ACT I

ACT I

The hall is decorated with green branches. A Christmas tree is lying on the stone flags. Friebe, sitting on the top of the cellar steps, is making a socket for it; Mrs Buchner and Mrs Scholz, standing on either side of the table, are busy fastening gay coloured wax candles into their holders. Mrs Buchner is a healthy looking, well nourished, friendlyfaced woman, simple, genuine and very neatly dressed: wears her hair smooth: her movements are decided and she is entirely at her ease. Her whole appearance expresses an unusual cordiality which is thoroughly sincere, even if at times her manner suggests affectation. Her way of speaking is fluent and clear, and in moments of excitement declamatory; an atmosphere of peace and well-being seems to emanate from her. Mrs Scholz, on the contrary, is a woman who looks older than she is, showing signs of premature old age. She is unhealthily fat, with a sallow skin. Her dress is untidy, her hair grey and unkempt; she wears spectacles. Mrs Scholz is fidgety in her movements, restless, has generally a tearful or whining way of speaking and is evidently in a continual state of excitement. Whilst Mrs Buchner seems only to live for others, Mrs Scholz is completely occupied with herself.

On the table stand two five-branched candlesticks, fitted with candles; but neither these nor the candles in the chandelier are lighted. There is a lamp burning.

Friebe(striking a blow with his hatchet).

Not a stroke fails me!

Mrs Scholz.

Ffff!!! But I can’t stand it, Friebe! How often have I told you.... You might easily break the hatchet. The idea! chopping wood on stone!

Friebe.

You leave that to me! What! wasn’t I ten years in the regiment?

Mrs Buchner.

In the regiment?

Mrs Scholz.

He was head man in the royal forests.

Friebe.

Not—(he strikes again) a blessed—(strikes) stroke!

[He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small, already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades. His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil, boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size, so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm, he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it.

Friebe.

A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (with condescending superiority to the women) you don’t think so—eh?

Mrs Buchner.

As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that.

Friebe.

Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is—

Mrs Scholz(interrupting him impatiently).

We really mustn’t keep you here, Friebe; my daughter expressly said, “send Friebe for me.”

Friebe.

H’m—tch—for all I care!

[Goes out through the kitchen door, making a contemptuous gesture.

Mrs Buchner.

Are you vexed with him?

Mrs Scholz.

I should think so. Tiresome idiot! If it hadn’t been for my husband—there, you see, that’s my husband all over.—This old snuffler—Nothing else would do, he must havehimabout the whole day, or else he wasn’t content. Did you ever know such a man?

[Enter Augusta from outside in haste and alarm: once inside, she shuts the glass door violently and throws herself against it as though to prevent some one from coming in.]

Mrs Scholz(most violently startled).

Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!!

Mrs Buchner.

Why?—what—?

[Augusta is tall, lanky, and noticeably thin: she is dressed in the height of fashion but without any taste. Fur jacket, fur cap and muff. The face and the feet are long: the face is sharply cut and bitter featured, with thin lips tightly pressed together. She wears a lorgnette. Her nature unites with her mother’s excitability, something of a pathologically disagreeablecharacter. Her personality diffuses round it an atmosphere of discontent, dissatisfaction and comfortlessness.]

Augusta.

Out there!—as true as I’m here—someone—was following me.

Mrs Buchner(pointing to the clock).

William, perhaps.—No! not yet. The train can’t be in yet. (To Augusta) Wait a moment!

[She puts out her hand to open the door.

Augusta.

No! No!—No! No!

Mrs Buchner(in a cooing manner).

You’re nervous, dear child. (She goes into the porch and opens the outer door, a little timidly.) Is anyone there?—(Resolutely) Is anybody there? (Pause—no answer.)

Mrs Scholz(irritated).

Fine doings! As if I hadn’t had enough excitement—it’s enough to kill one. You’re always complaining ofsomething.

Augusta(snappishly).

Complaining! Complaining!—Haven’t I got enough to complain about?

Mrs Scholz.

You behave charmingly to your mother, I must say.

Augusta.

Oh! what do you expect? Who could help being frightened—in pitch darkness—absolutely alone—

Mrs Buchner(putting her arms round Augusta’s waist from behind—soothingly).

