Nicola appears at the top of the steps R., with a carpet bag. He descends; places it respectfully before Bluntschli; and waits for further orders. General amazement. Nicola, unconscious of the effect he is producing, looks perfectly satisfied with himself. When Petkoff recovers his power of speech, he breaks out at him with.] Are you mad, Nicola?
NICOLA. [Taken aback.] Sir?
PETKOFF. What have you brought that for?
NICOLA. My lady’s orders, sir. Louka told me that—
CATHERINE. [Interrupting him.] My orders! Why should I order you to bring Captain Bluntschli’s luggage out here? What are you thinking of, Nicola?
NICOLA. [After a moment’s bewilderment, picking up the bag as he addresses Bluntschli with the very perfection of servile discretion.] I beg your pardon, sir, I am sure. [To Catherine.] My fault, madam! I hope you’ll overlook it! [He bows, and is going to the steps with the bag, when Petkoff addresses him angrily.]
PETKOFF. You’d better go and slam that bag, too, down on Miss Raina’s ice pudding! [This is too much for Nicola. The bag drops from his hands on Petkoff’s corns, eliciting a roar of anguish from him.] Begone, you butter-fingered donkey.
NICOLA. [Snatching up the bag, and escaping into the house.] Yes, sir.
CATHERINE. Oh, never mind, Paul, don’t be angry!
PETKOFF. [Muttering.] Scoundrel. He’s got out of hand while I was away. I’ll teach him. [Recollecting his guest.] Oh, well, never mind. Come, Bluntschli, lets have no more nonsense about you having to go away. You know very well you’re not going back to Switzerland yet. Until you do go back you’ll stay with us.
RAINA. Oh, do, Captain Bluntschli.
PETKOFF. [To Catherine.] Now, Catherine, it’s of you that he’s afraid. Press him and he’ll stay.
CATHERINE. Of course I shall be only too delighted if. [Appealingly.] Captain Bluntschli really wishes to stay. He knows my wishes.
BLUNTSCHLI. [In his driest military manner.] I am at madame’s orders.
SERGIUS. [Cordially.] That settles it!
PETKOFF. [Heartily.] Of course!
RAINA. You see, you must stay!
BLUNTSCHLI. [Smiling.] Well, If I must, I must! [Gesture of despair from Catherine.]
ACT III
In the library after lunch. It is not much of a library, its literary equipment consisting of a single fixed shelf stocked with old paper-covered novels, broken backed, coffee stained, torn and thumbed, and a couple of little hanging shelves with a few gift books on them, the rest of the wall space being occupied by trophies of war and the chase. But it is a most comfortable sitting-room. A row of three large windows in the front of the house shew a mountain panorama, which is just now seen in one of its softest aspects in the mellowing afternoon light. In the left hand corner, a square earthenware stove, a perfect tower of colored pottery, rises nearly to the ceiling and guarantees plenty of warmth. The ottoman in the middle is a circular bank of decorated cushions, and the window seats are well upholstered divans. Little Turkish tables, one of them with an elaborate hookah on it, and a screen to match them, complete the handsome effect of the furnishing. There is one object, however, which is hopelessly out of keeping with its surroundings. This is a small kitchen table, much the worse for wear, fitted as a writing table with an old canister full of pens, an eggcup filled with ink, and a deplorable scrap of severely used pink blotting paper.
At the side of this table, which stands on the right, Bluntschli is hard at work, with a couple of maps before him, writing orders. At the head of it sits Sergius, who is also supposed to be at work, but who is actually gnawing the feather of a pen, and contemplating Bluntschli’s quick, sure, businesslike progress with a mixture of envious irritation at his own incapacity, and awestruck wonder at an ability which seems to him almost miraculous, though its prosaic character forbids him to esteem it. The major is comfortably established on the ottoman, with a newspaper in his hand and the tube of the hookah within his reach. Catherine sits at the stove, with her back to them, embroidering. Raina, reclining on the divan under the left hand window, is gazing in a daydream out at the Balkan landscape, with a neglected novel in her lap.
The door is on the left. The button of the electric bell is between the door and the fireplace.
PETKOFF. [Looking up from his paper to watch how they are getting on at the table.] Are you sure I can’t help you in any way, Bluntschli?
BLUNTSCHLI. [Without interrupting his writing or looking up.] Quite sure, thank you. Saranoff and I will manage it.
SERGIUS. [Grimly.] Yes: we’ll manage it. He finds out what to do; draws up the orders; and I sign ’em. Division of labour, Major. [Bluntschli passes him a paper.] Another one? Thank you. [He plants the papers squarely before him; sets his chair carefully parallel to them; and signs with the air of a man resolutely performing a difficult and dangerous feat.] This hand is more accustomed to the sword than to the pen.
PETKOFF. It’s very good of you, Bluntschli, it is indeed, to let yourself be put upon in this way. Now are you quite sure I can do nothing?
CATHERINE. [In a low, warning tone.] You can stop interrupting, Paul.
PETKOFF. [Starting and looking round at her.] Eh? Oh! Quite right, my love, quite right. [He takes his newspaper up, but lets it drop again.] Ah, you haven’t been campaigning, Catherine: you don’t know how pleasant it is for us to sit here, after a good lunch, with nothing to do but enjoy ourselves. There’s only one thing I want to make me thoroughly comfortable.
CATHERINE. What is that?
PETKOFF. My old coat. I’m not at home in this one: I feel as if I were on parade.
CATHERINE. My dear Paul, how absurd you are about that old coat! It must be hanging in the blue closet where you left it.
PETKOFF. My dear Catherine, I tell you I’ve looked there. Am I to believe my own eyes or not? [Catherine quietly rises and presses the button of the electric bell by the fireplace.] What are you shewing off that bell for? [She looks at him majestically, and silently resumes her chair and her needlework.] My dear: if you think the obstinacy of your sex can make a coat out of two old dressing gowns of Raina’s, your waterproof, and my mackintosh, you’re mistaken. That’s exactly what the blue closet contains at present. [Nicola presents himself.]
CATHERINE. [Unmoved by Petkoff’s sally.] Nicola: go to the blue closet and bring your master’s old coat here—the braided one he usually wears in the house.
NICOLA. Yes, madam. [Nicola goes out.]
PETKOFF. Catherine.
CATHERINE. Yes, Paul?
PETKOFF. I bet you any piece of jewellery you like to order from Sophia against a week’s housekeeping money, that the coat isn’t there.
CATHERINE. Done, Paul.
PETKOFF. [Excited by the prospect of a gamble.] Come: here’s an opportunity for some sport. Who’ll bet on it? Bluntschli: I’ll give you six to one.
BLUNTSCHLI. [Imperturbably.] It would be robbing you, Major. Madame
