Not a bit! You may take your oath.
I wish the farmers around here had such notions. But they're in a wretched condition—degeneration along the whole line … [He has half taken his cigar case from his inner pocket but lets it slip back and arises as a sound penetrates through the door which is only ajar.] Wait a moment! [He goes on tiptoe to the door leading to the hall and listens. A door is heard to open and close, and for several moments the moans of the woman in labour are audible. The DOCTOR, turning to LOTH, says softly.] Excuse me!
[And goes out.
For several seconds, while the slamming of doors is heard and the sound of people running up and down the stairs, LOTH paces the room. Then he sits down in the arm-chair in the foreground, right. HELEN slips in and throws her arms about LOTH, who has not observed her coming from, behind.
[Looking around and embracing her in turn.] Nellie! [He drams her down upon his knee in spite of her gentle resistance. HELEN weeps under his kisses.] Don't cry, Nellie! Why are you crying so?
Why? Oh, if I knew!… I keep thinking that I won't find you here. Just now I had such a fright …
But why?
Because I heard you go out of your room—Oh, and my sister—we poor, poor women!—oh, she's suffering too much!
The pain is soon forgotten and there is no danger of death.
Oh, but she is praying so to die. She wails and wails: Do let me die!…The doctor!
[She jumps up and slips into the conservatory.
[On entering.] I do really wish now that that little woman upstairs would hurry a bit! [He sits down beside the table, takes out his cigar case again, extracts a cigar from it and lays the latter down on the table.] You'll come over to my house afterward, won't you? I have a necessary evil with two horses standing out there in which we can drive straight over. [He taps his cigar against the edge of the table.] Oh, the holy state of matrimony! O Lord! [Striking a match.] So you're still pure, free, pious and merry?
You might better have waited a few more days with that question.
[His cigar is lit now.] Oho! I see!—[laughing]—so you've caught on to my tricks at last!
Are you still so frightfully pessimistic in regard to women?
_Fright_fully! [Watching the drifting smoke of his cigar.] In other years I was a pessimist, so to speak, by presentiment….
Have you had very special experiences in the meantime?
That's just it. My shingle reads: Specialist for Diseases of Women.—The practice of medicine, I assure you, makes a man terribly wise … terribly … sane …; it's a specific against all kinds of delusions.
[Laughing.] Well, then we can fall back into our old tone at once. I want you to know … I haven't caught on to your tricks at all. Less than ever now … But I am to understand, I suppose, that you've exchanged your old hobby?
Hobby?
The question of woman was in those days in a certain way your pet subject.
I see! And why should I have exchanged it?
If you think even worse of women than …
[Somewhat aroused. He gets up and walks to and fro while he is speaking.] I don't think evil of women.—Not a bit!—I think evil only of marrying … of marriage … of marriage and—at most, of men … The woman question, you think, has ceased to interest me? What do you suppose I've worked here for, during six years, like a cart horse? Surely in order to devote at last all the power that is in me to the solution of that question. Didn't you know that from the beginning?
How do you suppose I could have known it?
Well, as I said … and I've already gathered a lot of very significant material that will be of some service to me! Sh! I've got the bad habit of raising my voice. [He falls silent, listens, goes to the door and comes back.] But what took you among these gold farmers?
I would like to study the local conditions.
[In a repressed tone.] What a notion! [Still more softly.] I can give you plenty of material there too.
To be sure. You must be thoroughly informed as to the conditions here.How do things look among the families around here?
Miserable! There's nothing but drunkenness, gluttony, inbreeding and, in consequence,—degeneration along the whole line.
With exceptions, surely?
Hardly.
[Disquieted.] Didn't the temptation ever come to you to … to marry a daughter of one of these Witzdorf gold farmers?
The devil! Man, what do you take me for? You might as well ask whether I …
[Very pale.] But why … why?
Because … Anything wrong with you?
[He regards LOTH steadily for several moments.
Certainly not. What should be wrong?
[Has suddenly become very thoughtful. He stops in his walking suddenly and whistles softly, glances at LOTH and then mutters to himself.] That's bad!
You act very strangely all of a sudden.
Sh!
[He listens carefully and then leaves, the room quickly by the middle door.
[Comes at the end of several seconds from the middle door. She cries out.] Alfred!—Alfred!… You're here. Oh, thank God!
