Mrs Buchner.
You must know how to manage with artists. I’ve learnt that—my dear husband was one.
Mrs Scholz.
And that—business—with his father? Has he confided that to you, too?
Mrs Buchner.
N-n-o, dear friend. You see that’s the one, only, point—the one thing he can’t yet bring himself to—but you may believe me, the remembrance is terribly painful to him—is still—to this very day. And certainly not less so because he has kept it to himself. At all costs he must get over that, even in this matter too.
Mrs Scholz.
Oh, God forbid!—no, no—right is right! “Honour thy father and thy mother.” A hand that you raise against your own father—that’s an inhuman hand! We’ve had our quarrels—oh yes! we’ve both our faults, my husband and I, but that’s our business, no human being has a right to interfere, least of all one’s own son. And who had to suffer for it? I, of course. An old woman like me has broad shoulders; my husband left the house the very same day, and half an hour later, William too. There was no good talking; first I thought they would come back, but whoever else did they didn’t! And William alone is to blame for it, no one else—no one.
Mrs Buchner.