Baron Ludwig.
You are very good. But I am afraid it is too late to begin.
Beata.
It is never too late to renew an old friendship.
Baron Ludwig.
Thank you. (Goes out with the two other men.)Ellenenters.
Ellen.
(Throwing her arms about her mother's neck.) Mother! You dear little mamma!
Beata.
Well, madcap--what is it now?
Ellen.
Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm so happy, that's all.
Beata.
What are you happy about, dear?
Ellen.
I don't know--does one ever?
Beata.
Has anything in particular happened?
Ellen.
No; nothing. That is--Norbert said-- Oh, yes to be sure; we met Uncle Richard.
Beata.
Ah--where?
Ellen.
In the Zoo. On horseback. He sent his love and said he would be in before dinner. Norbert is coming too. Mother, is it true that Uncle Richard is such a wonderful speaker? Norbert says he can do what he likes with people.
Beata.
Some people--but only those whose thoughts he can turn into feelings, or whose feelings he can turn into thoughts. Do you understand?
Ellen.
Oh, yes! You mean, one can give only to those who have something to give in return?
Beata.
Yes.
Ellen.
But he must have great power--I am sure of it! He's always so quiet, and says so little--yet one feels there's a great fire inside--and sometimes it blazes up.
Beata(laughing).
What do you know about it?
Ellen.
Oh, I know. It's just the same with-- Mother, how can peoplebearlife sometimes? It's so beautiful one simply can't breathe!
Beata(with emotion).
Yes, itisbeautiful. And even when it's nothing but pain and fear and renunciation, even then it's still beautiful, Ellen.
Ellen(alarmed).
Mother--what is the matter?
Beata.
Nothing, dear. I'm only a little tired. (She goes to the door.)
Conradenters.
Conrad.
Baron Norbert. (Goes out.)
Norbertenters.
Norbert.
How d'ye do, Aunt Beata? How are you to-day?
Beata(wearily).
Very well, thanks.
Ellen(anxiously).
No, not very well. (Beatasigns her to be silent.)
Norbert.
This is Thursday. Ellen and I were to readI Promessi Spositogether; but if I might say a word to you first----
Beata.
Presently, Norbert. Wait for me here.
Ellen.
Don't you want me, mother?
Beata.
No, dear. Stay with Norbert. I shall be back in a moment. (She goes out.)
Ellen(looking after her).
Oh, Norbert!
Norbert.
Is she really worse?
Ellen.
No, she is just the same as usual. But at night--oh, Norbert, she's never in bed. All night she wanders, wanders. When I hear her coming, I lie quite still. If she knew I was awake she might not come any more. She never touches me, but just bends over and strokes my pillow, oh, so softly! And she breathes so hard, as if it hurt her--and then gradually she grows quiet again. When you see her in the daytime, so gay and dear and busy, so full of other people's pleasures, you'd never guess the misery she endures. Oh, Norbert, youdolove her, don't you?
Norbert.
I believe I love her better than my own mother.
Ellen.
No, no, Norbert, that's wicked. You mustn't say that.
Norbert.
Perhaps not, but I can't help feeling it. And why shouldn't I, after all? When I was a boy my father was everything to me--after that he was always travelling, and I was left to my own devices. There are so many things that puzzle a chap when there's no one to talk them over with. It's different with girls, I suppose. At first I used to go to my mother:she'salways found life simple enough. Visits, and parties, and church--she looks upon church-going as another kind of visiting--well, do you know whatshesaid to me? "In the first place, my dear boy, your trousers are shocking. What you need is a good tailor. Then you ought to take up lawn tennis--and after that, we'll see." Well, that didn't help me much. And then your mother took pity on me. Again and again she's let me sit up half the night, talking things over with her.
Ellen.
And now you and she have got something to say to each other again. What is it, Norbert? Do tell me! Why can'tIhelp you as well as mother?
Norbert.
Perhaps you'd like to do my examination papers for me?
Ellen.
Nonsense; it's not that.--But you don't care for me any more.
Norbert.
You silly child!
Ellen.
You told me you did once--long ago--but since then--you've never once----
Norbert.
Listen, dear. I made an awful ass of myself that day. Do you know what I did? I called on your father to ask his permission to marry you.
