MODERN
PLAYS

EDITED BY
R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON

AND
N. ERICHSEN

Authorised Translation

All Rights Reserved

THE COMING OF PEACE

(A FAMILY CATASTROPHE)

BY GERHART HAUPTMANN

TRANSLATED BY
JANET ACHURCH
AND
C. E. WHEELER

LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C.
MDCCCC

PREFACE

A few words about the author of “Friedensfest,” which is here translated as “The Coming of Peace,” will possibly be of interest to readers. Gerhart Hauptmann, who is still a comparatively young man, is as yet little known to English readers, and wholly unknown to English play-goers, except for the performance of this play under the auspices of the Stage Society on the 10th of June 1900, which has given occasion for this translation. In German-speaking countries he is recognised by many as the greatest modern dramatist with the single exception of Henrik Ibsen.

He is certainly the only dramatist who, writing under the inspiration of the great Norwegian poet, can by any remotest possibility be considered to have advanced a step beyond his master in dramatic treatment of the inner social forces of modern life.

It is not my intention here to do more than draw attention to the place Friedensfest occupies chronologically among its author’s works, and to point out its probable source of inspiration. Those who wish to trace the author’s career up to three years ago—he is now only thirty-eight—may be recommended to read “Gerhart Hauptmann, sein Lebensgang und seine Dichtung,” written just after the publication of “Die Versunkene Glocke,” by Dr Paul Schlenther, the gifted critic, now manager of the Vienna Court Theatre. I may, perhaps, be allowed to quote the final sentences of that book to show the high hopes entertained in Germany of Hauptmann’s future. “At thirty-five years old,” writes Dr Schlenther, “he is a famous man. He stands at life’s zenith. Half the Scriptural age lies behind him. The best years of the strength and ripeness of manhood lie close ahead of him. We wait for what shall come.”

“Friedensfest” was played in 1890, when Hauptmann was twenty-seven, eight years before these lines were penned. It was preceded by “Vor Sonnenaufgang” in 1889—the first utterance which gave more than local fame to its author—and was succeeded by “Einsame Menschen” in 1891. Of his later works “Die Weber” and “Hannele” have already been translated into English.

In “Friedensfest” and “Einsame Menschen” the influence of Ibsen can be traced more distinctly than in any of Hauptmann’s other works. “Friedensfest” recalls in many respects Ibsen’s “Ghosts,” without any servile copying on the part of the younger author—who has presented his characters with a power and originality, a truth and subtlety peculiarly his own. Moreover he has not been so relentless as Ibsen. Although the “Family Catastrophe,” as he calls it, is gloomy enough, in a sense the play ends more hopefully; the doom has not fallen on the younger members of the Scholz family, with whose hereditary qualities the play chiefly deals, and we are permitted to hope, if we choose, that it may never fall. Hauptmann’s genius shows itself here of a softer and less uncompromising mould than Ibsen’s. We feel that in as far as the play has any tendency, it leans rather towards meliorism than pessimism. Like Ibsen’s later works, however, it is more objective in treatment than “Ghosts”—more a “family document” pure and simple, than a “tendency” drama.

But it is not my business here to tell the story of the play or to attempt any interpretation. I have merely helped to render it into English.

In translating, we have tried to give the broken, elliptical language in which Hauptmann’s characters express themselves, as faithfully as possible—to keep the half-finished sentences and interjaculatory outbursts without losing anything of the meaning of the play. Here and there, the rude colloquialism of the speakers, especially of Mrs Scholz and Friebe, have rendered our task almost impossible. We can only plead that we have done our best.

JANET ACHURCH.

THE COMING OF PEACE

PERSONS

The Play takes place on Christmas Eve 188—, in a lonely country house, near Erkner, in Brandenburg.

SCENE.

A high, roomy, white-washed Hall—hung with old-fashioned pictures—horns and heads of different animals. A chandelier of stag’s horns hanging from the middle of the roof-tree is filled with fresh candles. At the back, in the middle of the wall, is a porch, which projects into the hall, with a glass door, through which is seen the heavy carved oaken door of the house. On the top of the porch is a stuffed moorcock: right and left above the level of the porch are windows—frozen and partly dim with snow.

