Quick, Rosa—put on something, and get into the carriage. I'll be after you this moment.
[He rushes to the strong-box, and takes out papers and various articles of value.
Enter JOHN.
We're ready to start. But come quickly, before they gets round to the back door.
[In a transport of fear, throwing her arms around JOHN'S neck.] John, John, dear, good John! Save us, John. Save my boys! Oh, what is to become of us?
Rosa, try to keep your head. Let John go.
Yes, yes, ma'am! Don't you be frightened. Our good horses'll soon leave them all behind; an' whoever doesn't get out of the way'll be driven over.
[In helpless anxiety.] But my husband … my husband? But, Mr. Dreissiger, my husband?
He's in safety now, Mrs. Kittelhaus. Don't alarm yourself; he's all right.
Something dreadful has happened to him. I know it. You needn't try to keep it from me.
You mustn't take it to heart—they'll be sorry for it yet. I know exactly whose fault it was. Such an unspeakable, shameful outrage will not go unpunished. A community laying hands on its own pastor and maltreating him—abominable! Mad dogs they are—raging brutes—and they'll be treated as such. [To his wife who still stands petrified.] Go, Rosa, go quickly! [Heavy blows at the lower door are heard.] Don't you hear? They've gone stark mad! [The clatter of window-panes being smashed on the ground-floor is heard.] They've gone crazy. There's nothing for it but to get away as fast as we can.
[Cries of"Pfeifer, come out!"—"We want Pfeifer!"—"Pfeifer, come out!"are heard.
Pfeifer, Pfeifer, they want Pfeifer!
[Dashes in.] Mr. Dreissiger, there are people at the back gate already, and the house door won't hold much longer. The smith's battering at it like a maniac with a stable pail.
[The cry sounds louder and clearer: "Pfeifer! Pfeifer! Pfeifer! come out!"MRS. DREISSIGER rushes off as if pursued. MRS. KITTELHAUS follows. PFEIFER listens, and changes colour as he hears what the cry is. A perfect panic of fear seizes him; he weeps, entreats, whimpers, writhes, all at the same moment. He overwhelms DREISSIGER with childish caresses, strokes his cheeks and arms, kisses his hands, and at last, like a drowning man, throws his arms round him and prevents him moving.
Dear, good, kind Mr. Dreissiger, don't leave me behind. I've always served you faithfully. I've always treated the people well. I couldn't give 'em more wages than the fixed rate. Don't leave me here—they'll do for me! If they finds me, they'll kill me. O God! O God! My wife, my children!
[Making his way out, vainly endeavouring to free himself from PFEIFER'S clutch.] Can't you let me go, fellow? It'll be all right; it'll be all right.
For a few seconds the room is empty. Windows are shattered in the drawing-room. A loud crash resounds through the house, followed by a roaring"Hurrah!"For an instant there is silence. Then gentle, cautious steps are heard on the stair, then timid, hushed ejaculations: "To the left!"—"Up with you!"—"Hush!"—"Slow, slow!"—"Don't shove like that!"—"It's a wedding we're goin' to!"—"Stop that crowdin'!"—"You go first!"—"No, you go!"
Young weavers and weaver girls appear at the door leading from the hall, not daring to enter, but each trying to shove the other in. In the course of a few moments their timidity is overcome, and the poor, thin, ragged or patched figures, many of them sickly-looking, disperse themselves through DREISSIGER'S room and the drawing-room, first gazing timidly and curiously at everything, then beginning to touch things. Girls sit down on the sofas, whole groups admire themselves in the mirrors, men stand up on chairs, examine the pictures and take them down. There is a steady influx of miserable-looking creatures from the hall.
[Entering.] No, no, this is carryin' it too far. They've started smashin' things downstairs. There's no sense nor reason in that. There'll be a bad end to it. No man in his wits would do that. I'll keep clear of such goings on.
JAEGER, BECKER, WITTIG carrying a wooden pail, BAUMERT, and a number of other old and young weavers, rush in as if in pursuit of something, shouting hoarsely.
Where has he gone?
Where's the cruel brute?
If we can eat grass he may eat sawdust.
We'll hang him when we catch him.
We'll take him by the legs and fling him out at the window, on to the stones. He'll never get up again.
[Enters.] He's off!
Who?
Dreissiger.
Pfeifer too?
Let's get hold o' Pfeifer! Look for Pfeifer!
Yes, yes! Pfeifer! Tell him there's a weaver here for him to starve.
[Laughter.
If we can't lay hands on that brute Dreissiger himself … we'll make him poor!
As poor as a church mouse … we'll see to that!
[All, bent on the work of destruction, rush towards the drawing-room door.
