SCENE IX
The same: MÖLLER, then BASTIAN.
MÖLLER (comes in, beside himself).
Horrible! Horrible!
STEIN.
But what is the matter?
MÖLLER.
A murder!—A dreadful murder!
STEIN.
But, man alive, speak—
MÖLLER.
Mr. Robert—
STEIN. My son!
[Falls into a chair.]
PASTOR.
Has Robert been murdered?
[Goes anxiously up to STEIN.]
Enter BASTIAN.
MÖLLER.
Not yet. Not yet, I hope. But—I am quite beside myself. Ulrich's Andrew has already shot and killed Godfrey. Those from the forester's house have instituted a regular hunt for their enemies. I had Godfrey carried home. He looks horrible. The bullet entered at the left side of the spine. He died in Mr. Robert's arms. I asked him: Was it Andrew, Godfrey? It was Andrew, he said—it was Andrew—and lay down a dead man. I implored Mr. Robert to come home for God's sake; he was quite beside himself, and would not come. And I had not gone two hundred steps with my men, when two more shots were fired behind us.
STEIN (rises, beside himself).
Mount your horse at once—ride till it drops dead—only be quick—get soldiers from the town—surround the whole forest—catch that murderer's band from the forester's house! You, Bastian, get quickly my Lüttich rifle, the one that's loaded—then call the workingmen—have them armed—to—where was it, Möller?
MÖLLER.
At the first bridge—in the Dell, scarcely ten minutes beyond the forester's house.
PASTOR.
God grant that the worst may still be prevented!
STEIN (stamps his foot).
Bastian! Bastian! Why are you still standing there! Make haste!
[Exit MÖLLER.]
And I—while—Bastian!
[BASTIAN brings the rifle. STEIN tears it from him.]
I am coming!
Robert, hold your own! I am coming!
[Exeunt omnes.]
ACT IV
Twilight. The FORESTER'S House.
SCENE I
WILKENS; SOPHY.
WILKENS.
Your husband has been dismissed. There is no doubt about that. And if he desires to remain here he is going just the wrong way about it. Stein certainly cannot afford to allow Ulrich to gain his point by defiance and revolt. Godfrey now is forester. Well, Godfrey is a brutal fellow; but here he is in the right. If now they should come together, your husband and Godfrey? And each is going to treat the other as a poacher? Or if Godfrey should come across Andrew once more? And if he does what his father commanded him? Or if Andrew and young Stein come together? Well? And viewed in the most charitable light, Ulrich is a dismissed man, whom nobody will wish to employ after this open rebellion of which he has been guilty. And what is then to become of you and your children?
SOPHY.
I am sure you will not withdraw your aid from us. If you would only talk to him once more!
WILKENS.
After the trump that he has played? Even if it were not for that, I value my breath too much to preach to deaf ears. You and your children must leave him. That I said to myself a little while ago, while on my way, and made a solemn resolution to bring this about; and I came back to tell you. Before you have a corpse or a murderer in the house—
SOPHY (throws up her hands in terror).
Matters surely cannot come to that pass!
WILKENS.
Well. I see you'll risk it. You also are a queer mother. But I am not so indifferent as you, and I will not have a catastrophe on my conscience, if I can prevent it. I have most to lose by this. To be brief: If you leave him and come with your children to me, I shall have it settled that very hour that you and your children are to be my heirs. Till tomorrow noon you have plenty of time to consider the matter. If by noon tomorrow you are at the Boundary Inn, where I will wait for you, then we'll go at once into town to the notary; if you are not there—all right also. But I'll be a scoundrel—and you know I am as good as my word—and cursed be my hand, if after that it ever gives a piece of bread either to you or your children.
[Exit.]
SOPHY (quite overcome; then follows him anxiously and hastily).
But, cousin! Cousin Wilkens!
SCENE II
MARY alone; then SOPHY returning.
MARY (has a letter in her hand).
Why did I take it till I had considered matters?—and then I had it in my hand. And Katharine, too, was so quickly gone!—I should not have taken it!
SOPHY (reappearing).
Those cruel men! Prayers avail nothing. What have you there, Mary?
MARY.
A letter from Robert.
SOPHY.
If your father should see that!
MARY.
I cannot understand at all how I came to accept it; but I felt so sorry for Robert. Katharine told me he was down in the Dell, and waiting. Then I again recollected my dream of last night.
SOPHY.
A dream?
MARY.
I dreamt I was at the spring among the willows in my favorite spot, and was sitting among the many colored flowers and looking up into the sky. There I saw a thunder-storm, and I became as depressed as if I were to die. And the child, you know, the one that had been with me fourteen years ago when I lost my way, was sitting beside me and said: Poor Mary! and pulled the bridal wreath out of my hair, and in place of it fastened to my bosom a large blood-red rose. Then I fell backwards into the grass, I knew not how. Yonder in the village the bells were ringing, and the singing of the birds, the chirping of the crickets, the soft evening breeze in the willows above me—all that seemed like a lullaby. And the turf sank down with me lower and ever lower, and the chimes and the singing sounded ever more distant—the sky became blue once more, and I felt so light and free—
SOPHY.
A strange dream! Have you opened the letter?
MARY.
No, mother. And I do not wish to do so.
SOPHY.
At least don't let your father see it. Alas, Mary! we shall be obliged to leave your father!
MARY.
Leave father? We?
SOPHY.
He is coming. Do not betray anything! Put away the letter. Put the Bible there before you, so that be may not suspect anything. I will try once more—if he thinks we are going away, he perhaps may yet give in, and we may stay.
SCENE III
The stage is becoming darker and darker.
The FORESTER; SOPHY; MARY.
FORESTER.
William not yet back?
SOPHY.
I have not seen him.
[FORESTER steps to the window, and, lost in thought, drums against the panes. SOPHY begins packing.]
MARY.
But, mother—
SOPHY.
Be quiet now, Mary, and don't take part in the conversation.
FORESTER (has turned around and watched his wife for some time).
What are you doing there?
SOPHY (without looking up).
I am packing some dresses—if I have to go away—
FORESTER.
We don't have to go. There is a law to prevent that.
SOPHY (shaking her head). Your law? [Continues packing.]
I shall be obliged to go away with the children.
FORESTER (surprised).
You are going to—
SOPHY.
If you don't come to terms with Stein—
FORESTER.
If—
SOPHY.
You need not get angry, Ulrich. You cannot act otherwise, and neither can I. I do not reproach you; I say nothing, absolutely nothing. You persist in regarding as your enemy whoever counsels you to yield—and cousin Wilkens is going to disinherit the children if you remain obstinate, and if I and the children are not in his house by noon tomorrow. Under the circumstances I can do nothing but go in silence.
FORESTER (drawing a deep breath).
You wish—
SOPHY. I wish nothing. You wish and cousin Wilkens wishes. You cruel men decree our fate, and—we must bear it. If you would give in, then, indeed, we might stay. Do you believe I am going with a light heart? As far as I am concerned, I should be willing to stand by you till death. But for the children's sake and—for your sake also.
FORESTER (gloomily).
How for my sake?
SOPHY.
You are dismissed, you have no resources; and another position at your age—after your affair with Stein—you might—
FORESTER (violently).
Accept charity? For my wife and children?
SOPHY.
