The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life of Man, by Leonidas Andreyev This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Life of Man A Play in Five Acts Author: Leonidas Andreyev Translator: C. J. Hogarth Release Date: September 2, 2015 [EBook #49852] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF MAN *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive cover Original titlepage Original THE LIFE OF MAN A Play In Five Acts By Leonidas Andreyev Translated By C. J. Hogarth London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. New York: The Macmillan Company. 1915 DRAMATIS PERSONÆ The Being in Grey. The Father of the Man. The Man. The Man's Wife. First Doctor. Second Doctor. An Old Serving Woman. Old Women of a Semi-supernatural Character. Musicians; Friends, Enemies, and Relations of the Man; Guests at the Man's Ball, etc. CONTENTS PROLOGUE ACT I—THE BIRTH OF THE MAN ACT II—LOVE AND POVERTY ACT III—THE BALL GIVEN BY THE MAN ACT IV—RUIN AND BEREAVEMENT ACT V—THE DEATH OF THE MAN PROLOGUE [A Being, clad in Grey, is speaking. He is speaking of the Life of Man. [The stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey and misty. The ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same dull, monotonous, elusive colour. This light throws no shadows, nor is reflected back from any point. [Without a sound the Being in Grey detaches himself from the wall, with which he has almost seemed to mingle. He is clothed in a loose, grey, shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is veiled in a cowl of the all- pervading hue. This cowl throws the upper portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose, mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were hewn of grey stone. At first his lips are tightly compressed; until presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern, Cold voice—a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court of law.] Look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its mysterious close, the whole life of a Man. Hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,—the Man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. In the night of non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen hand. It is the life of that Man. Mark well its flame: for it is the life of that Man. Born, the Man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. Their hard lot becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come after him. Drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. Bounded in knowledge, it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. In blind nescience, in an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the sorry cycle of an iron destiny. First we see him a joyous youth. Mark how clearly the candle burns! Icy winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. Its flame may flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. Yet the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it—yet the wax is ever melting. Next we see him a happy man and father. Mark how dim, how strange, is now the candle's glimmer! Its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. For the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it—for the wax is ever melting. Lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. The rungs of the ladder have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering foot. The flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to a faint blue. It droops and quivers, it droops and quivers—and then softly goes out. Thus the Man dies. Come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time. There there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with men. And I, the Unknown, shall remain ever the fellow- traveller of that Man—through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings. Though unseen by him and his companions, I shall ever be by his side. Be he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy, when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he wages his great contest with the Inevitable,—I shall be with him, I shall ever be with him. And ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting life of a Man. [Once more the Being in Grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness. ] CURTAIN. ACT I—THE BIRTH OF THE MAN [The stage is in deep shadow—nothing being visible amid the gloom save the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of a large and lofty chamber. Clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice. They are talking in low tones.] Dialogue of the Old Women. I wish I knew which her baby is going to be—a boy or a girl. Whatever can it matter to you? Nothing; except that I prefer boys. And I prefer girls. They sit quietly at home, and make company when one wants a gossip. Oh, you are so fond of company! [The Old Women give a chuckle.] The woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger. While they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to. fighting, and killing one another. Pooh! Does she think that girls never get drowned? Many a drowned girl's corpse have I seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses do—wet and livid and swollen. And does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to her death? Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her! The doctor thinks she is going to die. No, no! What the doctor said was that the child will be born dead, but the mother herself recover. But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things! Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are they not? [The Old Women chuckle again.] Ah well, 'tis the way of the world—births and deaths, births and deaths. Yes; and then more births. [For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony.] There! She is going to scream again! Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice. Yes, it is a good sign. That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of his would grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps. When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she does. He grows absolutely livid in the face! A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but, after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home again empty-handed. [The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into silence.] What ails her now? Surely she has not expired? Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a dead faint and been brought in here, and then we should have had some work to do. No, no; she's not dead. Then why need we stay here longer? Oh, ask Him. How can we tell what is going to happen? He never tells us anything—never! No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us—for ever pulling us out of our beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have come after all! Nevertheless, since we are here, we may as well do something. There! She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we? No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough watching by now? Oh, I just sit quiet and wait—sit quiet and wait. What a patient old lady you are, to be sure! [The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder.] How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out. Oh, we have all been through it in our time. Yes, but I doubt whether she has before. Listen to that voice of hers! One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet and gentle one. Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a sort of a night sound in it. Yes. It puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter solitude and desolation. Yes; and of despair and a broken heart. But is there no one in the room with her? Why is it we hear no voices but hers—no voices but that terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers? Oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark their voices when she is screaming. Have you never noticed that a scream always appears to stand out from other sounds? No matter how many persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to it. Yes, once I heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. The street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have been the only one in it. But this is a stranger sound than any man could utter. Perhaps it is a trifle more shrill. No, no, it is more prolonged. Perhaps you are right. It is a stranger sound than any man could utter. Besides, it has the ring of death in it. Well? Was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? He died, didn't he? Yes, yes; but never mind. We need not quarrel about it. [For a moment there is silence. Then the screams begin again.] What a strange thing is a scream! If it is you yourself who are screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is some one else——— What throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? Surely it cannot be a woman's throat? No, no; I cannot believe it! The cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round. Or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest. Now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. Listen to the choking noise she is making! It sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest. Or as though she were being strangled. [The screams suddenly cease.] There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was such a monotonous, ugly screaming. Did you expect to find it beautiful, then? [The Old Women chuckle.] Hush! Is He here? I do not know. I believe He is. He does not approve of laughter. They say He laughs Himself at times. Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about Him. Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us. [The Old Women chuckle again.] What I want to know is—Will the baby be a boy or a girl? Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with. I hope it may die before birth. How kind of you! Not more so than of you. And I trust it may grow up to be a general. [The Old Women chuckle again.] Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it. And I do not quite like your looking so gloomy. No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or gloomy; so let each be what she pleases. [There is a pause.] Babies are merry enough things, if you like. Yes, and spoilt too. And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when they are dying. Then they grow less clamorous—they just stretch themselves out, and require rocking to sleep no more. But they are such playful little dears! How I love to wash them just after they are born! And I to wash them just after they are dead! No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead. That is all about it. But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they want? It does not seem to me the proper thing. They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis their stomach which does the asking. But 'tis they who do the actual asking, is it not? Perhaps so; but they do not always get. [The Old Women chuckle again. Presently the screams recommence behind the scenes.] There! She is screaming again! 'Tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than women do. Yes, and easier dying too—and easier living, into the bargain. You should see how sleek and contented my cat is! The same with my dog. Every day I say to him, 'Your turn too will come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as merrily as ever. Ah, but they are only animals. Well, and what else are women? [Again the Old Women chuckle.] Dying, or about to be delivered, she has nearly come to the end of her strength now. You can tell that by the sound of her cries. I can see her eyes starting! And the cold sweat on her brow! [Again the Old Women chuckle.] She is about to be delivered! No, she is dying! [Suddenly the screams cease.] I tell you—— [At this instant the Being in Grey stands out momentarily in clearer relief as he exclaims in a deep, sonorous voice:] Silence ye! A man is being born into the world. [And almost as he speaks the cry of a baby is heard behind the scenes, and the tall candle in the hand of the Being bursts into flame. At first weak and, fitful, the flame grows stronger by degrees; yet though the corner in which the Being is standing is in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene, the candle's yellow light is in minates only his tightly compressed lips, high cheekbones, and prominent chin, while the rest of his face remains hidden, as before, in the shadow of the cowl. In stature he is above the ordinary height of man, and the candle in his hand is proportionately tall and massive. Set in a candlestick of antique design (the green bronze of which causes the fingers encircling it to show up grey and stonelike as those of some statue'), the candle burns up with sufficient brightness to make the crouching forms of the Old Women stand out clearly from the obscurity. Also, the room is now seen to be a high and perfectly square apartment, with bare, colourless walls; while both in the back wall and in the wall to the right are curtainless casement windows, through which the outer night shows darkly. Ranged against the walls are a number of chairs with high, straight backs.] [The Old Women begin to utter excited exclamations.] Hark! People are hurrying about! Presently they will be coming in here! How light it is growing! Let us go, let us go! See how clearly and steadily the candle burns! Yes, let us go, let us go! Quickly, quickly! Yes, let us go, let us go! [Bursting into shrill laughter, they begin with weird, zigzag movements to shuffle away through the gloom. Yet, though, with their departure, the light grows stronger, there still remains a dim, cold, lifeless air about the scene. [Enter a Doctor, accompanied by the Father of the Man. The Doctor is clad in a white hospital overall, and wears a look at once wise and self-important. Contrariwise, the Father's face, though expressive of great relief, is deeply scored with anxiety. Also, his cheeks look sunken, his hair is dishevelled, and his clothes are in much disorder.] The Doctor. Up to; the very last moment I was in doubt as to whether your wife would come safely through it. I brought all my knowledge and skill to bear upon her, but even the most skilful doctor is of little avail unless Nature herself come to his aid. Besides, I was feeling very nervous. Even yet my pulse is throbbing. Curiously enough, though I have helped to bring hundreds of babies into the world, I have never yet succeeded in overcoming a certain feeling of diffidence during the opera—— But you are not listening to me, sir? The Father. Oh yes, I am listening to you, but I cannot altogether take in what you say. Her screams still ring in my ears, and have made me dull of comprehension. Poor woman, how she suffered! In my folly and conceit I was so anxious to have a child, but now I renounce that criminal wish for ever. The Doctor. Oh, you will soon be sending for me again, when the next baby arrives. The Father. No, never! I am almost ashamed to say it, but I actually hate this child which has put her to such pain. I have not even seen it. What is it like? The Doctor. It is a fine, strong, healthy boy, and greatly, resembles yourself, if I mistake not. The Father. Oh, it resembles me, does it? Well, I am pleased at that! I begin to feel a little more drawn towards the child. It had always been my desire to have a boy—and especially one which resembled myself. You have seen the child. Has it, then, a nose like mine? The Doctor. Yes, and eyes too. The Father. And eyes? Oh, that is capital! I feel as though I ought to pay you a trifle over your fee. The Doctor. Well, let us call it an extra honorarium for the instruments which I had to use. [The Father of the Man turns towards the corner wherein the figure of the Being in Grey stands motionless, and utters the following prayer:] The Father. O Lord and Creator of Life, I thank Thee for according me my heart's desire, and granting me a son like myself. I thank Thee also for watching over my beloved wife, and enabling her to bear the child in safety. I beseech Thee that the child may grow up wise and honourable, and that he may never at any time bring sorrow upon the heads of us, his father and mother. If Thou wilt grant me this my petition, I swear that I will trust in Thee for ever, and worship Thee in Thy Holy Temple. For I feel a great love arising in me for my son. [Enter the Relations, to the number of six. First, there is a stout, elderly lady who has a double chin, small, puffy eyes, and a pompous, self-important manner. Next, there is her husband, who is so tall and thin that his clothes seem literally to hang on him, as on a clothes-peg. Also, he has spectacles, a short, pointed beard, smooth, damp-looking hair which straggles over his shoulders, and a manner which, though diffident, is also curiously didactic. In his hands he holds a black, low-crowned hat, and he appears to stand in awe of his wife. These two are accompanied by a young girl, their daughter, who has an impudently upturned nose, twinkling eyes, and a mouth perpetually half-open. Likewise there is a tall, thin lady, of sour, depressed