SALA (pointing to the stone seat)
Won't you sit down here for a while, Miss Herms?
IRENE
Thanks. (She raises her lorgnette to study the busts of the two emperors) It makes one feel quite Roman.... But I hope, gentlemen, I haven't interrupted any conference.
SALA
Not at all.
IRENE
I have that feeling, however. All of you look so serious.—I think I'll rather leave.
SALA
Oh, you mustn't, Miss Herms.—Is there anything more you want to ask me about that affair of ours, Felix?
FELIX
If Miss Herms would pardon me for a minute....
IRENE
Oh, certainly—please!
SALA
You'll excuse me, Miss Herms....
FELIX
It is a question of what I should do in regard to my present commission.—(He is still speaking as he goes out with Sala)
IRENE
What kind of secrets have those two together? What's going on here anyhow?
JULIAN
Nothing that can be called a secret. That young fellow is also going to join the expedition, I hear. And so they have a lot of things to talk over, of course.
IRENE (who has been following Felix and Sala with her eyes) Julian—it's he.
JULIAN (remains silent)
IRENE
You don't need to answer me. The matter has been in my mind all the time.... The only thing I can't understand is why I haven't discovered it before. It is he.—And he is twenty-three.—And I who actually thought when you drove me away: if only he doesn't kill himself!... And there goes his son.
JULIAN
What does that help me? He doesn't belong to me.
IRENE
But look at him! He is there—he's alive, and young, and handsome. Isn't that enough? (She rises) And I who was ruined by it!
JULIAN
How?
IRENE
Do you understand? Ruined....
JULIAN
I have never suspected it.
IRENE
Well, you couldn't have helped me anyhow. (Pause) Good-by. Make an excuse for me, please. Tell them anything you want. I am going away, and I don't want to know anything more.
JULIAN
What's the matter with you? Nothing has changed.
IRENE
You think so?—To me it is as if all these twenty-three years had suddenly undergone a complete change.—Good-by.
JULIAN
Good-by—for a while.
IRENE
For a while? Do you care?—Really?—Do you feel sad, Julian?—Now I am sorry for you again. (Shaking her head) Of course, that's the way you are. So what is there to do about it?
JULIAN
Please control yourself. Here they are coming.
SALA (returns with Felix)
Now we're all done.
FELIX
Thank you very much. I shall have to leave now.
IRENE
And to-morrow you are already going away again?
FELIX
Yes, Miss Herms.
IRENE
You're also going toward the city now, Lieutenant, are you not? If you don't object, I'll take you along.
FELIX
That's awfully kind of you.
SALA
What, Miss Herms...? This is a short visit indeed.
IRENE
Yes, I have still a few errands to do. For to-morrow I must return to the wilderness. And probably it will be some time before I get to Vienna again.—Well, Lieutenant?
FELIX
Good-by, Mr. Fichtner. And if I shouldn't happen to see you again....
JULIAN
Oh, we'll meet again.
IRENE
Now the people will say: look at the lieutenant with his mamma in tow. (She gives a last glance to Julian)
SALA (accompanies Irene and Felix up the steps to the terrace)
JULIAN (remains behind, walking back and forth; after a while he is joined by Sala) Have you no doubt that your appeal to Count Ronsky will be effective?
SALA
I have already received definite assurances from him, or I should never have aroused any hopes in Felix.
JULIAN
What caused you to do this, Sala?
SALA
My sympathy for Felix, I should say, and the fact that I like to travel in pleasant company.
JULIAN
And did it never occur to you, that the thought of losing him might be very painful to me?
SALA
What's the use of that, Julian? It is only possible to lose what you possess. And you cannot possess a thing to which you have not acquired any right. You know that as well as I do.
JULIAN
Does not, in the last instance, the fact that you need somebody give you a certain claim on him?—Can't you understand, Sala, that he represents my last hope?... That actually I haven't got anything or anybody left but him?... That wherever I turn, I find nothing but emptiness?... That I am horrified by the loneliness awaiting me?
SALA
And what could it help you if he stayed? And even if he felt something like filial tenderness toward you, how could that help you?... How can he or anybody else help you?... You say that loneliness horrifies you?... And if you had a wife by your side to-day, wouldn't you be lonely just the same?... Wouldn't you be lonely even if you were surrounded by children and grandchildren?... Suppose you had kept your money, your fame and your genius—don't you think you would be lonely for all that?... Suppose we were always attended by a train of bacchantes—nevertheless we should have to tread the downward path alone—we, who have never belonged to anybody ourselves. The process of aging must needs be a lonely one for our kind, and he is nothing but a fool who doesn't in time prepare himself against having to rely on any human being.
