“Granted. O, I grant you that with full conviction. Still, we cannot let the race die out because, unfortunately, parents are for the most part idiots and criminals. The State is wiser to assume they are the reverse.”
“Then means should be taken by the State to see that the young are fitted for their future responsibilities. I have met some very charming young ladies here at Athens—charming, until you have had time to discover that they are for the most part insipid, uneducated and silly. I have nothing to say against them. They were prettily apparelled and amused me. They chatter engagingly—about nothing. They tell me they have been for years studying the piano, with no result, and that they have learned at least four foreign tongues for purposes of social intercourse—not study. I am curious to know how it could enter the brains of any one to suspect these pretty toys of a capacity for bringing up their children intelligently. And yet they will marry, and will doubtless be considered to have accomplished their duty to the uncritical State.”
“Well, well, that is not our concern, happily. You, at least, are not similarly situated. The hours spent by you on study have been spent to some purpose. The only objection I see to Kyrios Oïdas is, that he is somewhat old. I would very willingly have changed him for young Herr Rudolph because of his youth and social position. He loves you, Inarime, he avowed it frantically to me. But just as I had made up my mind to effect the alteration of bridegrooms, Θις μαυ he explodes in a flame of ugly scandal, leaving the full theatrical smell of fire and brimstone behind him. Faust carried off by a female Mephistopheles! Ouf! This world!”
Inarime walked across the room, pressed her forehead against the window, and stood gazing into the street in disconsolate perplexity. Selaka joined her, and placed his hand affectionately on her shoulders.
“We have been equally in the wrong towards one another, my dear one,” he said. “We have forgotten the seemly restraints of speech, and in our smarting anger and disappointment, have drawn largely upon the copper of language, as if our minds had never fed upon its gold. I am ashamed and grieved. Antigone would not have spoken to Œdipus as you, my child, have to-day spoken to me; and Œdipus would not so completely have forfeited the respect that was due to him. To get back into the old groove, we will separate and meditate a while apart. In the light of reflection, you will see that what I ask is for your sole good. If this story of young Ehrenstein gets abroad, you will be unpleasantly mixed up with it, and marriage will be your best, and, in fact, your only shield from evil surmise. You do not doubt my great love, child?”
Still hurt and dismayed, Inarime withheld the be-sought-for look of reconciliation. Her shoulders moved with an uncontrollable sob; this marriage revolted her, and held her silent.
“My daughter! my dearest! Look at me, your father, Inarime.”
She turned her head slowly, stretched out her arms, and was enfolded in his. Their embrace was broken by a loud and frantic entrance. Constantine rushed in, holding a newspaper in his hand, followed close by Oïdas, whose face wore an expression of vindictive spite.
“Pericles,” roared poor Constantine, shaken out of his wits, “look at this! The wretches! the liars! Read it.”