Frank Wedekind

The Board Room—On the walls pictures of Pestalozzi and Jean Jacques Rousseau.

Professors Affenschmalz, KnÜppeldick, Hungergurt, Knochenbruch, Zungenschlag and Fliegentod are seated around a green-covered table, over which are burning several gas jets. At the upper end, on a raised seat, is Rector Sonnenstich. Beadle Habebald squats near the door.

Sonnenstich.

Has any gentleman something further to remark?——Gentlemen! We cannot help moving the expulsion of our guilty pupil before the National Board of Education; there are the strongest reasons why we cannot: We cannot, because we must expiate the misfortune which has fallen upon us already; we cannot, because of our need to protect ourselves from similar blows in the future; we cannot, because we must chastise our guilty pupil for the demoralizing influence he exerted upon his classmates; we cannot, above all, because we must hinder him from exerting the same influence upon his remaining classmates. We cannot ignore the charge—and this, gentlemen, is possibly the weightiest of all——on any pretext concerning a ruined career, because it is our duty to protect ourselves from an epidemic of suicide similar to that which has broken out recently in various grammar schools, and which until to-day has mocked all attempts of the teachers to shackle it by any means known to advanced education——Has any gentleman something further to remark?

KnÜppeldick.

I can rid myself of the conception no longer that it is time at last to open a window here.

Zungenschlag.

Th- th- there is an a- a- at- atmosphere here li- li- like th- th- that of the cata- catacombs, like that in the document room of the former Cha-Cha-Chamber of Justice at Wetzlar.

Sonnenstich.

Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector.

Sonnenstich.

Open a window. Thank God there's fresh air enough outside.——Has any other gentleman anything to say?

Fliegentod.

If my associate wants to have a window opened, I haven't the least objection to it. Only I should like to ask that the window opened is not the one directly behind my back!

Sonnenstich.

Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector.

Sonnenstich.

Open the other window!——Has any other gentleman anything to remark?

Hungergurt.

Without wishing to increase the controversy, I should like to recall the important fact that the other window has been walled up since vacation.

Sonnenstich.

Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector.

Sonnenstich.

Leave the other window shut!——I find it necessary, gentlemen, to put this matter to a vote. I request those who are in favor of having the only window which can enter into this discussion opened to rise from their seats. (He counts.) One, two, three——one, two, three——Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector.

Sonnenstich.

Leave that window shut likewise! I, for my part, am of the opinion that the air here leaves nothing to be desired!——Has any gentleman anything further to remark?——Let us suppose that we omitted to move the expulsion of our guilty pupil before the National Board of Education, then the National Board of Education would hold us responsible for the misfortune which has overwhelmed us. Of the various grammar schools visited by the epidemic of self-murder, those in which the devastation of self-murder has reached 25 per cent. have been closed by the National Board of Education. It is our duty, as the guardians and protectors of our institute, to protect our institute from this staggering blow. It grieves us deeply, gentlemen, that we are not in a position to consider the other qualifications of our guilt-laden pupil as mitigating circumstances. An indulgent treatment, which would allow our guilty pupil to be vindicated, would not in any conceivable way imaginable vindicate the present imperiled existence of our institute. We see ourselves under the necessity of judging the guilt-laden that we may not be judged guilty ourselves.——Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector!

Sonnenstich.

Bring him up! (Exit Habebald.)

Zungenschlag.

If the pre-present atmosphere leaves little or nothing to desire, I should like to suggest that the other window be walled up during the summer va- va- va- vacation.

Fliegentod.

If our esteemed colleague, Zungenschlag, does not find our room ventilated sufficiently, I should like to suggest that our esteemed colleague, Zungenschlag, have a ventilator set into his forehead.

Zungenschlag.

I do- do- don't have to stand that!——I- I- I- I- do- do- don't have to st- st- st- stand rudeness!——I have my fi- fi- five senses!

Sonnenstich.

I must ask our esteemed colleagues, Fliegentod and Zungenschlag, to preserve decorum. It seems to me that our guilt-laden pupil is already on the stairs.

(Habebald opens the door, whereupon Melchior, pale but collected, appears before the meeting.)

Sonnenstich.

