He's not from our village.
He's like one of weaver Heinrich's boys. [Looks at him more closely.]Yes, that's Heinrich's little Philip.
Where do they live?
Up near us in Kaschbach, sir. He goes round playin' music in the evenings, and all day he's at the loom. They've nine children an' a tenth a coming.
"They're terrible put to it."—"The rain comes through their roof."—"The woman hasn't two shirts among the nine."
[Taking the boy by the arm.] Now then, lad, what's wrong with you? Wake up, lad.
Some of you help me, and we'll get him up. It's disgraceful to send a sickly child this distance. Bring some water, Pfeifer.
[Helping to lift the boy.] Sure you're not goin' to be foolish and die, lad!
Brandy, Pfeifer, brandy will be better.
[Forgotten by all, has stood looking on. With his hand on the door-latch, he now calls loudly and tauntingly.] Give him something to eat, an' he'll soon be all right.
[Goes out.
That fellow will come to a bad end.—Take him under the arm, Neumann.Easy now, easy; we'll get him into my room. What?
He said something, Mr. Dreissiger. His lips are moving.
What—what is it, boy?
[Whispers.] I'm h-hungry.
I think he says—
We'll find out. Don't stop. Let us get him into my room. He can lie on the sofa there, We'll hear what the doctor says.
DREISSIGER, NEUMANN, and the woman lead the boy into the office. The weavers begin to behave like school-children when their master has left the classroom. They stretch themselves, whisper, move from one foot to the other, and in the course of a few moments are conversing loudly.
I believe as how Becker was right.
"He did say something like that."—"It's nothin' new here to fall down from hunger."—"God knows what's to come of 'em in winter if this cuttin' down o' wages goes on."—"An' this year the potatoes aren't no good at all."—"Things'll get worse and worse till we're all done for together."
The best thing a man could do would be to put a rope round his neck and hang hisself on his own loom, like weaver Nentwich. [To another old weaver.] Here, take a pinch. I was at Neurode yesterday. My brother-in-law, he works in the snuff factory there, and he give me a grain or two. Have you anything good in your kerchief?
Only a little pearl barley. I was coming along behind Ulbrich the miller's cart, and there was a slit in one of the sacks. I can tell you we'll be glad of it.
There's twenty-two mills in Peterswaldau, but of all they grind, there's never nothin' comes our way.
We must keep up heart. There's always somethin' comes to help us on again.
Yes, when we're hungry, we can pray to all the saints to help us, and if that don't fill our bellies we can put a pebble in our mouths and suck it. Eh, Baumert?
Re-enter DREISSIGER, PFEIFER, AND NEUMANN.
It was nothing serious. The boy is all right again. [Walks about excitedly, panting.] But all the same it's a disgrace. The child's so weak that a puff of wind would blow him over. How people, how any parents can be so thoughtless is what passes my comprehension. Loading him with two heavy pieces of fustian to carry six good miles! No one would believe it that hadn't seen it. It simply means that I shall have to make a rule that no goods brought by children will be taken over. [He walks up and down silently for a few moments.] I sincerely trust such a thing will not occur again.—Who gets all the blame for it? Why, of course the manufacturer. It's entirely our fault. If some poor little fellow sticks in the snow in winter and goes to sleep, a special correspondent arrives post-haste, and in two days we have a blood-curdling story served up in all the papers. Is any blame laid on the father, the parents, that send such a child?—Not a bit of it. How should they be to blame? It's all the manufacturer's fault—he's made the scapegoat. They flatter the weaver, and give the manufacturer nothing but abuse—he's a cruel man, with a heart like a stone, a dangerous fellow, at whose calves every cur of a journalist may take a bite. He lives on the fat of the land, and pays the poor weavers starvation wages. In the flow of his eloquence the writer forgets to mention that such a man has his cares too and his sleepless nights; that he runs risks of which the workman never dreams; that he is often driven distracted by all the calculations he has to make, and all the different things he has to take into account; that he has to struggle for his very life against competition; and that no day passes without some annoyance or some loss. And think of the manufacturer's responsibilities, think of the numbers that depend on him, that look to him for their daily bread. No, No! none of you need wish yourselves in my shoes—you would soon have enough of it. [After a moment's reflection.] You all saw how that fellow, that scoundrel Becker, behaved. Now he'll go and spread about all sorts of tales of my hard-heartedness, of how my weavers are turned off for a mere trifle, without a moment's notice. Is that true? Am I so very unmerciful?
No, sir.
It doesn't seem to me that I am. And yet these ne'er-do-wells come round singing low songs about us manufacturers—prating about hunger, with enough in their pockets to pay for quarts of bad brandy. If they would like to know what want is, let them go and ask the linen-weavers: they can tell something about it. But you here, you fustian-weavers, have every reason to thank God that things are no worse than they are. And I put it to all the old, industrious weavers present: Is a good workman able to gain a living in my employment, or is he not?
Yes, sir; he is, sir.