To the left is an open arch, built like a gateway—which leads by the staircase to the upper stories. Two low doors in the same wall lead—one to the cellar, the other to the kitchen.

Two other doors in the opposite wall both open into one room; between these stands an old grandfather’s clock, on the top of which squats a stuffed screech-owl. The furniture of the room consists of heavy old oak chairs and tables: parallel to the left wall is a table covered with a white cloth. Down the stage to the left is a small iron stove, the flue of which runs along the wall. All the doors are gaily coloured, the panels filled with old-fashioned paintings of parrots, etc.

ACT I

The hall is decorated with green branches. A Christmas tree is lying on the stone flags. Friebe, sitting on the top of the cellar steps, is making a socket for it; Mrs Buchner and Mrs Scholz, standing on either side of the table, are busy fastening gay coloured wax candles into their holders. Mrs Buchner is a healthy looking, well nourished, friendly faced woman, simple, genuine and very neatly dressed: wears her hair smooth: her movements are decided and she is entirely at her ease. Her whole appearance expresses an unusual cordiality which is thoroughly sincere, even if at times her manner suggests affectation. Her way of speaking is fluent and clear, and in moments of excitement declamatory; an atmosphere of peace and well-being seems to emanate from her. Mrs Scholz, on the contrary, is a woman who looks older than she is, showing signs of premature old age. She is unhealthily fat, with a sallow skin. Her dress is untidy, her hair grey and unkempt; she wears spectacles. Mrs Scholz is fidgety in her movements, restless, has generally a tearful or whining way of speaking and is evidently in a continual state of excitement. Whilst Mrs Buchner seems only to live for others, Mrs Scholz is completely occupied with herself.

On the table stand two five-branched candlesticks, fitted with candles; but neither these nor the candles in the chandelier are lighted. There is a lamp burning.

Friebe (striking a blow with his hatchet).

Not a stroke fails me!

Mrs Scholz.

Ffff!!! But I can’t stand it, Friebe! How often have I told you.... You might easily break the hatchet. The idea! chopping wood on stone!

Friebe.

You leave that to me! What! wasn’t I ten years in the regiment?

Mrs Buchner.

In the regiment?

Mrs Scholz.

He was head man in the royal forests.

Friebe.

Not—(he strikes again) a blessed—(strikes) stroke!

[He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small, already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades. His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil, boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size, so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm, he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it.

Friebe.

A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (with condescending superiority to the women) you don’t think so—eh?

Mrs Buchner.

As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that.

Friebe.

Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is—

Mrs Scholz (interrupting him impatiently).

We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said, “send Friebe for me.”

Friebe.

H’m—tch—for all I care!

[Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous gesture.

Mrs Buchner.

Are you vexed with him?

Mrs Scholz.

I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must have him about the whole day, or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man?

[Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside, she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against it as though to prevent some one from coming in.]

Mrs Scholz (most violently startled).

Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!!

Mrs Buchner.

Why?—what—?

[Augusta is tall, lanky, and noticeably thin: she is dressed in the height of fashion but without any taste. Fur jacket, fur cap and muff. The face and the feet are long: the face is sharply cut and bitter featured, with thin lips tightly pressed together. She wears a lorgnette. Her nature unites with her mother’s excitability, something of a pathologically disagreeable character. Her personality diffuses round it an atmosphere of discontent, dissatisfaction and comfortlessness.]

Augusta.

Out there!—as true as I’m here—someone—was following me.

Mrs Buchner (pointing to the clock).

William, perhaps.—No! not yet. The train can’t be in yet. (To Augusta) Wait a moment!

[She puts out her hand to open the door.

Augusta.

No! No!—No! No!

Mrs Buchner (in a cooing manner).

You’re nervous, dear child. (She goes into the porch and opens the outer door, a little timidly.) Is anyone there?—(Resolutely) Is anybody there? (Pause—no answer.)

Mrs Scholz (irritated).

Fine doings! As if I hadn’t had enough excitement—it’s enough to kill one. You’re always complaining of something.

Augusta (snappishly).

