ACT I
THE BIRTH OF MAN AND THE SUFFERINGS OF THE MOTHER
A profound darkness within which nothing moves. Then there can be dimly perceived the outlines of a large, high room and the grey silhouettes of Old Women in strange garments who resemble a troop of grey, hiding mice. In low voices and with laughter to and fro the Old Women converse.
Conversation of the Old Women
What I should like to know is whether our friend will have a son or a daughter.
What difference does that make to you?
I like boys.
And I like girls. They always stay at home and wait until you come to them.
But do you like to make calls?
Subdued laughter.
He knows.
He knows.
Silence.
Our friend would like a girl. She says that boys are too rough, that they are venturesome and seek dangers. When they are still quite small they like to climb tall trees and swim in deep water, and often they fall, and often they drown. And when they become men they start wars and kill each other.
She thinks that girls don’t drown, but I have seen many drowned girls just the same, and they were like all drowned people—wet and greenish.
She thinks stones don’t kill girls.
Poor thing! Childbirth is so hard for her. Here we have been sitting for sixteen hours and she is still crying. At first she cried loud so that her shrieks hurt your ears, then lower, and now she only gasps and moans.
The doctor says she’ll die.
No, the doctor says the child will die and that she will be left alive.
Why do they have children? It is so painful.
Why do they die? That is still more painful.
Subdued laughter.
Yes, they bear children and they die.
And again bear children.
They laugh. The low cry of the suffering woman is heard.
It has begun again.
Her voice has come back. That’s good.
That’s good.
The poor husband! He is so distracted that he is funny to look at. At first he was glad that he was to have a child, and said that he wanted a boy. He thought that his son would be an ambassador or a general. But now he doesn’t want anything, neither a boy nor a girl, and he only runs about distractedly and weeps.
When her throes begin, he strains too, and flushes.
When they sent him to the drug store for some medicine he rode up and down past the store for two hours and could not remember what he wanted. So he came back.
Subdued laughter. The crying again becomes louder and then dies away. Silence.
What has happened to her? Perhaps she is already dead.
No, in that case we should hear weeping. The doctor would run out and begin to talk nonsense, and they would bring out her husband unconscious, and we should have our hands full. No, she is not dead.
Then why are we sitting here?
Ask Him. How should we know?
He won’t tell.
He won’t tell. He tells nothing.
He drives us here and there. He rouses us from our beds and makes us watch, and then it turns out that there was no need of our coming.
We came of our own accord. Didn’t we come of our own accord? You must be fair to Him. There, she is crying again. Aren’t you satisfied?
Are you?
I am saying nothing. I am saying nothing and waiting.
How kind-hearted you are!
Laughter. The cries become louder.
How she screams! What pain she suffers! You know these pains? They are like having the entrails torn out.
We have all borne children.
How strange her voice is! I don’t recognise the voice of our friend. It is usually soft and gentle.
But this cry is more like the howl of a wild animal. One can feel the night in this cry.
One can feel in it hopelessness and terror. It is like an endless dark forest.
One can feel solitude and anguish in it. Can it be that no one is with her? Why are there no other voices but this wild cry?
There are voices, but you cannot hear them. Haven’t you noticed how solitary a human shriek always is? All may be talking, but you don’t hear them; yet if only one shrieks, it is as if everything were silent and listening.
I once heard a man shriek. A wagon had crushed his foot. Though the street was full of people, it was as if he were actually the only one there.
But this is more frightful.
Rather say louder.
More prolonged, I should say.
No, it is more frightful. You can feel death in it.
Well, you could feel death there, too. The man died.
Stop quarrelling! Isn’t it all the same to you?
Silence. A scream.
How strange is a human cry! When you yourself cry out in agony, you do not notice how strange it is—how strange it is!
I can’t picture to myself the mouth that is uttering those sounds. Can it be the mouth of a woman? I cannot picture it.
But you can feel that it is all distorted.
The sound seems to be born in some abyss. Now it is like the cry of a drowning person. Listen, she’s gasping.
Some heavy thing is lying on her chest.
Some one is stifling her.
The cries cease.
At last she has ceased. One gets tired of it. The cry is so monotonous and ugly.
Oh, you want beauty here, too, do you?
Subdued laughter.
Sh! Is He here?
I don’t know.
I think He is.
He doesn’t like laughter.
They say He laughs himself.
Who ever saw Him laugh? You are simply repeating rumours. They tell so many lies about Him.
He will hear us. Let’s be serious.
Subdued laughter.
Just the same, I’d like to know whether it will be a boy or a girl.
Yes, it’s interesting to know with whom you have to deal.
I’d rather it would be still-born.
How kind-hearted!
No more than you.
Well, I want him to become a general.
Laughter.
You laugh too much. I don’t like it.
And I don’t like your glumness.
Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! We are all of us both mirthful and gloomy. Let each one be as she likes.
Silence.
They are awfully queer when they are born. Funny little things!
And so self-satisfied.
