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THE LONELY WAY:

INTERMEZZO:

COUNTESS MIZZIE



THREE PLAYS BY

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER



TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
EDWIN BJÖRKMAN



NEW YORK
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
MCMXV

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY




CONTENTS


                                     PAGE

INTRODUCTION                          vii

THE LONELY WAY                          1

INTERMEZZO                            139

COUNTESS MIZZIE                       261




INTRODUCTION


Hermann Bahr, the noted playwright and critic, tried one day to explain
the spirit of certain Viennese architecture to a German friend, who
persisted in saying: "Yes, yes, but always there remains something that
I find curiously foreign." At that moment an old-fashioned Spanish
state carriage was coming along the street, probably on its way to or
from the imperial palace. The German could hardly believe his eyes and
expressed in strong terms his wonderment at finding such a relic
surviving in an ultra-modern town like Vienna.

"You forget that our history is partly Spanish," Bahr retorted. "And
nothing could serve better than that old carriage to explain what you
cannot grasp in our art and poetry."

A similar idea has been charmingly expressed by Hugo von Hofmannsthal
in the poem he wrote in 1892--when he was still using the pseudonym of
"Loris"--as introduction to "Anatol." I am now adding a translation of
that poem to my own introduction, because I think it will be of help in
reading the plays of this volume. The scene painted by Hofmannsthal
might, on the whole, be used as a setting for "Countess Mizzie." For a
more detailed version of that scene he refers us to "Canaletto's
Vienna"--that is, to the group of thirteen Viennese views which were
painted about 1760 by the Venetian Bernardo Belotto (who, like his more
famous uncle and model, Antonio Canale, was generally called
Canaletto), and which are now hanging in one of the galleries of the
_Kunsthistorische Hofmuseum_ at Vienna. The spirit of those pictures
may be described, I am told, as one of stately grace. They are full of
Latin joy in life and beauty. They speak of an existence constantly
softened by concern for the amenities of life. It is just what survives
of their atmosphere that frequently makes foreigners speak of Vienna
with a tender devotion not even surpassed by that bestowed on Paris or
Rome.

An attempt to understand the atmosphere and spirit of modern Vienna
will carry us far toward a correct appreciation of Schnitzler's art.
And it is not enough to say that Vienna is one of the oldest cities in
Europe. It is not even enough to say that it preserves more of the past
than Paris or London, for instance. What we must always bear in mind is
its position as the meeting place not only of South and North but also
of past and present. In some ways it is a melting-pot on a larger scale
than New York even. Racially and lingually, it belongs to the North.
Historically and psychologically, it belongs to the South. Economically
and politically, it lives very much in the present. Socially and
esthetically, it has always been strongly swayed by tradition. The
anti-Semitic movement, which formed such a characteristic feature of
Viennese life during the last few decades, must be regarded as the last
stand of vanishing social traditions against a growing pressure of
economical requirements.

Like all cities sharply divided within itself and living above a
volcano of half-suppressed passions, Vienna tends to seek in abandoned
gayety, in a frank surrender to the senses, that forgetfulness without
which suicide would seem the only remaining alternative. Emotions kept
constantly at the boiling-point must have an outlet, lest they burst
their container. Add to this sub-conscious or unconscious craving for a
neutral outlet, the traditional pressure of the Latin inheritance, and
we have the greater part of the causes that explain Schnitzler's
preoccupation with the themes of love and death. For Schnitzler is
first of all Viennese.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Arthur Schnitzler was born at Vienna on May 15, 1862. His father was
Professor Johann Schnitzler, a renowned Jewish throat specialist. I am
told that _Professor Bernhardi_ in the play of the same name must be
regarded as a pretty faithful portrait of the elder Schnitzler, who,
besides his large and important practice, had many other interests,
including an extensive medical authorship and the editing of the
_Wiener klinische Rundschau_. It is also to be noticed that _Professor
Bernhardi_ has among his assistants a son, who divides his time between
medicine and the composition of waltz music.

The younger Schnitzler studied medicine at the Vienna University, as
did also his brother, and obtained his M.D. in 1885. During the next
two years he was attached to the resident staff of one of the big
hospitals. It was also the period that saw the beginning of his
authorship. While contributing medical reviews to his father's journal,
he was also publishing poems and prose sketches in various literary
periodicals. Most of his contributions from this time appeared in a
publication named "_An der schönen blauen Donau_" (By the Beautiful
Blue Danube), now long defunct.

He was also continuing his studies, which almost from the start seem to
have turned toward the psychic side of the medical science. The new
methods of hypnotism and suggestion interested him greatly, and in 1889
he published a monograph on "Functional Aphonia and its Treatment by
Hypnotism and Suggestion." In 1888 he made a study trip to England,
during which he wrote a series of "London Letters" on medical subjects
for his father's journal. On his return he settled down as a practicing
physician, but continued to act as his father's assistant. And as late
as 1891-95 we find him named as his father's collaborator on a large
medical work entitled "Clinical Atlas of Laryngology and Rhinology."

There are many signs to indicate uncertainty as to his true calling
during those early years. The ensuing inner conflict was probably
sharpened by some pressure exercised by his father, who seems to have
been anxious that he should turn his energies undividedly to medicine.
To a practical and outwardly successful man like the elder Schnitzler,
his own profession must have appeared by far the more important and
promising. While there is no reason to believe that his attitude in
this matter was aggressive, it must have been keenly felt and, to some
extent at least, resented by the son. One of the dominant notes of the
latter's work is the mutual lack of understanding between successive
generations, and this lack tends with significant frequency to assume
the form of a father's opposition to a son's choice of profession.

This conflict cannot have lasted very long, however, for the younger
Schnitzler proved quickly successful in his purely literary efforts.
The "Anatol" sketches attracted a great deal of attention even while
appearing separately in periodicals, and with their publication in book
form, which occurred almost simultaneously with the first performance
of "A Piece of Fiction" at a Viennese theater, their author was hailed
as one of the most promising among the younger men. From that time he
has been adding steadily to his output and his reputation. When his
collected works were issued in 1912, these included four volumes of
plays and three volumes of novels and stories. Since then he has
finished another play and two volumes of prose sketches.

It is rare to find an author turning with such regularity from the epic
to the dramatic form and back again. And it is still more rare to find
him so thoroughly at home and successful in both fields. In
Schnitzler's case these two parallel veins have mutually supported and
developed each other. Time and again he has treated the same theme
first in one form and then in another. And not infrequently he has
introduced characters from his plays into his stories, and vice versa.
A careful study of his other works would undoubtedly assist toward a
better understanding of his plays, but I do not regard such a study
essential for the purpose. It is my belief that Schnitzler has given
himself most fully and most typically in his dramatic authorship, and
it is to this side of his creative production I must confine myself
here.

                     *      *      *      *      *

"Anatol" is nothing but seven sketches in dramatic form, each sketch
picturing a new love affair of the kind supposed to be especially
characteristic of Viennese life. The man remains the same in all these
light adventures. The woman is always a different one. The story is of
the kind always accompanying such circumstances--one of waxing or
waning attraction, of suspicion and jealousy, of incrimination and
recrimination, of intrigue and counter-intrigue. The atmosphere is
realistic, but the actuality implied is sharply limited and largely
superficial. There is little attempt at getting down to the roots of
things. There is absolutely no tendency or thesis. The story is told
for the sake of the story, and its chief redeeming quality lies in the
grace and charm and verve with which it is told. These were qualities
that immediately won the public's favor when "Anatol" first appeared.
And to some extent it must be counted unfortunate that the impression
made by those qualities was so deep and so lasting. There has been a
strong tendency observable, both within and outside the author's native
country, to regard him particularly as the creator of _Anatol_, and to
question, if not to resent, his inevitable and unmistakable growth
beyond that pleasing, but not very significant starting point.

And yet his next dramatic production, which was also his first serious
effort as a playwright, ought to have proved sufficient warning that he
was moved by something more than a desire to amuse. "A Piece of
Fiction" (_Das Märchen_) must be counted a failure and, in some ways, a
step backward. But its very failure is a promise of greater things to
come. It lacks the grace and facility of "Anatol." Worse still, it
lacks the good-humor and subtle irony of those first sketches. Instead
it has purpose and a serious outlook on life. The "piece of fiction"
refers to the "fallen" woman--to the alleged impossibility for any
decent man to give his whole trust to a woman who has once strayed from
the straight path. _Fedor Denner_ denounces this attitude in the
presence of a young girl who loves him and is loved by him, but who
belongs to the category of women under discussion. When he learns her
history, he struggles vainly to resist the feelings of distrust and
jealousy which he had declared absurd a little while earlier. And the
two are forced at last to walk their different ways. Unfortunately the
dialogue is heavy and stilted. The play is a tract rather than a piece
of art, and the tirades of _Fedor_ are equally unconvincing when he
speaks for or against that "fiction" which is killing both his own and
the girl's hope of happiness in mutual love. Yet the play marks a step
forward in outlook and spirit.

Schnitzler's interest in hypnotism, which had asserted itself in the
first scene of "Anatol," appears again in the little verse-play,
"Paracelsus," which followed. But this time he used it to more purpose.
By the help of it, a woman's innermost soul is laid bare, and some very
interesting light is shed on the workings of the human mind in general.

"Amours" (_Liebelei_) may be regarded as a cross, or a compromise,
between "Anatol" and "A Piece of Fiction." The crudeness of speech
marking the latter play has given room to a very incisive dialogue,
that carries the action forward with unfailing precision. Some of the
temporarily dropped charm has been recovered, and the gain in sincerity
has been preserved. "Amours" seems to be the first one of a series of
plays dealing with the reverse of the gay picture presented in
"Anatol." A young man is having a love affair with two women at the
same time, one of them married, the other one a young girl with scant
knowledge of the world. Yet she knows enough to know what she is doing,
and she has sufficient strength of mind to rise above a sense of guilt,
though she is more prone to be the victim of fear. Then the married
woman's husband challenges the young man, who is killed. And the girl
takes her own life, not because her lover is dead, not because of
anything she has done, but because his death for the sake of another
woman renders her own faith in him meaningless.

"Outside the Game Laws" (_Freiwild_) is another step ahead--the first
play, I think, where the real Arthur Schnitzler, the author of "The
Lonely Way" and "Countess Mizzie," reveals himself. It has a thesis,
but this is implied rather than obtruded. In style and character-drawing
it is realistic in the best sense. It shows already the typical
Schnitzlerian tendency of dealing with serious questions--with questions
of life and death--in a casual fashion, as if they were but problems of
which road to follow or which shop to enter. It has one fault that must
appear as such everywhere, namely, a division of purpose. When the play
starts, one imagines that those "outside the game laws" are the women of
the stage, who are presented as the legitimate prey of any man caring to
hunt them. As the play goes on, that starting point is almost lost sight
of, and it becomes more and more plain that those "outside the game
laws" are sensible, decent men who refuse to submit to the silly
dictates of the dueling code. But what I have thus named a fault is
mostly theoretical, and does not mar the effective appeal of the play.
What must appear as a more serious shortcoming from an American
viewpoint is the local nature of the evil attacked, which lessens the
universal validity of the work.

"Change Partners!" (_Reigen_) was produced about the same time as
"Outside the Game Laws," but was not printed until 1900, and then only
privately. Yet those ten dialogues provoked from the first a storm
which seriously threatened Schnitzler's growing reputation and
popularity. When Vienna finds a work immoral, one may look for
something dreadful. And the work in question attempts a degree of
naturalism rarely equaled in France even. Yet those dialogues are
anything but immoral in spirit. They introduce ten men and as many
women. The man of one scene reappears with a new woman in the next, and
then that woman figures as the partner of a new man in the third scene.
The story is always the same (except in the final dialogue): desire,
satisfaction, indifference. The idea underlying this "ring dance," as
the title means literally, is the same one that recurs under a much
more attractive aspect in "Countess Mizzie." It is the linking together
of the entire social organism by man's natural cravings. And as a
document bearing on the psychology of sex "Change Partners!" has not
many equals.

In "The Legacy" (_Das Vermächtnis_) we meet with a forcible presentation
and searching discussion of the world's attitude toward those ties that
have been established without social sanction. A young man is brought
home dying, having been thrown from his horse. He compels his parents
to send for his mistress and their little boy, and he hands both over
to the care of his family. That is his "legacy." The family tries hard
to rise to this unexpected situation and fails miserably--largely, it
must be confessed, thanks to the caddish attitude of a self-made
physician who wants to marry the dead man's sister. The second act ends
with the death of the little boy; the third, with the disappearance and
probable suicide of his mother. The dead man's sister cries out:
"Everything that was his is sacred to us, but the one living being who
meant more to him than all of us is driven out of our home." The one
ray of light offered is that the sister sees through the man who has
been courting her and sends him packing. It is noticeable in this play,
as in others written by Schnitzler, that the attitude of the women is
more sensible and tolerant than that of the men.

The physician is one of the few members of that profession whom the
author has painted in an unfavorable light. There is hardly one
full-length play of his in which at least one representative of the
medical profession does not appear. And almost invariably they seem
destined to act as the particular mouthpieces of the author. In a play
like "The Lonely Way," for instance, the life shown is the life lived
by men and women observed by Schnitzler. The opinions expressed are the
opinions of that sort of men and women under the given circumstances.
The author neither approves nor disapproves when he makes each
character speak in accordance with his own nature. But like most
creative artists, he has felt the need of stating his own view of the
surrounding throng. This he seems usually to do through the mouth of
men like _Dr. Reumann_ in the play just mentioned, or _Dr. Mauer_ in
"The Vast Country." And the attitude of those men shows a strange
mingling of disapproval and forbearance, which undoubtedly comes very
near being Schnitzler's own.

The little one-act play "The Life Partner" (_Die Gefährtin_) is
significant mainly as a study for bigger canvases developing the same
theme: the veil that hides the true life of man and woman alike from
the partner. And the play should really be named "The Life Partner That
Was Not." Another one-act play, "The Green Cockatoo," is laid at Paris.
Its action takes place on the evening of July 14, 1789--the fall of the
Bastille and the birth of the Revolution. It presents a wonderful
picture of social life at the time--of the average human being's
unconsciousness of the great events taking place right under his nose.

"The Veil of Beatrice," a verse play in five acts, takes us to Bologna
in the year 1500, when Cesare Borgia was preparing to invest the city
in order to oust its tyrant, Giovanni Bentivoglio (named Lionardo in
the play), and add it to the Papal possessions. All the acts take place
in one night. The fundamental theme is one dear to Schnitzler--the
flaming up of passion under the shadow of impending death. The whole
city, with the duke leading, surrenders to this outburst, the spirit of
which finds its symbol in a ravishingly beautiful girl, _Beatrice
Nardi_, who seems fated to spread desire and death wherever she
appears. With her own death at dawn, the city seems to wake as from a
nightmare to face the enemy already at the gates. The play holds much
that is beautiful and much that is disappointing. To me its chief
importance lies in the fact that it marks a breaking-point between the
period when Schnitzler was trying to write "with a purpose," and that
later and greater period when he has learned how to treat life
sincerely and seriously without other purpose than to present it as it
is. That was his starting point in "Anatol," but then he was not yet
ready for the realism that must be counted the highest of all: the
realism that has no tendency and preaches no lesson, but from which we
draw our own lessons as we draw them from life itself in moments of
unusual lucidity.

"Hours of Life" (_Lebendige Stunden_), which has given its name to
a volume of four one-act plays, may be described as a mental duel
between two sharply opposed temperaments--the practical and the
imaginative. An elderly woman, long an invalid, has just died, and a
letter to the man who has loved and supported her during her final
years reveals the fact that she has taken her own life because she
feared that the thought of her was preventing her son, a poet, from
working. The duel is between that son and the man who has befriended
his mother. The play constitutes a scathing arraignment of the artistic
temperament. Bernard Shaw himself has never penned a more bitter one.
"Even if you were the world's greatest genius," the old man cries to
the young one, "all your scribbling would be worthless in comparison
with a single one of those hours of real life that saw your mother
seated in that chair, talking to us, or merely listening, perhaps."

The most important of those four one-act plays, however, is "End of the
Carnival" (_Die letzten Masken_). An old journalist, a might-have-been,
dying in a hospital, sends for a life-long friend, a successful poet,
whom he hates because of his success. All he thinks of is revenge, of
getting even, and he means to achieve this end by disclosing to the
poet the faithlessness of his wife. Once she had been the mistress of
the dying man, and that seems to him his one triumph in life. But when
the poet arrives and begins to talk of the commonplaces of daily life,
of petty gossip, petty intrigues, and petty jealousies, then the dying
man suddenly sees the futility of the whole thing. To him, who has one
foot across the final threshold, it means nothing, and he lets his
friend depart without having told him anything. There is a curious
recurrence of the same basic idea in "Professor Bernhardi," where the
central figure acquires a similar sense of our ordinary life's futility
by spending two months in jail.

To what extent Schnitzler has studied and been impressed by Nietzsche I
don't know, but the thought underlying "The Lady With the Dagger" is
distinctly Nietzschean. It implies not only a sense of our having lived
before, of having previously stood in the same relationship to the
people now surrounding us, but of being compelled to repeat our past
experience, even if a sudden flash of illumination out of the buried
past should reveal to us its predestined fatal termination. This idea
meets us again in the first act of "The Lonely Way." The fourth of
those one-act plays, "Literature," is what Schnitzler has named it--a
farce--but delightfully clever and satirical.

Those four plays, and the group of three others published under the
common title of "Puppets" (_Marionetten_), are, next to "Anatol," the
best known works of Schnitzler's outside of Austria and Germany. They
deserve their wide reputation, too, for there is nothing quite like
them in the modern drama. Yet I think they have been over-estimated in
comparison with the rest of Schnitzler's production. "The Puppet
Player," "The Gallant Cassian" and "The Greatest Show of All" (_Zum
grossen Wurstel_) have charm and brightness and wit. But in regard to
actual significance they cannot compare with plays like "The Lonely
Way," for instance.

The three plays comprised in the volume named "Puppets" constitute
three more exemplifications of the artistic temperament, which again
fares badly at the hands of their author. And yet he has more than one
telling word to say in defense of that very temperament. That these
plays, like "Hours of Life" and "Literature," are expressive of the
inner conflict raging for years within the playwright's own soul, I
take for granted. And they seem to reflect moments when Schnitzler felt
that, in choosing poetry rather than medicine for his life work, he had
sacrificed the better choice. And yet they do not show any regrets, but
rather a slightly ironical self-pity. A note of irony runs through
everything that Schnitzler has written, constituting one of the main
attractions of his art, and it is the more acceptable because the point
of it so often turns against the writer himself.

"The Puppet Player" is a poet who has ceased writing in order to use
human beings for his material. He thinks that he is playing with their
destinies as if they were so many puppets. And the little drama shows
how his accidental interference has created fates stronger and happier
than his own--fates lying wholly outside his power. The play suffers
from a tendency to exaggerated subtlety which is one of Schnitzler's
principal dangers, though it rarely asserts itself to such an extent
that the enjoyment of his work is spoiled by it.

His self-irony reaches its climax in the one-act play which I have been
forced to name "The Greatest Show of All" because the original title
(_Zum grossen Wurstel_) becomes meaningless in English. There he
proceeds with reckless abandon to ridicule his own work as well as the
inflated importance of all imaginative creation. But to even up the
score, he includes the public, as representative of ordinary humanity,
among the objects of his sarcasms. And in the end all of us--poets,
players, and spectators--are exposed as mere puppets. The same thought
recurs to some extent in "The Gallant Cassian," which is otherwise a
piece of sheer fun--the slightest of Schnitzler's dramatic productions,
perhaps, but not without the accustomed Schnitzlerian sting.

When, after reading all the preceding plays, one reaches "The Lonely
Way" (_Der einsame Weg_), it is hard to escape an impression of
everything else having been nothing but a preparation. It is beyond
all doubt Schnitzler's greatest and most powerful creation so far,
representing a tremendous leap forward both in form and spirit. It has
less passion than "The Call of Life," less subtlety than "Intermezzo,"
less tolerance than "Countess Mizzie." Instead it combines in perfect
balance all the best qualities of those three plays--each dominant
feature reduced a little to give the others scope as well. It is a
wonderful specimen of what might be called the new realism--of that
realism which is paying more attention to spiritual than to material
actualities. Yet it is by no means lacking in the more superficial
verisimilitude either. Its character-drawing and its whole atmosphere
are startlingly faithful to life, even though the life portrayed may
represent a clearly defined and limited phase of universal human
existence.

The keynote of the play lies in _Sala's_ words to _Julian_ in the
closing scene of the fourth act: "The process of aging must needs be a
lonely one to our kind." That's the main theme--not a thesis to be
proved. This loneliness to which _Sala_ refers, is common to all
people, but it is more particularly the share of those who, like
himself and _Julian_, have treasured their "freedom" above everything
else and who, for that reason, have eschewed the human ties which to a
man like _Wegrath_ represent life's greatest good and deepest meaning.
Again we find the principal characters of the play typifying the
artistic temperament, with its unhuman disregards of the relationships
that have primary importance to other men. Its gross egoism, as
exemplified by _Julian_, is the object of passionate derision. And yet
it is a man of that kind, _Sala_, who recognizes and points out the
truer path, when he say: "To love is to live for somebody else."

The play has no thesis, as I have already said. It is not poised on the
point of a single idea. Numerous subordinate themes are woven into the
main one, giving the texture of the whole a richness resembling that of
life itself. Woman's craving for experience and self-determination is
one such theme, which we shall find again in "Intermezzo," where it
practically becomes the dominant one.

Another one is that fascinated stare at death which is so
characteristic of Latin and Slav writers--of men like Zola, Maupassant,
and Tolstoy--while it is significantly absent in the great Scandinavian
and Anglo-Saxon poets. "Is there ever a blissful moment in any decent
man's life, when he can think of anything but death in his innermost
soul?" says _Sala_. The same thought is expressed in varying forms by
one after another of Schnitzler's characters. "All sorrow is a lie as
long as the open grave is not your own," cries the dying _Catharine_ in
"The Call of Life." It is in this connection particularly that we of
the North must bear in mind Schnitzler's Viennese background and the
Latin traditions forming such a conspicuous part of it. The Latin
peoples have shown that they can die as bravely as the men of any other
race or clime, but their attitude toward death in general is widely
different from the attitude illustrated by Ibsen or Strindberg, for
instance. A certain gloom, having kinship with death, seems ingrained
in the Northern temperament, put there probably by the pressure of the
Northern winter. The man of the sunlit South, on the other hand, seems
always to retain the child's simple horror at the thought that darkness
must follow light. We had better not regard it as cowardice under any
circumstances, and cowardice it can certainly not be called in the
characters of Schnitzler. But the resignation in which he finds his
only antidote, and which seems to represent his nearest approach to a
formulated philosophy, cannot be expected to satisfy us. One of his own
countrymen, Hermann Bahr, has protested sharply against its
insufficiency as a soul-sustaining faith, and in that protest I feel
inclined to concur.

With "The Lonely Way" begins a series of plays representing not only
Schnitzler's highest achievements so far, but a new note in the modern
drama. To a greater extent than any other modern plays--not even
excepting those of Ibsen--they must be defined as psychological. The
dramas of Strindberg come nearest in this respect, but they, too, lag
behind in soul-revealing quality. Plots are almost lacking in the
Schnitzler productions during his later period. Things happen, to be
sure, and these happenings are violent enough at times, but they do not
constitute a sharply selected sequence of events leading up to a
desired and foreshadowed end. In the further development of this
period, even clearly defined themes are lost sight of, and the course
of the play takes on an almost accidental aspect. This is puzzling, of
course, and it must be especially provoking to those who expect each
piece of art to have its narrow little lesson neatly tacked on in a
spot where it cannot be missed. It implies a manner that exacts more
alertness and greater insight on the part of the reader. But for that
very reason these later plays of Schnitzler should prove stimulating to
those who do not suffer from mental laziness or exhaustion.

"Intermezzo" (_Zwischenspiel_) might be interpreted as an attack on
those new marital conventions which abolish the old-fashioned demand
for mutual faithfulness and substitute mutual frankness. It would be
more correct, however, to characterize it as a discussion of what
constitutes true honesty in the ever delicate relationship between
husband and wife. It shows, too, the growth of a woman's soul, once she
has been forced to stand on her own feet. Viewed from this point, the
play might very well be classified as feministic. It would be easy, for
one thing, to read into it a plea for a single moral standard. But its
ultimate bearing goes far beyond such a narrow construction. Here as
elsewhere, Schnitzler shows himself more sympathetic toward the female
than toward the male outlook on life, and the creator of _Cecilia
Adams-Ortenburg_ may well be proclaimed one of the foremost living
painters of the woman soul.

The man who, in "Anatol," saw nothing but a rather weak-minded
restlessness in woman's inconstancy, recognizes in "Intermezzo" woman's
right to as complete a knowledge of life and its possibilities as any
man may acquire. The same note is struck by _Johanna_ in "The Lonely
Way." "I want a time to come when I must shudder at myself--shudder as
deeply as you can only when nothing has been left untried," she says to
_Sala_ in the fourth act. This note sounds much more clearly--one might
say defiantly--through the last two acts of "Intermezzo." And when
_Amadeus_, shrinking from its implications, cries to _Cecilia_ that
thereafter she will be guarded by his tenderness, she retorts
impatiently: "But I don't want to be guarded! I shall no longer permit
you to guard me!" In strict keeping with it is also that Schnitzler
here realizes and accepts woman's capacity for and right to creative
expression. It is from _Cecilia's_ lips that the suggestion comes to
seek a remedy for life's hurts in a passionate abandonment to work. In
fact, the established attitudes of man and woman seem almost reversed
in the cases of _Amadeus_ and _Cecilia._

Significant as this play is from any point viewed, I am inclined to
treasure it most on account of the subtlety and delicacy of its
dialogue. I don't think any dramatist of modern times has surpassed
Schnitzler in his ability to find expression for the most refined
nuances of thought and feeling. To me, at least, it is a constant joy
to watch the iridescence of his sentences, which gives to each of them
not merely one, but innumerable meanings. And through so much of this
particular play runs a spirit that can only be called playful--a spirit
which finds its most typical expression in the delightful figure of
_Albert Rhon_, the poet who takes the place of the otherwise inevitable
physician. I like to think of that figure as more or less embodying the
author's conception of himself. All the wit and sparkle with which we
commonly credit the Gallic mind seems to me abundantly present in the
scenes between _Albert_ and _Amadeus_.

The poise and quiet characterizing "The Lonely Way" and "Intermezzo"
appear lost to some extent in "The Call of Life" (_Der Ruf des Leben_),
which, on the other hand, is one of the intensest plays written by
Schnitzler. The white heat of its passion sears the mind at times, so
that the reader feels like raising a shield between himself and the
words. "It was as if I heard life itself calling to me outside my
door," _Marie_ says in this play when trying to explain to _Dr.
Schindler_ why she had killed her father and gone to seek her lover.
The play might as well have been named "The Will to Live," provided we
remember that mere existence can hardly be called life. Its basic
thought has much in common with that of Frank Wedekind's "Earth
Spirit," but Schnitzler spiritualizes what the German playwright has
vulgarized. There is a lot of modern heresy in that thought--a lot of
revived and refined paganism that stands in sharp opposition to the
spirit of Christianity as it has been interpreted hitherto. It might be
summarized as a twentieth century version of Achilles' declaration that
he would rather be a live dog than the ruler of all the shades in
Hades. "What a creature can I be," cries _Marie_, "to emerge out of
such an experience as out of a bad dream--awake--and living--and
wanting to live?" And the kind, wise, Schnitzlerian doctor's answer is:
"You are alive--and the rest _has been_...." Life itself is its own
warrant and explanation. Unimpaired life--life with the power and will
to go on living--is the greatest boon and best remedy of any that can
be offered.

The weak point of "The Call to Life" is _Marie's_ father, the old
_Moser_--one of the most repulsive figures ever seen on the stage. It
may have been made what it is in order that the girl's crime might not
hopelessly prejudice the spectator at the start and thus render all the
rest of the play futile. We must remember, too, that the monstrous
egoism of _Moser_ is not represented as a typical quality of that old
age which feels itself robbed by the advance of triumphant youth. What
Schnitzler shows is that egoism grows more repulsive as increasing age
makes it less warranted. The middle act of the play, with its
remarkable conversation between the _Colonel_ and _Max_, brings us back
to "Outside the Game Laws." That earlier play was in its time declared
the best existing stage presentation of the spirit engendered by the
military life. But it has a close second in "The Call of Life." To
anyone having watched the manners of militarism in Europe, the words of
the _Colonel_ to _Max_ will sound as an all-sufficient explanation: "No
physicians have to spend thirty years at the side of beds containing
puppets instead of human patients--no lawyers have to practice on
criminals made out of pasteboard--and even the ministers are not
infrequently preaching to people who actually believe in heaven and
hell."

If "The Lonely Way" be Schnitzler's greatest play all around, and
"Intermezzo" his subtlest, "Countess Mizzie" is the sweetest, the best
tempered, the one that leaves the most agreeable taste in the mouth. It
gives us a concrete embodiment of the tolerance toward all life that is
merely suggested by the closing sentences of _Dr. Schindler_ in the
last act of "The Call of Life." It brings back the gay spirit of
"Anatol," but with a rare maturity supporting it. The simple
socio-biological philosophy of "Change Partners!" is restated without
the needless naturalism of those early dialogues. The idea of "Countess
Mizzie" is that, if we look deep enough, all social distinctions are
lost in a universal human kinship. On the surface we appear like
flowers neatly arranged in a bed, each kind in its separate and
carefully labeled corner. Then Schnitzler begins to scrape off the
screening earth, and underneath we find the roots of all those flowers
intertwined and matted, so that it is impossible to tell which belong
to the _Count_ and which to _Wasner_, the coachman, which to _Miss
Lolo_, the ballet-dancer, and which to the _Countess_.

"Young Medardus" is Schnitzler's most ambitious attempt at historical
playwriting. It seems to indicate that he belongs too wholly in the
present age to succeed in that direction. The play takes us back to
1809, when Napoleon appeared a second time outside the gates of Vienna.
The central character, _Medardus Klähr_, is said to be historical. The
re-created atmosphere of old Vienna is at once convincing and amusing.
But the play is too sprawling, too scattered, to get firm hold on the
reader. There are seventy-four specifically indicated characters, not
to mention groups of dumb figures. And while the title page speaks of
five acts and a prologue, there are in reality seventeen distinct
scenes. Each scene may be dramatically valuable, but the constant
passage from place to place, from one set of characters to another, has
a confusing effect.

There is, too, a more deep-lying reason for the failure of the play as
a whole, I think. The ironical outlook so dear to Schnitzler--or
rather, so inseparable from his temperament--has betrayed him. Irony
seems hopelessly out of place in a historical drama, where it tends to
make us feel that the author does not believe in the actual existence
of his own characters. I have a suspicion that "Young Medardus" takes
the place within the production of Schnitzler that is held by "Peer
Gynt" in the production of Ibsen--that _Medardus Klähr_ is meant to
satirize the Viennese character as _Peer Gynt_ satirizes the Norwegian.

The keynote of the play may be found in the words of _Etzelt_, spoken
as _Medardus_ is about to be shot, after having refused to save his own
life by a promise not to make any attempts against Napoleon's: "God
wanted to make a hero of him, and the course of events turned him into
a fool." The obvious interpretation is that the pettiness of Viennese
conditions defeated the larger aspirations of the man, who would have
proved true to his own possibilities in other surroundings. A more
careful analysis of the plot shows, however, that what turns the
ambitions of _Medardus_ into dreams and words is his susceptibility
to the charms of a woman. Once within the magic circle of her power,
everything else--the danger of his country, the death of his sister,
his duty to avenge the death of his father--becomes secondary to his
passion. And each time he tries to rise above that passion, the
reappearance of the woman is sufficient to deflect him from his
purpose. It is as if Schnitzler wanted to suggest that the greatest
weakness of the Viennese character lies in its sensuous concern with
sex to the detriment of all other vital interests. To me it is a very
remarkable thing to think that such a play was performed a large number
of times at one of the foremost theaters in Vienna, and that,
apparently, it received a very respectful hearing. I cannot but wonder
what would happen here, if a play were put on the stage dealing in a
similar spirit with the American character.

"The soul is a vast country, where many different things find place
side by side," says Dr. Theodor Reik in his interesting volume named
"Arthur Schnitzler als Psycholog" (Minden, 1913). Thus he explains the
meaning of the title given to "The Vast Country" (_Das Weite Land_).
And I don't think it is possible to get closer than that. Nowhere has
Schnitzler been more casual in his use of what is commonly called plot.
Nowhere has he scorned more completely to build his work around any
particular "red thread." Event follows event with seeming haphazardness.
The only thing that keeps the play from falling apart is the logical
development of each character. It is, in fact, principally, if not
exclusively, a series of soul-studies. What happens serves merely as an
excuse to reveal the reaction of a certain character to certain
external pressures or internal promptings. But viewed in this light,
the play has tremendous power and significance.

Dr. Reik's book, to which I just referred, has been written to prove
the direct connection between Schnitzler's art and the new psychology
established by Dr. Sigmund Freud of Vienna. That the playwright must
have studied the Freudian theories seems more than probable. That they
may have influenced him seems also probable. And that this influence
may have helped him to a clearer grasp of more than one mystery within
the human soul, I am willing to grant also. What I want to protest
against, is the attempt to make him out an exponent of any particular
scientific theory. He is an observer of all life. He is what _Amadeus_
in "Intermezzo" ironically charges _Albert Rhon_ with being: "a student
of the human soul." And he has undoubtedly availed himself of every new
aid that might be offered for the analysis and interpretation of that
soul. The importance of man's sub-conscious life seems to have been
clear to him in the early days of "Anatol," and it seems to have grown
on him as he matured. Another Freudian conception he has also made his
own--that of the close connection between man's sexual life and vital
phenomena not clearly designed for the expression of that life. But--to
return to the point I have already tried to make--it would be dangerous
and unjust to read any work of his as the dramatic effort of a
scientific theorizer.

Schnitzler is of Jewish race. In Vienna that means a great deal more
than in London, Stockholm or New York. It means an atmosphere of
contempt, of suspicion, of hatred. It means frequently complete
isolation, and always some isolation. It means a constant sense of
conflict between oneself and one's surroundings. All these things are
reflected in the works of Schnitzler--more particularly the sense of
conflict and of isolation. Life itself is blamed for it most of the
time, however, and it is only once in a great while that the specific
and localized cause is referred to--as in "Literature," for instance.
And even when Schnitzler undertakes, as he has done in his latest play,
"Professor Bernhardi," to deal directly with the situation of the Jew
within a community with strong anti-Semitic tendencies, he does not
appear able to keep his mind fixed on that particular issue. He starts
to discuss it, and does so with a clearness and fairness that have not
been equaled since the days of Lessing--and then he drifts off in a new
direction. The mutual opposition between Jews and Catholics becomes an
opposition between the skeptical and the mystical temperaments. It is
as if he wanted to say that all differences are unreal except those
between individuals as such. And if that be his intention, he is right,
I believe, and his play is the greater for bringing that thought home
to us.

The play is a remarkable one in many respects. It deals largely with
the internal affairs of a hospital. An overwhelming majority of the
characters are physicians connected with the big hospital of which
_Professor Bernhardi_ is the head. They talk of nothing but what men of
that profession in such a position would be likely to talk of. In other
words, they are all the time "talking shop." This goes on through five
acts. Throughout the entire play there is not the slightest suggestion
of what the Broadway manager and the periodical editor call a "love
interest." And yet the play holds you from beginning to end, and the
dramatic tension could not be greater if its main theme were the
unrequited love of the professor's son instead of his own right to
place his duties as a physician above all other considerations. To one
who has grown soul-weary of the "triangle" and all other combinations
for the exploiting of illicit or legitimized love, "Professor
Bernhardi" should come as a great relief and a bright promise.

                     *      *      *      *      *

These are the main outlines of Schnitzler's work as a dramatist. They
indicate a constant, steady growth, coupled with increased realization
of his own possibilities and powers as well as of his limitations. In
all but a very few of his plays, he has confined himself to the life
immediately surrounding him--to the life of the Viennese middle class,
and more particularly of the professional element to which he himself
belongs. But on the basis of a wonderfully faithful portrayal of local
characters and conditions, he has managed to rear a superstructure of
emotional appeal and intellectual clarification that must render his
work welcome to thinking men and women wherever it be introduced. And
as he is still in the flower of his manhood, it seems reasonable to
expect that still greater things may be forthcoming from his pen.


    SCHNITZLER'S "ANATOL"


    Spearhead fences, yew-tree hedges,
    Coats of arms no more regilded,
    Sphinxes gleaming through the thickets....
    Creakingly the gates swing open.

    With its tritons sunk in slumber,
    And its fountains also sleeping,
    Mildewed, lovely, and rococo,
    Lo ... Vienna, Canaletto's,
    Dated Seventeen and Sixty.

    Quiet pools of green-brown waters,
    Smooth and framed in snow-white marble,
    Show between their mirrored statues
    Gold and silver fishes playing.
    Slender stems of oleander
    Cast their prim array of shadows
    On the primly close-cropped greensward.
    Overhead, the arching branches
    Meet and twine to sheltering niches,
    Where are grouped in loving couples
    Stiff-limbed heroines and heroes....
    Dolphins three pour splashing streamlets
    In three shell-shaped marble basins.
    Chestnut blossoms, richly fragrant,
    Fall like flames and flutter downward
    To be drowned within the basins....
    Music, made by clarinettes and
    Violins behind the yew-trees,
    Seems to come from graceful cupids
    Playing on the balustrade, or
    Weaving flowers into garlands,
    While beside them other flowers
    Gayly stream from marble vases:
    Jasmin, marigold, and elder....
    On the balustrade sit also
    Sweet coquettes among the cupids,
    And some messeigneurs in purple.
    At their feet, on pillows resting,
    Or reclining on the greensward,
    May be seen abbés and gallants.
    From perfumed sedans are lifted
    Other ladies by their lovers....
    Rays of light sift through the leafage,
    Shed on golden curls their luster,
    Break in flames on gaudy cushions,
    Gleam alike on grass and gravel,
    Sparkle on the simple structure
    We have raised to serve the moment.
    Vines and creepers clamber upward,
    Covering the slender woodwork,
    While between them are suspended
    Gorgeous tapestries and curtains:
    Scenes Arcadian boldly woven,
    Charmingly designed by Watteau....
    In the place of stage, an arbor;
    Summer sun in place of footlights;
    Thus we rear Thalia's temple
    Where we play our private dramas,
    Gentle, saddening, precocious....
    Comedies that we have suffered;
    Feelings drawn from past and present;
    Evil masked in pretty phrases;
    Soothing words and luring pictures;
    Subtle stirrings, mere nuances,
    Agonies, adventures, crises....

    Some are listening, some are yawning,
    Some are dreaming, some are laughing,
    Some are sipping ices ... others
    Whisper longings soft and languid....

    Nodding in the breeze, carnations,
    Long-stemmed white carnations, image
    Butterflies that swarm in sunlight,
    While a black and long-haired spaniel
    Barks astonished at a peacock....

                    HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL,
                    (_Edwin Björkman._)




CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER


ANATOL (Anatol); seven dramatic scenes; 1889-91 (1893).

A PIECE OF FICTION (Das Märchen); a drama in three acts; 1891 (1894).

PARACELSUS (Paracelsus); a verse-play in one act; 1892 (1899).

AMOURS (Liebelei); a drama in three acts; 1894 (1896).

OUTSIDE THE GAME LAWS (Freiwild); a drama in three acts; 1896 (1897).

CHANGE PARTNERS! (Reigen); ten dialogues; 1896-97 (1903).

THE LEGACY (Das Vermächtnis); a drama in three acts; 1897 (1898).

THE LIFE PARTNER (Die Gefährtin); a drama in one act; 1898 (1899).

THE GREEN COCKATOO (Der grüne Kakadu); a grotesque in one act; 1898
(1899).

THE VEIL OF BEATRICE (Der Schleier der Beatrice); a drama in five acts;
1899 (1900).

THE LADY WITH THE DAGGER (Die Frau mit dem Dolche); a drama in one act;
1900 (1902).

HOURS OF LIFE (Lebendige Stunden); an act; 1901 (1902).

END OF THE CARNIVAL (Die letzten Masken); a drama in one act; 1901
(1902).

LITERATURE (Literatur); a farce in one act; 1901 (1902).

THE PUPPET PLAYER (Der Puppenspieler); a study in one act; 1902 (1906).

THE GALLANT CASSIAN (Der tapfere Cassian); a puppet play in one act;
1903 (1906).

THE LONELY WAY (Der einsame Weg); a drama in five acts; 1903 (1904).

INTERMEZZO (Zwischenspiel); a comedy in three acts; 1904 (1905).

THE GREATEST SHOW OF ALL (Zum grossen Wurstel); a burlesque in one act;
1904 (1906).

THE CALL OF LIFE (Der Ruf des Leben); a drama in three acts; 1905
(1906).

COUNTESS MIZZIE (Komtesse Mizzi); a comedy in one act; 1909 (1909).

YOUNG MEDARDUS (Der junge Medardus); a history in five acts with a
prologue; 1909 (1910).

THE VAST COUNTRY (Das weite Land); a tragicomedy in five acts; 1910
(1911).

PROFESSOR BERNHARDI (Professor Bernhardi); a comedy in five acts; 1912
(1912).

THE GALLANT KASSIAN (Der tapfere Kassian); a musical comedy in one act,
with music by Oscar Straus; ---- (1909).

THE VEIL OF PIERRETTE (Der Schleier der Pierrette); a comic opera in
three acts, with music by Ernst von Dohnnanyi; 1909 (not published).

The figures without brackets indicate the dates of production as given
in the collected edition of Arthur Schnitzler's works issued by the _S.
Fischer Verlag_, Berlin, 1912. The figures within brackets, showing the
dates of publication, are taken from the twenty-fifth anniversary
catalogue of the same house (Berlin, 1911), and from C. G. Kayser's
"_Vollständiges Bücher-Lexikon_" (Leipzig, 1891-1912).

"Anatol" was first published by the _Bibliographische Bureau_ (Berlin,
1893), and "A Piece of Fiction" by E. Pierson (Dresden, 1894). Both
were reprinted by the _Fischer Verlag_ in 1895. The original versions
of "A Piece of Fiction" and "Amours" have been considerably revised.
"Change Partners!" was printed privately in 1900, and was subsequently
published by the _Wiener Verlag_, Vienna. "The Gallant Kassian" was
published by Ludwig Doblinger, Leipzig.

"The Green Cockatoo," "Paracelsus" and "The Life Partner" appeared in
one volume with the sub-title "Three One-act Plays." "Hours of Life,"
"The Lady With the Dagger," "End of the Carnival," and "Literature"
were published together under the title of the first play. "The Puppet
Player," "The Gallant Cassian," and "The Greatest Show of All" were
brought out in a single volume under the title of "Puppets"(_Marionetten_).

For additional bibliographical data, see "Arthur Schnitzler: a
Bibliography," by Archibald Henderson (_Bulletin of Bibliography_,
Boston, 1913); "The Modern Drama," by Ludwig Lewisohn (New York, 1915),
and "The Continental Drama of Today," by Barrett H. Clark (New York,
1914). A good, though brief, analysis of Schnitzler's work is found in
Dr. Lewisohn's volume.




A LIST OF FIRST PERFORMANCES OF PLAYS BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER


ANATOL: Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, and Lessingtheater, Berlin,
Dec. 3, 1910.

A PIECE OF FICTION: Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, Dec. 1, 1893.

PARACELSUS: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 1, 1899.

AMOURS: Burgtheater, Vienna, Oct. 9, 1895.

OUTSIDE THE GAME LAWS: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, 1896.

THE LEGACY: Burgtheater, Vienna, Nov. 30, 1898.

THE LIFE PARTNER: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 1, 1899.

THE GREEN COCKATOO: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 1, 1899.

THE VEIL OF BEATRICE: Lobetheater, Breslau, Dec. 1, 1900.

THE LADY WITH THE DAGGER: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902.

