And here, too, is our old friend, the clown doll, with his dear, silly face. But how ragged he looks now!—as though he had been through a hundred fights! Yet he is as red-nosed and smiling as ever. Now, sound your cymbals, my little friend, as you were used to do. You cannot, eh? You say that you cannot?—that you have only one cymbal left? Very well, then. Down upon the floor you go!
[He throws down the doll.]
His Wife.
Oh, what are you doing? Remember how often our boy has kissed its merry face.
The Man.
Yes, I did wrong. Forgive me, my dear. And do you too pardon me, my little friend of old times. [He stoops with some difficulty and picks up the doll.] So thou art still smiling? Ah well, I will lay thee aside awhile. Be not angry with me, but I cannot bear thy smiles just now—thou must go and smile elsewhere.
His Wife.
Oh, how your words rend my heart I Believe me, our son will yet recover. How could it be right that youth should go to the grave before old age?
The Man.
And how often have you known the "right" to happen, my wife?