(SCENE.—A room in GRAN's house; the same as in Act I, Scene II. GRAN is standing at his desk on the right. FLINK comes in carrying a pistol-case, which he puts down upon the table.)

Gran. You?

Flink. As you see. (Walks up and down for a little without speaking.)

Gran. I haven't seen you since the day the King was here.

Flink. No.—Have you taken your holidays?

Gran. Yes; but, anyway, I am likely to have perpetual holidays now! The elections are going against us.

Flink (walking about). So I hear. The clerical party and the reactionaries are winning.

Gran. That would not have been so, but for her unhappy death—. (Breaks off, and sighs.)

Flink. A judgment from heaven—that is what the parsons say, and the women, and the reactionaries—

Gran.—and the landlords. And they really believe it.

Flink (stopping). Well, don't you believe it?

Gran (after a pause). At all events I interpret it differently from—

Flink.—from the parson? Naturally. But can any one doubt the fact that it was the finger of fate?

Gran. Then fate assumed her father's shape?

Flink. Whether her father appeared to her at the moment of his death or not (shrugs his shoulders) is a matter in which I am not interested. I don't believe in such things. But that she was suffering pangs of conscience, I do believe. I believe it may have brought painful visions before her eyes.

Gran. I knew her pretty well, and I will answer for it she had no guilty conscience. She was approaching her task with enthusiasm. Any one that knew her will tell you the same. With her the King was first and foremost.

Flink. What did she die of, then? Of enthusiasm?

Gran. Of being overwrought by the force of her emotions. Her task was too great for her. The time was not ripe for it. (Sadly.) Our experiment was bound to fail.

Flink. You condemn it when you say that!—But with her last breath she called out: "My father!" And, just at that moment, he died, fifty miles away from her. Either she saw him, or she imagined she saw him, standing before her. But his bloodstained, maltreated, crippled form standing in the way of her criminal advance towards the throne—is that not a symbol of maltreated humanity revolting against monarchy at the very moment when monarchy wishes to atone! Its guilt through thousands of years is too black. Fate is inflexible.

Gran. But with what result? Are we rid of monarchy yet?

Flink. We are rid of that treacherous attempt to reconcile it with modern conditions. Thank God it emerges, hand in glove with the parsons and reactionaries, none the worse for its temporary eclipse.

Gran. So everything is all right, I suppose?

Flink. For the moment—yes. But there used to exist here a strong republican party, which enjoyed universal respect, and was making extraordinary progress. Where is it now?

Gran. I knew that was why you came.

Flink. I have come to call you to account.

Gran. If I had been in your place I would not have acted so, towards a defeated and wounded friend.

Flink. The republican party has often been defeated—but never despised till now. Who is to blame for that?

Gran. None of us ever think we deserve contempt.

Flink. A traitor always deserves it.

Gran. It is but a step from the present state of things to a republic; and we shall have to take that step in the end.

Flink. But at least we can do so without treachery.

Gran. I honestly believe that what we did was right. It may have miscarried the first time, and may miscarry a second and a third; but it is the only possible solution.

Flink. You pronounced your doom in those words.

Gran (more attentively). What do you mean by that?

Flink. We must make sure that such an attempt will not be made again.

Gran. So that is it.—I begin to understand you now.

Flink. The republican party is broken up. For a generation it will be annihilated by contempt. But a community without a republican party must be one without ideals and without any aspirations towards truth in its political life—and in other respects as well! That is what you are responsible for.

Gran. You pay me too great a compliment.

Flink. By no means! Your reputation, your personal qualities and associations are what have seduced them.

Gran. Listen to me for a moment! You used to overrate me in the hopes you had of me. You are overrating me now in your censure. You are overrating the effects of our failure—you never seem to be able to do anything but overshoot your mark. For that reason you are a danger to your friends. You lure them on. When things go well you lure them on to excess of activity; when things go ill, you turn their despondency into despair. Your inordinate enthusiasm obscures your wits. You are not called upon to sit in judgment upon any one; because you draw the pure truths that lie hidden in your soul into such a frenzied vortex of strife that you lose sight of them; and then they have so little of truth left in them that in your hands they can be answerable for crimes.

Flink. Oh, spare me your dialectics!—because any skill you have in them, I taught you! You cannot excuse your own sins by running over the list of mine; that is the only answer I have to make to you! I don't stand before you as the embodiment of truth; I am no braggart. No; but simply as one who has loved you deeply and now is as deeply offended by you, I ask this question of your conscience: What have you done with the love we had for one another? Where is the sacred cause we both used to uphold? Where is our honour—our friends—our future?

