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FIRES OF
ST. JOHN

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
FROM THE GERMAN OF

HERMANN SUDERMANN

Author of "Magda," "The Joy
of Living," "Sodom's End," Etc.

AS PRESENTED FOR THE FIRST TIME
ON THE AMERICAN STAGE IN
BOSTON ON JANUARY
TWENTY-FIRST
NINETEEN
HUNDRED
&
4

Translated and Adapted
by CHARLES SWICKARD

BOSTON, JOHN W. LUCE
and COMPANY, 1904

COPYRIGHT NOTICE and WARNING

This play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements of which have been fully complied with. In its present form it is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance may be given without the permission of the publishers, owners of the acting rights.

¶ Copyright, 1903, by Charles Swickard.

¶ Copyright, 1904, by John W. Luce and Company.

¶ All rights reserved.

PUBLISHERS' NOTE

¶ This translation and adaptation of "Johannisfeuer" was made by special permission from Herr Sudermann, and is the only authorized English version.

¶ By arrangement with the publishers, Miss Nance O'Neil, who first produced this play in English, as here given, will continue to use Mr. Swickard's adaptation exclusively.

FIRES OF ST. JOHN
WAS FIRST PRESENTED IN ENGLISH,
IN BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, ON
JANUARY TWENTY-FIRST, 1904,
WITH THE FOLLOWING CAST

CAST OF CHARACTERS

THE FIRES OF ST. JOHN

ACT ONE

Breakfast-room at the Brauer residence. The back wall is formed by three glass doors, separated by marble pillars. Behind this, the veranda is visible, and balustrade, hung with fine rug, and stairs, leading into the garden. The glass doors have practical, solid wooden shutters, with bars, fastening inside. Doors R. and L. Large table C. with breakfast laid. Front, to the left, sofa, table and easy-chair. To the right, sewing-machine, and basket filled with table-linen. Old-fashioned photos and engravings on walls. Otherwise, well-to-do family home.

Time of day: Morning.

[Gertrude busy at breakfast-table.]

Brauer.

[Enters with Paul, from R.] Confound it! Everything seems to go wrong this morning!

[Throws his cap on chair, angrily.]

Gertrude.

[Happily.] Good-morning, papa!

Brauer.

Morning, my child. Such carelessness! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If this thing had happened earlier in the season, out on the meadows--but at this time of the year--!!! Oh! Confound it all, anyway!!!!! It is inexcusable!!!

Gertrude.

What is the matter, papa?

Brauer.

The black cow has been overfed. But of course, when Marie is not about to look after everything, things go to rack and ruin. Well, man, what excuse are you going to make?

Paul.

None, Mr. Brauer.

Brauer.

Now that's the most sensible thing you have said this morning. Here, take a cigar and get to work; but mind! send for the veterinary surgeon at once. Have you had breakfast?

Paul.

Yes, sir!

Brauer.

Then what the devil are you waiting for?

Paul.

I--I--I wanted to excuse myself, and----

Brauer.

[Impatiently.] It's all right! it's all right!

Paul.

[Remains--hesitatingly.] G--Good-morning!!

Brauer.

Well?

Paul.

I--I have something else to tell you----

Brauer.

Then out with it.

Paul.

[With a glance at Gertrude.] But----

Brauer.

H'm! Gertrude, darling, will you please see if it is still threatening rain?

Gertrude.

Yes, papa! [Goes out on the veranda.]

Brauer.

Well?

Paul.

[Confidentially.] The old hag has turned up again.

Brauer.

[Alarmed.] Wha---- The devil you say! H'm! Who--who has seen her?

Paul.

She was seen begging in the village--and last night, one of my men observed her creeping stealthily around the sheds yonder.

Brauer.

[Scratching his head.] Yes, yes! I had almost forgotten. She has served her last sentence--fully five years!--we have been free from her annoying presence and now, she has returned. Well, what does she want?

Paul.

She has heard her daughter is about to be married, she says.

Brauer.

[Laughs.] Her daughter? ha, ha! I see! no doubt she has learned of Gertrude's betrothal. Well? and----

Paul.

And so she has come to get her share of the wedding-cake--so she says; but she dare not venture here.

Brauer.

Well, I should advise her to keep a respectful distance. Take good care, Mr. Paul, that she approaches no one of this house. Do you hear? No one. I will see the constable myself; and perhaps we'll soon get rid of her again. Good-morning.

Paul.

Good-morning, Mr. Brauer. [Exit.]

Gertrude.

[Enters.] Shall I pour your coffee, papa?

Brauer.

What? My little one looking after the breakfast, eh? Can you do all that?

Gertrude.

Oh papa! if I couldn't do even that----

Brauer.

But Marie?

Gertrude.

Oh, of course--not as well as she--you must have patience with me, papa!

Brauer.

Why certainly, my pet! [Embraces her.] And now, let me see--how many days are you left to me?

Gertrude.

Only four more days, papa.

Brauer.

Now, you rascal! must you leave me? must you go and marry, eh? must you?

Gertrude.

But papa, dear, it is all your own arrangement!

Brauer.

Of course, of course! what is a poor old man to do? Have you seen George this morning? [Gertrude shakes her head.] Such sloth! He does nothing but sleep, sleep, sleep.

Gertrude.

He worked until very late last night, papa. At dawn this morning I saw his light still burning; and then it was past three o'clock.

Brauer.