HOURS OF LIFE: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902.

END OF THE CARNIVAL: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902.

LITERATURE: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902.

THE PUPPET PLAYER: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, September, 1903.

THE GALLANT CASSIAN: Kleines Theater, Berlin, Oct. 12, 1905.

THE LONELY WAY: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Feb. 13, 1904.

INTERMEZZO: Burgtheater, Vienna (with Joseph Kainz as _Adams_), Oct.
12, 1905.

THE GREATEST SHOW OF ALL: Lustspieltheater, Vienna, March 16, 1906.

THE CALL OF LIFE: Lessingtheater, Berlin, Feb. 24, 1906.

COUNTESS MIZZIE: Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, January, 1909.

YOUNG MEDARDUS: Burgtheater, Vienna, Nov. 24, 1910.

THE VAST COUNTRY: Lessingtheater, Berlin, Oct. 14, 1912.

PROFESSOR BERNHARDI: Kleines Theater, Berlin, Nov. 28, 1912.

THE VEIL OF PIERRETTE: Hofopernhaus, Dresden, Jan. 22, 1910.

Single scenes from "Anatol" were given at Ischl in the Summer of 1893,
and at a matinée arranged by the journalistic society "Concordia" at
one of the Vienna theaters in 1909. A Czechic translation of the whole
series was staged at Smichow, Bohemia, sometime during the nineties.
Three of the dialogues in "Change Partners!" were performed by members
of the _Akademisch-dramatischer Verein_ at Munich in 1904.

The official records of the Burgtheater at Vienna show that, up to the
end of 1912, the eight Schnitzler plays forming part of its repertory
had been performed the following number of times: "Paracelsus," 12;
"Amours," 42; "The Legacy," 11; "The Life Partner," 14; "The Green
Cockatoo," 8; "Intermezzo," 22; "Young Medardus," 43; "The Vast
Country," 30.

The list of dates given above has been drawn chiefly from "Das moderne
Drama," by Robert F. Arnold (Strassburg, 1912); "Das Burgtheater:
statistische Rückblick," by Otto Rub (Vienna, 1913), and the current
files of _Bühne und Welt_ (Berlin). For dates of Schnitzler
performances in America and England, see the Henderson bibliography
previously mentioned.




THE LONELY WAY

(Der Einsame Weg)

A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS

1903


PERSONS

PROFESSOR WEGRAT       } President of the Academy
                       } of Plastic Arts

GABRIELLE              } His wife

FELIX                  }
                       } Their children
JOHANNA                }

JULIAN FICHTNER

STEPHAN VON SALA

IRENE HERMS

DR. FRANZ REUMANN      } A physician

FICHTNER'S VALET

SALA'S VALET

A MAID AT THE WEGRATS'




THE LONELY WAY




THE FIRST ACT


_The little garden attached to Professor Wegrat's house. It is almost
surrounded by buildings, so that no outlook of any kind is to be had.
At the right in the garden stands the small two-storied house with its
woodwork veranda, to which lead three wooden steps. Entries are made
from the veranda as well as from either side of the house. Near the
middle of the stage is a green garden table with chairs to match, and
also a more comfortable armchair. A small iron bench is placed against
a tree at the left._

_Johanna is walking back and forth in the garden when Felix enters,
wearing the uniform of a uhlan._


JOHANNA (_turning about_)

Felix!

FELIX

Yes, it's me.

JOHANNA

How are you?--And how have you been able to get another furlough?

FELIX

Oh, it won't last long.--And how's mamma?

JOHANNA

Doing pretty well the last few days.

FELIX

Do you think she would be scared if I dropped in on her unexpectedly?

JOHANNA

No. But wait a little just the same. She's asleep now. I have just come
from her room.--How long are you going to stay, Felix?

FELIX

To-morrow night I'm off again.

JOHANNA (_staring into a fancied distance_)

Off....

FELIX

Oh, it sounds big! But one doesn't get so very far off--not in any
respect.

JOHANNA

And you have wanted it so badly.... (_Pointing to his uniform_) Now
you've got it. And are you not satisfied?

FELIX

Well, at any rate it is the most sensible thing I have gone into so
far. For now I feel at least that I might achieve something under
certain circumstances.

JOHANNA

I believe you would make good in any profession.

FELIX

I have my doubts whether I could get anywhere as a lawyer or an
engineer. And on the whole I feel a good deal better than ever before.
Often it seems to me as if I hadn't been born at the right time. I
think I should have come into the world while there was still so much
of order left in it, that one could venture all sorts of things one
couldn't possibly venture nowadays.

JOHANNA

Oh, but you are free--you've got place to move.

FELIX

Only within certain limits.

JOHANNA

They are a great deal wider than these at any rate.

FELIX (_looking around with a smile_)

Well, this is not a prison.... Really, the garden has turned out quite
pretty. How bare it looked when we were children.--What's that? A row
of peach trees? That doesn't look bad at all.

JOHANNA

One of Dr. Reumann's ideas.

FELIX

Yes, I should have guessed it.

JOHANNA

Why?

FELIX

Because I can't believe any member of our family capable of such a
useful inspiration. What are his chances anyhow?--I mean in regard to
that professorship at Gratz?

JOHANNA

I don't know anything about it. (_She turns away_)

FELIX

I suppose mamma is outdoors a good deal these fine days?

JOHANNA

Yes.

FELIX

Are you still reading to her? Do you try to divert her a little? To
cheer her up?

JOHANNA

Just as if it were such an easy thing!

FELIX

But you have to put some spunk into it, Johanna.

JOHANNA

Yes, Felix, it's easy for you to talk.

FELIX

What do you mean?

JOHANNA (_speaking as if to herself_)

I don't know if you'll be able to understand me.

FELIX (_smiling_)

Why should it all at once be so hard for me to understand you?

JOHANNA (_looking calmly at him_)

Now when she is sick, I don't love her as much as before.

FELIX (_startled_)

What?

JOHANNA

No, it's impossible that you could quite understand. All the time she
is getting farther away from us.... It is as if every day a new set of
veils dropped down about her.

FELIX

And what is the meaning of it?

JOHANNA (_continues to look at him in the same calm way_)

FELIX

You think...?

JOHANNA

You know, Felix, that I never make any mistakes in things of that kind.

FELIX

I _know_, you say...?

JOHANNA

When poor little Lillie von Sala had to die, I was aware of it in
advance--before the rest of you knew that she was sick even.

FELIX

Yes, you had had a dream--and you were nothing but a child.

JOHANNA

I didn't dream it. I knew it. (_Brusquely_) It's something I can't
explain.

FELIX (_after a pause_)

And papa--has he resigned himself to it?

JOHANNA

Resigned himself?--Do you think he too can see those veils coming down?

FELIX (_having first shaken his head slightly_)

Nothing but imagination, Johanna--I am sure.--But now I want to....
(_Turning toward the house_) Papa hasn't come home yet?

JOHANNA

No. As a rule he's very late these days. He has an awful lot to do in
the Academy.

FELIX

I'll try not to wake her up--I'll be careful. (_He goes out by way of
the veranda_)

[_While alone for a while, Johanna seats herself on the garden bench
with her hands clasped across her knees. Sala enters. He is forty-five,
but looks younger. Slender to the verge of leanness, and smooth-shaven.
His brown hair, which has begun to turn gray at the temples, and which
he wears rather long, is parted on the right side. His features are
keen and energetic; his eyes, gray and clear._

SALA

Good evening, Miss Johanna.

JOHANNA

Good evening, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

They told me your mother was having a little nap, and so I permitted
myself to come out here in the meantime.

JOHANNA

Felix just got here.

SALA

Well? Have they already granted him another furlough? In my days they
were stricter in that regiment. However, we were then stationed near
the border--somewhere in Galicia.

JOHANNA

I can never keep in mind that you have gone through that kind of thing
too.

SALA

Yes, it's long ago now. And it didn't last more than a couple of years.
But it was good fun as I look back at it now.

JOHANNA

Like almost everything else you have experienced.

SALA

Like much of it.

JOHANNA

Won't you sit down?

SALA

Thank you. (_He seats himself on the support of the armchair_) Am I
permitted? (_Johanna having nodded assent, he takes a cigarette from
his case and lights it_)

JOHANNA

Are you already settled in your new place, Mr. von Sala?

SALA

I move in to-morrow.

JOHANNA

And it gives you a great deal of pleasure, doesn't it?

SALA

That would be a little premature.

JOHANNA

Are you superstitious?

SALA

Well, for that matter--yes.--But that was not what I had in mind. I
only take possession temporarily, not for good.

JOHANNA

Why not?

SALA

I'm going abroad--for a prolonged stay.

JOHANNA

Oh? You are to be envied. I wish I could do the same--go here and there
in the world, and not bother myself about a single human being.

SALA

Still at it?

JOHANNA

Still at it.... What do you mean?

SALA

Oh, I recall how the same kind of schemes for traveling used to occupy
your mind when you were nothing but a little girl. What was it you
wanted to become?--A ballet dancer, I think. Wasn't that it? A very
famous one, of course.

JOHANNA

Why do you say that as if it were nothing at all to be a ballet dancer?
(_Without looking at him_) You, in particular, Mr. von Sala, should not
be talking like that.

SALA

Why not I, in particular?

JOHANNA (_glances up calmly at him_)

SALA

I don't quite make out what you mean, Miss Johanna.... Unless I
must.... (_Simply_) Johanna, did you know at the time that I was
looking at you?

JOHANNA

When?

SALA

Last year, when you were in the country, and I came out once and stayed
over night in your attic. It was bright moonlight, and I thought I
could see a fairy gliding back and forth in the meadow.

JOHANNA (_nods with a smile_)

SALA

And it was for me?

JOHANNA

Oh, I saw you very well, where you stood behind the curtain.

SALA (_after a brief pause_)

I suppose you will never dance like that for other people?

JOHANNA

Why not?--I have already. And then, too, you were looking on. Of
course, it was a good while ago.--It happened on one of the Greek
islands. A large number of men stood in a circle around me ... you were
one of them ... and I was a slave girl from Lydia.

SALA

A princess in captivity.

JOHANNA (_earnestly_)

Don't you believe in such things?

SALA

If you want me to--certainly.

JOHANNA (_still very serious_)

You should believe everything in which the rest cannot believe.

SALA

When the time comes for it, I suppose I shall.

JOHANNA

You see--I can rather believe anything than that I should now be in the
world for the first time. And there are moments when I recall quite
clearly all sorts of things.

SALA

And at that time you had such a moment?

JOHANNA

Yes, a year ago, when I was dancing for you in the meadow that moonlit
summer night. I am sure it was not the first time, Mr. von Sala.
(_After a short pause, with a sudden change of tone_) Where are you
going anyhow?

SALA (_falling into the same tone_)

To Bactria, Miss Johanna.

JOHANNA

Where?

SALA

To Bactria. That's quite a remarkable country, and what's most
remarkable about it is that it doesn't exist any longer. What it means
is that I am joining an expedition which will start next November. You
have read of it in the papers, haven't you?

JOHANNA

No.

SALA

The proposition is to make excavations where it is supposed the ancient
Ecbatana stood once--some six thousand years ago. That goes even
farther back than your Lydian period, you see.

JOHANNA

When did you get hold of this idea?

SALA

Only a few days ago. Conversationally, so to speak. Count Ronsky, who
is at the head of the matter, inspired me with a great desire to go.
That wasn't very hard, however. He stirred an old longing within me.
(_With more spirit_) Think of it, Miss Johanna: to be watching with
your own eyes the gradual rising of such a buried city out of the
ground--house by house, stone by stone, century by century. No, it
wasn't meant that I should pass away until I had had this wish of mine
fulfilled.

JOHANNA

Why talk of dying then?

SALA

Is there ever a blissful moment in any decent man's life when he can
think of anything else in his innermost soul?

JOHANNA

I don't suppose a single wish of yours was ever left unfulfilled.

SALA

Not a single one...?

JOHANNA

I know that you have also had many sad experiences. But frequently I
believe you have longed for those too.

SALA

Longed for them...? You may be right, perhaps, in saying that I enjoyed
them when they came.

JOHANNA

How perfectly I understand that! A life without sorrow would probably
be as bare as a life without happiness. (_Pause_) How long ago is it
now?

SALA

What are you thinking of?

JOHANNA

That Mrs. von Sala died?

SALA

It's seven years ago, almost to a day.

JOHANNA

And Lillie--the same year?

SALA

Yes, Lillie died a month later. Do you often think of Lillie, Miss
Johanna?

JOHANNA

Quite often, Mr. von Sala. I have never had a girl friend since that
time. (_As if to herself_) She too would have to be called "miss" now.
She was very pretty. She had black hair with a bluish glint in it like
your wife, and the same clear eyes that you have, Mr. von Sala. (_As if
to herself_) "Then both of them walked hand in hand along the gloomy
road that leads through sunlit land...."

SALA

What a memory you have, Johanna.

JOHANNA

Seven years ago that was.... Remarkable!

SALA

Why remarkable?

JOHANNA

You are building a house, and digging out submerged cities, and writing
queer poetry--and human beings who once meant so much to you have been
rotting in their graves these seven years--and you are still almost
young. How incomprehensible the whole thing is!

SALA

"Thou that livest on, cease thou thy weeping," says Omar Nameh, who was
born at Bagdad in the year 412 of the Mohammedan era as the son of a
cobbler. For that matter, I know a man who is only thirty-eight. He has
buried two wives and seven children, not to speak of grandchildren. And
now he is playing the piano in a shabby little Prater[1] restaurant,
while artists of both sexes show off their tights and their fluttering
skirts on the platform. And recently, when the pitiful performance had
come to an end and they were turning out the lights, he went right on,
without apparent reason, and quite heedless of everything, playing away
on that frightful old rattle-box of his. And then Ronsky and I asked
him over to our table and had a chat with him. And then he told us that
the piece he had just played was his own composition. Of course, we
complimented him. And then his eyes lit up, and he asked us in a voice
that shook: "Gentlemen, do you think my piece will make a hit?" He is
thirty-eight years old, and his career has come to an end in a small
restaurant where his public consists of nurse-girls and
non-commissioned officers, and his one longing is--to get their
applause!

      [1] The Prater is at once the Central Park and the Coney
      Island of Vienna, plus a great deal more--a park with an area
      of 2,000 acres bounded by the Danube on one side and by the
      Danube Canal on the other, full of all kinds of amusement
      places.

REUMANN (_enters_)

Good evening, Miss Johanna. Good evening, Mr. von Sala. (_Shakes
hands with both of them at the same time_) How are you?

SALA

Fine. You don't suppose one must be your victim all the time because
one has had the honor of consulting you once?

REUMANN

Oh, I had forgotten all about it. However, there are people who feel
just that way.--I suppose your mother is having a little rest, Miss
Johanna?

JOHANNA (_who apparently has been startled by the few words exchanged
between the physician and Sala, and who is looking intently at the
latter_) She is probably awake by this time. Felix is with her.

REUMANN

Felix...? You haven't telegraphed for him, have you?

JOHANNA

Not that I know of. Who could have...?

REUMANN

I only wondered. Your father is inclined to get frightened.

JOHANNA

There they are now.

MRS. WEGRAT (_enters from the veranda with Felix_)

How are you, my dear Doctor? What do you think of the surprise I have
just had?

[_All the men shake hands._

MRS. WEGRAT

Good evening, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

I am delighted to see you looking so well, Mrs. Wegrat.

MRS. WEGRAT

Yes, I am doing a little better. If only the gloomy season were not so
close at hand.

SALA

But now the finest time of the year is coming. When the woods sparkle
with red and yellow, and a golden mist lies on the hills, and the sky
grows pale and remote as if it were scared by its own infinity...!

MRS. WEGRAT

Yes, that ought to be worth seeing once more.

REUMANN (_reproachfully_)

Mrs. Wegrat....

MRS. WEGRAT

Pardon me--but thoughts of that kind will come. (_Brightening up a
little_) If I only knew how much longer I might count on my dear
doctor?

REUMANN

I can reassure you on that score, madam: I shall stay in Vienna.

MRS. WEGRAT

What? Has the matter been settled already?

REUMANN

Yes.

MRS. WEGRAT

So another man has actually been called to Gratz?

REUMANN

No, not that way. But the other man, who was practically sure of the
place, has broken his neck climbing a mountain.

FELIX

But then your chances should be better than ever. Whom could they
possibly consider besides you?

REUMANN

I suppose my chances wouldn't be bad. But I have preferred to forgo
them.

MRS. WEGRAT

How?

REUMANN

I won't accept the call.

MRS. WEGRAT

Is that out of superstition?

FELIX

Or out of pride?

REUMANN

Neither. But the thought of having another man's misfortune to thank
for my own advancement would be extremely painful to me. Half my life
would be spoiled for me. That is neither superstition nor pride, you
see, but just commonplace, small-minded vanity.

SALA

You're a subtle one, Doctor.

MRS. WEGRAT

Well, all I gather is that you are going to stay. Which shows how mean
your thoughts grow when you are sick.

REUMANN (_changing the subject on purpose_)

Well, Felix, how do you find life in a garrison?

FELIX

Fine.

MRS. WEGRAT

So you are really satisfied, boy?

FELIX

I feel very thankful to all of you. Especially to you, mamma.

MRS. WEGRAT

Why to me especially? After all, the decision lay with your father in
the last instance.

REUMANN

He would, of course, have preferred to see you choose a more peaceful
calling.

SALA

Oh, but to-day there is none more peaceful.

FELIX

That's where you are right, Mr. von Sala.--By the by, I was to give you
the regards of Lieutenant-Colonel Schrotting.

SALA

Thank you. Does he still remember me?

FELIX

Not he alone. We are constantly being reminded of you--at every meal,
in fact. Yours is among the pictures of former officers that hang in
the mess rooms.

WEGRAT (_enters_)

Good evening.--Why, Felix, are you here again? What a surprise!

FELIX

Good evening, papa. I have applied for a two-day furlough.

WEGRAT

Furlough ... furlough? A real one? Or is it another one of those little
brilliant tricks?

FELIX (_cheerfully and without taking offence_)

I am not in the habit of fibbing, papa, am I?

WEGRAT (_in the same tone_)

I meant no offense, my boy. Even if you had been guilty of deserting
the flag, your longing to see your mother would be sufficient excuse
for you.

MRS. WEGRAT

To see his parents, you mean.

WEGRAT

Of course--to see us all. But as you are a little under the weather,
you come foremost just now.--Well, how are you getting along, Gabrielle?
Better, are you not? (_In a low voice, almost timidly_) My love....
(_He strokes her brow and hair_) Love.... The air is so mild.

SALA

We are having a wonderful Autumn.

REUMANN

Have you just got away from the Academy, Professor?

WEGRAT

Yes. Now, when I am also the president of it, there is a whole lot to
do--and all of it is not pleasant or grateful. But I seem to be made
for it, as they have insisted. And I suppose it will have to go on this
way. (_With a smile_) As somebody once called me--an art-official.

SALA

Don't be so unjust to yourself, Professor.

MRS. WEGRAT

You must have been walking all that long way home again?

WEGRAT

I even went out of my way some distance--to pass across the old Turkish
fort.[2] I am awfully fond of that road. On evenings like this the
whole city lies beneath you as if bathed in a silvery mist.--By the by,
Gabrielle, I have some greetings to deliver. I met Irene Herms.

      [2] The place where the Turks fortified themselves before
      driven from Vienna by John Sobieski in 1683 is now a small
      park, "_Türkenschanz-Park_," located in Döbling, one of the
      northwestern quarters of Greater Vienna. Only a little ways
      south of this park, and overlooking it, stands the
      Astronomical Observatory, not far from which Schnitzler has
      been living for a number of years. Numerous references to
      localities in this play indicate that he has placed the Wegrat
      home in that very villa quarter of Währing, where he himself
      is so thoroughly at home.

MRS. WEGRAT

Is she in Vienna?

WEGRAT

Just passing through. She intends to call on you.

SALA

Has she still got an engagement at Hamburg?

WEGRAT

No, she has left the stage, she told me, and is now living in the
country with her married sister.

JOHANNA

I saw her once in a play of yours, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

Then you must have been a very small girl indeed.

JOHANNA

She played a Spanish princess.

SALA

Unfortunately. For princesses were not at all in her line. She has
never in her life been able to treat verse properly.

REUMANN

And you can still bear that in mind, Mr. von Sala--that some lady on
some occasion happened to handle your verse badly?

SALA

Well, why shouldn't I, my dear Doctor? If you were living at the center
of the earth, you would know that all things are of equal weight. And
were you floating in the center of the universe, you would suspect that
all things are of equal importance.

MRS. WEGRAT

How does she look anyhow?

WEGRAT

She is still very pretty.

SALA

Has she preserved her resemblance to that portrait of hers which is
hanging in the Museum?

FELIX

What portrait is that?

JOHANNA

Is her portrait really in the Museum?

SALA

Oh, you know it. In the catalogue it is labeled "Actress"--just
"Actress." A young woman in the costume of a harlequin, over which she
has draped a Greek toga, while at her feet lie a confused heap of
masks. With her staring glance turned toward the spectators, she stands
there all alone on an empty, dusky stage, surrounded by odd pieces of
misfit scenery--one wall of a room, a forest piece, part of an old
dungeon....

FELIX

And the background shows a southern landscape with palms and plane
trees...?

SALA

Yes, and it is partly raised so that still farther off you can see a
pile of furniture, steps, goblets, chandeliers--all glittering in full
daylight.

FELIX

But that's Julian Fichtner's picture?

SALA

Exactly.

FELIX

I had not the slightest idea that the figure of that woman was meant
for Irene Herms.

WEGRAT

Twenty-five years have passed since he painted that picture. It caused
a tremendous sensation at the time. It was his first big success. And
to-day I suppose there are lots of people who no longer remember his
name.--Come to think of it, I asked Irene Herms about him. But strange
to say, not even his "perennial best girl" could tell where in this
world he happens to be straying.

FELIX

I talked with him only a few days ago.

WEGRAT

What? You have seen Julian Fichtner? He was in Salzburg?--When?

FELIX

Only about three or four days ago. He looked me up, and we spent the
evening together.

[_Mrs. Wegrat throws a quick glance at Dr. Reumann._

WEGRAT

How is he doing? What did he tell you?

FELIX

He has turned rather gray, but otherwise he didn't seem to have changed
at all.

WEGRAT

How long can it be now since he left Vienna? Two years, isn't it?

MRS. WEGRAT

A little more.

FELIX

He has traveled far and wide.

SALA

Yes, now and then I have had a postcard from him.

WEGRAT

So have we. But I thought you and he were corresponding regularly.

SALA

Regularly? Oh, no.

JOHANNA

Isn't he a friend of yours?

SALA

As a rule I have no friends. And if I have any, I repudiate them.

JOHANNA

But you used to be quite intimate with him.

SALA

He with me rather than I with him.

FELIX

What do you mean by that, Mr. von Sala?

JOHANNA

Oh, I can understand it. I suppose you have had the same experience
with most people.

SALA

Something very much like it, at least.

JOHANNA

Yes, one can see it from what you write, too.

SALA

I hope so. Otherwise it might just as well have been written by
somebody else.

WEGRAT

Did he say when he would be back in Vienna?

FELIX

Soon, I think. But he didn't say very definitely.

JOHANNA

I should like to see Mr. Fichtner again. I am fond of that kind of
people.

WEGRAT

What do you mean by "that kind of people"?

JOHANNA

Who are always arriving from some far-off place.

WEGRAT

But as a rule he never arrived from far-off places when you knew him,
Johanna.... He was living right here.

JOHANNA

What did it matter whether he was living here or elsewhere?--Even when
he came to see us daily, it was always as if he had just arrived from
some great distance.

WEGRAT

Oh, of course....

FELIX

I had often the same feeling.

WEGRAT

Well, it's strange how he has been knocking about in the world--these
last few years at least.

SALA

Don't you think his restlessness goes farther back? Were you not
students together in the Academy?

WEGRAT

Yes. And to know him properly, you must have known him then. There was
something fascinating about him as a young man, something that dazzled.
Never have I known anybody whom the term "of great promise" fitted so
completely.

SALA

Well, he has kept a whole lot of it.

WEGRAT

But think of all he might have achieved!

REUMANN

I believe that what you might achieve you do achieve.

WEGRAT

Not always. Julian was undoubtedly destined for higher things. What he
lacked was the capacity for concentration, the inward calm. He could
never feel at home for good anywhere. And the misfortune has been that
in his own works, too, he has lived only as a transient, so to speak.

FELIX

He showed me a couple of sketches he had made recently.

WEGRAT

Good?

FELIX

To me there was something gripping about them.

MRS. WEGRAT

Why gripping? What kind of pictures were they?

FELIX

Landscapes. And as a rule very pleasant ones at that.

JOHANNA

Once in a dream I saw a Spring landscape, very sunlit and soft, and yet
it made me weep.

SALA

Yes, the sadness of certain things lies much deeper than we commonly
suspect.

WEGRAT

So he's working again? Then, perhaps, we may expect something out of
the ordinary.

SALA

In the case of anybody who has been an artist once you are never safe
against surprises.

WEGRAT

That's it, Mr. von Sala. That's where the great difference lies. In the
case of an official you can feel perfectly safe on that score. (_With
cheerful self-contempt_) Such a one paints every year his nice little
picture for the exhibition, and couldn't possibly do anything else.

REUMANN

It is still open to question who do most for the advancement of life
and art: officials like you, Professor, or--our so-called men of
genius.

WEGRAT

Oh, I have not the least intention to play the modest one. But as to
men of genius--we had better not talk of them at all. There you are
dealing with a world by itself, lying outside of all discussion--as do
the elements.

REUMANN

My opinion, I must confess, is utterly different.

WEGRAT

Oh, it's of no use discussing anybody but those who have distinct
limitations. And what I have found is--that he who knows his own
limitations best is the better man. And on this point I have pretty
good reason for self-respect.--Do you feel chilly, Gabrielle?

MRS. WEGRAT

No.

WEGRAT

But you had better pull the shawl a little closer about you, and then
we should have a little exercise--in so far as it's possible in here.

MRS. WEGRAT

All right.--Please, Doctor, give me your arm. You haven't paid the
least attention to your patient yet.

REUMANN

At your service!

[_The rest start ahead, Johanna walking with her brother, and Wegrat
with Sala. Dr. Reumann and Mrs. Wegrat seem about to follow, when she
suddenly stops._

MRS. WEGRAT

Did you notice his eyes light up--I mean, the eyes of Felix, when they
were talking of _him?_ It was most peculiar.

REUMANN

Men of Mr. Fichtner's type appear undoubtedly very interesting to young
people. They seem to carry with them an odor of romance.

MRS. WEGRAT (_shaking her head_)

And he looked him up.... It is perfectly clear that he went to Salzburg
just to see him again. I suppose he is beginning to feel a little
deserted.

REUMANN

Why not pay a visit to a young friend when one happens to be near the
place where he is living? I can see nothing peculiar in that.

MRS. WEGRAT

Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I might have looked at the matter in the
same way not long ago. But now, in the face of.... No, Doctor, I am not
going to be sentimental.

REUMANN

I don't object to sentiment, but to nonsense.

MRS. WEGRAT (_smiling_)

Thank you.--However, I have occasion to think of many different things.
And it is no reason for taking it too seriously, my dear friend. You
know, of course, that I told you everything merely that I might have a
kind and sensible man with whom to discuss the past--and not at all to
be absolved of any guilt.

REUMANN

To give happiness is more than being free of guilt. And as this has
been granted you, it is clear that you have made full atonement--if
you'll pardon the use of such a preposterously extravagant term.

MRS. WEGRAT

How can you talk like that?

REUMANN

Well, am I not right?

MRS. WEGRAT

Just as if I couldn't feel how all of us, deceivers and deceived, must
seem equally contemptible to you in particular!

REUMANN

Why to me in particular...? What you call contempt, madam--supposing I
did feel anything like it--would, after all, be nothing but disguised
envy. Or do you think I lack the desire to conduct my life as I see
most other people conducting theirs? I simply haven't the knack. If I
am to be frank, madam--the deepest yearning of all within me is just to
be a rogue: a fellow who can dissemble, seduce, sneer, make his way
over dead bodies. But thanks to a certain shortcoming in my
temperament, I am condemned to remain a decent man--and what is still
more painful perhaps: to hear everybody say that I am one.

MRS. WEGRAT (_who has been listening with a smile_)

I wonder whether you have told the truth about what is keeping you here
in Vienna?

REUMANN

Certainly. Indeed, I have no other reason. I have no right to have any
other. Don't let us talk any more of it.

MRS. WEGRAT

Are we not such good friends that I can talk calmly with you of
everything? I know what you have in mind. But I believe that it might
be in your power to drive certain illusions and dreams out of the soul
of a young girl. And it would be such a comfort to me if I could leave
you for good among these people, all of whom are so near to me, and who
yet know nothing whatever about each other--who are hardly aware of
their mutual relationships even, and who seem fated to flitter away
from each other to God knows where.

REUMANN

We'll talk of those things, madam, when it's time to do so.

MRS. WEGRAT

Of course, I regret nothing. I believe I have never regretted anything.
But I have a feeling that something is out of order. Perhaps it's
nothing but that strange glimmer in the eyes of Felix which has caused
all this unrest within me. But isn't it peculiar--uncanny almost--to
think that a man like him may go through the world with all his senses
open and yet never know whom he has to thank for being in the world?

REUMANN

Don't let us indulge in generalities, Mrs. Wegrat. In that way you can
set the most solid things shaking and swaying until the steadiest eyes
begin to grow dizzy. My own conclusion is this: that a lie which has
proved strong enough to sustain the peace of a household can be no less
respectable than a truth which could do nothing but destroy the image
of the past, fill the present with sorrow, and confuse the vision of
the future. (_He goes out with Mrs. Wegrat_)

JOHANNA (_entering with Sala_)

In this way one always gets back to the same spot. I suppose your
garden is bigger, Mr. von Sala?

SALA

My garden is the whole wide woods--that is, for people whose fancy is
not restrained by a light fence.

JOHANNA

Your villa has grown very pretty.

SALA

Oh, you know it then?

JOHANNA

A little while ago I saw it again for the first time in three years.

SALA

But three years ago they hadn't put in the foundations yet.

JOHANNA

To me it was already standing there.

SALA

How mysterious....

JOHANNA

Not at all. If you will only remember. Once we made an excursion to
Dornbach[3]--my parents, and Felix, and I. There we met you and Mr.
Fichtner, and it happened on the very spot where your house was to be
built. And now everything looks just as you described it to us then.

      [3] A suburb near the western limits of Vienna and not far
      from the location indicated for the Wegrat home.

SALA

But how did you happen to be in that vicinity?

JOHANNA

Since mamma was taken sick I have often had to take my walks alone....

SALA

And when was it you passed by my house?

JOHANNA

Not long ago--to-day.

SALA

To-day?

JOHANNA

Yes. I went all around it.

SALA

Oh? All around it?--Did you also notice the little gate that leads
directly into the woods?

JOHANNA

Yes.--But from that spot the house is almost invisible. The leafage is
very thick.--Where have you placed those busts of the Roman emperors?

SALA

They stand on columns at the opening of an avenue of trees. Right by is
a small marble bench, and in front of the bench a little pool has been
made.

JOHANNA (_nodding_)

Just as you told us that time.... And there is a greenish gray glitter
on the water--and in the morning the shadow from the beech tree falls
across it.... I know. (_She looks up at him and smiles; both go out
together_)


CURTAIN




THE SECOND ACT


_In the home of Julian Fichtner. A pleasant, rather distinguished room
in a state of slight disorder. Books are piled on two chairs, while on
another chair stands an open traveling bag. Julian is seated at a
writing desk, from the drawers of which he is taking out papers. Some
of these he destroys, while others are thrown into the waste-paper
basket._


VALET (_announcing_)

Mr. von Sala. (_He goes out_)

SALA (_enters. His custom to walk up and down while talking asserts
itself strikingly during the following scene. Now and then he sits down
for a moment, often only on the arm of a chair. At times he stops
beside Julian, putting his hand on the latter's shoulder while
speaking. Two or three times during the scene he puts his hand to the
left side of his chest, in a manner suggesting discomfort of some kind.
But this gesture is not sharply accentuated_)

JULIAN

I am delighted. (_They shake hands_)

SALA

So you got back early this morning?

JULIAN

Yes.

SALA

And mean to stay...?

JULIAN

Haven't decided yet. Things are a little upset, as you see. And I fear
they'll never be quite in shape again. I intend to give up this place.

SALA

Too bad. I have become so accustomed to it. In what direction are you
going to move?

JULIAN

It's possible that I don't take any new quarters at all for a while,
but just keep on moving about as I have been doing the last few years.
I am even considering to have my things sold at auction.

SALA

That's a thought which gets no sympathy from me.

JULIAN

Really, I haven't got much sympathy for it myself. But the material
side of the question has to be considered a little, too. I have been
spending too much these last years, and it has to be evened up somehow.
Probably I'll settle down again later on. Sometime one must get back to
peace and work, I suppose.--Well, how goes it with you? What are our
friends and acquaintances doing?

SALA

So you haven't seen anybody yet?

JULIAN

Not one. And you are the only one I have written about my being here.

SALA

And you have not yet called on the Wegrats?

JULIAN

No. I even hesitate to go there.

SALA

Why?

JULIAN

After a certain age it would perhaps be better never to put your foot
in any place where your earlier years were spent. It is so rare to find
things and people the same as when you left them. Isn't that so?--Mrs.
Gabrielle is said to have changed considerably in the course of her
sickness. That's what Felix told me at least. I should prefer not to
see her again. Oh, you can understand that, Sala.

SALA (_rather surprised_)

Of course, I understand. How long is it you have had no news from
Vienna?

JULIAN

I have constantly started ahead of my mail. Not a single letter has
overtaken me during the last fortnight. (_Alarmed_) What has happened?

SALA

Mrs. Gabrielle died a week ago.

JULIAN

Oh! (_He is deeply moved; for a while he walks back and forth; then
he resumes his seat and says after a pause_) Of course, it was to be
expected, and yet....

SALA

Her death came easily.... You know how those left behind always pretend
to know such things with certainty. Anyhow, she fell asleep quietly one
night and never woke up again.

JULIAN (_in low voice_)

Poor Gabrielle!--Did you see anything of her toward the end?

SALA

Yes, I went there almost daily.

JULIAN

Oh, did you?

SALA

Johanna asked me. She was literally afraid of being alone with her
mother.

JULIAN

Afraid?

SALA

The sick woman inspired her with a sort of horror. She has calmed down
a little now.

JULIAN

What a strange creature.... And how does our friend, the professor,
bear up under his loss? Resigned to the will of God, I suppose?

SALA

My dear Julian, the man has a position. I fear we cannot grasp that, we
who are Gods by the grace of the moment--and also less than men at
times.

JULIAN

Of course, Felix is not here?

SALA

I talked with him less than an hour ago, and informed him that you were
here. It made him very happy to have you call on him in Salzburg.

JULIAN

It looked so to me. And he did me a lot of good. For that matter, I
have really thought of settling down in Salzburg.

SALA

For ever?

JULIAN

For a while. On account of Felix, too. His unspoiled nature affects me
very pleasantly--it makes me actually feel younger. Were he not my son,
I might almost envy him--and not on account of his youth alone. (_With
a smile_) Thus there is nothing left for me but to love him. I must say
that I feel a little ashamed at having to do it incognito, so to speak.

SALA

Are not these feelings a little belated in their appearance?

JULIAN

Oh, I suppose they were there long before I knew. And, you know, I saw
the youngster for the first time when he was ten or eleven years old,
and it was only then I learned that he was my son.

SALA

It must have been a strange meeting between you and Mrs. Gabrielle, ten
years after you had committed that piece of hideous perfidy--as our
ancestors used to put it.

JULIAN

It wasn't strange even. It came about quite naturally. Shortly after my
return from Paris I happened to meet Wegrat on the street. Of course,
we had heard of each other from time to time, and we met as old
friends. There are people who seem born to a fate of that kind.... And
as for Gabrielle....

SALA

She had forgiven you, of course?

JULIAN

Forgiven...? It was more or less than that. Only once did we talk of
the past--she without reproach, and I without regret: as if the whole
story had happened to somebody else. And after that never again. I
might have thought some miracle had wiped those earlier days out of her
memory. In fact, as far as I am concerned, there seemed to be no real
connection between that quiet matron and the creature I had once loved.
And as for the youngster--well, you know--at first I didn't care more
for him than I might have cared for any other pretty and gifted
child.--Of course, ten years ago my life had a different aspect. I was
still clinging to so many things which since then have slipped away
from me. It was only in the course of time that I became more and more
drawn to the house, until at last I began to feel at home there.

SALA

I hope you never took offense at my gradual discovery of the true state
of affairs.

JULIAN

You, at any rate, didn't think me very sensible....

SALA

Why not? I too find that family life in itself is quite attractive.
Only it ought, after all, to be experienced in one's own family.

JULIAN

You know very well that I have frequently felt something like actual
shame at the incongruity of that relationship. It was in fact one of
the things that drove me away. Of course, there were a lot of other
things that pressed on me at the time. Especially that I couldn't make
a real success out of my work.

SALA

But you hadn't been exhibiting anything for a long time.

JULIAN

It wasn't external success I had in mind. I could never get into the
right mood any more, and I hoped that traveling would help me again, as
it had done so often in earlier years.

SALA

And how did you fare? We have heard so little of you here. You might
really have written me a little more frequently and fully. For you
know, of course, that I care a great deal more for you than for most
other people. We have such a knack of giving each other the right
cue--don't you think? There are sentimental people who speak of such a
relation as friendship. And it is not impossible that we used to
address each other by our Christian names some time during the last
century, or that you may even have wept your fill on my shoulder. I
have missed you more than once during these two years--honestly! On my
lonely walks I have quite frequently thought of our pleasant chats in
the Dornbach park, where we were in the habit of disposing temporarily
of (_quoting_) "what is most lofty and profound in this our
world."--Well, Julian, from where do you come anyhow?

JULIAN

From the Tyrol? During the Summer I made long tours on foot. I have
even turned mountain climber in my old days. I spent a whole week at
one of those pasturing grounds in the Alps.... Yes, I have been up to
all sorts of things. It's a wonder what you can do when you are all
alone.

SALA

And you have really been all alone?

JULIAN

Yes.

SALA

All these last years?

JULIAN

If I don't count a few nonsensical interruptions--yes.

SALA

But there should have been no difficulty in that respect.

JULIAN

I know. But I cannot rest satisfied with what is still offered me of
that kind of thing. I have been badly spoiled, Sala. Up to a certain
period my life passed away in a constant orgy of tenderness and
passion, and of power, you might say. And that is all over. Oh, Sala,
what pitiful fictions I have had to steal, and beg, and buy, during
these last years! It gives me nausea to look back at it, and it
horrifies me to look ahead. And I ask myself: can there really be
nothing left of all that glow with which I once embraced the world but
a sort of silly wrath because it's all over--because I--_I_--am no
less subject to human laws than anybody else?

SALA

Why all this bitterness, Julian? There is still a great deal to be had
out of this world, even when some of the pleasures and enjoyments of
our earlier years have begun to appear tasteless or unseemly. And how
can you, of all people, miss that feeling, Julian?

JULIAN

Snatch his part from an actor and ask him if he can still take pleasure
in the beautiful scenery surrounding him.

SALA

But you have begun to work again while you were traveling?

JULIAN

Hardly at all.

SALA

Felix told us that you had brought some sketches from your trunk in
order to show him.

JULIAN

He spoke of them?

SALA

Yes, and nothing but good.

JULIAN

Really?

SALA

And as you showed those things to him, you must have thought rather
well of them yourself.

JULIAN

That was not the reason why I let him see them. (_Walking back and
forth_) I must tell you--at the risk of having you think me a perfect
fool.

SALA

Oh, a little more or less won't count. Speak out.

JULIAN

I wanted him at least not to lose faith in me. Can you understand that?
After all, he is nearer to me than the rest. Of course, I know--to
everybody, even to you, I am one who has gone down, who is finished--one
of those whose only talent was his youth. It doesn't bother me very
much. But to Felix I want to be the man I was once--just as I still
_am_ that man. When he learns sometime that I am his father, he must be
proud of it.

SALA

When he learns it...?

JULIAN

I have no intention to keep it hidden from him forever. Now, when his
mother is dead, less than ever. Last time I talked to him, it became
clear to me, not only that it would be right, but that it would almost
be a duty, to tell him the truth. He has a mind for essentials. He will
understand everything. And I shall have a human being who belongs to
me, who knows that he belongs to me, and for whose sake it is worth
while to keep on living in this world. I shall live near him, and be
with him a good deal. Once more I shall have my existence put on a
solid basis, so to speak, and not hung in mid-air, as it is now. And
then I shall be able to work again--work as I did once--as when I was a
young man. Work, that is what I am going to do--and all of you will
turn out to have been wrong--all of you!

SALA

But to whom has it occurred to doubt you? If you could only have heard
us talk of you a little while ago, Julian. Everybody expects that,
sooner or later, you--will find yourself again completely.

JULIAN

Well, that's enough about me, more than enough. Pardon me. Let us hear
something about yourself at last. I suppose you have already moved into
your new house?

SALA

Yes.

JULIAN

And what plans have you for the immediate future?

SALA

I am thinking of going to Asia with Count Ronsky.

JULIAN

With Ronsky? Are you going to join that expedition about which so much
has been written?

SALA

Yes. Some such undertaking has been tempting me for a long time. Are
you perhaps familiar with the Rolston report on the Bactrian and Median
excavations of 1892?

JULIAN

No.

SALA

Well, it is positively staggering. Think of it--they suspect that under
the refuse and the dust lies a monster city, something like the present
London in extent. At that time they made their way into a palace, where
the most wonderful paintings were found. These were perfectly preserved
in several rooms. And they dug out stairways--built of a marble that is
nowhere to be found nowadays. Perhaps it was brought from some island
which since then has sunk beneath the sea. Three hundred and twelve
steps glittering like opals and leading down into unknown depths....
Unknown because they ceased digging after they had reached the three
hundred and twelfth step--God only knows why! I don't think I can tell
you how those steps pique my curiosity.

JULIAN

But it has always been asserted that the Rolston expedition was lost?

SALA

No, not quite as bad as that. Out of twenty-four Europeans, eight got
back after three years in spite of all--and half a dozen of them had
been lost before they ever got there. You have to pass through pretty
bad fever belts. And at that time they had to face an attack of the
Kurds, too, by which several were done for. But we shall be much better
equipped. Furthermore, at the border we shall be joined by a Russian
contingent which is traveling under military escort. And here, too,
they think of putting a military aspect on the affair. As to the
fever--that doesn't scare me--it can't do me any harm. As a young man I
spent a number of particularly dangerous Summer nights in the _thermae_
of Caracalla--you know, of course, what boggy ground that is--and
remained well.

JULIAN

But that doesn't prove anything.

SALA

Oh yes, a little. There I came across a Roman girl whose home was right
by the Appian Way. She caught the fever and died from it.... To be
sure, I am not as young as I was then, but so far I have been perfectly
well.

JULIAN (_who has already smoked several cigarettes, offers one to
Sala_) Don't you smoke?

SALA

Thanks. Really, I shouldn't. Only yesterday Dr. Reumann told me I
mustn't.... Nothing particular--my heart is a little restless, that's
all. Well, a single one won't do any harm, I suppose.

VALET (_enters_)

Miss Herms, sir. She's asking whether she can see you.

JULIAN

Certainly. Ask her to come in.

VALET (_goes out_)

IRENE HERMS (_enters. She is about forty-three, but doesn't look it.
Her dress is simple and in perfect taste. Her movements are vivacious,
and at times almost youthful in their swiftness. Her hair is deeply
blonde in color and very heavy. Her eyes are merry, good-humored most
of the time, and easily filled with tears. She comes in with a smile
and nods in a friendly manner to Sala. To Julian, who has gone to meet
her, she holds out her hand with an expression on her face that is
almost happy_) Good evening. Well? (_She has the habit of pronouncing
that "well" in a tone of sympathetic inquiry_) So I did right after all
in keeping my patience a couple of days more. Here I've got you back
now. (_To Sala_) Can you guess the length of time we haven't seen each
other?

