Chapter 11

That fellow will come to a bad end.--Take him under the arm, Neumann. Easy now, easy; we'll get him into my room. What?

NEUMANN

He said something, Mr. Dreissiger. His lips are moving.

DREISSIGER

What--what is it, boy?

BOY

[_Whispers._] I'm h-hungry.

WOMAN

I think he says--

DREISSIGER

We'll find out. Don't stop. Let us get him into my room. He can lie on the sofa there, We'll hear what the doctor says.

_DREISSIGER, NEUMANN, and the woman lead the boy into the office. The weavers begin to behave like school-children when their master has left the classroom. They stretch themselves, whisper, move from one foot to the other, and in the course of a few moments are conversing loudly._

OLD BAUMERT

I believe as how Becker was right.

CHORUS OF WEAVERS AND WOMEN

"He did say something like that."--"It's nothin' new here to fall down from hunger."--"God knows what's to come of 'em in winter if this cuttin' down o' wages goes on."--"An' this year the potatoes aren't no good at all."--"Things'll get worse and worse till we're all done for together."

OLD BAUMERT

The best thing a man could do would be to put a rope round his neck and hang hisself on his own loom, like weaver Nentwich. [_To another old weaver._] Here, take a pinch. I was at Neurode yesterday. My brother-in-law, he works in the snuff factory there, and he give me a grain or two. Have you anything good in your kerchief?

OLD WEAVER

Only a little pearl barley. I was coming along behind Ulbrich the miller's cart, and there was a slit in one of the sacks. I can tell you we'll be glad of it.

OLD BAUMERT

There's twenty-two mills in Peterswaldau, but of all they grind, there's never nothin' comes our way.

OLD WEAVER

We must keep up heart. There's always somethin' comes to help us on again.

HEIBER

Yes, when we're hungry, we can pray to all the saints to help us, and if that don't fill our bellies we can put a pebble in our mouths and suck it. Eh, Baumert?

_Re-enter DREISSIGER, PFEIFER, AND NEUMANN._

DREISSIGER

It was nothing serious. The boy is all right again. [_Walks about excitedly, panting._] But all the same it's a disgrace. The child's so weak that a puff of wind would blow him over. How people, how any parents can be so thoughtless is what passes my comprehension. Loading him with two heavy pieces of fustian to carry six good miles! No one would believe it that hadn't seen it. It simply means that I shall have to make a rule that no goods brought by children will be taken over. [_He walks up and down silently for a few moments._] I sincerely trust such a thing will not occur again.--Who gets all the blame for it? Why, of course the manufacturer. It's entirely our fault. If some poor little fellow sticks in the snow in winter and goes to sleep, a special correspondent arrives post-haste, and in two days we have a blood-curdling story served up in all the papers. Is any blame laid on the father, the parents, that send such a child?--Not a bit of it. How should they be to blame? It's all the manufacturer's fault--he's made the scapegoat. They flatter the weaver, and give the manufacturer nothing but abuse--he's a cruel man, with a heart like a stone, a dangerous fellow, at whose calves every cur of a journalist may take a bite. He lives on the fat of the land, and pays the poor weavers starvation wages. In the flow of his eloquence the writer forgets to mention that such a man has his cares too and his sleepless nights; that he runs risks of which the workman never dreams; that he is often driven distracted by all the calculations he has to make, and all the different things he has to take into account; that he has to struggle for his very life against competition; and that no day passes without some annoyance or some loss. And think of the manufacturer's responsibilities, think of the numbers that depend on him, that look to him for their daily bread. No, No! none of you need wish yourselves in my shoes--you would soon have enough of it. [_After a moment's reflection._] You all saw how that fellow, that scoundrel Becker, behaved. Now he'll go and spread about all sorts of tales of my hard-heartedness, of how my weavers are turned off for a mere trifle, without a moment's notice. Is that true? Am I so very unmerciful?

CHORUS OF VOICES

No, sir.

DREISSIGER

It doesn't seem to me that I am. And yet these ne'er-do-wells come round singing low songs about us manufacturers--prating about hunger, with enough in their pockets to pay for quarts of bad brandy. If they would like to know what want is, let them go and ask the linen-weavers: they can tell something about it. But you here, you fustian-weavers, have every reason to thank God that things are no worse than they are. And I put it to all the old, industrious weavers present: Is a good workman able to gain a living in my employment, or is he not?

MANY VOICES

Yes, sir; he is, sir.

DREISSIGER

There now! You see! Of course such a fellow as that Becker can't. I advise you to keep these young lads in check. If there's much more of this sort of thing, I'll shut up shop--give up the business altogether, and then you can shift for yourselves, get work where you like--perhaps Mr. Becker will provide it.

