The Dramatic Works Of Gerhart Hauptmann Social Dramas Volume 2 By Gerhart Hauptmann

THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF GERHART HAUPTMANN (Authorized Edition) Edited By LUDWIG LEWISOHN Assistant Professor in The Ohio State University VOLUME TWO: SOCIAL DRAMAS 1913 CONTENTS INTRODUCTION_By the Editor_. DRAYMAN HENSCHEL (Fuhrmann Henschel)Translated by the Editor. ROSE BERND (Rose Bernd)Translated by the Editor. THE RATS (Die Ratten)Translated by the Editor. INTRODUCTION The first volume of the present edition of Hauptmann’s Dramatic Works is identical in content with the corresponding volume of the German edition. In the second volume The Rats has been substituted for two early prose tales which lie outside of the scope of our undertaking. Hence these two volumes include that entire group of dramas which Hauptmann himself specifically calls social. This term must not, of course, be pressed too rigidly. Only in Before Dawn and in The Weavers can the dramatic situation be said to arise wholly from social conditions rather than from the fate of the individual. It is true, however, that in the seven plays thus far presented all characters are viewed primarily as, in a large measure, the results of their social environment. This environment is, in all cases, proportionately stressed. To exhibit it fully Hauptmann uses, beyond any other dramatist, passages which, though always dramatic in form, are narrative and, above all, descriptive in intention. The silent burden of these plays, the ceaseless implication of their fables, is the injustice and inhumanity of the social order. Hauptmann, however, has very little of the narrow and acrid temper of the special pleader. He is content to show humanity. It is quite conceivable that the future, forgetful of the special social problems and the humanitarian cult of to-day, may view these plays as simply bodying forth the passions and events that are timeless and constant in the inevitable march of human life. The tragedies of Drayman Henschel and of Rose Bernd, at all events, stand in no need of the label of any decade. They move us by their breadth and energy and fundamental tenderness. No plays of Hauptmann produce more surely the impression of having been dipped from the fullness of life. One does not feel that these men and women–Hanne Schäl and Siebenhaar, old Bernd and the Flamms–are called into a brief existence as foils or props of the protagonists. They led their lives before the plays began: they continue to live in the imagination long after Henschel and Rose have succumbed. How does Christopher Flamm, that excellent fellow and most breathing picture of the average man, adjust his affairs? He is fine enough to be permanently stirred by the tragedy he has earned, yet coarse enough to fall back into a merely sensuous life of meaningless pleasures. But at his side sits that exquisite monitor–his wife. The stream of their lives must flow on. And one asks how and whither? To apply such almost inevitable questions to Hauptmann’s characters is to be struck at once by the exactness and largeness of his vision of men. Few other dramatists impress one with an equal sense of life’s fullness and continuity, “The flowing, flowing, flowing of the world.” The last play in this volume, The Rats, appeared in 1911, thirteen years after Drayman Henschel, nine years after Rose Bernd. A first reading of the book is apt to provoke disappointment and confusion. Upon a closer view, however, the play is seen to be both powerful in itself and important as a document in criticism and Kulturgeschichte. It stands alone among Hauptmann’s works in its inclusion of two separate actions or plots–the tragedy of Mrs. John and the comedy of the Hassenreuter group. Nor can the actions be said to be firmly interwoven: they appear, at first sight, merely juxtaposed. Hauptmann would undoubtedly assert that, in modern society, the various social classes live in just such juxtaposition and have contacts of just the kind here chronicled. His real purpose in combining the two fables is more significant. Following the great example, though not the precise method, of Molière, who produced La Critique de l’École des Femmes on the boards of his theater five months after the hostile reception of L’École des Femmes, Hauptmann gives us a naturalistic tragedy and, at the same time, its criticism and defense. His tenacity to the ideals of his youth is impressively illustrated here. In his own work he has created a new idealism. But let it not be thought that his understanding of tragedy and his sense of human values have changed. The charwoman may, in very truth, be a Muse of tragedy, all grief is of an equal sacredness, and even the incomparable Hassenreuter–wind-bag, chauvinist and consistent Goetheaner–is forced by the essential soundness of his heart to blurt out an admission of the basic principle of naturalistic dramaturgy. The group of characters in The Rats is unusually large and varied. The phantastic note is somewhat strained perhaps in Quaquaro and Mrs. Knobbe. But the convincingness and earth-rooted humanity of the others is once more beyond cavil or dispute. The Hassenreuter family, Alice Rütterbusch, the Spittas, Paul John and Bruno Mechelke, Mrs. Kielbacke and even the policeman Schierke–all are superbly alive, vigorous and racy in speech and action. The language of the plays in this volume is again almost wholly dialectic. The linguistic difficulties are especially great in The Rats where the members of the Berlin populace speak an extraordinarily degraded jargon. In the translation I have sought, so far as possible, to differentiate the savour and quaintness of the Silesian dialect from the coarseness of that of Berlin. But all such attempts must, from their very nature, achieve only a partial success. The succeeding volumes of this edition, presenting the plays written in normal literary German, will offer a fairer if not more fascinating field of interpretation. LUDWIG LEWISOHN. DRAYMAN HENSCHEL LIST OF PERSONS