AUGUST STRINDBERG (continued 2)

THE POET. See the light that surrounds them! Hear how the air is ringing with music!—Eros!

THE OFFICER. It is Victoria.

MASTER OF Q. Well, what of it?

THE OFFICER. It is his Victoria—My own is still mine. And nobody can see her—Now you hoist the quarantine flag, and I shall pull in the net.

[The MASTER OF QUARANTINE waves a yellow flag. THE OFFICER. [Pulling a rope that turns the boat toward Foulstrand] Hold on there!

HE and SHE become aware of the hideous view and give vent to their horror.

MASTER OF Q. Yes, it comes hard. But here every one must stop who hails from plague-stricken places.

THE POET. The idea of speaking in such manner, of acting in such a way, within the presence of two human beings united in love! Touch them not! Lay not hands on love! It is treason!—Woe to us! Everything beautiful must now be dragged down—dragged into the mud!

[HE and SHE step ashore, looking sad and shamefaced.

HE. Woe to us! What have we done?

MASTER OF Q. It is not necessary to have done anything in order to encounter life's little pricks.

SHE. So short-lived are joy and happiness!

HE. How long must we stay here?

MASTER OF Q. Forty days and nights.

SHE. Then rather into the water!

HE. To live here—among blackened hills and pig-sties?

THE POET. Love overcomes all, even sulphur fumes and carbolic acid.

MASTER OF Q. [Starts a fire in the stove; blue, sulphurous flames break forth] Now I set the sulphur going. Will you please step in?

SHE. Oh, my blue dress will fade.

MASTER OF Q. And become white. So your roses will also turn white in time.

HE. Even your cheeks—in forty days!

SHE. [To THE OFFICER] That will please you.

THE OFFICER. No, it will not!—Of course, your happiness was the cause of my suffering, but—it doesn't matter—for I am graduated and have obtained a position over there—heigh-ho and alas! And in the Fall I shall be teaching school—teaching boys the same lessons I myself learned during my childhood and youth—the same lessons throughout my manhood and, finally, in my old age—the self-same lessons! What does twice two make? How many times can four be evenly divided by two?—Until I get a pension and can do nothing at all—just wait around for meals and the newspapers—until at last I am carted to the crematorium and burned to ashes—Have you nobody here who is entitled to a pension? Barring twice two makes four, it is probably the worst thing of all—to begin school all over again when one already is graduated; to ask the same questions until death comes——

An elderly man goes by, with his hands folded behind his back.

THE OFFICER. There is a pensioner now, waiting for himself to die. I think he must be a captain who missed the rank of major; or an assistant judge who was not made a chief justice. Many are called but few are chosen—He is waiting for his breakfast now.

THE PENSIONER. No, for the newspaper—the morning paper.

THE OFFICER. And he is only fifty-four years old. He may spend twenty-five more years waiting for meals and newspapers—is it not dreadful?

THE PENSIONER. What is not dreadful? Tell me, tell me!

THE OFFICER. Tell that who can!—Now I shall have to teach boys that twice two makes four. And how many times four can be evenly divided by two. [He clutches his head in despair] And Victoria, whom I loved and therefore wished all the happiness life can give—now she has her happiness, the greatest one known to her, and for this reason I suffer—suffer, suffer!

SHE. Do you think I can be happy when I see you suffering? How can you think it? Perhaps it will soothe your pains that I am to be imprisoned here for forty days and nights? Tell me, does it soothe your pains?

THE OFFICER. Yes and no. How can I enjoy seeing you suffer? Oh!

SHE. And do you think my happiness can be founded on your torments?

THE OFFICER. We are to be pitied—all of us!

ALL. [Raise their arms toward the sky and utter a cry of anguish that sounds like a dissonant chord] Oh!

THE DAUGHTER. Everlasting One, hear them! Life is evil! Men are to be pitied!

ALL. [As before] Oh!

For a moment the stage is completely darkened, and during that moment everybody withdraws or takes up a new position. When the light is turned on again, Foulstrand is seen in the background, lying in deep shadow. The strait is in the middle distance and Fairhaven in the foreground, both steeped in light. To the right, a corner of the Casino, where dancing couples are visible through the open windows. Three servant maids are standing outside on top of an empty box, with arms around each other, staring at the dancers within. On the verandah of the Casino stands a bench, where "Plain" EDITH is sitting. She is bare-headed, with an abundance of tousled hair, and looks sad. In front of her is an open piano.

To the left, a frame house painted yellow. Two children in light dresses are playing ball outside.

In the centre of the middle distance, a pier with white sailboats tied to it, and flag poles with hoisted flags. In the strait is anchored a naval vessel, brig-rigged, with gun ports. But the entire landscape is in winter dress, with snow on the ground and on the bare trees.

THE DAUGHTER and THE OFFICER enter.

THE DAUGHTER. Here is peace, and happiness, and leisure. No more toil; every day a holiday; everybody dressed up in their best; dancing and music in the early morning. [To the maids] Why don't you go in and have a dance, girls?

THE MAIDS. We?

THE OFFICER. They are servants, don't you see!

THE DAUGHTER. Of course!—But why is Edith sitting there instead of dancing?

[EDITH buries her face in her hands.

THE OFFICER. Don't question her! She has been sitting there three hours without being asked for a dance.

[Goes into the yellow house on the left.

THE DAUGHTER. What a cruel form of amusement!

THE MOTHER. [In a low-necked dress, enters from the Casino and goes up to EDITH] Why don't you go in as I told you?

EDITH. Because—I cannot throw myself at them. That I am ugly, I know, and I know that nobody wants to dance with me, but I might be spared from being reminded of it.

Begins to play on the piano, the Toccata Con Fuga, Op. 10, by Sebastian Bach.

The waltz music from within is heard faintly at first. Then it grows in strength, as if to compete with the Bach Toccata. EDITH prevails over it and brings it to silence. Dancers appear in the doorway to hear her play. Everybody on the stage stands still and listens reverently.

A NAVAL OFFICER. [Takes ALICE, one of the dancers, around the waist and drags her toward the pier] Come quick!

EDITH breaks off abruptly, rises and stares at the couple with an expression of utter despair; stands as if turned to stone.

Now the front wall of the yellow house disappears, revealing three benches full of schoolboys. Among these THE OFFICER is seen, looking worried and depressed. In front of the boys stands THE TEACHER, bespectacled and holding a piece of chalk in one hand, a rattan cane in the other.

THE TEACHER. [To THE OFFICER] Well, my boy, can you tell me what twice two makes?

THE OFFICER remains seated while he racks his mind without finding an answer.

THE TEACHER. You must rise when I ask you a question.

THE OFFICER. [Harassed, rises] Two—twice—let me see. That makes two-two.

THE TEACHER. I see! You have not studied your lesson.

THE OFFICER. [Ashamed] Yes, I have, but—I know the answer, but I cannot tell it——

THE TEACHER. You want to wriggle out of it, of course. You know it, but you cannot tell. Perhaps I may help you.

[Pulls his hair.

THE OFFICER. Oh, it is dreadful, it is dreadful!

THE TEACHER. Yes, it is dreadful that such a big boy lacks all ambition——

THE OFFICER. [Hurt] Big boy—yes, I am big—bigger than all these others—I am full-grown, I am done with school—[As if waking up] I have graduated—why am I then sitting here? Have I not received my doctor's degree?

THE TEACHER. Certainly, but you are to sit here and mature, you know. You have to mature—isn't that so?

THE OFFICER. [Feels his forehead] Yes, that is right, one must mature—Twice two—makes two—and this I can demonstrate by analogy, which is the highest form of all reasoning. Listen!—Once one makes one; consequently twice two must make two. For what applies in one case must also apply in another.

THE TEACHER. Your conclusion is based on good logic, but your answer is wrong.

THE OFFICER. What is logical cannot be wrong. Let us test it. One divided by one gives one, so that two divided by two must give two.

THE TEACHER. Correct according to analogy. But how much does once three make?

THE OFFICER. Three, of course.

THE TEACHER. Consequently twice three must also make three.

THE OFFICER. [Pondering] No, that cannot be right—it cannot—or else—[Sits down dejectedly] No, I am not mature yet.

THE TEACHER. No, indeed, you are far from mature.

THE OFFICER. But how long am I to sit here, then?

THE TEACHER. Here—how long? Do you believe that time and space exist?—Suppose that time does exist, then you should be able to say what time is. What is time?

THE OFFICER. Time—[Thinks] I cannot tell, but I know what it is. Consequently I may also know what twice two is without being able to tell it. And, teacher, can you tell what time is?

THE TEACHER. Of course I can.

ALL THE BOYS. Tell us then!

THE TEACHER. Time—let me see. [Stands immovable until one finger on his nose] While we are talking, time flies. Consequently time is something that flies while we talk.

A BOY. [Rising] Now you are talking, teacher, and while you are talking, I fly: consequently I am time. [Runs out.

THE TEACHER. That accords completely with the laws of logic.

THE OFFICER. Then the laws of logic are silly, for Nils who ran away, cannot be time.

THE TEACHER. That is also good logic, although it is silly.

THE OFFICER. Then logic itself is silly.

THE TEACHER. So it seems. But if logic is silly, then all the world is silly—and then the devil himself wouldn't stay here to teach you more silliness. If anybody treats me to a drink, we'll go and take a bath.

THE OFFICER. That is a posterus prius, or the world turned upside down, for it is customary to bathe first and have the drink afterward. Old fogy!

THE TEACHER. Beware of a swelled head, doctor!

THE OFFICER. Call me captain, if you please. I am an officer, and I cannot understand why I should be sitting here to get scolded like a schoolboy——

THE TEACHER. [With raised index finger] We were to mature!

MASTER OF Q. [Enters] The quarantine begins.

THE OFFICER. Oh, there you are. Just think of it, this fellow makes me sit among the boys although I am graduated.

MASTER OF Q. Well, why don't you go away?

THE OFFICER. Heaven knows!—Go away? Why, that is no easy thing to do.