There now! You see! Of course such a fellow as that Becker can't. I advise you to keep these young lads in check. If there's much more of this sort of thing, I'll shut up shop—give up the business altogether, and then you can shift for yourselves, get work where you like—perhaps Mr. Becker will provide it.
[Has come close to DREISSIGER, and removes a little dust from his coat with creeping servility.] You've been an' rubbed agin something, sir.
Business is as bad as it can be just now, you know that yourselves. Instead of making money, I am losing it every day. If, in spite of this, I take care that my weavers are kept in work, I look for some little gratitude from them. I have thousands of pieces of cloth in stock, and don't know if I'll ever be able to sell them. Well, now, I've heard how many weavers hereabouts are out of work, and—I'll leave Pfeifer to give the particulars—but this much I'll tell you, just to show you my good will…. I can't deal out charity all round; I'm not rich enough for that; but I can give the people who are out of work the chance of earning at any rate a little. It's a great business risk I run by doing it, but that's my affair. I say to myself: Better that a man should work for a bite of bread than that, he should starve altogether, Am I not right?
Yes, yes, sir.
And therefore I am ready to give employment to two hundred more weavers.Pfeifer will tell you on what conditions.
[He turns to go.
[Comes between him and the door, speaks hurriedly, eagerly, imploringly.] Oh, if you please, sir, will you let me ask you if you'll be so good … I've been twice laid up for …
[Hastily.] Speak to Pfeifer, good woman. I'm too late as it is.
[Passes on, leaving her standing.
[Stops him again. In an injured, complaining tone.] I have a complaint to make, if you please, sir. Mr. Pfeifer refuses to … I've always got one and two-pence for a web …
[Interrupts him.] Mr. Pfeifer's my manager. There he is. Apply to him.
[Detaining DREISSIGER; hurriedly and confusedly.] O sir, I wanted to ask if you would p'r'aps, if I might p'r'aps … if Mr. Pfeifer might … might …
What is it you want?
That advance pay I had last time, sir; I thought p'r'aps you would kindly …
I have no idea what you are talking about.
I'm awful hard up, sir, because …
These are things Pfeifer must look into—I really have not the time.Arrange the matter with Pfeifer.
[He escapes into the office.
[The supplicants look helplessly at one another, sigh, and take their places again among the others.
[Resuming his task of inspection.] Well, Annie, let as see what yours is like.
How much is we to get for the web, then, Mr. Pfeifer?
One shilling a web.
Has it come to that!
[Excited whispering and murmuring among the weavers.
A small room in the house of WILHELM ANSORGE, weaver and cottager in the village of Kaschbach, in the Eulengebirge.
In this room, which does not measure six feet from the dilapidated wooden floor to the smoke-blackened rafters, sit four people. Two young girls, EMMA and BERTHA BAUMERT, are working at their looms; MOTHER BAUMERT, a decrepit old woman, sits on a stool beside the bed, with a winding-wheel in front of her; her idiot son AUGUST sits on a foot-stool, also winding. He is twenty, has a small body and head, and long, spider-like legs and arms.
Faint, rosy evening light makes its way through two small windows in the right wall, which have their broken panes pasted over with paper or stuffed with straw. It lights up the flaxen hair of the girls, which falls loose on their slender white necks and thin bare shoulders, and their coarse chemises. These, with a short petticoat of the roughest linen, form their whole attire. The warm glow falls on the old woman's face, neck, and breast—a face worn away to a skeleton, with shrivelled skin and sunken eyes, red and watery with smoke, dust, and working by lamplight—a long goître neck, wrinkled and sinewy—a hollow breast covered with faded, ragged shawls.
Part of the right wall is also lighted up, with stove, stove-bench, bedstead, and one or two gaudily coloured sacred prints. On the stove rail rags are hanging to dry, and behind the stove is a collection of worthless lumber. On the bench stand some old pots and cooking utensils, and potato parings are laid out on it, on paper, to dry. Hanks of yarn and reels hang from the rafters; baskets of bobbins stand beside the looms. In the back wall there is a low door without fastening. Beside it a bundle of willow wands is set up against the wall, and beyond them lie some damaged quarter-bushel baskets.
The room is full of sound—the rhythmic thud of the looms, shaking floor and walls, the click and rattle of the shuttles passing back and forward, and the steady whirr of the winding-wheels, like the hum of gigantic bees.
[In a querulous, feeble voice, as the girls stop weaving and bend over their webs.] Got to make knots again already, have you?
[The elder of the two girls, about twenty-two, tying a broken thread] It's the plagueyest web, this!
[Fifteen.] Yes, it's real bad yarn they've given us this time.
What can have happened to father? He's been away since nine.
That he has! yes. Where in the wide world c'n he be?
Don't you worry yourself, mother.
I can't help it, Bertha lass.
[EMMA begins to weave again.
Stop a minute, Emma!
What is it!
I thought I heard some one.
