Up to a certain point he may have meant well—may have—but at that time we were only boys of nine or ten and afterwards the good intentions disappeared. On the contrary, his intention then was to let us go utterly to ruin. Yes, yes, mother was a cipher. For five years we were left to ourselves in the most reckless way: we were scamps and loafers. I had one thing left—my music; Robert had nothing. But we took to other things besides. We shall scarcely ever get over the effects of some of _them_.—At last I suppose father’s conscience pricked him; there were frightful scenes with mother. In the end we were packed off to an Institution, and when I could not stand the slavery of that any more and ran away, he had me stopped and sent to Hamburg. The good-for-nothing should go to America. The good-for-nothing naturally ran away again. I let my parents alone and starved and fought my own way through the world. Robert has much the same experience to look back upon. Nevertheless, in father’s eyes we have remained good-for-nothings: later on I was simple enough to ask him for some help—as a right, not as charity; I wanted to go to the Conservatoire. Then he wrote to me, on a postcard, “Be a cobbler.” And so you see, Ida, we are in a way self-made men, but we’re not particularly proud of it. IDA (_smiling_). Really, Willy, I can’t help it! I do sympathise with you so, but at this moment I can’t help—Oh, don’t look so strangely at me, please—please— WILLIAM. Ah, Ida, it’s bitter, not a thing to laugh at. IDA (_breaking out_). It’s a feeling of _joy_, William! I must tell you! It may be selfish, but I am so inexpressibly glad that you—that you can be so much in need of—Ah, I will be so good to you, Willy. I see clearly what I have to do. Ah! I am quite confused! I pity you so, but the more I pity you, the more glad I am. Do you understand? I mean, I am thinking how I may perhaps—everything—all the love that you have had to go without—I may perhaps more than— WILLIAM. If I’m only worth it—for now something is coming for which I alone am to blame—Years ago—no! it’s—I used to come afterwards on a sort of visit to mother. Picture to yourself, Ida, when I saw all that misery again, just imagine how I used to feel. IDA. Your mother—suffered very much? WILLIAM. I think differently now in many ways about mother. In any case, father was most to blame. In those days it used to seem to me as if he kept mother here against her will. I even wanted her to separate from him. IDA. But, your mother surely couldn’t— WILLIAM. She didn’t see it as I did. She hadn’t the courage. Well, what father used to look like in my eyes, you can perhaps imagine. IDA. But William! Perhaps you too, were not quite just to your father—a man— WILLIAM (_without noticing Ida’s interruption._)