Scene 3
Clara.
What does that mean?
Mother.
Oh, he grieves me to the heart. Yes, your father’s right. That’s the outcome of it. When he was still a curly-headed boy, he used to ask so sweetly for his piece of sugar, and now he demands money of me just as insolently. I wonder whether he really wouldn’t want the money, if I had refused him the sugar. It worries me often. I don’t believe he even loves me. Did you ever once see him crying when I was sick?
Clara.
I saw very little of him; scarcely ever, except at meal times. He had a better appetite than I had!
Mother (quickly).
That’s natural; his work is hard.
Clara.
Of course. Men are like that, too. They are more ashamed of their tears than of their sins. They don’t mind showing a clenched fist, but a weeping eye, no! Father’s just the same. The afternoon they opened your vein and no blood came, he was sobbing away at his bench. It went right through me. But when I went up to him and stroked him on the cheek, what do you think he said? “See if you can’t get this damned shaving out of my eye. There’s so much to do and I’m not getting on with it at all.”
Mother (smiling).
Yes, yes.—I never see Leonard now. How is that?
Clara.
Let him stay away.
Mother.
I hope you don’t see him anywhere except at home here.
Clara.
Do I stay too long when I go to the well at night, that you start suspecting me?
Mother.
I don’t say that. But it was only to keep him from hanging about after you at nights in all weathers, that I let him come into the house at all. My mother wouldn’t allow that sort of thing, either.
Clara.
I never see him at all.
Mother.
Have you been sulking with each other? I don’t dislike him. He’s so steady. If only he was somebody! In my time he wouldn’t have had to wait long. The gentlefolk used to be as crazy after a good clerk, as a lame man after a crutch, for a good clerk was rare then. He was useful to small people like us, too. One day he would compose a New Year’s greeting from son to father, and would get as much for the gold lettering alone as would buy a child a doll. The next day the father would send for him, and have him read it aloud to him, secretly, with the door locked, lest he should be caught unawares, and show his ignorance. That meant double pay. Clerks were top-dog then, and raised the price of beer. But it’s different now. We old people, who can neither read nor write, are the laughing-stocks of nine-year-old boys. The world’s getting cleverer every day. Perhaps the time will come when we shall be ashamed if we can’t walk the tightrope.
Clara.
There goes the church bell.
Mother.
Well, child, I will pray for you. And as for this Leonard of yours, love him as he loves God, neither more nor less. That’s what my old mother said to me when she was leaving this world, and giving me her blessing. I’ve kept it long enough and now I’ll pass it on to you.
Clara (giving her a bunch of flowers).
There!
Mother.
I’m sure that came from Karl.
Clara (nods, then aside).
I wish it did! If anything is to give her real pleasure, it’s got to come from him.
Mother.
Oh, he’s a good boy and loves his mother. (Goes.)
Clara (looking after her through the window).
There she goes. Three times I dreamed she lay in her coffin, and now—— Oh these malicious dreams, they clothe themselves in our fears to terrify our hopes. I’ll never give heed to a dream again. I’ll never again take pleasure in a good one, and then I won’t have to worry about the evil one that follows it. How firm and sure is her step! She’s already near the churchyard. I wonder who’ll be the first to meet her—not that it matters, but——(starting in terror). The grave-digger! He has just dug a grave and is climbing out of it. She’s nodded to him, and is looking down into the dark hole with a smile. Now she’s thrown the flowers in, and is going into church. (Music is heard.) They’re singing: “Now thank we all our God.” (Folding her hands.) Yes! yes! If mother had died, I’d never have been happy again, for——(looking towards heaven). But Thou art gracious, Thou art merciful! I wish I had a faith like the Catholics, so that I could give Thee something. I would empty my money-box and buy Thee a lovely golden heart and wreathe it with roses. Our clergyman says that gifts are nothing in Thy eyes, for all is Thine, and we should not try to give Thee what Thou hast. But then, everything in the house belongs to father, and yet he’s pleased when I buy him a kerchief with his own money, and embroider it neatly and put it on his plate on his birthday. Yes, he honours me by wearing it on special holidays, Christmas or Whitsuntide. Once I saw a tiny little Catholic girl bringing her cherries to the altar. How I loved to see her! They were the first of the year, and I could see how she longed to eat them. But still she fought against her innocent desire, and threw them down quickly to make an end of temptation. The priest, saying Mass, had just raised the chalice, and looked frowningly at her, and the child hurried away terrified, but the Virgin over the altar smiled down so tenderly, as if she would have liked to step out of her frame, run after the child, and kiss her. I did it for her. There’s Leonard. Ah!