MARIA MAGDALENA

MARIA MAGDALENAACT I

Room in the master-joiner’s house.

Clara.HerMother.

Clara.

Your wedding-dress? Oh, how well it suits you! It might have been made to-day!

Mother.

Yes, child, the fashion runs on, till it can’t get any further, and has to turn back. This dress has gone out of fashion ten times already, and has always come in again.

Clara.

But not quite, this time, mother. The sleeves are too wide. Don’t be cross with me now!

Mother(smiling).

No, I should beyouif I were!

Clara.

And so that’s what you looked like! But surely you wore a garland, too?

Mother.

I should think so! Why else do you suppose I tended the myrtle-bush in the flower-pot all these years?

Clara.

I’ve asked you so many times, and you would never put it on. You always said, “It’s not my wedding-dress now, it’s my shroud, and not to be played with.” I began at last to hate the sight of it, hanging all white there, because it made me think of your death and of the day when the old women would pull it over your head. What’ve you put it on for, to-day, then?

Mother.

When you’re as ill as I’ve been, and don’t know whether you’ll get better or not, lots of things go round in your head. Death is more terrible than people think. Death is bitter-hard. He darkens the world, he blows out all the lights, one after another, that gleamso bright and gay all round us. The dear eyes of husband and children cease to shine, and it grows dim on every side. But death sets a light in the heart, and there it grows clear, and you can see lots—lots that you can’t bear to see.... I don’t know what wrong I’ve done. I’ve trodden God’s path, and worked in the house as well as I could. I’ve brought up your brother and you in the fear of the Lord, and eked out what your father earned with the sweat of his brow. And I always managed to have a penny to spare for the poor. If I did turn one away at times because I was cross-tempered, or because there were too many of them, it was no misfortune for him, for I was sure to call him back and give him double. But what’s all that worth! We tremble just the same, when the last hour threatens. We cringe like worms. We pray to God for our lives, like a servant asking his master to let him do a spoiled job over again, so as not to come short on pay-day.

Clara.

Do stop that, mother dear, it exhausts you.

Mother.

Child, it does me good. Am I not strong and healthy again? Didn’t God simply call me to make me see that my garment was not yet spotless and pure, and didn’t He let me turn back at the mouth of the grave, and give me time to adorn myself for the heavenly bridal? He was not as lenient as that to those seven virgins in the Gospel that I made you read to me last night. That’s why I’ve put this dress on to-day, to go to holy communion in. I wore it on the day when I made my best and purest vows. Let it remind me of those I didn’t keep.

Clara.

You are talking just as you did in your illness!

Karl(enters).

Good-morning, mother. Now, Clara, how would you fancy me, suppose I weren’t your brother?

Clara.

A gold chain? Where’ve you got that?

Karl.

What do I toil and sweat for? Why do I work two hours longer than the others every night? I like your cheek.

Mother.

Quarrelling on a good Sunday morning? For shame, Karl.

Karl.

Mother, haven’t you got a couple of shillings for me?

Mother.

I’ve only got money for house-keeping.

Karl.

Well, give me some of that. I won’t grumble if the pancakes are a bit thin for the next fortnight. You’ve done it many a time before. I know that. When you were saving up for Clara’s white dress, there was nothing tasty on the table for months. I closed my eyes to it, but I knew very well that a new hat or some show-piece was on the way. Let me have the benefit of it for a change.

Mother.

You are impudent.

Karl.

Well, I’ve no time now, or else——(going).

Mother.

Where are you going?

Karl.

I won’t tell you. Then you won’t need to blush when the old grizzly asks where I’ve gone. Tell him you don’t know. I don’t want your money either. It’s a good job there’s water in more wells than one. (Aside.) They always think the worst of me at home, anyway. Why shouldn’t I keep them on the tremble, just for fun? Why should I tell them that I shall have to go to church now, unless somebody helps me out?

Clara.

What does that mean?

Mother.

Oh, he grieves me to the heart. Yes, your father’s right. That’s the outcome of it. When he was still a curly-headed boy, he used to ask so sweetly for his piece of sugar, and now he demands money of me just as insolently. I wonder whether he really wouldn’t want the money, if I had refused him the sugar. It worries me often. I don’t believe he even loves me. Did you ever once see him crying when I was sick?

Clara.

I saw very little of him; scarcely ever, except at meal times. He had a better appetite than I had!

Mother(quickly).

That’s natural; his work is hard.

Clara.

