



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





Transcriber's Note:
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                           *   *   *   *   *

                       BOOKS BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
                  Published By CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


The Joy of Living (_Es Lebe das Leben_). A Play in Five Acts.
Translated from the German by Edith Wharton. _net_ $1.25

Roses. Four One-Act Plays. Translated from the German by Grace Frank.
_net_ $1.25

Morituri. Three One-Act Plays. Translated from the German by Archibald
Alexander. _net_ $1.25

                           *   *   *   *   *





                                 ROSES





                                 ROSES

                           FOUR ONE-ACT PLAYS

                    STREAKS OF LIGHT--THE LAST VISIT
                    --MARGOT--THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS


                                   BY

                           HERMANN SUDERMANN



                       TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
                                   BY
                              GRACE FRANK


                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
                 NEW YORK:::::::::::::::::::::::: 1909





                          Copyright, 1909, by
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
                       Published September, 1909





                                CONTENTS


      Streaks Of Light

      Margot

      The Last Visit

      The Far-away Princess





                                   I

                            STREAKS OF LIGHT

                           A PLAY IN ONE ACT




                               CHARACTERS

                        Julia.
                        Pierre.
                        Wittich.


                            The Present Day


_The action takes place at a small pavilion situated in the park
belonging to an old castle_.




                            STREAKS OF LIGHT

_An octagonal pavilion of the Rococo period, the three front walls of
which are cut off by the proscenium. Ceiling and walls are cracked and
spotted by rain, and bear the marks of long disuse. At the back, in the
centre, a large doorway. The glass door is thrown wide open; the
shutters behind are closed. On the right and left, in the oblique walls
of the room, are windows, the shutters of which are also closed.
Through the blinds at the door and the right window, sunbeams in
streaks of light penetrate the semi-darkness of the room._

_On the left, in the foreground, a Louis Sixteenth sofa with table and
gilded chairs to match. On the wall above, an old mirror. Near the
sofa, a tapestried doorway. A chandelier wrapped in a dusty gauze
covering is suspended from the ceiling. A four-post bed with hangings
of light net takes up the right side of the stage. In the foreground,
in front of the bed, a table with plates, glasses, wine-decanters, and
provisions on it. A coffee percolator stands under the table. In the
middle of the stage, a little to the right, a chaise-longue. At the
head of it, a small table. Between the large door and the windows,
dusty marble busts on dilapidated pedestals. Above them, on the walls,
a collection of various sorts of weapons. The Oriental rugs which are
thrown about the floor and over the chaise-longue contrast strangely
with the faded splendour of the past._

_The whole room is decorated with roses. On the table at the left is a
bronze vessel of antique design overflowing with roses. Garlands of
roses hang from the chandelier and encircle the bedposts. On the small
table near the chaise-longue, a large, flat dish, also filled with
roses. In fact wherever there is any place for these flowers, they have
been used in profusion._

_Part of the table which stands in front of the sofa is covered by a
napkin, upon which are seen a bottle of wine and the remains of a
luncheon for one. It is a sultry afternoon in midsummer._

Julia _lies on the chaise-longue, asleep. She is a beautiful woman,
about twenty-five years of age, intractable and passionate, with traces
of a bourgeois desire to be "romantic." She is dressed in white,
flowing draperies, fantastically arranged._

_A tower clock strikes four. Then the bells of the castle are heard
ringing. Both seem to be at a distance of about two hundred paces._

Pierre _enters cautiously through the tapestried doorway at the left.
He is a fashionably dressed, aristocratic young fellow who has been
petted and spoiled. He is effeminate, cowardly, arrogant, and is trying
to play the passionate man, although inwardly cold and nervous._

                                 Julia.

(_Laughs in her sleep. Her laughter dies out in groans._) Pierre!
Pierre! Help! Pierre!

                      Pierre (_bending over her_).

Yes, yes. What is it?

                                 Julia.

Nothing-- (_Laughs and goes on sleeping_).

                      Pierre (_straightening up_).

