Thank you!
EnterVon Kellerwith a bouquet.
[Crossing to him.] My dear Councillor, here is my cousin, who is delighted to see you. You will excuse me.
[Exit, with a bow to each.
[Von Kellerremains standing at the door.Magdamoves about nervously. Silence.]
[Aside.] Here is my spectre! [Indicates a seat at the table, left, and sits down opposite.]
First, you must allow me to express my warmest and most sincere good wishes. This is a surprise which you happily could not have expected. And as a sign of my interest, allow me, my dearest friend, to present you with these modest flowers.
Oh, how thoughtful! [Takes the flowers with a laugh, and throws them on the table.]
[In embarrassment.] I--I see with sorrow that you resent this approach on my part. Have I in any way been wanting in the necessary delicacy? In these narrow circles a meeting could not have been avoided. I think it is better, my dearest friend, that we should come to an understanding,--that we should know the relations--
[Rising.] You're right, my friend. I was not at the height of my own nature just now. Had I been, I might have played the deserted Marguerite to the end. The morals of home had infected me a little. But I am myself again. Give me your hand bravely. Don't be afraid, I won't harm you. So--tight--so!
You make me happy.
I've painted this meeting to myself a thousand times, and have been prepared for it for years. Something warned me, too, when I undertook this journey home--though I must say I hardly expected just here to-- Yes, how is it that, after what has passed between us, you came into this house? It seems to me a little--
I tried to avoid it until quite recently; but since we belong to the same circles, and since I agree with the views of this family--that is, at least in theory--
Yes, yes. Let me look at you, my poor friend. How you have changed!
[Laughing nervously.] I seem to have the misfortune to make a rather absurd figure in your eyes.
No, oh, no! I can see it all. The effort to keep worthy of respect under such difficulties, with a bad conscience, is awkward. You look down from the height of your pure atmosphere on your sinful youth,--for you are called a pillar, my dear friend.
[Looking at the door.] Pardon me--I can hardly accustom myself again to the affectionate terms. And if any one should hear us-- Would it not be better--
[Sadly.] Let them hear us.
[At the door.] Good Heavens! Well [sitting down again], as I was saying, if you knew with what real longing I look back from this height at my gay, discarded youth--
[Half to herself.] So gay,-- yes, so gay.
Well, I felt myself called to higher things. I thought-- Why should I undervalue my position? I have become Councillor, and that comparatively young. An ordinary ambition might take satisfaction in that. But one sits and waits at home, while others are called to the ministry. And this environment, conventionality, and narrowness, all is so gray,--gray! And the ladies here--for one who cares at all about elegance--I assure you something rejoiced within me when I read this morning that you were the famous singer,--you to whom I was tied by so many dear memories and--
And then you thought whether it might not be possible with the help of these dear memories to bring a little color into the gray background?
[Smiling.] Oh, pray don't--
Well, between old friends--
Really, are we that, really?
Certainly,sans rancune. Oh, if I took it from the other standpoint, I should have to range the whole gamut,--liar, coward, traitor! But as I look at it, I owe you nothing but thanks, my friend.
[Pleased, but confused.] This is a view which--
Which is very convenient for you. But why should I not make it convenient for you? In the manner in which we met, you had no obligations towards me. I had left my home; I was young and innocent, hot-blooded and careless, and I lived as I saw others live. I gave myself to you because I loved you. I might perhaps have loved any one who came in my way. That--that seemed to be all over. And we were so happy,--weren't we?
Ah, when I think of it, my heart seems to stop beating.
There in the old attic, five flights up, we three girls lived so merrily in our poverty. Two hired pianos, and in the evening bread and dripping. Emmy used to warm it herself over the oil-stove.
And Katie with her verses! Good Lord! What has become of them?
Chi lo sà? Perhaps they're giving singing-lessons, perhaps they're on the stage. Yes, we were a merry set; and when the fun had lasted half a year, one day my lover vanished.
An unlucky chance, I swear to you. My father was ill. I had to travel. I wrote everything to you.
H'm! I did not reproach you. And now I will tell you why I owe you thanks. I was a stupid, unsuspecting thing, enjoying freedom like a runaway monkey. Through you I became a woman. For whatever I have done in my art, for whatever I have become in myself, I have you to thank. My soul was like--yes, down below there, there used to be an Æolian harp which was left mouldering because my father could not bear it. Such a silent harp was my soul; and through you it was given to the storm. And it sounded almost to breaking,--the whole scale of passions which bring us women to maturity,--love and hate and revenge and ambition [springing up], and need, need, need--three times need--and the highest, the strongest, the holiest of all, the mother's love!-- All I owe to you!
What--what do you say?
Yes, my friend, you have asked after Emmy and Katie. But you haven't asked after your child.
[Jumping up and looking about anxiously.] My child!
Your child? Who calls it so? Yours? Ha, ha! Dare to claim portion in him and I'll kill you with these hands. Who are you? You're a strange man who gratified his lust and passed on with a laugh. But I have a child,--my son, my God, my all! For him I lived and starved and froze and walked the streets; for him I sang and danced in concert-halls,--for my child who was crying for his bread! [Breaks out in a convulsive laugh which changes to weeping, and throws herself on a seat, right.]
[After a silence.] I am confounded. If I could have suspected,--yes, if I could have suspected--I will do everything; I will not shrink from any reparation. But now, I beg you to quiet yourself. They know that I am here. If they saw us so, I should be--[correcting himself] you would be lost.
Don't be afraid. I won't compromise you.
Oh, I was not speaking for myself, not at all. But just think, if it were to come out, what the town and your father--
Poor old man! His peace is destroyed, at any rate.
And think! the more brilliantly you are placed now, the more certain is your ruin.
[Madly.] And if I wish for ruin! If I--
For Heaven's sake, hush! some one's coming.
[Springing up.] Let them come! Let them all come! I don't care, I don't care! To their faces I'll say what I think of you,--of you and your respectable society. Why should I be worse than you, that I must prolong my existence among you by a lie! Why should this gold upon my body, and the lustre which surrounds my name, only increase my infamy? Have I not worked early and late for ten long years? Have I not woven this dress with sleepless nights? Have I not built up my career step by step, like thousands of my kind? Why should I blush before any one? I am myself, and through myself I have become what I am.
Good! You may stand there proudly, but you might at least consider--
Whom? [As he is silent.] Whom? The pillar! Ha, ha! The pillar begins to totter! Be easy, my dear friend. I am not revengeful. But when I look at you in all your cowardly dignity--unwilling to take upon you the slightest consequence of your doings, and contrast you with myself, who sank through your love to be a pariah and an outcast-- Ah, I'm ashamed of you. Pah!
For Heaven's sake! Your father! If he should see you like this!
[In agony.] My father! [Escapes through the door of the dining-room, with her handkerchief to her face.]
EnterSchwartze,happy and excited, through the hall-door.
Ah, my dear Councillor--was that my daughter who just disappeared?
[In great embarrassment.] Yes, it was--
Why should she run away from me? Magda!
[Trying to block his path.] Had you not better-- The young lady wished to be alone for a little!
Now? Why? When one has visitors, one does not-- Why should she--
She was a little--agitated.
Agitated?
Yes; that's all.
Who has been here?
No one. At least, as far as I know.
Then, what agitating things could you two have to talk about?
Nothing of importance,--nothing at all, I assure you.
What makes you look so, then? You can scarcely stand.
I? Oh, you're mistaken, you're mistaken.
One question, Councillor-- You and my daughter-- Please sit down.
My time is unfortunately--
[Almost threatening.] I beg you to sit down.
[Not daring to resist.] Thank you. [They sit.]
You met my daughter some years ago in Berlin?
Yes.
Councillor von Keller, I know you to be as discreet as you are sensible; but there are cases in which silence is a crime. I ask you--and your life-long relations with me give me the right to ask, as well as the mystery--which just now-- In short, I ask you, Do you know anything discreditable about my daughter's life there?
Oh, for Heaven's sake, how can you--
Do you not know how and where she lived?
No. I am absolutely--
Have you never visited at her house?
[More and more confused.] No, no, never, never.
Not once?
Well, I called on her once; but--
Your relations were friendly?
Oh, entirely friendly--of course, only friendly. [A pause.]
[Passes his hand over his forehead, looks earnestly atVon Keller;then, speaking absently.] So? Then, honestly--if it might be--if--if-- [Gets up, goes toVon Keller,and sits down again, trying to quiet himself.] Dr. von Keller, we both live in a quiet world, where scandals are unknown. But I have grown old, very old. And therefore I can't--can't control my thoughts as I should. And I can't rid myself of an idea which has--suddenly--taken possession of me. I have just had a great joy which I don't want to be embittered. But, to quiet an old man, I beg you--give me your word of honor that--
[Rising.] Pardon me, this seems almost like a cross-examination.
You must know, then, what I--
Pardon me, I wish to know nothing. I came here innocently to make a friendly visit, and you have taken me by surprise. I will not be taken by surprise. [Takes his hat.]
Dr. von Keller, have you thought what this refusal means?
Pardon me, if you wish to know anything, I beg you to ask your daughter. She will tell you what--what-- And now you must let me go. You know where I live. In case-- I am very sorry it has happened so: but-- Good-day, Colonel! [Exit.
[After brooding for a time.] Magda!
[Running in anxiously.] For Heaven's sake, what's the matter?
[Chokingly.] Magda,--I want Magda.
[Goes to the door and opens it.] She's coming now--down the stairs.
So! [Pulls himself together with an effort.]
[Clasping her hands.] Don't hurt her! [Pauses with the door open.Magdais seen descending the stairs. She enters in travelling-dress, hat in hand, very pale, but calm.]
I heard you call, father.
I have something to say to you.
And I to you.
Go in--into my room.
Yes, father. [She goes to the door, left.Schwartzefollows her.Marie,who has drawn back frightened to the dining-room door, makes an unseen gesture of entreaty.]
Scene:the same.
[Mrs. SchwartzeandMariediscovered.Mrs. Schwartze,in hat and cloak, is knocking on the door at the left.]
Leopold! Oh, Heaven, I dare not go in.
No, no, don't! Oh, if you'd only seen his face!
And they've been in there half an hour, you say?
Longer, longer!
Now she's speaking! [Listening, frightened.] He's threatening her. Marie, Marie! Run into the garden. The pastor's there, in the arbor. Tell him everything,--about Mr. von Keller's being here,--and ask him to come in quickly.
Yes, mamma. [Hurries to the hall-door.]
Wait a minute, Marie. Has Theresa heard anything? If it should get about--
I've already sent her away, mamma.
That's right, that's right. [ExitMarie.Mrs. Schwartzeknocks again.] Leopold! listen to me, Leopold! [Retreating.] Oh, Heaven! he's coming! [EnterSchwartze,bent and tottering.]
How do you feel, Leopold?
[Sinking into a chair.] Yes, yes,--just like the roses. The knife conies, and cuts the stem, and the wound can never be healed. What am I saying? What?
He's out of his mind.
No, no, I'm not out of my mind. I know quite well-- [Magdaappears at the door, left.]
What have you done to him?
Yes, what have you--what have you? That is my daughter. What shall I do with my daughter now?
[Humbly, almost beseechingly.] Father, isn't it best, after what has happened, that you should let me go,--that you should drive me into the streets? You must get free of me if this house is to be pure again.
So, so, so! You think, then, you have only to go--to go away, out there, and all will be as before? And we? What will become of us? I--good God!--I--I have one foot in the grave--soon it will be over--but the mother, and your sister--your sister.
Marie has the husband she wants--
No one will marry a sister of yours. [With aversion.] No, no. Don't think it!
[Aside.] My God!
[ToMrs. Schwartze.] See, she's beginning now to realize what she has done.
Yes; what--
[In tender sympathy, but still with a tinge of superiority.] My poor old father--listen to me--I can't change what has passed. I will give Marie half my fortune. I will make up a thousand times all that I have made you suffer to-day. But now, I implore you, let me go my way.
Oho!
What do you want of me? What am I to you? Yesterday at this time you did not know even whether I still lived; and to-day-- It is madness to demand that I should think and feel again as you do; but I am afraid of you, father, I'm afraid of you all--ah, I am not myself-- [Breaking out in torment.] I cannot bear the sorrow.
Ha, ha!
Father dear, I will humble myself before you willingly. I lament with my whole heart that I've brought sorrow to you to-day, for my flesh and blood still belong to you. But I must live out my own life. That I owe to myself,--to myself and mine. Good-by!
[Stopping her.] Where are you going?
Let me pass, father.
I'll kill you first. [Seizes her.]
Leopold! [EnterHeffterdingt.He throws himself between them with a cry of horror.Magda,freed by the old man, goes slowly back, with her eyes fixed on thePastor,to the seat, left, where she remains motionless.]
[After a silence.] In God's name!
Yes, yes, yes, Pastor--it made a fine family group, eh? Look at her! She has soiled my name. Any scoundrel can break my sword. That is my daughter; that is--
Dear Colonel, these are things which I do not understand, and which I do not care to understand. But it seems to me there must be something to do, instead of--
Yes, to do,--yes, yes,--there's much to do here. I have much to do. I don't see why I'm standing here. The worst of it is--the worst of it is, he can say to me--this man--you are a cripple--with your shaking hand--with such a one I can't fight, even if I have had your daughter for a-- But I will show him-- I will show him-- Where is my hat?
Where are you going, Leopold? [Magdarises.]
My hat!
[Gives him hat and stick.] Here, here!
So! [ToMagda.] Learn to thank the God, in whom you disbelieve, that he has preserved your father until this hour, for he shall bring you back your honor!
[Kneeling, and kissing his hand.] Don't do it, father! I don't deserve this of you.
[Bends weeping over her head.] My poor, poor child!
[Calling after him.] Father!
[ExitSchwartzequickly.
My child, whatever happens, we women--we must hold together.
Thanks, mamma. The play will soon be played out now.
My dear Mrs. Schwartze, Marie is out there, full of sorrow. Go and say a kind word to her.
What shall I say to comfort her, when all the happiness has gone out of her life? [Magdajumps up in anguish.] Oh, Pastor, Pastor!
[Exit.
[After a silence.] Oh, I am so tired!
Miss Magda!
[Brooding,] I think I shall see those glaring bloodshot eyes before me always--wherever I go.
Miss Magda!
How you must despise me!
Ah, Miss Magda, I have long been a stranger to despite. We are all poor sinners--
[With a bitter laugh.] Truly we are-- Oh, I am so tired!--it is crushing me. There is that old man going out to let himself be shot dead for my sake, as if he could atone for all my sins with his single life! Oh, I am so tired!
Miss Magda--I can only conjecture--what all this means--but you have given me the right to speak to you as a friend. And I feel that I am even more. I am your fellow-sinner, Miss Magda!
Good Heavens! Still harping on that!
Do you feel the obligation, Miss Magda, to bring honor and peace back to this house?
[Breaking out in anguish.] You have lived through the sorrow, and ask whether I feel it?