DRAYMAN HENSCHEL. MRS. HENSCHEL. HANNE SCHÄL (later MRS. HENSCHEL). BERTHA. HORSE DEALER WALTHER. SIEBENHAAR. KARLCHEN. WERMELSKIRCH. MRS. WERMELSKIRCH. FRANZISKA WERMELSKIRCH. HAUFFE. FRANZ. GEORGE. FABIG. HILDEBRANT. VETERINARIAN GRUNERT. FIREMAN. Time: Toward the end of the eighteen sixties. Scene: The “Gray Swan” hotel in a Silesian watering place. THE FIRST ACT A room, furnished peasant fashion, in the basement of the “Grey Swan” hotel. Through two windows set high in the left wall, the gloomy light of a late winter afternoon sickers in. Under the windows there stands a bed of soft wood, varnished yellow, in which MRS. HENSCHEL is lying ill. She is about thirty-six years of age. Near the bed her little six-months-old daughter lies in her cradle. A second bed stands against the back wall which, like the other walls, is painted blue with a dark, plain border near the ceiling. In front, toward the right, stands a great tile-oven surrounded by a bench. A plentiful supply of small split kindling wood is piled up in the roomy bin. The wall to the right has a door leading to a smaller room. HANNE SCHÄL, a vigorous, young maid servant is very busy in the room. She has put her wooden pattens aside and walks about in her thick, blue stockings. She takes from the oven an iron pot in which food is cooking and puts it back again. Cooking spoons, a twirling stick and a strainer lie on the bench; also a large, thick earthenware jug with a thin, firmly corked neck. Beneath the bench stands the water pitcher. HANNE’S skirts are gathered up in a thick pad; her bodice is dark grey; her muscular arms are bare. Around the top of the oven is fastened a square wooden rod, on which long hunting stockings are hung up to dry, as well as swaddling clothes, leathern breeches and a pair of tall, water-tight boots. To the right of the oven stand a clothes press and a chest of drawers–old fashioned, gaily coloured, Silesian pieces of furniture. Through the open door in the rear wall one looks out upon a dark, broad, underground corridor which ends in a glass door with manicoloured panes. Behind this door wooden steps lead upward. These stairs are always illuminated by a jet of gas so that the panes of the door shine brightly. It is in the middle of February; the weather without is stormy. FRANZ, a young fellow in sober coachman’s livery, ready to drive out, looks in. FRANZ Hanne! HANNE Eh? FRANZ Is the missis asleep? HANNE What d’you suppose? Don’t make so much noise! FRANZ There’s doors enough slammin’ in this house. If that don’t wake her up–! I’m goin’ to drive the carriage to Waldenburg. HANNE Who’s goin’? FRANZ The madam. She’s goin’ to buy birthday presents. HANNE Whose birthday is it? FRANZ Little Karl’s. HANNE Great goin’s on–those. To hitch up the horses on account o’ that fool of a kid an’ travel to Waldenburg in such weather! FRANZ Well, I has my fur coat! HANNE Those people don’t know no more how to get rid o’ their money! We got to slave instead! In the passage appears, slowly feeling his may, the veterinarian GRUNERT. He is a small man in a coat of black sheep’s fur, cap and tall boots. He taps with the handle of his whip against the door post in order to call attention to his presence. GRUNERT Isn’t Henschel at home yet? HANNE What’s wanted of him? GRUNERT I’ve come to look at the gelding. HANNE So you’re the doctor from Freiburg, eh? Henschel, he’s not at home. He went to Freiburg carryin’ freight; seems to me you must ha’ met him. GRUNERT In which stall do you keep the gelding? HANNE ‘Tis the chestnut horse with the white star on his face, I believe they put him in the spare stall. [To FRANZ.] You might go along an’ show him the way. FRANZ Just go straight across the yard, ‘s far as you can, under the big hall, right into the coachman’s room. Then you c’n ask Frederic; he’ll tell you! [Exit GRUNERT. HANNE Well, go along with him. FRANZ Haven’t you got a few pennies change for me? HANNE I s’pose you want me to sell my skin on your account? FRANZ [Tickling her.] I’d buy it right off. HANNE Franz! Don’t you–! D’you want the woman to wake up? You don’t feel reel well, do you, if you can’t wring a few farthings out o’ me! I’m fair cleaned out. [Rummaging for the money.] Here! [She presses something into his hand.] Now get out! [The bell rings. FRANZ [Frightened.] That’s the master. Good-bye. [He goes hastily. MRS. HENSCHEL [Has waked up and says weakly.] Girl! Girl! Don’t you hear nothin’? HANNE [Roughly.] What d’you want? MRS. HENSCHEL I want you to listen when a body calls you! HANNE I hear all right! But if you don’t talk louder I can’t hear. I got only just two ears. MRS. HENSCHEL Are you goin’ to cut up rough again? HANNE [Surly.] Ah, what do I–! MRS. HENSCHEL Is that right, eh? Is it right o’ you to talk rough like that to a sick woman? HANNE Who starts it, I’d like to know! You don’t hardly wake up but what you begin to torment me. Nothin’s done right, no matter how you do it! MRS. HENSCHEL That’s because you don’t mind me! HANNE You better be doin’ your work yourself. I slaves away all day an’ half o’ the night! But if things is that way–I’d rather go about my business! [She lets her skirts fall and runs out. MRS. HENSCHEL Girl! Girl!–Don’t do that to me! What is it I said that was so bad? O Lord, O Lord! What’ll happen when the men folks comes home? They wants to eat! No, girl … girl! [She sinks back exhausted, moans softly, and begins to rock her baby’s cradle by means of a cord which is within her reach. Through the glass door in the rear KARLCHEN squeezes himself in with some difficulty. He carries a dish full of soup and moves carefully and timidly toward MRS. HENSCHEL’S bed. There he sets down the dish on a wooden chair. MRS. HENSCHEL Eh, Karlchen, is that you! Do tell me what you’re bringin’ me there? KARLCHEN Soup! Mother sends her regards and hopes you’ll soon feel better and that you’ll like the soup, Mrs. Henschel. MRS. HENSCHEL Eh, little lad, you’re the best of ’em all. Chicken soup! ‘Tis not possible. Well, tell your mother I thank her most kindly. D’you hear? Don’t go an’ forget that! Now I’ll tell you somethin’, Karlchen! You c’n do me a favour, will you? See that rag over there? Get on this bench, will you, an’ pull the pot out a bit. The girl’s gone off an’ she put it too far in. KARLCHEN [After he has found the rag mounts the bench cheerfully and looks into the oven. He asks:] The black pot or the blue one, Mrs. Henschel? MRS. HENSCHEL What’s in the blue pot? KARLCHEN Sauerkraut. MRS. HENSCHEL [Agitated.] Pull it out! That’ll be boilin’ to nothin’!–Eh, what a girl, what a girl! KARLCHEN [Has pulled the pot in question forward.] Is this right? MRS. HENSCHEL You c’n let it stand that way! Come here a bit now an’ I’ll give you a piece o’ whip cord. [She takes the cord from the window-sill and gives it to him.] An’ how is your mother? KARLCHEN She’s well. She’s gone to Waldenburg to buy things for my birthday. MRS. HENSCHEL I’m not well, myself. I think I’m goin’ to die! KARLCHEN Oh, no, Mrs. Henschel! MRS. HENSCHEL Yes, yes, you c’n believe me; I’m goin’ to die. For all I care you can say so to your mother. KARLCHEN I’m goin’ to get a Bashly cap, Mrs. Henschel. MRS. HENSCHEL Yes, yes, you c’n believe me. Come over here a bit. Keep reel still an’ listen. D’you hear how it ticks? D’you hear how it ticks in the rotten wood? KARLCHEN [Whose wrist she holds in her fevered grasp.] I’m afraid, Mrs. Henschel. MRS. HENSCHEL Oh, never mind. We all has to die! D’you hear how it ticks? Do you? What is that? ‘Tis the deathwatch that ticks. [She falls back.] One … two … one …–Oh, what a girl, what a girl! KARLCHEN, released from her grasp, withdraws timidly toward the door. When his hand is on the knob of the glass door a sudden terror overtakes him. He tears the door open and slams it behind him with such force that the panes rattle. Immediately thereupon a vigorous cracking of whips is heard without. Hearing this noise MRS. HENSCHEL starts up violently. MRS. HENSCHEL That’s father comin’! HENSCHEL [Out in the hallway and yet unseen.] Doctor, what are we goin’ to do with the beast? [He and the veterinarian are visible through the doorway. GRUNERT He won’t let you come near him. We’ll have to put the twitch on him, I think. HENSCHEL [He is a man of athletic build, about forty-five years old. He wears a fur cap, a jacket of sheep’s fur under which his blue carter’s blouse is visible, tall boots, green hunting stockings. He carries a whip and a burning lantern.] I don’t know no more what’s wrong with that beast. I carted some hard coal from the mine yesterday. I came home an’ unhitched, an’ put the horses in the stable, an’–that very minute–the beast throws hisself down an’ begins to kick. [He puts his long whip in a corner and hangs up his cap. HANNE returns and takes up her work again, although visibly enraged. HENSCHEL Girl, get a light! HANNE One thing after another! HENSCHEL [Puts out the light in the lantern and hangs it up.] Heaven only knows what all this is comin’ to. First my wife gets sick! Then this here horse drops down! It looks as if somethin’ or somebody had it in for me! I bought that gelding Christmas time from Walther. Two weeks after an’ the beast’s lame. I’ll show him. Two hundred crowns I paid. MRS. HENSCHEL Is it rainin’ outside? HENSCHEL [In passing.] Yes, yes, mother; it’s rainin’.–An’ it’s a man’s own brother-in-law that takes him in that way. [He sits down on the bench. HANNE has lit a tallow candle and puts it into a candle stick of tin, which she sets on the table. MRS. HENSCHEL You’re too good, father. That’s what it is. You don’t think no evil o’ people. GRUNERT [Sitting down at the table and writing a prescription.] I’ll write down something for you to get from the chemist. MRS. HENSCHEL No, I tell you, if that chestnut dies on top o’ everythin’ else–! I don’t believe God’s meanin’ to let that happen! HENSCHEL [Holding out his leg to HANNE.] Come, pull off my boots for me! That was a wind that blew down here on the road from Freiburg. People tell me it unroofed the church in the lower village more’n half, [To HANNE.] Just keep on tuggin’! Can’t you get it? MRS. HENSCHEL [To HANNE.] I don’t know! You don’t seem to learn nothin’! [HANNE succeeds in pulling off one boot. She puts it aside and starts on the other. HENSCHEL Keep still, mother! You don’t do it any better! HANNE [Pulls off the second boot and puts it aside. Then in a surly voice to HENSCHEL.] Did you bring me my apron from Kramsta? HENSCHEL All the things I’m axed to keep in my head! I’m content if I c’n keep my own bit of business straight an’ get my boxes safe to the railroad. What do I care about women or their apron-strings? GRUNERT No, you’re not famous for caring about them. MRS. HENSCHEL An’ it’d be a bad thing if he was! HENSCHEL [Slips on wooden pattens and rises. To HANNE.] Hurry now! Hurry! We got to get our dinner. This very day we still has to go down to the smithy. GRUNERT [Has finished writing his prescription, which he leaves lying on the table. He slips his note book and pencil back into his pocket and says as he is about to go:] You’ll hurry this to the chemist’s. I’ll look in early in the morning. [HENSCHEL sits down at the table. HAUFFE comes in slowly. He has wooden pattens on and leathern breeches and also carries a lighted lantern. HAUFFE That’s dirty weather for you again! HENSCHEL How’s it goin’ in the stable? HAUFFE He’s goin’ to end by knockin’ down the whole stall. [He blows out the light in the lantern and hangs it up next to HENSCHEL’S. GRUNERT Good night to all of you. All we can do is to wait. We doctors are only human too. HENSCHEL To be sure. We know that without your telling us! Good night; I hope you won’t overturn. [GRUNERT goes.] Now tell me, mother, how is it with you? MRS. HENSCHEL Oh. I’ve been worritin’ so much again! HENSCHEL What is it that worries you? MRS. HENSCHEL Because for all I c’n do, I’m not able to lend a hand even. HANNE places a disk of dumplings and one of sauerkraut on the table; she takes forks from the table drawer and puts them on the table. HENSCHEL The girl’s here to do the work! MRS. HENSCHEL A girl like her is that thoughtless! HENSCHEL Oh, we gets enough to eat an’ everythin’ seems to go smoothly.