X speaks while Mlle. Y remains silent throughout. Although Mlle. Y has no actual lines, her gestures, groans, and eruptions into laughter are more expressive than words, even as she feigns indifference reading her magazine and sipping her beer. Bowman, whose imposing presence in Facing Death was compromised by a muddled delivery of lines hardly justifiable in a staged reading, redeemed herself as the silent Mlle.
Her silence, Mme. Works Cited: Dante. Robert Haller. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. Vincent B. Strindberg, August. Plays from the Cynical Life. Seattle and London: U of Washington P, Strindberg—Other Sides: Seven Plays. And yet, in this one simple scene Strindberg creates an episode of incredible, poetic power — a snapshot of life so intense, so powerful, that it rivals Beckett at his best. It is moreover, a powerful play, one that makes a deep impression, and leaves one with the illusion that one has travelled far and seen much, even though the entire thing is actually incredibly short.
What is it that makes the play so powerful? To begin with, it is an immaculate piece of stagecraft. Strindberg uses a combination of stage directions and reactions from Mrs.
X to ensure that Miss Y is more than a passive listener and that her responses or at any rate, Mrs. As the play progresses, we discover that Miss Y and Mrs. Except that the play never really corroborates this — we only know that by the end of the scene Mrs.
X believes that this is true. So the play lends itself to two very different readings: in the first, Mrs. X is an astute wife who discovers the truth about Miss Y and her husband; in the second, Mrs.
Or, as Mrs. X would have it, is she the stronger one, because she has accepted the truth about her husband and found a way to go on? This divergence of interpretation brings us to the first of the allegories implicit in the play — the debate about gender roles. In this simple little episode, Strindberg captures wonderfully the fundamental duality of the role women play in society. In Mrs. X we have the woman as caring mother and devoted wife, a person who has lost all individuality and been completely reshaped by the demands of her husband, a woman who glories in the stability and warmth of the family life she has achieved.
On the other hand, we have Y, who is the independent woman, who lives her life her own way and is able, because of her independence to shape others to her personality, but who ultimately ends up alone in a restaurant on Christmas Eve. What makes this particularly interesting, of course, is that Strindberg is not a writer one associates with sensitive portrayals of women see for instance, the grotesque caricature that is Miss Julia.
But there is, I think, a deeper allegory here. I felt that, and I wanted you to feel it. You always had the advantage.
You could hypnotize me when I was wide awake, so that I neither saw nor heard, but merely obeyed; you could give me a raw potato and make me imagine it was a peach; you could force me to admire your foolish caprices as though they were strokes of genius. You could have influenced me to crime, yes, even to mean, paltry deeds.
Because you lacked intelligence, instead of carrying out my ideas you acted on your own judgment. But when at last I awoke, I realized that my honor had been corrupted and I wanted to blot out the memory by a great deed, an achievement, a discovery, or an honorable suicide. I wanted to go to war, but was not permitted. It was then that I threw myself into science. And now when I was about to reach out my hand to gather in its fruits, you chop off my arm.
Now I am dishonored and can live no longer, for a man cannot live without honor. Yes, for she has her children, which he has not. But, like the rest of mankind, we lived our lives unconscious as children, full of imagination, ideals, and illusions, and then we awoke; it was all over.
But we awoke with our feet on the pillow, and he who waked us was himself a sleep-walker. When women grow old and cease to be women, they get beards on their chins; I wonder what men get when they grow old and cease to be men. Those who crowed were no longer cocks but capons, and the pullets answered their call, so that when we thought the sun was about to rise we found ourselves in the bright moon light amid ruins, just as in the good old times.
It had only been a little morning slumber with wild dreams, and there was no awakening. Now I am sleepy, so if you have any more fantastic visions keep them till to-morrow. This is like race hatred. If it is true that we are descended from monkeys, at least it must be from two separate species.
We are certainly not like one another, are we? Yes, and a legal power with which I shall put you under the control of a guardian. And then I shall educate my child without listening to your fantastic notions. With this letter of which an attested copy is in the hands of the board of lunacy. Your declaration to the doctor that you are insane. You must go, since you have realized that my intellect is as strong as my will, and since you will not stay and acknowledge it.
