ACT IV
MISFORTUNE
A large, rectangular room of a gloomy aspect. The walls, ceiling, and floor are smooth and dark. In the rear wall are two tall, eight-paned, curtainless windows, between which is a low door. Two similar windows are in the right wall. Night is looking in at the windows, and when the door is open the same deep blackness peers quickly into the room. In general, however much light there may be in the rooms of Man, the large, dark, windows seem to devour it.
The left wall is pierced by a single low door leading into the inner apartments. Against this wall stands a broad divan covered with dark cloth. At the window on the right is the work-table of Man, very plain and cheap. On it is a dimly burning lamp with a dark shade, under which a design spread out on the table makes a yellow square. On the table also are a child’s toys—a little soldier cap, a wooden horse without a tail, and a red, long-nosed clown with bells. Against the wall between the windows is a shabby old bookcase, entirely empty. On the shelves can be seen streaks of dust, showing that the books have been recently removed. There is but one chair.
In a corner darker than the other corners stands the Being in Grey, called He. The candle in his hand is no higher than it is broad. It is only a stub and is beginning to flatten out as it melts. It burns with a reddish, flickering light and casts red spots upon the Being’s stony face and chin.
Man’s only servant, an Old Woman, is seated in the chair. She speaks in a monotonous voice, addressing an imaginary companion:
Man is poor again. He had many valuable things—horses, and carriages, and even an automobile—but everything is gone now, and of all his servants I alone am left. In this room and in two others there are still some fine things, like the divan there and the bookcase, but in the remaining twelve rooms there is nothing. They stand empty and dark. Day and night the rats run about in them and fight and shriek. People are afraid of the rats, but I am not. It’s all the same to me.
For a long time an iron plate has been hanging at the carriage entrance with a notice that the house is for sale, but nobody buys. The plate is rusty and the letters on it are worn away by the rains, but no one comes and no one buys. No one has use for the old house. But perhaps some one will buy some day. Then we shall go and hunt for another place, and the new place will seem very strange. My mistress will begin to weep, and perhaps even the old gentleman will weep. But not I. It’s all the same to me.
You wonder where the wealth has gone? I don’t know. Perhaps you are surprised at that, but, you see, all my life I have worked in private families and I frequently have seen their money disappear quietly through some crevice or other. So it was with this family. At first there was much; then there was less; then nothing at all. Customers used to come and give orders, and then they stopped coming. Once I asked the lady why this was so, and she answered: “They cease to like what they used to like. They cease to love what they used to love.” I asked: “How can it be that people cease to like a thing when once they have come to like it?” She did not answer and began to cry. But I didn’t. It’s all the same to me. It’s all the same to me.
As long as they pay me, I will live with them. If they stop paying, I will go somewhere else and live with others. I have cooked for them; when I leave, I shall cook for others; and after a while, I’ll stop entirely; for I shall be old and my eyesight poor. Then they will drive me away and say: “Go where you like. We will hire some one else.” But what of that? I’ll go. It’s all the same to me.
People are surprised at me. They say it is frightful to live here; that it is frightful to sit evenings with only the wind whistling in the chimney and the rats shrieking and gnawing.
I don’t know; perhaps it is frightful, only I don’t think about it. Why should I? They sit quietly and look at each other and listen to the wind, and I sit by myself alone in the kitchen and also listen to the wind. Isn’t it the same wind that whistles in our ears? Young people used to come and visit their son, and then they would all laugh and sing and go into the empty rooms and chase away the rats. But no one comes to me and I sit alone, all alone. There is no one to talk with, so I talk to myself. It’s all the same to me.
And so they are in straits. Three days ago another misfortune came. The young gentleman went out for a walk. He put his hat on one side of his head and smoothed back his hair, as young men do. But a wicked man threw a stone at him from behind a corner and cracked his skull like a nut. They brought him home and laid him down, and he is lying there now, dying—or perhaps he will live. Who knows? The master and the mistress wept, and then they took all the books and loaded them on a dray and sold them; and now they have hired a nurse with the money and bought medicine. They even bought some grapes. So the books were of some use after all. However, he can’t eat the grapes. He can’t even look at them. So they lie there by him on a plate—just lie there.
