The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Devil, by Ferenc Molnar.

Staged by Robert Milton, with the assistance
of Julius Herzka, Director-General of the
Volks-Theatre, Vienna

ACT I.—Karl Mahler's Studio, Vienna. (Afternoon.)
ACT II.—Conservatory Reception Room at the Hofmanns'. (Evening.)
ACT III.—At Karl's Studio. (The next morning.)

STAGE DIRECTIONS

Up. away from audience
Down. toward audience
Up C. centre of stage, away from audience
R. right of stage
L. left of stage
C. centre of stage
R. C. to right of centre
L. C. to left of centre

THE DEVIL

ACT I

SCENE.—Room next to KARL'S studio. At the back of the stage to the L. is a glass door with portière towards the stage. When this door is opened one can see the studio. Bach of the stage to the R. a fireplace with burning fire. Round the fireplace an elevation about half a yard high reaching into the middle of the room. This elevation is bordered by a wooden railing with an opening on each side—in the middle of the railing an ancient Gothic chair, with back towards the public; the back of the chair must be so high that a person sitting in it cannot be seen by the public. On the R. a door leading into the entrance hall of the apartment. There is a little invisible door covered as the rest of the room, with wall paper, on the L. near the footlights. About a yard from this door, a settee with the head end towards the glass door of the studio. Next to this settee a small, ancient table, about one yard high. On the L. a curio cabinet (small); next to it a hall stand with some shawls of different colors. On L. next the settee a large, gilded, stand-up candelabra, as used in churches.

There are many sketches, framed and unframed, about the room—some statues, some heads, and a very elegant electric candelabra hanging in the middle of the room. The whole thing unharmonious but artistic. Down stage on the R. a medium-sized table littered with books, magazines and bric-à-brac; a large palette lies on the top of some books and scattered among the other things some tubes of paint and paint brushes.

Hold on! Put out a dress shirt on the bed, then look for my pearl buttons—they are probably in the top drawer—in a match-box. Stop! Give me that crown. Take this.

Get me a pair of white gloves, seven and a half. Oh! and Heinrich, before you go, put the Venetian chair next to the window. At three o'clock Mrs. Zanden will be here to have her portrait painted, and I shall be at home to nobody.

Good-bye. (Wipes her eyes.) You don't love me any more ... you don't love me any more.

Ever since last fall you've been different. I knew it right away when you started to paint landscapes. When you are in love you paint Venuses. I know what it means when you start to paint trees.

Yes, yes. Go home! Be a good girl. For a week now you've sent me home without my even taking my gloves off. I'm no use any more.

Oh, you tell me anything you want to my face; but I know you're going to marry a girl named Elsa—the wife of your friend Mr. Zanden has arranged everything—look at me and deny it, if you dare. After all, what's the use! you wouldn't tell me the truth anyway.

She's a nice one, Mrs. Zanden! Instead of taking you on herself, she marries you to a friend of hers. But I don't care; you don't love me any more—doing landscapes all the time.

Oh! You painters! It's always the same. First you say: "What an angel! What a Madonna! What a Venus! What color! What hair! What lines!" Then all of a sudden, it's: "Oh, my dear! Why, you've gone yellow." The next day you're green, and then it's: "I have no time today." And, first thing you know, you're—pooh! Landscapes. (Scornfully.)

If you were really nice, you would at least promise to marry me. All the other artists promised. They weren't so mean as you are! Oh yes, I know I am annoying you. I'm absolutely boring you.

If you were not such a dear little nuisance— [Reaches up and draws her down to him. —I would have done with you a long time ago.

We might have chosen another day to begin Olga's portrait—we have waited six years, so we could just as well have waited until tomorrow; but the preparations for tonight's ball made Olga so nervous that I thought it best to bring her here. You know this ball is a kind of house-warming.

We were obliged to invite such a lot of people, to clear off our social obligations.

I wish it was over. I hate these functions. Old Freebody, in whose business I started, was worth ninety millions, and he never gave a party in his life—or anything else, for that matter. When do you want me to call for Olga?

Well, it gets dark very early now: in three quarters of an hour we won't be able to see any more.

You'll have to stop that sort of thing, now, Karl. You know you are one of the reasons of tonight's ball. Isn't he, Olga?

I shall call for you at four o'clock, my dear. And don't worry about tonight: the caterer has his instructions.

Shall I tell you the truth? I'm hurrying because I'm afraid of changing my mind and taking Olga away with me.

