongs to the Lachmann house, isn't there? It must be there by the big pear tree?
BERNDandAUGUST
[At the same time.] Yes.
Why then our properties adjoin! [He lays down the barrels of the gun, searches in his pockets for a bunch of keys and then calls out through the door:] Minna! Come and wheel your mistress out!
[Resignedly though unable to control his disquiet, he sits down at the desk.
A very chivalrous man! But he's in the right! I'm in the way just now! [To the neat maid who has come in and stepped behind her.] Come, my girl, wheel me into the den. An' you might well pin up your hair more smoothly.
MRS. FLAMM and the MAID disappear in the den.
I'm really sorry for the Lachmanns. [To KEIL.] You invested your savings in a mortgage on that property, didn't you? [AUGUST coughs excitedly and in embarrassment.] Well, that's all the same in the end! Whoever owns that property, though, has cause to congratulate himself.—So you want to marry? Well, all that's wanting is the lady! How is that? Is the lady stubborn?
[Very much wrought up and quite determined.] We're at one entirely, so far as I know.
I'll go an' fetch her, Mr. Flamm.
[Exit rapidly.
[Who has opened the desk in obvious absentmindedness, observes BERND'S departure too late.] Nonsense, there's no such terrible hurry. [For a few moments he gazes in some consternation at the door through which BERND has disappeared. Then he shrugs his shoulders.] Do as you please! Exactly as you please! I can light a pipe in the meanwhile. [He gets up, takes a tobacco pouch from the bookcase and a pipe from a rack on the wall, fills the pipe and lights it. To AUGUST.] Do you smoke?
No.
Nor take snuff?
No.
And you drink no whisky, no beer, no wine?
Nothing except the wine in the sacrament.
Iron principles, I must say! Quite exemplary!—Come in! I thought someone was knocking. Or wasn't there? Those confounded …! You practise a bit of quackery now and then as a diversion, don't you? [AUGUST shakes his head.] I thought you healed by prayer? Seems to me I heard something like that.
That would be somethin' very different from quackery.
In what respect?
Faith can move mountains. And whatever is asked in the right spirit … there the Father is still almighty to-day.
Come in! Surely someone's been knocking again! Come in! Come in! Confound it all! [Old BERND, very pale himself, urges ROSE to enter. She is pale and resists him. She and FLAMM look steadfastly into each other's eyes for a moment. Thereupon FLAMM continues:] Very well! Just wait one little minute.
[He goes into the den as though to search for something.
The following colloquy of BERND, ROSE and AUGUST is carried on in eager whispers.
What was Streckmann sayin' to you?
Who? But, father …
Streckmann was out there, talkin' an' talkin' to her!
Well, what should he ha' been talkin' to me about?
That's what I'm askin' you.
An' I know about nothin'.
You ought to have no dealin's with such a scamp!
Can I help it if he talks to me?
You see, you must confess that he's been talkin' to you!
An' if he has! I didn't listen to him—
I'll have to be givin' notice about that feller Streckmann. I'll have to get the help o' the law against him. We was walkin' past there a while ago where they're workin' with that threshin' machine. You hear? They're beginnin' again! [From afar the humming and rumbling of the machine is heard.] An' then he called out somethin' after us. I couldn't just rightly hear what it was.
If a girl talks as much as two words to that man, her good repute is almost ruined.
Well, go an' get yourself a better girl.
[Re-enters. He has put on a collar and a hunting coat. His demeanour is firm and dignified.]
Good morning, everybody. Now what can I do for you? When is this wedding to take place? What's the trouble? You don't seem to be in agreement. Well, won't you please say something? Well, my good people, it doesn't look as though you were really ready. Suppose you take my advice: go home and think it all over once more. And when you've quite made up your minds come in again.
[Dictatorially.] The matter'll be adjusted now.
I have surely nothing against it, Keil. [About to make the necessary notes with a pencil.] When is the ceremony to take place?
As soon as ever it's possible, we was thinkin'.
Yes; in four or five weeks if it could be done.
In four or five weeks? So soon as that?
Yes, Mr. Flamm.
