George.
If it's in my power, certainly!
Marie.
Then I must first confess to you. A few moments ago, when papa
questioned me, I deceived him. I was attacked last night--yes--but not
by a man, but by a woman--a Lithuanian woman. George, that woman was my
mother!
George.
But I understood your mother was dead.
Marie.
No, no; that is not so. Not one of you ever told me the truth. On the
day of my confirmation I was waylaid by that very same woman--I cannot
have been mistaken.
George.
Come, tell me, how did it happen?
Marie.
I was walking along quietly--'twas already dawning--when suddenly a
gaunt form arose from the ditch beside the road. I looked, and saw
before me a miserable beggarwoman, who called out to me in a trembling
voice: "Marie--Madame--Daughter!" I turned cold in fear and horror,
and, unable to utter one sound, I began to run; and I ran, ran, ran,
and behind me I only heard her agonizing call: "My Marie--my daughter!"
And so, I ran away from my own mother. And now, after a few hours'
thought, I realize I did wrong. I must see her and speak to her, and
learn from her own lips who and what I am; and as papa has forbidden me
to leave this house--I would go in spite of him, but I have a fear--I
beg of you, George, dear, go to her, I implore you, find her for
me--she cannot be far away, and----
George.
And then?
Marie.
Then bring her to me, into the garden, or, better still, into this room
towards evening, when papa and mama are calling on the old pastor----
George.
Marie, I cannot do that!
Marie.
The first time I ask a favor of you--and you say you cannot do it?
George.
Marie, dear, listen to me! You have been so kind to me of late--and
that has not always been so; but if you had sacrificed for me even more
than your own comfort and rest, I--I could not do it--I could not
deceive your father and mother, for I fear the consequences.
Marie.
Then can't you understand that, a foundling though I am, a desire might
come over me to see my own mother, though she be but a common beggar
and an outcast? That I might want to lay my head on her shoulder and be
petted and fondled, and cry myself to sleep on mine--on my own mother's
breast?
George.
Are you not fondled, are you not petted--has mama not always been kind
to you?
Marie.
Yes, but it is not the same--not the same. Never have I felt the
desire, the demand within me for my own flesh and blood, as just now.
George.
But why just now?
Marie.
[_Imploringly_.] Because my heart is bursting. Oh, George!
George.