Creditors; Pariah (2 plays)
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August Strindberg >> Creditors; Pariah (2 plays)
MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon--
MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as
if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face
quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close
together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to.
[A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if
that might have struck the sheriff's house!
MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's!
MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get
much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you
are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you,
with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon
are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from
them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I
always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not
resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common.
MR. Y. Who is he?
MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to
take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table
where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a
little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful
faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling
anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place
down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he
wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He
seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody
he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he
would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human
face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if
eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched
him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character.
But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for
then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had
just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made
him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non-
commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-
-and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the
front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to
read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known
government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman
had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was
Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to
run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter
of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a
connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's
peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend
whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend
couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.]
MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished?
MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.]
MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such
an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending
people?
MR. X. Exactly!
MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward?
MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.]
MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he
had been--punished?
MR. X. Perfectly!
(MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.)
MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still?
MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are
you a Christian?
MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not?
(MR. Y. makes a face.)
MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require
punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it,
be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the
difference.
MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild,
hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you-
-know--that?
MR. X. Why, I could see it.
MR. Y. How? How could you see it?
MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others.
But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch,
arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and
hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs.
Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am
going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to
the city with you.
MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo.
MR. X. Oh, you are not?
MR. Y. No.
MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature.
MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind--
MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to
write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was
involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to
watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid
fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single
letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote
with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the
exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the
seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which
place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet
you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at
Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old
mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance.
And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look
out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon
can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of
the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own
stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything
clear to me.
MR. Y. This means that you despise me?
MR. X. Oh, no!
MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it!
MR. X. No--here's my hand.
(MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.)
MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog!
MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me
touch his hand after learning--
MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is
that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old
level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your
punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you?
MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say.
But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no
ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there
are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again]
which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being
willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible--
May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have
passed over?
MR. X. Suit yourself.
MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins
to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures,
and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a
student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from
a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some
property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the
note to the second man of the two who were to act as security,
and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a
while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very
unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front
of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes
stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is,
not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other
securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it
was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite
unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the
signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if
it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well-
written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent-
mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I
had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like
this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that
there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature
back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a
wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that
beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space
on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the
signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder
with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I
slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I
had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At
times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed
to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant
memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table,
just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an
irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All
thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had
disappeared--no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was
fulfilling some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet]
What could it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of
mental suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I
was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive
self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-
-which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep--
together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to
calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of
it?
MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly
speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it,
but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details--
and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I
have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You
have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to
acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more.
MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my
innocence.
MR. X. Well, are you not?
MR. Y. No, I am not!
MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what
is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human
being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us,
stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are
persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot
control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and
there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you
don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why
should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more
strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later.
[Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never
suffered any qualms on account of it.
MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you?
MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake
hands with a murderer?
MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense!
MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished,
ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So
much the better for you!--How did you get out of it?
MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses.
This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt
with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a
besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow
went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset
the whole equipage in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my
life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him
across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just
to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all,
but collapsed then and there.
MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it?
MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man
left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could
be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted
period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled
by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was
necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps
also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all
cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I
didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for
the sake of an abstract principle of justice.
MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life?
MR. X. In the present case, yes.
MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of?
MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a
boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and
the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my
ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly
person.
MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is
punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly
what one gets for--writing names.
MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one
night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as
bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar?
MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting
off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you
are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself
in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit.
MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which
wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say.
MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they
cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become
conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital
function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking.
And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put
on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived
ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written
for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You
hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what
actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are
torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put
beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a
sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were
dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out
of a trough--ugh!
MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he
belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the
proper costume.
MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man
from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden
age.
MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that
last expression--the golden age?
MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all.
MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say
all you think.
MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I
dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I
did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-
-It is that the others are not in there too!
MR. X. What others?
MR. Y. Those that go unpunished.
MR. X. Are you thinking of me?
MR. Y. I am.
MR. X. But I have committed no crime.
MR. Y. Oh, haven't you?
MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime.
MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder?
MR. X. I have not committed murder.
MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person?
MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing
in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional
and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me,
for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most
dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid.
MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you
like me to show you how clever I am?
MR. X. Come on!
MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and
wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have
suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at
hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being
punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered
a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has
had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great
scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has
become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order
to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of
money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one,
the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these
unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a
fine? Don't you think so?
MR. X. [Calmly] Yes.
MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you
think would be reasonable?
MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the
law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the
fact that the dead man left no relatives.
MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to
speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine.
MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect
fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no
prosecutor.
MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do?
MR. X. Oh, NOW we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do
you want for becoming my accomplice?
MR. Y. Six thousand crowns.
MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them?
(MR. Y. points to the box.)
MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a
thief.
MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe
that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before?
MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let
myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft
natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they
like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard
against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced
that I have helped myself out of the box before?
MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you
don't get six thousand crowns?
MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use
trying.
MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my
wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my
fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!-
-Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself.
MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment!
MR. X. For what?
MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it
wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well
leave.
MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you
sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go.
MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up
to now?
MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it!
Oh-h-h!
MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering
now?
MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary
thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I
could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I
couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and
watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more
acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color
contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be
seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have
been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental
suggestion--for you turned the book upsidedown in putting it back.
So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think
myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been
prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure.
MR. Y. By need! If you only knew--
MR. X. If YOU only knew the extent of the need I have had to face
and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with
your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted.
But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you
described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely,
that you have not borne your punishment on this side.
MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind?
MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all
about it.
(MR. Y. gets up.)
ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in
connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a
person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old
mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the
window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And
that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.]
MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now?
MR. X. Now you can go.
MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me?
MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you?
MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I?
MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I
am less of a menace to prevailing property rights.
MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as
you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I
can mate you--all the same!
MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout!
What kind of mischief are you up to now?
MR. Y. That's my secret.
MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous
letter giving away MY secret!
MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to
have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone,
I can do what I please.
MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you
want to make a real murderer out of me?
MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward!
MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling
that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And
that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat
you as I treated that coachman?
[He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.]
MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too
much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over
there.
ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box?
MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to
tell your wife that she had married a murderer.
MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if
stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less,
that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is
quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's
name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when
you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might
have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself
cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into
becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could
be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But
most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to
provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write
my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband
having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!--
Have you had enough now?
MR. Y. May I go?
MR. X. Now you HAVE to go! And at once! I'll send your things
after you!--Get out of here!
(Curtain.)