Page:Poet Lore, volume 35, 1924.pdf/380

 Jaroslav.—This is going to be a bitter moment.

Klementina.—But what has happened?

Dr. Svoboda (Reading on).—“But there remains nothing more to be said except that your grievous speculation is all in vain. Your estate we cannot buy, because we are obliged to use our rapidly diminishing funds to purchase the small estates. Carry out that deed then, with which you now threaten us; settle with your conscience; sell your estate to the opposing party: we cannot prevent you from so doing—and be prepared to find your name, (that of our greatest patriot) drowned in the mire and eternally befouled by this deed!”

(Cries out) Oh scoundrel, scoundrel! Who has done this? Who has robbed me of my honor and my good name!

(Looks at who turns away.) Jaroslav! It could only be you or your mother  or was it Broz  who was it? Who did it?

JarolsavJaroslav [sic] (Stepping out boldly).—Father, I am that resolute person.

Klementina, Filipina.—Jaroslav!

Dr. Svoboda.—You! You! Out of my sight, (pointing to the door) before I cast you out!

Jaroslav (Calmly).—Not at all. For I transacted the matter in a perfectly honorable manner as I wished to see the estate held in the hands of our party. You are a Cech, my mother is partly German, and I am only a man. You are going straightway over the abyss with your crazy phantom; do not expect my mother and me to follow you there. The estate must be sold. And if that glorious nobility in Prague would not purchase it, that inglorious bank in Vienna will!

Dr. Svoboda.—It shall not! Even though I knew beyond a doubt that a year from today I would be a pauper!

Jaroslav.—Would you rather lose all that we have? You must sell the estate to Neufeld!

Dr. Svoboda.—You say I must?

Jaroslav.—Yes. According to my will and command. I am your first and only son. I have the right to demand of you a livelihood—as I also find it my duty to save your family.

Dr. Svoboda.—Will you hold your tongue!

Jaroslav.—What am I today? Nobody! Nothing!

Dr. Svoboda.—Whose fault is it but your own? Why did you always find all useful work so tiresome?