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MAGDA

A Play In Four Acts

By

HERMANN SUDERMANN

Translated from the German by

CHARLES EDWARD AMORY WINSLOW

Copyright, 1895, by
Lamson, Wolffe and Company.

Assignment of above Copyright to
Emanuel Lederer,
13 West 42d Street, New York City,
recorded in Assignment Book
V. 21 Page 143, June 8,1899, Washington, D. C.

CAUTION.-Professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States Government, and nobody is allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 24 West 22d Street, New York City, U. S. A.

Copyright, 1895,
By Lamson, Wolffe, and Company.

MAGDA

CHARACTERS

Lieutenant-Colonel Leopold Schwartz.
Pastor Heffterdingt
Dr. Von Kellner
Max
Major-General Von Klebs
Prof. Beckmann
Mrs. Schwartz, the stepmother

Franziska
Mrs. General Von Klebs
Mrs. Justice Ellrich
Mrs. Schumann
Theresa, the Schwartzs' maid

SYNOPSIS

Note.

Herr Hermann Sudermann has achieved surprising success in passing from novel-writing to dramatic authorship. He has a style of the utmost distinction, and is well skilled in technique. His masterpiece, "Heimat," is absolutely original. No play has ever produced a more impressive effect upon German audiences. When it ceases to be performed, it will still hold a permanent and important place in the libraries of dramatic literature. Though a psychological study, there is no concentration of attention upon morbid conditions. All these have passed before the play begins. There is no passion for mere passion's sake. Its development proceeds from the energies of circumstances and character. Herr Sudermann, unlike some of the new dramatists, is not lacking in humor; and the snobbishness, stuffy etiquette, and scandal-mongering of a provincial town are well illustrated by the minor characters. Into this atmosphere comes the whirlwind from the outer world with fatal effect. It is scarcely possible to conceive more varied and intense emotions naturally and even inevitably evolved from the action of a single day. The value of the drama lies in the sharp contrasts between the New and the Old, alternately commanding, in their strife, the adhesion of the spectator or reader. The preparation for the return of "The Prodigal Daughter" occupies an entire act, and invests her entrance with an interest which increases until the tremendous climax. Yet the proud martinet father commands our respect and sympathy; and the Pastor, in his enlightened self-conquest, is the antithesis alike of the narrowness and lawlessness of parent and child, and remains the hero of the swift tragedy. It is not uncommon that the scrupulousness attending circumstances where partiality would be a natural impulse, makes criticism even unusually exacting. It is believed that in this spirit the present translation may be somewhat confidently characterized as being both spirited and faithful.

E. W.

The Oxford.

January, 1896.

Persons.

Place. The principal city of a province.
Time. The present.

MAGDA.

ACT I.

Scene. Living-room in house of Lieutenant-Colonel Schwartze, furnished in simple and old-fashioned style. Left, at back, a glass door with white curtains through which the dining-room is seen. There is also a hall door, through which a staircase to the upper story is visible. Right, a corner window, with white curtains, surrounded by ivy. Left, a door to the Lieutenant-Colonel's room. Steel engravings of a religious and patriotic character, in tarnished gold frames, photographs of military groups, and cases of butterflies on the walls. Right, over the sofa, among other pictures, is the portrait of the first Mrs. Schwartze, young and charming, in the costume of the sixties. Behind the sofa, an old-fashioned desk. Before the window, a small table with workbox and hand sewing-machine. At the back, between the doors, an old-fashioned tall clock. In the left-hand corner, a stand with dried grasses; in front, a table with a small aquarium. Left, in front, a corner sofa with a small pipe-cupboard behind it. A stove with a stuffed bird on it; and behind, a bookcase with a bust of the old Emperor William.

[Marie and Theresa discovered. Theresa at the door. Marie is occupied with the sewing-machine.]

THERESA.

Miss Marie!

MARIE.

Well!

THERESA.

Is your father still lying down?

MARIE.

What's the matter? Has any one called?

THERESA.

No, but-- There! Look at that! [Producing a magnificent mass of flowers.]

MARIE.

Good Heavens! Take it to my room quickly, or papa-- But, Theresa, when the first came yesterday, weren't you told not to let any more be left?

THERESA.

I'd have sent the florist's boy away if I could, but I was up on the ladder fixing the flag, and he laid it down and was gone before I could stop him. My, my, though, they're beautiful! and if I might make a guess, the Lieutenant--

MARIE.

You may not make a guess.

THERESA.

All right, all right. Oh, I know what I wanted to ask. Does the flag hang well? [Marie looks out, and nods assent.]

THERESA.

The whole town is full of flags and flowers, and the most expensive tapestries are hung out of the windows. One would think it was the King's birthday. And all this fuss is about a stupid Music Festival! What is this Music Festival, Miss Marie? Is it different from a choral festival?

MARIE.

Yes, indeed.

THERESA.

Is it better?

MARIE.

Oh, much better!

THERESA.

Oh, well, if it's better-- [A knock.]

MARIE.

Come in! Enter Max.

THERESA.

Well, now I suppose I can leave the flowers.

[Exit Theresa, laughing.

MARIE.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Max.

MAX.

What on earth do you mean?

MARIE.

Aren't these flowers yours?

MAX.

Good Heavens! I can afford a few pennies for a bunch of violets once in a while, but this-- Oh, no!

MARIE.

Nor yesterday's?

MAX.

No, nor yesterday's. [Marie rings.]

Enter Theresa.

MARIE.

Please throw these flowers away.

THERESA.

What! Throw those beautiful flowers away?

MARIE.

You are right. The pastor would say, "If God's gifts do not please us, we must at least take care that they give pleasure to others." Wouldn't he?

MAX.

Probably he would.

MARIE.

Then you had better take them back to the florist's. Did they come from Zimmerman's? [Theresa nods.] Well, we'll sell them if we can, and give the money to Pastor Heffterdingt for his hospital.

THERESA.

Shall I go now?

MARIE.

After you have made the coffee. I'll serve it myself. [Exit Theresa.] These flowers are an insult! I need not tell you, Max, that I have given no one the shadow of an excuse for such a thing.

MAX.

I'm very sure of that.

MARIE.

And papa was so angry. He simply stormed. And I was quiet because I suspected it was you. If he got hold of the poor fellow, it would go hard with him.

MAX.

Do you think it would be any better if I got hold of him?

MARIE.

What rights have you in the case?

MAX.

Marie! [Takes her hand.]

MARIE.

