[Good Friday evening. The music before and thro' the act, Haydn's Sieben Worte. Largo No. 1. "Pater dimitte illis." Same scene. Curtains are drawn, lighted up by electric light in the street. The hanging lamp is lighted. On dining table a small lamp, also lighted. There is a glimmer from the lighted stove. Elis and Christine are sitting at the sewing table. Benjamin and Eleonora are seated at dining table reading, opposite each other, with the small lamp between them—Eleonora has a shawl over her shoulders.]

[They are all dressed in black. The papers that Elis brought in the First Act are on the writing table in a disorderly condition, the Easter lily stands on sewing table. An old clock stands on the dining table. Now and then one sees shadows of people passing by in the street.]

[The cathedral organ is heard faintly.—The following scene must be played softly.]

ELIS [Softly to Christine]. Yes—it's Good Friday—Long Friday they call it in some countries. Ah—yes—it is long. And the snow has softened the noises in the street like straw spread before the house of the dying. Not a sound to be heard—[Music louder] only the cathedral organ—[A long pause.]

CHRISTINE. Mother must have gone to vespers.

ELIS. Yes.—She never goes to high mass any more. The cold glances people give her hurt her too much.

CHRISTINE. It's queer about these people they sort of demand that we should keep out of the way, and they even see fit to—

ELIS. Yes—and perhaps they are right.—

CHRISTINE. On account of the wrong-doing of one, the whole family is excommunicated—

ELIS. Yes—that is the way things go.

[Eleonora pushes the lamp over to Benjamin that he may see better.]

ELIS [Noticing them]. Look at them!

CHRISTINE. Isn't it beautiful? How well they get along together.

ELIS. How fortunate it is that Eleonora has grown so calm and contented. Oh, that it might only last!

CHRISTINE. Why shouldn't it last?

ELIS. Because—happiness doesn't last very long usually.

CHRISTINE. Elis!

ELIS. Oh, I am afraid of everything today.

[Benjamin moves the lamp slowly over to Eleonora's side.]

CHRISTINE. Look at them! [Pause.]

ELIS. Have you noticed the change in Benjamin? His fierce defiance has given way to quiet submissiveness.

CHRISTINE. It's her doing. Her whole being seems to give out sweetness.

ELIS. She has brought with her the spirit of peace, that goes about unseen and exhales tranquillity. Even mother seems to be affected by her. When she saw her a calmness seemed to come over her that could never have been expected.

CHRISTINE. Do you think that she is really recovered now?

ELIS. Yes. If it weren't for this over-sensitiveness. Now she is reading the story of the crucifixion and some of the time she is weeping.

CHRISTINE. We used to read it at school, I remember, on Wednesdays, when we fasted.

ELIS. Don't talk so loud—she will hear you.

CHRISTINE. Not now—she is so far away.

ELIS. Have you noticed the quiet dignity that has come into Benjamin's face?

CHRISTINE. That's on account of suffering. Too much happiness makes everything commonplace.

ELIS. Don't you think it may be—love? Don't you think that those little—

CHRISTINE. Sh—sh—don't touch the wings of the butterfly—or it will fly away.

ELIS. They must be looking at each other, and only pretending to read. I haven't heard them turn over any pages.

CHRISTINE. Hush!

[Eleonora rises, goes on tip-toe to Benjamin and puts her shawl over his shoulders. Benjamin protests mildly but gives in to her wish—Eleonora returns to her seat and pushes the lamp over to Benjamin's side.]

CHRISTINE. She doesn't know how well she wishes. Poor little Eleonora—[Pause.]

ELIS [Rises]. Now I must return to the law papers.

CHRISTINE. Do you think anything will be gained by going over all that again?

ELIS. Only one thing. That is to keep up mother's hope. I only pretend to read—but a word now and then pricks me like a thorn in the eye. The evidence of the witnesses, the summaries—father's confession—like this: "the accused admitted with tears"—tears—tears—so many tears—and these papers with their official seals that remind one of false notes and prison bars—the ribbons and red seals—they are like the five wounds of Christus—and public opinion that will never change—the endless anguish—this is indeed fit work for Good Friday! Yesterday the sun was shining—and in our fancy we went out to the country,—Christine, think if we should have to stay here all summer.

CHRISTINE. We would save a great deal of money—but it would be disappointing.