Don't become angry. I don't say: Yield. I will press nothing upon you. You cannot yield, and I—cannot remain—unless you yield. If we must part [Her voice shakes]—then let us part amicably. Let us forgive each other for what one party does against the interests of the other, or [with gentle reproach]—for what the other party thinks is being done against his interests.
FORESTER.
You intend, then, going to Wilkens?
SOPHY.
I must.
FORESTER.
And the children are to go also?
SOPHY.
It is for their sake that I go.
FORESTER.
Will you not also take Nero along? Out there? The dog? Why should the dog remain longer with his dismissed master? Take the dog along. And when I get my rights, as I am bound to get them—and stand before the world no longer as a scoundrel—then—why, then the dog may come back again. You think he is not going to leave me? Surely the dumb beast is not going to be more stupid than human beings are? Wife and children are prudent, and only such a poor beast is going to be stupid? One ought to kick the beast for such stupidity. An old man, a ruined man, who in his old age would be branded as a scoundrel, if Stein had his will, and such a beast refuses to see reason? After fifty years of faithful service thrown out of my position as a scoundrel, because I refuse to be a scoundrel—and I have sacrificed my own money into the bargain, and the poor beast in its kennel is going to show more gratitude than the rich Stein in his mansion? In that case one should simply blow out the brains of the whole brood of beasts, if they served no other purpose but to make man bow his head in shame before them. [Walks up and down; turns to her with emotion.] We are to be two? After twenty-five years?—Very well! Then from now on may each suffer alone—as long as the heart holds out!
SOPHY.
Ulrich—
[She is obliged to restrain MARY, who wishes to throw herself at the FORESTER's feet].
FORESTER.
From now on we are two. Go away! Go away! Wilkens is rich, and I am a poor man in spite of my right. You're going after the money. I'll not prevent you. But if you say you have acted rightly—then—and now the matter is disposed of. Not one more word about it.
SCENE IV
The same. Enter WILLIAM.
FORESTER (seated on the right of the stage).
Come here, William. Where did you leave Andrew?
WILLIAM.
I waited for him a quarter of an hour at the Boundary Inn.
FORESTER.
Perhaps he thought you were coming later—
SOPHY (aside).
Andrew has not come back with him? I can't get my uncle's words out of my head.
[MARY lights the lamp and puts it on the table by the FORESTER.]
FORESTER.
Did you ask the lawyer how long it would be before the matter is settled? Till I have my rights?
WILLIAM.
He refuses to institute proceedings.
SOPHY (drawing a deep breath; aside).
Then there is still some hope left!
FORESTER (rises; quite perplexed).
He refuses—
WILLIAM.
He says you are not in the right, father.
FORESTER.
Not in the right?
[Is obliged to sit down.]
SOPHY (as before).
If he only would yield.
WILLIAM.
He said state officials could not be deposed, unless it could be proved against them that they deserved it. But you were not a state official; your master was not the state, but he who owned the forest, the owner of the estate.
FORESTER (with suppressed anger).
Then, if I were an official of the state, Stein would not be allowed to do me an injustice. And because I am not, he is allowed to brand me as a scoundrel?—You did not understand him rightly, William!
WILLIAM.
He repeated it to me three times—
FORESTER.
Because you did not represent the matter to him as it is—that already your great-grandfather had been forester of Düsterwalde, and your grandfather after him, and that for forty years, throughout the whole valley, people have called me the Hereditary Forester.
WILLIAM.
That, he said, was an honor to both masters and servants; but before the court nothing could be based on it.
FORESTER.
But he does not know that Stein wants to depose me, because I had his best interests at heart, that the forest is exposed on the north and west. A lawyer does not know that a forest is like a vault, where one stone always holds and supports the others. Thus the vault can withstand any force, but take out only a dozen stones from the centre, and the whole thing comes tumbling about your ears.
WILLIAM.
At such arguments he only shrugged his shoulders.
FORESTER (growing more excited).
And my money that I have put into it? And all the trees that I planted with my own hands? Hey? Which the wind now shall wantonly break?
WILLIAM.
At that he only smiled. He said you might be a very honest man, but in court that would prove nothing.
FORESTER (rises).
If one is an honest man, that proves nothing? Then one must be a rascal, if he is to prove anything in court?—But how about Rupert of Erdmansgrün—hey, William?
WILLIAM.
He happened to have been a state official. After I had left him, I even went to another lawyer. This man laughed right in my face. But to that fellow I spoke my mind like a hunter's son.
FORESTER.
You did well. But what about Andrew? Hey?
WILLIAM.
He said that you had been deposed at the time that Andrew went into the forest. You ought to know yourself that no stranger is allowed to take plants from a forest according to his own inclination, without the knowledge and consent of the forester. That then Godfrey was the lawful forester, and consequently Andrew had no one to blame but himself, if he was treated as a poacher. And that Andrew himself must understand it would be wiser to take his punishment quietly, and not stir up the matter any further; and he might be glad to have come off so easily.
[The FORESTER has seated himself again; pauses; then whistles, and drums on the table.]
SOPHY (watching him with anxiety).
When he becomes so calm—
FORESTER.
So I must remain a scoundrel before the world? Very well!—Why don't you pack your things, you women-folk? William, get me a bottle of wine.
SOPHY.
You are going to drink wine? And you know it is not good for you,
Ulrich? And just now, in your present state of vexation—
FORESTER.
I must get my mind off the subject.
SOPHY.
You always become so excited after wine. If you drink now it may be your death.
FORESTER.
Better to drink oneself to death than live as a scoundrel! And a scoundrel I must remain before the world. William, a bottle and a glass. Have matters come to that pass, that I am no longer master in my own house? Hurry up, there!
[Exit WILLIAM.]
SOPHY.
If only you would change your mind! But you will not do it, and—I must leave you.
FORESTER.
That matter is settled, woman, and my resolution is taken. None of your lamentations! Tomorrow I am going. Since I am not an official of the State and—today I intend to be right jolly.
[WILLIAM brings wine; the FORESTER pours out and drinks repeatedly, every time a full glass. Between glasses he whistles and drums.]
FORESTER.
Put that light away, so that I may not see my shadow.
[WILLIAM puts the lamp on the table near the women, seats himself by them and takes the still opened Bible before him.]
SOPHY (aside and to Mary).
Andrew still stays out, and it has been dark for a long while. And tomorrow I must go. Now I say indeed: I must go; and yet I am not sure that, when the moment comes, I shall have the strength of mind to carry out my intention—after we have lived together for twenty years, sharing joys and sorrows! And to say farewell to the forest with its green leaves which all day long looks into every window! How still it will seem to us, when during the entire day we no longer shall hear the rustling of the trees, the singing of the birds, and the sound of the wood-cutter's ax. And the old cuckoo-clock there—it was ticking when I was a bride, and now you too have been betrothed here! There in that corner you raised yourself on your feet for the first time, Mary, and began to walk, and took three steps; and there where your father is sitting, I sat and wept for joy. Is that what life is? An everlasting bidding farewell? If, after all, I were to remain? And yet when I think of all the things uncle said might happen! If Robert's letter—William, please go into the garden. I must have left the glass by the spring, or in the arbor or somewhere thereabouts.
[Exit WILLIAM.]
SCENE V
The same, without WILLIAM. SOPHY and MARY in front of the stage busied with the lamp. The FORESTER sometimes seated in the rear, sometimes walking up and down past the table to the window.
