Sexton. That wouldn't be a bad thing, perhaps.

Wife. I'll see if there is any water around.

Sexton. Don't think you'll find any in this kind of a hole.

Wife. But you can't drink beer if you have a fever.

Sexton. Do you know, I think the fever has passed away. Now I'm feeling cold.

Wife. I'll see if I can't find some small beer.

Sexton. It has to be pretty strong, I think, if it's to do any good. There's a keg of Rostock No. 4 over there—marked A. W., don't you see?

Wife (searching). I can't find it. Here's an Amsterdam No. 3.

Sexton. Can't you see—up there on the fourth shelf at the right? (His wife continues to look.) The tap is lying to the left of it, right by the funnel.

Wife. I don't think it's there.

Sexton. Just as if I didn't know!

Wife. Yes, here it is.

(The Sexton gets up to help his wile and accidentally steps on Windrank.)

Windrank (waking up). Mercy! Jesu Christ! St. Peter and St. Paul! Ferdinand and Isabella, and St. George and the Dragon, and all the rest! And ires dire glories in excellence, and deuces tecum vademecum Christ Jesu, and birds of a feather, and now I lay me down to sleep, and a child is born for you to keep—Amen! Amen!—Who's stepping on my windbag?

Sexton (frightened). Will you please tell me whether you are a man or a ghost?

Windrank. Man most of the time, but just now I'm a beast.

Sexton. What kind of a man, if I may ask?

Windrank. A shipman—which is nor reason why you should blow all the wind out of me.

Sexton. But that's my business, you know—I blow the bellows of the big organ.

Windrank. So it was the organ-blower who honored me—

Sexton. The sexton, to put it right; but I also keep an old-clothes shop in the church wall.

Windrank. So you're organ-blower, sexton, and shopkeeper—

Sexton. In one person—without confusion or transformation—

Windrank. That's a most respectable trinity.

Sexton. Such things should not be made fun of!

Windrank. Oh, my, my! I'm drowning! Help!

Sexton. Lord, what is it?

Windrank. There's a whole river coming—Ugh!

Sexton. Catherine dear! Where are you, my angel? (He runs to look for her.) Jesu, but you must have scared my wife out of her wits. She has run away from the keg—and taken the tap along! Get up—up with you, and let us leave this godless hole!

Windrank. No, my dear fellow, I'm in my element now, so I think I'll stay.

Sexton. Goodness, the clock is striking twelve, and the ghosts will be coming!

Windrank (jumping to his feet). That's a different story! (The Sexton guides Windrank toward the door.) Listen, sexton—I'm beginning to have strong doubts about the trinity.

Sexton. Well, I declare!

Windrank. It's your trinity I'm thinking of.

Sexton. What do you mean, master skipper?

Windrank. I think there must be four of you, after all.

Sexton. Four—of whom?

Windrank. How about the tapster? Shouldn't he be counted, too?

Sexton. Hush, man! That's only nights.

(Both stumble over the broken image of St. Nicolaus and fall down.)

Windrank. Mercy! Ghosts! Jesu Maria, help!

Sexton (rising and picking up the image). Well, if that isn't enough to make your hair stand on end! Here's St. Nicolaus broken all to pieces and swimming in the beer. It has come to a fine pass when divine things are defiled like that—I don't think the world will last much longer—when such things can be done in the dry tree—

Windrank (having recovered). In the wet one, you mean.

Sexton. Keep still, blasphemer! St. Nicolaus is my patron saint. I was born on his day.

Windrank. That's probably why both of you like beer.

Sexton. Yes, it's in the fashion now to be heretical!

Windrank. It's in the air, I think, for otherwise I'm a most God-fearing man. But never mind, I'll have St. Nicolaus glued together for you.

Sexton (calling into the church). Catherine!

Windrank. Hush, hush, man! You'll make the ghosts appear!

Sexton. A plague on your tongue! [Exeunt.]

SCENE 3

(The Sacristy of the Church of St. Nicolaus. There is a door leading to the church, and another, smaller one, leading to the pulpit. The walls are hung with chasubles and surplices. Priedieus and a few small chests are standing about. The sunlight is pouring in through a window. The church bells are heard ringing. Through the wall at the left can be heard a constant murmuring. The Sexton and his Wife enter, stop near the door, and pray silently.)

Sexton. That's enough! Now, Catherine dear, you'd better hurry up and do some dusting.

Wife. Oh, there's no special occasion. It's nobody but that Master Olof who's going to preach to-day. Really, I can't see why the Chapter allows it.

Sexton. Because he's got permission from the King, you see.

Wife. Well, well!

Sexton. And then he has had a sort of basket built out from the wall—nothing but new-fangled tricks! It's all on account of that man Luther.

Wife. I suppose we'll have the same kind of trouble that we had yesterday. I thought they were going to pull the whole church down.

Sexton (carrying a glass of water up to the pulpit). I'm sure the poor fellow will need something to wet his whistle to-day.

Wife. Well, I shouldn't bother, if I were you.

Sexton (speaking from the pulpit). Catherine—here he comes!

Wife. Goodness gracious, and the sermon bell hasn't rung yet! Well, I suppose they won't ring it for a fellow like him.

[Enter Olof, looking serious and solemn. He crosses to one of the prie-dieus and kneels on it. The Sexton comes down from the pulpit and takes from the wall a surplice which he holds out to Olof.]

Olof (rising). The peace of the Lord be with you!

[The Wife curtseys and leaves the room. The Sexton holds out the vestment again.]

Olof. Leave it hanging!

Sexton. Don't you want any robe?

Olof. No.

Sexton. But it's always used. And the handkerchief?

Olof. Never mind.

Sexton. Well, I declare!

Olof. Will you please leave me alone, my friend?

Sexton. You want me to get out? But as a rule, I—

Olof. Do me the favor, please!

Sexton. Oh, well! Of course! But first I want to tell you that you'll find the missal to the right of you as you get up, and I have put in a stick so you'll know where to open it, and there is a glass of water beside the book. And you mustn't forget to turn the hour-glass, or it may chance you'll keep it up a little too long—

Olof. Don't worry! There will be plenty of people to tell me when to quit.

Sexton. Mercy, yes—beg your pardon! But you see, we've got our own customs here.

Olof. Tell me, what is that depressing murmur we hear?

Sexton. It's some pious brother saying prayers for a poor soul. [Exit.]

Olof. "Thou therefore gird up thy loins and arise, and speak unto them all that I command thee."—God help me! (He drops on his knees at a prie-dieu; there he finds a note, which he reads.) "Don't preach to-day; your life is in danger."—The Tempter himself wrote that! (He tears the note to pieces.)

[Enter Olof's Mother.]

Mother. You are straying from the right path, my son.

Olof. Who knows?

Mother. I know! But as your mother I reach out my hand to you. Turn back!

Olof. Where would you lead me?

Mother. To godliness and virtue.

Olof. If godliness and virtue are vested in papal decrees, then I fear it is too late.

Mother. It isn't only a question of what you teach, but of how you live.

Olof. I know you are thinking of my company last night, but I am too proud to answer you. Nor do I think it would do any good.

Mother. Oh, that I should be thus rewarded for the sacrifice I made when I let you go out into the world and study!

Olof. By heaven, your sacrifice shall not be wasted! It is you, mother, I have to thank for this day when at last I can stand forth with a free countenance and speak the words of truth.

Mother. How can you talk of truth, you who have made yourself a prophet of lies?

Olof. Those are hard words, mother!

Mother. Or perhaps I and my forbears have lived and worshipped and died in a lie?

Olof. It wasn't a lie, but it has become one. When you were young, mother, you were right, and when I grow old—well, perhaps I may find myself in the wrong. One cannot keep apace with the times.

Mother. I don't understand!

Olof. This is my one sorrow—the greatest one of my life: that all I do and say with the purest purpose must appear to you a crime and sacrilege.

Mother. I know what you mean to do, Olof—I know what error you have fallen into—and I cannot hope to persuade you out of it, for you know so much more than I do, and I am sure that the Lord will put you on the right path again—but I ask you to take care of your own life, so that you won't plunge headlong into perdition! Don't risk your life!

Olof. What do you mean? They won't kill me in the pulpit, will they?

Mother. Haven't you heard that Bishop Brask wants the Pope to introduce the law that sends all heretics to the stake?

Olof. The inquisition?

Mother. Yes, that's what they call it.

Olof. Leave me, mother! To-day I must stand up and preach.

Mother. You shall not do it.

Olof. Nothing can prevent me.

Mother. I have prayed to God that He would touch your heart—I'll tell you, but you mustn't speak of it to anybody. I am weak with age, and I couldn't trust my own knees, so I went to see a servant of the Lord and asked him, who is nearer to God, to say some prayers for your soul. He refused because you are under the ban. Oh, it's dreadful! May the Lord forgive me my sin! I bribed the pure conscience of that man with gold—with the Devil's own gold—just to save you!

Olof. Mother, what do I hear? It can't be possible!

Mother (takes Olof by the hand and leads him over to the left, close to the wall). Listen! Do you hear? He is praying for you now in the chapel next to this room.

Olof. So that was the murmur I heard! Who is he?

Mother. You know him—Brother Marten, of the Dominicans—

Olof. You get Satan to say prayers for me!—Forgive me, mother—I thank you for your good intention, but—

Mother (on her knees, weeping). Olof! Olof!

Olof. Don't ask me! A mother's plea might tempt the angels of heaven to recant!—Now the hymn is ended: I must go! The people are waiting.

Mother. You'll send me into my grave, Olof!

Olof (passionately). The Lord will resurrect you! (Kissing her hand.) Don't talk to me any more—I don't know what I am saying!

Mother. Listen! Listen! The people are muttering!

Olof. I'm coming! I'm coming! He who protected Daniel in the lions' den will also protect me!

(Olof ascends the stairs leading to the pulpit. Throughout the ensuing scenes a man's voice can be heard speaking with great power, but no words can be distinguished. After a while mutterings are heard, which change into loud cries.)

[Enter Christine.]

Christine. Mother, did you see him?

Mother. Are you here, child? I asked you to stay at home!

Christine. Why shouldn't I visit the house of the Lord? There is something you hide from me!

