ACT V
THE DEATH OF MAN
(VARIANT)
[It was only after “The Life of Man” had been presented on the stage that I became convinced I had fallen into error—both as regards the form and also as regards the fundamental meaning of the play.
As for the form, I could be content to leave the play unchanged. Written in a period of doubts and fears, it might be allowed to stand as my first attempt at a neo-realistic drama. Sins against the fundamental meaning are, however, quite another matter.
Leaving it to others to judge how far I am right and how far I am wrong in my interpretation of the meaning of human life, I am bound, both for my own sake and for the purpose of greater consistency and clearness, to correct such defects in the play as either obscure its fundamental idea or present that idea in an incomplete and unfinished form.
In the fifth act, a variant of which I now offer, the most essential defect was the incorporation into the drama of a relatively incidental element, namely, the Drunkards, and the absence of so essential a group, and a group so important in life as the Heirs, who naturally complete the groups of Kinsmen, Friends, and Enemies of Man.
By introducing into the drama the barroom and the Drunkards I did not, of course, intend to imply that every man dies inevitably in a barroom. Nevertheless, several of my critics quite erroneously drew the following series of inferences: “I do not go to barrooms, consequently this is not true, consequently I shall never die, consequently what sort of a Life of Man is this?” But the loneliness of Man dying in misfortune, to suggest which these people, themselves so solitary and unfortunate, were introduced, may be indicated fully by the presence of the Heirs. While the Drunkards merely give Man an opportunity to die in solitude, the Heirs, on the other hand, with the natural pitilessness of all successors, not only urge him to die, but actually force death upon him. Succession is an important element which I left out of consideration in my first picture of “The Death of Man.”
Mercy was absent from my play, and this also seemed to many to be unjust. In the present version it is represented in the character of the Sister of Mercy, and although during the whole of the act she does not open her eyes once, yet her very presence bears witness to the fact that mercy really exists.
Reminding my readers, however, that justice is merely a new or as yet unexposed error, I bring to a close my explanations (perhaps superfluous) and submit this new version of “The Death of Man” to the kindly judgment of the reader.
Author.]
The high, gloomy room in which the Son and the Wife of Man died. On everything lies the stamp of ruin and death. The walls are warped and threaten to fall. The corners are overspread with cobwebs—regular, light-coloured circles inextricably interlaced. From the sagging ceiling likewise hang dark-grey clumps of abandoned spider-webs. The two tall windows have been forced inward and are bent as though by the steady and persistent pressure of the infinitude of darkness which surrounds the house of Man. Should the windows not hold firm—should they fall inward—the darkness would pour into the room and extinguish the feeble, dying light by which it is illuminated.
In the rear wall a zigzag stairway leads upward to the rooms where once the ball was given. At the foot of the stairs the warped, decayed steps can be seen, but farther upward they are lost in a dense and frowning darkness. By this wall stands a bed under a sagging, torn baldachin—the bed on which the Wife of Man died.
On the right is the dark opening of a large, cold, long-disused fireplace, in which, in a great heap of grey, dead ashes, can be seen a white sheet of partly burned paper, apparently a design. Before the fireplace in an armchair Man sits motionless, dying. In his torn gown and unkempt grey hair and beard one can see the complete abandonment and solitude of death. Some little distance from Man, in an armchair of the same sort, sits a Sister of Mercy, fast asleep, a white cross on her breast. During the whole act she does not once waken.
About the dying man are seated the Heirs, surrounding him closely in a circle of eagerly outstretched faces. There are seven of them, three women and four men. Their necks are greedily stretched out toward Man, their mouths are half-opened, expressing avarice, and the fingers on their uplifted hands are hooked stiffly like the claws of birds of prey. Among them there are large, well-fed people, particularly one gentleman, whose fat body welters formlessly upon the chair; but, from the manner in which they sit and in which they look at Man, one can see that they have been hungry all their lives, that all their lives they have been awaiting the inheritance, and that apparently they are still hungry.
In one corner the Being in Grey, with the candle nearly burned out, stands motionless. The narrow, blue flame flutters, now bending to one side and now reaching upward with a sharp tongue, and throws livid spots of light on His stony face and chin.
Conversation of The Heirs
They speak in loud voices.
Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?
Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?
Dear kinsman, are you sleeping or not? Answer us.
We are your friends.
Your heirs.
Answer us.
Man is silent. The Heirs change their voices to a loud whisper.
He says nothing.
He doesn’t hear. He is deaf.
No, he is only pretending. He hates us, and he would be glad to drive us away, but he can’t. We are his heirs.
Every time we come he looks at us as if we had come to kill him. As if he were not dying of himself!
The fool!
