[Strikes two or three notes on the violin and stops, terrified. Dashes the instrument down and throws himself to the floor, sobbing] O, Vera! Vera! Vera!
[Curtain]
Scene 2. The same. Vasil still lying on the floor. Adrian enters right, crosses and attempts to rouse him.
Adr. You must go to bed, my son. There is nothing for you to do.
Vasil. [Rising] Nothing for me to do? Why am I in the world then?
Adr. To be our light—our song—to find our angels for us.
Vasil. [Looking down at his violin] It is broken.
Adr. [Picking it up] You will mend it.
Vasil. And the heart too? [Goes to table, left front, and sits by it, despondent and thoughtful] We were wrong to-day, Adrian. I was wrong. No one has a right to happiness while others are suffering because of things that are in the power of man to help. The good people who forget what is out of sight, as if misery—or duty—were a question of eyes and ears, they are the most to blame. [Rises] If they would all help—just all of the good. [Goes to door, rear, and stands a moment looking out] The princess dances at the ball to-night.