MAGDA

Lieutenant Colonel Schwartze, _Magda's_ father, represents all the

conventional and conservative notions of society.

_Schwartze._ Modern ideas! Oh, pshaw! I know them. But come into the

quiet homes where are bred brave soldiers and virtuous wives. There

you'll hear no talk about heredity, no arguments about

individuality, no scandalous gossip. There modern ideas have no

foothold, for it is there that the life and strength of the

Fatherland abide. Look at this home! There is no luxury,--hardly

even what you call good taste,--faded rugs, birchen chairs, old

pictures; and yet when you see the beams of the western sun pour

through the white curtains and lie with such a loving touch on the

old room, does not something say to you, "Here dwells true

happiness"?

The _Colonel_ is a rigid military man. He is utterly blind to the modern

conception of woman's place in life. He rules his family as the Kaiser

rules the nation, with severe discipline, with terrorism and despotism.

He chooses the man whom _Magda_ is to marry, and when she refuses to

accept his choice, he drives her out of the house.

At the age of eighteen _Magda_ goes out into the world yearning for

development; she longs for artistic expression and economic

independence. Seventeen years later she returns to her native town, a

celebrated singer. As _Madelene dell'Orto_ she is invited to sing at the

town's charity bazaar, and is acclaimed, after the performance, one of

the greatest stars of the country.

_Magda_ has not forgotten her home; especially does she long to see her

father whom she loves passionately, and her sister, whom she had left a

little child of eight. After the concert _Magda_, the renowned artist,

steals away from her admirers, with their flowers and presents, and goes

out into the darkness of the night to catch a glimpse, through the

window at least, of her father and her little sister.

_Magda's_ father is scandalized at her mode of life: what will people

say if the daughter of the distinguished officer stops at a hotel,

associates with men without a chaperon, and is wined and dined away from

her home? _Magda_ is finally prevailed upon to remain with her parents.

She consents on condition that they should not pry into her life, that

they should not soil and besmirch her innermost being. But that is

expecting the impossible from a provincial environment. It is not that

her people really question; but they insinuate, they speak with looks

and nods; burning curiosity to unearth _Magda's_ life is in the very

air.

_Schwartze._ I implore you--Come here, my child--nearer--so--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.

_Magda._ I have remained--true to myself, dear father.

_Schwartze._ How? In good or in ill?

_Magda._ In what--for me--was good.

_Schwartze._ I love you with my whole heart, because I have sorrowed

for you--so long. But I must know who you are.

Among the townspeople who come to pay homage to _Magda_ is _Councillor

von Keller_. In his student days he belonged to the bohemian set and was

full of advanced ideas. At that period he met _Magda_, young,

beautiful, and inexperienced. A love affair developed. But when _Von

Keller_ finished his studies, he went home to the fold of his family,

and forgot his sweetheart _Magda_. In due course he became an important

pillar of society, a very influential citizen, admired, respected, and

feared in the community.

When _Magda_ returns home, _Von Keller_ comes to pay her his respects.

But she is no longer the insignificant little girl he had known; she is

now a celebrity. What pillar of society is averse to basking in the glow

of celebrities? _Von Keller_ offers flowers and admiration. But _Magda_

discovers in him the man who had robbed her of her faith and trust,--the

father of her child.

_Magda_ has become purified by her bitter struggle. It made her finer

and bigger. She does not even reproach the man, because--

_Magda._ 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 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.

_Von Keller._ 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--

_Magda._ 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?

_Von Keller._ Oh, pray don't--

_Magda._ Well, between old friends--

_Von Keller._ Really, are we that, really?

_Magda._ 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.

_Von Keller._ This is a view which--

_Magda._ 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 anyone who came in my way. That--that seemed to be all over.

And we were so happy,--weren't we?... Yes, we were a merry set; and

when the fun had lasted half a year, one day my lover vanished.

_Von Keller._ An unlucky chance, I swear to you. My father was ill.

I had to travel. I wrote everything to you.

_Magda._ H'm! I didn't 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 moldering 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, 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!

_Von Keller._ My child!

_Magda._ 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!

_Von Keller._ For Heaven's sake, hush! someone's coming.

_Magda._ 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 anyone? I am myself, and through myself I have become what I

am.

_Magda's_ father learns about the affair and immediately demands that

the _Councillor_ marry his daughter, or fight a duel. _Magda_ resents

the preposterous idea. _Von Keller_ is indeed glad to offer _Magda_ his

hand in marriage: she is so beautiful and fascinating; she will prove a

great asset to his ambitions. But he stipulates that she give up her

profession of singer, and that the existence of the child be kept

secret. He tells _Magda_ that later on, when they are happily married

and firmly established in the world, they will bring their child to

their home and adopt it; but for the present respectability must not

know that it is theirs, born out of wedlock, without the sanction of the

Church and the State.

That is more than _Magda_ can endure. She is outraged that she, the

mother, who had given up everything for the sake of her child, who had

slaved, struggled and drudged in order to win a career and economic

independence--all for the sake of the child--that she should forswear

her right to motherhood, her right to be true to herself!

_Magda._ 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,

that can be arranged, can't it? Then we can, under some pretext,

adopt it, can't we?

_Magda._ 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!

_Magda_ orders _Von Keller_ out of the house. But the old _Colonel_ is

unbending. He insists that his daughter become an honorable woman by

marrying the man who had seduced her. Her refusal fires his wrath to

wild rage.

_Schwartze._ Either you swear to me now ... that you will become the

honorable wife of your child's father, or--neither of us two shall

go out of this room alive.... You think ... 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.

But morality and the family never understand the Magdas. Least of all

does the old Colonel understand his daughter. Rigid in his false notions

and superstitions, wrought up with distress, he is about to carry out

his threat, when a stroke of apoplexy overtakes him.

In "Magda," Hermann Sudermann has given to the world a new picture of

modern womanhood, a type of free motherhood. As such the play is of

great revolutionary significance, not alone to Germany, but to the

universal spirit of a newer day.