mien, who at times wipes her lips with the handkerchief perpetually dangling from her hands. Finally, there are two youths, precisely identical in appearance, with long, thin necks encased in high collars, hair smoothly plastered over their foreheads, and an expression of bewilderment and vacuity on their faces which would seem to denote that their mental faculties are, as yet, but in the growing stage. ] Elderly Lady. Let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on the birth of a son. Her Husband. Let me congratulate you, my dear brother-in-law, on the advent of this long-expected child. The Rest. (In unison.) We all of us congratulate you, our dear kinsman. The Father. (With much emotion.) I thank you—I thank you all! You are most kind, good, and charming people, and I am greatly beholden to you. True, hitherto I had felt a little doubtful concerning you; for I had thought that you, my dear sister, were too much taken up with yourself and your many estimable qualities; that you, my dear brother-in-law, were inclined to be a trifle pedantic; and, as regards the rest, that they cared less for myself than for what they could get to eat at my house. But now I see that I was wrong. I am very happy, not only because I have been granted a son who is like myself, but also, because the birth of this child has afforded me an opportunity of seeing here so many good people who love me. [There is general embracing.] The Daughter. What do you intend to call your son, dear Uncle? I should so like him to have a beautiful, poetic name I It makes so much difference what one calls a boy. Elderly Lady. I should like him to have a plain, sensible: name. People with beautiful, poetic names are always light-minded, and seldom get on in life. Her Husband. And I think, my dear brother-in-law, that you ought to give him the name of one of his elder relatives. It is a custom which tends to continue and strengthen family ties. The Father. Yes. But first my wife and I must think the matter over. We cannot come to a decision yet. So many new ideas and responsibilities arise with the advent of a baby! Elderly Lady. It is an event which imparts a great fulness to life. Her Husband. Yes, and also a great sense of purpose in life. For, as we educate a child—removing out of its path those obstacles over which we ourselves, in early days, have stumbled, and strengthening its mind with the aid of our own matured experience—we, as it were, construct a new and better replica of ourselves, and thus enable the race to move slowly, but surely, forward towards the ultimate goal of existence—towards perfection. The Father. You are quite right, most estimable brother-in-law. When I was a boy I used to torment dumb animals, and the practice bred in me cruelty: wherefore I shall never allow my son to be unkind to any living thing. Again, when I was grown up I fell into many, errors as regards the bestowal of my friendship and affections—I chose unworthy comrades, and loved deceitful women; but now I shall warn my son that—— [Enter the Doctor hurriedly.] The Doctor. Sir, your wife has taken a turn for the worse. You ought to go and see her at once. The Father. My God! [Exit with the Doctor, while the Relations seat themselves in a semicircle, and for a while preserve a solemn silence. Meanwhile the Being in Grey stands motionless as before, with his stony face turned towards the company,] Dialogue of the Relations. The Husband. My dear wife, do you not think that our sister-in-law is going to die? Elderly Lady. No, I do not. She was always a nervous, fidgety woman—a woman who made overmuch of her ailments. All of us have to go through childbed, and few of us die of it. Why, I myself have been through it six times! The Daughter. But she screamed so dreadfully, mother dear? And she grew quite black in the face with it? Elderly Lady. It was not with screaming; it was a mere nervous flush. You do not understand these things. I used to turn quite black in the face, though I never uttered a single scream. Not long ago the wife of an engineer of my acquaintance had a baby, and she never uttered a sound from start to finish. I know. My brother should not grow so alarmed, but keep himself in hand, and take a saner, cooler view of things. I am afraid he will bring much indulgence and absurdity to bear upon the education of this child. Yes. He is a man much too easily influenced. Though anything but rich, he gives away money to the most undeserving people. Do you know how much he paid for this child's layette? Do not speak of it! My brother's extravagance fairly sickens me! We have had many quarrels about it. They say it is a stork which brings the babies. What a funny stork it must be! [The young people laugh.] Oh, do not talk such nonsense. I myself have brought six babies into the world, and I am no stork. [The young people laugh still more unrestrainedly, despite the fact that the Elderly Lady is regarding them with a fixed and stony stare.] Really, you children ought to know that that is a mere fable. Babies are born quite naturally, and in a way which is perfectly familiar to science. They have moved to another flat now. Who have? That engineer and his wife of whom I was speaking. They found their old quarters too damp and cold. They made many complaints to the landlord, but he took no notice of them. In my opinion a small, but warm, flat is preferable to a large, but cold, one. A cold flat can so easily give one one's death of influenza or rheumatism! I know some people who are living in a terribly cold flat. And I too. What a number of cold flats there seem to be nowadays! Do you know, I have often wanted to hear of a good method for removing grease stains from light materials. Woollen materials? No, silken. Very well, then. Take a piece of clean glass, and rub the stains with it. Then, after plenty of friction, iron with a hot iron. Really? How simple! But I was told that turpentine is best? May we smoke now? Somehow I never felt a desire to smoke while we were waiting for the birth of that baby. We never had a chance to do so. How absurd! Of course one would not want to smoke at a funeral, but on such an occasion as this we really—— Smoking is a most pernicious habit. Both of you are young men, and ought to guard your health. There are so many occasions in after-life when health is everything. But tobacco gives one a stimulus? Believe me, it is a very unhealthy stimulus. I too used to smoke when I was young and foolish. Mamma, how the baby cries! How it does cry! Does it want milk? [The young people burst into renewed laughter, while the Elderly Lady regards them with a stern air of reproval.] CURTAIN. ACT II—LOVE AND POVERTY [The stage is in clear light, while the scene represents a large, lofty room with bare walls of a bright pink colour that is intersected, in places, with grey tracery fantastically designed. To the right are two curtainless casement windows through which the outer night shows darkly, while the furniture consists of a couple of bedsteads, two chairs, and a rough deal table, on the latter of which stands a broken water-jug, holding a bunch of wild flowers. In one corner (which is in deeper shadow than the rest of the apartment) stands the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is burnt away for a third of its length, yet its flame remains steady, bright, and tall, and throws the statuesque face of the Being into strong relief.] [Enter a group of Neighbours, dressed in holiday attire, and carrying in their hands flowers, wild grasses, and sprigs of oak and birch. They disperse themselves about the room, looking cheerful, kindly, simple, and solicitous as they do so.] Dialogue of the Neighbours. How poor they must be! See, they have not even a spare chair. Nor curtains to the windows! Nor pictures on the walls! Nor a morsel in their larder except some stale bread! Nor anything to drink but water—cold water from the well! Nor sufficient clothes to wear! For she is always to be seen in the same worn-out pink dress and frayed hair-riband—things only fit for a servant-girl to wear, and he is never to be seen in anything but an artist's blouse with turned-down collar—a garment which makes him look like a tramp, and sets all the dogs barking at him. Yes, so much so that respectable people are afraid of him. Dogs never like poor people. Yesterday I saw no fewer than three dogs flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his stick: "Do not you dare to tear my trousers! They are the only ones I have left!" All the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth at him, and growling most furiously. And only to-day I saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid passing him. "I think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well. So they crossed over—eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a tight hold upon their pockets. But he only tossed his head and laughed. Yes, he is always in good spirits. Both of them are like that—always merry. Yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband! It is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and handsome. All the same, I feel very, very sorry for them. At times they are almost starving. To think of it!—starving! Yes, too true. Once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now they have nothing at all left. Yes, I remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses; but now those dresses have had to go for bread. And he used to wear a fine frockcoat—the one in which he got married; but that too has had to go. In fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their wedding-rings. What poverty, to be sure! Oh, they do not care, they do not care! I too have been young, and know how one takes things at that age. What do you say, Grandfather? I say that they do not care, they do not care. See, it almost makes Grandfather sing, even to think of them! Yes, and dance too! [There is general laughter.] And her husband is so kindhearted! One day he made my little boy a bow-and- arrows. And when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as I did. And when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no time. What a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure! Yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours. Their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their lightheartedness to drive away our care. But this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare. Nay. Say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright! See the flowers on the table! She ha's been plucking them as she walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded hair-riband. Here are some May lilies, with the dew not dry upon them. And a bright red pineflower. And violets. And field grasses. Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch the flowers. She has imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the ground. She has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not mingle our breath with hers. Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch them. She means him to see them the moment he enters the room. Yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them. And to scent her dear breath in theirs. Come! We must go now, we must go now. But surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these charming young neighbours of ours? That would be a sorry thing to do! I have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk. And I some sweet, fresh herbs. If we strew; the floor with them it will look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring. And I some flowers. And we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. If we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant arbour. And my present is a fine cigar. It did not cost very much, but it is mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over. And I have brought her a new pink hair-riband. When she has bound up her hair with it she will look so neat and charming! It was given me by my sweetheart, but I have many ribands, whereas she has only one. And what have you brought with you, little girl? Surely you have brought some present for our good neighbours? No, nothing—nothing. At least, I have brought my cough with me, but they would not care for that, would they, neighbour? No, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. Ah, dear child, who would care for crutches? But you leave good wishes behind you, Grandfather, do you not? Yes, yes, my dear. And so, I know, do you. Now we must go, good neighbours, for it is getting late. [The Neighbours begin to leave the room—some of them yawning as they go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on crutches.] Yes, we must go now, we must go now. God grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly couple! Yes, God grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love: and may He see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring them evil luck! And may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread! [Exeunt all. [Enter the Man's Wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. At the same time, her face is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:] I have just returned from the town, where I have been looking for, I have been looking for—oh, I hardly know what I have been looking for. We are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. Indeed, we find it a struggle even to live. We need money, money; yet I know not where to get it. If I were to go out into the streets and beg I feel sure that no one would give me anything. No, every one would refuse me. And, moreover, I have not the courage to do it. I have tried hard to get work for my husband, but it is not to be got. Every one to whom I apply says that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. I have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery; but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than I, had found the treasure first. Oh, I am so unhappy! Soon my husband will be coming home—tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once more he will find that I have nothing for him but my poor kisses! And kisses will not feed a starving man. Oh, I am so unhappy that I could weep for ever! To me it is nothing to have to go hungry—indeed, I scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to feed, and requires more food. When he has had to go hungry a little while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! He takes to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what he has said. But I never mind; I love him too much for that. Oh, I am so unhappy! He is one of the cleverest architects in all the world. Indeed, I believe he is a veritable genius. Left, when quite an infant, to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. But, alas! his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. Yet still he continued his studies—maintaining himself the while by giving lessons, and often going hungry. Yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! Yet now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable, no one will accept them. Nay, some stupid people even laugh at them! To succeed in life one needs two things— influence and a lucky star: and he has neither. So he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance—any sort of a chance—to find work to do. It may even be that, like myself, he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind as well as in years. Of course, some day we shall succeed: but the question is, When will that be? Meanwhile life is very hard for us; for although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared, what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons. He is still sanguine of success, but I—well, sometimes I seem to lose all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. Even now my heart is aching to think that here is he coming home—only to find nothing for him but my poor kisses! [She rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees.] O Lord God, be unto us a kind and pitying Father. Thou hast so much to give of what we need—of bread, of work, of money. Thy earth is so rich, it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields—it covers its meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! Thy sun's rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of Thy stars there is so much pensive and peaceful joy! Give us, then, but a little of that bounty—but a little, but so much as Thou bestowest upon Thy birds: a little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise his handsome head once more. And, I beseech Thee, be not angry with him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be grave and sober. [She rises to her feet again.] There! Now that I have said a prayer I feel better—I begin to hope once more. Surely God must give occasionally when He is entreated so often? Now I will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery. [Exit. The Being in Grey. The woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. She knows not that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some designs