FIRST WEAVER'S WIFE

[_Has come close to DREISSIGER, and removes a little dust from his coat with creeping servility._] You've been an' rubbed agin something, sir.

DREISSIGER

Business is as bad as it can be just now, you know that yourselves. Instead of making money, I am losing it every day. If, in spite of this, I take care that my weavers are kept in work, I look for some little gratitude from them. I have thousands of pieces of cloth in stock, and don't know if I'll ever be able to sell them. Well, now, I've heard how many weavers hereabouts are out of work, and--I'll leave Pfeifer to give the particulars--but this much I'll tell you, just to show you my good will.... I can't deal out charity all round; I'm not rich enough for that; but I can give the people who are out of work the chance of earning at any rate a little. It's a great business risk I run by doing it, but that's my affair. I say to myself: Better that a man should work for a bite of bread than that, he should starve altogether, Am I not right?

CHORUS OF VOICES

Yes, yes, sir.

DREISSIGER

And therefore I am ready to give employment to two hundred more weavers. Pfeifer will tell you on what conditions.

[_He turns to go._

FIRST WEAVER'S WIFE

[_Comes between him and the door, speaks hurriedly, eagerly, imploringly._] Oh, if you please, sir, will you let me ask you if you'll be so good ... I've been twice laid up for ...

DREISSIGER

[_Hastily._] Speak to Pfeifer, good woman. I'm too late as it is.

[_Passes on, leaving her standing._

REIMANN

[_Stops him again. In an injured, complaining tone._] I have a complaint to make, if you please, sir. Mr. Pfeifer refuses to ... I've always got one and two-pence for a web ...

DREISSIGER

[_Interrupts him._] Mr. Pfeifer's my manager. There he is. Apply to him.

HEIBER

[_Detaining DREISSIGER; hurriedly and confusedly._] O sir, I wanted to ask if you would p'r'aps, if I might p'r'aps ... if Mr. Pfeifer might ... might ...

DREISSIGER

What is it you want?

HEIBER

That advance pay I had last time, sir; I thought p'r'aps you would kindly ...

DREISSIGER

I have no idea what you are talking about.

HEIBER

I'm awful hard up, sir, because ...

DREISSIGER

These are things Pfeifer must look into--I really have not the time. Arrange the matter with Pfeifer.

[_He escapes into the office._

[_The supplicants look helplessly at one another, sigh, and take their places again among the others._

PFEIFER

[_Resuming his task of inspection._] Well, Annie, let as see what yours is like.

OLD BAUMERT

How much is we to get for the web, then, Mr. Pfeifer?

PFEIFER

One shilling a web.

OLD BAUMERT

Has it come to that!

[_Excited whispering and murmuring among the weavers._

END OF THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

_A small room in the house of WILHELM ANSORGE, weaver and cottager in the village of Kaschbach, in the Eulengebirge._

_In this room, which does not measure six feet from the dilapidated wooden floor to the smoke-blackened rafters, sit four people. Two young girls, EMMA and BERTHA BAUMERT, are working at their looms; MOTHER BAUMERT, a decrepit old woman, sits on a stool beside the bed, with a winding-wheel in front of her; her idiot son AUGUST sits on a foot-stool, also winding. He is twenty, has a small body and head, and long, spider-like legs and arms._

_Faint, rosy evening light makes its way through two small windows in the right wall, which have their broken panes pasted over with paper or stuffed with straw. It lights up the flaxen hair of the girls, which falls loose on their slender white necks and thin bare shoulders, and their coarse chemises. These, with a short petticoat of the roughest linen, form their whole attire. The warm glow falls on the old woman's face, neck, and breast--a face worn away to a skeleton, with shrivelled skin and sunken eyes, red and watery with smoke, dust, and working by lamplight--a long goitre neck, wrinkled and sinewy--a hollow breast covered with faded, ragged shawls._

_Part of the right wall is also lighted up, with stove, stove-bench, bedstead, and one or two gaudily coloured sacred prints. On the stove rail rags are hanging to dry, and behind the stove is a collection of worthless lumber. On the bench stand some old pots and cooking utensils, and potato parings are laid out on it, on paper, to dry. Hanks of yarn and reels hang from the rafters; baskets of bobbins stand beside the looms. In the back wall there is a low door without fastening. Beside it a bundle of willow wands is set up against the wall, and beyond them lie some damaged quarter-bushel baskets._

_The room is full of sound--the rhythmic thud of the looms, shaking floor and walls, the click and rattle of the shuttles passing back and forward, and the steady whirr of the winding-wheels, like the hum of gigantic bees._

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_In a querulous, feeble voice, as the girls stop weaving and bend over their webs._] Got to make knots again already, have you?

