Ah! [Silence.] Did I hurt you so much, then?
Let that be, shall we not? It is so long ago.
[Letting her mantle fall.] And your work,--does not that bring happiness enough?
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.
You're a remarkable man-- I don't know--if I could only get rid of the idea that you're insincere.
Will you let me ask you one question before you go?
Well!
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.
For me? You? Where?
In the corridor outside your room.
What did you want there?
My errand was useless, for now you are here.
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.
Are you accustomed to regard everything which those about you do as the result of selfish interest?
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.
H'm!
If you could only end it all with a laugh--this stony visage of yours is so unfriendly--one is quitesconcertata. What do you say?Je ne trouve pas le mot.
Pardon me, may I ask the question now?
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!
Why--why did you come home?
Ah!
Was it not homesickness?
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."
Only defiance then?
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.
And nevertheless you are going away.
I must.
But--
Don't ask me why. I must.
Has any one offended your pride? Has any one said a word of your needing forgiveness?
Not yet--or, yes, if you count the old cat.
What is there in the world which draws you away again after an hour?
I will tell you. I felt it the first minute I came. The paternal authority already stretches its net over me again, and the yoke stands ready beneath which I must bow.
But there is neither yoke nor net here. Do not fear shadows. Here are only wide-opened arms which wait to clasp the lost daughter to the empty breast.
Oh, I beg you, none of that. I do not intend to furnish a pendant to the prodigal son. If I came back as a daughter, as a lost daughter, I should not hold my head up before you as I do; I should grovel in the dust in full consciousness of all my sins. [With growing excitement.] And that I will not do--that I cannot do--for I am what I am, and I cannot be another. [Sadly.] And therefore I have no home--therefore I must go forth again--therefore--
EnterMrs. Schwartze.
For Heaven's sake, hush!
Excuse me, Pastor, I only wanted to know about supper. [Imploringly toMagda,who sits turned away with her hands before her face.] We happen to have a warm joint to-day. You know, Pastor, the gentlemen of the card-club were to be with us. Now, Magda, whether you're going away or not, can't you eat a mouthful in your father's house?
Don't ask now, my dear madam.
Oh, if I'm interrupting--I only thought--
Later.
[Appearing in the doorway.] Will she stay? [Magdashrinks at the sound of the voice.]
'Sh! [ExitMrs. SchwartzeandMarie.
You have no home, Miss Magda? Did you hear the old mother beseeching and alluring with the best that she has, though it's only a poor dish? Did you hear Marie's voice trembling with tears in the fear that I should not prevail? They trust me too much; they think I only need to speak the word. They don't suspect how helpless I stand here before you. Look! Behind that door are three people in a fever of sorrow and love. If you cross this threshold, you rob each of them of so much life. And you have no home?
If I have one, it is not here.
[Embarrassed.] Perhaps-- Nevertheless you should not go. Only a few days,--just not to take away the idea that you belong here. So much you owe to them!
[Sadly.] I owe nothing now to any one here.
No? Really nothing? Then I must tell you about a certain day,--eleven years ago now. I was called into this house in haste, for the Colonel was dying. When I came, he lay there stiff and motionless, his face drawn and white; one eye was already closed, in the other still flickered a little life. He tried to speak, but his lips only quivered and mumbled.
What had happened?
What had happened? I will tell you. He had just received a letter in which his eldest daughter bade him farewell.
My God!
It was a long time before he recovered from the apoplectic stroke. Only a trembling in the right arm, which you perhaps have noticed, now remains.
That is indeed a debt I owe.
Ah, if that were all, Miss Magda! Pardon me, I call you by the name I used long ago. It springs to my lips.
Call me what you like. Go on.
The necessary result followed. When he received his discharge,--he will not believe in the cause, don't speak to him of it,--then his mind broke down.
Yes, yes; that is my debt too.
Then you see, Miss Magda, began my work. If I speak of it, you must not think I am pluming myself on it to you. What good would that do me? For a long, long time I nursed him, and by degrees I saw his mind revive again. First I let him collect slugs from the rose-bushes.