Mother. Go home, Christine!

Christine. May I not hear Olof preach? It's the word of God, isn't it, mother? (The Mother remains silent.) You don't answer? What does it mean? Hasn't Olof permission to preach? Why do the people out there look so mysterious? They were muttering when I came.

Mother. Don't ask me! Go home and thank God for your ignorance!

Christine. Am I a child, then, since nobody dares to tell me—

Mother. Your soul is still pure, and nobody must defile it. What place is there for you in the battle?

Christine. Battle? I thought so!

Mother. Yes, here the battle rages, and so you must get out of the way. You know our lot when the men go to war.

Christine. But let me first know what it is all about. Not to know anything at all makes me so unhappy. I see nothing but a dreadful darkness, and shadows that are moving about—Give me light, so that I may see clearly! Perhaps I know these ghostly shallows?

Mother. You will shudder when you see who they are.

Christine. It is better to shudder than to be tormented by this horrible calm.

Mother. Don't pray for the cloud to flash forth lightning: it may destroy you!

Christine. You frighten me! But tell me the truth—I must know—or I shall ask some one else.

Mother. Are you firm in your decision to withdraw within the sacred walls of the convent?

Christine. My father wishes it.

Mother. You hesitate? (Christine does not answer.) There is some tie that holds you back.

Christine. You know?

Mother. I know, and tell you to break it!

Christine. It will soon be impossible.

Mother. I will save you, child, for you can still be saved. I will offer the Lord the greatest sacrifice of all if a single soul can be saved from perdition—my son!

Christine. Olof?

Mother. He's lost, I tell you, and I, his mother, have to tell you so!

Christine. Lost?

Mother. He is a prophet of lies. The Devil has taken possession of his soul.

Christine (passionately). It isn't true!

Mother. God grant that you are right!

Christine. Why—why haven't you told me this before?—But, of course, it's a lie! (She goes to the door leading into the church and pushes it ajar.) Look at him, mother—there he is! Can that be an evil spirit speaking out of his mouth? Can that be a hellish flame burning in his eyes? Can lies be told with trembling lips? Does darkness shed light—can't you see the halo about his head? You are wrong! I feel it within me! I don't know what he preaches—I don't know what he denies—but he is right! He is right, and the Lord is with him!

Mother. You don't know the world, my child. You don't know the tricks of the Devil. Beware! (She pulls Christine away from the door.) You mustn't listen to him. There is no strength in your soul, and he's the apostle of Antichrist!

Christine. Who is Antichrist?

Mother. He is a Luther!

Christine. You have never told me who Luther is, but if Olof is his apostle, then Luther must be a great man.

Mother. Luther is possessed of the Devil!

Christine. Why didn't you tell me before? Now I can't believe you!

Mother. I am telling you now—Alas, I wanted to save you from the world's wickedness, and so I kept you in ignorance—

Christine. I don't believe you! Let me go! I must see him—I must listen to him—for he doesn't talk like the rest.

Mother. Jesus, my Saviour! Are you, too, possessed by the unclean spirit?

Christine (at the door). "Bind not the souls," he said—did you hear? "You are free, for the Lord has set you free." See how the people shudder at his words—now they rise up—they mutter. "You want no freedom—woe unto you! For that is the sin against the Holy Ghost!"

[Enter Sexton.]

Sexton. I don't think it's well for you to stay here any longer, my good ladies. The people are getting restless. This will never end well for Master Olof.

Mother. Jesu Maria! What are you saying?

Christine. Fear not! The spirit of the Lord is with him!

Sexton. Well, I don't know about that, but he's a wonder at preaching. Old sinner that I am, I couldn't keep from crying where I was sitting in the organ-loft. I don't understand how it can be possible for a heretic and an Antichrist to talk like that. That man Luther, I must say, I—(Cries are heard from the church.) There, there! Now something dreadful is going to happen again! And to think that the King should be gone just now!

Mother. Let us get away from here. If the Lord is with him, they can do him no harm. If it be the Devil—then Thy will be done, O Lord—but forgive him!

(Cries are heard outside. Exeunt the Mother, Christine, and the Sexton. For a few moments the stage stands empty and Olof's voice is heard more clearly than before. It is interrupted by cries and the rattling of stones thrown at the pulpit. Christine returns alone, locks the door on the inside, and falls on her knees at a prie-dieu. A number of violent blows are directed against the door from without, while the tumult in the church continues to increase. Then silence is restored, as Olof descends from the pulpit. His forehead is bleeding and he wears a haggard look.)

Olof (dropping into a chair without perceiving Christine). In vain! They will not! I take the fetters from the prisoner, and he hits me. I tell him he is free, and he doesn't believe me. Is that word "free" so big, then, that it can't be contained in a human brain? Oh, that I had one at least who believed—but to be alone—a fool whom no one understands—

Christine (coming forward). I believe in you, Olof!

Olof. Christine!

Christine. You are right!

Olof. How do you know?

Christine. I can't tell, but I believe it. I have been listening to you.

Olof. And you do not curse me?

Christine. You are preaching the word of God, are you not?

Olof. I am!

Christine. Why have we not been told these things before? Or why have they been told us in a language that we do not understand?

Olof. Who has put those words into your mouth, girl?

Christine. Who? I haven't thought of asking.

Olof. Your father?

Christine. He wants me to enter a convent.

Olof. Has it come to that? And what is your own wish?

Christine (catching sight of Olof's bleeding forehead). They have hurt you, Olof! For heaven's sake, let me help you!

Olof (sitting down again). Have I unsettled your faith, Christine?

Christine (takes the handkerchief, tears it into strips, and begins to dress Olof's wounds while speaking). My faith? I don't understand you.—Tell me, who is Luther?

Olof. I mustn't tell you.

Christine. Always the same answer! From my father, from your mother, and from yourself. Are you timid about telling me the truth, or is the truth really dangerous?

Olof. Truth is dangerous. Can't you see? (He points to his forehead.)

Christine. So you want me to be shut up in a convent cell to live a lifeless life in ignorance? (Olof does not reply.) You want me to weep away my life and my youth, and to keep on saying those endlessly long prayers until my soul is put to sleep? No—I won't do it, for now I am awake. All around me they are fighting, and suffering, and despairing. I have seen it, but I was to have no share in it. I was not even to look on, or to know the purpose of the fighting. You wanted me to be sunk in bestial slumber. But don't you believe me possessed of a soul, then—a soul that cannot be satisfied by bread or by dry prayers put into my mouth by others? "Bind not the spirits," you said. Oh, if you could only know how that word pierced me! Daylight came, and those wild cries out there sounded like the singing of birds in the morning—

Olof. You are a woman, Christine, and not born to fight!

Christine. But in the name of God, let me suffer, then! Only not be asleep! Don't you see that the Lord has awakened me in spite of all? You have never dared to tell me who Antichrist was. You have never dared to tell me who Luther was, and when your mother called you a Luther, I blessed Luther. If he be a heretic or a believer, I don't know, and I don't care; for no one—whether it be Luther, or the Pope, or Antichrist-can satisfy my immortal soul when I have no faith in the eternal God.

Olof. Will you follow me into the battle, Christine? For you can sustain me, and you only!

Christine. Now I am able to answer you with a frank "yes," for I know my own will—and I can do so without asking father first, for I am free. Oh, I am free!

Olof. And do you know what is in store for you?

Christine. I know! You will not have to shatter my mocking dreams—they are already gone. But you may be sure that I, too, have been dreaming of a knight who was to lay a kingdom at my feet and talk to me of flowers and love—Olof, I want to be your wife! Here is my hand! But this much I must tell you: that you never have been the knight of my dreams, and that I thank God he never came. For then he had also gone—as a dream.

Olof. Christine, you want to be mine—and I will make you happy. For when I suffered sorrow and temptation, you were always in my mind—and now you shall be at my side! You were the maiden of my dreams, kept captive in a tower by the stern castellan—and now you are mine!

Christine. Beware of dreams, Olof!

(Blows are heard on the door from outside.)

Olof. Who is that?

Voice (outside). Gert.

Olof. What will he say? My promise—

Christine. Are you afraid? Shall I open?

(Olof opens the door.)

[Enter Gert.]

Gert (starting at the sight of his daughter and Olof). Christine?—You have broken your promise, Olof!

Olof. I have not.

Gert. You lie! You have stolen my child, my one solace.

Christine. Olof is not lying.

Gert. You have been to church, Christine?

Christine. I have heard what you didn't want me to hear.

Gert. O Lord, this only joy Thou hast begrudged me!

Olof. The stream that you wanted to set free takes its victims where it can.

Gert. You have robbed me of her, of my child!

Olof. Give her to me, Father Gert!

Gert. Never!

Olof. Is she not free?

Gert. She is my child.

Olof. Are you not preaching freedom? She is mine! The Lord has given her to me, and you cannot take her away.

Gert. You are—thank God—a priest.

Olof and Christine. A priest!

Gert. And as such you cannot marry.

Olof. And if I do?

Gert. You would dare?

Olof. I would.

Gert. Do you want a man who is under the ban, Christine?

Christine. I don't know what that means.

Olof. There you see, Gert, there you see!

Gert. Thy punishment is harsh, O Lord!

Olof. The truth is for all.

Gert. Your love is greater than mine, which was nothing but selfishness. God bless you! Now I stand alone! (He embraces them.) There, now! Go home, Christine, and set their minds at rest. I want to speak to Olof. (Exit Christine.) Now you belong to me.

Olof. What do you mean?

Gert. Kinsman!—You got my letter?

Olof. It was you who advised me not to preach?

Gert. Quite the contrary, although I expressed myself somewhat strangely.

Olof. I don't understand.

Gert. No—no! You are still too young, and so you need a providence. To a man like you one says "Let be" when one wants him to do something.

Olof. Why were you and your followers not in church?

Gert. None but the sick need doctors. We were busy elsewhere. You have done a good piece of work to-day, and I see that you have got your reward for it. I have set you free to-day, Olof.

Olof. You have?

Gert. The King commanded you to quiet the rebellious, and what have you been doing?

Olof. Now I begin to understand you, Father Gert.

Gert. I am delighted! Yes, you have aroused even the calmest.

Olof. So I have.

