Part 2
Yes, yes, Fritz,—it is true—you too had much to answer for. (_From here to the end of the conversation, she continually looks with anxiety towards the front door, as though she feared every moment to see William come in._) We might have been so peaceful, so contented, if you had only let us.
DR SCHOLZ.
It was all my fault, all of it.
MRS SCHOLZ.
There, now you are unjust again.
DR SCHOLZ.
Well, I won’t argue with you; many have banded together against me, that’s certain—for instance, in the hotels, the waiters—not one night could I sleep in peace—up and down, up and down, in the corridors—and always just in front of _my_ door.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But come now, they wouldn’t have disturbed you on purpose!
DR SCHOLZ.
No—? oh you!—you don’t understand!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, well, it may be, waiters are sometimes very mean.
DR SCHOLZ.
Mean!—I should think they are.—However, we can speak of that later. I have rather a headache—(_puts his hand on the back of his head_). There! that’s another disgraceful thing! I know well enough whom I have to thank for that! I’ll just see whether I can’t drive it away with a sound sleep—I am very tired.
MRS SCHOLZ.
But there’s no fire upstairs, Fritz!
DR SCHOLZ.
Think of that. From Vienna without stopping and no fire!—Never mind; Friebe will have seen to that. Tell me about Friebe—I mean—is he still as trustworthy?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Friebe is—what he always was.
DR SCHOLZ.
I was sure of it—well for the present—(_after he has pressed his wife’s hand, he turns with a deep thoughtful expression and goes towards the staircase. Noticing the Christmas tree, he stops and looks at it forlornly._) What is that?
MRS SCHOLZ (_disturbed, shamefaced, and a little frightened_).
We’re keeping Christmas.
DR SCHOLZ.
Keeping Christmas!—(_after a long pause, lost in memories_) It’s a long—long—time (_turning and speaking with real emotion_). And you—you’ve grown quite white!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, Fritz—both of us!
[_Dr Scholz nodding turns away and goes off through stairway L._
MRS BUCHNER (_entering quickly from R._).
So your husband has come back?
MRS SCHOLZ.
It’s as though—as if—I don’t know—Christ! what am I to think!
MRS BUCHNER.
That it is a gift, dear friend, for which we must all be thankful.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah! what he looks like! How he has lived! What an existence!—from one country to another, from one town to—ah! he’s gone through something!
[_Mrs Buchner is going to stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
What are you going to do?
MRS BUCHNER.
Tell Ida of the joyful event.
[_Goes off through stairway._
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes!—no, no,—what are you thinking of! We mustn’t let that out. If my husband finds out that anyone but himself lives up there, I should get into nice trouble.
MRS BUCHNER (_from the stairs_).
I’ll go very gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Yes, quite gently.—That would be dreadful!
MRS BUCHNER.
I’m going quite gently.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God!—Well—very, very gently!
AUGUSTA (_hastily entering from R._).
Father is here?
MRS SCHOLZ (_beside herself_).
Why, of course! And now what’s to be done! The next thing will be William—Oh! the deadly fear I’ve been in! if he and his father were to meet! Any minute he may come in! What an experience to go through for an old woman like me!
AUGUSTA.
What an extraordinary sensation, mamma, extraordinary!—We were so used to—It’s like a man risen from the dead after long years.—I’m frightened, mamma.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Do you suppose he’s come to the end of his money?
AUGUSTA.
Now—that would be—Well! I—that would be the last straw!
MRS SCHOLZ.
Well, in that case, how should we manage at all! We might as well go and beg at once.
[_Ida fully dressed enters from stairway, presses Augusta’s hand joyfully._
IDA.
Gussie! (_winningly_) It’s really true! Oh! I am so glad.
[_Mrs Scholz and Augusta show a certain painful emotion._
[_Robert enters from one of the doors R.; he is of middle height, slender, pale-faced, and haggard-looking. His eyes are sunken, and at times glitter feverishly; moustache and imperial. He smokes Turkish tobacco out of a noticeably short-stemmed pipe._
ROBERT (_lightly_).
