August Strindberg

(A Room in the Foundation Wall of the Church of St. Nicolaus at Stockholm (generally known as Greatchurch), used as a beer-shop. A bar full of pots and mugs occupies the background. To the right of the bar stands a table, back of which appears an iron door. Two disguised friars (MÅrten and Nils) are seated at this table drinking beer. The other tables are surrounded by German mercenaries, peasants, and sailors. The door to the street is at the right. A fiddler is seated on top of a barrel. The soldiers are throwing dice. All are drunk and noisy. Hans Windrank, a man from SmÅland, a German tradesman, and a Dane are seated together at one of the tables.)

German (to the Dane). So you defend a bloodthirsty brute like Christian?

Dane. Oh, mercy, he's human, isn't he?

German. Not, he's a monster! A bloodthirsty brute! A treacherous, cowardly Dane!

Dane. Zounds! But you'd better not talk of blood. Do you remember the massacre on KÄppling Island, when the Germans—

Windrank. Listen to me, good Sirs! Let's be friends now, and have some fun, and I'll tell you about Americky.

German. Are you going to blame us of LÜbeck for what the Germans did?

Dane. Oh, mercy, I was talking of the Germans only—

Windrank. Listen, good Sirs, what's the use of quarrelling? (To the Tavern-keeper.) Four noggins of gin! Now let's be calm and agreeable, and I'll tell you of Americky. (They are served.)

German (sipping). A noble drink! Think of it, good Sirs, how everything is advancing. To-day the grain is growing in the field—

Windrank. And to-morrow it's made into wine. I wonder who first found out how it's done?

German. Beg your pardon, but that's a German invention. I call it invention, because you discover Americky.

Windrank. And the Germans never make any discoveries?

German. 'Sdeath!

Windrank. Now, now! You're no German, you said.

Dane (to the German). Can you tell the who invented the story that the Swedes got their present king from the Germans? (General laughter.)

German. It was we of LÜbeck what gave Sweden a liberator when she was on the verge of ruin.

Windrank. Here's to the King!

Dane. Here's to LÜbeck!

German (flattered). Really I don't know how to—

Windrank. Why, you aren't the King!

German. Beg your pardon, but it was my Danish brother's—

Dane. How can you be of LÜbeck when you are a citizen of Stockholm?

Windrank (to the Man from SmÅland). Why won't our silent brother drink at all?

Man from SmÅland. I'll drink your corn-juice, but when it comes to the King's health, I do like this! (He crushes the tin cup and throws it on the floor.)

Windrank (groping with one hand for his sheath knife.) You won't drink the King's health?

Man from SmÅland. I've been drinking the cup he offered me so long that I don't care to drink his health any longer.

Windrank. 'Sblood!

German (eagerly). Hush, hush! Let's hear what he's got to say.

Dane (in the same way). Mercy, yes!

A Man from SmÅland. The Lord help me when I get home again!

Windrank (sentimentally). What is it, my dear man? Why do you look so sad? Do you need money? Look here, now! (He pulls out his purse.) I've half my wages left. What's the matter with you?

Man from SmÅland. Don't let us talk about it. More gin! Gin here! I've money, too. Do you see? Gold! (The liquor is served). It isn't mine, but I'll spend it on drink to the last farthing, and you'll please help me.

Windrank. And yet it isn't your money—how can you do that?

German. Who's wronged you, my dear fellow? I can see that you have fared badly.

A Man from SmÅland I am ruined! You see, I got two hundred oxen on trust, and when I came to Stockholm the King's agent took charge of the whole business, and he said I couldn't sell them for more than he allowed. It's the King that fixes the price on oxen—it's the King that has ruined me.

German. You don't say!

Man from SmÅland. Oh, I know a lot more. He means to take the priests and the monks away from us in order to give everything to the gentlefolk.

Dane. To the gentlefolk?

Man from SmÅland. Exactly! I wish King Christian—God bless him!—had cut off a few more heads.

Windrank. Well, is the King like that? I thought he had those noble fellows by the ear.

Man from SmÅland. He? No, he lets them be born with the right to cut oak on my ground, if I had any. For I did have a patch of land once, you see, but then came a lord who said that my great-grandmother had taken it all in loan from his great-grandfather, and so there was an end to that story.

German. Why, is the King like that? I would never have believed it.

Man from SmÅland. Indeed he is! Those high-born brats run around with their guns in our woods and pick off the deer out of sheer mischief, but if one of us peasants were dying from hunger and took a shot at one of the beasts—well, then he wouldn't have to starve to death, for they'd hang him—but not to an oak—Lord, no! That would be a shame for such a royal tree. No, just to an ordinary pine. The pine, you see, has no crown, and that's why it isn't royal—and that's why the old song says:

It has nothing to say about crowns, mind you.

German. But the pine carries its head high just the same, and its back is straight.

Man from SmÅland. Drink, good Sirs! You're right welcome to 't. It's a blessed drink. If only I didn't have wife and children at home! Oh, my, my, my! But that's all one! Oh, I know a lot more, but I know how to keep it to myself, too.

Windrank. What do you know?

German. Maybe it's something diverting?

Man from SmÅland. You see—if you counted all the pines of SmÅland, I think you'd find a whole lot more of them than of oaks.

German. You think so?

Windrank. I don't like you to talk badly of the King. I don't know what he is doing or saying, and it isn't my business either, but I know he takes good care of the shipping trade. Yes, it's he who has put ships on the Spanish trade, and who has made me a skipper, and so I've got no fault to find with him.