If I wasn't afraid of appearing ridiculous, I would say: Be good! And now, good-bye.

I had the same feeling once in Dresden, when my mother took me to a boarding-school and left me there. I felt as if I were quite alone in this wide, strange world—and now—you know yourself. I have fought against coming here for six years.

What a queer place. I don't think I like it. [KARL crosses C. and up laughing. Strange monsters, cut off heads, and you in the middle of all this like a wizard. While my husband was here I did not feel it, but now these heads seem to stare at me.

He has often pretended to be jealous, but this time there was a ring in his voice that made me feel that there was something behind it.

We've done well to avoid it all these years. A good conscience is like a warm bath—one feels so comfortable in it.

Last Thursday, when we spoke about my painting your portrait, you seemed embarrassed.

Don't be afraid of me. If I were not I, your fear might be justified; but as it is, surely we can trust ourselves to talk things over quietly. To think that seven years ago I was a teacher in Herman's family—and I was there the day your engagement was announced—it was the evening of the day we—

—We kissed each other for the first time. Oh, I know. I was only a drawing teacher—but you—what were you? Just a poor little friend of Herman's sisters. Sometimes you were asked to tea in their grand house. And there we met—a beggar boy and a beggar girl at the rich man's table. Do you wonder? And then, just as we realized what we were to each other, one fine day Herman up and proposed to you. Such a dazzling offer—who could blame you?

We were two poor little souls who found one another in the wilderness of wealth—only to lose each other. Even the memory of that one little kiss....

Dear Karl, don't. We have grown up to be sensible people—we have put it out of our thoughts.

Oh, I know it's all over. To-day I'm—(humorously) the famous painter, your husband is my friend, and though we see one another every day, we have never spoken of it again. I wouldn't even have the courage to ask you to sit for your portrait. I was afraid, and I think you were afraid. And so was your husband. And that is why until this day—

Oh, it was only my husband's voice—something in his manner that frightened me. He must know what we were to one another, though he has never made the slightest allusion to it, not one single word in all these years. But when he left us here alone, he seemed to feel—

But there is no reason for it, is there? We are not in love with one another, are we? And it's just lovely to think that we have not entirely forgotten old times. Don't you think so, Karl?

So you will be married and you will be very, very happy—and I shall be happy, too, because it is my own idea, and I have picked out a nice girl for you—pretty and clever—

Last night I made a sketch of you from memory.... Oh, I've made lots of sketches of you; but now, now I see you in another light.

Yesterday I looked upon you as a model. To-day you are a motif—you are a revelation...? there is something in your eyes....

Yes. Herman wants me painted décolletée—in an evening gown; just a head and shoulders, you know. I would have preferred a street dress.

I'm afraid I agree with Herman on that point. But have you?... Didn't you?... Where is the dress?

Why, the drawing of the shoulders is almost more important than the head in the first sketch.

You will have to be quick because it will soon be dark. Here are the draperies—you'll find some pins over here, and I'll go into the studio while you—until you—

Oh, no, no. Your husband would certainly want to know the reason, and really—if this door is closed—

It's too bad! This snow takes all the light away. But never mind—never mind; the snow shovellers will be glad of it.

I must beg your pardon, Madame. I came from lunch. Karl was not at home. I waited and I fell asleep in this very comfortable chair.

Forgive me, Madame, for opening my eyes at a moment when, for propriety's sake, I should have at least kept one eye shut.

I once had a similar encounter at a dentist's; and the lady, to prove that my insinuations were false, did not hesitate to sacrifice a perfectly good tooth.

Oh, I know—you speak the truth. I am even at liberty to believe it, though your truth is only partly in style. Truth should have nothing on at all, you know.

The insolence! What right have you to speak to me? Who are you? What are you doing here? Karl!

Yes, yes, I remember. It was last fall, and I had just lost all my money at roulette. As I turned from the table, I caught sight of a stranger frowning at me.

It was you. I was startled, because only a moment before I had seen you next to the croupier, and I thought I heard you laugh when I lost. But now I remember—you stood behind me, and when I had lost everything, you offered me, a total stranger, a handful of louis d'or.

In five minutes I had won everything back, and 20,000 francs besides. Your gold seemed to have magic power, I remember. When you gave it to me it seemed to burn.

But you paid me back and invited me to supper. I had to refuse, because I was obliged to leave for Spain the same evening, but I promised to look you up the next time you needed me—

Won't you please sit down? Allow me to introduce you. I quite forget your name....

