ake me away, quickly. that is why i have come here today, to burn out the weeds, expose the crimes, balance the ledger so that these two young people may start life afresh. in this house, which i will gift them. now i give you all leave to depart, each one in his turn. anyone who stays, i shall have arrested. [clock ticking] listen to that clock ticking. the clock count death on the wall. in a little while she will strike and your time will be up.

do you hear her? the clock hand strike. i too can strike! do you hear? i can halt time, wipe out the past, undo what has been done, not with bribes, not with threats, but with suffering and contrition. we are weakened, pitiable people. we have erred, we have sinned. we know that. but our true selves live within us,

condemning our failings. but you, jacob hummel, sit there wearing your false name and judges, proves you worse than we are, for you are a robber of souls. you robbed me of mine with your false promises. you murdered the consul upstairs. you strangled him th your notes of hand. and now you have stolen the student's soul for a feign debt of his father's, who never owed you a penny. but there's a black spot in your life, i don't know the full truth of, but i fancy bengtsson knows. no, not bengtsson. not him. ah, so he does know. bengtsson?

bengtsson? do you know this man? yes, i know him, and he knows me. life has its ups and downs. he has served in my house, as i now serve in this one he hung around my cook for two years and so that he might be away by 3:00, we had to have dinner rey by 2:00. we had to eat the leftover, the scrapes that he had done with. he drank the juices from the meat too and we had to eke out what was left with water. later, i met this man in hamburg. there he was a moneylender, another kind of bloodsucker. and then he was accused of luring a young girl on to the ice to drown her,

because she had been witness to a crime that he feared might be discovered. now, you see yourself. give me your notes of hand and the deed to the house. pretty parrot, jacob. jacob. jacob's here. cock-cockatoo. can the clock strike? wall clock str-r-r-ike. coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo. the clock has struck. bengtsson, fetch the screen, the death screen.

now, go into the cupboard where i have sat for 20 years, mourning our polly. there you will find a rope. let it remind you of the rope with which you strangled the consul upstairs. and sought to strangle your benefactor, go. coo-coo, coo-coo. ca-ca-ca. not a colonel. [clock dings]

it is accomplished may god have mercy on his soul. amen. amen. ♪ i saw the sun ♪ i seemed to seek the hidden one ♪ ♪ man reaps as he sows, ♪ the doer of good shall receive blessing ♪ ♪ answer not with evil

♪ what was done in anger, ♪ repay with goodness him thou hast brought ♪ ♪ he who have done no wrong have not to fear ♪ ♪ innocence is goodness sing for my flowers? is the hyacinth your flower? this is my only flower. you love the hyacinth too?

above all other flowers. i love its colors. the white of snow and innocence, the honey gold of sweetness, the rose pink of youth, the scarlet of maturity, but above all, the blue, the blue of deep eyes of dew, of steadfastness. i love them more than gold or pearls. i've loved the hyacinth, ever since i was a child. i've worshipped them, because they embody everything i like. and yet... yes? my love is unrequited, for these beautiful flowers hate me. why do you say that? their perfume confuses my senses. it deafens me, blinds me, drives me from my room and shoots me with poisoned arrows which sadden my heart and set my head aflame. don't you know the legend of this flower? tell me. first, i will tell you its meaning.

the roots, resting on the water or buried the soil is the earth. the stalk shoots up, straight as the axis of the world, and on the top rest the starflowers with their six-headed petals. stars over the earth, how beautiful. where did you find that vision? how did you see it? where? in your eyes. it is an image of the world. buddha sits with the earth at his knees, brooding over it, watching it grow outwards and upwards, transforming itself into a heaven. this unhappy earth shall become a heaven. it is that the buddha awaits. yes, now i see it. and is it not the snow flowers start with six points like the hyacinth lily? yes, snow flowers are falling stars. and this snowdrop is a snow star, risen from the snow. but ceres, the largest, the most beautiful of the stars is the narcissist with its red and gold carp and six white petals. have you seen the escallonia flower?

yes, yes i have. it carries its blooms in a sphere, like the sphere of heaven, strewn with white flowers. yes. oh, god, how wonderful. who first imagined this vision? you. you. you and i together. we have given birth to a vision. we are wed. not yet. what remains? the waiting, the trials, the patience. good, try me. tell me, why do your parents sit so silently in there never saying a word? because they have nothing to say to each other and neither will believe what the other says.