Come nearer to the table!——After Herr Stiefel became aware of the profligate deed of his son, the distracted father searched the remaining effects of his son Moritz, hoping if possible, to find the cause of the abominable deed, and discovered among them, in an unexpected place, a manuscript, which, while it did not make us understand the abominable deed, threw an unfortunate and sufficient light upon the moral disorder of the criminal. This manuscript, in the form of a dialogue entitled “The Nuptial Sleep,” illustrated with life-size pictures full of shameless obscenity, has twenty pages of long explanations that seek to satisfy every claim a profligate imagination can make upon a lewd book.——

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

You have to keep quiet!——After Herr Stiefel had questioningly handed us this manuscript and we had promised the distracted father to discover the author at any price, we compared the handwriting before us with the collected handwriting of the fellow-students of the deceased profligate, and concluded, in the unanimous judgment of the teaching staff, as well as with the full coincidence of a valued colleague, the master of calligraphy, that the resemblance to your——

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

You have to keep quiet!——In spite of this likeness, recognized as crushing evidence by incontrovertible authority, we believe that we should allow ourselves to go further and to take the widest latitude in examining the guilty one at first hand, in order to make him answerable to this charge of an offense against morals, and to discover its relationship to the resultant suicide.——

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

You have to answer the exact questions which I shall put to you, one after the other, with a plain and modest “yes” or “no.”——Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector!

Sonnenstich.

The minutes!——I request our writing master, Herr Fliegentod, from now on to take down the proceedings as nearly verbatim as possible.——(to Melchior.) Do you know this writing?

Melchior.

Yes.

Sonnenstich.

Do you know whose writing it is?

Melchior.

Yes.

Sonnenstich.

Is the writing in this manuscript yours?

Melchior.

Yes.

Sonnenstich.

Are you the author of this obscene manuscript?

Melchior.

Yes——I request you, sir, to show me anything obscene in it.

Sonnenstich.

You have to answer with a modest “yes” or “no” the exact questions which I put to you!

Melchior.

I have written neither more nor less than what are well-known facts to all of you.

Sonnenstich.

You shameless boy!

Melchior.

I request you to show me an offense against morals in this manuscript!

Sonnenstich.

Are you counting on a desire on my part to be a clown for you?——Habebald——!

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

You have as little respect for the dignity of your assembled teachers as you have a proper appreciation of mankind's innate sense of shame which belongs to a moral world!——Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector!

Sonnenstich.

It is past the time for the three hours' exercise in agglutive Volapuk.

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

I will request our secretary, Herr Fliegentod, to close the minutes.

Melchior.

I have——

Sonnenstich.

You have to keep still!!——Habebald!

Habebald.

At your service, Herr Rector!

Sonnenstich.

Take him down!

SCENE SECOND.

A graveyard in the pouring rain——Pastor Kahlbauch stands beside an open grave with a raised umbrella in his hand. To his right are Renter Stiefel, his friend Ziegenmelker and Uncle Probst. To the left Rector Sonnenstich with Professor Knochenbruch, The grammar school students complete the circle. Martha and Ilse stand somewhat apart upon a fallen monument.

Pastor Kahlbauch.

For, he who rejects the grace with which the Everlasting Father has blessed those born in sin, he shall die a spiritual death!——He, however, who in willful carnal abnegation of God's proper honor, lives for and serves evil, shall die the death of the body!——Who, however, wickedly throws away from him the cross which the All Merciful has laid upon him for his sins, verily, verily, I say unto you, he shall die the everlasting death! (He throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)——Let us, however, praise the All Gracious Lord and thank Him for His inscrutable grace in order that we may travel the thorny path more and more surely. For as truly as this one died a triple death, as truly will the Lord God conduct the righteous unto happiness and everlasting life.

Renter Stiefel.

(His voice stopped with tears, throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

The boy was nothing to me!——The boy was nothing to me!——The boy was a burden from his birth!

Rector Sonnenstich.

(Throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

Suicide being the greatest conceivable fault against the moral order of the world, is the greatest evidence of the moral order of the world. The suicide himself spares the world the need of pronouncing judgment of condemnation against himself, and confirms the existence of the moral order of the world.

Professor Knochenbruch.

(Throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

Wasted—soiled—debauched—tattered and squandered!

Uncle Probst.

(Throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

I would not have believed my own mother had she told me that a child could act so basely towards its own parents.

Friend Ziegenmelker.

(Throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

To treat a father so, who for twenty years, from late to early, had no other thought than the welfare of his child!

Pastor Kahlbauch.

(Shaking Renter Stiefel's hand.)

We know that those who love God serve all things best (1 Corinthians 12:15).——Think of the bereaved mother and strive to console her for her loss by doubled love.

Rector Sonnenstich.

(Shaking Renter Stiefel's hand.)

Indeed, we could not possibly have promoted him.

Professor Knochenbruch.

(Shaking Renter Stiefel's hand.)

And if we had promoted him, next spring he would have certainly failed to pass.

Uncle Probst.

(Shaking Renter Stiefel's hand.)

It is your duty now to think of yourself first of all. You are the father of a family——

Friend Ziegenmelker.

(Shaking Renter Stiefel's hand.)

Trust yourself to my guidance!——This devilish weather shakes one's guts!——The man who doesn't prevent it with a grog will ruin his heart valves.

Renter Stiefel.

(Blowing his nose.)

The boy was nothing to me——the boy was nothing to me!

(Renter Stiefel leaves, accompanied by Pastor Kahlbauch, Rector Sonnenstich, Professor Knockenbruch, Uncle Probst and Friend Ziegenmelker.——The rain ceases.)

Hans Rilow.

(Throws a shovelful of earth into the grave.)

Rest in peace, you honest fellow!——Greet my eternal brides for me, those sacrificed remembrances, and commend me respectfully to the grace of God——you poor clown——They will put a scarecrow on top of your grave because of your angelic simplicity.

George.

Did they find the pistol?

Robert.

There's no use looking for the pistol!

Ernest.

Did you see him, Robert?

Robert.

It's a damned infernal swindle!——Who did see him?——Who did?

Otto.

He was hidden!——They threw a covering over him.

George.

Was his tongue hanging out?

Robert.

His eyes——That's why they threw the cloth over him.

Otto.

Frightful!

Hans Rilow.

Do you know for certain that he hanged himself?

Ernest.

They say he has no head left.

Otto.

Incredible!——Nonsense!

Robert.

I have the clue in my hands. I have never seen a man who hanged himself that they haven't thrown a cloth over.

George.

He couldn't have taken his leave in a vulgarer way!

Hans Rilow.

The devil! Hanging is pretty enough!

Otto.

He owes me five marks. We had a bet. He swore he would keep his place.

Hans Rilow.

You are to blame for his lying there. You called him a boaster.

Otto.

Nonsense! I, too, must grind away all night. If he had learned the history of Greek literature he would not have had to hang himself!

Ernest.

Have you your composition, Otto?

Otto.

First comes the introduction.

Ernest.

I don't know at all what to write.

George.

Weren't you there when Affenschmalz gave us the theme?

Hans Rilow.

I'll fake up something out of Democritus.

Ernst.

I will see if there is anything left to be found in Meyer's Little Encyclopedia.

Otto.

Have you your Virgil for to-morrow?——

(The schoolboys leave——Martha and Ilse approach the grave.)

Ilse.

Quick, quick!——Here are the grave-diggers coming!

Martha.

Hadn't we better wait, Ilse?

Ilse.

What for?——We'll bring fresh ones. Always fresh ones. There are enough growing.

Martha.

You're right, Ilse!——(She throws a wreath of ivy into the grave, Ilse drops her apron and allows a shower of fresh anemones to rain down on the coffin.)

Martha.

I'll dig up our roses. I'll be beaten for it!——They will be of some use here.

Ilse.

I'll water them as often as I pass here. I'll fetch violets from the brook and bring some iris from our house.

Martha.

It will be beautiful!——beautiful!

Ilse.

I was just across the brook on that side when I heard the shot.

Martha.

Poor dear!

Ilse.

And I know the reason, too, Martha.

Martha.

Did he tell you anything?

Ilse.

Parallelepipedon! But don't tell anybody.

Martha.

My hand on it.

Ilse.

Here is the pistol.

