The Project Gutenberg eBook of The lonely way, Intermezzo, Countess Mizzie , by Arthur Schnitzler

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.)

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.

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.

PERSONS

THE LONELY WAY

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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)

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

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

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

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

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?

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...."

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!

"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 Prater¹ 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!

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

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

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.

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

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...!

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?

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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....

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

[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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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?

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)

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

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

Not at all. If you will only remember. Once we made an excursion to Dornbach³—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.

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

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?

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.

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)

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.

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)

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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

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....

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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?

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

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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?

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?

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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?

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.

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.

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)

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

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.

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.

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

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?

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.

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)

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

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.

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.

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?

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?

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

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.

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)

"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.

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.

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

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....

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

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

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.

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)

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.

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.

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?

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?

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

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.

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?

No, thanks. No more now. (Pause; it is growing darker) He has a child, and I have never known it! (Protracted silence)

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

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

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.

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.

We didn't dream of this when we took that walk in the Mirabell Gardens⁴ last summer.

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

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)

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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 (going a few steps away and leaning against the bookcase in order to get better light on the picture)

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....

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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!

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

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.

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

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

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 ...

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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?

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?

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.

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.

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)

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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!

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 ...

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)

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.

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

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

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.

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 ...

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

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

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 ...

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.

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

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?

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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?

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?

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

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)

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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)

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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)

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.

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?

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.

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

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

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.

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Nothing.—Until to-morrow. Farewell. (He accompanies her to the garden gate, through which she disappears)

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)

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

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?

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.

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

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?

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

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?

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.

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

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.

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)

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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

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?

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

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?

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

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?

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

But it's no sacrifice. I assure you, father, that I stay with you only because I can't go away from you now.

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.

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

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?

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

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.

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)

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?

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.

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"?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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....

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....

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

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....

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.

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.

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.

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

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...?

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

PERSONS

INTERMEZZO

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 ..."

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

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

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.

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)

Is it true that Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has been requested to sing in Berlin next Fall?

Nothing has been settled yet. (He goes to the window at the right) If you'll permit.... (Opens the window)

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.

Yes. And sometimes, on very hot nights, I sleep in the park, right on the sward, under a plane tree.

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)

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)

For the Lord's sake, please don't pretend to be interested in things of that kind! Why, nobody expects it of you.

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?

After an hour like this...? I don't think you feel quite at your ease with me, 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.

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.

That chord.... Tell me rather what kind of chord it is. (He repeats it in a fury)

No, my little boy is playing out there. (He stands at the window, waving his hand at somebody outside; pause)

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.

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....

Those are matters which you don't quite comprehend, Countess. (He looks again toward the main entrance)

No, your wife can't be here yet. She won't give up her walk on a wonderful day like this.

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

Why shouldn't he? A good waltz and a good hymn are just as acceptable to the powers above.

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?

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!

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)

Why resist your fate? Is it so very repulsive after all? What you are to me, nobody else has ever been!

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)

I have come to ask how you are getting along with our opera, Amadeus. Have you done anything?

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....

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!

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.

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.

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 Fedaja²....

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...?

You need simply to pull yourself together—a few weeks of mountain air and quiet will get you out of this.

Oh, I haven't got into anything in particular. I am a little nervous. That's all.

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.

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?

Many have good intentions, but their courage often deserts them at the critical moment.

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.

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.

I can imagine a point where the understanding would have to end, and everything else with it.

Oh, well! If nothing is left but the understanding, that means the beginning of the end.

You don't talk like one who has resigned himself, however, but like one who has made up his mind.

Who can be perfectly sure of himself or of anybody else? We two, at any rate, are not challenging fate by feeling too secure.

Oh, when it comes to that, my dear fellow—fate always regards itself challenged—by doubt no less than by confidence.

A little more tranquillity would produce a decision to avoid anything that might endanger an assured happiness.

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?

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.

It's an open question whether you have the right to force such a part on anybody whom you respect.

It is not wise to let people know what they mean to you. I have put this thought into an aphorism:

Peter wants me absolutely to come in. I wanted to wait for Cecilia in the garden.

GOVERNESS (comes from the garden with the intention of taking the boy away) Peter!

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.

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.

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?

Does he still have to sleep in the daytime? Our two children have quit entirely.