Of course. Men are like that, too. They are more ashamed of their tears than of their sins. They don’t mind showing a clenched fist, but a weeping eye, no! Father’s just the same. The afternoon they opened your vein and no blood came, he was sobbing away at his bench. It went right through me. But when I went up to him and stroked him on the cheek, what do you think he said? “See if you can’t get this damned shaving out of my eye. There’s so much to do and I’m not getting on with it at all.”

Mother(smiling).

Yes, yes.—I never see Leonard now. How is that?

Clara.

Let him stay away.

Mother.

I hope you don’t see him anywhere except at home here.

Clara.

Do I stay too long when I go to the well at night, that you start suspecting me?

Mother.

I don’t say that. But it was only to keep him from hanging about after you at nights in all weathers, that I let him come into the house at all. My mother wouldn’t allow that sort of thing, either.

Clara.

I never see him at all.

Mother.

Have you been sulking with each other? I don’t dislike him. He’s so steady. If only hewassomebody! In my time he wouldn’t have had to wait long. The gentlefolk used to be as crazy after a good clerk, as a lame man after a crutch, for a good clerk was rare then. He was useful to small people like us, too. One day he would compose a New Year’s greeting from son to father, and would get as much for the gold lettering alone as would buy a child a doll. The next day the father would send for him, and have him read it aloud to him, secretly, with the door locked, lest he should be caught unawares, and show his ignorance. That meant double pay. Clerks were top-dog then, and raised the price of beer. But it’s different now. We old people, who can neither read nor write, are the laughing-stocks of nine-year-old boys. The world’s getting cleverer every day. Perhaps the time will comewhen we shall be ashamed if we can’t walk the tightrope.

Clara.

There goes the church bell.

Mother.

Well, child, I will pray for you. And as for this Leonard of yours, love him as he loves God, neither more nor less. That’s what my old mother said to me when she was leaving this world, and giving me her blessing. I’ve kept it long enough and now I’ll pass it on to you.

Clara(giving her a bunch of flowers).

There!

Mother.

I’m sure that came from Karl.

Clara(nods, then aside).

I wish it did! If anything is to give her real pleasure, it’s got to come from him.

Mother.

Oh, he’s a good boy and loves his mother. (Goes.)

Clara(looking after her through the window).

There she goes. Three times I dreamed she lay in her coffin, and now—— Oh these malicious dreams, they clothe themselves in our fears to terrify our hopes. I’ll never give heed to a dream again. I’ll never again take pleasure in a good one, and then I won’t have to worry about the evil one that follows it. How firm and sure is her step! She’s already near the churchyard. I wonder who’ll be the first to meet her—not that it matters, but——(starting in terror). The grave-digger! He has just dug a grave and is climbing out of it. She’s nodded to him, and is looking down into the dark hole with a smile. Now she’s thrown the flowers in, and is going into church. (Music is heard.) They’re singing: “Now thank we all our God.” (Folding her hands.) Yes! yes! If mother had died, I’d never have been happy again, for——(looking towards heaven). But Thou art gracious, Thou art merciful! I wish I had a faith like the Catholics, so that I could give Thee something. I would empty my money-box and buy Thee a lovely golden heart and wreathe it with roses. Our clergyman says that gifts are nothing in Thy eyes, for all is Thine, and we should not try to give Thee what Thou hast. But then, everything in the house belongs to father, and yet he’s pleased when I buy him a kerchief with hisown money, and embroider it neatly and put it on his plate on his birthday. Yes, he honours me by wearing it on special holidays, Christmas or Whitsuntide. Once I saw a tiny little Catholic girl bringing her cherries to the altar. How I loved to see her! They were the first of the year, and I could see how she longed to eat them. But still she fought against her innocent desire, and threw them down quickly to make an end of temptation. The priest, saying Mass, had just raised the chalice, and looked frowningly at her, and the child hurried away terrified, but the Virgin over the altar smiled down so tenderly, as if she would have liked to step out of her frame, run after the child, and kiss her. I did it for her. There’s Leonard. Ah!

Leonard(outside).

Are you dressed?

Clara.

Why so tender, so thoughtful? I’m not a princess.

Leonard(coming in).

I didn’t think you were alone. As I went past, I thought I saw Barbara from next-door at the window.

Clara.

That’s why, then, is it?

Leonard.

You are always cross. A fellow can stay away for a fortnight; it can have rained and shone again ten times over; but each time I seeyou, there’s always the same old cloud on your face.

Clara.

It used to be so different.

Leonard.

Yes, indeed! If you’d always looked as you do now, we’d never have been good friends.

Clara.

What does it matter?

Leonard.

Oh, you feel as free of me as that, do you? It suits me all right. So (meaningly) that toothache of yours the other day was a false alarm?