[Gently disengaging herself.] Oh, Max, please--not that. You know every corner of my heart. But we must think of the proprieties.

MAX.

Proprieties! Oh, pshaw!

MARIE.

Well, you know what a world we live in. Here, every one is afraid of every one else because each depends upon the good opinion of the other. If a few anonymous flowers can make me talked of, how much more--

MAX.

Oh, yes, I know.

MARIE.

[Laying her hand on his shoulder.] Max, you'll speak again to Aunt Frankie, won't you, about the guaranty[1] of your income?

MAX.

I have already.

MARIE.

Well?

MAX.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] As long as she lives, not a penny.

MARIE.

Then there's only one person who can help us.

MAX.

Your father?

MARIE.

No. For Heaven's sake, don't let him hear of it. He might forbid you the house.

MAX.

What has he against me?

MARIE.

You know how he has been since our misfortune. He feels that there is a blot to be wiped out; and especially now, when the whole town echoes with music,--when everything recalls Magda.

MAX.

What if she should come back, some day?

MARIE.

After twelve years? She will never come.

[Weeps.]

MAX.

Marie!

MARIE.

You're right, you're right. I will put it away from me.

MAX.

But who is the one person who can help us?

MARIE.

Why, the pastor!

MAX.

Yes, yes, he might.

MARIE.

He can do everything. He stirs your very heart--as if-- And then he seems like a kind of relation. He should have been my brother-in-law.

MAX.

Yes, but she wouldn't have it so.

MARIE.

Don't speak angrily, Max. She must have made atonement. [A ring.] Oh, perhaps this is he.

MAX.

No, no, I forgot to tell you. Councillor von Keller asked me to bring him here to-day.

MARIE.

What does he want?

MAX.

He wants to interest himself in the missions--no, it's in our home work particularly, I think. I don't know-- Well, at any rate he wants to come to the committee meeting tomorrow.

MARIE.

I'll call father and mother. [Enter Theresa with a card.] Show him in. [Exit Theresa.] Entertain him until I come back. [Gives him her hand.] And we'll talk again about the pastor some other time?

MAX.

In spite of the proprieties?

MARIE.

Oh, Max, I've been too forward! Haven't I?

MAX.

Marie!

MARIE.

No, no--we won't speak of it. Good-by.

[Exit Marie.

Enter Von Keller.

MAX.

You must content yourself with me for a few minutes, my dear Von Keller. [They shake hands.]

VON KELLER.

With pleasure, my good sir, with pleasure. [Sits.] How our little town is changed by the festival! It really seems as if we were in the great world.

MAX.

[Laughing.] I advise you not to say that aloud.

VON KELLER.

What did I say? I assure you I did not mean anything. If such a misunderstanding got abroad--

MAX.

You have nothing to fear from me!

VON KELLER.

Oh, of course not. Ah, how much better it would be to know nothing of the outer world!

MAX.

How long were you away?

VON KELLER.

Five years, with examinations and being sent down to commissioners and all that. Well, now I am back again. I drink home-brewed beer; I patronize local tailors; I have even, with a noble fearlessness of death, eaten the deer-steak of the season; and this I call pleasure! Yes, youth, travel, and women are good things; but the world must be ruled, and sober men are needed. Your time will come some day. The years of honor are approaching. Yes, yes, especially when one joins the ecclesiastical courts.

MAX.

Are you going to do that?

VON KELLER.

I think of it. And to be at one with those of the cloth-- I speak quite openly with you--it is worth my while, in short, to interest myself in religious questions. I have of late in my speeches, as perhaps you know, taken this position; and as for the connections which this household has--let me tell you I am proud of them.

MAX.

You might have been proud long ago.

VON KELLER.

Excuse me, am I over-sensitive? Or do I read a reproach in your words?

MAX.

Not quite that, but--if you will pardon me, it has sometimes appeared--and not to me alone--as if you avoided the houses where my uncle's family were to be found.

VON KELLER.

And my presence here now--does not that prove the contrary?

MAX.

Exactly. And therefore I too will speak very frankly. You were the last person to meet my lost cousin, Magda.

VON KELLER.

[Confused.] Who says--

MAX.

You yourself have spoken of it, I am told. You met her with my friend Heydebrand when he was at the military academy.

VON KELLER.

Yes, yes, it's true.

MAX.

It was wrong of me not to ask you about her openly, but you will probably understand my reticence. I feel almost as if I belonged to this family and I feared to learn something which might disgrace it.

VON KELLER.

Oh, not at all, not in the least. It was like this. When I was in Berlin for the State Examinations, I saw one day on Leipsic Street a familiar face,--a home face, if I may say so. You know what that is when one is far away. Well, we spoke to each other. I learned that she was studying to sing in opera, and that for this purpose she had left her home.

MAX.

Not exactly. She left home to be companion to an old lady. [Hesitates.] There was a difference with her father.

VON KELLER.

A love affair?

MAX.

In a way. Her father supported the suitor and told her to obey or leave his house.

VON KELLER.

And she went away?

MAX.

Yes. Then, a year later, when she wrote that she was going on the stage, it made the breach complete. But what else did you hear?

VON KELLER.

That's all.

MAX.

Nothing else?

VON KELLER.

Well, well,--I met her once or twice at the opera-house where she had a pass.

MAX.

And you know absolutely nothing of her life?

VON KELLER.

[With a shrug.] Have you heard nothing from her?

MAX.

Nothing at all. Well, at any rate, I am grateful to you. I beg you, however, not to mention the meeting to my uncle, unless he asks you about it directly. He knows of it, of course, but the name of the lost daughter is never mentioned in this house.

VON KELLER.

Oh, I have tact enough not to do that.

MAX.

And what do you think has become of her?

VON KELLER.

Oh, music is a lottery. Ten thousand blanks and one prize. A host of beginners and but one who makes a career. If one becomes a Patti or a Sembrich, or, to come down to our own Festival--

Enter Schwartze and Mrs. Schwartze.

SCHWARTZE.

[Shaking hands.] Welcome to my house! Councillor von Keller, my wife.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Pray sit down.

VON KELLER.

I should not have dared, madam, to ask the honor of this introduction had I not wished so strongly to share in the good and useful work which centres here. My purpose may excuse my temerity.

SCHWARTZE.

You're very kind; but you do us too much honor. If you seek the centre of the whole movement, Pastor Heffterdingt is the man. He inspires all; he controls all; he--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Do you know our pastor, sir?