You’re going to have it warm here, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now _he’s_ beginning!
AUGUSTA.
For all I care!
[_Steals sidelong glances at Ida’s dress._
ROBERT (_to Ida, who has looked at him reproachfully_).
Yes, that’s how I’m made, Miss Ida!
IDA (_shaking her head at him incredulously_).
No! no!
AUGUSTA (_exploding_).
You’re too maddening, Robert!
ROBERT.
Not intentionally! Don’t _get_ mad!
[_Augusta makes a contemptuous gesture._
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
And then!—And then!—Bosh!
ROBERT (_with simulated astonishment_).
I beg your pardon—I thought—but you no longer depend on mere outward charms!
IDA (_soothingly_).
Oh! Mr Robert!
ROBERT.
H’m, mustn’t I defend myself?
AUGUSTA (_half choked with tears_).
Just like you! Just like you. Your whole—my age—it’s infamous of you! Mrs Buchner! isn’t it too mean of him? To me! I—I who have stuck to mother—through the best—most beautiful time of my young life!—whilst all of you—I—just as if I’d been a servant-girl!
ROBERT.
On my word!—that has the true ring—try the stage! (_with an altered manner: roughly_) Don’t play the fool; just think! you with a martyr’s halo, that would be too funny! You’d have come off even worse anywhere else than you have at home, that’s the truth of it!
AUGUSTA.
Mother! you can bear witness—haven’t I refused three proposals?
ROBERT.
Pff! If mother had only forked out the necessary money the gentlemen would no doubt have included you in the bargain.
MRS SCHOLZ (_stepping up to Robert, holding her hand out_).
There, take a knife—cut it out of me—cut the money out of my hand!
AUGUSTA.
Listen to me! Would you like to see the letters of refusal?
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Children! (_She makes a movement as if to bare her breast for a death-stroke._) Here—rather kill me at once! Haven’t you so much pity for me? Not so much? What? Ah! good Lord! Not five minutes! I never saw such children; not five minutes can you keep peace!
ROBERT.
Exactly, that’s what I said: things are warming up again.
[_Friebe comes importantly from the stairway; he whispers to Mrs Scholz, whereupon she gives him a key. Friebe goes out through cellar door. Robert has stood watching this proceeding._
ROBERT (_as Friebe disappears down the cellar steps_).
Aha!
AUGUSTA (_who has kept her eye on Robert: breaking out furiously_).
You haven’t a shred of filial feeling!—not one shred!
ROBERT.
And then——?
AUGUSTA.
But you’re a good hand at acting—you lie abominably; and that’s the most disgusting part of it.
ROBERT.
About father, do you mean?
AUGUSTA.
Especially about father.
ROBERT (_shrugging his shoulders_).
If you mean——
AUGUSTA.
Yes—yes—that—_that_! Yes—for—if it were _not_ so, then, yes _then_ you would be a scoundrel——
MRS SCHOLZ (_interrupting_).
Will you two be quiet or——
ROBERT (_without noticing her_).
Then I am a scoundrel—well and then?——
[_Ida, who for a long time has shown restless expectation goes out through glass door._
AUGUSTA.
Pfui! shameless!
ROBERT.
Shameless—just so. So I am.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert! I don’t believe you—you are better than you would have us believe—better than you yourself believe!
ROBERT (_with slight but increasing sarcasm, coldly_).
My dear Mrs Buchner! it is no doubt very kind of you—but as I said—I hardly know—to what this honour—indeed I can lay no claim to your indulgence. My self-esteem is at the present moment by no means so slight that I feel the need of anyone to——
MRS BUCHNER (_slightly bewildered_).
That isn’t at all what I mean—only—your _father_?
ROBERT.
My father for me is a certain Fritz Scholz, doctor of medicine.
AUGUSTA.
Oh yes—go on!
ROBERT.
