Scene 6
Mother (comes in quickly).
Do you know me still?
Anthony (pointing to the wedding-dress).
The frame has kept well, but the picture’s gone a bit. There seem to have been a lot of spiders’ webs on it. Well, the time was long enough!
Mother.
Haven’t I a frank husband? But I don’t need to praise him in particular. Frankness is the virtue of all husbands.
Anthony.
Are you sorry that you had more gilt on you at twenty than at fifty?
Mother.
Certainly not. If it weren’t so, I’d be ashamed of us both.
Anthony.
Well there, give me a kiss. I have had a shave and I’m in a better temper than usual.
Mother.
I’ll say “Yes” just to see if you still know how to kiss. It’s a long time since you thought of trying.
Anthony.
Dear old mother. I won’t wish that you should close my eyes. It’s a hard task, and I’ll do it for you instead. I’ll do you that last service of love. But you must give me time, do you hear? Time to prepare and steel myself, and not make a mess of it. It’s far too soon yet.
Mother.
Thank God, we are to be together a little longer.
Anthony.
I hope so, indeed. Why, your cheeks are quite rosy again!
Mother.
A queer little man, that new grave-digger. He was digging a grave, as I was going to church this morning. I asked him whom it was for. “For whom God will,” says he, “perhaps for myself. I might have the same experience as my grandfather. He once had got an extra grave ready, and that night when he was going home from the inn, he fell in and broke his neck.”
Leonard (who has been reading the paper all the time).
The fellow doesn’t belong to this town; he can tell us any lies he likes.
Mother.
I asked him why he didn’t wait till there was an order for a grave. “I’m invited to a wedding to-day,” he said, “and I’m prophet enough to know that I shall feel it in my head to-morrow morning. Then somebody’s sure to have gone and died, just to spite me, and that would mean getting up early without finishing my sleep.”
Anthony.
“You fathead,” I’d have said, “what if the grave doesn’t fit?”
Mother.
That’s what I said. But he can shake out sharp answers as quick as the devil can shake out fleas. “I’ve made it to fit Weaver John,” says he, “he’s as big as King Saul, head and shoulders above everybody else. So anybody can come that likes—he won’t find his house too small for him. And if it’s too big, it’ll hurt no one but me. I’m an honourable man and won’t charge for an inch over the coffin-length.” I threw my flowers in, and said, “Now it’s occupied.”
Anthony.
I think the fellow was only joking, but that’s bad enough. Digging graves in advance is like setting death-traps. The scoundrel ought to be sacked for it. (To Leonard, who is reading.) Any news? Is some kind creature looking for a poor widow who could do with a few pounds? Or is it the other way about, the widow looking for the friend that will give her them?
Leonard.
There’s news of a jewel-robbery. Funny thing! It shows that, although times are bad, there are still people among us that own jewels.
Anthony.
A jewel-robbery! At whose house?
Leonard.
At Wolfram’s, the merchant’s.
Anthony.
Wolfram’s—impossible! That’s where Karl went to polish a desk a few days ago.
Leonard.
They were stolen from the desk, right enough.
Mother (to Anthony).
May God forgive you for saying that!
Anthony.
You’re right. It was a base thought.
Mother.
I must say, that to your son you’re only half a father.
Anthony.
We won’t talk about that to-day, wife.
Mother.
Do you think he must be bad, just because he’s different from you?
Anthony.
Where is he now? It’s long past dinner-time. I’ll wager the food is all boiled away or dried up, because Clara has secret orders not to set the table till he comes.
Mother.
Where do you think he is? At most he’ll be playing skittles. He has to go to the farthest alley, so that you won’t find him, and then of course it takes him a long time to get back. I don’t know what you have against the game; it’s harmless enough.
Anthony.
Against the game? I’ve nothing at all against it. Fine gentlemen must have their amusements. But for the kings of spades and diamonds, real kings would often find time heavy on their hands. And if there were no skittles—who knows?—dukes and princes might be rolling our heads about. But there’s no worse folly for a working man than to waste his hard-earned money on games. What a man has laboured for by the sweat of his brow, that he should honour and value highly, unless he wants to lose his balance altogether and grow to despise his honest work. How it hurts me to throw away a shilling! (Door bell rings.)
Mother.
There he comes.