Yes, I must admit, he is diligent and industrious--but also stubborn--damned stubborn. [The last is said almost to himself. Aloud.] Has mama been down?

Gertrude.

No, not yet.

Brauer.

And Marie? has she returned?

Gertrude.

She arrived by the early morning train.

Brauer.

And how nearly finished is the lover's nest, eh?

Gertrude.

Only one more trip to the city, I believe she said.

Brauer.

Well, and do you like the arrangement?

Gertrude.

I don't know, papa dear. I am kept entirely in the dark. It is to be a surprise to me. Oh, I will like it very much indeed, I think.

Brauer.

And are you happy, my pet?

Gertrude.

Oh, papa, dear, I sometimes feel as if I didn't deserve all this happiness.

Brauer.

Well, my dear, a housewife who calls these soft-boiled eggs, certainly does not deserve such happiness.

Gertrude.

[Embarrassed.] I only boiled them about three-quarters of an hour----

Brauer.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Gertrude.

Oh, I beg your pardon, papa, I will----

Brauer.

There, there, I was only joking; never mind it. And Marie, I suppose, is taking her rest now?

Gertrude.

If she only would do so. Papa, you must compel her to take a rest. No one can endure such a strain. One day she is looking after this house, and the next day she is in the city, furnishing our new home; and the nights she passes on the train. I am sure she will break down.

Brauer.

Well, well, I will look after that.

Mrs. Brauer.

[Enters from L.] Good-morning!

Brauer.

Morning! Well?

Gertrude.

[Throws her arms around her mother.] Good-morning, mama dear!

Mrs. Brauer.

[Caressing her.] My sweet! my pet! only four more good-mornings, and then----

Gertrude.

You must come to visit me soon, mama!

Mrs. Brauer.

[Crying.] Visit? ah, yes!

Brauer.

No tears now, no tears, I beg of you! Tears on an empty stomach--b-r-r-r-r-r, that's poison.

Mrs. Brauer.

My darling, who dressed your hair last night?

Gertrude.

The housekeeper.

Mrs. Brauer.

There! I knew Marie could not have done that. But do you know--Marie--a few moments ago I opened her door softly, to see how she was resting, and found her still fully dressed, just as she came from the train, seated at the open window, a book in her lap, and staring out into space.

Brauer.

Well, well, well! I thought her passion for novels had passed away long ago.

Mrs. Brauer.

I've been thinking--we must watch her more closely.

Brauer.

She needs no one to watch over her! She is well able to take care of herself; but we must spare her----

Mrs. Brauer.

But, Henry, just now--three days before the wedding--who could think of sparing one's self?

Brauer.

Well, you know--h'm----

Mrs. Brauer.

Henry, you know how I love the girl; but, good gracious, she is not our own dear, sweet one----

Gertrude.

Oh, she is more than that, mama dear.

Mrs. Brauer.

You are entirely too modest, my darling.

Gertrude.

Well, just imagine, mama dear, she was going to be married--and I remained at home----

Mrs. Brauer.

Then we would retain our sunshine, our consolation, our---- [Looking at breakfast table with a questioning expression.] But, children, I can't understand----

Gertrude.

What, mama dear?

Mrs. Brauer.

Gracious! Everything is so--so-- [Topsy-turvy indicated by action.] If she is not going to sleep, she may as well come down here----

Gertrude.

[Laughingly caressing her mama.] There, you see, mama, dear, not even a single meal can you eat without her.

[George von Harten enters.]

Brauer.

Well, at last you have aroused yourself; you----

George.

[Interrupts him, tapping his hand.] There, softly, softly, dear uncle; don't begin scolding so early in the morning.

Brauer.

Don't you think it's pretty near time to call me father, my boy?

George.

Not until after the wedding, dear uncle.--Good-morning, auntie. [Kissing her hand.] Well, little one? [Kissing her.]

Gertrude.

[Leans on him lovingly.] My George. [Laughs suddenly.] Oh, just look! he is simply covered with hay!

George.

Then you may make yourself useful by brushing me off.

Brauer.

The hayloft seems to be your favorite sleeping-place lately.

George.

Sleep? Heavens! who could sleep in this weather? I roam about. Lord knows where, over meadows and fields. Such St. John days!!! It's enough to drive one mad. The days never seem to end. Late last night I was sitting in front of my window. Said I to myself: "No sleep for me to-night, until that cursed nightingale runs out of melody"--when suddenly a meadow-lark announces the break of day--and there, it's morning. To the left, the twilight: to the right, the dawn, peacefully together. From glow to glow a new day arises. Children, I tell you, it was beautiful. Give me a cup of coffee.

Brauer.

But, tell me! Are you going to remain here now?

George.

Why, certainly, until after the wedding.

Brauer.

But the propriety of such a thing----

Gertrude.

[Imploringly.] Oh, papa dear----

George.

Its immaterial to me. Under no circumstances do I desire to offend your sense of propriety; but then I will stay down at the inn, as the nearest place.

Brauer.

And in the morning you will bring us the house full of fleas.

Mrs. Brauer.

But, Henry----

Brauer.

Well, it's so.

George.

If you will allow me! The wedding was set for the twentieth; therefore I obtained my first furlough from the nineteenth--and I trust you realize that I can't change the dates to suit myself. I arrived on the twentieth--and the wedding, of course--it was postponed.

Mrs. Brauer.

But, George dear, neither your home, nor anything else was ready.

George.

And besides, where am I to go? My own home is broken up; Marie has had everything torn up. By the way, has she returned?

