Chapter XIV: Act II: Scene--Same

SCENE 1

ANTHONY _gets up from table_. CLARA _begins to clear away dishes_.

ANTHONY.

Have you still no appetite?

CLARA.

I’ve had enough, father.

ANTHONY.

Enough of nothing!

CLARA.

I had a bite in the kitchen.

ANTHONY.

A poor appetite means a bad conscience. Well, we shall see. Or
was there poison in the soup, as I dreamed last night, a bit of
wild hemlock that was plucked with the other herbs by mistake?
That would be a wise thing for you to do.

CLARA.

Almighty God!

ANTHONY.

Forgive me, I----To the devil with that pale, suffering look of
yours, stolen from the Mother of Christ! Young people should
look rosy. There’s only one man who has the right to parade a
face like that, and he doesn’t do it. Ho! A box on the ears for
every man that says “Uh” when he cuts his finger. Nobody has
the right to now, for here’s a man that----Self-praise is no
recommendation, but what did I do, when our neighbour was going
to nail the lid on your mother’s coffin?

CLARA.

You snatched the hammer from him and did it yourself, and said,
“This is my masterpiece.” The choir-master, who was singing the
funeral-hymn at the door with the choristers, thought you’d gone
mad.

ANTHONY.

Mad! (_Laughs._) Mad! Ay, ay, it’s a wise man that cuts his
own throat when the time comes. Mine seems to be too tough, or
else----A man lives in his corner of the world, and imagines he’s
sitting by the fireside in a comfortable inn, when suddenly some
one puts a light on the table, and behold, he’s in a robber’s
den, and it goes bang! bang! on all sides. But no matter. Luckily
my heart’s made of stone.

CLARA.

So it is, father.

ANTHONY.

What do you know about it? Do you think you have any right to
join your curses to mine, because that clerk of yours left you
in the lurch? Some one else will take you for a walk on Sunday
afternoons, some one else will tell you that your cheeks are red
and your eyes are blue, some one else will make you his wife, if
you deserve it. But when you’ve borne your burden honourably for
thirty years, without complaining, when you’ve patiently endured
suffering and bereavement and all manner of misfortune, and then
your son, who should be making a soft pillow for you in your old
age, comes and heaps disgrace on you, till you feel like calling
to the earth, “Swallow me, if you can stomach me, for I am more
foul than you”--_then_ you may pour out all the curses that I am
holding back; then you may tear your hair and beat your breast.
That’s the privilege you shall have over me, since you’re a woman.

CLARA.

Oh, Karl!

ANTHONY.

I often wonder what I shall do when I see him again, when he
comes in some evening before we’ve got the lamp lit, with his
head shaved, prison-fashion, and stutters out “Good-evening” with
his hand glued to the door-latch. I shall do something, I know,
but what? (_Grinding his teeth._) And if they keep him ten years,
he’ll find me still. I shall live till then, I know that. Mark
you, Death! From now on I’m a stone to your scythe. Sooner shall
it be shattered in your hands, than move me an inch.

CLARA (_taking his hand_).

Father, do lie down for half an hour.

ANTHONY.

To dream you are in child-bed, eh? And jump up and lay hold of
you and then remember, and say I didn’t know what I was doing?
Thank you, no. My sleep has dismissed its magician and hired a
prophet instead, who shows me fearful things with his bloody
fingers. I don’t know how it is. Anything seems possible to me
now. Ugh! The future makes me shudder, like a glass of water seen
through a microscope--is that right, Mr. Choir-master, you’ve
spelt it for me often enough? I did that once at the fair in
Nürnberg, and couldn’t take a drink the whole day after it. I
saw our Karl last night with a pistol in his hand. When I looked
at him more closely, he fired. I heard a cry, but I couldn’t see
anything for smoke. When the smoke cleared, there was no split
skull to be seen, but in the meantime my fine son had become a
rich man. He was standing counting gold pieces from one hand
into the other, and his face--devil take me if a man could look
more placid, if he had slaved all day and just locked up his
work-shop. We might look out for that. We might first sit in
judgment, and then go ourselves before the greatest judge of all.

CLARA.

Do calm yourself!

ANTHONY.

Cure yourself, you mean. Why am I sick? Give me the healing
draught, physician! Your brother is the worst of sons. You be
the best of daughters. Here I stand before the world like a
worthless bankrupt. I owed it a worthy man, to take the place
of this invalid here, and I’ve pawned off a rogue on it. You
be the woman your mother was. Then people will say: “It wasn’t
the parents’ fault that the boy went wrong, for the daughter
is going the right road and leads the way for others.” (_With
fearful coldness._) And I’ll do my share. I’ll make it easier
for you than the others. The moment I see people pointing their
fingers at you,--I shall--(_passing his finger over his throat_)
shave myself, and, this I’ll swear, I shall shave myself away
altogether. You can say a fright did it--a horse ran away in
the street, or the cat knocked a chair over, or a mouse ran up
my legs. Those that know me will have their doubts, because I’m
not particularly nervous, but what does it matter? I can’t go on
living in a world where only sympathy keeps people from spitting
when they see me.

CLARA.

Merciful God, what shall I do?

ANTHONY.

Nothing at all, my child. I’m too hard on you. I know it well.
Nothing at all. Just stay as you are and it will be all right.
I’ve suffered such injustice that I must practise it, or go
under altogether, when it takes hold of me. I was crossing the
road just now when Small-pox John came along, that vagabond I
had locked up years ago, after he’d robbed me three times. There
was a time when the wretch didn’t dare to look at me, but now he
walks up coolly and holds out his hand. I wanted to box his ears,
but thought better of it and didn’t even spit. Aren’t we cousins
of a week’s standing? And isn’t it right for relations to greet
one another? Our good man, the parson, came to see me yesterday,
and said a man was responsible for nobody but himself, and it was
unchristian arrogance in me to make myself answerable for my son,
or else Adam would have to take it as much to heart as I. O God,
I well believe that it doesn’t disturb the arch-father’s peace in
paradise, when one of his great-great-grandchildren goes robbing
and murdering, but didn’t he tear his hair over Cain? No, no, it
is too much! At times I feel like looking to see if my shadow
hasn’t gone blacker. I can bear anything, and I’ve proved it,
anything but disgrace. Put as much weight round my neck as you
like, but don’t cut through the nerve that holds me together.

CLARA.

But, father, Karl hasn’t confessed to it yet, and they didn’t
find anything on him.

ANTHONY.

What do I care about that? I went round the town, and inquired
about his debts in all the pubs. I found that he owed more than
he’d have earned from me in a quarter-year, even if he’d worked
three times as hard as he did. Now I know why he used to work two
hours later at night than I did, and got up earlier, too. But he
saw it was no good. It was too much trouble, or it took too long,
so he seized the opportunity when it came.

CLARA.

You always think the worst of Karl. You always did. Do you
remember how----?

ANTHONY.

You talk just like your mother. And I’ll answer you as I used to
answer her--by saying nothing.

CLARA.

And what if Karl gets off? What if they find the jewels again?

ANTHONY.

Then I’d hire a lawyer, and I’d sell my last shirt to find
out whether the mayor had the right to imprison the son of an
honourable man, or not. If so, I’d submit, for if it can happen
to anybody, I must put up with it, even though I had to pay a
thousand times dearer than others. It was fate, and when God
strikes me, I fold my hands and say: “O Lord, thou knowest why.”
But if it was not so, if that man with the gold chain round
his neck overstepped himself, because he couldn’t think of
anything except that the merchant who lost the jewels was his
brother-in-law, then we’d see whether there’s a hole in the law.
The king knows full well that he must justly repay the obedience
and loyalty of his subjects, and would wish least of all to be
unfair to the smallest of them. We’ll see then whether he’ll
stop the hole up for us. But this is all nonsense. It’s as easy
for your mother to rise from her grave as for that boy to clear
himself. I’ve had no comfort from him, and never shall have. So
remember what _you_ owe me. Keep your word and then I won’t have
to keep mine. (_Goes, and turns back._) I shan’t be home till
late. I’m going to see the old wood-cutter in the hills. He’s the
only man who looks me in the face as he used to, because he knows
nothing yet of my shame. He’s deaf. They can’t tell him anything
without shrieking themselves hoarse, and then he mixes it all up
and never gets the truth of it. (_Goes out._)

SCENE 2

CLARA (_alone_).

O God, O God, have mercy! Have mercy on this old man! Take me!
It’s the only way to help him. Look! The sunshine lies so golden
on the street that the children snatch at it. The birds fly
about. Flowers and plants are never weary of growing. Everything
lives and wants to live. Thousands of sick people tremble before
thee at this hour, O Death! Those who called to thee in the
oppression of the night, because their pain was more than they
could bear, now once more find comfort in their beds. To thee I
call! Spare him whose soul shrinks furthest from thee! Let him
live until this lovely world again seems grey and desolate. Take
me for him! I will not shudder at thy chilly hand. I will seize
it bravely, and follow thee more gladly than ever any child of
man has followed thee before.

SCENE 3

WOLFRAM (_enters_).

Good morning, Miss Clara, isn’t your father at home?

CLARA.

He’s just gone out.

WOLFRAM.

I came to--my jewels have turned up!

CLARA.

O father, if only you were here! There are his spectacles! He’s
forgotten them. If only he’d notice it and come back! How did you
find them? Where? At whose house?

WOLFRAM.

My wife--Tell me frankly, Miss Clara, did you never hear anything
strange about my wife?

CLARA.

I did.

WOLFRAM.

That she--(_tapping his forehead_). What?

CLARA.

That she’s a bit wrong in the head? Yes.

WOLFRAM (_bursting into anger_).

My God! My God! All in vain! I’ve never let a servant go, that
I’ve once taken into my house. I’ve paid each one double wages
and winked at all sorts of carelessness, to purchase their
silence, and yet--Oh the false, ungrateful creatures! Oh my poor
children! ’Twas for your sakes alone that I tried to conceal it.

CLARA.

Don’t blame your servants. They’re innocent enough. Ever since
that day the house next door was burned down, when your wife
stood at the open window and laughed and clapped and puffed
her cheeks and blew at the flames to fan them, people have had
to choose between calling her a she-devil or a madwoman. And
hundreds of people saw that.

WOLFRAM.

That is true. Well, since the whole town knows my misfortune,
it would be folly to ask you to keep it quiet. Listen to me,
then. This theft, that your brother is in prison for, was due to
insanity.

CLARA.

Your own wife----

WOLFRAM.

I’ve known for a long time that she, who once was the noblest and
kindest of women, had turned malicious and spiteful. She rejoices
when she sees an accident, if a maid breaks a glass or cuts her
finger. But I only discovered to-day, when it was too late, that
she steals things about the house, hides money, and destroys
papers. I had lain down on the bed and was just dozing off, when
I saw her come quietly up to me and stare at me to see if I was
asleep. I closed my eyes tight, and then she took my keys out of
my waistcoat, that I’d hung over the chair, opened the desk, took
some money out, locked the desk again, and put the key back. I
was horrified, but I controlled myself and kept quiet. She left
the room and I went after her on tip-toe. She went right to the
top of the house and threw the money into an old chest of my
grandfather’s that stood empty there. Then she looked nervously
about her on all sides, and hurried away without seeing me. I
lit a candle and looked through the chest, and found there my
youngest daughter’s doll, a pair of the maid’s slippers, an
account book, some letters and unfortunately--or God be praised,
which?--right at the bottom I found the jewels!

CLARA.

Oh my poor mother! It is too shameful!

WOLFRAM.

God knows, I’d sacrifice the trinkets if I could undo what’s
done. But I’m not to blame. Much as I honour your father, it
was natural for me to suspect your brother. He had polished the
desk, and the jewels disappeared with him. I noticed it almost
immediately, because I had to get some papers out of the very
drawer they were in. But I had no intention of taking severe
steps against him. I informed bailiff Adam, and asked him to
investigate the matter secretly; but he would not hear of
caution. He said it was his duty to report the case at once and
he was going to do it. Your brother was a boozer and a borrower,
and had so much weight with the mayor that he could get him to do
anything he wanted. The man seems to be incensed against your
father in the extreme. I don’t know why. I simply couldn’t calm
him down. He stuffed his fingers in his ears and shouted as he
ran, “If you’d made me a present of the jewels I wouldn’t be as
pleased as I am now!”

CLARA.

The bailiff once set his glass down beside father’s in the inn,
and nodded to him to clink with him. Father pulled his away and
said: “People in red coats with blue facings used once to have to
drink out of wooden cans, and they used to have to stand outside
at the window, or, if it rained, in the doorway; and they had to
take their hats off, when the landlord served them, and if they
wanted to clink with any one, they waited till old Fallmeister
came along.” O God, O God! Anything can happen in this world!
Mother paid for that with her death.

WOLFRAM.

Offend no one, and bad men least of all. Where’s your father?

CLARA.

Gone to see the wood-cutter in the hills.

WOLFRAM.

I’ll ride out and look for him. I’ve already been at the mayor’s,
but didn’t find him at home. If I had, your brother would have
been here by this time. However, the secretary sent a messenger
at once. You’ll see him before night. (_Goes out._)

SCENE 4

CLARA (_alone_).

Now I ought to be glad. O God! And all I can think of is--“It’s
only you now.” And yet I feel as if I’m bound to think of
something soon that will put it all right again.

SCENE 5

SECRETARY (_entering_).

Good-day.

CLARA (_grasping chair as if falling_).

He! Oh, if only he hadn’t come back----

SEC.

Your father’s not at home?

CLARA.

No.

SEC.

I’ve brought good news. Your brother, Miss--Oh, Clara, I can’t
go on talking in this stiff way to you, with all the old tables
and cupboards and chairs around me; my old acquaintances, that
we played among when we were children. Good-day, you there!
(_Nodding to a cupboard._) How are you? You haven’t changed.--I
should think they’d put their heads together and laugh at me for
a fool if I don’t call you “Clara” as I used to.[20] If you don’t
like it, just think--“The poor chap’s dreaming, I’ll wake him
up--I’ll go up to him and show him (_with a toss of head_) I’m
not a little girl now”--that was your mark when you were eleven
(_pointing to a mark on the door_)--“but a proper grown-up, that
can reach the sugar when it’s put on the side-board.” Do you
remember? That was the spot, that was the stronghold, safe from
us, even when it stood unlocked. When the sugar was there, we
used to play at catching flies, because we couldn’t bear to let
them, flying about so merrily, get at what we couldn’t reach!

CLARA.

I thought people forgot all those things when they had to study
hundreds and thousands of books.

SEC.

They do forget! I wonder what don’t people forget over Justinian
and Gaius! Boys, that kick against the A B C so obstinately, know
why they do it. They have a sort of feeling that, if they leave
the spelling-book alone, they’ll never get at cross-purposes
with the Bible. It’s disgraceful how they tempt the innocent
souls with the red cock, and the basket of eggs, till they say
A of their own accord--and then there’s no holding them! They
tear down hill from A to Z, and on and on, till they are in the
midst of _Corpus Juris_ and realise to their horror what a desert
they’ve been enticed into by those curséd twenty-six letters,
which they first used in their play to make tasty, sweet-scented
words like “cherry” and “rose.”

CLARA.

And what happens then? (_Absently without interest._)

SEC.

That depends on temperament. Some work their way through, and
come out again into the light of day after three or four years.
They’re a bit thin and pale, but you can’t blame them for that.
I belong to them. Others lie down in the middle of the wood.
They only want to rest, but they very seldom get up again. One
of my own friends has drunk his beer under the shade of the “Lex
Julia” for three years. He chose the place on account of the
name. It recalls pleasant memories. Others get desperate and
turn back. They are the biggest fools of all, for they’re only
allowed out of one thicket on condition that they plunge straight
into another. And there are some there that never come to an end
at all! (_Aside._) What stuff a fellow will talk, when he has
something in his mind and can’t get it out!

CLARA.

Everybody is merry and jolly to-day. It must be the fine weather.

SEC.

Yes, in weather like this owls fall out of their nests, bats kill
themselves, because they feel that the devil made them. The mole
bores down into the earth till he loses his way and is stifled,
unless he can eat through to the other side and come out in
America! To-day every ear of corn puts out a double shoot, and
every poppy goes twice as red as usual, if only for shame at not
being so. Why should man remain behind? Is he to rob God of the
one tribute that this world pays Him, a bright face and a clear
eye, that reflects and glorifies all this splendour? Indeed,
when I see these lazy-bones crawling out of their houses in the
mornings with their brows all wrinkled, and glowering at heaven
as if it were a sheet of blotting paper, I often think: “It’ll
rain soon. God will have to let down His curtain of clouds; He’s
bound to, so as not to be annoyed by such grimaces.” Such fellows
ought to be prosecuted as thwarters of holidays and destroyers of
harvests. How should you give thanks for life, except by living?
Rejoice, bird! else you don’t deserve to have a throat!

CLARA.

That is true, so true. It makes me want to cry.

SEC.

I wasn’t saying it against you. I can understand your being
a bit down this last week. I know your old man. But, God be
praised, I can make you happy again and that’s what I’m here for.
You’ll see your brother again to-night. People won’t point their
fingers at him, but at those who threw him into prison. Does that
earn me a kiss, a sisterly one, if it can’t be any other? Or
should we play blind-man’s-buff for it? If I don’t catch you in
ten minutes, I’ll go without and take a slap on the cheek into
the bargain.

CLARA (_to herself_).

I feel as if I’d suddenly grown a thousand years old and time
had stopped still over my head. I can’t go back and I can’t go
forward. Oh, this immovable sunshine and all the gaiety about me!

SEC.

You don’t answer. Of course, I’d forgotten. You’re engaged. O
girl, why did you do that by me? And yet, have I any right to
complain? She is all that’s dear and good. All that’s dear and
good should have reminded me of her. And yet for years she was as
good as dead to me. In return she has----If only it were a _man_
whom one could honour and respect! But this Leonard----

CLARA (_suddenly hearing the name_).

I must go to him. That’s it! I’m no longer the sister of a thief!
O God, what do I want? He will, he must! Unless he’s a very
devil, all will be as it was. (_In horror._) As it was. (_To_
SECRETARY.) Don’t be offended, Frederick.--What makes my legs so
heavy all at once?

SEC.

Are you going?

CLARA.

To see Leonard, where else? I’ve only this one path to go in all
the world.

SEC.

You love him then?

CLARA (_excitedly_).

Love him? It is him or death. Are you surprised that I choose
him? I wouldn’t do it if I were thinking of myself alone.

SEC.

Him or death? Why, girl, this sounds like despair.

CLARA.

Don’t drive me mad. Don’t speak to me! You! I love you! There!
There! I’ll shout it at you, as if I were already wandering
beyond the grave, where no one blushes, where they all slink
past one another, cold and naked, because that terrible, holy
nearness of God has laid bare the thoughts of each one down to
the roots.

SEC.

Me? You still love me? Clara, I suspected it when I saw you
outside in the garden.

CLARA.

Did you? He did, too. (_Dully, as if alone._) He stood before
me. He or I? Oh, my heart, my cursed heart! To prove to him and
to myself that it wasn’t so, or to crush it if it were so, I did
what I now----(_bursting into tears_). O God in Heaven, I would
have pity if I were thou and thou wert I!

SEC.

Clara, be my wife! I came to you to look you in the eyes in the
old way. If you had not understood my look, I would have gone
away and said nothing. Now I offer you all that I am and all that
I have. It’s little, but it can grow. I’d have been here long
ago, only your mother was ill--and then she died. (CLARA _laughs
madly_.) Have courage, girl! You gave him your word. Is that on
your mind? And I must say it’s a devil of a nuisance. How could
you----?

CLARA.

Oh! Go on asking me how things combine to drive a poor girl mad!
Sneers and mockery on all sides when you had gone to college
and never wrote. “She’s thinking about him.” “She thinks his
fun was meant seriously.” “Does she get letters from him?” And
then mother: “Stick to your equals.” “Pride goes before a fall.”
“Leonard’s a fine young man; everybody is surprised that you turn
your back on him.” And then my own heart: “If he’s forgotten you,
show him that you too----” O God!

SEC.

I am to blame, I know. Well, what’s hard is not therefore
impossible. I’ll get you free. Perhaps----

CLARA.

Get me free!--Read that! (_throwing him_ LEONARD’S _letter_).

SEC. (_reading_).

As cashier--your brother--thief--very sorry--I have no choice
in view of my office. (_To_ CLARA.) Did he write that the day
your mother died? Why, he goes on to express his sympathy at her
sudden death!

CLARA.

Yes, he did.

SEC.

May he be--Dear God, the cats and snakes and other monsters that
slipped through your fingers at the creation pleased Beelzebub,
so that he made them after you. But he decked them out better
than you did. He gave them human form. Now they stand shoulder
to shoulder with mankind, and we don’t recognise them till they
begin to spit and scratch. (_To_ CLARA.) Very good! Excellent!
(_Tries to embrace her._) Come! For eternity. With this kiss----

CLARA (_sinks into his arms_).

No, not for ever. Don’t let me fall,--but no kiss.

SEC.

Girl, you don’t love him, you’ve got your word back.

CLARA (_dully, drawing herself up again_).

And yet I must go to him; I must go down on my knees to him and
stutter: “Look at my father’s white hairs; take me!”

SEC.

Unhappy one, do I understand?

CLARA.

Yes!

SEC.

That’s too much for any man. To have to lower one’s eyes before
_him_--a fellow that’s only fit to be spat on. (_Pressing_ CLARA
_to him_.) You poor, poor child!

CLARA.

Go, now go!

SEC. (_to himself, broodingly_).

Or shoot the dog dead that knows it. If he only had pluck! If
he’d only show himself! Could I force him? I wouldn’t fear to
meet him.

CLARA.

I beg you----

SEC. (_going out_).

After dark! (_Turns round and seizes_ CLARA’S _hand_.) Girl, here
you stand--(_Turning away._) Thousands of her sex would have
cunningly concealed it, only to murmur it into one’s ear in some
hour of sweet forgetfulness. I feel what I owe you. (_Goes out._)

SCENE 6

CLARA (_alone_).

Close, close, my heart! Crush in upon thyself. Let not a drop
of blood escape, to fire anew the waning life in my veins.
There again something like a hope arose in thee. I realise it
now. I thought (_laughing_)--“That’s too much for any man.” And
if--isn’t it too much for you? Would you have courage to seize a
hand that----? No, no, you would not have such base courage. You
would have to bolt yourself into your prison, if they tried to
open the gate from without. For ever--Oh, why does it stop, why
doesn’t it go on grinding for ever, why is there a pause now and
then? That’s why it seems so long. The tortured one thinks he is
having a rest because the torturer has to stop and take breath;
you breathe again, like a drowning man in the waves, when the
whirlpool that is sucking him down, throws him up again, only
to lay hold of him afresh. All he gains from it is a redoubled
death-struggle.

“Well, Clara.” Yes, father, I’ll go, I’ll go! Your daughter
won’t drive you to suicide. I shall soon be his wife, or--O God,
no! I’m not begging for happiness, I’m begging for misery, the
deepest misery--surely you’ll grant me my misery. Away!--where
is the letter? (_Taking it._) There are three wells on the road
to him. Let me stop at none of them. You have no right to, yet.
(_Goes out._)