my father once said, "what is the point of our talking? we cannot deceive each other?" how horrible. here comes the cook. look at her. how big and fat she is. what does she want? she wants to ask me about dinner. must we bother about what happens in the kitchen? we have to eat. look at her. i can't look at her. but who is this ogress? one of the hummel's had bred a vampire. she is devouring us. - why don't you dismiss her? - she won't go. we have no control over her. she is our punishment for our sins. can't you see? we are wasting away. we are being consumed. doesn't she give you any food? yes, she cooks us many dishes, but there is no nourishment in them. she boils the meat till it is nothing but sinews and water, while she herself drinks the juice from it.

she roasts the meat till all the goodness is gone. she drinks the gravy and the blood. everything she touches, loses its moisture, as though her eyes sucked it dry. drive her out of the house. - we can't. - why not? we don't know. she won't go. she has drained the strength from us. - can i send her away? - no, it is ordained. she must stay with us. this is a strange house. it is bewitched. yes. ah, she turned away when she saw you. no, that wasn't the reason. get out. when i feel like it. now, i feel like it.

never mind. you must learn patience. she is one of the trials we have to endure in this house. we have a maid too, and we have to dust everywhere after her. my head reels. - sing to me. - wait. sing to me. be patient. this room is called the room of trials. this is beautiful to look at, but consists only of imperfections. incredible. but we must turn a blind eye to them. you see that desk? it's very beautiful. but it won't stand straight. every morning, i put a cork disk under its leg, but the maid takes it away when she dusts, and i have to cut a new one.

every morning, the pen is clogged with ink and the inkwell too. i have to clean them after she is gone every day of my life. what's the worst thing you know? counting laundry, yuck. that's what i have to do. ugh. what else? to be woken in the middle of the night, and have to get up to fasten the window catch because the maid's forgotten to. what else? to climb the ladder to mend the cord in the damper of the stove when she's wrenched it loose. what else? to clean up after her and dust behind her and light the fire after her. she only puts on the wood. to open the damper, dry the glasses, relay the table, uncork the bottles, open the window, stare at the rooms, remake the bed, empty the water carafe when it grows green with slime.

- sing to me! - wait, first the toil! the toil of holding the debt of life at bay. but you are rich. why don't you keep two maids? it wouldn't matter even if we had three. life is hard. sometimes i grow tired. imagine if we had a nursery as well. the greatest joy of all. most expensive. is life worth so much trouble? it depends what one wants in return. i would shrink from nothing to win your hand. don't talk like that. you can never win me. why not? you mustn't ask.

are you crying? when one gazes at the unattainable, what else can one do but despair. i can open doors and human hearts, if only i can find a hand to perform my will. show me and you shall win her. but you've dropped your bracelet out of the window. because my hand had grown so thin. it is she who is devouring me, devouring us all. what's she got in her hand? the colorite bottle to make water into stock. we use it instead of gravy. get out! you drained the goodness out of us. we drained the goodness out of you.

we take the blood and give you back the water with the colorite. i'm going now, but i shall stay in this house, for as long as i want. why does bengtsson wear a medal? for faithful service. has he no faults? yes, many great ones, but you don't win medals for them. oh, you have many secrets in this house. like everyone else, let us keep ours.

do you love honesty? yes, quite. sometimes i'm seized with a passionate desire to say everything i think. and yet i know that if people were really honest the world would come to an end. the other day, i was at a funeral at the church. it was very impressive, very beautiful. - was it hummel's? - yes, my benefactor. at the head of the coffin, stood known friend of the dead man holding the funeral mace. the priest impressed me deeply by his dignified bearing and his moving sermon. i wept. we all wept. afterwards, we went to a hotel. there i learned that the man with the mace had been in love with the dead man's son and that the dead man had borrowed money

