The Dramatic Works of Gerhart Hauptmann, Volume II

_The living room in old BERND'S cottage. The room is fairly large; it has grey walls and an old-fashioned whitewashed ceiling supported by visible beams. A door in the background leads to the kitchen, one at the left to the outer hall. To the right are two small windows. A yellow chest of drawers stands between the two windows; upon it is set an unlit kerosene lamp; a mirror hangs above it on the wall. In the left corner a great stove; in the right a sofa, covered with oil-cloth, a table with a cloth on it and a hanging lamp above it. Over the sofa on the wall hangs a picture with the Biblical subject: "Suffer little children to come unto me"; beneath it a photograph of BERND, showing him as a conscript, and several of himself and his wife. In the foreground, to the left, stands a china closet, filled with painted cups, glasses, etc. A Bible is lying on the chest of drawers; over the door to the hall hangs a chromolithograph of "Christ with the crown of thorns." Mull curtains hang in front of the windows. Each of four or five chairs of yellow wood has its own place. The whole room makes a neat but very chilly impression. Several Bibles and hymnals lie on the china closet. On the door-post of the door to the hall hangs a collecting-box._

_It is seven o'clock in the evening of the same day on which the events in Act Four have taken place. The door that leads to the hall as well as the kitchen door stands open. A gloomy dusk fills the house._

_Voices are heard outside, and a repeated knocking at the window. Thereupon a voice speaks through the window._

THE VOICE

Bernd! Isn't there a soul at home? Let's be goin' to the back door!

_A silence ensues. Soon, however, the back door opens and voices and steps are heard in the hall. In the door that leads to the hall appear KLEINERT and ROSE BERND. The latter is obviously exhausted and leans upon him._

Rose. [_Weak and faint._] No one's at home. 'Tis all dark.

Kleinert. I can't be leavin' you alone this way now!

Rose. An' why not, Kleinert? There's nothin' the matter with me!

Kleinert. Somebody else can believe that--that there's nothin' wrong! I wouldn't ha' had to pick you up in that case!

Rose. Eh, but I'd only gotten a bit dizzy. Truly ... 'tis better now. I really don't need you no more.

Kleinert. No, no, lass; I can't leave you this way!

Rose. Oh, yes, father Kleinert! I do thank you, but 'tis well! There's nothin' wrong with me! I'm on my feet an' strong again! It comes over me that way sometimes; but 'tis nothin' to worry over.

Kleinert. But you lay half dead yonder behind the willow! An' you writhed like a worm.

Rose. Kleinert, go your ways.... I'll be lightin' a light! An' I must light a fire, too ... go your ways ... the folks will be comin' to their supper!... Oh, no, Kleinert, Kleinert! But I'm that tired! Oh, I'm so terrible tired! No one wouldn't believe how tired I am.

Kleinert. An' then you want to be lightin' a fire here? That's nothin' for you! Bed is the place where you ought to be!

Rose. Kleinert, go your ways, go! If father, an' if August ... they mustn't know nothin'! For my sake, go! Don't do nothin' that'll only harm me!

Kleinert. I don't want to do nothin' that'll harm you!

Rose. No, no, I know it! You was always good to me! [_She has arisen from the chair at the right on which, she had sunk down, gets a candle from behind the oven and lights it._] Oh, yes, yes, I'm well off again.--There's nothin' wrong.--You can be easy in your mind.

Kleinert. You're just sayin' that!

Rose. Because 'tis really so!

_MARTHEL comes in from the fields with bare arms and feet._

Rose. An' there's Marthel, too!

Marthel. Rose, is that you? Where have you been all day?

Rose. I dreamed I was at the court.

Kleinert. No, no; she was really at the court! Take a bit o' care o' your sister, Marthel. Look after her at least till your fatter comes back. 'Tisn't well with the girl.

Rose. Marthel, hurry! Light the fire, so's we can start to put on the potatoes.--Where's father?

Marthel. On August's land.

Rose. An' August?

Marthel. I don't know where he is. He was out on the field to-day.

Rose. Have you got new potatoes?

Marthel. I have an apron full!

[_Immediately behind the kitchen door she pours out the potatoes on the floor._

Rose. Fetch me a pan and a saucepan, so's I can begin the peelin'. I can't get nothin' for myself.

Kleinert. D'you want me to be givin' a message anywhere?

Rose. To whom? To the grave-digger, maybe?... No, no, godfather, not on my account. 'Tis a special bit o' ground where I'll find rest.

Kleinert. Well, good-bye!

Rose. Good-bye to you!

Marthel. [_Cheerily._] Come again, godfather!

_KLEINERT as usual with his pipe in his mouth, departs shaking his head._

Marthel. [_Lighting the fire._] Don't you feel well, Rosie?

Rose. Oh, yes; well enough! [_Softly wringing her hands, she speaks to the crucifix._] Jesus, Mary, have mercy on me!

Marthel. Rose!

Rose. What?

Marthel. What's the matter with you?

Nothin'. Bring me a pan an' the potatoes.

Marthel. [_Has started the fire to burning and now brings ROSE an earthenware bowl of potatoes and a paring knife._] Oh, but Rosie, I'm that frightened! You look so ...!

Rose. How does I look? Tell me that? How? Has I got spots on my hands? Is it branded over my eyes? Everythin's kind o' ghastly to me this day. [_Laughing a ghastly laugh._] Lord! I can't see the face o' you! Now I see one hand! Now I see two eyes! Just dots now! Martha, maybe I'm growin' blind!

Marthel. Rosie, did somethin' happen to you?

Rose. God protect you from what's happened to me.... You'd better be wishin' yourself an early death! Because, even if a body dies to this world, they do say that he passes into rest. Then you don't have to live an' draw breath no more.--How did it go with little Kurt Flamm? I've clean forgot ... I'm dizzy ... I'm forgettin' ... I've forgotten everythin' ... life's that hard ... If I could only keep on feelin' this way ... an' never wake up again ...! What's the reason o' such things comin' to pass in this world?

Marthel. [_Frightened._] If only father would come home!

Rose. Martha, come! Listen to me! You mustn't tell father that I was here or that I am here ... Martha, sure you'll promise me that, won't you?... Many a thing I've done for the love o' you ... Martha! You haven't forgotten that, nor you mustn't forget it, even if things grows dark around me now.

Marthel. Will you drink a bit of coffee? There's a drop left in the oven.

Rose. An' don't be frightened! I'll go upstairs in the room an' lie down a wee bit ... just a bit. Otherwise I'm all right ... otherwise there's nothin' that ails me.

Marthel. An' I'm not to say nothin' to father?

Rose. Not a word!

Marthel. An' not to August neither?

Rose. Not a syllable! Lass, you've never known your mother an' I've raised you with fear an' heartache.--Many's the night I've watched through in terror because you was ill! I wasn't as old as you when I carried you about on my arm till I was near breakin' in two! Here you was--at my breast! An' if you go an' betray me now, 'tis all over between us!

Marthel. Rosie, 'tis nothin' bad is it ... nothin' dangerous, I mean?

Rose. I don't believe it is! Come, Martha, help me a bit, support me a bit!... A body is left too lonely in this world ... too deserted! If only a body wasn't so lonely here ... so lonely on this earth!

[_ROSE and MARTHEL pass out through the hall door._

_For some moments the room remains empty. Then old BERND appears in the kitchen. He puts down his basket and the potato hoe and looks about him, earnestly and inquiringly. Meanwhile MARTHEL re-enters the living-room from the hall._

Marthel. Is it you, father?

Bernd. Is there no hot water! You know I have to have my foot bath! Isn't Rose here yet?

Marthel. She isn't here yet, father!

Bernd. What? Hasn't she come back from court yet? That isn't possible hardly! 'Tis eight o'clock. Was August here?

Marthel. Not yet.

Bernd. Not yet either? Well, maybe she's with him then.--Have you seen that great cloud, Marthel, that was comin' over from the mountain about six o'clock, maybe?

Marthel. Yes, father; the world got all dark!

Bernd. There'll come a day o' greater darkness than this! Light the lamp on the table for me an' put the Good Book down next to it. The great thing is to be in readiness. Marthel, are you sure you keep thinkin' o' the life eternal, so that you can stand up before your Judge on that day? Few is the souls that think of it here! Just now as I was comin' home along the water's edge, I heard some one cryin' out upon me from behind, as they often does. "Bloodsucker!" cried he. An' was I a bloodsucker when I was overseer on the domain? Nay, I did my duty,--that was all! But the powers of evil is strong! If a man is underhanded, an' closes his eyes to evil, an' looks on quietly upon cheatin'--then his fellows likes him well.--But I leans upon the Lord Jesus. We human bein's all need that support. 'Tisn't enough just to do good works! Maybe if Rose had given more thought to that, maybe we'd ha' been spared many a visitation an' a deal o' heaviness an' bitterness. [_A CONSTABLE appears in the doorway._] Who's comin' there?

Constable. I have a summons to serve, I must speak to your daughter.

Bernd. My oldest daughter?

Constable. [_Reads from the document._] To Rose Bernd.

Bernd. My daughter hasn't come back from court yet. Can I give her the letter?

Constable. No; I've got to make a personal search, too. I'll be back at eight in the mornin'.

_AUGUST appears hastily._

Bernd. There's August, too.

August. Isn't Rose here?

Bernd. No; an' the sergeant here is askin' after her, too. I thought you an' she was together.

Constable. I has to make a search into one matter an' also to serve this paper.

August. Always an' forever this Streckmann business. 'Tis not only the loss of my eye--now we has these everlastin' troubles an' annoyances. It seems, God forgive me, to come to no end.

Constable. Good evenin'. To-morrow mornin' at eight!

[_Exit._

August. Marthel, go into the kitchen a bit of a while.--Father, I've got to speak with you. Go, Marthel; go an' shut the door. But Marthel, didn't you see anythin' o' Rose?

Marthel. No, nothin'! [_Surreptitiously she beckons to him with her hand._] I'll tell you something August.

August. Close the door, lass. I have no time now. [_He himself closes the kitchen door._] Father, you'll have to withdraw your suit.

Bernd. Anythin' but that, August. I can't do that!

August. 'Tis not Christian. Yon must withdraw.

Bernd. I don't believe that 'tis not Christian!--For why? 'Tis a piece of infamy to cut off a girl's honour that way. 'Tis a crime that needs to be punished.

August. I hardly know how to begin, father Bernd.... You've been too hasty in this matter....

Bernd. My wife who's in her grave demands that of me! An' my honour demands it ... the honour o' my house and o' my lass. An' yours, too, if you come to think.

August. Father Bernd, father Bernd, how am I to speak to you if you're so set on not makin' peace? You've spoke o' so many kinds of honour. But we're not to seek our honour or glory in this world, but God's only an' no other!

Bernd. 'Tis otherwise in this matter. Here woman's honour is God's too! Or have you any complaint to make against Rose?

August. I've said to you: I make no complaint!

Bernd. Or is your own conscience troublin' you on her account?

August. You know me in that respeck, father Bernd. Before I'd depart from the straight an' narrow way ...

Bernd. Well, then. I know that! I always knew that! An' so justice can take its course.

August. [_Wiping the sweat from his forehead._] If only we knew where Rose is!

Bernd. Maybe she isn't back from the court at Striegau yet!

August. An examination like that don't take very long. She meant to be home by five o'clock.

Bernd. Maybe she went to buy some things on the way. Wasn't she to get several things yet? I thought you were wantin' one thing or another.

August. But she didn't take along any money. An' the things we was needin' for the shop--curtains for the windows an' the door--we intended to buy those together.

Bernd. I was thinkin' that she'd come with you!

August. I went to meet her on the road--more'n a mile, but I heard an' saw nothin' of her. Instead o' that, I met Streckmann.

Bernd. I calls that meetin' the devil!

August. Ah, father, that man has a wife an' children too! His sins are no fault o' theirs! What good does it do me that he's got to go to gaol? If a man repents ... that's all I asks!

Bernd. That bad man don't know repentance!

August. It looked very much as if he did.

Bernd. Did you speak to him?

August. He gave me no peace. He ran along next to me an' talked an' talked. There wasn't a soul to be seen far an' wide! In the end I felt sorry for him; I couldn't help it.

Bernd. You answered him! What did he say?

August. He said you should withdraw your suit.

Bernd. I couldn't rest quiet in my grave if I did! 'Twouldn't matter if it concerned me! I can bear it; I can laugh at it! I'm not only a man but a Christian! But 'tis a different thing with my child! How could I look you in the face if I let that shameful thing stick to her! An' now, especially, after that terrible misfortune! Look, August, that can't be! That mustn't be!--Everybody's always been at our heels, because we lived different from the rest o' the world! Hypocrites they called us an' bigots, an' sneaks an' such names! An' always they wanted to trump up somethin' against us! What a feast this here thing would be to 'em! An' besides ... How did I bring up the lass? Industrious an' with the fear o' God in her heart so that if a Christian man marries her, he can set up a Christian household! That's the way! That's how I gives her out o' my care! An' am I goin' to let that poison cling to her? Rather would I be eatin' bread an' salt all my days than take a penny from you then!

August. Father Bernd, God's ways is mysterious! He can send us new trials daily! No man has a right to be self-righteous! An' even if I wanted to be, I couldn't! I can't spare you the knowledge no longer, father. Our Rose has been but a weak human bein' like others.

Bernd. How do you mean that, August?

August. Father, don't ask me no more,

Bernd. [_Has sat down on a chair by the table in such a way that his face is turned to the wall. At AUGUST'S last words he has looked at him with eyes, wide-open and estranged. Then he turns to the table, opens the Bible with trembling hands, and turns its leaves hither and thither in growing excitement. He ceases and looks at AUGUST again. Finally he folds his hands over the book and lets his head sink upon them while his body twitches convulsively. In this posture he remains for a while, Then he straightens himself up._] No. I don't understand you rightly! Because, you see, if I did understand you rightly ... that'd be really ... an' I wouldn't know ... my God, the room swims with me ... why, I'd have to be deaf an' blind!--Nay, August, an' I'm not deaf an' blind! Don't let Streckmann impose on you! He'll take any means to get out o' the trap that he's in now. It's comin' home to him, an' he wants to sneak out at any cost! An' so he's incitin' you against the lass. No, August, ... truly, August ... not on that bridge ... you mustn't start for to cross that bridge!... Anybody can see through his villainy! ... He's laid traps enough for the lass. An' if one way don't succeed, he'll try another!... Now he's hit on this here plan.--Maybe he'll separate you two! It's happened in this world, more than once or twice that some devil with his evil schemes has tore asunder people that God meant for each other. They always grudged the girl her good fortune. Good: I'm willin'! I won't throw Rose after you! We've satisfied our hunger up to now! But if you'll heed my word: I'll put my right hand in the fire for....

August. But Mr. Flamm took oath.

Bernd. Ten oaths against me ... twenty oaths against me!... Then he has sworn falsely an' damned hisself in this world an' in the world to come!

August. Father Bernd....

Bernd. Now wait a bit before ever you say another word! Here I take the books! Here I take my hat! Here I take the collecting box o' the missions. An' all these things I puts together here. An' if that's true what you've been sayin'--if there's so much in it as a grain o' truth--then I'll go this minute to the pastor an' I'll say: Your reverence, this is how things is: I can't be a deacon no more; I can't take care o' the treasury for missions no more! Good-bye! And then nobody would see me no more! No, no, no, for the love o' God! But now go on! Say your say! But don't torture me for nothin'.

August. I had the same thought, too. I want to sell my house an' my land! Maybe one could find contentment somewhere else.

Bernd. [_In unspeakable astonishment._] You want to sell your house an' your land, August? How do all these strange things come about all of a sudden! It's enough ... A body might be tempted to make the sign o' the cross, even though we're not Catholics.--Has the whole world gone mad? Or is the Day o' Judgment at hand? Or maybe, 'tis but my last hour that has come. Now answer me, August, how is it? As you hope for a life to come, how is it?

August. However it is, father Bernd, I won't desert her.

Bernd. You can do about that as you please. That don't concern me! I don't want to know if a man'd like a wench o' that kind in his house or not. Not me! I'm not that kind of a man. Well now ...?

August. I can't say nothin' more than this--somethin' must ha' happened to her! Whether 'twas with Flamm or with Streckmann....

Bernd. That makes two of 'em ...!

August. I can't tell exactly ...!

Bernd. Well, then I'll be goin' to the pastor! Brush me off, August, clean me a bit! I feel as if I had the itch on my body!

[_He steps into the hall._

_At the same moment MARTHEL rushes out of the kitchen and speaks to AUGUST in intense terror._

Marthel. I believe a misfortune has happened to Rose! She's upstairs! She's been home this long time!

Bernd. [_Returns, changed somewhat by a fright which he has felt._] Somebody must be upstairs.

August. Marthel is just sayin' that Rose is there.

Marthel. I hear her. She's comin' down the stairs.

Bernd. God forgive me the sin! I don't want to see her.

_He sits down at the table, as before, holds his thumbs over his ears and bends his head deep over the Bible. ROSE appears in the door. She has her house skirt on and a loose bodice of cotton cloth. She keeps herself erect by sheer force of will. Her hair hangs down, partly loose, partly braided. There is in her face an expression of terrible, fatalistic calm and of bitter defiance. For several moments she lets her eyes wander over the room, over OLD BERND sitting there with his Bible, over AUGUST who has slowly turned from the door and pretends to be looking intently out of the window. Then, groping for some support, she begins to talk with desperate energy._

Rose. Good-evenin' to all o' ye!--?--Good evenin'.

August. [_After some hemming._] The same to you.

Rose. [_With bitter iciness._] If you don't want me, I can go again.

August. [_Simply._] Where else do you want to go to? An' where have you been?

Rose. He that asks much, hears much. More sometimes than he'd like to.--Marthel, come over here to me a bit. [_MARTHEL goes. Rose has seated herself not far from the stove and takes the younger girl's hand. Then she says:_] What's the matter with father?

Marthel. [_Embarrassed, timid, speaks softly._] I don't know that neither.

Rose. What's the matter with father? You can speak right out! An' with you, August? What is the matter with you?... You've got cause, that you have, August, to despise me. I don't deny that. No....

August. I don't despise no one in this world.

Rose. But I do! All of 'em ... all ... all!

August. Those is dark words to me that you're speakin'.

Rose. Dark? Yes! I know it. The world's dark! An' you hear the roarin' o' wild beasts in it. An' then, later, it gets brighter ... but them are the flames o' hell that make it bright.--Martha....

Bernd. [_Who has been listening a little, arises and frees MARTHEL'S wrist from ROSE'S grasp._] Don't poison the little lass's mind. Take your hand away!--March off to bed! [_MARTHEL goes weeping._] A man would like to be deaf, to be blind! A man'd like to be dead.

[_He becomes absorbed again in his Bible._

ROSE Father!--I'm alive!--I'm sittin' here!--That's somethin'!--Yes, that's something when you considers!--I think, father, you might understand that! This is a world ...! Nobody can never do nothin' more to me! O Jesus, my Saviour--! All o' you, all o' you--you live together in a bit o' chamber an' you don't know what goes on outside in the world! I know it now ... I've learned it in bitterness an' wailin'! I had to get out o' that little chamber! An' then--somehow--the walls gave way, one wall an' another ... an' there I stood, outside, in the storm ... an' there--was nothin' under me an' nothin' above me ... nothin'. You're all like children compared to me.

August. [_Frightened._] But, Rose, if it's true what Streckmann says, then you've committed perjury!...

Rose. [_Laughing bitterly._] I don't know. 'Tis possible ... I can't just remember this moment. The world is made up o' lies an' deception.

Bernd. [_Sighs._] O God ... my refuge evermore.

August. Is it so easy that you take the swearin' o' false oaths?

Rose. That's nothin'! Nothin'! How could that be anythin'? There's somethin' that lies, out there, under a willow ... That's ... somethin' ... The rest don't concern me! There ... there ... I wanted to look up at the stars! I wanted to cry out an' to call out! No heavenly Father stirred to help me.

Bernd. [_Frightened, trembling._] You're blasphemin' our heavenly Father? Has it gone so far with you? Then I don't know you no more!

Rose. [_Approaching him on her knees._] 'Tis gone so far! But you know me anyhow, father! You cradled me on your knees, an' I've stood by you too many a time.--Now somethin' has come over us all--I've fought against it and struggled against it....

Bernd. [_Deeply perplexed._] What is it?

Rose. I don't know ... I don't know!

[_Trembling and kneeling, she crouches and stares at the floor._

August. [_Overwhelmed and taken out of himself by the pity of the sight._] Rosie, get up! I won't desert you! Get up, I can't bear to see you lyin' there! We're all sinners together! An' anyone who repents so deep, is bound to be forgiven. Get up, Rose, Father, raise her up! We're not among them that condemns--not I, at least. There's nothin' in me o' the Pharisee! I see how it goes to her heart! Come what will, I'll stand by you! I'm no judge ... I don't judge. Our Saviour in Heaven didn't judge neither. Truly, he bore our sickness for us, an' we thought he was one that was tortured an' stricken, by God! Maybe we've all been guilty of error. I don't want to acquit myself neither. I've been thinkin'. Before the lass hardly knew me, she had to say her yea an' amen! What do I care about the world? It don't concern me.

Rose. August, they clung to me like burrs ... I couldn't walk across the street safe ... All the men was after me!... I hid myself ... I was that scared! I was so afraid o' men!... It didn't help! 'Twas worse an' worse! After that I fell from one snare into another, till I hardly came to my senses no more.

Bernd. You used to have the strictest notion o' such things. You condemned the Leichner girl an' despised the Kaiser wench! You boasted--you'd like to see someone come across your path! You struck the miller's journeyman in the face! A girl as does that, you said, don't deserve no pity; she can go an' hang herself! An' now you speak o' snares.

Rose. I know better now.

August. Come what will, I'll stand by you, Rose. I'll sell my land! We'll go out into the world! I have an uncle in Brazil, across the ocean. We'll get our bit o' livin' somehow--one way or t'other. Maybe 'tis only now that we're ripe an' ready to take up our life together.

Rose. O Jesus, Jesus, what did I do? Why did I go an' creep home? Why didn't I stay with my little baby?

