Three plays by Frederic Hebbel

There’s the sixth sheet since dinner. How fine a man feels when he does his duty! Anybody could come into the room that liked, even the king himself—I would stand up, but I would not be embarrassed. Except for one man, that old joiner. But at bottom he can’t trouble me much. Poor Clara! I’m sorry for her. It disturbs me to think of her. If it hadn’t been for that one cursed evening. It was more jealousy than love that excited me, and I’m sure she only yielded to refute my reproaches, for she was as cold as death towards me. She has bad times ahead of her, and I shall have a lot of worry, too. Let each bear his lot. Above all things, I must make sure of that little humpbacked girl and not let her escape me when the storm breaks. Then I shall have the mayor on my side and need fear nothing.

Good-evening, Leonard.

Clara? (Aside.) I didn’t expect this. (Aloud.) Didn’t you get my letter? Oh—perhaps your father’s sent you to pay the rates. How much is it? (Turning leaves in a journal.) I ought to know it without looking it up.

I’ve come to give you your letter back. Here it is. Read it again.

It’s quite a sensible letter. How can a man, who’s in charge of public money, marry into a family that—(swallowing a word) your brother belongs to?

Leonard!

Perhaps the whole town’s wrong? Your brother isn’t in prison? Never been in prison? You’re not the sister of—of your brother?

Leonard, I’m my father’s daughter. I don’t come as the sister of an innocent man whose name has already been cleared—that’s my brother;—nor as a girl who shudders at unmerited shame—for (in a low voice) I shudder more at you—I come in the name of the old man who gave me life.

What do you want?

Can you ask? Oh, if only I were free to go! My father will cut his throat if I—marry me!

Your father——

He has sworn it. Marry me!

Hand and throat are close cousins. They won’t damage one another. Don’t worry about that.

He has sworn it.—Marry me, and then kill me—and I’ll thank you more for the one than the other.

Do you love me? Did your heart tell you to come? Am I the man without whom you can’t live or die?

Answer that yourself.

Can you swear that you love me? That you love me as a girl should love the man who is to be bound to her for life?

No, I can’t swear that. But this I can swear. That whether I love you or not, you shall never know. I’ll serve you, I’ll work for you. You don’t need to feed me. I’ll keep myself. I’ll sew and spin in the night-time for other people. I’ll go hungry if I’ve no work to do. I’ll eat my own flesh rather than go to my father and let him notice anything. If you strike me because your dog isn’t handy, or you’ve done away with him, I’ll swallow my own tongue rather than utter a sound that could let it out to the neighbours. I can’t promise you that my skin shall not show the marks of your lash, but I’ll lie about it, I’ll say that I ran my head against the cupboard or that the floor was too much polished and I slipped on it. I’ll do it before anybody has time to ask me where the blue marks came from. Marry me—I shan’t live long. And if it lasts too long for you, and you can’t afford to divorce me, buy some poison at the chemist’s and put it down as if it were for the rats. I’ll take it without even a sign from you, and when I’m dying I’ll tell the neighbours I thought it was crushed sugar.

Well, if you expect me to do all that, you won’t be surprised if I say no.

May God, then, not look upon me too hardly, if I come before He calls me. If it meant only me, I’d bear it; take it patiently, as well-deserved punishment for I don’t know what, if people trampled on me in my misery, instead of helping me. I would love my child, even if it bore this man’s features. I would weep so before it’s helpless innocence, that it would not curse and despise its mother when it was older and wiser. But I’m not the only one. And when the judge asks me on the last day “Why did you kill yourself?” it will be an easier question to answer than “Why did you drive your father to it?”

You talk as if you were the first woman and the last. Thousands before you have gone through this and borne it. Thousands after you will get into your plight and accept their fate. Are they all so low, that you want to go away in a corner by yourself? They had fathers too, who invented heaps of new curses when they heard of it, and talked about death and murder. They were ashamed of themselves later on, and did penance for their curses and blasphemies. Why! they sat down and rocked the child, or fanned the flies off him!

Oh, I can well believe that you don’t understand how anybody in the world should keep his oath!

I’ve brought some flowers. I haven’t to say who’s sent them.

Oh, what lovely flowers! (Strikes his brow.) The devil! That’s stupid! I should have sent some! How am I to get out of it? I don’t know much about these things, and the little girl will notice it; she has nothing else to think about. (Takes the flowers.) But I won’t keep them all. (To Clara.) These mean remorse and shame, don’t they? Didn’t you once tell me that?

Look here, boy. These are for me. I put them here, you see, over my heart. These, red ones here, that burn like a glowing fire, you can take back. Do you understand? When my apples are ripe you can come again.