Gertrude.

[Nods.]

Mrs. Brauer.

Why, what's the matter? Have you two had another quarrel?

George.

No, certainly not; but I should not have allowed the girl to make a drudge of herself for my sake. I almost wish I had remained at home.

Gertrude.

Why, she is not doing all this for your sake, but for mine.

George.

Now there, don't be conceited.

Mrs. Brauer.

[Caressing her.] I think she has cause to be conceited.

George.

As my future wife, she certainly has cause to be that.

Brauer.

There, there, don't you overrate yourself.

George.

I don't, dear uncle; I am too practical for that.

Brauer.

So, so, you are too practical, eh? then what the devil possessed you to leave this piece of paper on my desk? eh?

George.

Uncle, I beg of you, don't let us begin quarreling so early in the day.

Brauer.

[Angry still.] Very well, but what does it mean?

George.

It is simply a statement of my affairs. I am a free and independent man, and that is to show you that I am not only willing but also able to properly support my wife.

Brauer.

[Still worked up.] But I tell you----

Marie.

[Enters R.] Oh--pardon me, papa--good-morning!

Gertrude.

[Throws arms around her.] Marie!

Marie.

[Kisses her.] My darling!

[She goes to Brauer and kisses his hand.]

Brauer.

You are back all right, I see! Here, here! [Puts hand under her chin.] Head thrown back, I say--why, what's the matter? anything gone wrong with you, eh?

Marie.

[Uncertain.] N--no!

Brauer.

[To his wife.] Look at her--she is positively livid.

Mrs. Brauer.

What is the matter, my child?

Marie.

Mama, dear, I sat up all night in the train and have had no sleep at all.

Brauer.

And how much longer will it take you----?

Marie.

Only one more trip to town,--but pardon me, papa, the new assistant pastor is at the gate and----

Brauer.

Who?

Marie.

The new assistant pastor.

[Gertrude snickers.]

Brauer.

[To Gertrude.] What are you laughing at?

Gertrude.

[Pulling at Marie's skirt and can hardly keep from bursting out laughing.] I--I--oh, I am not laughing.

Brauer.

[To Marie.] But what does he want?

Marie.

He says he does not wish to disturb the ladies so early in the morning, and asks you to please come out----

Brauer.

Nonsense! tell him to come in.

Marie.

Yes, papa.

George.

Good-morning, Marie.

Marie.

Good-morning, George. [Exit.]

Brauer.

Gertrude, come here. Now remember, my dear, such conduct is not at all becoming to a full-grown young lady.

Gertrude.

My dear, sweet papa, I am so ashamed of myself--I--I'll never do it again--never. But it's so funny--ha, ha, ha! he is gone on Marie----

Mrs. Brauer.

My dear, remember you are now a bride and it would be far more proper to say----

George.

Smitten with her?

Mrs. Brauer.

[Somewhat reproachfully.] George!!!

Brauer.

Sh, sh--silence!

[During following scene, Marie noiselessly clears off the table.]

Pastor.

[Enters.] I should not have dared to annoy the ladies at this early hour, if----

Brauer.

[Laughingly.] Eight o'clock is not so very early in the country, my dear Pastor; you will soon learn that here.

Mrs. Brauer.

And how is the good old pastor?

Pastor.

[Doubtfully shrugging his shoulders.] Well!

Mrs. Brauer.

[Alarmed.] He is not worse, I hope?

Pastor.

At the age of eighty, my dear lady, one cannot be said to be growing stronger.

Brauer.

Ah, I see, Pastor, you are somewhat of a philosopher. Will you take something?

Pastor.

You are very kind. A good glass of brandy is half the morning sun.

Brauer.

Now that is a manly word, Pastor.

Pastor.

Oh! thank you! Your health! [Drinks.]

Brauer.

Will you take something, George?

George.

No thank you, uncle, not now.

Mrs. Brauer.

When did you arrive, Pastor?

Pastor.

Just three weeks ago.

Mrs. Brauer.

And do you like our town?

Pastor.

Very much indeed, thank you. I find the whole world beautiful; but the surroundings here are exceptionally so. Yes, this place to me seems doubly attractive, for here every one seems smiling and happy---- Pardon me. Miss, you have dropped the napkin.

[Marie smilingly bows her acknowledgment.]

[Gertrude exits, stifling a laugh.]

Brauer.

Pastor, you will pardon this rudeness, she is still a child.

Pastor.

Oh, certainly, certainly; for she is right. I have not yet been able to overcome my old tendency to play the gallant in the presence of ladies--and in this frock--I know--I must look somewhat ridiculous.

Brauer.

Tell me. Pastor, how did you happen to obtain this position?

Pastor.

Well, you see, that, too, is partly connected with this coat. There were four of us, classmates--who, after graduating, were eagerly awaiting the call to save the sinful world--and among them, myself the only one who was, what you might say, in fairly good financial circumstances. We were now and then compelled, first one and then the other, to present ourselves at the board of directors--and as a consequence my coat suffered severely. Now it really never fitted any one of my comrades and at my suggestion we finally purchased a coat, that came nearer fitting each of us, striking a happy medium, as it were, to every one's satisfaction. Then, about four weeks ago, an ex-fellow-student--the curate of the cathedral--came to us, with this information: "Ye holy men, list ye to me. In yon Lithuanian mountains lives a minister of the gospel, who, on account of his extreme age and feebleness, is incapacitated from properly performing his duties. And as there are four of you, I propose that you draw straws and leave it to chance who shall be the favored one." At that the others unanimously declared: "No, he who has shared with us his clothing shall be the favored one"--and--well, here I am and, I fear, not half as pious as I look.

