THE LONELY WAY

THE FIRST ACT

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

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

JOHANNA (turning about)

Felix!

FELIX

Yes, it's me.

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

Doing pretty well the last few days.

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

To-morrow night I'm off again.

JOHANNA (staring into a fancied distance)

Off....

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

I believe you would make good in any profession.

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

Only within certain limits.

JOHANNA

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

FELIX (looking around with a smile)

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

JOHANNA

One of Dr. Reumann's ideas.

FELIX

Yes, I should have guessed it.

JOHANNA

Why?

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

I don't know anything about it. (She turns away)

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

Yes.

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

Just as if it were such an easy thing!

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

What do you mean?

JOHANNA (speaking as if to herself)

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

FELIX (smiling)

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

JOHANNA (looking calmly at him)

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

FELIX (startled)

What?

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

And what is the meaning of it?

JOHANNA (continues to look at him in the same calm way)

FELIX

You think...?

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

I know, you say...?

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX (after a pause)

And papa—has he resigned himself to it?

JOHANNA

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

FELIX (having first shaken his head slightly)

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

I'll try not to wake her up—I'll be careful. (He goes out by way of the veranda)

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

SALA

Good evening, Miss Johanna.

JOHANNA

Good evening, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Felix just got here.

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Like almost everything else you have experienced.

SALA

Like much of it.

JOHANNA

Won't you sit down?

SALA

Thank you. (He seats himself on the support of the armchair) Am I permitted? (Johanna having nodded assent, he takes a cigarette from his case and lights it)

JOHANNA

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

SALA

I move in to-morrow.

JOHANNA

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

SALA

That would be a little premature.

JOHANNA

Are you superstitious?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Why not?

SALA

I'm going abroad—for a prolonged stay.

JOHANNA

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

SALA

Still at it?

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Why do you say that as if it were nothing at all to be a ballet dancer? (Without looking at him) You, in particular, Mr. von Sala, should not be talking like that.

SALA

Why not I, in particular?

JOHANNA (glances up calmly at him)

SALA

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

JOHANNA

When?

SALA

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

JOHANNA (nods with a smile)

SALA

And it was for me?

JOHANNA

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

SALA (after a brief pause)

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

A princess in captivity.

JOHANNA (earnestly)

Don't you believe in such things?

SALA

If you want me to—certainly.

JOHANNA (still very serious)

You should believe everything in which the rest cannot believe.

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

And at that time you had such a moment?

JOHANNA

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

SALA (falling into the same tone)

To Bactria, Miss Johanna.

JOHANNA

Where?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

No.

SALA

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

JOHANNA

When did you get hold of this idea?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Why talk of dying then?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

Not a single one...?

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

What are you thinking of?

JOHANNA

That Mrs. von Sala died?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

And Lillie—the same year?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

What a memory you have, Johanna.

JOHANNA

Seven years ago that was.... Remarkable!

SALA

Why remarkable?

JOHANNA

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

SALA

"Thou that livest on, cease thou thy weeping," says Omar Nameh, who was born at Bagdad in the year 412 of the Mohammedan era as the son of a cobbler. For that matter, I know a man who is only thirty-eight. He has buried two wives and seven children, not to speak of grandchildren. And now he is playing the piano in a shabby little 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!

REUMANN (enters)

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

SALA

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

REUMANN

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

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

REUMANN

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

JOHANNA

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

REUMANN

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

JOHANNA

There they are now.

MRS. WEGRAT (enters from the veranda with Felix)

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

[All the men shake hands.

MRS. WEGRAT

Good evening, Mr. von Sala.

SALA

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

SALA

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

MRS. WEGRAT

Yes, that ought to be worth seeing once more.

REUMANN (reproachfully)

Mrs. Wegrat....

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

What? Has the matter been settled already?

REUMANN

Yes.

MRS. WEGRAT

So another man has actually been called to Gratz?

REUMANN

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

How?

REUMANN

I won't accept the call.

MRS. WEGRAT

Is that out of superstition?

FELIX

Or out of pride?

REUMANN

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

SALA

You're a subtle one, Doctor.

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN (changing the subject on purpose)

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

FELIX

Fine.

MRS. WEGRAT

So you are really satisfied, boy?

FELIX

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

Thank you. Does he still remember me?

FELIX

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

WEGRAT (enters)

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

FELIX

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

WEGRAT

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

FELIX (cheerfully and without taking offence)

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

WEGRAT (in the same tone)

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

MRS. WEGRAT

To see his parents, you mean.

WEGRAT

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

SALA

We are having a wonderful Autumn.

REUMANN

Have you just got away from the Academy, Professor?

WEGRAT

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

SALA

Don't be so unjust to yourself, Professor.

MRS. WEGRAT

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

WEGRAT

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

MRS. WEGRAT

Is she in Vienna?

WEGRAT

Just passing through. She intends to call on you.

SALA

Has she still got an engagement at Hamburg?

WEGRAT

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

Then you must have been a very small girl indeed.

JOHANNA

She played a Spanish princess.

SALA

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

REUMANN

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

SALA

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

MRS. WEGRAT

How does she look anyhow?

WEGRAT

She is still very pretty.

SALA

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

FELIX

What portrait is that?

JOHANNA

Is her portrait really in the Museum?

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

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

FELIX

But that's Julian Fichtner's picture?

SALA

Exactly.

FELIX

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

WEGRAT

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

FELIX

I talked with him only a few days ago.

WEGRAT

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

FELIX

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

[Mrs. Wegrat throws a quick glance at Dr. Reumann.

WEGRAT

How is he doing? What did he tell you?

FELIX

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

WEGRAT

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

MRS. WEGRAT

A little more.

FELIX

He has traveled far and wide.

SALA

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

WEGRAT

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

SALA

Regularly? Oh, no.

JOHANNA

Isn't he a friend of yours?

SALA

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

JOHANNA

But you used to be quite intimate with him.

SALA

He with me rather than I with him.

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

Something very much like it, at least.

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

WEGRAT

Did he say when he would be back in Vienna?

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

WEGRAT

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

JOHANNA

Who are always arriving from some far-off place.

WEGRAT

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

JOHANNA

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

WEGRAT

Oh, of course....

FELIX

I had often the same feeling.

WEGRAT

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

SALA

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

WEGRAT

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

SALA

Well, he has kept a whole lot of it.

WEGRAT

But think of all he might have achieved!

REUMANN

I believe that what you might achieve you do achieve.

WEGRAT

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

FELIX

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

WEGRAT

Good?

FELIX

To me there was something gripping about them.

MRS. WEGRAT

Why gripping? What kind of pictures were they?

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

WEGRAT

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

SALA

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

WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

My opinion, I must confess, is utterly different.

WEGRAT

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

MRS. WEGRAT

No.

WEGRAT

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

At your service!

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT (shaking her head)

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT (smiling)

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

How can you talk like that?

REUMANN

Well, am I not right?

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT (who has been listening with a smile)

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

MRS. WEGRAT

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

REUMANN

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

JOHANNA (entering with Sala)

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

Your villa has grown very pretty.

SALA

Oh, you know it then?

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

To me it was already standing there.

SALA

How mysterious....

JOHANNA

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

SALA

But how did you happen to be in that vicinity?

JOHANNA

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

SALA

And when was it you passed by my house?

JOHANNA

Not long ago—to-day.

SALA

To-day?

JOHANNA

Yes. I went all around it.

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA (nodding)

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

CURTAIN

THE SECOND ACT

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

VALET (announcing)

Mr. von Sala. (He goes out)

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

JULIAN

I am delighted. (They shake hands)

SALA

So you got back early this morning?

JULIAN

Yes.

SALA

And mean to stay...?

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

So you haven't seen anybody yet?

JULIAN

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

SALA

And you have not yet called on the Wegrats?

JULIAN

No. I even hesitate to go there.

SALA

Why?

JULIAN

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

SALA (rather surprised)

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

Mrs. Gabrielle died a week ago.

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN (in low voice)

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

SALA

Yes, I went there almost daily.

JULIAN

Oh, did you?

SALA

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

JULIAN

Afraid?

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

Of course, Felix is not here?

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

For ever?

JULIAN

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

SALA

Are not these feelings a little belated in their appearance?