–If you hadn’t got up out o’ bed too soon the first time, you might be dancin’ this day! MRS. HENSCHEL O Lord, me an’ dancin’. What an idea! HANNE has prepared three plates, putting a small piece of pork on each. She now draws up a stool for herself and sits down at the table. HAUFFE There’s not much left o’ the oats, neither. HENSCHEL I bought some yesterday; thirty sacks. Saturday a load o’ hay’ll come too. The feed gets dearer all the time. HAUFFE If the beasts is to work they has to eat. HENSCHEL But people thinks they live on air, an’ so everybody wants to cut down the carting charges. HAUFFE He said somethin’ like that to me too. MRS. HENSCHEL Who said that–the inspector? HENSCHEL Who else but him? But this time he met the wrong man. MRS. HENSCHEL Well, well, I’m not sayin’, but that’s the end of everythin’! What’s to become of us these hard times? HANNE The inspector of roads was here. He wants you to send him teams for the big steam roller, I believe. They’re in Hinterhartau now. Behind the glass door MR. SIEBENHAAR is seen descending the stairs. He is little over forty. Most carefully dressed; black broadcloth coat, white waist-coat, light-coloured, English trousers–an elegance of attire derived from the style of the ‘sixties. His hair, already grey, leaves the top of his head bald; his moustache, on the contrary, is thick and dark blond. SIEBENHAAR wears gold-rimmed spectacles. When he desires to see anything with exactness, he must use, in addition, a pair of eye-glasses which he slips in behind the lenses of his spectacles. He represents an intelligent type. SIEBENHAAR [Approaches the open door of the room. In his right hand he holds a candle-stick of tin with an unlit candle in it and a bunch of keys; with his left hand he shades his sensitive eyes.] Has Henschel come back yet? HENSCHEL Yes, Mr. Siebenhaar. SIEBENHAAR But you’re just at your dinner. I have something to do in the cellar. We can talk that matter over later. HENSCHEL No, no; you needn’t put nothin’ off on my account. I’m through! SIEBENHAAR In that case you’d better come up to see me. [He enters the room and lights his candle by the one which is burning on the table.] I’ll only get a light here now. We’re more undisturbed in my office.–How are you, Mrs. Henschel? How did you like the chicken-soup? MRS. HENSCHEL Oh, goodness, gracious! I clean forgot about it! SIEBENHAAR Is that so, indeed? HANNE [Discovering the dish of chicken soup.] That’s true; there it stands. HENSCHEL That’s the way that woman is! She’d like to get well an’ she forgets to eat and to drink. SIEBENHAAR [As a violent gust of wind is felt even indoors.] Do tell me: what do you think of it? My wife’s driven over to Waldenburg, and the weather is getting wilder and wilder. I’m really beginning to get worried. What’s your opinion? HENSCHEL I s’pose it sounds worse than it is. SIEBENHAAR Well, well, one shouldn’t take such risks. Didn’t you hear that rattling? The wind broke one of the large windows in the dining-hall looking out over the verandah. You know. It’s a tremendous storm! HENSCHEL Who’d ha’ thought it! MRS. HENSCHEL That’ll be costin’ you a good bit again! SIEBENHAAR [Leaving the room by way of the passage to the left.] There’s nothing inexpensive except death. HENSCHEL He’s got his bunch o’ troubles like the rest of us. MRS. HENSCHEL What do you think he wants o’ you again, father? HENSCHEL Nothin’! How c’n I tell? I’ll hear what he says. MRS. HENSCHEL I do hope he won’t be askin’ for money again. HENSCHEL Don’t begin talkin’ nonsense, mother. HANNE But if them people is as hard up as all that, why does the woman has to have a twenty shillin’ hat? HENSCHEL You hold your tongue! No one asked you! You poke your nose over your kneadin’ board an’ not into other folks’ affairs! It takes somethin’ to keep a hotel like this goin’. Two months in the year he makes money. The rest o’ the time he has to do the best he can. HAUFFE An’ he had to go an’ build atop o’ that! MRS. HENSCHEL An’ ’twas that as got him in worse’n ever. He should ha’ let it be. HENSCHEL Women don’t understand nothin’ o’ such affairs. He had to build; he couldn’t do no different. We gets more an’ more people who come here for their health nowadays; there wasn’t half so many formerly. But in those times they had money; now they wants everythin’ for nothin’. Get the bottle. I’d like to drink a nip o’ whiskey. HAUFFE [Slowly clasping his knife and getting ready to rise.] Forty rooms, three big halls, an’ nothin’ in ’em excep’ rats an’ mice. How’s he goin’ to raise the interest? [He rises. FRANZISKA WERMELSKIRCH peeps in. She is a pretty, lively girl of sixteen. She wears her long, dark hair open. Her costume is slightly eccentric: the skirts white and short, the bodice cut in triangular shape at the neck, the sash long and gay. Her arms are bare above the elbows. Around her neck she wears a coloured ribbon from which a crucifix hangs down. FRANZISKA [Very vivaciously.] Wasn’t Mr. Siebenhaar here just now? I wish you a pleasant meal, ladies and gentlemen! I merely took the liberty of asking whether Mr. Siebenhaar hadn’t been here just now? MRS. HENSCHEL [Gruffly.] We don’t know nothin’. He wasn’t with us! FRANZISKA No? I thought he was! [She puts her foot coquettishly on the bench and ties her shoe strings. MRS. HENSCHEL Mr. Siebenhaar here an’ Mr. Siebenhaar there! What are you always wantin’ of the man? FRANZISKA I? nothing! But he’s so fond of gooseliver. Mama happens to have some and so papa sent me to tell him so.