JULIAN

More than three years.

IRENE (_nods assent and permits him at last to withdraw his hand from
hers_) In all our lives that has never happened before. And your last
letter is already two months old. I call it "letter" just to save my
face. But it was only a view-card. Where in the world have you been
anyhow?

JULIAN

Sit down, won't you? I'll tell you all about it. Won't you take off
your hat? You'll stay a while, I hope?

IRENE

Of course.--And the way you look! (_To Sala_) Fine, don't you think?
I've always known that a gray beard would make him look awfully
interesting.

SALA (_to Julian_)

Now you'll have nothing but pleasantries to listen to. Unfortunately I
shall have to be moving.

IRENE

You're not leaving on my account, I hope?

SALA

How can you imagine such a thing, Miss Herms?

IRENE

I suppose you are bound for the Wegrats'?--What do you think of it,
Julian? Isn't it dreadful? (_To Sala_) Please give them my regards.

SALA

I'm not going there now. I'm going home.

IRENE

Home? And you say that in such a matter-of-fact way? I understand you
are now living in a perfect palace.

SALA

No, anything but that. A modest country house. It would give me special
pleasure, Miss Herms, if sometime you would make sure of it in person.
My garden is really pretty.

IRENE

Have you fruit trees, too, and vegetables?

SALA

In this respect I can only offer you a stray cabbage and a wild cherry
tree.

IRENE

Well, if my time permit, I shall make a point of coming out there to
have a look at your villa.

JULIAN

Must you leave again so soon?

IRENE

Certainly. I have to get home again. Only this morning I had a letter
from my little nephew--and he's longing for me. A little rascal of
five, and he, too, is longing already. What do you think of that?

SALA

And you are also longing to get back, I suppose?

IRENE

It isn't that. But I'm beginning to get accustomed to Vienna again. As
I'm going about the streets here, I run across memories at every
corner.--Can you guess where I was yesterday, Julian? In the rooms
where I used to live as a child. It wasn't easy by any means, as a lot
of strangers are living there now. But I got into the rooms just the
same.

SALA (_with amicable irony_)

How did you manage it, Miss Herms?

IRENE

I sneaked in under a pretext. I pretended to believe that there was a
room to be let--for a single elderly lady. But at last I fell to
weeping so that I could see the people thought me out of my mind. And
then I told them the true reason for my coming there. A clerk in the
post-office is living there now with his wife and two children. One of
these was such a nice little chap. He was playing railroad with an
engine that could be wound up, and that ran over one of my feet all the
time.... But I can see that all this doesn't interest you very much,
Mr. von Sala.

SALA

How _can_ you interrupt yourself like that, Miss Herms, just when it is
most exciting? I should have loved to hear more about it. But now I
must really go, unfortunately. Good-by, Julian.--Then, Miss Herms, I
may count on a visit from you. (_He goes out_)

IRENE

Thank God!

JULIAN (_smiling_)

Do you still have the same antipathy for him?

IRENE

Antipathy?--I hate him! Nothing but your incredible kindness of heart
would let him come near you. For you have no worse enemy.

JULIAN

Where did you get that idea?

IRENE

My instinct tells me--you can feel such things.

JULIAN

I fear, however, that even now you cannot judge him quite objectively.

IRENE

Why not?

JULIAN

You can't forgive him that you failed in one of his plays ten years
ago.

IRENE

Unfortunately it's already twelve years ago. And it wasn't my fault.
For my opinion in regard to his so-called poetry is, that it's
nonsense. And I am not the only one who thinks so, as you know. But you
don't know him, of course. To appreciate that gentleman in all his
glory, you must have enjoyed him at a rehearsal. (_Imitating Sala_) Oh,
madam, that's verse--it's verse, dear madam.... Only when you have
heard that kind of thing from him can you understand how limitless his
arrogance is.... And everybody knows, by the way, that he killed his
wife.

JULIAN (_amused_)

But, girl, who in the world put such horrible ideas into your head?

IRENE

Oh, people don't die willy-nilly like that, at twenty-five....

JULIAN

I hope, Irene, that you don't talk like this to other people?

IRENE

What would be the use? Everyone knows it but you. And I for my part
have no reason to spare Mr. von Sala, who for twenty years has pursued
me with his jeers.

JULIAN

And yet you are going to call on him?

IRENE

Of course. Beautiful villas interest me very much. And they tell me his
is ravishing. If you were only to see people who....

JULIAN

Hadn't killed anybody....

IRENE

Really, we show him too much honor in talking so long about him. That
ends it.--Well, Julian? How goes it? Why haven't you written me
oftener? Is it possible you didn't dare?

JULIAN

Dare...?

IRENE

Were you forbidden, I mean?

JULIAN

I see.--Nobody can forbid me anything.

IRENE

Honestly? You live all by yourself?

JULIAN

Yes.

IRENE

I'm delighted. I can't help it, Julian, but I am delighted. Although
it's sheer nonsense. This day, or the next, there'll be something new
going on.

JULIAN

Those days are past.

IRENE

If it were only true!--Can I have a cup of tea?

JULIAN

Certainly. The samovar is right there.

IRENE

Where?--Oh, over there. And the tea?--Oh, I know! (_She opens a small
cupboard and brings out what she needs; during the next few minutes she
is busy preparing the tea_)

JULIAN

So you are really going to stay here only a couple of days more?

IRENE

Of course. I have done all my ordering. You understand, in my sister's
house out there one doesn't need to dress up.

JULIAN

Tell me about it. How do you like it out there?

IRENE

Splendidly. Oh, it's bliss merely to hear nothing more about the
theater.

JULIAN

And yet you'll return to it sometime.

IRENE

That's where you are completely mistaken. Why should I? You must
remember that I have now reached the goal of all my desires: fresh air,
and woods right by; horseback riding across meadows and fields; early
morning seated in the big park, dressed in my kimono, and nobody daring
to intrude. To put it plainly: no people, no manager, no public, no
colleagues, no playwrights--though, of course, all are not as arrogant
as your precious Sala.--Well, all this I have attained at last. I live
in the country. I have a country house--almost a little palace, you
might say. I have a park, and a horse, and a kimono--to use as much as
I please. It isn't all mine, I admit--except the kimono, of course--but
what does that matter? In the bargain, I live with the best people one
could hope to find in this world. For my brother-in-law is, if
possible, a finer fellow than Lora herself even.

JULIAN

Wasn't he rather making up to you once?

IRENE

I should say he was! He wanted to marry me at any cost. Of course!--It
was always in me that they were at first--I mean that they always _have
been_ in love with me. But as a rule the clever ones have gone over to
Lora. In fact, I have always felt a little distrustful toward you
because you never fell in love with Lora. And how much she is ahead of
me--well, _you_ know, and it's no use talking of it. What all don't I
owe to Lora!... If it hadn't been for her...!--Well, it's with them I
have been living the last half year.

JULIAN

The question is only how long you are going to stand it.

IRENE

How long...? But, Julian, I must ask you what there could be to make me
leave such a paradise and return to the morass where I (_in a lowered
voice_) spent twenty-five years of my life. What could I possibly
expect out of the theater anyhow? I am not made for elderly parts. The
heroic mother, the shrewish dame and the funny old woman are equally
little to my liking. I intend to die as "the young lady from the
castle"--as an old maid, you might say--and if everything goes right, I
shall appear to the grandchildren of my sister some hundred years from
now as the Lady in White. In a word, I have the finest kind of a life
ahead of me.--Why are you laughing?

JULIAN

It pleases me to see you so jolly again--so youthful.

IRENE

It's the country air, Julian. You should try it yourself for a good
long while. It's glorious! In fact, I think I have missed my true
calling. I'm sure the good Lord meant me for a milkmaid or farm girl of
some kind. Or perhaps for a young shepherd. I have always looked
particularly well in pants.--There now. Do you want me to pour a cup
for you at once? (_She pours the tea_) Have you nothing to go with
it?

JULIAN

I think there must still be a few crackers left in my bag. (_He takes
a small package out of his traveling bag_)

IRENE

Thanks. That's fine.

JULIAN

This is quite a new fancy of yours, however.

IRENE

Crackers...?

JULIAN

No, nature.

IRENE

How can you say so? I have always had a boundless love for nature.
Don't you recall the excursions we used to make? Don't you remember how
once we fell asleep in the woods on a hot Summer afternoon? And don't
you ever think of that shrine of the Holy Virgin, on the hill where we
were caught by the storm?... Oh, mercy! Nature is no silly illusion.
And still later--when I struck the bad days and wanted to kill myself
for your sake, fool that I was ... then nature simply proved my
salvation. Indeed, Julian! I could still show you the place where I
threw myself on the grass and wept. You have to walk ten minutes from
the station, through an avenue of acacias, and then on to the brook.
Yes, I threw myself on the grass and wept and wailed. It was one of
those days, you know, when you had again sent me packing from your
door. Well, and then, when I had been lying half an hour in the grass,
and had wept my fill, then I got up again--and began to scamper all
over the meadow. Just like a kid, all by myself. Then I wiped my eyes
and felt quite right again. (_Pause_) Of course, next morning I was at
your door again, setting up a howl, and then the story began all over
again.

[_It is growing dark._

JULIAN

Why do you still think of all that?

IRENE

But you do it, too. And who has proved the more stupid of us two in the
end? Who? Ask yourself, on your conscience. Who?... Have you been more
happy with anybody else than with me? Has anybody else clung to you as
I did? Has anybody else been so fond of you?... No, I am sure. And as
to that foolish affair into which I stumbled during my engagement
abroad--you might just as well have overlooked it. Really, there isn't
as much to that kind of thing as you men want to make out--when it
happens to one of us, that is to say. (_Both drink of their tea_)

JULIAN

Should I get some light?

IRENE

It's quite cosy in the twilight like this.

JULIAN

"Not much to it," you say. Perhaps you are right. But when it happens
to anybody, he gets pretty mad as a rule. And if we had made up
again--it would never have been as before. It's better as it is. When
the worst was over, we became good friends once more, and so we have
been ever since. And that is a pretty fine thing, too.

IRENE

Yes. And nowadays I'm quite satisfied. But at that time...! Oh, mercy,
what a time that was! But you don't know anything about it, of course.
It was afterward I began really to love you--after I had lost you
through my own thoughtlessness. It was only then I learned how to be
faithful in the true sense. For anything that has happened to me since
then.... But it's asking too much that a man should understand that
kind of thing.

JULIAN

I understand quite well, Irene. You may be sure.

IRENE

And besides I want to tell you something: it was nothing but a
well-deserved punishment for both of us.

JULIAN

For both of us?

IRENE

Yes, that's what I have figured out long ago. A well-deserved
punishment.

JULIAN

For both of us?

IRENE

Yes, for you, too.

JULIAN

But what do you mean by that?

IRENE

We had deserved no better.

JULIAN

We...? In what way?

IRENE (_very seriously_)

You are so very clever otherwise, Julian. Now what do you say--do you
think it could have happened as it did--do you think I could have made
a mistake like that--if we--had had a child? Ask yourself on your
conscience, Julian--do you believe it? I don't, and you don't either.
Everything would have happened in a different way. Everything. We had
stayed together then. We had had _more_ children. We had married. We
might be living together now. I shouldn't have become an old-maidish
"young lady from the castle," and you wouldn't have become....

JULIAN

An old bachelor.

IRENE

Well, if you say it yourself. And the main thing is this: we _had_ a
child. I had a child. (_Pause_)

JULIAN (_walking back and forth_)

What's the use, Irene? Why do you begin to talk of all those forgotten
things again...?

IRENE

Forgotten?

JULIAN

... Things gone by.

IRENE

Yes, they are bygone, of course. But out there in the country you have
plenty of time. All sorts of things keep passing through your head. And
especially when you see other people's children--Lora has two boys, you
know--then you get all sorts of notions. It almost amounted to a vision
not long ago.

JULIAN

What?

IRENE

It was toward evening, and I had walked across the fields. I do it
quite often, all by myself. Far and wide there was nobody to be seen.
And the village down below was quite deserted, too. And I walked on and
on, always in direction of the woods. And suddenly I was no longer
alone. You were with me. And between us was the child. We were holding
it by the hands--our little child. (_Angrily, to keep herself from
crying_) It's too silly for anything! I know, of course, that our child
would be a gawky youngster of twenty-three by now--that it might have
turned into a scamp or a good-for-nothing girl. Or that it might be
dead already. Or that it had drifted out into the wide world, so that
we had nothing left of it--oh, yes, yes.... But we should have had it
once, for all that--once there would have been a little child that
seemed rather fond of us. And.... (_She is unable to go on; silence
follows_)

JULIAN (_softly_)

You shouldn't talk yourself into such a state, Irene.

IRENE

I am not talking myself into anything.

JULIAN

Don't brood. Accept things as they are. There have been other things in
your life--better things, perhaps. Your life has been much richer than
that of a mere mother could ever have been.... You have been an artist.

IRENE (_as if to herself_)

I don't care that much for it.

JULIAN

A great, famous one--that means something after all. And your life has
brought you many other exquisite experiences--since the one with me. I
am sure of it.

IRENE

What have I got left of it? What does it amount to? A woman who has no
child has never been a woman. But a woman who once might have had
one--who should have had one, and who--(_with a glance at
him_)--has never become a mother, she is nothing but--oh! But that's
what a man cannot understand! It is what not one of them can
understand! In this respect the very best one of the lot will always
remain something of a cad. Is there one of you who knows how many of
his own offspring have been set adrift in the world? I know at least
that there are none of mine. Can you say as much?

JULIAN

And if I did know....

IRENE

How? Have you got one really?--Oh, speak, please! You can tell _me,_
Julian, can't you? Where is it? How old is it? A boy? Or a girl?

JULIAN

Don't question me.... Even if I had a child, it wouldn't belong to you
anyhow.

IRENE

He has a child! He has a child! (_Pause_) Why do you permit it to be
drifting around in the world then?

JULIAN

You yourself have given the explanation: in this respect the very best
of us remains always something of a cad. And I am not the best one at
that.

IRENE

Why don't you go and get it?

JULIAN

How could it be any of my concern? How could I dare to make it my
concern? Oh, that's enough.... (_Pause_) Do you want another cup of
tea?

IRENE

No, thanks. No more now. (_Pause; it is growing darker_) He has a
child, and I have never known it! (_Protracted silence_)

VALET (_enters_)

JULIAN

What is it?

VALET

Lieutenant Wegrat asks if you are at home, sir?

JULIAN

Certainly. Ask him in.

VALET (_goes out after having turned on the light_)

IRENE

Young Wegrat?--I thought he had already left again.--The poor chap! He
seemed utterly stunned.

JULIAN

I can imagine.

IRENE

You visited him at Salzburg?

JULIAN

Yes, I happened to be there a couple of days last August.

FELIX (_enters, dressed as a civilian_)

Good evening.--Good evening, Miss Herms.

IRENE

Good evening, Lieutenant.

JULIAN

My dear Felix--I was going to call on you--this very evening. It's
extremely nice of you to take the trouble.

FELIX

I have to be off again the day after to-morrow, and so I wasn't sure
whether I could find any chance at all to see you.

JULIAN

Won't you take off your coat?--Think of it, I didn't have the slightest
idea.... It was Sala who told me--less than an hour ago.

[_Irene is looking from one to the other._

FELIX

We didn't dream of this when we took that walk in the Mirabell
Gardens[4] last summer.

      [4] The palace of Mirabell is one of the sights of Salzburg,
      the city near the Bavarian border, where Felix's regiment was
      stationed. It is now used as a museum. The gardens adjoining
      it are of the formal type so dear to, and so characteristic
      of, the eighteenth century.

JULIAN

Was it very sudden?

FELIX

Yes. And I, who couldn't be with her.... Late that evening I had to
leave, and she died during the night.

IRENE

Say rather that she didn't wake up again next morning.

FELIX

We owe a lot of thanks to you, Miss Herms.

IRENE

Oh, please...!

FELIX

It always gave my mother so much pleasure to have you with her,
chatting, or playing the piano to her.

IRENE

Oh, don't mention my playing...!

[_A clock strikes._

IRENE

Is it that late? Then I have to go.

JULIAN

What's the hurry, Miss Herms?

IRENE

I'm going to the opera. I have to make good use of the few days I shall
still be here.

FELIX

Shall we see you at our house again, Miss Herms?

IRENE

Certainly.--You'll have to leave before me, won't you?

FELIX

Yes, my furlough will be up....

IRENE (_as if en passant_)

How long have you been an officer anyhow, Felix?

FELIX

For three years really--but I didn't apply for a commission until this
year--a little too late, perhaps.

IRENE

Too late? Why?--How old are you, Felix?

FELIX

Twenty-three.

IRENE

Oh! (_Pause_) But when I saw you four years ago as a volunteer, I
thought at once you would stay in the service.--Do you remember,
Julian, I told you so at the time?

JULIAN

Yes....

FELIX

That must have been in the summer, the last time you called on us.

IRENE

I think so....

FELIX

Many things have changed since then.

IRENE

Indeed! Those were still happy days.--Don't you think so, Julian? For
we haven't met either since we spent those beautiful summer evenings in
the garden of the Wegrats.

JULIAN (_nods assent_)

IRENE (_stands again looking now at Julian and now at Felix; brief
pause_) Oh, but now it's high time for me to be gone.--Good-by.
Remember me at home, Lieutenant.--Good-by, Julian. (_She goes out,
accompanied to the door by Julian_)

FELIX

Haven't you made some changes here?

JULIAN

Not to my knowledge. And how could you know anyhow? You have only been
here two or three times.

FELIX

Yes. But the last time at one of the most important moments in my life.
I came here to get your advice.

JULIAN

Well, everything has turned out in accordance with your wish. Even your
father has resigned himself to it.

FELIX

Yes, he has resigned himself. Of course, he would have preferred to see
me continue my technical studies. But now he has seen that it is quite
possible to lead a sensible life in uniform too--without any debts or
duels. In fact, my life is almost too smooth. However, there is at
least more to anticipate for one of us than for most people. And that's
always something.

JULIAN

And how are things at home?

FELIX

At home.... Really, it's almost as if that word had lost its meaning.

JULIAN

Has your father resumed his duties again?

FELIX

Of course. Two days later he was back in his studio. He is wonderful.
But I can't quite understand it.... Am I disturbing you, Mr. Fichtner?
You were putting your papers in order, I think.

JULIAN

Oh, there's no hurry about that. They're easily put in order. Most of
them I burn.

FELIX

Why?

JULIAN

It's more sensible, don't you think, to destroy things one hardly cares
to look at any more?

FELIX

But doesn't it make you rather sad to clean out your past like that?

JULIAN

Sad?... No, it's entirely too natural a process for that.

FELIX

I can't see it that way. Look here. To burn a letter, or a picture, or
something of that kind, immediately after you have got it--that seems
quite natural to me. But something at all worthy of being kept as a
remembrance of some poignant joy or equally poignant sorrow would seem
incapable of ever losing its significance again. And especially in the
case of a life like yours, that has been so rich and so active.... It
would seem to me that at times you must feel something like--awe in the
face of your own past.

JULIAN

Where do you get such thoughts--you, who are so young?

FELIX

They just came into my head this minute.

JULIAN

You are not so very much mistaken, perhaps. But there is something else
besides, that makes me want to clean house. I am about to become
homeless, so to speak.

FELIX

Why?

JULIAN

I'm giving up my rooms here, and don't know yet what my next step will
be. And so I think it's more pleasant to let these things come to a
decent end rather than to put them in a box and leave them to molder
away in a cellar.

FELIX

But don't you feel sorry about a lot of it?

JULIAN

Oh, I don't know.

FELIX

And then you must have mementoes that mean something to other people
besides yourself. Sketches of all kinds, for instance, which I think
you have saved to some extent.

JULIAN

Are you thinking of those little things I showed you in Salzburg?

FELIX

Yes, of those too, of course.

JULIAN

They are still wrapped up. Would you like to have them?

FELIX

Indeed, I should feel very thankful. They seemed to have a particular
charm for me. (_Pause_) But there's something else I wanted to ask of
you. A great favor. If you will let me....

JULIAN

Tell me, please.

FELIX

I thought you might still have left a picture of my mother as a young
girl. A small picture in water colors painted by yourself.

JULIAN

Yes, I did paint such a picture.

FELIX

And you have still got it?

JULIAN

I guess it can be found.

FELIX

I should like to see it.

JULIAN

Did your mother remember this picture...?

FELIX

Yes, she mentioned it to me the last evening I ever saw her--the
evening before she died. At the time I didn't imagine, of course, that
the end was so near--and I don't think she could guess it either.
To-day it seems rather peculiar to me that, on that very evening, she
had to talk so much of days long gone by.

JULIAN

And of this little picture, too?

FELIX

It's a very good one, I understand.

JULIAN (_as if trying to remember_)

Where did I put it? Wait now.... (_He goes to a book case, the lower
part of which has solid doors; these he opens, disclosing several
shelves piled with portfolios_) I painted it in the country--in the
little house where your grandparents used to live.

FELIX

I know.

JULIAN

You can hardly recall the old people, I suppose?

FELIX

Very vaguely. They were quite humble people, were they not?

JULIAN

Yes. (_He has taken a big portfolio from one of the shelves_) It ought
to be in this portfolio. (_He puts it on the writing desk and opens it;
then he sits down in front of it_)

FELIX (_stands behind him, looking over his shoulder_)

JULIAN

Here is the house in which they lived--your grandparents and your
mother. (_He goes through the sketches, one by one_) And here is a view
of the valley seen from the cemetery.

FELIX

In Summer....

JULIAN

Yes.--And here is the little inn at which your father and I used to
stop.... And here.... (_He looks in silence at the sketch; both remain
silent for a long while_)

FELIX (_picking up the sketch_)

How old was my mother at the time?

JULIAN (_who remains seated_)

Eighteen.

FELIX (_going a few steps away and leaning against the bookcase in
order to get better light on the picture_)

A year before she was married, then.

JULIAN

It was done that very year. (_Pause_)

FELIX

What a strange look that meets me out of those eyes.... There's a smile
on her lips.... It's almost as if she were talking to me....

JULIAN

What was it your mother told you--that last evening?

FELIX

Not very much. But I feel as if I knew more than she had told me. What
a queer thought it is, that as she is now looking at me out of this
picture, so she must have been looking at you once. It seems as if
there was a certain timidity in that look. Something like fear
almost.... In such a way you look at people out of another world, for
which you long, and of which you are afraid nevertheless.

JULIAN

At that time your mother had rarely been outside the village.

FELIX

She must have been different from all other women you have met, wasn't
she?--Why don't you say anything? I am not one of those men who cannot
understand--who won't understand that their mothers and sisters are
women after all. I can easily understand that it must have been a
dangerous time for her--and for somebody else as well. (_Very simply_)
You must have loved my mother very much?

JULIAN

You have a curious way of asking questions.--Yes, I did love her.

FELIX

And those moments must have been very happy ones, when you sat in that
little garden with its overgrown fence, holding this canvas on your
knees, and out there on the bright meadow, among all those red and
white flowers, stood this young girl with anxiously smiling eyes,
holding her straw hat in one hand.

JULIAN

Your mother talked of those moments that last evening?

FELIX

Yes.--It is childish perhaps, but since then it has seemed impossible
to me that any other human being could ever have meant so much to you
as this one?

JULIAN (_more and more deeply moved, but speaking very quietly_) I
shall not answer you.--In the end I should instinctively be tempted to
make myself appear better than I am. You know very well how I have
lived my life--that it has not followed a regulated and direct course
like the lives of most other people. I suppose that the gift of
bestowing happiness of the kind that lasts, or of accepting it, has
never been mine.

FELIX

That's what I feel. It is what I have always felt. Often with something
like regret--or sorrow almost. But just people like you, who are
destined by their very nature to have many and varied experiences--just
such people should, I think, cling more faithfully and more gratefully
to memories of a tender, peaceful sort, like this--rather than to more
passionate and saddening memories.--Am I not right?

JULIAN

Maybe you are.

FELIX

My mother had never before mentioned this picture to me. Isn't it
strange?... That last night she did it for the first time.--We were
left alone on the veranda. The rest had already bid me good-by.... And
all of a sudden she began to talk about those summer days of long, long
ago. Her words had an undercurrent of meanings which she probably did
not realize. I believe that her own youth, which she had almost ceased
to understand, was unconsciously taking mine into its confidence. It
moved me more deeply than I can tell you.--Much as she cared for me,
she had never before talked to me like that. And I believe that she had
never been quite so dear to me as in those last moments.--And when
finally I had to leave, I felt that she had still much more to tell
me.--Now you'll understand why I had such a longing to see this
picture.--I have almost the feeling that it might go on talking to me
as my mother would have done--if I had only dared to ask her one more
question!

JULIAN

Ask it now.... Do ask it, Felix.

FELIX (_who becomes aware of the emotion betrayed in the voice of
Julian, looks up from the picture_)

JULIAN

I believe that it can still tell you a great many things.

FELIX

What is the matter?

JULIAN

Do you want to keep that picture?

FELIX

Why...?

JULIAN

Well ... take it. I don't give it to you. As soon as I have settled
down again, I shall want it back. But you shall have a look at it
whenever you want. And I hope matters will be so arranged that you
won't have far to go either.

FELIX (_with his eyes on the picture_)

It grows more alive every second.... And that look was directed at
you.... That look...? Can it be possible that I read it right?

JULIAN

Mothers have their adventures, too, like other women.

FELIX

Yes, indeed, I believe it has nothing more to hide from me.

[_He puts down the picture. Then a long pause follows. At last Felix
puts on his coat._

JULIAN

Are you not going to take it along?

FELIX

Not just now. It belongs to you much more than I could guess.

JULIAN

And to you ...

FELIX

No, I don't want it until this new thing has become fully revealed to
me. (_He looks Julian firmly in the eyes_) I don't quite know where I
am. In reality, of course, there has been no change whatever.
None--except that I know now what I ...

JULIAN

Felix!

FELIX

No, that was something I could never have guessed. (_Looks long at
Julian with an expression of mingled tenderness and curiosity_)
Farewell.

JULIAN

Are you going?

FELIX

I need badly to be by myself for a while.--Until to-morrow.

JULIAN

Yes, and no longer, Felix. To-morrow I shall come to your--I'll call on
_you_, Felix.

FELIX

I shall be waiting for you. (_He goes out_)

JULIAN (_stands quite still for a moment; then he goes to the writing
desk and stops beside it, lost in contemplation of the picture_)


CURTAIN




THE THIRD ACT


_A room at the Wegrats' adjoining the veranda. The outlook is, of
course, determined by the location._


JOHANNA (_is seated on a stool with her hands folded in her lap_)

SALA (_enters_)

Good morning, Johanna.

JOHANNA (_rises, goes to meet him, and draws him close to herself_) Are
you coming for the last time?

SALA

For the last time? What an idea! There has not been the slightest
change in our arrangements. To-day is the seventh of October, and the
ship will leave Genoa on the twenty-sixth of November.

JOHANNA

Some day you will suddenly have disappeared. And I shall be standing by
the garden door, and nobody will come to open it.

SALA

But that sort of thing is not needed between us two.

JOHANNA

No, indeed--bear that in mind.

FELIX (_enters_)

Oh, is that you, Mr. von Sala? (_They shake hands_) Well, how far have
you got with your preparations?

SALA

There are hardly any needed. I shall pack my trunk, pull down the
shades, lock the doors--and be off for the mysteries of far-away. There
is something I want to ask you apropos of that, Felix. Would you care
to come along?

FELIX (_startled_)

If I care.... Are you asking seriously, Mr. von Sala?

SALA

There is just so much seriousness in my question as you wish to put
into it.

FELIX

What does it mean anyhow? If I want to go along to Asia? What use could
they have for me in a venture of that kind?

SALA

Oh, that's pretty plain.

FELIX

Is the expedition not going to be one of purely scientific character?

SALA

Yes, that's what it is meant for, I suppose. But it is quite possible
that various things may happen that would make the presence of some
young men like you very desirable.

FELIX

Men like me...?

SALA

When Rolston went out there seven years ago, a lot of things happened
which were not provided for in the original program. And they had to
fight a regular battle, on a small scale, in the Kara-Kum district, not
far from the river Amu-Daria.

REUMANN (_who has entered while Sala was speaking_)

To those who had to stay behind forever the scale of your battle was
probably large enough. (_All greet each other and shake hands without
letting the conversation be interrupted_)

SALA

In that respect you are probably right, Doctor.

FELIX

Pardon me, Mr. von Sala, but does this come from you alone? Is it just
a sudden notion--or something more?

SALA

I have received no direct request from anybody to speak of this. But
after the conference which took place at the Foreign Department
yesterday, and which I attended, I feel entitled to add a little
more.--Oh, no secrets at all!--You have probably read, Felix, that a
member of the General Staff as well as several artillery and
engineering officers are being sent with us in what might be termed a
semi-official capacity. On account of the latest news from Asia--which,
however, does not seem very reliable to me, as it has come by way of
England--it has been decided to secure the additional cooperation of
some young line officers, and all arrangements of this kind must be
left to private initiative.

FELIX

And there might be a possibility for me...?

SALA

Will you permit me to speak to Count Ronsky?

FELIX

Have you already mentioned my name to him?

SALA

I have received permission to ask whether you could be prepared to
board the ship with the rest at Genoa on the twenty-sixth of November.

REUMANN

Do you mean to leave Vienna as soon as that?

SALA (_sarcastically_)

Yes. Why did you look at me like that, Doctor? That glance of yours was
a little indiscreet.

REUMANN

In what respect?

SALA

It seemed to say: Yes, you can start, of course, but if you ever come
back, that's more than doubtful.

REUMANN

Let me tell you, Mr. von Sala, that in the face of a venture like yours
one might well express such doubts quite openly. But are you at all
interested in whether you get back or not, Mr. von Sala? I don't
suppose you belong to the kind of people who care to put their affairs
in order.

SALA

No, indeed. Especially not as, in cases of that kind, it is generally
the affairs of others which give you needless trouble. If I were to be
interested at all in my own chances, it would be for much more selfish
reasons.

JOHANNA

What reasons?

SALA

I don't want to be cheated out of the consciousness that certain
moments are my final ones.

REUMANN

There are not many people who share your attitude in that respect.

SALA

At any rate, Doctor, you would have to tell me the absolute truth if I
ever asked you for it. I hold that one has the right to drain one's own
life to the last drop, with all the horrors and delights that may lie
hidden at the bottom of it. Just as it is our evident duty every day to
commit every good deed and every rascality lying within our
capacity.... No, I won't let you rob me of my death moments by any kind
of hocus-pocus. It would imply a small-minded attitude, worthy neither
of yourself nor of me.--Well, Felix, the twenty-sixth of November then!
That's still seven weeks off. In regard to any formalities that may be
required, you need have no worry at all.

FELIX

How long a time have I got to make up my mind?

SALA

There's no reason to be precipitate. When does your furlough end?

FELIX

To-morrow night.

SALA

Of course, you are going to talk it over with your father?

FELIX

With my father.... Yes, of course.--At any rate I'll bring you the
answer early to-morrow morning, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

Fine. It would please me very much. But you must bear in mind: it will
be no picnic. I expect to see you soon, then. Good-by, Miss Johanna.
Farewell, Doctor.

[_He goes out. A brief pause. Those left behind show signs of emotion._

JOHANNA (_rising_)

I'm going to my room. Good-by, Doctor. (_She goes out_)

REUMANN

Have you made up your mind, Felix?

FELIX

Almost.

REUMANN

You'll come across much that is new to you.

FELIX

And my own self among it, I hope--which would be about time....
(_Quoting_) "The mysteries of far-away ..." And will it really come
true? Oh, the thrill of it!

REUMANN

And yet you ask time to consider?

FELIX

I hardly know why. And yet ... The thought of leaving people behind
and perhaps never seeing them again--and certainly not as they were
when you left them; the thought, too, that perhaps your going will
hurt them ...

REUMANN

If nothing else makes you hesitate, then every moment of uncertainty is
wasted. Nothing is more sure to estrange you from those dear to you
than the knowledge that duty condemns you to stay near them. You must
seize this unique opportunity. You must go to see Genoa, Asia Minor,
Thibet, Bactria.... Oh, it must be splendid! And my best wishes will go
with you. (_He gives his hand to Felix_)

FELIX

Thank you. But there will be plenty of time for wishes of that kind.
Whatever may be decided, we shall meet more than once before I leave.

REUMANN

I hope so. Oh, of course!

FELIX (_looking hard at him_)

Doctor ... it seems to me there was a final farewell in that pressure
of your hand.

REUMANN (_with a smile_)

Is it ever possible to tell whether you will meet again?

FELIX

Tell me, Doctor--did Mr. von Sala interpret your glance correctly?

REUMANN

That has nothing to do with your case anyhow.

FELIX

Will he not be able to go with us?

REUMANN (_with hesitation_)

That's very hard to predict.

FELIX

You have never learned to lie, Doctor.

REUMANN

As the matter stands now, I think you can bring it to a successful
conclusion without further assistance.

FELIX

Mr. von Sala called on you a few days ago?

REUMANN

Yes, it was only a while ago. (_Pause_) Well, you can see for yourself
that he is not well, can't you?--So God be with you, Felix.

FELIX

Will you continue to befriend this house when I am gone?

REUMANN

Why do you ask questions like that, Felix?

FELIX

You don't mean to come here again?--But why?

REUMANN

I assure you ...

FELIX

I understand ...

REUMANN (_embarrassed_)

What can there be to understand...?

FELIX

My dear Doctor ... I know now ... why you don't want to come to this
house any more.... It's another case of somebody else breaking his
neck.... Dear friend ...

REUMANN

Good luck to you ... Felix ...

FELIX

And if anybody should call you back ...

REUMANN

Nobody will.... But if I should be _needed_, I can always be found
...

JOHANNA (_comes into the room again_)

REUMANN

Good-by ... Good-by, Miss Johanna ...

JOHANNA

Are you going already, Doctor?

REUMANN

Yes.... Give my regards to your father. Good-by.... (_He shakes her
hand_)

JOHANNA (_calmly_)

Did he tell you that Sala is doomed?

FELIX (_hesitates about what to say_)

JOHANNA

I knew it. (_With an odd gesture of deprecation as Felix wants to say
something_) And you are going--with or without him?

FELIX

Yes. (_Pause_) There won't be much doing in this place after this.

JOHANNA (_remains unmoved_)

FELIX

And how are you going to live, Johanna?... I mean, how are the two of
you going to live--you and father?

JOHANNA (_gives him a look as if his question surprised her_)

FELIX

He is going to be lonely. I think he would feel very grateful if you
took a little more interest in him--if you went for a walk for him when
there is time for it. And you, too ...

JOHANNA (_brusquely_)

How could that help me or him? What can he be to me or I to him? I was
not made to assist people in days of trial. I can't help it, but that's
the way I am. I seem to be stirred by a sort of hostility against
people who appeal to my pity. I felt it like that all the time mother
was sick.

FELIX

No, you were not made for that.... But what were you made for then?

JOHANNA (_shrugs her shoulders and sits down as before, with hands
folded in her lap and her eyes staring straight ahead_)

FELIX

Johanna, why do you never talk to me any more as you used to? Have you,
then, nothing to tell me? Don't you remember how we used to tell each
other everything?

JOHANNA

That was long ago. We were children then.

FELIX

Why can't you talk to me any longer as you did then? Have you forgotten
how well we two used to understand each other? How we used to confide
all our secrets to each other? What good chums we used to be?... How we
wanted to go out into the wide world together?

JOHANNA

Into the wide world.... Oh, yes, I remember. But there is nothing left
now of all those words of wonder and romance.

FELIX

Perhaps it depends on ourselves only.

JOHANNA

No, those words have no longer the same meaning as before.

FELIX

What do you mean?

JOHANNA

Into the wide world ...

FELIX

What is the matter, Johanna?

JOHANNA

Once, when we were in the museum together, I saw a picture of which I
often think. It has a meadow with knights and ladies in it--and a
forest, a vineyard, an inn, and young men and women dancing, and a big
city with churches and towers and bridges. And soldiers are marching
across the bridges, and a ship is gliding down the river. And farther
back there is a hill, and on that hill a castle, and lofty mountains in
the extreme distance. And clouds are floating above the mountains, and
there is mist on the meadow, and a flood of sunlight is pouring down on
the city, and a storm is raging over the castle, and there is ice and
snow on the mountains.--And when anybody spoke of "the wide world," or
I read that term anywhere, I used always to think of that picture. And
it used to be the same with so many other big-sounding words. Fear was
a tiger with cavernous mouth--love was a page with long light curls
kneeling at the feet of a lady--death was a beautiful young man with
black wings and a sword in his hand--and fame was blaring bugles, men
with bent backs, and a road strewn with flowers. In those days it was
possible to talk of all sorts of things, Felix. But to-day everything
has a different look--fame, and death, and love, and the wide world.

FELIX (_hesitatingly_)

I feel a little scared on your behalf, Johanna.

JOHANNA

Why, Felix?

FELIX

Johanna!--I wish you wouldn't do anything to worry father.

JOHANNA

Does that depend on me alone?

FELIX

I know in what direction your dreams are going, Johanna.--What is to
come out of that?

JOHANNA

Is it necessary that something comes out of everything?--I think,
Felix, that many people are destined to mean nothing to each other but
a common memory.

FELIX

You have said it yourself, Johanna--that you are not made to see other
people suffer.

JOHANNA (_shrinks slightly at those words_)

FELIX

Suffer ... and ...

JULIAN (_enters_)

How are you? (_He shakes hands with Felix_)

JOHANNA (_who has risen_)

Mr. Fichtner. (_She holds out her hand to him_)

JULIAN

I could hardly recognize you, Johanna. You have grown into a young lady
now.--Has your father not come home yet?

JOHANNA

He hasn't gone out yet. He has nothing to do at the Academy until
twelve.

JULIAN

I suppose he's in his studio?

JOHANNA

I'll call him.

[_Julian looks around. As Johanna is about to leave the room, Wegrat
enters, carrying his hat and stick._

WEGRAT (_giving his hand to Julian_)

I'm delighted, my dear fellow.

JULIAN

I heard of it only after my arrival here yesterday--through Sala. I
don't need to tell you ...

WEGRAT

Thank you very much for your sympathy. I thank you with all my
heart.--But sit down, please.

JULIAN

You were going out?

WEGRAT

Oh, it's no hurry. I have nothing to do in the Academy until twelve.
Johanna, will you please get a carriage for me, just to be on the safe
side?

[_Johanna goes out. Wegrat seats himself, as does Julian. Felix stands
leaning against the glazed oven._

WEGRAT

Well, you stayed away quite a while this time.

JULIAN

More than two years.

WEGRAT

If you had only got here ten days earlier, you could have had a last
look at her. It came so very suddenly--although it wasn't unexpected.

JULIAN

So I have heard.

WEGRAT

And now you are going to stay right here, I suppose?

JULIAN

A little while. How long I am not yet able to tell.

WEGRAT

Of course not. The making of schedules has never been your line.

JULIAN

No, I have a certain disinclination for that kind of thing. (_Pause_)

WEGRAT

Oh, mercy, my dear fellow ... how often have I not been thinking of you
recently!

JULIAN

And I....

WEGRAT

No, you haven't had much chance for it.... But I.... As I enter the
building where I now hold office and authority, I remember often how we
two young chaps used to sit side by side in the model class, full of a
thousand plans and hopes.

JULIAN

Why do you say that in such a melancholy tone? A lot of those things
have come true, haven't they?

WEGRAT

Some--yes.... And yet one can't help wanting to be young again, even at
the risk of similar sorrows and struggles....

JULIAN

And even at the risk of also having to live through a lot of nice
things over again.

WEGRAT

Indeed, those are the hardest things to bear, once they have turned
into memories.--You have been in Italy again?

JULIAN

Yes, in Italy too.

WEGRAT

It's a long time now since I was there. Since we made that walk
together through the Ampezzo Valley,[5] with the pack on our backs--to
Pieve, and then right on to Venice. Can you remember? The sun has never
again shone as brightly as it did then.

      [5] One of the main routes through the Dolomites, leading from
      Southern Tirol into Italy. It is in part identical with the
      route outlined by Albert in "Intermezzo," but parts from it at
      Cortina to run straight south.

JULIAN

That must have been almost thirty years ago.

WEGRAT

No, not quite. You were already pretty well known at the time. You had
just finished your splendid picture of Irene Herms. It was the year
before I married.

JULIAN

Yes, yes. (_Pause_)

WEGRAT

Do you still recall the summer morning when you went with me to Kirchau
for the first time?

JULIAN

Of course.

WEGRAT

How the light buggy carried us through the wide, sun-steeped valley?
And do you remember the little garden at Hügelhang, where you became
acquainted with Gabrielle and her parents?

FELIX (_with suppressed emotion_)

Father, is the house in which mother used to live still standing?

WEGRAT

No, it's gone long ago. They have built a villa on the spot. Five or
six years ago, you know, we went there for the last time to visit the
graves of your grandparents. Everything has been changed, except the
cemetery.... (_To Julian_) Can you still remember that cool, cloudy
afternoon, Julian, when we sat on the lower wall of the cemetery and
had such a remarkable talk about the future?

JULIAN

I remember the day very clearly. But I have entirely forgotten what we
were talking about.

WEGRAT

Just what we said has passed out of my mind, too, but I can still
remember what an extraordinary talk it was.... In some way the world
seemed to open up more widely. And I felt something like envy toward
you, as I often did in those days. There rose within me a feeling that
I, too, could do anything--if I only wanted. There was so much to be
seen and experienced--and the flow of life was irresistible. Nothing
would be needed but a little more nerve, a little more self-assurance,
and then to plunge in. ... Yes, that was what I felt while you were
talking. ... And then Gabrielle came toward us along the narrow road
from the village, between the acacias. She carried her straw hat in her
hand, and she nodded to me. And all my dreams of the future centered in
her after that, and once more the whole world seemed fitted into a
frame, and yet it was big and beautiful enough. ... Why does the color
all of a sudden come back into those things? It was practically
forgotten, all of it, and now, when she is dead, it comes to life again
with a glow that almost scares me. ... Oh, it were better not to think
of it at all. What's the use? What's the use? (_Pause; he goes to one
of the windows_)

JULIAN (_struggling to overcome his embarrassment_) It is both wise and
brave of you to resume your regular activities so promptly.

WEGRAT

Oh, once you have made up your mind to go on living. ... There
is nothing but work that can help you through this sense of being
alone--of being _left_ alone.

JULIAN

It seems to me that your grief makes you a little unjust
toward--much that is still yours.

WEGRAT

Unjust...? Oh, I didn't mean to. I hope you don't feel hurt, children
...! Felix, you understand me fully, don't you? There is so much, from
the very beginning, that draws--that lures--that tears the young ones
away from us. We have to struggle to keep our children almost from the
very moment they arrive--and the struggle is a pretty hopeless one at
that. But that's the way of life: they cannot possibly belong to us.
And as far as other people are concerned.... Even our friends come into
our lives only as guests who rise from the table when they have eaten,
and walk out. Like us, they have their own streets, their own affairs.
And it's quite natural it should be so.... Which doesn't prevent us
from feeling pleased, Julian--sincerely pleased, when one of them finds
his way back to us. Especially if it be one on whom we have put great
store throughout life. You may be sure of that, Julian. (_They shake
hands_) And as long as you remain in Vienna, I shall see you here
quite often, I trust. It will give me genuine pleasure.

JULIAN

I'll be sure to come.

MAID (_enters_)

The carriage is here, Professor. (_She goes out_)

WEGRAT

I'm coming. (_To Julian_) You must have a lot to tell me. You were as
good as lost. You understand it will interest me to hear all you have
done--and still more what you intend to do. Felix told us the other day
about some very interesting sketches you had showed him.

JULIAN

I'll go with you, if you care to have me.

WEGRAT

Thanks. But it would be still nicer of you to stay right here and take
dinner with us.

JULIAN

Well ...

