LITTLE MOPSËMAN.
(The very newest Dramatic Allegory from Norway.)
PERSONS.
Alfred Früyseck (Man of Letters).
Mrs. Spreta Früyseck (his wife).
Little Mopsëman (their Püdeldachs, six years and nine months old).
Mopsa Brovik (a little less than kin to Alfred).
Sanitary Engineer Blochdrähn.
The Varmint-Blōk.
Translator's Note.—The word "blōk," like the analogous Norwegian "gëyser," implies merely an individual—not necessarily a shady one. Cf. Elen and Chevalier, passim.
THE FIRST ACT.
A richly-upholstered garden-room, full of art-pots and other furniture. Mrs. Spreta Früyseck stands beside the table, unpacking the traditional bag. Shortly after, Miss Mopsa Brovik enters by the door; she carries a pink parasol and a rather portly portfolio with a patent lock.
Mopsa (as she enters). Good morning, my dear Spreta! (Sees the bag.) Why, you are unpacking a travelling-bag on the drawing-room table! Then Alfred has actually come home?
[Takes off her things.]
Spreta (turns and nods with a teasing smile). As if you didn't know! When you have never been down in these parts all the time he has been away! (Unpacking a flannel vest and a respirator.) Yes. He turned up last night, quite unexpectedly.
Mopsa. Then it was that that drew me out here! I felt I must. My poor dear mother, Kaia,—she that was a Miss Fosli, you know,—was like that. She always felt she must. It's heredity. Surely you can understand that?
Spreta (takes out a bottle of cough mixture, and closes the bag with a snap). I am not quite a fool, my dear. But really, when you have such a firm admirer in Mr. Blochdrähn——!
Mopsa. He is such a mere bachelor. I never could feel really attracted to any unmarried man. All that seems to me so utterly unmaidenly. (Changing the subject.) How is dear Alfred?
Spreta. Dear Alfred is tired, but perfectly transfigured by his trip. He has never once been away from me all these years. Only think!
Mopsa. That would account for it certainly. And I really think he deserved some little outing. (With an outburst of joy.) Why, I shouldn't wonder if he has positively finished his great big book while he has been away!
Spreta (with a half smile). Shouldn't you? I should. But he has not mentioned it—perhaps he was too tired. And he has been trying to teach that miserable Little Mopsëman tricks ever since he came back. I never did care about dogs myself, and really Alfred is so perfectly absurd about him. Oh, here he is.
Alfred Früyseck enters, followed by Little Mopsëman on his hind legs. Alfred is a weedy, thin-haired man of about thirty-five (or thirty-six) with tinted spectacles and limp side-whiskers. Mopsëman wears a military tunic and a shako very much over one eye, and is shouldering a small toy musket. He is bandy-legged, with a broad black snout and beautiful intelligent eyes. His tail is drooping and has lost all its hair.
Alfred (beaming). Just see what really wonderful progress Little Mopsëman has made already with his drill. Why, my dearest Mopsa! (Goes up and kisses her with marked pleasure.) You have come here the very morning after my return? Fancy that.
Mopsa (gazes fixedly at him). I couldn't keep away. You are looking quite splendid! And how have you got on with your wonderful large book, Alfred? I felt so sure it would go so easily when once you had got away from dear Spreta.
Alfred (shrugging his shoulders). It did—wonderfully easily. The truth is my thick fat book on Canine Idiosyncrasy—h'm—has gone—entirely out of my head. I have been trying thinking for a change. It's easier than writing.
Spreta. Yes, Alfred, I can understand that. And then, when you had never really got farther than the title——!
Alfred (smiling at her). No farther than that. Somehow, none of the Früysecks ever do. My family is a thing apart. And now I have determined to devote my whole time to Little Mopsëman. I am going to foster all the noble germs in him, create a conscious happiness in his mind. (With enthusiasm.) That is my true vocation.
