PLAYS:
COMRADES; FACING DEATH;
PARIAH; EASTER

By August Strindberg

Translated by Edith and Wärner Oland

Contents

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FOREWORD

August Strindberg died at Stockholm On May 14, 1912, just ten days after the first of his plays given in English in the United States had completed a month's engagement. This play was "The Father," which, on April 9, 1912, was produced at the Berkeley Theatre in New York, the same little theatre that witnessed in 1894 the first performance in this country of Ibsen's "Ghosts."

It happened that August Lindberg, the eminent Swedish actor and friend of Strindberg [who, by the way, was the first producer of "Ghosts" in any language], was visiting this country and came to see a performance of "The Father." His enthusiasm over the interpretation given Strindberg, in the English rendering of the play as well as in the acting, led him to cable a congratulatory message to Strindberg; and upon departing for Stockholm, he asked for some of the many letters of appreciation from significant sources which the production of "The Father" had called forth. These he wished to give to Strindberg as further assurance "that he has," to use Herr Lindberg's words, "the right representatives in this country." It is gratifying to those who esteem it a rare privilege to be the introducers of Strindberg's powerful dramatic art to the American stage to know that he finally found his genius recognized on this side of the ocean.

"Comrades," the first play in the present volume, belongs to the same momentous creative period as "The Father" and "Countess Julie," although there is little anecdotic history attaching to this vigorous comedy. It was written in Denmark, where Strindberg, after finishing "The Father" in Switzerland in 1887, went with his family to live for two years, and was published March 21, 1888.

Although the scene of the comedy is laid in Paris, all the characters are Swedish, which may be accounted for by the fact that the feminist movement, of which "Comrades" is a delicious, stinging satire, had been more agitated at that time in Scandinavia than elsewhere. That Paris was chosen as a background for this group of young artists and writers was probably reminiscent of the time, the early eighties, when Strindberg with his wife and children left Sweden and, after spending some time with a colony of artists not far from Fontainebleau, came to Paris, where there were many friends of other days, and established themselves in that "sad, silent Passy," as Strindberg's own chronicle of those times reads. There he took his walks in the deserted arcades of the empty Trocadero Palace, back of which he lived; went to the Théâtre Français, where he saw the great success of the day, and was startled that "an undramatic bagatelle with threadbare scenery, stale intrigues and superannuated theatrical tricks, could be playing on the foremost stage of the world;" saw at the Palais de l'Industrie the triennial exhibition of art works, "the crème de la crème of three salons, and found not one work of consequence." After some time he came to the conclusion that "the big city is not the heart that drives the pulses," but that it is "the boil that corrupts and poisons," and so betook himself and his family to Switzerland, where they lived in the vicinity of Lake Leman, which environment was made use of years later in the moving one-act play, "Facing Death," presented herewith.

"Pariah," the other one-act play appearing in this volume, is the generally recognized masterpiece of all the short one-act plays. The dialogue is so concentrated that it seems as if not one line could be cut without the whole structure falling to pieces, and in these terse speeches a genius is revealed that, with something of the divine touch, sounds the depths of the human heart and reveals its inmost thoughts. "Pariah" was published in 1890 and "Facing Death" in 1898.

The period of Strindberg's sojourn in Switzerland, 1884-87, was most important in the evolution of the character and work of the man who, throughout his career, was to engage himself so penetratingly and passionately in the psychology of woman, and love, and the problems of marriage, as to acquire the reputation, undeserved though it was, of woman-hater. That this observation and analysis of woman was not induced by natural antipathy to the sex, nor by unhappiness in his own married experience, is made clear by the facts of his life up to the time when such investigation was undertaken. What, then, did sway him to such a choice of theme? Examination of the data of this period from Strindberg's own annals reveals the following influences: Ibsen from his Norwegian throne had hailed woman and the laborer as the two rising ranks of nobility, and Strindberg asked himself if this was ironic, as usual, or prophetic. Feminine individualism was the cult of the hour. The younger generation had, through the doctrines of evolution, become atheistic. Strindberg tells of asking a young writer how he could get along without God. "We have woman instead," was the reply. This was the last stage of Madonna worship! And how had it happened that the new generation had replaced God with woman? "God was the remotest source; when he failed they grasped at the next, the mother. But then they should at least choose the real mother, the real woman, before whom, no matter how strong his spirit, man will always bow when she appears with her life-giving attributes. But the younger generation had pronounced contempt for the mother, and in her place had set up the loathsome, sterile, degenerate amazon—the blue-stocking!"

