I believe you. There'll be a lot o' smoke. You won't let your pipe get cold whatever happens.
[Smiling a little.] You're pleased to be pointed in your remarks—pointed as a needle.—We've got to-day, for our table music, wait now, let me think—: First of all, a bass violin; secondly, two cellos; thirdly, two first violins and two second violins. Three first, two second, three second, two first: I'm getting mixed up now. At all events we have ten men from the public orchestra. What are you laughing at? Do you think I'm fooling you? You'll see for yourself. The bass violin alone will eat enough for ten. There'll be work enough to do!
[Laughing heartily.] Of course: the cook'll have a lot to do!
[Simply.] My wife, my daughter, the whole of my family—we have to work honestly and hard.—And when the summer is over we've worked ourselves to the bone—for nothing!
I don't see what you has to complain of. You've got the best business in the house. Your taproom don't get empty, if it's summer or winter. If I was Siebenhaar upstairs, you'd have to whistle a different tune for me. You wouldn't be gettin' off with no three hundred crowns o' rent. There wouldn't be no use comin' around me with less'n a thousand. An' then you'd be doin' well enough for yourself!
[Has arisen and walks about whistling.] Would you like anything else? You frighten me so that my pipe goes out!
GEORGE, a young, alert, neat waiter comes very rapidly down the stairs behind the glass door, carrying a tray with breakfast service. While still behind the door he stops short, opens the door, however, and gazes up and down the passage way.
Confound it all! What's this place here?
[Laughing over her tub.] You've lost your way! You has to go back!
It's enough, God knows, to make a feller dizzy, No horse couldn't find his way about this place.
You've just taken service here, eh?
Well o' course! I came yesterday. But tell me, ladies an' gentlemen! Nothin' like this has ever happened to me before. I've been in a good many houses but here you has to take along a kind o' mountain guide to find your way.
[Exaggerating the waiter's Saxonian accent.] Tell me, are you from Dresden, maybe?
Meissen is my native city.
[As before.] Good Lord A'mighty, is that so indeed?
How do I get out of here, tell me that!
[Alert, mobile, and coquettish in her way in the waiter's presence.] You has to go back up the stairs. We has no use down here for your swallow tails.
This is the first story, eh? Best part o' the house?
You mean the kennels or somethin' like that? We'll show you—that we will! The very best people live down here!
[Intimately and flirtatiously.] Young woman, do you know what? You come along an' show me the way? With you I wouldn't be a bit afraid, no matter where you lead me to. I'd go into the cellar with you or up into the hay loft either.
You stay out o' here! You're the right kind you are! We've got enough of your sort without you.
Young woman, do you want me to help with the washin'?
No! But if you're aimin' at it exackly, I c'n help you to get along! [Half drawing a piece of linen out of the suds.] Then you'd be lookin' to see where your starched shirt-front went to!
O dear! You're not goin' to mess me up that way, are you? Well, well, that wouldn't do! We'd have to have a talk about that first! That so, young woman? Well, o' course! We'll talk about it—when I has time, later.
[He mounts the stairs and disappears.
He won't lose his way very often after this! Siebenhaar will see to it that he gets to know the way from the dining hall to the kitchen.—Hanne, when is Henschel coming back?
About noon, I s'pose! D'you want me to give him a message?
Tell him—don't forget, now—tell him that I—send him my regards.
Such foolishness. I might ha' thought …!
[Passing her with a slight bow.] Thoughts are free … I wish you a good morning.
[Exit.
[Alone, washing vigorously.] If only Henschel wasn't such a fool!
Above the cellar, outside, the pedlar FABIG, kneeling down, looks in at the window.
Good mornin', young woman! How are you? How's everythin'?
Who are you anyhow?
Why—Fabig, from Quolsdorf. Don't you know me no more? I'm bringin' you a greetin' from your father. An' he wants me to tell you … Or maybe you'd want me to come in?
Aw, I know. I believe you. He wants money again. Well, I has none myself.
I told him that myself. He wouldn't believe me. Are you all alone, young woman?
Why d'you ax?
[Lowering his voice.] Well now you see, there's more'n one thing I has on my heart. An', through the window, people might be hearin' it.
Oh well, I don't care. You c'n come in! [FABIG disappears from the window.] That that feller had to be comin' to-day …!
[She dries her hands.
FABIG enters. He is a poorly clad, strangely agile, droll pedlar, with a sparse beard, about thirty-six years old.
A good mornin' to you, young woman.
[Fiercely.] First of all, I'm no young woman but a girl.
[With cunning.] Maybe so. But from all I hears you'll be married soon.