JULIAN
And do you imagine, Sala, that you need no human being?
SALA
In the manner I have used them they will always be at my disposal. I have always been in favor of keeping at a certain distance. It is not my fault that other people haven't realized it.
JULIAN
In that respect you are right, Sala. For you have never really loved anybody in this world.
SALA
Perhaps not. And how about you? No more than I, Julian.... To love means to live for the sake of somebody else. I don't say that it is a more desirable form of existence, but I do think, at any rate, that you and I have been pretty far removed from it. What has that which one like us brings into the world got to do with love? Though it include all sorts of funny, hypocritical, tender, unworthy, passionate things that pose as love—it isn't love for all that.... Have we ever made a sacrifice by which our sensuality or our vanity didn't profit?... Have we ever hesitated to betray or blackguard decent people, if by doing so we could gain an hour of happiness or of mere lust?... Have we ever risked our peace or our lives—not out of whim or recklessness—but to promote the welfare of someone who had given all to us?... Have we ever denied ourselves an enjoyment unless from such denial we could at least derive some comfort?... And do you think that we could dare to turn to any human being, man or woman, with a demand that any gift of ours be returned? I am not thinking of pearls now, or annuities, or cheap wisdom, but of some piece of our real selves, some hour of our own existence, which we have surrendered to such a being without at once exacting payment for it in some sort of coin. My dear Julian, we have kept our doors open, and have allowed our treasures to be viewed—but prodigal with them we have never been. You no more than I. We may just as well join hands, Julian. I am a little less prone to complain than you are—that's the whole difference.... But I am not telling you anything new. All this you know as well as I do. It is simply impossible for us not to know ourselves. Of course, we try at times conscientiously to deceive ourselves, but it never works. Our follies and rascalities may remain hidden to others—but never to ourselves. In our innermost souls we always know what to think of ourselves.—It's getting cold, Julian. Let's go indoors.
(They begin to ascend the steps to the terrace)
JULIAN
All that may be true, Sala. But this much you have to grant me. If there be anybody in the world who has no right to make us pay for the mistakes of our lives, it is a person who has us to thank for his own life.
SALA
There is no question of payment in this. Your son has a mind for essentials, Julian. You have said so yourself. And he feels that to have done nothing for a man but to put him into the world, is to have done very little indeed.
JULIAN
Then, at least, everything must become as it was before he knew anything at all. Once more I shall become to him a human being like anybody else. Then he will not dare to leave me.... I cannot bear it. How have I deserved that he should run away from me?... And even if all that I have held for good and true within myself—even if, in the end, my very fondness for this young man, who is my son—should prove nothing but self-delusion—yet I love him now.... Do you understand me, Sala? I love him, and all I ask is that he may believe it before I must lose him forever....
[It grows dark. The two men pass across the terrace and enter the drawing-room. The stage stands empty a little while. In the meantime the wind has risen somewhat. Johanna enters by the avenue of trees from the right and goes past the pool toward the terrace. The windows of the drawing-room are illumined. Sala has seated himself at a table. The valet enters the room and serves him a glass of wine. Johanna stops. She is apparently much excited. Then she ascends two of the steps to the terrace. Sala seems to hear a noise and turns his head slightly. When she sees this, Johanna hurries down again and stops beside the pool. There she stands looking down into the water.
CURTAIN
THE FIFTH ACT
The garden at the Wegrats'.
REUMANN (sits at a small table and writes something in his notebook)
JULIAN (enters quickly by way of the veranda)
Is it true, Doctor?
REUMANN (rising)
Yes, it's true.
JULIAN
She has disappeared?
REUMANN
Yes, she has disappeared. She has been gone since yesterday afternoon. She has left no word behind, and she has taken nothing at all with her—she has simply gone away and never returned.
JULIAN
But what can have happened to her?
REUMANN
We have not been able to guess even. Perhaps she has lost her way and will come back. Or she has suddenly made up her mind—if we only knew to what!
JULIAN
Where are the others?
REUMANN
We agreed to meet here again at ten. I visited the various hospitals and other places where it might be possible to find some trace.... I suppose the professor has made a report to the police by this time.
FELIX (enters quickly)
Nothing new?
REUMANN
Nothing.