That’s a long time yet! (Goes out.)

Yes, Clara, you talked about keeping one’s word, and just because I am a man of my word, I am compelled to answer as I do. I broke with you a week ago. You can’t deny it. There lies the letter. (He passes the letter; she takes it mechanically.) I had good reason to; your brother—you say he’s been cleared. I’m glad to hear it. In the course of this week I have made promises elsewhere. I had a perfect right to, because you didn’t protest at the right time against my letter. In my own mind I was as free as before the law. Now you’ve come, but I’ve already given my word and taken somebody else’s, yes—(aside) I wish it were so!—she’s in the same condition as you.—I’m sorry for you—(stroking back her hair, Clara passive, as if she did not notice it), but you’ll understand that the mayor is not to be trifled with.

Trifled with!

Now, you’re getting sensible. And as for your father, you can tell him straight to his face that he’s to blame for it all. Don’t stare at me like that, don’t shake your head; it is so, my girl, it is so! Just tell him so; he’ll understand and keep quiet, I’ll answer for it. (Aside.) When a man gives away his daughter’s dowry, he needn’t be surprised if she’s left on the shelf. It puts my back up to think of it, and almost makes me wish the old boy was here to be lectured to. Why do I have to be cruel? Simply because he was a fool! Whatever happens, he’s responsible for it, that’s clear. (To Clara.) Would you like me to talk to him, myself? I’ll risk a black eye for your sake and go to him. He can be as rude as he likes, he can throw the boot-tree at me, but he’ll have to swallow the truth, in spite of the belly-ache it gives him, and leave you in peace. Be assured of that. Is he at home?

Thank you. (Going.)

Should I come across with you? I’m not afraid.

I thank you as I would thank a snake that had entwined itself around me, and then left me of its own accord to follow other game. I know that I’ve been stung, and am only released because it doesn’t seem worth while to suck the bit of marrow out of my bones. But I thank you in spite of it, for now I shall have a quiet death. Yes, it is no mockery! I thank you. I feel as if I had seen through your heart into the abyss of hell, and whatever may be my lot in the terrors of eternity, I shall have no more to do with you, and that’s a comfort! And just as the unhappy creature bitten by a snake is not blamed for opening his veins in horror and disgust and letting his poisoned life well quickly away, so it may be that God of His grace will take pity on me when He sees you and what you’ve made of me.—If I had no right ever to do such a thing, how should I be able to do it?—One thing more: my father knows nothing of this, he doesn’t suspect, and in order that he may never know, I shall leave this world to-night. If I thought that you——(Takes a step wildly towards him.) But that’s folly. Nothing could suit you better than to see them all stand and shake their heads and vainly ask why it happened!

Such things do happen. What’s to be done? Clara!

Away, away! He can speak! (Going.)

Do you think I believe you?

No!

If you kill yourself, you kill your child, too.

Rather both than kill my father! I know you can’t amend sin with sin. But what I do now, comes on my head alone. If I put the knife in his hand, it affects him as well as me. I get it in any case. That gives me courage and strength in all my anguish. It’ll go well with you on this earth. (Goes out.)

I must marry her! Yet why must I? She’s going to do a mad trick to keep her father from doing a mad trick. What need is there for me to stop her by doing a madder trick still? I can’t agree to it, not until I see the man before me who’ll anticipate me by doing the maddest trick of all, and if he thinks as I do, there’ll be no end to the business. That sounds quite clear,—and yet—I must go after her! There’s some one at the door. Thank God! Nothing’s worse than quarrelling with your own thoughts. A rebellion in your head, when you beget snake after snake and each one devours the other or bites off its tail, is the worst kind of all.

Good-evening.

The secretary! To what do I owe the honour of——

You’ll soon see, my boy.E

You’re very familiar.E We were at school together, of course——

And perhaps we shall die together. (Producing pistols.) Do you know how to use these things?

I don’t understand you.

Do you see? That’s the way you do it. Then you aim at me, so, and fire.

What are you talking about?

One of us two has got to die. Die! At once!

Die?

You know why.

By God, I don’t.

Never mind. You’ll remember when you breathe your last.

I haven’t the faintest idea.

Now just come to your senses. Or else I might shoot you down for a mad dog that has bitten what is dearest to me, without knowing what I was doing;—as it is I’ve got to treat you as an equal for half an hour.

Don’t talk so loud. If any one heard you——

If any one could hear, you’d have called out long ago. Well?

If it’s on the girl’s account, I can marry her. I’d half made up my mind to, when she was here.

