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The Road to Damascus: A Trilogy, a play by August Strindberg |
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Part 1 - Act 1 - Scene 1. Street Corner |
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_ PART I ACT I SCENE I. STREET CORNER [Street Corner with a seat under a tree; the side-door of a small Gothic Church nearby; also a post office and a cafe with chairs outside it. Both post office and cafe are shut. A funeral march is heard off, growing louder sand then fainter. A STRANGER is standing on the edge of the pavement and seems uncertain which way to go. A church clock strikes: first the four quarters and then the hour. It is three o'clock. A LADY enters and greets the STRANGER. She is about to pass him, but stops.] STRANGER. It's you! I almost knew you'd come. LADY. You wanted me: I felt it. But why are you waiting here? STRANGER. I don't know. I must wait somewhere. LADY. Who are you waiting for? STRANGER. I wish I could tell you! For forty years I've been waiting for something: I believe they call it happiness; or the end of unhappiness. (Pause.) There's that terrible music again. Listen! But don't go, I beg you. I'll feel afraid, if you do. LADY. We met yesterday for the first time; and talked for four hours. You roused my sympathy, but you mustn't abuse my kindness on that account. STRANGER. I know that well enough. But I beg you not to leave me. I'm a stranger here, without friends; and my few acquaintances seem more like enemies. LADY. You have enemies everywhere. You're lonely everywhere. Why did you leave your wife and children? STRANGER. I wish I knew. I wish I knew why I still live; why I'm here now; where I should go and what I should do! Do you believe that the living can be damned already? LADY. No. STRANGER. Look at me. LADY. Hasn't life brought you a single pleasure? STRANGER. Not one! If at any time I thought so, it was merely a trap to tempt me to prolong my miseries. If ripe fruit fell into my hand, it was poisoned or rotten at the core. LADY. What is your religion--if you'll forgive the question? STRANGER. Only this: that when I can bear things no longer, I shall go. LADY. Where? STRANGER. Into annihilation. If I don't hold life in my hand, at least I hold death.... It gives me an amazing feeling of power. LADY. You're playing with death! STRANGER. As I've played with life. (Pause.) I was a writer. But in spite of my melancholy temperament I've never been able to take anything seriously--not even my worst troubles. Sometimes I even doubt whether life itself has had any more reality than my books. (A De Profundis is heard from the funeral procession.) They're coming back. Why must they process up and down these streets? LADY. Do you fear them? STRANGER. They annoy me. The place might be bewitched. No, it's not death I fear, but solitude; for then one's not alone. I don't know who's there, I or another, but in solitude one's not alone. The air grows heavy and seems to engender invisible beings, who have life and whose presence can be felt. LADY. You've noticed that? STRANGER. For some time I've noticed a great deal; but not as I used to. Once I merely saw objects and events, forms and colours, whilst now I perceive ideas and meanings. Life, that once had no meaning, has begun to have one. Now I discern intention where I used to see nothing but chance. (Pause.) When I met you yesterday it struck me you'd been sent across my path, either to save me, or destroy me. LADY. Why should I destroy you? STRANGER. Because it may be your destiny. LADY. No such idea ever crossed my mind; it was largely sympathy I felt for you.... Never, in all my life, have I met anyone like you. I have only to look at you for the tears to start to my eyes. Tell me, what have you on your conscience? Have you done something wrong, that's never been discovered or punished? STRANGER. You may well ask! No, I've no more sins on my conscience than other free men. Except this: I determined that life should never make a fool of me. LADY. You must let yourself be fooled, more or less, to live at all. STRANGER. That would seem a kind of duty; but one I wanted to get out of. (Pause.) I've another secret. It's whispered in the family that I'm a changeling. LADY. What's that? STRANGER. A child substituted by the elves for the baby that was born. LADY. Do you believe in such things? STRANGER. No. But, as a parable, there's something to be said for it. (Pause.) As a child I was always crying and didn't