NEIGHBOR.

But cats do not go into the water.

WIESENER.

Why so much the greater is the cat’s love for his master, you see; that’s just what the author wants to make us understand.

HINZE.

Now what would you like to become in the world, anyhow?

GOTTLIEB.

Oh, I don’t know, myself.

HINZE.

Perhaps you’d like to become a prince, or a king?

GOTTLIEB.

That, better than anything.

HINZE.

And do you also feel the strength within you to make a nation happy?

GOTTLIEB.

Why not?  If only I am once happy myself.

HINZE.

Well, then content yourself.  I swear to you, you shall mount the throne.

[Exit.]

GOTTLIEB.

It would have to come about mysteriously—­still, of course, so many unexpected things happen in the world.

[Exit.]

BOeTTICH.

Do notice the infinite refinement with which the cat always holds his cane.

FISCHER.

You’ve been a bore to us for the longest while; you are even more tiresome than the play.

SCHLOSS.

You even add to the confusion in our heads.

MUeLLER.

You talk constantly and do not know what you want.

MANY VOICES.

Out!  Out!  He’s a nuisance! (A crowd; BOeTTICHER finds
himself compelled to leave the theatre.)

FISCHER.

He with his talk about refinement!

SCHLOSS.

He always vexes me when he considers himself a connoisseur.

An open field

HINZE (with knapsack and bag).

I have become quite accustomed to hunting.  Every day I catch partridges, rabbits and the like, and the dear little animals are getting more and more practice in being caught. (He spreads out his bag.) Now the season of the nightingales is over, I do not hear a single one singing.

[Enter the two lovers.]

HE.

Go, you bore me.

SHE.

I am disgusted with you.

HE.

A fine kind of love!

SHE.

Wretched hypocrite, how you have deceived me!

HE.

What has become of your infinite tenderness?

SHE.

And your faithfulness?

HE.

Your rapture?

SHE.

Your infatuation?

BOTH.

The devil has taken it!  That comes of marrying.

HINZE.

The hunt has never yet been so disturbed—­if you would be pleased to notice that this open field is clearly too confined for your sorrows, and climb up some mountain.

HE.

Insolent wretch! (Boxes HINZE on the ear.)

SHE.

Boor! (Also boxes HINZE on the ear.)