THE TEACHER. I guess not—just try!

THE OFFICER. [To MASTER OF QUARANTINE] Save me! Save me from his eye!

MASTER OF Q. Come on. Come and help us dance—We have to dance before the plague breaks out. We must!

THE OFFICER. Is the brig leaving?

MASTER OF Q. Yes, first of all the brig must leave—Then there will be a lot of tears shed, of course.

THE OFFICER. Always tears: when she comes and when she goes—Let us get out of here.

They go out. THE TEACHER continues his lesson in silence.

THE MAIDS that were staring through the window of the dance hall walk sadly down to the pier. EDITH, who has been standing like a statue at the piano, follows them.

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE OFFICER] Is there not one happy person to be found in this paradise?

THE OFFICER. Yes, there is a newly married couple. Just watch them.

THE NEWLY MARRIED COUPLE enter.

HUSBAND. [To his WIFE] My joy has no limits, and I could now wish to die——

WIFE. Why die?

HUSBAND. Because at the heart of happiness grows the seed of disaster. Happiness devours itself like a flame—it cannot burn for ever, but must go out some time. And this presentiment of the coming end destroys joy in the very hour of its culmination.

WIFE. Let us then die together—this moment!

HUSBAND. Die? All right! For I fear happiness—that cheat! [They go toward the water.

THE DAUGHTER. Life is evil! Men are to be pitied!

THE OFFICER. Look at this fellow. He is the most envied mortal in this neighbourhood.

THE BLIND MAN is led in.

THE OFFICER. He is the owner of these hundred or more Italian villas. He owns all these bays, straits, shores, forests, together with the fishes in the water, the birds in the air, the game in the woods. These thousand or more people are his tenants. The sun rises upon his sea and sets upon his land——

THE DAUGHTER. Well—is he complaining also?

THE OFFICER. Yes, and with right, for he cannot see.

MASTER OF Q. He is blind.

THE DAUGHTER. The most envied of all!

THE OFFICER. Now he has come to see the brig depart with his son on board.

THE BLIND MAN. I cannot see, but I hear. I hear the anchor bill claw the clay bottom as when the hook is torn out of a fish and brings up the heart with it through the neck—My son, my only child, is going to journey across the wide sea to foreign lands, and I can follow him only in my thought! Now I hear the clanking of the chain—and—there is something that snaps and cracks like clothes drying on a line—wet handkerchiefs perhaps. And I hear it blubber and snivel as when people are weeping—maybe the splashing of the wavelets among the seines—or maybe girls along the shore, deserted and disconsolate—Once I asked a child why the ocean is salt, and the child, which had a father on a long trip across the high seas, said immediately: the ocean is salt because the sailors shed so many tears into it. And why do the sailors cry so much then?—Because they are always going away, replied the child; and that is why they are always drying their handkerchiefs in the rigging—And why does man weep when he is sad? I asked at last—Because the glass in the eyes must be washed now and then, so that we can see clearly, said the child.

The brig has set sail and is gliding off. The girls along the shore are alternately waving their handkerchiefs and wiping off their tears with them. Then a signal is set on the foremast—a red ball in a white field, meaning "yes." In response to it ALICE waves her handkerchief triumphantly.

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE OFFICER] What is the meaning of that flag?

THE OFFICER. It means "yes." It is the lieutenant's troth—red as the red blood of the arteries, set against the blue cloth of the sky.

THE DAUGHTER. And how does "no" look?

THE OFFICER. It is blue as the spoiled blood in the veins—but look, how jubilant Alice is.

THE DAUGHTER. And how Edith cries.

THE BLIND MAN. Meet and part. Part and meet. That is life. I met his mother. And then she went away from me. He was left to me; and now he goes.

THE DAUGHTER. But he will come back.

THE BLIND MAN. Who is speaking to me? I have heard that voice before—in my dreams; in my youth, when vacation began; in the early years of my marriage, when my child was born. Every time life smiled at me, I heard that voice, like a whisper of the south wind, like a chord of harps from above, like what I feel the angels' greeting must be in the Holy Night——

THE LAWYER enters and goes up to whisper something into THE BLIND MAN's ear.

THE BLIND MAN. Is that so?

THE LAWYER. That's the truth. [Goes to THE DAUGHTER] Now you have seen most of it, but you have not yet tried the worst of it.

THE DAUGHTER. What can that be?

THE LAWYER. Repetition—recurrence. To retrace one's own tracks; to be sent back to the task once finished—come!

THE DAUGHTER. Where?

THE LAWYER. To your duties.

THE DAUGHTER. What does that mean?

THE LAWYER. Everything you dread. Everything you do not want but must. It means to forego, to give up, to do without, to lack—it means everything that is unpleasant, repulsive, painful.

THE DAUGHTER. Are there no pleasant duties?

THE LAWYER. They become pleasant when they are done.

THE DAUGHTER. When they have ceased to exist—Duty is then something unpleasant. What is pleasant then?

THE LAWYER. What is pleasant is sin.

THE DAUGHTER. Sin?

THE LAWYER. Yes, something that has to be punished. If I have had a pleasant day or night, then I suffer infernal pangs and a bad conscience the next day.

THE DAUGHTER. How strange!

THE LAWYER. I wake up in the morning with a headache; and then the repetitions begin, but so that everything becomes perverted. What the night before was pretty, agreeable, witty, is presented by memory in the morning as ugly, distasteful, stupid. Pleasure seems to decay, and all joy goes to pieces. What men call success serves always as a basis for their next failure. My own successes have brought ruin upon me. For men view the fortune of others with an instinctive dread. They regard it unjust that fate should favour any one man, and so they try to restore balance by piling rocks on the road. To have talent is to be in danger of one's life, for then one may easily starve to death!—However, you will have to return to your duties, or I shall bring suit against you, and we shall pass through every court up to the highest—one, two, three!

THE DAUGHTER. Return?—To the iron stove, and the cabbage pot, and the baby clothes——

THE LAWYER. Exactly! We have a big wash to-day, for we must wash all the handkerchiefs——

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, must I do it all over again?

THE LAWYER. All life is nothing but doing things over again. Look at the teacher in there—He received his doctor's degree yesterday, was laurelled and saluted, climbed Parnassus and was embraced by the monarch—and to-day he starts school all over again, asks how much twice two makes, and will continue to do so until his death—However, you must come back to your home!

THE DAUGHTER. I shall rather die!

THE LAWYER. Die?—That is not allowed. First of all, it is a disgrace—so much so that even the dead body is subjected to insults; and secondly, one goes to hell—it is a mortal sin!

THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human!

ALL. Hear!

THE DAUGHTER. I shall not go back with you to humiliation and dirt—I am longing for the heights whence I came—but first the door must be opened so that I may learn the secret—It is my will that the door be opened!

THE LAWYER. Then you must retrace your own steps, cover the road you have already travelled, suffer all annoyances, repetitions, tautologies, recopyings, that a suit will bring with it——

THE DAUGHTER. May it come then—But first I must go into the solitude and the wilderness to recover my own self. We shall meet again! [To THE POET] Follow me.

Cries of anguish are heard from a distance. Woe! Woe! Woe!

THE DAUGHTER. What is that?

THE LAWYER. The lost souls at Foulstrand.

THE DAUGHTER. Why do they wail more loudly than usual to-day?

THE LAWYER. Because the sun is shining here; because here we have music, dancing, youth. And it makes them feel their own sufferings more keenly.

THE DAUGHTER. We must set them free.

THE LAWYER. Try it! Once a liberator appeared, and he was nailed to a cross.

THE DAUGHTER. By whom?

THE LAWYER. By all the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. Who are they?

THE LAWYER. Are you not acquainted with all the right-minded? Then you must learn to know them.

THE DAUGHTER. Were they the ones that prevented your graduation?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I know them!

Curtain.

On the shores of the Mediterranean. To the left, in the foreground, a white wall, and above it branches of an orange tree with ripe fruit on them. In the background, villas and a Casino placed on a terrace. To the right, a huge pile of coal and two wheel-barrows. In the background, to the right, a corner of blue sea.

Two coalheavers, naked to the waist, their faces, hands, and bodies blackened by coal dust, are seated on the wheel-barrows. Their expressions show intense despair.

THE DAUGHTER and THE LAWYER in the background.

THE DAUGHTER. This is paradise!

FIRST COALHEAVER. This is hell!

SECOND COALHEAVER. One hundred and twenty degrees in the shadow.

FIRST HEAVER. Let's have a bath.

SECOND HEAVER. The police won't let us. No bathing here.

FIRST HEAVER. Couldn't we pick some fruit off that tree?

SECOND HEAVER. Then the police would get after us.

FIRST HEAVER. But I cannot do a thing in this heat—I'll just chuck the job——

SECOND HEAVER. Then the police will get you for sure!— [Pause] And you wouldn't have anything to eat anyhow.

FIRST HEAVER. Nothing to eat? We, who work hardest, get least food; and the rich, who do nothing, get most. Might one not—without disregard of truth—assert that this is injustice —What has the daughter of the gods to say about it?

THE DAUGHTER. I can say nothing at all—But tell me, what have you done that makes you so black and your lot so hard?

FIRST HEAVER. What have we done? We have been born of poor and perhaps not very good parents—Maybe we have been punished a couple of times.

THE DAUGHTER. Punished?

FIRST HEAVER. Yes, the unpunished hang out in the Casino up there and dine on eight courses with wine.

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE LAWYER] Can that be true?

THE LAWYER. On the whole, yes.

THE DAUGHTER. You mean to say that every man at some time has deserved to go to prison?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. You, too?

THE LAWYER. Yes.

THE DAUGHTER. Is it true that the poor cannot bathe in the sea?

THE LAWYER. Yes. Not even with their clothes on. None but those who intend to take their own lives escape being fined. And those are said to get a good drubbing at the police station.

THE DAUGHTER. But can they not go outside of the city, out into the country, and bathe there?

THE LAWYER. There is no place for them—all the land is fenced in.

THE DAUGHTER. But I mean in the free, open country.

