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Cornell University Library 
 PT 2638.N73E3 1915 
 
 Lonely way Intermezzo, Countess Mizzle 
 
 3 1924 026 341 440 
 
THE MODERN DRAMA S'ERIES 
 EDITED BY EDWIN BJORKMAN 
 
 THE LONELY WAY • INTERMEZZO 
 COUNTESS MIZZIE • BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
 
THE LONELY WAY: 
 
 INTERMEZZO: 
 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 THREE PLAYS BY 
 
 ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 EDWIN BJORKMAN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 MCMXV 
 
 1l> 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 FT 
 
 r- 
 
 arVferv 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAQE 
 
 Inteoduction 
 
 vii 
 
 The Lonely Wat 
 
 1 
 
 Inteemezzo 
 
 139 
 
 Countess Mizzie 
 
 261 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 HERMANN BAHR, the noted playwright and 
 critic, tried one day to explain the spirit of 
 certain Viennese architecture to a German friend, 
 who persisted in saying: "Yes, yes, but always there 
 remains something that I find curiously foreign." At 
 that moment an old-fashioned Spanish state carriage 
 was coming along the street, probably on its way 
 to or from the imperial palace. The German could 
 hardly believe his eyes and expressed in strong terms 
 his wonderment at finding such a relic surviving in an 
 ultra-modern town like Vienna. 
 
 "You forget that our history is partly Spanish," 
 Bahr retorted. "And nothing could serve better than 
 that old carriage to explain what you cannot grasp in 
 our art and poetry." 
 
 A similar idea has been charmingly * expressed by 
 Hugo von Hcffmannsthal in the poem he wrote in 
 1892 — ^when he was still using the pseudonym of 
 "Loris" — as introduction to "Anatol." I am now add- 
 ing a translation of that poem to my own introduc- 
 tion, because I think it will be of help in reading the 
 plays of this volume. The scene painted by Hof- 
 mannsthal might, on the whole, be used as a setting 
 for "Countess Mizzie." For a more detailed version 
 of that scene he refers us to "Canaletto's Vienna"^- 
 that is, to the group of thirteen Viennese views which 
 were painted about 1760 by the Venetian Bernardo 
 
viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Belotto (who, like his more famous uncle and model, 
 Antonio Canale, was generally called Canaletto), and 
 which are now hanging in one of the galleries of the 
 Kunsthistorische Hoimusewm at Vienna. The spirit 
 of those pictures may be described, I am told, as one 
 of stately grace. They are full of Latin joy in life 
 and beauty. They speak of an existence constantly 
 softened by concern for the amenities of litfe. It is 
 just what survives of their atmosphere that frequently 
 makes foreigners speak of Vienna with a tender devo- 
 tion not even surpassed by that bestowed on Paris or 
 Rome. 
 
 An attempt to understand the atmosphere and spirit 
 of modern Vienna will carry us far toward a cor- 
 rect appreciation of Schnitzler's art. And it is not 
 enough to say that Vienna is one of the oldest cities 
 in Europe. It is not even enough to say that it pre- 
 serves more of the past than Paris or London, for 
 instance. What we must always bear in mind is its 
 position as the meeting place not only of South and 
 North but also of past and present. In some ways it 
 is a melting-pot on a larger scale than New York even. 
 Racially and lingually, it belongs to the North. His- 
 torically and psychologically, it belongs to the South. 
 Economically and politically, if lives very much in the 
 present. Socially and esthetically, it has always been 
 strongly swayed by tradition. The anti-Semitic move- 
 ment, which formed such a characteristic feature of 
 Viennese life during the last few decades, must be 
 regarded as the last stand of vanishing social tradi- 
 tions against a growing pressure of economical re- 
 quirements. 
 
 Like all cities sharply divided within itself and liv- 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 ing above a volcano of half-suppressed passions, 
 Vienna tends to seek in abandoned gayety, in a 
 frank surrender to the senses, that forgetfulness 
 without which suicide would seem the only remaining 
 alternative. Emotions kept constantly at the boiling- 
 point must have an outlet, lest they burst their con- 
 tainer. Add to this sub-conscious or unconscious 
 craving for a neutral outlet, the traditional pressure 
 of the Latin inheritance, and we have the greater part 
 of the causes that explain Schnitzler's preoccupation 
 with the themes of love and death. For Schnitzler is 
 first of all Viennese. 
 
 Arthur Schnitzler was born at Vienna on May 16, 
 1862. His father was Professor Johann Schnitzler, 
 a renowned Jewish throat specialist. I am told that 
 Professor Bernhardi in the play of the same name must 
 be regarded as a pretty faithful portrait of the elder 
 Schnitzler, who, besides his large and important prac- 
 tice, had many other interests, including an extensive 
 medical authorship and the editing of the Wiener 
 klmische Rundschau. It is also to be noticed that Pro- 
 fessor Bernhardi has among his assistants a son, who 
 divides his time between medicine and the composition 
 of waltz music. 
 
 The younger Schnitzler studied medicine at the 
 Vienna University, as did also his brother, and ob- 
 tained his M. D. in 1885. During the next two years 
 he was attached to the resident staiF of one of the big 
 hospitals. It was also the period that saw the be- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 ginning of his authorship. While contributing medi- 
 cal reviews to his father's journal, he was also pub- 
 lishing poems and prose sketches in various literary 
 periodicals. Most of his contributions from this time 
 appeared in a publication named "An der schonen 
 hlavsn Donau," (By the Beautiful Blue Danube), now 
 long defunct. 
 
 He was also continuing his studies, which almost 
 from the start seem to have turned toward the psychic 
 side of the medical science. The new methods of hyp- 
 notism and suggestion interested him greatly, and in 
 1889 he published a monograph on "Functional 
 Aphonia and its Treatment by Hypnotism and Sug- 
 gestion." In 1888 he made a study trip to England, 
 during which he wrote a series of "London Letters" on 
 medical subjects for his father's journal. On his re- 
 turn he settled down as a practicing physician, but 
 continued to act as his father's assistant. And as 
 late as 1891-95 we find him named as his father's col- 
 laborator on a large medical work entitled "Clinical 
 Atlas of Laryngology and Rhinology." 
 
 There are many signs to indicate uncertainty as to 
 his true calling during those early years. The ensuing 
 inner conflict was probably sharpened by some pres- 
 sure exercised by his father, who seems to have been 
 anxious that he should turn his energies undividedly 
 to medicine.^ To a practical and outwardly successful 
 man like the elder Schnitzler, his own profession must 
 have appeared by Jar the more important and promis- 
 ing. While there is no reason to believe that his atti- 
 tude in this matter was aggressive, it must have been 
 keenly felt and, to some extent at least, resented by 
 the son. One of the dominant notes of the latter's work 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 is the mutual lack of understanding between succes- 
 sive generations, and this lack tends with significant 
 frequency to assume the form of a father's opposition 
 to a son's choice of profession. 
 
 This conflict cannot have lasted very long, however, 
 for the younger Schnitzler proved quickly successful 
 in his purely literary efforts. The "Anatol" sketches 
 attracted a great deal of attention even while appear- 
 ing separately in periodicals, and with their publica- 
 tion in book form, which occurred almost simultaneously 
 with the first performance of "A Piece of Fiction" at a 
 Viennese theater, their author was hailed as one of 
 the most promising among the younger men. From 
 that time he has been adding steadily to his output and 
 his reputation. When his collected works were issued 
 in 1912, these included four volumes of plays and three 
 volumes of novels and stories. Since then he has 
 finished another play and two volumes of prose 
 sketches. 
 
 It is rare to find an author turning with such regu- 
 larity from the epic to the dramatic form and back 
 again. And it is still more rare to find him so thor- 
 oughly at home and successful in both fields. In 
 Schnitzler's case these two parallel veins have mutually 
 supported and developed each other. Time and again 
 he has treated the same theme first in one form and 
 then in another. And not infrequently he has intro- 
 duced characters from his plays into his stories, and 
 vice versa. A careful study of his other works would 
 undoubtedly assist toward a better understanding of 
 his plays, but I do not regard such a study essential 
 for the purpose. It is my belief that Schnitzler has 
 given himself most fully and most typically in his 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 dramatic authorship, and it is to this side of his crea- 
 tive production I must confine myself here. 
 
 "Anatol" is nothing but seven sketches in dramatic 
 form, each sketch picturing a new love aflFair of the 
 kind supposed to be especially characteristic of Vien- 
 nese life. The man remains the same in all these 
 light adventures. The woman is always a different 
 one. The story is of the kind always accompanying 
 such circiimstances — one of waxing or waning attrac- 
 tion, of suspicion and jealousy, of incrimination and 
 recrimination, of intrigue and counter-intrigue. The 
 atmosphere is realistic, but the actuality implied is 
 sharply limited and largely superficial. There is little 
 attempt at getting down to the roots of things. There 
 is absolutely no tendency or thesis. The story is told 
 for the sake of the story, and its chief redeeming qual- 
 ity lies in the grace and charm and verve with which it 
 is told. These were qualities that immediately won 
 the public's favor when "Anatol" first appeared. And 
 to some extent it must be counted unfortunate that 
 the impression made by those qualities was so deep and 
 so lasting. There has been a strong tendency observ- 
 able, both within and outside the author's native coun- 
 try, to regard him particularly as the creator of 
 Anatol, and to question, if not to resent, his inevitable 
 and unmistakable growth beyond that pleasing, but 
 not very significant starting point. 
 
 And yet his next dramatic production, which was 
 also his first serious effort as a playwright, ought to 
 have proved suiBcient warning that he was moved by 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 something more than a desire to amuse. "A Piece of 
 Fiction" (Da* Marchen) must be counted a failure 
 and, in some ways, a step backward. But its very 
 failure is a promise of greater things* to come. It 
 lacks the grace and facility of "Anatol." Worse 
 still, it lacks the good-humor and subtle irony of those 
 first sketches. Instead it has purpose and a serious 
 outlook on life. The "piece of fiction" refers to the 
 "fallen" woman — to the alleged impossibility for any 
 decent man to give his whole trust to a woman who 
 has once strayed from the straight path. Fedor Den- 
 ner denounces this attitude in the presence of a young 
 girl who loves him and is loved by him, but who be- 
 longs to the category of women under discussion. 
 When he learns her history, he struggles vainly to 
 resist the feelings of distrust and jealousy which he 
 had declared absurd a little while earlier. And the 
 two are forced at last to walk their difi'erent ways. 
 Unfortunately the dialogue is heavy and stilted. The 
 play is a tract rather than a piece of art, and the 
 tirades of Fedor are equally unconvincing when he 
 speaks for or against that "fiction" which is killing 
 both his own and the girl's hope of happiness in mutual 
 love. Yet the play marks a step forward in outlook 
 and spipt. 
 
 Schnitzler's interest in hypnotism, which had as- 
 serted itself in the first scene of "Anatol," appears 
 again in the little verse-play, "Paracelsus," which fol- 
 lowed. But this time he used it to more purpose. 
 By the help of it, a woman's innermost soul is laid 
 bare, and some very interesting light is shed on the 
 workings of the human mind in general. 
 
 "Amours" (Liebelei) may be regarded as a cross, or 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 a compromise, between "Anatol" and "A Piece of Fic- 
 tion." The crudeness of speech marking the latter 
 play has given room to a very incisive dialogue, that 
 carries the action forward with unfailing precision. > 
 Some of the temporarily dropped charm has been re- 
 covered, and the gain in sincerity has been preserved. 
 "Amours" seems to be the first one of a series of 
 plays dealing with the reverse of the gay picture pre- 
 sented in "Anatol." A young man is having a love 
 affair with two women at the same time, one of them 
 married, the other one a young girl with scant knowl- 
 edge of the world. Yet she knows enough to know 
 what she is doing, and she has sufficient strength of 
 mind to rise above a sense of guilt, though she is more 
 prone to be the victim of fear. Then the married 
 woman's husband challenges the young man, who is 
 killed. And the girl takes her own life, not because 
 her lover is dead, not because of anything she has 
 done, but because his death for the sake of another 
 woman renders her own faith in him meaningless. 
 , "Outside the Game Laws" {Freiwild) is another 
 step ahead — the first play, I think, where the real 
 Arthur Schnitzler, the author 'of "The Lonely Way" 
 and "Countess Mizzie," reveals himself. It has a thesis, 
 but this is implied rather than obtruded. In style and 
 character-drawing it is realistic in the best sense. It 
 shows already the typical Schnitzlerian tendency of 
 dealing with serious questions — with questions of life 
 and death — in a casual fashion, as if they were but 
 problems of which road to follow or which shop to 
 enter. It has one fault that must appear as such 
 everywhere, namely, a division of purpose. When the 
 play starts, one imagines that those "outside the game 
 
INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 laws" are the women of the stage, who are presented 
 as the legitimate prey of any man caring to hunt them. 
 As the play goes on, that starting point is almost lost 
 sight of, and it becomes more and more plain that 
 those "outside the game laws" are sensible, decent men 
 who refuse to submit to the siUy dictates of the duel- 
 ing code. But what I have thus named a fault is 
 mostly theoretical, and does not mar the effective 
 appeal of the play. What must appear as a more 
 serious shortcoming from an American viewpoint is 
 the local nature of the evil attacked, which lessens the 
 universal validity of the work. 
 
 "Change Partners!" (Reigen) was produced about 
 the same time as "Outside the Game Laws," but was 
 not printed until 1900, and then only privately. Yet 
 those ten dialogues provoked from the first a storm 
 which seriously threatened Schnitzler's growing repu- 
 tation and popularity. When Vienna finds a work 
 immoral, one may look for something dreadful. And 
 the work in question attempts a degree of naturalism 
 ^ rarely equaled in France even. Yet those dialogues 
 are anything but immoral in spirit. They introduce 
 ten men and as many women. The man of one scene 
 reappears with a new woman in the next, and then 
 that woman figures as the partner of a new man in 
 the third scene. The story is always the same (except 
 in the final dialogue) : desire, satisfaction, indifference. 
 The idea underlying this "ring dance," as the title 
 means literally, is the same one that recurs under a 
 much more attractive aspect in "Countess Mizzie." 
 It is theJin]i}ng._together of the entire social organism 
 by man's natural cravings. And as a document bear- 
 
xvl INTRODUCTION 
 
 ing on the psychology of sex "Change Partners !" has 
 not many equals. 
 
 In "The Legacy" {Das Vermachtnis) we meet with 
 a forcible presentation and searching discussion of 
 the world's attitude toward those ties that have been 
 established without social sanction. A young man is 
 brought home dying, having been thrown from his 
 horse. He compels his parents to send for .his mis- 
 tress and their little boy, and he hands both over to 
 the care of his family. That is his "legacy." The 
 family tries hard to rise to this unexpected situation 
 and fails miserably — ^largely, it must be confessed, 
 thanks to the caddish attitude of a self-made physician 
 who wants to marry the dead man's sister. The sec- 
 ond act ends with the death of the little boy ; the third, 
 with the disappearance and probable suicide of his 
 mother. The dead man's sister cries out: "Every- 
 thing that was his is sacred to us, but the one living 
 being who meant more to him than all of us is driven 
 out of our home." The one ray of light offered is 
 that the sister sees through the man who has been 
 courting her and sends him packing. It is noticeable 
 in this play, as in others written by Schnitzler, that 
 the attitude of the women is more sensible and tolerant 
 than that of the men. 
 
 The physician is one of the few members of that 
 profession whom the author has painted in an un- 
 favorable light. There is hardly one full-length play 
 of his in which at least one representative of the medical 
 profession does not appear. And almost invariably^ 
 they seem destined to act as the particular mouthpieces^ 1 
 of the author. In a play like "The Lonely Way," for 
 instance, the life shown is the life lived by men and 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 women observed by Schnitzler. The opinions expressed 
 are the opinions of that sort of men and women under 
 the given circumstances. The author neither approves i 
 nor disapproves when he makes each character speak 
 in accordance with his own nature. But like most 
 creative artists, he has felt the need of stating his 
 own view of the surrounding throng. This he seems 
 usually to do through the mouth of men like Dr. Reixr 
 marni in the play just mentioned, or Dr. Mauer in 
 "The Vast Country." And the attitude of those men 
 shows a strange mingling of disapproval and forbear- 
 ance, which undoubtedly comes very near being 
 Schnitzler's own. 
 
 The little one-act play "The Life Partner" {Die 
 Gefahrtm) is significant mainly as a study for bigger 
 canvases developing the same theme : the veil that hides 
 the true life of man and woman alike from the partner. 
 And the play should really be named "The Life Partner 
 That Was Not." Another one-act play, "The Green 
 Cockatoo," is laid at Paris. Its action takes place 
 on the evening of July 14, 1789 — the fall of the Bastille 
 and the birth of the Revolution. It presents a won- 
 derful picture of social life at the time — of the average 
 human being's unconsciousness of the great events 
 taking place right under his nose. 
 
 "The Veil of Beatrice," a verse play in five acts, 
 takes us to Bologna in the year 1500, when Cesare 
 Borgia was preparing to invest the city in order to 
 oust its tyrant, Giovanni Bentivoglio (named Lio- 
 nardo in the play), and add it to the Papal possessions. 
 All the acts take place in one night. The fundamental 
 theme is one dear to Schnitzler — the flaming up of 
 passion under the shadow of impending death. The 
 
xvili INTRODUCTION 
 
 whole city, with the duke leading, surrenders to this 
 outburst, the spirit of which finds its symbol in a 
 ravishingly beautiful girl, Beatrice Nardi, who seems 
 fated to spread desire and death wherever she appears. 
 With her own death at dawn, the city seems to wake 
 as from a nightmare to face the enemy already at 
 the gates. The play holds much that is beautiful and 
 much that is disappointing. To me its chief impor- 
 tance lies in the fact that it marks a breaking^point 
 between the period when Schnitzler was trying to write 
 "with a purpose," and that later and greater period 
 when he has learned how to treat life sincerely and se- 
 
 ' riously without other purpose than to present it as it 
 is. That was his starting point in "Anatol," but 
 then he was not yet ready for the realism that must 
 be counted the highest of all: the realism that has no 
 tendency and preaches no lesson, but from which we 
 draw our own lessons as we draw them from life itself 
 in moments of unusual lucidity. 
 
 / "Hours of Life" (Lebendige Stimden), which has 
 given its name to a volume of four one-act plays, may 
 be described as a mental duel between two sharply op- 
 posed temperaments — the practical and the imagina- 
 tive. An elderly woman, long an invalid, has just died, 
 and a letter to the man who has loved and supported 
 her during her final years reveals the fact that she has 
 taken her own life because she feared that the thought 
 of her was preventing her son, a poet, from work- 
 ing. The duel is between that son and the man who 
 has befriended his mother. The play constitutes a 
 scathing arraignment of the artistic temperament| 
 Bernard Shaw himself has never penned a more bitter 
 one. "Even if you were the world's greatest genius," 
 
INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 the old man cries to the young one, "all your scribbling 
 would be worthless in comparison with a single one of 
 those hours of real life that saw your mother seated 
 in that chair, talking to us, or merely listening, per- 
 haps." 
 
 The most important of those four one-act plays, 
 however, is "End of the Carnival" (Die letzten Mas- 
 ken). An old journalist, a might-have-been, dying in 
 a hospital, sends for a life-long friend, a successful 
 poet, whom he hates because of his success. AU he 
 thinks of is revenge, of getting even, and he means to 
 achieve this end by disclosing to the poet the faithless- 
 ness of his wife. Once she had been the mistress of 
 the dying man, and that seems to him his one triumph 
 in life. But when the poet arrives and begins to talk 
 of the commonplaces of daily life, of petty gossip, 
 petty intrigues, and petty jealousies, then the dying 
 man suddenly sees the futility of the whole thing. To 
 him, who has one foot across the final threshold, it 
 means nothing, and he lets his friend depart without 
 having told him anything. There is a curious recur- 
 rence of the same basic idea in "Professor Bernhardi," 
 where the central figure acquires a similar sense of 
 our ordinary life's futility by spending two months 
 in jail. 
 
 To what extent Schnitzler has studied and been im- 
 pressed by Nietzsche I don't know, but the thought 
 underlying "The Lady With the Dagger" is distinctly 
 Nietzschean. It implies not only a sense of our 
 having lived before, of having previously stood in the 
 same relationship to the people now surrounding us, 
 but of being compelled to repeat our past experience, 
 even if a sudden flash of illumination out of the 
 
XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 buried past should reveal to us its predestined fatal 
 termination. This idea meets xis again in the first act 
 of "The Lonely Way." The fourth of those one-act 
 plays, "Literature," is what Schnitzler has named it — 
 a farce — ^but delightfully clever and satirical. 
 
 Those four plays, and the group of three others 
 published under the common title of "Puppets" (Ma- 
 rionetten), are, next to "Anatol," the best known 
 works of Schnitzler's outside of Austria and Germany. 
 They deserve their wide reputation, too, for there is 
 nothing quite like them in the modem drama. Yet I 
 think they have been over-estimated in comparison 
 with the rest of Schnitzler's production. "The Puppet 
 Player," "The Gallant Cassian" and "The Greatest 
 Show of AU" (Zum grossen Wurstel) have charm and 
 brightness and wit. But in regard to actual signifi- 
 cance they cannot compare with plays like "The Lonely 
 Way," for instance. 
 
 The three plays comprised in the volume named 
 "Puppets" constitute three more exemplifications of 
 the artistic temperament, which again fares badly at 
 the hands of their author. And yet he has more than 
 one telling word to say in defense of that very tem- 
 perament. That these plays, like "Hours of Life" and 
 "Literature," are expressive of the inner conflict rag- 
 ing for years within the playwright's own soul, I take 
 for granted. And they seem to reflect moments when 
 Schnitzler felt that, in choosing poetry rather than 
 medicine for his life work, he had sacrificed the better 
 choice. And yet they do not show any regrets, but 
 rather a slightly ironical self-pity. A note of irony; 
 runs through everything that Schnitzler has written,;! 
 constituting one of the main attractions of his art, 
 
INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 and it is the more acceptable because the point of it 
 so often turns against the writer himself. 
 
 "The Puppet Player" is a poet who has ceased 
 writing in order to use human beings for his material. 
 He thinks that he is playing with their destinies as if 
 they were so many puppets. And the little drama 
 shows how his accidental interference has created fates 
 stronger and happier than his own — fates lying wholly 
 outside his power. The play suffers from a tendency 
 to exaggerated subtlety which is one of Schnitzler's 
 principal dangers, though it rarely asserts itself to 
 such an extent that the enjoyment of his work is 
 spoiled by it. 
 
 His self-irony reaches its climax in the one-act play 
 which I have been forced to name "The Greatest Show 
 of All" because the original title {Zum grossen 
 Wurstel) becomes meaningless in English. There he 
 proceeds with reckless abandon to ridicule his own 
 work as weH as the inflated importance of all imagina- 
 tive creation. But to even up the score, he includes 
 the public, as representative of ordinary humanity, 
 among" the objects of his sarcasms. And in the end 
 all of us — ^poets, players, and spectators — are exposed 
 as mere puppets. The same thought recurs to some 
 extent in "The Gallant Cassian," which is otherwise 
 a piece of sheer fun — ^the slightest of Schnitzler's dra- 
 matic productions, perhaps, but not without the ac- 
 customed Schnitzlerian sting. 
 
 When, after reading all the preceding plays, one 
 reaches "The Lonely Way" {Der einsame Weg), it is 
 hard to escape an impression of everything else having 
 been nothing but a preparation. It is beyond all 
 doubt Schnitzler's greatest and most powerful crea- 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 tion so far, representing a tremendous leap forward 
 both in form and spirit. It has less passion than 
 "The Call of Life," less subtlety than "Intermezzo," 
 less tolerance than "Countess Mizzie." Instead it com- 
 bines ill perfect balance aU the best qualities of those 
 three plays — each dominant feature reduced a little to 
 give the others scope as weU. It is a wonderful speci- 
 men of what might be called the new realism — of that 
 realism which is paying more attention to spiritual 
 than to material actualities. Yet it is by no means 
 lacking in the more superficial verisimilitude either. 
 Its character-drawing and its whole atmosphere are 
 startlingly faithful to life, even though the life por- 
 trayed may represent a clearly defined and limited 
 phase of universal human existence. 
 
 The keynote of the play lies in Sola's words to 
 Julian in the closing scene of the fourth act: "The 
 process of aging must needs be a lonely one to our 
 kind." That's the main theme — ^not a thesis to be 
 proved. This loneliness to which Sola refers, is com- 
 mon to aU people, but it is more particularly the share 
 of those who, like himself and Julian, have treasured 
 their "freedom" above everything else and who, for 
 that reason, have eschewed the human ties which to a 
 man like Wegrath represent life's greatest good and 
 deepest meaning. Again we find the principal charac- 
 ters of the play typifying the artistic temperament, 
 with its unhuman disregards of the relationships that 
 have primary importance to other men. Its gross 
 egoism, as exemplified by Julian, is the object of pas- 
 sionate derision. And yet it is a man of that kind. 
 Sola, who recognizes and points out the truer path,' 
 when he says : "To love is to live for somebody else." 
 
INTRODUCTION xxiil 
 
 The play has no thesis, as I have already said. " It 
 is not poised on the point of a single idea. Numerous 
 subordinate themes are woven into the main one, giv- 
 ing the texture of the whole a richness resembling that 
 of life itself. Woman's craving for experience and 
 self-determination is one such theme, which we shall 
 find again in "Intermezzo," where it practically be- 
 comes the dominant one. 
 
 Another one is that fascinated stare at death which '' 
 is so characteristice of Latin and Slav writers — of 
 men like Zola, Maupassant, and Tolstoy — ^while it is 
 significantly absent in the great Scandinavian and 
 Anglo-Saxon poets. "Is there ever a blissful moment 
 in any decent man's life, when he can think of any- 
 thing but death in his innermost soul?" says SaXa. The 
 same thought is expressed in varying forms by one 
 after another of Schnitzler's characters. "AU sorrow 
 is a lie as long as the open grave is not your own," 
 cries the dying Catharine in "The Call of Life." It is 
 in this connection particularly that we of the North 
 must bear in mind Schnitzler's Viennese background 
 and the Latin traditions forming such a conspicuous 
 part of it. The Latin peoples have shown that they 
 can die as bravely as the men of any other race or 
 clime, but their attitude toward death in general is 
 widely different from the attitude illustrated by Ibsen 
 or Strindberg, for instance. A certain gloom, having 
 kinship with death, seems ingrained in the Northern 
 temperament, put there probably by the pressure of the 
 Northern winter. The man of the sunlit South, on 
 the other hand, seems always to retain the child's sim- 
 ple horror at the thought that darkness must follow 
 light. We had better not regard it as cowardice under 
 
xxiT INTRODUCTION 
 
 any circumstances, and cowardice it can certainly not 
 be called in the characters of Schnitzler. But the res- 
 ignation in which he finds his only antidote, and which 
 seems to represent his nearest approach to a formu- 
 lated philosophy, cannot be expected to satisfy us. 
 One of his own countrymen, Hermann Bahr, has pro- 
 tested sharply against its insxifficiency as a soul-sus- 
 taining faith, and in that protest I feel inclined to 
 concur. 
 
 With "The Lonely Way" begins a series of plays 
 representing not only Schnitzler's highest achievements 
 so far, but a new note in the modern drama. To a 
 greater extent than any other modern plays — ^not even 
 excepting those of Ibsen — they must be defined as 
 psychological. The dramas of Strindberg come near- 
 est in this respect, but they, too, lag behind in soul- 
 revealing quality. Plots are almost lacking in the 
 Schnitzler productions during his later period. Things 
 happen, to be sure, and these happenings are violent 
 enough at times, but they do not constitute a sharply 
 selected sequence of events leading up to a desired and 
 foreshadowed end. In the further development of this 
 period, even clearly defined themes are lost sight of, 
 and the course of the play takes on an almost acci- 
 dental aspect. This is puzzling, of course, and it 
 must be especially provoking to those who expect each 
 piece of art to have its narrow little lesson neatly 
 tacked on in a spot where it cannot be missed. It im- 
 plies a manner that exacts more alertness and greater 
 insight on the part of the reader. But for that very 
 reason these later plays of Schnitzler should prove 
 stimulating to those who do not suffer from mental 
 laziness or exhaustion. 
 
TTT, 
 
 INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 "Intermezzo" (Zwischenspiel) might be interpreted 
 as an attack on those new marital conventions which 
 abolish the old-fashioned demand for mutual faithful- 
 ness and substitute mutual frankness. It would be 
 more correct, however, to characterize it as a discus- 
 sion of what constitutes true honesty in the ever deU- 
 cate relationship between husband and wife. It shows,i 
 too, the growth of a woman's soul, once she has been 
 forced to stand on her own feet. Viewed from this 
 point, the play might very well be classified as femi- 
 nistic. It would be easy, for one thing, to read into it a 
 plea for a single moral standard. But its ultimate 
 bearing goes far beyond such a narrow construction. 
 Here as elsewhere, Schnitzler shows himself more sym- 
 pathetic toward the female than toward the male out- 
 look on life, and the creator of Cecilia Adams-Orten- 
 burg may well be proclaimed one of the foremost liv- 
 ing painters of the woman soul. 
 
 The man who, in "Anatol," saw nothing but a rather 
 weak-minded restlessness in woman's inconstancy, rec- 
 ognizes in "Intermezzo" woman's right to as complete 
 a knowledge of life and its possibilities as any man may 
 acquire. The same note is struck by Johanna in "The 
 Lonely Way." "I want a time to come when I must 
 shudder at myself — shudder as deeply as you can only 
 when nothing has been left untried," she says to Sola 
 in the fourth act. This note sounds much more clearly 
 — one might say defiantly — through the last two acts 
 of "Intermezzo." And when Amadeus, shrinking from 
 its implications, cries to Cecilia that thereafter she 
 will be guarded by his tenderness, she retorts impa- 
 tiently : "But I don't want to be guarded ! I shall no 
 
xxvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 longer permit you to guard me!" In strict keeping 
 with it is also that Schnitzler here realizes and accepts 
 woman's capacity for and right to creative expression. 
 It is from Cecilia's lips that the suggestion comes to 
 seek a remedy for life's hurts in a passionate abandon- 
 ment to work. In fact, the established attitudes of 
 man and woman seem almost reversed in the cases of 
 Amadeus and Cecilia. 
 
 Significant as this play is from any point viewed, I 
 am inclined to treasure it most on account of the 
 subtlety and delicacy of its dialogue. I don't think 
 any dramatist of modern times has surpassed Schnitz- 
 ler in his ability to find expression for the most re- 
 fined nuances of thought and feeling. To me, at least, 
 it is a constant joy to watch the iridescence of his 
 sentences, which gives to each of them not merely one, 
 but innumerable meanings. And through so much of 
 this particular play runs a spirit that can only be called 
 playful — a spirit which finds its most typical expres- 
 sion in the delightful figure of Albert Rhon, the poet 
 who takes the place of the otherwise inevitable physi- 
 cian. I like to think of that figure as more or less 
 embodying the author's conception of himself. All 
 the wit and sparkle with which we commonly credit 
 the Gallic mind seems to me abundantly present in 
 the scenes between Albert and Amadeus. 
 
 The poise and quiet characterizing "The Lonely 
 Way" and "Intermezzo" appear lost to some extent 
 in "The Call of Life" (Der Ruf des Leben), which, on 
 the other hand, is one of the intensest plays written by 
 Schnitzler. The white heat of its passion sears the 
 mind at times, so that the reader feels like raising a 
 shield between himself and the words. "It was as if 
 
INTRODUCTION ixvii 
 
 I heard life itself calling to me outside my door," Marie 
 says in this play when trying to explain to Dr. Schvnd- 
 ler why she had killed her father and gone to seek her 
 lover. The play might as well have been named "The 
 Will to Live," provided we remember that mere exist- 
 ence can hardly be called life. Its basic thought has 
 much in common with that of Frank Wedekind's 
 "Earth Spirit," but Schnitzler spiritualizes what 
 the German playwright has vulgarized. There is a 
 lot of modern heresy in that thought — a lot of revived 
 and refined paganism that stands in sharp opposition 
 to the spirit of Christianity as it has been interpreted 
 hitherto. It might be summarized as a twentieth cen 
 tury version of Achilles' declaration that he would 
 rather be a live dog than the ruler of all the shades 
 in Hades. "What a creature can I be," cries Marie, 
 "to emerge out of such an experience as out of a bad 
 dream — awake — and living — and wanting to live?" 
 And the kind, wise, Schnitzlerian doctor's answer is: 
 "You are alive — and the rest has been. . . ." Life 
 itself is its own warrant and explanation. Unimpaired 
 life — ^life with the power and will to go on living — ^is 
 the greatest boon and best remedy of any that, can 
 be offered. 
 
 The weak point of "The Call to Life" is Marie's 
 father, the old Moser — one of the most repulsive fig- 
 ures ever seen on the stage. It may have been made 
 what it is in order that the girl's crime might not 
 hopelessly prejudice the spectator at the start and 
 thus render all the rest of the play futile. We must 
 remember, too, that the monstrous egoism of Moser is 
 not represented as a typical quality of that old age 
 which feels itself robbed by the advance of triumphant 
 
xxviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 youth. What Schnitzler shows is that egoism grows 
 more repulsive as increasing age makes it less war- 
 ranted. The middle act of the play, with its remark- 
 able conversation between the Colonel and Max, brings 
 us back to "Outside the Game Laws." That earlier 
 play was in its time declared the best existing stage 
 presentation of the spirit engendered by the military 
 life. But it has a close second in "The Call of Life." 
 To anyone having watched the manners of militarism 
 in Europe, the words of the Colonel to Max will sound 
 as an all-sufficient explanation: "No physicians have 
 to spend thirty years at the side of beds containing 
 puppets instead of human patients — no lawyers have 
 to practice on criminals made out of pasteboard — and 
 even the ministers are not infrequently preaching to 
 people who actually believe in heaven and hell." 
 
 If "The Lonely Way" be Schnitzler's greatest play 
 all aroundj and "Intermezzo" his subtlest, "Countess 
 Mizzie" is the sweetest, the best tempered, the one that 
 leaves the most agreeable taste in the mouth. It gives 
 us a concrete embodiment of the tolerance toward all 
 life that is merely suggested by the closing sentences 
 of Dr. ScUndler in the last act of "The Call of Life." 
 It brings back the gay spirit of "Anatol," but with a 
 rare maturity supporting it. The simple socio-bio- 
 logical philosophy of "Change Partners!" is restated 
 without the needless naturalism of those early dia- 
 logues. The idea of "Countess Mizzie" is that, if we 
 look deep enough, all social distinctions are lost in a 
 universal human kinship. On the surface we appear 
 like flowers neatly arranged in a bed, each kind in its 
 separate and carefully labeled corner. Then Schnitz- 
 ler begins to scrape off the screening earth, and under- 
 
INTRODUCTION xxix 
 
 neath we find the roots of all those flowers Intertwined 
 and matted, so that it is impossible to tell which be- 
 long to the Cownt and which to Wasner, the coachman, 
 which to Miss Lolo, the ballet-dancer, and which to 
 the Cov/ntess. 
 
 "Young Medardus" is Schnitzler's most ambitious 
 attempt at historical playwriting. It seems to indi- 
 cate that he belongs too wholly in the present age to 
 succeed in that direction. The play takes us back to 
 1809, when Napoleon appeared a second time outside 
 the gates of Vienna. The central character, Medardus 
 Klahr, is said to be historical. The re-created atmos- 
 phere of old Vienna is at once convincing and amusing. 
 But the play is too sprawling, too scattered, to get 
 firm hold on the reader. There are seventy-four spe- 
 cifically indicated characters, not to mention groups 
 of dumb figures. And while the title page speaks of 
 five acts and a prologue, there are in reality seventeen 
 distinct scenes. Each scene may be dramatically valu- 
 able, but the constant passage from place to place, from 
 one set of characters to another, has a confusing ef- 
 fect. 
 
 There is, too, a more deep-lying reason for the fail- 
 ure of the play as a whole, I think. The ironical out- 
 look so dear to Schnitzler — or rather, so inseparable 
 from his temperament — ^has betrayed him. Irony seems 
 hopelessly out of place in a historical drama, where it 
 tends to make us feel that the author does not believe 
 in the actual existence of his own characters. I have 
 a suspicion that "Young Medardus" takes the place 
 within the production of Schnitzler that is held by 
 "Peer Gynt" in the production of Ibsen — that Me- 
 
XXX INTRODUCTION 
 
 dardus Klahr is meant to satirize the Viennese charac- 
 ter as Peer Gynt satirizes the Norwegian. 
 
 The keynote of the play may be found in the words 
 of Etzelt, spoken as Medardus is about to be shot, after 
 having refused to save his own life by a promise not 
 to make any attempts against Napoleon's: "God 
 wanted to make a hero of him, and the course of events 
 turned him into a fool." The obvious interpreta- 
 tion is that the pettiness of Viennese conditions de- 
 feated the larger aspirations of the man, who would 
 have proved true to his own possibilities in other sur- 
 roundings. A more careful analysis of the plot shows, 
 however, that what turns the ambitions of Medardus 
 into dreams and words is his susceptibility to the 
 charms of a woman. Once within the magic circle of 
 her power, everything else — the danger of his country, 
 the death of his sister, his duty to avenge the death of 
 his father — ^becomes secondary to his passion. And 
 each time he tries to rise above that passion, the re- 
 appearance of the woman is sufBcient to deflect him 
 from his purpose. It is as if Schnitzler wanted to 
 suggest that the greatest weakness of the Viennese 
 character lies in its sensuous concern with sex to the 
 detriment of all other vital interests. To me it is a 
 very remarkable thing to think that such a play was 
 performed a large number of times at one of the fore- 
 most theaters in Vienna, and that, apparently, it re- 
 ceived a very respectful hearing. I cannot but wonder 
 what would happen here, if a play were put on the 
 stage dealing in a similar spirit with the American 
 character. 
 
 "The soul is a vast country, where many different 
 things find place side by side," says Dr. Theodor Reik 
 
INTRODUCTION xxxi 
 
 in his interesting volume named "Arthur Schnitzler als 
 Psycholog" (Minden, 1913). Thus he explains the 
 meaning of the title given to "The Vast Country" 
 (Daa Weite Land). And I don't think it is possible 
 to get closer than that. Nowhere has Schnitzler been 
 more casual in his use of what is commonly called plot. 
 Nowhere has he scorned more completely to build his 
 work around any particular "red thread." Event 
 follows event with seeming haphazardness. The only 
 thing that keeps the play from falling apart is the 
 logical development of each character. It is, in fact, 
 principally, if not exclusively, a series of soul-studies. 
 What happens serves merely as an excuse to reveal 
 the reaction of a certain character to certain external 
 pressures or internal promptings. But viewed in this 
 light, the play has tremendous power and significance. 
 Dr. Reik's book, to which I just referred, has been 
 written to prove the direct connection between Schnitz- 
 ler 's art and the new psychology established by Dr. 
 Sigmund Ffeud of Vienna. That the playwright must 
 have studied the Freudian theories seems more than 
 probable. That they may have influenced him seems 
 also probable. And that this influence may have helped 
 him to a clearer grasp of more than one mystery 
 within the human soul, I am willing to grant also. 
 What I want to protest against, is the attempt to make 
 him out an exponent of any particular scientific theory. 
 He is an observer of all life. He is what Amadeus in 
 "InterSiezzo^ ironically charges Albert Rhon with be- 
 ing: "a student of the human soul." And he has un- 
 doubtedly availed himself of every new aid that might 
 be offered for the analysis and interpretation of that 
 soul. The importance of man's sub-conscious life seems 
 
xxxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 to have been clear to him in the early days of "Anatol,' 
 and it seems to have grown on him as he matured. An- 
 other Freudian conception he has also made his own — 
 that of the close connection between man's sexual life 
 and vital phenomena not clearly designed for the ex- 
 pression of that life. But — to return to the point I 
 have already tried to make — it would be dangerous 
 and unjust to read any work of his as the dramatic 
 effort of a scientific theorizer. 
 
 Schnitzler is of Jewish race. In Vienna that means 
 a great deal more than in London, Stockholm or New 
 York. It means an atmosphere of contempt, of sus- 
 picion, of hatred. It means frequently complete isola- 
 tion, and always some isolation. It means a constant 
 sense of conflict between oneself and one's surround- 
 ings. All these things are reflected in the works of 
 Schnitzler — ^more particularly the sense of conflict and 
 of isolation. Life itself is blamed for it most of the 
 time, however, and it is only once in a great while that 
 the specific and localized cause is referred to — as in 
 "Literature," for instance. And even when Schnitzler 
 undertakes, as he has done in his latest play, "Pro- 
 fessor Bernhardi," to deal directly with the situation 
 of the Jew within a community with strong anti- 
 Semitic tendencies, he does not appear able to keep his 
 mind fixed on that particular issue. He starts to dis- 
 cuss it, and does so with a clearness and fairness that 
 have not been equaled since the days of Lessing — and 
 then he drifts oflF in a new direction. The mutual 
 opposition between Jews and Catholics becomes an 
 opposition between the skeptical and the mystical tem- 
 peraments. It is as if he wanted to say that all diff'er- 
 ences are unreal except those between individuals as 
 
INTRODUCTION xxxili 
 
 such. And if that be his intention, he is right, I believe, 
 and his play is the greater for bringing that thought 
 home to us. 
 
