Chapter V: Act IV

_A study in the house of_ Richard Voelkerlingk. _Doors on the right and left, at the back. A fireplace in the middle background, the rest of the wall hidden by book-cases, which frame the fireplace and doors. In the foreground, to the left, a window. To the right of it, a writing-table. In the centre a table covered with periodicals and books. On the right a leather sofa and arm-chairs. Behind these a door. Rich and sombre decorations, old pictures, armour, etc. A hanging-lamp with a green shade, another lamp on a table, both lit. Through the window one sees the twilight_. Holtzmann _is seated at the centre-table, reading_.

_Enter_ George.

George.

Herr Holtzmann, some one is asking for the Baron.

Holtzmann.

Why, you know the Baron is at the Reichstag.

George.

He says it's important that the Baron should see him. He wants to know when he can call again.

Holtzmann.

Do you know who it is?

George.

Well--not exactly a gentleman. What shall I tell him?

Holtzmann.

The Baron speaks this afternoon. He will not leave till the House rises. Tell the man to come back in an hour. (George _goes out_.)

Norbert _enters_.

Norbert (_greatly excited_).

Herr Holtzmann--haven't you been at the Reichstag? (Holtzmann _shakes his head without speaking_.) Then you haven't heard? My father has had the most wonderful triumph--they say there has never been anything like it.

Holtzmann.

Ah?

Norbert.

I wish I could give you an idea of it! Look at me--I'm shaking all over! If you could have heard the way the words rushed out, the way the thoughts trod on each other's heels! He began by sketching the psychology of the modern man, and from that he developed a theory of marriage, with its outward obligations and inner ideals--the marriage of to-day in its highest, noblest sense--but you'll read what he said; you'll see if I'm exaggerating. Then he went on to the practical application of his theory. In this unsettled age, when parents are losing their control over their children, and the state its hold over the citizen, when even God and His priests see the soul of man slipping away from them--at such a time we must do all we can to strengthen the only tie that holds humanity together--the only tie that gives youth the shelter of the family life till habit becomes duty, and duty the law of being, and through obedience to that law a strong and enduring national soul is created. Isn't that beautiful, Herr Holtzmann? Isn't that a glorious idea?

Holtzmann.

Very fine, very fine. But doesn't such an argument lead back to the standpoint of the Church, which----

Norbert.

When marriage is a mockery, he said, the state may intervene and dissolve it. That was all. Never in my life have I heard such a scathing denunciation of infidelity!

Holtzmann.

Ah? Indeed?

Norbert.

There was such terrible menace in his words that I--oh, well, I can't explain it--but I began to feel afraid--of I don't know what----

Holtzmann (_half to himself_).

This will explain----

Norbert.

Explain what? What do you mean?

George _enters_.

George (_urgently_).

Herr Holtzmann!

Holtzmann (_to_ Norbert).

One moment, please. (_He goes up to_ George.)

George (_in a whisper_).

The man is here again, and asking to see you. He is waiting in the cafe across the street.

Holtzmann.

Doesn't he give his name?

George.

Yes. Something like Meister or Meissner.

Holtzmann (_startled, in a whisper_).

Meixner?

George.

That's it.

Holtzmann (_turning to_ Norbert).

Will you excuse me? Some one has sent for me.

Norbert.

Don't let me keep you. (Holtzmann _and_ George _go out_. Norbert _goes to the window, his hand shading his eyes, and gazes out eagerly_. Richard _comes in quietly and lays his portfolio on the writing-table_.)

Norbert (_turning toward him_).

Father! Father! (_He throws himself in_ Richard's _arms_. Richard _thanks him with a smile_.)

Norbert.

Mother sends you her love and is sorry she can't be here to congratulate you. She's in waiting on the Princess this evening.

Richard.

Ah? (_He moves about the room_.)

Norbert.

Oh, father, how happy you must be! How they cheered, how they fought to get near you and shake your hand! Oh, if only I could have one such hour in my life!

Richard (_laying a hand on his shoulder_).

If you do, my son, may you pay for it less dearly!

Norbert.

What do you mean?

Richard.

Listen, Norbert.--Have you heard anything of Aunt Beata?

Norbert.

I went there, but they told me she wouldn't see any one.

Richard (_musingly_).

H'm.

Norbert.

The fact is, I wanted to see Uncle Michael.

Richard.

