iOMEDIES 
 OFWORDS 
 
 B: 
 
 ARTHUR 
 SCHNITZLER 
 

 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Date Due 
 
 CAT. NO. Z3Z33 
 
 I *^°iiinfe,.?' words 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026341523 
 
THE S. & K. DRAMATIC SERIES 
 
 THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATKE. 
 
 Anonymous. Net $1.00. 
 
 FOUR PLAYS OF THE FREE THEATRE. 
 
 Authorized Translation by Barrett H. Clark. 
 Preface by Brieux of the French Academy. 
 
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 By Arthur Schnitzler. Translated by Pierre 
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 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 
 CINCINNATI. 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER PLAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR SGHNITZLER 
 
 ENGLISHED FROM THE GERMAN 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 PIERRE LOVING 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 STEWART ^ KIDD COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 
Copyright, 1917, bv 
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Copyright in England 
 
 ^-^Silh 
 
To The International my acknowledg- 
 ments are due for permission to reprint sev- 
 eral of the translations contained in this 
 volume. 
 
 P. L. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction vii 
 
 COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 The Hour of Recognition .... i 
 
 The Big Scene 37 
 
 The Festival OF Bacchus 91 
 
 OTHER PLAYS 
 
 Literature 127 
 
 His Helpmate 160 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 To the great mass of the American public 
 Arthur Schintzler, admittedly the finest psychol- 
 ogist in the theatre today, is still as it were some- 
 thing of a far half-rumored country upon whose 
 bourne the proverbial tired pedestrian seldom 
 touches. As a people, whether intensively or ex- 
 tensively, we haven't as yet cultivated the habit of 
 turning up the lamp after coffee and liqueurs for 
 the purpose of abandoning ourselves without re- 
 serve to a refined spirit, a subtle mind reaching out 
 with infinite circumspectness and tact. Tact has 
 its peculiar morality in the same way that art has 
 its implied ethics. This tact when applied to the 
 province of thought may simply mean that the 
 world is not an affair of sharp lines, rules or data. 
 It is this quality emanating from just such a spirit 
 and mind that we find uppermost in Arthur 
 Schnitzler. 
 
 In Europe Schnitzler's dramatic pieces are ranked 
 on a par with those of his German confreres, 
 Hauptmann and Wedekind. The keenly discern- 
 ing Berlin and Munich audiences, not wholly free 
 from an acute national consciousness, concede him 
 a place immediately after these two in their affec- 
 tions. But in view of the fact that Schnitzler is 
 uniquely abreast, if not a few hurdles ahead, of 
 his time in handling that vein of character analysis 
 which utilizes most effectively the latest discover- 
 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 ies of psychic and psychological research, it is not 
 at all improbable that the ultimate tribunal of 
 playgoers will insphere him higher than either 
 Hauptmann or Wedekind. As long as men and 
 women will continue to be intrigued by the elusive 
 enigma of life, by subtle states of the soul, by 
 problems of the subliminal self, so long, we may 
 venture to predict, will the plays of Arthur 
 Schnitzler compel attention from the truly great 
 audiences of the world which, as Whitman real- 
 ized, are the indispensable abettors of progress 
 in every art. 
 
 Arthur Schnitzler was born in 1862. His fa- 
 ther, Johann Schnitzler, was a famous laryngol- 
 ogist. Following in his father's footsteps or 
 rather compelled to follow, he studied medicine 
 and obtained his degree from the University of 
 Vienna in 1885. He was appointed assistant phy- 
 sician at the Clinical Hospital, one of the largest 
 of its kind, in 1889. Meanwhile he was acting as 
 contributing editor to his father's medical review 
 Wiener Klinische Rundschau. At this period we 
 notice that he also contributed poems, stories and 
 sketches to other publications. He seems to have 
 applied himself whole-heartedly to investigations 
 in psychic phenomena, for he published an article 
 about this time on the treatment of certain diseases 
 by hypnotism and suggestion. Then followed a 
 trip to London, not altogether for pleasure, for it 
 bore fruit in the shape of a series of " London 
 Letters " contributed to his father's review and 
 exclusively devoted to medical subjects of wide 
 range and variety. His original writings and 
 collaborations on these subjects, together with his 
 
 viii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 occasional excursions into fascinating bjrways of 
 medicine, are too numerous to mention here. Suf- 
 fice it that they culminated in an exhaustive refer- 
 ence work compiled in association with the elder 
 Schnitzler, entitled " Clinical Atlas of Laryngol- 
 ogy and Rhinology." From that time until this, 
 despite his beckoning interests and undoubted 
 genius and recognition in creative literature, he 
 has maintained his intimate connection with the 
 Clinical Hospital and still, as if they constituted a 
 labor of first love, unremittingly attends to his pri- 
 vate activities as a general practitioner. 
 
 Schnitzler's first play " Anatol," a cycle of 
 dialogues written around a central character ap- 
 pearing in each, was probably finished in 1889; 
 it was produced in 1892. The success of 
 " Anatol " was immediate. Its wit and its shrewd 
 grasp of human nature captured Vienna like a 
 storm. Up to the time of this writing he has 
 written and produced about twenty five plays; 
 his last, big play, " Professor Bernhardi " ( 1 9 1 2 ) , 
 having started a wild sensation, crimination and 
 recrimination, throughout the whole of Austria 
 and Germany; while, on the other hand, his 
 marvellous activity both as a novelist and short 
 story writer has prompted criticism, outside of 
 Austria and Germany, to deliberately couple his 
 name with the names of Zola, Dostoievsky and 
 de Maupassant. 
 
 The fact that in private life Schnitzler is a prac- 
 tising physician says much. It is significant and 
 infinitely suggestive along the path of a sound ap- 
 preciation and appraisal of the man. It is the 
 key, without doubt, to a proper and final under- 
 
 ix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 standing of his work in that it helps to throw 
 light on his tenderness and on that peculiar in- 
 cisive dissection of human yearnings and the daily 
 stock of human foibles standing out on every 
 page of his novels, tales and plays ; in short, those 
 poignant diagnoses of the soul, instinct rather 
 than patent in everything he has set his hand to, 
 which are as inexorable as they are expert. This 
 fact, as I have indicated, provides the touchstone 
 to his writings which, quite possibly, we would 
 otherwise miss. But it scarcely satisfies, I need 
 hardly say — perhaps only serves to fan all the 
 more — the idle though wholly pardonable curios- 
 ity of those prying critcs who are avid to know how 
 the physician manages to filch time out of his prac- 
 tise to give to what must, after all, be the more 
 absorbing career: how, in a word, he has suc- 
 ceeded in crowding-in the long roll of his superb 
 plays. 
 
 As a writer, whether in the realm of the novel or 
 the theatre, Schnitzler hardly ever repudiates his 
 origin and source ; for he is first and foremost the 
 child of Vienna — Viennese of the Viennese. 
 Though this explains a good deal it does not, on 
 the other hand, suggest the whole fuU-statured 
 man. Inevitably the atmosphere and life of the 
 gay Austrian capital, surcharged with haunting 
 tenderness and almost insolent indifference, have 
 lent their tone and invested his work, from be- 
 ginning to end, with a racy resilience peculiar to 
 the city; but certainly it cannot be urged that he 
 is indebted to it for that larger vision and scope 
 which transcend all local boundaries and reach up 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 to eternity. That is inalienably his own; that is 
 from the gods. 
 
 If, as in a sore crisis of misgiving, Grillparzer, 
 Vienna's noblest poet, is reputed to have said, 
 " They are a Phaeacian folk," then it is more than 
 evident that Schnitzler is no sort of Ulysses cast 
 up by wind and tide on the shore of the " Blue 
 Danube " to play ducks and drakes with their 
 sunny, smiling placidity. No man is altogether 
 free of his social and artistic environment. And 
 Schnitzler, like the rest, is no disconcerting ex- 
 ception to this well-worn commonplace. As 
 Elizabethan London was directly responsible for 
 and gave birth to Shakespeare, so modern Vienna 
 in a sense anticipated and produced Arthur 
 Schnitzler. London had its Mermaid Tavern 
 and there is in Vienna a restaurant where the 
 young Viennese spirits of twenty years or so ago, 
 Bahr, Schnitzler and von Hoffmannsthal used to 
 foregather and thresh out their theories of art 
 and life. Dostoievsky, with his immortal pity 
 and self-abnegation; Zola with his biologic natu- 
 ralism; de Maupassant, Ibsen and Oscar Wilde 
 held them enthralled. The naturalism which they 
 absorbed from these writers they attempted to 
 apply to the life about them. Bahr became in- 
 terested in social problems of the day, von Hoff- 
 mannsthal In a new and more close interpreta- 
 tion of nature, in a new beauty of language, and 
 Schnitzler in the everlasting problem of the soul. 
 
 Hauptmann is of the North, and you will find 
 woven deep in the fibre of his creations the un- 
 couth cry and ruggedness of the North. Pro- 
 
 xi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 fessor Ludwig Lewisohn, Hauptmann's trans- 
 lator, has recently said of the latter's men and 
 women that they are " impelled by hunger, by 
 lust, by the primitive will to power, by aspiration. 
 They have little eloquence of speech or grace or 
 gesture, but move as by our own woes which are 
 also the unconquerable woes of the world. The 
 disharmonies between themselves and the universe 
 are tragic and final. Humble souls though they 
 are, they perish of elemental needs and are cru- 
 cified in great causes. They are not beautiful, 
 they are not wise, they are not pure ; they are only 
 broken and imperfect members of the family of 
 man." Schnitzler on the other hand is of the 
 South, and accordingly he is permeated through 
 and through with the frail warmth, the insouciant 
 grace and sappy charm — phrases that come 
 glibly and naturally to the lips, like a byword, 
 whenever one is speaking of Vienna. These 
 qualities, so apparent in Schnitzler, are of course 
 winning in themselves, but in him they are further 
 shot through with a vein of piquant intrigue which 
 is, for the most part, Gallic in texture and tradi- 
 tion — more Gallic, I am almost tempted to say, 
 than that which operates in Paris itself. 
 
 There is a cross-section of Austrian society 
 and politics which offers an inviting target to the 
 weapons of the alert, timely satirist; and Schnitz- 
 ler, like Shaw, has not been reticent in this re- 
 spect. Both in his novels and plays he has at 
 various times attacked socialism, monarchism, the 
 aristocracy, semitism and anti-semitism, the latter 
 being a question which is always more or less of 
 an open sore in Vienna. In " The Road to the 
 
 xii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Open," a novel, he treats at considerable length 
 but, true to the tradition of the satirist, with mor- 
 dant disinterestedness (though this is not the main 
 theme of the booic) this question in its several 
 phases and shows the ridiculous types it breeds on 
 both sides. In " Lieutenant Gustl," another 
 novel, he remorselessly hacks to pieces the out- 
 worn sentimental code of honor prevalent in Eu- 
 rope. In " Professor Bernhardi," his great 
 womanless play (there is but one female charac- 
 ter and she is minor) , he touches on the problem 
 of free conscience, the right to act as you think 
 no matter what those about you believe — the 
 same problem, in fact, which was treated by 
 Ibsen in " An Enemy of the People " — to which 
 play indeed it bears a strong resemblance, and 
 more recently, by Galsworthy in " The Mob." 
 
 Unlike Hauptmann who, it might be said, re- 
 sembles him only in the point which is their mu- 
 tual departure, Schnitzler is above all a consum- 
 mate master of the theatre. He writes prima- 
 rily for the stage, that is, not for any experimen- 
 tal or local stage, but for the stage of the world. 
 Perhaps for the potential stage of the world, 
 whose advent, in company with Brieux and Tche- 
 kov and Shaw, he is helping to bring about. And 
 yet, paradoxical as it may appear to us who are 
 accustomed to the ephemeral flummery of Broad- 
 way, he has carved his way to an indubita- 
 ble niche among the great German stylists throned 
 above time. In delicacy, in finesse, in that man- 
 ner of tact which is the essence of good style, he 
 far surpasses his North German contemporary. 
 Th's gift alone would be but a dubious advantage, 
 
 xiii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 were it not for the force and ecstasy beneath the 
 surface vesture. Schnitzler's breadth is well illus- 
 trated by the fact that fused in his work are such 
 antinomous elements as savoury wit and mysti- 
 cism — the mysticism of Maeterlinck and Ruys- 
 broeck, and this mysticism is mingled with the 
 irony, the prose-lyricism of Heinrich Heine. But 
 outstripping these qualities, or a part of them, is a 
 sure sense of the dramatic, of the most desirable 
 aspects of the theatre as it is. 
 
 Schnitzler's unforgivingly satirical side pre- 
 sents only one expression of a deep and deliberate 
 outlook on life. Nowadays in discussing the 
 passing drama of the boards we are apt to lose 
 sight of this fact; so few writers for the stage 
 have anything to say, or do not say it. The 
 printed drama has of course received its fair meed 
 of literary comment. Schnitzler, I wish to em- 
 phasize, writes for the stage and he has some- 
 thing to say. 
 
 Precisely what his outlook on life is and by 
 what processes it has been arrived at, cannot be 
 here summarily stated, even supposing all the 
 biographical minutiae at our disposal. We may 
 dismiss it, if we please, by the all-inclusive gen- 
 eralization (at best all generalizations are a form 
 of hedging) that every significant dramatist from 
 Sophocles to Tchekov and Dunsany has, in some 
 measure, possessed it. Sophocles, for example 
 gave utterance to it in " CEdipus Rex " and the 
 " Antigone," Shakespeare most overwhelmingly 
 in " Hamlet " and in " Macbeth " ; Calderon in 
 " Life is a Dream." If you are one of those 
 who already read and care for Schnitzler at all, 
 
 xiv 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 it will hardly be a piece of startling news to 
 you when I assert that something of the magic 
 and the breadth and the truth which attaches to 
 these great names attaches also to him at his 
 highest. 
 
 Man, Schnitzler seems to imply, and does 
 actually declare through his living characters and 
 the huge crises which grip them, is an out-and- 
 out egoist and life an iridescent illusion. To 
 delve down to fundamentals at once, man is al- 
 ways tinkering, by thought and act, to establish 
 the earth and his busy little existence, with its 
 trivial joys and Irrelevant subjective tumults, as 
 the central pivot of all life in the same way that 
 Dante naively seized on Jerusalem, a religious 
 and therefore a subjective Ideal, as the very heart 
 of the universe. It may be that Dante was In- 
 tuitively right and nothing matters in the last 
 analysis but what we feel and think. Samuel 
 Butler, crabbed saint and celibate, pointed out to 
 a deaf generation too taken up with Huxley to 
 give ear, how difficult it is to cleave thought 
 from language, and it is an axiom among thinkers 
 in general that It is quite hopeless to comprehend 
 the universe outside of man's finite consciousness. 
 Schnitzler accepts this hypothesis or cul-de-sac, 
 whichever you choose to call It, and the whole 
 substance of his reaction Is that, no matter how 
 diligently a man may labor to penetrate to the es- 
 sential core of things. Illusion, or what goes by the 
 name of illusion with us, will always confusingly 
 blend with reality In our consciousness and vice 
 versa. We have, after all, but five shallow 
 senses: we come Into this life armed as it were 
 
 XV 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 with but five shallow and desperately inadequate 
 dictaphones to dangle out blindly into space 
 among the stars in order that we might — with 
 how much thought-teasing I — " gather in a small 
 part of the infinite influences that vibrate in na- 
 ture." In illustration of this sensitive reaction, 
 take the following lines which are not quoted 
 from Calderon or Shakespeare, but from " Para- 
 celsus," Schnitzler's one act play in verse: 
 
 " Our life is wrought of dreams and waking, fused 
 Of truth and lies. There lives no certitude. 
 Of others we know naught, naught of ourselves. 
 We play a part and wise is he who knows it." 
 
 Very sketchily then, this is the background of 
 Schnitzler's art; on the thought that illusion and 
 reality are interchangeable terms for man Schnitz- 
 ler has erected four-square the fascinating edifice 
 of his plays. It constitutes a viewpoint — a 
 quickened viewpoint, despite its limitations as 
 a regular work-a-day diet. And the dramatist 
 whose appeal is to surmount the merely local, 
 whose work is to persist beyond the passing mo- 
 ment, must give proof of such a viewpoint which 
 pithily and suggestively comprises what he thinks 
 about life. It is a pledge in a sense that he has 
 indeed lived, or that he has overtaken life and 
 is therefore eligible to the office of holding up 
 the priceless mirror. The Germans, as a nation 
 of critics, have always more or less known the 
 true value of the word " viewpoint " Weltan- 
 schauung, and to them it signifies chiefly the acid 
 test, cruel in rejection, by which they challenge 
 every claim to greatness in art. This should not 
 
 xvi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 be construed into meaning that the writer or the 
 artist must consciously start out on a kind of 
 Arthurian quest in order to achieve it. Rarely, 
 if ever, is it achieved that way. Whether he is 
 born with it or merely reaps it upon the glebe 
 of experience sown with blood and suffering, 
 ultimately matters but little. The fact is that the 
 artist must have it; it is the secret and enigma of 
 genius; and the fact of his having it singles him 
 out at once from the vast common litter of lesser 
 men. 
 
 Though starting from a vastly diverse experi- 
 ence, Schnitzler has come to look on nature with 
 dim shadowy eyes, not unlike those of Joseph 
 Conrad. I do not wish to press the comparison 
 unduly. If you will put the portrait of Conrad 
 alongside the portrait of Schnitzler and allow suf- 
 ficiently for obvious racial chiselling which marks 
 certain differences, the emotional depths, the tem- 
 peramental force common to both men, will im- 
 mediately become evident to you. You might 
 say, referring to the former's work, that he has 
 been rarely known to smile while the latter, 
 slightly more sophisticated, is always wearing a 
 creased smile about his lips that is also in the 
 nature of a gird. In the view of both, however, 
 there is a destiny which fashions us to alien ends. 
 There is a greater similarity than a superficial 
 consideration affords between the characters of 
 Lord Jim and Young Medardus, between Heyst 
 and Young Medardus. For both the Pole and 
 the Austrian, at all events, men and women are 
 hardly more than the dead ashes of withered 
 dreams swept helter-skelter by the imperious ty- 
 xvii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 phoons of chance: and if it should befall that one, 
 bolder than the rest, endeavors to orient whither 
 he is drifting beyond Time and Space, he is imme- 
 diately thrust back by blowing winds, and all that 
 is vouchsafed him at the end of the quest is the 
 clanging of mighty doors. This is not a fable 
 by Schnitzler, but it might be. You might, for 
 instance, die like Lord Jim, having fulfilled your 
 destiny without suspecting it ; or you might be one 
 of those luckless ones for whom despair and de- 
 lirium, like snarling cerberi, lie in wait. This 
 latter viewpoint is searchingly symbolised in 
 Schnitzler's tale called " The Threefold Admon- 
 ishment." 
 
 Schnitzler's plays, the least equally with the 
 greatest, grow logically out of this conception. 
 Criticism proceeds inductively. Schnitzler has 
 written the plays and the critic, seeking the es- 
 sence of the man, saddles him with a conception 
 of life. Other interpretations, I have no doubt, 
 are possible. When you are dealing with a big 
 man like Schnitzler, it is simply fatuous to attempt 
 to pigeon-hole him. Whatever else Schnitzler 
 may do, certainly, it must be admitted, he sounds 
 the strident note of irony, the helpless mistaking 
 of illusion for reality, reality for illusion. It 
 would, I think, require more than a mere journey- 
 man's task to find in all literature a more striking, 
 a more ingenious illustration of the viewpoint 
 cited above than is to be found in the one act 
 play " The Green Cockatoo." 
 
 All of Schnitzler's plays of tragic import, in ac- 
 cordance with this viewpoint, have their satirical 
 and comic side and running right through his 
 
 xviii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 comedies there is an immanent vein of tragedy. 
 For Schnitzler the universe, taken all in all, is 
 tragic. The reason is simple. If a man writes 
 comedy with a tragic hand, or weaves a deeper 
 philosophy behind the play of wit, there is no 
 telling how much he has thought about and 
 through the life he is portraying; his thought has 
 probably risen to the pitch of the universal and 
 that, if it means an5rthing, means, in the case of a 
 dramatist, that he is a pessimist. 
 
 And yet in Schnltzler's plays the tragic element 
 is kept perennially delicate and discreet. Our 
 author tolerates no tearing of a passion to tat- 
 ters, no truculent mouthing and so he has fash- 
 ioned, in answer to his mood, well-bred people 
 who consider it decidedly below them to fly pas- 
 sionately in the face of Destiny. " Abandon ye 
 all vehemence who enter here " he seems to cau- 
 tion his dramatis personae previous to their en- 
 trance upon the three hours' traffic of the stage. 
 Still, you cannot urge that they are not intensely 
 real people who act and speak in a very real 
 way: certainly they are insouciant and casuistical 
 about this and that; certainly they punctuate their 
 languid utterances with little specious lies and 
 tinsel half-truths about themselves and life in 
 general; but they are real and large as life itself. 
 As Hugo von Hoffmannsthal, speaking of them, 
 has said: "They are like artists and writers 
 who have gathered of an evening in front of 
 the fireplace of one of their confreres. The fur- 
 nishings are elegant and commodious and the 
 lamp is turned down. They have quite forgot- 
 ten the corrosive ironies of the day. Lounging at 
 
 xix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 their case, they nonchalantly exchange anecdotes 
 and develop paradoxes." And it must be ad- 
 mitted that the characters in Schnitzler's plays, ex- 
 cept in a few notable exceptions, do luxuriate in 
 analysing uncommon states of the soul while they 
 appear to be watching the vanishing smoke of 
 their cigarettes. But this is inevitable ; this is the 
 Viennese heritage. Seeking to dissect, as I have 
 said, every fine shade of their feelings, they drift 
 from one illusion to another and, thrusting to 
 pierce behind the material garment of things, they 
 hurl their feeble ratiocinative " Cui Bono ? " to- 
 ward the showman behind the wings. " A 
 bower," von Hoffmannsthal says further, " takes 
 the place of a scene and sunshine puts out the foot- 
 lights. Thus we stage-manage our plays. Ma- 
 ture spirits, matured early in life, delicate and 
 melancholy, we produce the comedy of our own 
 souls, the changing life of the heart, glittering 
 phrases for vile things, flattering causerie, multi- 
 colored images, sentiments only half-born, epi- 
 sodes, agonies — " 
 
 In the province of the commercially disdained 
 one act play, the darling of the mushroom little 
 theatres, there can be no question that Schnitzler 
 is today supreme. Since the death of Strindberg, 
 with whom as a psychologist he might be profit- 
 ably contrasted and John Millington Synge, 
 whose classic aloofness it is quite futile to ex- 
 pect him to approximate, there has risen no figure 
 comparable to him in this long neglected art-form 
 of the theatre. 
 
 XX 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The one act play, as we are familiar with it, 
 may be said to undertake a suddenly glimpsed 
 slice of life, a cross-section packed with emotional 
 potentiality, a climactic and fateful episode in the 
 life of a person or group of persons. This epi- 
 sode, skillfully selected by the playwright, reveals 
 the causal past wherein the episode has fastened 
 its roots and foreshadows something of the fu- 
 ture coming directly out of the events en scene. 
 The one act play does not of necessity attain a 
 satisfying emotional cadenza at the fall of the 
 curtain, like a phrase of music: the interest and 
 suspense of the audience is entrapped primarily 
 by what takes place on the stage, and only second- 
 arily and incidentally, by the train of events which 
 we conjecture is bound to follow. This does not, 
 of course, predispose against the immediate ac- 
 tion's serving as a dramatic springboard for the 
 imaginative guess of the audience. In point of 
 fact, a clever handling of this element of fore- 
 shadowing will heighten considerably the dramatic 
 effect. An audience likes to feel, so to speak, 
 that it has its hand upon the author's mind, 
 whereas it is the playwright who is controlling and 
 steering at will the mind of the audience. 
 Schnitzler's one act plays fulfill all the require- 
 ments of their kind with a compressed art that is 
 little short of perfection. 
 
 The plays grouped under the title of " Comedy 
 of Words," here presented to the American reader 
 for the first time, were published in 19 15 and 
 represent the most recent product from Schnitz- 
 ler's pen and though, as we think, they will 
 scarcely enhance his reputation to any great ex- 
 
 xxi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 tent, they do, nevertheless, continue in the tradi- 
 tion of his best work. In the subsoil of " The 
 Green Cockatoo," 1898, " Anatol," 1893, " Strag- 
 glers at the Carnival," 1901; in "Literature," 
 1901, and " His Helpmate," 1898 (the latter two 
 are included in the present volume), and in the 
 " Comedy of Words " comprising " The Hour 
 of Recognition," "The Big Scene" and "The 
 Festival of Bacchus," lurk the germs of his larger, 
 more discursive plays. The firm grasp of char- 
 acter delineation exhibited in these one act plays 
 is always trenchant, the wit and satire sparkling 
 and, upon the whole, they are more closely and 
 tightly knit, more reticent than his full-sized 
 plays. In actual performance what this artistic 
 reticence implies usually escapes all but the most 
 finished actors. And it is precisely for this rea- 
 son, rather than because, say, the producers 
 lacked the necessary insight and penetrating sym- 
 pathy, that the performance of " Literature " at 
 the Bandbox by the Washington Square Players 
 of New York resulted in high treason to art, in 
 sacrilege and absurd fiasco. Managers, as a rule, 
 scout the idea of producing Schnitzler's longer 
 plays because of what appears to them as a lapse 
 of architectonics, an absence of prescribed play 
 structure, an effect of diffuseness and unconnected 
 thought. But juxtaposed to a play by any of the 
 best known naturalists, say, Hauptmann or Tol- 
 stoi or Tchekov, it will immediately be seen that 
 Schnitzler, besides being an artist with a sweep- 
 ing ecstatic vision, is also an artificer of the first 
 water. His artistic self-consciousness, however, 
 has succeeded admirably in obliterating itself and 
 
 xxii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 has become, by an act of highest genius, transfig- 
 ured into unconscious and naive beauty. 
 
 Whatever appreciation of Schnitzler exists on 
 this side of the Atlantic is due mainly to the fine 
 clear-cut paraphrase of the dialogues of " Ana- 
 tol " by Mr. Granville Barker. Several years 
 ago the Anatol cycle was produced In New York 
 with Mr. John Barrymore in the title role. The 
 performance was finished and, as I recall it, 
 left little to be desired from many points of view; 
 but a typical New York audience, slightly ele- 
 vated, it may be, above the usual level of Broad- 
 way, buttoned up after the performance the vague, 
 self-satisfied and fatuous impression that Arthur 
 Schnitzler, in his own intimate cendcle, must be 
 a rather wicked person — witty and charming 
 and adorable, owning something of the suavity 
 and zest of a roue who inhabits brilliantly one 
 of Oscar Wilde's drawing-room scenes. Need- 
 less to say, Anatol, Irresistible though he him- 
 self is, armored in his panoply of eternal self- 
 suspicion and self-philosophy, confesses only an 
 infinitesimal part of his creator, of the artlst-to-be 
 and his subsequent maturity born of a stupendous 
 power that is at once overbearing and sheer: his 
 wit, his rare humor, his almost uncanny knowl- 
 edge of the all-too-human, his poetry, his travail- 
 ing depth (in the sense that all philosophy is an 
 agonized travailing). Schnitzler was twenty 
 seven when he wrote " Anatol." Since the con- 
 ception of that immensely engaging spoiled child 
 of almost every metropolis in the world, he has 
 pushed on to profounder regions of thought and 
 psychological analysis. 
 
 xxiil 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The character of Anatol, about whom the 
 cycle revolves, is worth dwelling on for the rea- 
 son that it is the archetype of other studies ap- 
 pearing later in various re-pencilled avatars 
 throughout the longer plays. Anatol is an ex- 
 quisite belonging to the modern jeunesse dore with 
 a good smack of the self-psychologist in his 
 make-up. As a physician of the feminine soul, 
 a purveyor to the feminine heart, an amateur in 
 the art of love, he runs pretty thoroughly the 
 gamut of Viennese society. He starts with the 
 susses Mddl whose habit is to vibrate between 
 the virtuous-seeming domesticity and the gay 
 abandon of the Prater. He ends — or to be 
 exact — he never ends with the faithless wife. 
 The old love, no matter how poignant and heart- 
 wringing at one time, is always bartered for the 
 new. With exemplary ironic finesse, his friend 
 and confidant. Max, thimblerigs him out of the 
 mesh of many a desperate situation, many a sinis- 
 ter dilemma, many a dying amourette. Max, you 
 see, is the brutal opposite of the butterfly Anatol. 
 He is safe and probably arrives at his office in the 
 city no later than ten in the morning; he treads 
 ever the sane and sure path of eternal skepticism 
 as regards women. Neither moral nor immoral 
 but just master of himself, he denies to the weaker 
 sex the usual benefit of the doubt. You cannot 
 prove. Max might say, that they are faithful even 
 if they protest with tears and smelling salts on 
 your shoulder; nor can you argue that they have 
 brains even though they may bewilder you with 
 intricate and high-sounding talk. Anatol, on the 
 other hand, is being continually and mercilessly 
 
 xxiv 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 racked by what are in reality delicious misgivings, 
 alternately believing and doubting. Max, you 
 might say offhand, is a practical, level-headed fel- 
 low and Anatol — a Toy Philosopher. Now a 
 Toy Philosopher may be described, without the 
 aid of a specimen of his dialectic, as a callow the- 
 orist syllogizing about the world in general and 
 about women in particular; one who toys with 
 both, if you like, by Way of experiment. As an 
 inevitable consequence of his dilly-dallying with 
 life and love. It is not to be wondered at that his 
 hypotheses, as well as his conclusions, should prove 
 amazingly absurd and befuddling. But the one 
 unchangeable condition of these conclusions of 
 Anatol's is that they are at any moment subject to 
 change. Who would dare to be absolute when it 
 is a question of so variable a quantity as women? 
 
 In the somewhat stolid person of Max, the 
 eternally sound-minded, Anatol, as it were, finds 
 a spar while floundering in the tub of his Toy 
 Philosophy. Max is indeed hard put to it in his 
 tireless exploits to temper the emotional inebriety 
 of his flittering friend. Women — mystery? 
 Pshaw ! If women had the brains to think about 
 men, how great a mystery then would men be to 
 women? But Anatol, stone-deaf to reason how- 
 ever wise and insistent, suffers one disillusion- 
 ment after another and not only by virtue of his 
 conquests (for a conquest is as good as a disillu- 
 sionment), but also and overwhelmingly because 
 of the sorry show he makes of himself while 
 about it. Anatol emerges from the tangle of his 
 experiences unchanged, unlessoned — the same ! 
 We need seek no further. The keynote to Ana- 
 
 XXV 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 tol's character, I believe, is to be found right 
 here : he is one of those unresting persons, hope- 
 lessly temperamental, who lacks above all things 
 the knack of turning the gleanmgs of his experi- 
 ence into the grist of simple wisdom. Secretly, 
 on the unwritten principle, no doubt, that all the 
 world loves a charming rogue, we wish him all 
 kinds of luck ; but even so, we cannot help feeling 
 that he will, when all is said and done, learn very 
 little more of that self-created and intriguing para- 
 dox: the genus Woman. To him, as to all those 
 of his introspective clan, we may justly apply the 
 aphorism of Francis Thompson : " Suspicion cre- 
 ates its own cause ; distrust begets reason for dis- 
 trust." 
 
 Anatol, as I have previously intimated, is from 
 the artistic as well as the chronological side, the 
 point of departure for Schnitzler's work. The 
 immortal irony inherent in his mature, fully de- 
 veloped style, and commented on so widely, is here 
 exquisitely foreshadowed and foretold. If this 
 irony is not exactly corrosive in the dialogues, still, 
 such as it is, it testifies to a quality in the author 
 which is characteristic of the great wielders of 
 satire, from Cervantes to Anatole France — that 
 quality, I mean, of being able to laugh at one's 
 own cherished beliefs, even at oneself. There is, 
 moreover, a delightful piquancy about the cycle 
 which, I suspect, is responsible for the enormous 
 vogue " Anatol " has received. But undoubtedly 
 the highest expression of Schnitzler's genius as a 
 craftsman in the realm of the one act play will be 
 found in the plays contained in the present volume 
 and in the earlier pieces, " Stragglers at the Car- 
 
 xxvi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 nival " ( 1901), and " The Green Cockatoo," pub- 
 lished in 1898. 
 
 In " The Green Cockatoo " the ironic touch of 
 Schnitzler is most remarkably portrayed. For 
 sheer subtlety and evasive deftness of handling, 
 for artistry or artifice as well as art — the art, I 
 mean, which perfectly coalesces theme and frame- 
 work, " The Green Cockatoo " is in its way un- 
 surpassable in the history of the drama. Call it 
 flawless technique, if you are so minded. But the 
 term technique, so simple and nude to the bench- 
 warmer of drama courses, is altogether inconclu- 
 sive in the present application and calls for a much 
 broader and more spiritual re-definition. I shall 
 not attempt to define it here. Suffice it to say, 
 that it partakes of the qualities of ecstasy and su- 
 prasensual clairvoyance and is not to be achieved 
 with the aid of Broadway scissors and pastepot, 
 nor by diligently studying the literal diagrams of 
 the schools. In a word, it is the very quintessence 
 of genius. Where there is high portentous mat- 
 ter (and there can be no high portentous matter 
 unless there is also personality) , wherever this 
 matter is organically welded with form that is 
 consummately fitting, technique, so called, will 
 automatically take care of itself. In " The Green 
 Cockatoo," as in " The Hour of Recognition " 
 and " The Festival of Bacchus " artifice vanishes 
 before power. 
 
 " The Big Scene " is little more than a character 
 etching, admirable though it be, and " Literature " 
 is an exalted farce whose humor makes Laughter 
 hold both his sides; " His Helpmate " is a quiet 
 but keen study in disillusionment and " Stragglers 
 xxvii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 at the Carnival " contains shattering elements of 
 tragic contrast: false hope flickering up in the 
 vaulted night of the soul, unconsciously grim hu- 
 mor and finally unutterable world-weariness and 
 despair, the like of which, if we would find it, we 
 must seek in " Hamlet " and the concluding scenes 
 of " Macbeth." If Schnitzler were simply a satir- 
 ist, like Anatole France, then " The Green Cocka- 
 too " would emerge as the ironic chef d'ceuvre of a 
 pastmaster of the weapons and instruments of 
 irony. But since he is infinitely more than a satir- 
 ist, he has given us plays like " His Helpmate," 
 " Stragglers at the Carnival," " The Hour of Rec- 
 ognition " and " The Festival of Bacchus," which 
 surpass it in emotional intensity, in psychological 
 interaction, in the portrayal of the clash of funda- 
 mental human consciousness, or, which is perhaps 
 nearer the truth, subconsciousness with subcon- 
 sciousness; these plays are of a different mould. 
 But as a dish relished with the sauce of wit and the 
 curry of biting satire " The Green Cockatoo " has 
 been unequalled of its kind. In this play the au- 
 thor has used ingeniously, I had almost said 
 greatly, the device of a play within a play. It is, 
 however, when closely examined, no idle device in- 
 tended merely to amuse or flip the jaded theatrical 
 sense, for it voices by artistic implication the whole 
 trend of Schnitzler's reaction to life : 
 
 " We play a part and wise is he who knows it." 
 
 The five plays contained in the present volume 
 will undoubtedly commend themselves to those 
 who care for the best in modern drama. The 
 xxviii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 American playwright will find it profitable to study 
 them as models of character drawing, of dialogue, 
 of the broad vision that forgets mediocrity. In 
 their way, since Schnitzler is a pioneer in psychol- 
 ogy, they are Baedeckers to human nature. The 
 discerning reader, already familiar with Schnitz- 
 ler's work, will observe how much deeper he has 
 penetrated and will enjoy these new adventures in 
 the human soul. His debt to Freud, in this re- 
 spect, is already too well known to dwell on. In 
 passing, however, permit me to mention that in 
 his " Arthur Schnitzler als Psycholog " Dr. Theo- 
 dor Reik, a disciple of Freud, has attempted to 
 gauge and appraise this debt. He has taken the 
 plays, premised the situations as real, and then 
 psycho-analysed the characters in the manner of 
 the Austrian neurologist. Again in these one 
 act plays the reader will find an artistic voicing 
 of the philosophical point of view that reality, 
 the familiar of the senses, grades indiscernibly 
 into illusion and vice versa. Suppose we put it 
 another way: In the cut and thrust of ordinary 
 life, in the thronging press of experience and sen- 
 sation, action and thought and memory — facul- 
 ties by whose testimony we think we know the 
 world about us and are, moreover, convinced that 
 we are alive — it is practically impossible to sever 
 what we think from what is. Life then is a 
 dream-lit maze or only such stuff as dreams are 
 made on. Sleep comes but at the end, for even in 
 dreams the process of life and thought is going 
 on. But even in the innermost region inhabited 
 only by our dreams reside and float fragmentary 
 xxix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 drifts of reality, rumors of the waking world, dim 
 and undefined. And this, concisely put, is the 
 dominant theme hovering like an overtone above 
 the scenes, tragic and rare and enthralling, of all 
 of Schnitzler's work. 
 
 Pierre Loving. 
 
 New York City, November, 1916. 
 
 XXX 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 A Comedy of Words 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Carl Eckold, M.D. 
 
 Clara, his wife. 
 
 Professor Rudolph Ormin. 
 
 ^^^° 1 at the Eckolds. 
 
 Servingman I 
 
 [Scene: Dining room in the home of Dr. 
 Eckold, Vienna. A door in the rear conducts 
 to an ante-room or vestibule; another pierced 
 in the right wall opens to the waiting-room, still 
 another on the left leads to the other living 
 rooms. The furniture is comfortable but old- 
 fashioned. 
 
 Discovered, Dr. Carl Eckold, a man of, say 
 45, with a dark brown square-cut beard, inclin- 
 ing to baldness. He wears a pince-nez for 
 reading purposes. Also, Clara, his wife, 40, 
 still pretty. Both are seated at the table finish- 
 ing their dessert. 
 