Brauer.

Ah, courage, Pastor, courage----

Pastor.

Pray do not think that I am ashamed of my calling; believe me, like our Lord and Master, my heart aches for suffering humanity, and therefore it has ever been my desire to follow in His footsteps. Besides, it was my father's wish. You must know my father is a well-to-do farmer--there are no really large estates in the lowlands--but he has considerable--yes, I might say, a great deal of money--and owing to my early surroundings, I'm afraid I am much better suited for a farmer than a minister of the gospel. But I will not give up, and continue to struggle and rid myself of all my bad habits. Your health!

Brauer.

Do you know, Pastor, I am beginning to like you! Do you wish to remain here and take the old pastor's place?

Pastor.

I really would like----

Brauer.

Very well, my vote you shall have!

Pastor.

You are very kind, indeed. With such a position I should be quite content, and to complete my happiness----but, by-the-bye, the object of my visit was, really, the bridal-sermon. I am afraid our good old pastor will not be able now----

Mrs. Brauer.

Ah----

Brauer.

[Simultaneously.] Will not be equal to the exertion, you mean; ah--I feared as much.

Pastor.

Therefore, if you will allow me--unless you desired some one else----

Brauer.

Pastor, if we had not already heard you in the pulpit I would deny your request, point blank, as you are practically a stranger to us. But your ways and sentiments please me, and therefore--what say you, wife? [She nods.]--And you, George?

George.

Oh, I don't know; but unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a great deal of sympathy between us, eh, Pastor?

Pastor.

Now I must confess that is rather meaningless, at least so far as I am concerned; for my sympathy extends towards the whole world.

George.

At any rate I am glad----

Pastor.

[Jestingly.] Then will you kindly leave us for awhile? I desire to inquire into your past record.

George.

[Shakes his finger laughingly.] With pleasure, if you promise not to be too severe on me. [Exit.]

Pastor.

Now, then, with your kind permission, I will take a few notes----

Brauer.

Certainly, Pastor!

Pastor.

This young gentleman, your nephew, is especially close to the family, is he not?

Brauer.

Correct!

Pastor.

Pardon me, but may I ask in what way?

Brauer.

I will tell you. Pastor. It was in the year '67, when we had here in East Prussia, a terrible drought--a year of distress and--do you remember anything about it?

Pastor.

Very little, as I was then still quite young.

Brauer.

Ah, it was terrible! Potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. Of wheat and rye hardly a trace. We farmers, I tell you--! Then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide.

Pastor.

And the--your sister, still lives?

Brauer.

Thank God, no! but from that day----

Pastor.

Pardon the interruption; but I have heard your daughter, Miss Marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. Has that any connection with this year of distress?

Mrs. Brauer.

And you didn't know that, Pastor--how she came into our house? Well, during that same terrible winter, we were returning one night, my husband and myself, from the town, where we had at our own expense erected a soup-kitchen--when suddenly, at the corner of the woods yonder, where the road makes a sharp turn, our horses shied--and there, in the middle of the road, we saw lying, a woman, with a child pressed closely to her bosom. She refused to stir and begged us to put her out of her misery. Of course, we took her into the sleigh at once--ah, she was in an awful condition----

Brauer.

I tell you, Pastor, it was months before we could rid the blankets of vermin.

Mrs. Brauer.

And the child, the poor little thing----! But after being bathed and fed, and lying there, between the clean white covers, we both stood over its bed--the little thing, with its pinched face, laughed at us and stretched out its tiny hands--my husband said to me: "Wife, I believe this is our share of all this sorrow and misery that heaven has sent us."

Brauer.

For you must know. Pastor, that our own daughter, Gertrude was then not yet born.

Mrs. Brauer.

No, not until three years later. Well, we bought the child from that miserable, drunken woman, in proper, legal form--determined and glad to get rid of her, for she did smell so of gin, I could not endure it any longer.

Brauer.

That is what the worst drunkards in these parts prefer to brandy.

Pastor.

Unfortunately!!!

Brauer.

But to come back to my nephew----

Pastor.

Pardon me, another question. What became of the mother?

Brauer.

Ah, that is a bad story--and just to-day----

Pastor.

Yes----

Brauer.

Oh--nothing, nothing. Anyway--that woman really did return, and as we did not want the child to see her, we gave her more money. Of course she remembered that and so finally she became a positive plague.

Mrs. Brauer.

Oh, Henry, I have often thought since, perhaps a mother's heart prompted her----

Brauer.

You think so, eh? Then perhaps a mother's heart also prompted her to steal at the same time! for every time she honored us with a visit, something or other disappeared, until I grew suspicious, had her watched, she was caught red-handed--and, of course, a long term in prison was the result.

Pastor.

And the girl--does she know or suspect anything at all?

Mrs. Brauer.

We told her, her mother was dead. But one day she really did see her.

Pastor.

How did that misfortune happen?

Mrs. Brauer.

It was on her confirmation day, just as the girls left the church in a body, when we heard a cry. What had happened? Why, that woman had been lying in wait for the procession; when suddenly she appeared, seized her child, and kneeling before her in the road, passionately covered her hands and feet with kisses.

Pastor.