And they demand so much. I don’t like them. They begin right off to cry and to insist, as if everything ought to be ready for them. Even before they can see they know that there is a breast and milk and insist on having them. And then they demand that they be laid to sleep. And then they demand to be rocked and to have their little red backs gently patted. I like them better when they die. Then they are less insistent. They straighten themselves out and don’t ask to be rocked.
Yes, they are very funny. I like to wash them when they are born.
I like to wash them when they are dead.
Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Every one shall have her own way. One will wash the child when it is born, another when it dies.
But why do they think they have a right to make demands as soon as they are born? I don’t like that.
They don’t think. It is the stomach that insists.
They are always insisting.
Because no one gives them what they need.
Subdued laughter. The cries in the next room are renewed.
She is crying out again.
Animals have an easier time.
And they die easier and live easier. I have a cat. If you could only see how fat and contented she is!
And I have a dog; and every day I say to her: “You are going to die.” But she only grins and cheerfully wags her tail.
Well, they are animals.
Well, these are people.
Laughter.
Either she is dying or the crisis has come. In this cry you can feel the limit of her strength.
You can feel the rolling eyes.
And the cold sweat on her forehead.
They listen.
The child is being born.
No, the mother is dying.
The cries are suddenly broken off.
I tell you——
The Being in Grey. [Speaks in a clear and powerful voice] Silence! Man is born.
Almost simultaneously with his words the cry of a child is heard, and the candle in his hand flames up. The tall candle burns with a feeble, uncertain light, but gradually the flame becomes stronger. The corner in which the Being in Grey stands motionless is darker than the other corners, and the yellow flame of the candle illuminates the square chin, the firmly compressed lips, and the large, bony cheeks. The upper part of the face is hidden by the heavy folds of the scarf. He is somewhat larger than an ordinary man.
The candle, long and thick, is set in a candlestick of antique workmanship. Against the green bronze his hand stands out grey and firm, with long, slender fingers.
As it grows slowly brighter there emerge from the darkness the outlines of the room and the figures of five hunchbacked Old Women in outlandish robes. The room is high and rectangular, with smooth, uniformly tinted walls. In front of the spectator, and also at his right, are two tall windows with eight panes of glass each and without curtains. The night looks in through the windows. Along the wall stand chairs with tall, straight backs.
The Old Women. [Hastily] Hear them running about. They are coming here.
How light it is! Let’s go.
Look, the candle is tall and the flame is bright.
Let’s go; let’s go. Quick!
But we’ll come back!
But we’ll come back!
They laugh softly and in the dim light glide out with odd, zigzag movements, interchanging laughter. On their departure the light, though it grows stronger, remains comparatively dull, lifeless, and cold. The corner in which the Being in Grey stands motionless with the burning candle, is darker than the other corners.
Enter the Doctor, in a white surgeon’s coat, and the Father of Man. The face of the latter wears a happy though wearied expression. Under his eyes are blue circles. His cheeks are hollow and his hair is dishevelled. He is carelessly dressed. The Doctor has a learned air.
Doctor. Up to the last moment I was uncertain whether your wife would remain among the living or not. I used all my skill and knowledge, but our science means little if nature does not come to our aid. I am much agitated. How my pulse beats even now! Although I have helped so many children to come into the world, to this day I cannot avoid this excitement. But you are not listening to me, sir!
Father of Man. I am listening, but I hear nothing. Her cries are still ringing in my ears, and I find it hard to understand. Poor woman! How she suffered! Fool that I was, insane, to wish for children! I now renounce this criminal desire.
Doctor. But you will call me when the next one is born.
Father. That will never be. I am ashamed to say it, but at this moment I hate the child for whom she suffered so. I have not even seen it. What is it like?
Doctor. It is a strong, well-nourished boy and, if I am not mistaken, resembles you.
Father. Resembles me? How delightful! Now I begin to love it. I have always wished to have a son like myself. Did you notice whether his nose is like mine?
Doctor. Yes, his nose and his eyes.
Father. His eyes, too? Oh, fine! I will pay you more than I agreed.
Doctor. I must have an extra fee for the use of the forceps.
Father. [Turning to the corner where He stands motionless] O God, I thank thee for fulfilling my desire and giving me a son like to myself. I thank thee that my wife did not die and that the child lives. And I beg thee so to order his life that he may grow up strong and healthy and be wise and honest, and that he may never bring grief upon us—upon me and his mother. If thou doest this, I shall ever believe in thee and go to church. And now I dearly love my son.
Enter the Kinspeople, six in number. One is an unusually tall, elderly lady with double chin and small, haughty eyes. She is extremely dignified and proud. An elderly gentleman in spectacles, her husband, is very tall and so excessively thin that his garments hang about him. He has a pointed beard like a goat’s, and his hair, smooth as though pomaded, reaches to his shoulders. He seems timid, but nevertheless has an air of wisdom. In his hand he carries a low, black silk hat. A young girl, their daughter, has a silly, turned-up nose, blinking eyes, and open mouth. There is also a thin lady with an extremely uncomfortable and sour expression. She holds in her hands a handkerchief with which she frequently wipes her mouth. Two Young Men, exactly alike, display unusually tall collars which hold their necks stiffly up. They have smoothly plastered hair and wear an expression of perplexity and absent-mindedness. In each character all of the qualities mentioned are carried to an extreme.