Then I must beg you to name the exact date. It's very difficult to make such arrangements so rapidly and….
[Involuntarily from the depth of her painful excitement.] An' it might well wait a bit longer'n that.
What do you mean, Rosie? I should say Miss Bernd. We've known, each other all our lives. But one shouldn't—be so familiar with a girl who's betrothed. However, it seems, then, that you are not in agreement….
[Who has started violently at ROSE'S words, has stared at her uninterruptedly since. Now he fights down his emotion and says with unnatural calm:] Very well then. Good-bye and good luck to you, father Bernd.
Stay right where you are, August, I tell you! [To ROSE.] An' as for you! I'm tellin' you now that you must make up your mind one way or t'other! D'you understand? Long enough has I had patience with you, an' August too, more than was need. We went an' took your foolishness upon ourselves. We was thinkin': Patience, patience! The Almighty will bring the lass to her senses. But things gets worse an' worse with you. Three days ago you give me your sacred promise an' plighted your troth to August, an' you yourself was hard put to it to wait. An' to-day comes an' you want to be shirkin'. What's the meanin' o' that? What do you think o' yourself? D'you think you can dare anything because you've been a good, decent lass? Because you've had self-respect an' been industrious, an' no man can say evil o' you? Is that the reason? Ah, you're not the only one o' that kind. That's no more'n our dooty! An' we're not permitted to think anything of ourselves on that account! There's others as don't go gaddin' to the dance! There's others as has taken care o' her brothers an' sisters an' kept house for an old father! They're not all slovens an' gadabouts even though you're a pious, decent lass! An' how would things ha' been if you had been different? The street would ha' been your home! No girl like that could be a daughter o' mine! This man here, August, he has no need o' you! A man like that has but to stretch out his hand … an' he can have any girl he wants, even if her people are of the best. He might be havin' a very different wife from yourself! Truly, a man's patience can't bear everything! It'll snap sometime! Pride, arrogance, recklessness—that's what it is in you! Either you keep your promise, or….
Now, now, father Bernd! You must be gentle!
Your honour, you don't know how it's been! A girl that leads on and makes a fool of an honest man that way—she can't be no daughter o' mine!
[Nearly weeping.] What have you got to reproach me with, Rose? Why are you so hard toward me? 'Tis true, I never had no confidence in my good fortune? An' why should I have? I'm made for misfortune! An' that's what I've always told you, father Bernd, in spite of it all I've taken thought an' I've worked an' God has given his blessin' so that I've not fallen by the wayside. But I can weep; these things aren't for me! That would ha' been too much of a blessin'. I grew up in an orphan house! I never knew what it was to have a home! I had no brother an' no sister … well, a man can still hold fast to his Saviour.—It may be I'm not much to look at, lass! But I asked you an' you said yes. 'Tis the inner man that counts! God looks upon the heart … You'll be bitter sorry some day!
[He tries to go but BERND holds him back.
Once more! Here you stay, August!—D'you understand, Rosie! I means these words: This man here … or … no, I can't permit that! That man here was my friend an' support long before he asked you to be his wife. When I was down with the sickness an' couldn't earn nothin', an' no one was good to us—he shared his bit o' bread with us! [AUGUST, unable to master his emotion any longer, takes his hat and goes out.] He was like an angel o' the Lord to us!—August!
I'm willin'. Can't you give me a little time?
He's given you three years! The good pastor has tried to persuade you … Now August is tired out! Who's to blame him for't? Everything must end somewhere! He's in the right! But now you can look after yourself an' see what becomes o' you … I can't take no more pride in such a daughter.
[Exit.
FLAMM Well, well, well, well! This is the damnedest …!
ROSE has become alternately red and deathly pale. It is clear that she is struggling with emotions so violent that she can scarcely hold them in check. After BERND has gone out the girl seems to fall into a state of desperate numbness.
[Closing the public registration book and finding courage to look at ROSE.] Rose! Wake up! What's the matter with you? Surely you're not going to worry about all that ranting? [A fever seems to shake her and her great eyes are full of tears.] Rose! Be sensible! What's the …?
I know what I want—and—maybe—I'll be able to put it through! An'—if not—it don't matter—neither!
