You look so grey! You had better go out into the sunlight yourself!
Oh, the sunlight's just for fine folks! All I needs is a couple o' pounds o' dust an' dirt on my lungs.—You just go along, missie! I gotta get to work. I don' need nothin' else. I jus' lives on mildew an' insec'-powder.
[She coughs.
[Nervously.] You needn't tell papa that I was up here.
Me? Ain't I got somethin' better to do'n that?
[With assumed carelessness.] And if Mr. Spitta were to ask after me….
Who?
The young gentleman who gives us private lessons at home….
Well, s'posin'?
Then be so kind as to tell him that I've been here but left again at once.
So I'm to tell Mr. Spitta but not papa?
[Involuntarily.] Oh, for heaven's sake, no!
Well, you jus' wait an' see! You jus' look out! There's many a one has looked like you an' has come from your part o' the city an'—has gone to the dogs in the ditch in Dragoner street or, even, behind Swedish hangin's in Barnim street.
Surely you don't mean to insinuate, Mrs. John, and surely you don't believe that there's anything unpermitted or improper in my relations with Mr. Spitta?
[In extreme fright.] Shut up!—Somebody's put the key into the keyhole.
Blow out the lamp!
[MRS. JOHN blows out the lamp quickly.
Papa!
Miss! Up into the loft with you!
MRS. JOHN and WALBURGA both disappear through the trap-door, which closes behind them.
_Two gentlemen, the manager HARRO HASSENREUTER and the court actor NATHANAEL JETTEL, appear in the frame of the outer door. The manager is of middle height, clean shaven, fifty years old. He takes long steps and shows a lively temperament in his whole demeanour. The cut of his face is noble, his eyes have a vivid, adventurous expression. His behaviour is somewhat noisy, which accords with his thoroughly fiery nature. He wears a light overcoat, a top-hat thrust back on his head, full dress suit and patent leather boots. The overcoat, which is unbuttoned, reveals the decorations which almost cover his chest—JETTEL wears a suit of flannels under a very light spring overcoat. In his left hand he holds a straw hat and an elegant cane; he wears tan shoes. He also is clean shaven and over fifty years old.
[Calls:] John! Mrs. John!—Well, now you see my catacombs, my dear fellow!Sic transit gloria mundi!Here I've stored everything—mutatis mutandis—that was left of my whole theatrical glory—trash, trash! Old rags! Old tatters!—John! John! She's been here, for the lamp chimney is still quite hot! [He strikes a match and lights the lamp.]Fiat lux, pereat mundus!Now you can get a good view of my paradise of moths and rats and fleas!
You received my card, didn't you, my dear manager?
Mrs. John!—I'll see if she is in the loft up there. [He mounts the stairs and rattles at the trap-door.] Locked! And of course the wretched creature has the key tied to her apron. [He beats enragedly against the trap-door with his fist.] John! John!
[Somewhat impatient.] Can't we manage without this Mrs. John?
What? Do you think that I, in my dress suit and with all my decorations, just back from His Highness, can go through my three hundred boxes and cases just to rout out the wretched rags that you are pleased to need for your engagement here?
I beg your pardon. But I'm not wont to appear in rags on my tours.
Man alive, then play in your drawers for all I care! It wouldn't worry me! Only don't quite forget who's standing before you. Because the court actor Jettel is pleased to emit a whistle—well, that's no reason why the manager Harro Hassenreuter should begin to dance. Confound it, because some comedian wants a shabby turban or two old boots, is that any reason why apater familiaslike myself must give up his only spare time at home on Sunday afternoon? I suppose you expect me to creep about on all fours into the corners here? No, my good fellow, for that kind of thing you'll have to look elsewhere!
[Quite calmly.] Would you mind telling me, if possible, who has been treading on your corns?
My boy, it's scarcely an hour since I had my legs under the same table with a prince;post hoc, ergo propter hoc!—On your account I got into a confounded bus and drove out to this, confounded bole, and so … if you don't know how to value my kindness, you can get out!
You made an appointment with use for four o'clock. Then you let me wait one solid hour in this horrible tenement, in these lovely halls with their filthy brats! Well, I waited and didn't address the slightest reproach to you. And now you have the good taste and the good manners to use me as a kind of a cuspidor!
My boy …
The devil! I'm not your boy! You seem to be kind of a clown that I ought to force to turn sommersaults for pennies!
[Highly indignant, he picks up his hat and cane and goes.
[Starts, breaks out into boisterous laughter and then calls out after JETTEL:] Don't make yourself ridiculous! And, anyhow, I'm not a costumer!
The slamming of the outer door is heard.
[Pulls out his watch.] The confounded idiot! The damned mutton head.—It's a blessing the ridiculous ass went! [He puts the match back into his pocket, pulls it out again at once and listens. He walks restlessly to and fro, then stops, gases into his top-hat, which contains a mirror, and combs his hair carefully. He walks over to the middle door and opens a few of the letters that lie heaped up there. At the same time he sings in a trilling voice:
"O Strassburg, O Strassburg,Thou beautiful old town."
Once more he looks at his watch. Suddenly the doorbell at his head rings.] On the minute! Ah, but these little girls can be punctual when they really care about it! [He hurries out into the hall and is heard to extend a loud and merry welcome to someone. The trumpet notes of his voice are soon accompanied by the bell-like tones of a woman's speaking. Very soon he reappears, at his side an elegant young lady, ALICE RÜTTERBUSCH.]—Alice! My little Alice! Come here where I can see you, little girl! Come here into the light! I must see whether you're the same infinitely delightful, mad little Alice that you were in the great days of my career in Alsace? Girl, it was I who taught you to walk! I held your leading strings for your first steps. I taught you how to talk, girl! The things you said! I hope you haven't forgotten!
Now, look here! You don't believe that I'm an ungrateful girl?
[Draws up her veil.] Why, girlie, you've grown younger instead of older.
[Flushed with delight.] Well, a person would just have to be like everything to say that you had changed to your disadvantage! But, do you know—it's awful dark up here really and—Harro, maybe you wouldn't mind opening a window a little—oh, the air's a bit heavy, too,
"Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill""But mice and rats and such small deerHave been Tom's food for seven long year."
In all seriousness I have passed through dark and difficult times! In spite of the fact that I preferred not to write you of it, I have no doubt that you are informed.
But it wasn't extra friendly, you know, for you not to answer one little word to the long, nice letter I wrote you.
Ha, ha, ha! What's the use of answering a little girl's letter if one has both hands full taking care of oneself and can't possibly be of the slightest use to her? Pshaw!E nihilo nihil fit!In the vernacular: You can't get results out of nothing! Moth and dust! Dust and moths! And that's all my efforts for German culture in the west profited me!
So you didn't turn over your collection of properties to manager Kunz.
"O Strassburg, O Strassburg,Thou beautiful old town!"
No, little one, I didn't leave my properties in Strassburg! This ex-waiter, ex-innkeeper and lessee of disreputable dance halls, this idiot, this imbecile who succeeded me, didn't happen to want my stuff. No, I didn't leave my collection of properties there, but what I did have to leave there was forty thousand crowns of hard-earned money left me from my old touring days as an actor, and, in addition, fifty thousand crowns which formed the dowry of my excellent wife. However, it was a piece of good luck, after all, that I kept the properties. Ha, ha, ha! These fellows here … [he touches one of the mailed figures] … surely you remember them?
Could I forget my pasteboard knights?
Very well, then: it was these pasteboard knights and all the other trash that surrounds them, that actually, after his hegira, kept the old rag-picker and costumer, Harro Eberhard Hassenreuter, above water. But let's speak of cheerful things: I saw with pleasure in the paper that his Excellency has engaged you for Berlin.
I don't care a great deal about it! I'd rather play for you, and you must promise me, whenever you undertake the management of a theatre again—you will promise, won't you?—that you'll let me break my contract right away? [The MANAGER laughs heartily.] I had to be annoyed quite enough for three long years by the barn-stormers of the provinces. Berlin I don't like, and a court theatre least of all. Lord, what people and what a profession it is! You know I belong to your collection—I've always belonged to it!
[She stands up primly among the pasteboard knights.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well then, come to my arms, faithful knight!
[He opens his arms wide, she flies into them, and they now salute each other with long, continuous kisses.
Go on, Harro. Now tell me. How is your wife?
Teresa gets along very well except that she gets fatter every day in spite of sorrow and worries.—Girl, girl, how fragrant you are! [He presses her to him.] Do you know that you're a devilish dangerous person?
D'you think I'm an idiot? Of course I'm dangerous!
Well, I'll be …!
Why, do you think if I didn't know it was dangerous, dangerous for us both, I'd make an appointment with you out here in this lovely neighbourhood, under this stuffy roof? By the way, though, since I'm always bound to have the queerest luck if ever I do go a bit on questionable ways, whom should I meet on the stairs but Nathanael Jettel? I almost ran into the gentleman's arms! He'll take good care that my visiting you doesn't remain our secret.
I must have made a mistake in writing down the date. The fellow insists on asserting—ha, ha, ha!—that I made an engagement with him for this very afternoon.
And that wasn't the only person I met on the six flights. And as for the dear little children that roll about on the stairs here! What they called out after me was unparliamentary to a degree—such vulgarities as I've never heard from such little beggars in my life.
[Laughs, then speaks seriously.] Ah, yes! But one gets accustomed to that. You could never write down all the life that sweeps down these stairs with its soiled petticoats—the life that cringes and creeps, moans, sighs, sweats, cries out, curses, mutters, hammers, planes, jeers, steals, drives its dark trades up and down these stairs—the sinister creatures that hide here, playing their zither, grinding their accordions, sticking in need and hunger and misery, leading their vicious lives—no, it's beyond one's power of recording. And your old manager, last but not least, runs, groans, sighs, sweats, cries out and curses with the best of them. Ha, ha, ha, girlie! I've had a pretty wretched time.
Oh, by the way, d'you know whom I ran into just as I was making for the railroad station at the Zoological Garden? The good old Prince Statthalter! And straight off, cool as a cucumber—that's my way you know—I tripped along next to him for twenty minutes and got him absorbed in a conversation. And then something happened, Harro, upon my honour, just as I'm going to tell you—literally and truly: Suddenly on the bridle-path His Majesty came riding along with a great suite. I thought I'd sink into the earth with embarrassment. And His Majesty laughed right out and threatened his Serenity playfully with his finger. But I was delighted, you may believe me. The main thing comes now, however. Just think! His Serenity asked me whether I'd be glad to go back to Strassburg if the manager Hassenreuter were to assume direction of the theatre there again. Well, you may know that I almost jumped for joy!