THE LAWYER. There is no such thing—it all belongs to somebody.

THE DAUGHTER. Even the sea, the great, vast sea——

THE LAWYER. Even that! You cannot sail the sea in a boat and land anywhere without having it put down in writing and charged for. It is lovely!

THE DAUGHTER. This is not paradise.

THE LAWYER. I should say not!

THE DAUGHTER. Why don't men do something to improve their lot?

THE LAWYER. Oh, they try, of course, but all the improvers end in prison or in the madhouse——

THE DAUGHTER. Who puts them in prison?

THE LAWYER. All the right-minded, all the respectable——

THE DAUGHTER. Who sends them to the madhouse?

THE LAWYER. Their own despair when they grasp the hopelessness of their efforts.

THE DAUGHTER. Has the thought not occurred to anybody, that for secret reasons it must be as it is?

THE LAWYER. Yes, those who are well off always think so.

THE DAUGHTER. That it is all right as it is?

FIRST HEAVER. And yet we are the foundations of society. If the coal is not unloaded, then there will be no fire in the kitchen stove, in the parlour grate, or in the factory furnace; then the light will go out in streets and shops and homes; then darkness and cold will descend upon you—and, therefore, we have to sweat as in hell so that the black coals may be had—And what do you do for us in return?

THE LAWYER. [To THE DAUGHTER] Help them!—[Pause] That conditions cannot be quite the same for everybody, I understand, but why should they differ so widely?

A GENTLEMAN and A LADY pass across the stage.

THE LADY. Will you come and play a game with us?

THE GENTLEMAN. No, I must take a walk, so I can eat something for dinner.

FIRST HEAVER. So that he can eat something?

SECOND HEAVER. So that he can——?

Children enter and cry with horror when they catch sight of the grimy workers.

FIRST HEAVER. They cry when they see us. They cry——

SECOND HEAVER. Damn it all!—I guess we'll have to pull out the scaffolds soon and begin to operate on this rotten body——

FIRST HEAVER. Damn it, I say, too! [Spits.

THE LAWYER. [To THE DAUGHTER] Yes, it is all wrong. And men are not so very bad—but——

THE DAUGHTER. But——

THE LAWYER. But the government——

THE DAUGHTER. [Goes out, hiding her face in her hands] This is not paradise.

COALHEAVERS. No, hell, that's what it is!

Curtain.

Fingal's Cave. Long green waves are rolling slowly into the cave. In the foreground, a siren buoy is swaying to and fro in time with the waves, but without sounding except at the indicated moment. Music of the winds. Music of the waves.

THE DAUGHTER and THE POET.

THE POET. Where are you leading me?

THE DAUGHTER. Far away from the noise and lament of the man-children, to the utmost end of the ocean, to the cave that we name Indra's Ear because it is the place where the king of the heavens is said to listen to the complaints of the mortals.

THE POET. What? In this place?

THE DAUGHTER. Do you see how this cave is built like a shell? Yes, you can see it. Do you know that your ear, too, is built in the form of a shell? You know it, but have not thought of it. [She picks up a shell from the beach] Have you not as a child held such a shell to your ear and listened—and heard the ripple of your heart-blood, the humming of your thoughts in the brain, the snapping of a thousand little worn-out threads in the tissues of your body? All that you hear in this small shell. Imagine then what may be heard in this larger one!

THE POET. [Listening] I hear nothing but the whispering of the wind.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall interpret it for you. Listen. The wail of the winds. [Recites to subdued music:

Born beneath the clouds of heaven, Driven we were by the lightnings of Indra Down to the sand-covered earth. Straw from the harvested fields soiled our feet; Dust from the high-roads, Smoke from the cities, Foul-smelling breaths, Fumes from cellars and kitchens, All we endured. Then to the open sea we fled, Filling our lungs with air, Shaking our wings, And laving our feet. Indra, Lord of the Heavens, Hear us! Hear our sighing! Unclean is the earth; Evil is life; Neither good nor bad Can men be deemed. As they can, they live, One day at a time. Sons of dust, through dust they journey; Born out of dust, to dust they return. Given they were, for trudging, Feet, not wings for flying. Dusty they grow— Lies the fault then with them, Or with Thee?

THE POET. Thus I heard it once——

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! The winds are still singing.

[Recites to subdued music:

We, winds that wander, We, the air's offspring, Bear with us men's lament. Heard us you have During gloom-filled Fall nights, In chimneys and pipes, In key-holes and door cracks, When the rain wept on the roof: Heard us you have In the snowclad pine woods Midst wintry gloom: Heard us you have, Crooning and moaning In ropes and rigging On the high-heaving sea. It was we, the winds, Offspring of the air, Who learned how to grieve Within human breasts Through which we passed— In sick-rooms, on battle-fields, But mostly where the newborn Whimpered and wailed At the pain of living. We, we, the winds, We are whining and whistling: Woe! Woe! Woe!

THE POET. It seems to me that I have already——

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! Now the waves are singing.

[Recites to subdued music:

We, we waves, That are rocking the winds To rest— Green cradles, we waves! Wet are we, and salty; Leap like flames of fire— Wet flames are we: Burning, extinguishing; Cleansing, replenishing; Bearing, engendering. We, we waves, That are rocking the winds To rest!

THE DAUGHTER. False waves and faithless! Everything on earth that is not burned, is drowned—by the waves. Look at this. [Pointing to pile of debris] See what the sea has taken and spoiled! Nothing but the figure-heads remain of the sunken ships—and the names: Justice, Friendship, Golden Peace, Hope—this is all that is left of Hope—of fickle Hope—Railings, tholes, bails! And lo: the life buoy—which saved itself and let distressed men perish.

THE POET. [Searching in the pile] Here is the name-board of the ship Justice. That was the one which left Fairhaven with the Blind Man's son on board. It is lost then! And with it are gone the lover of Alice, the hopeless love of Edith.

THE DAUGHTER. The Blind Man? Fairhaven? I must have been dreaming of them. And the lover of Alice, "Plain" Edith, Foulstrand and the Quarantine, sulphur and carbolic acid, the graduation in the church, the Lawyer's office, the passageway and Victoria, the Growing Castle and the Officer—All this I have been dreaming——

THE POET. It was in one of my poems.

THE DAUGHTER. You know then what poetry is——

THE POET. I know then what dreaming is—But what is poetry?

THE DAUGHTER. Not reality, but more than reality—not dreaming, but daylight dreams——

THE POET. And the man-children think that we poets are only playing—that we invent and make believe.

THE DAUGHTER. And fortunate it is, my friend, for otherwise the world would lie fallow for lack of ministration. Everybody would be stretched on his back, staring into the sky. Nobody would be touching plough or spade, hammer or plane.

THE POET. And you say this, Indra's daughter, you who belong in part up there——

THE DAUGHTER. You do right in reproaching me. Too long have I stayed down here taking mud baths like you—My thoughts have lost their power of flight; there is clay on their wings—mire on their feet—and I myself—[raising her arms] I sink, I sink—Help me, father, Lord of the Heavens! [Silence] I can no longer hear his answer. The ether no longer carries the sound from his lips to my ear's shell the silvery thread has snapped—Woe is me, I am earthbound!

THE POET. Do you mean to ascend—soon?

THE DAUGHTER. As soon as I have consigned this mortal shape to the flames—for even the waters of the ocean cannot cleanse me. Why do you question me thus?

THE POET. Because I have a prayer——

THE DAUGHTER. What kind of prayer?

THE POET. A written supplication from humanity to the ruler of the universe, formulated by a dreamer.

THE DAUGHTER. To be presented by whom?

THE POET. By Indra's daughter.

THE DAUGHTER. Can you repeat what you have written?

THE POET. I can.

THE DAUGHTER. Speak it then.

THE POET. Better that you do it.

THE DAUGHTER. Where can I read it?

THE POET. In my mind—or here.

[Hands her a roll of paper.

THE DAUGHTER. [Receives the roll, but reads without looking at it] Well, by me it shall be spoken then:

"Why must you be born in anguish? Why, O man-child, must you always Wring your mother's heart with torture When you bring her joy maternal, Highest happiness yet known? Why to life must you awaken, Why to light give natal greeting, With a cry of anger and of pain? Why not meet it smiling, man-child, When the gift of life is counted In itself a boon unmatched? Why like beasts should we be coming, We of race divine and human? Better garment craves the spirit Than one made of filth and blood! Need a god his teeth be changing——" —Silence, rash one! Is it seemly For the work to blame its maker? No one yet has solved life's riddle. "Thus begins the human journey O'er a road of thorns and thistles; If a beaten path be offered. It is named at once forbidden; If a flower you covet, straightway You are told it is another's; If a field should bar your progress, And you dare to break across it, You destroy your neighbour's harvest; Others then your own will trample, That the measure may be evened! Every moment of enjoyment Brings to some one else a sorrow, But your sorrow gladdens no one, For from sorrow naught but sorrow springs. "Thus you journey till you die, And your death brings others' bread." —Is it thus that you approach, Son of Dust, the One Most High?

THE POET.

Could the son of dust discover Words so pure and bright and simple That to heaven they might ascend——? Child of gods, wilt thou interpret Mankind's grievance in some language That immortals understand?

THE DAUGHTER. I will.

THE POET. [Pointing to the buoy] What is that floating there?—A buoy?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes.

THE POET. It looks like a lung with a windpipe.

THE DAUGHTER. It is the watchman of the seas. When danger is abroad, it sings.

THE POET. It seems to me as if the sea were rising and the waves growing larger——

THE DAUGHTER. Not unlikely.

THE POET. Woe! What do I see? A ship bearing down upon the reef.

THE DAUGHTER. What ship can that be?

THE POET. The ghost ship of the seas, I think.

THE DAUGHTER. What ship is that?

THE POET. The Flying Dutchman.

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, that one. Why is he punished so hard, and why does he not seek harbour?

THE POET. Because he had seven faithless wives.

THE DAUGHTER. And for this he should be punished?