 The play is a remarkable one in many respects. It 
 deals largely with the internal affairs of a hospital. 
 An overwhelming majority of the characters are physi- 
 cians connected with the big hospital of which PrO' 
 fetsor Bernhardt is the head. They talk of nothing 
 but what men of that profession in such a position 
 would be likely to talk of. In other words, they are 
 all the time "talking shop." This goes on through 
 five acts. Throughout the entire play there is not 
 the slightest suggestion of what the Broadway man- 
 ager and the periodical editor call a "love interest." 
 And yet the play holds you from beginning to end, and 
 the dramatic tension could not be greater if its main 
 theme were the unrequited love of the professor's son 
 instead of his own right to place his duties as a physi- 
 cian above all other considerations. To one who has 
 grown soul-weary of the "triangle" and all other com- 
 binations for the exploiting of iUicit or legitimized 
 love, "Professor Bernhardi" should come as a great 
 relief and a bright promise. 
 
 These are the main outlines of Schnitzler's work as 
 a dramatist. They indicate a constant, steady growth, 
 coupled with increased realization of his own possi- 
 bilities and powers as well as of his limitations. In 
 aU but a very few of his plays, he has co^nedjumgelf 
 to the Jife- j rome diately _&urroiuidinffnim — to the life 
 of the Viennese middle class, and more particularly of 
 
xxxiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 the professional element to which he himself belongs. 
 But on the basis of a wonderfully faithful portrayal 
 of local characters and conditions, he has managed to 
 rear a superstructure of emotional appeal and intel- 
 lectual clarification that must render his work welcome 
 to thinking men and women wherever it be introduced. 
 And as he is stiU in the flower of his manhood, it seems 
 reasonable to expect that still greater things may be 
 forthcoming from his pen. 
 
SCHNITZLER'S "ANATOL" 
 
 Spearhead fencesj yew-tree hedges, 
 Coats of arms no more regilded, 
 Sphinxes gleaming through the thickets. , 
 Creakingly the gates swing open. 
 
 With its tritons sunk in slumber. 
 And its fountains also sleeping, 
 Mildewed, lovely, and rococo, 
 Lo . . . Vienna, Canaletto's, 
 Dated Seventeen and Sixty. 
 
 Quiet pools of green-brown waters. 
 Smooth and framed in snow-white marble. 
 Show between their mirrored statues 
 Gold and silver fishes playing. 
 Slender stems of oleander 
 Cast their prim array of shadows 
 On the primly close-cropped greensward. 
 Overhead, the arching branches 
 Meet and twine to sheltering niches. 
 Where are grouped in loving couples 
 StiflF-limbed heroines and heroes. . . . 
 Dolphins three pour splashing streamlets 
 In three shell-shaped marble basins. 
 Chestnut blossoms, richly fragrant, 
 Fall like flames and flutter downward 
 To be drowned within the basins. . . . 
 
xxxvi SCHNITZLER'S "ANATOL" 
 
 Music, made by clarinettes and 
 Violins behind the yew-trees, 
 Seems to come from graceful cupids 
 Playing on the balustrade, or 
 Weaving flowers into garlands. 
 While beside them other flowers 
 Gayly stream from marble vases: 
 Jasmin, marigold, and elder. . . . 
 On the balustrade sit also 
 Sweet coquettes among the cupids. 
 And some messeigneurs in purple. 
 At their feet, on pillows resting. 
 Or reclining on the greensward, 
 May be seen abbes and gallants. 
 From perfmned sedans are lifted 
 Other ladies by their lovers. . . . 
 Rays of light sift through the leafage. 
 Shed on golden curls their luster, 
 Break in flames on gaudy cushions. 
 Gleam alike on grass and gravel. 
 Sparkle on the simple structure 
 We have raised to serve the moment. 
 Vines and creepers clamber upward, 
 Covering the slender woodwork, 
 While between them are suspended 
 Gorgeous tapestries and curtains: 
 Scenes Arcadian boldly woven, 
 Charmingly designed by Watteau. . . . 
 In the place of stage, an arbor ; 
 Summer sun in place of footlights; 
 Thus we rear Thalia's temple 
 Where we play our private dramas, 
 Gentle, saddening, precocious. . . . 
 
SCHNITZLER'S "ANATOL" xxxvii 
 
 Comedies that we have suffered; 
 Feelings drawn from past and present; 
 Evil masked in pretty phrases; 
 Soothing words and luring pictures; 
 Subtle stirrings, mere nuances, 
 Agonies, adventures, crises. . . . 
 
 Some are listening, some are yawning. 
 Some are dreaming, some are laughing. 
 Some are sipping ices . . . others 
 Whisper longings soft and languid. . . . 
 
 Nodding in the breeze, carnations. 
 Long-stemmed white carnations, image 
 Butterflies that swarm in sunlight. 
 While a black and long-haired spaniel 
 Barks astonished at a peacock. . . . 
 
 Hugo von Hofmannsthal, 
 (^Edwin Bjorkman.) 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS 
 BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
 
 Anatoi (Anatol) ; seven dramatic scenes ; 1889-91 
 
 (1893). 
 A Piece op Fiction (Das Marchen) ; a drama in three 
 
 acts; 1891 (1894). 
 Paeacelsus (Paracelsus); a verse-play in one act; 
 
 1892 (1899). 
 Amouks (Liebelei) ; a drama in three acts ; 1894 
 
 (1896). 
 Outside the Game Laws (Freiwild) ; a drama in three 
 
 acts; 1896 (1897). 
 Change Pautneks ! (Reigen) ; ten dialogues ; 1896- 
 
 97 (1903). 
 The Legacy (Das Vermachtnis) ; a drama in three 
 
 acts; 1897 (1898). 
 The Life Pautnek (Die Gefahrtin) ; a drama in one 
 
 act; 1898 (1899). 
 The Geeen Cockatoo (Der griine Kakadu) ; a gro- 
 tesque in one act; 1898 (1899). 
 The Veil or Beatrice (Der Schleier der Beatrice) ; 
 
 a drama in five acts; 1899 (1900). 
 The Lady With the Dagger (Die Frau mit dem 
 
 Dolche); a drama in one act; 1900 (1902). 
 HouES OE Life (Lebendige Stunden) ; an act ; 1901 
 
 (1902). 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS xxxix 
 
 End of the Caknival (Die letzten Masken) ; a drama 
 in one act; 1901 (1902). 
 
 LiTEH.ATuaE (Literatur) ; a farce in one act; 1901 
 (1902). 
 
 The Puppet Playee (Der Puppenspieler) ; a study 
 in one act; 1902 (1906). 
 
 The Gailant Cassian (Der tapfere Cassian) ; a pup- 
 pet play in one act; 1903 (1906). 
 
 The Lonely Way (Der einsame Weg) ; a drama in 
 five acts; 1903 (1904). 
 
 Intermezzo (Zwischenspiel) ; a comedy in three acts; 
 1904. (1905). 
 
 The Greatest Show of All (Zum grossen Wurstel) ; 
 a burlesque in one act; 1904 (1906). 
 
 The Call of Life (Der Ruf des Leben) ; a drama in 
 three acts; 1905 (1906). 
 
 Countess Mizzie (Komtesse Mizzi) ; a comedy in one 
 act; 1909 (1909). 
 
 Young Medakdus (Der junge Medardus); a history 
 in five acts with a prologue; 1909 (1910). 
 
 The Vast Country (Das weite Land) ; a tragicomedy 
 in five acts; 1910 (1911). 
 
 Professor Bernhardi (Professor Bernhardi) ; a com- 
 edy in five acts ; 1912 (1912). 
 
 The Gallant Kassian (Der tapfere Kassian) ; a 
 musical comedy in one act, with music by Oscar 
 Straus; (1909). 
 
 The Veil of Pierrette (Der Schleier der Pierrette) ; 
 a comic opera in three acts, with music by Ernst 
 von Dohnnanyi; 1909 (not published). 
 
 The figures without brackets indicate the dates of 
 production as given in the collected edition of Arthur 
 
xl CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF PLAYS 
 
 Schnitzler's works issued by the S. Fischer Verlag, 
 Berlin, 1912. The figures within brackets, showing 
 the dates of publication, are taken from the twenty- 
 fifth anniversary catalogue of the same house (Berlin, 
 1911), and from C. G. Kayfeer's "Vollstandiges Biicher- 
 Lexikon" (Leipzig, 1891-1912). 
 
 "Anatol" was first published by the Bibliographische 
 Bureau (Berlin, 1893), and "A Piece of Fiction" by E. 
 Pierson (Dresden, 1894). Both were reprinted by 
 the Fischer Verlag in 1896. The original versions of 
 "A Piece of Fiction" and "Amours" have been con- 
 siderably revised. "Change Partners!" was printed 
 privately in 1900, and was subsequently published by 
 the Wiener Verlag, Vienna. "The Gallant Kassian" 
 was published by Ludwig Doblinger, Leipzig. 
 
 "The Green Cockatoo," "Paracelsus" and "The Life 
 Partner" appeared in one volume with the sub-title 
 "Three One-act Plays." "Hours of Life," "The Lady 
 With the Dagger," "End of the Carnival," and "Liter- 
 ature" were published together under the title of the 
 first play. "The Puppet Player," "The Gallant Cas- 
 sian," and "The Greatest Show of All" were brought 
 out in a single volume under the title of "Puppets" 
 (^Marionetten). 
 
 For additional bibliographical data, see "Arthur 
 Schnitzler: a Bibliography," by Archibald Henderson 
 (Bulletin of Bibliography, Boston, 1913); "The Mod- 
 ern Drama," by Ludwig Lewisohn (New York, 1915), 
 and "The Continental Drama of Today," by Barrett 
 H. Clark (New York, 1914). A good, though brief, 
 analysis of Schnitzler's work is found in Dr. Lewi- 
 sohn's volume. 
 
A LIST OF FIRST PERFORMANCES OF 
 PLAYS BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
 
 Anatol: Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, and Les- 
 
 singtheater, Berlin, Dec. 3, 1910. 
 A Piece of Fiction : Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, 
 
 Dec. 1, 1893. 
 Paeacelsus: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 1, 1899. 
 Amoues: Burgtheater, Vienna, Oct. 9, 1895. 
 Outside the Game Laws: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, 
 
 1896. 
 The Legacy: Burgtheater, Vienna, Nov. 30, 1898. 
 The Life Paetner: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 1, 
 
 1899. 
 The Geeen Cockatoo: Burgtheater, Vienna, March 
 
 1, 1899. 
 The Veil op Beateice: Lobetheater, Breslau, Dec. 
 
 1, 1900. 
 The Lady With the Daggee: Deutsche Theater, 
 
 Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902. 
 HouES OE Life: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 
 
 1902. 
 End of the Caenival: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, 
 
 Jan. 4, 1902. 
 Liteeatuee : Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Jan. 4, 1902. 
 The Puppet Playee : Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Sep- 
 tember, 1903. 
 The Gallant Cassian: Kleines Theater, Berlin, Oct. 
 
 12, 1905. 
 
xUi A LIST OF FIRST PERFORMANCES 
 
 The LoNEiiT Way: Deutsche Theater, Berlin, Feb. 
 
 13, 1904. 
 Inteemezzo: Burgtheater, Vienna (with Joseph 
 
 Kainz as Adams), Oct. 12, 1905. 
 The Greatest Show of All: Lustspieltheater, 
 
 Vienna, March 16, 1906. 
 The Call of Life: Lessingtheater, Berlin, Feb. 24, 
 
 1906. 
 Countess Mizzie: Deutsches Volkstheater, Vienna, 
 
 January, 1909. 
 Young Medardus: Burgtheater, Vienna, Nov. 24, 
 
 1910. 
 The Vast Countet: Lessingtheater, Berlin, Oct. 14, 
 
 1912. 
 Peofessob, Beenhardi: Kleines Theater, Berlin, Nov. 
 
 28, 1912. 
 
 The Veil of Pieeeette: Hofopernhaus, Dresden, 
 Jan. 22, 1910. 
 
 Single scenes from "Anatol" were given at Ischl in 
 the Summer of 1893, and at a matinee arranged by the 
 journalistic society "Concordia" at one of the Vienna 
 theaters in 1909. A Czechic translation of the whole 
 series was staged at Smichow, Bohemia, sometime dur- 
 ing the nineties. Three of the dialogues in "Change 
 Partners!" were performed by members of the Aha- 
 demisch-dramatischer Verein at Munich in 1904. 
 
 The official records of the Burgtheater at Vienna 
 show that, up to the end of 1912, the eight Schnitzler 
 plays forming part of its repertory had been per- 
 formed the following number of times: "Paracelsus," 
 12; "Amours," 42; "The Legacy," 11; "The Life 
 
A LIST OF FIRST PERFORMANCES xliii 
 
 Partner," 14; "The Green Cockatoo," 8; "Intermezzo," 
 22 ; "Young Medardus," 43 ; "The Vast Country," 30. 
 The list of dates given above has been drawn chiefly 
 from "Das moderne Drama," by Robert F. Arnold 
 (Strassburg, 1912); "Das Burgtheater: statistische 
 Riickblick," by Otto Rub (Vienna, 1913), and the cur- 
 rent files of Biihne und Welt (Berlin). For dates 
 of Schnitzler performances in America and England, 
 see the Henderson bibliography previously mentioned. 
 
THE LONELY WAY 
 
 (Der Einsame Weg) 
 
 A DBAMA IN FITE ACTS 
 
 1903 
 
4 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Do you think she would be scared if I dropped in 
 on her unexpectedly. 
 
 JOHAlfNA 
 
 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, FeHx.'' 
 
 FELIX 
 
 To-morrow night I'm off again. 
 JOHANNA {staring mto 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 circum- 
 stances. 
 
 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 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 5 
 
 venture all sorts of things one couldn't possibly ven- 
 ture nowadays. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Oh, but you are free — ^you've got place to move. 
 
 TEIilX 
 
 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 profes- 
 sorship 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. 
 
6 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 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! 
 
 rELK 
 
 But you have to put some spunk into it, Johanna. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes, Felix, it's easy for you to talk. 
 
 EELDC 
 
 What do you mean? 
 JOHANNA (speaking as if to herself) 
 
 I don't know if you'll be able to understand me. 
 PELix (smiling) 
 
 Why should it. all at once be so hard for me to lui- 
 
 derstand you? 
 JOHANNA (looking cahrdy 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 . . . ? 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 7 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 You know, Felix, that I never make any mistakes in 
 things of that kind. 
 
 PELDC 
 
 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. 
 
 PELIX 
 
 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 . . . (Turmng 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'U be careful. (He 
 goes out by way of the veranda) 
 l[While alone for a while, Johanna seats herself on 
 the garden bench with her hands clasped across her 
 kv£es. Sala enters. He is forty-five, but looks 
 
8 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 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 1 
 
 Well.? Have they already granted him another fur- 
 lough? In my days they were stricter in that regi- 
 ment. 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? 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 9 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 I move in to-morrow. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 And it gives you a great deal of pleasure, doesn't it? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 That would be a little premature. 
 
 JOHJV^NNA 
 
 Are you superstitious? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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? 
 
 SAI^ 
 
 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? 
 
10 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Oh, I recall how the same kind of schemes for travel- 
 ing used to occupy your mind when you were noth- 
 ing 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. 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 Why not I, in particular? 
 JOHANNA {glances up calmly at him) 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 I don't quite make out what you mean, Miss Jo- 
 hanna. . . . Unless I must . . . {Simply) Jo- 
 hanna, 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. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 11 
 
 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? 
 
 8AI.A 
 
 If you want me to — certainly. 
 JOHANNA (still very serious) 
 
 You should believe everything in which the rest can- 
 not believe. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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 
 
12 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 pause, mth a sudden change of tone) Where are 
 you going anyhow? 
 SALA {faUmg into the same tone) 
 To Bactria, Miss Johanna. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Where? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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 No- 
 vember. You have read of it in the papers, haven't 
 you? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 No. 
 
 SAI,A 
 
 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 — chouse 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. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 13 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Why talk of dying then? 
 
 /'SALA » 
 
 I Is there ever a blissful moment in any decent man's 
 \ life when he can think of anything else in his inner- 
 ■. most 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 experi- 
 ences. But frequently I believe you have longed for 
 those too. 
 
 8ALA 
 
 Longed for them . . . ? You may be right, per- 
 haps, in saying that I enjoyed them when they came. 
 
 JOHANNA , 
 
 How perfectly I understand that! A life without f 
 sorrow would probably be as bare as a life without | 
 happiness. (Pause) How long ago is it now? ' 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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 ? 
 
14 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 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. . . ." 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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 sub- 
 merged cities, and writing queer poetry — and hu- 
 man 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 ! 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 "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 play- 
 ing the piano in a shabby little Prater ^ restaurant, 
 *The Prater is at once the Central Park and the Coney Island 
 of Vienna, plus a great deal more — a park with an area of 2,000 
 acres bounded by the Danube on one side and by the Danube 
 Canal on the other, full of all kinds of amusement places. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 15 
 
 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 compli- 
 mented 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-gpris /hA > c 
 and non-commissioned oiScers, and his one longing 
 is — to get their applause ! 
 BEUMANN {enters) 
 
 Good evening, Miss Johanna. Good evening, Mr. von 
 Sala. {Shakes handg with both of them at the same 
 time) How are you? 
 
 8AI.A 
 
 Fine. You don't suppose one must be your victim 
 aU the time because one has had the honor of con- 
 sulting you once? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 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, * 
 
16 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 Felix. . . . ? You haven't telegraphed for him, 
 have you? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Not that I know of. Who could have. . . . ? 
 
 H.EUMANN 
 
 I only wondered. Your father is inclined to get 
 frightened. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 There they are now. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT (enters from the veranda with FeUa) 
 How are you, my dear Doctor.? What do you think 
 of the surprise I have just had? 
 [^All the men shake hands. 
 
 MRS. WEGEAT 
 
 Good evening, Mr. von Sala. , 
 
 SAI-A 
 
 I am delighted to see you looking so well, Mrs. We- 
 grat. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 Yes, I am doing a little better. If only the gloomy 
 season were not so close at hand. 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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. . . . ! 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 Yes, that ought to be worth seeing once more. 
 
 EEUMANN (reproachfulli/) 
 Mrs. Wegrat. . . . 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 17 
 
 MES. WEGRAT 
 
 Pardon me — but thoughts of that kind will come. 
 {Brightermtg up a little) If I only knew how much 
 longer I might count on my dear doctor? 
 
 EETJMANNT 
 
 I can reassure you on that score, madam: I shall 
 stay in Vienna. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 What? Has the matter been settled already? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 So another man has actually been called to Gratz? 
 
 EEUMANlf 
 
 No, not that way. But the other man, who was 
 practically sure of the place, has broken his neck 
 climbing a mountain. 
 
 PEIilX 
 
 But then your chances should be better than ever. 
 Whom could they possibly consider besides you? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 1 suppose my chances wouldn't be bad. But I have 
 preferred to forgo them. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 How? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 I won't accept the call. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT 
 
 Is that out Si superstition? 
 
 EELK 
 
 Or out of pride? 
 
18 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 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. 
 
 MKS. 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 svbject on purpose) 
 Well, Felix, how do you find life in a garrison? 
 
 FELDC 
 
 Fine. 
 
 MES. 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. 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 Oh, but to-day there is none more peaceful. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 19 
 
 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. 
 WEGKAT (enters) 
 
 Good evening. — ^Why, Felix, are you here again? 
 What a surprise! 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Good evening, papa. I have applied for a two-day 
 furlough. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Furlough . . . furlough? A real one? Or is it an- 
 other one of those little brilliant tricks? 
 
 FELIX (cheerfvUtf and without taking offence) 
 I am not in the habit of fibbing, papa, am I? 
 
 WEGEAT {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. WEGEAT 
 
 To see his parents, you mean. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Of course — to see us all. But as you are a littlt 
 under the weather, you come foremost just now. — > 
 Well, how are you getting along, GabrieUe? Better, 
 are you not? (7w a low voice, almost timidly) My 
 
20 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 love . . . (He strokes her brow and hair) Love 
 . . . The air is so mild. 
 
 SALA 
 
 We are having a wonderful Autumn. 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 Have you just got away from the Academy, Pro- 
 fessor? 
 
 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. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Don't be so unjust to yourself, Professor. 
 
 MES. WEGUAT 
 
 You must have been walking all that long way home 
 again? 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 I even went out of my way some distance — ^to paas 
 
 across the old Turkish fort.^ 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. 
 
 'The place where the Turks fortified themselves before driven 
 from Vienna by John Sobieski.in 1683 is now a small park, 
 "Turkenachamz-Park," located in Dobling, one of the northwestern 
 quarters of Greater Vienna. Only a little ways south of this park, 
 and overlooking it, stands the Astronomical Observatory, not far 
 from which Schnitzler has been living for a number of years. 
 Numerous references to localities in this play indicate that he has 
 placed the Wegrat home in that very villa quarter of Wahring, 
 where he himself is so thoroughly at home. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 21 
 
 MBS. WEGRAT 
 
 Is she in Vienna? 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Just passing through. She intends to call on you. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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. 
 
 SAIiA " — 
 
 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 woidd 
 suspect that all things are of equal importance. 
 
 MRS. WEGRAT 
 
 How does she look anyhow? 
 
 WEGRAT » 
 
 She is still very pretty. 
 
22 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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, chan- 
 deliers — 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. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 2S 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 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 sup- 
 pose there are lots of people who no longer remem- 
 ber 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. 
 
 FEMX 
 
 I talked with him only a few days ago. i^^"^ 
 
 WEGKAT 
 
 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. Reu- 
 
 tna/wn. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 How is he doing? What did he tell you? 
 
 FEI/DC 
 
 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. 
 
 FELDC 
 
 He has traveled far and wide. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Yes, now and then I have had a postcard from him. 
 
M THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 So have we. But I thought you and he were corre- 
 sponding regularly. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Regularly? Oh, no. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Isn't he a friend of yours? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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. 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 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. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 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. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 25 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 What do you mean by "that kind of people"? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Who are always arriving from some far-off place. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 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. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Oh, of course. . . . 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I had often the same feeling. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 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? 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 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. 
 
 SAXA 
 
 Well, he has kept a whole lot of it. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 But think of all he might have achieved! 
 
26 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 I believe that what you might achieve you do achieve. 
 
 WEGKAT 
 
 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 misfor- 
 tune 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 re- 
 cently. 
 
 WEGBAT 
 
 Good.? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 To me there was something gripping about them. 
 
 MRS. WEGEAT 
 
 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 sun- 
 lit and soft, and yet it made me weep. 
 
 *ALA 
 
 I Yes, the sadness of certain things lies much deeper 
 \ than we commonly suspect. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 So he's working again? Then, perhaps, we may ex- 
 pect something out of the ordinary. 
 
 SALA 
 
 In the case of anybody who has been an artist once 
 you are never safe against surprises. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 27 
 
 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. 
 
 E.EUMANN 
 
 It is still open to question who do most for the ad- 
 vancement of life and art: officials like you, Pro- 
 fessor, 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. 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 My opinion, I must confess, is utterly different. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Oh, it's of no use discussing anybody but those who 
 have distinct hmitations. 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, Ga- 
 brielle? 
 
 MRS. WEGRAT 
 
 No. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 But you had better puU the shawl a little closer 
 about you, and then we should have a little exercise 
 — ^in so far as it's possible in here. 
 
28 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 MRS. WEGKAT 
 
 All right. — Please, Doctor, give me your arm. You 
 haven't paid the least attention to your patient yet. 
 
 EETJMANN 
 
 At your service! 
 
 [^The rest start ahead, Johanna walkimg with her 
 brother, and Wegrat with Sola. Dr. Reumann and 
 Mrs. Wegrat seem about to foUow, when she sud- 
 denly stops. 
 
 MES. WEGKAT 
 
 Did you notice his eyes light up — I mean, the eyes 
 of Felix, when they were talking of him? It was 
 most peculiar. 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 Men of Mr. Fichtner's type appear undoubtedly 
 very interesting to young people. They seem to 
 carry with them an odor of romance. 
 Mas. 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. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 29 
 
 MES. WEGBAT (smUmg) 
 
 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. 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 To give happiness is more than being free of guilt. 
 And as this has been granted you, it is ckar that 
 you have made full atonement — ^if you'll pardon the 
 use of such a preposterously extravagant term. 
 
 MES. WEGRAT 
 
 How can you talk like that? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 Well, am I not right. J" 
 
 MRS. WEGEAT 
 
 Just as if I couldn't feel how all of us, deceivers and 
 deceived, must seem equally contemptible to you in 
 particular ! 
 
 BEUMANN 
 
 Why to me in particular ....'' What you call con- 
 tempt, 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, se- 
 duce, 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 
 
30 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 is still more painful perhaps : to hear everybody say 
 that I am one. 
 
 MES. WEGEAT (who has been listening with a smile) 
 1 wonder whether you -have told the truth about 
 what is keeping you here in Vienna? 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 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 
 
 I 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. 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 We'll talk of those things, madam, when it's time to 
 do so. 
 
 MKS. WEGRAT 
 
 Of course, I regret nothing. I believe I have never 
 regretted anything. But I have a feeling that some- 
 thing 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 pe- 
 culiar — uncanny almost — to think that a man Hke 
 him may go through the world with all his senses 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 31 
 
 open and yet never know whom he has to thank for' 
 being in the world? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 Don't let us indulge in generalities, Mrs. Wegrat. 
 In that way you can set the most solid things shak- 
 ing and swaying until the steadiest eyes begin to 
 grow dizzy. My own conclusion is this : that a He 
 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 con- 
 fuse the vision of the future. {He goes out with 
 Mrs. Wegrat) 
 JOHANNA (entering with Sola) 
 
 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 peo- 
 ple 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 founda- 
 tions yet. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 To me it was already standing there. 
 
 SAI^A 
 
 How mysterious. • . . 
 
32 THE LONELY WAY [act i 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Not at all. If you wiU only remember. Once we 
 made an excursion to Dornbach ^ — 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 in- 
 visible. The leafage is very thick. — Where have 
 you placed those busts o£ the Roman emperors.? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 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. 
 
 'A suburb near the western limits of Vienna and not far from 
 the location indicated for the Wegrat home. 
 
ACT i] THE LONELY WAY 33 
 
 JOHANNA (nodding) 
 
 Just as you told us that time. . . . And there is a 
 greenish gray ghtter on the water — ^and in the morn- 
 ing the shadow from the beech tree falls across it. 
 ... I know. (She looks up at him and smiles; both 
 go out together) 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
THE SECOND ACT 
 
 In the home of Julian Fichtner. A pleascmt, 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 pa- 
 pers. Some of these he destroys, while others are 
 thrown into the waste-paper basket. 
 
 VAi/ET {amiouncing) 
 
 Mr. von Sala. {He goes out) 
 
 SALA (enters. His custom to walk up and down while 
 talking asserts itself strikingly during the follow- 
 ing 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 shoul- 
 der while speaking. Two or three times during the 
 scene he puts his hand to the left side of his chest, 
 m 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? 
 
 JUIiLA.N 
 
 Yes. 
 
 SALA 
 
 And mean to stay . . . ? 
 
ACT ii] THE LONELY WAY 36 
 
 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. 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 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 
 aU for a while, but just keep on moving about as I 
 have been doing the last few years. I am even con- 
 sidering 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 con- 
 sidered a little, too. I have been spending too much 
 these last years, and it has to be evened up some- 
 how. 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. 
 
36 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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 consid- 
 erably 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 fort- 
 night. {Alarmed) What has happened .J" 
 
 SALA 
 
 Mrs. Gabrielle died a week ago. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Oh! {He is deeply moved; for a whUe he waUcs 
 back and forth; then he resv/mes 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 a low voice) 
 
 Poor Gabrielle! — Did you see anything of her to- 
 ward the end.'' 
 
ACT n] THE LONEL^ WAY 37 
 
 SAI-A 
 
 Yes, I went there almost daily* 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Oh, did you? 
 
 SAI-A 
 
 Johanna asked me. She was literally afraid of be- 
 ing 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? Re- 
 signed to the wiU 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 in- 
 formed 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? 
 
S8 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 For a while. On account of Felix, too. His un- 
 spoiled 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 smUe) Thus there is nothing 
 j 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. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Are not these feelings a little belated in their ap- 
 pearance? 
 
 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 commit- 
 ted that piece of hideous perfidy — as our ancestors 
 used to put it. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 It wasn't strange even. It came about quite natu- 
 rally. Shortly after my return from Paris I hap- 
 pened 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 
 bom to a fate of that kind. . . . And as for Ga- 
 brielle . . . 
 
 SALA 
 
 She had forgiven you, of course? 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 39 
 
 JUMAN 
 
 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 mira- 
 cle 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. 1 was still cling- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 covery of the true state of affairs. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You, at any rate, didn't think me very sensible. . . . 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 Why not? I too find that family life in itself is 
 quite attractive. Only it ought, after aU, to be ex- 
 perienced in one's own family. 
 
 JUUAN 
 
 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. Es- 
 
40 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 pecially 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 fiU on my shoulder. I have 
 missed you more than once during these two years 
 — ^honestly! On my lonely walks I have quite fre- 
 quently thought of our pleasant chats in the Dorn- 
 bach 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 41 
 
 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 re- 
 spect. 
 
 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 em- 
 braced 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.'' 
 
 BALA 
 
 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 
 
42 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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 stiU take pleasure in the beautiful scenery sur- 
 rounding him. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 43 
 
 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 a/m 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 for- 
 ever. 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, i 
 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. 
 
44 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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. J* 
 
 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 .f Are you going to join that expedi- 
 tion 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 excava- 
 tions 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. Per- 
 haps 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 4.6 
 
 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 ex- 
 pedition was lost.'' 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 sev- 
 eral 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 par- 
 ticularly dangerous Summer nights in the thermae 
 of Caracalla — you know, of course, what boggy 
 ground that is — and remained well. 
 
 JUIIAN 
 
 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. 
 
46 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 JULIAN (who has already smoked several cigarettes, 
 offers one to Said) Don't you smoke? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 Thanks. Really, I shouldn't. Only yesterday Dr. 
 Reumann told me I mustn't. . . . Nothing particu- 
 lar — ^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. 
 
 TALET (goes out) 
 
 lEENE HEKMs (enters. She is about forty-three, hut 
 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 Sola. 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 pro- 
 nouncing that "weU" in a tone of sympathetic in- 
 quiry) So I did right after all in keeping my pa- 
 tience a couple of days more. Here I've got you 
 back now. (To Sola) Can you guess the length of 
 time we haven't seen each other.? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 More than three years. 
 
ACT ii] THE LONELY WAY 47 
 
 lEENE (nods assent and permits him at last to with- 
 draw his hand from hers) In all our lives that has 
 never happened before. And your last letter Is al- 
 ready 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? 
 
 IREXE 
 
 Of course. — ^And the way you look! (To Sola) 
 Fine, don't you think? I've always known that a 
 gray beard would make him look awfully interesting. 
 
 SAi/A (to Julian) 
 
 Now you'll have nothing but pleasantries to listen 
 to. Unfortunately I shall have to be moving. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 You're not leaving on my account, I hope? 
 
 SALA 
 
 How can you imagine such a thing. Miss Herms? 
 
 IKENE 
 
 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. 
 
 IB.ENE 
 
 Home? And you say that in such a matter-of-fact 
 way? I understand you are now liAang in a perfect 
 palace. 
 
48 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 SAIA 
 
 No, anything but that. A modest country house. It 
 would give me special pleasure, Miss Herms, if some- 
 time you would make sure of it in person. My gar- 
 den is really pretty. 
 
 IKENE 
 
 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? . 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 49 
 
 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-ofBce 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 cam 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 in- 
 credible 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. 
 
50 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I fear, however, that even now you cannot judge 
 him quite objectively. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Why not? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You can'l; 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 Sola) 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 .J" 
 
 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 51 
 
 Mr. von Sala, who for twenty years has pursued me 
 with his jeers. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And yet you are going to call on him? 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Of course. Beautiful villas interest me very much. 
 And they tell me his is ravishing. If you were only 
 to see people who , . . 
 
 JTJMAN 
 
 Hadn't killed anybody . . . 
 
 ISENE 
 
 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 . . , ? 
 
 IBENE 
 
 Were you forbidden, I mean? 
 
 JULIAN 1 
 
 I see. — Nobody can forbid me anything.! 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Honestly? You live all by yourself? \ 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Yes. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 I'm dehghted. I can't help it, Julian, but I am de- 
 lighted. Although it's sheer nonsense. This day, 
 or the next, there'll be something new going on. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Those days are past. 
 
 ISENE 
 
 If it were only true ! — Can I have a cup of tea? 
 
52 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Certainly. The samovar is right there. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Where.? — Oh, over there. And the teai" — Oh, I 
 know! {She opens a small cupboard and brings out 
 what she needs; during the next few mimites she is 
 busy preparing the tea) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 So you are really going to stay here only a couple 
 of days more.? 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Of course. I have done all my ordering. You un- 
 derstand, in my sister's house out there one doesn't 
 need to dress up. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 TeU 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 1? You must remember that I have now 
 reached the goal of aU 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 in- 
 trude. 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 53 
 
 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 (m o 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 
 
54 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 young lady from the castle" — as an old maid, you 
 might say — and if everything goes right, I shall ap- 
 pear 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 joUy again — so youthful. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 It's the country air, Julian. You should try it your- 
 self 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) 
 
 IKENE 
 
 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 bound- 
 less love for nature. Don't you recall the excur- 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 55 
 
 sions 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. 
 [/i is growing dark. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Why do you still think of all that? 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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 dur- 
 
56 THE LONELY WAY [act ii 
 
 ing 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 
 drvrik of their tea) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Should I get some light? 
 
 IRENE 
 
 It's quite cosy in the twilight hke 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. 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 57 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 For both of us? 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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.'' 
 
 IKENE 
 
 We had deserved no better. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 We . . . ? In what way.'' 
 lEENE {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 .J" I don't, 
 and you don't either. Everything would have hap- 
 pened 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) 
 
58 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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 espe- 
 cially when you see other people's children — ^Lora has 
 two boys, you know — then you get all sorts of no- 
 tions. 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 hold- 
 ing it by the hands — Our little child. (Angrily, to 
 keep herself from crying) It's too silly for any- 
 thing ! 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-noth- 
 ing 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 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 59 
 
 would have been a little child that seemed rather 
 fond of us. And . . . (She is tmable to go on; si- 
 lence foUows) 
 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 
 aU. And your life has brought you many other ex- 
 quisite experiences — since the one with me. I am 
 sure of it. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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 I 
 — 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 under- 
 stand! 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? 
 
60 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And if I did know . . . 
 
 IBENE 
 
 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 re- 
 spect 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 sUence) 
 VALET (enters) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What is it? 
 
 VALET 
 
 Lieutenant Wegrat asks if you are at home, sir? 
 
ACT ii] THE LONELY WAY 61 
 
 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. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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. 
 
 PELIX 
 
 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 shghtest idea. ... It was Sala who told 
 me — ^less than an hour ago. 
 {Irene is looking from, one to the other. 
 
62 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 FELIX 
 
 We didn't dream of this when we took that walk in 
 the Mirabell Gardens ^ 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. 
 
 IKENE 
 
 Say rather that she didn't wake up again next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 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. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Oh, don't mention my playing . . . ! 
 \^A clock strikes. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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. 
 
 ^The palace of Mirabell is one of the sights of Salzburg, the- 
 city near the Bavarian border, where Felix's regiment was sta- 
 tioned. It is now used as a museum. The gardens adjoining it 
 are of the formal type so dear to, and so characteristic of, the 
 eighteenth century. 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 63 
 
 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, per- 
 haps. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Too late.f" 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. 
 
64 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 lEENE 
 
 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 gar- 
 den of the Wegrats. 
 
 JULIAN {nods assent) 
 
 IRENE {stands again loohvng 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, ac- 
 companied to the door hy Julian) 
 
 EELIX 
 
 , 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 ad- 
 vice. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Well, everything has turned out in accordance with 
 your wish. Even your father has resigned himself 
 to it. 
 
 EELIX 
 
 Yes, he has resigned himself. Of course, he would 
 have preferred to see me continue my technical stud- 
 ies. 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 
 
ACT ii] THE LONELY WAY 65 
 
 of us than for most people. And that's always some- 
 thing. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And how are things at home? 
 
 FBLDC 
 
 At home. . . . Really, it's almost as if that word 
 had lost its meaning. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Has your father resumed his duties again? 
 
 FELDC 
 
 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. 
 
 FELDC 
 
 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 let- 
 ter, or a picture, or something of that kind, imme- 
 diately after you have got it — that seems quite natu- 
 ral to me. But something at all worthy of being 
 
66 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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. 1 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 some- 
 thing to other people besides yourself. Sketches of 
 
ACT ii] THE LONELY WAY 67 
 
 all kinds, for instance, which I think you have saved 
 to some extent. 
 
 JULtAN 
 
 Are you thinking of those little things I showed 
 you in Salzburg? 
 
 FEI.IX 
 
 Yes, of those too, of course. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 They are still wrapped up. Would you like to have 
 them.'' 
 
 TEIIX 
 
 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 . . . ? 
 
68 THE LONELY WAY [act ii 
 
 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 (a* 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 pUed 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) 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 69 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Here is the house in which they lived — your grand- 
 parents and your mother. {He goes through the 
 sketches, one by one) And here is a view of the val- 
 ley 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 remaim sUent 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 agamst 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 al- 
 most as if she were talking to me. . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What was it your mother told you — ^that last even- 
 ing? 
 
 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 
 
70 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 as if there was a certain timidity in that look. Some- 
 thing 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 danger- 
 ous 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 anx- 
 iously smiling eyes, holding her straw hat in one 
 hand. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Your mother talked of those moments that last even- 
 ing? 
 
ACT n] THE LONELY WAY 71 
 
 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) 1 shall not answer you. — In the end 
 I should instinctively be tempted to make myself ap- 
 pear better than I am. You know very well how I 
 have lived my life^that it has not followed a regu- 
 lated and direct course like the lives of most other 
 people. I suppose that the gift of bestowing happi- 
 ness 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 faith- 
 fully and more gratefully to memories of a tender, 
 peaceful sort, like this — rather than to more pas- 
 sionate and saddening memories. — ^Am I not right.'' 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Maybe you are. 
 
 FELDC 
 
 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 proba- 
 bly did not realize. I believe that her own youth, 
 
72 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 which she had almost ceased to understand, was un- 
 consciously 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 m 
 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. 
 
ACT u] THE LONELY WAY 73 
 
 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 fol- 
 lows. 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.'' 
 
74 THE LONELY WAY [act n 
 
 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 m con- 
 templation of the picture) 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
THE THIRD ACT 
 
 A room at the Wegrats' adjommg the veranda. The 
 outlook is, of course, determined hy 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 shghtest change in our arrangements. To- 
 day is the seventh of October, and the ship wiU 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? 
 
76 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 There is just so much seripusness 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 ven- 
 ture of that kind? 
 
 SAX.A 
 
 Oh, that's pretty plain. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Is the expedition not going to be one of purely scien- 
 tific character? 
 
 SAIA 
 
 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 regu- 
 
ACT ni] THE LONELY WAY TT 
 
 lar battle, on a small scale, in the Kara-Kum dis- 
 trict, not far from the river Amu-Daria. 
 K.EUMANN {who hos entered while Sola 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 he interrupted) 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 In that respect you are probably right. Doctor. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Pardon me, Mr. von Sala, but does this come from 
 ybu alone.'' Is it just a sudden notion- — or some- 
 'Wiig more ? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 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 de- 
 cided 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? 
 
78 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 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. 
 
 E.EUMANN 
 
 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. 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 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. 
 
 BEUMANN 
 
 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? 
 
ACT ra] THE LONELY WAY 79 
 
 SALA 
 
 I don't want to be cheated out of the consciousness 
 that certain moments are my final ones. 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 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 for- 
 malities 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.? 
 
80 THE LONELY WAY [act in 
 
 FELIX 
 
 With my father. . . . Yes, of course. — ^At any rate 
 I'll bring you the answer early to-morrow morning, 
 Mr. von Sala. 
 
 BALA 
 
 Pine. 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) 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 Have you made up your mind, Felix? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Almost. 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 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 ! 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 And yet you ask time to consider? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I hardly know why. And yet . . . The thougiit 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 . . . 
 
^' 
 
 ACT ni] THE LONELY WAY 81 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 If nothing else makes you hesitate, then every mo- 
 ment 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 
 wiU go with you. (He gives his hcmd 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. 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 I hope so. Oh, of course ! 
 
 FELIX (looking hard at him) 
 
 Doctor ... it seems to me there was a final fare- 
 well in that pressure of your hand. 
 
 B.EUMANN (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.'' 
 
 BEUMANN 
 
 That has nothing to. do with your case anyhow. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Will he not be able to go with us ? 
 BEUMANN (tmth hesitation) 
 That's very hard to predict. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 You have never learned to lie, Doctor. 
 
82 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 REUMANN 
 
 As the matter stands now, I think you can bring it 
 to a successful conclusion without further assist- 
 ance. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Mr. von Sala called on you a few days ago? 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 Yes, it was only a while ago. (^Pause) Well, you 
 can see for yourself that he is not weU, can't you? — 
 So God be with you, Felix. 
 
 TELIX 
 
 Will you continue to befriend this house when I am 
 gone ? 
 
 UEUMANN 
 
 Why do you ask questions like that, Felix? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 You don't mean to come here again.'' — But why? 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 I assure you . . . 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I understand . . , 
 UBUMANN (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 . . . 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY ' 83 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 Nobody will. . . . But if I should be needed, I can 
 always be found . . . 
 JOHANNA {comes into the room again) 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 Good-by . . . Good-by, Miss Johanna . . . 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Are you going already, Doctor? 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 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 ummoved) 
 
 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 Mm 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 . . . 
 
84 THE LONELY WAY [act iu 
 
 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. 
 