[Walks up and down excitedly, stopping to listen at the door.] Naturally. And why not? [Apparently absorbed in the key-rack from which he takes several keys, whispers in feverish haste.] Rose! Listen! Rose, do you hear me? We must meet behind the outbuildings! I must talk it all over with you once more. Ssh! Mother's in there in the den. It's not possible here!
[Uttering her words with difficulty but with an iron energy.] Never an' never, Mr. Flamm!
I suppose you want to drive us all mad? The devil has gotten into you!I've been running around after you for the better part of a month, tryingto say a sensible word to you and you avoid me as if I were a leper!What's the result? Things of this kind!
[As before.] An' if everythin' gets ten times worse'n it is—no! You can all beat down on me; I don't deserve no better! Go on an' wipe your boots on me, but …
[Who is standing by the table, turns suddenly with indignant astonishment toward ROSE. He strives to master his rage. Suddenly however he brings down his fist on the table top with resounding violence.] I will be damned to all …!
For heaven's sake …
MRS. FLAMM, wheeled by a maid servant, appears at the door of the den.
What is the trouble, Christopher?
FLAMM who has turned deadly pale, pulls himself together energetically, takes his hat and cane from the wall and goes out through the door at the right.
[Looks at her husband in consternation, shakes her head at his abrupt departure and then turns questioningly to ROSE.] What has happened? What's the matter with him?
[Overwhelmed by her profound wretchedness.] Oh, dear Mrs. Flamm, I'm that unhappy!
[She sinks down before MRS. FLAMM and buries her head in the latter's lap.
Now do tell me!… For pity's sake, lass … what's come over you! What is it? You're like a different creature. I can't never understand that! [To the maid who has wheeled her in.] I don't need you now; you can come back later! Get everything ready in the kitchen. [The maid leaves the room.] Now then! What is the trouble? What has happened? Tell me everything! It'll ease you! What? What is't you say? Don't you want to marry that pasty August? Or maybe you're carryin' some other fellow around in your thoughts? Dear me! one o' them is about as good as another, an' no man is worth a great deal.
[Controlling herself and rising.] I know what I wants and that's the end o't!
Is that true? You see, I was afraid you didn't know! Sometimes a woman don't know, especially a young one like you. An' then, maybe, an older woman can help a bit. But if you know what you want,'tis well! You'll be findin' your own way out o' your trouble. [Putting on her spectacles, with a keen glance.] Rosie, are you ill maybe?
[Frightened and confused.] Ill? How …?
Why, don't people get ill? You used to be so different formerly.
But I'm not ill!
I'm not sayin' it. I just ask. I ask because I want to know! But we must understand each other rightly! 'Tis true! Don't let's talk round about the thing we want to know, or play hide an' seek.—You're not afraid that I don't mean well? [ROSE shakes her head vigorously.] An 'twould be strange if you did. That's settled then. You used to play with my little Kurt. You two grew up together until it pleased God to take my only child.—An' that very time your mother died too an' I remember—she was lyin' on her deathbed—that she was askin' me that I might, if possible, look after you a bit.
[Staring straight before her.] The best thing for me would be to jump into the river! If things is that way … God forgive me the sin!
If things are that way? How? I don't understand you! You might well speak a bit more clearly.—In the first place, I'm a woman myself, an' it won't astonish me. An' then—I've been a mother myself, even if I have no children now. Lass, who knows what's wrong with you? I've been watchin' you for weeks an' weeks; maybe you didn't notice anything, but now I want you to come out with the truth.—Wheel me over to that chest o' drawers. [ROSE obeys her.] So! Here in these drawers are old things—a child's clothes an' toys. They were Kurt's … Your mother said to me once: My Rose, she'll be a mother o' children! But her blood is a bit too hot!—I don't know. Maybe she was right. [She takes a large doll from one of the drawers.] Do you see? Things may go as they want to in this world, but a mother is not to be despised.—You and Kurt used to play with this doll. 'Twas you mainly that took care o' her, washed her, fed her, gave her clean linen, an' once—Flamm happened to come up—you put her to your breast.—You brought those flowers this morning, didn't you? The forget-me-nots in the little dish yonder? An' you put flowers on Kurt's grave o' Sunday. Children an' graves—they're women's care. [She has taken a little child's linen shift from the drawer, she unfolds it, holding it by the sleeves, and speaks from behind it.] Didn't you, Rosie? An' I thank you for it, too. Your father, you see, he's busy with his missionary meetin's an' his Bible lessons an' such things. All people are sinners here, says he, an' he wants to make angels of 'em. It may be that he's right, but I don't understand those things. I've learned one thing in this world, an' that is what it is to be a mother an' how a mother is blessed with sorrows.