[Who is leading, turns round and stops the others.] Halt! Listen to me! This is nothing but a beginnin'. When we're done here, we'll go straight to Bielau, to Dittrich's, where the steam power-looms is. The whole mischief's done by them factories.
[Enters from hall. Takes a few steps, then stops and looks round, scarcely believing his eyes; shakes his head, taps his forehead.] Who am I? Weaver Anton Ansorge. Has he gone mad, Old Ansorge? My head's goin' round like a humming-top, sure enough. What's he doin' here. He'll do whatever he's a mind to. Where is Ansorge? [He taps his forehead repeatedly.] Something's wrong! I'm not answerable! I'm off my head! Off with you, off with you, rioters that you are! Heads off, legs off, hands off! If you takes my house, I takes your house. Forward, forward!
[Goes yelling into the drawing-room, followed by a yelling, laughing mob.
Langen-Bielau,—OLD WEAVER HILSE'S workroom. On the left a small window, in front of which stands the loom. On the right a bed, with a table pushed close to it. Stove, with stove-bench, in the right-hand corner. Family worship is going on. HILSE, his old, blind, and almost deaf wife, his son GOTTLIEB, and LUISE, GOTTLIEB'S wife, are sitting at the table, on the bed and wooden stools. A winding-wheel and bobbins on the floor between table and loom. Old spinning, weaving, and winding implements are disposed of on the smoky rafters; hanks of yarn are hanging down. There is much useless lumber in the low narrow room. The door, which is in the back wall, and leads into the big outer passage, or entry-room of the house, stands open. Through another open door on the opposite side of the passage, a second, in most respects similar weaver's room is seen. The large passage, or entry-room of the house, is paved with stone, has damaged plaster, and a tumble-down wooden stair-case leading to the attics; a washing-tub on a stool is partly visible; linen of the most miserable description and poor household utensils lie about untidily. The light falls from the left into all three apartments.
OLD HILSE is a bearded man of strong build, but bent and wasted with age, toil, sickness, and hardship. He is an old soldier, and has lost an arm. His nose is sharp, his complexion ashen-grey, and he shakes; he is nothing but skin and bone, and has the deep-set, sore weaver's eyes.
[Stands up, as do his son and daughter-in-law; prays.] O Lord, we know not how to be thankful enough to Thee, for that Thou hast spared us this night again in Thy goodness … an' hast had pity on us … an' hast suffered us to take no harm. Thou art the All-merciful, an' we are poor, sinful children of men—that bad that we are not worthy to be trampled under Thy feet. Yet Thou art our loving Father, an' Thou will look upon us an' accept us for the sake of Thy dear Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. "Jesus' blood and righteousness, Our covering is and glorious dress." An' if we're sometimes too sore cast down under Thy chastening—when the fire of Thy purification burns too ragin' hot—oh, lay it not to our charge; forgive us our sin. Give us patience, heavenly Father, that after all these sufferin's we may be made partakers of Thy eternal blessedness. Amen.
[Who has been bending forward, trying hard to hear.] What a beautiful prayer you do say, father!
[LUISE goes off to the washtub, GOTTLIEB to the room on the other side of the passage.
Where's the little lass?
She's gone to Peterswaldau, to Dreissiger's. She finished all she had to wind last night.
[Speaking very loud.] You'd like the wheel now, mother, eh?
Yes, father, I'm quite ready.
[Setting it down before her.] I wish I could do the work for you.
An' what would be the good o' that, father? There would I be, sittin' not knowin' what to do.
I'll give your fingers a wipe, then, so that they'll not grease the yarn.
[He wipes her hands with a rag.
[At her tub.] If there's grease on her hands, it's not from what she's eaten.
If we've no butter, we can eat dry bread—when we've no bread, we can eat potatoes—when there's no potatoes left, we can eat bran.
[Saucily.] An' when that's all eaten, we'll do as the Wenglers did—we'll find out where the skinner's buried some stinking old horse, an' we'll dig it up an' live for a week or two on rotten carrion—how nice that'll be!
[From the other room.] There you are, lettin' that tongue of yours run away with you again.
You should think twice, lass, before you talk that godless way. [He goes to his loom, calls.] Can you give me a hand, Gottlieb?—there's a few threads to pull through.
[From her tub.] Gottlieb, you're wanted to help father.
[GOTTLIEB comes in, and he and his father set themselves to the troublesome task of "drawing and slaying," that is, pulling the strands of the warp through the "heddles" and "reed" of the loom. They have hardly begun to do this when HORNIG appears in the outer room.
[At the door.] Good luck to your work!
Thank you, Hornig.
I say, Hornig, when do you take your sleep? You're on your rounds all day, an' on watch all night.
