Herman.  Ah, Gert, a statesman must pay no attention to that sort of thing.  Two or three years ago I should have made my wife’s back smart for such words, but since I have begun to look into works on politics, I have learned to despise such trifles.  Qui nesclt simulare, nescit regnare, says an ancient statesman, who was no fool.  I think his name was Agrippa, or Albertus Magnus.  It is a fundamental principle of all the politics in the world; for he who cannot endure an evil speech from an angry and unreasonable woman is not fit to hold any high office.  Self-control is the highest virtue and the jewel which most adorns rulers and magistrates.  Therefore I maintain that no one should sit in our council here in the city until he has given proof of his self-control, and made it clear that he can take words of abuse, blows, and boxes on the ear.  I am by nature quick-tempered, but I try to overcome it by study.  I once read in the preface of a book called The Political Stockfish that when one is overwhelmed with anger he must count twenty, and his anger will pass.

Gert.  It would do me no good to count up to a hundred.

Herman.  Then you are good for nothing but a subordinate.  Henrich, give my wife a mug of ale at the side table.

Geske.  Oh, you beast!  Do you think I have come here to drink?

Herman.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen—­Now, it is all over.  Listen, mother, you must not speak so harshly to your husband—­it sounds utterly vulgar.

Geske.  Is it aristocratic to beg?  Hasn’t any woman reason enough to scold when she has such a good-for-nothing for a husband—­a man who neglects his house like this, and leaves his wife and children in want?

Herman.  Henrich, give her a glass of brandy, for she has worked herself into a passion.

Geske.  Henrich, give my husband a couple of boxes on the ear, the scoundrel!

Henrich.  You must do that yourself.  I decline such a commission.

Geske.  Then I take it on myself. (Boxes both his ears.)

Herman.  One, two, three-(counts to twenty, starts to strike her, but begins counting again).  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty—­If I hadn’t been a statesman, you would have caught it that time!

Gert.  If you don’t keep your wife in check, I will.  Get out of here.  Go!  Out with you!

[Exit Geske, still scolding.

SCENE 3

Gert.  I ’ll teach her to keep quiet at home another time.  I confess that if it is statesmanlike to let yourself be dragged about by the hair by your wife, I shall never be a statesman.

Herman.  Oh, qui nescit simulare, nescit regnare; that is easily said, but less easily done.  I admit it was a great indignity my wife did me.  I believe I shall run after her yet and beat her on the street.  But one, two, three, four (and so on), nineteen, twenty.  Now, that’s all over.  Let us talk of other things.