SOPHY (having waited till WILLIAM is out).
Suppose you find out what Robert has been writing.
MARY.
You mean I should open the letter, mother?
SOPHY.
Perhaps everything can still be arranged, and Robert writes us how. If you will not open it, give me the letter. If I do it, you have nothing to reproach yourself for.
[Opens it.]
If I only could read by lamp-light. If I put on my spectacles, he would notice it. Read it to me, Mary.
MARY.
You want me to read it, mother?
SOPHY.
If I give you permission, you may surely do so. Put it there next to the Bible. And if he comes near, or his attention is attracted, you read from the Bible.
MARY.
But what?
SOPHY.
Whatever your eyes light upon. If I cough, you read from the Bible.
First the letter.
MARY (reads).
"Dear Mary. I have so much to—
SOPHY.
He is getting up again from his chair. Read from the Bible till he is at the window.
MARY.
"Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth: as he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again."
[FORESTER drums on the window.]
SOPHY (constantly watching him).
Now the letter, Mary. Till I cough.
MARY.
"I have so much to tell you. Sometime during the evening or the night come to the Dell by the spring under the willows. There I shall wait for you. Come, Mary. Tomorrow morning I am going out into the world to win happiness for you and for me. If you do not come, I know what you mean, and you will never see me again."
SOPHY.
He intends to go? Out into the world? Forever, if you do not go? Then everything would be lost!
MARY.
"You will never again see your Robert."
SOPHY (coughs, just as the FORESTER is turning away from the window).
From the Bible, Mary.
MARY.
"As he hath caused a blemish in a man, so it shall be done to him again. Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger as for one of your own country: for I am the Lord, your God."
FORESTER (has become attentive; stops).
What is that there about law?
MARY.
"Ye shall have one manner of law—"
FORESTER.
"Ye shall have one manner"—Where is that?
MARY.
Here, father. Up there at the left.
FORESTER.
Put a mark there where that begins, what you have read there about the law. Do you see now that I am right? Even if I have to put up with injustice? That my old heart here is no liar? "Ye shall have one manner of law"—not a special one for officials of the State. At that time the Law was still sound; then it did not live in dusty, moldy offices. It was administered under the gates in the open air, as we read there. If I had my way, the courts ought to have sessions in the forest; in the forest man's heart remains sound; there one knows what is right and what is wrong without Ifs and Buts. With their secret tricks they have put a string of Ifs and Buts to it; in their dusty, moldy offices it has become sick and blunt and withered, so that they can turn and twist it as they like. And now what is right must be put in writing and have a seal to it, otherwise it is not to be recognized as right. Now they have deprived a man's word of all value and degraded it, since one is only bound by what one has sworn to, what one has under seal and in writing. Out of the good old right they have made a turn-coat, so that an old man, whose honor was never sullied by the slightest blemish, must stand as a rascal before men—because they in their offices have two rights instead of one.
[Sits down and drinks.]
SOPHY.
The night is advancing further and further, and Andrew does not come.
And with such talk one becomes doubly frightened. If you went to
Robert—
MARY.
To Robert? What, in the world, are you thinking of, mother?
SOPHY.
That it is God's finger—that letter of Robert's.
MARY.
I am to go to Robert? Now? To the Dell?
SOPHY.
What is to prevent it? You are not afraid.
MARY.
The idea of being afraid!
[Proudly.]
Ulrich's daughter!
SOPHY.
How often have you not been out at a more advanced hour of the night!
MARY.
But then father knew it. If I have father's permission and yours, I know that an angel stands behind every tree. And father said: "If I am mistaken in Mary"—
SOPHY.
I cannot slip away, without his noticing it, as well as you can. The matter might still have taken a favorable turn, but it was not to be. And your dream? You felt so light, the sky became so blue—you see, in the Dell by the spring under the willows, there the sorrow that weighs on you and on us all is to end.
MARY (shaking her head).
Do you really think so, mother?
SOPHY.
If you would go. We might then remain with father, Robert would try once more to persuade his father, uncle Wilkens also would yield, and when you wear the bridal wreath a second time it would be even more becoming to you.
MARY.
I am to deceive my father, mother? In that case I believe no good could ever come to me again in this world.
SOPHY.
You would have the satisfaction of knowing that you went for his sake. Perhaps if, tomorrow, he must go forth into misery, or if they confine him in the tower, or if something still worse happens—
MARY.
To father?
SOPHY.
Yes. Then you will think, perhaps too late: "Had I only gone!"
MARY.
But mother, if I were in the forest, and father should meet me? Or if he should find us together?
SOPHY.
We must ask him, whether he is going to stay home.
MARY.
I cannot look at him without feeling as if my heart were bursting.
SOPHY.
Ask him on account of the soup.
MARY.
I shall ask him at once.
[She approaches the FORESTER timidly, stands next to him without his noticing her.]
SOPHY (encouraging her).
Don't be a child.
MARY (softly).
Father!
[She bends over him, beside herself with pity.]
Father, poor father!
[Is going to embrace him.]
FORESTER (looking about, roughly).
What's the matter? No lamentations!
SOPHY (as MARY stands disconcerted).
Mary—
MARY (controls herself).
Are you again going into the forest tonight?
FORESTER.
Why?
MARY.
Because—
SOPHY (interrupts, for fear MARY might tell the truth).
Because of the soup; she wants to know whether she is to warm it.
FORESTER.
No. And what are you waiting for, you silly wench?
[Turns away. As MARY hesitates, calls out roughly.]
Do you hear?
MARY (goes back to SOPHY).
Mother, he has been crying! I saw a tear hanging on his eye-lash, mother! And I am about to deceive him!
SOPHY.
He is crying because in his old age he has to go forth into misery.—And as to you—why, you are not obliged to go.
MARY.
If you speak in that way, mother!—I am going.
SOPHY.
Then say good-night to him. It is time. Afterward I shall help you climb out of the window. At this moment Robert is already waiting. You can be back soon.
MARY.
Yes, mother, I will go. But not for Robert's sake, mother, nor for mine; only for father's sake. I will tell him: "Robert," I will say to him, "you will yet find a girl, more beautiful and better than myself, but my father will not find another child, if I leave him." I will tell him: "Robert," I will say to him, "I will forget you! God will give me strength that I may be able to forget you. Remain away from me, so that I may not see you again." God will help me, mother, will he not? He will, for I did love Robert so much.
SOPHY.
Now go. Say good-night and don't betray yourself.
[MARY stands by the FORESTER.]
SOPHY.
Mary wants to say good-night to you.
FORESTER.
Can't you say it yourself, silly thing?
MARY (mastering her emotion).
Good-night, father.
FORESTER.
Good-night. You need not wait for me tomorrow when you are going to your uncle. Perhaps I shall have gone out by that time. I have an errand; don't know whether I shall come back tomorrow. And take Nero along—and whatever else is there; take everything along. I no longer need anything—but my tools, my short rifle and—powder and bullets. The other rifles you may sell. Go to Wilkens, you poor thing, he perhaps will get Robert for you yet—after I have gone; after people have once forgotten that your father was a dismissed man.
MARY.
Good-night.
[Beside herself.]
Good-night, father!
FORESTER.
Wench, that is a good-night as if forever.—You are right, Mary. Such a stain as I am upon your good reputation must be removed. Go, Mary. Do you hear, Mary?
