Friebe.
Not—(he strikes again) a blessed—(strikes) stroke!
[He stands up, looks at his work by the lamp, and then fastens the Christmas tree so that it stands upright. Friebe is small, already a little bent, bandy-legged, and has a bald head. His small, mobile, little monkey face is unshaven. His hair and stubble beard are yellowish grey. He is a jack-of-all-trades. His coat, stiff with a mixture of plate powder, oil, boot-blacking and dust, was cut for a man twice his size, so that the sleeves are tucked up and the skirts overlap considerably. His brown servant’s apron is no cleaner than his coat: from under it from time to time he brings out a snuff-box and takes snuff with intense satisfaction. The tree made firm, he puts it on the table, stands in front and gazes at it.
Friebe.
A real—bonny—well-set-up—little fir tree! (with condescending superiority to the women) you don’t think so—eh?
Mrs Buchner.
As an old forester, you should be the best judge of that.
Friebe.
Well, certainly, that would be rather too much; as to what a fir tree is—
Mrs Scholz (interrupting him impatiently).