Gran. I feel respect for your sorrow. Can you not feel any for mine? Or do you suppose that I am not suffering?

Flink. You cannot act as you have done without bringing unhappiness upon yourself. But there are others to be considered besides you, and we have the right to call you to account. Answer me!

Gran. And is it really you—you, my old friend—that propose to do that?

Flink. God knows I would sooner some one else did it! But none can do it so fitly as I—because no one else has loved you as I have. I expected too much of you, you say? The only thing I wanted of you was that you should be faithful! I had so often been disappointed; but in you and your quiet strength I thought I had splendid security that, as long as you lived, our cause would bear itself proudly and confidently. It was your prestige that brought it into being; your wealth that supported it. It did not cry aloud for the blood of martyrs!—You were the happiness of my life; my soul renewed its strength from yours.

Gran. Old friend—!

Flink. I was old, and you were young! Your nature was a harmonious whole—it was what I needed to lean upon.

Gran. Flink, my dear old friend—!

Flink. And now, here you stand—a broken man, and our whole cause broken with you; all our lives broken—at least mine is—

Gran. Don't say that!

Flink. You have destroyed my faith in mankind—and in myself, for I see what a mistake I made; but it will be the last I shall make! I took you to my heart of hearts—and now, the only thing I can do is to call you to account!

Gran. What do you want me to do? Tell me!

Flink. We must stand face to face—armed! You must die! (A pause.)

Gran (without seeming greatly surprised). Of the two of us, it will go hardest with you, old friend.

Flink. You think your aim will be the surer of the two? (Goes towards the table.)

Gran. I was not thinking of that—but of what your life would be afterwards. I know you.

Flink (opening the pistol-case). You need not be anxious! My life afterwards will not be a long one. What you have done has robbed me of anything to live for in this generation, and I don't aspire to live till the next. So it is all over and done with! (Takes up the pistols.)

Gran. Do you mean here—?

Flink. Why not? We are alone here.

Gran. The King is asleep in the next room. (Points to the door near his desk.)

Flink. The King here?

Gran. He came here to-night.

Flink. Well, it will wake him up; he will have to wake up some time, any way.

Gran. It would be horrible! No!

Flink. Indeed? It is for his sake you have betrayed me. You did that as soon as ever you met him again. He has bewitched you. Let him hear and see what he has done! (Holds out the pistols.) Here!

Gran. Wait. What you have just said brings a doubt into my mind. Is not revenge, after all, the motive for what you are doing?

Flink. Revenge?

Gran. Yes. Don't misunderstand me; I am not trying to shuffle out of it. If I were free to choose, I would choose death rather than anything else. The King knows that, too. But I ask because there ought to be some serious reason for anything that may happen. I am not going to stand up and face a sentiment of revenge that is so ill-grounded.

Flink (laying the pistols down). I hate the man who has led you astray—that is true. When I was giving you the reasons why I took upon myself the task of calling you to account, perhaps I forgot that. I hate him. But the instrument that carries out a sentence is one thing; the sentence itself is quite another. You arc sentenced to death because you have betrayed our cause—and because you say that you were right to do so. The world shall learn what that costs. It costs a man's life.

Gran. So be it!

Flink. The pistols are loaded. I loaded them myself. I imagine that you still have trust in my honour?

Gran (with a smile). Indeed I have.

Flink. One of them has a blank cartridge in it; the other is fully loaded. Choose!

Gran. But what do you mean? Suppose I were to—?

Flink. Don't be afraid! Heaven will decide! You will not choose the fully loaded one!—We shall stand face to face.

Gran. You are settling everything—the sentence, the challenge, the choice of weapons, the regulations for the duel—!

Flink. Are you dissatisfied with that?

Gran. By no means! You are quite welcome! We are to have no seconds? So be it. But the place?

Flink. The place? Here!

Gran. Horrible!

Flink. Why? (Holds out the two pistols to him. The door to the left is opened softly. ANNA looks in, sees what is going on, and rushes with a pitiful attempt at a scream to GRAN, putting her arms round him protectingly, and caressing him with every sign of the utmost terror.)

Gran (bending down and kissing her). She is right! Why should I die for the sake of dull theories, when I can hold life in my arms as I do now? A man who is loved has something left, after all. I won't die!

Flink. If you were not loved, my friend, you might be allowed to live. A cry of sorrow will be heard throughout the land, from the King's palace to the meanest hovel, when you have been shot. And that is just why I must do it! The louder the cry of sorrow, the greater will be the silence afterwards. And in that silence is to be found the answer to the question "Why?" The people will not allow themselves to be cheated any longer.