Complaining! Complaining!—Haven’t I got enough to complain about?

Mrs Scholz.

You behave charmingly to your mother, I must say.

Augusta.

Oh! what do you expect? Who could help being frightened—in pitch darkness—absolutely alone—

Mrs Buchner (putting her arms round Augusta’s waist from behind—soothingly).

Madcap! Madcap! to flare up like that for nothing! Come now. (Helping her to take off her jacket, etc.) There!—you see?—

Augusta.

Ah! but it is true, Mrs Buchner!

Mrs Buchner.

Now my dear people, listen! Four long days already since we came to stay with you. I’ve been thinking—sha’n’t we drop all these formalities?—Mayn’t I call you Augusta? Eh?—Good—then—(embraces her and kisses Mrs Scholz).

Mrs Scholz (before she responds to the embrace).

Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy.

Mrs Buchner (to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove).

There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice?

Augusta.

Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you faint!

Mrs Buchner.

Did the minister speak well?

Augusta.

I know one thing; if I were poor, I’d have been off after the great man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces.

Mrs Buchner.

O—o—h! but it’s a great blessing for the poor people.

[A fresh, clear woman’s voice is heard singing.

“When beneath the linden leaves

The blossom clings,

Memory in my spirit weaves

Dreams of bygone springs.”

[Ida comes through the stairway. She is twenty years old, and wears a close-clinging black woollen dress. She has a fine, fully matured figure, a very small head, and, on this first entrance, her long yellow hair is loose. She has an air of quiet contentment about her, a subdued cheerfulness and confident expectation of happiness. Although the expression of her clever face is generally bright, it deepens at times into a sudden seriousness, showing that she is unaffectedly lost in her own thoughts.]

Ida (a towel laid over her shoulders and some cardboard boxes under her arm).

Has anybody come?

Mrs Scholz.

Augusta has given us a fine fright.

Ida (pointing back up the stairs).

It’s not so very comfortable upstairs, either. I hurried (laughing) so that I could come down.

Mrs Scholz.

But, child! Robert has the room over you now.

Ida (putting the boxes on the table, opens them and takes out various things).

Well, if he has, the place is always empty.

Mrs Buchner.

Your hair should be nearly dry by now, eh?

Ida (turning her head lovingly, and throwing back her hair).

Just feel!

Mrs Buchner (doing so).

Oh dear—you should have washed it earlier, child!

Ida.

What a bother the old mane is; I’ve been scorching myself at the stove for the last half hour (taking from one of the boxes a yellow silk purse and holding it out to Augusta). Pretty colour, eh?—It’s only just a little joke; has he had many purses?

Augusta (busy with her jacket, which she is brushing; shrugs her shoulders).

Don’t know (she looks critically with her short-sighted eyes at the purse). H’m, h’m, rather loosely knitted (immediately returning to her jacket). The plush is done for.

Ida (displaying a little box of cigars).

I—am pleased—to think you have never dressed a Christmas tree!

Augusta.

If you come to think of it—it’s really not the sort of thing for grown-up people!

Mrs Scholz.

No indeed! If ever I’d suggested one, my husband would have never let me hear the end of it. With my dear parents—Ah! when I remember—what a beautiful family life that was. Never a Christmas without a tree! (Imitating her father’s gait and manner.) And then in the evening when father came from the office and brought the beau—u—tiful gingerbread with him (joining thumb and fore-finger as if she held a piece of the famous cake between them—she puts them to her mouth). Ah yes—those days are gone. My husband—he wouldn’t even eat his dinner with us—he lived upstairs—we down—a perfect hermit. If one wanted anything from him—good Lord—the only way was to get hold of Friebe.

Augusta (feeding the stove).

Oh don’t go on like that everlastingly!

Mrs Scholz.

Don’t pile up the stove in that senseless fashion!

Augusta.

Can’t we even have the room warm then?

Mrs Scholz.

All the heat flies up the chimney to-day.

Augusta (demurring crossly).

Is that a reason for letting it go quite out?

Mrs Scholz.

Leave me in peace!

Augusta (throwing the shovel noisily back into the box).

Have it your own way!

[Exit Augusta in a rage.]