THE POET. Yes, all the right-minded condemned him——

THE DAUGHTER. Strange world, this!—How can he then be freed from his curse?

THE POET. Freed?—Oh, they take good care that none is set free.

THE DAUGHTER. Why?

THE POET. Because—No, it is not the Dutchman! It is an ordinary ship in distress. Why does not the buoy cry out now? Look, how the sea is rising—how high the waves are—soon we shall be unable to get out of the cave! Now the ship's bell is ringing—Soon we shall have another figure-head. Cry out, buoy! Do your duty, watchman! [The buoy sounds a four-voice chord of fifths and sixths, reminding one of fog horns] The crew is signalling to us—but we are doomed ourselves.

THE DAUGHTER. Do you not wish to be set free?

THE POET. Yes, of course—of course, I wish it—but not just now, and not by water.

THE CREW. [Sings in quartet] Christ Kyrie!

THE POET. Now they are crying aloud, and so is the sea, but no one gives ear.

THE CREW. [As before] Christ Kyrie!

THE DAUGHTER. Who is coming there?

THE POET. Walking on the waters? There is only one who does that—and it is not Peter, the Rock, for he sank like a stone——

A white light is seen shining over the water at some distance.

THE CREW. Christ Kyrie!

THE DAUGHTER. Can this be He?

THE POET. It is He, the crucified——

THE DAUGHTER. Why—tell me—why was He crucified?

THE POET. Because He wanted to set free——

THE DAUGHTER. Who was it—I have forgotten—that crucified Him?

THE POET. All the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. What a strange world!

THE POET. The sea is rising. Darkness is closing in upon us. The storm is growing——

[THE CREW set up a wild outcry.

THE POET. The crew scream with horror at the sight of their Saviour—and now—they are leaping overboard for fear of the Redeemer——

[THE CREW utter another cry.

THE POET. Now they are crying because they must die. Crying when they are born, and crying when they pass away!

[The rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the cave.

THE DAUGHTER. If I could only be sure that it is a ship——

THE POET. Really—I don't think it is a ship—It is a two-storied house with trees in front of it—and—a telephone tower—a tower that reaches up into the skies—It is the modern Tower of Babel sending wires to the upper regions—to communicate with those above——

THE DAUGHTER. Child, the human thought needs no wires to make a way for itself—the prayers of the pious penetrate the universe. It cannot be a Tower of Babel, for if you want to assail the heavens, you must do so with prayer.

THE POET. No, it is no house—no telephone tower—don't you see?

THE DAUGHTER. What are you seeing?

THE POET. I see an open space covered with snow—a drill ground—The winter sun is shining from behind a church on a hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow—Now a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds. They march up along the tower, up the spire. Now they have reached the cross, but I have a feeling that the first one who steps on the gilded weathercock at the top must die. Now they are near it—a corporal is leading them—ha-ha! There comes a cloud sweeping across the open space, and right in front of the sun, of course—now everything is gone—the water in the cloud put out the sun's fire!—The light of the sun created the shadow picture of the tower, but the shadow picture of the cloud swallowed the shadow picture of the tower——

While THE POET is still speaking, the stage is changed and shows once more the passageway outside the opera-house.

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE PORTRESS] Has the Lord Chancellor arrived yet?

THE PORTRESS. No.

THE DAUGHTER. And the Deans of the Faculties?

THE PORTRESS. No.

THE DAUGHTER. Call them at once, then, for the door is to be opened——

THE PORTRESS. Is it so very pressing?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is. For there is a suspicion that the solution of the world-riddle may be hidden behind it. Call the Lord Chancellor, and the Deans of the Four Faculties also.

[THE PORTRESS blows in a whistle.

THE DAUGHTER. And do not forget the Glazier and his diamond, for without them nothing can be done.

STAGE PEOPLE enter from the left as in the earlier scene.

THE OFFICER. [Enters from the background, in Prince Albert and high hat, with a bunch of roses in his hand, looking radiantly happy] Victoria!

THE PORTRESS. The young lady will be coming in a moment.

THE OFFICER. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table is set, the wine is on ice—Permit me to embrace you, madam! [Embraces THE PORTRESS] Victoria!

A WOMAN'S VOICE FROM ABOVE. [Sings] I am here!

THE OFFICER. [Begins to walk to and fro] Good! I am waiting.

THE POET. It seems to me that all this has happened before——

THE DAUGHTER. So it seems to me also.

THE POET. Perhaps I have dreamt it.

THE DAUGHTER. Or put it in a poem, perhaps.

THE POET. Or put it in a poem.

THE DAUGHTER. Then you know what poetry is.

THE POET. Then I know what dreaming is.

THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that we have said all this to each other before, in some other place.

THE POET. Then you may soon figure out what reality is.

THE DAUGHTER. Or dreaming!

THE POET. Or poetry!

Enter the LORD CHANCELLOR and the DEANS of the THEOLOGICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, MEDICAL, and LEGAL FACULTIES.

LORD CHANCELLOR. It is about the opening of that door, of course—What does the Dean of the Theological Faculty think of it?

DEAN OF THEOLOGY. I do not think—I believe—Credo——

DEAN OF PHILOSOPHY. I hold——

DEAN OF MEDICINE. I know——

DEAN OF JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt until I have evidence and witnesses.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Now they are fighting again!—Well, what does Theology believe?

THEOLOGY. I believe that this door must not be opened, because it hides dangerous truths——

PHILOSOPHY. Truth is never dangerous.

MEDICINE. What is truth?

JURISPRUDENCE. What can be proved by two witnesses.

THEOLOGY. Anything can be proved by two false witnesses—thinks the pettifogger.

PHILOSOPHY. Truth is wisdom, and wisdom, knowledge, is philosophy itself—Philosophy is the science of sciences, the knowledge of knowing, and all other sciences are its servants.

MEDICINE. Natural science is the only true science—and philosophy is no science at all. It is nothing but empty speculation.

THEOLOGY. Good!

PHILOSOPHY. [To THEOLOGY] Good, you say! And what are you, then? You are the arch-enemy of all knowledge; you are the very antithesis of knowledge; you are ignorance and obscuration——

MEDICINE. Good!

THEOLOGY. [To MEDICINE] You cry "good," you, who cannot see beyond the length of your own nose in the magnifying glass; who believes in nothing but your own unreliable senses—in your vision, for instance, which may be far-sighted, near-sighted, blind, purblind, cross-eyed, one-eyed, colour-blind, red-blind, green-blind——

MEDICINE. Idiot!

THEOLOGY. Ass! [They fight.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Peace! One crow does not peck out the other's eye.

PHILOSOPHY. If I had to choose between those two, Theology and Medicine, I should choose—neither!

JURISPRUDENCE. And if I had to sit in judgment on the three of you, I should find—all guilty! You cannot agree on a single point, and you never could. Let us get back to the case in court. What is the opinion of the Lord Chancellor as to this door and its opening?

LORD CHANCELLOR. Opinion? I have no opinion whatever. I am merely appointed by the government to see that you don't break each other's arms and legs in the Council—while you are educating the young! Opinion? Why, I take mighty good care to avoid everything of the kind. Once I had one or two, but they were refuted at once. Opinions are always refuted—by their opponents, of course—But perhaps we might open the door now, even with the risk of finding some dangerous truths behind it?

JURISPRUDENCE. What is truth? What is truth?

THEOLOGY. I am the truth and the life——

PHILOSOPHY. I am the science of sciences——

MEDICINE. I am the only exact science——

JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt—— [They fight.

THE DAUGHTER. Instructors of the young, take shame!

JURISPRUDENCE. Lord Chancellor, as representative of the government, as head of the corps of instructors, you must prosecute this woman's offence. She has told all of you to take shame, which is an insult; and she has—in a sneering, ironical sense—called you instructors of the young, which is a slanderous speech.

THE DAUGHTER. Poor youth!

JURISPRUDENCE. She pities the young, which is to accuse us. Lord Chancellor, you must prosecute the offence.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, I accuse you—you in a body—of sowing doubt and discord in the minds of the young.

JURISPRUDENCE. Listen to her—she herself is making the young question our authority, and then she charges us with sowing doubt. Is it not a criminal act, I ask all the right-minded?

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Yes, it is criminal.

JURISPRUDENCE. All the right-minded have condemned you. Leave in peace with your lucre, or else——

THE DAUGHTER. My lucre? Or else? What else?

JURISPRUDENCE. Else you will be stoned.

THE POET. Or crucified.

THE DAUGHTER. I leave. Follow me, and you shall learn the riddle.

THE POET. Which riddle?

THE DAUGHTER. What did he mean with "my lucre"?

THE POET. Probably nothing at all. That kind of thing we call talk. He was just talking.

THE DAUGHTER. But it was what hurt me more than anything else!

THE POET. That is why he said it, I suppose—Men are that way.

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Hooray! The door is open.

LORD CHANCELLOR. What was behind the door?

THE GLAZIER. I can see nothing.

LORD CHANCELLOR. He cannot see anything—of course, he cannot! Deans of the Faculties: what was behind that door?

THEOLOGY. Nothing! That is the solution of the world-riddle. In the beginning God created heaven and the earth out of nothing——

PHILOSOPHY. Out of nothing comes nothing.

MEDICINE. Yes, bosh—which is nothing!

JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt. And this is a case of deception. I appeal to all the right-minded.

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE POET] Who are the right-minded?

THE POET. Who can tell? Frequently all the right-minded consist of a single person. To-day it is me and mine; to-morrow it is you and yours. To that position you are appointed—or rather, you appoint yourself to it.

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. We have been deceived.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Who has deceived you?

ALL RIGHT-MINDED. The Daughter!

LORD CHANCELLOR. Will the Daughter please tell us what she meant by having this door opened?

THE DAUGHTER. No, friends. If I did, you would not believe me.

MEDICINE. Why, then, there is nothing there.

THE DAUGHTER. You have said it—but you have not understood.

MEDICINE. It is bosh, what she says!

ALL. Bosh!

THE DAUGHTER. [To THE POET] They are to be pitied.