EMMA

[_The elder of the two girls, about twenty-two, tying a broken thread_] It's the plagueyest web, this!

BERTHA

[_Fifteen._] Yes, it's real bad yarn they've given us this time.

EMMA

What can have happened to father? He's been away since nine.

MOTHER BAUMERT

That he has! yes. Where in the wide world c'n he be?

BERTHA

Don't you worry yourself, mother.

MOTHER BAUMERT

I can't help it, Bertha lass.

[_EMMA begins to weave again._

BERTHA

Stop a minute, Emma!

EMMA

What is it!

BERTHA

I thought I heard some one.

EMMA

It'll be Ansorge comin' home.

_Enter FRITZ, a little, barefooted, ragged boy of four._

FRITZ

[_Whimpering._] I'm hungry, mother.

EMMA

Wait, Fritzel, wait a bit! Gran'father'll be here very soon, an' he's bringin' bread along with him, an' coffee too.

FRITZ

But I'm awful hungry, mother.

EMMA

Be a good boy now, Fritz. Listen to what I'm tellin' you. He'll be here this minute. He's bringin' nice bread an' nice corn-coffee; an' when we stops workin' mother'll take the tater peelin's and carry them to the farmer, and the farmer'll give her a drop o' good buttermilk for her little boy.

FRITZ

Where's grandfather gone?

EMMA

To the manufacturer, Fritz, with a web.

FRITZ

To the manufacturer?

EMMA

Yes, yes, Fritz, down to Dreissiger's at Peterswaldau.

FRITZ

Is it there he gets the bread?

EMMA

Yes; Dreissiger gives him money, and then he buys the bread.

FRITZ

Does he give him a heap of money?

EMMA

[_Impatiently._] Oh, stop that chatter, boy.

[_She and BERTHA go on weaving for a time, and then both stop again._

BERTHA

August, go and ask Ansorge if he'll give us a light.

[_AUGUST goes out accompanied by FRITZ._

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_Overcome by her childish apprehension, whimpers._] Emma! Bertha! where c'n the man be stay-in'?

BERTHA

Maybe he looked in to see Hauffe.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_Crying._] What if he's sittin' drinkin' in the public-house?

EMMA

Don't cry, mother! You know well enough father's not the man to do that.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_Half distracted by a multitude of gloomy forebodings._] What ... what ... what's to become of us if he don't come home? if he drinks the money, an' don't bring us nothin' at all? There's not so much as a handful o' salt in the house--not a bite o' bread, nor a bit o' wood for the fire.

BERTHA

Wait a bit, mother! It's moonlight just now. We'll take August with us and go into the wood and get some sticks.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Yes, an' be caught by the forester.

_ANSORGE, an old weaver of gigantic stature, who has to bend down to get into the room, puts his head and shoulders in at the door. Long, unkempt hair and beard._

ANSORGE

What's wanted?

BERTHA

Light, if you please.

ANSORGE

[_In a muffled voice, as if speaking' in a sick-room._] There's good daylight yet.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Is we to sit in the dark next?

ANSORGE

I've to do the same mayself.

[_Goes out._

BERTHA

It's easy to see that he's a miser.

EMMA

Well, there's nothin' for it but to sit an' wait his pleasure.

_Enter MRS. HEINRICH, a woman of thirty, heavy with child; an expression of torturing anxiety and apprehension on her worn face._

MRS. HEINRICH

Good evenin' t'you all.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, Jenny, and what's your news?

MRS. HEINRICH

[_Who limps._] I've got a piece o' glass into my foot.

BERTHA

Come an' sit down, then, an' I'll see if I c'n get it out.

[_MRS. HEINRICH seats herself, BERTHA kneels down, in front of her, and examines her foot._

MOTHER BAUMERT

How are ye all at home, Jenny?

MRS. HEINRICH

[_Breaks out despairingly._] Things is in a terrible way with us!

[_She struggles in vain, against a rush of tears; then weeps silently._

MOTHER BAUMERT

The best thing as could happen to the likes o' us, Jenny, would be if God had pity on us an' took us away out o' this weary world.