[Throws off his overcoat and stands with his decorations displayed.] You probably couldn't help noticing that His Serenity had had a most excellent breakfast. Aha! We had breakfast together! We attended an exquisite little stag party given by Prince Ruprecht out in Potsdam. I don't deny, therefore, that a turn for good may take place in the miserable fate of your friend.
Sweetheart, you look like a statesman, like an ambassador!
Ah, don't you know this breast covered with high and exalted decorations? Klärchen and Egmont! Here you can drink your fill! [They embrace each other anew.]Carpe diem!Enjoy the passing hour! Ah, my little Miss Simplicity, champagne is not recorded at present on the repertory of your old manager, inspirer and friend. [He opens a wooden case and draws forth a bottle of wine.] But this old cloister vintage isn't to be sneezed at either! [He pulls the cork. At the same moment the door bell rings.] What? Sh! I wonder who has the monstrous impudence to ring here on Sunday afternoon? [The bell rings with increased violence.] Confound it all—the fellow must be a lunatic. Little girl, suppose you withdraw into the library. [ALICE hurries into the library. The ringing is repeated. He hurries to the door.] Either be patient or go to the devil. [He is heard opening the door.] Who? What? "It is I, Miss Walburga." What? I am not Miss Walburga. I am not the daughter. I am the father. Oh, it's you, Mr. Spitta! Your very humble servant. I'm only her father—only her father! What is it that you want?
HASSENREUTER reappears in the passage accompanied by ERICH SPITTA, a young man of twenty-one, spectacled, with keen and not undistinguished features, SPITTA passes as a student of theology and is correspondingly dressed. He does not hold himself erect and his development shows the influence of over-study and underfeeding.
Did you intend to give my daughter one of your private lessons here in my storeroom?
I was riding past on the tram-car and I really thought I had seen MissWalburga hurry into the doorway downstairs.
No possibility of such a thing, my dear Spitta. At this moment my daughter Walburga is attending a ritualistic service with her mother in the Anglican church.
Then perhaps you'll forgive my intrusion. I took the liberty of coming upstairs because I thought that Miss Walburga might not find it unpleasant or useless to have an escort home through this neighbourhood.
Very good! Very excellent! But she isn't here. I regret it. I'm here myself by the merest chance—on account of the mail. And in addition, I have other pressing engagements. Can I do anything else for you?
SPITTA polishes his glasses and betrays signs of embarrassment.
One doesn't grow used to the darkness at once.
Perhaps you stand in need of the tuition due you. Sorry, but unfortunately I have the habit of going out with only some small change in my waistcoat pocket. So I must ask you to have patience until I am at home again.
Not the least hurry in the world.
Yes, it's easy for you to say that. I'm like a hunted animal, my dear fellow …
And yet I would like to beg for a minute of your precious time. I can't but look upon this unexpected meeting as a kind of providential arrangement. In short: may I put a question to you?
[With his eyes on his watch, which he has just been winding.] One minute exactly. By the watch, my good fellow!
Both my question and your answer need hardly take that long.
Well, then!
Have I any talent for the stage?
For the love of God, man! Have you gone mad?—Forgive me, my dear fellow, if a case like this excites me to the point of being discourteous. You have certainly given the lie to the saying:natura non facit saltusby the unnatural leap that you've taken. I must first get my breath after that! And now let's put an end to this at once. Believe me, if we were both to discuss the question now we wouldn't come to any conclusion in two or three weeks, or rather, let us say years.—You are a theologian by profession, my good fellow, and you were born in a parsonage. You have all the necessary connections and a smooth road to a comfortable way of life ahead of you. How did you hit upon such a notion as this?
That's a long story of the inner life, Mr. Hassenreuter, of difficult spiritual struggles—a story which, until this moment, has been an absolute secret and known only to myself. But my good fortune led me into your house and from that moment on I felt that I was drawing nearer and nearer to the true aim of my life.
[Wildly impatient.] That's very creditable to me; that does honour to my family and myself! [He puts his hands on SPITTA'S shoulders.] And yet I must make it in the form of an urgent request that, at this moment, you refrain from a further discussion of the question. My affairs cannot wait.
Then I will only add the expression of my absolutely firm decision.
But, my dear Spitta, who has put these mad notions into year head? I've taken real pleasure in the thought of you. I've really been quietly envying you the peaceful personage that was to be yours. I've attached no special significance to certain literary ambitions that one is likely to pick up in the metropolis. That's a mere phase, I thought, and will be quite passing in his case! And now you want to become an actor? God help you, were I your father! I'd lock you up on bread and water and not let you out again until the very memory of this folly was gone.Dixi!And now, good-bye, my dear man.
I'm afraid that locking me op or resorting to force of any kind would not help in my case at all.
But, man alive, you want to become an actor—you, with your round shoulders, with your spectacles and, above all, with your hoarse and sharp voice. It's impossible.
If such fellows as I exist in real life, why shouldn't they exist on the stage too? And I am of the opinion that a smooth, well-sounding voice, probably combined with the Goethe-Schiller-Weimar school of idealistic artifice, is harmful rather than helpful. The only question is whether you would take me, just as I am, as a pupil?