THE POET. Are you in earnest?

THE DAUGHTER. Always in earnest.

THE POET. Do you think the right-minded are to be pitied also?

THE DAUGHTER. They most of all, perhaps.

THE POET. And the four faculties, too?

THE DAUGHTER. They also, and not the least. Four heads, four minds, and one body. Who made that monster?

ALL. She has not answered!

LORD CHANCELLOR. Stone her then!

THE DAUGHTER. I have answered.

LORD CHANCELLOR. Hear—she answers.

ALL. Stone her! She answers!

THE DAUGHTER. Whether she answer or do not answer, stone her! Come, prophet, and I shall tell you the riddle—but far away from here—out in the desert, where no one can hear us, no one see us, for——

THE LAWYER. [Enters and takes THE DAUGHTER by the arm] Have you forgotten your duties?

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, heavens, no! But I have higher duties.

THE LAWYER. And your child?

THE DAUGHTER. My child—what of it?

THE LAWYER. Your child is crying for you.

THE DAUGHTER. My child! Woe, I am earth-bound! And this pain in my breast, this anguish—what is it?

THE LAWYER. Don't you know?

THE DAUGHTER. No.

THE LAWYER. It is remorse.

THE DAUGHTER. Is that remorse?

THE LAWYER. Yes, and it follows every neglected duty; every pleasure, even the most innocent, if innocent pleasures exist, which seems doubtful; and every suffering inflicted upon one's fellow-beings.

THE DAUGHTER. And there is no remedy?

THE LAWYER. Yes, but only one. It consists in doing your duty at once——

THE DAUGHTER. You look like a demon when you speak that word duty—And when, as in my case, there are two duties to be met?

THE LAWYER. Meet one first, and then the other.

THE DAUGHTER. The highest first—therefore, you look after my child, and I shall do my duty——

THE LAWYER. Your child suffers because it misses you—can you bear to know that a human being is suffering for your sake?

THE DAUGHTER. Now strife has entered my soul—it is rent in two, and the halves are being pulled in opposite directions!

THE LAWYER. Such, you know, are life's little discords.

THE DAUGHTER. Oh, how it is pulling!

THE POET. If you could only know how I have spread sorrow and ruin around me by the exercise of my calling—and note that I say calling, which carries with it the highest duty of all—then you would not even touch my hand.

THE DAUGHTER. What do you mean?

THE POET. I had a father who put his whole hope on me as his only son, destined to continue his enterprise. I ran away from the business college. My father grieved himself to death. My mother wanted me to be religious, and I could not do what she wanted—and she disowned me. I had a friend who assisted me through trying days of need—and that friend acted as a tyrant against those on whose behalf I was speaking and writing. And I had to strike down my friend and benefactor in order to save my soul. Since then I have had no peace. Men call me devoid of honour, infamous—and it does not help that my conscience says, "you have done right," for in the next moment it is saying, "you have done wrong." Such is life.

THE DAUGHTER. Come with me into the desert.

THE LAWYER. Your child!

THE DAUGHTER. [Indicating all those present] Here are my children. By themselves they are good, but if they only come together, then they quarrel and turn into demons—Farewell!

Outside the castle. The same scenery as in the first scene of the first act. But now the ground in front of the castle wall is covered with flowers—blue monk's-hood or aconite. On the roof of the castle, at the very top of its lantern, there is a chrysanthemum bud ready to open. The castle windows are illuminated with candles.

THE DAUGHTER and THE POET.

THE DAUGHTER. The hour is not distant when, with the help of the flames, I shall once more ascend to the ether. It is what you call to die, and what you approach in fear.

THE POET. Fear of the unknown.

THE DAUGHTER. Which is known to you.

THE POET. Who knows it?

THE DAUGHTER. All! Why do you not believe your prophets?

THE POET. Prophets have always been disbelieved. Why is that so? And "if God has spoken, why will men not believe then?" His convincing power ought to be irresistible.

THE DAUGHTER. Have you always doubted?

THE POET. No. I have had certainty many times. But after a while it passed away, like a dream when you wake up.

THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human!

THE POET. You see and admit it?

THE DAUGHTER. I do.

THE POET. Listen! Was it not Indra that once sent his son down here to receive the complaints of mankind?

THE DAUGHTER. Thus it happened—and how was he received?

THE POET. How did he fill his mission?—to answer with another question.

THE DAUGHTER. And if I may reply with still another—was not man's position bettered by his visit to the earth? Answer truly!

THE POET. Bettered?—Yes, a little. A very little—But instead of asking questions—will you not tell the riddle?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes. But to what use? You will not believe me.

THE POET. In you I shall believe, for I know who you are.

THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall tell! In the morning of the ages, before the sun was shining, Brahma, the divine primal force, let himself be persuaded by Maya, the world-mother, to propagate himself. This meeting of the divine primal matter with the earth-matter was the fall of heaven into sin. Thus the world, existence, mankind, are nothing but a phantom, an appearance, a dream-image——

THE POET. My dream!

THE DAUGHTER. A dream of truth! But in order to free themselves from the earth-matter, the offspring of Brahma seek privation and suffering. There you have suffering as a liberator. But this craving for suffering comes into conflict with the craving for enjoyment, or love—do you now understand what love is, with its utmost joys merged into its utmost sufferings, with its mixture of what is most sweet and most bitter? Can you now grasp what woman is? Woman, through whom sin and death found their way into life?

THE POET. I understand!—And the end?

THE DAUGHTER. You know it: conflict between the pain of enjoyment and the pleasure of suffering—between the pangs of the penitent and the joys of the prodigal——

THE POET. A conflict it is then?

THE DAUGHTER. Conflict between opposites produces energy, as fire and water give the power of steam——

THE POET. But peace? Rest?

THE DAUGHTER. Hush! You must ask no more, and I can no longer answer. The altar is already adorned for the sacrifice—the flowers are standing guard—the candles are lit—there are white sheets in the windows—spruce boughs have been spread in the gateway——

THE POET. And you say this as calmly as if for you suffering did not exist!

THE DAUGHTER. You think so?—I have suffered all your sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations were so much more acute——

THE POET. Relate your sorrow!

THE DAUGHTER. Poet, could you tell yours so that not one word went too far? Could your word at any time approach your thought?

THE POET. No, you are right! To myself I appeared like one struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to my song, I found it mere noise—for this reason, you see, I have always felt ashamed when they praised me.

THE DAUGHTER. And then you ask me—Look me straight in the eye!

THE POET. I cannot bear your glance——

THE DAUGHTER. How could you bear my word then, were I to speak in your tongue?

THE POET. But tell me at least before you go: from what did you suffer most of all down here?

THE DAUGHTER. From—being: to feel my vision weakened by an eye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my bright and buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of fat. You have seen a brain—what roundabout and sneaking paths——

THE POET. Well, that is because all the right-minded think crookedly!

THE DAUGHTER. Malicious, always malicious, all of you!

THE POET. How could one possibly be otherwise?

THE DAUGHTER. First of all I now shake the dust from my feet—the dirt and the clay—

[Takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire.

THE PORTRESS. [Puts her shawl into the fire] Perhaps I may burn my shawl at the same time? [Goes out.

THE OFFICER. [Enters] And I my roses, of which only the thorns are left. [Goes out.

THE BILLPOSTER. [Enters] My bills may go, but never the dipnet! [Goes out.

THE GLAZIER. [Enters] The diamond that opened the door—good-bye! [Goes out.

THE LAWYER. [Enters] The minutes of the great process concerning the pope's beard or the water loss in the sources of the Ganges. [Goes out.

MASTER OF QUARANTINE. [Enters] A small contribution in shape of the black mask that made me a blackamoor against my will! [Goes out.

VICTORIA. [Enters] My beauty, my sorrow! [Goes out.

EDITH. [Enters] My plainness, my sorrow! [Goes out.

THE BLIND MAN. [Enters; puts his hand into the fire] I give my hand for my eye. [Goes out.

DON JUAN in his wheel chair; SHE and THE FRIEND.

DON JUAN. Hurry up! Hurry up! Life is short!

[Leaves with the other two.

THE POET. I have read that when the end of life draws near, everything and everybody rushes by in continuous review—Is this the end?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is my end. Farewell!

THE POET. Give us a parting word.

THE DAUGHTER. No, I cannot. Do you believe that your words can express our thoughts?

DEAN OF THEOLOGY. [Enters in a rage] I am cast off by God and persecuted by man; I am deserted by the government and scorned by my colleagues! How am I to believe when nobody else believes? How am I to defend a god that does not defend his own? Bosh, that's what it is!

[Throws a book on the fire and goes out.

THE POET. [Snatches the book out of the fire] Do you know what it is? A martyrology, a calendar with a martyr for each day of the year.

THE DAUGHTER. Martyr?

THE POET. Yes, one that has been tortured and killed on account of his faith! Tell me why?—Do you think that all who are tortured suffer, and that all who are killed feel pain? Suffering is said to be salvation, and death a liberation.

CHRISTINE. [With slips of paper] I paste, I paste until there is nothing more to paste——

THE POET. And if heaven should split in twain, you would try to paste it together—Away!

CHRISTINE. Are there no double windows in this castle?

THE POET. Not one, I tell you.

CHRISTINE. Well, then I'll go. [Goes out.

THE DAUGHTER.

The parting hour has come, the end draws near. And now farewell, thou dreaming child of man, Thou singer, who alone knows how to live! When from thy winged flight above the earth At times thou sweepest downward to the dust, It is to touch it only, not to stay! And as I go—how, in the parting hour, As one must leave for e'er a friend, a place, The heart with longing swells for what one loves, And with regret for all wherein one failed! O, now the pangs of life in all their force I feel: I know at last the lot of man Regretfully one views what once was scorned; For sins one never sinned remorse is felt; To stay one craves, but equally to leave: As if to horses tied that pull apart, One's heart is split in twain, one's feelings rent, By indecision, contrast, and discord. Farewell! To all thy fellow-men make known That where I go I shall forget them not; And in thy name their grievance shall be placed Before the throne. Farewell!