Gran. Horrible! I won't do it! (Lifts ANNA in his arms as if she were a child.)

Flink (going up to him). It is no mere theory that you are facing. Look at me!

Gran. Old friend—must it be?

Flink. It must. I have nothing else left to do.

Gran. But not here.

Flink. Since it cannot be here, then come out into the park. (Puts the pistols into their case.) You owe me that.

Gran (to ANNA). You must go, my dear!

Flink (putting the pistol-case under his arm). No, let her stay here. But you come! (They all three move towards the door. ANNA will not let GRAN go, and there is a struggle until he, half commanding and half entreating, persuades her to stay behind. The two men go out, shutting the door after them. She throws herself against the door, but it has been locked on the outside. She sinks down to the floor in despair, then gets up, as if struck by a sudden idea, rushes into the room on the right, and almost immediately re-appears, dragging the KING after her. He is only half-dressed and has no shoes on.)

The King. What is it? (A shot is heard.) What is it? (ANNA pulls him to the door. He tries to open it, but in vain. She rushes to the window, with the KING after her. Meanwhile the door is opened from outside, and FALBE comes in, evidently overcome with emotion.) What is it, Falbe? (ANNA runs out.)

Falbe. His Excellency the Minister of the Interior—

The King. Well, what of him?

Falbe.—has been assassinated!

The King. The Minister of the Interior?—Gran?

Falbe. Yes.

The King. Gran?—What did you say?

Falbe. He has been assassinated!

The King. Gran? Impossible!—Where? Why? I heard his voice only just now, here!

Falbe. That fellow shot him—the grey-haired fellow—the republican

The King. Flink? Yes, I heard his voice here too!

Falbe. It was in the park! I saw it myself!

The King. Saw it yourself? Wretch! (Rushes out.)

Falbe. How could I prevent a madman—? (Follows the KING. The door stands open, and through it a man is seen running past, calling out: "Where?" Others follow him, and amidst the sound of hurrying feet, cries are heard of "Good God!"—"In the park, did you say?"—"A doctor! Fetch a doctor!"—"Who did it?"—"That fellow running towards the river!"—"After him! After him!"—"Fetch a barrow from the works!"—After a while the KING returns alone, looking distracted. He stands motionless and silent for some time.)

The King. What a happy smile there was on his face! Just as she smiled!—Yes, it must be happiness! (Hides his face in his hands.) And he died for me too! My two only—. (Breaks down.) So that is the price they have to pay for loving me!—And at once! At once!—Of course! Of course! (The sound of the crowd returning is heard, and cries of: "This way!"—"Into the blue room!" Women and children come streaming in, all in tears, surrounding ANNA and the men that are carrying GRAN'S body, and follow them into the room on the left. Cries are heard of: "Why should he die?"—"He was so good!"—"What had he done to deserve it!"—"He was the best man in the world!")

The King. "He was the best man in the world!" Yes. And he died for my sake! That means something good of me!—the best possible! Are they two together now, I wonder? Oh, let me have a sign!—or is that too much to ask? (The crowd come out again, sobbing and weeping, and cries are heard of: "He looks so beautiful and peaceful!"—"I can't bring myself to believe it!" When they see the KING, they hush their voices, and all go out as quietly as they can. When they have gone out, the MAYOR's voice is heard asking: "Is he in here?" and an answer: "No, in the blue room, over there." Then the GENERAL'S voice: "And the murderer escaped?"—An answer: "They are looking for him in the river!"—The GENERAL'S voice: "In the river? Did he jump into the river?"—The PRIEST's voice: "Shocking!" A few moments later the GENERAL with BANG, the MAYOR, and the PRIEST come in from the other room. They stop on seeing the KING, who is standing at the desk with his back to them, and whisper.)

The General. Isn't that the King?

The Others. The King?

The Mayor. Is the King back? He must have come in the night!

Bang. Let me see!—I know him personally.

The General (holding him back). Of course it is the King.

The Mayor. Really?

Bang. I recognise him by his agitation! It is he.

The General. Hush! Let us go quietly out again! (They begin to move off.)

The Mayor. He is grieved. Naturally.

Bang. First of all her death; and then this—!

The Priest. It is the judgment of heaven!

The King (turning round). Who is that? What? (Comes forward.) Who said that? (They all stop, take off their hats and bow.) Come back! (They come back hastily.) Who said: "It is the judgment of heaven"?