ROSE overwhelmed and moaning has sunk down beside MRS. FLAMM and kisses the latter's hands again and again in gratitude and as a sign of confession.
[Shows by a sudden gleam in her eyes that she understands the truth and has received the confession. But she continues to speak quietly.] You see, lass, that's what I've learned. I've learned that one thing which the world has forgotten. I don't know very much about anything else. As much as most people, maybe, an' that's not any real knowledge. [She lays down the child's shift carefully on her lap.] Well, now you go home an' be of good courage! I'll be thinkin' things over for you. 'Tis well so far. I'll ask you no more just now. You're different now … all's different. An' I'll be doubly careful. I don't want to know anything, but I want you to depend on me. Little I care, anyhow, who the father is—if 'tis a councillor or a beggar. It's we who have to bring the children into the world, an' no one can help us there. Three things you must think about—how about your father, and about August … an' something more. But I have time enough! I'll think it all over an' I'll feel that I'm still good for something in this world.
[Has arisen and passed again into a state of moral numbness.] No, no, Mrs. Flamm, don't do that! You can't! Don't take no interest in me! I've not deserved it of him nor of no one! I know that! I've got to fight it through—alone! There's no help in others for me; it's … no, I can't tell you no clearer!… You're as good to me as an angel! Dear God, you're much too good! But it's no use! I can't take your help. Good-bye….
Wait a little! I can't let you go this way. Who knows what you may be doin'?
No, you can be reel quiet about that, Mrs. Flamm. I'm not that desperate yet. If there's need, I can work for my child. Heaven's high an' the world is wide! If it was just me, an' if it wasn't for father an' if August didn't seem so pitiful … an' then, a child ought to have a father!
Good. You just be resolute. You were always a brave girl. An' 'tis better if you can keep your courage up!—But, if I've understood you rightly, I can't see at all why you want to fight against the weddin'.
[Becomes sullen, pale and fearful.] What can I say? I don't hardly know! An' I don't want to fight against it no more. Only … Streckmann….
Be open with me, you understand? For my part you can go home now! But come back to-morrow! An' listen to this thing I say: Be glad! A woman ought to be glad of her child….
An' God knows that I am! An' I will fight it all through! Only—nobody can't help me to do it!
[Exit quickly.
MRS. FLAMM [Alone. She looks after ROSE, sighs, takes the child's shift from her lap, unfolds it as before and says:] Ah, lass,'tis a good fortune that you have, not an evil! There's none that's greater for a woman! Hold it fast!
A fertile landscape. In the foreground, to the right, on a triangular piece of greensward slightly below the level of the fields, there stands an old pear tree, at the foot of which a spring empties into a primitive basin of stone. The middle distance is of meadow land. In the background a pool, bordered by reeds and dotted by water plants, lies in a grove of alder trees and bushes of hazelnut, willow and beech. The meadows extend on either side encircled by immemorial oaks, elms, beeches and birch trees. Between the foliage of the trees and bushes the church spires of distant villages are visible. To the left, behind the bushes, arise the thatched roofs of the field barns.
It is a hot afternoon of early August.
From afar is heard the hum of the threshing machine. BERND and AUGUST KEIL come from, the right. They are worn out from labour and from the heat. The men are clad only in their shirts, breeches, boots and caps. Each carries a hoe across his shoulder, a scythe in his hand, and carries at his belt a cowherd's horn and whetstone.
'Tis hot an' to spare to-day. A man must rest a bit! But a feelin' o' peace comes to you workin' on your own ground.
