Chapter X: Act V: The Death of Man

(VARIANT)

[It was only after “The Life of Man” had been presented on the stage that I became convinced I had fallen into error—both as regards the form and also as regards the fundamental meaning of the play.

As for the form, I could be content to leave the play unchanged. Written in a period of doubts and fears, it might be allowed to stand as my first attempt at a neo-realistic drama. Sins against the fundamental meaning are, however, quite another matter.

Leaving it to others to judge how far I am right and how far I am wrong in my interpretation of the meaning of human life, I am bound, both for my own sake and for the purpose of greater consistency and clearness, to correct such defects in the play as either obscure its fundamental idea or present that idea in an incomplete and unfinished form.

In the fifth act, a variant of which I now offer, the most essential defect was the incorporation into the drama of a relatively incidental element, namely, the Drunkards, and the absence of so essential a group, and a group so important in life as the Heirs, who naturally complete the groups of Kinsmen, Friends, and Enemies of Man.

By introducing into the drama the barroom and the Drunkards I did not, of course, intend to imply that every man dies inevitably in a barroom. Nevertheless, several of my critics quite erroneously drew the following series of inferences: “I do not go to barrooms, consequently this is not true, consequently I shall never die, consequently what sort of a Life of Man is this?” But the loneliness of Man dying in misfortune, to suggest which these people, themselves so solitary and unfortunate, were introduced, may be indicated fully by the presence of the Heirs. While the Drunkards merely give Man an opportunity to die in solitude, the Heirs, on the other hand, with the natural pitilessness of all successors, not only urge him to die, but actually force death upon him. _Succession_ is an important element which I left out of consideration in my first picture of “The Death of Man.”

_Mercy_ was absent from my play, and this also seemed to many to be unjust. In the present version it is represented in the character of the Sister of Mercy, and although during the whole of the act she does not open her eyes once, yet her very presence bears witness to the fact that mercy really exists.

Reminding my readers, however, that justice is merely a new or as yet unexposed error, I bring to a close my explanations (perhaps superfluous) and submit this new version of “The Death of Man” to the kindly judgment of the reader.

AUTHOR.]

_The high, gloomy room in which the SON and the WIFE of MAN
died. On everything lies the stamp of ruin and death. The walls
are warped and threaten to fall. The corners are overspread
with cobwebs—regular, light-coloured circles inextricably
interlaced. From the sagging ceiling likewise hang dark-grey
clumps of abandoned spider-webs. The two tall windows have
been forced inward and are bent as though by the steady and
persistent pressure of the infinitude of darkness which
surrounds the house of MAN. Should the windows not hold
firm—should they fall inward—the darkness would pour into the
room and extinguish the feeble, dying light by which it is
illuminated._

_In the rear wall a zigzag stairway leads upward to the rooms
where once the ball was given. At the foot of the stairs the
warped, decayed steps can be seen, but farther upward they are
lost in a dense and frowning darkness. By this wall stands a
bed under a sagging, torn baldachin—the bed on which the WIFE
of MAN died._

_On the right is the dark opening of a large, cold,
long-disused fireplace, in which, in a great heap of grey,
dead ashes, can be seen a white sheet of partly burned paper,
apparently a design. Before the fireplace in an armchair MAN
sits motionless, dying. In his torn gown and unkempt grey hair
and beard one can see the complete abandonment and solitude of
death. Some little distance from MAN, in an armchair of the
same sort, sits a SISTER OF MERCY, fast asleep, a white cross
on her breast. During the whole act she does not once waken._

_About the dying man are seated the HEIRS, surrounding him
closely in a circle of eagerly outstretched faces. There
are seven of them, three women and four men. Their necks
are greedily stretched out toward MAN, their mouths are
half-opened, expressing avarice, and the fingers on their
uplifted hands are hooked stiffly like the claws of birds of
prey. Among them there are large, well-fed people, particularly
one gentleman, whose fat body welters formlessly upon the
chair; but, from the manner in which they sit and in which
they look at MAN, one can see that they have been hungry all
their lives, that all their lives they have been awaiting the
inheritance, and that apparently they are still hungry._

_In one corner the BEING IN GREY, with the candle nearly burned
out, stands motionless. The narrow, blue flame flutters, now
bending to one side and now reaching upward with a sharp
tongue, and throws livid spots of light on His stony face and
chin._

CONVERSATION OF THE HEIRS

_They speak in loud voices._

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping or not? Answer us.