The General. Your Majesty must forgive us—we were just taking a little stroll; I am here to spend Christmas with my friend Mr. Bang, who has a factory here—a branch of his works—and we happened to meet the Mayor and the Priest, and we joined company—and were strolling along when we heard a shot. A shot. We did not think anything more about it till we came nearer here and saw people running, and heard a great outcry and disturbance. Great disturbance—yes. We stopped, of course, and came to see what it was. Came to see what it was, of course. And they told us that the Minister of the Interior—

The King. What is all that to me! (The GENERAL bows.) Who said: "It is the judgment of heaven"? (No one speaks.) Come, answer me!

The Mayor. It was the Priest—I fancy.

The King (to the PRIEST). Haven't you the courage to tell me so yourself?

The General. Probably our reverend friend is unaccustomed to find himself in the presence of royalty.

The Priest. It is the first time that—that I have had the honour of speaking to your Majesty—I did not feel self-possessed enough, for the moment, to—

The King. But you were self-possessed enough when you said it! What did you mean by saying it was "the judgment of heaven"?—I am asking you what you meant by it.

The Priest. I really don't quite know—it slipped out—

The King. That is a lie! Some one said: "First of all her death, and then this." And you said: "It is the judgment of heaven."

The Mayor. That is quite right, your Majesty.

The King. First of all her death? That meant the death of my betrothed, didn't it?

Bang and The Priest. Yes, your Majesty.

The King. "And then this" meant my friend—my dear friend! (With emotion.) Why did heaven condemn these two to death? (A pause.)

The General. It is most regrettable that we should, quite involuntarily, have disturbed your Majesty at a moment when your Majesty's feelings are, naturally, so overcome—

The King (interrupting him). I asked you why heaven condemned these two to death. (To the VICAR.) You are a clergyman; cudgel your brains!

The Priest. Well, your Majesty, I was thinking that—I meant that—that heaven had in a miraculous way checked your Majesty—

The General. "Ventured to check" would be more suitable, I think.

The Priest.—from continuing in a course which many people thought so unfortunate—I mean, so fatal to the nation, and the church; had checked your Majesty—

The General (in an undertone). Ventured to check.

The Priest.—by taking away from your Majesty the two persons who—the two persons who—in the first place the one who—

The King. The one who—?

The Priest. Who was—

The King. Who was—? A harlot that wanted to sit on the throne?

The Priest. Those are your Majesty's word, not mine. (Wipes his forehead.)

The King. Confess that they express what you meant!

The Priest. I confess that I have heard—that people say—that—

The King. Pray to heaven that for a single day your thoughts may be as pure as hers were every day. (Bursts into tears. Then says impetuously.) How long have you been a clergyman?

The Priest. Fifteen years, your Majesty.

The King. Then you were already ordained at the time when I was leading a dissolute life. Why did you never say anything to me then?

The Priest. My most gracious King—

The King. God is the only "most gracious King"! Do not speak blasphemy!

The Priest. It was not my duty to—

The General. Our friend is not a court chaplain. He has merely a parish in the town here—

The Mayor. And his work lies chiefly among the factory hands.

The King. And so it is not your duty to speak the truth to me—but to attack my dear dead friends by prating about heaven's judgment and repeating vile lies? Is that your duty?

The Mayor. I only had the honour to know one of the—the deceased. Your Majesty honoured him with your friendship; the greatest honour a subject can enjoy. I should like to say that one would rarely find a nobler heart, a loftier mind, or more modest fidelity, than his.

The General. I should like, if I may make so bold, to make use of the opportunity chance has afforded me of associating myself with my sovereign's sorrow, a sorrow for which his whole people must feel the deepest respect, but especially those who, in consequence of their high position, are more particularly called upon to be the pillars of the monarchy; to use this opportunity, I say—and to do so, I know, as the representative of many thousands of your Majesty's subjects—to voice the sympathy, the unfeigned grief, that will be poured forth at the news of this new loss which has wrung your Majesty's heart—a loss which will reawaken consternation in the country and make it more than ever necessary to take the severest possible measures against a party to which nothing is sacred, neither the King's person nor the highest dignities of office nor the inviolability of the home—a party whose very existence depends on sedition and ought no longer to be tolerated, but ought, as the enemy of the throne and of society, to be visited with all the terrors of the law, until—

The King. What about compassion, my friend?

The General. Compassion?

The King. Not for the republicans—but for me!

