308
JAROSLAV VRCHLICKY
Cilka.—He was a very unhappy man.
Karel.—Cilka spoke the truth about him.
Bohdan.—And are you going to write the article?
Karel.—Yes, I will. His career is closed; it is easier to judge. I will be just to his genius.
Bohdan.—See now, I will loan you these papers. (Takes them out of his pocket and gives them to him.) Take out of them for your article as much as you please, but in judging the man do not forget the artist—there will be sufficient material left for my novel.
Cilka.—For God's sake, Bohdan, what are you doing?
Karel (takes the letters from Bohdan, Cilka turns with the greatest anxiety).—Cilka!
(Cilka cries but does not answer.)
Karel (softly).—Cilka, but do look at me. (Waves the letters.) I am going to write that article.
Bohdan.—And will you use them?
Karel (gloriously).—No, my boy, no. These letters do not belong to me or you any more than they belong to anyone else. They belong to the dead—let their spirit follow his. (Throws them into the fire.)
Cilka (cries out).—Thanks! Thanks!
Bohdan.—And I could never understand this.
Cilka (in Karel's arms).—How good, how magnanimous you are!
Bohdan.—But my human documents?
Karel.—A true artist, my dear boy, has the best documents here (pointing to his brow) and here (pointing to his heart).
Curtain