[With a shudder.] Ugh!
Yes, so far had it gone; then I gave him charge of some money, and then I made him my assistant in the institutions with whose management I was intrusted. There is a hospital and a soup-kitchen and an infirmary, and it makes a great deal to be done. So he became a man once more. I have tried to influence your step-mother too; not because I was greedy for power. Perhaps you'll think that of me. In short, the old tension between her and Marie has been slowly smoothed away. Love and confidence have descended upon the house.
[Staring at him.] And why did you do all this?
Well, first it is my calling. Then I did it for his sake, for I love the old man; and above all--for--your sake.
[Magdastarts, and points to herself interrogatively.]
Yes, for your sake. For this weighed upon me: The day will come when she will turn homeward,--perhaps as victor; but perhaps also as vanquished, broken and ruined in body and soul-- Pardon me these thoughts, I had heard nothing of you-- In either case she shall find a home ready for her. That was my work, the work of long years; and now I implore you not to destroy it.
[In anguish.] If you knew through what I have passed, you would not try to keep me.
That is all shut out. This is home. Let it alone; forget it.
How can I forget it? How dare I?
Why should you resist when all stretch their hands out to you in rejoicing? It's very easy. Let your heart speak when you see all around overflowing with love for you.
[In tears.] You make me a child again. [A pause.]
Then you will stay?
[Springing up.] But they must not question me!
Must not question you?
About my life outside there. They wouldn't understand,--none of them; not even you.
Well, then, they sha'n't.
And you will promise me, for yourself and for the others?
Yes, I can promise it.
[In a stifled voice.] Call them, then.
[Opening the door on the left.] She will stay.
EnterMarie;thenMrs. Schwartze,Franziska,andSchwartze.Mariethrows herself joyfully intoMagda'sarms.Mrs. Schwartzealso embraces her.
It was your duty, my child.
Yes, father. [She softly takes his right hand in both of hers, and carries it tenderly to her lips.]
Thank Heaven! Now we can have supper at last! [Opens the sliding door into the dining-room. The supper-table is seen, all set, and lighted brightly by a green-shaded hanging-lamp.]
[Gazing at it.] Oh, look! The dear old lamp! [The women go slowly out.]
[Stretching out his hands.] This is your greatest work, Pastor.
Oh, don't, I beg you! And there's a condition attached.
A condition?
We must not ask about her life.
[Startled.] What? What? I must, not--
No, no; you must not ask--you must not ask--or-- [Struck by a new thought.] If you do not--yes--I am sure she will confess everything herself.
Scene:the same. Morning. On the table at the left, coffee-service and flowers.
[Mrs. SchwartzeandFranziskadiscovered.]
[Excitedly.] Thank Heaven, you've come. Such a time we've had this morning!
So?
Just think, two people have come from the hotel,--a gentleman who looks like a lord, and a young lady like a princess. They're her servants.
What extravagance!
And they're calling and talking all over the house, and neither of them knows any German. And her ladyship ordered a warm bath, that was not warm enough; and a cold douche, which was not cold enough; and spirits, which she simply poured out of the window; and toilet vinegar, which we didn't have at all.
What demands! And where is your famous young lady?
After her bath she has gone back to bed again.
I would not have such sloth in my house.
I shall tell her so. For Leopold's sake-- [EnterTheresa.] What do you want, Theresa?
Councillor von Keller--he has sent his servant here to ask whether the Lieutenant has come yet, and what is the young lady's answer.
What young lady?
That's what I don't know.
Then just give our regards, and say that the Lieutenant has not come yet.
He is on duty till twelve. After that he'll come.
[ExitTheresa.As she opens the door, a great noise is heard in the hall,--a man's voice and a woman's disputing in Italian.]
Listen to that! [Speaking outside.] Just you wait. Your Signora'll be here soon. [Shuts the door.] Ah! And now, breakfast. What do you think she drinks?
Why, coffee.
No.
Tea, then?
No.
Then it must be chocolate!
No; coffee and chocolate mixed.
Horrible! But it must be good.
And yesterday half a dozen trunks came from the hotel, and as many more are still there. Ah, what there is in them all! One whole trunk for hats! A peignoir of real point, and open-work stockings with gold embroidery, and [in a whisper] silk chemises--
What? Silk--
Yes.
[With a gesture of horror.] It is simply sinful.
EnterMagda,in brilliant morning toilette, speaking outside as she opens the door.
Ma che cosa volete voi? Perche non aspettate, finché vi commando?Ha?
Now they are getting their share!
No, no;è tempo! [Shutting the door.]Va, bruto! Good-morning, mamma. [Kisses her.] I'm a late sleeper, eh? Ah, good-morning, Aunt Frankie. In a good humor? So am I.
What did the strange gentleman want, Magda?
Stupid beast! He wanted to know when I was going away, the idiot! How can I tell? [Patting her.] Eh,mamma mia? Oh, children, I slept like the dead. My ear on the pillow, and off! And the douche was so nice and cold. I feel so strong.Allons, cousine! Hop! [SeizesFranziskaby the waist and jumps her into the air.]
[Furiously.] What do you--
[Haughtily.] Eh?
[Cringingly]. You are so facetious.
Am I? [Clapping her hands.] Breakfast!
EnterMarie,with a tray of coffee things.
Good-morning.
Good-morning, my child.
I'm dying of hunger. Ah! [Pats her stomach.MariekissesFranziska'shand.]
[Taking off the cover, with unction.] Delicious! One would know Giulietta was in the house.
She has made noise enough, at least.
Oh, she couldn't live without a good row. And when she gets too excited, she quietly throws a plate at your head. I'm accustomed to it. What is papa doing?
He's making his excuses to the members of the Committee.
Is your life still half made up of excuses? What sort of a committee is it?
It's the Christian Aid Society. They should have had a meeting here this morning in our house. Now we thought it would not do. It would look as if we wanted to introduce you.
But, Augusta, now it will look as if your daughter were more important to you--
Well, I hope she is!
Of course! But--oh dear, you don't know what sort of people they are. They are deserving of great respect. For instance, there's Mrs. General von Klebs. [Proudly.] We are friends of hers.
[With sham respect.] Really?
Now, they'll probably come to-morrow. Then you'll meet, besides, some other pious and aristocratic ladies whose patronage gains us a great deal of influence. I'm curious to see how they'll like you.
How I shall like them, you should say.
Yes--that is--but we're talking and talking--
[Jumping up.] Oh, excuse me, mamma.
No, you must stay here.
Yes, Magda; but about your trunks at the hotel,--I am constantly on the rack for fear something should be left.
Send for them, then, children.
[Aside toMrs. Schwartze.] Now I'll question her thoroughly, Augusta. Leave us alone.
[ExitMrs. Schwartze.
[Sitting down, with importance.] And now, my dear Magda, you must tell your old aunt all about it.
Eh? Ah, look here, mamma needs help. Go on, quick! Make yourself useful.
[Viciously.] If you command it.
Oh, I have only to request.
[Rising.] It seems to me that your requests are somewhat forcible.
[Laughing.] Perhaps. [ExitFranziskain a rage.
Oh, Magda!
Yes, sweet. That's the way to go through the world,--bend or break; that is, I never bend. It's the only way.
Oh, good Heavens!
Poor child! Yes, in this house one learns quite other views. I bent, myself, yesterday disgracefully. Ah, how nice our old mamma is! [Earnestly, pointing to the mother's picture.] And she up there! Do you remember her? [Marieshakes her head.]
[Thoughtfully.] She died too soon! Where's papa? I want him. And yet I'm afraid of him too. Now, child, while I eat my breakfast, now you must make your confession.
Oh, I can't.
Just show me the locket!
There!
A lieutenant! Naturally. With us it's always a tenor.
Oh. Magda, it's no joke. He is my fate.