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weren t we? . . . Yes, we were a merry set; and when
the fun had lasted half a year, one day my lover van
ished.
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, un
suspecting thing, enjoying freedom like a runaway mon
key. 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!
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