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

She had forgiven you, of course?

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

And you have really been all alone?

JULIAN

Yes.

SALA

All these last years?

JULIAN

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

SALA

But there should have been no difficulty in that respect.

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

Hardly at all.

SALA

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

JULIAN

He spoke of them?

SALA

Yes, and nothing but good.

JULIAN

Really?

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

When he learns it...?

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

Yes.

JULIAN

And what plans have you for the immediate future?

SALA

I am thinking of going to Asia with Count Ronsky.

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

No.

SALA

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

JULIAN

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

SALA

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

JULIAN

But that doesn't prove anything.

SALA

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

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

SALA

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

VALET (enters)

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

JULIAN

Certainly. Ask her to come in.

VALET (goes out)

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

JULIAN

More than three years.

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

SALA (to Julian)

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

IRENE

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

SALA

How can you imagine such a thing, Miss Herms?

IRENE

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

SALA

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

IRENE

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

SALA

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

IRENE

Have you fruit trees, too, and vegetables?

SALA

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Must you leave again so soon?

IRENE

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

SALA

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

IRENE

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

SALA (with amicable irony)

How did you manage it, Miss Herms?

IRENE

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

SALA

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

IRENE

Thank God!

JULIAN (smiling)

Do you still have the same antipathy for him?

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Where did you get that idea?

IRENE

My instinct tells me—you can feel such things.

JULIAN

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

IRENE

Why not?

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN (amused)

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

And yet you are going to call on him?

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Hadn't killed anybody....

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Dare...?

IRENE

Were you forbidden, I mean?

JULIAN

I see.—Nobody can forbid me anything.

IRENE

Honestly? You live all by yourself?

JULIAN

Yes.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Those days are past.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Certainly. The samovar is right there.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

And yet you'll return to it sometime.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Wasn't he rather making up to you once?

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

Thanks. That's fine.

JULIAN

This is quite a new fancy of yours, however.

IRENE

Crackers...?

JULIAN

No, nature.

IRENE

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

[It is growing dark.

JULIAN

Why do you still think of all that?

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Should I get some light?

IRENE

It's quite cosy in the twilight like this.

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

For both of us?

IRENE

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

JULIAN

For both of us?

IRENE

Yes, for you, too.

JULIAN

But what do you mean by that?

IRENE

We had deserved no better.

JULIAN

We...? In what way?

IRENE (very seriously)

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

JULIAN

An old bachelor.

IRENE

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

JULIAN (walking back and forth)

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

IRENE

Forgotten?

JULIAN

... Things gone by.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

What?

IRENE

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

JULIAN (softly)

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

IRENE

I am not talking myself into anything.

JULIAN

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

IRENE (as if to herself)

I don't care that much for it.

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

And if I did know....

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

JULIAN

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

IRENE

Why don't you go and get it?

JULIAN

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

IRENE

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

VALET (enters)

JULIAN

What is it?

VALET

Lieutenant Wegrat asks if you are at home, sir?

JULIAN

Certainly. Ask him in.

VALET (goes out after having turned on the light)

IRENE

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

JULIAN

I can imagine.

IRENE

You visited him at Salzburg?

JULIAN

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

FELIX (enters, dressed as a civilian)

Good evening.—Good evening, Miss Herms.

IRENE

Good evening, Lieutenant.

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

[Irene is looking from one to the other.

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Was it very sudden?

FELIX

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

IRENE

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

FELIX

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

IRENE

Oh, please...!

FELIX

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

IRENE

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

[A clock strikes.

IRENE

Is it that late? Then I have to go.

JULIAN

What's the hurry, Miss Herms?

IRENE

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

FELIX

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

IRENE

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

FELIX

Yes, my furlough will be up....

IRENE (as if en passant)

How long have you been an officer anyhow, Felix?

FELIX

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

IRENE

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

FELIX

Twenty-three.

IRENE

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

JULIAN

Yes....

FELIX

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

IRENE

I think so....

FELIX

Many things have changed since then.

IRENE

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

JULIAN (nods assent)

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

FELIX

Haven't you made some changes here?

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

And how are things at home?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Has your father resumed his duties again?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

Why?