Sleep's gone from me nowadays.
Glad to see you, Hornig!
An' what's the news?
It's queer news this mornin'. The weavers at Peterswaldau has taken the law into their own hands, an' chased Dreissiger an' his whole family out of the place.
[Perceptibly agitated.] Hornig's at his lies again.
No, missus, not this time, not to-day.—I've some beautiful pinafores in my cart,—No, it's God's truth I'm tellin' you. They've sent him to the right-about. He came down to Reichenbach last night, but, Lord love you! they daren't take him in there, for fear of the weavers—off he had to go again, all the way to Schweidnitz.
[Has been carefully lifting threads of the web and approaching them to the holes, through which, from the other side, GOTTLIEB pushes a wire hook, with which he catches them and draws them through.] It's about time you were stoppin' now, Hornig!
It's as sure as I'm a livin' man. Every child in the place'll soon tell you the same story.
Either your wits are a-wool-gatherin' or mine are.
Not mine. What I'm tellin' you's as true as the Bible. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't stood there an' seen it with my own eyes—as I see you now, Gottlieb. They've wrecked his house from the cellar to the roof. The good china came flyin' out at the garret windows, rattlin' down the roof. God only knows how many pieces of fustian are lying soakin' in the river! The water can't get away for them—it's running over the banks, the colour of washin'-blue with all the indigo they've poured out at the windows. Clouds of sky-blue dust was flyin' along. Oh, it's a terrible destruction they've worked! And it's not only the house … it's the dye-works too … an' the stores! They've broken the stair rails, they've torn up the fine flooring—smashed the lookin'-glasses—cut an' hacked an' torn an' smashed the sofas an' the chairs.—It's awful—it's worse than war.
An' you would have me believe that my fellow weavers did all that?
[He shakes his head incredulously.
[Other tenants of the house have collected at the door and are listening eagerly.
Who else, I'd like to know? I could put names to every one of 'em. It was me took the sheriff through the house, an' I spoke to a whole lot of 'em, an' they answered me back—quite friendly like. They did their business with little noise, but my word! they did it well. The sheriff spoke to 'em, and they answered him mannerly, as they always do. But there wasn't no stoppin' of them. They hacked on at the beautiful furniture as if they was workin' for wages.
Youtook the sheriff through the house?
An' what would I be frightened of? Every one knows me. I'm always turnin' up, like a bad penny. But no one has anything agin' me. They're all glad to see me. Yes, I went the rounds with him, as sure as my name's Hornig. An' you may believe me or not as you like, but my heart's sore yet from the sight—an' I could see by the sheriff's face that he felt queer enough too. For why? Not a livin' word did we hear—they was doin' their work and holdin' their tongues. It was a solemn an' a woeful sight to see the poor starvin' creatures for once in a way takin' their revenge.
[With irrepressible excitement, trembling, wiping her eyes with her apron.] An' right they are! It's only what should be!
"There's some of the same sort here."—"There's one no farther away than across the river."—"He's got four horses in his stable an' six carriages, an' he starves his weavers to keep 'em."
[Still incredulous.] What was it set them off?
Who knows? who knows? One says this, another says that.
What do they say?
The story as most of 'em tells is that it began with Dreissiger sayin' that if the weavers was hungry they might eat grass. But I don't rightly know.
[Excitement at the door, as one person repeats this to the other, with signs of indignation.
Well now, Hornig—if you was to say to me: Father Hilse, says you, you'll die to-morrow, I would answer back: That may be—an' why not? You might even go to the length of saying: You'll have a visit to-morrow from the King of Prussia. But to tell me that weavers, men like me an' my son, have done such things as that—never! I'll never in this world believe it.
[A pretty girl of seven, with long, loose flaxen hair, carrying a basket on her arm, comes running in, holding out a silver spoon to her mother.] Mammy, mammy! look what I've got! An' you're to buy me a new frock with it.
What d'you come tearing in like that for, girl? [With increased excitement and curiosity.] An' what's that you've got hold of now? You've been runnin' yourself out o' breath, an' there—if the bobbins aren't in her basket yet? What's all this about?
Mielchen, where did that spoon come from?
She found it, maybe.
It's worth its seven or eight shillin's at least.
[In distressed excitement.] Off with you, lass—out of the house this moment—unless you want a lickin'! Take that spoon back where you got it from. Out you go! Do you want to make thieves of us all, eh? I'll soon drive that out o' you.
[He looks round for something to beat her with.
[Clinging to her mother's skirts, crying.] No, grandfather, no! don't lick me! We—wedidfind it. All the other bob—bobbin … girls has … has some too.