It'll be Ansorge comin' home.
Enter FRITZ, a little, barefooted, ragged boy of four.
[Whimpering.] I'm hungry, mother.
Wait, Fritzel, wait a bit! Gran'father'll be here very soon, an' he's bringin' bread along with him, an' coffee too.
But I'm awful hungry, mother.
Be a good boy now, Fritz. Listen to what I'm tellin' you. He'll be here this minute. He's bringin' nice bread an' nice corn-coffee; an' when we stops workin' mother'll take the tater peelin's and carry them to the farmer, and the farmer'll give her a drop o' good buttermilk for her little boy.
Where's grandfather gone?
To the manufacturer, Fritz, with a web.
To the manufacturer?
Yes, yes, Fritz, down to Dreissiger's at Peterswaldau.
Is it there he gets the bread?
Yes; Dreissiger gives him money, and then he buys the bread.
Does he give him a heap of money?
[Impatiently.] Oh, stop that chatter, boy.
[She and BERTHA go on weaving for a time, and then both stop again.
August, go and ask Ansorge if he'll give us a light.
[AUGUST goes out accompanied by FRITZ.
[Overcome by her childish apprehension, whimpers.] Emma! Bertha! where c'n the man be stay-in'?
Maybe he looked in to see Hauffe.
[Crying.] What if he's sittin' drinkin' in the public-house?
Don't cry, mother! You know well enough father's not the man to do that.
[Half distracted by a multitude of gloomy forebodings.] What … what … what's to become of us if he don't come home? if he drinks the money, an' don't bring us nothin' at all? There's not so much as a handful o' salt in the house—not a bite o' bread, nor a bit o' wood for the fire.
Wait a bit, mother! It's moonlight just now. We'll take August with us and go into the wood and get some sticks.
Yes, an' be caught by the forester.
ANSORGE, an old weaver of gigantic stature, who has to bend down to get into the room, puts his head and shoulders in at the door. Long, unkempt hair and beard.
What's wanted?
Light, if you please.
[In a muffled voice, as if speaking' in a sick-room.] There's good daylight yet.
Is we to sit in the dark next?
I've to do the same mayself.
[Goes out.
It's easy to see that he's a miser.
Well, there's nothin' for it but to sit an' wait his pleasure.
Enter MRS. HEINRICH, a woman of thirty, heavy with child; an expression of torturing anxiety and apprehension on her worn face.
Good evenin' t'you all.
Well, Jenny, and what's your news?
[Who limps.] I've got a piece o' glass into my foot.
Come an' sit down, then, an' I'll see if I c'n get it out.
[MRS. HEINRICH seats herself, BERTHA kneels down, in front of her, and examines her foot.
How are ye all at home, Jenny?
[Breaks out despairingly.] Things is in a terrible way with us!
[She struggles in vain, against a rush of tears; then weeps silently.
The best thing as could happen to the likes o' us, Jenny, would be if God had pity on us an' took us away out o' this weary world.
[No longer able to control herself, screams, still crying.] My children's starvin'. [Sobs and moans.] I don't know what to do no more! I c'n work till I drops—I'm more dead'n alive—things don't get different! There's nine hungry mouths to fill! We got a bit o' bread last night, but it wasn't enough even for the two smallest ones. Who was I to give it to, eh? They all cried; Me, me, mother! give it to me!… An' if it's like this while I'm still on my feet, what'll it be when I've to take to bed? Our few taters was washed away. We haven't a thing to put in our mouths.
[Has removed the bit of glass and washed the wound.] We'll put a rag round it. Emma, see if you can find one.
We're no better off'n you, Jenny.
You has your girls, any way. You've a husband as c'n work. Mine was taken with one o' his fits last week again—so bad that I didn't know what to do with him, and was half out o' my mind with fright. And when he's had a turn like that, he can't stir out o' bed under a week.
Mine's no better. He's goin' to pieces, too. He's breathin's bad now as well as his back. An' there's not a farthin' nor a farthin's worth in the house. If he don't bring a few pence with him today, I don't know what we're to do.
It's the truth she's tellin' you, Jenny. We had to let father take the little dog with him to-day, to have him killed, that we might get a bite into our stomachs again!
Haven't you got as much as a handful o' flour to spare?
An' that we haven't, Jenny. There's not as much as a grain o' salt in the house.
Well, then, I don't know … [Rises, stands still, brooding.] I don't know what'll be the end o' this! It's more'n I c'n bear. [Screams in rage and despair.] I'd be contented if it was nothin' but pigs' food!—But I can't go home again empty-handed—that I can't. God forgive me, I see no other way out of it.
[She limps quickly out.
[Calls after her in a warning voice.] Jenny, Jenny! don't you be doin' anything foolish, now!
She'll do herself no harm, mother. You needn't be afraid.
That's the way she always goes on.
[Seats herself at the loom and weaves for a few seconds.