WEGRAT

I'll be through very quickly. To-day I have nothing but a few business
matters to dispose of--nothing but signing a few documents. I'll be
back in three-quarters of an hour. In the meantime the children will
keep you company as they used to in the old days. ... Won't you,
children?--So you're staying, are you not? Good-by for a little while
then. (_He goes out_)

[_Long pause._

FELIX

Why didn't you go with him?

JULIAN

Your mother was without blame. If any there be, it falls on me alone.
I'll tell you all about it.

FELIX (_nods_)

JULIAN

It had been arranged that we were to go away together. Everything was
ready. We meant to leave the place secretly because, quite naturally,
your mother shrank from any kind of statement or explanation. Our
intention was to write and explain after we had been gone a few days.
The hour of our start had already been settled. He ... who later became
her husband, had just gone to Vienna for a couple of days in order to
get certain documents. The wedding was to take place in a week.
(_Pause_) Our plans were all made. We had agreed on everything. The
carriage that was to pick us up a little ways off had already been
hired. In the evening we bade each other good-night, fully convinced
that we should meet next morning, never to part again.--It turned out
differently.--You mustn't keep in mind that it was your mother. You
must listen to me as if my story dealt with perfect strangers. ... Then
you can understand everything.

FELIX

I am listening.

JULIAN

I had come to Kirchau in June, one beautiful Summer morning--with
him.... You know about that, don't you? I meant to stay only a few
days. But I stayed on and on. More than once I tried to get away while
it was still time. But I stayed. (_Smiling_) And with fated
inevitability we slipped into sin, happiness, doom, betrayal--and
dreams. Yes, indeed, there was more of those than of anything else.
And after that last farewell, meant to be for a night only--as I got
back to the little inn and started to make things ready for our
journey--only then did I for the first time become really conscious of
what had happened and was about to happen. Actually, it was almost as
if I had just waked up. Only then, in the stillness of that night, as I
was standing at the open window, did it grow clear to me that next
morning an hour would come by which my whole future must be determined.
And then I began to feel ... as if faint shiverings had been streaming
down my body. Below me I could see the stretch of road along which I
had just come. It ran on and on through the country, climbing the hills
that cut off the view, and losing itself in the open, the limitless....
It led to thousands of unknown and invisible roads, all of which at
that moment remained at my disposal. It seemed to me as if my future,
radiant with glory and adventure, lay waiting for me behind those
hills--but for me alone. Life was mine--but only this one life. And in
order to seize it and enjoy it fully--in order to live it as it had
been shaped for me by fate--I needed the carelessness and freedom I had
enjoyed until then. And I marveled almost at my own readiness to give
away the recklessness of my youth and the fullness of my existence....
And to what purpose?--For the sake of a passion which, after all,
despite its ardor and its transports, had begun like many others, and
would be destined to end like all of them.

FELIX

Destined to end...? _Must_ come to an end?

JULIAN

Yes. Must. The moment I foresaw the end, I had in a measure reached it.
To wait for something that must come, means to go through it a thousand
times--to go through it helplessly and needlessly and resentfully. This
I felt acutely at that moment. And it frightened me. At the same time I
felt clearly that I was about to act like a brute and a traitor toward
a human being who had given herself to me in full confidence.--But
everything seemed more desirable--not only for me, but for her
also--than a slow, miserable, unworthy decline. And all my scruples
were submerged in a monstrous longing to go on with my life as before,
without duties or ties. There wasn't much time left for consideration.
And I was glad of it. I had made up my mind. I didn't wait for the
morning. Before the stars had set, I was off.

FELIX

You ran away....

JULIAN

Call it anything you please.--Yes, it was a flight, just as good and
just as bad, just as precipitate and just as cowardly as any
other--with all the horrors of being pursued and all the joys of
escaping. I am hiding nothing from you, Felix. You are still young, and
it is even possible that you may understand it better than I can
understand it myself to-day. Nothing pulled me back. No remorse stirred
within me. The sense of being free filled me with intoxication.... At
the end of the first day I was already far away--much farther than any
number of milestones could indicate. On that first day her image began
to fade away already--the image of her who had waked up to meet painful
disillusionment, or worse maybe. The ring of her voice was passing out
of my memory.... She was becoming a shadow like others that had been
left floating much farther behind me in the past.

FELIX

Oh, it isn't true! So quickly could she not be forgotten. So
remorselessly could you not go out in the world. All this is meant as a
sort of expiation. You make yourself appear what you are not.

JULIAN

I am not telling you these things to accuse or defend myself. I am
simply telling you the truth. And you must hear it. It was your mother,
and I am the man who deserted her. And there is something more I am
compelled to tell you. On the very time that followed my flight I must
look back as the brightest and richest of any I have ever experienced.
Never before or after have I reveled to such an extent in the splendid
consciousness of my youth and my freedom from restraint. Never have I
been so wholly master of my gifts and of my life.... Never have I been
a happier man than I was at that very time.

FELIX (_calmly_)

And if she had killed herself?

JULIAN

I believe I should have thought myself worth it--in those days.

FELIX

And so you were, perhaps, at that time.--And she thought of doing it, I
am sure. She wanted to put an end to the lies and the qualms, just as
hundreds of thousands of girls have done before. But millions fail to
do it, and they are the most sensible ones. And I am sure she also
thought of telling the truth to him she took to husband. But, of
course, the way through life is easier when you don't have to carry a
burden of reproach or, what is worse, of forgiveness.

JULIAN

And if she had spoken....

FELIX

Oh, I understand why she didn't. It had been of no use to anybody. And
so she kept silent: silent when she got back from the wedding--silent
when her child was born--silent when, ten years later, the lover came
to her husband's house again--silent to the very last.... Fates of that
kind are to be found everywhere, and it isn't even necessary to
be--depraved, in order to suffer them or invoke them.

JULIAN

And there are mighty few whom it behooves to judge--or to condemn.

FELIX

I don't presume to do so. And it doesn't even occur to me that I am now
to behold deceivers and deceived where, a few hours ago, I could only
see people who were dear to me and whose relationships to each other
were perfectly pure. And it is absolutely impossible for me to feel
myself another man than I have deemed myself until to-day. There is no
power in all this truth.... A vivid dream would be more compelling than
this story out of bygone days, which you have just told me. Nothing has
changed--nothing whatever. The thought of my mother is as sacred to me
as ever. And the man in whose house I was born and raised, who
surrounded my childhood and youth with care tenderness, and whom my
mother--loved.... He means just as much to me now as he ever meant--and
perhaps a little more.

JULIAN

And yet, Felix, however powerless this truth may seem to you--there is
one thing you can take hold of in this moment of doubt: it was as my
son your mother gave birth to you....

FELIX

At a time when you had run away from her.

JULIAN

And as my son she brought you up.

FELIX

In hatred of you.

JULIAN

At first. Later in forgiveness, and finally--don't forget it--in
friendship toward me.... And what was in her mind that last night?--Of
what did she talk to you?--Of those days when she experienced the
greatest happiness that can fall to the share of any woman.

FELIX

As well as the greatest misery.

JULIAN

Do you think it was mere chance which brought those very days back to
her mind that last evening?... Don't you think she knew that you would
go to me and ask for that picture?... And do you think your wish to see
it could have any other meaning than of a final greeting to me from
your mother?... Can't you understand that, Felix?... And in this
moment--don't try to resist--you have it before your eyes--that picture
you held in your hand yesterday: and your mother is looking at
you.--And the glance resting on you, Felix, is the same one that rested
on me that passionate and sacred day when she fell into my arms and you
were conceived.--And whatever you may feel of doubt or confusion, the
truth has now been revealed to you once for all. Thus your mother
willed it, and it is no longer possible for you to forget that you are
my son.

FELIX

Your son.... That's nothing but a word. And it's cried in a
desert.--Although I am looking at you now, and although I know that I
am your son, I can't grasp it.

JULIAN

Felix...!

FELIX

Since I learned of this, you have become a stranger to me. (_He turns
away_)


CURTAIN




THE FOURTH ACT


_The garden belonging to Mr. von Sala's house. At the left is seen the
white, one-storied building, fronted by a broad terrace, from which six
stone steps lead down into the garden. A wide door with panes of glass
leads from the terrace into the drawing-room. A small pool appears in
the foreground, surrounded by a semi-circle of young trees. From that
spot an avenue of trees runs diagonally across the stage toward the
right. At the opening of the avenue, near the pool, stand two columns
on which are placed the marble busts of two Roman emperors. A
semi-circular stone seat with back support stands under the trees to
the right of the pool. Farther back glimpses of the glittering fence
are caught through the scanty leafage. Back of the fence, the woods on
a gently rising hillside are turning red. The autumnal sky is pale
blue. Everything is quiet. The stage remains empty for a few moments._

_Sala and Johanna enter by way of the terrace. She is in black. He has
on a gray suit and carries a dark overcoat across his shoulders. They
descend the steps slowly._


SALA

I think you'll find it rather cool. (_He goes back into the room, picks
up a cape lying there, and puts it around Johanna's shoulders; little
by little they reach the garden_)

JOHANNA

Do you know what I imagine?... That this day is our own--that it
belongs to us alone. We have summoned it, and if we wanted, we could
make it stay.... All other people live only as guests in the world
to-day. Isn't that so?... The reason is, I suppose, that once I heard
you speak of this day.

SALA

Of this...?

JOHANNA

Yes--while mother was still living.... And now it has really come. The
leaves are red. The golden mist is lying over the woods. The sky is
pale and remote--and the day is even more beautiful, and sadder, than I
could ever have imagined. And I am spending it in your garden, and your
pool is my mirror. (_She stands looking down into the pool_) And yet we
can no more make it stay, this golden day, than the water here can hold
my image after I have gone away.

SALA

It seems strange that this clear, mild air should be tinged with a
suggestion of winter and snow.

JOHANNA

Why should it trouble you? When that suggestion has become reality
here, you are already in the midst of another Spring.

SALA

What do you mean by that?

JOHANNA

Oh, I suppose that where you go they have no winter like ours.

SALA (_pensively_)

No, not like ours. (_Pause_) And you?

JOHANNA

I...?

SALA

What are you going to do, I mean, when I am gone?

JOHANNA

When you are gone...? (_She looks at him, and he stands staring into
the distance_) Haven't you gone long ago? And at bottom, are you not
far away from me even now?

SALA

What are you saying? I am here with you.... What are you going to do,
Johanna?

JOHANNA

I have already told you. Go away--just like you.

SALA (_shakes his head_)

JOHANNA

As soon as possible. I have still the courage left. Who knows what may
become of me later, if I stay here alone.

SALA

As long as you are young, all doors stand open, and the world begins
outside every one of them.

JOHANNA

But the world is wide and the sky infinite only as long as you are not
clinging to anybody. And for that reason I want to go away.

SALA

Away--that's so easily said. But preparations are needed for that
purpose, and some sort of a scheme. You use the word as if you merely
had to put on wings and fly off into the distance.

JOHANNA

To be determined is--the same as having wings.

SALA

Are you not at all afraid, Johanna?

JOHANNA

A longing free from fear would be too cheap to be worth while.

SALA

Where will it lead you?

JOHANNA

I shall find my way.

SALA

You can choose your way, but not the people that you meet.

JOHANNA

Do you think me ignorant of the fact that I cannot expect only
beautiful experiences? What is ugly and mean must also be waiting for
me.

SALA

And how are you going to stand it?--Will you be able to stand it at
all?

JOHANNA

Of course, I am not going to tell the truth always as I have done to
you. I shall have to lie--and I think of it with pleasure. I shall not
always be in good spirits, nor always sensible. I shall make mistakes
and suffer. That's the way it has to be, I suppose.

SALA

Of all this you are aware in advance, and yet...?

JOHANNA

Yes.

SALA

And why?... Why are you going away, Johanna?

JOHANNA

Why am I going away?... I want a time to come when I must shudder at
myself. Shudder as deeply as you can only when nothing has been left
untried. Just as you have had to do when you looked back upon your
life. Or have you not?

SALA

Oh, many times. But just in such moments of shuddering there is nothing
left behind at all--everything is once more present. And the present is
the past. (_He sits down on the stone seat_)

JOHANNA

What do you mean by that?

SALA (_covers his eyes with his hand and sits silent_)

JOHANNA

What is the matter? Where are you anyhow?

[_A light wind stirs the leaves and makes many of them drop to the
ground._

SALA

I am a child, riding my pony across the fields. My father is behind and
calls to me. At that window waits my mother. She has thrown a gray
satin shawl over her dark hair and is waving her hand at me.... And I
am a young lieutenant in maneuvers, standing on a hillock and reporting
to my colonel that hostile infantry is ambushed behind that wooded
piece of ground, ready to charge, and down below us I can see the
midday sun glittering on bayonets and buttons.... And I am lying alone
in my boat adrift, looking up into the deep-blue Summer sky, while
words of incomprehensible beauty are shaping themselves in my
mind--words more beautiful than I have ever been able to put on
paper.... And I am resting on a bench in the cool park at the lake of
Lugano, with Helen sitting beside me; she holds a book with red cover
in her hand; over there by the magnolia, Lillie is playing with the
light-haired English boy, and I can hear them prattling and
laughing.... And I am walking slowly back and forth with Julian on a
bed of rustling leaves, and we are talking of a picture which we saw
yesterday. And I see the picture: two old sailors with worn-out faces,
who are seated on an overturned skiff, their sad eyes directed toward
the boundless sea. And I feel their misery more deeply than the artist
who painted them; more deeply than they could have felt it themselves,
had they been alive.... All this--all of it is there--if I only close
my eyes. It is nearer to me than you, Johanna, when I don't see you and
you keep quiet.

JOHANNA (_stands looking at him with wistful sympathy_)

SALA

The present--what does it mean anyhow? Are we then locked breast to
breast with the moment as with a friend whom we embrace--or an enemy
who is pressing us? Has not the word that just rings out turned to
memory already? Is not the note that starts a melody reduced to memory
before the song is ended? Is your coming to this garden anything but a
memory, Johanna? Are not your steps across that meadow as much a matter
of the past as are the steps of creatures dead these many years?

JOHANNA

No, it mustn't be like that. It makes me sad.

SALA (_with a return to present things_)

Why?... It shouldn't, Johanna. It is in hours like those we know, that
we have lost nothing, and that in reality we cannot lose anything.

JOHANNA

Oh, I wish you had lost and forgotten everything, so that I might be
everything to you!

SALA (_somewhat astonished_)

Johanna....

JOHANNA (_passionately_)

I love you. (_Pause_)

SALA

In a few days I shall be gone, Johanna. You know it--you have known it
right along.

JOHANNA

I know. Why do you repeat it? Do you think, perhaps, that all at once I
may begin to clutch at you like a love-sick thing, dreaming of
eternities?--No, that isn't my way--oh, no!... But I want to tell you
once at least that I am fond of you. May I not for once?--Do you hear?
I love you. And I wish that sometime later on you may hear it just as I
am saying it now--at some other moment no less beautiful than
this--when we two shall no longer be aware of each other.

SALA

Indeed, Johanna, of one thing you may be sure: that the sound of your
voice shall never leave me.--But why should we talk of parting forever?
Perhaps we shall meet again sooner or later ... in three years ... or
in five.... (_With a smile_) Then you have become a princess perhaps,
and I may be the ruler of some buried city.... Why don't you speak?

JOHANNA (_pulls the cape more closely about her_)

SALA

Do you feel cold?

JOHANNA

Not at all.--But now I must go.

SALA

Are you in such a hurry?

JOHANNA

It is getting late. I must be back before my father gets home.

SALA

How strange! To-day you are hurrying home, fearful of being too late,
lest your father get worried. And in a couple of days....

JOHANNA

Then he will no longer be waiting for me. Farewell, Stephan.

SALA

Until to-morrow, then.

JOHANNA

Yes, until to-morrow.

SALA

You'll come through the garden gate, of course?

JOHANNA

Wasn't that a carriage that stopped before the house?

SALA

The doors are locked. Nobody can get out into the garden.

JOHANNA

Good-by, then.

SALA

Until to-morrow.

JOHANNA

Yes. (_She is about to go_)

SALA

Listen, Johanna.--If I should say to you now: stay!

JOHANNA

No, I must go now.

SALA

That was not what I meant.

JOHANNA

What then?

SALA

I mean, if I should beg you to stay--for--a long time?

JOHANNA

You have a peculiar way of jesting.

SALA

I am not jesting.

JOHANNA

Do you forget, then, that you--are going away?

SALA

I am not bound in any respect. There is nothing to prevent me from
staying at home if I don't feel like going away.

JOHANNA

For my sake?

SALA

I didn't say so. Maybe for my own sake.

JOHANNA

No, you mustn't give it up. You would never forgive me if I took that
away from you.

SALA

Oh, you think so? (_Watching her closely_) And if both of us were
to go?

JOHANNA

What?

SALA

If you should risk going along with me? Well, it takes a little courage
to do it, of course. But you would probably not be the only woman. The
Baroness Golobin is also going along, I hear.

JOHANNA

Are you talking seriously?

SALA

Quite seriously. I ask if you care to go with me on that journey ... as
my wife, of course, seeing that we have to consider externals like
that, too.

JOHANNA

I should...?

SALA

Why does that move you so deeply?

JOHANNA

With you?--With you...?

SALA

Don't misunderstand me, Johanna. That's no reason why you should be
tied to me for all time. When we get back, we can bid each other
good-by--without the least ado. It is a very simple matter. For all
your dreams cannot be fulfilled by me--I know that very well.... You
need not give me an answer at once. Hours like these turn too easily
into words that are not true the next day. And I hope I may never hear
you speak one word of that kind.

JOHANNA (_who has been looking at Sala as if she wanted to drink up
every one of his words_) No, I am not saying anything--I am not saying
anything.

SALA (_looking long at her_)

You are going to think it over, and you'll let me know to-morrow
morning?

JOHANNA

Yes. (_She looks long at him_)

SALA

What is the matter?

JOHANNA

Nothing.--Until to-morrow. Farewell. (_He accompanies her to the garden
gate, through which she disappears_)

SALA (_comes back and stands looking into the pool_)

Just as if I wanted to find her image in it.... What could it be that
moved her so deeply?... Happiness?... No, it wasn't happiness.... Why
did she look at me like that? Why did she seem to shrink? There was
something in her glance like a farewell forever. (_He makes a sudden
movement as of fright_) Has it come to that with me?... But how can she
know?... Then others must know it too...! (_He stands staring into
space; then he ascends the terrace slowly and goes into the drawing-room,
from which he returns a few moments later accompanied by Julian_)

JULIAN

And you want to leave all these splendors so soon?

SALA

They'll be here when I come back, I hope.

JULIAN

I hope you will, for the sake of both of us.

SALA

You say that rather distrustingly....

JULIAN

Well, yes--I am thinking of that remarkable article in the Daily Post.

SALA

Concerning what?

JULIAN

What is going on at the Caspian Sea.

SALA

Oh, are the local papers also taking that up?

JULIAN

The conditions in certain regions through which you have to pass seem
really to be extremely dangerous.

SALA

Exaggerations. We have better information than that. According to my
opinion there is nothing back of those articles but the petty jealousy
of English scientists. What you read had been translated from the Daily
News. And it's fully three weeks since it appeared there.--Have you
seen Felix, by the way?

JULIAN

He was at my house only last night. And this morning I called on the
Wegrats. He wanted to have a look at that picture of his mother which I
painted twenty-three years ago.--And one thing and another led to my
telling him everything.

SALA

Oh, you did? (_Thoughtfully_) And how did he take it?

JULIAN

It stirred him rather more than I had thought possible.

SALA

Well, I hope you didn't expect him to fall into your arms as the
recovered son does in the play.

JULIAN

No, of course not.--I told him everything, without any attempt at
sparing myself. And for that reason he seemed to feel the wrong done to
his mother's husband more strongly than anything else. But that won't
last very long. He'll soon understand that, in the higher sense, no
wrong has been done at all. People of Wegrat's type are not made to
hold actual possession of anything--whether it be wives or children.
They mean a refuge, a dwelling place--but never a real home. Can you
understand what I mean by that? It is their mission to take into their
arms creatures who have been worn out or broken to pieces by some kind
of passion. But they never guess whence such creatures come. And while
it is granted them to attract and befriend, they never understand
whither those creatures go. They exist for the purpose of sacrificing
themselves unconsciously, and in such sacrifices they find a happiness
that might seem a pretty poor one to others.... You are not saying a
word?

SALA

I am listening.

JULIAN

And have no reply to make?

SALA

Oh, well--it is possible to grind out scales quite smoothly even when
the fiddle has got a crack....

[_It is growing darker. Felix appears on the terrace._

SALA

Who is that?

FELIX (_on the terrace_)

It's me. The servant told me ...

SALA

Oh, Felix! Glad you came.

FELIX (_coming down into the garden_)

Good evening, Mr. von Sala.--Good evening, Mr. Fichtner.

JULIAN

Good evening, Felix.

SALA

I am delighted to see you.

FELIX

What magnificent old trees!

SALA

Yes, a piece of real woods--all you have to do is to forget the
fence.--What brought you anyhow? I didn't expect you until to-morrow
morning. Have you really made up your mind already?

JULIAN

Am I in the way?

FELIX

Oh, no. There is nothing secret about it.--I accept your offer, Mr. von
Sala, and ask if you would be kind enough to speak to Count Ronsky.

SALA (_shaking Felix by the hand_)

I am glad of it.... (_To Julian_) It has to do with our Asiatic
venture.

JULIAN

What?--You intend to join the expedition?

FELIX

Yes.

SALA

Have you already talked it over with your father?

FELIX

I shall do so to-night.--But that's a mere formality. I am determined,
provided no other obstacles appear....

SALA

I shall speak to the Count this very day.

FELIX

I don't know how to thank you.

SALA

There is no reason at all. In fact, I don't have to say another word.
The Count knows everything he needs to know about you.

VALET (_appearing on the terrace_)

There is a lady asking if you are at home, sir.

SALA

Didn't she give her name?--You'll have to excuse me a moment,
gentlemen. (_He goes toward the valet, and both disappear into the
house_)

JULIAN

You are going away?

FELIX

Yes. And I am very happy this occasion has offered itself.

JULIAN

Have you also informed yourself concerning the real nature of this
undertaking?

FELIX

It means at any rate genuine activity and the opening of wider worlds.

JULIAN

And couldn't those things be found in connection with more hopeful
prospects?

FELIX

That's possible. But I don't care to wait.

[_Sala and Irene enter._

IRENE (_still on the terrace, talking to Sala_)

I couldn't leave Vienna without keeping my promise.

SALA

And I thank you for it, Miss Herms.

IRENE (_descending into the garden with Sala_)

You have a wonderful place here.--How do you do, Julian? Good evening,
Lieutenant.

SALA

You should have come earlier, Miss Herms, so that you could have seen
it in full sunlight.

IRENE

Why, I was here two hours ago. But it was like an enchanted castle. It
was impossible to get in. The bell didn't ring at all.

SALA

Oh, of course! I hope you pardon. If I had had the slightest idea....

IRENE

Well, it doesn't matter. I have made good use of my time. I went on
through the woods as far as Neustift and Salmansdorf.[6] And then I got
out and followed a road that I remembered since many years ago. (_She
looks at Julian_) I rested on a bench where I sat once many, many years
ago, with a close friend. (_Smilingly_) Can you guess, Mr. Fichtner?
The outlook is wonderful. Beyond the fields you have a perfect view of
the whole city as far as the Danube.

      [6] Former villages, now suburbs of Vienna, lying still nearer
      the city limits than Dornbach, where Sala is living.

SALA (_pointing to the stone seat_)

Won't you sit down here for a while, Miss Herms?

IRENE

Thanks. (_She raises her lorgnette to study the busts of the two
emperors_) It makes one feel quite Roman.... But I hope, gentlemen, I
haven't interrupted any conference.

SALA

Not at all.

IRENE

I have that feeling, however. All of you look so serious.--I think I'll
rather leave.

SALA

Oh, you mustn't, Miss Herms.--Is there anything more you want to ask me
about that affair of ours, Felix?

FELIX

If Miss Herms would pardon me for a minute....

IRENE

Oh, certainly--please!

SALA

You'll excuse me, Miss Herms....

FELIX

It is a question of what I should do in regard to my present
commission.--(_He is still speaking as he goes out with Sala_)

IRENE

What kind of secrets have those two together? What's going on here
anyhow?

JULIAN

Nothing that can be called a secret. That young fellow is also going to
join the expedition, I hear. And so they have a lot of things to talk
over, of course.

IRENE (_who has been following Felix and Sala with her eyes_)
Julian--it's he.

JULIAN (_remains silent_)

IRENE

You don't need to answer me. The matter has been in my mind all the
time.... The only thing I can't understand is why I haven't discovered
it before. It is he.--And he is twenty-three.--And I who actually
thought when you drove me away: if only he doesn't kill himself!... And
there goes his son.

JULIAN

What does that help me? He doesn't belong to me.

IRENE

But look at him! He is there--he's alive, and young, and handsome.
Isn't that enough? (_She rises_) And I who was ruined by it!

JULIAN

How?

IRENE

Do you understand? Ruined....

JULIAN

I have never suspected it.

IRENE

Well, you couldn't have helped me anyhow. (_Pause_) Good-by. Make an
excuse for me, please. Tell them anything you want. I am going away,
and I don't want to know anything more.

JULIAN

What's the matter with you? Nothing has changed.

IRENE

You think so?--To me it is as if all these twenty-three years had
suddenly undergone a complete change.--Good-by.

JULIAN

Good-by--for a while.

IRENE

For a while? Do you care?--Really?--Do you feel sad, Julian?--Now I am
sorry for you again. (_Shaking her head_) Of course, that's the way you
are. So what is there to do about it?

JULIAN

Please control yourself. Here they are coming.

SALA (_returns with Felix_)

Now we're all done.

FELIX

Thank you very much. I shall have to leave now.

IRENE

And to-morrow you are already going away again?

FELIX

Yes, Miss Herms.

IRENE

You're also going toward the city now, Lieutenant, are you not? If you
don't object, I'll take you along.

FELIX

That's awfully kind of you.

SALA

What, Miss Herms...? This is a short visit indeed.

IRENE

Yes, I have still a few errands to do. For to-morrow I must return to
the wilderness. And probably it will be some time before I get to
Vienna again.--Well, Lieutenant?

FELIX

Good-by, Mr. Fichtner. And if I shouldn't happen to see you again....

JULIAN

Oh, we'll meet again.

IRENE

Now the people will say: look at the lieutenant with his mamma in tow.
(_She gives a last glance to Julian_)

SALA (_accompanies Irene and Felix up the steps to the terrace_)

JULIAN (_remains behind, walking back and forth; after a while he is
joined by Sala_) Have you no doubt that your appeal to Count Ronsky
will be effective?

SALA

I have already received definite assurances from him, or I should never
have aroused any hopes in Felix.

JULIAN

What caused you to do this, Sala?

SALA

My sympathy for Felix, I should say, and the fact that I like to travel
in pleasant company.

JULIAN

And did it never occur to you, that the thought of losing him might be
very painful to me?

SALA

What's the use of that, Julian? It is only possible to lose what you
possess. And you cannot possess a thing to which you have not acquired
any right. You know that as well as I do.

JULIAN

Does not, in the last instance, the fact that you need somebody give
you a certain claim on him?--Can't you understand, Sala, that he
represents my last hope?... That actually I haven't got anything or
anybody left but him?... That wherever I turn, I find nothing but
emptiness?... That I am horrified by the loneliness awaiting me?

SALA

And what could it help you if he stayed? And even if he felt something
like filial tenderness toward you, how could that help you?... How can
he or anybody else help you?... You say that loneliness horrifies
you?... And if you had a wife by your side to-day, wouldn't you be
lonely just the same?... Wouldn't you be lonely even if you were
surrounded by children and grandchildren?... Suppose you had kept your
money, your fame and your genius--don't you think you would be lonely
for all that?... Suppose we were always attended by a train of
bacchantes--nevertheless we should have to tread the downward path
alone--we, who have never belonged to anybody ourselves. The process of
aging must needs be a lonely one for our kind, and he is nothing but a
fool who doesn't in time prepare himself against having to rely on any
human being.

JULIAN

And do you imagine, Sala, that you need no human being?

SALA

In the manner I have used them they will always be at my disposal. I
have always been in favor of keeping at a certain distance. It is not
my fault that other people haven't realized it.

JULIAN

In that respect you are right, Sala. For you have never really loved
anybody in this world.

SALA

Perhaps not. And how about you? No more than I, Julian.... To love
means to live for the sake of somebody else. I don't say that it is a
more desirable form of existence, but I do think, at any rate, that you
and I have been pretty far removed from it. What has that which one
like us brings into the world got to do with love? Though it include
all sorts of funny, hypocritical, tender, unworthy, passionate things
that pose as love--it isn't love for all that.... Have we ever made a
sacrifice by which our sensuality or our vanity didn't profit?... Have
we ever hesitated to betray or blackguard decent people, if by doing so
we could gain an hour of happiness or of mere lust?... Have we ever
risked our peace or our lives--not out of whim or recklessness--but to
promote the welfare of someone who had given all to us?... Have we ever
denied ourselves an enjoyment unless from such denial we could at least
derive some comfort?... And do you think that we could dare to turn to
any human being, man or woman, with a demand that any gift of ours be
returned? I am not thinking of pearls now, or annuities, or cheap
wisdom, but of some piece of our real selves, some hour of our own
existence, which we have surrendered to such a being without at once
exacting payment for it in some sort of coin. My dear Julian, we have
kept our doors open, and have allowed our treasures to be viewed--but
prodigal with them we have never been. You no more than I. We may just
as well join hands, Julian. I am a little less prone to complain than
you are--that's the whole difference.... But I am not telling you
anything new. All this you know as well as I do. It is simply
impossible for us not to know ourselves. Of course, we try at times
conscientiously to deceive ourselves, but it never works. Our follies
and rascalities may remain hidden to others--but never to ourselves. In
our innermost souls we always know what to think of ourselves.--It's
getting cold, Julian. Let's go indoors.

(_They begin to ascend the steps to the terrace_)

JULIAN

All that may be true, Sala. But this much you have to grant me. If
there be anybody in the world who has no right to make us pay for the
mistakes of our lives, it is a person who has us to thank for his own
life.

SALA

There is no question of payment in this. Your son has a mind for
essentials, Julian. You have said so yourself. And he feels that to
have done nothing for a man but to put him into the world, is to have
done very little indeed.

JULIAN

Then, at least, everything must become as it was before he knew
anything at all. Once more I shall become to him a human being like
anybody else. Then he will not dare to leave me.... I cannot bear it.
How have I deserved that he should run away from me?... And even if all
that I have held for good and true within myself--even if, in the end,
my very fondness for this young man, who is my son--should prove
nothing but self-delusion--yet I love him now.... Do you understand me,
Sala? I love him, and all I ask is that he may believe it before I must
lose him forever....

[_It grows dark. The two men pass across the terrace and enter the
drawing-room. The stage stands empty a little while. In the meantime
the wind has risen somewhat. Johanna enters by the avenue of trees from
the right and goes past the pool toward the terrace. The windows of the
drawing-room are illumined. Sala has seated himself at a table. The
valet enters the room and serves him a glass of wine. Johanna stops.
She is apparently much excited. Then she ascends two of the steps to
the terrace. Sala seems to hear a noise and turns his head slightly.
When she sees this, Johanna hurries down again and stops beside the
pool. There she stands looking down into the water._


CURTAIN




THE FIFTH ACT

_The garden at the Wegrats'._

REUMANN (_sits at a small table and writes something in his notebook_)


JULIAN (_enters quickly by way of the veranda_)

Is it true, Doctor?

REUMANN (_rising_)

Yes, it's true.

JULIAN

She has disappeared?

REUMANN

Yes, she has disappeared. She has been gone since yesterday afternoon.
She has left no word behind, and she has taken nothing at all with
her--she has simply gone away and never returned.

JULIAN

But what can have happened to her?

REUMANN

We have not been able to guess even. Perhaps she has lost her way and
will come back. Or she has suddenly made up her mind--if we only knew
to what!

JULIAN

Where are the others?

REUMANN

We agreed to meet here again at ten. I visited the various hospitals
and other places where it might be possible to find some trace.... I
suppose the professor has made a report to the police by this time.

FELIX (_enters quickly_)

Nothing new?

REUMANN

Nothing.

JULIAN (_shakes hands with Felix_)

REUMANN

From where do you come?

FELIX

I went to see Mr. von Sala.

REUMANN

Why?

FELIX

I thought it rather possible that he might have a suspicion, or be able
to give us some kind of direction. But he knows nothing at all. That
was perfectly clear. And if he had known anything--had known anything
definite--he would have told me. I am sure of that. He was still in bed
when I called on him. I suppose he thought I had come about my own
matter. When he heard that Johanna had disappeared, he turned very
pale.... But he doesn't know anything.

WEGRAT (_enters_)

Anything?

[_All the others shake their heads. Julian presses his hand._

WEGRAT (_sitting down_)

They asked me to give more details, something more tangible to go by.
But what is there to give?... I have nothing.... The whole thing is a
riddle to me. (_Turning to Julian_) In the afternoon she went out for a
short walk as usual.... (_To Felix_) Was there anything about her that
attracted attention?... It seems quite impossible to me that she could
have had anything in mind when she left the house--that she could know
already--that she was going away forever.

FELIX

Perhaps though....

WEGRAT

Of course, she was very reserved--especially of late, since the death
of her mother.... I wonder if it could be that?... Would you think that
possible, Doctor?

REUMANN (_shrugs his shoulders_)

FELIX

Did any one of us really know her? And who takes a real interest in
another person anyhow?

REUMANN

It is apparently fortunate that such is the case. Otherwise we should
all go mad from pity or loathing or anxiety. (_Pause_) Now I must get
around to my patients. There are a few calls that cannot be postponed.
I shall be back by dinner-time. Good-by for a while. (_He goes out_)

WEGRAT

To think that you can watch a young creature like her grow up--can see
the child turn into girl, and then into a young lady--can speak
hundreds of thousands of words to her.... And one day she rises from
the table, puts on hat and coat, and goes ... and you have no idea as
to whether she has slipped away--if into nothingness or into a new
life.

FELIX

But whatever may have happened, father--she wanted to get away from us.
And in that fact, I think, we should find a certain consolation.

WEGRAT (_shakes his head in perplexity_)

Everything is fluttering away--willingly or unwillingly--but away it
goes.

FELIX

Father, we can't tell what may have happened. It's conceivable, at
least, that Johanna may have formed some decision which she does not
carry out. Perhaps she will come back in a few hours, or days.

WEGRAT

You believe ... you think it possible, do you?

FELIX

Possible--yes. But if she shouldn't come--of course, father, I shall
give up the plan of which I told you yesterday. Under circumstances
like these I couldn't think of going so far away from you for such a
long time.

WEGRAT (_to Julian_)

And now he's going to sacrifice himself for my sake!

FELIX

Perhaps I could arrange to have myself transferred here.

WEGRAT

No, Felix, you know very well that I couldn't accept such a thing.

FELIX

But it's no sacrifice. I assure you, father, that I stay with you only
because I _can't_ go away from you now.

WEGRAT

Oh, yes, Felix, you can--you will be able. And you are not to stay here
for my sake--you mustn't. I could never be sure that it would prove of
any help to me to have you give up a plan which you have taken hold of
with such enthusiasm. I think it would be inexcusable of you to draw
back, and wicked of me to permit it. You must be happy at having found
a way at last, by which you may reach all you have longed for. It makes
me happy, too, Felix. If you missed this opportunity, you would regret
it all your life.

FELIX

But so much may have changed since yesterday--such a tremendous
lot--for you and for me.

WEGRAT

For me, perhaps.... But never mind. I won't stand it--I will not accept
such a sacrifice. Of course, I might accept it, if I could find it of
any special advantage to myself. But I shouldn't have you any more than
if you were gone away ... less ... not at all. This fate that has
descended on us must not add to its inherent power what is still
worse--that it makes us do in our confusion what is against our own
natures. Sometime we always get over every disaster, no matter how
frightful it be. But whatever we do in violation of our innermost
selves can never be undone. (_Turning to Julian_) Isn't that true,
Julian?

JULIAN

You are absolutely right.

FELIX

Thanks, father. I feel grateful that you make it so easy for me to
agree with you.

WEGRAT

That's good, Felix.... During the weeks you will remain in Europe we
shall be able to talk over a lot of things--more perhaps than in the
years gone by. Indeed, how little people know about each other!... But
I am getting tired. We stayed awake all night.

FELIX

Won't you rest a while, father?

WEGRAT

Rest.... You'll stay at home, Felix, won't you?

FELIX

Yes, I shall wait right here. What else is there to do?

WEGRAT

I'm racking my brain until it's near bursting.... Why didn't she say
anything to me? Why have I known so little about her? Why have I kept
so far away from her? (_He goes out_)

FELIX

How that man has been belied--all his life long--by all of us.

JULIAN

There is in this world no sin, no crime, no deception, that cannot be
atoned. Only for what has happened here, there should be no expiation
and no forgetfulness, you think?

FELIX

Can it be possible that you don't understand?... Here a lie has been
eternalized. There is no getting away from it. And she who did it was
my mother--and it was you who made her do it--and the lie am I, and
such I must remain as long as I am passing for that which I am not.

JULIAN

Let us proclaim the truth then, Felix.--I shall face any judge that you
may choose, and submit to any verdict passed on me.--Must I alone
remain condemned forever? Should I alone, among all that have erred,
never dare to say: "It is atoned"?

FELIX

It is too late. Guilt can be wiped out by confession only while the
guilty one is still able to make restitution. You ought to know
yourself, that this respite expired long ago.

SALA (_enters_)

FELIX

Mr. von Sala!--Have you anything to tell us?

SALA

Yes.--Good morning, Julian.--No, stay, Julian. I am glad to have a
witness. (_To Felix_) Are you determined to join the expedition?

FELIX

I am.

SALA

So am I. But it is possible that one of us must change his mind.

FELIX

Mr. von Sala...?

SALA

It would be a bad thing to risk finding out that you have started on a
journey of such scope with one whom you would prefer to shoot dead if
you knew him completely.

FELIX

Where is my sister, Mr. von Sala?

SALA

I don't know. Where she is at this moment, I don't know. But last
evening, just before you arrived, she had left me for the last time.

FELIX

Mr. von Sala....

SALA

Her farewell words to me were: Until to-morrow. You can see that I had
every reason to be surprised this morning, when you appeared at my
house. Permit me furthermore to tell you, that yesterday, of all days,
I asked Johanna to become my wife--which seemed to agitate her very
much. In telling you this, I have by no means the intention of
smoothing over things. For my question implied no desire on my part to
make good any wrong I might have done. It was apparently nothing but a
whim--like so much else. There is here no question of anything but to
let you know the truth. This means that I am at your disposal in any
manner you may choose.--I thought it absolutely necessary to say all
this before we were brought to the point of having to descend into the
depths of the earth together, or, perhaps, to sleep in the same tent.

FELIX (_after a long pause_)

Mr. von Sala ... we shall not have to sleep in the same tent.

SALA

Why not?

FELIX

Your journey will not last that long.

[_A very long pause ensues._

SALA

Oh ... I understand. And are you sure of that?

FELIX

Perfectly. (_Pause_}

SALA

And did Johanna know it?

FELIX

Yes.

SALA

I thank you.--Oh, you can safely take my hand. The matter has been
settled in the most chivalrous manner possible.--Well?... It is not
customary to refuse one's hand to him who is already down.

FELIX (_gives his hand to Sala; then he says_)

And where can she be?

SALA

I don't know.

FELIX

Didn't she give you any hint at all?

SALA

None whatever.

FELIX

But have you no conjecture? Has she perhaps established any
connections--abroad? Had she any friends at all, of which I don't know?

SALA

Not to my knowledge.

FELIX

Do you think that she is still alive?

SALA

I can't tell.

FELIX

Are you not _willing_ to say anything more, Mr. von Sala?

SALA

I am not _able_ to say anything more. I have nothing left to say.
Farewell, and good luck on your trip. Give my regards to Count Ronsky.

FELIX

But we are not seeing each other for the last time?

SALA

Who can tell?

FELIX (_holding out his hand to Sala_)

I must hurry to my father. I think it my duty to let him know what I
have just learned from you.

SALA (_nods_)

FELIX (_to Julian_)

Good-by. (_He goes out_)

[_Julian and Sala start to leave together._

JULIAN (_as Sala suddenly stops_)

Why do you tarry? Let's get away.

SALA

It is a strange thing to _know_. A veil seems to spread in front of
everything.... "Away with you!"--But I don't care to submit to it as
long as I am still here--if it be only for another hour....

JULIAN

Do you believe it then?

SALA (_looking long at Julian_)

Do I believe it...? He behaved rather nicely, that son of yours.... "We
shall not have to sleep in the same tent."... Not bad! I might have
said it myself....

JULIAN

But why don't you come? Have you perhaps something more to tell after
all?

SALA

That's the question I must put to you, Julian.

JULIAN

Sala?

SALA

Because I didn't say anything about a peculiar hallucination I
experienced just before coming here. I imagine it was....

JULIAN

Please, speak out!

SALA

What do you think of it? Before I left my house--just after Felix had
gone--I went down into my garden--that is to say, I ran through it--in
a remarkable state of excitement, as you may understand. And as I
passed by the pool, it was exactly as if I had seen on the bottom of
it....

JULIAN

Sala!

SALA

There is a blue-greenish glitter on the water, and besides, the shadow
of the beech tree falls right across it early in the morning. And by a
strange coincidence Johanna said yesterday: "The water can no more hold
my image...." That was, in a way, like challenging fate.... And as I
passed by the pool, it was as if ... the water had retained her image
just the same.

JULIAN

Is that true?

SALA

True ... or untrue ... what is that to me? It could be of interest to
me only if I were to remain in this world another year--or another hour
at least.

JULIAN

You mean to...?

SALA

Of course, I do. Would you expect me to wait for it? That would be
rather painful, I think. (_To Julian, with a smile_) From whom are you
now going to get your cues, my dear friend? Yes, it's all over now....
And what has become of it?... Where are the _thermæ_ of Caracalla?
Where is the park at Lugano?... Where is my nice little house?... No
nearer to me, and no farther away, than those marble steps leading down
to mysterious depths.... Veils in front of everything.... Perhaps your
son will discover if the three-hundred and twelfth be the last one--and
if not, it won't give him much concern anyhow.... Don't you think he
has been acting rather nicely?... I have somehow the impression that a
better generation is growing up--with more poise and less
brilliancy.--Send your regards to heaven, Julian.

JULIAN (_makes a movement to accompany him_)

SALA (_gently but firmly_)

You stay here, Julian. This is the end of our dialogue. Farewell.
(_He goes out quickly_)

FELIX (_entering rapidly_)

Is Mr. von Sala gone? My father wanted to talk to him.--And you are
still here?... Why did Mr. von Sala go? What did he tell
you?--Johanna...! Johanna...?

JULIAN

She is dead ... she has drowned herself in the pool.

FELIX (_with a cry of dismay_)

Where did he go?

JULIAN

I don't think you can find him.

FELIX

What is he doing?

JULIAN

He is paying ... while it's time....

WEGRAT (_enters from the veranda_)

FELIX (_runs to meet him_)

Father....

WEGRAT

Felix! What has happened?

FELIX

We must go to Sala's house, father.

WEGRAT

Dead...?

FELIX

Father! (_He takes hold of Wegrat's hand and kisses it_) My
father!

JULIAN (_has left the room slowly in the meantime_)

WEGRAT

Must things of this kind happen to make that word sound as if I had
heard it for the first time...?