German. He has done it out of sheer deviltry, just to hurt the trade of LÜbeck—of LÜbeck, to which he owes such a great debt!

Man from SmÅland. Well, he'll get what he deserves! A steer doesn't lose his horns when you make an ox of him. Many thanks for your company. Now I've got to go.

German. Oh, no! Just one more noggin—and then we can talk a little more.

Man from SmÅland. No, thanks, though I'm sure it's good of you, but that's all I dare take, for otherwise I fear this will end badly. I've wife and children at home, you see, and now I'm going home—to tell them we're ruined—no—I don't dare to—I'm much obliged, Mr. German—let's drink some more.

German. That's right! (They drink.)

Man from SmÅland (emptying his cup and jumping up). Oh, damn the bitter stuff! [Exit, staggering.]

German (to the Dane). O Lord—when that fellow wakes up!

(The Dane nods assent. The noise has been steadily increasing. The fiddler is playing. Then the organ begins to play in the church.)

Windrank. It's strange, I think, that the King lets them have a drinkshop in the church wall.

German. Does it hurt your conscience, skipper? The King doesn't know it, you see.

Windrank. But they don't go together, the organ music and the singing in here. I've always been a God-fearing man, ever since I was at home.

German (ironically). Happy the man brought up in that way! You had a mother—

Windrank (moved). Yes—yes!

German. Who tucked you up nights and taught you to say: "Now I lay me down to sleep."

Windrank. That's it!

German. And a fine woman she was!

Windrank (on whom the drink is beginning to show its effect.) Oh, if you only knew!

German. The Lord has heard her prayers. You're weeping. So you must be a good man.

Dane. Dear me!

German. If your mother could only see you now—with those tears in your eyes!

Windrank. Oh, I know I'm a poor miserable sinner—I know it! But I tell you—I've got a heart, damn it! Just let a poor wretch come and tell me he is hungry, and I'll take off my own shirt and give it to him.

German. How about another drink?

Windrank. No, I don't think so.

(Several blows are struck on the iron door from the outside, causing general excitement.)

Windrank. God-a-mercy!

German. Don't get scared. That's not the gate of heaven.

Windrank. I'll never drink another drop—I vow and swear!

German (to the Dane). What a blessed drink gin must be, seeing it can move a rogue like that to sentimentality—nay, even to thoughts of sobriety.

Dane. You're right. There is nothing like it.

German. It opens the heart wide and closes the head. Which means that it makes good people of us, for those are called good, you know, who have much heart and little head.

Dane. I'd go still farther. Gin makes us religious. For it kills reason, and reason is the rock that keeps religion from entering our hearts.

German. Most holy is gin! Strange that—

Dane. You need say no more!

(More blows are struck on the iron door.)

Windrank (who has fallen asleep, is awakened by the blows). Help! I die!

German. What a pity to lose such a sweet soul!

(The door is pushed open so that the table at which MÅrten and Nils are seated is upset together with the mugs and cups on it. A woman wearing a red and black skirt, with a nun's veil thrown over her head, comes running into the room. For a moment Gert can be seen in the doorway behind her, but the door is immediately closed again.)

Harlot (with a startled glance at her surroundings). Save me! The people want to kill me!

A German Mercenary. A harlot under a nun's veil! Ha-ha-ha! (General laughter.)

MÅrten (making the sign of the cross). A harlot! Who dares to bring her into this respectable company? Master taverner, take her out of here, or she'll hurt the good name of the place and the sanctity of the church.

Harlot. Will nobody here save me? (In the meantime the tavern-keeper has seized her by the arm to lead her into the street.) Don't give me into the hands of that furious mob! I wanted to steal into the Lord's house that I might share in His grace—I wanted to start a new life—but the monks drove me out and set the people on me—until Father Gert came and saved me.

MÅrten. You can hear for yourselves. She has polluted the Lord's temple. She wants to hide the garment of shame beneath the veil of sanctity.

German. And there isn't enough of the veil.

MÅrten (approaching the woman to tear the veil from her face). Off with the mask, and let your abomination be seen by all! (He draws back when he catches sight of her face.)

Harlot. So it's you, MÅrten—you murderer!

German. Old chums!

MÅrten. That's a shameless lie! I never have seen her before. I am Brother MÅrten, of the Dominicans, and Brother Nils here can be my witness.

Nils (intoxicated). I can testify—that Brother MÅrten has never seen this woman.

Harlot. And yet it was you, Nils, who showed me MÅrten's letter of absolution when I was driven out of the convent and he was permitted to stay.

Nils. Yes—come to think of it!

MÅrten (in a rage, pulling Nils by the sleeve). You're lying—you, too! Can't you see he is drunk?

German. My dear folks, I can testify that the reverend brother is drunk, and that's why he is lying!

Crowd (with signs of disgust). A drunken priest!

German. Well, booze is absolution for lying. Isn't that so, Father MÅrten?

Tavern-keeper. Really, I can't let my house be the meeting-place for any kind of disturbance. If this goes on, I'll lose my customers and get hauled before the Chapter. Won't you please take away that miserable creature who's causing all this noise?

MÅrten. Take her out, or I'll have you all banned! Don't you know that we are now within the consecrated walls of the church, although the Chapter allows this outhouse to be used for the material refreshment of travellers?

German. Surely this room is holy, good folk, and surely the Lord doth dwell here.

(The crowd begins to drag the Harlot toward the street door.)