That’s from old age. All people become fools in their old age.
No, it’s his greed. He would be glad to carry everything with him to the grave. He doesn’t know that man goes to the grave empty-handed.
Why do you so hate our dear kinsman?
Because he is slow in dying. [Louder] Old man, why don’t you die? You are spoiling our life. You are robbing us. Your clothes are torn and rotten, your house is tumbling down, your furniture is getting old and losing its value.
That is true, he is robbing us.
Sh! Why shout?
Old man, you are stripping us of our own.
But perhaps our dear kinsman hears us.
Let him hear. It is always good to hear the truth.
But perhaps he has still enough strength to make a will and deprive us of the inheritance.
Do you think so?
They laugh affectedly. They speak softly with assumed tenderness, but yet so loud that Man can hear them.
Nonsense. He was always an intelligent man with a sense of humour, and he understands a joke perfectly well. Is it not true, my dear kinsman?
Of course we were joking.
We can wait any length of time; it is only that we are sorry for him. It’s so sad to sit day and night all alone before the empty fireplace. Is it not true, dear kinsman?
Why doesn’t he go to bed?
Oh, it is just a little whim. His wife died on this bed, and he will never allow any one to touch either the linen or the pillows.
But time has already touched them.
They smell of decay.
Everything here smells of decay. [He sniffs.
Really, when you stop to reflect that in this fireplace he used to burn whole logs so wastefully——
Do you remember his ball? Our dear kinsman scattered his money so freely.
Our money.
But do you remember how he petted his wife, that insignificant creature!
You had better add, “who deceived him.”
Sh!
Who had a dozen paramours.
Sh! Sh!
Who lived with a lackey, yes, with her own lackey. I myself once saw them making eyes at each other.
However, she is dead. Don’t slander the dead.
But it is so. I heard about it, too.
Poor deceived fool!
Do you see any adornments in his honoured grey hair?
Sh! Sh!
With exclamations of “Silence!” “Silence!” they interchange glances and laugh slyly.
Man has no right to think only of himself. Considering how much he might have left and how little remains——
A mere pittance.
We must thank Providence even for what is left. Our honoured kinsman is so careless.
Just look at his gown. Isn’t it shameful to treat an expensive garment so?
Is it really so expensive? I cannot see from here what kind of cloth it is.
Approach him cautiously and feel of it. It is silk.
One of the women goes up to dying Man and, pretending that she is straightening his pillow, feels of the cloth. All watch her with curiosity.
Silk!
By various gestures, the Heirs express their disgust. Man for an instant rouses a little and feebly calls: “Water!”
What does he say? Did he hear us? What does he want?
Man. Water! In God’s name, water!
He ceases speaking. Several of the Heirs, frightened, look here and there for water but do not find any. Voices in a tone of irritation and alarm:
Water!
He is asking for water.
Yes, give him some water.
There isn’t any water.
They all turn toward the sleeping Sister of Mercy and cry out, putting their hands to their mouths in the fashion of a megaphone:
Sister of Mercy!
Sister of Mercy!
Sister of Mercy!
We are speaking to you, Sister of Mercy! The sick man wants some water.
Shake her. What do they pay her for, if she sits there all the time asleep?
If you want a Sister of Mercy that won’t sleep, you must pay more. Can’t you understand?
She is very tired. The poor woman is overworked.
Let her sleep. It is a pity to disturb her when she is sleeping so soundly. Dear kinsman, can’t you wait a bit? The Sister is very tired and is sleeping.
Man does not answer, and they all sit down again on their chairs in a semicircle. The feeble light which illuminates the room slowly grows dimmer and darkness rises in the corners. The darkness comes on heavily from somewhere above, down the staircase. It spreads over the ceiling and clings sullenly to every hollow in the walls.
He is quiet again. Poor man!
How dark it is! Do you not see how dark it is?
When I stop to think that he may sit thus before the fireplace for a long time yet—weeks, perhaps months—then I feel like seizing him by his thin neck and strangling him.
Begging your pardon, sir, although you appear to be very solicitous about the inheritance, I must remark that I don’t know who you are.
Neither do I. Neither do I.
You are simply a nobody—a man from the street! What right have you to the inheritance?
I am just as much an heir as you are.
No, sir, you are a scoundrel.
No, it is you who are a scoundrel.
Sh! Sh!
Drive him out! Away with him!
You are all scoundrels.
Sh! You will wake him up.
Savagely showing their teeth, they threaten each other with clinched fists.
Gentlemen, the light is going out. I can scarcely see your faces.
We must be going. Another day is wasted.
We must be going.
Well, I will remain. I am not going to leave. This is my house; mine, mine, mine!
The rats will eat you here.