Instead they play a most exciting game every afternoon—one invented by themselves. They call it "drums and bugles."

[Everybody laughs. Peter goes out with the Governess. Marie and Cecilia move slowly toward the fireplace and sit down in front of it.

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.

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.

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.

We generally work a little before we eat. To-day we might run through the songs for that concert, for instance.

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?

Could you come and see me to-morrow afternoon, Marie? Then we might settle the matter.

Yes, indeed. I am always glad when you can spare me a little of your time.—Until to-morrow, then!

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?

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.

Won't you come to the rehearsal to-morrow—just once more—if you can spare the time?

I always feel more certain of myself when you are within reach. You know that, don't you?

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.

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.

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)

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.

Yes, Wedius. I know him. He was in Dresden when I was there.—Carmen, then, and Tatyana, and...?

Yes. (Pause) Tell me by the way: do you actually want to assist at that charity concert?

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?

AMADEUS (bending forward and searching among the music) How would Schumann be—"The Snow-drop?" Or ... "Old Melodies" ... and "Love Betrayed"....

Yes. And perhaps von Wolf's "Concealment," and something by Brahms. "No more to meet you, was my firm decision...."

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?

Did he? (As he brings the music sheets to the piano) Why doesn't he come here instead?

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.

It would be a wonder if it were not. The artist spent six months on it, they say....

No, but for the Countess.—She will probably sing Philine pretty well, by the way.

You think so? I fear you are mistaken.... (Pause) Well, Cecilia, what were you talking of to-day—you and Sigismund?

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.

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?

Nothing more...? (Hesitatingly) Don't you think, Amadeus, that many things actually change character when you try to put them into words?

That may have been true once. But ... you know as well as I do ... that things are no longer as they used to be.

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.

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.

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....

What really matters is nothing new, however. You feel attracted to him, don't you?

But perhaps there is still something that holds back—that could hold me back, if it only wanted.

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.

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.

Maybe you are right, Amadeus. But is it pride alone that makes you let me slip away so easily?

Is it love alone that brings you back when almost gone? (Pause; he goes to the window)

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.

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.

AMADEUS (walking to and fro until he stops some distance away from her) And what next?

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.

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.

The best thing for me is probably to go with the boy to some quiet place in the Tirol ... as you and Albert suggested.

I...? I shall make that walking tour with Albert. I want to be scrambling about in the mountains once more.

But first—we should have to bid each other definite good-by, as there is no return from that place.

Oh, it might happen that you felt inclined to ... change your plans ... and instead of staying with Marie ... prefer the undisturbed ...

Well—the one we used to foresee in our happiest days even—the one we have expected as something almost inevitable.

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.

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.

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)

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)

Have you made up your mind what you are going to call it? Is it to be Capriccio?

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.

Maybe. (Pause) And whom will you get for the studying of your parts next year?

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.

That's a foregone conclusion.—But I should really like to know who is to assist you with your studies after this.

No, of course not. The less so, as I don't quite see why I shouldn't go on helping you as before.

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?

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....

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.

I can't see it. After all, we have nobody else to consider—at least, I have not.

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.

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?

That's entirely out of the question. We must come to an understanding, of course.

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?

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....

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....

No, it's impossible! Not because of the people. They concern me as little as they do you. But for our own sake.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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...!

Everything in due time.... Just now let us have one of those songs at least.... Oh, that one...?

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.

Lenient...? You know perfectly well that, as artist considered, you have no rival in my eyes, and will never have one.

Nothing. I haven't tried to sing anything like this for a long time. Go right on!

"No more to meet you was my firm and sworn decision, and yet when evening comes, I...."

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.

Thank you.—But if your mistress is tired, please tell her she mustn't let me disturb her.

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?

Then you can keep me company waiting for her. (Handing overcoat and hat to the maid) Please take these.

I have also just got home. I had to do a lot of errands. I start the day after to-morrow.

Yes.—Won't you sit down, please? (Looking at his watch) Cecilia should be here in an hour.

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.

What?... Naw! That flourish belongs to the preceding word. Seven only! Otherwise she wouldn't be coming to-day.

Oh, it isn't certain. "Have offer," she says, and not "have accepted offer." No, we'll have to talk it over first.

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.

Well, these successes abroad may possibly force the people here to understand what they have in Cecilia, and to act accordingly.

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.

But how she does work! It had never occurred to me that a finished artist might be so industrious.

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....

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.

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....

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)

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...

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)

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....

I don't believe it.... And it didn't prove feasible, for that matter. The pull of the South was still on me.

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.

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.

A letter from Cecilia, written yesterday, before the performance. I have had letters like this every day.

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?

Well, well—there is no cause for embarrassment in that. Don't you consider the Prince an uncommonly sympathetic person?

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.

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.

Oh, we can always put in half an hour. I have brought along some notes for the third act.

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?

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.

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."

Tell me, Amadeus, is it actually true that the Count has become reconciled with the Countess after his duel with the painter?

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)

Why? I think it's quite commonplace. A husband who has discovered his wife's (sarcastically) "disloyalty"....

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.

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....

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)

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.

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.

But...! Good gracious, do you think it's because of the Countess...? Why, that story is over long ago.

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.

My dear fellow, I should never have dreamt of forcing myself into your confidence, but as the matter has already got into the papers....

That Cecilia and Prince Sigismund.... But, of course, you are familiar with the main facts?

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....

Yes ... and then a hint that, in such a case, it would not prove very difficult to obtain a dispensation from the Pope....

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!

Nothing surprises me. But I feel as if the relationship between Cecilia and myself were being profaned by tittle-tattle of that kind.

Pioneers like yourself must scorn the judgment of the world. Else they are in danger of being proved mere braggarts.

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....

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?

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.

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.

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..."

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....

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.

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.

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.

You can't insult me in that way. I have always regarded myself as closely akin to him.

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.

Well, Marie?... (To the other two) Can it be possible that you have been working?

Because I am too tired to unpack. To-morrow, when you wake up, you'll find it on your little table.

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?

No, we are going, my dear Cecilia. Let me congratulate you with all my heart—that will be enough for to-day.

Think of it, children! After the performance I was commanded to appear in the box of His Majesty!

Commanded...? Invited, I hope you mean! Neither emperor nor king has the right to command you.

You old anarchist! But what does it matter? One goes to the box nevertheless. And you would have done that, too.

Why not? One must, if possible, study every form of existence at close quarters.

Come on then!—Mercy me, how heavy you have grown. (Goes out with Peter and the governess)

AMADEUS (takes her hand and kisses it; then he seats himself) Tell me all about it.

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.

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.

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.

That was all over—(rising) before you left. And you know it. I really don't think it's necessary to discuss bygone matters.

Will she be able to stay in the company, by the way—after this scandal in connection with your—pardon me!—predecessor?

Everything has been arranged, I hear. And she has even made up with her husband again.

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....

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!

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.

Yes, that's what I feel. I don't think I have ever felt it so strongly in all my life. (Radiantly) My symphony ...

It is, Cecilia. And ... I didn't mean to tell you about it to-day, but it leaves me no peace....

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.

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.

Oh, you haven't heard everything yet. After the performance last night the Director had a talk with me.

Well?!—There was a hint in the telegram about brilliant conditions.... But, of course, they could only refer to the next season?

If I can break away from here, they want me in Berlin from the beginning of the year.

That's a matter for careful consideration. I shall be doing a great deal better there.

Beginning next Fall, I shall—probably be free. You might wait that long, I should think. Then we could make the move together. But....

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.

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)

Open one of the windows a little, will you. There's such a lot of cigarette smoke in here.

Yes, you have had your supper already—all of you, or "everybody," as you put it a while ago.

Of course—you have told me everything. Once he accompanied you to the National Gallery.

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.

Well, you wrote me that he created a regular sensation with those waltzes of his.

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.

And so on! (He goes on eating) It surprises me, however, that he should ask you about me.

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?

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?

No, it isn't that. No, indeed! Even if I were younger than he, I should never think of it.

But if his devotion should prove more deeply rooted than you have supposed so far?

I am not saying that I have it in mind.... But I don't doubt it must come, as it always comes.

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?

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.

Sigismund...? How can you imagine?! Such things you admit only to your friends. (She gives her hand to him)

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?

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.

Danger...? What could that mean to us? To him who has no obligations there can be no cause for fear.

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!

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?

So you have said before, of many people. But there was never any such prospect implied in it.

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!

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)

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.

That's true. But nevertheless this will be a new kind of leave-taking, and a new kind of home-coming also.