–By the way, Mr. Henschel, do you know that you might drop in to see us again, too! MRS. HENSCHEL You just let father bide where he is! That’d be a fine way! He’s not thinkin’ about runnin’ into taverns these days. FRANZISKA We’re broaching a new keg to-day, though. HENSCHEL [While HAUFFE grins and HANNE laughs.] Mother, you stick to your own affairs. If I should want to go an’ drink a glass o’ beer I wouldn’t be askin’ nobody’s consent, you c’n be sure. FRANZISKA –How are you anyhow, Mrs. Henschel? MRS. HENSCHEL Oh, to-morrow I’ll be gettin’ me a sash too an’ take to rope-dancin’. FRANZISKA I’ll join you. I can do that splendidly. I always practice on the carriage shafts. HENSCHEL So that’s the reason why all the shafts are bent! FRANZISKA Do you see, this is the way it’s done; this is the way to balance oneself. [Imitating the movements of a tight rope dancer, she prances out by the door.] Right leg! Left leg! Au revoir! [Exit. HAUFFE [Taking down his lantern.] She’ll go off her head pretty soon if she don’t get no husband. [Exit. MRS. HENSCHEL If she had to lend a hand an’ work good an’ hard, she’d get over that foolishness. HANNE She’s not allowed to come upstairs. Mrs. Siebenhaar won’t have her. MRS. HENSCHEL An’ she’s right there. I wouldn’t bear it neither. HANNE She’s always chasin’ an’ sniffin’ around Mr. Siebenhaar. I’m willin’ people should please theirselves. But she’s goin’ it hard. MRS. HENSCHEL The Siebenhaars ought to put them people out. The goin’s on with the men an’ the wenches. HENSCHEL Aw, what are you talkin’ about, mother? MRS. HENSCHEL Well, in the tap room. HENSCHEL Well, they has to live same as anybody. D’you want to see ’em put in the streets? Wermelskirch’s not a bad fellow at all. MRS. HENSCHEL But the woman’s an old witch. HENSCHEL If he pays his rent nothin’ won’t happen to him on that account. An’ not on account o’ the girl by a long way. [He has arisen and bends over the cradle.] We’ve got a little thing like that here too, an’ nobody’s goin’ to put us out for that! MRS. HENSCHEL Eh, that would be …! She’s asleep all the time; she don’t seem to want to wake up! HENSCHEL There’s not much strength in her.–Mother, sure you’re not goin’ to die!–[Taking his cap from the nail.] Hanne, I was just foolin’ you a while ago. Your apron is lyin’ out there in the waggon. HANNE [Eagerly.] Where is it? HENSCHEL In the basket. Go an’ look for it! [HENSCHEL leaves by way of the middle door; HANNE disappears into the small adjacent room. MRS. HENSCHEL So he brought her the apron after all! HANNE runs quickly through the room again and goes out by the middle door. MRS. HENSCHEL An’ he brought her the apron after all! SIEBENHAAR enters carefully, carrying his candle and keys as before and, in addition, two bottles of claret. SIEBENHAAR All alone, Mrs. Henschel? MRS. HENSCHEL An’ he brought the apron … SIEBENHAAR It’s me, Mrs. Henschel. Did you think it was a stranger? MRS. HENSCHEL I don’t hardly believe … SIEBENHAAR I hope I didn’t wake you up. It’s me–Siebenhaar. MRS. HENSCHEL To be sure. Yes. To be sure. SIEBENHAAR And I’m bringing you a little wine which you are to drink. It will do you good.–Is it possible you don’t recognize me? MRS. HENSCHEL Well, now, that’d be queer. You are, sure–you are our Mr. Siebenhaar. Things hasn’t come to such a pass with me yet. I recognise you all right!–I don’t know: has I been dreamin’ or what? SIEBENHAAR You may have been. How are you otherwise? MRS. HENSCHEL But sure enough you’re Siebenhaar. SIEBENHAAR Perhaps you thought I was your husband! MRS. HENSCHEL I don’t know … I reely can’t say … I was feelin’ so queer … SIEBENHAAR Seems to me you’re not lying comfortably. Let me straighten your pillows a bit. Does the doctor see you regularly? MRS. HENSCHEL [With tearful excitement.] I don’t know how it is–they just leaves me alone. No, no, you’re Mr. Siebenhaar, I know that. An’ I know more’n that: you was always good to me an’ you has a good heart, even if sometimes you made an angry face. I can tell you: I’m that afraid! I’m always thinkin’: it don’t go quick enough for him. SIEBENHAAR What doesn’t go quick enough? MRS. HENSCHEL [Bursting into tears.] I’m livin’ too long for him–! But what’s to become o’ Gustel? SIEBENHAAR But, my dear Mrs. Henschel, what kind of talk is that? MRS. HENSCHEL [Sobbing softly to herself.] What’s to become o’ Gustel if I die? SIEBENHAAR Mrs. Henschel, you’re a sensible woman! And so do listen to me! If one has to lie quietly in bed, you see, the way you have had to do unfortunately–week after week–why then one naturally has all kinds of foolish thoughts come into one’s head. One has all sorts of sickly fancies. But one must resist all that resolutely, Mrs. Henschel! Why, that would be a fine state of affairs, if that–! Such stuff! Put it out of your mind, Mrs. Henschel! it’s folly! MRS. HENSCHEL Dear me, I didn’t want to believe it: I know what I says! SIEBENHAAR That’s just what you don’t know. That’s just what, unfortunately, you don’t know at present. You will simply laugh when you look back upon, it later. Simply laugh! MRS. HENSCHEL [Breaking out passionately.] Didn’t he go an’ see her where she sleeps! SIEBENHAAR [Utterly astonished but thoroughly incredulous.] Who went to see whom? MRS. HENSCHEL Henschel! The girl! SIEBENHAAR Your husband? And Hanne? Now look here; whoever persuaded you of that is a rascally liar. MRS. HENSCHEL An’ when I’m dead he’ll marry her anyhow! HENSCHEL appears in the doorway. SIEBENHAAR You’re suffering from hallucinations, Mrs. Henschel! HENSCHEL [In good-natured astonishment.] What’s the matter, Malchen? Why are you cryin’ so? SIEBENHAAR Henschel, you mustn’t leave your wife alone! HENSCHEL [Approaches the bed in kindly fashion.] Who’s doin’ anythin’ to you? MRS. HENSCHEL [Throws herself in sullen rage on her other side, turning her back to HENSCHEL and facing the wall.] … Aw, leave me in peace! HENSCHEL What’s the meanin’ o’ this? MRS. HENSCHEL [Snarling at him through her sobs.] Oh, go away from me! HENSCHEL, visibly taken aback, looks questioningly at SIEBENHAAR, who polishes his glasses and shakes his head. SIEBENHAAR [Softly.] I wouldn’t bother her just now. MRS. HENSCHEL [As before.] You’re wishin’ me into my grave! SIEBENHAAR [To HENSCHEL, who is about to fly into a rage.] Sh! Do me the favour to keep still! MRS. HENSCHEL A body has eyes. A body’s not blind! You don’t has