Tarrasch.
They were beginning to find out the provincialism of their creeds in England. The pessimism of Schopenhauer had taught them much; and if it had not been for this last treachery, this last ridiculous outburst of the middle-class mind on behalf of what they call honour, we should have continued to tolerate (if not to enjoy), in Berlin, those plays by Irishmen which expose so wittily the inferior Kultur, the shrinking from reality, of their (for the most part) not intellectual people. I have the honour, madam, to request that you should no longer make this unpleasant sound of weeping. You irritate my nerves. Have you not two men quartered upon you instead of one? And are they not university students? If your husband and the rest of the villagers had not resisted our advance, they might have been alive, too. In any case, your change is for the better. Isn’t it?
(He lights a cigar.)
Nanko.
Exactly! Exactly! You remember, Rada, I used to be a schoolmaster myself in the old days; and if you knew what I know, you wouldn’t cry, my dear. You’d understand that it’s entirely a question of the survival of the fittest. A biological necessity, that’s what it is. And Haeckel himself has told us that, though we may resign our hopes of immortality, and the grave is the only future for our beloved ones, yet there is infinite consolation to be found in examining a piece of moss or looking at a beetle. That’s what the Germans call the male intellect.
Tarrasch.
Is this man attempting to be insolent?
(He rises as if to strike Nanko.)
Brander (tapping his forehead).
Take no notice of him. He’s only a resident patient. He was not calling you a beetle. He has delusions. He thinks it is always Christmas Eve. That’s his little tree in the corner. As Goethe should have said—