Call me anything you like: we only call names when the party is absent; but I am here now—call me Miller, or Brown, or Black.

but my infinite tact compels me to force my presence upon you in this disagreeable situation.

Well, if you think that I have insulted you, I should say the proper person to refer me to would be your husband.

What's it all about? I don't understand you. You come in here, I don't know how or where from, and you—you act as if you had trapped us—

If I were to go now, it would be as much as to say: "Pardon me, I fear I intrude." But if I remain, I show that I suspect nothing.

How do I know? The way she turned to you just now when she fancied herself insulted—it didn't escape me.

No; she doesn't love her husband. He must be either a genius or a very common man. Marriage with them is always unlucky. Believe me, common men live so low that women are afraid somebody will steal in at night through the window which they forgot to lock. And Genius, well! That lives on the top floor—so many stairs, no elevator. Her ideal is—

Well, you may take my word. I have seen them both. And, believe me, since Alcamenes, I have only known one sculptor who could model such shoulders.

Good living. Such tender, soft lines are only possible for a woman who lives exquisitely well. I take it she is the wife of a millionaire?

If a lady takes as long as that to dress before a looking-glass, she's not a—model—anyway.

In a situation like this, only a very respectable man can be so infernally stupid.

But "What's the time?" always means the husband. A woman's intuition invariably anticipates her husband's coming by ten minutes. If it wasn't for that ten minutes, there would be more divorced women—

I tried to change the subject. I started to speak about the weather—the Exhibition—but Karl wouldn't have it.

But your actions fairly shouted. The way you jumped up, looked at your watch, went to the door—

That your husband would come before you had finished dressing. I don't blame him.

Come now! Let us be logical—let us look the situation in the face. Enter your husband—

"There is no picture. Karl hasn't even touched a brush." Your husband is astonished—he tries to speak—the words stick in his throat—he gasps: "Well, if you didn't paint, why is she dressing?" Imagine the situation! You look at one another horribly embarrassed; Karl stammers something, but that only makes it worse. Nothing has happened—and yet the mischief is done. What mischief? Appearances—appearances. They're like fly-paper. There's no getting away from them.

You go home with your husband, and he doesn't speak—and if you ask him: "Why don't you say something?" his blood seems to boil. If you ask him to take a cab, he suspects that you want to avoid meeting somebody—every word that you utter tortures him. And if—

Just so, I am here—one word from me would save the situation—but—I know myself—I'm a strange, whimsical, almost cruel man—and I'm afraid I won't say the word. Tableau! Embarrassing silence! Then I say: "I regret that I should have come at such an inopportune moment." I take my hat and walk out discreetly. If necessary, I can even stammer my excuses.

Possible, Madame—but I can do better still. Of course, if you prefer it, I can make conversation—when your husband comes in, I can tell him that the portrait has not been touched and ask his pardon—

What do you want with me? You turn everything to evil. I have scarcely known you five minutes, and I seem to feel your fingers at my throat.

DEVIL, gives a sign to HEINRICH to go out and do as he was told. Speaking to KARL

I had to have it pressed. I told the tailor to send it here. I must dress for tonight. I'm going to a ball the prettiest woman in Vienna is giving at the house of the Duke of Maranse.

But the Duke does not live there now—he's Ambassador in Madrid; he has sold his house—to us.

Madame, you asked me a little while ago what I wanted. That's what I wanted. Thank you.

Will be delighted. I've just come from Odessa. I have good news. Wheat is rising—this year's crop turned out worse than they thought it would.

You have a new hat—a very pretty one—and you will certainly want a new dress to wear with it.

Married? Not the least—but I have an eye for feminine vanities. Oh, no! A wife is like a single eyeglass—it looks very nice, but one is better off without it.

An artist ought never to marry—his wife will swear on the wedding day to stand by his side all through life. The day after the wedding she will stand in his way.

Oh, no, not cynical, only careful. A tigress who has married—I mean eaten—a man, is no longer dangerous—you can ride on her back through the jungle. But, you must wait till she has married—I mean eaten—somebody; then she is quite safe.

Then why didn't you stay at home P Why did you refuse a legitimate position—good, everyday morals—a decent occupation at so much a week? You wanted to go into the jungle—and there you are. Now fight your battle—hunt tigers—but don't get married!

You may say what you like, but I can read your eyes; they say to me: "Don't believe him, he lies."

Don't interrupt me. For six years we have been —good friends, nothing else. Olga cares nothing for me—and I—and I—

I don't know what you, who profess to know everything, know about us, but anyone who thinks Karl capable of one base thought must be very low and contemptible himself.