Madcap! Madcap! to flare up like that for nothing! Come now. (Helping her to take off her jacket, etc.) There!—you see?—

Augusta.

Ah! but it istrue, Mrs Buchner!

Mrs Buchner.

Now my dear people, listen! Four long days already since we came to stay with you. I’ve been thinking—sha’n’t we drop all these formalities?—Mayn’t I call you Augusta? Eh?—Good—then—(embraces her and kisses Mrs Scholz).

Mrs Scholz(before she responds to the embrace).

Wait! wait! My hands are all greasy.

Mrs Buchner(to Augusta, who is warming herself at the stove).

There now! Aren’t you better already?—Was the Christmas party nice?

Augusta.

Nothing will take me there again!—Stuffy—no air—hot enough to make you faint!

Mrs Buchner.

Did the minister speak well?

Augusta.

I know one thing; ifIwere poor, I’d have been off after the great man’s speech.—I’d have flung all their beggarly trash back in their faces.

Mrs Buchner.

O—o—h! but it’s a great blessing for the poor people.

[A fresh, clear woman’s voice is heard singing.

“When beneath the linden leavesThe blossom clings,Memory in my spirit weavesDreams of bygone springs.”

“When beneath the linden leavesThe blossom clings,Memory in my spirit weavesDreams of bygone springs.”

“When beneath the linden leavesThe blossom clings,Memory in my spirit weavesDreams of bygone springs.”

“When beneath the linden leaves

The blossom clings,

Memory in my spirit weaves

Dreams of bygone springs.”

[Ida comes through the stairway. She is twenty years old, and wears a close-clinging black woollen dress. She has a fine, fully matured figure, a very small head, and, on this first entrance, her long yellow hair is loose. She has an air of quiet contentment about her, a subdued cheerfulness and confident expectation of happiness. Although the expression of her clever face is generally bright, it deepens at times into a sudden seriousness, showing that she is unaffectedly lost in her own thoughts.]

Ida(a towel laid over her shoulders and some cardboard boxes under her arm).

Has anybody come?

Mrs Scholz.

Augusta has given us a fine fright.

Ida(pointing back up the stairs).

It’s not so very comfortable upstairs, either. I hurried (laughing) so that I could come down.

Mrs Scholz.

But, child! Robert has the room over you now.

Ida(putting the boxes on the table, opens them and takes out various things).

Well, if he has, the place is always empty.

Mrs Buchner.

Your hair should be nearly dry by now, eh?

Ida(turning her head lovingly, and throwing back her hair).

Just feel!

Mrs Buchner(doing so).

Oh dear—you should have washed it earlier, child!

Ida.

What a bother the old mane is; I’ve been scorching myself at the stove for the last half hour (taking from one of the boxes a yellow silk purse and holding it out to Augusta). Pretty colour, eh?—It’s only just a little joke; has he had many purses?

Augusta(busy with her jacket, which she is brushing; shrugs her shoulders).

Don’t know (she looks critically with her short-sighted eyes at the purse). H’m, h’m, rather loosely knitted (immediately returning to her jacket). The plush is done for.

Ida(displaying a little box of cigars).

I—ampleased—to think you have never dressed a Christmas tree!

Augusta.

If you come to think of it—it’s really not the sort of thing for grown-up people!

Mrs Scholz.

No indeed! If ever I’d suggested one, my husband would have never let me hear the end of it. With my dear parents—Ah! when I remember—what a beautiful family life that was. Never a Christmas without a tree! (Imitating her father’s gait and manner.) And then in the evening when father came from the office and brought the beau—u—tiful gingerbread with him (joining thumb and fore-finger as if she held a piece of the famous cake between them—she puts them to her mouth). Ah yes—those days are gone. My husband—he wouldn’t even eat his dinner with us—he lived upstairs—we down—a perfect hermit. If one wanted anything from him—good Lord—the only way was to get hold of Friebe.

Augusta(feeding the stove).

Oh don’t go on like that everlastingly!

Mrs Scholz.

Don’t pile up the stove in that senseless fashion!

Augusta.

Can’t we even have the room warm then?

Mrs Scholz.

All the heat flies up the chimney to-day.

Augusta(demurring crossly).