The trouble is I'm not used to mowin'.
You went an' did your share right bravely.
Yes, yes! But how long can I do it? All my limbs are twitchin' an' hurtin' me now.
You can rest content, my son. A man's got to be used to that kind o' work. An' in your case 'tis only an exception. But, 's I said, you could well go an' be a gard'ner.
For the space of a day. On the second I'd collapse. There's no use; I'm but a broken reed. I went to the county physician again. 'Twas the same as always. He just shrugged his shoulders.
You're well now an' in God's hands. The most you might do is to put a few rusty nails in water an' drink the rinsings two or three times a week. That purifies the blood an' strengthens the heart.—I only hope the weather'll keep on this way.
The heat's too terrible. When we were mowin', I thought I heard thunder.
[Kneeling down on the edge of the basin and drinking from the surface of the spring.] Water is the best drink for all they say.
How late is it?
'Tis about four o'clock, I'm wonderin' what keeps Rose with our evenin' meal. [He raises his scythe and looks at the blade. AUGUST does the same.] Will you have to sharpen? Mine will do a bit longer.
I can try it this way a while longer.
[Throws himself on the grass under the pear tree.] You'd better come an' sit down by me. An' if, maybe, you got your Testament with you, we might refresh ourselves with the Good Word.
[Sitting down exhausted and glad to be free.] All I say is: Thanks and praise be to the Lord.
D'you see, August, I said to you then: Let her be! The lass will find her own way! Now she's come to her senses! In the old days, before your time, often an' often I worried about her. A kind o' stubbornness used to come over her from time to time. An' 'twas always best to let her be!—Sometimes it seemed, as God lives, as if the lass was runnin' against a wall—a strong wall that nobody else couldn't see, an' as if she had to grope her way around it first.
What got into her that day … I'm thankin' God on my knees … but that day I didn't know what to make of it! Suddenly she—how that came about …? No, I can't see the rights of it to this day.
An' how different did she act this time when we went down to the magistrate.
I'm glad that it's no longer Squire Flamm.
Yes, an' this time she didn't say a word an' in four or five minutes everythin' was straight. That's the way she is. 'Tis the way o' women.
D'you think it had somethin' to do with Streckmann? He called out some words behind you that day, an' first he had talked to her.
It may be so, an' it may not be so. I can't tell you. Times is when one can't get a word out o' her. 'Tis not a good thing. An' on that account I'm glad that she'll be the wife of a man who can influence her an' take that sullen way from her. You two are meant for one another. 'Tis well! The girl needs to be led, an' you have a kind hand an' a gentle one.
When I see that Streckmann, I feel as if I had to look upon the evil one hisself….
Maybe she thought as the feller meant mischief. He's been a sinner from his childhood on! Many a time his mother complained of it!… It may be! 'Twouldn't surprise no one in him.
When I see that man, I don't seem to be myself no longer. Hot an' cold shudders run down my back, an' I come near to accusin' our Heavenly Father … because he didn't make me a Samson in strength. Such times, God forgive me, I have evil thoughts. [The whizzing of Streckmann's engine is heard.] There he is!
Don't take no notice of him.
I won't. An' when 'tis all over, I'll shut myself up in my four walls an' we can lead a quiet life.
A good, quiet life—God grant it!
And I don't want to know nothin' of the world no more! The whole business fills me with horror! I have taken such a disgust to the world and to men, that I … Father, I don't hardly know how to say it … but when the bitterness o' things rises up into my throat—then I laugh! Then I have a feelin' of peace in the thought of death; and I rejoice in it like a child.
A number of thirsty field labourers, an old woman and two young girls, all from the estate of the magistrate FLAMM, come hurriedly across the fields. They are HAHN, HEINZEL, GOLISCH, OLD MRS. GOLISCH, OLD KLEINERT, THE HEAD MAID SERVANT and her ASSISTANT. The men are clad in trousers, the women have their skirts gathered up, shawls over their breasts and manicoloured kerchiefs on their heads.