It's not a base thought: it's a great thought—a thought that brings joy and warmth and light into your wretched little lives. But joy has its price—and you must pay it, you misers! The drunkard dies of drink, but while he is drunk angels in heaven sing to him. The poet dies in the ecstasy of his sweetest song. It is a coward's bravery that turns away from the wine, the song—and the lips of woman. The smallest candle-end shows you it is worth while to burn up for the sake of a little warmth—a little light. The only end of life is to burn—to burn yourself up. You must flame and blaze like a torch and toss the fire about you. I know: your moralists tell you to love one another—don't believe them—your grubby little earth with its paltry million years is not ripe for such a love as that. It can only breed monks, madmen, Methodists. Don't be a fool, be a rogue—but be a jolly rogue—and the world is yours! Look at me! I own the earth. Here is the key of life—Love yourself—only yourself. Dress yourself in the softest garments—kiss the sweetest lips—drink of the wine of Life—Drink! Drink! Drink!

I'm afraid I'm late. My agent hasn't telephoned me yet, but I didn't want to make you wait too long. Rather dark in here!

It was all my fault. We have been chatting. We've had a very interesting discussion. And Madame was kind enough to invite me for this evening.

Thank you. I have just come from Odessa. I had a talk with the Russian Wheat King. He tells me—

I don't think you've any cause for uneasiness. I have inside information that the American crop will be excellent.

By the way, if you want to see something delightfully bad, you ought to take a look at the sketch Karl made yesterday of your wife.

I'm sorry you didn't start Olga's portrait today. What were you talking about all the time?

DEVIL, very gently, pushing MIMI out of the door into the hall and speaking through the door

One minute, my dear. There are some visitors here. Sit down there. I'll call you.

Don't come tonight. Now my husband has come, I am myself again, and your manner grates upon me. I had begun to feel as if some strange force—some invisible hand—was clutching me —holding me in spite of myself. There is a mystery about you. It frightens me. I thanked God when I heard that bell ring. He came just in time.

To point a moral and break up a charming party. We were just beginning to understand each other.

Well, I'll make a compromise with you. If you repeat your invitation in your husband's presence, I shall accept; if you do not, I will not come.

That's nice of you—the first really nice thing you've said. I like you much better.

You don't say? You represent Holman & Co. in London? When I am in Odessa I am always old Mr. Holman's guest. A charming old gentleman. No doubt you have heard the rumors. It seems they've been mixed up with some unfortunate ventures which have seriously affected their standing.

Yes, but that isn't all. He's the president of some trust company, and in order to boom the stocks he—but it's a long story, I won't bore you with it now.

My dear sir, this concerns me more than I can tell you. The fact is—I—I am heavily interested.

Oh, I am so sorry. I have excused myself already to Madame, but I had forgotten all about a call I must pay at the Russian Embassy this evening.

My dear, won't you please ask the Doctor to try and arrange to come to our house this evening?

Much as I would like to see you, Doctor, I cannot ask you to sacrifice anything for our sake.

Come to think of it, the Russian Ambassador left town yesterday, so if Madame—

You were good enough to invite me for this evening: I am now going to repay your kindness. In five minutes I shall be back here to interrupt this tête-à-tête. Watch me forget my overcoat.

I was downstairs in the lunch room and thought it all over. Dear Karl, don't be mean—don't get married.

I never used to care, but now that I've seen those people I—I can't bear it. Don't get married!

I've been a silly girl—but it's all over now. I'm sensible again. You are going to settle down and marry Elsa and be the most famous portrait painter in all Europe.

Mimi, child—don't speak of portraits. I feel at this moment as if I never wanted to hear the word portrait again. I'd like to run away from everything, Mimi. What do you say?

Suppose you and I get married and go away—far away into the country—or to the United States, where we'd never be heard of again.

No, don't go! Now you have come, you might as well stay a while—take your hat off.

I'm glad you came back. Now, let's be sensible—and talk it over. You know I really am fond of you—after all, I am your best friend and you are my—my—

It's funny, but every time I come here, you are helping some lady to take off her things.

The hanger was torn off. I asked your man to mend it and bring it here when it was done.

I don't want to talk about it. You don't seem to understand my position. I have seen this woman for years every day, and I never even thought—and if I had thought—I should have laughed at myself.

Look at her! She's yours. Think what it means —joy, unspeakable joy—the most supreme joy one can have. And to think that you are too lazy to stretch out your hand! Why, another one would toil day and night, would risk life and limb for such a prize—and it just drops at your feet—a windfall.