We are your friends.

Your heirs.

Answer us.

_MAN is silent. The HEIRS change their voices to a loud
whisper._

He says nothing.

He doesn’t hear. He is deaf.

No, he is only pretending. He hates us, and he would be glad to drive us away, but he can’t. We are his heirs.

Every time we come he looks at us as if we had come to kill him. As if he were not dying of himself!

The fool!

That’s from old age. All people become fools in their old age.

No, it’s his greed. He would be glad to carry everything with him to the grave. He doesn’t know that man goes to the grave empty-handed.

Why do you so hate our dear kinsman?

Because he is slow in dying. [_Louder_] Old man, why don’t you die? You are spoiling our life. You are robbing us. Your clothes are torn and rotten, your house is tumbling down, your furniture is getting old and losing its value.

That is true, he is robbing us.

Sh! Why shout?

Old man, you are stripping us of our own.

But perhaps our dear kinsman hears us.

Let him hear. It is always good to hear the truth.

But perhaps he has still enough strength to make a will and deprive us of the inheritance.

Do you think so?

_They laugh affectedly. They speak softly with assumed
tenderness, but yet so loud that MAN can hear them._

Nonsense. He was always an intelligent man with a sense of humour, and he understands a joke perfectly well. Is it not true, my dear kinsman?

Of course we were joking.

We can wait any length of time; it is only that we are sorry for him. It’s so sad to sit day and night all alone before the empty fireplace. Is it not true, dear kinsman?

Why doesn’t he go to bed?

Oh, it is just a little whim. His wife died on this bed, and he will never allow any one to touch either the linen or the pillows.

But time has already touched them.

They smell of decay.

Everything here smells of decay. [_He sniffs._

Really, when you stop to reflect that in this fireplace he used to burn whole logs so wastefully——

Do you remember his ball? Our dear kinsman scattered his money so freely.

_Our_ money.

But do you remember how he petted his wife, that insignificant creature!

You had better add, “who deceived him.”

Sh!

Who had a dozen paramours.

Sh! Sh!

Who lived with a lackey, yes, with her own lackey. I myself once saw them making eyes at each other.

However, she is dead. Don’t slander the dead.

But it is so. I heard about it, too.

Poor deceived fool!

Do you see any adornments in his honoured grey hair?

Sh! Sh!

_With exclamations of_ “Silence!” “Silence!” _they interchange
glances and laugh slyly._

Man has no right to think only of himself. Considering how much he might have left and how little remains——

A mere pittance.

We must thank Providence even for what is left. Our honoured kinsman is so careless.

Just look at his gown. Isn’t it shameful to treat an expensive garment so?

Is it really so expensive? I cannot see from here what kind of cloth it is.

Approach him cautiously and feel of it. It is silk.

_One of the women goes up to dying MAN and, pretending that she
is straightening his pillow, feels of the cloth. All watch her
with curiosity._

Silk!

_By various gestures, the HEIRS express their disgust. MAN for
an instant rouses a little and feebly calls_: “Water!”

What does he say? Did he hear us? What does he want?

MAN. Water! In God’s name, water!

_He ceases speaking. Several of the HEIRS, frightened, look
here and there for water but do not find any. Voices in a tone
of irritation and alarm_:

Water!

He is asking for water.

Yes, give him some water.

There isn’t any water.