Spreta. You shouldn't have dressed the poor dog up like that. It does make him look so utterly ridiculous!
"He backs out cringingly.... Mopsëman slips out after him."
Alfred (speaking lower and seriously). Only in the eyes of the Philistines who couldn't see any pathos in poor Mrs. Solness and her nine dolls. The truly reverent have no sense whatever of the ridiculous. Still, it would certainly be better in future to keep Little Mopsëmann indoors, because if the dogs in the streets saw him in those clothes—(clenching his hands)—and after he has had that unfortunate accident to his tail, too!
Spreta. Alfred, I won't have you bringing up that again! There's someone knocking. Come in.
The Varmint-Blōk (enters softly and noiselessly. He is a slouching, sinister figure, in a fur cap and a flowered comforter. He has a large green gingham in one hand, and in the other a bag which writhes unpleasantly). Humbly beg pardon, your worships, but you don't happen to feel in the humour to see how this little wounded warrior here (points to Mopsëman) would polish off the lovely little ratikins, do you?
Alfred (with suppressed indignation). We most certainly do not. He is intended for higher things. Get out, you have frightened him under the sofa.
The Varm.-B. He'll come round right enough.... There, didn't I tell you! See how he sniffs at my legs. It's wonderful what a fancy dawgs do seem to take to me—follow me anywhere, they will. (With a chuckling laugh.) Seems as if they'd got to.
Spreta. There is certainly no accounting—— And what becomes of them when they do?
The Varm.-B. (with glittering eyes). Oh, they're safe enough, the sweet little creatures, lady. I'm very kind to 'em. And if I could only induce you to let your lovely poodlekin tackle a dozen rats, which 'ud be a holiday to a game little sportin' dawg like him—— Not this mornin'? then here's a loving good-day to you all, and thank ye kindly for nothing.
[He backs out cringingly, as Spreta retires to the verandah, fanning herself elegantly with her pocket-handkerchief; Mopsëman slips out after him, unnoticed by all. Alfred sees Mopsa's portfolio.
Alfred (to Mopsa). And have you positively lugged this thing all the way out here. Wasn't it heavy?
Mopsa (nods). It had to be. It contains all the letters written to my poor dear Mother—by Master-builder Solness, you know. My Mother had such a rich, beautiful past. I thought, Alfred, we might look them through together quietly some evening, when Spreta is out of the way.
[Looks attentively at him.]
Alfred (uneasily, to himself). Oh, my good gracious! (Aloud.) It would certainly have to be some evening when—— But on the whole, perhaps, I—I really almost think we had better—— It isn't as if you were really my second cousin!
Spreta (re-entering from verandah). Has that horrible person with the rats gone? He has given me almost a kind of turn.
Alfred. He is a sort of itinerant Trope, I suppose. Talking of turns, did I tell you that I, too, have experienced a kind of inward revolution away up there among the peaks?... I have.
Spreta. Oh, heavens! Alfred, was it the cookery at those high mountain hotels?
Alfred (soothingly, patting her head). Not altogether—be very sure of that. But it is rather a long story. I should recommend you to sit down. (They sit down expectantly.) I will try to tell you. (Gazing straight before him.) When I look back into the vague mists that enshroud my earliest infancy, I seem almost to——
Spreta (slaps him). Oh, for goodness' sake, Alfred, do skip the introduction!
Alfred (disappointed). It was the most interesting part! But the long and the short of it is that I have resolved to renounce writing my wonderful work on Canine Idiosyncracy! I am going to act it out instead—on Little Mopsëman. (With shining eyes.) I intend to perfect the rich possibilities that lie hidden in that rather unprepossessing poodle. There!
Spreta (holding aloof from him). And is that all?
Alfred. H'm, yes, that's all. But you never did properly appreciate poor Little Mopsëman!
Mopsa (pressing his hand). She never did, Alfred. But I do. And we will teach him the loveliest new tricks together. (Fixes her eyes on him.) Just you and I.
