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 Eolian 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!
