ACT II—LOVE AND POVERTY
[The stage is in clear light, while the scene represents a large, lofty room with bare walls of a bright pink colour that is intersected, in places, with grey tracery fantastically designed. To the right are two curtainless casement windows through which the outer night shows darkly, while the furniture consists of a couple of bedsteads, two chairs, and a rough deal table, on the latter of which stands a broken water-jug, holding a bunch of wild flowers. In one corner (which is in deeper shadow than the rest of the apartment) stands the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is burnt away for a third of its length, yet its flame remains steady, bright, and tall, and throws the statuesque face of the Being into strong relief.]
[Enter a group of Neighbours, dressed in holiday attire, and carrying in their hands flowers, wild grasses, and sprigs of oak and birch. They disperse themselves about the room, looking cheerful, kindly, simple, and solicitous as they do so.]
Dialogue of the Neighbours.
How poor they must be! See, they have not even a spare chair.
Nor curtains to the windows!
Nor pictures on the walls!
Nor a morsel in their larder except some stale bread!
Nor anything to drink but water—cold water from the well!
Nor sufficient clothes to wear! For she is always to be seen in the same worn-out pink dress and frayed hair-riband—things only fit for a servant-girl to wear, and he is never to be seen in anything but an artist's blouse with turned-down collar—a garment which makes him look like a tramp, and sets all the dogs barking at him.
Yes, so much so that respectable people are afraid of him.
Dogs never like poor people. Yesterday I saw no fewer than three dogs flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his stick: "Do not you dare to tear my trousers! They are the only ones I have left!"
All the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth at him, and growling most furiously.
And only to-day I saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid passing him. "I think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well. So they crossed over—eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a tight hold upon their pockets. But he only tossed his head and laughed.
Yes, he is always in good spirits.
Both of them are like that—always merry.
Yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband!
It is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and handsome.
All the same, I feel very, very sorry for them. At times they are almost starving. To think of it!—starving!
Yes, too true. Once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now they have nothing at all left.
Yes, I remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses; but now those dresses have had to go for bread.
And he used to wear a fine frockcoat—the one in which he got married; but that too has had to go.
In fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their wedding-rings. What poverty, to be sure!
Oh, they do not care, they do not care! I too have been young, and know how one takes things at that age.
What do you say, Grandfather?
I say that they do not care, they do not care.
See, it almost makes Grandfather sing, even to think of them!
Yes, and dance too!
[There is general laughter.]
And her husband is so kindhearted! One day he made my little boy a bow-and-arrows.
And when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as I did.
And when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no time. What a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure!
Yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours. Their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their lightheartedness to drive away our care.
But this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare.
Nay. Say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright!
See the flowers on the table! She ha's been plucking them as she walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded hair-riband. Here are some May lilies, with the dew not dry upon them.
And a bright red pineflower.
And violets.
And field grasses.
Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch the flowers. She has imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the ground. She has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not mingle our breath with hers. Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch them.
She means him to see them the moment he enters the room.
Yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them.
And to scent her dear breath in theirs.
Come! We must go now, we must go now.
But surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these charming young neighbours of ours? That would be a sorry thing to do!
I have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk.
And I some sweet, fresh herbs. If we strew; the floor with them it will look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring.
And I some flowers.
And we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. If we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant arbour.
And my present is a fine cigar. It did not cost very much, but it is mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over.
And I have brought her a new pink hair-riband. When she has bound up her hair with it she will look so neat and charming! It was given me by my sweetheart, but I have many ribands, whereas she has only one.
And what have you brought with you, little girl? Surely you have brought some present for our good neighbours?
No, nothing—nothing. At least, I have brought my cough with me, but they would not care for that, would they, neighbour?
No, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. Ah, dear child, who would care for crutches?
But you leave good wishes behind you, Grandfather, do you not?
Yes, yes, my dear. And so, I know, do you. Now we must go, good neighbours, for it is getting late.
[The Neighbours begin to leave the room—some of them yawning as they go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on crutches.]