Gert. What do you think the King will say to that?

Olof. I shall have to face it.

Gert. Good!

Olof. The King will approve my actions, for he wants a reformation, although he does not yet dare to start one himself.

Gert. You idiot!

Olof. I see that you want to set me against my lawful sovereign.

Gert. Tell me, how many masters do you think you can serve? (Olof makes no reply.) The King is here.

Olof. What do you say?

Gert. The King has just returned.

Olof. And the Anabaptists?

Gert. Locked up, of course.

Olof. And you stand here so calmly?

Gert. I am old now. Once I used to rage like you, but it only tired me out. Rink and Knipperdollink have served as my outposts. They had to fall, that's plain; now my work begins.

(Drum-beats are heard from the street.)

Olof. What is that?

Gert. The royal drums that keep the captives company to prison. Come here and see!

Olof (mounting one of the benches and looking out of the window). What do I see? Women and children are dragged along by the soldiers!

Gert. Well, they have been throwing stones at the King's guard. Do you think such things can be allowed?

Olof. But are madmen and sick people to be put into prison?

Gert. There are two kinds of madmen. One kind is sent to the hospital and treated with pills and cold baths. Those of the other kind have their heads cut off. It is a radical treatment, but then, for a fact, they are rather dangerous.

Olof. I'll go to the King. He cannot wish such dreadful things to happen.

Gert. Take care of your head, Olof!

Olof. Take care of your own, Father Gert!

Gert. No danger in my case, for I have a warrant for the asylum.

Olof. I cannot bear to see these things. I am going to the King, even if it cost my life. (He goes toward the door.)

Gert. This is a matter not to be settled by the King. You should appeal to the law.

Olof. The King is the law!

Gert. Unfortunately!—If the horse knew his own strength, he would never be mad enough, as he is now, to bear the yoke. But when once in a while he gets his reason back and runs away from his oppressors, then they call him mad—Let us pray the Lord to give these poor creatures their reason back!



ACT III

SCENE 1

(A Hall in the Royal Palace at Stockholm. In the background is a gallery which can be partitioned off by curtains. In elderly servant of the palace is pacing back and forth in the gallery.)

Enter Olof.

Olof. Is the King receiving to-day?

Servant. Yes.

Olof. Can you tell me why I have been kept waiting here in vain four days at a stretch?

Servant. No, heavens, I know nothing at all.

Olof. It seems strange that I have not been admitted.

Servant. What is it about?

Olof. That's none of your concern!

Servant. Of course not! I understand that, but I thought I might be able to give some information, perhaps.

Olof. Have you charge of the King's audiences?

Servant. Oh, heavens, no! But you see, when a man hears as much as I do, he knows a little of everything. (Pause.)

Olof. Do you think I shall have to wait long? (The servant pretends not to hear.) Do you know if the King is coming soon?

Servant (with his back turned to Olof). What?

Olof. Do you know to whom you are talking?

Servant. No, I don't.

Olof. I am the King's Secretary.

Servant. Oh, mercy, are you Master Olof? I knew your father, Peter the Smith, for I am also from Oerebro.

Olof. Well, can't you be civil in spite of that?

Servant. Well, well! That's what happens when one gets on a little in this world—then one's humble parents are forgotten.

Olof. It is possible that my father actually honored you with his acquaintance, but I doubt that he put you in a parent's place to me when he died.

Servant. Well, well! I declare! It must be hard on Dame Christine! [Exit to the left.]

[Olof is left alone for a while. Then Lars Siggesson, the Lord High Constable, enters from the right.]

Constable (throwing his cloak to Olof without looking at him). Will the King be here soon?

Olof (catching the cloak and throwing it on the floor). I do not know!

Constable. Bring me a chair.

Olof. That's not my office.

Constable. I am not familiar with the instructions of the doorkeeper.

Olof. I am no doorkeeper!

Constable. I don't care what you are, and I don't carry with me a list of the menials, but you will have to be civil! (Olof remains silent.) Well, what about it? I think the Devil has got into you!

Olof. Pardon me, but it is no part of my duty as secretary to wait on anybody.

Constable. What? Oh, Master Olof! Why, first you sit at the door playing lackey, and then you drop the mask and step forth as the Lord Himself! And I took you to be a proud man. (He picks up his cloak and places it on a bench.)

Olof. My Lord Constable!

Constable. But, no, you are only a vain upstart! Please step forward and be seated, Mr. Secretary.

[He points Olof to a seat and goes out into one of the side-rooms.]

[Olof sits down. A young Courtier enters through the gallery and salutes Olof.]

Courtier. Good morning, Secretary! Is nobody here yet? Well, how is everything in Stockholm? I have just arrived from Malmoe.

Olof. Oh, everything is going wrong here.

Courtier. So I have heard. The mob has been muttering as usual whenever the King's back is turned. And then there are those fool priests!—I beg your pardon, Secretary, but, of course, you are a freethinker?

Olof. I don't quite understand.

Courtier. Don't mind me, please. You see, I have been educated in Paris. Francis the First—O Saint-Sauveur!—that's a man who has extreme views. Do you know what he told me at a bal masque during the last carnival? (Olof remains silent.) "Monsieur," he said, "la religion est morte, est morte," he said. Which didn't keep him from attending mass.

Olof. Is that so?

Courtier. Do you know what he replied when I asked him why he did so?—"Poetry! Poetry!" he said. Oh, he is divine!

Olof. What did you answer?

Courtier. "Your Majesty," I said—in French, of course—"fortunate the land that has a king who can look so far beyond the narrow horizon of his own time that he perceives what the spirit of the age demands, without trying to urge the masses to embrace that higher view of life for which they will not be ready for many centuries to come!" Wasn't that pretty clever?

Olof. Oh, yes, but I think it must have lost a great deal in being translated. Things of that kind should be spoken in French.

Courtier (preoccupied). You are quite right.—Tell me—your fortune ought to be assured—you are so far in advance of your time?

Olof. I fear I shall not get very far. My education was neglected, unfortunately—I studied in Germany, as you may know—and the Germans are not beyond religion yet.

Courtier. Indeed, indeed! Can you tell me why they are making such a hubbub about that Reformation down there in Germany? Luther is a man of enlightenment—I know it—I believe it—but why shouldn't he keep it to himself, or at least not waste any sparks of light on the brutish herd to which they can be nothing but so many pearls thrown to the swine. If you let your eye survey the time we are living in—if you make some effort to follow the great currents of thought—then you will easily perceive the cause of that disturbed equilibrium which is now making itself felt in all the great civilized countries; I am not talking of Sweden, of course, which is not a civilized country. Can you name the centre of gravity—that centre which cannot be disturbed without everything going to pieces—the instability of which tends to upset everything? The name of it is—the nobility. The nobility is the thinking principle. The feudal system is falling—and that means the world. Erudition is in decay. Civilization is dying. Yes, indeed—You don't believe that? But if you have any historical outlook at all, you can see that it is so. The nobility started the Crusades. The nobility has done this and that and everything. Why is Germany being torn to pieces? Because the peasantry has risen against the nobility, thus cutting off its own head. Why is France safe—la France? Because France is one with the nobility, and the nobility is one with France—because those two ideas are identical, inseparable. And why, I ask again, is Sweden at present shaken to its nethermost foundations? Because the nobility has been crushed. Christian the Second was a man of genius. He knew how to conquer a country. He didn't cut off a leg or an arm—nay, he cut off the head. Well, then! Sweden must be saved, and the King knows how. The nobility is to be restored, and the Church is to be crushed. What do you say to that?

Olof (rising). Nothing! (Pause.) You are a freethinker?

Courtier. Of course!

Olof. You don't believe, then, that Balaam's ass could talk?

Courtier. Gracious, no!

Olof. But I do.

Courtier. Really?

[Enter Lars Andersson.]

Lars Andersson. The peace of the Lord be with you, Olof.

Olof (embracing him). Well met, Lars!

Courtier. Populace! [Exit.]

Lars. Well, how do you like living here?

Olof. It's so close!

Lars. Somewhat!

Olof. And no room overhead.

Lars. That's why they find it so hard to keep their backs straight.

Olof. In ten minutes I have become so much of a courtier that I know how to be silent when an ass is talking.

Lars. There is no harm in that.

Olof. What does the King think?

Lars. He doesn't tell.

(A number of people have begun to gather in the hall.)

Olof. How does he look?

Lars. Like an interrogation point followed by several exclamation marks.

[Enter Bishop Brask. All give way before him. The Lord High Constable, who has returned in the meantime, goes to meet him and exchanges greetings with him. Olof salutes the Bishop, who looks surprised.]

Brask (to the Constable). Is this a place for the clerks?

Constable. It ought not to be, but our King is so very gracious.

Brask. Condescending, you mean?

Constable. Exactly.

Brask. The audience is well attended to-day.

Constable. Mostly formal calls occasioned by the happy return of His Highness.

Brask. It is a pleasure, my Lord Constable, to offer His Highness our sincere felicitations on the happy solution of this question.

Constable. It is indeed courteous in Your Grace to incur the trouble of such a long journey—especially at Your Grace's advanced age.

Brask. Unfortunately, my health is not always to be depended upon.

Constable. Is Your Grace not enjoying good health? It is hard to feel one's strength failing, particularly for one who occupies such an exalted and responsible position.

Brask. You look very well, my Lord Constable.

Constable. Yes, thank God! (Pause.)

Brask (seating himself). Don't you think there is a draught here, my Lord?

Constable. It seems so. Perhaps we might order the doors to be closed?

Brask. No, thank you, that will not be necessary. (Pause.)

Constable. The King is long in coming.

Brask. Yes.

Constable. Perhaps you won't find it worth your while to wait for him.

Brask. Perhaps not!

Constable. With your permission, I will send word to Your Grace's servants.

Brask. As I have waited so long, I think I shall wait a little longer. (Pause.)

Servant. His Highness!

[Enter Gustaf.]

Gustaf. I bid you welcome, gentlemen. (He takes a seat at a table.) If you will please step out into the antechamber, I will receive you one at a time. (All retire except Bishop Brask.) Our Lord Constable will stay.

Brask. Your Highness!

Gustaf (raising his voice). Sir Lars! (Brask goes out, the Constable remaining; pause.) Speak! What am I to do?