VON KELLER.

I have heard him speak many times, dear lady, and have admired equally the sincerity of his convictions and his naïve faith in human nature. But I cannot comprehend the influence he exerts.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You will find it out. He is so plain and simple that one hardly realizes what a man he is. He brings every one round.

VON KELLER.

I am almost converted already, dear lady.

SCHWARTZE.

As for us here, all I can do is to give these weak and useless hands to help on the great work. It's only right that an old soldier should dedicate the little strength left him by the throne to the service of the altar. Those are the two causes to fight for.

VON KELLER.

That's a great thought!

SCHWARTZE.

Thanks, thanks, but no more of this. Ah, ten years ago, when they gave me my discharge, I was a devil of a fellow. Max, doesn't my old battalion still tremble at my name?

MAX.

That they do, uncle.

SCHWARTZE.

Ah, that is one thing you escape in the civil service,--being laid on the shelf without any fault of your own,--without the shadow of a fault. Then there came a slight stroke of apoplexy. See how my hand trembles now! And what had I to look forward to? It was then that my young friend, Heffterdingt, showed me the way, through work and prayer, to a new youth. Without him I never should have found it.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You mustn't believe all he says, Mr. von Keller. If he didn't always depreciate himself, he would be better thought of in the highest circles.

VON KELLER.

High and low, madam, everywhere your husband is known and honored.

SCHWARTZE.

[Lighting up.] Indeed? Ah, well, no vanity. No, no, that is the moth that corrupts.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Is it really so wrong to wish for a little honor?

VON KELLER.

Oh!

SCHWARTZE.

What is honor? You would call it being led up the room by the governor, or being asked to tea at the castle when the royal family is here.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You know very well that the latter honor has never fallen to my lot.

SCHWARTZE.

Oh, yes, pardon me. I knew your weak spot. I should have avoided it.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Yes, just think, Councillor, Mrs. Fanny Hirschfeld of the Children's Hospital was invited, and I was not.

VON KELLER.

[Deprecatingly.] Oh!

SCHWARTZE.

[Laughing, and stroking her head.] Ah, the moth that corrupts, the moth that corrupts! [Enter Marie with the coffee. She bows in a friendly way to Von Keller.] Herr von Keller, my daughter--my only daughter.

VON KELLER.

I've already had the pleasure.

MARIE.

I can't offer you a hand for welcome, Dr. Von Keller, but you may have a cup of coffee instead.

VON KELLER.

[Helping himself and looking at the others.] I am very fortunate in being treated like an old acquaintance of the family.

SCHWARTZE.

As far as we are concerned, you shall become not only an acquaintance but a friend. And that is no conventional politeness, Councillor; for I know you, and in these times, when all the ties of morality and authority seem strained to bursting, it is doubly necessary that those who stand for the good old patriarchal order should hold together.

VON KELLER.

Very true, very true indeed. One doesn't hear such sentiments as that in the world in general, where modern ideas pass current for small change.

SCHWARTZE.

Modern ideas! Oh, pshaw! I know them. But come into the quiet homes where are bred brave soldiers and virtuous wives. There you'll hear no talk about heredity, no arguments about individuality, no scandalous gossip. There modern ideas have no foothold, for it is there that the life and strength of the Fatherland abide. Look at this home! There is no luxury,--hardly even what you call good taste,--faded rugs, birchen chairs, old pictures; and yet when you see the beams of the western sun pour through the white curtains and lie with such a loving touch on the old room, does not something say to you, "Here dwells true happiness"? [Von Keller nods with conviction.]

SCHWARTZE.

[Broodingly.] And here it might have dwelt!

MARIE.

[Hurrying to him.] Papa!

SCHWARTZE.

Yes, yes, I know. Well, in this house rules old-fashioned paternal authority. And it shall rule as long as I live. And am I therefore a tyrant? Tell me. You ought to know.

MARIE.

You're the best, the dearest--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

He is so excitable, you see, Councillor.

SCHWARTZE.

Have you not been well brought up? And shall we not hold together, we three? But the age goes on planting rebellion in children's hearts, putting mistrust between man and wife [rises], and it will never be satisfied till the last roof-tree smokes in ruins, and men wander about the streets, fearful and alone, like homeless curs. [Sinks back exhausted.]

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You ought not to get so wrought up, papa. You know it is bad for you. [Max makes a sign to Von Keller.]

VON KELLER.

Shall I go? [Max nods.] This is an interesting subject to develop, Colonel. I must say I think perhaps you are a little severe. But my time--

SCHWARTZE.

Severe? Ah, well, don't think ill of an old man for speaking a little too hotly.

VON KELLER.

Ah, sir, heat is the badge of youth. I believe I am a graybeard beside you.

SCHWARTZE.

No, no. [Presses his hand.]

VON KELLER.

Madam! Miss Marie! [Exit. Max follows him.]

SCHWARTZE.

Greet the battalion for me, my boy.

MAX.

I will, dear uncle. [Exit.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

A very agreeable man.

MARIE.

Almost too agreeable.

SCHWARTZE.

You are speaking of our guest! [Mrs. Schwartze makes Marie a sign to be careful.]

MARIE.

Will you have your pipe, papa?

SCHWARTZE.

Yes, dear.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

The gentlemen of the card-club will be here soon. How lucky that we didn't eat the haunch of venison Sunday! I've ordered some red wine for the General, too. I paid three marks; that's not too dear, is it?

SCHWARTZE.

Not if it's good. Is your sister coming to-day?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

I think so.

SCHWARTZE.

She was asked to the Governor's yesterday, wasn't she?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

[Sighing.] Yes.

SCHWARTZE.

And we were not. Poor thing! She must look out for me to-day if she boasts. [Aside] Old cat!

MARIE.

[Kneels before him, lighting his pipe.] Be good, father dear. What harm does it do you?

SCHWARTZE.

Yes, yes, darling. I'll be good. But my heart is sore. [Bell rings. Marie hurries out.]

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Here they are.

Enter Major-general Von Klebs, Professor Beckmann, and Marie.

VON KLEBS.

My humblest respects to the ladies. Ah, my dear madam! [Kisses her hand.]

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Make yourselves at home, gentlemen.

VON KLEBS.

Ha, my dear Colonel, hearty as ever? All ready for the fray, little one? Now we are all right. But we were almost too late. We were caught in the Music Festival crowd. Such a confusion! I was bringing the schoolmaster along, and just as we passed by the German House, there was a great crush of people, gaping as if there were a princess at the least. And what do you suppose it was? A singer! These are really what one may call goings-on. All this fuss about a singer! What do they call the person?