Is that a reason for letting it go quite out?

Mrs Scholz.

Leave me in peace!

Augusta(throwing the shovel noisily back into the box).

Have it your own way!

[Exit Augusta in a rage.]

Ida.

Ah, Gussie! stay with us!—Just wait—I’ll soon bring her round.

[Goes out after her.

Mrs Scholz(with resignation).

All my children are like that!—ah—what a girl! There’s no holding her! First she wants one thing, then another:—all of a sudden—she takes it into her head—she must study. She’ll stick upstairs and not say a word for weeks; and the next thing is—she’s no use—nobody wants her.—Oh, good Heavens, yes—you’re to be envied—a sweet little thing likeyourdaughter——

Mrs Buchner.

Oh, but Gussie too!—

Mrs Scholz.

How charmingly she plays the piano, and that delicious voice—How I love to listen to a voice like that!

Mrs Buchner.

Why don’t you ever play now?

Mrs Scholz.

Oh that would be a fine thing. The little peace I have would be done for. Augusta is so nervous—just like her father—he’d run away from the piano as if he were hunted.

Mrs Buchner.

You should hear your William play now; he has improved!—What would Ida be without him! She’s learnt all she knows from him.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah yes! so you told me. Oh, he’s full of talent, there’s no doubt of that! It was a pleasure to teach him.

Mrs Buchner.

Yes! and he looks back with such affection on the time when his little mother gave him his first lessons.

Mrs Scholz.

Does he?—Good Lord, yes! those were pleasant times. Then I used to think—every thing turns out differently—Oh! I’m so agitated!

Mrs Buchner.

So agitated?—What about?

Mrs Scholz.

Why—about his coming—how does he look now—really?

Mrs Buchner.

Well—strong—healthy. You’ll be proud of your son.

Mrs Scholz.

I’m really surprised that the boy’s coming. It’s gone to my heart many a time. And the notepaper he’s cost me—and never once answered his old mother: how have you brought him to it? That’s what I can’t understand—that Ican’tunderstand.

Mrs Buchner.

I?—Oh! no! it was Ida who persuaded him.

Mrs Scholz.

Robert doesn’t trouble himself much about us either, but at least he comes once a year at Christmas time for a few days: that’s not much to be grateful for—but William—six whole years he’s not been here—neither he nor my husband—for six whole years. Does she get on with him?

Mrs Buchner.

Ida?—Very well in every way.

Mrs Scholz.

Well, that’s extraordinary. You simply can’t imaginehowreserved the boy always was—just like his father. No playfellows, no school friends,—nothing.

Mrs Buchner.

Yes, yes, that’s how he was with us at first. He never would come near the house, except for the music-lesson.

Mrs Scholz.

Later, though, he came?

Mrs Buchner.

Well,—yes. He said we mustn’t worry him, and when he felt able he’d come of his own accord. We had the sense to let him have his own way, and sure enough, after waiting for him half a year, in fact,—when we’d given up waiting, he came—and afterwards, day after day, little by little, he became quite different.

Mrs Scholz.

You must have bewitched him—his engagement alone—that’s what I can’t get over.

Mrs Buchner.

You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear husband was one.

Mrs Scholz.

And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too?

Mrs Buchner.

N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less so because hehaskept it to himself. At all costs he must get over that, even in this matter too.

Mrs Scholz.

Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my husband and I, but that’sourbusiness, no human being has a right to interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I, of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one.

Mrs Buchner.

William may have beenmuchto blame—I’m convinced of that. But think, to have repented for years, and—

Mrs Scholz.

No—no! Good heavens, what can you be thinking of! It’s not so easily got over; that would be worse still. It’s very good of you to have taken so to the boy, and it’s nice too that he’s coming—as indeed why shouldn’t he? But, after all, what’s the good of it? It’s not so easy to fill up a gulf—yes, yes, therearegulfs—that’s what they are, gulfs—deep gulfs—in our family.

Mrs Buchner.

Still I can’t help thinking that we—that those of us with firm, honest intentions—

Mrs Scholz.

