He was a South American. A distinguished diplomatist. [Looks straight in front of her with a stony smile.] Him I managed to drive quite out of his mind; mad—incurably mad; inexorably mad.—It was great sport, I can tell you—while it was in the doing. I could have laughed within me all the time—if I had anything within me.
And where is he now?
Oh, in a churchyard somewhere or other. With a fine handsome monument over him. And with a bullet rattling in his skull.
Did he kill himself?
Yes, he was good enough to take that off my hands.
Do you not lament his loss, Irene?
[Not understanding.] Lament? What loss?
Why, the loss of Herr von Satow, of course.
His name was not Satow.
Was it not?
My second husband is called Satow. He is a Russian—–
And where is he?
Far away in the Ural Mountains. Among all his gold-mines.
So he lives there?
[Shrugs her shoulders.] Lives? Lives? In reality I have killed him—–
Killed him with a fine sharp dagger which I always have with me in bed—–
[Vehemently.] I don’t believe you, Irene!
[With a gentle smile.] Indeed you may believe it, Arnold.
[Looks compassionately at her.] Have you never had a child?
Yes, I have had many children.
And where are your children now?