Harlot. Jesus Christ, help me!

[Enter Olof. He appears in the door, and pushes through the crowd until he reaches the Harlot, whose hand he takes so that he can pull her away from the drunken men about her.]

Olof. Answer me—who is this woman?

MÅrten. She's no woman.

Olof. What do you mean?

MÅrten. She is no man either, although she's disguised.

Olof. "She," you say—and yet not a woman?

MÅrten. She's a harlot.

Olof (shocked, drops the woman's hand). A harlot!

German. Don't let go of her, Master Olof, or she'll run away.

Olof. Why are you laying hands on her? What is her crime?

German. Going to church.

Olof. I see! (He looks around.)

MÅrten. What are you looking for?

Olof (catching sight of MÅrten). A priest!

MÅrten. I am a Black Friar.

Olof. Yes, I guessed that much. So it's you who have incited the people against her?

MÅrten. I am protecting the church from foulness and trying to keep it free of vice. She is a banned woman, who has been trafficking with her own body, which should be a temple of the Lord. (The woman kneels before Olof.)

Olof (taking her by the hand). But I, Dominican, dare to take her hand and match her against you. She has sold her body, you say—how many souls have you bought?—I am also a priest—Nay, I am a man, for I am not presumptuous enough to put a lock on God's own house, and as a sinful human creature I hold out my hand to my fellow-creature, who cannot be pure either. Let him who is without sin step forward and cast the first stone.—Step forward, Brother MÅrten, you angel of light, who have donned the black garments of innocence and shaved your hair so that no one may see how you have grown gray in sin! Or have you no stone ready, perhaps? Alas for you, then! What have you done with those you were to hand the people when they were crying for bread? Have you already given them all away?—Step forward, you highly respectable citizen. (To Windrank, who is asleep on the floor.) You, who are sleeping the sleep of a brute, why don't you wake up and fling your knife at her?—Do you see how he is blushing? Can it be from shame at the bad company you have brought him into, or from carnal desire? (The crowd mutters disapprovingly.) You are muttering! Is that because you are ashamed of my words or of yourselves? Why don't you cast the stones? Oh, you haven't any. Well, open that door. Summon the people outside and hand this woman over to them. If you don't think fifty men have power enough to tear her to pieces, you maybe sure that five hundred women will avail. Well? You are silent?—Rise up, woman! You have been acquitted. Go and sin no more. But don't show yourself to the priests, for they will deliver you up to the women!

MÅrten (who has tried to interrupt Olof several times, but has been held back by the German, now displays a document). This man, to whom you have been listening, is a heretic, as you may have heard from his talk, and he has also been t excommunicated. Here you can see! Read for yourselves! (He takes one of the candles from the nearest table and throws it on the floor.) "As this candle, that we here cast out, is extinguished, so shall be extinguished all his happiness and weal and whatsoever good may come to him from God!"

Crowd (draws back, making the sign of the cross, so that Olof is left alone with the Harlot in the middle of the room). Anathema!

MÅrten (to the Harlot). There you can hear how much Master Olof's absolution avails you.

Olof (who has been taken aback for a moment). Do you still dare to trust my word, woman? Are you not afraid of me? Can you not hear the lightnings of the ban hissing around our heads? Why don't you join these twenty righteous ones who still remain within the refuge of Holy Church?—Answer me! Do you think the Lord has cast me out as these have done?

Harlot. No!

Olof (seizing the letter of excommunication). Well, then! The great bishop of the small city of LinkÖping has sold my soul to Satan for the term of my life—for farther than that his power does not reach—and he has done so because I bade the people seek their Lord when they had been prohibited from doing so! Here is the contract! As the Church, by that contract, has bound me to hell, so I set myself free from it (he tears the letter to pieces)—and from the ban of the Church, too! So help me God! Amen!

Crowd (howling). Anathema!

MÅrten. Down with him! At him! He is banned!

Olof (placing himself in front of the Harlot). Do you hear the devils yelling for their victim?—Dare not to touch me!

MÅrten. At him! Down with him!

[Just as one of the mercenaries raises his weapon to strike, the iron door in the rear is flung open, and the Anabaptists, headed by Knipperdollink, come rushing in, uttering wild cries. They carry broken crucifixes and images of saints as well as torn vestments. All those in the room before are forced toward the street door.]

Knipperdollink (as he pushes back the iron door and enters ahead of the rest). Come here, folk—here's another sanctum!—What's this? A drinkshop in the temple!—Look ye! Look ye—the abomination has gone so far that the tabernacle itself is being polluted. But I will cleanse it with fire. Set fire to the church and prepare a stake for the saints!

Olof (stepping forward). Consider what you propose to do!

Knipperdollink. Are you afraid that the beer kegs will burst from the heat, you Belial? Are you the popish tapster who thought it not robbery to build vice a chapel in the very wall of the church?

Olof. I am the Secretary of the Court-House, and I command you in the name of the King to keep order!

Knipperdollink. So you are the man whom the King has sent here to make war on our sacred cause? Onward, onward, ye men of God, and seize him first of all! Afterwards we'll cleanse the temple of the Lord from idolatry.

MÅrten. Go at him, good folk, for he's a heretic and under the ban!

Knipperdollink. A heretic? You are not one of the papists, then?

Olof. Since they have banned me, I can no longer be of the Church.

Knipperdollink. Then you are on our side? (Olof remains silent.) Answer: are you with us or against us?

MÅrten. He's Olof Pedersson, the man that was sent here by the King.