August. With whom?

Rose. [_Gets up._] August, it's all over with me! First there was a burnin' in my body like flames o' fire! Then I fell into a kind o' swoon! Then there came one hope: I ran like a mother cat with her kitten in her mouth! But the dogs chased me an' I had to drop it....

Bernd. Do you understand one word, August?

August. No, not o' this....

Bernd. Do you know how I feel? I feel as if one abyss after another was openin', was yawnin' for us here. What'll we hear before the end?

Rose. A curse! A curse will ye have to hear: I see you! I'll meet you! On the Day o' Judgment I'll meet you! I'll tear out your gullet an' your jaws together! You'll have to give an accountin'! You'll have to answer me, there!

August. Whom do you mean, Rosie?

Rose. _He_ knows ... _he_ knows.

[_A great exhaustion overtakes her and, almost swooning, she sinks upon a chair. A silence follows._

August. [_Busying himself about her._] What is it that's come over you? Suddenly you're so....

Rose. I don't know.--If you'd asked me earlier, long ago, maybe ... to-day I can't tell you!--There wasn't nobody that loved me enough.

August. Who can tell which love is stronger--the happy or the unhappy love.

Rose. Oh, I was strong, strong, so strong! Now I'm weak! Now it's all over with me.

_The CONSTABLE appears._

The Constable. [_With a quiet voice._] They say your daughter is at home. Kleinert said she was here.

August. It's true. We didn't know it a while ago.

The Constable. Then I might as well get through now. There's somethin' to be signed here.

[_Without noticing ROSE in the dim room, he lays several documents on the table._

August. Rose, here's somethin' you're to sign.

_ROSE laughs with horrible and hysterical irony._

The Constable. If you're the one, Miss, it's no laughin' matter.--Please!

Rose. You can stay a minute yet.

August. An' why?

Rose. [_With flaming eyes, a malice against the whole world in her voice._] I've strangled my child.

August. What are you sayin'? For the love of God, what are you sayin'?

The Constable. [_Draws himself up, looks at her searchingly, but continues as though he had not heard._] It'll be somethin' connected with the Streckmann 'affair.

Rose. [As before, harshly, almost with a bark.] Streckmann? He strangled my child.

Bernd. Girl, be still. You're out o' your mind.

The Constable. Anyhow, you have no child at all--?

Rose. What? I has none? Could I ha' strangled it with my hands?... I strangled my baby with these hands!!!

The Constable. You're possessed! What's wrong with you?

Rose. My mind's clear. I'm not possessed. I woke up clear in my mind, so clear.... [_Coldly, mildly, but with cruel firmness._] It _was_ not to live! I didn't want it to live! I didn't want it to suffer my agonies! It was to stay where it belonged.

August. Rose, think! Don't torment yourself! You don't know what you're sayin' here! You'll bring down misery on us all.

Rose. You don't know nothin' ... that's it ... You don't see nothin'. You was all blind together with your eyes open. He can go an' look behind the great willow ... by the alder-trees ... behind the parson's field ... by the pool ... there he can see the wee thing....

Bernd. You've done somethin' so awful?

August. You've been guilty o' somethin' so unspeakable?

_ROSE faints. The men look upon her confounded and helpless. AUGUST supports her._

The Constable. 'Twould be best if she came along with me to headquarters. There she can make a voluntary confession. If what she says isn't just fancies, it'll count a good deal in her favour.

August. [_From the depth of a great experience._] Those are no fancies, sergeant. That girl ... what she must have suffered!

The Curtain Falls. THE RATS

A BERLIN TRAGI-COMEDY

PERSONS

HARRO HASSENREUTER, _formerly a theatrical manager._

MRS. HARRO HASSENREUTER.

WALBURGA, _their daughter._

Pastor Spitta. ERICH SPITTA, _postulant for Holy Orders, his son._

ALICE RUeTTERBUSCH, _actress._

NATHANAEL JETTEL, _court actor._

KAeFERSTEIN, DR. KEGEL, _Pupils of HASSENREUTER._

JOHN, _foreman mason._

Mrs. John. BRUNO MECHELKE, _her brother._

PAULINE PIPERCARCKA, _a servant girl._

MRS. SIDONIE KNOBBE.

SELMA, _her daughter._

QUAQUARO, _house-steward._

Mrs. Kielbacke. POLICEMAN SCHIERKE.

TWO INFANTS.

The First Act. _The attic of a former cavalry barracks in Berlin, A windowless room that receives all its light from a lamp which burns suspended over a round table. From the back wall opens a straight passage which connects the room with the outer door--a door with iron hasps and a primitive signal bell which any one desiring to enter rings by means of a bell rope. A door in the right wall leads to an adjoining room, one in the left wall leads to the stairs into the loft immediately under the roof. Into this store room, as well as into the space visible to the spectator, the former theatrical manager, HARRO HASSENREUTER has gathered his collection of properties. In the prevalent gloom it is difficult to decide whether the place is the armour room of an old castle, a museum of antiquities or the shop of a costumer. Stands with helmets and breast-plates are put up on either side of the passage; a row of similar stands almost covers the two sides of the front room. The stairs wind upward between two mailed figures. At the head of the stairs is a wooden trap-door. In the left foreground, against the wall, is a high desk. Ink, pens, old ledgers, a tall stool, as well as several chairs with tall backs and the round table make it clear that the room serves the purposes of an office. On the table is a decanter for water and several glasses; above the desk hang a number of photographs. These photographs represent HASSENREUTER in the part of Karl Moor (in Schiller's "Robbers"), as well as in a number of other parts. One of the mailed dummies wean a huge laurel wreath about its neck. The laurel wreath is tied with a riband which bears, in gilt letters, the following inscription: "To our gifted manager Hassenreuter, from his grateful colleagues." A series of enormous red bows shows the inscriptions: "To the inspired presenter of Karl Moor ... To the incomparable, unforgettable Karl Moor" ... etc., etc. The room is utilised as far as its space will permit for the storing of costumes. Wherever possible, German, Spanish and English garments of every age hang on hooks. Swedish riding boots, Spanish rapiers and German broadswords are scattered about. The door to the left bears the legend: Library. The whole room displays picturesque disorder, Trumpery of all kinds--weapons, goblets, cups--is scattered about. It is Sunday toward the end of May._

_At the table in the middle of the room are sitting, MRS. JOHN (between thirty-five and forty) and a very young servant girl, PAULINE PIPERCARCKA. PAULINE, vulgarly overdressed--jacket, hat, sunshade--sits straight upright. Her pretty, round little face shows signs of long weeping. Her figure betrays the fact that she is approaching motherhood. She draws letters on the floor with the end of her sunshade._

Mrs. John. Well, sure now! That's right! That's what I says, Pauline.

Pauline. All right. So I'm goin' to Schlachtensee or to Halensee. I gotta go and see if I c'n meet him!

[_She dries her tears and is about to rise._

Mrs. John. [_Prevents PAULINE from getting up._] Pauline! For God's sake, don't you be doin' that! Not that there, for nothin' in the world! That don't do nothin' but raise a row an' cost money an' don't bring you in nothin'. Look at the condition you're in! An' that way you want to go an' run after that there low lived feller?

Pauline. Then my landlady c'n wait an' wait for me to-day. I'll jump into the Landwehr canal an' drownd myself.

Mrs. John. Pauline! An' what for? What for, I'd like to know? Now you just listen to me for a speck of a minute, just for God's sake, for the teeniest speck of one an' pay attention to what I'm goin' to propose to you! You know yourself how I says to you, out on Alexander square, right by the chronomoneter--says I to you right out, as I was comin' out o' the market an' sees your condition with half an eye. He don't want to acknowledge nothin', eh? That's what I axed you right out!--That happens to many gals here, to all of 'em--to millions! An' then I says to you ... what did I say? Come along, I says, an' I'll help you!

Pauline. O' course, I don't never dare to show myself at home lookin' this way. Mother, she'd cry it out at the first look. An' father, he'd knock my head against the wall an' throw me out in the street. An' I ain't got no more money left neither--nothin' but just two pieces o' gold that I got sewed up in the linin' o' my jacket. That feller didn't leave me no crown an' he didn't leave me no penny.

Mrs. John. Miss, my husband, he's a foreman mason. I just wants you to pay attention ... just for heaven's sake, pay attention to the propositions that I'm goin' to make to you. They'll help us both. You'll be helped out an' the same way I'll be. An' what's more, Paul, that's my husband, he'll be helped, because he'd like, for all the world, to have a child, an' our only one, little Adelbert, he went an' died o' the croup. Your child'll be as well taken care of as an own child. Then you c'n go an' you c'n look up your sweetheart an' you c'n go back into service an' home to your people, an' the child is well off, an' nobody in the world don't need to know nothin'.

Pauline. I'll do it just outa spite--that's what! An' drownd myself! [_She rises._] An' a note, a note, I'll leave in my jacket, like this: You drove your Pauline to her death with your cursed meanness! An' then I'll put down his name in full: Alois Theophil Brunner, instrument-maker. Then he c'n see how he'll get along in the world with the murder o' me on his conscience.

Mrs. John. Wait a minute, Miss! I gotta unlock the door first.

_MRS. JOHN acts, as though she were about to conduct PAULINE to the door._

_Before the two women reach the passage, BRUNO MECHELKE enters with slow and suspicious demeanour by the door at the left and remains standing in the room. BRUNO is short rather than tall, but with a powerful bull's neck and athletic shoulders. His forehead is low and receding, his close-clipped hair like a brush, his skull round and small. His face is brutal and his left nostril has been ripped open sometime and imperfectly healed. The fellow is about nineteen years old. He bends forward, and his great, lumpish hands are joined to muscular arms. The pupils of his eyes are small, black and piercing. He is trying to repair a rat trap._

_BRUNO whistles to his sister as he would to a dog._

Mrs. John. I'm comin' now, Bruno! What d'you want?

Bruno. [_Apparently absorbed by the trap._] Thought I was goin' to put up traps here.

Mrs. John. Did you put the bacon in? [_To PAULINE._] It's only my brother. Don't be scared, Miss.

Bruno. [_As before._] I seen the Emperor William to-day. I marched along wi' the guard,

Mrs. John. [_To PAULINE, who stands fearful and moveless in BRUNO'S presence._] 'Tain't nothin' but my brother. You c'n stay.--[_To BRUNO._] Boy, what're you lookin' that way for again? The young lady is fair scared o' you.

Bruno. [_As before, without looking up._] Brrr-rr-rr! I'm a ghost.

Mrs. John. Hurry an' go up in the loft an' set your traps.

Bruno. [_Slowly approaching the table._] Aw, that business ain't no good 'cept to starve on! When I goes to sell matches, I gets more outa it.

Pauline. Good-bye, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. [_Raging at her brother._] Are you goin' to leave me alone?

Bruno. [_Knuckling under._] Aw, don' go on so. I'm leavin'.

_Obediently he withdraws into the adjoining room. MRS. JOHN locks the door behind him with a determined gesture._

Pauline. That's a feller I wouldn't like to meet in the _Tiergarten_. Not by night an' not by day neither.

Mrs. John. If I sets Bruno on anyone an' he gets at him, God help him!

Good-Bye. I don't like this here place. If you wants to see me again, Mrs. John, I'd rather meet you at a bench on the _Kreuzberg_.

Mrs. John. Pauline, I brought up Bruno with sorrow and trouble by day an' by night. An' I'll be twenty times better to your child. So when it's born, Pauline, I'll take it, an' I swears to you by my father an' mother what died in the Lord an' what I goes to visit the graves of out in Ruedersdorf one Sunday a year an' puts candles on 'em an' don' let nobody keep me back--I swears to you that little crittur'll live on the fat o' the land just like a born prince nor a born princess couldn't be treated no better.

Pauline. I'm goin' and with my last penny I'm goin' to buy vitriol--I don' care who it hits! An' I'll throw it in the face o' the wench that he goes with ... I don' care who it hits ... right in the middle o' the mug. I don' care! It c'n burn up his fine-lookin' phiz! I don' care! It c'n burn off his beard an' burn out his eyes if he goes with other women! What did he do? Cheated me! Ruined me! Took my money! Robbed me o' my honour! That's what the damn' dog did--seduced me an' lied to me an' left me an' kicked me out into the world! I don' care who it hits! I wants him to be blind! I wants the stuff to burn his nose offa his face! I wants it to burn him offa the earth!

Mrs. John. Pauline, as I hopes to be happy hereafter, I tells you, from the minute where that there little one is born ... it's goin' to be treated like ... well, I don' know what!... as if it was born to be put in silks an' in satins. All you gotta do is to have some confidence--that's what! You just say: Yes. I got it all figgered out. It c'n be done, it c'n be done--that's what I tells you! An' no doctor an' no police an' no landlady don't has to know nothin'. An' then, first of all, you gets paid a hundred an' twenty crowns what I saved scrubbin' an' charrin' here for manager Hassenreuter.

Pauline. I might strangle it when it's born, rather 'n sell it!

Mrs. John. Who's talkin' about sellin'?

Pauline. Look at the frights an' the misery I've stood from October las' to this very day. My intended gives me the go; my landlady puts me out! They gives me notice at a lodgin's. What does I do that I has to be despised an' cursed an' kicked aroun'?

Mrs. John. That's what I says. That's cause the devil is still gettin' the better of our Lord Jesus.

_Unnoticed and busy with the trap as before BRUNO has quietly re-entered by the door._

Bruno. [_With a strange intonation, sharply and yet carelessly._] Lamps!

Pauline. That feller scares me. Lemme go!

Mrs. John. [_Makes violently for BRUNO._] Is you goin' to go where you belongs? I told you I'd call you!

Bruno. [_In the same tone as before._] Well, Jette, I jus' said: Lamps!

Mrs. John. Are you crazy? What's the meanin' o' that--lamps?

Bruno. Ain't that a ringin' o' the front bell?

Mrs. John. [_Is frightened, listens and restrains PAULINE, who makes a motion to go._] Sh, Miss, wait! Just wait one little minute!

[_BRUNO continues whittling as the two women stop to listen._

Mrs. John. [_Softly and in a frightened tone to BRUNO._] I don't hear nothin'!

Bruno. You ol' dried up piece! You better go an' get another pair o' ears!

Mrs. John. That'd be the first time in all the three months that the manager'd be comin' in when it's Sunday.

Bruno. If that there theayter feller comes, he c'n engage me right on the spot.

Mrs. John. [_Violently._] Don' talk rot!

Bruno. [_Grinning at PAULINE._] Maybe you don' believe it, Miss, but I went an' took the clown's hoss at Schumann's circus aroun' the ring three times. Them's the kind o' things I does. An' is I goin' to be scared?

Pauline. [_Seeming to notice for the first time the fantastic strangeness of the place in which she finds herself. Frightened and genuinely perturbed._] Mother o' God, what kind o' place is this?

Mrs. John. Whoever c'n that be?

Bruno. 'Tain't the manager, Jette! More like it's a spout what's drippin'!

Mrs. John. Miss, you be so kind an' go for two minutes, if you don' mind, up into this here loft. Maybe somebody's comin' that just wants some information.

_In her growing terror PAULINE does as she is asked to do. She clambers up the stairs to the loft, the trap door being open. MRS. JOHN has taken up a position in which she can, at need, hide PAULINE from anyone entering the room. PAULINE disappears: MRS. JOHN and BRUNO remain alone._

Bruno. What business has you with that pious mug?

Mrs. John. That ain't none o' your business, y'understan'?

Bruno. I was just axin' 'cause you was so careful that nobody should see her. Otherwise I don't know's I gives a damn.

Mrs. John. An' you ain't supposed to!

Bruno. Much obliged. Maybe I better toddle along, then.

Mrs. John. D'you know what you owes me, you scamp?

Bruno. [_Carelessly._] What are you gettin' excited for? What is I doin' to you? What d'you want? I gotta go to my gal now. I'm sleepy. Las' night I slept under a lot o' bushes in the park. An' anyhow, I'm cleaned out--[_He turns his trowsers pockets inside out._] An' in consequence o' that I gotta go an' earn somethin'.

Mrs. John. Here you stays! Don't you dare move! If you do you c'n whine like a whipped purp an' you'll never be gettin' so much as a penny outa me no more--that's what you won't! Bruno, you're goin' ways you hadn't ought to.

Bruno. Aw, what d'you think? Is I goin' to be a dam' fool? D'you think I ain' goin' when I gets a good livin' offa Hulda? [_He pulls out a dirty card-case._] Not so much as a measly pawn ticket has I got. Tell me what you want an' then lemme go!

Mrs. John. What I wants? Of you? What're you good for anyhow? You ain't good for nothin' excep' for your sister who ain't right in her head to feel sorry for you, you loafer an' scamp!

Bruno. Maybe you _ain'_ right in your head sometimes!

Mrs. John. Our father, he used to say when you was no more'n five an' six years old an' used to do rowdy things, that we couldn't never be proud o' you an' that I might as well let you go hang. An' my husband what's a reel honest decent man ... why, you can't be seen alongside of a good man like him.

Bruno. Sure, I knows all that there, Jette. But things ain' that easy to straighten out. I knows all right I was born with a kind o' a twist in my back, even if nobody don't see it. No, I wasn't born in no castle. Well, I gotta do what I c'n do with my twist. All right. What d'you want? 'Tain't for the rats you're keepin' me. You wanta hush up somethin' wi' that whore!

Mrs. John. [_Shaking her hand under BRUNO'S nose._] You give away one word o' this an' I'll kill you, I'll make a corpse o' you!

Bruno. Well now, looka here! I'm goin', y'understan'? [_He mounts the stairs._] Maybe someday I'll be droppin' into good luck without knowin' it.

_He disappears through the trap-door, MRS. JOHN hurriedly blows out the lamp and taps her way to the door of the library. She enters it but does--not wholly close the door behind her.--The noise that BRUNO actually heard was that of a key being turned in a rusty keyhole. A light step is now heard approaching the door. For a moment the street noises of Berlin as well as the yelling of children in the outer halls had been audible. Strains of a hurdy-gurdy from the yard.--WALBURGA HASSENREUTER enters with hesitating and embarrassed steps. The girl is not yet sixteen and is pretty and innocent of appearance. Sunshade, light-coloured summer dress, not coming below the ankle._

Walburga. [_Halts, listens, then says nervously:_] Papa!--Isn't any one up here yet? Papa! Papa! [_She listens long and intently and then says:_] Why, what an odour of coal oil there is here! [_She finds matches, lights one, is about to light the lamp and burns her fingers against the hot chimney._] Ouch! Why, dear me! Who is here?

[_She has cried out and is about to run away._

_MRS. JOHN reappears._

Mrs. John. Well, Miss Walburga, who's goin' to go an' kick up a row like that! You c'n be reel quiet. 'Tain't nobody but me!

Walburga. Dear me, but I've had an awful fright, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. Well, then I advise you to be gettin' out o' here to-day--on Sunday?

Walburga. [_Laying her hand over her heart._] Why, my heart is almost standing still yet, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. What's the matter, Miss Walburga? What's frightenin' you? You oughta know that from your pa that Sunday an' week day I gotta be workin' aroun' here with them boxes an' cases, dustin' an' tryin' to get rid o' the moths! An' then, after two or three weeks, when I've gone over the twelve or eighteen hundred theayter rags that're lyin' here--then I gotta start all over again.

Walburga. I was frightened because the chimney of the lamp was still quite hot to the touch.

Mrs. John. That's right. That there lamp was burnin' 'an' I put it out jus' a minute ago. [_She lifts up the chimney._] It don't burn me; my hands is hard. [_She lights the wick._] Well, now we has light. Now I lit it again. What's the danger here? I don' see nothin'.

Walburga. But you do look like a ghost, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. How do you say I looks?

Walburga. Oh, it just seems so when one comes out of the vivid sunlight into the darkness, into these musty holes. It seems as though one were surrounded by ghosts.

Mrs. John. Well, you little ghost, why did you come up here? Is you alone or has you got somebody with you? Maybe papa'll be comin' in yet?

Walburga. No, papa has been granted an important audience out in Potsdam to-day.

Mrs. John. All right! What're you lookin' for here then?

Walburga. I? Oh, I just came out for a walk!

Mrs. John. Well, then I advise you to be gettin out o' here again. No sun don't shine into your papa's lumber-room.

Walburga. You look so grey! You had better go out into the sunlight yourself!

Mrs. John. Oh, the sunlight's just for fine folks! All I needs is a couple o' pounds o' dust an' dirt on my lungs.--You just go along, missie! I gotta get to work. I don' need nothin' else. I jus' lives on mildew an' insec'-powder.

[_She coughs._

Walburga. [_Nervously._] You needn't tell papa that I was up here.

Mrs. John. Me? Ain't I got somethin' better to do'n that?

Walburga. [_With assumed carelessness._] And if Mr. Spitta were to ask after me....

Mrs. John. Who?

Walburga. The young gentleman who gives us private lessons at home....

Mrs. John. Well, s'posin'?

Walburga. Then be so kind as to tell him that I've been here but left again at once.

Mrs. John. So I'm to tell Mr. Spitta but not papa?

Walburga. [_Involuntarily._] Oh, for heaven's sake, no!

Mrs. John. Well, you jus' wait an' see! You jus' look out! There's many a one has looked like you an' has come from your part o' the city an'--has gone to the dogs in the ditch in Dragoner street or, even, behind Swedish hangin's in Barnim street.

Walburga. Surely you don't mean to insinuate, Mrs. John, and surely you don't believe that there's anything unpermitted or improper in my relations with Mr. Spitta?

Mrs. John. [_In extreme fright._] Shut up!--Somebody's put the key into the keyhole.

Walburga. Blow out the lamp!

[_MRS. JOHN blows out the lamp quickly._

Walburga. Papa!

Mrs. John. Miss! Up into the loft with you!

