Chapter XIII: Act I: Room in the master-joiner’s house

SCENE 1

CLARA. _Her_ MOTHER.

CLARA.

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

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

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

MOTHER (_smiling_).

No, I should be _you_ if I were!

CLARA.

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

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

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

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

Do stop that, mother dear, it exhausts you.

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

You are talking just as you did in your illness!

SCENE 2

KARL (_enters_).

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

CLARA.

A gold chain? Where’ve you got that?

KARL.

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

MOTHER.

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

KARL.

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

MOTHER.

I’ve only got money for house-keeping.

KARL.

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

MOTHER.

You are impudent.

KARL.

Well, I’ve no time now, or else----(_going_).

MOTHER.

Where are you going?

KARL.

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

SCENE 3

CLARA.

What does that mean?

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

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

MOTHER (_quickly_).

That’s natural; his work is hard.

CLARA.

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

MOTHER (_smiling_).

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

CLARA.

Let him stay away.

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

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

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

I never see him at all.

MOTHER.

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

CLARA.

There goes the church bell.

MOTHER.

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

CLARA (_giving her a bunch of flowers_).

There!

MOTHER.

I’m sure that came from Karl.

CLARA (_nods, then aside_).

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

MOTHER.

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

CLARA (_looking after her through the window_).

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

SCENE 4

LEONARD (_outside_).

Are you dressed?

CLARA.

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

LEONARD (_coming in_).

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

CLARA.

That’s why, then, is it?

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

It used to be so different.

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

What does it matter?

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

Oh, Leonard, you’d no right to do it!

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

You still seem to take a warm interest in him.

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

And what?

LEONARD.

To ask your father for your hand in marriage!

CLARA.

Ah!

LEONARD.

Isn’t that all right?

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

That’s a----

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

I don’t understand you.

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

About me?

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

Leonard!

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

Not a word.

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

You wretch! Get out of my sight!

LEONARD.

Yes? (_Pretending to go._)

CLARA.

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

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

I know nothing about it.

LEONARD.

You know nothing about so important a matter?

CLARA.

Here comes father.

LEONARD.

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

CLARA.

I must go into the kitchen. (_Goes._)

LEONARD (_alone_).

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

SCENE 5

_Enter_ ANTHONY.

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

You’ve heard, then----

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

And yet you let Clara wait till I told her?

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

You surely don’t think that I----

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

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

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

Perhaps he wasn’t well----

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

You take it too seriously.

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

Do you know that the apothecary is going bankrupt?

ANTHONY.

It doesn’t concern me.

LEONARD.

Not at all?

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

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

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

But I thought you yourself----

ANTHONY.

That’s settled long ago.

LEONARD.

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

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

You’re joking.

ANTHONY.

It’s a fact.

CLARA (_looking in_).

Did you call, father?

ANTHONY.

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

CLARA.

The newspaper! (_Goes._)

LEONARD.

You’re a philosopher.

ANTHONY.

What does that mean?

LEONARD.

You can control yourself.

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

Let him who can do likewise!

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

I hope you don’t mistake me.

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

I don’t understand you.

ANTHONY.

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

LEONARD.

You are annoyed at your son. I came to ask for your daughter’s----

ANTHONY.

Stop! Perhaps I might not say “No.”

LEONARD.

I hope you won’t. And I’ll tell you what I think. Even the holy
patriarchs did not despise their wives’ dowries. Jacob loved
Rachel and courted her for seven years, but he was pleased,
too, with the fat rams and ewes that he earned in her father’s
service. It does him no disgrace, to my mind, and I don’t wish
to shame him by doing better. I should like to have seen your
daughter bring twenty pounds with her. Naturally. It would have
been all the better for her, for when a girl brings her bed
with her, she doesn’t need to start carding wool and spinning
yarn. But she hasn’t got it, and what does it matter? We’ll take
lenten soup for Sunday’s dinner, and feast on our Sunday joint at
Christmas. We can manage that way.

ANTHONY (_shakes his hand_).

You speak well, and the Lord approves your words. So I’ll try to
forget that my daughter put a cup for you on the tea-table every
evening, and you never came for a fortnight. And now that you’re
going to be my son-in-law, I’ll tell you where my two hundred
pounds have gone.

LEONARD (_aside_).

So he has lost them. Well, I shan’t need to take any sauce from
the old werewolf, when he’s my father-in-law.