CURTAIN




INTERMEZZO

(_Zwischenspiel_)

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

1904




PERSONS


AMADEUS ADAMS                  } A musical conductor

CECILIA ADAMS-ORTENBURG        } His wife, an opera singer

PETER                          } Their child, five years old

ALBERT RHON

MARIE                          } His wife

SIGISMUND, PRINCE MARADAS-LOHSENSTEIN

COUNTESS FREDERIQUE MOOSHEIM   } An opera singer

GOVERNESS                      }
                               } At the Adamses
COUNT ARPAD PAZMANDY           }

_The scene is laid in Vienna at the present day._




INTERMEZZO

THE FIRST ACT


_The study of Amadeus. The walls are painted in dark gray, with a very
simple frieze. A door in the background leads to a veranda. On either
side of this door is a window. Through the door one sees the garden, to
which three steps lead down from the veranda. A cabinet stands between
the door and the window at the right; a music-stand holds a
corresponding position to the left of the door. Antique bas-reliefs are
hung above the cabinet as well as the stand. The main entrance is on
the right side in the foreground. Farther back at the right is a door
leading to Cecilia's room. A door finished like the rest of the wall
leads to the room of Amadeus at the left. A tall book case, with a bust
of Verrochio on top of it, stands against the right wall. In the corner
back of it are several columns with tall vases full of flowers. A
fireplace occupies the foreground at the left. Above it is a large
mirror. On the mantelshelf stands a French clock of simple design. A
table surrounded by chairs is placed in front of the fireplace. Farther
back along the same wall are shelves piled with sheet music, and above
them engravings of Schumann, Brahms, Mozart, and other composers. A
bust of Beethoven occupies the farthermost corner at the left. Halfway
down the stage, nearer the left wall, stands a piano with a piano stool
in front of it. An armchair has been moved up close to the piano on the
side toward the public. A writing desk holds a similar position at the
right. Back of it are an easy-chair and a couch, the latter having been
moved close to the table._


AMADEUS (_thirty years old, slender, with dark, smooth hair; his
movements are quick, with a suggestion of restlessness; he wears a gray
business suit of elegant cut, but not well cared for; he has a trick of
taking hold of the lapel of his sack coat with his left hand and
turning it back; he is seated at the piano, accompanying Frederique_)

FREDERIQUE (_twenty-eight, is dressed in a bright gray tailor-made suit
and a red satin waist; wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, very
fashionable; her hair is blonde, of a reddish tint; her whole
appearance is very dainty; she is singing an aria from the opera
"Mignon"_) "Ha-ha-ha! Is 't true, really true?" (_While singing she is
all the time making a motion as if she were beating the dust out of her
riding suit with a crop_)

AMADEUS (_accompanying himself as he gives her the cue_) "Yes, you may
laugh. I am a fool to ruin my horse ..."

FREDERIQUE

"Maybe you would like ..."

AMADEUS (_nervously_)

Oh, wait!... You don't know yet why I have ruined my horse.... "To ruin
my horse for a quicker sight of you ..."

FREDERIQUE (_with the same gesture as before_)

"Maybe you would like me to weep?"

AMADEUS

"Oh, I regret already that I came."

FREDERIQUE (_as before_)

"Well, why...."

AMADEUS

G sharp!

FREDERIQUE (_as before_)

"Well, why don't you go back? Soon enough I shall see you again."

AMADEUS

You should say that ironically, not tenderly. "Soon enough I shall see
you again...."

FREDERIQUE (_as before_)

"Soon enough I shall see you again...."

AMADEUS

Not angrily, Countess, but ironically.

FREDERIQUE

Call me Frederique, and not Countess, when you are working with me.

AMADEUS

Now, that's the tone Philine should use. Hold on to it.... And that's
the right look, too.... If you could do that on the stage, you might
almost be an artist.

FREDERIQUE

Oh, mercy, I have sung Philine more than twenty times already.

AMADEUS

But not here, Freder ... Countess. And not when Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg
was singing the part of Mignon. (_He leans forward so that he can look
out into the garden_)

FREDERIQUE

No, she isn't coming yet. (_With a smile_) Perhaps the rehearsal isn't
over.

AMADEUS (_rising_)

Perhaps not.

FREDERIQUE

Is it true that Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has been requested to sing in
Berlin next Fall?

AMADEUS

Nothing has been settled yet. (_He goes to the window at the right_) If
you'll permit.... (_Opens the window_)

FREDERIQUE

What a splendid day! And how fragrant the roses are. It is almost
like....

AMADEUS

Almost like Tremezzo--yes, I know.

FREDERIQUE

How can you--as you have never been there?

AMADEUS

But you have told me enough about it. A villa standing at the edge of
the water--radiantly white--with marble steps leading straight down to
the blue sea.

FREDERIQUE

Yes. And sometimes, on very hot nights, I sleep in the park, right on
the sward, under a plane tree.

AMADEUS

That plane tree is famous.--But time is flying. It would be better to
go on with the singing. (_He seats himself at the piano again_) The
polonaise--if you please, Countess. (_He begins the accompaniment_)

FREDERIQUE (_singing_)

    "Titania, airiest queen of fairies,
    Has descended from her blue cloud throne,
    And her way across the world is wending
    More quickly than the bird or lightning flash..."

AMADEUS (_interrupts his playing and lets his head sink forward_) No,
no--it's no use!... Please tell the director that he will have to look
after your part himself. As for me, I have certain regards even for
people who go to the opera in Summer. They should not be forced to
accept _anything_. Tell the director, please, that I send him my
regards and that--there are more important things to occupy my time.
(_He closes the score_)

FREDERIQUE (_quite amicably_)

I believe it. How's your opera getting along?

AMADEUS

For the Lord's sake, please don't pretend to be interested in things of
that kind! Why, nobody expects it of you.

FREDERIQUE

Will it soon be finished?

AMADEUS

Finished...? How could it be, do you think? I have to conduct two
nights a week at least, and there are rehearsals in the morning, not to
mention singers that have to be coached.... Do you think a man can sit
down after an hour like _this_ and invite his muse?

FREDERIQUE

After an hour like _this_...? I don't think you feel quite at your
ease with me, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

Not at my ease? I? With you?--I don't think you have imagined in your
most reckless moments, Countess, that my wife might have anything to
fear from you.

FREDERIQUE

You are determined to misunderstand me. (_She has gone to the fireplace
and turns now to face Amadeus_) You know perfectly well why you pretend
to be cross with me. Because you are in love with me.

AMADEUS (_looks straight ahead and goes on playing_)

FREDERIQUE

And that chord proves nothing to the contrary.

AMADEUS

That chord.... Tell me rather what kind of chord it is. (_He repeats it
in a fury_)

FREDERIQUE

A flat major.

AMADEUS (_in a tone of boredom_)

G major--of course.

FREDERIQUE (_close by him, with a smile_)

Don't let that semi-tone spoil our happiness.

AMADEUS (_rises, goes toward the background and looks out into the
garden_)

FREDERIQUE

Is it your wife?

AMADEUS

No, my little boy is playing out there. (_He stands at the window,
waving his hand at somebody outside; pause_)

FREDERIQUE

You take life too hard, Amadeus.

AMADEUS (_still at the window, but turning toward Frederique_) I can't
lie--and I don't want to. Which is not the same as taking life hard.

FREDERIQUE

Can't lie...? And yet you have been away from your wife for months at a
time--haven't you? And your wife came here while you were still
conducting somewhere abroad, didn't she?... So that....

AMADEUS

Those are matters which you don't quite comprehend, Countess. (_He
looks again toward the main entrance_)

FREDERIQUE

No, your wife can't be here yet. She won't give up her walk on a
wonderful day like this.

AMADEUS

What you have in mind now is pretty mean, Frederique.

FREDERIQUE

Why so? Of course, I know she takes a walk with you, too, now and then.

AMADEUS

Yes, when my time permits. And often she goes out with Sigismund.
To-day she's probably with him--and that's what you wanted to bring
home to me, of course.

FREDERIQUE

Why should I? You know it, don't you? And I assure you, it has never
occurred to me to see anything wrong in it. He's a friend of yours.

AMADEUS

More than that--or less. He used to be my pupil.

FREDERIQUE

I didn't know that.

AMADEUS

Ten years ago, while still a mere youngster, I used to live in his
father's palace. It's hard to tell where I might have been to-day, had
it not been for old Prince Lohsenstein. You see, we men have generally
another kind of youth to look back at than you ...

FREDERIQUE

... women artists.

AMADEUS

No, countesses, I meant to say. For three years I spent every summer in
the palace at Krumau.[1] And there--for the first time in my life--I
could work in peace, all by myself, with nothing more to do than to
instruct Sigismund.

      [1] A small Bohemian city near the border of Upper Austria. On
      a high rock, with a wonderful view along the river Moldau,
      stands the Schwarzenberg castle, which the author seems to
      have had in mind.

FREDERIQUE

Did he want to become a pianist?

AMADEUS

Not exactly. He wanted to join some monastic order.

FREDERIQUE

No? Is that really true?--Oh, it's queer how people change!

AMADEUS

They don't as much as you think. He has remained a man of serious mind.

FREDERIQUE

And yet he plays dance music so charmingly...?

AMADEUS

Why shouldn't he? A good waltz and a good hymn are just as acceptable
to the powers above.

FREDERIQUE

How delightful those evenings in your house used to be! No farther back
than last winter.... The Count and I frequently talk of them.--Have you
ceased to invite Prince Sigismund, as you have me?

AMADEUS

He was here only a fortnight ago, my dear Countess--and spent the whole
evening with us. We had supper in the summer-house, and then we came in
here and sat chatting for a long while, and finally he improvised some
variations on the Cagliostro Waltzes before he left.--And what my wife
and he say to each other during their walk, when I am not with them,
will no more be hidden from me than I would hide from her what you and
I have been talking of here. That's how my wife and I feel toward each
other--if you'll please understand, Frederique!

FREDERIQUE

But there are things one simply _can't_ say to each other.

AMADEUS

There can be no secrets between people like my wife and myself.

FREDERIQUE

Oh, of course ... but then ... what you have been saying to me will be
only a small part of what you must tell your wife to-day, Amadeus.
Good-by.... (_She holds out her hand to him_)

AMADEUS

What's in your mind now, Frederique?

FREDERIQUE

Why resist your fate? Is it so very repulsive after all? What you are
to me, nobody else has ever been!

AMADEUS

And you want me to believe that?

FREDERIQUE

I shall not insist on it. But it is true nevertheless. Good-by now.
Until to-morrow, Amadeus. Life is really much easier than you think....
It might be so very pleasant--and so it shall be! (_She goes out_)

AMADEUS (_seats himself at the piano again and strikes a few notes_) It
is getting serious ... or amusing perhaps...? (_He shakes his head_)

ALBERT RHON (_enters; he is of medium height; his black hair, slightly
streaked with gray, is worn long; he is rather carelessly dressed_)

AMADEUS

Oh, is that you, Albert? How are you?

ALBERT

I have come to ask how you are getting along with our opera, Amadeus.
Have you done anything?

AMADEUS

No.

ALBERT

Again nothing?

AMADEUS

I doubt whether I can get a chance here. We'll have to wait until the
season is over. I have too much to do. We are now putting on "Mignon"
with new people in some of the parts....

ALBERT

If I'm not very much mistaken, I saw Philine float by--with a rather
intoxicated look in her eyes.... Oh, have I put my foot into it again?
I beg your pardon!

AMADEUS (_turning away from him_)

That's right. She was here. Oh, that damned business of private
rehearsals! But I hope it won't last much longer. The coming Winter is
going to decide my future once for all. I have already got my leave of
absence.

ALBERT

So you have made up your mind about that tour?

AMADEUS

Yes, I shall be gone for two months this time.

ALBERT

Within Germany only?

AMADEUS

I'll probably take in a few Italian cities also. Yes, my dear fellow,
they know more about me abroad than here. I shall conduct my Third
Symphony, and perhaps also my Fourth.

ALBERT

Have you got that far already?

AMADEUS

No. But I have hopes of the Summer. Once more I mean to do some real
work.

ALBERT

Well, it's about time.--I have made out the schedule for our walking
tour, by the by. And I brought along the map. Look here. We start from
Niederdorf, and then by way of Plätzwiesen to Schluderbach; then to
Cortina; then through the Giau Pass to Caprile; then by way of the
Fedaja[2]....

      [2] The names used in this passage occur a number of times in
      the various plays, indicating that their author probably has
      been drawing on experiences obtained during his own walking
      tours through the Dolomites. As far as Cortina, the route is
      identical with the one mentioned by _Wegrath_ in "The Lonely
      Way." The Giau Pass is a little known footpath across Monte
      Giau, showing that the intention of _Albert_ is to avoid the
      routes frequented by tourists.

AMADEUS

I leave all that to you. I rely entirely on you.

ALBERT

Then it's settled that we'll don knapsack and alpenstock once more, to
wander through the country as we used to do when we were young...?

AMADEUS

Yes, and I am looking forward to it with a great deal of pleasure.

ALBERT

You need simply to pull yourself together--a few weeks of mountain air
and quiet will get you out of this.

AMADEUS

Oh, I haven't got into anything in particular. I am a little nervous.
That's all.

ALBERT

Can't you see, Amadeus, how you have to force yourself in order to use
this evasion toward me, who, of course, has no right whatever to demand
any frankness? Can't you see how you are wasting a part of your mental
energy, so to speak, on this slight disingenuousness? No, dissimulation
is utterly foreign to your nature, as I have always told you. If you
should ever get to the point where you had to deceive one who was near
and dear to you, that would be the end of you.

AMADEUS

Your worry is quite superfluous! Haven't you known us long enough--me
and Cecilia--to know that our marriage is based, above all else, on
absolute frankness?

ALBERT

Many have good intentions, but their courage often deserts them at the
critical moment.

AMADEUS

We have never yet kept anything hidden from each other.

ALBERT

Because so far you have had nothing to confess.

AMADEUS

Oh, a great deal, perhaps, which other people keep to themselves. Our
common life has not been without its complications. We have had to be
parted from each other for months at a time. I have had to rehearse
in private with other singers than Philine, and (_with an air of
superiority_) other men than Prince Sigismund must have discovered that
Cecilia is pretty.

ALBERT

I haven't said a word about Cecilia.

AMADEUS

And besides, it would be quite hopeless for Cecilia or me to keep any
secrets. We know each other too well--I don't think two people ever
existed who understood each other so completely as we do.

ALBERT

I can imagine a point where the understanding would have to end, and
everything else with it.

AMADEUS

Everything else maybe--but not the understanding.

ALBERT

Oh, well! If nothing is left but the understanding, that means the
beginning of the end.

AMADEUS

Those are--chances that every human being must resign himself to take.

ALBERT

You don't talk like one who has resigned himself, however, but like one
who has made up his mind.

AMADEUS

Who can be perfectly sure of himself or of anybody else? We two, at any
rate, are not challenging fate by feeling too secure.

ALBERT

Oh, when it comes to that, my dear fellow--fate always regards itself
challenged--by doubt no less than by confidence.

AMADEUS

To be safe against any surprise brings a certain sense of tranquillity
anyhow.

ALBERT

A little more tranquillity would produce a decision to avoid anything
that might endanger an assured happiness.

AMADEUS

Do you think anything is to be won by that kind of avoidance? Don't you
feel rather, that the worst and most dangerous of all falsehoods is to
resist temptation with a soul full of longing for it? And that it is
easier to go unscathed through adventures than through desires?

ALBERT

Adventures...! Is it actually necessary, then, to live through them? A
painter who has risen above pot-boiling, and who has left the follies
of youth behind him, can be satisfied with a single model for all the
figures that are created out of his dreams--and one who knows how to
live may have all the adventures he could ever desire within the
peaceful precincts of his own home. He can experience them just as
fully as anybody else, but without waste of time, without
unpleasantness, without danger. And if he only possess a little
imagination, his wife may bear him nothing but illegitimate children
without being at all aware of it.

AMADEUS

It's an open question whether you have the right to force such a part
on anybody whom you respect.

ALBERT

It is not wise to let people know what they mean to you. I have put
this thought into an aphorism:

    If you grasp me, you rasp me;
    If I know you, I own you.

MARIE (_entering from the garden with little Peter_)

Peter wants me absolutely to come in. I wanted to wait for Cecilia in
the garden.

AMADEUS

How are you, Marie?

MARIE

I'm not disturbing you, I hope?

GOVERNESS (_comes from the garden with the intention of taking the boy
away_) Peter!

PETER

No, I want to stay with the grown-ups.

AMADEUS

Yes, let him be with us for a while.

GOVERNESS (_returns to the veranda, where she remains visible_)

MARIE

Well, have you been working a lot?

AMADEUS

Oh, we have just been talking.

ALBERT

Do you know why she asks? Because she is in love with Mr. von Rabagas.

AMADEUS

With whom?

ALBERT

Don't you remember him? He's that interesting young chap who appears in
the first act as one of the King's attendants. She used, at least, to
fall in love only with the heroes of my plays, but nowadays she can't
even resist the subordinate characters.

AMADEUS

That should make you proud.

ALBERT

Proud, you say? But at times you can't help regretting that you must
put all the beauties and virtues of the world into the figures you
create, so that you have nothing but your wee bit of talent left to get
along with personally.

CECILIA (_enters from the right_)

PETER

There's mamma!

CECILIA

Good afternoon. (_She shakes hands with everybody_) How are you, Marie?
This is awfully nice. If I had only known.... I went for a short walk.
It's such a wonderful day.--Well, Peter (_kissing him_), have you had
your meal yet?

PETER

Yes.

GOVERNESS (_entering from the veranda_)

Good afternoon, Madame. Peter hasn't had his nap yet.

MARIE

Does he still have to sleep in the daytime? Our two children have quit
entirely.

ALBERT

Instead they play a most exciting game every afternoon--one invented by
themselves. They call it "drums and bugles."

MARIE

You must come and see us soon, Peter, so that you can learn to play
that game.

PETER

I've got a music-box, and I'll take it along so we can make more noise.

CECILIA

Now you have to go. But first you must say good-by nicely.

PETER

I'll say "adieu." Good-by is so common.

[_Everybody laughs. Peter goes out with the Governess. Marie and
Cecilia move slowly toward the fireplace and sit down in front of it._

MARIE

Of course, I have come to ask for something.

CECILIA

Well, go on.

MARIE

There's to be a concert at which they want you to assist.

CECILIA

This season?

MARIE

Yes. But it will be in the country, not in the city ... for a
charitable purpose, of course. The committee would be so happy if you
would sing two or three songs.

CECILIA

I think I can.

MARIE

And I shall feel very grateful, too.

CECILIA

Don't you find undertakings of that kind a lot of trouble?

MARIE

Well, you must have something to do. If I had any gifts like the rest
of you, I am sure I should never bother with "people's kitchens" or
"charitable teas"--and then, I suppose, I should feel more indifferent
about people, too.

CECILIA (_with a smile_)

About _people_, too?

MARIE

Oh, I didn't mean it that way.

ALBERT

You see, Marie, there is something like the charm of meadows and fields
in your sweet prattle, and you should never desert it for the thickets
of psychological speculations.--Come on, child. These people want their
dinner.

CECILIA

No, we won't eat for an hour yet.

AMADEUS

We generally work a little before we eat. To-day we might run through
the songs for that concert, for instance.

CECILIA

That would suit me perfectly.

MARIE

Oh, I feel _so_ thankful to you, Cecilia!

CECILIA

And when shall we see each other again?

ALBERT

Oh, that reminds me! We have just been talking about the Summer.
Amadeus and I mean to go on a walking tour. How would it be if you two
were to go somewhere with the children--some place in the Tirol,
say--and wait for us there?

MARIE

Oh, that would be fine!

CECILIA

Did you hear that, Amadeus?

AMADEUS (_who has been standing a little way off_)

Certainly. It would be very nice.... You can wait for us in the Tirol.

CECILIA

Could you come and see me to-morrow afternoon, Marie? Then we might
settle the matter.

MARIE

Yes, indeed. I am always glad when you can spare me a little of your
time.--Until to-morrow, then!

ALBERT

Good-by. (_He and Marie go out_)

AMADEUS (_is walking to and fro_)

CECILIA (_who is sitting on the couch, follows him with her eyes_)

AMADEUS (_after a turn to the window and back, speaking in a peculiarly
dry tone_) Well, how did it go? Have you got the finale into shape at
last?

CECILIA

Oh, in a manner.

AMADEUS

The day before yesterday it had not yet been brought up to the proper
level. I find, for one thing, that they don't let you assert yourself
sufficiently. Your voice should be floating above the rest, instead of
being submerged in the crowd.

CECILIA

Won't you come to the rehearsal to-morrow--just once more--if you can
spare the time?

AMADEUS

Would it please you...?

CECILIA

I always feel more certain of myself when you are within reach. You
know that, don't you?

AMADEUS

Yes--I'll come. I'll call off my appointments with Neumann and the
Countess.

CECILIA

If it isn't too great a sacrifice....

AMADEUS (_with assumed brusqueness_)

Oh, I can make her come in the afternoon.

CECILIA

But then there will be no time left for your _own_ work. No, better let
it be.

AMADEUS

What had we better let be?

CECILIA

Don't come to the rehearsal to-morrow.

AMADEUS

Just as you say, Cecilia. I won't intrude, of course. But a moment ago
you said that you felt more certain of yourself when I was within
reach. And as far as my work is concerned, I don't think--Albert and I
were just talking of it--nothing will come of it until the season is
over.

CECILIA

That's what I suspected.

AMADEUS

But during the summer I'll complete my Fourth. I must have something
new to conduct this year. And it's only a question of the final
passages, for that matter. All the rest is as good as finished--in my
mind at least.

CECILIA

It's a long time since you let me hear anything of it.

AMADEUS

It hasn't quite reached the point where it can be played. But, of
course, you know the principal themes ... the Allegro ... and then the
Intermezzo.... (_He goes to the piano and strikes a few notes_)

CECILIA

So you are going next November?

AMADEUS

Yes, for three months.

CECILIA

And during October I shall be in Berlin.

AMADEUS

Oh ... is there any news in that matter?

CECILIA

Yes, I have practically closed. Reichenbach came to see me at the
opera-house. I'm to appear in three parts. As Carmen under all
circumstances. The other two are left to my own choice.

AMADEUS

And what do you...?

CECILIA

Tatyana,[3] I suppose. I have heard that they have such a splendid
Onyegin.

      [3] Tatyana and Onyegin are characters in the opera "Eugène
      Onyegin," by Tschaikovsky, which is founded on Pushkin's
      famous poem of the same name.

AMADEUS

Yes, Wedius. I know him. He was in Dresden when I was there.--Carmen,
then, and Tatyana, and...?

CECILIA

I am still considering.... Perhaps we might talk it over?

AMADEUS

Of course. (_Pause_)

CECILIA

It's going to be a busy Winter.

AMADEUS

Rather. We won't see much of each other.

CECILIA

We'll have to correspond.

AMADEUS

As we have done before.

CECILIA

We're used to it.

AMADEUS

Yes. (_Pause_) Tell me by the way: do you actually want to assist at
that charity concert?

CECILIA

Why not? I couldn't say no to Marie. Have you any objection?

AMADEUS

No--why should I? But we might use the half hour that's left to go over
something. (_He goes to the music-stand_) What do you want to sing?

CECILIA

Oh, something of yours, for one thing ...

AMADEUS

Oh, no, no.

CECILIA

Why not?

AMADEUS

There's nothing within yourself that prompts you to sing it anyhow.

CECILIA

Just as you say, Amadeus.--I don't want to intrude either.

AMADEUS (_bending forward and searching among the music_) How would
Schumann be--"The Snow-drop?" Or ... "Old Melodies" ... and "Love
Betrayed"....

CECILIA

Yes. And perhaps von Wolf's "Concealment," and something by Brahms. "No
more to meet you, was my firm decision...."

AMADEUS

Yes, I was just holding it in my hand. (_As if casually, and very
dryly_) So you went for a walk with Sigismund after all?

CECILIA

Yes. He sent his regards to you.

AMADEUS (_smiling_)

Did he? (_As he brings the music sheets to the piano_) Why doesn't he
come here instead?

CECILIA

One of the things I like about him is that he won't.

AMADEUS

Is that so?--Oh, well!--I'll send him my regards, too. But it's really
too bad that he won't come here any more. It was very nice to hear him
play his waltzes--those evenings were really very pleasant.... I just
happened to mention them to the Countess this afternoon.

CECELIA

Oh, you did?--And I have just seen her picture.

AMADEUS

Her picture?

CECILIA

I went with Sigismund to the Art Gallery.

AMADEUS

Oh.--They tell me it's a great success.

CECILIA

It would be a wonder if it were not. The artist spent six months on it,
they say....

AMADEUS

Is that too much for a good picture?

CECELIA

No, but for the Countess.--She will probably sing Philine pretty well,
by the way.

AMADEUS

You think so? I fear you are mistaken.... (_Pause_) Well, Cecilia, what
were you talking of to-day--you and Sigismund?

CECILIA

What were we talking of...? (_Pause_) It's so hard to recall the
words.... (_As she goes slowly to the fireplace_) And they have such a
different sound when recalled in that way.

AMADEUS

True indeed. (_Coming nearer to her_) And I don't suppose it's the
words that matter.... Well, Cecilia, can it be possible that you have
nothing more to tell me?

CECILIA

Nothing _more_...? (_Hesitatingly_) Don't you think, Amadeus, that many
things actually change character when you try to put them into words?

AMADEUS

Not for people like us.

CECILIA

That may have been true once. But ... you know as well as I do ... that
things are no longer as they used to be.

AMADEUS

Not quite, perhaps. I know. But this shouldn't be a reason for either
one of us to refuse telling the other one. Scruples of that kind would
be unworthy of ourselves. This is _we_, Cecilia--you and me! So you may
tell me fearlessly what you have to tell.

CECILIA (_rising_)

Don't try to encourage me, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

Well...?

CECILIA (_remains silent_)

AMADEUS

Do you love him?

CECILIA

Do I love him...?

AMADEUS (_urgently_)

Cecilia...!

CECILIA

Am I to tell you _more_ than I think is true? Wouldn't that be a lie,
too--as good or as bad as any other one?... No, I don't think I love
him. It is nothing like it was when I became acquainted with you,
Amadeus.

AMADEUS

_That_ time is long past.--And you have probably forgotten what it was
like. On the whole, it must be the same thing, I suppose. Only you have
grown a little older since then, and you have been living with me for
seven years.... No matter how far apart we may have been, you have been
living _with me_--and we have a child....

CECILIA

Well, perhaps that's what makes the difference--but there _is_ a
difference.

AMADEUS

What really matters is nothing new, however. You feel attracted to him,
don't you?

CECILIA (_speaking with genuine feeling and almost tenderly_)

But perhaps there is still something that holds back--that could hold
me back, if it only wanted.

AMADEUS (_after a pause, brusquely_)

But it doesn't want to ... it doesn't dare to want it. What sense could
there be in it? Perhaps I might prove the stronger to-day--and the next
time, perhaps--but sooner or later the day must come nevertheless, when
I should suffer defeat.

CECILIA

Why?... It ought not to be necessary!

AMADEUS

And then, even if I remained victorious every time--could that be
called happiness for which I must fight repeatedly and tremble all the
time? Could that be called happiness in our case, who have known what
is so much better?... No, Cecilia, our love should not be permitted to
end in mutual distrust. I don't hold you, Cecilia, if you are attracted
elsewhere--and you have known all the time that I would never hold you.

CECILIA

Maybe you are right, Amadeus. But is it pride alone that makes you let
me slip away so easily?

AMADEUS

Is it love alone that brings you back when almost gone? (_Pause; he
goes to the window_)

CECILIA

Why should we spoil these hours with bitterness, Amadeus? After all, we
have nothing to reproach each other for. We have promised to be honest
with each other, and _my_ word has been kept so far.

AMADEUS

And so has mine. If you want it, I can tell you exactly what I and the
Countess talked of to-day, as I have always done. And for _me_,
Cecilia, it will even be possible to recall the very words.

CECILIA (_looking long at him_)

I know enough. (_Pause_)

AMADEUS (_walking to and fro until he stops some distance away from
her_) And what next?

CECILIA

What next...? Perhaps it's just as well that our vacations are soon to
begin. Then we may consider in peace, each one by himself, what is to
come next.

AMADEUS

It seems almost as if both of us should have expected this very thing.
We have made no common plans for the summer, although we have always
done so before.

CECILIA

The best thing for me is probably to go with the boy to some quiet
place in the Tirol ... as you and Albert suggested.

AMADEUS

Yes.

CECILIA

And you...?

AMADEUS

I...? I shall make that walking tour with Albert. I want to be
scrambling about in the mountains once more.

CECILIA

And finally descend into some beautiful valley--is that what you mean?

AMADEUS

That--might happen.

CECILIA (_dryly_)

But _first_--we should have to bid each other definite good-by, as
there is no return from _that_ place.

AMADEUS

Of course, there isn't! No more than from your place.

CECILIA

From mine...?

AMADEUS

Oh, it might happen that you felt inclined to ... change your plans ...
and instead of staying with Marie ... prefer the undisturbed ...

CECILIA

I won't change my plans. And you had better not change yours.

AMADEUS

If that be your wish....

CECILIA

It is my wish. (_Pause_)

AMADEUS

Can it be possible that now, all at once, the moment should have come?

CECILIA

What moment?

AMADEUS

Well--the one we used to foresee in our happiest days even--the one we
have expected as something almost inevitable.

CECILIA

Yes, it has come. We know now that everything is over.

AMADEUS

Over...?

CECILIA

That's what we have been talking of all the time, I suppose.

AMADEUS

Yes, you are right. At bottom it is better that we put it into plain
words at last. Our moods have been rather too precarious lately.

CECILIA

Everything will be improved now.

AMADEUS

Improved...? Why?... Oh, of course ... perhaps you are right. I feel
almost as if things had already begun to improve. It's strange, but ...
one ... seems to breathe more freely.

CECILIA

Yes, Amadeus, now we are reaping the reward of always having been
honest. Think how exhausted most people would be in a moment like
this--by all sorts of painful evasions, labored truces, and pitifully
sentimental reconciliations. Think of the hostile spirit in which they
would be facing each other during their moment of belated candor. We
two, Amadeus--we shall at least be able to part as friends. (_Pause_)

AMADEUS

And our boy?

CECILIA

Is he your sole worry?

AMADEUS

No, there are many things. How is it going to be arranged anyhow?

CECILIA

That's what we shall have to discuss carefully during the next few
days--before we go away. Until then everything must remain as before.
It can perfectly well remain as it has been during the last year. That
involves no wrong to anybody. (_Pause_)

AMADEUS (_seats himself at the piano; the ensuing pause is laden with
apprehension; then he begins to play the same theme--a Capriccio--which
was heard earlier during the scene_)

CECILIA (_who has been approaching the door to the veranda, turns about
to listen_)

AMADEUS (_stops abruptly_)

CECILIA

Why don't you go on?

AMADEUS (_laughs quickly, nervously_)

CECILIA

Wasn't that the Intermezzo?

AMADEUS (_nods_)

CECILIA (_still at some distance from him_)

Have you made up your mind what you are going to call it? Is it to be
_Capriccio_?

AMADEUS

Perhaps _Capriccio doloroso_. It is peculiar how one often fails to
understand one's own ideas to begin with. The hidden sadness of that
theme has been revealed to me by you.

CECILIA

Oh, you would have discovered it yourself, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

Maybe. (_Pause_) And whom will you get for the studying of your parts
next year?

CECILIA

Oh, I'll always find somebody. Those numbers for the concert--you'll
help me with those just the same, won't you? And I hope you'll be kind
enough to give me the accompaniment at the concert too.

AMADEUS

That's a foregone conclusion.--But I should really like to know who is
to assist you with your studies after this.

CECILIA

Do you regard that as the most important problem to be solved?

AMADEUS

No, of course not. The less so, as I don't quite see why I shouldn't go
on helping you as before.

CECILIA (_with a smile_)

Oh, you think...? But then we should have to agree on hours and
conditions.

AMADEUS

That was not meant as a joke, Cecilia. Seeing that we are parting in a
spirit of perfect understanding, why shouldn't such an arrangement be
considered tentatively at least?

CECILIA

Those things will probably settle themselves later on.... That we ...
that you play my accompaniment at a concert ... or help me to study a
part....

AMADEUS

Why later on?... (_He rises and stands leaning against the piano_)
There can be no reasonable ground for changing our musical
relationships. I think both of us would suffer equally from doing so.
Without overestimating myself, I don't think it likely that you can
find a better coach than I am. And as for my compositions, I don't
know of anybody who could understand them better--with whom I would
rather discuss them than with you.

CECILIA

And yet that's what you will have to come to.

AMADEUS

I can't see it. After all, we have nobody else to consider--at least, I
have not.

CECILIA

Nor have I. I shall know how to preserve my freedom.

AMADEUS

Well, then...?!

CECILIA

Nevertheless, Amadeus.... That we must meet and talk is made necessary
by our positions, of course.... But even in regard to our work things
cannot possibly remain as hitherto. I'm sure you must realize that.

AMADEUS

I can't see it. And--leaving our artistic relations entirely
aside--there is much else to be considered--things of more importance.
Our boy, Cecilia. Why should the youngster all at once be made
fatherless, so to speak?

CECILIA

That's entirely out of the question. We must come to an understanding,
of course.

AMADEUS

An understanding, you say. But why make difficulties that could be
avoided by a little good-will? The boy is mine as much as yours. Why
shouldn't we continue to bring him up together?

CECILIA

You suggest things that simply can't be done.

AMADEUS

I don't feel like you about that.--On the contrary! The more I consider
our situation calmly, the more irrational it seems to me that we should
part ways like any ordinary divorced couple ... that we should give up
the beautiful home we have in common....

CECILIA

Now you are dreaming again, Amadeus!

AMADEUS

We have been such good chums besides. And so we might remain, I think.

CECILIA

Oh, of course, we shall.

AMADEUS

Well, then! The things that bind us together are so compelling, after
all, that any new experiences brought by our freedom must seem
absolutely unessential in comparison. Don't you realize that as I do?
And _we_ shouldn't have to consider what people may say. I think we
have the right to place ourselves on a somewhat higher level. In the
last instance, we must always belong together, even if a single tie
should be severed among the hundreds that unite us. Or are we all of a
sudden to forget what we have been to each other--as well as what we
may and should be to each other hereafter? One thing remains certain:
that no one else will ever understand you as I do, and no one me as
you do.... And that's what counts in the end! So why shouldn't we....

CECILIA

No, it's impossible! Not because of the people. They concern me as
little as they do you. But for our own sake.

AMADEUS

For our own sake...?

CECILIA

You see, there is one thing you forget: that, beginning with to-day,
we shall have _secrets_ to keep from each other. Who knows how
many--or how heavy they may prove?... But even the least of them must
come between us like a veil.

AMADEUS

Secrets...?

CECILIA

Yes, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

No, Cecilia.

CECILIA

What do you mean?

AMADEUS

That's exactly what must not happen.

CECILIA

But--Amadeus!

AMADEUS

There must never be any secrets between us two. Everything depends on
that--you are right to that extent. But why should there be any secrets
between us? Remember that after to-day we shall no longer be man and
wife, but chums--just chums, who can hide nothing from each other--who
must not hide anything. Or is that more than you dare?

CECILIA

More than I dare...? Of course not.

AMADEUS

All right. We'll discuss everything frankly, just as we have been
doing--nay, we shall have more things than ever to discuss. Truth
becomes now the natural basis of our continued relationship--truth
without any reservation whatsoever. And that should prove highly
profitable, not only to our mutual relationship, but to each one of us
individually. Because ... you don't think, do you, that either one of
us could find a better chum than the other one?... Now we shall bring
our joys and sorrows to each other. We shall be as good friends as
ever, if not better still. And our hands shall be joined, even if
chasms open between us. And thus we shall keep all that we have had in
common hitherto: our work, our child, our home--all that we must
continue to have in common if it is to retain its full value to both of
us. And we shall gain many new things for which both of us have
longed--things in which I could take no pleasure, by the way, if I had
to lose you.

CECILIA (_drops him a curtsey_)

AMADEUS

That's how you feel, too, Cecilia. I am sure of it. We simply cannot
live without each other. I certainly cannot live without you.--And how
about you?

CECILIA

It's quite likely I should find it a little difficult.

AMADEUS

Then we agree, Cecilia!

CECILIA

You think so...?!

AMADEUS

Cecilia! (_He suddenly draws her closer to himself_)

CECILIA (_with new hope lighting her glance_)

What are you doing?

AMADEUS (_putting his arms about her_)

I now bid good-by to my beloved.

CECILIA

Forever.

AMADEUS

Forever. (_Pressing her hand_) And now I am welcoming my friend.

CECILIA

For all time to come--nothing but your friend.

AMADEUS

For all time...? Of course!

CECILIA (_draws a deep breath_)

AMADEUS

Yes, Cecilia, don't you feel much easier all at once?

CECILIA

The whole thing seems very strange to me--like a dream almost.

AMADEUS

There is nothing strange about it. Nothing could possibly be simpler or
more sensible. Life goes right on ... and all is well.... Come on,
Cecilia--let us run through those songs.

CECILIA

What songs...?

AMADEUS

Don't you care?

CECILIA

Oh, why not?--With pleasure....

AMADEUS (_seating himself at the piano_)

Really, I can't tell you how happy this makes me! There has practically
been no change whatever. The uneasiness alone is gone ... that
uneasiness of the last few weeks.... I have not had a very happy time
lately. The sky has seemed so black above our house--and not only
above _ours_. Now the clouds are vanishing. The whole world has
actually grown light again. And I am going to write a symphony--oh, a
symphony...!

CECILIA

Everything in due time.... Just now let us have one of those songs at
least.... Oh, that one...?

AMADEUS

Don't you want it?

CECILIA

Oh, as it's there already....

AMADEUS

Now, then--I start. (_He strikes the first chord_) Please don't put a
lot of sentimentality into the opening words. They should be reserved
and ponderous.

CECILIA (_singing_)

"No more to meet you was my firm...."

AMADEUS

Very fine.

CECILIA

O Amadeus!

AMADEUS

What is it?

CECILIA

I am afraid you will become too lenient now.

AMADEUS

Lenient...? You know perfectly well that, as artist considered, you
have no rival in my eyes, and will never have one.

CECILIA

Really, Amadeus, you shouldn't be flirting with all your pupils.

AMADEUS

I have the greatest respect for you.--Now let's go in!

CECILIA

"No more to meet...."

AMADEUS

What's the matter?

CECILIA

Nothing. I haven't tried to sing anything like this for a long time. Go
right on!

AMADEUS (_begins playing again_)

CECILIA

"No more to meet you was my firm and sworn decision, and yet when
evening comes, I...."


CURTAIN




THE SECOND ACT


_The same room as in the previous act. It is an evening in October.
The stage is dark. Marie and the chambermaid enter together. The maid
turns on the light._


MARIE

Thank you.--But if your mistress is tired, please tell her she mustn't
let me disturb her.

CHAMBERMAID

She hasn't arrived yet. She's not expected until this evening.

AMADEUS (_enters from the right, with hat and overcoat on_) Who is
it?... Oh, is it you, Marie! Glad to see you. Have you been here long?

MARIE

No, I just got here. I meant to call on Cecilia, but I hear....

AMADEUS

Then you can keep me company waiting for her. (_Handing overcoat and
hat to the maid_) Please take these.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

AMADEUS

I have also just got home. I had to do a lot of errands. I start the
day after to-morrow.

MARIE

So soon!--That'll be a short reunion.

AMADEUS

Yes.--Won't you sit down, please? (_Looking at his watch_)
Cecilia should be here in an hour.

MARIE

She has had a tremendous success again.

AMADEUS

I should say so! Look here--the telegram I got this morning. (_He
takes it from the writing desk and hands it to Marie_) It refers to
her final appearance last night.

MARIE

Oh.... Twenty-seven curtain calls...!

AMADEUS

What?... Naw! That flourish belongs to the preceding word. Seven only!
Otherwise she wouldn't be coming to-day.

MARIE (_reading again_)

"Have new offer on brilliant terms."

AMADEUS

On _brilliant_ terms!

MARIE

Then I suppose she'll do it at last?

AMADEUS

Do what?

MARIE

Settle down in Berlin for good.

AMADEUS

Oh, it isn't certain. "Have offer," she says, and not "have accepted
offer." No, we'll have to talk it over first.

MARIE

Really?

AMADEUS

Of course. We consult each other about everything, my dear Marie--just
as we used to do. And in a much more impersonal spirit than before. As
far as I am concerned, I shall be quite free next year, and have no
more reason to live in Vienna than in Berlin or in America.

MARIE

But it will be dreadful for me if Cecilia goes away.

AMADEUS

Well, these successes abroad may possibly force the people here to
understand what they have in Cecilia, and to act accordingly.

MARIE

I hope so.--Besides, I think really that Cecilia has developed a great
deal lately. To me her voice seems fuller and richer--with more soul to
it, I might say.

AMADEUS

Yes, don't you think so? That's my feeling, too.

MARIE

But how she _does_ work! It had never occurred to me that a finished
artist might be so industrious.

AMADEUS

Might, you say? Must, you should say.

MARIE

Last summer, when I came out mornings in the garden to play with my
children, she would be practicing already--just like a young student.
With absolute regularity, from nine until a quarter of ten. Then again
before lunch, from twelve to half past. And finally another half hour
in the evening.... If the weather was good or bad; if she was in good
spirits or....

AMADEUS

Or...?

MARIE

She was always in good spirits for that matter. I don't think anything
in the world could have kept her from practicing those runs and trills.

AMADEUS

Yes, that's her way. Nothing in the world could keep her from.... But
then, what could there be to keep her from it last Summer? In that
rustic retreat of yours, where you didn't see anybody ... or hardly
anybody....

MARIE

Nobody at all.

AMADEUS

Well, you received a call now and then--or Cecilia did, at least.

MARIE

Oh, I see. You mean--Prince Sigismund. He could hardly be said to call.

AMADEUS (_smilingly, with an appearance of unconcern_)

Why not?

MARIE

He merely whisked by on his wheel.

AMADEUS (_as before_)

Oh, he must at least have stopped to lean against a tree for a few
moments. He must even have taken time enough--and I am mighty glad he
did--to photograph the little house in which you were living. (_He
takes from the desk a small framed photograph and hands it to Marie,
who is seated on the couch_)

MARIE (_surprised_)

And you have that standing on your writing desk?

AMADEUS (_slightly puzzled_)

Why shouldn't I?

MARIE (_studying the photograph_)

Just as it was--Cecilia and I sitting on the bench there--yes. And
there's the hazel by the garden fence.... How it does bring back the
memory of that beautiful, warm Summer day...

AMADEUS (_bending over the desk to look at the picture_)

I can make out you and Cecilia, but those three boys puzzle me
hopelessly.

MARIE

In what way...? That's little Peter, who is doing like this ... (_She
blinks_)

AMADEUS

Oh, is that it?

MARIE

And that's Max--and he with the hoop is Mauritz.

AMADEUS

So that's a hoop?... I took it for one of those cabins used by the
watchmen along the railroad. The background comes out much better. The
landscape actually looks as if steeped in Summer and stillness....
(_Brief pause_)

MARIE

It was really nice. The deep shadows of the woods right back of the
house, and that view of the mountain peaks--oh, marvelous! And then the
seclusion.... It's too bad that you never had a look at that darling
place. We thought ... Cecilia did expect you after all....

AMADEUS (_has risen and is walking to and fro_)

I don't believe it.... And it didn't prove feasible, for that matter.
The pull of the South was still on me.

MARIE (_smiling_)

You call that the South?

AMADEUS (_smiling also_)

Oh, Marie!

MARIE (_a little embarrassed_)

I hope you're not offended?

AMADEUS

Why should I be? I didn't make a secret of my whereabouts to anybody.

MARIE (_confidentially_)

Albert told me about the villa, and the park, and the marble steps....

AMADEUS

So he gave you all those details? And yet he wasn't there more than an
hour.

MARIE

I think he intends to use the park for his last act.

AMADEUS

Is that so? If he would only bring it to me... I mean the last act. I
want to take it with me on my tour.

MARIE

Do you think you'll find time to work?

AMADEUS

Why not? I am always working. And I have never in my life been more
eager about it. I, too, am having a brilliant period. For years I
have not been doing better. And I am no less industrious than Cecilia.
With the difference that regular hours are not in my line--nine to
nine-forty-five, twelve to twelve-thirty, and so on. But you ask
Albert! When he threw himself on the bed exhausted, in that inn at the
Fedaja Pass, I sat down and finished the instrumentation for the
_Capriccio_ in my Fourth.