And if I cannot feel towards this man quite so indifferent as towards any other tomfool, it is because I—and then—(_he smokes_) because I—well just this—I am myself to a certain extent the product of his folly.
MRS BUCHNER (_hardly believing her ears_).
Excuse me! I can’t follow you so far. How can you say such a thing?—It really quite upsets me.
MRS SCHOLZ (_to Mrs Buchner_).
There, there!—You’ll see things in this house——
AUGUSTA.
Now what do you mean by that, mother? We are—_what_ we are. Other people who do—Lord knows what—they’re no better!
ROBERT.
As a matter of fact there are always simple souls to be found who are never happy unless they can potter about tinkering their neighbours’ affairs—exploded ideas!—Rubbish!
MRS BUCHNER (_seizing Robert by both hands, with feeling_).
Mr Robert! I feel under a distinct obligation to you. I’m quite charmed. Honestly, you haven’t offended me in the least!
ROBERT (_a little taken aback_).
You are an extraordinary woman!
[_Friebe comes from the cellar; he carries in his left hand three bottles of red wine, the bottle necks between his fingers, a bottle of cognac under his left arm. In his right hand he has the cellar key. Advancing to Mrs Scholz, importantly._]—
FRIEBE.
Now then—the cigars.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Good gracious, Friebe, I really don’t know—
ROBERT.
In the writing-table, mother.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Ah—yes!—
[_She takes a bunch of keys and fumbles nervously for the right one._
AUGUSTA.
Why! you know the key of the desk!
ROBERT.
The one with the straight ward.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Oh yes! wait a minute!
ROBERT.
Give it to me.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Wait—wait—here—ah!—no!—I’m quite confused! (_handing Robert the bunch_). There!
ROBERT (_detaching the right key and passing it to Friebe_).
There, I trust my father’s cigars may meet with your approval.
FRIEBE.
There you are! We shan’t get him away from them all day! (_bell rings loudly_) Coming—coming! (_goes off upstairs_).
MRS SCHOLZ.
Now the wine will soon come to an end!—Good heavens! What are we coming to! All that wine. Always those strong, expensive cigars! I tell you he will ruin himself!
ROBERT.
Well, it’s a free country!
MRS BUCHNER.
What do you mean?
ROBERT.
Everyone has a right to amuse himself in his own way. I, at any rate, would not have my right interfered with, not even by law. H’m, it’s extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
What!
ROBERT.
Extraordinary!
MRS BUCHNER.
Why do you look at me so critically? Is it something about me that is _extraordinary_?
ROBERT.
Depends how you look at it! You’ve been with us several days, and you’ve not yet thought of going—!
AUGUSTA.
What a way to talk!
MRS SCHOLZ.
They _won’t_ stop!
[_She shakes her head despairingly._
ROBERT (_with brutal candour_).
Well mother, isn’t it true? Have any strangers ever been able to stand us more than half a day? Haven’t they all cleared out?—The Schulzes—the Lehmanns?
AUGUSTA.
As if we were dependent on strangers—for my part we’re enough for ourselves.
ROBERT.
Oh _more_ than enough! (_Brutally_) I tell you, Mrs Buchner, they would fly at each other’s throats before perfect strangers—like wild beasts. Mother would tear off the tablecloth, father smash the water-bottle—cheerful, eh?—Pretty scenes!—Charming impressions for children!
AUGUSTA.
You ought to crawl out of sight for shame, you mean wretch, you!
[_Goes off quickly._
MRS SCHOLZ.
You see? _This_ is what I’ve endured for years—_years_!
[_Goes out in great agitation._
ROBERT (_going on, quite unmoved_).
And no wonder. A man of forty marries a girl of sixteen and carries her off to this godforsaken corner. A man who has served as surgeon in the Turkish army, and travelled through Japan. A cultivated, enterprising spirit, who works out the most daring projects—joins himself to a woman who a few years before was firmly convinced, that America was one of the stars in the sky. Truly I don’t exaggerate! Well, the result—a stagnant, corrupt, fermenting swamp—out of which we have had the doubtful advantage of growing—Horrible!—Love?—not a trace. Mutual understanding?—respect?—not a touch—and this is the soil from which we children have grown.