to let me know everythin’. I’m no good for nothin’ no more; I c’n go! HENSCHEL [Controlling himself.] What do you mean by that, Malchen? MRS. HENSCHEL That’s right! Go on pretendin’! HENSCHEL [Perplexed in the extreme.] Now do tell me–anybody …! MRS. HENSCHEL Things c’n go any way they wants to … I won’t be deceived, an’ you c’n all sneak aroun’ all you want to! I c’n see through a stone wall! I c’n see you for all–yes–for all! You thinks: a woman like that is easy to deceive. Rot, says I! One thing I tell you now–If I dies, Gustel dies along with me! I’ll take her with me! I’ll strangle her before I’d leave her to a damned wench like that! HENSCHEL But mother, what’s come over you? MRS. HENSCHEL You’re wishin’ me into my grave! HENSCHEL Hold on, now, hold on! Or I’ll be gettin’ wild! SIEBENHAAR [Warning him softly.] Be calm, Henschel. The woman is ill. MRS. HENSCHEL [Who has overheard.] Ill? An’ who was it made me ill? You two–you an’ your wench! HENSCHEL Now I’d like to know who in the world put notions like that into your head? The girl an’ I! I don’t understand the whole blasted thing! I’m supposed to have dealin’s with her? MRS. HENSCHEL Don’t you fetch aprons an’ ribands for her? HENSCHEL [With renewed perplexity.] Aprons and ribands? MRS. HENSCHEL Yes, aprons and ribands. HENSCHEL Well, that’s the queerest thing–! MRS. HENSCHEL Don’t you think everythin’ she does right an’ fine? D’you ever give her a angry word? She’s like the missis of the house this very day. HENSCHEL Mother, keep still: I’m advisin’ you! MRS. HENSCHEL ‘Tis you that has to keep still, ’cause there’s nothin’ you c’n say! SIEBENHAAR [Standing by the bed.] Mrs. Henschel, you must collect yourself! All this you’re saying is the merest fancy! MRS. HENSCHEL You’re no better’n he; you don’t do no different! An’ the poor women–they dies of it! [Dissolved in self-pitying tears.] Well, let ’em die! SIEBENHAAR gives a short laugh with an undertone of seriousness, steps up to the table and opens one of the bottles of wine resignedly. HENSCHEL [Sitting on the edge of the bed speaks soothingly] Mother, mother–you turn over now an’ I’ll say a word to you in kindness. [He turns her over with kindly violence.] Look at it this way, mother: You’ve been havin’ a dream. You dreamed–that’s it! Our little dog, he dreams queer things too now an’ then. You c’n see it. But now wake up, mother! Y’understan’? The stuff you been talkin’–if a man wanted to make a load o’ that the strongest freight waggon’d break down. My head’s fair spinnin’ with it. SIEBENHAAR [Having looked for and found a glass which he now fills.] And then you raked me over the coals too! HENSCHEL Don’t take no offence, sir. A woman like that! A man has his troubles with her.–Now you hurry up, mother, an’ get well, or some fine day you’ll be tellin’ me I been to Bolkenhain an’ stole horses. SIEBENHAAR Here, drink your wine and try to gain some strength. MRS. HENSCHEL If only a body could be sure! SIEBENHAAR supports her while she drinks. HENSCHEL What’s wrong now again? MRS. HENSCHEL [After she has drunk.] Could you give me a promise? HENSCHEL I’ll give you any promise you wants. MRS. HENSCHEL If I dies, would you go an’ marry her? HENSCHEL Don’t ask such fool questions. MRS. HENSCHEL Yes or no! HENSCHEL Marry Hanne? [Jestingly.] O’ course I would! MRS. HENSCHEL I mean it–serious …! HENSCHEL Now I just wish you’d listen to this, Mr. Siebenhaar! What’s a man to say? You’re not goin’ to die! MRS. HENSCHEL But if I does? HENSCHEL I won’t marry her anyhow! Now you see? An’ now you know it! We can make an end o’ this business. MRS. HENSCHEL Can you promise it? HENSCHEL Promise what? MRS. HENSCHEL That you wouldn’t go an’ marry the girl! HENSCHEL I’ll promise, too; I’m willin’ to. MRS. HENSCHEL An’ you’ll give me your hand in token? HENSCHEL I’m tellin’ you: Yes. [He puts his hand into hers.] But now it’s all right. Now don’t worry me no more with such stuff. THE CURTAIN FALLS. THE SECOND ACT A beautiful forenoon in May. The same room as in the first act. The bed, in which MRS. HENSCHEL lay, is no longer there. The window which it covered is wide open. HANNE, her face toward the window, her sleeves turned up above her elbows, is busy at the washtub. FRANZ, his shirt-sleeves and trousers also rolled up, his bare feet in wooden pattens, comes in carrying a pail. He has been washing waggons. FRANZ [With awkward merriment.] Hanne, I’m comin’ to see you! Lord A’mighty! Has you got such a thing as some warm water? HANNE [Angrily throwing the piece of linen which she has on the washboard back into the tub and going over to the oven.] You come in here a sight too often! FRANZ Is that so? What’s wrong, eh? HANNE [Pouring hot water into the pail.] Don’t stop to ask questions. I got no time. FRANZ I’m washin’ waggons; I’m not idlin’ neither. HANNE [Violently.] You’re to leave me alone! That’s what you’re to do! I’ve told you that more’n once! FRANZ What am I doin’ to you? HANNE You’re not to keep runnin’ after me! FRANZ You’ve forgotten, maybe, how it is with us? HANNE How ’tis with us? No ways; nothin’! You go you way an’ I goes mine, an’ that’s how it is! FRANZ That’s somethin’ bran’ new! HANNE It’s mighty old to me! FRANZ That’s how it seems.