Earnestly pondering these matters, Strindberg at length decided to write a book about woman, a subject, he declares, which up to this time he had not wanted to think about, as he himself "lived in a happy erotic state, ennobled and beautified by the rejuvenating and expiatory arrival of children." But nevertheless he decided to write such a book, and so with sympathy and much old-fashioned veneration for motherhood the task was undertaken.

Regarding the mother as down-trodden, he wanted to think out a means for her deliverance. To obtain a clear vision he chose as a method the delineation of as large a number as possible of marriage cases that he had seen—and he had seen many, as most of his contemporary friends were married. Of these he chose twelve, the most characteristic, and then he went to work. When he had written about half that number, he stopped and reviewed the collection. The result was entirely different from what he had expected.

Then chance came to his aid, for in the pension where he was living, thirty women were stopping. He saw them at all meals, between meals, and all about, idle, gossiping, pretentious, longing for pleasure. "There were learned ladies who left the Saturday Review behind them on the chairs; there were literary ladies, young ladies, beautiful ladies." When he saw their care-free, idle life, with concern he asked himself: "Whom do these parasites and their children live on?" Then he discovered the bread-winners. "The husband sat in his dark office far away in London; the husband was far away with a detachment in Tonkin; the husband was at work in his bureau in Paris; the husband had gone on a business trip to Australia." And the three men who were there gave him occasion to reflect about the so-called female slave. "There was a husband who had a fiercely hot attic room, while the wife and daughter had a room with a balcony on the first floor. An elderly man passed by, who, although himself a brisk walker, was now leading his sickly wife step by step, his hand supporting her back when making an ascent; he carried her shawls, chair, and other little necessities, reverently, lovingly, as if he had become her son when she had ceased to be his wife. And there sat King Lear with his daughter,—it was terrible to see. He was over sixty, had had eight children, six of whom were daughters, and who, in his days of affluence, he had allowed to manage his house and, no doubt, the economy thereof. Now he was poor, had nothing, and they had all deserted him except one daughter who had inherited a small income from an aunt. And the former giant, who had been able to work for a household of twelve, crushed by the disgrace of bankruptcy, was forced to feel the humiliation of accepting support from his daughter, who went about with her twenty-nine women friends, receiving their comfort and condolence, weeping over her fate, and sometimes actually wishing the life out of her father."

The immediate result of all this observation and consequent analysis was the collection of short stories in two volumes called "Marriages," the first of which, published in 1884, gave rise to Strindberg's reputation of being a pessimist, and the second, two years later, to that of woman-hater, which became confirmed by the portrayals of women in his realistic dramas that soon followed, notably that of Laura in "The Father." That part of the woman-hater legend which one encounters most often is that Strindberg was revealing his own marital miseries in the sex conflicts of these dramas, particularly in "The Father," notwithstanding the fact that this play was written five years before his first marriage was dissolved, and little more than two years after his avowed hesitancy to undertake the dissection of womankind on account of the "happy erotic state" in which he was living.

And that his analytical labors and personal experiences, far from bringing about an acquired aversion for woman, never even let him be warned, is attested by the fact of his having founded three families. One is forced to suspect that instead of being a woman-hater, he was rather a disguised and indefatigable lover of woman, and that his wars on woman and his fruitless endeavors to get into harmony with the other half of the race were, fundamentally, a warring within himself of his own many-sided, rich nature. He said of himself that he had been sentenced by his nature to be the faultfinder, to see the other side of things. He hated the Don Juans among men as intensely as he did the lazy parasites among women—the rich and spoiled ones who declaimed loudest about woman's holy duties as wife and mother, but whose time was given up to being hysterical and thinking out foolish acts,—these women enraged him.