AUGUST enters, carrying a tallow candle, and lighting his father, OLD BAUMERT, who follows close behind him, staggering under a heavy bundle of yarn.
Oh, father, where have you been all this long time? Where have you been?
Come now, mother, don't fall on a man like that. Give me time to get my breath first. An' look who I've brought with me.
MORITZ JAEGER comes stooping in at the low door. Reserve soldier, newly discharged. Middle height, rosy-cheeked, military carriage. His cap on the side of his head, hussar fashion, whole clothes and shoes, a clean shirt without collar. Draws himself up and salutes.
[In a hearty voice.] Good-evenin', auntie Baumert!
Well, well now! and to think you've got back! An' you've not forgotten us? Take a chair, then, lad.
[Wiping a wooden chair with her apron, and pushing it towards MORITZ.] An' so you've come to see what poor folks is like again, Moritz?
I say, Emma, is it true that you've got a boy nearly old enough to be a soldier? Where did you get hold o' him, eh?
[BERTHA, having taken the small supply of provisions which her father has brought, puts meat into a saucepan, and shoves it into the oven, while AUGUST lights the fire.
You knew weaver Finger, didn't you?
We had him here in the house with us. He was ready enough to marry her; but he was too far gone in consumption; he was as good as a dead man. It didn't happen for want o' warnin' from me. But do you think she would listen? Not she. Now he's dead an' forgotten long ago, an' she's left with the boy to provide for as best she can. But now tell us how you've been gettin' on, Moritz.
You've only to look at him, mother, to know that. He's had luck. It'll be about as much as he can do to speak to the likes o' us. He's got clothes like a prince, an' a silver watch, an' thirty shillings in his pocket into the bargain.
[Stretching himself consequentially, a knowing smile on his face.] I can't complain, I didn't get on so badly in the regiment.
He was the major's own servant. Just listen to him—he speaks like a gentleman.
I've got so accustomed to it that I can't help it.
Well, now, to think that such a good-for-nothin' as you was should have come to be a rich man. For there wasn't nothin' to be made of you. You would never sit still to wind more than a hank of yarn at a time, that you wouldn't. Off you went to your tomtit boxes an' your robin redbreast snares—they was all you cared about. Isn't it the truth I'm telling?
Yes, yes, auntie, it's true enough. It wasn't only redbreasts. I went after swallows too.
Though we were always tellin' you that swallows was poison.
What did I care?—But how have you all been gettin' on, auntie Baumert?
Oh, badly, lad, badly these last four years. I've had the rheumatics—just look at them hands. An' it's more than likely as I've had a stroke o' some kind too, I'm that helpless. I can hardly move a limb, an' nobody knows the pains I suffers.
She's in a bad way, she is. She'll not hold out long.
We've to dress her in the mornin' an' undress her at night, an' to feed her like a baby.
[Speaking in a complaining, tearful voice.] Not a thing c'n I do for myself. It's far worse than bein' ill. For it's not only a burden to myself I am, but to every one else. Often and often do I pray to God to take me. For oh! mine's a weary life. I don't know … p'r'aps they think … but I'm one that's been a hard worker all my days. An' I've always been able to do my turn too; but now, all at once, [she vainly attempts to rise] I can't do nothin'.—I've a good husband an' good children, but to have to sit here and see them…! Look at the girls! There's hardly any blood left in them—faces the colour of a sheet. But on they must work at these weary looms whether they earn enough to keep theirselves or not. What sort o' life is it they lead? Their feet never off the treadle from year's end to year's end. An' with it all they can't scrape together as much as'll buy them clothes that they can let theirselves be seen in; never a step can they go to church, to hear a word o' comfort. They're liker scarecrows than young girls of fifteen and twenty.
[At the stove.] It's beginnin' to smoke again!
There now; look at that smoke. And we can't do nothin' for it. The whole stove's goin' to pieces. We must let it fall, and swallow the soot. We're coughin' already, one worse than the other. We may cough till we choke, or till we cough our lungs up—nobody cares.
But this here is Ansorge's business; he must see to the stove.
He'll see us out o' the house first; he has plenty against us without that.
We've only been in his way this long time past.
One word of a complaint an' out we go. He's had no rent from us this last half-year.
A well-off man like him needn't be so hard.
He's no better off than we is, mother. He's hard put to it too, for all he holds his tongue about it.
He's got his house.
What are you talkin' about, mother? Not one stone in the wall is the man's own.
[Has seated himself, and taken a short pipe with gay tassels out of one coat-pocket, and a quart bottle of brandy out of another.] Things can't go on like this. I'm dumfoundered when I see the life the people live here. The very dogs in the towns live better.
[Eagerly.] That's what I says! Eh? eh? You know it too! But if you say that here, they'll tell you that it's only bad times.
Enter ANSORGE, an earthenware pan with soup in one hand, in the other a half-finished quarter-bushel basket.
Glad to see you again, Moritz!
Thank you, father Ansorge—same to you!