[Shuddering.] Horrible!!!!!!

Mrs. Brauer.

I tore the child from her arms, of course, and carried her into the house. We had to make some kind of an explanation; a drunken vagabond, I told her! Did she believe it?--H'm?--Then she fell ill----

Pastor.

And how is it now?

Brauer.

[Humorously.] Why, Pastor, you seem very much interested.

George.

[Enters. Gertrude follows him in.] I presume I am pretty well done by this time.

Brauer.

We haven't even started with your case. The pastor is interested in something of far greater importance.

Pastor.

[With meaning and moved.] You must not believe that, Mr. von Harten; but there are lives whose fates are surrounded by so much mystery---- [with a glance at Marie, who enters L. with package of linen.]

George.

[Who follows his glance.] Yes, yes, you are right.

Pastor.

If you will allow me, I will call again about the sermon.

Mrs. Brauer.

[Giving him her hand.] Pastor, you know you are always welcome in this house.

Brauer.

Give my regards to our good old pastor. Towards evening we will see him, as usual.

Pastor.

Oh, I had almost forgotten! He desires me to ask you kindly, should you again favor him with eggnog, to please add a little more sugar, for the last was a trifle tart.

Mrs. Brauer.

Why, of course, the poor old soul.

Pastor.

Do not say that, madame; for when the time has come when all our wishes and hopes and desires are concentrated upon a small quantity of sweets, our sufferings are near the end. And now, adieu. Miss Marie, adieu.

Marie.

[Preoccupied.] Adieu.

[Pastor exits, accompanied by Brauer .]

[Gertrude enters.]

Mrs. Brauer.

Don't be afraid dear, no one will scold you.

Gertrude.

Oh mama, I'm so ashamed of myself. When he arrived he seemed so jolly--and now--I am sure he is offended.

George.

He was not offended, dear, only a little grave.

Mrs. Brauer.

At any rate, what do you think of him, Marie?

Marie.

[Glancing up from her work, sorting linen.] Of whom, mama dear?

Mrs. Brauer.

Why, the new pastor.

Marie.

Oh mama, my mind is so occupied, I hadn't given him a thought.

Gertrude.

[Aside to George.] Now you tell her, George.

Marie.

Gertrude, how about our manzanillo-tree--any blossoms this morning?

Mrs. Brauer.

You don't mean to say you haven't looked after that beloved tree of yours this morning?

Marie.

I have had no time, mama dear.

Gertrude.

[To George.] Now tell her.

George.

Marie, both Gertrude and myself insist, that you cease this endless drudgery for our sakes; it isn't right.

[Marie, humming, pays no heed--looks into space.]

Gertrude.

See, she is not even listening.

Mrs. Brauer.

What's that you are singing?

Marie.

I--? Was I singing?

Mrs. Brauer.

Well then, humming.

Marie.

Oh yes, last night at the station I heard a strange song--some one in a fourth-class coach was singing. Listen. [Sings.] "Zwirio czenay, zwirio tenay--kam'mano bernyczo--Rid wid wil dai dai--Ne'r mano bernyczo."

George.

And the Lithuanian text--you memorized it just from hearing it?

Marie.

Certainly.

George.

Well, where did you learn all that?

Marie.

Why, I have always known it.

George.

And could you translate it readily?

Marie.

Oh, it means nothing, really--[makes one or two attempts.]--"here"--no! "I look here and I look there--where may be my lover? Rid wid will dai dai--Nowhere is my lover!"

Brauer.

[Enters during this, unseen by her, puts arms around her. She shrieks.] There, there--[caressing her.] Patience, my darling, some day you will have one--perhaps very soon. Why, what's the matter, dear?

Marie.

[Leans on him in tearless sobbing.] Oh, you have frightened me so!

Brauer.

What is the matter with you this morning? What has happened?

Marie.

I have already told you, nothing.

Brauer.

Tut, tut! something has gone wrong! I can see it--and now, I demand that you tell me the truth.

Marie.

Well, then--yes!

Brauer.

What is it? Come, come, out with it.

Marie.

Some one attacked me.

Brauer.

Attacked you?

Marie.

Not far from here.

Brauer.

As you came from the station?

Marie.

Yes.

Brauer.

Well, I never--but everyone around here knows you and your character; how did he look? was it a vagabond?

Marie.

[Hesitatingly.] N--No. It was--a gentleman----

Brauer.

Did he lay hands on you, or even try to touch you?

Marie.

No.

Brauer.

But you say he attacked you?

Marie.

Attacked me--yes!

Brauer.

You mean he followed you?

Marie.

Yes.

Brauer.

How far?

Marie.

As far as the gate, which I opened quickly and then he disappeared.

Brauer.

[To the others.] Now, what do you say to that? [George shrugs his shoulders.] There is something queer about it all. [To Marie.] And that is what upset you so?

Marie.

Oh, I am already much composed.

Brauer.

[Raises her head.] Yes--you look it.

Gertrude.

Oh, papa, don't torment her so.

Brauer.

Now, then, go and take a good nap.

Marie.

Not yet, papa dear, I can't. I must speak with George first. About the large bookcase--I really don't know where to place it.

Brauer.

But you can do that later, can't you?

Marie.

I fear I might forget it.

Brauer.

Very well; I am going down to look after the cow. Will you come, wife?

Mrs. Brauer.

[Rising and putting up her handwork.] Yes, dear.

Brauer.