MRS. HEINRICH

[_No longer able to control herself, screams, still crying._] My children's starvin'. [_Sobs and moans._] I don't know what to do no more! I c'n work till I drops--I'm more dead'n alive--things don't get different! There's nine hungry mouths to fill! We got a bit o' bread last night, but it wasn't enough even for the two smallest ones. Who was I to give it to, eh? They all cried; Me, me, mother! give it to me!... An' if it's like this while I'm still on my feet, what'll it be when I've to take to bed? Our few taters was washed away. We haven't a thing to put in our mouths.

BERTHA

[_Has removed the bit of glass and washed the wound._] We'll put a rag round it. Emma, see if you can find one.

MOTHER BAUMERT

We're no better off'n you, Jenny.

MRS. HEINRICH

You has your girls, any way. You've a husband as c'n work. Mine was taken with one o' his fits last week again--so bad that I didn't know what to do with him, and was half out o' my mind with fright. And when he's had a turn like that, he can't stir out o' bed under a week.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Mine's no better. He's goin' to pieces, too. He's breathin's bad now as well as his back. An' there's not a farthin' nor a farthin's worth in the house. If he don't bring a few pence with him today, I don't know what we're to do.

EMMA

It's the truth she's tellin' you, Jenny. We had to let father take the little dog with him to-day, to have him killed, that we might get a bite into our stomachs again!

MRS. HEINRICH

Haven't you got as much as a handful o' flour to spare?

MOTHER BAUMERT

An' that we haven't, Jenny. There's not as much as a grain o' salt in the house.

MRS. HEINRICH

Well, then, I don't know ... [_Rises, stands still, brooding._] I don't know what'll be the end o' this! It's more'n I c'n bear. [_Screams in rage and despair._] I'd be contented if it was nothin' but pigs' food!--But I can't go home again empty-handed--that I can't. God forgive me, I see no other way out of it.

[_She limps quickly out._

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_Calls after her in a warning voice._] Jenny, Jenny! don't you be doin' anything foolish, now!

BERTHA

She'll do herself no harm, mother. You needn't be afraid.

EMMA

That's the way she always goes on.

[_Seats herself at the loom and weaves for a few seconds._

_AUGUST enters, carrying a tallow candle, and lighting his father, OLD BAUMERT, who follows close behind him, staggering under a heavy bundle of yarn._

MOTHER BAUMERT

Oh, father, where have you been all this long time? Where have you been?

OLD BAUMERT

Come now, mother, don't fall on a man like that. Give me time to get my breath first. An' look who I've brought with me.

_MORITZ JAEGER comes stooping in at the low door. Reserve soldier, newly discharged. Middle height, rosy-cheeked, military carriage. His cap on the side of his head, hussar fashion, whole clothes and shoes, a clean shirt without collar. Draws himself up and salutes._

JAEGER

[_In a hearty voice._] Good-evenin', auntie Baumert!

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, well now! and to think you've got back! An' you've not forgotten us? Take a chair, then, lad.

EMMA

[_Wiping a wooden chair with her apron, and pushing it towards MORITZ._] An' so you've come to see what poor folks is like again, Moritz?

JAEGER

I say, Emma, is it true that you've got a boy nearly old enough to be a soldier? Where did you get hold o' him, eh?

[_BERTHA, having taken the small supply of provisions which her father has brought, puts meat into a saucepan, and shoves it into the oven, while AUGUST lights the fire._

BERTHA

You knew weaver Finger, didn't you?

MOTHER BAUMERT

We had him here in the house with us. He was ready enough to marry her; but he was too far gone in consumption; he was as good as a dead man. It didn't happen for want o' warnin' from me. But do you think she would listen? Not she. Now he's dead an' forgotten long ago, an' she's left with the boy to provide for as best she can. But now tell us how you've been gettin' on, Moritz.

OLD BAUMERT

You've only to look at him, mother, to know that. He's had luck. It'll be about as much as he can do to speak to the likes o' us. He's got clothes like a prince, an' a silver watch, an' thirty shillings in his pocket into the bargain.

JAEGER

[_Stretching himself consequentially, a knowing smile on his face._] I can't complain, I didn't get on so badly in the regiment.

OLD BAUMERT

He was the major's own servant. Just listen to him--he speaks like a gentleman.

JAEGER

I've got so accustomed to it that I can't help it.

MOTHER BAUMERT

Well, now, to think that such a good-for-nothin' as you was should have come to be a rich man. For there wasn't nothin' to be made of you. You would never sit still to wind more than a hank of yarn at a time, that you wouldn't. Off you went to your tomtit boxes an' your robin redbreast snares--they was all you cared about. Isn't it the truth I'm telling?

JAEGER

Yes, yes, auntie, it's true enough. It wasn't only redbreasts. I went after swallows too.