Whew How hot it is! (_He stares at_ Julia, _his face distorted by fear
and anger, and beats his forehead. Then indicating the outstretched
form of the woman._) Beautiful!--You beautiful animal--you! (_Kneels_.
Julia _holds out her arms to him, but he evades her embrace._) Stop!
Wake up!

                          Julia (_tearfully_).

Please let me sleep.

                                Pierre.

No! Wake up! I've only come for a moment. It's tea-time, and I have to
go back to the house.

                                 Julia.

Please stay!

                                Pierre.

No, mamma will be asking for me. I have to be there for tea.

                          Julia (_pettishly_).

I have a headache. I want some black coffee!

                                Pierre.

Then make it yourself. The gardener is cleaning the orchid rooms in the
hot-house, and he has no time for you now.

                                 Julia.

He never has time for me!--And the meals that his wife cooks are simply
abominable!--And the wine is always warm!--Do, for mercy's sake, steal
the key to the icehouse!

                                Pierre.

But you know that I can't!--I always bring you all the ice that I can
manage to take from the table. If I insist upon having the key, the
housekeeper will tell mamma.

                                 Julia.

But I won't drink warm wine--so there! That's what gives me these
headaches.

                                Pierre.

Your headaches, I want to tell you, come from the roses. Ugh!--this
nasty smell from the withered ones--sour--like stale tobacco
smoke--why, it burns the brains out of one's head!

                                 Julia.

See here, dearie, you let the roses alone! That was our agreement, you
know--basketsful, every morning! I wish the gardener would bring even
more! That's what he's bribed for.--More! More! Always more!

                                Pierre.

See here, if you were only reasonable----

                                 Julia.

But I'm not reasonable! O you--you-- (_She holds out her arms to him.
He comes to her. They kiss._) More!--More!--No end!--Ah, to die!----

                      Pierre (_freeing himself_).

Oh!

                                 Julia.

To die!

                     Pierre (_with hidden scorn_).

Yes--to die. (_Yawning nervously._) Pardon me!--It's as hot as an oven
in here.

                                 Julia.

And the shutters are always closed! For eight long days I've seen
nothing of the sun except these streaks of light. Do open the
shutters--just once!

                                Pierre.

For Heaven's sake!

                                 Julia.

Just for a second!

                                Pierre.

But don't you realize that the pavilion is locked and that not a soul
ever crosses the threshold?

                                 Julia.

Oh, yes, I know--because your lovely, reckless great-grandmother lost
her life here a hundred years ago! That's one of those old-wives' tales
that everyone knows.--Who can tell? Perhaps my fate will be the same as
hers.--But do open the shutters!

                                Pierre.

Do be reasonable! You know that in order to come in here by the side
door without being seen I have to crawl through the woods for a hundred
yards. The same performance twice a day--for a week! Now, if I should
open the shutters and one of the gardener's men should see it, why,
he'd come, and then----

                                 Julia.

Let him come! I'll smile at him--and he's no man if he doesn't keep
quiet after that! Why, your old gardener would cut his hand off
for me any day of his life--just for a bit of wheedling!--It can't be
helped--they all love me!

                           Pierre (_aside_).

Beast!

                                 Julia.

What were you muttering then? (Pierre _throws himself down before her
and weeps._) Pierre! Crying?--Oh!--Please don't--or I'll cry too. And
my head aches so!

            Pierre (_softly but nervously and with hatred_).

Do you know what I'd like to do? Strangle you!

                                 Julia.

Ha! Ha! Ha!--(_pityingly_) Dear me! Those soft fingers--so weak!--My
little boy has read in a naughty book that people strangle their
loves--and so he wants to do some strangling too!

                           Pierre (_rising_).

Well, what's to become of you? How much longer is the game to last in
this pavilion?

                                 Julia.

As long as the roses bloom--that was agreed, you know.

                                Pierre.

And then?

                                 Julia.

Bah! Then!--Why think of it? I'm here now, here under the protection of
your lovely, ghostly great-grandmother. No one suspects--no one dreams!
My husband is searching for me the whole world over!--That was a clever
notion of mine--writing him from Brussels--Nora, last act, last
scene--and then coming straight back again! I'll wager he's in Paris
now, sitting at the Cafe des Anglais, and looking up and down the
street--now toward the Place de l'Opera, now toward the Madeleine. Will
you wager? I'll go you anything you say. Well, go on, wager!

