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.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Time of action, about 1880

Place of action, Pomerania (Prussia)

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.