However, the psychology of woman represents but one phase of Strindberg. In a book called "The Author," styled by him "a self-evolutionary history," which was written during the germinating period of the realistic dramas, but was not given out for publication until 1909, there is a foreword which contains the following significant avowal from the Strindberg of the last years: "The author had not arrived in 1886; perhaps only came into being then. The book presented herewith is consequently only of secondary interest as constituting a fragment; and the reader should bear in mind that it was written over twenty years ago. The personality of the author is consequently as unfamiliar to me as to the reader—and as unsympathetic. As he no longer exists, I can no longer assume any responsibility for him, and as I took part in his execution [1898] I believe I have the right to regard the past as expiated and stricken out of the Big Book." The "execution" in 1898 referred to was the spiritual crisis through which Strindberg passed when he emerged from the abysmal pessimism of "The Inferno;" then began the gradual return to spiritual faith which, in the end, caused him to declare himself a Swedenborgian.

The play, "Easter," included in the present collection, belongs to this period; it is a strange mingling of symbolism and realism, bearing the spiritual message of the resurrection. It was the most popular play produced at the Intimate Theatre in Stockholm, having been given there over two hundred times; and in Germany, also, it has been one of the plays most appreciated. That "Easter" is representative of the last phase, spiritually, of the great man is evidenced by the closing incident of his life. His favorite daughter, Kirtlin, was in the room as death approached. Strindberg called to her, and asked for the Bible; receiving the book, he opened it, and placing it across his breast, said, "This is the best book of all," and then, with his last breath, "Now everything personal is obliterated."

E. O. and W. O.

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COMRADES

Comedy in Four Acts

AXEL, an artist
BERTHA, his wife, artist
ABEL, her friend
WILLMER, litterateur
ÖSTERMARK, a doctor
MRS. HALL, his divorced wife
THE MISSES HALL, her daughters by a second marriage
CARL STARCK, lieutenant
MRS. STARCK, his wife
MAID

[SCENE for the whole play.—An artist's studio in Paris; it is on the ground floor, has glass windows looking out on an orchard. At back of scene a large window and door to hall. On the walls hang studies, canvases, weapons, costumes and plaster casts. To right there is a door leading to Axel's room; to left a door leading to Bertha's room. There is a model stand left center. To right an easel and painting materials. A large sofa, a large store through the doors of which one sees a hot coal fire. There is a hanging-lamp from ceiling. At rise of curtain Axel and Doctor Östermark are discovered.]

ACT I.

AXEL [Sitting, painting]. And you, too, are in Paris!

DR. ÖSTERMARK. Everything gathers here as the center of the world; and so you are married—and happy?

AXEL. Oh, yes, so, so. Yes, I'm quite happy. That's understood.

DR. ÖSTERMARK. What's understood?

AXEL. Look here, you're a widower. How was it with your marriage?

DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, very nice—for her.

AXEL. And for you?

DR. ÖSTERMARK. So, so! But you see one must compromise, and we compromised to the end.

AXEL. What do you mean by compromise?

DR. ÖSTERMARK. I mean—that I gave in!

AXEL. You?

DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, you wouldn't think that of a man like me, would you?

AXEL. No, I would never have thought that. Look here, don't you believe in woman, eh?

DR. ÖSTERMARK. No, sir! I do not. But I love her.

AXEL. In your way—yes!

DR. ÖSTERMARK. In my way—yes. How about your way?

AXEL. We have arranged a sort of comradeship, you see, and friendship is higher and more enduring than love.

DR. ÖSTERMARK. H'm—so Bertha paints too. How? Well?

AXEL. Fairly well.

DR. ÖSTERMARK. We were good friends in the old days, she and I,—that is, we always quarreled a little.—Some visitors. Hush! It is Carl and his wife!

AXEL [Rising]. And Bertha isn't at home! Sacristi! [Enter Lieutenant Carl Starck and his wife.] Welcome! Well, well, we certainly meet here from all corners of the world! How do you do, Mrs. Starck? You're looking well after your journey.