                                Pierre.

On anything else you wish--but not on that!

                                 Julia.

Why not?

                                Pierre.

Because your husband was at the castle this morning.

                       Julia (_rising hastily_).

My husband--was--at the castle----?

                                Pierre.

What's so surprising about that? He always used to come, you know--our
nearest neighbour--and all that sort of thing.

                                 Julia.

Did he have a reason for coming?

                                Pierre.

A special reason?--No.

                                 Julia.

Pierre--you're concealing something from me!

                         Pierre (_hesitating_).

Nothing that I know of. No.

                                 Julia.

Why didn't you come at once? And now--why have you waited to tell me?

                          Pierre (_sullenly_).

You're hearing it soon enough.

                                 Julia.

Pierre, what happened? Tell me, exactly!

                                Pierre.

Well, he came in the little runabout--without a groom--and asked for
mamma. I naturally pretended to be going out. But you know how she
always insists on my staying with her.

                                 Julia.

And how was he was he--just the same as ever?

                                Pierre.

Oh, no, I wouldn't say that.

                                 Julia.

How did he look? Tell me, tell me!

                                Pierre.

In the first place, he wore black gloves--like a gravedigger.

                                 Julia.

Ha! Ha! And what else?

                                Pierre.

In the second place, he was everlastingly twitching his legs.

                                 Julia.

And what else? What else?

                                Pierre.

Oh, he explained that you were at a Hungarian watering-place, that you
were improving, and that you were expected home soon. (Julia _bursts
out laughing._) Yes, (_gloomily_) it's screamingly funny, isn't it.

                                 Julia.

So I'm at a Hungarian watering-place! Ha! Ha! Ha!

                                Pierre.

But he looked at me so questioningly, so--so mournfully--why, it was
really most annoying the way he looked at me.

                                 Julia.

At a Hungarian watering-place!

                                Pierre.

And then, later, mamma said to him, "It's a dreadful pity your dear
wife isn't here just now. She does so love the roses."

                                 Julia.

And what did he say?

                                Pierre.

"Our roses are not thriving very well this year," said he.

                                 Julia.

But his turnips!--They always thrive!--And then----?

                                Pierre.

Then a strange thing occurred that I can't help worrying about.
Suddenly mamma said to him, "Something very peculiar is happening on
our estate this year. Now I can see from where I sit that the whole
place is one mass of roses. And yet, if at any time I ask for a few
more than usual, there are none to be had!"

                                 Julia.

Why, you must have been shaking in your boots! Did you do anything to
betray us?

                                Pierre.

Oh, I think I know how to take care of myself!--But suddenly he grew
absolutely rigid--as if--as if he had been reflecting. He acted like a
man who sleeps with his eyes open. Mamma asked him a question three
times, and he never answered a word!

                                 Julia.

I say, did you come here to frighten me?

                        Pierre (_bursting out_).

What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my
biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man
inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots.
When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are
you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me
when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's
daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't
like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands
clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to
myself.

                                 Julia.

Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this
case, you or I?

                                Pierre.

How long have you been concerned about your conscience?

                                 Julia.

Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.

                                Pierre.

But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with
every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath
your notice!

                                 Julia.

And he was better than you!--For he wanted nothing more than to follow
me with his eyes. But you, Pierre, you were not so easily satisfied.
No, the young Count was more exacting. Corrupt to the core--in spite of
his twenty years----

                          Pierre (_proudly_).

I am not a bit corrupt. I am a dreamer. My twenty years excuse that!

                                 Julia.

But your dreams are poisonous. You want a woman to be your mistress and
yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate
as yourself.--And what have you learned from your experience in the
world? Nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie
hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit
to oneself.--And when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with
your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed
individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--Ah! You
knew better than I that we all have the Scarlet Woman's blood in our
veins!--Blow away the halo--and the saint is gone!

                                Pierre.

It seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin!

                                 Julia.

Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it,
too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March
than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The
weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And
you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to
bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of
roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian,
that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of
the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors
spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that
had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it
with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you
Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for
me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please!

                                Pierre.

But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma.

                                 Julia.

Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you
something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid
of me--only you don't know how!

                                Pierre.

Your notions are offensive, my dear.

                                 Julia.

Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not
yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the
fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses
bloom--here, where _he_ can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I
shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists
of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two
iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him!

                      Pierre (_half to himself_).

Why do you say that to me?

                                 Julia.

He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in
April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had
the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal!
Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come
afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation, I'll give you up to
him!----

                                Pierre.

Are you mad?

                                 Julia.

I'll write him a letter something like this: "If you want to find the
traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's
pavilion. Search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night
after night, Pierre and I celebrated our union. Search the highway for
the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. Then search
the dregs of the brothels where I found a refuge. And then--then avenge
me!"

                                Pierre.

You'll do nothing of the kind, you-- (_Seizes her by the wrists._)

                          Julia (_laughing_).

Nonsense! You have no strength! (_Disengages herself without
difficulty._)

                                Pierre.

You've taken it out of me, you beast!

                                 Julia.

Beast?--You've been muttering that word now for a couple of days. This
is the first time that you have flung it in my face.--What have I done
that was bestial except to throw my young life at your feet?--And so
this is the end of our rose-fete?----

         Pierre (_in a low voice, breathing with difficulty_).

No, not yet--the end is still to come!

                                 Julia.

I dare say.

                                Pierre.

In fact--you must--leave here.

                                 Julia.

I dare say.

                                Pierre.

Do you understand?--You must leave this place--at once!

                                 Julia.

H'm--just so.

                                Pierre.

For--you must know--you are no longer safe here.

                        Julia (_turning pale_).

Not here either?--Not even here?----

                                Pierre.

I didn't tell you everything, before.

                                 Julia.

Are you up to some new trick now?

                                Pierre.

After I had accompanied him down the steps, he asked--very suddenly--to
see the park.

                                 Julia.

The park----?

                                Pierre.

Yes. And he seemed to be searching every rose-bush as if to count
the number of blossoms that had been cut from it. Then--in the linden
lane--I kept pushing to the left--he kept pushing to the right,
straight for the pavilion. And as it stood before us----

                          Julia (_terrified_).

The pavilion?

                                Pierre.

Certainly.

                         Julia (_shuddering_).

So near!

                                Pierre.

He said he'd like to see the old thing once, from the inside.

                                 Julia.

Good heavens! But he knows that's impossible--he knows your family
history!

                                Pierre.

And you may be sure that's how I put it to him.

                                 Julia.

And what did he----?

                                Pierre.

He was silent--and went back.

                                 Julia.

Went back! But he'll return!----


                                Pierre.

You've dumped me into a pretty mess, you have!

                                 Julia.

Do, for goodness' sake, stop pitying yourself, and tell me what's to be
done.

                                Pierre.

Haven't I told you?

                                 Julia.

I'll not go away! I will not go away! He can't come in here! I will not
leave this place!

                                Pierre.

Listen! I'll have a carriage here--at one o'clock in the night--behind
the park wall. Take it as far as the station.--Listen, I tell you!

                                 Julia.

No, no, no! As soon as I step into the street, I'm lost. And you, too!
You don't know him! Gentle and tractable as he seems, when once he's
angry, his blood boils over!--If I hadn't taken the cartridges out of
his revolver in those days, he-- Why, I've seen him pick up two
unmanageable boys on our place and swing them over his shoulder into
the mill stream! And they would have been ground to pieces, too, if he
hadn't braced himself against the shaft. Pierre, Pierre, never get into
his way again. He's merciless!

                   Pierre (_feigning indifference_).

Oh, nonsense! I can hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces! I'll show
him!

                                 Julia.

Yes, you'll "show him"! Do you suppose that he's going to wait until
you take a shot at him?--Devilish much he cares about your duels! He'd
make a clod of earth out of you before you'd have time to take off your
hat!--I tell you, bolt the gate, lock every room in the house, hide
behind your mother's chair,--and even there you won't be safe from him!

