HEFFTERDINGT.
I think your father will obtain from that gentleman the declaration that he is ready for any sort of peaceable satisfaction.
MAGDA.
Ha, ha! The noble soul! But what can I do?
HEFFTERDINGT.
You can--not spurn the hand which he will offer you.
MAGDA.
What? You don't mean-- This man--this strange man whom I despise--how, how could I--
HEFFTERDINGT.
Dear Miss Magda, there comes an hour to almost every man when he collects the broken pieces of his life, to form them together into a new design. I have found it so with myself. And now it is your turn.
MAGDA.
I will not do it--I will not do it.
HEFFTERDINGT.
You will have to.
MAGDA.
I would rather take my child in my arms and throw myself into the sea.
HEFFTERDINGT.
[Suppresses a violent start; continues after a silence, hoarsely.] Of course, that is the simplest solution. And your father can follow you.
MAGDA.
Oh, have pity on me! I must do whatever you demand. I don't know how you have gained such power over me. Oh, man, if the slightest memory of what you once felt, if the least pity for your own youth, still lives within you, you cannot sacrifice me so!
HEFFTERDINGT.
I do not sacrifice you alone, Miss Magda.
MAGDA.
[With awakening perception.] Good God!
HEFFTERDINGT.
There's no other way. I see none. You know yourself that the old man would not survive it. And what would become of your mother, and what would become of your poor sister? Miss Magda, it is as if with your own hand you set fire to the house and let everything burn that is within. And this house is still your home--
MAGDA.
[In growing agony.] I will not, I will not. This house is not my home. My home is with my child!
HEFFTERDINGT.
This child, too. He will grow up fatherless, and will be asked, "Where is your father?" He will come and ask you, "Where is my father?" What can you answer him? And, Miss Magda, he who has not peace in his heart from the beginning will never win it in the end.
MAGDA.
All this is not true, and if it were true, have I not a heart too? Have I not a life to live also? Have I not a right to seek my own happiness?
HEFFTERDINGT.
[Harshly.] No; no one has that. But do as you will. Ruin your home, ruin your father and sister and child, and then see what heart you have to seek your own happiness. [Magda bows her head, sobbing. The Pastor crosses to her, and leans over the table pityingly, with his hand on her hair.] My poor--
MAGDA.
[Seizing his hand.] Answer me one question. You have sacrificed your life for my sake. Do you think, to-day, in spite of what you know and what you do not know, do you think that I am worth this sacrifice?
HEFFTERDINGT.
[ Constrained, as if making a confession.] I have said already I am your fellow-sinner, Miss Magda.
MAGDA.
[After a pause.] I will do what you demand.
HEFFTERDINGT.
I thank you.
MAGDA.
Good-by.
HEFFTERDINGT.
Good-by. [Exit. He is seen through the open door speaking to Marie and sending her in. Magda remains motionless, with her face in her hands until he has gone.
Enter Marie.
MARIE.
What can I do, Magda?
MAGDA.
Where has the pastor gone?
MARIE.
Into the garden. Mamma is with him.
MAGDA.
If father asks for me, say I shall wait there. [Nods towards left.]
MARIE.
And haven't you a word for me, Magda?
MAGDA.
Oh, yes. Fear nothing. [Kisses her on the forehead.] Everything will come out well, so well--no, no, no. [In weary bitterness.] Everything will come out quite well. [Exit, left. Marie goes into the dining-room.]
Enter Schwartze. He takes out a pistol-case and opens it. Takes a pistol, cocks it with difficulty, examines the barrel, and aims at a point on the wall. His arm trembles violently. He strikes it angrily, and lets the pistol sink. Enter Max.
SCHWARTZE.
[Without turning.] Who's there?
MAX.
It's I, uncle.
SCHWARTZE.
Max? Ah, you may come in.
MAX.
Uncle, Marie told me-- What are the pistols for, uncle?
SCHWARTZE.