[Hastily draws on his overcoat.] I would not. In the first place my school of acting is only one of the schools of idealistic artifice which you mention. In the second place I wouldn't be responsible to your father for such an action. And in the third place, we quarrel enough as it is—every time you stay to supper at my house after giving your lessons. If you were my pupil, we'd come to blows. And now, Spitta, I must catch the car.
My father is already informed. In a letter of twelve pages, I have given him a full history of the change that has taken place within me….
I'm sure the old gentleman will feel flattered! And now come along with me or I'll go insane!
HASSENREUTER forcibly takes SPITTA out with him. The door is heard to slam. The room grows silent but for the uninterrupted roar of Berlin, which can now be clearly heard. The trap-door to the loft is now opened and WALBURGA HASSENREUTER clambers down in mad haste, followed by MRS. JOHN.
[Whispering vehemently.] What's the matter? Nothin' ain't happened.
Mrs. John, I'll scream! I'll have to scream in another second! Oh, for heaven's sake, I can't help it much longer, Mrs. John!
Stuff a handkerchief between your teeth! There ain't nothin'! Why d'you take on so?
[With chattering teeth, making every effort to suppress her sobs.] I'm frightened! Oh, I'm frightened to death, Mrs. John!
I'd like to know what you're so scared about!
Why, didn't you see that horrible man?
That ain't nothin' so horrible. That's my brother what sometimes helps me clean up your pa's things here.
And that girl who sits with her back to the chimney and whines?
Well, your mother didn't act no different when you was expected to come into the world.
Oh, it's all over with me. I'll die if papa comes back.
Well then hurry and get out an' don' fool roun' no more!
[MRS. JOHN accompanies the horrified girl along the passage, lets her out, and then returns.
Thank God, that girl don' know but what the moonismade o' cheese!
[She takes the uncorked bottle, pours out a glass full of wine and takes it with her to the loft into which she disappears.
The room is scarcely empty when HASSENREUTER returns.
[Still in the door. Singing.] "Come on down, O Madonna Teresa!" [He calls:] Alice! [Still in the door.] Come on! Help me put up my iron bar with a double lock before the door, Alice! [He comes forward.] Any one else who dares to interrupt our Sunday quiet—anathema sit!Here! You imp! Where are you, Alice? [He observes the bottle and lifts it against the light.] What? Half empty! The little scamp! [From behind the door of the library a pleasant woman's voice is heard singing coloratura passages.] Ha, ha, ha, ha! Heavens and earth! She's tipsy already.
MRS. JOHN'S rooms on the second floor of the same house in the attics of which HASSENREUTER has stored his properties. A high, deep, green-tinted room which betrays its original use as part of a barracks. The rear wall shows a double door which gives on the outer hall. Above this door there hangs a bell connected by a wire with the knob outside. To the right of the door a partition, covered with wall-paper, projects into the room. This partition takes a rectangular turn and extends to the right wall. A portion of the room is thus partitioned off and serves as sleeping-chamber. From within the partition, which is about six feet high, cupboards are seen against the wall.
Entering the room from the hall, one observes to the left a sofa covered with oil-cloth. The back of the sofa is pushed against the partition wall. The latter is adorned with small photographs: the foreman-mason JOHN as a soldier, JOHN and his wife in their wedding garb, etc. An oval table, covered with a faded cotton cloth, stands before the sofa. In order to reach the entrance of the sleeping-chamber from the door it is necessary to pass the table and sofa. This entrance is closed by hangings of blue cotton cloth. Against the narrow front wall of the partition stands a neatly equipped kitchen cabinet. To the right, against the wall of the main room, the stove. This corner of the room serves the—purposes of kitchen and pantry. Sitting on the sofa, one would look straight at the left wall of the room, which is broken by two large windows. A neatly planed board has been fastened to the nearer of the windows to serve as a kind of desk. Upon it are lying blue-prints, counter-drawings, an inch-measure, a compass and a square. A small, raised platform is seen beneath the farther window. Upon it stands a small table with glasses. An old easy chair of cane and a number of simple wooden chairs complete the frugal equipment of the room, which creates an impression of neatness and orderliness such as is often found in the dwellings of childless couples.
It is about five o'clock of an afternoon toward the end of May. The warm sunlight shines through the windows.
The foreman-mason JOHN, a good-natured, bearded man of forty, sits at the desk in the foreground taking notes from the building plans.
MRS. JOHN sits sewing on the small platform, by the farther window. She is very pale. There is something gentle and pain-touched about her, but her face shows an expression of deep contentment, which is broken only now and then by a momentary gleam of restlessness and suspense. A neat new perambulator stands by her side. In it lies a newborn child.
[Modestly.] Mother, how'd it be if I was to open the window jus' a speck an' was to light my pipe for a bit?
Does you have to smoke? If not, you better let it be!
No, I don't has to, mother. Only I'd like to! Never mind, though. A quid'll be just as good in the end.
[With comfortable circumstantiality he prepares a new quid.
[After a brief silence.] How's that? You has to go to the public registry office again?
That's what he told me, that I had to come back again an' tell him exackly … that I had to give the exack place an' time when that little kid was born.
[Holding a needle in her mouth.] Well, why didn't you tell him that right away?