                                Pierre.

(_Struggling against his growing apprehension._) If that's the case,
then--h'm, then the best thing for me to do is to disappear for a time.

                   Julia (_trying to cling to him_).

Yes, let's go away together!

                        Pierre (_moving aside_).

That might suit you.

                                 Julia.

But, after all, it would do no good. We could hide among crowds of
people--in Piccadilly or in Batignolles--we could go to India or to
Texas--and yet, if he took it into his head, he would find us none the
less. Even if we should evade him--some day, sooner or later, you would
have to return--and then--you would have to pay the penalty!

                         Pierre (_stammering_).

I--would--have to----

                           Julia (_wildly_).

So stay--stay here! Go and shoot him down!--at night--from behind!--It
doesn't matter! Only--let--me--breathe--again.

                                Pierre.

Do you want to drive me mad? Don't you see that I'm trembling all over?

                                 Julia.

Because you're a cad and a coward--because----

                                Pierre.

Yes, yes--anything, for all I care! But go! Leave my property! Insult
me, spit on me,--but go!

                                 Julia.

And what then? What then?

                                Pierre.

Can't you write to him? Tell him that you have come back from your
little journey--that you have reconsidered--that you can't live without
him. Tell him to forget--and all shall be as it was before.--Now,
wouldn't that be splendid?

                                 Julia.

Now when he suspects?--When he can follow me, step by step, here to
this pavilion and back again? (_Contemptuously._) Splendid!

                                Pierre.

Then try something else!--Oh, now I have it! Now I have it!

                                 Julia.

Speak, Pierre, for God's sake, speak! I'll love you as--! Speak! Speak!

                                Pierre.

You know him. His heart is soft?

                                 Julia.

Yes, except when he's in a rage, then----

                                Pierre.

And you are sure that he loves you deeply?

                                 Julia.

If he didn't love me so much, what need we fear?

                                Pierre.

Good! Well then, take a carriage at the station and drive home; throw
yourself at his feet and tell him everything. Tell him, for all I care,
that you hate me--that you loathe me--I don't mind--grovel before him
until he raises you. And then all will be well!

                                 Julia.

Ah, if it were possible!--It would be deliverance--it would be heaven!
I should be safe once more--a human being!--I should see the sun again,
instead of these streaks of light!--I should breathe the fresh air,
instead of this musty odour of dead roses!--I shouldn't have to sink
down, down into the filth!--I shouldn't have to be a bad woman--even if
I am one!--There would be a respectable divorce--or perhaps merely a
separation. For, I no longer dare hope to live with him as his wife,
even if I were satisfied to be no better than his dog for the rest of
my days!--Ah, but it cannot be! It cannot be! You don't know him. You
don't know what he's like when the veins stand out on his forehead!--He
would kill me!--Rather than that--kill me yourself!--Here--now--this
moment!--Get your duelling pistols. Oh no! There--there--there are
plenty of weapons! (_She pulls at the weapons on the wall, several of
which fall clattering upon the floor._) Swords--daggers--here! (_Throws
an armful on the chaise-longue._) They are rusty--but that doesn't
matter.--Take one! Stab me first--then--do as you please!--Live if you
can--do!--live as happily as you can! Your life is in your hands.

                                Pierre.

Yes--I dare say. Live!--But how? Where? (_Sobs chokingly._)

                                 Julia.

Come, then--we'll die together--together! (_They sink into each other's
arms and remain motionless in mute despair. After a time_, Julia
_raises her head cautiously and looks about her._) Pierre!

                          Pierre (_troubled_).

Well?

                                 Julia.

Has it occurred to you? Perhaps it isn't so, after all!

                                Pierre.

What do you mean?

                                 Julia.

Perhaps we've just been talking ourselves into this notion, little by
little--think so?

                                Pierre.

You mean that he really wanted to do nothing but--look at the pavilion?

                                 Julia.

Well, it's possible, you know.

                                Pierre.

Yes--at least nothing very unusual occurred.

                                 Julia.

But your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. Ha! Ha!
What a silly little boy it is! A downright stupid little boy!

                                Pierre.

My imagination was always rather easily aroused. I----

                 Julia (_laughing without restraint_).

Such a stupid boy!--Pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh?

                                Pierre.

But you know--I have to----

                                 Julia.

Dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. Tell her you sat down in the
shade--and fell asleep--anything! It's growing a bit shady here now.
See there! The streaks of light have gone. (_Indicates a corner of the
room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim._) Ah! but how
hot it is! (_Tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily._)
Will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy?

                         Pierre (_listlessly_).

Oh, well--all right. (_Carries the coffee-pot to the table._)

                                 Julia.

Pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? No one
would look into the shrubbery.

                                Pierre.

Well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here.

                                 Julia.

Oh, just try it--won't you?

                                Pierre.

Well, you'll see! (_Opens the door at the left._)

                                 Julia.

Whew! It's like a blast from a furnace! And that disgusting odour--a
mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh!

                                Pierre.

That's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great
heaps.

                                 Julia.

Close the door! Hurry--close it!

                          Pierre (_does so_).

I told you how it would be!

                                 Julia.

Well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that
we'd get more fresh air in here.

                                Pierre.

Even that would be dangerous. If some one happened to be looking this
way and saw the movement----

                      Julia (_going to the door_).

One has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (_She starts, uttering a low
cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as
if she were warding off a ghost._)

                                Pierre.

What's the matter?

                                 Julia.

Sh! Sh! (_Approaches him cautiously, then softly._) There's a man--out
there.

                                Pierre.

Where?

                                 Julia.

Hush! Come here you can see it against the light. (_They cautiously
change places_. Pierre _utters a low shriek, then_ Julia, _softly,
despairingly_) Pierre!

                                Pierre.

It must be the gardener.

                                 Julia.

It's not--the--gardener.

                                Pierre.

Who is it then?

                                 Julia.

Creep around--and lock--the glass door.

                      Pierre (_weak from fright_).

I can't.

                                 Julia.

Then I will. (_She has taken but a few steps toward the door when the
streaks of light again become visible._) He's gone now!

                                Pierre.

How--gone?

                                 Julia.

There--there--nothing----

                                Pierre.

Seize the opportunity--and go.

                                 Julia.

Where?

                                Pierre.

To the gardener's house--quick--before he comes back.

                                 Julia.

In broad daylight--half dressed as I am?

                                Pierre.

Throw on a wrap--anything--hurry! (_Knocking at the door on the left.
They both stand rooted to the spot. The knocking is repeated. Then_
Pierre, _in a choking voice_) Come in.

(Wittich _enters. He is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole
appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from
his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his
face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. He staggers
heavily in walking. He speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he
gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is
making an intense effort to hold himself together._)

                                Wittich.

I beg your pardon if I am disturbing you. (_Both stare at him without
venturing to move._)

                        Pierre (_taking heart_).

Oh--p-p-please----

                                Wittich.

I see you were about to make coffee. Really--I don't want to----

                         Pierre (_stammering_).

P-p-please--th-there's no--hurry----

                                Wittich.

Well, then we may as well--settle--our affair--first. (Julia, _who has
been standing quite still, panting, utters a low groan. At the sound of
her voice_, Wittich _catches his breath as if suffocating, then sinks
into one of the chairs at the left and stares vacantly at the floor._)

              Pierre (_edging up to_ Julia _then softly_).

Can you understand this?

               Julia (_glancing back--aside to_ Pierre).

Keep near the weapons!

                     Pierre (_as_ Wittich _moves_).

Hush!

                                Wittich.

You must forgive me--I only wanted to--look after--my--wife. (_Breaks
down again._)

                       Pierre (_aside to_ Julia).

Why, he's quite out of his mind!

                                 Julia.

Keep near the weapons!

                                Wittich.

I don't care--to settle--this matter--by means of a--so-called--affair
of honour. I'm a plain man. I only know about such things from hearsay.
And any way--I don't see that they help--m-matters much. (_Breaks into
tearless sobs._)

                           Pierre (_aside_).

He won't hurt us.

                         Julia (_st