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.

Naturally. It isn't possible to love in that undisturbed fashion except when you are miles apart.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

... 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.

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.

If you could guess, Cecilia, how your words hurt me and excite me at the same time!

You must not talk like that, Amadeus. I don't want it. Be sensible, for my sake as well as your own. Good-night.

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!

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!

Have you so many friends to lose? One is all I have.—Good-night. (She tries to get away)

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...?

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!

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!

No more beautiful adventure will ever blossom by the wayside for either one of us, Cecilia, as long as we may live!

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.

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.

... 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....

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)

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)

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.

Yes, I want you to do me a great service ... a service that will brook no delay. You have to act as my second.

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!

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....

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.

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!

You don't mean...?! Well, if I have to stand this unseemly and ridiculous interruption ... what do you want of me anyhow?

Haven't you understood? The two of you are to challenge Prince Sigismund on my behalf.

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....

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.

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)

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.

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.

There's a man of honor for you! And is that the discretion you owe the woman you love, do you think?

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.

And how can it make the slightest difference that you two shoot off your guns in the air?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Good morning. (He kisses Peter) Is it not a little too cold for him out there?

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.

Come, Peter—we'll go back and play in the summer-house. (She goes out with Peter)

Tell the Prince.... (Turning away from her) One moment, please. (To himself) What can that mean...? (Abruptly) Ask him to come in.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

What in the world makes you appear before me in a part which I don't know whether to call tasteless or foolhardy?

Sir!... Oh...! You think.... I see now.... And you imagine that I would have crossed your threshold again under such circumstances?

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....

May I ask whether you have been equally angry with everyone who has dared to question the virtue of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg?

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.

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?

Do you mean to say that Cecilia is the only woman in the world who must stand unprotected against any slander?

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.

Considering what has happened, I have excellent reason to think that you will neither avail yourself of that right nor fulfill that duty.

You are mistaken. And if you will take the trouble of returning home, you will soon be convinced of your mistake.

I mean simply that two of my friends are now on their way to your house on my behalf....

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!

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?

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....

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)

It was indeed a strange coincidence that made you choose this particular moment....

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 ...

... 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.

Now she won't try any longer, my dear Master. (With a wistful smile) I have served my purpose.

Oh, I can see now why she needed me—of course, you were not at all aware of it!

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.

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...!

Don't be quite so modest, please! The fame of your piano playing has reached Berlin even, I hear.

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!

I know. We were talking of it yesterday, in the dining car. You are to conduct your—number-which-one is it now?

To the Rhine district first of all; then by way of Munich to Italy—Venice, Milan, Rome.

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!

One may.—Look here, what I have got for you. (She takes a letter from a small bag)

What's that? (He takes it) What...? My letter to Philine...! Did you go to her, 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.

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.

What's the use of postponing a thing that's already settled in my own mind?—You know I never like to do that.

To start with. But I think it might be just as well to prepare ourselves for a still longer period.

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!

So that's what has put you in such a good humor all at once! (Pause) And if he hadn't come here?

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!

Don't say that, Cecilia. What has happened to me in the past seems so very insignificant, after all.

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?

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....

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.

If that be true, what has kept you from satisfying all your longings—you, who have been as free as I have?

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.

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?

But there has been enough of it now, Cecilia. It will never become true ... never after this.

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?

We have neither deceived each other, nor become reconciled—we have been free, and have merely found each other again.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, no—never again! Now—after what I have felt and experienced lately, I can vouch for myself.

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.

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.

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)

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Yes, in perfect order. When I return, Cecilia will be in Berlin, and I shall not follow her.

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.

Papa! Mamma! I can play theater beautifully. Won't you come and look? Oh, please come!

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.

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!

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.

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.

What's the matter?... Look here, mamma, how they jump about! That's the king, and this is the devil.

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)

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.

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)

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)

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)

ALBERT (observing that Cecilia is alone and sunk in grief, takes Peter with him into the garden again)

PERSONS

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)

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.

MIZZIE¹ (appearing on the balcony with a palette and a bunch of brushes in one hand, calls down to her father) Good morning, papa.

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?

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....

No, thank you, papa. I can think of nothing.... No, thanks. (She disappears again)

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.

COUNT (sits down on the garden seat, picks up a newspaper from the table and begins to read)

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....

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?

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)

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)

So you've found time to drop in at last. Do you know how long you haven't been here? Three weeks.

You mustn't mind. But you are right, of course. And even to-day I come only to say good-by.

Well, of course, it's wonderful right here—with your enormous park. But you have to go somewhere later in the Summer?

Six almost. But at fifty-five the springtime of life is pretty well over. Well—one gets resigned to it.

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)

Oh, I see. Thought it might be Mizzie. And that would also.... So Lolo is going to marry.

It's what she has promised, or threatened, or whatever you choose to call it, these last three years.

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.

Yes, you're very witty! But is that your only way of showing sympathy in a serious moment like this?

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?

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!

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....

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 Street³ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That's why you are a free man now. Perfectly free. With the world open before you.

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.

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?

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?

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.

No, that wouldn't. (Casually) But being left so much alone may have troubled her at times, I should think.

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.

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.

If you could only guess what kind of men have been paying attention to her quite recently....

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....

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.

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.

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.

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....

O Lord, are you still thinking of that? Besides, there was no truth in it. And that was eighteen or twenty years ago almost.

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?

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.

Wait—I have something to tell you. (Casually, almost facetiously) I want you to be prepared.

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?

Seventeen! And you haven't told me before! No, Egon ... Egon! And tell me ... seventeen...? My dear chap, then your wife was still alive....

Yes, my wife was still alive at the time. You see, Arpad, one gets mixed up in all sorts of strange affairs.

And thus, one fine day, you find yourself having a son of seventeen with whom you go traveling.

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....

She's dead long ago. Died a couple of weeks after he was born. A mere slip of a girl.

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....

And all that you tell me only now! To-day only—just before the boy is coming here!

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!

But you might have told me. Really, I don't see how you could.... Come now, it wasn't quite nice.

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

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.

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 ...

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.

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

I'm rather against exhibiting, too. It puts you at the mercy of any newspaper scribbler.

Well, how about the members of the Upper House—at least when they make speeches?

And how about all of us? Is there anything into which they don't poke their noses?

Yes, thanks to prevailing tendencies, there are people who would blackguard your pictures merely because you happen to be a countess, Mizzie.

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)

Somebody on the telephone—do you think papa can have fallen into new bondage already? (She seats herself)

Lolo used always to telephone about this time. But it's all over with her now. You know it, don't you?

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.

You haven't missed me very much ... I fear.... Your art ... and heaven knows what else....

What makes you speechless to-day? Tell me something. Isn't there anything new in the world at all?

Or news, at least, that concerns me more closely than the career of a strange young man.

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.

Have you forgotten already? As soon as he had passed his examinations, you meant to reveal yourself as his father.

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.

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.

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.

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)

Miss Lolo has sent word that she's coming to call, and your papa doesn't like it.

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.

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.

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....

Apparently you still think that nothing but a whim keeps me from having anything to do with the boy?

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....

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

You would never talk like that in the Upper House—supposing you ever opened your mouth during one of its sessions.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, yes, I do remember. Nor have I ever given you any cause to question my good memory.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Disillusionments, you say? Well, for your consolation, my dear Prince, I can assure you that some of them proved very enjoyable.

I know that, too. Otherwise I should hardly have dared to call myself familiar with the history of your life.

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.

Oh, don't, if you please. There is no real pleasure in knowledge of that kind when you don't uncover it yourself.

That's he. Do you want to disappear before he comes out here? I can detain him that long.

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)

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.

You came in the carriage? Might just as well send it back, as mine is here already.

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.

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.

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

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)

If you permit me to say so—I think the park is magnificent. It is much finer than ours.

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.

It's a pity that all sorts of people have been allowed to run up houses around our place like that.

We are better off in that respect. And we shall hardly live to see the town overtake us.

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.

Our place, sonny, dates back to the seventeenth century. Didn't I show you the room in which Emperor Leopold spent a night?

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.

Discovery, you say.... Well, frankly speaking, it could hardly be called that. (He looks at the Prince)

Well, you see, Countess, I have always had the feeling that I was no Philip Radeiner by birth.

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....

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....

That would probably be the best thing. The Ravensteins have always been strong in the faith.

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.

You have been working hard, your father tells me, and have passed your examinations with honors.

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 ...