Ah, they used to be fine pistols,--beautiful pistols. See, boy, with this I have hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces, or say fifteen. And fifteen would be enough. We ought to have been in the garden already, but--but [helplessly touches his trembling arm, almost in tears]--but I can nevermore--
MAX.
[Hurrying to him.] Uncle? [They embrace each other for a moment.]
SCHWARTZE.
It's all right,--it's all right.
MAX.
Uncle, I need not say that I take your place, that I meet any man you point out; it is my right.
SCHWARTZE.
Yours,--why? In what capacity? Will you marry into a disgraced family?
MAX.
Uncle!
SCHWARTZE.
Are you prepared to strip off the uniform of our regiment? Yes, I might set up a gambling-house, and you could play the stool-pigeon for a living. There is no knowing what we might do. What! you, with your beautiful name, your noble name, propose this sacrifice,--and I to profit by it! Ha, ha! No, my boy; even if you still were willing, I am not. This house and all within are marked for ruin. Go your way from it. With the name of Schwartze you have nothing more to do.
MAX.
Uncle, I demand that you--
SCHWARTZE.
Hush! Not now! [Motions to the door.] Soon I may need you as one needs a friend in such affairs, but not now--not now. First I must find the gentleman. He was not at home--the gentleman was not at home. But he shall not think he has escaped me. If he is out a second time, then, my son, your work begins. Until then, be patient,--be patient.
Enter Theresa from hall.
THERESA.
Councillor von Keller. [Schwartze starts.]
MAX.
He here! How--
SCHWARTZE.
Let him come in. [Exit Theresa.
MAX.
Uncle! [Points to himself in great excitement. Schwartze shakes his head, and signs to Max to leave the room. Enter Von Keller. Exit Max. They meet in the doorway. Von Keller greets Max courteously. Max restrains himself from insulting him.]
VON KELLER.
Colonel, I am grieved at having missed you. When I returned from the Casino, where I am always to be found at noon,--where, I say, I am always to be found,--your card lay on the table; and as I imagine that there are matters of importance to be discussed between us, I made haste--as I say, I have made haste--
SCHWARTZE.
Councillor, I do not know whether in this house there should be a chair for you, but since you have come here so quickly, you must be tired. I beg you to be seated.
VON KELLER.
Thanks. [Sits down, near the open pistol-case, starts as he sees it, watches the Colonel apprehensively.] H'm!
SCHWARTZE.
Now, have you nothing to say to me?
VON KELLER.
Allow me first one question: Did your daughter, after our conversation, say anything to you about me?
SCHWARTZE.
Councillor, have you nothing to say to me?
VON KELLER.
Oh, certainly, I have a great deal to say to you. I would gladly, for instance, express to you a wish, a request; but I don't quite know whether-- Won't you tell me, at least, has your daughter spoken of me at all favorably?
SCHWARTZE.
[Angrily.] I must know, sir, how we stand, in what light I am to treat you.
VON KELLER.
Oh, pardon me, now I understand-- [Working himself up.] Colonel, you see in me a man who takes life earnestly. The days of a light youth-- [Schwartze looks up angrily.] Pardon me, I meant to say--since early this morning a holier and, if I may say so, a more auspicious resolution has arisen within me. Colonel, I am not a man of many words. I have already wandered from the point. As one man of honor to another, or-- in short, Colonel, I have the honor to ask you for the hand of your daughter. [Schwartze sits motionless, breathing heavily.] Pardon me, you do not answer--am I perhaps not worthy--
SCHWARTZE.
[Groping for his hand.] No, no, no; not that,--not that. I am an old man. These last hours have been a little too much for me. Don't mind me.
VON KELLER.
H'm, h'm!
SCHWARTZE.
[Rising, and closing the lid of the pistol-case.] Give me your hand, my young friend. You have brought heavy sorrow upon me,--heavy sorrow. But you have promptly and bravely made it good. Give me the other hand. So, so! And now do you wish to speak to her also? You will have much to say. Eh?
