ACT II

Scene—Same.

Anthonygets up from table.Clarabegins to clear away dishes.

Anthony.

Have you still no appetite?

Clara.

I’ve had enough, father.

Anthony.

Enough of nothing!

Clara.

I had a bite in the kitchen.

Anthony.

A poor appetite means a bad conscience. Well, we shall see. Or was there poison in the soup, as I dreamed last night, a bit of wild hemlock that was plucked with the other herbs by mistake? That would be a wise thing for you to do.

Clara.

Almighty God!

Anthony.

Forgive me, I——To the devil with that pale, suffering look of yours, stolen from the Mother of Christ! Young people should look rosy. There’s only one man who has the right to parade a face like that, and he doesn’t do it. Ho! A box on the ears for every man that says “Uh” when he cuts his finger. Nobody has the right to now, for here’s a man that——Self-praise is no recommendation, but what did I do, when our neighbour was going to nail the lid on your mother’s coffin?

Clara.

You snatched the hammer from him and did it yourself, and said, “This is my masterpiece.” The choir-master, who was singing the funeral-hymn at the door with the choristers, thought you’d gone mad.

Anthony.

Mad! (Laughs.) Mad! Ay, ay, it’s a wise man that cuts his own throat when the time comes. Mine seems to be too tough, or else——A man lives in his corner of the world, and imagines he’s sitting by thefireside in a comfortable inn, when suddenly some one puts a light on the table, and behold, he’s in a robber’s den, and it goes bang! bang! on all sides. But no matter. Luckily my heart’s made of stone.

Clara.

So it is, father.

Anthony.

What do you know about it? Do you think you have any right to join your curses to mine, because that clerk of yours left you in the lurch? Some one else will take you for a walk on Sunday afternoons, some one else will tell you that your cheeks are red and your eyes are blue, some one else will make you his wife, if you deserve it. But when you’ve borne your burden honourably for thirty years, without complaining, when you’ve patiently endured suffering and bereavement and all manner of misfortune, and then your son, who should be making a soft pillow for you in your old age, comes and heaps disgrace on you, till you feel like calling to the earth, “Swallow me, if you can stomach me, for I am more foul than you”—thenyou may pour out all the curses that I am holding back; then you may tear your hair and beat your breast. That’s the privilege you shall have over me, since you’re a woman.

Clara.

Oh, Karl!

Anthony.

I often wonder what I shall do when I see him again, when he comes in some evening before we’ve got the lamp lit, with his head shaved, prison-fashion, and stutters out “Good-evening” with his hand glued to the door-latch. I shall do something, I know, but what? (Grinding his teeth.) And if they keep him ten years, he’ll find me still. I shall live till then, I know that. Mark you, Death! From now on I’m a stone to your scythe. Sooner shall it be shattered in your hands, than move me an inch.

Clara(taking his hand).

Father, do lie down for half an hour.

Anthony.

To dream you are in child-bed, eh? And jump up and lay hold of you and then remember, and say I didn’t know what I was doing? Thank you, no. My sleep has dismissed its magician and hired a prophet instead, who shows me fearful things with his bloodyfingers. I don’t know how it is. Anything seems possible to me now. Ugh! The future makes me shudder, like a glass of water seen through a microscope—is that right, Mr. Choir-master, you’ve spelt it for me often enough? I did that once at the fair in Nürnberg, and couldn’t take a drink the whole day after it. I saw our Karl last night with a pistol in his hand. When I looked at him more closely, he fired. I heard a cry, but I couldn’t see anything for smoke. When the smoke cleared, there was no split skull to be seen, but in the meantime my fine son had become a rich man. He was standing counting gold pieces from one hand into the other, and his face—devil take me if a man could look more placid, if he had slaved all day and just locked up his work-shop. We might look out for that. We might first sit in judgment, and then go ourselves before the greatest judge of all.

Clara.

Do calm yourself!

Anthony.

Cure yourself, you mean. Why am I sick? Give me the healing draught, physician! Your brother is the worst of sons. You be the best of daughters. Here I stand before the world like a worthless bankrupt. I owed it a worthy man, to take the place of this invalid here, and I’ve pawned off a rogue on it. You be the woman your mother was. Then people will say: “It wasn’t the parents’ fault that the boy went wrong, for the daughter is going the right road and leads the way for others.” (With fearful coldness.) And I’ll do my share. I’ll make it easier for you than the others. The moment I see people pointing their fingers at you,—I shall—(passing his finger over his throat) shave myself, and, this I’ll swear, I shall shave myself away altogether. You can say a fright did it—a horse ran away in the street, or the cat knocked a chair over, or a mouse ran up my legs. Those that know me will have their doubts, because I’m not particularly nervous, but what does it matter? I can’t go on living in a world where only sympathy keeps people from spitting when they see me.

