Magda Part 1

Magda.

by Hermann Sudermann.

Note.

Herr Hermann Sudermann has achieved surprising success in pa.s.sing from novel-writing to dramatic authors.h.i.+p. He has a style of the utmost distinction, and is well skilled in technique. His masterpiece, "Heimat," is absolutely original. No play has ever produced a more impressive effect upon German audiences. When it ceases to be performed, it will still hold a permanent and important place in the libraries of dramatic literature. Though a psychological study, there is no concentration of attention upon morbid conditions. All these have pa.s.sed before the play begins. There is no pa.s.sion for mere pa.s.sion's sake. Its development proceeds from the energies of circ.u.mstances and character.

Herr Sudermann, unlike some of the new dramatists, is not lacking in humor; and the sn.o.bbishness, stuffy etiquette, and scandal-mongering of a provincial town are well ill.u.s.trated by the minor characters. Into this atmosphere comes the whirlwind from the outer world with fatal effect. It is scarcely possible to conceive more varied and intense emotions naturally and even inevitably evolved from the action of a single day. The value of the drama lies in the sharp contrasts between the New and the Old, alternately commanding, in their strife, the adhesion of the spectator or reader. The preparation for the return of "The Prodigal Daughter" occupies an entire act, and invests her entrance with an interest which increases until the tremendous climax.

Yet the proud martinet father commands our respect and sympathy; and the Pastor, in his enlightened self-conquest, is the ant.i.thesis alike of the narrowness and lawlessness of parent and child, and remains the hero of the swift tragedy.

It is not uncommon that the scrupulousness attending circ.u.mstances where partiality would be a natural impulse, makes criticism even unusually exacting. It is believed that in this spirit the present translation may be somewhat confidently characterized as being both spirited and faithful.

E. W.

The Oxford.

_January_, 1896.

ACT I.

Scene. _Living-room in house of_ Lieutenant-Colonel Schwartze, _furnished in simple and old-fas.h.i.+oned style. Left, at back, a gla.s.s door with white curtains through which the dining-room is seen. There is also a hall door, through which a staircase to the upper story is visible. Right, a corner window, with white curtains, surrounded by ivy. Left, a door to the_ Lieutenant-Colonel's _room. Steel engravings of a religious and patriotic character, in tarnished gold frames, photographs of military groups, and cases of b.u.t.terflies on the walls.

Right, over the sofa, among other pictures, is the portrait of the first Mrs. Schwartze, young and charming, in the costume of the sixties. Behind the sofa, an old-fas.h.i.+oned desk. Before the window, a small table with workbox and hand sewing-machine. At the back, between the doors, an old-fas.h.i.+oned tall clock. In the left-hand corner, a stand with dried gra.s.ses; in front, a table with a small aquarium.

Left, in front, a corner sofa with a small pipe-cupboard behind it. A stove with a stuffed bird on it; and behind, a bookcase with a bust of the old Emperor William._

[Marie _and_ Theresa _discovered_. Theresa _at the door_. Marie _is occupied with the sewing-machine_.]

THERESA.

Miss Marie!

MARIE.

Well!

THERESA.

Is your father still lying down?

MARIE.

What's the matter? Has any one called?

THERESA.

No, but-- There! Look at that! [_Producing a magnificent ma.s.s of flowers_.]

MARIE.

Good Heavens! Take it to my room quickly, or papa-- But, Theresa, when the first came yesterday, weren't you told not to let any more be left?

THERESA.

I'd have sent the florist's boy away if I could, but I was up on the ladder fixing the flag, and he laid it down and was gone before I could stop him. My, my, though, they're beautiful! and if I might make a guess, the Lieutenant--

MARIE.

You may not make a guess.

THERESA.

All right, all right. Oh, I know what I wanted to ask. Does the flag hang well? [Marie _looks out, and nods a.s.sent_.]

THERESA.

The whole town is full of flags and flowers, and the most expensive tapestries are hung out of the windows. One would think it was the King's birthday. And all this fuss is about a stupid Music Festival!

What is this Music Festival, Miss Marie? Is it different from a choral festival?

MARIE.

Yes, indeed.

THERESA.

Is it better?

MARIE.

Oh, much better!

THERESA.

Oh, well, if it's better-- [_A knock_.]

MARIE.

Come in!

_Enter_ Max.

THERESA.

Well, _now_ I suppose I can leave the flowers.