–Hanne, what’s come between us! HANNE Nothin’, nothin’! Only just leave me alone! FRANZ Has you anythin’ to complain of? I been true to you! HANNE Oh, for all I care! That’s none o’ my business! Carry on with anybody you want to! I got nothin’ against it! FRANZ Since when has you been feelin’ that way? HANNE Since the beginnin’ o’ time! FRANZ [Moved and tearful.] Aw, you’re just lyin’, Hanne! HANNE You don’t need to start that way at me. ‘Twon’t do you no good with me! I don’t let a feller like you tell me I’m lyin’! An’ now I just want you to know how things is. If your skin’s that thick that you can’t be made to notice nothin’ I’ll tell you right out to your face: It’s all over between us! FRANZ D’you really mean that, Hanne? HANNE All over–an’ I want you to remember that. FRANZ I’ll remember it all right! [More and more excited and finally weeping more than speaking.] You don’t need to think I’m such a fool; I noticed it long before to-day. But I kept thinkin’ you’d come to your senses. HANNE That’s just what I’ve done. FRANZ It’s all the way you look at it. I’m a poor devil–that’s certain; an’ Henschel–he’s got a chest full o’ money. There’s one way, come to think of it, in which maybe you has come to your senses. HANNE You start at me with such talk an’ it just makes things worse an’ worse. That’s all. FRANZ It’s not true, eh? You’re not schemin’ right on to be Mrs. Henschel? I’m not right, eh? HANNE That’s my business. That don’t concern you. We all has to look out for ourselves. FRANZ Well, now, supposin’ I was to look out for myself, an’ goes to Henschel an’ says: Hanne, she promised to marry me; we was agreed, an’ so…. HANNE Try it, that’s all I says. FRANZ [Almost weeping with pain and rage.] An’ I will try it, too! You take care o’ yourself an’ I’ll take care o’ myself. If that’s the way you’re goin’ to act, I c’n do the same! [With a sudden change of front.] But I don’t want to have nothin’ more to do with you! You c’n throw yourself at his head for all I cares! A crittur like you isn’t good enough for me! [Exit hastily. HANNE So it worked at last. An’ that’s all right. While HANNE continues busy at her washing, WERMELSKIRCH appears in the passage at the rear. He is a man in the fifties; the former actor is unmistakable in him. He wears a thread-bare dressing-gown, embroidered slippers, and smokes a very long pipe. WERMELSKIRCH [Having looked in for a while without being noticed by HANNE.] Did you hear him cough? HANNE Who? WERMELSKIRCH Why, a guest–a patient–has arrived upstairs. HANNE ‘Tis time they began to come. We’re in the middle of May. WERMELSKIRCH [Slowly crosses the threshold and hums throatily.] A pulmonary subject I, Tra la la la la, bum bum! It can’t last long until I die, Tra la la la la, bum bum! [HANNE laughs over her washing.] Things like that really do one good. They show that the summer is coming. HANNE One swallow don’t make no summer, though! WERMELSKIRCH [Clears a space for himself on the bench and sits down.] Where is Henschel? HANNE Why he went down, to the cemetery to-day. WERMELSKIRCH To be sure, it’s his wife’s birthday. [Pause.] It was a deuce of a blow to him, that’s certain.–Tell me, when is he coming back? HANNE I don’t know why he had to go an’ drive there at all. We needs the horses like anything an’ he took the new coachman with him too. WERMELSKIRCH I tell you, Hanne, anger spoils one’s appetite. HANNE Well, I can’t help bein’ angry! He leaves everythin’ in a mess. The ‘bus is to leave on time! An’ the one-horse carriage sticks in the mud out there an’ Hauffe can’t budge it! The old fellow is as stiff as a goat! WERMELSKIRCH Yes, things are beginning to look busy. The chef upstairs starts in to-day. It’s beginning to look up in the tap-room too. HANNE [With a short derisive laugh.] You don’t look, though, as if you had much to do! WERMELSKIRCH [Taking no offence.] Oh, that comes later, at eleven o’clock. But then I’m like a locomotive engine! HANNE I believe you. There’ll be a lot o’ smoke. You won’t let your pipe get cold whatever happens. WERMELSKIRCH [Smiling a little.] You’re pleased to be pointed in your remarks–pointed as a needle.–We’ve got to-day, for our table music, wait now, let me think–: First of all, a bass violin; secondly, two cellos; thirdly, two first violins and two second violins. Three first, two second, three second, two first: I’m getting mixed up now. At all events we have ten men from the public orchestra. What are you laughing at? Do you think I’m fooling you? You’ll see for yourself. The bass violin alone will eat enough for ten. There’ll be work enough to do! HANNE [Laughing heartily.] Of course: the cook’ll have a lot to do! WERMELSKIRCH [Simply.] My wife, my daughter, the whole of my family–we have to work honestly and hard.–And when the summer is over we’ve worked ourselves to the bone–for nothing! HANNE I don’t see what you has to complain of. You’ve got the best business in the house. Your taproom don’t get empty, if it’s summer or winter. If I was Siebenhaar upstairs, you’d have to whistle a different tune for me. You wouldn’t be gettin’ off with no three hundred crowns o’ rent. There wouldn’t be no use comin’ around me with less’n a thousand. An’ then you’d be doin’ well enough for yourself! WERMELSKIRCH [Has arisen and walks about whistling.] Would you like anything else? You frighten me so that my pipe goes out! GEORGE, a young, alert, neat waiter comes very rapidly down the stairs behind the glass door, carrying a tray with breakfast service. While still behind the door he stops short, opens the door, however, and gazes up and down the passage way. GEORGE Confound it all! What’s this place here? HANNE [Laughing over her tub.] You’ve lost your way! You has to go back! GEORGE It’s enough, God knows, to make a feller dizzy, No horse couldn’t find his way about this place. HANNE You’ve just taken service here, eh? GEORGE Well o’ course! I came yesterday. But tell me, ladies an’ gentlemen! Nothin’ like this has ever happened to me before. I’ve been in a good many houses but here you has to take along a kind o’ mountain guide to find your way. WERMELSKIRCH [Exaggerating the waiter’s Saxonian accent.] Tell me, are you from Dresden, maybe? GEORGE Meissen is my native city. WERMELSKIRCH [As before.] Good Lord A’mighty, is that so indeed? GEORGE How do I get out of here, tell me that! HANNE [Alert, mobile, and coquettish in her way in the waiter’s presence.] You has to go back up the stairs. We has no use down here for your swallow tails. GEORGE This is the first story, eh? Best part o’ the house? HANNE You mean the kennels or somethin’ like that? We’ll show you–that we will! The very best people live down here! GEORGE [Intimately and flirtatiously.] Young woman, do you know what? You come along an’ show me the way? With you I wouldn’t be a bit afraid, no matter where you lead me to. I’d go into the cellar with you or up into the hay loft either. HANNE You stay out o’ here! You’re the right kind you are! We’ve got enough of your sort without you. GEORGE Young woman, do you want me to help with the washin’? HANNE No! But if you’re aimin’ at it exackly, I c’n help you to get along! [Half drawing a piece of linen out of the suds.] Then you’d be lookin’ to see where your starched shirt-front went to! GEORGE O dear! You’re not goin’ to mess me up that way, are you? Well, well, that wouldn’t do! We’d have to have a talk about that first! That so, young woman? Well, o’ course! We’ll talk about it–when I has time, later. [He mounts the stairs and disappears. WERMELSKIRCH He won’t lose his way very often after this! Siebenhaar will see to it that he gets to know the way from the dining hall to the kitchen.