That's nothin' but a pack o' mean lies—that's what it is.
Well, that's what I heard. It's no fault o' mine. People is sayin' it all over; because Mrs. Henschel died …
Well, they can talk for all I care. I does my work. That's all that concerns me.
That's the best way. I does that way myself. There's little that folks hasn't said about me some time … In Altwasser they says I steals pigeons. A little dog ran after me … o' course, they said I stole it.
Well now, if you got anythin' to say to me, go ahead an' don't waste words.
Now you see, there you are. That's what I always says too. People talks a good deal more'n they ought to. They has a few rags to sell an' they talks an' talks as if it was an estate. But I'll say just as little as possible. What I wants to tell you about, young woman—now don't fly up: the word just slipped out!—I meant to say: lass—what I wants to tell you about is your daughter.
[Violently.] I has no daughter, if you want to know it. The girl that father is takin' care of, is my sister's child.
Well now, that's different, that is. We've all been thinkin' the girl was yours. Where is your sister?
Who knows where she is? She's not fool enough to tell us. She thinks, thinks she: they c'n have the trouble an' see how they gets along.
Well, well, well! There you see again how folks is mistaken. I'd ha' taken any oath … an' not me, not me alone, but all the folks over in Quolsdorf, that you was the mother o' that child.
Yes, I knows right well who says that o' me. I could call 'em all by name! They'd all like to make a common wench o' me. But if ever I lays my hands on 'em I'll give 'em somethin' to remember me by.
Well, it's a bad business—all of it! Because this is the way it is: the old man, your father, I needn't be tellin' you—things is as they is—he don't hardly get sober. He just drinks in one streak. Well, now that your mother's been dead these two years, he can't leave the little thing—the girl I mean—at home no more. The bit o' house is empty. An' so he drags her around in the pubs, in all kinds o' holes, from one village taproom to the next. If you sees that—it's enough to stir a dumb beast with pity.
[With fierce impatience.] Is it my fault that he swills?
By no means an' not at all. Nobody c'n keep your old man from doin' his way! 'Tis only on account o' the child, an' it's that makes a body feel sorry. But if that there little one can't be taken away from him an' given in the care o' decent folks, she won't live no ten weeks after this.
[Hardening herself.] That don't concern me. I can't take her. I got all I can do to get along!
You'd better come over to Quolsdorf some time an' look into it all. That'd be best, too. The little girl … 'tis a purty little thing, with bits o' hands an' feet like that much porcelain, so dainty an' delicate.
She's not my child an' she don't concern me.
Well, you better come over an' see what's to be done. It's hard for people to see such things goin' on. If a man goes into an inn, in the middle of the night or some time like that—I got to do that, you see, in the way o' business—an' sees her sittin' there with the old man in the midst o' tobacco smoke—I tell you it hurts a body's soul.
The innkeepers oughtn't to serve him nothin'. If they was to take a stick an' beat him out o' their places, maybe he'd learn some sense.—A waggon's just come into the yard. Here you got a sixpence. Now you get along an' I'll be thinkin' it all over. I can't do nothin' about it this minute. But if you goes aroun' here in the inns an' talks about it—then it's all over between us.
I'll take good care, an' it don't concern me. If it's your child or your sister's child—I'm not goin' to poke my nose in the parish register, nor I'm not goin' to say nothin' neither. But if you want a bit o' good advice,'tis this: Tell Henschel straight out how 'tis. He won't tear your head off by a long way!
[With increasing excitement as HENSCHEL'S voice grows more clearly audible.] Oh this here jabberin'! It's enough to drive you crazy.
[Exit into the adjoining room.
HENSCHEL enters slowly and seriously. He wears a black suit, a top hat and white knitted gloves.
[Remains standing and looks at FABIG with an expression of slow recollection. Simply and calmly.] Who are you?
[Alertly.] I buy rags, waste paper, furniture, cast off clothes, anythin' that happens to be aroun'.
[After a long glance, good-naturedly but with decision.] Out with the fellow!
FABIG withdraws with an embarrassed smile.
[Takes off his top-hat and wipes his forehead and neck with a manicoloured handkerchief. Thereupon, he places his hat on the table and speaks toward the door of the next room:] Girl, where are you?
I'm with Gustel here in the little room.
All right. I c'n wait. [He sits down with a sigh that is almost a groan.] Yes, yes, O Lord—a man has his troubles.
[Enters busily.] The dinner'll be ready this minute.
I can't eat; I'm not hungry.
