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MR. Y.
And you would not be able to do this if–h’m!–the thief had stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector’s mania, of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,–isn’t that so?

MR. X.
You mean that I wouldn’t be able to acquit him if he had stolen through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon. That is simple theft, that is!

MR. Y.
And that you would not pardon?

MR. X.
H’m! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had dug up on some one else’s property.

MR. Y.
That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need could not?

MR. X.
Yes, that’s the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition.

MR. Y.
And you count it a great virtue that you cannot–h’m–steal?

MR. X.
With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess this gold is not lacking in me. Why don’t I take it then? I cannot; it’s an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are!

[Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.]

MR. X.
How close it is! I think we’ll have some thunder.

[Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.]

MR. X.
Are you afraid of thunder?

MR. Y.
One should be careful.

[They sit again at table.]

MR. X.
You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels, collecting insects for a little museum.

MR. Y.
Oh, don’t bother about me.

MR. X.
That’s what you always say when I get tired of talking about myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy. We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid; you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there before the mirror and I see your back, it’s as if I were looking at another person.

[Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.]
Oh, you can’t see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,–well, I don’t wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden, as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders across your white shirt–it looks like–like a big brand, a trade mark on a packing box.