HEFFTERDINGT.
What is there in the world which draws you away again after an hour?
MAGDA.
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.
HEFFTERDINGT.
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.
MAGDA.
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--
_Enter_ Mrs. Schwartze.
HEFFTERDINGT.
For Heaven"s sake, hush!
MRS. SCHWARTZE.
Excuse me, Pastor, I only wanted to know about supper. [_Imploringly to_ Magda, _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?
HEFFTERDINGT.
Don"t ask now, my dear madam.
MRS. SCHWARTZE.
Oh, if I"m interrupting--I only thought--
HEFFTERDINGT.
Later.
MARIE.
[_Appearing in the doorway_.] Will she stay? [Magda _shrinks at the sound of the voice_.]
MRS. SCHWARTZE.
"Sh! [_Exit_ Mrs. Schwartze _and_ Marie.
HEFFTERDINGT.
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?
MAGDA.
If I have one, it is not here.
HEFFTERDINGT.
[_Embarra.s.sed_.] 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!
MAGDA.
[_Sadly_.] I owe nothing now to any one here.
HEFFTERDINGT.
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.
MAGDA.
What had happened?
HEFFTERDINGT.
What had happened? I will tell you. He had just received a letter in which his eldest daughter bade him farewell.
MAGDA.
My G.o.d!
HEFFTERDINGT.
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.
MAGDA.
That is indeed a debt I owe.
HEFFTERDINGT.
Ah, if that were all, Miss Magda! Pardon me, I call you by the name I used long ago. It springs to my lips.
MAGDA.
Call me what you like. Go on.
HEFFTERDINGT.
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.
MAGDA.