Last fall, on the sixth of September—I shall never forget the date—something strange happened to me. I put on an old suit I hadn't worn for a long time, and as I picked up the waistcoat, a sovereign fell out. God knows how long it had been there. As I turned this sovereign over to look at it, it suddenly slipped through my fingers and rolled away. I looked and looked, but my sovereign was gone. I become nervous: I can't find the sovereign. I search around for half an hour, three quarters of an hour, still I can't find it. I get angry, I get furious. I shift the furniture—no sovereign. I call my man—we both look everywhere until it's dark. I'm perspiring and trembling—I have but one idea: I must get that sovereign back. Suddenly a suspicion comes into my mind—I get up from my knees. I scream at the top of my voice to my servant: "You thief, you have found the sovereign and put it into your pocket." The man gets angry and answers me disrespectfully. I am about to strike him when I see the blade of a knife shining in his hands. I draw my revolver—

I would have given it away, but—it slipped through my fingers, and whatever slips through our fingers, that is just the one thing we want.

We break our necks for it: that's human nature. And if it once slips through your fingers, you will run after your found sovereign. And then, when it is too late, you will discover it was worth having.

And that little woman will become dearer and more precious to you every day—you will realize that she could have given you wings—that her temperament, her beauty, her passion, would have been the inspiration of your work— all this you'll realize when she has slipped away. You could have become a master—a giant! Not by loving your art, but by loving her—but you won't know it till it is too late—too late.

Think what you might have been to one another! What divine happiness, not because she is beautiful—no, but because you—

No! Do you hear me? No! I have known her all these years, and we've been good friends only—and we'll remain good friends, nothing else. I don't want the found sovereign!

Oh, what joy! What exquisite joy. For ten thousand years I have had no prettier mistress!

Mistress, I said. Come tonight—to her house—when the lights are burning—when the air seems to be filled with music and perfume. You'll see—before day dawns.

How you will run after your lost sovereign! Every hour when you wonder where she is, she spends with me. A carriage passes: your heart stands still. Who's in that carriage? Shall I tell you? We! You see a couple vanish around a corner, clinging lovingly to one another. Who were they? We! Always we. A light goes out in some window. Who put that light out? We! We sit in every carriage, we vanish around every corner—clinging lovingly together; we stand behind every window curtain in close embrace, looking into your tortured face, your maddened eyes—and we cling closer—closer—and we laugh—-we laugh!

CURTAIN

ACT II

SCENE.—A conservatory in Zanden's house. The L. side of the stage as well as the whole back of the stage is taken up by large bay windows, through which one sees into the garden. In the distance the wall surrounding the house, and some trees in the garden. It is winter. Bright weather, but it has been snowing. In the garden as well as in the street, electric lamps. On the R. side of the stage there are two doors, one quite near to the footlights, leading into the apartment—one in the rear, leading to the hall. There is a platform about two yards long and two yards wide, between these two doors. Five steps lead from this platform towards the footlights, and five steps on the side of the platform to the middle of the stage. On the top of the platform a door leading to the ball-room. When this door is opened, one generally hears the ball music. At the foot of the stairs, about three yards from the footlights, two square columns having a brass ornament with eight electric lamps attached. There are heaps of plants and flowers about the room. Two chairs and a table stand on the R. side of the stage, about three yards from the footlights, two chairs and a table on the L. side of the stage, about five yards from the footlights. There are two settees, L. and R. On the table L. writing material. It is about one o'clock at night.

Oh, dreadful! He behaved shockingly to my husband. He told him that it will be so cold tonight that his teeth will shiver in their box.

Olga tells me he is a friend of Herr Karl's, and she only invited him as a compliment to him.

He insisted on telling me of a remedy for obesity. I don't consider myself stout—do you?

If Miss Elsa wants to speak to him let her do so. I think she is the only one really capable of putting him in his place.

Thanks, awfully. Oh, I know what you call me—the blue-stocking—sassy Elsa—

You needn't think I am afraid to say what I think to your face. I was just about to—

You did well to stay. They would have said much worse things about you—they would have spoken about your approaching engagement to Karl.

I'm very glad you spoke that way to Elsa. You have quite won me over, and I don't mind telling you I came very near having to pick a bone with you.

DEVIL, R. C., to FOURTH LADY GUEST, who is very thin—looking at her from head to foot

Bravo! I couldn't do that—not that I lack courage. I am famous for my courage—I just love a fight—I once slapped the face of an athlete who dared to insult a lady.