Clara.

Merciful God, what shall I do?

Anthony.

Nothing at all, my child. I’m too hard on you. I know it well. Nothing at all. Just stay as you are and it will be all right. I’ve suffered such injustice that I must practise it, or go under altogether, when it takes hold of me. I was crossing the road just now when Small-pox John came along, that vagabond I had locked up years ago, after he’d robbed me three times. There was a time when the wretch didn’t dare to look at me, but now he walks up coolly and holds out his hand. I wanted to box his ears, but thought better of it and didn’t even spit. Aren’t we cousins of a week’s standing? And isn’t it right for relations to greet one another? Our good man, the parson, came to see me yesterday, and said a man was responsible for nobody but himself, and it was unchristian arrogance in me to make myself answerable for my son, or else Adam would have to take it as much to heart as I. O God, I well believe that it doesn’t disturb the arch-father’s peace in paradise, when one of his great-great-grandchildren goes robbing and murdering, but didn’t he tear his hair over Cain? No, no, it is too much! At times I feel like looking to see if my shadow hasn’t gone blacker. I can bear anything, and I’ve proved it, anything but disgrace. Put as much weight round my neck as you like, but don’t cut through the nerve that holds me together.

Clara.

But, father, Karl hasn’t confessed to it yet, and they didn’t find anything on him.

Anthony.

What do I care about that? I went round the town, and inquired about his debts in all the pubs. I found that he owed more than he’d have earned from me in a quarter-year, even if he’d worked three times as hard as he did. Now I know why he used to work two hours later at night than I did, and got up earlier, too. But he saw it was no good. It was too much trouble, or it took too long, so he seized the opportunity when it came.

Clara.

You always think the worst of Karl. You always did. Do you remember how——?

Anthony.

You talk just like your mother. And I’ll answer you as I used to answer her—by saying nothing.

Clara.

And what if Karl gets off? What if they find the jewels again?

Anthony.

Then I’d hire a lawyer, and I’d sell my last shirt to find out whether the mayor had the right to imprison the son of an honourable man, or not. If so, I’d submit, for if it can happen to anybody, I must put up with it, even though I had to pay a thousand times dearer than others. It was fate, and when God strikes me, I fold my hands and say: “O Lord, thou knowest why.” But if it was not so, if that man with the gold chain round his neck overstepped himself, because he couldn’t think of anything except that the merchant who lost the jewels was his brother-in-law, then we’d see whether there’s a hole in the law. The king knows full well that he must justly repay the obedience and loyalty of his subjects, and would wish least of all to be unfair to the smallest of them. We’ll see then whether he’ll stop the hole up for us. But this is all nonsense. It’s as easy for your mother to rise from her grave as for that boy to clear himself. I’ve had no comfort from him, and never shall have. So remember whatyouowe me. Keep your word and then I won’t have to keep mine. (Goes, and turns back.) I shan’t be home till late. I’m going to see the old wood-cutter in the hills. He’s the only man who looks me in the face as he used to, because he knows nothing yet of my shame. He’s deaf. They can’t tell him anything without shrieking themselves hoarse, and then he mixes it all up and never gets the truth of it. (Goes out.)

Clara(alone).

O God, O God, have mercy! Have mercy on this old man! Take me! It’s the only way to help him. Look! The sunshine lies so golden on the street that the children snatch at it. The birds fly about. Flowers and plants are never weary of growing. Everything lives and wants to live. Thousands of sick people tremble before thee at this hour, O Death! Thosewho called to thee in the oppression of the night, because their pain was more than they could bear, now once more find comfort in their beds. To thee I call! Spare him whose soul shrinks furthest from thee! Let him live until this lovely world again seems grey and desolate. Take me for him! I will not shudder at thy chilly hand. I will seize it bravely, and follow thee more gladly than ever any child of man has followed thee before.

Wolfram(enters).

Good morning, Miss Clara, isn’t your father at home?

Clara.

He’s just gone out.

Wolfram.

I came to—my jewels have turned up!

Clara.

O father, if only you were here! There are his spectacles! He’s forgotten them. If only he’d notice it and come back! How did you find them? Where? At whose house?

Wolfram.

My wife—Tell me frankly, Miss Clara, did you never hear anything strange about my wife?

Clara.

I did.

Wolfram.

That she—(tapping his forehead). What?

Clara.

That she’s a bit wrong in the head? Yes.