_They all turn toward the sleeping SISTER OF MERCY and cry
out, putting their hands to their mouths in the fashion of a
megaphone_:

Sister of Mercy!

Sister of Mercy!

Sister of Mercy!

We are speaking to you, Sister of Mercy! The sick man wants some water.

Shake her. What do they pay her for, if she sits there all the time asleep?

If you want a Sister of Mercy that won’t sleep, you must pay more. Can’t you understand?

She is very tired. The poor woman is overworked.

Let her sleep. It is a pity to disturb her when she is sleeping so soundly. Dear kinsman, can’t you wait a bit? The Sister is very tired and is sleeping.

_MAN does not answer, and they all sit down again on their
chairs in a semicircle. The feeble light which illuminates the
room slowly grows dimmer and darkness rises in the corners.
The darkness comes on heavily from somewhere above, down the
staircase. It spreads over the ceiling and clings sullenly to
every hollow in the walls._

He is quiet again. Poor man!

How dark it is! Do you not see how dark it is?

When I stop to think that he may sit thus before the fireplace for a long time yet—weeks, perhaps months—then I feel like seizing him by his thin neck and strangling him.

Begging your pardon, sir, although you appear to be very solicitous about the inheritance, I must remark that I don’t know who you are.

Neither do I. Neither do I.

You are simply a nobody—a man from the street! What right have you to the inheritance?

I am just as much an heir as you are.

No, sir, you are a scoundrel.

No, it is you who are a scoundrel.

Sh! Sh!

Drive him out! Away with him!

You are all scoundrels.

Sh! You will wake him up.

_Savagely showing their teeth, they threaten each other with
clinched fists._

Gentlemen, the light is going out. I can scarcely see your faces.

We must be going. Another day is wasted.

We must be going.

Well, I will remain. I am not going to leave. This is my house; mine, mine, mine!

The rats will eat you here.

[_In a fury_] This is my house; mine, mine, mine!

One seventh part, Mr. Heir-from-the-Street—at best one seventh part.

It is my house; mine!

Gentlemen, it is getting dark.

Good night, dear kinsman.

Good night, dear kinsman.

Good night, dear kinsman.

_One after another they go out, bowing low to MAN. Some of them
raise the limp hand of dying MAN as it lies on the arm of the
chair and gently press it. The HEIR-FROM-THE-STREET is left
alone. With a contemptuous glance at silent MAN and the SISTER
OF MERCY, he swiftly and with an angry expression examines the
room. He touches the walls, feels of the upholstering on the
chairs, and estimates with his eye that which he cannot reach
with his hand. He goes to the bed on which the WIFE of MAN died
and tests the firmness of the linen, but when the rotten cloth
tears in his fingers, the HEIR, furiously stamping his foot,
scatters the pillows and the sheets. Then he walks resolutely
up to the dying MAN and takes a position behind his back._

SPEECH OF THE HEIR

Listen, old Man. You ought to die. Why insult death by hanging back? Be off. Free living things from your dead hand. It lies on everything with leaden weight. Look! All things are waiting eagerly for your death: these falling walls, this spider-web and the spider imprisoned in its circles, this dark fireplace—it used to breathe upon you with its warmth, but now it is summoning your worn-out body to the chill of the grave. Begone! Where you are going you will meet those who loved you, both in youth and in old age, and those who were beloved by you.

_Silence._

Don’t you believe it?

[_He turns to the corner where the BEING IN GREY stands._

Ho, you! Tell him that his loved ones will meet him there, his son with the crushed head and his wife who died of sickness and grief.

_Silence._

You, too, are silent? And all is silent? So be it. But whatever may await you, begone from here. I, the living, drive you forth from life, and when you die I will bless you. I will lay wreaths upon your coffin, and on the spot where your body will decay I will erect a monument—if it is not too expensive. Begone!

