They will listen to you for the hour and more . . . At the end, they will take up their blades and shatter your skull. The lands of ours are drunk and it cannot be exorted by words. Be patient for the wine to mist.
Jerman. Now I declare: shall only bastards attend the gathering of ours, I shall come by and tell the bigots what bigots are to be elucidated. That wish of mine is not doggedly and is not crow. Only they threw me away, they pushed me on the floor, squeezed me badly; they ridiculed and spit at me . . . I need to stand up to them, I must spit at them, face to face . . . I must tell them how I am not floored nor spit. (Slightly calmer.) Don't you think this drunkenness is external, is only their cloth, is barely what they word? Are they not human inside, created by god? Won't they listen to a human being, though they do not follow them? Would not a fair word do them better than the book most-complex, more than the talk most-questionable? I have now voiced my thoughts and thus my hopes are high.
Kalander. Sir, I know them well.
Jerman. Neither am I an alien in the world - alienated.
Kalander. I know them perfectly well, especially women. Thus I ask you to wear your worn and dirty cloak as you stage by them . . . For they have already tossed rocks at you – in the midst of a shiny day.
Jerman. Those were such drunkards . . .
Kalander. They are all drunk! The whole village is drunk with wine!
A farmer knocks on the door, opening it widely.
40