from his son's admirer. and the next day the priest was arrested for stealing from the church funds. pretty, isn't it? how horrible. do you know what i'm thinking? about you. you mustn't tell me. if you do, i shall die. i must, or i shall die. a madhouse, as people say or they think? i know. my father died in a madhouse. was he sick? no, he was perfectly well, just mad. he only showed it once. i'll tell you how. he was surrounded, as we all are, by a circle of associates. he called them friends--shorter and more convenient. one day, he gave a great party. it was in the evening. he was tired after his day's work and tired with the strain of listening to his guests

and exchanging spiteful gossip with them. well, he rapped on the table for silence and stood up with his glass to make a speech. then the safety catch flew off. and as he spoke, he stripped the company naked, flinging their hypocrisy in their faces. then he sat down on the middle of the table and told them all to go to hell. no. i was there. i'll never forget what happened next. my mother hit him. he hit her. the guests rushed for the door, and my father was taken away to the madhouse, where he died. water which has remained stationary and silent for too long becomes rotten. it's the same with this house.

something has rotted here too. and when i first saw you walk through that door, i thought it was paradise. i gazed through the windows one sunday morning. i saw a colonel who is not a colonel. i found a noble benefactor who turned out to be a crook and had to hang himself. i saw a mummy who is not a mummy. i saw a maid. where is virginity to be found or beauty? only in flowers and trees and in my head when i'm dressed in my sunday clothes? where are faith and honor to be found? where can i find anything that will fulfill its promise? only in my imagination. your flowers have poisoned me, and i have poisoned you in return. i asked you to be my wife, to share my home.

we wrote poetry. we sang. we played. and then the cook came in. adele, try. try once more to strike fire and purple from your golden harp. try, i beg you. i command you! and then i shall do it myself. it is deaf and dumb. why should the most beautiful flowers be the most poisonous? it's a curse that hangs over all creation, all life.

why would you not be my bride? because the source of life is poisoned in you. uh, now i can feel that vampire in the kitchen beginning to suck my blood. there are poisons which blind and poisons which open the eyes. i must have been born with the second kind in my veins, because i can't see beauty in ugliness, or call the evil good. i can't! jesus christ descended into a hell, when he wandered through this madhouse, this brothel, this morgue which we call earth. the mad men killed him when he tried to set them free and released the robber instead. the robber always gets the sympathy. oh, alas for our soul. alas.

oh, savior of the world, save us. we are dying. bring the screen quickly. i'll die. the delivery coming. welcome now pale and gentle one. and you, beautiful, unhappy, innocent creature who must suffer for the guilt of others, sleep. sleep dreamlessly. and when you wake, may you be greeted by a sun that does not burn,

in a home without dust, by friends ignorant of dishonor, by love that knows no imperfection. oh, wise and gentle buddha, who seated waiting for a heaven to rise and out of the earth, grant us patience in our time of trial and grant us purity of will that thy hopes may be fulfilled. ♪ i saw the sun ♪ i seemed to see the hidden one ♪ ♪ man reaps as he sows, ♪ the doer of good shall receive blessing ♪

♪ answer not with evil, ♪ what was done in anger, ♪ repay with goodness him thou hast-- ♪ he who hath done no wrong has not to fear innocence is goodness ugh...ugh...ugh.

unhappy child born into this world of suffering, delusion, guilt, and death, into a world that is forever changing, forever erring, forever in pain. may the lord of heaven be merciful to you on your journey. strindberg's is a world where magic explores the interior. we now know some of the secrets in that house where time can be adjusted

and a powerful man stripped of his rank, where a servant can change places with master, and innocence can prove corrupt. although strindberg seems timeless, as he probes the questions of guilt, mercy, power and illusion, he nevertheless stays rooted in the customs of his own time. today, he is remembered most for his influence on other important playwrights, both here and abroad. playwrights whose insistence on probing for truth encourage them to continue the sort of transformation you have seen, in the works of ionesco, miller, capek, albee, beckett, rice, and o'neill. there are characters whose inner natures are depicted as a robot, an ape, a rhinoceros, cogs in a machine and numbers, rather than names. strindberg's mummy sits in the closet, albee's old lady sits in a sandbox and waits for death in the person of a handsome young man with a flute.

america's favorite playwright, thornton wilder wrote our town, omitting scenery and props, and allowing his characters to say aloud what they would not have actually said to anyone. the departure from realism began with strindberg. this was a co-production of miami-dade community college and british broadcasting corporation british open university.