seem to take to life in this world. I hated my parents, as they hated me. I brooked no constraint, no conventions, no laws, and my longing was for the woods and the sea. LADY. Did you ever see visions? STRANGER. Never. But I've often thought that two beings were guiding my destiny. One offers me all I desire; but the other's ever at hand to bespatter the gifts with filth, so that they're useless to me and I can't touch them. It's true that life has given me all I asked of it--but everything's turned out worthless to me. LADY. You've had everything and yet are not content? STRANGER. That is the curse.... LADY. Don't say that! But why haven't you desired things that transcend this life, that can never be sullied? STRANGER. Because I doubt if there is a beyond. LADY. But the elves? STRANGER. Are merely a fairy story. (Pointing to a seat.) Shall we sit down? LADY. Yes. Who are you waiting for? STRANGER. Really, for the post office to open. There's a letter for me--it's been forwarded on but hasn't reached me. (They sit down.) But tell me something of yourself now. (The Lady takes up her crochet work.) LADY. There's nothing to tell. STRANGER. Strangely enough, I should prefer to think of you like that. Impersonal, nameless--I only do know one of your names. I'd like to christen you myself--let me see, what ought you to be called? I've got it. Eve! (With a gesture towards the wings.) Trumpets! (The funeral march is heard again.) There it is again! Now I must invent your age, for I don't know how old you are. From now on you are thirty-four--so you were born in sixty-four. (Pause.) Now your character, for I don't know that either. I shall give you a good character, your voice reminds me of my mother--I mean the idea of a mother, for my mother never caressed me, though I can remember her striking me. You see, I was brought up in hate! An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. You see this scar on my forehead? That comes from a blow my brother gave me with an axe, after I'd struck him with a stone. I never went to my father's funeral, because he turned me out of the house when my sister married. I was born out of wedlock, when my family were bankrupt and in mourning for an uncle who had taken his life. Now you know my family! That's the stock I come from. Once I narrowly escaped fourteen years' hard labour--so I've every reason to thank the elves, though I can't be altogether pleased with what they've done. LADY. I like to hear you talk. But don't speak of the elves: it makes me sad. STRANGER. Frankly, I don't believe in them; yet they're always making themselves felt. Are these elves the souls of the unhappy, who still await redemption? If so, I am the child of an evil spirit. Once I believed I was near redemption--through a woman. But no mistake could have been greater: I was plunged into the seventh hell. LADY. You must be unhappy. But this won't go on always. STRANGER. Do you think church bells and Holy Water could comfort me? I've tried them; they only made things worse. I felt like the Devil when he sees the sign of the cross. (Pause.) Let's talk about you now. LADY. There's no need. (Pause.) Have you been blamed for misusing your gifts? STRANGER. I've been blamed for everything. In the town I lived in no one was so hated as I. Lonely I came in and lonely I went out. If I entered a public place people avoided me. If I wanted to rent a room, it would be let. The priests laid a ban on me from the pulpit, teachers from their desks and parents in their homes. The church committee wanted to take my children from me. Then I blasphemously shook my fist... at heaven! LADY. Why did they hate you so? STRANGER. How should I know! Yet I do! I couldn't endure to see men suffer. So I kept on saying, and writing, too: free yourselves, I will help you. And to the poor I said: do not let the rich exploit you. And to the women: do not allow yourselves to be enslaved by the men. And--worst of all--to the children: do not obey your parents, if they are unjust. What followed was impossible to foresee. I found that everyone was against me: rich and poor, men and women, parents and children. And then came sickness and poverty, beggary and shame, divorce, law-suits, exile, solitude, and now.... Tell me, do you think me mad? LADY. No. STRANGER. You must be the only one. But I'm all the more grateful. LADY (rising). I must leave you now. STRANGER. You, too? LADY. And you mustn't stay here. STRANGER. Where should I go? LADY. Home. To your work. STRANGER. But I'm