Clara.
Almighty God!
Anthony.
Forgive me, I——To the devil with that pale, suffering look of yours, stolen from the Mother of Christ! Young people should look rosy. There’s only one man who has the right to parade a face like that, and he doesn’t do it. Ho! A box on the ears for every man that says “Uh” when he cuts his finger. Nobody has the right to now, for here’s a man that——Self-praise is no recommendation, but what did I do, when our neighbour was going to nail the lid on your mother’s coffin?
Clara.
You snatched the hammer from him and did it yourself, and said, “This is my masterpiece.” The choir-master, who was singing the funeral-hymn at the door with the choristers, thought you’d gone mad.
Anthony.
Mad! (Laughs.) Mad! Ay, ay, it’s a wise man that cuts his own throat when the time comes. Mine seems to be too tough, or else——A man lives in his corner of the world, and imagines he’s sitting by the fireside in a comfortable inn, when suddenly some one puts a light on the table, and behold, he’s in a robber’s den, and it goes bang! bang! on all sides. But no matter. Luckily my heart’s made of stone.
Clara.
So it is, father.