BECKMANN.

Ah, General, we seem to be in a strange land to-day.

VON KLEBS.

We are under a curse, my dear madam. We are bearing a penance. [They sit.]

BECKMANN.

But you must know dall' Orto, the great Italian Wagner singer. We are very fortunate in getting her for the festival. If she were not here--

VON KLEBS.

Well, well, what if she were not? Eh? I hoped that our strictly moral circle, at least, would hold itself aloof from all this. But since the Governor gives receptions in the lady's honor! And, best of all, to cap the climax, who do you think was standing to-day among the enthusiasts, craning his neck like the rest? You'll never guess. It's too inconceivable. The pastor!

SCHWARTZE.

The pastor?

VON KLEBS.

Yes, our pastor.

SCHWARTZE.

How extraordinary!

VON KLEBS.

Now, I ask you, what did he want there? And what did the others want there? And what good is the whole festival?

BECKMANN.

I should think that the cultivation of the faculty of the ideal among the people was an object--

VON KLEBS.

The way to cultivate the faculty of the ideal is to found a Soldiers' Union.

SCHWARTZE.

But, General, every one isn't so lucky as to be a soldier.

VON KLEBS.

[Sorting his cards.] Well, we have been, Colonel. I know no one, I wish to know no one, who has not been a soldier. And all this so-called Art,--what good does it do?

BECKMANN.

Art raises the moral tone of the people.

VON KLEBS.

There we have it, madam!--We're beaten, beaten by the hero of Königgrätz.--I tell you Art is a mere invention of those who are afraid to be soldiers to gain an important position for themselves. I pass.

SCHWARTZE.

I pass.

BECKMANN.

And will you maintain that Art-- I have the nine of spades.

[Bell rings. Exit Marie. Von Klebs makes an impatient movement. Schwartze quiets him. They begin to play.]

Enter Franziska, followed by the Pastor.

VON KLEBS.

Ah, Miss Franziska! [Aside] That is the end of us!

SCHWARTZE.

No, no, we'll send her into the garden.

FRANZISKA.

[Throwing herself into a chair.] Oh, I am so hot! I must get my breath. Pray don't put yourself out, General.

BECKMANN.

Nine of spades!

VON KLEBS.

Hello, here's the pastor too!

HEFFTERDINGT.

Good-day to you! [He shakes hands with each.]

VON KLEBS.

How long have you been running after the singers. Pastor?

HEFFTERDINGT.

What? Oh, yes. Yes, I am running after singers. That's my occupation now.

SCHWARTZE.

You can play with our card party though, can't you?

HEFFTERDINGT.

Unfortunately, no. I must, on the contrary, ask for a few serious words with you, my dear sir.

VON KLEBS.

Ah, but you'll put it off, won't you, Pastor?

FRANZISKA.

Oh, for Heaven's sake! It's so important. There must be no delay.

SCHWARTZE.

Is my sister-in-law in it too?

FRANZISKA.

Very much so.

VON KLEBS.

Oh, well, we can go away again.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Oh, we shouldn't like that at all.

SCHWARTZE.

If it were not you, dear pastor, who separated us!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

But perhaps, Marie, the gentlemen would be willing to take a turn with you in the garden.

VON KLEBS.

Certainly! That's good! That's famous! That's what we'll do! Miss Marie, be so good as to lead the way.

BECKMANN.

Shall we leave the cards as they lie?

VON KLEBS.

Yes, you have the nine of spades. Come on.

[Exit Von Klebs, Beckmann, and Marie.

SCHWARTZE.

Well?

FRANZISKA.

Good Lord, don't you see how upset I am? You might at least give me a glass of water. [MRS. Schwartze brings it.]

HEFFTERDINGT.

Will you promise me, my dear sir, that whatever may happen you will preserve your calmness? You may believe me, much depends upon it.

SCHWARTZE.

Yes, yes; but what--

HEFFTERDINGT.

Miss Franziska will tell you better.

FRANZISKA.

[After drinking the water.] This is a day indeed! Fate is avenging me. This man has for years outraged my holiest feelings, but today I can heap coals of fire on his head. [Moved.] Brother-in-law, give me your hand. Sister, yours.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Pardon me, dear Miss Franziska, I think your news is so important that--

FRANZISKA.

[Melting.] Don't be angry, don't be angry. I am so upset! Well, yesterday I was at the Governor's. Only the nobility and the most important people were asked. You weren't asked?

SCHWARTZE.

[Angrily.] No.

FRANZISKA.

I did not mean to offend you. Oh, I am so upset! [Suppressing a sob at a sign from the Pastor.] Yes, yes, yes. I had on my yellow silk dress with the Brussels lace--you know I've had the train shortened. Well, as I stepped into the room--whom do you think I saw?

SCHWARTZE.

Well, well, who?

FRANZISKA.

[Sobbing.] Your child! Magdalene!

[Schwartze staggers, and is supported by the Pastor. Mrs. Schwartze cries out. A pause.]

SCHWARTZE.

Pastor?

HEFFTERDINGT.

It is true.

SCHWARTZE.

[Standing up.] Magdalene is no longer my child.

FRANZISKA.

Ah, just wait. If you listen, you'll look at it in quite another light. Such a child you will welcome with open arms.

SCHWARTZE.

Magdalene is no longer my child.

HEFFTERDINGT.

But you may at least hear the circumstances.

SCHWARTZE.

[Dazed.] Yes, I suppose so.

FRANZISKA.

[At a sign from Heffterdingt.] Well, the great dining-hall was crammed. They were almost all strangers. Then I saw his Excellency coming down the room. And on his arm was a lady--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

On his Excellency's arm?

FRANZISKA.

With dark hair, and very proud and tall--and around her a crowd of men just like the circle about royalty--and chatting and laughing. And any one to whom she spoke seemed as happy as if it were the Princess. And she wore half a dozen orders, and an orange band with a medal about her neck. I was wondering what royal personage it could be--when she turned half around--and--I knew Magda's eyes!

SCHWARTZE.

Impossible!

FRANZISKA.

That is what I saw!

HEFFTERDINGT.

My dear Colonel, it is true.

SCHWARTZE.

If she-- [Clasping his hands.] At least she has not fallen! She has not fallen! Father in Heaven, Thou hast kept her safely!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

And what is she, to have such honor--

HEFFTERDINGT.

