PLAYS

BY
AUGUST
STRINDBERG
' FIRST SERIES •

TBANSLATEDBT
EDWIN BJORKMAN

The Dream Play

The Link
TheDaneeofDeath,PartI
The Dance ofDeath, Part IF
))n

THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
RIVERSIDE
 PLAYS
BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG
PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
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^-VA*t..»^»\.^».^f^ <f.
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 PLAYS
BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG

THE DREAM PLAY

THE LINK
THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part I

THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part II

TRANSLATED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BT

EDWIN BJORKMAN

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1912
 VTfSlj

Copyright, 1912, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published February, 1912
Reprinted May. July and November, 1912
 NOTE
This translation is authorised by
Mr. Strindberg, and he has also

approved the selection of the

plays included in this volume.

2092014
 CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction 1

A Chronological List of August Strindberg's

Main Works 21

The Dream Play 23

The Link 105

The Dance of Death, Part I 145

The Dance of Death, Part II 217

INTRODUCTION
 INTRODUCTION
To the first volume of his remarkable series of autobiograph-
ical novels, August Strindberg gave the name of "The Bond-
woman's Son." The allusion was twofold —to his birth and
to the position which fate, in his own eyes, seemed to have
assigned him both as man and artist.

If we pass on to the third part of his big trilogy, "To Damas-

cus," also an autobiographical work, but written nearly twenty
years later, we find The Stranger, who is none but the author,
saying: "I was the Bondwoman's Son, concerning whom it
was writ
—
Cast out this bondwoman and her son for the son
* ;

of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the free woman's

"
son.'

And The Lady, back of whom we glimpse Strindberg's sec-

ond wife, replies: "Do you know why Ishmael was cast out.''
It is to be read a because he was a scof-
little further back —
fer! And then 'He will be a wild man;
it is also said:
his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand

against him; and he shall dwell in opposition to all his breth-

"
ren.'

These quotations should be read in conjunction with still

another, taken from Strindberg's latest play, "The Great

Highway," which, while being a sort of symbolical summary
of his life experience, yet pierces the magic circle of self-

concern within which too often he has remained a captive.

There The Hermit asks: "You do not love your fellow-
men?" And Strindberg, masquerading as The Hunter, cries
in answer :
" Yes, far too much, and fear them for that reason,

too."
3
4 INTRODUCTION
August Strindberg was born at Stockholm, Sweden, on
January 22, 1849. His father was a small tradesman, who
had lost his business just before August was born, but who
had the energy and ability to start all over again as a steam-
ship agent,making a decided success of his second venture.
The success, however, was slow in coming, and the boy's
earliest years were spent in the worst kind of poverty —that
poverty which has to keep up outward appearances.
The mother had been a barmaid in one of the numerous
inns forming one of the Swedish capital's most characteristic
features. There the elder Strindberg had met her and fallen

deeply in love with her. August was their third child, born a
couple of months after their relationship had become legalized
in spite of bitter opposition from the husband's family. Other
children followed, many of them dying early, so that August
could write in later years that one of his first concrete recollec-
tions was of the black-jacketed candy which used to be passed
around at every Swedish funeral.
Though the parents were always tired, and though the
little home was hopelessly overcrowded ten persons living —
in three rooms —yet the family life was not without its happi-
ness. Only August seemed to stand apart from the rest,

having nothing in common with his parents or with the other

children. In fact, a sort of warfare seems to have been rag-
ing incessantly between him and his elder brothers. Thus
a character naturally timid and reserved had those traits de-

veloped to a point where its whole existence seemed in dan-

ger of being warped.
At school he was not much happier, and as a rule he re-
garded the tasks him there as so much useless drudgery.
set

Always and everywhere he seemed in fear of having his per-

sonality violated, until at last that apprehension, years later,
took on a form so morbid that it all but carried him across the
 INTRODUCTION 5

limits of rationality. With this suspiciousness of his environ-

ment went, however, a keen desire to question and to under-

stand. He has said of himself that the predominant traits of

his character have been "doubt and sensitiveness to pres-

sure." In these two traits much of his art will, indeed, find

its explanation.
At the age of thirteen he lost his mother, and less than a
year later his father remarried — choosing for his second wife
the former housekeeper. That occurrence made the boy's
isolation at home complete. During the years that followed
he threw himself with his usual passionate surrender into re-

ligious broodings and practices. This mood lasted until he

left for the university at Upsala. He was then eighteen.
During his first term at the university he was so poor that he
could buy no books. Worse even —he could not buy the wood
needed to heat the bare garret where he lived.

Returning to Stockholm, he tried to teach in one of the pub-

lic schools —the very school which he had attended during the
unhappiest part of his childhood. From that time dates the

theme of eternal repetition, of forced return to past experi-

ences, which recurs constantly in his works. Another recur-

ring theme is that of unjust punishment, and it has also come
out of his own life —from an occasion when, as a boy of eight,
he was suspected of having drunk some wine that was missing,
and when, in spite of his indignant protests, he was held guilty
and finally compelled to acknowledge himself so in order to
escape further punishment.
But while still teaching school, he made certain acquaint-

ances that set his mind groping for some sort of literary ex-
pression. He tried time and again to write verse, only to

fail — until one day, in a sort of trance, he found himself

shaping words into measured lines, and it suddenly dawned
on him that he had accomplished the feat held beyond him.
6 INTRODUCTION
From the first the stage drew him, and his initial work was
a httle comedy, concerning which nothing is known now.
Then he wrote another one-act play with the Danish sculp-
tor Thorvaldsen for central figure, and this was accepted by
the Royal Theatre and actually played with some success.
Finally he produced a brief historical play in prose, "The
Outlaw," which was spurned by the critics and the public,
but which brought him the personal good-will and financial
support of King Charles XV.
Thus favoured, he returned to the university with the
thought of taking a degree. Instead he read everything not
required in the courses, quarrelled with every professor to
whom he had to submit himself for examination, and spent
the major part of his time with a set of youngsters whose sole
ambition was to make literature. Of that coterie, Strindberg
was the only one to reach the goal which all dreamt of. On
the sudden death of the king, when his little stipend ceased,

he went up to the capital again, bent on staying away for ever

from the university.
During the next couple of years, he studied medicine for
a while, tried himself as an actor, conducted a trade journal,
and failed rather than succeeded to make a living as a hack
writer for various obscure newspapers. All this life he has
pictured with biting humour in his first big novel, "The Red
Room." At last, when he was twenty-three and had with-
drawn in sheer desperation to one of the little islands between
Stockholm and the open sea, he conceived and completed a
five-act historical play, named "Master Olof," after Arch-
bishop Olaus Petri, the Luther of Sweden.
The three main figures of that play. Master Olof, King
Gustavus Vasa, and Gert the Printer, were designed by the
author to represent three phases of his own character. The
King was the opportunist, Olof the idealist, and Gert the " im-
 INTRODUCTION 7

possibilist." The title first chosen for the play was "The

Renegade." It was suggested by the cry with which Gert

greets the surrender of Olo] in the final scene.
The indifference shown that first big work came near turn-
ing Strindberg away from a Hterary career for ever. It took
him several years to recover from the shock of disappoint-
—
ment a shock the more severe because he felt so uncertain
of his own gifts. But those years of seeming inactivity were
not lost. He had obtained a position in the Royal Library,
which gave him a living and free access to all the books he
wanted. At first he sought forgetfulness in the most exotic
studies, such as the Chinese language. The honours of the

savant tempted him, and he wrote a monograph which was

accepted by the French Institute.
Gradually, however, he was drawn back to his own time.
And there was hardly a field of human thought to which he
did not give some attention. Already as a student at Upsala,
his conception of life had been largely determined by the study
of the Danish individualistic philosopher Kierkegaard, the

English determinist Buckle, and the German pessimist Eduard

von Hartmann. Among novelists, Hugo and Dickens were
his favourites. They together with the brothers de Goncourt,
and not Zola, helped principally to shape his artistic form
until he was strong enough to stand own feet.
wholly on his
At the age of twenty-six he met the woman who was to
play the double part of muse and fate to him. She was
already married. In the end she obtained a divorce and
became Strindberg's wife. To begin with they were very
happy, and under the stimulus of this unfamiliar feeling Strind-
—
berg began once more to write but now in a manner such
that recognition could no longer be denied him. The novel
already mentioned was his first popular success. It drew
bitter attacks from the conservative elements, but the flavour
8 INTRODUCTION
of real life pervading it conquered all opposition. To this

day that first work of social criticism has not been forgiven

Strindberg by the official guardians of Swedish literature.

After a while Strindberg threw himself with passion into
the study of Swedish history. One of the results was a dar-
ing work named "The Swedish People," which is still, next
to the Bible, the most read book among the Swedes in this
country. He wrote also a series of short stories on histori-

cal themes which combined artistic value with a truly re-

markable insight into the life of by-gone days. This series

was named "Swedish Events and Adventures." About the

same time he administered some scathing strictures on social

and political conditions in a volume of satirical essays en-

titled "The New Kingdom."
His plays from this period include "The Secret of the

Guild" and "Sir Bengt's Lady," both historical dramas of

romantic nature. To these must be added his first fairy
play, "The Wanderings of Lucky-Per," concerning which he
declared recently that it was meant for children only and must
not be counted among his more serious efforts. But this play

has from the start been a great favourite with the public, com-
bining in its rapidly moving scenes something of a modern
"Everyman" and not alittle of a Swedish "Peer Gynt."

After he had resigned from the Royal Library and retired

to Switzerland for the purpose of devoting all his time to
writing, he produced the volume of short stories, "Marriage,"
which led him up to the first turning point in his artistic career.

It dealt with modern marital conditions in a manner meant

to reveal the economic reefs on which so many unions are
wrecked. His attitude toward women had already become
critical in that work, but it was not yet hostile.

The book was confiscated. Criminal proceedings were

brought against its pubUsher. The charge was that it spoke
 INTRODUCTION 9

offensively of rites held sacred by the estabhshed rehgion of

Sweden. Everybody knew that this was a mere pretext, and

that the true grievance against the book lay in its outspoken
utterances on questions of sex morality. Urged by friends,

Strindberg hastened home and succeeded in assuming the

part of defendant in place of the publisher. The jury freed
him, and the youth of the country proclaimed him their
leader and spokesman.
But the impression left on Strindberg's mind by that epi-
sode was very serious and distinctly unfavourable. As in his
childhood, when he found himself disbelieved though telling
the truth, so he felt now more keenly than anything else the
questioning of his motives, which he knew to be pure. And
the leaders of the feminist movement, then particularly strong
in Sweden, turned against him with a bitterness not sur-
passed by that which Ibsen had to face from directly opposite
quarters after the publication of "A Doll's House." Add
finally that his marriage, which had begun so auspiciously,
was rapidly changing into torture for both parties concerned

in it.

Yet his growing embitterment did not make itself felt at

once. In 1885 he published four short stories meant to em-

body the onward trend of the modern spirit and the actual
materialisation of some of its fondest dreams. Collectively

he named those stories "Real Utopias," and they went far

toward winning him a reputation in Germany, where he was
then living.
But with the appearance of the second part of "Marriage"
m 1886, it was plain that a change had come over him. Its
eighteen stories constituted an unmistakable protest against
everything for which the feminist movement stood. The
efforts ofIbsen and Bjornson to abolish the so-called "double
code of morality —
" one for men and another one for women
10 INTRODUCTION
were openly challenged on the ground that different results

made male and female "immorality" two widely different

things. Right here it should be pointed out, however, that
Strindberg always, and especially in his later years, has de-
manded as high a measure of moral purity from men as
—
from women the real distinction between him and the two
great Norwegians lying in the motives on which he based
that demand.
The second part of 'Marriage'* shows a change not only in
spirit but in form, and this change becomes more accentuated
in every work published during the next few years. Until
then Strindberg had shown strong evidence of the Romantic
origin of his art. From now on, and until the ending of the
great mental crisis in the later nineties, he must be classed as
an ultra-naturalist, with strong materialistic and sceptical
leanings. At the same time he becomes more and more
individualistic in his social outlook, spurning the mass which,
as he then felt, had spurned him. And after a while the
works of Nietzsche came to complete what his personal ex-

perience had begun. His attitude toward woman, as finally

developed during this period, may be summed up in an allega-

tion not only of moral and mental but of biological inferiority.

And though during his later life he has retracted much and
softened more of what he said in those years of rampant
masculine rebellion, he continues to this day to regard women
as an intermediary biological form, standing between the
man and the child.
With the publication, in 1887, of "The Father," a modern
three-act tragedy, Strindberg reached a double climax. That
work has been hailed as one of his greatest, if not the great-
est, as far as technical perfection is concerned. At the same
time it presents that duel of the sexes —^which to him had taken
the place of love — in its most startling and hideous aspects.
 INTRODUCTION 11

The gloom of the play is almost unsurpassed. The ingen-

iousness of its plot may well be called infernal. By throwing
doubt on her husband's rights as father of the child held to be
theirs in common, the woman in the play manages to under-

mine the reason of a strong and well-balanced man until he

becomes transformed into a raving maniac.

"The Comrades," a modern four-act comedy, portrays the

marriage of two and shows the woman as a menbd

artists

parasite, drawing both her inspiration and her skill from the

husband, whom she tries to shake off when she thinks him
no longer needed for her success. Then came the play of his
which is perhaps the most widely known — I mean the realistic

drama which, for want of a better English equivalent, must be

named here "Miss Juliet." It embodied some starthng ex-
periments in form and has undoubtedly exercised a distinct
influence on the subsequent development of dramatic tech-
nique. On the surface it appears to offer little more than
another version of the sex duel, but back of the conflict be-
tween man and woman we discover another one, less deep-
going perhaps, but rendered more acute by existing conditions.
It is the conflict between the upper and partly outlived
elements of society and its still unrefined, but vitally unim-

paired, strata. And it is the stronger vitality, here repre-

sented by the man, which carries the day.
The rest of Strindberg's dramatic productions during this

middle, naturalistic period, lasting from 1885 to 1894, in-

cluded eight more one-act plays, several of which rank very
high,and another fairy play, "The Keys to Heaven," which
probably marks his nearest approach to a purely negative
conception of life.

Paralleling the plays, we find a series of novels and short

stories dealing with the people on those islands where Strind-
berg fifteen years earlier had written his "Master Oloi."
12 INTRODUCTION
Two things make these works remarkable: first, the rare
understanding shown in them of the hfe led by the tough race
that exists, so to speak, between land and sea; and secondly,
their genuine humour, which at times, as in the little story

named "The Tailor Has a Dance," rises into almost epic ex-
pression. The last of these novels, "At the Edge of the Sea,"
embodies Strindberg's farthest advance into Nietzschean
dreams of supermanhood. But led by his incorruptible logic,

he is forced to reduce those dreams to the absurdity which they

are sure to involve whenever the superman feels himself
standing apart from ordinary humanity.
Finally he wrote, during the earlier part of this marvellously
prohfic period, five autobiographical novels. One of these

was not published until years later. Three others were

collectively known as "The Bondwoman's Son," and carried
his revelations up to the time of his marriage. The first vol-
ume in the series is especially noteworthy because of its search-

ing and sympathetic study of child psychology. But all the

novels in this series are of high value because of the sharp light
they throw on social conditions. Strindberg's power as an

acute and accurate observer has never been questioned, and

it has rarely been more strikingly evidenced than in his auto-

biographical writings. A place by itself, though belonging to

the same series, is held by "iV Fool's Confession," wherein
Strindberg laid bare the tragedy of his first marriage. It is

the book that has exposed him to more serious criticism than
any other. He wrote it in French and consented to its pub-
hcation only as a last means of escaping unendurable finan-

cial straits. Against his vain protests, unauthorised trans-

lations were brought out in German and Swedish.
The dissolution of his marriage occurred in 1891. The
circumstances surrounding that break were extremely painful
to Strindberg. Both the facts of the legal procedure and the
 INTRODUCTION 13

feelings it evoked within himself have been almost photo-

graphically portrayed in the one-act play, "The Link," which
forms part of this volume. The "link" which binds man and
woman together even when their love is gone and the law has
severed all external ties is the child —and it is always for tlie

offspring that Strindberg reserves his tenderest feelings and

greatest concern.
After the divorce Strindberg left for Germany, where his

works in the meantime had been making steady headway.

A couple of years later he was taken up in France, and there
was a time during the first half of the nineties, when he had
plays running simultaneously at half a dozen Parisian theatres.
While at Berlin, he met a young woman writer of Austrian
birth who soon after became his second wife. Their mar-
riage lasted only a few years, and while it was not as un-
happy as the first one, it helped to bring on the mental crisis

for which Strindberg had been heading ever since the prose-
cution of "Marriage," in 1884.
He ceased entirely to write and plunged instead into scien-
tific speculation and experimentation. Chemistry was the
subject that had the greatest fascination for him, and his
dream was to prove the transmutability of the elements. In
the course of a prolonged stay at Paris, where he shunned
everybody and risked both health and life in his improvised
laboratory, his mental state became more and more abnor-
mal, without ever reaching a point where he ceased to real-
ise just what was going on within himself. He began to

have psychic experiences of a character that to him appeared

distinctly supernatural. At the same time he was led by
the reading of Balzac to the discovery of Swedenborg. By
quick degrees, though not without much mental suffering, he

rejected all that until then had to him represented life's

highest truths. From being a materialistic sceptic, he be-

14 INTRODUCTION
came a believing mystic, to whom this world seemed a mere
transitory state of punishment, a "heU" created by his own
thoughts.
The crisis took him in the end to a private sanitarium kept
by an old friend in the southern part of Sweden, but it would
be far from safe to assume that he ever reached a state of

actual insanity. His return to health began in 1896 and was

completed in a year. In 1897 he resumed his work of artistic

creation once more, and with a new spirit that startled those

who had held him lost for ever. First of all a flood of personal

experiences and impressions needed expression. This he ac-

complished by his two autobiographical novels, "Inferno"
and "Legends," the former of which must be counted one
of the most remarkable studies in abnormal psychology in
the world's literature. Next came "The Link" and another
one-act play. In 1898 he produced the first two parts of
"To Damascus," a play that — in strikingly original form, and
with a depth of thought and feeling not before achieved
embodied his own soul's long pilgrimage in search of internal

and external harmony. The last part of the trilogy was not
added until 1904.

Then followed ten years of production so amazing that it

surpassed his previous high-water mark during the middle

eighties, both in quality and quantity. Once for all the

mood and mode of his creation had been settled. He was

still a realist in so far as faithfulness to life was concerned,
but the reality for which he had now begun to strive was
spiritual rather than material. He can, during this final
period, only be classed as a symbolist, but of the kind typi-
fied by Ibsen in the series of masterpieces beginning with
" Rosmersholm " and ending with "Little Eyolf."
More and more as he pushes on from one height to another,

he manages to fuse the two offices of artist and moralist with-

 INTRODUCTION 15

out injury to either of them. His view of Hfe is s.till pessi-

mistic, but back of man's earthly disappointments and humil-
iations and sufferings he glimpses a higher existence to which
this one serves merely as a preparation. Everything that
happens to himself and to others seems to reveal the per-
sistent influence of secret powers, pulling and pushing, re-

warding and punishing, but always urging and leading man

to some goal not yet bared to his conscious vision. Resig-
nation, humility, kindness become the main virtues of human
existence. And the greatest tragedy of that existence he sees
in man's —that is, his own — failure to make all his actions con-
form to those ideals. Thus, in the closing line of his last

play, "The Great Highway," he pleads for mercy as one who

has suffered more than most "from the inability to be that
which we will to be."

Among the earliest results of his autumnal renascence was

a five-act historical drama named "GustaMis Vasa." It

proved the first of a dozen big plays dealing with the main
events in his country's history from the fifteenth to the eigh-
teenth century. As a rule they were built about a monarch
whose reign marked some national crisis. Five stand out
above the rest in artistic value: "Gustavus Vasa," "Eric
XIV," "Gustavus Adolphus," "Charles XII," and "The
Last Knight." At once intensely national and broadly hu-
man in their spirit, these plays won for Strindberg a higher
place in his countrymen's hearts than he had ever before
held —though notes of discord were not missing on account of
the freedom with which he exposed and demolished false

idols and outlived national ideals. As they stand to-day,

those dramas have in them so much of universal appeal that
I feel sure they must sooner or later win the same attention
in the English-speaking countries that they have already
received in Germany,
16 INTRODUCTION
While thus recalling the past to new life, he was also busy
with another group of plays embodying what practically
amounts to a new dramatic form. The literary tendency
underlying them might be defined as realistic symbolism
or impressionistic mysticism — you can take your choice!
The characters in those plays are men and woiuen very
much belonging to our own day. They speak as you or
I might do. And yet there is in them and about them a
significance surpassing not only that of the ordinary indi-
vidual, but also that of ordinary poetical portrayals of such
individuals.
"There Are Crimes and Crimes," "Christmas," "Easter,"
and "Midsummer" are the principal plays belonging to
this group. With them must be classed the trio of fairy
or "dream" plays written under the acknowledged influ-
ence of Maeterlinck. In the first of these, the charming
dramatic legend named "Swanwhite," the impetus received

from the Belgian makes itself clearly felt. In the last

of them, "The Dream Play," Strindberg has worked out

a form that is wholly new and wholly his own. As the

play in question forms part of this volume, I shall not

need to speak of it here in the manner it would other-
wise deserve.
Related to the group just described, and yet not confinable
within it, stands the double drama, "The Dance of Death,"
which also appears in this volume. Numerous critics have
declared it Strindberg's greatest play, and there is much in

the work to warrant such a judgment. Its construction is

masterly. Its characters are almost shockingly real. And

yet the play as a whole is saturated with that sense of larger
relationships which we are wont to dispose of by calling it

"mysticism." Like all of Strindberg's work belonging to this

period, it constitutes a huge piece of symbolism —but the

 INTRODUCTION 17

subject of its symbolical interpretation seems to be nothing

less than the sum of human interrelationships.
During the last three or four years of the decade we are now
dealing with, Strindberg was very much interested in the
project of establishing a theatre at Stockholm, where noth-
ing but his own productions were to be staged. The plan
was actually carried out and a building arranged that held
only about two hundred people. It was called the Intimate

Theatre. There Strindberg made some highly interesting

experiments in the simplification and standardising of scenery,
until at last some of his plays were given with no other acces-
sories than draperies. The effects thus obtained proved un-
expectedly successful. For this stage Strindberg wrote five
dramas which he defined as "chamber plays." In form
they harked back to "Miss Juliet," and they were meant to be
played without interruptions. But in spirit they were marked

by the same blend of mysticism and realism that forms such a

striking feature of "The Dream Play," for instance. Add to
these another fairy play, "The Slippers of Abu Casem," and a
final autobiographical drama named "The Great Highway,"

and we get a total of twenty-nine dramatic works in ten years.^

But at the same time Strindberg 's pen was no less active in
other fields. There are two more autobiographical volumes,
two novels displaying vast social canvasses, four collections
of short stories, and one collection of poems; also three bulky
volumes named collectively "The Blue Books "and contain-
ing the most wonderful medley of scientific speculations, philo-
sophical pronouncements, personal polemics, and aphoristic
embodiments of the author's rich store of wisdom; and finally
a score of pamphlets — analytical studies of Shakespeare plays,
instructions to the members of the Intimate Theatre, satirical

' For more critical treatment of Strindberg's art I would refer the reader
to my articles in The Forum of February and March, 1912.
18 INTRODUCTION
studies of contemporary social and literary conditions, propo-

sitions for a more complete democratisation of the govern-

ment, and so on almost endlessly. And notwithstanding
much supercilious criticism as well as some warranted regrets

for the tone at times employed in these works, it is pretty

generally admitted that Strindberg never has approached any

topic without saying something worth while about it.

Outwardly Strindberg's life has been very quiet since he re-

turned to his native country in 1897. A third marriage,

contracted in 1901 and dissolved three years later, served only

to reconcile him once for all to the solitude that has always

surrounded him more or less, even in the midst of admiring

or condemning multitudes. He is now sixty-three years old,

and the last news indicates that, at last, his iron health is

failing him. In the sheltered nook which he has established

for himself at Stockholm, he busies himself with philological
studies, interrupted mainly by visits from his children, of which
there are five from the three marriages. Two of these — his

eldest daughter, who now happily married, and the youngest,

is
"
a vivacious lass of nine to whom " The Slippers of Abu Casem
was dedicated —are in the habit of calling daily. Flowers
and music are what he loves next to his children and his

work. From that corner where he hears nothing but echoes

of the storms that are still raging at times about his public
utterances, he follows with keen eye whatever is happening
in the world of deeds as well as in the world of letters. And
in the meantime his fame is steadily spreading and growing.
On the European continent his name is constantly mentioned
together with those of Ibsen and Bjornson. In the English-
speaking countries it has hitherto remained merely a name.
The time has surely come for a realisation of some of the
things that name stands for, and it is my earnest hope that
this volume may help to change a condition that reflects
 INTRODUCTION 19

more on those who do not know than on him who is not

known.

In regard to the style of my translations, I wish to quote

some words written before the task now finished had ever
been suggested to me. They are from an article on "Slaugh-
tering Strindberg," which appeared in "The Drama," of Au-
gust, 1911:
"Strindberg is the man who has raised modern Swedish
to its utmost potency of beauty and power. It may also be
said, and with equal truth, that he has made the literary lan-
guage of this country truly modern. This he has achieved
not by polishing study-born mannerisms, but by watching
and developing the living idiom that flows from the lips of
—
men and women around him observed at home and in the
office, on the street and in the restaurant, while loving and

dying, while chatting and quarrelling. Never was a man

more keen on catching the life breath of his own time, and
never was a man more scornful of mere fads and fashions,
born one moment and forgotten in the next. To transplant
the work of such a man may be difficult, but it involves no
impossibility, provided only that we observe his own practical
attitude toward what constitutes 'good form' and 'bad form'
in a pulsing and growing language. We, on this side of the

ocean, ought to be able to read Strindberg and receive im-

pressions virtually identical with those received by a Swedish
reader at Stockholm. And I believe that it will be easier to
find equivalents for his clean-cut and flexible prose out of
what is called English here than out of what bears that name
in Eneland."
'o'

Finally, I wish to mention that the prologue now attached

to "The Dream Play" has never before been published in
20 INTRODUCTION
any language. It was written last year as an afterthougbt,
and was by the author kindly placed at my disposal in
manuscript.
A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF
AUGUST STRINDBERG'S
MAIN WORKS
Plaijs: "Hermione," 1869; "The Outlaw," 1871; "Master
Olof," 1872; "The Secret of the Guild," 1880; "Sir Bengt's
Lady," "The Wanderings of Lucky-Per," 1883;
1882;
"The Father," 1887; "The Comrades," 1888; "Miss Juliet,"
1888; "Creditors," 1890; "Pariah," 1890; "Samum,"
1890; "The Stronger," 1890; "The Keys of Heaven,"
1892; "The First Warning," 1893; "Debit and Credit,"
1893; "Mother-Love," 1893; "Facing Death," 1893;
"Playing with Fire," 1897; "The Link," 1897; "To Da-
mascus," I and II, 1898; "There are Crimes and Crimes,"
1899; "Christmas," 1899; "Gustavus Vasa," 1899; "Eric
XIV," 1899; "The Saga of the Folkungs," 1899; "Gustavus
Adolphus," 1900; "The Dance of Death," I and II, 1901;
"Easter," 1901; "Midsummer," 1901; "Engelbreckt,"
1901; "Charles XII," 1901;"The Crown Bride," 1902;
"Swanwhite," 1902; "The Dream Play," 1902; "Gustavus
III," 1903; "Queen Christina," 1903; "The Nightingale of
Wittenberg," 1903; "To Damascus," III, 1904; "Storm,"
1907; "The Burned Lot," 1907; "The Spook Sonata,"
1907; "The Pelican," 1907; "The Slippers of Abu Casem,"
1908; "The Last Knight," 1908; "The National Director,"
1909; "The Earl of Bjallbo," 1909; "The Black Glove,"
1909; "The Great Highway," 1909.
Novels and Short-story Collections: "The Red Room,"
1879; "Swedish Events and Adventures," 1882-91; "Mar-
21
22 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST
riage," I, 1884; "Real Utopias," 1885; "Marriage," II,

1886; "The People at Hemsc)," 1887; "Fisher Folks," 1888;

"Chandalah," 1889; "At the Edge of the Sea," 1890; "Fa-
bles," 1890-7; "Sagas," 1903; "The Gothic Rooms," 1904;
"Historical Miniatures," 1905; "New Swedish Events,"
1906; "Black Flags," 1907; "The Scapegoat," 1907.
Autobiographical Fiction: "The Bondwoman's Son,"
I-III, 1886-7; "The Author," 1887; "A Fool's Confession,"
1888; "Inferno," 1897; "Legends," 1898; "Fairhaven and
Foulstrand," 1902; "Alone," 1903.
History, Essays, Etc.: "The New Kingdom," 1882;
"The Swedish People," 1882; "Little Studies of Plants and
Animals," 1888; "Among French Peasants," 1889; "A
Blue Book," I-III, 1907-8; "Speeches to the Swedish Na-
tion," 1910; "Religious Renascence," 1910; "The Origins
of Our Mother Tongue," 1910; "Biblical Proper Names,"
1910.
THE DREAM PLAY
1902
 A REMINDER
As he did in his previous dream play,^ so in this one the
author has tried to imitate the disconnected but seemingly
logical form of the dream. Anything may happen; every-
thing is possible and probable. Time and space do not
exist. On an insignificant background of reality, imagina-

tion designs and embroiders novel patterns: a medley of

memories, experiences, free fancies, absurdities and impro-
visations.

The characters split, double, multiply, vanish, solidify,

blur, clarify. But one consciousness reigns above them all

that of the dreamer; and before it there are no secrets, no

incongruities, no scruples, no laws. There is neither judg-
ment nor exoneration, but merely narration. And as the
dream is mostly painful, rarely pleasant, a note of melan-
choly and of pity with all living things runs right through
the wabbly tale. Sleep, the liberator, plays often a dismal
part, but when the pain is at its worst, the awakening comes
and reconciles the sufferer with reality, which, however dis-

tressing it may be, nevertheless seems happy in comparison

with the torments of the dream.

1 The trilogy " To Damascus."

 PROLOGUE
The background represents cloud banks that resemble corroding
slate cliffs with rui?is of castles and fortresses.
The constellations of Leo, Virgo, and Libra are visible, and
from their midst the planet Jupiter is shining with a strong

light.

The Daughter op Indra stands on the topmost

cloud.

The Voice of Indra [from above].

Where are you, daughter, where ?

The Daughter,
Here, father, here.

The Voice.
You've lost your way, my child —beware, you sink
How got you there ?
The Daughter.
I followed from ethereal heights the ray
Of lightning, and for car a cloud I took—
It sank, and now my journey downward tends.
O, noble father, Indra, tell what realms
Inow draw near ? The air is here so close.
And breathing difficult.
The Voice.
Behind you lies the second world; the third
Is where you stand. From Cukra, morning star
25
26 THEDREAMPLAY
You have withdrawn yourself to enter soon
The vapoury circle of the earth. For mark
The Seventh House you take. It's Ivibra called:
There stands the day-star in the balanced hour
When Fall gives equal weight to night and day.
The Daughter.
—
You named the earth is that the ponderous world
And dark, that from the moon must take it^ light ?
The Voice.
It is the heaviest and densest sphere
Of all that travel through the space.

The Daughter.
And is it never brightened by the sun ?

The Voice.
Of course, the sun does reach it —now and then
The Daughter.
There is a rift, and downward goes my glance
The Voice.
What sees my child .''

The Daughter.
I see — O beautiful!—with forests green.

With waters blue, white peaks, and yellow fields-

The Voice.
Yes, beautiful as all that Brahma made
But still more beautiful it was of yore.

In primal morn of ages. Then occurred

Some strange mishap; the orbit was disturbed;
Rebellion led to crime that called for check

The Daughter.
Now from below I hear some sounds arise

W^hat sort of race is dwelling there ?

 THE DREAM PLAY 27

The Voice.
See for yourself —Of Brahma's work no ill

I say: but what you hear, it is their speech.

The Daughter.
It sounds as if — it has no happy ring!

The Voice.
I fear me not —for even their mother-tongue
Is named complaint. A race most hard to please.
And thankless, are the dwellers on the earth

The Daughter.
—
O, say not so for I hear cries of joy,
Hear noise and thunder, see the lightnings flash

Now bells are ringing, fires are lit.

And thousand upon thousand tongues

Sing praise and thanks unto the heavens on high
Too harshly, father, you are judging them.

The Voice.
Descend, that you may see and hear, and then
Return and let me know if their complaints
And wailings have some reasonable ground

The Daughter.
Well then, I go; but, father, come with me.

The Voice.
No, there below I cannot breathe

The Daughter.
Now sinks the cloud —what sultriness —I choke!
I am not breathing air, but smoke and steam
With heavy weight it drags me down,
And I can feel already how it rolls

Indeed, the best of worlds is not the third

28 THEDREAMPLAY
The Voice.
The best I cannot call it, nor the worst.
Its name is Dust; and like them all, it rolls:

And therefore dizzy sometimes grows the race,

And seems to be half foolish and half mad
—
Take courage, child a trial, that is all!
The Daughter. [Kneeling as the cloud dnks downward]
I sink!

Curtain.
 THE DREAM PLAY
The background represents a forest of gigantic hollyhocks in
bloom. They are ivhite, pink, crimson, sulphureous, vio-
let; and above their tops is seen the gilded roof of a castle,

the apex of which is formed by a bud resembling a croum.

At the foot of the castle walls stand a number ofstraio ricks,

and around these stable litter is scattered. The side-scenes,

which remain unchanged throughout the play, show con-

ventionalised frescoes, suggesting at once internal decora-
tion, architecture, and landscape.

Enter The Glazier and The Daughter.

The Daughter. The castle is growing higher and higher
above the ground.Do you see how much it has grown since
last year ?

The Glazier. [To himself] I have never seen this castle

before —have never heard of a castle that grew, but [To The
Daughter, icithfirm conviction] Yes, it has grown two yards,
but that is because they have manured it —and if you notice, it

has put out a wing on the sunny side.

The Daughter. Ought it not to be blooming soon, as we
are already past midsummer ?
The Glazier. Don't you see the flower up there ?
The Daughter. Yes, I see! [Claps her hands] Say, fa-

ther, why do flowers grow out of dirt ?

The Glazier, [Simply] Because they do not feel at home

m the dirt, and so they make haste to get up into the light

in order to blossom and die.

29
30 THEDREAMPLAY
The Daughter. Do you know who lives in that castle ?
The Glazier. I have known but cannot remember. it,

The Daughter. I believe a prisoner is kept there — and

he must be waiting for me to set him free.

The Glazier. And what is he to pay for it?

The Daughter. One does not bargain about one's duty.

Let us go into the castle.

The Glazier. Yes, let us go in.

They go toicard the background, which opens and slowly dis-

appears to either side.

The stage shows now a humble, bare room, containing only a

table and a few chairs. On one of the chairs sits an officer,

dressed in a very unusual yet modern uniform. He is tilt-

ing the chair backward and beating the table with his sabre.
The Daughter. [Goes to the officer, from whose hand she
gently takes the sabre] Don't! Don't!
The Officer. Oh, Agnes dear, let me keep the sabre.
The Daughter. No, you break the table. [To The Gla-
zier] Now you go down to the harness-room and fix that win-
dow pane. We'll meet later.

[The Glazier goes out.

The Daughter. You are imprisoned in your own rooms

I have come to set you free.

The Officer. I have been waiting for you, but I was not
sure you were willing to do it.

The Daughter. The castle is strongly built; it has seven

walls, but — it can be done !
—Do you want it, or do you not ?

The Officer. Frankly speaking, I cannot tell —for in

either case I shall suffer pain. Every joy that life brings has

to be paid for with twice its measure of sorrow. It is hard to

stay where I am, but if I buy the sweets of freedom, then I shall

have to suffer twice as much —Agnes, I'll rather endure it as

it is, if I can only see you.
 THEDREAMPLAY 31

The Daughter. What do you see in me ?

The Officer. Beauty, wliich is the harmony of the uni-

verse — There are lines of your body which are nowhere

to be found, except in the orbits of the solar system, in strings
that are singing softly, or in the vibrations of light —You are
a child of heaven
The Daughter. So are you.

The Officer. Why must I then keep horses, tend stable,

and cart straw ?

The Daughter. So that you may long to get away from

here.
The Officer. I am longing, but it is so hard to find one's

way out.

The Daughter. But it is a duty to seek freedom in the

light.

The Officer. Duty.? Life has never recognised any

duties toward me.
The Daughter. You feel yourself wronged by life ?

The Officer. Yes, it has been unjust

Now voices are heard from behind a partition, which a moment
later is pulled away. The Officer and The Daughter
look in that direction and stop as if paralysed in the midst

of a gesture.
At a table sits The Mother, looking very sick. In front of
her a tallow candle is burning, and every little while she

trims it with a pair of snuffers. The table is piled with

new-made shirts, and these she is marking with a quill and

ink. To the left stands a brown-coloured wardrobe.
The Father. [Holds out a silk mantilla totoard The
Mother and says genthj] You don't want it ?
The Mother. A silk mantilla for me, my dear—of what
use would that be when I am going to die shortly ?

The Father. Do you believe what the doctor says ?

32 THEDREAMPLAY
The Mother. Yes, I believe also what he says, but still

more what the voice says in liere.

The Father. [Sadly] It is true then ? —And you are tliink-

ing of your children first and last.

The Mother. That has been my life and mv reason for

living—my joy and my sorrow
The Father. Christine, forgive me —everything!
The Mother. What have I to forgive ? Dearest, you for-
give me ! We have been tormenting each other. Why ? That
we may not know. We couldn't do anything else However, —
here is the new linen for the children. See that they change
twice a week —^Wednesdays and Sundays—and that Louise
washes them — whole bodies—Are you going out
their ?

The Father. I have to be in the Department at eleven

o'clock.

The Mother. Ask Alfred to come in before you go.

The Father. [Pointing to The Officer] Why, he is

standing right there, dear heart.

The Mother. So my eyes are failing, too —Yes, it is turn-
ing dark. [T rims the candle] Come here, Alfred.

The Father goes out through the middle of the wall,

nodding good-hje as he leaves.

The Officer goes over to The Mother.

The Mother. Who is that girl ?
The Officer. [IVhisjiers] It is Agnes,
The Mother. Oh, is that Agnes ? —Do you know what
they say ? —That she is a daughter of the god Indra who has
asked leave to descend to the earth in order that she may find
out what the conditions of men are —But don't say anything
about it.

The Officer. A child of the gods, indeed

The Mother. [Aloud] My Alfred, I must soon part from
 THE DREAM PLAY S5

you and from the other children — But let me first speak a
word to you that bears on all the rest of your life.

The Officer. [Sadly] Speak, mother.

The Mother. Only a word: don't quarrel with God!
The Officer. What do you mean, mother ?
The Mother. Don't go around feeling that life has
wronged you.
The Officer. But when I am treated unjustly
The Mother. You are thinking of the time when you
were unjustly punished for having taken a penny that later

turned up .''

The Officer. Yes, and that one wrong gave a false twist
to my whole life
The Mother. Perhaps. But please take a look into that
wardrobe now
The Officer. [Enibarrassed] You know, then ? It is
The Mother. The Swiss Family Robinson —for which
The Officer. Don't say any more!
The Mother. For which your brother was punished
and which you had torn and hidden away.
The Officer. Just think that the old wardrobe is still

standing there after twenty years — We have moved so

many times, and my mother died ten years ago.
The Mother. Yes, and what of it ?You are always ask-
ing all sorts of questions, and in that way you spoil the better
part of your life —There is Lena, now.
Lena. [Enters] Thank you very much, ma'am, but I can't
go to the baptism.

The Mother. And why not, my girl ?

Lena. I have nothing to put on.

The Mother. I'll let you use my mantilla here

Lena. Oh, no, ma'am, that wouldn't do!

34 THEDREAMPLAY
The Mother. Why not? — It is not likely that I'll go
to any more parties.

The Officer. And what will father say ? It is a present

from him
The Mother. What small minds
The Father. [P^ds his head through the wall] Are you
going to lend my present to the servant girl ?
The Mother. Don't talk that way! Can you not re-
member that I was a servant girl also? Why should you
offend one who has done nothing?
The Father. Why should you offend me, your husband ?

The Mother. Oh, this life! If you do anything nice,

there is always somebody who finds it nasty. If you act

kindly to one, it hurts another. Oh, this life!

She trims the candle so that it goes out. The stage turns

dark and the 'partition is pushed hack to its former

position.

The Daughter. Men are to be pitied.

The Officer. You think so ?
The Daughter. Yes, life is hard — but love overcomes
everything. You shall see for yourself.

[They go toward the background.

The background is raised and a new one revealed, showing an
old, dilapidated party-wall. In the centre of it is a gate
closing a passageway. This opens upon a green, sunlit
space, where is seen a tremendous blue monk's-hood (aco-
nite) To the left of the gate sits The Portress. Her head
.

and shoulders are covered by a shawl, and she is crochet-

ing at a bed-spread with a star-like pattern. To the right
of the gate is a billboard, which The Billposter is clean-

ing. Beside him stands a dipnet with a green pole. Fur-

ther to the right is a door that has an air-hole shaped like a
 THEDREAMPLAY 35

four-leaved clover. To the left of the gate stands a small

linden tree with coal-black trunk and a few pale-green leaves.

Near it is a small air-hole leading into a cellar.^

The Daughter. [Going to The Portress] Is the spread

not done yet ?

The Portress. No, dear. Twenty-six years on such a
piece of work is not much.
The Daughter. And your lover never came back ?
The Portress. No, but it was not his fault. He had to

go — poor thing! That was thirty years ago now.

The Daughter. [To The Billposter] She belonged to

the ballet ? Up there in the opera-house ?

The Billposter. She was number one— but when he
went, it was as if her dancing had gone with him —and so she
didn't get any more parts.

The Daughter. Everybody complains —with their eyes,

at least, and often with words also

The Billposter. I don't complain very much —not now,
since I have a dipnet and a green cauf '

The Daughter. And that can make you happy ?