–Hanne, when is Henschel coming back? HANNE About noon, I s’pose! D’you want me to give him a message? WERMELSKIRCH Tell him–don’t forget, now–tell him that I–send him my regards. HANNE Such foolishness. I might ha’ thought …! WERMELSKIRCH [Passing her with a slight bow.] Thoughts are free … I wish you a good morning. [Exit. HANNE [Alone, washing vigorously.] If only Henschel wasn’t such a fool! Above the cellar, outside, the pedlar FABIG, kneeling down, looks in at the window. FABIG Good mornin’, young woman! How are you? How’s everythin’? HANNE Who are you anyhow? FABIG Why–Fabig, from Quolsdorf. Don’t you know me no more? I’m bringin’ you a greetin’ from your father. An’ he wants me to tell you … Or maybe you’d want me to come in? HANNE Aw, I know. I believe you. He wants money again. Well, I has none myself. FABIG I told him that myself. He wouldn’t believe me. Are you all alone, young woman? HANNE Why d’you ax? FABIG [Lowering his voice.] Well now you see, there’s more’n one thing I has on my heart. An’, through the window, people might be hearin’ it. HANNE Oh well, I don’t care. You c’n come in! [FABIG disappears from the window.] That that feller had to be comin’ to-day …! [She dries her hands. FABIG enters. He is a poorly clad, strangely agile, droll pedlar, with a sparse beard, about thirty-six years old. FABIG A good mornin’ to you, young woman. HANNE [Fiercely.] First of all, I’m no young woman but a girl. FABIG [With cunning.] Maybe so. But from all I hears you’ll be married soon. HANNE That’s nothin’ but a pack o’ mean lies–that’s what it is. FABIG Well, that’s what I heard. It’s no fault o’ mine. People is sayin’ it all over; because Mrs. Henschel died … HANNE Well, they can talk for all I care. I does my work. That’s all that concerns me. FABIG That’s the best way. I does that way myself. There’s little that folks hasn’t said about me some time … In Altwasser they says I steals pigeons. A little dog ran after me … o’ course, they said I stole it. HANNE Well now, if you got anythin’ to say to me, go ahead an’ don’t waste words. FABIG Now you see, there you are. That’s what I always says too. People talks a good deal more’n they ought to. They has a few rags to sell an’ they talks an’ talks as if it was an estate. But I’ll say just as little as possible. What I wants to tell you about, young woman–now don’t fly up: the word just slipped out!–I meant to say: lass–what I wants to tell you about is your daughter. HANNE [Violently.] I has no daughter, if you want to know it. The girl that father is takin’ care of, is my sister’s child. FABIG Well now, that’s different, that is. We’ve all been thinkin’ the girl was yours. Where is your sister? HANNE Who knows where she is? She’s not fool enough to tell us. She thinks, thinks she: they c’n have the trouble an’ see how they gets along. FABIG Well, well, well! There you see again how folks is mistaken. I’d ha’ taken any oath … an’ not me, not me alone, but all the folks over in Quolsdorf, that you was the mother o’ that child. HANNE Yes, I knows right well who says that o’ me. I could call ’em all by name! They’d all like to make a common wench o’ me. But if ever I lays my hands on ’em I’ll give ’em somethin’ to remember me by. FABIG Well, it’s a bad business–all of it! Because this is the way it is: the old man, your father, I needn’t be tellin’ you–things is as they is–he don’t hardly get sober. He just drinks in one streak. Well, now that your mother’s been dead these two years, he can’t leave the little thing–the girl I mean–at home no more. The bit o’ house is empty. An’ so he drags her around in the pubs, in all kinds o’ holes, from one village taproom to the next. If you sees that–it’s enough to stir a dumb beast with pity. HANNE [With fierce impatience.] Is it my fault that he swills? FABIG By no means an’ not at all. Nobody c’n keep your old man from doin’ his way! ‘Tis only on account o’ the child, an’ it’s that makes a body feel sorry. But if that there little one can’t be taken away from him an’ given in the care o’ decent folks, she won’t live no ten weeks after this. HANNE [Hardening herself.] That don’t concern me. I can’t take her. I got all I can do to get along! FABIG You’d better come over to Quolsdorf some time an’ look into it all. That’d be best, too. The little girl … ’tis a purty little thing, with bits o’ hands an’ feet like that much porcelain, so dainty an’ delicate. HANNE She’s not my child an’ she don’t concern me. FABIG Well, you better come over an’ see what’s to be done. It’s hard for people to see such things goin’ on. If a man goes into an inn, in the middle of the night or some time like that–I got to do that, you see, in the way o’ business–an’ sees her sittin’ there with the old man in the midst o’ tobacco smoke–I tell you it hurts a body’s soul. HANNE The innkeepers oughtn’t to serve him nothin’. If they was to take a stick an’ beat him out o’ their places, maybe he’d learn some sense.–A waggon’s just come into the yard. Here you got a sixpence. Now you get along an’ I’ll be thinkin’ it all over. I can’t do nothin’ about it this minute. But if you goes aroun’ here in the inns an’ talks about it–then it’s all over between us.