ELIS. I couldn't live thro' it—I have stayed here three summers—and it's like a dead city to me. The rats come out from the cellars and alleys—while the cats are out spending the summer in the country. And all the old women that couldn't get away sit peeking through the blinds gossiping about their neighbors—"See, he has his winter suit on"—and sneer at the worn-down heels of the passers-by. And from the poor quarters wretched beings drag themselves out of their holes, cripples, creatures without noses or ears, the wicked and unfortunate—filling the parks and squares as if they had conquered the city—there where the well-dressed children just played, while their parents or maids looked on and encouraged them in their frolics. I remember last summer when I—

CHRISTINE. Oh, Elis—Elis—look forward—look forward.

ELIS. Is it brighter there?

CHRISTINE. Let us hope so.

ELIS [Sits at writing table]. If it would only stop snowing out there, so we could go out for a walk!

CHRISTINE. Dearest Elis, yesterday you wanted night to come, so that we might be shielded from the hateful glances of the people. You said, "Darkness is so kind," and that it's like drawing the blanket over one's head.

ELIS. That only goes to prove that my misery is as great one way as the other. [Reading papers.] The worst part of the suit is all the questioning about father's way of living.—It says here that we gave big dinner parties.—One witness practically says that my father was a drunkard—no, that's too much. No. No, I won't—as tho'—I must go thro' it, I suppose.—Aren't you cold?

CHRISTINE. No. But it isn't warm here. Isn't Lina home?

ELIS. She's gone to church.

CHRISTINE. Oh, yes, that's so. But mother will soon be home.

ELIS. I am always afraid to have her come home. She has had so many experiences of people's evil and malice.

CHRISTINE. There is a strain of unusual melancholy in your family, Elis.

ELIS. And that's why none but the melancholy have ever been our friends. Light-hearted people have always avoided us—shrunk from us.

CHRISTINE. There is mother, going in the kitchen door.

ELIS. Don't be impatient with her, Christine.

CHRISTINE. Impatient! Ah, no, it's worse for her than any of us. But I can't quite understand her.

ELIS. She is always trying to hide our disgrace. That's why she seems so peculiar. Poor mother!

MRS. HEYST [Enters, dressed in black, psalm book in hand, and handkerchief]. Good evening, children.

ALL. Good evening, mother dear.

MRS. HEYST. Why are you all in black, as tho' you were in mourning? [Pause.]

ELIS. Is it still snowing, mother?

MRS. HEYST. It's sleeting now. [Goes over to Eleonora.] Aren't you cold out here? [Eleonora shakes her head.] Well, my little one, you are reading and studying, I see. [To Benjamin.] And you too? Well, you won't overdo. [Eleonora takes her mother's hand and carries it to her lips.]

MRS. HEYST [Hiding her feelings]. So, my child—so—so—

ELIS. Have you been to vespers, mother?

MRS. HEYST. Yes, but they had some visiting pastor, and I didn't like him, he mumbled his words so.

ELIS. Did you meet any one you knew?

MRS. HEYST. Yes, more is the pity.

ELIS. Then I know whom—

MRS. HEYST. Yes, Lindkvist. And he came up to me and—

ELIS. Oh, how terrible, how terrible—

MRS. HEYST. He asked how things were going—and imagine my fright—he asked if he might come and see us this evening.

ELIS. On a holy day?

MRS. HEYST. I was speechless—and he, I am afraid, mistook my silence for consent. So he may be here any moment.

ELIS [Rises]. Here?

MRS. HEYST. He said he wished to leave a paper of some sort which was important.

ELIS. A warrant! He wants to take our furniture.

MRS. HEYST. But he looked so queer. I didn't quite understand him.

ELIS. Well, then—let him come—he has right and might on his side, and we must bow down to him.—We must receive him when he comes.

MRS. HEYST. If I could only escape seeing him!

ELIS. Yes, you must stay in the house.

MRS. HEYST. But the furniture he cannot take. How could we live if he took the things away? One cannot live in empty rooms.

ELIS. The foxes have holes, the birds nests there are many homeless ones who sleep under the sky.

MRS. HEYST. That's the way rogues should be made to live—not honest people.

ELIS [By the writing table]. I have been reading it all over again.

MRS. HEYST. Did you find any faults? What was it the lawyer called them? Oh—technical errors?

ELIS. No. I don't think there are any.

MRS. HEYST. But I met our lawyer just now and he said there must be some technical errors a challengeable witness, an unproven opinion—or a contradiction, he said. You should read carefully.