JULIAN (shakes hands with Felix)
REUMANN
From where do you come?
FELIX
I went to see Mr. von Sala.
REUMANN
Why?
FELIX
I thought it rather possible that he might have a suspicion, or be able to give us some kind of direction. But he knows nothing at all. That was perfectly clear. And if he had known anything—had known anything definite—he would have told me. I am sure of that. He was still in bed when I called on him. I suppose he thought I had come about my own matter. When he heard that Johanna had disappeared, he turned very pale.... But he doesn't know anything.
WEGRAT (enters)
Anything?
[All the others shake their heads. Julian presses his hand.
WEGRAT (sitting down)
They asked me to give more details, something more tangible to go by. But what is there to give?... I have nothing.... The whole thing is a riddle to me. (Turning to Julian) In the afternoon she went out for a short walk as usual.... (To Felix) Was there anything about her that attracted attention?... It seems quite impossible to me that she could have had anything in mind when she left the house—that she could know already—that she was going away forever.
FELIX
Perhaps though....
WEGRAT
Of course, she was very reserved—especially of late, since the death of her mother.... I wonder if it could be that?... Would you think that possible, Doctor?
REUMANN (shrugs his shoulders)
FELIX
Did any one of us really know her? And who takes a real interest in another person anyhow?
REUMANN
It is apparently fortunate that such is the case. Otherwise we should all go mad from pity or loathing or anxiety. (Pause) Now I must get around to my patients. There are a few calls that cannot be postponed. I shall be back by dinner-time. Good-by for a while. (He goes out)
WEGRAT
To think that you can watch a young creature like her grow up—can see the child turn into girl, and then into a young lady—can speak hundreds of thousands of words to her.... And one day she rises from the table, puts on hat and coat, and goes ... and you have no idea as to whether she has slipped away—if into nothingness or into a new life.
FELIX
But whatever may have happened, father—she wanted to get away from us. And in that fact, I think, we should find a certain consolation.
WEGRAT (shakes his head in perplexity)
Everything is fluttering away—willingly or unwillingly—but away it goes.
FELIX
Father, we can't tell what may have happened. It's conceivable, at least, that Johanna may have formed some decision which she does not carry out. Perhaps she will come back in a few hours, or days.
WEGRAT
You believe ... you think it possible, do you?
FELIX
Possible—yes. But if she shouldn't come—of course, father, I shall give up the plan of which I told you yesterday. Under circumstances like these I couldn't think of going so far away from you for such a long time.
WEGRAT (to Julian)
And now he's going to sacrifice himself for my sake!
FELIX
Perhaps I could arrange to have myself transferred here.
WEGRAT
No, Felix, you know very well that I couldn't accept such a thing.
FELIX
But it's no sacrifice. I assure you, father, that I stay with you only because I can't go away from you now.
WEGRAT
Oh, yes, Felix, you can—you will be able. And you are not to stay here for my sake—you mustn't. I could never be sure that it would prove of any help to me to have you give up a plan which you have taken hold of with such enthusiasm. I think it would be inexcusable of you to draw back, and wicked of me to permit it. You must be happy at having found a way at last, by which you may reach all you have longed for. It makes me happy, too, Felix. If you missed this opportunity, you would regret it all your life.
FELIX
But so much may have changed since yesterday—such a tremendous lot—for you and for me.
WEGRAT
For me, perhaps.... But never mind. I won't stand it—I will not accept such a sacrifice. Of course, I might accept it, if I could find it of any special advantage to myself. But I shouldn't have you any more than if you were gone away ... less ... not at all. This fate that has descended on us must not add to its inherent power what is still worse—that it makes us do in our confusion what is against our own natures. Sometime we always get over every disaster, no matter how frightful it be. But whatever we do in violation of our innermost selves can never be undone. (Turning to Julian) Isn't that true, Julian?
JULIAN
You are absolutely right.
FELIX
Thanks, father. I feel grateful that you make it so easy for me to agree with you.
WEGRAT
That's good, Felix.... During the weeks you will remain in Europe we shall be able to talk over a lot of things—more perhaps than in the years gone by. Indeed, how little people know about each other!... But I am getting tired. We stayed awake all night.
FELIX
Won't you rest a while, father?
WEGRAT
Rest.... You'll stay at home, Felix, won't you?
FELIX
Yes, I shall wait right here. What else is there to do?
WEGRAT
I'm racking my brain until it's near bursting.... Why didn't she say anything to me? Why have I known so little about her? Why have I kept so far away from her? (He goes out)
FELIX
How that man has been belied—all his life long—by all of us.