She’s been and gone again, without seeing you on your knees in remorse and contrition? Come! Come!

I beg you! I will do anything you wish. I’ll get engaged to her to-night.

Either I do that or nobody. And if the world depended on it, you shan’t touch the hem of her garment again. Come with me. Into the woods! Look here, I’ll take you by the arm and if you make so much as a sound on the road, I’ll——(raising a pistol). Believe me. Anyhow we’ll take the back way through the gardens, to keep you out of temptation.

One’s mine; give it me.

So that you can throw it away and force me to let you run away, or murder you, what? Have patience till we get to the spot, then I’ll divide squarely with you.

Shall I never drink again?

Buck up, boy, you may come off all right. God and the devil are forever fighting for the world, it seems. Who knows which is master? (Takes his arm; both go out.)

No one at home! If I didn’t know the rat-hole under the threshold where they keep the key, when they all go out, I wouldn’t have been able to get in. Well, that wouldn’t have mattered. I could run round the town twenty times and imagine there was no greater pleasure in the world than using your legs. Let’s have a light. (Lights up.) The matches are just where they used to be, I’ll bet, because in this house we’ve got twice ten commandments. “Put your hat on the third nail, not the fourth.” “You must be sleepy at half-past nine.” “You’ve no right to be chilly before Martinmas and no right to sweat after it.” And that’s on a level with “Thou shalt fear God and love Him.” I’m thirsty. (Calls.) Mother! Phew! I’d forgotten she’d gone where there’s no waiters to serve you. I didn’t blubber in that gloomy cell when I heard them ringing the bell for her; but—you red-coat! You didn’t let me have my last throw in the skittle-alley, although I’d the ball in my hand. I won’t give you time to breathe your last, when I find you by yourself. And that may be to-night. I know where to find you at ten o’clock. And then off to sea! What keeps Clara out? I’m as hungry as I’m thirsty. To-day’s Thursday. They’ve had veal broth. If it was winter, there’d have been cabbage; white cabbage up to Shrove Tuesday and green after. That’s as certain as that Thursday comes after Wednesday and that it can’t say to Friday, “Take my place, my feet are tired.”

At last! You shouldn’t do so much kissing. Where four red lips get baked together, there’s a bridge for the devil to cross. What have you got there?

Where? What?

Where? What? In your hand.

Nothing.

Nothing! Is it secrets? (Snatches Leonard’s letter from her.) Give it to me! When your father’s out, your brother’s your guardian.

I kept the thing in my hand, and yet the wind is so strong that it is blowing slates off the roofs. As I went past the church, one fell right at my feet. I nearly fell over it. “O God,” I thought, “one more”—and stood still. It would have been so beautiful. They’d have buried me and said it was an accident. But I hoped in vain for a second.

Damnation! I’ll smash the arm of the man that wrote that. Fetch me a bottle of wine! Or is the money-box empty?

There’s one bottle left in the house. I bought it secretly and hid it for mother’s birthday. It was to have been to-morrow——(Turns away.)

Give it to me.

Now we might begin again—planing, sawing, and hammering, and then eating, drinking, and sleeping between-whiles to be able to go on planing and sawing and hammering. And a-bending of the knee on Sundays into the bargain: O God, I thank Thee for letting me plane and saw and hammer! (Drinks.) Long live every dog that doesn’t bite on the chain! (Drinks again.) Here’s to him again!

Karl, don’t drink so much. Father says there’s the devil in wine.

And the parson says there’s God in it. (Drinks.) We’ll see who’s right. The bailiff came here. How did he behave?

He behaved as if he were in a thieves’ den. Mother fell down and died the moment he opened his mouth.

Good! If you hear in the morning that he’s been found dead, don’t curse the murderer.

But, Karl, you won’t——

I’m not the only enemy he’s got. He’s been attacked many a time. It would be no easy matter to spot the right man, unless he leaves his hat or his stick lying. (Drinks.) Whoever he is, I wish him luck.

You’re talking——

Don’t you like the idea? Leave it alone, then. You won’t see me for a long time again.

No.

No! Do you know already that I’m going to sea? Do my thoughts crawl on my forehead for you to read them? Or has the old man been raving in his usual fashion and threatening to lock me out? Bah! That would be much the same as if the warder had said to me—“You can’t stay in prison any longer; I’ll throw you out where you’ll be free.”

You don’t understand me.

Yes, truly, I’m not bound to the joiner’s bench any longer. Mother’s dead. There’s nobody now who would stop eating fish after every storm. Besides, I’ve wanted it ever since I was a boy. Out into the world! I shall never get on here, or not until I have it proved to me that Fortune no longer favours the man that boldly risks his life, the man that throws away the copper he gets from the great treasury, to see whether she’ll take it from him, or give it back to him gilded.