ELIS. Yes, mother dear, but it's somewhat painful reading all this—

MRS. HEYST. But now listen to this. I met our lawyer, as I said, and he told me also that a burglary had been committed here in town yesterday, and in broad daylight.

[Eleonora and Benjamin start and listen.]

ELIS. A burglary! Where?

MRS. HEYST. At the florist's on Cloister street. But the whole thing is very peculiar. It's supposed to have happened this way: the florist closed his place and went to church where his son—or was it his daughter?—was being confirmed. When he returned, about three o'clock—or perhaps it was four, but that doesn't matter—well, he found the door of the store wide open and his flowers were gone—at least a whole lot of them. [They all look at her questioningly.] Well, anyway, a yellow tulip was gone, which he missed first.

ELIS. A yellow tulip? Had it been a lily I would have been afraid.

MRS. HEYST. No, it was a tulip, that's sure, well, they say the police are on the track of the thief anyway.

[Eleonora has risen as if to speak, but is quieted by Benjamin, who goes to her and whispers something to her.]

MRS. HEYST. Think of it, on Holy Thursday! When young people are being confirmed at the church, to break into a place and steal! Oh, the town must be full of rogues, and that's why they throw innocent people into prison!

ELIS. Do you know who it is they suspect?

MRS. HEYST. No. But it was a peculiar thief. He didn't take any money from the cash drawer.

CHRISTINE. Oh, that this day were ended!

MRS. HEYST. And if Lina would only return—[Pause.] Oh, I heard something about the dinner Peter gave last night. What do you think—the Governor himself was there.

ELIS. The Governor at Peter's—? I'm astonished. Peter has always avowed himself against the Governor's party.

MRS. HEYST. He must have changed then.

ELIS. He wasn't called Peter for nothing, it seems.

MRS. HEYST. But what have you got against the Governor?

ELIS. He is against progress—he wants to restrict the pleasures of the people, he tries to dictate to the boards of education—I've felt his interference in my school.

MRS. HEYST. I can't understand all that—but it doesn't matter. Anyhow the Governor made a speech, they say, and Peter thanked him heartily.

ELIS. And with great feeling, I can fancy, and denied his master, saying, "I know not this man," and again the cock crew. Wasn't the Governor's name Pontius and his surname Pilate?

[Eleonora starts as if to speak but Benjamin quiets her again.]

MRS. HEYST. You mustn't be so bitter, Elis. Human beings are weak and we must come in contact with them.

ELIS. Hush,—I hear Lindkvist coming.

MRS. HEYST. What? Can you hear him in all this snow?

ELIS. Yes, I can hear his stick striking the pavement—and his squeaking galoshes. Please, mother, go into the house.

MRS. HEYST. No. I shall stay and tell him a few things.

ELIS. Dear, dear mother, you must go in or it will be too painful.

MRS. HEYST [Rising, with scorn]. Oh, may the day that I was born be forgotten—

CHRISTINE. Don't blaspheme, mother.

MRS. HEYST. Should not the lost have this trouble rather than that the worthy should suffer torture?

ELIS. Mother!

MRS. HEYST. Oh, God! Why have you forsaken me and my children? [Goes out L.]

ELIS. Oh—do you know that mother's indifference and submission torture me more than her wrath?

CHRISTINE. Her submission is only pretended or make-believe. There was something of the roar of the lioness in her last words. Did you notice how big she became?

ELIS [At window, listening]. He has stopped—perhaps he thinks the time ill-chosen.—But that can't be it—he who could write such terrible letters,—and always on that blue paper! I can't look at a blue paper now without trembling.

CHRISTINE. What will you tell him—what do you mean to propose?

ELIS. I don't know. I have lost all my reasoning powers.—Shall I fall on my knees to him and beg mercy—can you hear him? I can't hear anything but the blood beating in my ears.

CHRISTINE. Let us face the worst calmly—he will take everything and—

ELIS. Then the landlord will come and ask for some other security, which I cannot furnish.—He will demand security, when the furniture is no longer here to assure him of the rent.

CHRISTINE [Peeking through the curtain]. He isn't there now.—He is gone!

ELIS [Rushing to window]. He's gone?—Do you know, now that I think of Lindkvist, I see him as a good-natured giant who only scares children. How could I have come to think that?

CHRISTINE. Oh, thoughts come and go—

ELIS. How lucky that I was not at that dinner yesterday—I would surely have made a speech against the Governor, and so I would have spoiled everything for us.

CHRISTINE. Do you realize that now?

ELIS. Thanks for your advice, Christine. You knew your Peter.

CHRISTINE. My Peter?—

ELIS. I meant—my Peter.—But—look—he is here again, woe unto us!

[One can see the shadow of Lindkvist on the curtain, who is nearing slowly. The shadow gets larger and larger, until it is giant-like. They stand in fear and tremble.]

ELIS. Look,—the giant—the giant that wants to swallow us.

CHRISTINE. Now it's time to laugh, as when reading fairy-tales.

ELIS. I can't laugh any more.

[The shadow slowly disappears.]

CHRISTINE. Look at the stick and you must laugh. [Pause.]

ELIS [Brightly]. He's gone—he's gone—yes, I can breathe again now, as he won't return until tomorrow. Oh, the relief!

CHRISTINE. Yes, and tomorrow the sun will be shining,—the snow will be gone and the birds will be singing—eve of the resurrection!

ELIS. Yes, tell me more like that—I can see everything you say.

CHRISTINE. If you could but see what is in my heart, if you could see my thoughts and my good intentions, my inmost prayer, Elis—Elis—when I now ask—[Hesitates.]

ELIS. What? Tell me.

CHRISTINE. When I beg you now to—

ELIS [Alarmed]. Tell me—

CHRISTINE. It's a test. Will you look at it as a test?

ELIS. A test? Well then.

CHRISTINE. Let me—do let me—No, I daren't. [Eleonora listens.]

ELIS. Why do you torture me?

CHRISTINE. I'll regret it, I know. So be it! Elis, let me go to the recital this evening.

ELIS. What recital?

CHRISTINE. Haydn's "Seven Words on the Cross," at the cathedral.

ELIS. With whom?

CHRISTINE. Alice.

ELIS. And?

CHRISTINE. Peter!

ELIS. With Peter?

CHRISTINE. See, now you frown. I regret telling you, but it's too late now.

ELIS. Yes. It is somewhat late now, but explain—

CHRISTINE. I prepared you, told you that I couldn't explain, and that's the reason I begged your boundless faith.

ELIS [Mildly]. Go. I trust you. But I suffer to know that you seek the company of a traitor.

CHRISTINE. I realize that, but this is to be a test.

ELIS. Which I cannot endure.

CHRISTINE. You must.

ELIS. I would like to, but I cannot. But you must go nevertheless.

CHRISTINE. Your hand!

ELIS [Giving his hand]. There—[The telephone rings; Elis goes to it.] Hello!—No answer. Hello!—No answer but my own voice.—Who is it?—That's strange. I only hear the echo of my own words.

CHRISTINE. That might be possible.

ELIS [Still at 'phone]. Hello!—But this is terrible! [Hangs up receiver.] Go now, Christine, and without any explanations, without conditions. I shall endure the test.

CHRISTINE. Yes, do that and all will be well.

ELIS. I will.—[Christine starts R.] Why do you go that way?

CHRISTINE. My coat and hat are in there. Good bye for now. [Goes out R.]

ELIS. Good-bye, my friend, [Pause] forever. [He rushes out L.]

ELEONORA. God help us, what have I done now? The police are after the guilty one, and if I am discovered—then—[With a shriek] they'll send me back there. [Pause.] But I mustn't be selfish. Oh, poor mother and poor Elis!

BENJAMIN [Childishly]. Eleonora, you must tell them that I did it.

ELEONORA. Could you make another's guilt yours, you child?

BENJAMIN. That's easy, when one knows he's innocent.

ELEONORA. One should never deceive.

BENJAMIN. No, but let me telephone to the florist and explain to him.

ELEONORA. No, I did wrong, and I must take the consequences. I have awakened their fear of burglars, and I must be punished.

BENJAMIN. But what if the police come in?

ELEONORA. That would be dreadful—but what must be, must be. Oh, that this day were ended! [Takes clock from table and puts the hands forward.] Dear old clock, go a little faster—tick, tick, tick. [The clock strikes eight.] Now it's eight. [Moves hands again.] Tick, tick, tick. [Business with clock.] Now it's nine—ten—eleven—twelve—o'clock. Now it is Easter eve, and the sun will soon be rising, and then we'll color the Easter eggs.

