Mr. Y. Then vanity and ambition are to serve as an excuse where want is no excuse?
Mr. X. And all the same want should be the valid, the only excuse. But it’s like this, I can’t alter, any more than I can alter my own will not to steal in any such case.
Mr. Y. You count it then, as a great merit of yours that you can’t—hm— steal.
Mr. X. It’s an irresistible something in my character, just as the craving to steal is something irresistible in other people, and therefore it’s no virtue. I cannot do it and he cannot refrain from doing it —you quite understand, my dear fellow? I covet this gold and want to possess it. Why don’t I take it, then? I can’t. It’s simply disability, and something lacking is scarcely a merit. That’s what it is. [Beats on the chest.]
[It has rained in streams outside in the country, and now and then the room becomes dark. The darkness is that of approaching thunder.]
Mr. Y. It’s awfully stuffy. I think we shall have thunder. [Mr. Y. rises and closes the door and windows.]
Mr. X. Are you frightened of thunder?
Mr. Y. One has to be careful. [Pause.]
Mr. X. You are a queer fellow. You spring yourself on me here a fortnight ago, introduce yourself as a Swedish American on an etymological journey for a museum.
Mr. Y. Don’t bother yourself about me.