Well, dear, did you suppose I had run away?
[They embrace each other.
[Bends back. With unmistakable terror in her face.] Alfred!
What is it, dearest?
Nothing, nothing …
But there must be something.
You seemed so cold … Oh, I have such foolish fancies….
How are things going upstairs?
The doctor is quarreling with the midwife.
Isn't it going to end soon?
How do I know? But when it ends, when it ends—then….
What then?… Tell me, please, what were you going to say?
Then we ought soon to go away from here. At once! Oh, right away!
If you think that would really be best, Nellie—
It is! it is! We mustn't wait! It's the best thing—for you and for me.If you don't take me soon, you'll just leave me quite, and then, and then… It would just be all over with me.
How distrustful you are, Nellie.
Don't say that, dearest. Anybody would trust you, would just have to trust you!… When I am your own, oh, then … then, you surely wouldn't leave me. [As if beside herself.] I beseech you! Don't go away! Only don't leave me! Don't—go, Alfred! If you go away without me, I would just have to die, just have to die!
But you are strange!… And you say you're not distrustful! Or perhaps they're worrying you, torturing you terribly here—more than ever … At all events we'll leave this very night. I am ready. And so, as soon as you are—we can go.
[Falling around his neck with a cry of joyous gratitude.] Dear—dearest!
[She kisses him madly and hurries out.
DR. SCHIMMELPFENNIG comes in through the middle door and catches a glimpse of HELEN disappearing into the conservatory.
Who was that?—Ah, yes! [To himself.] Poor thing!
[He sits down beside the table with a sigh, finds his old cigar, throws it aside, takes a new cigar from the case and starts to knock it gently against the edge of the table. Thoughtfully he looks away across it.
[Watching him.] That's just the way you used to loosen every cigar before smoking it eight years ago.
It's possible—[When he has lit and begun to smoke the cigar.] Listen to me!
Yes; what is it?
I take it that, so soon as the affair is over, you'll come along with me.
Can't be done. I'm sorry.
Once in a while, you know, one does feel like talking oneself out thoroughly.
I feel that need quite as much, as you do. But you can see from just that how utterly out of my power it is to go …
But suppose I give you my emphatic and, in a way, solemn assurance that there is a specific, an extremely important matter that I'd like—no, that I must discuss with you to-night, Loth!
Queer! You don't expect me to take that in deadly earnest. Surely not!—You've waited to discuss that matter so many years and now it can't wait one more day? You know me—I'm not pretending.
So I am right! Well, well …
[He gets up and walks about.
What are you right about?
[_Standing still before LOTHand looking straight into his eyes.] So there is really something between you and Helen Krause?
Who said—?
How in the world did you fall in with this family?
How do you know that, Schimmel?
It wasn'tsohard to guess.
Well then, for heaven's sake, don't say a word, because …
So you're quite regularly betrothed?
Call it that. At all events, we're agreed.
But what I want to know is: how did you fall in with this particular family?
Hoffmann's an old college friend of mine. Then, too, he was a member—though only a corresponding one—of my colonisation society.
I heard about that business at Zuerich.—So he was associated with you.That explains the wretched half-and-half creature that he is.
That describes him, no doubt.
He isn't eventhat, really.—But, look here, Loth! Is that your honest intention? I mean this thing with the Krause girl.
Of course it is! Can you doubt it? You don't think me such a scoundrel—?
Very well! Don't exert yourself! You've probably changed in all this long time. And why not? It needn't be entirely a disadvantage. A little bit of humour couldn't harm you. I don't see why one must look at all things in that damnably serious way.
I take things more seriously than ever. [He gets up and walks up and down with SCHIMMELPFENNIG, always keeping slightly behind the latter.] You can't possibly know, and I can't possibly explain to you, what this thing means to me.
Hm!
Man, you have no notion of the condition I'm in. One doesn't know it by simply longing for it. If one did, one would simply go mad with yearning.
Let the devil try to understand how you fellows come by this senseless yearning.
You're not safe against an attack yourself yet.
I'd like to see that!
You talk as a blind man would of colour.
I wouldn't give a farthing for that bit of intoxication. Ridiculous! And to build a life-long union on such a foundation. I'd rather trust a heap of shifting sand.
Intoxication! Pshaw! To call it that is simply to show your utter blindness to it. Intoxication is fleeting. I've had such spells, I admit. This happens to be something different.