Eatin' and drinkin' keeps body an' soul together. I was once in service with a shepherd, an' he said to us more'n one time: If a body has a heartache or somethin' like that, even if he feels no hunger, 'tis best to eat.
Well, cook your dinner an' we'll see.
You shouldn't give in to it. Not as much as all that. You got to resign yourself some time.
Was that man Horand, the bookbinder, here?
Everythin's attended to. He made forty new billheads. There they are on the chest.
Then the work an' the worry begins again. Drivin' in to Freiburg mornin' after mornin' an' noon after noon haulin' sick people across the hills.
You're doin' too much o' the work yourself. Old Hauffe is too slow by half. I can't help it—if I was you I'd get rid o' him.
[Gets up and goes to the window.] I'm sick of it—of the whole haulin' business. It c'n stop for all I care. I got nothin' against it if it does. To-day or to-morrow; it's the same to me. All you got to do is to take the horses to the flayers, to chop up the waggons for kindlin' wood, an' to get a stout, strong bit o' rope for yourself.—I think I'll go up an' see Siebenhaar.
I was wantin' to say somethin' to you when I got a chance.
Well, what is it, eh?
You see, it's not easy for me. No, indeed. [Elaborately tearful.] But my brother—he needs me that bad. [Weeping.] I'll have to leave—that's sure.
[In extreme consternation.] You're not right in your mind. Don't start that kind o' business!
HANNE, shedding crocodile tears, holds her apron to her eyes.
Well now, look here, lass: you're not goin' to play me that kind of a trick now! That would be fine! Who's goin' to manage the house? Summer's almost with us now an' you want to leave me in the lurch?
[With the same gesture.] 'Tis the little one I feels sorry for!
If you don't take care of her, who's goin' to?
[After a space collecting herself apparently by an effort of the will. Quietly:] It can't be done no different.
Everythin' c'n be done in this world. All you needs is to want to do it.—You never said nothin' about it before. An' now, suddenly, you talk about your brother!—Maybe I been offendin' you some way? Don't you feel suited with me no more?
There's no end to the gossip that's goin' round.
What kind o' gossip?
Oh, I don't know. I'd rather be goin out o' the way of it.
I'd like to know just what you mean!
I does my work an' I takes my pay! An' I won't have nobody say such things o' me. When the wife was still alive I worked all day; now that she's dead, I don't do no different. People c'n say all they wants to; I'm tryin' to make you think I'm fine, an' I want dead people's shoes. I'd rather go into service some other place.
[Relieved.] You needn't say no more if that's all it is!
[Takes up some piece of work as an excuse for leaving the room.] No, no, I'll go. I can't never stay!
[Exit.
[Talking after her.] You c'n let people talk an' not say much yourself. All them tongues has to wag for an occupation. [He takes off his black coat and hangs it up. Sighing.] The pack o' troubles don't get no smaller.
SIEBENHAAR comes in slowly. He carries a decanter full of water and a glass.
Good morning, Henschel.
Good mornin' Mr. Siebenhaar,
Am I disturbing you?
Not a bit; not at all. You're very welcome.
[Placing the decanter and the glass on the table.] I've got to drink the medicinal spring water again. I'm having that old trouble with my throat. Well, dear me, a man has to die of something!
You must just go ahead an' drink the waters. They'll cure you.
Yes, that's just what I'm doing.
An' not from the Mill Spring nor from the Upper Spring. Ours is the best.
Well now, to change the subject. [Half lost in thought he has been toying with a sprig of ivy. Now he observes this, starts slightly, runs his eyes over the top-hat and HENSCHEL himself and says suddenly:] This was your wife's birthday, wasn't it?
She'd ha' been thirty-six years old to-day.
Is it possible?
Oh, yes, yes.
[Pause.]
Henschel, I'd better leave you alone now. But when it's agreeable to you—to-morrow maybe, I'd like to talk over some business with you.
I'd rather you went ahead right now.
It's about the thousand crowns …
Before we says any more, Mr. Siebenhaar. You c'n just keep that money till winter. Why should I be lyin' to you? You see? I don't need the money. I don't care exackly when I gets it; an' that it's safe, I'm satisfied o' that.
Well, Henschel, in that case I'm very grateful to you. You're doing me a great favour. During the summer I take in money; you know that. Just now it would have been difficult for me.
Well, you see, so we c'n agree fine.
[Pause.]
[Walking to and fro.] Yes, yes, I sometimes wonder over myself. I grew up in this house. And yet, to-day, if I could but make a decent closing out, I could leave it quite calmly.
I wouldn't like to go, I must say. I wouldn't hardly know where to go to.
Things have moved ahead with you, Henschel. But the same set of conditions that has counted in your favour, has been that against which I've had to struggle to keep my head above water.
The shoe pinches one man in this place an' another man in that. Who's goin' to say which is worse off? You see, I got a good, hard blow, too. An' if I'm goin' to recover … well, I don't hardly feel like myself yet.
[Pause.]
Henschel, there's a time for everything! You'll have to conquer that now. You must go out among people, hear things, see things, drink a glass of beer once in a while, plunge into business, perhaps—somehow, put an end to this sad business. It can't be helped, and so—forward!
'Tis just as you say! You're quite right!
To be sure, your wife was the best, most faithful woman. There's only one opinion about that. But you are in the full current of life, Henschel; you're in your best years; you still have a great deal to do in the world: who knows how much. You needn't forget your wife on that account; on the contrary. And that's entirely out of the question in the case of a man like you. But you must honour her memory in a saner way. This kind of brooding does no good. I've been watching you for a good while and I determined, without saying anything, to make a really strong appeal to you one day. You're letting yourself be actually downed.
But what's a man to do against it? You're right—that you are; but times I hardly know what to do! You say: Plunge into business. But there's somethin' lackin' all around. Four eyes sees better'n two; four hands—they c'n do a sight more. Now I got all these coaches here in the summer! An' there's no one to see to things at home! 'Tis not easy, I c'n tell you that.
I thought that Hanne was quite a capable girl.
Well, you see, she's given me notice, too.—'Tis too hard for a man to get along without a wife. Yon can't depend on no one. That's just it; that's just what I says!
Why don't you marry, Henschel?
'Twould be best!—What c'n I do without a wife? A man like me can't get along without one. I was thinking in fact, of goin' upstairs an' askin' the missis if, maybe, she could give me some advice in that direction. She died an' left me alone in the midst of all these worries.—An', also, to tell you the truth, this business of mine's not what it used to be. How long is it goin' to be before the railroad comes here? Well, you see, we'd put by a little, an' we wanted to buy a small inn—maybe in two years or so. Well, that can't be done without a woman neither.
True. You won't be able to get along this way permanently. You can't remain a widower the rest of your life. If for no other reason but for the child's sake.
That's what I always says.
Of course I have no right to interfere in your affairs. Still, we're old friends. To wait, Henschel, just on account of what people will think—that's sheer nonsense, no more, no less. If you are quite seriously thinking of marrying again, it would be better both for you and for the child if you did it soon. You needn't be overhasty; assuredly not! But if you've quite made up your mind, then—go straight ahead! Why should you hesitate? [After a pause during which HENSCHEL scratches his head.] Have you any one particular in view?
—If I got some one in view? That's what you'd like to know? Maybe I has.Only I can't marry her.
But why not?
You know it yourself.
I? I know it? How's that?
All you got to do is a little thinkin'.
[Shaking his head.] I can't say that I recall at this moment.
Didn't I have to go an' promise my wife …
———?—Oh, yes!!—You mean the girl—Hanne?—
[Pause.]
I been thinkin' an' thinkin'. There's no use in denyin' it. When I wakes up during the night, I can't sleep for a couple o' hours sometimes. I got to be thinkin' of it all the time. I can't get over it any way!—The girl's a good girl. She's a bit young for an old fellow like me, but she c'n work enough for four men. An' she's taken very kindly to Gustel; no mother could do more'n she. An' the girl's got a head on her, that's sure, better'n mine. She c'n do sums better'n I can. She might go an' be a calculator. She knows a bit o' business to the last farthing, even if six weeks have come an' gone since. I believe she could make a fool o' two lawyers.
Well, if you're so thoroughly convinced of all that …!
There wouldn't be no better wife for me! An' yet … an' yet! I can't get over it.
[Pause.]
I do remember quite dimly now what you mean. It was quite at the end of her life.—But I confess to you quite frankly: I didn't take that matter so very seriously. Your wife was in a very excited condition. And that was caused largely by her illness.—I can't think that that is the main question. The real question must finally be whether Hanne is really suitable for you! She has her advantageous qualities: no doubt about that. There are things about her that I like less. However: who hasn't some faults. People say that she has a child.
That she has. I've inquired. Well, even so. I don't care nothin' about that. Was she to wait for me, eh? She didn't know nothin' about me when that happened. She's hot-blooded; all right. That'll come out somehow. When the pears is ripe, they falls to the ground. On that account—no, that don't trouble me none.
Well, then! The other matter is trivial. Perhaps not trivial exactly. I can well understand how it's taken hold of you. Still, one must get free of it. To be bound by it, in spite of one's saner thought—that's clearly folly, Henschel.
I've said that to myself ten times over. You see, my wife she didn't never want anythin' but what was for my best good. I mean, in the days when she was well. She wouldn't want to stand in my way. Wherever she is, maybe, she'd want to see me get along.
Assuredly.
Well, I went out to her grave to-day. The missis had a wreath put there too. I thought to myself I'd better go there, that's what I thought. Maybe she'll be sendin' you some message. Mother, I said in my thoughts, give me a sign. Yes or no! Anyway you answers, that way it'll be! An' I stood, there half an hour.—I prayed, too, an' I put it all to her—just to myself, o' course—about the child an' the inn an' that I don't know what to do in my business—but she didn't give me no sign.
HANNE enters throwing sidelong glances at the two men, but at once going energetically to work. She puts the washbench and tub aside and busies herself at the stove.
[To HENSCHEL.] God give the dead peace and blessedness. You are a man; you're in the midst of life. Why should you need signs and miracles? We can find our way in this world by depending with fair certainty on our reason. You simply go your way. You're captain on your own ship. Overboard with all these fancies and sickly notions! The more I think of your plan, the more rational it seems to me …
Hanne, what do you say about it?
I don't know. How c'n I tell what you're talkin' about?
You just wait: I'll tell you later.
Well, good morning, Henschel. I'll see you later. Meanwhile—good luck!
I'll hope I'll have it.
I'm not worried about you. You had a lucky way with you always.
[Exit.
Yon shouldn't be sayin' it! 'Tis bad luck.
If you spits three times, it'll take the curse off.
[Pause.]
I can't help thinkin' as you're too good.
What makes you think so?
People just robs you: that's what I says.
Did you think he wanted somethin' of me?
Well, what else? He ought to be ashamed to come beggin' o' poor people.
Hanne, you don't know what you're sayin'.
I knows well enough.
That's what you don't. An' you couldn't know. But some day, later on, you'll come to understand.—Now I'll be goin' to the taproom an' buy me a mug o' beer. It'll be the first time these eight weeks. After that we c'n eat, an' after the dinner then—listen to me—then we might say a word to each other. Then we c'n see how everythin' c'n be straightened out.—Or, maybe, you don't care about it?
You was sayin' yourself: We c'n see.
An' that's what I says now. We c'n wait.
[Exit.
[Pause.]
[Works on undisturbed. When HENSCHEL is out of hearing, she suddenly ceases, scarcely mastering her joyous excitement, she dries her hands and tears off her apron. In involuntary triumph:] I'll show you. Watch out!
The same room as tn the two preceding acts.
It is evening toward the end of November. A fire is burning in the oven; a lighted candle stands on the table. The middle door is closed. Muffled dance music penetrates into the room from the upper stories of the house.
HANNE, now MRS. HENSCHEL, sits by the table and knits; she is neatly and suitably clad in a dress of blue cotton, and wears a red kerchief across her breast.
HILDEBRANT, the smith, enters. A small, sinewy person.
Good evenin', missis, where's your husband?
Gone to Breslau. He's fetchin' three new horses.
Then I s'pose he won't be comin' home to-day, eh?
Not before Monday.
Well, this is Saturday.—We've brought back the board waggon. It's downstairs in the entry way. We had to renew all the four tires. Where's Hauffe?
He hasn't been with us this long time.
So he hasn't. 'Tis nonsense I'm talkin'. I mean the new servant. IsSchwarzer here?
He's gone along to Breslau.
Fact is I knows all about Hauffe. He comes down to the smithy an' just stands aroun'. He's got nothin' to do yet.
People says he's beginnin' to drink.
I believes it. That's the way it goes. 'Tis bad for an old fellow like that; nobody wants him now.—What's goin' on up there to-day?
Dancin'!
How'd it be if we was to go up there too, missis. Why shouldn't we be joinin' in a little waltz too?
They'd open their eyes pretty wide up there if we did.—But what is it you want of Henschel?
His honour, the judge, has a chestnut stallion that don't want to let hisself be shoed. So we wanted to ax Henschel to step over. If he can't get any beast to stand still, why then—! Well, good evenin', Mrs. Henschel.
Good evenin'.
HILDEBRANT withdraws.
[Listens to a dragging noise out in the passage.] What kind of a noise is that there? [She steps forward and opens the door.] Who's makin' all that racket out there?
[Comes dancing in.] Get out of the way, Mrs. Henschel! I have no time.
[She whirls about in the room to the measure of the waltz heard from above.]
Well, this is a fine way to act! What's the matter with you? Did a mad dog bite you, maybe?