[Thirty years old, bronzed and vigorous.] I'm always the first at the fountain! The rest o' ye c'n run all ye want to! Ye can't never ketch up with me! [He kneels down and leans over the spring.] Eh, but I'd like to jump right in.
Don't ye dare! We've got a thirst too. [To the HEAD MAID SERVANT.] Have ye a bit of a cup with ye to dip up the water?
Hold on there! I comes first.
[Pulls the two women back by the shoulders and thrusts himself between them up to the spring.] First comes the men, then the women folks.
There's space enough here for us all. Eh, father Bernd? Wish you a good meal.
Yes, yes. Only no meal's been brought for us to eat yet. We're waitin' for it—waitin' in vain.
I … I … I'm wet enough to be wrung out! My tongue is lyin' in my mouth, dry as a piece o' charred wood.
Water!
Here 'tis, enough for us all!
They all drink greedily, some immediately from the surface of the mater, some out of their hollowed hands, others out of their hats or out of little cups and bottles. The sounds of swallowing and of deep relieved breathing are clearly audible.
[Getting up.] Water's a good thing but beer would be a better.
An' a bit o' brandy wouldn't come amiss neither.
August, you might be treatin' us to a quart.
He'd better invite us all to the weddin'.
We're all comin' to the weddin'. They says it's to be soon.
I'm not comin'. What for? To swill cold water? I needn't go no farther than the spring for that. Or for the sake of a little coffee.
An' prayin' an' singin' for dessert. An' mebbe, there's no tellin', the parson from Jenkau will come over an' see if we know the ten commandments.
Or the seven beatitudes on top o' that! That'd be a fine state of affairs. I've long forgot it all.
You folks had better stop teasin' August. I'm tellin' you now, if I had a girl of my own, I wouldn't be wantin' no better son-in-law. He knows his business! You always know where to find him.
The working men and women have scattered themselves at ease in a semicircle and are eating their evening meal; coffee in tin pots and great wedges of bread from which they cut pieces with their clasp-knives.
There comes Rosie Bernd around from behind the farm.
Look an' see, will you, how that girl can jump.
She can lift a sack o' wheat and drag it to the very top o' the barn. This very mornin' I saw her with a great heavy chest o' drawers on a wheelbarrow, trundlin' it over to the new house. That there girl has got sap an' strength. She'll take care o' her household.
If I could get along in the world like August in other respecks, my faith, I wouldn't a bit mind tryin'; I'd see what bein' pious can do for a man.
You've got to know how to run after good fortune; then you'll get hold of it.
When you consider how he used to go around from village to village with a sack full o' tracts; an' how, after that, he used to be writin' letters for people … an' now, to-day, he's got the finest bit o' property an' can marry the handsomest girl in the county.
ROSE BERND approaches. In a basket she is carrying the evening meal for AUGUST and OLD BERND.
A good afternoon to you.
Good evenin'!—Good evenin'! Many thanks!
You're lettin' your sweetheart starve, Rosie.
[Merrily unpacking the food.] Don't you worry! He don't starve so easy as that.
You must be feedin' him well, Rosie, or he'll put on no flesh.
That's true. He'll be a sight too lean for you, lass.
Where have you been keepin' yourself so long? We've been waitin' this half hour.
[In a subdued but annoyed voice.] An' now the whole crowd is here again! An' we might have been through this long time.
Let him scold, lass, an' don't mind it.
Who's scoldin'? There's no one here to scold. August wouldn't do it in a lifetime.
Even so! But that's right: you shouldn't care nothin' about it.
'Cause, if he don't scold now, that'll be comin' later.
I'm not afraid o' that ever comin'.
You're mighty friendly, all of a sudden.
We was always agreed with each other, wasn't we, August? What are you laughin' at? [She kisses him. Laughter is heard among the people.]
Well, well, and I thought as I might be climbin' into her window some day.
If you did, you'd be carrying home your bones in a handkerchief!
[Sarcastically.] O Lordy, Lordy! I'd try it all the same. You can't never tell.
[Sombre but calm.] Take care what you're sayin', woman.
Hear what he says, I tell you! Be careful of what you're sayin'. OldBernd, he don't take no jokes.
She's not sayin' anythin' special. Let her be.