Hm!
I'm perfectly sober all through it. Do you imagine that I surround my darling with a kind of a—well, how shall I put it—a kind of an aureole? Not In the least. She lias her faults; she isn't remarkably beautiful, at least—well, she's certainly not exactly homely either. Judging her quite objectively—of course it's entirely a matter of taste—I haven't seen such a sweet girl before in my life. So when you talk of mere intoxication—nonsense! I am as sober as possible. But, my friend, this is the remarkable thing: I simply can't imagine myself without her any longer. It seems to me like an amalgam, as when two metals are so intimately welded together that you can't say any longer, here's the one, there's the other. And it all seems so utterly inevitable. In short—maybe I'm talking rot—or what I say may seem rot to you, but so much is certain: a man who doesn't knowthatis a kind of cool-blooded fishy creature. That's the kind of creature I was up till now, and that's the kind of wretched thing you are still.
That's a very complete set of symptoms. Queer how you fellows always slide up to the very ears into the particular things that you've long ago rejected theoretically—like yourself into marriage. As long as I've known you, you've struggled with this unhappy mania for marriage.
It's instinct with me, sheer instinct. God knows, I can wriggle all I please—there it is.
When all's said and done one can fight down even an instinct.
Certainly, if there's a good reason, why not?
Is there any good reason for marrying?
I should say there is. It has a purpose; it has for me! You don't know how I've succeeded in struggling along hitherto. I don't want to grow sentimental. Perhaps I didn't feel it quite so keenly either; perhaps I wasn't so clearly conscious of it as I am now, that in all my endeavour I had taken on something desolate, something machine-like. No spirit, no fire, no life! Heaven knows whether I had any faith left! And all that has come back to me to-day—with such strange fullness, such primal energy, such joy … Pshaw, what's the use … You don't understand.
The various things you fellows need to keep you going—faith, love, hope. I consider all that trash. The thing is simply this: humanity lies in its death throes and we're merely trying to make the agony as bearable as we can by administering narcotics.
Is that your latest point of view?
It's five or six years old by this time and I see no reason to change it.
I congratulate you on it.
Thank you.
A long pause ensues.
[After several disquieted and unsuccessful beginnings.] The trouble is just this. I feel that I'm responsible … I absolutely owe you an elucidation. I don't believe that you will be able to marry Helen Krause.
[Frigidly.] Oh, is that what you think?
Yes, that's my opinion. There are obstacles present which just you would …
Look here! Don't for heaven's sake have any scruples on that account. The conditions, as a matter of fact, aren't so complicated as all that. At bottom they're really terribly simple.
Simply terrible, you'd better say.
I was referring simply to the obstacles.
So was I, very largely. But take it all in all, I can't imagine that you really know the conditions as they are.
Please, Schimmel, express yourself more clearly.
You must absolutely have dropped the chief demand which you used to make in regard to marriage, although you did give me to understand that you laid as much weight as ever on the propagation of a race sound in mind and body.
Dropped my demand…? Dropped it? But why should I?
I see. Then there's nothing else left me but to … Then you don't know the conditions here. You do not know, for instance, that Hoffmann had a son who perished through alcoholism at the age of three.
Wha … what d'you say?
I'm sorry, Loth, but I've got to tell you. You can do afterward as you please. But the thing was no joke. They were visiting here just as they are now. They sent for me—half an hour too late. The little fellow had bled to death long before I arrived.
_LOTH drinks in the DOCTOR'Swords with every evidence of profound and terrible emotion.
The silly little chap grabbed for the vinegar bottle, thinking his beloved rum was in it. The bottle fell and the child tumbled on the broken glass. Down here, you see, thevena saphena, was completely severed.
Whose,whosechild was that?
The child of Hoffmann and of the same woman who again, up there … And she drinks too, drinks to the point of unconsciousness, drinks whatever she can get hold of!
So it's not, it's not inherited from Hoffmann?
Not at all. That's the tragic aspect of the man! He suffers under it as much as he is capable of suffering. To be sure, he knew that he was marrying into a family of dipsomaniacs. The old farmer simply spends his life in the tavern.