Another lamp on the table. The private door is barricaded with a chair. Give them to me, no! Yes, but this seems like downright stealing. Do you hear him walking up there, Ma'am? Back and forth, back and forth.
Control your feelings, Margret. We must be calm if we are to be saved. Give it to me [Reads] Ah! Good, wait outside while I answer the Colonel's letter. Laura writes. And my mother must not know anything about all this. Do you hear? The Pastor comes in, he takes a chair and sits near Laura by the desk.
Good evening, sister. I have been away all day, as you know, and only just got back. Terrible things have been happening here. Tell me one thing, how did it begin? I have heard so many different versions. It began with his wild idea of not being Bertha's father, and ended with his throwing the lighted lamp in my face. But this is dreadful! It is fully developed insanity. And what is to be done now? We must try to prevent further violence and the doctor has sent to the hospital for a straightjacket.
In the meantime I have sent a message to the Colonel, and I am now trying to straighten out the affairs of the household, which he has carried on in a most reprehensible manner. This is a deplorable story, but I have always expected something of the sort. Fire and powder must end in an explosion.
What have you got in the drawer there? Good Heavens, here is your doll and here is your christening cap and Bertha's rattle; and your letters; and the locket. I never kept such things! What is that big paper? The receipt for a grave! Yes, better the grave than the lunatic asylum! Laura, tell me, are you blameless in all this? You can hardly deny that it suits you pretty well to be able to educate your child as you wish? And I am to become the guardian of that free-thinker!
Do you know I have always looked on him as a weed in our garden. You are strong, Laura, incredibly strong. You are like a fox in a trap, you would rather gnaw off your own leg than let yourself be caught! Like a master thief—no accomplice, not even your own conscience. Look at yourself in the glass! You dare not! No, you dare not! Let me look at your hand. Not a tell-tale blood stain, not a trace of insidious poison!
A little innocent murder that the law cannot reach, an unconscious crime—unconscious! What a splendid idea! Do you hear how he is working up there? Take care!
If that man gets loose he will make short work of you. You see! You cannot, and therefore I am innocent. You take care of your ward, and I will take care of mine! Here's the doctor. Good evening, Doctor. You at least will help me, won't you? But unfortunately there is not much that can be done.
Do you hear how he is carrying on up there? Are you convinced now? I am convinced that an act of violence has been committed, but the question now is whether that act of violence can be considered an outbreak of passion or madness. But apart from the actual outbreak, you must acknowledge that he has "fixed ideas. We'll leave settled views out of this. Madam, it rests with you to decide whether your husband is guilty to the extent of imprisonment and fine or should be put in an asylum!
How do you class his behavior? That is to say you have no decided opinion as to what will be most advantageous to the interests of the family? What do you say, Pastor? But if he is only sentenced to a fine for violence, he will be able to repeat the violence. And if he is sent to prison he will soon be out again. Therefore we consider it most advantageous for all parties that he should be immediately treated as insane.
Where is the nurse? She must put the straightjacket on the patient when I have talked to him and given the order! But not before. I have—the—garment out here. I want you to pay attention to this. We want you to slip this jacket on the Captain, from behind, you understand, when I find it necessary to prevent another outbreak of violence.
You notice it has very long sleeves to prevent his moving and they are to be tied at the back. Here are two straps that go through buckles which are afterwards fastened to the arm of a chair or the sofa or whatever is convenient.
Will you do it? Because the patient distrusts me. You, Madam, would seem to be the one to do it, but I fear he distrusts even you. You know the circumstances here; you know that the Captain is out of his mind and you must help us to take care of him.
No, he shan't touch him. I would rather do it myself, very, very gently. He can do that. There he is! Put the jacket under your shawl on the chair, and you must all go out for the time being and the Pastor and I will receive him, for that door will not hold out many minutes.
Now go. After a moment the private door is forced open, with such violence that the lock is broken and the chair is thrown into the middle of the room. The Captain comes in with a pile of books under his arm, which he puts on the table. The whole thing is to be read here, in every book.
So I wasn't out of my mind after all! Here it is in the Odyssey, book first, verse , page 6 of the Upsala translation.