Doctor enters by the outside door. He is gloomy and much worried.
Doctor. Am I in the right house? Do you know, old lady? I am the doctor. I make many calls and often I go to the wrong place. They call me here, they call me there; but all the houses look alike and the people are tiresome in all of them. Is this the right place?
Old Woman. I don’t know.
Doctor. Just let me look in my note-book. Is there a child here with sore throat—choking?
Old Woman. No.
Doctor. Young man choking on a bone?
Old Woman. No.
Doctor. Man here who suddenly went crazy from poverty and killed his wife and two children with an axe? There ought to be four in all.
Old Woman. No.
Doctor. Young girl whose heart has stopped beating? Don’t lie to me, old woman. I think she is here.
Old Woman. No.
Doctor. No? I believe you. You seem to speak sincerely. Have you a young man whose skull was broken with a stone and who is dying?
Old Woman. Yes. Go through that door at the left into the next room; but don’t go farther, or the rats will eat you.
Doctor. Very well. They’re always ringing my door-bell, day and night. See, it’s night now. The street lights are all put out, but I am still on the go. I often make mistakes, old woman.
He goes out through the door which leads to the inner part of the house.
Old Woman. One doctor attended him but didn’t cure him, and now there is another, and probably he won’t cure him, either. But what’s the odds? Their son will die and we shall be left alone in the house. I shall sit in the kitchen and talk to myself, and they will sit in this room in silence, thinking, and there will be one more room for the rats to run and fight in. Let them run and fight. It’s all the same to me. It’s all the same to me.
You ask me why the wicked man hit the young master? I don’t know. How should I know why people kill one another? One threw a stone from behind a corner and ran away, and the other fell down, and now he is dying. That’s all I know. They say that our young master was kind and brave and always took the part of the wretched. I don’t know. It’s all the same to me. Good or bad, young or old, alive or dead, it’s all the same to me. It’s all the same to me.
As long as they pay me, I’ll stay. If they stop paying, I’ll go somewhere else and cook for others; and after a while I’ll stop entirely; for I shall be old, and my eyesight poor, and I shan’t be able to tell salt from sugar. Then they will drive me away, and say: “Go where you like. We will hire some one else.” But what of that? I’ll go. It’s all the same to me. Here or there or nowhere—it’s all the same to me, all the same to me.
Enter Doctor, Man, and his Wife. Man and his Wife have perceptibly aged, and are entirely grey. Man’s long hair, rising high above his head, and his large beard make his head resemble that of a lion. Though he walks slightly bent, he holds his head erect and looks out sternly and resolutely from beneath his grey brows. When he looks at anything near, he puts on large spectacles with silver rims.
Doctor. Your son has fallen into a sound sleep. Don’t wake him up. Perhaps the sleep will do him good. You go to sleep, too. If a man has time to sleep, he ought to sleep, and not to walk about and talk.
Wife. Thank you, doctor. You have so reassured us. Will you not come again to-morrow?
Doctor. I will come to-morrow and the day after to-morrow. You go to sleep, too, old woman. It’s already night and time for every one to sleep. Do I go through this door? I frequently make mistakes.
He goes out. The Old Woman also goes out. Man and his Wife remain.
Man. See, Wife, here is a design I began before our son was hurt. When I had drawn this line I stopped and said to myself: “After I have rested a little I will go to work again.” How simple a line it is; how quiet and yet how frightful! Perhaps it is the last that I shall draw while our son is alive. How calm, how simple it is, and yet how full of foreboding!
Wife. Don’t worry, my dear. Dismiss these apprehensions. I believe that the doctor told the truth and that our son will recover.
Man. But are you not worried? Look at yourself in the mirror. You are as white as your hair, my dear companion.
Wife. Of course I am a little anxious; still I am sure there is no danger.
Man. My poor armour-bearer! Steadfast guardian of my blunted sword! Now, as always, you beguile and cheer me by your sincerity and devotion. Your old knight is now broken and his withered hand cannot long hold his weapon. But what is this? Our son’s toys! Who put them here?