Clara.

Oh, Leonard, you’d no right to do it!

Leonard.

No right to bind what is dearest to me—yourself—by the last bond of all? And just when I stood in danger of losing it! Do you think I didn’t see you exchanging quiet glances with the secretary? Thatwas a nice holiday for me! I take you to a dance and——

Clara.

You never stop worrying me. I looked at him, of course. Why should I deny it? but only because of the moustache he’s grown at college. It——(she breaks off).

Leonard.

Suits him so well, eh? That’s what you mean. Oh, you women! You like the mark of the soldier even in the silliest caricature. The little round-faced fop—I hate him! I don’t conceal it; he’s stood in my way with you long enough;—with that forest of hair in the middle of his face, he looks like a white rabbit trying to hide in a thicket.

Clara.

I haven’t praised him yet. You don’t need to start running him down.

Leonard.

You still seem to take a warm interest in him.

Clara.

We played together as children, and after that—you know all about it.

Leonard.

Oh yes, I know. That’s just the trouble.

Clara.

Well, surely it was natural for me, seeing him again for the first time after so long, to look at him and wonder at——

Leonard.

Why did you blush then, when he looked at you?

Clara.

I thought he was looking to see if the wart on my left cheek had got any bigger. You know I always think that when anybody stares at me, and it makes me blush. The wart seems to grow, whenever it’s looked at!

Leonard.

That may be. But it troubled me, and I said to myself: “I’ll test her this very night. If she really wants to be my wife, she knows that she’s running no risks. If she says No——”

Clara.

Oh, you spoke a wicked, wicked word, when I pushed you away, and jumped up from the seat. The moon that had shone, for my help, right into the arbour, wrapped herself cunningly in the wet clouds. I tried to hurry away, but something held me back. At first I thought it was you, but it was the rose-tree, whosethorns had caught my dress like teeth. You reviled me, until I could no longer trust my own heart. You stood before me, like one demanding a debt. And I——O God!

Leonard.

I can’t regret it. I know that it was the only way of keeping you. Your old love had opened its eyes and I could not close them fast enough.

Clara.

When I got home, I found my mother ill, dangerously ill. Smitten down suddenly, as if by an unseen hand. Father had wanted to send for me, but she wouldn’t let him, because of spoiling my pleasure. Imagine how I felt, when I heard that! I kept out of the way. I didn’t dare to touch her; I trembled. She thought it was just a child’s concern, and motioned me to go to her. When I went up to her slowly, she pulled me down and kissed my desecrated mouth. I gave way altogether, I wanted to confess to her. I wanted to tell her what I thought and felt: “I’mto blame for your lying there like that.” I did so, too, but tears and sobs choked my words; she took father’s hand and said, looking at me so happily—“What a tender heart!”

Leonard.

She’s well again now. I came to congratulate her, and—what do you think?

Clara.

And what?

Leonard.

To ask your father for your hand in marriage!

Clara.

Ah!

Leonard.

Isn’t that all right?

Clara.

Right? It would be the death of me, if I were not soon your wife. But you don’t know my father. He doesn’t know why we’re in a hurry. He can’t know, and we can’t tell him. And he’s told me a hundred times that he will only give me, as he puts it, to a man who has both love in his heart and bread in his cupboard. He will say, “Wait a year or two, my son,” and then what will you answer?

Leonard.

Why, you little silly, that difficulty’s all over. I’ve got the job, I’m cashier now.

Clara.

You’re cashier? And what about the other candidate, the parson’s nephew?

Leonard.

He came drunk into the exam., bowed to the stove instead of to the mayor, and knocked three cups off the table when he sat down. You know how hot-tempered the old boy is. “Sir!” he began, but he bit his lips and controlled himself, although his eyes flashed through his spectacles like two snakes ready to spring, and all his face was working. Then came the arithmetic and ha! ha! my opponent used a system of tables he had invented himself, and got quite original results. “He’s all astray,” said the mayor, and held out his hand to me with a glance that told me the job was mine. I put it reverently to my lips, although it stank of tobacco, and here’s the appointment, signed and sealed.

Clara.

That’s a——

Leonard.

Surprise, eh? Well, it’s not altogether an accident. Why do you think I never turned up here for a whole fortnight?

Clara.

How do I know. I should think because we quarrelled on that last Sunday.

Leonard.

I was cunning enough to bring that little quarrel about on purpose, so that I might stay away without causing you too much surprise.

Clara.

I don’t understand you.

Leonard.