Constable. Your Highness, the State has lost its prop, and therefore it is toppling over; the State has an enemy that has grown too strong for it. Restore the prop, which is the nobility, and crush the enemy, which is the Church!

Gustaf. I dare not!

Constable. You must, Your Highness!

Gustaf. What's that?

Constable. First of all: Brask is in correspondence with the Pope to have the inquisition established here. Luebeck is insisting on her shameless demands and threatens war. The treasury is empty. There is rebellion in every nook and corner of the country—

Gustaf. That's enough! But I have the people with me.

Constable. I beg your pardon—you have not. There are the Dalecarlians, for instance—a spoiled lot, always disputing with those of Luebeck about the honor of having bestowed a king on Sweden. They are ready to rebel on the slightest occasion, and they are coming forward with demands like these: "There shall be no outlandish customs used, with slittered and motley colored clothes, such as have of late been brought into the King's court."

Gustaf. 'Sdeath!

Constable. "Whosoever eats meat on Fridays or Saturdays shall be burned at the stake or otherwise made away with." And furthermore, "There shall be no new faith or Lutheran teachings foisted upon us." What a treacherous, impudent people!

Gustaf. And yet there was a time when they showed themselves to be men.

Constable. Well, what wonder if they carried water when their house was afire? How many times have they broken troth and faith? But they have so often heard themselves lauded that they have come to give the name of "old Swedish honesty" to their own brute arrogance.

Gustaf. You belong to the nobility!

Constable. Yes, and it is my conviction that the peasant has played out his part—the part of a crude force needed to drive away the enemy by sheer strength of arm. Crush the Church, Your Highness, for it is keeping the people in fetters. Seize the gold of the Church and pay the country's debt—and give back to the reduced nobility what the Church has obtained from it by dupery.

Gustaf. Call in Brask.

Constable. Your Highness!

Gustaf. Call Bishop Brask! [Exit the Constable.]

[Enter Bishop Brask.]

Gustaf. Speak, Your Grace!

Brask. I wish to offer our congratulations on—

Gustaf. I thank Your Grace! And what more?

Brask. There have been complaints from several districts, I am sorry to say, about unpaid loans of silver exacted from the churches by Your Highness.

Gustaf. Which you now are trying to recover. Are all the chalices actually needed for communion?

Brask. They are.

Gustaf Let them use pewter mugs, then.

Brask. Your Highness!

Gustaf. Anything more?

Brask. What is worse than anything else—all this heresy!

Gustaf. No concern of mine! I am not the Pope.

Brask. I have to warn Your Highness that the Church must look out for her own rights, even if doing so should bring her into conflict—

Gustaf. With whom?

Brask. With the State.

Gustaf. Your Church can go to the devil! There, I have said it!

Brask. I knew it.

Gustaf. And you were only waiting for me to say so?

Brask. Exactly.

Gustaf. Take care! You travel with a following of two hundred men, and you eat from silver, when the people are living on bark.

Brask. Your Highness takes too narrow a view of the matter.

Gustaf. Have you heard of Luther? You are a well-informed man. What kind of a phenomenon is he? What have you to say of the movements that are now spreading throughout Europe?

Brask. Progress backward! Luther is merely destined to serve as a purging fire for what is ancient, descended from untold ages and well tried, so that it may be cleansed and by the struggle urged on to greater victories.

Gustaf. I care nothing for your learned arguments.

Brask. But Your Highness is extending protection to criminals and interfering with the privileges of the Church; for the Church has been grievously wronged by Master Olof.

Gustaf. Well, put him under the ban.

Brask. It has been done, and yet he remains in the service of Your Highness.

Gustaf. What more do you want done to him? Tell me? (Pause.)

Brask. Furthermore, he has gone so far as to marry secretly in violation of the Canon Law.

Gustaf. Is that so? That's quick action.

Brask. It doesn't concern Your Highness? Good and well! But if he stirs up the people?

Gustaf. Then I'll step in. Anything more?

Brask (after a pause). I ask you for heaven's sake not to plunge the country into disaster again. It is not yet ripe for a new faith. We are but reeds in the wind and can be bent—but when it comes to the faith, or the Church—never!

Gustaf (holding out his hand to the Bishop). Maybe you are right! But let us be enemies rather than false friends, Bishop Hans!

Brask. Be it so! But do not do what you will regret. Every stone you tear out of the Church will be thrown at you by the people.

Gustaf. Don't force me to extremes, Your Grace, for then we shall have the same horrible spectacle here as in Germany. For the last time: are you willing to make concessions if the welfare of the country is at stake?

Brask. The Church—

Gustaf. The Church comes first—very well! Good-bye!

[Exit Brask. Reenter the Constable.]

Gustaf. The Bishop has confirmed your statement, and that was what I wanted him to do. Now we shall need stone-masons who know how to tear down. The walls will be left, the cross may stay on the roof and the bell in the tower, but I will clear out the vaults. One must begin at the bottom!

Constable. The people will think you are taking away their faith. They will have to be educated.

Gustaf. We'll send Master Olof to preach to them.

Constable. Master Olof is a dangerous man.

Gustaf. But needed just now.

Constable. He has carried on like the Anabaptists instead of opposing them.

Gustaf. I know. We'll get to that later on. Send him in.

Constable. Lars the Chancellor would be a better man.

Gustaf. Bring them both in.

Constable. Or Olof's brother, Lars Pedersson.

Gustaf. No good yet. He is too soft for fighting, but his time will come, too. [Exit Constable.]

The Constable returns with Master Olof and Lars Andersson.

Gustaf (to the Chancellor). Do you want to help me, Lars?

Lars. You are thinking of the Church?

Gustaf. Yes, it will have to be torn down.

Lars. I am not the man for that. Your Majesty had better ask Master Olof.

Gustaf. You won't, then?

Lars. I can't! But I have a weapon for you. (He hands the new translation of the Bible to the King.)

Gustaf. Holy Writ! A good weapon, indeed! Will you wield it, Olof?

Olof. With the help of God—yes!

Gustaf (to Olof, after having signalled to Lars to leave). Have you calmed down yet, Olof? (Olof does not answer). I gave you four days to think it over. How have you been carrying out your task?

Olof (impetuously). I have spoken to the people—

Gustaf. Still in a fever! And you mean to defend those madmen named Anabaptists?

Olof (bravely). I do!

Gustaf. Steady!—You have married in a hurry?

Olof. I have.

Gustaf. You are under the ban?

Olof. I am.

Gustaf. And still as brave as ever! If you were sent to the gallows as a rebel with the rest, what would you say then?

Olof. I should regret not being permitted to finish my task, but I should thank the Lord for having been allowed to do what I have done.

Gustaf. That's good! Would you dare to go up to that old owl's-nest Upsala and tell its learned men that the Pope is not God and that he has nothing to do with Sweden?

Olof. Only that?

Gustaf. Will you tell them that the only word of God is the Bible?

Olof. Must that be all?

Gustaf. You are not to mention the name of Luther!

Olof (after some hesitation). Then I will not go.

Gustaf. Would you rather go to your death?

Olof. No, but I know that my sovereign needs me.

Gustaf. It isn't noble to take advantage of my misfortune, Olof. Well, say anything; you please, but you will have to pardon me if I take back a part of it afterwards.

Olof. Truth isn't sold by the yard.

Gustaf. 'Sdeath! (Changing tone.) Well, suit yourself!

Olof (kneeling). Then I may say all that is in my mind?

Gustaf. You may.

Olof. Then, if I can only throw a single spark of doubt into the soul of this sleeping people, my life will not have been wasted.—It is to be a reformation, then?

Gustaf (after a pause). Yes. (Pause.)

Olof (timidly). And what is to become of the Anabaptists?

Gustaf. Need you ask? They must die.

Olof. Will Your Highness permit me one more question?

Gustaf. Tell me: what do those madmen want?

Olof. The sad thing is that they do not know it themselves, and if I were to tell you—

Gustaf. Speak out!

[Gert enters quickly, pretending to be insane.]

Gustaf. Who are you to dare intrude here?

Gert. I want most humbly to beseech Your Highness to attest the correctness of this document.

Gustaf. Wait till you are called.

Gert. Of course, I should like to, but the guards won't wait for me. I escaped from prison, you see, because my place wasn't there.

Gustaf. Are you one of those Anabaptists?

Gert. Yes, I happened to get mixed up with them, but here I have a certificate proving that I belong to the asylum, the third department for incurables, cell number seven.

Gustaf (to Olof). Send word to the guard.

Gert. That isn't necessary, for I want nothing but justice, and it's something the guard doesn't handle.

Gustaf (looking hard at Gert). I suppose you have had a share in those outrages in the city churches?

Gert. Of course, I have! No sane person could behave so madly. We wanted only to make a few minor alterations in the style. They seemed too low in the ceiling.

Gustaf. What do you really want?

Gert. Oh, we want a great deal, although we haven't got through with one-half of it yet. Yes, we want so many things and we want them so quickly, that our reason cannot keep pace with them, and that's why it has been lagging behind a little. Yes, we wish among other things to change the furnishings a little in the churches, and to remove the windows because the air seems so musty. Yes, and there is a lot more we want, but that will have to wait for a while.

Gustaf (to Olof). That's a perilous disease—for anything else it cannot be.

Olof. Who knows?

Gustaf. Now I am tired. You'll have a fortnight in which to get ready. Your hand that you will help me!

Olof. I will do my part.

Gustaf. Give orders to have Rink and Knipperdollink sent to Malmoe.

Olof. And then?

Gustaf. They'll have a chance to escape. That fool over there you can send back to the asylum. Farewell! [Exit.]

Gert (shaking his clenched fist after Gustaf). Well, are we going?

Olof. Where?

Gert. Home. (Olof remains silent.) You don't wish to send your father-in-law to the madhouse, do you, Olof?

Olof. You ask me what I wish—How about my duty?

Gert. Is there no duty above the royal command?

Olof. Are you beginning again?

Gert. What will Christine say if you put her father among madmen?

Olof. Tempt me not!

Gert. Do you see how difficult it is to serve the King? (Olof does not answer.) I won't make you unhappy, my poor boy. Here's balm for your conscience. (He takes out a document.)