The General. It is just the compassion which the whole nation will feel for your Majesty that compels me, in spite of everything, to invoke the intervention of justice at this particular crisis! Terror—

The King.—must be our weapon?

The General. Yes! Can any one imagine a more priceless proof of the care that a people have for their King, than for the gravely anxious tones of their voice to be heard, at this solemn moment, crying: Down with the enemies of the throne!

The King (turning away). No, I haven't thews and sinews for that lie!

The Mayor. I must say I altogether agree with the General. The feeling of affection, gratitude, esteem—

The General.—the legacy of devotion that your Majesty's ancestors of blessed memory—

The King (to the Priest). You, sir—what does my ancestors being "of blessed memory" mean?

The Priest (after a moment's thought). It is a respectful manner of alluding to them, your Majesty.

The King. A respectful lie, you mean. (A pause. ANNA comes out of the room on the left and throws herself at the KING'S feet, embracing his knees in despairing sorrow.) Ah, here comes a breath of truth!—And you come to me, my child, because you know that we two can mourn together. But I do not weep, as you do; because I know that for a long time he had been secretly praying for death. He has got his wish now. So you must not weep so bitterly. You must wish what he wished, you know. Ah, what grief there is in her eyes! (Sobs.)

(The GENERAL signs to the others that they should all withdraw quietly, without turning round. They gradually do so; but the KING looks up and perceives what they are doing.)

The General. Out of respect for your Majesty's grief, we were going to—

The King. Silence! With my hand on the head of this poor creature, who used to trust so unassumingly and devotedly to his goodness of heart, I wish to say something in memory of my friend. (ANNA clings to him, weeping. The others come respectfully nearer, and wait.) Gran was the richest man in the country. Why was it that he had no fear of the people? Why was it that he believed that its salvation lay in the overthrow of the present state of affairs?

Bang. Mr. Gran, with all his great qualities, was a visionary.

The King. He had not inherited all of his vast fortune; he had amassed a great part of it himself.

Bang. As a man of business, Mr. Gran was beyond all praise.

The King. And yet a visionary? The two things are absolutely contradictory.—You once called me "the padlock on your cash-box."

Bang. I allowed myself, with all respect, to make that jest—which, nevertheless, was nothing but the serious truth!

The King. Why did he, who has met his death, consider that the security for his cash-box came from those below him, as long as he did what was right, and not from those above him? Because he understood the times. No question of selfishness stood in the way of his doing that.—That is my funeral oration over him!—(To ANNA.) Get up, my dear! Did you understand what I was saying? Do not weep so! (She clings to him, sobbing.)

The Priest. He was a very great man! When your Majesty speaks so, I fully recognise it. But your Majesty may be certain that, though we may not have been so fortunate as to see so far ahead and so clearly—though our mental horizon may be narrow—we are none the less loyal to your Majesty for that, nor less devoted! It is our duty as subjects to say so, although your Majesty in your heaviness of heart seems to forget it-seems to forget that we, too, look for everything from your Majesty's favour, wisdom and justice. (Perspires freely.)

The King. It is very strange! My dear friend never said anything like that to me. (A pause.) He had the most prosperous business in the country. When I came to him and asked him to abandon it, he did so at once. And in the end he died for me. That is the sort of man he was. (To ANNA.) Go in to him, my dear! You are the very picture of dumb loyalty. Although I do not deserve to have such as you to watch by my side, still, for the sake of him who is dead, I shall have you to do so when I too—. (Breaks off.) Yes, yes, go in there now! I shall come. Do you understand? I shall come. (ANNA moves towards the other room.) There, that's it! (He repeats his words to her every time she looks back as she goes.) Yes, directly!—That's it!—In a very little while! Go now!

Bang. Excuse me, your Majesty, but it is terribly hot in here, and the affection of my heart which troubles me is attacking me painfully. Will your Majesty be pleased to allow me to withdraw?

The Mayor. With all respect, I should like to be allowed to make the same request. Your Majesty is obviously very much upset, and I am sure we are all unwilling that our presence—which, indeed, was unintentional and unsought by us—should augment a distress of mind which is so natural in one of your Majesty's noble disposition, and so inevitable considering the deep sense of gratitude your Majesty must feel towards a friend who—

The King (interrupting him). Hush, hush! Let us have a little respect for the truth in the presence of the dead! Do not misunderstand me—I do not mean to say that any of you would lie wilfully; but the atmosphere that surrounds a king is infected. And, as regards that—just a word or two. I have only a short time. But as a farewell message from me—

The Priest. A farewell message?

The King.—give my greeting to what is called Christianity in this country. Greet it from me! I have been thinking a great deal about Christian folk lately.

The Priest. I am glad to hear it!

The King. Your tone jars on me! Greet those who call themselves Christians—. Oh! come, come—don't crane your necks and bend your backs like that, as if the most precious words of wisdom were about to drop from my lips! (To himself.) Is it any use my saying anything serious to them? (Aloud.) I suppose you are Christians?

The General. Why, of course! Faith is invaluable—

The King.—in preserving discipline? (To the Mayor.) How about you?

The Mayor. I was taught by my parents, of blessed memory—

The King. Oh, so they are "of blessed memory" too, are they? Well, what did they teach you?

The Mayor. To fear God, honour the King—

The King.—and love the brotherhood! You are a public official, Mr. Mayor. That is what a Christian is, nowadays. (To BANG.) And you?

Bang. Of late I have been able to go so little to church, because of my cough. And in that unwholesome atmosphere—

The King.—you go to sleep. But you are a Christian?

Bang. Undoubtedly!

The King (to the Priest). And you are one, of course?

The Priest. By the grace of God I hope so!

The King (snapping his fingers). Yes, that is the regulation formula, my good fellow! You all answer by the card! Very well, then—you are a community of Christians; and it is not my fault if such a community refuses to take any serious interest in what really affects Christianity. Tell it from me that it ought to keep an eye on the monarchy.

The Priest. Christianity has nothing to do with such things. It concerns only the souls of men!

The King (aside). That voice. (Aloud.) I know—it does not concern itself with the air a patient breathes, but only with his lungs! Excellent!—All the same, Christianity ought to keep an eye on the monarchy. Ought to tear the falsehood away from it! Ought not to go in crowds to stare at a coronation in a church, like apes grinning at a peacock! I know what I felt at that moment. I had rehearsed it all once that morning already—ha, ha! Ask your Christianity if it may not be about time for it to interest itself a little in the monarchy? It seems to me that it scarcely ought any longer to allow monarchy, like a seductive harlot, to keep militarism before the people's eyes as an ideal—seeing that that is exactly contrary to the teachings of Christianity, or to encourage class divisions, luxury, hypocrisy and vanity. Monarchy has become so all-pervading a lie that it infects even the most upright of men.

The Mayor. But I don't understand, your Majesty!

The King. Don't you? You are an upright man yourself, Mr. Mayor—a most worthy man.

The Mayor. I do not know whether your Majesty is pleased to jest again?

The King. In sober earnest, I say you are one of the most upright of men.

The Mayor. I cannot tell your Majesty how flattered I am to hear your Majesty say so!

The King. Have you any decorations?

The Mayor. Your Majesty's government has not, so far, deigned to cast their eyes on me.

The King. That fault will be repaired. Be sure of that!

The General (to the Mayor). To have that from his Majesty's own mouth is equivalent to seeing it gazetted. I am fortunate to be able to be the first to congratulate you!

Bang. Allow me to congratulate you also!

The Priest. And me too! I have had the honour of working hand in hand with you, Mr. Mayor, for many years; I know how well deserved such a distinction is.

The Mayor. I feel quite overcome; but I must beg to be allowed to lay my thanks at your Majesty's feet. I trust I shall not prove unworthy of the distinction. One hesitates to make such confessions—but I am a candid man, and I admit that one of the chief aims of my ambition has been to be allowed some day to participate in—

The King (interrupting him).—in this falsehood. That just points my moral. As long as even upright men's thoughts run in that mould, Christianity cannot pretend to have any real hold on the nation. As for your decoration, you are quite sure to get one from my successor.—In a word, Christianity must tackle monarchy! And if it cannot tear the falsehood from it without destroying it, then let it destroy it!

The General. Your Majesty!

The King (turning to him). The same thing applies to a standing army, which is a creation of monarchy's. I do not believe that such an institution—with all its temptations to power, all its inevitable vices and habits—could be tolerated if Christianity were a living thing. Away with it!

The Priest. Really, your Majesty—!

The King (turning to him). The same applies to an established church—another of monarchy's creations! If we had in our country a Christianity worth the name, that salvation trade would stink in men's nostrils. Away with it!

The Mayor (reproachfully). Oh, your Majesty!

The King (turning on him). The same applies to the artificial disparity of circumstances that you prate about with tears in your eyes! I heard you once. Class distinctions are fostered by monarchy.

Bang. But equality is an impossibility!

The King. If you would only make it possible—which it can be made—even the socialists would cease to clamour for anything else. I tell you this: Christianity has destroyed ideals. Christianity lives on dogmas and formulas, instead of on ideals.