_MRS. JOHN and WALBURGA both disappear through the trap-door, which closes behind them._

_Two gentlemen, the manager HARRO HASSENREUTER and the court actor NATHANAEL JETTEL, appear in the frame of the outer door. The manager is of middle height, clean shaven, fifty years old. He takes long steps and shows a lively temperament in his whole demeanour. The cut of his face is noble, his eyes have a vivid, adventurous expression. His behaviour is somewhat noisy, which accords with his thoroughly fiery nature. He wears a light overcoat, a top-hat thrust back on his head, full dress suit and patent leather boots. The overcoat, which is unbuttoned, reveals the decorations which almost cover his chest--JETTEL wears a suit of flannels under a very light spring overcoat. In his left hand he holds a straw hat and an elegant cane; he wears tan shoes. He also is clean shaven and over fifty years old.

Hassenreuter. [_Calls:_] John! Mrs. John!--Well, now you see my catacombs, my dear fellow! _Sic transit gloria mundi!_ Here I've stored everything--_mutatis mutandis_--that was left of my whole theatrical glory--trash, trash! Old rags! Old tatters!--John! John! She's been here, for the lamp chimney is still quite hot! [_He strikes a match and lights the lamp._] _Fiat lux, pereat mundus!_ Now you can get a good view of my paradise of moths and rats and fleas!

Jettel. You received my card, didn't you, my dear manager?

Hassenreuter. Mrs. John!--I'll see if she is in the loft up there. [_He mounts the stairs and rattles at the trap-door._] Locked! And of course the wretched creature has the key tied to her apron. [_He beats enragedly against the trap-door with his fist._] John! John!

Jettel. [_Somewhat impatient._] Can't we manage without this Mrs. John?

Hassenreuter. What? Do you think that I, in my dress suit and with all my decorations, just back from His Highness, can go through my three hundred boxes and cases just to rout out the wretched rags that you are pleased to need for your engagement here?

Jettel. I beg your pardon. But I'm not wont to appear in rags on my tours.

Hassenreuter. Man alive, then play in your drawers for all I care! It wouldn't worry me! Only don't quite forget who's standing before you. Because the court actor Jettel is pleased to emit a whistle--well, that's no reason why the manager Harro Hassenreuter should begin to dance. Confound it, because some comedian wants a shabby turban or two old boots, is that any reason why a _pater familias_ like myself must give up his only spare time at home on Sunday afternoon? I suppose you expect me to creep about on all fours into the corners here? No, my good fellow, for that kind of thing you'll have to look elsewhere!

Jettel. [_Quite calmly._] Would you mind telling me, if possible, who has been treading on your corns?

Hassenreuter. My boy, it's scarcely an hour since I had my legs under the same table with a prince; _post hoc, ergo propter hoc!_--On your account I got into a confounded bus and drove out to this, confounded bole, and so ... if you don't know how to value my kindness, you can get out!

Jettel. You made an appointment with use for four o'clock. Then you let me wait one solid hour in this horrible tenement, in these lovely halls with their filthy brats! Well, I waited and didn't address the slightest reproach to you. And now you have the good taste and the good manners to use me as a kind of a cuspidor!

Hassenreuter. My boy ...

Jettel. The devil! I'm not your boy! You seem to be kind of a clown that I ought to force to turn sommersaults for pennies!

[_Highly indignant, he picks up his hat and cane and goes._

Hassenreuter. [_Starts, breaks out into boisterous laughter and then calls out after JETTEL:_] Don't make yourself ridiculous! And, anyhow, I'm not a costumer!

_The slamming of the outer door is heard._

Hassenreuter. [_Pulls out his watch._] The confounded idiot! The damned mutton head.--It's a blessing the ridiculous ass went! [_He puts the match back into his pocket, pulls it out again at once and listens. He walks restlessly to and fro, then stops, gases into his top-hat, which contains a mirror, and combs his hair carefully. He walks over to the middle door and opens a few of the letters that lie heaped up there. At the same time he sings in a trilling voice:_

"O Strassburg, O Strassburg, Thou beautiful old town."

_Once more he looks at his watch. Suddenly the doorbell at his head rings._] On the minute! Ah, but these little girls can be punctual when they really care about it! [_He hurries out into the hall and is heard to extend a loud and merry welcome to someone. The trumpet notes of his voice are soon accompanied by the bell-like tones of a woman's speaking. Very soon he reappears, at his side an elegant young lady, ALICE RUeTTERBUSCH._]--Alice! My little Alice! Come here where I can see you, little girl! Come here into the light! I must see whether you're the same infinitely delightful, mad little Alice that you were in the great days of my career in Alsace? Girl, it was I who taught you to walk! I held your leading strings for your first steps. I taught you how to talk, girl! The things you said! I hope you haven't forgotten!

Alice Ruetterbusch. Now, look here! You don't believe that I'm an ungrateful girl?

Hassenreuter. [_Draws up her veil._] Why, girlie, you've grown younger instead of older.

Alice Ruetterbusch. [_Flushed with delight._] Well, a person would just have to be like everything to say that you had changed to your disadvantage! But, do you know--it's awful dark up here really and--Harro, maybe you wouldn't mind opening a window a little--oh, the air's a bit heavy, too,

Hassenreuter. "Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill" "But mice and rats and such small deer Have been Tom's food for seven long year."

In all seriousness I have passed through dark and difficult times! In spite of the fact that I preferred not to write you of it, I have no doubt that you are informed.

Alice Ruetterbusch. But it wasn't extra friendly, you know, for you not to answer one little word to the long, nice letter I wrote you.

Hassenreuter. Ha, ha, ha! What's the use of answering a little girl's letter if one has both hands full taking care of oneself and can't possibly be of the slightest use to her? Pshaw! _E nihilo nihil fit!_ In the vernacular: You can't get results out of nothing! Moth and dust! Dust and moths! And that's all my efforts for German culture in the west profited me!

Alice Ruetterbusch. So you didn't turn over your collection of properties to manager Kunz.

Hassenreuter. "O Strassburg, O Strassburg, Thou beautiful old town!"

No, little one, I didn't leave my properties in Strassburg! This ex-waiter, ex-innkeeper and lessee of disreputable dance halls, this idiot, this imbecile who succeeded me, didn't happen to want my stuff. No, I didn't leave my collection of properties there, but what I did have to leave there was forty thousand crowns of hard-earned money left me from my old touring days as an actor, and, in addition, fifty thousand crowns which formed the dowry of my excellent wife. However, it was a piece of good luck, after all, that I kept the properties. Ha, ha, ha! These fellows here ... [_he touches one of the mailed figures_] ... surely you remember them?

Alice Ruetterbusch. Could I forget my pasteboard knights?

Hassenreuter. Very well, then: it was these pasteboard knights and all the other trash that surrounds them, that actually, after his hegira, kept the old rag-picker and costumer, Harro Eberhard Hassenreuter, above water. But let's speak of cheerful things: I saw with pleasure in the paper that his Excellency has engaged you for Berlin.

Alice Ruetterbusch. I don't care a great deal about it! I'd rather play for you, and you must promise me, whenever you undertake the management of a theatre again--you will promise, won't you?--that you'll let me break my contract right away? [_The MANAGER laughs heartily._] I had to be annoyed quite enough for three long years by the barn-stormers of the provinces. Berlin I don't like, and a court theatre least of all. Lord, what people and what a profession it is! You know I belong to your collection--I've always belonged to it!

[_She stands up primly among the pasteboard knights._

Hassenreuter. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Well then, come to my arms, faithful knight!

[_He opens his arms wide, she flies into them, and they now salute each other with long, continuous kisses._

Alice Ruetterbusch. Go on, Harro. Now tell me. How is your wife?

Hassenreuter. Teresa gets along very well except that she gets fatter every day in spite of sorrow and worries.--Girl, girl, how fragrant you are! [_He presses her to him._] Do you know that you're a devilish dangerous person?

Alice Ruetterbusch. D'you think I'm an idiot? Of course I'm dangerous!

Hassenreuter. Well, I'll be ...!

Alice Ruetterbusch. Why, do you think if I didn't know it was dangerous, dangerous for us both, I'd make an appointment with you out here in this lovely neighbourhood, under this stuffy roof? By the way, though, since I'm always bound to have the queerest luck if ever I do go a bit on questionable ways, whom should I meet on the stairs but Nathanael Jettel? I almost ran into the gentleman's arms! He'll take good care that my visiting you doesn't remain our secret.

Hassenreuter. I must have made a mistake in writing down the date. The fellow insists on asserting--ha, ha, ha!--that I made an engagement with him for this very afternoon.

Alice Ruetterbusch. And that wasn't the only person I met on the six flights. And as for the dear little children that roll about on the stairs here! What they called out after me was unparliamentary to a degree--such vulgarities as I've never heard from such little beggars in my life.

Hassenreuter. [_Laughs, then speaks seriously._] Ah, yes! But one gets accustomed to that. You could never write down all the life that sweeps down these stairs with its soiled petticoats--the life that cringes and creeps, moans, sighs, sweats, cries out, curses, mutters, hammers, planes, jeers, steals, drives its dark trades up and down these stairs--the sinister creatures that hide here, playing their zither, grinding their accordions, sticking in need and hunger and misery, leading their vicious lives--no, it's beyond one's power of recording. And your old manager, last but not least, runs, groans, sighs, sweats, cries out and curses with the best of them. Ha, ha, ha, girlie! I've had a pretty wretched time.

Alice Ruetterbusch. Oh, by the way, d'you know whom I ran into just as I was making for the railroad station at the Zoological Garden? The good old Prince Statthalter! And straight off, cool as a cucumber--that's my way you know--I tripped along next to him for twenty minutes and got him absorbed in a conversation. And then something happened, Harro, upon my honour, just as I'm going to tell you--literally and truly: Suddenly on the bridle-path His Majesty came riding along with a great suite. I thought I'd sink into the earth with embarrassment. And His Majesty laughed right out and threatened his Serenity playfully with his finger. But I was delighted, you may believe me. The main thing comes now, however. Just think! His Serenity asked me whether I'd be glad to go back to Strassburg if the manager Hassenreuter were to assume direction of the theatre there again. Well, you may know that I almost jumped for joy!

Hassenreuter. [_Throws off his overcoat and stands with his decorations displayed._] You probably couldn't help noticing that His Serenity had had a most excellent breakfast. Aha! We had breakfast together! We attended an exquisite little stag party given by Prince Ruprecht out in Potsdam. I don't deny, therefore, that a turn for good may take place in the miserable fate of your friend.

Alice Ruetterbusch. Sweetheart, you look like a statesman, like an ambassador!

Hassenreuter. Ah, don't you know this breast covered with high and exalted decorations? Klaerchen and Egmont! Here you can drink your fill! [_They embrace each other anew._] _Carpe diem!_ Enjoy the passing hour! Ah, my little Miss Simplicity, champagne is not recorded at present on the repertory of your old manager, inspirer and friend. [_He opens a wooden case and draws forth a bottle of wine._] But this old cloister vintage isn't to be sneezed at either! [_He pulls the cork. At the same moment the door bell rings._] What? Sh! I wonder who has the monstrous impudence to ring here on Sunday afternoon? [_The bell rings with increased violence._] Confound it all--the fellow must be a lunatic. Little girl, suppose you withdraw into the library. [_ALICE hurries into the library. The ringing is repeated. He hurries to the door._] Either be patient or go to the devil. [_He is heard opening the door._] Who? What? "It is I, Miss Walburga." What? I am not Miss Walburga. I am not the daughter. I am the father. Oh, it's you, Mr. Spitta! Your very humble servant. I'm only her father--only her father! What is it that you want?

_HASSENREUTER reappears in the passage accompanied by ERICH SPITTA, a young man of twenty-one, spectacled, with keen and not undistinguished features, SPITTA passes as a student of theology and is correspondingly dressed. He does not hold himself erect and his development shows the influence of over-study and underfeeding._

Hassenreuter. Did you intend to give my daughter one of your private lessons here in my storeroom?

Spitta. I was riding past on the tram-car and I really thought I had seen Miss Walburga hurry into the doorway downstairs.

Hassenreuter. No possibility of such a thing, my dear Spitta. At this moment my daughter Walburga is attending a ritualistic service with her mother in the Anglican church.

Spitta. Then perhaps you'll forgive my intrusion. I took the liberty of coming upstairs because I thought that Miss Walburga might not find it unpleasant or useless to have an escort home through this neighbourhood.

Hassenreuter. Very good! Very excellent! But she isn't here. I regret it. I'm here myself by the merest chance--on account of the mail. And in addition, I have other pressing engagements. Can I do anything else for you?

_SPITTA polishes his glasses and betrays signs of embarrassment._

Spitta. One doesn't grow used to the darkness at once.

Hassenreuter. Perhaps you stand in need of the tuition due you. Sorry, but unfortunately I have the habit of going out with only some small change in my waistcoat pocket. So I must ask you to have patience until I am at home again.

Spitta. Not the least hurry in the world.

Hassenreuter. Yes, it's easy for you to say that. I'm like a hunted animal, my dear fellow ...

Spitta. And yet I would like to beg for a minute of your precious time. I can't but look upon this unexpected meeting as a kind of providential arrangement. In short: may I put a question to you?

Hassenreuter. [_With his eyes on his watch, which he has just been winding._] One minute exactly. By the watch, my good fellow!

Spitta. Both my question and your answer need hardly take that long.

Hassenreuter. Well, then!

Spitta. Have I any talent for the stage?

Hassenreuter. For the love of God, man! Have you gone mad?--Forgive me, my dear fellow, if a case like this excites me to the point of being discourteous. You have certainly given the lie to the saying: _natura non facit saltus_ by the unnatural leap that you've taken. I must first get my breath after that! And now let's put an end to this at once. Believe me, if we were both to discuss the question now we wouldn't come to any conclusion in two or three weeks, or rather, let us say years.--You are a theologian by profession, my good fellow, and you were born in a parsonage. You have all the necessary connections and a smooth road to a comfortable way of life ahead of you. How did you hit upon such a notion as this?

Spitta. That's a long story of the inner life, Mr. Hassenreuter, of difficult spiritual struggles--a story which, until this moment, has been an absolute secret and known only to myself. But my good fortune led me into your house and from that moment on I felt that I was drawing nearer and nearer to the true aim of my life.

Hassenreuter. [_Wildly impatient._] That's very creditable to me; that does honour to my family and myself! [_He puts his hands on SPITTA'S shoulders._] And yet I must make it in the form of an urgent request that, at this moment, you refrain from a further discussion of the question. My affairs cannot wait.

Spitta. Then I will only add the expression of my absolutely firm decision.

Hassenreuter. But, my dear Spitta, who has put these mad notions into year head? I've taken real pleasure in the thought of you. I've really been quietly envying you the peaceful personage that was to be yours. I've attached no special significance to certain literary ambitions that one is likely to pick up in the metropolis. That's a mere phase, I thought, and will be quite passing in his case! And now you want to become an actor? God help you, were I your father! I'd lock you up on bread and water and not let you out again until the very memory of this folly was gone. _Dixi!_ And now, good-bye, my dear man.

Spitta. I'm afraid that locking me op or resorting to force of any kind would not help in my case at all.

Hassenreuter. But, man alive, you want to become an actor--you, with your round shoulders, with your spectacles and, above all, with your hoarse and sharp voice. It's impossible.

Spitta. If such fellows as I exist in real life, why shouldn't they exist on the stage too? And I am of the opinion that a smooth, well-sounding voice, probably combined with the Goethe-Schiller-Weimar school of idealistic artifice, is harmful rather than helpful. The only question is whether you would take me, just as I am, as a pupil?

Hassenreuter. [_Hastily draws on his overcoat._] I would not. In the first place my school of acting is only one of the schools of idealistic artifice which you mention. In the second place I wouldn't be responsible to your father for such an action. And in the third place, we quarrel enough as it is--every time you stay to supper at my house after giving your lessons. If you were my pupil, we'd come to blows. And now, Spitta, I must catch the car.

Spitta. My father is already informed. In a letter of twelve pages, I have given him a full history of the change that has taken place within me....

Hassenreuter. I'm sure the old gentleman will feel flattered! And now come along with me or I'll go insane!

_HASSENREUTER forcibly takes SPITTA out with him. The door is heard to slam. The room grows silent but for the uninterrupted roar of Berlin, which can now be clearly heard. The trap-door to the loft is now opened and WALBURGA HASSENREUTER clambers down in mad haste, followed by MRS. JOHN._

Mrs. John. [_Whispering vehemently._] What's the matter? Nothin' ain't happened.

Walburga. Mrs. John, I'll scream! I'll have to scream in another second! Oh, for heaven's sake, I can't help it much longer, Mrs. John!

Mrs. John. Stuff a handkerchief between your teeth! There ain't nothin'! Why d'you take on so?

Walburga. [_With chattering teeth, making every effort to suppress her sobs._] I'm frightened! Oh, I'm frightened to death, Mrs. John!

Mrs. John. I'd like to know what you're so scared about!

Walburga. Why, didn't you see that horrible man?

Mrs. John. That ain't nothin' so horrible. That's my brother what sometimes helps me clean up your pa's things here.

Walburga. And that girl who sits with her back to the chimney and whines?

Mrs. John. Well, your mother didn't act no different when you was expected to come into the world.

Walburga. Oh, it's all over with me. I'll die if papa comes back.

Mrs. John. Well then hurry and get out an' don' fool roun' no more!

[_MRS. JOHN accompanies the horrified girl along the passage, lets her out, and then returns._

Mrs. John. Thank God, that girl don' know but what the moon _is_ made o' cheese!

[_She takes the uncorked bottle, pours out a glass full of wine and takes it with her to the loft into which she disappears._

_The room is scarcely empty when HASSENREUTER returns._

Hassenreuter. [_Still in the door. Singing._] "Come on down, O Madonna Teresa!" [_He calls:_] Alice! [_Still in the door._] Come on! Help me put up my iron bar with a double lock before the door, Alice! [_He comes forward._] Any one else who dares to interrupt our Sunday quiet--_anathema sit!_ Here! You imp! Where are you, Alice? [_He observes the bottle and lifts it against the light._] What? Half empty! The little scamp! [_From behind the door of the library a pleasant woman's voice is heard singing coloratura passages._] Ha, ha, ha, ha! Heavens and earth! She's tipsy already.

The Second Act. _MRS. JOHN'S rooms on the second floor of the same house in the attics of which HASSENREUTER has stored his properties. A high, deep, green-tinted room which betrays its original use as part of a barracks. The rear wall shows a double door which gives on the outer hall. Above this door there hangs a bell connected by a wire with the knob outside. To the right of the door a partition, covered with wall-paper, projects into the room. This partition takes a rectangular turn and extends to the right wall. A portion of the room is thus partitioned off and serves as sleeping-chamber. From within the partition, which is about six feet high, cupboards are seen against the wall._

_Entering the room from the hall, one observes to the left a sofa covered with oil-cloth. The back of the sofa is pushed against the partition wall. The latter is adorned with small photographs: the foreman-mason JOHN as a soldier, JOHN and his wife in their wedding garb, etc. An oval table, covered with a faded cotton cloth, stands before the sofa. In order to reach the entrance of the sleeping-chamber from the door it is necessary to pass the table and sofa. This entrance is closed by hangings of blue cotton cloth. Against the narrow front wall of the partition stands a neatly equipped kitchen cabinet. To the right, against the wall of the main room, the stove. This corner of the room serves the--purposes of kitchen and pantry. Sitting on the sofa, one would look straight at the left wall of the room, which is broken by two large windows. A neatly planed board has been fastened to the nearer of the windows to serve as a kind of desk. Upon it are lying blue-prints, counter-drawings, an inch-measure, a compass and a square. A small, raised platform is seen beneath the farther window. Upon it stands a small table with glasses. An old easy chair of cane and a number of simple wooden chairs complete the frugal equipment of the room, which creates an impression of neatness and orderliness such as is often found in the dwellings of childless couples._

_It is about five o'clock of an afternoon toward the end of May. The warm sunlight shines through the windows._

_The foreman-mason JOHN, a good-natured, bearded man of forty, sits at the desk in the foreground taking notes from the building plans._

_MRS. JOHN sits sewing on the small platform, by the farther window. She is very pale. There is something gentle and pain-touched about her, but her face shows an expression of deep contentment, which is broken only now and then by a momentary gleam of restlessness and suspense. A neat new perambulator stands by her side. In it lies a newborn child._

John. [_Modestly._] Mother, how'd it be if I was to open the window jus' a speck an' was to light my pipe for a bit?

Mrs. John. Does you have to smoke? If not, you better let it be!

John. No, I don't has to, mother. Only I'd like to! Never mind, though. A quid'll be just as good in the end.

[_With comfortable circumstantiality he prepares a new quid._

Mrs. John. [_After a brief silence._] How's that? You has to go to the public registry office again?

John. That's what he told me, that I had to come back again an' tell him exackly ... that I had to give the exack place an' time when that little kid was born.

Mrs. John. [_Holding a needle in her mouth._] Well, why didn't you tell him that right away?

John. How was I to know it? I didn't know, you see.

Mrs. John. You didn't know that?

John. Well, I wasn't here, was I?

Mrs. John. You wasn't. That's right. If you goes an' leaves me here in Berlin an' stays from one year's end to another in Hamburg, an' at most comes to see me once a month--how is you to know what happens in your own home?

John. Don't you want me to go where the boss has most work for me? I goes where I c'n make good money.

Mrs. John. I wrote you in my letter as how our little boy was born in this here room.

John. I knows that an' I told him that. Ain't that natural, I axes him, that the child was born in our room? An' he says that ain't natural at all. Well then, says I, for all I cares, maybe it was up in the loft with the rats an' mice! I got mad like 'cause he said maybe the child wasn't born here at all. Then he yells at me: What kind o' talk is that? What? says I. I takes an interest in wages an' earnin' an' not in talk--not me, Mr. Registrar! An' now I'm to give him the exack day an' hour ...

Mrs. John. An' didn't I write it all out for you on a bit o' paper?

John. When a man's mad he's forgetful. I believe if he'd up and axed me: Is you Paul John, foreman-mason? I'd ha' answered: I don' know. Well an' then I'd been a bit jolly too an' taken a drink or two with Fritz. An' while we was doin' that who comes along but Schubert an' Karl an' they says as how I has to set up on account o' bein' a father now. Those fellers, they didn't let me go an' they was waitin' downstairs in front o' the public registry. An' so I kept thinkin' o' them standin' there. So when he axes me on what day my wife was delivered, I didn't know nothin' an' just laughed right in his face.