 FEIilX 
 
 No, you were not made for that. . . . But what 
 were you made for then? 
 JOHANNA (shrugs her shoulders and sits down as be- 
 fore, with hands folded in her lap a/nd her eyes 
 starvng 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 won- 
 der and romance. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Perhaps it depends on ourselves only. 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 85 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 No, those words have no longer the same meaning as 
 before. 
 
 FEI/IX 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Into the wide world ... 
 
 FEUX 
 
 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 sol- 
 diers 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 any- 
 where, I used always to think of that picture. And 
 it used to be the same with so many other big-sound- 
 ing 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 
 
86 THE LONELY WAY [act in 
 
 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? 
 
 PELDC 
 
 Johanna! — I wish you wouldn't do anything to 
 worry father. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Does that depend on me alone? 
 
 TEIilX 
 
 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 every- 
 ' thing.'' — I think, Felix, that many people are des- 
 tined to mean nothing to each other but a common 
 memory. 
 
 I'ELIX 
 
 You have said it yourself, Johanna — that you are 
 not made to see other people suffer. 
 JOHANNA {shrinks slightly at those words) 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Suffer . . . and . . . 
 JULIAN (enters) 
 
 How are you? (He shakes hands with Felix) 
 JOHANNA {who has risen) 
 
 Mr. Fichtner. {She holds out her hand to him) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I could hardly recognize you, Johanna. You have 
 grown into a young lady now. — Has your father not 
 come home yet? 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 87 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 He hasn't gone out yet. He has nothing to do at 
 the Academy until twelve. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I suppose he's in his studio? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 I'll call him. 
 
 [Julian looks arownd. As Johanna is about to leave 
 
 the room, Wegrat enters, carrying his hat and stick. 
 
 WEGRAT (giving his hand to Juliam) 
 I'm delighted, my dear feUow. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I heard of it only after my arrival here yesterday — 
 through Sala. I don't need to tell you . . . 
 
 WEGBAT 
 
 Thank you very much for your sympathy. I thank 
 you with all my heart. — But sit down, please. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You were going out.'' 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Oh, it's no hurry. I have nothing to do in the Acad- 
 emy until twelve. Johanna, will you please get a 
 carriage for me, just to be on the safe side.? 
 [Johanna goes out. Wegrat seats himself, as does 
 Julian. Felix stands leaning against the glazed 
 oven. 
 
 WEGBAT 
 
 Well, you stayed away quite a while this time. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 More than two years. 
 
88 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 If you had only got here ten days earlier, you could 
 have had a last look at her. It came so very sud- 
 denly — although it wasn't unexpected. 
 
 JUI-IAN 
 
 So I have heard. 
 
 WEGHAT 
 
 And now you are going to stay right here, I sup- 
 pose? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 A little while. How long I am not yet able to tell. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Of course not. The making of schedules has never 
 been your line. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 No, I have a certain disinclination for that kind of 
 thing. (Pause) 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Oh, mercy, my dear fellow . . . how often have I 
 not been thinking of you recently ! 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And I . . . 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 No, you haven't had much chance for it. . . . But I 
 ... As I enter the building where I now hold office 
 and authority, I remember often how we two young 
 chaps used to sit side by side in the model class, fuU 
 of a thousand plans and hopes. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Why do you say that in such a melancholy tone? A 
 lot of those things have come true, haven't they? 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 89 
 
 WEGB.AT 
 
 Some — yes . . . And yet one can't help wanting to 
 be young again, even at the risk of similar sorrows 
 and struggles . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And even at the risk of also having to live through 
 a lot of nice things over again. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Indeed, those are the hardest things to bear, once 
 they have turned into memories. — ^You have been in 
 Italy again.? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Yes, in Italy too. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 It's a long time now since I was there. Since we 
 made that walk together through the Ampezzo Val- 
 ley,'' with the pack on our backs — to Pieve, and then 
 right on to Venice. Can you remember.'' The sun 
 has never again shone as brightly as it did then. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 That must have been almost thirty years ago. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 No, not quite. You were already pretty well known 
 at the time. You had just finished your splendid 
 picture of Irene Herms. It was the year before I 
 married. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Yes, yes. (Pause) 
 
 'One of the main routes through the Dolomites, leading from 
 Southern Tirol into Italy. It is in part identical with the route 
 outlined by Albert in "Intermezzo," but parts from it at Cortina 
 to run straight south. 
 
90 THE LONELY WAY [act in 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Do you still recall the summer morning when you 
 went with me to Kirchau for the first time? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Of course. 
 
 WEGHAT 
 
 How the light buggy carried us through the wide, 
 sun-steeped valley? And do you remember the little 
 garden at Hiigelhang, where you became acquainted 
 with Gabrielle and her parents ? 
 FELDc {with suppressed emotion) 
 
 Father, is the house in which mother used to live 
 still standing? 
 
 WEGRAT *^ 
 
 No, it's gone long ago. They have built a villa on 
 the spot. Five or six years ago, you know, we went 
 there for the last time to visit the graves of your 
 grandparents. Everything has been changed, ex- 
 cept the cemetery. ... (To Julian) Can you still 
 remember that cool, cloudy afternoon, Julian, when 
 we sat on the lower wall of the cemetery and had 
 such a remarkable talk about the future? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I remember the day very clearly. But I have entirely 
 forgotten what we were talking about. 
 
 WEGKAT 
 
 Just what we said has passed out of my mind, too, 
 but I can still remember what an extraordinary talk 
 it was. ... In some way the world seemed to open 
 up more widely. And I felt something like envy 
 toward you, as I often did in those days. There rose 
 within me a feeling that I, too, could do anything— 
 if I only wanted. There was so much to be seen 
 
ACT III] THE LONELY WAY 91 
 
 and experienced-^ — and the flow of life was irresistible. 
 Nothing would be needed but a little more nerve, a 
 little more self-assurance, and then to plunge in. 
 . . . Yes, that was what I felt while you were talk- 
 ing. . . . And then Gabrielle came toward us along 
 the narrow road from the village, between the aca- 
 cias. She carried her straw hat in her hand, and 
 she nodded to me. And all my dreams of the future 
 centered in her after that, and once more the whole 
 world seemed fitted into a frame, and yet it was big 
 and beautiful enough. . . . Why does the color all 
 of a sudden come back into those things.? It was 
 practically forgotten, all of it, and now, when she is 
 dead, it comes to life again with a glow that almost 
 scares me. . . . Oh, it were better not to think of 
 it at all. What's the use.? What's the use.? (Pause; 
 he goes to one of the wmdows) 
 JULIAN (struggling to overcome his embarrassment) 
 It is both wise and brave of you to resume your regu- 
 lar activities so promptly. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Oh, once you have made up your mind to go on liv- 
 ing . . . There is nothing but work that can help 
 you through this sense of being alone — of being 
 left alone. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 It seems to me that your grief makes you a little 
 unjust toward — ^much that is still yours. 
 
 WEGBAT 
 
 Unjust . . . ? Oh, I didn't mean to. I hope you 
 don't feel hurt, children . . . ! Felix, you under- 
 stand me fully, don't you? There is so much, from 
 the very beginning, that draws — that lures — ^that 
 
92 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 tears the young ones away from us. We have to 
 struggle to keep our children almost from the very 
 moment they arrive — and the struggle is a pretty 
 hopeless one at that. But that's the way of life: 
 they cannot possibly belong to us. And as far as 
 other people are concerned . . . Even our friends 
 come into our lives only as guests who rise from 
 the table when they have eaten, and walk out. Like 
 us, they have their own streets, their own affairs. 
 And it's quite natural it should be so. . . . Which 
 doesn't prevent us from feeling pleased, Julian — 
 sincerely pleased, when one of them finds his way 
 back to us. Especially if it be one on whom we 
 have put great store throughout life. You may be 
 sure of that, Julian. {They shake hands) And as 
 long as you remain in Vienna, I shall see you here 
 quite often, I trust. It will give me genuine pleas- 
 ure. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I'll be sure to come. 
 
 MAID (enters) 
 
 The carriage is here. Professor. {She goes out) 
 
 WEGKAT 
 
 I'm coming. (To Jtdian) You must have a lot to 
 tell me. You were as good as lost. You understand 
 it will interest me to hear all you have done — and 
 still more what you intend to do. Felix told us the 
 other day about some very interesting sketches you 
 had showed him. 
 
 JUMAN 
 
 I'U go with you, if you care to have me. 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 93 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Thanks. But it would be still nicer of you to stay 
 right here and take dinner with us. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Well . , . 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 I'll be through very quickly. To-day I have noth- 
 ing but a few business matters to dispose of — noth- 
 ing but signing a few documents. I'll be back in 
 three-quarters of an hour. In the meantime the 
 children will keep you company as they used to in 
 the old days. . . . Won't you, children? — So you're 
 staying, are you not? Good-by for a little while 
 then. (He goes out) 
 [Long fause. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Why didn't you go with him? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Your mother was without blame. If any there be, 
 it falls on me alone. I'U teU you all about it. 
 TELDC {nods) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 It had been arranged that we were to go away to- 
 gether. Everything was ready. We meant to leave 
 the place secretly because, quite naturally, your 
 mother shrank from any kind of statement or ex- 
 planation. Our intention was to write and explain 
 after we had been gone a few days. The hour of 
 our start had already been settled. He . . . who 
 later became her husband, had just gone to Vienna 
 for a couple of days in order to get certain docu- 
 ments. The wedding was to take place in a week. 
 (Pause) Our plans were all made. We had agreed 
 
94 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 on everything. The carriage that was to pick us up 
 a little ways off had already been liired. In the 
 evening we bade each other good-night, fully con- 
 vinced that we should meet next morning, never to 
 part again. — It turned out differently. — ^You mustn't 
 keep in mind that it was your mother. You must 
 listen to me as if my story dealt with perfect 
 strangers. . . . Then you can understand every- 
 thing. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I am listening. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I had come to Kirchau in June,^one beautiful Sum- 
 mer morning — with him. . . . You know about that, 
 don't you? I meant to stay only a few days. But 
 I stayed on and on. More than once I tried to get 
 away while it was still time. But I stayed. (Smil- 
 ing) And with fated inevitability we slipped into 
 sin, happiness, doom, betrayal — and dreams. Yes, 
 indeed, there was more of those than of anything 
 else. And after that last farewell, meant to be for 
 a night only — as I got back to the little inn and 
 started to make things ready for our journey — only 
 then did I for the first time become really conscious 
 of what had happened and was about to happen. 
 Actually, it was almost as if I had just waked up. 
 Only then, in the stillness of that night, as I was 
 standing at the open window, did it grow clear to 
 me that next morning an hour would come by which 
 my whole future must be determined. And then I 
 began to feel ... as if faint shiverings had 
 been streaming down my body. Below me I could 
 see the stretch of road along which I had just 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 95 
 
 come. It ran on and on through the country, 
 climbing the hills that cut off the view, and los- 
 ing itself in the open, the limitless. ... It led 
 to thousands of unknown and invisible roads, all 
 of which at that moment remained at my dis- 
 posal. It seemed to me as if my future, radiant with 
 glory and adventure, lay waiting for me behind those 
 hills — but for me alone. Life was mine — but only 
 this one life. And in order to seize it and enjoy it 
 fully — ^in order to live it as it had been shaped for 
 me by fate — I needed the carelessness and free- 
 dom I had enjoyed until then. And I marveled al- ' 
 most at my own readiness to give away the reckless- 
 ness of my youth and the fullness of my existence. 
 . . . And to what purpose!' — ^For the sake of a pas- 
 sion which, after all, despite its ardor and its trans- 
 ports, had begun like many others, and would be 
 destined to end like all of them. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Destined to end . . . ? Must come to an end.? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Yes. Must. The moment I foresaw the end, I had 
 in a measure reached it. To wait for something that 
 must come, means to go through it a thousand times 
 — to go through it helplessly and needlessly and 
 resentfully. This I felt acutely at that moment. 
 And it frightened me. At the same time I felt clearly 
 that I was about to act like a brute and a traitor 
 toward a human being who had given herself to me 
 in full confidence. — But everything seemed more de-, 
 sirable — not only for me, but for her also — than a 
 slow, miserable, unworthy decline. And all my scru- 
 ples were submerged in a monstrous longing to go-^ 
 
96 THE LONELY WAY [act in 
 
 on with my life as before, without duties or ties. 
 i There wasn't much time left for consideration. And 
 I was glad of it. I had made up my mind. I didn't 
 wait for the morning. Before the stars had set, I 
 was off. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 You ran away. . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Call it anything you please. — ^Yes, it was a flight, 
 just as good and just as bad, just as precipitate 
 and just as cowardly as any other — with all the hor- 
 rors of being pursued and all the joys of escaping. 
 I am hiding nothing from you, Felix. You are 
 still young, and it is even possible that you 
 may understand it better than I can under- 
 stand it myself to-day. Nothing pulled me back. 
 ,No remorse stirred within me. The sense of being 
 free filled me with intoxication. ... At the end of 
 the first day I was already far away — much farther 
 than any number of milestones could indicate. On 
 that first day her image began to fade away already 
 — the image of her who had waked up to meet pain- 
 ful disillusionment, or worse maybe. The ring of 
 her voice was passing out of my memory. . . . She 
 was becoming a shadow like others that had been left 
 floating much farther behind me in the past. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Oh, it isn't true! So quickly could she not be for- 
 gotten. So remorselessly could you not go out in 
 the world. All this is meant as a sort of expiation. 
 You make yourself appear what you are not. 
 
ACT in] THE LONELY WAY 97 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I am not telling you these things to accuse or defend 
 myself. I am simply telling you the truth. And 
 you must hear it. It was your mother, and I am the 
 man who deserted her. And there is something more 
 I am compelled to tell you. On the very time that 
 followed my flight I must look back as the brightest 
 and richest of any I have ever experienced. Never 
 before or after have I reveled to such an extent in 
 the splendid consciousness of my youth and my free- 
 dom from restraint. Never have I been so wholly 
 master of my gifts and of my life. . . . Never have 
 I been a happier man than I was at that very time. 
 
 FELIX (calmly) 
 
 And if she had killed herself.? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I believe I should have thought myself worth it — 
 in those days. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 And so you were, perhaps, at that time. — And she 
 thought of doing it, I am sure. She wanted to put 
 an end to the lies and the qualms, just as hundreds 
 of thousands of girls have done before. But millions 
 fail to do it, and they are the most sensible ones. 
 And I am sure she also thought of telling the truth 
 to him she took to husband. But, of course, the way 
 through life is easier when you don't have to carry 
 a burden of reproach or, what is worse, of forgive- 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And if she had spoken 
 
98 THE LONELY WAY [act in 
 
 TELIX 
 
 Oh, I understand why she didn't. It had been of 
 no use to anybody. And so she kept silent: silent 
 when she got back from the wedding — silent when 
 her child was born — silent when, ten years later, the 
 lover came to her husband's house again — silent to 
 the very last. . . . Fates of that kind are to be 
 found everywhere, and it isn't even necessary to be — 
 depraved, in order to suffer them or invoke them. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And there are mighty few whom it behooves to judge 
 — or to condemn. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I don't presume to do so. And it doesn't even occur 
 to me that I am now to behold deceivers and de- 
 ceived where, a few hours ago, I could only see peo- 
 ple who were dear to me and whose relationships to 
 each other were perfectly pure. And it is abso- 
 lutely impossible for me to feel myself another man 
 than I have deemed myself until to-day. There is 
 no power in all this truth. ... A vivid dream 
 would be more compelling than this story out of 
 bygone days, which you have just told me. Noth- 
 ing has changed — nothing whatever. The thought 
 of my mother is as sacred to me as ever. And the 
 man in whose house I was born and raised, who sur- 
 rounded my childhood and youth with care and ten- 
 derness, and whom my mother — ^loved . . . He 
 means just as much to me now as he has ever meant 
 — and perhaps a little more. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And yet, Felix, however powerless this truth may 
 seem to you — there is one thing you can take hold 
 
ACT m] THE LONELY WAY 99 
 
 of in this moment of doubt: it was as my son your 
 mother gave birth to you . . . 
 PELrx 
 
 At a time when you had run away from her. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And as my son she brought you up. 
 
 FEI/DC 
 
 In hatred of you. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 At first. Later in forgiveness, and finally — don't 
 forget it — in friendship toward me. . . . And what 
 was in her mind that last night.'' — Of what did she 
 talk to you? — Of those days when she experienced 
 the greatest happiness that can fall to the share of 
 any woman. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 As well as the greatest misery. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Do you think it was mere chance which brought 
 those very days back to her mind that last evening.'' 
 . . . Don't you think she knew that you would go 
 to me and ask for that picture.'' . . . And do you 
 think your wish to see it could have any other mean- 
 ing than of a final greeting to me from your mother? 
 ... Can't you understand that, Felix? . . . And 
 in this moment — don't try to resist — you have it 
 before your eyes — that picture you held in your 
 hand yesterday : and your mother is looking at you. 
 — ^And the glance resting on you, Felix, is the same 
 one that rested on me that passionate and sacred 
 day when she fell into my arms and you were con- 
 geived. — ^And whatever you may feel of doubt or 
 confusion, the truth has now been revealed to you 
 
100 THE LONELY WAY [act m 
 
 once for all. Thus your mother willed it, and it is 
 no longer possible for you to forget that you are my 
 son. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Your son. . . . That's nothing but a word. And 
 it's cried in a desert. — Although I am looking at you 
 now, and although I know that I am your son, I 
 can't grasp it. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 ' Felix . . . ! 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Since I learned of this, you have become a stranger 
 to me. (He turns away) 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 TTie garden belonging to Mr. von Sola's house. At 
 the left is seen the white, one-storied buildimg, fronted 
 by a broad terrace, from which six stone steps lead 
 down into the garden. A wide door with panes of 
 glass leads from the terrace into the drawing-room. A 
 small pool appears in the foregrovmd, surrounded by 
 a semi-circle of young trees. From that spot an ave- 
 nue of trees runs diagonally across the stage toward 
 the right. At the opening of the avenue, near the 
 pool, stand two columns on which are placed the mar- 
 ble busts of two Roman emperors. A semi-circular 
 stone seat with bach support stands u/nder the trees 
 to the right of the pool. Farther bach gUmpses of the 
 glittering fence are caught through the scanty leafage. 
 Bach of the fence, the woods on a gently rising hillside 
 are turning red. The autumnal shy is pale blue. 
 Everything is quiet. The stage remains empty for a 
 few moments. 
 
 Sola and Joharma enter by way of the terrace. She 
 is in blach. He has on a gray suit and carries a dark 
 overcoat across his shoulders. They descend the steps 
 — slowly. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 I think you'll find it rather cool. (He goes bach 
 into the room, pichs up a cape lying there, and puts 
 it around Johanna's shoulders; little by little they 
 reach the garden) 
 
102 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Do you know what I imagine? . . . That this day 
 is our own-^that it belongs to us alone. We have 
 summoned it, and if we wanted, we could make it 
 stay. . . . All other people live only as guests in 
 the world to-day. Isn't that so? . . . The reason 
 is, I suppose, that once I heard you speak of this 
 day. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Of this . . . ? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes — ^while mother was still living. . . . And now it 
 has really come. The leaves are red. The golden 
 mist is lying over the woods. The sky is pale and 
 remote — and the day is even more beautiful, and 
 sadder, than I could ever have imagined. And I am 
 spending it in your garden, and your pool is my 
 mirror. (She stands looking down into the pool) 
 And yet we can no more make it stay, this golden 
 day, than the water here can hold my image after I 
 have gone away. 
 
 SALA 
 
 It seems strange that this clear, mild air should be 
 tinged with a suggestion of winter and snow. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Why should it trouble you? When that suggestion 
 has become reality here, you are already in the midst 
 of another Spring. 
 
 SALA 
 
 What do you mean by that? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Oh, I suppose that where you go they have no win- 
 ter like ours. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 103 
 
 SALA (pensively) 
 
 No, not like ours. (Pause) And you? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 I . . . ? 
 
 SALA 
 
 What are you going to do, I mean, when I am gone ? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 When you are gone . . . ? (She looks at him, and 
 he stands staring into the distance) Haven't you 
 gone long ago? And at bottom, are you not far 
 away from me even now? 
 
 SALA 
 
 What are you saying? I am here with you. . . . 
 What are you going to do, Johanna? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 ("IJ have already told you. Go away — j ust like you. 
 ' J^&LA (shakes his head) 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 As soon as possible. I have still the courage left. 
 Who knows what may become of me later, if I stay 
 here alone. 
 
 SALA 
 
 As long as you are young, all doors stand open, and 
 the world begins outside every one of them. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 But the world is wide and the sky infinite only as 
 long as you are not clinging to anybody. And for 
 that reason I want to go away. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Away — that's so easily said. But preparations are 
 needed for that purpose, and some sort of a scheme. 
 You use the word as if you merely had to put on 
 wings and fly off into the distance. 
 
104 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 To be determined is — the same as having wings. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Are you not at all afraid, Johanna? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 A longing free from fear would be too cheap to be 
 worth while. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Where will it lead you? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 I shall find my way. 
 
 SAIA 
 
 You can choose your way, but not the people that 
 you meet. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Do you think me ignorant of the fact that I cannot 
 expect only beautiful experiences? What is ugly 
 and mean must also be waiting for me. 
 
 SALA 
 
 And how are you going to stand it.? — ^Will you be 
 able to stand it at all? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Of course, I am not going to tell the truth always 
 as I have done to you. I shall have to He — and I 
 think of it with pleasure. I shall not always be in 
 good spirits, nor always sensible. I shall make mis- 
 takes and sufi'er. That's the way it has to be, I 
 suppose. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Of all this you are aware in advance, and yet . . . ? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 105 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 And why? . . . Why are you going away, Johanna ? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Why am I going away? ... I want a time to come 
 when I must shudder at myself. Shudder as deeply 
 as you can only when nothing has been left untried. 
 Just as you have had to do when you looked back 
 upon your life. Or have you not? 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, many times. But just in such moments of shud- 
 dering there is nothing left behind at all — every- 
 thing is once more present. And the present is the 
 past. (^He sits down on the stone seat) 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 What do you mean by that? 
 SALA (^covers his eyes with his hand and sits silent) 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 What is the matter? Where are you anyhow? 
 
 [A light wind stirs the leaves and makes mant/ of 
 
 them drop to the ground. 
 
 SALA 
 
 I am a child, riding my pony across the fields. My 
 father is behind and calls to me. At that window 
 waits my mother. She has thrown a gray satin 
 shawl over her dark hair and is waving her hand at 
 me. . . . And I am a young lieutenant in maneu- 
 vers, standing on a hillock and reporting to my 
 colonel that hostile infantry is ambu^ed behind 
 that wooded piece of ground, ready to charge, and 
 down below us I can see the midday sun glittering 
 on bayonets and buttons. . . . And I am lying alone 
 in my boat adrift, looking up into the deep-blue 
 Summer sky, while words of incomprehensible beauty 
 
106 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 are shaping themselves in my mind — ^words more 
 beautiful than I have ever been able to put on pa- 
 per. . . . And I am resting on a bench in the cool 
 park at the lake of Lugano, with Helen sitting be- 
 side me ; she holds a book with red cover in her hand ; 
 over there by the magnolia, Lillie is playing with 
 the light-haired English boy, and I can hear them 
 prattling and laughing. . . . And I am walking 
 slowly back and forth with Julian on a bed of rus- 
 tling leaves, and we are talking of a picture which 
 we saw yesterday. And I see the picture: two old 
 sailors with worn-out faces, who are seated on an 
 overturned skiff, their sad eyes directed toward the 
 boundless sea. And I feel their misery more deeply 
 than the artist who painted them ; more deeply than 
 they could have felt it themselves, had they been 
 alive. . . . AU this — all of it is there — if I only 
 close my eyes. It is nearer to me than you, Jo- 
 hanna, when I don't see you and you keep quiet. 
 
 JOHANNA {stands looking at him with wistftil sympa- 
 thy) 
 
 SALA 
 
 The present — what does it mean anyhow? Are we 
 then locked breast to breast with the moment as with 
 a friend whom we embrace — or an enemy who is 
 pressing us.'' Has not the word that just rings out 
 turned to memory already.? Is not the note that 
 starts a melody reduced to memory before the song 
 is ended.'' Is your coming to this garden anything 
 but a memory, Johanna ? Are not your steps across 
 that meadow as much a matter of the past as are 
 the steps of creatures dead these many years.'' 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 107 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 No, it mustn't be like that. It makes me sad. 
 SALA (with a return to present things) 
 
 Why.'' ... It shouldn't, Johanna. It is in hours 
 like those we know, that we have lost nothing, and 
 that in reality we cannot lose anything. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Oh, I wish you had lost and forgotten everything, 
 
 so that I might be everything to you! 
 SALA (somewhat astonished) 
 
 Johanna . . . 
 JOHANNA (passionately) 
 
 I love you. (Pause) 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 In a few days I shall be gone, Johanna. You know 
 it — ^you have known it right along. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 I know. Why do you repeat it ? Do you think, per- 
 haps, that all at once I may begin to clutch at you 
 like a love-sick thing, dreaming of eternities.'' — ^No, 
 that isn't my way — oh, no ! . . . But I want to tell 
 you once at least that I am fond of you. May I 
 not for once.'' — Do you hear.? I love you. And I 
 wish that sometime later on you may hear it just as 
 I am saying it now- — at some other moment no less 
 beautiful than this — when we two shall no longer 
 be aware of each other. 
 
 SAI/A 
 
 Indeed, Johanna, of one thing you may be sure: 
 that the sound of your voice shall never leave me. — 
 But why should we talk of parting forever? Per- 
 haps we shall meet again sooner or later ... in 
 three years ... or in five . . . (With a smile) 
 
108 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 Then you have become a princess perhaps, and I 
 may be the ruler of some buried city. . . . Why 
 don't you speak? 
 JOHANNA (pulls the cape more closely about her) 
 
 SALA 
 
 Do you feel cold? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Not at all. — ^But now I must go. 
 
 SAI^A 
 
 Are you in such a hurry? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 It is getting late. I must be back before my father 
 gets home. 
 
 SAI,A 
 
 How strange ! To-day you are hurrying home, fear- 
 ful of being too late, lest your father get worried. 
 And in a couple of days . . . 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Then he will no longer be waiting for me. Fare- 
 well, Stephan. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Until to-morrow, then. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes, until to-morrow. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 You'll come through the garden gate, of course? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Wasn't that a carriage that stopped before the 
 house? 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 The doors are locked. Nobody can get out into the 
 garden. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 109 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Good-by, then. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Until to-morrow. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes. (She is about to go) 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 Listen, Johanna. — If I should say to you now : stay ! 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 No, I must go now. 
 
 SAlA 
 
 That was not what I meant. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 What then? 
 
 SALA 
 
 I mean, if I should beg you to stay — for — a long 
 time? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 You have a peculiar way of jesting. 
 
 SAXA 
 
 I am not jesting. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Do you forget, then, that you — are going away? 
 
 SALA 
 
 I am not bound in any respect. There is nothing to 
 prevent me from staying at home if I don't feel like 
 going away. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 For my sake? j 
 
 SAIA 
 
 I didn't say so. Maybe for my own sake. ] 
 
110 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 No, you mustn't give it up. You would never for- 
 give me if I took that away from you. 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 Oh, you think so.'' (Watching her closely) And if 
 both of us were to go? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 What.? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 If you should risk going along with me.'' Well, it 
 takes a little courage to do it, of course. But you 
 would probably not be the only woman. The 
 Baroness Golobin is also going along, I hear. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Are you talking seriously.'' 
 
 SALA 
 
 Quite seriously. I ask if you care to go with me on 
 that journey ... as my wife, of course, seeing that 
 we have to consider externals like that, too. 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 I should . . . ? 
 
 SALA 
 
 Why does that move you so deeply? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 With you.? — ^With you . . . ? 
 
 SAXA 
 
 Don't misunderstand me, Johanna. That's no rea- 
 son why you should be tied to me for all time. When 
 we get back, we can bid each other good-by— with- 
 out the least ado. It is a very simple matter. For 
 all your dreams cannot be fulfilled by me — I know 
 that very well. . . . You need not give me an answer 
 at once. Hours like these turn too easily into words 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 111 
 
 that are not true the next day. And I hope I may 
 never hear you speak one word of that kind. 
 
 JOHANNA (who has been looking at Sola as if she 
 wanted to drink up every one of his words) No, I 
 am not saying anything — I am not saying anything. 
 
 SALA {looking long at her) 
 
 You are going to think it over, and you'll let me 
 know to-morrow morning? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Yes. {She looks long at him) 
 
 SAIiA 
 
 What is the matter? 
 
 JOHANNA 
 
 Nothing. — Until to-morrow. Farewell. (He ac- 
 companies her to the garden gate, through which 
 she disappears) 
 sALA (comes back and stands looking into the pool) 
 Just as if I wanted to find her image in it. . . . 
 What could it be that moved her so deeply? 
 . . . Happiness? . , . No, it wasn't happiness. . . . 
 Why did she look at me like that? Why did she 
 seem to shrink? There was something in her glance 
 like a farewell forever. (He makes a sudden move- 
 ment as of fright) Has it come to that with me? 
 . . . But how can she know? . . . Then others 
 must know it too . . . ! (He stands staring into 
 space; then he ascends the terrace slowly and goes 
 into the drawing-room, from which he returns a few 
 moments later accompanied by Julian) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And you want to leave all these splendors so soon? 
 
 SALA 
 
 They'll be here when I come back, I hope. 
 
112 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I hope you will, for the sake of both of us. 
 
 SALA 
 
 You say that rather distrustingly. . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Well, yes — I am thinking of that remarkable article 
 in the Daily Post. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Concerning what? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What is going on at the Caspian Sea. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, are the local papers also taking that up? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 The conditions in certain regions through which you 
 have to pass seem really to be extremely dangerous. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Exaggerations. We have better information than 
 that. According to my opinion there is nothing 
 back of those articles but the petty jealousy of 
 English scientists. What you read had been trans- 
 lated from the Daily News. And it's fully three weeks 
 since it appeared there. — Have you seen Felix, by 
 the way? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 He was at my house only last night. And this 
 morning I called on the Wegrats. He wanted to 
 have a look at that picture of his mother which I 
 painted twenty-three years ago. — And one thing 
 and another led to my telling him everything. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, you did? {Thoughtfully) And how did he 
 take it? 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 113 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 It stirred him rather more than I had thought pos- 
 sible. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Well, I hope you didn't expect him to fall into your 
 arms as the recovered son does in the play. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 No, of course not. — I told him everything, without 
 any attempt at sparing myself. And for that rea- 
 son he seemed to feel the wrong done to his mother's 
 husband more strongly than anything else. But 
 that won't last very long. He'll soon understand 
 that, in the higher sense, no wrong has been done at 
 all. People of Wegrat's type are not made to hold 
 actual possession of anything — whether it be wives 
 or children. They mean a refuge, a dwelling place — 
 but never a real home. Can you understand what 
 I mean by that.'' It is their mission to take into 
 their arms creatures who have been worn out or 
 broken to pieces by some kind of passion. But they 
 never guess whence such creatures come. And while 
 it is granted them to attract and befriend, they 
 never understand whither those creatures go. They 
 exist for the purpose of sacrificing themselves un- 
 consciously, and in such sacrifices they find a happi- 
 ness that might seem a pretty poor one to others. 
 . . . You are not saying a word.'' 
 
 SALA 
 
 I am listening. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And have no reply to make? 
 
114 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, well — it is possible to grind out scales quite 
 smoothly even when the fiddle has got a crack. . . . 
 [/^ is growing darker. Felix appears on the terrace, 
 
 SALA 
 
 Who is that? 
 FELIX {on the terrace) 
 
 It's me. The servant told me . . . 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, Felix! Glad you came. 
 FELIX (coming down into the garden) 
 
 Good evening, Mr. von Sala. — Good evening, Mr, 
 Fichtner. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Good evening, Felix. 
 
 SALA 
 
 I am delighted to see you. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 What magnificent old trees ! 
 
 SALA 
 
 Yes, a piece of real woods — all you have to do is to 
 forget the fence. — ^What brought you anyhow.'' I 
 didn't expect you until to-morrow morning. Have 
 you really made up your mind already .J" 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Am I in the way? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Oh, no. There is nothing secret about it. — I accept 
 your offer, Mr. von Sala, and ask if you would be 
 kind enough to speak to Count Ronsty. 
 SALA {shaking Felix by the hand) 
 
 I am glad of it. ... ( To Julian) It has to do with 
 our Asiatic venture. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 115 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What? — You intend to join the expedition? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Yes. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Have you already talked it over with your father? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I shall do so to-night. — ^But that's a mere formality. 
 I am determined, provided no other obstacles ap- 
 pear . . . 
 
 SALA 
 
 I shall speak to the Count this very day. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I don't know how to thank you. 
 
 SALA 
 
 There is no reason at all. In fact, I don't have to 
 say another word. The Count knows everything he 
 needs to know about you. 
 VALET (appearmg on the terrace) 
 
 There is a lady asking if you are at home, sir. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Didn't she give her name? — You'll have to excuse 
 me a moment, gentlemen. {He goes toward the 
 valet, and both disappear info the house) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You are going away? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Yes. And I am very happy this occasion has offered 
 itself. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Have you also informed yourself concerning the real 
 nature of this undertaking? 
 
116 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 FELIX 
 
 It means at any rate genuine activity and the open- 
 ing of wider worlds. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And couldn't those things be found in connection 
 with more hopeful prospects? 
 
 TELIX 
 
 That's possible. But I don't care to wait. 
 [^Sala and Irene enter. 
 lEENE instill on the terrace, talking to Sola) 
 
 I couldn't leave Vienna without keeping my promise. 
 
 SALA 
 
 And I thank you for it, Miss Herms. 
 IRENE {descending into the garden with Sala) 
 
 You have a wonderful place here. — ^How do you do, 
 Julian? Good evening. Lieutenant. 
 
 SALA 
 
 You should have come earlier, Miss Herms, so that 
 you could have seen it in full sunlight. 
 
 IKENE 
 
 Why, I was here two hours ago. But it was like an 
 enchanted castle. It was impossible to get in. The 
 bell didn't ring at all. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, of course ! 1 hope you pardon. If I had had the 
 slightest idea . . . 
 
 ISENE 
 
 Well, it doesn't matter. I have made good use of 
 
 my time. I went on through the woods as far as 
 
 Neustift and Salmansdorf.^ And then I got out and 
 
 followed a road that I remembered since many years 
 
 '■ Former villages, now suburbs of Vienna, lying still nearer the 
 city limits than Dornbach, where Sala is Uving. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 117 
 
 ago. (She looks at Julian) I rested on a bench 
 where I sat once many, many years ago, with a close 
 friend. (Smilmgli/) Can you guess, Mr. Fichtner.? 
 The outlook is wonderful. Beyond the fields you 
 have a perfect view of the whole city as far as the 
 Danube. 
 
 SALA (pomting to the stone seat) 
 
 Won't you sit down here for a while. Miss Herms ? 
 
 lEENB 
 
 Thanks. (She raises her lorgnette to study the busts 
 of the two emperors) It makes one feel quite Ro- 
 man. . . . But I hope, gentlemen, I haven't inter- 
 rupted any conference. 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 Not at all. 
 
 IKENE 
 
 I have that feeling, however. All of you look so seri- 
 ous. — I think I'll rather leave. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh, you mustn't, Miss Herms. — ^Is there anything 
 more you want to ask me about that affair of ours, 
 Felix? 
 
 FELES 
 
 If Miss Herms would pardon me for a minute . . . 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Oh, certainly — ^please ! 
 
 SALA 
 
 You'll excuse me, Miss Herms . . . 
 FEirx 
 
 It is a question of what I should do in regard to my 
 present commission. — (He is stUl speaking as he 
 goes out with Sola) 
 
118 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 IRENE 
 
 What kind of secrets have those two together? 
 What's going on here anyhow? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Nothing that can be called a secret. That young 
 
 fellow is also going to join the expedition, I hear. 
 
 And so they have a lot of things to talk over, of 
 
 course. 
 IRENE (^who has been foUowmg Felix and Sala with, 
 
 her eyes) Julian — it's he. 
 JULIAN {remains silent) 
 
 IRENE 
 
 You don't need to answer me. The matter has been 
 in my mind all the time. . . , The only thing I can't 
 understand is why I haven't discovered it before. It 
 is he. — ^And he is twenty-three. — And I who actually 
 thought when you drove me away : if only he doesn't 
 kill himself! . . . And there goes his son. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What does that help me? He doesn't belong to me. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 But look at him! He is there — ^he's alive, and 
 young, and handsome. Isn't that enough? {She 
 rises) And I who was ruined by it! 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 How? 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Do you understand ? Ruined . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I have never suspected it. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 Well, you couldn't have helped me anyhow. (Pause) 
 Good-by. Make an excuse for me, please. Tell them 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 119 
 
 anything you want. I am going away, and I don't 
 want to know anything more. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What's the matter with you.'' Nothing has changed. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 You think so? — To me it is as if all these twenty- 
 three years had suddenly undergone a complete 
 change. — Good-by. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Good-by — for a while. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 For a while.? Do you care.'' — ^Really? — Do you feel 
 sad, Julian.?- — Now I am sorry for you again. 
 (Shaking her head) Of course, that's the way you 
 are. So what is there to do about it.? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Please control yourself. Here they are coming. 
 Sala (returns with Felia;) 
 Now we're all done. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Thank you very much. I shall have to leave now. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 And to-morrow you are already going away again.? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Yes, Miss Herms. 
 
 IRENE 
 
 You're also going toward the city now, Lieutenant, 
 are you not.? If you don't object, I'll take you 
 along. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 That'^ awfully kind of you. 
 
120 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 SALA 
 
 What, Miss Herms . . . ? This is a short visit in- 
 deed. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Yes, I have still a few errands to do. For to-mor- 
 row I must return to the wilderness. And probably 
 it will be some time before I get to Vienna again. — 
 
 Well, Lieutenant.'' 
 
 TEUX 
 
 Good-by, Mr. Fichtner. And if I shouldn't happen 
 to see you again . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Oh, we'll meet again. 
 
 lEENE 
 
 Now the people wiU say : look at the lieutenant with 
 his mamma in tow. (^She gives a last glance to 
 
 -■■' Julian) 
 
 SALA (^accompanies Irene d?MZ Felix up the steps to the 
 terrace) 
 
 JULIAN (^remains hehmd, walking' back amd forth; after 
 a while he is joined by Sola) Have you no doubt 
 that your appeal to Count Ronsky will be effective? 
 
 SALA 
 
 I have already received definite assurances from 
 him, or I should never have aroused any hopes in 
 Felix. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 What caused you to do this, Sala? 
 
 SALA 
 
 My sympathy for Felix, I should say, and the fact 
 that I like to travel in pleasant company. 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 121 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And did it never occur to you, that the thought of 
 losing him might be very painful to me? 
 
 SALA 
 
 What's the use of that, Julian? It is only possible 
 to lose what you possess. And you cannot possess 
 a thing to which you have not acquired any right. 
 You know that as well as I do. 
 
 JUMAN 
 
 Does not, in the last instance, the fact that you need 
 somebody give you a certain claim on him? — Can't 
 you understand, Sala, that he represents my last 
 hope? . . . That actually I haven't got anything or 
 anybody left but him? . . . That wherever I turn, 
 I find nothing but emptiness? . . . That I am hor- 
 rified by the loneliness awaiting me? 
 
 SALA 
 
 And what could it help you if he stayed? And even 
 if he felt something like filial tenderness toward you, 
 how could that help you? . . . How can he or any- 
 body else help you? . . . You say that loneliness 
 horrifies you? . . . And if you had a wife by your 
 side to-day, wouldn't you be lonely just the same? 
 . . . Wouldn't you be lonely even if you were sur- 
 rounded by children and grandchildren? . . . Sup- 
 pose you had kept your money, yoilr fame and 
 your genius — don't you think you would be lonely 
 for aU that? . . . Suppose we were always attended 
 by a train of bacchantes — nevertheless we should 
 have to tread the downward path alone — we, who 
 have never belonged to anybody ourselves. The 
 process of aging must needs be a lonely one for our 
 kind, and he is nothing but a fool who doesn't in 
 
122 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 time prepare himself against having to rely on any 
 human being. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 And do you imagine, Sala, that you need no human 
 being? 
 
 SALA 
 
 In the manner I have used them they will always be 
 at my disposal. I have always been in favor of 
 keeping at a certain distance. It is not my fault 
 that other people haven't realized it. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 In that respect you are right, Sala. For you have 
 never really loved anybody in this world. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Perhaps not. And how about you? No more than 
 
 I I, Julian. . . . j To love means to live for the sake 
 
 I of somebody else. ) I don't say that it is a more de- 
 
 i sirable form of existence, but I do think, at any rate, 
 
 that you and I have been pretty far removed from 
 
 it. What has that which one like us brings into the 
 
 ! world got to do with love? Though it include all 
 
 I sorts of funny, hypocritical, tender, unworthy, pas- 
 
 I sionate things that pose as love — it isn't love for 
 
 I all that. . . . Have we ever made a sacrifice by 
 
 i which our sensuality or our vanity didn't profit? 
 
 ... Have we ever hesitated to betray or black- 
 
 1 guard decent people, if by doing so we could gain 
 
 I an hour of happiness or of mere lust? . . . Have~we 
 
 I ever risked our peace or our lives — not out of whim 
 
 j or recklessness — but to promote the welfare of 
 
 i someone who had given aU to us? . . . Have we 
 
 ever denied ourselves an enjoyment unless from such 
 
 i denial we could at least derive some comfort? . . . 
 