Ida.

Ah, Gussie! stay with us!—Just wait—I’ll soon bring her round.

[Goes out after her.

Mrs Scholz (with resignation).

All my children are like that!—ah—what a girl! There’s no holding her! First she wants one thing, then another:—all of a sudden—she takes it into her head—she must study. She’ll stick upstairs and not say a word for weeks; and the next thing is—she’s no use—nobody wants her.—Oh, good Heavens, yes—you’re to be envied—a sweet little thing like your daughter——

Mrs Buchner.

Oh, but Gussie too!—

Mrs Scholz.

How charmingly she plays the piano, and that delicious voice—How I love to listen to a voice like that!

Mrs Buchner.

Why don’t you ever play now?

Mrs Scholz.

Oh that would be a fine thing. The little peace I have would be done for. Augusta is so nervous—just like her father—he’d run away from the piano as if he were hunted.

Mrs Buchner.

You should hear your William play now; he has improved!—What would Ida be without him! She’s learnt all she knows from him.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah yes! so you told me. Oh, he’s full of talent, there’s no doubt of that! It was a pleasure to teach him.

Mrs Buchner.

Yes! and he looks back with such affection on the time when his little mother gave him his first lessons.

Mrs Scholz.

Does he?—Good Lord, yes! those were pleasant times. Then I used to think—every thing turns out differently—Oh! I’m so agitated!

Mrs Buchner.

So agitated?—What about?

Mrs Scholz.

Why—about his coming—how does he look now—really?

Mrs Buchner.

Well—strong—healthy. You’ll be proud of your son.

Mrs Scholz.

I’m really surprised that the boy’s coming. It’s gone to my heart many a time. And the notepaper he’s cost me—and never once answered his old mother: how have you brought him to it? That’s what I can’t understand—that I can’t understand.

Mrs Buchner.

I?—Oh! no! it was Ida who persuaded him.

Mrs Scholz.

Robert doesn’t trouble himself much about us either, but at least he comes once a year at Christmas time for a few days: that’s not much to be grateful for—but William—six whole years he’s not been here—neither he nor my husband—for six whole years. Does she get on with him?

Mrs Buchner.

Ida?—Very well in every way.

Mrs Scholz.

Well, that’s extraordinary. You simply can’t imagine how reserved the boy always was—just like his father. No playfellows, no school friends,—nothing.

Mrs Buchner.

Yes, yes, that’s how he was with us at first. He never would come near the house, except for the music-lesson.

Mrs Scholz.

Later, though, he came?

Mrs Buchner.

Well,—yes. He said we mustn’t worry him, and when he felt able he’d come of his own accord. We had the sense to let him have his own way, and sure enough, after waiting for him half a year, in fact,—when we’d given up waiting, he came—and afterwards, day after day, little by little, he became quite different.

Mrs Scholz.

You must have bewitched him—his engagement alone—that’s what I can’t get over.

Mrs Buchner.

You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear husband was one.

Mrs Scholz.

And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too?

Mrs Buchner.

N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less so because he has kept it to himself. At all costs he must get over that, even in this matter too.

Mrs Scholz.

Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my husband and I, but that’s our business, no human being has a right to interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I, of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one.

Mrs Buchner.

William may have been much to blame—I’m convinced of that. But think, to have repented for years, and—

Mrs Scholz.

No—no! Good heavens, what can you be thinking of! It’s not so easily got over; that would be worse still. It’s very good of you to have taken so to the boy, and it’s nice too that he’s coming—as indeed why shouldn’t he? But, after all, what’s the good of it? It’s not so easy to fill up a gulf—yes, yes, there are gulfs—that’s what they are, gulfs—deep gulfs—in our family.

Mrs Buchner.

Still I can’t help thinking that we—that those of us with firm, honest intentions—

Mrs Scholz.

Intentions, intentions! don’t talk to me! I know better! One can intend, and intend, and intend, hundreds of things, and nothing gets any further. No, no!—it’s quite another thing with your daughter. She is so—and William is so—and both are what they are.—Much too good a sort for one of us—much, much too good.—Oh, Lord, yes!—intentions!—Ah yes! all these good intentions—Your intentions are all very well, but whether they lead to anything—I doubt it!