MARY.
You shall remain, father. And if you go, I go with you.
FORESTER.
The way I have to go one goes alone. Go, Mary.
SOPHY.
Go to bed, Mary.
FORESTER.
Good-night. And now it's enough. You know I cannot bear lamentations.
MARY.
You are not going without me, father. You cannot live without me, father. Father, I now feel that in my heart.
FORESTER (protesting).
Yes, I can. What doesn't such a greenhorn feel!
MARY.
You turn away, father, so that I should not see you crying. Father, pretend you are ferocious, as much as you like—
FORESTER (wants to disengage himself).
Silly thing there—
MARY.
I am going with you. You insist upon your right, and I upon mine, and that is, that I must not leave you. Father, I feel now for the first time that I love no one in the world as much as you. Tomorrow we go together—if you must go. I am going to put on William's clothes. There are still green forests in the world. And surely you shall not hear me complaining. Don't be afraid of that. Why, I can cry during the nights, when you don't see it. But then you will see it by my eyes in the daytime. Why, I must not cry at all! I will only laugh and skip along before you and sing—the beautiful hunting songs.—You see, father, this is the last tear for Robert! And it is already dried, do you see? I am sure that we shall still find happiness in this world—if you must go, father. And if it is not to be, we will thank God and pray, if He only keeps us honest. Then we will think: It is asking too much, if we also wish to be happy. Have I not you? Have not you your good conscience and your Mary? What more do we need?
[Hanging on his neck.]
FORESTER (who has been warding her off constantly, almost furious, because he can scarcely control his emotion).
Indeed, indeed! Stupid thing!
[More calmly.]
And a "table—spread—thyself," a "gold—mule—stretch-thyself," and the fairy-story is complete. Now go to bed, Mary.
[Roughly.]
Do you hear?
SOPHY.
Come, Mary.
MARY (at the door of her room she looks around, and runs again to him; embracing him, beside herself).
Good-night, good-night!
[She hurries to her room; SOPHY follows.]
FORESTER (looking after her).
My girl, my poor girl! It must not be here that I make an end of myself!—Confound it. Shame on you, old—
SCENE VI
WEILER; The FORESTER.
WEILER (greets him with a silent nod; he is very much excited; hangs the rifle on the rack and busies himself with the hunting utensils).
Well!
FORESTER (notices him).
Is it you?
[Lapses again into his thoughts.]
WEILER.
It's me.
FORESTER.
Where are you coming from at this time?
WEILER.
From the forest. At the fence I had a talk with your William. So, after all, you are dismissed.
FORESTER.
Because there are two kinds of right.
WEILER.
And didn't you know that before?
FORESTER.
You have your pay for three months in advance.
WEILER.
And may go. I know that too. Where is your William? Why, to be sure! I just met him. And your Andrew?
FORESTER (half absent-mindedly).
Not at home.
WEILER.
But I suppose you know where your Andrew is?
FORESTER (impatiently).
What else do you want? Leave me alone!
WEILER.
All right. It's none of my business.
FORESTER.
Therefore I think you'd better go.
WEILER.
But to come back to Andrew. You don't know where he is?
FORESTER.
Always harping on Andrew? If you have something to say, don't be like a thunderstorm that keeps threatening for hours.
WEILER (points toward the window).
Some one is coming up across the Lautenberg. The plovers were screeching as if in fear. I expected it. It was too sultry. Ulrich [approaches him] an hour ago some one was shot.
FORESTER.
You know who?
WEILER.
You don't know it? If your Andrew were home—
FORESTER.
Always Andrew! You know something about him!
WEILER.
Well. The rifle—tell me, did Andrew have the one with the yellow strap?
FORESTER.
Why?
WEILER (as if lost in meditation).
Surely I know your rifle—
FORESTER.
Do you want to drive me mad?
WEILER.
You haven't it in the house?
FORESTER.
I won't answer you any more. I'm ugly enough as it is. I have been drinking wine.
WEILER.
Take good care that you are not mistaken.
FORESTER.
Take good care that I don't take you by the collar.
WEILER.
It's no joke—
FORESTER.
You shall see that it is not.
WEILER.
I know nothing but what I have heard and seen. And now sit down. I don't feel like standing long. It seems to me that I must look like my clay-pipe there.
[The FORESTER sitting down at the table to the right; WEILER has drawn a chair close to him, and talks hurriedly in an uncanny, subdued voice.]
A little while ago, as I was quitting work and going away from my wood-cutters, I heard a shot from the direction of the Dell. I thought perhaps it was you, and went in that direction. But it must have been Robert Stein. He was walking up and down there by the first bridge like a sentinel. I thought to myself: What can he be waiting for? Not for game; for in that case one doesn't run up and down; I thought: You must get to the bottom of this. You get behind the high oak. There you can see everything and can't be seen. But I was hardly there, when I heard a commotion behind me. And what was it I heard? Your Andrew and Robert in a most violent dispute. I could not understand anything clearly, but one could hear that they were after each other for life and death. I was just about to creep closer, when they already came rushing along. The one on the further side of the brook on the rocky path, the other on this side. The one on this side was Robert with his gun against his cheek. Two steps from me he stopped—"Stand or I shoot." On the rocky path no two persons can pass each other. There it is—"Man, fight for your life." And now, pif! paf!—two shots in succession. The bullet from the one on the rock whistled between me and Robert into the bushes. But Robert's bullet—Ulrich, I have heard many a shot, but never such a one. One could hear by the sound of the lead, it scented human life. I do not know what sensation I felt when he on the other side collapsed like a wounded stag—
FORESTER.
Andrew?
WEILER.
Who else could it have been? Hey? Perhaps he's home? Perhaps you know where else he is? And the person that was shot had the rifle with the yellow strap. He held it tight. The strap really glistened in the twilight like a signal of distress. It was a weird sound, as the iron parts of the gun in falling struck the rocks and the corpse tumbled after it, breaking the bushes—till there was a splash in the brook below, as if it started in terror. And when, after this, there succeeded such a strange stillness, as if it had to bethink itself of what had really happened, I had a sensation as though some one were pursuing me. I should have been back half an hour ago, if I had not lost my way—I, who know every tree thereabouts. Now you may imagine how I felt! Not until I had reached the second bridge there toward Haslau, did I have courage to stop a moment to take breath—there where the brook is roaring among the rocks. Accidentally I looked down. There the brook was playing with a colored rag. Do you know it, perhaps?
[Takes out ANDREW'S muffler, and holds it before the FORESTER'S eyes; the latter snatches it from his hand.]
FORESTER.
All sorts of shapes before my eyes—the wine—
[Holds it sometimes far, sometimes near, without being able to see it.]
WEILER (short pause).
You are so quiet. Is something wrong with you?
[FORESTER draws a single loud breath, and still keeps holding the muffler mechanically before him, without seeing it.]
WEILER.
Your face is quite distorted. I am going to call your wife.
FORESTER (makes a movement, as if he were pushing a load from him with utmost exertion).
Never mind! A slight dizziness. Have not been bled recently; the wine into the bargain—it's already passing away—say nothing to any one about this.
[Rises with difficulty.]
WEILER.