How was I to know it? I didn't know, you see.
You didn't know that?
Well, I wasn't here, was I?
You wasn't. That's right. If you goes an' leaves me here in Berlin an' stays from one year's end to another in Hamburg, an' at most comes to see me once a month—how is you to know what happens in your own home?
Don't you want me to go where the boss has most work for me? I goes whereI c'n make good money.
I wrote you in my letter as how our little boy was born in this here room.
I knows that an' I told him that. Ain't that natural, I axes him, that the child was born in our room? An' he says that ain't natural at all. Well then, says I, for all I cares, maybe it was up in the loft with the rats an' mice! I got mad like 'cause he said maybe the child wasn't born here at all. Then he yells at me: What kind o' talk is that? What? says I. I takes an interest in wages an' earnin' an' not in talk—not me, Mr. Registrar! An' now I'm to give him the exack day an' hour …
An' didn't I write it all out for you on a bit o' paper?
When a man's mad he's forgetful. I believe if he'd up and axed me: Is you Paul John, foreman-mason? I'd ha' answered: I don' know. Well an' then I'd been a bit jolly too an' taken a drink or two with Fritz. An' while we was doin' that who comes along but Schubert an' Karl an' they says as how I has to set up on account o' bein' a father now. Those fellers, they didn't let me go an' they was waitin' downstairs in front o' the public registry. An' so I kept thinkin' o' them standin' there. So when he axes me on what day my wife was delivered, I didn't know nothin' an' just laughed right in his face.
I wish you'd first attended to what you had to an' left your drinkin' till later.
It's easy to say that! But if you're up to them kind o' tricks in your old age, mother, you can't blame me for bein' reel glad.
All right. You go on to the registry now an' say that your child was borne by your wife in your dwellin' on the twenty-fifth o' May.
Wasn't it on the twenty-sixth? 'Cause I said right along the twenty-sixth. Then he must ha' noticed that I wasn't quite sober. So he says: If that's a fac', all right; if not, you gotta come back.
In that case you'd better leave it as it is.
The door is opened and SELMA KNOBBE pushes in a wretched perambulator which presents the saddest contrast to MRS. JOHN'S. Swaddled in pitiful rags a newly born child lies therein.
Oh, no, Selma, comin' into my room with that there sick child—that was all right before. But that can't be done no more.
He just gasps with that cough o' his'n. Over at our place they smokes all the time.
I told you, Selma, that you could come from time to time and get milk or bread. But while my little Adelbert is here an' c'n catch maybe consumption or somethin', you just leave that poor little thing at home with his fine mother.
[Tearfully.] Mother ain't been home at all yesterday or to-day. I can't get no sleep with this child. He just moans all night. I gotta get some sleep sometime! I'll jump outa the window first thing or I'll let the baby lie in the middle o' the street an' run away so no policeman can't never find me!
[Looks at the strange child.] Looks bad! Mother, why don't you try an' do somethin' for the little beggar?
[Pushing SELMA and the perambulator out determinedly.] March outa this room. That can't be done, Paul. When you got your own you can't be lookin' out for other people's brats. That Knobbe woman c'n look after her own affairs. It's different with Selma. [To the girl.] You c'n come in when you want to. You c'n come in here after a while an' take a nap even.
[She locks the door.
You used to take a good deal o' interest in Knobbe's dirty little brats.
You don' understan' that. I don' want our little Adelbert to be catchin' sore eyes or convulsions or somethin' like that.
Maybe you're right. Only, don't go an' call him Adelbert, mother. That ain't a good thing to do, to call a child by the same name as one that was carried off, unbaptised, a week after it was born. Let that be, mother. I can't stand for that, mother,
A knocking is heard at the door. JOHN is about to open.
What's that?
Well, somebody wants to get in!
[Hastily turning the key in the lock.] I ain't goin' to have everybody runnin' in on me now that I'm sick as this. [She listens at the door and then calls out:] I can't open! What d'you want?
[Somewhat deep and mannish in tone.] It is Mrs. Hassenreuter.
[Surprised.] Goodness gracious! [She opens the door.] I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hassenreuter! I didn't even know who it was!
MRS. HASSENREUTER has now entered, followed by WALBURGA. She is a colossal, asthmatic lady aver fifty. WALBURGA is dressed with greater simplicity than in the first act. She carries a rather large package.
How do you do, Mrs. John? Although climbing stairs is … very hard for me … I wanted to see how everything … goes with you after the … yes, the very happy event.
I'm gettin' along again kind o' half way.
That is probably your husband, Mrs. John? Well, one must say, one is bound to say, that your dear wife, in the long time of waiting—never complained, was always cheery and merry, and did her work well for my husband upstairs.
That's right. She was mighty glad, too.
Well, then we'll have the pleasure—at least, your wife will have the pleasure of seeing you at home oftener than heretofore.
I has a good husband, Mrs. Hassenreuter, who takes care o' me an' has good habits. An' because Paul was workin' out o town you musn't think there was any danger o' his leavin' me. But a man like that, where his brother has a boy o' twelve in the non-commissioned officers' school … it's no kind o' life for him havin' no children o' his own. He gets to thinkin' queer thoughts. There he is in Hamburg, makin' good money, an' he has the chance every day and—well—then he takes a notion, maybe, he'd like to go to America.
Oh, that was never more'n a thought.