CHAMBERMAID (_enters with a couple of letters and goes out again_)

AMADEUS

You'll pardon me, my dear Marie?

MARIE

Please don't mind me. (_She rises_)

AMADEUS

A letter from Cecilia, written yesterday, before the performance. I
have had letters like this every day.

MARIE

Go right on and read it, please.

AMADEUS (_having opened the letter_)

Oh, there's plenty of time. In another hour Cecilia will be telling me
all that's in it.... (_He opens the other letter, runs through it, and
flings it away_) How stupid people are ... _how_ stupid! ... Ugh! And
mean! (_He glances through Cecilia's letter once more_) Cecilia writes
me about a reception at the house of the Director.... Sigismund was
there, too. Yes, you know, of course, that Sigismund has been in
Berlin?

MARIE (_embarrassed_)

I ... I thought ... Or rather, I knew ...

AMADEUS (_with an air of superiority_)

Well, well--there is no cause for embarrassment in that. Don't you
consider the Prince an uncommonly sympathetic person?

MARIE

Yes, he's very pleasant. But I can assure you, Amadeus, that he came
only once to our place in the Pustertal,[4] and he didn't stay more
than two hours.

      [4] A valley along the river Rienz, marking the northern
      limit of the Dolomite ranges in the Tirol.

AMADEUS (_laughing_)

And what if he had stayed a week...? Really, Marie, you're very funny!

MARIE (_shyly_)

May I tell you something?

AMADEUS

Anything you want, Marie.

MARIE

I'm convinced that you two will find each other again in spite of all.

AMADEUS

Find each other...? Who should? Cecilia and I? (_He rises_) Find each
other? (_He walks to and fro, but stops finally near Marie_) A
sensible woman like you, Marie--you ought to understand that Cecilia
and I have never lost each other in any way. I think it's very
singular.... (_He strolls back and forth again_) Oh, you must
understand that the relationship between her and me is so
beautiful--that now only it has become such that we couldn't imagine
anything more satisfactory. We don't have to find each other again!
Look here now--here are her letters. She has been writing me from
eight to twelve pages every day--frank, exhaustive letters, as you can
only write them to a friend--or rather, only to your very best friend.
It is simply impossible to imagine a finer relationship.

ALBERT (_entering from the right_)

Good evening.

AMADEUS

You're rather late in getting here.

ALBERT

Good evening, Marie. (_He pats her patronizingly on the cheek_)

AMADEUS

There will hardly be time for work now. Cecilia will be here very soon.

ALBERT

Oh, we can always put in half an hour. I have brought along some notes
for the third act.

MARIE

I think I shall go home, as the boys will be expecting me soon.

ALBERT

All right, child, you go on home.

AMADEUS

Why don't you stay instead? I am sure Cecilia will be glad to see you.
And then Albert can take you home. You might get Peter to entertain you
in the meantime.... Or would you prefer to stay here and listen?

ALBERT

No, child, you had better go in to Peter. Especially as Mr. von Rabagas
doesn't appear in the third act--so you won't be losing much.

MARIE

I'll leave you alone. Bye-bye! (_She goes out_)

ALBERT

Now let's fall to! (_He brings out some notes from one of his pockets
and begins to read_) "The stage shows an open stretch of rolling
ground that slopes gradually toward the footlights. In the background
stands a villa, with marble steps leading up to it. Still farther
back, the sea can be felt rather than seen." (_Bowing to Amadeus_) "A
tall plane tree in full leaf stands in the center of the stage."

AMADEUS (_laughing_)

So you have got it there?

ALBERT

It's meant as a compliment to you.

AMADEUS

Many thanks.

ALBERT (_after a pause_)

Tell me, Amadeus, is it actually true that the Count has become
reconciled with the Countess after his duel with the painter?

AMADEUS

I don't know. For a good long while I haven't seen the Countess except
at the opera. (_He rises and begins walking to and fro again_)

ALBERT (_shaking his head_)

There's something uncanny about that affair.

AMADEUS

Why? I think it's quite commonplace. A husband who has discovered his
wife's (_sarcastically_) "disloyalty"....

ALBERT

That wasn't the point. But that he discovers it only six months too
late, when his wife is already deceiving him with another man.--There
would have been nothing peculiar about the Count having a fight with
you. But the case is much more complicated. Here we have a young man
all but killed because of an affair that is long past. And in the
meantime you are left perfectly unmolested--or have been so far, at
least.

AMADEUS (_walking as before_)

ALBERT

Do you know, what I almost regret--looking at it from a higher
viewpoint? That the painter is not a man of genius ... and that the
Count hasn't _really_ killed him. That would have put something
tremendously tragi-comical into the situation. And that's what would
have happened, if ... _he up there_ had a little more wit....

AMADEUS

How? What do you mean by that?

ALBERT

I mean, if I had been writing the play....

AMADEUS (_makes a movement as if hearing some noise outside_)

ALBERT

What is it?

AMADEUS

I thought I heard a carriage, but it was nothing. (_He looks at his
watch_) And it wouldn't be possible yet.... You read on, please.
(_Once more he begins walking back and forth_)

ALBERT

You're very preoccupied. I'll rather come back to-morrow morning.

AMADEUS

No, go on. I am not at all....

ALBERT (_rising_)

Let me tell you something, Amadeus. If it would please you--and it
would be all one to me, you know--I could go with you.

AMADEUS

Where?... What do you mean?

ALBERT

On your tour. For a week, at least, or a fortnight, I should be very
glad to stay by you ... (_affectionately_) until you have got over
the worst.

AMADEUS

But...! Good gracious, do you think it's because of the Countess...?
Why, that story is over long ago.

ALBERT

Which I know. And I know, too, that you are now trying other means of
making yourself insensible. But I see perfectly well that, under the
circumstances, you can't succeed all at once.

AMADEUS

What circumstances are you talking of anyhow?

ALBERT

My dear fellow, I should never have dreamt of forcing myself into your
confidence, but as the matter has already got into the papers....

AMADEUS

What has got into the papers?

ALBERT

Haven't you read that thing in the New Journal to-night?

AMADEUS

What thing?

ALBERT

That Cecilia and Prince Sigismund.... But, of course, you are familiar
with the main facts?

AMADEUS

I'm familiar with nothing. What is in the New Journal?

ALBERT

Just a brief notice--without any names, but not to be mistaken.... It
reads something like this: "One of our foremost artists, who has just
been celebrating triumphs in the metropolis of an adjoining state ...
until now the wife of a gifted musician" ... or perhaps it was "highly
gifted" ... and so on ... and so on ... "and a well-known Austrian
gentleman, belonging to our oldest nobility, intend, we are told ..."
and so on....

AMADEUS

Cecilia and the Prince...?!

ALBERT

Yes ... and then a hint that, in such a case, it would not prove very
difficult to obtain a dispensation from the Pope....

AMADEUS

Has everybody gone crazy?... I can assure you that not a word of it is
true!... You won't believe me?... I hope you don't think I would deny
it, if.... Or do you actually mean that Cecilia might have ... from
me.... Oh, dear, and you are supposed to be a friend of ours, a student
of the human soul, and a poet!

ALBERT

I beg your pardon, but after what has happened it would not seem
improbable....

AMADEUS

Not improbable...? It is simply impossible! Cecilia has never thought
of it!

ALBERT

However, it ought not to surprise you that such a rumor has been
started.

AMADEUS

Nothing surprises me. But I feel as if the relationship between Cecilia
and myself were being profaned by tittle-tattle of that kind.

ALBERT

Pioneers like yourself must scorn the judgment of the world. Else they
are in danger of being proved mere braggarts.

AMADEUS

Oh, I am no pioneer. The whole thing is a private arrangement between
me and Cecilia, which gives us both the greatest possible comfort. Be
kind enough, at least, to tell the people who ask you, that we are not
going to be divorced--but that, on the other hand, we are not deceiving
each other, as it is asserted in these scrawls with which I have been
bombarded for some time. (_He indicates the letter which arrived at
the same time as Cecilia's_)

ALBERT (_picks up the letter, glances through it, and puts it away
again_) An anonymous letter...? Well, that's part of it....

AMADEUS

Explain to them, please, that there can be no talk of deceit where no
lies have been told. Tell them that Cecilia's and my way of keeping
faith with each other is probably a much better one than that practiced
in so many other marriages, where both go their own ways all day long
and have nothing in common but the night. You are a poet, are you
not--and a student of the human soul? Well, why don't you make all this
clear to the people who refuse to understand?

ALBERT

To convey all that would prove a rather complicated process. But if it
means so much to you, I could make a play out of it. Then they would
have no trouble in comprehending this new kind of marriage--at least
between the hours of eight-thirty and ten.

AMADEUS

Are you so sure of that?

ALBERT

Absolutely. In a play I can make the case much clearer than it is
presented by reality--without any of those superfluous, incidental side
issues, which are so confusing in life. The main advantage is, however,
that no spectators attend the entr'acts, so that I can do just what I
please with you during those periods. And besides, I shall make you
offer an analogy illuminating the whole case.

AMADEUS

An analogy, you say...?

ALBERT

Yes, analogies always have a very soothing effect. You will remark to a
friend--or whoever may prove handy--something like this: "What do you
want me to do anyhow? Suppose that Cecilia and I were living in a nice
house, where we felt perfectly comfortable, and which had a splendid
view that pleased us very much, and a wonderful garden where we liked
to take walks together. And suppose that one of us should feel a desire
sometime to pick strawberries in the woods beyond the fence. Should
that be a reason for the other one to raise a cry all at once about
faithlessness, or disgrace, or betrayal? Should that force us to sell
the house and garden, or make us imagine that we could never more look
out of the window together, or walk under our splendid trees? Merely
because our strawberries happened to be growing on the other side of
the fence..."

AMADEUS

And you would make me say that?

ALBERT

Do you fear it's too brilliant for you?--Oh, that wouldn't occur to
anybody. Trust me to fix it. In such a play I can do nothing whatever
with your musical talent. You see, I can't let you conduct your
symphony for the benefit of the public. And so I get both myself and
you out of it by putting into your character a little more sense and
energy and consistency....

AMADEUS

Than God has given me originally.

ALBERT

Well, it's not very hard to compete with Him!

AMADEUS

I shall certainly be curious about one thing: how you mean to end that
play.

ALBERT (_after a brief pause_)

Not very happily, my dear fellow.

AMADEUS (_a little staggered_)

Why?

ALBERT

It is characteristic of all transitional periods, that a conflict which
might not exist to a later generation, must end tragically the moment a
fairly decent person becomes involved in it.

AMADEUS

But there is no conflict.

ALBERT

I shall not shirk the duty of inventing one.

AMADEUS

Suppose you wait a little while yet...? Perhaps life itself might....

ALBERT

My dear chap, I am not at all interested in what may be done with us by
this ridiculous reality which has to get along without stage manager or
prompter--this reality which frequently never gets to the fifth act,
merely because the hero happens to be struck on the head by a brick in
the second. I make the curtain rise when the plot takes a diverting
turn, and I drop it the moment I have proved myself in the right.

AMADEUS

Please, my dear fellow, don't forget when writing your play, to
introduce a figure on which reality in this case has lavished much more
care than on the hero--I mean, the fool.

ALBERT

You can't insult me in that way. I have always regarded myself as
closely akin to him.

[_Marie enters with little Peter and the Governess._

PETER

Mamma is coming!

MARIE

The carriage has just stopped outside.

GOVERNESS

It was impossible to make the boy stay in bed.

ALBERT

And look at the fine flowers he has got!

PETER

That's for mamma!

AMADEUS (_takes a flower out of the bunch_)

I hope you permit, sonny ...

CECILIA (_enters followed by the Chambermaid_)

Good evening!--Oh, are you here, too?  That's awfully nice!

PETER

Mamma!--Flowers!

CECILIA (_picks him up and kisses him_)

My boy! My boy! (_Then she shakes hands with the rest_)

AMADEUS (_handing her the single flower_)

Peter let me have one, too.

CECILIA

Thanks. (_She shakes hands with him; then to the chambermaid_) Get my
things out of the carriage, please. The coachman will help you. He has
been paid already.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

CECILIA (_taking off her hat_)

Well, Marie?... (_To the other two_) Can it be possible that you
have been working?

ALBERT

We have tried.

CECILIA (_to the governess_)

Has he behaved like a little man?

PETER

Indeed I have! Have you brought anything for me?

CECILIA

Of course. But you won't get it until to-morrow morning.

PETER

Why not?

CECILIA

Because I am too tired to unpack. To-morrow, when you wake up, you'll
find it on your little table.

PETER

What is it?

CECILIA

You'll see by and by....

PETER

Is my little table big enough for it?

CECILIA

We'll hope so.

AMADEUS (_who is leaning against the piano, keeps looking at her all
the time_)

CECILIA (_pretends not to notice him_)

ALBERT

You're looking splendid.

CECILIA

I'm a little bit worn out.

AMADEUS

You must be hungry.

CECILIA

Not at all. We had something to eat in the dining car. Almost everybody
did. But I do want a cup of tea. (_To the governess_) Will you see
to it, please?

AMADEUS

Let me have a cup, too, and please see that I get a few slices of cold
meat.

GOVERNESS

I have given orders for it already. (_She goes out_)

CECILIA

Have you really been waiting for me with the supper?

AMADEUS

No ... I haven't been waiting. I ... simply never thought of it.

CECILIA (_to Albert and Marie_)

Why don't you sit down?

ALBERT

No, we are going, my dear Cecilia. Let me congratulate you with all my
heart--that will be enough for to-day.

MARIE

You have celebrated regular triumphs, they say?

CECILIA

Well, it wasn't bad. (_To Amadeus_) Did you get my telegram?

AMADEUS

Yes, it pleased me tremendously.

CECILIA

Think of it, children! After the performance I was commanded to appear
in the box of His Majesty!

ALBERT

Commanded...? Invited, I hope you mean! Neither emperor nor king has
the right to command you.

CECILIA

You old anarchist! But what does it matter? One goes to the box
nevertheless. And you would have done that, too.

ALBERT

Why not? One must, if possible, study every form of existence at close
quarters.

AMADEUS

And what did the Emperor have to say?

CECILIA

He was very complimentary. Had never seen a better Carmen.

ALBERT

The very next thing he'll order an opera for you from some Spaniard.[5]

      [5] This refers to a habit of Emperor William's, from whom
      the Italian composer, Leoncavallo, among others, once received
      such an order.

GOVERNESS (_enters_)

The tea will be here in a moment.

AMADEUS

Now you must get back to bed, Peter. It's late.

GOVERNESS (_wants to take the boy away_)

PETER

No, mamma must take me to bed as when I was a little baby.

CECILIA

Come on then!--Mercy me, how heavy you have grown. (_Goes out with
Peter and the governess_)

MARIE

My, but she is pretty!

AMADEUS

Haven't you discovered that before?

ALBERT

Well, good-by then!

AMADEUS

Until to-morrow. I shall be expecting you early--between nine and ten.

MARIE (_to Amadeus as she is going out_)

Don't you regret having to leave her again at once?

AMADEUS

Duty, my dear Marie....

CECILIA (_returning_)

Oh, are you really going?--Good-by then--for a little while!

[_Albert and Marie go out._

CECILIA (_going to the fireplace_)

Home again! (_She sits down_)

AMADEUS (_near the door and speaking rather shyly_)

It's a question whether it can please you as much as it does me.

CECILIA (_holds out her hand to him_)

AMADEUS (_takes her hand and kisses it; then he seats himself_)
Tell me all about it.

CECILIA

What am I to tell? I haven't left anything untold--or hardly anything.

AMADEUS

Well....

CECILIA

Getting home every night--and it was quite late at times, as you
know--I sat down and wrote to you. I wish you had been equally
explicit.

AMADEUS

But I have written you every day, too.

CECILIA

Nevertheless, my dear, it seems to me you must have lots to add.
(_With a laugh_) To many things you have referred in a strikingly
casual fashion.

AMADEUS

I might say the same to you.

CECILIA

No, you can't. My letters have practically been diaries. And that's
more than could be said of yours.--Well, Amadeus...? Without frankness
the whole situation becomes meaningless, I should say.

AMADEUS

What is there to be cleared up?

CECILIA

Is it really all over with Philine?

AMADEUS

That was all over--(_rising_) before you left. And you know it. I
really don't think it's necessary to discuss bygone matters.

CECILIA

Will she be able to stay in the company, by the way--after this scandal
in connection with your--pardon me!--predecessor?

AMADEUS

Everything has been arranged, I hear. And she has even made up with her
husband again.

CECILIA

Is that so?--That's rather unpleasant, don't you think? At bottom, it
matters very little then to have the story all over. In the case of a
man who has the disconcerting habit of not finding out certain things
until months afterward....

AMADEUS

It is better not to think of such things.

CECILIA

Has she any letters of yours?

AMADEUS (_having thought for a moment_)

Only the one in which I bade her farewell.

CECILIA

That might be enough. Why haven't you demanded it back?

AMADEUS

How could I?

CECILIA

How frivolous you are! Yes, frivolous is just the word. (_Putting her
hand on his shoulder_) Now it's possible to talk of a thing like this,
Amadeus. Formerly you might have misunderstood such a remark--taking
it for jealousy, or something like that.... But, really, I do hope you
don't get mixed up in any more affairs of that kind. I don't like to
be scared to death all the time on behalf of my best friend. There is
nothing in the world I begrudge you--of that you may be sure. But
getting killed for the sake of somebody else--that's carrying the joke
a little too far!

AMADEUS

I promise you, that you'll no longer have to be scared to death on my
behalf.

CECILIA

I hope so. Otherwise I must leave you to take care of yourself.--And
seriously speaking, Amadeus, I hope you don't forget that your life has
been preserved for more sensible and more important things--that you
have a lot more to do in this world.

AMADEUS

Yes, that's what I feel. I don't think I have ever felt it so strongly
in all my life. (_Radiantly_) My symphony ...

CECILIA (_eagerly_)

... is done?

AMADEUS

It is, Cecilia. And ... I didn't mean to tell you about it to-day, but
it leaves me no peace....

CECILIA

Well, what is it?

AMADEUS

The chorus in the final passage--you know the principal theme of it
already--it is led and dominated by a soprano solo. And that solo has
been written for you.

CECILIA

My revered Master! How proud your trust in me makes me!

AMADEUS

Don't make fun of it, Cecilia, I beg you. There is nobody in the world
who can sing that solo like you.... That solo is yours--and only yours.
While writing it, the ring of your voice was in my mind. Next February,
as soon as I get back, I shall have the symphony put on, and then you
must sing that solo.

CECILIA

Next Feb...? With pleasure, my dear Amadeus--provided I am still here.

AMADEUS

Why?

CECILIA

Oh, you haven't heard everything yet. After the performance last night
the Director had a talk with me.

AMADEUS (_disturbed_)

Well?!--There was a hint in the telegram about brilliant conditions....
But, of course, they could only refer to the next season?

CECILIA

If I can break away from here, they want me in Berlin from the
beginning of the year.

AMADEUS

But you can't break away!

CECILIA

Oh, if I really want to. The Director does not care to enforce the
contract.

AMADEUS

But you don't want to, Cecilia!

CECILIA

That's a matter for careful consideration. I shall be doing a great
deal better there.

AMADEUS

Beginning next Fall, I shall--probably be free. You might wait that
long, I should think. Then we could make the move together. But....

CECILIA

It doesn't have to be settled to-day, Amadeus. To-morrow we shall have
time to discuss the whole matter thoroughly. Really, I am not in a
condition to do so to-night.

AMADEUS

You are tired...?

CECILIA

Of course, you must understand that. In fact, I should very much
prefer.... (_She looks in direction of the door leading to her own
room_)

CHAMBERMAID (_brings in the tea tray and puts it on a small table_)

CECILIA

Oh, that's right!--May I pour you a cup, too?

AMADEUS

If you please.

CECILIA (_pours the tea; to the chambermaid_)

Open one of the windows a little, will you. There's such a lot of
cigarette smoke in here.

CHAMBERMAID (_opens the window at the right_)

AMADEUS

Won't it be too cold for you?

CECILIA

Cold? It has turned very warm again.

AMADEUS

And how did last night's performance go otherwise?

CECILIA

Very well. Wedius in particular proved himself inimitable again.

AMADEUS

You have mentioned him several times in your letters.

CECILIA

You know him since your Dresden period, don't you?

AMADEUS

Yes. He has great gifts.

CECILIA

He thinks a great deal of you, too.

AMADEUS

I'm pleased to hear it.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

AMADEUS (_helping himself to the cold meat_)

Can I help you to some?

CECILIA

No, thanks. I have had all I want.

AMADEUS

Yes, you have had your supper already--all of you, or "everybody," as
you put it a while ago.

CECILIA (_ingenuously_)

I had my supper with Sigismund.

AMADEUS

Was he in Berlin all the time?

CECILIA

He got there two days after me, as I told you in my letters.

AMADEUS

Of course--you have told me everything. Once he accompanied you to the
National Gallery.

CECILIA

He also took me to see the Pergamene marbles.[6]

      [6] A large collection of art works and other antiquities,
      recovered by excavations on the site of the ancient city of
      Pergamon in Asia Minor, are kept in the Pergamene Museum,
      Berlin.

AMADEUS (_facetiously_)

You're doing a lot for his general education, I must say.--But I should
like to know by what fraud Sigismund got himself into that reception of
the Director's.

CECILIA

By what fraud?

AMADEUS

Well, you wrote me that he created a regular sensation with those
waltzes of his.

CECILIA

So he did. But he didn't have to use fraud to get in. Being a nephew of
the Baroness, there was no reason why he should resort to such methods.

AMADEUS

Oh, yes, I didn't remember that.

CECILIA

And by the way, the Director asked very eagerly about you.

AMADEUS

He thinks a great deal of me....

CECILIA (_with a smile_)

Yes, he really does. The moment your new opera is ready....

AMADEUS

And so on! (_He goes on eating_) It surprises me, however, that he
should ask you about me.

CECILIA

Why does that surprise you?

AMADEUS (_as if meaning no offense_)

Well, it rather surprises me that he should connect our respective
personalities to that extent. Hasn't Berlin heard yet that we are going
to be divorced?

CECILIA

Why ... what does that mean?

AMADEUS (_laughing_)

Rumors to that effect are afloat.

CECILIA

What? Well, I declare!

AMADEUS

Yes, it's incredible what the popular gossip can invent. It's even in
the newspapers. His Highness the Prince Sigismund Maradas-Lohsenstein
is going to lead you to the altar. The necessary dispensation will be
furnished by the Pope. Idiotic--isn't it?

CECILIA

Yes.--But, my dear, you say nothing about what is still more idiotic.

AMADEUS

And what can that be?

CECILIA

That you are on the verge of believing this piece of idiocy.

AMADEUS

I...? How can you.... Oh, no!

CECILIA

You haven't considered, for instance, that I am three years older than
he.

AMADEUS (_startled_)

Well, if it's nothing but those three years of difference in....

CECILIA

No, it isn't that. No, indeed! Even if I were younger than he, I should
never think of it.

AMADEUS

But if his devotion should prove more deeply rooted than you have
supposed so far?

CECILIA

Not even then.

AMADEUS

Why?

CECILIA

Why...? I know that it couldn't last forever anyhow.

AMADEUS

Have you the end in mind already?

CECILIA

I am not saying that I have it in mind.... But I don't doubt it must
come, as it always comes.

AMADEUS

And then...?

CECILIA (_shrugs her shoulders_)

AMADEUS

And then?

CECILIA

How could I know, Amadeus? There are prospects of so many kinds.

AMADEUS (_cowering a moment before those words_)

Yes, that's true. Life is full of prospects. Everywhere, wherever you
turn, there are temptations and promises--when you have determined to
be free, and to take life lightly, as we have done.... That's what you
meant, was it not?

CECILIA

Yes, precisely.

AMADEUS

Tell me, Cecilia.... (_He draws closer to her_) There is one thing I
should like to know--whether Sigismund has any idea that your mind is
harboring such thoughts--which, after all, would appear rather weird
to the other party concerned.

CECILIA

Sigismund...? How can you imagine?! Such things you admit only to your
friends. (_She gives her hand to him_)

AMADEUS (_in the same friendly manner_)

But if he should notice anything ... although I think it very
improbable that he is the kind of man who would.... But let us suppose
that he concluded from various signs that some such thoughts were
passing through your head--would you deny them, if he asked you?

CECILIA

I believe myself capable of it.

AMADEUS (_with a shrinking_)

Oh.... Let me tell you, Cecilia.... You are having something definite
in mind.... Yes, I am sure of it.... It's a question of some definite
prospect.

CECILIA (_smiling_)

That might be possible.

AMADEUS

What has happened, Cecilia?

CECILIA

Nothing.

AMADEUS

Then there is danger in the air.

CECILIA

Danger...? What could that mean to us? To him who has no obligations
there can be no cause for fear.

AMADEUS (_taking her lightly by the arm_)

Stop playing with words! I can see through the whole thing just the
same.--I know! It has been brought home to me by a number of passages
in your letters--although they ceased long ago to have the frankness
due to our friendship. That new prospect is Wedius!

CECILIA

In what respect did my letters fail to be frank? Didn't I write you
immediately after the "Onyegin" performance, that there was something
fascinating about his personality?

AMADEUS

So you have said before, of many people. But there was never any such
prospect implied in it.

CECILIA

Everything begins to take on new meanings when you are free.

AMADEUS

You are not telling me everything.... What has happened?

CECILIA

Nothing has happened, but (_with sudden decision_) if I had stayed ...
who knows....

AMADEUS (_seems to shrink back again; then he walks to and fro;
finally he remains standing in the background, near one of the
windows_) Poor Sigismund!

CECILIA

Why pity him? He knows nothing about it.

AMADEUS (_resuming his superior tone_)

Is that what draws you to Berlin?

CECILIA

No!... Indeed, no! The spell has been broken ... it seems....

AMADEUS

And yet you talk of going about New Year....

CECILIA (_rising_)

My dear Amadeus, I am really too tired to discuss that matter to-day.
Now I shall say good-night to you. It is quite late. (_She holds out
her hand to him_)

AMADEUS (_faltering_)

Good-night, Cecilia!... (_He clings to her hand_) You have been gone
three weeks. I shall leave early the day after to-morrow--and when _I_
return, you will be gone, I suppose.... There can't be so very much to
your friendship, if you won't stay and talk a while with me under such
circumstances.

CECILIA

What's the use of being sentimental? Leave-takings are familiar things
to us.

AMADEUS

That's true. But nevertheless this will be a new kind of leave-taking,
and a new kind of home-coming also.

CECILIA

Well, seeing that it had to turn out this way....

AMADEUS

But neither of us ever imagined that it would turn out this way.

CECILIA

Oh?

AMADEUS

No, Cecilia, we did _not_ imagine it. The remarkable thing has been
that we retained our faith in each other in the midst of all doubts,
and that, even when away from each other, we used to feel calm and
confident far beyond what was safe, I suppose. But it was splendid.
Separation itself used to have a sort of charm of its own--_formerly_.

CECILIA

Naturally. It isn't possible to love in that undisturbed fashion except
when you are miles apart.

AMADEUS

You may be able to make fun of it to-day, Cecilia, but there will never
again be anything like it--neither for you nor for me. You can be sure
of that.

CECILIA

I know that as well as you do.--But why should you all at once begin to
talk as if, somehow, everything would be over between us two, and as if
the best part of our life had been irretrievably lost? That's not the
case, after all. It cannot possibly be the case. Both of us know that
we remain the same as before--don't we--and that everything else that
has happened to us, or may happen to us, can be of no particular
importance.... And even if it should become important, we shall always
be able to join hands, no matter what chasms open between us.

AMADEUS

You speak very sensibly, as usual.

CECILIA

If you seduce ladies by the dozen, and if gentlemen shoot each other
dead for my sake--as they do for the sake of Countess Philine--what has
that to do with our friendship?

AMADEUS

That's beyond contradiction. Nevertheless, I hadn't expected--in fact,
I think it nothing less than admirable--your ability to adjust yourself
to everything--your way of remaining perfectly calm in the midst of any
new experiences or expectations.

CECILIA

Calm...? Here I am ... by our fireplace ... taking tea in your company.
Here I can and shall always be calm. That's the significance of our
whole life in common. Whatever may be my destiny in the world at large
will slip off me when I enter here. All the storms are on the outside.

AMADEUS

That's more than you can be sure of, Cecilia. Things might happen that
would weigh more heavily on you than you can imagine at this moment.

CECILIA

I shall always have the strength to throw off things according to my
will before I come to you. And if that strength should ever fail me, I
shall come to the door and no farther.

AMADEUS

Oh, no, you mustn't! That would not be in keeping with our agreement.
It is just when life grows heavy that I'll be here to help you bear it.

CECILIA

Who knows whether you will always be ready to do so?

AMADEUS

Always--on my oath! No matter what befall you, whether it be sad or
wretched, you can always find refuge and sympathy with me. But with all
my heart I wish you may be spared most of those things.

CECILIA

That I be spared...? No, Amadeus, a wish like that I can't accept.
Hitherto--I have lived so little hitherto. And I am longing for it. I
long for all that's sad and sweet in life, for all that's beautiful and
all that's pitiful. I long for storms, for perils--for worse than that,
perhaps.

AMADEUS

No, Cecilia, that's nothing but imagination!

CECILIA

Oh, no!

AMADEUS

Certainly, Cecilia. You don't know very much as yet, and you imagine
many things simpler and cleaner than they are. But there are things you
couldn't stand, and others of which you are not capable.--I know you,
Cecilia.

CECILIA

You know me?--You know only what I have been to you--what I have been
as your beloved and your wife. And as you used to mean the whole world
to me--as all my longing, all my tenderness, was bounded by you--we
could never guess in those days what might prove my destiny when the
real world was thrown open to me.--Even to-day, Amadeus, I am no longer
the same as before.... Or perhaps I have always been the same as I am
now, but didn't know it merely. And something has fallen away, that
used to cover me up in the past.... Yes, that's it: for now I can feel
all those desires that used to pass me by as if deflected by a cuirass
of insensibility.... Now I can feel how they touch my body and my soul,
filling me with qualms and passions. The earth seems full of adventure.
The sky seems radiant with flames. And it is as if I could see myself
stand waiting with wide-open arms.

AMADEUS (_as if calling to somebody in flight_)

Cecilia!

CECILIA

What is the matter?

AMADEUS

Nothing.... The words you speak cannot estrange me after all that I
have learned already. But there is a new ring in your voice that I have
never heard until to-day. Nor have I ever seen that light in your eyes
until to-day.

CECILIA

That's what you imagine, Amadeus. If that were really the case, then I
should feel the same in regard to you. But I can see no difference in
you at all. And I can't imagine how you possibly could come to seem
different. To other women you may appear a mischiefmaker--or a silly
youth--which has probably happened many times: but to me you will
always remain the same as ever. And I have a feeling that, in the last
instance, nothing can ever happen to the Amadeus I am thinking of.

AMADEUS

If I could only feel the same--in regard to you! But such assurance is
not mine. The recklessness and greed with which you make your way into
an unknown world are filling me with outright fear on your behalf. The
idea that there are people who know as little of you as you of them at
this moment, and to whom you are going to belong...

CECILIA

I shall belong to nobody ... now, that I am free ...

AMADEUS

... who are part of your destiny already, as you of theirs ... it seems
to me uncanny. And you are no more the Cecilia I used to love--no! You
resemble closely one who was very dear to me, and yet you are not at
all the same as she. No, you are not the woman that was my wife for
years. I could feel it the moment you entered the place.... The
connection between the young girl who sank into my arms one evening
seven years ago and the woman who has just returned from abroad to
dwell for a brief while in this house seems quite mysterious. For seven
years I have been living with another woman--with a quiet, kindly
woman--with a sort of angel perhaps, who has now disappeared. She who
came to-day has a voice that I have never heard, a look that I am
foreign to, a beauty that is strange to me--a beauty not surpassing
what the other had, except in being more cruel possibly--and yet a
beauty that should confer much greater happiness, I think.

CECILIA

Don't look at me like that!... Don't talk to me like that!... That's
not the way to talk to a friend! Don't forget I am no more the one I
used to be. When you talk to me like that, Amadeus, it is as if here,
too, I should be fanned by those cajoling breaths that nowadays so
often touch me like caresses--breaths that make life seem incredibly
light, and that make you feel ready for so much that formerly would
have appeared incomprehensible.

AMADEUS

If you could guess, Cecilia, how your words hurt me and excite me at
the same time!

CECILIA (_brusquely_)

You must not talk like that, Amadeus. I don't want it. Be sensible, for
my sake as well as your own. Good-night.

AMADEUS

Are you going, Cecilia?

CECILIA

Yes. And bear in mind that we are friends and want to remain such.

AMADEUS

Bear in mind that we have always wanted to be _honest_. And it is not
honest--either for you or me--to say that we stand face to face as
friends in this moment.... Cecilia--the _one_ thing I can feel at this
moment is that you are beautiful ... beautiful as you have never been
before!

CECILIA

Amadeus, Amadeus, are you forgetting all that has happened?

AMADEUS

I could forget it--and so could you.

CECILIA

Oh, I remember--I remember! (_She wants to leave_)

AMADEUS

Stay, Cecilia, stay! The day after to-morrow I shall be gone--stay!

CECILIA

Please don't speak to me like that! I am no longer what I used to
be--no longer proud, or calm, or good. Who knows how little might be
needed to make me the victim of a certain unscrupulous seducer!

AMADEUS

Cecilia!

CECILIA

Have you so many friends to lose? One is all I have.--Good-night.
(_She tries to get away_)

AMADEUS (_seizing her by the hand_)

Cecilia, we have long ago bidden each other good-by as man and
wife--but we have also made up our minds to take life lightly, to be
free, and to lay hold of every happiness that comes within our reach.
Should we be mad enough, or cowardly enough, to shrink from the highest
happiness ever offered us...?

CECILIA

And what would it lead to ... my friend?

AMADEUS

Don't call me that! I love you and I hate you, but in this moment I am
not your friend. What you have been to me--wife, comrade ... what do I
care! To-day I want to be--your lover!

CECILIA

You mustn't...! You can't ... no....

AMADEUS

Not your lover then ... but what is both worse and better ... the man
who takes you away from another one--the one with whom you are
betraying someone else--the one who means to you both bliss and sin at
once!

CECILIA

Let me loose, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

No more beautiful adventure will ever blossom by the wayside for either
one of us, Cecilia, as long as we may live!

CECILIA

And none more dangerous, Amadeus!

AMADEUS

Wasn't that what you were longing for...?

CECILIA

Good-night, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

Cecilia! (_He holds her fast and draws her closer to himself_)


CURTAIN




THE THIRD ACT


_The same room. It is the morning of the following day. The stage is
empty at first. Then Amadeus enters from his room at the left. He wears
a dressing-gown, but is otherwise fully dressed. He passes slowly and
pensively across the room to the writing desk, from which he picks up
the waiting pile of letters. Then he puts the letters down again. He
feels chilly, looks around, notices that a window is open, and goes to
close it. Then he stands listening for a while at the door to Cecilia's
room. Finally he returns to the writing desk and begins to pull out
manuscripts from its drawers._


AMADEUS

Let's get things in order.... I wonder how this is going to turn
out?--I'll write her from some place along my route. I shall never come
back here any more.... I couldn't stand it ... no, I couldn't!
(_Holding a manuscript in his hand_) The Solo--her Solo! Well, I shall
not be present to hear her sing it.

CHAMBERMAID (_entering_)

The men are here to take away the trunk. Here's the check from the
expressman.

AMADEUS

All right. Tell them to use the back stairs in taking out the things.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

AMADEUS

... When I say good-by to-morrow, she won't guess it is forever.... And
the boy ... the boy...? (_He walks back and forth_) ... But it has to
be. (_Abruptly_) I'll leave this very evening--not to-morrow. Yes, this
very evening. (_He begins to pile up sheet music_) I'll have a talk
with the Director. If he says no, I'll simply break away. I won't come
back here. (_He goes to Cecilia's door again_) I suppose she's still
asleep. (_He comes forward and sits down on the couch, leaning his head
in his hands_) We have to take lunch together, and she won't guess that
it is for the last time.... She won't guess.... And why not? Let her
find out ... right now ... I am going to have it out with her. Yes,
indeed. (_Rising_) One can't write a thing of that kind. I'll tell her
everything. I'll tell her that I can't bear it--that it drives me crazy
to think of the other fellow. And she'll understand. And even if she
should plead with me to forgive her ... even if she ... oh! (_He goes
to her door_) I must tell her at once.... Oh, I feel like choking
her!... Cecilia! (_He knocks at her door, but gets no answer_) What
does that mean? (_He goes into her room_) She's gone! (_He stays away
for about half a minute and comes back by way of the door leading to
the garden; then he rings_) Where can she....

CHAMBERMAID (_enters_)

AMADEUS (_with pretended unconcern_)

Has my wife gone out?

CHAMBERMAID

Yes, sir--quite a while ago.

AMADEUS

Oh...?

CHAMBERMAID

It must be nearly two hours now. She said she would be back about one
o'clock.

AMADEUS

All right. Thank you.

CHAMBERMAID

Can I bring in your breakfast now, sir?

AMADEUS

Oh, yes--I had almost forgotten. And a cup of tea, please.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

AMADEUS (_alone_)

Gone!... Well, there is nothing peculiar in that.... Probably to the
opera.... But why didn't she tell me...? (_He cowers suddenly_) To
him...? No, that couldn't be possible! Oh, no!... And why not?... A
woman like her.... There is nothing to keep her from going to him....
(_With a threatening gesture_) If I only had him here!... (_With sudden
inspiration_) But that's what I might ... that would be.... To confront
him--that's it! To stand face to face with him!... Thus more than one
thing might be straightened out.... No, she is not with him.... Where
did I get that idea?... That's all over!... But that's what I'll do!...
Either I or he!... Many things might then ... everything might then be
set right.... He or I!... But to live on like this, while he ... I'll
go to Albert. It must be done this very day! (_He disappears into his
own room_)

ALBERT (_enters_)

CHAMBERMAID (_follows him, carrying the breakfast tray_) I'll tell
the Master at once, sir. (_She puts the tray on a small table and
goes out to the left_)

ALBERT (_picks up a moon-shaped roll from the tray and begins to nibble
at one of its tips_)

AMADEUS (_enters, having changed his dressing-gown for a coat_)

CHAMBERMAID (_follows him, passes quickly across the room and goes
out_)

AMADEUS

Oh, there you are!

ALBERT

Yes. I'm not too early, I hope? Are you ready? I want to read you the
third act. (_He takes some papers from his overcoat pocket_) You know
the setting, of course--the park, the villa, the plane tree. But first
of all I must tell you something. Do you remember Mr. von Rabagas, with
whom my wife fell in love? I have retouched him slightly. He's going to
be cross-eyed. And now I am curious to see what Marie's attitude will
be toward him.

AMADEUS (_nervously_)

All right--later. For the moment there are more important things.

ALBERT

More important...?

AMADEUS

Yes, I want you to do me a great service ... a service that will brook
no delay. You have to act as my second.

ALBERT (_rising_)

Your...? Twaddle! You'll simply refuse the challenge! You're not going
to let yourself be killed for the sake of Madame Philine--oh, no!

AMADEUS

It is not a question of Philine. And I have not been challenged. I
shall issue the challenge. And for that reason I want you to look up
our friend Winter at once, and then I must trouble both of you to call
on Prince Sigismund, and tell him....

ALBERT (_interrupting him and breaking into laughter_)

Oh, Prince Sigismund!--Thank you ever so much!

AMADEUS (_surprised_)

What's the matter with you?

ALBERT

How obliging! You mean to present me with an ending for the play we
concocted yesterday. Thanks. But it's too banal for me--nobody would
take any stock in it. I have thought of something much better. You are
to be poisoned--yes, sir. And can you guess by whom?--By a brand-new
character--one of the secret lovers of your wife.

AMADEUS (_furiously_)

It doesn't interest me in the least. Stop it, please! I'm not making up
endings for your fool comedies! This is real life ... we are right in
the midst of it!

ALBERT

You don't mean...?! Well, if I have to stand this unseemly and
ridiculous interruption ... what do you want of me anyhow?

AMADEUS

Haven't you understood? The two of you are to challenge Prince
Sigismund on my behalf.

ALBERT

Prince Sigismund ... on your behalf.... (_He bursts into laughter_)

AMADEUS

You seem to think it very funny, but I assure you....

ALBERT

The point is not that you seem funny to _me_. It's probably balanced by
the fact that a lot of people who have thought you funny until now,
will all of a sudden think you very sensible ... though they ought to
ask themselves, if they had a little logic: why should Mr. Amadeus
Adams become jealous on this particular day?... Up to the twenty-third
of October he was not, and all at once, on the twenty-third, he is....

AMADEUS

A lot of things have changed since yesterday.

ALBERT

Have changed...? Since yesterday...? Well, I declare!

AMADEUS (_after a pause_)

So that you didn't believe it either?

ALBERT

To confess the truth--no.

AMADEUS

Which means that I am living among a lot of people who....

ALBERT

Will be in the right ultimately. Why should that arouse your
indignation? If we were to live long enough, every lie that's floating
about would probably become true. Listen to those who belie you, and
you will know the truth about yourself. Gossip knows very rarely what
we are doing, but almost always whither we are drifting.

AMADEUS

_We_ didn't know we were drifting this way--that much you will admit, I
hope.

ALBERT

And yet it had to come. Friendship between two people of different
sexes is always dangerous--even when they are married. If there is too
much mutual understanding between our souls, many things are swept
along that we would rather keep back; and when our senses are attracted
mutually, the suction affects much more of our souls than we would care
to have involved. That's a universal law, my dear chap, for which the
profound uncertainty of all earthly relations between man and woman
must be held responsible. And only he who doesn't know it, will trust
himself or anybody else.--If you don't mind? (_He begins to butter one
of the rolls_)

AMADEUS

So you think you understand...?

ALBERT

Of course! That's my specialty, don't you know?

AMADEUS

Well, if you understand what has happened, and understand it must have
happened--then you will also understand that I must face the logical
consequences.

ALBERT

Logical consequences...? Here I am talking wisdom, and you clamor for
nonsense. And that's what you call logical consequences?... My opinion
is rather, that you are about to behave like a perfect fool. Anybody
else might do what you now propose: you are the only one who mustn't.
For when you propose such a thing, it becomes illogical, ungenerous,
not to say dishonest. You want to call a man to account for something
which, as he sees it, has been declared explicitly permissible.... In
his place I should laugh in your face. If anybody has the right to be
indignant here, and to demand an account, it is the Prince himself, and
nobody else--as he has not deceived you, but you him.

AMADEUS

Well, that's all one, as he undoubtedly will demand an account.

ALBERT

To do so, he must know.

AMADEUS

I'll see to that.

ALBERT

You mean to tell him?

AMADEUS

If you hold it the shortest road to what I have in mind...?

ALBERT

There's a man of honor for you! And is that the discretion you owe the
woman you love, do you think?

AMADEUS

Call me illogical, ungenerous, indiscreet--anything you please! I can't
help myself! I love Cecilia--do you hear? And I want to go on living
with her. But I can't do so until some sort of amends have been made
for the past--in my own eyes, in hers, and--I confess it--in the eyes
of the world. Sigismund and I must meet, man to man--nothing else can
end my trouble.

ALBERT

And how can it make the slightest difference that you two shoot off
your guns in the air?

AMADEUS

One of us must out of the way, Albert!... Won't you understand at last?

ALBERT

Now, my dear chap, that's carrying it a little too far! All the time I
have thought you were talking of a duel--and now I find that you are
after his life!

AMADEUS

Later on you may feel sorry that you could not refrain from inept
jesting in a moment like this even. The case is urgent, Albert. Please
make up your mind.

ALBERT

And suppose he should refuse?

AMADEUS

He is a nobleman.

ALBERT

He is religious. His father is one of the leaders of the Clerical Party
in the Upper House and a vice-president of the Society for the
Prevention of Dueling.