So they have had a regular stand-up fight, Andrew and Robert! But what do you intend to do now? As a dismissed man? If that fellow says: "I challenged the poacher, he did not throw down his gun?" You know better than any one that a hunter may then shoot. He is not even obliged to challenge; if he only hits the mark, he is also in the right. And whoever, like your Andrew, has fallen the height of two stories from the rock into the water, his tongue will cease wagging even without powder and lead. You know the law, as it is nowadays. And they will lock you up into the bargain because of insubordination. I am sorry for you. I should not like to be you. Hey?
FORESTER.
The thunderstorm has already passed the Lautenberg, do you hear? If you delay any longer you will be caught in the rain.
WEILER.
There was lightning some time ago. As I came along the hill with the larch-firs, the whole country was lighted up. Then I saw Robert still walking up and down by the willows below.
[FORESTER goes to the door so that WEILER may see he is waiting for his departure.]
WEILER.
Are you going once more to the lawyer? That might do some good if you were an official of the state. But what are you going to do when you are not?
FORESTER.
Nothing.
WEILER.
Whoever believes it—
FORESTER.
Fool that you are! I'm going to bed.
WEILER.
It isn't late enough for that.
FORESTER.
I am going to lock the door and the shutters.
WEILER (as he has no alternative, hesitating).
Now then, sleep well, Ulrich—if you can.
[Exit, the FORESTER after him.]
SCENE VII
Enter SOPHY; then the FORESTER and WILLIAM.
SOPHY (coming out of MARY'S room).
Now she may be where the willows begin.
[At the window.]
He is closing the shutters. I must close Mary's for appearance's sake, so that she can climb in when she returns. And Andrew not yet back! All at once a feeling comes over me, as if I should not have allowed Mary to go.
Enter the FORESTER with WILLIAM. SOPHY goes again into MARY'S room.
WILLIAM (while entering).
Father, Lora Kramer came to the fence, and said that Stein was beside himself—that shots had been heard in the forest—that Robert was missing, and that Stein had sent Möller into town; he was to get the soldiers; they were to arrest the whole band of murderers from the hunter's house, he said. She also said that Möller had passed Kramer's house at full gallop. They might be expected to arrive before one o'clock.
FORESTER (while SOPHY steps out of MARY'S room).
What have you still to do outside?
[Looks about him.]
WILLIAM.
In the garden, father. Mother, there was nothing in the arbor.
SOPHY (remains at the door).
Then somebody must have brought it in.
[To the FORESTER.]
Are you looking for anything?
FORESTER.
I? No. Yes, the rifle with the yellow strap. Where can that be? Perhaps in Mary's—
SOPHY (involuntarily covering the door, quickly).
There is no rifle in Mary's room.
WILLIAM.
To be sure, Andrew took it along when he went to accompany me.
FORESTER. True. [Shows the muffler.]
There, I have somebody's muffler in my pocket! Is it yours, William?
SOPHY.
The red and yellow muffler? That belongs to Andrew.
FORESTER.
He left it around yesterday, and absentmindedly I must have put it in my pocket.
SOPHY.
Yesterday? Only today, before you went, I gave it to him.
FORESTER.
You gave it to—all right!
SOPHY (comes nearer).
Yes, yes. That is Andrew's muffler.
[She examines it.]
Here is his monogram.
FORESTER (wishes to take it from her).
Give it to me.
SOPHY.
It is wet!—And what blood is that upon the muffler?
FORESTER.
Blood?
[Suppresses his emotion.]
It's from my hand. I cut it on the lock of the gun. Never mind!
SOPHY (busies herself on the other side of the stage).
FORESTER.
William, come here. Read to me. There in the Bible, begin where the book-mark is.
WILLIAM.
In the middle of the chapter?
FORESTER.
Beginning at the mark there. Go on!
[Gets his hat.]
WILLIAM (reads).
"And he that blasphemeth the name of the Lord, he shall—"
FORESTER.
That isn't it.
[Hangs the gun over his shoulder.]
WILLIAM.
"And he that killeth any man"—is that it?
FORESTER (profoundly moved, comes a step nearer).
No—but go on reading.
[He stands next to WILLIAM. During the following he involuntarily takes off his hat, and folds his hands.]
WILLIAM.
"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death. And he that killeth a beast shall make it good; beast for beast. And if a man cause a blemish on his neighbor; as he hath done, so shall it be done to him; breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth; as he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again. And he that killeth a beast, he shall restore it: and he that killeth a man, he shall be put to death."
FORESTER.
He shall be put to death.
WILLIAM.
"Ye shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger, as for one of your own country: for I am the Lord your God."
FORESTER.
Amen.
[Puts on his hat and is about to go; turns back.]
When did she say they might be there, William?
[Illustration: SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD JACOB AND RACHEL AT THE WELL]
WILLIAM.
The soldiers?
FORESTER.
Before—
WILLIAM.
Before one o'clock.
FORESTER.
There's time enough.
WILLIAM.
For what, father?
FORESTER.
For—getting a sound sleep.
WILLIAM.
Father, how strangely you look at me?
FORESTER.
Go to bed, William.
[As SOPHY enters.]
Shake hands with your mother.
SOPHY (surprised).
Are you going out now, Christian?
FORESTER.
Yes.
SOPHY.
Did Weiler pick up the trail of the stag again?
FORESTER.
Yes. Maybe.
SOPHY.
How you look! One might be afraid of you, if one did not know how it is with you when you have taken wine.
FORESTER.
For that reason I want to go out into the open air.
SOPHY.
At such times you see everything different from what it is. You may fall into the abyss.
FORESTER.
Then you cut the leaf there from the Bible and put it into my coffin.
SOPHY.
How you talk!
FORESTER.
GO to bed, William.
[Exit WILLIAM.]
Pray—or do not pray—
SOPHY.
What is the matter with you, Christian? Why am I so anxious? Stay, for
God's sake, stay! Your business surely can wait.
FORESTER.
No. It must be done even today. [Going.]
SOPHY (about to follow him).
Ulrich—
FORESTER (turning around at the door, softly to himself).
"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth."
[Exit.]
SOPHY (recoiling from the glare of the sheet-lightning which is seen through the open door).
God have mercy on us!
[At the door.]
Ulrich!
[In far-away voice, outside.]
Ulrich!
ACT V
The FORESTER'S House. Night. For a short time the stage remains empty.
SCENE I
SOPHY (alone, comes in with a lamp, looks into MARY'S room, puts the lamp upon the table, goes to the window, opens the shutter through which the reflection of the sheet-lightning is visible, looks out; then she closes shutter and window, takes the lamp again, and looks once more into MARY'S room. At intervals she listens and betrays great anxiety.)
Not yet! What if he's encountered her! What if he's met them together! She ought to be back by this time. Oh, why did I let her go? And Andrew does not come, either! And then this sultry, stormy night!
[Listens.]
Surely, that was she? At last! God be praised!
[Looks into the room.]
No. It is not she. The wind blew open the half-closed shutter.
SCENE II
WILLIAM, in his shirt-sleeves; SOPHY.
WILLIAM.
Are the soldiers there, mother?
[At the door of MARY'S room.]
Mother, where is father?
[SOPHY is startled, and quickly closes the door.]
WILLIAM.
And Mary? She is not in her room?
SOPHY.
What ideas you get into your head!
WILLIAM.
Her bed is still as if it had just been made.
SOPHY (listens, frightened).
Is that your father? William, say nothing about this before your father!
