"
That's quite clear! And what have we here? The History of Russian
Literature by Merslaekow. Alexander Puschkin, Russia's greatest
poet, died of torture front the reports circulated about his wife's
unfaithfulness rather than by the bullet in his breast, from a
duel. On his death-bed he swore she was innocent. Ass, ass! How
could he swear to it? You see, I read my books. Ah, Jonas, art you
here? and the doctor, naturally. Have you heard what I answered
when an English lady complained about Irishmen who used to throw
lighted lamps in their wives' faces? "God, what women," I cried.
"Women," she gasped. "Yes, of course," I answered. "When things go
so far that a man, a man who loved and worshipped a woman, takes a
lighted lamp and throws it in her face, then one may know."
PASTOR. Know what?
CAPTAIN. Nothing. One never knows anything. One only believes.
Isn't that true, Jonas? One believes and then one is saved! Yes, to
be sure. No, I know that one can be damned by his faith. I know
that.
DOCTOR. Captain!
CAPTAIN. Silence! I don't want to talk to you; I won't listen to
you repeating their chatter in there, like a telephone! In there!
You know! Look here, Jonas; do you believe that you are the father
of your children? I remember that you had a tutor in your house who
had a handsome face, and the people gossiped about him.
PASTOR. Adolf, take care!
CAPTAIN. Grope under your toupee and feel if there are not two
bumps there. By my soul, I believe he turns pale! Yes, yes, they
will talk; but, good Lord, they talk so much.
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