Well, you see, with us poor people … it's hard-earned bread that we eats … an' yet … [lightly she runs her hand through JOHN'S hair] even if there's one more an' you has more cares on that account—you see how the tears is runnin' down his cheeks—well, he's mighty happy anyhow!
That's because three years ago we had a little feller an' when he was a week old he took sick an' died.
My husband has already … yes, my husband did tell me about that … how deeply you grieved over that little son of yours. You know how it is … you know how my good husband has his eyes and his heart open to everything. And if it's a question of people who are about him or who give him their services—then everything good or bad, yes, everything good or bad that happens to them, seems just as though it had happened to himself.
I mind as if it was this day how he sat in the carridge that time with the little child's coffin on his knees. He wouldn't let the gravedigger so much as touch it.
[Wiping the moisture out of his eyes.] That's the way it was. No. I couldn't let him do that.
Just think, to-day at the dinner-table we had to drink wine—suddenly, to drink wine! Wine! For years and years the city-water in decanters has been our only table drink … absolutely the only one. Dear children, said my husband.—You know that he had just returned from an eleven or twelve day trip to Alsace. Let us drink, my husband said, the health of my good and faithful Mrs. John, because … he cried out in his beautiful voice … because she is a visible proof of the fact that the cry of a mother heart is not indifferent to our Lord.—And so we drank your health, clinking our glasses! Well, and here I'm bringing you at my husband's special … at his very special and particular order … an apparatus for the sterilisation of milk.—Walburga, you may unpack the boiler.
HASSENREUTER enters unceremoniously through the outer door which has stood ajar. He wears a top-hat, spring overcoat, carries a silver-headed cane, in a word, is gotten up in his somewhat shabby meek-day outfit. He speaks hastily and almost without pauses.
[Wiping the sweat from his forehead.] Berlin is hot, ladies and gentlemen, hot! And the cholera is as near as St. Petersburg! Now you've complained to my pupils, Spitta and Käferstein, Mrs. John, that your little one doesn't seem to gain in weight. Now, of course, it's one of the symptoms of the general decadence of our age that the majority of mothers are either—unwilling to nurse their offspring or incapable of it. But you've already lost one child on account of diarrhoea, Mrs. John. No, there's no help for it: we must call a spade a spade. And so, in order that you do not meet with the same misfortune over again, or fall into the hands of old women whose advice is usually quite deadly for an infant—in order that these things may not happen, I say, I have caused my wife to bring you this apparatus. I've brought up all my—children, Walburga included, by the help of such an apparatus …Aha! So one gets a glimpse of you again, Mr. John! Bravo! The emperor needs soldiers, and you needed a representative of your race! So I congratulate you with all my heart.
[He shakes JOHN'S hand vigorously.
[Leaning over the infant.] How much … how much did he weigh at birth?
He weighed exactly eight pounds and ten grams.
[With noisy joviality.] Ha, ha, ha! A vigorous product, I must say! Eight pounds and ten grams of good healthy, German national flesh!
Look at his eyes! And his little nose! His father over again! Why, the little fellow is really, really, the very image of you, Mr. John.
I trust that you will have the boy received into the communion of theChristian Church.
[With happy impressiveness.] Oh, he'll be christened properly, right in the parochial church at the font by a clergyman.
Right! And what are his baptismal names to be?
Well, you know the way men is. That's caused a lot o' talk. I was thinkin' o' "Bruno," but he won't have it!
Surely Bruno isn't a bad name.
That may be. I ain't sayin' but what Bruno is a good enough name. I don't want to give no opinion about that.
Why don't you say as how I has a brother what's twelve years younger'n me an' what don't always do just right? But that's only 'cause there's so much temptation. That boy's a good boy. Only you won't believe it.
[Turns red with sudden rage.] Jette … you know what a cross that feller was to us! What d'you want? You want our little feller to be the namesake of a man what's—I can't help sayin' it—what's under police soopervision?
Then, for heaven's sake, get him some other patron saint.
Lord protect me from sich! I tried to take an interest in Bruno! I got him a job in a machine-shop an' didn't get nothin' outa it but annoyance an' disgrace! God forbid that he should come aroun' an' have anythin' to do with this little feller o' mine. [He clenches his fist.] If that was to happen, Jette, I wouldn't be responsible for myself!!
You needn't go on, Paul! Bruno ain't comin'. But I c'n tell you this much for certain, that my brother was good an' helpful to me in this hard time.
Why didn't you send for me?
I didn't want no man aroun' that was scared.
Aren't you an admirer of Bismarck, John?
[Scratching the back of his head.] I can't say as to that exackly. My brothers in the masons' union, though, they ain't admirers o' him.
Then you have no German hearts in your bodies! Otto is what I called my eldest son who is in the imperial navy! And believe me [pointing to the infant] this coming generation will well know what it owes to that mighty hero, the great forger of German unity! [He takes the tin boiler of the apparatus which WALBURGA has unpacked into his hands and lifts it high up.] Now then: the whole business of this apparatus is mere child's play. This frame which holds all the bottles—each bottle to be filled two-thirds with water and one-third with milk—is sunk into the boiler which is filled with boiling water. By keeping the water at the boiling-point for an hour and a half in this manner, the content—of the bottles becomes free of germs. Chemists call this process sterilisation.