FRANZISKA dances on and hums the melody of the waltz.
[More and more amused.] For heaven's sake! Somethin's goin' to happen to you!—No, girl, you're goin' clear out o' your mind!
[Sinks exhausted into a chair as the music breaks off.] Oh, Mrs. Henschel, I could dance myself to death!
[Laughing.] At this here rate I believes you! It makes a body feel dizzy just to watch you.
Don't you dance at all?
Me? If I dance? To be sure I do. 'Twasn't once or twice only that I got a pair o' new shoes an' danced 'em to pieces in one night!
Come and dance with me then!
Why don't you go upstairs an' dance with the folks there?
Oh, if only I might! Do you know what I'll do? I'll sneak up! I'll sneak into the gallery! Have you ever been up there? The bags of prunes stand up there. I go up there quite boldly and look down, and eat prunes. Why shouldn't I look down from there?
An' maybe Siebenhaar'll send for you to come down.
I just stare down as bold as you please. I don't care a bit. And whenever a lady dances with Mr. Siebenhaar, I pelt her with plum pits.
You're crazy about Siebenhaar—that's certain!
Well, he's a real swell—that's what none of the others are. [The music is heard again.] Ah, they're starting. That's a polka! [Dancing again.] I'd like to dance with Mr. Siebenhaar this minute. D'you know what I'd do? I'd just kiss him before he knew what was happening.
Siebenhaar'd be too old for me!
Your husband is just as old, Mrs. Henschel.
Look here, girl, I want you to know that my husband is a good five years younger.
Well, he looks much older anyhow. Why, he looks so old and wrinkled. No,I wouldn't care to kiss him.
You better see about getting out o' here, or I'll take a broom an' help you along! Don't you abuse my husband! An' where would I get a better one? You wait till you're a few years older an' you'll see what it means in this world to have a husband!
I won't marry at all. I'll wait till some fine, rich gentleman comes—some summer—for his health—a Russian, by preference—and then I'll let him take me out into the world. I want to see the world—to wander far—I want to go to Paris. And then I'll write you about myself, Mrs. Henschel.
I do believe you'll run off some day!
You can wager anything that I will. Mr. Siebenhaar was in Paris, too, you know, during the revolution in 'forty-eight, and he can tell you the most interesting stories! Oh, I'd like to see a revolution like that some day too. They build barricades …
Franziska! Franziska! Where are you keeping yourself again?
Sh! Don't say anything!
Franziska! Franziska!
Sh! Keep still! He wants me to serve at the bar. And that's horrid and I won't do it!
Franziska!
It's papa's or mama's place to do that. Or they can hire a waiter. I won't be turned into a bar maid.
That's not the worst kind o' thing!
Oh, if there were real gentlemen to serve! But they're just well—attendants, coachmen and miners. Much obliged for such company! I don't care about it!
If I was you, I'd do that reel easy. An' I'd be gettin' good tips. You could save a good many pennies an' put by a nice sum.
I won't accept pennies and farthings. And if some time Mr. Siebenhaar or the architect or Dr. Valentiner gives me a present, I spend it on sweetmeats right away.
Ah, that's just it. You're your father's daughter. An' your mother wasn't much different neither. You people don't take care o' the business you has! If you'd ha' done so you'd have money out at interest this day.
We're not as stingy as you, that's all.
I'm not stingy. But you got to keep your substance together.
People say you're stingy, though!
People c'n be—! An' you too! Hurry now an' get out o' here! I'm sick o' your jabberin' now! An' you don't need to come back here neither! I haven't been longin' for you, exackly! 'Tis best not to see or hear anything o' the whole crowd o' you.
[Turning once more at the door, with angry malice.] Do you know what else people say?
I don't want to know nothin'! Get out o' here! You look out that you don't get to hear things about yourself! Who knows what's between you an' Siebenhaar? You two knows it an' I knows it too. Otherwise you'd ha' been kicked out twenty times over with your slovenly management! Teach me to know Siebenhaar!
Fy, fy and fy again!
[Exit.
The baggage!
The middle door has remained open. SIEBENHAAR and the waiter GEORGE, coming from different directions along the passage way, are seen to meet at the door. GEORGE affects the height of Vienna fashions—hat, cane, long overcoat, gay tie.
What are you after here?
You'll forgive me but I have some business with Drayman Henschel.
Henschel is not at home. You've been told three times now that there is no place for you in my house. If you can't remember that henceforth I shall be compelled to have your memory assisted by—the constable.