WILLIAM.
I'm the fellow to play the informer! But you must tell me where Mary is.
SOPHY.
Gone to the Dell to ask Robert—
WILLIAM.
Mother, we beg at nobody's door. I am going to fetch her.
SOPHY.
In this storm?
WILLIAM (puts on his jacket).
He would be a fine hunter's boy who is afraid of a little bit of lightning. Only tell me which way Mary went. The one below along the brook? All right. She is not like the others, but she is only a girl. And they are afraid.
[Exit.]
SCENE III
SOPHY (alone; after him).
William! William! [Comes back.]
He is gone! And the storm is getting worse. A fog below, and the thunderstorm above coming nearer. And another one is coming on from the Brandsberg. And Ulrich outside, and none of the children at home. And I all alone in this solitary hunter's house in the midst of the forest, and at such an hour of the night!
[A door is heard slamming; she starts up.]
Merciful God! It is he! If he should look into the room and should not see Mary! Or—
SCENE IV
Enter the FORESTER in haste; pale and distracted; SOPHY.
SOPHY (going to meet him).
Back already?—[Correcting herself] at last?
FORESTER (looking shyly about).
Did anybody ask for me?
SOPHY.
No. Are they pursuing you?
FORESTER.
Who?
SOPHY.
Godfrey—
FORESTER.
Why?
SOPHY.
Because you come in as if you were being hunted.
FORESTER.
I meant the soldiers.—Why do I see Mary everywhere! In the Dell—
SOPHY (is frightened).
In the Dell!
[Aside.]
Good Heavens!
FORESTER.
And all the way back I heard her walking behind me.
SOPHY.
On your way back—
FORESTER.
Whenever I walked, I heard her behind me; whenever I stood still, she also stood still, but I did not look around.
SOPHY (relieved).
You did not look around?
FORESTER.
Why, I knew it was nothing. I have a feeling as though even now she were still standing behind me.
SOPHY (wishes to divert him from the subject).
Did you shoot anything? Is it outside?
FORESTER (shuddering involuntarily).
Outside?
SOPHY.
Before the door. What a strange look you give me! What is that on your clothes?
FORESTER (turns away involuntarily).
What is it?
SOPHY.
A spot—
FORESTER.
What you see—
SOPHY.
Why will you not let me see it?
FORESTER.
It is nothing.
[Turns to the table at the right, takes down his gun.]
Is the soup warm? My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
SOPHY (takes a plate and spoon from the closet, goes to the stove where she pours out the soup).
If he should look into the room! What I ask, I ask only in anxiety to have him forget about Mary.
[She puts the soup before the FORESTER on the table to the right; listens.]
Isn't there a noise in the room?
[Walks about the FORESTER'S chair, so as to distract him.]
Ulrich, don't you think that Robert could still restore the old friendly relations?
[FORESTER makes a movement.]
SOPHY.
Why do you start so?
FORESTER.
Don't wake up Mary! Wasn't there some one at the window?
SOPHY.
That is the old rose-bush outside, which is always nodding so anxiously and knocking at the window, as if it had to prevent a catastrophe, and nobody paid any attention to it.
[Pause; aside.]
It is so still. I must keep on talking, otherwise he can hear me breathing, and will notice my anxiety—and also that he may not hear Mary when she climbs in at the window.
[Listening repeatedly.]
The whole evening I have been thinking about it. Only yesterday Robert said to me—
FORESTER.
Always Robert—
SOPHY (has seated herself by his side).
We were walking along the willows, where the pine-thicket is, under the rock, in the Dell—
FORESTER (violently).
Don't mention that—
SOPHY.
How you start! It was at sunset; and as I looked around, something was coming out from under the pines—so red. I—frightened—For God's sake, I say, why, that is blood!
[FORESTER throws down his spoon and rises.]
SOPHY.
Then the evening glow was reflected in the water.—But what is the matter with you?
FORESTER.
Always with your Dell. What do you care about the Dell?
SOPHY.
Did something happen to you there? People say the place is haunted.
Robert said so to me yesterday. They say that there is an accursed spot!
There some one committed a murd—
FORESTER (seizes his gun).
What do you know?
SOPHY (recoiling in terror).
Ulrich!—
FORESTER.
Will you keep quiet?
SOPHY (stops before him, shuddering, filled with a presentiment).
Ulrich! What have you done?
FORESTER (has recovered his self-possession).
Stuff and nonsense! Is this a night for such stories?
[Lost in thought.]
SOPHY.
Go ahead. Whether an hour sooner, or an hour later. You have me on your conscience.
[Sinks down upon a chair to the left.]
FORESTER (pause; then he walks slowly up and down, and gradually comes near her, hesitating).
I must tell you something, Sophy—if you do not already know it; it will not let me rest. I am in the right; but—and then I cannot tell—is it true or is it only an oppressive dream?—a dream in which one cannot do what one wishes—and exhausts oneself—because one must always do what one does not wish. Come here! Do you hear? Place your hand on the Bible.
SOPHY.
Great God! What can be the meaning of this!
FORESTER.
It would be horrible if I had been obliged to kill her, and after all everything were only—and then I should have in vain—Sophy!
[Quite close to her; softly.]
There is a report that a corpse is lying in the Dell!
SOPHY.
You are drunk or mad!
FORESTER.
I am in my right mind. Look at me, woman! Do you believe in a God in Heaven? Very well, Very well! Then place your hand upon the Bible, right here. There my right is written. Now say after me: "As truly as I hope to be saved—"
SOPHY (faintly).
As truly as I hope to be saved—
FORESTER.
"So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear."
SOPHY.
So truly shall it remain a secret what I am now about to hear.
[Is obliged to sit down.]
FORESTER.
And now give heed.—It is short—no But and no If about it—it is clear as the right—and right must remain right—else we need no God in Heaven! [After he has made several attempts to begin, in a dejected and low voice, while he leads her to the footlights.] Do not be frightened. Robert shot our Andrew, and I—I have executed judgment upon him.
SOPHY.
Oh, God! [She can scarcely keep herself on her feet; wants to go to the chair. He supports her.]
FORESTER.
I have judged him. As it is written there—"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth." I have judged him, because the courts no longer judge right. They have two kinds of law, and here it is written: "Ye shall have one manner of law." I have not murdered him, I have executed judgment upon him. [He walks up and down, then loses himself in thought at the place where he believes SOPHY still to be, who totters to the chair.] But I do not know whether it did happen—what has happened. My brain is so wild and confused—[Recollects with difficulty] but I suppose it really did happen—what has happened—and as it was about to happen—what has happened—I saw Mary before my eyes, as if she put herself in front of him and made a sign to me to stop, and cried: "It is"—well, you know who! It was a delusion; it was only in my imagination. After I have had wine, I always am in a state that I see things which do not exist. And if it should have been she—the bullet then was no longer under any control.
SOPHY.
Almighty God!
[She drags herself with difficulty into MARY'S room.]
FORESTER (does not notice it and, staring before him, continues as if she were still standing beside him).
It was not she. How could Mary have come there? It is nothing but the effect of the wine, that today I see her everywhere. But nevertheless I was frightened until I saw it had only been the smoke from the gun. Everything was turning around before my eyes. But when the smoke had cleared away—that was only a moment—then I saw him—still standing as before, but only for a moment—then he collapsed—then had happened what did happen. Then I folded my hands over my gun, and said: "You have been judged according to your desert." And I prayed: "God have mercy on his poor soul." Then a swarm of owls flew up and screeched. That sounded as though they said Amen. Then I stood again erect on my feet. For God and Earth and Heaven and every creature demand justice.