MRS. STARCK. Thanks, dear Axel, we have certainly had a delightful trip. But where is Bertha?

CARL. Yes, where is the young wife?

AXEL. She's out at the studio, but she'll be home at any moment now. But won't you sit down?

[The doctor greets the visitors.]

CARL. Hardly. We were passing by and thought we would just look in to see how you are. But we shall be on hand, of course, for your invitation for Saturday, the first of May.

AXEL. That's good. You got the card then?

MRS. STARCK. Yes, we received it while we were in Hamburg. Well, what is Bertha doing nowadays?

AXEL. Oh, she paints, as I do. In fact, we're expecting her model, and as he may come at any moment, perhaps I can't risk you to sit down after all, if I'm going to be honest.

CARL. Do you think we would blush, then?

MRS. STARCK. He isn't nude, is he?

AXEL. Of course.

CARL. A man? The devil!—No, I couldn't allow my wife to be mixed up with anything of that sort. Alone with a naked man!

AXEL. I see you still have prejudices, Carl.

CARL. Yes, you know—

MRS. STARCK. Fie!

DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, that's what I say, too.

AXEL. I can't deny that it, is not altogether to my taste, but as long as I must have a woman model—

MRS. STARCK. That's another matter.

AXEL. Another?

MRS. STARCK. Yes, it is another matter—although it resembles the other, it is not the same. [There is a knock.]

AXEL. There he is!

MRS. STARCK. We'll go, then. Good-bye and au revoir. Give my love to Bertha.

AXEL. Good-bye, then, as you're so scared. And au revoir.

CARL and DR. ÖSTERMARK. Good-bye, Axel.

CARL [To Axel]. You stay in here, at least, while—

AXEL. No, why should I?

CARL [Goes shaking his head]. Ugh!

[Axel alone starts to paint. There is a knock.]

AXEL. Come in. [The model enters.] So, you are back again. Madame hasn't returned yet.

THE MODEL. But it's almost twelve, and I must keep another appointment.

AXEL. Is that so? It's too bad, but—h'm—something must have detained her at the studio. How much do I owe you?

THE MODEL. Five francs, as usual.

AXEL [Paying him]. There. Perhaps you'd better wait awhile, nevertheless.

THE MODEL. Yes, if I'm needed.

AXEL. Yes, be kind enough to wait a few minutes.

[The model retires behind a screen. Axel alone, draws and whistles. Bertha comes in after a moment.]

AXEL. Hello, my dear! So you're back at last?

BERTHA. At last?

AXEL. Yes, your model is waiting.

BERTHA [Startled]. No! No! Has he been here again?

AXEL. You had engaged him for eleven o'clock.

BERTHA. I? No! Did he say that?

AXEL. Yes. But I heard you when you made the engagement yesterday.

BERTHA. Perhaps it's so, then, but anyway the professor wouldn't let us leave and you know how nervous one gets in the last hours. You're not angry with me, Axel?

AXEL. Angry? No. But this is the second time, and he gets his five francs for nothing, nevertheless.

BERTHA. Can I help it if the professor keeps us? Why must you always pick on me?

AXEL. Do I pick on you?

BERTHA. What's that? Didn't you—

AXEL. Yes, yes, yes! I picked on you—forgive me—forgive me—for thinking that it was your fault.

BERTHA. Well, it's all right there. But what did you pay him with?

AXEL. To be sure. Gaga paid back the twenty francs he owed me.

BERTHA [Takes out account-book.] So, he paid you back? Come on, then, and I'll put it down, for the sake of order. It's your money, so of course you can dispose of it as you please, but as you wish me to take care of the accounts—[Writes] fifteen francs in, five francs out, model. There.

AXEL. No. Look here. It's twenty francs in.

BERTHA. Yes, but there are only fifteen here.

AXEL. Yes, but you should put down twenty.

BERTHA. Why do you argue?

AXEL. Did I—Well, the man's waiting—

BERTHA. Oh, yes. Be good and get things ready for me.

AXEL. [Puts model stand in place. Calls to model]. Are you undressed yet?

THE MODEL [From back of screen]. Soon, monsieur.