Then, to be sure—I understand many things—No, everything, rather … everything! [After a heavy silence.] Then her life here, Helen's life, is a … how shall I express it? I have no words for it; it's …
Utterly horrible. I can judge of that. And I understood from the beginning how you should cling to her. But, as I said …
It's enough. I understand … But doesn't…? Couldn't one perhaps persuade Hoffmann to do something? She ought to be removed from all this foulness.
Hoffmann?
Yes, Hoffmann.
You don't know him. I don't believe that he has ruined her already, but he has ruined her reputation even now.
[Flaring up.] If that's true, I'll murder…! D'you really believe that? Do you think Hoffmann capable…?
Of anything! I think him capable of anything that might contribute to his own pleasure.
Then she is—the purest creature that ever breathed …
LOTH slowly takes up his hat and cane and hangs his mallet over his shoulder.
What do you think of doing, Loth?
… I mustn't meet her …
So you're determined?
Determined to what?
To break the connection.
How is it possible for me to be other than determined?
I may add, as a physician, that cases are known in which such inherited evils have been suppressed. And of course you would give your children a rational up-bringing.
Such cases may be known.
And the chances are not so small but that …
That kind of thing can't help me, Schimmel. There are just three possibilities in this affair: Either I marry her and then … no, that way out simply doesn't exist. Or—the traditional bullet. Of course, that would mean rest, at least. But we haven't reached that point yet awhile; can't indulge in that luxury just yet. And so: live! fight!—Farther, farther! [His glance falls on the table and he observes the writing-materials that have been placed there by EDWARD. He sits down, hesitates and says:] And yet…?
I promise you that I'll represent the situation to her as clearly as possible.
Yes, yes! You see—I can't do differently. [He writes, places his paper in an envelope and addresses it. Then he arises and shakes hands with SCHIMMELPFENNIG.] For the rest—I depend on you.
You're coming over to my house, aren't, you? Let my coachman drive you right over.
Look here! Oughtn't one to try, at least, to get her out of the power of this … this person? … As things are she is sure to become his victim.
My dear, good fellow! I'm sorry for you. But shall I give you a bit of advice? Don't rob her of the—little that you still leave her.
[With a deep sigh.] Maybe you're right—perhaps certainly.
Hasty steps are heard descending the stairs. In the next moment HOFFMANN rushes in.
Doctor, I beg you, for heaven's sake … she is fainting … the pains have stopped … won't you at last …
I'm coming up. [To LOTH significantly.] We'll see each other later. Mr. Hoffmann, I must request you … any interference or disturbance might prove fatal … I would much prefer to have you stay here.
You ask a great deal, but … well!
No more than is right.
[He goes.
HOFFMANN remains behind.
[Observing LOTH.] I'm just trembling in every limb from the excitement. Tell me, are you leaving?
Yes.
Now in the middle of the night?
I'm only going as far as Schimmelpfennig's.
Ah, yes. Well … as things have shaped themselves, it's of course no pleasure staying with us any longer … So, good luck!
I thank you for your hospitality.
And how about that plan of yours?
What plan?
I mean that essay of yours, that economic description of our district. I ought to say … in fact, as a friend, I would beg of you as insistently as possible …
Don't worry about that any more. I'll be far away from here by to-morrow.
That is really—
[He interrupts himself.
Kind of you, you were going to say.
Oh, I don't know. Well, in a certain respect, yes! And anyhow you must forgive me; I'm so frightfully upset. Just count on me. Old friends are always the best! Good-bye, good-bye.
[He leaves through the middle door.
[Before going to the door, turns around once more with a long glance as if to imprint the whole room on his memory. Then to himself:] I suppose I can go now …
[After a last glance he leaves.
The room remains empty for some seconds. The sound of muffled voices and the noise of footfalls is heard. Then HOFFMANN appears. As soon as he has closed the door behind him, he takes out his note-book and runs over some account with exaggerated calm. He interrupts himself, listens, becomes restless again, advances to the door and listens there. Suddenly some one runs down the stair and HELEN bursts in.
[Still without.] Brother! [At the door.] Brother!
What's thematter?
Be brave: still-born!
O my God!
[He rushes out.
HELENalone.