[Half frightened, half excited.] I was right, you see. She found it. Where did you find it, Mielchen?
[Sobbing.] At—at Peterswal—dau. We—we found them in front of—in front of Drei—Dreissiger's house.
This is worse an' worse! Get off with you this moment, unless you want me to help you.
What's all the to-do about?
I'll tell you what, father Hilse. The best way'll be for Gottlieb to put on his coat an' take the spoon to the police-office.
Gottlieb, put on year coat.
[Pulling it on, eagerly.] Yes, an' I'll go right in to the office an' say they're not to blame us for it, for how c'n a child like that understand about it? an' I brought the spoon back at once. Stop your crying now, Mielchen!
[The crying child is taken into the opposite room by her mother, who shuts her in and comes back.
I believe it's worth as much as nine shillin's.
Give us a cloth to wrap it in, Luise, so that it'll take no harm. To think of the thing bein' worth all that money!
[Tears come into his eyes while he is wrapping up the spoon.
If it was only ours, we could live on it for many a day.
Hurry up, now! Look sharp! As quick as ever you can. A fine state o' matters, this! Get that devil's spoon out o' the house.
[GOTTLIEB goes off with the spoon.
I must be off now too.
[He goes, is seen talking to the people in the entry-room before he leaves the house.
[A jerky little ball of a man, with a red, knowing face, comes into the entry-room.] Good-morning, all! These are fine goings on! Take care! take care! [Threatening with his finger.] You're a sly lot—that's what you are. [At HILSE'S door without coming in.] Morning, father Hilse. [To a woman in the outer room.] And how are the pains, mother? Better, eh? Well, well. And how's all with you, father Hilse? [Enters.] Why the deuce! what's the matter with mother?
It's the eye veins, sir—they've dried up, so as she can't see at all now.
That's from the dust and weaving by candlelight. Will you tell me what it means that all Peterswaldau's on the way here? I set off on my rounds this morning as usual, thinking no harm; but it wasn't long till I had my eyes opened. Strange doings these! What in the devil's name has taken possession of them, Hilse? They're like a pack of raging wolves. Riot—why, it's revolution! they're getting refractory—plundering and laying waste right and left … Mielchen! where's Mielchen? [MIELCHEN, her face red with crying, is pushed in by her mother.] Here, Mielchen, put your hand into my coat pocket. [MIELCHEN does so.] The ginger-bread nuts are for you. Not all at once, though, you baggage! And a song first! The fox jumped up on a … come, now … The fox jumped up … on a moonlight … Mind, I've heard what you did. You called the sparrows on the churchyard hedge a nasty name, and they're gone and told the pastor. Did any one ever hear the like? Fifteen hundred of them agog—men, women, and children. [Distant bells are heard.] That's at Reichenbach— alarm-bells! Fifteen hundred people! Uncomfortably like the world coming to an end!
An' is it true that they're on their way to Bielau?
That's just what I'm telling you, I've driven through the middle of the whole crowd. What I'd have liked to do would have been to get down and give each of them a pill there and then. They were following on each other's heels like misery itself, and their singing was more than enough to turn a man's stomach. I was nearly sick, and Frederick was shaking on the box like an old woman. We had to take a stiff glass at the first opportunity. I wouldn't be a manufacturer, not though I could drive my carriage and pair. [Distant singing.] Listen to that! It's for all the world as if they were beating at some broken old boiler. We'll have them here in five minutes, friends. Good-bye! Don't you be foolish. The troops will be upon them in no time. Keep your wits about you. The Peterswaldau people have lost theirs. [Bells ring close at hand.] Good gracious! There are our bells ringing too! Every one's going mad.
[He goes upstairs.
[Comes back. In the entry-room, out of breath.] I've seen 'em, I've seen 'em! [To a woman.] They're here, auntie, they're here! [At the door.] They're here, father, they're here! They've got bean-poles, an' ox-goads, an' axes. They're standin' outside the upper Dittrich's kickin' up an awful row. I think he's payin' 'em money. O Lord! whatever's goin' to happen? What a crowd! Oh, you never saw such a crowd! Dash it all—if once they makes a rush, our manufacturers'll be hard put to it.
What have you been runnin' like that for? You'll go racin' till you bring on your old trouble, and then we'll have you on your back again, strugglin' for breath.
[Almost joyously excited.] I had to run, or they would ha' caught me an' kept me. They was all roarin' to me to join 'em. Father Baumert was there too, and says he to me: You come an' get your sixpence with the rest—you're a poor starvin' weaver too. An' I was to tell you, father, from him, that you was to come an' help to pay out the manufacturers for their grindin' of us down. [Passionately.] Other times is comin', he says. There's goin' to be a change of days for us weavers. An' we're all to come an' help to bring it about. We're to have our half-pound o' meat on Sundays, and now and again on a holiday sausage with our cabbage. Yes, things is to be quite different, by what he tells me.
