Scene 1
Anthony gets up from table. Clara begins to clear away dishes.
Anthony.
Have you still no appetite?
Clara.
I’ve had enough, father.
Anthony.
Enough of nothing!
Clara.
I had a bite in the kitchen.
Anthony.
A poor appetite means a bad conscience. Well, we shall see. Or was there poison in the soup, as I dreamed last night, a bit of wild hemlock that was plucked with the other herbs by mistake? That would be a wise thing for you to do.
Clara.
Almighty God!
Anthony.
Forgive me, I——To the devil with that pale, suffering look of yours, stolen from the Mother of Christ! Young people should look rosy. There’s only one man who has the right to parade a face like that, and he doesn’t do it. Ho! A box on the ears for every man that says “Uh” when he cuts his finger. Nobody has the right to now, for here’s a man that——Self-praise is no recommendation, but what did I do, when our neighbour was going to nail the lid on your mother’s coffin?
Clara.
You snatched the hammer from him and did it yourself, and said, “This is my masterpiece.” The choir-master, who was singing the funeral-hymn at the door with the choristers, thought you’d gone mad.
Anthony.
Mad! (Laughs.) Mad! Ay, ay, it’s a wise man that cuts his own throat when the time comes. Mine seems to be too tough, or else——A man lives in his corner of the world, and imagines he’s sitting by the fireside in a comfortable inn, when suddenly some one puts a light on the table, and behold, he’s in a robber’s den, and it goes bang! bang! on all sides. But no matter. Luckily my heart’s made of stone.
Clara.
So it is, father.
Anthony.
What do you know about it? Do you think you have any right to join your curses to mine, because that clerk of yours left you in the lurch? Some one else will take you for a walk on Sunday afternoons, some one else will tell you that your cheeks are red and your eyes are blue, some one else will make you his wife, if you deserve it. But when you’ve borne your burden honourably for thirty years, without complaining, when you’ve patiently endured suffering and bereavement and all manner of misfortune, and then your son, who should be making a soft pillow for you in your old age, comes and heaps disgrace on you, till you feel like calling to the earth, “Swallow me, if you can stomach me, for I am more foul than you”—then you may pour out all the curses that I am holding back; then you may tear your hair and beat your breast. That’s the privilege you shall have over me, since you’re a woman.
Clara.
Oh, Karl!
Anthony.
I often wonder what I shall do when I see him again, when he comes in some evening before we’ve got the lamp lit, with his head shaved, prison-fashion, and stutters out “Good-evening” with his hand glued to the door-latch. I shall do something, I know, but what? (Grinding his teeth.) And if they keep him ten years, he’ll find me still. I shall live till then, I know that. Mark you, Death! From now on I’m a stone to your scythe. Sooner shall it be shattered in your hands, than move me an inch.
Clara (taking his hand).
Father, do lie down for half an hour.
Anthony.
To dream you are in child-bed, eh? And jump up and lay hold of you and then remember, and say I didn’t know what I was doing? Thank you, no. My sleep has dismissed its magician and hired a prophet instead, who shows me fearful things with his bloody fingers. I don’t know how it is. Anything seems possible to me now. Ugh! The future makes me shudder, like a glass of water seen through a microscope—is that right, Mr. Choir-master, you’ve spelt it for me often enough? I did that once at the fair in Nürnberg, and couldn’t take a drink the whole day after it. I saw our Karl last night with a pistol in his hand. When I looked at him more closely, he fired. I heard a cry, but I couldn’t see anything for smoke. When the smoke cleared, there was no split skull to be seen, but in the meantime my fine son had become a rich man. He was standing counting gold pieces from one hand into the other, and his face—devil take me if a man could look more placid, if he had slaved all day and just locked up his work-shop. We might look out for that. We might first sit in judgment, and then go ourselves before the greatest judge of all.
Clara.
Do calm yourself!
Anthony.