[Shoving his pan into the oven.] Why, lad you look like a duke!
Show him your watch, Moritz. An' he's got a new suit of clothes, an' thirty shillings cash.
[Shaking his head.] Is that so? Well, well!
[Puts the potato-parings into a bag.] I must be off; I'll maybe get a drop o' buttermilk for these.
[Goes out.
[The others hanging intently and devoutly on his words.] You know how you all used to be down on me. It was always: Wait, Moritz, till your soldierin' time comes—you'll catch it then. But you see how well I've got on. At the end o' the first half-year I had my good conduct stripes. You've got to be willin'—that's where the secret lies. I brushed the sergeant's boots; I groomed his horse; I fetched his beer. I was as sharp as a needle. Always ready, accoutrements clean and shinin'—first at stables, first at roll-call, first in the saddle. An' when the bugle sounded to the assault—why, then, blood and thunder, and ride to the devil with you!! I was as keen as a pointer. Says I to myself: There's no help for it now, my boy, it's got to be done; and I set my mind to it and did it. Till at last the major said before the whole squadron: There's a hussar now that shows you what a hussar should be!
[Silence. He lights his pipe.
[Shaking his head.] Well, well, well! You had luck with you, Moritz!
[Sits down on the floor, with his willow twigs beside him, and continues mending the basket, which he holds between his legs.
Let's hope you've brought some of it to us.—Are we to have a drop to drink your health in?
Of course you are, father Baumert. And when this bottle's done, we'll send for more.
[He flings a coin on the table.
[Open mouthed with amusement.] Oh my! Oh my! What goings on to be sure! Roast meat frizzlin' in the oven! A bottle o' brandy on the table! [He drinks out of the bottle.] Here's to you, Moritz!—Well, well, well!
[The bottle circulates freely after this.
If we could any way have a bit o' meat on Sundays and holidays, instead o' never seein' the sight of it from year's end to year's end! Now we'll have to wait till another poor little dog finds its way into the house like this one did four weeks gone by—an' that's not likely to happen soon again.
Have you killed the little dog?
We had to do that or starve.
Well, well! That's so!
A nice, kind little beast he was, too!
Are you as keen as ever on roast dog hereabouts?
Lord, if we could only get enough of it!
A nice little bit o' meat like that does you a lot o' good.
Have you lost the taste for it, Moritz? Stay with us a bit, and it'll soon come back to you.
[Sniffing.] Yes, yes! That will be a tasty bite—what a good smell it has!
[Sniffing.] Fine as spice, you might say.
Come, then, Moritz, tell us your opinion, you that's been out and seen the world. Is things at all like to improve for us weavers, eh?
They would need to.
We're in an awful state here. It's not livin' an' it's not dyin'. A man fights to the bitter end, but he's bound to be beat at last—to be left without a roof over his head, you may say without ground under his feet. As long as he can work at the loom he can earn some sort o poor, miserable livin'. But it's many a day since I've been able to get that sort o' job. Now I tries to put a bite into my mouth with this here basket-mak-in'. I sits at it late into the night, and by the time I tumbles into bed I've earned three-halfpence. I puts it to you as knows things, if a man can live on that, when everything's so dear? Nine shillin' goes in one lump for house tax, three shillin' for land tax, nine shillin' for mortgage interest—that makes one pound one. I may reckon my year's earnin' at just double that money, and that leaves me twenty-one shillin' for a whole year's food, an' fire, an' clothes, an' shoes; and I've got to keep up some sort of a place to live in. An' there's odds an' ends. Is it a wonder if I'm behindhand with my interest payments?
Some one would need to go to Berlin an' tell the King how hard put to it we are.
Little good that would do, father Baumert. There's been plenty written about it in the news-papers. But the rich people, they can turn and twist things round … as cunning as the devil himself.
[Shaking his head.] To think they've no more sense than that in Berlin.
And is it really true, Moritz? Is there no law to help us? If a man hasn't been able to scrape together enough to pay his mortgage interest, though he's worked the very skin off his hands, must his house be taken from him? The peasant that's lent the money on it, he wants his rights—what else can you look for from him? But what's to be the end of it all, I don't know.—If I'm put out o' the house … [In a voice choked by tears.] I was born here, and here my father sat at his loom for more than forty year. Many was the time he said to mother: Mother, when I'm gone, keep hold o' the house. I've worked hard for it. Every nail means a night's weavin', every plank a year's dry bread. A man would think that …
They're just as like to take the last bite out of your mouth—that's what they are.
Well, well, well! I would rather be carried out than have to walk out now in my old days. Who minds dyin'? My father, he was glad to die. At the very end he got frightened, but I crept into bed beside him, an' he quieted down again. Think of it; I was a lad of thirteen then. I was tired and fell asleep beside him—I knew no better—and when I woke he was quite cold.
[After a pause.] Give Ansorge his soup out o' the oven, Bertha.
Here, father Ansorge, it'll do you good.