ANTHONY.

I had a hard time when I was young. I wasn’t born a prickly
hedgehog any more than you were, but I’ve turned into one by
degrees. At first all my prickles were turned inside and people
for fun used to nip my smooth sensitive skin and laugh when I
shrank back, because the points went into my heart and bowels.
But that wouldn’t do for me. I turned my skin inside out and now
the prickles get into their fingers, and I have peace.

LEONARD (_aside_).

The devil’s own peace, I should think!

ANTHONY.

My father never rested night and day, and worked himself into
his grave when he was only thirty. My poor mother made a living,
as best she could, with her spinning-wheel. I grew up without
any schooling. When I got bigger and still could earn nothing, I
should have liked at the least to go without eating. But if I did
pretend to be sick at dinner-time and push my plate back, what
was the good? My stomach was too much for me at supper-time, and
I had to be well again. My greatest sorrow was my own clumsiness.
I would quarrel with myself over it, as if I was to blame, as if
I had provided myself in the womb with nothing but wolf’s teeth
and deliberately left behind me every useful craft and quality.
I was fit to blush when the sun shone on me. As soon as I was
confirmed, the man they buried yesterday, old Master Gebhardt,
came into our little room. He wrinkled his brow and twisted his
face, as he always did when he had something good in his mind;
then he said to my mother: “Have you brought this boy into the
world to eat your head off?” I was just about to cut myself a
slice of bread, but I felt so ashamed that I quickly put the
loaf back in the cupboard. My mother was annoyed at his words.
She stopped her wheel, and retorted hotly that her son was a
good boy. “Well, we shall see,” replied old Gebhardt, “if he
wants, he can come now, just as he stands, into my workshop. I
want no apprentice money. He’ll get his food, and I’ll see to
his clothes, too. And if he’s willing to get up early and go to
bed late, he’ll get a chance now and then of earning a little
money for his old mother.” Mother began to cry and I began to
dance, and when at last we started to speak, the old man closed
his ears and motioned to me to come. I didn’t need to put my
hat on, because I hadn’t got one. I followed him without even
saying good-bye to my mother, and when I got half-an-hour off
on my first Sunday to go and see her, he sent her half a ham
with me. God’s peace on his grave! I can still hear him, in that
half-angry way of his: “By Gosh, under your coat with it, for
fear my wife should see!”

LEONARD.

You can weep, then?

ANTHONY (_wiping his eyes_).

Yes, I hardly dare let myself think of that. However well the
source of tears in me is stopped up, that opens it afresh every
time. Well, it’s a good thing, too. If ever I get dropsy,
there’ll be the less water to tap off. (_Changing his tone._)
What do you think? If you went on a Sunday afternoon to smoke a
pipe with the man you owed everything to, and found him all dazed
and confused, with a knife in his hand, the very knife you had
cut him his bread with hundreds of times, and bleeding at the
throat and holding a cloth to the wound in terror----

LEONARD.

Is _that_ how his end came?

ANTHONY.

And if you came in time to save him and help him, not just by
taking his knife from him and binding up his wound, but by giving
him a dirty two hundred pounds you’d saved up, all in secret,
because else he wouldn’t take it,--what would you do?

LEONARD.

Being a free man without wife or child, I’d sacrifice the money.

ANTHONY.

And if you had ten wives, like the Turks, and as many children
as were promised to Father Abraham, and you had only a minute to
decide in, you’d--well, anyway you’re going to be my son-in-law.
Now you know where the money is. I can tell you to-day because
my old master was buried yesterday. A month ago I’d have kept it
to myself on my death-bed. I put the I O U under the dead man’s
head before they nailed up his coffin. If I could write, I would
have put “Honourably paid” at the bottom, but all I could do in
my ignorance was to tear the paper lengthways. Now he’ll sleep in
peace, and I hope I shall too, when I stretch myself some day by
his side.

SCENE 6

MOTHER (_comes in quickly_).

Do you know me still?

ANTHONY (_pointing to the wedding-dress_).

The frame has kept well, but the picture’s gone a bit. There seem
to have been a lot of spiders’ webs on it. Well, the time was
long enough!

MOTHER.

Haven’t I a frank husband? But I don’t need to praise him in
particular. Frankness is the virtue of all husbands.

ANTHONY.

Are you sorry that you had more gilt on you at twenty than at
fifty?

