leaves here.

Clara. When the sun shines down like this and the leaves tremble--

The King. The sunshine seems to tremble too.

Clara. Yes, but it makes one feel as if everything were trembling--even
deep down into our hearts!

The King. That is true.--Yes, its homes are the most precious things a
nation makes. Their national characteristics mean reverence for their
past and possibilities for their future.

Clara. I understand better now what you meant.

The King. When I said I wanted to begin at the beginning?

Clara. Yes. (A pause.)

The King. I cannot do otherwise. My heart must be in my work.

Clara (smiling). My father had his heart in his work, too.

The King. Forgive me--but don't you think it was just the want of
an object in his life that led your father to push his theories too
far?--an object outside himself, I mean?

Clara. Perhaps. If my mother had lived--. (Stops.)

The King.--he might have taken it differently; don't you think so?

Clara. I have sometimes thought so. (A pause.)

The King. How still it is! Not a sound!

Clara. Yes, there is the fountain.

The King. That is true; but one ends by hardly hearing a continuous
sound like that.

Clara. There is a tremulousness in _that_ too. (Looks round her.)

The King. What are you looking for?

Clara. It is time to look for the Baroness.

The King. She is up on that slope. Shall I call her? Or--perhaps you
would like to see a fine view?

Clara. Yes.

The King. Then let us go up to her together! (They go.)

ACT III

SCENE I

(SCENE. An open place in the town. It is evening, and the square is
badly lit. On the right is the club, a large building, standing alone;
lights are shining from all its windows. Steps lead from the door, above
which is a balcony. The square is full of people. In the background,
standing on the lowest step of the pedestal of an equestrian statue,
is a BALLAD SINGER, singing to the accompaniment of his guitar. Cigars,
oranges, and other wares are being sold by hawkers. The singer's voice
is heard before the curtain rises. The crowd gradually joins him in the
refrain which he repeats after each verse of his ballad.)

The Ballad Singer (sings).

The Princeling begged and begged and begged
Her love, on bended knee.
The Maid said craftily, "Nay, nay,
I doubt your high degree!"

Refrain.

She knew the might, the might, the might
Of love's distracting hour;
How royalty, with all its