She looks about her and calls softly:Alfred! Alfred!As she receives no answer, she calls out again more quickly:Alfred! Alfred!She has hurried to the door of the conservatory through which she gazes anxiously. She goes into the conservatory, but reappears shortly.Alfred!Her disquiet increases. She peers out of the window.Alfred!She opens the window and mounts a chair that stands before it. At this moment there resounds clearly from the yard the shouting of the drunken farmer, her father, who is coming home from the inn,Hay-hee! Ain' I a han'some feller? Ain' I got a fine-lookin' wife? Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals? Hay-hee!HELEN utters a short cry and runs, like a hunted creature, toward the middle door. From there she discovers the letter which LOTH has left lying on thee table. She runs to it, tears it open, feverishly takes in the contents, of which she audibly utters separate words."Insuperable!" … "Never again." …She lets the letter fall and sways.It's over!She steadies herself, holds her head with both hands and cries out in brief and piercing despair.It's over!She rushes out through the—middle door. The farmer's voice without, drawing nearer.Hay-hee! Ain' the farm mine? Ain' I got a han'some wife? Ain' I a han'some feller?HELEN, still seeking LOTH half-madly, comes from the conservatory and meets EDWARD, who has come to fetch something from HOFFMANN'S room. She addresses him:Edward!He answers:Yes, Miss Krause.She continues:I'd like to … like to … Dr. Loth …EDWARD answers:Dr. Loth drove away in Dr. Schimmelpfennig's carriage.He disappears into HOFFMANN'S room.True!HELEN cries out and holds herself erect with difficulty. In the next moment a desperate energy takes hold of her. She runs to the foreground and seizes the hunting knife with its belt which is fastened to the stag's antlers above the sofa. She hides the weapon and stays quietly in the dark foreground until EDWARD, coming from HOFFMANN'S room, has disappeared through the middle door. The farmer's voice resounds more clearly from moment to moment.Hay-hee! Ain' I a han'some feller?At this sound, as at a signal, HELEN starts and runs, in her turn, into HOFFMANN'S room. The main room is empty but one continues to hear the farmer's voice:Ain' I got the finest teeth? Ain' I got a fine farm?MIELE comes through the middle door and looks searchingly about. She calls:Miss Helen! Miss Helen!Meanwhile the farmer's voice:The money 'sh mi-ine!Without further hesitation MIELE has disappeared into HOFFMANN'S room, the door of which she leaves open. In the next moment she rushes out with every sign of insane terror. Screaming she spins around twice—thrice—screaming she flies through the middle door. Her uninterrupted screaming, softening as it recedes, is audible for several seconds. Last there is heard the opening and resonant slamming of the heavy house door, the tread of the farmer stumbling about in the hall, and his coarse, nasal, thick-tongued drunkard's voice echoes through the room:Hay-hee! Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals?
You, dear father, know what feelings lead me to dedicate this work to you, and I am not called upon to analyse them here.
Your stories of my grandfather, who in his young days sat at the loom, a poor weaver like those here depicted, contained the germ of my drama. Whether it possesses the vigour of life or is rotten at the core, it is the best, "so poor a man as Hamlet is" can offer.
Your
DREISSIGER,fustian manufacturer.
PFEIFER,manager in DREISSIGER'S employment.
NEUMANN,cashier in DREISSIGER'S employment.
AN APPRENTICEin DREISSIGER'S employment.
JOHN,coachman in DREISSIGER'S employment.
A MAIDin DREISSIGER'S employment.
WEINHOLD,tutor to DREISSIGER'S sons.
HEIDE,Police Superintendent.
KUTSCHE,policeman.
WELZEL,publican.
WIEGAND,joiner.
SCHMIDT,surgeon.
HORNIG,rag dealer.
WITTIG,smith.
FRITZ, EMMA'Sson (four years old).
LUISE, GOTTLIEB'Swife.
MIELCHEN,their daughter (six years old).
REIMANN,weaver.
HELEN,weaver.
A number of weavers, young and old, of both sexes.
The action passes in the Forties, at Kaschbach, Peterswaldau andLangenbielau, in the Eulengebirge.
A large whitewashed room on the ground floor of DREISSIGER'S house at Peterswaldau, where the weavers deliver their finished webs and the fustian is stored. To the left are uncurtained windows, in the back mall there is a glass door, and to the right another glass door, through which weavers, male and female, and children, are passing in and out. All three walls are lined with shelves for the storing of the fustian. Against the right wall stands a long bench, on which a number of weavers have already spread out their cloth. In the order of arrival each presents his piece to be examined by PFEIFER, DREISSIGER'S manager, who stands, with compass and magnifying-glass, behind a large table, on which the web to be inspected is laid. When PFEIFER has satisfied himself, the weaver lays the fustian on the scale, and an office apprentice tests its weight. The same boy stores the accepted pieces on the shelves. PFEIFER calls out the payment due in each case to NEUMANN, the cashier, who is seated at a small table.
It is a sultry day towards the end of May. The clock is on the stroke of twelve. Most of the waiting work-people have the air of standing before the bar of justice, in torturing expectation of a decision that means life or death to them. They are marked too by the anxious timidity characteristic of the receiver of charity, who has suffered many humiliations, and, conscious that he is barely tolerated, has acquired the habit of self-effacement. Add to this a rigid expression on every face that tells of constant, fruitless brooding. There is a general resemblance among the men. They have something about them of the dwarf, something of the schoolmaster. The majority are flat-breasted, short-minded, sallow, and poor looking—creatures of the loom, their knees bent with much silting. At a, first glance the women show fewer typical traits. They look over-driven, worried, reckless, whereas the men still make some show of a pitiful self-respect; and their clothes are ragged, while the men's are patched and mended. Some of the young girls are not without a certain charm, consisting in a wax-like pallor, a slender figure, and large, projecting, melancholy eyes.
[Counting out money.] Comes to one and seven-pence halfpenny.
[About thirty, emaciated, takes up the money with trembling fingers.] Thank you, sir.
[Seeing that she does not move on.] Well, something wrong this time, too?
[Agitated, imploringly.] Do you think I might have a few pence in advance, sir? I need it that bad.
And I need a few pounds. If it was only a question of needing it—! [Already occupied in counting out another weaver's money, gruffly.] It's Mr. Dreissiger who settles about pay in advance.
Couldn't I speak to Mr. Dreissiger himself, then, sir?
[Now manager, formerly weaver. The type is unmistakable, only he is well fed, well dressed, clean shaven; also takes snuff copiously. He calls out roughly.] Mr. Dreissiger would have enough to do if he had to attend to every trifle himself. That's what we are here for. [He measures, and then examines through the magnifying-glass.] Mercy on us! what a draught! [Puts a thick muffler round his neck.] Shut the door, whoever comes in.
[Loudly to PFEIFER.] You might as well talk to stocks and stones.
That's done!—Weigh! [The weaver places his web on the scales.] If you only understood your business a little better! Full of lumps again…. I hardly need to look at the cloth to see them. Call yourself a weaver, and "draw as long a bow" as you've done there!
BECKER has entered. A young, exceptionally powerfully-built weaver; offhand, almost bold in manner. PFEIFER, NEUMANN, and the APPRENTICE exchange looks of mutual understanding as he comes in.
Devil take it! This is a sweatin' job, and no mistake.
[In a low voice.] This blazin' heat means rain.
[OLD BAUMERT forces his way in at the glass door on the right, through which the crowd of weavers can be seen, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting their turn. The old man stumbles forward and lays his bundle on the bench, beside BECKER'S. He sits down by it, and wipes the sweat from his face.
A man has a right to a rest after that.
Rest's better than money.
Yes, but weneedsthe money too. Good mornin' to you, Becker!
Mornin', father Baumert! Goodness knows how long we'll have to stand here again.
That don't matter. What's to hinder a weaver waitin' for an hour, or for a day? What else is he there for?
Silence there! We can't hear our own voices.
[In a low voice.] This is one of his bad days.
[To the weaver standing before him.] How often have I told you that you must bring cleaner cloth? What sort of mess is this? Knots, and straw, and all kinds of dirt.
It's for want of a new picker, sir.
[Has weighed the piece.] Short weight, too.
I never saw such weavers. I hate to give out the yarn to them. It was another story in my day! I'd have caught it finely from my master for work like that. The business was carried on in different style then. A man had to know his trade—that's the last thing that's thought of nowadays. Reimann, one shilling.
But there's always a pound allowed for waste.
I've no time. Next man!—What have you to show?
[Lays his web on the table. While PFEIFER is examining it, he goes close up to him; eagerly in a low tone.] Beg pardon, Mr. Pfeifer, but I wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps be so very kind an' do me the favour an' not take my advance money off this week's pay.