Mrs. John. I wish you'd first attended to what you had to an' left your drinkin' till later.

John. It's easy to say that! But if you're up to them kind o' tricks in your old age, mother, you can't blame me for bein' reel glad.

Mrs. John. All right. You go on to the registry now an' say that your child was borne by your wife in your dwellin' on the twenty-fifth o' May.

John. Wasn't it on the twenty-sixth? 'Cause I said right along the twenty-sixth. Then he must ha' noticed that I wasn't quite sober. So he says: If that's a fac', all right; if not, you gotta come back.

Mrs. John. In that case you'd better leave it as it is.

_The door is opened and SELMA KNOBBE pushes in a wretched perambulator which presents the saddest contrast to MRS. JOHN'S. Swaddled in pitiful rags a newly born child lies therein._

Mrs. John. Oh, no, Selma, comin' into my room with that there sick child--that was all right before. But that can't be done no more.

Selma. He just gasps with that cough o' his'n. Over at our place they smokes all the time.

Mrs. John. I told you, Selma, that you could come from time to time and get milk or bread. But while my little Adelbert is here an' c'n catch maybe consumption or somethin', you just leave that poor little thing at home with his fine mother.

Selma. [_Tearfully._] Mother ain't been home at all yesterday or to-day. I can't get no sleep with this child. He just moans all night. I gotta get some sleep sometime! I'll jump outa the window first thing or I'll let the baby lie in the middle o' the street an' run away so no policeman can't never find me!

John. [_Looks at the strange child._] Looks bad! Mother, why don't you try an' do somethin' for the little beggar?

Mrs. John. [_Pushing SELMA and the perambulator out determinedly._] March outa this room. That can't be done, Paul. When you got your own you can't be lookin' out for other people's brats. That Knobbe woman c'n look after her own affairs. It's different with Selma. [_To the girl._] You c'n come in when you want to. You c'n come in here after a while an' take a nap even.

[_She locks the door._

John. You used to take a good deal o' interest in Knobbe's dirty little brats.

Mrs. John. You don' understan' that. I don' want our little Adelbert to be catchin' sore eyes or convulsions or somethin' like that.

John. Maybe you're right. Only, don't go an' call him Adelbert, mother. That ain't a good thing to do, to call a child by the same name as one that was carried off, unbaptised, a week after it was born. Let that be, mother. I can't stand for that, mother,

_A knocking is heard at the door. JOHN is about to open._

Mrs. John. What's that?

John. Well, somebody wants to get in!

Mrs. John. [_Hastily turning the key in the lock._] I ain't goin' to have everybody runnin' in on me now that I'm sick as this. [_She listens at the door and then calls out:_] I can't open! What d'you want?

A WOMAN'S VOICE

[_Somewhat deep and mannish in tone._] It is Mrs. Hassenreuter.

Mrs. John. [_Surprised._] Goodness gracious! [_She opens the door._] I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hassenreuter! I didn't even know who it was!

_MRS. HASSENREUTER has now entered, followed by WALBURGA. She is a colossal, asthmatic lady aver fifty. WALBURGA is dressed with greater simplicity than in the first act. She carries a rather large package._

Mrs. Hassenreuter. How do you do, Mrs. John? Although climbing stairs is ... very hard for me ... I wanted to see how everything ... goes with you after the ... yes, the very happy event.

Mrs. John. I'm gettin' along again kind o' half way.

Mrs. Hassenreuter. That is probably your husband, Mrs. John? Well, one must say, one is bound to say, that your dear wife, in the long time of waiting--never complained, was always cheery and merry, and did her work well for my husband upstairs.

John. That's right. She was mighty glad, too.

Mrs. Hassenreuter. Well, then we'll have the pleasure--at least, your wife will have the pleasure of seeing you at home oftener than heretofore.

Mrs. John. I has a good husband, Mrs. Hassenreuter, who takes care o' me an' has good habits. An' because Paul was workin' out o town you musn't think there was any danger o' his leavin' me. But a man like that, where his brother has a boy o' twelve in the non-commissioned officers' school ... it's no kind o' life for him havin' no children o' his own. He gets to thinkin' queer thoughts. There he is in Hamburg, makin' good money, an' he has the chance every day and--well--then he takes a notion, maybe, he'd like to go to America.

John. Oh, that was never more'n a thought.

Mrs. John. Well, you see, with us poor people ... it's hard-earned bread that we eats ... an' yet ... [_lightly she runs her hand through JOHN'S hair_] even if there's one more an' you has more cares on that account--you see how the tears is runnin' down his cheeks--well, he's mighty happy anyhow!

John. That's because three years ago we had a little feller an' when he was a week old he took sick an' died.

Mrs. Hassenreuter. My husband has already ... yes, my husband did tell me about that ... how deeply you grieved over that little son of yours. You know how it is ... you know how my good husband has his eyes and his heart open to everything. And if it's a question of people who are about him or who give him their services--then everything good or bad, yes, everything good or bad that happens to them, seems just as though it had happened to himself.

Mrs. John. I mind as if it was this day how he sat in the carridge that time with the little child's coffin on his knees. He wouldn't let the gravedigger so much as touch it.

John. [_Wiping the moisture out of his eyes._] That's the way it was. No. I couldn't let him do that.

Mrs. Hassenreuter. Just think, to-day at the dinner-table we had to drink wine--suddenly, to drink wine! Wine! For years and years the city-water in decanters has been our only table drink ... absolutely the only one. Dear children, said my husband.--You know that he had just returned from an eleven or twelve day trip to Alsace. Let us drink, my husband said, the health of my good and faithful Mrs. John, because ... he cried out in his beautiful voice ... because she is a visible proof of the fact that the cry of a mother heart is not indifferent to our Lord.--And so we drank your health, clinking our glasses! Well, and here I'm bringing you at my husband's special ... at his very special and particular order ... an apparatus for the sterilisation of milk.--Walburga, you may unpack the boiler.

_HASSENREUTER enters unceremoniously through the outer door which has stood ajar. He wears a top-hat, spring overcoat, carries a silver-headed cane, in a word, is gotten up in his somewhat shabby meek-day outfit. He speaks hastily and almost without pauses._

Hassenreuter. [_Wiping the sweat from his forehead._] Berlin is hot, ladies and gentlemen, hot! And the cholera is as near as St. Petersburg! Now you've complained to my pupils, Spitta and Kaeferstein, Mrs. John, that your little one doesn't seem to gain in weight. Now, of course, it's one of the symptoms of the general decadence of our age that the majority of mothers are either--unwilling to nurse their offspring or incapable of it. But you've already lost one child on account of diarrhoea, Mrs. John. No, there's no help for it: we must call a spade a spade. And so, in order that you do not meet with the same misfortune over again, or fall into the hands of old women whose advice is usually quite deadly for an infant--in order that these things may not happen, I say, I have caused my wife to bring you this apparatus. I've brought up all my--children, Walburga included, by the help of such an apparatus ...Aha! So one gets a glimpse of you again, Mr. John! Bravo! The emperor needs soldiers, and you needed a representative of your race! So I congratulate you with all my heart.

[_He shakes JOHN'S hand vigorously._

Mrs. Hassenreuter. [_Leaning over the infant._] How much ... how much did he weigh at birth?

Mrs. John. He weighed exactly eight pounds and ten grams.

Hassenreuter. [_With noisy joviality._] Ha, ha, ha! A vigorous product, I must say! Eight pounds and ten grams of good healthy, German national flesh!

Mrs. Hassenreuter. Look at his eyes! And his little nose! His father over again! Why, the little fellow is really, really, the very image of you, Mr. John.

Hassenreuter. I trust that you will have the boy received into the communion of the Christian Church.

Mrs. John. [_With happy impressiveness._] Oh, he'll be christened properly, right in the parochial church at the font by a clergyman.

Hassenreuter. Right! And what are his baptismal names to be?

Mrs. John. Well, you know the way men is. That's caused a lot o' talk. I was thinkin' o' "Bruno," but he won't have it!

Hassenreuter. Surely Bruno isn't a bad name.

John. That may be. I ain't sayin' but what Bruno is a good enough name. I don't want to give no opinion about that.

Mrs. John. Why don't you say as how I has a brother what's twelve years younger'n me an' what don't always do just right? But that's only 'cause there's so much temptation. That boy's a good boy. Only you won't believe it.

John. [_Turns red with sudden rage._] Jette ... you know what a cross that feller was to us! What d'you want? You want our little feller to be the namesake of a man what's--I can't help sayin' it--what's under police soopervision?

Hassenreuter. Then, for heaven's sake, get him some other patron saint.

John. Lord protect me from sich! I tried to take an interest in Bruno! I got him a job in a machine-shop an' didn't get nothin' outa it but annoyance an' disgrace! God forbid that he should come aroun' an' have anythin' to do with this little feller o' mine. [_He clenches his fist._] If that was to happen, Jette, I wouldn't be responsible for myself!!

Mrs. John. You needn't go on, Paul! Bruno ain't comin'. But I c'n tell you this much for certain, that my brother was good an' helpful to me in this hard time.

John. Why didn't you send for me?

Mrs. John. I didn't want no man aroun' that was scared.

Hassenreuter. Aren't you an admirer of Bismarck, John?

John. [_Scratching the back of his head._] I can't say as to that exackly. My brothers in the masons' union, though, they ain't admirers o' him.

Hassenreuter. Then you have no German hearts in your bodies! Otto is what I called my eldest son who is in the imperial navy! And believe me [_pointing to the infant_] this coming generation will well know what it owes to that mighty hero, the great forger of German unity! [_He takes the tin boiler of the apparatus which WALBURGA has unpacked into his hands and lifts it high up._] Now then: the whole business of this apparatus is mere child's play. This frame which holds all the bottles--each bottle to be filled two-thirds with water and one-third with milk--is sunk into the boiler which is filled with boiling water. By keeping the water at the boiling-point for an hour and a half in this manner, the content--of the bottles becomes free of germs. Chemists call this process sterilisation.

John. Jette, at the master-mason's house, the milk that's fed to the twins is sterilised too.

_The pupils of HASSENREUTER, KAeFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL, two young men between twenty and twenty-five years of age, have knocked at the door and then opened it._

Hassenreuter. [_Noticing his pupils._] Patience, gentlemen. I'll be with you directly. At the moment I am busying myself with the problems of the nourishment of infants and the care of children.

Kaeferstein. [_His head bears witness to a sharply defined character: large nose, pale, a serious expression, beardless, about the mouth a flicker of kindly mischievousness. With hollow voice, gentle and suppressed._] You must know that we are the three kings out of the East.

Hassenreuter. [_Who still holds the apparatus aloft in his hands._] What are you?

Kaeferstein. [_As before._] We want to adore the babe.

Hassenreuter. Ha, ha, ha, ha! If you are the kings out of the East, gentlemen, it seems to me that the third of you is lacking.

Kaeferstein. The third is our new fellow pupil in the field of dramaturgic activity, the _studiosus theologiae_, who is detained at present at the corner of Blumen and Wallnertheater streets by an accident partly sociological, partly psychological in its nature.

DR. KEGEL

We made all possible haste to escape.

Hassenreuter. Do you see, a star stands above this house, Mrs. John! But do tell me, has our excellent Spitta once more made some public application of his quackery for the healing of the so-called sins of the social order? Ha, ha, ha, ha! _Semper idem!_ Why, that fellow is actually becoming a nuisance!

Kaeferstein. A crowd gathered in the street for some reason and it seems that he discovered a friend in the midst of it.

Hassenreuter. According to my unauthoritative opinion this young Spitta would have done much better as a surgeon's assistant or Salvation Army officer. But that's the way of the world: the fellow must needs want to be an actor.

Mrs. Hassenreuter. Mr. Spitta, the children's tutor, wants to become an actor?

Hassenreuter. That is exactly the plan he has proposed to me, mama.--But now, if you bring incense and myrrh, dear Kaeferstein, out with them! You observe what a many sided man your teacher is. Now I help my pupils, thirsty after the contents of the Muses' breasts, to the nourishment they desire--_nutrimentum spiritus_--again I....

Kaeferstein. [_Rattles a toy bank._] Well, I deposit this offering, which is a fire-proof bank, next to the perambulator of this excellent offspring of the mason, with the wish that he will rise to be at least a royal architect.

John. [_Having put cordial glasses on the table, he fetches and opens a fresh bottle._] Well, now I'm goin' to uncork the _Danziger Goldwasser_.

Hassenreuter. To him who hath shall be given, as you observe, Mrs. John.

John. [_Filling the glasses._] Nobody ain't goin' to say that my child's unprovided for, gentlemen. But I takes it very kindly o' you, gentlemen! [_All except MRS. HASSENREUTER and WALBURGA lift up their glasses._] To you health! Come on, mother, we'll drink together too.

[_The action follows the words._

Hassenreuter. [_In a tone of reproof._] Mama, you must, of course, drink with us.

John. [_Having drunk, with jolly expansiveness._] I ain't goin' to Hamburg no more now. The boss c'n send some other feller there. I been quarrelin' with him about that these three days. I gotta take up my hat right now an' go there; he axed me to come roun' to his office again at six. If he don' want to give in, he needn't. It won't never do for the father of a family to be forever an' a day away from his family ... I got a friend--why, all I gotta do's to say the word 'n I c'n get work on the layin' o' the foundations o' the new houses o' Parliament. Twelve years I been workin' for this same boss! I c'n afford to make a change some time.

Hassenreuter. [_Pats JOHN'S shoulder._] Quite of your opinion, quite! Our family life is something that neither money nor kind words can buy of us.

_ERICH SPITTA enters. His hat is soiled; his clothes show traces of mud. His tie is gone. He looks pale and excited and is busy wiping his hands with his handkerchief._

Spitta. Beg pardon, but I wonder if I could brush up here a little, Mrs. John?

Hassenreuter. Ha, ha, ha! For heaven's sake, what have you been up to, my good Spitta?

Spitta. I only escorted a lady home, Mr. Hassenreuter--nothing else!

Hassenreuter. [_Who has joined in the general, outburst of laughter called forth by SPITTA'S explanation._] Well now, listen here! You blandly say: Nothing else! And you announce it publicly here before all these people?

Spitta. [_In consternation._] Why not? The lady in question, was very well dressed; I've often seen her on the stairs of this house, and she unfortunately met with an accident on the street.

Hassenreuter. You don't say so? Tell us about it, dear Spitta! Apparently the lady inflicted spots on your clothes and scratches on your hands.

Spitta. Oh, no. That was probably the fault of the mob. The lady had an attack of some kind. The policeman caught hold of her so awkwardly that she slipped down in the middle of the street immediately in front of two omnibus horses. I simply couldn't bear to see that, although I admit that the function of the Good Samaritan is, as a rule, beneath the dignity of well-dressed people on the public streets.

_MRS. JOHN wheels the perambulator behind the partition and reappears with a basin full of water, which she places on a chair._

Hassenreuter. Did the lady, by any chance, belong to that international high society which we either regulate or segregate?

Spitta. I confess that that was quite as indifferent to me in the given instance, as it was to one of the omnibus horses who held his left fore foot suspended in the air for five, six or, perhaps, even eight solid minutes, in order not to trample on the woman who lay immediately beneath it. [_SPITTA is answered by a round of laughter._] You may laugh! The behaviour of the horse didn't strike me as in the least ludicrous. I could well understand how some people applauded him, clapped their hands, and how others stormed a bakery to buy buns with which to feed him.

Mrs. John. [_Fanatically._] I wish he'd trampled all he could! [_MRS. JOHN'S remark calls forth another outburst of laughter._] An' anyhow! That there Knobbe woman! She oughta be put in some public place, that she ought, publicly strapped to a bench an' then beaten--beaten--that's what! She oughta have the stick taken to her so the blood jus' spurts!

Spitta. Exactly, I've never been deluded into thinking that the so-called Middle Ages were quite over and done with. It isn't so long ago, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, as a matter of fact, that a widow named Mayer was publicly broken on the wheel right here in the city of Berlin on Hausvogtei Square,--[_He displays fragments of the lenses of his spectacles._] By the way, I must hurry to the optician at once.

John. [_To SPITTA._] You must excuse us. But didn't you take that there fine lady home on this very floor acrost the way? Aha! Well, mother she noticed it right off that that couldn't ha' been nobody but that Knobbe woman what's known for sendin' girls o' twelve out on the streets! Then she stays away herself an' swills liquor an' has all kinds o' dealin's an' takes no care o' her own children. Then when she's been drunk an' wakes up she beats 'em with her fists an' with an umbrella.

Hassenreuter. [_Pulling himself together and bethinking himself._] Hurry, gentlemen! We must proceed to our period of instruction. We're fifteen minutes behind hand as it is and our time is limited. We must close the period quite punctually to-day. I'm sorry. Come, mama. See you later, ladies and gentlemen.

[_HASSENREUTER offers his arm to his wife and leaves the room, followed by KAeFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL. JOHN also picks up his slouch hat._

John. [_To his wife._] Good-bye. I gotta go an' see the boss.

[_He also leaves._

Spitta. Could you possibly lend me a tie?

Mrs. John. I'll see what c'n be found in Paul's drawer. [_She opens the drawer of the table and turns pale._] O Lord! [_She takes from the drawer a lock of child's hair held together by a riband._] I found a bit of a lock o' hair here that was cut off the head of our little Adelbert by his father when he was lyin' in the coffin. [_A profound, grief-stricken sadness suddenly comes over her face, which gives way again, quite as suddenly, to a gleam of triumph._] An' now the crib is full again after all! [_With an expression of strange joyfulness, the lock of hair in her hand, she leads the young people to the door of the partition through which the perambulator projects into the main room by two-thirds of its length. Arrived there she holds the lock of hair close to the head of the living child._] Come on! Come on here! [_With a strangely mysterious air she beckons to WALBURGA and SPITTA, who take up their stand next to her and to the child._] Now look at that there hair an' at this! Ain't it the same? Wouldn't you say it was the same identical hair?

Spitta. Quite right. It's the same to the minutest shade, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. All right! That's all right! That's what I wanted to know.

[_Together with the child she disappears behind the partition._

Walburga. Doesn't it strike you, Erich, that Mrs. John's behaviour is rather peculiar?

Spitta. [_Taking WALBURGA'S hands and kissing them shyly but passionately._] I don't know, I don't know ... Or, at least, my opinion musn't count to-day. The sombre state of my own mind colours all the world. Did you get the letter?

Walburga. Yes. But I couldn't make out why you hadn't been at our house in such a long while.

Spitta. Forgive me, Walburga, but I couldn't come.

Walburga. And why not?

Spitta. Because my mind was not at one with itself.

Walburga. You want to become an actor? Is that true? You're going to change professions?

Spitta. What I'll be in the end may be left to God. But never a parson--never a country parson!

Walburga. Listen! I've had my fortune told from the cards.

Spitta. That's nonsense, Walburga. You mustn't do that.

Walburga. I swear to you, Erich, that it isn't nonsense. The woman told me I was betrothed in secret and that my betrothed is an actor. Of course I laughed her to scorn. And immediately after that mama told me that you wanted to be an actor.

Spitta. Is that a fact?

Walburga. It's true--every bit of it. And in addition the clairvoyant said that we would have a visitor who would cause us much trouble.

Spitta. My father is coming to Berlin, Walburga, and it's undoubtedly true that the old gentleman will give us not a little trouble. Father doesn't know it, but my views and his have been worlds asunder for a long time. It didn't need these letters of his which seem actually to burn in my pocket and by which he answered my confession--it didn't need these letters to tell me that.

Walburga. An evil, envious, venomous star presided over our secret meeting here! Oh, how I used to admire my papa! And since that Sunday I blush for him every minute. And however much I try, I can't, since that day, look frankly and openly into his eyes.

Spitta. Did you have differences with your father too?

Walburga. Oh, if it were nothing more than that! I was so proud of papa! And now I tremble to think of even your finding it out. You'd despise us!

Spitta. _I_ despise anyone? Dear child, I can't think of anything less fitting for me! Look here: I'll set you an example in the matter of frankness. A sister of mine, six years older than I, was governess in a noble family. Well, a misfortune happened to her and ... when she sought refuge in the house of her parents, my Christian father put her out of doors! I believe he thought that Jesus would have done the same. And so my sister gradually sank lower and lower and some day we can go and visit her in the little suicides' graveyard near Schildhorn where she finally found rest.

Walburga. [_Puts her arms around SPITTA._] Poor boy, you never told me a word of that.

Spitta. Circumstances have changed now and I speak of it. I shall speak of it to papa too even if it causes a breach between us.--You're always surprised when I get excited, and that I can't control myself when I see some poor devil being kicked about, or when I see the rabble mistreating some poor fallen girl. I have actual hallucinations sometimes. I seem to see ghosts in bright daylight and my own sister among them!

_PAULINE PIPERCARCKA enters, dressed as before. Her little face seems to have grown paler and prettier._

Pauline. Good mornin'.

Mrs. John. [_From behind the partition._] Who's that out there?

Pauline. Pauline, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. Pauline? I don't know no Pauline.

Pauline. Pauline Pipercarcka, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. Who? Oh, well then you c'n wait a minute, Pauline.

Walburga. Good-bye, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. [_Emerges from behind the partition and carefully draws the hangings._] That's right. I got somethin' to discuss with this here young person. So you young folks c'n see about getting out.

_SPITTA and WALBURGA leave hastily. MRS. JOHN locks the door behind them._

Mrs. John. So it's you, Pauline? An' what is it you want?

Pauline. What should I be wantin'? Somethin' jus' drove me here! Couldn't wait no longer. I has to see how everythin' goes.

Mrs. John. How what goes? What's everythin'?

Pauline. [_With a somewhat bad conscience._] Well, if it's well; if it's gettin' on nicely.

Mrs. John. If what's well? If what's gettin' on nicely?

Pauline. You oughta know that without my tellin'.

Mrs. John. _What_ ought I to know without your tellin' me?

Pauline. I wants to know if anythin's happened to the child!