BERTHA [Closes door, puts wood in stove]. There, now you must go out.

AXEL [Hesitating]. Bertha!

BERTHA. Yes?

AXEL. Is it absolutely necessary—with a nude model?

BERTHA. Absolutely!

AXEL. H'm—indeed!

BERTHA. We have certainly argued that matter out.

AXEL. Quite true. But it's loathsome nevertheless—[Goes out right.]

BERTHA [Takes up brushes and palette. Calls to model]. Are you ready?

THE MODEL. All ready.

BERTHA. Come on, then. [Pause.] Come on. [There is a knock.] Who is it? I have a model.

WILLMER [Outside]. Willmer. With news from the salon.

BERTHA. From the salon! [To model]. Dress yourself! We'll have to postpone the sitting.—Axel! Willmer is here with news from the salon.

[Axel comes in, also Willmer; the model goes out unnoticed during the following scene.]

WILMER. Hello, dear friends! Tomorrow the jury will begin its work. Oh, Bertha, here are your pastels. [Takes package from pocket.]

BERTHA. Thanks, my good Gaga; how much did they cost? They must have been expensive.

WILLMER. Oh, not very.

BERTHA. So they are to start tomorrow. So soon? Do you hear, Axel?

AXEL. Yes, my friend.

BERTHA. Now, will you be very good, very, very good?

AXEL. I always want to be good to you, my friend.

BERTHA. You do? Now, listen. You know Roubey, don't you?

AXEL. Yes, I met him in Vienna mid we became good friends, as it's called.

BERTHA. You know that he is on the jury?

AXEL. And then what?

BERTHA. Well—now you'll be angry, I know you will.

AXEL. You know it? Don't prove it, then.

BERTHA [Coaxing]. You wouldn't make a sacrifice for your wife, would you?

AXEL. Go begging? No, I don't want to do that.

BERTHA. Not for me? You'll get in anyway, but for your wife!

AXEL. Don't ask me.

BERTHA. I should really never ask you for anything!

AXEL. Yes, for things that I can do without sacrificing—

BERTHA. Your man's pride!

AXEL. Let it go at that.

BERTHA. But I would sacrifice my woman's pride if I could help you.

AXEL. You women have no pride.

BERTHA. Axel!

AXEL. Well, well, pardon, pardon!

BERTHA. You must be jealous. I don't believe you would really like it if I were accepted at the salon.

AXEL. Nothing would make me happier. Believe me, Bertha.

BERTHA. Would you be happy, too, if I were accepted and you were refused?

AXEL. I must feel and see. [Puts his hand over his heart.] No, that would be decidedly disagreeable, decidedly. In the first place, because I paint better than you do, and because—

BERTHA [Walking up and down]. Speak out. Because I am a woman!

AXEL. Yes, just that. It may seem strange, but to me it's as if you women were intruding and plundering where we have fought for so long while you sat by the fire. Forgive me, Bertha, for talking like this, but such thoughts have occurred to me.

BERTHA. Has it ever occurred to you that you're exactly like all other men?

AXEL. Like all others? I should hope so!

BERTHA. And you have become so superior lately. You didn't use to be like that.

AXEL. It must be because I am superior! Doing something that we men have never done before!

BERTHA. What! What are you saving! Shame on you!

WILLMER. There, there, good friends! No, but, dear friends—Bertha, control yourself.

[He gives her a look which she tries to make out.]

BERTHA [Changing]. Axel, let's be friends! And hear me a moment. Do you think that my position in your house—for it is yours—is agreeable to me? You support me, you pay for my studying at Julian's, while you yourself cannot afford instruction. Don't you think I see how you sit and wear out yourself and your talent on these pot-boiling drawings, and are able to paint only in leisure moments? You haven't been able to afford models for yourself, while you pay mine five hard-earned francs an hour. You don't know how good—how noble—how sacrificing you are, and also you don't know how I suffer to see you toil so for me. Oh, Axel, you can't know how I feel my position. What am I to you? Of what use am I in your house? Oh, I blush when I think about it!

