Creditors; Pariah (2 plays)
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August Strindberg >> Creditors; Pariah (2 plays)
TEKLA. [Making a face] This one?
ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte
pictures an adulteress?
TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something.
ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush.
TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must
blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be
allowed to see it.
ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that?
TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of
bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the
charming spectacle.
ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla!
TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny!
ADOLPH. Tekla!
TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty
little blush for his sake. Does he want me to?
ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could
bite you!
TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come!
[Opens her arms to him.]
ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll
bite you to death!
TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come!
ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world
if I can only have you!
TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer?
ADOLPH. Then I shall die!
TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too
old to be wanted by anybody else?
ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all
back now!
TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so
cock-sure?
ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible
that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still
be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love
were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion
kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that
would give me more pain than to have HIM know that I am unhappy.
Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person
exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily
calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I
perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you,
fascinates me, paralyses me!
TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I
would make his prophecy come true?
ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would.
TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then?
ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you
play that kind of game?
TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all!
ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men!
TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women.
ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently?
TEKLA. Not in the last sis months.
ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him?
TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our
correspondence.
ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all?
TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West
Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now?
ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was
alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was
left alone that time.
TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience?
ADOLPH. I am.
TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you?
ADOLPH. Almost!
TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal
children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal
property. I am very much obliged to you!
ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more
than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If
you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish
notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me?
ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him?
TEKLA. Of course, I did!
ADOLPH. And then--
TEKLA. I grew tired of him!
ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also?
TEKLA. But I won't!
ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the
qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you
would leave me?
TEKLA. No.
ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without
him? Then you would leave me, of course?
TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow.
ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you?
TEKLA. Yes! Why not?
ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand.
TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All
persons are not made in the same way, you know.
ADOLPH. I begin to see now!
TEKLA. No, really!
ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to
struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know,
Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful?
TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and
one that you taught me.
ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something
behind that frankness of yours.
TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know.
ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become
offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this
evening!
TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I
don't feel like starting on another trip.
ADOLPH. But I want to.
TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go!
ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me!
TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about?
ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife?
TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband?
ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things.
TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never
loved me!
ADOLPH. Haven't I?
TEKLA. No, for to love is to give.
ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to
take.--And I have given, given, given!
TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given?
ADOLPH. Everything!
TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it.
Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I
have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman
cannot receive anything except from her lover.
ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been
your lover, but never your husband.
TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing
chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll
send you packing, for I don't want a husband.
ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you
began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when
you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my
plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of
your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you
wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and
in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my
safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without
having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband.
And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not,
as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer,
TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet
little idiot!
ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but
oneself!
TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks.
ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former
husband--was not so much of an idiot after all.
TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him?
ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it,
TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance
and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking
picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am
growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at
least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me.
ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we
might be overheard.
TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people?
ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at
the same time you have a taste for chaste young men?
TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My
heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the
small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the
whole world.
ADOLPH. Do you know what that means?
TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just FEEL.
ADOLPH. It means that old age is near.
TEKLA. There you are again! Take care!
ADOLPH. Take care yourself!
TEKLA. Of what?
ADOLPH. Of the knife!
TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such
dangerous things.
ADOLPH. I have quit playing.
TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you
that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never
know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll
suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another
moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of
being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's
what married men never get.
ADOLPH. You hate me then?
TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's
probably because you are nothing to me but a child.
ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while
the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms
and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss
your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that
you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to
the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to
sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were
afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a
single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of
public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was
dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was
strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so
I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you
admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had
just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled
new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty
brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back
your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a
little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let
themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my
house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and
blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then
where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St.
Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King
Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I
compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated
vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally
down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything
possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own
feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and
I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed
myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance
to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-
-and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a
secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your
rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister,
and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of
little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even
increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had
in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as
my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some
mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry
up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted
to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to
lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on.
A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own
burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat
and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't
realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time
our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot
sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before
the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you
couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main
branch--and so stem and branch must die together.
TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have
written my books.
ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me
out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I
spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances,
all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has
only a single note in it.
TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have
written my books.
ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a
single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one
figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having
written your books.
TEKLA. But that's what you meant!
ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it.