Mrs. John. What child? An' what could ha' happened? Talk plainly, will you? There ain't a word o' your crazy chatter that anybody c'n understand!

Pauline. I ain't sayin' nothin' but what's true, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. Well, what is it?

Pauline. My child ...

Mrs. John. [_Gives her a terrific box on the ear._] Say that again an' I'll bang my boots about your ears so that you'll think you're the mother o' triplets. An now: get outa here! An' don' never dare to show your face here again!

Pauline. [_Starts to go. She shakes the door which is locked._] She's beaten me! Help! Help! I don' has to--stand that! No! [_Weeping._] Open the door! She's maltreated me, Mrs. John has!

Mrs. John. [_Utterly transformed, embraces PAULINE, thus restraining her._] Pauline! For God's sake, Pauline! I don' know what could ha' gotten into me! You jus' be good now an' quiet down an' I'll beg your pardon. What d'you want me to do? I'll get down _on_ my knees if you wants me to! Anythin'! Pauline! Listen! Let me do _some_thin'!

Pauline. Why d'you go 'n hit me in the face? I'm goin' to headquarters and say as how you slapped me in the face. I'm goin' to headquarters to give notice!

Mrs. John. [_Thrusts her face forward._] Here! You c'n hit me back--- right in the face! Then it's all right; then it's evened up.

Pauline. I'm goin' to headquarters ...

Mrs. John. Yes, then it's evened up. You jus' listen to what I says: Don't you see it'll be evened up then all right! What d'you want to do? Come on now an' hit me!

Pauline. What's the good o' that when my cheek is swollen?

Mrs. John. [_Striking herself a blow on the cheek._] There! Now my cheek is swollen too. Come on, my girl, hit me an' don' be scared!--- An' then you c'n tell me everythin' you got on your heart. In the meantime I'll go an' I'll cook for you an' me, Miss Pauline, a good cup o' reel coffee made o' beans--none o' your chicory slop, so help me!

Pauline. [_Somewhat conciliated._] Why did you has to go an' be so mean an' rough to a poor girl like me, Mrs. John?

Mrs. John. That's it'--that's jus' what I'd like to know my own self! Come on, Pauline, an' sit down! So! It's all right, I tells you! Sit down! It's fine o' you to come an' see me! How many beatin's didn't I get from my poor mother because sometimes I jus' seemed to go crazy an' not be the same person no more. She said to me more'n onct: Lass, look out! You'll be doin' for yourself some day! An' maybe she was right; maybe it'll be that way. Well now, Pauline, tell me how you are an' how you're gettin' along?

Pauline. [_Laying down bank-notes and handfuls of silver, without counting them, on the table._] Here is the money: I don't need it.

Mrs. John. I don' know nothin' about no money, Pauline.

Pauline. Oh, you'll know about the money all right! It's been jus' burnin' into me, that it has! It was like a snake under my pillow ...

Mrs. John. Oh, come now ...

Pauline. Like a snake that crept out when I went to sleep. An' it tormented me an' wound itself aroun' me an' squeezed me so that I screamed right out an' my landlady found me lyin' on the bare floor jus' like somebody what's dead.

Mrs. John. You jus' let that be right now, Pauline. Take a bit of a drink first of all! [_She pours out a small glassful of brandy._] An' then come an' eat a bite. It was my husband's birthday yesterday.

[_She gets out some coffee-cake of which she cuts an oblong piece._

Pauline. Oh, no, I don' feel like eatin'.

Mrs. John. That strengthens you; that does you good; you oughta eat that! But I is pleased to see, Pauline, how your fine constitootion helped you get back your strength so good.

Pauline. But now I want to have a look at it, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. What's that? What d'you want to have a look at?

Pauline. If I could ha' walked I'd ha' been here long ago. I want to see now what I come to see!

_MRS. JOHN, whose almost creeping courtesies have been uttered with lips aquiver with fear, pales ominously and keeps silent. She goes to the kitchen cabinet, wrenches the coffee handmill out and pours beans into it. She sits down, squeezes the mill between her knees, grasps the handle, and stares with a consuming expression of nameless hatred over at PAULINE._

Mrs. John. Eh? Oh, yes! What d'you want to see? What d'you want to see now all of a sudden? That what you wanted to throttle with them two hands o' yours, eh?

Pauline. Me?

Mrs. John. D'you want to lie about it? _I'll_ go and give notice about you!

Pauline. Now you've tormented me an' jabbed at me an' tortured me enough, Mrs. John. You followed me up; you wouldn't leave me no rest where I went. Till I brought my child into the world on a heap o' rags up in your loft. You gave me all kinds o' hopes an' you scared me with that rascal of a feller up there! You told my fortune for me outa the cards about my intended an' you baited me an' hounded me till I was most crazy.

Mrs. John. An' that's what you are. Yes, you're as crazy as you c'n be. _I_ tormented you, eh? Is that what I did? I picked you up outa the gutter! I fetched you outa the midst of a blizzard when you was standin' by the chronometer an' stared at the lamplighter with eyes that was that desperate scared! You oughta seen yourself! An' I hounded you, eh? Yes, to prevent the police an' the police-waggon an' the devil hisself from catchin' you! I left you no rest, eh? I tortured you, did I? to keep you from jumpin' into the river with the child in your womb! [_Mocking her._] "I'll throw myself into the canal, mother John! I'll choke the child to death! I'll kill the little crittur with my hat pin! I'll go an' run to where its father plays the zither, right in the midst o' the saloon, an' I'll throw the dead child at his feet!" That's what you said; that's the way you talked--all the blessed day long and sometimes half the night too till I put you to bed an' petted you an' stroked you till you went to sleep. An' you didn't wake up again till next day on the stroke o' twelve, when the bells was ringin' from all the churches, Yes, that's the way I scared you, an' then gave you hope again, an' didn't give you no peace! You forgot all that there, eh?

Pauline. But it's my child, Mrs. John ...

Mrs. John. [_Screams._] You go an' get your child outa the canal!

[_She jumps up and walks hastily about the room, picking up and throwing aside one object after another._

Pauline. Ain't I goin' to be allowed to see my child even?

Mrs. John. Jump into the water an' get it there! Then you'll have it! I ain't keepin' you back. God knows!

Pauline. All right! You c'n slap me, you c'n beat me, you c'n throw things at my head if you wants to. Before I don' know where my child is an' before I ain't seen it with my own eyes, nothin' an' nobody ain't goin' to get me away from this place.

Mrs. John. [_Interrupting her._] Pauline, I put it out to nurse!

Pauline. That's a lie! Don't I hear it smackin' its lips right behind that there partition. [_The child behind the partition begins to cry. PAULINE hastens toward it. She exclaims with pathetic tearfulness, obviously forcing the note of motherhood a little._] Don' you cry, my poor, poor little boy! Little mother's comin' to you now!

[_MRS. JOHN, almost beside herself, has sprung in front of the door, thus blocking PAULINE'S way._

Pauline. [_Whining helplessly but with clenched fists._] Lemme go in an' see my child!

Mrs. John. [_A terrible change coming over her face._] Look at me, girl! Come here an' look me in the eye!--D'you think you c'n play tricks on a woman that looks the way I do? [_PAULINE sits down still moaning._] Sit down an' howl an' whine till ... till your throat's swollen so you can't give a groan. But if you gets in here--then you'll be dead or I'll be dead an' the child--he won't be alive no more neither.

Pauline. [_Rises with some determination._] Then look out for what'll happen.

Mrs. John. [_Attempting to pacify the girl once more._] Pauline, this business was all settled between us. Why d'you want to go an' burden yourself with the child what's my child now an' is in the best hands possible? What d'you want to do with it? Why don't you go to your intended? You two'll have somethin' better to do than listen to a child cryin' an' takin' all the care an' trouble he needs!

Pauline. No, that ain't the way it is! He's gotta marry me now! They all says so--Mrs. Keilbacke, when I had to take treatment, she said so. They says I'm not to give in; he has to marry me. An' the registrar he advised me too. That's what he said, an' he was mad, too, when I told him how I sneaked up into a loft to have my baby! He cried out loud that I wasn't to let up! Poor, maltreated crittur--that's what he called me an' he put his hand in his pocket an' gave me three crowns! All right. So we needn't quarrel no more, Mrs. John. I jus' come anyhow to tell you to be at home to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock. An' why? Because to-morrow an official examiner'll come to look after things here. I don't has to worry myself with you no more....

Mrs. John. [_Moveless and shocked beyond expression._] What? You went an' give notice at the public registry?

Pauline. O' course? Does I want to go to gaol?

Mrs. John. An' what did you tell the registrar?

Pauline. Nothin' but that I give birth to a boy. An' I was so ashamed! Oh my God, I got red all over! I thought I'd just have to go through the floor.

Mrs. John. Is that so? Well, if you was so ashamed why did you go an' give notice?

Pauline. 'Cause my landlady an' Mrs. Kielbacke, too, what took me there, didn't give me no rest.

Mrs. John. H-m. So they knows it now at the public registry?

Pauline. Yes; they had to know, Mrs. John!

Mrs. John. Didn't I tell you over an' over again?

Pauline. You gotta give notice o' that! D'you want me to be put in gaol for a investergation?

Mrs. John. I told you as how I'd give notice.

Pauline. I axed the registrar right off. Nobody hadn't been there.

Mrs. John. An' what did you say exackly?

Pauline. That his name was to be Aloysius Theophil an' that he was boardin' with you.

Mrs. John. An' to-morrow an officer'll be comin' in.

Pauline. He's a gentlemen from the guardian's office. What's the matter with that? Why don't you keep still an' act sensible. You scared me most to death a while ago!

Mrs. John. [_As if absent-minded._] That's right. There ain't nothin' to be, done about that now. An' there ain't so much to that, after all, maybe.

Pauline. All right. An' now c'n I see my child, Mrs. John?

Mrs. John. Not to-day. Wait till to-morrow, Pauline.

Pauline. Why not to-day?

Mrs. John. Because no good'd come of it this day. Wait till to-morrow, five o'clock in the afternoon.

Pauline. That's it. My landlady says it was written that way, that a gentleman from the city'll be here to-morrow afternoon five o'clock.

Mrs. John. [_Pushing PAULINE out and herself going out of the room with her, in the same detached tone._] All right. Let him come, girl.

_MRS. JOHN has gone out into the hall for a moment. She now returns without PAULINE. She seems strangely changed and absent-minded. She takes a few hasty steps toward the door of the partition; then stands still with an expression of fruitless brooding on her face. She interrupts herself in this brooding and runs to the window. Having reached it she turns and on her face there reappears the expression of dull detachment. Slowly, like a somnambulist, she walks up to the table and sits down beside it, leaning her chin on her hand. SELMA KNOBBE appears in the doorway._

Selma. Mother's asleep, Mrs. John, an' I'm that hungry. Might I have a bite o' bread?

_MRS. JOHN rises mechanically and cuts a slice from the loaf of bread with the air of one under an hypnotic influence._

Selma. [_Observing MRS. JOHN'S state of mind._] It's me! What's the matter, Mrs. John? Whatever you do, don't cut yourself with the bread knife.

Mrs. John. [_Lets the loaf and the bread-knife slip involuntarily from her hand to the table. A dry sobbing overwhelms her more and more._] Fear!--Trouble!--You don' know nothin' about that!

[_She trembles and grasps after some support._

The Third Act. _The same decoration as in the first act. The lamp is lit. The dim light of a hanging lamp illuminates the passage._

_HASSENREUTER is giving his three pupils, SPITTA, DR. KEGEL and KAeFERSTEIN instruction in the art of acting. He himself is seated at the table, uninterruptedly opening letters and beating time to the rhythm of the verses with a paper cutter. In front of him stand, facing each other, KEGEL and KAeFERSTEIN on one side, SPITTA on the other, thus representing the two choruses in Schiller's "Bride of Messina." The young men stand in the midst of a diagram drawn with chalk on the floor and separated, like a chess-board, into sixty-four rectangles. On the high stool in front of the office desk WALBURGA is sitting. Waiting in the background stands the house steward QUAQUARO, who might be the manager of a wandering circus and, in the capacity of athlete, its main attraction. His speech is uttered in a guttural tenor. He wears bedroom slippers. His breeches are held up by an embroidered belt. An open shirt, fairly clean, a light jacket, a cap now held in his hand, complete his attire._

Dr. Kegel And Kaeferstein. [_Mouthing the verses sonorously and with exaggerated dignity._]

"Thee salute I with reverence, Lordliest chamber, Thee, my high rulers' Princeliest cradle, Column-supported, magnificent roof. Deep in its scabbard ..."

Hassenreuter. [_Cries in a rage._] Pause! Period! Period! Pause! Period! You're not turning the crank of a hurdy-gurdy! The chorus in the "Bride of Messina" is no hand-organ tune! "Thee salute I with reverence!" Start over again from the beginning, gentleman! "Thee salute I with reverence, Lordliest chamber!" Something like that, gentlemen! "Deep in its scabbard let the sword rest." Period! "Magnificent roof." I meant to say: Period! But you may go on if you want to.

Dr. Kegel And Kaeferstein. "Deep in its scabbard Let the sword rest, Fettered fast by your gateway Moveless may lie Strife's snaky-locked monster. For ..."

Hassenreuter. [_As before._] Hold on! Don't you know the meaning of a full stop, gentlemen? Haven't you any knowledge of the elements? "Snaky-haired monster." Period! Imagine that a pile is driven there! You've got to stop, to pause. There must be silence like the silence of the dead! You've got to imagine yourself wiped out of existence for the moment, Kaeferstein. And then--out with your best trumpeting chest-notes! Hold on! Don't lisp, for God's sake. "For ..." Go on now! Start!

Dr. Kegel And Kaeferstein. "For this hospitable house's Inviolable threshold Guardeth an oath, the Furies' child...."

Hassenreuter. [_Jumps up, runs about and roars._] Oath, oath, oath, oath!!! Don't you know what an oath is, Kaeferstein? "Guardeth an oath!!--the Furies' child." This oath is said to be the child of the Furies, Dr. Kegel! You've got to use your voice! The audience, to the last usher, has got to be one vast quivering gooseflesh when you say that! One shiver must run through every bone in the house! Listen to me: "For this house's ... threshold Guardeth an oath!!! The Furies' child, The fearfullest of the infernal deities!"--Go ahead! Don't repeat these verses. But you can stop long enough to observe that an oath and a Munich beer radish are, after all, two different things.

Spitta. [_Declaims._]

"Ireful my heart in my bosom burneth...."

Hassenreuter. Hold on! [_He runs up to SPITTA and pushes and nudges the latter's arms and legs in order to produce the desired tragic pose._]--First of all, you lack the requisite statuesqueness of posture, my dear Spitta. The dignity of a tragic character is in nowise expressed in you. Then you did not, as I expressly desired you to do, advance your right foot from the field marked ID into that marked IIC! Finally, Mr. Quaquaro is waiting; so let us interrupt ourselves for a moment. So; now I'm at your service, Mr. Quaquaro. That is to say, I asked you to come up because, in making my inventory, it became clear that several cases and boxes cannot be found or, in other words, have been stolen. Now, before lodging information with the authorities which, of course, I am determined to do, I wanted first to get your advice. I wanted to do that all the more because, in place of the lost cases, there was found, in a corner of the attic, a very peculiar mess--a find that could appropriately be sent to Dr. Virchow. First there was a blue feather-duster, truly prehistoric, and an inexpressible vessel, the use of which, quite harmless in itself, is equally inexpressible.

Quaquaro. Well, sir, I can climb up there if you want me to.

Hassenreuter. Suppose you do that. Up there you'll meet Mrs. John, whom the find in question has disquieted even more than it has me. These three gentlemen, who are my pupils, won't be persuaded that something very like a murder didn't take place up there. But, if you please, let's not cause a scandal!

Kaeferstein. When something got lost in my mother's shop in Schneidemuehl, it was always said that the rats had eaten it. And really, when you consider the number of rats and mice in this house--I very nearly stepped on one on the stairs a while ago--why shouldn't we suppose that the cases of costumes were devoured in the same way. Silk is said to be sweet.

Hassenreuter. Very excellent! Very good! You're relieved from the necessity of indulging in any more notion-shopkeepers' fancies, my good Kaeferstein! Ha, ha, ha! It only remains for you to dish up for us the story of the cavalry man Sorgenfrei, who, according to your assertion, when this house was still a cavalry barracks, hanged himself--spurred and armed--in my loft. And then the last straw would be for you to direct our suspicions toward him.

Kaeferstein. You can still see the very nail he used.

Quaquaro. There ain't a soul in the house what don't know the story of the soldier Sorgenfrei who put an end to hisself with a rope somewhere under the rooftree.

Kaeferstein. The carpenter's wife downstairs and a seamstress in the second story have repeatedly seen him by broad daylight nodding out of the attic window and bowing down with military demeanour.

Quaquaro. A corporal, they says, called the soldier Sorgenfrei a windbag an' gave him a blow outa spite. An' the idjit took that to heart.

Hassenreuter. Ha, ha, ha! Military brutalities and ghost stories! That mixture is original, but hardly to our purpose. I assume that the theft, or whatever it was, took place during those eleven or twelve days that I spent on business in Alsace. So look the matter over and have the goodness, later, to report to me.

_HASSENREUTER turns to his pupils. QUAQUARO mounts the stairs to the loft and disappears behind the trap-door._

Hassenreuter. All right, my good Spitta: Fire away!

_SPITTA recites simply according to the sense and without any tragic bombast._

"Ireful my heart in my bosom burneth, My hand is ready for sword or lance, For unto me the Gorgon turneth My foeman's hateful countenance. Scarce I master the rage that assails me. Shall I salute him with fair speech? Better, perchance, my ire avails me? Only the Fury me affrighteth, Protectress of all within her reach, And God's truce which all foes uniteth."

Hassenreuter. [_Who has sat down, supports his head on his hand and listens resignedly. Not until SPITTA has ceased speaking for some moments does he look up, as if coming to himself._] Are you quite through, Spitta? If so, I'm much obliged!--You see, my dear fellow, I've really gotten into a deuce of a situation as far as you are concerned: either I tell you impudently to your face that I consider your method of elocution excellent--and in that case I'd be guilty of a lie of the most contemptible kind: or else I tell you that I consider it abominable and then we'd get into another beastly row.

Spitta. [_Turning pale._] Yes, all this stilted, rhetorical stuff is quite foreign to my nature. That's the very reason why I abandoned theology. The preacher's tone is repulsive to me.

Hassenreuter. And so you would like to reel off these tragic choruses as a clerk of court mumbles a document or a waiter a bill of fare?

Spitta. I don't care for the whole sonorous bombast of the "Bride of Messina."

Hassenreuter. I wish you'd repeat that charming opinion.

Spitta. There's nothing to be done about it, sir. Our conceptions of dramatic art diverge utterly, in some respects.

Hassenreuter. Man alive, at this particular moment your face is a veritable monogram of megalomania and impudence! I beg your pardon, but you're my pupil now and no longer the tutor of my children. Your views and mine! You ridiculous tyro! You and Schiller! Friedrich Schiller! I've told you a hundred times that your puerile little views of art are nothing but an innate striving toward imbecility!

Spitta. You would have to prove that to me, after all.

Hassenreuter. You prove it yourself every time you open your mouth! You deny the whole art of elocution, the value of the voice in acting! You want to substitute for both the art of toneless squeaking! Further you deny the importance of action in the drama and assert it to be a worthless accident, a sop for the groundlings! You deny the validity of poetic justice, of guilt and its necessary expiation. You call all that a vulgar invention--an assertion by means of which the whole moral order of the world is abrogated by the learned and crooked understanding of your single magnificent self! Of the heights of humanity you know nothing! You asserted the other day that, in certain circumstances, a barber or a scrubwoman might as fittingly be the protagonist of a tragedy as Lady Macbeth or King Lear!

Spitta. [_Still pale, polishing his spectacles._] Before art as before the law all men are equal, sir.

Hassenreuter. Aha? Is that so? Where did you pick up that banality?

Spitta. [_Without permitting himself to be disconcerted._] The truth of that saying has become my second nature. In believing it I probably find myself at variance with Schiller and Gustav Freytag, but not at all with Lessing and Diderot. I have spent the past two semesters in the study of these two great dramaturgic critics, and the whole stilted French pseudo-classicism is, as far as I'm concerned, utterly destroyed--not only in creative art itself but in such manifestations as the boundless folly of the directions for acting which Goethe prescribed in his old age. These are mere superannuated nonsense.

Hassenreuter. You don't mean it?

Spitta. And if the German stage is ever to recuperate it must go back to the young Schiller, the young Goethe--the author of "Goetz"--and ever again to Gotthold Ephraim Lessing! There you will find set down principles of dramatic art which are adapted to the rich complexity of life in all its fullness, and which are potent to cope with Nature itself!

Hassenreuter. Walburga! I'm afraid Mr. Spitta is taking us for each other. Mr. Spitta, you're about to give a lesson! Walburga, you and your teacher are free to retire to the library.--If human arrogance and especially that of very young people could be crystallised into one formation--humanity would be buried under that rock like an ant under the granite masses of an antediluvian mountain range!

Spitta. But I wouldn't in any wise be refuted thereby.

Hassenreuter. Man, I tell you that I've not only passed through two semesters of formal study, but I have grown grey in the practice of the actor's art! And I tell you that Goethe's catechism for actors is the alpha and the omega of my artistic convictions! If you don't like that--get another teacher!

Spitta. [_Pursuing his argument calmly._] According to my opinion, Goethe with his senile regulations for actors denied, in the pettiest way, himself and his whole original nature. What is one to say of his ruling that every actor, irrespective of the quality of the character represented by him, must--these are his very words--show an ogre-like expression of countenance in order that the spectator be at once reminded of the nature of lofty tragedy. Actually, these are his very words!

_KAeFERSTEIN and KEGEL make an effort to assume ogre-like expressions._

Hassenreuter. Get out your note-book, most excellent Spitta, and record your opinion, please, that Manager Hassenreuter is an ass, that Schiller is an ass, Goethe an ass, Aristotle, too, of course--[_he begins suddenly to laugh like mad_]--and, ha, ha, ha! a certain Spitta a--night watchman!

Spitta. I'm glad to see, sir, that, at least, you've recovered your good humour.

Hassenreuter. The devil! I haven't recovered it at all! You're a symptom. So you needn't think yourself very important.--You are a rat, so to speak. One of those rats who are beginning, in the field of politics, to undermine our glorious and recently united German Empire! They are trying to cheat us of the reward of our labours! And in the garden of German art these rats are gnawing at the roots of the tree of idealism. They are determined to drag its crown into the mire!--Down, down, down into the dust with you!

_KAeFERSTEIN and KEGEL try to preserve their gravity but soon break out into loud laughter, which HASSENREUTER is impelled to join. WALBURGA looks on in wide-eyed astonishment. SPITTA remains serious._

_MRS. JOHN is now seen descending the stairs of the loft. After a little while QUAQUARO follows her._

Hassenreuter. [_Perceives MRS. JOHN and points her out to SPITTA with violent gesticulations as if he had just made an important discovery._] There comes your tragic Muse!

Mrs. John. [_Approaches, abashed by the laughter of HASSENREUTER, KEGEL and KAeFERSTEIN._] Why, what d'you see about me?

Hassenreuter. Nothing but what is good and beautiful, Mrs. John! You may thank God that your quiet, withdrawn and peaceful life unfits you for the part of a tragic heroine.--But tell me, have you, by any chance, had an interview with ghosts?

Mrs. John. [_Unnaturally pale._] Why do you ax that?

Hassenreuter. Perhaps you even saw the famous soldier Sorgenfrei who closed his career above as a deserter into a better world?

Mrs. John. If it was a livin' soul, maybe you might be right. But I ain't scared o' no dead ghosts.

Hassenreuter. Well, Mr. Quaquaro, how did it look under the roof there?

Quaquaro. [_Who has brought down with him a Swedish riding-boot._] Well, I took a pretty good look aroun' an' I came to the conclusion that, at least, some shelterless ragamuffins has passed the night there; though how they got in I ain't sayin'. An' then I found this here boot.--

[_Out of the boot he draws an infant's bottle, topped by a rubber nipple and half filled with milk._

Mrs. John. That's easily explained. I was up there settin' things to rights an' I had little Adelbert along with me. But I don' know nothin' about the rest.

Hassenreuter. Nobody has undertaken to assert that you do, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. When you considers how my little Adelbert came into the world ... an' when you considers how he died ... nobody c'n come an' tell me nothin' about bein' a reel mother ... But I gotta leave now, sir ... I can't be comin' up here for two three days. Good-bye! I has to go to my sister-in-law an' let Adelbert enjoy the country air a little.

[_She trots off through the door to the outer hall._

Hassenreuter. Can you make anything of her wild talk?

Quaquaro. There's been a screw loose there ever since her first baby came, an' all the more after it took an' died. Now since she's got the second one, there's two screws what's wobbly. Howsoever, she c'n count--that's a fac'. She's got a good bit o' money loaned out at interest on pawned goods.

Hassenreuter. Well, but what is the injured party--namely, myself--to do?

Quaquaro. That depends on where the suspicion falls.

Hassenreuter. In this house?--You'll admit yourself, Mr. Quaquaro ...

Quaquaro. That's true all right. But it won't be long before we'll have a little cleanin' up aroun' here! The widow Knobbe with all her crowd is goin' to be put out! An' then there's a gang in wing B, where there's some tough customers by what Policeman Schierke tells me. Well, they're goin' to come from headquarters pretty soon and blow up that crowd.

Hassenreuter. There must be a glee club somewhere in the house. At least I hear excellent male voices singing from time to time things like "Germany, our highest glory," and "Who has built thee, noble wood," and "In a cool galley turneth."

Quaquaro. Them's the very fellers! That's right! An' they do sing fine! The sayin' is that bad men has no songs, but I wouldn't advise no one to fool with _them_! I wouldn't go into that company my own self without Prince. That's my bull dog. You just go an' lay information against 'em an' you won't be doin' no harm, sir.

[_QUAQUARO exit._

Hassenreuter. [_Referring to QUAQUARO._] The gleam in his eye demands security. His lips demand cash. His fist portends immediate warning. He's a lucky creature who doesn't dream of him at the end of the month. And whoever dreams of him roars for help. A horrible, greasy fellow. But without him the people who rent this old shell would get no money and the army-treasurer could strike the income of these rentals from his books.--[_The door bell rings._]--That Is Miss Alice Ruetterbusch, the young soubrette with whom, unfortunately, I haven't been able to make a hard and fast contract yet on account of the way the aldermen of Strassburg shilly shally about their final decision. After my appointment, which I will secure by God's help, her engagement will be my first managerial act.--Walburga and Spitta, march up into the loft! Count the contents of the six boxes marked "Journalists" in order that we may complete our inventory at the proper time.--[_To KAeFERSTEIN and DR. KEGEL._] You may withdraw into the library in the meantime....

[_He steps forward in order to open the door._

_WALBURGA and SPITTA disappear swiftly and very willingly into the loft; KAeFERSTEIN and KEGEL retire into the library._

Hassenreuter. [_In the background._] If you please, step right in, my dear lady! I _beg_ your pardon, sir! I was expecting a lady ... I was expecting a young lady ... But, please, come in.

_HASSENREUTER comes forward accompanied by PASTOR SPITTA. The latter is sixty years old. A village parson, somewhat countrified. One might equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. He is of vigorous appearance--short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat, broad face like Luther's. He wears a slouch-hat, spectacles and carries a cane and a coat of waterproof cloth over his arm. His clumsy boots and the state of his other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and weather._

Pastor Spitta. Do you know who I am, Mr. Hassenreuter?

Hassenreuter. Not quite exactly, but I would hazard ...

Pastor Spitta. You may, you may! You needn't hesitate to call me Pastor Spitta from Schwoiz in Uckermark, whose son Erich--yes, that's it--has been employed in your family as private tutor or something like that. Erich Spitta: that's my son. And I'm obliged to say that with deep sorrow.

Hassenreuter. First of all, I'm very glad, to have the privilege of your acquaintance. I hasten at once to beg you, however, dear Pastor, not to be too much worried, not to be too sorrowful concerning the little escapade in which your son is indulging.

Pastor Spitta. Oh, but I am greatly troubled, I am deeply grieved. [_Sitting down on a chair he surveys the strange place in which he finds himself with considerable interest._] It is hard to say; it is extremely difficult to communicate to any one the real depth of anxiety. But forgive me a question, sir: I was in the trophy-chamber.--[_He touches one of the armored dummies with his cane._] What kind of armor is this?

Hassenreuter. These figures are to represent the cuirassiers in Schiller's "Wallenstein."

Pastor Spitta. Ah, ah, my idea of Schiller was so very different! [_Collecting himself._] Oh, this city of Berlin! It confuses me utterly. You see a man before you, sir, who is not only grieved, whom this Sodom of a city has not only stirred to his very depths, but who is actually broken-hearted by the deed of his son.

Hassenreuter. A deed? What deed?

Pastor Spitta. Is there any need to ask? The son of an honest man desiring to become an ... an ... an actor!

Hassenreuter. [_Drawing himself up. With the utmost dignity._] My dear sir, I do not approve of your son's determination. But I am myself--_honi soit qui mal y pense_--the son of an honest man and myself, I trust, a man of honour. And I, whom you see before you, have been an actor, too. No longer than six weeks ago I took part in the Luther celebration--for I am no less an apostle of culture in the broadest sense--not only as manager but by ascending the boards on which the world is shadowed forth as an actor! From my point of view, therefore, your son's determination is scarcely open to objection on the score of his social standing or his honourable character. But it is a difficult calling and demands, above all, a high degree of talent. I am also willing to admit that it is a calling not without peculiar dangers to weak characters. And finally I have myself proved the unspeakable hardships of my profession so thoroughly that I would like to guard anyone else from entering it. That is the reason why I box my daughters' ears if the slightest notion of going on the stage seizes them, and why I would rather tie stones about their necks and drown them where the sea is deepest than see them marry actors.

Pastor Spitta. I didn't mean to wound any one's feelings. I admit, too, that a simple country parson like myself can't very well have much of a conception of such things. But consider a father now--just such a poor country parson--who has saved and hoarded his pennies in order that his son might have a career at the university. Now consider, further, that this son is just about to take his final examinations and that his father and his mother--I have a sick wife at home--are looking forward with anxiety and with longing, whichever you call it, toward the moment in which their son will mount the pulpit and deliver the trial sermon before the congregation of his choice. And then comes this letter. Why, the boy is mad!

_The emotion of the Pastor is not exactly consciously directed; it is controlled. The trembling of the hand with which he searches for the letter in his inner pocket and hands it to the manager is not quite convincing._

Hassenreuter. Young men search after various aims. We mustn't be too much taken by surprise if, once in a while, a crisis of this kind is not to be avoided in a young man's life.

Pastor Spitta. Well, this crisis _was_ avoidable. It will not be difficult for you to see from this letter who is responsible for this destructive change in the soul of a young, an excellent, and hitherto thoroughly obedient youth. I should never have sent him to Berlin. Yes, it is this so-called scientific theology, this theology that flirts with all the pagan philosophers, that would change the Lord our God into empty smoke and sublimate our blessed Saviour into thin air--it is this that I hold responsible for the grievous mistake of my child. And to this may be added other temptations. I tell you, sir, I have seen things which it is impossible for me to speak of! I have circulars in every pocket--"Ball of the Elite! Smart waitresses!" and so on! I was quietly walking, at half past twelve one night, through the arcade that connects Friedrich street with the Linden, and a disgusting fellow sidles up to me, wretched, undergrown, and asks me with a kind of greasy, shifty impudence: Doesn't the gentleman want something real fetching? And these show windows in which, right by the pictures of noble and exalted personages, naked actresses, dancers, in short the most shocking nudities are displayed! And finally this Corso--oh, this Corso! Where painted and bedizened vice jostles respectable women from the sidewalk! It's simply the end of the world!

Hassenreuter. Ah, my dear Pastor, the world doesn't so easily come to an end--nor, surely, will it do so on account of the nudities that offend or of the vice which slinks through the streets at night. The world will probably outlive me and the whole scurrilous interlude of humanity.

Pastor Spitta. What turns these young people aside from the right path is evil example and easy opportunity.

Hassenreuter. I beg your pardon, Pastor, but I have not observed in your son the slightest inclination toward leading a frivolous life. He is simply attracted to literature, and he isn't the first clergyman's son--remember merely Lessing and Herder--who has taken the road of literary study and creative art. Very likely be has manuscript plays in his desk even now. To be sure, I am bound to admit that the opinions which your son defends in the field of literature frighten even me at times!

Pastor Spitta. But that's horrible! That's frightful! That far exceeds my worst fears! And so my eyes have been opened.--My dear sir, I have had eight children, of whom Erich seemed our fairest hope and his next-oldest sister our heaviest trial. And now, it seems, the same accursed city has demanded them both as its victims. The girl developed prematurely, she was beautiful ... and ... But I must mention another circumstance now, I have, been in Berlin for three days and I haven't seen Erich yet. When I tried to see him to-day, he was not at home in his rooms. I waited for a while and naturally looked about me in my son's dwelling. And now: look at this picture, sir!

[_Replacing ERICH'S letter in his pocket he extracts therefrom a small photograph and holds it immediately under HASSENREUTER'S eyes._

Hassenreuter. [_Takes the picture and holds it at varying distances from him. He is disconcerted._] Why should I look at this?

Pastor Spitta. The silly little face is of no importance. But pray look at the inscription.

Hassenreuter. Where?

Pastor Spitta. [_Reads._] "From Walburga to her only sweetheart."

Hassenreuter. Permit me!--- What's the meaning of this?

Pastor Spitta. It simply means some seamstress if not, what is worse, some shady waitress!

Hassenreuter. H-m. [_He slips the picture into his pocket._] I shall keep this photograph.

Pastor Spitta. It is in such filth that my son wallows. And consider the situation in which it puts me: with what feelings, with what front shall I henceforward face my congregation from the pulpit ...?

Hassenreuter. Confound it, what business is that of mine? What have I to do with your offspring, with your lost sons and daughters? [_He pulls out the photograph again._] And furthermore, as far as this excellent and sound-hearted young lady is concerned, you're quite mistaken in your ideas about waitresses and such like. I'll say nothing more. All other matters will adjust themselves. Good-bye.

Pastor Spitta. I confess frankly, I don't understand you. Probably this tone is the usual one in your circles, I will go and not annoy you any longer. But as a father I have the right before God, to demand of you that henceforth you refuse to my deluded son this so-called dramatic instruction. I hope I shall not have to look for further ways and means of enforcing this demand.

Hassenreuter. I won't only do that, but I'll actually put him out of doors.

[_He accompanies the PASTOR to the door, slams it behind him and returns alone._

Hassenreuter. [_Waving his arms through the air._] All that one can say here is: Plain parson! [_He rushes halfway up the stairs to the loft._] Spitta! Walburga! Come down here, will you?

_WALBURGA and SPITTA come down._

Hassenreuter. [_To WALBURGA, who looks at him questioningly._] Go to your high stool over there and sit down on the humorous part of your anatomy! Well, and you, my dear Spitta, what do you want?

Spitta. You called us both, sir.

Hassenreuter. Exactly. Now look me in the eye!

SPITTA Certainly.

[_He looks straight at HASSENREUTER._

Hassenreuter. You two want to make an ass of me. But you won't succeed! Silence! Not a word! I would have expected something very different from you! This is a striking proof of ingratitude. Keep still! Furthermore, a gentleman was here just now! That gentleman is afraid in Berlin! March! Follow him! Take him down into the street and try to make it clear to him that I'm neither your bootblack nor his.

[_SPITTA shrugs his shoulders, takes his hat and goes._

Hassenreuter. [_Strides up to WALBURGA energetically and tweaks her ear._] And as for you, my dear, you'll have your ears soundly boxed if ever again without my permission you exchange two words with this rascal of a theologian gone to smash!

Walburga. Ouch, papa, ouch!

Hassenreuter. This fellow who is fond of making such an innocent face as if he couldn't harm a fly and whom I was careless enough to admit to my house is, unfortunately, a man behind whose mask the most shameless impudence lies in wait. I and my house are in the service of true propriety. Do you want to besmirch the escutcheon of oar honour as the sister of this fellow seems to have done--a girl who disgraced, her parents by coming to an end in the street and the gutter?

Walburga. I don't share your opinion about Erich, papa.

Hassenreuter. What's that? Well, at least you know my opinion. Either you give him his walking papers or else you can look out for yourself and find out what it is to get along, away from your parental roof, in a way of life regardless of honour, duty and decency! In that case you can go! I have no use for daughters of that kind!

Walburga. [_Pale and sombre._] You are always saying, papa, that you too had to make your way independently and without your parents.

Hassenreuter. You're not a man.

Walburga. Certainly not. But think, for instance, of Alice Ruetterbusch.

[_Father and daughter look firmly into each other's eyes._

Hassenreuter. Why should I? Have you a fever, eh? Or have you gone mad? [_He drops the whole discussion, noticeably put out of countenance, and taps at the library door._] Where did we leave off? Begin at the proper place.

_KEGEL and KAeFERSTEIN appear._

KEGEL _and_ KAeFERSTEIN

[_Declaim:_]

"A wiser temper Beseemeth age. I, being reasonable, Salute him first."

_Led and directed by SPITTA appear PAULINE PIPERCARCKA in street dress and MRS. KIELBACKE, who carries an infant on a pillow._

Hassenreuter. What do you want here? What kind of women are you bringing here to annoy me?

Spitta. It isn't my fault, sir. The women insisted on coming to you.

Mrs. Kielbacke. No; all we wants is to see Mrs. John.

Pauline. An' Mrs. John she's always up here with you!

Hassenreuter. True. But I'm beginning to regret the fact, and I must insist, at all events, that she hold her private receptions in her own rooms and not here. Otherwise I'll soon equip the door here with patent locks and mantraps.--What's the matter with you, my good Spitta? I suppose you'll have to have the goodness to show these ladies the place they really want to go to.

Pauline. But Mrs. John ain't to be found in her rooms downstairs.

Hassenreuter. Well, she's not to be found up here either.

Mrs. Kielbacke. The reason is because this here young lady has her little son boardin' with Mrs. John.

Hassenreuter. Glad to hear it! Please march now without further delay! Save me, Kaeferstein!

Mrs. Kielbacke. An' now a gentleman's come from the city, from the office of the government guardian office to see how the child is an' if it's well taken care of an' in good condition. An' then he went into Mrs. John's room an' we went with him. An' there was the child an' a note pinned to it what said that Mrs. John was workin' for you up here.

Hassenreuter. Where was the child boarding?

Mrs. Kielbacke. With Mrs. John.

Hassenreuter. [_Impatiently._] That's simply a piece of imbecility. You are quite wrong.--Spitta, you would have been much better employed accompanying the old gentleman after whom I sent you than aiding these ladies to come here.

Spitta. I looked for the gentleman you speak of but he was already gone.

Hassenreuter. These ladies don't seem to believe me. Will you kindly inform them, gentlemen, that Mrs. John has no child in board, and that they are quite obviously mistaken in the name.

Kaeferstein. I am asked to tell you that you are probably mistaken in the name.

Pauline. [_Vehemently and tearfully._] She has got my baby! She had my baby boardin' with her. An' the gentleman came from the city an' he said that the child wasn't in no good hands an' that it was neglected. She went an' ruined my baby's health.

Hassenreuter. There is no doubt but what you have mistaken the name of the woman of whom you speak, Mrs. John has no child in board.

Pauline. She had my baby in her claws, that's what! An' she let it starve an' get sick! I gotta see her! I gotta tell her right out! She's gotta make my little baby well again! I gotta go to court. The gentleman says as how I gotta go to court an' give notice.

Hassenreuter. I beg of you not to get excited. The fact is that you are mistaken! How did you ever hit on the idea that Mrs. John has a child in board?

Pauline. Because I gave it to her myself.

Hassenreuter. But Mrs. John has her own child and it just occurs to me that she has taken it along with her on a visit to her sister-in-law.

Pauline. She ain't got no child. No, Mrs. John ain't got none! She cheats an' she lies. She ain't got none. She took my little Alois an' she ruined him.

Hassenreuter. By heaven, ladies, you are mistaken!

Pauline. Nobody won't believe me that I had a baby. My intended he wrote me a letter an' he says it ain't true an' that I'm a liar an' a low creature. [_She touches the pillow on which the infant is resting._] It's mine an' I'll prove it in court! I c'n swear it by the holy Mother o' God.

Hassenreuter. Do uncover the child. [_It is done and HASSENREUTER observes the infant attentively._]--H-m, the matter will not remain long in obscurity. In the first place ... I know Mrs. John. If she had had this child in board it could never look as it does. And that is true quite simply because, where it is a question of children, Mrs. John has her heart in the right place.

Pauline. I want to see Mrs. John. That's all I says. I don't has to tell my business to everybody in the world. I c'n tell everythin' in court, down to the least thing--the day an' the hour an' jus' exackly the place where it was born! People is goin' to open their eyes; you c'n believe me.

Hassenreuter. What you assert, then, if I understand you rightly, is that Mrs. John has no baby of her own at all, and that the one which passes as such is in reality yours.

Pauline. God strike me dead if that ain't the truth!

Hassenreuter. And this is the child in question? I trust that God won't take you at your word this time.--You must know that I, who stand before you, am manager Hassenreuter and I have personally had in my own hands the child of Mrs. John, my charwoman, on three or four occasions. I even weighed it on the scales and found it to weigh over eight pounds. This poor little creature doesn't weigh over four pounds. And on the basis of this fact I can assure you that this child is not, at least, the child of Mrs. John. You may be right in asserting that it is yours. I am in no position to throw doubt on that. But I know Mrs. John's child and I am quite sure that it is, in no wise, identical with this.

Mrs. Kielbacke. [_Respectfully._] No, no; that's right enough. It ain't identical.

Pauline. This baby here is identical enough all right, even if it's a bit underfed an' weakly. This business with the child is all straight enough! I'll take an oath that it's identical all right.

Hassenreuter. I am simply speechless. [_To his pupils._] Our lesson is ruled by an evil star to-day, my dear boys. I don't know why, but the error which these ladies are making engrosses me. [_To the women._] You may have entered the wrong door.

Mrs. Kielbacke. No, me an' the gentleman from the guardian's office an' the young lady went an' fetched this here child outa the room what has the name plate o' Mrs. John on it, an' took it out into the hall. Mrs. John wasn't there an' her husband the mason is absent in Hamburg.

_POLICEMAN SCHIERKE comes in, fat and good-natured._

Hassenreuter. Ah, there's Mr. Schierke! What do you want here?

Schierke. I understand, sir, that two women fled up here to you.

Mrs. Kielbacke. We ain't fled at all.

Hassenreuter. They were inquiring for Mrs. John.

Schierke. May I be permitted to ax somethin' too?

Hassenreuter. If you please.

Pauline. Jus' let him ax. We don't has to worry.

Schierke. [_To MRS. KIELBACKE._] What's your name?

Mrs. Kielbacke. I'm Mrs. Kielbacke.

Schierke. You're connected with the society for raisin' children, eh? Where do you live?

Mrs. Kielbacke. Linien street number nine.

Schierke. Is that your child that you have there?

Mrs. Kielbacke. That's Miss Pipercarcka her child.

Schierke. [_To PAULINE._] An' your name?

Pauline. Paula Pipercarcka from Skorzenin.

Schierke. This woman asserts that the child is yours. Do you assert that too?

Pauline. Sergeant, I has to ax for your protection because suspicions is cast on me an' I'm innercent. The gentleman from the city did come to me. An' I did get my child outa the room o' Mrs. John what I had it in board with ...

Schierke. [_With a searching look._] Yes? Maybe it was the door across the way where the restaurant keeper's widow Knobbe lives. Nobody knows what you're up to with that child nor who sent you an' bribed you. You ain't got a good conscience! You took the child an' slipped up here with it while its rightful mother, the widow Knobbe, what it's been stolen from, is huntin' all over the stairs an' halls for it an' while a detective is standin' acrost the way.