Wolfram(bursting into anger).

My God! My God! All in vain! I’ve never let a servant go, that I’ve once taken into my house. I’ve paid each one double wages and winked at all sorts of carelessness, to purchase their silence, and yet—Oh the false, ungrateful creatures! Oh my poor children! ’Twas for your sakes alone that I tried to conceal it.

Clara.

Don’t blame your servants. They’re innocent enough. Ever since that day the house next door was burned down, when your wife stood at the open window and laughed and clapped and puffed her cheeks and blew at the flames to fan them, people have had to choose between calling her a she-devil or a madwoman. And hundreds of people saw that.

Wolfram.

That is true. Well, since the whole town knows my misfortune, it would be folly to ask you tokeep it quiet. Listen to me, then. This theft, that your brother is in prison for, was due to insanity.

Clara.

Your own wife——

Wolfram.

I’ve known for a long time that she, who once was the noblest and kindest of women, had turned malicious and spiteful. She rejoices when she sees an accident, if a maid breaks a glass or cuts her finger. But I only discovered to-day, when it was too late, that she steals things about the house, hides money, and destroys papers. I had lain down on the bed and was just dozing off, when I saw her come quietly up to me and stare at me to see if I was asleep. I closed my eyes tight, and then she took my keys out of my waistcoat, that I’d hung over the chair, opened the desk, took some money out, locked the desk again, and put the key back. I was horrified, but I controlled myself and kept quiet. She left the room and I went after her on tip-toe. She went right to the top of the house and threw the money into an old chest of my grandfather’s that stood empty there. Then she looked nervously about her on all sides, and hurried away without seeing me. I lit a candle and looked through the chest, and found there my youngest daughter’s doll, a pair of the maid’s slippers, an account book, some letters and unfortunately—or God be praised, which?—right at the bottom I found the jewels!

Clara.

Oh my poor mother! It is too shameful!

Wolfram.

God knows, I’d sacrifice the trinkets if I could undo what’s done. But I’m not to blame. Much as I honour your father, it was natural for me to suspect your brother. He had polished the desk, and the jewels disappeared with him. I noticed it almost immediately, because I had to get some papers out of the very drawer they were in. But I had no intention of taking severe steps against him. I informed bailiff Adam, and asked him to investigate the matter secretly; but he would not hear of caution. He said it was his duty to report the case at once and he was going to do it. Your brother was a boozer and a borrower, and had so much weight with the mayor that he could get him to do anything he wanted. The man seems to be incensed againstyour father in the extreme. I don’t know why. I simply couldn’t calm him down. He stuffed his fingers in his ears and shouted as he ran, “If you’d made me a present of the jewels I wouldn’t be as pleased as I am now!”

Clara.

The bailiff once set his glass down beside father’s in the inn, and nodded to him to clink with him. Father pulled his away and said: “People in red coats with blue facings used once to have to drink out of wooden cans, and they used to have to stand outside at the window, or, if it rained, in the doorway; and they had to take their hats off, when the landlord served them, and if they wanted to clink with any one, they waited till old Fallmeister came along.” O God, O God! Anything can happen in this world! Mother paid for that with her death.

Wolfram.

Offend no one, and bad men least of all. Where’s your father?

Clara.

Gone to see the wood-cutter in the hills.

Wolfram.

I’ll ride out and look for him. I’ve already been at the mayor’s, but didn’t find him at home. If I had, your brother would have been here by this time. However, the secretary sent a messenger at once. You’ll see him before night. (Goes out.)

Clara(alone).

Now I ought to be glad. O God! And all I can think of is—“It’s only you now.” And yet I feel as if I’m bound to think of something soon that will put it all right again.

Secretary(entering).

Good-day.

Clara(grasping chair as if falling).

He! Oh, if only he hadn’t come back——

Sec.

Your father’s not at home?

Clara.

No.

Sec.

I’ve brought good news. Your brother, Miss—Oh, Clara, I can’t go on talking in this stiff way to you, with all the old tables and cupboards and chairs around me; my old acquaintances, that we played among when we were children. Good-day, you there! (Nodding to a cupboard.) How are you? You haven’t changed.—I should think they’d put their heads together and laugh at me for a fool if I don’t call you “Clara” as I used to.DIf you don’t like it, just think—“The poor chap’s dreaming, I’ll wake him up—I’ll go up to him and show him (with a toss of head) I’m not a little girl now”—that was your mark when you were eleven (pointing to a mark on the door)—“but a proper grown-up, that can reach the sugar when it’s put on the side-board.” Do you remember? That was the spot, that was the stronghold, safe from us, even when it stood unlocked. When the sugar was there, we used to play at catching flies, because we couldn’t bear to let them, flying about so merrily, get at what we couldn’t reach!