VON KELLER.
If I might be allowed.
SCHWARTZE.
[Opens the hall-door and speaks off, then opens the door, left.] Magda!
Enter Magda.
MAGDA.
What is it, father?
SCHWARTZE.
Magda, this gentleman asks for the honor-- [As he sees the two together, he looks with sudden anger from one to the other.]
MAGDA.
[Anxiously.] Father?
SCHWARTZE.
Now everything's arranged. Don't make it too long! [To Magda.] Yes, everything's all right now. [Exit.
VON KELLER.
Ah, my dearest Magda, who could have suspected it?
MAGDA.
Then we are to be married.
VON KELLER.
Above all, I don't want you to entertain the idea that any design of mine has been at the bottom of this development which I welcome so gladly, which I--
MAGDA.
I haven't reproached you.
VON KELLER.
No, you have no reason.
MAGDA.
None whatever.
VON KELLER.
Let me further say to you that it has always been my strongest wish that Providence might bring us together again.
MAGDA.
Then you have really never ceased to love me?
VON KELLER.
Well, as an honorable man and without exaggeration I can scarcely assert that. But since early this morning a holier and a more auspicious resolution has arisen within me--
MAGDA.
Pardon me, would this holy and auspicious resolution have arisen within you just the same if I had come back to my home in poverty and shame?
VON KELLER.
My dearest Magda, I am neither self-seeking nor a fortune-hunter, but I know what is due to myself and to my position. In other circumstances there would have been no social possibility of making legitimate our old relations--
MAGDA.
I must consider myself, then, very happy in these ten long years to have worked up unconsciously towards such a high goal.
VON KELLER.
I don't know whether I am too sensitive, but that sounds almost like irony. And I hardly think that--
MAGDA.
That it is fitting from me?
VON KELLER.
[Deprecatingly.] Oh!
MAGDA.
I must ask for your indulgence. The role of a patient and forbearing wife is new to me. Let us speak, then, of the future [sits and motions to him to do the same]--of our future. What is your idea of what is to come?
VON KELLER.
You know, my dearest Magda, I have great designs. This provincial town is no field for my statesmanship. Besides, it is my duty now to find a place which will be worthy of your social talents. For you will give up the stage and concert-hall,--that goes without saying.
MAGDA.
Oh, that goes without saying?
VON KELLER.
Oh, I beseech you--you don't understand the conditions; it would be a fatal handicap for me. I might as well leave the service at once.
MAGDA.
And if you did?
VON KELLER.
Oh, you can't be in earnest. For a hardworking and ambitious man who sees a brilliant future before him to give up honor and position, and as his wife's husband to play the vagabond,--to live merely as the husband of his wife? Shall I turn over your music, or take the tickets at the box-office? No, my dearest friend, you underestimate me, and the position I fill in society. But don't be uneasy. You will have nothing to repent of. I have every respect for your past triumphs, but [pompously] the highest reward to which your feminine ambition can aspire will be achieved in the drawing-room.
MAGDA.
[Aside.] Good Heaven, this thing I'm doing is mere madness!
VON KELLER.
What do you say? [Magda shakes her head.] And then the wife, the ideal wife, of modern times is the consort, the true, self-sacrificing helper of her husband. For instance, you, by your queenly personality and by the magic of your voice, will overcome my enemies, and knit even my friends more closely to me. And we will be largely hospitable. Our house shall be the centre of the most distinguished society, who still keep to the severely gracious manners of our forefathers. Gracious and severe may seem contradictory terms, but they are not.
MAGDA.
You forget that the child on whose account this union is to be consummated will keep the severely inclined away from us.
VON KELLER.
Yes, I know, dear Magda, it will be painful for you; but this child must of course remain the deepest secret between us. No one must suspect--
MAGDA.
[Astounded and incredulous.] What--what do you say?
VON KELLER.