Olof. What is it?

Gert. A certificate of health. You see, it is necessary to be a madman among sane people, and sane among mad men.

Olof. How did you get it?

Gert. Don't you think I deserve it?

Olof. I can't tell.

Gert. True enough: you don't yet dare.

[Enter Servant.]

Servant. Will you please go your way. They 're about to sweep.

Gert. Perhaps the place has to be aired, too?

Servant. Yes, indeed!

Gert. Don't forget to open the windows.

Servant. No, you may be sure, and it's needed, too, for we are not accustomed to this kind of company.

Gert. Look here, old man—I carry a greeting from your father.

Servant. Oh, you do?

Gert. Perhaps you never knew him?

Servant. Why, certainly!

Gert. Do you know what he said?

Servant. No.

Gert. Wet the broom, he said, or you'll get the dust all over yourself.

Servant. I don't understand.

Gert. Well, that's your only excuse.

[Exeunt Gert and Olof.]

Servant. Rabble!

SCENE 2

(Olof's Study. There are windows in the background, through which the sun is shining into the room. Trees are visible outside. Christine is standing at one of the windows, watering her flowers. While doing so she is prattling to some birds in a cage. Olof is seated at a table, writing. With an impatient mien he looks up and across the room to Christine as if he wished her to keep quiet. This happens several times, until at last Christine knocks down one of the flower pots, when Olof taps the floor lightly with his foot.)

Christine. Oh, my poor little flower! Look, Olof, four buds were broken off.

Olof. Yes, I see.

Christine. No, you don't. You must come over here.

Olof. My dear, I haven't time.

Christine. You haven't looked at the starlings which I bought for you this morning. Don't you think they sing sweetly?

Olof. Rather.

Christine. Rather?

Olof. It's hard for me to work when they are screaming like that.

Christine. They are not screaming, Olof, but you seem to be more fond of a night bird that does scream. Tell me, what is the meaning of the owl that appears on your signet ring?

Olof. The owl is an ancient symbol of wisdom.

Christine. I think that's stupid! Wise people don't love the darkness.

Olof. The wise man hates the darkness and the night, but his keen eye turns night into day.

Christine. Why are you always right, Olof? Can you tell me?

Olof. Because I know it pleases you, my dear, to let me be in the right.

Christine. Now, you are right again.—What is that you are writing?

Olof. I am translating.

Christine. Read a little of it to me.

Olof. I don't think you could understand it.

Christine. Why shouldn't I? Is it not in Swedish?

Olof. Yes, but it is too abstract for you.

Christine. Abstract? What does that mean?

Olof. You wouldn't understand if I told you, but if you don't understand what I read to you, then you understand what is meant by "abstract."

Christine (picking up a piece of half-finished embroidery). Go on and read while I work at this.

Olof. Listen carefully, then, and forgive me if you find it tedious.

Christine. I shall understand because I want to.

Olof (reading). "Matter when considered separate from form is something wholly without predictability, indeterminable and indistinguishable. For nothing can originate out of pure non-being, but only out of the non-being of reality, which is synonymous with being as a possibility. Being in its possibility is no more non-being than is reality. For that reason every existence is a realized possibility. Thus matter is to Aristotle a much more positive substratum than to Plato, who declares it to be pure non-being. And thereby it becomes plain how Aristotle could conceive of matter in its opposition to form as a positive negativity."

Christine (throwing aside her work). Stop! Why is it that I cannot understand that? Have I not the same mental faculties as you? I am ashamed, Olof, because you have such a poor creature of a wife that she cannot understand what you say. No, I will stick to my embroidery, I will clean and dust your study, I will at least learn to read your wishes in your eyes. I may become your slave, but never, never shall I be able to understand you. Oh, Olof, I am not worthy of you! Why did you make me your wife? You must have over-valued me in a moment of intoxication. Now you will regret it, and we shall both be unhappy.

Olof. Christine! Don't take it like that, dear! Come and sit here by me. (He picks up the embroidery.) Will you believe me if I tell you that I couldn't possibly do a thing like this? Never in my life could I do it. Are you not then cleverer than I, and am I not the lesser of us two?

Christine. But why can't you do it?

Olof. For the same reason that you couldn't understand me a moment ago: I haven't learned how. And perhaps you will feel happy once more if I tell you that you can learn to understand this book—which, by the by, is not identical with me—while on the other hand, I could never learn to do your work.

Christine. Why couldn't you?

Olof. Because I am not built that way and don't want to do it.

Christine. But if you wanted to?

Olof. Well, there, my dear, you have my weak point. I could never want to do it. Believe me, you are stronger than I, for you have power over your own will, but I have not.

Christine. Do you think I could learn to understand that book of yours?

Olof. I am convinced of it. But you must not.

Christine. Am I still to be kept in ignorance?

Olof. No, no—understand me right! The moment you understood what I understand, you would cease to think of me as—

Christine. A god—

Olof. Let it go at that! But believe me, you would lose what now puts you above me—the power to control your own will—and then you would be less than I, and I could not respect you. Do you see? It stakes us happy to overvalue each other; let us keep that illusion.

Christine. Now I don't understand you at all, but I must trust you, Olof. You are right!

Olof. Please leave me alone, Christine—I beg you!

Christine. Do I disturb you?

Olof. There are some very serious thoughts that occupy me. You know, I expect something decisive to happen today. The King has abdicated because the people would not do what he desired. To-day I shall either reach my goal or have to start the fight all over again.

Christine. May I not be happy to-day, Olof—on Midsummer Eve?

Olof. Why should you be so very happy to-day?

Christine. Why should I not—since I have been set free from slavery and have become your wife?

Olof. Can you forgive me that my happiness is a little more sober because it has cost me—a mother?

Christine. I know, and I feel it very deeply. But when your mother learns of our marriage, she will forgive you and put her curse on me. Whose burden will then be the heavier? However, it doesn't matter, because it's borne for your sake. And this much I know: that terrible struggles are awaiting you; that daring thoughts are growing in your mind; and that I can never share your struggle, never help you with advice, never defend you against those that vilify you—but still I must look on, and through it all I must go on living in my own little world, employing myself with petty things which you do not appreciate, but would miss if they were not attended to. Olof, I cannot weep with you, so you must help me to make you smile with me. Come down from those heights which I cannot attain. Leave your battles on the hilltops and return some time to our home. As I cannot ascend to you, you must descend to me for a moment. Forgive me, Olof, if I talk childishly! I know that you are a man sent by the Lord, and I have felt the blessing with which your words are fraught. But you are more than that—you are a man, and you are my husband—or at least ought to be. You won't fall from your exalted place if you put aside your solemn speech now and then and let the clouds pass from your forehead. You are not too great, are you, to look at a flower or listen to a bird? I put the flowers on your table, Olof, in order that they might rest your eyes—and you ordered the maid to take them out because they gave you a headache. I tried to cheer the lonely silence of your work by bringing the birds—whose song you call screaming. I asked you to come to dinner a while ago—you hadn't time. I wanted to talk to you—you hadn't time. You despise this little corner of reality—and yet that is what you have set aside for me. You don't want to lift me up to you—but try at least not to push me further down. I will take away everything that might disturb your thoughts. You shall have peace from me—and from my rubbish! (She throws the flowers out of the window, picks up the birdcage, and starts to leave.)

Olof. Christine, dear child, forgive me! You don't understand me!

Christine. Always the same: "You don't understand me!" Oh, I know now what it means. In that moment in the sacristy I matured so completely that I reached my second childhood at once!

Olof. I'll look at your birds and prattle with your flowers, dear heart.

Christine (putting aside the bird-cage). No, the time for prattle is gone by—from now on we shall be serious. You need not fear my boisterous happiness. It was only put on for your sake, and as it doesn't suit your sombre calling, I'll—(She bursts into tears.)

Olof (putting his arms around her and kissing her.) Christine! Christine! You are right! Please pardon me!

Christine. You gave me an unlucky gift, Olof, when you gave me freedom, for I don't know what to do with it. I must have some one to obey!

Olof. And so you shall, but don't let us talk of it any more. Let us eat now—in fact, I feel quite hungry.

Christine (pleased). Do you really know how to be hungry? (At that moment she looks out of the window and makes a gesture of dismay.) Go on, Olof, and I'll be with you in a moment. I only want to get things in a little better order in here.

Olof (as he goes out). Don't let me wait so long for you as you have had to wait for me.

(Christine folds her hands as if praying and takes up a position indicating that she is waiting far somebody about to enter from the street. Pause.)

[Enter Olof's Mother. She passes Christine without looking at her.]

Mother. Is Master Olof at home?

Christine (who has started to meet her in a friendly way, is taken aback for a moment; then she answers in the same tone). No, but if you care to be seated, he will be here soon.

Mother. Thank you! (She seats herself. Pause.) Bring me a glass of water. (Christine waits on her.) Now you can leave me.

Christine. It is my housewifely duty to bear you company.

Mother. I didn't know that the housekeeper of a priest could call herself a housewife.

Christine. I am the wife of Olof with the sanction of the Lord. Don't you know that we are married?

Mother. You are a harlot—that's what I know!

Christine. That word I do not understand.

Mother. You are the same kind of woman as she with whom Master Olof was talking that evening in the beer-shop.

Christine. The one that looked so unhappy? Yes, I don't feel very happy.

Mother. Of course not! Take yourself out of my sight! Your presence shames me!

Christine (on her knees). For the sake of your son, don't heap abuse on me!

Mother. With a mother's authority I command you to leave my son's house, the threshold of which you have defiled.

Christine. As a housewife I open my door to whom I may choose to receive. I should have closed it to you, had I been able to guess what language you would use.

Mother. Big words, indeed! I command you to leave!