JULIAN
There is in this world no sin, no crime, no deception, that cannot be atoned. Only for what has happened here, there should be no expiation and no forgetfulness, you think?
FELIX
Can it be possible that you don't understand?... Here a lie has been eternalized. There is no getting away from it. And she who did it was my mother—and it was you who made her do it—and the lie am I, and such I must remain as long as I am passing for that which I am not.
JULIAN
Let us proclaim the truth then, Felix.—I shall face any judge that you may choose, and submit to any verdict passed on me.—Must I alone remain condemned forever? Should I alone, among all that have erred, never dare to say: "It is atoned"?
FELIX
It is too late. Guilt can be wiped out by confession only while the guilty one is still able to make restitution. You ought to know yourself, that this respite expired long ago.
SALA (enters)
FELIX
Mr. von Sala!—Have you anything to tell us?
SALA
Yes.—Good morning, Julian.—No, stay, Julian. I am glad to have a witness. (To Felix) Are you determined to join the expedition?
FELIX
I am.
SALA
So am I. But it is possible that one of us must change his mind.
FELIX
Mr. von Sala...?
SALA
It would be a bad thing to risk finding out that you have started on a journey of such scope with one whom you would prefer to shoot dead if you knew him completely.
FELIX
Where is my sister, Mr. von Sala?
SALA
I don't know. Where she is at this moment, I don't know. But last evening, just before you arrived, she had left me for the last time.
FELIX
Mr. von Sala....
SALA
Her farewell words to me were: Until to-morrow. You can see that I had every reason to be surprised this morning, when you appeared at my house. Permit me furthermore to tell you, that yesterday, of all days, I asked Johanna to become my wife—which seemed to agitate her very much. In telling you this, I have by no means the intention of smoothing over things. For my question implied no desire on my part to make good any wrong I might have done. It was apparently nothing but a whim—like so much else. There is here no question of anything but to let you know the truth. This means that I am at your disposal in any manner you may choose.—I thought it absolutely necessary to say all this before we were brought to the point of having to descend into the depths of the earth together, or, perhaps, to sleep in the same tent.
FELIX (after a long pause)
Mr. von Sala ... we shall not have to sleep in the same tent.
SALA
Why not?
FELIX
Your journey will not last that long.
[A very long pause ensues.
SALA
Oh ... I understand. And are you sure of that?
FELIX
Perfectly. (Pause}
SALA
And did Johanna know it?
FELIX
Yes.
SALA
I thank you.—Oh, you can safely take my hand. The matter has been settled in the most chivalrous manner possible.—Well?... It is not customary to refuse one's hand to him who is already down.
FELIX (gives his hand to Sala; then he says)
And where can she be?
SALA
I don't know.
FELIX
Didn't she give you any hint at all?
SALA
None whatever.
FELIX
But have you no conjecture? Has she perhaps established any connections—abroad? Had she any friends at all, of which I don't know?
SALA
Not to my knowledge.
FELIX
Do you think that she is still alive?
SALA
I can't tell.
FELIX
Are you not willing to say anything more, Mr. von Sala?
SALA
I am not able to say anything more. I have nothing left to say. Farewell, and good luck on your trip. Give my regards to Count Ronsky.
FELIX
But we are not seeing each other for the last time?
SALA
Who can tell?
FELIX (holding out his hand to Sala)
I must hurry to my father. I think it my duty to let him know what I have just learned from you.
SALA (nods)
FELIX (to Julian)
Good-by. (He goes out)
[Julian and Sala start to leave together.
JULIAN (as Sala suddenly stops)
Why do you tarry? Let's get away.
SALA
It is a strange thing to know. A veil seems to spread in front of everything.... "Away with you!"—But I don't care to submit to it as long as I am still here—if it be only for another hour....
JULIAN
Do you believe it then?
SALA (looking long at Julian)
Do I believe it...? He behaved rather nicely, that son of yours.... "We shall not have to sleep in the same tent."... Not bad! I might have said it myself....
JULIAN
But why don't you come? Have you perhaps something more to tell after all?
SALA
That's the question I must put to you, Julian.
JULIAN
Sala?
SALA
Because I didn't say anything about a peculiar hallucination I experienced just before coming here. I imagine it was....
JULIAN
Please, speak out!