She has become a great singer, and calls herself, in Italian, Maddalene dall' Orto.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Listen, listen, Leopold, the famous singer of whom the papers are so full is our child!

SCHWARTZE.

Magda is no longer my child.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Is that your fixed resolve?

FRANZISKA.

What sort of a heart have you? You ought to imitate me. She offended me as only she could,--the little wretch! That is, then she was a little wretch. But now--well, she did not look at me; but if she had--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Leopold, she was on his Excellency's arm!

SCHWARTZE.

I tell you, and you,--and you, too, Pastor,--that I would rather have seen her lying in rags and tatters at my feet and begging for forgiveness. For then I should have known that she was still, at heart, my child. But why has she come back here? The world was large enough for her triumph. Why should she rob this humble provincial nest of ours? I know why. To show her miserable father how far one can rise in the world by treading filial duty into the dust,--that is her intention. Pride and arrogance speak in her, and nothing else.

HEFFTERDINGT.

My dear Colonel, I might ask, what speaks in you? A father's love? You could make no pretence to that. Your rights? I think rather it would be your right to rejoice in the good fortune of your child. Offended custom? I don't know-- Your daughter has done so much through her own strength that even offended custom might at least condone it. It appears to me that pride and arrogance speak in you--and nothing else.

SCHWARTZE.

[Angrily.] Pastor!

HEFFTERDINGT.

Oh, don't be angry--there is no need of that. When I have something to say, I must say it, mustn't I? I might almost think that it displeased you that she has climbed so high in spite of you. Your pride demands something to forgive, and you are angry because there is nothing to be forgiven. And now, let me ask you, do you seriously wish that she had found her way home, lost and ruined? Do you dare answer for such a wish before the throne of God? [A silence.] No, my dear old friend. You have often, in jest, called me your good angel; let me be so once, in reality. Come with me--now--to-day.

FRANZISKA.

If you'd only seen-- [Heffterdingt stops her.]

SCHWARTZE.

Has she made the slightest effort to approach her parents? Has she thought of her home with one throb of love? Who will vouch for it that my outstretched hand will not be repulsed with scorn?

HEFFTERDINGT.

I will vouch for it.

SCHWARTZE.

You? You, above all, have had a proof of her untamable pride.

HEFFTERDINGT.

[With embarrassment.] You should not have reminded me of that.

Enter Marie with flowers, and Theresa.

MARIE.

Papa, papa, listen to what Theresa-- Oh! am I interrupting?

SCHWARTZE.

[Pulling himself together.] What is it?

MARIE.

To-day I got some more flowers; and when I sent Theresa back to the florist's, she found out it was not a man, but a lady, who had ordered them. And she couldn't sell them again; so she brought them back. [The others exchange glances.]

HEFFTERDINGT.

Tell me, Theresa, did they describe this lady to you?

THERESA.

She was tall, with great dark eyes, and there was something very distinguished and foreign about her.

HEFFTERDINGT.

[Leads Marie to the back of the stage, and lays his hand on Schwartze's arm.] You asked for a token of love!

SCHWARTZE.

[Staring at the flowers.] From her!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

They must have cost a small fortune!

MARIE.

Theresa has something else very wonderful to tell, too.

HEFFTERDINGT.

What is it, Theresa? Quick!

THERESA.

If the pastor wishes it. When I came back, the porter told me that last evening in the twilight a carriage stopped before the door; there was a lady inside. She didn't get out, but kept watching all the windows of our house where there were lights. And when he went out to ask what she wanted, she said something to her coachman, and they were gone! [All show signs of astonishment.]

HEFFTERDINGT.

That's all, Theresa. [Exit Theresa.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Pardon us, dear Miss Marie, if we treat you once more like a child, and ask you to leave us alone for a moment.

MARIE.

I am so frightened at all this, Pastor. [Imploringly.] Papa?

SCHWARTZE.

What is it, child?

MARIE.

Papa, papa, do you know who this lady is?

SCHWARTZE.

I? No. I can only guess.

MARIE.

[Bursting out.] Magdalene--Magda! Magda is here! [Falling on her knees.] Oh, you will forgive her?

SCHWARTZE.

Get up, my child. Your sister is far above my poor forgiveness.

HEFFTERDINGT.

She is not above your love.

MARIE.

Magda is here! Magda herself is here! [Throws her arms about her mother's neck, weeping.]

FRANZISKA.

Won't any one bring me a glass of water? I am so upset!

HEFFTERDINGT.

Are you quite resolved? [Schwartze remains motionless.] Will you let her go on her way without--

SCHWARTZE.

That would be best.

HEFFTERDINGT.

How will it be with you if in your death-hour a longing for your lost child comes upon you, and all you can say to yourself is, "She stood before my door and I would not open it"?

SCHWARTZE.

[Shaken and half convinced.] What would you have me do? Must I abase myself before my runaway child?

HEFFTERDINGT.

No, you shall not do that. I--I--will go to her.

SCHWARTZE.

You? Pastor--you?

HEFFTERDINGT.

This afternoon I waited before her hotel to see if Miss Franziska had not been mistaken. At a quarter to four she came out of the house and got into her carriage.

MARIE.

You saw her?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

How did she look? What did she have on?

HEFFTERDINGT.

The performance began at four, and must be almost over now. I will wait for her again at the hotel, and will tell her that she will find your arms open to her. May I?

MARIE.

Yes, yes, papa, won't you let him?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Just think with whom your daughter--

SCHWARTZE.

Will you swear to me that no weak and personal motives are mixed with your intention,--that you do what you do in the name of our Lord and Saviour?

HEFFTERDINGT.

I swear it!

SCHWARTZE.

Then God's will be done. [Marie gives a cry of joy. Heffterdingt presses Schwartze's hand.]

SCHWARTZE.

[Holding his hand, speaking softly.] The way will be hard for you, I know. Your lost youth--your pride--

HEFFTERDINGT.

Dear Colonel, I begin to think that pride is a very poor sort of thing. It really profits us little to have it always in our mouths. I am giving back a daughter to an old father. I am giving back a home to an erring soul. That, I think, is enough. [Exit. Marie throws herself on her father's breast, laughing and crying.]

ACT II.

Scene same as Act I. It is evening; only a slight glow of sunset still shines through the windows.

[Marie and Theresa discovered.]

THERESA.

[Bringing in a lighted lamp.] Miss Marie! Miss Marie!--What is she staring at all the time? Miss Marie!

MARIE [starting.]

[From the window.] What do you want?

THERESA.

Shall I lay the supper?

MARIE.

Not yet.

THERESA.

It's half-past seven.

MARIE.

And he left at half-past six. The performance must have been over long ago. She will not come.

THERESA.

Who? Is any one coming to supper?

MARIE.

No, no, no. [As Theresa is going.] Theresa! do you suppose you could pick a couple of bouquets in the garden?

THERESA.

I might try, but I couldn't tell what I was getting. It's almost pitch dark.

MARIE.

Yes, yes. You may go.

THERESA.

Shall I try to pick the flowers, or--

MARIE.

No--thank you, no.

THERESA.

[Aside.] What is the matter with her?

[Exit.

Enter Mrs. Schwartze.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Well, Marie, whatever happens I've put on my other cap,--the one with the ribbons. Is it straight?

MARIE.

Yes, mamma dear, very nice.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Hasn't Aunt Frankie come up yet?

MARIE.

No.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Heavens! I forgot the two gentlemen entirely. And papa has locked himself up, and will hear nothing and see nothing. Oh, if the General should be offended! It is our most aristocratic connection. That would be a misfortune indeed.

MARIE.

Oh, mamma dear, when he hears what is the matter!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Yes, yes, I know. And the pastor has not come either. Marie, one minute. If she should ask you--

MARIE.

Who?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Why, Magda.

MARIE.

Magda!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

What am I to you, Marie? They call it stepmother. I'm more than that, am I not?

MARIE.

Certainly, mamma dear.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You see, then I could not get used to having two such big daughters. But it's all right now? [Marie nods.] And we do love each other?

MARIE.

Very much, mamma dear. [She kisses her.] Enter Franziska.

FRANZISKA.

[Irritably.] One's always disturbing these affecting tableaux!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

What did the General say?

FRANZISKA.

The General? H'm, he was angry enough. "To leave us alone for an hour and a half, that's nice courtesy," he said. And I think myself--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

[To Marie, very sadly.] There, what did I tell you?

FRANZISKA.

Well, this time I smoothed the thing over, so that the gentlemen went away in a good humor.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Really! Oh, I thank you, Frankie, a thousand times.

FRANZISKA.

Yes, I'm good enough to run errands and play the scullery-maid; but when it comes to being one of the family, an old aunt with her heart full of love--

MARIE.

Who has offended you, Aunt Frankie?

FRANZISKA.

Yes, that's very fine. But a little while ago, when I was so upset, no one troubled himself about me one bit. To guarantee an income so that our little miss can be married, I am--

MARIE.

Aunt Frankie!

FRANZISKA.

But as long as I live--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

What are you talking about?

FRANZISKA.

We know, we two. And to-day. Who brought back your daughter to you?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

But she hasn't yet--

FRANZISKA.

I brought back your daughter to you. And who thanks me for it? And who recognizes that I have pardoned her? For I have pardoned her [weeping] everything!

Enter Theresa, in great excitement.

MARIE.

What is it, Theresa?

THERESA.

I am so frightened--

MARIE.

What's the matter?

THERESA.

The carriage--

MARIE.

What carriage?

THERESA.

The same as last night.

MARIE.

Is it there? Is it there? [Runs to the window.] Mamma, mamma, come, she's there--the carriage--

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Why, there is a carriage.

MARIE.

[Beating on the door at the left.] Papa, papa! Come quickly, be merciful, come quickly!

[Exit Theresa at a sign from Franziska.] Enter Schwartze.

SCHWARTZE.

What's the matter?

MARIE.

Magda--the carriage!

SCHWARTZE.

Good God! [Hurries to the window.]

MARIE.

Look--look! She's standing up! She's trying to look into the windows. [Clapping her hands.] Papa! papa!

SCHWARTZE.

What is it you have to say?

MARIE.

[Frightened.] I? Nothing.

SCHWARTZE.

Perhaps you were going to say, "She stood before your door and you would not open it." Eh?

MARIE.

Yes, yes.

SCHWARTZE.

Do you hear, wife? She stands before our door. Shall we--in spite of our pride--shall we call her in?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Oh, Leopold, since everybody thinks so much of her--

MARIE.

Ah! She's driving away!

SCHWARTZE.

No, no, she's not. Come, we will bring her to you.

FRANZISKA.

Yes, yes, bring her to me, too.

[Exit Schwartze and Mrs. Schwartze.

MARIE.

She's sitting back again! If only the carriage doesn't-- What a long time they are! They must have got downstairs. [Frightened, almost beside herself.] There--there--oh, don't go away! Magda! Magda!

FRANZISKA.

Don't scream so! What's the matter?

MARIE.

She's looking round. She's seen them. She's stopping. She's bursting open the door. She's jumped out! Now! Now! She's in father's arms! [Covers her face and sobs.] Oh, Aunt Frankie! Aunt Frankie!

FRANZISKA.

What else could a father do? Since I have forgiven her, he could not--he could not hold out--

MARIE.

She's between father and mother. Oh, how grand she is! She's coming--she's coming. What a homely little thing I shall seem beside her! Oh, I am so frightened! [Leans against the wall, left. A pause. Voices of Magda and her parents are heard outside.]

Enter Magda, brilliantly dressed, with a large mantle, and a Spanish veil on her head. She embraces Marie.

MAGDA.

My puss! My little one! How my little one has grown! My pet--my--[kissing her passionately]. But what's the matter? You're dizzy. Come, sit down. No, no, please sit down. Now. Yes, you must. [Places Marie in an arm-chair.] Dear little hands, dear little hands! [Kneels before her, kissing and stroking her hands.] But they're rough and red, and my darling is pale. There are rings round her eyes.

SCHWARTZE.

[Lays his hand lightly on her shoulder.] Magda, we are here too.

MAGDA.

Yes, yes--I'm entirely--[Standing up, affectionately.] Dear old papa! How white you have become! Dear papa! [Taking his hand.] But what's the matter with your hand? It's trembling.

SCHWARTZE.

Nothing, my child. Don't ask about it.

MAGDA.

H'm--and you've grown handsomer with the years. I can't look at you enough. I shall be very proud with such a handsome papa. But she must get better [indicating Marie]. She's as white as milk. Do you take iron? Eh? You must take iron? [tenderly]. Just to think that I am at home! It seems like a fairy tale. It was a capital idea of yours to call me back without any explanations--senza complimenti--for we've outgrown those silly misunderstandings long ago.

SCHWARTZE.

Misunderstandings!

MAGDA.

I came near driving away. Would not that have been bad of me? But you must acknowledge, I have scratched at the door--very quietly, very modestly--like Lady when she had run away. Where is Lady? Her place is empty. [Whistles.]

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Why, she's been dead seven years!

MAGDA.

Ah, povera bestia--yes, I forgot. And, mamma!--yes, mamma! I haven't looked at you yet. How pretty you've grown! You used to have an air of belated youth about you that was not becoming. But now you're a dear, old little mother. One wants to lay one's head quietly in your lap. I will, too. It'll do me good. Ah, what fine quarrels we used to have! I was a contrary little beast. And you held up your end. But now we'll smoke the pipe of peace, sha'n't we?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

You're joking with me, Magda.

MAGDA.

Sha'n't I? Mayn't I? There, there,--pure love, pure love. We will have nothing but love. We shall be the best of friends.

FRANZISKA.

[ Who has for a long time tried to attract attention.] And we also, eh, my dear Magda?

MAGDA.

Tiens, tiens! [Examines her critically through her lorgnette.] Same as ever. Always active? Always, as of old, the centre of the family?

FRANZISKA.

Oh--

MAGDA.

Well, give us your hand! There. I never could bear you, and shall never learn, I'm afraid. That runs in the blood, doesn't it?

FRANZISKA.

I have already forgiven you.

MAGDA.

Really! Such magnanimity! I hardly-- Do you really forgive everything? From top to bottom? Even that you stirred up my mother against me before she ever came into the house? That you made my father--[Puts her hand to her lips.] Meglio tacere! Meglio tacere!

MARIE.

[Interrupting.] For Heaven's sake, Magda!

MAGDA.

Yes, my darling--nothing, not a word.

FRANZISKA.

She has a fine presence!

MAGDA.

And now let me look about me! Ah, everything's just the same. Not a speck of dust has moved.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

I hope, Magda, that you won't find any specks of dust.

MAGDA.

I'm sure of that, mammina. That wasn't what I meant. Twelve years! Without a trace! Have I dreamed all that comes between?

SCHWARTZE.

You will have a great deal to tell us, Magda.

MAGDA.

[Starting.] What? Well, we will see, we will see. Now I should like-- What would I like? I must sit still for a moment. It all comes over me so. When I think-- From that door to the window, from this table to the old bureau,--that was once my world.

SCHWARTZE.

A world, my child, which one never outgrows, which one never should outgrow--you have always held to that?

MAGDA.

What do you mean? And what a face you make over it! Yes, yes, though--that question came at the right time. I have been a fool! I have been a fool! My dear old papa, this happiness will be short.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Why?

MAGDA.

What do you think of me? Do you think I am as free as I appear? I'm a weary, worn-out drudge who is only fortunate when the lash is on her back.

SCHWARTZE.

Whose drudge? What lash?

MAGDA.

That I can't explain, dear father. You don't know my life. You probably wouldn't understand it, either. Every day, every hour has its work laid out. Ah, well, now I must go back to the hotel.

MARIE.

No, Magda, no.

MAGDA.

Yes, puss, yes. There have been six or seven men there for ever so long, waiting for an audience. But I tell you what, I must have you to-night. Can't you sleep with me?

SCHWARTZE.

Of course. That is--what do you mean--sleep where?

MAGDA.

At the hotel.

SCHWARTZE.

What? You won't stay! You'll put such an affront on us?

MAGDA.

What are you thinking of? I have a whole retinue with me.

SCHWARTZE.

Your father's house is the place for this retinue.

MAGDA.

I don't know. It is rather lively. First, there's Bobo, my parrot, a darling,--he wouldn't be bad; then my pet maid, Giulietta, a little demon,--I can't live without her; then my courier,--he's a tyrant, and the terror of landlords; and then we mustn't forget my teacher.

FRANZISKA.

He's a very old man, I hope.

MAGDA.

No, he's a very young man.

SCHWARTZE.

[After a silence.] Then you must have forgotten your--your dame d'honneur.

MAGDA.

What dame d'honneur?

SCHWARTZE.

You can't travel about from country to country with a young man without--

MAGDA.

Ah! does that disquiet you? I can,--be quite easy,--I can. In my world we don't trouble ourselves about such things.

SCHWARTZE.

What world is that?

MAGDA.

The world I rule, father dear. I have no other. There, whatever I do is right because I do it.

SCHWARTZE.

That is an enviable position. But you are still young. There must be cases when some direction--in short, whose advice do you follow in your transactions?

MAGDA.

There is no one who has the right to advise me, papa dear.

SCHWARTZE.

Well, my child, from this hour your old father claims that right. Theresa! [Theresa answers from outside.] Go to the German House and bring the baggage--

MAGDA.

[Entreatingly.] Pardon, father dear, you forget that my orders are necessary.

SCHWARTZE.

What?--Yes, yes, I forgot. Do what you will, my daughter.

MARIE.

Magda--oh, Magda!

MAGDA.

[Taking her mantle.] Be patient, darling. We'll have a talk soon all to our two selves. And you'll all come to breakfast with me, won't you? We can have a good chat and love each other!--so much!

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

We--breakfast with you?

MAGDA.

I want to have you all under my roof.

SCHWARTZE.

The roof of a hotel?

MAGDA.

Yes, papa dear, I have no other home.

SCHWARTZE.

And this?

MARIE.

Don't you see how you've hurt him?

Enter the Pastor. He stops, and seems to control strong emotion. Magda examines him with her lorgnette.

MAGDA.

He too! Let me see.

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Just think. She is going away again!

HEFFTERDINGT.

I don't know whether I am known to the lady.

MAGDA.

[Mockingly.] You're too modest, Pastor. And now since I have seen you all--[Puts on her mantle.]

SCHWARTZE.

[Quickly, aside.] You must keep her.

HEFFTERDINGT.

I? If you are powerless, how can I--

SCHWARTZE.

Try!

HEFFTERDINGT.

[Constraining himself, with embarrassment.] Pardon me, madam, it seems very officious of me--if I--will you give me a few moments' interview?

MAGDA.

What have we two to say to each other, my dear pastor?

MRS. SCHWARTZE.

Oh, do, please! He knows best about everything.

MAGDA.

[Ironically.] Indeed!

MARIE.

I may never ask you for anything again, but do this one thing for my sake!

MAGDA.

[Patting her and looking from one to the other.] Well, the child asks so prettily. Pastor, I am at your service. [Marie thanks her silently.]

FRANZISKA.

[Aside to Mrs. Schwartze.] Now he'll give her a lecture. Come.

SCHWARTZE.

You were once the cause of my sending her from my home. To-day you must see to it that she remains. [Heffterdingt expresses doubt.]

SCHWARTZE.

Marie!

MARIE.

Yes, papa.

[Exit Schwartze, Mrs. Schwartze, Franziska, and Marie.

MAGDA.

[Sits down and examines him through her lorgnette.] So this is the man who undertakes by a five minutes' interview entirely and absolutely to break my will. That they believe in your ability to do it shows me that you are a king in your own dominions. I make obeisance. And now let me see you ply your arts.

HEFFTERDINGT.

I understand no arts, madam, and would avail myself of none. If they put some trust in me here, it is because they know that I seek nothing for myself.

MAGDA.

[Ironically.] That has always been the case?

HEFFTERDINGT.

No, madam. I had, once in my life, a strong, an intense desire. It was to have you for my wife. I need only look at you to see that I was presumptuous. Since then I have put the wish away from me.

MAGDA.

Ah, Pastor, I believe you're paying court to me now.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Madam, if it were not discourteous--

MAGDA.

Oh, then even a shepherd of souls may be discourteous!

HEFFTERDINGT.

I should commiserate you on the atmosphere which has surrounded you.

MAGDA.

[With mocking superiority.] Really? What do you know about my atmosphere?

HEFFTERDINGT.

It seems to me that it has made you forget that serious men are to be taken seriously.

MAGDA.

Ah! [Rising.] Well, then I will take you seriously; and I will tell you that you have always been unbearable to me, with your well-acted simplicity, your droning mildness, your-- Since, however, you condescended to cast your eyes on my worthlessness and drove me from home with your suit,--since then, I have hated you.

HEFFTERDINGT.

It seems to me that according to this I was the foundation of your greatness.

MAGDA.

You're right there. Here I was parched and stifled. No, no, I don't hate you. Why should I hate you so much? It's all so far, so very far, behind me. If you only knew how far! You have sat here day after day in this heavy close air, reeking of lavender, tobacco, and cough mixture, while I have felt the storm breaking about my head. Pastor, if you had a suspicion of what life really is,--of the trial of strength, of the taste of guilt, of conquest, and of pleasure,--you would find yourself very comical with your clerical shop-talk. Ha, ha, ha! Pardon me, I don't believe such a laugh has rung through this respectable house for twelve years; for there's no one here who knows how to laugh. Is there, eh?

HEFFTERDINGT.

No, I fear not.

MAGDA.

Fear, you say. That sounds as though you deprecated it. But don't you hate laughter?

HEFFTERDINGT.

Most of us cannot laugh, madam.

MAGDA.

And to those who could, laughter is sin. You might laugh yourself. What have you to be solemn about? You need not look at the world with this funereal mien. Surely you have a little blond wife at home who knits industriously, and half a dozen curly heads around her, of course. It's always so in parsonages.

HEFFTERDINGT.

I have remained single, madam.

MAGDA.

Ah! [Silence.] Did I hurt you so much, then?

HEFFTERDINGT.

Let that be, shall we not? It is so long ago.

MAGDA.

[Letting her mantle fall.] And your work,--does not that bring happiness enough?

HEFFTERDINGT.

Thank God, it does. But if one takes it really in earnest, one cannot live only for one's self; at least, I cannot. One cannot exult in the fulness of one's personality, as you would call it. And then many hearts are opened to me-- One sees too many wounds there, that one cannot heal, to be quite happy.

MAGDA.

You're a remarkable man-- I don't know--if I could only get rid of the idea that you're insincere.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Will you let me ask you one question before you go?

MAGDA.

Well!

HEFFTERDINGT.

It is about an hour since you entered this house, your home--no, not so much. I could not have been waiting for you nearly as long as that.

MAGDA.

For me? You? Where?

HEFFTERDINGT.

In the corridor outside your room.

MAGDA.

What did you want there?

HEFFTERDINGT.

My errand was useless, for now you are here.

MAGDA.

Do you mean to say that you came for me--you to whom I-- If any one had an interest in keeping me away, it was you.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Are you accustomed to regard everything which those about you do as the result of selfish interest?

MAGDA.

Of course. It's so with me! [Struck by a new thought.] Or perhaps you-- No, I'm not justified in that assumption. [Sharply.] Ah, such nonsense! it is only fit for fairy tales. Well, Pastor, I'll own that I like you now better, much better than of old when you--what shall I say?--made an honorable proposal.

HEFFTERDINGT.

H'm!

MAGDA.

If you could only end it all with a laugh--this stony visage of yours is so unfriendly--one is quite sconcertata. What do you say? Je ne trouve pas le mot.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Pardon me, may I ask the question now?

MAGDA.

Good Lord, how inquisitive the holy man is! And you don't see that I was coquetting with you a little. For, to have been a man's fate,--that flatters us women,--we are grateful for it. You see I have acquired some art meanwhile. Well, out with your question!

HEFFTERDINGT.

Why--why did you come home?

MAGDA.

Ah!

HEFFTERDINGT.

Was it not homesickness?

MAGDA.

No. Well, perhaps a very little. I'll tell you. When I received the invitation to assist at this festival--why they did me the honor, I don't know--a very curious feeling began to seethe within me,--half curiosity and half shyness, half melancholy and half defiance,--which said: "Go home incognito. Go in the twilight and stand before the paternal house where for seventeen years you lived in bondage. There look upon what you were. But if they recognize you, show them that beyond their narrow virtues there may be something true and good."

HEFFTERDINGT.

Only defiance then?

MAGDA.

At first, perhaps. Once on the way, though, my heart beat most wonderfully, as it used to do when I'd learnt my lesson badly. And I always did learn my lessons badly. When I stood before the hotel, the German House,--just think, the German House, where the great officials and the great artists stayed,--there I had again the abject reverence as of old, as if I were unworthy to step on the old threshold. I entirely forgot that I was now myself a so-called great artist. Since then, every evening I have stolen by the house,--very quietly, very humbly,--always almost in tears.

HEFFTERDINGT.

And nevertheless you are going away.

MAGDA.

I must.

HEFFTERDINGT.

But--

MAGDA.

Don't ask me why. I must.

HEFFTERDINGT.

Has any one offended your pride? Has any one said a word of your needing forgiveness?