Martha.

That's the reason they didn't find it!

Ilse.

I took it right out of his hand when I came along in the morning.

Martha.

Give it to me, Ilse!——Please give it to me!

Ilse.

No, I'm going to keep it for a souvenir.

Martha.

Is it true, Ilse, that he lay there without a head?

Ilse.

He must have loaded it with water!——The mulleins were spattered all over with blood. His brains were scattered about the pasture.

SCENE THIRD.

Herr and Frau Gabor.

Frau Gabor.

They needed a scapegoat. They did not dare meet the charge that was made everywhere against themselves. And now that my child has had the misfortune to run his head into the noose at the right moment, shall I, his own mother, help to end the work of his executioners?——God keep me from it!

Herr Gabor.

For fourteen years I have looked on at your spirited educational methods in silence. They were contrary to my ideas. I had always lived in the conviction that a child was not a plaything; a child should have a claim upon our most earnest efforts. But, I said to myself, if the spirit and the grace of the one parent are able to compensate for the serious maxims of the other, they may be given preference over the serious maxims.——I am not reproaching you, Fanny, but don't stand in my way when I seek to right your injustice and mine toward the lad.

Frau Gabor.

I will block the way for you as long as a warm drop of blood beats in me. My child would be lost in the House of Correction. A criminal nature might be bettered in such an institution. I don't know. A fine natured man would just as surely turn into a criminal, like the plants when they are kept from sun and light. I am conscious of no injustice on my part. To-day, as always, I thank heaven that it showed me the way to awaken righteousness of character and nobility of thought in my child. What has he done which is so frightful? It doesn't occur to me to apologize for him——now that they have hunted him out of school, he bears no fault! And if it was his fault he has paid for it. You may know better. You may be entirely right theoretically. But I cannot allow my only child to be forcibly hunted to death.

Herr Gabor.

That doesn't depend on us, Fanny. That is the risk we took with our happiness. He who is too weak to march stops by the wayside. And, in the end, it is not the worst when what was certain to come comes in time to be bettered. Heaven protect us from that! It is our duty to strengthen the loiterer as long as reason supplies a means.——That they have hunted him out of school is not his own fault. If they hadn't hunted him out of school, that wouldn't have been his fault, either!——You are so lighthearted. You perceive inconsiderable trifles when the question concerns a fundamental injury to character. You women are not accustomed to judge such things. Anyone who can write what Melchior wrote must be rotten to the core of his being. The mark is plain. A half-healthy nature wouldn't do such a thing. None of us are saints. Each of us wanders from the straight path. His writing, on the contrary, tramples on principle. His writing is no evidence of a chance slip in the usual way; it sets forth with dreadful plainness and a frankly definite purpose that natural longing, that propensity for immorality, because it is immorality. His writing manifests that exceptional state of spiritual corruption which we jurists classify under the term “moral imbecility.”——If anything can be done in his case, I am not able to say. If we want to preserve a glimmer of hope, and keep our spotless consciences as the parents of the victim, it is time for us to go to work determinedly in earnest.—Don't let us contend any more, Fanny! I feel how hard it is for you. I know that you idolize him because he expresses so entirely your genial nature. Be stronger than yourself. Show yourself for once devoid of self-interest towards your son.

Frau Gabor.

God help me, how can one get along that way! One must be a man to be able to talk that way! One must be a man to be able to blind oneself so with the dead letter! One must be a man to be so blind that one can't see what stares him in the eyes. I have conscientiously and thoughtfully managed Melchior from his first day, because I found him impressionable to his surroundings. Are we answerable for what has happened? A tile might fall off the roof upon your head to-morrow, and then comes your friend—your father, and, instead of taking care of you, tramples upon you!——I will not let my child be destroyed before my eyes. That's the reason I'm his mother.——It is inconceivable! It is not to be believed! What did he write, then, after all! Isn't it the most striking proof of his harmlessness, of his stupidity, of his childish obscurity, that he can write so!——One must possess no intuitive knowledge of mankind——one must be an out and out bureaucrat, or weak in intellect, to scent moral corruption here!——Say what you will. If you land Melchior in the House of Correction, I will get a divorce. Then let me see if I can't find help and means somewhere in the world to rescue my child from destruction.