SALA
What do you think of it? Before I left my house—just after Felix had gone—I went down into my garden—that is to say, I ran through it—in a remarkable state of excitement, as you may understand. And as I passed by the pool, it was exactly as if I had seen on the bottom of it....
JULIAN
Sala!
SALA
There is a blue-greenish glitter on the water, and besides, the shadow of the beech tree falls right across it early in the morning. And by a strange coincidence Johanna said yesterday: "The water can no more hold my image...." That was, in a way, like challenging fate.... And as I passed by the pool, it was as if ... the water had retained her image just the same.
JULIAN
Is that true?
SALA
True ... or untrue ... what is that to me? It could be of interest to me only if I were to remain in this world another year—or another hour at least.
JULIAN
You mean to...?
SALA
Of course, I do. Would you expect me to wait for it? That would be rather painful, I think. (To Julian, with a smile) From whom are you now going to get your cues, my dear friend? Yes, it's all over now.... And what has become of it?... Where are the thermæ of Caracalla? Where is the park at Lugano?... Where is my nice little house?... No nearer to me, and no farther away, than those marble steps leading down to mysterious depths.... Veils in front of everything.... Perhaps your son will discover if the three-hundred and twelfth be the last one—and if not, it won't give him much concern anyhow.... Don't you think he has been acting rather nicely?... I have somehow the impression that a better generation is growing up—with more poise and less brilliancy.—Send your regards to heaven, Julian.
JULIAN (makes a movement to accompany him)
SALA (gently but firmly)
You stay here, Julian. This is the end of our dialogue. Farewell. (He goes out quickly)
FELIX (entering rapidly)
Is Mr. von Sala gone? My father wanted to talk to him.—And you are still here?... Why did Mr. von Sala go? What did he tell you?—Johanna...! Johanna...?
JULIAN
She is dead ... she has drowned herself in the pool.
FELIX (with a cry of dismay)
Where did he go?
JULIAN
I don't think you can find him.
FELIX
What is he doing?
JULIAN
He is paying ... while it's time....
WEGRAT (enters from the veranda)
FELIX (runs to meet him)
Father....
WEGRAT
Felix! What has happened?
FELIX
We must go to Sala's house, father.
WEGRAT
Dead...?
FELIX
Father! (He takes hold of Wegrat's hand and kisses it) My father!
JULIAN (has left the room slowly in the meantime)
WEGRAT
Must things of this kind happen to make that word sound as if I had heard it for the first time...?
CURTAIN
INTERMEZZO
(Zwischenspiel)
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
1904
PERSONS
| Amadeus Adams | } | A musical conductor |
| Cecilia Adams-Ortenburg | } | His wife, an opera singer |
| Peter | } | Their child, five years old |
| Albert Rhon | ||
| Marie | } | His wife |
| Sigismund, Prince Maradas-Lohsenstein | ||
| Countess Frederique Moosheim | } | An opera singer |
| Governess | } | At the Adamses |
| Chambermaid |
The scene is laid in Vienna at the present day.
INTERMEZZO
THE FIRST ACT
The study of Amadeus. The walls are painted in dark gray, with a very simple frieze. A door in the background leads to a veranda. On either side of this door is a window. Through the door one sees the garden, to which three steps lead down from the veranda. A cabinet stands between the door and the window at the right; a music-stand holds a corresponding position to the left of the door. Antique bas-reliefs are hung above the cabinet as well as the stand. The main entrance is on the right side in the foreground. Farther back at the right is a door leading to Cecilia's room. A door finished like the rest of the wall leads to the room of Amadeus at the left. A tall book case, with a bust of Verrochio on top of it, stands against the right wall. In the corner back of it are several columns with tall vases full of flowers. A fireplace occupies the foreground at the left. Above it is a large mirror. On the mantelshelf stands a French clock of simple design. A table surrounded by chairs is placed in front of the fireplace. Farther back along the same wall are shelves piled with sheet music, and above them engravings of Schumann, Brahms, Mozart, and other composers. A bust of Beethoven occupies the farthermost corner at the left. Halfway down the stage, nearer the left wall, stands a piano with a piano stool in front of it. An armchair has been moved up close to the piano on the side toward the public. A writing desk holds a similar position at the right. Back of it are an easy-chair and a couch, the latter having been moved close to the table.