Wife. My dear, you forget. You put them here yourself some time ago. You said then that you could work better with these simple child’s toys lying before you.
Man. Oh, yes; I had forgotten. But now they are like instruments of torture and execution to a man condemned to death. When a child dies, his toys become a curse to the living. Oh, Wife, Wife! The very sight of them is terrible!
Wife. We bought them when we were poor. It saddens me to look at them. Poor, dear toys!
Man. I cannot bear it. I must take them in my hands. See, here is the horse with the broken tail. “Gid-ap, gid-ap, horsie! Where are you galloping?” “Far, papa, far away into the fields and the green woods.” “Take me with you, horsie.” “Gid-ap, gid-ap! Climb on, dear papa—” And here’s the soldier’s cap made of pasteboard. Poor little cap, which I myself tried on laughingly when I bought it in the shop: “Who are you?” “I am a knight, papa. I am the strongest, bravest knight that ever was.” “Where are you going, my little knight?” “I am going to kill the dragon, dear papa. I am going to free the captives, papa.” “Ride on, ride on, my little knight!” [The Wife of Man weeps] And see, here is our clown, just as he always looked, with his dear, stupid grin. He is as tattered as if he had been through a hundred fights, but he is still laughing and his nose is as red as ever. Come, ring your bells, my friend, as you used to ring them. You can’t? Only one bell left, you say? Well, then, I’ll throw you on the floor. [He throws the toy down.
Wife. What are you doing? Remember how often our child has kissed his funny little face.
Man. Yes, I was wrong. Forgive me, my dear, and you, little toy, forgive me, too. [He picks up the toy, bending his knees with difficulty] Still smiling! Come, I will lay you a little farther away. Don’t be angry; I cannot look at your smile just now. Go and smile somewhere else.
Wife. Your words wring my heart. Believe me, our son will recover. Would it be just for the young to die before the old?
Man. Where have you ever seen justice in this world, Wife?
Wife. My beloved, I beg you, kneel with me in prayer to God.
Man. It is hard for my old knees to bend.
Wife. Bend them—it is your duty.
Man. God will not hear me, for never yet have I troubled his ear either with praise or with petition. Do you pray; you are the mother.
Wife. No, you must pray; you are the father. If a father doesn’t pray for his son, who will? To whose hands will you commit him? Could I speak alone as we two can speak together?
Man. Let it be as you say. Perhaps, if I bend my aged knees, eternal justice will answer.
They both fall on their knees, their faces turned toward the corner where the Unknown stands motionless, and their hands folded on their breasts in attitude of prayer.
Prayer of the Mother
O God, I beseech you, let my son live. That is all I know, that is all I can say—only this one thing: “God, let my son live.” I cannot frame other words. All about me is dark. All is falling away. I understand nothing, and my soul is so filled with horror, O Lord, that I can say only one thing. O God, let my son live, let my son live! Let him live! Forgive me for uttering so poor a prayer, but I cannot do otherwise, O Lord; you know I cannot. Look upon me, only look upon me. Do you see, do you see how my head trembles? Do you see how my hands shake? And what are my hands, O Lord? Have mercy upon him! He is so young. He has a birthmark on his right arm. Let him live, if only a little while, only a little while! He is only a child, and so innocent. He still loves sweets, and I bought him some grapes. Have mercy, have mercy!
She weeps silently, covering her face with her hands. Without looking at her Man speaks.
Prayer of the Father
See, I am praying to you. I have bent my aged knees. I have fallen in the dust before you. See, I kiss the earth. Perhaps I have sometimes offended you. In that case, pardon me, pardon me. It is true that I have been presumptuous and overbold, that I have demanded instead of beseeching, and that I have often reproached you for your acts. Pardon me. If you desire, if such is your will, punish me. Only spare my son; spare him, I pray you. I do not beg for mercy or for pity; no, I beg only for justice. You are old and I, too, as you see, am old. You will understand my prayer the better for that. Wicked people tried to kill him, people who by their evil deeds insult you and pollute the earth—malicious, brutal, villainous people, who throw stones from behind corners—from behind corners, the villains! Let not this wicked thing be done. Stanch his blood. Bring back his life, bring back life to my fine boy. You have taken everything from me, but have I ever importuned you? Have I said, Restore my wealth, restore my friends, restore my genius? No, never. I never asked you even for my genius, and you know what genius means—how it is more to one than life itself. It is the will of fate, I thought, and I bore everything, I bore everything, I bore it proudly. But now, on my knees in the dust, kissing the earth, I beg of you, bring back life to my son. I kiss the earth.