_Silence. The HEIR again walks up and down the room, but the
melancholy of the place, the continually increasing darkness,
and the heavy silence frighten him. He moves anxiously about,
as if he had forgotten where the exit is, and speaks in a
hoarse voice._

Sister of Mercy, wake up! Sister! Where is the door—where is the door? Sister of Mercy!

_Silence. In various places almost simultaneously the OLD
WOMEN appear, and there follows a nimble, silent game very
entertaining to the OLD WOMEN. They block the exit of the HEIR;
they circle about the room and, thus noiselessly thrusting him
hither and thither, finally let him pass through to the door.
Raising his hands above his head with an expression of horror,
the HEIR runs out. Subdued laughter on the part of the OLD
WOMEN._

CONVERSATION OF THE OLD WOMEN

Good evening.

Good evening. What a glorious night!

Well, we are together again. How are you?

I have a cough.

_Subdued laughter._

It won’t be long now. He’ll soon die.

Look at the candle. The flame is blue and narrow and drooping toward the sides. The wax is already consumed—only the wick is left, and that will soon burn out.

It does not want to go out.

Did you ever see a flame that wanted to go out?

Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Whether the flame wants to go out or not, time is passing.

Time is passing.

Time is passing.

Do you recall his birth? Allow me to congratulate you, my dear kinsman, on the birth of your son.

Do you remember the rose-coloured dress and the naked throat?

And the flowers—the lilies-of-the-valley, on which the dew had not yet dried, and the violets, and the green grass?

Don’t touch them, girls. Don’t touch the flowers!

_They laugh._

Time is passing.

Time is passing.

_Laughter. One of the OLD WOMEN puts the bed in order._

What are you doing?

I am making the bed on which his wife died.

What’s the use of that? He’ll soon be dead.

Don’t bother me. I am making the bed on which his wife died.

How kind you are!

Now all is right. Now he can go.

When He permits him.

Now all is right; now all is right.

_Like a deep sigh there sweeps through the room a harmonious
but very sad and strange sound. Originating somewhere above, it
tremulously dies out in the dark corners. It is as though many
harp-strings were snapping one after another._

Sh! Do you hear it?

What’s that?

It’s up above where the ball was. That’s the music.

No, it’s the wind. I was there; I saw it, and I know it is the wind. The window-glass is broken and the wind is playing a chord over the sharp points of the glass.

It _is_ like music.

How cheerful it is up there! The guests are squatting in the darkness by the tattered walls. Oh, if you only knew how they look!

We know.

And with grinning teeth they bark abruptly: “How costly!” “How gorgeous!”

Surely you are joking!

Of course I am joking. You know how jolly I am.

How costly! How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

_Subdued laughter._

Remind him.

_They surround MAN, pressing close to him with gentle,
caressing movements. They fondle him with their bony hands.
They peer into his face and whisper slyly, probing the inmost
recesses of his old heart._

Do you remember?

How costly! How gorgeous!

Do you remember the music at your ball?

He will soon die.

The dancers circled about and the music played so tenderly, so beautifully. This is the way it went.

_With low voices they hum the air of the music which was played
at the ball._

Do you remember?

Let’s have a ball. It is so long since I have danced. Just imagine that this is a palace, a miraculously beautiful palace!

Do you remember? Hark, the singing violins pour forth their notes! Hear how tenderly the flute sings! Hear how——

_Strains of music, suddenly interrupting the speech of the OLD
WOMAN, begin to play in the room above, where the ball was
held. The sounds are loud and distinct. The OLD WOMEN listen
attentively._

Sh! Do you hear?

They are playing.

The musicians are playing.

_One of them cries out in a loud voice_: “Ho, musicians!
Hither!”

_The others echo her_: “Ho, musicians! Hither! Ho, musicians!
Hither!”