(_Who has walked toward the window_.) Uncle Michael? That reminds me that I wanted to tell you-- How the sunset shines on the house-tops over there! Everything is in a glow--we shall have glorious winter weather soon----

Norbert.

You said you had something to tell me, father.

Richard.

Yes, yes; to be sure. But first, haven't you something to tell _me_?

Norbert (_with an embarrassed smile_).

Yes; but not to-day--when you're so----

Richard.

The very day, dear boy! To-morrow I may but there's nothing to tell, after all. Aunt Beata and I have seen this coming and it has made us very happy.

Norbert.

(_Flinging his arms about his father_.) Father! Father!

Richard.

Norbert! My dear lad! But we don't yet know what Uncle Michael will say----

Norbert.

Uncle Michael? When I'm _your_ son? Father, you've heard something. You wouldn't frighten me for nothing.

Richard.

I have heard nothing. But, Norbert, listen. Whatever comes to you in after days, I want you to remember one thing: it doesn't matter whether we succeed or not. What we need is the guiding note of a voice that seems the echo of our best hopes. It doesn't matter whether we are mistaken in the voice or not--the great thing is to hear it. And the worst thing is not to feel the need of it.

Norbert.

Thank you, father. I'm not sure I understand--but you may be sure I shall listen for the voice.

Richard.

And one thing more. Uncle Michael is very busy just now. Leave him alone for a day or two--even if you have the chance of speaking. And let me see you to-morrow morning early. I may have to go on a long journey--and before I start----

Norbert.

On a journey? Now? Just as you----

Richard (_nods_).

This is between ourselves. But meanwhile, try to see Aunt Beata for a moment. I want you to tell her--but stay, I'll write. (_He seats himself at the writing-table and begins to write_.)

_Enter_ George.

George.

His Excellency Baron Ludwig von Voelkerlingk.

_Enter_ Baron Ludwig. Richard _starts up, pleased and surprised_.

George.

The evening papers, your Excellency. (_He puts them down and goes out_.)

Richard.

Ludwig! It's a long time since you've given me this pleasure.

Baron Ludwig.

Thank you, Richard.

Richard.

Will you excuse me a moment? I am finishing a letter. (_He folds the letter, puts it into an envelope and writes the address, while_ Norbert _and_ Baron Ludwig _are greeting each other_.) There!

Norbert (_taking the letter_).

An answer, father?

Richard.

As soon as possible. (Norbert _goes out_.)

Baron Ludwig.

My dear Richard--we're quite alone, I suppose? (Richard _nods_.) Forgive the suggestion, but-- (_he glances about the room_) Leonie sometimes overhears----

Richard.

Leonie is out.

Baron Ludwig.

So much the better. But first let me tell you with what admiration I listened to you just now--what breathless admiration! (Richard _makes a gesture of thanks_.) Still, I confess that your having to speak on such a subject just at present made me--er--a little nervous----

Richard.

Why so?

Baron Ludwig.

I was almost afraid--but we'll go into that presently.--Well, at all events, if nothing goes wrong, you may look upon this as the starting-point of a career that any man living might envy you.

Richard.

What do you mean?

Baron Ludwig.

A certain personage was heard to say after your speech: _That is the man I need_. Don't look as if you saw a ghost. You deserve it all, my dear Richard.

Richard.

(_Walks up and down in agitated silence_.) Ludwig--you have led me to the top of a high mountain and shown me the promised land in which I shall never set foot. Give me time to renounce the idea.

Baron Ludwig.

Why should you talk of renouncing it? But this brings me to the object of my visit. Richard, how long do you suppose your enemies will wait before making capital out of your speech?

Richard.

I'm ready for them, my dear fellow. I'll pay the shot--to the last penny!

Baron Ludwig (_in a lower tone_).

We are talking at cross-purposes. I referred to the insinuations of your former secretary.

Richard.

I understand.

Baron Ludwig.

You know there is nothing they are so eager to attack as our private life. Of course I don't for a moment imagine the man has anything to go on--but unless you can silence him he may make a scandal in which everything will go under--your name, your career--and other things besides.

Richard.

What can I do to prevent it?

Baron Ludwig.

For one thing, you might jump into a cab and hunt your man down with a big bribe in your pocket.

Richard.

Do you think that kind of man could be bribed?

Baron Ludwig.

My dear Richard, this is not merely a matter of life and death. Remember that. Of course you may be too late; but it's the only way I can suggest. (_There is a knock on the door_.)

Richard.

Come in.

_Enter_ Holtzmann.

Holtzmann.

I beg your pardon, Baron. (_In a low voice_.) An important matter----

Richard.

You may speak before my brother. I have no secrets from him.

Holtzmann.

There is a man waiting in my room who wishes to speak to you. His name is Meixner. (_The two brothers look at each other_.)

Richard.

Thanks. Please tell Herr Meixner that I will see him in a moment. (Holtzmann _goes out_.)

Baron Ludwig.

Well, this ends my mission. Good-bye, Richard. Your luck frightens me.

Richard (_laughing bitterly_).

My luck!

Baron Ludwig (_pressing his hands_).

Don't hang back now, my dear fellow. The way is open to you.

Richard.

Thank you. Good-bye. (Baron Ludwig _goes out_. Richard _rings_.)

_Enter_ George.

Richard.

I will see the gentleman who is waiting. You will remain in the ante-room. Don't let in any one else. (George _goes out. After a short pause_ Meixner _enters_.)

Richard.

Herr Meixner, after what has happened, doesn't it strike you as rather a liberty that you should enter my house?

Meixner.

(_Speaking in a hoarse voice, with an occasional cough_.) May I take my muffler off? My lungs have gone wrong--makes it very hard for me to talk down my adversary in one of those crowded smoky halls.--But what's to be done about it?

Richard.

May I ask what you want of me?

Meixner.

Really, Baron, from the way you look at me I might almost ask what you want of _me_. But I suppose it's my turn first.--I haven't come out of malice. You can safely offer me a chair.

Richard.

If you haven't come out of malice you probably won't stay long enough to need one.

Meixner.

Ah--thanks. Well, I'll take the hint and be brief. It was down at Lengenfeld, you know. Herr Holtzmann and I sat up a whole night arguing over the elections. Why not--two honourable antagonists, eh? Herr Holtzmann, as a good theologian, was all for the sanctity of the social order. I laughed at him--he's at the age when the disciple looks up to his master, and he brought you up as an example. I laughed at him again.--"If Baron Voelkerlingk is not what I believe him to be," said he, "nothing is what I believe it to be, and I'll go over to your side." "Shake hands on that," said I; and we did. The next day, in my speech, I made that allusion--you know what I mean--and as no one took it up, and I began to be afraid it might hang fire, I sent about a few copies of the paper. That helped. I got my nomination the next day.

Richard.

Not in my district.

Meixner.

No matter. Well I found I'd made a stupid blunder. I'd meant to convert Holtzmann but I hadn't meant to ruin _you_. Do you see? Then you made your speech to-day--and after that-- Well, I've been tramping the streets ever since, saying to myself: The man who could make that speech after what he's been through--well, he's suffered enough.--Baron Voelkerlingk, here are two letters written to you by-- (_he looks about him cautiously_) by a lady I needn't name. Don't ask me how I got them. I didn't steal them; and here they are, if you'll give me your word that you'll put a stop to that libel-suit.

Richard.

I think the suit has already been stopped.

Meixner.

H'm--well, your thinking so is hardly sufficient.

Richard.

It will have to be stopped, even if you keep those letters.

Meixner (_startled_).

Even if--? H'm--do things look as badly as that for you?

Richard.

You will kindly leave me out of the question.

Meixner.

Ah--well--here are your letters. (_Lays them on the table_.)

Richard.

If you didn't wish to do me a public injury, why not have shown them privately to my secretary?

Meixner.

They might have been forgeries.

Richard.

They may be so still.

Meixner.

When I've taken the trouble to return them to you? Holtzmann doesn't think so. He's packing up already. Perhaps you'd like to see him before he leaves?

Richard.

No.

Meixner.

Baron Voelkerlingk, if I have got you into trouble don't set it down to ill-feeling. Principle is principle, if we have to hang for it. Every man who has convictions must be prepared to go to the stake for them. Good-day to you, Baron Voelkerlingk. (_He goes out_.)

Richard.

(_Clutches the letters and strikes his clenched hand against his brow_.) Oh, to live again to live, to live!

_Enter_ Norbert.

Norbert.

Father----

Richard.

Well?

Norbert.

Aunt Beata was out.

Richard.

Out? At this hour? Why, she never goes out except for her morning drive. Where can she have gone?

Norbert.

No one knows.

Richard.

But she must have ordered the carriage?

Norbert.

It seems not.

Richard.

Well, thank you, my boy. What time is it?

Norbert.

Nearly seven.

Richard.

You had better dine without me. I shall go and enquire. She may have----

Norbert.

Is there anything I can do, father?

Richard.

No, no. Thanks, Norbert. (_He gives him his hand_.) Good-night, my lad.

Norbert.

Good-night, father. (_Goes out_.)

Richard (_to himself_).

My God! My God! (_He hurries toward the door, and starts back amazed_.)

_Enter_ Beata, _in hat and cloak, her face thickly veiled_.

Richard.

Beata! (_He closes the door_.) Where have you come from? Tell me, for heaven's sake!

Beata.

Alive!

Richard.

Did any one see you except George?

Beata.

Alive--alive! (_She sinks into a chair, trembling and hiding her face in her hands_.)

Richard.

Good God, Beata, rouse yourself! What has happened? Don't keep me in suspense. What is it, dearest? Answer me.

Beata.

I'm so cold.

Richard (_opening the door_).

George! (George _enters_.) Light the fire.

George (_kneels down and lights it_).

Yes, your Excellency.

Richard.

And see that no one interrupts us. I am engaged with Madame von Kellinghausen.

George.

Yes, your Excellency.

Richard.

If the Baroness comes in, say nothing, but let me know.

George.

Yes, your Excellency. (_Goes out_.)

Richard.

And now, come and sit by the fire. But take off your cloak first--there. And your hat and veil too?

Beata.
(_Letting her arms sink down helplessly_.) I can't.

Richard.

Wait, dear. (_He loosens her veil_.) How white you are! Come to the fire. (_He leads her to the fireplace_.) There! is that right?

Beata.

Everything is right as long as you're alive!

Richard.

Why, Beata, what put such an idea into your head?

Beata.

Hasn't it been in _yours_ ever since yesterday?

Richard.

There will be no duel, I assure you.

Beata.

I have just read your speech. It was your goodbye to the world. Oh, don't laugh--don't deny it. I've felt death hanging over us ever since.

Richard.

And I swear to you that I've never loved life better, have never been more determined to live, than now that I've won back my place in the world.

Beata.

You swear that to me?

Richard.

I swear it.

Beata.

And yet you must die.

Richard.

So must we all. But I mean to put it off as long as possible, I promise you!

Beata (_standing up_).

Richard, for fifteen years we haven't kept a single thought from each other, yet now that the end has come you throw me over as if you were paying off a discarded mistress.

Richard (_agitated_).

Beata!

Beata.

Don't be afraid. I am not going to force your confidence. You would only repeat what Michael has already told me--that you are going to travel, to disappear for a while.--Is this the laugh with which we were to have greeted death? Often and often, at night, when I've lain in bed struggling for breath, I've said to myself that I should die before morning. What if it really happened to-night? You'd have to wait then--you'd have no right to follow me. Think how people would talk if you did! (_With a sudden start_.) The children, Richard--there must be no shadow on the children.

Richard.

Beata, don't talk so wildly. Do shake off such fancies.

Beata (_musing_).

Yes--yes.--You know you'll have a note from Michael in the morning.

Richard.

What do you mean?

Beata.

A note asking you to luncheon to-morrow to meet some friends. Nothing more.

Richard.

What is the object----

Beata.

It seems there has been some gossip at the clubs, and this is the shortest way of putting a stop to it. (_Entreatingly_.) You'll come, Richard, won't you?

Richard.

Beata! Why should we go through this new misery?

Beata (_in wild anxiety_).

Richard, you _will_ come? You must come.

Richard.

I can't, Beata.

Beata.

It is the last thing I shall ever ask of you. Now you're smiling again--well, I'll believe anything you tell me--about your travelling, about your disappearing--I'll believe anything, if you'll only come. Richard, come for the children's sake. And if not for the children's sake, come for mine--or I shall die of it--I shall die of it, Richard, in the night----

Richard (_overcome_).

I will come.

Beata.

Give me your hand. (Richard _gives it_. Beata _takes his hand, and passes it over her eyes and cheeks_.) There--I'm quite quiet again, you see. (_Sits down_.) I don't know if I told you that I'm going to Rossitsch to-morrow.

Richard.

For good?

Beata (_nodding_).

So that, unless you come and pay me a visit there----

Richard.

This is good-bye?