Ellen.
And you never told me?
Norbert.
Luckily your father was out--and as for your mother--well, she simply laughed at me!
Ellen.
Oh!
Norbert.
Oh, you know how your mother laughs at one. It doesn't hurt. "Dear boy," she said, in the kindest way, "it's too soon to talk of such things to Ellen. You must give her time to grow up." And I gave her my word I would; and you see I've kept it.
Ellen.
And if mother should----
Beataenters.
Beata.
Ellen, dear, go to Miss Mansborough. It's time for your reading. Norbert will come in a moment.
Ellen.
Yes, mother. (Goes out.)
Beata(who has been watching them closely).
By the way, Norbert--what about that promise you made me?
Norbert.
I've kept it, Aunt Beata.
Beata.
Then you want to talk to me about something else?
Norbert.
Yes. The storm-signals are up. My college club has turned on me: one, two, three, and out you go!
Beata.
Not in disgrace?
Norbert.
I'm not so sure. I got an official letter yesterday from the committee, asking me if I was the author of a pamphlet called "The Ordeal."
Beata.
Why did you write it under an assumed name?
Norbert.
Only on my father's account.
Beata.
If you disguised yourself at all, you ought to have done so more thoroughly.
Norbert.
Why, Aunt Beata! Haven't you often told me that every reformer must have the courage of his convictions?
Beata.
Yes; but I've no sympathy with unnecessary martyrdom. Keep a cool head, dear boy, and don't be drawn into controversy just yet. Haven't I often told you that this college duelling you rail against is only a preparation for the real battle of life--the battle of ideas and beliefs? You'll come to that later--ask your father how it is!
Norbert.
Oh, father--of course he's only interested in big things.
Beata.
What does he say to your article?
Norbert.
Immature.
Beata.
Was he vexed?
Norbert.
When I asked him if it annoyed him, he laughed and said:--"I know the world too well to agree with you. But you must work out the problem for yourself. I sha'n't interfere."
Beata.
Well, what more do you want? Did you expect him to go into raptures?
Norbert.
Wait and see, Aunt Beata! I mean to suffer for my convictions. I mean to brave persecution. Is that a laughing matter?
Beata.
Come! Come! No bragging--not even about persecution. It's intoxicating at first, but the after-taste is bitter.
Norbert.
Don't make fun of me, Aunt Beata.
Beata.
Heaven forbid! You knowIdon't disapprove of your article.
Norbert.
How could you? Isn't it all yours?
Beata.
I don't understand anything about duelling.
Norbert.
No, but my ideas are yours--every one of them. All I've said about self-restraint--about striving toward an harmonious whole--about the Greek ideal of freedom--and how posterity will smile at our struggles--it's all yours, Aunt Beata, every word of it.
Beata.
Don't tell your father! And besides, it isn't. My ideas have got twisted in that wild young brain of yours. And it might annoy him to think that I had put them there----
Norbert.
Oh, Aunt Beata,Iknow what you really think. But, of course, if you don't want me to, I----
EnterConrad.
Conrad(announcing).
Baron Völkerlingk.
EnterRichard.Conradgoes out.
Richard.
Well, dear friend? What sort of a night have you had? Not good, I'm afraid.
Beata.
There's no use in trying to deceive you. Have you just come from your own house?
Richard.
Yes.
Beata.
Well? Telegrams?
Richard.
None for the last two hours. Well, Norbert, you here, as usual? (ToBeata.) So you have the younger generation on your hands too?
Beata(laughing).
So much the better, since the older shows itself so seldom nowadays.
Richard.
Ah, well----
Beata.
Good-bye, Norbert dear.
Norbert(kissingBeata'shand).
Good-bye, father. (Richardnods to him.Norbertgoes out.)
Beata.
Will you dine with me to-day, Richard? (Richardshakes his head.)
Beata.
Just we two?
Richard.
I can't: my wife has a dinner: an ambassador and his wife, two lights of the Church, and others of the same feather. I must show myself on such occasions, to keep up appearances.
Beata.
I'm sorry. I should have liked to have you with me--to-day. How do you stand the suspense? Perhaps I don't show it--but I'm in a fever.