Elderly Lady. Allow me, dear brother, to congratulate you on the birth of your son. [She kisses him.
Gentleman. Allow me, my dear kinsman, to congratulate you heartily on the birth of a son so long expected. [He kisses him.
The Others. Allow us, dear kinsman, to congratulate you on the birth of your son.
[They kiss him. The Doctor withdraws.
Father. [Deeply moved] I thank you, I thank you. You are all so very good. You are such kind and affectionate people. I love you dearly. Heretofore I had my doubts, and I thought that you, dear sister, were somewhat absorbed in yourself and your virtues, and that you, dear brother-in-law, were somewhat pedantic, and of the others I thought that they were cool toward me and only came for the dinner. But now I see that I was wrong. I am extremely happy. A son is born to me. A son is born to me like myself, and aside from that I see here so many good people who love me.
[They kiss.
Young Girl. What are you going to name your son, dear uncle? I should so like him to have a beautiful, poetic name. With a man so much depends on the name.
Elderly Lady. I should like the name to be simple and substantial. People with beautiful names are always rattle-brained and rarely succeed in life.
Elderly Gentleman. I think, dear brother-in-law, that you ought to name your son for some one of your older kinsmen. That has the effect of continuing and strengthening the family.
Father. Yes, my wife and I have already thought about it, but we could not come to a decision. So many new ideas and interests come with the birth of a child.
Elderly Lady. It rounds out one’s life.
Elderly Gentleman. It gives life a beautiful purpose. In bringing up a child, by saving him from the errors of which we ourselves were the victims, by storing his mind from our own rich experience, we produce a better man and slowly but surely move toward the final goal of existence—perfection.
Father. You are perfectly right, my dear brother-in-law. When I was small I was very fond of torturing animals, and this developed in me a strain of harshness. I shall not allow my son to torture animals. Even after I was grown up, I frequently made mistakes in friendship and love. I selected unworthy friends and perfidious women. I will explain to my son——
The Doctor enters and speaks in a loud voice.
Doctor. Sir, your wife is very ill. She wishes to see you.
Father. O heavens! [He goes out with the Doctor.
The Kinspeople seat themselves in a semicircle and for some time maintain an impressive silence. In the corner the Being in Grey stands motionless with his stony face turned toward them.
Conversation of the Kinspeople
Can it be, my dear wife, that our kinswoman will die?
No, I hardly think so.
Having very little patience, she makes too much of her suffering. All women bear children, and no one dies. I myself have borne six children.
But she screamed so, mamma.
Yes, her face was flushed with screaming. I noticed that.
That was not from screaming. That was because she had to strain so. You don’t understand these things. My face has been flushed, too, but I never screamed. A friend of ours, the wife of the engineer, recently bore a child, and she hardly cried at all.
Yes, I know. My brother is needlessly worried. One must be firmer and take a calmer view of things. I am afraid that when he comes to bring up the child he will make him visionary and dissolute.
He lacks will-power. Though he has little money, yet he loans to untrustworthy people.
Do you know how much the child’s linen cost?
Oh, don’t mention it! My brother’s folly is so trying. He and I have had arguments on this subject before.
They say storks bring babies. Storks!
The Young Gentlemen snicker.
Stop your silliness. I have had five children, and, thank God, I am no stork.
The Young Gentlemen snicker again, and the Elderly Lady looks at them severely for a long time.
You should understand that this is a superstition. Children are born in a perfectly natural manner, on strictly scientific principles.
They live in another flat now.
Who?
The engineer and his wife. Their old quarters turned out to be very damp and cold. They complained several times to the landlord, but he paid no attention.
In my opinion a small, warm flat is better than a large, damp one. In a damp flat one might die of catarrh or rheumatism.
One of my acquaintances has a very damp flat.
And one of mine, too—very damp.
There are so many damp flats nowadays.
But tell me, please—I have been wanting to ask you for ever so long—how can grease spots be taken out of white cloth?
Wool?
No, silk.
Cries of the child in the other room.
Take a small piece of clean ice and rub the place where the spot is real hard, and when you have rubbed it real hard take a hot iron and smooth it.
You don’t say so! How simple! But I have heard that borax water is better.
No, borax water is good only for dark cloth. For white cloth ice is the best thing.
I say, may one smoke here? I somehow never happened to think whether it would be proper to smoke where a child had just been born.
Nor I. How strange! At funerals I know it is quite improper to smoke, but here——
What nonsense! Of course you can smoke.
However, smoking is in general a bad habit. You are still a very young man. I should advise you to attend to your health. In the course of one’s life so many occasions arise when one needs one’s health.
But tobacco is stimulating.
Believe me, it is a very unwholesome stimulation. When I was young and thoughtless I used tobacco to excess.
Oh, mamma, how it cries! How it cries, mamma! Does it want milk?
The Young Gentlemen snicker. The Elderly Lady looks severely at them.
Curtain.