AMADEUS

Well, such things are not inherited. And if he won't, I shall know how
to make him. There's no other way out of it. There can be no other
alternative, if I am to go on living--with or without her. That will
set everything right, but nothing else will. It's the one thing that
can clear the air about us. Until it is over, we dare not belong to
each other again or--be happy.

ALBERT

I hope Cecilia won't insist on killing off Philine and a few others.
That would be just as sensible, but would complicate the situation a
great deal.

AMADEUS

Won't you go, please!

ALBERT

Yes, I am going.... And how about our opera?

AMADEUS

Oh, we'll have plenty of time to talk of that. However, just to
reassure you--all that is finished lies here in the second drawer,
everything properly arranged.

ALBERT

And who is to compose the third act?

AMADEUS

It can be given as a fragment, with some kind of ballet as a filler.

ALBERT

Right you are! Something like "Harlequin as Electrician," or
"Forget-me-not." (_He goes out_)

AMADEUS (_remains alone for a while; at first he seems to ponder on
something; then he returns to the writing desk and falls to work on his
papers; a knock is heard at the door leading to the garden_) What is
it?

PETER (_outside_)

It's me, papa. Can I come in?

AMADEUS

Certainly, Peter. Come on.

GOVERNESS (_entering with Peter_)

Good morning.

AMADEUS

Good morning. (_He kisses Peter_) Is it not a little too cold for him
out there?

GOVERNESS

He's very warmly dressed, and besides the sun is shining beautifully.

PETER

Papa, have you seen what mamma brought me?

AMADEUS

What is it?

PETER

A theater--a big theater!

AMADEUS

Is that so? And you have got it already?

PETER

Of course. It's over there in the summer-house. Would you care to look
at it?

AMADEUS (_glances inquiringly at the governess_)

GOVERNESS

Madame brought it to our room quite early, while Peter was still
asleep.

AMADEUS

I see.

PETER

I can play theater already. There is a king, and a peasant, and a
bride, and a devil--one that's all red--almost as red as the king
himself. And in the back there is a mill, and a sky, and a forest, and
a hunter.... Won't you come and look at it, papa?

AMADEUS (_seated on the couch, with the boy standing between his knees;
speaking absentmindedly_) Of course I must come and look at it.

CHAMBERMAID (_entering_)

Sir....

AMADEUS

What is it?

CHAMBERMAID

His Highness asks if you'll see him.

AMADEUS

What highness?

CHAMBERMAID

His Highness, the Prince Lohsenstein.

AMADEUS (_rising_)

What?

GOVERNESS

Come, Peter--we'll go back and play in the summer-house. (_She goes out
with Peter_)

AMADEUS (_with dignity_)

Tell the Prince.... (_Turning away from her_) One moment, please. (_To
himself_) What can that mean...? (_Abruptly_) Ask him to come in.

CHAMBERMAID (_goes out_)

AMADEUS (_walks quickly to and fro, but stops at some distance from
the door when Sigismund enters_)

SIGISMUND (_is slender, blonde, twenty-six, elegantly dressed, but
appears in no respect foppish; he bows to Amadeus_) Good-morning.

AMADEUS (_takes a few steps forward to meet him and nods politely_)

SIGISMUND (_looks around a little shyly, but wholly free from any
ridiculous embarrassment; his manner is in every respect dignified;
there is a slight smile on his face_) We have not seen each other for
some time, and you'll probably assume that my visit to-day has a
special reason.

AMADEUS

Naturally. (_Pointing to a chair_) Please.

SIGISMUND

Thank you. (_He comes nearer, but remains standing_) I have decided to
take this step--which has not come easy to me, I can assure you--because
I find the situation in which we ... in which all of us have been placed,
untenable and, in a certain sense, ridiculous ... and because I think
that, in one way or another, it should be brought to an end. The sole
object of my visit is to put before you a proposition.

AMADEUS

I'm listening.

SIGISMUND

I don't want to waste any words. My proposition is that you get a
divorce from your wife.

AMADEUS (_shrinks back for a moment, staring at Sigismund; then, after
a pause he says calmly_) You wish to marry Cecilia?

SIGISMUND

There is nothing I wish more eagerly.

AMADEUS

And what is the attitude of Cecilia toward your intentions?

SIGISMUND

Not encouraging so far.

AMADEUS (_puzzled_)

Cecilia is absolutely in a position to decide for herself. And of
course, she would also have the right to leave me--whenever and
howsoever it might please her to do so. For that reason you must pardon
me if I find the object of your visit incomprehensible, to say the
least.

SIGISMUND

You'll soon find it comprehensible, I think. The discouraging attitude
of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg proves nothing at all in this connection, I
must say. As long as Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has not been set free by
you--even if that be done against her own will--she is, in a sense,
bound to you. To get this matter fully cleared up, it seems to me
necessary that you yourself, my dear Master, insist on a divorce. Mrs.
Adams-Ortenburg will not be in a position to choose freely until she
has been divorced from you. Until then the struggle between us two will
not be on equal terms--as, I trust, you would like to have it.

AMADEUS

There can be no talk of any struggle here. You misunderstand the actual
state of affairs in a manner that seems to me incomprehensible. For I
have no right to suppose that Cecilia has made any secret of the more
deep-lying reasons that have so far prevented us from considering a
dissolution of our marriage.

SIGISMUND

Certainly, I am aware of those reasons, but to me they don't by any
means seem sufficiently pressing--not even from your own viewpoint--to
exclude all thought of a divorce. And I am anxious to assure you that,
under all circumstances, I shall feel bound to treat those reasons with
the most profound respect.

AMADEUS

What do you mean?

SIGISMUND

You know, my dear Master, that the reverence I have for your art, even
if I am not always capable of grasping it, equals the admiration I feel
for the singing of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg. I know how much you two
mutually owe to each other, and how you--if I may say so--complement
each other musically. And it would never occur to me to put any
difficulties whatsoever in the way of your continued artistic
relationship. I am equally aware of the tenderness with which you
regard your child--for whom, by the way, as you probably know, I have a
great deal of devotion--and I can give you my word that the doors
leading to the quarters of little Peter will always stand open to you.

AMADEUS

In other words, you would have no objection to seeing the former
husband of your--of the wife--of the Princess Lohsenstein, admitted to
your house as a friend?

SIGISMUND

Any such objection would be regarded by me as an insult to your--to
my--to Mrs. Cecilia Adams-Ortenburg, as well as to you, my dear Master.
With those provisions made, the new arrangement, which I am taking the
liberty to suggest, would be more sensible and--if you'll allow me a
frank expression--more decent than the one to which all of us now have
to submit. I am convinced, my dear Master, that, when you have had
chance to consider the matter calmly, you will not only agree with me,
but you will be surprised that this simple solution of an unbearable
situation has not occurred to yourself long ago. As for me, I want to
add that, to me personally, this solution seems the only possible one.
Yes, I don't hesitate to say that I would leave the city, without hope
of ever seeing Mrs. Cecilia again, rather than keep on compromising her
in a manner that must be equally painful to all of us.

AMADEUS

Oh, has it come to that all at once? Well, if the matter doesn't
trouble Cecilia or me, I think _you_ might well regard it with
indifference. I hope you know that we have arranged our life to suit
ourselves, without the least regard for popular gossip, and that I
don't care at all whether or no Cecilia be compromised--as you call it.

SIGISMUND

I know you don't. But I feel differently. A lady to whom I'm so
devoted, and whom I respect so highly that I would lead her to the
altar, must appear spotless to God and man alike.

AMADEUS

You might have kept that in mind before. Your previous behavior has
given no indication of such a view. You have been waiting for my wife
in the immediate vicinity of the opera; you have been walking with her
for hours at a time; you have visited her in the country; you have
followed her to Berlin and come back here in her company....

SIGISMUND (_surprised_)

But it was in your power to stop all those things, if they didn't suit
you....

AMADEUS

Stop them ... because they didn't suit...? What has that to do with
what I am talking of?--I am not the person who has found this situation
unbearable and compromising.

SIGISMUND

Oh, I understand. Considering, however, that you have placed such
emphasis on your indifference to popular gossip, I must say that your
tone sounds pretty excited. But permit me to assure you that this
impresses me rather pleasantly. Bear in mind that I am merely human.
What young man in my place would have refrained from meeting the adored
one, when everything was rendered so easy for him? And nevertheless I
didn't visit the Pustertal or make the tour to Berlin without an inward
struggle--in fact, I have often had to struggle with myself while
waiting for her near the opera. And I cannot tell you how I have
suffered under the searching glances directed at Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg
and myself when we were having supper together after one of the Berlin
performances, for instance, or when we went for an afternoon drive in
the Tiergarten.[7] Not to speak of the painful impression my aunt's
remarks made on me when I called to bid her good-by! Really, I can't
find words to express it.

      [7] A large park in the center of Berlin, corresponding to
      the Central Park of New York or the Hyde Park of London.

AMADEUS

How much longer do you mean to keep up this remarkable comedy, my dear
Prince?

SIGISMUND (_drawing back_)

Do you mean....

AMADEUS

What in the world makes you appear before me in a part which I don't
know whether to call tasteless or foolhardy?

SIGISMUND

Sir!... Oh...! You think.... I see now.... And you imagine that I would
have crossed your threshold again under such circumstances?

AMADEUS

Why should _that_ particular thing not be imagined?

SIGISMUND

Later on we shall get back to what you think of me. But a third person
is concerned in this matter, and I am not going to stand....

AMADEUS

May I ask whether you have been equally angry with everyone who has
dared to question the virtue of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg?

SIGISMUND

You are at least the first one who has dared to question it to my face,
and the last one who may dare to do so unpunished.

AMADEUS

Do you think the punishment threatening the impertinent one in your
mind will be apt to restore the reputation of Cecilia? Do you think it
would put an end to the gossip if you, of all people, tried to champion
the honor of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg?

SIGISMUND

Who could, if not I?

AMADEUS

If it is _not_ a comedy you are now playing, then you haven't the right
even!

SIGISMUND

Do you mean to say that Cecilia is the only woman in the world who must
stand unprotected against _any_ slander?

AMADEUS

If you are telling the truth, Prince Sigismund, then there is only one
person in the world who has the right to protect Cecilia, and that
person am I.

SIGISMUND

Considering what has happened, I have excellent reason to think that
you will neither avail yourself of that right nor fulfill that duty.

AMADEUS

You are mistaken. And if you will take the trouble of returning home,
you will soon be convinced of your mistake.

SIGISMUND

What do you mean?

AMADEUS

I mean simply that two of my friends are now on their way to your house
on my behalf....

SIGISMUND

Well...?

AMADEUS

To demand reparation for what ... (_looking Sigismund straight in the
eye_) I believed you guilty of.

SIGISMUND (_takes a step back; a pause ensues during which they stare
hard at each other_) You have challenged.... (_Reaching out his hand_)
That's fine!

AMADEUS (_does not accept the proffered hand_)

SIGISMUND

But it's splendid! I can assure you that the whole matter now assumes
quite a different aspect. And, of course, I shall be at your disposal
just the same, if you insist.

AMADEUS (_draws a deep breath, looks long at Sigismund, and shakes his
head at last_) No, I won't any longer. (_He shakes hands with him, and
then begins walking to and fro, muttering to himself_) Cecilia....
Cecilia...! (_Returning to Sigismund and addressing him in a totally
different tone_) Won't you please be seated, Sigismund?

SIGISMUND

No, thank you.

AMADEUS (_feeling repelled and suspicious again_)

Just as you please.

SIGISMUND

Don't misunderstand me, please. But I suppose this ends our conference,
my dear Master. (_Looking around_) And yet I must admit that your rude
treatment has made me feel a great deal more at ease. Isn't that
strange? And in spite of the fact that, after this unexpected turn, my
hopes must be held practically--I beg your pardon!--completely disposed
of.... In spite of this I feel actually in much better spirits than I
have done for a long time. Even if I am not to have the happiness of
which I have foolishly dared to dream so long....

AMADEUS

Was it so very foolish?

SIGISMUND (_good-humoredly_)

Oh, yes. But this is at least an acceptable conclusion. (_Shaking his
head_) It seems queer! If I hadn't come here at this very moment, you
might never have learned--you might never have believed--might have
believed that Cecilia.... And one of us might perhaps--must perhaps
have.... (_He makes a gesture to complete the sentence_)

AMADEUS

It was indeed a strange coincidence that made you choose this
particular moment....

SIGISMUND

Coincidence, you say? Oh, no, there are no coincidences--as you will
discover sooner or later. (_Pause_) Well, good-by then, and give my
regards to Mrs. ... Adams ...

AMADEUS

You can safely call her Cecilia.

SIGISMUND

... and tell her, please, that she mustn't be angry with me for having
taken such a step without her knowledge. Of course, my going away won't
surprise her. When leaving her yesterday, I told her that I couldn't
continue this kind of existence.

AMADEUS

And she...? What did she say?

SIGISMUND (_hesitatingly_)

She....

AMADEUS (_excited again_)

She tried to keep you here...?

SIGISMUND

Yes.

AMADEUS

So that after all...!

SIGISMUND

Now she won't try any longer, my dear Master. (_With a wistful smile_)
I have served my purpose.

AMADEUS

What do you mean?

SIGISMUND

Oh, I can see now why she needed me--of course, you were not at all
aware of it!

AMADEUS

Why did she need you?

SIGISMUND

Simply and solely as a means of winning you back.

AMADEUS

What makes you think...?

SIGISMUND

What...? That she has succeeded.

AMADEUS

No, Sigismund--she hadn't lost me--in spite of all that had happened.
In fact, I feel as if I had rather lost her than she--me.

SIGISMUND

That's awfully kind of you. But now--God be with you!

AMADEUS (_with something like emotion_)

And when shall we see you again?

SIGISMUND

I don't know. Perhaps never.---Please don't imagine that I might take
my own life. I shall get over it, being still young.--Oh, my dear
Master, if things could only become what they used to be, so that I
could sit here at the fireplace while Cecilia was singing--or hammer
away at the piano after supper...!

AMADEUS

Don't be quite so modest, please! The fame of your piano playing has
reached Berlin even, I hear.

SIGISMUND

So she has told you that, too?!--But you see, dear Master, all that can
never come back--we could no longer feel at ease with each other....
So--never to meet again!

AMADEUS

Never.... Why? Perhaps I shall see you very soon alone. I am
also--going away.

SIGISMUND

I know. We were talking of it yesterday, in the dining car. You are to
conduct your--number-which-one is it now?

AMADEUS

The fourth.

SIGISMUND

So you have got that far already?--And where are you going anyhow?

AMADEUS

To the Rhine district first of all; then by way of Munich to
Italy--Venice, Milan, Rome.

SIGISMUND

Rome...? There we may possibly meet. But you'll have to pardon me for
not coming to your concerts. So far I have not been able to understand
your symphonies.... But I am sure I shall sometime! One does grow more
and more clever, and sorrow and experiences in particular have a
maturing influence.... "Now he's making fun of it," I suppose you are
thinking. But, really, I am not in a very humorous mood. Farewell, my
dear Master--and my most respectful compliments to your wife. (_He
goes out_)

AMADEUS (_walks back and forth; takes a few deep breaths, as if
relieved; goes out into the garden; returns; sits down at the piano and
plays a few improvisations; gets up and goes to the writing desk, where
he begins to look for something among the papers_) Where's that Solo?
... She's going to sing it, and I shall be present...! (_He seats
himself at the piano again, apparently in a very happy mood_)
Cecilia!... Cecilia!

CECILIA (_enters_)

AMADEUS (_rising_)

Ah, there you are at last, Cecilia!

CECELIA (_very calmly_)

Good-morning, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

A little late.

CECILIA (_smiling_)

Yes. (_She takes off her hat and goes to the mirror to arrange her
hair_)

AMADEUS

What made you get out so early?

CECILIA

Various things I had to attend to.

AMADEUS

And may one ask...?

CECILIA

One may.--Look here, what I have got for you. (_She takes a letter from
a small bag_)

AMADEUS

What's that? (_He takes it_) What...? My letter to Philine...! Did you
go to her, Cecilia?

CECILIA

Well, I felt a little nervous about it. Now I think it was rather silly
of me.

AMADEUS

And how...?

CECILIA

Oh, the simplest thing in the world! I asked her for it, and she gave
it to me. It was lying in an open drawer in her writing desk--with
others. I think you can call yourself lucky.

AMADEUS

Cecilia! (_He tears the letter to pieces and throws these into the
fireplace_)

CECILIA

Well, you would never have made up your mind to demand it of her, and
that would have kept me in a state of irritation. I can't have anything
like that on my mind when I want to work.--And now that's settled.
(_She turns away_) Then I went to the opera, too. I have had a talk
with the Director. He's going to indorse my request to be set free.

AMADEUS

Your request to be set free...?

CECILIA

Yes, I shall go to Berlin on the first of January.

AMADEUS

But, Cecilia, we haven't talked it over yet....

CECILIA

What's the use of postponing a thing that's already settled in my own
mind?--You know I never like to do that.

AMADEUS

But it means a whole year of separation!

CECILIA

To start with. But I think it might be just as well to prepare
ourselves for a still longer period.

AMADEUS

Do you mean to leave me, Cecilia?!

CECILIA

What else can I do, Amadeus? That ought to be as clear to you as it is
to me.

AMADEUS

So it would have been a little while ago, Cecilia. But I have come to
see our future in a different light.... Cecilia ... Sigismund has been
here!

CECILIA

Sigismund?!... You have talked with him?... What did he want?

AMADEUS

What did he want...? Your hand.

CECILIA

And you refused...?

AMADEUS

He is sending you his farewell greetings through me, Cecilia.

CECILIA

So that's what has put you in such a good humor all at once! (_Pause_)
And if he hadn't come here?

AMADEUS

If he hadn't come here....

CECILIA

Speak out, please!

AMADEUS (_remains silent_)

CECILIA

You didn't mean to ... to fight him?

AMADEUS

I did. Albert was on his way to him at the time.

CECILIA

What vanity, Amadeus!

AMADEUS

No, not vanity, Cecilia. I love you.

CECILIA (_remains wholly unresponsive_)

AMADEUS

You can't guess, of course, what took place within me while his words
were gradually bringing home the truth to me! Once more the doors of
heaven have been thrown open to me!

CECILIA

The only thing you forget is that they must remain closed to me
forever.

AMADEUS

Don't say that, Cecilia. What has happened to me in the past seems so
very insignificant, after all.

CECILIA

Insignificant, you say?--And if it had happened to me, it would have
been so significant that people should have had to kill or be killed on
that account? How can you think then, that I might get over it so
easily?

AMADEUS

How can I...? Because you have proved it already. You knew just what
had happened, and yet you became mine again.... You knew that I had
been faithless, while you had kept your faith, and yet....

CECILIA

You say that I have kept my faith?--No, I haven't! And even if I should
seem faithful to you, I have long ago ceased to be so in my own mind.
_I_ know the desires that have burned within me.... _I_ know how often
my body has trembled and yearned in the presence of some man.... And
what I told you last night--that I am waiting with wide-open arms, full
of longings and expectations--that's true, Amadeus--no less true than
it is that I am standing face to face with you now.

AMADEUS

If that be true, what has kept you from satisfying all your
longings--you, who have been as free as I have?

CECILIA

I am a woman, Amadeus. And we seem to be like that. Something makes us
hesitate even when we have already made up our minds.

AMADEUS

And because you seemed guilty in your own mind, you remained silent?...
And for no other reason have you left me--me, whose sufferings you
might have relieved by a single word--to believe you as guilty as
myself?

CECILIA

Perhaps....

AMADEUS

And how long did you mean to let me go on believing that?

CECILIA

Until it became true, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

But there has been enough of it now, Cecilia. It will never become true
... never after this.

CECILIA

Where do you get that idea, Amadeus? It is going to be true. Do you
think, perhaps, that all this was meant as a kind of ordeal for you? Do
you think I was playing a childish comedy in order to punish you, and
that now, when you have discovered the truth prematurely, I shall sink
into your arms and declare everything right again? Have you really
imagined that everything could now be forgotten, and that we might
resume our marriage relations at the exact point where they were
interrupted? How can you possibly have wished that such might be the
case--so that our marriage would be like thousands of others, where
both deceive each other, and become reconciled, and deceive each other
again--just as the moment's whim happens to move them?

AMADEUS

We have neither deceived each other, nor become reconciled--we have
been free, and have merely found each other again.

CECILIA

Each other, you say?... As if that were possible! What is it then, that
has made me seem so desirable to you all at once? Not the fact that I
am Cecilia--oh, no! But the fact that I seem to have come back another
woman. And have I really become yours again? Not at all! Not unless you
have grown so modest all at once that you can be satisfied with a
happiness that might have fallen to somebody else perhaps, if he had
merely chanced to be on hand at that particular moment.

AMADEUS (_shrinking back_)

But even if last night be sacrificed to this fixed idea of yours,
Cecilia--it is daylight now--we are awake--and in this moment of clear
light you must feel, no less than I, that we love each other,
Cecilia--love as we have never loved before.

CECILIA

This moment might prove deceptive--and I am sure it would. No other
moment would be more apt to prove such. Do you think those many moments
in which we felt our tenderness gradually ebbing away--those many
moments when we felt the lure of other loves--do you think them less
worthy of consideration than this one? The only thing urging us
together now is our fear of the final leave-taking. And our feelings at
this moment make a pretty poor sample upon which to base an eternity. I
don't trust them. What has happened once, may ... nay, must repeat
itself--to-morrow--or two years from now--or five ... in a more
indiscreet manner, perhaps, or in a manner more tragical--but certainly
in a manner to be much more regretted.

AMADEUS

Oh, no--never again! Now--after what I have felt and experienced
lately, I can vouch for myself.

CECILIA

I don't feel equally certain of myself, Amadeus.

AMADEUS

That doesn't scare me, Cecilia, for now I'm prepared to fight for
you--now I'm worthy and capable of fighting for you. Hereafter you
shall never more be left unprotected as you were in the past--my
tenderness will guard you.

CECILIA

But I don't want to be guarded! I shall no longer permit you to guard
me! And I can no more give you any promises than I care to accept
yours.

AMADEUS

And if I should forgo them myself--if I should risk it on a mere
uncertainty?

CECILIA

That's more than I dare--whether the risk concern you or myself ...
more than I would risk even with certainty in mind. (_She turns away
from him_)

AMADEUS

Then I cannot possibly understand you, Cecilia. What is it you want to
make us pay for so dearly--yes, both of us? Is it our guilt or our
happiness?

CECILIA

Why should either one of them be paid for? What's the use of such a
word between us? Neither one of us has done anything that requires
atonement. Neither one of us has any right to reproach the other one.
Both of us have been free, and each one has used his freedom in
accordance with his own desire and ability. I think nothing has
happened but what must happen. We have trusted each other too much--or
too little. We were neither made to love each other faithfully forever
nor to maintain a pure friendship. Others have become resigned--I
can't--and you mustn't allow yourself, Amadeus. Our experiment has
failed. Let us admit our disillusionment. That can be borne. But I have
no curiosity to find how it tastes when everything comes to an end in
sheer loathing.

AMADEUS

Comes to an end, you say?--But that can't be possible, Cecilia! It
can't be possible that we should really leave each other--part from
each other like strangers! We are still face to face--each of us can
feel the closeness of the other one--and that's why you cannot yet
realize what it would mean. Consider all the things that might come
into your life as well as into mine during a separation of that
kind--so prolonged and so void of responsibility--things that now have
no place in your imagination even, and for which there could be no
reparation.

CECILIA

Could they be worse than what has already befallen me? Faithfulness to
each other in the ordinary sense matters least of all, I should think.
And we could probably more easily find our way back to each other
sometime from almost any other experience than that adventure of last
night, or from a moment of self-deception like this one.

AMADEUS

Find our way back, you say...?

CECILIA

It's also possible that, after a couple of years, we won't care to do
so--that everything may be over between us to such an extent that we
cannot imagine it now. That's possible, I say. But if we stayed
together now, everything would be over within the next few seconds. For
then we should be no better than all those we have despised
hitherto--the one difference being that we had arranged ourselves more
comfortably than the rest.

ALBERT (_entering_)

I beg your pardon for coming in unannounced like this, but....

CECILIA (_withdraws toward the background_)

AMADEUS (_going to meet Albert_)

Yes, I know--you didn't find the Prince--he has been here himself.

ALBERT

What does that mean?

AMADEUS

That there was no reason why I should want to kill him.

ALBERT

I see.--Well, I'll be hanged if I haven't suspected something of the
kind myself!--Then I suppose everything is once more in perfect order
in this house?

AMADEUS

Yes, in perfect order. When I return, Cecilia will be in Berlin, and I
shall not follow her.

ALBERT

What? Then you are going to ask for a separation after all?

CECILIA (_approaching them_)

No, we are not going to ask for a separation. We'll just separate.

ALBERT

What?... (_He looks from one to the other; pause_) Really I like that.
Indeed, I do. I think both of you are splendid--but especially you,
Cecilia--and, of course, there is nothing else left for you to do now.

PETER (_enters, carrying some of his puppets_)

Papa! Mamma! I can play theater beautifully. Won't you come and look?
Oh, please come!

CECILIA (_strokes his hair_)

AMADEUS (_remains standing at some distance from them_)

ALBERT

Well, isn't this just like life--the life you are always talking of!
This should be the moment when you had to fall into each others' arms
with absolute certainty, if you had had the luck to be imaginatively
created--that is, not by me, of course.

CECILIA

No, the boy means too much to both of us to make that possible--don't
you think so, Amadeus?

AMADEUS (_losing control of himself after a glance at Peter_) All at
once to be alone in the world again--it's a thought I can hardly face!

CECILIA

But we shall be somewhere in that world, you know--your child, and the
mother of your child. We are not parting as enemies, after all....
(_With a smile_) I am even ready to come here and sing that Solo of
yours--although we shall not be able to study it together.

AMADEUS

It's more than I can bear...!

CECILIA

It will have to be borne. We must work--both of us.

ALBERT (_to Amadeus_)

Yes, and it remains to be seen what effect a real sorrow like this may
have on you. It's just what you have lacked so far. I expect you'll get
a lot out of it. In a sense, I might almost envy you.

PETER

What's the matter?... Look here, mamma, how they jump about! That's the
king, and this is the devil.

ALBERT

Come on, sonny, and play your piece to _me_. But I insist that the
hero must either marry in the end, or be carried off by the devil. In
either case you can go home quite satisfied when the curtain drops.
(_He goes out with Peter_)

CECILIA (_after a glance at Amadeus, starts to follow them_)

AMADEUS

Cecilia!

CECILIA (_turns back_)

AMADEUS (_passionately_)

Why didn't you show me the door, Cecilia, when you knew...?

CECILIA

Well, _did_ I know?... I have loved you, Amadeus. And all I wanted,
perhaps, was that the inevitable end should be worthy of our love--that
we should part after a final moment of bliss, and with a pang.

AMADEUS

With a pang, you say...? Do you really feel anything like that?

CECILIA (_coming close to him and speaking very gently_)

Why don't you try to understand me, Amadeus? I feel it just as keenly
as you do. But there is another thing I feel more strongly than you,
and it is well for us both that I do. It is this, Amadeus, that we have
been so much to each other that we must keep the memory of it pure. If
that was nothing but an adventure last night, then we have never been
worthy of our past happiness.... If it was a farewell, then we may
expect new happiness in the future ... perhaps.... (_She starts toward
the garden_)

AMADEUS

And that's our reward, then, for having always been honest to each
other!

CECILIA (_turning toward him again_)

Honest, you call it...? Have we always been that?

AMADEUS

Cecilia!

CECILIA

No, I can't think so any longer. Let everything else have been
honest--but that both of us should have resigned ourselves so promptly
when you told me of your passion for the Countess and I confessed my
affection for Sigismund--that was not honest. If each of us had then
flung his scorn, his bitterness, his despair into the face of the other
one, instead of trying to appear self-controlled and superior--then we
should have been honest--which, as it was, we were not. (_She walks
across the veranda outside and disappears into the garden_)

AMADEUS (_to himself_)

All right--then we were not honest. (_After a pause_) And suppose we
had been?! (_For a moment he seems to consider; then he goes to the
writing desk and puts the manuscript music lying there into the little
handbag; after a glance into the garden, he goes into his own room,
returning at once with his hat and overcoat; then he opens the handbag
again and picks out a manuscript, which he places on the piano; then he
goes out rapidly, taking hat, overcoat and handbag with him; a brief
pause follows_)

CECILIA (_enters and notices that the handbag is gone; she goes quickly
into Amadeus' room, but returns immediately; she crosses the room to
the main entrance and remains standing there, opening her arms widely
at first, and then letting them sink down again; going to the piano,
she catches sight of the manuscript lying there and picks it up; while
looking at it, she sinks down on the piano stool_)

PETER (appears on the veranda with Albert and calls from there) Mother!

CECILIA (_does not hear him_)

ALBERT (_observing that Cecilia is alone and sunk in grief, takes Peter
with him into the garden again_)

CECILIA (_begins to weep softly and lets her head sink down on the
piano_)


CURTAIN




COUNTESS MIZZIE

OR

THE FAMILY REUNION

(_Komtesse Mizzi oder der Familientag_)

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT


1907




PERSONS


COUNT ARPAD PAZMANDY

MIZZIE                    } His daughter

PRINCE EGON RAVENSTEIN

LOLO LANGHUBER

PHILIP

PROFESSOR WINDHOFER

WASNER

THE GARDENER

THE VALET




COUNTESS MIZZIE


_The garden of Count Arpad. In the background, tall iron fence. Near
the middle of this, but a little more to the right, there is a gate. In
the foreground, at the left, appears the façade of the two-storied
villa, which used to be an imperial hunting lodge about 180 years ago
and was remodeled about thirty years ago. A narrow terrace runs along
the main floor, which is raised above the ground. Three wide stairs
lead from the terrace down to the garden. French doors, which are
standing open, lead from the terrace into the drawing-room. The windows
of the upper floor are of ordinary design. Above that floor appears a
small balcony, to which access is had through a dormer window. This
balcony holds a profusion of flowering plants. A garden seat, a small
table and an armchair stand under a tree at the right, in the
foreground._


COUNT (_enters from the right; he is an elderly man with gray
mustaches, but must still be counted decidedly good-looking; his
bearing and manners indicate the retired officer; he wears a riding
suit and carries a crop_)

VALET (_entering behind the Count_)

At what time does Your Grace desire to have dinner to-day?

COUNT (_who speaks with the laconism affected by his former colleagues,
and who, at that particular moment, is engaged in lighting a huge
cigar_) At two.

VALET

And when is the carriage to be ready, Your Grace?

MIZZIE[1] (_appearing on the balcony with a palette and a bunch of
brushes in one hand, calls down to her father_) Good morning, papa.

      [1] Diminutive of Maria.

COUNT

Morning, Mizzie.

MIZZIE

You left me all alone for breakfast again, papa. Where have you been
anyhow?

COUNT

Most everywhere. Rode out by way of Mauer and Rodaun.[2] Perfectly
splendid day. And what are you doing? At work already? Is there
anything new to be seen soon?

      [2] Small towns south of Vienna. The subsequent reference to
      the Tiergarten shows that the Pazmandy residence must be in
      the little suburb of Lainz, at the extreme southwestern corner
      of Vienna. Near the Tiergarten there is actually an imperial
      hunting lodge, which the playwright seems to have appropriated
      for his purpose.

MIZZIE

Yes, indeed, papa. Nothing but flowers though, as usual.

COUNT

Isn't the professor coming to see you to-day?

MIZZIE

Yes, but not until one.

COUNT

Well, don't let me interrupt you.

MIZZIE (_throws a kiss to him and disappears from the balcony_)

COUNT (_to the valet_)

What are you waiting for? Oh, the carriage. I'm not going out again
to-day. Joseph can take a holiday. Or wait a moment. (_He calls up to
the balcony_) Say, Mizzie....

MIZZIE (_reappears on the balcony_)

COUNT

Sorry to disturb you again. Do you think you'll want the carriage
to-day?

MIZZIE

No, thank you, papa. I can think of nothing.... No, thanks. (_She
disappears again_)

COUNT

So Joseph can do what he pleases this afternoon. That's--oh, see that
Franz gives the nag a good rubbing down. We got a little excited this
morning--both of us.

VALET (_goes out_)

COUNT (_sits down on the garden seat, picks up a newspaper from the
table and begins to read_)

GARDENER (_enters_)

Good morning, Your Grace.

COUNT

Morning, Peter. What's up?

GARDENER

With Your Grace's permission, I have just cut the tea roses.

COUNT

Why all that lot?

GARDENER

The bush is full up. It ain't wise, Your Grace, to leave 'em on the
stem much longer. If maybe Your Grace could find some use....

COUNT

Haven't got any. Why do you stand there looking at me? I'm not going to
the city. I won't need any flowers. Why don't you put them in some of
those vases and things that are standing about in there? Quite the
fashion nowadays, isn't it? (_He takes the bunch of flowers from the
gardener and inhales their fragrance while he seems to be pondering
something_) Wasn't that a carriage that stopped here?

GARDENER

That's His Highness' pair of blacks. I know 'em by their step.

COUNT

Thanks very much then. (_He hands back the roses_)

PRINCE (_comes in by the gate_)

COUNT (_goes to meet him_)

GARDENER

Good morning, Your Highness.

PRINCE

Hello, Peter.

GARDENER (_goes out toward the right_)

PRINCE (_wears a light-colored Summer suit; is fifty-five, but doesn't
look it; tall and slender; his manner of speech suggests the diplomat,
who is as much at home in French as in his native tongue_)

COUNT

Delighted, old chap. How goes it?

PRINCE

Thanks. Splendid day.

COUNT (_offers him one of his gigantic cigars_)

PRINCE

No, thank you, not before lunch. Only one of my own cigarettes, if you
permit. (_He takes a cigarette from his case and lights it_)

COUNT

So you've found time to drop in at last. Do you know how long you
haven't been here? Three weeks.

PRINCE (_glancing toward the balcony_)

Really that long?

COUNT

What is it that makes you so scarce?

PRINCE

You mustn't mind. But you are right, of course. And even to-day I come
only to say good-by.

COUNT

What--good-by?

PRINCE

I shall be off to-morrow.

COUNT

You're going away? Where?

PRINCE

The sea shore. And you--have you made any plans yet?

COUNT

I haven't given a thought to it yet--this year.

PRINCE

Well, of course, it's wonderful right here--with your enormous park.
But you have to go somewhere later in the Summer?

COUNT

Don't know yet. But it's all one.

PRINCE

What's wrong now?

COUNT

Oh, my dear old friend, it's going downhill.

PRINCE

How? That's a funny way of talking, Arpad. What do you mean by
downhill?

COUNT

One grows old, Egon.

PRINCE

Yes, and gets accustomed to it.

COUNT

What do you know about it--you who are five years younger?

PRINCE

Six almost. But at fifty-five the springtime of life is pretty well
over. Well--one gets resigned to it.

COUNT

You have always been something of a philosopher, old chap.

PRINCE

Anyhow, I can't see what's the matter with you. You look fine. (_Seats
himself; frequently during this scene he glances up at the balcony;
pause_)

COUNT (_with sudden decision_)

Have you heard the latest? She's going to marry.

PRINCE

Who's going to marry?

COUNT

Do you have to ask? Can't you guess?

PRINCE

Oh, I see. Thought it might be Mizzie. And that would also.... So Lolo
is going to marry.

COUNT

She is.

PRINCE

But that's hardly the "latest."

COUNT

Why not?

PRINCE

It's what she has promised, or threatened, or whatever you choose to
call it, these last three years.

COUNT

Three, you say? May just as well say ten. Or eighteen. Yes, indeed. In
fact, since the very start of this affair between her and me. It has
always been a fixed idea with her. "If ever a decent man asks me to
marry him, I'll get off the stage _stante pede_." It was almost the
first thing she told me. You have heard it yourself a couple of times.
And now he's come--the one she has been waiting for--and she's to get
married.

PRINCE

Hope he's decent at least.

COUNT

Yes, you're very witty! But is that your only way of showing sympathy
in a serious moment like this?

PRINCE

Now! (_He puts his hand on the Count's arm_)

COUNT

Well, I assure you, it's a serious moment. It's no small matter when
you have lived twenty years with somebody--in a _near_-marital state;
when you have been spending your best years with her, and really shared
her joys and sorrows--until you have come to think at last, that it's
never going to end--and then she comes to you one fine day and says:
"God bless you, dear, but I'm going to get wedded on the sixteenth...."
Oh, damn the whole story! (_He gets up and begins to walk about_) And I
can't blame her even. Because I understand perfectly. So what can you
do about it?

PRINCE

You've always been much too kind, Arpad.

COUNT

Nothing kind about it. Why shouldn't I understand? The clock has struck
thirty-eight for her. And she has said adieu to her profession. So that
anybody can sympathize with her feeling that there is no fun to go on
as a ballet dancer retired on half pay and mistress on active service
to Count Pazmandy, who'll be nothing but an old fool either, as time
runs along. Of course, I have been prepared for it. And I haven't
blamed her a bit--'pon my soul!

PRINCE

So you have parted as perfect friends?

COUNT

Certainly. In fact, our leave-taking was quite jolly. 'Pon my soul, I
never suspected at first how tough it would prove. It's only by degrees
it has come home to me. And that's quite a remarkable story, I must
say....

PRINCE

What's remarkable about it?

COUNT

I suppose I had better tell you all about it. On my way home that last
time--one night last week--I had a feeling all of a sudden--I don't
know how to express it ... tremendously relieved, that's what I felt.
Now you are a free man, I said to myself. Don't have to drive to
Mayerhof Street[3] every night God grants you, merely to dine and
chatter with Lolo, or just sit there listening to her. Had come to be
pretty boresome at times, you know. And then the drive home in the
middle of the night, and, on top of it, to be called to account when
you happened to be dining with a friend in the Casino or taking your
daughter to the opera or a theater. To cut it short--I was in high
feather going home that night. My head was full of plans already....
No, nothing of the kind you have in mind! But plans for traveling, as I
have long wanted to do--to Africa, or India, like a free man.... That
is, I should have brought my little girl along, of course.... Yes, you
may well laugh at my calling her a little girl still.

      [3] A street in the district of Wieden, near one of the
      principal shopping districts and leading to the great
      Theresian Riding Academy.

PRINCE

Nothing of the kind. Mizzie looks exactly like a young girl. Like quite
a young one. Especially in that Florentine straw hat she was wearing a
while ago.

COUNT

Like a young girl, you say! And yet she's exactly of an age with Lolo.
You know, of course! Yes, we're growing old, Egon. Every one of us. Oh,
yes.... And lonely. But really, I didn't notice it to begin with. It
was only by degrees it got hold of me. The first days after that
farewell feast were not so very bad. But the day before yesterday, and
yesterday, as the time approached when I used to start for Mayerhof
Street.... And when Peter brought in those roses a moment ago--for
Lolo, of course--why, then it seemed pretty plain to me that I had
become a widower for the second time in my life. Yes, my dear fellow.
And this time forever. Now comes the loneliness. It has come already.

PRINCE

But that's nonsense--loneliness!

COUNT

Pardon me, but you can't understand. Your way of living has been so
different from mine. You have not let yourself be dragged into anything
new since your poor wife died ten years ago. Into nothing of a serious
nature, I mean. And besides, you have a profession, in a sense.

PRINCE

Have I?

COUNT

Well, as a member of the Upper House.

PRINCE

Oh, I see.

COUNT

And twice you have almost been put into the cabinet.

PRINCE

Yes, almost....

COUNT

Who knows? Perhaps you will break in some time. And I'm all done. Had
myself retired three years ago in the bargain--like a fool.

PRINCE (_with a smile_)

That's why you are a free man now. Perfectly free. With the world open
before you.

COUNT

And no desire to do a thing, old man. That's the whole story. Since
that time I haven't gone to the Casino even. Do you know what I have
been doing the last few nights? I have sat under that tree with
Mizzie--playing domino.

PRINCE

Well, don't you see? That's not to be lonely. When you have a daughter,
and particularly such a sensible one, with whom you have always got on
so well.... What does she say about your staying at home nights anyhow?

COUNT

Nothing. Besides, it has happened before, quite frequently. She says
nothing at all. And what could she say? It seems to me she has never
noticed anything. Do you think she can have known about Lolo?

PRINCE (_laughing_)

Man alive!

COUNT

Of course. Yes, I know. Of course, she must have known. But then, I was
still almost a young man when her mother died. I hope it hasn't hurt
her feelings.

PRINCE

No, _that_ wouldn't. (_Casually_) But being left so much alone may have
troubled her at times, I should think.

COUNT

Has she complained of me? There's no reason why you shouldn't tell me.

PRINCE

I am not in her confidence. She has never complained to me. And,
heavens, it may never have troubled her at all. She has so long been
accustomed to this quiet, retired life.

COUNT

Yes, and she seems to have a taste for it, too. And then she used to go
out a good deal until a few years ago. Between you and me, Egon, as
late as three years ago--no, two years ago--I still thought she might
make the plunge after all.

PRINCE

What plunge? Oh, I see....

COUNT

If you could only guess what kind of men have been paying attention to
her quite recently....

PRINCE

That's only natural.

COUNT

But she won't. She absolutely won't. What I mean is, that she can't be
feeling so very lonely ... otherwise she would ... as she has had
plenty of opportunity....

PRINCE

Certainly. It's her own choice. And then Mizzie has an additional
resource in her painting. It's a case like that of my blessed aunt, the
late Fanny Hohenstein, who went on writing books to a venerable old age
and never wanted to hear a word about marriage.

COUNT

It may have some connection with her artistic aspirations. At times I'm
inclined to look for some psychological connection between all these
morbid tendencies.

PRINCE

Morbid, you say? But you can't possibly call Mizzie morbid.

COUNT

Oh, it's all over now. But there was a time....

PRINCE

I have always found Mizzie very sensible and very well balanced. After
all, painting roses and violets doesn't prove a person morbid by any
means.

COUNT

You don't think me such a fool that her violets and roses could make me
believe.... But if you remember when she was still a young girl....

PRINCE

What then?

COUNT

Oh, that story at the time Fedor Wangenheim wanted to marry her.

PRINCE

O Lord, are you still thinking of that? Besides, there was no truth in
it. And that was eighteen or twenty years ago almost.

COUNT

Her wanting to join the Ursuline Sisters rather than marry that nice
young fellow, to whom she was as good as engaged already--and then up
and away from home all at once--you might call that morbid, don't you
think?

PRINCE

What has put you in mind of that ancient story to-day?

COUNT

Ancient, you say? I feel as if it happened last year only. It was at
the very time when my own affair with Lolo had just begun. Ah, harking
back like that...! And if anybody had foretold me at the time...! You
know, it really began like any ordinary adventure. In the same
reckless, crazy way. Yes, crazy--that's it. Not that I want to make
myself out worse than I am, but it was lucky for all of us that my poor
wife had already been dead a couple of years. Lolo seemed ... my fate.
Mistress and wife at the same time. Because she's such a wonderful
cook, you know. And the way she makes you comfortable. And always in
good humor--never a cross word.... Well, it's all over. Don't let us
talk of it.... (_Pause_) Tell me, won't you stay for lunch? And I must
call Mizzie.

PRINCE (_checking him_)

Wait--I have something to tell you. (_Casually, almost facetiously_) I
want you to be prepared.

COUNT

Why? For what?

PRINCE

There is a young man coming here to be introduced.

COUNT (_astonished_)

What? A young man?

PRINCE

If you have no objection.

COUNT

Why should I object? But who is he?

PRINCE

Dear Arpad--he's my son.

COUNT (_greatly surprised_)

What?

PRINCE

Yes, my son. You see, I didn't want--as I'm going away....

COUNT

Your son? You've got a son?

PRINCE

I have.

COUNT

Well, did you ever...! You have got a young man who is your son--or
rather, you have got a son who is a young man. How old?

PRINCE

Seventeen.

COUNT

Seventeen! And you haven't told me before! No, Egon ... Egon! And tell
me ... seventeen...? My dear chap, then your wife was still alive....