Intentions, intentions! don’t talk to me! I know better! One can intend, and intend, and intend, hundreds of things, and nothing gets any further. No, no!—it’s quite another thing with your daughter. She is so—and William is so—and both are what they are.—Much too good a sort for one of us—much, much too good.—Oh, Lord, yes!—intentions!—Ah yes! all these good intentions—Your intentions are all very well, but whether they lead to anything—I doubt it!

Mrs Buchner.

But I hope it—all the more.

Mrs Scholz.

Well, it may be. I’ll say nothing to spoil it. In spite of everything, my heart goes out to the boy; only it excites me so, I’m frightened; and, mind you, it won’t be all as easy as you think.

Ida(enters right; to Mrs Scholz, sweetly).

Little mother-in-law, she’s gilding the nuts.

Mrs Buchner.

Time’s getting on, Ida! You must make yourself beautiful, he may be here at any moment.

Ida(startled).

What? Already!

Mrs Scholz.

Oh, don’t trouble! She’s much too beautiful for him as it is.

Mrs Buchner.

I’ve put the blue out for you (calling after Ida), and put on the brooch; don’t forget.

[Exit Ida.

Mrs Buchner(continuing, to Mrs Scholz).

She doesn’t care a bit for jewellery.

[The outer door of the house opens and shuts.

Mrs Scholz.

Wait—who—(to Mrs Buchner) please will you—I can’t see him yet—I—

Mrs Buchner(calling up the stairs).

Ida! your William is here.

[Dr Scholz enters through the glass door. He is unusually tall, broad-shouldered, very bloated. The face is fat, complexion muddy, the eyes sometimes glittering, with wandering glances, but usually dull and lack-lustre. He has a grey, stubbly beard, partially covering his cheeks; his movements are clumsy and tremulous; he speaks brokenly, as if with his mouth full; stumbles over syllables, and is interrupted by gasping inspirations. He is slovenly dressed: a velvet vest, coat and trousers of nondescript colour, once brown—cap with a large peak, stone-grey in colour, peculiar in shape; red silk neckerchief, linen creased. He uses a large Turkish pocket handkerchief. On entering he carries a malacca cane with a staghorn crook in his right hand, and has flung about him a large military cloak, over his left arm a fur foot-bag.

Dr Scholz.

Servus! servus!

Mrs Scholz(staring at him as if at an apparition).

Fritz!—

Dr Scholz.

As you see.

Mrs Scholz(throwing her arms about him with a scream).

Fritz!!

Augusta(opens the door L., starts back).

Father!

[Mrs Buchner goes off backwards through the left door, her eyes fixed on Dr Scholz.

Dr Scholz.

Yes, yes, yes, it’s I. But first of all—is Friebe there?

Friebe(peeping through kitchen door, starts—coming forward).

The doctor! (He rushes to him and seizes and kisses both his hands.) Now, would anyone have believed it!

Dr Scholz.

St!—Just go and see—see that the house door is shut.

[Friebe nods and obeys with joyful alacrity.

Mrs Scholz.

But Fritz, tell me—only tell me, my mind’s all confused (weeping, embraces him). Ah Fritz! what grief you’ve caused me all this long, long time.

Dr Scholz(putting his wife gently from him).

Ah well, my life too—we’d better not begin with reproaches. You’re just the same doleful old thing (with gentle bitterness). Anyhow I should certainly not have troubled you—if it hadn’t been for—(Friebe takes his cloak, etc.) There are times in life, dear Minna—if one has powerful enemies as I have—

[Friebe goes out through the stairway with the Dr’s belongings.

Mrs Scholz(pretending to be cross).

Nobodymadeyou come, Fritz. Here there has always been a safe, cosy home;—you could have lived so comfortably here.

Dr Scholz.

Don’t be cross—you don’t understand.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah yes! I’m only a simpleton, I suppose,—but really, you weren’t answerable to anyone; it wasn’t at all necessary for you—

Dr Scholz.

—St! It was very necessary (half mysteriously). After guilt, atonement; after sin, chastisement.

Mrs Scholz.

Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (From here to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to seeWilliam come in.) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only let us.

Dr Scholz.

It was all my fault, all of it.

Mrs Scholz.

There, now you are unjust again.

Dr Scholz.

Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me, that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and always just in front ofmydoor.

Mrs Scholz.

But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose!

Dr Scholz.