She goes into the castle. Music is heard. The background is lit up by the burning castle and reveals a wall of human faces, questioning, grieving, despairing. As the castle breaks into flames, the bud on the roof opens into a gigantic chrysanthemum flower.

Curtain.

THE LINK

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT

1877

CHARACTERS

THE JUDGE, 27 years THE PASTOR, 60 years THE BARON, 42 years THE BARONESS, 40 years ALEXANDER EKLUND } EMMANUEL WICKBERG } CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG } ERIC OTTO BOMAN } ÄRENFRID SÖDERBERG } OLOF ANDERSSON OF WIK } Jurors CARL PETER ANDERSSON OF BERGA } ALEX WALLIN } ANDERS ERIC RUTH } SWEN OSCAR ERLIN } AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS } LUDWIG ÖSTMAN } THE CLERK OF THE COURT THE SHERIFF THE CONSTABLE THE LAWYER ALEXANDERSSON, a farmer ALMA JONSSON, a servant girl THE MILKMAID THE FARM HAND SPECTATORS

A court-room. Door and windows in the background. Through the windows are seen the churchyard and the bell-tower. Door on the right. On the left, the desk of the judge on a platform. The front side of the desk is decorated in gold, with the judicial emblems of the sword and the scales. On both sides of the desk are placed chairs and small tables for the twelve jurors. In the centre of the room, benches for the spectators. Along the sides of the room are cupboards built into the walls. On the doors of these are posted court notices and schedules of market tolls.

SCENE I

THE SHERIFF and THE CONSTABLE

THE SHERIFF. Did you ever see such a lot of people at the summer sessions before?

THE CONSTABLE. Not in fifteen years, or since we had the big murder at Alder Lake.

SHERIFF. Well, this story here is almost as good as a double parricide. That the Baron and the Baroness are going to separate is scandal enough, but when on top of it the families take to wrangling about properties and estates, then it's easy to see that there's going to be a hot time. The only thing wanting now is that they get to fighting over the child, too, and then King Solomon himself can't tell what's right.

CONSTABLE. What is there behind this case anyhow? Some say this and some say that, but the blame ought to rest on somebody?

SHERIFF. I don't know about that. Sometimes it is nobody's fault when two quarrel, and then again one alone is to blame for the quarrel of two. Now take my old shrew, for instance, she's running around at home scolding for dear life all by herself when I am away, they tell me. Besides, this is not just a quarrel, but a full-fledged criminal case, and in most such one party is complainant, or the one that has been wronged, and the other is defendant, or the one that has committed the crime. But in this case it is not easy to tell who is guilty, for both parties are at once complainants and defendants.

CONSTABLE. Well, well, queer things do happen these days. It's as if the women had gone crazy. My old one has spells when she says that I should bear children also, if there was any justice in things—just as if the Lord didn't know how he made his own creatures. And then I get long rigmaroles about her being human also, just as if I didn't know that before, or had said anything to the contrary; and of her being tired of acting as my servant girl, when, for a fact, I am not much better than her hired man.

SHERIFF. So-o. So you have got that kind of plague in your house too. Mine reads a paper she gets at the manor, and then she tells me as something wonderful, one day, that some farmer's lass has turned mason, and the next that an old woman has set upon and beaten her sick husband. I cannot quite get at what's the meaning of it all, but it looks most as if she was mad at me for being a man.

CONSTABLE. Mighty queer, that's what it is. [Offers snuff] Fine weather we're having. The rye is standing as thick as the hairs in a fox fell, and we got over the black frosts without a hitch.

SHERIFF. There is nothing of mine growing, and good years are bad for me: no executions and no auctions. Do you know anything about the new judge who is going to hold court to-day?

CONSTABLE. Not much, but I understand he's a youngster who has just got his appointment and is going to sit for the first time now——

SHERIFF. And they say he is religious. Hm!

CONSTABLE. Hm-hm!—They're taking an awful time over the church services this year.

SHERIFF. [Puts a big Bible on the judge's desk and a smaller one on each one of the jurors' tables] It cannot be long till they're done now, for they have been at it most of an hour.

CONSTABLE. He's a wonder at preaching, is the Pastor, once he gets going. [Pause] Are the parties to put in a personal appearance?

SHERIFF. Both of them, so I guess we'll have some scrapping— [The bell in the tower begins to ring] There, now they're done—Just give the tables a wiping, and I think we are ready to start.

CONSTABLE. And there's ink in all the wells?

SCENE II

The BARON and the BARONESS enter.

BARON. [In a low voice to the BARONESS] Then, before we part for a year, we are perfectly agreed on all points. First, no recriminations in court?

BARONESS. Do you think I would care to lay open the intimate details of our common life before a lot of curious peasants?

BARON. So much the better! And further: you keep the child during the year of separation, provided it may visit me when I so desire, and provided it is educated in accordance with the principles laid down by me and approved by you?

BARONESS. Exactly!

BARON. And out of the income from the estate I give you three thousand crowns during the year of separation?

BARONESS. Agreed.

BARON. Then I have nothing more to add, but ask only to bid you good-bye. Why we part is known only to you and me, and for the sake of our son no one else must know it. But for his sake I beg you also: start no fight, lest we be goaded into soiling the names of his parents. It is more than likely, anyhow, that life in its cruelty will make him suffer for our divorce.

BARONESS. I don't care to fight as long as I may keep my child.

BARON. Let us then concentrate our attention on the child's welfare and forget what has happened between us. And remember another thing: if we fight about the child and question each other's fitness to take care of it, the judge may take it away from both of us and put it with some of those religious people who will bring it up in hatred and contempt for its parents.

BARONESS. That's impossible!

BARON. Such, my dear, is the law.

BARONESS. It is a stupid law.

BARON. Maybe, but it holds; and for you no less than for others.

BARONESS. It is unnatural! And I should never submit to it.

BARON. You don't have to, as we have decided to raise no objections against each other. We have never agreed before, but on this one point we are at one, are we not: to part without any kind of hostility? [To the SHERIFF] Could the Baroness be permitted to wait in that room over there?

SHERIFF. Certainly, walk right in.

The BARON escorts the BARONESS to the door on the right and leaves then himself through the door in the background.

SCENE III

The SHERIFF. The CONSTABLE. The LAWYER. ALMA JONSSON. The MILKMAID. The FARM HAND.

LAWYER. [To ALMA JONSSON] Look here, my girl: that you have stolen, I don't doubt for a moment; but as your master has no witnesses to it, you are not guilty. But as your master has called you a thief in the presence of two witnesses, he is guilty of slander. And now you are complainant and he defendant. Remember this one thing: the first duty of a criminal is—to deny!

ALMA JONSSON. But please, sir, didn't you just say I was no criminal, and master was?

LAWYER. You are a criminal because you have committed a theft, but as you have called for a lawyer, it is my unmistakable duty to clear you and convict your master. Therefore, and for the last time: deny! [To the witnesses] And as to the witnesses, what are they going to testify? Listen: a good witness sticks to the case. Now you must bear in mind that the question is not whether Alma has stolen anything or not, but only whether Alexandersson said that she had stolen. For, mark you, he has no right to prove his assertions, but we have. Why it should be so, the devil only knows! But that's none of your business. Therefore: keep your tongues straight and your fingers on the Bible!

MILKMAID. Lord, but I'm that scared, for I don't know what I'm going to say!

FARM HAND. You say as I do, and then you won't be lying.

SCENE IV

The JUDGE and the PASTOR enter.

JUDGE. Permit me to thank you for the sermon, Pastor.

PASTOR. Oh, don't mention it, Judge.

JUDGE. Yes—for, as you know, this is my first court. To tell the truth, I have felt some fear of this career, into which I have been thrown almost against my will. For one thing, the laws are so imperfect, the judicial practices so uncertain, and human nature so full of falsehood and dissimulation, that I have often wondered how a judge could dare to express any definite opinion at all. And to-day you have revived all my old fears.

PASTOR. To be conscientious is a duty, of course, but to be sentimental about it won't do. And as everything else on this earth is imperfect, there is no reason why we should expect judges and judgments to be perfect.

JUDGE. That may be, but it does not prevent me from harbouring a sense of tremendous responsibility, as I have men's fates in my hand, and a word spoken by me may show its effects through generations. I am especially thinking of this separation suit started by the Baron and his wife, and I have to ask you—you who have administered the two prescribed warnings before the Vestry Board—what is your view concerning their mutual relations and relative guilt?

PASTOR. In other words, Judge, you would either put me in your own place or base your decision on my testimony. And all I can do is to refer you to the minutes of the board.

JUDGE. Yes, the minutes—I know them. But it is just what does not appear in the minutes that I need to know.

PASTOR. What charges the couple made against each other at the private hearings must be my secret. And besides, how can I know who told the truth and who lied? I have to tell you what I told them: there is no reason why I should believe more in one than in the other.

JUDGE. But were you not able to form some kind of opinion in the matter during the hearings?

PASTOR. When I heard one, I formed one opinion, and another when I was hearing the other. In a word: I have no settled view in this question.

JUDGE. But I am to express a definite view—I, who know nothing at all.

PASTOR. That is the heavy task of the judge, which I could never undertake.

JUDGE. But there are witnesses to be heard? Evidence to be obtained?

PASTOR. No, they are not accusing each other in public. And furthermore: two false witnesses will furnish sufficient proof, and a perjurer will do just as well. Do you think I would base my judgment on servant gossip, on the loose-tongued chatter of envious neighbours, or on the spiteful partisanship of relatives?

JUDGE. You are a terrible sceptic, Pastor.