Knipperdollink. Are you Olof Pedersson?

Olof. I am.

Knipperdollink. But a heretic?

Olof. I pride myself on being one.

Knipperdollink. And yet take service with the King?

Olof. Yes!

(The Anabaptists raise an outcry and surround Olof.)

[Enter Gert quickly through the door in the rear.]

Gert. Hold! What are you doing?

Knipperdollink. Gert!—Who is this man?

Gert. One of our own. Let him go, friends! Over there you see the emissaries of the Devil!

(He points to MÅrten and Nils, who flee through the street door, closely pursued by the Anabaptists. At the door Gert stops and turns toward Olof. The Harlot is crouching in a corner of the room. Windrank is still sleeping under one of the tables. Olof is standing in the middle of the floor, sunk in deep thought.)

Gert (exhausted, throws himself on a bench). It's heavy work, Olof.

Olof. What have you been doing?

Gert. Oh, a little house-cleaning, to begin with.

Olof. For which you will pay dearly.

Gert. So far we have the upper hand. The whole city has been roused. Rink is at work in St. George's Chapel. Tell me, has the King sent you to oppose us?

Olof. He has.

Gert. That was a most sensible thing to do!

Olof. To-morrow I am to preach from the new pulpit.

Gert. Do you call this fulfilling your royal mission? Here you are, still standing with your arms folded.

Olof. Come to church to-morrow with your brethren.

Gert. Is it going to be an archipapal sermon?

Olof. I have been put under the ban to-day.

Gert (jumps up and puts his arms around Olof). God bless you, Olof! That is indeed the baptism of new birth!

Olof. I don't understand you yet. Why do you carry on like wild beasts? You seem to be outraging all that is held sacred.

Gert (picking up the broken image of a saint). Do you call this fellow holy? A St. Nicolaus, I think. Can it be possible, then, that Jesus Christ has come down and lived among us to no purpose, as we are still worshipping logs of wood? Can this be a god, which I can break to pieces? See!

Olof. But he is sacred to the people.

Gert. So was the golden calf, and so was Zeus; so were Thor and Odin, too. And yet they were struck down. (Catches sight of the Harlot.) Who's that woman? Oh, the one I tried to save by sending her in here. Tell me one thing, Olof. Have you been bought by the King?

Olof. Leave me, Gert! I hate you!

Gert. Who's that pig asleep over there?

Olof. When I face you, I seem to shrink. Leave me! I want to do my own work, and not yours.

Gert. Listen!

Olof. You are trying to confuse my fate with your own.

Gert. Listen!

Olof. You have surrounded me with an invisible net. You have proclaimed me an Anabaptist. How am I going to face the King?

Gert. Which king?

Olof. King Gustaf!

Gert. Oh, that one!—Well, good-bye, then, Olof.—So you're going to preach to-morrow?—Why doesn't that woman go her way?—Good-bye! [Exit.]

Olof. Is that man running errands for God or for Satan?

Harlot (approaches Olof and kneels before him). Let me thank you!

Olof. Give thanks for God alone for having saved your soul, and don't think that all your sins have been expiated to-day. Try to find strength to live a life that will always be cursed. God has forgiven you—your fellow-men will never do so! (He takes her by the hand and leads her to the street door.)

[Enter MÅrten through the doorway in the rear, followed by Olof's Mother and Christine, the daughter of Gert.]

MÅrten. We're in the wrong place, I fear.

Mother (outraged at seeing Olof and the Harlot together). Olof, Olof!

Christine. Who is that woman? She looks so unhappy.

MÅrten. Let us get away from this den of iniquity!

Olof (turning and running toward the iron door, which is closed in his face by MÅrten). Mother! Mother!

(The Same Room. The door to the church is opened cautiously, and The Sexton, who is also the organ-blower, enters warily. He carries a lantern and is followed by his Wife.)

Sexton. Catherine dear, will you hold the lantern a moment while I put on the padlock?

Wife. First we must have a look at all this wretchedness, Bengt dear. Never could I have believed that the public-house was so near to us. It's perfectly dreadful! Look—whole barrels full of beer!

Sexton. And gin, too. Don't you smell it? It will give me a headache if I stay much longer.

Wife. Lord have mercy, what a sinful life they must have lived in here!

Sexton. Catherine dear!

Wife. Yes, dear.

Sexton. Do you know I am not feeling quite well. This place is so damp and cold.

Wife. Perhaps we had better go home?

Sexton. Oh, I think I must sit down and rest on the bench here.

Wife. You shouldn't sit down in all this dampness and cold. Let us get back into the church.

Sexton. No, I think it was still colder out there.

Wife. You haven't a fever, have you?

Sexton. I almost think I have—I'm so hot.

Wife. Maybe you want something to drink?

Sexton. That wouldn't be a bad thing, perhaps.

Wife. I'll see if there is any water around.

Sexton. Don't think you'll find any in this kind of a hole.

Wife. But you can't drink beer if you have a fever.

Sexton. Do you know, I think the fever has passed away. Now I'm feeling cold.

Wife. I'll see if I can't find some small beer.

Sexton. It has to be pretty strong, I think, if it's to do any good. There's a keg of Rostock No. 4 over there—marked A. W., don't you see?

Wife (searching). I can't find it. Here's an Amsterdam No. 3.

Sexton. Can't you see—up there on the fourth shelf at the right? (His wife continues to look.) The tap is lying to the left of it, right by the funnel.

Wife. I don't think it's there.