PRINCE

Yes, my wife was still alive at the time. You see, Arpad, one gets
mixed up in all sorts of strange affairs.

COUNT

'Pon my soul, so it seems!

PRINCE

And thus, one fine day, you find yourself having a son of seventeen
with whom you go traveling.

COUNT

So it's with him you are going away?

PRINCE

I am taking that liberty.

COUNT

No, I couldn't possibly tell you.... Why, he has got a son of
seventeen!... (_Suddenly he grasps the hand of the Prince, and then
puts his arms about him_) And if I may ask ... the mother of that young
gentleman, your son ... how it happens ... as you have started telling
me....

PRINCE

She's dead long ago. Died a couple of weeks after he was born. A mere
slip of a girl.

COUNT

Of the common people?

PRINCE

Oh, of course. But a charming creature. I may as well tell you
everything about it. That is, as far as I can recall it myself. The
whole story seems like a dream. And if it were not for the boy....

COUNT

And all that you tell me only now! To-day only--just before the boy is
coming here!

PRINCE

You never can tell how a thing like that may be received.

COUNT

Tut, tut! Received, you say...? Did you believe perhaps ... I'm
something of a philosopher myself, after all.... And you call yourself
a friend of mine!

PRINCE

Not a soul has known it--not a single soul in the whole world.

COUNT

But you might have told me. Really, I don't see how you could.... Come
now, it wasn't quite nice.

PRINCE

I wanted to wait and see how the boy developed. You never can tell....

COUNT

Of course, with a mixed pedigree like that.... But you seem reassured
now?

PRINCE

Oh, yes, he's a fine fellow.

COUNT (_embracing him again_)

And where has he been living until now?

PRINCE

His earliest years were spent a good way from Vienna--in the Tirol.

COUNT

With peasants?

PRINCE

No, with a small landowner. Then he went to school for some time at
Innsbruck. And during the last few years I have been sending him to the
preparatory school at Krems.[4]

      [4] Innsbruck is the capital of the province of Tirol. Krems
      is a small city on the Donau, not so very far from Vienna,
      having a fine high school or "gymnasium." The idea is, of
      course, that as the boy grew up, his father became more and
      more interested and wanted to have him within easier reach.

COUNT

And you have seen him frequently?

PRINCE

Of course.

COUNT

And what's _his_ idea of it anyhow?

PRINCE

Up to a few days ago he thought that he had lost both his parents--his
father as well--and that I was a friend of his dead father.

MIZZIE (_appearing on the balcony_)

Good morning, Prince Egon.

PRINCE

Good morning, Mizzie.

COUNT

Well, won't you come down a while?

MIZZIE

Oh, if I am not in the way.... (_She disappears_)

COUNT

And what are we going to say to Mizzie?

PRINCE

I prefer to leave that to you, of course. But as I am adopting the boy
anyhow, and as a special decree by His Majesty will probably enable him
to assume my name in a few days ...

COUNT (_surprised_)

What?

PRINCE

... I think it would be wiser to tell Mizzie the truth at once.

COUNT

Certainly, certainly--and why shouldn't we? Seeing that you are
adopting him.... It's really funny--but, you see, a daughter, even when
she gets to be an old maid, is nothing but a little girl to her father.

MIZZIE (_appears; she is thirty-seven, but still very attractive; wears
a Florentine straw hat and a white dress; she gives the Count a kiss
before holding out her hand to the Prince_) Well, how do you do, Prince
Egon? We don't see much of you these days.

PRINCE

Thank you.--Have you been very industrious?

MIZZIE

Painting a few flowers.

COUNT

Why so modest, Mizzie? (_To the Prince_) Professor Windhofer told her
recently that she could safely exhibit. Won't have to fear comparison
with Mrs. Wisinger-Florian herself.[5]

      [5] "Neben der Wiesinger-Florian." The name is slightly
      misspelt in the German text. It is that of Mrs. Olga
      Wisinger-Florian, a well-known Viennese painter of floral
      pieces, whose work is represented in many of the big galleries
      in Europe. She was born in 1844, made her name in the early
      eighties, and is still living.

MIZZIE

That's so, perhaps. But I have no ambition of that kind.

PRINCE

I'm rather against exhibiting, too. It puts you at the mercy of any
newspaper scribbler.

MIZZIE

Well, how about the members of the Upper House--at least when they make
speeches?

COUNT

And how about all of us? Is there anything into which they don't poke
their noses?

PRINCE

Yes, thanks to prevailing tendencies, there are people who would
blackguard your pictures merely because you happen to be a countess,
Mizzie.

COUNT

Yes, you're right indeed.

VALET (_entering_)

Your Grace is wanted on the telephone.

COUNT

Who is it? What is it about?

VALET

There is somebody who wishes to speak to Your Grace personally.

COUNT

You'll have to excuse me a moment. (_To the Prince, in a lowered
voice_) Tell her now--while I am away. I prefer it. (_He goes out
followed by the valet_)

MIZZIE

Somebody on the telephone--do you think papa can have fallen into new
bondage already? (_She seats herself_)

PRINCE

Into _new_ bondage, you say?

MIZZIE

Lolo used always to telephone about this time. But it's all over with
her now. You know it, don't you?

PRINCE

I just heard it.

MIZZIE

And what do you think of it, Prince Egon. I am rather sorry, to tell
the truth. If he tries anything new now, I'm sure he'll burn his
fingers. And I do fear there is something in the air. You see, he's
still too young for his years.

PRINCE

Yes, that's so.

MIZZIE (_turning so that she faces the Prince_)

And by the way, you haven't been here for ever so long.

PRINCE

You haven't missed me very much ... I fear.... Your art ... and heaven
knows what else....

MIZZIE (_without affectation_)

Nevertheless....

PRINCE

Awfully kind of you.... (_Pause_)

MIZZIE

What makes you speechless to-day? Tell me something. Isn't there
anything new in the world at all?

PRINCE (_as if he had thought of it only that moment_)

Our son has just passed his examinations for the university.

MIZZIE (_slightly perturbed_)

I hope you have more interesting news to relate.

PRINCE

More interesting....

MIZZIE

Or news, at least, that concerns me more closely than the career of a
strange young man.

PRINCE

I have felt obliged, however, to keep you informed about the more
important stages in the career of this young man. When he was about to
be confirmed, I took the liberty to report the fact to you. But, of
course, we don't have to talk any more about it.

MIZZIE

He pulled through, I hope?

PRINCE

With honors.

MIZZIE

The stock seems to be improving.

PRINCE

Let us hope so.

MIZZIE

And now the great moment is approaching, I suppose.

PRINCE

What moment?

MIZZIE

Have you forgotten already? As soon as he had passed his examinations,
you meant to reveal yourself as his father.

PRINCE

So I have done already.

MIZZIE

You--have told him already?

PRINCE

I have.

MIZZIE (_after a pause, without looking at him_)

And his mother--is dead...?

PRINCE

She is--so far.

MIZZIE

And forever. (_Rising_)

PRINCE

As you please.

[_The Count enters, followed by the valet._

VALET

But it was Your Grace who said that Joseph could be free.

COUNT

Yes, yes, it's all right.

VALET (_goes out_)

MIZZIE

What's the matter, papa?

COUNT

Nothing, my girl, nothing. I wanted to get somewhere quick--and that
infernal Joseph.... If you don't mind, Mizzie, I want to have a few
words with Egon.... (_To the Prince_) Do you know, she has been trying
to get me before. I mean Lolo. But she couldn't get the number. And now
Laura telephones--oh, well, that's her maid, you know--that she has
just started on her way here.

PRINCE

Here? To see you?

COUNT

Yes.

PRINCE

But why?

COUNT

Oh, I think I can guess. You see, she has never put her foot in this
place, of course, and I have been promising her all the time that she
could come here once to have a look at the house and the park before
she married. Her standing grievance has always been that I couldn't
receive her here. On account of Mizzie, you know. Which she has
understood perfectly well. And to sneak her in here some time when
Mizzie was not at home--well, for that kind of thing I have never had
any taste. And so she sends me a telephone message, that the marriage
is set for the day after to-morrow, and that she is on her way here
now.

PRINCE

Well, what of it? She is not coming here as your mistress, and so I
can't see that you have any reason for embarrassment.

COUNT

But to-day of all days--and with your son due at any moment.

PRINCE

You can leave him to me.

COUNT

But I don't want it. I'm going to meet the carriage and see if I can
stop her. It makes me nervous. You'll have to ask your son to excuse me
for a little while. Good-by, Mizzie. I'll be back right away. (_He goes
out_)

PRINCE

Miss Lolo has sent word that she's coming to call, and your papa
doesn't like it.

MIZZIE

What's that? Has Lolo sent word? Is she coming here?

PRINCE

Your father has been promising her a chance to look over the place
before she was married. And now he has gone to meet the carriage in
order to steer her off.

MIZZIE

How childish! And how pathetic, when you come to think of it! I should
really like to make her acquaintance. Don't you think it's too silly?
There is my father, spending half his lifetime with a person who is
probably very attractive--and I don't get a chance--don't have the
right--to shake hands with her even. Why does he object to it anyhow?
He ought to understand that I know all about it.

PRINCE

Oh, heavens, that's the way he is made. And perhaps he might not have
minded so much, if he were not expecting another visit at this very
moment....

MIZZIE

Another visit, you say?

PRINCE

For which I took the liberty to prepare him.

MIZZIE

Who is it?

PRINCE

Our son.

MIZZIE

Are you ... bringing your son here?

PRINCE

He'll be here in half an hour at the most.

MIZZIE

I say, Prince ... this is not a joke you're trying to spring on me?

PRINCE

By no means. On a departed ... what an idea!

MIZZIE

Is it really true? He's coming here?

PRINCE

Yes.

MIZZIE

Apparently you still think that nothing but a whim keeps me from having
anything to do with the boy?

PRINCE

A whim...? No. Seeing how consistent you have been in this matter, it
would hardly be safe for me to call it that. And when I bear in mind
how you have had the strength all these years not even to ask any
questions about him....

MIZZIE

There has been nothing admirable about that. I have had the strength to
do what was worse ... when I had to let him be taken away ... a week
after he was born....

PRINCE

Yes, what else could you--could we have done at the time? The
arrangements made by me at the time, and approved by you in the end,
represented absolutely the most expedient thing we could do under the
circumstances.

MIZZIE

I have never questioned their expediency.

PRINCE

It was more than expedient, Mizzie. More than our own fate was at
stake. Others might have come to grief if the truth had been revealed
at the time. My wife, with her weak heart, had probably never survived.

MIZZIE

Oh, that weak heart....

PRINCE

And your father, Mizzie.... Think of your father!

MIZZIE

You may be sure he would have accepted the inevitable. That was the
very time when he began his affair with Lolo. Otherwise everything
might not have come off so smoothly. Otherwise he might have been more
concerned about me. I could never have stayed away several months if he
hadn't found it very convenient at that particular moment. And there
was only one danger connected with the whole story--that you might be
shot dead by Fedor Wangenheim, my dear Prince.

PRINCE

Why I by him? It might have taken another turn. You are not a believer
in judgment by ordeal, are you? And the outcome might have proved
questionable from such a point of view even. You see, we poor mortals
can never be sure how things of that kind are regarded up above.

MIZZIE

You would never talk like that in the Upper House--supposing you ever
opened your mouth during one of its sessions.

PRINCE

Possibly not. But the fundamental thing remains, that no amount of
honesty or daring could have availed in the least at the time. It would
have been nothing but useless cruelty toward those nearest to us. It's
doubtful whether a dispensation could have been obtained--and besides,
the Princess would never have agreed to a divorce--which you know as
well as I do.

MIZZIE

Just as if I had cared in the least for the ceremony...!

PRINCE

Oh....

MIZZIE

Not in the least. Is that new to you? Didn't I tell you so at the time?
Oh, you'll never guess what might ... (_her words emphasized by her
glance_) what I ... of what I might have been capable at that time. I
would have followed you anywhere--everywhere--even as your mistress. I
and the child. To Switzerland, to America. After all, we could have
lived wherever it happened to suit us. And perhaps, if you had gone
away, they might never even have noticed your absence in the Upper
House.

PRINCE

Yes, of course, we might have run away and settled down somewhere
abroad.... But do you still believe that a situation like that would
have proved agreeable in the long run, or even bearable?

MIZZIE

No, I don't nowadays. Because, you see, I know you now. But at that
time I was in love with you. And it is possible that I--might have gone
on loving you for a long time, had you not proved too _cowardly_ to
assume the responsibility for what had happened.... Yes, too much of a
coward, Prince Egon.

PRINCE

Whether that be the proper word....

MIZZIE

Well, I don't know of any other. There was no hesitation on my part. I
was ready to face everything--with joy and pride. I was ready to be a
mother, and to confess myself the mother of our child. And you knew it,
Egon. I told you so seventeen years ago, in that little house in the
woods where you kept me hidden. But half-measures have never appealed
to me. I wanted to be a mother in every respect or not at all. The day
I had to let the boy be taken away from me, I made up my mind never
more to trouble myself about him. And for that reason I find it
ridiculous of you to bring him here all of a sudden. If you'll allow me
to give you a piece of good advice, you'll go and meet him, as papa has
gone to meet Lolo--and take him back home again.

PRINCE

I wouldn't dream of doing so. After what I have just had to hear from
you again, it seems settled that his mother must remain dead. And that
means that I must take still better care of him. He is my son in the
eyes of the world too. I have adopted him.

MIZZIE

Have you...?

PRINCE

To-morrow he will probably be able to assume my name. I shall introduce
him wherever it suits me. And of course, first of all to my old
friend--your father. If you should find the sight of him disagreeable,
there will be nothing left for you but to stay in your room while he is
here.

MIZZIE

If you believe that I think your tone very appropriate....

PRINCE

Oh, just as appropriate as your bad temper.

MIZZIE

My bad temper...? Do I look it? Really, if you please ... I have simply
permitted myself to find this fancy of yours in rather poor taste.
Otherwise my temper is just as good as ever.

PRINCE

I have no doubt of your good humor under ordinary circumstances.... I
am perfectly aware, for that matter, that you have managed to become
reconciled to your fate. I, too, have managed to submit to a fate
which, in its own way, has been no less painful than yours.

MIZZIE

In what way? To what fate have you had to submit...? Everybody can't
become a cabinet minister. Oh, I see ... that remark must refer to the
fact that His Highness did me the honor ten years ago, after the
blissful departure of his noble spouse, to apply for my hand.

PRINCE

And again seven years ago, if you'll be kind enough to remember.

MIZZIE

Oh, yes, I do remember. Nor have I ever given you any cause to question
my good memory.

PRINCE

And I hope you have never ascribed my proposals to anything like a
desire to expiate some kind of guilt. I asked you to become my wife
simply because of my conviction that true happiness was to be found
only by your side.

MIZZIE

True happiness!... Oh, what a mistake!

PRINCE

Yes, I do believe that it was a mistake at that moment. Ten years ago
it was probably still too early. And so it was, perhaps, seven years
ago. But not to-day.

MIZZIE

Yes, to-day too, my dear Prince. Your fate has been never to know me,
never to understand me at all--no more when I loved you than when I
hated you, and not even during the long time when I have been
completely indifferent toward you.

PRINCE

I have always known you, Mizzie. I know more about you than you seem
able to guess. Thus, for instance, I am not unfamiliar with the fact
that you have spent the last seventeen years in more profitable
pursuits than weeping over a man who, in all likelihood, was not worthy
of you at the time in question. I am even aware that you have chosen to
expose yourself to several disillusionments subsequent to the one
suffered at my hands.

MIZZIE

Disillusionments, you say? Well, for your consolation, my dear Prince,
I can assure you that some of them proved very enjoyable.

PRINCE

I know that, too. Otherwise I should hardly have dared to call myself
familiar with the history of your life.

MIZZIE

And do you think that I am not familiar with yours? Do you want me to
present you with a list of your mistresses? From the wife of the
Bulgarian attaché in 1887 down to Mademoiselle Therese Grédun--if that
be her real name--who retained the honors of her office up to last
Spring at least. It seems likely that I know more than you even, for I
can give you a practically complete list of those with whom she has
deceived you.

PRINCE

Oh, don't, if you please. There is no real pleasure in knowledge of
that kind when you don't uncover it yourself.

[_A carriage is heard stopping in front of the house._

PRINCE

That's he. Do you want to disappear before he comes out here? I can
detain him that long.

MIZZIE

Don't trouble yourself, please. I prefer to stay. But don't imagine
that there is anything astir within me.... This is nothing but a young
man coming to call on my father. There he is now.... As to blood being
thicker than water--I think it's nothing but a fairy tale. I can't feel
anything at all, my dear Prince.

PHILIP (_comes quickly through the main entrance; he is seventeen,
slender, handsome, elegant, but not foppish; shows a charming, though
somewhat boyish, forwardness, not quite free from embarrassment_) Good
morning. (_He bows to Mizzie_)

PRINCE

Good morning, Philip.--Countess, will you permit me to introduce my
son? This is Countess Mizzie, daughter of the old friend of mine in
whose house you are now.

PHILIP (_kisses the hand offered him by Mizzie; brief pause_)

MIZZIE

Won't you be seated, please?

PHILIP

Thank you. Countess. (_All remain standing_)

PRINCE

You came in the carriage? Might just as well send it back, as mine is
here already.

PHILIP

Won't you come back with me instead, papa? You see, I think Wasner does
a great deal better than your Franz with his team of ancients.

MIZZIE

So Wasner has been driving you?

PHILIP

Yes.

MIZZIE

The old man himself? Do you know that's a great honor? Wasner won't
take the box for everybody. Up to about two years ago he used to drive
my father.

PHILIP

Oh....

PRINCE

You're a little late, by the way, Philip.

PHILIP

Yes, I have to beg your pardon. Overslept, you know. (_To Mizzie_) I
was out with some of my colleagues last night. You may have heard that
I passed my examinations a couple of weeks ago, Countess. That's why we
rather made a night of it.[6]

      [6] "... Ein bissel gedraht." The term is specifically
      Viennese and implies not only "making a night of it," but also
      making the contents of that night as varied as the resources
      of the locality will permit.

MIZZIE

You seem to have caught on to our Viennese ways pretty quickly,
Mister....

PRINCE

Oh, dear Mizzie, call him Philip, please.

MIZZIE

But I think we must sit down first of all, Philip. (_With a glance at
the Prince_) Papa should be here any moment now. (_She and the Prince
sit down_)

PHILIP (_still standing_)

If you permit me to say so--I think the park is magnificent. It is much
finer than ours.

MIZZIE

You are familiar with the Ravenstein park?

PHILIP

Certainly, Countess. I have been living at Ravenstein House three days
already.

MIZZIE

Is that so?

PRINCE

Of course, gardens cannot do as well in the city as out here. Ours was
probably a great deal more beautiful a hundred years ago. But then our
place was still practically outside the city.

PHILIP

It's a pity that all sorts of people have been allowed to run up houses
around our place like that.

MIZZIE

We are better off in that respect. And we shall hardly live to see the
town overtake us.

PHILIP (_affably_)

But why not, Countess?

MIZZIE

A hundred years ago these grounds were still used for hunting. The
place adjoins the Tiergarten, you know. Look over that wall there,
Philip. And our villa was a hunting lodge once, belonging to the
Empress Maria Theresa. The stone figure over there goes back to that
period.

PHILIP

And how old is our place, papa?

PRINCE (_smiling_)

Our place, sonny, dates back to the seventeenth century. Didn't I show
you the room in which Emperor Leopold spent a night?

PHILIP

Emperor Leopold, 1648 to 1705.

MIZZIE (_laughs_)

PHILIP

Oh, that's an echo of the examinations. When I get old enough.... (_He
interrupts himself_) I beg your pardon! What I meant to say was
simply--all that stuff will be out of my head in a year. And, of
course, when I learned those dates, I didn't know Emperor Leopold had
been such a good friend of my own people.

MIZZIE

You seem to think your discovery enormously funny, Philip?

PHILIP

Discovery, you say.... Well, frankly speaking, it could hardly be
called that. (_He looks at the Prince_)

PRINCE

Go on, go on!

PHILIP

Well, you see, Countess, I have always had the feeling that I was no
Philip Radeiner by birth.

MIZZIE

Radeiner? (_To the Prince_) Oh, that was the name...?

PRINCE

Yes.

PHILIP

And, of course, it was very pleasant to find my suspicions
confirmed--but I have really known it all the time. I can put two and
two together. And some of the other boys had also figured out--that
I.... Really, Countess, that story about Prince Ravenstein coming to
Krems merely to see how the son of his late friend was getting
along--don't you think it smacked a little too much of story book ...
Home and Family Library, and that sort of thing? All the clever ones
felt pretty sure that I was of noble blood, and as I was one of the
cleverest....

MIZZIE

So it seems.... And what are your plans for the future, Philip?

PHILIP

Next October I shall begin my year as volunteer with the Sixth
Dragoons, which is the regiment in which we Ravensteins always serve.
And what's going to happen after that--whether I stay in the army or
become an archbishop--in due time, of course....

MIZZIE

That would probably be the best thing. The Ravensteins have always been
strong in the faith.

PHILIP

Yes, it's mentioned in the Universal History even. They were Catholic
at first; then they turned Protestant in the Thirty Years War; and
finally they became Catholic again--but they always remained strong in
their faith. It was only the faith that changed.

PRINCE

Philip, Philip!

MIZZIE

That's the spirit of the time, Prince Egon.

PRINCE

And an inheritance from his mother.

MIZZIE

You have been working hard, your father tells me, and have passed your
examinations with honors.

PHILIP

Well, that wasn't difficult, Countess. I seem to get hold of things
quickly. That's probably another result of the common blood in me. And
I had time to spare for things not in the school curriculum--such as
horseback riding and ...

MIZZIE

And what?

PHILIP

Playing the clarinet.

MIZZIE (_laughing_)

Why did you hesitate to tell about that?

PHILIP

Because.... Well, because everybody laughs when I say that I play the
clarinet. And so did you, too, Countess. Isn't that queer? Did anybody
ever laugh because you told him that you were painting for a diversion?

MIZZIE

So you have already heard about that?

PHILIP

Yes, indeed, Countess--papa told me. And besides, there is a floral
piece in my bedroom--a Chinese vase, you know, with a laburnum branch
and something purplish in color.

MIZZIE

That purplish stuff must be lilacs.

PHILIP

Oh, lilacs, of course. I saw that at once. But I couldn't recall the
name just now.

VALET (_entering_)

There is a lady who wishes to see the Count. I have showed her into the
drawing-room.

MIZZIE

A lady...? You'll have to excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. (_She goes
out_)

PHILIP

That's all right, papa--if it's up to me, I have no objection.

PRINCE

To what? Of what are you talking?

PHILIP

I have no objection to your choice.

PRINCE

Have you lost your senses, boy?

PHILIP

But really, papa, do you think you can hide anything from me? That
common blood in me, you know....

PRINCE

What put such an idea into your head?

PHILIP

Now look here, papa! You have been telling me how anxious you were to
introduce me to your old friend, the Count. And then the Count has a
daughter--which I have known all the time, by the way.... The one thing
I feared a little was that she might be too young.

PRINCE (_offended, and yet unable to keep serious_)

Too young, you say....

PHILIP

It was perfectly plain that you had a certain weakness for that
daughter.... Why, you used to be quite embarrassed when talking of her.
And then you have been telling me all sorts of things about her that
you would never have cared to tell otherwise. What interest could I
have in the pictures of a Countess X-divided-by-anything, for
instance--supposing even that you _could_ tell her lilacs from her
laburnums by their color? And, as I said, my one fear was that she
might be too young--as my mother, that is, and not as your wife. Of
course, there is not yet anybody too young or beautiful for you. But
now I can tell you, papa, that she suits me absolutely as she is.

PRINCE

Well, if you are not the most impudent rogue I ever came across...! Do
you really think I would ask you, if I should ever....

PHILIP

Not exactly ask, papa ... but a happy family life requires that all the
members affect each other sympathetically ... don't you think so?

[_Mizzie and Lolo Langhuber enter._

MIZZIE

You must look around, please. I am sure my father would be very sorry
to miss you. (_She starts to make the usual introductions_) Permit me
to....

LOLO

Oh, Your Highness.

PRINCE

Well, Miss Pallestri....

LOLO

Langhuber, if you please. I have come to thank the Count for the
magnificent flowers he sent me at my farewell performance.

PRINCE (_introducing_)

My son Philip. And this is Miss ...

LOLO

Charlotta Langhuber.

PRINCE (_to Philip_)

Better known as Miss Pallestri.

PHILIP

Oh, Miss Pallestri! Then I have already had the pleasure....

PRINCE

What?

PHILIP

You see, I have Miss Pallestri in my collection.

PRINCE

What ... what sort of collection is that?

LOLO

There must be some kind of mistake here, Your Highness. I can not
recall....

PHILIP

Of course, you can't, for I don't suppose you could feel that I was
cutting out your picture from a newspaper at Krems?

LOLO

No, thank heaven!

PHILIP

It was one of our amusements at school, you know. There was one who cut
out all the crimes and disasters he could get hold of.

LOLO

What a dreadful fellow that must have been!

PHILIP

And there was one who went in for historical personalities, like North
Pole explorers and composers and that kind of people. And I used to
collect theatrical ladies. Ever so much more pleasant to look at, you
know. I have got two hundred and thirteen--which I'll show you
sometime, papa. Quite interesting, you know. With a musical comedy star
from Australia among the rest.

LOLO

I didn't know Your Highness had a son--and such a big one at that.

PHILIP

Yes, I have been hiding my light under a bushel so far.

PRINCE

And now you are trying to make up for it, I should say.

LOLO

Oh, please let him, Your Highness. I prefer young people like him to be
a little _vif_.

PHILIP

So you are going to retire to private life, Miss Pallestri? That's too
bad. Just when I might have the pleasure at last of seeing you on those
boards that signify the world....

LOLO

That's awfully kind of Your Highness, but unfortunately one hasn't time
to wait for the youth that's still growing. And the more mature ones
are beginning to find my vintage a little out of date, I fear.

PRINCE

They say that you are about to be married.

LOLO

Yes, I am about to enter the holy state of matrimony.

PHILIP

And who is the happy man, if I may ask?

LOLO

Who is he? Why, he is waiting outside now--with that carriage.

MIZZIE

Why--a coachman?

LOLO

But, Countess--a coachman, you say?! Only in the same manner as when
your papa himself--beg your pardon!--happens to be taking the bay out
for a spin at times. Cab owner, that's what my fiancé is--and house
owner, and a burgess of Vienna, who gets on the box himself only when
it pleases him and when there is somebody of whom he thinks a whole
lot. Now he is driving for a certain Baron Radeiner--whom he has just
brought out here to see your father, Countess. And I am having my
doubts about that Baron Radeiner.

PHILIP

Permit me to introduce myself--Baron Radeiner.

LOLO

So that's you, Your Highness?

PHILIP

I have let nobody but Wasner drive me since I came here.

LOLO

And under an assumed name at that, Your Highness? Well, we are finding
out a lot of nice things about you!

COUNT (_appears, very hot_)

Well, here I am. (_Taking in the situation_) Ah!

LOLO

Your humble servant, Count! I have taken the liberty--I wanted to thank
you for the magnificent flowers.

COUNT

Oh, please--it was a great pleasure....

PRINCE

And here, old friend, is my son Philip.

PHILIP

I regard myself as greatly honored, Count.

COUNT (_giving his hand to Philip_)

I bid you welcome to my house. Please consider yourself at home
here.--I don't think any further introductions are required.

MIZZIE

No, papa.

COUNT (_slightly embarrassed_)

It's very charming of you, my dear lady. Of course, you know better
than anybody that I have always been one of your admirers.... But tell
me, please, how in the world did you get out here? I have just been
taking a walk along the main road, where every carriage has to pass,
and I didn't see you.

LOLO

What do you take me for, Count? My cab days are past now. I came by the
train, which is the proper thing for me.

COUNT

I see.... But I hear that your fiancé himself....

LOLO

Oh, he has more pretentious customers to look after.

PHILIP

Yes, I have just had the pleasure of being conducted here by the fiancé
of Miss Pallestri.

COUNT

Is Wasner driving for you? Well, that settles it--of course--clear
psychological connection! (_Offers his cigar case_) Want a smoke?

PHILIP (_accepting_)

Thank you.

PRINCE

But, Philip...! A monster like that before lunch!

COUNT

Excellent. Nothing better for the health. And I like you. Suppose we
sit down.

[_The Count, the Prince and Philip seat themselves, while Mizzie and
Lolo remain standing close to them._

COUNT

So you'll be off with your father to-morrow?

PHILIP

Yes, Count. And I'm tremendously pleased to think of it.

COUNT

Will you be gone long?

PRINCE

That depends on several circumstances.

PHILIP

I have to report myself at the regiment on the first of October.

PRINCE

And it's possible that I may go farther south after that.

COUNT

Well, that's news. Where?

PRINCE (_with a glance at Mizzie_)

Egypt, and the Sudan maybe--for a little hunting.

MIZZIE (_to Lolo_)

Let me show you the park.

LOLO

It's a marvel. Ours isn't a patch on it, of course. (_She and Mizzie
come forward_)

MIZZIE

Have you a garden at your place, too?

LOLO

Certainly. As well as an ancestral palace--at Ottakring.[7] The
great-grandfather of Wasner was in the cab business in his days
already.--My, but that's beautiful! The way those flowers are hanging
down. I must have something just like it.

      [7] One of the factory districts of Vienna, known chiefly
      because of the big insane asylum located there.

COUNT (_disturbed_)

Why are the ladies leaving us?

MIZZIE

Never mind, papa, I'm merely explaining the architecture of our façade.

PHILIP

Do you often get visits of theatrical ladies, Count?

COUNT

No, this is merely an accident.

[_The men stroll off toward those parts of the garden that are not
visible._

MIZZIE

It seems strange that I have never before had a chance of meeting you.
I am very glad to see you.

LOLO (_with a grateful glance_)

And so I am. Of course, I have known you by sight these many years.
Often and often have I looked up at your box.

MIZZIE

But not at me.

LOLO

Oh, that's all over now.

MIZZIE

Do you know, I really feel a little offended--on _his_ behalf.

LOLO

Offended, you say...?

MIZZIE

It will be a hard blow for him. Nobody knows better than I how deeply
he has been attached to you. Although he has never said a word to me
about it.

LOLO

Do you think it's so very easy for me either, Countess? But tell me.
Countess, what else could I do? I am no longer a spring chicken, you
know. And one can't help hankering for something more settled. As long
as I had a profession of my own, I could allow myself--what do they
call it now?--to entertain liberal ideas. It goes in a way with the
position I have held. But how would that look now, when I am retiring
to private life?

MIZZIE

Oh, I can see that perfectly. But what is _he_ going to do now?

LOLO

Why shouldn't he marry, too? I assure you, Countess, that there are
many who would give all their five fingers.... Don't you realize,
Countess, that I, too, have found it a hard step to take?

MIZZIE

Do you know what I have been wondering often? Whether he never thought
of making _you_ his wife?

LOLO

Oh, yes, that's just what he wanted.

MIZZIE

Why...?!

LOLO

Do you know when he asked me the last time, Countess? Less than a month
ago.

MIZZIE

And you said no?

LOLO

I did. It would have done no good. Me a Countess! Can you imagine it? I
being your stepmother, Countess...! Then we could not have been
chatting nicely as we are doing now.

MIZZIE

If you only knew how sympathetically you affect me....

LOLO

But I don't want to appear better than I am. And who knows what I
might....

MIZZIE

What might you?

LOLO

Well, this is the truth of it. I have gone clear off my head about
Wasner. Which I hope won't make you think the worse of me. In all these
eighteen years I have had nothing to blame myself with, as far as your
dear papa is concerned. But you can't wonder if my feelings began to
cool off a little as the years passed along. And rather than to make
your dear papa--oh, no, no, Countess ... I owe him too much gratitude
for that.... Lord!

MIZZIE

What is it?

LOLO

There he is now, looking right at me.

MIZZIE (_looks in the direction indicated_)

WASNER (_who has appeared at the entrance, raises his tall hat in
salute_)

LOLO

Don't you think me an awful fool, Countess? Every time I catch sight of
him suddenly, my heart starts beating like everything. Yes, there's no
fool like an old one.

MIZZIE

Old...? Do you call yourself old? Why, there can't be much difference
between us.

LOLO

Oh, mercy.... (_With a glance at Mizzie_)

MIZZIE

I am thirty-seven.--No, don't look at me with any pity. There is no
cause for that. None whatever.

LOLO (_apparently relieved_)

I have heard some whispers. Countess--of course, I didn't believe
anything. But I thank heaven it was true. (_They shake hands_)

MIZZIE

I should like to congratulate your fiancé right now, if you'll permit
me.

LOLO

That's too sweet of you--but what about the Count--perhaps he wouldn't
like...?

MIZZIE

My dear, I have always been accustomed to do as I pleased. (_They go
together toward the entrance_)

WASNER

You're too kind, Countess....

[_The Count, the Prince and Philip have reappeared in the meantime._

COUNT

Look at that, will you!

WASNER

Good morning, Count. Good morning, Highness.

PRINCE

I say, Wasner, you may just as well take your bride home in that trap
of yours. My son is coming with me.

WASNER

Your son...?

PHILIP

Why haven't you told me that you were engaged, Wasner?

WASNER

Well, there are things you haven't told either ... Mr. von Radeiner!

COUNT (_to Lolo_)

Thank you very much for your friendly visit, and please accept my very
best wishes.

LOLO

The same to you, Count. And I must say, that when one has such a
daughter....

MIZZIE

It's too bad I haven't come to know you before.

LOLO

Oh, really, Countess....

MIZZIE

Once more, my dear Miss Lolo, good luck to you! (_Mizzie embraces
Lolo_)

COUNT (_looks on with surprise and some genuine emotion_)

LOLO

I thank you for the kind reception, Count--and good-by!

COUNT

Good-by, Miss Langhuber. I trust you'll be happy ... indeed I do, Lolo.

LOLO (_gets into the carriage which has driven up to the gate in the
meantime_)

WASNER (_is on the box, hat in hand; they drive off_)

MIZZIE (_waves her hand at them as they disappear_)

PHILIP (_who has been standing in the foreground with the Prince_) Oh,
my dear papa, I can see through the whole story.

PRINCE

You can?

PHILIP

This Miss Lolo must be the natural daughter of the Count, and a sister
of the Countess--her foster-sister, as they say.

PRINCE

No, you would call that a step-sister. But go on, Mr. Diplomat.

PHILIP

And of course, both are in love with you--both the Countess and the
ballet dancer. And this marriage between the dancer and Wasner is your
work.

PRINCE

Go on.

PHILIP

You know--there's something I never thought of until just now!

PRINCE

What?

PHILIP

I don't know if I dare?

PRINCE

Why so timid all at once?

PHILIP

Supposing my mother was not dead....

PRINCE

H'm....

PHILIP

And, through a remarkable combination of circumstances, she should now
be going back to the city in the very carriage that brought me out
here...? And suppose it should be my own mother, whose picture I cut
out of that newspaper...?

PRINCE

My lad, you'll certainly end as a cabinet minister--Secretary of
Agriculture, if nothing better.--But now it's time for us to say
good-by.

[_The Count and Mizzie are coming forward again._

PRINCE

Well, my dear friend, this must be our farewell call, I am sorry to
say.

COUNT

But why don't you stay.... That would be delightful ... if you could
take lunch with us....

PRINCE

Unfortunately, it isn't possible. We have an appointment at
Sacher's.[8]

      [8] A fashionable restaurant near the Imperial Palace in the
      Inner City.

COUNT

That's really too bad. And shall I not see you at all during the
Summer?

PRINCE

Oh, we shall not be entirely out of touch.

COUNT

And are you starting to-morrow already?

PRINCE

Yes.

COUNT

Where are you going?

PRINCE

To the sea shore--Ostend.

COUNT

Oh, you are bound for Ostend. I have long wanted to go there.

PRINCE

But that would be fine....

COUNT

What do you think, Mizzie? Let's be fashionable. Let's go to Ostend,
too.

MIZZIE

I can't answer yet. But there's no reason why you shouldn't go, papa.

PHILIP

That would be delightful, Countess. It would please me awfully.

MIZZIE (_smiling_)

That's very kind of you, Philip. (_She holds out her hand to him_)

PHILIP (_kisses her hand_)

COUNT (_to the Prince_)

The children seem to get along beautifully.

PRINCE

Yes, that's what I have been thinking. Good-by then. Good-by, my dear
Mizzie. And good-by to you, my dear old fellow. I hope at least to see
_you_ again at Ostend.

COUNT

Oh, she'll come along. Won't you, Mizzie? After all, you can get
studios by the sea shore, too. Or how about it, Mizzie?

MIZZIE (_remains silent_)

PRINCE

Well, until we meet again! (_He shakes hands with the Count and
Mizzie_)

PHILIP (_kisses the hand of Mizzie once more_)

COUNT (_giving his hand to Philip_)

It has been a great pleasure.

[_The Prince and Philip go out through the gate and step into the
carriage which has been driving up in the meantime, and which now
carries them off. The Count and Mizzie come forward again and seat
themselves at the table under the tree. Pause._

COUNT

Hasn't this been a queer day?

MIZZIE

All life is queer--only we forget it most of the time.

COUNT

I suppose you're right. (_Pause_)

MIZZIE

You know, papa, you might just as well have brought us together a
little earlier.

COUNT

Who? Oh, you and....

MIZZIE

Me and Miss Lolo. She's a dear.

COUNT

So you like her? Well, if it were only possible to know in advance....
But what's the use? Now it's all over.

MIZZIE (_takes hold of his hand_)

COUNT (_rises and kisses her on the forehead; strolls about aimlessly
for a few seconds_) Tell me, Mizzie, what you think.... How do you like
the boy?

MIZZIE

Philip? Oh, rather fresh.

COUNT

Fresh, perhaps, but smart. I hope he'll stay in the army. That's a much
more sensible career than the diplomatic service. Slow, but sure. All
you need is to live long enough in order to become a general. But a
political career.... Now look at Egon ... three times he has almost
become a minister.... And suppose he had succeeded? (_Walking back and
forth_) Yes, yes ... we shall be rather lonely this Summer.

MIZZIE

But why shouldn't you go to Ostend, papa?

COUNT

Yes, why not...? Really, won't you come along? It would be rather ...
without you, you know.... It's no use looking at me like that. I know!
I haven't paid as much attention to you in the past as I should
have....

MIZZIE (_taking his hand again_)

Oh, papa, you're not going to apologize, are you? I understand
perfectly.

COUNT

Oh, well. But, you see, I shall not get much joy out of that trip
without you. And what would you be doing here, all by yourself? You
can't paint all day long.

MIZZIE

The only trouble is ... the Prince has asked me to marry him.

COUNT

What? Is it possible? No, you don't mean.... And ... and you said no?

MIZZIE

Practically.

COUNT

You did...? Oh, well.... After all, I have never tried to persuade you.
It must be as you.... But I can't understand why. I have noticed for a
long time, that he.... As far as age is concerned, you wouldn't be
badly matched. And as for the rest ... sixty millions are not to be
despised exactly. But just as you say.

MIZZIE (_remains silent_)

COUNT

Or could it possibly be on account of the boy? That would be to
exaggerate the matter, I assure you. Things of that kind occur in the
very best families. And particularly when you consider that his heart
always remained with his wife.... All of a sudden you get dragged into
an affair of that kind without exactly knowing how.

MIZZIE

And some poor girl of the people is thrown aside and allowed to go to
the dogs.

COUNT

Oh, please, that's only in the books. And how could he help it? That
kind of women seem always to die off early. And who knows what he might
have done, if she hadn't died.... I really think that his action in
regard to the boy has been pretty decent. That took courage, you know.
I could tell you more than one case.... But don't let us talk of it. If
that should be the only thing against him, however.... And besides, our
being together at Ostend wouldn't commit you in any way.

MIZZIE

No, that's true.

COUNT

Well, then ... I tell you what. You make the trip with me. And if the
place suits you, you can stay. If not, you can go on to London for a
visit with Aunt Lora. I mean simply, that there is no sense in your
letting me go away alone.

MIZZIE

All right.

COUNT

What do you mean?

MIZZIE

I'll go with you. But without any obligation--absolutely free.

COUNT

You'll come with me, you say?

MIZZIE

I will, papa.

COUNT

Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you, Mizzie.

MIZZIE

Why should you thank me? It's a pleasure to me.

COUNT

You can't imagine, of course ... without you, Mizzie.... There would be
so much to remember--this time in particular.... You know, of course,
that I took Lolo to Normandy last year?

MIZZIE

Of course, I know....

COUNT

And as far as Egon is concerned ... not that I want to persuade you by
any means ... but in a strange place like that you often get more
acquainted with a person in a couple of days than during many years at
home.

MIZZIE

It's settled now that I go with you, papa. And as for the rest, don't
let us talk of it--for the time being.

COUNT

Then, you know, I'm going to telephone to the ticket office at once and
reserve sleeping car compartments for the day after to-morrow--or for
to-morrow.

MIZZIE

Are you in such a hurry?

COUNT

What's the use of sitting about here, once we have made up our minds?
So I'll telephone.... Does that suit you?

MIZZIE

Yes.

COUNT (_puts his arms about her_)

PROFESSOR WINDHOFER (_appears at the garden gate_)

COUNT

Why, there's the professor. Have you a lesson to-day?

MIZZIE

I had forgotten it, too.

PROFESSOR (_handsome; about thirty-five; his beard is blond and trimmed
to a point; he is very carefully dressed, and wears a gray overcoat; he
takes off his hat as he enters the garden and comes forward_)

Good morning, Countess. How do you do, Count?

COUNT

Good morning, my dear Professor, and how are you? You have to pardon
me. I was just about to go to the telephone--we are going away, you
know.

PROFESSOR

Oh, are you going away? Please, don't let me detain you.

COUNT

I suppose I shall see you later, Professor. (_He goes into the house_)

PROFESSOR

So you are going away, Countess?

MIZZIE

Yes, to Ostend.

PROFESSOR

That's rather a sudden decision.

MIZZIE

Yes, rather. But that's my way.

PROFESSOR

That means an end to the lessons for the present, I suppose? Too bad.

MIZZIE

I don't think I shall be able to-day even ... I am feeling a little
upset.

PROFESSOR

Do you?--Well, you look rather pale, Maria.

MIZZIE

Oh, you think so?

PROFESSOR

And how long will you be gone?

MIZZIE

Until the Fall probably--perhaps until very late in the Fall even.

PROFESSOR

Then we can resume our lessons next November at the earliest, I
suppose?

MIZZIE (_smiling_)

I don't think we shall....

PROFESSOR

Oh, you don't think so? (_They look hard at each other_)

MIZZIE

No, I don't.

PROFESSOR

Which means, Maria--that I am discharged.

MIZZIE

How can you put it that way, Rudolph? That is not quite fair.

PROFESSOR

Pardon me. But it really came a little more suddenly than I had
expected.

MIZZIE

Better that than have it come too slow. Don't you think so?

PROFESSOR

Well, girl, I have no intention whatever to make any reproaches.

MIZZIE

Well, you have no reason. And it wouldn't be nice either. (_She holds
out her hand to him_)

PROFESSOR (_takes her hand and kisses it_)

Will you please excuse me to the Count?

MIZZIE

Are you going already...?

PROFESSOR (_unconcernedly_)

Isn't that better?

MIZZIE (_after a pause, during which she looks straight into his eyes_)
Yes, I think so. (_They shake hands_)

PROFESSOR

Good luck, Maria.

MIZZIE

Same to you.... And remember me to your wife and the children.

PROFESSOR

I won't forget, Countess. (_He goes out_)

MIZZIE (_remains on the same spot for a little while, following him
with her eyes_)

COUNT (_on the terrace_)

Everything is ready. We'll leave at nine-thirty to-morrow night.--But
what has become of the professor?

MIZZIE

I sent him away.

COUNT

Oh, you did?--And can you guess who has the compartment between yours
and mine?... Egon and his young gentleman. Won't they be surprised
though?

MIZZIE

Yes ... won't they? (_She goes into the house_)