AMADEUS (thirty years old, slender, with dark, smooth hair; his movements are quick, with a suggestion of restlessness; he wears a gray business suit of elegant cut, but not well cared for; he has a trick of taking hold of the lapel of his sack coat with his left hand and turning it back; he is seated at the piano, accompanying Frederique)
FREDERIQUE (twenty-eight, is dressed in a bright gray tailor-made suit and a red satin waist; wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, very fashionable; her hair is blonde, of a reddish tint; her whole appearance is very dainty; she is singing an aria from the opera "Mignon") "Ha-ha-ha! Is 't true, really true?" (While singing she is all the time making a motion as if she were beating the dust out of her riding suit with a crop)
AMADEUS (accompanying himself as he gives her the cue) "Yes, you may laugh. I am a fool to ruin my horse ..."
FREDERIQUE
"Maybe you would like ..."
AMADEUS (nervously)
Oh, wait!... You don't know yet why I have ruined my horse.... "To ruin my horse for a quicker sight of you ..."
FREDERIQUE (with the same gesture as before)
"Maybe you would like me to weep?"
AMADEUS
"Oh, I regret already that I came."
FREDERIQUE (as before)
"Well, why...."
AMADEUS
G sharp!
FREDERIQUE (as before)
"Well, why don't you go back? Soon enough I shall see you again."
AMADEUS
You should say that ironically, not tenderly. "Soon enough I shall see you again...."
FREDERIQUE (as before)
"Soon enough I shall see you again...."
AMADEUS
Not angrily, Countess, but ironically.
FREDERIQUE
Call me Frederique, and not Countess, when you are working with me.
AMADEUS
Now, that's the tone Philine should use. Hold on to it.... And that's the right look, too.... If you could do that on the stage, you might almost be an artist.
FREDERIQUE
Oh, mercy, I have sung Philine more than twenty times already.
AMADEUS
But not here, Freder ... Countess. And not when Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg was singing the part of Mignon. (He leans forward so that he can look out into the garden)
FREDERIQUE
No, she isn't coming yet. (With a smile) Perhaps the rehearsal isn't over.
AMADEUS (rising)
Perhaps not.
FREDERIQUE
Is it true that Mrs. Adams-Ortenburg has been requested to sing in Berlin next Fall?
AMADEUS
Nothing has been settled yet. (He goes to the window at the right) If you'll permit.... (Opens the window)
FREDERIQUE
What a splendid day! And how fragrant the roses are. It is almost like....
AMADEUS
Almost like Tremezzo—yes, I know.
FREDERIQUE
How can you—as you have never been there?
AMADEUS
But you have told me enough about it. A villa standing at the edge of the water—radiantly white—with marble steps leading straight down to the blue sea.
FREDERIQUE
Yes. And sometimes, on very hot nights, I sleep in the park, right on the sward, under a plane tree.
AMADEUS
That plane tree is famous.—But time is flying. It would be better to go on with the singing. (He seats himself at the piano again) The polonaise—if you please, Countess. (He begins the accompaniment)
FREDERIQUE (singing)
"Titania, airiest queen of fairies,
Has descended from her blue cloud throne,
And her way across the world is wending
More quickly than the bird or lightning flash..."
AMADEUS (interrupts his playing and lets his head sink forward) No, no—it's no use!... Please tell the director that he will have to look after your part himself. As for me, I have certain regards even for people who go to the opera in Summer. They should not be forced to accept anything. Tell the director, please, that I send him my regards and that—there are more important things to occupy my time. (He closes the score)
FREDERIQUE (quite amicably)
I believe it. How's your opera getting along?
AMADEUS
For the Lord's sake, please don't pretend to be interested in things of that kind! Why, nobody expects it of you.
FREDERIQUE
Will it soon be finished?
AMADEUS
Finished...? How could it be, do you think? I have to conduct two nights a week at least, and there are rehearsals in the morning, not to mention singers that have to be coached.... Do you think a man can sit down after an hour like this and invite his muse?
FREDERIQUE
After an hour like this...? I don't think you feel quite at your ease with me, Amadeus.
AMADEUS
Not at my ease? I? With you?—I don't think you have imagined in your most reckless moments, Countess, that my wife might have anything to fear from you.
FREDERIQUE
You are determined to misunderstand me. (She has gone to the fireplace and turns now to face Amadeus) You know perfectly well why you pretend to be cross with me. Because you are in love with me.
AMADEUS (looks straight ahead and goes on playing)
FREDERIQUE
And that chord proves nothing to the contrary.
AMADEUS
That chord.... Tell me rather what kind of chord it is. (He repeats it in a fury)
FREDERIQUE
A flat major.
