Within the Walls

See what I mean?

[Pause. State Counsellor walks over to Dr. Herming.]

. . . I told you so. You thought that everything was so easy and that only we, the elderly, with our opinions and prejudices, were so contrary. Now you can see. Now you understand. Of course I feel sorry for you, my boy, but you just wouldn’t listen. You sat there with your books and came to the conclusion that that’s how the matter rested—an injustice had been committed—was being committed—perhaps. But I too know a little about people—not from books, I’ll admit, but from life—I know them, these people—I’ve known their tribe since before you were born—vindictive, hateful. They’re all like that.

Like what?

You saw for yourself.

What did I see? I saw that you were against our union, and like some sort of sacrificial lamb, you contrived to have me persuade someone I care for to do something that I know she was against, body and soul, that was abhorrent for her. Yes, that’s what I saw! Do you think I didn’t know how pathetic I was, and how much distaste and torment she went through before because she cared for me, she conceded. That these people keep to themselves what we others vaunt when we have it—family and home and nation—that’s what I saw. They have a different disposition—is that what we should upbraid them for?—a different nose—is that it?

Nonsense.

Then on what do you base your miserable contempt?

It’s not contempt.

I too haven’t been able to rid myself of the mob instinct.

Mob . . .

Mob, certainly! Both the high and the low. The mob has so ill-treated these people, oppressed them, persecuted them, even today, on the strength of its majority. Is it so strange then that they are wary of us—hate us perhaps? And is it not stranger that we hate them? What have they ever done to us?

What have they done?

Compared with what we have done to them—yes, what I myself have endeavored to have Esther do. It is foolish and heartless. I’ve hurt her before and I’m doing so now. I never wanted to, but there’s something deeper inside.—I care for her a thousand times more, now that she has shown me her true face. I don’t know what she thinks of me after everything that has happened this evening. Perhaps it’s all over and you can be happy. But my promise to you? That my children will be Christian? That they’ll never be—

Jews perhaps?

Neither Jew nor Christian. They’ll be human. That’s what I shall teach them.

And you don’t think that what took place here this evening will repeat itself again and again?

I’m afraid so, yes.

But in your view, people will change and be different than they’ve always been?

Everything will change at some time.

You really believe that?

I do—yes! [Exit.]

Well!

Have you finished?

No, but they’ll be here soon.

Yes, but don’t bother yourself for my sake. I’m comfortable sitting here.

Yes, it’s very pleasant here . . .

Pleasant, quiet . . .

Pleasant, yes. [Brief pause. Then he says] I often think about what makes it so pleasant. It’s not the objects in here—they are much as in many other houses. Take that sofa for example. It’s basically simply ghastly. I don’t know. It’s something. Something about the old paintings. A certain patina, a certain smell that I’ve never found anywhere else, and I’m never likely to find.

It’s really quite simple. It’s because you are rather fond of it. Even for me, as a stranger, well sort of a stranger, even for me there seems to be something—something—dare I say it—homely?

Homely, yes. [ . . . ]

Has your father said anything otherwise?

What do you mean, otherwise?

Oh, I mean . . .

What?

Nothing.

Hugo [Comes over]:

About the engagement you mean?—What should he say? Of course, he always thought he’d have a Jewish son-in-law. He never talked to me about it, but then there was no one to talk about.

No I don’t suppose there was.

Could you imagine young Hirsch for example.

No.

Or Dr. Cohn?

No.

No. [He sits down.] And no one else comes here. . . . I talked to Esther about what we’ve been talking about—this house—what I feel about it—and you too, while we’ve been sitting here. She didn’t understand me at all—at least that’s what she said. She said she felt an urge to get out—to get away from everything; everything that in my opinion puts us Jews before others—the urge to seek within ourselves—to our own—how can I put it?

I understand.

You know what she called it? This place. This feeling.

No?

The Dead Sea . . .

The Dead Sea . . .

[Silence.]

Perhaps . . . perhaps she’s right. Yes, take you and me, Meyer. We who have let life pass us by because we didn’t think we needed it. One fine day it’ll be too late—it won’t need us. Then, I suppose it will be like that for us in a way—the Dead Sea.

Hmmmm . . .