Herr Gabor.

You must prepare yourself for it——if not to-day, then to-morrow. It is not easy for anyone to discount misfortune. I will stand beside you, and when your courage begins to fail will spare no trouble or effort to relieve your heart. The future seems so gray to me, so full of clouds——it only remains for you to leave me too.

Frau Gabor.

I should never see him again: I should never see him again! He can't bear the vulgar. He will not be able to stand the dirt. He will break under restraint; the most frightful examples will be before his eyes!——And if I see him again——O, God, O, God, that joyous heart——his clear laughter——all, all,——his childish resolution to fight courageously for good and righteousness——oh, this morning sky, how I cherished it light and pure in his soul as my highest good——Hold me to account if the sin cries for expiation! Hold me to account! Do with me what you will! I will bear the guilt.——But keep your frightful hand off the boy.

Herr Gabor.

He has gone wrong!

Frau Gabor.

He has not gone wrong!

Herr Gabor.

He has gone wrong!——I would have given everything to be able to spare your boundless love.——A terrified woman came to me this morning, scarcely able to control her speech, with this letter in her hand——a letter to her fifteen-year-old daughter. She had opened it simply out of curiosity; the girl was not at home.——In the letter Melchior explains to the fifteen-year-old girl that his manner of acting left him no peace, that he had sinned against her, etc., etc., and that naturally he would answer for it. She must not fret herself even if she felt results. He was already on the road after help; his expulsion made it easier for him. The previous false step could still lead to her happiness——and more of such irrational nonsense.

Frau Gabor.

Impossible!

Herr Gabor.

The letter is forged. It's a cheat. Somebody is trying to take advantage of his generally known expulsion. I have not yet spoken to the lad about it——but please look at this hand! See the writing!

Frau Gabor.

An unprecedented, shameless bit of knavery!

Herr Gabor.

That's what I'm afraid!

Frau Gabor.

No, no——never, never!

Herr Gabor.

It would be so much the better for us.——The woman, wringing her hands, asked me what she should do. I told her she should not leave her fifteen-year-old daughter lying about a haymow. Fortunately she left me the letter.——If we send Melchior to another grammar school, where he is not under parental supervision, in three weeks we shall have the same result.——A new expulsion——his joyful heart will get used to it after awhile.——Tell me, Fanny, where shall I send the lad?

Frau Gabor.

To the House of Correction——

Herr Gabor.

To the?——

Frau Gabor.

House of Correction!

Herr Gabor.

He will find there, in the first place, that which has been wrongfully withheld from him at home, parental discipline, principles, and a moral constraint to which he must submit under all circumstances.——Moreover, the House of Correction is not a place of terror, as you think it. The greatest weight is laid in the establishment upon the development of Christian thought and sensibility. The lad will learn at last to follow good in place of desire and not to follow his natural instincts, but to observe the letter of the law.——A half hour ago I received a telegram from my brother that confirms the woman's statement. Melchior has confided in him and begged him for 200 marks in order to fly to England——

Frau Gabor.

(Covering her face.)

Merciful heavens!

SCENE FOURTH.

The House of Correction.—A corridor.—Diethelm, Rheinhold, Ruprecht, Helmuth, Gaston and Melchior.

Diethelm.

Here is a twenty pfennig piece!

Rheinhold.

What shall we do with it?

Diethelm.

I will lay it on the floor. Arrange yourselves about it. Who can get it can keep it.

Ruprecht.

Won't you join us, Melchior?

Melchior.

No, thank you.

Helmuth.

The Joseph!

Gaston.

He can't do anything else. He is here for recreation.

Melchior.

(To himself.)

It is not wise for me to separate myself from them. They all have an eye on me. I must join them——or the creature goes to the devil——imprisonment drives it to suicide.——If I break my neck, all is well!——If I escape, that is good, too! I can only win. Ruprecht would become my friend. He has acquaintances here.——I had better give him the chapter of Judas' daughter-in-law, Thamar, of Moab, of Lot and his kindred, of Queen Vashti and of Abishag the Shunammite.——He has the unhappiest physiognomy of the lot of them.

Ruprecht.

I have it!

Helmuth.