BENJAMIN. You can make time fly, can't you?

ELEONORA. Think, Benjamin, of all the anemones and violets that had to stay in the snow all winter and freeze there in the darkness.

BENJAMIN. How they must suffer!

ELEONORA. Night is hardest for them—they are afraid of the darkness, but they can't run away, and so they must stay there thro' the long winter night, waiting for spring, which is their dawn. Everybody and everything must suffer, but the flowers suffer most. Yes, and the song-birds, they have returned; where are they to sleep tonight?

BENJAMIN [Childishly]. In the hollow trees.

ELEONORA. There aren't hollow trees enough to hold them all. I have only noticed two hollow trees in the orchard, and that's where the owls live, and they kill the song birds. [Elis is heard playing the piano inside. Eleonora and Benjamin listen for a few moments.] Poor Elis, who thinks that Christine has gone from him, but I know that she will return.

BENJAMIN. Why don't you tell him, if you know?

ELEONORA, Because Elis must suffer; every one should suffer on Good Friday, that they may remember Christ's suffering on the cross. [The sound of a policeman's whistle is heard off in the distance.]

ELEONORA [Starts up]. What was that?

BENJAMIN. Don't you know?

ELEONORA. No.

BENJAMIN. It's the police.

ELEONORA. Ah, yes, that's the way it sounded when they came to take father away—and then I became ill.—And now they are coming to take me.

BENJAMIN [Rushing to the door and guarding it]. No, no, they must not take you. I shall defend you, Eleonora.

ELEONORA. That's very beautiful, Benjamin, but you mustn't do that.

BENJAMIN [Looking thro' curtain]. There are two of them. [Eleonora tries to push Benjamin aside. He protests mildly.] No, no, not you, then—I don't want to live any longer.

ELEONORA. Benjamin, go and sit down in that chair, child, sit down.

[Benjamin obeys much against his will.]

ELEONORA [Peeps thro' curtain]. Oh! [Laughs.] It's only some boys. Oh, we doubters! Do you think that God would be angry, when I didn't do any harm, only acted thoughtlessly? It served me right—I shouldn't have doubted.

BENJAMIN. But tomorrow that man will come and take the things.

ELEONORA. Let him come. Then we'll go out under the sky, away from everything—away from all the old home things that father gathered for us, that I have seen since I was a child. Yes, one should never own anything that ties one down to earth. Out, out on the stony ways to wander with bruised feet, for that road leads upward. That's why it's the hard road.

BENJAMIN. Now you are so serious again!

ELEONORA. We must be today. But do you know what will be hardest to part with? This dear old clock. We had it when I was born and it has measured out all my hours and days. [She takes the clock from table.] Listen, it's like a heart beating,—just like a heart.—They say it stopped the very hour that grandfather died. We had it as long ago as that. Good-bye, little timekeeper, perhaps you'll stop again soon. [Putting clock on table again.] Do you know, it used to gain time when we had misfortune in the house, as tho' it wished to hasten thro' the hours of evil, for our sake of course. But when we were happy it used to slow down so that we might enjoy longer. That's what this good clock did. But we have another, a very bad one—and now it has to hang in the kitchen. It couldn't bear music, and as soon as Elis would play on the piano it would start to strike. Oh, you needn't smile; we all noticed it, not I alone, and that's why it has to stay out in the kitchen now, because it wouldn't behave. But Lina doesn't like it either, because it won't be quiet at night, and she cannot time eggs by it. When she does, the eggs are sure to be hard-boiled—so Lina says. But now you are laughing again.

BENJAMIN. Yes, how can I help—

ELEONORA. You are a good boy, Benjamin, but you must be serious. Keep the birch rod in mind; it's hanging behind the mirror.

BENJAMIN. But you say such funny things, that I must smile. And why should we be weeping always?

ELEONORA. Shall we not weep in the vale of tears?

BENJAMIN. H'm.

ELEONORA. You would rather laugh all the time, and that's why trouble comes your way. But it's when you are serious that I like you best. Remember that. [Pause.]

BENJAMIN. Do you think that we will get out of this trouble, Eleonora?

ELEONORA. Yes, most of it will take care of itself, when Good Friday is over, but not all of it—today the birch rod, tomorrow the Easter eggs—today snow—tomorrow thaw. Today death—tomorrow life—resurrection.

BENJAMIN. How wise you are!