No—? oh you!—you don’t understand!

Mrs Scholz.

Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean.

Dr Scholz.

Mean!—I should think they are.—However, we can speak of that later. I have rather a headache—(puts his hand on the back of his head). There! that’s another disgraceful thing! I know well enough whom I have to thank for that! I’ll just see whether I can’t drive it away with a sound sleep—I am very tired.

Mrs Scholz.

But there’s no fire upstairs, Fritz!

Dr Scholz.

Think of that. From Vienna without stopping and no fire!—Never mind; Friebe will have seen to that. Tell me about Friebe—I mean—is he still as trustworthy?

Mrs Scholz.

Friebe is—what he always was.

Dr Scholz.

I was sure of it—well for the present—(after he has pressed his wife’s hand, he turns with a deep thoughtful expression and goes towards the staircase. Noticing the Christmas tree, he stops and looks at it forlornly.) What is that?

Mrs Scholz(disturbed, shamefaced, and a little frightened).

We’re keeping Christmas.

Dr Scholz.

Keeping Christmas!—(after a long pause, lost in memories) It’s a long—long—time (turning and speaking with real emotion). And you—you’ve grown quite white!

Mrs Scholz.

Yes, Fritz—both of us!

[Dr Scholz nodding turns away and goes off through stairway L.

Mrs Buchner(entering quickly from R.).

So your husband has come back?

Mrs Scholz.

It’s as though—as if—I don’t know—Christ! what am I to think!

Mrs Buchner.

That it is a gift, dear friend, for which we must all be thankful.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah! what he looks like! How he has lived! What an existence!—from one country to another, from one town to—ah! he’s gone through something!

[Mrs Buchner is going to stairway.

Mrs Scholz.

What are you going to do?

Mrs Buchner.

Tell Ida of the joyful event.

[Goes off through stairway.

Mrs Scholz.

Oh yes!—no, no,—what are you thinking of! We mustn’t let that out. If my husband finds out that anyone but himself lives up there, I should get into nice trouble.

Mrs Buchner(from the stairs).

I’ll go very gently.

Mrs Scholz.

Yes, quite gently.—That would be dreadful!

Mrs Buchner.

I’m going quite gently.

Mrs Scholz.

Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!—Well—very, very gently!

Augusta(hastily entering from R.).

Father is here?

Mrs Scholz(beside herself).

Why, of course! And now what’s to be done! The next thing will be William—Oh! the deadly fear I’ve been in! if he and his father were to meet! Any minute he may come in! What an experience to go through for an old woman like me!

Augusta.

What an extraordinary sensation, mamma, extraordinary!—We were so used to—It’s like a man risen from the dead after long years.—I’m frightened, mamma.

Mrs Scholz.

Do you suppose he’s come to the end of his money?

Augusta.

Now—that would be—Well! I—that would be the last straw!

Mrs Scholz.

Well, in that case, how should we manage at all! We might as well go and beg at once.

[Ida fully dressed enters from stairway, presses Augusta’s hand joyfully.

Ida.

Gussie! (winningly) It’s really true! Oh! I am so glad.

[Mrs Scholz and Augusta show a certain painful emotion.

[Robert enters from one of the doors R.; he is of middle height, slender, pale-faced, and haggard-looking. His eyes are sunken, and at times glitter feverishly; moustache and imperial. He smokes Turkish tobacco out of a noticeably short-stemmed pipe.

Robert(lightly).

You’re going to have it warm here, mother.

Mrs Scholz.

Nowhe’sbeginning!

Augusta.

For all I care!

[Steals sidelong glances at Ida’s dress.

Robert(to Ida, who has looked at him reproachfully).

Yes, that’s how I’m made, Miss Ida!

Ida(shaking her head at him incredulously).

No! no!

Augusta(exploding).

You’re too maddening, Robert!

Robert.

Not intentionally! Don’tgetmad!

[Augusta makes a contemptuous gesture.

Robert.

And then——?

Augusta.

And then!—And then!—Bosh!

Robert(with simulated astonishment).

I beg your pardon—I thought—but you no longer depend on mere outward charms!

Ida(soothingly).

Oh! Mr Robert!

Robert.

H’m, mustn’t I defend myself?

Augusta(half choked with tears).

Just like you! Just like you. Your whole—my age—it’s infamous of you! Mrs Buchner! isn’t it too mean of him? To me! I—I who have stuck to mother—through the best—most beautiful time of my young life!—whilst all of you—I—just as if I’d been a servant-girl!

Robert.

On my word!—that has the true ring—try the stage! (with an altered manner: roughly) Don’t play the fool; just think! you with a martyr’s halo, that would be too funny! You’d have come off even worse anywhere else than you have at home, that’s the truth of it!

Augusta.

Mother! you can bear witness—haven’t I refused three proposals?

Robert.

Pff! If mother had only forked out the necessary money the gentlemen would no doubt have included you in the bargain.

Mrs Scholz(stepping up to Robert, holding her hand out).

There, take a knife—cut it out of me—cut the money out of my hand!

Augusta.

Listen to me! Would you like to see the letters of refusal?

Mrs Scholz(interrupting).

Children! (She makes a movement as if to bare her breast for a death-stroke.) Here—rather kill me at once! Haven’t you so much pity for me? Not so much? What? Ah! good Lord! Not five minutes! I never saw such children; not five minutes can you keep peace!

Robert.

Exactly, that’s what I said: things are warming up again.

[Friebe comes importantly from the stairway; he whispers to Mrs Scholz, whereupon she gives him a key. Friebe goes out through cellar door. Robert has stood watching this proceeding.

Robert(as Friebe disappears down the cellar steps).

Aha!

Augusta(who has kept her eye on Robert: breaking out furiously).

You haven’t a shred of filial feeling!—not one shred!

Robert.

And then——?

Augusta.

But you’re a good hand at acting—you lie abominably; and that’s the most disgusting part of it.

Robert.

About father, do you mean?

Augusta.

Especially about father.

Robert(shrugging his shoulders).

If you mean——

Augusta.

Yes—yes—that—that! Yes—for—if it werenotso, then, yesthenyou would be a scoundrel——

Mrs Scholz(interrupting).

Will you two be quiet or——

Robert(without noticing her).

Then I am a scoundrel—well and then?——

[Ida, who for a long time has shown restless expectation goes out through glass door.

Augusta.

Pfui! shameless!

Robert.

Shameless—just so. So I am.

Mrs Buchner.

Mr Robert! I don’t believe you—you are better than you would have us believe—better than you yourself believe!

Robert(with slight but increasing sarcasm, coldly).

My dear Mrs Buchner! it is no doubt very kind of you—but as I said—I hardly know—to what this honour—indeed I can lay no claim to your indulgence. My self-esteem is at the present moment by no means so slight that I feel the need of anyone to——

Mrs Buchner(slightly bewildered).

That isn’t at all what I mean—only—yourfather?

Robert.

My father for me is a certain Fritz Scholz, doctor of medicine.

Augusta.

Oh yes—go on!

Robert.

And if I cannot feel towards this man quite so indifferent as towards any other tomfool, it is because I—and then—(he smokes) because I—well just this—I am myself to a certain extent the product of his folly.

Mrs Buchner(hardly believing her ears).

Excuse me! I can’t follow you so far. How can you say such a thing?—It really quite upsets me.

Mrs Scholz(to Mrs Buchner).

There, there!—You’ll see things in this house——

Augusta.

Now what do you mean by that, mother? We are—whatwe are. Other people who do—Lord knows what—they’re no better!

Robert.

As a matter of fact there are always simple souls to be found who are never happy unless they can potter about tinkering their neighbours’ affairs—exploded ideas!—Rubbish!

Mrs Buchner(seizing Robert by both hands, with feeling).

Mr Robert! I feel under a distinct obligation to you. I’m quite charmed. Honestly, you haven’t offended me in the least!

Robert(a little taken aback).

You are an extraordinary woman!

[Friebe comes from the cellar; he carries in his left hand three bottles of red wine, the bottle necks between his fingers, a bottle of cognac under his left arm. In his right hand he has the cellar key. Advancing to Mrs Scholz, importantly.]—

Friebe.

Now then—the cigars.

Mrs Scholz.

Good gracious, Friebe, I really don’t know—

Robert.

In the writing-table, mother.

Mrs Scholz.

Ah—yes!—

[She takes a bunch of keys and fumbles nervously for the right one.

Augusta.

Why! you know the key of the desk!

Robert.

The one with the straight ward.

Mrs Scholz.

Oh yes! wait a minute!

Robert.

Give it to me.

Mrs Scholz.

Wait—wait—here—ah!—no!—I’m quite confused! (handing Robert the bunch). There!

Robert(detaching the right key and passing it to Friebe).

There, I trust my father’s cigars may meet with your approval.

Friebe.

There you are! We shan’t get him away from them all day! (bell rings loudly) Coming—coming! (goes off upstairs).

Mrs Scholz.

Now the wine will soon come to an end!—Good heavens! What are we coming to! All that wine. Always those strong, expensive cigars! I tell you he will ruin himself!

Robert.

Well, it’s a free country!

Mrs Buchner.

What do you mean?

Robert.

Everyone has a right to amuse himself in his own way. I, at any rate, would not have my right interfered with, not even by law. H’m, it’s extraordinary!

Mrs Buchner.

What!

Robert.

Extraordinary!

Mrs Buchner.

Why do you look at me so critically? Is it something about me that isextraordinary?

Robert.

Depends how you look at it! You’ve been with us several days, and you’ve not yet thought of going—!

Augusta.

What a way to talk!

Mrs Scholz.

Theywon’tstop!

[She shakes her head despairingly.

Robert(with brutal candour).

Well mother, isn’t it true? Have any strangers ever been able to stand us more than half a day? Haven’t they all cleared out?—The Schulzes—the Lehmanns?

Augusta.

As if we were dependent on strangers—for my part we’re enough for ourselves.

Robert.

Ohmorethan enough! (Brutally) I tell you, Mrs Buchner, they would fly at each other’s throats before perfect strangers—like wild beasts. Mother would tear off the tablecloth, father smash the water-bottle—cheerful, eh?—Pretty scenes!—Charming impressions for children!

Augusta.

You ought to crawl out of sight for shame, you mean wretch, you!

[Goes off quickly.

Mrs Scholz.

You see?Thisis what I’ve endured for years—years!

[Goes out in great agitation.

Robert(going on, quite unmoved).

And no wonder. A man of forty marries a girl of sixteen and carries her off to this godforsaken corner. A man who has served as surgeon in the Turkish army, and travelled through Japan. A cultivated, enterprising spirit, who works out the most daring projects—joins himself to a woman who a few years before was firmly convinced, that America was one of the stars in the sky. Truly I don’t exaggerate! Well, the result—a stagnant, corrupt, fermenting swamp—out of which we have had the doubtful advantage of growing—Horrible!—Love?—not a trace. Mutual understanding?—respect?—not a touch—andthis is the soil from which we children have grown.

Mrs Buchner.

Mr Robert!—I want to beg you—

Robert.

All right! I don’t want to talk of it. Besides the story is—

Mrs Buchner.

No, no!—I want to ask you for something—pressing.

Robert.

Ask me—what?

Mrs Buchner.

Couldn’t you—to please me—couldn’t you?—wouldn’t it be possible—just this one evening—couldn’t you put off your mask?

Robert.

That’s good! Put off my mask?

Mrs Buchner.

Yes, for it’s not really you—it’s not really your own face that you show us.

Robert.

What an idea!

Mrs Buchner.

Promise me—Mr Robert!—

Robert.

But I really don’t know—

Mrs Buchner.

William—your brother William may come at any moment—and—

Robert(interrupting).

Mrs Buchner, if you would only—Believe me!—your efforts, I assure you, are quite useless—all this will lead to nothing—absolutely nothing—it’s all been spoilt for us—ruined—bungled from the very beginning—bungled through every year of our lives. There’s nothing more to be done. It all looks very—promising—Christmas tree—candles—presents—family gathering—That’s only on top: a downright damnable lie—nothing else! And now—Father!—If I didn’t know how unmanageable he is—on my honour I should believe—that it was you—who brought him here—

Mrs Buchner.

Indeed no! That is just what has quickened my hopes. It is not chance, it’s providence—and so from my heart I beg you to be kind and brotherly to William. If you only knew how highly he speaks of you, with what love and what respect—

Robert(interrupting).