I'll get it yet!

Gaston.

The day after to-morrow, perhaps.

Helmuth.

Right away!——Now!——O God! O God!——

All.

Summa——Summa cum laude!!

Ruprecht.

(Taking the money.)

Many thanks!

Helmuth.

Here, you dog!

Ruprecht.

You swine!

Helmuth.

Gallows bird!

Ruprecht.

(Hits him in the face.)

There! (Runs away.)

Helmuth.

(Running after him.)

I'll strike you dead!

The Rest of Them.

(Running after.)

Chase him! Chase him! Chase him! Chase him!

Melchior.

(Alone, wandering toward the window.)

The lightning rod runs down there.——One would have to wind a pocket handkerchief about it.——When I think of them the blood always rushes to my head. And Moritz turns my feet to lead.——I'll go to a newspaper. If they pay me by space I'll be a free lance!——collect the news of the day——write——locals——ethical——psychophysical——one doesn't starve so easily nowadays. Public soup houses, CafÉ Temperance——The house is sixty feet high and the cornice is crumbling——They hate me——they hate me because I rob them of liberty. Handle myself as I will, there remain misdemeanors——I dare only hope in the course of the year, gradually——It will be new moon in eight days. To-morrow I'll grease the hinges. By Sunday evening I must find out somehow who has the key.——Sunday evening, during prayers, a cataleptic fit——I hope to God nobody else will be sick!——Everything seems as clear to me as if it had happened. Over the window-frames I can reach easily—a swing—a clutch—but one must wind a handkerchief about it.——There comes the head inquisitor. (Exit to the left.)

(Dr. Prokrustes enters from the right with a locksmith.)

Dr. Prokrustes.

The window is on the third floor and has stinging nettles planted under it, but what do the degenerates care for stinging nettles!——Last winter one of them got out of the trap door on the roof, and we had the whole trouble of capturing him, bringing him back, and locking him up again——

The Locksmith.

Do you want the grating of wrought iron?

Dr. Prokrustes.

Of wrought iron——riveted so they cannot meddle with it.

SCENE FIFTH.

A bedchamber.—Frau Bergmann, Ina MÜller and Doctor von Brausepulver. Wendla, in bed.

Dr. von Brausepulver.

How old are you, exactly?

Wendla.

Fourteen and a half.

Dr. von Brausepulver.

I have been ordering Blaud's pills for fifteen years and have noticed astonishing results in the majority of cases. I prefer them to cod liver oil and wine of iron. Begin with three or four pills a day, and increase the number just as soon as you are able. I ordered FrÄulein Elfriede, Baroness von Witzleben to increase the number of them by one, every third day. The Baroness misunderstood me and increased the number every day by three. Scarcely three weeks later the Baroness was able to go to Pyrmont with her mother to complete her cure.——I will allow you to dispense with exhausting walks and extra meals; therefore, promise me, dear child, to take frequent exercise and to avoid unwholesome food as soon as the desire for it appears again. Then this palpitation of the heart will soon cease——and the headache, the chills, the giddiness——and this frightful indigestion. FrÄulein Elfriede, Baroness von Witzleben, ate a whole roast chicken with new potatoes for her breakfast eight days after her convalescence.

Frau Bergmann.

May I offer you a glass of wine, Doctor?

Dr. von Brausepulver.

I thank you, dear Frau Bergmann, my carriage is waiting.——Do not take it so to heart. In a few weeks our dear little patient will be again as fresh and bright as a gazelle. Be of good cheer.——Good-day, Frau Bergmann, good-day, dear child, good-day, ladies——good-day.

(Frau Bergmann accompanies him to the door.)

Ina.

(At the window.)

Now your plantains are in bloom again.——Can you see that from your bed?——A short display, hardly worth rejoicing over them, they come and go so quickly. I, too, must go right away now. MÜller is waiting for me in front of the post-office, and I must go first to the dressmaker's. Mucki is to have his first trousers and Karl is to have new knit leggings for winter.

Wendla.

Sometimes I feel so happy——all joy and sunshine. I had not guessed that it could go so well in one's heart! I want to go out, to go over the meadows in the twilight, to look for primroses along the river and to sit down on the banks and dream—Then comes the toothache, and I feel as if I had to die the next morning at daybreak; I grow hot and cold, it becomes dark before my eyes; and then the beast flutters inside.——As often as I wake up, I see Mother crying. Oh, that hurts me so.——I can't tell you how much, Ina!

Ina.

Shall I lift your pillows higher?

Frau Bergmann.

(Returning.)

He thinks the vomiting will soon cease; and then you can get up in peace——I, too, think it would be better if you got up soon, Wendla.

Ina.

Possibly when I visit you the next time you will be dancing around the house again. Good-bye, Mother. I must positively go to the dressmaker's. God guard you, Wendla dear. (Kisses her.) A speedy, speedy recovery! (Exit Ina.)

Wendla.

What did he tell you, Mother, when he was outside?

Frau Bergmann.

He didn't say anything.——He said FraÜlein von Witzleben was subject to fainting spells also. It is almost always so with chlorosis.

Wendla.

Did he say that I have chlorosis, Mother?

Frau Bergmann.

You are to drink milk and eat meat and vegetables when your appetite comes back.

Wendla.

O, Mother, Mother, I believe I haven't chlorosis——

Frau Bergmann.

You have chlorosis, child. Be calm, Wendla, be calm, you have chlorosis.

Wendla.

No, Mother, no! I know it. I feel it. I haven't chlorosis. I have dropsy——

Frau Bergmann.

You have chlorosis. He said positively that you have chlorosis. Calm yourself, girl. You will get better.

Wendla.

I won't get better. I have the dropsy, I must die, Mother.——O, Mother, I must die!

Frau Bergmann.

You must not die, child! You must not die—Great heavens, you must not die!

Wendla.

But why do you weep so frightfully, then?

Frau Bergmann.

You must not die, child! You haven't the dropsy, you have a child, girl! You have a child!——Oh, why did you do that to me!

Wendla.

I haven't done anything to you.

Frau Bergmann.

Oh don't deny it any more, Wendla!——I know everything. See, I didn't want to say a word to you.——Wendla, my Wendla——!

Wendla.

But it's not possible, Mother. I'm not married yet!

Frau Bergmann.

Great Almighty God——that's just it, that you are not married! That is the most frightful thing of all!——Wendla, Wendla, Wendla, what have you done!!

Wendla.

God knows, I don't know any more! We lay in the hay——I have loved nobody in the world as I do you, Mother.

Frau Bergmann.

My sweetheart——

Wendla.

O Mother, why didn't you tell me everything!

Frau Bergmann.

Child, child, let us not make each other's hearts any heavier! Take hold of yourself! Don't make me desperate, child. To tell that to a fourteen-year-old girl! See, I expected that about as much as I did the sun going out. I haven't acted any differently towards you than my dear, good mother did toward me.——Oh, let us trust in the dear God, Wendla; let us hope for compassion, and have compassion toward ourselves! See, nothing has happened yet, child. And if we are not cowardly now, God won't forsake us.——Be cheerful, Wendla, be cheerful!——One sits so at the window with one's hands in one's lap, while everything changes to good, and then one realizes that one almost wanted to break one's heart——Wa——why are you shivering?

Wendla.

Somebody knocked.

Frau Bergmann.

I didn't hear anything, dear heart. (Goes and opens the door.)

Wendla.

But I heard it very plainly——Who is outside?

Frau Bergmann.

Nobody——Schmidt's Mother from Garden street.——You come just at the right time, Mother Schmidt.

SCENE SIXTH.

Men and women wine-dressers in the vineyard. The sun is setting behind the peaks of the mountains in the west. A clear sound of bells rises from the valley below. Hans Rilow and Ernest RÖbel roll about in the dry grass of the highest plot under the overhanging rocks.

Ernest.

I have overworked myself.

Hans.

Don't let us be sad!——It's a pity the minutes are passing.

Ernest.

One sees them hanging and can't manage any more——and to-morrow they are in the wine press.

Hans.

Fatigue is as intolerable to me as hunger.

Ernest.

Oh, I can't eat any more.

Hans.

Just this shining muscatelle!

Ernest.

My elasticity has its limit.

Hans.