Richard.
It's telling on me too. The fact is, any poor devil of a mountebank is a king compared to one of us. He does his trick and gets his pay.--Oh, this last fortnight! If you'd seen me driven about from village to village like a travelling quack! Freedom and hot words, free beer and hot sausages! And, to cap the climax, a fellow who used to be my private secretary leading the campaign against me! Bah--it was horrible. As for Michael, with his Olympian calm, he saw only the humorous side of it. (Laughing.)
Beata.
I wonder he let you leave before the election.
Richard.
He thought I ought not to make myself too cheap. I quite agreed with him, and took myself off. Hang the democracy!
Beata.
If only the noblemen who want to rule could get on without it!
Richard.
They could, if the spirit of the age hadn't turned them into demagogues.
Beata.
Did Holtzmann do as well as you expected?
Richard.
Admirably. But he's been going about with such a long face lately that he's rather got on my nerves.--I heard you had told him to come back when the returns are in--may I wait for him here?--When one thinks that something will come in at that door presently--something dressed like Holtzmann, looking like Holtzmann--and that that something will be Fate--nothing more or less than Fate!
Beata.
And if he comes in and says--or rather, if he doesn't say anything? Remember, Richard, even ifthathappens, you've got to go on living!
Richard.
Of course. Why not? It's all in the day's work. An Indian penitent was once asked: "Why do you go on living?" And his answer was: "Because I am dead."--Oh, I don't mean to be ungrateful. As long as I have you, dear--as long as you are here to live my life with me, to give it colour and meaning and purpose--let come what may, nothing else matters.
Beata.
Don't say that--don't----
Richard.
Am I exaggerating? Why, ever since we-- How long ago is it that we met for the first time, in the wood at Tarasp? Fifteen years?
Beata.
It seems like yesterday.
Richard.
You passed between the dark pine-trunks like an apparition. You wore a pink dress and had Ellen by the hand.
Beata.
She was tired and had begun to cry.
Richard.
I saw that she wanted to be carried.
Beata.
And I was just recovering from an illness, and was too weak to lift her. You raised your hat--no, it was the white cap you wore----
Richard.
Do you remember that?
Beata.
Good heavens, what was I then, and what have you made of me? My own--let me call you that just once, Richard, as I used to do--just once, on this great day--my own! (Richardlooks nervously toward the door.)
Beata.
There is no one coming.
Richard.
Letyou!
Beata.
What a quiet happy little woman I was! That "happy" is not meant as a reproach, dearest! I have a boundless capacity for happiness, and it kept me company even in the loneliness of my early married life--for in those days Michael didn't take much notice of me. It was you who showed him that I was worth noticing. And so you built up my new life--a hard life to carry, at times, a life bowed under its own wealth as the vine is bowed under its fruit--but how it has grown under your hand, dearest, how it has spread and strengthened!--Now you're laughing at me, Richard.
Richard.
Beata--no one knows as you do how I have blundered and struggled. What are you trying to do? Do you want to give me more faith in myself, or do you really think I've done all that for you?
Beata.
I know every line in your forehead, I watch every look in your eye, I read every thought in your soul--there are some I could wish away, for they only make you miserable--but no one knows as I do what you are, and what you have been to me!
Richard.
When will Michael be here?
Beata.
How suddenly you ask that! You are tormenting yourself again. Dear--dearest--don't look like that! Why, it never really happened--it's been dead and buried for years--dead and buried, every trace of it. No one knows what we were to each other, no one even dreams it. And we're old people now--you and I. Only think, I shall soon be forty! Who is going to ask two old mummies what follies they committed in the year one?
Richard.
You are pretending not to care, Beata. Don't do that!
Beata.
Don't weigh every word I say--just look into my wicked heart. Your conscience has nothing to do with that! And if you're fond of Michael--if we're both fond of him--and why shouldn't we both be fond of him--that dear, good, cheery Michael of ours?--why, that needn't make you probe the depths of your soul for fresh wickedness. I tell you we've paid for everything, even to the uttermost farthing!
Richard.