[Lighting his pipe.] He may be lookin' real mild now, but when he lets go, you won't hardly believe it. I know how it used to be when he was manager of the estate; the women folks didn't have much cause for laughin' then. He got the upper hand o' ten like you; there wasn't no gaddin 'about with fellers for them!
Who's gaddin' about with fellers, I'd like to know!
You'd better be askin' the machinist, Streckmann,
[Crimson.] For all I care you can ask the Lord hisself!
[All present laugh.
The machinist STRECKMANN appears. He is dusty and comes straight from the threshing machine. He shows the effects of liquor.
Who's talkin' about the machinist Streckmann aroun' here? He's right here! He's standin' right here. Anybody wantin' to pick a quarrel with him? Good day to you all! Hope you're havin' a pleasant meal.
Talk of the devil an' he appears.
An' you're the devil's grandmother, I suppose. [He takes off his cockade and wipes the sweat from his forehead.] I tell you people I can't keep up with this: this kind o' work uses a man up skin and bones!—Hello, August! Good day to you, Rosie! Well, father Bernd—Great God, can't anybody answer?
Let him be! Some people's better off than they can stand.
The Lord lets his own people have an easy time. A feller like me works and works and can't get ahead. [He has assumed a reclining position and squeezed himself between HEINZEL and KLEINERT. He now hands his whisky bottle to HEINZEL.] Let her go aroun'.
You live the best life of us all, Streckmann! What in Heaven's name has you to complain about? You drinks your drinks and makes three times over what we do—all for standin' by the machine a bit.
What I want is work for my brain. I got a head on me. That's what you bran-heads can't understand. Of course! What does an old woman know about that! An', anyhow—the trouble I got….
Lord, Streckmann and trouble—
More than enough!—there's somethin' that sticks into me, I can tell you—sticks into my belly and into my heart. I feel so rotten bad I'd like to be doin' somethin' real crazy. [To the ASSISTANT MAID.] Lass, shall I lie down with you?
I'll bang you over the head with a whetstone!
That's just what's troublin' him; everythin' gets black before his eyes, he don't see nothin' more, an' sudden like, he's lyin' abed with a lass.
[Loud laughter.
Yon can laugh, ye ragamuffins, laugh all ye want to! It's no laughin' matter with me, I can tell ye. [Blustering:] I'll let the machine squeeze off one of my arms! Or ye can run the piston through me if ye want to! Kill me, for all I care.
Or mebbe you'd like to set a barn afire.
By God! There's fire enough inside of me. August there, he's a happy man …
Whether I'm happy or whether I'm unhappy, that don't concern no one in this world.
What am I doin' to you? Can't you be sociable with a feller?
I'll look for my society elsewhere.
[Looks at him long with smouldering hatred; represses his rage and grasps the whisky bottle which has been handed back to him.] Give it to me! A feller's got to drown his sorrow!—[To ROSE.] You needn't be lookin' at me; a bargain's a bargain. [He gets up.] I'm goin'!—I don't want to come between you.
You can go or you can stay for all I care.
[Calling STRECKMANN back.] Look here, Streckmann, what was that happened t'other day? About three weeks ago at the threshin' machine?…
[Men and women burst into laughter.
That's all over. I don't know nothin' about that.
An' yet, you swore by all that was good and holy….
You people stop your gossippin'.
He needn't be talkin' so big all the time.
[Comes back.] And I tell you what I says, that I puts through. I'll be damned if I don't! Let it go at that. I don't say no more.
[Exit.
OLD MRS. GOLISCH It's done just as easy without talkin'.
[Comes back, is about to speak out, but restrains himself.] Never mind! I don't walk into no such trap! But if you want to know exactly what it's all about, ask August there or father Bernd.
What's all this about? What's this we're supposed to know?
'Twas that time you went to the magistrate's, 'twas that time! An' didn'tStreckmann pass you on the road an' didn't he cry out somethin' after ye?
It's about time for you to be stoppin'.
An' why, I'd like to know? That's all nothin' but a joke … People wonders if that there time you all agreed, or if Rosie wasn't so willin' to join in!