no worker. I'm a writer. LADY. I know. But I didn't want to hurt you. Creative power is something given you, that can also taken away. See you don't forfeit yours. STRANGER. Where are you going? LADY. Only to a shop. STRANGER (after a pause). Tell me, are you a believer? LADY. I am nothing. STRANGER. All the better: you have a future. How I wish I were your old blind father, whom you could lead to the market place to sing for his bread. My tragedy is I cannot grow old that's what happens to children of the elves, they have big heads and never only cry. I wish I were someone's dog. I could follow him and never be alone again. I'd get a meal sometimes, a kick now and then, a pat perhaps, a blow often.... LADY. Now I must go. Good-bye. (She goes out.) STRANGER (absent-mindedly). Good-bye. (He remains on the seat. He takes off his hat and wipes his forehead. Then he draws on the ground with his stick. A BEGGAR enters. He has a strange look and is collecting objects from the gutter.) White are you picking up, beggar? BEGGAR. Why call me that? I'm no beggar. Have I asked you for anything? STRANGER. I beg your pardon. It's so hard to judge men from appearances. BEGGAR. That's true. For instance, can you guess who I am? STRANGER. I don't intend to try. It doesn't interest me. BEGGAR. No one can know that in advance. Interest commonly comes afterwards--when it's too late. Virtus post nummos! STRANGER. What? Do beggars know Latin? BEGGAR. You see, you're interested already. Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci. I have always succeeded in everything I've undertaken, because I've never attempted anything. I should like to call myself Polycrates, who found the gold ring in the fish's stomach. Life has given me all I asked of it. But I never asked anything; I grew tired of success and threw the ring away. Yet, now I've grown old I regret it. I search for it in the gutters; but as the search takes time, in default of my gold ring I don't disdain a few cigar stumps.... STRANGER. I don't know whether this beggar's cynical or mad. BEGGAR. I don't know either. STRANGER. Do you know who I am? BEGGAR. No. And it doesn't interest me. STRANGER. Well, interest commonly comes afterwards.... You see you tempt me to take the words out of your mouth. And that's the same thing as picking up other people's cigars. BEGGAR. So you won't follow my example? STRANGER. What's that scar on your forehead? BEGGAR. I got it from a near relation. STRANGER. Now you frighten me! Are you real? May I touch you? (He touches his arm.) There's no doubt of it.... Would you deign to accept a small coin in return for a promise to seek Polycrates' ring in another part of the town? (He hands him a coin.) Post nummos virtus.... Another echo. You must go at once. BEGGAR. I will. But you've given me far too much. I'll return three-quarters of it. Now we owe one another nothing but friendship. STRANGER. Friendship! Am I a friend of yours? BEGGAR. Well, I am of yours. When one's alone in the world one can't be particular. STRANGER. Then let me tell you you forget yourself... BEGGAR. Only too pleased! But when we meet again I'll have a word of welcome for you. (Exit.) STRANGER (sitting down again and drawing in the dust with his stick). Sunday afternoon! A long, dank, sad time, after the usual Sunday dinner of roast beef, cabbage and watery potatoes. Now the older people are testing, the younger playing chess and smoking. The servants have gone to church and the shops are shut. This frightful afternoon, this day of rest, when there's nothing to engage the soul, when it's as hard to meet a friend as to get into a wine shop. (The LADY comes back again, she is noun wearing a flower at her breast.) Strange! I can't speak without being contradicted at once! LADY. So you're still here? STRANGER. Whether I sit here, or elsewhere, and write in the sand doesn't seem to me to matter--as long so I write in the sand. LADY. What are you writing? May I see? STRANGER. I think you'll find: Eve 1864.... No, don't step on it. LADY. What happens then? STRANGER. A disaster for you... and for me. LADY. You know that? STRANGER. Yes, and more. That the Christmas rose you're wearing is a mandragora. Its symbolical meaning is malice and calumny; but it was once used in medicine for the healing of madness. Will you give it me? LADY (hesitating). As medicine? STRANGER. Of course. (Pause.) Have you read my books? LADY. You know I have. And that it's you I have to thank for giving me freedom and a belief in human