Christine. With what right do you force yourself into this house in order to drive me out of my own home? You have borne a son, and raised him—that was your duty, your mission, and you may thank your God for being permitted to fill that mission so well, which is a good fortune not granted to everybody. Now you have reached the edge of the grave. Why not resign yourself before the end comes? Or have you raised your son so poorly that he is still a child and needs your guidance? If you want gratitude, come and look for it, but not in this way. Or do you think it is the destiny of a child to sacrifice its own life merely to show you gratitude? His mission is calling: "Go!" And you cry to him: "Come to me, you ingrate!" Is he to go astray—is he to waste his powers, that belong to his country, to mankind—merely for the satisfaction of your private little selfishness? Or do you imagine that the fact of having borne and raised him does even entitle you to gratitude? Did not your life's mission and destiny lie in that? Should you not thank the Lord for being given such a high mission? Or did you do it only that you might spend the rest of your life clamoring for gratitude? Don't you see that by using that word "gratitude" you tear down all that you have built up before? And what makes you presume that you have rights over me? Is marriage to mean a mortgaging of my free will to anybody whom nature has made the mother or father of my husband—who unfortunately could not exist without either? You are not my mother. My troth was not pledged to you when I took Olof as my husband. And I have sufficient respect for my husband not to permit anybody to insult him, even if it be his own mother. That's why I have spoken as I have!

Mother. Alas, such are the fruits borne by the teachings of my son!

Christine. If you choose to revile your son, it had better be in his presence. (She goes to the door and calls.) Olof!

Mother. Such guile already!

Christine. Already? It's nothing new, I think, although I didn't know I had it until it was needed.

[Enter Olof.]

Olof. Mother! I am right glad to see you!

Mother. Thanks, my son—and good-bye!

Olof. Are you going? What does that mean? I wish to talk to you.

Mother. No need! She has said all there is to say. You will not have to show me the door.

Olof. In God's name, mother, what are you saying? Christine, what does this mean?

Mother (about to leave). Good-bye, Olof! This is more than I can ever forgive you!

Olof (trying to hold her back). Stay and explain, at least!

Mother. It was not worthy of you! To send her to tell me that you owe me nothing and need me no more! Oh, that was cruel! [Exit.]

Olof. What did you say, Christine?

Christine. I don't remember, because there were so many things which I had never dared to think, but which I must have dreamt while father kept me still enslaved.

Olof. I don't know you any more, Christine.

Christine. No, I begin to feel a little lost myself.

Olof. Were you unkind to mother?

Christine. I suppose I was. Does it seem to you that I have grown hard, Olof?

Olof. Did you show her the door?

Christine. Forgive me, Olof! I was not kind to her.

Olof. For my sake you might have made your words a little milder. Why didn't you call me at once?

Christine. I wished to see if I had the strength to take care of myself. Olof, would you sacrifice me to your mother, if she demanded it?

Olof. I cannot answer such a question offhand.

Christine. I'll do it in your place. It pleases you to submit willingly to your mother's will and wish because you are strong—and I, on the other hand, feel hurt by doing so, for I am weak. I will never do it!

Olof. Not if I ask you?

Christine. That's more than you can ask. Or would you have me hate her?—Tell me, Olof, what is meant by a "harlot"?

Olof. You ask such strange questions.

Christine. Will you please answer me?

Olof. Will you forgive me if I don't?

Christine. Always this unending silence! Do you not yet dare to tell me all? Am I to be a child forever? Then you had better put me in a nursery and talk baby-talk to me.

Olof. It means an unfortunate woman.

Christine. No, it means something more than that.

Olof. Has anybody dared to use that word to you?

Christine (after a pause). No.

Olof. Now you are not telling the truth, Christine.

Christine. I know I lie! Oh, since yesterday I have grown very wicked!

Olof. You are hiding something that happened yesterday!

Christine. I am—I thought that I could keep it to myself, but it has grown too much for me.

Olof. Speak—I beg you!

Christine. But you mustn't call me silly! A crowd of people pursued me all the way to our door and called after me that horrible word which I don't understand. People do not laugh at an unfortunate woman—

Olof. Yes, dear, that's just what they do.

Christine. I didn't understand their words, but their actions were plain enough to make me wicked!

Olof. And yet you were so kind to me! Forgive me if I have been hard to you!—It is a name given by brute force to its own victims. Sooner or later, you'll learn more about it, but never dare to defend an "unfortunate woman"—for then they will throw mud at you! (A messenger enters and hands him a letter.) At last! (After a glance at the letter.) You read it to me, Christine! It is from your lips I want to hear the glad tidings.

Christine (reading). "Young man, you have conquered! I, your enemy, desire to be the first to tell you so, and I address myself to you without any sense of humiliation because, in speaking for the new faith, you have wielded no weapons but those of the spirit. Whether you be right, I cannot tell, but I think you have deserved a piece of advice from an older man: stop here, for your enemies are gone! Do not wage war on creatures made of air, for that will lame your arm and you will die of dry rot. Do not put your trust in princes—is another piece of advice given you by a once powerful man who has now to step aside and leave to the Lord to settle what is to become of his prostrated Church. Johannes Brask." (Speaking.) You have conquered!

Olof (joyfully). I thank Thee, Lord, for this hour. (Pause.) No, it scares me, Christine! This fortune is too great. I am too young to have reached the goal already. To have no more to do—oh, what a frightful thought! No further fighting—that would be death!

Christine. Oh, rest a moment, and be happy that it is over.

Olof. Can there be an end to anything? An end to such a beginning? No, no!—Oh, that I could begin it all anew! It wasn't the victory I wanted, but the fight!

Christine. Olof, do not tempt the Lord! I have a feeling that much remains undone—very much, indeed!

[Enter Courtier.]

Courtier. Good-day to you, Secretary! And pleasant news! [Exit Christine.]

Olof. Be welcome! Some of it I have heard already.

Courtier. Thanks for your splendid answering of that stupid Galle. You went after him like a man. A little too fiercely, perhaps—not quite so much fire, you know! And a little venom doesn't hurt.

Olof. You have news from the King?

Courtier. Yes, and you shall have a brief summary of the conditions agreed on: First, mutual support for the resistance and punishment of all rebellions.

Olof. Go on, if you please.

Courtier. Second, the King shall have the right to take possession of the palaces and fortified places of the bishops, as well as to fix their incomes—

Olof. Third—

Courtier. Now comes the best of all—the principal point of the whole undertaking: Third, the nobility shall have the right to claim whatever of its properties and inheritances have fallen to churches and cloisters since the revision by King Carl Knutsson in 1454—

Olof. And fourth?

Courtier. Provided the heir can get twelve men under oath to attest his right of inheritance at the assizes. (He folds the document from which he has been reading.)

Olof. Have you finished?

Courtier. Yes. Isn't that pretty good?

Olof. Nothing more?

Courtier. Oh, there are a few minor points of no special importance.

Olof. Let me hear them.

Courtier (reading again). There is a fifth point about the right of preachers to preach the word of God, but, of course, they have had that all the time.

Olof. Nothing more?

Courtier. Yes, then comes the ordinance: a register is to be established showing the amount of tithes collected by all bishops, chapters, and canons, and the King shall have the right to prescribe—

Olof. Oh, that's neither here nor there!

Courtier.—how much of those may be retained, and how much shall be surrendered to him for the use of the Crown; furthermore, all Appointments to spiritual offices—and this ought to interest you—to spiritual offices, minor as well as major, can hereafter be made only with the sanction of the King, so that—

Olof. Will you please read me the point dealing with the faith—

Courtier. The faith—there is nothing about it. Oh, yes, let me see—from this day the Gospel is to be read in all schoolhouses.

Olof. Is that all?

Courtier. All? Oh, no, I remember! I have a special order from the King to you—and a most sensible one—that, as the people are stirred up over all these innovations, you must by no means disturb the old forms; must not abolish masses, holy water, nor any other usage, nor furthermore indulge in any reckless acts, for hereafter the King will not close his eyes to your escapades as he has had to do in the past, when he lacked power to do otherwise.

Olof. I see! And the new faith which he has permitted me to preach so far?

Courtier. It is to ripen slowly.—It will come! It will come!

Olof. Is there anything more?

Courtier (rising). No. If you will only keep calm now, you may go very far. Oh, yes—I came near forgetting the best part of all. My dear Pastor, permit me to congratulate you! Here is your appointment. Pastor of the city church, with an income of three thousand, at your age—indeed, you could now settle down in peace and enjoy life, even if you were never to get any further. It is splendid to have reached one's goal while still so young. I congratulate you! [Exit.]

Olof (flinging the appointment on the floor). So this is all that I have fought and suffered for! An appointment! A royal appointment! I have been serving Belial instead of God! Woe be to you, false King, who have sold your Lord and God! Alas for me, who have sold my life and my labors to mammon! O God in Heaven, forgive me! (He throws himself, weeping, on a bench.)

[Enter Christine and Gert. Christine comes forward, while Gert remains in the background.]

Christine (picks up the appointment and reads it; then she runs to Olof, her face beaming). Now, Olof, I can wish you joy with a happy heart! (She starts to caress him, but he leaps to his feet and pushes her away.)

Olof. Leave me alone! You, too!

Gert (coming forward). Well, Olof, the faith—

Olof. The lack of faith, you mean!

Gert. The Pope is beaten, isn't he? Hadn't we better begin with the Emperor soon?

Olof. We began at the wrong end.

Gert. At last!

Olof. You were right, Gert! I am with you now! It's war, but it must be open and honest.

Gert. Until to-day you have been dreaming childish dreams.

Olof. I know it. Now the flood is coming! Let it come! Alas for them and for us!

Christine. Olof, for Heaven's sake, stop!

Olof. Leave me, child! Here you will be drowned, or you will drag me down.

Gert. What made you venture out in the storm, my child?

[Exit Christine.]

(The ringing of bells, the joyful shouting of crowds, and the sounding of drums and trumpets become audible.)

Olof (going to the window). What has set the people shouting?

Gert. The King is providing them with a maypole and music outside North Gate.

Olof. And are they not aware that he will chasten them with swords instead of rods?

Gert. Aware? If they were!

Olof. Poor children! They dance to his piping and follow his drums to their death! Must all die, then, in order that one may live?

Gert. No, one shall die that all may live!

(Olof makes a gesture dismay and repugnance.)



ACT IV

(A Room in the House of Olof's Mother. At the right stands a bedstead with four posts, in which the Mother is lying sick. Christine is asleep on a chair. Lars Pedersson is renewing the oil of the night-lamp and turning the hour glass.)

Lars (speaking to himself). Midnight—Now comes the critical time. (He goes to the bed and listens. At that moment Christine moans in her sleep. He crosses the room and wakens her.) Christine! (She wakes with a start.) Go to bed, child; I will watch.

Christine. No, I will wait. I must speak to her before she dies—I think Olof should be here soon.

Lars. It is for his sake you are watching!

Christine. Yes, and you mustn't say that I have slept. Do you hear?

Lars. Poor girl!—You're not happy!

Christine. Who says one should be happy?

Lars. Does Olof know that you are here?

Christine. No, he would never permit it. He wants to keep me like the carved image of some saint standing on a shelf. The smaller and weaker he can make me, the greater is his pleasure in placing his strength at my feet—

Mother (waking). Lars! (Christine holds back Lars and steps forward.) Who is that?

Christine. The nurse.

Mother. Christine!

Christine. Do you want anything?

Mother. Nothing from you.

Christine. Dame Christine!

Mother. Don't make my last moments more bitter. Go away from here!

Lars (coming forward). What do you want, mother?

Mother. Take away that woman! And bring the father confessor—I shall soon die.

Lars. Is not your own son worthy of receiving your last confidences?

Mother. No, he has done nothing to deserve them. Has Marten come yet?

Lars. Marten is a bad man.

Mother. O Lord, how terrible Thy punishment! My children standing between myself and Thee! Am I then to be denied the consolations of religion in my last moments? You have taken my life—do you want to destroy my soul, too—the soul of your mother? (She falls into a faint.)

Lars. Do you hear that, Christine! What are we to do? Shall we let her die in the deception practised on her by a miserable wretch like Marten—and perhaps get her thanks for it—or shall we turn her final prayer into a curse? No, let them come, rather! Or what do you think, Christine?

Christine. I dare not think at all.

Lars (goes out for a moment, but returns quickly). Oh, it is horrible! They have fallen asleep over their dice and their tumblers. And by such as those my mother is to be prepared for her death!

Christine. But why not tell her the truth?

Lars. She won't believe it, and it is cast back on us as a lie.

Mother. My son, won't you listen to your mother's last request?

Lars (going out). May God forgive me!

Christine. Olof would never have done that!

(Lars returns with Marten and Nils, whereupon he leads Christine out of the room.)

Marten (going up to the bed). She's sleeping.

Nils (places a box on the floor, opens it, and begins to take out aspersorium, censer, chrismatory, palms, and candles). That means we can't go to work yet.

Marten. If we have waited all this time, we can afford to wait a little longer—provided that damned priest doesn't show up.

Nils. Master Olof, you mean?—Do you think that fellow out there noticed anything?

Marten. What do I care? As soon as the old woman gives up the coin, I am free.

Nils. You 're a pretty thorough-paced rascal, you are!

Marten. Yes, but I am getting tired of it. I am beginning to long for peace. Do you know what life is?

Nils. No.

Marten. Pleasure! "The flesh was God!" Isn't that the way it's written somewhere?

Nils. "The Word became flesh," you mean?

Marten. Oh, yes—of course!

Nils. You might have been it pretty big man, with your head!

Marten. Yes, indeed! That's what they feared, and that's why they whipped the soul out of my body in the convent—for after all I had a soul once! But now there's nothing but body left, and now the body is going to have its turn.

Nils. And I suppose they whipped all conscience out of you at the same time?

Marten. Well, practically.—But now I want that recipe for spiced Rochelle which you were talking of when we fell asleep out there.

Nils. Did I say Rochelle? I meant claret. That is, it can be either the one or the other. Well, you take a gallon of wine and half a pound of cardamom that has been well cleaned—

Marten. Hush—damn you! She is moving. Out with the book!

Nils (keeps on reading in an undertone during the following scene).

Aufer immensam, Deus aufer iram; Et cruentatum cohibe flagellum Nec scelus nostrum proferes ad aequam Pendere lancem.

Mother. Is that you, Marten?

Marten. It's Brother Nils praying to the Holy Virgin. (Nils lights the censer without interrupting his reading.)

Mother. What a precious boon to hear the word of the Lord in the sacred tongue!

Marten. No sweeter sacrifice is known to God than the prayers of pious souls.

Mother. Like the incense, my heart is set on fire with holy devotion.

Marten (sprinkling her with holy water). The stains of sin are by your God washed off!

Mother. Amen!—Marten, I am passing away—The godlessness of the King makes it impossible for me by earthly gifts to strengthen the Holy Church in her power of saving souls. You are a pious man—take my property and pray for me and for my children. Pray that the Almighty may turn their hearts away from all lies, so that some time we may meet again in heaven.

Marten (taking the bag of money she hands him). Goodwife, your sacrifice is acceptable to the Lord, and for your sake my prayers will be heard by God.

Mother. I want to sleep awhile in order to be strong enough to receive the last sacrament.

Marten. No one shall disturb your final moments—not even those who were your children once.

Mother. It seems cruel, Father Marten, but it's the will of God. (She falls asleep; Marten and Nils withdraw from the bed.)

Marten (opening the bag and kissing the gold coins). What stores of pleasure lie hidden beneath the hardness of this gold—Ah!

Nils. Are we going now?

Marten. Oh, we might, as our errand here is done, but I think it would be a pity to let the old woman die unsaved.

Nils. Unsaved?

Marten. Yes!

Nils. Do you believe in that?

Marten. It's hard to know what one is to believe nowadays. One dies happily in this faith, and another in that. All assert that they have found the truth.

Nils. And if you were to die now, Marten?

Marten. That's out of the question!

Nils. But if?

Marten. Then I suppose I should go to heaven like the rest. But I should prefer to settle a small account with Master Olof first. You see, there is one pleasure that surpasses all the rest, and that's the pleasure of revenge.

Nils. What has he done to you?

Marten. He has dared to see through me; he has exposed me; he can read what I am thinking—Oh!

Nils. And that's why you hate him?

Marten. Isn't that enough? (Somebody is heard knocking on the door leading to the street.) Somebody is coming! Read, damn you!

(Nils begins to drone out the same verse as before. The sound of a key being inserted in the lock is heard. The door is opened from the outside.)

[Enter Olof, looking greatly agitated.]

Mother (waking up). Father Marten!

Olof (goes to the bed). Here is your son, mother! Why didn't you let me know that you were sick?

Mother. Farewell, Olof! I forgive you all the evil you have done to me, if you will not disturb the few moments I need to prepare myself for heaven. Father Marten! Bring here the sacred ointment, so that I may die in peace.

Olof. So that's why you didn't call me! (He catches sight of the money bag which Marten has forgotten to hide, and snatches it away from the monk.) Oh, souls are being bartered here! And this was to be the price! Leave this room and this death-bed! Here is my place, not yours!

Marten. You mean to prevent us from fulfilling our office?

Olof. I am showing you the door!

Marten. As long as we are not suspended, we are doing our duty here by the King's authority, and not by the Pope's.

Olof. I shall cleanse the Church of the lord without regard to the will of King or Pope.

Mother. Will you plunge my soul into perdition, Olof? Will you let me die with a curse?

Olof. Calm yourself, mother! You are not going to die in a lie. Seek your God in prayer, He is not so far away as you believe.

Marten. A man who won't save his own mother from the pangs of purgatory must be the Devil's prophet indeed.

Mother. Christ Jesu, help my soul!

Olof. Will you leave this room, or must I use force? Take away that rubbish! (He kicks the ritual accessories across the floor.)

Marten. I'll go if you'll let me have the money your mother has given to the Church.

Mother. So that's why you came, Olof? You wanted my gold! Let him have it, Marten. I'll let you have all of it, Olof, if you will only leave me in peace! I'll give you more than that! I'll let you have everything!

Olof (driven to despair). In God's name, take the money and go! I beg you!

Marten (grabbing the bag and going out with Nils). Where the Devil is abroad, there our power ends, Dame Christine! (To Olof.) As a heretic you are lost for all eternity! As a law-breaker you will get your punishment right here! Beware of the King! [Exeunt.]

Olof (kneeling beside his mother's bed). Mother, listen to me before you die! (The Mother has lost consciousness.) Mother, mother, if you are alive, speak to your son! Forgive me, but I could not act except as I have done. I know you have been suffering all your life for my sake. You have been praying to God that I should keep His paths. The Lord has heard your prayer. Do you want me now to render your whole life futile? Do you want me now, by obeying you, to destroy that structure which has cost you so much in toil and tears? Forgive me!

Mother. Olof, my soul is no longer of this world—it's out of another life I speak to you: turn back! Break that unclean bond which ties your body only. Take back the faith you got from me, and I will forgive you!

Olof (weeping bitterly). Mother! Mother!

Mother. Swear that you will do it!

Olof (after long silence). No!

Mother. The curse of God is upon you—I see Him—I see His angry look—Help me, Holy Virgin!

Olof. That is not the God of love!

Mother. It is the God of retribution!—It is you who have provoked His ire—and it is you who now cast me into the flames of His wrath!—Cursed be the hour when I bore you! (She dies.)

Olof. Mother! Mother! (He takes her hand.) She's dead! And she has not forgiven me!—Oh, if your soul be still within this room, behold your son: I will do your will, and what was sacred to you shall be sacred to me! (He lights the tall wax candles left behind by the friars and places them around the bed.) You shall have the consecrated candles that are to light your road. (He puts a palm leaf in her hand.) And with this palm of peace shall come forgetfulness of that last struggle with what was earthly. Oh, mother, if you see me now, then you must forgive me! (In the meantime the sun has risen, and the red glow of its first rays lights up the curtains; at the sight of it, Olof leaps to his feet.) You make my candles fade, O morning sun! You have more love than I! (He goes to the window and opens it.)

Lars (entering softly and looking around surprised). Olof!

Olof (putting his arms around him). Brother, all is over! Lars (goes to the bed and kneels for a moment; then he rises again). She is dead! (He prays silently.) You were here alone?

Olof. It was you who let in the monks.

Lars. And you who drove them out.

Olof. That should have been your task.

Lars. She forgave you?

Olof. She died with a curse on her lips. (Pause.)

Lars (pointing to the candles). Who arranged these ceremonies? (Pause.)

Olof (irritated and humiliated). I weakened for a moment.

Lars. So you are human, after all? I thank you for it!