Clara.

I thought people forgot all those things when they had to study hundreds and thousands of books.

Sec.

They do forget! I wonder what don’t people forget over Justinian and Gaius! Boys, that kick against the A B C so obstinately, know why they do it. They have a sort of feeling that, if they leave the spelling-book alone, they’ll never get at cross-purposes with the Bible. It’s disgraceful how they tempt the innocent souls with the red cock, and the basket of eggs, till they say A of their own accord—and then there’s no holding them! They tear down hill from A to Z, and on and on, till they are in the midst ofCorpus Jurisand realise to their horror what a desert they’ve been enticed into by those curséd twenty-six letters, which they first used in their play to make tasty, sweet-scented words like “cherry” and “rose.”

Clara.

And what happens then? (Absently without interest.)

Sec.

That depends on temperament. Some work their way through, and come out again into the light of day after three or four years. They’re a bit thin and pale, but you can’t blame them for that. I belong to them. Others lie down in the middle of the wood. They only want to rest, but they very seldom get up again. One of my own friends has drunk his beer under the shade of the “Lex Julia” for three years. He chose the place on account of the name. It recalls pleasant memories. Others get desperate and turn back. They are the biggest fools of all, for they’re only allowed out of one thicket on condition that they plunge straight into another. And there are some there that never come to an end at all! (Aside.) What stuff a fellow will talk, when he has something in his mind and can’t get it out!

Clara.

Everybody is merry and jolly to-day. It must be the fine weather.

Sec.

Yes, in weather like this owls fall out of their nests, bats kill themselves, because they feel that the devil made them. The mole bores down into the earth till he loses his way and is stifled, unless he can eat through to the other side and come out in America! To-day every ear of corn puts out a double shoot, and every poppy goes twice as red as usual, if only for shame at not being so. Why should man remain behind? Is he to rob God of the one tribute that this world pays Him, a bright face and a clear eye, that reflects and glorifies all this splendour? Indeed, when I see these lazy-bones crawling out of their houses in the mornings with their brows all wrinkled, and glowering at heaven as if it were a sheet of blotting paper, I often think: “It’ll rain soon. God will have to let down His curtain of clouds; He’s bound to, so as not to be annoyed by such grimaces.” Such fellows ought to be prosecuted as thwarters of holidays and destroyers of harvests. How should you give thanks for life, except by living? Rejoice, bird! else you don’t deserve to have a throat!

Clara.

That is true, so true. It makes me want to cry.

Sec.

I wasn’t saying it against you. I can understand your being a bit down this last week. I know your old man. But, God be praised, I can make you happy again and that’s what I’m here for. You’ll see your brother again to-night. People won’t point their fingers at him, but at those who threw him into prison. Does that earn me a kiss, a sisterly one, if it can’t be any other? Or should we play blind-man’s-buff for it? If I don’t catch you in ten minutes, I’ll go without and take a slap on the cheek into the bargain.

Clara(to herself).

I feel as if I’d suddenly grown a thousand years old and time had stopped still over my head. I can’t go back and I can’t go forward. Oh, this immovable sunshine and all the gaiety about me!

Sec.

You don’t answer. Of course, I’d forgotten. You’re engaged. O girl, why did you do that by me? And yet, have I any right to complain? She is all that’s dear and good. All that’s dear and good should have reminded me of her. And yet for years she was as good as dead to me. In return she has——If only it were amanwhom one could honour and respect! But this Leonard——

Clara(suddenly hearing the name).

I must go to him. That’s it! I’m no longer the sister of a thief! O God, what do I want? He will, he must! Unless he’s a very devil, all will be as it was. (In horror.) As it was. (ToSecretary.) Don’t be offended, Frederick.—What makes my legs so heavy all at once?

Sec.

Are you going?

Clara.

To see Leonard, where else? I’ve only this one path to go in all the world.

Sec.

You love him then?

Clara(excitedly).

Love him? It is him or death. Are you surprised that I choose him? I wouldn’t do it if I were thinking of myself alone.

Sec.

Him or death? Why, girl, this sounds like despair.

Clara.

Don’t drive me mad. Don’t speak to me! You! I love you! There! There! I’ll shout it at you, as if I were already wandering beyond the grave, where no one blushes, where they all slink past oneanother, cold and naked, because that terrible, holy nearness of God has laid bare the thoughts of each one down to the roots.

Sec.

Me? You still love me? Clara, I suspected it when I saw you outside in the garden.