PASTOR. Well, one gets to be so after sixty, and particularly after having tended souls for forty years. The habit of lying clings like original sin, and I believe that all men lie. As children we lie out of fear; as grown-ups, out of interest, need, instinct for self-preservation; and I have known those who lied out of sheer kindliness. In the present case, and in so far as this married couple is concerned, I fear you will find it very hard to figure out who has told most of the truth, and all I can do is to warn you against being caught in the snares set by preconceived opinions. You were married not long ago yourself, and you are still under the spell of the young woman's witchery. For this reason you may easily become prejudiced in favor of a young and charming lady, who is an unhappy wife and a mother besides. On the other hand, you have also recently become a father, and as such you cannot escape being moved by the impending separation of the father from his child. Beware of sympathy with either side, for sympathy with one is cruelty to the other.

JUDGE. One thing will make my task more easy at least, and that is their mutual agreement on the principal points.

PASTOR. Don't rely too much on that, for it is what they all say. And when they appear in court, the smouldering fire breaks into open flames. In this case a tiny spark will be enough to start a conflagration. Here comes the jury. Well, good-by for a while! I stay, although I shall not be seen.

SCENE V

The TWELVE JURORS enter. The SHERIFF rings a bell from the open doorway in the background. The members of the Court take their seats. SPECTATORS pour into the room.

JUDGE. With a reminder of the provisions in Chapter Eleven, Sections Five, Six, and Eight, of the Criminal Code, as to the peace and order that must be maintained in Court, I hereby declare the proceedings of the Court opened. [Whispers to the CLERK OF THE COURT; then] Will the newly chosen jury please take the oath.

JURORS. [Rise, each one putting the fingers of one hand on the Bible in front of him; then they speak in unison except when their names are being read out]

I, Alexander Eklund; I, Emmanuel Wickberg; I, Carl Johan Sjöberg; I, Eric Otto Boman; I, Ärenfrid Söderberg; I, Olof Andersson of Wik; I, Carl Peter Andersson of Berga; I, Axel Wallin; I, Anders Eric Ruth; I, Swen Oscar Erlin; I, August Alexander Vass; I, Ludwig Östman;

[all at once, keeping time and speaking with low voices in a low pitch] promise and swear by God and His Holy Gospel, that I will and shall, according to my best reason and conscience, judge rightly in all cases, no less for the poor than for the rich, and decide in accordance with the law of God and that of this country, as well as its legal statutes: [in a higher pitch and with raised voices] never tamper with the law or further any wrong, for the sake of either kinship by blood, kinship by marriage, friendship, envy, ill-will, or fear; nor for the sake of bribe or gift or any other cause, under any form whatsoever: and not make him responsible who has no guilt, or set him free who is guilty. [Raising their voices still further] Neither before judgment nor afterward, neither to parties in court nor to others, am I to discover such counsel as may be taken by the Court behind closed doors. All this I will and shall faithfully keep as an honest and upright judge, without fell deceit or design—[Pause] So help God my life and soul!

[The JURORS sit down.

JUDGE. [To the SHERIFF] Call the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer Alexandersson.

SCENE VI

Enter the LAWYER, ALEXANDERSSON, ALMA JONSSON, the MILKMAID, the FARM HAND.

SHERIFF, [Calls out] The servant girl Alma Jonsson and the farmer Alexandersson.

LAWYER. I wish to present my power of attorney for the complainant.

JUDGE. [Examines the submitted document; then] The servant girl Alma Jonsson has had writ served on her former master, Alexandersson, bringing charges under Chapter Sixteen, Section Eight, of the Criminal Code, providing for imprisonment of not more than six months, or a fine, because Alexandersson has called her a thief without supporting his accusation or making legal charges. What have you to say, Alexandersson?

ALEXANDERSSON. I called her a thief because I caught her stealing.

JUDGE. Have you witnesses to her theft?

ALEXANDERSSON. No, as luck would have it, there's no witnesses, for I mostly go about by myself.

JUDGE. Why did you not make a charge against her?

ALEXANDERSSON. Well, I never go to court. And then it isn't the usage among us masters to prosecute household thefts, partly because there are so many of 'em, and partly because we don't like to spoil a servant's whole future.

JUDGE. Alma Jonsson, what have you to say in answer to this?

ALMA JONSSON. Ya-es——

LAWYER. You keep quiet! Alma Jonsson, who is not a defendant in this case, but the complainant, asks to have her witnesses heard in order that she may prove the slander uttered against her by Alexandersson.

JUDGE. As Alexandersson has admitted the slander, I shall ask for no witnesses. On the other hand, it is of importance for me to know whether Alma Jonsson be guilty of the offence mentioned, for if Alexandersson had reasonable grounds for his utterance, this will be held a mitigating circumstance when sentence is passed.

LAWYER. I must take exception to the statement made by the Court, for by Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the Criminal Code, one charged with slander is denied the right to bring evidence as to the truth of his defamation.

JUDGE. Parties, witnesses, and spectators will retire so that the Court may consider the case.

[All go out except the members of the Court.

SCENE VII

The COURT.

JUDGE. Is Alexandersson an honest and reliable man?

ALL THE JURORS. Alexandersson is a reliable man.

JUDGE. Is Alma Jonsson known as an honest servant?

ERIC OTTO BOMAN. I had to discharge Alma Jonsson last year for petty thievery.

JUDGE. And nevertheless I have now to fine Alexandersson. There is no way out of it. Is he poor?

LUDWIG ÖSTMAN. He's behind with his Crown taxes, and his crop failed last year. So I guess the fine will be more than he can carry.

JUDGE. And yet I can find no reason to postpone the case, as it is a clear one, and Alexandersson has no right to prove anything on his side. Has any one here anything to add or object?

ALEXANDER EKLUND. I would just ask leave to make a general reflection. A case like this, where one not only innocent, but offended against, has to take the punishment, while the thief has his so-called honour restored, may easily bring about that people grow less forbearing toward their fellow-men, and that taking cases to court grows more common.

JUDGE. This is quite possible, but general reflections have no place in the proceedings, and the Court has to make a decision. Consequently my one question to the jury is: can Alexandersson be held guilty under Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the Criminal Code?

ALL THE JURORS. Yes.

JUDGE. [To the SHERIFF] Call in the parties and the witnesses.

SCENE VIII

ALL return.

JUDGE. In the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer Alexandersson, Alexandersson is sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred crowns for slander.

ALEXANDERSSON. But I saw her stealing with my own eyes!—That's what one gets for being kind!

LAWYER. [To ALMA JONSSON] What did I tell you! If you only deny, everything is all right. Alexandersson acted like a fool and denied nothing. If I had been his counsel, and he had denied the charge, I should have challenged your witnesses, and there you would have been!—Now we'll go out and settle up this business.

[Goes out with ALMA JONSSON and the witnesses.

ALEXANDERSSON. [To the Sheriff] And perhaps I have now got to give Alma her papers and write down that she has been honest and faithful?

SHERIFF. That's none of my concern!

ALEXANDERSSON. [To the CONSTABLE] And for a thing like this I am to lose house and land! Who'd believe it, that justice means honour for the thief and a flogging for him that's robbed! Damn it!—Come and have a cup of coffee with a stick in it afterward, Öman.

CONSTABLE. I'll come, but don't make a row.

ALEXANDERSSON. Yes, I'll be damned if I don't, even if it should cost me three months!

CONSTABLE. Now please don't make a row—don't make a row!

SCENE IX

The BARON and the BARONESS enter after awhile.

JUDGE. [To the SHERIFF] Call the separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg.

SHERIFF. Separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg.

The BARON and the BARONESS enter.

JUDGE. In the proceedings entered against his wife, Baron Sprengel declares his intention of not continuing the marriage, and requests that, as the warnings of the Vestry Board have proved fruitless, order be issued for a year's separation in bed and board. What objection have you to make to this, Baroness?

BARONESS. To the separation I make no objection at all; if I can only have my child. That is my condition.

JUDGE. The law recognises no conditions in a case like this, and it is for the Court to dispose of the child.

BARONESS. Why, that's very peculiar!

JUDGE. For this reason it is of utmost importance that the Court learn who has caused the dissension leading to this suit. According to appended minutes of the Vestry Board, it appears that the wife has admitted having at times shown a quarrelsome and difficult disposition, while the husband has admitted no fault. Thus, Baroness, you appear to have admitted——

BARONESS. That's a lie!

JUDGE. I find it difficult to believe that the minutes of the Vestry Board, countersigned by the Pastor and eight other trustworthy men, can be inaccurate.

BARONESS. The report is false!

JUDGE. Such remarks cannot be made with impunity before this Court.

BARON. May I call attention to the fact that I have voluntarily surrendered the child to the Baroness on certain conditions?

JUDGE. And I have to repeat once more what I said before, namely, that the case will be decided by the Court and not by the parties to it. Therefore: you deny having caused any dissension, Baroness?

BARONESS. Indeed, I do! And it is not the fault of one that two quarrel.

JUDGE. This is no quarrel, Baroness, but a criminal case; and furthermore, you seem now to be displaying a contentious temperament as well as inconsiderate behaviour.

BARONESS. Then you don't know my husband.

JUDGE. Will you please explain yourself, for I can base no decision on mere insinuations.

BARON. Then I must ask to have the case dismissed, so that I can obtain separation in other ways.

JUDGE. The case is already before the Court and will have to be carried to its conclusion—Baroness, you maintain then that your husband has caused the estrangement. Can this be proved?

BARONESS. Yes, it can be proved.

JUDGE. Please do so then, but bear in mind that it is a question of depriving the Baron of his parental rights and also of his rights to the property.

BARONESS. He has forfeited it many times over, and not the least when he denied me sleep and food.

BARON. I feel compelled to state that I have never refused to let the Baroness sleep. I have merely asked her not to sleep in the afternoon, because thereby the house was neglected and the child left without proper care. As to food, I have always left such matters to my wife, and I have only objected to some extravagant entertainments, as the neglected household could not bear such expenses.

BARONESS. And he has let me lie sick without calling in a physician.

BARON. The Baroness would always be taken sick when she could not have her own way, but that kind of ailment did not last long as a rule. After I had brought a specialist from the city, and he had declared it to be nothing but tricks, I did not judge it necessary to call a physician the next time the Baroness was taken sick—because the new pier-glass cost fifty crowns less than originally intended.