Spreta. Alfred, I won't have the dog taught any tomfoolery. You shall not divide yourself up like that. Do you hear?
Sanitary Engineer Blochdrähn (enters by door). Aha, so you've got your husband thoroughly in hand, as usual, eh, Mrs. Früyseck? (To the others.) I bring glorious news. I have just been called in to see to the Schoolhouse drains again! I only laid them last Autumn; but there seems to be a leakage somewhere. Quite a big piece of new work, really!
Mopsa. And you are beaming with joy over that?
San. Eng. Bloch. I am indeed. And afterwards I have several important drains to disconnect at the great new hotel in Christiania, and the most tremendous scientific safeguards to grapple with and overthrow. What a glorious thing it is to be a plumber and make a little extra work for oneself in the world! Miss Mopsa, can I persuade you to take a little turn in the garden? Do!
[Offers his arm.
Mopsa (takes it). Oh, I don't mind—provided you don't talk either shop or sentiment.
[They go out together.
Spreta (looks after them). What a pity it is that Mopsa can't take more to that Mr. Blochdrähn, isn't it, Alfred?
[Looks searchingly at him.
Alfred (wriggles). Oh—er—I don't know. For then we should see so much less of her.
Spreta (vehemently). Oh, come! So much the better! (Clutching him round the neck.) I want you all to myself, Alfred. I love you so much I could throttle you. I've a good mind to, as it is!
Alfred (choking). You are! My loyal, proud, true-hearted Spreta, d-don't!
[Gently releases himself.
Spreta. You have ceased to care for me. Don't deny it, Alfred!
[Bursts into convulsive weeping.
Alfred. I will frankly admit that, like most married Norwegians, I am—h'm—subject to the Law of Change.
Spreta (with increasing excitement). I saw that so plainly last night. I sent out for some champagne, Alfred, expressly for you. And you didn't drink a drop of it!
[Looks bitterly at him.
Alfred. I knew the brand. (With a gesture of repulsion.) Gooseberry, my dear, gooseberry!
Spreta. You never even kissed me, either. But you can kiss Mopsa! Alfred, if you imagine I am the kind of person to play gooseberry——
Alfred. Need dramatic dialogue descend to these sordid details? Really this is verging on a mere vulgar row! And when you know, too, how I have always regarded Mopsa almost as a sort of sister!
Spreta. I know that sort of sister, Alfred. She comes from Norway! But I am none of your fish-blooded Mrs. Solnesses, or half-witted Beata Rosmers, and I'm not going to stand it! I decline to share you with anything or anybody—whether it's a thick fat book that never gets even begun, or a designing minx that helps you in your precious "vocation," or a gorging little mongrel, with his evil red and green eyes, that I'm often tempted to wish at the bottom of the fiord!
[Confused cries and barks are heard outside.
Alfred (shocked). Spreta! When I am going to bring all his desires into harmony with his digestion! How unkind of you! (Looks out for a moment.) What in the world are all the dogs barking at down there?
San. Eng. Bloch. (re-entering with Mopsa, by glass door). Only some organ-grinder's monkey. They have just frightened it into the fiord. Such fun!
Alfred (in an agony of dread). Can it be our Little——? But he is burying bones in the back garden. And he is not a monkey, either. And if he were, monkeys can all swim.... What are they saying now?... Hush!
San. Eng. Bloch. (leans over verandah railings). They say, "He is still shouldering the little musket!"
Alfred (almost paralysed). The little——it is Mopsëman! I taught him to do it so thoroughly! (With outstretched arms.) He cannot shoulder a musket and swim too! (Glancing darkly at Spreta.) Woman, you have your wish! Henceforth my life will be one long rankle of remorse!
[Sinks down in the armchair.
Mopsa (with an affectionate expression in her eyes). Not alone, Alfred! We will rankle together—just you and I.
Alfred (rises, half distracted). Oh, my gracious goodness!
[He rushes down into the garden