submitted by the Man, and that finally they have decided to accept them. All this day those two noblemen have been seeking the Man in vain. Yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been seeking wealth. And early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to the Man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble chamber—bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. But, as yet, neither the Man nor his Wife knows of this, although good fortune is coming to the Man as surely as some day it will depart again. [Enter the Man and his Wife. The former has a proud, handsome head, brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows—the latter springing from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small, clearly defined wings attached to that member. His wavy black hair is flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft, white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat. Although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human being.] The Man. Once more nothing! Soon I shall have to take to lying in bed all day: so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to me, not I go to him. Yes, I will begin that mode of life to-morrow. His Wife. Are you so tired, then, my darling? The Man. Yes, tired and hungry; and though I could devour a whole ox, like one of Homer's heroes, I suppose I shall have to put up with a piece of dry bread! Yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the time his appetite craves to be sated—craves for something into which it can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled. His Wife. I am so sorry for you, my dearest one! The Man. As I am for you. Yet that makes me none the less ravenous. To-day I spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape at masterpieces of art, so did I gape at the fat pies and capons and sausages in the window. And oh, the signboard above them! Do you know, it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one could devour it, signboard and all. His Wife. Yes—I too could eat something. The Man. Of course. Who could not? But do you like lobsters? His Wife. I simply adore them! The Man. Then what a lobster I saw there! Though only a painted one, he was fairer even than the reality. Red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he looked fit for consecration. I believe I could eat two such cardinals, and a reverend father carp into the bargain. His Wife. (Sadly.) But you have not noticed my flowers? The Man. Flowers, flowers? Do you expect me to eat them! His Wife. Ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus! The Man. Forgive me, forgive me, but I am so hungry! See how my hand is trembling. I could not even throw a stone at a dog with it. His Wife. (Kissing his hand.) My poor darling! The Man. But what is this parcel on the table? It seems to send forth a most unctuous smell. Did you put it there? His Wife. No indeed! It must have been the neighbours. The Man. What dear, goodhearted folks! But it is strange to think that, for all the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! Why should that be?—Ah! Look there! His Wife. How you frighten me! How your eyes are staring! What is it you see? Surely it is something dreadful? The Man. Yes. Even as I jested there uprose before me—there, in that dark corner—the terrible figure of Starvation! Do you not see it now? Its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice of childish agony—a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted wilds —"Help me, or I die! Help me, or I die!"—and there is none to hear! Look, my wife, look! See how those dark shadows quiver and float, like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading down to the pit of hell! See! see! I am being drawn into them! His Wife. Oh, I am terrified! I dare not look into that corner!—But, nay, nay; 'twas only in the street you saw all this? The Man. Yes, it was only in the street; but soon I shall be seeing it in this room. His Wife. No, no! God would never permit it! The Man. But why not? Does He not permit it to happen to other people? His Wife. Yes; but we are better than they. We are good people, and have done no wrong. The Man. Think you so? Then remember all my cruel scoldings of you. His Wife. But you have never really been cruel to me. The Man. Yes, I have!—yes, many and many a time! Nor is that all; for no wild boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than I do as I wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we stand in such desperate need. Ah, how much money there is in the world that we have not got! Listen to me, little wife. This afternoon I was walking in the park—that beautiful park where the paths run straight as pistol-shots, and the beech- trees look like kings in crowns. His Wife. And I too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops everywhere—such beautiful shops! The Man. And people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing splendid clothes: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have none of these things!" His Wife. And I too was passed by rich people—by fine ladies in dainty boots which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, I have no smart hats and silken petticoats!" The Man. One dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but I just gave him a glimpse of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd. His Wife. And I too was jostled by a fine lady; yet I could not bring myself even to look at her, I felt so miserable! The Man. Also, I saw people riding in the park—riding fiery, spirited horses. Alas, I have none such! His Wife. One fine lady whom I met was wearing diamond earrings—earrings which I could