Sexton. Just as if I didn't know!

Wife. Yes, here it is.

(The Sexton gets up to help his wile and accidentally steps on Windrank.)

Windrank (waking up). Mercy! Jesu Christ! St. Peter and St. Paul! Ferdinand and Isabella, and St. George and the Dragon, and all the rest! And ires dire glories in excellence, and deuces tecum vademecum Christ Jesu, and birds of a feather, and now I lay me down to sleep, and a child is born for you to keep—Amen! Amen!—Who's stepping on my windbag?

Sexton (frightened). Will you please tell me whether you are a man or a ghost?

Windrank. Man most of the time, but just now I'm a beast.

Sexton. What kind of a man, if I may ask?

Windrank. A shipman—which is nor reason why you should blow all the wind out of me.

Sexton. But that's my business, you know—I blow the bellows of the big organ.

Windrank. So it was the organ-blower who honored me—

Sexton. The sexton, to put it right; but I also keep an old-clothes shop in the church wall.

Windrank. So you're organ-blower, sexton, and shopkeeper—

Sexton. In one person—without confusion or transformation—

Windrank. That's a most respectable trinity.

Sexton. Such things should not be made fun of!

Windrank. Oh, my, my! I'm drowning! Help!

Sexton. Lord, what is it?

Windrank. There's a whole river coming—Ugh!

Sexton. Catherine dear! Where are you, my angel? (He runs to look for her.) Jesu, but you must have scared my wife out of her wits. She has run away from the keg—and taken the tap along! Get up—up with you, and let us leave this godless hole!

Windrank. No, my dear fellow, I'm in my element now, so I think I'll stay.

Sexton. Goodness, the clock is striking twelve, and the ghosts will be coming!

Windrank (jumping to his feet). That's a different story! (The Sexton guides Windrank toward the door.) Listen, sexton—I'm beginning to have strong doubts about the trinity.

Sexton. Well, I declare!

Windrank. It's your trinity I'm thinking of.

Sexton. What do you mean, master skipper?

Windrank. I think there must be four of you, after all.

Sexton. Four—of whom?

Windrank. How about the tapster? Shouldn't he be counted, too?

Sexton. Hush, man! That's only nights.

(Both stumble over the broken image of St. Nicolaus and fall down.)

Windrank. Mercy! Ghosts! Jesu Maria, help!

Sexton (rising and picking up the image). Well, if that isn't enough to make your hair stand on end! Here's St. Nicolaus broken all to pieces and swimming in the beer. It has come to a fine pass when divine things are defiled like that—I don't think the world will last much longer—when such things can be done in the dry tree—

Windrank (having recovered). In the wet one, you mean.

Sexton. Keep still, blasphemer! St. Nicolaus is my patron saint. I was born on his day.

Windrank. That's probably why both of you like beer.

Sexton. Yes, it's in the fashion now to be heretical!

Windrank. It's in the air, I think, for otherwise I'm a most God-fearing man. But never mind, I'll have St. Nicolaus glued together for you.

Sexton (calling into the church). Catherine!

Windrank. Hush, hush, man! You'll make the ghosts appear!

Sexton. A plague on your tongue! [Exeunt.]

(The Sacristy of the Church of St. Nicolaus. There is a door leading to the church, and another, smaller one, leading to the pulpit. The walls are hung with chasubles and surplices. Priedieus and a few small chests are standing about. The sunlight is pouring in through a window. The church bells are heard ringing. Through the wall at the left can be heard a constant murmuring. The Sexton and his Wife enter, stop near the door, and pray silently.)

Sexton. That's enough! Now, Catherine dear, you'd better hurry up and do some dusting.

Wife. Oh, there's no special occasion. It's nobody but that Master Olof who's going to preach to-day. Really, I can't see why the Chapter allows it.

Sexton. Because he's got permission from the King, you see.

Wife. Well, well!

Sexton. And then he has had a sort of basket built out from the wall—nothing but new-fangled tricks! It's all on account of that man Luther.

Wife. I suppose we'll have the same kind of trouble that we had yesterday. I thought they were going to pull the whole church down.

Sexton (carrying a glass of water up to the pulpit). I'm sure the poor fellow will need something to wet his whistle to-day.

Wife. Well, I shouldn't bother, if I were you.

Sexton (speaking from the pulpit). Catherine—here he comes!

Wife. Goodness gracious, and the sermon bell hasn't rung yet! Well, I suppose they won't ring it for a fellow like him.

[Enter Olof, looking serious and solemn. He crosses to one of the prie-dieus and kneels on it. The Sexton comes down from the pulpit and takes from the wall a surplice which he holds out to Olof.]

Olof (rising). The peace of the Lord be with you!

[The Wife curtseys and leaves the room. The Sexton holds out the vestment again.]

Olof. Leave it hanging!

Sexton. Don't you want any robe?

Olof. No.

Sexton. But it's always used. And the handkerchief?

Olof. Never mind.

Sexton. Well, I declare!

Olof. Will you please leave me alone, my friend?

Sexton. You want me to get out? But as a rule, I—

Olof. Do me the favor, please!

Sexton. Oh, well! Of course! But first I want to tell you that you'll find the missal to the right of you as you get up, and I have put in a stick so you'll know where to open it, and there is a glass of water beside the book. And you mustn't forget to turn the hour-glass, or it may chance you'll keep it up a little too long—

Olof. Don't worry! There will be plenty of people to tell me when to quit.