[Measuring and examining the texture; jeeringly.] Well! What next, I wonder? This looks very much as if half the weft had stuck to the bobbins again.
[Continues.] I'll be sure to make it all right next week, sir. But this last week I've had to put in two days' work on the estate. And my missus is ill in bed….
[Giving the web to be weighed.] Another piece of real slop-work. [Already examining a new web.] What a selvage! Here it's broad, there it's narrow; here it's drawn in by the wefts goodness knows how tight, and there it's torn out again by the temples. And hardly seventy threads weft to the inch. What's come of the rest? Do you call this honest work? I never saw anything like it.
[HEIBER, repressing tears, stands humiliated and helpless.
[In a low voice to BAUMERT.] To please that brute you'd have to pay for extra yarn out o' your own pocket.
[Who has remained standing near the cashier's table, from time to time looking round appealingly, takes courage and once more turns imploringly to the cashier.] I don't know what's to come o' me, sir, if you won't give me a little advance this time … O Lord, O Lord!
[Calls across.] It's no good whining, or dragging the Lord's name into the matter. You're not so anxious about Him at other times. You look after your husband and see that he's not to be found so often lounging in the public-house. We can give no pay in advance. We have to account for every penny. It's not our money. People that are industrious, and understand their work, and do it in the fear of God, never need their pay in advance. So now you know.
If a Bielau weaver got four times as much pay, he would squander it four times over and be in debt into the bargain.
[In a loud voice, as if appealing to the general sense of justice.] No one can't call me idle, but I'm not fit now for what I once was. I've twice had a miscarriage. And as to John, he's but a poor creature. He's been to the shepherd at Zerlau, but he couldn't do him no good, and … you can't do more than you've strength for…. We works as hard as ever we can. This many a week I've been at it till far on into the night. An' we'll keep our heads above water right enough if I can just get a bit o' strength into me. But you must have pity on us, Mr. Pfeifer, sir. [Eagerly, coaxingly.] You'll please be so very kind as to let me have a few pence on the next job, sir?
[Paying no attention.] Fiedler, one and twopence.
Only a few pence, to buy bread with. We can't get no more credit. We've a lot o' little ones.
[Half aside to the APPRENTICE, in a serio-comic-tone.] "Every year brings a child to the linen-weaver's wife, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh."
[Takes up the rhyme, half singing.] "And the little brat it's blind the first weeks of its life, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh."
[Not touching the money which the cashier has counted out to him.] We've always got one and fourpence for the web.
[Calls across.] If our terms don't suit you, Reimann, you have only to say so. There's no scarcity of weavers—especially of your sort. For full weight we give full pay.
How anything can be wrong with the weight o' this…!
You bring a piece of fustian with no faults in it, and there will be no fault in the pay.
It's clean impossible that there's too many knots in this web.
[Examining.] If you want to live well, then be sure you weave well.
[Has remained standing near PFEIFER, so as to seize on any favourable opportunity. He laughs at PFEIFER'S little witticism, then steps forward and again addresses him.] I wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps have the great kindness not to take my advance of sixpence off to-day's pay? My missus has been bedridden since February, She can't do a hand's turn for me, an' I've to pay a bobbin girl. An' so …
[Takes a pinch of snuff.] Heiber do you think I have no one to attend to but you? The others must have their turn.
As the warp was given me I took it home and fastened it to the beam. I can't bring back no better yarn than I gets.
If you're not satisfied, you need come for no more. There are plenty ready to tramp the soles off their shoes to get it.
[To REIMANN.] Don't you want your money?
I can't bring myself to take such pay.
[Paying no further attention to REIMANN.] Heiber, one shilling. Deduct sixpence for pay it advance. Leaves sixpence.
[Goes up to the table, looks at the money, stands shaking his head as if unable to believe his eyes, then slowly takes it up.] Well, I never!— [Sighing.] Oh dear, oh dear!
[Looking into HEIBER'S face.] Yes, Franz, that's so! There's matter enough for sighing.
[Speaking with difficulty.] I've a girl lyin' sick at home too, an' she needs a bottle of medicine.
What's wrong with her?
Well, you see, she's always been a sickly bit of a thing. I don't know … I needn't mind tellin' you—she brought her trouble with her. It's in her blood, and it breaks out here, there, and everywhere.
