Honor: A Play in Four Acts Part 23

Robert. Mother!

Frau Heinecke. Why shouldn't the poor child have a little fun once in a while?

Robert. (_Overcome_) So we've gone that far?

Michalski. (_Sitting in chair, mockingly_) Yes, we've gone that far!

Robert. You--_Procuror_! Get out of that chair! (Michalski _remains seated_, Robert _takes hold of the back of the chair_) Get up, I say, and get out of here, both of you!

Michalski. (_Threateningly_) Now that's a little too fres.h.!.+

Robert. (_Who has seized the chair_) Dare to lay a hand on me!

Frau Heinecke. (_Throwing herself between them_) You'll break my arm-chair.

Robert. I suppose that comes from our friends on the Avenue whom you hold in such high esteem!

Frau Heinecke. Of course it does!

Robert. From our dear Herr Kurt, I suppose?

Frau Heinecke. Well, yes!

Robert. (_With a wild laugh_) There it is, then! (_He throws the chair to the floor, breaking it and kicking the pieces away from him_)

Frau Heinecke. (_Weeping_) My beautiful arm-chair! (_She picks up the pieces carrying them to the left--then she sinks down on stool_)

Heinecke. This is getting uncomfortable! (_He starts to go out, right_)

Robert. (_Standing in his way_) Will you give that blood-money back?

Yes or no?

Heinecke. Give it back? (_Contemptuously_) Huh!

Robert. Then I'm through with you! and you, too, Mother. Is a man brought into the world for that! To wear dishonor like a birthmark?

Very good! If I had to be born, why didn't you leave me in the dirt when I first saw the day? Where I've got to wallow for the rest of my life because my worthy family desires it!

Auguste. Do you hear that, Mother, and he was always your favorite.

Robert. No, no, Mother, don't listen to me! (_Kneeling beside her_) I said nothing! If I said anything, it was only madness. To-day I feel as though I were cut loose from everything that is human--or natural!

Mother, have pity on me! You can save me! Come with me!

Frau Heinecke. (_Sobbing_) How do I know you won't break the mirror, too! in your blind fits.

Robert. (_Looks wildly at mirror, then rises_) We speak different languages--We can't understand each other.

Michalski. (_Who has been quietly talking to_ Heinecke. _He slaps_ Robert _on the shoulder_) Now you've raised enough h.e.l.l! Get out of here!

Robert. (_Pus.h.i.+ng him out of the way_) Back! (_As his parents and sisters surround him with angry cries. Breaks out in hollow laughter_) Ah, so that's it! You throw me out?

Michalski. (_Opens door_) Get out!

(Count Trast _appears on threshold._)

Trast. (_Slapping_ Michalski _on shoulder_) Thank you humbly for the friendly welcome!

Robert. (_Recognizing_ Trast, _cries out, then extends his arms as if to urge him away_) What do you want here?--In this dive?--Do you know who we are?--We sell ourselves!--(_He laughs_) Look at me! No, I can't bear it! (_He covers his face with hands_)

(_At the sight of_ Trast, Alma _shamefacedly slinks away_. Michalski _and_ Auguste _follow her into kitchen._)

Trast. Pull yourself together! What has happened?

Heinecke. (_Hat in hand_) He acted very undutifully, Count! First he wanted to take us off to India, now he wants to take our money away.

I'm just going to the bank--Whole forty thousand marks, Count, I have the honor--(_Bowing_) Count! (_He goes out_)

Trast. Yes, I understand. (_Lays his hand on_ Robert's _shoulder_) Was Herr Muhlingk here?

Robert. My friend! Thank you--I had forgotten!

Trast. What is it?

Robert. He wants my accounts. He shall have them. (_Hurries to trunk which he opens and feverishly looks for something_)

Frau Heinecke. (_Weeping_) You can thank the Lord, Count, you're not married! There are right ungrateful sons in this world!

Trast. (_To himself_) You talk like a mother--(_Realising what he has said_) Pah! Trast, that wasn't nice!

Frau Heinecke. Ain't I right?

Trast. (_Takes her hands in his_) A mother is always right. She has suffered and loved too much to be anything else. (_Shakes her hand_)

Frau Heinecke. But, Count! You shake hands with a poor old woman!

Trast. I have sinned against the mothers, and I must beg forgiveness.

And my own not the least. There are worse sons, than yours, my dear woman.

(Robert _takes out a leather portfolio, looks through it, and lays it aside. Then he takes out a revolver which he tests._)

Trast. (_Aside_) Ah, a revolver! This is how he's going to settle accounts!

(Robert, _seeing he is observed, quickly hides the revolver in his breast pocket. He takes his hat and portfolio and comes forward._)