 The servingman comes in with a card.^ 
 
 Servingman. The lady begs to be admitted at 
 once, if possible. 
 
 Eckold [deliberately turning the card between 
 his fingers}. My hours, as announced, start at 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 three. It is scarcely half past two now. Ask 
 the lady to be patient. Anybody else waiting? 
 
 Servingman. Three patients already, sir. 
 
 EcKOLD. H'm ! I shall take them in the or- 
 der of their arrival. 
 
 {^Servingman goes of. The maid serves the 
 coffee, which Clara pours into the cups.^ 
 
 EcKOLD. Why, you've laid three covers, 
 Clara. Have you forgotten that our Miss Bet- 
 tina, or, to do her nibs justice, Mrs. Bettina Wor- 
 mann, dines in Salzburg today? Perhaps in 
 Zurich ? Perhaps — Heaven only knows where ? 
 
 Clara. No. I haven't forgotten, Carl. 
 The extra cover was laid for Ormin. 
 
 EcKOLD. Ah, yes. Made his apologies over 
 the telephone, has he ? 
 
 Clara. No, nothing definite. Besides, I 
 know he is coming to bid us good-bye. 
 
 EcKOLD. Terribly busy, I suppose, with this 
 long journey in front of him. Will you call me 
 when he comes? I want to pay my respects in 
 person. \^Rises, striding over to the right, turn- 
 ing half-way.'] Are you going out? 
 
 Clara. No, I've nothing particular on for to- 
 night. Why do you ask? Anything you wish to 
 consult me about? 
 
 EcKOLD. Nothing out of the ordinary. 
 There's no hurry at all. Well — [glances at the 
 clock, making for the door, right. The serving- 
 man enters with telegram and newspaper. Eckold 
 steps toward him, taking the telegram. The serv- 
 ingman places the newspaper on the table.] 
 
 Eckold [opening the telegram]. From Bet- 
 tina. 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Clara [going up to him, eagerly.] Oh, al- 
 ready? 
 
 EcKOLD. From Bettina and Hugo, of course. 
 
 [Clara reads over his shoulder.] 
 
 EcKOLD. From Innsbruck. 
 
 Clara. They didn't squander a round minute. 
 Piled into a cab directly after the wedding supper 
 and whipped to the station. 
 
 EcKOLD. Quite a sensible idea, that ! 
 
 Clara [reading] . " Tomorrow Zurich. Day 
 after tomorrow we expect to have a word from 
 you at Luzerne, Palace Hotel." 
 
 EcKOLD. " A thousand regards." 
 
 Clara. The identical route we travelled 
 twenty-two years ago. Only we weren't so hot- 
 foot to reach Innsbruck. 
 
 EcKOLD [without twitching a muscle of his 
 face]. Modern tempo, I guess. And we didn't 
 stop at the Palace Hotel, either. 
 
 Clara. It wasn't up then. 
 
 EcKOLD. Even if it had been — 
 
 Clara. It was glorious, all the same — with- 
 out the Palace, I mean. 
 
 EcKOLD. Ah, but Bettina's struck better luck 
 than you. 
 
 Clara. Now — [touching his arm gently.] 
 
 EcKOLD [moving away from her. Alongside 
 the table, nonchalantly fluttering the newspaper]. 
 I don't reproach myself in any way when I affirm 
 that. A paternal million, let me tell you, isn't to 
 be ground down with the heel of one's foot. 
 Especially when the stars fight in their courses for 
 you, which really is the case with your son-in-law. 
 [Glancing at the newspaper.] Here's something 
 
 3 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 about Ormin, by the way {reading'\ " The regu- 
 lar sanitation corps under the leadership of Ru- 
 dolph Ormin, Royal and Imperial Professor, of 
 the Austrian Red Cross, will leave Vienna this 
 evening on the eight twenty express. At Trieste 
 it will board the Austrian Lloyd liner Amphitrite, 
 sailing for Japan, and thence will repair to the 
 war zone." \^He holds out the newspaper to her, 
 scrutinizing her face closely as she peruses the col- 
 umn.} Not bad at all, that. [Si75.] 
 
 Clara [still standingl. You ploughed through 
 something of the sort once. 
 
 EcKOLD. Bosnia — ? There's no compari- 
 son — really. 
 
 Clara. But it was a kind of war, wasn't 
 it? 
 
 EcKOLD. Kind of? Not merely a " kind of," 
 but a bona fide war, I assure you. You might 
 have gathered that from my diary. I let you read 
 it then. Surely you remember? 
 
 Clara [laughingl. Certainly, I remember. 
 
 EcKOLD. From the steep mountain slopes they 
 fired on us where we were huddled below. Lit- 
 tle heed they gave to the Red Cross. Sanita- 
 tion corps or no, be damned to youl [Changing 
 his tone.'] Ah, but it's jolly good going through 
 it with the brevet of a superior — like Ormin, for 
 instance! At the time I was only a callow sur- 
 geon. I had just taken my degree. Nowadays 
 I am utterly unqualified for such an undertaking. 
 It calls for more elasticity in a man, more ideal- 
 ism, in a certain sense, more youth. 
 
 Clara. Ormin is two years older than you. 
 4 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 And, moreover, it's rumored his heart's not per- 
 fectly fit. 
 
 EcKOLD. But it's not a question of years, not 
 even of health. What keeps one in good fettle is 
 success, recognition, fame. 
 
 Clara. Perhaps if you had adopted an aca- 
 demic career — 
 
 EcKOLD. Oh, of course. The difference in 
 the nature of our endowments, Ormin's and mine, 
 isn't so big that you can notice it. It was due to 
 other things. Of that I am sure. Over and 
 above all things else, Ormin possesses innate gaiety 
 of spirit. There's the rub. The spiritual urge, 
 as it were. Then you've got to give the man 
 credit for some superficiality. That's an attribute 
 you must be born with. It's not to be acquired, 
 no matter how hard you try. 
 
 Clara. Somehow he never needed to drum up 
 a practice. 
 
 EcKOLD. Neither did I. Years ago, when he 
 and I were young physicians, financially he was 
 no better off than I. No better off than I. 
 What's the good of paltering with the truth. 
 Like mine in all respects, his lot was one of worri- 
 ment and struggle. 
 
 Clara. Yes, but for himself alone. 
 
 EcKOLD. of course, when he married his anx- 
 ieties were increased. What do you expect? A 
 good deal has to be discounted — always. Were 
 he to die one of these days Mrs. Melanie would 
 not be so wonderfully provided for. 
 
 Clara. Since she's not legally divorced, she 
 gets her allowance just the same. 
 
 5 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 EcKOLD. Allowance! About two thousand 
 crowns. And that, as you know, doesn't go a 
 great way with dear Melanie. She used to spend 
 as much as that on gloves and hats alone. At 
 least that was — 
 
 Clara. Really, I think she was maligned 
 more than she deserved. Society is horribly 
 stony-hearted towards the wives of great men. 
 
 EcKOLD. Great? Pshaw. You mean, fa- 
 mous. Well, thank Heaven, you're spared such 
 treatment. Now — [is about to go when Fro- 
 fessor Ormin comes in. He is a clean-shaven 
 man of about 50, with a haggard, sharply-chiselled 
 face.'\ 
 
 Ormin. How d'ye do. I trust sincerely you 
 haven't waited until now with the dinner. [Kisses 
 the tips of Clarets fingers and shakes hands with 
 Eckold.'] 
 
 Ormin. I've dined already, thank you. 
 
 Clara, You must take a cup of coffee — 
 
 Ormin. Thanks. Don't let me put you out, 
 though. [Clara rings and gives an order to the 
 maid who has entered.^ 
 
 Eckold. Delighted to see you once again be- 
 fore you leave. This evening, eh? And then on 
 the Amphitrite? 
 
 Ormin. Yes. 
 
 Eckold. Here 'tis in the paper. Ah, but 
 you're going to have a fine passage. In June — 
 by the by, when do you expect to be at the front — 
 on duty, I mean. 
 
 Ormin. In four weeks. But I think it'll take 
 us considerably longer to get to the actual war 
 zone. 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 EcKOLD. Who knows, old man, but all may 
 be settled before you arrive. 
 
 Ormin. Settled? Why, it's scarcely begun. 
 And judging from all appearances, things will be 
 rather long drawn out. [The maid brings the 
 coffee and Clara pours it into the cup. The maid 
 goes out.'] 
 
 EcKOLD. Are you taking an assistant along? 
 
 Ormin. Yes, Marenzeller. Kleinert's picked 
 to take my place in the clinic. [Sipping his cof- 
 fee.'] Do you know who's sailing with us? 
 Guess. On the Amphitrite, too. Our good old 
 friend, Floding. 
 
 EcKOLD. Floding? I suppose he's aged a 
 good deal. Grown virtuous, has he ? Not likely, 
 I guess. Virtue as a rule is more elusive than 
 age. 
 
 Clara. In what capacity is Floding going to 
 Japan ? 
 
 EcKOLD. In the capacity of correspondent — 
 
 Ormin. Yes, for the Rhenish News. So he 
 writes me. 
 
 Clara. You keep in touch with him ? 
 
 Ormin. Not very regularly. But since last 
 summer, when we were accidentally thrown so 
 much In each other's company — after many years 
 — I've already told you all about it. 
 
 Clara. Nowadays we never hear from him. 
 If you hadn't brought his respects from Helgo- 
 land — 
 
 EcKOLD. What's he going to write us for? 
 It's ten years now that he left Vienna. 
 
 Ormin. He refers to you habitually as one of 
 his closest friends. 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 EcKOLD. Friends? [Pause.] I doubt whether 
 I really owned a friend. Perhaps — you. 
 
 Ormin. Oh, a good many. Possibly you 
 make overstrict demands. 
 
 EcKOLD. Why make demands at all? Sel- 
 dom, if ever, are any of them met. 
 
 Ormin [jestingly to Clara], What's come 
 over your husband, eh? [Recollecting.] Oh, 
 yes; his daughterkin. By God, I miss her, too. 
 Have you had a line from her yet? No? It's 
 hardly likely so soon. 
 
 Clara. We received a telegram just this min- 
 ute. 
 
 EcKOLD. From Innsbruck. 
 
 Clara. Tomorrow they reach Zurich, day 
 after tomorrow Luzerne. 
 
 Ormin. And in the course of three weeks, I 
 suppose, you will welcome her back home. 
 
 Clara. Unfortunately, no. After the honey- 
 moon they p',an to move to Berlin. 
 
 Ormin. Indeed. Is Wormann needed that 
 bad in Berlin? 
 
 EcKOLD. Yes, now that his predecessor has 
 been appointed Professor Extraordinary to Bres- 
 lau — 
 
 Ormin. Quite so. Oh, he'll carve out a rip- 
 ping career for himself, your son-in-law wiU. 
 With twenty-eight assistants at the Physiological 
 Institute — and highly deserving of it all, let me 
 add. 
 
 Clara. I see no reason why it couldn't be over 
 here just as well. 
 
 Ormin. After all, the distance between Ber- 
 lin and Vienna isn't so great. 
 
 8 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Clara. Just fancy! Day before yesterday 
 she sat here with us. For seventeen years she sat 
 in the self-same place. [Pause.l Dear me! 
 All these sentimental after-thoughts, I'm afraid, 
 won't help a bit. But the wrench is — so deep ! 
 
 Ormin. I never thought you'd take It to heart 
 this way. All fathers and mothers must steel 
 themselves against this sort of thing. 
 
 Clara. Of what use is your steeling yourself 
 against it? 
 
 EcKOLD. Yes, of what use? It's infinitely 
 better to have no children at all. 
 
 Clara [almost frightened]. What a thing to 
 say! 
 
 EcKOLD [impenetrably]. I say it again. 
 
 Ormin [tactfully]. Well — [Pause]. Now 
 what else did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. One 
 of the nurses of the Red Cross accompanying my 
 expedition Is — don't start ! — Madame Melanie 
 Ormin. 
 
 Clara. Ah ! 
 
 EcKOLD. Your wife? 
 
 Ormin. My — wife that was, yes. 
 
 EcKOLD. Old man, sure as fate, you're go- 
 ing to come back with all your differences patched 
 up. 
 
 Ormin. Not a bit of It. 
 
 Clara. Don't forget to remember me to Me- 
 lanie, when you see her. 
 
 Ormin. You are kindly disposed to her, aren't 
 you? 
 
 Clara. We always got along very nicely to- 
 gether. You know that. 
 
 Eckold. Please remember me, too. And 
 
 9 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 don't omit Floding, either. You can tell him from 
 me it's a symptom of ungratefulness not to let 
 himself be heard from, especially after such a bully 
 friendship as he claims existed between us. 
 
 Ormin. You demand, my dear Carl, more 
 than you give. Why, you've chucked him on your 
 own account. What do you expect? 
 
 Clara. But, really, he liked him. 
 
 EcKOLD. Liked him? You exaggerate. He 
 interested me. Quite an amusing cut-up, he was. 
 Wicked and sentimental. 
 
 Ormin. Not such an odd combination, by a 
 long shot. That is, as far as wags who are nig- 
 gardly endowed go. 
 
 ECKOLD. Niggardly endowed? You mean 
 his halt foot. Ah, but don't you see that's why he 
 was vouchsafed such beautiful blue eyes. 
 
 Ormin. It's hardly the most striking paradox 
 in his make-up. What's worse, is the fact that he 
 possesses a poetical soul, coupled with not an 
 ounce of poetic talent. That kind of thing spells 
 the ruin of a man. 
 
 Clara. I remember several lovely poems he 
 wrote once. 
 
 Ormin. Up to a certain age nobody objects 
 strenuously to that. But, you see, he persists in 
 turning them out still. Last summer — just to 
 cite an instance — he recited several to me. 
 
 Clara. Well? 
 
 Ormin. The surf was simply deafening. I 
 must beg to be excused from any criticism. [£«- 
 ter servingman with a card.'] 
 
 EcKOLD [taking the card]. Excuse me. 
 Praxis aurea, you know. Don't go until I return. 
 
 lO 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Ormin. Can't promise that I'll stay that long, 
 Carl. I've got to attend to several things before 
 my departure. 
 
 EcKOLD. Won't you keep my wife company 
 for a quarter of an hour or so? Call me when 
 you're going. Now don't take yourself off unciv- 
 illy. Well, auf wiedersehen. [Goes out rightS\ 
 
 Clara [breaking in suddenly^. This is nice, 
 Melanie's sailing with you that way ! 
 
 Ormin. Not with me. It just happens that 
 she's a member of the party. 
 
 Clara. Well, if it weren't for you the idea 
 would never have occurred to her. 
 
 Ormin. It's idle to conjecture about that. 
 It's bewildering all the things she's put her hand 
 to, and carried through, too, since we separated. 
 
 Clara. Has she been living in Vienna re- 
 cently? 
 
 Ormin. Yes, and quite an age for her. Just 
 fancy only three months ago she returned from 
 Madeira, where I understood she kept a foreign 
 pension. 
 
 Clara. I was under the impression she had 
 tried her luck in America. 
 
 Ormin. Quite an old story, that. Do you 
 know that she was on the stage over there? 
 Played in English, mind you. It came to my ears 
 only the other day. She seems to have been tre- 
 mendously versatile In her way. 
 
 Clara. Quite a remarkable creature, I must 
 say. Perhaps you will be happy with her yet. 
 
 Ormin. I — 
 
 Clara. Fifteen years ago you may have been 
 unfit for married life. 
 
 II 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Ormin. On the contrary, I was always fit. 
 Only I didn't happen to meet the right woman. 
 [5mp/y.] I made her acquaintance — several 
 years too late. 
 
 Clara Ismilitiffl. You'd have tired of the 
 right woman just as you did of Melanie. 
 
 Ormin. Why do you think so? I did not 
 tire of Melanie. That's a mistaken notion of 
 yours. We just — Melanie and I — after a cer- 
 tain period took to making separate trips. Objec- 
 tively, I know, it has the appearance of tiring of 
 one another. But it wasn't my fault. I am very 
 strong for marital fidelity. At least I am sure of 
 this much : I was destined to the domestic sphere. 
 More so than Carl, for instance. 
 
 Clara. More so than Carl — you? 
 
 Ormin. Certainly. In him, lurking deep 
 within, there broods a suggestion of the out-and- 
 out undomestic creature. Yes, the genius of the 
 philanderer. 
 
 Clara [jmi/m^]. In Carl? 
 
 Ormin. Yes, in your husband, the practicing 
 physician, whose consultation hours are between 
 three and four. 
 
 Clara \^shaking her head incredulously'}. Do 
 you call yourself a student of human nature? 
 
 Ormin. Knowledge of human nature is an 
 assumption for the most part. Not always accu- 
 rate nor pleasant, either. But, quite seriously, we 
 have lived, both of us — he and I — at deepest 
 odds with our innermost selves. For I have 
 yearned all my life long for repose, spiritual re- 
 pose. Had I achieved it, I dare say, I'd have 
 made a bigger man of myself. 
 
 12 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Clara. You ought to be content. 
 
 Ormin. Content ? Are you thinking of what 
 the world calls my career? People look up to me 
 as a physician, as a professor, even — as if all that 
 mattered the least bit! Under more favorable 
 circumstances than I have been heir to, I might 
 have accomplished greater things. 
 
 Clara. Under more favorable — ? 
 
 Ormin. Well, suppose we put it this way: 
 In the peaceful atmosphere of a veritable home. 
 Please don't think me mawkish. I have always 
 craved for that sort of thing, but somehow it was 
 appointed far otherwise. 
 
 Clara. Ah, but I can read a purpose in the 
 fact that it was appointed otherwise. 
 
 Ormin. A purpose? I doubt it, Clara. I 
 doubt it because I know exactly where, under more 
 auspicious circumstances, I might have found the 
 repose I sought in vain. [/« a more ardent, hut 
 a quite simple tone of voice.] We both know 
 only too well, Clara, you and I. 
 
 Clara {^gently shaking her head]. What a 
 mad notion of yours ! 
 
 Ormin. Before saying good-bye, I thought I 
 might be permitted to call it to mind. 
 
 Clara. But not to utter it. 
 
 Ormin [earnestly but not heavily]. When you 
 feel as I do, that you have never uttered the right 
 words, and that the occasion will not present itself 
 soon again — 
 
 Clara [smiling, but averting her gaze]. I 
 hope, Ormin, you entertain no sinister presenti- 
 ments. 
 
 Ormin. Presentiments? Up to the present 
 
 13 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 I've not gone far afield when I weighed probabil- 
 ities strictly in the balance. 
 
 Clara. But I have no presentiments what- 
 ever. And I feel, in fact I know — nothing will 
 happen to you. 
 
 Ormin. I'm not afraid. Bear in mind: no- 
 body forced me to plunge headlong Into the war 
 and plague regions. The sealed purposes of 
 Providence, however, are made more apparent to 
 a man of my stripe from year to year. 
 
 Clara. You are still young. 
 
 Ormin. I? Ah, but you can say that more 
 truthfully of Carl than of me. 
 
 Clara. Of course you can say it of Carl too. 
 
 Ormin. He has preserved himself better than 
 I. His face is just as youthful as when he was an 
 undergraduate. All around, he's had better luck 
 than I. 
 
 Clara \^smiUng'\. In spite of his philandering 
 instinct? 
 
 Ormin [^continuing earnestly^. I daresay in 
 his profession too. 
 
 Clara. Surely you don't envy him that, do 
 you? 
 
 Ormin. Why not? Is my calling on a higher 
 plane? Sometimes an uncanny feeling seizes me 
 when I am called to an unknown family and in- 
 troduced — not to a human being, but to an ail- 
 ing stomach. Eckold at least gets to know his pa- 
 tients. 
 
 Clara. Nothing enviable in that — 
 
 Ormin [interrupttng'\. Yes, Clara, the lot of 
 a consulting physician has quite a peculiar charm. 
 Especially when, as in Carl's case, you enjoy a 
 
 14 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 good measure of the normal milk of human kind- 
 ness. 
 
 Clara. Do you consider Carl a kind man? 
 
 Ormin. H'm! That's a posing question. 
 Kind? Of course, he is kind. Every one of us 
 is that, more or less. But kindly — ? I don't 
 know whether you follow me. True kindness or 
 goodness is a rare and noble quality. I think one 
 may even commit crimes in goodness, one may 
 even sin — 
 
 Clara. Good people would never think of do- 
 ing that. 
 
 Ormin. You are quite right. Good people, 
 at their best, never transcend petty meannesses. 
 
 Clara llauffhinff']. That — why, that might 
 have been said by Floding. 
 
 Ormin. You think so? Then, if you don't 
 mind, I prefer to take it back. 
 
 Clara {^somewhat taken aback]. Our old 
 friend, it appears, has not succeeded in winning 
 your goodwill. 
 
 Ormin. Last summer we were thrown to- 
 gether every single day. And in vacations people 
 betray themselves more than ordinarily. 
 
 Clara. Perhaps it was just a game of his to 
 appear other than he is. It's like Floding. If 
 you saw him in his true likeness, then he must have 
 altered a good deal. 
 
 Ormin, A man doesn't alter, Clara. He 
 may disguise himself, he may dazzle others — at 
 times himself. But in the deepest recesses of his 
 soul he is unalterably the same. 
 
 Clara. If one only knew where the deepest 
 recesses of the soul are situated. 
 
 15 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Ormin. There you have it. Exactly. That's 
 why we are always the same. But I might hazard 
 a guess, they are probably situated where our sub- 
 conscious wishes slumber or give the appearance 
 of slumbering. 
 
 Clara. In the last analysis, Ormin, nothing 
 matters — nothing but the deed we have accom- 
 plished ; that which we have undergone in life, not 
 that which we have desired or yearned for. 
 
 Ormin, Quite so, Clara. And we can know 
 mighty little about a person as long as his real fea- 
 tures are screened behind the mist of his so-called 
 daily affairs. 
 
 Clara [smiling'\ . And you would have me be- 
 heve that your gaze pierces this mist? 
 
 ORum [earnestly]. Sometimes. And by vir- 
 tue of this penetration, for instance, the adven- 
 titious circumstance that you happen to go through 
 life in the guise of the wife of my old chum, Carl 
 Eckold, hasn't blinded me to the truth, namely, 
 deep, deep within, Clara, you possess the soul of 
 one who dares all for love. 
 
 Clara Iffrowing pale}. One who dares all 
 for love! [Smiling.'] You flatter me exceed- 
 ingly. I love Carl, quite naturally. I have al- 
 ways loved him. But beyond that there's nothing 
 extraordinary about it. 
 
 Ormin [earnestly]. You know very well 
 that's not what I was driving at. 
 
 Clara [with equal seriousness]. I have never 
 coveted any other lot. Never. I think I may 
 be permitted to say of myself, with justice, that 
 I have adorned, as far as lay in my power, the 
 busy and preoccupied life of one who was dearer 
 
 i6 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 to me than anything else in the world. It wasn't 
 at all times an easy task. But, thank Heaven, I 
 recognized it as my mission. 
 
 Ormin. Yes. I can well believe that. For 
 Carl had need of you. 
 
 Clara. As I had need of him. 
 
 Ormin. Is this true, Clara? Were you al- 
 ways convinced that Carl Eckold, and no one else, 
 constituted the meaning and end of your life? 
 
 Clara [tar tly'\. He and Bettina. Yes, if you 
 wish to put it that way ; the meaning and the end. 
 
 Ormin. I beg pardon, then. 
 
 Clara. Quite unnecessary, I assure you. 
 
 Ormin. Today, you see, I don't care to play 
 cocksure. I can't say : Well, until tomorrow or 
 after tomorrow, dear lady. 
 
 Clara \^laughing'\. Why not six months 
 hence, then? 
 
 Ormin \^as gently as possible^. Let us hope 
 so. [^He starts to go, but hesitates at a move- 
 ment of hers.'\ Oh, please don't break in on Carl. 
 We've said good-bye already. And, with all due 
 respect for him, the latest impression I wish to 
 leave with you — [interrupts himself. Simply. J 
 Good-bye, Clara. 
 
 Clara. Good-bye. \^They meet at the door. 
 He clasps her hand."] 
 
 Clara. Ormin ! 
 
 Ormin. Clara ! 
 
 Clara. You wear an air of having omitted 
 something — through oversight. 
 
 Ormin {waveringly'\. Omitted? Who has 
 not? 
 
 Clara. In this connection, Ormin, let me al- 
 17 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 lay your apprehensions before you go, at least as 
 regards myself — I pledge my word, dear friend, 
 you have no cause to revile yourself for anything. 
 
 Ormin. I can't quite make out — 
 
 Clara. Assuming that way back — ten years 
 ago, is it not? — you had proved more tumultuous 
 or more skillful in your manoeuvering, well, you'd 
 never have corralled me into your collection. 
 
 Ormin. H'm. Really, I don't see why you 
 try by this meticulous choice of words — 
 
 Clara. Oh, I don't doubt, I'd have turned 
 out a rare specimen. No. But it could never 
 have been. Quite otherwise was it decreed. I 
 don't mind telling you : I loved you. 
 
 Ormin [^after a brief pause}. Oh! Ohl 
 What a wretched simpleton I was ! 
 
 Clara [^laughing /oa>]. You do yourself rank 
 injustice. It didn't depend on you altogether. 
 Had I loved you less than I did, I'd have flung 
 myself into your arms — perhaps. But you were 
 more to me than a mere lover. You had sud- 
 denly taken the shape of my destiny. For this 
 reason it could never have come to pass. And 
 you were not only my destiny — 
 
 Ormin. What did it matter? I tell you, hap- 
 piness would have been ours, Clara. How many 
 people can say that? Happiness 1 Yours and 
 mine. 
 
 Clara. For six months going, maybe a year. 
 And even in that brief time it would not have been 
 vouchsafed to us unmixed. 
 
 Ormin. We might have purified it. Drained 
 off the dross, sooner or later. 
 
 Clara. Never. 
 
 i8 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Ormin. Bettina ? 
 
 Clara. Not for Bettina's sake alone. 
 
 Ormin. For him? What was he to you — 
 then? 
 
 Clara. What was he to me? What he has 
 always been. What he has remained to this day 
 — to this very day. I didn't realize so clearly as 
 at that moment that my proper place was here — 
 that I belonged utterly to him. Never till that 
 moment, Ormin. 
 
 Ormin. Why just that moment? 
 
 Clara. Never before was I so sure of myself. 
 
 Ormin. Forgive me, but, if my memory 
 doesn't deceive me, your relations with Carl, at 
 that time, left much to be desired. [Clara gazes 
 at him astonished.'] Oh, a blind man would have 
 noticed that. There's no more transparent stuff 
 than that which matrimony is made of. At a 
 pinch the individual can disguise himself, but in 
 the sphere of human relationships masquerade is 
 impossible. 
 
 Clara [after a brief hesitation]. We were 
 estranged at the time, if that's what you're aim- 
 ing at. I won't attempt to dissemble. But de- 
 spite that, indeed, for that very reason — [inter- 
 rupting herself, then more ardently.] You will 
 never understand ! You've never conceived what 
 marriage means — what marriage under certain 
 circumstances may grow to mean. You've no 
 idea of a year-in, year-out pull together — and 
 ours was a long pull together! What links are 
 wrought, stronger than anything else which pas- 
 sion can forge between one man and one woman ! 
 
 19 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Notwithstanding all the tugging and gnawing, the 
 link holds firm. The couple belong to one an- 
 other beyond recall. And one feels this all the 
 more keenly — 
 
 Ormin. When one chafes burningly to part. 
 
 Clara. Do you appreciate the truth of your 
 words? In the midst of black distrust and pangs, 
 the two people belong to one another just the same 
 — and later on, more irrevocably, more inescap- 
 ably by reason of their mutual devotion and ten- 
 derness. I hadn't the courage to leave him. 
 Then less than ever. Do you follow me now? 
 [^with a soft smile']. All your overtures, as you 
 see, would have fallen short. And so, when all's 
 said, you've no grounds to reproach yourself. 
 
 Ormin. Whether I follow you or not — 
 what's the odds today? But that you should tell 
 it to me now — 
 
 Clara [^without looking at him]. I had to, 
 Ormin, sooner or later. 
 
 Ormin {very softly]. You seem to be in 
 doubt whether we shall meet again — here or else- 
 where. 
 
 Clara {tumultuously]. Please don't carry 
 away a spurious image of me — 
 
 Ormin. Into eternity. 
 
 Clara. Into the far-away. 
 
 Ormin. It makes you happy thinking I shall 
 carry into the far-away the image of a saint, rather 
 than that of a woman — 
 
 Clara. I don't pretend to be a saint. That 
 description fits me much less than the other. 
 
 Ormin. Let's not attach too much weight to 
 mere words. 
 
 20 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Clara. For my part you may attach to them 
 whatever weight you like. I come equally short 
 of sainthood as I do of the passion of the woman 
 who dares all for love. Believe me, I am a mere 
 woman, like hundreds and thousands of other 
 women. Perhaps no worse, but certainly no bet- 
 ter. 
 
 Ormin. That sounds as if — {^ap-proaching 
 her.] Is there yet another secret, Clara? 
 
 Clara. None whatever for you, Ormin, in 
 this hour. 
 
 Ormin. None — ? 
 
 Clara. None. 
 
 Ormin. Do I follow you rightly, Clara ? 
 
 Clara. Certainly. 
 
 Ormin. Still it's a secret — [pause.] 
 
 Clara. A name — ? Does that signify? 
 
 Ormin. I am not inquisitive. 
 
 Clara. Life is full of strange coincidences, 
 Ormin. Tomorrow at this hour you will be stroll- 
 ing up and down the deck of the Amphitrite in 
 his company — 
 
 Ormin. In his — ? What's that you say? 
 In his — why, it's — 
 
 Clara. Yes. 
 
 Ormin. If that is so, then there was no chance 
 of its ever turning into destiny for you. 
 
 Clara. Why do you ask? {^Glancing mean- 
 ingly about the room.] Here is your answer. 
 
 Ormin. I mean a chance that you could not 
 possibly foresee. 
 
 Clara. Perhaps there was none. 
 
 Ormin. You will never convince me, Clara, 
 that you plunged cold-bloodedly into an affair of 
 
 21 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 this ilk. There must be some reason why it was 
 just he — 
 
 Clara. Hurt vanity I It's just like a man to 
 seek an explanation of a commonplace affair of this 
 sort, if he happens not to have been the — 
 
 Ormin. Lucky fellow. 
 
 Clara. The lucky fellow? 
 
 Ormin. You must have loved him? 
 
 Clara. I don't mean to deny it. 
 
 Ormin. More than you loved me? 
 
 Clara {^laughing involuntarily^. Less than 
 you. 
 
 Ormin. And yet, will you say, that he never 
 could have been your destiny? He too might 
 have been that. It would have been beyond your 
 strength to resist if he had clung to you, if he had 
 not released you, if he had claimed what was his 
 due — 
 
 Clara. Due? He claimed no more than I 
 was ready to grant him. Life had not pampered 
 him like some of the others. 
 
 Ormin [softly, to himself]. Like some of the 
 others. 
 
 Clara. He was always lonesome — from 
 childhood. He never knew the quiet of a father's 
 house. 
 
 Ormin. And, that being the case, you could 
 pose as something of a sister and mother — 
 
 Clara. We were lovers. 
 
 Ormin \_still simply^. And you were the first 
 heavenly ray to penetrate a lugubrious existence. 
 
 Clara. I was. 
 
 Ormin. Well, I must say, you had good rea- 
 son to nourish the delusion. 
 
 22 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 Clara. That's what I was to him. Per- 
 haps I was more than mere happiness in his life. 
 I don't know the kind of man life has made of 
 him today. It cannot have offered him all that 
 he hoped for, all that perhaps he sought. But I 
 know the man he was then. You, Ormin, did not 
 know him. No. In fact, nobody knew him. 
 Who troubled to peer into that cynical and solitary 
 soul? I alone did. That is why I, of all peo- 
 ple, can mean anything to him. And at the time 
 I was the whole world to him — and without jeop- 
 ardizing the calm of a third person concerned. 
 
 Ormin. After all, it was an escapade. 
 
 Clara. Escapade? 
 
 Ormin. An affair. Fortunately, it came at a 
 time when you were ripe for it. 
 
 Clara [shakinff her head]. I foresaw it. 
 l^Ormin gazes quizzically into her face.] You 
 make out my real features behind the mist. You 
 discern them all. Everything is as you have said. 
 Behind the mist of sensations and impressions is 
 limned the true image of what I am in my deepest 
 self. [After a light sob.] I shouldn't have told 
 you, Ormin. 
 
 Ormin. Do you regret, Clara? I am grate- 
 ful to you. It is so beautiful, so splendid that you 
 — that both of us in this hour should have been 
 able to speak out at last. 
 
 Clara. Are we quite sure — ? 
 
 Ormin. Clara! 
 
 Clara. Well, perhaps you are right. If it 
 were only a question of words ! 
 
 Ormin. We will forget the words. Nothing 
 depends on them. They are only — 
 
 23 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 [Eckold comes in from the right.] 
 
 EcKOLD, Eh, still here ? Good I 
 
 Clara. I was just about to call you. 
 
 Ormin [ready to leave}. Dear chap — 
 
 EcKOLD. Thanks awfully for waiting. 
 
 Ormin. I must say goodbye now. 
 
 EcKOLD. No use keeping you any longer. 
 Once more, bon voyage — 
 
 [They shake hands.} Don't you know, Ormin 
 — no sense in hiding it from you at this stage — 
 I sort of envy you. 
 
 Ormin. You do? Well, why not come 
 along? Give up your practice for a few months 
 and join us. 
 
 EcKOLD. What would I do? Surgery's not 
 in my line. 
 
 Ormin. That makes no bones. I guess we 
 can handle the epidemic well enough. No red 
 herring there for you, is there ? 
 
 EcKOLD. Going's out of the question, even if 
 it tempted me. I'm the sort of person who never 
 gets beyond the wishing stage. 
 
 Ormin [to Clara}. Isn't he a little unjust to 
 himself? 
 
 Clara. That's what I keep telling him some- 
 times. 
 
 EcKOLD. Well [pause} — good luck. Cure 
 them by the thousands. And, mind you, come 
 back whole yourself. 
 
 Ormin. I hope for the best. Well, adieu. 
 Think of me sometimes. Auf wiedersehen, 
 Clara. [He extends his hand and goes.} Si- 
 lence.} [Eckold glances at the clock and rings. 
 Servingman enters.} 
 
 24 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 EcKOLD. Has anyone else come in since? 
 
 Servingman. No, sir. 
 
 EcKOLD. Cab gone off yet? 
 
 Servingman [going to windowl. Not yet, sir. 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Clara, It's only half-past five. [She goes to 
 the window. Eckold seats himself and takes the 
 newspaper.] 
 
 Clara [turning toward him]. You had some- 
 thing to say to me. 
 
 Eckold. It will wait till tomorrow. 
 
 Clara. About Bettina, isn't it? Family in- 
 heritance ? Any difficulties ? You were to the no- 
 tary's today. 
 
 Eckold. Yes. The affair of the inheritance 
 is going very smoothly. In a week or two every- 
 thing will be adjusted. In any case, Bettina won't 
 stick at a trifle. But — I wanted to ask you; you 
 long for her very much, don't you ? 
 
 Clara. And you ? 
 
 Eckold. Goes without saying. But I — I 
 have my profession. You, I daresay, will find it 
 harder getting used to her being away. 
 
 Clara. I was prepared for it. 
 
 Eckold. Even so. Your whole life, at least 
 during the past year, was wrapped up in Bettina. 
 And you will feel an empty gap now. 
 
 Clara [forcing a smile]. Oh, but there are 
 heaps of things to distract one. 
 
 Eckold [staring straight ahead]. At all 
 events. If you care to go over to Berlin — don't 
 trouble about me. Go. [Clara gazes at him 
 astonished.] 
 
 Eckold. I won't object at all. Less so, con- 
 
 25 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 sidering that Bettina is no longer with us, and 
 there is no further need of our living together now. 
 
 Clara. You amaze me. 
 
 EcKOLD. What amazes you? 
 
 Clara {^portraying growing astonishment^- 
 You want to — you mean I should go away to 
 Berlin? 
 
 EcKOLD. Merely a suggestion. Of course, 
 we will have to canvass the details. But all things 
 considered, I believe — 
 
 Clara. What can this mean? What sudden 
 idea is this? 
 
 EcKOLD. Sudden? It only looks that way to 
 you. Until now I didn't mention it. The time 
 wasn't ripe for it. I like to talk about things only 
 when they have become, in a measure, realizable. 
 But let me assure you it's an old notion of mine 
 that after Bettina's marriage it might be a good 
 thing to give up living together. 
 
 Clara. Living to — 
 
 EcKOLD. Yes. Quite an old notion — a cher- 
 ished notion, I might say. Let me see ; I can tell 
 you exactly how old it is — even to the very day 
 it first struck me. It's ten years now. Last May 
 it was ten years to a day. Do you follow me ? 
 
 \_He stands directly opposite her. They eye 
 each other closely. Pause. '\ 
 
 Clara. You mean that for ten whole years 
 you kept silent? 
 
 EcKOLD. Yes. For ten whole years. But 
 I'm not making a bid for your admiration. One 
 must only be certain about what one wants. And 
 I was certain. To trouble the outward calm of 
 our existence, to bring about a deep-rooted re- 
 
 26 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 vulsion of our life-relationship, while our daugh- 
 ter was still living under the roof of her parents 
 would have been highly impractical, not to say im- 
 moral. And it would be just as immoral if we 
 continued living together in our old way now that 
 Bettina's gone. 
 
 Clara. You kept silent ten whole years ? 
 
 EcKOLD. I knew to-day had to come. In- 
 deed, I lived in anticipation of it. 
 
 Clara. Ten years you have waited for to- 
 day? I can't bring myself to believe it. I credit 
 no man with such self-control, least of all you, 
 Carl. 
 
 EcKOLD. You have always underrated me. 
 That I know. Both of you have underrated me. 
 lPause.'\ 
 
 Clara. Why didn't you send me away then? 
 
 EcKOLD. With equal right I might ask: 
 Why didn't you go away of your own accord? 
 
 Clara. I can answer that very easily. Be- 
 cause I held this to be my home. Because this was 
 my home, no matter what had happened. 
 
 EcKOLD. That view has its advantages, no 
 doubt, especially its extraordinary convenience. 
 
 Clara. It was your view too. 
 
 ECKOLD. Oh — 
 
 Clara. Yes, it was. Otherwise what's to 
 have prevented your showing me the door? It 
 would have been only right, considering the opin- 
 ion you held of me. What prevented you at the 
 time, I haven't the slightest doubt, was the feeling 
 that at bottom our relations were still the same. 
 
 ECKOLD. Ah ! 
 
 27 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clara. No act of mine could have wrought a 
 complete change. 
 
 EcKOLD. I don't quite grasp your — 
 
 Clara. We were too far apart, as it was. 
 That was the point. And what happened then 
 had very little to do with our estrangement. 
 
 EcKOLD. Estrangement? To what period do 
 you allude? What do you call estrangement? 
 
 Clara. Slipped your memory, has it? That 
 which made everything else sufferable ? 
 
 EcKOLD. Ah, yes, I know what you mean. 
 You refer to the most dismal period of my life, 
 when I was burdened down with cares and strug- 
 gles ; when I had finally to relinquish my academic 
 and scientific dreams. I was doomed then — not 
 because I lacked the necessary qualifications — I 
 was doomed to remain a hack in my calling, in- 
 stead of achieving what came as a windfall to 
 others. I grant you, I was very ill-tempered. 
 But I can picture the type of woman who would, 
 at such a pass, have stood stoutly by the side of 
 the man and cheered him and compensated him 
 for all the meannesses he had to encounter in the 
 world of daily affairs. You, however, attempted 
 to make of my melancholy a kind of fault. And 
 this estrangement — convenient word — was noth- 
 ing more than a welcome refuge whereby you could 
 seek your happiness elsewhere. 
 
 Clara. You're not fair to me, Carl. I tried 
 my very best at the time to lift you above your 
 disillusions and trying experiences. But I wasn't 
 strong enough for the task. Perhaps I tired too 
 quickly. But it never for a moment occurred to 
 me to blame you for your unfortunate tempera- 
 
 28 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 ment, as you charge. That this estrangement 
 came about, was nobody's fault, yours no more 
 than mine. It may be that human relations are 
 subject to the same ailments as human beings. 
 Surely you feel the truth of this. And so, all 
 along you must have known that the obvious fact 
 itself — the betrayal, as it used to be called, has 
 very little significance outside of this. Other- 
 wise, you would not have put up with it as you 
 did. 
 
 EcKOLD. You think so? I see that I owe 
 you an explanation as to how I could and did put 
 up with it. To begin with, I was forewarned. 
 I had the good sense to perceive destiny draw near. 
 One can always do that. Some people shut their 
 eyes tightly when it approaches, I refused to do 
 so. And in this way I was clever enough to an- 
 ticipate you. Do you follow me ? Fling my van- 
 ity the dole. I didn't wait until the minute 
 when your destiny and mine were consummated. 
 I beheld it approaching. It was inevitable. And 
 thus I prepared for it. It's surprising that you did 
 not once suspect me. How little you must have 
 cared for me ! And I made no secret of it at all. 
 Why he, your lover, knew all about It. Didn't he 
 tell you ? Odd ! Perhaps it's slipped your mem- 
 ory. Well, it makes no difference. Destiny was 
 fairly merciful, especially since I had all my plans 
 worked out for the future. 
 
 Clara [i« a quiet voice\. It would have been 
 more delicate to have shown me the door. 
 
 EcKOLD. And more delicate of you to have 
 gone away at the right time. Such matters are 
 
 29 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 never very delicate. It wouldn't have been prac- 
 tical to have parted then. 
 
 Clara. Surely you don't believe that ? 
 
 EcKOLD. Why not? Would my decision ap- 
 pear more conscionable, do you think, if I rolled 
 my eyes, lifted my hand to strike you and stormed 
 about like a madman? I might have done it ten 
 years ago, had I been a fool. You can't expect it 
 today. 
 
 Clara. There's no one here to witness the 
 scene, Carl — no one. You will please consider 
 me as little importunate as I consider you a — 
 
 EcKOLD. A what? 
 
 Clara. A comedian who simply won't have 
 his big scene ruined. Well, let this suffice. You 
 wanted your triumph. You have it. And let 
 it content you. As you may imagine I shall try 
 to be with Bettina as often as possible. That's 
 my own wish. But of what use is all the rest? 
 Why sever our relationship today ? Why? Since 
 we know that nothing of the sort is apt to hap- 
 pen again, there's nothing I can see which would 
 justify such a belated punishment and revenge. 
 We can still go on being what we have been to one 
 another in these latter years. Throughout all 
 these years, thank heaven, you haven't always 
 played comedy parts. It's beyond human endur- 
 ance. You would have forgiven me, at heart, 
 long ago, even if you did not forgive yourself. 
 Oh, before, a long time before we came to be noth- 
 ing but good friends — 
 
 EcKOLD. Good friends? Mere words! Nat- 
 urally there's this thing and that to talk about 
 when one is living together under the same roof, 
 
 30 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 especially because of the many common interests. 
 Above all, when there is a child. If you care to 
 call such a bond friendship, I'm sure I have no ob- 
 jection. For my own part, however, I always 
 held my life to be apart from yours, and I have 
 lived in anticipation of this hour. 
 
 Clara. But only since we became nothing 
 more than house companions. Once it was dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 EcKOLD. It was never different. 
 
 Clara. It was different! Recollect. After 
 the dark hour of estrangement, of lies, if you will, 
 there came another, a better time when we found 
 each other again. 
 
 EcKOLD. We? Found one another — ? 
 
 Clara. We both realized what we had suf- 
 fered without unlocking our lips. And many 
 wounds were healed. Everything, in fact. Yes. 
 Try to recall. We were happy again as in the 
 past, happier than we had ever been. You could 
 never glean that from your intercourse with the 
 world. Call to mind our wonderful trip — soon 
 after. And the glorious days in Rome, in Naples. 
 You threw off your comedy part. Let everything 
 else crumble. But when we were again recon- 
 ciled after our — respective affairs and we had 
 learned anew what we meant to each other — that 
 was no lie, no self-deception ! Only make an ef- 
 fort to recall. It's a little hard to speak of it to- 
 day. But you know and I know that at no time 
 was I so utterly yours. Never, even in our earliest 
 years of married life, was I so completely your 
 ideal as then when we found each other again. 
 
 EcKOLD. Nonsense ! 
 31 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clara. It can't be — 
 
 EcKOLD. It is. You were neither my wife, 
 nor my ideal — much less than later, for instance, 
 you were my friend. You couldn't be that to me 
 again. 
 
 Clara. Carl I 
 
 EcKOLD. Yes, I recall. It possesses its own 
 peculiar allurement, the time you speak of. But 
 you were not my ideal. At the very best — 
 
 Clara [passionately'}. Don't say what's ut- 
 terly beyond cure ! 
 
 EcKOLD. Why should there be a cure? You 
 will always be the same to me. 
 
 Clara. Carl ! If this be true — 
 
 EcKOLD. It is true ! 
 
 Clara. You should have told me this before 
 you took me back. You had the right, it may 
 be, to drive me away, even to kill me, if you 
 wished. But the right to conceal the punishment 
 you had meted out to me was not yours — You 
 have deceived me more nefariously and a thou- 
 sandfold more cowardly than I have deceived you. 
 You have demeaned me lower than one human 
 being has a right to demean another human be- 
 ing! 
 
 Eckold [triumphing'}. Do you feel that? 
 Does it cut you to the heart? Ah, that's as it 
 should be. It was worth waiting ten years for this 
 hour, this hour when you feel your degradation as 
 trenchantly as I felt mine then. 
 
 Clara. I never degraded you. 
 
 Eckold. Yes, you did. You degraded me, 
 made me look ridiculous and heaped insult upon 
 insult. Were it not he, I might perhaps have for- 
 
 32 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 gotten — forgiven. My anger would have dis- 
 solved into thin air, my hate would have vanished. 
 But you gave yourself to him of all people — to 
 him who has inherited all things from childhood 
 
 — everything which was denied me. I was filled 
 with doubts and qualms. But it was he who al- 
 ways gave himself airs, held hunself a better man 
 because, forsooth, nature had endowed him with a 
 gayer temperament. That galled my heart. But 
 it also lent me patience to allow my hate to swell. 
 
 Clara. He? What piece of good fortune 
 did he come into? Who on earth is so fortunate 
 that you should speak such words of envy? 
 
 EcKOLD. Do you hide his precious name still 
 
 — Ormin's name? The lordly Ormin's, the su- 
 perior Ormin's, the favorite of the gods — 
 
 Clara [stupefied']. Ormin? But that — Or- 
 min ? Suppose it's all a mistake ? 
 
 EcKOLD. Eh? What sudden notion of yours 
 is this? 
 
 Clara. Produce your evidence, if you have 
 any. Produce it. 
 
 EcKOLD. The trick comes too late. Ten 
 times — a hundred times you betrayed yourself. 
 But how could you fancy that all suspicions were 
 disarmed, and all foresight provided, simply be- 
 cause he engaged lodgings for your dove-cote un- 
 der an assumed name ? Naturally, the Investiga- 
 tions were made a trifle difficult through the genial 
 pseudonym of Ernst Mayer, but they led even- 
 tually to the goal, even though It was just In the 
 nick of time. Had you broken with him on the 
 tenth of May Instead of on the next day, then I 
 should have had practically no evidence against 
 
 33 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 you. For on the next day, a little nervous per- 
 haps about your security, Mr. Ernst Mayer de- 
 cided to go away on a journey — it is not recorded 
 where — and your love's young dream came to an 
 end. I am quite well posted, am I not? And 
 how beautifully everything adjusted itself for us. 
 Had I also seen you disappear on the next day 
 from that house — 
 
 Clara. Well? 
 
 EcKOLD. Oh, I don't know. Maybe your 
 dove-cote episode would have ended tragically. 
 For a trace of folly will be found in every one of 
 us — in the Ormins as well as the Eckolds of the 
 world. As it was, however, I had time to think 
 it over. I did think it over and came to the con- 
 clusion that I would keep silent until today. 
 
 Clara. And in his presence today — 
 
 EcKOLD. Why should I trouble about him? 
 Sentimental ninny! Who in his old age, realiz- 
 ing that his gifts are growing stale, crosses the 
 sea, seeking in the romantic atmosphere of pes- 
 tilence and war, a reconciliation with his worthy 
 wife — 
 
 Clara. Why do you abuse him ? 
 
 EcKOLD. Why not? Wasn't his whole life a 
 public abuse of me? 
 
 Clara. If you felt that way about it why 
 didn't you say so to his face today? 
 
 EcKOLD. Men need not talk earnestly and in 
 detail about such things. What women mean to 
 me, what women have meant to me from a cer- 
 tain moment in my life, others as well as you, I've 
 never hidden from him. In the same way he has 
 always known that I have penetrated to the inner- 
 
 34 
 
THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
 
 most recesses of his rather delicate and complacent 
 soul. 
 
 Clara. There is nothing to see in him. He 
 never played comedy parts as you have. He was 
 always truthful. 
 
 EcKOLD. Is the old witchery still effective, do 
 you think? Positively you are beginning to pity 
 me. 
 
 Clara. I don't need to. I've been happy in 
 my time, as happy as any woman can hope to be. 
 I am still happy today — in the consciousness that 
 I once belonged to him. Nothing can rob me of 
 that memory. It was he and no one else. And 
 I loved him beyond words. Beyond words — do 
 you follow me ? As 1 have loved nobody else in 
 the world. Oh, I shall never forget that I was 
 happy in this house and that I was intimate for 
 so many years with no one as with you. And you, 
 too, later, when you are calmer, will call to mind 
 those happy hours. But what were the gifts life 
 offered, what was domestic happiness, maternal 
 bliss, compared to the lease of blessed ecstasy 
 when I was — his — his — when I was his all-in- 
 all— 
 
 EcKOLD. You saw him today for the last 
 time. Do you realize that? You understand 
 now why I forewent the opportunity of explana- 
 tion with him. 
 
 Clara. I understand. Oh, I understand 
 everything so lucidly that I am going to leave this 
 house — tonight. 
 
 EcKOLD. We are of one mind. But why 
 leave just today? I give you leave to stay as long 
 as you like. 
 
 35 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clara. As it is, it is ten years too late. 
 
 EcKOLD \^shrugging his shoulders'}. You know 
 my view. Really I'm not unthankful toward 
 those first years of our marriage, but today — but 
 today the time had come to speak about those 
 other matters. Cruel words in cases like this are 
 unavoidable. [^Glances out of the window.] I 
 haven't given up hope altogether that later, per- 
 haps, we will talk quietly. Have you nothing 
 else to say to me ? Well, then, this — this eve- 
 ning let it be. There are, of course, certain nec- 
 essary formal matters to be discussed. I have to 
 go now — I must Ihesitates, then} — Adieu. 
 l^Clara remains silent. Eckold goes out. Clara 
 stands alone for a space, rigid and immobile; then, 
 as if awaking from a trance, she darts into the 
 room on the left, and returns almost immediately 
 with her hat and wraps. She hesitates. Then 
 seating herself at the small secretary, she takes a 
 blank sheet of paper and starts to write. Almost 
 inaudibly.} 
 
 Clara. What's the good? Words lie. 
 [Rising.} Bettina? She needs me no longer. 
 [Rings.} 
 
 Maid [who has entered}. Did you ring, 
 madam? 
 
 Clara. I shall be home rather late tonight. 
 Don't wait with the supper. [Goes out. The 
 maid gazes at her somwhat perplexed.} 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 36 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 A Play in One Act 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Conrad Herbot, an actor. 
 
 Sophie, his -wife. 
 
 Edgar Gley. 
 
 Doctor Falk, director of a theatre. 
 
 ViLMA Flamm. 
 
 A Bell-hop. 
 
 A Theatre Employee. 
 
 [Scene. An apartment in a fashionable ho- 
 tel. There is a door framed in the back wall 
 giving onto the corridor; another, hung with 
 portieres, on the left, conducting to an adjoin- 
 ing room. Down left, a fireplace with brightly 
 burning logs. Directly in front of the fireplace, 
 a small table with a settee. In the centre, a 
 thought to the right, an ordinary escritoire with 
 telephone apparatus. 
 
 Alongside the escritoire, as if tentatively 
 pushed up, is a divan. In the back, left, al- 
 coves skillfully concealed by curtains. There 
 is a rather large window on the right affording 
 a glimpse of the theatre vis-a-vis. Two ward- 
 robes flank either side of the door in the back. 
 
 Late afternoon on a day toward the end of 
 37 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 fall. For several minutes the room remains 
 vacant. Then, a knock. Pause. The knock- 
 ing is resumed. 
 
 A Bell-hop glides in by way of the door in 
 the back. He is carrying several letters. Al- 
 most simultaneously Sophie enters from the 
 other door.^ 
 
 Sophie. Letters? [The Bell-hop intent on 
 putting the letters on the escritoire approaches 
 her.'] Any for me ? [She relieves him of the let- 
 ters and glances hastily through the pile. She 
 puts three on the escritoire and keeps one in her 
 hand.] Ah! From him. [The Bell-hop goes. 
 Sophie moves to the window with the letter, which 
 she proceeds feverishly to open. She reads it, 
 smiles as if pleased, shakes her head and then re- 
 sumes reading. In the midst of this, she is inter- 
 rupted by another knock.] Come in. 
 
 [The Bell-hop re-enters, this time with a card 
 which he hands to Sophie.] 
 
 Sophie. Vilma Flamm? I don't recollect 
 ever meeting her. 
 
 Bell-hop. The lady says she comes by pre- 
 vious appointment. 
 
 Sophie. By previous appointment? Ah, quite 
 so. You will please inform the lady that my hus- 
 band — that Mr. Herbot, actor by appointment 
 to the Burgtheatre, is not at home. [The Bell- 
 hop goes.] 
 
 Sophie [continues reading her letter. Her 
 face shows that she is profoundly touched]. No. 
 What an idea I Surely he doesn't believe — [a 
 knock]. I wonder what that is now? Come in. 
 
 38 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 [Filma Flamm enters. She is a girl some- 
 where in the vicinity of twenty-two, fash- 
 ionably but not, one would say, expensively 
 gowned. Nor, taken all in all, is she particu- 
 larly attractive, due perhaps to the fact that 
 her hat is so immense and her coif so dis- 
 tinctly and unmistakably of Pre-Raphaelite 
 origin. Her eyes are lustrous and dark. 
 She is slightly ill at ease under Sophie's ap- 
 praising look.l 
 ViLMA. I beg your pardon — 
 Sophie. Miss Flamm, I believe — ? 
 ViLMA. Yes. I come at the request of — 
 Sophie. Didn't the boy tell you? Mr. Her- 
 bot is not at home just now. 
 
 ViLMA. I hope you will forgive me, but I 
 couldn't help thinking there must be some mis- 
 take since Mr. Herbot asked me here at five to- 
 day. I'm afraid I am a trifle late. Do you ex- 
 pect Mr. Herbot back shortly? 
 
 Sophie [extremely coot]. I can't say for cer- 
 tain. Don't you think you had better call again 
 some other time ? Or — would you prefer wait- 
 ing in the lobby ? 
 
 ViLMA. I — wait? I'm not strong on the art 
 of waiting. And besides — I presume you are 
 Mr. Herbot's secretary? 
 Sophie. No, I am his wife. 
 ViLMA {involuntarily]. Ah! 
 Sophie. The announcement seems to occasion 
 you a good deal of amazement, Miss Flamm. 
 
 ViLMA. Oh no. Only I was under the im- 
 pression — to be sure, it's common gossip by now, 
 that Mr. Herbot is divorced from his wife. 
 
 39 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Sophie \_with admirable self-possession]. A 
 mistake, I assure you. 
 
 ViLMA. Thank Heaven for that. 
 
 Sophie [wheeling half-way round]. Very 
 good of you to say so, I'm sure. [With greater 
 afableness.l If you'd care to leave a message for 
 my husband — ? 
 
 ViiMA. I do hope you won't mind! But, 
 you see, it's rather of a personal nature. I came 
 expecting to get a try-out from Mr. Herbot, who 
 has made a great name for himself at the Burg- 
 theatre. 
 
 Sophie. A try-out? 
 
 ViLMA. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I am 
 preparing myself for a career on the stage. For 
 six months, or thereabouts, I've been a pupil of 
 Madame Fuchs. But lately I have gotten into 
 the habit of questioning very seriously whether 
 her method is quite the correct one. It goes with- 
 out saying, that the members of my family are ut- 
 terly opposed to the idea. My father's a mer- 
 chant in the city — Flamm and Sons, Haberdash- 
 ers. The sons are my brothers. I gave Mr. 
 Herbot full particulars about myself in a letter 
 which I sent him a little over a week ago. And 
 in reply Mr. Herbot was generous enough to call 
 this appointment for five o'clock today. I sup- 
 pose he's forgotten all about it. 
 
 Sophie. Quite possible, since, as you say, he 
 made it eight days ago — [A knock.] 
 
 ViLMA [eagerly]. Come in. Oh — I beg — 
 your pardon. 
 
 [Sophie smiles involuntarily. The Bell-hop ap- 
 pears with a card.] 
 40 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Sophie. Oh, certainly. Show him in. 
 {Falk enters. He is a small slender man, 
 clean-shaven, with a pair of keen penetrating 
 eyes. He wears a tortoise-shell pince-nez 
 which he removes instinctively from time to 
 time from the bridge of his nose. He is 
 wearing an overcoat. In one hand he 
 clutches a stick and in the other a manuscript 
 case."] 
 Falk. Well, here I am. I didn't wait to be 
 shown in. 
 
 Sophie \^quite beside herself with joy. Ofer- 
 ing him her hand"]. Good evening, dear friend. 
 [To Vilma, who remains standing gazing wide- 
 eyed at the direct or. "] You will pardon me. Miss 
 Flamm, but, if I were you, I would write again. 
 
 Vilma. Would it be too presumptuous to beg 
 you to present me to the director — 
 
 [Falk turns away after shooting a withering 
 
 glance at Filma.] 
 Sophie [slightly confused}. For the moment 
 
 — I — have forgotten your name — 
 
 Vilma. If you will allow me, I will introduce 
 myself: I am Vilma Flamm, actress by profession 
 
 — an actress, that is, about to be. Herr Director 
 you see before you one of your most ardent ad- 
 mirers. I rarely visit any other theatre but yours. 
 So I would take this opportunity — 
 
 Falk. But I would not. [Turns away. "} 
 Vilma. It was wholly unintentional, I assure 
 you. It must have been the hand of destiny — 
 
 Falk. Perhaps. If so, then you have en- 
 tirely misread the drift of this hand. I do not dis- 
 cuss theatrical business outside of my office, and 
 
 41 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 there only between two and three, afternoons, by 
 previous arrangement. 
 
 ViLMA. Then may I call on you tomorrow at 
 two — ? 
 
 Falk. Please don't put yourself out, my dear 
 young lady. We have no vacancy at the present 
 moment. But you are young yet; my advice to 
 you is to try the provinces. Germany, believe me, 
 is rich in excellent — 
 
 ViLMA [as if suddenly struck with the idea]. 
 Theatres. 
 
 Falk. Railways. Good evening, Miss — 
 
 ViLMA. At all events, I shall never forget this 
 hour. 
 
 Falk. I can't put a stop to your memory, I'm 
 sure. 
 
 ViLMA. Good evening, Mrs. Herbot. Good 
 evening, Herr Director. 
 
 [She goes out.'\ 
 
 Falk [still flourishing his stick]. Why do you 
 let people of that description cross your threshold, 
 Mrs. Herbot. May I — ? 
 
 [He places his stick and overcoat on the divan, 
 but retains the case in his hand.] 
 
 Sophie. I couldn't help it. She came in un- 
 awares. Herbot, it seems, had made an appoint- 
 ment with her in order, as she says, to give her a 
 try-out. 
 
 Falk. One shouldn't object to that. Occa- 
 sionally he is obsessed with the idea of instruct- 
 ing the young. 
 
 Sophie. There are times when — I — I feel 
 as if I must pack my things and leave him. 
 
 Falk. It wouldn't pay, that. As regards this 
 42 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 would-be actress, she needn't trouble you nor me 
 nor even him very much. Proof is, he wasn't even 
 at home when she called. 
 
 Sophie. He wrote her eight days ago when, 
 supposedly, he was divorced. 
 
 Falk. Oh no. 
 
 Sophie. And if I hadn't come yesterday — 
 
 Falk [seizing the occasion^. But you are 
 here, my dear Sophie. Let's keep to that just 
 now. And that's why I've come : to offer you my 
 welcome and congratulations on your return. 
 
 Sophie. Thanks. I gladly accept your wel- 
 come. But as to the congratulations — do you 
 think they are a propos ? 
 
 Falk. Indeed they are. A thousand con- 
 gratulations. I've already congratulated your 
 husband at rehearsal today, and I daresay I have 
 every reason in the world to congratulate myself, 
 besides, on winning back my star actor. 
 
 Sophie. But you never lost him, to begin with. 
 
 Falk. Still — 
 
 Sophie, Oh, I followed his repertory day by 
 day. He played, in all, from September ist un- 
 til today, October 30th. Six times a week, and 
 in the course of this period he created two brand- 
 new parts, one classic and the other modern. And 
 both, I understand, were successes. 
 
 Falk. Successes ? H'm. That's as you look 
 at it. To my way of thinking, he made a fizzle 
 of these parts. Why, I couldn't help hissing him 
 myself — under my breath, of course, because 
 noisy manifestations of disapproval are prohibited 
 in my theatre. Oh yes; he made a hit with the 
 gallery. What else do you expect? Good 
 
 43 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Heavens, a dozen geniuses can be ruined and laid 
 away before the great general public or, for that 
 matter, the critics get even an inkling that one of 
 the most cherished idols of the day is threatening 
 to topple. Only the other day, — it was in Tasso 
 — he tripped up disgracefully on lines no fewer 
 than seven times. The gullible, easily credulous 
 public, I daresay, thought each slip-up a fresh 
 nuance. In addition he's fallen into a habit of 
 mouthing — the same mannerism, in fact, which 
 he used to pull off before I came along and literally 
 rescued him from the Burgtheatre. 
 
 Sophie. Don't try to cry down the Burgthe- 
 atre. It's superior to — most others. 
 
 Falk. Oh, of course. That's a regular little 
 pet view which you Viennese hold. Let me tell 
 you, dear Sophie, it would have spelled the end of 
 Herbot as an actor if he — 
 
 Sophie. If he had stayed on at the Burg- 
 theatre ? 
 
 Falk. Ah — no. I mean, if you two had not 
 been brought together again. As a patron of 
 German art in general and as a director of a the- 
 atre in particular, I was bound to bring you both 
 to your senses. 
 
 Sophie. Oh ! 
 
 Falk. And to thrust you into his arms. 
 
 Sophie. Indeed? Then it was the theatre di- 
 rector, not my husband, who sent me those appeal- 
 ing letters. 
 
 Falk. Appealing or not, at all events, I am 
 gratified that they were not sent unavailingly. 
 And I can't help coddling myself into thinking that 
 
 44 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 not only my theatre, but Herbot himself and you, 
 above all, are going to gain by it. 
 
 Sophie. Will you not admit — be truthful 
 now ! — that I acted a little precipitately in com- 
 ing so soon. 
 
 Falk. I don't think so. But, touching those 
 other things, I don't care to be pretentious. It is 
 for the best; it is good for you too, that Herbot 
 and you have made it up. You belong to one an- 
 other. Yes, apart from whatever indiscretions 
 you may have committed or may, in future, com- 
 mit! 
 
 Sophie. You ! 
 
 Falk. I mean, either of you. And as for 
 him — well, this is by no means the first time that 
 I've called your attention to it — you must really 
 take him as he is. Wherever geniuses are to be 
 considered, you can always count on a certain 
 amount of poignant grief to directors as well as to 
 women. 
 
 Sophie. Except that, in the case of the direc- 
 tor, the grief has its recompense. 
 
 Falk. Don't say that, Sophie. Ultimately, 
 it has its recompense for you women, too. You 
 must exult exquisitely, you women, when you real- 
 ize that a jack-a-napes fashioned along Herbot's 
 lines, is directly dependent on you, and that this 
 dependency increases from year to year. In 
 short, if you will have the truth, he can neither 
 live nor act without you. Don't you perceive, 
 Sophie, if ever there existed an indisputable mark 
 of love, then here it is. And since you cannot 
 live without him — 
 
 Sophie. I'm not so sure of that. 
 45 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Falk. Well, at all events, you are here. 
 The rest will follow, if it hasn't already. But 
 let me have a good look at you, Sophie. Se- 
 clusion, it seems, has worked wonders with you 
 
 — if seclusion it was. 
 
 Sophie. Doctor I Whatever can you be 
 thinking of? 
 
 Falk. Well, assuming for an instant it were 
 true, nobody would count it against you. Least 
 of all, he. And revenge, if you'll forgive the 
 bromide, is said to be sweet. 
 
 Sophie. Revenge is a thing I do not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Falk. Oh, well, it doesn't matter much be- 
 cause revenge — at least in cases like this — 
 rarely comes unalloyed. For the doer of ven- 
 geance, so called, a good deal of the sweetness 
 is thinned in the process, a fact which has some- 
 how got itself overlooked in the proverb. Why 
 are you laughing, Sophie ? 
 
 Sophie. What you just said, is very clever. 
 But how ruthlessly you'd cut it out, if by chance 
 you came across it in the dialogue of one of your 
 playwrights ! 
 
 Falk. Well, what do you expect? Wisdom 
 on the stage is like sowing the sands. It's alto- 
 gether out of place. But to take up again our 
 uncut dialogue: Ah, but you have grown slen- 
 derer and a shade paler in complexion. 
 
 Sophie. You only fancy so, doctor. I'm 
 looking fine. And, all in all, I had a splendid 
 time. Seclusion isn't such a bad thing after all 
 
 — and bracing, quite bracing, believe me. Just 
 think: to stroll for hours along the stretch of 
 
 46 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 beach or to lose oneself in some beautiful book or 
 to lie, perfectly relaxed, in a boat and gaze up, 
 drinking in the blue immensity of the heavens; 
 but, above and beyond all this, not to have to lis- 
 ten to lies, lies — the whole livelong day. 
 
 Falk. You exaggerate, Sophie. Lies — ! 
 There are no such things as lies in the world. 
 There are only people who permit themselves to 
 be fooled. And you were never one of them, 
 Sophie. On the other hand, there are certain 
 human relations that are founded on lies. Only 
 this fact must be ignored, never traded on. In 
 spite of everything, Herbot loves you and has al- 
 ways loved you. This is the undeniable truth, no 
 matter what has happened. 
 
 Sophie. And will happen in the future, you 
 must add. 
 
 Falk. It will never happen again. This 
 would-be tragedy queen in her rather piteous di- 
 lemma is negligible, any way you take her. 
 Surely Herbot couldn't foresee eight days ago 
 that you'd give in. He probably wanted to lay 
 in fuel for the winter. 
 
 Sophie. Do you condone this sort of thing 
 too? Do you realize that he wrote me daily, 
 though I haven't replied with so much as a couple 
 of cool lines. And what letters ! 
 
 Falk. More beautiful than mine? 
 
 Sophie. It seemed that he had no other 
 thought, no other longing but for me. 
 
 Falk. Which is quite true. Shall I tell you, 
 Sophie, how this spoiled child wept like a babe 
 because of you. You won't take unfair advan- 
 tage of the confidence, I hope. And not only did 
 
 47 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 he come up and weep in my quiet chambers, but 
 recently, the other day, in fact, we were sitting 
 in the restaurant and he was to all intents and 
 purposes gay; and then suddenly he dropped his 
 head on the table and commenced whimpering like 
 a dog. 
 
 Sophie. And in your apartment, you say, he 
 wept like a babe. Doubtless this is a fine distinc- 
 tion. 
 
 Falk. Well then, if you'll have it so, like a 
 dog — 
 
 Sophie. But in the restaurant, I suppose, you 
 first opened a " pottle Sec," as he calls it. 
 
 Falk. No use denying it. 
 
 Sophie. He did drink with you — 
 
 Falk. Only when despair got the better of 
 him. 
 
 Sophie. But you'll admit that he got pleasure 
 out of it. 
 
 Falk. Yes. Life runs its course. That's 
 from one of my playwrights. Not very pro- 
 found, I daresay, but it hits the bull's-eye. And 
 so what can we do but resign ourselves to our 
 destinies? Tonight, after the final curtain of 
 Hamlet — 11.45 — i"^ honor of the reunion of 
 husband and wife, and of the cause of German art, 
 we'll blow ourselves to a " pottle " of wine. And 
 I promise you, he won't start whimpering to- 
 night — But what the deuce can be keeping him 
 so long? 
 
 Sophie. His usual afternoon stroll — or, 
 who knows, he may be betraying me with some 
 tragedienne or banker's wife — or simply a shop- 
 girl. 
 
 48 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Falk. Oh please I Betraying you — ! Be- 
 fore Hamlet? Incredible! 
 
 Sophie [laughing involuntarily]. What's that 
 you're promenading back and forth? 
 
 Falk. Oh this? This is a new play. A 
 very interesting part for him? I want him to 
 look at it. Now that the affair [with a bow] 
 has been successfully concluded, I know I can trust 
 in his judgment. 
 
 Sophie. You flatter me. 
 
 Falk. But, tell me, when did you arrive, 
 Frau Sophie, which being rendered into our be- 
 loved German tongue, means, not without good 
 reason, Frau Wisdom. 
 
 Sophie. Last night. Oh, you needn't pull a 
 wry face. The hotel was overcrowded. We got 
 this room this morning. 
 
 Falk. Seriously now, doesn't it speak well 
 for him that he has kept your charming apart- 
 ment locked up and sworn an oath that he won't 
 cross the threshold except arm in arm with you ? 
 
 Sophie. Oh yes, there are some oaths which 
 he keeps. You see, the hotel, being directly op- 
 posite the theatre, is altogether more convenient 
 for — try-outs and coaching — 
 
 Falk. Enough. Either you're reconciled or 
 you're not reconciled. Why are you suspicious? 
 Have you any grounds? Quite frankly, I didn't 
 come here with the single purpose of congratulat- 
 ing you. There is a promise I want to obtain 
 from you, if I can. 
 
 Sophie. A promise? 
 
 Falk. That you won't go through the same 
 rigmarole again. 
 
 49 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Sophie. Rigmarole ? I ? 
 
 Falk. I mean, that you won't leave him 
 again. I can't afford accidents in the middle of 
 the season. This time you fled on August 14th, 
 and it wasn't until September ist that he recovered 
 sufficiently to act. Now wouldn't I be in a fine 
 fix, if you were to do it again when the play we're 
 producing happens to be a hit? I simply can't 
 let matters reach that pass. And so I want you to 
 promise me — 
 
 Sophie. Hadn't we better sign a contract? 
 
 Falk. Contract — ? Oh please! I wish 
 you to give your promise gratuitously, out of a 
 sense of conviction, insight and understanding of 
 my position. He, I know, won't trespass again. 
 As a conductor of a place of amusement, you real- 
 ize that I am committed, like the prohibition of 
 smoking in the theatre, to anticipate every eventu- 
 ality. And so if this little thing should happen 
 again — 
 
 Sophie. Doctor! You amaze me. Little 
 thing ! Have I been speaking to the four winds ? 
 Or must I assume that in this lying world, even 
 such a respectable member of society — such a 
 gentleman as yourself, has lost, along with the 
 rest, the power to differentiate between levity and 
 — baseness? 
 
 Falk. But — but — 
 
 Sophie. Under such circumstances, how can I 
 come back to him? 
 
 Falk. You needn't come back to him. To 
 begin with, you should not go away at all. Why 
 don't you take things less tragically? You can 
 do it. You have proved it over and over again. 
 
 50 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 To be truthful with you, I can't understand why 
 you left this time — ? 
 
 Sophie. You can't understand? You, who 
 have been a bystander through it all, from begin- 
 ning to end ? 
 
 Falk. You remember three years ago? I 
 was a bystander to that too. As far as I can 
 tell, the cases are alike. Faithless once, faith- 
 less always. Why did you leave this time — ? 
 
 Sophie. They are different, dear friend. At 
 that time we two alone, Herbot and I, had to 
 make it up with one another. The happiness of 
 other people was not at stake. 
 
 Falk. Of course a third person was involved. 
 That's in the very nature of these affairs. 
 
 Sophie. Philinchen? A frivolous woman 
 who'd gone through almost everything, and who 
 had no responsibility whatever to herself or to 
 anybody else. And then, when a man plays the 
 same dangerous role night after night for a hun- 
 dred nights, and you are playing opposite him — 
 it's like tempting fate. I saw it coming on the 
 first night, huge, irresistible. After that the only 
 question was at which performance the affair 
 would come to full fruition. 
 
 Falk. It was on the ninth. By the twenty 
 fifth it was closed. 
 
 Sophie. You keep your books accurately, 
 doctor. 
 
 Falk. I am half a parent to Herbot. And 
 I assure you, had it lasted longer, I should have 
 substituted another Rautendelein. Entirely on 
 your account, dear Sophie. Because I knew you 
 did mind, in spite of what you say. 
 
 51 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Sophie. Mind? Ah no. I understood it. 
 I said to myself: What would happen to you 
 if you played opposite a man like Herbot, night 
 after night? Unfortunately, there is no other 
 like him. I can quite grasp how like incense, like 
 a wild abandon, a nightmare, the feeling would 
 come over one — and then at last one awakes. 
 This forbearance did not come at once. In the 
 throes of my first anguish, I wanted to kill them. 
 
 Falk. Both ? 
 
 Sophie [earnestly]. Him — at least, him. 
 
 Falk. And what about me ? Eh ? I should 
 have had to put off my play. And a fine chance 
 I'd have, getting on my feet again! 
 
 Sophie [laughing involuntarily]. But how do 
 you explain the fact that, after Herbot, others 
 played the part? 
 
 Falk. Later — much later. Before a per- 
 formance, I warn you, no star is allowed to be 
 murdered. Now you have an inkling of what 
 drawbacks there are in this repertory business. 
 But many thanks for not carrying out your inten- 
 tion. You were wise in thinking better of it, just 
 as now — 
 
 Sophie. I'm not sure yet whether it's the best 
 thing in this case, though. 
 
 Falk. Right after the affair — after that first 
 crisis, I remember quite well that you really be- 
 came mated for the first time. And you were 
 wonderfully happy. At least until August of this 
 year. And, trust me, you will be happy together 
 again. 
 
 Sophie. Wonderfully happy? 
 
 Falk. Certainly. 
 
 52 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Sophie. I don't think so. Even though I've 
 come back, be assured it can never mean happiness 
 again. 
 
 Falk. But — 
 
 Sophie. Only think, doctor, who the favorite 
 is now. A young girl, an innocent young girl 
 about to be married. And her fiance is a splendid 
 young man who is quite daft about the girl. Be- 
 sides, he and Herbot are quite friendly. Has 
 anyone the right to jeopardize a third person in 
 an affair of this kind? 
 
 Falk. In a higher sense, certainly not. But 
 in the present instance the happiness of a third 
 person is not in peril. The fellow knows abso- 
 lutely nothing, and the wedding will take place 
 in eight days. 
 
 Sophie. Oh, that is the least consideration. 
 
 Falk. I'm afraid, Sophie, you've been to too 
 many performances of Ibsen at my threatre. 
 Luckily, Herbot has no use for Ibsen and regards 
 the affair as comparatively harmless — not very 
 different from that other one. At that time, it 
 was the case of a young girl of good family too ; 
 yes, and she was about to be married. But an af- 
 fair of this sort doesn't always imply a climax, as 
 you think. With the perplexities of conscience 
 Herbot has no patience. His is much too primi- 
 tive — let us be frank — his is too wholesome a 
 nature. 
 
 Sophie. Wholesome? Is that the correct 
 word? 
 
 Falk. Really, I never dreamed you'd take the 
 thing so painfully. At first I had no idea when 
 the affair would peter out. They were wrapped 
 
 S3 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 up in one another and noticed nothing or seemed 
 to notice nothing. Naturally I wondered a bit, 
 and I dare say I had cause to wonder too. 
 
 Sophie. That's a bit dark, doctor. 
 
 Falk. Well, what I mean is that I should 
 certainly have wondered if they had let the thing 
 go on that way, if at the critical moment I had not 
 found them with entanglements elsewhere. 
 
 Sophie [smilinff}. Indeed. How you notice 
 everything, dear doctor. 
 
 Falk. You don't have to be particularly 
 sharp for that. And I, as an old skillful drama- 
 tist, cannot lay the tragic blame at your door. 
 
 Sophie [very earnestly']. Perhaps you are 
 right. But I am not altogether without blame. 
 Otherwise I should not have come back. 
 
 Falk. And wouldn't it be much nicer •— and 
 here the unmoral casuist puts the question — 
 wouldn't it somewhat relieve the situation if you 
 were likewise — how shall I put it ? — caught in 
 a fault? 
 
 Sophie. Perhaps. Similar thoughts have 
 come to me unaided in my seclusion. 
 
 Falk. Similar thoughts occurred to you, and 
 yet you remained alone ? 
 
 Sophie. Do you still doubt that? 
 
 Falk. Oh no ! 
 
 Sophie. I don't think you have a true account 
 of the affair to which you allude. And since I feel 
 that you are a friend — 
 
 Falk. You have none better — 
 
 Sophie. Then you ought to know the truth. 
 My truth. Here is a letter which I received from 
 him one hour ago. From him. 
 
 54 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Falk. From him? From the young chap 
 sporting the hunting cap ? My chess opponent ? 
 
 Sophie. You referred to him, didn't you? 
 Or did you suspect an escapade with some one 
 else? It's a letter from the young man with 
 whom I seemed to you to be so taken up, emo- 
 tionally and otherwise, that I allowed the affair 
 between my husband and Daisy to take its natural 
 course. Would you care to read it? 
 
 Falk. Typed, is it? No? Oh, you will 
 have to excuse me, Sophie. Read it to me your- 
 self with your dark resonant voice. 
 
 Sophie. I'll read only a few lines which, I 
 think, will clear up everything for you. Just a 
 minute. \^Turns pages and reads.^ "I have 
 just learnt, dear madam, that you are still in 
 Brioni and as ever, alone. Since you left the At- 
 tersee lakeside before me and have not, to my 
 knowledge, arrived at Vienna, it follows that you 
 have not seen your husband for two months." 
 [Interrupts hers elf. '\ The letter was forwarded 
 to me here. ~\_R€ifds further.'] "It is not my 
 intention to force myself into your private af- 
 fairs, nor to attempt to penetrate what appears 
 a self-chosen reticence. Whatever has happened, 
 whatever your plans are, I must not presume to 
 be concerned any further than you will allow. 
 But, if I may, I should like to remind you of one 
 hour — a wonderful hour on the shore of the lake 
 just before sunset — " A wonderful sunset, while 
 my husband and Daisy and her fiance were out 
 sailing in the distance. 
 
 Falk. Is that what our friend means by 
 " wonderful " ? He Is undoubtedly referring to 
 
 55 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 something that happened between you and him — 
 
 Sophie. It was the hour when he dared utter 
 his feelings, for the first and only time. No, he 
 didn't utter them. He betrayed them in a quiet 
 but moving way. By kissing my hand! That 
 was all. 
 
 Falk, That may be much. 
 
 Sophie. At all events, you must admit, that 
 my transgression was very slight. 
 
 Falk. All the more praiseworthy, because 
 he's such a handsome, clean-cut fellow. I've 
 rarely gotten along with anybody so well. His 
 personality gives out a kind of wood smell. I 
 welcome an unliterary chap like that as a god- 
 send. I'll bet he never wrote a play in his life. 
 
 Sophie. Ah, yes. They've something orig- 
 inal to offer, these simple good people who are no 
 geniuses. 
 
 Falk. Good. What a word! That won- 
 derful hour on the shore of the lake — I'm in- 
 clined to think it depended entirely on you and the 
 good — 
 
 Sophie. You don't know him, if you say that. 
 Even at that moment his intentions were — well, 
 honorable. Just as they are now. And he clears 
 himself, as you will see, in the letter. Let me 
 read the ending. [She turns the pages.'\ 
 
 Falk. You're skipping a good deal. 
 
 Sophie [reading']. "Just the same — I am 
 just as I was in the summer. When you need a 
 friend, call on me or, better still, come your- 
 self—" 
 
 Falk. Come yourself? 
 
 Sophie. Listen to the rest. [Reads.] " My 
 56 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 life belongs to you. I am all alone and abso- 
 lutely free. If you are free too, Frau Sophie, as 
 free as I suppose you to be — " 
 
 Falk [brusquely}. His conjecture is wrong, 
 quite wrong. Have you written him so? 
 
 Sophie. The letter came only an hour ago. 
 
 Falk. " Come yourself." Not bad, that. 
 The fellow seems daft about inviting everybody to 
 his hunting-lodge at Klein-Reifling. 
 
 Sophie. Everybody? 
 
 Falk. Yes. He's invited me this summer. 
 " If," said he, " you'd care to get away from the 
 theatrical groove, come out to Klein-Reifling. 
 Wonderful country, you know. We can play 
 chess every evening. You don't have to shoot 
 deer, if you don't care to." I don't suppose he 
 asked you to shoot, either, Sophie. 
 
 Sophie [dropping the letter}. Ah, how 
 stupid we are! Why are we humans created 
 with the power to ruin the lives of people who 
 are innocent and who don't understand the mean- 
 ing of it all? 
 
 Falk. Understand? Can't Herbot charge 
 you with a want of understanding? Was he as 
 bad as you make him out? Does he bother 
 about the happiness of others? What are other 
 people to him? To him who is accustomed al- 
 ways to play the leading part? Supernumeraries 
 — people who never get a curtain call and die in- 
 gloriously behind the scenes! You can do no 
 wrong to such people when you're composed of 
 heroic stuff yourself — What is it? 
 
 Sophie. He — he is coming. I hear his 
 footstep and my heart's going pit-a-pat, like 
 
 57 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 a young girl's. Oh, it's sheer faint-heartedness. 
 
 Falk. On the contrary. It's just as it 
 should be. 
 
 [Conrad Herbot enters. He is a man of about 
 45 with dark curly hair and a pair of grey- 
 striped black eyes. He is wearing an over- 
 coat and hat.^ 
 
 Herbot. Good evening. [Slaps Falk on the 
 shoulder.} Well, what do you say, old chap? 
 Now I'm at home, as it were, even though this 
 happens to be — for the time being — nothing 
 better than a room in a hotel. [Pats Sophie's 
 cheek.] Good evening, dear. [To Falk.] 
 She's looking extremely well, isn't she? And 
 pretty too ? Let me tell you, it's quite cozy now 
 that she's come back. 
 
 Falk. I second that. 
 
 Herbot. The last few hours have brought 
 me back to my old self quite remarkably, and it's 
 almost as if it had never been otherwise. The 
 two months are dead and forgotten. Holal 
 Hola! 
 
 Sophie. But I was away, wasn't I? You 
 speak now as the Berliners do. 
 
 Herbot [removing his overcoat] . Of course. 
 Of all things, she can't bear that. [Exaggerat- 
 ing the Viennese accent.] Goin' to be good from 
 now on, little dearie? 
 
 Falk. Well, I'll leave you two together — 
 newly-weds just home from church. 
 
 Sophie. Won't you stay for a cup of coffee ? 
 
 Falk. Thanks. I really can't stay any 
 longer. [Sophie rings.] 
 
 Herbot. Are you leaving us again so soon? 
 
 58 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Falk. I've been here an hour already. 
 Where have you been gadding about at this hour ? 
 
 Herbot \^glancing at the clock]. Good 
 Heavens, it's half past six already. Ah, but 
 there's a great fascination in walking about the 
 streets when you know there's someone at home 
 waiting for you. 
 
 Falk. Only, as I remember, it wasn't quite 
 fascinating for the person who had to wait. 
 Well, see you later at the theatre. [To Sophie.] 
 I've kept your box for you. Outside of that the 
 house is all sold out. 
 
 Herbot. A work of art ! 
 
 Falk. Goodbye. 
 
 Herbot. Now that you're here, I want to 
 reiterate that you don't pay me half the salary 
 that's coming to me. So long! Will you be in 
 the box too? 
 
 Falk. On one condition: that you will play 
 your part with some degree of intelligence. 
 
 Herbot. You villain! In honor of this 
 glorious day, suppose we drop into the Kannen- 
 berg after the play and open a pottle of Sec — 
 
 Sophie. Conrad ! 
 
 Herbot. What — is it, my dear? Oh, al- 
 right. [Mimicking the Viennese.] Let's have 
 some suds instead and a plate of goulash. Eh? 
 What do you say to that ? 
 
 Falk. That depends on Sophie. 
 
 [Waiter enters, receives orders from Sophie 
 and goes out.] 
 
 Herbot [catching sight of the manuscript]. 
 What's that? 
 
 Falk. The play I spoke about this morning. 
 
 59 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Herbot. Another? Thank God Sophie's 
 here at least. My vacation, I perceive, is over at 
 last. I have about a half dozen of them over 
 there. Believe me, Falk, I tried my hardest to 
 look, through one and then another ; and the result 
 is a brain-storm. 
 
 Falk. Did you ever hear anything like it? 
 [To Sophie.l The foremost names in the Ger- 
 man dramatic world. 
 
 Herbot. Well, I should like awfully to say 
 something straight out to you, Falk. To me 
 every play at the reading seems pure twaddle. 
 And in the majority of cases I am right. As a 
 matter of fact, with many, when you see them on 
 the stage — 
 
 Falk. With Conrad Herbot in the leading 
 part. 
 
 Herbot. That never did hurt any play. 
 Doubtless you sometimes feel as I do, that all this 
 theatrical clap-trap is the merest flummery. 
 Backdrop and wings! The curtain goes up and 
 the curtain goes down, and nine times out of ten 
 the fellow who trafficks on the boards is a black- 
 guard of the — 
 
 Falk. Leave him alone. 
 
 Herbot. Upon my word, we're the most 
 paradoxical people in the world, we actor-folk. 
 In private life, I grant you quite rational — quite. 
 Then we strike a pose behind the footlights and 
 mouth some bit got by rote, just as if we meant 
 it in all seriousness. We enter and we exist and 
 out front the audience sit gaping and whisper- 
 ing behind their palms. Incredible ! That they 
 should fall for such a thing. Do you know what 
 
 60 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 I think at times? That this so-called art of the 
 theatre is simply an invention of the box-office. 
 
 Falk. a powerful and eke a profound ob- 
 servation ! 
 
 Herbot. True, isn't it? And yet if the pub- 
 lic were informed of this fact, it would ruin your 
 business, wouldn't it? Well, for the time being 
 I'm going to keep it to myself; but some day, I 
 don't mind telling you, I'm going to write an arti- 
 cle to this tune — when the time is ripe — It 
 would make a splendid Christmas supplement. 
 The public's very fond of that sort of thing. 
 
 Falk. You'd better wait a bit, that is, until 
 you've stopped drawing a salary. Next year per- 
 haps or the year after. 
 
 Herbot. Oh yes, that would suit you to a 
 dot. You want to lay by a pile meanwhile. 
 Well, good luck to you, if you can do it. Oh, 
 and by the way, if there's going to be a raft of 
 junk cluttering the doorway of my dressing room 
 the same as yesterday, during Tasso, I'll raise 
 such a rumpus — 
 
 Falk. And if you fill your dressing room with 
 cigarette smoke again, I'll give you two weeks' 
 notice — 
 
 Herbot. Just what I'm waiting for. Then 
 I'll be able to lead a normal life for the rest of 
 my days. Lying at ease on the grass and gazing 
 up at the blue sky, or with a gun plopping through 
 the meadows and the fertile fields — 
 
 Falk. With a gun? 
 
 Herbot. Certainly. It's not a bad substitute 
 for the stage. 
 
 6i 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Falk. Did my chess opponent, the fellow 
 with the green hat, invite you too? 
 
 Herbot. Herr von Bolsehau. Of course he 
 did. 
 
 Falk. It's an obsession with him. 
 
 Herbot. Charming fellow, Bolsehau is. 
 Ask Sophie. She likes him too. Isn't that so, 
 dear? [In Berlinese.'] We know whom to like 
 and whom not to like, don't we, my dear? 
 
 Falk. I won't let you go. You've no busi- 
 ness in Klein-Reifling. Well, auf wiedersehen. 
 I invite myself to your box, Sophie. [Goes.'] 
 
 Herbot. What a soul that man has ! In our 
 last contract I fell beautifully for him. Well, 
 he'll have to shell out or I sail for America. On 
 this side they pay starvation salaries. Well, 
 Sophie [drawing her to him], here we are to- 
 gether again. But tell me, please. Did you in- 
 tend to leave me for good? 
 
 Sophie. Here I am, back again. So let's not 
 talk about it. Let's forget it. 
 
 Herbot. Oh, if one only could! You've no 
 idea what I suffered while you were away. I 
 wasn't myself at all. I walked about as in a 
 dream — as in an evil dream. And I played 
 comedy parts like a swine. Not always — but 
 most of the time. 
 
 Sophie. Yes, that's exactly what Falk says. 
 
 Herbot. What? The impudence! I was 
 all right for I don't know how long. I was good 
 enough, even for the public. Too good! You 
 should penetrate the man first. For a measly 
 hundred marks he'd cut his throat. But they're 
 all the same, every one of them. He's spread- 
 
 62 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 ing the rumor about that I'm going back home. 
 But nobody believes him. They have eyes and 
 ears, thank Heaven I The public is mine. Now, 
 and for a long time to come. And more than 
 ever, now — now that you have come back — 
 now, believe me. Without you I am lost. 
 That's the truth. I should have given up the 
 legitimate stage and gone into vaudeville. In 
 vaudeville there's a better chance to travel and, on 
 the whole, it pays better. [ The waiter brings tea, 
 pastry and sets the tea-table.^ 
 
 Herbot. I'll tell you what: In February 
 I'm going to take time out and we'll go to the 
 Riviera. I won't accept your " no." By God, 
 I've earned it. Since the time I was a boy I've 
 longed to go there, and today I am 43. Con- 
 nected almost twenty seven years with the theatre. 
 Twenty seven. " At the age of sixteen, a mere 
 youngster, he ran away " — but you know the rest. 
 [Waiter goes out.^ 
 
 Sophie [pouring tea"]. Until today I've been 
 unable to find out from whom you ran away. 
 Your parents were reconciled to the idea of your 
 going on the stage. 
 
 Herbot. Why, of course. You see, at the 
 age of 14, I acted all kinds of parts at home. 
 " The late lamented actor by appointment at the 
 Hoftheatre at Bayreuth, Herr Story, who in the 
 youngster devoted to Thespis — " and so on. 
 [Notices the card.'\ Who is Vilma Flamm? 
 
 Sophie. Vilma Flamm is a young lady. 
 
 Herbot. What kind of a young lady? 
 
 Sophie. A young artiste with whom you had 
 an engagement here. 
 
 63 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Herbot. An engagement? 
 
 Sophie. You were going to see if she had any 
 talent. She wrote you eight days ago. 
 
 Herbot. Oh yes, the little goose! I hope 
 you speedily showed her the door. 
 
 Sophie. Of course. But you had an appoint- 
 ment with her. 
 
 Herbot. Not unlikely. You know some- 
 times one replies and sometimes one doesn't. 
 Was anybody else here? 
 
 Sophie. Not today. 
 
 Herbot. Well, if that sort come, just put 
 them out. You have plein pouvoir. I don't give 
 try-outs, I do not instruct. I do not write in au- 
 tograph albums. On the other hand, it may 
 have been a blackmailer. I'll be hanged if I can 
 remember the name of Vilma Flamra. [ They sit 
 at the tea-table. 2 
 
 Sophie. You always had a poor memory. 
 
 Herbot. You don't expect me to have a 
 memory for such things. Just consider what I 
 must cram into my head, as it is. The godlike 
 words of the master creations of our great poets 
 — and all that modem rot, besides. Naturally 
 there's hardly any room for anything else. 
 
 Sophie. For nothing at all? 
 
 Herbot. To be quite frank, the function is 
 under my control. I remember and I forget, just 
 as it pleases me. And I assure you, Sophie — I 
 know what's passing through your mind now — 
 if I should casually meet a certain lady in the 
 street, I'd cut her without a moment's hesitation. 
 I should not recognize her at all. If I should at- 
 tempt to recall her features, it would be in vain. 
 
 64 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 She is a shadow, a ghost, your old grandmother, 
 if you like. 
 
 Sophie [^bursting o«/] . How could you do it ? 
 
 Herbot. Yes, how could I do it? 
 
 Sophie. Her fiance was your friend. 
 
 Herbot. Not friend; hardly that. Still, I 
 confess, it was a rascally thing to do. And, be- 
 ing aware of that, I was amply prepared to pay 
 the price. 
 
 Sophie. You were — when were you pre- 
 pared? 
 
 Herbot. That very morning, Sophie. When 
 I returned home from her arms — I beg your 
 pardon — and found you gone and your farewell 
 note. Those terrible words! When I realized 
 that I had lost you — lost you for ever, do you 
 know what agony I suffered? I resolved then to 
 go to him, confess what a scoundrel I was and 
 frankly tell him that I had betrayed my wife and 
 seduced his fiancee — and so on. For hours and 
 hours in the early morning dusk I wandered along 
 the river-bank and fought a terrific struggle with 
 myself, until I saw that I dared not do it. If 
 only for the sake of Daisy's family. But they 
 were gloomy days to bear, Sophie, those last five 
 days in our country villa — and perhaps the 
 greatest ordeal of all was the need of lying, the 
 need of going on lying. 
 
 Sophie. You mean — ? 
 
 Herbot. Well, you see I had to find some 
 plausible excuse ifor your sudden departure. 
 And so in my desperation, I invented the yarn of 
 a drain bursting in our Berlin apartment. Oh, 
 I sketched in the details — details, whole letters 
 
 6S 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 from you, humorous turns of expression. Can 
 you imagine it I In this way I had to drag on my 
 life, on my lips a drain burst and in my heart — 
 death. Yes, dearest, it was by no means easy to 
 live out the day as if nothing had happened; tak- 
 ing your morning bath as before, eating breakfast, 
 sailing — 
 
 Sophie. As if nothing had happened. Both 
 day and night. 
 
 Herbot. Sophie, upon my word, on that day 
 when you went away I was done with — 
 
 Sophie. Don't pledge your word. Oaths are 
 not necessary in reference to the past. The past 
 is buried, dead and buried. 
 
 Herbot. Yes, buried a long time ago. 
 
 Sophie. But the future, that belongs to us, if 
 you are willing. 
 
 Herbot. If I am willing? If I am — 
 Sophie, dear! 
 
 Sophie. And I beg of you, Conrad, above 
 all things be truthful. It is the one thing I de- 
 mand of you. I can understand everything. I 
 can forgive everything. Only, I beg of you, 
 don't put on the comic spirit. Don't — in my 
 presence. It isn't necessary. Everything which 
 you have just said, was not you. There was 
 an occasional gleam which shone through your 
 mask, but you — your inmost self — it was not 
 that; that you, I mean, which abides in the 
 recesses of self, very deep within._ And I can- 
 not resist the feeling that that which you are is 
 somehow good — somehow — and on that I 
 place my trust. You've only got to believe in it 
 yourself. Deep in the beginnings of your con- 
 
 66 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 sciousness, I feel — oh so vividly — that you are 
 a mere child, nothing but a child. So — 
 
 Herbot. a child? There may be a good 
 deal in what you say. I have something to con- 
 fess to you, Sophie. Whenever I start intro- 
 specting or dreaming about myself, I invariably 
 see myself not as a somewhat mature person with 
 iron grey hair, but rather as a small boy who 
 is always being led by the hand of somebody, by 
 his father or his tutor, though, to be sure, I never 
 had a tutor. I'm quite amazed sometimes — but 
 you must promise me not to let this go further — 
 that people talk to me as if I were quite rational 
 and wholly grown-up; while I feel an irresistible 
 impulse to say to them, " Please let me be. I 
 can't make head or tail of your twaddle. By 
 nature I am alien to your confidence." Yes in- 
 deed, Sophie, that was a singularly apt observa- 
 tion — I am a child. \_J knock is heard.} Who 
 the deuce can that be? Come in. {Enter boy 
 with card.} 
 
 Herbot [ignoring it}. I am not at home. 
 [Reads the card and starts.] Eh? 
 
 Sophie. What is it? [Takes the card out of 
 his hand.] Edgar Gley — Edgar -— 
 
 Herbot. You heard what I said. I am not 
 at home to any one. I play tonight and I am 
 busy. 
 
 Sophie. You must see him, Herbot. 
 
 Herbot. Must? I don't see that. 
 
 Sophie [to the Bell-hop]. Wait a minute. 
 
 Herbot. Where is the gentleman waiting? 
 
 Bell-hop. In the lobby, sir. 
 
 Sophie [under her breath to Herbot]. You 
 67 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 can't avoid this interview. The sooner it is over, 
 the better. 
 
 Herbot. Show the gentleman in. [Bell-hop 
 goes.'] 
 
 Sophie [anxiously and quite earnestly]. Con- 
 rad — 
 
 Herbot. What is it? Certainly it shows 
 lack of consideration just before Hamlet. 
 [Walking back and forth.] 
 
 Sophie. Are you sure you haven't heard 
 from him since? 
 
 Herbot. I've told you, haven't I? Not for 
 two months — it's quite incredible that he should 
 suspect anything. It can't be about her. 
 
 Sophie. How does he come to be here, in 
 Berlin? She's in Vienna. Last we heard of him 
 he was in Villach attached to the governor's suite 
 — and suddenly he is here. 
 
 Herbot. On furlough, no doubt. After all, 
 Berlin's a rather interesting city — 
 
 Sophie. Are you sure you weren't Imprudent? 
 You must have climbed through her window at 
 night. Someone must have seen you — 
 
 Herbot. Certainly not he. Otherwise he'd 
 have paid me a visit before today. 
 
 Sophie. Nonsense! This once I give you 
 leave to lie. 
 
 Herbot. Thanks for the privilege. You 
 can trust me when it comes to that. But now sup- 
 pose you go into the salon. If you should stay 
 within hearing, I might — and I want unlimited 
 freedom. If I felt that you were eavesdropping, 
 I'd be uncertain about myself. Now — 
 
 Sophie [anxiously]. Conrad — 
 68 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Herbot. Be at rest, dearest. [He caresses 
 her hair. As he is about to draw her close to 
 him, she fends him off gently and goes into the 
 adjoining room. For a space he remains mo- 
 tionless, then takes up the discarded manuscript, 
 turns the pages idly and at length lights a ciga- 
 rette. Growing perceptibly impatient, he rises, 
 goes to the door on the right and listens. There 
 is a knock. He tiptoes noiselessly back into the 
 centre of the room and pretends to be absorbed 
 in reading the manuscript. There is a second 
 knock.} 
 
 Herbot. Come In. [Edgar Gley enters."] 
 
 Edgar. Good evening. 
 
 Herbot. Good evening, Mr. Gley. I'm de- 
 lighted to see you, even though this be only an 
 hotel apartment. 
 
 Edgar. I don't wish to keep you long, Mr. 
 Herbot. 
 
 Herbot. You know I play tonight. 
 
 Edgar. I know. 
 
 Herbot. I have about a quarter of an hour 
 to spare. Won't you take a seat? My wife will 
 regret missing — 
 
 Edgar [slightly taken aback]. Your wife — 
 is here? 
 
 Herbot. Of course. Where then should she 
 be ? She went away for a couple of weeks — 
 Ah, you know our apartment was in a terrible 
 mess. You remember, don't you? I believe I 
 told you about it — a drain burst. Tomorrow 
 or the day after tomorrow it will be in shipshape 
 again. The place was almost flooded. Quite a 
 bother, let me tell you. And ten thousand marks' 
 
 69 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 damage at the very lowest estimate. When 
 everything is repaired, we will entertain as be- 
 fore. I regret most of all the loss of several 
 irreplaceable specimens of handwriting. I am, 
 as you are aware, a collector of ancient examples 
 of handwriting. Are you interested in that sort 
 of thing? {Edgar starts to speak but restrains 
 himself as if lacking courage.} 
 
 Herbot [noticing the effort}. But I see I'm 
 boring you about myself and my affairs. How 
 is your fiancee ? I presume you've just come from 
 Vienna. 
 
 Edgar. No, straight from Villach. I have 
 something to ask you, Mr. Herbot. Please an- 
 swer " yes " or " no," Were you Daisy's lover? 
 
 Herbot [rising}. 1 — ? Mr. Gley, I'm 
 afraid I do not follow you. What evil-minded — 
 slander-monger — 
 
 Edgar. It is quite obvious that you must take 
 this stand. But it is equally obvious that noth- 
 ing is proved by your disavowal. [Herbot is 
 about to interrupt.} Your word of honor proves 
 nothing either. 
 
 Herbot. Unfortunately a man has nothing 
 outside his word of honor which he can call his 
 own. There are people who would be satisfied 
 with Conrad Herbot's mere word of honor. 
 
 Edgar. In a matter of this sort, do you think? 
 Unfortunately I'm not in a position to — 
 
 Herbot. Well, at all events, will you tell me 
 from what source you got your information? 
 Will you be good enough to show me the anony- 
 mous letter ? I shall soon prove to you — 
 
 70 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Edgar. Let's not trifle about that. I ask you 
 again: Were you Daisy's lover? 
 
 Herbot. Since you don't care to reveal the 
 source of this brazen — no, the grounds of your 
 libellous suspicion; and since you make it impos- 
 sible for me to defend, frankly to deny the charge, 
 I therefore propose to you, Mr. Gley, that we 
 leave the young woman entirely out of the dis- 
 cussion and confine ourselves to the simple fact 
 that my nose is an eyesore to you. I promise you 
 that I shall feel as injured as you please and — 
 we will arrange to meet in one of those delightful 
 little glades yonder 1 
 
 Edgar. Mr. Herbot, I don't feel disposed to 
 doubt your mood and, I take it, there is no ques- 
 tion about mine. Don't let's go through a scene 
 of high-sounding words. Mr. Herbot, we want, 
 if possible, — and to me it is possible — to talk 
 like two men — no, let alone every vanity and 
 every question of honor in the accepted sense, 
 like two human beings. I ask you for the last 
 time, Mr. Herbot, please to abandon the man- 
 ner you have assumed thus far. I don't for a 
 moment question the correctness of it. But 
 please understand that a human being confronts 
 you now, Mr. Herbot, one who demands noth- 
 ing but the truth, whatever it may be. You fol- 
 low me, Mr. Herbot ? One who, however poign- 
 ant it may be, is ready to bear it. Understand 
 me, please, Mr. Herbot, I come neither in the 
 guise of a fool nor as an avenger to one who is 
 either a knave or who has been unjustly so ac- 
 cused. Human to human! If it fell out as I 
 suspect, Mr. Herbot, it probably was no dastardly 
 
 71 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 act. If otherwise, then it wasn't very far from 
 it. But no matter what has happened, nothing 
 in the world could force us to face one another 
 with pistols so that one of us might — [Herbot 
 starts to speak."] 
 
 Edgar. Not yet. You're going to go on 
 lying, I suppose. But please listen to what I 
 have to say. I have lived through many things 
 — I know what a mere fragrance, what the per- 
 fume of summer evenings can do with us. I 
 know, too, how far behind us we can thrust our 
 lot like a dream which has been told as a tale 
 by a stranger. And I know that I am prepared 
 to endure anything, except uncertainty. I can 
 forgive everything but lies. See how easy the 
 truth is made for you ! I trust you are beginning 
 to understand. Or do you suspect perhaps that 
 I am laying a trap for you, unawares. I have, I 
 think, surrendered myself completely into your 
 hands, Mr. Herbot. I've stood here like the 
 most pitiful clown. If I had wanted to take ad- 
 vantage of your confession and entrap you and 
 then to reassume the affronted bridegroom; if 
 this were so, you would be at liberty to deny me 
 all satisfaction, spit in my face for, whatever you 
 may have done, I should have been viler than 
 you by far. Can you hesitate still, Mr. Herbot? 
 Never, I feel, has one man spoken to another as 
 I have done to you. Were you Daisy's lover? 
 You are silent? You must speak. You must 
 speak the truth, before it is too late. Yes, Mr. 
 Herbot, before it is too late. For should I cas- 
 ually learn the truth later — and things of this 
 sort are known to exist; there are such things as 
 
 72 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 belated confessions by women — then I won't 
 fight a duel with you, then I'd strike you down 
 like a — 
 
 Herbot. Stop. Go no further. I — I am 
 at your disposal. Yes, at your disposal? There 
 is no way out of this for you or me. 
 
 Edgar. Then you were Daisy's — 
 
 Herbot. I was not. And yet one of us must 
 die. 
 
 Edgar. The truth! The truth! Mr. Her- 
 bot. 
 
 Herbot. What are words — ? Now if 
 someone had predicted — I beg your pardon, I 
 can't say more. {He goes to the window ap- 
 parently moved. However, unobserved of Ed- 
 gar he steals a glance at the clock. For a space 
 he remains standing at the window.] 
 
 Edgar. Speak out, Mr. Herbot. 
 
 Herbot {^turning toward him again]. Child 
 of man, how simple the world appears to you! 
 Yes and no; truth and falsehood; faith and de- 
 ception. Oh, if it were only as simple as that, 
 young fr — Mr. Gley. But it is not as simple 
 as that. By Heaven, if I were of your mould, 
 it would be the easiest thing in the world, in 
 order to set your troubled mind at rest, to answer 
 your question exactly as you've asked it. Yes, it 
 would be the easiest thing in the world if some- 
 body else had come instead of you — you, Edgar 
 Gley, who have been a stranger to me until now. 
 If somebody else had come — one of the dozens 
 of commonplace folk whose life does not touch 
 mine, I should have let him go back to the banal 
 world whence he came. To him I might say — 
 
 73 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 no, swear that nothing happened. But, at the 
 risk of your calling me inhuman, I cannot an- 
 swer you that way. For it would be the most 
 cowardly of lies. It would be one of those lies 
 one could swear to before the law. And behind 
 it all, there would still be something unsaid, sim- 
 ple yet different — confoundedly simple, don't 
 you know? And that would be to answer: It 
 happened, Mr. Gley. Daisy was my mistress — 
 and then to take you at your word, to dismiss you 
 and exult that the way is clear and to flatter my- 
 self again with hope, like an old fool, that now 
 that the young chap, the lover, the fiance is out 
 of the way, the impossible will come to pass. 
 And one's maddest wish would be granted. And 
 can you be certain that you will not be up to these 
 damnable tricks when you're not over-clever. 
 You don't perceive, fool that you are, that the 
 dream cannot last; that it must perish with dis- 
 illusionment, regret and denunciation. Well, 
 Edgar Gley, I loved your fiance. I adored her. 
 I wanted to break away from my wife. I loved 
 Daisy — like a schoolboy. I didn't keep my love 
 a secret from her. I wrote verses to her — old 
 Herbot, mind you, wrote verses, paced back and 
 forth under her window, stole softly into her gar- 
 den, threw his tender billets-doux, like Romeo, 
 through the window — [Pauses suddenly as if 
 something had just occurred to him.] Ah, now 
 I see everything. Someone must have seen me. 
 Someone must have spied me one night in the 
 garden or perhaps in the wherry directly opposite 
 the house. But who can it have been? You've 
 received anonymous letters : admit it. 
 
 74 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Edgar, That's unimportant. Go on. 
 
 Herbot. What else do you want to know? 
 
 Edgar. You made love to Daisy — and she 
 quietly let you. 
 
 Herbot. Let me — I can't deny it. 
 
 Edgar. Read your letters ? [Herbot smiles.^ 
 And replied to them? Please answer. 
 
 Herbot. You will not begrudge me that, Mr. 
 Gley. 
 
 Edgar. I am sorry. 
 
 Herbot [with the express purpose of discount- 
 ing the truth of the words he is about to utter^. 
 I possess nothing in writing — 
 
 Edgar. Mr. Herbot, lies are Hes. If you 
 seek to mislead me regarding a minor detail, how 
 do I know that the rest also — 
 
 Herbot. Don't persist in that belief. Let's 
 break off right here. 
 
 Edgar. Impossible. 
 
 Herbot. Well, then, there's nothing else I 
 can do. Do as you please, Mr. Gley. I am en- 
 tirely at your disposal — 
 
 Edgar. You've gone too far to hold back 
 now. I promise you that no one will learn the 
 gist of this conversation — not even my fiancee. 
 Don't torture me any longer. You have my word 
 of honor. 
 
 Herbot {after a rapid pause, rummages in his 
 pocket and extracts a letter'\. Here's a letter 
 from Daisy to me. {After an involuntary start 
 of Edgar's.^ Allow me to read it. Later you 
 can verify whether I have omitted a syllable. 
 But it must be heard in the proper tone, other- 
 
 75 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 wise it might be misunderstood. [Reads.'] 
 " Conrad Herbot, I beg of you, go away." 
 
 Edgar. When was this written? 
 
 Herbot [showing date]. August 27th, a.m. 
 [Reads.] " Don't bring unhappiness to people 
 who have never wronged you. Do not forget, 
 Conrad Herbot, what you've meant to me long 
 before I ever knew you. Let that suffice. When 
 I see you again on the stage in one of your glori- 
 ous — " Ah, let's skip that. " Never has a 
 man of your sort — " Rather poignant, this! 
 Miss Daisy simply means that she's never had a 
 man, about whom she used to read in the papers, 
 make love to her. And so and so on. But 
 please listen carefully. [Reads.] " Remember 
 that you have a fascinating wife who loves you 
 and that I am engaged to one who loves me dearly 
 and whose love I return. Yes, Conrad Herbot, 
 I love him and I will never love anybody else. 
 But you, Conrad Herbot, are perilous — that's 
 the only way I can express it. Sometimes I feel 
 as if I hate you. I implore you to go away — 
 please go away." 
 
 Edgar [taking the letter]. On the 27th and 
 you went away — ? 
 
 Herbot. Several hours later. 
 
 Edgar. And if you had stayed — ? 
 
 Herbot. Mr. Gley, I might have stayed with- 
 out harm. Through this letter I first grew aware 
 of my " perilousness " so called. Until then — 
 
 Edgar. But you yourself just said that you 
 intended to — 
 
 Herbot. Uproot you from Daisy's heart? 
 Yes. I don't deny it. I was a fool. This let- 
 
 76 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 ter brought me to my senses with a shock. " I 
 will never love anybody else." 
 
 Edgar. But she wavered. This letter proves 
 it beyond a doubt. She wavered between you and 
 me. And it depended altogether on you — 
 
 Herbot [interrupting^. I'd believe that too, 
 if I were still the fool today I was for about 
 half an hour. She's always been yours. But 
 when it comes to fame — Ah, my young friend, 
 you've no idea what a pretty dance that leads a 
 young girl's heart? We never know, we poor 
 mortals, whether it is genuine passion or simply 
 the fragrance of immortality wafting about us. 
 Quite frankly, I envy the men who have never 
 had to doubt whether they were loved for them- 
 selves alone. Were I not Conrad Herbot, but 
 the same as any other man — a landed proprietor 
 from Klein-Reifling, for instance, — doubtless I 
 should have appeared ridiculous to your fiancee. 
 But Conrad Herbot went daft about her — and 
 that touched her a bit. She realized quite clearly 
 that she was Conrad Herbot's last love, and I 
 suppose a moment came when she almost be- 
 lieved the emotion to be love. She's not the 
 first who's felt that way. But guilty — if I may 
 mention the word in the same breath with all this 
 — I was guilty, I alone. It would never have 
 gone as far as it did, not even up to the letters, 
 if I'd been able to conceal my feelings. But that 
 was beyond me. Like a fatality it swept over me. 
 
 Edgar. You intended to leave your wife, you 
 said a moment ago. She went away before 
 you — 
 
 Herbot [cutting in quickly]. Not on account 
 77 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 of the pipe-leak. You may rest assured of that. 
 She went away because I was unable to cover up 
 the true state of my emotions. I kept no secrets 
 from her. She's a wonderful woman. Directly 
 upon receiving this letter and my flight from 
 Daisy, I told her all about it. I begged her to 
 come to me, to stand by me, to rescue me from 
 utter despair. But she thought it unworthy to 
 live with me so long as my heart was given to an- 
 other. She wanted to come back only when I 
 could write to her with a peaceful conscience that 
 the last embers were extinguished. Three days 
 ago I found that I could write her that. She's 
 been here since yesterday, and tomorrow old Her- 
 bot will be in his home again. 
 
 Edgar. Why didn't she tell me all this ? 
 
 Herbot. Can't you really guess, Mr. Gley, 
 how near she was to doing it? How often the 
 confession surged to her lips ? I — I have seen 
 it. Thank God, it's turned out differently. It 
 would have been a terrible awakening for us all. 
 
 Edgar. Why was she silent? 
 
 Herbot. Shall I tell you? Because, pos- 
 sessing an instinct of refinement, she knew that 
 that which externally appeared to you in the light 
 of a confession was in reality a bald-faced lie. 
 She never loved me, Mr. Gley. That must be 
 apparent to you. Never. And I venture that 
 you, Mr. Gley, may go through the wedding cere- 
 mony with a more beautiful sense of security than 
 many another young fellow who, as the saying is, 
 has nothing with which to reproach his fiancee. 
 Miss Daisy, as it were, has had her escapade. 
 And, I am sure, that the day will come when she'll 
 
 78 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 tell it to you herself. She will tell it to you even 
 before you lead her to the altar. And, if you 
 wish to oblige me, wait until then. Don't broach 
 the subject yourself. [^Seeing Edgar is silent.'] 
 How absurd of me ! Of course you won't be 
 able to keep your lips locked that long. Of 
 course you're going to tell her everything. You'll 
 tell her that I showed you the letter too — 
 
 Edgar [after cursorily glancing through it 
 again, flings it into the fire.] Never, as sure as 
 you see it burning to ashes ! Of this letter noth- 
 ing shall be said. And nothing shall be said of 
 this visit of mine. 
 
 Herbot. Don't promise too much, Mr. Gley. 
 
 Edgar Jilooks at him]. I promise no more 
 than I think I can keep. Goodby, Mr. Her- 
 bot. 
 
 Herbot. You've something else to ask me, 
 Mr. Gley? 
 
 Edgar [staring straight at him a long time]. 
 Nothing whatever. [Impulsively extending his 
 hand.] 
 
 Herbot [almost genuinely]. Be good to her, 
 Mr. Gley. Please be good to her. [Edgar 
 goes.] 
 
 [Herbot returns from the door with a serious 
 expression at first, then a self-satisfied but 
 not quite frivolous smile flits across his face. 
 He glances at the clock. He makes a ges- 
 ture indicating that there's ample time yet. 
 Rings. Bell-hop enters.] 
 
 Herbot. Will you please ask my wife to 
 come up? She's in the lobby. [Bell-hop goes 
 out. Sophie comes in from the left.] 
 
 79 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Herbot [turning round and catching sight of 
 herl . Oh ! you were — 
 
 Sophie. Yes, all the time. 
 
 Herbot. But you promised me — Ah, I un- 
 derstand. Perhaps it's better so. I hope you 
 are satisfied. 
 
 Sophie. Quite. 
 
 Herbot. It wasn't easy, I assure you. At 
 the outset I was seized with something like a first- 
 night nervous fit. Though I wasn't unprepated. 
 I was weak at the beginning. 
 
 Sophie. Well, you carried it off — 
 
 Herbot. But didn't it come a cropper as I 
 went along? You thought it quite different, dear- 
 est, didn't you? That I'd disavow everything? 
 But only fools disavow, sane people — 
 
 Sophie. Lie. 
 
 Herbot. Lie? No, Sophie, don't think it 
 was unadulterated falsehood. Part of it was 
 true. That's the rare thing about it: the way the 
 truth was interwoven with the falsehood. That's 
 why it looked so plausible. Well, thank Heaven, 
 we can breathe freely again. 
 
 Sophie. You think — ? Have you forgotten 
 already? Suppose he should by chance learn the 
 truth later — you know what he threatened to 
 do. And he will learn the truth. It's only de- 
 ferred. 
 
 Herbot. Nonsense! He'll never get at the 
 truth. That's quite sure. 
 
 Sophie. Sure? He'll talk to me. Don't 
 fool yourself about that. And I daresay contra- 
 dictions will crop up. 
 
 80 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Herbot. Contradictions? Why? 
 
 Sophie. Especially in the story about the let- 
 ter. How will you explain away the trumped-up 
 letter? 
 
 Herbot. Trumped-up? It was real. 
 
 Sophie. The letter was real — ? 
 
 Herbot. Certainly it was. Daisy actually 
 wrote it. But not on the 27th of August. On 
 the 2nd. It was a simple matter to interpolate 
 the 7. 
 
 Sophie. I don't quite understand. 
 
 Herbot. But, sweetheart, it's quite a simple 
 matter. The contingency of some chatter-box 
 gassing about us had to be taken into considera- 
 tion. It seemed likely that an anonymous letter 
 or something of the sort would come up. And 
 so I arranged with Daisy what we would do if 
 something like that happened. It was evident 
 that a bare denial would not clear the air. And 
 so this occurred to us to pull us through. 
 
 Sophie. Ah, indeed. Very clever. Now 
 I'm beginning to understand — 
 
 Herbot. And the letter — I read it beauti- 
 fully, did I not? It seemed as if created for the 
 purpose — how shall I put it ? — just to serve us 
 with an alibi. 
 
 Sophie. Extraordinary. 
 
 Herbot. There are no other letters. Nor 
 any other evidence of any shape. And, you may 
 be sure, that Daisy will take care of her end of 
 the affair. 
 
 Sophie. We hope so. But I don't think 
 she'll come any way near you in that. 
 
 81 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Herbot. Maybe better. A girl of her 
 sort — Trust women for that. They're born 
 with the instinct. But, aside from that, don't you 
 think he was capital? 
 
 Sophie. He? 
 
 Herbot. Edgar Gley. Surely he had the 
 easier task. But shall I tell you something in 
 confidence, Sophie ? There were moments when I 
 was literally swept along and little else was needed 
 that I should have believed the whole story my- 
 self. 
 
 Sophie. What story? 
 
 Herbot. Oh, you overheard it. Somewhere 
 near the close of the scene. It seemed as if noth- 
 ing, absolutely nothing had existed between the 
 girl and myself. It was like a stroke of genius, 
 you might say. \_Falk comes in wearing his over- 
 coat and carrying his hat in his hand.^ 
 
 Falk. Are you out of your mind? Here it is 
 a quarter to seven ! What's the matter? 
 
 Herbot. Do you think it takes me an hour 
 to get into Hamlet's togs? 
 
 Falk. Paragraph seven: "All performers 
 in the current production must be in their dressing 
 rooms — " Besides, the crown prince is going to 
 be present. 
 
 Herbot. Really, and the princess? 
 
 Falk. And suite. 
 
 Herbot. Now, Sophie, what do you say to 
 that? I can still draw the best people to the 
 stalls even though he's about disgusted them with 
 his tomfoolery. Haven't you gone and raised the 
 price of seats? Later on over a pottle of Sec 
 we'll talk seriously about the terms of my new con- 
 
 82 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 tract. Particularly the clause referring to my 
 leave of absence. In February we intend taking 
 a trip to the Riviera. Isn't that so, Sophie ? 
 
 Falk. Are you or are you not going to — 
 
 Herbot. Well, Sophie, get ready as quickly 
 as you can. Today I'm going to play only for 
 you. As far as I am concerned, let his Majesty 
 or the Lord be present. 
 
 Falk. I'll bet you wouldn't be a bit surprised 
 if the Lord came to Berlin expressly to witness 
 your Hamlet. 
 
 Herbot. If he came, he'd get a ticket to 
 Rheinhardt's. Don't you think so? 
 
 Falk. In any case, it would be in the pa- 
 pers. 
 
 Herbot {^quickly caressing Sophie on the cheek 
 and kissing her forehead'\ . Addio. A rivederci ! 
 \^Takes his hat and overcoat and goes out.^ 
 
 Falk, He's in fine spirits. You're not quite 
 as gay. You stand there for all the world like a 
 piece of sculpture. What's the matter? Scenes? 
 Again? 
 
 Sophie [motionlessl. No, never again. Ev- 
 erything's at an end. 
 
 Falk \_after a brief pause']. Well, aren't you 
 going to dress for the theatre ? Auf wiedersehen. 
 
 Sophie. I'm not going to the theatre. I'm 
 leaving. 
 
 Falk, What do you mean? 
 
 Sophie, Tonight — in an hour. Everything 
 is over and done with, 
 
 Falk, What's the matter ? 
 
 Sophie, I can't tell you in a word. 
 
 Falk, Oh, I don't want to appear too press- 
 83 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 ing. I can do without the scene with the ghost, 
 with Hamlet's father I mean. But, if you still 
 regard me as a friend — 
 
 Sophie. Why should I? \_After a short 
 pause.'\ Edgar Gley was here. 
 
 Falk. Oh ! 
 
 Sophie. He wanted an explanation. My 
 husband gave it to him. I was in the next room 
 the whole time? I overheard everything. 
 
 Falk. Well? 
 
 Sophie. I never suspected a man could lie that 
 way. 
 
 Falk. Did you think — ? You ought to be 
 glad. 
 
 Sophie. The whole thing was preconcerted 
 and planned between him and the girl. They 
 anticipated it. And my husband told the young 
 fellow a story about his being daft about the girl 
 and that she was indifferent to his attentions. 
 And the truth is, he visited her night after night 
 by scaling the window. 
 
 Falk. Well, you couldn't expect him to tell 
 Mr. Gley that, could you? It's much better to 
 lie artfully in these affairs than not at all. 
 
 Sophie. You should have heard it. And he 
 suspected nothing and was quite happy about it. 
 Oh, if you had heard it you would now understand 
 why it's impossible for me to live one day longer, 
 no, one hour with this man — 
 
 Falk. But where are you going? 
 
 Sophie. How should I know? Away — 
 away. 
 
 Falk. Don't you really know? 
 
 Sophie. What? 
 
 84 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Falk. Where you want to run away to. Or 
 do you imagine — 
 
 Sophie. If it were as you insinuate, do you 
 thinic I would have needed a subterfuge to go ? I 
 am going to no one ! I simply want to go away, 
 and I want to be alone — for the rest of my life 
 alone. 
 
 Falk. That'll never do. You must return in 
 two weeks. I can't give you a longer leave of 
 absence than that. Our contract — 
 
 Sophie. How can you jest about it? Don't 
 you understand? It is over and done with for- 
 ever. Nothing remains, nothing but nausea, no, 
 horror, an overwhelming horror of it all. How 
 can I go back to him? One can go back to a man 
 when he has failed miserably, when he has com- 
 mitted a crime, when he's wounded somebody unto 
 death; one can go back to one who is repentant 
 and to one who is not repentant. But a man must 
 recognize what he's done. Herbot doesn't recog- 
 nize it. He doesn't understand me and he doesn't 
 understand himself and he doesn't understand 
 anybody else. Love, hypocrisy, murder, every- 
 thing which pervades reality is of no greater mo- 
 ment to him than if he were playing one of his 
 parts. He and I speak different tongues, and 
 there is no longer an interpreting medium between 
 us. If, from the depths of my despair I were to 
 throw myself out of the window, it would merely 
 be the end of an act for him. The curtain falls 
 and he goes out for his " pottle of Sec." A 
 human being — he? A maddened harlequin, 
 rather, who when occasion serves is also ready to 
 play the human being. But no human being he — 
 
 85 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 no — \^Sinks exhausted on the divan with her 
 face buried in her hands. ^ 
 
 Falk. Too bad. Too bad. 
 
 Sophie. Oh, your pity is superfluous now. 
 
 Falk. But, dear lady, it needn't remain this 
 way. How differently would this scene have 
 touched you which he seems to have gone through 
 with Mr. Gley, how little horrible, how much 
 gayer, how glorious even would the scamp have 
 appeared to you — 
 
 Sophie. If I had been worthy of him. 
 
 Falk. Naturally, you realize, that will never 
 be — can never be. In this case you remained the 
 same Sophie throughout. One always remains 
 the same. But you should have taken things in a 
 lighter vein. Your incredible respectability is 
 what brings the false note into your relation with 
 Herbot. And carrying, as you do, this weight of 
 respectability, you know in your heart that it can 
 not help matters. If, for instance, you were mar- 
 ried to a man of the type of Mr. Gley, a gentle- 
 man, — to betray, as the phrase is, that sort of 
 chap is indeed a detestable thing, because in the 
 mind of the Mr. Gleys of the world an act of be- 
 trayal is tremendously significant, undeserved and 
 degrading. And very often it may drive the Mr. 
 Gleys of the world to suicide! With the Herbots 
 it's another matter entirely. The Herbots pre- 
 tend not to notice it. They pretend it even to 
 themselves. Somehow they soon recover. 
 
 Sophie. You speak like a sophist of the first 
 water. 
 
 Falk. Only in the capacity of theatrical di- 
 rector, I assure you. 
 
 8'6 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 Sophie Ismilin^'}. As regards theatrical mat- 
 ters, I am, from now on, an outsider. Pardon 
 me, I must pack. I don't want him to find me 
 here. 
 
 Falk. Seriously, are you leaving — today? 
 Impossible. 
 
 Sophie. Quite possible, believe me. 
 
 Falk. But what am I to say to him ? 
 
 Sophie. Tell him I was too affected by his 
 scene with Mr. Gley to stomach Hamlet into the 
 bargain. 
 
 Falk. He'll never accept that. 
 
 Sophie. Well, then, tell him the truth — -. 
 that — I — 
 
 Falk. Love him. 
 
 Sophie. No, that I hate him. And that I 
 will never — not as long as I live — 
 
 Falk. Hush ! No oaths. One should never 
 burn one's bridges behind one. You see, one is 
 put in a very embarrassing position trying to re- 
 build them. 
 
 Sophie \_crossinff over to the leftl. Goodbye. 
 
 Falk. I don't want to keep you back any 
 longer. Good luck, only if you were to ask my 
 advice, don't run away to utter solitude, but to 
 something else — 
 
 Sophie. Really, you are — 
 
 Falk. You're not forced to do anything, not 
 even to come back, if you don't care to. You can 
 stay there. Perhaps that spells your lucky star. 
 Ah, look down, Sophie. Look at the line-up of 
 motors. Yes, I'm of the opinion that you should 
 forgive him something. 
 
 Sophie. I might, if I were a theatre director. 
 
 87 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Falk. You should, as a wife. It's almost a 
 sacred office for you. 
 
 Sophie. Oho I 
 
 Falk. Forgive and — take your revenge. 
 The latter in particular has a rumored sweetness 
 about it. Well auf wiedersehen, Sophie; auf 
 wiedersehen soon. l^Answering her look.^ Per- 
 haps in the Styrian woods. You know I'm invited 
 to go hunting too. Or at least to play chess. A 
 telegram is sufficient and I come, were it only to 
 call for you and to escort you back to one who must 
 be, do what you may, your inevitable choice. 
 There are less noble men, Sophie — [ The door 
 in the rear opens and Herbot strides into the 
 room, clad in his Hamlet costume with a half-but- 
 toned overcoat thrown over it.^ 
 
 Falk. What — ? Are you mad? 
 
 Herbot. What's the matter? Why are you 
 taking so long, Sophie? I peeped through the 
 slit in the curtain and didn't see you in your box — 
 \_Sophie replies with a frozen stare.~\ 
 
 Falk \^goes up and takes him by the shouU 
 dersi- Now really, do you wish to — It's five 
 minutes after seven. 
 
 Herbot. Let them wait! I won't go on a 
 fraction of a minute before Sophie is seated in her 
 box. 
 
 Sophie. But — but — I haven't dressed yet. 
 
 Herbot. I don't care ! Come with me as 
 you are. 
 
 Falk [to Herbot']. See that you get a move 
 on quickly, do you hear? 
 
 Herbot. Sorry. But without her I don't 
 move an inch. I know. I know. She made 
 
 88 
 
THE BIG SCENE 
 
 up her mind not to come at all. She's probably 
 told you everything. Memories were raked up. 
 But look at her, Falk. As she stands there she 
 is like a ghost carved in marble. But come to 
 me — come. The past is dead — stone dead. 
 Don't you understand that yet, dear? Try not 
 to think of my former waywardness. What, 
 after all, do my escapades with other women mat- 
 ter? Why trouble about other people? I've 
 never loved anybody but you. If you refuse to 
 come, I won't act. For all I care, our friend here 
 may close down his theatre. 
 
 Falk. Six thousand four hundred Marks. 
 Of course you can make that up, can't you? 
 
 Herbot. The nerve! If Hamlet were 
 played by some one else, you wouldn't have half 
 the house you've got tonight. And if you, 
 Sophie, are not in your box, I won't act today, 
 nor tomorrow — never again and farewell to the 
 stage. [He flings the sword he's been clutching 
 from him.^ 
 
 Falk [at the window'\. There goes Her 
 Highness. 
 
 Herbot. A fig for Her Highness! Let her 
 turn around and go back home, your Highness. 
 There is but one High — [He is suddenly on 
 his knee before Sophie. A Theatre Employee 
 enters. '\ 
 
 T. E. I beg your pardon, Herr Direktor. It 
 is seven-ten. His Royal Highness — the audi- 
 ence — 
 
 Falk [to Employ eel. Ring up the curtain. 
 
 Herbot [to Theatre Employee']. He says 
 so, not I. 
 
 89 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Falk. Ring up the curtain I IThe Theatre 
 Employee goes.} 
 
 Sophie. Get up. 
 
 Herbot. Are you coming? [^Sophie does 
 not reply audibly but the expression on her face 
 answers in the affirmative.} 
 
 Herbot [rising to his feet and putting his 
 arm about her waist, he takes the sword which 
 Falk has picked up.} " Was ever woman in this 
 humor wooed? " 
 
 Falk. That isn't Hamlet. That's Richard 
 the Third. 
 
 Herbot. Well then, arm in arm with you — 
 
 Falk. That's from something else. You 
 will make a holy mess of the performance to- 
 night. 
 
 Herbot. Why must it be just from " Ham- 
 let "? [Pressing Sophie close to his side.} Isn't 
 it a lofty line? 
 
 Falk. Are you ready? [He thrusts them 
 both through the door. The door for a moment 
 affords a view in which the hotel guests, passing 
 down the corridor, gaze astonished at the pair. 
 Falk then turns the lights out, goes out and locks 
 the door.} 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 90 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 A Comedy of Words 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Felix Staufner, writer. 
 
 Agnes, his wife. 
 
 Dr. Guido Wernig. 
 
 Railway Guard. 
 
 Waiter. 
 
 Buffet-Dispenser (a woman). 
 
 Passengers and Station employes. 
 
 The action takes place in the railroad waiting 
 room of a large Austrian city in the mountains. 
 
 [Scene: Station and restaurant. In the 
 rear glass doors giving onto the platform. 
 Right a stairway conducting downstairs. On 
 the left is the buffet, with a clock above it. A 
 number of tables, covered and uncovered, with 
 chairs. A blackboard near the middle plat- 
 form door, right. On the wall are time-tables, 
 maps, posters. The buffet dispenser is busy 
 behind the buffet. Several people are seated 
 at the tables. The guard stands by the middle 
 platform door, which is open. As the curtain 
 rises the train has just come in. Passengers en- 
 ter from the platform and pass through the 
 
 91 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 dining room on the right, using the steps. On 
 the left Agnes and Guido are standing, almost 
 motionless, with their eyes fixed intently on the 
 door as if expecting someone. When the last 
 of the passengers has passed through the wait- 
 ing room, Guido steps up to the door and peers 
 out on the platform. He makes a step as if 
 to go out but is intercepted by the guard. 
 Agnes in the m,eantime has also loitered up to 
 the door.J 
 
 Guido. There's no one else. 
 
 Agnes. Strange ! 
 
 Guido. Was that the Innsbruck train? 
 
 \_The Guard locks the door.'\ 
 
 Guard. No, sir. 
 
 Guido. No? 
 
 Guard. That was the Bavarian express. 
 The Innsbruck train is scheduled to arrive at 
 5.20. 
 
 Guido. Why do you say " is scheduled to ar- 
 rive"? 
 
 Guard. Because it's almost always late. 
 However, there has been no report yet. 
 
 Guido. You mean that it will arrive on 
 time? 
 
 Guard. No, that it will be late. [^Goes of 
 left by the steps. ~\ 
 
 Guido [glancing at the clock']. We have fully 
 eight minutes before us. [Lights a cigarette.] 
 
 Agnes. Eight minutes. [Comes down and 
 seats herself at one of the tables.] 
 
 [The Waiter approaches and hovers about.] 
 92 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 GuiDO [after a brief pause to Agnes, standing 
 behind her chair"]. Agnes — 
 
 Agnes. Guido — ? 
 
 GuiDO \_seating himself beside her]. Wouldn't 
 it be a better idea to — 
 
 Waiter. Your order, sir ? 
 
 Guido. Thank you. We have just had some- 
 thing here. 
 
 [Waiter, slightly piqued, shrugs his shoulders 
 and goes of left.] 
 
 GuiDO. Wouldn't it be better, I mean, if I 
 waited for him alone ? 
 
 Agnes. Why this sudden change of mind? 
 Have you completely lost faith in my determina- 
 tion? Do you think that I shrink from meeting 
 him face to face — 
 
 GuiDO. No, no. I have the greatest confi- 
 dence in you. But I repeat: it's quite impossible 
 to foretell how he'll take the news. And that's 
 why — 
 
 Agnes [rising fervently]. No. We've made 
 up our minds. We'll wait for him together. In 
 this way the situation will at once be made clear 
 to him. And that in itself is a big advantage. 
 No superfluous words will be necessary. It's only 
 fair to us — and to him. We owe him that 
 much. Or, if you like, I at least owe it to him. 
 [The whistle of a locomotive is heard. Agnes 
 starts but does not turn. Guido rises. A rail- 
 way employe comes from the platform, meticu- 
 lously locks the door after him, and writes on the 
 blackboard: "Express No. 57 from Innsbruck 
 — 44 minutes late." He intercepts a woman 
 
 93 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 with two children at the door and closes it again 
 behind him. Guido and Agnes have not turned 
 around. The whistle of the locomotive dies 
 away.^ 
 
 Guido [close to her'\. Agnes, do you love 
 me? 
 
 Agnes. I adore you. And you? 
 
 Guido. You know. \_Hastily.'] And in one 
 hour all will be over. Bear that in mind. To- 
 morrow we will be far away. Think of that when 
 you face him. Together — forever ! 
 
 Agnes [somewhat mechanically']. Forever — 
 [without looking round]. Hasn't it come in 
 yet? 
 
 Guido [turning round]. The eight minutes 
 are up. [The Guard re-enters.] 
 
 Guido [noticing the writing on the board]. 
 Oh! 
 
 Agnes [following his glance]. What is it? 
 
 Guido. Delay; forty- four minutes' delay. 
 
 Guard. More likely an hour. 
 
 Guido. Here it is very plain, forty-four min- 
 utes. Forty-four I I dare say that's calculated to 
 the dot. 
 
 Guard [coldly]. Oh, she may make it in less. 
 
 [He goes over to the buffet, exchanges a few 
 words with the cofee-dispenser, and then 
 goes off. Guido and Agnes stare at one an- 
 other.] 
 
 Guido. That's so. 
 
 Agnes. One hour — 
 
 Guido. Let's go outside a bit. 
 
 Agnes. But it hasn't stopped raining. But if 
 you want to take a walk — I'll wait for you here. 
 
 94 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 I prefer to look at the illustrated papers. ISits, 
 taking up a newspaper.^ 
 
 {^Guido approaches the buffet and sets his watch 
 by the clock.] 
 
 Agnes [gazing at him with a smilel. He must 
 be pretty impatient, too, in his compartment. 
 
 GuiDO [^returning to her}. How — do you 
 mean, Agnes? 
 
 Agnes. As you know, he telegraphed that 
 he was coming from Stubai on the five-twenty 
 train. I fancy he's under the impression that I'm 
 waiting for him after these six weeks of separa- 
 tion, and that together we'll take the train back 
 to Seewalchen, to our villa. Well, I am waiting 
 for him — only it isn't quite as he imagined it. 
 
 GuiDO. It would be more agreeable to me if 
 you'd refrain from going off on a sentimental jag 
 this way. 
 
 Agnes. Sentimental — ? I? Would I be 
 here, if I were sentimental? [Brief pause."] 
 
 GuiDO [making conversation}. You've missed 
 the six o'clock train anyway. 
 
 Agnes. There's another at seven. 
 
 GuiDO. Do you think he'll take it? 
 
 Agnes. Why not? I'll beg him to — And 
 if you know him at all, he's the sort of man — 
 [Breaking off.} He'll find everything at home 
 as he left it. I've ordered Therese to prepare 
 everything as if — 
 
 GuiDO. That wasn't quite necessary. If he 
 ever loved you he will never put foot into a house 
 in which he lived with you for five summers — 
 [bitterly} and happily at that. 
 
 Agnes. Yes, he will. He's awfully fond of 
 95 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 the little cottage and the landscape. At any rate, 
 they haven't changed. 
 
 GuiDO. I'm sure he won't go back to it this 
 year any more. 
 
 Agnes. If he's wise, he'll go right home and 
 sleep there tonight. 
 
 GuiDO. In a house — alive with such mem- 
 ories ? 
 
 Agnes [staring straight ahead of her'\. Let's 
 hope that he's already started to forget me on the 
 return trip. 
 
 GuiDO. Do you imagine that he will ? 
 
 Agnes. Well, isn't it the best thing we can 
 wish him? [She takes a newspaper again and 
 pretends to he absorbed in if.] 
 
 GuiDO [eyei«^ Agnes, paces up and down, ad' 
 justs his watch again, then stepping up to her'\. 
 We might take something. {^Taps on the table, 
 then takes a newspaper and flutters the leaves 
 nervously, glancing all the while at Agnes, who 
 seems quite absorbed in reading, calling petu- 
 lantly :'\ Waiter. 
 
 Waiter [appearing, still slightly piqued^. 
 Yes, sir. 
 
 GuiDO. Bring me — [_To Agnes.] What'U 
 you have? 
 
 Agnes. It's immaterial to me. 
 
 GuiDO. Well, bring two lemon sodas. 
 
 Agnes. I prefer raspberry. [Waiter moves 
 away. Pause. Guido fixes his eyes on Agnes.] 
 
 Agnes [continuing to read; smiling]. Here's 
 something about you. 
 
 Guido. About me ? 
 
 Agnes. Yes. " Regatta at Attersee. First 
 96 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 prize, Baron Ramming, yacht Storm; second 
 prize, Dr. Guido Wernig, yacht fVater sprite." 
 
 GuiDO. Quite right. You see, such insignifi- 
 cant nobodies like myself do get into the papers 
 sometimes. Of course, only on corresponding in- 
 significant occasions — and then they capture only 
 second prize. 
 
 Agnes. Next time it will be the first — on an- 
 other See. 
 
 Guido. You're very optimistic. But — isn't 
 it the hand of destiny? 
 
 Agnes \_with an inquiring glance^. The sec- 
 ond prize? 
 
 Guido. The delay, I mean. Once again you 
 have enough time to think it over. \^She beckons 
 him to draw nearer."] Perhaps it isn't so simple 
 a thing as you imagine. When you've once been 
 the helpmate of a great man, to become the wife 
 of a quite ordinary doctor of chemistry — 
 
 Agnes [^interrupting him quickly]. In the first 
 place, Guido, your factory in your particular line 
 is quite as well known as the collected works of 
 my husband. 
 
 Guido. What have I to do with the factory? 
 My father founded it — managed it — I am only 
 his son. 
 
 Agnes. Besides, I didn't fall in love with 
 Felix because he was a great man, as you put it. 
 Whoever heard of him when we were married? 
 
 Guido. But you foresaw it — 
 
 Agnes. Foresaw it — yes. 
 
 [Waiter comes with sodas. He places the 
 glasses on the table. Agnes and Guido are 
 silent. The Waiter moves away. Pause.] 
 97 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 GuiDO. Why are you silent, Agnes ? 
 
 Agnes [staring straight ahead}. How mys- 
 terious life is ! Six weeks ago, no more than six 
 weeks ago, I crossed the lake with him in the 
 small steamboat — six weeks. I said good bye to 
 him almost on this very spot. And how the world 
 has changed in this short time 1 If he — if we 
 had guessed that bright summer day — 
 
 GuiDO. Do you regret it, Agnes? If so, 
 there is still time. 
 
 Agnes \_as if waking from a trance}. I re- 
 gret nothing — nothing. All that has happaned 
 was destined to happen. Don't you know I real- 
 ize that, Guido? And all that has happened 
 points to our happiness together — and also to 
 his. 
 
 Guido. His ? 
 
 Agnes. I have no doubt hd'U thank me right 
 off seeing I've given him back his freedom. Peo- 
 ple of bis sort — 
 
 Guido. " People of his sort — " 
 
 Agnes. Everything in life has its deeper 
 meaning. It is well, it is perhaps profoundly nec- 
 essary that he should from now on dwell in soli- 
 tude. 
 
 Guido. In solitude — ? What do you call 
 solitude ? 
 
 Agnes {looking up]. What do you mean by 
 that? 
 
 Guido. Nothing, but what you imagine your- 
 self. 
 
 Agnes. Don't try to evade my question. 
 You did the same once before in a similar circum- 
 stance. 
 
 98 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 GuiDO. How so? When? 
 
 Agnes. On the train. 
 
 GuiDO. I'm sure my allusion is not beyond 
 your surmise. The suspicion that not his play 
 alone kept him in Stubaital six weeks, instead of 
 the projected three, surely is not new to you to- 
 day. You smile? 
 
 Agnes. It's a bit amusing to me the way 
 you're trying, very obviously, to make me jealous. 
 
 GuiDO. Far from it. But, if you'll pardon 
 my saying it, I don't see any sense in your seek- 
 ing to surround your — your former husband with 
 a kind of halo. He is every bit of a human be- 
 ing. In certain respects he's not a whit better 
 than I and — 
 
 Agnes \^laughing'\ . And you — you wished to 
 say. Very kind of you, I'm sure. 
 
 GuiDO. Don't misunderstand me. 
 
 Agnes. Oh, I understand you perfectly. 
 You want me to believe that Mademoiselle X — 
 
 GuiDO. Bianca Walter — 
 
 Agnes. Whose postscript is on the picture 
 post card, has contrived somehow to detain my 
 husband — 
 
 GuiDO. You husband that was — Herr Felix 
 Staufner. 
 
 Agnes. Felix — 
 
 GuiDO. I'm not trying to convince you, I 
 merely make the statement. 
 
 Agnes. Without evidence you can prove noth- 
 ing. Besides the truth will soon out. 
 
 GuiDO. How do you make that out ? 
 
 Agnes. He will tell the truth. 
 
 GuiDO. In all probability you won't have to 
 99 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 hear it. Aside from the fact that it is immaterial 
 to you and that the moment my conjectures are 
 confirmed you will be pleased. 
 
 Agnes. I shall be quite happy over it. Need 
 I tell you that? Nothing more desirable could 
 happen to me than if he stepped off the train with 
 Fraulein Bianca or somebody else. 
 
 GuiDO. I'm afraid, Agnes, that you con- 
 ceive life as too simple a thing. Mademoiselle 
 jL —^ 
 
 Agnes. Bianca. 
 
 GuiDO. Will not accompany him. She will 
 remain in Stubai for the present. 
 
 Agnes. With her mother ? 
 
 GuiDO. Why with her mother ? Why bother 
 about her mother ? 
 
 Agnes. Because her name, too, is on the pic- 
 ture post card. However, I think we are doing 
 the young lady an injustice and celebrating a lit- 
 tle prematurely. Doubtless she is a respectable 
 girl of good family. An admirer of my — my 
 Felix Staufner, just like her mother. [She takes 
 a card out of her purse and reads :^ " Isabella 
 Walter and her daughter cannot omit the oppor- 
 tunity of gratefully sending their heartfelt greet- 
 ings to the wife of the master — " 
 
 GuiDO. A bit wordy. 
 
 Agnes. But very unsuspicious. 
 
 GuiDO. You carry the card about with you ? 
 
 Agnes. I had no time to put it away. 
 
 GuiDO. You have answered it, then? 
 
 Agnes. Why not? It's the last. It arrived 
 four days ago. And it's positively the last he's 
 written as my husband. 
 
 lOO 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 [Guido makes as if to take the card; she makes 
 a gesture of refusal and he seems hurt.} 
 
 Agnes. Just one word. 
 
 GuiDO. What sort of word, if I may ask ? 
 
 Agnes. Auf wiedersehen. 
 
 [Guido bites his lip.} 
 
 Agnes. Well, doesn't it seem proper? I 
 didn't write " Auf gutes wiedersehen," or " Auf 
 gliickliches wiedersehen," simply " Auf wieder- 
 sehen." 
 
 GuiDO. And did you write him letters, too, 
 during this time? 
 
 Agnes. Only one. 
 
 GuiDO. Well — well I 
 
 Agnes. That was before there was anything 
 between you and me ; before that evening — when 
 you suddenly appeared in my garden under my 
 window — and called my name in the dark. Yes, 
 in this way one sometimes writes a farewell letter 
 without suspecting it ! How mysterious life — 
 [Guido has taken the card in his hand and seems 
 bent on crumpling it.} 
 
 Agnes. What are you doing, Guido ? 
 
 Guido. You love him still. 
 
 Agnes {^earnestly}. No, Guido, I love no one 
 but you. I have never loved anybody — not 
 even Felix — as much as I love you. [Grasping 
 his hand.} But I shall never cease [^letting his 
 hand go} to admire and to respect Felix Stauf- 
 ner; to be spiritually akin to Felix Staufner, the 
 writer. In a certain sense relations such as ex- 
 isted between Felix and myself can never alter — 
 never. The fact that we were married is of least 
 importance. Even if I should never see him 
 
 lOI 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 again, if we should remain miles and miles 
 apart — 
 
 GuiDO {^interrupting'] . Yes, if you would only 
 remain miles and miles apart! Well and good. 
 Then everything would be all right ; then I'd have 
 nothing to oppose to your spiritual relations. 
 But, unfortunately, I can't spend my life taking 
 endless trips. I must be back in harness in the 
 damned — 
 
 Agnes. Certainly; I'd never permit you to 
 give up your profession. You must work, even 
 if it isn't absolutely necessary. I don't propose to 
 take up with an idler. 
 
 GuiDO. I don't intend to give up my profes- 
 sion. But what's to prevent my practicing it else- 
 where ? I'll speak to the governor. As it is, he's 
 been planning for sometime to establish a branch 
 office in Germany or America. 
 
 Agnes. Or Australia. 
 
 GuiDO. The farther the better. 
 
 Agnes. Guido I 
 
 GuiDO. I simply can't bear to have you meet 
 your former husband again. 
 
 Agnes [determined]. I shan't permit you at 
 the eleventh hour to violate all our stipulations. 
 You know that Felix is not like other men — 
 
 Guido. Do you really believe that he won't 
 find another — friend very soon? 
 
 Agnes. A friend? No. Never. A mis- 
 tress — certainly. And whether her name be 
 Bianca or something else — I only hope that I'll 
 be able to approve of his choice. 
 
 GuiDO. Why do you hope so? Do you in- 
 
 I02 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 tend to be friendly with the future mistress of your 
 husband? 
 
 Agnes. If things should fall out so — 
 
 GuiDO. They will not fall out so. I wish to 
 make clear to you that I desire to keep our home 
 — as soon as our affairs are in order, and that 
 will be soon, I trust — respectable. And I warn 
 you that this — mind you, I don't say uninterest- 
 ing — partly dubious crowd of artists and actor- 
 folk of both sexes who used to frequent your 
 house, will not be welcome under my roof. 
 
 Agnes, As regards dubious affairs, you ought 
 to — 
 
 GuiDO. That's another matter entirely. A 
 real passion explains, condones everything. And 
 besides, your husband deserves his fate. 
 
 Agnes. Oh ! 
 
 GuiDO. A woman, I hold, must be guarded 
 jealously like a priceless gem. One should never 
 leave a young woman alone, wholly alone among 
 a crowd of young people in summer — near a 
 lake — 
 
 Agnes. In spite of his doubts he trusted me. 
 It's all part and parcel of the paradox in his make- 
 up. 
 
 GuiDO. A man doesn't trust a woman whom 
 he loves. He trembles for her. He fights for 
 her. I shall never trust you. Even after we've 
 lived together for years. Even if we should have 
 children — and we will have children. I will al- 
 ways be concerned about you. To make sure of a 
 woman one must keep on insulting her. 
 
 Agnes. But he never resorted to that. He 
 103 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 was jealous oftener than you think. He was jeal- 
 ous even of you. 
 
 GuiDO. Of me — I Well, I thought — 
 
 Agnes. That was before he had the slightest 
 grounds. Even then — How mysterious — 
 
 GuiDO. Life is. 
 
 Agnes. We had scarcely spoken three times 
 together. Naturally he said nothing, but I no- 
 ticed that it was so. For the life of me, I 
 couldn't make it out. You were out sailing on 
 the lake all day long — at the outset. Only in 
 the evening did you venture to sit beside us on 
 the hotel terrace and chatter all manner of non- 
 sense which, to tell the truth, didn't interest me the 
 least bit. 
 
 GuiDO. Nonsense — why — 
 
 Agnes. I only mean to say that everything 
 was quite harmless in those early days. Admit 
 that you didn't trouble at all about me. The lit- 
 tle Baroness Fellah meant more to you — and the 
 Lord knows who else ? But he saw it coming. I 
 observed it in his glances. He suspected immedi- 
 ately that you — that you only — 
 
 GuiDO. And still he left you to your own de- 
 vices. Saw it coming and went away on a trip. 
 
 Agnes. It's a way with him when he's greatly 
 absorbed in a piece of work. Everything else is 
 put aside. 
 
 GuiDO. And he fled [pointedly'] to solitude. 
 
 Agnes [ignoring his innuendo]. At all events 
 he stopped caring about people — that is, about 
 people whom he loved. 
 
 GuiDO. Did he leave you alone often? 
 
 Agnes. Sometimes. But that was not the 
 104 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 worst. It was much more uncomfortable when he 
 stayed at home and left me alone. When my 
 voice had lost its caress, when I became, in a 
 measure, paler, more shadowy than any being he 
 ever created ; when I felt myself snuffed out — for 
 him — 
 
 GuiDO. For me — you will never be snuffed 
 out — never, Agnes. 
 
 Agnes [as if waking from a trance] . Never, 
 Guido! You will never leave me alone. You 
 will never repair to solitude and forget me for 
 days, weeks, at a stretch, as he's done. It isn't 
 good to leave us women alone. You are right, 
 Guido. It's quite perilous — it's — {^For sev- 
 eral minutes past there has been a commotion in 
 the waiting room. Passengers come up the steps. 
 The Guard enters from the right and goes to the 
 platform door.} 
 
 Guido. What's the matter? [Glancing at 
 the clock above the bufet."] There's still twelve 
 minutes. [Guard opens the door.} 
 
 Agne. It seems as if — 
 
 Guido [quickly to the Guard}. The Innsbruck, 
 train? 
 
 Guard. Yes, sir. 
 
 Guido. I thought you said it wouldn't arrive 
 before ten minutes yet — ? 
 
 Guard. She's made up a bit for lost time. 
 
 Guido [to Agnes}. You are pale. Don't you 
 care to — [Passengers go through the waiting 
 room to the platform outside.} 
 
 Agnes [passionately shaking her head}. Let 
 us go out, don't you think ? 
 
 Guido. On the platform ? 
 105 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Agnes. Yes. It's better than waiting out 
 here. I wish him to see us directly from the car 
 window. 
 
 GuiDO. I don't know. 
 
 Agnes. Come. [They start to go out on the 
 platform.^ 
 
 Guard. Platform tickets, please. 
 
 GuiDO. Good Lordl [Searching in his 
 purse."] Here. [Offers the Guard money.] 
 
 Guard. Over there, at the ticket machine. 
 
 GuiDO. But the train will be in by that time. 
 
 Guard. There's lots of time yet. 
 
 GuiDO [goes to the ticket machine, deposits a 
 few coins and yanks the lever in vain]. It doesn't 
 work. 
 
 Guard [going over to the machine, tries to 
 manipulate the lever, fails, then shakes his head]. 
 Don't work sometimes. 
 
 GuiDO. But we'll — 
 
 Guard. Ah, there you are. It's all right 
 now. [Hands two tickets to Guido. Back to 
 the door which he has previously closed and now 
 reopens.] Here she comes now. [Noise of an 
 incoming train.] 
 
 Agnes. Your hand, Guido. [Hand in hand 
 they go through the door — way onto the plat- 
 form. As they pass out Felix appears on the 
 right, m.ounting the steps. He spies Agnes, 
 makes as if to follow, observes almost simultane- 
 ously that she is not alone and is just in time to 
 see her disappear hand in hand with Guido on 
 the platform. He remains standing a moment. 
 Then makes a step towards them. At the plat- 
 form door he pauses again. Then he strides to 
 
 1 06 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 the other platform door and seems to be follow- 
 ing with his eyes the pair of them as they go to 
 meet the incoming train, lie steps back, passes 
 his hand over his forehead and peers through the 
 glass door. The pair vanish out of sight. The 
 train has already stopped and the passengers pour 
 in from the platform. Most of them pass 
 through the waiting room to the steps on the 
 right. Several take seats at the tables; several 
 step up to the buffet and order refreshments. Fe- 
 lix advances to the center of the stage. The 
 stream of passengers rushes by him. He feels he 
 must get out of their path, so he steps back again 
 to the open platform door. He looks for Agnes 
 and Guido. Gazing intently out, he watches 
 them. Then, as if fearing to be observed, he 
 drops back. On his face there is depicted com- 
 plete understanding of the situation. Answering 
 a sudden implse to escape, he hurries to the steps 
 on the right. He remains standing there a mo- 
 ment, shakes his head and hastens again to the 
 closed platform door, peering out. The last of 
 the passengers are leading the platform. Mov- 
 ing away from the door Felix comes to the front 
 in an attitude of suspense, with his face contorted 
 into a smile. Then, growing serious again, he 
 seats himself at a table on the right, the same, in 
 fact, at which Agnes and Guido had sat before. 
 Mechanically he picks up a newspaper and glances 
 above it in the direction of the platform door. 
 The Guard has already shut the door. He opens 
 it again. First there enters a belated woman with 
 a multiplicity of hand bags, then a station official, 
 and lastly Guido and Agnes. They do not at first 
 
 107 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 discover Felix, who is intrenched behind his news- 
 paper.] 
 
 GuiDO. Amazing — 
 
 Agnes. Is there another train today ? 
 
 GuiDO. Let's have a look at the time-table. 
 [ They go to the time-table on the wall next to the 
 steps. Guido studies it carefully.] Nine — 
 twelve — no, that's not from Innsbruck. If we 
 could only find out somehow. Just wait — 
 
 Felix [putting the newspaper aside, rises and 
 strides quickly toward Agnes and Guido, who are 
 studying the time-table. For a space he stands 
 motionless behind her. He speaks suddenly in 
 an unsuspecting, joyous tone.] Well, here you 
 are, Agnes. [Agnes turns around, likewise 
 Guido, but they utter no word.] 
 
 Felix [^overlooking the awkwardness of the sit- 
 uation very quickly]. You see, I came up on the 
 earlier train, at noon. Unfortunately I couldn't 
 telegraph you in time. It was a sudden whim of 
 mine. I awoke somewhat earlier this morning. 
 My things were all packed. So I said to myself: 
 " Suppose you take the first train and loaf about 
 Salzburg for several hours." I'm glad to see you, 
 Agnes — glad to see you. [Wrings her haitd.J 
 How d'ye do, doctor? What are you doing 
 here? En route for Vienna? [Extends his 
 hand.] Your vacation's over, I suppose. 
 
 Guido [hesitatingly taking the proffered hand] . 
 No, I'm not going to Vienna. I was glad to 
 escort your — your wife permitted me to — and, 
 really — [Agnes casts an anxious glance at him, 
 which is not lost on Felix.] 
 
 Felix [quickly interrupting]. Very good of 
 io8 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 you, doctor. My wife loves to chat. Very kind 
 of you, doctor, to keep her company. When one 
 has taken the trip thirty or forty times the beau- 
 ties of nature grow banal. {Suddenly.'] But 
 Agnes, let me look at you. We haven't seen 
 each other for such an age. Six weeks ! I don't 
 recollect our ever having been parted so long 
 during the five years we've been married. Isn't 
 that so ? 
 
 Agnes. You're looking very well, Felix. 
 
 Felix. Am I ? Well, I hope so. And you, 
 too. Why, you seem to have grown a little 
 stouter. And you're sunburnt, quite sunburnt. 
 You were out in the open a good deal, weren't you ? 
 And then the weather was simply glorious. But 
 today — of course. It was very nice of you to 
 come to meet me. 
 
 Agnes. But you asked me to. 
 
 Felix. I simply wanted to let you know. I 
 didn't reckon on it for a moment. Besides, it's 
 two and a half hours from Seewalchen to here. 
 And you had to change, too. Take it any way 
 you like, it's a trip — even with the doctor's pleas- 
 ant company. 
 
 GuiDO. As regards my accompanying your 
 wife, allow me — 
 
 Agnes [^interrupting, suddenly to Felixl- You 
 were here, then, at twelve ? What have you done 
 until now? 
 
 Felix. I'll tell you presently. [Indicating 
 the table.] Won't you join me — I've a tremen- 
 dous hankering for a cup of coffee. And you? 
 Or have you already had some? Waiter! 
 Waiter! What was that you asked a moment 
 
 109 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 ago? How I passed the time? Well, as it was 
 dinner time, I dined in town, of course — very 
 well, too — at the Nurnberg. [Si^j.] Well, 
 doctor, won't you join us? [Agnes sits.} 
 
 GuiDO [with a meaningful glance at Agnes}. 
 I don't really know whether — You see, I 
 have — 
 
 Felix [quickly}. No ceremony, doctor. 
 Please. [To waiter who approaches.} Let us 
 have some — [to Agnes} — coffee, eh? And 
 what'U you have, doctor ? 
 
 GuiDO [who has taken a seat in response to a 
 wink of Agnes}. I have just — 
 
 Agnes [quickly to waiter}. Three melanges, 
 please. [fVaiter is about to go.} 
 
 Felix. I'll have mine a bit strong. And, by 
 the way, have you still got that coffee cake you had 
 six weeks ago ? It was delicious. 
 
 Agnes. You remember it still? 
 
 Felix. You liked it, too. [To the waiter.} 
 Well, bring us some coffee cake with the coffee. 
 [Waiter goes.} 
 
 Felix. Now — what were we talking about? 
 Oh, yes. I dined at the Nurnberg and then I 
 loafed about town — 
 
 Agnes. In the rain? 
 
 Felix. Ah, I didn't mind it the least bit. 
 Coming upon the sultriness of the morning it was 
 a veritable godsend. Then, you see, I called on 
 Sebastian Schwartz for half an hour. 
 
 Agnes [by way of explanation to Guido}. 
 That's the antique dealer, you know. 
 
 Felix. You aren't interested in antiques, I 
 presume, doctor? 
 
 no 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 GuiDO. I don't understand enough about 
 them. But — 
 
 Felix \_quickly to Agnes']. He has lots of 
 beautiful things. Some of them quite expensive. 
 
 Agnes. And I suppose you untied your purse- 
 strings liberally again. 
 
 Felix. Not much. I've already had several 
 things sent on to Seewalchen to the villa. A 
 nampulla such as we've wanted for a long time. 
 
 Agnes. For the dining room ? 
 
 Felix. Yes, of course. Certainly you can 
 hang it In the dining room if you wish. And then 
 I bought a lovely amulet. Baroque. Genuine. 
 Aqua marine with a little silver chain — wait until 
 you see it. I have it here in my purse. But, tell 
 me, when did you arrive ? At four, I take it ? 
 
 Agnes. No, I dined in town, too. 
 
 GuiDO. We had dinner here, too. 
 
 Agnes [resuming]. We ate at the station 
 and — 
 
 Felix [quickly]. And loafed about town until 
 now. Curious, isn't it, that we didn't meet ? 
 
 GuiDO. We took a drive. 
 
 Agnes. Considering the bad weather — the 
 doctor was very kind — [Waiter brings coffee, 
 etc. Felix, moving back his chair, causes the table 
 and glasses to tremble. Waiter is somewhat 
 taken aback. Guido seems to hesitate a moment, 
 then, with nervous haste, he does likewise. Felix 
 stirs his coffee. The waiter goes off with the news- 
 papers.] 
 
 GuiDO [with sudden determination]. Mr. 
 Staufner, I must ask — 
 
 Felix [quickly]. But drink your coffee, old 
 in 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 man. And let me enjoy mine while I may. 
 Then, if it suits you, you may ask my indulgence 
 to whatever you please. I find tiffin the nicest 
 refreshment of the day. I can do without my 
 dinner, but never without my afternoon coffee. 
 
 GuiDO. Mr. Staufner, you asked me a moment 
 ago whether I was going to Vienna. Well — 
 
 FzLix [quickly}. Excuse my having asked. I 
 noticed the effect on you was painful. I don't 
 want to have appeared indiscreet. What you 
 have decided to do with the rest of your vacation 
 is clearly a personal matter. Enjoy life as long 
 — and so on. Aren't you going to take over the 
 management of the HoUenstein factory when your 
 father is ready to retire — 
 
 GuiDO. My father is quite robust. He has 
 no intention of retiring from business. [He en- 
 deavors to exchange glances with Agnes who, how- 
 ever, avoids his look.'] 
 
 Felix. How old is he, if I may ask? 
 
 GuiDO. Sixty-two. But as I said — 
 
 Felix. In any case, the main burden will soon 
 fall to your shoulders. So enjoy life as long as 
 you may. And above all things else, travel. 
 
 Agnes. The doctor has traveled considerable. 
 He's already been to America. 
 
 GuiDO. Yes, I've been to South America. 
 
 Felix. Indeed. To South America. And 
 do you know Japan at all? 
 
 GuiDO. No, I don't know Japan. 
 
 Felix. Japan has lured me for ever so long. 
 Don't you feel like going there too, Agnes ? 
 
 Agnes. There are many places not so far. 
 
 Felix. What of that? Do you expect to 
 
 112 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 travel round the world inch by inch? It can't be 
 done. What kind of a hat are you wearing, 
 Agnes ? 
 
 Agnes. You know it. 
 
 Felix. The red band is kind of new to me. 
 
 Agnes. Yes, it is new. 
 
 Felix. Quite a summer hue. It glows and 
 sparkles. [^He repeats the phrase, but almost in 
 an uncontrollable threatening tone of voice.J It 
 glows and sparkles. 
 
 \^/ignes gazes at him in terror and shoots a sud- 
 den glance at Guido. Guido involuntarily 
 assumes a dignified posture.^ 
 
 Felix [glancing up, in a gentler tone^. You 
 are not interested in women's hats, I presume, 
 doctor ? 
 
 Guido [as if perceiving an opportunity to fasten 
 his fangs}. Not generally. But I am interested 
 in this one, Mr. Staufner. And not only — 
 
 l^Agnes looks at him frightened.} 
 
 Felix. Not only in the hat, but also, the 
 wearer. That goes without saying. I am too, 
 doctor. Naturally the hat would be a matter of 
 indifference to both of us if, say, it hung over there 
 on that hook. 
 
 Guard {^entering and calling out} . Passenger 
 train to Schwannemarkt, Bocklabruck, Atnang, 
 Linz, Vienna. 
 
 Guido [pushing back his chair as if to rise}. 
 Mr. Staufner — 
 
 Felix. Oh, yes. That's your train. If you 
 intend going back to Seewalchen you'll have to 
 make a connection. [To Agnes, who looks at him 
 quite confused.} You thought it was ours, too? 
 
 "3 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 No, it is not ours, Agnes. I understand fully, 
 doctor ' — this attraction to the field of your tri- 
 umph. Yes, your triumph — [laughing loudly^. 
 My cordial wishes are perhaps a little tardy at 
 this moment. 
 
 GuiDO [taken aback]. How — ? [Agnes 
 gazes at Felix, not understanding.] 
 
 Felix. You — [pause] — won — at the Re- 
 gatta, didn't you? 
 
 GuiDO [involuntarily heaving a sigh of relief]. 
 Oh, thank you. It was only the second prize. 
 
 Agnes [likewise relieved]. How do you come 
 to know about it ? 
 
 Felix. Why, it's in the newspaper. 
 
 Agnes. You read the sporting page now- 
 adays? Since when? 
 
 Felix. Not all of it. But news about See- 
 walchen, for obvious reasons, interested me. 
 Moreover, it was on the train, where one reads 
 everything, even one's railway ticket. [To 
 Guido.] Have you been interested in yachting 
 very long? 
 
 Guido. Quite a number of years. On Oster- 
 see mostly in the past. 
 
 Felix. On Binnensee, I imagine, it's more dif- 
 ficult. 
 
 Guido. Not necessarily. 
 
 Felix. Unfortunately, I know nothing about 
 it. 
 
 Guido. I suppose you haven't taken up sport, 
 Mr. Staufner ? 
 
 Felix. Oh, yes — yes. Mostly of a tourist 
 character. I climb a good deal. In Stubai I ne- 
 gotiated several trails. 
 
 114 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 Agnes. Alone ? 
 
 Felix. The big ones, yes. On the little ones 
 I had a party along. Two ladies — mother and 
 daughter. The young lady kept up very nicely 
 on foot. 
 
 Agnes. Miss Bianca Walter — ? 
 
 Felix. How do you — ? Why, yes. 
 
 Agnes. I hazard the guess she's blond. 
 That's your favorite color. 
 
 Felix. Of course, she's blond. Would you 
 care to know more about her? She's a young 
 actress just beginning her career. She played 
 something for me once — The Jungfrau von 
 Orleans. 
 
 Agnes. Very nice. 
 
 Felix. It was, indeed. By the bye, I should 
 have her picture somewhere about me. 
 
 Agnes. Her picture? You have her picture 
 about you — ? 
 
 Felix. Yes. [He takes it out of his breast 
 pocket.'] She gave it to me before I left. The 
 first chance I get I'd like to show it to a manager. 
 She wants ever so much to get a position in 
 Vienna. She imagines it only needs a word from 
 me. These women certainly are naive! The 
 mother wasn't bad-looking, either. 
 
 Agnes. Isabella. 
 
 Felix. Isabella ? Why, yes, of course. Isa- 
 bella was the mother's name. 
 
 Agnes. And the daughter's Bianca. 
 
 Felix. Isabella was the mother's name and 
 the daughter's Bianca. Sounds like a ballad al- 
 most. [To Guido.] Don't you think so ? 
 
 GuiDO [icily]. I'm no judge. 
 115 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Agnes. But I thought you had no intention of 
 making any acquaintances there, and that you were 
 going to devote yourself exclusively to your work? 
 
 Felix. Oh, appearances to the contrary, I was 
 quite assiduous. You will be quite satisfied with 
 me, I think. 
 
 Agnes [with an effort"]. Have you finished? 
 
 Felix. Finished? Not quite. 
 
 Agnes. Under the circumstances little else 
 was to be expected. 
 
 Felix. How malevolent you can be, Agnes! 
 No reason for it — at all. When luck's on my 
 side, as you know, I can get through in three or 
 four days. Only I need your advice. 
 
 Agnes [joyful in spite of herself]. My — 
 advice? 
 
 Felix. Yes, without equivocation. First, I'd 
 like to talk it over with you. I'll also read you as 
 much as I have. So let's not take the train back 
 to Seewalchen for the present. Until I have 
 cleared up everything I don't care to go back. 
 And here in Salzburg, I know from previous ex- 
 perience I can work extraordinarily well. That's 
 why we'll stay here for a few days. 
 
 Agnes. We're going to stay here? That's 
 rather new to me. 
 
 Felix. To me, also. I simply mean that the 
 idea struck me on the train. You're with me in 
 this, aren't you ? We've only got to telegraph to 
 good old Therese, asking her to send you what- 
 ever you need — absolute necessities. Of course, 
 some superfluous things, too. And whatever for 
 the present you're urgently in want of we can pur- 
 chase today. Or have you, by chance, in response 
 
 ii6 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 to some secret presentiment, brought your little 
 crocodile purse with you? 
 
 GuiDO [as if sensing the underlying meaning. 
 Externally unruffled, but without malice^. I put 
 the crocodile purse in my suitcase, thinking it safer 
 there. 
 
 Felix. Indeed? Capital! Then everything 
 is in ship-shape. And you're glad to stay on, 
 aren't you, Agnes? The three days, I promise 
 you, will pass quickly. All difficulties will be sur- 
 mounted — and before we return to our little 
 country house I shall put the finishing touch to — 
 [he hesitates"} — " The Festival of Bacchus." 
 
 Agnes [taken by surprise}. " The Festival of 
 Bacchus"? 
 
 Felix. Yes; why these wide eyes of wonder- 
 ment? 
 
 Agnes. You're writing " The Festival of 
 Bacchus "? 
 
 Felix. Yes. 
 
 Agnes. But you started out with quite a dif- 
 ferent purpose. 
 
 Felix. Quite right. But, soon after, on the 
 way to Stubaital, it flashed upon me, before any- 
 thing else, I must do " The Festival of Bacchus." 
 There are good and sufficient reasons for 
 this change. It was conditioned by mysterious 
 laws. 
 
 GuiDO. Yes, life is very mysterious. 
 
 Felix. Life — no. Not more than ordina- 
 rily so. But art is. Yes, art is most — A 
 thing of this sort is leavened within. It matures 
 deep in the recesses of self. [Indicating his fore- 
 head.] Here one knows nothing about it. So 
 
 117 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 it is. [Breaking of in another tone.] Two acts, 
 as I said, are finished. Only in the third act I 
 find I'm up against it, and no thoroughfare. 
 Well, you'll hear it and, I have no doubt, some- 
 thing suggestive will occur to you. 
 
 Agnes. If you think so — [The waiter has 
 appeared.] 
 
 Felix [noticing him]. Oh, yes. Well — ? 
 
 GuiDO. Mine was a melange — 
 
 Felix. What a notion, doctor? [The wait- 
 er.] Three melanges and three portions of cof- 
 fee cake. 
 
 GuiDO. Four — I had two. 
 
 Felix [laughing]. Ah, yes; four then. 
 
 Waiter. Five. 
 
 Felix. Five ? 
 
 Agnes. You crumbled one. 
 
 Felix. Oh, did I? Really? Well, then, 
 five. 
 
 Waiter. Two crowns, 40 pfennig. 
 
 FEI.1X [counting]. Very well. 
 
 Waiter [discreetly to Guido]. And then 
 there were two lemon sodas. 
 
 Guido. Ah, yes. [Is about to pay.] 
 
 Felix [noticing Guido' s attempt]. What is 
 that? Ah, yes? [Gaily.] Please, please. [Is 
 about to pay.] 
 
 GuLDO. I insist — 
 
 Felix. Please let me. Two sodas. Here 
 you are. [Pays. Waiter goes. Felix extracts a 
 cigarette case from his pocket and offers Guido a 
 cigarette.] 
 
 Guido [falteringly helping himself to a ciga- 
 rette]. Thanks. 
 
 1x8 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 [Felix offers him a light and then proceeds to 
 light his own."] 
 
 GuiDO. And now, if you'll excuse me, I must 
 be going. 
 
 Felix. Good day, doctor, and. a pleasant jour- 
 ney to you — whatever route you decide to take. 
 
 GuiDO. Thanks. Good bye, my dear Mrs. 
 Staufner. \_Not yet does he dare to extend his 
 hand.^ I trust soon — [overjoyed at the sudden 
 idea'] — perhaps I shall have the pleasure of see- 
 ing you again at the premiere of your husband's 
 new play — 
 
 Agnes. I shall be pleased — 
 
 Felix. You're in no way bound to attend, 
 doctor. 
 
 GuiDO. No trouble at all. You see, I've never 
 missed one of your first nights yet. So, naturally, 
 I shall not fail to be present at the opening of 
 " The Festival of Bax — " 
 
 Felix. Bacchus, doctor. 
 
 GuiDO. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Felix. It's not a mythological play, as ap- 
 pears from the title, neither is it in verse, if such 
 things scare you away. 
 
 GuiDO. Not at all. 
 
 Felix. The title is only used metaphorically, 
 of course. If I attempted to put on a real Festival 
 of Bacchus, I'd have no end of trouble with the 
 censor, as you can imagine. 
 
 GuiDO. I'm ashamed to confess that I don't 
 know what a Festival of Bacchus is. 
 
 Felix. Really? The Festival of Bacchus 
 was a quaint custom of the ancient Greeks — a 
 religious custom, you might say. 
 
 119 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 GuiDO. A — religious custom ? 
 
 Felix [with marginal lilt and brevity^. Yes. 
 A night was set aside once a year at the season of 
 the vintage, if I err not, when men and women 
 were granted unlimited freedom after a fashion — 
 
 GuiDO. Unlimited freedom — 
 
 Felix [very cool, merely informative^. After 
 a fashion. On this night of nights all family 
 ties, all prescriptive laws were dissolved. Men, 
 women, and girls departed from their homes at 
 sundown — homes whose peace they had sur- 
 rounded and protected — and repaired to a sacred 
 grove (there were many such groves in the land) 
 to celebrate under the sheltering wing of night the 
 divine festival — 
 
 GuiDO. The divine festival — 
 
 Felix. The divine festival. 
 
 GuiDO. Under the wing of night. 
 
 Felix. Yes. 
 
 GuiDO. And supposing the moon shone? 
 
 Felix. That did not matter. At daybreak — 
 the festival was over, and every participant was 
 pledged to forget with whom he celebrated his 
 share of the divine festival. Pledged in all honor. 
 That was a part of the religious custom — just as 
 the celebration Itself. To recognize one another 
 afterward would have been considered in bad taste, 
 as being. Indeed, frivolous. And, as the saying 
 runs, the votaries of the gods, somewhat tired and 
 yet refreshed, In a measure even purified, wended 
 their way home. 
 
 GuiDO. And at home one had an exciting 
 theme for discussion ready to hand — until the 
 next festival. 
 
 I20 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 Felix. At home nothing was allowed to be 
 said about the festival. There'd be no sense in 
 that. There was as little individual responsibility 
 for the experiences of that night — as there is for 
 dreams. 
 
 GuiDO. But didn't it sometimes happen that a 
 couple who had found themselves together in a 
 sacred grove, had no desire to escape from one 
 another's sight so soon — and neither of them 
 showed up at home ? 
 
 Felix. That was impossible. The penalty 
 for that was death. 
 
 Agnes. Death — ? 
 
 Felix. Yes, death. They had to part when 
 the sun rose. The ritual in this respect was very 
 strict. 
 
 GuiDO. You say the penalty was death — ? 
 
 Felix. To be exact, there was an extenuating 
 circumstance. 
 
 GuiDO. Ah I 
 
 Felix [with emphasis']. When two people 
 who had found themselves together under the 
 wing of night yearned for one another still on 
 the following night — this happened less fre- 
 quently than one imagines — no one was allowed, 
 neither husband nor wife nor father nor mother, 
 to stand in their way. And these two met again 
 on the same spot where they had parted in the 
 morning. But from the second night — and here 
 we must really marvel at the wisdom of the priests 
 — from this second night, which was no longer 
 a festival to the god there was no asylum. Their 
 former home was closed to them and they were 
 for the remainder of their days dependent on one 
 
 121 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 another. That is why so very few cared to leave 
 their homes on the second night. \^Pause.'\ 
 
 GuiDO. You've looked up the mythology of 
 it pretty thoroughly for your comedy, Mr. Stauf- 
 ner. 
 
 Felix. It wasn't necessary. If you were to 
 investigate you would discover that my version 
 doesn't correspond exactly. For, as I said, the 
 Festival of Bacchus is but a symbol suitable to my 
 purpose. My play is set in the present, and the 
 present lacks several things which makes the re- 
 vival of such a beautiful, simple and pure celebra- 
 tion as the ancient Festival of Bacchus, impossible. 
 People have grown too irreligious. Instead of 
 experiencing the natural naturally, they befog 
 things with their pedantic psychology. Now- 
 adays Festivals of Bacchus are no longer possible 
 because our love-life is murky, yes, poisoned by 
 lies and self-deception, by jealousy and fear, by 
 insolence and remorse. Only occasionally — and 
 this but in pious souls — there is kindled a faint 
 or still more brilliant reflection of the marvelous 
 magic which once pervaded the Festival of 
 Bacchus. And this magic is perhaps of a higher 
 order than the other. But who of us can glory 
 in his own piety? Who of us — ? 
 
 Guard [entering']. Express to Freilassing, 
 Rosenheim, Munich, Paris — 
 
 Felix [in an altered tone of voice']. Isn't 
 that your train, doctor? 
 
 GviDO \_sur prised]. My train — ? 
 
 Agnes. For Paris. Of course it's your train, 
 doctor. 
 
 GuiDO. Well let it be — And now I must 
 
 122 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 see about my baggage. Dear Mrs. Staufner — 
 {^Jgnes gives him her hand. Guido hesitates a 
 moment, then kisses it. He bows to Felix. Felix 
 extends his hand. Guido takes it hurriedly, then 
 goes down the steps. Pause. Commotion. 
 Passengers pass out to the platform with porters, 
 etc.'\ 
 
 Agnes [looking at him, after a long pause^. 
 And what kind of a reflection is that? 
 
 l^Felix looks at her as if he did not quite follow 
 her meaning."] 
 
 Agnes. The reflection in pious souls which 
 you just mentioned, which to you signifies a loftier 
 magic than the marvelous festival itself — this 
 festival which according to you is no longer cele- 
 brated nowadays? 
 
 Felix [almost crudely]. This magic is called 
 — forgetting. But we don't believe in that, you 
 and I. 
 
 Agnes. You may be right. There may, how- 
 ever, be another which is easier to believe in. 
 [Felix gives her a questioning look.] 
 
 Agnes. Understanding. [She has the picture 
 in her hand and crushes it. Felix laughs curtly.] 
 
 Guido [entering from the right with two hand- 
 bags. He steps up to the table]. Pardon me, 
 since it was most convenient to check both bags 
 on one ticket — I — 
 
 Agnes [anxiously]. Thank you, very much. 
 Please put it here. 
 
 Guido. Don't mention it. [He places Agnes' 
 handbag on the chair which he previously occu- 
 pied.] 
 
 Felix [rising suddenly]. Dr. Wernig — 
 123 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 GuiDO {^comprehending, with great dignity J. 
 If it is your pleasure, Mr. Staufner, I can likewise 
 put off my departure. 
 
 Agnes [quickly, with determination^. You 
 will depart on this train, Guido. 
 
 [Felix looks at her. Guido stands irresolute. 
 Pause.} 
 
 Felix. You may go! [Guido bows and goes 
 out on the platform.} 
 
 Felix [sits. His face is contorted. Then he 
 rises again, as if to follow Guido. Agnes re- 
 strains him by grasping his arm. Felix reseats 
 himself. Agnes tears Bianca's picture into small 
 bits.} 
 
 Felix [bitterly}. If this were alll 
 
 Agnes [with a ghost of a smile}. We must be 
 pious, both of us. 
 
 Felix [in a sudden hollow tone of voice}. I 
 hate you ! 
 
 Agnes. And I hate you a thousand times more 
 bitterly — [with a new expression of tenderness} 
 — my lover I 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 124 
 
OTHER PLAYS 
 
LITERATURE 
 A Play in One Act 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 Clement. 
 
 Gilbert. 
 
 [Scene : Moderately well, but quite inex- 
 pensively furnished apartments occupied by 
 Margaret. A small freplace, a table, a small 
 escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two 
 windows in the back, entrances left and right. 
 
 As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a 
 modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered 
 reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He 
 is smoking a cigarette and perusing a news- 
 paper. Margaret is standing at the window. 
 She walks back and forth, finally goes up di- 
 rectly behind Clement, and playfully musses his 
 hair. Evidently she has something trouble- 
 some on her mind.^ 
 
 Clem. {^Reading, seizes her hand and kisses 
 it.'\ Horner's certain about his pick and doubly 
 certain about mine ; Waterloo five to one ; Barom- 
 eter twenty-one to one ; Busserl seven to one ; At- 
 tilla sixteen to one. 
 
 Marg. Sixteen to one! 
 127 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clem. Lord Byron one and one-half to one 
 
 — that's us, my dear. 
 Marg. I know. 
 
 Clem. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the 
 Handicap. 
 
 Marg. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean 
 " runaway." 
 
 Clem. Not quite — but where did you pick 
 up your turf-lingo, Brava ? 
 
 Marg. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I 
 knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord 
 Byron yourself? 
 
 Clem. How absurd to ask ! You forget, it's 
 the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I 
 get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a 
 moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd. never 
 put up one and a half to one. You may stake all 
 you've got on that. 
 
 Marg. I'm well aware of that. You are so 
 handsome when you mount a horse — honest and 
 truly, too sweet for anything ! I shall never for- 
 get that day in Munich, when I first made your 
 acquaintance — 
 
 Clem. Please do not remind me of it. I had 
 rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, 
 Windy would never have won if it weren't for the 
 ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time 
 
 — never! You know, of course, it is decided; 
 we leave town the same day. 
 
 Marg. Same evening, you mean. 
 Clem. If you will — but why ? 
 Marg. Because it's been arranged we're to be 
 married in the morning, hasn't it? 
 Clem. Quite so. 
 
 128 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Marg. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] 
 Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon? 
 
 Clem. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? 
 On the estate. 
 
 Marg. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we go- 
 ing to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit ? 
 
 Clem. As for that, it all depends on the 
 Handicap. If we win — ,, ., 
 
 Marg. Surest thing! !'. •^/ ...a',, *fe«.v; ■ , 
 
 Clem. And besides, in April the Riviera's 
 not at all good ton. 
 
 Marg. Is that your reason ? 
 
 Clem. Of course it is, my love. In your 
 former way of life, there were so few opportuni- 
 ties for your getting a clear idea of fashion — 
 Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must 
 admit, really had its origin in the comic journals. 
 
 Marg. Clem, please! 
 
 Clem. Well, well. We'll see. {^Continues 
 reading.] Badegast fifteen to one — 
 
 Marg. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a 
 show for him ! 
 
 Clem. Where did you get that information? 
 
 Marg. Szigrati himself gave me a tip. 
 
 Clem. Where — and when? 
 
 Marg. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, 
 while you were talking with Milner. 
 
 Clem. Now, look here ; Szigrati isn't fit com- 
 pany for you. 
 
 Marg. Jealous? 
 
 Clem. Not at all. Moreover, let it be under- 
 stood that from now on I shall introduce you 
 everywhere as my fiancee. [Margaret kisses 
 him.] 
 
 129 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clem. Now, what did Szigrati say? 
 
 Marg. That he's not going to enter Badegast 
 in the Handicap at all. 
 
 Clem. Well, don't you believe everything 
 Szigrati is likely to say. He's circulating the ru- 
 mor that Badegast will not be entered so that the 
 odds may be bigger. 
 
 Marg. Nonsense 1 That's too much like an 
 investment. 
 
 Clem. So you don't believe there is such a 
 thing as investment in this game? For a great 
 many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you 
 think that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for 
 sport? He might just as well speculate on the 
 market, and wouldn't realize the difference. Any- 
 way, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred 
 to one wouldn't be too much to put up against 
 him. 
 
 Marg. Really ? I found him in first-rate fet- 
 tle this morning. 
 
 Clem. Then you saw Badegast, too? 
 
 Marg. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him 
 through his paces, right behind Busserl? 
 
 Clem. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. 
 He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as 
 fine fettle as he chooses — it's all the same to me. 
 He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, 
 with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will 
 be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies 
 from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with 
 what proficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated 
 yourself into all these things. You go beyond my 
 expectations. 
 
 130 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Marg. Ichagrined]. Pray, why do I go be- 
 yond your expectations? All this, as you know, 
 is not so new to me. At our house we entertained 
 very good people — Count Libowski and people 
 of that sort — and at my husband's — 
 
 Clem. Quite so. No question about that. 
 As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no 
 grudge against the cotton industry. 
 
 Marg. Even if my husband happened to be 
 the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to ef- 
 fect my personal outlook on life, did it? I al- 
 ways sought culture in my own way. Now, don't 
 let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and 
 buried, thank heaven ! 
 
 Clem. Yes. But there's another period 
 which lies nearer. 
 
 Marg. I know. But why mention it? 
 
 Clem. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't 
 possibly have heard much about sportsmanship 
 from your friends in Munich — at least, as far as 
 I am able to judge. 
 
 Marg. I do hope you will stop tormenting me 
 about those friends in whose company you first 
 made my acquaintance. 
 
 Clem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only 
 it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got 
 amongst those people. 
 
 Marg. You speak of them as if they were a 
 gang of criminals. 
 
 Clem. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, 
 some of them looked the very picture of pickpock- 
 ets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I 
 can't understand how you, with your refined 
 
 131 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 taste — let alone your purity and the scent you 
 used — could have tolerated their society. 
 How could you have sat at the same table with 
 them? 
 
 Marg. [^laughing']. Didn't you do the same? 
 
 Clem. Next to them — not with them. And 
 for your sake — merely for your sake, as you 
 know. To do them justice, however, I will ad- 
 mit that many bettered upon closer acquaint- 
 ance. There were some interesting people among 
 them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dear- 
 est, that I hold myself superior to those who hap- 
 pen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing 
 against them. But there was something in their 
 conduct, in their manners, which was positively 
 revolting. 
 
 Marg. It wasn't quite so bad. 
 
 Clem. Don't take offense, dear. I said there 
 were some interesting people among them. But 
 that a lady should feel at ease in their company, 
 for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend 
 to understand. 
 
 Marg, You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense 
 I'm one of them — or was at one time. 
 
 Clem. Now, please! For my sake! 
 
 Marg. They were artists. 
 
 Clem. Thank goodness, we've returned to the 
 old theme. 
 
 Marg. Yes, because it hurts me to think you 
 always lose sight of that fact. 
 
 Clem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! 
 You know what pained me in your writings — 
 things entirely personal. 
 
 Marg. Let me tell you, Clem, there are 
 132 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 women who, in my situation, would have done 
 worse than write poetry. 
 
 Clem. But what sort of poetry! What sort 
 of poetry! [^Takes a slender volume from the 
 mantel-shelf.'] That's what repels me. I assure 
 you, every time I see this book lying here; every 
 time I thinic of it, I blush with shame that it was 
 you who wrote it. 
 
 Marg. That's why you fail to understand — 
 Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, 
 you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is im- 
 possible. Why does it repel you? You know I 
 didn't live through all the experiences I write 
 about. 
 
 Clem. I hope not. 
 
 Marg. The poems are only visions. 
 
 Clem. That's just it. That's what makes 
 me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of 
 that character? [^Reads-I "Abandoned on thy 
 breast and suckled by thy lips " [shaking his 
 head}. How can a lady write such stuff — how 
 can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what 
 I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads 
 will inevitably conjure up the person of the author- 
 ess, and the particular breast mentioned, and the 
 particular abandonment hinted at. 
 
 Marg. But, I'm telling you, no such breast 
 ever existed. 
 
 Clem. I can't bring myself to imagine that it 
 did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But 
 where did these visions originate ? These glowing 
 passion-poems could not have been inspired by 
 your first husband. Besides, he could never ap- 
 preciate you, as you yourself always say. 
 
 133 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Marg. Certainly not. That's why I brought 
 suit for divorce. You know the story. I just 
 couldn't bear living with a man who had no other 
 interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton. 
 
 Clem. I dare say. But that was three years 
 ago. These poems were written later. 
 
 Marg. Quite so. But consider the position 
 in which I found myself — 
 
 Clem. What do you mean ? You didn't have 
 to endure any privation ? In this respect you must 
 admit your husband acted very decently toward 
 you. You were not under the necessity of earn- 
 ing your own living. . And suppose the publishers 
 did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem — 
 surely, they don't pay more than that — still, you 
 were not bound to write a book of this sort. 
 
 Marg. I did not refer to position in a ma- 
 terial sense. It was the state of my soul. Have 
 you a notion how — when you came to know me 
 — things were considerably improved. I had in 
 many ways found myself again. But in the be- 
 ginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I 
 tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave 
 English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just 
 think of it ! A divorcee, having nobody — 
 
 Clem. Why didn't you stay in Vienna? 
 
 Marg. Because I couldn't get along with my 
 family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what peo- 
 ple ! Did any one of them realize that a woman 
 of my type asks more of life than a husband, 
 pretty dresses and social position? My God! 
 If I had had a child, probably everything would 
 have ended differently — and maybe not. I'm not 
 quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are 
 
 134 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 you still prepared to complain? Was it not for 
 the best that I went to Munich? Would I have 
 made your acquaintance else ? 
 
 Clem. You didn't go there with that object 
 in view. 
 
 Marg. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. 
 I wanted to prove to myself whether I could suc- 
 ceed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn't 
 it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had 
 made some headway on the road to fame. 
 
 Clem. H'm ! 
 
 Marg. But you were dearer to me than fame. 
 
 Clem [good-naturedly^- And surer. 
 
 Marg. I didn't give It a thought. I suppose 
 it's because I loved you from the very start. For 
 in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of your 
 likeness. I always seemed to realize that it 
 could only be a man like you who would make me 
 happy. Blood — is no empty thing. Nothing 
 whatever can weigh in the balance with that. You 
 see, that's why I can't resist the belief — 
 
 Clem. What? 
 
 Marg. Oh, sometimes I think I must have 
 blue blood in my veins, too. 
 
 Clem. How so? 
 
 Marg. It's not improbable? 
 
 Clem. I'm afraid I don't understand. 
 
 Marg. But I told you that members of the 
 nobility were entertained at our house — 
 
 Clem. Well, and if they were? 
 
 Marg. Who knows — 
 
 Clem. Margaret, you're positively shocking. 
 How can you hint at such a thing 1 
 
 Marg. I can never say what I think in your 
 135 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 presence ! That's your only shortcoming — 
 otherwise you would be quite perfect. {She 
 smiles up to him.'\ You've won my heart com- 
 pletely. That very first evening, when you walked 
 into the cafe with Wangenheim, I had an immedi- 
 ate presentiment: this is he! You came among 
 that group, like a soul from another world. 
 
 Clem. I hope so. And I thank heaven that 
 somehow you didn't seem to be altogether one of 
 them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that 
 junto — the Russian girl, for instance, who be- 
 cause of her close-cropped hair gave the appear- 
 ance of a student — except that she did not wear a 
 
 cap — 
 
 Marg. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter. 
 
 Clem. No doubt. You pointed her out to 
 me one day in the picture gallery. She was stand- 
 ing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then 
 the fellow with the Polish name — 
 
 Marg. [beginning']. Zrkd — 
 
 Clem. Spare yourself the pains. You don't 
 have to use it now any more. He read something 
 at the cafe while I was there, without putting him- 
 self out the least bit. 
 
 Marg. He's a man of extraordinary talent. 
 I'll vouch for it. 
 
 Clem. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented 
 at the cafe. And then that yokel, that insuffer- 
 able — 
 
 Marg. Who? 
 
 Clem. You know whom I mean. That fel- 
 low who persisted in making tactless observations 
 about the aristocracy. 
 
 Marg. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert. 
 136 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Clem. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called 
 upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates 
 crop up everywhere, even among writers, I under- 
 stand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste 
 on his part while one of us was present? 
 
 Marg. That's just like him. 
 
 Clem. I had to hold myself in check not to 
 knock him down. 
 
 Marg. In spite of that, he was quite interest- 
 ing. And, then, you mustn't forget he was raving 
 jealous of you. 
 
 Clem. I thought I noticed that, too. 
 
 Marg. Good heavens, they were all jealous 
 of you. Naturally enough — you were so unlike 
 them. They all paid court to me because I 
 wouldn't discriminate in favor of any one of them. 
 You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why 
 are you laughing? 
 
 Clem. Comical — is no word for it 1 If some 
 one had prophesied to me that I was going to 
 marry a regular frequenter of the Cafe Maxmil- 
 lian — I fancied the two young painters most. 
 They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville 
 team. Do you know, they resembled each other 
 so much and owned everything they possessed^ in 
 common — and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian 
 on the ladder along with the rest. 
 
 Marg. I didn't bother myself with such 
 things. 
 
 Clem. And, then, both must have been Jews? 
 
 Marg. Why so? 
 
 Clem. Oh, simply because they always jested 
 in SKch a way. And their enunciation. 
 
 137 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Marg. You may spare your anti-Semitic re- 
 marks. 
 
 Clem. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I 
 know that your blood is not untainted, and I have 
 nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a 
 tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word I 
 He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and 
 conditions of people. I don't in the least regret 
 having made the acquaintance of your associates 
 in Munich. It's all in the weave of our life ex- 
 perience. But I can't help thinking that I must 
 have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue 
 you in the nick of time. 
 
 Marg. Yes, so you did. My Clem I Clem I 
 [Embraces him.1 
 
 Clem. What are you laughing at? 
 
 Marg. Something's just occurred to me. 
 
 Clem. What? 
 
 Marg. " Abandoned on thy breast and — " 
 
 Clem, [vexed]. Please 1 Must you always 
 shatter my illusions ? 
 
 Marg. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be 
 proud if your fiancee, your wife, were to become 
 a great, a famous writer ? 
 
 Clem. I have already told you. I am rooted 
 in my decision. And I promise you that if you 
 begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you 
 paint your passion for me, and sing to the world 
 the progress of our love — it's all up with our 
 wedding, and off I go. 
 
 Marg. You threaten — you, who have had 
 a dozen well-known affairs. 
 
 Clem. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't 
 tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever 
 
 138 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that 
 any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden 
 and a half. There's the rub. I know there are 
 people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it 
 extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than 
 if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh- 
 colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like 
 that doesn't say " Mew." But a writer who 
 makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely 
 humorous. 
 
 Marg. [nervous'ly']. Dearest, you forget that 
 the poet does not always tell the truth. 
 
 Clem. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does 
 that make it any better ? 
 
 Marg. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "dis- 
 tillation." 
 
 Clem. What sort of an expression is that? 
 
 Marg. We disclose things we never experi- 
 enced, things we dreamed — plainly invented. 
 
 Clem. Don't say " we " any more, Margaret. 
 Thank goodness, that is past. 
 
 Marg. Who knows? 
 
 Clem. What? 
 
 Marg. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you 
 all. 
 
 Clem. What is it? 
 
 Marg. It is not past; I haven't given up my 
 writing. 
 
 Clem. Why? 
 
 Marg. I'm still going on with my writing, or, 
 rather, I've finished writing another book. Yes, 
 the impulse is stronger than most people realize. 
 I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it 
 hadn't been for my writing. 
 
 139 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Clem. What have you written now? 
 
 Marg. a novel. The weight was too heavy 
 to be borne. It might have dragged me down — 
 down. Until today, I tried to hide it from you, 
 but it had to come out at last. Kiinigel is im- 
 mensely taken with it. 
 
 Clem. Who's Kiinigel? 
 
 Marg. My publisher. 
 
 Clem. Then it's been read already. 
 
 Marg. Yes, and lots more will read it. 
 Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe 
 me. 
 
 Clem. You're mistaken, my dear. I think — 
 but, tell me, what's it about? 
 
 Marg. I can't tell you right off. The novel 
 contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that 
 can be said of the greatest part. 
 
 Clem. My compliments I 
 
 Marg. That's why I'm going to promise you 
 never to pick up a pen any more. I don't need to. 
 
 Clem. Margaret, do you love me? 
 
 Marg. What a question ! You and you only. 
 Though I have seen a great deal, though I have 
 gadded about a great deal, I have experienced 
 comparatively little. I have waited all my life 
 for your coming. 
 
 Clem. Well, let me have the book. 
 
 Marg. Why — why? What do you mean? 
 
 Clem. I grant you, there was some excuse in 
 your having written it; but it doesn't follow that 
 it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll 
 throw it into the fire. 
 
 Marg. Clem ! 
 
 140 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Clem. I make that request. I have a right 
 to make it. 
 
 Marg. Impossible! It simply — 
 
 Clem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our 
 whole future depends on it. Do you understand? 
 Is it still impossible? 
 
 Marg. But, Clement, the novel has already 
 been printed. 
 
 Clem. What! Printed? 
 
 Marg. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale 
 on all the book-stalls. 
 
 Clem. Margaret, you did all that without a 
 word to me — ? 
 
 Marg. I couldn't do otherwise. When once 
 you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, 
 you will be proud. 
 
 Clem. My dear, this has progressed beyond 
 a joke. 
 
 Marg. Clement ! 
 
 Clem. Adieu, Margaret. 
 
 Marg. Clement, what does this mean ? You 
 are leaving? 
 
 Clem. As you see. 
 
 Marg. When are you coming back again? 
 
 Clem. I can't say just now. Adieu. 
 
 Marg. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.} 
 
 Clem. Please. {Goes out.'\ 
 
 Marg. [alonel. Clement! What does this 
 mean? He's left me for good. What shall I 
 do? Clement! Is everything between us at an 
 end? No. It can't be. Clement! I'll go after 
 him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell 
 rinffs.} Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted 
 
 141 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 to frighten me. Oh, my Clement I {Goes to the 
 door. Gilbert enters.'^ 
 
 Gil. [to the maid}- I told you so. Ma- 
 dame's at home. How do you do, Margaret? 
 Marg. [astonished}. You? 
 Gil. It's I — I. Amandus Gilbert. 
 Marg. I'm so surprised. 
 
 Gil. So I see. There's no cause for it. I 
 merely thought I'd stop over. I'm on my way to 
 Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for 
 auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she 
 does not take it, he places it on the table.} 
 
 Marg. It's very good of you. Thanks 1 
 
 Gil. You have a certain proprietorship in 
 that book. So you are living here ? 
 
 Marg. Yes, but — 
 
 GiL. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as 
 furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But 
 these family portraits on the walls would drive me 
 crazy. 
 
 Marg. My housekeeper's the widow of a gen- 
 eral. 
 
 Gil. Oh, you needn't apologize. . 
 
 Marg. Apologize! Really, the idea never 
 occurred to me. 
 
 Gil. It's wonderful to hark back to it now 
 
 Marg. To what ? 
 
 Gil. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small 
 room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abut- 
 ting over the Isar. Do you remember, Mar- 
 garet ? 
 
 Marg. Suppose we drop the familiar. 
 
 Gil. As you please — as you please. [Pause, 
 142 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 then suddenly.} You acted shamefully, Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 Marg. What do you mean? 
 
 Gil. Would you much rather that I beat 
 around the bush? I can find no other word, to 
 my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. 
 Straightforwardness would have done just as 
 nicely. It was quite unecessary to run away from 
 Munich under cover of a foggy night. 
 
 Marg. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. 
 I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in 
 open daylight. 
 
 Gil. At all events, you might have said good- 
 bye to me before leaving, eh ? [Suj.] 
 
 Marg. I expect the Baron back any minute. 
 
 Gil. What difference does that make? Of 
 course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms 
 once and worshipped me. I'm just an old ac- 
 quaintance from Munich. And there's no harm 
 in an old acquaintance calling to see you? 
 
 Marg. Anybody but you. 
 
 Gil. Why? Why do you persist in misun- 
 derstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an 
 old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and 
 buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for 
 yourself. {^Indicates the book.J 
 
 Marg. What's that? 
 
 Gil. My latest novel. 
 
 Marg. Have you taken to writing novels ? 
 
 Gil. Certainly. 
 
 Marg. Since when have you learned the trick? 
 
 Gil. What do you mean? 
 
 Marg. Heavens, can't I remember ? Thumb- 
 143 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 nail sketches were your specialty, observation of 
 daily events. 
 
 Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My spe- 
 cialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do 
 not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see 
 who's to prevent my writing a novel. 
 
 Marg. But the opinion of an authority was — 
 
 Gil. Pray, who's an authority? 
 
 Marg. I call to mind, for instance, an article 
 by Neumann in the " Algemeine " — 
 
 Gil. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot 1 
 I boxed his ears for him once. 
 
 Marg. You — 
 
 Gil. In effigy — But you were quite as much 
 wrought up about the business as I at that time. 
 We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a 
 blamed idiot. " How can such a numbskull 
 dare " — these were your very words — " to set 
 bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle 
 your next work still, so to speak, in the womb? " 
 You said that ! And today you quote that literary 
 hawker ! 
 
 Marg. Please do not shout. My house- 
 keeper — 
 
 Gil. I don't propose to bother myself about 
 the widows of defunct generals when every nerve 
 in my body is a-tingle. 
 
 Marg. What did I say ? I can't account for 
 your touchiness. 
 
 Gil. Touchiness! You call me touchy? 
 You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit 
 of trembling every time some insignificant booby 
 on some trumpery sheet happened to utter an un- 
 favorable word of criticism. 
 
 144 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Marg. I don't remember one word of un- 
 favorable criticism against me. 
 
 Gil. H'm! I dare say you may be right. 
 Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful 
 women. 
 
 Marg. Chivalrous ? Do you think my poems 
 were praised out of chivalry? What about your 
 own estimate — 
 
 Gil. Mine ? I'm not going to retract so much 
 as one little word. I simply want to remind you 
 that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems 
 while we were living together. 
 
 Marg. And you actually consider yourself 
 worthy of them? 
 
 Gil. Would you have written them if it 
 weren't for me? They are addressed to me. 
 
 Marg. Never ! 
 
 Gil. What ! Do you mean to deny that they 
 are addressed to me? This is monstrous! 
 
 Marg. No. They are not addressed to 
 you. 
 
 Gil. I am dumbfounded. Shall I remind you 
 of the situations in which some of your loveliest 
 verses had birth? 
 
 Marg. They were inscribed to an Ideal — 
 [Gilbert points to himself} — whose representa- 
 tive on earth you happened to be. 
 
 Gil. Ha ! This is precious. Where did you 
 get that? Do you know what the French would 
 say in a case like that? " C'est de la littera- 
 ture!" 
 
 Marg. [^mimicking him], Ce n'est pas de la 
 litterature! Now, that's the truth, the honest 
 truth ! Or do you really fancy that by the " slim 
 
 145 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 boy " I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned 
 belonged to you ? At that time you were fat and 
 your hair was never curly. {^Runs her fingers 
 through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity 
 to capture her hand and kiss it.'\. What an idea! 
 
 Gil. At that time you pictured it so; or, at 
 all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, 
 a poet is forced to take every sort of license for 
 the sake of the rythm. Didn't I once apostro- 
 phise you in a sonnet as " my canny lass " ? In 
 point of fact, you were neither — no, I don't want 
 to be unfair — you were canny, shamefully canny, 
 perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. 
 WeU, I suppose I really oughtn't wonder at you. 
 You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! 
 you've attained your end. You have decoyed 
 your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured 
 hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless 
 horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart- 
 trifler — Marlitt could not have invented him 
 more revolting than he actually was. Yes, what 
 more can you wish ? Whether he will satisfy you 
 — who are acquainted with something nobler — 
 is, of course, another question. I can only say 
 that, in my view, you are degenerate in love. 
 
 Marg. That must have struck you on the 
 train. 
 
 Gil. Not at all. It struck me this very mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Marg. Make a note of it then; it's an apt 
 phrase. 
 
 Gil. I've another quite as apt. Formerly 
 you were a woman; now you're a " sweet thing." 
 Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man 
 
 146 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 of that type? Passion — frank and filthy pas- 
 sion — 
 
 Marg. Stop I You have a motive — 
 
 Gil. My dear, I still lay claim to the posses- 
 sion of a soul. 
 
 Marg. Except now and then. 
 
 Gil. Please don't try to disparage our former 
 relations. It's no use. They are the noblest ex- 
 periences you've ever had. 
 
 Marg. Heavens, when I think that I endured 
 this twaddle for one whole year I — 
 
 Gil. Endure? You were intoxicated with 
 joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Ad- 
 mitting that you behaved never so execrably at the 
 end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with 
 bitterness. It had to come just that way. 
 
 Marg. Indeed ! 
 
 Gil. I owe you an explanation. This : at the 
 moment when you were beginning to drift away 
 from me, when homesickness for the stables 
 gripped you — la nostalgie de I'ecurie — at that 
 moment I was done with you. 
 
 Marg. Impossible. 
 
 Gil. You failed to notice the least sign in 
 your characteristic way. I was done with you. 
 To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What 
 you had to give you gave me. Your uses were 
 fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, 
 unconsciously you knew — 
 
 Marg. Please don't get so hot. 
 
 Gil. [unruffled]. That our day was over. 
 Our relations had served their purpose. I don't 
 regret having loved you. 
 
 Marg. I do! 
 
 147 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Gil. Capital ! This measly outburst must re- 
 veal to a person of any insight just one thing: the 
 essential line of difference between the artist and 
 the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison 
 means nothing more than the memory of a few 
 abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in 
 the winding ways of the English gardens. But / 
 have made it over into a work of art. 
 Marg. So have I ! 
 Gil. Eh? What do you mean? 
 Marg. I have done what you have done. I, 
 too, have written a novel in which our relations 
 are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love — 
 or what we thought was our love — for all time. 
 Gil. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of " for 
 all time " before the appearanec of the second 
 edition. 
 
 Marg. Your writing a novel and my writing 
 a novel are two different things. 
 Gil. Maybe. 
 
 Marg. You are a free man. You don't have 
 to steal your hours devoted to artistic labor. And 
 your future doesn't depend on the throw. 
 Gil. And you? 
 
 Marg. That's what I've done. Only a half 
 hour ago Clement left me because I confessed to 
 him that I had written a novel. 
 Gil. Left you — for good? 
 Marg. I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. 
 He went away in a fit of anger. What he'll de- 
 cide to do I can't say. 
 
 Gil. So he objects to your writing, does he? 
 He can't bear to see his mistress put her intelli- 
 gence to some use. Capital ! And he represents 
 
 148 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 the blood of the country! H'ml And you, 
 you're not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms 
 of an idiot of this sort, whom you once — 
 
 Marg. Don't you speak of him like that. 
 You don't know him. 
 
 Gil. Ah ! 
 
 Marg. You don't know why he objects to 
 my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that 
 if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart 
 from him. He blushes at the thought that I 
 should make copy of the most sacred feelings of 
 my soul for unknown people to read. It is his 
 wish that I belong to him only, and that is why 
 he dashed out — no, not dashed out — for Clem- 
 ent doesn't belong to the class that dashes out. 
 
 Gil. Your observation is well taken. In any 
 case, he went away. We will not undertake to 
 discuss the tempo of his going forth. And he 
 went away because he could not bear to see you 
 surrender yourself to the creative impulse, 
 
 Marg. Ah, if he could only understand that I 
 But, of course, that can never be. I could be the 
 best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the 
 world if the right man only existed. 
 
 Gil. At all events, you admit he is not the 
 right man. 
 
 Marg. I never said that ! 
 
 Gil. But you ought to realize that he's fet- 
 tering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through 
 egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look 
 back for a moment at the Margaret you were ; at 
 the freedom that was yours while you loved me. 
 Think of the younger set who gathered about me 
 and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you 
 
 149 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 never long for those days? Do you never call 
 to mind the small room with its balcony — Be- 
 neath us plunged the Isar — [He seizes her 
 hand and presses her near. 2 
 
 Marg. Ah ! 
 
 Gil. All's not beyond recall. It need not be 
 the Isar, need it? I have something to propose 
 to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, 
 that you still have some important matters to ar- 
 range at Munich, and spend the time with me. 
 Margaret, you are so lovely ! We shall be happy 
 again as then. Do you remember [very near herj 
 " Abandoned on thy breast and — " 
 
 Marg. [retreating brusquely from him^. Go, 
 go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't 
 love you any more. 
 
 Gil. Oh, h'm — indeed ! Oh, in that case I 
 beg your pardon. [Pause.'] Adieu, Margaret. 
 
 Marg. Adieu. 
 
 Gil. Won't you present me with a copy of 
 your novel as a parting gift, as I have done ? 
 
 Marg. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be 
 on sale before next week. 
 
 Gil. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of 
 a story is it? 
 
 Marg. The story of my life. So veiled, to 
 be sure, that I am in no danger of being recog- 
 nized. 
 
 Gil. I see. How did you manage to do it? 
 
 Marg. Very simply. For one thing, the her- 
 oine is not a writer but a painter. 
 
 Gil. Very clever. 
 
 Marg. Her first husband is not a cotton 
 manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, 
 
 150 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor — 
 
 Gil. Hal Ha! 
 
 Marg. What strikes you so funny? 
 
 Gil. So you deceived him with a tenor? I 
 didn't know that. 
 
 Marg. Whoever said so ? 
 
 Gil. Why, you yourself, just now. 
 
 Marg. How so? I say the heroine of the 
 book deceives her husband with a baritone. 
 
 Gil. Bass would have been more sublime, 
 mezzo-soprano more piquant. 
 
 Marg. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but 
 to Dresden ; and there, has an affair with a sculp- 
 tor. 
 
 Gil. That's me — veiled. 
 
 Marg. Very much veiled, I rather fear. 
 The sculptor, as it happens, is young, hand- 
 some and a genius. In spite of that she leaves 
 him. 
 
 Gil. For — 
 
 Marg. Guess ? 
 
 Gil. a jockey, I fancy. 
 
 Marg. Wretch I 
 
 Gil. a count, a prince of the empire? 
 
 Marg. Wrong. An archduke. 
 
 Gil. I must say you have spared no costs. 
 
 Marg. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the 
 court for her sake, married her and emigrated 
 with her to the Canary Islands. 
 
 Gil. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And 
 then — 
 
 Marg. With the disembarkation — 
 
 Gil. In Canaryland. 
 
 Marg. The story ends. 
 151 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Gil. Good. I'm very much interested, espe- 
 cially in the veiling. 
 
 Marg. You yourself wouldn't recognize me 
 were it not for — 
 
 Gil. What? 
 
 Marg. The third chapter from the end, 
 where our correspondence is published entire. 
 
 Gil. What? 
 
 Marg. Yes, all the letters you sent me and 
 those I sent you are included in the novel. 
 
 Gil. I see, but may I ask where you got those 
 you sent me ? I thought I had them. 
 
 Marg. I know. But, you see, I had the habit 
 of always making a rough draft. 
 
 Gil. a rough draft? 
 
 Marg. Yes. 
 
 Gil. a rough draft! Those letters which 
 seemed to have been dashed off in such tremen- 
 dous haste. " Just one word, dearest, before I go 
 to bed ? My eyelids are heavy — " and when your 
 eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over 
 again. 
 
 Marg. Are you piqued about it? 
 
 Gil. I might have expected as much. I 
 ought to be glad, however, that they weren't 
 bought from a professional love-letter writer. 
 Oh, how everything begins to crumble 1 The 
 whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She 
 made a rough draft of her letters ! 
 
 Marg. Be content. Maybe my letters will 
 be all that will remain immortal of your mem- 
 ory. 
 
 Gil. And along with them will remain the 
 fatal story. 
 
 152 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Marg. Why? 
 
 Gil. {^indicating his book'\. Because they also 
 appear in my book. 
 
 Marg. In where? 
 
 Gil. In my novel. 
 
 Marg. What? 
 
 Gil. Our letters — yours and mine. 
 
 Marg. Where did you get your own? I've 
 got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made 
 a rough draft? 
 
 Gil. Nothing of the kind! I only copied 
 them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them- 
 There are some in my book which you didn't even 
 get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for 
 you. You wouldn't have understood them at all. 
 
 Marg. Merciful heavens! If this is so — 
 {turning the leaves of Gilberts hook]. Yes, 
 yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world 
 that we two — Merciful heavens I {Feverishly 
 turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the 
 morning after the first night also — 
 
 Gil. Surely. That was brilliant. 
 
 Marg. This is horrible. Why, this is going 
 to create a European sensation. And Clement — 
 My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not 
 come back. I am ruined! And you along with 
 me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you 
 and blow your brains out like a mad dog. 
 
 Gil. {pocketing his hook]. Insipid compari- 
 son! 
 
 Marg. How did you hit upon such an insane 
 idea ? To publish the correspondence of a woman 
 whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have 
 loved! Oh, you're no gentleman. 
 
 153 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Gil. Quite charming. Haven't you done the 
 same? 
 
 Marg. I'm a woman. 
 
 Gil. Do you take refuge in that now? 
 
 Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to re- 
 proach you with. We were made for one an- 
 other. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse 
 than those women who appear in flesh-colored 
 tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs — 
 everything — we make copy of everything. 
 Pfui ! Pfui ! It's sickening. We two belong to 
 one another. Clement would only be doing what 
 is right if he drove me away. {Suddenly.^ 
 Come, Amandus. 
 
 Gil. What is it? 
 
 Marg. I accept your proposal. 
 
 Gil. What proposal? 
 
 Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. \^Looks 
 for her hat and cloak.^ 
 
 Gil. Eh? What do you mean? 
 
 Marg. [_very much excited; puts her hat on 
 tiffhtly}. Everything can be as it was. You've 
 said it. It needn't be the Isar — well, I'm 
 ready. 
 
 Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it — what's the 
 meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a min- 
 ute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're 
 with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. 
 Wouldn't it be better if each — 
 
 Marg. Wretch ! Now you want to leave me 
 in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you 
 were on your knees before me. Have you no con- 
 science ? 
 
 Gil. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous 
 154 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 man, suffering from hypochondria. \_Marffaret 
 at the window utters a cry."] 
 
 Gil. What's up? What will the general's 
 widow think? 
 
 Marg. It's he. He's coming back, 
 
 Gil. Well, then — 
 
 Marg. What ? You intend to go ? 
 
 Gil. I didn't come here to pay the baron a 
 visit. 
 
 Marg. He'll encounter you on the stairs. 
 That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sac- 
 rificed alone. 
 
 Gil. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do 
 you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to be- 
 lieve that he's already gone through both novels. 
 Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with 
 your cloak. [Assists her."] If he catches you in 
 this frame of mind he can't help but suspect. 
 
 Marg. It's all the same to me. Better now 
 than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for 
 the horrible event. I'm going to tell him every- 
 thing right away. 
 
 Gil. Everything? 
 
 Marg. Yes. And while you are still here. 
 If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe 
 he'll forgive me. 
 
 Gil. And me — what about me? I have a 
 higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer 
 myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous 
 baron. \^The bell rings.'] 
 
 Marg. It's he! It's he. 
 
 Gil. Understand, you're not to breathe a 
 word. 
 
 Marg. I've made up my mind. 
 
 155 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Gil. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I 
 shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl 
 such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron 
 heard the like of them. 
 
 Clem, [^entering, somewhat surprised, but quite 
 cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert 1 Am I 
 right? 
 
 Gil. The very same, Baron. I'm travelling 
 south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my 
 respects to madame. 
 
 Clem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, 
 it seems I've interrupted your conversation. 
 Pray, don't let me disturb you. 
 
 Gil. What were we talking about just now? 
 
 Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In 
 Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked 
 about your books. 
 
 Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was 
 speaking about my new novel. 
 
 Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find 
 that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? 
 Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? 
 Or — let me see — is it distilled ? 
 
 Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about 
 our life-experiences. 
 
 Clem. H'm. That's good to know. 
 
 Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of 
 Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that 
 you should have set fire to Rome — 
 
 Clem. Naturally. 
 
 Gil. From what source should a writer de- 
 rive his inspiration if not from himself? Where 
 should he go for his models if not to the life which 
 
 156 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 is nearest to him ? IMargaret becomes more and 
 more uneasy.^ 
 
 Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models 
 are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I 
 were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such 
 people know anything — {^Sharply.} Indecent 
 society, sir, that's the same as compromising a 
 woman ! 
 
 Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent 
 society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the 
 same as ennobling a woman. 
 
 Clem. Indeed. 
 
 Gil. The essential thing is, does it really hit 
 the mark? In a higher sense, what does it mat- 
 ter if the public does know that a woman was 
 happy in this bed or that? 
 
 Clem. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you 
 that you are speaking in the presence of a lady. 
 
 Gil. I'm speaking in the presence of a com- 
 rade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in 
 these matters. 
 
 Clem. Oh ! 
 
 Marg. Clement! [Throws herself at his 
 feet.] Clement! 
 
 Clem [staffgiered]. But — Margaret. 
 
 Marg. Your forgiveness, Clement! 
 
 Clem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's 
 very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, 
 Margaret. Get up, everything's all right ; every- 
 thing's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call 
 up Kiinigel. I have already arranged everything 
 with him. We are going to put it out for sale. 
 Is that suitable to you ? 
 
 Gil. What are you going to put out for sale, 
 157 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 if I may be so bold as to ask ? The novel madame 
 has written? 
 
 Clem. Ah, so you know already. At all 
 events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camarad- 
 erie is not required any further. 
 
 Gil. Yes. There's really nothing left for me 
 but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry. 
 
 Clem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that 
 you had to witness a scene which might almost be 
 called domestic. 
 
 Gil. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further. 
 
 Gil. Madame — Baron, may I offer you a 
 copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling be- 
 tween us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my 
 sympathy, Baron? 
 
 Clem, You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I 
 must, however, tell you that this Is going to be the 
 last, or the one before the last, that I ever Intend 
 to read. 
 
 Gil. The one before the last? 
 
 Clem. Yes. 
 
 Marg. And what's the last going to be? 
 
 Clem. Yours, my love. [Draws an ad- 
 vance copy from his pocketJ] I wheedled an ad- 
 vance copy from Kiinlgel to bring to you, or, 
 rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert ex- 
 change scared glances. '\ 
 
 Marg. How good of youl [Taking the 
 book."] Yes, it's mine. 
 
 Clem. We will read it together. 
 
 Marg. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so 
 much kindness. [She throws the book into the 
 fireplace.'] I don't want to hear of this sort of 
 thing any more. 
 
 158 
 
LITERATURE 
 
 Gil. [very joyful] . But, dear madame — 
 
 Clem, [going toward the fireplace']. Mar- 
 garet, what have you done? 
 
 Marg. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her 
 arms about Clement] . Now, do you believe that 
 I love you 1 
 
 Gil. \_most gleeful]. It appears that I'm en- 
 tirely de trap here. Dear Madame — Baron — 
 [To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the 
 last chapter. [Goes out.] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 159 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Professor Robert Pilgram. 
 DocTER Alfred Hausmann. 
 Professor Werkmann. 
 Professor Brand. 
 Olga Merholm. 
 
 Franz, manservant at Pilgram's summer resi- 
 dence. 
 
 The action takes place in a summer resort not 
 far removed from Vienna, on an autumn evening 
 in the year iSg'j. 
 
 [Scene: An elegantly furnished room. 
 The wall paper and furniture are light tinted; 
 blue is the prevailing shade. On the left, 
 down stage, a lady's escritoire stands; on the 
 right, a piano. Left and right entrances fac- 
 ing each other. In the rear, a wide-open door 
 giving on to a balcony. Through the door the 
 audience is afforded an uninterrupted view of 
 the landscape. A street, rising gradually, 
 winds far in the distance until it is cut off by 
 a cemetery wall. The wall is not very high, so 
 that gravestones and crosses are visible above 
 its crest. Far beyond loom haze-enshrouded 
 1 60 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 mountain peaks, quite steep. The time is late 
 evening — almost night. 
 
 The landscape is bathed in a soft gloom, and 
 the moon has illumined the single street with its 
 silver glow. 
 
 Robert enters from the right, escorting Pro- 
 fessors JVerkmann and Brand to the door.'\ 
 
 Rob. Excuse me a moment, gentlemen, while 
 I fetch a light. How dark it is here ! 
 
 Werk. Much obliged, dear fellow. I guess 
 we can find our way out. 
 
 Rob. It'll only take a minute. \^Goes out; 
 fVerkmann and Brand remain motionless in the 
 gloom.'\ 
 
 Werk. How lightly he seems to bear the 
 blow. 
 
 Brand. Merely a mask, my dear Werkmann ; 
 the comic mask. 
 
 Werk. I dare say; but when one's burying 
 one's wife, the — er — comic — 
 
 Brand. It is evident, my dear Werkmann, 
 you know mighty little about Pilgram. Don't you 
 perceive, it has a very dazzling effect on people. 
 I mean this interment of one's wife in the after- 
 noon, and atop of that a two-hour long discussion 
 on scientific subjects in the evening. Why, you 
 yourself were taken in by It. 
 
 Werk. A man has got to be a man. Brand. 
 
 {_Enter Robert with a branched candlestick. 
 Two candles are lit.^ 
 
 Rob. Here I am again, gentlemen. \The 
 room is illuminated but faintly."] 
 
 Werk. Exactly where are we now? 
 i6i 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Rob. Oh, this was my poor wife's room. 
 That small flight of stairs over there will take us 
 to the garden gate and in five minutes you will be 
 at the station. 
 
 Brand. Is there any chance of our still mak- 
 ing the nine o'clock train ? 
 
 Rob. I think so. \_The door on the right is 
 pushed open from without. Enter Franz with a 
 wreath.} 
 
 Rob. What is it? 
 
 Franz. This wreath has just come from the 
 city, sir. 
 
 Rob. So latel 
 
 Werk. Probably one of your friends who got 
 the news too late. It's not unusual, I assure you. 
 Many more of these melancholy tokens will pour 
 in; you'll see. Ah! I've gone through it all._ 
 
 Franz. Where shall I put the wreath, sir? 
 
 Rob. [to Franz]. On the balcony. 
 
 [Franz puts it as bidden, then goes out.'\ 
 
 Werk. Your assistant, I understand, is away 
 on his vacation? 
 
 Rob. Yes; but I expect him back ere long. I 
 shouldn't be a bit surprised if he returns tomor- 
 row. 
 
 Werk. I suppose you'll arrange for his tak- 
 ing your place during the early part of the semes- 
 ter. 
 
 Rob. Not at all. I don't propose to give up 
 my work. 
 
 Werk. [grasping his hand]. By Jove, that's 
 fine ! I'm fully convinced it's the only balm there 
 is. 
 
 Rob. So it is. Even if work did not act in 
 162 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 the way of a balm, to my mind, it is an open ques- 
 tion still whether we are justified in shelving a 
 slice of our brief existence. After we have been 
 cowardly enough to survive the first staggering 
 blow. [He precedes them in going o«f.] 
 
 Werk. [to Brand}. Proof positive, my dear 
 Brand, he never entertained the least bit of affec- 
 tion for his wife. 
 
 Brand [with a shrug}. H'm! [All go out, 
 right. For a few minutes the stage remains 
 empty. Olga enters from the left. She is clad 
 in a dark evening costume without a hat. She 
 casts off her light fur-lined mantle. Enter Franz 
 from the balcony.} 
 
 Franz. Good evening, Frau Merholm. 
 
 Olga. The professor — is in the garden, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Franz. Yes, m'm, escorting two gentlemen — 
 [Olga makes a sign to him as Robert enters with- 
 out noticing her.} 
 
 Rob. [going toward the escritoire}. Franz, 
 can you tell me when the last train fron? the city's 
 due here ? 
 
 Franz. Ten o'clock, sir. 
 
 Rob. H'm. [Pause.} Then we may still 
 count on Dr. Hausmann's arrival this evening. If 
 he should come, without further delay show him 
 in to me. 
 
 Franz. Here ? 
 
 Rob. If I should happen to be here at the 
 time, yes. [Franz goes out. Robert sits down 
 to the escritoire, about to unlock it.} 
 
 Olga [advancing behind him}. Good even- 
 ing. 
 
 163 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Rob. [surprised], Olgal [Rises.'] 
 
 Olga [mastering her embarrassment with dif- 
 ficulty]. How I ached to grasp your hand this 
 whole dreary day! 
 
 Rob. And I yours. I am grateful to you all 
 the same, Olga. [Extends his hand.] 
 
 Olga. Robert, you are indeed blessed with a 
 great many friends ; this day bore witness to the 
 fact. 
 
 Rob. Yes. The last of them have just taken 
 their leave. 
 
 Olga. Pray, who can have stayed as late as 
 this? 
 
 Rob. Brand and Werkmann — a pair of sniv- 
 eling old wives! Just fancy the fellow is incon- 
 ceivably proud he had the misfortune to lose his 
 wife last year ! He certainly speaks with the au- 
 thority of a connoisseur in these things, the vain 
 idiot! [Pause.] But fancy your leaving the 
 villa unaccompanied! 
 
 Olga. Do you think I'm afraid to cut across 
 the fields alone? 
 
 Rob. No; but won't your husband be uneasy? 
 
 Olga. On the contrary. He's under the im- 
 pression I'm snug asleep up in my room. Be- 
 sides, I very often take a stroll in the garden at a 
 late hour — 
 
 Rob. Along our path, eh? 
 
 Olga. Our — I suppose you refer to the one 
 that winds in and out among the trellis vines ? 
 
 Rob. I always think of that as belonging espe- 
 cially to you and me. 
 
 Olga. I often take the air in it alone. 
 
 Rob. Yes, but not at night. 
 164 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 Olga. In the evening sometimes. It's only 
 then that one can appreciate how lovely it really is. 
 
 Rob. What an air of indescribable repose it 
 has! 
 
 Olga [tenderly]. Hasn't it? That's just 
 why you must make up your mind to visit us again 
 — soon. You'll be cheerfuller up at our house 
 than here. 
 
 Rob. Maybe so. [Looks at her a moment, 
 then turns his back to the audience.] See! That 
 was where we filed out. [Olga nods.] Can 
 you realize that all this happened only a few hours 
 ago ? And can you — now at night — picture to 
 your mind the afternoon sunlight playing over 
 that dark road? Odd, indeed! I even seem to 
 hear the rumbling of the carriages ! [Pause. He 
 is very nervous and talks disconnectedly.] You 
 are right. There were a great many friends 
 here. And, one must consider, all came from the 
 city; that's quite a trip, you know. Did you see 
 the wreath my students sent ? 
 
 Olga. Yes. 
 
 Rob. It was magnificent, wasn't it? And 
 what expressions of sympathy generally ! Several 
 of my colleagues interrupted their vacations to 
 be present. It is truly very — how shall I put 
 it [hesitates] — amiable of them, don't you 
 think? 
 
 Olga. Quite the customary thing, I should 
 say. 
 
 Rob. To be sure! But I keep asking myself 
 whether at bottom my bereavement, taken all in 
 all, is really deserving of this widespread sym- 
 pathy — or expression of sympathy. 
 
 1 6s 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Olga [quite shocked}. How can you think 
 that? 
 
 Rob. Because I suffer so little. I only know 
 that she is no more. I am conscious of the bare 
 fact with feelings so shockingly unequivocal that 
 it tortures me to think of it; but within all is icy 
 and transparent as the air on winter dawns. 
 
 Olga. This feeling cannot last. The awak- 
 ening pang will come — and that will be better for 
 you in the end. 
 
 Rob. Who knows whether it will come? It 
 all happened too long ago. 
 
 Olga [surprised]. Too long agol What 
 happened too long ago? 
 
 Rob. The giving of herself — ourselves — to 
 one another. 
 
 Olga. Of course. But that is what usually 
 happens in most marriages. [She goes toward 
 the balcony and suddenly spies the wreath.'] 
 
 Rob. Last to arrive. It's from Dr. Haus- 
 mann. 
 
 Olga. Ah! [She reads the card. Robert 
 watches her closely. She is uneasy under his 
 gaze."] 
 
 Olga. Has he arrived yet? 
 
 Rob. No. I telegraphed him at once to 
 Scheveningen, and I would not be surprised to see 
 him here — today yet. If when he arrives at 
 Vienna he loses no time — 
 
 Olga. I'm sure he won't. 
 
 Rob. Then he ought to be here in precisely 
 one hour. 
 
 Olga [with forced confidence']. What a great 
 blow for him! 
 
 i66 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 Rob. No doubt. [Pause, then quietly.] Be 
 candid with me, Olga. There is another reason 
 for your coming here again today. I read it in 
 your manner. Tell me, quite simply. 
 
 Olga. It is more difficult than I imagined. 
 
 Rob. [impatiently, but for all that master of 
 himself]. Well, well — 
 
 Olga. I came to beg a favor of you. 
 
 Rob. If it's in my power. 
 
 Olga. Easily. It affects certain letters which 
 I wrote poor Eveline and which, if possible, I'd 
 like to have back. 
 
 Rob. But why this haste ? 
 
 Olga. I thought that the first step you would 
 naturally take would be — 
 
 Rob. What? 
 
 Olga [pointing to the escritoire]. The very 
 one you were about to take when I entered. [In 
 a subdued tone of voice.] I'd do it, too, if one I 
 loved should — die. 
 
 Rob, [slightly perturbed] . Loved — loved — 
 
 Olga. Then one who was close to me. It 
 helps to arouse in one's mind the image of the 
 dead. [She speaks the following like a passage 
 got by rote.] You see, my letters might have 
 come to your notice first, and that is why I came. 
 There are matters in them which must, by no 
 means, be revealed to you; which were intended 
 from one woman to another. Especially certain 
 letters I wrote two or three years ago. 
 
 Rob. Where are they? Do you know where 
 they have been put? 
 
 Olga. If you'll only let me, I shall have no 
 trouble in finding them. 
 
 167 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Rob. You wish to look for — 
 
 Olga. It is the simplest way, I think, since I 
 know where they are. However, if you wish you 
 can unlock the drawer and I will tell you ex- 
 actly — 
 
 Rob. Never mind ; here's the key. 
 
 Olga. Thanks. Pray don't regard me as se- 
 cretive. 
 
 Rob. Oh, no! 
 
 Olga. Some day I shall reveal all to you — I 
 mean all that Eveline knew, even though it be at 
 the risk of forfeiting your esteem. But thus, by 
 chance, I wouldn't like to have you discover them. 
 
 Rob. I assure you, you will always command 
 my esteem. 
 
 Olga. Who knows ? You know you have al- 
 ways overestimated me. 
 
 Rob. I cannot bring myself to believe that 
 these letters contain something unknown to me. 
 [Pause.] What's more, it isn't your own secrets 
 you wish to preserve. 
 
 Olga [shrewdly'\. Whose, then? 
 
 Rob. The secrets of someone else. 
 
 Olga. What makes you think so? Eveline 
 had no secrets which you did not share. 
 
 Rob. I'm not inquisitive. You may take your 
 letters. 
 
 Olga [unlocking the drawer and searching]. 
 Here they are! Yes. [She takes out a small 
 package tied with a blue ribbon, holds it so that 
 Robert cannot see. Finally she slyly tucks it un- 
 der her wrap.'] And now I must go. Good-by. 
 [She turns to go.] 
 
 Rob. Wouldn't it be a good thing to glance 
 i68 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 into the other drawer as well ? You know it needs 
 but a hasty note to render all your precautions use- 
 less. 
 
 Olga [ivith less confidence^. How useless? 
 
 Rob. You might have spared yourself all this 
 trouble, Olga. 
 
 Olga. What do you mean ? 
 
 Rob. You above all, who were familiar with 
 the relations between Eveline and myself. 
 
 Olga. They were no worse than such rela- 
 tions ordinarily are after ten years. But I don't 
 see how that concerns my letters. 
 
 Rob. And do you really believe that even ten 
 years ago I cherished any illusions? That were 
 simon pure simplicity when one marries a woman 
 twenty years younger than oneself. I realized 
 very clearly in the beginning that at best the fu- 
 ture held but one or two perfect years for me. 
 Yes, dear Olga, I was under no delusion regard- 
 ing that. In my case this talk of illusions falls 
 flat. Life is not long enough for us to reject even 
 one year of happiness when it is offered to us. 
 And, let me assure you, it is sufficient — at least 
 as concerns our relations with women. I refer 
 naturally to the women one adores. One soon 
 tires of them. In life there are other things which 
 have a greater hold on men. 
 
 Olga. Possibly. But one doesn't always real- 
 ize it. 
 
 Rob. I have never lost sight of it. She was 
 never at any time the all-in-all of my life — never, 
 even during that one year of happiness. In a 
 certain sense, I grant you, she was more than that 
 — the fragrance, if you will. But, as is to be ex- 
 
 169 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 pected, the fragrance in time died out. But all 
 this is useless. \^He speaks with more and more 
 emotion in his voice, but outwardly gives the ap- 
 pearance of calmness.^ We had nothing in com- 
 mon, we two, but the memory of our short-lived 
 happiness. And, take my word for it, this sort 
 of common memory severs more often than it 
 binds. 
 
 Olga. I can conceive of it ending differently. 
 
 Rob. No doubt. But scarcely with a crea- 
 ture of Eveline's type. She was cut out to be a 
 mistress; not a helpmate. 
 
 Olga. Helpmate! That word's big with 
 meaning. How many women do you know who 
 are fit to be helpmates? 
 
 Rob. I never asked her to be one to me. To 
 speak truth, I never felt lonely. A man who has 
 a calling — I don't mean an occupation — can 
 really never know the pangs of loneliness. 
 
 Olga [dispassionately'^. There in a nutshell 
 is the great advantage you men possess — I mean 
 men of your cut. 
 
 Rob. And when our happiness came to an end 
 I again took up the thread of my life-work, con- 
 cerning which she knew very little, as you are 
 aware. I went my way and she went hers. 
 
 Olga. No. It was not so. Ah, no ! 
 
 Rob. Of course it was so. She's probably 
 told you more than you are willing to own. As 
 far as I am concerned this guarded abstraction 
 of her letters is uncalled for. There are no sur- 
 prises and no discoveries for me any more. 
 What are you trying to do? You would gladly 
 have me remain in darkness — no, envelope me 
 
 170 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 in darkness. I know very well that I lost her a 
 long time ago. Yes, a long time ago. [With 
 growing emotion.] And do you for a moment 
 believe that because all between us was dead, I 
 gulled myself into thinking she was also cold to 
 the joy of life ; that she became an old woman sim- 
 ply because she had drifted away from me — or 
 I had drifted away from her? I never enter- 
 tained the notion. 
 
 Olga. Really, Robert, I'm quite at a loss to 
 account for your conjectures. 
 
 Rob. I know who wrote those letters. It was 
 not you. I know, too, there is another who de- 
 serves to be pitied much more deeply than I; one 
 whom she loved. And it was he who was be- 
 reaved of her today. No, not I; not I. You 
 see, all this trouble was uncalled for. There can 
 be no other. 
 
 Olga. You are shockingly deceived. 
 
 Rob. Olga, let me beg you to tear off the 
 mask at once. Otherwise I may be tempted to 
 read those letters after all. [Observing a rapid 
 movement of Olga's.'] You needn't fear. I 
 won't do it. Let us burn them before he arrives. 
 
 Olga. Do you wish to do that? 
 
 Rob. Yes. For that was my intention be- 
 fore you came. Everything this escritoire con- 
 tains I propose to throw into the fire without ex- 
 amination. 
 
 Olga. No, I'm sure you would not have done 
 it. 
 
 Rob. You needn't reproach yourself either. 
 Perhaps it is for the best that I know everything 
 without having to glance at the correspondence. 
 
 171 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Thus there is a complete understanding — and 
 that is the single gift we ought to ask of life. 
 
 Olga {^earnestly']. You might have asked a 
 great deal more. 
 
 Rob. Once — yes. And I would not have 
 had to ask in vain. But now? She was young 
 and I was old; that's the long and short of it. 
 You and I can weigh affairs of this sort inpar- 
 tially in the case of others. Why not here ? {A 
 locomotive whistles in the distance. Olga starts. 
 Pause. '\ 
 
 Olga. For my sake, I beg you to receive him 
 tomorrow. 
 
 Bob. Why? Do I not look calm? Do you 
 honestly believe that I — There is just one thing 
 that I must ask you to do for me. He must not 
 learn that I know. If he did he'd interpret 
 every word of mine in terms of forgiveness and 
 magnanimity. I don't want that. It isn't true. 
 I have never hated him; I do not hate him now. 
 Why, there's absolutely no ground for hate — 
 and none for forgiveness either. She belonged 
 to him. Pray, let's not lose sight of that. Let 
 us by all means avoid getting confused by external 
 circumstances. She belonged to him — not me. 
 The tension of their existence could not have 
 lasted much longer. 
 
 Olga. I implore you, Robert, do not receive 
 him tonight. 
 
 Rob. You know very well she wanted to leave 
 me. 
 
 Olga. I? 
 
 Rob. Yes, for she confided in you. 
 
 Olga. Oh, no! 
 
 172 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 Rob. Then how did you know where those 
 letters were ? 
 
 Olga. I happened to come in once while she 
 was reading one aloud. I did not mean to eaves- 
 drop, but — 
 
 Rob. But she had to have a confidante, that's 
 very plain; and you could not help being hers; 
 that's evident enough. No. Matters could not 
 have continued this way very long. Do you think 
 I was blind to the shame both endured because of 
 their hypocrisy — and how they suffered? I was 
 longing for the moment — yes, patiently await- 
 ing it — when they would nerve themselves to 
 come to me and say, " Free us ! " Why didn't 
 they find the courage ? Why didn't I say to them, 
 " You may go. I don't want to detain you." 
 But we were all cowardly. To me that's the ab- 
 surd side of life. We are eternally expecting 
 some outer force to smite the shackles of the 
 intolerable — an unknown something — which 
 takes upon itself the pains for our being honest 
 with one another. And soon it comes, this some- 
 thing, as with us. {Rumble of carriage wheels 
 below. Brief silence. Olga is very much ex- 
 cited. Robert, externally calm, continues speak- 
 ing •'\ 
 
 Rob. And one must admit, at any rate, it 
 
 provides a capital solution. \^The carriage 
 
 stops.'] , . ,. -. 
 
 Olga. You are gomg to receive him r 
 
 Rob. He must not see the letters. 
 
 Olga. Let me go. I'll take them away with 
 me. 
 
 Rob. Here, by these stairs — 
 
 173 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Olga. I hear his step. 
 
 Rob. He must have come through the garden 
 then. \^He takes the letters from her and hastily 
 replaces them in the drawer.} Too late. Dont 
 go. ^Footsteps outside. Alfred rushes in. He 
 wears a dark traveling suit. As he spies Olga 
 he is just the least bit embarrassed. Robert 
 makes as if to go toward him, hut stops in an atti- 
 tude of waiting after taking two steps. Alfred 
 grasps his hand, then goes to Olga and offers her 
 his. A brief silence. '\ 
 
 Alf. In my wildest dreams I did not picture 
 our meeting again like this. 
 
 Rob. You didn't stop over in the city, did 
 you? 
 
 Alf. No. I reckoned if I wanted to see you 
 today — and I couldn't think of putting it off. 
 [To Olga.] Oh, it's heartbreaking! Heart- 
 breaking 1 How did it happen? I haven't been 
 told yet. How? How? In a word tell me. 
 [Robert does not reply.'] 
 
 Olga. It happened quite unexpectedly. 
 
 Alf. Heart failure? 
 
 Rob. Yes. 
 
 Alf. Without any previous symptoms ? 
 
 Rob. Without any previous symptoms. 
 
 Alf. When and where? 
 
 Rob. The day before yesterday, while she 
 was taking a turn in the garden. The gardener 
 saw her stagger — near the pond. From my 
 room I heard his cry. When I arrived on the 
 spot all was over. 
 
 Alf. My poor fellow ! How you must have 
 174 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 suffered I I can't realize it all. So young and 
 so beautiful ! 
 
 Olga. They are favored by heaven who are 
 taken off that way. 
 
 Alf. That's no consolation. 
 
 Rob. I suppose you got my telegram rather 
 late. 
 
 Alf. Yes; otherwise I might have been here 
 earlier. If there were such things as presenti- 
 ments — 
 
 Olga. But there are none. 
 
 Alf. Quite so. The day was like any other. 
 Possibly brighter and cheerfuUer than usual — 
 
 Rob. CheerfuUer than usual? 
 
 Alf. Of course, I only imagined so. We 
 were out sailing on the water. After that we 
 went for a stroll along the beach in the cool twi- 
 light— 
 
 Rob. We? 
 
 Alf. Certainly; quite a lot of people; and 
 when I returned to the hotel, in the dimness of 
 my room I gazed out upon the sea. Then I got a 
 light — and spied the telegram on the table. 
 Ah 1 [Pause. He covers his eyes with his hands 
 while Olga watches Robert narrowly. Robert is 
 gazing straight before him.} 
 
 Alf. [removing his hand from his eyes}. 
 This is her — [chokes'] — room? 
 
 Rob. Yes. 
 
 Alf. How often have we sat there on the 
 balcony! [Turning, he catches a glimpse of the 
 cemetery wall at the end of the street. Tremu- 
 lously.} There? [Robert nods.} In the morn- 
 ing we must visit her — you and I. 
 
 175 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 Rob. You can offer your wreath there your- 
 self. It has just come. [Pause. '\ 
 
 Alf. And what are your plans for the imme- 
 diate future ? 
 
 Rob. What do you mean? 
 
 Olga. I've asked the professor to spend as 
 much time as he can spare at the villa. 
 
 Alf. In any case he mustn't remain here. 
 No, you must not remain on the spot. 
 
 Rob. I have planned to move to the city early 
 in October. It isn't very long until then. Be- 
 sides, I shall glance into the laboratory once or 
 twice. The two Americans who were here last 
 year have been at work since the end of August. 
 
 Alf. Yes, so you wrote me in your last let- 
 ter. But you needn't return to the city for that. 
 You're not going to buckle down to work right 
 away, I hope. 
 
 Rob. You're simply preposterous, Alfred! 
 What else can I do ? I assure you I've no inclina- 
 tion to anything but work. 
 
 Alf. But you're not fit for it now. 
 
 Rob. You are no better than the rest in your 
 advice. I feel myself perfectly fit. Why, I'm 
 just longing for it ! 
 
 Alf. I understand. But this longing is not 
 to be trusted. I have a proposal to make. [Cor. 
 dially.'] Come away with me. You have 
 granted me a few days more and I'm going to take 
 you with me. What do you say to that, Frau 
 Merholm? 
 Olga. Not a bad idea, that. 
 
 Rob. You intend going away — now? 
 You — 
 
 176 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 Alf. Of course, I intend to ask for a few days 
 more. 
 
 Rob. But where are you going? 
 
 Alf. To the seashore. 
 
 Rob. Back again? 
 
 Alf. Yes, but with you. It will do you a 
 heap of good. Take my word for it. Eh, Frau 
 Merholm? 
 
 Olga. Oh, of course. 
 
 Alf. Now you come along with me to 
 Scheveningen — I insist on it — and spend sev- 
 eral days with us there. 
 
 Rob. "Us"? "Us"? Then you are not 
 alone ? 
 
 Alf. Of course I'm alone. But there are 
 people at Scheveningen — who — \^stammers'\ — 
 
 Rob. Well? iPause.] 
 
 Alf. I didn't wish to announce the news until 
 a few days yet, but since things have combined in 
 such a way — in a word, I'm engaged to be mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Rob. [quite coldly]. Ah! 
 
 Alf. It doesn't matter whether I announce it 
 today or tomorrow, does it? Life still flows on. 
 But it seems a little strange that it had to happen 
 just — 
 
 Rob. I congratulate you! 
 
 Alf. Now you see why I said " with us " a 
 moment ago, and you will understand now why I 
 am impatient to return. 
 
 Rob. Perfectly. 
 
 Alf. But please come along. Her parents 
 would be most delighted to make your acquaint- 
 ance. I spoke so much about you. They're good 
 
 177 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 people, besides. As for the girl — well, you'll 
 judge when you see her. 
 
 Rob. Not now. I may find time later. \^He 
 is successful in maintaining this studied calmness, 
 but not without difficulty.'] This is quite a mad 
 notion of yours — a trip to the seashore to be in- 
 troduced to your fiancee. By the by, how many 
 millions is she worth? 
 
 Alf. {^pained}. What a question to ask! I 
 give you my word, I'm not the type of man who 
 marries for money. 
 
 Rob. So it's a grande passion, eh? 
 
 Alf. Let's not speak of it any more today. 
 It's almost a — {he almost says "sacrilege "1. 
 
 Rob. Why not? " Life still flows on," as you 
 truthfully remarked. Let us talk of the living. 
 How did you make her acquaintance? 
 
 Alf. She's Viennese. 
 
 Rob. Ah, now I know all! 
 
 Alf. Impossible ! 
 
 Rob. Surely you recall you once related to me 
 the story of your youthful student love for a girl 
 with golden hair? 
 
 Alf. What's that to do with it? 
 
 Rob. Well, a chance meeting after many 
 years, the awakening of the old passion, and so on. 
 
 Alf. How well you remember it! No, It is 
 not she. I know my fiancee but two years, and it 
 was for her sake that I chose the seashore for my 
 vacation. 
 
 Rob. And there you fell in love with her. 
 
 Alf. Oh, I knew for ever so long that I was 
 going to make her my wife. 
 
 Rob. Indeed! 
 
 178 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 Alf. We've been secretly engaged one whole 
 year. 
 
 Rob. And you scrupled to tell me — us — one 
 word of It? Oh! — 
 
 Alf. There were several things to be taken 
 into consideration. Chiefly her family. But we 
 were decided all along. I might almost say that 
 from the first moment we have been plighted in 
 our affections. 
 
 Rob. Two years? 
 
 Alf. Yes. 
 
 Rob. As long as that? 
 
 Alf. Yes. 
 
 Rob. And — she? 
 
 Alf. [quite mechanically']. And she? 
 
 Rt)B. And that other — that other. 
 
 Alf. Whom do you mean? 
 
 Rob. \^grasping his shoulder and pointing up 
 the street] . She — yonder ! 
 
 [Alfred casts a glance at Olga.] 
 
 Rob. To what end did she serve ? 
 
 Alf. [after a pause, supporting himself]. 
 Why have you been playing with me all this while ? 
 If you knewi why did you continue to treat me as 
 a friend? If you knew — the law was in your 
 hands. You could have done with me as you 
 chose — anything. But one thing you had no 
 right to do, and that was to play with me. 
 
 Rob. I did not play with you. If I had found 
 you broken and disconsolate I should have lifted 
 you from the depths of sorrow and despair; yes, 
 I should even have visited her grave with you if 
 I knew your love lay there. But you degraded 
 her into an instrument of your lust and you have 
 
 179 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 besmirched with foulness and lies the sanctity of 
 this house. That is what is so repulsive, and that 
 is why I'm going to kick you out — 
 
 Alf. Calm yourself; I may be able to explain. 
 
 Rob. Clear out! Clear out! Clear out! 
 [Alfred goesJ] 
 
 Rob. You wanted to spare me this. Now I 
 understand. It was well for her that she died 
 without an inkling — of what she really meant to 
 him. 
 
 Olga [turning to him}. Without an inkling? 
 
 Rob. What do you mean? 
 
 Olga [reflecting a moment} . She — knew all. 
 
 Rob. What! What! She — 
 
 Olga. Knew what she was to him. Don't 
 you grasp it yet? He neither betrayed nor de- 
 graded her, and she was resigned to his marrying 
 long ago as a matter of course. When he wrote 
 her the news she wept as little over his loss — as 
 he over hers. They would never have come to 
 you for their freedom because the freedom they 
 coveted they possessed in full. 
 
 Rob. She knew it? And you, you who are 
 anxious to conceal the contents of those letters, 
 answer — 
 
 Olga. Am I not giving you back your free- 
 dom by doing so ? For years and years you suf- 
 fered at the hands of this woman plunging from 
 one delusion to another, so that you might con- 
 tinue loving her and consequently suffering more. 
 And now, when all is over, you wish to torture 
 yourself still further for the sake of a calamity 
 which is purely chimerical, over which this woman 
 was incapable of suffering. Why? Because her 
 
 1 80 
 
HIS HELPMATE 
 
 outlook on life was so frivolous. Oh, you can 
 scarcely understand. 
 
 Rob. And to think I should only realize it to- 
 day! Now! Why didn't you, a witness of the 
 whole affair, rouse me out of my ridiculous short- 
 sightedness? Why didn't I know it a year ago? 
 No, three days ago? 
 
 Olga. I trembled at your awakening, as you 
 yourself would have done in my place. It was 
 well that you remained ignorant of the whole af- 
 fair until today. 
 
 Rob. Does it make any differ£nce because she 
 is dead? 
 
 Olga. No difference ; but it is clear as it could 
 never have been as long as she was alive. For 
 her very existence, her very smile would have lent 
 importance to this mere trumpery escapade. You 
 could never have felt what you must feel today — 
 anger, for the simple reason that she is beyond 
 your anger. And it is freedom that rends the veil 
 from your eyes. How removed, how infinitely re- 
 moved from you, this woman lived her life, who, 
 as chance would have it, breathed her last in this 
 house. [5Ae ffoes.'\ 
 
 [Robert is silent for a space, then locks the 
 escritoire, rises, goes to the door and calls.'] 
 
 Rob. Franz ! 
 
 Franz. Yes, sir! 
 
 Rob. I leave tomorrow. Get my things 
 ready and order a carriage for seven o'clock. 
 
 Franz. Very good, sir. 
 
 Rob. [after a brief pause]. I'll give you fur- 
 ther instructions tomorrow. You may go to bed. 
 [As Franz lingers]: Never mind; I'll lock the 
 i8i 
 
COMEDIES OF WORDS 
 
 room up myself. It is to stay shut until I return. 
 
 Franz. Very well, sir. 
 
 Rob. Good night. 
 
 Franz. Good night, sir. 
 
 [Robert locks the door at once, then goes to- 
 ward the balcony. As he is about to lock up he 
 spies the wreath. He takes it and returns to the 
 room with it and places it on the escritoire. Then, 
 with the light in his hand, he goes to the door, 
 left. On the threshold he pauses and turns, tak- 
 ing in the whole room with his eyes. He breathes 
 deeply, as if relieved of a burden, then goes out. 
 The dark room remains empty for a while, then 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 THE end 
 
 182 
 
A SELECTED LIST 
 
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 DRAMATIC 
 LITERATURE 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Truth 
 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
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 PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK 
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 present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to 
 the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the 
 kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and 
 by which to correct our impressions. 
 Large izmo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustra- 
 tions on Cameo Paper and End Papers Net $2.00 
 
 Gilt top. 54 Maroon Turkey Morocco Net 6.50 
 
DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 The Antigone of Sophocles 
 
 By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY 
 
 An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. 
 A scholarly ivork in readable English. Especiallly 
 adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc. 
 
 Post Express, Rochester: 
 
 "He has done his work well." "Professor Harry 
 has translated with a virile force that is almost Shake- 
 spearean." "The difficult task of rendering the 
 choruses into English lyrical verse has been very cred- 
 itably accomplished." 
 
 Argonaut, San Francisco: 
 
 "Professor Harry is a competent translator not 
 only because of his classical knowledge, but also be- 
 cause of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows 
 itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." 
 
 North American, Philadelphia: 
 
 "Professor Harry, teacher of Greek in the Cincin- 
 nati University, has written a new metrical transla- 
 tion of the Antigone of Sophocles. The translation 
 is of fine dramatic quality." 
 
 Oregottian, Portland: 
 
 "A splendidly executed translation of the celebrated 
 Greek tragedy." 
 
 Herald, Boston: 
 
 "Scholars will not need to be urged to read this 
 noteworthy piece of literary work, and we hope that 
 many others who have no special scholarly interest 
 will be led to its perusal." 
 
 Svo. cloth. Dignified binding Net, $1.00 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 ' ''European Dramatists ' * 
 
 By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON 
 Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 
 
 In the present isiork the famous dramatic critic and 
 
 biographer of Shaw has considered six representative 
 
 dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some 
 
 dead — Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaisi and 
 
 Barker. 
 
 Velma Swanston Howard says: 
 
 "Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is cer- 
 tainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that 
 I have yet seen. The author has that rare combina- 
 tion of intellectual power and spiritual insight which 
 casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his 
 treatment." 
 
 Baltimore Evening Sun: 
 
 "Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for 
 its understanding and good sense, but also for the 
 extraordinary range and accuracy of its information." 
 
 Jeanette L. Qilder, in the Chicago Tribune: 
 
 "Henderson is a writer who throws new light on 
 old subjects." 
 
 Chicago Record Herald: 
 
 "His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. 
 Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without 
 parochial prejudice — a thing deplorably rare among 
 American critics of the present day. * * • One finds 
 that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main conten- 
 tions and is eager to break a lance with him about 
 minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is 
 stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age 
 thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and 
 understanding." 
 
 Providence Journal: 
 
 "Henderson has done his work, within its obvious 
 limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He 
 has the happy faculty of making his biographical 
 treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and 
 a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the indi- 
 vidual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic 
 work." 
 
 Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and 
 bound, large I2mo Net, $2.00 
 
DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 At Last 
 
 You May Understand 
 
 G. B. S. 
 
 Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding 
 greatness appears, one through whose life the history of 
 his time may be read. There is but one such man to- 
 day. 
 
 George Bernard Shaw 
 
 HIS LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) 
 
 By 
 ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A.Ph.D. 
 
 Is virtually the story of the social, economic and 
 aesthetic life of the last twenty-five years. It is a sym- 
 pathetic, yet independent interpretation of the most po- 
 tent individual force in society. Cultivated America will 
 find here the key to all that is baffling and elusive in 
 Shaw ; it is a cinematographic picture of his mind with a 
 background disclosing all the formative influences that 
 combined to produce this universal genius. 
 
 The press of the world has united in its praise; let us 
 send you some of the comments. It is a large demy^ 8vo 
 ■volume cloth, gilt top, 628 pages, •with 35 full page illus- 
 trations in color, photogravure and halftone and numerous 
 pictures in the text. 
 
 $5.00 Net 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 A Few Critical Reviews of t 
 
 George Bernard Shaw 
 
 His Life and Works 
 A Critical Biography (Authorized) 
 By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. 
 The Dial: 
 
 "In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
 carefulness and sympathy which deserve high com- 
 mendation. Dr. Henderson has presented his subject 
 from all conceivable angles." 
 The Bookman: 
 
 "A more entertaining narrative, whether in biog- 
 raphy or fiction, has not appeared in recent years." 
 The Independent: 
 
 "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his 
 Biography the rest of the world will probably agree 
 that Dr. Henderson has done a good job." 
 Boston Transcript: 
 
 "There is no exaggeration in saying it is one of the 
 most entertaining biographies of these opening years 
 of the Twentieth Century." 
 Bernard Shaw: 
 
 "You are a genius, because you are somehow sus- 
 ceptible to the really significant and differentiating 
 traits and utterances of your subject." 
 Maurice Maeterlinck: 
 
 "You have written one of the most sagacious, most 
 acute and most penetrating essays in the whole mod- 
 ern moment." 
 Edwin Markham: 
 
 "He stands to-day as the chief literary critic of 
 the South, and in the very forefront of the critics of 
 the nation." 
 William Lyon Phelps: 
 
 "Your critical biography of Shaw is a really great 
 work." 
 Richard Burton: 
 
 "In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
 carefulness and sympathy which deserves high com- 
 mendation. Dr. Henderson has presented his subject 
 from all conceivable angles. * * * Intensely interest- 
 ing * » » sound and brilliant, full of keen insight and 
 happy turns of statement. * * * This service Professor 
 Henderson's book does perform; and I incline to call it 
 a great one." 
 
DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Short Plays 
 
 By MARY MAC MILLAN 
 To fill a long-felt ivant. All have been successfully 
 
 presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, 
 
 etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they 
 
 may be given very simply. 
 
 Heview of Reviews: 
 
 "Mary MacMillan offers 'Short Plays,' a collec- 
 tion of pleasant one to three-act plays for women's 
 clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. 
 Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on 
 women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit 
 on a woman's club in the year 1883, is highly amus- 
 ing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two 
 quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous pri- 
 vate theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back 
 to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' 
 the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. 
 The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity 
 to those who serve us and our forgetfulness of the 
 needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in 
 a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the 
 Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and 
 dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is 
 a splendid characterization." 
 
 Boston Transcript: 
 
 "Those who consigned the writer of these plays to 
 solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs 
 must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find 
 humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we 
 find constructive ability joined with dialogue which 
 moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen 
 characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice 
 of names; if we find poetic power which moves on 
 easy wing — the gentle jailers of the writer are justi- 
 fied, and the gentle reader thanks their severity." 
 
 Salt Lake Tribune: 
 
 "The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. 
 We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist." 
 
 Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer: 
 
 "The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, 
 snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, 
 often exquisite, expressions of sentiment." 
 Handsomely Bound. I3mo. Cloth Net, $1.50 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 The Gift 
 
 A Poetic Drama 
 By MARGARET DOUGLAS ROGERS 
 
 A dramatic poem in ttuo acts, treating in altogether 
 nevi fashion the world old story of Pandora, the first 
 ixoman. 
 New Haven Times Leader: 
 
 "Well written and attractive." 
 Evangelical Messenger: 
 
 "A very beautifully written portrayal of the old 
 story of Pandora." 
 Rochester Post Dispatch: 
 
 "There is much poetic feeling in the treatment of 
 the subject." 
 Grand Rapids Herald: 
 
 "The Gift, dealing with this ever interesting 
 mythological story, is a valuable addition to the dramas 
 of the day." 
 St. Xavier Calendar: 
 
 "The story of Pandora is so set down as to bring 
 out its stage possibilities. Told by Mrs. Rogers in 
 exquisite language." 
 Salt Lake Tribune: 
 
 "The tale is charmingly wrought and has possibil- 
 ities as a simple dramatic production, as well as being 
 a delightful morsel of light reading." 
 Cincinnati Enquirer: 
 
 "The love story is delightfully told and the dra- 
 matic action of the play is swift and strong." 
 Buffalo Express: 
 
 "It is a delightful bit of fancy with a dramatic and 
 poetic setting." 
 Boston Woman's Journal: 
 
 "Epimetheus and Pandora and her box are charm- 
 ingly presented." 
 Worcester Gazette: 
 
 "It is absolutely refreshing to find a writer willing 
 to risk a venture harking back to the times of the 
 Muses and the other worthies of mythological fame. 
 * * * The story of Pandora's box told in verse by a 
 woman. It may be said it could not have been better 
 written had a representative of the one who only as- 
 sisted at the opening been responsible for the play." 
 Handsomely bound silk cloth Net, $l.oo 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 Portmanteau Plays 
 
 BY STUART WALKER 
 
 Edited and with an Introduction by 
 
 EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 
 
 This volume contains four One Act Plays by the in- 
 ventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They 
 are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater 
 and the four contained in this volume comprise in them- 
 selves an evening's bill. 
 
 There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bier- 
 stadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice. 
 
 The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual 
 presentations of the plays. 
 
 The first play, the " Trimplet," deals with the search 
 for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure 
 all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the find- 
 ing constitute the action of the piece. 
 
 Second play, " Six who Pass While the Lentils 
 Boil," is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's 
 repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped 
 on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned 
 to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass 
 the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the 
 execution. 
 
 Next comes " Nevertheless," which tells of a burglar 
 who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two chil- 
 dren and a dictionary. 
 
 And last of all is the " Medicine'Show," which is a 
 character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. 
 One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but 
 the characters are so all sufficient that one does not miss 
 the others. 
 
 All of these plays are fanciful — symbolic if you like 
 — but all of them have a very distinct raison d'etre in 
 themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning. 
 
 With Mr. Walker it is always "the story first," and 
 herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his 
 ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and 
 if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that 
 is his privilege. 
 
 Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, 
 and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one 
 charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity. 
 frith fi've full-page illustrations on cameo paper. 
 
 izmo. Silk cloth ?/.50 
 
DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 Lucky Pehr 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized Translation by Velma Sivanston Howard. 
 
 An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably 
 
 to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue 
 
 Bird." 
 
 Rochester Post Express: 
 
 Strindberg has written many plays which might be 
 described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does 
 not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one 
 of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's 
 genius. 
 
 New York World: 
 
 "Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, 
 he finds that only love and duty are true. 
 
 New York Times: 
 
 "Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism in real entertain- 
 ment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. 
 Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama 
 so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading up- 
 ward and on? 
 
 Worcester Gazette: 
 
 From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish 
 fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the pos- 
 sibilities of dramatic art have not entirely ceased in 
 this age of vaudeville and moving pictures. A great 
 sermon in altruism is preached in these pages, which 
 we would that millions might see and hear. To those 
 who think or would like to think, "Lucky Pehr" will 
 prove a most readable book. * * * An allegory, it is 
 true, but so are ^sop's Fables, the Parables of the 
 Scriptures and many others of the most eflfective les- 
 sons ever given. 
 
 Boston Globe: 
 
 A popular drama. » * * There is no doubt about 
 the book being a delightful companion in the library. 
 In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
 not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and 
 "Peter Pan." 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Hoviard's 
 
 authorization. 
 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 Easter 
 
 (A Play in Three Acts) 
 AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Authorized translation by Velma Swanston Hoiuard. 
 In this <work the author reveals a broad tolerance, u rare 
 poetic tenderness augmented by an almost divine under- 
 standing of human frailties as marking certain natural 
 stages in evolution of the soul, 
 Louisville Courier=Journal: 
 
 Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism 
 — a relief to a reader who has passed through sonje 
 of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find 
 in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive 
 art than is found in the author's more lugubrious 
 dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Neverthe- 
 less it has a nobler tone. It more ably fulfills the 
 purpose of good drama — the chastening of the spec- 
 tators' hearts through their participation in the suf- 
 fering of the dramatic personages. There is in the 
 play a mystical exaltation, a belief and trust in good 
 and its power to embrace all in its beneficence, to bring 
 all confusion to harmony. 
 The Nation: 
 
 Those who like the variety of symbolism which 
 Maeterlinck has often employed — most notably in the 
 "Bluebird" — will turn with pleasure to the short stories 
 of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her 
 volume. * * * They are one and all diverting on ac- 
 count of the author's facility in dealing with fanciful 
 details. 
 Bookseller: 
 
 "Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of 
 human frailties and the effect of the divine power 
 of tolerance and charity. * » • There is a symbolism, 
 a poetic quality, a spiritual insight in the author's 
 work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * • * 
 The Dial: 
 
 One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym- 
 bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
 There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
 Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
 Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's 
 authorization. 
 Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 
 
DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
 
 On the Seaboard 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 The Author's greatest ■psychological novel. Author- 
 , ixed Translation bs Elizabeth Clarke Westergren. 
 AmerlcanScandinaviaa Heview: 
 
 "The description of Swedish life and Swedish scen- 
 ery makes one positively homesick for the Skargard 
 and its moods. 
 Worcester Evening Gazette: 
 
 "Classes in Psychology in colleges, and Medical stu- 
 dents considering Pathology would derive much infor- 
 mation from the observations and reflections of the 
 commissioner who holds the front of the stage whereon 
 are presented sciences as new to the readers of to-day 
 as were those which Frederick Bremer unfolded to the 
 fathers and mothers of critics and observers in this 
 first quarter of the Twentieth Century." 
 Detroit Tribune: 
 
 "Hans Land pronounced this novel to be the only 
 work of art in the domain of Nietzschean morals yet 
 written which is destined to endure." 
 Cincinnati Times=Star: 
 
 "It requires a book such as 'On the Seaboard' to 
 show just how profound an intellect was housed in the 
 frame of this great Swedish writer." 
 New Haven Leader: 
 
 "His delineations are photographical exactness with- 
 out retouching, and bear always a strong reflection of 
 his personality." 
 Indianapolis News: 
 
 "The story is wonderfully built and conceived and 
 holds the interest tight." 
 American Review of Ifeviews: 
 
 "This version is characterized by the fortunate use 
 of idiom, a delicacy in the choice of words, and great 
 beauty in the rendering of descriptive passages, the 
 translation itself often attaining; the melody of poetry 
 * * * You may read and re-read it, and every read- 
 ing will fascinate the mind from a fresh angle." 
 Soutli Atlantic Quarterly: 
 
 "Only a most unusual man, a genius, could have 
 written this book, and it is distinctly worth reading." 
 Handsomely bound, uniform luith Lucky Pehr and 
 Easter Net, $1.2$ 
 
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
 
 The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 
 
 By EMERSON VENABLE 
 
 The tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately in- 
 terpreted. Tioo hundred years of critical discussion has 
 not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding 
 the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his 
 great philosophic tragedies. IVe belie've that all those 
 students who are interested in the study of Shakespeare 
 •will find this •volume of great value. 
 The Louisville Courier=Journal : 
 
 "Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama 
 of triumphant moral achievement.' He rises through 
 the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a 
 man gravely impressed vfith 'an imperative sense of 
 moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the 
 VTorld.' " 
 E. H. Sothern: 
 
 "Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my 
 own that the book has been a real delight to me. I 
 have always had exactly this feeling about the char- 
 acter of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a 
 great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will 
 prove to be most convincing to many people who may 
 yet be a trifle in the dark." 
 The Book News Monthly: 
 
 "Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself 
 to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in 
 an admirably written little book which is sure to at- 
 tract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names 
 of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces un- 
 tenable the theories which those great authors pro- 
 pounded to account for the extraordinary figure of 
 the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in 
 another direction for the solution of the problem. 
 * * * The solution offered by the author is just the 
 reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. 
 Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in 
 the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon 
 a close study of those utterances which bring us with- 
 in the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The 
 reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a 
 writer whose breadth of view and searching thought 
 gives weight to this competent study of the most inter- 
 esting of Shakespearean problems." 
 l6mo. Silk cloth Net, $i.oo 
 

 
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