_The music above ceases, and almost at the same moment the
three musicians who played at the ball, issuing from the
darkness, descend the warped staircase. They come out to the
centre of the stage and stand in a row, as they stood before.
The one with the violin carefully spreads a handkerchief
over his shoulder, and all three begin to play with extreme
painstaking. The sounds, however, are tender, low, and sad, as
in a dream._

Now we have a ball! How costly! How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

Do you remember?

_Humming softly in time to the music, they begin to circle
about MAN, posturing and repeating with wild distortions the
movements of the girls in white robes who danced at the ball.
During the first musical phrase they circle about; during the
second they approach each other and then draw apart gracefully
and silently. They speak in loud whispers_:

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

_The dance becomes swifter and the movements more jerky.
Through the voices of the OLD WOMEN who are singing there
glides a strange, whimpering note; and the same strange
laughter, as yet subdued, runs through the dancers like a low
rustling. As they sweep past MAN they discharge, as it were,
into his ears abrupt whispers_:

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

How tender! How fine!

How restful to the soul!

Do you remember?

You will soon die! You will soon die! You will soon die——

Do you remember?

_The whirling dance becomes swifter and the movements still
more jerky. Suddenly all is silent and motionless. The
musicians are petrified with their instruments in their hands;
the dancing women stand motionless in the attitudes in which
the oncoming of silence found them._

_MAN rises. With staggering, unsteady steps he walks toward
the bed. One of the OLD WOMEN bars his way and whispers in his
face_:

Don’t lie on the bed; you will die there!

You will die there!

Beware of the bed!

_MAN pauses, helpless, and sadly begs_: “Help me, somebody! I
cannot reach the bed.” _Suddenly the scales fall from his eyes.
He sees the malicious OLD WOMEN watching and mischievously
sporting with death. He sees the ruin and darkness and
destruction that pervade everything about him. He sees as if
for the first time the stony face of the BEING IN GREY and
the candle slowly burning out. He raises his hand and the OLD
WOMEN give way before him. He throws back threateningly his
grey-haired, beautiful head, stands erect, and, preparing
for his last battle, he cries out in a challenging voice,
unexpectedly loud and full of grief and anger. In the first
brief expression one can still hear the feebleness of age,
but with each succeeding utterance the voice becomes more
youthful and stronger, and the candle, reflecting for a
moment the life that has returned, flames up high, red and
quavering, illuminating all about it with the sombre glow of a
conflagration._

MAN. Where is my armour-bearer? Where is my sword? Where is my shield? I am weaponless! Come quickly, quickly! Be accursed!

_He falls at the foot of the bed and dies. At the same instant
the flame of the candle with one last feeble flare goes out,
and deep gloom envelops all objects. It is as if the walls
and the windows that had formerly held back the darkness had
finally given way and the darkness had flooded everything
with a dense, black, triumphant wave. Only the face of MAN is
illumined. Low, indistinct conversation of the OLD WOMEN is
heard, together with whispering and interchanging of laughter._

BEING IN GREY. Silence! Man is dead.

_Profound silence. The same cold, indifferent voice repeats
the words from the far distance like an echo_: “Silence! Man
is dead.” _Profound silence. Slowly the gloom becomes denser,
though the mice-like figures of the OLD WOMEN watchers can
still be seen. Quietly and silently they begin to circle about
the corpse. Then they begin to hum in a low tone, and the
musicians start playing. The gloom becomes still more dense,
the music and singing louder and louder, and the wild dance
more unrestrained. They are no longer dancing but wildly
whirling about the corpse with stamping and shrieking and wild,
uninterrupted laughter. Complete darkness ensues. The face of
the dead is still illumined, but presently that also vanishes.
Black, impenetrable darkness._

_In the darkness one can hear the movements of the wild
dancers, the shrieking and laughter, and the discordant and
desperately loud sounds of the orchestra. On attaining their
highest pitch, all these sounds swiftly recede somewhere and
die away. Silence._

_Curtain._

THE SABINE WOMEN

A BIT OF ROMAN HISTORY

IN THREE ACTS