The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Ix Part 81

You must get to the windward of the stag.

[_Rises_.]

And now--make her happy--Robert--my Mary.

[_About to go_.]

ROBERT.

But what has all this to do with Mary?

FORESTER.

Why, you have not yet understood me? Look here! The stag must not have an inkling that you are very anxious about him; and much less a woman.

You make too much fuss about the women. Children must not know how dearly one loves them; anything but that! But women even less so. In reality, they are nothing but grown-up children, only more shrewd. And the children are already shrewd enough.--Sit down, Robert, I must tell you something.

[_They sit at the edge of the table, facing the audience_.]

When that Mary of mine was four years old--no taller than this--I once came home later than usual. "Where is Mary?" I ask. One child says: "In her room;" the other: "In front of the house. She'll be here pretty soon." But one guess was as far from the truth as the other. Evening comes, night comes--Mary does not appear. I go outside. In the garden, in the adjoining shrubbery, on the rocks of the dell, in the whole forest--not a trace of Mary. In the meantime my wife is looking for her at your house, then at every house in the village, but nowhere can she find a trace of Mary. Can it be possible that some one should have kidnapped her? Why, she was as beautiful as a wax-doll, my Mary. The whole night I never touched my bed. Even at that time Mary was everything to me. The next morning I alarm the entire village. Not a person fails to respond. All were pa.s.sionately fond of Mary. At least I wished to bury the corpse. In the dell, you know, the thicket of firs--under the cliffs where on the other side of the brook the old footpath runs high along the rocks-next to it the willows. This time I crawl through the whole thicket. In the midst of it is the small open meadows; there at last I see something red and white. Praised be heaven!

It is she--and neither dead nor ill, no, safe and sound in the green gra.s.s; and after her sleep her little cheeks were as red as peonies, Robert. But--

[_He looks about him and lowers his voice_.]

I hope she is not listening.

[_Draws closer to_ ROBERT; _whenever he forgets himself, he immediately lowers his voice_.]

I say: "Is it you, really?" "Of course," she says, and rubs her eyes so that they sparkle. "And you are alive," I say; "and did not die," I say, "of hunger and fear?" I say. "Half a day and a whole, night alone in the forest, in the very thickest of the forest! Come," I say, "that in the meantime mother may not die of anxiety," I say. Says she: "Wait a while, father." "But, why and for what?" "Till the child comes again," says she. "And let us take it with us, please, father. It is a dear child."

"But who, in all the world, is this child?" I ask. "The one that came to me," says she, "when I ran away from you a little while ago after the yellow b.u.t.terfly, and when all at once I was quite alone in the forest and wanted to cry and call after you, and who picked berries for me and played with me so nicely." "A little while ago?" I say. "Did not the night come since then?" I say. But she would not believe that. We looked for the child and--naturally did not find it. Men no longer have faith in anything, but I know what I know. Do you understand, Robert? Say nothing. It seems to me I were committing a sacrilege if I should say it right out. There, shake hands with me without saying anything. All right, Robert.--For heaven's sake, don't let her hear what we are saying about her.

[_Goes softly to the door; looks out_.] MARY (_outside_).

Do you want anything, father?

FORESTER (_nods secretly toward_ ROBERT, _then brusquely_).

Nothing. And don't you come in again before I--

[_Comes back; speaks just above a whisper_.]

Do you see? That's the way to treat her. You make far too much fuss about that girl. She is [_still more softly_] a girl that any father might be proud of, and I think she is going to be a wife after G.o.d's own heart. I have such a one. Do you see, I don't mind telling you, because I know you are not going to repeat it to her. For she must not know it; otherwise all my pains would go for nothing. And pains it certainly cost me till I got her so far; pains, I tell you. I advise you not to spoil my girl, whom I have gone to so much trouble to bring up properly.

ROBERT.

You may think,--but I don't understand you at all.

FORESTER.

There's just the rub! You don't do it purposely. But, confound it! Don't make such a fuss over the girl, do you hear? If you go on this way, she will have you in her pocket within a month. The women always want to rule; all their thoughts and aspirations tend to that end, without being themselves aware of it. And when they finally do rule, they are unhappy in spite of it; I know more than one instance of this. I only look inside the door, and I know for certain what sort of figure the man cuts. I only look at the cattle. If the dog or the cat is not well trained, neither are the children; and the wife still less. Hey? My wife does not yet know me as far as that here [_points to his heart_] is concerned. And if she should ever get hold of that secret--then good-by, authority! The wife may be an angel, but the man must act like a bear.

And especially a huntsman. That's part of the business, just as much as the moustache and the green coat.

ROBERT.

But could it not be possible that--

FORESTER (_eagerly_). No, Robert. Once and for all, no! There is no way out of it. Either he trains her, or she trains him.--For example; let me give you only one instance how to go about it. My wife cannot see any human being suffer; now the poor wretches come in troops, and I should like to know what is to come of it all, if I were to praise her to her face. Therefore I grumble and swear like a trooper, but at the same time I gradually withdraw, so that she has full liberty. And when I notice that she is through, then I come along again, as if by accident, and keep on grumbling and swearing. Then people say: "The Hereditary Forester is harder on the poor than the devil himself, but his wife and his girl, they are angels from heaven." And they say this so that I should hear it; and hear it I do. But I pretend not to notice it, and laugh in my sleeve; and to keep up appearances I bl.u.s.ter all the more.--It seems the guests are arriving. Robert, my wife, and my girl, my Mary--if I at some time--you understand me, Robert. Give me your hand. G.o.d is looking down on us.

[_Wipes his eyes_.]

The deuce! Confound it! Don't let the cat out of the bag to the women--and you rule her as it ought to be.

[_He turns around to hide his emotion, with gestures expressive of his vexation that he cannot control himself. At the door he encounters the following_]:

SCENE V

_The same_. STEIN; MoLLER; WILKENS; MARY; SOPHY. _They exchange greetings with the_ FORESTER.

STEIN.

What's your hurry, old man? Have you already had a row with him?

FORESTER.

Yes. I have given the young gentleman a lecture on the subject of women-folks.

STEIN.

High treason against the majesty of petticoat-government? And you permit that, madam?

SOPHY.

A little more, a little less--when one has to put up with so much!

FORESTER.

And now can anybody say that this woman is not clever enough to get one under her thumb. But let us have cards. I had to promise Stein that he should have his revenge today before lunch--

STEIN. Revenge I must have.

[_The_ FORESTER _and_ STEIN _sit down opposite each other on the right side of the stage and play cards_.]

SOPHY (_watches them a moment; then to_ ROBERT, _while going to and fro with an air of being very busy_).

I hope to heaven they are not going to discuss the clearing of the forest today.

MoLLER (_on the left side, stepping up to_ WILKENS _and pointing to_ MARY, _who is talking to her mother and_ ROBERT).