[With repressed indignation.] An' that man calls hisself your godfather! and he bids you take part in such works o' wickedness? Have nothing to do with them, Gottlieb. They've let themselves be tempted by Satan, an' it's his works they're doin'.
[No longer able to restrain her passionate excitement, vehemently.] Yes, Gottlieb, get into the chimney corner, an' take a spoon in your hand, an' a dish o' skim milk on your knee, an' pat on a petticoat an' say your prayers, and then father'll be pleased with you. Andhesets up to be a man!
[Laughter from the people in the entry-room.
[Quivering with suppressed rage.] An' you set up to be a good wife, 'eh? You calls yourself a mother, an' let your evil tongue run away with you like that? You think yourself fit to teach your girl, you that would egg on your husband to crime an' wickedness?
[Has lost all control of herself.] You an' your piety an' religion—did they serve to keep the life in my poor children? In rags an' dirt they lay, all the four—it didn't as much as keep 'em dry. Yes! I sets up to be a mother, that's what I do—an' if you'd like to know it, that's why I'd send all the manufacturers to hell—because I'm a mother!—Not one of the four could I keep in life! It was cryin' more than breathin' with me from the time each poor little thing came into the world till death took pity on it. The devil a bit you cared! You sat there prayin' and singin', and let me run about till my feet bled, tryin' to get one little drop o' skim milk. How many hundred nights has I lain an' racked my head to think what I could do to cheat the churchyard of my little one? What harm has a baby like that done that it must come to such a miserable end—eh? An' over there at Dittrich's they're bathed in wine an' washed in milk. No! you may talk as you like, but if they begins here, ten horses won't hold me back. An' what's more—if there's a rush on Dittrich's, you'll see me in the forefront of it—an' pity the man as tries to prevent me—I've stood it long enough, so now you know it.
You're a lost soul—there's no help for you.
[Frenzied.] It's you that there's no help for! Tatter-breeched scarecrows—that's what you are—an' not men at all. Whey-faced gutter-scrapers that take to your heels at the sound of a child's rattle. Fellows that says "thank you" to the man as gives you a hidin'. They've not left that much blood in you as that you can turn red in the face. You should have the whip taken to you, an' a little pluck flogged into your rotten bones.
[She goes out quickly.
[Embarrassed pause.]
What's the matter with Liesl, father?
Nothin', mother! What should be the matter with her?
Father, is it only me that's thinkin' it, or is the bells ringin'?
It'll be a funeral, mother.
An' I've got to sit waitin' here yet. Why must I be so long a-dyin', father? [Pause.]
[Leaves his work, holds himself up straight; solemnly.] Gottlieb!—you heard all your wife said to us. Look here, Gottlieb! [He bares his breast.] Here they cut out a bullet as big as a thimble. The King knows where I lost my arm. It wasn't the mice as ate it. [He walks up and down.] Before that wife of yours was ever thought of, I had spilled my blood by the quart for King an' country. So let her call what names she likes—an' welcome! It does me no harm—Frightened? Me frightened? What would I be frightened of, will you tell me that? Of the few soldiers, maybe, that'll be comin' after the rioters? Good gracious me! That would be a lot to be frightened at! No, no, lad; I may be a bit stiff in the back, but there's some strength left in the old bones; I've got the stuff in me yet to make a stand against a few rubbishin' bay'nets.—An' if it came to the worst! Willin', willin' would I be to say good-bye to this weary world. Death'd be welcome—welcomer to me to-day than to-morrow. For what is it we leave behind? That old bundle of aches an' pains we call our body, the care an' the oppression we call by the name o' life. We may be glad to get away from it,—But there's something to come after, Gottlieb!—an' if we've done ourselves out o' that too—why, then it's all over with us!
Who knows what's to come after? Nobody's seen it.
Gottlieb! don't you be throwin' doubts on the one comfort us poor people have. Why has I sat here an' worked my treadle like a slave this forty year an' more?—sat still an' looked on at him over yonder livin' in pride an' wastefulness—why? Because I have a better hope, something as supports me in all my troubles. [Points out at the window.] You have your good things in this world—I'll have mine in the next. That's been my thought. An' I'm that certain of it—I'd let myself be torn to pieces. Have we not His promise? There's a Day of Judgment comin'; but it's not us as are the judges—no: Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
[A cry of"Weavers, come out!"is heard outside the window.
Do what you will for me. [He seats himself at his loom.] I stay here.
