RAINA.
(wonderingly). Do you know, you are the first man I ever met who did not take me seriously?
BLUNTSCHLI.
You mean, don’t you, that I am the first man that has ever taken you quite seriously?
RAINA.
Yes, I suppose I do mean that. (Cosily, quite at her ease with him.) How strange it is to be talked to in such a way! You know, I’ve always gone on like that—I mean the noble attitude and the thrilling voice. I did it when I was a tiny child to my nurse. She believed in it. I do it before my parents. They believe in it. I do it before Sergius. He believes in it.
BLUNTSCHLI.
Yes: he’s a little in that line himself, isn’t he?
RAINA.
(startled). Do you think so?
BLUNTSCHLI.
You know him better than I do.
RAINA.
I wonder—I wonder is he? If I thought that—! (Discouraged.) Ah, well, what does it matter? I suppose, now that you’ve found me out, you despise me.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(warmly, rising). No, my dear young lady, no, no, no a thousand times. It’s part of your youth—part of your charm. I’m like all the rest of them—the nurse—your parents—Sergius: I’m your infatuated admirer.
RAINA.
(pleased). Really?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(slapping his breast smartly with his hand, German fashion). Hand aufs Herz! Really and truly.
RAINA.
(very happy). But what did you think of me for giving you my portrait?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(astonished). Your portrait! You never gave me your portrait.
RAINA.
(quickly). Do you mean to say you never got it?
BLUNTSCHLI.
No. (He sits down beside her, with renewed interest, and says, with some complacency.) When did you send it to me?
RAINA.
(indignantly). I did not send it to you. (She turns her head away, and adds, reluctantly.) It was in the pocket of that coat.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(pursing his lips and rounding his eyes). Oh-o-oh! I never found it. It must be there still.
RAINA.
(springing up). There still!—for my father to find the first time he puts his hand in his pocket! Oh, how could you be so stupid?
BLUNTSCHLI.
(rising also). It doesn’t matter: it’s only a photograph: how can he tell who it was intended for? Tell him he put it there himself.
RAINA.
(impatiently). Yes, that is so clever—so clever! What shall I do?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Ah, I see. You wrote something on it. That was rash!
RAINA.
(annoyed almost to tears). Oh, to have done such a thing for you, who care no more—except to laugh at me—oh! Are you sure nobody has touched it?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Well, I can’t be quite sure. You see I couldn’t carry it about with me all the time: one can’t take much luggage on active service.
RAINA.
What did you do with it?
BLUNTSCHLI.
When I got through to Peerot I had to put it in safe keeping somehow. I thought of the railway cloak room; but that’s the surest place to get looted in modern warfare. So I pawned it.
RAINA.
Pawned it!!!
BLUNTSCHLI.
I know it doesn’t sound nice; but it was much the safest plan. I redeemed it the day before yesterday. Heaven only knows whether the pawnbroker cleared out the pockets or not.
RAINA.
(furious—throwing the words right into his face). You have a low, shopkeeping mind. You think of things that would never come into a gentleman’s head.
BLUNTSCHLI.
(phlegmatically). That’s the Swiss national character, dear lady.
RAINA.
Oh, I wish I had never met you. (She flounces away and sits at the window fuming.)
(Louka comes in with a heap of letters and telegrams on her salver, and crosses, with her bold, free gait, to the table. Her left sleeve is looped up to the shoulder with a brooch, shewing her naked arm, with a broad gilt bracelet covering the bruise.)
LOUKA.
(to Bluntschli). For you. (She empties the salver recklessly on the table.) The messenger is waiting. (She is determined not to be civil to a Servian, even if she must bring him his letters.)
BLUNTSCHLI.
(to Raina). Will you excuse me: the last postal delivery that reached me was three weeks ago. These are the subsequent accumulations. Four telegrams—a week old. (He opens one.) Oho! Bad news!
RAINA.
(rising and advancing a little remorsefully). Bad news?
BLUNTSCHLI.
My father’s dead. (He looks at the telegram with his lips pursed, musing on the unexpected change in his arrangements.)
RAINA.
Oh, how very sad!
BLUNTSCHLI.
Yes: I shall have to start for home in an hour. He has left a lot of big hotels behind him to be looked after. (Takes up a heavy letter in a long blue envelope.) Here’s a whacking letter from the family solicitor. (He pulls out the enclosures and glances over them.) Great Heavens! Seventy! Two hundred! (In a crescendo of dismay.) Four hundred! Four thousand!! Nine thousand six hundred!!! What on earth shall I do with them all?
RAINA.
(timidly). Nine thousand hotels?
BLUNTSCHLI.
Hotels! Nonsense. If you only knew!—oh, it’s too ridiculous! Excuse me: I must give my fellow orders about starting. (He leaves the room hastily, with the documents in his hand.)
LOUKA.
(tauntingly). He has not much heart, that Swiss, though he is so fond of the Servians. He has not a word of grief for his poor father.
RAINA.
(bitterly). Grief!—a man who has been doing nothing but killing people for years! What does he care? What does any soldier care? (She goes to the door, evidently restraining her tears with difficulty.)
LOUKA.
Major Saranoff has been fighting, too; and he has plenty of heart left. (Raina, at the door, looks haughtily at her and goes out.) Aha! I thought you wouldn’t get much feeling out of your soldier. (She is following Raina when Nicola enters with an armful of logs for the fire.)
NICOLA.
(grinning amorously at her). I’ve been trying all the afternoon to get a minute alone with you, my girl. (His countenance changes as he notices her arm.) Why, what fashion is that of wearing your sleeve, child?
LOUKA.