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

They just came into my head this minute.

JULIAN

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

FELIX

Why?

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Oh, I don't know.

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

Yes, of those too, of course.

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Tell me, please.

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Yes, I did paint such a picture.

FELIX

And you have still got it?

JULIAN

I guess it can be found.

FELIX

I should like to see it.

JULIAN

Did your mother remember this picture...?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

And of this little picture, too?

FELIX

It's a very good one, I understand.

JULIAN (as if trying to remember)

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

FELIX

I know.

JULIAN

You can hardly recall the old people, I suppose?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX (stands behind him, looking over his shoulder)

JULIAN

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

FELIX

In Summer....

JULIAN

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

FELIX (picking up the sketch)

How old was my mother at the time?

JULIAN (who remains seated)

Eighteen.

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

A year before she was married, then.

JULIAN

It was done that very year. (Pause)

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Your mother talked of those moments that last evening?

FELIX

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

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

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Maybe you are.

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

What is the matter?

JULIAN

Do you want to keep that picture?

FELIX

Why...?

JULIAN

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

FELIX (with his eyes on the picture)

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

JULIAN

Mothers have their adventures, too, like other women.

FELIX

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

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

JULIAN

Are you not going to take it along?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

And to you ...

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Felix!

FELIX

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

JULIAN

Are you going?

FELIX

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

JULIAN

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

FELIX

I shall be waiting for you. (He goes out)

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

CURTAIN

THE THIRD ACT

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

JOHANNA (is seated on a stool with her hands folded in her lap)

SALA (enters)

Good morning, Johanna.

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

No, indeed—bear that in mind.

FELIX (enters)

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

SALA

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

FELIX (startled)

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

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

Oh, that's pretty plain.

FELIX

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

SALA

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

FELIX

Men like me...?

SALA

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

REUMANN (who has entered while Sala was speaking)

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

SALA

In that respect you are probably right, Doctor.

FELIX

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

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

Will you permit me to speak to Count Ronsky?

FELIX

Have you already mentioned my name to him?

SALA

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

REUMANN

Do you mean to leave Vienna as soon as that?

SALA (sarcastically)

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

REUMANN

In what respect?

SALA

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

REUMANN

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

SALA

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

JOHANNA

What reasons?

SALA

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

REUMANN

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

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

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

FELIX

To-morrow night.

SALA

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

FELIX

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

SALA

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

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

JOHANNA (rising)

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

REUMANN

Have you made up your mind, Felix?

FELIX

Almost.

REUMANN

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

And yet you ask time to consider?

FELIX

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

REUMANN

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

I hope so. Oh, of course!

FELIX (looking hard at him)

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

REUMANN (with a smile)

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

That has nothing to do with your case anyhow.

FELIX

Will he not be able to go with us?

REUMANN (with hesitation)

That's very hard to predict.

FELIX

You have never learned to lie, Doctor.

REUMANN

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

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

FELIX

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

REUMANN

Why do you ask questions like that, Felix?

FELIX

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

REUMANN

I assure you ...

FELIX

I understand ...

REUMANN (embarrassed)

What can there be to understand...?

FELIX

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

REUMANN

Good luck to you ... Felix ...

FELIX

And if anybody should call you back ...

REUMANN

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

JOHANNA (comes into the room again)

REUMANN

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

JOHANNA

Are you going already, Doctor?

REUMANN

Yes.... Give my regards to your father. Good-by.... (He shakes her hand)

JOHANNA (calmly)

Did he tell you that Sala is doomed?

FELIX (hesitates about what to say)

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

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

JOHANNA (remains unmoved)

FELIX

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

JOHANNA (gives him a look as if his question surprised her)

FELIX

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

JOHANNA (brusquely)

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

FELIX

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

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

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

That was long ago. We were children then.

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

Perhaps it depends on ourselves only.

JOHANNA

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

FELIX

What do you mean?

JOHANNA

Into the wide world ...

FELIX

What is the matter, Johanna?

JOHANNA

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

FELIX (hesitatingly)

I feel a little scared on your behalf, Johanna.

JOHANNA

Why, Felix?

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

Does that depend on me alone?

FELIX

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

JOHANNA

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