Sexton. Mercy, yes—beg your pardon! But you see, we've got our own customs here.

Olof. Tell me, what is that depressing murmur we hear?

Sexton. It's some pious brother saying prayers for a poor soul. [Exit.]

Olof. "Thou therefore gird up thy loins and arise, and speak unto them all that I command thee."—God help me! (He drops on his knees at a prie-dieu; there he finds a note, which he reads.) "Don't preach to-day; your life is in danger."—The Tempter himself wrote that! (He tears the note to pieces.)

[Enter Olof's Mother.]

Mother. You are straying from the right path, my son.

Olof. Who knows?

Mother. I know! But as your mother I reach out my hand to you. Turn back!

Olof. Where would you lead me?

Mother. To godliness and virtue.

Olof. If godliness and virtue are vested in papal decrees, then I fear it is too late.

Mother. It isn't only a question of what you teach, but of how you live.

Olof. I know you are thinking of my company last night, but I am too proud to answer you. Nor do I think it would do any good.

Mother. Oh, that I should be thus rewarded for the sacrifice I made when I let you go out into the world and study!

Olof. By heaven, your sacrifice shall not be wasted! It is you, mother, I have to thank for this day when at last I can stand forth with a free countenance and speak the words of truth.

Mother. How can you talk of truth, you who have made yourself a prophet of lies?

Olof. Those are hard words, mother!

Mother. Or perhaps I and my forbears have lived and worshipped and died in a lie?

Olof. It wasn't a lie, but it has become one. When you were young, mother, you were right, and when I grow old—well, perhaps I may find myself in the wrong. One cannot keep apace with the times.

Mother. I don't understand!

Olof. This is my one sorrow—the greatest one of my life: that all I do and say with the purest purpose must appear to you a crime and sacrilege.

Mother. I know what you mean to do, Olof—I know what error you have fallen into—and I cannot hope to persuade you out of it, for you know so much more than I do, and I am sure that the Lord will put you on the right path again—but I ask you to take care of your own life, so that you won't plunge headlong into perdition! Don't risk your life!

Olof. What do you mean? They won't kill me in the pulpit, will they?

Mother. Haven't you heard that Bishop Brask wants the Pope to introduce the law that sends all heretics to the stake?

Olof. The inquisition?

Mother. Yes, that's what they call it.

Olof. Leave me, mother! To-day I must stand up and preach.

Mother. You shall not do it.

Olof. Nothing can prevent me.

Mother. I have prayed to God that He would touch your heart—I'll tell you, but you mustn't speak of it to anybody. I am weak with age, and I couldn't trust my own knees, so I went to see a servant of the Lord and asked him, who is nearer to God, to say some prayers for your soul. He refused because you are under the ban. Oh, it's dreadful! May the Lord forgive me my sin! I bribed the pure conscience of that man with gold—with the Devil's own gold—just to save you!

Olof. Mother, what do I hear? It can't be possible!

Mother (takes Olof by the hand and leads him over to the left, close to the wall). Listen! Do you hear? He is praying for you now in the chapel next to this room.

Olof. So that was the murmur I heard! Who is he?

Mother. You know him—Brother MÅrten, of the Dominicans—

Olof. You get Satan to say prayers for me!—Forgive me, mother—I thank you for your good intention, but—

Mother (on her knees, weeping). Olof! Olof!

Olof. Don't ask me! A mother's plea might tempt the angels of heaven to recant!—Now the hymn is ended: I must go! The people are waiting.

Mother. You'll send me into my grave, Olof!

Olof (passionately). The Lord will resurrect you! (Kissing her hand.) Don't talk to me any more—I don't know what I am saying!

Mother. Listen! Listen! The people are muttering!

Olof. I'm coming! I'm coming! He who protected Daniel in the lions' den will also protect me!

(Olof ascends the stairs leading to the pulpit. Throughout the ensuing scenes a man's voice can be heard speaking with great power, but no words can be distinguished. After a while mutterings are heard, which change into loud cries.)

[Enter Christine.]

Christine. Mother, did you see him?

Mother. Are you here, child? I asked you to stay at home!

Christine. Why shouldn't I visit the house of the Lord? There is something you hide from me!

Mother. Go home, Christine!

Christine. May I not hear Olof preach? It's the word of God, isn't it, mother? (The Mother remains silent.) You don't answer? What does it mean? Hasn't Olof permission to preach? Why do the people out there look so mysterious? They were muttering when I came.

Mother. Don't ask me! Go home and thank God for your ignorance!

Christine. Am I a child, then, since nobody dares to tell me—

Mother. Your soul is still pure, and nobody must defile it. What place is there for you in the battle?

Christine. Battle? I thought so!

Mother. Yes, here the battle rages, and so you must get out of the way. You know our lot when the men go to war.

Christine. But let me first know what it is all about. Not to know anything at all makes me so unhappy. I see nothing but a dreadful darkness, and shadows that are moving about—Give me light, so that I may see clearly! Perhaps I know these ghostly shallows?

Mother. You will shudder when you see who they are.

Christine. It is better to shudder than to be tormented by this horrible calm.

Mother. Don't pray for the cloud to flash forth lightning: it may destroy you!

Christine. You frighten me! But tell me the truth—I must know—or I shall ask some one else.

Mother. Are you firm in your decision to withdraw within the sacred walls of the convent?

Christine. My father wishes it.

Mother. You hesitate? (Christine does not answer.) There is some tie that holds you back.

Christine. You know?

Mother. I know, and tell you to break it!