Do you think so? It seems to me that when a man and a woman have found everything in each other, as we have, when they have been to each other the strength and the meaning and the object of life--when they've resolved to die fighting back to back, together to the last, as you used to say it seems to me that in such a case there isn't much room for expiation. If Purgatory is like that it must be fairly habitable. (Beatalaughs.) Ah, now you are flippant.
Beata.
Be thankful that one of us is, dear!
Richard.
I remember when I lost my seat, six years ago--it was a hard knock, I can tell you--everything went under at once--well, I said to myself: This is my punishment. And the idea never left me. While I was wandering about the world, or vegetating down in the country, I actually used to get a kind of comfort out of it. And now? Do you know, I sometimes fancy you wouldn't be altogether sorry if I lost my election again.
Beata(laughingly).
Really? Do you think that?
Richard.
In fact I'm not at all sure you hold with the party any longer.
Beata.
What--I, its Egeria? An elderly party-nymph gone wrong? What a shocking idea!
Richard.
I'm sure of one thing you enjoy looking over our heads.
Beata.
Don't sayourheads--don't include yourself with the rest. You think of your duty; they think of their rights. You use the masses in order to serve them. The others think only of power.
Richard.
Oh, as to that--we all want power.
Beata.
Yes: the question is, for whose benefit?--Ah, well, I see I shall have to tell you--you ought to know--the sooner the better, I suppose!
Richard.
Tell me what?
Beata.
Dear--did you really think it was Michael's fondest wish to resign his seat in Parliament, and live only for his horses?
Richard.
I've heard him say so often enough.
Beata.
And so you leaped into the breach--in the interests of the party?
Richard(hesitating).
And because--(suddenly) Beata--there's been some deception? (Beatanods.) Some one has been working against me----?
Beata.
Or for you--as you please.--Sit down beside me, dear; give me both your hands--so! And now listen. I couldn't bear to see your disappointment--your suffering--I suffered with you too intensely! And so--don't look so startled, or I shall lose heart and be afraid to go on.--How shall I tell you?--It's taken me a year a whole year's work. By degrees I persuaded him that he was unsuited to Parliamentary life--gradually I turned him against the pottering routine-work which is the only thing he can do--little by little I made him see what a boon it would be for the country and the party if he would only let you take his place. Till at last he did----
Richard(rising).
Ah----
Beata.
Can you saynowthat I didn't want you elected? (Richardis silent.) I should never have told you this if I hadn't known that his pride in his heroic feat would make him betray himself sooner or later. (A pause.) After all, think how little he's given up! To him it was only a--pastime--to you it is life. I had no choice, had I? You do see that, don't you? (A pause.) Richard, I may be a very wicked woman, but at least I deserve one look from you!
Richard.
Beata! Beata! What can I say? What can I say? You know how I've always tried to keep our feeling for each other within the bounds--the bounds of-- You know how it was twelve years ago--when I found myself gradually slipping into intimacy with him, I came to you and said: "Either this thing ends here, or I tell him everything. I won't take his hand and play the sneak. If I do, we shall lose our respect for each other as well as our self-respect." And then we hit on this friendship as a way out of it--a way of not losing each other altogether. It wasn't a very honourable solution--but this--this new sacrifice--if I accept this--God! If Holtzmann were to come in now and tell me the other man has won, what a load he would take off my mind!
Beata.
Richard--how can you?
Richard.
Think of it: To-morrow I shall have to make that speech. My position, my convictions, compel me to appear as the spokesman of the highest ideals--and all the while I shall owe my seat to the friend whose holiest ties I have trampled on----
Beata.
And if they were not the holiest----?
Richard(startled).
Beata!
Beata.
Don't turn from me. I've loved you so long!
Richard(clasps her hands).
One thing more. Listen to me. You played too reckless a game. Such things are avenged. No one knows what happened in the past. Twelve years have covered it; but it's ill disturbing the dead. Such things are avenged. Remember that.
Beata.
Well--and what of it?
Richard.
What of it?
Beata.
I shouldn't care--except for Norbert and Ellen. For I mean them to have all the happiness we have missed. Nothing must ever come between-- Hush! That is Holtzmann's voice. (She presses her left hand to her heart.) Quite steady. (She holds out her right hand toRichard.) Feel my pulse it's perfectly steady.