The Priest. Its ideals lead us away from earth to heaven—

The King. Not in a balloon, even if it were stuffed full of all the pages of the Bible! Christianity's ideals will lead to heaven only when they are realised on earth—never before.

The Priest. May I venture to say that Christianity's ideal is a pious life.

The King. Yes. But does not Christianity aim at more than that, or is it going to be content with making some few believers?

The Priest. It is written: "Few are chosen."

The King. Then it has given up the job in advance?

The Mayor. I think our friend is right, that Christianity has never occupied itself with such things as your Majesty demands of it.

The King. But what I mean is, could it not bring itself to do so?

The Priest. If it did, it would lose sight of its inner aim. The earliest communities are the model for a Christian people!

The King (turning away from him). Oh, have any model you like, so long as it leads to something!

The General. I must say I am astonished at the penetration your Majesty slows even into the deepest subjects.

Bang. Yes, I have never heard anything like it! I have not had the advantage of a university education, so I don't really understand it.

The King. And to think that I imagined that I should find my allies, my followers, in Christian people! One is so reluctant to give up all hope! I thought that a Christian nation would storm the strongholds of lies in our modern, so-called Christian communities—storm them, capture them!—and begin with monarchy, because that would need most courage, and because its falsehood lies deepest and goes farthest. I thought that Christianity would one day prove to be the salt of the earth. No, do not greet Christianity from me. I have said nothing, and do not mean it. I am what men call a betrayed man—betrayed by all the most ideal powers of life. There! Now I have done!

The General. But what does your Majesty mean? Betrayed? By whom? Who are the traitors? Really—!

The King. Pooh! Think it over!—As a matter of fact I am the only one that has been foolish.

Bang. Your Majesty, just now you were so full of vigour—!

The King. Don't let that astonish you, my friend! I am a mixture of enthusiasm and world-weariness; the scion of a decrepit race is not likely to be any better than that, you know! And as for being a reformer—! Ha, ha! Well, I thank you all for having listened to me so patiently. Whatever I said had no significance—except perhaps that, like the oysters, I had to open my shell before I died.—Good-bye!

The General. I really cannot find it in my heart to leave your Majesty when your Majesty is in so despondent a humour.

The King. I am afraid you will have to try, my gallant friend!—Don't look so dejected, Mr. Mayor!—Suppose some day serious-minded men should feel just as humiliated at such falsehoods existing as you do now because you have not been allowed to participate in them. I might perhaps be able to endure being king then! But as things are now, I am not strong enough for the job. I feel as if I had been shouldered out of actual life on to this strip of carpet that I am standing on! That is what my attempts at reform have ended in!

The Mayor. May I be allowed to say that the impression made on my mind by the somewhat painful scene we have just gone through is that your Majesty is overwrought.

The King. Mad, you mean?

The Mayor. God forbid I should use such a word of my King!

The King. Always punctilious!—Well, judging by the fact that every one else considers themselves sane, I must undoubtedly be the mad one. It is as simple as a sum in arithmetic.—And, in all conscience, isn't it madness, when all is said and done, to take such trifles so much to heart?—to bother about a few miserable superannuated forms that are not of the slightest importance?—a few venerable, harmless prejudices?—a few foolish social customs and other trumpery affairs of that sort?

The General. Quite so!

The Mayor. Your Majesty is absolutely right!

Bang. I quite agree!

The Priest. It is exactly what I have been thinking all the time.

The King. And probably we had better add to the list certain extravagant ideas—perhaps even certain dangerous ideas, like mine about Christianity?

The Priest (hastily and impressively). Your Majesty is mistaken on the subject of Christianity.

The Mayor. Christianity is entirely a personal matter, your Majesty.

The General. Your Majesty expects too much of it. Now, as a comfort for the dying—!

The King. And a powerful instrument of discipline.

The General (smiling). Ah, your Majesty!

Bang (confidentially). Christianity is no longer such a serious matter nowadays, except for certain persons—. (Glances at the PRIEST.)

The King. All I have to say on the head of such unanimous approval is this: that in such a shallow society, where there is no particular distinction between lies and truth, because most things are mere forms without any deeper meaning—where ideals are considered to be extravagant, dangerous things—it is not so very amusing to be alive.

The General. Oh, your Majesty! Really, you—! Ha, ha, ha!

The King. Don't you agree with me?—Ah, if only one could grapple with it!—but we should need to be many to do that, and better equipped than I am.

The General. Better equipped than your Majesty? Your Majesty is the most gifted man in the whole country!

All. Yes!

The General. Yes—your Majesty must excuse me—I spoke involuntarily!

The Mayor. There was a tone running through all your Majesty said that seemed to suggest that your Majesty was contemplating—. (Breaks off.)

The King.—going away? Yes.

All. Going away?

The General. And abdicating? For heaven's sake, your Majesty—!

Bang. That would mean handing us over to the crown prince—the pietist!

The Priest (betraying his pleasure in spite of himself). And his mother!

The King. You are pleased at the idea, parson! It will be a sight to see her and her son prancing along, with all of you in your best clothes following them! Hurrah!

The General. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!

Bang. Ha-ha-ha! (Coughs.) I get such a cough when I laugh.

The King (seriously). I had no intention of provoking laughter in the presence of death. I can hear the sounds of mourning through the open door.

The Mayor. With all due respect to the church—the vast majority of the nation have no desire for things to come to that—to the accession of a pietist to the throne. If your Majesty threatens to abdicate you will have us all at your feet.

The General (with decision). The accession of a new king just now would be universally considered a national calamity. I will wager my life on that!

Bang. And I too!

The King. My excellent friends—you must take the consequences of your actions!

The Mayor (despairingly). But this! Who ever imagined such a thing?

The General and Bang. No one—no one!

The King. So much the worse. What is it you are asking me to do? To stay where I am, so as to keep another man down? Is that work for a man? Shame!

The Mayor (in distress). We ask more than that! Your Majesty is making a fatal mistake! The whole of your Majesty's dissatisfaction springs from the fact that you believe yourself to be deserted by your people because the elections are going contrary to what your Majesty had hoped. Nothing is further from the truth! The people fight shy of revolutionary ideas; but they love their King!

Bang. They love their King!

The King. And that white dove, who came confidently to my hand—she had some experience of what their love was!

The Mayor. The King's associates may displease the people; ideas may alter; but love for their King endures!

The Others. Endures!

The King. Cease! Cease!

The General (warmly). Your Majesty may command us to do anything except refrain from giving utterance to a free people's freely offered homage of devotion, loyalty, and love for its royal house!

The Mayor (emotionally). There is no one who would not give his life for his King!

Bang, The General, and The Priest. No one!

The General. Try us! (They all press forward.)

The King. Done with you! (Takes a revolver from his pocket.) Since yesterday I have carried this little thing in my pocket. (They all look alarmed.)

The Priest. Merciful heavens!

The King (holding out the revolver to him). Will you die for me? If so, I will continue to be King.

The Priest. I? What does your Majesty mean? It would be a great sin!

The King. You love me, I suppose?

All (desperately). Yes, your Majesty!

The King. Those who love, believe. Therefore, believe me when I say this: If there is a single one of you who, without thinking twice about it, will die for his King now—here—at once—then I shall consider that as a command laid upon me to go on living and working.

The Mayor (in a terrified whisper). He is insane!

The General (whispers). Yes!

The King. I can hear you!—But I suppose you love your King, even if he is insane?

All (in agitated tones). Yes, your Majesty!

The King. Majesty, majesty! There is only One who has any majesty about Him—certainly not a madman! But if I have been driven mad by the lies that surround me, it would be a holy deed to make me sound again. You said you would die for me. Redeem your words! That will make me well again!—You, General?

The General. My beloved King, it would be—as our reverend friend so aptly put it—a most dreadful sin.

The King. You have let slip a splendid opportunity for showing your heroism.—You ought to have seen that I was only putting you to the test!—Good-bye! (Goes into the room on the left.)

The General. Absolutely insane!

The Others. Absolutely.

The Mayor. Such great abilities, too! What might not have been made of him!

Bang. The pity of it!

The Priest. I got so alarmed.

Bang. So did I! (A loud pistol-shot is heard.)

The Priest. Another shot? (A pitiful woman's cry is heard from the other room.)

The Mayor. What on earth was that?

Bang. I daren't think!

The Priest. Nor I! (An old woman rushes out of the room on the left, calling out: "Help!—Help!—The King!" and hurries out at the back, calling: "The King! Help, help!" The GENERAL and the MAYOR rush into the other room. Voices are heard outside asking: "The King?—Was it the King?" The confusion and uproar grows. In the midst of it ANNA comes stumbling out of the other room, her hands stretched out before her, as if she did not know where she was going. The noise and confusion grows louder every minute, and crowds of people come rushing into the room from outside as the Curtain falls.)