EMMA

Though we were always tellin' you that swallows was poison.

JAEGER

What did I care?--But how have you all been gettin' on, auntie Baumert?

MOTHER BAUMERT

Oh, badly, lad, badly these last four years. I've had the rheumatics--just look at them hands. An' it's more than likely as I've had a stroke o' some kind too, I'm that helpless. I can hardly move a limb, an' nobody knows the pains I suffers.

OLD BAUMERT

She's in a bad way, she is. She'll not hold out long.

BERTHA

We've to dress her in the mornin' an' undress her at night, an' to feed her like a baby.

MOTHER BAUMERT

[_Speaking in a complaining, tearful voice._] Not a thing c'n I do for myself. It's far worse than bein' ill. For it's not only a burden to myself I am, but to every one else. Often and often do I pray to God to take me. For oh! mine's a weary life. I don't know ... p'r'aps they think ... but I'm one that's been a hard worker all my days. An' I've always been able to do my turn too; but now, all at once, [_she vainly attempts to rise_] I can't do nothin'.--I've a good husband an' good children, but to have to sit here and see them...! Look at the girls! There's hardly any blood left in them--faces the colour of a sheet. But on they must work at these weary looms whether they earn enough to keep theirselves or not. What sort o' life is it they lead? Their feet never off the treadle from year's end to year's end. An' with it all they can't scrape together as much as'll buy them clothes that they can let theirselves be seen in; never a step can they go to church, to hear a word o' comfort. They're liker scarecrows than young girls of fifteen and twenty.

BERTHA

[_At the stove._] It's beginnin' to smoke again!

OLD BAUMERT

There now; look at that smoke. And we can't do nothin' for it. The whole stove's goin' to pieces. We must let it fall, and swallow the soot. We're coughin' already, one worse than the other. We may cough till we choke, or till we cough our lungs up--nobody cares.

JAEGER

But this here is Ansorge's business; he must see to the stove.

BERTHA

He'll see us out o' the house first; he has plenty against us without that.

MOTHER BAUMERT

We've only been in his way this long time past.

OLD BAUMERT

One word of a complaint an' out we go. He's had no rent from us this last half-year.

MOTHER BAUMERT

A well-off man like him needn't be so hard.

OLD BAUMERT

He's no better off than we is, mother. He's hard put to it too, for all he holds his tongue about it.

MOTHER BAUMERT

He's got his house.

OLD BAUMERT

What are you talkin' about, mother? Not one stone in the wall is the man's own.

JAEGER

[_Has seated himself, and taken a short pipe with gay tassels out of one coat-pocket, and a quart bottle of brandy out of another._] Things can't go on like this. I'm dumfoundered when I see the life the people live here. The very dogs in the towns live better.

OLD BAUMERT

[_Eagerly._] That's what I says! Eh? eh? You know it too! But if you say that here, they'll tell you that it's only bad times.

_Enter ANSORGE, an earthenware pan with soup in one hand, in the other a half-finished quarter-bushel basket._

ANSORGE

Glad to see you again, Moritz!

JAEGER

Thank you, father Ansorge--same to you!

ANSORGE

[_Shoving his pan into the oven._] Why, lad you look like a duke!

OLD BAUMERT

Show him your watch, Moritz. An' he's got a new suit of clothes, an' thirty shillings cash.

ANSORGE

[_Shaking his head._] Is that so? Well, well!

EMMA

[_Puts the potato-parings into a bag._] I must be off; I'll maybe get a drop o' buttermilk for these.

[_Goes out._

JAEGER

[_The others hanging intently and devoutly on his words._] You know how you all used to be down on me. It was always: Wait, Moritz, till your soldierin' time comes--you'll catch it then. But you see how well I've got on. At the end o' the first half-year I had my good conduct stripes. You've got to be willin'--that's where the secret lies. I brushed the sergeant's boots; I groomed his horse; I fetched his beer. I was as sharp as a needle. Always ready, accoutrements clean and shinin'--first at stables, first at roll-call, first in the saddle. An' when the bugle sounded to the assault--why, then, blood and thunder, and ride to the devil with you!! I was as keen as a pointer. Says I to myself: There's no help for it now, my boy, it's got to be done; and I set my mind to it and did it. Till at last the major said before the whole squadron: There's a hussar now that shows you what a hussar should be!

[_Silence. He lights his pipe._

ANSORGE

[_Shaking his head._] Well, well, well! You had luck with you, Moritz!

[_Sits down on the floor, with his willow twigs beside him, and continues mending the basket, which he holds between his legs._

OLD BAUMERT