Christine. It will soon be impossible.

Mother. I will save you, child, for you can still be saved. I will offer the Lord the greatest sacrifice of all if a single soul can be saved from perdition—my son!

Christine. Olof?

Mother. He's lost, I tell you, and I, his mother, have to tell you so!

Christine. Lost?

Mother. He is a prophet of lies. The Devil has taken possession of his soul.

Christine (passionately). It isn't true!

Mother. God grant that you are right!

Christine. Why—why haven't you told me this before?—But, of course, it's a lie! (She goes to the door leading into the church and pushes it ajar.) Look at him, mother—there he is! Can that be an evil spirit speaking out of his mouth? Can that be a hellish flame burning in his eyes? Can lies be told with trembling lips? Does darkness shed light—can't you see the halo about his head? You are wrong! I feel it within me! I don't know what he preaches—I don't know what he denies—but he is right! He is right, and the Lord is with him!

Mother. You don't know the world, my child. You don't know the tricks of the Devil. Beware! (She pulls Christine away from the door.) You mustn't listen to him. There is no strength in your soul, and he's the apostle of Antichrist!

Christine. Who is Antichrist?

Mother. He is a Luther!

Christine. You have never told me who Luther is, but if Olof is his apostle, then Luther must be a great man.

Mother. Luther is possessed of the Devil!

Christine. Why didn't you tell me before? Now I can't believe you!

Mother. I am telling you now—Alas, I wanted to save you from the world's wickedness, and so I kept you in ignorance—

Christine. I don't believe you! Let me go! I must see him—I must listen to him—for he doesn't talk like the rest.

Mother. Jesus, my Saviour! Are you, too, possessed by the unclean spirit?

Christine (at the door). "Bind not the souls," he said—did you hear? "You are free, for the Lord has set you free." See how the people shudder at his words—now they rise up—they mutter. "You want no freedom—woe unto you! For that is the sin against the Holy Ghost!"

[Enter Sexton.]

Sexton. I don't think it's well for you to stay here any longer, my good ladies. The people are getting restless. This will never end well for Master Olof.

Mother. Jesu Maria! What are you saying?

Christine. Fear not! The spirit of the Lord is with him!

Sexton. Well, I don't know about that, but he's a wonder at preaching. Old sinner that I am, I couldn't keep from crying where I was sitting in the organ-loft. I don't understand how it can be possible for a heretic and an Antichrist to talk like that. That man Luther, I must say, I—(Cries are heard from the church.) There, there! Now something dreadful is going to happen again! And to think that the King should be gone just now!

Mother. Let us get away from here. If the Lord is with him, they can do him no harm. If it be the Devil—then Thy will be done, O Lord—but forgive him!

(Cries are heard outside. Exeunt the Mother, Christine, and the Sexton. For a few moments the stage stands empty and Olof's voice is heard more clearly than before. It is interrupted by cries and the rattling of stones thrown at the pulpit. Christine returns alone, locks the door on the inside, and falls on her knees at a prie-dieu. A number of violent blows are directed against the door from without, while the tumult in the church continues to increase. Then silence is restored, as Olof descends from the pulpit. His forehead is bleeding and he wears a haggard look.)

Olof (dropping into a chair without perceiving Christine). In vain! They will not! I take the fetters from the prisoner, and he hits me. I tell him he is free, and he doesn't believe me. Is that word "free" so big, then, that it can't be contained in a human brain? Oh, that I had one at least who believed—but to be alone—a fool whom no one understands—

Christine (coming forward). I believe in you, Olof!

Olof. Christine!

Christine. You are right!

Olof. How do you know?

Christine. I can't tell, but I believe it. I have been listening to you.

Olof. And you do not curse me?

Christine. You are preaching the word of God, are you not?

Olof. I am!

Christine. Why have we not been told these things before? Or why have they been told us in a language that we do not understand?

Olof. Who has put those words into your mouth, girl?

Christine. Who? I haven't thought of asking.

Olof. Your father?

Christine. He wants me to enter a convent.

Olof. Has it come to that? And what is your own wish?

Christine (catching sight of Olof's bleeding forehead). They have hurt you, Olof! For heaven's sake, let me help you!

Olof (sitting down again). Have I unsettled your faith, Christine?

Christine (takes the handkerchief, tears it into strips, and begins to dress Olof's wounds while speaking). My faith? I don't understand you.—Tell me, who is Luther?

Olof. I mustn't tell you.

Christine. Always the same answer! From my father, from your mother, and from yourself. Are you timid about telling me the truth, or is the truth really dangerous?

Olof. Truth is dangerous. Can't you see? (He points to his forehead.)

Christine. So you want me to be shut up in a convent cell to live a lifeless life in ignorance? (Olof does not reply.) You want me to weep away my life and my youth, and to keep on saying those endlessly long prayers until my soul is put to sleep? No—I won't do it, for now I am awake. All around me they are fighting, and suffering, and despairing. I have seen it, but I was to have no share in it. I was not even to look on, or to know the purpose of the fighting. You wanted me to be sunk in bestial slumber. But don't you believe me possessed of a soul, then—a soul that cannot be satisfied by bread or by dry prayers put into my mouth by others? "Bind not the spirits," you said. Oh, if you could only know how that word pierced me! Daylight came, and those wild cries out there sounded like the singing of birds in the morning—

Olof. You are a woman, Christine, and not born to fight!