Jette, at the master-mason's house, the milk that's fed to the twins is sterilised too.
The pupils of HASSENREUTER, KÄFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL, two young men between twenty and twenty-five years of age, have knocked at the door and then opened it.
[Noticing his pupils.] Patience, gentlemen. I'll be with you directly. At the moment I am busying myself with the problems of the nourishment of infants and the care of children.
[His head bears witness to a sharply defined character: large nose, pale, a serious expression, beardless, about the mouth a flicker of kindly mischievousness. With hollow voice, gentle and suppressed.] You must know that we are the three kings out of the East.
[Who still holds the apparatus aloft in his hands.] What are you?
[As before.] We want to adore the babe.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! If you are the kings out of the East, gentlemen, it seems to me that the third of you is lacking.
The third is our new fellow pupil in the field of dramaturgic activity, thestudiosus theologiae, who is detained at present at the corner of Blumen and Wallnertheater streets by an accident partly sociological, partly psychological in its nature.
We made all possible haste to escape.
Do you see, a star stands above this house, Mrs. John! But do tell me, has our excellent Spitta once more made some public application of his quackery for the healing of the so-called sins of the social order? Ha, ha, ha, ha!Semper idem!Why, that fellow is actually becoming a nuisance!
A crowd gathered in the street for some reason and it seems that he discovered a friend in the midst of it.
According to my unauthoritative opinion this young Spitta would have done much better as a surgeon's assistant or Salvation Army officer. But that's the way of the world: the fellow must needs want to be an actor.
Mr. Spitta, the children's tutor, wants to become an actor?
That is exactly the plan he has proposed to me, mama.—But now, if you bring incense and myrrh, dear Käferstein, out with them! You observe what a many sided man your teacher is. Now I help my pupils, thirsty after the contents of the Muses' breasts, to the nourishment they desire—nutrimentum spiritus—again I….
[Rattles a toy bank.] Well, I deposit this offering, which is a fire-proof bank, next to the perambulator of this excellent offspring of the mason, with the wish that he will rise to be at least a royal architect.
[Having put cordial glasses on the table, he fetches and opens a fresh bottle.] Well, now I'm goin' to uncork theDanziger Goldwasser.
To him who hath shall be given, as you observe, Mrs. John.
[Filling the glasses.] Nobody ain't goin' to say that my child's unprovided for, gentlemen. But I takes it very kindly o' you, gentlemen! [All except MRS. HASSENREUTER and WALBURGA lift up their glasses.] To you health! Come on, mother, we'll drink together too.
[The action follows the words.
[In a tone of reproof.] Mama, you must, of course, drink with us.
[Having drunk, with jolly expansiveness.] I ain't goin' to Hamburg no more now. The boss c'n send some other feller there. I been quarrelin' with him about that these three days. I gotta take up my hat right now an' go there; he axed me to come roun' to his office again at six. If he don' want to give in, he needn't. It won't never do for the father of a family to be forever an' a day away from his family … I got a friend—why, all I gotta do's to say the word 'n I c'n get work on the layin' o' the foundations o' the new houses o' Parliament. Twelve years I been workin' for this same boss! I c'n afford to make a change some time.
[Pats JOHN'S shoulder.] Quite of your opinion, quite! Our family life is something that neither money nor kind words can buy of us.
ERICH SPITTA enters. His hat is soiled; his clothes show traces of mud. His tie is gone. He looks pale and excited and is busy wiping his hands with his handkerchief.
Beg pardon, but I wonder if I could brush up here a little, Mrs. John?
Ha, ha, ha! For heaven's sake, what have you been up to, my good Spitta?
I only escorted a lady home, Mr. Hassenreuter—nothing else!
[Who has joined in the general, outburst of laughter called forth by SPITTA'S explanation.] Well now, listen here! You blandly say: Nothing else! And you announce it publicly here before all these people?
[In consternation.] Why not? The lady in question, was very well dressed; I've often seen her on the stairs of this house, and she unfortunately met with an accident on the street.
You don't say so? Tell us about it, dear Spitta! Apparently the lady inflicted spots on your clothes and scratches on your hands.
Oh, no. That was probably the fault of the mob. The lady had an attack of some kind. The policeman caught hold of her so awkwardly that she slipped down in the middle of the street immediately in front of two omnibus horses. I simply couldn't bear to see that, although I admit that the function of the Good Samaritan is, as a rule, beneath the dignity of well-dressed people on the public streets.
MRS. JOHN wheels the perambulator behind the partition and reappears with a basin full of water, which she places on a chair.
Did the lady, by any chance, belong to that international high society which we either regulate or segregate?
I confess that that was quite as indifferent to me in the given instance, as it was to one of the omnibus horses who held his left fore foot suspended in the air for five, six or, perhaps, even eight solid minutes, in order not to trample on the woman who lay immediately beneath it. [SPITTA is answered by a round of laughter.] You may laugh! The behaviour of the horse didn't strike me as in the least ludicrous. I could well understand how some people applauded him, clapped their hands, and how others stormed a bakery to buy buns with which to feed him.
[Fanatically.] I wish he'd trampled all he could! [MRS. JOHN'S remark calls forth another outburst of laughter.] An' anyhow! That there Knobbe woman! She oughta be put in some public place, that she ought, publicly strapped to a bench an' then beaten—beaten—that's what! She oughta have the stick taken to her so the blood jus' spurts!