AMADEUS (in a tone of boredom)
G major—of course.
FREDERIQUE (close by him, with a smile)
Don't let that semi-tone spoil our happiness.
AMADEUS (rises, goes toward the background and looks out into the garden)
FREDERIQUE
Is it your wife?
AMADEUS
No, my little boy is playing out there. (He stands at the window, waving his hand at somebody outside; pause)
FREDERIQUE
You take life too hard, Amadeus.
AMADEUS (still at the window, but turning toward Frederique) I can't lie—and I don't want to. Which is not the same as taking life hard.
FREDERIQUE
Can't lie...? And yet you have been away from your wife for months at a time—haven't you? And your wife came here while you were still conducting somewhere abroad, didn't she?... So that....
AMADEUS
Those are matters which you don't quite comprehend, Countess. (He looks again toward the main entrance)
FREDERIQUE
No, your wife can't be here yet. She won't give up her walk on a wonderful day like this.
AMADEUS
What you have in mind now is pretty mean, Frederique.
FREDERIQUE
Why so? Of course, I know she takes a walk with you, too, now and then.
AMADEUS
Yes, when my time permits. And often she goes out with Sigismund. To-day she's probably with him—and that's what you wanted to bring home to me, of course.
FREDERIQUE
Why should I? You know it, don't you? And I assure you, it has never occurred to me to see anything wrong in it. He's a friend of yours.
AMADEUS
More than that—or less. He used to be my pupil.
FREDERIQUE
I didn't know that.
AMADEUS
Ten years ago, while still a mere youngster, I used to live in his father's palace. It's hard to tell where I might have been to-day, had it not been for old Prince Lohsenstein. You see, we men have generally another kind of youth to look back at than you ...
FREDERIQUE
... women artists.
AMADEUS
No, countesses, I meant to say. For three years I spent every summer in the palace at Krumau.1 And there—for the first time in my life—I could work in peace, all by myself, with nothing more to do than to instruct Sigismund.
FREDERIQUE
Did he want to become a pianist?
AMADEUS
Not exactly. He wanted to join some monastic order.
FREDERIQUE
No? Is that really true?—Oh, it's queer how people change!
AMADEUS
They don't as much as you think. He has remained a man of serious mind.
FREDERIQUE
And yet he plays dance music so charmingly...?
AMADEUS
Why shouldn't he? A good waltz and a good hymn are just as acceptable to the powers above.
FREDERIQUE
How delightful those evenings in your house used to be! No farther back than last winter.... The Count and I frequently talk of them.—Have you ceased to invite Prince Sigismund, as you have me?
AMADEUS
He was here only a fortnight ago, my dear Countess—and spent the whole evening with us. We had supper in the summer-house, and then we came in here and sat chatting for a long while, and finally he improvised some variations on the Cagliostro Waltzes before he left.—And what my wife and he say to each other during their walk, when I am not with them, will no more be hidden from me than I would hide from her what you and I have been talking of here. That's how my wife and I feel toward each other—if you'll please understand, Frederique!
FREDERIQUE
But there are things one simply can't say to each other.
AMADEUS
There can be no secrets between people like my wife and myself.
FREDERIQUE
Oh, of course ... but then ... what you have been saying to me will be only a small part of what you must tell your wife to-day, Amadeus. Good-by.... (She holds out her hand to him)
AMADEUS
What's in your mind now, Frederique?
FREDERIQUE
Why resist your fate? Is it so very repulsive after all? What you are to me, nobody else has ever been!
AMADEUS
And you want me to believe that?
FREDERIQUE
I shall not insist on it. But it is true nevertheless. Good-by now. Until to-morrow, Amadeus. Life is really much easier than you think.... It might be so very pleasant—and so it shall be! (She goes out)
AMADEUS (seats himself at the piano again and strikes a few notes) It is getting serious ... or amusing perhaps...? (He shakes his head)
ALBERT RHON (enters; he is of medium height; his black hair, slightly streaked with gray, is worn long; he is rather carelessly dressed)
AMADEUS
Oh, is that you, Albert? How are you?
ALBERT
I have come to ask how you are getting along with our opera, Amadeus. Have you done anything?
AMADEUS
No.
ALBERT
Again nothing?
AMADEUS
I doubt whether I can get a chance here. We'll have to wait until the season is over. I have too much to do. We are now putting on "Mignon" with new people in some of the parts....