[He loses himself in a brown study.]
SCENE V
The FORESTER, lost in thought, alone. Then STEIN and the PASTOR, at first only heard behind the scenes.
STEIN (still outside).
Ulrich!
FORESTER (awaking, mechanically).
Stein!
STEIN (as above).
Do you hear?
FORESTER (the connection of the events suddenly flashes upon him).
It did happen!
[Makes a movement as if to seize his gun; but controls himself.]
No! Not an iota more than my right!
STEIN (entering, the PASTOR behind him).
Where is your Andrew, Ulrich?
FORESTER.
What do you want with my Andrew?
STEIN.
To demand my Robert from him.
FORESTER.
Your Robert?—From my Andrew?—Look here!
[Shows the muffler.]
PASTOR.
For Heaven's sake!—There is blood on the muffler!
STEIN.
What is that?
FORESTER.
That is my Andrew's blood, and your Robert spilled it. And you sent your Möller for the soldiers! And you made me a scoundrel before the world—with your two kinds of right—so that you may twist it as you like! But here—[striking his breast] there still is a right! That neither you nor your lawyers can twist.
SCENE VI
ANDREW, still without. STEIN, FORESTER, PASTOR.
ANDREW (outside, in a low voice).
Father—
PASTOR.
Who calls?
STEIN.
Is not that Andrew's voice?
FORESTER (continuing).
Here it is written: "Ye shall have one manner of law." And the law has judged you. "And he that killeth any man he—"
ANDREW.
Father!
FORESTER (trembling, staring at the door, with smothered voice, mechanically).
"He—he—shall—surely—be—put to death"—
Enter ANDREW.
STEIN (going toward him).
God be thanked! Andrew, you live!
FORESTER (makes a great effort).
It is not true. He is dead. He must be dead.
ANDREW.
Father!
FORESTER (stretching out his hand, as if warding him off).
Who are you?
ANDREW (more and more alarmed).
Do you not know your Andrew any more?
FORESTER.
My Andrew is dead. If you lie slain in the Dell—then you shall be my Andrew—then everything is well—then we will rejoice—then we will sing: Lord God, we praise Thee!
PASTOR.
He is demented!
STEIN.
Andrew, my Robert—
ANDREW.
You have my muffler which Lindenschmied stole from me before he killed
Godfrey?
STEIN.
Lindenschmied killed Godfrey? And my Robert—
ANDREW.
Robert was pursuing him. He compelled Robert to shoot him.
FORESTER.
He? He had your gun?
ANDREW.
Stolen it with my muffler.
FORESTER.
And Robert did—
ANDREW.
Lindenschmied was not mortally wounded. I had his wound dressed in the mill, and had him removed before the magistrate—
FORESTER (gradually collapsing).
I am in the wrong!
[Sinks down upon a chair.]
ANDREW.
That is the reason why I am so late.
FORESTER (rises; goes to STEIN with his gun in his hand).
Stein, do to me according to my desert.
STEIN.
What do you mean?
FORESTER.
"Eye for eye, tooth for tooth"—
STEIN (looking at the PASTOR).
What does he mean by that again?
FORESTER.
Weiler thought that Lindenschmied with the gun was my Andrew. Your
Robert wounded Lindenschmied, and I—killed your Robert for this!
PASTOR.
Almighty God!
ANDREW (at the same time).
Robert!
FORESTER (almost simultaneously).
Shoot me!
STEIN (has seized the gun).
You murderer!
[The PASTOR arrests his arm.]
ANDREW.
You shot Robert, father? Robert lives!
STEIN.
He lives?
PASTOR.
He lives?
FORESTER.
He lives?
ANDREW.
He lives, as surely as I live!
FORESTER.
It was only a dream? Can it be that I am not a murderer? That I am an honorable man?
PASTOR.
That you are, Ulrich. Drive away that unfortunate delusion.
STEIN.
Man alive, to what might you have provoked me!
[Puts away the gun.]
FORESTER.
You saw him? When did you see him, Andrew? Now, Andrew? Just now, Andrew?
ANDREW.
Just now, as I was coming home, I met two men from the mill with a stretcher. Robert had just called them out of their beds; they were going to the Dell; Robert had gone ahead of them.
FORESTER.
To the Dell?
PASTOR.
With a stretcher?
STEIN.
What can be behind all this?
FORESTER (has gone to the door of MARY'S room; releases the latch).
Thanks be to God!
[Listening.]
I hear her breathing. Oh, she sleeps a peaceful sleep. I am oppressed with a world of cares, and she takes them from my heart with her breath. Do you hear, Pastor, do you hear?
STEIN.
The unfortunate man! His delusion is returning.
PASTOR (after an anxious pause, during which the FORESTER has not taken his eyes from the PASTOR'S face).
I hear nothing. That is your own heavy breathing that you hear.
FORESTER (begins to collapse again).
My own heavy breathing that I hear—
[Summons up courage, opens the door.]
My eyes deceive me? Where she is not, there I see her; and where she is, there I do not see her. Pastor, for God's sake, tell me: "There lives Mary."
[He has convulsively clutched the PASTOR'S arm.]
PASTOR.
I do not see her. The bed there is untouched, the windows open—your wife—
FORESTER (rushes into the room).
Woman! Woman! Poor, poor woman!
SCENE VII
SOPHY, like a ghost; can hardly stand or speak; dragged in forcibly by the FORESTER.
FORESTER.
Where is my child?
ANDREW.
Mother, what ails you?
[He supports her on one side, the PASTOR on the other.]
SOPHY.
Andrew! At least one!
FORESTER (shakes her).
My child! My child! Where is my child?
SOPHY (with repulsion, but faintly).
Leave me, you—
FORESTER.
My Mary!
SOPHY.
To the Dell—you—
FORESTER.
Creature, you lie!
SOPHY.
To Robert—
FORESTER.
Yes, she met me—in the fog—as I was coming—
SOPHY.
That was William.
FORESTER.
It was Mary, woman; Mary!
PASTOR.
She cannot answer any more. She has fainted.
STEIN.
Take her away from the madman!
FORESTER.
You mean to say that I—my own child—
ANDREW.
Mother! Mother!
[He and the PASTOR are busy about her, at the table to the right.]
STEIN (who in the meantime is trying to keep the FORESTER away from her).
Hands off, you madman!
FORESTER.
Madman? God grant that I am!
[A knock is heard; he steps back in horror and stretches out his hands toward the door, as if warding off something.]
Nonsense! What do you want, the whole lot of you? Why, that is Mary. She is standing outside, and does not dare to come in, because she ran out in the night. She hasn't the courage. I am severe—oh, I am severe! Silly wench!
[Stands up straight.]
Come what may!
[He rushes toward the door; before he reaches it, another knock is heard; he steps back again horrified and powerless.]