JUDGE. All this is not of such nature that it can be considered when such a serious case has to be decided. There must be some deeper motives.

BARONESS. It ought to be counted a motive that the father will not permit the mother to bring up her own child.

BARON. First of all, the Baroness left the care of the child to a maid, and whenever she tried to assist, things went wrong. Secondly, she tried to bring up the boy as a woman, and not as a man. For instance, she dressed him as a girl until he was four years old; and to this very day, when he is eight years old, he carries his hair long as a girl, is forced to sew and crochet, and plays with dolls; all of which I regard as injurious to the child's normal development into a man. On the other hand, she has amused herself by dressing up the daughters of our tenants as boys, cutting their hair short, and putting them to work on things generally handled by boys. In a word, I took charge of my son's education because I noticed symptoms of mental derangement which before this have led to offences against the Eighteenth Chapter of the Criminal Code.

JUDGE. And yet you are now willing to leave the child in the hands of the mother?

BARON. Yes, for I have never been able to contemplate such a cruelty as to separate mother and child—and also because the mother has promised to mend her ways. And for that matter, I had only promised conditionally, and with the understanding that the law was not to be invoked in the matter. But since we have not been able to keep away from recriminations, I have changed my mind—especially as, from being the complainant, I have been turned into a defendant.

BARONESS. That's the way this man always keeps his promises.

BARON. My promises, like those of other people, have always been conditional, and I have kept them as long as the conditions were observed.

BARONESS. In the same way he had promised me personal freedom within the marriage.

BARON. Naturally with the provision that the laws of decency were kept inviolate; but when all bounds were exceeded, and when ideas of license appeared under the name of freedom, then I regarded my promise as annulled.

BARONESS. And for this reason he tormented me with the most absurd jealousy, and that is generally enough to make a common life unbearable. He even made himself ridiculous to the extent of being jealous of the doctor.

BARON. This alleged jealousy may be reduced to an advice on my part against the employment of a notorious and tattling masseur for an ailment commonly treated by women—unless the Baroness is having in mind the occasion when I showed our steward the door for smoking in my drawing-room and offering cigars to my wife.

BARONESS. AS we have not been able to keep away from scandal-mongering, it is just as well that the whole truth should get out: the Baron has been guilty of adultery. Is not this enough to make him unworthy of bringing up my child alone?

JUDGE. Can you prove this, Baroness?

BARONESS. Yes, I can, and here are letters that show.

JUDGE. [Receiving the letters] How long ago did this happen?

BARONESS. A year ago.

JUDGE. Of course, the time limit for prosecution has already expired, but the fact itself weighs heavily against the husband and may cause him to lose the child entirely as well as a part of the marriage portion. Do you admit the truth of this charge, Baron?

BARON. Yes, with remorse and mortification; but there were circumstances which ought to be held extenuating. I was forced into humiliating celibacy by the calculated coldness of the Baroness, although I, and in all courtesy, asked as a favour, what the law allowed me to demand as a right. I tired of buying her love, she having prostituted our marriage by selling her favours first for power and later for presents and money; and in the end I found myself compelled, with the express consent of the Baroness, to take up an irregular relationship.

JUDGE. Had you given your consent, Baroness?

BARONESS. No, that is not true! I demand proofs!

BARON. It is true, but I cannot prove it, since the only witness, my wife, denies it.

JUDGE. What is unproved need not be untrue, but a com-pact of this kind, trespassing upon prevailing laws, must be held a pactum turpe and invalid in itself. Baron, so far everything is against you.

BARONESS. And as the Baron has confessed his guilt with remorse and shame, I, who have now become complainant instead of defendant, ask that the Court proceed to render a decision, as further details are not needed.

JUDGE. In my capacity as presiding officer of this Court, I wish to hear what the Baron has to say in justification, or at least in palliation.

BARON. I have just admitted the charge of adultery and have advanced as extenuating circumstances, partly that it was the result of pressing need when, after ten years of married life, I suddenly found myself unmarried, and partly that it was done with the consent of the Baroness herself. As I have now come to believe that all this was a trap set to make a case against me, it is my duty, for the sake of my son, to hold back no further——

BARONESS. [Exclaims instinctively] Axel!

BARON. What caused me to break my marital vows was the faithlessness of the Baroness.

JUDGE. Baron, can you prove that the Baroness has been faithless to you?

BARON. No! For I was concerned about the honour of the family, and I destroyed all proofs that I obtained. But I still venture to believe that, in this matter, the Baroness will stand by the confession she once made to me.

JUDGE. Baroness, do you admit this offence as preceding and, therefore, probably causing the lapse of the Baron?

BARONESS. No!

JUDGE. Are you willing to repeat under oath that you are innocent of this charge?

BARONESS. Yes!

BARON. Good heavens! No, she must not do that! No perjury for my sake!

JUDGE. I ask once more: is the Baroness willing to take the oath?

BARONESS. Yes.

BARON. Permit me to suggest that the Baroness just now appears as complainant, and a complaint is not made under oath.

JUDGE. As you have charged her with a criminal offence, she is defendant. What does the Jury hold?

EMMANUEL WICKBERG. As the Baroness is a party to this suit, it seems to me that she can hardly be allowed to testify in her own behalf.

SWEN OSCAR ERLIN. It seems to me that if the Baroness is to testify under oath, then the Baron should also be allowed to do so in the same matter, but as oath may not be put against oath, the whole matter remains in the dark.

AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS. I should say that it is not a question of testifying under oath here, but of taking an oath on one's own innocence.

ANDERS ERIC RUTH. Well, isn't that the question which has to be settled first of all?

AXEL WALLIN. But not in the presence of the parties, as the deliberations of the Court are not public.

CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG. The right of the jury to express itself is not limited or conditioned by secrecy.

JUDGE. Out of so many meanings I can get no guidance. But as the guilt of the Baron can be proved, and that of the Baroness still remains unproved, I must demand that the Baroness take oath on her innocence.

BARONESS. I am ready!

JUDGE. No, wait a moment!—Baron, if you were granted time, would you be able to produce evidence or witnesses in support of your charge?

BARON. This I neither can nor will do, as I am not anxious to see my dishonour made public.

JUDGE. The proceedings of the Court will be adjourned while I consult with the chairman of the Vestry Board.

[Steps down and goes out to the right.

SCENE X

The JURORS confer in low tones among themselves.

The BARON and the BARONESS in the background.

The SPECTATORS form groups and talk.

BARON. [To the BARONESS] You do not shrink from perjuring yourself?

BARONESS. I shrink from nothing when my child is concerned.

BARON. But if I have proofs?

BARONESS. Well, you have not.

BARON. The letters were burned, but certified copies of them are still in existence.

BARONESS. You lie to frighten me!

BARON. To show you how deeply I love my child, and to save the mother at least, as I seem to be lost, you—may have the proofs. But don't be ungrateful.

[Hands her a bundle of letters.

BARONESS. That you are a liar, I knew before, but that you were scoundrel enough to have the letters copied, that I could never have believed.

BARON. That is your thanks! But now both of us are lost.

BARONESS. Yes, let both go down—then there will be an end to the fight——

BARON. Is it better for the child to lose both its parents and be left alone in the world?

BARONESS. That will never occur!

BARON. Your absurd conceit, which makes you think yourself above all laws and above other human beings, has lured you into starting this fight, in which there can be only one loser: our son! What were you thinking of when you began this attack, which could not fail to provoke a defence? Not of the child, I am sure. But of revenge, I suppose? Revenge for what? For my discovery of your guilt?

BARONESS. The child? Were you thinking of the child when you dragged me in the mire before this rabble?

BARON. Helen!—Like wild beasts we have clawed each other bloody. We have laid our disgrace open to all these who take pleasure in our ruin, for in this room we have not a single friend. Our child will after this never be able to speak of his parents as respectable people; he will not be able to start life with a recommendation from father and mother; he will see the home shunned, the old parents isolated and despised, and so the time must come when he will flee us!

BARONESS. What do you want then?

BARON. Let us leave the country after selling the property.

BARONESS. And begin the same squabble all over again! I know what will happen: for a week you will be tame, and then you will abuse me.

BARON. Just think—now they are settling our fate in there. You cannot hope for a good word from the Pastor, whom you have just called a liar; and I, who am known to be no Christian, can expect no mercy either. Oh, I wish I were in the woods, so that I could crawl in under some big roots or put my head under a rock—this is more shame than I can bear!

BARONESS. It is true that the minister hates both of us, and it may happen as you say. Why don't you speak to him?

BARON. Of what? Making up?

BARONESS. Of anything you please, if it only be not too late! Oh, if it should be too late!—What can that man Alexandersson want that makes him prowl about us two all the time? I am afraid of that man!

BARON. Alexandersson is a nice fellow.

BARONESS. Yes, he is nice to you, but not to me—I have observed those glances before—Go and see the Pastor now; but take my hand first—I am scared!

BARON. Of what, dear, of what?

BARONESS. I don't know—Everything, everybody!

BARON. But not of me?

BARONESS. No, not now! It is as if our clothes had been caught in the mill wheels, and we had been dragged into the machinery. What have we been doing? What have we been doing in our anger? How they will enjoy themselves, all these who are now seeing the Baron and the Baroness stripped naked and flogging each other—Oh, I feel as if I were standing here without a rag to cover me.

[She buttons her coat.

BARON. Calm yourself, my dear. It is not exactly the proper place to tell you what I have said before: that there is only one friend and one home—but we might start over again!—Well, heaven knows! No, we cannot do it. You have gone too far. It is all over. And this last—yes, let it be the last! And it had to come after all the rest. No, we are enemies for life! And if I let you go away with the child now, then you might marry again—I see that now. And my child might have a step-father; and I should have to watch another man going about with my wife and child—Or I might myself be going about with somebody else's wench hanging on my arm. No! Either you or I! One of us must be struck down! You or I!

BARONESS. You! For if I let you take the child, you might marry again, and I might have to see another woman taking my place with my own child. The mere thought of it could make me a murderess! A step-mother for my child!