Pauline. I don't care about no detective. I'm ...

Hassenreuter. You are refuted, my good girl. Can't you comprehend that? First you say that Mrs. John has no child. Next you say--kindly attend to me--that you had taken your child, which has been passing for Mrs. John's, out of the latter's room. However; all of us here happen to know Mrs. John's child and the one you have here is another. Is that clear to you? Hence your assertion cannot, in any circumstances, be a correct one!--And now, Schierke, you would do me a favour if you would conduct these ladies out so that I can continue giving my lesson.

Schierke. All right, but if I does that we'll get into that Knobbe crowd. Because her child has been stolen.

Pauline. It ain't me that done it; it's Mrs. John.

Schierke. That's all right. [_Continuing his account to HASSENREUTER._] And they says that the child has blue blood in it on its father's side. So Mrs. Knobbe thinks as how it's a plot of enemies 'cause they grudges her the alimony in some quarters an' a gentleman's eddication for the kid. [_Someone is beating at the door with fists._] That's the Knobbe woman. There she comes now!

Hassenreuter. Mr. Schierke, you are responsible to me. If these people trespass on my premises and I suffer any damages thereby, I'll complain to the chief of police. I know Mr. Maddei very well. Don't be afraid, my dear boys. You are my witnesses.

Schierke. [_At the door._] You stay out there! You don't get in here!

_A small mob howls outside of the door._

Pauline. They c'n holler all they wants to but they can't get my child.

Hassenreuter. Perhaps this is the better way. You go into the library for the present. [_He escorts PAULINE, MRS. KIELBACKE and the child into the library._] And now, Mr. Schierke, we might risk letting that fury enter in here.

Schierke. [_Opening the door slightly._] All right. But only Mrs. Knobbe! Come in here a minute.

_MRS. SIDONIE KNOBBE appears. She is tall and emaciated and dressed in a badly worn but fashionable summer gown. Her face bears the stigma, of a dissolute life but gives evidence of a not ungentle origin. Her air is curiously like that of a gentlewoman. She talks affectedly and her eyes show addiction to alcohol and morphine._

Mrs. Knobbe. [_Sailing in._] There is no cause for any anxiety, Mr. Hassenreuter. Those without are principally little boys and girls who have come with me because I am fond of children. Pray pardon me if I intrude. One of the children told me that two women had sneaked up here with my little boy. I am looking for my little son, named Helfgott Gundofried, who has actually disappeared from my dwelling. At the same time I do not wish to incommode you.

Schierke. An' you better not do that if I has any say about it.

Mrs. Knobbe. [_Disregarding these words except by a proud toss of the head._] To my great regret I caused a certain amount of disturbance in the yard. From the yard as a place of vantage it is possible to command every window and I made inquiries of the poor cigar maker in the second story and of the consumptive little seamstress in the third as to whether my Selma and my little son were with either of them. But nothing is farther from my intention than to create a scandal. I want you to know--- for I am quite conscious of being in the presence of a distinguished, indeed, of a famous man--you are to know that where Helfgott Gundofried is concerned I am obliged to be strictly on my guard! [_With quivering voice and an occasional application of her handkerchief to her eyes._] I am an unfortunate woman who is pursued by fate, who has sunk low but who has seen better days. I do not care to bore you with my troubles. But I am being pursued and there are those who would rob me of my last hope.

Schierke. Aw, hurry up an' say what you has to!

Mrs. Knobbe. [_As before._] It is not enough that I was forced to lay aside my honest name. Later I lived in Paris and then married a brutal person, a south German inn-keeper, because I had the foolish thought that my affairs might be bettered thereby. O these scoundrels of men!

Schierke. This don't lead to nothin'! You cut it short, I tell you.

Mrs. Knobbe. But I am glad of the opportunity of standing, once more, face to face with a man of culture and intellect. I could a tale unfold ... Popularly I am known here as "the countess" and God is my witness that in my earlier youth I was not far removed from that estate! For a time I was an actress, too. What did I say! I could unfold a tale from my life, from my past, which would have the advantage of not being invented!

Schierke. Maybe not. Nobody c'n tell.

Mrs. Knobbe. [_With renewed emphasis._] My wretchedness is not invented, although it may seem so when I relate how, one night, sunk in the deepest abysses of my shame, I met on the street a cousin--the playmate of my youth--who is now captain in the horse-guards. He lives in the world: I live in the underworld ever since my father from pride of rank and race disowned me because in my earliest youth I had made a mistake. Oh, you have no conception of the dullness, the coarseness, the essential vulgarity that obtains in those circles. I am a trodden worm, sir, and yet not for a moment do I yearn to be there, in that glittering wretchedness....

Schierke. Maybe you don't mind comin' to the point now!

Hassenreuter. If you please, Mr. Schierke, all that interests me. So suppose you don't interrupt the lady for a while. [_To MRS. KNOBBE._] You were speaking of your cousin. Didn't you say that he is a captain in the horse-guards?

Mrs. Knobbe. He was in plain clothes. He is, however, a captain in the horse-guards. He recognised me at once and we dedicated some blessed though painful hours to memories. Accompanying him there was--I will not call his name--a very young lieutenant, a fair, sweet boy, delicate and brooding. Mr. Hassenreuter, I have forgotten what shame is! Was I not even, the other day, turned out of church? Why should a down-trodden, dishonoured, deserted creature, more than once punished by the laws--why should such an one hesitate to confess that _he_ became the father of Helfgott Gundofried?

Hassenreuter. Of this baby that's been stolen from you?

Mrs. Knobbe. Yes, stolen! At least it is so asserted! It may be! But though my enemies are mighty and have every means at their command, I am not yet wholly convinced of it. And yet it may be a plot concocted by the parents of the child's father whose name you would be astonished to hear, for they represent one of the oldest and most illustrious families. Farewell! Whatever you may hear of me, sir, do not think that my better feelings have been wholly extinguished in the mire into which I am forced to cast myself. I need this mire in which I am on terms of equality with the dregs of mankind. Here, look! [_She thrusts forward her naked arm._] Forgetfulness! Insensibility! I achieve it by means of chloral, of opium. Or I find it in the abysses of human life. And why not? To whom am I responsible?--There was a time when my dear mama was scolded by my father on my account! The maid had convulsions because of me! Mademoiselle and an English governess tore each other's _chignons_ from their heads because each asserted that I loved _her_ best--! Now ...

Schierke. Aw, I tell you to shut it now! We can't take up people's time an' lock 'em up. [_He opens the library door._] Now tell us if this here is your kid?

_PAULINE, staring at MRS. KNOBBE with eyes full of hatred, comes out first. MRS. KIELBACKE, carrying the child, comes next. SCHIERKE removes the shawl, that has been thrown over the child._

Pauline. What d'you want o' me? Why d'you come chasin' me? I ain' no gypsy! I don' go in people's houses stealin' their children! Eh? You're crazy, I wouldn't do no such thing. I ain't hardly got enough to eat for myself an' my own child. D'you s'pose I'm goin' to steal strange children an' feed 'em till they're grown when the one I got is trouble an' worry enough!

_MRS. KNOBBE stares about her inquiringly and as if seeking help. Rapidly she draws a little flask from her pocket and pours its contents upon a handkerchief. The latter she carries swiftly to her mouth and nose, inhaling the fragrance of the perfume to keep her from fainting._

Hassenreuter. Well, why don't you speak, Mrs. Knobbe? This girl asserts that she is the mother of the child--not you.

_MRS. KNOBBE lifts her umbrella in order to strike out with it. She is restrained by those present._

Schierke. That won't do! You can't practice no discipline like that here! You c'n do that when you're alone in your nursery downstairs.--The main thing is: who does here kid belong to? An' so--now--Mrs. Knobbe, you just take care an' think so's to tell nothin' but the truth here! Well! Is it yours or is it her'n?

Mrs. Knobbe. [_Bursts out_] I swear by the holy Mother of God, by Jesus Christ, Father, Son and Holy Ghost that I am the mother of this child.

Pauline. An' I swears by the Holy Mother o' God ...

Hassenreuter. You'd better not if you want to save your soul! We may have a case here in which the circumstances are complicated in the extreme! It is possible, therefore, that you were about to swear in perfectly good faith. But you will have to admit that, though each of you may well be the mother of twins--two mothers for one child is unthinkable!

Walburga. [_Who, like MRS. KNOBBE, has been staring steadily at the child._] Papa, papa, do look at the child a moment first!

Mrs. Kielbacke. [_Tearfully and horrified._] Yes, the poor little crittur's been a-dyin', I believe, ever since I was in the other room there!

Schierke. What?

Hassenreuter. How? [_Energetically he strides forward, and now regards the child carefully too._] The child is dead. There's no question about that! It seems that invisible to us, one has been in our midst who has delivered judgment, truly according to the manner of Solomon, concerning the poor little passive object of all this strife.

Pauline. [_Who has not understood._] What's the matter?

Schierke. Keep still!--You come along with me.

_MRS. KNOBBE seems to have lost the power of speech. She puts her handkerchief into her mouth. A moaning sob is heard deep in her chest. SCHIERKE, MRS. KIELBACKE with the dead child, followed by MRS. KNOBBE and PAULINE PIPERCARCKA, leave the room. A dull murmur is heard from the outer hall. HASSENREUTER returns to the foreground after he has locked the door behind those who have left._

Hassenreuter. _Sic eunt fata hominum._ Invent something like that, if you can, my good Spitta.

The Fourth Act. _The dwelling of the foreman-mason JOHN as in the second act. It is eight o'clock on a Sunday morning._

_JOHN is invisible behind the partition. From his plashing and snorting it is clear that he is performing his morning ablutions._

_QUAQUARO has just entered. His hand is still on the knob of the outer door._

Quaquaro. Tell me, Paul, is your wife at home?

John. [_From behind the partition._] Not yet, Emil. My wife went with the boy out to my married sister's in Hangelsberg. But she's goin' to come back this mornin'. [_Drying his hands and face, JOHN appears in the door of the partition wall._] Good mornin' to you, Emil.

Quaquaro. Mornin', Paul.

John. Well, what's the news? I didn't come from the train till about half an hour ago.

Quaquaro. Yes, I saw you goin' into the house an' mountin' the stairs.

John. [_In a jolly frame of mind._] That's right, Emil! You're a reglar old watch-dog, eh?

Quaquaro. Tell, me, Paul: How long has your wife'n the kid been out in Hangelsberg?

John. Oh, that must be somethin' like a week now, Emil. D'you want anythin' of her? I guess she paid her rent an' on time all right. By the way, I might as well give you notice right now. We got it all fixed. We're goin' to move on the first of October. I got mother to the point at last that we c'n move outa this here shaky old barracks an' into a better neighbourhood.

Quaquaro. So you ain't goin' back to Hamburg no more?

John. Naw. It's a good sayin': Stay at home an' make an honest livin'! I'm not goin' outa town no more. Not a bit of it! First of all, it's no sort o' life, goin' from one lodgin' to another. An' then--a man don' get no younger neither! The girls, they ain't so hot after you no more ... No, it's a good thing that all this wanderin' about is goin' to end.

Quaquaro. Your wife--she's a fine schemer.

John. [_Merrily._] Well, this is a brand new household what's jus' had a child born into it. I said to the boss: I'm a newly married man! Then he axed me if my first wife was dead. On the contrary an' not a bit of it, I says. She's alive an' kickin', so that she's jus' given birth to a kickin' young citizen o' Berlin, that's what! When I was travellin' along from Hamburg this mornin' by all the old stations--Hamburg, Stendal, Ultzen--an' got outa the fourth-class coach at the Lehrter station with all my duds, the devil take me if I didn't thank God with a sigh. I guess he didn't hear on account o' the noise o' the trains.

Quaquaro. Did you hear, Paul, that Mrs. Knobbe's youngest over the way has been taken off again?

John. No. What chance did I have to hear that? But if it's dead, it's a good thing, Emil. When I saw the poor crittur a week ago when it had convulsions an' Selma brought it in an' me an' mother gave it a spoonful o' sugar an' water--well, it was pretty near ready for heaven then.

Quaquaro. An' you mean to tell me that you didn't hear nothin' o' the circumstances, about the how an' the why o' that child's death?

John. Naw! [_He fetches a long tobacco pipe from behind the sofa._] Wait a minute! I'll light a pipe first! I didn't have no chanct to hear nothin'.

Quaquaro. Well, I'm surprised that your wife didn't write you nothin' at all.

John. Aw, since we has a child o' our own, mother's taken no interest in them Knobbe brats no more.

Quaquaro. [_Observing JOHN with lurking curiosity._] You're wife was reel crazy to have a son, wasn't she?

John. Well, that's natural. D'you think I wasn't? What's a man to work for? What do I slave away for? It's different thing savin' a good lump o' money for your own son from doin' it for your sister's children.

Quaquaro. So you don't know that a strange girl came here an' swore that the Knobbe woman's child wasn't hers but belonged to the girl?

John. Is that so? Well, Mrs. Knobbe an' child stealin'--them two things don't go together. Now if it'd been mother, that would ha' been more likely. But not that Knobbe woman! But tell me, Emil, what's all this here business about?

Quaquaro. Well, one person says one thing an' another says another. The Knobbe woman says that certain people has started a plot with detectives an' such like to get hold o' the brat. An' there ain't no doubt o' this. It's proved that the child was hers. C'n you maybe give me a tip as to where your brother-in-law's been keepin' hisself the past few days?

John. You mean the butcher in Hangelsberg?

Quaquaro. Naw, I don' mean the husband o' your sister, but the feller what's brother o' your wife.

John. It's Bruno you mean?

Quaquaro. Sure, that's the feller.

John. How do I know? I'd sooner be watchin' if the dogs still plays on the curb. I don't want to have no dealin's with Bruno.

Quaquaro. Listen to me, Paul. But don't get mad. They knows at the police station that Bruno was seen in company o' the Polish girl what wanted to claim this here child, first right outside o' the door here an' then at a certain place on Shore street where the tanners sometimes looses their soakin' hides. An' now the girl's jus' disappeared. I don' know nothin' o' the particulars, excep' that the police is huntin' for the girl.

John. [_Resolutely putting aside the long pipe which he had lit._] I don' know, but I can't take no enjoyment in it this mornin'. I don' know what's gotten into me. I was as jolly as can be. An' now all of a sudden I feel so dam' mean I'd like to go straight back to Hamburg an' hear an' see nothin' more!--Why d'you come aroun' with stories like that?

Quaquaro. I jus' thought I'd tell you what happened while you an' your wife was away right here in your own house?

John. In my own house?

Quaquaro. That's it! Yessir! They says that Selma pushed the perambulator with her little brother in here where the strange girl an' her friend came an' took him an' carried him off. But upstairs, in the actor's place, they caught her.

John. What's that?

Quaquaro. So up there the strange girl an' the Knobbe woman pretty near tore each other's hair out over the child's body.

John. What I'd like to know is how all that concerns me? Ain't there trouble here over some girl most o' the time? Let 'em go on! I don' care! That is to say, Emil, if there ain't more to it than you're tellin' me.

Quaquaro. That's why I come to you! There is more. The girl said in front o' witnesses more'n onct that that little crittur o' Knobbe's was her own an' that she had expressly given it in board to your wife.

John. [_First taken aback, then relieved. Laughing._] She ain't quite right in her upper story. That's all.

_ERICH SPITTA enters._

Spitta. Good morning, Mr. John.

John. Good mornin', Mr. Spitta. [_To QUAQUARO, who is still loitering in the door._] It's all right, Emil. I'll take notice o' what you says an' act accordin'.

_QUAQUARO exit._

John. Now jus' look at a feller like that, Mr. Spitta. He's more'n half a gaol bird an' yet he knows how to make hisself a favourite with the district commissioner at headquarters! An' then he goes aroun' pokin' his nose into honest folks' affairs.

Spitta. Has Miss Walburga Hassenreuter been asking after me, Mr. John?

John. Not up to this time; not that I knows of! [_He opens the door to the hall._] Selma! Excuse me a minute, will you? Selma! I gotta know what that there girl c'n tell me.

_SELMA KNOBBE enters._

Selma. [_Still at the door._] What d'you want?

John. You shut the door a minute an' come in! An' now tell me, girl, what's all this that happened in this room about your little dead brother and the strange girl?

Selma. [_Who has, obviously, a bad conscience, gradually comes forward watchfully. She now answers glibly and volubly._] I pushed the perambulator over into the room here. Your wife wasn't in an' so I thinks that maybe here there'd be more quiet, 'cause my little brother, you know, he was sick anyhow an' cryin' all the time. An' then, all of a sudden, a gentleman an' a lady an' another woman all comes in here, an' they picked the little feller right outa the carridge an' put clean clothes on him an' carried him off.

John. An' then the lady said as how it was her child an' how she'd given it in board with mother, with my old woman?

Selma. [_Lies._] Naw, not a bit. I'd know about that if it was so.

John. [_Bangs his fist on the table._] Well, damn it all, it'd be a idjit's trick to have said that.

Spitta. Permit me, but she did say that. I take it you're talking of the incident with the two women that took place upstairs at manager Hassenreuter's?

John. Did you see that? Was you there when the Knobbe woman an' the other one was disputin' about the little crittur?

Spitta. Yes, certainly. I was present throughout.

Selma. I tell you all I knows. An' I couldn't say no more if officer Schierke or the tall police lieutenant hisself was to examine me for hours an' hours. I don' know nothin'. An' what I don' know I can't tell.

John. The lieutenant examined you?

Selma. They wanted to take mama to the lock-up because people went an' lied. They said that our little baby was starved to death.

John. Aha! 's that so? Well, Selma, s'pose you go over there an' cook a little coffee.

_SELMA goes over to the stove where she prepares coffee for JOHN. JOHN himself goes up to his working table, takes up the compass. Then he draws lines, using a piece of rail as a ruler._

Spitta. [_Conquering his diffidence and shame._] I really hoped to meet your wife here, Mr. John. Someone told me that your wife has been in the habit of lending out small sums to students against security. And I am somewhat embarrassed.

John. Maybe that's so. But that's mother's business, Mr. Spitta.

Spitta. To be quite frank with you, if I don't get hold of some money by to-night, the few books and other possessions I have will be attached for rent by my landlady and I'll be put into the street.

John. I thought your father was a preacher.

Spitta. So he is. But for that very reason and because I don't want to become a preacher, too, he and I had a terrible quarrel last night. I won't ever accept a farthing from him any more.

John. [_Busy over his drawing._] Then it'll serve him right if you starve or break your neck.

Spitta. Men like myself don't starve, Mr. John. But if, by any chance, I were to go to the dogs--I shouldn't greatly care.

John. No one wouldn't believe how many half-starved nincompoops there is among you stoodents. But none o' you wants to put your hand to some reel work.--[_The distant sound of thunder is heard. JOHN looks out through the window._]--Sultry day. It's thunderin' now.

Spitta. Yon can't say that of me, Mr. John, that I haven't been willing to do real work. I've given lessons, I've addressed envelopes for business houses! I've been through everything and in all these attempts I've not only toiled away the days but also the nights. And at the same time I've ground away at my studies like anything!

John. Man alive, go to Hamburg an' let 'em give you a job as a bricklayer. When I was your age I was makin' as much as twelve crowns a day in Hamburg.

Spitta. That may be. But I'm a brain worker.

John. I know that kind.

Spitta. Is that so? I don't think you do know that kind, Mr. John. I beg you not to forget that your Socialist leaders--your Bebels and your Liebknechts--are brain workers too.

John. All right. Come on, then! Let's have some breakfast first. Things look mighty different after a man's had a good bite o' breakfast. I s'pose you ain't had any yet, Mr. Spitta?

Spitta. No, frankly, not to-day.

John. Well, then the first thing is to get somethin' warm down your throat.

Spitta. There's time enough for that.

John. I don' know. You're lookin' pretty well done up. An' I passed the night on the train too. [_To SELMA, who has brought in a little linen bag filed with rolls._] Hurry an' bring another cup over here. [_He has seated himself at his ease on the sofa, dips a roll into the coffee and begins to eat and drink._]

Spitta. [_Who has not sat down yet._] It's really pleasanter to pass a summer night in the open if one can't sleep anyhow. And I didn't sleep for one minute.

John. I'd like to see the feller what c'n sleep when he's outa cash. When a man's down in the world he has most company outa doors too. [_He suddenly stops chewing._]--Come here, Selma, an' tell me exackly just how it was with that there girl an' the child that she took outa our room here.

Selma. I don' know what to do. Everybody axes we that. Mama keeps axin' me about it all day long; if I seen Bruno Mechelke; if I know who it was that stole the costumes from the actor's loft up there! If it goes on that way ...

John. [_Energetically._] Girl, why didn't you cry out when the gentleman and the young lady took your little brother outa his carridge?

Selma. I didn't think nothin' 'd happen to him excep' that he'd get some clean clothes.

John. [_Grasps SELMA by the wrist._] Well, you come along with me now. We'll go over an' see your mother.

_JOHN and SELMA leave the room. As soon as they are gone SPITTA begins to eat ravenously. Soon thereafter WALBURGA appears. She is in great haste and strongly excited._

Walburga. Are you alone?

Spitta. For the moment, yes. Good morning, Walburga.

Walburga. Am I too late? It was only by the greatest cunning, by the greatest determination, by the most ruthless disregard of everything that I succeeded in getting away from home. My younger sister tried to bar the door. Even the servant girl! But I told mama that if they wouldn't let me out through the door, they might just as well bar the window, else I'd reach the street through it, although it's three stories high. I flew. I'm more dead than alive. But I am prepared for anything. How was it with your father, Erich?

Spitta. We have parted. He thought that I was going out to eat husks with the swine as the Prodigal Son did, and told me not to take it into my mind ever again to cross the threshold of my father's house in my future capacity as acrobat or bareback rider, as he was pleased to express it. His door was not open to such scum! Well, I'll fight it down! Only I'm sorry for my poor, dear mother.--You can't imagine with what abysmal hatred a man of his kind considers the theatre and everything connected with it. The heaviest curse is not strong enough to express his feelings. An actor is, to his mind, _a priori_, the worst, most contemptible scamp imaginable.