[To Marie.] And one thing more,--don't you put your foot outside of the gate without an escort hereafter! Understand? Not once!

Marie.

But why not, papa dear?

Brauer.

After what has happened? But I never heard of such a thing--never, as long as I----

Mrs. Brauer.

But, Henry, in broad daylight, it is hardly necessary----

Brauer.

No matter; I have my reasons for that; besides--well, I'll tell you later.

Mrs. Brauer.

[In passing taps Marie on cheek.] Now, pet, go and take a good rest. [Both exit.]

Marie.

You must go, too, Gertrude!

Gertrude.

[Peevishly.] But why should I?

Marie.

You know, dear, your future home----

Gertrude.

Ah, yes; those stupid furnishings! Do you know, I don't think a wedding half so much fun as Christmas. Now don't be long, will you? [Exit.]

[Pause.]

George.

Why so deep in thought, suddenly?

Marie.

I--? Oh, I was thinking. I was picturing to myself that cosy little nook, your corner room!

George.

Marie, dear, how can I ever thank you for all the----

Marie.

Don't speak of it, George, for I take great delight in having the furniture moved about; and then, I say to myself: "Here is where they will take their tea, and there they will while away their leisure hours"--so---- But, what I meant to tell you! Yesterday we had an accident--the large mirror in the parlor was broken. I know it portends ill----

George.

What care I, so long as our friendship will not be broken.

Marie.

But why should it?

George.

It shall never be my fault, Marie.

Marie.

Certainly never mine. But what I wanted to say,--I had the large mahogany bookcase repolished. Is that satisfactory?

George.

Anything you choose to do is satisfactory to me.

Marie.

[Hesitatingly.] And then--I must tell you, George, something important. When I unpacked the bookcase, I found a blue manuscript.

George.

[Unsuspecting.] What kind of a manuscript?

Marie.

George, you must not leave that lying around--not even hidden behind the books, especially now, when you take your wife to your home.

George.

In heaven's name, what manuscript?

Marie.

I believe--it contains some poems----

George.

You believe--it contains some poems. I have missed it since early last winter; I thought I had lost it. Marie, now tell me truthfully, have you read its contents?

Marie.

N--no!

George.

Then why do you tell me not to leave it around?

Marie.

Well, I read the first part, and had begun on the second, when I concluded to go no further.

George.

And you really looked no further than the first? Absolutely no further?

Marie.

No.

George.

Can you swear to that?

Marie.

I can!

George.

Then swear!

Marie.

I swear! Are you satisfied?

George.

Yes, thank heaven! But you must not imagine for a moment that the book contains anything I am ashamed of; on the contrary, I consider it so sacred I would not have it desecrated by a stranger's eye. About four years ago, something occurred within me--within my soul. No one knows--no one could even guess, and no one shall ever know.

Marie.

No one? Not even I?

George.

No, not even you. But where is the book? Give it to me!

Marie.

[Turns up stage and takes it from her bosom.] Here it is.

George.

How shall I ever thank you?

Marie.

I want you to do me one favor. Will you promise me?

George.

If it's in my power, certainly!

Marie.

Then I must first confess to you. A few moments ago, when papa questioned me, I deceived him. I was attacked last night--yes--but not by a man, but by a woman--a Lithuanian woman. George, that woman was my mother!

George.

But I understood your mother was dead.

Marie.

No, no; that is not so. Not one of you ever told me the truth. On the day of my confirmation I was waylaid by that very same woman--I cannot have been mistaken.

George.

Come, tell me, how did it happen?

Marie.

I was walking along quietly--'twas already dawning--when suddenly a gaunt form arose from the ditch beside the road. I looked, and saw before me a miserable beggarwoman, who called out to me in a trembling voice: "Marie--Madame--Daughter!" I turned cold in fear and horror, and, unable to utter one sound, I began to run; and I ran, ran, ran, and behind me I only heard her agonizing call: "My Marie--my daughter!" And so, I ran away from my own mother. And now, after a few hours' thought, I realize I did wrong. I must see her and speak to her, and learn from her own lips who and what I am; and as papa has forbidden me to leave this house--I would go in spite of him, but I have a fear--I beg of you, George, dear, go to her, I implore you, find her for me--she cannot be far away, and----

George.

And then?

Marie.

Then bring her to me, into the garden, or, better still, into this room towards evening, when papa and mama are calling on the old pastor----

George.

Marie, I cannot do that!

Marie.

The first time I ask a favor of you--and you say you cannot do it?

George.

Marie, dear, listen to me! You have been so kind to me of late--and that has not always been so; but if you had sacrificed for me even more than your own comfort and rest, I--I could not do it--I could not deceive your father and mother, for I fear the consequences.

Marie.

Then can't you understand that, a foundling though I am, a desire might come over me to see my own mother, though she be but a common beggar and an outcast? That I might want to lay my head on her shoulder and be petted and fondled, and cry myself to sleep on mine--on my own mother's breast?

George.

Are you not fondled, are you not petted--has mama not always been kind to you?

Marie.

Yes, but it is not the same--not the same. Never have I felt the desire, the demand within me for my own flesh and blood, as just now.

George.

But why just now?

Marie.

[Imploringly.] Because my heart is bursting. Oh, George!

George.

I cannot. I dare not do it!

Marie.

Then you refuse me?

George.

You know I must!!

Marie.

Then have you forgotten what took place in there, in your heart, four years ago?

[Pause.]

George.

Marie, you have read my manuscript!

Marie.