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?

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.

Oh, lilacs, of course. I saw that at once. But I couldn't recall the name just now.

There is a lady who wishes to see the Count. I have showed her into the drawing-room.

But really, papa, do you think you can hide anything from me? That common blood in me, you know....

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.

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.

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....

Not exactly ask, papa ... but a happy family life requires that all the members affect each other sympathetically ... don't you think so?

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....

Langhuber, if you please. I have come to thank the Count for the magnificent flowers he sent me at my farewell performance.

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?

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.

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.

Oh, please let him, Your Highness. I prefer young people like him to be a little vif.

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....

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.

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.

And under an assumed name at that, Your Highness? Well, we are finding out a lot of nice things about you!

Your humble servant, Count! I have taken the liberty—I wanted to thank you for the magnificent flowers.

I bid you welcome to my house. Please consider yourself at home here.—I don't think any further introductions are required.

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.

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.

Yes, I have just had the pleasure of being conducted here by the fiancé of Miss Pallestri.

Is Wasner driving for you? Well, that settles it—of course—clear psychological connection! (Offers his cigar case) Want a smoke?

[The Count, the Prince and Philip seat themselves, while Mizzie and Lolo remain standing close to them.

It's a marvel. Ours isn't a patch on it, of course. (She and Mizzie come forward)

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.

It seems strange that I have never before had a chance of meeting you. I am very glad to see you.

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.

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.

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?

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?

Do you know what I have been wondering often? Whether he never thought of making you his wife?

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.

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!

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.

Old...? Do you call yourself old? Why, there can't be much difference between us.

I am thirty-seven.—No, don't look at me with any pity. There is no cause for that. None whatever.

I have heard some whispers. Countess—of course, I didn't believe anything. But I thank heaven it was true. (They shake hands)

That's too sweet of you—but what about the Count—perhaps he wouldn't like...?

My dear, I have always been accustomed to do as I pleased. (They go together toward the entrance)

I say, Wasner, you may just as well take your bride home in that trap of yours. My son is coming with me.

Thank you very much for your friendly visit, and please accept my very best wishes.

PHILIP (who has been standing in the foreground with the Prince) Oh, my dear papa, I can see through the whole story.

This Miss Lolo must be the natural daughter of the Count, and a sister of the Countess—her foster-sister, as they say.

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.

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...?

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.

But why don't you stay.... That would be delightful ... if you could take lunch with us....

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.

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?

[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.

You know, papa, you might just as well have brought us together a little earlier.

So you like her? Well, if it were only possible to know in advance.... But what's the use? Now it's all over.

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?

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

What's the use of sitting about here, once we have made up our minds? So I'll telephone.... Does that suit you?

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, 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.

Well, you have no reason. And it wouldn't be nice either. (She holds out her hand to him)

MIZZIE (after a pause, during which she looks straight into his eyes) Yes, I think so. (They shake hands)

MIZZIE (remains on the same spot for a little while, following him with her eyes)

Everything is ready. We'll leave at nine-thirty to-morrow night.—But what has become of the professor?

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

⁴ A valley along the river Rienz, marking the northern limit of the Dolomite ranges in the Tirol.

⁵ This refers to a habit of Emperor William's, from whom the Italian composer, Leoncavallo, among others, once received such an order.

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.

⁷ A large park in the center of Berlin, corresponding to the Central Park of New York or the Hyde Park of London.

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.

³ A street in the district of Wieden, near one of the principal shopping districts and leading to the great Theresian Riding Academy.

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.

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.

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.

⁷ One of the factory districts of Vienna, known chiefly because of the big insane asylum located there.

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	PAGE
Introduction	vii
The Lonely Way	1
Intermezzo	139
Countess Mizzie	261

Professor Wegrat	}	President of the Academy of Plastic Arts
Gabrielle	}	His wife
Felix	}	Their children
Johanna	}	Their children
Julian Fichtner
Stephan von Sala
Irene Herms
Dr. Franz Reumann	}	A physician
Fichtner's Valet
Sala's Valet
A Maid at the Wegrats'

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
Chambermaid	}	At the Adamses

Count Arpad Pazmandy
Mizzie	}	His daughter
Prince Egon Ravenstein
Lolo Langhuber
Philip
Professor Windhofer
Wasner
The Gardener
The Valet