[Eating and shedding tears.] Well, well, well!
[OLD BAUMERT has begun to eat the meat out of the saucepan.
Father, father, can't you have patience an' let Bertha serve it up properly?
[Chewing.] It's two years now since I took the sacrament. I went straight after that an' sold my Sunday coat, an' we bought a good bit o' pork, an' since then never a mouthful of meat has passed my lips till to-night.
Wedon't need no meat! The manufacturers eats it for us. It's the fat o' the landtheylives on. Whoever don't believe that has only to go down to Bielau and Peterswaldau. He'll see fine things there—palace upon palace, with towers and iron railings and plate-glass windows. Who do they all belong to? Why, of course, the manufacturers! No signs of bad times there! Baked and boiled and fried—horses and carriages and governesses—they've money to pay for all that and goodness knows how much more. They're swelled out to burstin' with pride and good livin'.
Things was different in my young days. Then the manufacturers let the weaver have his share. Now they keeps everything to theirselves. An' would you like to know what's at the bottom of it all? It's that the fine folks nowadays believes neither in God nor devil. What do they care about commandments or punishments? And so they steals our last scrap o' bread, an' leaves us no chance of earnin' the barest living. For it's their fault. If our manufacturers was good men, there would be no bad times for us.
Listen, then, and I'll read you something that will please you. [He takes one or two loose papers from his pocket.] I say, August, run and fetch another quart from the public-house. Eh, boy, do you laugh all day long?
No one knows why, but our August's always happy—grins an' laughs, come what may. Off with you then, quick! [Exit AUGUST with the empty brandy-bottle.] You've got something good now, eh, father?
[Still chewing; his spirits are rising from the effect of food and drink.] Moritz, you're the very man we want. You can read an' write. You understand the weavin' trade, and you've a heart to feel for the poor weavers' sufferin's. You should stand up for us here.
I'd do that quick enough! There's nothing I'd like better than to give the manufacturers round here a bit of a fright—dogs that they are! I'm an easy-goin' fellow, but let me once get worked up into a real rage, and I'll take Dreissiger in the one hand and Dittrich in the other, and knock their heads together till the sparks fly out o' their eyes.—If we could only arrange all to join together, we'd soon give the manufacturers a proper lesson … we wouldn't need no King an' no Government … all we'd have to do would be to say: We wants this and that, and we don't want the other thing. There would be a change of days then. As soon as they see that there's some pluck in us, they'll cave in. I know the rascals; they're a pack o' cowardly hounds.
There's some truth in what you say. I'm not a bad woman. I've always been the one to say as how there must be rich folks as well as poor. But when things come to such a pass as this …
The devil may take them all, for what I care. It would be no more than they deserves.
[OLD BAUMERT has quietly gone out.
Where's father?
I don't know where he can have gone.
Do you think he's not been able to stomach the meat, with not gettin' none for so long?
[In distress, crying.] There now, there! He's not even able to keep it down when he's got it. Up it comes again, the only bite o' good food as he's tasted this many a day.
Re-enter OLD BAUMERT, crying with rage.
It's no good! I'm too far gone! Now that I've at last got hold of somethin' with a taste in it, my stomach won't keep it.
[He sits down on the bench by the stove crying.
[With a sudden violent ebullition of rage.] An' yet there's people not far from here, justices they call themselves too, over-fed brutes, that have nothing to do all the year round but invent new ways of wastin' their time. An' these people say that the weavers would be quite well off if only they wasn't so lazy.
The men as says that are no men at all, they're monsters.
Never mind, father Ansorge; we're makin' the place hot for 'em. Becker and I have been and given Dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we came away we sang him "Bloody Justice."
Good Lord! Is that the song?
Yes; I have it here.
They calls it Dreissiger's song, don't they?
I'll read it to you,
Who wrote it?
That's what nobody knows. Now listen.
[He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation, but unmistakably strong feeling. Despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge, all find utterance.
The justice to us weavers dealtIs bloody, cruel, and hateful;Our life's one torture, long drawn out:For Lynch law we'd be grateful.
Stretched on the rack day after day,Hearts sick and bodies aching,Our heavy sighs their witness bearTo spirit slowly breaking.
[The words of the song make a strong impression on OLD BAUMERT.Deeply agitated, he struggles against the temptation to interruptJAEGER. At last he can keep quiet no longer.
OLD BAUMERT [To his wife, half laughing, half crying, stammering.] Stretched on the rack day after day. Whoever wrote that, mother, wrote the truth. You can bear witness … eh, how does it go? "Our heavy sighs their witness bear" … What's the rest?
"To spirit slowly breaking."
You know the way we sigh, mother, day and night, sleepin' and wakin'.
[ANSORGE had stopped working, and cowers on the floor, strongly agitated. MOTHER BAUMERT and BERTHA wipe their eyes frequently during the course of the reading.
[Continues to read.]
The Dreissigers true hangmen are,Servants no whit behind them;Masters and men with one accordSet on the poor to grind them.