AXEL. What, what, what! Aren't you my wife?

BERTHA. Yes, but—

AXEL. Well, then?

BERTHA. But you support me.

AXEL. Well, isn't that the right thing to do?

BERTHA. It was formerly—according to the old scheme of marriage, but we weren't to have it like that. We were to be comrades.

AXEL. What talk! Isn't a man to support his wife?

BERTHA. I don't want it. And you, Axel, you must help me. I'm not your equal when it's like that, but I could be if you would humble yourself once, just once! Don't think that you are alone in going to one of the jury to say a good word for another. If it were for yourself, it would be another matter, but for me—Forgive me! Now I beg of you as nicely as I know how. Lift me from my humiliating position to your side, and I'll be so grateful I shall never trouble you again with reminding you of my position. Never, Axel!

AXEL. Don't ask me; you know how weak I am.

BERTHA [Embracing him].Yes, I shall ask you—beg of you, until you fulfil my prayer. Now, don't look so proud, but be human! So! [Kisses him.]

AXEL [To Willmer]. Look here, Gaga, don't you think that women are terrible tyrants?

WILLMER [Pained]. Yes, and especially when they are submissive.

BERTHA. See, now, the sky is clear again. You'll go, won't you, Axel? Get on your black coat now, and go. Then come home, and we'll strike out together for something to eat.

AXEL. How do you know that Roubey is receiving now?

BERTHA. Don't you think that I made sure of that?

AXEL. What a schemer you are!

BERTHA [Takes a black cutaway coat from wardrobe]. Well, one would never get anywhere without a little wire-pulling, you know. Here's your black coat. So!

AXEL. Yes. But this is awful. What am I to say to the man?

BERTHA. H'm. Oh, you'll hit, on something on the way. Say that—that—that your wife—no—that you're expecting a christening—

AXEL. Fie, Bertha.

BERTHA. Well, say that you can get him decorated, then.

AXEL. Really you frighten me, Bertha!

BERTHA. Say what you please, then. Come, now, and I'll fix your hair so you'll be presentable. Do you know his wife?

AXEL. No, not at all.

BERTHA [Brushing his hair]. Then you must get an introduction to her. I understand that she has great influence, but that she doesn't like women.

AXEL. What are you doing to my hair?

BERTHA. I am fixing it as they are wearing it now.

AXEL. Yes, but I don't want it that way.

BERTHA. Now then—that's fine. Just mind me. [She goes to chiffonier and takes out a case which contains a Russian Annae order. She tries to put it in Axel's buttonhole.]

AXEL. No, Bertha. You've gone far enough now. I won't wear that decoration.

BERTHA. But you accepted it.

AXEL. Yes, because I couldn't decline it. But I'll never wear it.

BERTHA. Do you belong to some political party that is so liberal-minded as to suppress individual freedom to accept distinctions?

AXEL. No, I don't. But I belong to a circle of comrades who have promised each other not to wear their merit on their coats.

BERTHA. But who have accepted salon medals!

AXEL. Which are not worn on their coats.

BERTHA. What do you say to this, Gaga?

WILLMER. As long as distinctions exist, one does one's self harm to go about with the mark of infamy, and the example no one is likely to follow. Take them away for all of me—I certainly can't get them away from the others.

AXEL. Yes, and when my comrades who are more deserving than I do not wear them, I would lower them by wearing the emblem.

BERTHA. But it doesn't show under your overcoat. No one will know, and you won't brand any one.

WILLMER. Bertha is right there. You'll wear your order under your coat, not on your coat.

AXEL. Jesuits! When you are given a finger, you take the whole arm.

[Abel comes in wearing fur coat and cap.]

BERTHA. Oh, here's Abel! Come on, now, and settle this controversy.

ABEL. Hello, Bertha! Hello, Axel! How are you, Gaga? What's the matter?

BERTHA. Axel doesn't want to wear his order, because he daren't on account of his comrades.

ABEL. Comrades come before a wife, of course—that's an unwritten law. [She sits by table, takes up tobacco and rolls a cigarette.]