ALBERT
If I'm not very much mistaken, I saw Philine float by—with a rather intoxicated look in her eyes.... Oh, have I put my foot into it again? I beg your pardon!
AMADEUS (turning away from him)
That's right. She was here. Oh, that damned business of private rehearsals! But I hope it won't last much longer. The coming Winter is going to decide my future once for all. I have already got my leave of absence.
ALBERT
So you have made up your mind about that tour?
AMADEUS
Yes, I shall be gone for two months this time.
ALBERT
Within Germany only?
AMADEUS
I'll probably take in a few Italian cities also. Yes, my dear fellow, they know more about me abroad than here. I shall conduct my Third Symphony, and perhaps also my Fourth.
ALBERT
Have you got that far already?
AMADEUS
No. But I have hopes of the Summer. Once more I mean to do some real work.
ALBERT
Well, it's about time.—I have made out the schedule for our walking tour, by the by. And I brought along the map. Look here. We start from Niederdorf, and then by way of Plätzwiesen to Schluderbach; then to Cortina; then through the Giau Pass to Caprile; then by way of the Fedaja2....
AMADEUS
I leave all that to you. I rely entirely on you.
ALBERT
Then it's settled that we'll don knapsack and alpenstock once more, to wander through the country as we used to do when we were young...?
AMADEUS
Yes, and I am looking forward to it with a great deal of pleasure.
ALBERT
You need simply to pull yourself together—a few weeks of mountain air and quiet will get you out of this.
AMADEUS
Oh, I haven't got into anything in particular. I am a little nervous. That's all.
ALBERT
Can't you see, Amadeus, how you have to force yourself in order to use this evasion toward me, who, of course, has no right whatever to demand any frankness? Can't you see how you are wasting a part of your mental energy, so to speak, on this slight disingenuousness? No, dissimulation is utterly foreign to your nature, as I have always told you. If you should ever get to the point where you had to deceive one who was near and dear to you, that would be the end of you.
AMADEUS
Your worry is quite superfluous! Haven't you known us long enough—me and Cecilia—to know that our marriage is based, above all else, on absolute frankness?
ALBERT
Many have good intentions, but their courage often deserts them at the critical moment.
AMADEUS
We have never yet kept anything hidden from each other.
ALBERT
Because so far you have had nothing to confess.
AMADEUS
Oh, a great deal, perhaps, which other people keep to themselves. Our common life has not been without its complications. We have had to be parted from each other for months at a time. I have had to rehearse in private with other singers than Philine, and (with an air of superiority) other men than Prince Sigismund must have discovered that Cecilia is pretty.
ALBERT
I haven't said a word about Cecilia.
AMADEUS
And besides, it would be quite hopeless for Cecilia or me to keep any secrets. We know each other too well—I don't think two people ever existed who understood each other so completely as we do.
ALBERT
I can imagine a point where the understanding would have to end, and everything else with it.
AMADEUS
Everything else maybe—but not the understanding.
ALBERT
Oh, well! If nothing is left but the understanding, that means the beginning of the end.
AMADEUS
Those are—chances that every human being must resign himself to take.
ALBERT
You don't talk like one who has resigned himself, however, but like one who has made up his mind.
AMADEUS
Who can be perfectly sure of himself or of anybody else? We two, at any rate, are not challenging fate by feeling too secure.
ALBERT
Oh, when it comes to that, my dear fellow—fate always regards itself challenged—by doubt no less than by confidence.
AMADEUS
To be safe against any surprise brings a certain sense of tranquillity anyhow.
ALBERT
A little more tranquillity would produce a decision to avoid anything that might endanger an assured happiness.
AMADEUS
Do you think anything is to be won by that kind of avoidance? Don't you feel rather, that the worst and most dangerous of all falsehoods is to resist temptation with a soul full of longing for it? And that it is easier to go unscathed through adventures than through desires?
ALBERT
Adventures...! Is it actually necessary, then, to live through them? A painter who has risen above pot-boiling, and who has left the follies of youth behind him, can be satisfied with a single model for all the figures that are created out of his dreams—and one who knows how to live may have all the adventures he could ever desire within the peaceful precincts of his own home. He can experience them just as fully as anybody else, but without waste of time, without unpleasantness, without danger. And if he only possess a little imagination, his wife may bear him nothing but illegitimate children without being at all aware of it.
AMADEUS
It's an open question whether you have the right to force such a part on anybody whom you respect.
ALBERT
It is not wise to let people know what they mean to you. I have put this thought into an aphorism: