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?