Yes, I read it. Will you do it now?

George.

Marie, you have sworn falsely!!!

Marie.

[Shrugging her shoulders.] Will you do as I ask?

George.

'Tis well! I will do as you ask!!!!

[Curtain.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT TWO

The same scene as Act I.

[Marie, seated, with some linen in her lap, at the sewing-machine, looking dreamily out of the window.]

Housekeeper Katie.

[In door R.]

May I come in, Miss Marie?

Marie.

Oh, is that you? Yes, come in!

Katie.

I see you are working on Miss Gertrude's wedding outfit. How beautiful, fit for a princess. But what I wanted to ask you: Madame has given me the menu for the wedding feast, and as to fish, it calls for carp. Now you know I am economical, but carp--common carp----

Marie.

Why, carp is a very fine fish----

Katie.

Oh yes, and good enough for--say--your wedding feast; but not good enough for Miss Gertrude.

Marie.

For my wedding feast even carp is too good.

Katie.

Oh no; carp is not too good for you, though it may be good enough--and do you know I will prepare a special Polish sauce--but Miss Gertrude--she must have deep sea fish. Now will you see Madame about that, please?

Marie.

Very well, I will speak to mama about it.

Katie.

And you are not offended?

Marie.

Oh no!

Katie.

For, after all, you know, you are only a foundling.

Marie.

Oh yes, I know.

Katie.

But we all love you, Miss Marie, and----

Marie.

Thank you. But have you seen Mr. von Harten this morning?

Katie.

No, I have not! But I have some good news for you--the assistant pastor has fallen deeply in love with you.

Marie.

Yes?

Katie.

And he is going to ask for your hand!!! I always said you were a lucky girl. Just think, you may be a St. John's-bride.

Marie.

And what is a St. John's-bride?

Katie.

You don't know that, Miss Marie? Well, I'll tell you. It is written in the new seal of Solomonis: "Whoever shall give or receive their first kiss on St. John's eve, their love is sealed and they will be faithful unto death." So it is written in the new seal of Solomonis.

Gertrude.

[Enter C., hands behind her, with bouquet.]

Marie, I have something for you. No, first I want Katie to leave the room. Go now, go!!!

Katie.

Oh, I am going--I am going!!!!!!!!! [Exit.]

Gertrude.

Shut your eyes now! [Marie does so, as Gertrude holds bouquet to Marie's face.] Now what is it?

Marie.

The tulip-tree! the first blossoms from our manzanillo-tree! It blooms--it blooms!!! [Burying her face in the flowers.]

Gertrude.

Are you glad, Marie?

Marie.

Yes, darling, so glad!!! Thank you!

Gertrude.

And do you know who picked them?--George!

Marie.

For me?

Gertrude.

Why, of course, for you!

Marie.

He--did this--for me?

Gertrude.

He would do even more than that for me, I am sure!

Marie.

Oh yes, certainly! But where is he now?

Gertrude.

I don't know!

Marie.

Did he say he had to go somewhere?

Gertrude.

Yes, he had to go out on the fields, he said--and that was quite some time ago. I wanted to accompany him, I begged and begged, but he flatly refused to let me go.

Marie.

[Breathing heavily.] Oh!!!!!!!!

Gertrude.

I don't know how it is; but to-day he is acting so strangely. Papa has asked for him several times--and do you know, dear, at times he is not at all pleasant to me!

Marie.

But why should he----

Gertrude.

That's just it! why should he? Oh, if I only knew--if I was only certain he loved me--and then, another thing--I don't know if I should tell you--I have a growing fear, some other girl will take him away from me.

Marie.

[With forced laugh.] Away from you, dear? how could that be possible?

Gertrude.

Oh yes, you may laugh; but at times, when he looks at me, I see a strange look come in his eyes. Half affection--half pity--and I don't want to be pitied! Why should he? Am I not happy?

Marie.

[Caressing her.] Yes, dear; you ought to be very, very happy.

Gertrude.

But I cannot rid myself of the fear, perhaps he really loves another and is only taking compassion on me! Oh, if I only knew----

Marie.

But, my darling----

Gertrude.

For you see, I am still so young--and think, how ill-mannered I was only this morning! I was so sorry afterwards--but I do love to laugh. [Laughs.]

Marie.

[With strange y desperate tone of voice.] And you shall laugh--laugh--laugh--so--so!!!!!!!

Gertrude.

Mama, too, insists that my love for him is only that of a child and not of a woman and a bride; but you see she would rather I'd not marry at all and so remain at home with her all my life. But you will be good to her, won't you? You will soon be her only one.

Marie.

I----?

Gertrude.

Why yes!

Marie.

I shall soon know whose only one I am!

Gertrude.

What are you saying?

Marie.

[As George enters.] There he is!

[Gertrude runs towards him. Marie takes a few steps, then hesitates and stops.]

Gertrude.

[Pulling him, as she runs towards him.] Oh, George!!! [Then] Confound you!

George.

[Reproachfully.] Gertrude!!!!!!

Gertrude.

[Crushed.] Why, what did I say?

George.

[Lovingly.] Now listen to me, little one. Such language may be excusable in your papa, but never in my bride.

Gertrude.

[Pouting.] Everything I say seems to displease you. You never find fault with Marie! You can go and marry her!!!

George.

Marie does not want to marry me.

Marie.

My very best thanks, George!

George.

For what?

Marie.

[Picking up bouquet.] For this!

George.