It's always the way. Let folks be poor, and one trouble comes to them on the top of another. There's no help for it and there's no end to it.
What are you carryin' in that cloth, fatter. Baumert?
We haven't so much as a bite in the house, and so I've had the little dog killed. There's not much on him, for the poor beast was half starved. A nice little dog he was! I couldn't kill him myself. I hadn't the heart to do it.
[Has inspected BECKER'S web and calls.] Becker, one and threepence.
That's what you might give to a beggar; it's not pay.
Every one who has been attended to must clear out. We haven't room to turn round in.
[To those standing near, without lowering his voice.] It's a beggarly pittance, nothing else. A man works his treadle from early morning till late at night, an' when he's bent over his loom for days an' days, tired to death every evening, sick with the dust and the heat, he finds he's made a beggarly one and threepence!
No impudence allowed here.
If you think I'll hold my tongue for your tellin', you're much mistaken.
[Exclaims.] We'll see about that! [Rushes to the glass door and calls into the office.] Mr. Dreissiger, Mr. Dreissiger, will you be good enough to come here?
Enter DREISSIGER. About forty, full-bodied, asthmatic. Looks severe.
What is it, Pfeifer?
[Spitefully.] Becker says he won't be told to hold his tongue.
[Draws himself up, throws back his head, stares at BECKER; his nostrils tremble.] Oh, indeed!—Becker. [_To PFEIFER.] Is he the man?…
[The clerks nod.
[Insolently.] Yes, Mr. Dreissiger, yes! [Pointing to himself.] This is the man. [Pointing to DREISSIGER.] And that's a man too!
[Angrily.] Fellow, how dare you?
He's too well off. He'll go dancing on the ice once too often, though.
[Recklessly.] You shut up, you Jack-in-the-box. Your mother must have gone dancing once too often with Satan to have got such a devil for a son.
[Now in a violent passion, roars.] Hold your tongue this moment, sir, or …
[He trembles and takes a fere steps forward.
[Holding his ground steadily.] I'm not deaf. My hearing's quite good yet.
[Controls himself, asks in an apparently cool business tone.] Was this fellow not one of the pack…?
He's a Bielau weaver. When there's any mischief going, they're sure to be in it.
[Trembling.] Well, I give you all warning: if the same thing happens again as last night—a troop of half-drunken cubs marching past my windows singing that low song …
Is it "Bloody Justice" you mean?
You know well enough what I mean. I tell you that if I hear it again I'll get hold of one of you, and—mind, I'm not joking—before the justice he shall go. And if I can find out who it was that made up that vile doggerel …
It's a grand song, that's what it is!
Another word and I send for the police on the spot, without more ado. I'll make short work with you young fellows. I've got the better of very different men before now.
I believe you there. A real thoroughbred manufacturer will get the better of two or three hundred weavers in the time it takes you to turn round—swallow 'em up, and not leave as much as a bone. He's got four stomachs like a cow, and teeth like a wolf. That's nothing to him at all!
[To his clerks.] That man gets no more work from us.
It's all the same to me whether I starve at my loom or by the roadside.
Out you go, then, this moment!
[Determinedly.] Not without my pay.
How much is owing to the fellow, Neumann?
One and threepence.
[Takes the money hurriedly ont of the cashier's hand, and flings it on the table, so that some of the coins roll off on to the floor.] There you are, then; and now, out of my sight with you!
Not without my pay.
Don't you see it lying there? If you don't take it and go … It's exactly twelve now … The dyers are coming out for their dinner …
I gets my pay into my hand—here—that's where!
[Points with the fingers of his right hand at the palm of his left.
[To the APPRENTICE.] Pick up the money, Tilgner.
[The APPRENTICE lifts the money and puts it into BECKER'S hand.
Everything in proper order.
[Deliberately takes an old purse out of his pocket and puts the money into it.
[As BECKER still does not move away.] Well? Do you want me to come and help you?
[Signs of agitation are observable among the crowd of weavers. A long, loud sigh is heard, and then a fall. General interest is at once diverted to this new event.
What's the matter there?
"Some one's fainted."—"It's a little sickly boy."—"Is it a fit, or what?"
What do you say? Fainted?
[He goes nearer.
There he lies, any way.
[They make room. A boy of about eight is seen lying on the floor as if dead.
Does any one know the boy?