Christine. But in the name of God, let me suffer, then! Only not be asleep! Don't you see that the Lord has awakened me in spite of all? You have never dared to tell me who Antichrist was. You have never dared to tell me who Luther was, and when your mother called you a Luther, I blessed Luther. If he be a heretic or a believer, I don't know, and I don't care; for no one—whether it be Luther, or the Pope, or Antichrist-can satisfy my immortal soul when I have no faith in the eternal God.

Olof. Will you follow me into the battle, Christine? For you can sustain me, and you only!

Christine. Now I am able to answer you with a frank "yes," for I know my own will—and I can do so without asking father first, for I am free. Oh, I am free!

Olof. And do you know what is in store for you?

Christine. I know! You will not have to shatter my mocking dreams—they are already gone. But you may be sure that I, too, have been dreaming of a knight who was to lay a kingdom at my feet and talk to me of flowers and love—Olof, I want to be your wife! Here is my hand! But this much I must tell you: that you never have been the knight of my dreams, and that I thank God he never came. For then he had also gone—as a dream.

Olof. Christine, you want to be mine—and I will make you happy. For when I suffered sorrow and temptation, you were always in my mind—and now you shall be at my side! You were the maiden of my dreams, kept captive in a tower by the stern castellan—and now you are mine!

Christine. Beware of dreams, Olof!

(Blows are heard on the door from outside.)

Olof. Who is that?

Voice (outside). Gert.

Olof. What will he say? My promise—

Christine. Are you afraid? Shall I open?

(Olof opens the door.)

[Enter Gert.]

Gert (starting at the sight of his daughter and Olof). Christine?—You have broken your promise, Olof!

Olof. I have not.

Gert. You lie! You have stolen my child, my one solace.

Christine. Olof is not lying.

Gert. You have been to church, Christine?

Christine. I have heard what you didn't want me to hear.

Gert. O Lord, this only joy Thou hast begrudged me!

Olof. The stream that you wanted to set free takes its victims where it can.

Gert. You have robbed me of her, of my child!

Olof. Give her to me, Father Gert!

Gert. Never!

Olof. Is she not free?

Gert. She is my child.

Olof. Are you not preaching freedom? She is mine! The Lord has given her to me, and you cannot take her away.

Gert. You are—thank God—a priest.

Olof and Christine. A priest!

Gert. And as such you cannot marry.

Olof. And if I do?

Gert. You would dare?

Olof. I would.

Gert. Do you want a man who is under the ban, Christine?

Christine. I don't know what that means.

Olof. There you see, Gert, there you see!

Gert. Thy punishment is harsh, O Lord!

Olof. The truth is for all.

Gert. Your love is greater than mine, which was nothing but selfishness. God bless you! Now I stand alone! (He embraces them.) There, now! Go home, Christine, and set their minds at rest. I want to speak to Olof. (Exit Christine.) Now you belong to me.

Olof. What do you mean?

Gert. Kinsman!—You got my letter?

Olof. It was you who advised me not to preach?

Gert. Quite the contrary, although I expressed myself somewhat strangely.

Olof. I don't understand.

Gert. No—no! You are still too young, and so you need a providence. To a man like you one says "Let be" when one wants him to do something.

Olof. Why were you and your followers not in church?

Gert. None but the sick need doctors. We were busy elsewhere. You have done a good piece of work to-day, and I see that you have got your reward for it. I have set you free to-day, Olof.

Olof. You have?

Gert. The King commanded you to quiet the rebellious, and what have you been doing?

Olof. Now I begin to understand you, Father Gert.

Gert. I am delighted! Yes, you have aroused even the calmest.

Olof. So I have.

Gert. What do you think the King will say to that?

Olof. I shall have to face it.

Gert. Good!

Olof. The King will approve my actions, for he wants a reformation, although he does not yet dare to start one himself.

Gert. You idiot!

Olof. I see that you want to set me against my lawful sovereign.

Gert. Tell me, how many masters do you think you can serve? (Olof makes no reply.) The King is here.

Olof. What do you say?

Gert. The King has just returned.

Olof. And the Anabaptists?

Gert. Locked up, of course.

Olof. And you stand here so calmly?

Gert. I am old now. Once I used to rage like you, but it only tired me out. Rink and Knipperdollink have served as my outposts. They had to fall, that's plain; now my work begins.

(Drum-beats are heard from the street.)

Olof. What is that?

Gert. The royal drums that keep the captives company to prison. Come here and see!

Olof (mounting one of the benches and looking out of the window). What do I see? Women and children are dragged along by the soldiers!

Gert. Well, they have been throwing stones at the King's guard. Do you think such things can be allowed?

Olof. But are madmen and sick people to be put into prison?

Gert. There are two kinds of madmen. One kind is sent to the hospital and treated with pills and cold baths. Those of the other kind have their heads cut off. It is a radical treatment, but then, for a fact, they are rather dangerous.

Olof. I'll go to the King. He cannot wish such dreadful things to happen.

Gert. Take care of your head, Olof!

Olof. Take care of your own, Father Gert!

Gert. No danger in my case, for I have a warrant for the asylum.

Olof. I cannot bear to see these things. I am going to the King, even if it cost my life. (He goes toward the door.)

Gert. This is a matter not to be settled by the King. You should appeal to the law.

Olof. The King is the law!

Gert. Unfortunately!—If the horse knew his own strength, he would never be mad enough, as he is now, to bear the yoke. But when once in a while he gets his reason back and runs away from his oppressors, then they call him mad—Let us pray the Lord to give these poor creatures their reason back!