Oh, don't mention it.

Marie.

Were you out in the fields?

George.

Yes.

Gertrude.

Yes, papa is angry with you, too. He is looking for you!

George.

Oh yes--I know----! Well?

Marie.

In what direction did you go?

George.

I have been everywhere.

Marie.

And have you found----?

Gertrude.

What was he to find?

George.

Yes, what was I to find? But, children, your tulip-tree is certainly a strange fellow. There he stands, blooming alone, like the last rose of summer----

Gertrude.

My great-grandfather brought it from South America!

George.

[To Marie.] And that is why you love it so, because it is so foreign and strange?

Marie.

[Busy with linen.] Perhaps!

Gertrude.

No, that is not the reason----

Marie.

Well then, what is it?

Gertrude.

I'm going to tell on you. One day papa took her to the Opera, down in the city; there they saw the African----

George.

"L'Africaine," you mean?

Gertrude.

Yes, yes, that's what she called it.

Marie.

Gertrude, please don't----

Gertrude.

In that play occurs a poison-tree--I think----

George.

Yes, a manzanillo-tree!

Gertrude.

Yes, yes; and whosoever inhales the odor of its blossoms must die. And do you know what she did? Oh, yes, I did the same--we would go to this tree, smell of its blossoms, and lay down----

George.

To die?

Gertrude.

To die.

Marie.

Now you can imagine, George, how long ago that must have been.

Gertrude.

Yes, it was long, long ago. But about four years ago, one day Marie really wanted to die very badly.

[Marie casts a frightened glance at George, who returns it thoughtfully.]

Gertrude.

But we didn't.

George.

No, no, thank heaven. Now, little one, run along and tell papa that I am here.

Gertrude.

Marie, will you come, too?

Marie.

No; I think I will remain here a little while longer.

Gertrude.

Then I'll stay, too.

George.

Now, little one----

[Gertrude exits with a sigh.]

Marie.

[Quickly and suppressed.] Did you find her? [George nods.] Will she come? Why don't you answer?

George.

Marie, when you exacted this promise from me this morning, I did not realize what it meant. I had never seen your--I don't want to speak that word--I had never seen this person until to-day. She must not come to this house, secretly--she must not!!!

Marie.

George!!!

George.

Take uncle into your confidence, at least.

Marie.

No, no one--no one but you!!

George.

What do you want with her? You know you belong to this house. Here you have everything your heart desires. Here you have love--here you have----

Marie.

[Interrupts him.] Bread! Why don't you say it? Yes, here I have bread!

George.

I did not mean to say that.

Marie.

No; but I did! And do I not earn it, as well as the little love I obtain in this house? I am "The Calamity Child"--and I do not ask for charity.

George.

You seem to be possessed of the very devil to-day!

Marie.

Perhaps!

George.

I implore you, do not insist. I fear the consequence. You will see! for whatever is done against nature, punishes itself.

Marie.

And is it against nature when a child cries out for its own mother?

George.

She is not your mother; your mother is in this house.

Marie.

Gertrude's mother is in this house, not mine. A mother must feel for her child, she must see----

George.

Sh--sh!

[Enter Gertrude.]

Gertrude.

You two are continually talking in whispers; can't you tell me? It makes me so unhappy!

Marie.

[Caressing her.] But darling, it is all done for your sake!

[During this, George looks at her disapprovingly, while Marie casts a timid glance at him.]

Brauer.

[Enters.] At last you have come. Where in thunder have you been all day? It almost seemed to me as if you were trying to avoid me!

George.

But, uncle----

Brauer.

Well, girls, have you prepared the pastor's eggnog?

Marie.

Oh, I had entirely forgotten it.

Brauer.

Then see to it at once. And don't forget the sugar, you know.

Marie.

Yes, papa.

Brauer.

And Gertrude dear, you can go and help her. It is time you were learning to do something yourself.

Gertrude.

Yes, papa!

Marie.

I hardly think it will be ready in time to take with you and mama.

Brauer.

Then bring it later--yourself.

Marie.

[With a glance at George.] Could not Gertrude bring it, papa? I have so much work to do!

Gertrude.

No, no, papa!!!

Brauer.

Yes, yes, you shall!--bring it up when done; and mind, you remain at the pastor's as long as your mother and I, this time. Understand?

Gertrude.

Oh, papa dear! The last time, the old pastor insisted upon holding my hand in his so long; and they are so cold and clammy, so shriveled and hairy, like the hands of the dead!

Brauer.

Come here, my child. Those hairy hands once christened you, and at your confirmation the same shriveled hands were laid upon your head and invoked for you the blessings of heaven; and would you, after all that, refuse to hold them in your own warm young hands? My daughter, I do not wish to hear that again. [Kisses her.]

Marie.

[Slowly has approached George. Softly, aside to him.] You will do as I ask?

Brauer.

And now, leave us.

[Marie and Gertrude exit.]

"Now, then, comes your turn," says the stork to the worm.

George.

[Looking after the girls, turns.] I suppose so, but take a care, uncle, I am not so easily digested.

Brauer.

We shall see! We shall see!

George.

What do you want with me? My financial condition is satisfactory. I have a good position, and my future is assured. I desire to enjoy the results of my own labors, not those of yours.

Brauer.

So, so!

George.

Yes, dear uncle. If you were so determined upon giving a large dowry, you should have found another husband for Gertrude than myself.

Brauer.

[Riled.] Oh, hang you and your confounded pride!