God Almighty forgive you all for your sins! What I wants to ask you is this: Why can't the whole crowd o' you leave us in peace? Or is it that we ever did any harm to any o' ye?
An' we're not doin' any wrong neither.
An' whether I was willin' on that day or not—you needn't give yourself no concern about that! I'm willin' now an' that settles it,
That's the right way, Rosie!
[Who has hitherto been reading, with apparent absorption, in his New Testament, now closes the book and arises.] Come, father, let's go to work.
That takes it out o' you more than pastin' prayer books together or stirrin' the paste in your pot!
And how do you think he'll feel after the weddin'? A girl like Rosie—she makes demands!
[Laughter.
[Also laughing.] Gee …! I almost said somethin' I oughtn't to!—[He steps back among the people.] I'll give you a riddle to guess. Shall I? Still waters run deep! 'Tis bad. You mustn't taste blood—no, no! The thirst only gets worse an' worse—that's all.
What's that? Where did you get the taste o' blood?
I suppose he means the taste for whisky!
I'm goin' my way! Good-bye! I'm a good feller! Good-bye, father Bernd! Good-bye, August! Good-bye, Rosie! [To AUGUST.] What's wrong?—August, don't be showin' off. 'Tis all well! I'm willin'! You'll not see me again! But you—you've got reason enough to be grateful to me. You've always been an underhanded kind o' crittur! But I've given my consent to let things be! I've given my consent an' everything can go smoothly.
[STRECKMANN goes.
[With violent energy.] Let him talk, August; pay no attention to him.
Flamm is comin'! [He looks at his watch.] 'Tis over half an hour!
[The whistle of the engine is heard.
[During the general stir.] Forward, Prussians! It's misery whistlin' for us!
The workingmen and the maids disappear swiftly with their scythes.ROSE, OLD BERND and AUGUST remain alone on the scene.
All the evil on earth seems broken loose here' What's all that Streckmann is sayin'? Tell me, Rose, do you understand it?
No, an' I've got better things to be thinkin' of! [She gives AUGUST a friendly nudge on the head.] Isn't it so, August? We have no time for nonsense! We have to hurry these comin' six weeks.
[She gathers up the remnants of the meal in her basket.
Come over to us a bit later.
I must wash and iron and sew buttonholes. 'Tis almost time now.
We'll be comin' to our supper after seven.
[Exit.
[Before he goes, earnestly:] Do you care for me, Rosie?
Yes, I do care for you.
AUGUST disappears and ROSE is left alone. The hum of the threshing machine is heard as well as the muttering of thunder on the horizon. After ROSE has replaced bread, butter, the coffee pots and cups into her basket, she straightens herself up and seems to become aware of something in the distance which attracts her and holds her captive. With sudden, determination, she snatches up the head kerchief that has fallen to the ground and hurries off. Before she has disappeared from view, however, FLAMM becomes visible on the scene and calls to her.
Rose! Wait there! Confound it all! [Rose stands still with her face turned away.] You are to give me a drink! I suppose I'm worth a draught of water.
There's plenty of water here.
I see. I'm not blind. But I don't care to drink like the beasts. Have you no cups in your basket? [ROSE pushes the cover of her basket aside.] Well, then! You even have a cup of Bunzlauer ware! I like to drink out of that best of all. [She hands him the cup, still with averted face.] I beg your pardon. You might practise a little politeness! I suppose you'll have to force yourself to it this one more time. [ROSE walks over to the spring, rinses the cup, fills it with water, sets it down next to the spring and then returns to her basket. She picks the latter up and waits with her back to FLAMM.] No, Rosie—that won't do at all. You might get rid of some gaol bird in that fashion. I don't know the habits of such persons very exactly. As things are, I'm still the magistrate Flamm. Am I going to get a drink or am I not? Well: One … two … three … and … there's an end to this, I' beg for some decency! No more nonsense! [ROSE has returned to the spring, has picked up the cup and now holds it out to FLAMM, still refusing to look at him.] So! Higher, though, a little higher! I can't get at it yet!
But you must hold it.
How can I drink this way?
[Amused against her will, turns her face to him.] Oh, but….