MOTHER.

Certainly not. If it weren’t so, I’d be ashamed of us both.

ANTHONY.

Well there, give me a kiss. I have had a shave and I’m in a
better temper than usual.

MOTHER.

I’ll say “Yes” just to see if you still know how to kiss. It’s a
long time since you thought of trying.

ANTHONY.

Dear old mother. I won’t wish that you should close my eyes. It’s
a hard task, and I’ll do it for you instead. I’ll do you that
last service of love. But you must give me time, do you hear?
Time to prepare and steel myself, and not make a mess of it. It’s
far too soon yet.

MOTHER.

Thank God, we are to be together a little longer.

ANTHONY.

I hope so, indeed. Why, your cheeks are quite rosy again!

MOTHER.

A queer little man, that new grave-digger. He was digging a
grave, as I was going to church this morning. I asked him whom
it was for. “For whom God will,” says he, “perhaps for myself. I
might have the same experience as my grandfather. He once had got
an extra grave ready, and that night when he was going home from
the inn, he fell in and broke his neck.”

LEONARD (_who has been reading the paper all the time_).

The fellow doesn’t belong to this town; he can tell us any lies
he likes.

MOTHER.

I asked him why he didn’t wait till there was an order for a
grave. “I’m invited to a wedding to-day,” he said, “and I’m
prophet enough to know that I shall feel it in my head to-morrow
morning. Then somebody’s sure to have gone and died, just to
spite me, and that would mean getting up early without finishing
my sleep.”

ANTHONY.

“You fathead,” I’d have said, “what if the grave doesn’t fit?”

MOTHER.

That’s what I said. But he can shake out sharp answers as quick
as the devil can shake out fleas. “I’ve made it to fit Weaver
John,” says he, “he’s as big as King Saul, head and shoulders
above everybody else. So anybody can come that likes--he won’t
find his house too small for him. And if it’s too big, it’ll hurt
no one but me. I’m an honourable man and won’t charge for an inch
over the coffin-length.” I threw my flowers in, and said, “Now
it’s occupied.”

ANTHONY.

I think the fellow was only joking, but that’s bad enough.
Digging graves in advance is like setting death-traps. The
scoundrel ought to be sacked for it. (_To_ LEONARD, _who is
reading_.) Any news? Is some kind creature looking for a poor
widow who could do with a few pounds? Or is it the other way
about, the widow looking for the friend that will give her them?

LEONARD.

There’s news of a jewel-robbery. Funny thing! It shows that,
although times are bad, there are still people among us that own
jewels.

ANTHONY.

A jewel-robbery! At whose house?

LEONARD.

At Wolfram’s, the merchant’s.

ANTHONY.

Wolfram’s--impossible! That’s where Karl went to polish a desk a
few days ago.

LEONARD.

They were stolen from the desk, right enough.

MOTHER (_to_ ANTHONY).

May God forgive you for saying that!

ANTHONY.

You’re right. It was a base thought.

MOTHER.

I must say, that to your son you’re only half a father.

ANTHONY.

We won’t talk about that to-day, wife.

MOTHER.

Do you think he must be bad, just because he’s different from you?

ANTHONY.

Where is he now? It’s long past dinner-time. I’ll wager the food
is all boiled away or dried up, because Clara has secret orders
not to set the table till he comes.

MOTHER.

Where do you think he is? At most he’ll be playing skittles. He
has to go to the farthest alley, so that you won’t find him, and
then of course it takes him a long time to get back. I don’t know
what you have against the game; it’s harmless enough.

ANTHONY.

Against the game? I’ve nothing at all against it. Fine gentlemen
must have their amusements. But for the kings of spades and
diamonds, real kings would often find time heavy on their hands.
And if there were no skittles--who knows?--dukes and princes
might be rolling our heads about. But there’s no worse folly for
a working man than to waste his hard-earned money on games. What
a man has laboured for by the sweat of his brow, that he should
honour and value highly, unless he wants to lose his balance
altogether and grow to despise his honest work. How it hurts me
to throw away a shilling! (_Door bell rings._)

MOTHER.

There he comes.

SCENE 7

_Enter_ BAILIFF ADAM _and_ SECOND BAILIFF.

ADAM (_to_ ANTHONY).