[After a short struggle.] I'm going to work too—come what may.
[Goes out.
[The Weavers' Song is heard, sung by hundreds of voices quite close at hand; it sounds like a dull, monotonous wail.
[In the entry-room.] "Oh, mercy on us! there they come swarmin' like ants!"—"Where can all these weavers be from?"—"Don't shove like that, I want to see too."—"Look at that great maypole of a woman leadin' on in front!"—"Gracious! they're comin' thicker an' thicker."
[Comes into the entry-room from outside.] There's a theayter play for you now! That's what you don't see every day. But you should go up to the other Dittrich's an' look what they've done there. It's been no half work. He's got no house now, nor no factory, nor no wine-cellar, nor nothin'. They're drinkin' out o' the bottles—not so much as takin' the time to get out the corks. One, two, three, an' off with the neck, an' no matter whether they cuts their mouths or not. There's some of 'em runnin' about bleedin' like stuck pigs.—Now they're goin' to do for Dittrich here.
[The singing has stopped.
There's nothin' so very wicked like about them.
You wait a bit! you'll soon see! All they're doin' just now is makin' up their minds where they'll begin. Look, they're inspectin' the palace from every side. Do you see that little stout man there, him with the stable pail? That's the smith from Peterswaldau—an' a dangerous little chap he is. He batters in the thickest doors as if they were made o' pie-crust. If a manufacturer was to fall into his hands it would be all over with him!
"That was a crack!"—"There went a stone through the window!"—"There's old Dittrich, shakin' with fright."—"He's hangin' out a board."—"Hangin' out a board?"—"What's written on it?"—"Can't you read?"—"It'd be a bad job for me if I couldn't read!"—"Well, read it, then!"—"'You—shall have—full—satis-fac-tion! You—you shall have full satisfaction.'"
He might ha' spared hisself the trouble—thatwon't help him. It's something else they've set their minds on here. It's the factories. They're goin' to smash up the power-looms. For it's them that is ruinin' the hand-loom weaver. Even a blind man might see that. No! the good folks knows what they're after, an' no sheriff an' no p'lice superintendent'll bring them to reason—much less a bit of a board. Him as has seen 'em at work already knows what's comin'.
"Did any one ever see such a crowd!"—"What canthesebe wantin'?"—[Hastily.] "They're crossin' the bridge!"—[Anxiously.] "They're never comin' over on this side, are they?"—[In excitement and terror.] "It's to us they're comin'! They're comin' to us! They're comin' to fetch the weavers out o' their houses!"
[General flight. The entry-room is empty. A crowd of dirty, dusty rioters rush in, their faces scarlet with brandy, and excitement; tattered, untidy-looking, as if they had been up all night. With the shout:"Weavers, come out!"they disperse themselves through the house. BECKER and several other young weavers, armed with cudgels and poles, come into OLD HILSE'S room. When they see the old man at his loom they start, and cool down a little.
Come, father Hilse, stop that. Leave your work to them as wants to work. There's no need now for you to be doin' yourself harm. You'll be well taken care of.
You'll never need to go hungry to bed again.
The weaver's goin' to have a roof over his head an' a shirt on his back once more.
An' what's the devil sendin' you to do now, with your poles an' axes?
These are what we're goin' to break on Dittrich's back.
We'll heat 'em red hot an' stick 'em down the manufacturers' throats, so as they'll feel for once what burnin' hunger tastes like.
Come along, father Hilse! We'll give no quarter.
No one had mercy on us—neither God nor man. Now we're standin' up for our rights ourselves.
OLD BAUMERT enters, somewhat shaky on the legs, a newly killed cock under his arm.
[Stretching out his arms.] My brothers—we're all brothers! Come to my arms, brothers!
[Laughter.
And that's the state you're in, Willem?
Gustav, is it you? My poor starvin' friend. Come to my arms, Gustav!
[Mutters.] Let me alone.
I'll tell you what, Gustav. It's nothin' but luck that's wanted. You look at me. What do I look like? Luck's what's wanted. Don't I look like a lord? [Pats his stomach.] Guess what's in there! There's food fit for a prince in that belly. When luck's with him a man gets roast hare to eat an' champagne wine to drink.—I'll tell you all something: We've made a big mistake—we must help ourselves.
[Speaking at once.] We must help ourselves, hurrah!
As soon as we gets the first good bite inside us we're different men. Damn it all! but you feels the power comin' into you till you're like an ox, an' that wild with strength that you hit out right an' left without as much as takin' time to look. Dash it, but it's grand!
[At the door, armed with an old cavalry sword.] We've made one or two first-rate attacks.