If I bend down the vine, we can sway it from mouth to mouth. Neither of us will have to disturb himself. We can bite off the grapes and let the branches fly back to the trunk.

Ernest.

One hardly decides upon a thing, when, see, that vanishing power begins to darken.

Hans.

Hence the flaming firmament——and the evening bells——I promise myself little more for the future.

Ernest.

Sometimes I see myself already as a worthy pastor—with a good-natured little wife, a well-filled library and offices and dignities all about me. For six days one has to think, and on the seventh one opens one's mouth. When out walking, one gives one's hand to the school-girls and boys, and when one comes home the coffee steams, the cookies are brought out and the maids fetch apples through the garden door.——Can you imagine anything more beautiful?

Hans.

I imagine half-closed eyelids, half-open lips and Turkish draperies.——I do not believe in pathos. Our elders show us long faces in order to hide their stupidity. Among themselves they call each other donkeys just as we do. I know that.——When I am a millionaire I'll erect a monument to God.——Imagine the future as a milkshake with sugar and cinnamon. One fellow upsets it and howls, another stirs it all together and sweats. Why not skim off the cream?——Or don't you believe that one can learn how?

Ernest.

Let us skim!

Hans.

What remains the hens will eat.——I have pulled my head out of so many traps already——

Ernest.

Let us skim, Hans!——Why do you laugh?

Hans.

Are you beginning again already?

Ernest.

But one of us must begin.

Hans.

Thirty years from now, on some evening like to-day, if we recall this one, perhaps it will seem too beautiful for expression.

Ernest.

And how everything springs from self!

Hans.

Why not?

Ernest.

If by chance one were alone——one might like to weep!

Hans.

Don't let us be sad! (He kisses him on the mouth.)

Ernest.

(Returning the kiss.)

I left the house with the idea of just speaking to you and turning back again.

Hans.

I waited for you.——Virtue is not a bad garment, but it requires an imposing figure.

Ernest.

It fits us loosely as yet.——I should not have been content if I had not met you.——I love you, Hans, as I have never loved a soul——

Hans.

Let us not be sad.——If we recall this in thirty years, perhaps we shall make fun of it.——And yet everything is so beautiful. The mountains glow; the grapes hang before our mouths and the evening breeze caresses the rocks like a playful flatterer.——

SCENE SEVENTH.

A clear November night. The dry foliage of the bushes and trees rustles. Torn clouds chase each other beneath the moon——Melchior clambers over the churchyard wall.

Melchior.

(Springing down inside.)

The pack won't follow me here.——While they are searching the brothels I can get my breath and discover how much I have accomplished.

Coat in tatters, pockets empty——I'm not safe from the most harmless.——I must try to get deeper into the wood to-morrow.

I have trampled down a cross——Even to-day the flowers are frozen!——The earth is cold all around——

In the domain of the dead!——

To climb out of the hole in the roof was not as hard as this road!——It was only there that I kept my presence of mind——

I hung over the abyss——everything was lost in it, vanished——Oh, if I could have stayed there.

Why she, on my account!——Why not the guilty!——Inscrutable providence!——I would have broken stones and gone hungry!——What is to keep me straight now?——Offense follows offense. I am swallowed up in the morass. I haven't strength left to get out of it——

I was not bad!——I was not bad!——I was not bad!——No mortal ever wandered so dejectedly over graves before.——Pah!——I won't lose courage! Oh, if I should go crazy——during this very night!

I must seek there among the latest ones!——The wind pipes on every stone in a different key——an anguishing symphony!——The decayed wreaths rip apart and swing with their long threads in bits about the marble crosses——A wood of scarecrows!——Scarecrows on every grave, each more gruesome than the other——as high as houses, from which the devil runs away.——The golden letters sparkle so coldly——The weeping willows groan and move their giant fingers over the inscriptions——

A praying angel——a tablet.

The clouds throw their shadows over it.——How the wind hurries and howls!——Like the march of an army it drives in from the east.——Not a star in the heavens——

Evergreen in the garden plot?——Evergreen?——A maiden——

HERE RESTS IN GOD

Wendla Bergmann, born May 5, 1878,
died from Cholorosis,
October 27, 1892.

Blessed are the Pure of Heart