Now you may go and pay your bet. _People in red coats with blue
facings_ (_with emphasis_) would never come, into _your_ house!
Eh? Well, here you have two of us. (_To_ SECOND BAILIFF.) Why
don’t you keep your hat on, as I do? Who’s going to stand on
ceremony, when he’s among his equals?

ANTHONY.

Equals, you cur?

ADAM.

You’re right, we’re not among equals. Knaves and thieves are not
our equals! (_Pointing to the cupboard._) Open that! And then
three paces back! Don’t juggle anything out of it.

ANTHONY.

What! What!

CLARA (_bringing cloth for dinner_).

Should I---- (_stops_).

ADAM (_showing a paper_).

Can you read writing?

ANTHONY.

How should I, when my schoolmaster couldn’t?

ADAM.

Well, listen! Your son has been stealing jewels. We’ve got the
thief already. Now we are going to search the house.

MOTHER.

Jesus!--(_falls down; dies_).

CLARA.

Oh, mother, mother! Look at her eyes!

LEONARD.

I’ll fetch a doctor.

ANTHONY.

No need.--That’s the last face. I’ve seen it hundreds of times.
Good-night, Teresa. You died when you heard it. That shall be put
on your gravestone.

LEONARD.

Perhaps I’d better----(_going_). How awful! But it’s a good thing
for me. (_Goes out._)

ANTHONY (_takes out his keys and throws them on the floor_).

There! Open up! Drawers and cupboards! Bring me an axe! I’ve lost
the key of the chest. Oho! Knaves and thieves, eh! (_Pulls out
his pockets._) I don’t find anything here!

SECOND BAILIFF.

Master Anthony, compose yourself! Everybody knows you’re the
honestest man in the town.

ANTHONY.

Is that so? (_Laughing_). Yes, I’ve used up all the honesty there
was in the family. Poor boy! There was none left for him. She,
too--(_pointing to the dead body_)--was far too respectable. Who
knows whether my daughter----(_Suddenly to_ CLARA.) What do you
think, my innocent child?

CLARA.

Oh, father!

SECOND BAILIFF (_to_ ADAM).

Have you no sympathy?

ADAM.

Sympathy? Am I feeling in the old man’s pockets? Am I making him
take his socks off and turn up his boots? I meant to begin with
that, for I hate him, as I never hated, since that affair at the
inn, when he----You know the story and you’d have been insulted
too, if you’d any self-respect in you. (_To_ CLARA.) Where’s your
brother’s room?

CLARA (_pointing_).

At the back. (BAILIFFS _go off_.) Father, he’s innocent! He must
be! He’s your son, and he’s my brother!

ANTHONY.

Innocent, when he’s murdered his mother? (_Laughs_).

GIRL (_with letter to_ CLARA).

From Mr. Leonard. (_Goes out._)

ANTHONY.

You don’t need to read it. He’s deserted you. (_Claps his
hands._) Bravo, you rascal!

CLARA (_after reading_).

My God, he has!

ANTHONY.

Never mind him.

CLARA.

But, father, I must!

ANTHONY.

Must! Must! What do you mean? Are you----(BAILIFFS _return_).

ADAM (_maliciously_).

Seek and ye shall find!

SECOND BAILIFF (_to_ ADAM).

What are you thinking about? Was it true, then?

ADAM.

Hold your jaw. (_Both go out._)

ANTHONY.

He’s innocent, and you, you----

CLARA.

Oh, father, you’re awful!

ANTHONY (_takes her by the hand, very gently_).

My daughter, Karl is a bungler after all. He killed his mother,
but what of that? His father’s left alive. You help him out!
You can’t expect him to do it all by himself. You finish _me_
off! The old tree looks pretty knotty yet, doesn’t it? But it’s
shaking already. It won’t give you much trouble to fell it. You
don’t need an axe. You’ve a pretty face. I’ve never praised
you before, but let me tell you now, to give you courage and
confidence. Your eyes and nose and mouth are sure to please; you
turn into--you understand!--but it seems to me you’re that way
already.

CLARA (_almost demented, flings herself with upraised arms at the dead woman’s feet, and calls out like a child_).

Oh, mother, mother!

ANTHONY.

Take the hand of the dead and swear to me that you are as you
should be.

CLARA.

I--swear--that--I--will--never--bring--shame--upon--you.

ANTHONY.

Good. (_Puts his hat on._) It’s a fine day. We’ll run the
gauntlet, up street and down street. (_Goes out._)