MRS BUCHNER.
Mr Robert!—I want to beg you—
ROBERT.
All right! I don’t want to talk of it. Besides the story is—
MRS BUCHNER.
No, no!—I want to ask you for something—pressing.
ROBERT.
Ask me—what?
MRS BUCHNER.
Couldn’t you—to please me—couldn’t you?—wouldn’t it be possible—just this one evening—couldn’t you put off your mask?
ROBERT.
That’s good! Put off my mask?
MRS BUCHNER.
Yes, for it’s not really you—it’s not really your own face that you show us.
ROBERT.
What an idea!
MRS BUCHNER.
Promise me—Mr Robert!—
ROBERT.
But I really don’t know—
MRS BUCHNER.
William—your brother William may come at any moment—and—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
Mrs Buchner, if you would only—Believe me!—your efforts, I assure you, are quite useless—all this will lead to nothing—absolutely nothing—it’s all been spoilt for us—ruined—bungled from the very beginning—bungled through every year of our lives. There’s nothing more to be done. It all looks very—promising—Christmas tree—candles—presents—family gathering—That’s only on top: a downright damnable lie—nothing else! And now—Father!—If I didn’t know how unmanageable he is—on my honour I should believe—that it was you—who brought him here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Indeed no! That is just what has quickened my hopes. It is not chance, it’s providence—and so from my heart I beg you to be kind and brotherly to William. If you only knew how highly he speaks of you, with what love and what respect—
ROBERT (_interrupting_).
H’m!—and what use will it be?
MRS BUCHNER.
What?
ROBERT.
Why should I be kind and brotherly to him?
MRS BUCHNER.
You ask that!
ROBERT.
Yes.
MRS BUCHNER.
Well—at least not to spoil his return home for him.
ROBERT.
Oh, we don’t affect each other as you seem to think, and, besides, if you imagine he is going to be overcome by a subtle emotion on first entering here—
MRS BUCHNER.
Your brother is so good—a really fine character!—He must have fought a great fight before bringing himself to this point. He is coming with an intense desire for reconciliation, that I can _assure_ you!
ROBERT.
I can’t understand all that. Reconciled—to what?—That’s what I can’t see. As a rule, we understand one another fairly well in this family. But this is quite beyond me! I’ve nothing to say against him, but on the other hand there’s no disguising facts.—I ask you—do you imagine that I have any exaggerated respect for my father?—Of course not.—Or that I have any—love—for him?—Or any childlike feeling of gratitude?—You see, I haven’t the slightest reason for any such feeling. In all our lives, the most that we have ever been to each other, has been a source of amusement. At moments, when we have blamed each other for our common unhappiness, we have actually hated each other. Well, between father and William this same hatred grew. That I understand well enough. That I haven’t done what William did is perhaps an accident. So I have nothing against him—_nota bene_, so long as I don’t see him. But if I see him, then all my logic goes to the devil, for I am rather,—rather—h’m, what shall I say?—Well, _then_ I only see the man who has struck my father, not his, but _my_ father, struck him in the face!
MRS BUCHNER.
Oh my God!—
ROBERT.
And then I can answer for nothing—you see?—absolutely for nothing.
MRS BUCHNER.
My God!—Was that it!—Struck him, you say?—In—the—f—, in the face? His own father?—
ROBERT.
Just that.
MRS BUCHNER (_half beside herself_).
Oh my God!—But then—then I can indeed!—Ah! then I must speak to him at once.—Your good old father—for—
ROBERT (_quite startled_).
To whom?—
MRS BUCHNER (_bursting into tears_).
To your poor dear old ill-treated father!
ROBERT (_trying to restrain her_).
For heaven’s sake what can you—
MRS BUCHNER.