I dare say not. I made use of the time in paying court to that little hump-backed niece of the mayor’s, who has so much weight with him. She’s his right hand, just as the bailiff’s his left. Don’t misunderstand me! I didn’t say pleasant things to her directly, except for a compliment on her hair, which is red, as you know. I only said a few things, that pleased her, about you.

Clara.

About me?

Leonard.

Yes, why should I keep it back? It was all done with the best intentions. You talk as if I had never been in earnest about you, as if—— Enough! That affair lasted till I’d gotthisin my hand, and she’ll know which way I meant it, the credulous little man-mad fool, when she hears the banns read in church.

Clara.

Leonard!

Leonard.

Child! Child! Just you be as harmless as a dove, and I’ll be as wise as a serpent. Then we shall fulfil the words of the Gospel, for man and wife are but one. (He laughs.) And it wasn’t altogether an accident either, that young Herrmann was drunk at the most important moment of his life. I’m sure you never heard that he went in for boozing!

Clara.

Not a word.

Leonard.

That made it all the easier. Three glasses did it. Two chums of mine went up to him and clapped him on the back. “Can we congratulate you?” “Not yet.” “Oh, but it’s all settled beforehand. Your uncle——” And then—“drink, pretty creature, drink!” When I was on my way here this morning, he was standing by the river looking gloomily over the parapet of the bridge. I grinned and nodded, and asked him whether he’d dropped anything into the water. “Yes,” said he, without looking up, “and perhaps it’s as well for me to jump in after it.”

Clara.

You wretch! Get out of my sight!

Leonard.

Yes? (Pretending to go.)

Clara.

O my God, and I am chained to this man!

Leonard.

Don’t be childish. Just one word more in confidence. Has your father still got that two hundred pounds with the apothecary?

Clara.

I know nothing about it.

Leonard.

You know nothing about so important a matter?

Clara.

Here comes father.

Leonard.

You understand, the apothecary is supposed to be going bankrupt. That’s why I asked.

Clara.

I must go into the kitchen. (Goes.)

Leonard(alone).

In that case there’s nothing to be got here. I can well believe it, for, if an extra letter happened to get on old Anthony’s gravestone by mistake, his ghost would walk till it was scratched out. That’s the sort of man he is. He’d think it dishonest to own more of the alphabet than was due to him.

EnterAnthony.

Anthony.

Good morning, Mr. Cashier. (Takes his hat off and puts on a woollen cap.) Will you allow an old man to keep his head covered?

Leonard.

You’ve heard, then——

Anthony.

Heard last night. When I was on my way, in the evening, to measure the old miller for his last abode, I heard two good friends of yours railing against you. So I said to myself “Leonard, at any rate, hasn’t broken his neck!” I got particulars at the dead man’s house from the sexton, who had arrived there before me, to console the widow, and to get drunk at the same time.

Leonard.

And yet you let Clara wait till I told her?

Anthony.

If you weren’t in a hurry to give her the pleasure, why should I be? I don’t light any candles in my house except my own. Then I know that nobody can come and blow them out, just when we’re enjoying them.

Leonard.

You surely don’t think that I——

Anthony.

Think? About you? About anybody? I shape planks with my tools, I’ll admit, but never a man with my thoughts. I got over that sort of folly long ago. When I see a tree in leaf, I say to myself: It’ll soon be in bloom. And when it’s in bloom: Now it’ll bear fruit. I don’t get taken in there, so I stick to the old custom. But I think nothing about men, nothing at all, neither bad nor good. So that when they disappoint first my fears and then my hopes, I don’t need to go red and white in turn. I simply get knowledge and experience out of them, and I take the cue from my pair of eyes. They can’t think either, they just see. I thought I knew all about you already, but now you’re here again, I have to admit that I only half knew you.

Leonard.

Master Anthony, you’ve got it the wrong way about. A tree depends on wind and weather, but a man has rule and law inside of him.

Anthony.

Do you think so? Ah, we old men owe a lot to death, for letting us knock about so long among you young fellows and giving us the chance to get educated. Once upon a time the world was foolish enough to believe that the father was there to educate the son. Now, it’s the other way. The son has to put the finishing touches on his father, lest the old simpleton should disgrace himself in the grave before the worms. Thank God, I’ve an excellent teacher in this boy, Karl, of mine; he wages ruthless war upon my prejudices, and doesn’t spoil the old fellow with too much indulgence. Only this morning, for instance, he’s taught me two new lessons. And very skilfully too, without so much as opening his mouth, without even showing himself; in fact, just by not doing so. In the first place, he has shown me that you don’t need to keep your word; secondly, that it’s unnecessary to go to church and freshen up your memory of God’s commandments. Last night he promised me he’d go, and I counted on it, for I thought, “He’ll surely want to thank the Creator for sparing his mother’s life.” But he wasn’t there, and I was quite comfortable in my pew, which indeed is a bit small for two. I wonder how he’d like it, if I were to act on this new lesson of his at once, and break my word to him? I promised him a new suit on his birthday, and so I have a good chance of seeing what pleasure he would take in a ready pupil. But—prejudice, prejudice! I shan’t do it.