Walburga. I've found out, too, how papa discovered our secret.

Spitta. My father gave him your picture.

Walburga. O Erich, if you knew with what awful, with what horrible names papa overwhelmed me in his rage. And I had to be silent through it all. I might have said something that would have silenced all his lofty moral discourses and made him quite helpless before me. I was almost on the point of saying it, too. But I felt so ashamed for him! My tongue refused to form the words! I couldn't say it, Erich! Finally mama had to intervene. He struck me! For eight or nine hours he locked me in a dark alcove--to break my stubbornness, as he put it, Erich. Well, he won't succeed! He won't break it!

Spitta. [_Taking WALBURGA into his arms._] You dear, brave girl! I am beginning to see now what I possess in having your love, what a treasure you are! [_Passionately._] And how beautiful you look, Walburga!

Walburga. Don't! Don't!--I trust you, Erich; that's all.

Spitta. And you shall not be disappointed, dearest. You see, a man like me in whom everything is still in a ferment, who feels that he was born to achieve something great and significant but something which, for the present, he can make sufficiently clear neither to himself nor to the world--such a man has, at twenty, every man's hand against his and is a burden and a laughing-stock to all the world. But believe me: it will not always be so! The germs of the future lie in us! The soil is being loosened even now by the budding shoots! Unseen to-day, _we_ are the harvest of the future! We _are_ the future! And the time will come when all this great and beautiful world will be ours!

Walburga. Ah, go on, Erich! What you say heals my heart.

Spitta. Walburga, I did more, last night! I flung straight out into my father's face, just as I felt it, my accusation of the crime committed against my sister. And that made the break definite and unbridgeable. He said stubbornly: He had no knowledge of such a daughter as I was describing. Such a daughter had no existence in his soul, and it seemed to him that his son would also soon cease to exist there. O these Christians! O these servants of the good shepherd who took the lost lamb with double tenderness into his arms! O thou good Shepherd, how have your words been perverted; How have your eternal truths been falsified into their exact contrary. But to-day when I sat amidst the flash of lightning and the roll of thunder in the _Tiergarten_ and certain Berlin hyaenas were prowling about me, I felt the crushed and restless soul of my sister close beside me. How many nights, in her poor life, may she not have sat shelterless on such benches, perhaps on this very bench in the _Tiergarten_, in order to consider in her loneliness, her degradation, her outcast estate, how, two thousand years after the birth of Christ, this most Christian world is drenched with Christianity and with the love of its fellow-men! But whatever she thought, this is what I think; the poor harlot, the wretched sinner who is yet above the righteous, who is weighed down by the sins of the world, the poor outcast and her terrible accusation shall never die in my soul! And into this flame of our goals we must cast all the wretchedness, all the lamentations of the oppressed and the disinherited! Thus shall my sister stay truly alive, Walburga, and effect noble ends before the face of God through the ethical impulse that lends wings to my soul, and that will be more powerful than all the evil, heartless parson's morality in the world.

Walburga. You were in the _Tiergarten_ all night, Erich? Is that the reason why your hands are so icy cold, and why you look so utterly worn out? Erich, you must take my purse! No, please, you must! Oh, I assure you what is mine is yours! If you don't feel that, you don't love me. Erich, you're suffering! If you don't take my few pennies, I'll refuse all nourishment at home! By heaven, I'll do it, I'll do it, unless you're sensible about that!

Spitta. [_Chokes down his rising tears and sits down._] I'm nervous; I'm overwrought.

Walburga. [_Puts her purse into his pocket._] And you see, Erich, this is the real reason why I asked you to meet me here. To add to all my misfortunes I received yesterday this summons from the court.

Spitta. [_Regards a document which she hands to him._] Look here? What's behind this, Walburga?

Walburga. I'm quite sure that it must have some connection with the stolen goods upstairs in the loft. But it does disquiet me terribly. If papa were to discover this ... oh, what would I do then?

_MRS. JOHN enters, carrying the child in her arms. She is dressed for the street, and looks dusty and harassed._

Mrs. John. [_Frightened, suspicious._] Well, what d'you want here? Is Paul home yet? I jus' went down in the street a little with the baby.

[_She carries the child behind the partition._

Walburga. Erich, do mention the summons to Mrs. John!

Mrs. John. Why, Paul's at home. There's his things!

Spitta. Miss Hassenreuter wanted very much to talk to you. She received a summons to appear in court. It's probably about those things that were stolen from the loft. You know.

Mrs. John. [_Emerging from behind the partition._] What's that? You reelly got a summons, Miss Walburga? Well, then you better look out! I ain't jokin'. An' maybe you're thinkin' o' the black man!

Spitta. What you're saying there is quite incomprehensible, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. [_Taking up her domestic tasks._] Did you hear that 'way out in the Lauben settlement, beyond the Halle Gate, the lightenin' struck a man an' a woman an' a little girl o' seven this mornin'. It was right under a tall poplar tree.

Spitta. No, Mrs. John, we didn't hear that.

Mrs. John. The rain's splashin' down again.

_One hears a shower of rain beginning to fall._

Walburga. [_Nervously._] Come, Erich, let's get out into the open anyhow.

Mrs. John. [_Speaking louder and louder in her incoherent terror._] An' I tell you another thing: I was talking to the woman what was struck by lightenin' jus' a short time before. An' she says--now listen to me, Mr. Spitta--if you takes a dead child what's lyin' in its carridge an' pushes it out into the sun ... but it's gotta be summer an' midday ... it'll draw breath, it'll cry, it'll come back to life!--You don't believe that, eh? But I seen that with my own eyes!

[_She circles about the room in a strange fashion, apparently becoming quite oblivious of the presence of the two young people._

Walburga. Look, here, Mrs. John is positively uncanny! Let's go!

Mrs. John. [_Speaking still louder._] You don' believe that, that it'll come to life again, eh? I tell you, its mother c'n come an' take it. But it's gotta be nursed right off.

Spitta. Good-bye, Mrs. John.

Mrs. John. [_In strange excitement accompanies the two young people to the door. Speaking still more loudly._] You don' believe that! But it's the solemn truth, Mr. Spitta!

_SPITTA and WALBURGA leave the room._

Mrs. John. [_Still holding the door in her hand calls out after them._] Anybody that don' believe that don' know nothin' o' the whole secret that I discovered.

_The foreman-mason JOHN appears in the door and enters at once._

John. Why, there you are, mother! I'm glad to see you. What's that there secret you're talkin' about?

Mrs. John. [_As though awakening, grasps her head._] Me?--Did I say somethin' about a secret?

John. That you did unless I'm hard o' hearin'. An' it's reelly you unless it's a ghost.

Mrs. John. [_Surprised and frightened._] Why d'you think I might be a ghost?

John. [_Pats his wife good-naturedly on the back._] Come now, Jette, don't bite me. I'm reel glad, that I am, that you're here again with the little kid! [_He goes behind the partition._] But it's lookin' a little measly.

Mrs. John. The milk didn't agree with him. An' that's because out there in the country the cows is already gettin' green fodder. I got milk here from the dairy company that comes from dry fed cows.

John. [_Reappears in the main room._] That's what I'm sayin'. Why did you have to go an' take the child on the train an' outa town. The city is healthier. That's my notion.

Mrs. John. I'm goin' to stay at home now, Paul.

John. In Hamburg everythin' is settled, too. To-day at noon I'm goin' to meet Karl an' then he'll tell me when I c'n start workin' for the new boss!--Look here: I brought somethin' with me, too.

[_He takes a small child's rattle from his breeches pocket and shakes it._

Mrs. John. What's that?

John. That's somethin' to bring a bit o' life into the place, 'cause it's pretty quiet inside in Berlin here! Listen how the kid's crowin'. [_The child is heard making happy little noises._] I tell you, mother, when a little kid goes on that way--there ain't nothin' I'd take for it!

Mrs. John. Have you seen anybody yet?

John. No!--Leastways only Quaquaro early this mornin'.

Mrs. John. [_In timid suspense._] Well ...?

John. Oh, never mind! Nothin! There was nothin' to it.

MRS. JOHN [_As before._] What did he say?

John. What d'you think he said? But if you're bound to know--'tain't no use talkin' o' such things Sunday mornin'--he axed me after Bruno again.

Mrs. John. [_Pale and speaking hastily._] What do they say Bruno has done again?

Nothin'. Here, come'n drink a little coffee, Jette, an' don' get excited! It ain't your fault that you got a brother like that. We don't has to concern ourselves about other people.

Mrs. John. I'd like to know what an old fool like that what spies aroun' all day long has always gotta be talkin' about Bruno.

John. Jette, don' bother me about Bruno--You see ...aw, what's the use ... might as well keep still!... But if I was goin' to tell you the truth, I'd say that it wouldn't surprise me if some day Bruno'd come to a pretty bad end right out in the yard o' the gaol, too--a quick end. [_MRS. JOHN sits down heavily beside the table. She grows grey in the face and breathes with difficulty._] Maybe not! Maybe not! Don't take it to heart so right off!--How's the sister?

Mrs. John. I don' know.

John. Why, I thought you was out there visitin' her?

Mrs. John. [_Looks at him absently._] Where was I?

John. Well, you see, Jette, that's the way it is with you women! You're jus' shakin', but oh no--you don' want to go to no doctor! An' it'll end maybe, by your havin' to take to your bed. That's what comes o' neglectin' nature.

Mrs. John. [_Throwing her arms about JOHN'S neck._] Paul, you're goin' to leave me! For God's sake, tell me right out that it's so! Don' fool me aroun' an' cheat me! Tell me right out!

John. What's the matter with you to-day, Henrietta?

Mrs. John. [_Pulling herself together._] Don' attend to my fool talk. I ain't had no rest all night--that's it. An' then I got up reel early, an' anyhow, it ain't nothin' but that I'm a bit weak yet.

John. Then you better lie down flat on your back an' rest a little. [_MRS. JOHN throws herself on the sofa and stares at the ceiling._] Maybe you'd better comb yourself a bit afterwards, Jette!--It musta been mighty dusty on the train for you to be jus' covered all over with sand the way you are! [_MRS. JOHN does not answer but continues staring at the ceiling._] I must go an' bring that there little feller into the light a bit.

[_He goes behind the partition._

Mrs. John. How long has we been married, Paul?

John. [_Plays with the rattle behind the partition. Then answers_:] That was in eighteen hundred and seventy-two, jus' as I came back from the war.

Mrs. John. Then you came to father, didn't you? An' you assoomed a grand position an' you had the Iron Cross on the left side o' your chest.

John. [_Appears, swinging the rattle and carrying the child on its pillow. He speaks merrily._] That's so, mother. An' I got it yet. If you want to see it, I'll pin it on.

Mrs. John. [_Still stretched out on the sofa._] An' then you came to me an' you said that I wasn't to be so busy all the time ... goin' up an' down, runnin' upstairs an' downstairs ... that I was to be a bit more easy-goin'.

John. An' I'm still sayin' that same thing to-day.

Mrs. John. An' then you tickled me with your moustache an' kissed me right behind my left ear! An' then ...

John. Then it didn't take long for us to agree, eh?

Mrs. John. Yes, an' I laughed an', bit by bit, I looked at myself in every one o' your brass buttons. I was lookin' different then! An' then you said ...

John. Well, mother, you're a great one for rememberin' things, I must say!

Mrs. John. An' then you said: When we has a boy, an' that'll be soon, he c'n follow the flag into the field too "with God for King an' country."

John. [_Sings to the child, playing with the rattle._]

"To heaven he turns his glances bold Whence gaze the hero sires of old: The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!"...

Well, an' now that I has a little feller like that I ain't half so keen on sendin' him to the war to be food for powder.

[_He retires with the child behind the partition._

Mrs. John. [_Still staring at the ceiling._] Paul, Paul! Seems as if all that was a hundred years ago!

John. [_Reappears from behind the partition without the child._] Not as long ago as all that.

Mrs. John. Look here, what d'you think? How would it be if you was to take me an' the child an' go to America?

John. Now listen here, Jette! What's gotten into you, anyhow? What is it? Looks as if there was nothin' but ghosts aroun' me here! You know I has a good easy temper! When the workmen heave bricks at each other, I don't even get excited. An' what do they say? Paul has a comfortable nature. But now: what's this here? The sun's shinin'; it's bright daylight! I can't _see_ nothin'; that's a fac'. But somethin's titterin' an' whisperin' an' creepin' aroun' in here. Only when I stretches out my hand I can't lay hold on nothin'! Now I wants to know what there is to this here story about the strange girl what came to the room. Is it true?

Mrs. John. You heard, Paul, that the young lady didn't come back no more. An' that shows you, don't it ...

John. I hear what you're sayin'. But your lips is fair blue an' your eyes look as if somebody was tormentin' you.

Mrs. John. [_Suddenly changing her attitude_] Yes. Why do you leave me alone year in an' year out, Paul? I sits here like in a cave an' I ain't got a soul to who I c'n say what I'm thinkin'. Many a time I've sat here an' axed myself why I works an' works, why I skimps an' saves to get together a few crowns, an' find good investments for your earnin's an' try to add to 'em. Why? Was all that to go to strangers? Paul, it's you who's been the ruin o' me!

[_She lays her head on the table and bursts out in sobs._

_Softly and with feline stealth BRUNO MECHELKE enters the room at this moment. He has on his Sunday duds, a sprig of lilac in his hat and a great bunch of it in his hand. JOHN drums with his fingers on the window and does not observe him._

Mrs. John. [_Has gradually realised BRUNO'S presence as though he were a ghost._] Bruno, is that you?

Bruno. [_Who has recognised JOHN in a flash, softly._] Sure, it's me, Jette.

Mrs. John. Where d'you come from? What d'you want?

Bruno. I been dancin' all night, Jette! You c'n see, can't you, that I'm dam' jolly?

John. [_Has been staring steadily at BRUNO. A dangerous pallor has overspread his face. He now goes slowly to a small cupboard, takes out an old army revolver and loads it. MRS. JOHN does not observe this._] You! Listen! I'll tell you somethin'--somethin' you forgot, maybe. There ain't no reason on God's earth why I shouldn't pull this here trigger! You scoundrel! You ain't fit to be among human bein's! I told you ... las' fall it was ... that I'd shoot you down if I ever laid eyes on you in my home again! Now go ... or I'll ... shoot. Y'understan'?

Bruno. Aw, I ain't scared o' your jelly squirter.

Mrs. John. [_Who observes that JOHN, losing control of himself, is slowly approaching BRUNO with the weapon and raising it._] Then kill me too, Paul. 'Cause he's my brother.

John. [_Looks at her long, seems to awaken and change his mind._] All right. [_He replaces the revolver carefully in the cupboard._] You're right, anyhow, Jette! It's hell, Jette, that your name's got to be on the tongue of a crittur like that. All right. The powder'd be too good, too. This here little pistol's tasted the blood o' two French cavalry men! Heroes they was! An' I don't want it to drink no dirt.

Bruno. I ain' doubtin' that there's dirt in your head! An' if it hadn't been that you board with my sister here I'd ha' let the light into you long ago, you dirt eater, so you'd ha' bled for weeks.

John. [_With tense restraint._] Tell me again, Jette, that it's your brother.

Mrs. John. Go, Paul, will you? I'll get him away all right! You know's well as I that I can't help it now that Bruno's my own brother.

John. All right. Then I'm one too many here. You c'n bill an' coo. [_He is dressed for the street as it is and hence proceeds to go. Close by BRUNO he stands still._] You scamp! You worried your father into his grave. Your sister might better ha' let you starve behind some fence rather'n raise you an' litter the earth with another criminal like you. I'll be back in half an hour! But I won't be alone. I'll have the sergeant with me!

[_JOHN leaves by the outer door, putting on his slouch hat._

_So soon as JOHN has disappeared BRUNO turns and spits out after him toward the door._

Bruno. If I ever gets hold o' you!

Mrs. John. Why d'you come, Bruno? Tell me, what's the matter?

Bruno. Tin's what you gotta give me. Or I'll go to hell.

Mrs. John. [_Locks and latches the outer door._] Wait till I close the door! Now, what's the matter? Where d'you come from? Where has you been?

Bruno. Oh, I danced about half the night an' then, about sunrise, I went out into the country for a bit.

Mrs. John. Did Quaquaro see you comin' in, Bruno? Then you better look out that you ain't walked into no trap.

Bruno. No danger. I crossed the yard an' then went through the cellar o' my friend what deals in junk an' after that up through the loft.

Mrs. John. Well, an' what happened?

Bruno. Don' fool aroun', Jette. I gotta have railroad fare. I gotta take to my heels or I'll go straight to hell.

Mrs. John. An' what did you do with that there girl?

Bruno. Oh, I found a way, Jette!

Mrs. John. What's the meanin' o' that?

Bruno. Oh, I managed to make her a little more accommodatin' all right!

Mrs. John. An' is it a sure thing that she won't come back now?

Bruno. Sure. I don' believe that she'll come again! But that wasn't no easy piece of work, Jette. But I tell you ... gimme somethin' to drink--quick!... I tell you, you made me thirsty with your damned business--thirsty, an' hot as hell.

[_He drains a jug full of water._

Mrs. John. People saw you outside the door with the girl.

Bruno. I had to make a engagement with Arthur. She didn't want to have nothin' to do with me. But Arthur, he came dancin' along in his fine clothes an' he managed to drag her along to a bar. She swallowed the bait right down when he told her as how her intended was waitin' for her there. [_He trills out, capering about convulsively._]

"All we does in life's to go Up an' down an' to an' fro From a tap-room to a show!"

Mrs. John. Well, an' then?

Bruno. Then she wanted to get away 'cause Arthur said that her intended had gone off! Then I wanted to go along with her a little bit an' Arthur an' Adolph, they came along. Next we dropped in the ladies' entrance at Kalinich's an' what with tastin' a lot o' toddy an' other liquors she got good an' tipsy. An' then she staid all night with a woman what's Arthur's sweetheart. All next day there was always two or three of us boys after her, didn't let her go, an' played all kinds o' tricks, an' things got jollier an' jollier.

[_The church bells of the Sunday morning services begin to ring._

Bruno. [_Goes on._] But the money's gone. I needs crowns an' pennies, Jette.

Mrs. John. [_Rummaging for money._] How much has you got to have?

Bruno. [_Listening to the bells._] What?

Mrs. John. Money!

Bruno. The old bag o' bones in the junk shop downstairs was thinkin' as how I'd better get across the Russian frontier! Listen, Jette, how the bells is ringin'.

Mrs. John. Why do you has to get acrost the frontier?

Bruno. Take a wet towel, Jette, an' put a little vinegar on it. I been bothered with this here dam' nosebleed all night.

[_He presses his handkerchief to his nose._

Mrs. John. [_Breathing convulsively, brings a towel._] Who was it scratched your wrist into shreds that way?

Bruno. [_Listening to the bells._] Half past three o'clock this mornin' she could ha' heard them bells yet.

Mrs. John. O Jesus, my Saviour! That ain't true! That can't noways be possible! I didn't tell you nothin' like that, Bruno! Bruno, I has to sit down. Oh! [_She sits down._] That's what our father foretold to me on his dyin' bed.

Bruno. It ain't so easy jokin' with me. If you go to see Minna, jus' tell her that I got the trick o' that kind o' thing an' that them goin's on with Karl an' with Fritz has to stop.

Mrs. John. But, Bruno, if they was to catch you!

Bruno. Well, then I has to swing, an' out at the Charity hospital they got another stiff to dissect.

Mrs. John. [_Giving him money._] Oh, that ain't true. What did you do, Bruno?

Bruno. You're a crazy old crittur, Jette.--[_He puts his hand on her not without a tremor of emotion._] You always says as how I ain't good for nothin'. But when things can't go on no more, then you needs me, Jette.

Mrs. John. Well, but how? Did you threaten the girl that she wasn't to let herself be seen no more? That's what you ought to ha' done, Bruno! An' did you?

Bruno. I danced with her half the night. An' then we went out on the street. Well, a gentleman came along, y'understan'? Well, when I told him that I had some little business o' my own to transact with the lady an' pulled my brass-knuckles outa my breeches, o' course he took to his heels.--Then I says to her, says I: Don't you be scared. If you're peaceable an' don' make no outcry an' don' come no more to my sister axin' after the child--well, we c'n make a reel friendly bargain. So she toddled along with me a ways.

Mrs. John. Well, an' then?

Bruno. Well, she didn't want to! An' all of a sudden she went for my throat that I thought it'd be the end o' me then an' there! Like a dawg she went for me hot an' heavy! An' then ... then I got a little bit excited too--an' then, well ... that's how it come ...

Mrs. John. [_Sunk in horror._] What time d'you say it was?

Bruno. It must ha' been somewhere between three an' four. The moon had a big ring aroun' it. Out on the square there was a dam' cur behind the planks what got up an' howled. Then it began to drip an' soon a thunderstorm came up.

Mrs. John. [_Changed and with sudden self-mastery._] It's all right. Go on. She don' deserve no better.

Good-Bye. I s'pose we ain't goin' to see each other for years an' years.

Mrs. John. Where you goin' to?

Bruno. First of all I gotta lie flat on my back for a couple o' hours. I'm goin' to Fritz's. He's got a room for rent in the old police station right acrost from the Fisher's Bridge. I'm safe there all right. If there's anythin' of a outcry you c'n lemme know.

Mrs. John. Don' you want to take a peek at the child onct more?

Bruno. [_Trembling._] Naw!

Mrs. John. Why not?

Bruno. No, Jette, not in this here life! Good-bye, Jette. Hol' on a minute: Here I got a horseshoe. [_He puts a horseshoe on the table._] I found it. That'll bring you good luck. I don' need it.

_Stealthily as he has come, BRUNO MECHELKE also disappears. MRS. JOHN, her eyes wide with horror, stares at the spot where he stood. Then she totters backward a few paces, presses her hands, clenched convulsively as if in prayer, against her mouth, and collapses, still trying in vain to stammer out a prayerful appeal to heaven._

Mrs. John. I ain't no murderer! I ain't no murderer! I didn't want that to happen!