Such a life is not apt to make great
heroes, but queer dicks like us are also needed.
ADELAIDE (_aside_).
Now he too is at it, and he is even worse than the other one.
BOLZ.
We won't waste sentiment on that account. I scribble away so long as
it goes. When it no longer goes, others take my place and do the same.
When Conrad Bolz, the grain of wheat, has been crushed in the great
mill, other grains fall on the stones until the flour is ready from
which the future, possibly, will bake good bread for the benefit of
the many.
ADELAIDE.
No, no, that is morbidness; such resignation is wrong.
BOLZ.
Such resignation will eventually be found in every profession. It is
not your lot. To you is due a different kind of happiness, and you
will find it. (_Feelingly_.) Adelaide, as a boy I wrote you tender
verses and lulled myself in foolish dreams. I was very fond of you,
and the wound our separation inflicted still smarts at times.
[ADELAIDE _makes a deprecatory gesture_.] Don't be alarmed, I am not
going to pain you. I long begrudged my fate, and had moments when I
felt like an outcast. But now when you stand there before me in full
radiancy, so lovely, so desirable, when my feeling for you is as warm
as ever, I must say to you all the same: Your father, it is true,
treated me roughly; but that he separated us, that he prevented you,
the rich heiress, who could claim anything, with your own exclusive
circle of friends, from throwing herself away on a wild boy who had
always shown more presumption than power--that was really very
sensible, and he acted quite rightly in the matter.
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