Leonard.

Perhaps he wasn’t well——

Anthony.

That may be. I only need to ask my wife. She’ll be sure to tell me he’s sick. She tells me the truth about everything on earth except that boy. And even if he isn’t sick—there you young men have the pull over us old folks again. You can do your devotions anywhere; you can say your prayers when you’re out bird-snaring, or taking a walk, or even in a public-house. “‘Our father, which art in Heaven’—Good-morning, Peter, coming to the dance to-night?—‘Hallowed be Thy Name’—Yes, you may smile, Katherine, but you’ll see—‘Thy will be done’—By God, I’m not shavedyet,”—and so on to the end, when you pronounce your own blessing, since you’re just as much a man as the parson, and there’s as much virtue in a blue coat as in a black. I’ve nothing against it. If you want to insert seven drinks between the seven petitions, what does it matter? I can’t prove to any one that beer and religion don’t go together. Perhaps it will get into the prayer-book some day, as a new way of taking communion. But I, old sinner that I am, am not strong enough to follow the fashion. I can’t catch devotion in the street, as if it were a cock-chafer. The twittering of sparrows and swallows cannot take the place of the organ for me. If my heart is to be uplifted, I must first hear the heavy iron church-doors clang behind me, and imagine they are the gates of the world. The high walls with their narrow windows, that only let the bright bold light of the world filter dimly through, must close in upon me, and in the distance I must see the dead-house with the walled-in skull. Well—better is better.

Leonard.

You take it too seriously.

Anthony.

Without doubt. And I must admit as an honest man that it didn’t work to-day. I lost the mood for worship when I was in church, because of the empty seat beside me, and found it again outside, under the pear-tree in my garden. You are surprised? See, I was going home sad and depressed, like a man that’s had his harvest spoilt; for children are just like land, you sow good seeds and get tares in return. I stood still under the pear-tree, that the caterpillars have devoured. “Yes,” I thought, “my boy is like this tree, bare and empty.” Then I seemed to get thirsty, and felt as if I must go to the inn and have a drink. I was deceiving myself. It wasn’t beer that I wanted. I wanted to find my boy and rate him, and I knew for certain I should find him there. I was just going, when the wise old tree dropped a juicy pear at my feet, as if to say: Quench your thirst with that, and don’t insult me by comparing me with your knave of a son. I thought better of it, ate the pear and went home.

Leonard.

Do you know that the apothecary is going bankrupt?

Anthony.

It doesn’t concern me.

Leonard.

Not at all?

Anthony.

Yes, it does! I am a Christian, and the man has children.

Leonard.

He has more creditors than children. Children are creditors too, in a way.

Anthony.

Lucky the man who has neither the one nor the other!

Leonard.

But I thought you yourself——

Anthony.

That’s settled long ago.

Leonard.

You’re a cautious man. Of course, you called in your money—as soon as you saw that the old herbalist was going downhill.

Anthony.

Yes, I’ve no need to tremble at losing what I lost long ago.

Leonard.

You’re joking.

Anthony.

It’s a fact.

Clara(looking in).

Did you call, father?

Anthony.

Are your ears burning already? We weren’t talking about you.

Clara.

The newspaper! (Goes.)

Leonard.

You’re a philosopher.

Anthony.

What does that mean?

Leonard.

You can control yourself.

Anthony.

I sometimes wear a millstone round my neck instead of a collar. That has stiffened my backbone!

Leonard.

Let him who can do likewise!

Anthony.

Whoever has so worthy a helper, as I appear to have in you, can surely dance under his burden. Why, you’ve gone quite pale! There’s sympathy for you!

Leonard.

I hope you don’t mistake me.

Anthony.

Certainly not. (Rapping on a cupboard.) Funny thing that you can’t see through wood, isn’t it?

Leonard.

I don’t understand you.

Anthony.

How foolish grandfather Adam was to take Eve, although she was stark naked and didn’t even bring a fig-leaf with her. We two, you and I, wouldhave whipped her out of paradise for a vagabond. Don’t you think so?

Leonard.

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