BERTHA [Fastens ribbon in Axel's buttonhole and puts the star back in case] He can help me without hurting any one, but I fear he would rather hurt me!

AXEL. Bertha, Bertha! But you people will drive me mad! I don't consider it a crime to wear this ribbon, nor have I taken any oath that I wouldn't do so, but at our exhibitions it's considered cowardly not to dare to make one's way without them.

BERTHA. Cowardly, of course! But you're not going to take your own course this time—but mine!

ABEL. You owe it to the woman who has consecrated her life to you to be her delegate.

AXEL. I feel that what you people are saying is false, but I haven't the time or energy to answer you now; but there is an answer! It's as if you were drawing a net about me while I sit absorbed in my work. I can feel the net winding about me, but my foot gets entangled when I want to kick it aside. But, you wait, if only I free my hands, I'll get out my knife and cut the meshes of your net! What were we talking about? Oh, yes, I was going to make a call. Give me my gloves and my overcoat. Good-bye, Bertha! Good-bye. Oh, yes,—where does Roubey live?

WILLMER, ABEL and BERTHA [In unison]. Sixty-five Rue des Martyrs.

AXEL. Why, that's right near here!

BERTHA. Just at the corner. Thanks, Axel, for going. Does the sacrifice feel very heavy?

AXEL. I can't feel anything but that I am tired of all this talk and that it will be delightful to get out. Good-bye. [Goes out.]

ABEL. It's too bad about Axel. It's a pity. Did you know that he is refused?

BERTHA. And I, then?

ABEL. That's not settled yet. As you wrote your own name with French spelling, you won't be reached until O.

BERTHA. There's still hope for me?

ABEL. Yes, for you, but not for Axel.

WILLMER. Now, we'll see something!

BERTHA. How do you know that he is refused?

ABEL. H'm, I met a "hors concours" who knew, and I was quite prepared to witness a scene when I came in here. But of course he hasn't received the notice yet.

BERTHA. No, not that I know of. But, Abel, are you sure that Axel will meet Madame Roubey and not Monsieur?

ABEL. What should he see Monsieur Roubey for? He hasn't any say about it, but she is president of the Woman-Painters Protective Society.

BERTHA. And I am not refused—yet?

ABEL. No, as I said, and Axel's call is bound to do good. He has a Russian order, and everything Russian is very popular in Paris just now. But it's too had about Axel just the same.

BERTHA. Too bad? Why? They haven't room for everybody on the salon walls. There are so many women refused that a man might put up with it and be made to feel it for once. But if I get in now—we'll soon hear how he painted my picture, how he has taught me, how he has paid for my lessons. But I shall not take any notice of that, because it isn't true.

WILLMER. Well, we're bound to see something unusual happen now.

BERTHA. No, I believe—granted that I am not refused—that we'll see something very usual. But nevertheless I'm afraid of the actual moment. Something tells me that things won't be right between Axel and me again.

ABEL. And it was just when you were equals that things were going to be right.

WILLMER. It seems to me that your position will be much more clearly defined and much pleasanter when you can sell your pictures and support yourself.

BERTHA. It should be! We'll see—we'll see! [The maid enters with a green letter.] A green letter for Axel! Here it is! Here it is! He is refused! Yes, but this is terrible; however, it will be a consolation to me if I should be refused.

ABEL. But if you are not refused?

BERTHA [Pause].

ABEL. You won't answer that?

BERTHA. No, I won't answer that.

ABEL. Because, if you are accepted, the equality will be destroyed, as you will be his superior.

BERTHA. Superior? A wife superior to her husband—her husband—oh!

WILLMER. It's about time an example was made.

ABEL [To Bertha]. You were at the luncheon today? Was it interesting?

BERTHA. Oh, yes.

WILLMER. When are you going to review my book, Abel?

ABEL. I'm just working on it.

WILLMER. Are you going to be nice to me?

ABEL. Very nice.—Well, Bertha, how and when will you deliver the letter?

BERTHA [Walking about]. That is just, what I am thinking about. If he hasn't met Madame Roubey, and if he hasn't carried out our plan, he will hardly do it after receiving this blow.

