What is the name of this fate?
It's Cousin Max.
[Whistles.] Why don't you many the good youth, then?
Aunt Frankie wants a better match for him, and so she won't give him the guaranty he needs. It's abominable!
Si! C'est bête, ça!And how long have you loved each other?
I don't remember when we did not.
And where does he meet you?
Here.
I mean elsewhere--alone.
We are never alone together. I think this precaution we owe to our own self-respect.
Come here--close--tell me the truth--has it never entered your mind to cast this whole network of precaution and respect away from you, and to go with the man you love out and away--anywhere--it doesn't matter much--and as you lie quietly on his breast, to hurl back a scornful laugh at the whole world which has sunk behind you?
No, Magda, I never feel so.
But would you die for him?
[Standing up with a gesture of enthusiasm.] I would die a thousand deaths for him!
My poor little darling! [Aside.] They bring everything to naught. The most terrible of all passions becomes in their hands a mere resigned defiance of death.
Whom are you speaking of?
Nothing, nothing. See here, how large is this sum you need?
Sixty thousand marks.
When can you be married? Must it be now, or will afternoon do?
Don't mock me, Magda.
You must give me time to telegraph. One can't carry so much money about with one.
[Slowly taking it in, and then, with an outburst of joy, throwing herself atMagda'sfeet.] Magda!
[After a silence.] Be happy, love your husband. And if you hold your first-born on your arm, in the face of the world [holding out her arms with angry emphasis]-- so, face to face, then think of one who-- Ah! some one's coming.
EnterHeffterdingtwith a portfolio.
[Crossing to him.] Oh, it's you. That's good. I wanted you.
You wanted me? What for?
Only--I want to talk with you, holy man.
Isn't it good, Miss Magda, to be at home again?
Oh, yes, except for the old aunt's sneaking about.
[Who is collecting the breakfast-things; laughing, but frightened.] Oh, Heavens, Magda!
Good-morning, Miss Marie.
Good-morning, Pastor.
[Exit, with the table.
Heavens, how she beams!
She has reason.
Isn't your father here?
No.
Isn't he well?
I think so. I haven't seen him yet. Yesterday we sat together till late. I told him what I could tell. But I think he was very unhappy; his eyes were always searching and probing. Oh, I fear your promise will be badly kept.
That seems like a reproach. I hope you don't regret--
No, my friend, I don't regret it. But I feel very curiously. I seem to be in a tepid bath, I'm so weak and warm. What they call German sentiment is awaking again, and I have been so unused to it. My heart seems like a Christmas number of the "Gartenlaube,"--moonlight, betrothals, lieutenants, and I don't know what! But the best of it is, I know that I'm playing with myself. I can cast it all off as a child throws away its doll, and be my old self again.
That would be bad for us.
Oh, don't be angry with me. I seem to be all torn and rooted up. And then I am so afraid--
Of what?
I can't--I can't be quite one of you. I am an intruder. [Aside, fearfully.] If a spectre from without were to appear, this whole idyl would go up in flames. [Heffterdingtsuppresses a start of astonishment.] And I'm confined, hemmed in. I begin to be a coward.
I don't think one should be terrified at feeling filial love.
Filial love? I should like to take that snow-white head in my lap and say, "You old child!" And nevertheless I must bend my will, I must bend my will. I am not accustomed to that. I must conquer; I must sing down opposition. I sing or I live,--for both are one and the same,--so that men must will as I do. I force them, I compel them to love and mourn and exult and lament as I do. And woe to him who resists! I sing them down,--I sing and sing until they become slaves and playthings in my hands. I know I'm confused, but you understand what I mean.
To work the impress of one's own personality,--that's what you mean, isn't it?
Si, si, si, si! Oh, I could tell you everything. Your heart has tendrils which twine about other hearts and draw them out. And you don't do it selfishly. You don't know how mighty you are. The men outside there are beasts, whether in love or hate. But you are a man. And one feels like a man when one is near you. Just think, when you came in yesterday, you seemed to me so small; but something grows out from you and becomes always greater, almost too great for me.
Good Heavens, what can it be?
What shall I call it,--self-sacrifice, self-abnegation? It is something with self--or rather the reverse. That is what impresses me. And that is why you can do so much with me.
How strange!
What?
I must own it to you--it is--it is nonsense; but since I have seen you again, a sort of longing has awakened within me to be like you.
Ha, ha! You, model of men! Like me!
I have had to stifle much in my nature. My peace is the peace of the dead. And as you stood before me yesterday in your freshness, your natural strength, your--your greatness, I said to myself, "That is what you might have been if at the right moment joy had entered into your life."
[In a whisper.] And one thing more, my friend,-- sin! We must sin if we wish to grow. To become greater than our sins is worth more than all the purity you preach.
[Impressed.] That would be-- [Voices outside.]
[Starting and listening.] 'Sh!
What's the matter?
Nothing, it's only my stupid nervousness; not on my own account, believe me, only out of pity for all these. We shall still be friends?
As long as you need me.
And when I cease to need you?
There will be no change in me, Miss Magda. [As he is going, he meetsSchwartzein the doorway.]
EnterSchwartze.
Good-morning, my dear pastor! Will you go out on the porch for a moment? I will follow you. [ExitHeffterdingt.] Now, did you sleep well, my child? [Kisses her on the forehead.]
Finely. In my old room I found the old sleep of childhood.
Had you lost it?
Haven't you?
They say a good conscience-- Come to me, my child.
Gladly, papa! No, let me sit at your feet. There I can see your beautiful white beard. When I look at it, I always think of Christmas eve and a quiet snow-covered field.
My child, you know how to say pretty things. When you speak, one seems to see pictures about one. Here we are not so clever; that is why we have nothing to conceal here.
We also-- But speak quietly, papa.
Yes, I must. You know what agreement you made with the pastor.
Which you will keep?
I am accustomed to keep to what I have promised. But you must see that the suspicion--whatever I may do, the suspicion weighs like a mountain--
What do you suspect?
I don't know. You have appeared among us as wonderfully as gloriously. But brilliance and worldly honor and all that don't blind a father's eyes. You seem to be warm at heart too. At least, one would think so to hear you speak. But there is something in your eyes which does not please me, and a scornful curl about your lips.
Dear, good old papa!
You see! This tenderness is not that of a daughter towards her father. It is so that one pets a child, whether it be a young or an old one. And although I'm only a poor soldier, lame and disabled, I demand your respect, my child.
I have never withheld it. [Rising.]
That is good, that is good, my daughter. Believe me, we are not so simple as we may appear to you. We have eyes to see, and ears to hear, that the spirit of moral revolt is abroad in the world. The seed which should take root in the heart, begins to decay. What were once sins easily become customs to you. My child, soon you will go away. When you return, you may find me in the grave.
Oh, no, papa!
It's in God's hand. But I implore you-- Come here, my child--nearer--so-- [He draws her down to him, and takes her head between his hands.] I implore you--let me be happy in my dying hour. Tell me that you have remained pure in body and soul, and then go with my blessing on your way.
I have remained--true to myself, dear father.
How? In good or in ill?
In what--for me--was good.
[Blankly.] In what--for you--then?
[Rising.] And now don't worry any more. Let me enjoy these few days quietly. They will be over soon enough.
[Broodingly.] I love you with my whole heart, because I have sorrowed for you--so long. [Threateningly, rising.] But I must know who you are.
Father dear-- [Bell rings.Mrs. Schwartzebursts in.]
Just think! the ladies of the Committee are here! They want to congratulate us in person. Do you think we ought to offer them coffee, Leopold?
I will go into the garden, Augusta.
For Heaven's sake--they're just coming--you must receive their congratulations.
I can't--no--I can't do it! [Exit, left.
What is the matter with your father?
EnterMrs. General Von Klebs,Mrs. Justice Ellrich,Mrs. Schumann,andFranziska.
[As she opens the door.] My dear, the ladies--
[Giving her hand toMrs. Schwartze.] What a day for you, my dear! The whole town rejoices in the happy event.
Permit me--my daughter--Mrs. General von Klebs, Mrs. Justice Ellrich, Mrs. Schumann.
I am only the wife of a simple merchant; but--
My husband will do himself the honor soon--
Won't you sit down, ladies? [They sit.]
[With aplomb.] Yes, it is truly a joyful event for the whole family.
We have unfortunately not shared the pleasures of the festival, my dear young lady. I must therefore refrain from expressing that admiration to which you are so well accustomed.
If we had known, we should certainly have ordered tickets.
Do you expect to remain here for very long?
That I really cannot say, madam--or, pardon me--your ladyship?
I must beg you--no.
Oh, pardon me!
Oh, please!
We are such birds of passage, my dear madam, that we can really never plan for the future.
But one must have one's real home.
Why? One must have a vocation. That seems to me enough.
It's all in the point of view, dear Magda.
Ah, we're so far removed from all these ideas, my dear young lady. Every now and then some person gives lectures here, but the good families have nothing to do with it.
[Politely.] Oh, I can quite understand that. The good families need nothing, as they have plenty to eat. [A silence.]
But at least you must have some residence?
If you call it so,--a place to sleep. Yes, I have a villa by the Lake of Como and an estate at Naples. [Sensation.]
But you've said nothing to us about that.
I hardly ever make use of them, mamma dear.
Art must be a very trying occupation?
[In a friendly tone.] It depends upon how one follows it, my dear madam.
My daughter used to take singing-lessons, and it always taxed her very much.
[Politely.] Oh, I'm sorry for that.
Naturally, you only do it for pleasure.
Oh, it's so much pleasure! [Aside toMrs. Schwartze,who sits near her.] Get these women away, or I shall be rude!
Are you really engaged by a theatre, my dear young lady?
[Very sweetly.] Sometimes, my dear madam.
Then you are out of an engagement at present?
[Murmurs.] Oh, come, come! [Aloud.] Yes, I'm a vagabond now. [The ladies look at each other.]
There are really not many daughters of good families on the stage, are there?
[In a friendly tone.] No, my dear madam; most of them are too stupid.
Oh, Magda!EnterMax.
Oh, that must be Max! [Goes to him and shakes hands.] Just think, I had quite forgotten your face. We were great friends, were we not?
Were we? [Astonished.]
Well, we can begin now.
[Aside.] Do you understand this?
[Mrs. Von Klebsshrugs her shoulder. The ladies rise and take their leave, shaking hands withMrs. SchwartzeandFranziska,and bowing toMagda.]
[Confused.] Must you go already, ladies? My husband will be so sorry--
[Coolly.]Au revoir, ladies,au revoir!
[Exit the ladies in the order of their rank.
[Turning back from the door.] Mrs. von Klebs was offended, or she would have stayed. Magda, you certainly must have offended Mrs. von Klebs.
And the other ladies, too, were hurt.
Mamma dear, won't you see about my trunk?
Yes, yes, I'll go to the hotel myself. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! [Exit.
Wait, I'm coming too. [Spitefully.] I must make myself useful, of course!
Oh, Aunt Frankie, a word with you.
Now?
We're going to celebrate a betrothal to-day.
What betrothal?
Between him and Marie.
[Joyfully.] Magda!
I think, as I occupy a mother's position towards him, that it is my right--
No; the giver alone has rights, my dear aunt. And now don't fail.
[Furiously.] I will make you-- [Exit.
How shall I thank you, my dear Miss--
Magda, my dear cousin, Magda!
Pardon me, it was my great respect--
Not so much respect, my boy,--I don't like it; more weight, more individuality!
Ah, my dear cousin, should a young lieutenant with twenty-five marks' pay, not to speak of debts, have individuality? It would only be a hindrance to him.
Ah!
If I manage my men properly, and dance a correct figure at our regimental balls, and am not a coward, that is enough.
To make a wife happy, certainly. Go and find her. Go along!
[Starts to go, and turns back.] Oh, excuse me, in my happiness I entirely forgot the message I-- Early this morning--by-the-by, you can't think what a tumult the whole city is in about you--well, early this morning--I was still in bed--an acquaintance came in who is also an old acquaintance of yours, very pale from excitement, and he asked whether it were all true, and if he might come to see you.
Yes, let him come.
He wanted me to ask you first. He would then send in his card this morning.
What formalities the men go through here! Who is he?
Councillor von Keller.
[Speaking with difficulty.] He--what?--he?
[Laughing.] Pardon me, but you're as white now as he was.
[Quietly.] I? White?EnterTheresawith a card.
Here he is. Dr. von Keller.
Let him come up.
[Smiling.] I'll only say to you, my dear cousin, that he's a very important man, who has a great career before him, and promises to be a pillar of our religious circle.