The Billposter. Oh, I'm so happy, so — It was the
dream of my youth, and now it has come true. Of course,
I have grown to be fifty years
The Daughter. Fifty years for a dipnet and a cauf
The Billposter. A green cauf— mind you, green
The Daughter. [To The Portress] Let me have the
shawl now, and I shall sit here and watch the human children.

But you must stand behind me and tell me about everything.

[She takes the shawl and sits down at the gate.

1 Though the author says nothing about it here, subsequent stage

directions indicate a door and a window behind the place occupied by
The Portress. Both lead into her room or lodge, which contains a
telephone.
* A floating wooden box witli holes in it used to hold fish.
36 THE DREAM PLAY
The Portress. This is the last day, and the house will be
closed up for the season. This is the day when they learn
whether their contracts are to be renewed.
The Daughter. And those that fail of engagement
The Portress. O, Lord have mercy! I pull the shawl
over my head not to see them.
The Daughter. Poor human creatures!
The Portress. Look, here comes one— She's not one of
the chosen. See, how she cries.

The Singer enters from the right; rushes through the

gate with her handkercJiief to her eyes; stops for a
moment in the passagetvay beijond the gate and leans
her head against the wall; then out quickly.
The Daughter. Men are to be pitied!
The Portress. But look at this one. That's the way a
happy person looks.
The Officer enters through the passagetvay; dressed
in Prince Albert coat and high hat, and carrying a
bunch of roses in one hand; he is radiantly happy.
The Portress. He's going to marry Miss Victoria.

The Officer. [Far down on the stage, looks up and sings]

Victoria!
The Portress. The young lady will be coming in a mo-
ment.
The Officer. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table

is set, the wine is on ice — Oh, permit me to embrace you,

ladies! [He embraces The Portress aiid The Daughter.
Sings] Victoria!
A Woman's Voice From Above. [Sings] I am here!

The Daughter. Do you know me ?

The Officer. No, I know one woman only —Victoria.
Seven years I have come here to wait for her —at noon, when
the sun touched the chimneys, and at night, when it was grow-
 THEDREAMPLAY 37

ing dark. Look at the asphalt here, and you will see the path
worn by the steps of a faithful lover. Hooray! She is mine.
[Si7igs] Victoria! [There is no repli/] Well, she is dressing, I
suppose. [To The Billposter] There is the dipnet, I see.
Everybody belonging to the opera is crazy about dipnets —or
rather about fishes — because the fishes are dumb and cannot
sing! — What is the price of a thing like that?
The Billposter. It is rather expensive.
The Officer. [Smt/s] Victoria! [Shakes the linden tree]

Look, it is turning green once more. For the eighth time.

[Sin^jT*] Victoria! — Now she is fixing her hair. [To The
Daughter] Look here, madam, could I not go up and get
my bride ?
The Portress. Nobody is allowed on the stage.
The Officer. Seven years I have been coming here.

Seven times three hundred and sixty-five makes two thousand

five hundred and fifty-five. [Stops and pokes at the door with
the four-leaved clover hole] And I have been looking two thou-
sand five hundred and fifty-five times at that door without dis-
covering where it leads. And that clover leaf which is to let

in light — for whom is the light meant? Is there anybody

within ? Does anybody live there ?

The Portress. I don't know. I have never seen it

opened.
The Officer. It looks like a pantry door which I saw
once when I was only four years old and went visiting with the
maid on a Sunday afternoon. We called at several houses
on other maids —but I did not get beyond the kitchen any-
where, and I had to sit between the water barrel and the salt

box. I have seen so many kitchens in my days, and the pan-

try was always just outside, with small round holes bored
in the door, and one big hole like a clover leaf — But there
cannot be any pantry in the opera-house as they have no
38 THEDREAMPLAY
kitchen. [Sings] Victoria! — Tell me, madam, could she have
gone out any other way ?

The Portress. No, there is no other way.

The Officer. Well, then I shall see her here.

Stage People rush out and are closely watched by The

Officer as they pass.
The Officer. Now she must soon be coming Madam, —
—
that blue monk's-hood outside I have seen it since I was a
child. Is it the same ? —
I remember it from a country rec-

tory where I stopped when I was seven years old There —

are two doves, two blue doves, under the hood but that time —
a bee came flying and went into the hood. Then I thought:
now I have you And I grabbed hold of the flower. But the
!

sting of the bee went through it, and I cried but then the —
rector's wife came and put damp dirt on the sting and we —
had strawberries and cream for dinner I think it is getting —
dark already. [To The Billposter] Where are you going?
The Billposter. Home for supper.
The Officer. [Draws his hand across his eyes] Evening ?
At this time ? — O, please, may I go in and telephone to the

Growing Castle ?
The Daughter. What do you want there ?

The Officer. I am going to tell the Glazier to put in

double windows, for it will soon be winter, and I am feeling

horribly cold. [Goes into the gatekeeper's lodge.

The Daughter. Who is Miss Victoria ?
The Portress. His sweetheart.
The Daughter. Right said What she is to us and others!

matters nothing to him. And what she is to him, that alone

is her real self.

It is suddenly turning dark.

The Portress. [Lights a lantern] It is growing dark early
to-day.
 THEDREAMPLAY 39

The Daughter. To the gods a year is as a minute.

The Portress. And to men a minute may be as long as a
year.
The Officer. [Enters again, looking dusty; the roses are

uiithered] She has not come yet ?

The Portress. No.
The Officer. But she will come — She will come! [Walks
up and down] But come to think of it, perhaps I had better call

off the dinner after all —as it is late ? Yes, I will do that.
[Goes back into the lodge and telephones.
The Portress. [To The Daughter] Can I have my
shawl back now ?

The Daughter. No, dear, be free a while. I shall attend

to your duties —for I want to study men and life, and see
whether things really are as bad as they say.
The Portress. But it won't do to fall asleep here —never
sleep night or day
The Daughter. No sleep at night ?
The Portress. Yes, if you are able to get it, but only with
the bell string tied around the wrist— for there are night watch-
men on the stage, and they have to be relieved every third
hour.
The Daughter. But that is torture!
The Portress. So you think, but people like us are glad
enough to get such a job, and if you only knew how envied I

am
The Daughter. Envied ? — Envy for the tortured ?
The Portress. Yes— But I can tell you what is harder
than all drudging and keeping awake nights, harder to bear
than draught and cold and dampness — it is to receive the con-
fidences of all the unhappy people up there — They all come
to me. Why ? Perhaps they read in the wrinkles of my face
some runes that are graved by suffering and that invite con-
40 THEDREAMPLAY
fessions — In that shawl, dear, He hidden thirty years of my
own and other people's agonies.
The Daughter. It is heavy, and it burns like nettles.

The Portress. Asitisyourwish, youmay wear it. When

it grows too burdensome, call me, and I shall relieve you.
The Daughter. Good-bye. What can be done by you
ought not to surpass my strength.
The Portress. We shall see! — But be kind to my poor
friends, and don't grow impatient of their complaints.

[She disappears through the passageway.

Complete darkness coirrs the stage, and while it lasts the scene is

changed so that the linden tree appears stripped of all its

leaves. Sooji the blue monk's-hood is toithercd, and ichen

the light returns, the verdure in the open space beyond the
passageicay has changed into autumnal broivn.
The Officer. [Enters when it is light again. He has gray
hair and a gray beard. His clothes are shabby, his collar is

soiled and torinkled. Nothing but the bare stems remain oj

the bunch of roses. He walks to and fro] To judge by all

signs. Summer is gone and Fall has come. The linden shows
it, and the monk's-hood also. [Walks] But the Fall is my
Spring, for then the opera begins again, and then she must
come. madam, may I sit down a little on this chair ?
Please,
The Daughter. Yes, sit down, friend I am able to —
stand.
The Officer. [Sits doivn] If I could only get some sleep,
then I should feel better [He
falls asleep for a few moments.

Then he jumps up and walks back andfoiih again. Stops at

last in front of the door with the clover leaf and pokes at it] This
door here will not leave me any peace —what is behind it?

There must be something. [Faint dance music is heard from

above] Oh, now the rehearsals have begun. [The light goes out
and flares up again, repeating this rhythmically as the rays of a
 THEDREAMPLAY 41

lighthouse come and go] What does this mean ? [Speaking in

time with the blinkings of the light] Light and dark —Hght and
dark?
The Daughter. [Imitating him] Night and day— night
and day A merciful Providence wants to shorten your wait.
!

Therefore the days are flying in hot pursuit of the nights.

The light shines unbrokcnly once more.

The Billposter enters with his dipnet and his imple-

ments.
The Officer. There is the Billposter with his dipnet.
Was the fishing good ?

The Billposter. I should say so. The Summer was hot

and a little long —the net turned out pretty good, but not as I

had expected.
The Officer. [With emphasis] Not as I had expected!
That is well said. Nothing ever was as I expected it to be
because the thought is more than the deed, more than the
thing.
Walks to and fro, striking at the wall with the rose stems

so that the last few leaves fall off.

The Billposter. Has she not come down yet?

The Officer. Not yet, but she will soon be here — Do
you know what is behind that door, Billposter ?
The Billposter. No, I have never seen that door open
yet.

The Officer. I am going to telephone for a locksmith to

-"ome and open it. [Goes into the lodge.
[The Billposter posts a hill and goes toward the right.
The Daughter. What is the matter with the dipnet ?
The Billposter. Matter? Well, I don't know as there
is anything the matter with it —but it just didn't turn out as I

had expected, and the pleasure of it was not so much after all.

The Daughter. How did you expect it to be ?

42 THEDREAMPLAY
The Billposter. How?— Well, I couldn't tell ex-

actly
The Daughter. I can tell you! You had expected it to

be what it was not. It had to be green, but not that kind of

green.
The You have it, madam. You understand
Billposter.
it all —
and that is why everybody goes to you with his worries.
If you would only listen to me a little also

The Daughter. Of course, I will! Come in to me and —

pour out your heart. [She goes into the lodge.

[The Billposter remains outside, speaking to her.

The stage is darkened again. When the light is turned on, the

tree has resumed its leaves, the monk's-hood is blooming

once more, and the sun is shining on the green space beyond
the passageway.

The Officer enters. Now he is old and white-haired,

ragged, and wearing worn-out shoes. He carries the
bare remnants of the rose stems. Walks to and fro
slotoly, with the gait of an aged man. Reads on the
posted bill.

A Ballet Girl comes in from the right.

The Officer. Is Miss Victoria gone ?

The Ballet Girl. No, she has not gone yet.

The Officer. Then I shall wait. She will be coming

soon, don't you think ?

The Ballet Girl. Oh, yes, I am sure.

The Officer, Don't go away now, for I have sent word
to the locksmith, so you will soon see what is behind that door.

The Ballet Girl. Oh, it will be awfully interesting to

see that door opened. That door, there, and the Growing
Castle — have you heard of the Growing Castle ?
The Officer. Have I ? — I have been a prisoner in it.
 THEDREAMPLAY 43

The Ballet Girl. No, was that you ? But why do they
keep such a lot of horses there ?

The Officer. Because it is a stable castle, don't you know.

The Ballet Girl. [JVith confusion] How stupid of me
not to guess that!
A IVIale Chorus Singer enters from the right.

The Officer. Has Miss Victoria gone yet ?

The Chorus Singer. [Earnestly] No, she has not. She
never goes away.
The Officer. That is because she loves me — See here,
don't go before the locksmith comes to open the door here.
The Chorus Singer. No, is the door going to be opened ?

Well, that will be fun! — I just want to ask the Portress

something.
The Prompter enters from the right.
The Officer. Is Miss Victoria gone yet ?
The Prompter. Not that I know of.
The Officer. Now, didn't I tell you she was waiting for

me! — Don't go away, for the door is going to be opened.

The Prompter. Which door ?
The Officer. Is there more than one door.?
The Prompter. Oh, I know — that one with the clover
leaf. Well, then I have got to stay — I am only going to
have a word with the Portress.
The Ballet The Chorus Singer, and The
Girl,
Prompter The Billposter in front
gather beside

of the lodge window and talk by turns to The Daugh-

ter.
The Glazier enters through the gate.

The Officer. Are you the locksmith ?

The Glazier. No, the locksmith had visitors, and a gla-

zier will do just as well.

44 TIIEDREAMPLAY
The Officer. Yes, of course, of course — but did you
bring your diamond along ?

The Glazier. Why, certainly! — A glazier without his

diamond, what would that be ?

The Officer. Nothing at all !

— Let us get to work then.

[Claps his hands together.

All gather in a ring around the door.

Male members of the chorus dressed as Master Singers
and Ballet Girls in costumes from the opera " A'ida"
enter from the right and join the rest.

The Officer. Locksmith —or glazier—do your duty!

The Glazier goes up to the door ivith the diamond in
his hand.
The Officer. A moment like this will not occur twice in
a man's life. For this reason, my friends, I ask you —please
consider carefully
A Policeman. [Enters] In the name of the law, I forbid

the opening of that door!

The Officer. Oh, Lord! What a fuss there is as soon as

anybody wants to do anything new or great. But we will take

—
the matter into court let us go to the Lawyer. Then we shall
see whether the laws still exist or not — Come along to the
Lawyer.
Without loxoering of the curtain, the stage changes to a lawyer's
office, and in this manner. The gate remains, but as a
wicket in the railing running clear across the stage. The
gatekeeper's lodge turns into the private enclosure of the
Lawyer, and it is now entirely open to the front. The lin-

den, leafless, becomes a hat tree. The billboard is covered

with legal notices and court decisions. The door with the

four-leaved clover hole forms part of a document chest.

The Lawyer, in evening dress and white necktie, is
found sitting to the left, inside the gate, and in front
 THE DREAM PLAY 45

of him stands a desk covered with papers. His ap-

pearance indicates enormous sufferings. His face is
chalk-white and full of wrinkles, and its shadows have
a purple effect. He is ugly, and his features seem to
reflect all the crimes and vices with which he has been
forced by his profession to come into contact.

Of his two clerks, one has lost an arm, the other an eye.

The people gathered to witness "the opening of the door"

remain as before, but they appear now to be waiting
for an audience tvith the Laicyer. Judging by their

attitudes, one would think they had been standing there

forever.
The Daughter, still ivearing the shawl, and The

Officer are near the footlights.

The Lawyer. [Goes over to The Daughter] Tell me,
sister, can I have that shawl ? I shall keep it here until I have
a fire in my grate, and then I shall burn it with all its miseries
and sorrows.
The Daughter. Not yet, brother. I want it to hold all

it possibly can, and I want it above all to take up your agonies

— all the confidences you have received about crime, vice, rob-

bery, slander, abuse

The Lawyer. My dear girl, for such a purpose your shawl
would prove totally insufficient. Look at these walls. Does
it not look as if the wall-paper itself had been soiled by every
conceivable sin ? Look at these documents into which I write

tales of wrong. Look at myself — No smiling man ever

comes here; nothing is to be seen here but angry glances,
snarling lips, clenched fists — And everybody pours his anger,

his envy, his suspicions, upon me. Look —my hands are
black, and no washing will clean them. See how they are
chapped and bleeding — I can never wear my clothes more
than a few days because they smell of other people's crimes
46 THEDREAMPLAY
At times I have the place fumigated with sulphur, but it does
not help. I sleep near by, and I dream of nothing but crimes
Just now I have a murder case in court —oh, I can stand that,

but do you know what is worse than anything — That

else ?

is to separate married people! Then it is as if something

cried way down in the earth and up there in the sky —as if it

cried treason against the primal force, against the source of all
good, against love — And do you know, when reams of paper
have been filled with mutual accusations, and at last a sympa-
thetic person takes one of the two apart and asks, with a pinch
of the ear or a smile, the simple question : what have you really

got against your husband ? —or your wife —then ? he, or she,

stands perplexed and cannot give the cause. Once — well, I

think a lettuce salad was the principal issue; another time it

was just —mostly nothing at

a word it is all. But the tortures,

the sufferings — these have to bear—I See how I look! Do

you think I could ever win a woman's love with this counte-

nance so like a criminal's "i Do you think anybody dares to be

friendly with me, who has to collect all the debts, all the money
obligations, of the whole city .^
— It is a misery to be man!
The Daughter. Men are to be pitied!
The Law'yer. They are. And what people are living on
puzzles me. They marry on an income of two thousand,
when they need four thousand. They borrow, of course
everybody borrows. In some sort of happy-go-lucky fashion,
by the skin of their teeth, they manage to pull through —and
thus it continues to the end, when the estate is found to be
bankrupt. Who pays for it at last no one can tell.

The Daughter. Perhaps He who feeds the birds.

The Lawyer. Perhaps. But if He who feeds the birds

would only pay a visit to this earth of His and see for Himself
how the poor human creatures fare —then His heart would
surely fill with compassion.
 THEDREAMPLAY 47

The Daughter. Men are to be pitied!

The Lawyer. Yes, that is the truth! — [To The Offi-
cer] What do you want ?
The Officer. I just wanted to ask if Miss Victoria has
gone yet.

The Lawyer. No, she has not; you can be sure of it

Why are you poking at my chest over there ?

The Officer. I thought the door of it looked exactly
The Lawyer. Not at all! Not at all!
All the church bells begin to ring.
The Officer. Is there going to be a funeral ?

The Lawyer. No, it is graduation day —a number of de-

grees will be conferred, and I am going to be made a Doctor
of Laws. Perhaps you would also like to be graduated and
receive a laurel wreath ?
The Officer. Yes, why not. That would be a diversion,

at least.
The Lawy'er. Perhaps then we may begin upon this sol-
emn function at once — But you had better go home and
change your clothes.
[The Officer goes out.
The stage is darkened and the following changes are made. The
railing stays, but it encloses now the chancel of a church.
The billboard displays hymn numbers. The linden hat
tree becomes a candelabrum. The Laivyer^s desk is turned
into the desk of the presiding functionary, and the door

with the clover leaf leads to the vestry.

The chorus of Master Singers become heralds with staffs, and

the Ballet Girls carry laurel wreaths. The rest of the peo-
ple act as spectators.
The background is raised, and the new one thus discovered rep-

resents a large church organ, with the keyboards below and

the organist's mirror above.
48 THEDREAMPLAY
Music is heard. At the sides stand, figures symbolising the

four academic faculties: Philosophy, Theology, Medicine,

and Jurisprudence.
At first the stage is empty for a few moments.
Heralds enter from the right.

Ballet GiRhs follow with laurel wreaths carried high

before them.

Three Graduates appear one after another from the

left, receive their wreaths from the Ballet Girls, and
go out to the right.

The Lawyer steps forward to get his wreath.

The Ballet Girls turn away from him and refuse to
place the wreath on his head. Then they withdraw
from the stage.

The Lawyer, shocked, leans against a column. All

the others withdraw gradually until only The Lawyer
remains on the stage.

The Daughter. [Enters, her head and shoulders covered

by a lohite veil Do ] you see, I have washed the shawl ! But
why are you standing there ? Did you get your wreath ?

The Lawier. No, I was not held worthy.

The Daughter. Why ? Because you have defended the
poor, put in a good word for the wrong-doing, made the bur-
den easier for the guilty, obtained a respite for the condemned ?

Woe upon men they are not angels —but they are to be pitied
:

The Lawyer. Say nothing evil of men —for after all it is

my task to voice their side.
The Daughter. [Leaning against the organ^ Why do they
strike their friends in the face ?

The Lawyer. They know no better.

The Daughter. Let us enlighten them. Will you try?
Together with me ?
 THEDREAMPLAY 49

The Lawyer. They do not accept enlightenment — Oh,

that our plaint might reach the gods of heaven
The Daughter. It shall reach the throne— [Turns tow-
ard the o7-ga7i] Do you know what I see in this mirror ?

The world turned the right way! — Yes indeed, for naturally

we see it upside down.

The Lawyer. How did it come to be turned the wrong
way?
The Daughter. "When the copy was taken
The Lawyer. You have said it! The copy — I have
always had the feeling that it was a spoiled copy. And when
I began to recall the original images, I grew dissatisfied with

everything. But men called it soreheadedness, looking at the

world through the devil's eyes, and other such things.

The Daughter. It is certainly a crazy world! Look at

the four faculties here. The government, to which has fallen

the task of preserving society, supports all four of them. The-

ology, the science of God, is constantly attacked and ridi-
culed by philosophy, which declares itself to be the sum of

all wisdom. And medicine is always challenging philosophy,

while refusing entirely to count theology a science and even
insisting on calling it a mere superstition. And they belong
to a common Academic Council, which has been set to teach
the —
young respect for the university. It is a bedlam. And
woe unto him who first recovers his reason!
The Lawyer. Those who find it out first are the theolo-
gians. As a preparatory study, they take philosophy, which
teaches them that theolosfv is nonsense. Later thev learn
from theology that philosophy is nonsense. Madmen, I should
say!
The Daughter. And then there is jurisprudence which
serves all but the servants.
The Lawyer. Justice, which, when it wants to do right,
50 THEDREAMPLAY
becomes the undoing of men. Equity, which so often turns
into iniquity!

The Daughter. What a mess you have made of it, you

man-children. Children, indeed! — Come here, and I will

give you a wreath —one that is more becoming to you. [Puts

a crown of thorns on his head] And now I will play for you.

She sits down at the keyboards, bid instead of organ-

notes human voices are heard.

Voices of Children, O Lord everlasting!

[Last note sustained.
Voices of Women. Have mercy upon us!
[Last note sustained.
Voices of Men. [Tejiors] Save us for Thy mercy's sake!
[La.'it note sustained.

Voices of Men. [Basses] Spare Thy children, O Lord,

and deliver us from Thy wrath!
All. Have mercy upon us ! Have pity upon the
Hear us!

mortals! — O Lord eternal, Thou afar?

why art Out of —
the depths we call unto Thee: Make not the burden of Thy
children too heavy! Hear us! Hear us!
The stage turns dark. The Daughter rises and draws close

to The Lawyer. By a change of light, the organ becomes

FingaVs Cave. The ground-swell of the ocean, which
can be seen rising and falling between the columns of basalt,
produces a deep harmony that blends the music of wiiids
and waves.
The Lawyer. Where are we, sister ?
The Daughter. What do you hear ?
The Lawyer. I hear drops falling
The Daughter. Those are the tears that men are weep-
ing —
What more do you hear ?
—
The Lawyer. There is sighing and whining —and wail-
ing
 THEDREAMPLAY 51

The Daughter. Hither the phiint of the mortals has

reached —and no farther. But why this never-ending wail-
ing ? Is there then nothing in hfe to rejoice at ?

The Lawyer. Yes, what is most sweet, and what is also

most bitter —love—wife and home— the highest and the lowest!
The Daughter. May I try it ?
The Lawyer. With me ?
The Daughter. With you — You know the rocks, the
stumbling-stones. Let us avoid them.
The Lawyer. I am so poor.
The Daughter. What does that matter if we only love

each other ? And a little beauty costs nothing.

The Lawyer. I have dislikes which may prove your likes.
The Daughter. They can be adjusted.
The Lawyer. And if we tire of it?
The Daughter. Then come the children and bring with
them a diversion that remains for ever new.
The Lawyer. You, you will take me, poor and ugly,
scorned and rejected ?

The Daughter. Yes —let us unite our destinies.

The Lawyer. So be it then!

Curtain,
An extremely plain room inside The Lawyer's office. To the
ri(/ht, a big double bed covered by a canopy and curtained in.

Next to it, a window. To the left, an iron heater with cook-

ing utensils on top of it. Christine is pasting paper
strips along the cracks of the double icindoivs. In the back-

ground, an open door to the office. Through the door are

risible a number of poor clients waiting for admission.

Christine. I paste, T paste.
The Daughter. [Pale and emaciated, sits by the stove] You
shut out all the air. I choke!
Christine. Now there is only one little crack left.

The Daughter. Air, air — I cannot breathe!

Christine. I paste, I paste.
The Lawyer. That's right, Christine! Heat is expensive.
The Daughter. Oh, it feels as if my lips were being glued
together.
The Lawyer. [Standing in the doorway, with a paper in
his hand] Is the child asleep ?

The Daughter. Yes, at last.

The Lawyer. [Gently] All this crying scares away my
clients.

The Daughter. [Pleasantly] What can be done about it?

The Lawyer. Nothing.
The Daughter. We shall have to get a larger place.
The Lawyer. We have no money for it.
The Daughter. May I open the window^this bad air is
suffocating.
The Lawyer. Then the heat escapes, and we shall be
cold.
52
 THE DREAM PLAY 53

The Daughter. It is horrible! — May we clean up out

there ?

The Lawyer. You have not the strength to do any clean-

ing, nor have I, and Christine must paste. She must put
strips through the whole house, on every crack, in the ceiling,

in the floor, in the walls.

The Daughter, Poverty I was prepared for, but not for

dirt.

The Lawyer. Poverty is always dirty, relatively speaking.

The Daughter. This is worse than I dreamed!
The Lawyer. We are not the worst off by far. There is
still food in the pot.
The Daughter. But what sort of food ?
The Lawyer. Cabbage is cheap, nourishing, and good to
eat.

The Daughter. For those who like cabbage — to me it is

repulsive.
The Lawyer. Why didn't you say so ?
The Daughter. Because I loved you, I wanted to sacri-
fice my own taste.
The Lawyer. Then I must sacrifice my taste for cabbage
to you —for sacrifices must be mutual.
The Daughter. What are we to eat, then? Fish? But
you hate fish ?

The Lawyer. And it is expensive.

The Daughter. This is worse than I thought it!
The Lawyer. [Kindly] Yes, you see how hard it is

And the child that was to become a link and a blessing — it

becomes our ruin.

The Daughter. Dearest, I die in this air, in this room,

with its backyard view, with its baby cries and endless hours
of sleeplessness, with those people out there, and their whin-
ings, and bickerings, and incriminations — I shall die here!
54 THEDREAMPLAY
The Lawyer. My poor little flower, that has no light and
no air

The Daughter. And you say that people exist who are
still worse off ?

The Lawyer. I belong with the envied ones in this lo-

cality.

The Daughter. Everj^thing else might be borne if I could

only have some beauty in my home.

The Lawyer. I know you are thinking of flowers —and
especially of heliotropes —but a plant costs half a dollar, which
will buy us six quarts of milk or a peck of potatoes.
The Daughter. I could gladly get along without food if

I could only have some flowers.

The Lawyer. There is a kind of beauty that costs nothing
—but the absence of it in the home is worse than any other
torture to a man with a sense for the beautiful.
The Daughter. What is it ?

The Lawyer. If I tell, you will get angry.

The Daughter. We have agreed not to get angry.

The Lawyer. We have agreed — Everything can be over-

come, Agnes, except the short, sharp accents — Do you know
them? Not yet!

The Daughter. They will never be heard between us.

The Lawi'er. Not as far as it lies on me!
The Daughter. Tell me now.
The Lawter. Well —when I come into a room, I look
first of all at the curtains [Goesoi-cr to the icindow and straight-

ens out the curtains] If they hang like ropes or rags, then I

leave soon. And next I take a glance at the chairs — if they

stand straight along the wall, then I stay. [Puts a chair back
against the wall] Finally I look at the candles in their sticks
if they point this way and that, then the whole house is askew,
 THE DREAM PLAY 55

[Straightens up a candle on the ched of drawers] This is the

kind of beauty, dear heart, that costs nothin<^.

The Daughter. \}Vith bent head] Beware of the short ac-

cents. Axel!

The Lawyer. They were not short.

The Daughter. Yes, they were.
The Lawyer. Well, I'll be
The Daughter. What kind of language is that?
The Lawyer. Pardon me, Agnes ! But I have suffered as
much from your lack of orderliness as you have suffered from
dirt. And I have not dared to set things right myself, for
when I do so, you get as angry as if I were reproaching you
ugh! Hadn't we better quit now?
The Daughter. It is very difficult to be married — it is

more difficult than anything else. One has to be an angel, I

think!
The Lawy'er. I think so, too.
The Daughter. I fear I shall begin to hate you after this!

The Lawyer. Woe to us then! — But let us forestall

hatred. I promise never again to speak of any untidiness
although it is torture to me!
The Daughter. And I shall eat cabbage though it means
agony to me.
The Lawyer. A life of common suffering, then! One's
pleasure, the other one's pain!

The Daughter. Men are to be pitied!

The Lawyer. You see that ?
The Daughter. Yes, but for heaven's sake, let us avoid
now when we know them so well.
the rocks,
The Lawyer. Let us try! Are we not decent and intelli-

gent persons ? Able to forbear and forgive ?

The Daughter. Why not smile at mere trifles ?

56 THE DREAM PLAY
The Lawyer. Wc —only we — can do so. Do you know,
I read this morning —by the bye, wliere is the newspaj^er ?

The Daughter. [Embarrassed] Which newspaper ?

The Lawyer. [Sharpli/] Do I keep more than one?
The Daughter. Smile now, and don't speak sharply —
I used your paper to make the fire with
The Lawyer. [Violently] Well, I'll be damned!
The Daughter. W'hy don't you smile? — I burned it

because it ridiculed what is holy to me.

The Lawyer. Which is unholy to me! Yah! [Strikes

one clenched fist against the open palm of the other hand] I
smile, I smile so that my wisdom teeth show — Of course, I
am to be nice, and I am to swallow my own opinions, and say
yes to everything, and cringe and dissemble! [Tidies the cur-
tains around the bed] That's it! Now I am going to fix things

until you get angry again — Agnes, this is simply impossible!

The Daughter. Of course it is!
The Lawyer. And yet we must endure —not for the sake

of our promises, but for the sake of the child

The Daughter. You are right —for the sake of the child.

Oh, oh — we have to endure!

The Lawy'ER. And now I must go out to my clients. Lis-

ten to them — how they growl with impatience to tear each

other, to get each other fined and jailed — Lost souls!
The Daughter. Poor, poor people! And this pasting!

[She drops her head forward in dumb despair.

Christine. I paste, I paste.

The Lawyer stands at the door, twisting the door-
knob nervoushj.
The Daughter. How that knob squeaks! It is as if you
were twisting my heart-strings
The Lawyer. I twist, I twist!
The Daughter. Don't!
 THEDREAMPLAY 57

The Lawter. I twist!

The Daughter. No!
The Lawyer. I
The Officer. [In the office, on the other side of the door,
takes hold of the kno})\ Will you permit me ?
The Lawyer. [Lets go his hold] By all means. Seeing
that you have your degree
The Officer. Now all life belongs to me. Every road
lies open. I have mounted Parnassus. The laurel is won.
Immortality, fame, all is mine!
The Lawyer. And what are you going to live on ?
The Officer. Live on ?
The Lawyer. You must have a home, clothes, food
The Officer. Oh, that will come— if you can only find
somebody to love you
The Lawtter. You don't sav so !
— You don't — Paste,
Christine, paste until they cannot breathe!
[Goes out backward, noddiyig.
Christine. I paste, I paste — until they cannot breathe.
The Officer. Will you come with me now ?
The Daughter. At once! But where.'
The Officer. To Fairhaven. There it is summer; there
the sun is shining; there we find youth, children, and flowers,

singing and dancing, feasting and frolicking.

The Daughter. Then I will go there.

The Officer. Come!
The Lawyer. [Enters again] Now I go back to my first

hell — this was the second and greater. The sweeter the hell,

the greater — And look here, now she has been dropping
hair-pins on the floor again. [He picks wp some hair-pins.
The Officer. My! but he has discovered the pins also.
The Lawyer. Also ?— Look at this one. You see two
prongs, but it is only one pin. It is two, yet only one. If I
58 THE DREAMPLAY
bend it open, it is a single piece. If I bend it back, there are
two, but they remain one for all that. It means: these two
are one. But if I break — like this! —then they become two.
[Breaks the pin and throws the pieces away.
The Officer. All that he has seen !
— But before break-
ing, the prongs must diverge. If they point together, then it

holds.

The Lawyer. And if they are parallel, then they will

never meet —and it neither breaks nor holds.

The Officer. The hair-pin is the most perfect of all created

things. A straight line which ecjuals two parallel ones.

The Lawyer. A lock that shuts when it is open.

The Officer. And thus shuts in a braid of hair that opens
up when the lock shuts.

The Lawyer. It is like this door. When I close it, then

I open —the way out—for you, Agnes!
[Withdraws and closes the door behind him.
The Daughter. Well then ?

The stage changes. The bed with its curtains becomes a tent.

The stove stays as it was. The background is raised.

To the right, in the foreground, are seen hills stripped of their

trees by fire, and red heather groiving betiveen the blackened

tree stumps. Red-painted pig-sties and outhouses. Be-
yond these, in the open, apparatus for mechanical gymnas-
tics, where sick persons are being treated on machines re-

sembling instruments of torture.

To the left, in the foreground, the quarantine station, consisting

of open sheds, with ovens, furnaces, and pipe coils.

In the middle distance, a narrow strait.

The background shows a beautiful loooded shore. Flags are

flying on its piers, where ride white sailboats, some with
sails set and some without. Little Italian villas, painlions.
 THEDREAMPLAY 59

arbors, via rhlc stat ucs are fjlimpaed th ro ur/h th cfoliage along

the shore.
The Master of Quarantine, made up like a blacka-
moor, is walking along the shore.
The Officer. [Meets him and they shake hands] Why,
Ordstrom ! Have you landed here ?
*

Master of Q. Yes, here I am.

The Officer. Is this Fairhaven ?

Master of Q. No, that is on the other side. This is

Fouls trand.
The Officer. Then we have lost our way.
Master of Q. We ? — Won't you introduce me ?
The Officer. No, that wouldn't do. [In a lowered voice]
It is Indra's own daughter.
Master of Q. Indra's.? And I was thinking of Varuna
himself — Well, are you not surprised to find me black in the
face?
The Officer. I am past fifty, my boy, and at that age
one has ceased to be surprised. I concluded at once that you
were bound for some fancy ball this afternoon.

Master of Q. Right you were! And I hope both of you

will come along.

The Officer. Why, yes— for I must say — the place does
not look very tempting. What kind of people live here any-
how?
Master of Q. Here you find the sick; over there, the
healthy.

The Officer. Nothing but poor folk on this side, I sup-

pose.
INIaster of Q. No, my boy, it is here you find the rich.
Look at that one on the rack. He has stuffed himself with
1 Means literally "wordspout."
60 THEDREAMPLAY
pate de foie gras and tru£3es and Burgundy until his feet have
grown knotted.
The Officer. Knotted?
Master of Q. Yes, he has a case of knotted feet. And
that one who hes under the guillotine —he has swilled brandy
so that his backbone has to be put through the mangle.
The Officer. There is always something amiss!
Master of Q. Moreover, everybody living on this side

has some kind of canker to hide. Look at the fellow coming

here, for instance.
An old dandy is pushed on the stage in a wheel-chair.
He is accompanied by a gaunt and grisly coquette in
the sixties, to whom The Friend, a man of about

forty, is paying court.

The Oi'ficer. It is the major —our schoolmate!

Master of Q. Don Juan. Can you see that he is still

enamored of that old spectre beside him ? lie does not notice

that she has grown old, or that she is ugly, faithless, cruel.

The Officer. Why, that is love! And I couldn't have

dreamt that a fickle fellow like him would prove capable of

loving so deeply and so earnestly.

IVIaster of Q. That is a mighty decent way of looking

at it.

The Officer. I have been in love with Victoria myself —

in fact I am still waiting for her in the passageway
Master of Q. Oh, you are the fellow who is waiting in
the j)assageway ?

The Officer. I am the man.

Master of Q. Well, have you got that door opened yet .'

The Officer. No, the case is still in court — • The Bill-

poster is out with his dipnet, of course, so that the taking of

evidence is always being put oflF —
and in the meantime the
Glazier has mended all the window panes in the castle, which
 THEDREAMPLAY 61

—
has grown half a story higher This has been an uncom-
monly good year — warm and wet
Master of Q. But just the same you have had no heat
comparing with what I have here.
The Officer. How much do you have in your ovens ?
Master of Q. When we fumigate cholera suspects, we
run it up to one hundred and forty degrees.
The Officer. Is the cholera going again ?

Master of Q. Don't you know that?

The Officer. Of course, I know it, but I forget so often

what I know.
Master of Q. I wish often that I could forget especially —
myself.That is why I go in for masquerades and carnivals
and amateur theatricals.

The Officer. What have you been up to then ?

Master of Q. If I told, they would say that I was boast-

ing; and if I don't tell, then they call me a hypocrite.
The Officer. That is why you blackened your face ?

Master of Q. Exactly —making myself a shade blacker

than I am.
The Officer. Who is coming there ?

Master of Q. Oh, a poet who is going to have his mud

bath.
The Poet enters with his eyes raised toward the sky
and carrying a fail of mud in one hand.
The Officer. Why, he ought to be having light baths and
air baths.

Master of Q. No, he is roaming about the higher re-

much that he gets homesick for the mud — and wallow-
gions so
ing in the mire makes the skin callous like that of a pig.

Then he cannot feel the stings of the wasps.

The Officer. This is a queer world, full of contradictions.

The Poet. [Ecstatically] Man was created by the god

62 THEDREAMPLAY
Phtah out of clay on a potter's wheel, or a lathe [sceptically],

or any damned old thing! [Ecstatically] Out of clay does the

sculptor create his more or less immortal masterpieces

[sceptically], which mostly are pure rot. [Ecstatically] Out of

clay they make those utensils which are so indispensable in

the pantry and which generically are named pots and plates

[sceptically], but what in thunder does it matter to me what

they are called anyhow ? [Ecstatically] Such is the clay When !

clay becomes fluid, it is called mud — C'est mon affaire!

[shouts] Lena!
Lena enters with a pail in her hand.

The Poet. Lena, show yourself to Miss Agnes She —

knew you ten years ago, when you were a young, happy and,
let us say, pretty girl — Behold how she looks now. Five
children, drudgery, baby-cries, hunger, ill-treatment. See
how beauty has perished and joy vanished in the fulfilment of
which should have brought that inner satisfaction which
duties
makes each line in the face harmonious and fills the eye with
a quiet glow.
Master of Q. [Covering the poeVs mouth with his hand]
Shut up! Shut up!
The Poet. That is what they all say. And if you keep
silent, then they cry: speak! Oh, restless humanity!
The Daughter. [Goes to Lena] Tell me your troubles.
Lena. No, I dare not, for then they will be made worse.

The Daughter. Who could be so cruel ?

Lena. I dare not tell, for if I do, I shall be spanked.

The Poet. That is just what will happen. But I will

speak, even though the blackamoor knock out all my teeth

I will tell that justice is not always done — Agnes, daughter

of the gods, do you hear music and dancing on the hill over

there ? — Well, it is Lena's sister who has come home from

the city where she went astray —you understand ? Now they
 THEDREAMPLAY 63

are killing the fatted calf; but Lena, who stayed at home, has
to carry slop pails and feed the pigs.

The Daughter. There is rejoicing at home because the

stray has left the paths of evil, and not merely because she has
come back. Bear that in mind.
The Poet. But then they should give a ball and banquet
every night for the spotless worker that never strayed into
patlis of error — Yet they do nothing of the kind, but when
Lena has a free moment, she is sent to prayer-meetings where
she has to hear reproaches for not being perfect. Is this

justice ?

The Daughter. Your question is so difficult to answer

because — There are so many unforeseen cases
The Poet. That much the Caliph, Haroun the Just, came
to understand. He was sitting on his throne, and from its

height he could never make out what happened below. At last

complaints penetrated to his exalted ears. And then, one fine

day, he disguised himself and descended unobserved among
the crowds to find out what kind of justice they were getting.
The Daughter. I hope you don't take me for Haroun
the Just!
The Officer. Let us talk of something else — Here come
visitors.

A white boat, shaped like a inking ship, with a dragon

for figure-head, with a pale-blue silken sail on a gilded
yard, and with a rose-red standard flying from the top

of a gilded mast, glides through the strait from the left.

He and She are seated in the stern with their arms

around each other.

The Officer. Behold perfect happiness, bliss without

hmits, young love's rejoicing!

The stage grows brighter.

64 THEDREAMPLAY
He. [Stands up in the boat and sings]

Hail, beautiful haven,

Where the Springs of my youth were spent,
Where mv first sweet dreams were dreamt
To thee I return,
But lonely no longer!

Ye hills and groves.

Thou sky o'erhead,
Thou mirroring sea.
Give greeting to her:

My love, my bride.

My light and my life

The flags at the landings of Fairhaven are dipped in

salute; white handkerchiefs are waited from veran-
dahs and boats, and the air is filed xcith tender chords

from harps and violins.

The Poet. See the light that surrounds them ! Hear how
the air is ringing with music! — Eros!
The Officer. It is Victoria.

Master of Q. Well, what of it ?

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

[The Master of Quarantine waves a yellow flag.

The Officer. [Pulling a rope that turns the boat toward
Foulstrand] Hold on there!

He and She become aware of the hideous view and give

vent to their horror.
Master of Q. Yes, it comes hard. But here every one
must stop who hails from plague-stricken places.
The Poet. The idea of speaking in such manner, of act-
ing in such a way, within the presence of two human beings
 THE DREAM PLAY 65

united in love! Touch them not! Lay not hands on love!

It is treason !
— Woe to us ! Everything beautiful must now
be dragged —
down dragged into the mud!
[He and She step ashore, looking sad and shamefaced.
He. Woe to us! What have we done ?
IVLvsTER OF Q. It is not necessary to have done anything
in order to encounter life's little pricks.

She. So short-lived are joy and happiness!

He. How long must we stay here .''

Master of Q. Forty days and nights.

She. Then rather into the water!
—
He. To live here among blackened hills and pig-sties ?

The Poet. Love overcomes all, even sulphur fumes and

carbolic acid.
Master of Q. [Starts a fire in the stove; blue, sidphurous
flames break forth] Now I set the sulphur going. Will you
please step in ?

She. Oh, my blue dress will fade.

Master of Q. And become white. So your roses will

also turn white in time.

He. Even your cheeks — in forty days
She. [To The Officer] That will please you.

The Officer. No, it will not! — Of course, your happi-

ness was the cause of my suffering, but — it doesn't matter
for I am graduated and have obtained a position over there
—heigh-ho and And the Fall
alas! be teaching
in I shall

— teaching boys the same lessons myself learned dur-

school I

ing my childhood and youth— the same lessons throughout

my manhood and, my old age — the self-same
finally, in les-

sons! What does twice two make? How many times can
four be evenly divided by two ? — Until I get a pension and
can do nothing at all —just wait around for meals and the
newspapei's — until at last I am carted to the crematorium
66 THEDREAMPLAY
and burned to ashes — Have you nobody here who is entitled
to a pension ? Barring twice two makes four, it is probably
the worst thing of all — to begin school all over again when one
already is graduated; to ask the same questions until death
comes
An elderly man goes by, with his hands folded behind
his back.
The Officer. There is a pensioner now, waiting for him-
self to die. I think he must be a captain who missed the rank
of major; or an assistant judge who was not made a chief
justice. Many are called but few are chosen — He is wait-
ing for his breakfast now.
The Pensioner. No, for the newspaper —the morning
paper.
The Officer. And he is only fifty-four years old. He
may spend twenty-five more years waiting for meals and
newspapers — is it not dreadful ?

ThePensioner. What is not dreadful ? Tell me, tell me!

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

She. Do you think I can be happy when I see you suffering ?

How can you think it ? Perhaps it will soothe your pains that
I am to be imprisoned here for forty days and nights ? Tell
me, does it soothe your pains ?

The Officer. Yes and no. How can I enjoy seeing vou
suffer? Oh!
She. And do you think my happiness can be founded on
your torments ?
 THEDREAMPLAY 67

The Officer. We are to be pitied all of us! —

All. [Raise their arms toward the sky and utter a cry of
anguish that sounds like a dissonant chord] Oh!
The Daughter. Everlasting One, hear them! Life is

evil! Men are to be pitied!

All. [As before] Oh!
For a moment the stage is completely darkened, and during that
moment everybody ivithdraivs or takes up a new position.

When the light is turned on again, Foulstrand is seen in

the background, lying in deep shadow. The strait is in

the middle distance and Fairhaven in the foreground, both

steeped in light. To the right, a comer of the Casino, where
dancing couples are visible throxigh the open windows.
Three servant maids are standing outside on top of an
empty box, with arms around each other, staring at the

dancers within. On the verandah of the Casino stands a

bench, where "Plain" Edith is sitting. She is bare-

headed, with an abundance of tousled liair, and looks sad.

In front of her is an open piano.

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

In the centre of the middle distance, a pier with white sailboats

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

The Daughter and The Officer enter.

The Daughter. Here is peace, and happiness, and leisure.

No more toil; every day a holiday; everybody dressed up in

their best; dancing and music in the early morning. [To the
maids] Why don't you go in and have a dance, girls ?

The Maids. We?

The Officer. They are servants, don't you see!
68 THE DREAM PLAY
The Daughter. Of course! — But why is Edith sitting

there instead of dancing ?

[Edith buries her face in her hands.

The Officer. Don't question her! She has been sitting
there three hours without being asked for a dance.
[Goes into tlie yellow house on the left.

The Daughter. What a cruel form of amusement!

The Mother. [In a low-necked dress, entersfromthe Casino
and goes up to Edith] Why don't you go in as I told you .'*

Edith. Because — I cannot throw myself at them. That

I am ugly, I know, and I know that nobody wants to dance
with me, but I might be spared from being reminded of it.

Begins to play on the piano, the Toccata Con Fuga, Op.

10, by Sebastian Bach.

Adagio

i^=^^^i=; ft

r etc.

The waltz music from within is heard faintly at first.

Then it grows in strength, as if to compete with the
Bach Toccata. Edith prevails over it and brings it

to silence. Dancers appear in the doorway to hear

her play. Everybody on the stage stands still and lis-

tens reverently.

A Naval Officer. [Takes Alice, one of the dancers,

around the waist and drags her toward the pier] Come quick!
Edith breaks off abruptly, rises and stares at the couple
with an expression of utter despair; stands as if turned
to stone.
 THEDREAMPLAY 69

Note the front ivall of the yellow house disappears, revealing

three benches full of schoolboys. Among these The

Officer is seen, looking worried and depressed. In front
of the boys stands The Teacher, bespectacled and holding
a piece of chalk in one hand, a rattan cane in the other.
The Teacher. [To The Officer] Well, my boy, can you
tell me what twice two makes ?

The Officer remains seated while he racks his mind

without finding an answer.
The Teacher. You must rise when I ask you a question.
The Officer. [Harassed, rises] Two — twice —let me see.
That makes two-two.
The Teacher. I see! You have not studied your lesson.
The Officer. [Ashamed] Yes, I have, but —I know the

answer, but I cannot tell it

The Teacher. You want to wriggle out of it, of course.

You know it, but you cannot tell. Perhaps I may help you.
[Pidls his hair.

The Officer. Oh, it is dreadful, it is dreadful!

The Teacher. Yes, it is dreadful that such a big boy lacks
all ambition
The Officer. [Hurt] Big boy — yes, I am big—bigger than
all these others —I am full-grown, I am done with school
[As if leaking 2ip] I have graduated —why am I then sitting

here ? Have I not received my doctor's degree ?

The Teacher. Certainly, but you are to sit here and

mature, you know. You have to mature — isn't that so ?

The Officer. [Feels his forehead] Yes, that is right, one

must mature — —
Twice two makes two and this I can de- —
monstrate by analogy, which is the highest form of all rea-
soning. Listen! —
Once one makes one; consequently twice
two must make two. For what applies in one case must also
apply in another.
70 THEDREAMPLAY
The Teacher. Your conclusion is based on good logic,

but your answer is wrong.

The Officer. What is logical cannot be wrong. Let us
test it. One divided by one gives one, so that two divided by
two must give two.
The Teacher. Correct according to analogy. But how
much does once three make ?
The Officer. Three, of course.
The Teacher. Consequently twice three must also make
three.

The Officer. [Pondering] No, that cannot be right it —

cannot or else — —
[Sits down dejectedly] No, I am not mature

yet.

The Teacher. No, indeed, you are far from mature.

The Officer. But how long am I to sit here, then ?
The Teacher. Here— how 'long? Do you believe that
time and space exist ? — • Suppose that time does exist, then
you should be able to say what time is. What is time ?

The Officer. Time — [Thinks] I cannot tell, but I know

what it is. Consequently I may also know what twice two is

without being able to tell it. And, teacher, can you tell what
time is ?

The Teacher. Of course I can.

All the Boys. Tell us then
—
The Teacher. Time let me see. [Stands immovable vnth
one finger on his nose] While we are talking, time flies. Con-
sequently time is something that flies while we talk.
A Boy. [Rising] Now you are talking, teacher, and while
you are talking, I fly: consequently I am time. [Runs out.

The Teacher. That accords completely with the laws of

logic.

The Officer. Then the laws of logic are silly, for Nils

who ran away, cannot be time.

 THEDREAMPLAY 71

The Teacher. That is also good logic, although it is silly.

The Officer. Then logic itself is silly.
The Teacher. So it seems. But if logic is silly, then all
the world is silly —and then the devil himself wouldn't stay
here to teach you more silliness. If anybody treats me to a

drink, we'll go and take a bath.

The Officer. That is a posterus priua, or the world

turned upside down, for it is customary to bathe first and have

the drink afterward. Old fogy!
The Teacher. Beware of a swelled head, doctor!

The Officer. Call me captain, if you please. I am an

oflScer, and I cannot understand why I should be sitting here

to get scolded like a schoolboy

The Teacher. [With raised index finger] We were to

mature!
Master of Q. [Enters] The quarantine begins.
The Officer. Oh, there you are. Just think of it, this

fellow makes me sit among the boys although I am graduated.

Master of Q. Well, why don't you go away ?
The Officer. Heaven knows !
— Go away ? Why, that

is no easy thing to do.

The Teacher. I guess not—just try!

The Officer. [To Master of Quarantine] Save me!
Save me from his eye
Master of Q. Come on. Come and help us dance

We have to dance before the plague breaks out. We must!

The Officer. Is the brig leaving ?

Master of Q. Yes, first of all the brig must leave

Then there will be a lot of tears shed, of course.

The Officer. Always tears: when she comes and when

she goes — Let us get out of here.
They go out. The Teacher continues his lesson in

silence.
72 THEDREAMPLAY
The Maids that were staring through the windoxc of

the dance hall walk sadly down to the pier. Edith,

who has been standing like a statue at the piano, fol-
lows them.
The Daughter. [To The Officer] Is there not one
happy person to be found in this paradise ?

The Officer. Yes, there is a newly married couple. Just

watch them.
The Newly Married Couple enter.

Husband. [To /?/^ Wife] My joy has no limits, and I could

now wish to die
Wife. Why die ?

Husband. Because at the heart of happiness grows the

seed of disaster. Happiness devours itself like a flame — it

cannot burn for ever, but must go out some time. And this

presentiment of the coming end destroys joy in the very hour

of its culmination.
Wife. Let us then die together — this moment!
Husband. Die? All right! For I fear happiness —that
cheat! [They go toward the water.
The Daughter. Life is evil! Men are to be pitied!
The Officer. Look at this fellow. He is the most envied
mortal in this neighbourhood.
The Blind IVL^n is led in.
The Officer. He is the owner of these hundred or more
Italian villas. He owns all these bays, straits, shores, forests,
together with the fishes in the water, the birds in the air, the
game in the woods. These thousand or more people are his
tenants. The sun rises upon his sea and sets upon his land
—
The Daughter. Well is he complaining also ?
The Officer. Yes, and with right, for he cannot see.

Master of Q. He is blind.
The Daughter. The most envied of all!
 THEDREAMPLAY 73

The Officer. Now he has come to see the brig depart

with his son on board.
The Blind Man. I cannot see, but I hear. I hear the
anchor bill claw the clay bottom as when the hook is torn out
of a fish and brings up the heart with it through, the neck
My son, my only child, is going to journey across the wide
sea to foreign lands, and I can follow him only in my thought!
Now I hear the clanking of the chain —and — there is some-
thing that snaps and cracks like clothes drying on a line
wet handkerchiefs perhaps. And I hear it blubber and snivel
as when people are weeping —maybe the splashing of the
wavelets among the seines —or maybe along the shore,
girls

deserted and disconsolate — Once asked a I why the child

ocean is salt, and the child, which had a father on a long trip
across the high seas, said immediately: the ocean is salt be-
cause the sailors shed so many tears into it. And why do the
sailors cry so much then ? — Because they are always going
away, replied the child; and that is why they are always dry-
ing their handkerchiefs in the rigging — And why does man
weep when he is sad ? I asked at last — Because the glass in
the eyes must be washed now and then, so that we can see
clearly, said the child.

The brig has set sail and is gliding off. The girls along
the shore are alternately waving their handkerchiefs
and wiping off their tears xoith them. Then a signal
is set on the foremast —a red hall in a white field, mean-
ing "yes." In response to it Alice waves her hand-
kerchief triumphantly.
The Daughter. [To The Officer] What is the mean-
ing of that flag ?

The Officer. It means "yes." It is the lieutenant's

troth —red as the red blood of the arteries, set against the blue
cloth of the sky.
74 THEDREAMPLAY
The Daughter. And how does "no" look?
The Officer. It is blue as the spoiled blood in the veins

—but look, how jubilant Alice is.

The Daughter. And how Edith cries.

The Blind Man. Meet and part. Part and meet. That
is life. I met his mother. And then she went away from me.
He was left to me; and now he goes.
The Daughter. But he will come back.
The Blind IMan. Who is speaking to me I have heard .''

that voice before— in my dreams; in my youth, when vaca-

tion began in the early years of my marriage, when my child
;

was born. Every time life smiled at me, I heard that voice,
like a whisper of the south wind, like a chord of harps from
above, like what I feel the angels' greeting must be in the
Holy Night
The Lawyer enters and goes up to whisper something
into The Blind Man's ear.

The Blind Man. Is that so ?

The Lawyer. That's the truth. [Goes to The Daughter]
Now you have seen most of it, but you have not yet tried the
worst of it.

The Daughter. What can that be ?

The Lawyer. Repetition — recurrence. To retrace one's
own tracks ; to come
be sent back to the task once finished —
The Daughter. Where?
The Lawyer. To your duties.
The Daughter. What does that mean ?
The Lawyer. Everything you dread. Everything you do
not want but must. It means to forego, to give up, to do
—
without, to lack it means everything that is unpleasant,
repulsive, painful.
The Daughter. Are there no pleasant duties ?
The Lawyer. They become pleasant when they are done.
 THEDREAMPLAY 75

The Daughter. When they have ceased to exist — Duty

is then something unpleasant. What is pleasant then ?

The Lawyer. What is pleasant is sin.

The Daughter. Sin?
The Lawter. Yes, something that has to be punished.
If I have had a pleasant day or night, then I suffer infernal

pangs and a bad conscience the next day.

The Daughter. How strange!
The Lawyer. I wake up in the morning with a headache;
and then the repetitions begin, but so that everything becomes
perverted. Wliat the night before was pretty, agreeable,
witty, is presented by memory in the morning as ugly, dis-
tasteful, stupid. Pleasure seems to decay, and all joy goes to
pieces. What men call success serves always as a basis for
their next failure. My own successes have brought ruin upon
me. For men view the fortune of others with an instinctive
dread. They regard it unjust that fate should favour any one
man, and so they try to restore balance by piling rocks on the
road. To have talent is to be in danger of one's life, for then
one may easily starve to death! — However, you will have
to return to your duties, or I shall bring suit against you, and
we shall pass through every court up to the highest —one, two,
three
The Daughter. Return ? — To the iron stove, and the
cabbage pot, and the baby clothes
The Lawyer. Exactly! We have a big wash to-day, for
we must wash all the handkerchiefs
The Daughter. Oh, must I do it all over again ?
The Lawyer. All life is nothing but doing things over
again. Look at the teacher in there —
He received his doc-
tor's degree yesterday, was laurelled and saluted, climbed Par-
nassus and was embraced by the monarch —and to-day he
starts school all over again, asks how much twice two makes.
76 THEDREAMPLAY
and will continue to do so until his death — However, you
must come back to your home!
The Daughter. I shall rather die!
The Lawyer. Die ? — That is not allowed. First of all,

it is a disgrace —so much so that even the dead body sub- is

jected to insults; and secondly, one goes — a mortalto hell it is

sin!

The Daughter. It is not easy to be human!

All. Hear!
The Daughter. I shall not go back with you to humilia-
tion and dirt— I am longing for the heights whence I came
—but first the door must be opened so that I may learn the
—
secret It is my will that the door be opened
The Lawyer. Then you must retrace your own steps,
cover the road you have already travelled, suffer all annoy-
ances, repetitions, tautologies, recopyings, that a suit will
bring with it

The Daughter. May it come then — But first I must

go into the solitude and the wilderness to recover my own self.

We shall meet again! [To The Poet] Follow me.

Woe! Woe!
Cries of anguish are heard from a distance.
Woe!
The Daughter. What is that ?
The Lawyer. The lost souls at Foulstrand.
The Daughter. Why do they wail more loudly than usual
to-day ?

The Lawyer. Because the sun is shining here; because

here we have music, dancing, youth. And it makes them feel
their own sufferings more keenly.

The Daughter. We must set them free.

The Lawyer. Try it! Once a liberator appeared, and he
was nailed to a cross.

The Daughter. By whom ?

 THEDREAMPLAY 77
The Lawyer. By all the right-minded.
The Daughter. Who are they ?
The Lawyer. Are you not acquainted with all the right-
minded Then you must
? learn to know them.
The Daughter. Were they the ones that prevented your
graduation ?

The Lawi'er. Yes.

The Daughter. Then I know them!

Curtain.
On the shores of the Mediterranean. To the left, in the fore-

ground, a tvhite wall, and above it branches of an orange

tree with ripe fruit on them. In the background, villas

and a Casino placed on a terrace. To the right, a huge

pile of coal and two wheel-barrows. In the background, to

the right, a corner of blue sea.

Two coalheavers, naked to the waist, their faces, hands, and

bodies blackened by coal dust, are seated on the wheel-
barrows. Their expressions show intense despair.
The Daughter and The Lawyer in the background.

The Daughter. This is paradise!

First Coalheaver. This is hell!

Second Coalheaver. One hundred and twenty degrees

in the shadow.
First Heaver. Let's have a bath.
Second Heaver. The police won't let us. No bathing
here.

First Heaver. Couldn't we pick some fruit off that tree ?

Second Heaver. Then the police would get after us.

First Heaver. But I cannot do a thing in this heat — I'll

just chuck the job

Second Heaver. Then the police will get you for sure!

[Pause\ And you wouldn't have anything to eat anyhow.

First Heaver. Nothing to eat ? We, who work hardest,

get least food; and the rich, who do nothing, get most. Might
one not —without disregard of truth—assert that this is injus-

tice .? — What has the daughter of the gods to say about it ?

The Daughter. I can say nothing at all — But tell me,

78
 THEDREAMPLAY 79

what have you done that makes you so black and your lot so

hard?
First Heaver. What have we done ? We have been born
of poor and perhaps not very good parents — Maybe we
have been punished a couple of times.
The Daughter. Punished .'

First Heaver. Yes, the unpunished hang out in the Casino

up there and dine on eight courses with wine.
The Daughter. [To The Lawyer] Can that be true.'
The Lawyer. On the whole, yes.
The Daughter. You mean to say that every man at some
time has deserved to go to prison ?

The Lawyer. Yes.

The Daughter. You, too ?
The Lawyer. Yes.
The Daughter. Is it true that the poor cannot bathe in
the sea ?

The Lawyer. Yes. Not even with their clothes on.

None but who intend to take their own lives escape
those
being fined. And those are said to get a good drubbing at the
police station.

The Daughter. But can they not go outside of the city,

out into the country, and bathe there .'*

The Lawyer. There is no place for them — all the land is

fenced in.

The Daughter. But I mean in the free, open country.

The Lawtter. There is no such thing— it all belongs to

somebody.
The Daughter. Even the sea, the great, vast sea
The Lawyer. Even that! You cannot sail the sea in a
boat and land anywhere without having it put down in writing

and charged for. It is lovely!

The Daughter. This is not paradise.

80 THEDREAMPLAY
The Lawyer. I should say not!
The Daughter. Why don't men do something to improve
their lot ?

The Lawyer. Oh, they try, of course, but all the improvers
end in prison or in themadhouse
The Daughter. Who puts them in prison .?

The Lawyer. All the right-minded, all the respectable

The Daughter. Who sends them to the madhouse ?
The Lawyer. Their own despair when they grasp the

hopelessness of their efforts.

The Daughter. Has the thought not occurred to any-
body, that for secret reasons it must be as it is ?

The Lawyer. Yes, those who are well off always think so.
The Daughter. That it is all right as it is ?
First Heaver. And yet we are the foundations of society.
not unloaded, then there will be no fire in the
If the coal is

kitchen stove, in the parlour grate, or in the factory furnace;

then the light will go out in streets and shops and homes; then
darkness and cold will descend upon you —and, therefore, we
have to sweat as in hell so that the black coals may be had
And what do you do for us in return ?

The Lawyer. [To The Daughter] Help them! [Pause]

That conditions cannot be quite the same for everybody, I
understand, but why should they differ so widely ?

A Gentleman and A Lady pass across the stage.

The Lady. Will you come and play a game with us ?
The Gentleman. No, I must take a walk, so I can eat

something for dinner.

First Heaver. So that he can eat something ?
Second Heaver. So that he can ?

Children enter and cry with horror when they catch

sight of the grimy workers.
First Heaver. They cry when they see us. They cry
 THEDREAMPLAY 81

Second Heaver. Damn it all! — I guess we'll have to

pull out the scaffolds soon and begin to operate on this rotten

body
First Heaver. Damn it, I say, too! [Spits.

The Lawyer. The Daughter]

[To Yes, it is all wrong.
And men are not so very bad —but
The Daughter. But ?

The Lawyer. But the government

The Daughter. [Goes out, hiding her face in her hands]
This is not paradise.
Coalheavers. No, hell, that's what it is!

Curtain.
FingaVs Cave. Long green waves are rolling slowly into the
cave. In the foreground, a siren buoy is swaying to and
fro in time with the waves, hut ivithout sounding except
at the indicated moment. Music of the winds. Music of
the waves.
The Daughter and The Poet.
The Poet, Where are you leading me ?
The Daughter. Far away from the noise and lament of
the man-children, to the utmost end of the ocean, to the cave
that we name Indra's Ear because it is the place where the
king of the heavens is said to listen to the complaints of the
mortals.
The Poet. What? In this place?
The Daughter. Do you see how this cave is built like a
shell ? Yes, you can see Do you know that your ear, too,
it.

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

larger one!
The Poet. [Listening] I hear nothing but the whispering
of the wind.
The Daughter. Then I shall interpret it for you. Lis-
ten. The wail of the winds. [Recites to subdued music:

Born beneath the clouds of heaven.

Driven we were by the lightnings of Indra
82
 THEDREAMPLAY 83

Down to the sand-covered earth.

Straw from the harvested fields soiled our feet;

Dust from the high-roads.

Smoke from the cities.
Foul-smelling breaths,
Fumes from cellars and kitchens,
All we endured.
Then to the open sea we fled.
Filling our lungs with air.

Shaking our wings,

And laving our feet.

Indra, Lord of the Heavens,

Hear us!
Hear our sighing!
Unclean is the earth;
Evil is life;

Neither good nor bad

Can men be deemed.
As they can, they live.

One day at a time.

Sons of dust, through dust they journey;
Born out of dust, to dust they return.
Given they were, for trudging.
Feet, not wings for flying.
Dusty they grow
Lies the fault then with them.
Or with Thee?

The Poet. Thus I heard it once

The Daughter. Hush! The winds are still singing.

[Recites to subdued music:

84 THEDREAMPLAY
We, winds that wander.
We, the air's offspring,
Bear with us men's lament.

Heard us you have

During gloom-filled Fall nights.
In chimneys and pipes.
In key-holes and door cracks.
When the rain wept on the roof:
Heard us you have
In the snowclad pine woods
Midst wintry gloom:
Heard us you have.
Crooning and moaning
In ropes and rigging
On the high-heaving sea.

It was we, the winds.

Offspring of the air.

Who how to grieve

learned
Within human breasts
Through which we passed
In sick-rooms, on battle-fields.

But mostly where the newborn

Whimpered and wailed
At the pain of living.

We, we, the winds,

We are whining and whistling:

Woe! Woe! Woe!

The Poet, It seems to me that I have already

The Daughter. Hush! Now the waves are singing.
IRecites to subdued music:
 THEDREAMPLAY 85

We, we waves,
That are rocking the winds
To rest-
Green cradles, we waves!

Wet are we, and salty;

Leap like flames of fire

Wet flames are we:

Burning, extinguishing;
Cleansing, replenishing;
Bearing, engendering.

We, we waves.
That are rocking the winds
To rest!

The Daughter. False waves and faithless ! Everything on

earth that is not burned, is drowned —by the waves. Look
at this. {Pointing to "pile of debris] See what the sea has taken
and spoiled! Nothing but the figure-heads remain of the

sunken ships—and the names: Justice, Friendship, Golden

Peace, Hope — this is all that is left of Hope —of Hope—
fickle

Railings, tholes, bails! And lo: the life buoy— which saved
itself and let distressed men perish.
The pile] Here is the name-board
Poet. [Searching in the
of the ship Justice. That was the one which left Fairhaven
with the Blind Man's son on board. It is lost then! And
with it are gone the lover of Alice, the hopeless love of Edith.
The Daughter. The Blind Man ? Fairhaven .? I must
"
have been dreaming of them. And the lover of Alice, "Plain
Edith, Foulstrand and the Quarantine, sulphur and carbolic

acid, the graduation in the church, the Lawyer's oflSce, the

passageway and Victoria, the Growing Castle and the Offi-

cer — All this I have been dreaming

86 THEDREAMPLAY
The Poet. It was in one of my poems.
The Daughter. You know then what poetry is

The Poet. I know then what dreaming is — But what

is poetry ?

The Daughter. Not reahty, but more than reality —not

dreaming, but daylight dreams
The Poet. And the man-children think that we poets are
only playing —that we invent and make believe.
The Daughter. And fortunate it is, my friend, for

otherwise the world would lie fallow for lack of ministration.

Everybody would be stretched on his back, staring into the

sky. Nobody would be touching plough or spade, hammer
or plane.
The Poet. And you say this, Indra's daughter, you who
belong in part up there
The Daughter. You do right in reproaching me. Too
long have I stayed down here taking mud baths like you—
My thoughts have lost their power of flight; there is clay on
their wings —mire on their feet —and I myself [raising her

arms] I sink, I sink — Help me, father. Lord of the Heavens!

[Silence] I can no longer hear his answer. The ether no

longer carries the sound from his lips to my ear's shell —the
silvery thread has snapped — Woe is me, I am earthbound!
The Poet. Do you mean to ascend —soon ?

The Daughter. As soon as I have consigned this mortal

shape to the flames —for even the waters of the ocean cannot
cleanse me. Why do you question me thus ?

The Poet. Because I have a prayer

The Daughter. What kind of prayer ?
The Poet. A written supplication from humanity to the

ruler of the universe, formulated by a dreamer.

The Daughter. To be presented by whom ?
The Poet. By Indra's daughter.
 THE DREAM PLAY 87

The Daughter. Can you repeat what you have written ?

The Poet. I can.

The Daughter. Speak it then.
The Poet. Better that you do it.

The Daughter. Where can I read it?

The Poet. In my mind —or here.
[Hands her a roll of paper.
The Daughter. [Receives the roll, but reads without look

ing at it] Well, by me it shall be spoken then:

" Why must you be born in anguish ?

Why, O man-child, must you always

Wring your mother's heart with torture
When you bring her joy maternal.
Highest happiness yet known .''

Why to life must you awaken.

Why to light give natal greeting.

With a cry of anger and of pain ?

Why not meet it smiling, man-child.

When the gift of life is counted
In itself a boon unmatched .'

Why like beasts should we be coming.

We of race divine and human ?
Better garment craves the spirit
Than one made of filth and blood!
'*
Need a god his teeth be changing

— Silence, rash one! Is it seemly

For the work to blame its maker ?
No one yet has solved life's riddle.

"Thus begins the human journey

O'er a road of thorns and thistles;
88 THEDREAMPLAY
If a beaten path be offered,
It is named at once forbidden
If a flower you covet, straightway
You are told it is another's;
If a field should bar your progress,
And you dare to break across it,
You destroy your neighbour's harvest;
Others then your own will trample,
That the measure may be evened!
Every moment of enjoyment
Brings to some one else a sorrow.
But your sorrow gladdens no one.
For from sorrow naught but sorrow springs.

" Thus you journey till you die.

And your death brings others' bread."

— Is it thus that you approach,

Son of Dust, the One Most High ?

The Poet,

Could the son of dust discover

Words so pure and bright and simple
That to heaven they might ascend ?

Child of gods, wilt thou interpret

Mankind's grievance in some language
That immortals understand ?

The Daughter. I will.

The Poet. [Pointing to the buoy] What is that floating
there ?— A buoy ?
The Daughter. Yes.
 THEDREAMPLAY 89

The Poet. It looks like a lung with a windpipe.

The Daughter. It is the watchman of the seas. When
danger is abroad, it sings.

The Poet. It seems to me as if the sea were rising and the

waves growing larger
The Daughter. Not unlikely.
The Poet. Woe! What do I see? A ship bearing down
upon the reef.

The Daughter. What ship can that be ?

The Poet. The ghost ship of the seas, I think.
The Daughter. What ship is that ?
The Poet. The Flying Dutchman.
The Daughter. Oh, that one. Why is he punished so

hard, and why does he not seek harbour .'

The Poet. Because he had seven faithless wives.

The Daughter. And for this he should be punished ?
The Poet. Yes, all the right-minded condemned him
The Daughter. Strange world, this — How can he then !

be freed from his curse ?

The Poet. Freed ? — Oh, they take good care that none
is set free.

The Daughter. Why?

The Poet. Because — No, it is not the Dutchman! It

is an ordinary ship in distress. Why does not the buoy cry

out now ? Look, how the sea is rising —how high the waves
are —soon we shall be unable to get out of the cave! Now
the ship's bell is ringing — Soon we shall have another figure-

head. Cry out, buoy! Do your duty, watchman! [The huoij

sounds a four-voice chord of fifths and sixths, reminding one

of fog horjis] The crew is signalling to us but we are —
doomed ourselves.

The Daughter. Do you not wish to be set free ?

90 THE DREAM PLAY
The Poet. Yes, of course —of course, I wish it —but not
just now, and not by water.
The Crew. [Sings in quartet] Christ Kyrie!

The Poet. Now they are crying aloud, and so is the sea.
but no one gives ear.
The Crew. [As before] Christ Kyrie!
The Daughter. Who is coming there ?
The Poet. Walking on the waters ? There is only one
who does that —and it is not Peter, the Rock, for he sank like
a stone
A ivhite light is seen shining over the water at some dis-
tance.

The Crew. Christ Kyrie!

The Daughter. Can this be He ?
The Poet. It is He, the crucified
The Daughter. Why — tell me—why was He crucified?

The Poet. Because He wanted to set free

The Daughter. Who was —I have forgotten —that cru-

it

cified Him ?
The Poet. All the right-minded.
The Daughter. W^hat a strange world
The Poet. The sea is rising. Darkness is closing in upon
us. The storm is growing
[The Crew set up a wild outcry.

The Poet. The crew scream with horror at the sight of

 THEDREAMPLAY 91

their Saviour —
and now —they are leaping overboard for fear
of the Redeemer
[The Crew utter another cry.

The Poet. Now they are crying because they must die.
Crying when they are born, and crying when they pass away!
[The rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the cave.

The Daughter. If I could only be sure that it is a ship

The Poet. Really —I don't think it is a ship — It is a
two-storied house with trees in front of it—and —a telephone
tower —a tower that reaches up into the skies — the It is

modern Tower of Babel sending wires to the upper regions —

to communicate with those above
The Daughter. Child, the human thought needs no wires
to make a way for itself —the prayers of the pious penetrate
the universe. It cannot be a Tower of Babel, for if you want
to assail the heavens, you must do so with prayer.
The Poet. No, it is no house —no telephone tower—don't
you see ?
The Daughter. What are you seeing ?
The Poet. I see an open space covered with snow —a drill

ground — The winter sun is shining from behind a church on

a hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow
Now a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds.
They march up along the tower, up the spire. Now they have
reached the cross, but I have a feeling that the first one who
steps on the gilded weathercock at the top must die. Now
they are nearit —
a corporal is leading them ha-ha! There —
comes a cloud sweeping across the open space, and right in
front of the sun, of course —now everything gone—the water
is

in the cloud put out the sun's — The

fire! the sun light of
created the shadow picture of the tower, but the shadow
picture of the cloud swallowed the shadow picture of the
tower
92 THEDREAMPLAY
While The Poet is still speaking, the stage is changed and
shows once more the passageway outside the opera-house.
The Daughter. [To The Portress] Has the Lord
Chancellor arrived yet ?
The Portress. No.
The Daughter. And the Deans of the Faculties ?
The Portress. No.
The Daughter. Call them at once, then, for the door is

to be opened
The Portress. Is it so very pressing ?

The Daughter. Yes, it is. For there is a suspicion that

the solution of the world-riddle may be hidden behind it. Call

the Lord Chancellor, andDeans of the Four Faculties also.

the
[The Portress blows in a whistle.
The Daughter. And do not forget the Glazier and his
diamond, for without them nothing can be done.
Stage People enter from the left as in the earlier scene.

The Officer. [Enters from the background, in Prince Al-

bert and high hat, with a bunch of roses in his hand, looking
radiantly happy] Victoria!
The Portress. The young lady will be coming in a
moment.
The Officer. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table

is set, the wine is on ice — Permit me to embrace you, madam

[Embraces The Portress] Victoria!
A Woman's Voice from Above. [Sings] I am here!
The Officer. [Begins to walk to and fro] Good! I am
waiting.
The Poet. It seems to me that all this has happened be-
fore
The Daughter. So it seems to me also.
The Poet. Perhaps I have dreamt it.

The Daughter. Or put it in a poem, perhaps.

 THEDREAMPLAY 93

The Poet. Or put it in a poem.

The Daughter. Then you know what poetry is.
The Poet. Then I know what dreaming is.
The Daughter. It seems to me that we have said all this

to each other before, in some other place.

The Poet. Then you may soon figure out what reality is.

The Daughter. Or dreaming!

The Poet. Or poetry!
Enter the Lord Chancellor and the Deans of the
Theological, Philosophical, Medical, and
Legal Faculties.
Lord Chancellor. It is about the opening of that door,
of course^ What does the Dean of the Theological Faculty
think of it.?

Dean of Theology. I do not think — I believe Credo

Dean of Philosophy. I hold

Dean of Medicine. I know

Dean of Jurisprudence. I doubt until I have evidence
and witnesses.

Lord Chancellor. Now they are fighting again! — Well,

what does Theology believe ?

Theology. I believe that this door must not be opened,

because it hides dangerous truths

Philosophy. Truth is never dangerous.

Medicine. What is truth ?

Jurisprudence. What can be proved by two witnesses.

Theology. Anything can be proved by two false witnesses

—thinks the pettifogger.

Philosophy. Truth is wisdom, and wisdom, knowledge,

is philosophy itself — Philosophy is the science of sciences,

the knowledge of knowing, and all other sciences are its

servants.
94 THE DREAM PLAY
Medicine. Natural science is the only true science and —
philosophyis no science at all. It is nothing but empty

speculation.
Theology. Good!
Philosophy. [To Theology] Good, you say! And what
are you, then? You are the arch-enemy of all knowledge;
you are the very antithesis of knowledge; you are ignorance
and obscuration
Medicine. Good!
Theology. [To Medicine] You cry "good," you, who
cannot see beyond the length of your own nose in the magnify-
ing glass; who believes in nothing but your own unreliable
senses — in your vision, for instance, which may be far-sighted,
near-sighted, blind, purblind, cross-eyed, one-eyed, colour-

blind, red-blind, green-blind

Medicine. Idiot!

Theology. Ass! [They fight.

Lord Chancellor. Peace! One crow does not peck out
the other's eye.
Philosophy. If I had to choose between those two, The-
ology and Medicine, I should choose — neither!
Jurisprudence. And if I had to sit in judgment on the
three of you, I should find — all guilty! You cannot agree on
a single point, and you never could. Let us get back to the

case in court. What is the opinion of the Lord Chancellor

as to this door and its opening ?

Lord Chancellor. Opinion ? I have no opinion what-

ever. I am merely appointed by the government to see that
you don't break each other's arms and legs in the Council^
while you are educating the young! Opinion ? Why, I take
mighty good care to avoid everything of the kind. Once I

had one or two, but they were refuted at once. Opinions are
always refuted —by their opponents, of course — But per-
 THEDREAMPLAY 95

haps we might open the door now, even with the risk of finding
some dangerous truths behind it?
Jurisprudence. What is truth? What is truth?
Theology. I am the truth and the hfe •

Philosophy. I am the science of sciences

Medicine. I am the only exact science
Jurisprudence. I doubt [They Jight.
The Daughter. Instructors of the young, take shame!
Jurisprudence. Lord Chancellor, as representative of the
government, as head of the corps of instructors, you must
prosecute this woman's offence. She has told all of you to

take shame, which is an insult ; and she has — in a sneering,

ironical sense — called you instructors of the young, which is

a slanderous speech.
The Daughter. Poor youth!
Jurisprudence. She pities the young, which is to accuse
us. Lord Chancellor, you must prosecute the offence.
The Daughter. Yes, I accuse you — ^you in a body —of
sowing doubt and discord in the minds of the young.

Jurisprudence. Listen to her —she herself is making the

young question our authority, and then she charges us with
sowing doubt. Is it not a criminal act, I ask all the right-
minded ?
All Right-Minded. Yes, it is criminal.
Jurisprudence. All the right-minded have condemned
you. Leave in peace with your lucre, or else
The Daughter. My lucre? Or else? What else?
Jurisprudence. Else you will be stoned.
The Poet. Or crucified.
The Daughter. I leave. Follow me, and you shall leara
the riddle.
The Poet. Which riddle?
The Daughter. What did he mean with "my lucre"?
96 THEDREAMPLAY
The Poet. Probably nothing at all. That kind of thing
we call talk. He was just talking.

The Daughter. But it was what hurt me more than any-

thing else
The Poet. That is why he said it, I sup{)ose — Men are
that way.
All Right-Minded. Hooray! The door is open.
Lord Chancellor. What was behind the door?
The Glazier. I can see nothing.
Lord Chancellor. He cannot see anything — of course,
he cannot! Deans of the Faculties: what was behind that
door?
Theology. Nothing! That is the solution of the world-
riddle. In the beginning God created heaven and the earth
out of nothing
Philosophy. Out of nothing comes nothing.
Medicine. Yes, bosh —which is nothing!
Jurisprudence. I doubt. And this is a case of deception.
I appeal to all the right-minded.
The Daughter. [Ta The Poet] Who are the right-
minded ?
The Poet. Who can tell? Frequently all the right-minded
consist of a single person. To-day it is me and mine; to-mor-
row it is you and yours. To that position you are appointed—
or rather, you appoint yourself to it.

All Right-Minded. We have been deceived.

Lord Chancellor. Who has deceived you ?
All Right-Minded. The Daughter!
Lord Chancellor. Will the Daughter please tell us what
she meant by having this door opened ?

The Daughter. No, friends. If I did, you would not

believe me.
Medicine. Why, then, there is nothing there.
 THE DREAM PLAY 97

The Daughter. You have said it —but you have not

understood.
Medicine. It is bosh, what she says!
All. Bosh!
The Daughter. [To The Poet] They are to be pitied.
The Poet. Are you in earnest ?
The Daughter. x\lways in earnest.
The Poet. Do you think the right-minded are to be pitied
also?
The Daughter. They most of all, perhaps.
The Poet. And the four faculties, too .''

The Daughter. They also, and not the least. Four heads,
four minds, and one body. Who made that monster ?
All. She has not answered!
Lord Chancellor. Stone her then!
The Daughter. I have answered.
Lord Chancellor. Hear —she answers.
All. Stone her! She answers!
The Daughter. Whether she answer or do not answer,
stone her! Come, prophet, and I shall tell you the riddle
—but far away from here—out in the desert, where no one
can hear us, no one see us, for
The Lawyer. [Enters and takes The Daughter by the
arm] Have you forgotten your duties ?

The Daughter. Oh, heavens, no! But I have higher

duties.

The Lawyer. And your child ?

The Daughter. My child —what of it ?
The Lawi'er. Your child is crying for you.
The Daughter. My child! Woe, I am earth-bound!
And this pain in my breast, this anguish —-what is it ?
The Lavtyer. Don't you know ?
The Daughter. No.
98 THEDREAMPLAY
The Lawyer. It is remorse.
The Daughter. Is that remorse ?
The Lawyer. Yes, and it follows every neglected duty;
every pleasure, even the most innocent, if innocent pleasures
exist, which seems doubtful; and every suffering inflicted upon
one's fellow-beings.
The Daughter. And there is no remedy ?
The Lawyer. Yes, but only one. It consists in doing
your duty at once
The Daughter. You look like a demon when you speak
that word duty — And when, as in my case, there are two
duties to be met?
The Lawyer. Meet one first, and then the other.
The Daughter. The highest first— therefore, you look
after my child, and I shall do my duty^^

The Lawyer. Your child suffers because it misses you

can you bear to know that a human being is suffering for your
sake?
The Daughter. Now strife has entered my soul — it is

rent in two, and the halves are being pulled in opposite direc-
tions !

The Lawyer. Such, you know, are life's little discords.

The Daughter. Oh, how it is pulling!
The Poet. If you could only know how I have spread
sorrow and ruin around me by the exercise of my calling —
and note that I say calling^ which carries with it the highest
duty of all —then you would not even touch my hand.
The Daughter. What do you mean?
The Poet. I had a father who put his whole hope on me
as his only son, destined to continue his enterprise. I ran

away from the business college. My father grieved himself

to death. My mother wanted me to be religious, and I could
not do what she wanted —and she disowned me. I had a
 THEDREAMPLAY 99

friend who assisted me through trying days of need —and that

friend acted as a tyrant against those on whose behalf I was
speaking and writing. And I had to strike down my friend

and benefactor in order to save my soul. Since then I have

had no peace. Men call me devoid of honour, infamous —and
it does not help that my conscience says, "you have done
right," for in the next moment it is saying, "you have done
wrong." Such is life.

The Daughter. Come with me into the desert.

The Lawyer. Your child!
The Daughter. [Indicating all those present] Here are
my children. By themselves they are good, but if they only
come together, then they quarrel and turn into demons
Farewell
Outside the castle. The same scenery as in the first scene of the

first act. But now the ground in front of the castle wall is

covered with flowers — blue monk's-hood or aconite. On the

roof of the castle, at the very top of its lantern, there is a
chrysanthemum hud ready to open. The castle windows
are illuminated with candles.
The Daughter and The Poet.
The Daughter. The hour is not distant when, with the
help of the flames, I shall once more ascend to the ether. It is

what you call to die, and what you approach in fear.

The Poet. Fear of the unknown.

The Daughter. Which is known to you.

The Poet. Who knows it ?

The Daughter. All! Why do you not beheve your
prophets ?

The Poet. Prophets have always been disbelieved. Why

is that so? And "if God has spoken, why will men not
believe then ? " His convincing power ought to be irresistible

The Daughter. Have you always doubted ?

100 THEDREAMPLAY
The Poet. No. I have had certainty many times. But
after a while it passed away, like a dream when you wake up.
The Daughter. It is not easy to be human!
The Poet. You see and admit '\t?
The Daughter. I do.
The Poet. Listen! Was it not Indra that once sent his
son down here to receive the complaints of mankind ?

The Daughter. Thus it happened —and how was he

received ?

The Poet. How did he fill his mission ? — to answer with

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

The Poet. Bettered.? — Yes, a little. A very little

But instead of asking questions — will you not tell the riddle ?

The Daughter. Yes. But to what use? You will not

believe me.
The Poet. In you I shall believe, for I know who you are.
The Daughter. Then I shall tell! In the morning of
the ages, before the sun was shining, Brahma, the divine
primal force, let himself be persuaded by Maya, the world-
mother, to propagate himself. This meeting of the divine
primal matter with the earth-matter was the fall of heaven
into sin. Thus the world, existence, mankind, are nothing but
a phantom, an appearance, a dream-image
The Poet. My dream!
The Daughter. A dream of truth! But in order to
free themselves from the earth-matter, the offspring of Brahma
seek privation and suffering. There you have suffering as
a liberator. But this craving for suffering comes into con-
flict with the craving for enjoyment, or love —do you now
understand what love is, with its utmost joys merged into its
 THEDREAMPLAY 101

utmost sufferings, with its mixture of what is most sweet and

most Can you now grasp what woman
bitter ? is ? Woman,
through whom sin and death found their way into Hfe ?

The Poet. I understand! — And the end?

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

The Poet. A conflict it is then ?

The Daughter. Conflict between opposites produces en-

ergy, as fire and water give the power of steam
The Poet, But peace? Rest?
The Daughter. Hush! You must ask no more, and I
can no longer answer. The altar is already adorned for
the sacrifice —the flowers are standing guard —the candles are
lit —there are white sheets in the windows—spruce boughs
have been spread in the gateway
The Poet. And you say this as calmly as if for you suffer-

ing did not exist!

The Daughter. You think so ? — • I have suffered all
your sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations
were so much more acute
The Poet. Relate vour sorrow!
The Daughter. Poet, could you tell yours so that not
one word went too far? Could your word at any time ap-
proach your thought ?

The Poet. No, you are right! To myself I appeared like

one struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to
my song, I found it mere noise —
for this reason, you see, I

have always felt ashamed when they praised me.

The Daughter. And then you ask me — Look me
straight in the eye!

The Poet. I cannot bear your glance

102 THEDREAMPLAY
The Daughter. How could you bear my word then, were
I to speak in your tongue ?
The Poet. But tell me at least before you go: from what
did you suffer most of all down here ?

The Daughter. From being: to feel my vision weakened

by aneye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my
bright and buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of
fat. You have —
seen a brain what roundabout and sneaking
paths
The Poet. Well, that is because all the right-minded think
crookedly
The Daughter. Malicious, always malicious, all of jou!
The Poet. How could one possibly be otherwise ?
The Daughter. First of all I now shake the dust from
my feet— the dirt and the clay
[Takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire.
The Portress. [Puts her shawl into the fire] Perhaps I

may burn my shawl at the same time ? [Goes out.

The Officer. [E7iters] And I my roses, of which only the

thorns are left. [Goes out.

The Billposter. [Enters] My bills may go, but never the

dipnet! [Goes out.

The Glazier. [Enters] The diamond that opened the

door —good-bye! [Goes out.

The Lawyer. [Enters] The minutes of the great process

concerning the pope's beard or the water loss in the sources of

the Ganges. [Goes out.

Master of Quarantine. [Enters] A small contribution in

shape of the black mask that made me a blackamoor against
my will! [Goes out.

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

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

 THEDREAMPLAY 103

The Blindman. [Enters; puts his hand into thejire] 1 give

my hand for my eye. [Goes out.
Don Juan in his wheel chair; She and The Friend.
Don Juan. Hurry up! Hurry up! Life is short!
[Leaves with the other two.
The Poet. I have read that when the end of hfe draw^s
near, everything and everybody rushes by in continuous re-

view — Is this the end "^

The Daughter. Yes, it is my end. Farewell!

The Poet. Give us a parting word.
The Daughter. No, I cannot. Do you beheve that your
words can express our thoughts ?

Dean of Theology. [Enters in a rage^ I am cast off by

God and persecuted by man; I am deserted by the govern-
ment and scorned by my colleagues! How am I to believe
when nobody else believes How am I to defend a god that
.'

does not defend his own ? Bosh, that's what it is

[Throics a book on thejire and goes out.
The Poet. [Snatches the book out ofthejirc] Do you know
what it is ? A martyrology, a calendar with a martyr for
each day of the year.
The Daughter. Martyr?
The Poet. Yes, one that has been tortured and killed on
account of his faith! Tell me why ? — Do you think that all

who are tortured suffer, and that all who are killed feel paia ?

Suffering is said to be salvation, and death a liberation.

Christine. [With slips of paper] I paste, I paste until

there is nothing more to paste
The Poet. And if heaven should split in twain, you would
try to paste it together — Away!
Christine. Are there no double windows in this castle ?

The Poet. Not one, I tell you.

Christine. Well, then I'll go. [Goes out.
104 THEDREAMPLAY
The Daughter.
The parting hour has come, the end draws near.
And now farewell, thou dreaming child of man.
Thou singer, who alone knows how to live!
When from thy winged flight above the earth
At times thou sweepest downward to the dust,

It is to touch it only, not to stay!

And as I go —how, in the parting hour.

As one must leave for e'er a friend, a place.

The heart with longing swells for what one loves, .

And with regret for all wherein one failed!

O, now the pangs of life in all their force
I feel I know at last the lot of man
:

Regretfully one views what once was scorned;

For sins one never sinned remorse is felt;

To stay one craves, but equally to leave:

As if to horses tied that pull apart.
One's heart is split in twain, one's feelings rent,

By indecision, contrast, and discord.

Farewell! To all thy fellow-men make known

That where I go I shall forget them not;

And in thy name their grievance shall be placed

Before the throne. Farewell!
She goes into the castle. Music is heard. The hack'

ground is lit up by the burning castle and reveals a

wall ofhumanfaces, questioning, grieving, despairing.
As the castle breaks into flames, the bud on the roof
opens into a gigantic chrysanthemum flower.

Curtain.
 THE LINK
A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT
1877
 CHARACTERS
The Judge, 27 ijears
The Pastor, 60 years
The Baron, 42 years
The Baroness, 40 years
Alexander Eklund
Emmanuel Wickberg
Carl Johan Sjoberg
Eric Otto Boman
Arenfrid Soderberg
Olof Andersson of Wik
Carl Peter Andersson of Jurors
Berga
Alex Wallin
Anders Eric Ruth
Swen Oscar Erlin
August Alexander Vass
ludwig ostman
The Clerk of the Court
The Sheriff
The Constable
The Lawyer
Alexandersson, a farmer
Alma Jonsson, a servant girl

The Milkmaid
The Farm Hand
Spectators
 THE LINK
A court-room. Door and windows in the background. Through
the 'windows are seen the churchyard and the bell-tower.
Door on the right. On the left, the desk of the judge on a
platform. The front side of the desk is decorated in gold,
with the judicial enihlcms of the sword and the scales. On
both sides of the desk are placed chairs and small tables for

the twelve jurors. In the centre of the room, benches for

the spectators. Along the sides of the room are cupboards
built into the walls. On the doors of these are posted court
notices and schedides of market tolls.

SCENE I

The Sheriff and The Constable

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

The Constable. Not in fifteen years, or since we had the

big murder at Alder Lake.
Sheriff. Well, this story here is almost as good as a double
parricide. That the Baron and the Baroness are going to
separate is scandal enough, but when on top of it the families
take to wrangling about properties and estates, then it's easy
to see that there's going to be a hot time. The only thing
wanting now is that they get to fighting over the child, too,
and then King Solomon himself can't tell what's right.
Constable. What is there behind this case anyhow ? Some
say this and some say that, but the blame ought to rest on
somebody ?
107
108 THE LINK sc. i

Sheriff. I don't know about that. Sometimes it is no-

body's fault when two quarrel, and then again one alone is to
blame for the quarrel of two. Now take my old shrew, for
instance, she's running around at home scolding for dear life

all by herself when I am away, they tell me. Besides, this

is not just a quarrel, but a full-fledged criminal case, and in
most such one party is complainant, or the one that has been
wronged, and the other is defendant, or the one that has com-
mitted the crime. But in this case it is not easy to tell who is

guilty, for both parties are at once complainants and defen-

dants.
Constable. Well, well, queer things do happen these days.
It's as if the women had gone crazy. My old one has spells
when she says that I should bear children also, if there was any
justice in things — just as if the Lord didn't know how he made
hisown creatures. And then I get long rigmaroles about her
being human also, just as if I didn't know that before, or had
said anything to the contrary; and of her being tired of acting

as my servant girl, when, for a fact, I am not much better than

her hired man.

Sheriff. So-o. So you have got that kind of plague in

your house too. Mine reads a paper she gets at the manor, and
then she tells me as something wonderful, one day, that some
farmer's lass has turned mason, and the next that an old
woman has set upon and beaten her sick husband. I cannot
quite get at what's the meaning of it all, but it looks most as
if she was mad at me for being a man.
Constable. Mighty queer, that's what it is. [Offers snuff]
Fine weather we're having. The rye is standing as thick as
the hairs in a fox fell, and we got over the black frosts without
a hitch.

Sheriff. There is nothing of mine growing, and good

years are bad for me: no executions and no auctions. Do
SC. II THE LINK 109

you know anything about the new judge who is going to hold
court to-day ?

Constable. Not much, but I understand he's a youngster

who has just got his appointment and is going to sit for the
first time now
Sheriff.And they say he is rehgious. Urn!
Constable. Hm-hm! — They're taking an awful time
over the church services this year.

Sheriff. [Puts a big Bible on the judge's desk and a smaller

one on each one of the jurors' tables] It cannot be long till

they're done now, for they have been at it most of an hour.

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

Sheriff. Both of them, so I guess we'll have some scrap-

ping— [The in bell the tower begins to ring] There, now they're
done— Just give the tables a wiping, and I thinkwe are
ready to start.

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

SCENE II

The Baron and the Baroness enter.

Baron. [In a low voice to the Baroness] Then, before we

part for a year, we are perfectly agreed on all points. First,

no recriminations in court r

Bahoness. Do you think I would care to lay open the

intimate details of our common life before a lot of curious
peasants ?

Baron. So much the better! And further: you keep the

child during the year of separation, provided it may visit me
no THE LINK SC. II

when I so desire, and provided it is educated in accordance

with the principles laid down by me and approved by you ?
Baroness, Exactly!
Baron. And out of the income from the estate I give you
three thousand crowns during the year of separation ?

Baroness. Agreed.
Baron, Then I have nothing more to add, but ask only to
bid you good-bye. Why we part isknown only to you and
me, and for the sake of our son no one else must know it. But
for his sake I beg you also: start no fight, lest we be goaded
into soiling the names of his parents. It is more than likely,

anyhow, that life in its cruelty will make him suffer for our
divorce.

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

child.

Baron. Let us then concentrate our attention on the child's

what has happened between us. And re-
welfare and forget
member another thing: if we fight about the child and ques-
tion each other's fitness to take care of it, the judge may take
it away from both of us and put it with some of those religious
people who will bring it up in hatred and contempt for its

parents.

Baroness. That's impossible!

Baron. Such, my dear, is the law.

Baroness. It is a stupid law.

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

Baroness. It is unnatural! And I should never submit

to it.

Baron. You don't have to, as we have decided to raise no

objections against each other. We have never agreed before,
but on this one point we are at one, are we not: to part with-
SC. Ill THE LINK 111

out any kind of hostility ? [To the Sheriff] Could the Baron-
ess be permitted to wait in that room over there ?

Sheriff. Certainly, walk right in.

The Baron escorts the Baroness to the door on the right

and leaves then himself through the door in the back-

ground.

SCENE III

r/ie Sheriff, T/ie Constable. T/k? Lawyer. Alma

JoNssoN. The Milkmaid. The Farm Hand.

Lawyer. [To Alma Jonsson] Look here, my girl: that you
have stolen, I don't doubt for a moment; but as your master

has no witnesses to it, you are not guilty. But as your master
has called you a thief in the presence of two witnesses, he is

guilty of slander. And now you are complainant and he

defendant. Remember this one thing: the first duty of a
criminal is — to deny!
Alma Jonsson. But please, sir, didn't you just say I was
no criminal, and master was ?

Lawyer. You are a criminal because you have committed

a theft, but as you have called for a lawyer, it is my unmis-
takable duty to clear you and convict your master. There-
fore, and for the last time: deny! [To the ivitnesses] And as
to the witnesses, what are they going to testify ? Listen : a
good witness sticks to the case. Now you must bear in mind
that the question is not whether Alma has stolen anything or
not, but only whether Alexandersson said that she had stolen.

For, mark you, he has no right to prove his assertions, but

we have. Why it should be so, the devil only knows! But
that's none of your business. Therefore: keep your tongues
straight and your fingers on the Bible!
112 THE LINK sc. iv

Milkmaid. Lord, but I'm that scared, for I don't know

what I'm going to say!

Farm Hand. You say as I do, and then you won't be lying.

SCENE IV

The Judge and the Pastor enter.

Judge. Permit me to thank you for the sermon. Pastor.

Pastor. Oh, don't mention it, Judge.
Judge. Yes — for, as you know, this is my first court. To
tell the truth, I have felt some fear of this career, into which
I have been thrown almost against my will. For one thing,

the laws are so imperfect, the judicial practices so uncertain,

and human nature so full of falsehood and dissimulation, that
I have often wondered how a judge could dare to express any
definite opinion at all. And to-day you have revived all my
old fears.
Pastor. To be conscientious is a duty, of course, but to be
sentimental about it won't do. And as everything else on this

earth is imperfect, there is no reason why we should expect

judges and judgments to be perfect.
Judge. That may be, but it does not prevent me from har-

bouring a sense of tremendous responsibility, as I have men's

fates in my hand, and a word spoken by me may show its

effects through generations. I am especially thinking of this

separation suit started by the Baron and his wife, and I have
to ask you —you who have administered the two prescribed
warnings before the Vestry Board —what is your view con-
cerning their mutual relations and relative guilt ?

Pastor. In other words. Judge, you would either put me

in your own place or base your decision on my testimony.

And all I can do is to refer you to the minutes of the board.

sc. IV THE LINK 113

Judge. Yes, the minutes — I know them. But it is

justwhat does not appear in the minutes that I need to

know.
Pastor. What charges the couple made against each other
at the private hearings must be my secret. And besides, how
can I know who told the truth and who lied ? I have to tell

you what I told them : there is no reason why I should believe

more in one than in the other.

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

Pastor. When I heard one, I formed one opinion, and

another when I was hearing the other. In a word: I have
no settled view in this question.

Judge. But I am to express a definite view — I, who know

nothing at all.

Pastor. That is the heavy task of the judge, which I could

never undertake.
Judge. But there are witnesses to be heard .' Evidence to
be obtained ?

Pastor. No, they are not accusing each other in public.

And furthermore: two false witnesses will furnish sufficient

proof, and a perjurer will do just as well. Do you think I
would base my judgment on servant gossip, on the loose-
tongued chatter of envious neighbours, or on the spiteful par-
tisanship of relatives .'

Judge. You are a terrible sceptic, Pastor.

Pastor. Well, one gets to be so after sixty, and particularly

after having tended souls for forty years. The habit of lying
clings like original sin, and I believe that all men lie. As
children we lie out of fear; as grown-ups, out of interest, need,

instinct for self-preservation; and I have known those who

lied out of sheer kindliness. In the present case, and in so

far as this married couple is concerned, I fear you will find

114 THE LINK SC. V

it very hard to figure out who has told most of the truth, and
all I can do is to warn you against being caught in the snares
set by preconceived opinions. You were married not long
ago yourself, and you are still under the spell of the young
woman's witchery. For this reason you may easily become
prejudiced in favor of a young and charming lady, who is an
unhappy wife and a mother besides. On the other hand,
you have also recently become a father, and as such you cannot
escape being moved by the impending separation of the father
from his child. Beware of sympathy with either side, for
sympathy with one is cruelty to the other.
Judge. One thing will make my task more easy at least,
and that is their mutual agreement on the principal points.
Pastor. Don't rely too much on that, for it is what they all

say. And when they appear in court, the smouldering fire

breaks into open flames. In this case a tiny spark will be

enough to start a conflagration. Here comes the jury. Well,
good-by for a while! I stay, although I shall not be seen.

SCENE V
The Twelve Jurors enter. The Sheriff rings a hell
from the open doorway in the background. The mem-
bers of the Court take their seats. Spectators pour
into the room.

Judge. With a reminder of the provisions in Chapter

Eleven, Sections Five, Six, and Eight, of the Criminal Code, as
to the peace and order that must be maintained in Court, I

hereby declare the proceedings of the Court opened. [Whis-

pers to the Clerk of the Court; then] Will the newly chosen
jury please take the oath.
Jurors. [Rise, each one putting the fingers of one hand on
sc. V THE LINK 115

the Bible in front of him; then they speak in unison except

when their names are being read oiit^
I, Alexander Eklund;

I, Emmanuel Wickberg;
I, Carl Johan Sjoberg;
I, Erie Otto Boman;
I, Arenfrid Soderberg;
I, Olof Andersson of Wik;
I, Carl Peter Andersson of Berga;
I, Axel Wallin;
I, Anders Eric Ruth;
I, Swen Oscar Erlin;
I, August Alexander Vass;
I, Ludwig Ostman;
\all at once, keeping time and speaking with low voices in a low

pitch] promise and swear by God and His Holy Gospel, that
I will and shall, according to my best reason and conscience,
judge rightly in all cases, no less for the poor than for the
rich, and decide in accordance with the law of God and that
of this country, as well as its legal statutes: [in a higher pitch

and with raised voices] never tamper with the law or further
any wrong, for the sake of either kinship by blood, kinship
by marriage, friendship, envy, ill-will, or fear; nor for the
sake of bribe or gift or any other cause, under any form what-
soever: and not make him responsible who has no guilt, or
set him free who is guilty. [Raising their voices still further]

Neither before judgment nor afterward, neither to parties in

court nor to others, am I to discover such counsel as may be
taken by the Court behind closed doors. All this I will and
shall faithfully keep as an honest and upright judge, without
fell deceit or design — [Pause] So help God my life and soul!
[The Jurors sit down.
Judge. [To the Sheriff] Call the case of Alma Jonsson
against the farmer Alexandersson.
116 THE LINK sc. vi

SCENE VI

Enter the Lawyer, Alexandersson, Alma Jonsson,

the Milkmaid, tlie Farm Hand.

Sheriff. [Calls out] The servant girl Alma Jonsson and

the farmer Alexandersson.
Lawyer. I wish to present my power of attorney for the

complainant.
Judge. [Examines the submitted document; then} The ser-

vant girl Alma Jonsson has had writ served on her former

master, Alexandersson, bringing charges under Chapter Six-

teen, Section Eight, of the Criminal Code, providing for im-
prisonment of not more than six months, or a fine, because
Alexandersson has called her a thief without supporting his
accusation or making legal charges. What have you to say,
Alexandersson ?

Alexandersson. I called her a thief because I caught her

stealing.

Judge. Have you witnesses to her theft?

Alexandersson. No, as luck would have it, there's no

witnesses, for I mostly go about by myself.
Judge. Why did you not make a charge against her ?

Alexandersson. Well, I never go to court. And then

it isn't the usage among us masters to prosecute household

thefts, partly because there are so many of 'em, and partly be-

cause we don't like to spoil a servant's whole future.

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

Alma Jonsson. Ya-es

Lawyer. You keep quiet! Alma Jonsson, who is not a

defendant in this case, but the complainant, asks to have her

sc. VII THE LINK 117

witnesses heard in order that she may prove the slander ut-
tered against her by Alexandersson.
Judge. As Alexandersson has admitted the slander, I shall

ask for no witnesses. On the other hand, it is of importance

for me to know whether Alma Jonsson be guilty of the offence
mentioned, for if Alexandersson had reasonable grounds for
his utterance, this will be held a mitigating circumstance when
sentence is passed.

Lawi'er. I must take exception to the statement made by

the Court, for by Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the
Criminal Code, one charged with slander is denied the right
to bring evidence as to the truth of his defamation.

Judge. Parties, witnesses, and spectators will retire so that

the Court may consider the case.

[All go out except the members of the Court.

SCENE VII
The Court.

Judge. Is Alexandersson an honest and reliable man ?

All the Jurors. Alexandersson is a reliable man.
Judge. Is Alma Jonsson known as an honest servant .''

Eric Otto Boman. I had to discharge Alma Jonsson last

year for petty thievery.

Judge. And nevertheless I have now to fine Alexandersson,

There is no way out of it. Is he poor ?

Ludwig Ostman. He's behind with his Crown taxes, and

his crop failed last year. So I guess the fine will be more than
he can carry.
Judge. And yet I can find no reason to postpone the case,
as it is a clear one, and Alexandersson has no right to prove
118 THE LINK SC. VIII

anything on his side. Has any one here anything to add or

object ?

Alexander Eklund. I would just ask leave to make a

general reflection. A case like this, where one not only inno-
cent, but ofi"ended against, has to take the punishment, while
the thief has his so-called honour restored, may easily bring

about that people grow less forbearing toward their fellow-

men, and that taking cases to court grows more common.
Judge. This is quite possible, but general reflections have
no place in the proceedings, and the Court has to make a de-
cision. Consequently my one question to the jury is: can
Alexandersson be held guilty under Chapter Sixteen, Section
Thirteen, of the Criminal Code .''

All the Jurors. Yes.

Judge. [To the Sheriff] Call in the parties and the wit-
nesses.

SCENE VIII
All return.

Judge. In the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer

Alexandersson, Alexandersson is sentenced to pay a fine of
one hundred crowns for slander.
Alexandersson. But I saw her stealing with my own
eyes! —
That's what one gets for being kind!
Lawyer. [To Alma Jonsson] What did I tell you! If
you only deny, everything is all right. Alexandersson acted
like a fool and denied nothing. If I had been his counsel,

and he had denied the charge, I should have challenged your

witnesses, and there you would have been !
— Now we'll go
out and settle up this business.

[Goes out with Alma Jonsson and the witnesses.

sc. IX THE LINK 119

Alexandersson. [To the Sheriff] And perhaps I have

now got to give Alma her papers and write down that she has
been honest and faithful ?

Sheriff. That's none of my concern

Alexandersson. [To the Constable.] And for a thing like
this I am to lose house and land! Who'd believe it, that jus-
tice means honour for the thief and a flogging for him that's

robbed! Damn it! — Come and have a cup of coffee with

a stick in it afterward, Oman.
Constable. I'll come, but don't make a row.
Alexandersson. Yes, I'll be damned if I don't, even if it

should cost me three months!

Constable. Now please don't make a row —don't make a

row!

SCENE IX
The Baron and the Baroness enter after awhile.

Judge. [To the Sheriff] Call the separation suit of Baron

Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg.
Sheriff. Separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife,
bom Malmberg.
The Baron and the Baroness enter.

Judge. In the proceedings entered against his wife, Baron

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

Baroness. To the separation I make no objection at all

if I can only have my child. That is my condition.
120 THE LINK sc. ix

Judge. The law recognises no conditions in a case like

this, and it is for the Court to dispose of the child.

Baroness. Why, that's very peculiar!

Judge. For this reason it is of utmost importance that the

Court learn who has caused the dissension leading to this suit.
According to appended minutes of the Vestry Board, it ap-
pears that the wife has admitted having at times shown a
quarrelsome and difficult disposition, while the husband has
admitted no fault. Thus, Baroness, you appear to have ad-
mitted
Baroness. That's a lie!

Judge. I find it difficult to believe that the minutes of the

Vestry Board, countersigned by the Pastor and eight other
trustworthy men, can be inaccurate.
Baroness. The report is false!

Judge. Such remarks cannot be made with impunity be-

fore this Court.

Baron. May I call attention to the fact that I have volun-

tarily surrendered the child to the Baroness on certain condi-
tions ?

Judge. And I have to repeat once more what I said before,

namely, that the case will be decided by the Court and not by
the parties to it. Therefore: you deny having caused any
dissension. Baroness ?

Baroness. Indeed, I do! And it is not the fault of one

that two quarrel.

Judge. This is no quarrel. Baroness, but a criminal case;

and furthermore, you seem now to be displaying a contentious
temperament as well as inconsiderate behaviour.

Baroness. Then you don't know my husband.

Judge. Will you please explain yourself, for I can base no
decision on mere insinuations.
 sc. IX THE LINK 121
Baron.Then I must ask to have the case dismissed,
so that
I can obtain separation in other
ways.
Judge. The case is already before the
Court and will have
to be carried to its conclusion-
Baroness, you maintain
then that your husband has caused
the estrangement. Can
this be proved .'

Baroness. Yes, it can be proved.

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

Baroness. He has forfeited it many times over, and not

the least when he denied me sleep and food.
Baron. I feel compelled to state that I have
never refused
to let the Baroness sleep. have merely asked her not to
I
sleep in the afternoon, because thereby
the house was neg-
lected and the child left without proper care.
As to food, I
have always left such matters to my wife, and I have only ob-
jected tosome extravagant entertainments, as the
neglected
household could not bear such expenses.
Baroness. And he has let me lie sick without calling in a
physician.
Baron. The Baroness would always be
taken sick when
she could not have her own way,
but that kind of ailment did
not last long as a rule. After I
had brought a specialist from
the city, and he had declared it
to be nothing but tricks, I
did not judge it necessary to call a
physician the next time the
Baroness was taken sick— because the
new pier-glass cost fifty
crowns less than originally intended.
Judge. All this is not of such nature that it can be con-
sideredwhen such a serious case has to be decided. There
must be some deeper motives.
Baroness. It ought to be counted a motive
that the father
will not permit the mother to bring up
her own child.
122 THE LINK sc. ix

Baron. First of all, the Baroness left the care of the child
to a maid, and whenever she tried to assist, things went wrong.
Secondly, she tried to bring up the boy as a woman, and not
as a man. For instance, she dressed him as a girl until he was
four years old ; and to this very day, when he is eight years old,
he carries his hair long as a girl, is forced to sew and cro-
chet, and plays with dolls; all of which I regard as injurious

to the child's normal development into a man. On the other

hand, she has amused herself by dressing up the daughters of
our tenants as boys, cutting their hair short, and putting them
to work on things generally handled by boys. In a word, I
took charge of my son's education because I noticed symptoms
of mental derangement which before this have led to offences
against the Eighteenth Chapter of the Criminal Code.
Judge. And yet you are now willing to leave the child in
the hands of the mother ?

Baron. Yes, for I have never been able to contemplate

such a cruelty as to separate mother and child —and also be-
cause the mother has promised to mend her ways. And for

that matter, I had only promised conditionally, and with the

understanding that the law was not to be invoked in the matter.
But since we have not been able to keep away from recrim-
inations, I have changed my mind —especially as, from being
the complainant, I have been turned into a defendant.
Baroness. That's the way this man always keeps his

promises.
Baron. My promises, like those of other people, have
always been conditional, and I have kept them as long as the
conditions were observed.
Baroness. In the same way he had promised me personal
freedom within the marriage.
Baron. Naturally with the provision that the laws of de-
cency were kept inviolate; but when all bounds were exceeded,
 sc. IX THE LINK 123

and when ideas of license appeared under the name of free-

dom, then I regarded my promise as annulled.
Baroness. And for this reason he tormented me with the
most absurd jealousy, and that is generally enough to make a
common hfe unbearable. He even made himself ridiculous
to the extent of being jealous of the doctor.

Baron. This alleged jealousy may be reduced to an ad-

vice on my part against the employment of a notorious and
tattling masseur for an ailment commonly treated by women

unless the Baroness is having in mind the occasion when I

showed our steward the door for smoking in my drawing-room
and offering cigars to my wife.
Baroness. As we have not been able to keep away from
scandal-mongering, it is just as well that the whole truth should
get out: the Baron has been guilty of adultery. Is not this
enough make him unworthy of bringing up my
to child alone "i

Judge. Can you prove this. Baroness }

Baroness. Yes, I can, and here are letters that show.
Judge. [Receiving the letters] How long ago did this hap-
pen .''

Baroness. A year ago.

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

Baron. Yes, with remorse and mortification; but there

were circumstances wiiich ought to be held extenuatino-. I
was forced into humiliating celibacy by the calculated cold-
ness of the Baroness, although I, and in all courtesy, asked

as a favour, what the law allowed me to demand as a right. I

tired of buying her love, she having prostituted our marriage by
selling her favours first for power and later for presents and
124 THE LINK SC. IX

money; and in the end I found myself compelled, with the ex-

press consent of the Baroness, to take up an irregular relation-

ship.

Judge. Had you given your consent, Baroness ?

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

Baron. It is true, but I cannot prove it, since the only wit-
ness, my wife, denies it.

Judge. What is unproved need not be untrue, but a com-

pact of this kind, trespassing upon prevailing laws, must be
held a factum turpe and invalid in itself. Baron, so far every-
thing is against you.
Baroness. And as the Baron has confessed his guilt with
remorse and shame, I, who have now become complainant in-

stead of defendant, ask that the Court proceed to render a de-

cision, as further details are not needed.
Judge. In my capacity as presiding officer of this Court, I
wish to hear what the Baron has to say in justification, or at

least in palliation.

Baron. I have just admitted the charge of adultery and

have advanced as extenuating circumstances, partly that it

was the result of pressing need when, after ten years of married
life, I suddenly found myself unmarried, and partly that it

was done with the consent of the Baroness herself. As I have

now come to believe that all this was a trap set to make a case
against me, it is my duty, for the sake of my son, to hold back
no further
Baroness. [Exclaims iiistinctiveli/] Axel!
Baron. What caused me to break my marital vows was
the faithlessness of the Baroness.
Judge. Baron, can you prove that the Baroness has been
faithless to you?
Baron. No ! For I was concerned about the honour of the
family, and I destroyed all proofs that I obtained. But I
sc. IX THE LINK 125

still venture to believe that, in this matter, the Baroness will

stand by the confession she once made to me.
Judge. Baroness, do you admit this offence as preceding
and, therefore, probably causing the lapse of the Baron ?

Baroness. No!
Judge. Are you willing to repeat under oath that you are
innocent of this charge .-'

Bakoness. Yes!
Baron. Good heavens! No, she must not do that! No
perjury for my sake
Judge. I ask once more : is the Baroness willing to take the
oath ?

Baroness. Yes.
Baron. Permit me to suggest that the Baroness just now ap-
pears as complainant, and a complaint not made under oath. is

Judge. As you have charged her with a criminal offence,

she is defendant. What does the Jury hold .''

Emmanuel Wickberg. As the Baroness is a party to this

suit, it seems to me that she can hardly be allowed to testify

in her own behalf.

Swen Oscar Erlin. It seems to me that if the Baroness

is to testify under oath, then the Baron should also be allowed
to do so in the same matter, but as oath may not be put against
oath, the whole matter remains in the dark.
August Alexander Vass. I should say that it is not a
question of testifying under oath here, but of taking an oath
on one's own innocence.
Anders Eric Ruth. Well, isn't that the question which
has to be settled first of all ?

Axel Wallin. But not in the presence of the parties, as

the deliberations of the Court are not public.
Carl Johan S.ioberg. The right of the jury to express
itself is not limited or conditioned by secrecy.
1^6 THE LINK SC. X

Judge. Out of so many meanings I can get no guidance.

But as the guilt of the Baron can be proved, and that of the Bar-

oness still remains unproved, I must demand that the Baroness

take oath on her innocence.
Baroness. I am ready
Judge. No, wait a moment! — Baron, if you were granted
time, would you be able to produce evidence or witnesses in
support of your charge ?

Baron. This I neither can nor will do, as I am not anxious

to see my dishonour made public.
Judge. The proceedings of the Court will be adjourned
while I consult with the chairman of the Vestry Board.
[Steps down and goes out to the right.

SCENE X
The Jurors confer in low tones among themselves.
The Baron and the Baroness in the background.
The Spectators ybrw groups and talk.
Baron. [To the Baroness] You do not shrink from per-

juring yourself ?

Baroness. I shrink from nothing when my child is con-

cerned.
Baron. But if I have proofs ?

Baroness. Well, you have not.

Baron. The letters were burned, but certified copies of

them are still in existence.

Baroness. You lie to frighten me!

Baron. To show you how deeply I love my child, and to

save the mother at least, as I seem to be lost, you may have —
the proofs. But don't be ungrateful.
[Hands her a bundle of letters.
SC. X THE LINK 127

Baroness. That you are a liar, I knew before, but that

you were scoundrel enough to have the letters copied, that I

could never have believed.

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

lost.

Baroness. Yes, let both go down —then there will be an

end to the fight

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

Baroness. That will never occur!

Baron. Your absurd conceit, which makes you think your-

self above all laws and above other human beings, has lured

you into starting this fight, in which there can be only one loser:

our son! What were you thinking when you began this
of

attack, which could not fail to provoke a defence ? Not of

the child, I am sure. But of revenge, I suppose ? Revenge
for what? For my discovery of your guilt?
Baroness. The child? Were you thinking of the child
when you dragged me in the mire before this rabble ?

Baron. Helen! — Like wild beasts we have clawed each

other bloody. We have laid our disgrace open to all these

who take pleasure in our ruin, for in this room we have not a
single friend. Our child will after this never be able to speak

of his parents as respectable people; he will not be able to

start life with a recommendation from father and mother; he
will see the home shunned, the old parents isolated and de-
spised, and so the time must come when he will flee us

Baroness. What do you want then ?

Baron. Let us leave the country after selling the prop-

erty.

Baroness. And begin the same squabble all over again!

I know what will happen: for a week you will be tame, and

then vou will abuse me.

128 THE LINK sex
Bauon. Just think —
now they are setthng our fate in
there.You cannot hope for a good word from the Pastor,
whom you have just called a liar; and I, who am known to be
no Christian, can expect no mercy either. Oh, I wish I were
in the woods, so that I could crawl in under some big roots or
put my head under a rock — this is more shame than I can
bear
Baroness. It is true that the minister hates both of us,

and it may happen as you say. Why don't you speak to

him ?

Baron. Of what ? Making up ?

Baroness. Of anything you please, if it only be not too
late! Oh, if it should be too late! — What can that man
Alexandersson want that makes him prowl about us two all

the time ? I am afraid of that man

Baron. Alexandersson is a nice fellow.
Baroness. Yes, he is nice to you, but not to me I have —
observed those glances before Go and see the —
Pastor now;
but take my hand first — I am scared!
Baron. Of what, dear, of what ?
Baroness. I don't know —
Everything, everybody!
Baron. But not of me ?
Baroness. No, not now! It is as if our clothes had been
caught in the mill wheels, and we had been dragged into the
machinery. What have we been doing? What have we
been doing in our anger? How they will enjoy themselves,
all these who are now seeing the Baron and the Baroness
stripped naked and flogging each other — Oh, I feel as if I

were standing here without a rag to cover me.

[She buttons her coat.
Baron. Calm yourself, my dear. It is not exactly the
proper place to tell you what I have said before: that there
is only one friend and one home —but we might start over
sex THE LINK 129

again! — Well, heaven knows! No, we cannot do it. You

have gone too far. It is all over. And this last — yes, let it

be the last! And it had to come after all the rest. No, we
are enemies for life! And if I let you go away with the child
now, then you might marry again — I see that now. And
my child might have a step-father; and I should have to watch
another man going about with my wife and child — Or I
might myself be going about with somebody else's wench
hanging on my arm. No! Either you or I! One of us
must be struck down! You or I!
Baroness. You For if I let you take the child, you might
!

marry again, and I might have to see another woman taking

my place with my own child. The mere thought of it could
make me a murderess A step-mother for my child
!

Baron. You might have thought of it before! But when

you saw me champing at the chain of love that bound me to
you, then you believed me incapable of loving anybody but
yourself.
Baroness. Do you think I ever loved you ?

Baron. Yes, once at least. When I had been faithless to

you. Then your love grew sublime. And your pretended

scorn made you irresistible. But my error caused you to re-
spect me, too. Whether it was the male or the criminal you
admired most, I don't know, but I believe it was both — it

must have been both, for you are the most typical woman I

have ever met. And now you are already jealous of a new
wife whom I have never thought of. What a pity that you
became my As my mistress, your victory would have
mate!
been unchallenged, and your infidelities would only have
seemed the bouquet of my new wine.
Baroness. Yes, your love was always material.
Baron. Material as everything spiritual, and spiritual as
all that is material! My weakness for you, which gave
130 THE LINK sc. xi

my feeling, made you believe yourself the stronger,

strength to
when you were simply coarser, more ill-natured, and more
unscrupulous than I.

Baroness. You the stronger? You, who never want the

same thing two minutes in a stretch! You, who as a rule
never know what you want!
Baron. Yes, I know perfectly well what I want, but there
is room in me for both love and hatred, and while I love you
one minute, I hate you the next. And just now I hate you!

Baroness. Are you now thinking of the child also ?

Baron. Yes, now and always And do you know why ?

!

Because he is our love that has taken flesh. He is the memory

of our beautiful hours, the link that unites our souls, the com-
mon ground where we must ever meet without wishing to do
so. And that is why we shall never be able to part, even if our
separation be declared — Oh, if I could only hate you as I

want to!

SCENE XI
The Judge and the Pastor enter in conversation and
remain in the foreground.

Judge. Thus I recognize the utter hopelessness of seeking

justice or discovering truth. And it seems to me as if the
laws were a couple of centuries behind our ideas of right. Did
I not have to punish Alexandersson, who was innocent, and
exonerate the girl,who was guilty of theft? And as for this

separation suit, I know nothing at all about it at this minute,

and I cannot take upon my conscience to render a decision.

Pastor. But a decision has to be rendered.
Judge. Not by me! I shall give up my place and choose
another profession.
SC. XI THE LINK 131

Pastor. Why, such a scandal would only bring you notori-

ety and close every career to you. Keep on judging a few
years, and you will come to think it quite easy to crush human
fates like egg shells. And for that matter, if you want to stand
clear of this case, let yourself be outvoted by the jury. Then
they must take the responsibility on themselves.
Judge. That is a way —and I suspect that they will be
practically at one against me, for I have formed an opinion
in this matter, which, however, is wholly intuitive and, there-
fore, not to be trusted — I thank you for your advice.
Sheriff. [Who has been talking with AhEXANBERSSos, steps
up to the Judge] In my capacity of public prosecutor, I have
to report the farmer Alexandersson as a witness against

Baroness Sprengel.
Judge. In relation to the adultery charge ?

Sheriff. Yes.
Judge. [To the Pastor] Here is a new clue that may lead

to a solution.
Pastor. Oh, there are lots of clues, if you can only get hold
of them.
Judge. But nevertheless it is horrible to see two persons
who have loved trying to ruin each other. It is likebeing in a
slaughter-house
Pastor. Well, that is love. Judge!
Judge. What then is hatred ?

Pastor. It is the lining of the coat.

[The Judge goes over and speaks to the Jurors.
Baroness. [Comes forward to the Fastor] Help us. Pastor!

Help us!
Pastor. I cannot, and as a clergyman, I must not. And
furthermore, did I not warn you not to play with such serious
matters? You thought it so simple to part! Well, part then!
The law will not prevent you, so don't put the blame on it.
132 THE LINK SC. XII

SCENE XII
All as before.

Judge. The Court will now resume its proceedings. Ac-

cording to the report of the public prosecutor, Sheriff Wiberg,
a new witness has appeared against the Baroness and is ready
to affirm her guilt under the charge of adultery. Farmer
Alexandersson
Alexandersson. I am here.
Judge. How can you prove your assertion ?

Alexandersson. I saw the offence committed.

Baroness. He is lying! Let him bring proof!
Alexandersson. Proof ? I'm a witness now, ain't I ?
Baroness. Your assertion is no proof, although you happen
to be called a witness for the moment.
Alexandersson. Maybe the witness has to have two more
witnesses, and those still others ?
Baroness. Yes, it might be needed when one cannot tell
wdiether the whole lot are lying or not.
Baron. The testimony of Alexandersson will not be re-
quired. I beg leave to offer the Court all the correspondence
by which the marital infidelity of the Baroness stands com-
pletely proved — Here are the originals; copies of them will

be found in the possession of defendant.

[The Baroness utters a cry but controls herself quickhj.

Judge. And yet. Baroness, you were willing to take the oath
a little while ago ?

Baroness. But I didn't take it! And now I think the Baron
and I may cry quits.
Judge. We do not let one crime cancel another. The
account of each one has to be settled separately.
SC. XII THE LINK 133

Baroness. Then I want to file a claim at once against the

Baron for my dowry which he has squandered.
Judge. If you have squandered your wife's dowry, Baron,
it might be well to settle that matter right here.

Baron. The Baroness brought with her six thousand crowns

in stock that was then unsalable and soon became wholly

worthless. As at the time of our marriage she held a posi-

tion as a telegrapher and declared herself unwilling to take sup-

port from her husband, we made a marriage contract and

agreed that each one should be self-supporting. But she lost

her position after the marriage, and I have been supporting

her ever since. To this I had no objection whatever, but as
she now putting in bills, I shall ask leave to present one of
is

my own to meet hers. It totals up to thirty-five thousand

crowns, this being one-third of the household expenses since
the beginning of our marriage, and I being willing to take
two-thirds upon myself.
Judge. Have you this agreement in black and white. Baron ?

Baron. I have not.

Judge. Have you any documents to prove the disposition

of your dowry, Baroness ?

Baroness. I didn't think at the time it would be necessary

to get anything in writing, as I supposed myself to be dealing
with honourable people.
Judge. Then this whole question cannot come under con-
sideration here. The jury will please step into the small court-
room for discussion of the case and formulation of a decision.
134 THE LINK SC, XIII

SCENE XIII
The Jury and the Judge go out to the right.

Alexandersson. [To the Sheriff] This here justice is

more than I can get any sense out of.

Sheriff. I think it would be wiser for you to go right home

now, or you might have the same experience as the farmer
from Mariestad. Did you ever hear of it ?

Alexandersson. No.
Sheriff. Well, he went to court as spectator, was dragged
into the case as witness, became a party to it, and ended up
with a flogging at the whipping-post.
Alexandersson. Oh, hell! But I believe it of 'em! I

believe anything of 'em! [Goes out.

The Baron joins the Baroness in the foreground.

Baroness. You find it hard to keep away from me.

Baron. Now I have struck you down, and I am bleeding
to death myself, for your blood is mine
Baroness. And how clever you are at making out bills

Baron. Only when it comes to counter-claims ! Your cour-

age is that of despair, or that of a person sentenced to death.
And when you leave here, you will collapse. Then you will

no longer be able to load your sorrow and guilt on me, and

you will be suffering from remorse. Do you know why I have
not killed you ?

Baroness. Because you did not dare!

Baron. No! Not even the thought of hell could have held
me back —for I don't believe in it. But this was the thought
that did it: even if you get the child, you will be gone m five

vears. That is what the doctor tells me. And then the child
SC. XIII THE LINK 135

might be left without either father or mother. Think of it

all alone in the world!

Baroness. Five years! — It is a lie!

Baron. In five years ! And then I am left behind with the

child whether you want it or not.
Baroness. Oh no! For then my family will bring suit to
get the child away from you. I don't die when I die!

Baron. Evil never dies! That is so! But can you explain
why you grudge me the child, and grudge the child me, whom

it needs? Is it sheer malice —a craving for revenge that

punishes the child? [The Baroness remains silent] Do you
know, I remarked to the Pastor that I thought possibly you
might have some doubts concerning the child's parentage,

and that this might be a reason why you would not let me have
the child, lest my happiness be built on a false foundation.
And he replied: No, I don't think her capable of it —not of

such a fine motive — • I don't think you know yourself what

makes you so fanatical about this one thing: it is the yearning
for continued existence that goads you into maintaining your
hold. Our son has your body, but my soul, and that soul you
cannot rid him of. In him you will haveme back when you
least expect it; in him you will find my thoughts, my tastes,
my passions, and for this reason you will hate him one day, as

you hate me now. That is what I fear!

Baroness. You seem still a little afraid that he may be-

come mine ?
Baron. In your quality of mother and woman, you have
a certain advantage over me with our judges, and although
justice may throw dice blindfolded, there is always a little lead
on one side of each die.
Baroness. You know how to pay compliments even in the

moment of separation. Perhaps you don't hate me as much

as you pretend ?
 136 THE LINK SC. XIII

Baron. Frankly speaking, I think that I hate not so much

you as my dishonour, though you, too, come in for a share.
And why this hatred ? Perhaps I have overlooked that you
are near the forties, and that a masculine element is making
its appearance in you. Perhaps it is this element that I no-
tice in your kisses, in your embraces —-perhaps that is what I
find so repulsive ?

Baroness. Perhaps. For the sorrow of my life has been,

as you well know, that I was not born a man.
Baron. Perhaps that became the sorrow of my life! And
now you try to avenge yourself on nature for having played
with you, and so you want to bring up your son as a woman.
Will you promise me one thing ?

Baronkss. AVill you promise me one thing ?

Baron. What is the use of promising ?

Baroness. No, let us give no more promises.

Baron. Will you answer a question truthfully ?
Baroness. If I told the truth, you would think I lied.
Baron. Yes, so I should!
Baroness. Can you see now that all is over, for ever ?

Baron. For ever! It was for ever that we once swore tc

love each other.
Baroness. It is too bad that such oaths must be taken!
Baron. Why so .' It is always a bond, such as it is.

Baroness. I never could bear with bonds!

Baron. Do you think it would have been better for us not
to bind ourselves ?

Baroness. Better for me, yes.

Baron. I wonder. For then you could not have bound me.
Baroness. Nor you me.
Baron. And so the result would have been the same —as
when you reduce fractions. Consequently: not the law's
fault; not our own; not anybody else's. And yet we have
SC. XIV THE LINK 137

to assume the responsibility! [The Sheriff approaches] So!

Now the verdict has been pronounced — Good-bye, Helen!
Baroness. Good-bye —Axel
Baron. It is hard to part! And impossible to live together.
But the fight is over at least!
Baroness. If it were! I fear it is just about to begin.
Sheriff. The parties will retire while the Court takes
action.
Baroness. Axel, a word before it is too late! After all,

they might take the child away from both of us. Drive home
and take the boyto your mother, and then we will flee from

here, far away

Baron. I think you are trying to fool me again.
Baroness. No, I am not. I am no longer thinking of
you, or of myself, or of my revenge. Save the child only!
Listen, Axel — you must do it!

Baron. I will. But if you are deceiving me — Never

mind: I'll do it!

Goes Old quickly. The Baroness leaves through the

door in the background.

SCENE XIV
The Jury and the Judge enter and resume their seats.

Judge. As we now have the case complete before us, I

shall ask each juror separately to state his opinion before

decision is rendered. Personally, I can only hold it reason-
able that the child be given to the mother, as both parties
are equally to blame for the estrangement, and as the mother
must be held better adapted to the care of the child than the

father. [Silence.

Alexander Eklund. According to prevailing law, it is

138 THE LINK sc. xiv

the wife who takes her rank and condition from the husband,
not the husband from the wife.
Emmanuel Wickberg. And the husband is the proper

guardian of his wife.

Carl Johan Sj(3Berg. The ritual, which gives binding
force to the marriage, says that the wife should obey her hus-
band, and so it is clear to me that the man takes precedence

of the woman.
Eric Otto Boman. And the children are to be brought
up in the faith of the father.
Arenfrid Soderberg. From which may be concluded that
children follow the father and not the mother.
Olof Andersson of Wik. But as in the case before us
both man and wife are equally guilty, and, judging by what
has come to light, equally unfit to rear a child, I hold that the
away from both.
child should be taken
Carl Peter Andersson of Berga. In concurring with
Olof Andersson, I may call to mind that in such cases the
Court names two good men as guardians to take charge of

children and property, so that out of the latter man and wife

may have their support together with the child.

Axel Wallin. And for guardians I wish in this case to

propose Alexander Eklund and Arenfrid Soderberg, both of

whom are well known to be of honest character and Christian
disposition.
Anders Eric Ruth. I concur with Olof Andersson of
Wik as to the separation of the child from both father and
mother, and with Axel Wallin as to the guardians, whose
Christian disposition makes them particularly fitted to bring
up the child.

Swen Oscar Erlwc. I concur in what has just been said.

August Alexander Vass. I concur.
-
LuDWiG Ostman. I concur.
sc. XV THE LINK 139

Judge. As the opinion expressed by a majority of the jurors

is contrary to my own, I must ask the Jury to take a vote on
the matter. And I think it proper first to put the motion made
by Olof Andersson for the separation of the child from both
father and mother, and for the appointment of guardians. Is
it the unanimous will of the Jury that such action be taken ?

All the Jurors. Yes.

Judge. If anybody objects to the motion, he will hold up
his hand. [Silence] The opinion of the Jury has won out against
my own, and I shall enter an exception on the minutes against
what seems to me the needless cruelty of the decision The —
couple will then be sentenced to a year's separation of bed
and board, at the risk of imprisonment if, during that period,
they should seek each other. [To the Sheriff] Call in the
parties.

SCENE XV
The Baroness and Spectators enter.

Judge. Is Baron Sprengel not present ?

Baroness. The Baron will be here in a moment.

Judge. Whoever does not observe the time, has onlv him-
self to blame. This is the decision of the County Court:
that husband and wife be sentenced to a year's separation of

bed and board, and that the child be taken from the parents
and placed in charge of two guardians for education. For
this purpose the Court has selected and appointed the jurors
Alexander Ekiund and Arenfrid Soderberg.
The B.4HONESS cries out and sinks The
to the floor.

oHERiFF and tli^ Con'^i'able ro>V her up and place

her on a chair. Some of the Spectaiors leave in the
meantime.
140 THE LINK SC. XVI

Baron. [Ejiters] Your Honor! I heard the sentence of the

Court from the outside, and I wish to enter a challenge, first

against the Jury as a whole, it being made up of my personal

enemies, and secondly against the guardians, Alexander Ek-
lund and Arenfrid Soderberg, neither of whom possesses the
financial status demanded of guardians. Furthermore, I shall

enter proceedings against the judge for incompetence dis-

played in the exercise of his offijce, in so far as he has failed to
recognise that the primary guilt of one led to the subsequent
guilt of the other, so that both cannot be held equally respon-
sible.

Judge. Whosoever be not satisfied with the decision ren-

dered may appeal to the higher court within the term set by
law. Will the Jury please accompany me on house visitation
to the Rectory in connection with the suit pending against the
communal assessors .''

The Judge and the Jury go out through the door in the
background.

SCENE XVI
The Baron and the Baroness. The Spectators
withdraw gradually.

Baroness. Where is Emil ?

Baron. He was gone!

Baroness, That's a lie!

Baron. [After a pause] Yes — I did not bring him to my

mother, whom I cannot trust, but to the Rectory.

Baroness. To the minister!

Baron. Your one reliable enemy! Yes. Who was there
else that I might trust ? And I did it because a while ago I
SC. XVI THE LINK 141

caught a glance in your eye which made me think that you

possibly might kill yourself and the child.

Baroness. You saw that! — Oh, why did I let myself be

fooled into believing you.
Baron. Well, what do you say of all this ?
Baroness. I don't know. But I am so tired that I no
longer feel the blows. It seems almost a relief to have re-

ceived the final stab.

Baron. You give no thought to what is now going to hap-
pen: how your son is going to be brought up by two peasants,
whose ignorance and rude habits will kill the child by slow
torture; how he is going to be forced down into their narrow
sphere; how his intelligence is going to be smothered by re-
ligious superstition; how he is going to be taught contempt for

his father and mother

Baroness. Hush! Don't say another word, or I shall lose

my reason! My Emil in the hands of peasant women, who

don't know enough to wash themselves, who have their beds
full of vermin, and who cannot even keep a comb clean! My
Emil! No, it is impossible!
Baron. It is the actual reality, and you have nobody but
yourself to blame for it.

Baroness. Myself But did I make myself ? Did I put

?

and wild passions into myself? No!

evil tendencies, hatred,

And who was it that denied me the power and will to combat
all those things ? —
When I look at myself this moment, I
feel that I am to be pitied. Am I not ?
Baron. Yes, you are! Both of us are to be pitied. We
tried to avoid the rocks that beset marriage by living unmarried
as husband and wife; but nevertheless we quarrelled, and we
were sacrificing one of life's greatest joys, the respect of our
fellow-men —
and so we were married. But we must needs
steal a march on the social body and its laws. We vranted no
142 THE LINK sc. x%t

religious ceremony, but instead we wriggled into a civil mar-

riage. We did not want to depend on each other —we were
to have no common pocket-book and to insist on no personal
ownership of each other — and with that we fell right back into
the old rut again. Without wedding ceremony, but with a
marriage contract! And then it went to pieces. I forgave

we lived together
your faithlessness, and for the child's sake
in voluntary separation —
and freedom! But I grew tired of

introducing my friend's mistress as my wife and so we had —

to get a divorce. Can you guess do you know —
against whom

we have been fighting? You call him God, but I call him

nature. And that was the master who egged us on to hate

each other, just as he is egging people on to love each other.

And now we are condemned to keep on tearing each other
as long as a spark of life remains. New proceedings in the

higher court, reopening of the case, report by the Vestry Board,

opinion from the Diocesan Chapter, decision by the Supreme
Court. Then comes my complaint to the Attorney-General,
my application for a guardian, your objections and counter-
suits: from pillory to post! Without hope of a merciful

executioner! Neglect of the property, financial ruin, scamped

education for the child! And why do we not put an end to
these two miserable lives ? Because the child stays our hands
You cry, but I cannot! Not even when my thought runs
ahead to the night that is waiting for me in a home laid waste!
And you, poor Helen, who must go back to your mother!
That mother whom you once left with such eagerness in order
to get a home of your own. To become her daughter once

more — and perhaps find it worse than being a wife ! One year!
Two years! Many years! How many more do you think we
can bear to suffer ?
Baroness. I shall never go back to my mother. Never!
I shall go out on the high-roads and into the woods so that I
SC. XVI THE LINK 143

may find a hiding-place where I can scream —scream myself

tired against God, who has put this infernal love into the

world as a torment for us human creatures —and when night

comes, I shall seek shelter in the Pastor's barn, so that I may
sleep near my child.

Baron. You hope to sleep to-night —you ?

Curtain.
THE DANCE OF DEATH
1901
PART I
 CHARACTERS
Edgar, Captain in the Coast Artillery
Alice, his loife, a former actress
Curt, Master of Quarantine
Jenny ^
Subordinate
The Old Woman V
( characters
The Sentry i
 THE DANCE OF DEATH
PART I

The scene is laid inside of a round fort built of granite.

In the background, a gateway, closed by huge, swinging double
window panes, through which
doors; in these, small square
may be seen a sea shore tcith batteries and the sea beyond.
On either side of the gatexoay, a window xoith flower pots and
bird cages.

To the right of the gateway, an upright piano; further down

the stage, a seiving-tablc and two easy-chairs.

On the half-way down the stage, a writing-table with a

left,

telegraph instrument on it; further down, a what-not full

offramed photographs. Beside it, a couch that can be used

to sleep on. Against the wall, a buffet.
A lamp suspended from the ceiling. On the wall near the piano

hang two large laurel wreaths with ribbons. Betxoeen them,

the picture of a woman in stage dress.

Beside the door, a hat-stand on which hang accoutrements,

sabres, and so forth. Near it, a chiffonier.
To the of the gateway hangs a mercurial barometer.
left

It is a mild Fall evening. The doors stand open, and a sentry

is seen pacing back and forth on the shore battery. He
wears a helmet xoith a forward pointed brush for a crest.

Noio and then his drawn sabre catches the red glare of the

setting svn. The sea lies dark and quiet.

The Cafi'ain sits in the easy-chair to the left of the
sewing-table, fumbling an extinguished cigar. He
has on a much-worn undress uniform and riding-boots
with spurs. Looks tired and bored.

Alick sits in the easy-chair on the right, doing nothing

at all. Looks tired and expectant.
147
148 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. Won't you play something for me ?
Alice. [Indifferently, hut not snapjnshli/] What am I to
play ?

Captain. Whatever suits you.

Alice. You don't like my repertory.

Captain. Nor you mine.
Alice. [Evcmvely] Do you want the doors to stay open ?

Captain. If you wish it.

Alice. Let them be, then. [Pause] Why don't you smoke ?
Captain. Strong tobacco is beginning not to agree with me.
Alice. [In an almost friendly tone] Get weaker tobacco
then. It is your only pleasure, as you call it.

Captain. Pleasure —what is that?

Alice. Don't ask me. I know it as little as you — Don't
you want your whiskey yet ?
Captain. I'll wait a little. What have you for supper ?

Alice. How do I know ? Ask Christine.

Captain. The mackerel ought to be in season soon —now

the Fall is here.
Alice. Yes, it is Fall!

Captain. Within and without. But leaving qside the cold

that comes with the Fall, both within and without, a little

broiled mackerel, with a slice of lemon and a glass of white

Burgundy, wouldn't be so very bad.
Alice. Now you grow eloquent.
Captain. Have we any Burgundy left in the wine-cellar?

Alice. So far as I know, we have had no wine-cellar these

last five years

Captain. You never know anything. However, we must

stock up for our silver wedding.

Alice. Do you actually mean to celebrate it?

Captain. Of course!
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 149

Alice. It would be more seemly to hide our misery —our

twenty-five years of misery
Capi'ain. My dear Alice, it has been a misery, but we have
also had some fun —now and then. One has to avail one-
self of what little time there is, for afterward it is all over.

Alice. Is it over ? Would that it were

Captain. It is over! Nothing left but what can be put on
a wheel-barrow and spread on the garden beds.
Alice. And so much trouble for the sake of the garden beds

Captain. Well, that's the way of it. And it is not of my

making.
Alice. So much trouble ! [Pause] Did the mail come ?
Captain. Yes.
Alice. Did the butcher send his bill ?

Captain. Yes.
Alice. How large is it ?

Capt.'VIN. [Takes a fa per from his pocket and puts on his

spectacles, but takes them off again at once] Look at it yourself.

I cannot see any longer.

Alice. What is wrong with your eyes ?
Captain. Don't know.
Alice. Growing old ?

Captain. Nonsense! I?
Alice. Well, not I!

Captain. Hm!
Alice. [Looking at the bill] Can you pay it ?

Captain. Yes, but not this moment.

Alice. Some other time, of course! In a year, when you
have been retired with a small pension, and it is too late ! And
then, when your trouble returns
Captain. Trouble? I never had any trouble —only a
slight indisposition once. And I can live another twenty
years.
150 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. The doctor thought otherwise.
Captain. The doctor!
Alice. Yes, who else could express any valid opinion about
sickness ?

Captain. I have no sickness, and never had. I am not

going to have it either, for I shall die all of a sudden — like an
old soldier.
Alice. Speaking of the doctor —you know they are having
a part^ to-night ?

Captain. [Agitated] Yes, what of it? We are not invited

because we don't associate with those people, and we don't
associate with them because we don't want to —because we
despise both of them. Rabble — that's what they are!
Alice. You say that of everybody.
Captain. Because everybody is rabble.
Alice. Except yourself.
Captain. Yes, because I have behaved decently under all

conditions of life. That's why I don't belong to the rabble.

[Pause.
Alice. Do you want to play cards ?

Captain. All right.

Alcce. [Takes a pack of cards from the drawer in the sewing-

table and begins to shuffle them] Just think, the doctor is per-
mitted to use the band for a private entertainment!
Captain. [Angrili/] That's because he goes to the city and
truckles to the Colonel. Truckle, you know — if one could only
do that!

Alice. [Deals] I used to be friendly with Gerda, but she

played me false

Captain. They are all false! What did you turn up for
trumps ?

Alice. Put on your spectacles.

Captain. They are no help— Well, well I
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 1^1

Alice. Spades are trumps.

Captain. [Disoppoinled] Spades-
Alice. [Leads] Well, be that as it may, our case is settled

in advance with the wives of the new officers.

Cafiwin. [Taking the trick] What does it matter? We

never give any parties anyhow, so nobody is the wiser. I can
live by myself —as I have always done.
Alice. I, too. But the children ? The children have to
grow up without any companionship.
Captain. Let them find it for themselves in the city — I
take that! Got any trumps left.'

Alice. One — That's mine!

Captain. Six and eight make fifteen

Alice. Fourteen —fourteen

Captain. Six and eight make fourteen. I think I am
also forgetting how to count. And two makes sixteen
[Yawns] It is your deal.

Alice. You are tired ?

Captain. [Dealing] Not at all.

Alice. [Listening in direction of the open doors] One can

hear the music all this way. [Pause] Do you think Curt is

invited also ?

Captain. He arrived this morning, so I guess he has had

time to get out his evening clothes, though he has not had time
to call on us.

Alice. Master of Quarantine — is there to be a quarantine

station here ?

Captain. Yes.
Alice. He is my own cousin after all, and once I bore the
same name as he
Captain. In which there was no particular honour
Alice. See here! [Sharply] You leave my family alone,
and I'll leave yours!
152 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. All right, all right —don't let us begin again!
Alice. Must the Master of Quarantine be a physician ?

Captain. Oh, no, he's merely a sort of superintendent (

book-keeper — and Curt never became anything in particular.

Alice. He was not much good

Captain. And he has cost us a lot of money. And when
he left wife and children, he became disgraced.
Alice. Not quite so severe, Edgar!
Captain. That's what happened! What has he been do-
ing in America since then ? Well, I cannot say that I am
longing for him — but he was a nice chap, and I liked to argue
with him.
Alice. Because he was so tractable
Captain. [Haughtilij] Tractable or not, he was at least a

man one could talk to. Here, on this island, there is not
one person who understands what I say — it's a community of
idiots

Alice. It is rather strange that Curt should arrive just in

time for our silver wedding —whether we celebrate it or not
Captain. Why is that strange? Oh, I see! It was he
who brought us together, or got you married, as they put it.

Alice. Well, didn't he ?

Captain. Certainly! It was a kind of fixed idea with

him— I leave it for you to say what kind.

Alice. A wanton fancy
Captain. For which we have had to pay, and not he!
Alice. Yes, think only if I had remained on the stage! AH
my friends are stars now.
Captain. [Rising] Well, well, well! Now I am going to

have a drink. [Goes over to the buffet and mixes a drink, which
he takes standing up] There should be a rail here to put the
foot on, so that one might dream of being at Copenhagen, in

the American Bar.

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 153

Alice. Let us put a rail there, if it will only remind us of

Copenhagen. For there we spent our best moments.
Captain. [Drinks quickly] Yes, do you remember that
"navarin aux pommes" ?

Alice. No, but I remember the concerts at the Tivoli.

Captain. Yes, your tastes are so —exalted!
Alice. It ought to please you to have a wife whose taste
is good.
Captain. So it does.
Alice. Sometimes, when you need something to brag of
Captain. [Drinking] I guess they must be dancing at the
doctor's —I catch the three-four time of the tuba: boom
boom-boom
Alice. I can hear the entire melody of the Alcazar Waltz.
Well, it was not yesterday I danced a waltz
Captain. You think you could still manage ?
Alice. Still ?

Captain. Ye-es. I guess you are done w-ith dancing, you

like me!
Alice. I am ten years younger than you.
Captain. Then we are of the same age, as the lady should
be ten years younger.
Alice. Be ashamed of yourself! You are an old man
and I am still in my best years.

Captain. Oh, I know, you can be quite charming —to

others, when you make up your mind to it.

Alice. Can we light the lamp now?

Captain. Certainly.
Alice. Will you ring, please.
The Captain goes languidly to the writing-table and
rings a bell.

Jenny enters from the right.

154 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. Will you be kind enough to light the lamp,

Jenny ?

Alice. [Sharpli/] I want you to light the hanging lamp.

Jenny. Yes, ma'am.
[Lights thelamp while the Captain watches her.

Alice. [Stifflij] Did you wipe the chimney?

Jenny. Sure.
Alice. What kind of an answer is that ?

Captain. Now — now

Alice. [To Jenny] Leave us. I will light the lamp myself.

That will be better.

Jenny-; I think so too. [Starts for the door.

Alice. [Rising] Go!

Jenny. [Stops] I wonder, ma'am, what you'd say if I did

go?
Alice remains silent.

Jenny goes out.

The Captain comes forward and lights the lamp.
Alice. \With concern] Do you think she will go ?
Captain. Shouldn't wonder. And then we are in for it

Alice. It's your fault! You spoil them.

Captain. Not at all. Can't you see that they are always
polite to me ?
Alice. Because you cringe to them. And you always cringe
to inferiors, for that matter, because, like all despots, you have
the nature of a slave.
Captain. There —there!
Alice. Yes, you cringe before your men, and before your
sergeants, but you cannot get on with your equals or your
superiors.
Captain. Ugh!
Alice. That's the way of all tyrants — Do you think she
will go .''
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 155

Captain. Yes, if you don't go out and say something nice

to her.
Alice. I ?

Captain. Yes, for if I should do it, you would say that I

was flirting with the maids.

Alice. Mercy, if she should leave! Then I sliall have to
do the work, as I did the last time, and my hands will be
si)oiled.

Captain. That is not the worst of it. But if Jenny leaves,

Christine will also leave, and then we shall never get a servant

to the island again. The mate on the steamer scares away

every one that comes to look for a place —and if he should
miss his chance, then my corporals attend to it.

Alice. Yes, your corporals, whom I have to feed in my

kitchen, and whom you dare not show the door
Captain. No, for then they would also go when their terms
were up —and we might have to close up the whole gun shop
Alice. It will be our ruin.
Captain. That's why the officers have proposed to petition
His Royal Majesty for special expense money.
Alice. For whom .'

Captain. For the corporals.

Alice. [Laiighi7}g] You are crazy!
Captain. Yes, laugh a little for me. I need it.

Alice. I shall soon have forgotten how to laugh

Captain. [Lighting his cigar] That is something one should
never forget — it is tedious enough anyhow
Alice. Well, it is not very amusing — Do you want to
play any more ?

Captain. No, it tires me. [Pause.

Alice. Do you know, it irritates me nevertheless that my
cousin, the new Master of Quarantine, makes his first visit to

our enemies.
156 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain, Well, what's the use of talking about it?

Alice. But did you see in the paper that he was put down
as rentier? He must have come into some money then.
Captain. Rentier! Well, well —a rich relative. That's
really the first one in this family.

Alice. In your family, yes. But among my people many

have been rich.

Captain. If he has money, he's conceited, I suppose, but

I'll hold him in check —and he won't get a chance to look at

my cards.
The telegraph receiver begins to click.

Alice. Who is it.^

Captain. [Standing still] Keep quiet, please.

Alice. WVll, are you not going to look

Captain. I can hear — I can hear what they are saying
It's the children.
Goes over to the instrument and sends an answer; the

receiver continues to click for awhile, and then the

Captain answers again.
Alice. Well?
Captain. Wait a little — [Gives a final click] The children

are at the guard-house in the city. Judith is not well again

and is staying away from school.

Alice. Again ! What more did they say ?

Captain. Money, of course!

Alice. Why is Judith in such a hurry ? If she didn't pass

her examinations until next year, it would be just as well.

Captain. Tell her, and see what it helps.

Alice. You should tell her.

Captain. How many times have I not done so ? But chil-

dren have their own wills, you know.

Alice. Yes, in this house at least. [The Captain yawns]
So, you yawn in your wife's presence!
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 157

Cafpain. Well, what can I do ? Don't you notice how

day by day we are saying the same things to each other?
When, just now, you sprang that good old j)hrase of yours,
" in this house at least," I should have
come back with my own
stand-by, "it is not my
But as I have already
house only."
made that reply some five hundred times, I yawned instead.
And my yawn could be taken to mean either that I was too
lazy to answer, or "right you are, my angel," or "supposing
we quit."
Alice. You are very amiable to-night.
Captain. Is it not time for supper soon ?

Alice. Do you know that the doctor ordered supper from

the city —from the Grand Hotel .''

Captain. No! Then they are having ptarmigans —tschk!

Ptarmigan, you know, is the finest bird there is, but it's clear
barbarism to fry it in bacon grease
Alice. Ugh! Don't talk of food.
Captain. Well, how about wines ? I wonder what those
barbarians are drinking with the ptarmigans ?

Alice. Do you want me to play for you ?

Captain. [Sits dtown at the writing -table] The last resource

Well, if you could only leave your dirges and lamentations

alone — it sounds too much like music with a moral. And
I am always adding within myself: "Can't you hear how un-
happy I am! Meow, meow! Can't you hear what a horrible
husband I have! Brum, brum, brum! If he would only die
soon! Beating of the joyful drum, flourishes, the finale of the
!

Alcazar W'altz, Champagne Galop " Speaking of champagne,

I guess there are a couple of bottles left. What would you say
about bringing them up and pretending to have company ?

Alice. No, we won't, for they are mine —they were given
to me personally.
Captain. You are so economical.
158 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. And you are always stingy — to your wife at least!
Captain. Then I don't know what to suggest. Perhaps I
might dance for you ?

Alice. No, thank you —

I guess you are done with dancing.
Captain. You should bring some friend to stay with you.
Alice. Thanks ! You might bring a friend to stay with you.
Captain. Thanks! It has been tried, and with mutual
dissatisfaction. But it was interesting in the way of an experi-
ment, for as soon as a stranger entered the house, we became
quite happy — to begin with
Alice. And then!
Captain. Oh, don't talk of it!

There is a hiock at the door on the left.

Alice. Who can be coming so late as this ?

Captain. Jenny does not knock.

Alice. Go and open the door, and don't yell "come"
it has a sound of the workshop.
Captain. [Goes toward the door on the left] You don't like
workshops.
Alice. Please, open!
Captain. [Ope7is the door and receives a iiisiting-card that is
held out to him] It is Christine — Has Jenny left ? [As the
public cannot hear the answer, to Alice] Jenny has left.

Alice. Then I become servant girl again!

Captain. And I man-of-all-work.
Alice. Would it not be possible to get one of your gunnerg
to help along in the kitchen }

. Captain. Not these days.

Alice. But it couldn't be Jenny who sent in her card ?

Captain. [Looks at the card through his spectacles and then

turns it over to Alice] You see what it is — I cannot.
Alice. [Looks at the card] Curt — it is Curt! Hurry up and
bring him in.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 159

Captain. [Goes ovt to the left] Curt! Well, that's a pleas-

ure!
[Alice arranges her hair and seems to come to life.

Captain. [Enters from the left with Curt] Here he is, the
traitor! Welcome, old man! me hug you!
Let
Alice. [Goes to Curt] Welcome to my home, Curt!
Curt. Thank you — it is some time since we saw each other.
Captain. How long .''
Fifteen years ! And we have grown
old
Alice. Oh, Curt has not changed, it seems to me.
Captain. Sit down, sit down! And first of all — the pro-
gramme. Have you any engagement for to-night .-*

Curt. I am invited to the doctor's, but I have not promised

to go.

Alice. Then you will stay with your relatives.

Curt. That would seem the natural thing, but the doctor
is my superior, and I might have trouble afterward.
Captain. What kind of talk is that .5*
I have never been
afraid of my superiors
Curt. Fear or no fear, the trouble cannot be escaped.
Captain. On this island I am master. Keep behind my
back, and nobody will dare to touch you.
Alice. Oh, be quiet, Edgar! [Takes Curt hy the hand]
Leaving both masters and superiors aside, you must stay with
us. That wiU be found both natural and proper.
—
especially as I feel welcome here.
Curt. Well, then
Captain. Why should you not be welcome } There is
nothing between us —
[Curt tries vainly to hide a sense of dis-
pleasure] What could there be ? You were a little careless as

a young man, but I have forgotten all about it. I don't let

things rankle.
Alice looks annoyed. All three sit down at the sewing-

tabu.
160 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Well, you have strayed far and wide in the world ?

Curt. Yes, and now I have found a harbour with you

Captain. Whom you married off twenty-five years ago.

Curt. It was not quite that way, but it doesn't matter. It

is pleasing to see that you have stuck together for twenty-five

years.
Captain. Well, we have borne with it. Now and then it has
been so-so, but, as you say, we have stuck together. And
Alice has had nothing to complain of. There has been plenty
of everything — heaps of money. Perhaps you don't know
that I am a celebrated author —an author of text-books
Curt. Yes, I recall that, when we parted, you had just
published a volume on rifle practice that was selling well. Is

it still used in the military schools ?

Captain. It is still in evidence, and it holds its place as

number one, though they have tried to substitute a worse one
—which is being used now, but which is totally worthless.

[Painful silence.
Curt. You have been travelling abroad, I have heard.
Alice. W^e have been down to Copenhagen five times

think of it ?

Captain. Well, you see, when I took Alice away from the
stage
Alice. Oh, you took me ?
Captain. Yes, I took you as a wife should be taken
Alice. How brave you have grown
Captain. But as it was held up against me afterward that
I had spoiled her brilliant career —hm!— I had to make up for
it by promising to take my wife to Copenhagen —and this I

have kept — fully! Five times we have been there. Five

[holding ?/p the five fingers of the left hand] Have you been

in Copenhagen ?

Curt. [Smiling] No, I have mostly been in America.

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 161

Captain. America ? Isn't that a rotten sort of a country ?

Curt. [Uwpleasantly impressed] It is not Copenhagen.

Alice. Have you —heard anything — from your children?
Curt. No.
Alice. I hope you pardon me —but was it not rather in-
considerate to leave them like that

Curt. I didn't leave them, but the court gave them to the
mother.
Captain. Don't let us tsdk of that now. I for my part think

it was lucky for you to get out of that mess.

Curt. [To Alice] How are your children?
Alice. Well, thank you. They are at school in the city

and will soon be grown up.

Captain. Yes, they're splendid kids, and the boy has a
brilliant head —
brilliant! He is going to join the General
Staff

Alice. If they accept him

Captain. Him ? Who has the making of a War Minister
in him!
Curt. From one thing to another. There is to be a quar-
antine station here —against plague, cholera, and that sort of

thing. And the doctor will be my superior, as you know

what sort of man is he ?

Captain. Man ? He is no man! He's an ignorant rascal!

Curt. [To Alice] That is very unpleasant for me.
Alice. Oh, it is not quite as bad as Edgar makes it out,

but I must admit that I have small sympathy for the man
Captain. A rascal, that's what he is. And that's what the
others are, too — the Collector of Customs, the Postmaster,

the telephone the druggist, the

girl, —what they pilot is it call

him now ? —the Pilot Master—rascals one and —and that's all

why I don't associate with them.

Curt. Are you on bad terms with all of them ?
162 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. Every one!
Alice. Yes, it is true that intercourse with those people is

out of the question.

Captain. It is as if all the tyrants of the country had been
sent to this island for safe-keeping.
Alice. [rroiiicaUy] Exactly!
Captain. [Good-naturedly] Hm! Is that meant for me ? I
am no tyrant —not in my own house at least.

Alice. You know better!

Captain. [To Curt] Don't believe her! I am a very rea-

sonable husband, and the old lady is the best wife in the
world.
Alice. Would you like something to drink. Curt ?
Curt. No, thank you, not now.
Captain. Have you turned
Curt. A little moderate only
Captain. Is that American ?

Curt. Yes.
Captain. No moderation for me, or I don't care at all. A
man should stand his liquor.
Curt. Returning to our neighbours on the island —my posi-
tion will put me in touch with all of them —and it is not easy
to steer clear of everything, for no matter how little you care
to get mixed up in other people's intrigues, you are drawn into
them just the same.

Alice. You had better take up with them — in the end you
will return to us, for here you find your true friends.

Curt. Is it not dreadful to be alone among a lot of enemies

as you are ?

Alice. It is not pleasant.

Captain. It isn't dreadful at all. I have never had any-
thing but enemies all my life, and they have helped me on
instead of doing me harm. And when my time to die comes.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 163

I may say that I owe nothing to anybody, and that I have

never got a thing for nothing. Every particle of what I own
. I have had to fight for.

Alice. Yes, Edgar's path has not been strewn with

roses
Captain. No, with thorns and stones —pieces of flint —but
a man's own strength: do you know what tliat means ?

Curt. [Simply] Yes, I learned to recognise its insufficiency

about ten years ago.
Captain. Then you are no good!
Alice. [To the Captain] Edgar!
Captain. He is no good, I say, if he does not have the
strength within himself. Of course it is true that when the
mechanism goes to pieces there is nothing left but a barrow-
ful to chuck out on the garden beds; but as long as the
mechanism holds together the thing to do is to kick and fight,
with hands and feet, until there is nothing left. That is my
philosophy.
Curt. [Smiling] It is fun to listen to you.
Captain. But you don't think it's true ?

Curt. No, I don't.

Captain. But true it is, for all that.

During the preceding scene the wind has begun to blow
hard, and now one ofthe big doors is closed with a bang.

Captain. [Rising] It's blowing. I could just feel it coming.

Goes back and closes both doors. Knocks on the ba-
rometer.
Alice. [To Curt] You will stay for supper?
Curt. Thank you.
Alice. But it will be very simple, as our housemaid has just
left us.

Curt. Oh, it will do for me, I am sure.

Alice. You ask for so little, dear Curt.

164 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. [At the barometer] If you could only see how the
mercury is dropping! Oh, I felt it coming!
Alice. [Secretly to Curt] He is nervous.
Captain. \Vc ought to have supper soon.
Alice. [Rising] I am going to see about it now. You can
sit here and philosophise— [secretly to Curt], but don't con-
tradict him, for then he gets into bad humour. And don't ask
him why he was not made a major.
[Curt nods assent.
[Alice goes toward the right.

Captain. See that we get something nice now, old lady!

Alice. You give me money, and you'll get what you want.
Captain. Always money!
[Alice goes out.

Captain. [To Curt] Money, money, money! All day

long I have to stand ready with the purse, until at last I have
come to feel as if I myself were nothing but a purse. Are
you famihar with that kind of thing ?

Curt. Oh, yes —with the difference that I took myself for

a pocket-book.
Captain. Ha-ha! So you know the flavour of the brand!

Oh, the ladies Ha-ha

! And you had one of
! the proper kind
Curt. [Patiently] Let that be buried now.
Captain. She was a jewel ! Then I have after all — in spite

of everything —one that's pretty decent. For she is straight,

in spite of everything.

Curt. [Smiling good-humouredly] In spite of everything.

Captain. Don't you laugh!

Curt. [As before] In spite of everything!

Captain. Yes, she has been a faithful mate, a splendid

mother —excellent—but [with a glance at the door on the right]

she has a devilish temper. Do you know, there have been

moments when I cursed you for saddling me with her.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 165

Curt. [Good-naturedly] But I didn't. Listen, man

Captain. Yah, yah, yah! You talk nonsense and forget

things that are not pleasant to remember. Don't take it

badly, please — I am accustomed to command and raise

Cain, you see, but you know me, and don't get angry!
Curt. Not at all. But I have not provided you with a
wife —on the contrary.
Captain. [Withoid letting his floiv of words be checked]

Don't you think life is queer anyhow ?

Curt. I suppose so.

Captain. And to grow old — it is no fun, but it is interesting.

Well, my age is nothing to speak of, but it does begin to make

itself felt. All your friends die off, and then you become so
lonely.

Curt. Lucky the man who can grow old in company with
a wife.
Captain. Lucky ? Well, it is luck, for the children go their
way, too. You ought not to have left yours.

Curt. Well, I didn't. They were taken away from me

Captain. Don't get mad now, because I tell you
Curt. But it was not so.

Captain. Well, whichever way it was, it has now become

forgotten —but you are alone!
Curt. You get accustomed to everything.

Captain. Do you — is it possible to get accustomed —to

being quite alone also ?

Curt. Here am I!

Captain.What have you been doing these fifteen years ?

Curt. What a question These fifteen years !

Captain. They say you have got hold of money and grown
rich.

Curt. I can hardly be called rich

Captain. I am not going to ask for a loan.

166 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. If you were, you would find me ready.
Captain. Many thanks, but I have my bank account. You
see [with a glance toward the door on the right], nothing must
be lacking in this house; and the day I had no more money
she would leave me!
Curt. Oh, no!
Captain. No? Well, I know better. Think of it, she
makes a point of asking me when I happen to be short, just
for the pleasure of showing me that I am not supporting my
family.
Curt. But I heard you say that you have a large income.
Captain. Of course, I have a large income— but it is not
enough.
Curt. Then it is not large, as such things are reckoned
Captain. Life is queer, and we as well!
The telegraph receiver begins to click.
Curt. What is that ?

Captain. Nothing but a time correction.

Curt. Have you no telephone ?

Captain. Yes, in the kitchen. But we use the telegraph

because the girls at the central report everything we say.
Curt. Social conditions out here by the sea must be fright-

ful!

Captain. They are simply horrible ! But all life is horrible.

And you, who believe in a sequel, do you think there will be
any peace further on ?

Curt. I presume there will be storms and battles there also.

Captain. There also — if there be any "there"! I prefer

annihilation
Curt. Are you sure that annihilation will come without
pain ?

Captain. I am going to die all of a sudden, without pain

Curt. So you know that ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 1G7

Captain. Yes, I know it.

Curt. You don't appear satisfied with your life ?

Captain. [Sighing] Satisfied ? The day I could die, I

should be satisfied.

Curt. [Rising] That you don't know! But tell me: what
is going on in this house ? What is happening here ? There
is a smell as of poisonous wall-paper, and one feels sick the
moment one enters. I should prefer to get away from here,
had I not promised Alice to stay. There are dead bodies
beneath the flooring, and the place is so filled with hatred that
one can hardly breathe. [The Captain sinks together and sits

staring into vacancy] What is the matter with you? Edgar!

[The Captain does not move. Slaps the Captain on the
shoulder] Edgar!
Captain. [Recovering consciousness] Did you say anything ?
[Looks arou7id] I thought it was —Alice — !
Oh, is that you ? —
Say [Relapses into apathy.
Curt. This is horrible! [Goes over to the door on the right
and opens it] Alice!
Alice. [Enters, wearing a kitchen apron] What is it?

Curt. I don't know. Look at him.

Alice. [Calmly] He goes off like that at times — I'll play
and then he will wake up.
Curt. No, don't! Not that way! Leave it to me
Does he hear ? Or see ?
Alice. Just now he neither hears nor sees.
Curt. And you can speak of that with such calm ? Alice,
what is going on in this house ?

Alice. Ask him there.

Curt. Him there ? But he is your husband
Alice. A stranger to me —as strange as he was twenty-five
years ago. I know nothing at all about that man — nothing
but
168 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. Stop ! He may overhear you.
Alice. Now he cannot hear anything.
A trumpet siqnal is sounded outside.

Captain. [Leafs to his feet and grabs sabre and cap] Par-
don me. I have to inspect the sentries.

[Goes out through the door in the background.

Curt. Is he ill ?

Alice. I don't know.

Curt. Has he lost his reason ?

Alice. I don't know.

Curt. Does he drink ?

Alice. He boasts more of it than he really drinks.

Curt. Sit down and talk —but calmly and truthfully.
Alice. [Sitting doivn] What am I to talk about ? That I

have spent a lifetime in this tower, locked up, guarded by a

man whom I have always hated, and whom I now hate so
beyond all bounds that the day he died I should be laughing
until the air shook.

Curt. Why have you not parted ?

Alice.You may well ask! While still engaged we parted

twice; since then we have been trying to part every single day
— but we are chained together and cannot break away. Once
we were separated —within the same house — for five whole
years. Now nothing but death can part us. This we know,
and for that reason we are waiting for him as for a liberator.
Curt. Why are you so lonely ?

Alice. Because he isolates me. First he "exterminated"

all my brothers and sisters from our home —he speaks of it

himself as "extermination" —and then my girl friends and

everybody else.

Curt. But his relatives ? He has not "exterminated" them ?

Alice. Yes, for they came near taking my life, after having
taken my honour and good name. Finally I became forced
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 109

to keep up my connection with the world and with other human

beings by means of that telegraph —for the telephone was
watched by the operators. I have taught myself telegraphy,
and he doesn't know it. You must not tell him, for then he
would kill me.
Curt. Frightful! Frightful! — But why does he hold me
responsible for your marriage ? Let me tell you now how
it was. Edgar was my childhood friend. When he saw
you he fell in love at once. He came to me and asked me to
plead his cause. I said no at once — and, my dear Alice, I
knew your tyrannical and cruel temperament. For that rea-
son I warned him —and when he persisted, I sent him to get
your brother for his spokesman.
Alice. I believe what you say. But he has been deceiving
himself all these years, so that now you can never get him to
believe anything else.
Curt. Well, let him put the blame on me if that can relieve
his sufferings.

Alice. But that is too much

Curt. I am used to it. But what does hurt me is his
unjust charge that I have deserted my children
Alice. That's the manner of man he is. He says what suits
him, and then he believes it. But he seems to be fond of you,
principally because you don't contradict him. Try not to
grow tired of us now. I believe you have come in what was

to us a fortunate moment; I think it was even providential

Curt, you must not grow tired of us, for we are undoubtedly
the most unhappy creatures in the whole world
[She weeps.
Curt. I have seen one marriage at close quarters, and it

—
was dreadful but this is almost worse!
Alice. Do you think so ?

Curt. Yes.
170 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Whose fault is it ?

Curt. The moment you quit asking whose fault it is, Alice,

you will feel a relief. Try to regard it as a fact, a trial that has
to be borne
Alice. I cannot do it! It is too much! [Rising] It is be-
yond help!
Curt. I pity both of you! — Do you know why you are
hating each other ?

Alice. No, it is the most unreasoning hatred, without

cause, without purpose, but also without end. And can you
imagine why he is principally afraid of death ? He fears that
I may marry again.
Curt. Then he loves you.
Alice. Probably. But that does not prevent him from
hating me.
Curt. [As if to himself] It is called love-hatred, and it hails

from the pit! —

Does he like you to play for him ?
Alice. Yes, but only horrid melodies —for instance, that
awful "The Entry of the Boyars." When he hears it he
loses his head and wants to dance.

Curt. Does he dance ?

Alice. Oh, he is very funny at times.

Curt. One thing —pardon me for asking. Where are the
children .''

Alice. Perhaps you don't know that two of them are dead ?

Curt. So you have had that to face also ?

Alice. What is there I have not faced ?

Curt. But the other two ?

Alice. In the city. They couldn't stay at home. For he

set them against me.
Curt. And you set them against him ?

Alice. Of course. And then parties were formed, votes

bought, bribes given —and in order not to spoil the children
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 171

completely we had to part from them. What should have

been the uniting link became the seed of dissension; what is

held the blessing of the home turned into a curse — well, I be-

lieve sometimes that we belong to a cursed race!

Curt. Yes, is it not so —ever since the Fall ?

Alice. [With a venomous glance and sharp voice] What fall ?

Curt. That of our first parents.
Alice. Oh, I thought you meant something else!

[Embarrassed silence.

Alice. [With folded hands] Curt, my kinsman, my child-

hood friend —I have not always acted toward you as I should.

But now I am being punished, and you are having your revenge.
Curt. No revenge! Nothing of that kind here! Hush!
Alice. Do you recall one Sunday while you were engaged
and I had invited you for dinner

Curt. Never mind

Alice. I must speak Have pity on me When you came
! !

to dinner, we had gone away, and you had to leave again.

Curt. You had received an invitation yourselves —what is

that to speak of!

Alice. Curt, when to-day, a little while ago, I asked you to
stay for supper, I thought we had something left in the pantry.

[Hiding her face in her hands] And there is not a thing, not
even a piece of bread
Curt. [Weeping] Alice —poor Alice!
Alice. But when he comes home and wants something to
eat, and there is nothing— then he gets angry. You have
never seen him angry! O, God, what humiliation!
Curt. Will you not let me go out and arrange for some-
thing ?

Alice. There is nothing to be had on this island.

Curt. Not for my sake, but for his and yours — let me think
up something —something. We must make the whole thing
172 THE DANCE OF DEATH
seem laughalile when he comes. I'll propose that we have
a drink, and in the meantime I'll think of something. Put
him in good humour; play for him, any old nonsense. Sit
down at the j^iano and make yourself ready
Alice. Look at my hands —are they fit to play with.' I

have to wipe glasses and polish brass, sweep floors, and make
fires

Curt. But vou have two servants ?

Alice. Sowe have to pretend because he is an oflScer

but the servants are leaving us all the time, so that often we
have none at —most
all of the time, in fact. How am I to

get out of this — about

this supper ? Oh, if only fire would
break out in this house!
Curt. Don't, Ahce, don't!
Alice. If the sea would rise and take us away!
Curt. No, no, no, I cannot listen to you
Alice. What will he say, what will he say — Don't go.
Curt, don't go away from me!
Curt. No, dear Alice — I shall not go.

Alice. Yes, but when you are gone

Curt. Has he ever laid hands on you ?

Alice. On me ? Oh, no, for he knew that then I should

have left him. One has to preserve some pride.

From without is heard: " Who goes there ? — Friend."

Curt. [Risi^ig] Is he coming ?

Alice. [Frightened] Yes, that's he. [Pause.

Curt. What in the world are we to do ?

Alice. I don't know, I don't know!

Captain. [Enters from the background, cheerful] There!
Leisure now! Well, has she had time to make her com-
p]air'*'= ? Is she not unhappy —hey ?

Curt. How's the weather outside ? -

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 173

Captain. Half storm — [Facet iousb/; openinr/ one of the

doors (iiai-\ Sir Bluebeard with the niairleii in the tower; and
outside stands the sentry with drawn sabre to guard the pretty
maiden —and then come the brothers, but the sentry is there.
Look at him. Hip — hip! That's a sentry. Look at him.
fine

Mdlbrongh s'en va-t-en guerre! Let us dance the sword

dance! Curt ought to see it!

CtjRT. No, let us have "The Entry of the Boyars" instead!

Captain. Oh, you know that one, do you ? — Alice in the
kitchen apron, come and play. Come, I tell you!
[Alice goes reluctantly to the piano.
Captain. [Pinching her arm] Now you have been black-
guarding me!
Alice. I ?

Curt tu7-ns away from them.

Alice flays " The Entry of the Boyars."
The Captain performs some kind of Hungarian dance
step behind the writing -table so that his spurs are set

jingling. Then he sinks down on the floor without

being noticed by Curt and Alice, and the latter goes
on playing the piece to the end.

Alice. \}Vithout turning around] Shall we have it again ?

[Silence. Turns around and becomes aivare of the Captain,

xvho is lying unconscious on the floor in such a way that he is
hidden from the public by the writing-table] Lord Jesus
She stands still, with arms crossed over her breast, and
gives vent to a sigh as of gratitude and relief.

Curt, [Turns aroxind; hurries over to the Captain] What

is it ? What is it ?

Alice. [In a high state of tension] Is he dead ?

Curt. I don't know. Come and help me.

Alice. [Remains still] I cannot touch him — is he dead ?
174 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. No — he lives.

Alice sighs.

Curt helps the Captain to his feet and -places him in a

chair.

Captain. What was it .? [Silence] What was it ?

Curt. You fell down.

Captain. Did anything happen ?

Curt. You fell on the floor. What is the matter with you "^

Captain. With me? Nothing at all. I don't know of

anything. What are you staring at me for .?

Curt. You are ill.

Captain. What nonsense is that? You go on playing,

Alice — Oh, now it's back again!
[Pids both hands up to his head.

Alice. Can't you see that you are ill ?

Captain. Don't shriek! It is only a fainting spell.

Curt. We must call a doctor— I'll use your telephone

Captain. I don't want any doctor.
Curt. You must! We have to call him for our own sake
—otherwise we shall be held responsible
Captain. I'll show him the door if he comes here. I'll

shoot him. Oh, now it's there again

\Tahcs hold of his head.
Curt. {Goes toward the door on the right] Now I am going
to telephone! [Goes out.
[Alice takes off her apron.
Captain. Will you give me a glass of water ?

Alice. I suppose I have to ! [Gives him a glass of umter.

Captain. How amiable!
Alice. Are you ill ?

Captain. Please pardon me for not being well.

Alice. Will you take care of yourself then ?

Captain. You won't do it, I suppose ?

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 175

Alice. No, of that you may be sure!

Captain. The hour is come for which you have been wait-
ing so long.
Alice. The hour you believed would never come.
Captain. Don't be angry with me
Curt. [Enters from the right] Oh, it's too bad
Alice.What did he say ?
Curt. He rang off without a word.
Alice. [To the Captain] There is the result of your limit-
less arrogance!
Captain. I think I am growing worse — Try to get a
doctor from the city.

Alice. [Goes to the telegraph instrument] We shall have to

use the telegraph then.
Captain. [Risi7jg half-iraij from the chair; startled] Do
you —know—how to use it ?

Alice. [JVorking the key] Yes, I do.

Captain. So-o! Well, go on then But isn't she treach-—
erous! [To Curt] Come over here and sit by me. [Curt
sits down beside the Captain] Take my hand. I sit here and
fall —can you make it out ? Down something —such a queer
feeling.

Curt. Have you had any attack like this before ?

Captain. Never
Curt. While you are waiting for an answer from the city,

I'll go over to the doctor and have a talk with him. Has he
attended you before ?

Captain. He has.
Curt. Then he knows your case. [Goes toward the left.

Alice. There will be an answer shortly. It is very kind of

you. Curt. But come back soon.
Curt. As soon as I can. [Goes out.
Captain. Curt is kind ! And how he has changed.
176 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Yes, and for the better. It is too bad, however,
that he must be dragged into our misery just now.
Captain. But good for us — I wonder just how he stands.
Did you notice that he wouldn't speak of his own affairs .'

Alice. I did notice it, but then I don't think anybody

asked him.
Captain. Think, what a hfe! And ours! I wonder if it is

the same for all people ?

Alice. Perhaps, although they don't speak of it as we do.

Captain. At times I have thought that misery draws mis-
ery, and that those who are happy shun the unhappy. That
is the reasonwhy we see nothing but misery.
Alice. Have you known anybody who was happy ?
Captain. Let me see! No— Yes —the Ekmarks.
Alice. You don't mean it! She had to have an operation
last year
Captain. That's right. Well, then I don't know —yes,
the Von Kraffts.
Alice. Yes, the whole family lived an idyllic life, well
off, respected by everybody, nice children, good marriages
right along until they were fifty. Then that cousin of theirs
committed a crime that led to a prison term and all sorts

of after-effects. And that was the end of their peace. The

family name was dragged in the mud by all the newspapers.
The Krafft murder case made it impossible for the family
to appear an^'where, after having been so much thought of.

The children had to be taken out of school. Oh, heavens!

Captain. I wonder what my trouble is ?

Alice. What do you think ?

Captain. Heart or head. It is as if the soul wanted to fly

off and turn into smoke.
Alice. Have you any appetite ?

Captain. Yes, how about the supper ?

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 177

Alice. [Crosses the stage, disturbed] I'll ask Jenny.

Captain. Why, she's gone!
Alice. Yes, yes, yes!
Captain. Ring for Christine so that I can get some fresh
water.
Alice. [Rings] I wonder — [Rings again] She doesn't hear.
Captain. Go and look —just think, she should have
if left

also
Alice. [Goes over to the door on the left and opens it] What
is this Her trunk is in the hallway
?
— packed.
Captain. Then she has gone.
Alice. This is hell!

Begins to cry, falls on her knees, and puts her head on a

chair, sobbing.

Captain. And everything at once! And then Curt had to

turn up just in time to get a look into this mess of ours ! If there

be any further humiliation in store, let it come thismoment!

Alice. Do you know what I suspect.'' Curt went away
and will not come back.
Captain. I believe it of him.
Alice. Yes, we are cursed
Captain. What are you talking of ?
Alice. Don't you see how everybody shuns us ?

Captain. I don't mind [The telegraph

! receiver clicks-] There
is the answer. Hush, I can hear —
it Nobody can spare the
time. Evasions! The rabble!
Alice. That's what you get because you have despised
your physicians —and failed to pay them.
Captain. That is not so
Alice. Even when you could, you didn't care to pay their
bills because you looked down upon their work, just as you
have looked down upon mine and everybody else's. They
don't want to come. And the telephone is cut off because you
178 THE DANCE OF DEATH
didn't think that good for anything either. Nothing is good
for anything but your rifles and guns!
Captain. Don't stand there and talk nonsense
Alice. Everything comes back.
Captain. What sort of superstition is that? Talk for
old women!
Alice. You will see ! Do you know that we owe Christine
six montlis' wages .''

Captain. Well, she has stolen that much.

Alice. But I have also had to borrow money from her.
Captain. I think you capable of it.

Alice. What an ingrate you are! You know I borrowed

that money for the children to get into the city.
Captain. Curt had a fine way of coming back! A rascal,
that one, too! And a coward! He didn't dare to say he had
had enough, and that he found the doctor's party more pleas-
ant — He's the same rapscallion as ever!
Curt. [Enters quickly from the lift ] Well, my dear Edgar,
this is how the matter stands —the doctor knows everything
about your heart
Captain. My heart ?
Curt. You have long been suffering from calcification of

the heart •

Captain. Stone heart ?

Curt. And
Captain. Is it serious ?

Curt. Well, that is to say

Captain. It is serious.
Curt. Yes.
Captain. Fatal?
Curt. You must be very careful. First of all: the cigar
must go. [The Captain throws away his cigar] And next: no
more whiskey ! Then, to bed
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 179

Captain. [Scared] No, I don't want that! Not to bed!

That's the end! Then you never get up again. I shall sleep

on the couch to-night. What more did he say ?

Curt. He was very nice about it and will come at once if

you call him.

Captain. Was he nice, the hypocrite? I don't want to

see him ! I can at least eat ?

Curt. Not to-night. And during the next few days noth-
ing but milk.
Captain. Milk! I cannot take that stuff into my mouth.
Curt, Better learn how
Captain. I am too old to learn. [Puts his hand up to his
head] Oh, there it is again now!
[He sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead.
Alice. [To Curt]What did the doctor tell you .'

Curt. That he may die.

Alice. Thank God!
Curt. Take care, Alice, take care! And now, go and get
a pillow and a blanket and I'll put him here on the couch.
Then I'll sit on the chair here all night.

Alice.And I ?
Curt. You go to bed. Your presence seems only to make
him worse.
Alice. Command! I shall obey, for you seem to mean
well toward both of us. [Goes out to the left.

Curt. Mark you —toward both of you! And I shall not

mix in any partisan squabbles.

Curt takes the water bottle and goes out to the right.
The noise of the wind outside is clearly heard. Then
one of the doors is blown open and an old woman of
shabby, unprepossessing appearance peeps into the
room.
180 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. [Wakes up, 7-ises, and looks arouncJ] So, tliey have
left me, the rascals! [Catches sight of the old xcoman and is

frightened hy hei-\ Who is it? What do you want?

Old Woman. I just wanted to close the door, sir.

Captain. Why should you ? Why should you ?

Old W'oman. Because it blew open just as I passed by.

Captain. Wanted to steal, did you ?

Old Woman. Not much here to take away, Christine said.

Captain. Christine ?

Old Woman. Good night, sir, and sleep well!

[Closes the door and disappears,
Alice comes in from the left with pillows and a blanket.
Captain. Who was that at the door ? Anybody ?

Alice. Why, it was old Mary from the poorhouse who just
went by.
Captain. Are you sure ?

Alice. Are vou afraid ?

Captain. I, afraid ? Oh, no

Alice. As you don't want to go to bed, you can lie here.
Captain. [Goes over to the couch and lies dow7i] I'll lie here.

[Ti'ies to take Alice's hand, but she pidls it away.

Curt comes in with the water bottle.

Captain. Curt, don't go away from me

CuuT. I am going to stay up with you all night. Alice is

going to bed.
Captain. Good night then, Alice.

Alice. [To Curt] Good night, Curt.

Curt, Good night.

[Alice goes out.

Curt. [Takes a chair and sits down beside the coucli\ Don't
you want to take off your boots ?

Captain. No, a warrior should always be armed.

Curt. Are you expecting a battle then ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH isi

Captain. Perhaps! [Rismg vp in hcd] Curt, you are the

only human being to whom I ever disclosed anything of myself.

Listen to me! — If I die to-night— look after my children!

Curt. I will do so.

Captain. Thank you —I trust in you

Curt. Can you explain why you trust me ?
Captain. We have not been friends, for friendship is some-
thing I don't believe in, and our families were born enemies
and have always been at war
Curt. And yet you trust me ?

Captain. Yes, and I don't know why. [Silence] Do you

think I am going to die ?

Curt. You as well as everybody. There will be no ex-

ception made in your case.
Captain. Are you bitter ?

Curt. Yes —are you afraid of death ? Of the wheelbarrow

and the garden bed ?

Captain. Think, if it were not the end!

Curt. That's what a great many think
Captain. And then ?

Curt. Nothing but surprises, I suppose.

Captain. But nothing at known with certainty ?

all is

Curt. No, that's just it! That is why you must be pre-

pared for everything.

Captain. You are not childish enough to believe in a hell ?

Curt. Do you not believe in it

—
you, who are right in it ?

Captain. That is metaphorical only.

Curt. The realism with which you have described yours
seems to preclude all thought of metaphors, poetical or other-

Captain. If you only knew what pangs I suffer!

Curt. Of the body ?

Captain. No, not of the body.

182 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. Then it must be of the spirit, for no other alterna-
tive exists. [Pause.
Captain. [Rising up in hed] I don't want to die!

Curt. Not long ago you wished for annihilation.

Captain. Yes, if it be painless.
Curt. Apparently it is not!
Captain. Is this annihilation then ?

Curt. The beginning of it.

Captain. Good night.

Curt. Good night.

Curtain.
The same setting, hut now the lamp is at the 'point of going o7it.
Through the windotcs and the glass panes' of the dxwrs a
gray morning is visible. The sea is stirring. The sentnj
is on the battery as before.
The Captain is lying on the couch, asleep. Curt sits

on a chair beside him, looking pale and wearied from

his watch.
Alice. [In from the left] Is he asleep ?

Curt. Yes, since the time when the sun should have risen.

Alice. What kind of night did he have ?

Curt. He slept now and then, but he talked a good deal.

Alice. Of what ?
Curt. He argued about religion like a schoolboy, but with
a pretension of having solved all the world riddles. Finally,

toward morning, he invented the immortality of the soul.

Alice. For his own glory.

Curt. Exactly! He is actually the most conceited person

I have ever met. "I am ; consequently God must be."
Alice. You have become aware of it? Look at those
boots. With those he would have trampled the earth flat,
had he been allowed to do so. With those he has trampled
down other people's fields and gardens. With those he has
trampled on some people's toes and other people's heads
Man-eater, you have got your bullet at last

Curt. He would be comical were he not so tragical; and

there are traces of greatness in all his narrow-mindedness
Have you not a single good word to say about him ?

Alice. [Sitting down] Yes, if he only does not hear it; for

if he hears a single word of praise he develops megalomania

on the spot.
183
18i THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. He can hear nothing now, for he has had a dose of
morphine.
Alice. Born in a poor home, with many brothers and sis-

ters, Edgar very early had to support the family by giving les-

sons, as the father was a ne'er-do-well if nothing worse. It

must be hard young man to give up all the pleasures of

for a

youth in order to slave for a bunch of thankless children whom

he has not brought into the world. I was a little girl when I

saw him, as a young man, going without an overcoat in the

winter while the mercury stood at fifteen below zero — his little

sisters wore kersey coats — it was fine, and I admired him, but
his ugliness repelled me. Is he not unusually ugly .'*

Curt. Yes, and his ugliness has a touch of the monstrous

at times. Whenever we fell out, I noticed it particularly.
And when, at such times, he went away, his image assumed
enormous forms and proportions, and he literally haunted me.
Alice, Think of me then! However, his earlier years as

an oflBcer were undoubtedly a martyrdom. But now and

then he was helped by rich people. This he will never admit,

and whatever has come to him in that way he has accepted

as a due tribute, without giving thanks for it.

Curt. We were to speak well of him.

Alice. Yes— after he is dead. But then I recall nothing
more.
Curt. Have you found him cruel ?
—
Alice. Yes and yet he can show himself both kind and
susceptible to sentiment. As an enemy he is simply horrible.
Curt. Why did he not get the rank of major .'

Alice. Oh, you ought to understand that! They didn't

w^ant to raise a man above themselves who had already proved

himself a tyrant as an inferior. But you must never let on
that you know this. He says himself that he did not want
promotion — Did he speak of the children ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 185

Curt. Yes, he was longing for Judith.

Alice. I thought so — Do you know what Judith

Oh!
is ? His own image, whom he has trained for use against me.
Think only, that my own daughter— has raised her hand
against me
Curt. That is too much!
Alice. Hush! He is moving — Think if he overheard
us! He is full of trickery also.
Curt. He is actually waking up.
Alice. Does he not look like an ogre ? I am afraid of him
[Sile7ice.

Captain. [Stirs, wakes up, rises in bed, and looks around] It

is morning —at last!

Curt. How are you feeling ?

Captain. Not so very bad.

Curt. Do you want a doctor ?
Captain. No—I want to see Judith —my child
Curt. Would it not be wise to set your house in order be-
fore —or if something should happen ?

Captain.What do you mean ? What could happen ?

Curt. What may happen to all of us.

Captain. Oh, nonsense! Don't yon believe that I die so
easily! And don't rejoice prematurely, Alice!
Curt. Think of your children. Make your will so that

your wife at least may keep the household goods.

Captain. Is she going to inherit from me while I am still

alive ?

Curt. No, but if something happens she ought not to be

turned into the street. One who has dusted and polished and
looked after these things for twenty-five years should have
some right to remain in possession of them. May I send
word to the regimental lawyer ?

Captain. No!
186 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. You are a cruel man —more cruel than I thought
you!
Captain. Now it is back again
[Falls back on the bed unconscious.
Alice. [Goes toward the right] There are some people in
the kitchen — I have to go down there.
Curt. Yes, go. Here is not much to be done.
[Alice goes out.

Captain. [Recovers] Well, Curt, what are you going to do

about your quarantine ?

Curt. Oh, that will be all right.

Captain. No; Iam in command on this island, so you will

have to deal with me— don't forget that!

Curt. Have you ever seen a quarantine station ?

Captain. Have I ? Before you were born. And I'll give

you a piece of advice: don't place your disinfection plant too
close to the shore.
Curt. I was thinking that the nearer I could get to the
water the better
Captain. That shows how much you know of your business.
Water, don't you see, is the element of the bacilli, their life

element ?

Curt. But the salt water of the sea is needed to wash away
all the impurity.
Captain. Idiot! Well, now, when you get a house for your-
self I suppose you'll bring home your children ?

Curt. Do you think they will let themselves be brought ?

Captain. Of course, if you have got any backbone! It

would make a good impression on the people if you fulfilled

your duties in that respect also

Curt. I have always fulfilled my duties in that respect.

Captain. [Raising his voice] — in the one respect where
you have proved yourself most remiss
 THE DANCE OF DEATH \S1

Curt. Have I not told you-

Captain. [Paying no attention] —for one does not desert
one's children like that
Curt, Go right on
Captain. As your relative —a relatiAe older than yourself
—I feel entitled to tell you the truth, even if it should prove
bitter — and you should not take it badly
Curt. Are you hungry ?

Captain. Yes, I am.

Curt. Do you want something light?
Captain. No, something solid.

Curt. Then you would be done for.

Captain. Is it not enough to be sick, but one must starve

also?
Curt. That's how the land lies.

Captain. And neither drink nor smoKe ? Then life is not

worth much
Curt. Death demands sacrifices, or it comes at once.
Alice. [Enters tvith several bunches offlowers and some tele-

grams and letters] These are for you.

[Throws the floxoers on the writing-table.

Captain. [Flattered] For me! Will you please let me look ?

Alice. Oh, they are only from the non-commissioned offi-

cers, the bandmen, and the gunners.

Captain. You are jealous.
Alice. Oh, no. If it were laurel wreaths, that would be
another matter —but those you can never get.

Captain. Hm!— Here's a telegram from the Colonel

read it. Curt. The Colonel is a gentleman after —though

all

he is something of an idiot. And this is from —what does it

say ? It is from Judith ! Please telegraph her to come with

the next boat. And here — ^yes, one is not quite without
friends after all, and it is fine to see them take thought of a
188 THE DANCE OF DEATH
sick man, who is also a man of deserts above his rank, and a
man free of fear or blemish.

Alice. I don't quite understand —are they congratulating

you because you are sick ?

Captain. Hyena!
Alice. Yes, we had a doctor here on the island who was
so hated that when he left they gave a banquet after him, —
and not for him
Captain. Put the flowers in water— I am not easily caught,

and all people are a lot of rabble, but, by heavens, these sim-
ple tributes are genuine —they cannot be anything but genuine!
Alice. Fool!
Curt. [Reading the telegram] Judith says she cannot come
because the steamer is held back by the storm.
Captain. Is that all ?

Curt. No-o —there is a postscript.

Captain. Out with it!

Curt. Well, she asks her father not to drink so much.

Captain. Impudence! That's like children! That's my
only beloved daughter —my Judith—my idol!

Alice. And your image!

Captain. Such is life. Such are its best joys — Hell!
Alice. Now you get the harvest of your sowing. You have
set her against her own mother and now she turns against
the father. Tell me, then, that there is no God!
Captain. [To Curt] What does the Colonel say ?

Curt. He grants leave of absence without any comment.

Captain. Leave of absence ? I have not asked for it.

Alice. No, but I have asked for it.

Captain. I don't accept it.

Alice. Order has already been issued.

Captain. That's none of my concern!

Alice. Do you see. Curt, that for this man exist no laws,
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 189

no constitutions, no prescribed human order? lie stands

above everything and everybody. The universe is created

for his private use. The sun and moon pursue their
the
courses in order to spread his glory among the stars. Such
is this man: this insignificant captain, who could not even

reach the rank of major, and at whose strutting everybody

laughs, while he thinks himself feared; this poor wretch who
is afraid in the dark and believes in barometers: and all this

in conjunction with and having for its climax —a barrowful

of manure that is not even prime quality!
Captain. [Fanning himself with a bunch of flowers, con-
ceitedly, without listening to Alice] Have you asked Curt to

breakfast ?

Alice. No.
Captain. Get us, then, at once two nice tenderloin steaks.
Alice, Two ?
Capi'ain. I am going to have one myself.
Alice. But we are three here.
Captain. Oh, you want one also? Well, make it three

then.
Alice. Where am I to get them ? Last night you asked
Curt to supper, and there was not a crust of bread in the
house. Curt has been awake all night without anything to
eat, and he has had no coffee because there is none in the

house and the credit is gone.

Captain. She is angry at me for not dying yesterday.

Alice. No, for not dying twenty-five years ago —for not

dying before you were born

Captain. [To Curt] Listen to her! That's what happens
when you institute a marriage, my dear Curt. And it is per-

fectly clear that it was not instituted in heaven.

[Alice and Curt look at each other meaningly.

Captain. [Rises and goes toward the door] However, say

190 THE DANCE OF DEATH
what you will, now I am going on duty. [Puts on an old-
fashioned helmet with a brush crest, girds on the sabre, and shoul-
ders his cloak\ If anybody calls for me, I am at the battery.
[Alice and Curt try vainly to hold him bacJc\ Stand aside!
{Goes out.
Alice. Yes, go! You always go, always show your back,
whenever the fight becomes too much for you. And then you
let your wife cover the retreat —you hero of the bottle, you
arch-braggart, you arch-liar! Fie on you!
Curt. This is bottomless!
Alice. And you don't know everything yet.
Curt. Is there anything more
Alice. But I am ashamed
Curt. Where is he going now .? And where does he get the
strength .''

Alice. Yes, you may well ask ! Now he goes down to the

non-commissioned oflBcers and thanks them for the flowers

and then he eats and drinks with them. And then he speaks
ill of all the other ofiicers — If you only knew how many
times he has been threatened with discharge! Nothing but
sympathy for his family has saved him. And this he takes
for fear of his superiority. And he hates and maligns the
very women —wives of other officers — who have been plead-
ing our cause.
Curt. I have to confess that I applied for this position in

order to find peace by the sea —and of your circumstances I

knew nothing at all.

Alice. Poor Curt! And how will you get something to eat ?

Curt. Oh, I can go over to the doctor's —but you ? Will

you not permit me to arrange this for you ?

Alice. If only he does not learn of it, for then he would

kill me.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 191

Curt. [Looking out through the window] Look, he stands

right in the wind out there on the rampart.
Alice. He is to be pitied —for being what he is!

Curt. Both of you are to be pitied! But what can be

done?
Alice. I don't know — The mail brought a batch of un-
paid bills also, and those he did not see.

Curt. It may be fortunate to escape seeing things at times.

Alice. [At the windoiv] He has unbuttoned his cloak and
lets the wind strike his chest. Now he wants to die
Curt. That is not what he wants, I think, for a while ago,
when he felt his life slipping away, he grabbed hold of mine
and began to stir in my affairs as if he wanted to crawl into
me and live my life.

Alice. That is just his vampire nature — to interfere with

other people's destinies, to suck interest out of other existences,

to regulate and arrange the doings of others, since he can find
no interest whatever And remember. Curt,
in his own life.

don't ever admit him into your family life, don't ever make him
acquainted with your friends, for he will take them away
from you and make them his own. He is a perfect magician
in this respect. Were he to meet your children, you would
soon find them intimate with him, and he would be advising
them and educating them to suit himself —but principally in

opposition to your wishes.

Curt. Alice, was it not he who took my children away
from me at the time of the divorce ?

Alice. Since it is all over now —yes, it was he.

Curt. I have suspected it, but never had any certainty.

It was he
Alice. When you placed your full trust in my husband and
sent him to make peace between yourself and your wife, he
192 THE DANCE OF DEATH
made love to her instead, and taught her the tritk that gave
her the children.
Curt. Oh, God! God in heaven!
Alice. There you have another side of him. [Silence.
Curt. Do you know, last night —when he thought himself
dying — then —he made me promise that I should look after
his children!

Alice. But you don't want to revenge yourself on my chil-

dren ?

Curt. Yes —by keeping my promise. I shall look after

your children.
Alice. You could take no worse revenge, for there is noth-
ing he hates so much as generosity.
Curt. Then I may consider myself revenged —without any
revenge.
Alice. I love revenge as a form of justice, and I am yearn-
ing to see evil get its punishment.
Curt. You still remain at that point ?
Alice. There I shall always remain, and the day I for-
gave or loved an enemy I should be a hypocrite.
Curt. It may be a duty not to say everything, Alice, not
to see everything. It is called forbearance, and all of us
need it.

Alice. Not I! My life lies clear and open, and I have

always played my cards straight.
Curt. That is saying a good deal.
Alice. No, it is not saying enough. Because what I have
suffered innocently for the sake of this man, whom I never
loved
Curt. Why did you marry ?
Alice. Who can tell.? Because he took me, seduced me!
I don't know. And then I was longing to get up on the
heights
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 193

Curt. And deserted your art?

Alice. Which was despised! But you know, he cheated
me! He held out hopes of a pleasant hfe, a handsome home
— and there was nothing but debts; no gold except on the
—
uniform and even that was not real gold. He cheated me!
Curt. Wait a moment! When a young man falls in love,
he sees the future in a hopeful light: that his hopes are not
always realized, one must j)ardon. I have the same kind of
deceit on my own conscience without thinking myself dis-
honest — What is it you see on the rampart ?
Alice. I want to see if he has fallen down.

Curt. Has he ?

Alice. No —worse luck! He is cheating me all the time.

Curt. Then I shall call on the doctor and the lawyer.

Alice. [Sitting doicn at the ivindoir] Yes, dear Curt, go.

I shall sit here and wait. And I have learned how to wait!

Curtain.
Same setting in full daylight. The sentnj is pacing back and
forth on the battery as before.

Alice sits in the right-hand easy-chair. Her hair is

now gray.

Curt. [Enters from the left after having knocked] Good day,

Alice.
Alice. Good day, Curt. Sit down.
Curt. [Sits doicn in the left-hand easy-chair] The steamer
is just coming in.

Alice. Then I know what's in store, for he is on board.

Curt. Yes, he is, for I caught the ghtter of his helmet

What has he been doing in the city ?

Alice. Oh, I can figure it out. He dressed for parade,

which means that he saw the Colonel, and he put on white

gloves, which means that he made some calls.

Curt. Did you notice his quiet manner yesterday ? Since

he has quit drinking and become temperate, he is another
man: calm, reserved, considerate

Alice. I know it, and if that man had always kept sober
he would have been a menace to humanity. It is perhaps
fortunate for the rest of mankind that he made himself ridic-

ulous and harmless through his whiskey.

Curt. The spirit in the bottle has chastised him — But
have you noticed since death put its mark on him that he has

developed a dignity which elevates ? And is it not possible

that with this new idea of immortality may have come a new
outlook upon life .''

Alice. You are deceiving yourself. He is conjuring up

something evil. And don't you believe what he says, for he
194
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 195

lies with premeditation, and he knows the art of intriguing as

no one else

Curt. [Watching Alice] Why, Alice, what does this mean ?

Your hair has turned gray in these two nights!
Alice. No, my friend, it has long been gray, and I have
simply neglected to darken it since my husband is as good as
dead. Twenty-five years in prison —do you know that this
place served as a prison in the old days ?

Curt. Prison — well, the walls show it.

Alice. And my complexion! Even the children took on
prison color in here.
Curt. I find it hard to imagine children prattling within
these walls.
Alice. There was not much prattling done either. And
those two that died perished merely from lack of light.
Curt. What do you think is coming next ?
Alice. The decisive blow at us two. I caught a familiar

glimmer in his eye when you read out that telegram from
Judith. It ought, of course, to have been directed against
her, but she, you know, is inviolate, and so his hatred sought
you.
Curt. What are his intentions in regard to me, do you think ?

Alice. Hard to tell, but he possesses a marvellous skill in

nosing out other people's secrets — and did you notice how,
all day yesterday, he seemed to be living in your quarantine;
how he drank a life-interest out of your existence; how he ate
your children alive ? A cannibal, I tell you —for I know him.
His own life is going, or has gone
Curt. I also have that impression of his being already
on the other side. His face seems to phosphoresce, as if he
were in a state of —and decay his eyes flash like will-o'-the-

wisps over graves or morasses — Here he comes! Tell him

you thought it possible he might be jealous.
19G THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. No, he is too self-conceited. "Show me the man
of whom I need to be jealous!" Those are his own words.
Curt. So much the better, for even his faults carry with
them a certain merit — - Shall I get up and meet him anyhow :

Alice. No, be impolite, or he will think you false. Am'

if he begins to lie, pretend to believe him. I know perfectly
how to translate his lies, and get always at the truth with the
help of my dictionary. I foresee something dreadful —^but,

Curt, don't lose your self-control! My own advantage in

our long struggle has been that I was always sober, and for
that reason in full control of myself. He was always tripped
by his whiskey — Now we shall see!

Captain. [In from the left in full uniform, with helmet, cloak,
and white gloves. Calm, dignified, htd -pale and hollow-eyed.
Moves forward with a tottering step and sinks down, his helmet
and cloak still on, in a chair at the right of the stage, far from
Curt and Alice] Good day. Pardon me for sitting down
like this, but I feel a little tired.

Alice and Curt. Good day. Welcome home.

Alice. How are you feeling ?

Captain. Splendid ! Only a little tired

Alice. What news from the city ?

Captain. Oh, a little of everything. I saw the doctor,

among other things, and he said it was nothing at all —that I
might live twenty years, if I took care of myself.
Alice. [To Curt] Now he is lying. [To i/te Captain] Why,
that's fine, my dear.
Captain. So much for that.

Silejice, during which the Captain

is looking at Alice

and Curt as if expecting them to speak.

Alice. [7*0 Curt] Don't say a word, but let him begin
then he will show his cards.
Captain. [To Alice] Did you say anything?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 197

Alice. No, not a word.

Captain. [Dragging on the words^ Well, Curt!
Alice. [To Curt] There —now he is coming out.

Captain. Well, I went to the city, as you know. [Curt

nods assent] Mm-mm, I pic-ked up acquaintances —and among
others —a young cadet [dragging^ in the artillery. [Pause, dur-
ing which Curt shows some agitation^ As —we are in need of
cadets right here, I arranged with the Colonel to let him come
here. This ought to please you, especially when I inform
you that —he —your own son
is

Alice. [To Curt] The vampire —don't you see?

Curt. Under ordinary circumstances that ought to please

a father, but in my case it will merely be painful.

Captain. I don't see why it should
Curt. You don't need to — it is enough that I don't want it.

Captain. Oh, you think so? Well, then, you ought to

know that the young man has been ordered to report here,

and that from now on he has to obey me.

Curt. Then I shall force him to seek transfer to another
regiment.
Captain. You cannot do it, as you have no rights over

your son.
Curt. No?
Captain. No, for the court gave those rights to the mother.

Curt. Then I shall communicate with the mother.

Captain. You don't need to.

Curt. Don't need to ?

Captain. No, for I have already done so. Yah!

[Curt rises hut sinks back again.

Alice. [To Curt] Now he must die!

Curt. Why, he is a cannibal
Captain. So much for that! [Straight to Alice and Curt]
Did you say anything ?
198 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. No— have you grown hard hearing of ?

Captain. Yes, a little —but if yon come nearer to me I

can tell you something between ourselves.
Alice. That is not necessary —and a witness is sometimes
good to have for both parties.

Captain. You are right; witnesses are sometimes good to

have! But, first of all, did you get that will ?

Alice. [Hands him a document] The regimental lawyer

drew it up himself.

Captain. In your favor —good! [Reads the document and

then tears it carefidly into strips which he throios on the floor]
So much for that! Yah!
Alice. [To Curt] Did you ever see such a man ?
Curt, That is no man
Captain. Well, Alice, this was what I wanted to say

Alice. [Alarmed] Go on, please.

Captain. [Calmly as before] On account of your long cher-

ished desire to quit this miserable existence in an unhappy
marriage; on account of the lack of feeling with which you
have treated your husband and children, and on account
of the carelessness you have shown in the handling of our
domestic economy, I have, during this trip to the city, filed an
application for divorce in the City Court.

Alice. Oh—and your grounds ?

Captain. [Calmly as before] Besides the grounds already

mentioned, I have others of a purely personal nature. As it

has been found that I may live another twenty years, I am con-
templating a change from this unhappy marital union to one
that suits me better, and I mean to join my fate to that of some
woman capable of devotion to her husband, and who also may
bring into the home not only youth, but — let us say —a little

beauty
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 199

Alice. [Takes the wedding-ring from her finger and throws

it at the Captain] You are welcome!
Captain. [Picks vp the ring and puts it in his vest pocket]
She throws away the ring. The witness will please take
notice.

Alice. [Rises in great agitation] And you intend to turn

me out in order to put another woman into my home .-'

Captain. Yah!
Alice. Well, then, we'll speak plain language! Cousin
Curt, that man is guilty of an attempt to murder his wife.

Curt. An attempt to murder ?

Alice. Yes, he pushed me into the water.
Captain. Without witnesses!
Alice. He lies again — Judith saw it!

Captain. Well, what of it ?

Alice. She can testify to it.

Captain. No, she cannot, for she says that she didn't see
anything.
Alice. You have taught the child to lie!

Captain. I didn't need to, for you had taught her already.
Alice. You have met Judith ?

Captain. Yah!
Alice. Oh, God! Oh, God!
Captain. The fortress has surrendered. The enemy will

be permitted to depart in safety on ten minutes' notice.

[Places his watch on the table] Ten minutes —watch on the
table! [Stops and puts one hand up to his heart.

Alice. [Goes over to the Captain and takes his arm] What
is it ?

Captain. I don't know.

Alice. Do you want anything —a drink ?

Captain. Whiskey? No, I don't want to die — You!

[Straightening himself up] Don't touch me! Ten minutes, or
200 THE DANCE OF DEATH
the garrison will be massacred. [Pulls the sabre parthj from
the scabbard] Ten minutes
[Goes out through the background.
Curt. What kind of man is this ?

Alice. He is a demon, and no man!

Curt. What does he want with my son ?
Alice. He wants him as hostage in order to be your mas-
ter —he wants to isolate you from the authorities of the
island — Do you know that the people around here have
named this island "Little Hell"?
Curt. I didn't know that — Alice, you are the first wom-
an who ever inspired me with compassion — all others have
seemed to me to deserve their fate.

Alice. Don't desert me now! Don't leave me, for he will

beat me —he has been doing so these twenty-five years
all

in the presence the children—and he has pushed me

of into
the water
Curt. Having heard this, I place myself absolutely against
him. came here without an angry thought, without mem-
I

ory of his former slanders and attempts to humiliate me. I

forgave him even when you told me that he was the man who
—
had parted me from my children for he was ill and dying
but now, when he wants to steal my son, he must die he or I! —
Alice. Good! No surrender of the fortress! But blow it
up instead, with him in it, even if we have to keep him com-
pany! I am in charge of the powder!
Curt. There was no malice in me when I came here, and
I wanted to run away when I felt myself infected with your
hatred, but now I am moved by an irresistible impulse to
hate this man, as I hate everything that is evil. What can be
done?
Alice. I have learned the tactics from him. Drum up his
enemies and seek allies.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 201

Curt. Just think — that he should get hold of my wife! Why

didn't those two meet a life-time ago ? Then there would
have been a battle-royal that had set the earth quaking.

Alice. But now these souls have spied each other —and
yet they must part. I guess what is his most vulnerable
spot — I have long suspected it

Curt. Who is enemy on

his most faithful the island ?

Alice. The Quartermaster.

Curt. Is he an honest man ?
Alice. He is. And he knows what I — I know too —he
knows what the Sergeant-Major and the Captain have been
up to.
Curt. What they have been up to ? You don't mean
Alice. Defalcations!
Curt. This is terrible! No, I don't want to have any
finger in that mess
Alice. Ha-ha! You cannot hit an enemy.
Curt. Formerly I could, but I can do so no longer.
Alice. Why?
Curt. Because I have discovered —that justice is done
anyhow.
Alice. And you could wait for that ? Then your son would
already have been taken away from you. Look at my gray
hairs — just feel how thick it still is, for that matter — He
intends to marry again, and then I shall be free — to do the
same — I am free! And in ten minutes he will be under
arrest down below, right under us [stamps her foot on the
floor] right under us —and I shall dance above his head —
shall dance "The Entry of the Boyars" [makes a few steps
with her arms akimbo] ha-ha-ha-ha ! And I shall play on the
piano so that he can hear it. [Hammering on the piajio] Oh,
the tower is opening its gates, and the sentry with the drawn
sabre will no longer be guarding me, but him Malrough
202 THE DANCE OF DEATH
s'en va-t-en guerre! Him, him, him, the sentry is going to
guard!
Curt. [Has been watching her ivith an intoxicated look in
his eyes] Alice, are you, too, a devil ?

Alice. [Jumps up on a chair and pidls down the wreaths]

These we will take along when we depart — the laurels of tri-

umph! And fluttering ribbons! A little dusty, but eternally

green — like my youth — I am not old. Curt ?

Curt. [With shining eyes] You are a devil

Alice. In "Little Hell"— Listen! Now I shall fix my hair
— [loosens her hair], dress in two minutes — go to the Quarter-
master in two minutes —and then, up in the air with the fort-
ress!

Curt. [As before] You are a devil!

Alice. That's what you always used to say when we were
children. Do you remember when we were small and be-
came engaged to each other ? Ha-ha ! You were bashful, of
course
Curt. [Seriously] Alice!

Alice. Yes, you were! And it was becoming to you. Do

you know there are gross women who like modest men ? And
there are said to be modest men who like gross women
You liked me a little bit, didn't you ?

Curt. I don't know where I am!

Alice. With an actress whose manners are free, but who
is an excellent lady otherwise. Yes ! But now I am free, free,

free! Turn away and I'll change my waist!

She opens her icaist. Curt rushes up to her, grabs her
in his arms, lifts her high up, and bites her throat so
that she cries out. Then he drops her on the couch
and runs out to the left.

Curtain and irdermission.

Same stage setting in early evening light. The sentry on the bat-

tery is still visible through the windows in the background.

The laurel wreaths are hung over the arms of an easy-
chair. The hanging lump is lit. Faint music.
The Captain, pale and hollow-eyed, his hair showing
touches of gray, dressed in a worn undress imiform,
with riding-boots, sits at the ivriting-table and plays
solitaire. He wears his spectacles. The entr'acte
music continues after the curtain has been raised and
until another person enters.

The Captain plays aivay at his solitaire, but with a

sudden staH now and then, when he looks up and lis-
tens with evident alarm.

He does not seem able to make the solitaire come out, so

he becomes impatient and gathers up the cards. Then

he goes to the left-hand window, opens it, and throws
out the cards. The window {of the French type) rc-
mains open, rattling on its hinges.

He goes over to the buffet, but is frightened by the noise

made by the window, so that he turns around to see

what it is. Takes out th ree dark-coloured square ^vhis-

key bottles, examines them carefully — a7id throics them

Old of the window. Takes out some boxes of cigars,
smells at one, and throws them, out of the windoio.
Next he takes off his spectacles, cleans them carefully,
and tries how far he can see with them. Then he
throws them out of the windoic, stumbles against the
furniture as if he coidd not see, and lights six candles

in a candelabrum on the chiffonier. Catches sight of

the laurel wreaths, picks them- up, and goes toward the

window, but turns back. Folds the wreaths carefully

203
204 THE DANCE OF DEATH
in the piano cover, fastens the corners together u'ith
pins taken from the tvriting-table, and puts the bundle
on a chair. Goes to the piano, strikes the keyboard
tcith his fists, locks the piano, and throws the key out
through the window. Then he lights the candles on
the piano. Goes to the what-not, takes his ivife's
picture from it, looks at this and tears it to pieces, drop-
ping the pieces on the floor. The icindow rattles on
its hinges, and again he becomes frightened.
Then, after having calmed himself, he takes the pictures
of his son and daughter, kisses them in an off-hand
way, and puts them into his pocket. All the rest of
the pictures he s^veeps dovm with his elbow and pokes
together into a heap with his foot.
Then he sits doicn at the tvriting-table, tired out, and puts
a hand up to his heart. Lights the candle on the table

and sighs; stares in front of himself as if confronted

with unpleasant visions. Rises and goes over to the

chiffonier, opens the lid, takes out a bundle of letters

tied together with a blue silk ribbon, and throws

the bundle into the fireplace of the glazed brick oven.
Closes the chiffonier. The telegraph receiver sounds
a single click. The Captain shrinks together in dead-
ly fear and stands fixed to the spot, listening. But
hearing nothing more from the instrument, he turns
to listen in the direction of the door on the left. Goes
over and opens it, takes a step inside the doorway, and
returns, carrying on his arm a cat whose back he
strokes. Then he goes out to the right. Noiv the

music ceases.

Alice enters from the background, dressed in a walking

suit, with gloves and hat on; her hair is black; she
looks around with surprise at the mxmy lighted candles.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 205

Curt enters from the left, nervous.

Alice. It looks like Christmas Eve here.
Curt. Well?
Alice. [Holds out her hand for him to kiss] Thank me!
[Curt kisses her hand mncillinglij] Six witnesses, and four of
them solid as rock. The report has been made, and the an-
swer will come here by telegraph — right here, into the heart

of the fortress.
Curt. So!
Alice. You should say "thanks" instead of "so."
Curt. Why has he lit so many candles .''

Alice. Because he is afraid of the dark, of course. Look

at the telegraph key —does it not look like the handle of a
coffee mill ? I grind, I grind, and the beans crack as when
you pull teeth

Curt. What has he been doing in the room here ?

Alice. It looks as if he intended to move. Down below,

that's where you are going to move!
Curt. Don't, Alice — I think it's distressing! He was the
friend of my youth, and he showed me kindness many times
when I wasin difficulty —
He should be pitied!
Alice. And how about me, who have done nothing wrong,
and who have had to sacrifice my career to that monster ?

Curt. How about that career.'' Was it so very brilliant?

Alice. [Enraged] What are you saying? Do you know
who I am, what I have been ?

Curt. Now, now!

Alice. Are you beginning already ?

Curt. Already ?

Alice throws her arms around Curt's neck and kisses

him.
Curt takes her by the arms and bites her neck so that
she screams.
£06 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. You bite me!
Curt. [Beyond himself] Yes, I want to bite your throat and
suck your blood like a lynx. You have aroused the wild beast
in me— that beast which I have tried for years to kill by pri-

vations and self-inflicted tortures. I came here believing my-

self a little better than you two, and now I am the vilest of all.

Since I first saw you — in all your odious nakedness —and since
my vision became warped by passion, I have known the full
strength of evil. What is ugly becomes beautiful; what is

good becomes ugly and mean — Come here and I'll choke
you —with a kiss! [He locks her in his arms.

Alice. [Holds up her left hand] Behold the mark of the

shackles that you have broken. I was a slave, and you set
me free.

Curt. But I am going to bind you

Alice. You ?

Curt. I!

Alice. For a moment I thought you were

Curt. Pious ?

Alice. Yes, you prated about the fall of man

Curt. Did I ?

Alice. And I thought you had come here to preach

Curt. You thought so ? In an hour we shall be in the city,

and then you shall see what I am

Alice, Then we will go to the theatre to-night, just to show
ourselves. The shame will be his if I run away, don't you see!
Curt. I begin to understand that prison is not enough
Alice. No, it is not —there must be shame also.

Curt. A strange world ! You commit a shameful act, and

the shame falls on him.
Alice. Well, if the world be so stupid
Curt. It is as if these prison walls had absorbed all the
tiorruption of the criminals, and it gets into you if you merely
 THE DANCE OE DEATH 207

breathe this air. You were tliinking of the the.itre and the
supper, I suppose. I was thinking of my son.
Alice. [Strikes him on the mouth with her glove] Fogey!
[Curt lifts his hand as if to strike her.
Alice. [Drawijtg back] Tout beau
Curt. Forgive me!
Alice. Yes —on your knees! [Curt kneels down] Down
on your face! [Curt touches the ground icith his forehead]
Kiss my foot! [Curt kisses her foot] And don't you ever do it

again! Get up!

Curt. [Rising] Where have I landed ? Where am I?

Alice. Oh, you know

Curt. [Looking around with horror] I beheve almost

Captain. [Enters from the right, looking wretched, leaning

on a ca7ie] Curt, may I have a talk with you —alone ?

Alice. Is it about that departure in safety ?

Captain. [Sits down at the sewing-table] Curt, will you

kindly sit down here by me a little while ? And, Alice, will
you please grant me a moment— of peace!
Alice. What is up now .? New signals! [To Curt] Please
be seated. [Curt sits doirn reluctantly] And listen to the words
of age and wisdom — And if a telegram should come — tip

me off! [Goes out to the left.

Captain. [With dignity, after a pause] Can you explain a

fate like mine, like ours ?

Curt. No more than I can explain my own!

Captain. Wliat can be the meaning of this jumble ?

Curt. In my better moments I have believed that just this

was the meaning — that we should not be able to catch a mean-
ing, and yet submit
Captain. Submit? Without a fixed point outside myself
I cannot submit. v
208 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. Quite right, but as a mathematician you should be
able to seek that unknown point when several known ones are
given
Captain, I have sought it, and — I have not found it!

Curt. Then you have made some mistake in your calcula-

tions —do it all over again
Captain. I should do it over again ? Tell me, where did
you get your resignation ?

Curt. I have none left. Don't overestimate me.

Captain. As you may have noticed, my understanding of
the art of living has been —elimination! That means: wipe
out and pass on ! Very early in life I made myself a bag into
which I chucked my humiliations, and when it was full I

dropped it into the sea. I don't think any man ever suf-

fered so many humiliations as I have. But when I wiped

them out and passed on they ceased to exist.
Curt. I have noticed that you have wrought both your life

and your environment out of your poetical imagination.

Captain. How could I have lived otherwise ? How could
I have endured ? [Puts his hand over his heart.
Curt. How are you doing .''

Captain. Poorly. [Pause] Then comes a moment when

the faculty for what you call poetical imagination gives out.
And then reality leaps forth in all its nakedness — It is

frightful ! [He now speaking in a voice of lachrymose senility,

is

and with his lower jaw drooping] Look here, my dear friend
[controls himself and speaks in his usual voice] forgive me!
When I was in the city and consulted the doctor [now the

tearful voice returns] he said that I was played out [in his

usual voice] and that I couldn't live much longer.

Curt. Was that what he said ?

Captain. [With tearful voice] That's what he said!

Curt. So it was not true ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 209

Captain. What ? Oh — no, that was not true. [Pause.

Curt. Was the rest of it not true either ?

Captain. What do you mean ?

Curt. That my son was ordered to report here as cadet ?

Captain. I never heard of it.

Curt. Do you know—^j'our abih'ty to wipe out your own

misdeeds is miraculous!
Captain. I don't understand what you are talking of.

Curt. Then you have come to the end!

Captain. Well, there is not much left!

Curt. Tell me, perhaps you never applied for that divorce
which would bring your wife into disgrace .'*

Captain. Divorce ? No, I have not heard of it.

Curt. [Rising] Will you admit, then, that you have been
lying ?

Captain. You employ such strong words, my friend. All

of us need forbearance.
Curt. Oh, you have come to see that ?

Captain. [Firmly, with clear voice] Yes, I have come to see

that — And for this reason, Curt, please forgive me! For-
give everything!
Curt. That was a manly word! But I have nothing to
forgive you. And I am not the man you believe me to be.

No longer now! Least of all one worthy of receiving your

confessions
Captain. [With clear voice] Life seemed so peculiar—so
contrary, so malignant —ever since my childhood—and people
seemed so bad that I grew bad also
Curt. [On his feet, perturbed, and glancing at the telegraph

instrument] Is it possible to close off an instrument like that ?

Captain. Hardly.
Curt. [With increasing alarm] Who is Sergeant-Major
Ostberg ?
210 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. An honest fellow, but something of a busybody,
I should say.
Curt. And who is the Quartermaster ?

Captain. He is my enemy, of course, but I have nothing

bad to say of him.

Curt. [Loohing oxd throitgh the windoxc, cohere a lantern is

seen moinng to and fro] What are they doing with the lantern
out on the battery ?

Captain. Do you see a lantern ?

Curt. Yes, and people moving about.

Captain. I suppose it is what we call a service squad.
Curt. What is that ?

Captain. A few men and a corporal. Probably some poor

wretch that has to be locked up.
Curt. Oh! [Pause.
Captain. Now, when you know Alice, how do you like her ?

Curt. I cannot tell — I have no understanding of people

at all. She is as inexplicable to me as you are, or as I am
myself. For I am reaching the age when wisdom makes this

acknowledgment: I know nothing, I understand nothing)

But when I observe an action, I like to get at the motive be-
hind it. Why did you push her into the water ?

Captain. I don't know. It merely seemed quite natural

to me, as she was standing on the pier, that she ought to be in
the water.
Curt. Have you ever regretted it ?

Captain. Never!
Curt. That's strange!
Captain. Of course, it is! So strange that I cannot realise

that I am the man who has been guilty of such a mean act.

Curt. Have you not expected her to take some revenge ?

Captain. Well, she seems to have taken it in full measure;
and that, too, seems no less natural to me.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 211

Curt. What has so suddenly brought you to this cynical

resignation ?

Captain. Since I looked death in the face, life has pre-

sented itself from a different viewpoint. Tell me, if you were

to judge between Alice and myself, whom would you place

in the right ?

Curt. Neither of you. But to both of you I should give

endless compassion — perhaps a little more of it to you
Captain. Give me your hand. Curt!
Curt. [Gives him one hand and puts the other one on the
Captain's s/iou/(Zer] Old boy!

Alice. [In from the left, carrying a sunshade] Well, how

harmonious! Oh, friendship! Has there been no telegram

yet?
Curt. [Coldly] No.
Alice. This delay makes me impatient, and when I grow
impatient I push matters along — Look, Curt, how I give

him the final bullet. And now he'll bite the grass ! First, I

load — I know all about rifle practice, the famous rifle prac-

tice of which less than 5,000 copies were sold —and then I

aim — fire ! [She takes aim with her sunshade] How is your
new wife The young, beautiful, unknown one ? You don't
?

know! But I know how my lover is doing. [Puts her arms

around the neck of Curt and kisses him; he thrusts her away
from himself] He is well, although still a little bashful! You
wretch, whom I have never loved you, who were too con- —
ceited to be jealous —
^you never saw how I was leading you

by the nose!
The Captain dratcs the sabre and makes a leap at her,

aiming at her several futile blows that only hit the

furniture.
Alice. Help! Help!
[Curt does not move.
212 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. [Falls with the sabre in his haiid] Judith, avenge
me!
Alice. Hooray! He's dead!
[Curt icithdraws toicard the door in the bacJcgrormd.

Captain. [Gets on his feet] Not yet! [Sheathes the sabre and
sits down in the easy-chair by the seiving-table] Judith ! Judith

Alice. [Drawing nearer to Curt] Now I go —with you!

Curt. [Pushes her back with svch force that she sinks to her
knees] Go back to the hell whence you came Good-bye for !

ever! [Goes to the door.

Captain. Don't leave me Curt; she will kill me!
Alice. Don't desert me, Curt —don't desert us!
Curt. Good-bye! [Goes out.

Alice. [With a sudden change of attitude] The wretch!

That's a friend for you
Captain, [Softly] Forgive me, Alice, and come here —come
quick!
Alice. [Over to the Captain] That's the worst rascal and
hypocrite I have met in my life! Do you know, you are a
man after all!

Captain. Listen, Alice! I cannot live much longer.

Alice. Is that so ?

Captain. The doctor has said so.

Alice. Then there was no truth in the rest either ?

Captain. No.
Alice. [In despair] Oh, what have I done
Captain. There is help for everything.
Alice. No, this is beyond helping!
Captain. Nothing is beyond helping, if you only wipe it

out and pass on.

Alice. But the telegram —the telegram!
Captain. Which telegram ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 213

Alice. [On her knees beside the Captain] Are we then

cast out ? Must this happen ? I have sprung a mine under
myself, under us. Why did you have to tell untruths ? And
why should that man come here to tempt me? We are lost!

Your magnanimity might have helped everything, forgiven

everything!
Captain. What is it that cannot be forgiven ? What is it

that I have not already forgiven you ?

Alice. You are right —but there is no help for this.

Captain. I cannot guess it, although I know your ingenuity

when it comes to villanies

Alice. Oh, if I could only get out of this, I should care for

you — I should love you, Edgar!

Captain. Listen to me! Where do I stand ?

Alice. Don't you think anybody can help us — well, no

man can!
Captain. Who could then help ?

Alice. [Looking the Captain straight in the eye] I don't

know —Think of it, what is to become of the children with
their name dishonoured ?

Captain. Have you dishonoured that name ?

Alice. Not I! Not I! And then they must leave school!

And as they go out into the world, they will be lonely as we,
and cruel as we — Then you didn't meet Judith either, I

understand now ?

Captain. No, but wipe it out!

The telegraph receiver clicks. Alice flies up.
Alice. [Screams] Now ruin is overtaking us! [To the Cap-
tain] Don't listen!
Captain. [Quietly] I am not going to listen, dear child
just calm yourself!
Alice. [Standing by the instrument, raises herself on tip-
214 THE DANCE OF DEATH
toe in order to look out through the window] Don't listen!

Don't listen!

Captain. {Hohling his hands over his ears] Lisa, child, I

am stopping up my ears.

Alice. [On her knees, with lifted hands] God, help lis!

The squad is coming — [Weeping and sobbing] God in heaven

She appears to be moving her lips as if in silent prayer.

The telegraph receiver continues to click for a while and

a long tvhite strip of paper seems to crawl oid of the
instrument. Then co7nplete silence prevails once more.
Alice. [Rises, tears off the paper strip, and reads it in silence.
Then she turns her eyes upward for a inoment. Goes over
to the Captain and kisses him on the forehead] That is over
now! It was nothing!

Sits doicn in the other chair, puts her handkerchief to

her face, and breaks into a inolent spell of weeping.

Captain. What kind of secrets are these ?

Alice. Don't ask! It is over now!

Captain. As you please, child.

Alice. You would not have spoken like that three days
ago —what has done it ?

Captain. Well, dear, when I fell down that first time, I

went a little way on the other side of the grave. What I saw
has been forgotten, but the impression of it still remains.
Alice. And it was ?

Captain. A hope— for something better!

Alice. Something better ?

Captain. Yes. That this could be the real life, I have, in

fact, never believed: it is death —or something still worse!

Alice. And we
Captain. Have probably been set to torment each other
so it seems at least

Alice. Have we tormented each other enough ?

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 215

Captain. Yes, I think so! And upset things! [Looks

around] Suppose we put things to rights ? And clean house ?

Alice. Yes, if it can be done.

Captain. [Gets up to survey the rooni] It can't be done in
one day —no, it can't!

Alice. In two, then! Many days!

Captain. Let us hope so! [Paxise. Sits down again] So
you didn't get free this time after all! But then, you didn't
get me locked up either! [Alice looks staggered] Yes, I know
you wanted to put me in prison, but I wipe it out. I suppose
you have done worse than that — [Alice is speechless] And
I was innocent of those defalcations.
Alice. And now you intend me to become your nurse ?
Captain. If you are willing!

Alice. What else could I do ?

Captain. I don't know!

Alice. [Sits down, numbed and crushed] These are the eter-

nal torments ! Is there, then no end to them ?

,

Captain. Yes, if we are patient. Perhaps life begins when

death comes.
Alice. If it were so! [Pause.

Captain. You think Curt a hypocrite ?

Alice. Of course I do!

Captain. And I don't! But all who come near us turn evil

and go their way. Curt was weak, and the evil is strong!

[Pause] How commonplace life has become! Formerly blows

were struck; now you shake your fist at the most! I am
fairly certain that, three months from now, we shall celebrate

our silver wedding —with Curt as best man— and with the
Doctor and Gerda among the guests. The Quartermaster will

make the speech and the Sergeant-Major will lead the cheer-

ing. And if I know the Colonel right, he will come on his

own invitation — Yes, you may laugh! But do you recall

216 THE DANCE OF DEATH
the silver wedding of Adolph — in the Fusihers ? The bride

had to carry her wedding ring on the right hand, because the
groom in a tender moment had chopped off her left ring finger
with his dirk. [Alice puts her handkerchief to her mouth in
order to repress her laitghter] Are you crying ? No, I beheve
you are Jaughing! Yes, child, partly we weep and partly

we laugh. Which is the right thing to do? Don't ask me! —

The other day I read in a newspaper that a man had been
divorced seven times —which means that he had been married
seven times —and finally, at the age of ninety-eight, he ran
away with his first wife and married her Such is again.

love! If life more than I

be serious, or merely a joke, is

can decide. Often it is most painful when a joke, and its

seriousness is after all more agreeable and peaceful. But
when at last you try to be serious, somebody comes and plays
—
a joke on you as Curt, for instance! Do you want a silver
wedding? [Alice remains silent\ Oh, say yes! They will
laugh at us, but what does it matter ? We may laugh also,

or keep serious, as the occasion may require.

Alice. Well, all right!

Captain. Silver wedding, then ! [iJwmjr] Wipe out and pass

on ! Therefore, let us pass on

Curtain.
THE DANCE OF DE4TH
PART II
 CHARACTERS
Edgar
Al.ice
Curt
Allan, the son of Cttrt
Judith, the daughter of Edgab
The Lieutenant
 THE DANCE OF DEATH
PART II

A rectangular drawing-room in white and gold. The rear wall

is broken by several French windows reaching down to

the floor. These stand open, revealing a garden terrace

oidside. Along this terrace, serving as a public promenade,
runs a stone balustrade, on which are ranged pots of blue
and white faience, with petunias arid scarlet geraniums in
them. Beyond, in the background, can be seen the shore
battery with a sentry pacing back and forth. In the far
distance, the open sea.

At the left of the drawing-room stands a sofa with gilded wood-

work. In front of it are a table and chairs. At the right
is a grand piano, a writing-table, and an open fireplace.
In the foreground, an American easy-chair.
By the tvriting-table is a standing lamp of copper with a table

attached to it.

On the walls are several old-fashioned oil paintings.

Allan is sitting at the writing-table, engrossed in some
mathematical problem. Judith enters from the back-

ground, in summer dress, short skid, hair in a braid

down her back, hat in one hand and tennis racket in
the other. She stops in the doorway. Allan rises,

serious and respectful.

Judith. [In serious but friendly tojie] Why don't you come
and play tennis ?

Allan. [Bashful, struggling with his emotion^ I am very

busy •

219
220 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Judith. Didn't jou see that I had made my bicycle point

toward the oak, and not away from it ?

Allan. Yes, I saw it.

Judith, Well, what does it mean ?

Allan. means —
It that you want me to come and play
tennis —but my duty— I have some problems to work out—
and your father is a rather exacting teacher
Judith. Do you like him ?

Allan. Yes, I do. He takes such interest in all his

pupils
Judith. He takes an interest in everything and every-
body. Won't you come ?
Allan. You know I should like to —but I must not!
Judith. I'll ask papa to give you leave.
Allan. Don't do that. It will only cause talk.
Judith. Don't you think I can manage him ? He wants
what I want.
Allan. I suppose that is because you are so hard.
Judith. You should be hard also.
Allan. I don't belong to the wolf family.

Judith. Then you are a sheep.

Allan. Rather that.

Judith. Tell me why you don't want to come and play

tennis .''

Allan. You know it.

Judith. Tell me anyhow. The Lieutenant

Allan. Yes, you don't care for me at all, but you cannot
enjoy yourself with the Lieutenant unless I am present, so

you can see me suffer.

Judith. Am I as cruel as that ? I didn't know it.

All.\n. Well, now you know it.

Judith, Then I shall do better hereafter, for I don't want
to be cruel, I don't want to be bad — in your eyes.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 221

Allan. You say this only to fasten your hold on me. I

am already your slave, but it does not satisfy you. The slave
must be tortured and thrown to the wild beasts. You have
already that other fellow in your clutches —what do you want
withme then } Let me go my own way, and you can go yours.
Judith. Do you send me away ? [Allan does not annocr\
Then I go As second cousins, we shall have to meet now
!

and then, but I am not going to bother you any longer.

[Allan sits down at the table and returns to his problem.

Judith. [Instead of going awatj, comes down the stage and

approaches gradually the table where Allan is sitting] Don't
be afraid, I am going at once — I wanted only to see how the

Master of Quarantine lives — [TmoJcs around] White and gold

—a Bechstein grand — well, well! We are still in the fort

since papa was pensioned— the tower where mamma has in

been kept twenty-five years —and we are there on sufferance

at You —
that. are rich ^you

Allan. [Calmly] We are not rich.

Judith. So you say, but you are always wearing fine clothes

—but whatever you wear, for that matter, is becoming to

you. Do you hear what I say? [Draiving nearer.

Allan. [Submissively] I do.

Judith. How can you hear when you keep on figuring, or

whatever you are doing ?

Allan. I don't use my eyes to listen with.

Judith. Your eyes —have you ever looked at them in the

mirror ?

Allan. Go away!
Judith.You despise me, do you ?
Allan. Why, girl, I am not thinking of you at all.

Judith. [Still nearer] Archimedes is deep in his figures

when the soldier comes and cuts him down.

[Stirs his papers about with the racket.
222 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Allan. Don't touch my papers
Judith. That's what Archimedes said also. Now you are
thinking something foolish —you are thinking that I can not
live without you
Allan. Why can't you leave me alone ?

Judith. Be courteous, and I'll help you with your exami-

nations
Allan. You ?

Judith. Yes, I know the examiners

Allan. [Sternly] And what of it ?

Judith. Don't you know that one should stand well with
the teachers ?

Allan. Do you mean your father and the Lieu tenant .5*

Judith. And the Colonel!

Allan. And then you mean that your protection would
enable me to shirk my work ?
Judith. You are a bad translator
Allan. Of a bad original

Judith. Be ashamed!
Allan. So I am —both my own! I
on your behalf and
am ashamed of Why don't you go ?
having listened to you —
Judith. Because I know you appreciate my company
Yes, you manage always to pass by my window. You have
always some errand that brings you into the city with the same
boat that I take. You cannot go for a sail without having me
to look after the jib.

Allan. But a young girl shouldn't say that kind of things!

Judith. Do you mean to say that I am a child .'

Allan. Sometimes you are a good child, and sometimes a

bad woman. Me you seem to have picked to be your sheep.
Judith. You are a sheep, and that's why I am going to pro-

tect you.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 223

Allan. [Rising] The wolf makes a poor shepherd! You

want to eat me— that is the secret of it, I suppose. You want
to put your beautiful eyes in pawn to get possession of my
head.
Judith. Oh, you have been looking at my eyes ? I didn't
expect that much courage of you.
Allan collects his papers and starts to go out toward the
right.

Judith places herself in front of the door.

Allan. Get out of my way, or
Judith. Or?
Allan. If you were a boy —bah! But you are a girl.

Judith. And then ?

Allan. If you had any pride at all, you would be gone, as

you may regard yourself as shown the door.
Judith. I'll get back at you for that!

Allan. I don't doubt it!

Judith. [Goes enraged toward the backgroimd] I — shall —

get —back—at you for that! [Goes out.
Curt. [Fitters from the left] Where are you going, AUan ?
Allan. Oh, is that you ?

Curt. Who was it that left in such hurry —so that the
bushes shook ?

Allan. It was Judith.

Curt. She is a little impetuous, but a fine girl.

Allan. When a girl is cruel and rude, she is always said

to be a fine girl.

Curt. Don't be so severe, Allan! Are you not satisfied

with your new relatives ?

Allan. I like Uncle Edgar

Curt. Yes, he has many good sides. How about your
other teachers —the Lieutenant, for instance ?
224 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Allan. He's so uncertain. Sometimes he seems to have a
grudge against me.
Curt. Oh, no You "
! just go here and make people "seem
this or that. Don't brood, but look after your own affairs, do
what is proper, and leave others to their own concerns.
Allax. So I do, but — they won't leave me alone. They
pull you in —as the cuttlefish down at the landing— they don't
bite, but they stir up vortices tliat suck
Curt. You have some tendency to melancholia, I think.
Don't you feel at home here with me ? Is there anything you
miss?
Allan. I have never been better off, but —there is some-
thing here that smothers me.
Curt. Here by the sea ? Are you not fond of the sea ?

Allan. Yes, the open sea. But along the shores you find
eelgrass, cuttlefish, jell^'fish, sea-nettles, or whatever they are
called.

Curt. You shouldn't stay indoors so much. Go out and

play tennis.
Allan. Oh, that's no fun
Curt. You are angry with Judith, I guess ?
Allan. Judith?
Curt. You are so exacting toward people — it is not wise,
vou become isolated.
for then
Allan. I am not exacting, but — It feels as if I were lying
at the bottom of a pile of wood and had to wait my turn to get
into the fire —and it weighs on me — all that is above weighs
me down.
Curt. Bide your turn. The pile grows smaller
Allan. Yes, but so slowly, so slowly. And in the mean-
time I lie here and grow mouldy.
Curt. It is not pleasant to be young. And yet you young
cmes are envied.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 225

Allan. Are we ? Would you change ?

Curt. No, thanks!
Allan. Do you know what is worse than anything else ?

It is to sit still and keep silent while the old ones talk non-
sense — I know that I am better informed than they on some
matters —and yet I must keep silent. Well, pardon me, I am
not counting you among the old.
Curt. Why not ?

Allan. Perhaps because we have only just now become

acquainted
Curt. And because —your ideas of me have undergone a
change ?

Allan. Yes.
Curt. During the years we were separated, I suppose you
didn't always think of me in a friendly way ?

Allan. No.
Curt. Did you ever see a picture of me ?
Allan. One, and it was very unfavourable.
Curt. And old-looking ?
Allan. Yes.
Curt. Ten years ago my hair turned gray in a single night
— it has since then resumed its natural color without my doing
anything for — Let us talk of something
it else! There
comes your aunt—my cousin. How do you like her .J*

Allan. I don't want to tell!

Curt. Then I shall not ask you.

Alice. [Enters dressed in a very light-colored walking-suit
and carrying a S2mshade] Good morning. Curt.
[Gives him a glance signifying that Allan should leave.
Curt. [To Allan] Leave us, please.
Allan goes out to the right.
Alice takes a seat on the sofa to the left.

Curt sits down on a chair near her.

226 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. [In some confusion] He will be here in a moment, so
you need not feel embarrassed.
Curt. And why should I ?

Alice. You, with your strictness

Curt. Toward myself, yes
Alice. Of course — Once I forgot myself, when in you I
saw the liberator, but you kept your self-control —and for that

reason we have a right to forget —what has never been.

Curt. Forget it then
Alice. However — I don't think he has forgotten
Curt. You are thinking of that night when his heart gave
—
out and he fell on the floor and when you rejoiced too quickly,
thinking him already dead ?

Alice. Yes. Since then he has recovered; but when he

gave up drinking, he learned to keep silent, and now he is ter-

rible. He is up to something that I cannot make out

Curt. Your husband, Alice, is a harmless fool who has
shown me all sorts of kindnesses
Alice. Beware of his kindnesses. I know them.
Curt. Well, well
Alice. He has then blinded you also ? Can you not see

the danger ? Don't you notice the snares ?

Curt. No.
Alice, Then your ruin is certain.

Curt. Oh, mercy!

Alice. Think only, I have to sit here and see disaster
stalking you like a cat — I point at it, but you cannot see it.

Curt. Allan, with his unspoiled vision, cannot see it either.

He sees nothing but Judith, for that matter, and this seems to

me a safeguard of our good relationship.

Alice. Do you know Judith .'*

Curt. A flirtatious little thing, with a braid down her back

and rather too short skirts
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 227

Alice. Exactly! But the other day I saw her dressed up

in long skirts —and then she was a young lady —and not so
very young either, when her hair was put up.
Curt. She is somewhat precocious, I admit.
Alice. And she is playing with Allan.
Curt. That's all right, so long as it remains play.
Alice, So that is all — Now Edgar be here soon,
right ? will

and he will take the easy-chair— he loves with such passion it

that he could steal it.

Curt. Why, he can have it!

Alice. Let him sit over there, and we'll stay here. And
when he talks — he is always talkative in the morning —when
he talks of insignificant things, I'll translate them for you
Curt. Oh, my dear Alice, you are too deep, far too deep.
What could I have to fear as long as I look after my quar-
antine properly and otherwise behave decently ?

Alice. You believe in justice and honour and all that sort
of thing.

Curt, Yes, and it is what experience has taught me. Once

I believed the very opposite —
and paid dearly for it!
Alice, Now he's coming!
Curt. I have never seen you so frightened before.

Alice. My bravery was nothing but ignorance of the

danger.
Curt. Danger? Soon you'll have me frightened too!
Alice, Oh, if I only could — There!
The Captain enters from the background, in civilian
dress, black Prince Albert buttoned all the way, mili-
tary cap, and a cane with silver handle. He greets

them with a nod and goes straight to the easy-chair,

where he sits doxcn.

Alice. [To Curt] Let him speak first.

228 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. This is a splendid chair you have here, dear
Curt; perfectly splendid.
Curt. I'll give it to you, if you will accept it.

Captain. That was not what I meant

Curt. But I mean it seriously. IIow much have I not
recei\ed from you ?

Captain. [Garndoiisly] Oh, nonsense! And when I sit

here, I can overlook the whole island, all the walks; I can see
all the people on their verandahs, all the ships on the sea, that
are coming in and going out. You have really happened on
the best piece of this island, which is certainly not an island of
the blessed. Or what do you say, Alice? Yes, they call it

"Little Hell," and here Curt has built himself a paradise,

but without an Eve, of course, for when she appeared, then
the paradise came to an end. I say —do you know that this

was a royal hunting lodge ?

Curt. So I have heard.

Captain. You live royally, you, but, if I may say so my-
self, you have me to thank for it.

—
Alice. [To Curt] There now he wants to steal you.
Curt. I have to thank you for a good deal.
Captain. Fudge! Tell me, did you get the wine cases?
Curt. Yes.
Captain. And you are satisfied ?

Curt. Quite satisfied, and you may tell your dealer so.

Captain. His goods are always prime quality

Alice. [To Curt] At second-rate prices, and you have to
pay the difference.

Captain. What did you say, Alice ?

Alice, I ? Nothing
Captain. Well, when this quarantine station was about to
be established, I had in mind applying for the position —and
so I made a study of quarantine methods.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 2£a

Alice. [To Curt] Now he's lying!

Captain. [Boastfully] And I did not share the antiquated
ideas concerning disinfection which were then accepted by the
government. For I placed myself on tlie side of the Neptunists
—so called because they emphasise the use of water
Curt. Beg your pardon, but I remember distinctly that it

was I who preached water, and you fire, at that time.

Captain. I.' Nonsense!
Alice. [Aloud] Yes, I remember that, too.
Captain. You }

Curt. I remember it so much the better because

Captain. [Cutting him short] Well, it's possible, but it

does not matter. [Raising his voice] However —we have now
reached a point where a new state of affairs [To Curt, who
wants to interrupt] just a moment! —has begun to prevail

and when the methods of quarantining are about to become

revolutionized.
Curt. By the by, do you know who is writing those stupid
articles in that periodical .''

Cai»tain. [Flushing] No, I don't know, but why do you

call them stupid ?

Alice. [To Curt] Look out! It is he who writes them.

Curt. He? — [To the Captain] Not very well advised, at
least.

Captain. Well, are you the man to judge of that ?

Alice. Are we going to have a quarrel ?
Curt. Not at all.

Captain. It is hard to keep peace on this island, but we

ought to set a good example
Curt. Yes, can you explain this to me ? When I came
here I made friends with all the officials and became especially
intimate with the regimental auditor —as intimate as men are
likely to become at our age. And then, in a while—
little it
230 THE DANCE OF DEATH
was shortly after your recovery —one after another began to

grow cold toward me —and yesterday the auditor avoided me

on the promenade. I cannot tell you how it hurt me! [The
Captain remains silent] Have you noticed any ill-feeling

toward yourself ?

Captain. No, on the contrary.

AiJCE. [To Curt] Don't you understand that he has been
stealing your friends ?

Curt. [To the Captain] I wondered whether it might have

anything to do with this new stock issue to which I refused to
subscribe.
Captain. No, no — But can you tell me why you didn't
subscribe ?

Curt. Because I have already put my small savings into

your soda factory. And also because a new issue means that

the old stock is shaky.

Captain. [Preoccupied] That's a splendid lamp you have.
Where did you get it ?

Curt. In the city, of course.

Alice. [To Curt] Look out for your lamp!

Curt. [To the Captain] You must not think that I am
ungrateful or distrustful, Edgar.
Captain. No, but it shows small confidence to withdraw
from an undertaking which you have helped to start.

Curt. Why, ordinary prudence bids everybody save him-

self and what is his.

Captain, Save ? Is there any danger then ? Do you think

anybody wants to rob you ?

Curt. Why such sharp words ?

Captain. Were you not satisfied when I helped you to place

your money at six per cent. ?

Curt. Yes, and even grateful.

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 231

Captain. You are not grateful — it is not in your nature,

but this you cannot help.

Alice. [To Curt] Listen to him!

Curt. My nature has shortcomings enough, and my strug-

gle against them has not been very successful, but I do rec-

ognise obligations
Capi'ain. Show it then ! [Reaches out his hand to pick up
a newspaper] Why, what is this .' A death notice ? [Reads]
The Health Commissioner is dead.
Alice. [To Curt] Now he is speculating in the corpse

Captain. [As if to himself] This is going to bring about

certain —
changes
Curt. In what respect ?
Captain. [Rising] That remains to be seen.
Alice. [To the Captain] Where are you going.'
Captain. I think I'll have to go to the city — [Catches sight

of a letter on the tcriting-iahle, picks it up as if unconsciously,

reads the address, and puts it back] Oh, I hope you will pardon
my absent-mindedness.
Curt. No harm done.
Captain. Why, that's Allan's drawing case. Where is the
boy.?
Curt. He is out playing with the girls.

Captain. That big boy ? I don't like it. And Judith must
not be running about like that. You had better keep an
eye on your young gentleman, and I'll look after my young
lady. [Goes over to the piano and strikes a few notes] Splendid
tone in this instrument. A Steinbech, isn't it ?

Curt. A Bechstein.

Captain. Yes, you are well fixed. Thank me for bringing

you here.

Alice. [To Curt] He lies, for he tried to keep you away.

232 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. Well, good-bye for a while. I am going to take
the next boat.
[Scrutinises the paintings 07i the walls as he goes out.

Alice. Well?
Curt. Well?
Alice, I can't see through his plans yet. But— tell me
one thing. This envelope he looked at —from whom is the
letter ?

Curt. I am sorry to admit — it was my one secret.

Alice. And he ferreted it out. Can you see that he knows

witchery, as I have told you before ? Is there anything printed
on the envelope ?

Curt. Yes— "The Citizens' Union."

Alice. Then he has guessed your secret. You want to
get into the Riksdag, I suppose. And now you'll see that he
goes there instead of you.
Curt. Has he ever thought of it ?

Alice. No, but he is thinking of it now. I read it on his

face while he was looking at the envelope.

Curt. That's why he has to go to the city ?

Alice. No, he made up his mind to go when he read the

death notice.
Curt. What has he to gain by the death of the Health
Commissioner ?

Alice. Hard to tell ! Perhaps the man was an enemy who

had stood in the way of his plans.
Curt. If he be as terrible as you say, then there is reason
to fear him.

Alice. Didn't you hear how he wanted to steal you, to tie

your hands by means of pretended obligations that do not ex-

ist ? For instance, he has done nothing to get you this posi-

tion, but has, on the contrary, tried to keep you out of it. He
is a man-thief, an insect, one of those wood-borers that eat up
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 233

your insides so that one day you find yourself as hollow as a

dying pine tree. lie hates yoii, although he is bound to you
by the memory of your youthful friendship
Curt. How keen-witted we are made by our hatreds!
Alice. And stupid by our loves —blind and stupid!
Curt, Oh, no, don't say that!

Alice. Do you know what is meant by a vampire ? They

say it is the soul of a dead person seeking a body in which it
may live as a parasite. Edgar is dead —ever since he fell

down on the floor that time. You see, he has no interests of

his own, no personality, no initiative. But if he can only get
hold of some other person he hangs on to him, sends down
roots into him, and begins to flourish and blossom. Now he
has fastened himself on you.
Curt. If he comes too close I'll shake him oflF.

Alice. Try to shake off a burr! Listen: do you know

why he does not want Judith and Allan to play ?

Curt. I suppose he is concerned about their feelings.

Alice. Not at all. He wants to marry Judith to — the
Colonel
Curt. [Shocked] That old widower!
Alice. Yes.
Curt. Horrible! And Judith?
Alice. If she could get the General, who is eighty, she

would take him in order to bully the Colonel, who is sixty.

To bully, you know, that's the aim of her life. To trample

—
down and bully there you have the motto of that family.
Curt. Can this be Judith ? That maiden fair and proud
and splendid ?

Alice. Oh, I know all about that! May I sit here and
write a letter ?

Curt. [Puts the writing-table in order] With pleasure.

Alice. [Takes off her gloves and sits down at the writing-
234 THEDANCEOFDEATH
table] Now we'll try our hand at the art of war. I failed once
when I tried to slay my dragon. But now I have mastered
the trade.
Curt. Do you know that it is necessary to load before you
fire ?

Alice. Yes, and with ball cartridges at that!

Curt withdraws to the right.

Alice 'ponders and writes.

Allan comes rxishing in without noticing Alice and

throios himself face downward on the sofa. He is

weeping convulsively into a lace handkerchief.

Alice. \\Vatches him for a while. Then she rises and goes
over to the sofa. Speaks in a tender voice] Allan

Allan sits 2ip disconcertedly and hides the handkerchief

behind his back.

Alice. [Tenderly, womanly, and with true emotion] You
should not be afraid of me, Allan — I am not dangerous to
you — What is wrong ? Are you sick ?

Allan. Yes.
Alice. In what way ?
Allan. I don't know.
Alice. Have you a headache ?

Allan. No.
Alice. And your chest .''
Pain ?

Allan. Yes.
Alice. Pain — pain —as if your heart wanted to melt away.
And it pulls, pulls

Allan. How do you know ?

Alice. And then you wish to die —that you were already
dead —and everything seems so hard. And you can only
think of one thing —always the same—but if two are thinking
of the same thing, then sorrow falls heavily on one of them.
[Allan forgets himself and begins to pick at the handkerchief]
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 235

That's the sickness which no one can cure. You cannot

eatand you cannot drink; you want only to weep, and you
—
weep so bitterly especially out in the woods where nobody
can see you, for at that kind of sorrow all men laugh — men

who are so cruel Dear me

! ! What do you want of her ?
Nothing! You don't want to kiss her mouth, for you feel

that you would die if you did. When your thoughts run to

her, you feel as if death were approaching. And it is death,

child —that sort of death —which brings life. But you don't
understand yet!
it smell — I violets it is herself. [Steps

closer to Allan and away from

takes the handkerchief gently
him] It is she, it is she everywhere, none but she! Oh, oh,
oh! [Allan cannot help burying his face in Alice's hosovi\
Poor boy! Poor boy! Oh, how it hurts, how it hurts!
[Wipes off his tears with the handkerchief^ There, there! Cry
—cry to your heart's content. There now! Then the heart
grows lighter — But now, Allan, rise up and be a man, or
she will not look at you — she, the cruel one, who is not cruel. .

Has she tormented you ? With the Lieutenant ? You must

make friends with the Lieutenant, so that you two can talk

of her. That gives a little ease also.

Allan. I don't want to see the Lieutenant!

Alice. Now look here, little boy, it won't be long before the
Lieutenant seeks you out in order to get a chance to talk of
her. For — [Allan looks up tvith a ray of hope on his face]
Well, shall I be nice and tell you ? [Allan droops his head] He
is just as unhappy as you are.

Allan. [Happy] No?

Alice. Yes, indeed, and he needs somebody to whom he
may unburden his heart when Judith has wounded him.
You seem to rejoice in advance ?

Allan. Does she not want the Lieutenant ?

Alice. She does not want you either, dear boy, for she
236 THE DANCE OF DEATH
wants the Colonel. [Allan is saddened again] Is it raining

again ? Well, the handkerchief you cannot have, for Judith

is careful about her belongings and wants her dozen com-
plete. [Allan looks dashed] Yes, my boy, such is Judith.

Sit over there now, while I write another letter, and then you
mav do an errand for me.
[Sits doicn at the writing-table and begins to write again.

Lieutenant. [Enters from the background, with a melancholy

face, but icithout being ridicidous. Without noticing Alice
he makes straight for Allan] I say, Cadet — [Allan rises

and stands at attention] Please be seated.

Alice watches them.
The Lieutenant goes up to Allan and sits down he-

side him. Sighs, takes out a lace handkerchief just

like the other one, and wipes his forehead with it.

Allan stares greedily at the handkerchief

The Lieutenant looks sadly at Allan.
Alice coughs.
The Lieutenant jumps vp and stands at attention.

Alice. Please be seated.

Lieutenant. I beg your pardon, madam
Alice. Never mind! Please sit down and keep the Cadet

company —he is feeling a little lonely here on the island.

[Writes.

Lieutenant. [Conversing with Allan in low tone and un-

easily] It is awfully hot.
Allan. Rather.
Lieutenant. Have you finished the sixth book yet ?
Allan. I have just got to the last proposition.

Lieutenant. That's a tough one. [Silence] Have you

[seeking for ivords] played tennis to-day ?

Allan. No-o — the sun was too hot.

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 287

Lieutenant. [In despair, but without any comical effect]

Yes, it's awfully hot to-day!

Allan. [In a whisper] Yes, it is very hot. [Silence.

—
Lieutenant. Have you been out sailing to-day ?
Allan. No-o, I couldn't get anybody to tend the jib.
Lieutenant. Could you —trust me sufficiently to let me
tend the jib ?

Allan. [Respectfully as before] That would be too great an

honor for me. Lieutenant.
Lieltenant. Not at all, not at Do you think — the
all!

wind might be good enough to-day —about dinner-time, say,

for that's the only time I am free ?

Allan. [Slyly] It always calms down about dinner-time,

and — that's the time Miss Judith has her lesson.
Lieutenant. Oh, yes, yes! Hm! Do you think
[Sadly]
Alice, Would one of you young gentlemen care to deliver
a letter for me ? [Allan arid the Lieutenant exchange glances
of mutual distrust] —
to Miss Judith? [Allan and the Lieu-

tenant jump tip and hasten over to Alice, but not without a
certain dignity meant to disguise their emotion] Both of you ?

Well, the more safely my errand will be attended to. [Hands

the letter to the Lieutenant] If you please. Lieutenant, I

should like to have that handkerchief. My daughter is very

careful about her things — there is a touch of pettiness in
her nature — Give me that handkerchief! I don't wish to
laugh at you, but you must not make yourself ridiculous —
needlessly. And the Colonel does not like to play the part of
an Othello. [Takes the handkerchief] Away with you now,
young men, and try to hide your feelings as much as you can.
The Lieutenant bows and goes out, followed closely by
Allan.
Alice. [Calls out] Allan
Allan. [Stops unwillingly in the doorivay] Yes, Aunt.
 238 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Stay here, unless you want to inflict more suffering

.
on yourself than you can bear.
Allan. But he is going!
Alice, Let him burn himself. But take care of yourself.
Allan. I don't want to take care of myself.

Alice. And then you cry afterward. And so I get the

trouble of consoling you.
Allan. I want to go!

Alice. Go then ! But come back here, young madcap, and

I'll have the right to laugh at you.
[Allan runs after the Lieutenant.
[Alice writes again.
Curt. [Enters] Alice, I have received an anonymous letter

that is bothering me.

Alice. Have you noticed that Edgar has become another
person since he put off the uniform ? I could never have be-
lieved that a coat might make such a difference.
Curt. You didn't answer my question.

Alice. It was no question. It was a piece of information.

What do you fear ?

Curt. Everything!
Alice. He went to the city. And his trips to the city are

always followed by something dreadful.

Curt. But I can do nothing because I don't know from
which quarter the attack will begin.

Alice. [Folding the letter] We'll see whether I have guessed

it.

Curt. Will you help me then ?

Alice. Yes —but no further than my own interests permit.

My own — that is my children's.

Curt. I understand that! Do you hear how silent every-

thing is —here on land, out on the sea, everywhere ?

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 239

Alice. But behind the silence I hear voices— mutterings,

cries

Curt. Hush! I hear something, too —no, it was only the

gulls.

Alice. But I hear something else! And now I am going

to the post-office —with this letter!

Curtain.
Same stage setting. Allan is sitting at the meriting -table study-

ing. Judith is standing in the doorway. She wears a

tennis hat and carries the handle-bars of a bicycle in one

hand.
Judith, Can I borrow your wrench ?

Allan. \}{^ithout looking up\ No, you cannot.

Judith. You are discourteous now, because you think I
am running after you.
Allan, {^'ithout crossness] I am nothing at all, but I ask
merely to be left alone.

Judith. [Comes nearer] Allan!

Allan. Yes, what is it ?

Judith. You mustn't be angry with me!

Allan. I am not.

Judith. Will you give me your hand on that ?

Allan. [Kindly] I don't want to shake hands with you,

but I am not angry — What do you want with me anyhow ?
Judith. Oh, but you're stupid!
Allan. Well, let it go at that.

Judith. You think me cruel, and nothing else.

Allan. No, for I know that you are kind too —you can be
kind!
Judith. W^ell —how can I help —that you and the Lieu-
tenant run around and weep in the woods ? Tell me, why
do you weep ? [Allan is embarrassed] Tell me now — I never
weep. And why have you become such good friends ? Of
what do you you are walking about arm in arm ?
talk while

[Allan cannot answer] Allan, you'll soon see what kind I am

and whether I can strike a blow for one I like. And I want
240
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 241

to give you a piece of advice —although I have no use for tale-

bearing. Be prepared!
Allan. For what ?
Judith. Trouble.
Allan. From what quarter ?
Judith. From the quarter where you least expect it.

Allan. Well, Iam rather used to disappointment, and life

has not brought me much that was pleasant What's in store
now.?
Judith. [Pensively] You poor boy —give me your hand!
[Allan gives her his liand] Look at me! Don't you dare to

look at me ?
[Allan rushes out to the left in order to hide his emotion.

Lieutenant. [In from the background] I beg your pardon!

I thought that
Judith. Tell me. Lieutenant, will you be my friend and
ally?
Lieutenant. If you'll do me the honour •

Judith. Yes —a word only —don't desert Allan when dis-

aster overtakes him.

Lieutenant. What disaster ?

Judith. You'll. soon see — this very day perhaps. Do you

like Allan ?

Lieutenant. The young man is my best pupil, and I value

him personally also on account of his strength of character —
Yes, life has moments when strength is required [ivith em-
phasis] to bear up, to endure, to suffer, in a word
Judith. That was more than one word, I should say.
However, you like Allan ?

Lieutenant. Yes.
Judith. Look him up then, and keep him company.
Lieutenant. It was for that purpose I came here —for
that and no other. I had ik) other object in my visit.
 242 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Judith. I had not supposed anything of that kind —of the
• kind you mean ! Allan went that way.
\Pointing to the left.

Lieutenant. {Goes reluctantly to the left] Yes — I'll do what

you ask.
Judith. Do, please.
Alice. [In from the background What are you doing here ?

Judith. I wanted to borrow a wrench.

Alice. Will you listen to me a moment ?
Judith. Of course, I will.

[Alice sits down on the sofa.

Judith. [Remains standing] But tell me quickly what you

want to say. I don't like long lectures.

Alice. Lectures ? Well, then —put up your hair and put

on a long dress.

Judith. Why?
Alice. Because you are no longer a child. And you are
young enough to need no coquetry about your age.
Judith. What does that mean ?
Alice. That you have reached marriageable age. And
your way of dressing is causing scandal.
Judith. Then I shall do what you say.
Alice. You have understood then ?

Judith. Oh, yes.

Alice. And we are agreed ?

Judith. Perfectly.
A.LICE. On all points ?

Judith. Even the tenderest!

Alice. Will you at the same time cease playing —with
AUan?
Judith. It is going to be serious then ?

Alice. Yes.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 243

Judith. Then we may just as well begin at once.

She has already laid aside the handle-bars. Now she

lets down the bicycle skirt and twists her braid into a
knot which she fastens on top of her head with a hair-
pin taken out of her mother's hair.
Alice. It is not proper to make your toilet in a strange
place.
Judith. Am I all right this way ? Then I am ready. Come
now who dares
Alice. Now at last you look decent. And leave Allan in
peace after this.

Judith. I don't understand what you mean ?

Alice. Can't you see that he is suffering ?

Judith. Yes, I think I have noticed it, but I don't know

why. I don't suffer!

Alice. That is your strength. But the day will come —oh,
yes, you shall know what it means. Go home now, and don't
forget — that you are wearing a long skirt.

Judith. Must you walk differently then ?

Alice. Just try.

Judith. [Tries to walk like a lady] Oh, my feet are tied;

I am caught, I cannot run any longer!

Alice. Yes, child, now the walking begins, along the slow
road toward the unknown, which you know already, but must
pretend to ignore. Shorter steps, and much slower much —
slower! The low shoes of childhood must go, Judith, and
you have to wear boots. You don't remember when you
laid aside baby socks and put on shoes, but I do!

Judith, I can never stand this!

Alice. And yet you must —must!

Judith. [Goes over to her mother and kisses her lightly on
the cheek; then tvalks out with the dignified bearing of a lady,
hut forgetting the handle-bars] Good-bye then
244 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt. [Enters from the right] So you're already here ?

Alice. Yes.
Curt. Has he come back ?

Alice. Yes.
Curt. How did he appear ?

Alice. In full dress —so he has called on the Colonel. And

he wore two orders.
Curt. Two ? I knew he was to receive the Order of the
Sword on h's retirement. But what can the other one be ?
Alice. I am not very familiar with those things, but there
was a white cross within a red one.

Curt. It is a Portuguese order then. Let me see — tell me,

didn't his articles in that periodical deal with quarantine sta-
tions in Portuguese harbours ?

Alice. Yes, as far as I can recall.

Curt. And he has never been in Portugal .'

Alice. Never.
Curt. But I have been there.

Alice. You shouldn't be so communicative. His ears and

his memory are so good.
Curt. Don't you think Judith may have helped him to this

honour ?

Alice. Well, I declare! There are limits — [''i^ing] and

you have passed them.
Curt. Are we to quarrel now .''

Alice. That depends on you. Don't meddle with my in-

terests.

Curt. If they cross my own, I have to meddle with them,

although with a careful hand. Here he comes!
Alice. And now it is going to happen.
Curt. What is — agoing to happen ?

Alice. We shall see!

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 24.5

Curt. Let it come to open attack then, for this state of

siege is getting on my nerves. I have not a friend left on tlie

island.

Alice. Wait a minute! You sit on this side — he must have

tlie easy-chair, of course —and then I can prompt you.
Captain. [Enters from the background, in full dress uniform,
tvearing the Order of the Sword and the Portuguese Order of
Christ]Good day ! Here's the meeting place.
Alice. You are tired — sit down. [The Captain, cofitrarij to

expectation, takes a seat on the sofa to the left] INIake yourself

comfortable.
Captain. This is all right. You're too kind.
Alice. [To Cttrt] Be careful —he's suspicious of us.
Captain. [Crossly] What was that you said ?
Alice. [To Curt] He must have been drinking.
Captain. [Rudely] No-o, he has not. [Silence] Well —how
have you been amusing yourselves ?

Alice. And you ?

Captain. Are you looking at my orders ?

Alice. No-o!
Captain. I guess not, because you are jealous — Other-
wise it is customary to offer congratulations to the recipient

of honours.
Alice. We congratulate you.
Captain. We get things like these instead of laurel wreaths,
such as they give to actresses.
Alice. That's for the wreaths at home on the walls of the
tower
Captain. Which your brother gave you
Alice. Oh, how you talk!

Captain. Before which I have had to bow down these

twenty-five years —and which it has taken me twenty-five
years to expose.
246 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. You have seen my brother ?

Captain. Rather! [Alice is crushed. Silence] And you.

Curt — you don't say anything, do you ?

Curt. I am waiting.
Captain. Well, I suppose you know the big news ?

Curt. No.
Captain. It is not exactly agreeable for me to be the one
who
Curt. Oh, speak up!
Captain. The soda factory has gone to the wall

Curt. That's decidedly unpleasant! Where does that leave

you?
Captain. I am all right, as I sold out in time.
Curt. That was sensible.

Captain. But how about you ?

Curt. Done for!

Captain. It's your own fault. You should have sold out
in time, or taken new stock.
Curt. So that I could lose that too.

Captain. No, for then the company would have been all

right.

Curt. Not the company, but the directors, for in my mind

that new subscription was simply a collection for the benefit

of the board.
Captain. And now I ask whether such a view of the matter
will save your money ?

Curt. No, I shall have to give up everything.

Captain. Everything?
Curt. Even my home, the furniture
Captain. But that's dreadful

Curt. I have experienced worse things. [Silence.

Captain. That's what happens when amateurs want to

speculate.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 247

Curt. You surprise me, for you know very well that if

I had not subscribed, I should have been boycotted. The

supplementary livelihood of the coast population, toilers of

the sea, inexhaustible capital, inexhaustible as the sea itself

philanthropy and national prosperity —

Thus you wrote and
printed — And now you speak of it as speculation
Captain. [Unmoved] What are you going to do now ?
Curt. Have an auction, I suppose.

Captain. You had better.

Curt. What do you mean .'

Captain. What I said! For there [slowly] are going to be

some changes
Curt. On the island ?

Captain. Yes — as, for instance, —your quarters are going

to be exchanged for somewhat simpler ones.

Curt. Well, well.

Captain. Yes, the plan is to place the quarantine station

on the outside shore, near the water.

Curt. My original idea
Captain. [Dryly] I don't know about that —for am not
I

familiar with your ideas on the subject. However — seems

it

then quite natural that you dispose of the furniture, and it

will attract much less notice —the scandal!

Curt. What?
Captain. The scandal! [Egging himself on] For it is a
scandal to come to a new place and immediately get into
financial troubles which must result in a lot of annoyance to

the relatives — particularly to the relatives.

Curt. Oh, I guess I'll have to bear the worst of it.

Captain. Fll tell you one thing, my dear Curt: if I had

not stood by you in this matter, you would have lost your
position.

Curt. That too?

248 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Captain. It comes rather hard for you to keep things in

order — complaints have been made against your work.

Curt. Warranted complaints ?
—
Captain. Yah! For you are in spite of your other re-
spectable qualities— a careless fellow— Don't interrupt me!—
You are a very careless fellow!
Curt. How strange!
Captain. However — the suggested change is going to take

place very soon. And I should advise you to hold the auction
at once or sell privately.

Curt. Privately ? And where could I find a buyer in this

place ?

Captain. Well, I hope you don't expect me to settle down

in the midst of your things ? That would make a fine story—
[staccato] hm !
—especially when I— think of what happened
once upon a time
Curt. What was that? Are you referring to what did not

happen ?

Captain. [Turning about] You are so silent, Alice ? What

is the matter, old girl ? Not blue, I hope ?
Alice. I sit here and think
Captain. Goodness! Are you thinking? But you have
to think quickly, keenly,and correctly, if it is to be of any

help! So do your thinking now one, two, three! Ha-ha! —

You can't! Well, then, I must try— Where is Judith?
Alice. Somewhere.
Captain. Where is Allan? [Alice remains silent] Where

is the Lieutenant? [Alice as before] I say. Curt— what are

you going to do with Allan now ?

Curt. Do with him ?

Captain. Yes, you cannot afford to keep him in the ar-

tillery now.
Curt. Perhaps not.
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 249

Captain. You had better get him into some cheap infantry
regiment —up in Norrland, or somewhere.
Curt. In Norrland ?

Captain. Yes, or suppose you turned him into something

practical at once ? If I were in your place, I should get him
into some business office —why not? [Curt is silent] In
these enlightened times —yah! Alice is so uncommonly silent!

Yes, children, this is the seesawing seesaw board of life

one moment high up, looking boldly around, and the next
way down, and then upward again, and so on — So much for
that — [To Alice] Did you say anything ? [Alice shakes her
head] We may
expect company here in a few days.
Alice. Were you speaking to me ?
Captain. We may expect company in a few days —notable
company
Alice. Who?
Captain. Behold —you're interested! Now you can sit

there and guess who is coming, and between guesses you may
read this letter over again. [Hands her an opened letter.
Alice. My letter ? Opened ? Back from the mail ?
Captain. [Risiiig] Yes, as the head of the family and your
guardian, I look after the sacred interests of the family, and
with iron hand I shall cut short every effort to break the family
ties by means of criminal correspondence. Yah! [Alice is

crushed] I am not dead, you know, but don't take offence

now because I am going to raise us all out of undeserved
humility —undeserved on my own part, at least!

Alice. Judith! Judith!

Captain. And Holofernes ? I, perhaps? Pooh!
[Goes out through the background.
Curt. Who is that man ?
Alice. How can I tell ?
Curt. We are beaten.
250 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Yes —beyond a doubt.
Curt. He has stripped me of everything, but so cleverly
that I can accuse him of nothing.

Alice. "Why, no —you owe him a debt of gratitude instead!

Curt. Does he know what he is doing ?

Alice. No, I don't think so. He follows his nature and

his instincts, and just now he seems to be in favour where for-
tune and misfortune are being meted out.
Curt. I suppose it's the Colonel who is to come here.
Alice. Probably. And that is why Allan must go.
Curt. And you find that right ?

Alice. Yes.
Curt. Then our ways part.

Alice. [Ready to go] A little —but we shall come together

again.
Curt. Probably.
Alice.And do you know where ?

Curt. Here.
Alice. You guess it ?

Curt. That's easy! He takes the house and buys the fur-

niture.

Alice. I think so, too. But don't desert me!

Curt. Not for a little thing like that.
Alice. Good-bye. [Goes.

Curt. Good-bye.

Curtain.
Same stage setting, hut flic day is cloudy and it is raining outside.
Alice and Curt enter from the haclcground, wearing
rain coats and carrying umhrellas.
Alice. At last I have got you to come here! But, I can-
not be so cruel as to wish you welcome to your own home
Curt. Oh, why not ? I have passed through three forced
sales —and worse than that— It doesn't matter to me.
Alice. Did he call you ?

Curt. It was a formal command, but on what basis I

don't understand.
Alice. Why, he is not your superior!
Curt. No, but he has made himself king of the island.

And if there be any resistance, he has only to mention the

Colonel's name, and everybody submits. Tell me, is it to-

day the Colonel is coming?

Alice. He is expected —but I know nothing with cer-
tainty — Sit down, please.

Curt. [Sitting doivn] Nothing has been changed here.

Alice. Don't think of it! Don't renew the pain!
Curt. The pain ? I find it merely a little strange. Strange
as the man himself. Do you know, when I made his ac-
quaintance as a boy, I fled him. But he was after me.
Flattered, offered services, and surrounded me with ties — I

repeated my attempt at escape, but in vain — And now I

am his slave!

Alice. And why ? He owes you a debt, but you appear

as the debtor.
Curt. Since I lost all I had, he has offered me help in get-
ting Allan through his examinations
251
252 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. For which you will have to pay dearly! You are
still a candidate for the Riksdag ?

Curt. Yes, and, so far as I can see, there is nothing in my

way. [Silence.

Alice. Is Allan really going to leave to-day ?

Curt. Yes, if I cannot prevent it.

Alice. That was a short-lived happiness.

CuKT. Short-lived as everything but life itself, which lasts

all too long.

Alice. Too long, indeed! — Won't you come in and wait in

the sitting-room ? Even if it does not trouble you, it troubles

me — these surroundings!
Curt. If you wish it

Alice. I feel ashamed, so ashamed that I could wish to die

—but I can alter nothing!

Curt. Let us go then —as you wish it.

Alice. And somebody is coming too.

[They go ont to the left.

The Captain and Allan enter from the background,

both in uniform and wearing cloaks.
Captain. Sit down, my boy, and let me have a talk with
you. [Sits down in the easy-chair.

[Allan sits doum on the chair to the left.

Captain. It's raining to-day —otherwise I could sit here

comfortably and look at the sea. [Silence] Well? — You

don't like to go, do you ?

Allan. I don't like to leave my father.

Captain. Yes, your father —he is rather an unfortunate

man. [Silence\ And parents rarely understand the true wel-
fare of their children. That is to say —there are exceptions,
of course. Hm! Tell me, Allan, have you any communica-
tion with your mother ?

Allan. Yes, she writes now and then

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 253

Captain. Do you know that she is your guardian ?

Allan. Yes.
Captain. Now, Allan, do you know that your mother has
authorised me to act in her place ?

Allan. I didn't know that!

Captain, Well, you know it now. And, therefore, all dis-

cussions concerning your career are done with — And you

are going to Norrland.
Allan. But I have no money.
Captain. I have arranged for what you need.
Allan. All I can do then is to thank you, Uncle.
Captain. Yes, you are grateful —which everybody not. is

Hm! — [Raising his voice] The —do you know the

Colonel
Colonel ?

Allan. [Embarrassed] No, I don't.

Captain. [With emphasis] The Colonel — is my special

friend [a little more hurriedly] as you know, perhaps. Hm!

The Colonel has wished to show his interest in my family,

including my wife's relatives. Through his intercession, the

Colonel has been able to provide the means needed for the

completion of your course. Now you understand the obliga-

tion under which you and your father are placed toward the

Colonel. Have I spoken with sufficient plainness.? [Allan

bows] Go and pack your things now. The money will be

handed to you at the landing. And now good-bye, my boy.
[Holds out a finger to Allan] Good-bye then.
[Rises and goes out to the right.

[Allan, alone, stands still, looking sadly around the room.

Judith. [Enters from the background, wearing a hooded rain

coat and carrying an umbrella; otherxoise exquisitely dressed, in

long skirt and with her hair put up] Is that you, Allan!

Allan. [Turning around, surveys Judith carefuUy] Is that

you, Judith?
254 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Judith. You don't know me any longer ? Where have you
been all this time? What are you looking at? My long
dress —and my hair— You have not seen me like this before ?
Allan. No-o
Judith. Do I look like a married woman ?
[Allan turns away from her.

Judith. [Earnestly] What are you doing here ?

Allan. I am saying good-bye.

Judith. W^hat ? You are going —away ?

Allan. I am transferred to Norrland.

Judith. [Dumfounded] To Norrland ? When are you
going ?

Allan. To-day.
Judith. Whose doing is this ?

Allan. Your father's.

Judith. That's what I thought! [Walks up and down the

floor, stamping her feet] I wish you had stayed over to-day.

Allan. In order meet the Colonel ?to

Judith. What do you know about the Colonel ? — Is it

certain that you are going ?

Allan. There is no other choice. And now I want it my-

self. [Silence.

Judith. Why do you want it now ?

Allan. I want to get away from here —out into the world!

Judith. It's too close here ? Yes, Allan, I imderstand you

— it's unbearable here —here, where they speculate — in soda
and human beings! [Silence.

Judith. [With genuine emotion] As you know, Allan, I

possess that fortunate nature which cannot suffer but now — —
I am learning!
Allan. You ?

Judith. Yes —now it's beginning! [She presses both hands

to her breast] Oh, how it hurts —oh!
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 255

Allan. What is it ?

Judith. I don't know — I choke— I think I'm going to die!

Allan. Judith .''

Judith. [Crying out] Oh! Is this the way it feels? Is

this the way — poor boys

Allan. I should smile, if I were as cruel as you are.

Judith. I am not cruel, but I didn't know better — You

must not go!
All.\n. I have to!
Judith. Go then —but give me a keepsake!
Allan. What have I to give you ?

Judith. [With all the seriousness of deepest suffering]

You — !
No, I can never live through this! [Cries out, pressing

her breast with both hands] I suffer, I suffer — What have you
done to me? I don't want to live any longer! Allan, don't

go — not alone! Let us go together — we'll take the small boat,

the little white one —and we'll sail far out, with the main sheet
made fast— the wind is high — and we sail till we founder
out there, way out, is no eelgrass and no jelly-
where there
fish — What do you But say? —
we should have washed
the sails yesterday they —
should be white as snow for I want —
to see white in that moment —
and you swim with your arm
about me until you grow tired —and then we sink — [Turning
around] There would be style in that, a good deal more style
than in going about here lamenting and smuggling letters that
willbe opened and jeered at by father Allan [She takes — !

hold of both his arms and shakes him] Do you hear ?

Allan. [Who has been watching her with shining eyes] Ju-
dith! Judith! Why were you not like this before?

Judith. I didn't know —how could I tell what I didn't

know ?
Allan. And now I must go away from you! But I sup-
2oG THE DANCE OF DEATH
pose it is the better, the only thing! I cannot compete with
a man —hke
Judith. Don't speak of the Colonel!
Allan. Is it not true ?

Judith. It is true —and it is not true.

Allan. Can it become wholly untrue ?
Judith. Yes, so it shall within an hour! —
Allan. And you keep your word I can wait, .''
I can suffer,

I can work — Judith!

Judith. Don't go yet! How long must I wait?
Allan. A year.
Judith. [Exultantly] One ? I shall wait a thousand years,
and if you do not come then, I shall turn the dome of heaven
upside down and make the sun rise in the west — Hush,
somebody is coming! Allan, we must part —take me into

your arms ! [They embrace each other] But you must not kiss

me. [Turns her head atcay] There, go now! Go now!

Allan goes toward the background and puts on his cloak.
Then they rush into each other^s arms so that Judith
disappears beneath the cloak, and for a moment they
Allan nushes out. Judith throws
exchange kisses.

downward on the sofa and sobs.

herselfface
Allan. [Comes back and kneels beside the sofa] No, I can-
not go I cannot go away from you
! not now —
Judith. [Rising] If you could only see how beautiful you
are now! If you could only see yourself!
Allan. Oh, no, a man cannot be beautiful. But you, Ju-
dith! You — that you —oh, I saw that, when you were kind,
another Judith appeared — and she's mine! — But if you
don't keep faith with me now, then I shall die!
Judith. I think I am dying even now — Oh, that I
might die now, just now, when I am so happy
Allan. Somebody is coming!
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 257

Judith. Let them come! I fear nothing in the world here-

after. But I wish you could take me along under your cloak.
[She hides herself in play under his cloak] And then I should
fly with you to Norrland. What are we to do in Norrland ?

Become a Fusilier —one of those that wear plumes on their

hats ? There's style in that, and it will be becoming to you.
[Plays with his hair.
Aulas kisses the tips of her fingers, one by one —and
then he kisses her shoe.
Judith. What are you doing, Mr. Madcap ? Your lips

will get black. [Rising impetuously] And then I cannot kiss

you when you go! Come, and I'll go with you!

Allan. No, then I should be placed under arrest.
Judith. I'll go with you to the guard-room.
Allan. They wouldn't let you! We must part now!
Judith. I am going to swim after the steamer —and then
you jump in and save me —and it gets into the newspapers,

and we become engaged. Shall we do that ?

Allan. You can still jest ?

Judith. There will always be time for tears — Say good-
bye now!
They rush into each other's arms; then Allan with-
draws slowly through the door in the background,

Judith following him; the door remains open after

them; they embrace again outside, in the rain.
Allan. You'll get wet, Judith.
Judith. What do I care!

They tear themselves away from each other. Allan

leaves. Judith remains behind, exposing herself to
the rain and to the wind, which strains at her hair
and her clothes while she is waving her handkerchief.
Then Judith runs back into the room and throws
herself on the sofa, with her face buried in her hands.
258 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. [Enters and goes over to Judith] What is this ?

Get up and let me look at you.

[Judith sits up.
Alice. [Scrutinising /jcr] You are not sick — And I am
not going to console you. [Goes out to the right.
The Lieutenant enters from the background.

Judith. [Gets up and puts on the hooded coat] Come along

to the telegraph office, Lieutenant.

Lieutenant. If I can be of any service —but I don't think

it's quite proper

Judith. So much the better! I want you to compromise

me —but without any illusions on your part — Go ahead,
please! [They go out through the background.
The Captain and Alice enter from the right; he is in
undress uniform.
Captain. [Sits down in the easy-chair] Let him come in.
Alice goes over to the door mi the left and opens it,
tvhereupon she sits down on the sofa.
Curt. [Enters from the left] You want to speak to me ?
Captain. [Pleasantly, but somewhat condescendingly] Yes,
I have quite a number of important things to tell you. Sit

down.
Curt. [Sits down on the chair to the left] I am all ears.

Captain. Well, then! — [Bumptiously] You know that our

quarantine system has been neglected during nearly a cen-
tury —hm
Alice. [To Curt] That's the candidate for the Riksdag
who speaks now.
Captain. But with the tremendous development witnessed
by our own day in

Alice. [To Curt] The communications, of course!

Captain. — all kinds of ways the government has begun

 THE DANCE OF DEATH 259

to consider improvements. And for this purpose the Board

of Health has appointed inspectors —hm!
Alice. [To Curt] He's giving dictation.
Captain. You may as well learn it now as later — I have
been appointed an inspector of quarantines. [Silence.

Curt. I congratulate —and pay my respects to my superior

at the same time.

Captain. On account of ties of kinship our personal rela-
tions will remain unchanged. However — to speak of other
things — At my request your son Allan has been transferred

to an infantry regiment in Norrland.

Curt. But I don't want it.
Captain. Your will in this case is subordinate to the
mother's wishes —and as the mother has authorised me to de-
cide, I have formed this decision.

Curt. I admire you

Captain. Is that the only feeling you experience at this

moment when you are to part from your son ? Have you no
other purely human feelings ?
Curt. You mean that I ought to be suffering ?
Captain. Yes.
Curt. It would please you if I suffered. You wish me to

suffer.

Captain. You suffer ? — Once I was taken sick — ^you were

present and I can still remember that your face expressed

nothing but undisguised pleasure.

Alice. That is not true! Curt sat beside your bed all

night and calmed you down when your qualms of conscience

—
became too violent but when you recovered you ceased to

be thankful for it

Captain. [Pretending not to hear Alice] Consequently

Allan will have to leave us.
Curt. And who is going to pay for it ?
260 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Capi'ain. I have done so already — that is to say, we —
syndicate of people interested in the young man's future.
Curt. A syndicate ?

Captain. Yes —and to make sure that everything is all

right you can look over these subscription lists.

[Hands him some papers.

Curt. Lists ? [Reading the papers] These are begging let-

ters ?

Captain. Call them what you please.

Curt. Have you gone begging on behalf of my son ?

Captain. Are you ungrateful again ? An ungrateful man

is the heaviest burden borne by the earth.

Curt. Then I am dead socially! And my candidacy is

done for!

Captain. What candidacy ?

Curt. For the Riksdag, of course.

Captain. I hope you never had any such notions —partic-

ularly as you might have guessed that I, as an older resident,
intended to offer my own services, which you seem to under-

estimate.

Curt. Oh, well, then that's gone, too!

Captain. It doesn't seem to trouble you very much.

Curt. Now you have taken everything —do you want more ?

Captain. Have you anything more ? And have you any-

thing to reproach me with ? Consider carefully if you have
anything to reproach me with.

Curt. Strictly speaking, no! Everything has been correct

and legal as it should be between honest citizens in the course
of daily life

Captain. You say this with a resignation which I would

call cynical.But your entire nature has a cynical bent, my
dear Curt, and there are moments when I feel tempted to
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 261

share Alice's opinion of you —that you are a hypocrite, a hypo-

crite of the first water.

Curt. [Calmly] So that's Ahce's opinion ?

Alice. [To Curt] It was —once. But not now, for it takes
true heroism to bear what you have borne —or it takes some-
thing else!
Captain. Now I think the discussion may be regarded as
closed. You, Curt, had better go and say good-bye to Allan,

who is leaving with the next boat.

Curt. [Rising] So soon ? Well, I have gone through worse
things than that.
Captain. You say that so often that I am beginning to
wonder what you went through in America ?

Curt. What I went through ? I went through misfortunes.

And it is the unmistakable right of every human being to
suffer misfortune.

Captain. [Sharply] There are self-inflicted misfortunes

were yours of that kind ?

Curt. Is not this a question of conscience ?

Captain. [Brusquely] Do you mean to say you have a con-

science ?

Curt. There are wolves and there are sheep, and no human
being is honoured by being a sheep. But I'd rather be that

than a wolf!
Captain. You don't recognise the old truth, that every-
body is the maker of his own fortune ?

Curt. Is that a truth?

Captain. And you don't know that a man's own
strength
Curt. Yes, I know that from the night when your own
strength failed you, and you lay flat on the floor.

Captain. [Raising his voice] A deserving man like myself

— yes, look at me — For fifty years I have fought —against a
262 THE DANCE OF DEATH
world — but at last I have won the game, by perseverance,
loyalty, energy, and — integrity!

Alice. You should leave that to be said by others!

Captain. The others won't say it because they are jeal-

ous. However —we company my daughter

are expecting —
Judith will to-day meet her intended Where is Judith ? —
Alice. She is out.

Captain. In the rain ? Send for her.

Curt. Perhaps I may go now ?

Captain. No, you had better stay. Is Judith dressed
Properly ?

Alice. Oh, so-so — Have you definite word from the

Colonel that he is coming ?

Captain. [Rising] Yes —that is to say, he will take us by

surprise, as it is termed. And I am expecting a telegram from
him —any moment. [Goes to the right] I'll be back at once.
Alice. There you see him as he is! Can he be called

human ?
Curt. When you asked that question once before, I an-

swered no. Now I believe him to be the commonest kind of

human being of the sort that possess the earth. Perhaps
we. too, are of the same kind —making use of other people
and of favourable opportunities .''

Alice. He has eaten you and yours alive —and you defend
him ?

Curt. I have suffered worse things. And this man-eater

has left my soul unharmed that he couldn't swallow!
Alice.What "worse" have you suffered?

Curt. And you ask that ?

Alice. Do you wish to be rude ?

Curt. No, I don't wish to —and therefore —don't ask

again!
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 263

Captain. [Enters from the right] The telep;ram was already

there, however — Please read it, Alice, for I cannot see
[Seats himself pompously in the easy-chair] Read it! You
need not go, Curt.
Alice glances through the telegram quickly and looks

perplexed.
Captain. Well ? Don't you find it pleasing ?

[Alice stares in silence at the Captain.

Captain. [J ronicalhj] Who is it from ?

Alice. From the Colonel.

Captain. [With self-satisfaction] So I thought —and what
does the Colonel say ?

Alice. This is what he says: "On account of Miss Ju-

dith's impertinent communication over the telephone, I con-
sider the relationship ended —for ever!"
[Looks intently at the Captain.
Captain. Once more, if you please.

Alice. [Reads rapidly] "On account of Miss Judith's im-

pertinent communication over the telephone, I consider the
relationship ended —for ever!"
Captain. [Turns pale] It is Judith!
Alice. And there is Holofernes!
Captain. And what are you ?
Alice. Soon you will see!
Captain. This is your doing!
Alice. No!
Captain. [In a rage] This is your doing!
Alice. No! [The Captain tries to rise and draw his sabre,

bid falls back, touched by an apoplectic stroke] There you got

what was coming to you!

Captain. \^^ith senile tears in his voice] Don't be angry at

me — I am verv sick
Alice. Are you ? I am glad to hear it.
264 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Curt, Let us put him to bed.
Alice. No, I don't want to touch him. [Rmgs
Captain. [As before] You must not be angry at me! [To
Curt] Look after my children!

Curt. This is subHme! I am to look after his children,

and he has stolen mine!

Alice. Always the same self-deception
Captain. Look after my children! [Continues to viumbte

unintelligibhj] Blub-blub-blub-blub.

Alice. At last that tongue is checked! Can brag no more,

lie no more, wound no more! You, Curt, who believe in God,
give Him thanks on my behalf. Thank Him for my liberation
from the tower, from the wolf, from the vampire!
Curt. Not that way, Alice!
Alice. [With her face close to the Captain's] Where is your
own strength now ? Tell me ? Where is your energy ? [The
Captain, speechless, spits in her face] Oh, you can still squirt
venom, you viper —then I'll tear the tongue out of your throat!

[Cuffs him on the ear] The head is off, but still it blushes !

O, Judith, glorious girl, whom I have carried like vengeance

under my heart — ^you, you have set us free, all of us! — If

you have more heads than one, Hydra, we'll take them [Pulls !

his beard] Think only that justice exists on the earth! Some-
times I dreamed it, but I could never believe it. Curt, ask

God to pardon me for misjudging Him. Oh, there is justice!

So I will become a sheep, too! Tell Him that. Curt! A

little success makes us better, but adversity alone turns us
into wolves.
The Lieutenant enters from the background.

Alice. The Captain has had a stroke — will you please help
us to roll out the chair .'*

Lieutenant. Madam
Alice. What is it ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 265

Lieutenant. Well, Miss Judith-

Alice. Help us with this first — then you can speak of Miss
Judith afterward.
[The Lieutenant rolls out the chair to the right.
Alice. Away with the carcass! Out with it, and let's open
the doors! The place must be aired [Opens the doors in the !

background; the sky has cleared] Ugh!

Curt. Are you going to desert him ?

Alice. A wrecked ship is deserted, and the crew save their

lives — I'll not act as undertaker to a rotting beast! Drainmen
and dissectors may dispose of him! A garden bed would be
too good for that barrowful of filth! Now I am going to wash
and bathe myself in order to get rid of all this impurity — if I

can ever cleanse myself completely!

Judith is seen outside, by the balustrade, waving her
handkerchief toward the sea.

Curt. [Toward the background] Who is there? Judith!

[Calls out] Judith!
Judith. [Cries out as she enters] He is gone!
Curt. Who?
Judith. Allan is gone!
Curt. Without saying good-bye ?

Judith. He did to me, and he sent his love to you, Uncle.

Alice. Oh, that was it!

Judith. [Throwing herself into Curt's arvis] He is gone!

Curt. He will come back, little girl.

Alice. Or we will go after him

Curt. on the right] And
\}Vith a gesture indicating the door

leave himWhat would the world

?

—
Alice. The world bah! Judith, come into my arms!
[Judith goes up to Alice, who kisses her on the forehead] Do
you want to go after him ?

Judith. How can you ask ?

266 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. But your father is sick.

Judith. What do I care!

Alice. This is Judith! Oh, I love you, Judith!

Judith. And besides, papa is never mean —and he doesn't

like cuddling. There's style to papa, after all.

Alice. Yes, in a way

Judith. And I don't think he is longing for me after that
telephone message — Well, why should he pester me with an
old fellow? No, Allan, Allan! [Throws herself into Curt's
arms] I want to go to Allan
Tears herself loose again and runs out to wave her hand-
kerchief
[CvRT follotcs her and waves his handkerchief also.
Alice. Think of it, that flowers can grow out of dirt!
The Lieutenant in from the right.
Alice. Well ?

Lieutenant. Yes, Miss Judith

Alice. Is the feeling of those letters that form her name
so sweet on your lips that it makes you forget him who is

dying ?

Lieutenant. Yes, but she said

Alice. She? Say rather Judith then! But first of all

how goes it in there ?

Lieutenant. Oh, in there — it's all over!

Alice. All over? O, God, on my own behalf and that
of all mankind, I thank Thee for having freed us from this
evil! Your arm, if you please — I want to go outside and
get
fe
a breath —breathe!
[The Lieutenant offers his arm.
Alice. [Checks herself] Did he say anything before the
end came ?

Lieutenant. Miss Judith's father spoke a few words only.

Alice. What did he say ?
 THE DANCE OF DEATH 2G7

Lieutenant. He said: "Forgive them, for they know not

what they do!"
Alice. Inconceivable!
Lieutenant. Yes, Miss Judith's father was a good and
noble man.
Alice. Curt!
Curt Enters.
Alice. It is over!
Curt. Oh!
Alice. Do you know what his last words were ? No, you
can never guess it. "Forgive them, for they know not what
they do!"
Curt. Can you translate it ?

Alice. I suppose he meant that he had always done right

and died as one that had been wronged by life.
Curt. I am sure his funeral sermon will be fine.
Alice. And plenty of flowers —from the non-commissioned
oflBcers.

Curt. Yes.
Alice. About a year ago he said something like this: "It
looks to me as if life were a tremendous hoax played on all of

us
Curt. Do you mean to imply that he was playing a hoax
on us up to the very moment of death ?
Alice. No— but now, when he is dead, I feel a strange in-

clination to speak well of him.

Curt. Well,let us do so!

Lieutenant. Miss Judith's father was a good and noble

man.
Alice. [To Curt] Listen to that!
Curt. "They know not what they do." How many times
did I not ask you whether he knew what he was doing ? And
you didn't think he knew. Therefore, forgive him!
268 THE DANCE OF DEATH
Alice. Riddles! Riddles! But do you notice that there

is peace in the house now ? The wonderful peace of death.

Wonderful as the solemn anxiety that surrounds the coming of
a child into the world. I hear the silence and on the floor —
I see the traces of the easy-chair that carried him away — And
I feel that now my own life is ended, and I am starting on
the road to dissolution ! Do you know, it's queer, but those

simple words of the Lieutenant —and his is a simple mind

they pursue me, but now they have become serious. My hus-
band, my youth's beloved — ^yes, perhaps you laugh! —he icas
a good and noble man — nevertheless!
Curt. Nevertheless ? And a brave one —as he fought for
his own and his family's existence!
Alice. What worries! What humiliations! Which he
wiped out — in order to pass on
Curt.He was one who had been passed by! And that is
to say much! Alice, go in there!
Alice. No, I cannot do it! For while we have been talk-
ing here, the image of him as he was in his younger years has
—
come back to me I have seen him, I see him now, as when —
he was only twenty — I must have loved that man
Curt. And hated him!
Alice. And hated !
— Peace be with him
Goes toward the right door and stops in front of it, fold-
ing her hands as if to pray.

Curtain.
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