And will you leave father alone? He’s sixty now.

Alone? Aren’t you staying with him?

I?

Yes, you, his favourite! What nonsense have you got in your head that you ask such questions? I don’t begrudge him his pleasure. He’ll be freed from his eternal worry, when I go. So why shouldn’t I? We simply don’t suit each other. Things can’t be too narrow for him. He’d like to clench his fist and creep inside of it. I’d like to burst my skin like baby’s clothes, if I could! (Sings.)

Tell me now, did he doubt my guilt for a moment? Didn’t he comfort himself as usual with his overwise: “I expected it. I always thought as much. It had to come to that.” If you’d done it, he’d have killed himself. I’d like to see him if you went the woman’s way. He’d feel as if he was with child himself,—with the devil, too.

Oh, how that tears my heart! I must go!

What do you mean?

I must go into the kitchen—what else? (Clutches at her brow.) Yes, that’s what I came home to do. (Goes out.)

She seems very queer! (Sings.)

The last thing’s done now. Father’s evening jug is by the fire. When I closed the kitchen door behind me and realised I should never go in again, I shivered to the very soul. So shall I leave this room, so this house, and so the world.

Why don’t I do it then? Shall I never do it? Shall I put it off from day to day? Just as I’m putting it off now, from minute to minute—yes, away then, away! And yet I stay here. I feel as if hands were raised in my womb, as if eyes——(Sits down on a chair.) What does this mean? Am I too weak to do it? Well, am I strong enough to see my father with his throat cut? (Standing up.) No! No!—Our Father, which art in Heaven—Hallowed be thy kingdom. O God, my poor head! I can’t even pray. Karl! Karl! Help me!

What’s wrong?

The Lord’s Prayer. (Recollects.) I felt as if I was in the water and sinking, and had forgotten to pray. I—(Suddenly.) Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. That’s it. Yes! Yes! Of course I forgive him. I’d forgotten all about him. Good-night, Karl.

Are you going to bed so early? Good-night!

Forgive us——

You might get me a drink of water first—but it must be cold.

I’ll fetch it from the well.

Well, if you like; it isn’t far.

Thanks! Thanks! That was the only thing that troubled me. The deed itself was bound to betray me. Now they will say—“She’s had an accident. She fell in.”

Take care, though; they haven’t nailed that plank on yet.

Why, the moon’s up! O God, I only come to save my father from coming. Forgive me as I—Be gracious, gracious—— (Goes out.)

Yes, but first—(Looking at clock.) What time is it? Nine.

I owed you an apology for something, but if I excuse you for making debts secretly, and pay them for you into the bargain, I may be let off.

The one’s good and the other is unnecessary. If I sell my Sunday clothes I can satisfy the people myself, that want a few shillings from me. When I’m a sailor—(aside) there, it’s out!—I shan’t want them.

What talk is this?

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it, but say what you like, my mind’s made up this time.

Well, you’re old enough, that’s true.

Just because I’m old enough, I don’t crow about it. But to my mind, fish and fowl shouldn’t quarrel as to whether it’s better in the air or in the water. One thing more. Either you’ll never see me again, or you’ll clap me on the shoulder and tell me I did right.

We’ll wait and see. I don’t need to pay off the man I’d engaged to do your work. What more is there in it?

Thank you!

Tell me. Did the bailiff really take you right through the town to the mayor’s, instead of taking the shortest road?

Up street and down street, and over the market place, like a Shrove Tuesday ox. But take my word for it—I shall pay him out before I go.

I can’t blame you, but I forbid you to do it.

Ho!

I won’t let you out of my sight. If you tried to lay hands on him, I’d help the fellow myself.

I thought you, too, were fond of mother.

I’ll prove that I was.

Where’s Clara? Thank God I came here again. Where is she? (Sinks into a chair.)

She went to—Why, isn’t she back yet? Her talk—I am afraid—— (Goes out.)

She is avenged. The wretch lies—— But I too—— Why, O God! Now I can’t——

What’s wrong? What’s the matter with you?

It’ll soon be over. Don’t turn your daughter out. Give me your hand on it. Do you hear? Don’t turn her out, if she——

This is strange talk. Why should I——? Oh, I’m beginning to see! Perhaps I wasn’t unjust to her?

Give me your hand on it.

No! (Puts both hands in his pockets.) But I’ll stand out of her way. She knows that. I’ve told her so.

You have—unhappy man, now I begin to understand you!