Exactly, I've never been deluded into thinking that the so-called Middle Ages were quite over and done with. It isn't so long ago, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, as a matter of fact, that a widow named Mayer was publicly broken on the wheel right here in the city of Berlin on Hausvogtei Square,—[He displays fragments of the lenses of his spectacles.] By the way, I must hurry to the optician at once.
[To SPITTA.] You must excuse us. But didn't you take that there fine lady home on this very floor acrost the way? Aha! Well, mother she noticed it right off that that couldn't ha' been nobody but that Knobbe woman what's known for sendin' girls o' twelve out on the streets! Then she stays away herself an' swills liquor an' has all kinds o' dealin's an' takes no care o' her own children. Then when she's been drunk an' wakes up she beats 'em with her fists an' with an umbrella.
[Pulling himself together and bethinking himself.] Hurry, gentlemen! We must proceed to our period of instruction. We're fifteen minutes behind hand as it is and our time is limited. We must close the period quite punctually to-day. I'm sorry. Come, mama. See you later, ladies and gentlemen.
[HASSENREUTER offers his arm to his wife and leaves the room, followed by KÄFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL. JOHN also picks up his slouch hat.
[To his wife.] Good-bye. I gotta go an' see the boss.
[He also leaves.
Could you possibly lend me a tie?
I'll see what c'n be found in Paul's drawer. [She opens the drawer of the table and turns pale.] O Lord! [She takes from the drawer a lock of child's hair held together by a riband.] I found a bit of a lock o' hair here that was cut off the head of our little Adelbert by his father when he was lyin' in the coffin. [A profound, grief-stricken sadness suddenly comes over her face, which gives way again, quite as suddenly, to a gleam of triumph.] An' now the crib is full again after all! [With an expression of strange joyfulness, the lock of hair in her hand, she leads the young people to the door of the partition through which the perambulator projects into the main room by two-thirds of its length. Arrived there she holds the lock of hair close to the head of the living child.] Come on! Come on here! [With a strangely mysterious air she beckons to WALBURGA and SPITTA, who take up their stand next to her and to the child.] Now look at that there hair an' at this! Ain't it the same? Wouldn't you say it was the same identical hair?
Quite right. It's the same to the minutest shade, Mrs. John.
All right! That's all right! That's what I wanted to know.
[Together with the child she disappears behind the partition.
Doesn't it strike you, Erich, that Mrs. John's behaviour is rather peculiar?
[Taking WALBURGA'S hands and kissing them shyly but passionately.] I don't know, I don't know … Or, at least, my opinion musn't count to-day. The sombre state of my own mind colours all the world. Did you get the letter?
Yes. But I couldn't make out why you hadn't been at our house in such a long while.
Forgive me, Walburga, but I couldn't come.
And why not?
Because my mind was not at one with itself.
You want to become an actor? Is that true? You're going to change professions?
What I'll be in the end may be left to God. But never a parson—never a country parson!
Listen! I've had my fortune told from the cards.
That's nonsense, Walburga. You mustn't do that.
I swear to you, Erich, that it isn't nonsense. The woman told me I was betrothed in secret and that my betrothed is an actor. Of course I laughed her to scorn. And immediately after that mama told me that you wanted to be an actor.
Is that a fact?
It's true—every bit of it. And in addition the clairvoyant said that we would have a visitor who would cause us much trouble.
My father is coming to Berlin, Walburga, and it's undoubtedly true that the old gentleman will give us not a little trouble. Father doesn't know it, but my views and his have been worlds asunder for a long time. It didn't need these letters of his which seem actually to burn in my pocket and by which he answered my confession—it didn't need these letters to tell me that.
An evil, envious, venomous star presided over our secret meeting here! Oh, how I used to admire my papa! And since that Sunday I blush for him every minute. And however much I try, I can't, since that day, look frankly and openly into his eyes.
Did you have differences with your father too?
Oh, if it were nothing more than that! I was so proud of papa! And now I tremble to think of even your finding it out. You'd despise us!
Idespise anyone? Dear child, I can't think of anything less fitting for me! Look here: I'll set you an example in the matter of frankness. A sister of mine, six years older than I, was governess in a noble family. Well, a misfortune happened to her and … when she sought refuge in the house of her parents, my Christian father put her out of doors! I believe he thought that Jesus would have done the same. And so my sister gradually sank lower and lower and some day we can go and visit her in the little suicides' graveyard near Schildhorn where she finally found rest.
[Puts her arms around SPITTA.] Poor boy, you never told me a word of that.
Circumstances have changed now and I speak of it. I shall speak of it to papa too even if it causes a breach between us.—You're always surprised when I get excited, and that I can't control myself when I see some poor devil being kicked about, or when I see the rabble mistreating some poor fallen girl. I have actual hallucinations sometimes. I seem to see ghosts in bright daylight and my own sister among them!
PAULINE PIPERCARCKA enters, dressed as before. Her little face seems to have grown paler and prettier.
Good mornin'.
[From behind the partition.] Who's that out there?
Pauline, Mrs. John.
Pauline? I don't know no Pauline.
Pauline Pipercarcka, Mrs. John.
Who? Oh, well then you c'n wait a minute, Pauline.