Clara.

Did you? He did, too. (Dully, as if alone.) He stood before me. He or I? Oh, my heart, my cursed heart! To prove to him and to myself that it wasn’t so, or to crush it if it were so, I did what I now——(bursting into tears). O God in Heaven, I would have pity if I were thou and thou wert I!

Sec.

Clara, be my wife! I came to you to look you in the eyes in the old way. If you had not understood my look, I would have gone away and said nothing. Now I offer you all that I am and all that I have. It’s little, but it can grow. I’d have been here long ago, only your mother was ill—and then she died. (Claralaughs madly.) Have courage, girl! You gave him your word. Is that on your mind? And I must say it’s a devil of a nuisance. How could you——?

Clara.

Oh! Go on asking me how things combine to drive a poor girl mad! Sneers and mockery on all sides when you had gone to college and never wrote. “She’s thinking about him.” “She thinks his fun was meant seriously.” “Does she get letters from him?” And then mother: “Stick to your equals.” “Pride goes before a fall.” “Leonard’s a fine young man; everybody is surprised that you turn your back on him.” And then my own heart: “If he’s forgotten you, show him that you too——” O God!

Sec.

I am to blame, I know. Well, what’s hard is not therefore impossible. I’ll get you free. Perhaps——

Clara.

Get me free!—Read that! (throwing himLeonard’sletter).

Sec.(reading).

As cashier—your brother—thief—very sorry—I have no choice in view of my office. (ToClara.) Did he write that the day your mother died? Why, he goes on to express his sympathy at her sudden death!

Clara.

Yes, he did.

Sec.

May he be—Dear God, the cats and snakes and other monsters that slipped through your fingers at the creation pleased Beelzebub, so that he made them after you. But he decked them out better than you did. He gave them human form. Now they stand shoulder to shoulder with mankind, and we don’t recognise them till they begin to spit and scratch. (ToClara.) Very good! Excellent! (Tries to embrace her.) Come! For eternity. With this kiss——

Clara(sinks into his arms).

No, not for ever. Don’t let me fall,—but no kiss.

Sec.

Girl, you don’t love him, you’ve got your word back.

Clara(dully, drawing herself up again).

And yet I must go to him; I must go down on my knees to him and stutter: “Look at my father’s white hairs; take me!”

Sec.

Unhappy one, do I understand?

Clara.

Yes!

Sec.

That’s too much for any man. To have to lower one’s eyes beforehim—a fellow that’s only fit to be spat on. (PressingClarato him.) You poor, poor child!

Clara.

Go, now go!

Sec.(to himself, broodingly).

Or shoot the dog dead that knows it. If he only had pluck! If he’d only show himself! Could I force him? I wouldn’t fear to meet him.

Clara.

I beg you——

Sec.(going out).

After dark! (Turns round and seizesClara’shand.) Girl, here you stand—(Turning away.) Thousands of her sex would have cunningly concealed it, only to murmur it into one’s ear in some hour of sweet forgetfulness. I feel what I owe you. (Goes out.)

Clara(alone).

Close, close, my heart! Crush in upon thyself. Let not a drop of blood escape, to fireanew the waning life in my veins. There again something like a hope arose in thee. I realise it now. I thought (laughing)—“That’s too much for any man.” And if—isn’t it too much for you? Would you have courage to seize a hand that——? No, no, you would not have such base courage. You would have to bolt yourself into your prison, if they tried to open the gate from without. For ever—Oh, why does it stop, why doesn’t it go on grinding for ever, why is there a pause now and then? That’s why it seems so long. The tortured one thinks he is having a rest because the torturer has to stop and take breath; you breathe again, like a drowning man in the waves, when the whirlpool that is sucking him down, throws him up again, only to lay hold of him afresh. All he gains from it is a redoubled death-struggle.“Well, Clara.” Yes, father, I’ll go, I’ll go! Your daughter won’t drive you to suicide. I shall soon be his wife, or—O God, no! I’m not begging for happiness, I’m begging for misery, the deepest misery—surely you’ll grant me my misery. Away!—where is the letter? (Taking it.) There are three wells on the road to him. Let me stop at none of them. You have no right to, yet. (Goes out.)

“Well, Clara.” Yes, father, I’ll go, I’ll go! Your daughter won’t drive you to suicide. I shall soon be his wife, or—O God, no! I’m not begging for happiness, I’m begging for misery, the deepest misery—surely you’ll grant me my misery. Away!—where is the letter? (Taking it.) There are three wells on the road to him. Let me stop at none of them. You have no right to, yet. (Goes out.)

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