DON GONZALO. Wait, Juanito, wait.
DOnA LAURA [_aside_]. There is no doubt. It is he.
DON GONZALO [_walks toward left. Aside_]. There can be no mistake. It is she.
[_Dona Laura and Don Gonzalo wave farewells to each other from a distance._]
DOnA LAURA. Merciful heavens! This is Gonzalo.
DON GONZALO. And to think that this is Laura.
[_Before disappearing they give one last smiling look at each other._]
[_Curtain._]
THE CREDITOR
A PLAY
BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
PERSONS
THELKA.
ADOLF [_her husband, a painter_].
GUSTAV [_her divorced husband_].
TWO LADIES, A WAITER.
THE CREDITOR
A PLAY BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
[SCENE: _A small watering-place. Time, the present. Stage directions with reference to the actors._
_A drawing-room in a watering-place; furnished as above._
_Door in the middle, with a view out on the sea; side doors right and left; by the side door on the left the b.u.t.ton of an electric bell; on the right of the door in the center a table, with a decanter of water and a gla.s.s. On the left of the door in the center a what-not; on the right a fireplace in front; on the right a round table and arm-chair; on the left a sofa, a square table, a settee; on the table a small pedestal with a draped figure--papers, books, arm-chairs. Only the items of furniture which are introduced into the action are referred to in the above plan. The rest of the scenery remains unaffected. It is summer, and the day-time._]
SCENE I.
[_Adolf sits on the settee on the left of the square table; his stick is propped up near him._]
ADOLF. And it"s you I"ve got to thank for all this.
GUSTAV [_walks up and down on the right, smoking a cigar_]. Oh, nonsense.
ADOLF. Indeed, I have. Why, the first day after my wife went away, I lay on my sofa like a cripple and gave myself up to my depression; it was as though she had taken my crutches, and I couldn"t move from the spot. A few days went by, and I cheered up and began to pull myself together.
The delirious nightmares which my brain had produced, went away. My head became cooler and cooler. A thought which I once had came to the surface again. My desire to work, my impulse to create, woke up. My eye got back again its capacity for sound sharp observation. You came, old man.
GUSTAV. Yes, you were in pretty low water, old man, when I came across you, and you went about on crutches. Of course, that doesn"t prove that it was simply my presence that helped so much to your recovery: you needed quiet, and you wanted masculine companionship.
ADOLF. You"re right in that, as you are in everything else you say. I used to have it in the old days. But after my marriage it seemed unnecessary. I was satisfied with the friend of my heart whom I had chosen. All the same I soon got into fresh sets, and made many new acquaintances. But then my wife got jealous. She wanted to have me quite to herself; but much worse than that, my friends wanted to have her quite to themselves--and so I was left out in the cold with my jealousy.
GUSTAV. You were predisposed to this illness, you know that.
[_He pa.s.ses on the left behind the square table and comes to Adolf"s left._]
ADOLF. I was afraid of losing her--and tried to prevent it. Are you surprised at it? I was never afraid for a moment that she"d be unfaithful to me.
GUSTAV. What husband ever was afraid?
ADOLF. Strange, isn"t it? All I troubled about was simply this--about friends getting influence over her and so being able indirectly to acquire power over me--and I couldn"t bear that at all.
GUSTAV. So you and your wife didn"t have quite identical views?
ADOLF. I"ve told you so much, you may as well know everything---my wife is an independent character. [_Gustav laughs._] What are you laughing at, old man?
GUSTAV. Go on, go on. She"s an independent character, is she?
ADOLF. She won"t take anything from me.
GUSTAV. But she does from everybody else?
ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Yes. And I"ve felt about all this, that the only reason why my views were so awfully repugnant to her, was because they were mine, not because they appeared absurd on their intrinsic merits. For it often happened that she"d trot out my old ideas, and champion them with gusto as her own. Why, it even came about that one of my friends gave her ideas which he had borrowed direct from me. She found them delightful; she found everything delightful that didn"t come from me.
GUSTAV. In other words, you"re not truly happy.
ADOLF. Oh yes, I am. The woman whom I desired is mine, and I never wished for any other.
GUSTAV. Do you never wish to be free either?
ADOLF. I wouldn"t like to go quite so far as that. Of course the thought crops up now and again, how calmly I should be able to live if I were free--but she scarcely leaves me before I immediately long for her again, as though she were my arm, my leg. Strange. When I"m alone I sometimes feel as though she didn"t have any real self of her own, as though she were a part of my ego, a piece out of my inside, that stole away all my will, all my _joie de vivre_. Why, my very marrow itself, to use an anatomical expression, is situated in her; that"s what it seems like.
GUSTAV. Viewing the matter broadly, that seems quite plausible.
ADOLF. Nonsense. An independent person like she is, with such a tremendous lot of personal views, and when I met her, what was I then?
Nothing. An artistic child which she brought up.
GUSTAV. But afterwards you developed her intellect and educated her, didn"t you?