Why, it would ruin us. No, no, it is absurd to think of it. But we can make a little journey every year to wherever it is being educated. One can register under a false name; that is not unusual in foreign parts, and is hardly criminal. And when we are fifty years old, and other regular conditions have been fulfilled, [laughing], that can be arranged, can't it? Then we can, under some pretext, adopt it, can't we?
MAGDA.
[Breaks into a piercing laugh; then, with clasped hands and staring eyes.] My sweet! My little one! Mio bambino! Mio povero--bam--you--you--I am to--ha, ha, ha! [Tries to open the folding door.] Go! go!
Enter Schwartze.
SCHWARTZE.
What--
MAGDA.
Good you're here! Free me from this man, take this man away from me.
SCHWARTZE.
What?
MAGDA.
I have done everything you demanded. I have humbled myself, I have surrendered my judgment, I have let myself be carried like a lamb to the slaughter. But my child I will not leave. Give up my child to save his career! [Throws herself into a chair.]
SCHWARTZE.
Mr. von Keller, will you please--
VON KELLER.
I am inconsolable, Colonel. But it seems that the conditions which for the interest of both parties I had to propose, do not meet the approbation--
SCHWARTZE.
My daughter is no longer in the position to choose the conditions under which she-- Dr. von Keller, I ask your pardon for the scene to which you have just been subjected. Wait for me at your home. I will myself bring you my daughter's consent. For that I pledge you my word of honor. [Sensation. Magda rises quickly.]
VON KELLER.
Have you considered what--
SCHWARTZE.
[Holding out his hand.] I thank you, Dr. von Keller.
VON KELLER.
Not at all. I have only done my duty.
[Exit, with a bow.
MAGDA.
[Stretching herself.] So! Now I'm the old Magda again. [Schwartze locks the three doors silently.] Do you think, father, that I shall become docile by being shut up?
SCHWARTZE.
So! Now we are alone. No one sees us but He who sees us--there [pointing upward] Quiet yourself, my child. We must talk together.
MAGDA.
[Sits down.] Good! We can come to an understanding, then,--my home and I.
SCHWARTZE.
Do you see that I am now quite calm?
MAGDA.
Certainly.
SCHWARTZE.
Quite calm, am I not? Even my arm does not tremble. What has happened, has happened. But just now I gave your betrothed--
MAGDA.
My betrothed?-- Father dear!
SCHWARTZE.
I gave your betrothed my word of honor. And that must be kept, don't you see?
MAGDA.
But if it is not in your power, my dear father.
SCHWARTZE.
Then I must die,--then I must simply die. One cannot live on when one-- You are an officer's daughter. Don't you understand that?
MAGDA.
[Compassionately.] My God!
SCHWARTZE.
But before I die, I must set my home in order, must I not? Every one has something which he holds sacred. What is sacred to your inmost soul?
MAGDA.
My art.
SCHWARTZE.
No, that is not enough. It must be more sacred.
MAGDA.
My child.
SCHWARTZE.
Good! Your child,--your child,--you love it? [Magda nods.] You wish to see it again? [She nods.] And--yes--if you made an oath upon its head [makes a motion as if he laid his hand upon a child's head], then you would not perjure yourself? [Magda shakes her head, smiling.] That's well. [Rising.] Either you swear to me now, as upon his head, that you will become the honorable wife of his father, or--neither of us two shall go out of this room alive. [Sinks back on the seat.]
MAGDA.
[After a short silence.] My poor, dear papa! Why do you torture yourself so? And do you think that I will let myself be constrained by locked doors? You cannot believe it.
SCHWARTZE.
You will see.
MAGDA.
[In growing excitement.] And what do you really want of me? Why do you trouble yourself about me? I had almost said, what have you all to do with me?
SCHWARTZE.
That you will see.
MAGDA.
You blame me for living out my life without asking you and the whole family for permission. And why should I not? Was I not without family? Did you not send me out into the world to earn my bread, and then disown me because the way in which I earned it was not to your taste? Whom did I harm? Against whom did I sin? Oh, if I had remained the daughter of the house, like Marie, who is nothing and does nothing without the sheltering roof of the home, who passes straight from the arms of her father into the arms of her husband; who receives from the family life, thought, character, everything,--yes, then you would have been right. In such a one the slightest error would have ruined everything,--conscience, honor, self-respect. But I? Look at me. I was alone. I was as shelterless as a man knocked about in the world, dependent on the work of my own hands. If you give us the right to hunger--and I have hungered--why do you deny us the right to love, as we can find it, and to happiness, as we can understand it?
SCHWARTZE.
You think, my child, because you are free and a great artist, that you can set at naught--
MAGDA.
Leave art out of the question. Consider me nothing more than the seamstress or the servant-maid who seeks, among strangers, the little food and the little love she needs. See how much the family with its morality demand from us! It throws us on our own resources, it gives us neither shelter nor happiness, and yet, in our loneliness, we must live according to the laws which it has planned for itself alone. We must still crouch in the corner, and there wait patiently until a respectful wooer happens to come. Yes, wait. And meanwhile the war for existence of body and soul is consuming us. Ahead we see nothing but sorrow and despair, and yet shall we not once dare to give what we have of youth and strength to the man for whom our whole being cries? Gag us, stupefy us, shut us up in harems or in cloisters--and that perhaps would be best. But if you give us our freedom, do not wonder if we take advantage of it.
SCHWARTZE.
There, there! That is the spirit of rebellion abroad in the world. My child--my dear child--tell me that you were not in earnest--that you--that you--pity me--if-- [Looking for the pistol-case]. I don't know what may happen--child--have pity on me!
MAGDA.
Father, father, be calm, I cannot bear that.
SCHWARTZE.
I will not do it--I cannot do it-- [Looking still for the pistol-case.] Take it from me! Take it from me!
MAGDA.
What, father?
SCHWARTZE.
Nothing, nothing, nothing. I ask you for the last time.
MAGDA.
Then you persist in it?
SCHWARTZE.
My child, I warn you. You know I cannot do otherwise.
MAGDA.
Yes, father, you leave me no other way. Well, then, are you sure that you ought to force me upon this man--[Schwartze listens] that, according to your standards, I am altogether worthy of him? [Hesitating, looking into space.] I mean--that he was the only one in my life?
SCHWARTZE.
[Feels for the pistol-case and takes the pistol out.] You jade! [He advances upon her, trying to raise the weapon. At the same moment he falls back on the seat, where he remains motionless, with staring eyes, the pistol grasped in his hand, which hangs down by his side.]
MAGDA.
[With a loud cry.] Father! [She flies toward the stove for shelter from the weapon, then takes a few steps, with her hands before her face.] Father! [She sinks, with her knees in a chair, her face on the back. Calling and knocking outside. The door is broken open.] Enter Max, Marie, Heffterdingt, and Mrs. Schwartze.
MRS. SCHWARTZE.
Leopold, what's the matter? Leopold! [To the Pastor.] O my God, he's as he used to be!
MARIE.
Papa dear! Speak, one word! [Throws herself down at his right.]
HEFFTERDINGT.
Get the doctor, Max.
MAX.
Is it a stroke?
HEFFTERDINGT.
I think so. [Exit Max. Aside to Magda.] Come to him. [As she hesitates.] Come; it is the end. [Leads her trembling to Schwartze's chair.]
MRS. SCHWARTZE.
[Who has tried to take the pistol.] Let it go, Leopold; what do you want with it? See, he's holding the pistol and won't let it go.
HEFFTERDINGT.
[Aside.] It is the convulsion. He cannot. My dear old friend, can you understand what I'm saying to you? [Schwartze bows his head a little. Magda sinks down at his left.] God, the All-Merciful One, has called you from on high. You are not her judge. Have you no sign of forgiveness for her? [Schwartze shakes his head slowly.]