ACT iv] THE LONELY WAY 123 
 
 And do you think that we could dare to turn to any 
 human being, man or woman, with a demand that 
 any gift of ours be returned? I am not thinking 
 ^ of pearls now, or annuities, or cheap wisdom, but 
 ' of some piece of our real selves, some hour of our 
 own existence, which we have surrendered to such a 
 being without at once exacting payment for it in 
 some sort of coin. My dear Julian, we have kept 
 our doors open, and have allowed our treasures to 
 be viewed — but prodigal with them we have never 
 been. You no more than I. We may just as well join 
 hands, Julian. I am a little less prone to complain 
 than you are — that's the whole difference. . . . But 
 I am not telling you anything new. All this you 
 know as well as I do. It is simply impossible for us 
 not to know ourselves. Of course, we try at times 
 conscientiously to deceive ourselves, but it never 
 works. Our follies and rascalities may remain hid- 
 den to others — but never to ourselves. In our inner- 
 most souls we always know what to think of our- 
 selves. — It's getting cold, Julian. Let's go indoors. 
 (They begin to ascend the steps to the terrace) 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 All that may be true, Sala. But this much you have 
 to grant me. If there be anybody in the world who 
 has no right to make us pay for the mistakes of our 
 lives, it is a person who has us to thank for his own 
 life. 
 
 SALA 
 
 There is no question of payment in this. Your son 
 has a mind for essentials, Julian. You have said so 
 yourself. And he feels that to have done nothing 
 
124 THE LONELY WAY [act iv 
 
 jfor a man but to put him into the world, is to have 
 done very little indeed. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Then, at least, everything must become as it was 
 before he knew anything at all. Once more I shall 
 become to him a human being like anybody else. 
 Then he will not dare to leave me. ... I cannot 
 bear it. How have I deserved that he should run 
 away from me.^* . . . And even if all that I have held 
 for good and true within myself — even if, in the end, 
 my very fondness for this young man, who is my son 
 — should prove nothing but self-delusion — yet I love 
 him now. . . . Do you understand me, Sala? I love 
 him, and all I ask is that he may believe it before 
 
 I must lose him forever 
 
 [Zf grows dark. The two men pass across the ter- 
 race and enter the drawing-room. The stage stands 
 empty a little while. In the meantime the wind has 
 risen somewhat. Johanna enters by the avenue of 
 trees from the right and goes past the pool toward 
 the terrace. The windows of the drawing-room are 
 illumiined. Sala has seated himself at a table. The 
 valet enters the room and serves him a glass of wi/ne. 
 Johanna stops. She is apparently much excited. 
 Then she ascends two of the steps to the terrace. 
 Sala seems to hear a noise and turns his head 
 slightly. When she sees this, Johanna hurries down 
 again and stops beside the pool. There she stands 
 looking down into the water. 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
THE FIFTH ACT 
 
 The garden at the Wegrats'. 
 
 EEUMANN {sits at a small table and writes something 
 
 in his notebook) 
 JULIAN (enters quickly by way of the veranda) 
 
 Is it true, Doctor? 
 B.EIJMANN {rising) 
 
 Yes, it's true. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 She has disappeared? 
 
 REUMANN 
 
 Yes, she has disappeared. She has been gone since 
 yesterday afternoon. She has left no word behind, 
 and she has taken nothing at all with her — she has 
 simply gone away and never returned. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 But what can have happened to her? 
 
 REUMANN 
 
 We have not been able to guess even. Perhaps she 
 has lost her way and will come back. Or she has 
 suddenly made up her mind — ^if we only knew to 
 what! 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Where are the others? 
 
 REUMANN 
 
 We agreed to meet here again at ten. I visited the 
 various hospitals and other places where it might 
 
126 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 be possible to find some trace. ... I suppose the 
 professor has made a report to the police by this 
 time. 
 FELEX {enters quickly) 
 Nothing new? 
 
 E.ETJMANN 
 
 Nothing. 
 jruAN {shakes hands with Felix) 
 
 KEUMANN 
 
 From where do you come? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I went to see Mr. von Sala. 
 
 E.EUMANN 
 
 Why? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I thought it rather possible that he might have a 
 suspicion, or be able to give us some kind of direc- 
 tion. But he knows nothing at all. That was per- 
 fectly clear. And if he had known anything — ^had 
 known anything definite — ^he would have told me. J 
 am sure of that. He was still in bed when I called 
 on him. I suppose he thought I had come about my 
 own matter. When he heard that Johanna had dis- 
 appeared, he turned very pale. . . . But he doesn't 
 know anything. 
 
 WEGKAT (enters) 
 Anything? 
 
 [^All the others shake their heads. Julian presses 
 his hand. 
 
 WEGUAT {sitting down) 
 
 They asked me to give more details, something more 
 tangible to go by. But what is there to give? . . . 
 I have nothing. . . . The whole thing is a riddle to 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 127 
 
 me. {Twrnmg to Julian) In the afternoon she 
 went out for a short walk as usual. . . . {To Fe- 
 lix) Was there anything about her that attracted 
 attention.? ... It seems quite impossible to me that 
 she could have had anything in mind when she left 
 the house — that she could know already — that she 
 was going away forever. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Perhaps though . . . 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Of course, she was very reserved — especially of late, 
 since the death of her mother. ... I wonder if it 
 could be that.? . . . Would you think that possible. 
 Doctor.? 
 REUMANN {shrugs his shoulders) 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Did any one of us really know her.? And who takes 
 a real interest in another person anyhow.? 
 
 EEUMANN 
 
 It is apparently fortunate that such is the case. 
 Otherwise we should all go mad from pity or loath- 
 ing or anxiety. {Pause) Now I must get around to 
 my patients. There are a few caUs that cannot be 
 postponed. I shall be back by dinner-time. Good-by 
 for a while. {He goes out) 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 To think that you can watch a young creature Uke 
 her grow up — can see the child turn into girl, and 
 then into a young lady — can speak hundreds of 
 thousands of words to her. . . . And one day she 
 rises from the table, puts on hat and coat, and goes 
 . . . and you have no idea as to whether she has 
 slipped away — if into nothingness or into a new life. 
 
 i 
 
128 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 FELIX 
 
 But whatever may have happened, father — she 
 wanted to get away from us. And in that fact, I 
 think, we should find a certain consolation. 
 
 WEGEAT {^shakes his head in perplexity) 
 
 Everything is fluttering away — ^willingly or unwill- 
 ingly — ^but away it goes. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Father, we can't tell what may have happened. It's 
 conceivable, at least, that Johanna may have formed 
 some decision which she does not carry out. Per- 
 haps she will come back in a few hours, or days. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 You believe . . . you think it possible, do you? 
 
 PELDC 
 
 Possible — yes. But if she shouldn't come — of 
 course, father, I shall give up the plan of which I 
 told you yesterday. Under circumstances like these 
 I couldn't think of going so far away from you for 
 such a long time. 
 WEGEAT {to Jviian) 
 
 And now he's going to sacrifice himself for my sake ! 
 
 EELES 
 
 Perhaps I could arrange to have myself transferred 
 here. 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 No, Felix, you know very well that I couldn't accept 
 such a thing. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 But it's no sacrifice. I assure you, father, that I 
 stay with you only because I can't go away from 
 you now. 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 129 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 Oh, yes, Felix, you can — you will be able. And you 
 are not to stay here for my sake — ^you mustn't. I 
 could never be sure that it would prove of any help 
 to me to have you give up a plan which you have 
 taken hold of with such enthusiasm. I think it 
 would be inexcusable of you to draw back, and 
 wicked of me to permit it. You must be happy at 
 having found a way at last, by which you may reach 
 all you have longed for. It makes me happy, too, 
 Felix. If you missed this opportunity, you would 
 regret it all your life. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 But so much may have changed since yesterday — 
 such a tremendous lot — for you and for me. 
 
 WEGEAT 
 
 For me, perhaps. . . . But never mind. I won't 
 stand it — I will not accept such a sacrifice. Of 
 course, I might accept it, if I could find it of any 
 special advantage to myself. But I shouldn't have 
 you any more than if you were gone away ... 
 less . . . not at all. This fate that has descended ' 
 on us must not add to its inherent power what is 
 still worse — that it makes us do in our confusion 
 what is against our own natures. Sometime we al- 
 ways get over every disaster, no matter how fright- 
 ful it be. But whatever we do in violation of our 
 innermost selves can never be undone. {Turning to I 
 Julian) Isn't that true, Julian .? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You are absolutely right. 
 
130 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Thanks, father. I feel grateful that you make it 
 so easy for me to agree with you. 
 
 WEGB.AT 
 
 That's good, Felix. . . . During the weeks you will 
 remain in Europe we shall be able to talk over a 
 lot of things — ^more perhaps than in the years gone 
 by. Indeed, how little people know about each 
 other! . . . But I am getting tired. We stayed 
 awake all night. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Won't you rest a while, father? 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Rest. . . . You'll stay at home, Felix, won't you? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Yes, I shall wait right here. What else is there to 
 do? 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 I'm racking my brain until it's near bursting. . . . 
 Why didn't she say anything to me? Why have I 
 known so little about her? Why have I kept so far 
 away from her? (^He goes out) 
 
 FELIX 
 
 How that man has been belied — all his life long — 
 by all of us. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 There is in this world no sin, no crime, no deception, 
 that cannot be atoned. Only for what has happened 
 here, there should be no expiation and no forgetful- 
 ness, you think? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Can it be possible that you don't understand? . . . 
 Here a lie has been eternalized. There is no getting 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 131 
 
 away from it. And she who did it was my mother — 
 and it was you who made her do it — and the he am 
 I, and such I must remain as long as I am passing 
 for that which I am not. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Let us proclaim the truth then, Felix. — I shall face 
 any judge that you may choose, and submit to any 
 verdict passed on me. — Must I alone remain con- 
 demned forever? Should I alone, among all that 
 have erred, never dare to say: "It is atoned".'' 
 
 TELIX 
 
 It is too late. Guilt can be wiped out by confession 
 only while the guilty one is still able to make restitu- 
 tion. You ought to know yourself, that this respite 
 expired long ago. 
 SALA (enters) 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Mr. von Sala ! — Have you anything to tell us .'' 
 
 SALA 
 
 Yes. — Good morning, JuHan. — No, stay, Julian. I 
 am glad to have a witness. (To Felix) Are you 
 determined to join the expedition? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 I am. 
 
 SALA 
 
 So am I. But it is possible that one of us must 
 change his mind. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Mr. von Sala . . . ? 
 
 SALA 
 
 It would be a bad thing to risk finding out that you 
 have started on a journey of such scope with one 
 
132 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 whom you would prefer to shoot dead if you knew 
 him completely. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Where is my sister, Mr. von Sala.? 
 
 SALA 
 
 I don't know. Where she is at this moment, I don't 
 know. But last evening, just before you arrived, 
 she had left me for the last time. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Mr. von Sala . . . 
 
 SALA 
 
 Her farewell words to me were: Until to-morrow. 
 You can see that I had every reason to be surprised 
 this morning, when you appeared at my house. Per- 
 mit me furthermore to tell you, that yesterday, of 
 all days, I asked Johanna to become my wife — which 
 seemed to agitate her very much. In telling you 
 this, I have by no means the intention of smoothing 
 over thing's. For my question implied no desire on 
 my part to make good any wrong I might have done. 
 It was apparently nothing but a whim — like so much 
 else. There is here no question of anything but to 
 let you know the truth. This means that I am at 
 your disposal in any manner you may choose. — 
 I thought it absolutely necessary to say all this be- 
 fore we were brought to the point of having to de- 
 scend into the depths of the earth together, or, per- 
 haps, to sleep in the same tent. 
 FELIX {after a long pause) ' 
 
 Mr. von Sala ... we shall not have to sleep in the 
 same tent. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Why not? 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 133 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Your journey will not last that long. '^' 
 \A very long pause ensues. 
 
 SALA 
 
 Oh ... I understand. And are you sure of that? 
 
 TELIX 
 
 Perfectly. (Pause) 
 
 SALA 
 
 And did Johanna know it? 
 
 FELDC 
 
 Yes. 
 
 SALA 
 
 I thank you. — Oh, you can safely take my hand. 
 The matter has been settled in the most chivalrous 
 manner possible. — Well? ... It is not customary 
 to refuse one's hand to him who is already down. 
 FELIX (gives his hand to Sola; then he says) 
 And where can she be? 
 
 SALA 
 
 I don't know. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Didn't she give you any hint at all? 
 
 SALA 
 
 None whatever. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 But have you no conjecture? Has she perhaps es- 
 tablished any connections — abroad? Had she any 
 friends at all, of which I don't know? 
 
 SALA 
 
 Not to my knowledge. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Do you think that she is stiU alive? 
 
134 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 SALA 
 
 I can't tell. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Are you not trnMing to say anything more, Mr. von 
 Sala? 
 
 SAI.A 
 
 I am not able to say anything more. I have noth- 
 ing left to say. Farewell, and good luck on your 
 trip. Give my regards to Count Ronsky. 
 
 FELDC 
 
 But we are not seeing each other for the last time? 
 
 SALA 
 
 Who can tell? 
 FELIX {holding out his hand to Sola) 
 
 I must hurry to my father. I think it my duty to 
 
 let him know what I have just learned from you. 
 SALA (nods) 
 FELIX {to Julian) 
 
 Good-by. {He goes out) 
 
 {^Julian and Sola start to leave together. 
 JULIAN {as Sala suddenly stops) 
 
 Why do you tarry? Let's get away. 
 
 SALA 
 
 It is a strange thing to know. A veil seems to 
 spread in front of everything. . . . "Away with 
 you!" — ^But I don't care to submit to it as long as 
 I am still here — ^if it be only for another hour . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Do you believe it then? 
 SALA {looking long at Juiian) 
 
 Do I believe it ... ? He behaved rather nicely, 
 that son of yours. . . . "We shall not have to sleep 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 136 
 
 in the same tent." . . . Not bad ! I might have said 
 it myself. . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 But why don't you come.? Have you perhaps some- 
 thing more to tell after all.'' 
 
 SALA 
 
 That's the question I must put to you, Julian. 
 
 JUI/IAN 
 
 Sala? 
 
 SAX.A 
 
 Because I didn't say anything about a peculiar hal- 
 lucination I experienced just before coming here. I 
 imagine it was . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Please, speak out ! 
 
 SALA 
 
 What do you think of it.-" Before I left my house — 
 just after Felix had gone — I went down into my 
 garden — that is to say, I ran through it — ^in a re- 
 markable state of excitement, as you may under- 
 stand. And as I passed by the pool, it was exactly 
 as if I had seen on the bottom of it . . . 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Sala! 
 
 SALA 
 
 There is a blue-greenish glitter on the water, and be- 
 sides, the shadow of the beech tree falls right across 
 it early in the morning. And by a strange coinci- 
 dence Johanna said yesterday: "The water can no 
 more hold my image ..." That was, in a way, 
 like challenging fate, . . . And as I passed by the 
 pool, it was as if . . . the water had retained her 
 image just the same. 
 
136 THE LONELY WAY [act v 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 Is that true? 
 
 SALA 
 
 True ... or untrue . . . what Is that to me? It 
 could be of interest to me only if I were to remain 
 in this world another year — or another hour at 
 least. 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 You mean to . . . ? 
 
 SALA 
 
 Of course, I do. Would you expect me to wait for 
 it? That would be rather painful, I think. (To 
 Julian, with a smile) From whom are you now go- 
 ing to get your cues, my dear friend? Yes, it's all 
 over now. . . . And what has become of it? . . . 
 Where are the therrruB of Caracalla? Where is the 
 park at Lugano? . . . Where is my nice little 
 house? . . . No nearer to me, and no farther away, 
 than those marble steps leading down to mysterious 
 depths. . . . Veils in front of everything. . . . 
 Perhaps your son will discover if the three-hundred 
 and twelfth be the last one — and if not, it won't give 
 him much concern anyhow. . . . Don't you think he 
 has been acting rather nicely? ... I have some- 
 how the impression that a better generation is grow- 
 ing up — with more poise and less brilliancy. — Send 
 your regards to heaven, Julian. 
 
 JULIAN {makes a movement to accompany him) 
 
 SALA (gently hut firmly) 
 
 You stay here, Julian. This is the end of our dia- 
 logue. Farewell. (He goes out qmckly) 
 
ACT v] THE LONELY WAY 137 
 
 FELIX (^entering rapidly) 
 
 Is Mr. von Sala gone? My father wanted to talk to 
 him. — ^And you are still here? . . . Why did Mr. 
 von Sala go? What did he tell youi' — Jo- 
 hanna . . . ! Johanna . . . ? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 She is dead . . . she has drowned herself in the pool. 
 FELIX (zvith a cry of dismay) 
 Where did he go ? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 I don't think you can find him. 
 
 FELIX 
 
 What is he doing? 
 
 JULIAN 
 
 He is paying . . . while it's time . . . 
 WESKAT (^enters from the veranda) 
 FELIX {rims to meet him) 
 
 Father . . . 
 
 WEGRAT 
 
 Felix! What has happened? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 We must go to Sala's house, father. 
 
 WEGBAT 
 
 Dead . . . ? 
 
 FELIX 
 
 Father! (He takes hold of Wegrat's hand and 
 hisses it) My father! 
 JULIAN {Jms left the room slowly im the meantime) 
 
 WEGUAT 
 
 Must things of this kind happen to make that word 
 sound as if I had heard it for the first time . . , ? 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
INTERMEZZO 
 
 ( Zwischenspiel ) 
 
 A COMEDY IN THEEE ACTS 
 
 1904 
 
PERSONS 
 
 Amadeus Adams A musical conductor 
 
 Cecilia Adams-Ortenburg . His wife, an opera singer 
 
 Petee Their child, five years old 
 
 Albert Rhon 
 
 Marie His wife 
 
 SiGisMUND, Prince Maradas-Lohsenstein 
 
 Countess Frederique Moosheim . An opera singer 
 
 Governess 1 » ^ ii » j 
 
 ^ i- At the Adamses 
 
 Chambermaid J 
 
 The scene is laid in Viernia at the present day. 
 
INTERMEZZO 
 
 THE FIRST ACT 
 
 The study of Amadeus. The walls are painted m 
 dark gray, with a very simple frieze, A door in the 
 background leads to a veranda. On either side of this 
 door is a window. Through the door one sees the gar- 
 den, to which three steps lead down from the veranda. 
 A cabinet stands between the door and the window at 
 the right; a music-stand holds a corresponding posi- 
 tion to the left of the door. Antique bas-reliefs are 
 hung above the cabinet as well as the stand. The main 
 entrance is on the right side in the foreground. Far- 
 ther back at the right is a door leading to CecUia's 
 room. A door finished like the rest of the wall leads 
 to the room of Amadeus at the left. A tall book case, 
 with a bust of Verrochio on top of it, stands against 
 the right wall. In the corner back of it are several 
 columns with tall vases full of flowers. A ■fireplace 
 occupies the foreground at the left. Above it is a 
 large mirror. On the mantelshelf stands a French 
 clock of simple design. A table surrounded by chairs 
 is placed in front of the fireplace. Farther back along 
 the same wall are shelves piled with sheet music, and 
 above them engravings of Schumann, Brahms, Mozart, 
 and other composers. ,jA bust of Beethoven occupies 
 
14.2 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 the farthermost corner at the left. Halfway down the 
 stage, nearer the left wall, stands a piano with a piano 
 stool in front of it. An armchair has been moved up 
 closi to the piano on the side toward the public. A 
 writing desk holds a similar position at the right. 
 Back of it are an easy-chair and a couch, the latter 
 having been moved close to the table. 
 
 AMADEUS {thirty years old, slender, with dark, smooth 
 hair; his movements are quick, with a suggestion of 
 restlessness; he wears a gray business suit of ele- 
 gant cut, but not well cared for; he has a trick of 
 taking hold of the lapel of his sack coat with his left 
 hand and turning it back; he is seated at the piano, 
 accompanying Frederique) 
 
 FREDERiauE (twcnty-cight, is dressed in a bright gray 
 tailor-made suit and a red 'satin waist; wears a 
 broad-brimmed straw hat, very fashionable; her hair 
 is blonde, of a reddish tint; her whole appearance 
 is very dainty; she is singing an aria from the opera 
 "Mignon") "Ha-ha-ha! Is 't true, really true?" 
 (While singing she is all the time making a motion 
 as if she were beating the dust out of her riding suit 
 with a crop) 
 
 AMADEUS {accompanying himself as he gives her the 
 cue) "Yes, you may laugh. I am a fool to ruin my 
 horse ..." 
 
 EEEDERiaUE 
 
 "Maybe you would like ..." 
 AMADEUS {nervously) 
 
 Oh, wait! . . . You don't know yet why I have 
 ruined my horse. . . . "To ruin my horse for a 
 quicker sight of you ..." 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 143 
 
 FSEDERiQUE (witJt the same gesture as before) 
 "Maybe you would like me to weep?" 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 "Oh, I regret already that I came." 
 FBEDEBiciuE (tts before) 
 "WeU, why . . . " 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 G sharp! 
 FUEDERiauE ((2* before) 
 
 "WeU, why don't you go back? Soon enough I shall 
 see you again." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You should say that ironically, not tenderly. "Soon 
 enough I shall see you again ..." 
 EKEDERiQUE (fls before) 
 
 "Soon enough I shall see you again ..." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not angrily. Countess, but ironically. 
 
 FEEDEEiaUE 
 
 Call me Frederique, and not Countess, when you are 
 working with me. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Now, that's the tone Philine should use. Hold on 
 to it. . . . And that's the right look, too. ... If 
 you could do that on the stage, you might almost be 
 an artist. 
 
 FKEDERiaUE 
 
 Oh, mercy, I have sung Philine more than twenty 
 times already. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But not here, Freder . . . Countess. And not when 
 Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg was singing the part of 
 
14.4 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 Mignon. {He leans forward so that he can look out 
 into the garden) 
 
 FEEDERIQUE 
 
 No, she isn't coming yet. {With a smile) Perhaps 
 the rehearsal isn't over. 
 AMADEUS (rising) 
 Perhaps not. 
 
 FEEDERiaUE 
 
 Is it true that Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has been re- 
 quested to sing in Berlin next Fall.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Nothing has been settled yet. {He goes to the win- 
 dow at the right) If you'll permit . . . {Opens 
 the window) 
 
 EEEDEUIQUE 
 
 What a splendid day! And how fragrant the roses 
 are. It is almost like . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Almost like Tremezzo — yes, I know. 
 
 FREDEKlaUE 
 
 How can you — as you have never been there? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But you have told me enough about it. A viUa 
 standing at the edge of the water — radiantly white 
 — ^with marble steps leading straight down to the 
 blue sea. 
 
 FaEDEUIQUE * 
 
 Yes. And sometimes, on very hot nights, I sleep in 
 the park, right on the sward, under a plane tree. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That plane tree is famous. — But time is flying. It 
 would be better to go on with the singing. {He 
 seats himself at the piano again) The polonaise — 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 145 
 
 if you please, Countess. {He begins the accompani- 
 ment) 
 
 FKEDERiQUE (singing) 
 
 "Titania, airiest queen of fairies, 
 
 Has descended from her blue cloud throne. 
 
 And her way across the world is wending 
 
 More quickly than the bird or lightning flash ..." 
 
 AMADEUS (interrupts Ms playing and lets his head sink 
 forward) No, no — it's no use! . . . Please tell the 
 director that he will have to look after your part 
 himself. As for me, I have certain regards even 
 for people who go to the opera in Summer. They 
 should not be forced to accept anything. Tell the 
 director, please, that I send him my regards and 
 that — there are more important things to occupy 
 my time. (He closes the score) 
 
 EEEDERiauE {quite amicably) 
 
 I believe it. How's your opera getting along.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 For the Lord's sake, please don't pretend to be in- 
 terested in things of that kind! Why, nobody ex- 
 pects it of you. 
 
 EBEDEElaUE 
 
 Will it soon be finished? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Finished ....'' How could it be, do you think.'' I 
 have to conduct two nights a week at least, and there 
 are rehearsals in the morning, not to mention sing- 
 ers that have to be coached. . . . Do you think a 
 man can sit down after an hour like this and invite 
 his muse ? 
 
146 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 FBEDERiaUE 
 
 After an hour like this . . . ? I don't think you 
 feel qxiite at your ease with me, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not at my ease? I? With you? — I don't think you 
 have imagined in your most reckless moments, 
 Countess, that my wife might have anything to fear 
 from you. 
 
 FEEDERiaUE 
 
 You are determined to misunderstand me. (She has 
 gone to the fireplace and turns now to face Ama- 
 deus) You know perfectly well why you pretend to 
 be cross with me. Because you are in love with me. 
 AMADEUS (looks straight ahead and goes on playing) 
 
 FEEDEEIQTJE 
 
 And that chord proves nothing to the contrary. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That chord. . . . Tell me rather what kind of chord 
 it is. (He repeats it in a fury) 
 
 EEEDEKiaUE 
 
 A flat major. 
 AMADEUS (in a tone of boredom) 
 
 G major — of course. 
 FEEDERiauE (close hy him, with a smile) 
 
 Don't let that semi-tone spoil our happiness. 
 AMADEUS (rises, goes toward the background and looks 
 
 out into the garden) 
 
 FEEDERIQUE 
 
 Is it your wife? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, my little boy is playing out there. (He stands 
 at the window, waving his hand at somebody out- 
 side; pause) 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 147 
 
 FEEDEEIQUE 
 
 You take life too hard, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS {still at the window, but turning toward 
 Frederique) I can't lie — and I don't want to. Which 
 is not the same as taking life hard. 
 
 FEEDEBiaTJE 
 
 Can't lie . . . ? And yet you have been away from 
 your wife for months at a time — haven't you.' And 
 your wife came here while you were stiU conducting 
 somewhere abroad, didn't she.? ... So that . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Those are matters which you don't quite compre- 
 hend. Countess. {He looks again toward the main 
 entrance) 
 
 EEEDEKiaUE 
 
 No, your wife can't be here yet. She won't give up 
 her walk on a wonderful day like this. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What you have in mind now is pretty mean, Fred- 
 erique. 
 
 FEEDEEiaUE 
 
 Why so? Of course, I know she takes a walk with 
 you, too, now and then. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, when my time permits. And often she goes out 
 with Sigismund. To-day she's probably with him — 
 and that's what you wanted to bring home to me, 
 of course. 
 
 FREDEEIQUE 
 
 Why should I? You know it, don't you.'' And I 
 assure you, it has never occurred to me to see any- 
 thing wrong in it. He's a friend of yours. 
 
148 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 More than that — or less. He used to be my pupil. 
 
 FREDERiaUE 
 
 I didn't know that. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Ten years ago, while still a mere youngster, I used 
 to live in his father's palace. It's hard to teU where 
 I might have been to-day, had it not been for old 
 Prince Lohsenstein. You see, we men have generally 
 another kind of youth to look back at than you. . . . 
 
 FREDEKiaUE 
 
 . . . women artists. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 No, countesses, I meant to say. For three years I 
 spent every summer in the palace at Krumau.-^ And 
 there — for the first time in ray life — I could work in 
 peace, all by myself, with nothing more to do than 
 to instruct Sigismund. 
 
 EREDERiaUE 
 
 Did he want to become a pianist.'' 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Not exactly. He wanted to join some monastic or- 
 der. 
 
 FREDERiaUE 
 
 No? Is that really true.? — Oh, it's queer how peo- 
 ple change! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 They don't as much as you think. He has remained 
 
 a man of serious mind. 
 
 * A small Bohemian city near the border of Upper Austria. On 
 a high rock, with a wonderful view along the river Moldau, stands 
 the Schwarzenberg castle, which the author seems to have had in 
 mind. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 14.9 
 
 TEEDERIQUE 
 
 And yet he plays dance music so charmingly . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why shouldn't he? A good waltz and a good hymn 
 are just as acceptable to the powers above. 
 
 FREDEUiaUE 
 
 How delightful those evenings in your house used 
 to be ! No farther back than last winter. . . . The 
 Count and I frequently talk of them.— Have you 
 ceased to invite Prince Sigismund, as you have me? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 He was here tSnly a fortnight ago, my dear Countess 
 — and spent the whole evening with us. We had sup- 
 per in the summer-house, and then we came in here 
 and sat chatting for a long while, and finally he im- 
 provised some variations on the CagHostro Waltzes 
 before he left. — ^And what my wife and he say to 
 each other during their walk, when I am not with 
 them, will no more be hidden from me than I would 
 hide from her what you and I have been talking of 
 here. That's how my wife and I feel toward each 
 other — if you'll please understand, Frederique! 
 
 FKEDEUiaUE 
 
 But there are things one simply can^t say to each 
 other. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 There can be no secrets between people like my wife 
 and myself. 
 
 EEEDERIQUE 
 
 Oh, of course . . . but then . . . what you have 
 been saying- to me will be only a small part of what 
 you must tell your wife to-day, Amadeus. Good-by. 
 . . '. {She holds out her hand to him) 
 
150 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEtrS 
 
 What's in your mind now, Frederique? 
 
 rREDEUiaUE 
 
 Why resist your fate? Is it so very repulsive after 
 all? What you are to me, nobody else has ever been! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And you want me to believe that? 
 
 EKEDEUiaUE 
 
 I shall not insist on it. But it is true nevertheless. 
 
 Good-by now. Until to-morrow, Amadeus. Life is 
 
 really much easier than you think. ... It might be 
 
 so very pleasant — and so it shall be! (She goes 
 
 out) 
 AMADEUS (seats himself at the piano again and strikes 
 
 a few notes) It is getting serious ... or amusing 
 
 perhaps . . . ? (He shakes his head) 
 ALBEBT EHON (enters; he is of medium height; his black 
 
 hair, slightly streaked with gray, is worn long; he is 
 
 rather carelessly dressed) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, is that you, Albert ? How are you? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 I have come to ask how you are getting along with„ 
 our opera, Amadeus. Have you done anything? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No. 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Again nothing? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I doubt whether I can get a chance here. We'll have 
 to wait until the season is over. I have too much to 
 do. We are now putting on "Mignon" with new 
 people in some of the parts . . . 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 151 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 If I'm not very much mistaken, I saw Philine float 
 by — ^with a rather intoxicated look in her eyes. . . . 
 Oh, have I put my foot into it again? I beg your 
 pardon ! 
 AMADEUS {turning away from him) 
 
 That's right. She was here. Oh, that damned busi- 
 ness of private rehearsals ! But I hope it won't last 
 much longer. The coming Winter is going to de- 
 cide my future once for all. I have already got my 
 leave of absence. 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 So you have made up your mind about that tour.-* 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, I shall be gone for two months this time. 
 
 ALBERT I 
 
 Within Germany only.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I'U. probably take in a few Itahan cities also. Yes, 
 my dear fellow, they know more about me abroad 
 than here. I shall conduct my Third Symphony, 
 and perhaps also my Fourth. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Have you got that far already .-' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No. But I have hopes of the Summer. Once more 
 I mean to do some real work. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Well, it's about time. — I have made out the schedule 
 for our walking tour, by the by. And I brought 
 along the map. Look here. We start from Nieder- 
 dorf, and then by way of Platzwiesen to Schluder- 
 
152 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 bach; then to Cortina; then through the Giau Pass 
 to Caprile; then by way of the Fedaja.-'- . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I leave all that to you. I rely entirely on you. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Then it's settled that we'll don knapsack and alpen- 
 stock once more, to wander through the country as 
 we used to do when we were young ....'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, and I am looking forward to it with a great 
 deal of pleasure. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You need simply to pull yourself together — a few 
 weeks of mountain air and quiet will get you out of 
 this. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, I haven't got into anything in particular. I 
 am a little nervous. That's all. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Can't you see, Amadeus, how you have to force your- 
 self in order to use this evasion toward me, who, of 
 course, has no right whatever to demand any frank- 
 ness? Can't you see how you are wasting a part 
 of your mental energy, so to speak, on this slight 
 disingenuousness .'' No, dissimulation is utterly 
 foreign to your nature, as I have always told you. If 
 
 ' The names used in this passage occur a number of times in 
 the various plays, indicating that their author probably has been 
 drawing on experiences obtained during his own walking tours 
 through the Dolomites. As far as Cortina, the route is identical 
 with the one mentioned by Wegrath in "The Lonely Way." The 
 Giau Pass is a little known footpath across Monte Giau, showing 
 that the intention of Albert is to avoid the routes frequented 
 by tourists. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 153 
 
 you should ever get to the point where you had to 
 deceive one who was near and dear to you, that 
 would be the end of you. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Your worry is quite superfluous! Haven't you 
 known us long enough- — me and Cecilia — to know 
 that our marriage is based, above all else, on abso- 
 lute frankness? 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 Many have good intentions, but their courage often 
 deserts them at the critical moment. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 We have never yet kept anything hidden from each 
 other. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Because so far" you have had nothing to confess. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, a great deal, perhaps, which other people keep 
 to themselves. Our common life has not been with- 
 out its complications. We have had to be parted 
 from each other for months at a time. I have had 
 to rehearse in private with other singers than PhiHne, 
 and (^with an air of superiority) other men than 
 Prince Sigismund must have discovered that Cecilia 
 is pretty. 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 I haven't said a word about Cecilia. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And besides, it would be quite hopeless for Cecilia 
 or me to keep any secrets. We know each other too 
 well — ^I don't think two people ever existed who un- 
 derstood each other so completely as we do. 
 
154 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 I can imagine a point where the understanding 
 would have to end, and everything else with it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Everything else maybe — ^but not the understanding. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Oh, well! If nothing is left but the understanding, 
 that means the beginning of the end. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Those are — chances that every Jiuman being must 
 resign himself to take. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You don't talk like one who has resigned himself, 
 however, but like one who has made up his mind. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Who can be perfectly sure of himself or of anybody 
 else? We two, at any rate, are not challenging fate 
 by feeling too secure. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Oh, when it comes to that, my dear fellow — fate al- 
 ways regards itself challenged — by doubt no less 
 than by confidence. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 To be safe against any surprise brings a certain 
 sense of tranquillity anyhow. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 A little more tranquillity would produce a decision 
 to avoid anything that might endanger an assured 
 happiness. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Do you think anything is to be won by that kind of 
 avoidance.'' Don't you feel rather, that the worst 
 and most dangerous of all falsehoods is to resist 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 156 
 
 temptation with a soul full of longing for it? And 
 that it is easier to go unscathed through adven- 
 tures than through desires? 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Adventures . . . ! Is it actually necessary, then, 
 to live through them? A painter who has risen 
 above pot-boiling, and who has left the follies of 
 youth behind him, can be satisfied with a single 
 model for all the figures that are created out of his 
 dreams — and one who knows how to live may have 
 all the adventures he could ever desire within the 
 peaceful precincts of his own home. He can ex- 
 perience them just as fully as anybody else, but 
 without waste of time, without unpleasantness, with- 
 out danger. And if he only possess a little imagina- 
 tion, his wife may bear him nothing but illegitimate 
 children without being at all aware of it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It's an open question whether you have the right to 
 force such a part on anybody whom you respect. 
 
 AlBEBT 
 
 It is not wise to let people know what they mean 
 to you. I have put this thought into an aphorism: 
 
 If you grasp me, you rasp me; 
 
 If I know you, I own you. 
 
 MA£iE {entering from the garden with little Peter) 
 Peter wants me absolutely to come in. I wanted to 
 wait for Cecilia in the garden. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 How are you, Marie? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 I'm not disturbing you, I hope? 
 
156 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 GOVEKNEss (comes from the garden with the intention 
 of taking the boy away) Peter! 
 
 PETEE 
 
 No, I want to stay with the grown-ups. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, let him be with us for a while. 
 GOVERNESS {returns to the veranda, where she remains 
 visible) 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Well, have you been working a lot? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, we have just been talking. 
 
 AI/BERT 
 
 Do you know why she asks.? Because she is in 
 love with Mr. von Rabagas. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 With whom? 
 
 AI/BERT 
 
 Don't you remember him? He's that interesting 
 young chap who appears in the first act as one 
 of the King's attendants. She used, at least, to fall 
 in love only with the heroes of my plays, but nowa- 
 days she can't even resist the subordinate characters. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That should make you proud. 
 
 AlBEET 
 
 Proud, you say? But at times you can't help re- 
 gretting that you must put aU the beauties and 
 virtues of the world into the figures you create, so 
 that you have nothing but your wee bit of talent left 
 to get along with personally. 
 CECILIA (enters from the right) 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 157 
 
 PETEK 
 
 There's mamma! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Good afternoon. {She shakes hands with every- 
 hody) How are you, Marie? This is awfully nice. 
 If I had only known ... I went for a short walk. 
 It's such a wonderful day. — Well, Peter {kissimg 
 him), have you had your meal yet.'' 
 
 PETEa 
 
 Yes. 
 GOVERNESS (entering from the veranda) 
 
 Good afternoon, Madame. Peter hasn't had his nap 
 yet. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Does he still have to sleep in the daytime .J" Our two 
 children have quit entirely. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Instead they play a most exciting game every after- 
 noon — one invented by themselves. They call it 
 "drums and bugles." 
 
 MARIE 
 
 You must come and see us soon, Peter, so that you 
 can learn to play that game. 
 
 PETER 
 
 I've got a music-box, and I'll take it along so we 
 can make more noise. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Now you have to go. But first you must say good-by 
 nicely. 
 
 PETER 
 
 I'll say "adieu." Good-by is so common. 
 \^Everybody laughs. Peter goes out with the Gov- 
 
158 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 erness. Marie and Cecilia move slowly toward the 
 ^replace and sit down in front of it. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Of course, I have come to ask for something. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, go on. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 There's to be a concert at which they want you to 
 assist. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 This season? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Yes. But it will be in the country, not in the city 
 . . . for a charitable purpose, of course. The com- 
 mittee would be so happy if you, would sing two or 
 three songs. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I think I can. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 And I shall feel very grateful, too. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Don't you find undertakings of that kind a lot of 
 trouble ? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Well, you must have something to do. If I had any 
 gifts like the rest of you, I am sure' I should never 
 bother with "people's kitchens" or "charitable teas" 
 — and then, I suppose, I should feel more indifferent 
 about people, too. 
 CECILIA (with a smile) 
 About people, too? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Oh, I didn't mean it that way. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 159 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 You see, Marie, there is something like the charm 
 of meadows and fields in your sweet prattle, and 
 you should never desert it for the thickets of psycho- 
 logical speculations. — Come on, child. These peo- 
 ple want their dinner. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, we won't eat for an hour yet. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 We generally work a little before we eat. To-day 
 we might run through the songs for that concert, 
 for instance. 
 
 CECIIilA 
 
 That would suit me perfectly. 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Oh, I feel so thankful to you, Cecilia ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And when shall we see each other again? 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Oh, that reminds me! We have just been talking 
 about the Summer. Amadeus and I mean to go on a 
 walking tour. How would it be if you two were to 
 go somewhere with the children — some place in the 
 Tirol, say — and wait for us there? 
 
 MAEIE 
 
 Oh, that would be fine! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Did you hear that, Amadeus? 
 
 AMADEUS {who Titts been standing a little way off) 
 Certainly. It would be very nice. . • . You can 
 wait for us in the Tirol. 
 
160 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Could you come and see me to-morrow afternoon, 
 Marie? Then we might settle the matter. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Yes, indeed. I am always glad when you can spare 
 me a little of your time. — ^TJntil to-morrow, then! 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 Good-by. (^He and Marie go out) 
 
 AMADEUS {is walking to and fro) 
 
 CECiiiiA {who is sitting on the couch, follows him with 
 her eyes) 
 
 AMADEUS {after a turn to the window and back, speak- 
 ing in a peculiarly dry tone) Well, how did it go."" 
 Have you got the finale into shape at last.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, in a manner. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 The day before yesterday it had not yet been 
 brought up to the proper level. I find, for one thing, 
 that they don't let you assert yourself sufficiently. 
 Your voice should be floating above the rest, in- 
 stead of being submerged in the crowd. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Won't you come to the rehearsal to-morrow — just 
 once more — if you can spare the time ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Would it please you . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I always feel more certain of myself when you are 
 within reach. You know that, don't you? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes — I'll come. I'll call off my appointments with 
 Neumann and the Countess. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 161 
 
 CECIMA 
 
 If it isn't too great a sacrifice . . . 
 AMADEus (_with assumed brusqueness) 
 
 Oh, I can make her come in the afternoon. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 But then there will be no time left for your own work. 
 No, better let it be. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What had we better let be.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Don't come to the rehearsal to-morrow. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Just as you say, Cecilia. I won't intrude, of course. 
 But a moment ago you said that you felt more cer- 
 tain of yourself when I was within reach. And as 
 far as my work is concerned, I don't think — Albert 
 and I were just talking of it — nothing wiU come of 
 it until the season is over. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's what I suspected. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But during the summer I'll complete my Fourth. I 
 must have something new to conduct this year. And 
 it's only a question of the final passages, for that 
 matter. All the rest is as good as finished — ^in my 
 mind at least. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 It's a long time since you let me hear anything of 
 it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It hasn't quite reached the point where it can be 
 played. But, of course, you know the principal 
 themes ... the Allegro . . . and then the Inter- 
 
162 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 mezzo . . . {He goes to the piano and strikes a few 
 notes) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 So you are going next November? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, for three months. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And during October I shall be in Berlin. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh ... is there any news in that matter? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes, I have practically closed. Reichenbach came 
 to see me at the opera-house. I'm to appear in 
 three parts. As Carmen under all circumstances. 
 The other two are left to my own choice. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And what do you . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Tatyana,^ I suppose. I have heard that they have 
 such a splendid Onyegin. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, Wedius. I know him. He was in Dresden 
 when I was there. — Carmen, then, and Tatyana, 
 and . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I am still considering. . . . Perhaps we might talk 
 it over? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Of course. (Pause) 
 
 * Tatyana and Onyegin are characters in the opera "Eugene 
 Onyegin," by Tschaikovsky, which is founded on Pushkin's famous 
 poem of the same name, 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 163 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 It's going to be a busy Winter. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Rather. We won't see much of each other. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 We'll have to correspond. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 As we have done before. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 We're used to it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes. (Pause) Tell me by the way : do you actually 
 want to assist at that charity concert? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why not.? I couldn't say no to Marie. Have you 
 any objection? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No — why should I? But we might use the half hour 
 that's left to go over something. (He goes to the 
 music-stand) What do you want to sing? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, something of yours, for one thing . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, no, no. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why not? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 There's nothing within yourself that prompts you 
 to sing it anyhow. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Just as you say, Amadeus. — I don't want to intrude 
 either. 
 
164) INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEus {bending forward and searching among the 
 music) How would Schumann be — "The Snow- 
 drop?" . . . Or . . . "Old Melodies" ... and "Love 
 Betrayed" . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes. And perhaps von Wolf's "Concealment," and 
 something by Brahms. "No more to meet you, was 
 my firm decision. ..." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, I was just holding it in my hand. (As if casw- 
 aUy, and very dryly) So you went for a walk with 
 Sigismund after all.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes. He sent his regards to you. 
 AMADEUS {smiling) 
 
 Did he? {As he brings the music sheets to the 
 piano) Why doesn't he come here instead? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 One of the things I like about him is that he won't. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Is that so? — Oh, weU! — I'll send him my regards, 
 too. But it's reaUy too bad that he won't come here 
 any more. It was very nice to hear him play his 
 waltzes — those evenings w*re really very pleasant. 
 ... I just happened to mention them to the 
 Countess this afternoon. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, you did? — And I have just seen her picture. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Her picture? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I went with Sigismund to the Art Gallery. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 165 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh. — They tell me it's a great success. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 It would be a wonder if it were not. The artist spent 
 six months on it, they say. . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Is that too much for a good picture.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, but for the Countess. — She will probably sing 
 Phlline pretty well, by the way. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You think so? I fear you are mistaken. . . . 
 {Pause) Well, Cecilia, what were you talking of 
 to-day — you and Sigismund.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What were we talking of ... ? (Pcmse) It's so 
 hard to recall the words. . . . {As she goes slowly 
 to the fireplace) And they have such a different 
 sound when recalled in that way. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 True indeed. {Coming nearer to her) And I don't 
 suppose it's the words that matter. . . . Well, Ce- 
 cilia, can it be possible that you have nothing more 
 to tell me? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nothing more . . . ? (Hesitatingly) Don't you 
 think, Amadeus, that many things actually change 
 character when you try to put them into words? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not for people like us. 
 
166 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That may have been true once. But . . . you know 
 as well as I do . . . that things are no longer as 
 they used to be. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not quite, perhaps. I know. But this shouldn't be 
 a reason for either one of us to refuse telling the 
 other one. Scruples of that kind would be unworthy 
 of ourselves. This is we, Cecilia — ^you and me! So 
 you may teU me fearlessly what you have to tell. 
 CECILIA {rising) 
 
 Don't try to encourage me, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well . . . ? 
 CECILIA {remains silent) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Do you love him? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Do I love him . . . ? 
 AMADEUS {urgently) 
 Cecilia . . . ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Am I to tell you more than I think is true? Wouldn't 
 that be a lie, too — as good or as bad as any other 
 one? . . . No, I don't think I love him. It is noth- 
 ing like it was when I became acquainted with you, 
 Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That time is long past. — ^And you have probably 
 forgotten what it was like. On the whole, it must 
 be the same thing, I suppose. Only you have grown 
 a little older since then, and you have been living 
 with me for seven years. . . . No matter how far 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 167 
 
 apart we may have been, you have been living with 
 me — and we have a child . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 WeU, perhaps that's what makes the difference — but 
 there is a diflFerence. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What really matters is nothing new, however. You 
 feel attracted to him, don't you? 
 
 CECILIA {speaking with genuine feeling and almost ten- 
 derly) But perhaps there is still something that 
 holds back — that could hold me back, if it only 
 wanted. 
 
 AMADEUS (after a pause, brusquely) 
 
 But it doesn't want to ... it doesn't dare to want 
 it. What sense could there be in it? Perhaps I 
 might prove the stronger to-day — and the next time, 
 perhaps — but sooner or later the day must come 
 nevertheless, when I should suffer defeat. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why? ... It ought not to be necessary! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And then, even if I remained victorious every time — 
 could that be called happiness for which I must fight 
 repeatedly and tremble all the time? Could that be 
 called happiness in our case, who have known what 
 is so much better? . . . No, Cecilia, our love 
 should not be permitted to end in mutual distrust. 
 I don't hold you, Cecilia, if you are attracted else- 
 where — and you have known all the time that I 
 would never hold you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Maybe you are right, Amadeus. But is it pride 
 alone that makes you let me slip away so easily? 
 
168 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Is it love alone that brings you back when almost 
 gone? {Pause; he goes to the window) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why should we spoil these hours with bitterness, 
 Amadeus? After all, we have nothing to reproach 
 each other for. We have promised to be honest with 
 each other, and my word has been kept so far. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And so has mine. If you want it, I can teU you 
 exactly what I and the Countess talked of to-day, 
 as I have always done. And for me, Cecilia, it will 
 even be possible to recall the very words. 
 
 CECILIA {looking long at him) 
 I know enough. {Pause) 
 
 AMADEUS {walking to and fro until he stops some dis- 
 tance away from her) And what next.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What next . . . ? Perhaps it's just as well that 
 our vacations are soon to begin. Then we may 
 consider in peace, each one by himself, what is to 
 come next. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It seems almost as if both of us should have expected 
 this very thing. We have made no common plans 
 for the summer, although we have always done so 
 before. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 The best thing for me is probably to go with the 
 boy to some quiet place in the Tirol ... as you 
 and Albert suggested. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 169 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And you . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I . . . ? I shall make that walking tour with Al- 
 bert. I want to be scrambling about in the moun- 
 tains once more. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And finally descend into some beautiful vaUey — is 
 that what you mean? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That — might happen. 
 CECILIA {drt/ly) 
 
 But first — ^we should have to bid each other definite 
 good-by, as there is no return from that place. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Of course, there isn't! No more than from your 
 place. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 From mine . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, it might happen that you felt inclined to . . . 
 change your plans . . . and instead of staying with 
 Marie . . . prefer the undisturbed . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I won't change my plans. And you had better not 
 change yours. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If that be your wish . . . 
 
 CECILIA* 
 
 It is my wish. (Pause) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Can it be possible that now, aU at once, the moment 
 should have come? 
 
170 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What moment? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well — the one we used to foresee in our happiest 
 days even — the one we have expected as something 
 almost invitable. 
 
 CECIIilA 
 
 Yes, it has come. We know now that everything is 
 over. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Over . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's what we have been talking of aU the time, I 
 suppose. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, you are right. At bottom it is better that we 
 put it into plain words at last. Our moods have 
 been rather too precarious lately. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Everything wiU be improved now. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Improved . . . ? Why.'' . . . Oh, of course . . . 
 perhaps you are right. I feel almost as if things 
 had already begun to improve. It's strange, but 
 . . . one . . . seems to breathe more freely. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes, Amadeus, now we are reaping the reward of 
 always having been honest. Think how exhausted 
 most people would be in a moment like this — by all 
 sorts of painful evasions, labored truces, and piti- 
 fully sentimental reconciliations. Think of the hos- 
 tile spirit in which they would be facing each other 
 during their moment of belated candor. We two. 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 171 
 
 Amadeus — we shall at least be able to part as 
 friends. (Pause) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And our boy? 
 
 CECIMA 
 
 Is he your sole worry? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, there are many things. How is it going to be 
 arranged anyhow? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's what we shall have to discuss carefully during 
 the next few days — before we go away. Until then 
 everything must remain as before. It can perfectly 
 well remain as it has been during the last year. That 
 involves no wrong to anybody. (Pause) 
 
 AMADEUS {seats himself at the piamo; the ensuing pause 
 is laden with apprehension; then he begins to play 
 the sarne theme — a Capriccio — which was heard 
 earlier during the scene) 
 
 CECILIA (who has been approaching the door to the 
 •veranda, turns about to listen) 
 
 AMADEUS (stops abruptly) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why don't you go on? 
 AMADEUS (laughs quickly, nervously) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Wasn't that the Intermezzo? 
 AMADEUS (nods) 
 CECILIA (stUl at some distance from him) 
 
 Have you made up your mind what you are going 
 
 to call it? Is it to be Capriccio? 
 
172 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Perhaps Capriccio dolorosa. It is peculiar how 
 one often fails to understand one's own ideas to be- 
 gin with. The hidden sadness of that theme has been 
 revealed to me by you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, you would have discovered it yourself, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Maybe. {Pause) And whom will you get for the 
 studying of your parts next year.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, I'll always find somebody. Those numbers for 
 the concert — you'U help me with those just the 
 same, won't you.' And I hope you'll be kind enough 
 to give me the accompaniment at the concert too. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's a foregone conclusion. — ^But I should really 
 like to know who is to assist you with your studies 
 after this. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Do you regard that as the most important problem 
 to be solved.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, of course not. The less so, as I don't quite see 
 why I shouldn't go on helping you as before. 
 CECILIA (with a smile) 
 
 Oh, you think ....'' But then we shoidd have to 
 agree on hours and conditions. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That was not meant as a joke, Cecilia. Seeing that 
 we are parting in a spirit of perfect understanding, 
 why shouldn't such an arrangement be considered 
 tentatively at least.? 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO ITS 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Those things will probably settle themselves later 
 on. . . . That we . . . that you play my accom- 
 paniment at a concert ... or help me to study a 
 part . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why later on.'' . . . (He rises and stands leaning 
 against the piano) There can be no reasonable 
 ground for changing our musical relationships. I 
 think both of us would suffer equally from doing 
 so. Without overestimating myself, I don't think 
 it likely that you can find a better coach than I am. 
 And as for my compositions, I don't know of any- 
 body who could understand them better — ^with whom 
 I would rather discuss them than with you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And yet that's what you will have to come to. 
 
 AMADETTS 
 
 I can't see it. After all, we have nobody else to con- 
 sider — at least, I have not. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nor have I. I shall know how to preserve my free- 
 dom. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, then ... ?! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nevertheless, Amadeus . . . That we must meet 
 and talk is made necessary by our positions, of 
 course. . . . But even in regard to our work things 
 cannot possibly remain as hitherto. I'm sure you 
 must realize that. 
 
174 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I can't see it. And — leaving our artistic rela- 
 tions entirely aside — there is much else to be con- 
 sidered — things of more importance. Our boy, Ce- 
 cilia. Why should the youngster all at once be made 
 fatherless, so to speak.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's entirely out of the question. We must come 
 to an understanding, of course. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 An understanding, you say. But why make difficul- 
 ties that could be avoided by a little good-will? The 
 boy is mine as much as yours. Why shouldn't we 
 continue to bring him up together.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You suggest things that simply can't be done. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I don't feel like you about thiat. — On the contrary! 
 The more I consider our situation calmly, the more 
 irrational it seems to me that we should part ways 
 like any ordinary divorced couple . . . that we should 
 give up the beautiful home we have in common. . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Now you are dreaming again, Amadeus ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 We have been such good chums besides. And so we 
 might remain, I think. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, of course, we shall. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, then ! The things that bind us together are so 
 compelling, after all, that any new experiences 
 brought by our freedom must seem absolutely unes- 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 175 
 
 sential in comparison. Don't you realize that as I 
 do? And we shouldn't have to consider what people 
 may say. I think we have the right to place our- 
 selves on a somewhat higher level. In the last in- 
 stance, we must always belong together, even if a 
 single tie should be severed among the hundreds that 
 unite us. Or are we all of a sudden to forget what 
 we have been to each other^as well as what we may 
 and should be to each other hereafter? One thing 
 remains certain: that no one else will ever under- 
 stand you as I do, and no one me as you do. . . . 
 And that's what counts in the end ! So why shouldn't 
 we ... 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, it's impossible ! Not because of the people. They 
 concern me as little as they do you. But for our 
 own sake. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 For our own sake . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA ' 
 
 You see, there is one thing you forget: that, begin- 
 ning with to-day, we shall have secrets to keep from 
 each other. Who knows how many — or how heavy 
 they may prove? . . . But even the least of them 
 must come between us like a veil. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Secrets . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, Cetilia. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
176 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's exactly what must not happen. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 But — ^Amadeus ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 There must never be any secrets between us two. 
 Everything depends on that — you are right to that 
 extent. But why should there be any secrets between 
 us."" Remember that after to-day we shall no longer 
 be man and wife, but chums — ^just chums, who can 
 hide nothing from each other — ^who must not hide 
 anything. Or is that more than you dare.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 More than I dare ....'' Of course not. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 All right. We'U discuss everything frankly, just as 
 we have been doing — nay, we shall have more things 
 than ever to discuss. Truth becomes now the natural 
 basis of our continued relationship — truth without 
 any reservation whatsoever. And that should prove 
 highly profitable, not only to our mutual relation- 
 ship, but to each one of us individually. Because 
 . . . you don't think, do you, that either one of us 
 could find a better chum than the other one? . . . 
 Now we shall bring our joys and sorrows to each 
 other. We shall be as good friends as ever, if not 
 better still. And our hands shall be joined, even if 
 chasms open between us. And thus we shall keep all 
 that we have had in common hitherto : our work, our 
 child, our home — all that we must continue to have 
 in common if it is to retain its full value to both of 
 us. And we shall gain many new things for which 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 177 
 
 both of us have longed — things in which I covild 
 take no pleasure, by the way, if I had to lose you. 
 CECILIA (drops him a curtsey) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's how you feel, too, Cecilia. I am sure of it. 
 We simply cannot live without each other. I cer- 
 tainly cannot live without you. — ^And how about 
 you? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 It's quite likely I should find it a little difficult. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Then we agree, Cecilia ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You think so ... ?! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia ! (He suddenly draws her closer to himself) 
 CECILIA (with new hope lighting her glance) 
 
 What are you doing? 
 AMADEUS (putting his arms about her) 
 
 I now bid good-by to my beloved. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Forever. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Forever. (Pressing her hand) And now I am wel- 
 coming my friend. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 For all time to come — nothing but your friend. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 For all time . . . ? Of course ! 
 CECILIA (draws a deep breath) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, Cecilia, don't you feel much easier all at once? 
 
178 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 The whole thing seems very strange to me — ^like a 
 dream almost. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 There is nothing strange about it. Nothing could 
 possibly be simpler or more sensible. Life goes right 
 on . . . and all is well. . . . Come on, Cecilia — ^let 
 us run through those songs. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What songs . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't you care? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, why not? — ^With pleasure. . . . 
 
 AMADEUS (seating himself at the piano) 
 
 Really, I can't tell you how happy this makes me! 
 There has practically been no change whatever. 
 The uneasiness alone is gone . . . that uneasiness 
 of the last few weeks. ... I have not had a very 
 happy time lately. The sky has seemed so black 
 above our house — and not only above ours. Now 
 the clouds are vanishing. The whole world has 
 actually grown light again. And I am going to 
 write a symphony — oh, a symphony . . . ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Everything in due time. . . . Just now let us have 
 one of those songs at least. . . . Oh, that one . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't you want it? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, as it's there already . . . 
 
ACT i] INTERMEZZO 179 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Now, then — I start. {He strikes the first chord) 
 Please don't put a lot of sentimentality into the 
 opening words. They should be reserved and pon- 
 derous. 
 
 CECILIA (simging) 
 
 "No more to meet you was my firm ..." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Very fine. 
 
 CECELIA 
 
 Amadeus ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What is it? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 1 am afraid you will become too lenient now. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Lenient . . . ? You know perfectly well that, as 
 artist considered, you have no rival in my eyes, and 
 will never have one. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Really, Amadeus, you shoiddn't be flirting with all 
 your pupils. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I have the greatest respect for you. — ^Now let's go 
 in! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 "No more to meet ..." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What's the matter? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nothing. I haven't tried to sing anything like this 
 for a long time. Go right on ! 
 
180 INTERMEZZO [act i 
 
 AMADEUS {begins playing again) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 "No more to meet you was my firm and sworn de- 
 cision, and yet when evening comes, I . . . " 
 
 CTJETAIN 
 
THE SECOND ACT 
 
 The same room as in the previous act. It is an 
 evening in October. The stage is dark. Marie and 
 the chambermaid enter together. The maid turns on 
 the light. 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Thank you. — But if your mistress is tired, please 
 tell her she mustn't let me disturb her. 
 
 CHAMBEKMAID 
 
 She hasn't arrived yet. She's not expected until 
 this evening. 
 AMADEtjs {enters from the right, with hat and overcoat 
 on) Who is it? . . . Oh, is it you, Marie ! Glad to 
 see you. Have you been here long? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 No, I just got here. I meant to call on Ceciha, but 
 I hear . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Then you can keep me company waiting for her. 
 {Handing overcoat and hat to the maid) Please 
 take these. 
 
 CHAMBEKMAID {gOCS OUt) 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I have also just got home. I had to do a lot of 
 errands. I start the day after to-morrow. 
 
 MAUIE 
 
 So soon ! — That'll be a short reunion. 
 
182 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes.^ — ^Won't you sit down, please? (Looking at 
 his watch) Cecilia should be here in an hour. 
 
 MABIE 
 
 She has had a tremendous success again. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I should say so! Look here — the telegram I got 
 this morning. (He takes it from the writing desk 
 and hands it to Marie) It refers to her final ap- 
 pearance last night. 
 
 MA£IB 
 
 Oh . . . Twenty-seven curtain calls . . . ! 
 
 J AMADEUS 
 
 What? . . . -Jfairr That flourish belongs to the 
 preceding word. Seven only! Otherwise she 
 wouldn't be coming to-day. 
 MAEiE (reading again) 
 
 "Have new oifer on briUiant terms." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 On brilliant terms! 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Then I suppose she'll do it at last? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Do what ? 
 
 MAEIE 
 
 Settle down in Berlin for good. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, it isn't certain. "Have offer," she says, and 
 not "have accepted offer." No, we'll have to talk it 
 over first. 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Really? 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 183 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Of course. We consult each other about everything, 
 my dear Marie — 'just as we used to do. And in a 
 much more impersonal spirit than before. As far as 
 I am concerned, I shall be quite free next year, and 
 have no more reason to live in Vienna than in Berlin 
 or in America. 
 
 MAEIE 
 
 But it will be dreadful for me if Cecilia goes away. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, these successes abroad may possibly force the 
 people here to understand what they have in Cecilia, 
 and to act accordingly. 
 
 MASIE 
 
 I hope so. — ^Besides, I think really that Cecilia has 
 developed a great deal lately. To me her voice 
 seems fuller and richer — ^with more soul to it, I might 
 say. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, don't you think so."" That's my feeling, too. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 But how she does work! It had never occurred to 
 me that a finished artist might be so industrious. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Might, you say? Must, you should say. 
 
 MAKIE 
 
 Last summer, when I came out mornings in the gar- 
 den to play with my children, she would be prac- 
 ticing already — ^just like a young student. With ab- 
 solute regularity, from nine until a quarter of ten. 
 Then again before lunch, from twelve to half past. 
 And finally another half hour in the evening. . . . 
 
184 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 If the weather was good or bad; if she was in good 
 spirits or . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Or ... ? 
 
 MABIE 
 
 She was always in good spirits for that matter. I 
 don't think anything in the world could have kept 
 her from practicing those runs and trills. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, that's her way. Nothing in the world could 
 keep her from . . . But then, what could there be 
 to keep her from it last Summer? In that rustic re- 
 treat of yours, where you didn't see anybody . . . 
 or hardly anybody . . . 
 
 MASIE 
 
 Nobody at aU. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, you recieved a call now and then — or Cecilia 
 did, at least. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Oh, I see. You mean — Prince Sigismund. He could 
 hardly be said to call. 
 AMADEUS (smilingly, with an appearance of unconcern) 
 Why not.? 
 
 MABIE 
 
 He merely whisked by on his wheel. 
 AMADEUS {as before) 
 
 Oh, he must at least have stopped to lean against 
 a tree for a few moments. He must even have taken 
 time enough — and I am mighty glad he did — to pho- 
 tograph the little house in which you were living. 
 {He takes from the desk a small framed photograph 
 and hands it to Marie, who is seated on the couch) 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 185 
 
 MARIE (surprised) 
 
 And you have that standing on your writing desk? 
 
 AMADEUS (slightly puzzled) 
 Why shouldn't I? 
 
 MAEiE (studying the photograph) 
 
 Just as it was — Cecilia and I sitting on the bench 
 there-' — yes. And there's the hazel by the garden 
 fence. . , . How it does bring back the memory of 
 that beautiful,' warm Summer day . . . 
 
 AMADEUS (bending over the desk to look at the picture) 
 I can make out you and Cecilia, but those three boys 
 puzzle me hopelessly. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 In what way . . . ? That's little Peter, who is do- 
 ing like this . . . (She blinks) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, is that it.? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 And that's Max — and he with the hoop is Mauritz. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 So that's a hoop? ... I took it for one of those 
 cabins used by the watchmen along the railroad. 
 The background comes out much better. The land- 
 scape actually looks as if steeped in Summer and 
 stillness. . . . (Brief pause) 
 
 MARIE 
 
 It was really nice. The deep shadows of the woods 
 right back of the house, and that view of the moun- 
 tain peaks — oh, marvelous ! And then the seclusion. 
 . . . It's too bad that you never had a look at that 
 darling place. We thought . . . Cecilia did expect 
 you after all . . . 
 
186 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEiTS (has Hsen and is walking to and fro) 
 
 I don't believe it. . . . And it didn't prove feasible, 
 for that matter. The pull of the South was still 
 on me. 
 
 MARIE (smiling) 
 
 You call that the South? 
 
 AMADEUs {smiling also) 
 Oh, Marie ! 
 
 MARIE (a little embarrassed) 
 I hope you're not offended.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why should I be? I didn't make a secret of my 
 whereabouts to anybody. 
 MARIE (^confidentially) 
 
 Albert told me about the villa, and the park, and the 
 marble steps . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 So he gave you all those details ? And yet he wasn't 
 there more than an hour. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 I think he intends to use the park for his last act. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Is that so? If he would only bring it to me. . . . 
 I mean the last act. I want to take it with me on 
 my tour. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Do you think you'll find time to work? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why not? I am always working. And I have 
 never in my life been more eager about it. I, 
 too, am having a brilliant period. For years I 
 have not been doing better. And I am no less indus- 
 trious than Cecilia. With the difference that regu- 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 187 
 
 lar hours are not in my line — nine to nine-forty- 
 five, twelve to twelve-thirty, and so on. But you ask 
 Albert! When he threw himself on the bed ex- 
 hausted, in that inn at the Fedaja Pass, I sat down 
 and finished the instrumentation for the Capriccio 
 in my Fourth. 
 CHAMBEKMAiD {enters with a couple of letters and goes 
 out again) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You'll pardon me, my dear Marie? 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Please don't mind me. (She rises) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 A letter from Cecilia, written yesterday, before the 
 performance. I have had letters like this every day. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Go right on and read it, please. 
 
 AMADEUS {having opened the letter) 
 
 Oh, there's plenty of time. In another hour Cecilia 
 wiU be telling me all that's in it. . . . {He opens the 
 other letter, runs through it, and flings it away) 
 How stupid people are . . . how stupid ! . . . Ugh ! 
 And mean! {He glances through Cecilia's letter 
 once more) Cecilia writes me about a reception at 
 the house of the Director. . . . Sigismund was 
 there, too. Yes, you know, of course, that Sigis- 
 mund has been in Berlin.'' 
 
 MARIE {embarrassed) 
 
 I ... I thought ... Or rather, I knew . . . 
 
 AMADEUS {with an air of superiority) 
 
 Well, well — there is no cause for embarrassment in 
 that. Don't you consider the Prince an uncommonly 
 sympathetic person.'' 
 
188 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 MARIE 
 
 Yes, he's very pleasant. But I can assure you, 
 Amadeus, that he came only once to our place in the 
 Pustertal,-' and he didn't stay more than two hours. 
 AMADEUS (laughing) 
 
 And what if he had stayed a week . . . ? Really, 
 Marie, you're very funny! 
 
 MAEiE (shyly) 
 
 May I tell you something? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Anything you want, Marie. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 I'm convinced that you two will find each other again 
 in spite of aU. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Find each other . . . ? Who should? Cecilia and 
 I? (He rises) Find each other? (He walks to 
 and fro, but stops finally near Marie) A sensible 
 woman like you, Marie — you ought to understand 
 that Cecilia and I have never lost each other in any 
 way. I think it's very singular. . . . (He strolls 
 hack and forth again) Oh, you must understand 
 that the relationship between her and me is so beau- 
 tiful — that now only it has become such that we 
 couldn't imagine anything more satisfactory. We 
 don't have to find each other again ! Look here now 
 — ^here are her letters. She has been writing me 
 from eight to twelve pages every day — frank, ex- 
 haustive letters, as you can only write them to a 
 friend — or rather, only to your very best friend. 
 
 'A valley along the river Rienz, marking the northern limit of 
 the Dolomite ranges in the Tirol. 
 
ACT ii] INTERMEZZO 189 
 
 It is simply impossible to imagine a finer relation- 
 ship. 
 
 ALBERT (entering from the right) 
 Good evening. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You're rather late in getting here. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Good evening, Marie. (He pats her patronizingly 
 on the check) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 There wiU hardly be time for work now. Cecilia 
 win be here very soon. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Oh, we can always put in half an hour. I have 
 brought along some notes for the third act. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 I think I shall go home, as the boys wiU be expecting 
 me soon. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 All right, child, you go on home. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why don't you stay instead? I am sure Cecilia wiU 
 be glad to see you. And then Albert can take you 
 home. You might get Peter to entertain you in 
 the meantime. ... Or would you prefer to stay 
 here and listen? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 No, child, you had better go in to Peter. Especially 
 as Mr. von Rabagas doesn't appear in the third act 
 — so you won't be losing much. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 I'll leave you alone. Bye-bye! (She goes out) 
 
190 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Now let's fall to! (He brings out some notes from 
 one of his pockets and begins to read) "The stage 
 shows an open stretch of rolling ground that slopes 
 gradually toward the footlights. In the background 
 stands a villa, with marble steps leading up to it. 
 Still farther back, the sea can be felt rather than 
 seen." (Bowing to Amadeus) "A tall plane tree 
 in full leaf stands in the center of the stage." 
 AMADEUS (laughing) 
 
 So you have got it there.'' 
 
 AX.BEKT 
 
 It's meant as a compliment to you. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Many thanks. 
 ALBERT (after a pause) 
 
 Tell me, Amadeus, is it actually true that the Count 
 has become reconciled with the Countess after his 
 duel with the painter ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I don't know. For a good long while I haven't 
 seen the Countess except at the opera. (He rises 
 and begins walking to and fro again) 
 ALBERT (shaking his head) 
 
 There's something uncanny about that affair. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why.'' I think it's quite commonplace. A husband 
 who has discovered his wife's (sarcastically) "dis- 
 loyalty" . . . 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 That wasn't the point. But that he discovers it 
 only six months too late, when his wife is already 
 deceiving him with another man. — There would have 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 191 
 
 been nothing peculiar about the Count having a 
 fight with you. But the case is much more com- 
 plicated. Here we have a young man all but killed 
 because of an afi'air that is long past. And in the 
 meantime you are left perfectly unmolested — or have 
 been so far, at least. 
 AMADEUS (walking as before) 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Do you know, what I almost regret — ^looking at it 
 from a higher viewpoint.? That the painter is not 
 a man of genius . . . and that the Count hasn't 
 really killed him. That would have put something 
 tremendously tragi-comical into the situation. And 
 that's what would have happened, ii ... he up 
 there had a little more wit. . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 How? What do you mean by that? 
 
 ALBEUT 
 
 I mean, if I had been writing the play . . . 
 AMADEUS (makes a movement as if hearing some noise 
 outside) 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 What is it? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I thought I heard a carriage, but it was nothing. 
 (He looks at his watch) And it wouldn't be possi- 
 ble yet . . . You read on, please. (Once more he 
 begins walking back and forth) 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You're very preoccupied. I'll rather come back to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, go on. I am not at aU . . . 
 
192 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 I ALBERT {rismg) 
 
 Let me tell you something, Amadeus. If it would 
 please you — and it would be all one to me, you know 
 — I could go with you. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Where? . . . What do you mean? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 On your tour. For a week, at least, or a fortnight, 
 I should be very glad to stay by you . . . {affec- 
 tionately) until you have got over the worst. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But . . . ! Good gracious, do you think it's be- 
 cause of the Countess . . . ? Why, that story is 
 over long ago. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Which I know. And I know, too, that you are now 
 trying other means of making yourself insensible. 
 But I see perfectly well that, under the circum- 
 stances, you can't succeed all at once. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What circumstances are you talking of anyhow? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 My dear fellow, I should never have dreamt of for- 
 cing myself into your confidence, but as the matter 
 has already got into the papers . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What has got into the papers ? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Haven't you read that thing in the New Journal 
 to-night ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What thing? 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 193 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 That Cecilia and Prince Sigismund . . . But, of 
 course, you are familiar with the main facts? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I'm familiar with nothing. What is in the New 
 Journal? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Just a brief notice — without any names, but not to 
 be mistaken. ... It reads something like this : 
 "One of our foremost artists, who has just been cele- 
 brating triumphs in the metropolis of an adjoining 
 state . . . until now the wife of a gifted musician" 
 ... or perhaps it was "highly gifted" . . . and so 
 on . . . and so on . . . "and a well-known Austrian 
 gentleman, belonging to our oldest nobility, intend, 
 we are told ..." and so on . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia and the Prince . . . ? ! 
 
 AX.BEKT 
 
 Yes . . . and then a hint that, in such a case, it 
 would not prove very difficult to obtain a dispensa- 
 tion from the Pope . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Has everybody gone crazy? ... I can assure you 
 that not a word of it is true! . . . You won't be- 
 lieve me? ... I hope you don't think I would deny 
 it, if ... Or do you actually mean that Cecilia 
 might have . . . from me . . . Oh, dear, and you 
 are supposed to be a friend of ours, a student of 
 the human soul, and a poet ! 
 
 AliBEET 
 
 I beg your pardon, but after what has happened it 
 would not seem improbable . . . 
 
194 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not improbable . . . ? It Is simply impossible! 
 Cecilia has never thought of it! 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 However, it ought not to surprise you that such a 
 rumor has been started. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Nothing surprises me. But I feel as if the relation- 
 ship between Cecilia and myself were being pro- 
 faned by tittle-tattle of that kind. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Pioneers like yourself must scorn the judgment of 
 the world. Else they are in danger of being proved 
 mere braggarts. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, I am no pioneer. The whole thing is a private 
 arrangement between me and CecUia, which gives us 
 both the greatest possible comfort. Be kind enough, 
 at least, to tell the people who ask you, that we are 
 not going to be divorced — but that, on the other 
 hand, we are not deceiving each other, as it is as- 
 serted in these scrawls with which I have been bom- 
 barded for some time. (^He indicates the letter 
 which arrived at the same time as Cecilia's) 
 ALBERT (picks up the letter, glances through it, and 
 puts it away again) An anonymous letter ....'' 
 Well, that's part of it. . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Explain to them, please, that there can be no talk 
 of deceit where no lies have been told. Tell them 
 that Cecilia's and my way of keeping faith with each 
 other is probably a much better one than that prac- 
 ticed in so many other marriages, where both go 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 195 
 
 their own ways all day long and have nothing in 
 common but the night. You are a poet, are you 
 not — and a student of the human soul? Well, why 
 don't you make all this clear to the people who refuse 
 to understand? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 To convey all that would prove a rather compli- 
 cated process. But if it means so much to you, I 
 could make a play out of it. Then they would have 
 no trouble in comprehending this new kind of mar- 
 riage — at least between the hours of eight-thirty 
 and ten. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Are you so sure of that? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Absolutely. In a play I can make the case much 
 clearer than it is presented by reality — ^without any 
 of those superfluous, incidental side issues, which are 
 so confusing in life. The main advantage is, how- 
 ever, that no spectators attend the entr'acts, so that 
 I can do just what I please with you during those 
 periods. And besides, I shall make you offer an 
 analogy illuminating the whole case. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 An analogy, you say ... ? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Yes, analogies always have a very soothing effect. 
 You will remark to a friend — or whoever may prove 
 handy — something like this : "What do you want 
 me to do anyhow? Suppose that Cecilia and I were 
 living in a nice house, where we felt perfectly com- 
 fortable, and which had a splendid view that pleased 
 us very much, and a wonderful garden where wc 
 
196 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 liked to take walks together. And suppose that one 
 of us should feel a desire sometime to pick straw- 
 berries In the woods beyond the fence. Should that 
 be a reason for the other one to raise a cry aU at 
 once about faithlessness, or disgrace, or betrayal? 
 Should that force us to sell the house and garden, or 
 make us imagine that we could never more look out 
 of the window together, or walk under our splendid 
 trees ? Merely because our strawberries happened to 
 be growing on the other side of the fence ..." 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And you would make me say that? 
 
 ALBEUT 
 
 Do you fear it's too brilliant for you? — Oh, that 
 wouldn't occur to anybody. Trust me to fix it. In 
 such a play I can do nothing whatever with your 
 musical talent. You see, I can't let you conduct 
 your symphony for the benefit of the public. And 
 so I get both myself and you out of it by putting 
 into your character a little more sense and energy 
 and consistency . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Than God has given me originally. 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 Well, it's not very hard to compete with Him! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I shall certainly be curious about one thing: how 
 
 you mean to end that play. 
 ALBEKT {after a brief pause) 
 
 Not very happily, my dear fellow. 
 AMADEUS (a little staggered) 
 
 Why? 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 197 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 It is characteristic of all transitional periods, that 
 a conflict which might not exist to a later genera- 
 tion, must end tragically the moment a fairly de- 
 cent person becomes involved in it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But there is no conflict. 
 
 AI.BERT 
 
 I shall not shirk the duty of inventing one. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Suppose you wait a little while yet . . . ? Per- 
 haps life itself might . . . 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 My dear chap, I am not at all interested in what 
 may be done with us by this ridiculous reality which 
 has to get along without stage manager or prompter 
 — this reality which frequently never gets to the 
 fifth act, merely because the hero happens to be 
 struck on the head by a brick in the second. I make 
 the curtain rise when the plot takes a diverting turn, 
 and I drop it the moment I have proved myself in 
 the right. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Please, my dear fellow, don't forget when writing 
 your play, to introduce a figure on which reality in 
 this case has lavished much more care than on the 
 hero — I mean, the fool. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You can't insult me in that way. I have always re- 
 garded myself as closely akin to him. 
 [Marie enters with little Peter and the Governess. 
 
 PETER 
 
 Mamma is coming! 
 
198 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 MAB.IE 
 
 The carriage has just stopped outside. 
 
 GOVEENESS 
 
 It was impossible to make the boy stay in bed. 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 And look at the fine flowers he has got! 
 
 PETER 
 
 That's for mamma! 
 AMADEUS (takes a flower out of the hvmch) 
 
 I hope you permit, sonny . . . 
 CECILIA {enters followed hy the Chambermaid) 
 
 Good evening! — Oh, are you here, too? That's 
 
 awfully nice! 
 
 PETEE 
 
 Mamma ! — ^Flowers ! 
 CECILIA (^picks him up and kisses him) 
 
 My boy! My boy! (Then she shakes hands with 
 
 the rest) 
 AMADEUS {handing her the single flower) 
 
 Peter let me have one, too. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Thanks. {She shakes hands with him; then to the 
 chambermaid) Get my things out of the carriage, 
 please. The coachman will help you. He has been 
 paid already. 
 
 CHAMBEEMAID {gOBS OUt) 
 
 CECILIA {taking off her hat) 
 
 Well, Marie? . . . {To the other two) Can it be 
 possible that you have been working? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 We have tried. 
 CECILIA {to the governess) 
 
 Has he behaved like a little man? 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 199 
 
 PETEE 
 
 Indeed I have! Have you brought anything for 
 me? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Of course. But you won't get it until to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 PETER 
 
 Why nox? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Because I am too tired to unpack. To-morrow, 
 when you wake up, you'll find it on your little table. 
 
 PETEE 
 
 What is it.? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You'll see by and by . . , 
 
 PETEE 
 
 Is my little table big enough for it.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 We'll hope so. 
 
 AMADEUS {who is leaning against the piano, heeps look- 
 ing at her all the time) 
 
 CECILIA {pretends not to notice him) 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You're looking splendid. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I'm a little bit worn out. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You must be hungry. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Not at all. We had something to eat in the dining 
 car. Almost everybody did. But I do want a cup 
 of tea. {To the governess) Will you see to it, 
 please? 
 
200 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Let me have a cup, too, and please see that I get a 
 few shces of cold meat. 
 
 GOVEUNESS 
 
 I have given orders for it already. (She goes out) 
 
 CECttIA 
 
 Have you really been waiting for me with the sup- 
 per? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No ... I haven't been waiting. I . . . simply 
 never thought of it. 
 CECILIA (to Albert and Marie) 
 Why don't you sit down."" 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 No, we are going, my dear Cecilia. Let me con- 
 gratulate you with all my heart — that will be enough 
 for to-day. 
 
 MABIE 
 
 You have celebrated regular triumphs, they say? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, it wasn't bad. (To Amadeus) Did you get 
 my telegram? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, it pleased me tremendously. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Think of it, children ! After the performance I was 
 commanded to appear in the box of His Majesty! 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Commanded . . . ? Invited, I hope you mean! 
 Neither emperor nor king has the right to command 
 you. 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 201 
 
 CECII/IA 
 
 You old anarchist! But what does it matter? One 
 goes to the box nevertheless. And you would have 
 done that, too. 
 
 AlBEUT 
 
 Why not? One must, if possible, study every form 
 of existence at close quarters. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And what did the Emperor have to say? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 He was very complimentary. Had never seen a bet- 
 ter Carmen. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 The very next thing he'U order an opera for you 
 from some Spaniard.^ 
 GOVEUNESS (enters) 
 
 The tea will be here in a moment. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Now you must get back to bed, Peter. It's late. 
 GOVERNESS {wunts to take the boy away) 
 
 PETER 
 
 No, mamma must take me to bed as when I was a 
 little baby. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Come on then! — Mercy me, how heavy you have 
 grown. (Goes out with Peter and the governess) 
 
 MARIE 
 
 My, but she is pretty! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Haven't you discovered that before ? 
 
 'This refers to a habit of Emperor William's, from whom the 
 Italian composer, Leoncavallo, among others, once received such 
 an order. 
 
202 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Well, good-by then! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Until to-morrow. I shall be expecting you early — 
 between nine and ten. 
 
 MAKiE {to Amadeus as she is going out) 
 
 Don't you regret having to leave her again at once.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Duty, my dear Marie . . . 
 CECILIA {returning) 
 
 Oh, are you really going i* — Good-by then — for a 
 
 little while! 
 
 [Albert and Marie go out. 
 CECILIA {going to the ^replace) 
 
 Home again! {She sits down) 
 AMADEUS {near the door and speaking rather shyly) 
 
 It's a question whether it can please you as much as 
 
 it does me. 
 CECILIA {holds out her hand to him) 
 AMADEUS {takes her hand and kisses it; then he seats 
 
 himself) Tell me all about it. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What am I to telLi* I haven't left anything untold 
 — or hardly anything. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Getting home every night — and it was quite late at 
 times, as you know — I sat down and wrote to you. 
 I wish you had been equally explicit. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But I have written you every day, too. 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 
 
 CECILIA. 
 
 Nevertheless, my dear, it seems to me you must have 
 lots to add. (With a laugh) To many things you 
 have referred in a strikingly casual fashion. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I might say the same to you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, you can't. My letters have practically been 
 diaries. And that's more than could be said of 
 yours. — ^Well, Amadeus . . . ? Without frankness 
 the whole situation becomes meaningless, I should 
 say. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What is there to be cleared up? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Is it really all over with Phihne.'' 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 That was aU over — (rising) before you left. And 
 you know it. I really don't think it's necessary to 
 discuss bygone matters. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Will she be able to stay in the company, by the way 
 — after this scandal in connection with your — ^par- 
 don me ! — predecessor ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Everything has been arranged, I hear. And she 
 has even made up with her husband again. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Is that so.'' — That's rather unpleasant, don't you 
 think.'' At bottom, it matters very little then to 
 have the story aU over. In the case of a man who 
 has the disconcerting habit of not finding out cer- 
 tain things until months afterward . . . 
 
204. INTERMEZZO [act u 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It is better not to think of such things. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Has she any letters of yours? 
 AMADEUS (having thought for a moment) 
 Only the one in which I bade her farewell. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That might be enough. Why haven't you demanded 
 it back? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 How could I? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 How frivolous you are! Yes, frivolous is just the 
 word. {Putting her hand on his shoulder) Now 
 it's possible to talk of a thing like this, Amadeus. 
 Formerly you might have misunderstood such a re- 
 mark — taking it for jealousy, or something like 
 that. . . . But, really, I do hope you don't get 
 mixed up in any more affairs of that kind. I don't 
 like to be scared to death all the time on behalf of 
 my best friend. There is nothing in the world I 
 begrudge you — of that you may be sure. But get- 
 ting killed for the sake of somebody else — that's 
 carrying the j oke a little too far ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I promise you, that you'll no longer have to be 
 scared to death on my behalf. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I hope so. Otherwise I must leave you to take care 
 of yourself.- — ^And seriously speaking, Amadeus, I 
 hope you don't forget that your life has been pre- 
 served for more sensible and more important things 
 — that you have a lot more to do in this world. 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 205 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, that's what I feel. I don't think I have ever 
 felt it so strongly in, all my life. (Radiantly) My 
 symphony . . . 
 CECILIA (eagerly) 
 ... is done? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It is, Cecilia. And ... I didn't mean to tell you 
 about it to-day, but it leaves me no peace . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, what is it.? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 The chorus in the final passage — you know the prin- 
 cipal theme of it already — ^it is led and dominated by 
 a soprano solo. And that solo has been written for 
 you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 My revered Master! How proud your trust in me 
 makes me! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't make fun of it, Cecilia, I beg you. There is 
 nobody in the world who can sing that solo like you. 
 . . . That solo is yours — and only yours. While 
 writing it, the ring of your voice was in my mind. 
 Next February, as soon as I get back, I shall have 
 the symphony put on, and then you must sing that 
 solo. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Next Feb . . . ? With pleasure, my dear Ama- 
 deus — ^provided I am stiU here. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why? 
 
206 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 :jQ^h, you haven't heard everything yet. After the 
 peipformance last night the Director had a talk with 
 me. 
 
 AMADEUS ^disturbed) 
 
 Well .'' ! — There was a hint in the telegram about 
 brilliant conditions. . . . But, of course, they could 
 only refer to the next season.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 If I can break away from here, they want me in 
 Berlin from the beginning of the year. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But you can't break away! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, if I really want to. The Director does not care 
 to enforce the contract. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But you don't want to, Cecilia ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's a matter for careful consideration. I shall 
 be doing a great deal better there. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Beginning next Fall, I shall — probably be free. You 
 might wait that long, I should think. Then we 
 could make the move together. But . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 It doesn't have to be settled to-day, Amadeus. To- 
 morrow we shall have time to discuss the whole mat- 
 ter thoroughly. Really, I am not in a condition to 
 do so to-night. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You are tired ..,.'' 
 
ACT ii] INTERMEZZO 207 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Of course, you must understand that. In fact, I 
 should very much prefer . . . {She looks in direc- 
 tion of the door leading to her own room) 
 CHAMBEKMAiD {brings in the tea tray and puts it on 
 a small table) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, that's right! — May I pour you a cup, too? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If you please. 
 CECILIA {pours the tea; to the chambermaid) 
 
 Open one of the windows a little, will you. There's 
 
 such a lot of cigarette smoke in here. 
 CHAMBEKMAID {opcns the window at the right) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Won't it be too cold for you? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Cold? It has turned very warm again. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And how did last night's performance go otherwise? 
 
 CECILIA, 
 
 Very well. Wedius in particular proved himself in- 
 imitable again. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You have mentioned him several times in your let- 
 ters. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You know him since your Dresden period, don't you ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes. He has great gifts. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 He thinks a great deal of you, too. 
 
208 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I'm pleased to hear it. 
 
 CHAMBERMAID {gOCS OUt) 
 
 AMADEUS (helping himself to the cold meat) 
 Can I help you to some? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, thanks. I have had aU I want. 
 
 AMADEUS j^ 
 
 Yes, you have had your supper already — all of you, 
 or "everybody," as you put it a while ago. 
 CECILIA (ingenuously) 
 
 I had my supper with Sigismund. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Was he in Berlin aU the time? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 He got there two days after me, as I told you in 
 my letters. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Of course — you have told me everything. Once he 
 accompanied you to the National Gallery. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 He also took me to see the Pergamene marbles.-^ 
 
 AMADEUS {facetiously) 
 
 You're doing a lot for his general education, I must 
 say. — ^But I should like to know by what fraud 
 Sigismund 'got himself into that reception of the 
 Director's. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 By what fraud? 
 
 ^ A large collection of art works and other antiquities, recovered 
 by excavations on the site of the ancient city of Pergamon in 
 Asia Minor, are liiept in the Pergamene Museum, Berlin. 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 209 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, you wrote me that he created a regular sensa- 
 tion with those waltzes of his. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 So he did. But he didn't have to use fraud to get 
 in. Being a nephew of the Baroness, there was no 
 reason why he should resort to such methods. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, yes, I didn't remember that. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And by the way, the Director asked very eagerly 
 about you. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 He thinks a great deal of me . . . 
 CECILIA (with a smile) 
 
 Yes, he really does. The moment your new opera is 
 ready . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And so on! (He goes on eating) It surprises me, 
 however, that he should ask you about me. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why does that surprise you? 
 AMADEUS (as if meaning no offense) 
 
 Well, it rather surprises me that he should connect 
 our respective personalities to that extent. Hasn't 
 Berlin heard yet that we are going to be divorced? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why . . . what does that mean? 
 AMADEUS (laughing) 
 
 Rumors to that eflFect are afloat. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What? Well, I declare ! 
 
glO INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 A.MADEUS 
 
 Yes, it's incredible what the popular gossip can in- 
 vent. It's even in the newspapers. His Highness 
 the Prince Sigismund Maradas-Lohsenstein is going 
 to lead you to the altar. The necessary dispensation 
 will be furnished by the Pope. Idiotic — ^isn't it? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes. — But, my dear, you say nothing about what is 
 stiU more idiotic. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And what can that be? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That you are on the verge of believing this piece of 
 idiocy. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I . . . ? How can you . . . Oh, no ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You haven't considered, for instance, that I am three 
 years older than he. 
 AMADEUS (startled) 
 
 Well, if it's nothing but those three years of differ- 
 ence in . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, it isn't that. No, indeed! Even if I were 
 younger than he, I should never think of it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But if his devotion should prove more deeply rooted 
 than you have supposed so far? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Not even then. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why? 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 211 
 
 CECII-IA 
 
 Why . . . ? I know that it couldn't last forever 
 anyhow. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Have you the end in mind already? 
 
 CECII-IA 
 
 I am not saying that I have it in mind. . . . But I 
 don't doubt it must come, as it always comes. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And then . . . ? 
 CECii/iA (shrugs her shoulders) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And then? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 How could I know, Amadeus? There are prospects 
 of so many kinds. 
 
 AMADEUS {cowering a moment before those words) 
 Yes, that's true. Life is full of prospects. Every- 
 where, wherever you turn, there are temptations and 
 promises — ^when you have determined to be free, and 
 to take life lightly, as we have done. . . . That's 
 what you meant, was it not? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes, precisely. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Tell me, Cecilia . . . (He draws closer to her) 
 There is one thing I should like to know — ^whether 
 Sigismund has any idea that your mind is harboring 
 such thoughts— which, after all, would appear 
 rather weird to the other party concerned. 
 
212 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Sigismund . . . ? How can you imagine ? ! Such 
 things you admit only to your friends. (She gives 
 her hand to him) 
 AMADEus (in the same friendly manner) 
 
 But if he should notice anything . . . although I 
 think it very improbable that he is the kind of man 
 who would . . . But let us suppose that he con- 
 cluded from various signs that some such thoughts 
 were passing through your head — ^would you deny 
 them, if he asked you? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I believe myself capable of it. 
 
 AMADEUS {with a shrinking) 
 
 Oh . . . Let me tell you, Cecilia. . . . You are hav- 
 ing something definite in mind. . . . Yes, I am sure 
 of it. . . . It's a question of some definite prospect. 
 
 CECILIA {smiling) 
 
 That might be possible. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What has happened, Cecilia? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Then there is danger in the air. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Danger . . . ? What could that mean to us? To 
 him who has no obligations there can be no cause 
 for fear. 
 AMADEUS {taking her lightly by the arm) 
 
 Stop playing with words ! I can see through the 
 whole thing just the same. — I know! It has been 
 brought home to me by a number of passages in your 
 
ACT ii] INTERMEZZO 213 
 
 letters — although they ceased long ago to have the 
 frankness due to our friendship. That new prospect 
 is Wedius! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 In what respect did my letters fail to be frank? 
 Didn't I write you immediately after the "Onyegin" 
 performance, that there was something fascinating 
 about his personality? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 So you have said before, of many people. But there 
 was never any such prospect implied in it. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Everything begins to take on new meanings when 
 you are free. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You are not telling me everything. . . . What has 
 happened? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Nothing has happened, but (with sudden decision) 
 if I had stayed . . . who knows . . . 
 AMADEUS {seems to shrink back again; then he walks 
 to and fro; fnally he remains standing in the back- 
 grov/nd, near one of the windows) Poor Sigismund! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why pity him? He knows nothing about it. 
 AMADEUS {resuming his superior tone) 
 Is that what draws you to Berlin? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No! . . . Indeed, no! The spell has been broken 
 ... it seems . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And yet you talk of going about New Year . , . 
 
214 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 CECILIA (mwi 
 
 My dear Amadeus, I am really too tired to discuss 
 that matter to-day. Now I shall say good-night to 
 you. It is quite late. (She holds out her hand to 
 him) 
 
 AMADEUS (faltering) 
 
 Good-night, Cecilia! . . . (He cling t to her hand) 
 You have been gone three weeks. I shall leave early 
 the day after to-morrow — and when I return, you 
 will be gone, I suppose. . . . There can't be so very 
 much to your friendship, if you won't stay and talk 
 a while with me under such circumstances. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What's the use of being sentimental? LeavC'takingR 
 are familiar things to us. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's true. But nevertheless this will be a new 
 kind of leave-taking, and a new kind of~ home-com- 
 ing also. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, seeing that it had to turn out this way . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 . But neither of us ever imagined that it would turn 
 out this way. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, Cecilia, we did not imagine it. The remarkable 
 thing has been that we retained our faith in each 
 other in the midst of all doubts, and that, even when 
 away from each other, we used to feel calm and con- 
 fident far beyond what was safe, I suppose. But it 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 215 
 
 was splendid. Separation itself used to have a sort 
 of charm of its own — formerly. 
 
 CECrLIA 
 
 Naturally. It isn't possible to love in that undis- 
 turbed fashion except when you are miles apart. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You may be able to make fun of it to-day, Cecilia, 
 but there will never again be anything like it — 
 neither for you nor for me. You can be sure of that. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I know that as well as you do. — ^But why should 
 you all at once begin to talk as if, somehow, every- 
 thing would be over between us two, and as if the 
 best part of our life had been irretrievably lost? 
 That's not the case, after all. It cannot possibly 
 be the case. Both of us know that we remain the 
 same as before — don't we — and that everything else 
 that has happened to us, or may happen to us, can 
 be of no particular importance. . . . And even if it 
 should become important, we shall always be able 
 to join hands, no matter what chasms open between 
 us. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You speak very sensibly, as usual. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 If you seduce ladies by the dozen, and if gentlemen 
 shoot each other dead for my sake — as they do for 
 the sake of Countess Philine — ^what has that to do 
 with our friendship.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's beyond contradiction. Nevertheless, I hadn't 
 expected — ^in fact, I think it nothing less than ad- 
 mirable — ^your ability to adjust yourself to every- 
 
216 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 thing — ^your way of remaining perfectly calm in the 
 midst of any new experiences or expectations. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Calm . . . ? Here I am ... by our fireplace . . . 
 taking tea in your company. Here I can and shall 
 always be calm. That's the significance of our whole 
 life in common. Whatever may be my destiny in 
 the world at large will slip off me when I enter here. 
 All the storms are on the outside. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That's more than you can be sure of, Cecilia. Things 
 might happen that would weigh more heavily on you 
 than you can imagine at this moment. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I shall always have the strength to throw off things 
 according to my will before I come to you. And if 
 that strength should ever fail me, I shall come to 
 the door and no farther. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, no, you mustn't! That would not be in keep- 
 ing with our agreement. It is just when life grows 
 heavy that I'll be here to help you bear it. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Who knows whether you wiU always be ready to do 
 so? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Always^ — on my oath! No matter what befall you, 
 whether it be sad or wretched, you can always find 
 refuge and sympathy with me. But with all my 
 heart I wish you may be spared most of those things. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That I be spared . . . ? No, Amadeus, a wish hke 
 that I can't accept. Hitherto — ^I have lived so 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 217 
 
 little hitherto. And I am longing for it. I long for 
 all that's sad and sweet in life, for all that's beau- 
 tiful and all that's pitiful. I long for storms, for 
 perils — for worse than that, perhaps. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 No, Cecilia, that's nothing but imagination ! 
 
 CECIIilA 
 
 Oh, no ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Certainly, Cecilia. You don't know very much as 
 yet, and you imagine many things simpler and 
 cleaner than they are. But there are things you 
 couldn't stand, and others of which you are not ca- 
 pable. — I know you, Cecilia. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You know me.'' — ^You know only what I have been 
 to you — what I have been as your beloved and your 
 wife. And as you used to mean the whole world to 
 me — as aU my longing, all my tenderness, was 
 bounded by you — we could never guess in those days 
 what might prove my destiny when the real world 
 was thrown open to me. — Even to-day, Amadeus, I 
 am no longer the same as before ... Or perhaps I 
 have always been the same as I am now, but didn't 
 know it merely. And something has fallen away, 
 that used to cover me up in the past . . . Yes, 
 that's it: for now I can feel all those desires that 
 used to pass me by as if deflected by a cuirass of 
 insensibility . . . Now I can feel how they touch my 
 body and my soul, filling me with qualms and pas- 
 sions. The earth seems fuU of adventure. The sky 
 seems radiant with flames. And it is as if I could 
 see myself stand waiting with wide-open arms. 
 
218 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUs (a« if calling to somebody in flight) 
 Cecilia ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What is the matter? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Nothing. . . . The words you speak cannot es- 
 trange me after all that I have learned already. But 
 there is a new ring in your voice that I have never 
 heard untQ to-day. Nor have I ever seen that hght 
 in your eyes until to-day. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's what you imagine, Amadeus. If that were 
 really the case, then I should feel the same in regard 
 to you. But I can see no difference in you at all. 
 And I can't imagine how you possibly could come 
 to seem different. To other women you may appear 
 a mischiefmaker — or a siUy youth — ^which has prob- 
 ably happened many times: but to me you will al- 
 ways remain the same as ever. And I have a feeling 
 that, in the last instance, nothing can ever happen 
 to the Amadeus I am thinking of. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If I could only feel the same — ^in regard to you! 
 But such assurance is not mine. The recklessness 
 and greed with which you make your way into an 
 unknown world are filling me with outright fear on 
 your behalf. The idea that there are people who 
 know as little of you as you of them at this moment, 
 and to whom you are going to belong . . . 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 219 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I shall belong to nobody . . . now, that I am 
 free . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 . . . who are part of your destiny already, as you 
 of theirs ... it seems to me uncanny. And you 
 are no more the Cecilia I used to love — no ! You re- 
 semble closely one who was very dear to me, and yet 
 you are not at aU the same as she. No, you are 
 not the woman that was my wife for years. I could 
 feel it the moment you entered the place. . . . The 
 connection between the young girl who sank into my 
 arms one evening seven years ago and the woman 
 who has just returned from abroad to dwell for«.a 
 brief while in this house seems quite mysterious. For 
 seven years I have been living with another woman — 
 with a quiet, kindly woman — with a sort of angel 
 perhaps, who has now disappeared. She who came 
 to-day has a voice that I have never heard, a look 
 that I am foreign to, a beauty that is strange to me 
 — a beauty not surpassing what the other had, ex- 
 cept in being more cruel possibly — and yet a beauty 
 that should confer much greater happiness, I think. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Don't look at me like that! . . . Don't talk to me 
 like that! . . . That's not the way to talk to a 
 friend! Don't forget I am no more the one I used 
 to be. When you talk to me like that, Amadeus, it 
 is as if here, too, I should be fanned by those cajol- 
 ing breaths that nowadays so often touch me like 
 caresses — breaths that make life seem incredibly 
 light, and that make you feel ready for so much that 
 formerly would have appeared incomprehensible. 
 
220 INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If you could guess, Cecilia, how your words hurt me 
 and excite me at the same time! 
 CECiiiiA {brusquely) 
 
 You must not talk like that, Amadeus. I don't want 
 it. Be sensible, for my sake as well as your own. 
 Good-night. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Are you going, Cecilia? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes. And bear in mind' that we are friends and 
 want to remain such. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Bear in mind that we have always wanted to be 
 honest. And it is not honest — either for you or me 
 — to say that we stand face to face as friends in this 
 moment . . . Cecilia — the one thing I can feel at 
 this moment is that you are beautiful . . . beautiful 
 as you have never been before ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Amadeus, Amadeus, are you forgetting aU that has 
 happened .'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I could forget it — and so could you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, I remember — I remember ! {She wants to leave) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Stay, Cecilia, stay! The day after to-morrow I 
 shall be gone — stay ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Please don't speak to me like that ! I am no longer 
 what I used to be — no longer proud, or calm, or 
 good. Who knows how little might be needed to 
 
ACT n] INTERMEZZO 221 
 
 make me the victim of a certain unscrupulous se- 
 ducer ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Have you so many friends to lose? One is all I have. 
 — Good-night. {She tries to get away) 
 
 AMADEUS (seizing her by the hand) 
 
 Cecilia, we have long ago bidden each other good-by 
 as man and wife — but we have also made up our 
 minds to take life Ughtly, to be free, and to lay hold 
 of every happiness that comes within our reach. 
 Should we be mad enough, or cowardly enough, to 
 shrink from the highest happiness ever offered 
 us . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And what would it lead to . . . my friend.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't call me that ! I love you and I hate you, but 
 in this moment I am not your friend. What you 
 have been to me — wife, comrade . . . what do I 
 care ! To-day I want to be — your lover ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You mustn't . . . ! You can't . . . no . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Not your lover then . . . but what is both worse 
 and better . . . the man who takes you away from 
 another one — the one with whom you are betraying 
 someone else — the one who means to you both bliss 
 and sin at once ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Let me loose, Amadeus. 
 
INTERMEZZO [act n 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No more beautiful adventure will ever blossom by 
 the wayside for either one of us, Cecilia, as long as 
 we may live ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And none more dangerous, Amadeus! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Wasn't that what you were longing for . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Good-night, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia ! {He holds her fast and draws her closer to 
 himself) 
 
 CUETAIN 
 
THE THIRD ACT 
 
 The same room. It is the morning of the following 
 day. The stage is empty at first. Then Amadeus en- 
 ters from his room at the left. He wears a dressing- 
 gown, but is otherwise fully dressed. He passes slowly 
 and pensively across the room to the writing desk, from 
 which he picks up the waiting pile of letters. Then he 
 puts the letters down again. He feels chilly, looks 
 around, notices that a window is open, and goes to 
 close it. Then he stands listening for a while at the 
 door to Cecilia's room. Finally he returns to the writ- 
 ing desk and begins to pull out manuscripts from its 
 drawers. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 Let's get things in order. . . I wonder how this is 
 going to turn out? — I'll write her from some place 
 along my route. I shall never come back here any 
 more. ... I couldn't stand it . . . no, I couldn't! 
 {Holding a manuscript in his hand) The Solo — her 
 Solo ! Well, I shall not be present to hear her sing 
 it. 
 CHAMBERMAID (^entering) 
 
 The men are here to take away the trunk. Here's 
 the check from the expressman. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 All right. Tell them to use the back stairs in taking 
 out the things. 
 
224 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 CHAMBEEMAID (gOeS OUt) 
 AMASEUS 
 
 . . . When I say good-by to-morrow, she won't 
 guess it is forever. . . . And the boy . . . the 
 boy . . • ? {He walks back and forth) . . . But 
 it has to be. (Abruptly) I'll leave this very even- 
 ing — not to-morrow. Yes, this very evening. (He 
 begins to pile up sheet music) I'll have a talk with 
 the Director. If he says no, I'U simply break away. 
 I won't come back here. (He goes to Cecilia's door 
 again) ■ I suppose she's still asleep. (He comes for- 
 ward and sits down on the couch, leaning his head 
 in his hands) We have to take lunch together, and 
 she won't guess that it is for the last time. . . 
 She won't guess. . . . And why not? Let her find 
 out . . . right now • . • I am going to have it out 
 with her. Yes, indeed. (Rising) One can't write 
 a thing of that kind. I'll tell her everything. I'U 
 tell her that I can't bear it — that it drives me crazy 
 to think of the other fellow. And she'll understand. 
 And even if she should plead with me to forgive her 
 . . . even if she ... oh! (He goes to her door) 
 I must tell her at once. . . . Oh, I feel like choking 
 her! . . . Ceciha! (He knocks at her door, but 
 gets no answer) What does that mean? (He goes 
 into her room) She's gone! (He stays away for 
 about half a minute and comes back by way of the 
 door leading to the gnrden; then he rings) Where 
 can she , . . 
 
 CHAMBEEMAID (enters) 
 
 AMADETTS (with pretended unconcern) 
 Has my wife gone out? 
 
ACT ra] INTERMEZZO 225 
 
 CHAMBEBMAIS 
 
 Yes, sir — quite a while ago. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh ... ? 
 
 CHAMBEKMAID 
 
 It must be nearly two hours now. She said she would 
 be back about one o'clock. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 All right. Thank you. 
 
 CHAMBERMAID 
 
 Can I bring in your breakfast now, sir? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, yes — I had almost forgotten. And a cup of tea, 
 please. 
 
 CHAMBEB.MAID (goes OUt) 
 
 AMADEUS (^alone) 
 
 Gone! . . Well, there is nothing peculiar in that. 
 . . . Probably to the opera. . . . But why didn't 
 she tell me . . . .'' (He cowers suddenly) To 
 him ....'' No, that couldn't be possible ! Oh, no ! 
 . . . And why not? ... A woman like her . . , 
 There is nothing to keep her from going to him. . . . 
 {With a threaterdng gesture) If I only had him 
 here! . . . (With sudden inspiration) But that's 
 what I might . . . that would be . . . To confront 
 him — that's it! To stand face to face with him! 
 . . . Thus more than one thing might be straight- 
 ened out. . . . No, she is not with him. . . . 
 Where did I get that idea? . . . That's all over! 
 . . . But that's what I'll do! . . Either I or he! 
 . . . Many things might then . . . everything 
 might then be set right. . . . He or I ! . . . But to 
 Hve on like this, while he . . . I'll go to Albert. It 
 
226 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 must be done this very day! {He disappears mto 
 
 his own room) 
 ALBERT (enters) 
 CHAMBEEMAiD (follows Mm, Carrying the breakfast 
 
 tray) I'll tell the Master at once, sir. (She puts 
 
 the tray on a small table and goes out to the left) 
 ALBEB.T (picks up a moon-shaped roll from the tray 
 
 and begins to nibble at one of its tips) 
 AMADEus (enters, having changed his dressing-gown 
 
 for a coat) 
 CHAMBEEMAID (follows Mm, passcs quickly across the 
 
 room and goes out) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, there you are! 
 
 AI/BEET 
 
 Yes. I'm not too early, I hope? Are you ready? 
 I want to read you the third act. (He takes some 
 papers from his overcoat pocket) You know the 
 setting, of course — the park, the villa, the plane tree. 
 But first of all I must tell you something. Do you 
 remember Mr. von Rabagas, with whom my wife fell 
 in love? I have retouched him slightly. He's going 
 to be cross-eyed. And now I am curious to see what 
 Marie's attitude will be toward him. 
 AMADEUS (nervously) 
 
 All right — ^later. For the moment there are more 
 important things. 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 More important . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, I want you to do me a great service ... a 
 service that will brook no delay. You have to act 
 as my second. 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 227 
 
 ALBEET (rising) 
 
 Your . . , ? Twaddle! You'll simply refuse the 
 challenge ! You're not going to let yourself be killed 
 for the sake of Madame PhiUne — oh, no ! 
 
 AMABEUS 
 
 It is not a question of Philine. And I have not been 
 challenged. I shall issue the challenge. And for that 
 reason I want you to look up our friend Winter at 
 once, and then I must trouble both of you to call 
 on Prince Sigismund, and tell him . . . 
 
 ALBEET (interrupting him and breaking into laughter) 
 Oh, Prince Sigismund! — Thank you ever so much! 
 
 AMADEUs (surprised) 
 
 What's the matter with you? 
 
 AI.BERT 
 
 How obliging! You mean to present me with 
 an ending for the play we concocted yesterday. 
 Thanks. But it's too banal for me — nobody would 
 take any stock in it. I have thought of something 
 much better. You are to be poisoned — ^yes, sir. 
 And can you guess by whom? — By a brand-new char- 
 acter — one of the secret lovers of your wife. 
 AMADEUS (furiously) 
 
 It doesn't interest me in the least. Stop it, please ! 
 I'm not making up endings for your fool comedies ! 
 This is real life ... we are right in the midst of it ! 
 
 AliBBKT 
 
 You don't mean ... ?! Well, if I have to stand 
 this unseemly and ridiculous interruption . . . what 
 do you want of me anyhow? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Haven't you understood? The two of you are to 
 challenge Prince Sigismund on my behalf. 
 
228 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Prince Sigismund ... on your behalf . . . {He 
 bursts mta laughter) 
 
 AUADEUS 
 
 You seem to think it very funny, but I assure 
 you . . . 
 
 AI-BEET 
 
 The point is not that you seem funny to me. It's 
 probably balanced by the fact that a lot of people 
 who have thought you funny until now, will all of a 
 sudden think you very sensible . . . though they 
 ought to ask themselves, if they had a little logic: 
 why should Mr. Amadeus Adams become jealous on 
 this particular day? . . . Up to the twenty-third of 
 October he was not, and all at once, on the twenty- 
 third, he ts . . . 
 
 AMADEtJS 
 
 A lot of things have changed since yesterday. 
 
 AlBEET 
 
 Have changed . . . ? Since yesterday . . . ? 
 Well, I declare ! 
 AMADEUS {after a pause) 
 
 So that you didn't believe it either? 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 To confess the truth — no. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Which means that I am living among a lot of peo- 
 ple who . . . 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 Will be in the right ultimately. Why should that 
 arouse your indignation? If we were to live long 
 enough, every lie that's floating about would proba- 
 bly become true. Listen to those who belie you, and 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 
 
 you will know the truth about yourself. Gossip 
 knows very rarely what we are doing, but almost 
 always whither we are drifting. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 We didn't know we were drifting this way — ^that 
 much you will admit, I hope. 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 And yet it had to come. Friendship between two 
 people of different sexes is always dangerous — even 
 when they are married. If there is too much mutual 
 understanding between our souls, many things are 
 swept along that we would rather keep back; and 
 when our senses are attracted mutually, the suction 
 affects much more of our souls than we would care 
 to have/involved. That's a universal law, my dear 
 chap, fot^which the profound uncertainty of all 
 earthly relations between man and woman must be 
 held responsible. And only he who doesn't know it, 
 will trust himself or anybody else.— If you don't 
 mind.? {He begins to butter one of the rolls) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 So you think you understand . . . ? 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Of course ! That's my specialty, don't you know? 
 
 AMABEUS 
 
 Well, if you understand what has happened, and un- 
 derstand it must have happened — then you will also 
 understand that I must face the logical consequences. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Logical consequences . . . ? Here I am talking 
 wisdom, and you clamor for nonsense. And that's 
 what you call logical consequences? . . . My opin- 
 ion is rather, that you are about to behave like a 
 
INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 perfect fool. Anybody *lse might do what you now 
 propose: you are the only one who mustn't. For 
 when you propose such a thing, it becomes illogical, 
 ungenerous, not to say dishonest. You want to call 
 a man to account for something which, as he sees it, 
 has been declared explicitly permissible. ... In his 
 place I should laugh in your face. If anybody has 
 the right to be indignant here, and to demand an 
 account, it is the Prince himself, and nobody else — 
 as he has not deceived you, but you him. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, that's all one, as he undoubtedly will demand 
 an account. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 To do so, he must know. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I'll see to that. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 You mean to tell him? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If you hold it the shortest road to what I have in 
 mind . . . ? 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 There's a man of honor for you! And is that the 
 discretion you owe the woman you love, do you 
 think? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Call me illogical, ungenerous, indiscreet — anything 
 you please ! I can't help myself ! I love Cecilia — do 
 you hear? And I want to go on living with her. But 
 I can't do so until some sort of amends have been 
 made for the past — in my own eyes, in hers, and — 
 I confess it — in the eyes of the world. Si^smund 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 231 
 
 and I must meet, man to man — nothing else can end 
 my trouble. 
 
 ALBEET 
 
 And how can it make the slightest difference that you 
 two shoot oif your guns in the air? 
 
 AMADEtrS 
 
 One of us must out of the way, Albert! . . . Won't 
 you understand at last? 
 
 ALiEET 
 
 Now, my dear chap, that's carrying it a little too 
 far! All the time I have thought you were talking 
 of a duel — and now I find that you are after his life ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Later on you may feel sorry that you could not 
 refrain from inept jesting in a moment like this even. 
 The case is urgent, Albert. Please make up your 
 mind. 
 
 AI.BEET 
 
 And suppose he should refuse? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 He is a nobleman. 
 
 AliBEET 
 
 He is religious. His father is one of the leaders of 
 the Clerical Party in the Upper House and a vice- 
 president of the Society for the Prevention of 
 Dueling. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Well, such things are not inherited. And if he won't, 
 I shall know how to make him. There's no other way 
 out of it. There can be no other alternative, if I 
 am to go on living — ^with or without her. That will 
 set everything right, but nothing else will. It's the 
 one thing that can clear the air about us. Until it is 
 
INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 over, we dare not belong to each other again or — be 
 happy. 
 
 AI-BEIIT 
 
 I hope Cecilia won't insist on killing oflp Philine and 
 a few others. That would be just as sensible, but 
 would complicate the situation a great deal. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Won't you go, please ! 
 
 ALBEBT 
 
 Yes, I am going. . . . And how about our opera? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Oh, we'll have plenty of time to talk of that. How- 
 ever, just to reassure you — aU that is finished hes 
 here in the second drawer, everything properly ar- 
 ranged. 
 
 AliBEET 
 
 And who is to compose the third act? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It can be given as a fragment, with some kind of 
 baUet as a filler, 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 Right you are ! Something like "Harlequin as Elec- 
 trician," or "Forget-me-not." (jffe goes out) 
 
 AMADEUS {remains alone for a while; at first he seems 
 to ponder on something; then he returns to the writ- 
 ing desk and falls to work on his papers; a knock 
 is heard at the door leading to the garden) What 
 is it? 
 
 PETEE (outside) 
 
 It's me, papa. Can I come in? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Certainly, Peter. Come on. 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 
 
 GOVEENESS (entering with Peter) 
 Good morning. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Good morning. {He kisses Peter) Is it not a little 
 too cold for him out there? 
 
 GOVEENESS 
 
 He's very warmly dressed, and besides the sun is 
 shining beautifully. 
 
 PETEB. 
 
 Papa, have you seen what mamma brought me? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What is it.? 
 
 PETEK 
 
 A theater — a big theater! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Is that so? And you have got it already? 
 
 PETER 
 
 Of course. It's over there in the summer-house. 
 Would you care to look at it? 
 
 AMADEUS {glances inquiringly at the governess) 
 
 GOVERNESS 
 
 Madame brought it to our room quite early, while 
 Peter was still asleep. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I see. 
 
 PETER 
 
 I can play theater already. There is a king, and a 
 peasant, and a bride, and a devil — one that's all red 
 — almost as red as the king himself. And in the 
 back there is a mill, and a sky, and a forest, and a 
 hunter. . . . Won't you come and look at it, papa? 
 
234 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 AMADEus {seated on the couch, with the boy standing 
 between his knees; speaking absentmimdedly) Of 
 course I must come and look at it. 
 
 CHAMBEEMAiD (^entering) 
 Sir . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What is it? 
 
 CHAMBEEMAID 
 
 His Highness asks if you'll see him. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What highness? 
 
 CHAMBEEMAID 
 
 His Highness, the Prince Lohsenstein. 
 AMADEUS (^rising) 
 What? 
 
 GOVERNESS 
 
 Come, Peter — ^we'U go back and play in the summer- 
 house. {She goes out with Peter) 
 AMADEUS {with dignity) 
 
 Tell the Prince . . . ( Turning away from her) One 
 moment, please. {To himself) What can that 
 mean . . . ? {Abruptly) Ask him to come in. 
 
 CHAMBERMAID {gOeS OUt) 
 
 AMADEUS {walks quickly to and fro, but stops at some 
 distance from the door when Sigismund enters) 
 
 siGisMUND {is slender, blonde, twenty-six, elegantly 
 dressed, but appears im no respect fopp'sh; he bows 
 to Amadeus) Good-morning. 
 
 AMADEUS {takes a few steps forward to meet him and 
 nods politely) 
 
 SIGISMUND {looks around a little shyly, but wholly free 
 from any ridiculous embarrassment ; his manner is in 
 every respect dignified; there is a slight smile on his 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 235 
 
 ■face) We have not seen each other for some time, 
 and you'll probably assume that my visit to-day has 
 a special reason. 
 
 AUADEUS 
 
 Naturally. (Pomting to a chair) Please. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Thank you. {He comes nearer, but remains stand- 
 ing) I have decided to take this step — ^which has 
 not come easy to me, I can assure you — ^because I 
 find the situation in which we ... in which all of us 
 have been placed, untenable and, in a certain sense, 
 ridiculous . . . and because I think that, in one 
 way or another, it should be brought to an end. The 
 sole object of my visit is to put before you a propo- 
 sition. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I'm listening. 
 
 BIGISMUND 
 
 I don't want to waste any words. My proposition 
 is that you get a divorce from your wife. 
 AMADEUS {shrinks back for a moment, staring at Sigis- 
 mwnd; then, after a pause, he says calmly) You 
 wish to marry Cecilia? 
 
 SIGISMUNS 
 
 There is nothing I wish more eagerly. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And what is the attitude of Cecilia toward your in- 
 tentions ? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Not encouraging so far. 
 AMADEUS {puzzled) 
 
 Cecilia is absolutely in a position to decide for her- 
 self. And of course, she would also have the right 
 
236 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 to leave me — whenever and howsoever it might please 
 her to do so. For that reason you must pardon me 
 if I find the object of your visit incomprehensible, 
 to say the least. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 You'll soon find it comprehensible, I think. The dis- 
 couraging attitude of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg proves 
 nothing at all in this connection, I must say. As long 
 as Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has not been set free by 
 you — even if that be done against her own will — 
 she is, in a sense, bound to you. To get this matter 
 fuUy cleared up, it seems to me necessary that you 
 yourself, my dear Master, insist on a divorce. Mrs. 
 Adams-Ortenburg wiH not be in a position to choose 
 freely until she has been divorced from you. Until 
 then the struggle between us two will not be on equal 
 terms — as, I trust, you would like to have it. 
 
 AMADEtrS 
 
 There can be no talk of any struggle here. You mis- 
 understand the actual state of affairs in a manner 
 that seems to me incomprehensible. For I have no 
 right to suppose that Cecilia has made any secret 
 of the more deep-lying reasons that have so far pre- 
 vented us from considering a dissolution of our mar- 
 riage. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Certainly, I am aware of those reasons, but to me 
 they don't by any means seem sufficiently pressing — 
 not even from your own viewpoint — to exclude all 
 thought of a divorce. And I am anxious to assure 
 you that, under all circumstances, I shall feel bound 
 to treat those reasons with the most profound re- 
 spect. 
 
ACT in] INTERMEZZO 237 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 SIGISMTTND 
 
 You know, my dear Master, that the reverence I have 
 for your art, even if I am not always capable of 
 grasping it, equals the admiration I feel for the 
 singing of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg. I know how 
 much you two mutually owe to each other, and how 
 you — ^if I may say so — complement each other 
 musically. And it would never occur to me to put 
 any difficulties whatsoever in the way of your 
 continued artistic relationship. I am equally aware 
 of the tenderness with which you regard your child 
 — for whom, by the way, as you probably know, I 
 have a great deal of devotion — and I can give you 
 my word that the doors leading to the quarters of 
 little Peter will always stand open to you. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 In other words, you would have no objection to see- 
 ing the former husband of your — of the wife — of 
 the Princess Lohsenstein, admitted to your house as 
 a friend? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Any such objection would be regarded by me as an 
 insult to your — to my — to Mrs. Cecilia Adams-Or- 
 tenburg, as well as to you, my dear Master. With 
 those provisions made, the new arrangement, which 
 I am taking the liberty to suggest, would be more 
 sensible and — ^if you'll allow me a frank expression — 
 more decent than the one to which all of us now have 
 to submit. I am convinced, my dear Master, that, 
 when you have had chance to consider the matter 
 calmly, you will not only agree with me, but you wiU 
 
238 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 be surprised that this simple solution of an unbear- 
 able situation has not occurred to yourself long ago. 
 As for me, I want to add that, to me personally, this 
 solution seems the only possible one. Yes, I don't 
 hesitate to say that I would leave the city, without 
 hope of ever seeing Mrs. Cecilia again, rather than 
 keep on compromising her in a manner that must be 
 equally painful to all of us. 
 
 AIHADEUS 
 
 Oh, has it come to that all at once? Well, if the 
 matter doesn't trouble Cecilia or me, I think yov, 
 might well regard it with indifference. I hope you 
 know that we have arranged our life to suit ourselves, 
 without the least regard for popular gossip, and 
 that I don't care at all whether or no Ceciha be com- 
 promised — as you call it. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 I know you don't. But I feel differently. A lady 
 to whom I'm so devoted, and whom I respect so 
 highly that I would lead her to the altar, must ap- 
 pear spotless to God and man alike. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You might have kept that in mind before. Your 
 previous behavior has given no indication of such a 
 view. You have been waiting for my wife in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of the opera; you have been walk- 
 ing with her for hours at a time; you have visited 
 her in the country; you have followed her to Berlin 
 and come back here in her company . . . 
 
 SIGISMUND {^surprised) 
 
 But it was in your power to stop all those things, if 
 they didn't suit you . . • 
 
ACT in] INTERMEZZO 
 
 AMADETTS 
 
 Stop them . . . because they didn't suit . . . ? 
 What has that to do with what I am talking of? — I 
 am not the person who has found this situation un- 
 bearable and compromising. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Oh, I understand. Considering, however, that you 
 have placed such emphasis on your indifference to 
 popular gossip, I must say that your tone sounds 
 pretty excited. But permit me to assure you that 
 this impresses me rather pleasantly. Bear in mind 
 that I am merely human. What young man in my 
 place would have refrained from meeting the adored 
 one, when everything was rendered so easy for him.'' 
 And nevertheless I didn't visit the Pustertal or make 
 the tour to Berhn without an inward struggle — in 
 fact, I have often had to struggle with myself while 
 waiting for her near the opera. And I cannot tell 
 you how I have suffered under the searching glances 
 directed at Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg and myself when 
 we were having supper together after one of the Ber- 
 lin performances, for instance, or when we went for 
 an afternoon drive in the Tiergarten.^ Not to speak 
 of the painful impression my aunt's remarks made 
 on me when I called to bid her good-by! Really, I 
 can't find words to express it. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 How much longer do you mean to keep up this re- 
 markable comedy, my dear Prince? 
 SIGISMUND {drawing back) 
 Do you mean . . . 
 
 ' A large park in the center of Berlin, corresponding to the 
 Central Park of New York or the Hyde Park of London. 
 
240 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What in the world makes you appear before me in a 
 part which I don't know whether to call tasteless or 
 foolhardy? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Sir! . . . Oh . . . ! You think ... I see now 
 . . . And you imagine that I would have crossed 
 your threshold again under such circumstances.'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why should that particular thing not be imagined.? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Later on we shall get back to what you think of me. 
 But a third person is concerned in this matter, and 
 I am not going to stand . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 May I ask whether you have been equally angry 
 with everyone who has dared to question the virtue 
 of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 You are at least the first one who has dared to 
 question it to my face, and the last one who may 
 dare to do so unpunished. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Do you think the punishment threatening the im- 
 pertinent one in your mind will be apt to restore the 
 reputation of Cecilia? Do you think it would put 
 an end to the gossip if you, of all people, tried to 
 champion the honor of Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Who could, if not I? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If it is not a comedy you are now playing, then you 
 haven't the right even! 
 
ACT ra] INTERMEZZO 241 
 
 8IGISMUND 
 
 Do you mean to say that Cecilia is the only woman 
 in the world who must stand unprotected against amy 
 slander? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If you are telling the truth, Prince Sigismund, then 
 there is only one person in the world who has the 
 right to protect Cecilia, and that person am I. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Considering what has happened, I have excellent rea- 
 son to think that you will neither avail yourself of 
 that right nor fulfill that duty. 
 
 amadeus 
 
 You are mistaken. And if you wUl take the trouble 
 of returning home, you wiU soon be convinced of 
 your mistake. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 I mean simply that two of my friends are now on 
 their way to your house on my behalf . . . 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 WeU . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 To demand reparation for what . . . (looking 
 Sigismund straight in the eye) I beheved you guilty 
 of. 
 
 SIGISMUND (takes a step hack; a pause ensues during 
 which they stare hard at each other) You have 
 challenged . . . (^Reaching out his hand) That's 
 fine! 
 
 AMADEUS i^does not accept the proffered hand) 
 
242 INTERMEZZO [act d 
 
 SIGISMTTND 
 
 But it's splendid! I can assure you that the whoL 
 matter now assumes quite a different aspect. And 
 of course, I shall be at your disposal just the same 
 if you insist. 
 AMADETJS {draws a deep breath, looks long at Sigis 
 mund, and shakes his head at last) No, I won'1 
 any longer. (^He shakes hands with him, and the% 
 begins walking to and fro, muttering to himself] 
 Cecilia . . . Cecilia . . . ! (Returning to Sigis 
 mund and addressing him in a totally different tone] 
 Won't you please be seated, Sigismund ? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 No, thank you. 
 AMADETJS (feeling repelled and suspicious again) 
 Just as you please. 
 
 SIGISMTTND 
 
 Don't misunderstand me, please. But I suppose this 
 ends our conference, my dear Master. (^Looking 
 around) And yet I must admit that your rude treat- 
 ment has made me feel a great deal more at ease, 
 Isn't that strange? And in spite of the fact that, 
 after this unexpected turn, my hopes must be held 
 practically — I beg your pardon! — completely dis- 
 posed of ... In spite of this I feel actually in much 
 better spirits than I have done for a long time. Even 
 if I am not to have the happiness of which I have 
 foolishly dared to dream so long . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Was it so very foolish? 
 SIGISMUND (good-humoredlt/) 
 
 Oh, yes. But this is at least an acceptable con- 
 clusion. (Shaking his head) It seems queer! If 1 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 243 
 
 hadn't come here at this very moment, you might 
 never have learned — you might never have believed — 
 might have believed that Cecilia . . . And one of 
 us might perhaps — ^must perhaps have . . . (^He 
 makes a gesture to complete the sentence) 
 
 AMADEITS 
 
 It was indeed a strange coincidence that made you 
 choose this particular moment . . . 
 
 8IGISMUND 
 
 Coincidence, you say? Oh, no, there are no coinci- 
 dences — as you will discover sooner or later. {Pause) 
 Well, good-by then, and give my regards to Mrs. 
 . . . Adams . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 You can safely call her Cecilia. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 . . . and tell her, please, that she mustn't be angry 
 with me for having taken such a step without her 
 knowledge. Of course, my going away won't sur- 
 prise her. When leaving her yesterday, I told her 
 that I couldn't continue this kind of existence. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And she . . . ? What did she say.? 
 
 SIGISMUND {hesitatingly) 
 She . . . 
 
 AMADEUS (excited again) 
 
 She tried to keep you here , . . ? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Yes. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 So that after all , . , ! 
 
INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Now she won't try any longer, my dear Master. 
 {With a wistftd smile) I have served my purpose. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What do yon mean? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Oh, I can see now why she needed me — of course, you 
 were not at all aware of it! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Why did ^he need you? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Simply and solely as a means of winning you back. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What makes you think . . . ? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 What . . . ? That she has succeeded. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, Sigismund — she hadn't lost me — ^in spite of all 
 that had happened. In fact, I feel as if I had rather 
 lost her than she — me. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 That's awfully kind of you. But now — God be with 
 you! 
 AMADEUS (with something like emotion) 
 And when shall we see you again? 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 I don't know. Perhaps never. — Please don't im- 
 agine that I might take my own life. I shall get over 
 it, being still young. — Oh, my dear Master, if things 
 could only become what they used to be, so that I 
 could sit here at the fireplace while Cecilia was sing- 
 ing — or hammer away at the piano after sup- 
 per . . . ! 
 
ACT ni] INTERMEZZO 246 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't be quite so modest, please ! The fame of your 
 piano playing has reached Berlin even, I hear. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 So she has told you that, too?! — But you see, dear 
 Master, all that can never come back — we could no 
 longer feel at ease with each other . . . So — ^never 
 to meet again! 
 
 AMABEUS 
 
 Never . . . Why? Perhaps I shall see you very soon 
 alone. I am also — going away. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 I know. We were talking of it yesterday, in the din- 
 ing car. You are to conduct your — ^number-which- 
 one is it now? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 The fourth. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 So you have got tha,t far already? — ^And where are 
 you going anyhow? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 To the Rhine district first of all; then by way of 
 Munich to Italy — ^Venice, Milan, Rome. 
 
 SIGISMUND 
 
 Rome . . . ? There we may possibly meet. But 
 you'll have to pardon me for not coming to your con- 
 certs. So far I have not been able to understand 
 your symphonies. . . . But I am sure I shall some- 
 time ! One does grow more and more clever, and sor- 
 row and experiences in particular have a maturing 
 influence. . . . "Now he's making fun of it," I sup- 
 pose you are thinking. But, reaUy, I am not in a 
 very humorous mood, Farewell, my dear Master — 
 
INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 and my most respectful compliments to your wife. 
 (^He goes out) 
 
 AMADEus (walks back and forth; takes a few deep 
 breaths, as if relieved; goes out into the garden; re- 
 turns; sits down at the piano amd plays a few im- 
 provisations; gets up and goes to the writing desk, 
 where he begins to look for something among the 
 papers') Where's that Solo? . . . She's going to 
 sing it, and I shall be present . . . ! (He seats him- 
 self at the piano again, apparently in a very happy 
 mood) Cecilia! . . . Cecilia! 
 
 CECILIA (enters) 
 
 AMADEUS (rismg) 
 
 Ah, there you are at last, Cecilia ! 
 
 CECELIA (very calmly) 
 Good-morning, Amadeui. 
 
 AMADEtrS 
 
 A little late. 
 CECILIA (smiling) 
 
 Yes. (She takes off her hat and goes to the mirror 
 to arrange her hair) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What made you get out so early? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Various things I had to attend to. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And may one ask . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 One may. — ^Look here, what I have got for you. 
 (She takes a letter from a small bag) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What's that? (He takes it) What . . . ? My let- 
 ter to Philine . . . ! Did you go to her, Cecilia? 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO Ml 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, I felt a little nervous about it. Now I think it 
 was rather siUy of me. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And how . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Oh, the simplest thing in the world ! I asked her for 
 it, and she gave it to me. It was lying in an open 
 drawer in her writing desk — ^with others. I think 
 you can call yourself lucky. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia! {He tears the letter to pieces and throws 
 these into the fireplace) 
 
 CECILIA / 
 
 Well, you would never have made up your mind to 
 demand it of her, and that would have kept me in a 
 state of irritation. I can't have anything like that 
 on my mind when I want to work. — ^And now that's 
 settled. {She turns away) Then I went to the 
 opera, too. I have had a talk with the Director. 
 He's going to indorse my request to be set free. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Your request to be set free . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Yes, I shall go to Berlin on the first of January. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But, Cecilia, we haven't talked it over yet . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What's the use of postponing a thing that's already 
 settled in my own mindi* — You know I never like to 
 do that. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But it means a whole year of separation ! 
 
248 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 To start with. But I think it might be just as well 
 to prepare ourselves for a still longer period. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Do you mean to leave me, Cecilia? ! 
 
 CECILIA , 
 
 What else can I do, Amadeus? That ought to be 
 as clear to you as it is to me. 
 
 AMADETJS 
 
 So it would have been a little while ago, Cecilia. But 
 I have come to see our future in a different light 
 . . . CeciUa . . . Sigismund has been here ! • 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Sigismund?! . . . You have talked with him? . . . 
 What did he want? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 What did he want . . . ? Your hand. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 And you refused . . . ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 He is sending you his farewell greetings through me, 
 Cecilia. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 So that's what has put you in such a good humor all 
 at once! (Pause) And if he hadn't come here? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If he hadn't come here . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Speak out, please ! 
 AMADEUS (remains silent) 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You didn't mean to ... to fight him? 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 849 
 
 AMADEtJS 
 
 I did. Albert was on his way to him at the time. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 What vanity, Amadeus ! 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 No, not vanity, Cecilia. I love you. 
 CECILIA (remains wholly unresponsive) 
 
 AMADEUS -J 
 
 You can't gueajveof course, what took place within 
 me while his words were gradually bringing home the 
 truth to me! Once more the doors of heaven have 
 been thrown open to me ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 The only thing you forget is that they must remain 
 closed to me forever. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Don't say that, Cecilia. What has happened to me 
 in the past seems so very insignificant, after all. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Insignificant, you say? — ^And if it had happened to 
 me, it would have been so significant that people 
 should have had to kill or be kiUed on that account? 
 How can you think then, that I might get over it so 
 
 easily ? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 How can I . . . ? Because you have proved it al- 
 ready. You knew just what had happened, and yet 
 you became mine again. . . . You knew that I 
 had been faithless, while you had kept your faith, 
 and yet . . . 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 You say that I have kept my faith? — No, I haven't! 
 And even if I should seem faithful to you, I have long 
 
250 INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 ago ceased to be so in my own mind. / know the de- 
 sires that have burned within me ... / know how 
 often my body has trembled and yearned in the pres- 
 ence of some man . . . And what I told you last 
 night — that I am waiting with wide-open arms, fuU 
 of longings and expectations — that's true, Amadeus 
 — no less true than it is that I am standing face to 
 face with you new. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 If that be true, what has kept you from satisfying all 
 your longings — you, who have been as free as I have ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I am a woman, Amadeus. And we seem to be like 
 that. Something makes us hesitate even when we 
 have already made up our minds. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And because you seemed guilty in your own mind, 
 you remained silent? . . . And for no other reason 
 have you left me — ^me, whose sufferings you might 
 have relieved by a single word — to believe you as 
 guilty as myself.'' 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Perhaps . . . 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And how long did you mean to let me go on believ- 
 ing that? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Until it became true, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 But there has been enough of it now, Cecilia. It 
 will never become true . . . never after this. 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 251 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 WhOTe do you get that idea, Amadeus? It is going 
 to be true. Do you think, perhaps, that all this was 
 meant as a kind of ordeal for you? Do you think I 
 was playing a childish comedy in order to punish 
 you, and that now, when you have discovered the 
 truth prematurely, I shall sink into your arms and 
 declare everything right again? Have you really 
 imagined that everything could now be forgotten, 
 and that we might resume our marriage relations at 
 the exact point where they were interrupted? How 
 can you possibly have wished that such might be the 
 case — so that our marriage would be like thousands 
 of others, where both deceive each other, and become 
 reconciled, and deceive each other again — ^just as the 
 moment's whim happens to move them? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 We have neither deceived each other, nor become 
 reconciled — ^we have been free, and have merely found 
 each other again. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Each other, you say? ... As if that were possible! 
 What is it then, that has made me seem so desirable 
 to you all at once? Not the fact that I am Cecilia — 
 oh, no ! But the fact that I seem to have come back 
 another woman. And have I really become yours 
 again? Not at all! Not unless you have grown so 
 modest all at once that you can be satisfied with a 
 happiness that might have fallen to somebody else 
 perhaps, if he had merely chanced to be on hand at 
 that particular moment. 
 AMADEUS (shrinking back) 
 
 But even if last night be sacrificed to this fixed idea 
 
252 INTERMEZZO [act ra 
 
 of yours, Cecilia — ^it is daylight now — ^we are awake 
 — and in this moment of clear light you must feel, 
 no less than I, that we love each other, Cecilia — love 
 as we have never loved before. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 This moment might prove deceptive — and I am sure it 
 would. No other moment would be more apt to prove 
 such. Do you think those many moments in which we 
 felt our tenderness gradually ebbing away — those 
 many moments when we felt the lure of other loves — 
 do you think them less worthy of consideration than 
 this one? The only thing ur^ng us together now is 
 our fear of the final leave-taking. And our feelings 
 at this moment make a pretty poor sample upon 
 which to base an eternity. I don't trust them. What 
 has happened once, may . . . nay, must repeat it- 
 self — to-morrow — or two years from now — or five 
 ... in a more indiscreet manner, perhaps, or in a 
 manner more tragical — ^but certainly in a manner to 
 be much more regretted. 
 
 AMADETTS 
 
 Oh, no — never again! Now — after what I have felt 
 and experienced lately, I can vouch for myself. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 I don't feel equally certain of myself, Amadeus. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That doesn't scare me, Cecilia, for now I'm prepared 
 to fight for you — now I'm worthy and capable of 
 fighting for you. Hereafter you shall never more 
 be left unprotected as you were in the past — ^my ten- 
 derness win guard you. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 But I don't want to be guarded! I shall no longer 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 253 
 
 permit you to guard me! And I can no more give 
 you any promises than I care to accept yours. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And if I should forgo them myself — if I should risk 
 it on a mere uncertainty? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 That's more than I dare — whether the risk concern 
 you or myself . . . more than I would risk even with 
 certainty in mind. (^Slie turns away from him) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Then I cannot possibly understand you, Cecilia. 
 What is it you want to make us pay for so dearly — 
 yes, both of us ? Is it our guilt or our happiness ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Why should either one of them be paid for.'' What's 
 the use of such a word between us.'' Neither one of 
 us has done anything that requires atonement. 
 Neither one of us has any right to reproach the other 
 one. Both of us have been free, and each one has 
 used his freedom in accordance with his own desire 
 and ability. I think nothing has happened but what 
 must happen. We have trusted each other too much 
 — or too little. We were neither made to love each 
 other faithfully forever nor to maintain a pure 
 friendship. Others have become resigned — ^I can't — 
 and you mustn't aUow yourself, Amadeus. Our ex- 
 periment has failed. Let us admit our disillusion- 
 ment. That can be borne. But I have no curiosity 
 to find how it tastes when everything comes to an end 
 in sheer loathing. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Comes to an end, you say? — But that can't be possi- 
 ble, Cecilia! It can't be possible that we should 
 
254. INTERMEZZO [act m 
 
 really leave each other — ^part from each other like 
 strangers! We are still face to* face — each of us 
 can feel the closeness of the other one — and that's 
 why you cannot yet realize what it would mean. Con- 
 sider all the things that might come into your life 
 as well as into mine during a separation of that kind 
 — so prolonged and so void of responsibility — things 
 that now have no place in your imagination even, and 
 for which there could be no reparation. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Could they be worse than what has already befallen 
 me ? Faithfulness to each other in the ordinary sense 
 matters least of all, I should think. And we could 
 probably more easily find our way back to each other 
 sometime from almost any other experience than that 
 adventure of last night, or from a moment of self- 
 deception like this one. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Find our way back, you say . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA ^ 
 
 It's also possible that, after a couple oHj^H's, we 
 won't care to do so — that everything ma^be over 
 between us to such an extent that we cannot imagine 
 it now. That's possible, I say. But if we stayed to- 
 gether now, everything would be over within the next 
 few seconds. For then we should be no better than 
 all those we have despised hitherto — the one difiFer- 
 ence being that we had arranged ourselves more com- 
 fortably than the rest. 
 
 ALBEET {entering) 
 
 I beg your pardon for coming in unannounced like 
 this, but . . . 
 
 CECILIA {withdraws toward the background) 
 
ACT ra] INTERMEZZO 255 
 
 AMADEUS {going to meet Albert) 
 
 Yes, I know — ^you didn't find the Prince — ^he has been 
 here himself. 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 What does that mean? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 That there was no reason why I should want to kill 
 him. 
 
 AliBEET 
 
 I see. — ^WeU, I'll be hanged if I haven't suspected 
 something of the kind myself! — Then I suppose 
 everything is once more in perfect order in this 
 house .'' 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Yes, in perfect order. When I return, Cecilia will be 
 in Berlin, and I shall not follow her. 
 
 AI/BEUT 
 
 What.? Then you are going to ask for a separation 
 
 c^ciL^^^Bkroaching them) 
 
 NojE^^ tI not going to ask for a separation. We'll 
 just^iparate. 
 
 ALBERT 
 
 What.!" . . . (Helooks from one to the other; pause) 
 Really I like that. Indeed, I do. I think both of 
 you are splendid — ^but especially you, Cecilia — and, 
 of course, there is nothing else left for you to do now. 
 
 PETEE {enters, carrying some of his puppets) 
 
 Papa! Mamma! I can play theater beautifully. 
 Won't you come and look? Oh, please come! 
 
 CECILIA {strokes his hair) 
 
 AMADEUS {remains standing at some distance from 
 them) 
 
256 INTERMEZZO ^ [act m 
 
 ALBEKT 
 
 Well, isn't this just like life — the life you are always 
 talking of ! This should be the moment when you had 
 to fall into each others' arms with absolute certainty, 
 if you had had the luck to be imaginatively created — 
 that is, not by me, of course. 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, the boy means too much to both of us to make 
 that possible — don't you think so, Amadeus ? 
 AMADEUs (losing control of himself after a glance at 
 Peter) AU at once to be alone in the world again^ 
 it's a thought I can hardly face ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 But we shaU be somewhere in that world, you know — 
 your child, and the mother of your child. We are 
 not parting as enemies, after all ... ( With a smile) 
 I am even ready to come here and sing that Solo of 
 yours — although we shall not be able to study it to- 
 gether. 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 It's more than I can bear . . . ! 
 
 • 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 ^v|.t«will have to be borne. We must work — both of us. 
 
 ALBEET {to Amadeus) 
 
 ^ Yes, and it remains to be seen what effect a real sor- 
 row like this may have on you. It's just what you 
 have lacked so far. I expect you'U get a lot out of 
 it. In a sense, I might almost envy you. 
 
 PETEE 
 
 What's the matter? . . . Look here, mamma, how 
 they jump about! That's the king, and this is the 
 devil. 
 
ACT in] INTERMEZZO 25T 
 
 AlBEET 
 
 Come on, sonny, and play your piece to me. But I 
 insist that the hero must either marry in the end, or 
 be carried oflF by the devil. In either case you can 
 go home quite satisfied when the curtain drops. {^He 
 goes out with Peter) 
 CECiUA {after a glance at Amadeus, starts to follow 
 them) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 Cecilia ! 
 CECILIA {turns back) 
 AMADEUS {passionately) 
 
 Why didn't you show me the door, Cecilia, when you 
 
 knew . . . ? 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 Well, did I know.? ... I have loved you, Amadeus. 
 And aU I wanted, perhaps, was that the inevitable 
 end should be worthy of our love — that we should 
 part after a final moment of bliss, and with a pang. 
 
 AMADEII'^'' .. , 
 
 With a pang, you say . . . ? Do you reaUy feel 
 anything like that? 
 
 CECILIA {coming close to him and speaking very gently) 
 Why don't you try to understand me, Amadeus.'' I 
 feel it just as keenly as you do. But there is an- 
 other thing I feel more strongly than you, and it is 
 well for us both that I do. It is this, Amadeus, that 
 we have been so much to each other that we must 
 keep the memory of it pure. If that was nothing 
 but an adventure last night, then we have never been 
 worthy of our past happiness. ... If it was a fare- 
 well, then we may expect new happiness in the fu- 
 
258 INTERMEZZO [act in 
 
 ture . . . perhaps . • . {She starts toward the 
 garden) 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 And that's our reward, then, for having always been 
 honest to each other ! 
 CECii/iA (turning toward him again) 
 
 Honest, you call it . . . ? Have we always been 
 that? 
 
 AMADEUS 
 
 CeciHa ! 
 
 CECILIA 
 
 No, I can't think so any longer. Let everything else 
 have been honest — but that both of us should have 
 resigned ourselves so promptly when you told me 
 of your passion for the Countess and I confessed 
 my affection for Sigismund — that was not honest. 
 If each of us had then flung his scorn, his bitter- 
 ness, his despair into the face of the other one, in- 
 stead of trying to appear self-controlled and su- 
 perior — then we should have been honest — which, 
 as it was, we were not. (She walks across the ve- 
 randa outside and disappears into the garden) 
 AMADEUS (to himself) 
 
 All right — then we were not honest. (After a pause) 
 And suppose we had been?! (For a moment he 
 seems to consider; then he goes to the writing desk 
 and puts the manuscript music lying there into the 
 little handbag; after a glance into the garden, he 
 goes into his own room, returning at once with his 
 hat and overcoat; then he opens the handbag again 
 and picks out a manuscript, which he places on the 
 piano; then he goes out rapidly, taking hat, over- 
 coat and handbag with him; a brief pause follows) 
 
ACT m] INTERMEZZO 259 
 
 CECILIA {enters and notices that the handbag is gone; 
 she goes quickly into Amadeus' room, hut returns 
 immediately; she crosses the room to the maim, en- 
 trance and remains standing there, opening her arms 
 widely at first, and then letting them sink down 
 again; going to the piano, she catches sight of the 
 manuscript lying there and picks it up; while look- 
 ing at it, she sinks down on the piano stool) 
 
 PETEE {appears on the veranda with Albert and calls 
 from there) Mother! 
 
 CECILIA (does not hear him) 
 
 ALBEST (observing that Cecilia is alone and sunk in 
 grief, takes Peter with him into the garden again) 
 
 CECILIA (begins to weep softly and lets her head sink 
 down on the piamo) 
 
 CUBTAIN 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FAMILY REUNION 
 
 (Komtesse Mizzi oder der Familientag) 
 
 A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 
 
 1907 
 
^^,^,^ PERSONS 
 
 Count Arpad Pazmandy 
 
 MizziE His daughter 
 
 Peince Egon Ravenstein 
 LoLO Langhuber 
 Philip 
 
 ' Pbopessoe Windhoeee 
 Wasner 
 The Gardenee 
 The Valet 
 
 lXrk> 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 The garden of Count Arpad. In the hachgrownd, 
 tall iron fence. Near the middle of this, hut a little 
 more to the right, there is a gate. In the foreground, 
 at the left, appears the facade of the two-storied villa, 
 which used to he ah imperial hunting lodge about 180 
 years ago and was remodeled ahout thirty years ago. 
 A narrow terrace runs along the main floor, which is 
 raised above the grov/nd. Three wide stairs lead from 
 the terrace down to the garden. French doors, which 
 are standing open, lead from the terrace into the draw- 
 ing-room. The windows of the upper floor are of ordi- 
 nary design. Above that floor appears a small bal- 
 cony, to which access is had through a dormer window. 
 This balcony holds a profusion of flowering plants. 
 A garden seat, a small table and an armchair stand 
 tmder a tree at the right, in the foregrownd. 
 
 COUNT {enters from the right; he is an elderly man 
 with gray mustaches, but must stiU, he counted de- 
 cidedly good-looking; his hearing and manners in- 
 dicate the retired officer; he wears a riding suit and 
 carries a crop) 
 
 VALET (entering behind the Coumt) 
 
 At what time does Your Grace desire to have dinner 
 to-day? 
 
 COUNT (who speaks with the lacordsm affected by his 
 
264- COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 former colleagues, and mho, at that particular mo- 
 ment, is engaged in lighting a huge cigar) At two. 
 
 VAUJT 
 
 And when is the carriage to be ready, Your Grace? 
 MizziB ^ (appearing on the balcony with a palette and 
 a hvMch of brushes in one hand, calls dozen to her 
 father) Good morning, papa. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Morning, Mizzie. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You left me all alone for breakfast again, papa. 
 Where have you been anyhow? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Most everywhere. Rode out by way of Mauer and 
 Rodaun.^ Perfectly splendid day. And what are 
 you doing? At work already? Is there anything 
 new to be seen soon? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes, indeed, papa. Nothing but flowers though, as 
 usual. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Isn't the professor coming to see you to-day? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes, but not until one. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, don't let me interrupt you. 
 
 'Diminutive of Maria. 
 
 ' Small towns south of Vienna. The subsequent reference to the 
 Tiergarten shows that the Pazmandy residence must be in the 
 little suburb of Lainz, at the extreme southwestern corner of 
 Vienna. Near the Tiergarten there is actually an imperial hunt- 
 ing lodge, which the playwright seems to have appropriated for 
 his purpose. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 265 
 
 MizziE {throws a kiss to htm and disappears from the 
 balcony) 
 
 COUNT {to the valet) 
 
 What are you waiting for? Oh, the carriage. I'm 
 not going out again to-day. Joseph can take a holi- 
 day. Or wait a moment. {He calls up to the bal- 
 cony) Say, Mizzie . . . 
 
 MIZZIE {reappears on the balcony) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Sorry to disturb you again. Do you think you'll 
 want the carriage to-day? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 No, thank you, papa. I can think of nothing. . . . 
 No, thanks. {She disappears again) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 So Joseph can do what he pleases this afternoon. 
 That's — oh, see that Franz gives the nag a good 
 rubbing down. We got a little excited this morning 
 — ^both of us. 
 
 VALET {goes out) 
 
 COUNT {sits down on the garden seat, picks up a news- 
 paper from the table and begins to read) 
 
 GARDENEE {enters) 
 
 Good morning. Your Grace. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Morning, Peter. What's up? 
 
 GAEDENEE 
 
 With Your Grace's permission, I have just cut the 
 tea roses. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why all that lot? 
 
 GAEDENEE 
 
 The bush is full up. It ain't wise, Your Grace, to 
 
266 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 leave 'em on the stem much longer. If maybe Your 
 Grace could find some use . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Haven't got any. Why do you stand there looking 
 at me? I'm not going to the city, I won't need any 
 flowers. Why don't you put them in some of those 
 vases and things that are standing about in there? 
 Quite the fashion nowadays, isn't it? (He takes 
 the bunch of flowers from the gardener and whales 
 their fragrance while he seems to he pondering some- 
 thing) Wasn't that a carriage that stopped here? 
 
 GARDENEE 
 
 That's His Highness' pair of blacks. I know 'em by 
 their step. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Thanks very much then. (^He hands hack the roses) 
 FKiNCE {comes in by the gate) 
 COUNT (goes to meet him) 
 
 GAKDENEK 
 
 Good morning, Your Highnesg. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Hello, Peter. 
 
 GAKDENER {goes out toward the right) 
 
 paiNCE (wears a light-colored Summer suit; is flfty- 
 flme, hut doesn't looh it; tall and slender; his manner 
 of speech suggests the diplomat, who is as much at 
 home in French as in his native tongue) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Delighted, old chap. How goes it? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Thanks. Splendid day. 
 COUNT (offers him one of his gigantic cigars) 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 267 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 No, thank you, not before lunch. Only one of my 
 own cigarettes, if you permit. {^He takes a ciga- 
 rette from his case and lights it) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 So you've found time to drop in at last. Do you 
 know how long you haven't been here.? Three weeks. 
 PRINCE (glancing toward the balcony) 
 Really that long? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What is it that makes you so scarce? 
 
 PBINCE 
 
 You mustn't mind. But you are right, of course. 
 And even to-day I come only to say good-by. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What — ^good-by ? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I shall be off to-morrow. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You're going away? Where? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 The sea shore. And you — ^have you made any plans 
 
 yet? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 I haven't given a thought to it yet — this year. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Well, of course, it's wonderful right here — ^with your 
 enormous park. But you have to go somewhere later 
 in the Summer? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Don't know yet. But it's all one. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 What's wrong now? 
 
268 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, my dear old friend, it's going downhill. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 How? That's a funny way of talking, Arpad. What 
 do you mean by downhill? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 One grows old, Egon. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Yes, and gets accustomed to it. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What do you know about it — you who are five years 
 younger? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Six almost. But at fifty-five the springtime of life 
 is pretty well over. Well — one gets resigned to it. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You have always been something of a philosopher, 
 old chap. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Anyhow, I can't see what's the matter with you. 
 You look fine. (Seats himself; irequently during 
 this scene he fflances up at the balcony; pause) 
 COUNT (with sudden decision) 
 
 Have you heard the latest? She's going to marry. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Who's going to marry? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Do you have to ask? Can't you guess? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Oh, I see. Thought it might be Mizzie. And that 
 would also ... So Lolo is going to marry. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 She is. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 269 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 But that's hardly the "latest." 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why not? 
 
 PK.INCE 
 
 It's what she has promised, or threatened, or what- 
 ever you choose to call it, these last three years. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Three, you say.? May just as well say ten. Or 
 eighteen. Yes, indeed. In fact, since the very start 
 of this affair between her and me. It has always 
 been a fixed idea with her. "If ever a decent man 
 asks me to marry him, I'll get off the stage stante 
 pede." It was almost the first thing she told me. 
 You have heard it yourself a couple of times. And 
 now he's come — ^the one she has been waiting for — 
 and she's to get married. 
 
 PK.INCE 
 
 Hope he's decent at least. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes, you're very witty! But is that your only way 
 of showing sympathy in a serious moment like this? 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Now! (He puts his hcmd on the Cownt's arm) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, I assure you, it's a serious moment. It's no 
 small matter when you have lived twenty years with 
 somebody — in a wear-marital state; when you have 
 been spending your best years with her, and really 
 shared her joys and sorrows — until you have come 
 to think at last, that it's never going to end — and 
 then she comes to you one fine day and says : "God 
 bless you, dear, but I'm going to get wedded on the 
 
270 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 sixteenth ..." Oh, damn the whole story ! {He 
 gets up and begins to walk about) And I can't 
 blame her even. Because I understand perfectly. So 
 what can you do about it ? 
 
 PMNCE 
 
 You've always been much too kind, Arpad. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Nothing kind about it. Why shouldn't I under- 
 stand.-' The clock has struck thirty-eight for her. 
 And she has said adieu to her profession. So that 
 anybody can sympathize with her feeling that there 
 is no fun to go on as a ballet dancer retired on half 
 pay and mistress on active service to Count Paz- 
 mandy, who'll be nothing but an old fool either, as 
 time runs along. Of course, I have been prepared 
 for it. And I haven't blamed her a bit — ^'pon my 
 soul! 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 So you have parted as perfect friends .'' 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Certainly. In fact, our leave-taking was quite jolly. 
 'Pon my soul, I never suspected at first how tough 
 it would prove. It's only by degrees it has come 
 home to me. And that's quite a remarkable story, 
 I must say ... 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 What's remarkable about it? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 I suppose I had better tell you all about it. On my 
 way home that last time — one night last week — I 
 had a feeling all of a sudden — ^I don't know how to 
 express it . . . tremendously relieved, that's what I 
 felt. Now you are a free man, I said to myself. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 271 
 
 Don't have to drive to Mayerhof Street ^ every night 
 God grants you, merely to dine and chatter with 
 Lolo, or just sit there listening to her. Had come 
 to be pretty boresome at times, you know. And 
 then the drive home in the middle of the night, and, 
 on top of it, to be called to account when you hap- 
 pened to be dining with a friend in the Casino or 
 taking your daughter to the opera or a theater. To 
 cut it short — I was in high feather going home that 
 night. My head was full of plans already. . . . No, 
 nothing of the kind you have in mind! But plans 
 for traveling, as I have long wanted to do — to 
 Africa, or India, like a free man . . . That is, I 
 should have brought my little girl along, of course. 
 . . . Yes, you may well laugh at my palling her a 
 little girl stiU. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Nothing of the kind. Mizzie looks exactly hke a 
 young girl. Like quite a young one. Especially in 
 that Florentine straw hat she was wearing a while 
 ago. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Like a young girl, you say ! And yet she's exactly 
 of an age with Lolo. You know, of course! Yes, 
 we're growing old, Egon. Every one of us. Oh, 
 yes . . . And lonely. But really, I didn't notice it 
 to begin with. It was only by degrees it got hold of 
 me. The first days after that farewell feast were 
 not so very bad. But the day before yesterday, and 
 yesterday, as the time approached when I used to 
 
 'A street in the district of Wieden, near one of the principal 
 shopping districts and leading to the great Theresian Riding 
 Academy. 
 
272 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 start for Mayerhof Street . . . And when Peter 
 brought in those roses a moment ago — for Lolo, of 
 course — why, then it seemed pretty plain to me that 
 I had become a widower for the second time in my 
 life. Yes, my dear fellow. And this time forever. 
 Now comes the loneliness. It has come already. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 But that's nonsense — ^loneliness ! 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Pardon me, but you can't understand. Your way of 
 living has been so different from mine. You have 
 not let yourself be dragged into anything new since 
 your poor wife died ten years ago. Into nothing 
 of a serious nature, I mean. And besides, you have 
 a profession, in a sense. 
 pansrcE 
 Have I? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, as a member of the Upper House. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Oh, I see. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And twice you have almost been put into the cabinet. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Yes, almost. . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Who knows? Perhaps you will break in some time. 
 And I'm all done. Had myself retired three years 
 ago in the bargain — ^hke a fool. 
 
 paiNCE (with a smile) 
 
 That's why you are a free man now. Perfectly free. 
 With the world open before you. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 27S 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And no desire to do a thing, old man. That's the 
 whole story. Since that time I haven't gone to the 
 Casino even. Do you know what I have been doing 
 the last few nights ? I have sat under that tree with 
 Mizzie — playing domino. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Well, don't you see.'' That's not to be lonely. When 
 you have a daughter, and particularly such a sensi- 
 ble one, with whom you haVe always got on so well 
 . . . What does she say about your staying at home 
 nights anyhoV.'' 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Nothing. Besides, it has happened before, quite 
 frequently. She says nothing at all. And what 
 could she say? It seems to me she has never noticed 
 anything. • Do you think she can have known about 
 Lolo.f 
 
 PEiNCE (laughmg) 
 Man aUve! 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Of course. Yes, I know. Of course, she must have 
 known. But then, I was still almost a young man 
 when her mother died. I hope it hasn't hurt her 
 feelings. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 No, that wouldn't. (Casually) But being left so 
 much alone may have troubled her at times, I should 
 think. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Has she complained of me? There's no reason why 
 you shouldn't tell me. 
 
274. COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I am not in her confidence. She has never com- 
 plained to me. And, heavens, it may never have 
 troubled her at all. She has so long been accustomed 
 to this quiet, retired life. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes, and she seems to have a taste for it, too. And 
 then she used to go out a good deal until a few years 
 ago. Between you and me, Egon, as late as three 
 years ago — ^no, two years ago- — I still thought she 
 might make the plunge after all. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 What plunge? Oh, I see . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 If you could only guess what kind of men have been 
 paying attention to her quite recently . . . 
 paiNCB 
 
 That's only natural. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 But she won't. She absolutely won't. What I mean 
 is, that she can't be feeling so very lonely . . . 
 otherwise she would ... as sLe has had plenty of 
 opportunity . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Certainly. It's her own choice. And then Mizzie 
 has an additional resource in her painting. It's a 
 case like that of my blessed aunt, the late Fanny 
 Hohenstein, who went on writing books to a vener- 
 able old age and never wanted to hear a word about 
 marriage. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 It may have some connection with her artistic as- 
 pirations. At times I'm inclined to look for some 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 275 
 
 psychological connection between all these morbid 
 tendencies. 
 
 FEINCE 
 
 i Morbid, you say? But you can't possibly call Miz- 
 zie morbid. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, it's all over now. But there was a time . , , 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I have always found Mizzie very sensible and very 
 well balanced. After all, painting roses and violets 
 doesn't prove a person morbid by any means. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You don't think me such a fool that her violets and 
 roses could make me believe . . . But if you remem- 
 ber when she was stiU a young girl . 
 
 PE.INCE 
 
 What then? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, that story at the time Fedor Wangenheim 
 wanted to marry her, 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 O Lord, are you still thinking of that? Besides, 
 there was no truth in it. And that was eighteen or 
 twenty years ago almost. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Her wanting to join the Ursuline Sisters rather 
 than marry that nice young fellow, to whom she was 
 as good as engaged already — and then up and away 
 from home all at once — you might call that morbid, 
 don't you think? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 What has put you in mind of that ancient story to- 
 day? 
 
276 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Ancient, you say? I feel as if it happened last year 
 only. It was at the very time when my own affair 
 with Lolo had just begun. Ah, harking back like 
 that . . . ! And if anybody had foretold me at the 
 time . . . ! You know, it really began like any 
 ordinary adventure. In the same reckless, crazy 
 way. Yes, crazy — that's it. Not that I want to 
 make myself out worse than I am, but it was lucky 
 for all of us that my poor wife had already been 
 dead a couple of years. Lolo seemed . . . my fate. 
 Mistress and wife at the same time. Because she's 
 such a wonderful cook, you know. And the way 
 she makes you comfortable. And always in good 
 humor — never a cross word . . . Well, it's all over. 
 Don't let us talk of it . . . (Pause) Tell me, won't 
 you stay for lunch.'' And I must call Mizzie. 
 PEiNCE {checking him) 
 
 Wait — I have something to tell you. {Casually, al- 
 most facetiously) I want you to be prepared. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why? For what? 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 There is a young man coming here to be introduced. 
 
 COUNT {astonished) 
 What? A young man? 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 If you have no objection. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why should I object? But who is he? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Dear Arpad — ^he's my son. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 277 
 
 7%-^ '■ 
 
 COUNT {greatly surprised) 
 What? 
 
 PEINCB 
 
 Yes, my son. You see, I didn't want — as I'm going , 
 away . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yoiy: son? You've got a son? 
 
 PB.1NCB 
 
 I have. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, did you ever . . . ! You have got a young 
 man who is your son — or rather, you have got a 
 son who is a young man. How old? 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Seventeen. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Seventeen! And you haven't told me before! No, 
 Egon . . . Egon! And tell me . . . seventeen 
 . . . ? My dear chap, then your wife was still 
 alive . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Yes, my wife was still alive at the time. You see, 
 Arpad, one gets mixed up in all sorts of strange 
 affairs. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 'Pon my soul, so it seems ! 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 And thus, one fine day, you find yourself having a 
 son of seventeen with whom you go traveling. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 So it's with him you are going away? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I am taking that liberty. 
 
278 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 COUNT 
 
 No, I couldn't possibly tell you . . . Why, he has 
 got a son of seventeen! . . . {^Suddenly he grasps 
 the hand of the Prince, and then puts his arms 
 about him) And if I may ask . . . the mother of 
 that young gentleman, your son . . . how it hap- 
 pens ... as you have started telling me . . . 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 She's dead long ago. Died a couple of weeks after 
 he was born. A mere slip of a girl. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Of the common people? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Oh, of course. But a charming creature. I may as 
 well tell you everything about it. That is, as far 
 as I can recall it myself. The whole story seems 
 like a dream. And if it were not for the boy . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And all that you tell me only now ! To-day only — 
 just before the boy is coming here! 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 You never can tell how a thing like that may be re- 
 ceived. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Tut, tut! Received, you say . . . ? Did you be- 
 lieve perhaps . . . I'm something of a philosopher 
 myself, after all. . . . And you call yourself a 
 friend of mine! 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Not a soul has known it — not a single soul in the 
 whole world. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 279 
 
 COUNT 
 
 But you might have told me. Really, I don't see 
 how you could . . . Come now, it wasn't quite nice. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I wanted to wait and see how the boy developed. 
 You never can tell . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Of course, with a mixed pedigree Hke that . . . But 
 you seem reassured now? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Oh, yes, he's a fine fellow. 
 COUNT {embracing him again) 
 
 And where has he been living until now.'' 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 His earhest years were spent a good way from 
 Vienna — in the Tirol. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 With peasants? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 No, with a small landowner. Then hie went to school 
 for some time at Innsbruck. And during the last 
 few years I have been sending him to the prepara- 
 tory school at Krems.^ 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And you have seen him frequently? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Of course. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And what's his idea of it anyhow? 
 
 ^ Innsbruck is the capital of the province of Tirol. Krems is a 
 small city on the Donau, not so very far from Vienna, having a 
 fine high school or "gymnasium." The idea is, of course, that as 
 the boy grew up, his father became more and more interested and 
 wanted to have him within easier reach. 
 
280 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Up to a few days ago he thought that he had lost 
 both his parents — ^his father as well — and that I 
 was a friend of his dead father. 
 MIZZIE {appearing on the balcony) 
 Good morning, Prince Egon. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Good morning, Mizzie. 
 
 COITNT 
 
 Well, won't you come down a while? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Oh, if I am not in the way . . . (She disappears) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And what are we going to say to Mizzie? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I prefer to leave that to you, of course. But as I 
 am adopting the boy anyhow, and as a special de- 
 cree by His Majesty will probably enable him to 
 assume my name in a few days . . . 
 COUNT (surprised) 
 What? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 ... I think it would be wiser to tell Mizzie the 
 truth at once. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Certainly, certainly — and why shouldn't we? See- 
 ing that you are adopting him . . . It's really 
 funny — ^but, you see, a daughter, even when she gets 
 to be an old maid, is nothing but a little girl to her 
 father. 
 MIZZIE (appears; she is thirty-seven, but still very at- 
 tractive; wears a Florentine straw hat and a white 
 dress; she gives the Count a kiss before holding out 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 281 
 
 her hand to the Prince) Well, how do you do, 
 Prince Egon? We don't see much of you these days. 
 
 PSINCE 
 
 Thank you. — Have you been very industrious? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Painting a few flowers. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why so modest, Mizzie.? (To the Prince) Professor 
 Windhofer told her recently that she could safely ex- 
 hibit. Won't have to fear comparison with Mrs. 
 Wisinger-Florian herself.-' 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 That's so, perhaps. But I have no ambition of that 
 kind. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I'm rather against exhibiting, too. It puts you at 
 the mercy of any newspaper scribbler. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Well, how about the members of the Upper House — 
 at least when they make speeches ? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And how about all of us? Is there anything into 
 which they don't poke their noses? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Yes, thanks to prevailing tendencies, there are peo- 
 ple who would blackguard your pictures merely be- 
 cause you happen to be a countess, Mizzie. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes, you're right indeed. 
 ' "Neben der Wiesinger-Florian." The name is slightly misspelt 
 in the German text. It is that of Mrs. Olga Wisinger-Florian, a 
 well-known Viennese painter of floral pieces, whose work is repre- 
 sented in many of the big galleries in Europe. She was bom in 
 1944, made her name in the early eighties, and is stiU living. 
 
282 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 VALET {entering) 
 
 Your Grace is wanted on the telephone. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Who is it? What is it about? 
 
 VALET 
 
 There is somebody who wishes to speak to Your 
 Grace personally. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You'll have to excuse me a moment. ( To the Prince, 
 in a lowered voice) Tell her now — while I am away. 
 I prefer it. {He goes out followed by the valet) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Somebody on the telephone — do you think papa can 
 have fallen into new bondage already? {She seats 
 herself) 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Into new bondage, you say? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Lolo used always to telephone about this time. But 
 it's all over with her now. You know it, don't you? 
 p:&ince 
 
 I just heard it. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And what do you think of it. Prince Egon. I am 
 rather sorry, to teU the truth. If he tries anything 
 new now, I'm sure he'll burn his fingers. And I do 
 fear there is something in the air. You see, he's 
 still too young for his years. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Yes, that's so. 
 MIZZIE {turning so that she faces the Prince) 
 
 And by the way, you haven't been here for ever so 
 long. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 283 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 You haven't missed me very much ... I fear . . . 
 Your art . . . and heaven knows what else . . . 
 
 MIZZIE (^without affectation) 
 Nevertheless . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Awfully kind of you . . . {PoMse) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 What makes you speechless to-day? Tell me some- 
 thing. Isn't there anything new in the world at 
 aU? 
 