The raging fever has seized me—nothing else. These are the symptoms—chattering of the teeth and chills along the spine. Elderberry-tea—a night or two of perspiration! What has the knocking to do with my fever? Why does not some one open, some one call her in? Why are you all so pale and tongueless? Has some one told a fairy-tale, and are you afraid? My Mary was a living fairy-tale—she is-she is, I mean to say. That Mary could be dead—but she would not give me such pain! She knows that I cannot live without my Mary. Do you hear her giggling outside? Now she will come skipping in and hold her hands over my eyes, as she is accustomed to do, and I must not spoil her fun. Oh, it is—[Attempts to laugh, but sobs.]—a—[Beside himself.]—After all, it has to be! Come in!
[Attempts to go to the door, but with eyes closed sinks into a chair on the left.]
SCENE VIII
ROBERT, WILLIAM, then two men with a covered stretcher, which they put down. The men go away.
STEIN.
Robert!
[Going toward him.]
Do you see, Ulrich? He lives!
ROBERT (embracing him, pale and distracted).
Father! Father!
STEIN.
What has happened to you?
ROBERT.
Would that the murderer had killed me! Father Ulrich, be a man!
FORESTER (making a supreme effort to collect his energies).
Go on! I will see whether I am a man.
[ROBERT removes the covering.]
STEIN.
Great God!
SOPHY (who, supported by ANDREW and the PASTOR, has fallen upon her knees by the stretcher).
Mary!
ANDREW.
Oh, God! It is Mary!
STEIN.
How did this happen? Explain it, Robert.
PASTOR.
It is dreadfully clear to me.
ROBERT (with difficulty maintaining his self-possession).
She was praying: "God, let me belong only to my father." I was about to say to her: "Mary, you are going to give me up?" Then she rushed upon me, as if she wished to protect me with her own body, made a sign and called in the direction of the forest. I saw no one; I did not understand her; I was about to ask: "What is the matter, Mary?" when—the report of a gun—she sank down in my arms; I threw myself over her; a bullet had penetrated her heart.
SOPHY.
That was her dream.
STEIN (holds ROBERT in his embrace, almost simultaneously).
She died for you!
FORESTER.
She saw me aim at him, and ran purposely into the course of my bullet. I wanted to judge and—have judged myself. Crime and punishment at the same moment! I was praying: "God have mercy on his poor soul!" I prayed for myself, and the owls screeched Amen, and meant me!
ROBERT (recoils, horrified).
Almighty God—he himself!—
STEIN.
You did not do it consciously. A fearful madness urged you against your will.
PASTOR.
Do not be so obstinate, man; God does not measure the deed according to a superficial standard. Innocence and crime are at the extreme poles of human nature. But often it is merely a quicker pulse that separates the innocent from the criminal.
FORESTER.
Give me words of life instead of your cobwebs of the brain—no If and no But. Tell me something, so that I must believe it! Your words do not convince me. Why do you offer consolation to my head? Offer consolation to my heart, if you can. Can you with your consolation restore my child to life, so that she will rush into my arms? In that case keep on consoling me. Every word that fails to restore my child to life slays her once more.
STEIN.
Flee to America; I will procure passports for you; all my money is yours. Your wife and your children are mine!
FORESTER.
Do you hear, Andrew, what that man there is saying? He wants to give you money. Buy a hand-organ with it. Go about to the fairs, and sing of the old murderer who shot his child—for no reason, for no reason at all in the world. You need no picture. Take the old woman there along with you. No painter can paint the story as it stands written upon her face. Praise the child. Represent her more beautiful than she was—if you can—as you imagine the most beautiful angel, and then say: "And yet she was a thousand times more beautiful!" And represent the old murderer so that people will shed a waterfall of tears for the child, and that every street-urchin will shake his fist at the old fellow. And he who hears this story and does not give you with chattering teeth his last penny, though he had ten starving children at home, and does not pray to God for the child and curse the old murderer that shot her, must have a heart like the old murderer's who committed the deed. Do not say: "The man was honest throughout his life and avoided evil and believed in a God, and did not permit the least taint upon his honor." If you do, they will not believe you. Say: He looked like a wolf; do not say: His beard was white when he committed the crime. If you do, no one will give you anything; none will believe that one can be so old and yet such an abandoned villain. And on the lower part of your organ have a picture painted—how the old murderer blows out his brains and walks as a ghost during the night—and on the spot where the crime was perpetrated he sits moaning at midnight with his fiery eyes and white beard—and there no breeze wafts coolness, and there no dew falls and no rain—there grow poisonous weeds—the spot is accursed like himself—and the animal that accidentally strays there bellows with fear—and man is shaken as with the ague. And have an angel painted from whose mouth proceeds a scroll on which is written: "There sits he whom God has marked. Abel was a man, and Cain was only his brother; but this was a child, and he that slew her was her father. For Cain, there is still a hope of salvation, but for the old murderer of his child, none—none—none!" Oh! Some comfort! Some comfort! Only a shadow of comfort! For this I would give my salvation, if I had any hope of salvation. I will ask God whether there is any comfort for me!
[He takes the Bible and reads, at first trembling in every limb, with panting breath.]
"And he that killeth any—"
PASTOR.
No further, Ulrich. Let me show you words of life, words of humanity: "'As I live,' saith the Lord God, 'I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live.'"
FORESTER (who keeps a firm hold of the Bible, and breaks away from the
PASTOR, almost simultaneously).
Leave me alone, you inhuman creatures, with your humanity!
[He continues reading. With every word his manner becomes more calm and certain, the sound of his voice stronger.]
"And he that killeth any man shall surely be put to death."
[Lays down the Bible.]
STEIN.
Does he find solace in these words?
PASTOR.
Let him have such comfort as consoles him.
FORESTER (takes up the Bible again; his manner assumes an expression of joyousness).
That is certainty, that is promise, that convinces me—no But and no If.
"And he that killeth a man shall surely be put to death." That means:
Then it is expiated, then it is wiped out, and he is pure once more.
[Puts on his hat and buttons his coat.]
I am going before the magistrate.
[About to go.]
STEIN.
And you think they are going to put you to death?
[FORESTER stops and turns around.]
PASTOR.
People more guilty than you have been pardoned.
FORESTER.
Pardoned to be imprisoned—hey? Like Leutner? He—Indeed, they don't judge right in those courts, not as it is written here. I know very well—but—never mind!—All right!—
[Takes his gun.]
STEIN.
What do you intend to do?
FORESTER.
Nothing, I must take along the rifle with which the deed was done. O, they are particular about that! Farewell, Andrew, William. Take good care of your mother.
[Shakes hands with everybody.]
Stein, Pastor, Robert, Sophy—she has fainted. God will soon let her come after me. Bury my child. Have the bells ring; lay her bridal wreath upon her coffin. O, I am an old woman! When we meet again I shall be a murderer no longer.
[Makes with his hand a sign of farewell.]
STEIN.
You want—
FORESTER (turns around at the door).
My sight—and then—[Points upward to heaven.]—to meet my child.
[Exit. Short pause, during which the others look after him with surprise and emotion.]
STEIN (seized with a sudden apprehension).
If the other barrel is still loaded—quick—after him—
[Outside the door a shot is heard.]
Too late! I suspected it!
ANDREW, WILLIAM (rushing out).
Father!
ROBERT (in the open door, rooted to the spot through horror and pain at what he sees).
He has his right!
STEIN (also at the door).
A second time his own judge!
PASTOR (stepping to the others).
May God do unto him according to his faith.
[Exeunt.]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 7: Translation of the King James version.]