ABEL [Rising]. I don't think Axel is so base as to revenge himself on you.

BERTHA. Base? Such talk! Didn't he go just now when I wanted him to, because I am his wife? Do you think he would ever have gone for any one else?

ABEL. Would you like it if he had done it for some one else?

BERTHA. Good-bye to you—you must go now, before he returns!

ABEL. That's what I think. Good bye, Bertha.

WILLMER. Yes, we had better get away. Goodbye for now.

[The maid enters and announces Mrs. Hall.]

BERTHA. Who? Mrs. Hall? Who can that be?

ABEL and WILLMER. Good-bye, Bertha.

[They go out. Mrs. Hall comes in. She is flashily though carelessly dressed. She looks like an adventuress.]

MRS. HALL. I don't know that I have the honor to be known to you, but you are Mrs. Alberg, née Ålund, are you not?

BERTHA. Yes, I'm Mrs. Alberg. Won't you sit down?

MRS. HALL. My name is Hall. [Sits.] Oh, my lord, but I'm so tired! I have walked up so many stairs—oh-ho-ho-ho, I believe I'll faint!

BERTHA. How can I be of service to you?

MRS. HALL. You know Doctor Östermark, don't you?

BERTHA. Yes, he's an old friend of mine.

MRS. HALL. An old friend. Well, you see, dear Mrs. Alberg, I was married to him once, but we separated. I am his divorced wife.

BERTHA. Oh! He has never told me about that.

MRS. HALL. Oh, people don't tell such things.

BERTHA. He told me he was a widower.

MRS. HALL. Well, you were a young girl then, and I suppose he isn't so anxious to have it known anyway.

BERTHA. And I who have always believed that Doctor Östermark was an honorable man!

MRS. HALL [Sarcastic]. Yes, he's a good one! He is a real gentleman, I must say.

BERTHA. Well, but why do you tell me all this?

MRS. HALL. Just wait, my dear Mrs. Alberg wait and you shall hear. You area member of the society, aren't you?

BERTHA. Yes, I am.

MRS. HALL. Just so; only wait now.

BERTHA. Did you have any children?

MRS. HALL. Two—two daughters, Mrs. Alberg.

BERTHA. That's another matter! And he left you in want?

MRS. HALL. Just wait now! He gave us a small allowance, not enough for the rent even. And now that the girls are grown up and about to start in life, now he writes us that he is a bankrupt and that he can't send us more than half the allowance. Isn't that nice, just now, when the girls are grown up and are going out into life?

BERTHA. We must look into this. He'll be here in a few days. Do you know that you have the law on your side and that the courts can force him to pay? And he shall be forced to do so. Do you understand? So, he can bring children into the world and then leave them empty-handed with the poor, deserted mother. Oh, he'll find out something very different! Will you give my your address?

MRS. HALL [Gives her card]. You are so good, Mrs. Alberg. And you won't be vexed with me if I ask a little favor of you?

BERTHA. You can depend on me entirely. I shall write the secretary immediately—

MRS. HALL. Oh, you're so good, but before the secretary can answer, I and my poor children will probably be thrown out into the street. Dear Mrs. Alberg, you couldn't lend me a trifle—just wait—a trifle of twenty francs?

BERTHA. No, dear lady, I haven't any money. My husband supports me for the time being, and you may be sure that I'm reminded of the fact. It's bitter to eat the bread of charity when one is young, but better times are coming for me too.

MRS. HALL. My dear, good Mrs. Alberg, you must not refuse me. If you do, I am a lost woman. Help me, for heaven's sake.

BERTHA. Are you terribly in need?

MRS. HALL. And you ask me that!

BERTHA. I'll let you have this money as a loan. [She goes to chiffonier.] Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty—lacking twenty. What did I do with it? H'm, luncheon, of course! [She writes in account-book.] Paints twenty, incidentals twenty—there you are.

MRS. HALL. Thank you, my good Mrs. Alberg, thanks, dear lady.

BERTHA. There, there. But I can't give you any more time today. So, good-bye, and depend on me.

MRS. HALL [Uncertain]. Just a moment now.