We knows how to set about it now. One, two, three, an' we're inside the house. Then, at it like lightnin'—bang, crack, shiver! till the sparks are flyin' as if it was a smithy.
It wouldn't be half bad to light a bit o' fire.
Let's march to Reichenbach an' burn the rich folks' houses over their heads!
That would be nothin' but butterin' their bread, Think of all the insurance money they'd get.
[Laughter.
No, from here we'll go to Freiburg, to Tromtra's.
What would you say to givin' all them as holds Government appointments a lesson? I've read somewhere as how all our troubles come from them birocrats, as they calls them.
Before long we'll go to Breslau, for more an' more'll be joinin' us.
[To HILSE.] Won't you take a drop, Gustav?
I never touches it.
That was in the old world; we're in a new world to-day, Gustav.
Christmas comes but once a year.
[Laughter.
[Impatiently.] What is it you want in my house, you limbs of Satan?
[A little intimidated, coaxingly.] I was bringin' you a chicken, Gustav. I thought it would make a drop o' soup for mother.
[Embarrassed, almost friendly.] Well, you can tell mother yourself.
[Who has been making efforts to hear, her hand at her ear, motions them off.] Let me alone. I don't want no chicken soup.
That's right, mother. An' I want none, an' least of all that sort. An' let me say this much to you, Baumert: The devil stands on his head for joy when he hears the old ones jabberin' and talkin' as if they was infants. An' to you all I say—to every one of you: Me and you, we've got nothing to do with each other. It's not with my will that you're here. In law an' justice you've no right to be in my house.
Him that's not with us is against us.
[Roughly and threateningly.] You're on the wrong track, old chap, I'd have you remember that we're not thieves.
We're hungry men, that's all.
We wants tolive—that's all. An' so we've cut the rope we was hung up with.
And we was in our right! [Holding his fist in front of the old man's face.] Say another word, and I'll give you one between the eyes.
Come, now, Jaeger, be quiet. Let the old man alone.—What we say to ourselves, father Hilse, is this: Better dead than begin the old life again.
Have I not lived that life for sixty years an' more?
That doesn't help us—there'sgotto be a change.
On the Judgment Day.
What they'll not give us willingly we're goin' to take by force.
By force. [Laughs.] You may as well go an' dig your graves at once.They'll not be long showin' you where the force lies. Wait a bit, lad!
Is it the soldiers you're meanin'? We've been soldiers too. We'll soon do for a company or two of 'em.
With your tongues, maybe. But supposin' you did—for two that you'd beat off, ten'll come back.
[Call through the window.] The soldiers are comin! Look out!
[General, sudden silence. For a moment a faint sound of fifes and drums is heard; in the ensuing silence a short, involuntary exclamation:"The devil! I'm off!"followed by general laughter.
Who was that? Who speaks of runnin' away?
Which of you is it that's afraid of a few paltry helmets? You have me to command you, and I've been in the trade. I knows their tricks.
An' what are you goin' to shoot with? Your sticks, eh?
Never mind that old chap; he's wrong in the upper storey.
Yes, he's a bit off his head.
[Has made his way unnoticed among the rioters; catches hold of the speaker.] Would you give your impudence to an old man like him?
Let me alone. 'Twasn't anything bad I said.
[Interfering.] Let him jaw, Gottlieb. What. would you be meddlin' with him for? He'll soon see who it is that's been off his head to-day, him or me.
Are you comin', Gottlieb?
No, he's goin' to do no such thing.
[Comes into the entry-room, calls.] What are you puttin' off your time with prayin' hypocrites like them for? Come quick to where you're wanted! Quick! Father Baumert, run all you can! The major's speakin' to the crowd from horseback. They're to go home. If you don't hurry up, it'll be all over.
[As he goes out.] That's a brave husband o' yours.
Where is he? I've got no husband!
[Some of the people in the entry-room sing:
Once on a time a man so small,Heigh-ho, heigh!Set his heart on a wife so tall,Heigh diddle-di-dum-di!
[Comes downstairs, still carrying the stable pail; stops on his way through the entry-room.] Come On! all of you that is not cowardly scoundrels!—hurrah!
[He dashes out, followed by LUISE, JAEGER, and others, all shouting"Hurrah!"
Good-bye, then, father Hilse; well see each other again.
[Is going.
I doubt that. I've not five years to live, and that'll be the soonest you'll get out.
[Stops, not understanding.] Out o' what, father Hilse?
Out o' prison—where else?
[Laughs wildly.] Do you think I'd mind that? There's bread to be had there anyhow!
[Goes out.