Olof. Are you mocking my weakness?

Lars. I am praising it.

Olof. And I am cursing it!—God in heaven, am I not right?

Lars. No, you are wrong.

[Enter Christine while Lars is still speaking.]

Christine. You are too much in the right!

Olof. Christine, what are you doing here?

Christine. It was so silent and lonesome at home.

Olof. I asked you not to come here.

Christine. I thought I might be of some use, but I see now—Another time I shall stay at home.

Olof. You have been awake all night?

Christine. That is nothing! I will go now if you tell me to!

Olof. Go in there and rest a little while we talk. (Christine begins absentmindedly to extinguish the candles.)

Olof. What are you doing, dear?

Christine. Why, it is full daylight.

(Lars gives Olof a significant glance.)

Olof. My mother is dead, Christine.

Christine (as she goes to Olof to let him kiss her on the forehead, the look on her face is compassionate but cold). I am sorry for your loss. [Exit Christine.]

(Pause. The brothers look for a moment in the direction where she disappeared, then at each other.)

Lars. I beg you, Olof, as your friend and brother, don't go on as you have been doing.

Olof. The old story! But he who has put his axe to the tree cannot draw back until the tree is down. The King has betrayed our cause. Now I will see what I can do for it.

Lars. The King is wise.

Olof. He is a miser, a traitor, and a protector of the nobility. First he uses me to hunt his game, and then he wants to kick me out.

Lars. He sees farther than you do. If you were to go to three million people, telling them: "Your faith is false; believe my words instead"—do you think it possible that they would at once cast aside their most intimate and most keenly experienced conviction, which until then had been a support to them in sorrow as well as in joy? No, the life of the soul would be in a bad condition, indeed, if all the old things could be disposed of so quickly.

Olof. But it is not so. The whole people is full of doubt. Among the priests there is hardly one who knows what to believe—if he cares to believe anything at all. Everything is ready for the new, and it is only you who are to blame—you weaklings whose consciences will not permit you to sow doubt where nothing but a feeble faith remains.

Lars. Look out, Olof! You wish to play the part of God.

Olof. Well, that is what we must do, for I don't think that He Himself intends to conic down to us any more.

Lars. You are tearing down and tearing down, Olof, so that soon there will be nothing left, and when people ask, "What do we get instead?" you always answer, "Not this," "Not that," but never once do you answer, "This."

Olof. Presumptuous man! Do you think faith can be given by one to another? Do you think that Luther has given us anything new? No! He has merely torn away the screens that had been placed around the light. The new that I want is doubt of the old, not because it is old, but because it is decaying. (Lars points toward their mother's body.) I know what you mean. She was too old, and I thank God that she is dead. Now I am free—only now! God has willed it!

Lars. Either you have lost your senses, or you are a wicked man!

Olof. Don't reproach me! I have as much respect for our mother's memory as you have, but if she had not died now, I don't know how far my sacrifices might have gone. Have you noticed in the springtime, brother, how the fallen leaves of yesteryear cover the ground as if to smother all the young; things that are coming out? What do these do? They push aside the withered leaves, or pass right through them, because they must get up!

Lars. You are right to a certain extent.—Olof, you broke the laws of the Church during a time of lawlessness and unrest. What could be forgiven then must be punished now. Don't force the King to appear worse than he is. Don't let your scorn for the law and your wilfulness force him to punish a man to whom he acknowledges himself indebted.

Olof. Nothing is more wilful than his own rule, and he must learn to tolerate the same thing in others. Tell me you have taken service with the King—are you going to work against me?

Lars. I am.

Olof. Then we are enemies, and that is what I need, for the old ones have disappeared.

Lars. But the tie of blood, Olof—

Olof. I know it only in its source, which is the heart.

Lars. Yet you wept for our mother.

Olof. Weakness, or perhaps a touch of old devotion and gratitude, but not because of the tie of blood. What is it, anyhow?

Lars. You are tired out, Olof.

Olof. Yes, I feel exhausted; I have been awake all night.

Lars. You were so late in coming.

Olof. I was out.

Lars. Your doings seem to shun the daylight.

Olof. The daylight shuns my doings.

Lars. Beware of false apostles of freedom!

Olof (struggling with sleepiness and fatigue). That's a self-contradictory term. Oh, don't talk to me—I can't stand any more. I spoke so much at our meeting—But you don't know about our society—Concordia res parvae crescunt—We mean to continue the Reformation—Gert is a farsighted man—I seem so small beside him—Good-night, Lars! (He falls asleep on a chair.)

Lars (stands looking at him with solicitude). Poor brother—may God protect you! (Resounding blows on the street door are heard.) What's that? (He goes to the window.)

Gert (outside). For God's sake, open!

Lars. Why, it isn't a matter of life and death, Father Gert. [Exit.]

Gert (outside). In God's name, let me in!

[Enter Christine with a blanket.]

Christine. Olof, why are they knocking like that? He's asleep! (She wraps him up in the blanket.) Oh, that I were Sleep, so that you might flee to me when tired out by your struggles!

(The rattle of a heavy cart is heard; then the cart comes to a stop outside the house.).

Olof (waking up with a start). Is it five already?

Christine. No, it is only three.

Olof. Wasn't that a baker's cart I heard?

Christine. I don't know, but I don't think it would make such a noise. (She goes to the window.) Look, Olof! What can this he?

Olof (going to the window). The headsman's cart!—No, it isn't that.

Christine. It is a hearse!

[Enter Lars and Gert.]

Lars. The plague!

All. The plague!

Gert. The plague is here! Christine, my child, leave this house! The angel of death has put his mark upon the gate.

Olof. Who sent the cart?

Gert. The man who put the black cross on the door. No dead body must be left a moment in the house.

Olof. Then Marten was the angel of death—and all is nothing but a lie.

Gert. Look out of the window, and you'll see that the cart is loaded full. (Blows are heard at the street door again.) You hear! They're waiting!

Olof. Without proper burial? That shall never be!

Lars. Without ceremonies, Olof!

Gert. Come away with me, Christine, from this dreadful place! I'll take you out of the city to some healthier spot.

Christine. I will stay with Olof after this. If you, father, had loved me a little less, you would not have done so much harm.

Gert. Olof, you who have the power, command her to follow me

Olof. I set her free from your tyranny once, you selfish man, and she shall never return to it again.

Gert. Christine, get out of this house, at least!

Christine. Not a step until Olof orders me.

Olof. I will no longer order you at all, Christine—remember that!

[Enter several Buriers.]

Burier. I've come for a body. No time to spare!

Olof. Begone from here!

Burier. The King's order!

Lars. Consider what you do, Olof! The law demands it!

Gert. This is no time to hesitate! The crazy mob is aroused against you. This house was the first one to be marked, and they are crying: "God's punishment upon the heretic!"

Olof (kneeling beside the bed). Mother, forgive! (Rising.) Do your duty!

(The Buriers come forward and begin to get their ropes ready.)

Gert (aside to Olof). "God's punishment upon the King" is our cry!



ACT V

SCENE I

(The Cemetery of the Convent of St. Clara. In the background appears a partly demolished convent building, from which a gang of workmen are carrying out timber and debris. At the left is a mortuary chapel. Its windows are lighted from within, and whenever the door is opened, a brilliantly illuminated crucifix on the chancel wall, with a sarcophagus standing in front of it, becomes visible. A number of the graves have been opened. The moon is just rising from behind the ruined convent. Windrank is seated outside the chapel door. Singing is heard from within the chapel.)

[Enter Nils.]

Nils (goes up to Windrank). Good evening, Windrank.

Windrank. Please don't talk to me.

Nils. What's the matter now?

Windrank. Didn't you hear what I told you?

Nils. Has your scurvy ending as a skipper affected you so badly that you think of turning monk?

Windrank. 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57.

Nils. You haven't lost your reason, have you?

Windrank. 58, 59, 60—In the name of Jesu, get away from here!

Nils. You had better have a little nightcap with me.

Windrank. 64, 65—That's what I expected! Get you gone, tempter! I'll never take a drink again—until the day after to-morrow.

Nils. But it's a fine remedy against the plague, and with all this cadaverous stuff about, you had better be careful.

Windrank. 70—So you really think it's good for the plague?

Nils. Excellent!

Windrank. Only a drop, then! (He drinks from the bottle offered him by Nils.)

Nils. Only a drop! But tell me, are you suffering from vertigo since you are counting to a hundred?

Windrank. Hush! Hush! There's an epoch coming.

Nils. An epoch?

Windrank. Yes, the day after to-morrow.

Nils. And that's why you keep counting like that?

Windrank. No, it's only because I find it so hard to hold my tongue. Now, for heaven's sake, keep quiet! Please go away, or you'll get me into trouble!—71, 72, 73.

Nils. Who's inside?

Windrank. 74, 75.

Nils. Is it a funeral?

Windrank. 76, 77.—Go to hell, won't you!

Nils. Just another tiny drop, and the counting will be easier.

Windrank. Just a little one—I will! (He drinks. Singing is heard outside.)

Nils. Here come the nuns of St. Clara to celebrate the memory of their saint for the last time.

Windrank. That's fine mummery in days like these when everybody is getting educated.

Nils. They have obtained the King's permission. You see, the plague broke out in the parish of St. Clara, and some believe it was because of the godless destruction of St. Clara's convent.

Windrank. And now they mean to drive away the plague with singing—as if that bugaboo were a hater of music. But, of course, it wouldn't be a wonder if he did flee from their hoarse screeching.

Nils. Will you please tell me who has dared to invade this last sanctuary—for it's here the bones of the Saint are to be deposited before the place is torn down entirely.

Windrank. Then there'll be a fight, I fear.

[The singing has drawn nearer. A procession enters, made up of Dominican friars and Franciscan nuns, headed by Marten. They come to a halt and continue singing, while the workmen are making a great deal of noise in the background.]

Procession. Cur super vermes luteos furorem Sunnis, O magni fabricator orbis! Quid sumus quam fex, putris, umbra, pulvis Glebaque terrae!

Marten (to the Abbess). You can see, my sister, how the abode of the Lord has been despoiled.

Abbess. The Lord who has delivered us into the hands of the Egyptians will also set its free in due time.