H’m!—and what use will it be?

Mrs Buchner.

What?

Robert.

Why should I be kind and brotherly to him?

Mrs Buchner.

You ask that!

Robert.

Yes.

Mrs Buchner.

Well—at least not to spoil his return home for him.

Robert.

Oh, we don’t affect each other as you seem to think, and, besides, if you imagine he is going to be overcome by a subtle emotion on first entering here—

Mrs Buchner.

Your brother is so good—a really fine character!—He must have fought a great fight before bringing himself to this point. He is coming with an intense desire for reconciliation, that I canassureyou!

Robert.

I can’t understand all that. Reconciled—to what?—That’s what I can’t see. As a rule, we understand one another fairly well in this family. But this is quite beyond me! I’ve nothing to say against him, but on the other hand there’s no disguising facts.—I ask you—do you imagine that I have any exaggerated respect for my father?—Of course not.—Or that I have any—love—for him?—Or any childlike feeling of gratitude?—You see, I haven’t the slightest reason for any such feeling. In all our lives, the most that we have ever been to each other, has been a source of amusement. At moments, when we have blamed each other for our common unhappiness, we haveactually hated each other. Well, between father and William this same hatred grew. That I understand well enough. That I haven’t done what William did is perhaps an accident. So I have nothing against him—nota bene, so long as I don’t see him. But if I see him, then all my logic goes to the devil, for I am rather,—rather—h’m, what shall I say?—Well,thenI only see the man who has struck my father, not his, butmyfather, struck him in the face!

Mrs Buchner.

Oh my God!—

Robert.

And then I can answer for nothing—you see?—absolutely for nothing.

Mrs Buchner.

My God!—Was that it!—Struck him, you say?—In—the—f—, in the face? His own father?—

Robert.

Just that.

Mrs Buchner(half beside herself).

Oh my God!—But then—then I can indeed!—Ah! then I must speak to him at once.—Your good old father—for—

Robert(quite startled).

To whom?—

Mrs Buchner(bursting into tears).

To your poor dear old ill-treated father!

Robert(trying to restrain her).

For heaven’s sake what can you—

Mrs Buchner.

Let me go—I must—I must—!

[Goes through stairway.

Robert(calling after her).

Mrs Buchner! (Turning back) Damned hysteria!—

[He shrugs his shoulders, and paces the room more than once; he makes a movement as if to hurry after her, but finally gives up the idea, and forces himself into a state of apparent indifference; he first occupies himself with his pipe; knocks it out, fills it with new tobacco from his pouch, lights it, and seems for some minutes lost in the enjoyment of smoking. Presently his interest is roused by the Christmas tree, and turning to the presents on the table, he plants himself before them; while surveying them, pipe in mouth, he laughs bitterly more than once. Suddenly he starts, takes his pipe in his hand, and bends low over the table: straightening himself, he seems for the first time to discover that he is alone; looking round as cautiously as a thief, he bends forward again, hastily seizes the yellow silk purse, looks at it more closely, and presses it with a sudden passionate movement to his lips. In this movement he shows, as by a lightning flash, an eerie, feverish passion. A noise startles him. Instantly the purse lies where it was. On tiptoe he tries to slip away. Just as he is disappearing through the door down R., he seeshis mother enter by the adjoining door, and on his part stands still. Mrs Scholz goes heavily but quickly across the room to the stairway, where she stands and listens.]

Robert(turning back).

I say, mother, what does that woman want?

Mrs Scholz(frightened).

Oh God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!!! How you startle one!

Robert.

What! (puffs) wh—(puffs again), what does Mrs—Mrs Buchner really want here, I should like to know?

Mrs Scholz.

WhatIwant to know is, what your father—whathereally wants? Ah, just tell me! what is it?

Robert.

Well, you’ll scarcely refuse him a roof over his head?

Mrs Scholz(perversely, almost in tears).

I really don’t see. It’s so long since he wanted me; one was at any rate one’s own master; now it will begin all over again. The old worry!—now in one’s old days, one will be ordered about like a little child!

Robert.

Oh! how you exaggerate! It’s always the same, you will exaggerate so.

Mrs Scholz.

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