Yes, we must go now, we must go now.
God grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly couple!
Yes, God grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love: and may He see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring them evil luck!
And may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread!
[Exeunt all.
[Enter the Man's Wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. At the same time, her face is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:]
I have just returned from the town, where I have been looking for, I have been looking for—oh, I hardly know what I have been looking for. We are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. Indeed, we find it a struggle even to live. We need money, money; yet I know not where to get it. If I were to go out into the streets and beg I feel sure that no one would give me anything. No, every one would refuse me. And, moreover, I have not the courage to do it. I have tried hard to get work for my husband, but it is not to be got. Every one to whom I apply says that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. I have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery; but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than I, had found the treasure first. Oh, I am so unhappy! Soon my husband will be coming home—tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once more he will find that I have nothing for him but my poor kisses! And kisses will not feed a starving man. Oh, I am so unhappy that I could weep for ever! To me it is nothing to have to go hungry—indeed, I scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to feed, and requires more food. When he has had to go hungry a little while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! He takes to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what he has said. But I never mind; I love him too much for that. Oh, I am so unhappy! He is one of the cleverest architects in all the world. Indeed, I believe he is a veritable genius. Left, when quite an infant, to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. But, alas! his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. Yet still he continued his studies—maintaining himself the while by giving lessons, and often going hungry. Yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! Yet now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable, no one will accept them. Nay, some stupid people even laugh at them! To succeed in life one needs two things—influence and a lucky star: and he has neither. So he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance—any sort of a chance—to find work to do. It may even be that, like myself, he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind as well as in years. Of course, some day we shall succeed: but the question is, When will that be? Meanwhile life is very hard for us; for although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared, what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons. He is still sanguine of success, but I—well, sometimes I seem to lose all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. Even now my heart is aching to think that here is he coming home—only to find nothing for him but my poor kisses!
[She rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees.]
O Lord God, be unto us a kind and pitying Father. Thou hast so much to give of what we need—of bread, of work, of money. Thy earth is so rich, it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields—it covers its meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! Thy sun's rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of Thy stars there is so much pensive and peaceful joy! Give us, then, but a little of that bounty—but a little, but so much as Thou bestowest upon Thy birds: a little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise his handsome head once more. And, I beseech Thee, be not angry with him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be grave and sober.
[She rises to her feet again.]
There! Now that I have said a prayer I feel better—I begin to hope once more. Surely God must give occasionally when He is entreated so often? Now I will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery.
[Exit.
The Being in Grey.
The woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. She knows not that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some designs submitted by the Man, and that finally they have decided to accept them. All this day those two noblemen have been seeking the Man in vain. Yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been seeking wealth. And early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to the Man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble chamber—bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. But, as yet, neither the Man nor his Wife knows of this, although good fortune is coming to the Man as surely as some day it will depart again.
[Enter the Man and his Wife. The former has a proud, handsome head, brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows—the latter springing from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small, clearly defined wings attached to that member. His wavy black hair is flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft, white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat. Although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human being.]
The Man.
Once more nothing! Soon I shall have to take to lying in bed all day: so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to me, not I go to him. Yes, I will begin that mode of life to-morrow.
His Wife.
Are you so tired, then, my darling?
The Man.
Yes, tired and hungry; and though I could devour a whole ox, like one of Homer's heroes, I suppose I shall have to put up with a piece of dry bread! Yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the time his appetite craves to be sated—craves for something into which it can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled.
His Wife.
I am so sorry for you, my dearest one!
The Man.
As I am for you. Yet that makes me none the less ravenous. To-day I spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape at masterpieces of art, so did I gape at the fat pies and capons and sausages in the window. And oh, the signboard above them! Do you know, it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one could devour it, signboard and all.
His Wife.
Yes—I too could eat something.
The Man.
Of course. Who could not? But do you like lobsters?
His Wife.
I simply adore them!
The Man.
Then what a lobster I saw there! Though only a painted one, he was fairer even than the reality. Red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he looked fit for consecration. I believe I could eat two such cardinals, and a reverend father carp into the bargain.