[Has been cowering on a low stool, painfully beating his brains; he now gets up.] It's true, Gustav, as I've had a drop too much. But for all that I knows what I'm about. You think one way in this here matter; I think another. I say Becker's right: even if it ends in chains an' ropes—we'll be better off in prison than at home. You're cared for there, an' you don't need to starve. I wouldn't have joined 'em, Gustav, if I could ha' let it be; but once in a lifetime a man's got to show what he feels. [Goes slowly towards the door.] Good-bye, Gustav. If anything happens, mind you put in a word for me in your prayers.
[Goes out.
[The rioters are now all gone. The entry-room, gradually fills again with curious onlookers from the different rooms of the house. OLD HILSE knots at his web. GOTTLIEB has taken an axe from behind the stove and is unconsciously feeling its edge. He and the old man are silently agitated. The hum and roar of a great crowd penetrate into the room.
The very boards is shakin', father—what's goin' on? What's goin' to happen to us?
[Pause.]
Gottlieb!
What is it?
Let that axe alone.
Who's to split the wood, then?
[He leans the axe against the stove.
[Pause.]
Gottlieb, you listen, to what father says to you.
[Some one sings outside the window:
Our little man does all that he can,Heigh-ho, heigh!At home he cleans the pots an' the pan,Heigh-diddle-di-dum-di!
[Passes on.
[Jumps up, shakes his clenched fist at the window.] Beast! Don't drive me crazy!
[A volley of musketry is heard.
[Starts and trembles.] Good Lord! Is that thunder again?
[Instinctively folding his hands.] Oh, our Father in heaven! defend the poor weavers, protect my poor brothers.
[A short pause ensues.
[To himself, painfully agitated.] There's blood flowin' now.
[Had started up and grasped the axe when the shooting was heard; deathly pale, almost beside himself with excitement.] An' am I to lie to heel like a dog still?
[Calls from the entry-room.] Father Hilse, father Hilse! get away from the window. A bullet's just flown in at ours upstairs.
[Disappears.
[Puts her head in at the window, laughing.] Gran'father, gran'father, they've shot with their guns. Two or three's been knocked down, an' one of 'em's turnin' round and round like a top, an' one's twistin' hisself like a sparrow when its head's bein' pulled of. An' oh, if you saw all the blood that came pourin'—!
[Disappears.
Yes, there's two or three'll never get up again.
[In the entry-room.] Look out! They're goin' to make a rush on the soldiers.
[Wildly.] Look, look, look at the women! skirts up, an' spittin' in the soldiers' faces already!
[Calls in.] Gottlieb, look at your wife. She's more pluck in her than you. She's jumpin' about in front o' the bay'nets as if she was dancin' to music.
[Four men carry a wounded rioter through the entry-room. Silence, which is broken by some one saying in a distinct voice,"It's weaver Ulbrich."Once more silence for a few seconds, when the same voice is heard again:"It's all over with him; he's got a bullet in his ear."The men are heard climbing the wooden stair. Sudden shouting outside:"Hurrah, hurrah!"
"Where did they get the stones from?"—"Yes, it's time you were off!"—"From the new road."—"Ta-ta, soldiers!"—"It's rainin' paving-stones."
[Shrieks of terror and loud roaring outside, taken up by those in the entry-room. There is a cry of fear, and the house door is shut with a bang.
"They're loadin' again."—"They'll fire another volley this minute."—"Father Hilse, get away from that window."
[Clutches the axe.] What! is we mad dogs? Is we to eat powder an' shot now instead o' bread? [Hesitating an instant to the old man.] Would you have me sit here an' see my wife shot? Never! [As he rushes out.] Look out! I'm coming!
Gottlieb, Gottlieb!
Where's Gottlieb gone?
He's gone to the devil.
Go away from the window, father Hilse.
Not I! Not if you all goes crazy together! [To MOTHER HILSE, with rapt excitement.] My heavenly Father has placed me here. Isn't that so, mother? Here we'll sit, an' do our bounden duty—ay, though the snow was to go on fire.
[He begins to weave.
[Rattle of another volley. OLD HILSE, mortally wounded, starts to his feet and then falls forward over the loom. At the same moment loud shouting of"Hurrah!"is heard. The people who till now have been standing in the entry-room dash out, joining in the cry. The old woman repeatedly asks:"Father, father, what's wrong with you?"The continued shouting dies away gradually in the distance. MIELCHEN comes rushing in.
Gran'father, gran'father, they're drivin' the soldiers out o' the village; they've got into Dittrich's house, an' they're doin' what they did at Dreissiger's. Gran'father! [The child grows frightened, notices that something has happened, puts her finger in her mouth, and goes up cautiously to the dead man.] Gran'father!
Come now, father, can't you say something? You're frightenin' me.