You villains all, you brood of hell …
[Trembling with rage, stamping on the floor.] Yes, brood of hell!!!
[Reads.]
You fiends in fashion human,A curse will fall on all like you,Who prey on man and woman.
Yes, yes, a curse upon them!
[Clenching his fist, threateningly.] You prey on man and woman.
[Reads.]
The suppliant knows he asks in vain,Vain every word that's spoken."If not content, then go and starve—Our rules cannot be broken."
What is it? "The suppliant knows he asks in vain"? Every word of it's true … every word … as true as the Bible. He knows he asks in vain.
Yes, yes! It's all no good.
[Reads.]
Then think of all our woe and want,O ye who hear this ditty!Our struggle vain for daily breadHard hearts would move to pity.
But pity's whatyou'venever known,You'd take both skin and clothing,You cannibals, whose cruel deedsFill all good men with loathing.
[Jumps up, beside himself with excitement.] Both skin and clothing. It's true, it's all true! Here I stands, Robert Baumert, master-weaver of Kaschbach. Who can bring up anything against me?… I've been an honest, hard-workin' man all my life long, an' look at me now! What have I to show for it? Look at me! See what they've made of me! Stretched on the rack day after day, [He holds out his arms.] Feel that! Skin and bone! "You villains all, you brood of hell!!"
[He sinks down on a chair, weeping with rage and despair.
[Flings his basket from him into a corner, rises, his whole body trembling with rage, gasps.] An' the time's come now for a change, I say. We'll stand it no longer! We'll stand it no longer! Come what may!
The common-room of the principal public-house in Peterswaldau. A large room with a raftered roof supported by a central wooden pillar, round which a table runs. In the back mall, a little to the right of the pillar, is the entrance-door, through the opening of which the spacious lobby or outer room is seen, with barrels and brewing utensils. To the right of this door, in the corner, is the bar—a high wooden counter with receptacles for beer-mugs, glasses, etc.; a cupboard with rows of brandy and liqueur bottles on the wall behind, and between counter and cupboard a narrow space for the barkeeper. In front of the bar stands a table with a gay-coloured cover, a pretty lamp hanging above it, and several cane chairs placed around it. Not far off, in the right wall, is a door with the inscription: Bar Parlour. Nearer the front on the same side an old eight-day clock stands ticking. At the back, to the left of the entrance-door, is a table with bottles and glasses, and beyond this, in the corner, is the great tile-oven. In the left wall there are three small windows. Below them runs a long bench; and in front of each stands a large oblong wooden table, with the end towards the wall. There are benches with backs along the sides of these tables, and at the end of each facing the window stands a wooden chair. The walls are washed blue and decorated with advertisements, coloured prints and oleographs, among the latter a portrait of Frederick William IV.
WELZEL, the publican, a good-natured giant, upwards of fifty, stands behind the counter, letting beer run from a barrel into a glass.
MRS. WELZEL is ironing by the stove. She is a handsome, tidily dressed woman in her thirty-fifth year.
ANNA WELZEL, a good-looking girl of seventeen, with a quantity of beautiful, fair, reddish hair, sits, neatly dressed, with her embroidery, at the table with the coloured cover. She looks up from her work for a moment and listens, as the sound of a funeral hymn sung by school-children is heard in the distance.
WIEGAND, the joiner, in his working clothes, is sitting at the same table, with a glass of Bavarian beer before him. His face shows that he understands what the world requires of a man if he is to attain his ends—namely, craftiness, swiftness, and relentless pushing forward.
A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER is seated at the pillar-table, vigorously masticating a beef-steak. He is of middle height, stout and thriving-looking, inclined to jocosity, lively, and impudent. He is dressed in the fashion of the day, and his portmanteau, pattern-case, umbrella, overcoat, and travelling rug lie on chairs beside him.
[Carrying a glass of beer to the TRAVELLER, but addressing WIEGAND.] The devil's broke loose in Peterswaldau to-day.
[In a sharp, shrill voice.] That's because it's delivery day at Dreissiger's.
But they don't generally make such an awful row.
It's may be because of the two hundred new weavers that he's going to take on.
[At her ironing.] Yes, yes, that'll be it. If he wants two hundred, six hundred's sure to have come. There's no lack ofthem.
No, they'll last. There's no fear of their dying out, let them be ever so badly off. They bring more children into the world than we know what to do with. [The strains of the funeral hymn are suddenly heard more distinctly.] There's a funeral to-day too. Weaver Nentwich is dead, you know.
He's been long enough about it. He's been goin' about like a livin' ghost this many a long day.
You never saw such a little coffin, Welzel; it was the tiniest, miserablest little thing I ever glued together. And what a corpse! It didn't weigh ninety pounds.