For always. So you needn't keep yourself so frightfully in hand. (_He looks at her doubtfully_.) You needn't, really. (_He falls on his knees before her and hides his face in her lap_.)

Beata (_stroking his hair_).

"I knew a sad old tale of Tristram and Iseult"--How grey you've grown in these last few days! (_She kisses his hair_.) Don't get up yet--I want to look at you again--for the last time.--Only I can't see you--your face has been like a mask ever since yesterday.--Look at me just once as you used to--just once!

Richard (_rising_).

I've never changed to you.

Beata.

Haven't you?--Who knows?--We've grown old, you and I. There's a layer of ashes on our hearts--a layer of conventionality and good behaviour and weariness and disappointment.--Who knows what we were like before the fire went out? Not a trace is left to tell--not so much as a riband or a flower. The words are forgotten, the letters are destroyed, the emotions have faded. Here we sit like two ghosts on our own graves. (_Passionately_.) Oh, to go back just once to the old life, and then forget everything----

Richard.

Do you really want to?

Beata.

You can work wonders--but not that!

Richard.

(_Draws out the letters, and opening one, begins to read it to her_.) "Rossitsch, June 13th, 1881. Two o'clock in the morning."

Beata.

What is that?

Richard.

Listen. (_Reading_.) "I don't want to sleep, dearest. The night is too bright and my happiness too great. The moonlight lies on Likowa, and already the dawn shows red through the network of elms. The blood beats like a hammer in my temples--I scarcely know how I am going to bear the riches of my new life. Oh, how I pray God to let me live it out beside you--not as your wife, that would be too wild a dream!--but as an unseen influence at your side, faint as the moonlight which rests upon your sleep, or as the first glow of dawn that wakes you to new endeavour."

Beata.

I must have been listening to Wagner. Let me see; did I really write that? (_She reads_.) "For I mean to make you the greatest among men, you, my discoverer and my deliverer--" That's not so bad, you know. (_Reads on_.) "If only heaven would let me die, and give you my life to live as well as your own." (_She rises suddenly with a strange look on her face_.)

Richard.

This letter and another have just been brought to me by--Meixner. If he had come yesterday we should have been saved. Now it is too late.

Beata.

Too late?--Oh, Richard, how ungrateful I've been! Why, every prayer of my youth has been granted--the long sad sweet dream at your side-- (_She breaks suddenly into laughter_.)

Richard.

Why do you laugh?

Beata.

I laugh because in your speech this morning you disowned us both--disowned our long sad sweet dream. Oh, I don't blame you, Richard. It isn't your conscience that torments you, it's the conscience of the race. I'm only a woman--what do I care for the race? You felt that you were sinning--I felt that I had risen above myself, that I had attained the harmony nature meant me to attain. And because I feel that----

Richard.

You deny that we have sinned----?

Beata.

I deny nothing. I affirm nothing. I stand on the farther shore of life, and look over at you with a smile. Oh, Richard, Richard (_she laughs_), did you ever really think I had given you up? I never gave you up. I never ceased to long for you, passionately, feverishly, day and night, when you were away and when you were near me--always, always--and all the while I was playing the cool, quiet friend, biting my lips to keep the words back, and crushing down my rebellious heart--yes, and through it all I was so happy--so unspeakably, supremely happy----

Richard (_going up to her_).

Take care, dear. You mustn't excite yourself. I shall have to send you home.

Beata.

(_Letting her head sink on his breast with a happy smile_.) Home? This is home.

Richard.

They will be wondering where you are. They may send here to find you.

Beata (_mysteriously, urgently_).

No, no--not yet! I have so much to say to you. There are so many secrets I must tell you. Everything has grown so clear to me--I wish I--Richard, you will surely come to-morrow? (_Crying out suddenly_.) I want to stay with you. I am afraid of to-night!

Richard.

Beata, do try to control yourself.

Beata.

Yes, yes--I'll control myself.-- (_She stands motionless, benumbed_.) Give me my hat. (_He brings her the hat and veil_.) And my veil. (_Fervently_.) You still love your life, Richard? You still want to live?

Richard.

Haven't I told you so? Ever since----

Beata.

Never fear, dearest. You _shall_ live.

Richard (_with outstretched hands_).

Beata, before we part----

Beata.

Don't thank me--don't kiss me. I--good-bye, Richard. (_She goes out_.)

Richard.

Beata!

Curtain.

ACT V