It is Telemachus speaking to Athene. Beautiful, eh? And here we have the prophet Ezekiel: "The fool saith; behold here is my father, but who can tell whose loins engendered him. And what have we here? Alexander Puschkin, Russia's greatest poet, died of torture front the reports circulated about his wife's unfaithfulness rather than by the bullet in his breast, from a duel.
On his death-bed he swore she was innocent. Ass, ass! How could he swear to it? You see, I read my books. Ah, Jonas, art you here? Have you heard what I answered when an English lady complained about Irishmen who used to throw lighted lamps in their wives' faces? One never knows anything. One only believes. Isn't that true, Jonas? One believes and then one is saved! Yes, to be sure. No, I know that one can be damned by his faith. I know that. I don't want to talk to you; I won't listen to you repeating their chatter in there, like a telephone!
In there! You know! Look here, Jonas; do you believe that you are the father of your children? I remember that you had a tutor in your house who had a handsome face, and the people gossiped about him.
Grope under your toupee and feel if there are not two bumps there. By my soul, I believe he turns pale! Yes, yes, they will talk; but, good Lord, they talk so much. Still we are a lot of ridiculous dupes, we married men. Isn't that true, Doctor? How was it with your marriage bed? Didn't you have a lieutenant in the house, eh? Wait a moment and I will make a guess—his name was—[whispers in the Doctor's ear].
You see he turns pale, too! Don't be disturbed. She is dead and buried and what is done can't be undone. I knew him well, by the way, and he is now—look at me, Doctor—No, straight in my eyes—a major in the cavalry! By God, if I don't believe he has horns, too. Do you see? He immediately wants to talk of something else when I mention horns. Yes; I know that well enough. But if I only had the handling of your illustrious brains for awhile I'd soon have you shut up, too!
I am mad, but how did I become so? That doesn't concern you, and it doesn't concern anyone. But you want to talk of something else now. We can never know. Do you know what we would have to do to make sure? First, one should marry to get the respect of society, then be divorced soon after and become lovers, and finally adopt the children.
Then one would at least be sure that they were one's adopted children. Isn't that right? But how can all that help us now? What can keep me now that you have taken my conception of immortality from me, what use is science and philosophy to me when I have nothing to live for, what can I do with life when I am dishonored?
I grafted my right arm, half my brain, half my marrow on another trunk, for I believed they would knit themselves together and grow into a more perfect tree, and then someone came with a knife and cut below the graft, and now I am only half a tree.
But the other half goes on growing with my arm and half my brain, while I wither and die, for they were the best parts I gave away. Now I want to die. Do with me as you will. I am no more. The Doctor whispers to the Pastor, and they go out through the door left. Soon after Bertha comes in.
Do you know what you have done? Do you know that you threw the lamp at Mother? Am I not your father? How do you know that? Who told you that? And who is your father, then? Still not I? Who, then? You seem to be well informed. Who told you? That I should live to see my child come and tell me to my face that I am not her father! But don't you know that you disgrace your mother when you say that? Don't you know that it is to her shame if it is so? No; you hold together, every one of you, against me!
Bertha, dear, dear child, you are my child! Yes, Yes; it cannot be otherwise. It is so. The other was only sickly thoughts that come with the wind like pestilence and fever. Look at me that I may see my soul in your eyes! You have two souls and you love me with one and hate me with the other.
But you must only love me! You must have only one soul, or you will never have peace, nor I either. You must have only one mind, which is the child of my mind and one will, which is my will.
You must not. You see, I am a cannibal, and I want to eat you. Your mother wanted to eat me, but she was not allowed to. I am Saturn who ate his children because it had been prophesied that they would eat him. To eat or be eaten! That is the question. If I do not eat you, you will eat me, and you have already shown your teeth! But don't be frightened my dear child; I won't harm you. Yes, I put them away when I was tidying up, but sit down and be quiet and I'll get them out again!
Then she takes out the straitjacket and goes behind the chair. Bertha slips out left. Adolf, do you remember when you were my dear little boy and I tucked you in at night and used to repeat: "God who holds his children dear" to you, and do you remember how I used to get up in the night and give you a drink, how I would light the candle and tell you stories when you had bad dreams and couldn't sleep?