[His mouth full.] What I don't understand's this…. Take up whatever paper you like and you'll find the most heartrending accounts of the destitution among the weavers. You get the impression that three-quarters of the people in this neighbourhood are starving. Then you come and see a funeral like what's going on just now. I met it as I came into the village. Brass band, schoolmaster, school children, pastor, and such a procession behind them that you would think it was the Emperor of China that was getting buried. If the people have money to spend on this sort of thing, well…! [He takes a drink of beer; puts down the glass; suddenly and jocosely.] What do you say to it, Miss? Don't you agree with me?
[ANNAgives an embarrassed laugh, and goes on working busily.
Now, I'll take a bet that these are slippers for papa.
You're wrong, then; I wouldn't put such things on my feet.
You don't say so! Now, I would give half of what I'm worth if these slippers were for me.
Oh, he don't know nothing about such things.
[Has coughed once or twice, moved his chair, and prepared himself to speak.] You were sayin', sir, that you wondered to see such a funeral as this. I tell you, and Mrs. Welzel here will bear me out, that it's quite a small funeral.
But, my good man … what a monstrous lot of money it must cost! Where does all that come from?
If you'll excuse me for saying so, sir, there's a deal of foolishness among the poorer working people hereabouts. They have a kind of inordinate idea, if I may say so, of the respect an' duty an' honour they're bound to show to such as is taken from their midst. And when it comes to be a case of parents, then there's no bounds whatever to their superstitiousness. The children and the nearest family scrapes together every farthing they can call their own, an' what's still wanting, that they borrow from some rich man. They run themselves into debt over head and ears; they're owing money to the pastor, to the sexton, and to all concerned. Then there's the victuals, an' the drink, an' such like. No, sir, I'm far from speaking against dutifulness to parents; but it's too much when it goes the length of the mourners having to bear the weight of it for the rest of their lives.
But surely the pastor might reason them out of such foolishness.
Begging your pardon, sir, but I must mention that every little place hereabouts has its church an' its reverend pastor to support. These honourable gentlemen has their advantages from big funerals. The larger the attendance is, the larger the offertory is bound to be. Whoever knows the circumstances connected with the working classes here, sir, will assure you that the pastors are strong against quiet funerals.
Enter HORNIG, the rag dealer, a little bandy-legged old man, with a strap round his chest.
Good-mornin', ladies and gentlemen! A glass o' schnapps, if you please, Mr. Welzel. Has the young mistress anything for me to-day? I've got beautiful ribbons in my cart, Miss Anna, an' tapes, an' garters, an' the very best of pins an' hairpins an' hooks an' eyes. An' all in exchange for a few rags. [In a changed voice.] An'out of them rags fine white paper's to be made, for your sweetheart to write you a letter on.
Thank you, but I've nothing to do with sweethearts.
[Putting a bolt into her iron.] No, she's not that kind. She'll not hear of marrying.
[Jumps up, affecting delighted surprise, goes forward to ANNA'S table, and holds out his hand to her across it.] That's sensible, Miss. You and I think alike in this matter. Give me your hand on it. We'll both remain single.
[Blushing scarlet, gives him her hand.] But you are married already!
Not a bit of it. I only pretend to be. You think so because I wear a ring. I only have it on my finger to protect my charms against shameless attacks. I'm not afraid of you, though. [He puts the ring into his pocket.] But tell me, truly, Miss, are you quite determined never, never, never, to marry?
[Shakes her head.] Oh, get along with you!
You may trust her to remain single unless something very extra good turns up.
And why shouldn't it? I know of a rich Silesian proprietor who married his mother's lady's maid. And there's Dreissiger, the rich manufacturer, his wife is an innkeeper's daughter too, and not half so pretty as you, Miss, though she rides in her carriage now, with servants in livery. And why not? [He marches about, stretching himself, and stamping his feet.] Let me have a cup of coffee, please.
Enter ANSORGE and OLD BAUMERT, each with a bundle. They seat themselves meekly and silently beside HORNIG, at the front table to the left.
How are you, father Ansorge? Glad to see you once again.
Yes, it's not often as you crawl down from that smoky old nest.
[Visibly embarrassed, mumbles.] I've been fetchin' myself a web again.
He's goin' to work at a shilling the web.
I wouldn't ha' done it, but there's no more to be made now by basket-weaving'.
It's always better than nothin'. He does it only to give you employment. I know Dreissiger very well. When I was up there takin' out his double windows last week we were talkin' about it, him and me. It's out of pity that he does it.
Well, well, well! That may be so.
[Setting a glass of schnapps on the table before each of the weavers.] Here you are, then. I say, Ansorge, how long is it since you had a shave? The gentleman over there would like to know.
[Calls across.] Now, Mr. Welzel, you know I didn't say that. I was only struck by the venerable appearance of the master-weaver. It isn't often one sees such a gigantic figure.
[Scratching his head, embarrassed.] Well, well!
Such specimens of primitive strength are rare nowadays. We're all rubbed smooth by civilisation … but I can still take pleasure in nature untampered with…. These bushy eyebrows! That tangled length of beard!