 PEINCE (as if he had thought of it ordt/ that moment) 
 Our son has just passed his examinations for the 
 university. 
 
 MizztE (slightly perturbed) 
 
 I hope you have more interesting news to relate. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 More interesting . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Or news, at least, that concerns me more closely than 
 the career of a strange young man. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I have felt obliged, however, to keep you informed 
 about the more important stages in the career of 
 this young man. When he was about to be con- 
 firmed, I took the liberty to report the fact to 
 you. But, of course, we don't have to talk any more 
 about it. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 He pulled through, I hope? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 With honors. 
 
284 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 The stock seems to be improving. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Let us hope so. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And now the great moment is approaching, I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 What moment.? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Have you forgotten already.'' As soon as he had 
 passed his examinations, you meant to reveal your- 
 self as his father: 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 So I have done already. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You — have told him already? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I have. 
 MIZZIE (after a pause, without looking at him) 
 And his mother — ^is dead . . . ? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 She is — so far. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And forever. (Rising) 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 As you please. 
 
 \_The Count enters, followed by the valet. 
 
 VALET 
 
 But it was Your Grace who said that Joseph could 
 be free. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes, yes, it's all right. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 285 
 
 VALET igoes out) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 What's the matter, papa? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Nothing, my glil, nothing. I wanted to get some- 
 where quick — and that infernal Joseph . . If you 
 don't mind, Mizzie, I want to have a few words with 
 Egon • . . (To the Prince) Do you know, she 
 has been trying to get me before. I mean Lolo. 
 But she couldn't get the number. And now Laura 
 telephones — oh, well, that's her maid, you know — 
 that she has just started on her way here. 
 
 PalNCE 
 
 Here.'' To see you.? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes. 
 
 PfilNCE 
 
 But why? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, I think I can guess. You see, she has never put 
 her foot in this place, of course, and I have been 
 promising her all the time that she could come here 
 once to have a look at the house and the park be- 
 fore she married. Her standing grievance has al- 
 ways been that I couldn't receive her here. On ac- 
 count of Mizzie, you know. Which she has under- 
 stood perfectly well. And to sneak her in here some 
 time when Mizzie was not at home — ^well, for that kind 
 of thing I have never had any taste. And so she 
 sends me a telephone message, that the marriage is 
 set for the day after to-morrow, and that she is on 
 her, way here now. 
 
286 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Well, what of it? She is not coming here as your 
 mistress, and so I can't see that you have any rea- 
 son for embarrassment. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 But to-day of all days — and with your son due at 
 any moment. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 You can leave him to me. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 But I don't want it. I'm going to meet the carriage 
 and see if I can stop her. It makes me nervous. 
 You'll have to ask your son to excuse me for a little 
 while. Good-by, Mizzie. I'U be back right away. 
 {He goes out) 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Miss Lolo has sent word that she's coming to call, 
 and your papa doesn't like it. 
 
 MIZZIE , 
 
 What's that.? Has Lolo sent word.'' Is she coming 
 here? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Your father has been promising her a chance to look 
 over the place before she was married. And now 
 he has gone to meet the carriage in order to steer 
 her oiF. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 How childish ! And how pathetic, when you come to 
 think of it! I should really like to make her ac- 
 quaintance. Don't you think it's too silly? There 
 is my father, spending half his lifetime with a per- 
 son who is probably very attractive — and I don't 
 get a chance — don't have the right — to shake hands 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 287 
 
 with her even. Why does he object to it anyhow? 
 He ought to understand that I know all about it. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Oh, heavens, that's the way he is made. And per- 
 haps he might not have minded so much, if he were 
 not expecting another visit at this very moment . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Another visit, you say? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 For which I took the liberty to prepare him. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Who is it? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Our son. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Are you . . . bringing your son here? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 He'll be here in half an hour at the most. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I say, Prince . . . this is not a joke you're trying 
 to spring on me? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 By no means. On a departed . . . what an idea! 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Is it really true? He's coming here? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Apparently you still think that nothing but a whim 
 keeps me from having anything to do with the boy? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 A whim . . . ? No. Seeing how consistent you 
 have been in this matter, it would hardly be safe 
 
288 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 for me to call it that. And when I bear in mind 
 how you have had the strength all these years not 
 even to ask any questions about him . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 There has been nothing admirable about that, j I 
 have had the strength to do what was worse . . . 
 when I had to let him be taken away ... a week 
 after he was born . . . 
 
 PHINCE 
 
 Yes, what else could you — could we have done at 
 the time? The arrangements made by me at the 
 time, and approved by you in the end, represented 
 absolutely the most expedient thing we could do un- 
 der the circumstances. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I have never questioned their expediency. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 It was more than expedient, Mizzie. More than our 
 own fate was at stake. Others might have come to 
 grief if the truth had been revealed at the time. My 
 wife, with her weak heart, had probably never sur- 
 vived. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Oh, that weak heart . . . 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 And your father, Mizzie . . . Think of your fa- 
 ther! 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You may be sure he would have accepted the in- 
 evitable. That was the very time when he began his 
 affair with Lolo. Otherwise everything might not 
 have come off so smoothly. Otherwise he might have 
 been more concerned about me. I could never have 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 289 
 
 stayed away several months if he hadn't found it 
 very convenient at that particular moment. And 
 there was only one danger connected with the whole 
 story — that you might be shot dead by Fedor Wan- 
 genheim, my dear Prince. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Why I by him? It might have taken another turn. 
 You are not a believer in judgment by ordeal, are 
 you? And the outcome might have proved ques- 
 tionable from such a point of view even. You see, 
 we poor mortals can never be sure how things of 
 that kind are regarded up above. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You would never talk like that in the Upper House 
 — 'Supposing you ever opened your mouth during 
 one of its sessions. 
 peinCe 
 
 Possibly not. But the fundamental thing remains, 
 that no amount of honesty or daring could have 
 availed in the least at the time. It would have been 
 nothing but useless cruelty toward those nearest to 
 us. It's doubtful whether a dispensation could have 
 been obtained — and besides, the Princess would 
 never have agreed to a divorce — ^which you know as 
 well as I do. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Just as if I had cared in the least for the cere- 
 mony . . , ! 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Oh . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Not in the least. Is that new to you? Didn't I 
 tell you so at the time? Oh, you'll never guess what 
 
290 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 might . . . {her words emphasized by her glcmce) 
 what I ... of what I might have been capable at 
 that time. I would have followed you anywhere — 
 everywhere — even as your mistress. I and the child. 
 To Switzerland, to America. After all, we could 
 have lived wherever it happened to suit us. And 
 perhaps, if you had gone away, they might never 
 even have noticed your absence in the Upper House. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Yes, of course, we might have run away and settled 
 down somewhere abroad . . . But do you stiU be- 
 lieve that a situation like that would have proved 
 agreeable in the long run, or even bearable? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 No, I don't nowadays. Because, you see, I know 
 you now. But at that time I was in love with you. 
 And it is possible that I — ^might have gone on lov- 
 ing you for a long time, had you not proved too 
 cowardly to assume the responsibility for what had 
 happened . . . Yes, too much of a coward. Prince 
 Egon. 
 
 PBINCE 
 
 Whether that be the proper word . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Well, I don't know of any other. There was no hesi- 
 tation on my part. I was ready to face everything 
 — ^with joy and pride. I was ready to be a mother, 
 and to confess myself the mother of our child. And 
 you knew it, Egon. I told you so seventeen years 
 ago, in that little house in the woods where you kept 
 me hidden. But half-measures have never appealed 
 to me. I wanted to be a mother in every respect or 
 not at all. The day I had to let the boy be taken 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 291 
 
 away from me, I made up my mind never more to 
 trouble myself about him. And for that reason I 
 find it ridiculous of you to bring him here all of a 
 sudden. If you'll allow me to give you a piece of 
 good advice, you'll go and meet him, as papa has 
 gone to meet Lolo — and take him back home again. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I wouldn't dream of doing so. After what I have 
 just had to hear from you again, it seems settled 
 that his mother must remain dead. And that means 
 that I must take still better care of him. He is my 
 son in the eyes of the world too. I have adopted 
 him. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Have you . . . ? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 To-morrow he will probably be able to assume my 
 name. I shall introduce him wherever it suits me. 
 And of course, first of all to my old friend — your 
 father. If you should find the sight of him disa- 
 greeable, there will be nothing left for you but to 
 stay in your room while he is here. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 If you believe that I think your tone very appro- 
 priate . . . 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Oh, just as appropriate as your bad temper. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 My bad temper . . . ? Do I look it? Really, if 
 you please ... I have simply permitted myself to 
 find this fancy of yours in rather poor taste. 
 Otherwise my temper is just as good as ever. 
 
292 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I have no doubt of your good humor under ordi- 
 nary circumstances ... I am perfectly aware, for 
 that matter, that you have managed to become 
 reconciled to your fate. I, too, have managed to 
 submit to a fate which, in its own way, has been no 
 less painful than yours. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 In what way? To what fate have you had to sub- 
 mit ....'' Everybody can't become a cabinet min- 
 ister. Oh, I see . . . that remark must refer to 
 the fact that His Highness did me the honor ten 
 years ago, after the blissful departure of his noble 
 spouse, to apply for my hand. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 And again seven years ago, if you'll be kind enough 
 to remember. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Oh, yes, I do remember. Nor have I ever given 
 you any cause to question my good memory. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 And I hope you have never ascribed my proposals 
 to anything like a desire to expiate some kind of 
 guilt. I asked you to become my wife simply be- 
 cause of my conviction that true happiness was to 
 be found only by your side. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 True happiness ! . . . Oh, what a mistake ! 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Yes, I do believe that it was a mistake at that mo- 
 ment. Ten years ago it was probably still too early. 
 And so it was, perhaps, seven years ago. But not 
 to-day. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 29S 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes, to-day too, my dear Prince. Your fate has 
 been never to know me, never to understand me at 
 all — no more when I loved you than when I hated 
 you, and not even during the long time when I have 
 been completely indifferent toward you. ( 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I have always known you, Mizzie. I know more 
 about you than you seem able to guess. Thus, for 
 instance, I am not unfamiliar with the fact that 
 you have spent the last seventeen years in more 
 profitable pursuits than weeping over a man who, 
 in all hkelihood, was not worthy of you at the time 
 in question. I am even aware that you have chosen 
 to expose yourself to several disiUusionments subse- 
 quent to the one suffered at my hands. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 DisiUusionments, you say.? Well, for your consola- 
 tion, my dear Prince, I can assure you that some of 
 them proved very enjoyable. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 I know that, too. Otherwise I should hardly have 
 dared to call myself familiar with the history of 
 your life. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And do you think that I am not familiar with yours ? 
 Do you want me to present you with a hst of your 
 mistresses? From the wife of the Bulgarian attache 
 in 1887 down to Mademoiselle Therese Gredun — if 
 that be her real name — ^who retained the honors of 
 her office up to last Spring at least. It seems hkely 
 that I know more than you even, for I can give you 
 
294 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 a practically complete list of those with whom she 
 has deceived you. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Oh, don't, if you please. There is no real pleasure 
 
 in knowledge of that kind when you don't uncover it 
 
 yourself. 
 
 [^ carriage is heard stopping m front of the house. 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 That's he. Do you want to disappear before he 
 comes out here. J" I can detain him that long. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Don't trouble yourself, please. I prefer to stay. 
 But don't imagine that there is anything astir within 
 me. . . . This is nothing but a young man coming 
 to caU on my father. There he is now. ... As to 
 blood being thicker than water — ^I think it's nothing 
 but a fairy tale. I can't feel anything at all, my 
 dear Prince. 
 
 PHILIP {comes quickly through the main entrance; he 
 is seventeen, slender, handsome, elegant, but not fop- 
 pish; shows a charming, though somewhat boyish, 
 forwardness, not quite free from embarrassment) 
 Good morning. {He bows to Mizzie) 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Good morning, Philip. — Countess, wiU you permit 
 me to introduce my son.'' This is Countess Mizzie, 
 daughter of the old friend of mine in whose house 
 you are now. 
 PHILIP (kisses the hand offered him by Mizzie; brief 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Won't you be seated, please.'' 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 295 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Thank you, Countess. (All remam standimg) 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 You came in the carriage? Might just as well send 
 it back, as mine is here already. . 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Won't you come back with me instead, papa? You 
 see, I think Wasner does a great deal better than 
 your Franz with his team of ancients. 
 
 ItllZZIE 
 
 So Wasner has been driving you? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 The old man himself? Do you know that's a great 
 
 honor? Wasner won't take the box for everybody. 
 
 ' Up to about two years ago he used to drive my 
 
 father. 
 PHrLip 
 Oh . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 You're a little late, by the way, Philip. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, I have to beg your pardon. Overslept, you 
 1 know. (To Mizzie) I was out with some of my col- 
 i leagues last night. You may have heard that I 
 
 passed my examinations a couple of weeks ago. 
 
 Countess. That's why we rather made a night 
 
 of it.i 
 
 '" . . . Ein bissel gedraht." The term is specifically Viennese 
 and implies not only "making a night of it," but also maMng the 
 contents of that night as varied as the resources of the locality 
 will permit. 
 
a96 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You seem to have caught on to our Viennese ways 
 pretty quickly, Mister . . . 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Oh, dear Mizzie, call him Philip, please. 
 
 MIZZBB 
 
 But I think we must sit down first of all, Philip. 
 {With a glance at the Prince) Papa should be here 
 any moment now. {She and the Prince sit down) 
 PHiMP (still standing) 
 
 If you permit me to say so — I think the park is mag- 
 nificent. It is much finer than ours. 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 You are familiar with the Ravenstein park.'' 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Certainly, Countess. I have been living at Raven- 
 stein House three days already. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Is that so.'* 
 
 PBINCE 
 
 Of course, gardens cannot do as well in the city as 
 but here. Ours was probably a great deal more 
 beautiful a hundred years ago. But then our place 
 was still practically outside the city. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 It's a pity that all sorts of people have been allowed 
 to run up houses around our place like that. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 We are better off in that respect. And we shall 
 hardly live to see the town overtake us. 
 PHILIP (affably) 
 
 But why not, Countess? 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 297 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 A hundred years ago these grounds were still used 
 for hunting. The place adjoins the Tiergarten, you 
 know. Look over that wall there, Philip. And our 
 villa was a hunting lodge once, belonging to the 
 Empress Maria Theresa. The stone figure over 
 there goes back to that period. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And how old is our place, papa.? 
 PEiNCE (smiling) 
 
 Our place, sonny, dates back to the seventeenth cen- 
 tury. Didn't I show you the room in which Em- 
 peror Leopold spent a night.'' 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Emperor Leopold, 1643 to 1705. 
 MIZZIE {laughs) 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Oh, that's an echo of the examinations. When I get 
 old enough . . . (He interrupts himself) I beg 
 your pardon! What I meant to say was simply 
 — all that stuff will be out of my head in a year. 
 And, of course, when I learned those dates, I didn't 
 know Emperor Leopold had been such a good friend 
 of my own people. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You seem to think your discovery enormously funny, 
 Philip? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Discovery, you say . . . Well, frankly speaking, it 
 could hardly be called that. (He looks at the 
 Prince) 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Go on, go on ! 
 
298 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PHIXIP 
 
 Well, you see, Countess, I have always had the feel- 
 ing that I was no Philip Radeiner by birth. 
 
 MIZZIS 
 
 Radeiner? (To the Prince) Oh, that was the 
 name . . . ? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And, of course, it was very pleasant to find my sus- 
 picions confirmed — but I have really known it all 
 the time. I can put two and two together. And 
 some of the other boys had also figured out — that 
 I . . . Really, Countess, that story about Prince 
 Ravenstein coming to Krems merely to see how the 
 son of his late friend was getting along — don't you 
 think it smacked a little too much of story book 
 . . . Home and Family Library, and that sort of 
 thing? All the clever ones felt pretty sure that I 
 was of noble blood, and as I was one of the clever- 
 est . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 So it seems . . . And what are your plans for the 
 future, Philip? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Next October I shall begin my year as volunteer 
 with the Sixth Dragoons, which is the regiment in 
 which we Ravensteins always serve. And what's 
 going to happen after that — ^whether I stay in the 
 army or become an archbishop — in due time, of 
 course . . . 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 299 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 That would probably be the best thing. The Raven- 
 steins have always been strong in the faith. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, it's mentioned in the Universal History even. 
 They were Catholic at first ; then they turned Protes- 
 tant in the Thirty Years War ; and finally they be- 
 came Catholic again — ^but they always remained 
 strong in their faith. It was only the faith that 
 changed. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Philip, Philip ! 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 That's the spirit of the time, Prince Egon. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 And an Inheritance from his mother. 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 You have been working hard, your father tells me, 
 and have passed your examinations with honors. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 WeU, that wasn't difficult. Countess. I seem to get 
 hold of things quickly. That's probably another re- 
 sult of the common blood in me. And I had time to 
 spare for things not in the school curriculum — such 
 as horseback riding and . . . 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 And what? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Playing the clarinet. 
 MIZZLE {laughing) 
 
 Why did you hesitate to tell about that? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Because . . . Well, because everybody laughs when 
 
300 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 I say that I play the clarinet. And so did you, too, 
 Countess. I4n't that queer? Did anybody ever 
 laugh because you told him that you were painting 
 for a diversion.'' 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 So you have already heard about that? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, indeed. Countess — ^papa told me. And be- 
 sides, there is a floral piece in my bedroom — a Chi- 
 nese vase, you know, with a laburnum branch and 
 something purplish in color. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 That purplish stuflF must be lilacs. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Oh, lilacs, of course. I saw that at once. But I 
 couldn't recall the name just now. 
 VALET (entering) 
 
 There is a lady who wishes to see the Count. I have 
 showed her into the drawing-room. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 A lady . . . ? You'll have to excuse me for a mo- 
 ment, gentlemen. {She goes out) 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 That's all right, papa — ^if it's up to me, I have no 
 objection. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 To what? Of what are you talking? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 I have no objection to your choice. 
 
 PB.INCE 
 
 Have you lost your senses, boy? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 But really, papa, do you think you can hide any- 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE SOI 
 
 thing from me? That common blood in me, you 
 know . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 What put such an idea into your head? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Now look here, papa! You have been telling me 
 how anxious you were to introduce me to your old 
 friend, the Count. And then the Count has a daugh- 
 ter — ^which I have known all the time, by the way. 
 . . . The one thing I feared a little was that she 
 might be too young. 
 
 PRINCE (of ended, and yet wndble to keep serious) 
 Too young, you say . . . 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 It was perfectly plain that you had a certain weak- 
 ness for that daughter. . . . Why, you used to be 
 quite embarrassed when talking of her. And then 
 you have been telling me all sorts of things about 
 her that you would never have cared to tell other- 
 wise. What interest could I have in the pictures of 
 a Countess X-divided-by-anything, for instance — 
 supposing even that you could tell her lilacs from 
 her laburnums by their color? And, as I said, my 
 one fear was that she might be too young — as my 
 mother, that is, and not as your wife. Of course, 
 there is not yet anybody too young or beautiful for 
 you. But now I can tell you, papa, that she suits 
 me absolutely as she is. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Well, if you are not the most impudent rogue I ever 
 came across . . . ! Do you really think I would 
 ask you, if I should ever . . . 
 
802 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Not exactly ask, papa . . . but a happy family life 
 requires that all the members affect each other sym- 
 pathetically . . . don't you think so? 
 l^Mizzie and Lolo Langhuber enter. 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 You must look around, please. I am sure my fa- 
 ther would be very sorry to miss you. {She starts 
 to make the usual introductions) Permit me to 
 
 • • • 
 
 LOXO 
 
 Oh, Your Highness. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 Well, Miss Pallestri . . . 
 
 I.OXO 
 
 Langhuber, if you please. I have come to thank the 
 Count for the magnificent flowers he sent me at my 
 farewell performance. 
 PEiNCE (introducing) 
 
 My son Philip. And this is Miss . • . 
 
 liOLO 
 
 Chanotia Langhuber. 
 PEINCE (to Philip) 
 
 Better known as Miss Pallestri. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Oh, Miss Pallestri! Then I have already had the 
 pleasure . . . 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 What? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 You see, I have Miss Pallestri in my collection. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 What . . . what sort of collection is that? 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 808 
 
 1,01.0 
 There must be some kind of mistake here, Your High- 
 ness. I can not recall . . . 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Of course, you can't, for I don't suppose you could 
 feel that I was cutting out your picture from a 
 newspaper at Krems? 
 
 1.0 liO 
 
 No, thank heaven ! 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 It was one of our amusements at school, you know. 
 There was one who cut out all the crimes and dis- 
 asters he could get hold of. 
 
 LOLO 
 
 What a dreadful fellow that must have been! 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And there was one who went in for historical per- 
 sonalities, like North Pole explorers and composers 
 and that kind of people. And I used to coUect the- 
 atrical ladies. Ever so much more pleasant to look 
 at, you know. I have got two hundred and thirteen 
 — ^which I'll show you sometime, papa. Quite in- 
 teresting, you know. With a musical comedy star 
 from Australia among the rest. 
 
 LOLO 
 
 I didn't know Your Highness had a son — and such a 
 big one at that. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, I have been hiding my light under a bushel so 
 far. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 And now you are trying to make up for it, I should 
 say. 
 
304 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 LOLO 
 
 Oh, please let himi, Your Highness. I prefer young 
 people like him to be a little vif. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 So you are going to retire to private life, Miss 
 Pallestri? That's too bad. Just when I might have 
 the pleasure at last of seeing you on those boards 
 that signify the world . . . 
 
 lOLO 
 
 That's awfully kind of Your Highness, but unfor- 
 tunately one hasn't time to wait for the youth that's 
 still growing. And the more mature ones are be- 
 ginning to find my vintage a little out of date, I fear. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 They say that you are about to be married. 
 
 XOLO 
 
 Yes, I am about to enter the holy state of matri- 
 mony. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And who is the happy man, If I may ask? 
 
 LOLO 
 
 Who is he? Why, he is waiting outside now — ^with 
 that carriage. ' 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Why — a coachman? 
 
 LOLO 
 
 But, Countess — a coachman, you say ? ! Only in the 
 same manner as when your papa himself — ^beg your 
 pardon! — ^happens to be taking the bay out for a 
 spin at times. Cab owner, that's what my fiance is 
 — and house owner, and a burgess of Vienna, who 
 gets on. the box himself only when it pleases him and 
 when there is somebody of whom he thinks a whole 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 305 
 
 lot. Now he is driving for a certain Baron Ra- 
 deiner — ^whom he has just brought out here to see 
 your father, Countess. And I am having ray doubts 
 about that Baron Radeiner. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Permit me to introduce myself — Baron Radeiner. 
 
 LOLO 
 
 So that's you, Your Highness ? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 I have let nobody but Wasner drive me since I came 
 here. 
 
 LOLO 
 
 And under an assumed name at that, Your High- 
 ness? Well, we are finding out a lot of nice things 
 about you! 
 COUNT {appears, very hot) 
 
 Well, here I am. (Taking in the situation) Ah! 
 
 LOLO 
 
 Your humble servant, Count! I have taken the lib- 
 erty — I wanted to thank you for the magnificent 
 flowers. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, please — it was a great pleasure . . . 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 And here, old friend, is my son Philip. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 I regard myself as greatly honored. Count. 
 COUNT (giving his hand to Philip) 
 
 I bid you welcome to my house. Please consider 
 yourself at home here. — I don't think any further 
 introductions are required. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 No, papa. 
 
S06 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 COUNT {^slightly embarrassed) 
 
 It's very charming of you, my dear lady. Of course, 
 you know better than anybody that I have always 
 been one of your admirers. . . . But teU me, please, 
 how in the world did you get out here? I have just 
 been taking a walk along the main road, where every 
 carriage has to pass, and I didn't see you. 
 
 rOLO 
 
 What do you take me for, Count? My cab days 
 are past now. I came by the train, which is the 
 proper thing for me. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 I see . . . But I hear that your fiance himself . . . 
 
 IiOI.O 
 
 Oh, he has more pretentious customers to look after. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, I have just had the pleasure of being conducted 
 here by the fianc6 of Miss Pallestri. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Is Wasner driving for you? Well, that settles it — 
 of course — clear psychological connection! (^Offers 
 his cigar case) Want a smoke? 
 PHiiiip {accepting) 
 Thank you. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 But, Philip . . . ! A monster like that before 
 lunch ! 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Excellent. Nothing better for the health. And I 
 like you. Suppose we sit down. 
 [^The Cownt, the Prince and Philip seat themselves, 
 while Mizzie and Lolo remain standing close to them. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 807 
 
 COUNT 
 
 So you'll be off with your father to-morrow? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Yes, Count. And I'm tremendously pleased to think 
 of it. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 WiU you be gone long? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 That depends on several circumstances. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 I have to report myself at the regiment on the first 
 of October. 
 
 PEmCE 
 
 And it's possible that I may go farther south after 
 that. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, that's news. Where? 
 PEINCE {with a glance at Miszie) 
 
 Egypt, and the Sudan maybe — for a little hunting. 
 MIZZIE {to Lolo) 
 
 Let me show you the park. 
 
 LOLO 
 
 It's a marvel. Ours isn't a patch on it, of course. 
 (She and Mizzle come forward) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Have you a garden at your place, too? 
 
 LOXO 
 
 Certainly. As well as an ancestral palace — at Ot- 
 
 takring.'' The great-grandfather of Wasner was in 
 
 the cab business in his days already. — My, but that's 
 
 'One of the factory districts of Vienna, known chiefly be- 
 cause of the big insane asylum located there. 
 
308 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 beautiful ! The way those flowers are hanging down. 
 I must have something just like it. 
 COUNT {disturbed) 
 
 Why are the ladies leaving us ? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Never mind, papa, I'm merely explaining the archi- 
 tecture of our fa9ade. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Do you often get visits of theatrical ladies. Count? 
 
 COUNT , 
 
 No, this is merely an accident. 
 
 [^The men stroll of toward those parts of the gar- 
 den that are not •visible. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 It seems strange that I have never before had a 
 chance of meeting you. I am very glad to see you. 
 LOLO {with a grateful glance) 
 
 And so I am. Of course, I have known you by sight 
 these many years. Often and often have I looked 
 up at your box. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 But not at me. 
 
 XOLO 
 
 Oh, that's all over now. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Do you know, I really feel a little offended — on his 
 behalf. 
 1,0 LO 
 
 Offended, you say . . . ? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 It will be a hard blow for him. Nobody knows bet- 
 ter than I how deeply he has been attached to you. 
 Although he has never said a word to me about it. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 309 
 
 LOIiO 
 
 Do you think it's so very easy for me either, 
 Countess? But tell me, Countess, what else could I 
 do? I am no longer a spring chicken, you know. 
 And one can't help hankering for something more 
 settled. As long as I had a profession of my own, I 
 could allow myself — what do they call it now? — to 
 entertain liberal ideas. It goes in a way with the 
 position I have held. But how would that look now, 
 when I am retiring to private life? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Oh, I can see that perfectly. But what is he going 
 to do now? 
 
 LOLO 
 
 Why shouldn't he marry, too? I assure you, 
 Countess, that there are many who would give all 
 their five fingers . . . Don't you reaKze, Countess, 
 that I, too, have found it a hard step to take? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Do you know what I have been wondering often? 
 Whether he never thought of making you his wife?- 
 
 liOLO 
 
 Oh, yes, that's just what he wanted. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Why ... ?! 
 
 lOLO 
 
 Do you know when he asked me. the last timcj 
 Countess? Less than a month ago. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And you said no? 
 
 LOLO 
 
 I did. It would have done no good. Me a Countess! 
 Can you imagine it? I being your stepmother, 
 
310 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 Countess . . . ! Then we could not have been chat- 
 ting nicely as we are doing now. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 If you only knew how sympathetically you affect 
 me . . . 
 
 LOLO 
 
 But I don't want to appear better than I am. And 
 who knows what I might . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 What might you.'' 
 
 LOLO 
 
 Well, this is the truth of it. I have gone clear ofF 
 my head about Wasner. Which I hope won't make 
 you think the worse of me. In all these eighteen 
 years I have had nothing to blame myself with, as 
 far as your dear papa is concerned. But you can't 
 wonder if my feehngs began to cool off a little as the 
 years passed along. And rather than to make 
 your dear papa — oh, no, no. Countess ... I owe 
 him too much gratitude for that. . . . Lord! 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 What is it.? 
 
 XOLO 
 
 There he is now, looking right at me. 
 MIZZIE (looks in the direction indicated) 
 WASNEK (who has appeared at the entrance, raises his 
 
 tall hat in salute) 
 
 liOLO 
 
 Don't you think me an awful fool. Countess.? Every 
 time I catch sight of him suddenly, my heart starts 
 beating like everything. Yes, there's no fool like 
 an old one. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 311 
 
 Mizzm 
 
 Old . . . ? Do you call yourself old? Why, there 
 can't be much diflFerence between us. 
 
 liOLO 
 
 Oh, mercy . . . (With a glance at Mixisie) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I am thirty-seven. — No, don't look at me with any 
 pity. There is no cause for that. None whatever. 
 XOI.O (apparently relieved) 
 
 I have heard some whispers, Countess — of course, I 
 didn't believe anything. But I thank heaven it was 
 true. {They shake hands) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I should like to congratulate your fiance right now, 
 if you'll permit me. 
 
 lOXO 
 
 That's too sweet of you — but what about the Count 
 — perhaps he wouldn't like . . . ? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 My dear, I have always been accustomed to do as I 
 pleased. {They go together toward the entrance) 
 
 WASNEE 
 
 You're too kind. Countess . . . 
 
 [^The Count, the Prince and Philip have reappeared 
 
 in the meantime. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Look at that, will you ! 
 
 WASNEK 
 
 Good morning. Count. Good morning, Highness. 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 I say, Wasner, you may just as well take your bride 
 home in that trap of yours. My son is coming with 
 me. 
 
312 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 WASNEB 
 
 Your son . . . ? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Why haven't you told me that you were engaged, 
 Wasner? 
 
 WASNEE 
 
 Well, there are things you haven't told either . . . 
 
 Mr. von Radeiner ! 
 COUNT {to Lolo) 
 
 Thank you very much for your friendly visit, and 
 
 please accept my very best wishes. 
 1,01,0 
 
 The same to you. Count. And I must say, that when 
 
 one has such a daughter . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 It's too bad I haven't come to know you before. 
 1,01,0 
 
 Oh, really. Countess . . . 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Once more, my dear Miss Lolo, good luck to you! 
 {Mizzie embraces Lolo) 
 
 COUNT {looks on with surprise and some genuine emo- 
 tion) 
 
 1,01,0 
 
 I thank you for the kind reception. Count — and 
 good-by ! 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Good-by, Miss Langhuber. I trust you'll be happy 
 
 . • . indeed I do, Lolo. 
 1,01,0 {gets into the carriage which has driven up to 
 
 the gate in the meantime) 
 WASNEK {is on the box, hat in hand; they drive off) 
 MIZZIE {waves her hand at them as they disappear) 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 31S 
 
 PHILIP {who has been standing in the foreground with 
 the Prince) Oh, my dear papa, I can see through 
 the whole story. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 You can? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 This Miss Lolo must be the natural daughter of the 
 Count, and a sister of the Countess — ^her foster-sis- 
 ter, as they say. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 No, you would call that a step-sister. But go on, 
 Mr. Diplomat. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And of course, both are in love with you — both the 
 Countess and the ballet dancer. And this marriage 
 between the dancer and Wasner is your work. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Go on. 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 You know — there's something I never thought of 
 until just now! 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 What.? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 I don't know if I dare? 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Why so timid all at once? 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 Supposing my mother was not dead . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 H'm . . . 
 
 PHILIP 
 
 And, through a remarkable combination of circum- 
 
314 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 stances, she should now be going back to the city in 
 the very carriage that brought me out here . . . ? 
 And suppose it should be my own mother, whose 
 picture I cut out of that newspaper . . . ? 
 
 PRINCE 
 
 My lad, you'll certainly end as a cabinet minister — 
 Secretary of Agriculture, if nothing better. — ^But 
 now it's time for us to say good-by. 
 [^The Cotmt and Mizzie are coming forward again. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Well, my dear friend, this must be our farewell call, 
 I am sorry to say. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 But why don't you stay . . . That would be de- 
 lightful ... if you could take lunch with us . . . 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Unfortunately, it isn't possible. We have an ap- 
 pointment at Sacher's.-*^ 
 
 COUNT 
 
 That's really too bad. And shall I not see you at 
 all during the Summer.'' 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Oh, we shall not be entirely out of touch. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And are you starting to-morrow already? 
 
 PKINCE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Where are you going? 
 
 PalNCE 
 
 To the sea shore — Ostend. 
 
 ^A fashionable restaurant near the Imperial Palace in the 
 Inner City. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 315 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, you are bound for Ostend. I have long wanted 
 to go there. 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 But that would be fine . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What do you think, Mizzle? Let's be fashionable. 
 Let's go to Ostend, too. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I can't answer yet. But there's no reason why you 
 shouldn't go, papa. 
 
 PHILIP ' 
 
 That would be delightful, Countess. It would please 
 
 me awfully. 
 MIZZIE (smiling) 
 
 That's very kind of you, Phihp. (She holds out 
 
 her hand to him) 
 PHILIP (kisses her hand) 
 COUNT (to the Prince) 
 
 The children seem to get along beautifully. 
 
 PEINCE . 
 
 Yes, that's what I have been thinking. Good-by 
 , then. Good-by, my dear Mizzie. And good-by to 
 you, my dear old fellow. I hope at least to s6e you 
 again at Ostend. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, she'll come along. Won't you, Mizzie.? After 
 aU, you can get studios by the sea shore, too. Or 
 how about it, Mizzie .^ 
 MIZZIE (remains silent) 
 
 PEINCE 
 
 Well, until we meet again! (He shakes hands with 
 the Count and Mizzie) 
 
316 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 PHILIP (kisses the hand of Mizzie once more) 
 
 COUNT {giving his hand to Philip) 
 It has been a great pleasure. 
 
 [The Prince and Philip go out through the gate and 
 step into the carriage which has been driving up in 
 the meantime, and which now carries them off. The 
 Count and Mizzie come forward again and seat 
 themselves at the table under the tree. Pause. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Hasn't this been a queer day ? 
 
 MIZZIB 
 
 All life is queer — only we forget it most of the time. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 I suppose you're right. {Pause) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 You know, papa, you might just as well have 
 brought us together a little earlier. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Who? Oh, you and . . . 
 
 MIZZLE 
 
 Me and Miss Lolo. She's a dear. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 So you like her.'' Well, if it were only possible to 
 know in advance . . . But what's the use.'' Now it's 
 aU over. 
 
 MIZZIE (takes hold of his hand) 
 
 COUNT (rises and kisses her on the forehead; strolls 
 about aimlessly for a few seconds) TeU me, Mizzie, 
 what you think . . . How do you like the boy? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Philip? Oh, rather fresh. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Fresh, perhaps, but smart. I hope he'll stay in 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 317 
 
 the army. That's a much more sensible career than 
 the diplomatic service. Slow, but sure. All you 
 need is to live long enough in order to become a gen- 
 eral. But a political career . . . Now look at 
 Egon . . . three times he has almost become a min- 
 ister . . . And suppose he had succeeded.'' {Walk- 
 ing back and forth) Yes, yes ... we shall be 
 rather lonely this Summer. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 But why shouldn't you go to Ostend, papa."" 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Yes, why not ....'' Really, won't you come along? 
 It would be rather . . . without you, you know. 
 . . . It's no use looking at me like that. I know ! I 
 haven't paid as much attention to you in the past as 
 I should have . . . 
 MIZZIE {taking his hand again) 
 
 Oh, papa, you're not going to apologize, are you.'' 
 I understand perfectly. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, well. But, you see, I shall not get much joy out 
 of that trip without you. And what would you be 
 doing here, all by yourself.? You can't paint all day 
 long, 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 The only trouble is . . . the Prince has asked me 
 to marry him. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What.? Is it possible? No, you don't mean . . . 
 And . . . and you said no? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Practically. 
 
818 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You did . . . ? Oh, well . . . After all, I have 
 never tried to persuade you. It must be as you . . . 
 But I can't understand why. I have noticed for a 
 long time, that he . . . As far as age is concerned, 
 you wouldn't be badly matched. And as for the 
 rest . . . sixty millions are not to be despised ex- 
 actly. But just as you say. 
 MIZZIE {remains silent) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Or could it possibly be on account of the boy? That 
 would be to exaggerate the matter, I assure you. 
 Things of that kind occur in the very best families. 
 And particularly when you consider that his heart 
 always remained with his wife . . . All of a sudden 
 you get dragged into an affair of that kind without 
 exactly knowing how. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 And some poor girl of the people is thrown aside 
 and allowed to go to the dogs. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, please, that's only in the books. And how could 
 he help it.? That kind of women seem always to die 
 off early. And who knows what he might have done, 
 if she hadn't died. ... I really think that his ac- 
 tion in regard to the boy has been pretty decent. 
 That took courage, you know. I could tell you more 
 than one case. . . . But don't let us talk of it. If 
 that should be the only thing against him, however 
 . . . And besides, our being together at Ostend 
 wouldn't commit you in any way. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 No, that's true. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 319 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Well, then ... I tell you what. You make the 
 trip with me. And if the place suits you, you can 
 stay. If not, you can go on to London for a visit 
 with Aunt Lora. I mean simply, that there is no 
 sense in your letting me go away alone. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 AU right. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 MIZZEB 
 
 I'U go with you. But without any obligation — ab- 
 solutely free. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You'U come with me, you say? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I win, papa. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, I'm SO glad. Thank you, Mizzie. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Why should you thank me? It's a pleasure ^o me. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 You can't imagine, of course . . . without you, 
 Mizzie . . . There would be so much to remember — 
 this time in particular . . . You know, of course, 
 that I took Lolo to Normandy last year? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Of course, I know . . . 
 
 COUNT 
 
 And as far as Egon is concerned . . . not that I 
 want to persuade you by any means . . . but in a 
 strange place like that you often get more ac- 
 
320 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 quainted with a person in a couple of days than dur- 
 ing many years at home. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 It's settled now that I go with you, papa. And as for 
 the rest, don't let us talk of it — for the time being. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Then, you know, I'm going to telephone to the ticket 
 office at once and reserve sleeping car compartments 
 for the day after to-morrow — or for to-morrow. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Are you in such a hurry? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 What's the use of sitting about here, once we have 
 made up our minds? So I'll telephone . . . Does 
 that suit you? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes. 
 COUNT (puts his arms about her) 
 PEOPEssoE wiNDHOFEE {appears at the garden gate) 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Why, there's the professor. Have you a lesson to- 
 day? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I had forgotten it, too. 
 PEOEESsoE {handsome; about thirty-five; his beard is 
 blond and trimmed to a point; he is very carefully 
 dressed, and wears a gray overcoat; he takes off his 
 hat as he enters the garden and comes forward) 
 Good morning, Countess. How do you do. Count? 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Good morning, my dear Professor, and how are you? 
 You have to pardon me. I was just about to go 
 to the telephone — we are going away, you know. 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 321 
 
 PEOFESSOH. 
 
 Oh, are you going away? Please, don't let me de- 
 tain you. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 I suppose I shall see you later, Professor. {He 
 goes into the house) 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 So you are going away, Countess? 
 
 HIZZIE 
 
 Yes, to Ostend. 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 That's rather a sudden decision. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes, rather. But that's my way. 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 That means an end to the lessons for the present, I 
 suppose? Too bad. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I don't think I shall be able to-day even ... I am 
 feeling a little upset. 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 Do you? — ^Well, you look rather pale, Maria. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Oh, you think so? 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 And how long will you be gone? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Until the Fall probably — ^perhaps until very late in 
 the Fall even. 
 
 PEOFESSOE 
 
 Then we can resume our lessons next November at 
 the earliest, I suppose? 
 
322 COUNTESS MIZZIE 
 
 MizziE {smiling) 
 
 I don't think we shall . . . 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 
 Oh, you don't think, so? {They look hard at each 
 other) 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 No, I don't. 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 
 Which means, Maria — that I am discharged. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 How can you put it that way, Rudolph? That is 
 not quite fair. 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 
 Pardon me. But it really came a little more sud- 
 denly than I had expected. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Better that than have it come too slow. Don't you 
 think so? 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 
 Well, girl, I have no intention whatever to make any 
 reproaches. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Well, you have no reason. And it wouldn't be nice 
 either. {She holds out her hand to him) 
 PROFESSOR {takes her hand and kisses it) 
 Will you please excuse me to the Count? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Are you going already . . . ? 
 PROFESSOR {imconcernedly) 
 
 Isn't that better ? 
 MIZZIE {after a pause, during which she looks straight 
 
 into his eyes) Yes, I think so. {They shake hands) 
 
COUNTESS MIZZIE 323 
 
 PROI-ESSOR 
 
 Good luck, Maria. 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Same to you. . . . And remember me to your wife 
 and the children. 
 
 PKOFESSOE 
 
 I won't forget, Countess. {He goes out) 
 MIZZIE {remains on the same spot for a little while, 
 
 ■following him with her eyes) 
 COUNT (oM the terrace) 
 
 Everything is ready. We'll leave at nine-thirty to- 
 morrow night. — But what has become of the pro- 
 fessor? 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 I sent him away. 
 
 COUNT 
 
 Oh, you did.'' — And can you guess who has the com- 
 partment between yours and mine.? . . . Egon and 
 his young gentleman. Won't they be surprised 
 though.'' 
 
 MIZZIE 
 
 Yes . . . won't they? {She goes into the house) 
 
 CURTAIN