TEKLA. But the sum of it--
ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get
an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does
not work out evenly. I have not added anything.
TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself.
ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it.
TEKLA. No. but that's what you wanted to do.
ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to
me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone!
You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws
into my thoughts and tear them to pieces!
(He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while
his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.)
TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick?
(ADOLPH motions her away.)
TEKLA. Adolph!
(ADOLPH shakes his head at her.)
TEKLA. Adolph.
ADOLPH. Yes.
TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago?
ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit!
TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon?
ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak
to me!
TEKLA. Kiss my hand then!
ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't
speak to me!
TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air
before dinner.
ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave.
TEKLA. No!
ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason.
TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to-
night.
ADOLPH. Oh, that's it!
TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend--
ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and
that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go.
TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word.
ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to
live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is
somebody who has made you promise to go.
TEKLA. Yes.
ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because
your husband is sick.
TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to
be kept from going with me.
ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer
then?
TEKLA. I don't know what you mean.
ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something
that--doesn't please you.
TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me?
ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a
while!
(Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the
right.)
(TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes
straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He
pretends not to see TEKLA.)
TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it
you?
GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon!
TEKLA. Which way did you come?
GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as--
TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was
some time ago--
GUSTAV. Yes, some time.
TEKLA. You have changed a great deal.
GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if
anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your
happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I
should never--
TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay.
GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well,
whatever I say, I am sure to offend you.
TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess
that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness.
GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that
your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light
as you.
TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very
sympathetic terms.
GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like
names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself
permanently in our minds.
TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And
as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you
come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once
in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your
different ways again.
GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used
to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good
hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am
familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked,
before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take
good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession.
In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have
developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace
and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through
the rest of my sorrowful days.
TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood
me. I thank you for it!
GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too
insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of
living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not
satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But
you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost
me to make such a confession to myself.
TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own
shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs]
But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable
nature--one that I had to respect--but--
GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies,
sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered!
TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you?
GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive.
TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who
are old enough to know better!
GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow
younger every day.
(He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the
left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.)
TEKLA. Do you think so?
GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress.
TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured
out what colors would be most becoming to me?
GUSTAV. No.
TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you
used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a
touch of crimson about my dress.
GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you.
TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you
remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all.
GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being
does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you
write.
TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear
Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a
peaceful way like this.
GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a
pretty peaceful time with me.
TEKLA. Perhaps too much so.
GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was
at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged.
TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time?
And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course.
GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can
wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I
don't think your husband can be called a sluggard.
TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing.
GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still
wearing the ear-rings I gave you?
TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between
us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a
reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is
impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off
one of her ear-rings.]
GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of
it?
TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says?
GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury.
It is likely to make him ridiculous.
TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that
before!
GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the
ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps?
TEKLA. Oh--thank you!
GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your
husband could see us now!
TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though!
GUSTAV. Is he jealous also?
TEKLA. Is he? I should say so!
[A noise is heard from the room on the right.]
GUSTAV. Who lives in that room?
TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and
what you are doing?
GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along?
(TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is
doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.)
GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you!
TEKLA. I don't believe so.
GUSTAV. But it is very like you.
TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so?
GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could
your majesty see that?"
TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new
stories?
GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some.
TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays.
GUSTAV. Is he modest also?
TEKLA. Oh--well--
GUSTAV. Not an everything?
TEKLA. He isn't well just now.
GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other
people's hives?
TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing!
GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just
married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently
in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall
there--and over there stood the big bed.
TEKLA. Now you stop!
GUSTAV. Look at me!
TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I?
[They look hard at each other.]
GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has
made a very deep impression on him?
TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly
the memories of our youth.
GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a
pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had
made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it
with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the
slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I
shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his
business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting
you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here
and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own
bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in
flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely
picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the
woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes
hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy.
TEKLA. Are you going to marry again?
GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am
going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a
spill.
TEKLA. Is she good looking?
GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when
chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to
doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again.
TEKLA. How do you mean?
GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old
wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman,
Tekla!
TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more
conquests.
GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you.
TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him.
GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last
you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have
had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his
courage. There ARE some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there
are drawbacks to it, indeed.
TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach--