ACT II
The room is empty. It is lighted partly by a lamp, with a red shade, placed in the arch of the stairway, but principally from the open doors of the side room. Here the company is seated at table, as is evident from the ringing of glasses and clatter of plates, knives and forks.
[Ida, followed at once by William, comes out of the side room.
Ida.
At last! (Coaxingly.) And now, youmustthink of your father, Willy. Don’t be angry with me, but since you have a favour to ask your father, you mustn’t wait till he comes down to you.
William.
Did father think of coming down to dinner?
Ida.
Of course! Mamma has—
[William seizes Ida suddenly in his arms and presses her to him impulsively with passionate strength.
Ida.
Oh—oh—you—If anyone—my hair will be all—
[William lets his arms fall nervelessly from round her, folds his hands, hangs his head, and stands before her suddenly sobered, like an arrested criminal.
(Smoothing her hair.) Oh, what a rough boy you are, sometimes!
William.
Rough you call it—I should call it something quite different.
Ida.
Oh, Willy! why are you so depressed again? All in a minute! Really, you’re incorrigible!
William(gripping her hand, puts his arm round her shoulders, makes her walk with him quickly through the hall).
Incorrigible? Yes—you see—that’s just it; I’m afraid of nothing so much as that I—as that—all your trouble with me will be thrown away, I’m so terribly changeable! (Touching his forehead.) There’s no peace here. Any second might decide my fate! I’m afraid of myself! To be always running away from one’s self. Have you any idea of what that means? Well, that’s what I am, what I have been all my life.
Ida.
After all—but no, that won’t do—
William.
But do say—
Ida.
I’ve often thought—really—it has seemed to me so often that—don’t be angry—but that really there is nothing from which you need fly. I myself sometimes think—
William.
Ah, my dearest! You mustn’t—Did you notice Robert—did you see?
Ida.
No—what?
William.
Did you see how he met me? He—you see—heknowsthat I have to fly from myself, he knows me. Just ask him, he will make it clear to you, that is to say, he threatens to—Ah, I know better! Only just watch how he always looks at me. He means me to be anxious, to be frightened—Ha! ha! ha! No, my dear brother, we’re not so pitiful as all that yet! And now youdosee, don’t you, Ida, that I daren’t let you—I mean, you mustn’t have any illusions about me. There is only one way. I must be frank with you—I must managethatsomehow—I fight for that. When you know me through and through, then—I mean if you can bear with me, if you can still—love me—then—that would be—then I think something might arise in me, something brave, even proud—then I shouldreallylive, and if they were all to despise me—(Ida nestles against him devotedly.) And now, before I go up to father, I’ll tell you too—you know what I mean?
[Ida nods.
William.
Now you shall—I must force myself to tell you what this—between me and my father—yes, Ida, Iwilldo it—(They walk arm in arm.) Just imagine! I was here on a visit.—No, I can’t begin like that, I must go farther back. You know before that I had been making my own way for a long time. I suppose I hadn’t told you that?
Ida.
No—But quietly, only not so much—Don’t excite yourself so, Willy!
William.
You see—there again! I am a coward. I’ve never yet dared to tell you what my life has been. In any case it’s a risk—it’s a risk—even to one’s self. Ah! well, if I can’t even bring myself to that point, how shall I ever manage to go up to father?
Ida.
Ah, don’t—don’t torture yourself so! just now, when you have so much to bear!
William.
Ah! you are afraid? You’re afraid of what you may hear?
Ida.
Sh! you must not speak like that.
William.
Well then, just picture it. Father spent his life up there. He had always lived alone till he met mother, andhe soon fell back into the old lonely, fantastic way of life. All of a sudden he descended on us—Robert and me,—he never troubled his head about Augusta.... Ten solid hours a day we pored over books; when I look at our prison—even to-day—it was next his study—you must have seen it?
Ida.
The great room upstairs?
William.
Yes, that one. Once we had entered that room, the sun might shine as brightly as it liked through the windows, it was night for us inside. Well, then, you see, we used to take refuge with mother; we simply ran away from him; and then there used to be scenes—mother pulling me by one arm, father by the other. It came to this, that Friebe had to carry us upstairs. We defended ourselves: we used to bite his hands. Of course, nothing was any use; our life only became more unendurable—but we remained obstinate and—I know now—father began to hate us. We drove him to such a point that one day he hunted us downstairs; he couldn’t endure us any more, the very sight of us was hateful to him.
Ida.
But your father—you’ll admit he meant well—he wanted you to learn a great deal, and so—
William.
Up to a certain point he may have meant well—may have—but at that time we were only boys of nine or tenand afterwards the good intentions disappeared. On the contrary, his intention then was to let us go utterly to ruin. Yes, yes, mother was a cipher. For five years we were left to ourselves in the most reckless way: we were scamps and loafers. I had one thing left—my music; Robert had nothing. But we took to other things besides. We shall scarcely ever get over the effects of some ofthem.—At last I suppose father’s conscience pricked him; there were frightful scenes with mother. In the end we were packed off to an Institution, and when I could not stand the slavery of that any more and ran away, he had me stopped and sent to Hamburg. The good-for-nothing should go to America. The good-for-nothing naturally ran away again. I let my parents alone and starved and fought my own way through the world. Robert has much the same experience to look back upon. Nevertheless, in father’s eyes we have remained good-for-nothings: later on I was simple enough to ask him for some help—as a right, not as charity; I wanted to go to the Conservatoire. Then he wrote to me, on a postcard, “Be a cobbler.” And so you see, Ida, we are in a way self-made men, but we’re not particularly proud of it.
Ida(smiling).
Really, Willy, I can’t help it! I do sympathise with you so, but at this moment I can’t help—Oh, don’t look so strangely at me, please—please—
William.
Ah, Ida, it’s bitter, not a thing to laugh at.
Ida(breaking out).
It’s a feeling ofjoy, William! I must tell you! It may be selfish, but I am so inexpressibly glad that you—that you can be so much in need of—Ah, I will be so good to you, Willy. I see clearly what I have to do. Ah! I am quite confused! I pity you so, but the more I pity you, the more glad I am. Do you understand? I mean, I am thinking how I may perhaps—everything—all the love that you have had to go without—I may perhaps more than—
William.
If I’m only worth it—for now something is coming for which I alone am to blame—Years ago—no! it’s—I used to come afterwards on a sort of visit to mother. Picture to yourself, Ida, when I saw all that misery again, just imagine how I used to feel.
Ida.
Your mother—suffered very much?
William.
I think differently now in many ways about mother. In any case, father was most to blame. In those days it used to seem to me as if he kept mother here against her will. I even wanted her to separate from him.
Ida.
But, your mother surely couldn’t—
William.
She didn’t see it as I did. She hadn’t the courage. Well, what father used to look like in my eyes, you can perhaps imagine.
Ida.
But William! Perhaps you too, were not quite just to your father—a man—
William(without noticing Ida’s interruption.)
Once I committed the folly of bringing a friend—nonsense! not a friend, a chance acquaintance, a musical fellow. I brought him here with me. That was quite refreshing for mother; she played duets with him every day for a whole week, and then—frightful!—as true as I’m here he—not the shadow of a possibility! Yet at the end of the week even the servants flung it in her face!
Ida.
Forgive me! I don’t—I—flung what?
William.
Mother—mother was supposed to—my mother—supposed to—just think, they actually dared to accuse her of it openly, she—a secret understanding with—that she—I taxed her with it—the girl who said it—insolent—the coachman had told her. I went to the coachman, and he—he stuck to it—had it from the master, from the master himself—, naturally I—was it possible I could believe such a thing! At least I tried not to—until I myself overheard—in the stables—father and the stable boy—you may believe my very hands tingled when I heard him—about my mother.
Ida.
Only do be—try—don’t excite yourself sofearfully. You are quite—
William.
I don’t know any more—I only know there is something in a man—his will is a mere wisp of straw. One must go through it to—It swept over me like a flood. A state like—and in this state I found myself suddenly in father’s room. I saw him. He was doing something—I can’t remember what. And then I—literally—I thrashed him—with these hands.
[He can scarcely hold himself up.
[Ida dries the tears from her eyes. Pale and trembling she stands some moments looking at William, then, crying quietly, kisses him on the forehead.
William.
You angel of pity! (The Doctor’s voice is heard on the stair.) And now—if ever—
[He braces himself, Ida kisses him again. He has gripped her hand. As the voice of the Doctor ceases, merry laughter is heard from room R.
William(alluding to the laughter, as well as to the Doctor’s step, heard descending the stairs).
You have a wonderful power.
[Another hand grip between them, and before Ida goes out she turns round.
Ida(again seizing William’s hand at door).
Be brave.
[Exit.
Dr Scholz(still on the stairs).
Eh! Nonsense! To the right, Friebe. Eh! My elbow! leave go, leave go! Confound you.
[During the Doctor’s approach William shows more and more excitement. His colour changes quickly, he thrusts his hands through his hair, breathes deeply, makes movements with his right hand as though playing the piano. It is quite evident that he is torn by different emotions, that his resolution is shaken. He seems about to rush away, but is stopped by the Doctor’s entrance. He has caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself and stands there white and trembling. The Doctor, drawn up to his full imposing height, measures his son with a look in which terror, hate and contempt are expressed. There is a silence. Friebe, who has entered with the Doctor, whom he has led and lighted down the stairs, makes use of the pause to slink away into the kitchen. William shows marked signs of his mental conflict. He tries to speak, his voice fails him, only his lips move noiselessly. He takes his hand from the chair back and steps up to the old man. He stumbles, staggers, and almost falls; stops and tries to speak again, and cannot; drags himself nearer, and clasping his hands, sinks at the old man’s feet. In Doctor Scholz’s face the expression has changed from hate to astonishment, growing sympathy and confusion.
Dr Scholz.
My boy—my dear boy! My—(he tries to raise him by his hands.) Only get up! (He takes William’s head, which has sunk between both hands, and turns ittowards him.) My boy—only look at me! Ah! what is the matter?
[William moves his lips.
Dr Scholz(with trembling voice).
What—what are you saying to me?
William.
Father—I—
Dr Scholz.
What?—Do you mean?
William.
I have—I h—ha—have—
Dr Scholz.Nonsense, nonsense. No more of such—
William.
I have sinned against you—
Dr Scholz.
Nonsense, nonsense. I don’t know what you are talking about! Bygones are bygones! For my sake—my boy!
William.
Only take it from me! Take this burden from me!
Dr Scholz.
Forgiven and forgotten, boy! Forgiven and forgotten!
William.
Thank—
[He draws a deep breath and loses consciousness.
Dr Scholz.
My boy! What are you doing—what—
[He lifts William, quite unconscious, drags and puts him in a large armchair near R. table. Whilst he does so, Ida, Robert, Augusta, Mrs Scholz and Mrs Buchner come hastily out of dining-room, Friebe out of the kitchen.
Some wine—quick, some wine.
[Ida in a moment goes and returns with wine.
Mrs Scholz.
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!!! water! sprinkle him with water!
[Dr Scholz puts wine to his mouth.
Augusta.
What was it?
Ida(pale and in tears, laying one cheek against William’s arm).
How icy cold he is.
Mrs Scholz.
But what has the boy got into such a state of excitement for? that’s what I should like to know. That is completely—
Robert(seizes her hand and stops her).
Mother!
Mrs Buchner.
Sprinkle more water, more water, Doctor!
Dr Scholz.
Tch! Tch! have none of you any Eau-de-Cologne?
Mrs Buchner.
Yes (giving him small bottle). Please—
Dr Scholz.
Thanks.
[He wets the fainting man’s brow.
Ida(to Doctor).
It is only—isn’t it? but (she bursts into tears) he looks so—just as if he were—he looks like death.
[Robert comforts Ida.
Mrs Scholz.
Why, the poor boy’s in a cold sweat.
[Wipes his brow; William yawns.
Dr Scholz.
Sh!
[He and the rest watch William in suspense. William clears his throat, stretches himself, opens and shuts his eyes like one overcome with sleep, lays his head back as if to sleep.
Dr Scholz(audibly).
Thank God!
[He straightens himself, wipes his forehead with his handkerchief, and half touched, half embarrassed, surveys the others. Ida has fallen on her mother’s neck between laughter and tears. Robert, hardly master of his emotion, stands with clasped hands and glances at the others alternately. Augusta goes hastily up and down, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth, and every time she passes William pauses a moment to look at him searchingly.Friebe goes out on tiptoe. The Doctor’s eyes meet his wife’s; touched, she ventures timidly to approach him, gently seizes his hand and pats his back.
Mrs Scholz.
Dear old man!
Augusta(following her mother, embraces and kisses her father, who suffers it without removing his hand from his wife’s).
My dearest father!
[Robert with sudden resolution steps up to his father and shakes his hand. Mrs Scholz lets go of the Doctor’s hand and leads Ida to him. Dr Scholz looks first at Ida, then at William, and then at Mrs Buchner. Mrs Buchner nods assent. Dr Scholz makes a grimace which expresses “I will say nothing against it, I may be mistaken,” and then stretches out his hand to the girl. Ida comes to him, takes his hand, bends over it and kisses it. Dr Scholz immediately draws his hand back, startled. William sighs deeply; all look at him. Augusta goes off to the adjoining room, beckoning Mrs Scholz. Mrs Scholz makes a sign to the Doctor that they should all go into the next room because of William. Dr Scholz nods assentingly and goes off quietly hand in hand with Mrs Scholz. Mrs Buchner, who has signed to Ida to remain with William, also goes.
Robert(in a low voice).
Miss Ida, would you—would you leave me to watch him?
Ida(with joyful surprise).
Yes, indeed.
[Presses his hand and goes off after the others. Robert draws a chair near to William and sits down, watching him. After a time he takes his pipe from his pocket, is about to light it, then suddenly remembers the presence of his brother and puts it back. William sighs and stretches his limbs.
Robert(quickly, cautiously).
William!
William(clears his throat, opens his eyes, not realising at first where he is, and then as though Robert had only just spoken).
Yes.
Robert.
How do you feel now?
William(after looking thoughtfully at Robert, in a weak voice).
Robert? Eh?
Robert.
Yes, it’s I, Robert. How do you feel?
William.
Well, (clears his throat) quite well, now.
[He laughs constrainedly, makes a faint attempt to get up, but fails.
Robert.
Oh, that’s a little bit too soon, eh?
[William nods, sighs and shuts his eyes again as if exhausted. Pause. William re-opens his eyes fully and speaks low but clearly.
William.
What has been going on here?
Robert.
I think, Willy, it will be best if we let that be for the present. I’ll assure you ofone thing, it’s something that I, for one, would never have believed possible.
William(with emotion).
Nor I.
Robert.
How on earth should a fellow—ah, rubbish! It was absolutely impossible to foresee it. All the same it happened.
William.
It comes back to me now, little by little; it was pleasant.
[His eyes fill with tears.
Robert(with a slight quiver in his voice).
Sentimental! Just like a woman! There’s one thing certain, our judgment was pretty wide of the mark; we haven’t known the old man really; it’s no use thinking we have.
William.
Father? No, we were all so blind! so blind!
Robert.
Yes, God knows, we were.
William.
How strange it seems. The old fellow really cares for us; he’s a real good sort.
Robert.
He can be, and till now I never knew it.
William.
A good deal is beginning to dawn on me.
Robert.
With my brain and so on, you know, I have grasped it long enough. Everything that happened had to be; I never held father responsible—at least, I haven’t for years. Certainly not for me—not for any of us. But to-day I have reallyfeltit; and that, you know, is quite another thing—Frankly, it’s taken me right off my balance. When I saw him so—so anxious over you, it was like a blow to me; and now I shall always be thinking:—That was there, living, in us.—Why on earth didn’t it show itself before? In father—in you—and, by God! in me too. It was there in us! And there he has been stifling it in himself—father, I mean—yes, and we too, for years and years—
William.
I see one thing: we not only show a different self to every one of our fellow-creatures, but wearefundamentally different to each.
Robert.
But why must it be so with us? Why must we for ever keep each other at such a distance?
William.
I’ll tell you why; because we have no natural goodness of heart. Take Ida for instance: what you have got at by hard thinking is natural to her. She never sits in judgment, she treats everything so gently, with such sympathy, and that spares people so much—you understand—and I believe it is that—
Robert(abruptly, rises).
How do you feel now?
William.
I feel relieved—free.
Robert.
Ah! what’s the use of all that—H’m! what was I going to say—Perhaps it will turn out all right for you.
William.
What do you mean?
Robert.
What should I mean? For you and—for Ida, of course.
William.
Perhaps! Those two have such a power—Mrs Buchner too—but particularly Ida. I have thought that might save me—At first I checked myself—
Robert(thoughtfully).
Yes they have! they have a power, and just because of that—at first—I—to be frank, I blamed you.
William.
I felt it.
Robert.
Well just think. I heard something about an engagement, and then I saw Ida; she was so merry, singing, up and down stairs, without the least thought of—
William(rising).
Well I understood you, I even felt you were right. What would you have!
Robert.
Well—I too am—I must admit it’s quite a different matter now—As I—as I said—it was chiefly—Quite jolly again?
William.
Perfectly.
Robert.
Then you’ll come along soon?
William.
I’ll only just—you go first.
Robert.
Right. (Going, stops.) I can’t help it—I’ve got to tell you. Your whole conduct—about father, and—altogether—it’s something to admire. With my cursed prejudices—I too—downright accused you. One—devil take it! It’s a long time since I’ve had such a desire to spit at myself. You’re glad to hear that, eh? Well, perhaps you’ll do me the favourto—if I—I’ve certainly done my level best to vex you since you’ve been home, so—I’m sorry for it—there!
William.
Brother!
[They shake hands warmly.
Robert(takes his hand quietly out of William’s, brings out his pipe, lights it and puffs smoke, then says as if to himself).
Acrobatic soul! (Puff, puff.) Well, well! (He turns to go; before opening the door R. he speaks over his shoulder to William.) I’ll send her out to you.
William.
Ah, never mind!—Well, if you really—
[Robert nods and disappears through the doorway. William draws a deep breath, deep joy at what has happened possesses him.
Ida(comes from the adjoining room, flies into his arms.)
Willy!!!
William.
Now—you—you two golden hearts have set me free. A new life! You can’t think how that inspires me. I seem quite great in my own eyes!—Ah, Ida, I can only now realise—how frightfully that weighed upon me, and now I feel such strength—such strength, Ida! You may rely on me, I will show him what the “good-for-nothing” can do. I’ll give father proofs. I will show him there is something in me: strength, living power as an artist, before which all shall bow—the stiffest necks shall bend—Ifeel it! Only that has crippled me. Now my fingers are twitching! I could compose, create—
Ida.
Ah you see! Now it’s all right! Now I have your own old self again—Dearest, I could sob—I could—shout for joy. Wasn’t I right? Nothing was dead in you, it only slept. It will all wake anew, as I always told you. Ithasawaked—
[She embraces and kisses him. Still embracing they pace the room in silent happiness.
William(stopping, and looking with happy bewilderment first into her eyes, then round the room).
In these cold dreary walls—what joy—like blooming spring!
[They kiss each other, closely entwined in silent happiness. They continue walking.
Ida(sings softly to the same tune as her song in Act I. roguishly).
Now you see how right I was.
[Mrs Scholz comes a step into the room, sees the lovers and is going quickly out.
Ida(noticing her, breaks off her song, and runs up to her).
You’re not to run away, little mother-in-law!
Mrs Scholz.
Ah, why not! You don’t need me. (William embraces and kisses his mother and helps to pull her into the room.) (Crossly) You are so awkward! You are—you are pulling me to pieces.
William.
Oh, mother! what does that matter to-day—Mother! You see quite another man before you! (Between his mother and Ida, holding a hand of each.) Come, little old mother, look at one another in the eyes, give each other your hands.
Mrs Scholz.
Silly fellow!
William.
Kiss each other!
Mrs Scholz(after wiping her mouth with her apron).
There, stupid boy, if nothing else will do.—You needn’t use force to us.—There, Ida!
[They kiss each other laughing.
William.
And now—peace!
Mrs Scholz.
Unberufen, my boy!
[Friebe comes out of the kitchen carrying a steaming punch-bowl, goes towards the next room.
William.
Oho! What have we here? Is it good, Friebe?
Friebe(crossing room).
Ay, if you was to set thirty such like in front of me, not a gulp would I let down my throat.
William.
Really not, Friebe?
Friebe.
There was a time—ay, yes—but now I’ve sworn off, ages ago. Now I drink only—mostly bitters.
[Goes out.
Ida(who has been tying William’s necktie and pulling his coat straight).
There! now—
William.
Thank you, darling.—Is father in good spirits?
Mrs Scholz.
He’s telling his tales. Often one can’t understand a word.
William.
My heart is beginning to beat again.
Mrs Scholz.
If only Robert would not drink so much!
William.
Ah, mother, to-day!—to-day nothing matters! To-day—
Ida.
Now come along quickly, before you—
William(toMrs Scholz).
You’re coming too?
Mrs Scholz.
Only be off with you! Be off!
[Ida and William go into the next room. Mrs Scholz stands thinking, draws her hand over her brow, and moved by a sudden idea, goes to the door of the adjoining room where she listens.
Friebe(steps in through the same door. He is evidently excited).
Missis!
Mrs Scholz.
What do you want?
Friebe(whispering mysteriously).
I’ve got a—surprise, Mrs Sch—olz—
Mrs Scholz(shrinking back).
You’ve been drinking! You—
Friebe.
I’ve been on the look out, all sorts of ways, and I’ve—got something to tell you.
Mrs Scholz.
Well? yes, yes! Only say quickly what you’ve got to say.
Friebe.
H’m, I only mean—
Mrs Scholz.
Well, speak then, Friebe.
Friebe.
I only mean—that’s not the way. In my position there are many things I mustn’t talk about. I only mean your husband—he can’t possibly keep it up much longer—
Mrs Scholz.
Oh Jesus! Jesus! Friebe! has he—has he—complained? then, O Jesus! is he ill?
Friebe.
Ah, as to that, what should I know?
Mrs Scholz.
But what has he complained of?
Friebe.
That—I wasn’t to—tell—
Mrs Scholz.
Is it true though? (Friebe nods.) But he can’t have spoken of his death?
Friebe.
Ah, more than that,—he’s said pretty things!
Mrs Scholz.
Now for goodness sake do try and speak clearly. Drunken creature!
Friebe(angry).
Yes, I’m—neither the gardener nor the boot boy; and as to what may happen—I shouldn’t need—in every position what I want most—in my position, but no!—Now you have the whole thing clear!
[He wheels round, goes off into the kitchen.
Mrs Scholz.
The man’s gone crazy.
[Ida enters through door of the adjoining room, shuts it behind her; opening it a little again she calls into the room.
Ida.
Wait, good people. Quiet! No impatience!
William(pressing into the room).
But I want to help.
Ida.
No one else, then.
[Ida and William light Christmas Tree candles.
Mrs Scholz.
But, William, listen a minute.
William(busy).
Directly, little mother.—Just ready.
[The Christmas Tree, the candelabra and the chandelier are lighted. Ida removes a large table cover which has been thrown over presents on the table. William goes to his mother.
Ida(calls through door R).
Now!
[Mrs Scholz, who is just going to speak to William, is interrupted by the entrance of Dr Scholz, who is followed by Augusta, Robert and Mrs Buchner. Dr Scholz, his face reddened with drinking.
Dr Scholz(with affected astonishment).
Ah! Ah!
Mrs Buchner.
Fairylike!
[Augusta smiles constrainedly; Robert goes about pipe in mouth at first embarrassed, then smiling more and more ironically. William notices this with great annoyance.
Ida(draws William to the table where the presents lie).
Don’t laugh at me, Willy.
[Gives him his purse.
William.
But—Ida—I begged you—
Ida.
I crocheted it once for father. The year before his death he used it often, and so I thought—
William(with increasing embarrassment under Robert’s eyes).
Yes—yes.—Ever so many thanks, Ida!
Robert.
Things only want to be more practical.
Mrs Scholz(who has been led to the table by Mrs Buchner).
But what have you been doing! You cannot—I have nothing for you. (Seeing a crocheted shawl.) No, no! Only think!—You crocheted that for me—an old woman like me? Well then, I do thank you, many, many times.
[They kiss one another.
Mrs Buchner.
Ah! I’m only too glad if it pleases you.
Mrs Scholz.
Beautiful—wonderful—lovely. The time and the trouble! I never!
Ida.
I’ve something for you too, Mr Robert, but you mustn’t laugh at me!
Robert(getting scarlet).
Ah! what now?
Ida.
I thought—your pipe—the next thing it will be burning your nose and so I’ve had pity on you, and yesterday I—(Shows a new pipe which she has hitherto held behind her back and gives it to him.) Here is the masterpiece!
[All amused.
Robert(without taking the pipe).
You’re joking, Miss Ida!
Ida.
Ah well!—But I’m in deadly earnest over the present!
Robert.
No, no, I can’t believe that.
Mrs Scholz(aside to William).
Robert is unbearable!
Ida.
Ah, but no—really—
Robert.
You see, this thing here—I’ve got used to it—and of course you don’t really mean it!
Ida(her eyes full of tears, conquering her hurt feelings; with trembling voice).
Well, then, if you’d rather—
[Puts the present back on the table.
Mrs Buchner(who during the foregoing has several times spoken to Ida, now hurries to her).
Ida, darling, have you forgotten?
Ida.
What, mamma?
Mrs Buchner.
You know! (To the others) You’re all going to hear something.
[Ida, glad to hide her emotion in this way, goes hand in hand with her mother into the next room.
Mrs Scholz(to Robert).
Why did you spoil her pleasure for her?
William(twisting the ends of his moustache nervously; walks up and down casting threatening glances at Robert).
Robert.
What now? How do you mean? I don’t know what you want.
Augusta.
Well, it certainly wasn’t exactly friendly.
Robert.
Do leave me alone. Besides, what should I do with it?
[Song and piano accompaniment from next room interrupt speakers. All look at one another, startled.
Ida’s Voice.