rights and human dignity. STRANGER. Then you haven't read the recent ones? LADY. No. And if they're not like the earlier ones I don't want to. STRANGER. Then promise never to open another book of mine. LADY. Let me think that over. Very well, I promise. STRANGER. Good! But see you keep your promise. Remember what happened to Bluebeard's wife when curiosity tempted her into the forbidden chamber.... LADY. You see, already you make demands like those of a Bluebeard. What you don't see, or have long since forgotten, is that I'm married, and that my husband's a doctor, and that he admires your work. So that his house is open to you, if you wish to be made welcome there. STRANGER. I've done all I can to forget it. I've expunged it from my memory so that it no longer has any reality for me. LADY. If that's so, will you come home with me to-night? STRANGER. No. Will you come with me? LADY. Where? STRANGER. Anywhere! I have no home, only a trunk. Money I sometimes have--though not often. It's the one thing life has capriciously refused me, perhaps because I never desired it intensely enough. (The LADY shakes her head.) Well? What are you thinking? LADY. I'm surprised I'm not angry with you. But you're not serious. STRANGER. Whether I am or not's all one to me. Ah! There's the organ! It won't be long now before the drink shops open. LADY. Is it true _you_ drink? STRANGER. Yes. A great deal! Wine makes my soul from her prison, up into the firmament, where she what has never yet been seen, and hears what men never yet heard.... LADY. And the day after? STRANGER. I have the most delightful scruples of conscience! I experience the purifying emotions of guilt and repentance. I enjoy the sufferings of the body, whilst my soul hovers like smoke about my head. It is as if one were suspended between Life and Death, when the spirit feels that she has already opened her pinions and could fly aloft, if she would. LADY. Come into the church for a moment. You'll hear no sermon, only the beautiful music of vespers. STRANGER. No. Not into church! It depresses me because I feel I don't belong there.... That I'm an unhappy soul and that it's as impossible for me to re-enter as to become a child again. LADY. You feel all that... already? STRANGER. Yes. I've got that far. I feel as if I lay hacked in pieces and were being slowly melted in Medea's cauldron. Either I shall be sent to the soap-boilers, or arise renewed from my own dripping! It depends on Medea's skill! LADY. That sounds like the word of an oracle. We must see if you can't become a child again. STRANGER. We should have to start with the cradle; and this time with the right child. LADY. Exactly! Wait here for me whilst I go into the church. If the cafe were open I'd ask you please not to drink. But luckily it's shut. (The LADY exits. The STRANGER sits down again and draws in the sand. Enter six funeral attendants in brown with some mourners. One of them carries a banner with the insignia of the Carpenters, draped in brown crepe; another a large axe decorated with spruce, a third a cushion with a chairman's mallet. They stop outside the cafe and wait.) STRANGER. Excuse me, whose funeral have you been attending? FIRST MOURNER. A house-breaker's. (He imitates the ticking of a clock.) STRANGER. A real house-breaker? Or the insect sort, that lodges in the woodwork and goes 'tick-tick'? FIRST MOURNER. Both--but mainly the insect sort. What do they call them? STRANGER (to himself). He wants to fool me into saying the death-watch beetle. So I won't. You mean a burglar? SECOND MOURNER. No. (The clock is again heard ticking.) STRANGER. Are you trying to frighten me? Or does the dead man work miracles? In that case I'd better explain that my nerves are good, and that I don't believe in miracles. But I do find it strange that the mourners wear brown. Why not black? It's cheap and suitable. THIRD MOURNER. To us, in our simplicity, it looks black; but if Your Honour wishes it, it shall look brown to you. STRANGER. A queer company! They give me an uneasy feeling I'd like to ascribe to the wine I drank yesterday. If I were to ask if that were spruce, you'd probably say--well what? FIRST MOURNER. Vine leaves. STRANGER. I thought it would not be spruce! The cafe's opening, at last! (The Cafe opens, the STRANGER sits at a table and is served with wine. The MOURNERS sit at the other tables.) They must have been glad to be rid of him, if the mourners start drinking as soon as the funeral's over. FIRST MOURNER. He was a good-for-nothing, who couldn't take life seriously. STRANGER. And who probably drank? SECOND MOURNER. Yes. THIRD MOURNER. And let others support his wife and children. STRANGER. He shouldn't have done so. Is that why his friends speak so well of him now? Please don't shake my table when I'm drinking. SECOND MOURNER. When I'm drinking, I don't mind. STRANGER. Well, I do. There's a great difference between us! (The MOURNERS whisper together. The BEGGAR comes back.) Here's the beggar again! BEGGAR (sitting down at a table). Wine. Moselle! LANDLORD (consulting a police last). I can't serve you: you've not paid your taxes. Here's your name, age and profession, and the decision of the court. BEGGAR. Omnia serviliter pro dominatione! I'm a free man with a university education. I refused to pay taxes because I didn't want to become a member of parliament. Moselle! LANDLORD. You'll get free transport to the poor house, if you don't get out. STRANGER. Couldn't you gentlemen settle this somewhere else. You're disturbing your patrons. LANDLORD. You can witness I'm in the right. STRANGER. No. The whole thing's too distressing. Even without paying taxes he has the right to enjoy life's small pleasures. LANDLORD. So you're the kind who'd absolve vagabonds from their duties? STRANGER. This is too much! I'd have you know that I'm a famous man. (The LANDLORD and MOURNERS laugh.) LANDLORD. Infamous, probably! Let me look at the police list, and see if the description tallies: thirty-eight, brown hair, moustache, blue eyes; no settled employment, means unknown; married, but has deserted his wife and children; well known for revolutionary views on social questions: gives impression he is not in full possession of his faculties.... It fits! STRANGER (rising, pale and taken aback). What? LANDLORD. Yes. It fits all right. BEGGAR. Perhaps he's on the list. And not me! LANDLORD. It looks like it. In any case, both of you had better clear out. BEGGAR (to the STRANGER). Shall we? STRANGER. We? This begins to look like a conspiracy. (The church bells are heard. The sun comes out and illuminates the coloured rose window above the church door, which is now opened, disclosing the interior. The organ is heard and the choir singing Ave Maris Stella.) LADY (coming from the church). Where are you? What are you doing? Why did you call me? Must you hang on a woman's skirts like a child? STRANGER. I'm afraid now. Things are happening that have no natural explanation. LADY. But you were afraid of nothing. Not even death! STRANGER. Death... no. But of something else, the unknown. LADY. Listen. Give me your hand. You're ill, I'll take you to a doctor. Come! STRANGER. If you like. But tell me: is this carnival, or... reality? LADY. It's real enough. STRANGER. This beggar must be a wretched fellow. Is it true he resembles me? LADY. He will, if you go on drinking. Now go to the post office and get your letter. And then come with me. STRANGER. No, I won't. It'll only be about lawsuits. LADY. If not? STRANGER. Malicious gossip. LADY. Well, do as you wish. No one can escape his fate. At this moment I feel a higher power is sitting in judgment on us and has made a decision. STRANGER. You feel that, too! I heard the hammer fall just now; and the chairs being pushed back. The clerk's being sent to find me! Oh, the suspense! No, I can't follow you. LADY. Tell me, what have you done to me? In the church I found I couldn't pray. A light on the altar was extinguished and an icy wind blew in my face when I heard you call me. STRANGER. I didn't call you. But I wanted you. LADY. You're not as weak as you pretend. You have great strength; and I'm afraid of you.... STRANGER. When I'm alone I've no strength at all; but if I can find a single companion I grow strong. I shall be strong now; and so I'll follow you. LADY. Perhaps you can free me from the werewolf. STRANGER. Who's he? LADY. That's what I call him. STRANGER. Count on me. Killing dragons, freeing princesses, defeating werewolves--that is Life! LADY. Then come, my liberator! (She draws her veil over her face, kisses him on the mouth and hurries out. The STRANGER stands where he is for a moment, surprised and stunned. A loud chord sung by women's voices, rather like a cry, is heard from the church. The rose window suddenly grows dark and the tree above the seat is shaken by the wind. The MOURNERS rise and look at the sky, as if they could see something terrifying. The STRANGER hurries out after the LADY.) _ |
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