[In a fury] This is my house; mine, mine, mine!
One seventh part, Mr. Heir-from-the-Street—at best one seventh part.
It is my house; mine!
Gentlemen, it is getting dark.
Good night, dear kinsman.
Good night, dear kinsman.
Good night, dear kinsman.
One after another they go out, bowing low to Man. Some of them raise the limp hand of dying Man as it lies on the arm of the chair and gently press it. The Heir-from-the-Street is left alone. With a contemptuous glance at silent Man and the Sister of Mercy, he swiftly and with an angry expression examines the room. He touches the walls, feels of the upholstering on the chairs, and estimates with his eye that which he cannot reach with his hand. He goes to the bed on which the Wife of Man died and tests the firmness of the linen, but when the rotten cloth tears in his fingers, the Heir, furiously stamping his foot, scatters the pillows and the sheets. Then he walks resolutely up to the dying Man and takes a position behind his back.
Speech of the Heir
Listen, old Man. You ought to die. Why insult death by hanging back? Be off. Free living things from your dead hand. It lies on everything with leaden weight. Look! All things are waiting eagerly for your death: these falling walls, this spider-web and the spider imprisoned in its circles, this dark fireplace—it used to breathe upon you with its warmth, but now it is summoning your worn-out body to the chill of the grave. Begone! Where you are going you will meet those who loved you, both in youth and in old age, and those who were beloved by you.
Silence.
Don’t you believe it?
[He turns to the corner where the Being in Grey stands.
Ho, you! Tell him that his loved ones will meet him there, his son with the crushed head and his wife who died of sickness and grief.
Silence.
You, too, are silent? And all is silent? So be it. But whatever may await you, begone from here. I, the living, drive you forth from life, and when you die I will bless you. I will lay wreaths upon your coffin, and on the spot where your body will decay I will erect a monument—if it is not too expensive. Begone!
Silence. The Heir again walks up and down the room, but the melancholy of the place, the continually increasing darkness, and the heavy silence frighten him. He moves anxiously about, as if he had forgotten where the exit is, and speaks in a hoarse voice.
Sister of Mercy, wake up! Sister! Where is the door—where is the door? Sister of Mercy!
Silence. In various places almost simultaneously the Old Women appear, and there follows a nimble, silent game very entertaining to the Old Women. They block the exit of the Heir; they circle about the room and, thus noiselessly thrusting him hither and thither, finally let him pass through to the door. Raising his hands above his head with an expression of horror, the Heir runs out. Subdued laughter on the part of the Old Women.
Conversation of the Old Women
Good evening.
Good evening. What a glorious night!
Well, we are together again. How are you?
I have a cough.
Subdued laughter.
It won’t be long now. He’ll soon die.
Look at the candle. The flame is blue and narrow and drooping toward the sides. The wax is already consumed—only the wick is left, and that will soon burn out.
It does not want to go out.
Did you ever see a flame that wanted to go out?
Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Whether the flame wants to go out or not, time is passing.
Time is passing.
Time is passing.
Do you recall his birth? Allow me to congratulate you, my dear kinsman, on the birth of your son.
Do you remember the rose-coloured dress and the naked throat?
And the flowers—the lilies-of-the-valley, on which the dew had not yet dried, and the violets, and the green grass?
Don’t touch them, girls. Don’t touch the flowers!
They laugh.
Time is passing.
Time is passing.
Laughter. One of the Old Women puts the bed in order.
What are you doing?
I am making the bed on which his wife died.
What’s the use of that? He’ll soon be dead.
Don’t bother me. I am making the bed on which his wife died.
How kind you are!
Now all is right. Now he can go.
When He permits him.
Now all is right; now all is right.
Like a deep sigh there sweeps through the room a harmonious but very sad and strange sound. Originating somewhere above, it tremulously dies out in the dark corners. It is as though many harp-strings were snapping one after another.
Sh! Do you hear it?
What’s that?
It’s up above where the ball was. That’s the music.
No, it’s the wind. I was there; I saw it, and I know it is the wind. The window-glass is broken and the wind is playing a chord over the sharp points of the glass.
It is like music.
How cheerful it is up there! The guests are squatting in the darkness by the tattered walls. Oh, if you only knew how they look!
We know.
And with grinning teeth they bark abruptly: “How costly!” “How gorgeous!”
Surely you are joking!
Of course I am joking. You know how jolly I am.
How costly! How gorgeous!
How brilliant!
Subdued laughter.
Remind him.
They surround Man, pressing close to him with gentle, caressing movements. They fondle him with their bony hands. They peer into his face and whisper slyly, probing the inmost recesses of his old heart.
Do you remember?
How costly! How gorgeous!
