Page:Poet Lore, volume 31, 1920.djvu/543

Rh Mrs. Rettig (Quickly).—Go, go, perhaps in there! (Pointing to the temple.)

Valenta.—It is too late. (Jumps behind a tree and disappears to the right.)

comes in from the left at the rear, hat in hand, fanning himself.

Mrs. Rettig (Approaching him).—Doctor, fellow patriot!

Plavec.—Ah, madam! (Walks as if fatigued, wiping the perspiration from his brow. He is vexed, but tries to be good-natured.) What fine diversion! It is hot here!

Mrs. Rettig.—And at home it is so cool!

Plavec.—A couch!

Mrs. Rettig.—And a quiet nap after a tasty dinner.

Plavec (Blurts out).—And today there was no nap at all and the dinner didn't amount to anything.

Mrs. Rettig.—Everything "a trifle scorched."

Plavec.—Scorched finely! Nicely burned! Ančka was simply out of her head; (angrily) all on account of these marriages. And then she wanted to come to the picnic here!

Mrs. Rettig.—Why are you surprised? She has a suitor.

Plavec.—But she ought to have made the powders.

Mrs. Rettig.—You will miss her.

Plavec (Testily).—Yes, I shall, but now that she's still here— (stops short) and—and—she didn't even make the dumplings and everything else—

Mrs. Rettig.—She burned and oversalted. That's the way a cook does when she's in love. And a doctor in love fumes and frets. O happy lover!

Plavec.—O happy lover! (Seats himself on the bench.) O me O my!—An accepted lover, and I hardly get a glimpse of my lady except to see her dancing with other men. (Angrily.) The students chase after her as if they had formed a conspiracy.

Mrs. Rettig.—And how will it be when the balls begin! You surely will not keep your young wife at home.

Plavec.—No, to be sure, of course not.

Mrs. Rettig.—She will be dancing; and you will sit up for her, till midnight, past midnight, till dawn.

Plavec.—And I go to bed before ten!