Cure yourself, you mean. Why am I sick? Give me the healing draught, physician! Your brother is the worst of sons. You be the best of daughters. Here I stand before the world like a worthless bankrupt. I owed it a worthy man, to take the place of this invalid here, and I’ve pawned off a rogue on it. You be the woman your mother was. Then people will say: “It wasn’t the parents’ fault that the boy went wrong, for the daughter is going the right road and leads the way for others.” (With fearful coldness.) And I’ll do my share. I’ll make it easier for you than the others. The moment I see people pointing their fingers at you,—I shall—(passing his finger over his throat) shave myself, and, this I’ll swear, I shall shave myself away altogether. You can say a fright did it—a horse ran away in the street, or the cat knocked a chair over, or a mouse ran up my legs. Those that know me will have their doubts, because I’m not particularly nervous, but what does it matter? I can’t go on living in a world where only sympathy keeps people from spitting when they see me.
Clara.
Merciful God, what shall I do?
Anthony.
Nothing at all, my child. I’m too hard on you. I know it well. Nothing at all. Just stay as you are and it will be all right. I’ve suffered such injustice that I must practise it, or go under altogether, when it takes hold of me. I was crossing the road just now when Small-pox John came along, that vagabond I had locked up years ago, after he’d robbed me three times. There was a time when the wretch didn’t dare to look at me, but now he walks up coolly and holds out his hand. I wanted to box his ears, but thought better of it and didn’t even spit. Aren’t we cousins of a week’s standing? And isn’t it right for relations to greet one another? Our good man, the parson, came to see me yesterday, and said a man was responsible for nobody but himself, and it was unchristian arrogance in me to make myself answerable for my son, or else Adam would have to take it as much to heart as I. O God, I well believe that it doesn’t disturb the arch-father’s peace in paradise, when one of his great-great-grandchildren goes robbing and murdering, but didn’t he tear his hair over Cain? No, no, it is too much! At times I feel like looking to see if my shadow hasn’t gone blacker. I can bear anything, and I’ve proved it, anything but disgrace. Put as much weight round my neck as you like, but don’t cut through the nerve that holds me together.
Clara.
But, father, Karl hasn’t confessed to it yet, and they didn’t find anything on him.
Anthony.
What do I care about that? I went round the town, and inquired about his debts in all the pubs. I found that he owed more than he’d have earned from me in a quarter-year, even if he’d worked three times as hard as he did. Now I know why he used to work two hours later at night than I did, and got up earlier, too. But he saw it was no good. It was too much trouble, or it took too long, so he seized the opportunity when it came.
Clara.
You always think the worst of Karl. You always did. Do you remember how——?
Anthony.
You talk just like your mother. And I’ll answer you as I used to answer her—by saying nothing.
Clara.
And what if Karl gets off? What if they find the jewels again?
Anthony.
Then I’d hire a lawyer, and I’d sell my last shirt to find out whether the mayor had the right to imprison the son of an honourable man, or not. If so, I’d submit, for if it can happen to anybody, I must put up with it, even though I had to pay a thousand times dearer than others. It was fate, and when God strikes me, I fold my hands and say: “O Lord, thou knowest why.” But if it was not so, if that man with the gold chain round his neck overstepped himself, because he couldn’t think of anything except that the merchant who lost the jewels was his brother-in-law, then we’d see whether there’s a hole in the law. The king knows full well that he must justly repay the obedience and loyalty of his subjects, and would wish least of all to be unfair to the smallest of them. We’ll see then whether he’ll stop the hole up for us. But this is all nonsense. It’s as easy for your mother to rise from her grave as for that boy to clear himself. I’ve had no comfort from him, and never shall have. So remember what you owe me. Keep your word and then I won’t have to keep mine. (Goes, and turns back.) I shan’t be home till late. I’m going to see the old wood-cutter in the hills. He’s the only man who looks me in the face as he used to, because he knows nothing yet of my shame. He’s deaf. They can’t tell him anything without shrieking themselves hoarse, and then he mixes it all up and never gets the truth of it. (Goes out.)