Mrs Buchner.

But I hope it—all the more.

Mrs Scholz.

Well, it may be. I’ll say nothing to spoil it. In spite of everything, my heart goes out to the boy; only it excites me so, I’m frightened; and, mind you, it won’t be all as easy as you think.

Ida (enters right; to Mrs Scholz, sweetly).

Little mother-in-law, she’s gilding the nuts.

Mrs Buchner.

Time’s getting on, Ida! You must make yourself beautiful, he may be here at any moment.

Ida (startled).

What? Already!

Mrs Scholz.

Oh, don’t trouble! She’s much too beautiful for him as it is.

Mrs Buchner.

I’ve put the blue out for you (calling after Ida), and put on the brooch; don’t forget.

[Exit Ida.

Mrs Buchner (continuing, to Mrs Scholz).

She doesn’t care a bit for jewellery.

[The outer door of the house opens and shuts.

Mrs Scholz.

Wait—who—(to Mrs Buchner) please will you—I can’t see him yet—I—

Mrs Buchner (calling up the stairs).

Ida! your William is here.

[Dr Scholz enters through the glass door. He is unusually tall, broad-shouldered, very bloated. The face is fat, complexion muddy, the eyes sometimes glittering, with wandering glances, but usually dull and lack-lustre. He has a grey, stubbly beard, partially covering his cheeks; his movements are clumsy and tremulous; he speaks brokenly, as if with his mouth full; stumbles over syllables, and is interrupted by gasping inspirations. He is slovenly dressed: a velvet vest, coat and trousers of nondescript colour, once brown—cap with a large peak, stone-grey in colour, peculiar in shape; red silk neckerchief, linen creased. He uses a large Turkish pocket handkerchief. On entering he carries a malacca cane with a staghorn crook in his right hand, and has flung about him a large military cloak, over his left arm a fur foot-bag.

Dr Scholz.

Servus! servus!

Mrs Scholz (staring at him as if at an apparition).

Fritz!—

Dr Scholz.

As you see.

Mrs Scholz (throwing her arms about him with a scream).

Fritz!!

Augusta (opens the door L., starts back).

Father!

[Mrs Buchner goes off backwards through the left door, her eyes fixed on Dr Scholz.

Dr Scholz.

Yes, yes, yes, it’s I. But first of all—is Friebe there?

Friebe (peeping through kitchen door, starts—coming forward).

The doctor! (He rushes to him and seizes and kisses both his hands.) Now, would anyone have believed it!

Dr Scholz.

St!—Just go and see—see that the house door is shut.

[Friebe nods and obeys with joyful alacrity.

Mrs Scholz.

But Fritz, tell me—only tell me, my mind’s all confused (weeping, embraces him). Ah Fritz! what grief you’ve caused me all this long, long time.

Dr Scholz (putting his wife gently from him).

Ah well, my life too—we’d better not begin with reproaches. You’re just the same doleful old thing (with gentle bitterness). Anyhow I should certainly not have troubled you—if it hadn’t been for—(Friebe takes his cloak, etc.) There are times in life, dear Minna—if one has powerful enemies as I have—

[Friebe goes out through the stairway with the Dr’s belongings.

Mrs Scholz (pretending to be cross).

Nobody made you come, Fritz. Here there has always been a safe, cosy home;—you could have lived so comfortably here.

Dr Scholz.

Don’t be cross—you don’t understand.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah yes! I’m only a simpleton, I suppose,—but really, you weren’t answerable to anyone; it wasn’t at all necessary for you—

Dr Scholz.

—St! It was very necessary (half mysteriously). After guilt, atonement; after sin, chastisement.

Mrs Scholz.

Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (From here to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to see William come in.) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only let us.

Dr Scholz.

It was all my fault, all of it.

Mrs Scholz.

There, now you are unjust again.

Dr Scholz.

Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me, that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and always just in front of my door.

Mrs Scholz.

But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose!

Dr Scholz.

No—? oh you!—you don’t understand!

Mrs Scholz.

Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean.

Dr Scholz.