Do you remember the music at your ball?
He will soon die.
The dancers circled about and the music played so tenderly, so beautifully. This is the way it went.
With low voices they hum the air of the music which was played at the ball.
Do you remember?
Let’s have a ball. It is so long since I have danced. Just imagine that this is a palace, a miraculously beautiful palace!
Do you remember? Hark, the singing violins pour forth their notes! Hear how tenderly the flute sings! Hear how——
Strains of music, suddenly interrupting the speech of the Old Woman, begin to play in the room above, where the ball was held. The sounds are loud and distinct. The Old Women listen attentively.
Sh! Do you hear?
They are playing.
The musicians are playing.
One of them cries out in a loud voice: “Ho, musicians! Hither!”
The others echo her: “Ho, musicians! Hither! Ho, musicians! Hither!”
The music above ceases, and almost at the same moment the three musicians who played at the ball, issuing from the darkness, descend the warped staircase. They come out to the centre of the stage and stand in a row, as they stood before. The one with the violin carefully spreads a handkerchief over his shoulder, and all three begin to play with extreme painstaking. The sounds, however, are tender, low, and sad, as in a dream.
Now we have a ball! How costly! How gorgeous!
How brilliant!
Do you remember?
Humming softly in time to the music, they begin to circle about Man, posturing and repeating with wild distortions the movements of the girls in white robes who danced at the ball. During the first musical phrase they circle about; during the second they approach each other and then draw apart gracefully and silently. They speak in loud whispers:
Do you remember?
You will soon die, but do you remember?
Do you remember?
Do you remember?
You will soon die, but do you remember?
Do you remember?
The dance becomes swifter and the movements more jerky. Through the voices of the Old Women who are singing there glides a strange, whimpering note; and the same strange laughter, as yet subdued, runs through the dancers like a low rustling. As they sweep past Man they discharge, as it were, into his ears abrupt whispers:
Do you remember?
Do you remember?
How tender! How fine!
How restful to the soul!
Do you remember?
You will soon die! You will soon die! You will soon die——
Do you remember?
The whirling dance becomes swifter and the movements still more jerky. Suddenly all is silent and motionless. The musicians are petrified with their instruments in their hands; the dancing women stand motionless in the attitudes in which the oncoming of silence found them.
Man rises. With staggering, unsteady steps he walks toward the bed. One of the Old Women bars his way and whispers in his face:
Don’t lie on the bed; you will die there!
You will die there!
Beware of the bed!
Man pauses, helpless, and sadly begs: “Help me, somebody! I cannot reach the bed.” Suddenly the scales fall from his eyes. He sees the malicious Old Women watching and mischievously sporting with death. He sees the ruin and darkness and destruction that pervade everything about him. He sees as if for the first time the stony face of the Being in Grey and the candle slowly burning out. He raises his hand and the Old Women give way before him. He throws back threateningly his grey-haired, beautiful head, stands erect, and, preparing for his last battle, he cries out in a challenging voice, unexpectedly loud and full of grief and anger. In the first brief expression one can still hear the feebleness of age, but with each succeeding utterance the voice becomes more youthful and stronger, and the candle, reflecting for a moment the life that has returned, flames up high, red and quavering, illuminating all about it with the sombre glow of a conflagration.
Man. Where is my armour-bearer? Where is my sword? Where is my shield? I am weaponless! Come quickly, quickly! Be accursed!
He falls at the foot of the bed and dies. At the same instant the flame of the candle with one last feeble flare goes out, and deep gloom envelops all objects. It is as if the walls and the windows that had formerly held back the darkness had finally given way and the darkness had flooded everything with a dense, black, triumphant wave. Only the face of Man is illumined. Low, indistinct conversation of the Old Women is heard, together with whispering and interchanging of laughter.
Being in Grey. Silence! Man is dead.
Profound silence. The same cold, indifferent voice repeats the words from the far distance like an echo: “Silence! Man is dead.” Profound silence. Slowly the gloom becomes denser, though the mice-like figures of the Old Women watchers can still be seen. Quietly and silently they begin to circle about the corpse. Then they begin to hum in a low tone, and the musicians start playing. The gloom becomes still more dense, the music and singing louder and louder, and the wild dance more unrestrained. They are no longer dancing but wildly whirling about the corpse with stamping and shrieking and wild, uninterrupted laughter. Complete darkness ensues. The face of the dead is still illumined, but presently that also vanishes. Black, impenetrable darkness.
In the darkness one can hear the movements of the wild dancers, the shrieking and laughter, and the discordant and desperately loud sounds of the orchestra. On attaining their highest pitch, all these sounds swiftly recede somewhere and die away. Silence.
Curtain.