Do you remember all that? O yes, but you must listen then! Do you remember when you took the big kitchen knife and wanted to cut out boats with it, and how I came in and had to get the knife away by fooling you? You were just a little child who didn't understand, so I had to fool you, for you didn't know that it was for your own good. And then I took your little blouse that was just made of green wool and held it in front of you and said: "In with both arms," and then I said, "Now sit nice and still while I button it down the back," [She puts the straightjacket on] and then I said, "Get up now, and walk across the floor like a good boy so I can see how it fits.
What did you say? Was I to go to bed when I was dressed—damnation! Who would have thought you had so much wit. Forgive me, Mr. Adolf, forgive me, but I wanted to keep you from killing your child.
Why didn't you let me? You say life is hell and death the kingdom of heaven, and children belong to heaven. That is the only thing we do know, but of life we know nothing! Oh, if one had only known from the beginning. Adolf, humble your hard heart and cry to God for mercy; it is not yet too late. It was not too late for the thief on the cross, when the Saviour said, "Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.
Throw this woman out! She wants to suffocate me with her hymn-book. Throw her out of the window, or up the chimney, or anywhere. Heaven help you, Captain, but I can't do that, I can't.
If it were only six men, but a woman! Of course I can,—but—well, you see, it's queer, but one never wants to lay hands on a woman. Yes, but I can't, Captain. It's just as if you asked me to strike the Pastor. It's second nature, like religion, I can't! Omphale, Omphale! Now you play with the club while Hercules spins your wool. Yes, I do. I believe that you are all my enemies! My mother was my enemy when she did not want to bring me into the world because I was to be born with pain, and she robbed my embryonic life of its nourishment, and made a weakling of me.
My sister was my enemy when she taught me that I must be submissive to her. The first woman I embraced was my enemy, for she gave me ten years of illness in return for the love I gave her. My daughter became my enemy when she had to choose between me and you.
And you, my wife, you have been my arch enemy, because you never let up on me till I lay here lifeless. I don't know that. I ever thought or even intended what you think I did. It may be that a dim desire to get rid of you as an obstacle lay at the bottom of it, and if you see any design in my behavior, it is possible that it existed, although I was unconscious of it.
I have never thought how it all came about, but it is the result of the course you yourself laid out, and before God and my conscience I feel that I am innocent, even if I am not. Your existence has lain like a stone on my heart—lain so heavily that I tried to shake off the oppressive burden. This is the truth, and if I have unconsciously struck you down, I ask your forgiveness.
All that sounds plausible. So that's it! Pfui, I won't sit at the same table with you. Oh, my God, it's fearful, when I think about it; it's fearful! Everything, everything, came from you to me, even your passion! Your soul crept into mine, like a worm into an apple, ate and ate, grubbed and grubbed, until nothing was left but the rind within. I wanted to fly from you, but I couldn't; you lay like a snake and enchanted me with your black eyes--I felt as if the branch gave way and let me fall.
I lay with feet bound together in the water and swam mightily with my hands, but the harder I struggled the deeper I worked myself under, until I sank to the bottom, where you lay like a giant crab ready to catch hold of me with your claws--and I just lay there! But you, you only sit there and keep silent, peacefully, indifferently, indifferent as to whether the moon waxes or wanes, whether it is Christmas or New Year, whether others are happy or unhappy, without the ability to hate or to love, as composed as a stork by a mouse hole.
You can't make conquests yourself, you can't keep a man's love, but you can steal away that love from others! Here you sit in your corner--do you know they have named a mouse-trap after you? Unhappy like a wounded animal, and spiteful because you are wounded! I can't be angry with you, no matter how much I want to be--because you come out at the small end of the horn. Yes; that affair with Bob--I don't care about that.
What is that to me, after all? And if I learned to drink chocolate from you or from somebody else, what difference does it make. And if you taught me how to dress--tant mieux--that only makes me more attractive to my husband.
And you lost what I won. Yes, to sum up: I believe you have lost him. But it was certainly your intent that I should go my own road--do as you did and regret as you now regret--but I don't do that!
We won't be mean, will we? And why should I take only what nobody else will have? You get nothing from me, but you gave me much. And now I appear like a thief to you. You wake up and find I possess what you have lost! How was it that everything in your hands was worthless and sterile?
You can hold no man's love with your tulips and your passion, as I can.
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