I beg your pardon very humbly, Mr. Siebenhaar, but I begs to submit that I don't come to see you. These people lives in your house. An' you can't prove nothin' as touchin' the question of my honour.
Very well. Only, if I should meet you again I'll have the porter kick you out. So you had better act accordingly.
[Exit.
[Enters the room cursing.]I'll take that there risk! We'll see about that later!
[Closes the door, with difficulty mastering her rage toward SIEBENHAAR.] We're here, too, I'd have him know. Just let him try it! This here is our room, not his room, an' anybody that comes here comes to us an' not to him! He's got no right to say nothin' about it!
We'll just wait an' see—that's all I says. He might have to pay good an' dear for that. That kind o' thing takes a man to the pen. He got hisself into a nasty mess with Alphonse, who was here two years ago. But he'd be gettin' into a worse mess with me. A hundred crowns o' damages'd be too little for me.
An' he hasn't got no hundred crowns in his pocket—the damned bankrupt! He's been borrowing of everybody in the county. He's got nothin' but debts; you hear that on all sides. 'Twon't be long before there won't be nothin' left an' he'll have to leave the house hisself instead o' puttin' other people out of it!
[Has recovered his overcoat, hung up his hat, and is now picking off the little feathers from his coat and trousers.] That's right! An' that's no secret to nobody. Even the people that come here year in an' out says the same. An' nobody is sorry for him; no, they're willin' it should happen to him. My present boss, he can't stand him neither. He gets reel venomous if you so much as mention Siebenhaar's name. [Takes a pocket-mirror and comb from his pocket and smooths his hair.] Lord knows, he says, there's more tricks to that man than a few.
I believes that; I s'ppose he's right there.
Now then, Hanne, has you got somethin' warm for me?
Why didn't you come yesterday?
You thinks I c'n get off every day, don't you? 'Twas hard enough to get to come here to-day! Yesterday I was busy till three o'clock in the mornin'.
What was it happened?
There was a meetin' o' the fire board. They bought a new engine, an' so they wanted to celebrate the purchase. That's how they came to have a meetin'.
All they wants is an excuse to swill. An' all that while I sat till late at night and waited. Once—I don't know, but it must ha' been a bird flyin' against the window—I thought 'twas you, an' so I went to the window an' opened it. After that I was that mad, I couldn't sleep half the night.
Oh, pshaw! What's the use o' havin' things like that spoil one's temper. [He puts his arms around her.] That's nothin'! Nothin' at all.
[Frees herself from his embrace.] Oh, I don't know! 'Tis true—I don't know how it comes—but things seem to go contrary with a body. Henschel sits aroun' at home the whole week, an' now that he's gone for a bit, we has to let the time slide away!
Well, we got plenty o' time to-day. He don't come back till Monday, I thought.
Who knows if it's true!
I don't know no reason why it shouldn't be true!
That man is bound to sit aroun' at home. 'Twasn't half as bad formerly. He used to go on trips weeks at a time; nowadays he whines if he's got to sleep away from home a single night. An' if he says: I'll stay three days, he mostly comes back on the second—Listen … I believe they've come already! Who else'd be crackin' whips like that in the yard?
[After he has listened, in a restrained tone:] The devil take 'em all—the whole damned crowd! A man hasn't had time to get warm a bit. I s'pose I'll have to leave right off, eh? I thought it'd be mighty different, I must say!
[He slips his overcoat back on and takes up his hat.
[Tears his hat from his head.] You stay right here! What d'you want to run off for? D'you think I got to be scared o' Henschel. He's got to come to my terms. I don't has to think about him. If you'd come yesterday!—I told you …! Then nobody wouldn't ha' interrupted us, no Henschel an' no Siebenhaar. To-day the devil's broke loose!
The horse dealer WALTHER enters—a handsome, vigorous fellow of forty. Bashly cap, fur jacket, hunting stockings and tall boots; his mits are fastened by cords.
Missis, your husband is outside in the yard. I'm just comin' in for a minute to bid you good evenin'. I got to ride off again straight way. He's bought some fine Flemish horses. An' he's brought along something else, for you too.
I thought he wouldn't be comin' back till Monday.
An' that's the way it would ha' been. But we couldn't ride on horseback no farther'n Kanth. There we had to take the train with the horses or they'd ha' broken their necks an' their limbs. Travellin' was that bad on account o' the sleet.
You makes better time with the train—that's certain!
What kind of a feller is that there? Why, you're tryin' to be invisible, eh? Well, if that isn't little George—I do believe! Why, you looks like a natural born baron!
A man earns more over there in the "Star" hotel. I has a much more profitable position. Here I had to work till my clothes dropped from me in rags. I was most naked in the end; now I'm beginnin' to buy somethin' again.
Now guess, missis, what your husband has brought home for you!
Well, what is it?
I wager you'll be mighty glad of that present!
We'll see. It depends on what it is.
Good luck to you then. I got to hurry or my wife'll get ugly.
Good luck to you.
I might as well come along. Good night, Mrs. Henschel.
Didn't you want to see Henschel about somethin'?
There's plenty o' time for that. There's no hurry.
If you got somethin' to say to him you'd better wait till to-morrow. He's got different kinds o' things in his mind to-day. D'you know what he's bringin' you, missis?
What should he be bringin' me? Don't talk so much nonsense.
Why, he's bringin' you your daughter!
—What's that he's bringin'? I didn't hear right!
We was in Quolsdorf and fetched her.
You're drunk, the two o' ye, eh?
No, no, I'm tellin' you the truth.
Who did you get?
He didn't tell me nothin' about it. All of a sudden we was in the pub atQuolsdorf an' sat down there.
Well, an' what then?
We was sittin' there an' then, after a little while, your father came in with the bit of a girl.
'Tis no girl o' mine!
I don't know nothin' about that! I knows this much though: he's got the child out there. He went up to your father an' he said: The child's a pretty child.—Then he took her in his arms an' petted her. Shall I take you with me, he axes her, an' she was willin' right off.
Well, an' my father?
Well, your father didn't know who Henschel was!
Better an' better! An' is that all?
[Almost addressing GEORGE now.] No, there was nothin' more. He just took the little one out an' said to your father: I'll let the lass ride horseback. An' she kept cryin' out: Lemme ride! Lemme ride! Then Henschel mounted his great Flemish horse an' I had to hand the child up to him. After that he said: Good-bye, an' rode off.
An' father just stood there an' looked on?
What was he goin' to do about it? The whole village might ha' turned out for all the good it would ha' done. When once Henschel lays his hands on somethin'—I wouldn't advise nobody to cross him! An' there's no one in the county that likes to pick a quarrel with him neither! Your father, he didn't know what was goin' on. Then suddenly, o' course, he roared like fury an' cried out an' cursed more'n enough. But the people just laughed. They knew Henschel. An' he—Henschel—he just said reel quiet: Good luck to you, father Schäl; I'm takin' her along. The mother is waitin' for her at home. Stop drinkin'! he said, an' maybe there'll be a place with us for you some day, too.
Good-bye, I think I'll maybe drop in to-morrow.
[Exit.
An' so he thinks I'm goin' to keep her here. I'll never do that—never in the world. She's no child o' mine! How would I be lookin' before people? First in Quolsdorf, then here! Didn't I work an' worry enough? Day an' night, you might say, I was busy with Gustel. An' now the weary trouble is to begin all over again. That'd be fine, wouldn't it? He'd better take care!
HENSCHEL appears in the middle door. He is also clad in leathern breeches, fur jacket, tall boots, etc., just as he has dismounted. He leads by the hand a little girl of six—ragged and unwashed.
[Almost merrily referring to HANNE'S last words, which he has overheard.] Who's to take care?
—Oh, I don't know!
Look, Hanne, look who comes here! [To the child.] Go ahead, Berthel, an' say good evenin'. Go on an' say it! Say: Good evenin', mama!
BERTHEL leaving HENSCHEL unwillingly and walks, encouraged by friendly little shoves from him, diagonally across the room to where HANNE, assuming a disgruntled attitude, sits on the bench.
[To the child, who stands helplessly before her.] What do you want here?
I rode on such a pitty horsie?
HENSCHEL and WALTHER laugh heartily.
Well now we'll keep her here. Hallo, Hanne! Are you angry about anythin'?
You are sayin' you wouldn't be back till Monday. There's not a bite for supper in the house now.
There'll be a bit o' bread an' bacon.
[He hangs up his cap.
[Pulling ungently at BERTHEL'S clothes.] How'd you get this way?
You'll soon have to buy her somethin' to put on! She's got hardly nothin' on her little body. 'Twas a good thing I had plenty o' blankets along, or she'd ha' been half froze on the way. [After he has removed his fur jacket and warmed his hands.] Best thing would be to put her right straight in a tub.
Best thing would ha' been if you'd ha' left her where she was.
What did you say?
Nothin'.
I thought you were sayin' somethin'.—Into the tub with her! An' then to bed! An' you might go over her head a bit! I believe she's got a little colony there. [BERTHEL cries out.] What's the matter? Don't tug at her so rough!
Oh, don't cry, girl! That'd be the last straw!