They rise. The Being called He listens with indifference to the prayer of the father and the mother.
Wife. I fear that your prayer, my dear, was not sufficiently humble. There seemed to be a note of pride in it.
Man. No, no, Wife. I said what was right, just as a man should speak. Should He love cringing flatterers more than bold, proud people who speak the truth? No, Wife, you don’t understand. Now I have faith, now I am calm, even cheerful. I feel that I am still of some service to my son, and that heartens me. See whether he is sleeping. He ought to be sleeping soundly.
The Wife goes out. Man casts a friendly glance into the corner where the Being in Grey stands. He takes up the toy clown, plays with it, and gently kisses its long, red nose. At this moment the Wife comes in and Man, somewhat embarrassed, says: “I offended this poor fool, but now I have begged pardon for everything. Well, how is our dear son?”
Wife. He is very pale.
Man. That’s nothing. It will pass. He has lost a great deal of blood.
Wife. His pale, shaved head is so pitiful to see. He had such beautiful golden curls.
Man. They cut them off in order to wash the wound. But never mind, Wife, never mind. They will grow out still finer. Did you gather them up? They must be gathered up and preserved. His precious blood is on them, Wife.
Wife. Yes, I have laid them away in the jewel box, all that is left of our wealth.
Man. Do not lament the loss of our wealth. Wait until our son begins to work. He will win back all that we have lost. Now I am cheerful, my dear, I have faith in our future. Do you remember our poor rose-tinted room? The good neighbours strewed oak leaves about it, and you made a wreath for my head and said I was a genius.
Wife. And I say it even now, my dear. If other people have ceased to value you, I have not.
Man. No, my dear little Wife, you are wrong. The creations of genius live longer than this wretched old garment that we call our body, but even during my lifetime my works are——
Wife. No, they are not dead and will never die. Recall the house on the corner which you built ten years ago. Every evening at sunset you go to look at it. Is there in the whole city a building more beautiful, more meaningful?
Man. True. I so built it that the last rays of the setting sun might fall upon it and set its windows ablaze. After the whole city is in darkness, my building is still bidding farewell to the sun. That was work well done, and perhaps it will outlive me, if only a little. Don’t you think so?
Wife. Of course it will, my dear.
Man. One thing grieves me, Wife. Why am I so soon forgotten? I might have been remembered a little longer, my dear, a little longer.
Wife. People forget what they once knew. They cease to love what they once loved.
Man. They might have remembered me somewhat longer, somewhat longer.
Wife. I saw a young artist near the house. He was studying the building carefully and was making a sketch of it in his note-book.
Man. Why did you not tell me of that, my dear? That is significant, very significant. It means that my thoughts will pass on to others, and even though I am forgotten, yet my thoughts will live on. That is very important, extremely important.
Wife. They have certainly not forgotten you, my dear. Think of the young man who bowed to you so respectfully on the street.
Man. True, Wife. A fine young man, very. He had a glorious young face. It is well that you remind me of this. It has filled my soul with sunshine. But I feel sleepy. I am probably tired. Yes; and I am old. My grey little Wife, do you see that I am old?
Wife. You are still as handsome as ever.
Man. And my eyes shine?
Wife. Yes, your eyes shine.
Man. And my hair is black as pitch?
Wife. It is as white as snow, which is even more handsome.
Man. And I have no wrinkles?
Wife. There are a few little wrinkles, but——
Man. Of course. I know that I am a handsome fellow. To-morrow I will buy a uniform and enter the light brigade. Won’t that be fine?
Wife. [Smiling] Now you are joking as you used. Well, lie down, my dear, and take a short nap and I will go to our son. Rest quietly; I will not leave him until he wakes, and then I will call you. You don’t like to kiss my wrinkled old hand, do you? [Man kisses it.
Man. Nonsense! You are the most beautiful woman in the world.
Wife. But the wrinkles?
Man. Wrinkles? I see a dear, kind, good, intelligent face; nothing more. Don’t be angry with me for my harshness. Go to our son. Guard him. Sit by him like a quiet shadow of tenderness and comfort. And if he grows restless in his sleep, sing him a little song as of old. And set the grapes nearer so that he can reach them.
The Wife goes out. Man lies down on the lounge with his head toward the corner where the Being in Grey stands motionless. Man’s position is such that the hand of the Being almost touches his grey, dishevelled hair. He quickly falls asleep.
The Being in Grey. Man, flattered by his hopes, has fallen into a deep and grateful sleep. His breathing is as quiet as a child’s, and his aged heart, resting from its sufferings, beats calmly and evenly. He does not know that in a few moments his son will die. And, as he sleeps, in his mysterious fancies an impossible happiness rises before him.
He dreams that he is riding with his son in a white boat over a beautiful, smooth river. He dreams that it is a beautiful day and that he sees the blue sky and the transparent, crystal water. He hears the reeds rustle as they part before the boat. He is filled with joy and he fancies that he is blessed. All his emotions are deceiving him.
But suddenly he becomes restless. The terrible truth, penetrating the dense veil of his dreams, has seared his thought.
“Why is your golden hair cut so short, my boy; why is it?”
“My head ached, father, and that is why my hair was cut so short.”
And again deceived, Man is happy and sees the blue sky and hears the reeds rustling as they part.
He does not know that his son is already dying. He does not hear how in a last wild hope, with childish faith in the power of older persons, his son calls him, without words, with the cry of his heart, “Papa, papa, I am dying! I am slipping away! Hold me!” Man’s sleep is deep and joyous, and in his mysterious and deceiving visions an impossible happiness rises before him.
Awake, Man! Your son is dead!
Man. [Terrified, raises his head and gets up] Ah! Did some one call me?
At the same moment the weeping of many women is heard in the next room. With high-pitched voices they are uttering long-drawn-out lamentation over the dead. Enter the Wife, pale as death.
Man. Is our son dead?
Wife. Yes, he is dead.
Man. Did he call me?
Wife. No, he did not wake. He called no one. He is dead, my son, my precious child!
She falls on her knees before Man and sobs, throwing her arms about his knees. Man places his hand upon her head, and, in a voice choked with sobs but threatening, he speaks, his face toward the corner where the Being in Grey stands, indifferent.
Man. You have offended a woman, villain! You have killed our boy. [The Wife sobs. Man with trembling hand quietly smooths her hair] Don’t weep, my dear, don’t weep. He will laugh at our tears, as he laughed at our prayers. But you (I know not who you are, God, the Devil, Fate, or Life)—I curse you.
He speaks the following with a loud, strong voice, with one hand held over his wife, as if to defend her, the other threateningly extended toward the Unknown.
The Curse of Man
I curse all that you have given me! I curse the day on which I was born! I curse the day on which I shall die! I curse my whole life, my joys, and my grief! I curse myself! I curse my eyes, my ears, my tongue! I curse my heart, my head! And I hurl all back into your cruel face, senseless Fate! Be accursed, be accursed for ever! Through my curse I rise victorious above you. What more can you do to me? Hurl me upon the ground, yes, hurl me down! I shall only laugh and cry out, “Be accursed!” Fetter my lips with the clamps of death, and my last thought shall be a cry into your ass’s ears, “Be accursed, be accursed!” Seize upon my corpse, gnaw it like a dog, worry it in the darkness,—I am not within it. I have vanished and, vanishing, I repeat the curse, “Be accursed, be accursed!” Over the head of the woman whom you have offended, over the body of the boy whom you have killed, I hurl upon you the curse of Man!
He stands in silence with his hand raised in a threatening attitude. The Being in Grey listens with indifference to the curse, and the flame of the candle flutters as if blown by the wind. For some time the two stand facing each other in a tense silence—Man and the Being in Grey. The crying in the next room becomes louder and more prolonged and gradually passes into a rhythmical wailing.
Curtain.