The Baroness (rushing to him with a shriek). Clara!
Curtain.
ACT IV
(SCENE.--A room in GRAN"s house; the same as in Act I, Scene II. GRAN is standing at his desk on the right. FLINK comes in carrying a pistol-case, which he puts down upon the table.)
Gran. You?
Flink. As you see. (Walks up and down for a little without speaking.)
Gran. I haven"t seen you since the day the King was here.
Flink. No.--Have you taken your holidays?
Gran. Yes; but, anyway, I am likely to have perpetual holidays now! The elections are going against us.
Flink (walking about). So I hear. The clerical party and the reactionaries are winning.
Gran. That would not have been so, but for her unhappy death--. (Breaks off, and sighs.)
Flink. A judgment from heaven--that is what the parsons say, and the women, and the reactionaries--
Gran.--and the landlords. And they really believe it.
Flink (stopping). Well, don"t you believe it?
Gran (after a pause). At all events I interpret it differently from--
Flink.--from the parson? Naturally. But can any one doubt the fact that it was the finger of fate?
Gran. Then fate a.s.sumed her father"s shape?
Flink. Whether her father appeared to her at the moment of his death or not (shrugs his shoulders) is a matter in which I am not interested.
I don"t believe in such things. But that she was suffering pangs of conscience, I do believe. I believe it may have brought painful visions before her eyes.
Gran. I knew her pretty well, and I will answer for it she had no guilty conscience. She was approaching her task with enthusiasm. Any one that knew her will tell you the same. With her the King was first and foremost.
Flink. What did she die of, then? Of enthusiasm?
Gran. Of being overwrought by the force of her emotions. Her task was too great for her. The time was not ripe for it. (Sadly.) Our experiment was bound to fail.
Flink. You condemn it when you say that!--But with her last breath she called out: "My father!" And, just at that moment, he died, fifty miles away from her. Either she _saw_ him, or she _imagined_ she saw him, standing before her. But his bloodstained, maltreated, crippled form standing in the way of her criminal advance towards the throne--is that not a symbol of maltreated humanity revolting against monarchy at the very moment when monarchy wishes to atone! Its guilt through thousands of years is too black. Fate is inflexible.
Gran. But with what result? Are we rid of monarchy yet?
Flink. We are rid of that treacherous attempt to reconcile it with modern conditions. Thank G.o.d it emerges, hand in glove with the parsons and reactionaries, none the worse for its temporary eclipse.
Gran. So everything is all right, I suppose?
Flink. For the moment--yes. But there used to exist here a strong republican party, which enjoyed universal respect, and was making extraordinary progress. Where is it now?
Gran. I knew that was why you came.
Flink. I have come to call you to account.
Gran. If I had been in your place I would not have acted so, towards a defeated and wounded friend.
Flink. The republican party has often been defeated--but never despised till now. Who is to blame for that?
Gran. None of us ever think we deserve contempt.
Flink. A traitor always deserves it.
Gran. It is but a step from the present state of things to a republic; and we shall have to take that step in the end.
Flink. But at least we can do so without treachery.
Gran. I honestly believe that what we did was right. It may have miscarried the first time, and may miscarry a second and a third; but it is the only possible solution.
Flink. You p.r.o.nounced your doom in those words.
Gran (more attentively). What do you mean by that?
Flink. We must make sure that such an attempt will not be made again.
Gran. So that is it.--I begin to understand you now.
Flink. The republican party is broken up. For a generation it will be annihilated by contempt. But a community without a republican party must be one without ideals and without any aspirations towards truth in its political life--and in other respects as well! That is what you are responsible for.
Gran. You pay me too great a compliment.
Flink. By no means! Your reputation, your personal qualities and a.s.sociations are what have seduced them.
Gran. Listen to me for a moment! You used to overrate me in the hopes you had of me. You are overrating me now in your censure. You are overrating the effects of our failure--you never seem to be able to do anything but overshoot your mark. For that reason you are a danger to your friends. You lure them on. When things go well you lure them on to excess of activity; when things go ill, you turn their despondency into despair. Your inordinate enthusiasm obscures your wits. _You_ are not called upon to sit in judgment upon any one; because you draw the pure truths that lie hidden in your soul into such a frenzied vortex of strife that you lose sight of them; and then they have so little of truth left in them that in your hands they can be answerable for crimes.
Flink. Oh, spare me your dialectics!--because any skill you have in them, _I_ taught you! You cannot excuse your own sins by running over the list of mine; that is the only answer I have to make to you! I don"t stand before you as the embodiment of truth; I am no braggart. No; but simply as one who has loved you deeply and now is as deeply offended by you, I ask this question of your conscience: What have you done with the love we had for one another? Where is the sacred cause we both used to uphold? Where is our honour--our friends--our future?
Gran. I feel respect for your sorrow. Can you not feel any for mine? Or do you suppose that I am not suffering?
Flink. You cannot act as you have done without bringing unhappiness upon yourself. But there are others to be considered besides you, and we have the right to call you to account. Answer me!
Gran. And is it really you--you, my old friend--that propose to do that?
Flink. G.o.d knows I would sooner some one else did it! But none can do it so fitly as I--because no one else has loved you as I have. I expected too much of you, you say? The only thing I wanted of you was that you should be faithful! I had so often been disappointed; but in you and your quiet strength I thought I had splendid security that, as long as you lived, our cause would bear itself proudly and confidently. It was your prestige that brought it into being; your wealth that supported it.
It did not cry aloud for the blood of martyrs!--You were the happiness of my life; my soul renewed its strength from yours.