His Wife.
(Sadly.) But you have not noticed my flowers?
The Man.
Flowers, flowers? Do you expect me to eat them!
His Wife.
Ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus!
The Man.
Forgive me, forgive me, but I am so hungry! See how my hand is trembling. I could not even throw a stone at a dog with it.
His Wife.
(Kissing his hand.) My poor darling!
The Man.
But what is this parcel on the table? It seems to send forth a most unctuous smell. Did you put it there?
His Wife.
No indeed! It must have been the neighbours.
The Man.
What dear, goodhearted folks! But it is strange to think that, for all the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! Why should that be?—Ah! Look there!
His Wife.
How you frighten me! How your eyes are staring! What is it you see? Surely it is something dreadful?
The Man.
Yes. Even as I jested there uprose before me—there, in that dark corner—the terrible figure of Starvation! Do you not see it now? Its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice of childish agony—a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted wilds—"Help me, or I die! Help me, or I die!"—and there is none to hear! Look, my wife, look! See how those dark shadows quiver and float, like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading down to the pit of hell! See! see! I am being drawn into them!
His Wife.
Oh, I am terrified! I dare not look into that corner!—But, nay, nay; 'twas only in the street you saw all this?
The Man.
Yes, it was only in the street; but soon I shall be seeing it in this room.
His Wife.
No, no! God would never permit it!
The Man.
But why not? Does He not permit it to happen to other people?
His Wife.
Yes; but we are better than they. We are good people, and have done no wrong.
The Man.
Think you so? Then remember all my cruel scoldings of you.
His Wife.
But you have never really been cruel to me.
The Man.
Yes, I have!—yes, many and many a time! Nor is that all; for no wild boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than I do as I wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we stand in such desperate need. Ah, how much money there is in the world that we have not got! Listen to me, little wife. This afternoon I was walking in the park—that beautiful park where the paths run straight as pistol-shots, and the beech-trees look like kings in crowns.
His Wife.
And I too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops everywhere—such beautiful shops!
The Man.
And people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing splendid clothes: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have none of these things!"
His Wife.
And I too was passed by rich people—by fine ladies in dainty boots which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have no smart hats and silken petticoats!"
The Man.
One dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but I just gave him a glimpse of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd.
His Wife.
And I too was jostled by a fine lady; yet I could not bring myself even to look at her, I felt so miserable!
The Man.
Also, I saw people riding in the park—riding fiery, spirited horses. Alas, I have none such!
His Wife.
One fine lady whom I met was wearing diamond earrings—earrings which I could actually have kissed!
The Man.
Red and green motor-cars, with great, glaring eyes, were gliding along as silently as ghosts, and the people in them were laughing and jesting and looking indolently about them. Alas, I have no motor-car!
His Wife.
Nor I diamonds, nor emeralds, nor clear white pearls!
The Man.
Up above the ornamental water there was a restaurant, blazing with lights like the firmament of heaven; and in it people were dining, while men in tail-coats who might have been ministers of State, and white-aproned women who looked like veritable winged angels, were carrying wine and dishes about. And every one was eating and drinking, eating and drinking. Ah, how I too could have eaten and drunk! My wife, my wife, I am so hungry!
His Wife.
My poor darling, it is having to walk about so much that makes you hungry. But never mind. Sit down here, and I will climb on to your knee, and you shall take paper and pencil and draw me a beautiful, beautiful palace.
The Man.
Ah, but my inspiration seems equally to be suffering from hunger; it cannot rise above pictures of eatables, and for a long while past I have been making my palaces look like pies filled with rich stuffing and my churches like pease-puddings. But I see tears in your eyes! What ails thee, little wife of mine?
His Wife.
It hurts me so much to think that I can do nothing for you!
The Man.
Is that it? Then am I filled with shame to think that I—I, a strong man, talented, educated, and in the prime of life—should sit here grumbling until I have seen my poor little wife—the good fairy of the legends—burst into tears! When a woman weeps it is a man's shame. I am overcome with remorse.
His Wife.
But it is not your fault that people do not appreciate you.
The Man.
Nevertheless I blush to my ears. I feel that I deserve as sound a whipping as ever I received when I was a boy. To think that you too were hungry—as hungry as I am—and that I never noticed it! Oh, what a selfish egoist am I! It was shameful of me!
His Wife.
My dearest one, I was not, I am not, hungry.
The Man.
Oh, it was shameful and unmanly of me! The dandy who jostled me in the park did rightly, for he saw that it was a mere sensual pig that was passing him by—a wild boar of sharp tusks indeed, but most gross mind.
His Wife.
If you go on scolding yourself so unjustly I shall weep again.
The Man.
No, no, you must not weep. When I see tears in those pretty eyes I am seized with dread. Yes, I am afraid of those little crystal drops; for, whenever I behold them, I feel as though it were not you, but some stranger whom I know not, that were shedding them. No, you must not weep. We are poor, and have nothing, I know, but we can talk of what we shall surely have some day, and I can tell you bright fairy tales, and wrap you round with shining fancies, my little queen.
His Wife.
Ah, we have no cause to be afraid. You are too strong, and too great a genius, to be vanquished by life. The present time will pass away, and inspiration will once more spread its influence over your splendid head.
[The Man assumes a proud and daring attitude of challenge, and throws a sprig of oak towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey.]
The Man.
See thou, whatsoever be thy name—whether Fate, Life, or Devil! I cast thee down my gauntlet, I challenge thee to battle! Men of faint heart may bow before thy mysterious power, thy face of stone may inspire them with dread, in thy unbroken silence they may discern the birth of calamity and an impending avalanche of woe. But I am daring and strong, and I challenge thee to battle! Let us draw our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth and fight with me!
His Wife.
(With enthusiasm, as she leans upon the Man's shoulder.) More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet!
The Man.
To thy vile laggardness I will oppose my swift and living strength—to thy dim mystery my open, ringing laughter! Ha! Parry thou my strokes if thou canst! At thy dull forehead of stone I will aim the whitehot bullets of my flashing intellect! Into thy pitiless heart of stone I will inject the burning poison of remorse for the agony which thou didst cause my mother at my birth! Of a surety there shall arise a sun which shall dispel the black thunderclouds of thy cruel enmity! Yea, the flashing of our swords shall illumine the darkness! Ha! Fend thou my passes if thou canst!
His Wife.
More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet! Thy trusty armour-bearer stands beside thee, my valiant knight!
The Man.
As I advance thou shalt hear me singing such songs as shall echo the wide world through! What though I fall beneath a blow of thine, I will yet utter no cry, but cast about how I may raise myself and renew the combat! In my armour there are weak spots—that I know full well; but though I be covered with wounds, though I be red with my own blood, I will yet summon my last remaining strength to cry, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, thou cruel enemy of man!"
His Wife.
More boldly yet, my trusty knight! More boldly yet! I will bathe thy wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses!
The Man.
What though I die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die; making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" In very truth it will be I who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for until my last faint breath shall have been drawn I shall have refused to own thy power!
His Wife.
More boldly yet, my knight I More boldly yet! I will die with thee!
The Man.
Ha! Come forth to battle! Let us flash our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth, come forth!
[For a few seconds the Man and his Wife retain their respective attitudes. Then they turn to one another and em-brace.]
The Man.
Thus will we deal with life, my little helpmeet. Will we not, eh? What though it blink at us like an owl that is blinded by the sun, we will yet force it to smile.
His Wife.
Yes, and to dance to our singing, too. Together we will do it.
The Man.
Yes, together, my paragon among wives, my trusty comrade, my brave little armour-bearer. So long as I have thee by my side, nothing can make me fear. A fig for poverty! We may be poor to-day, but we shall be rich to-morrow.
His Wife.
And what does hunger matter? To-day we may be without a crust, but to-morrow we shall be feasting.
The Man.