Let me go—I must—I must—!
[_Goes through stairway._
ROBERT (_calling after her_).
Mrs Buchner! (_Turning back_) Damned hysteria!—
[_He shrugs his shoulders, and paces the room more than once; he makes a movement as if to hurry after her, but finally gives up the idea, and forces himself into a state of apparent indifference; he first occupies himself with his pipe; knocks it out, fills it with new tobacco from his pouch, lights it, and seems for some minutes lost in the enjoyment of smoking. Presently his interest is roused by the Christmas tree, and turning to the presents on the table, he plants himself before them; while surveying them, pipe in mouth, he laughs bitterly more than once. Suddenly he starts, takes his pipe in his hand, and bends low over the table: straightening himself, he seems for the first time to discover that he is alone; looking round as cautiously as a thief, he bends forward again, hastily seizes the yellow silk purse, looks at it more closely, and presses it with a sudden passionate movement to his lips. In this movement he shows, as by a lightning flash, an eerie, feverish passion. A noise startles him. Instantly the purse lies where it was. On tiptoe he tries to slip away. Just as he is disappearing through the door down R., he sees his mother enter by the adjoining door, and on his part stands still. Mrs Scholz goes heavily but quickly across the room to the stairway, where she stands and listens._]
ROBERT (_turning back_).
I say, mother, what does that woman want?
MRS SCHOLZ (_frightened_).
Oh God-oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!!! How you startle one!
ROBERT.
What! (_puffs_) wh—(_puffs again_), what does Mrs—Mrs Buchner really want here, I should like to know?
MRS SCHOLZ.
What _I_ want to know is, what your father—what _he_ really wants? Ah, just tell me! what is it?
ROBERT.
Well, you’ll scarcely refuse him a roof over his head?
MRS SCHOLZ (_perversely, almost in tears_).
I really don’t see. It’s so long since he wanted me; one was at any rate one’s own master; now it will begin all over again. The old worry!—now in one’s old days, one will be ordered about like a little child!
ROBERT.
Oh! how you exaggerate! It’s always the same, you will exaggerate so.
MRS SCHOLZ.
Just you wait till he sees the empty greenhouse to-morrow. There’s waste enough without my keeping another gardener; the bee-hives, they’re gone too. No flowers need trouble themselves to grow for anything I care, they only give you headaches; and then the insects——I don’t know what he gets out of it; and for that, one must be ordered about like a good-for-nothing! The first “hallo!” startles me out of my wits. Oh, this world is no longer any good.
ROBERT (_while Mrs Scholz speaks, shrugs his shoulders and turns to go, then stops and answers_).
Was it ever better, then?
MRS SCHOLZ.
Better! I should think so!!
ROBERT.
Really! that must have been before my time!
[_Goes out through lower door._
MRS SCHOLZ (_listening again on stairway_).
When I remember—they’re talking upstairs (_she looks up, sees she is alone, listens again uneasily, and finally goes out through stairway, one hand up to her ear, her face expressing fright and curiosity_).
[_Ida and William enter through the glass door: William is of middle height, strong, healthy-looking; fair hair, cut short; his clothes fit well without being foppish; overcoat, hat, satchel. His left arm is laid round Ida’s shoulders. She has her right arm thrown around him, and with gentle force is pushing him on._]
IDA.
You see now, you’re inside! The worst is over already.
WILLIAM.
Ah no!
[_Sighs heavily._
IDA.
You may believe me how very glad your mother is—and Gussie too. (_She pulls off his winter gloves_) Where did you get these from!
WILLIAM.
So you know my—mother now?
IDA.
All of them, dearest; we’re sworn friends already.
WILLIAM.
And how do you—like them?
IDA.
_Dear_ people, as you know very well.
WILLIAM (_growing each moment more constrained and depressed, speaks as though to himself_).
Extraordinary! (_his eyes catch sight of the Christmas tree, he immediately lowers them; starting involuntarily_).
IDA.