Think you so? Well, 'tis very likely. But I shall require a great deal of satisfying. What think you of this for our daily menu? First meal in the morning, tea, coffee, or chocolate, whichever we prefer; then a breakfast of three courses; then luncheon; then dinner; then supper; then——
His Wife.
Yes; and always as much fruit as possible. I adore fruit!
The Man.
Very well. I will go out and buy it myself—buy it in the market-place, where it is cheapest and most fresh. Besides, we shall be having our own fruit garden before long.
His Wife.
But we have no land yet?
The Man.
No, but I shall soon be buying some. I have always wished to possess an estate, not only as a pleasure-ground, but also as a place where I may build a house from my own designs. The rascally world shall see what an architect I am!
His Wife.
I should like the house to be in Italy, close to the sea: a villa of white marble, set in the midst of a grove of lime-trees and cypresses, with white marble steps leading down to the blue waters.
The Man.
Yes, I see your idea. It would be capital. Yet my plan, rather, is to build a castle on a Norwegian mountain, with a fjord below, and the castle parched on a peak above. Have we no paper? Well, never mind. I can show you on the wall what I mean. This is the fjord. Do you see?
His Wife.
Yes. How beautiful!
The Man.
And here are the deep, sparkling waters, reflecting the tender green of the grass above. Here, too, is a red, black, and cinnamon-coloured cliff. And there, in that gap (just where I have made that smudge), is a patch of blue sky, gleaming through a fleecy white cloud.
His Wife.
Nay, it is not a cloud. Rather, it is a white boat, with its reflection in the water, like two white swans joined breast to breast.
The Man.
And see, over all there rises a mountain, with sides of brilliant green, except just at the top, where it is more misty and rugged. Here, too, are sharp spurs, and dark shadows of clefts, and wisps of cloud.
His Wife.
Oh, it looks like a ruined castle!
The Man.
And here—on that "ruined castle," as you call it (just where I have put that mark in the centre)—I will build me a stately mansion.
His Wife.
But it will be so cold up there—so windy?
The Man.
Nay, I shall give the mansion stout walls and huge windows of plate-glass; and then at night, when the winter storms are raging and the fjord is tossing below, we shall draw the curtains over the windows, and heap up a roaring fire (I shall make enormous fireplaces, you know—large enough to hold whole trunks of trees, whole beams of pine).
His Wife.
Ah! it will be warm enough then.
The Man.
Yes, indeed; and the whole interior will be quiet and restful, for I mean to have soft carpets everywhere, and the walls lined with thousands and thousands of books, and everything looking snug and cheerful. And you and I will sit before the fire on a white bearskin; and when you say to me, "Shall we go and look at the storm?" I shall answer, "Yes," and we shall run to the largest of the great windows, and draw aside the curtains: and then, my God, what a night it will look like.
His Wife.
Snowflakes whirling by!
The Man.
Yes; like little white horses galloping, or myriads of tiny, frightened souls, pale with fear and seeking shelter in the night. And there will be such a howling and a roaring!
His Wife.
And I shall say that I am cold, and give a shiver.
The Man.
And then we shall scamper back to the fire, and I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring me the ancestral goblet—the one of pure gold from which Vikings have drunk—and fill it with aureate wine, and let us drain the soul-warming draught to the dregs!" Meanwhile we shall have had a chamois roasting on the spit, and again I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring hither the venison, that we may eat it!" Yes, and in about two seconds I shall be eating you, little wife, for I am as hungry as the devil.
His Wife.
Well, suppose they have brought the roast chamois? Go on. What next?
The Man.
What next? Well, once I have begun to eat it, there will soon be little of it left—and therefore nothing more to tell. But what are you doing to my head, little playmate?
His Wife.
I am the Goddess of Fame. I have woven you a chaplet of the oak-leaves which the neighbours brought, and am crowning you with it. Thus shall fame—yes, real, resounding fame-some day be yours.
[She crowns him with the chaplet.]
The Man.
Yes, fame, fame, resplendent fame! Look here on the wall as I draw. This is myself advancing. Do you see? But who is that with me?
His Wife.