But, dearest, surely that’s not the first Christmas tree which you—
WILLIAM.
Yes, _here_, and you cannot possibly feel with me how—how—extraordinary——
IDA (_taking off his coat; he remains passive_).
Please, please, Willy (_standing in front of him, his coat over her arm, his hat and satchel in her hand_), Willy, look at me! (_encouragingly_) straight—(_stands a moment drawn up to her full height, then puts the things quickly to one side, and comes back to William_). You have promised me!
WILLIAM.
Have you ever,—Ida,—have you ever seen a vaulted tomb hung with wreaths and—
IDA (_shocked_).
Oh William! (_quite beside herself, throws her arms about him_) that _is_ bad of you!—that is too bad! that is really too, _too_ bad of you!
WILLIAM (_putting her gently from him with suppressed emotion_).
All that means nothing, nothing at all. (_Coldly repelling her._) Be reasonable, be reasonable!
IDA.
Oh! what _is_ the matter with you!
WILLIAM (_looking through the tree_).
Everything else is as it used to be. Ida, you must really, really remember what this all means to me.
IDA.
I’m getting so frightened, Willy! Perhaps, after all, it would have been better to——Mother certainly did not know that it would be _so_ hard for you,—and I—I only thought—because mother said—it wasn’t that _I_ wished it—! But now, now that you’ve got so far, do—will you?—for my sake! Ah! (_putting her arms round him_).
WILLIAM (_drawn a little further into the room by Ida’s embrace, with sighs of deep inward disturbance_).
Every step forwards—what I have lived through in this very place!
IDA.
Only don’t stir that up! Don’t stir all that up!
WILLIAM.
See! now it’s getting clear to me—your mother should not have persuaded me to this. She’s always so confident,—so—I knew—I told her—but that simple absolute confidence! If only I hadn’t allowed myself to be blinded—
IDA.
Ah! how seriously you take everything, William! Believe me, you will speak differently to-morrow,—as soon as you’ve once seen them all again. Then you’ll at any rate have done your part; you will have proved that you were in earnest in your wish to live at peace with your family.
WILLIAM.
To see it all again! all the old places! Everything comes back—so vividly, you know—the past comes so close to me—so oppressively close—one can—one is quite helpless—
IDA (_embracing him with tears_).
When I see you like this, William—ah, don’t think—for pity’s sake don’t think I would have urged you. I am so frightfully sorry for you!
WILLIAM.
Ida, I can tell _you_!—I assure you—I must get away from here! That’s evident.—I’m not equal to this struggle evidently; it might wreck me altogether! You are such a child, Ida! a sweet, innocent child—how should you know! Thank God indeed that you cannot even dream what I—what this man whom you know—I can tell _you_—Hatred!—Bitterness!—the very moment I came in—
IDA.
Shall we go? shall we go away? this minute?
WILLIAM.
Yes! For in these surroundings you—even you—I can scarcely separate you in my mind from the rest! I’m losing you! It’s criminal in me the mere fact that you should be here!
IDA.
If you could only explain, William, there must be—something terrible must have happened here that—
WILLIAM.
Here! A crime—all the more terrible because it did not count as one. Here my life was given to me, and here that same life—I can tell _you_, was—I had almost said systematically destroyed, till it grew loathsome to me—till I dragged it—bowed down like a beast of burden—crept about with it—buried myself, hid myself.—What can I say—one suffers beyond words!—Fury—hate—revenge—despair without ceasing, day and night; the same gnawing devouring pain (_pointing to his forehead_) _here_ (_pointing to his heart_) and _there_!
IDA.
Only—what can I do, William? I dare not trust myself to advise you in any way, I am so—
WILLIAM.
You should have been contented to leave me with at least the happiness that I had gained. It had all grown so mercifully dim, I realise now _how_ dim! (_overcome with excitement, he sinks on to a chair_).
IDA (_with a suppressed cry_).
William!
MRS BUCHNER (_rushing in through the stairway to William_).