Yes, coward. If you dared to slap the face of a cripple I might admire your courage.

Her dress—it is the very latest pattern for arm-chairs and settees—but please don't say I said so.

Aren't you surprised I haven't gone? You insulted me, too. I only stay because I want to speak to you.

Politeness would only embarrass me—and I have chosen you to deliver a message to that crowd —only because you can be so delightfully rude.

Not yet, please. You informed me just now that I am the girl they want to throw into the arms of your friend Karl.

You forget to say I am the girl who allows herself to be thrown in your friend's arms. Is that right?

Please sit down. I don't ask you out of politeness, but because I want to set you right in this matter—and it is much easier for me to set you right when you sit down and I stand up. I don't want people to make fun of me—I know what they say—do you understand me?

Sit down, please. (He does so.) I don't want people to smile and congratulate me to my face, and laugh behind my back. I won't have it—and as you started this subject I shall entrust you with the mission of enlightening our friends out there.

Don't think for a moment that I have taken these people seriously—I have no more interest in them than I have for yesterday's newspaper. But I don't choose to have them think that they have fooled me into marrying Karl. And—

I see through their scheme. But I shall marry him just the same, if he will have me. Do you understand me? I shall marry him—

You have been kind enough to honor me with your confidence, and now I will be quite frank with you. This marriage cannot come off.

No! You will sit down now because I am going to set you right. I know the reason of this marriage—but you—

But you don't know the reason—or you don't want to know it. And you are about to consent to—

To what? To marry a man who is not madly in love with me—any more than I am with him. What of it? We are two perfectly sane people about to make a serious contract with our eyes wide open, instead of blinded by infatuation like crazy lovers in magazine stories. What other contract made by crazy people would be valid for one minute—and this is for a life-time—

Well, in this world—is it the man chooses the woman, or the woman who chooses the man?

ELSA, holding up her head proudly, and looking her very prettiest, straight into his eyes

It is written in your eyes—but—I never thought this subject would excite you so.

I won't be laughed at—I don't care what those people think (becoming excited). I know what I am doing, and in spite of everything I choose to become his wife.

I always carry this with me—it's my weeping satchel—everything a woman needs for weeping.

No. Until tonight I was a young girl afraid of nobody—now I feel like an old woman.

Don't be discouraged. You will have to fight—you must attack the enemy. But first you must be pretty.

You must show a bold front—you will perhaps feel that it is hard for a young girl to fight a woman—your weapons are not quite so numerous as those of the married woman—who knows love already—who understands—may I say something shocking?

Well, I won't. But remember, you have one weapon which will deal the death blow to the most attractive woman—to the woman who knows every card in the game of love—that one weapon is purity.

All the same—it may do you some good. And now—go dance with Karl—but don't try to be a woman, be a girl. Don't try to be saucy.

Don't pose. Be yourself—be bashful—look at the young man as if you were only waiting for a pirate to steal you away from girl-land—and show you the way into Woman's Land. Head high, my little girl—-that's it—and if anybody dares to call you saucy again, tell him that you once met a gentleman at a ball to whom you thought to give a piece of your mind, that would make him feel very, very small—and instead you left with a piece of his mind, that made you feel very, very small—and made him feel—as if he were the greatest Scoundrel in the world—

You look lovely, Elsa. Do you know, this pensive air is very becoming to you—you've always been so cold and—haughty—it's like finding a little white flower under the deep snow; you want to pick it up and kiss it—

A casual acquaintance who insists upon posing as my friend. Don't let us talk about him. I'm glad I found you here—something natural in this stifling artificial atmosphere. Doesn't it seem close to you?

Yes, as if some hot wind had passed through these rooms—it seems to take my breath away.

I've never heard you speak like that before. Why have you tried to hide—your real self from me?

What do we care? Let's be happy—Elsa! I feel as if I had never known you before tonight.

Let's talk about something else. You are very naughty. You have come here in spite of my—

Invitation. I would have respected your wish but for one very good reason—I made a bold wager this afternoon.

His answer was curious. I had better not tell you—I am afraid it would hurt you.

It is because I am with somebody I don't quite understand—but who seems to me a man in every sense of the word.

Your confession is charming. But I should be more ready to believe it, if you hadn't made it.

Our first love is generally our last, but our last love always our first—don't you think so?

I don't know. I've never been really in love before—but have twice been disillusionized.

I hate dancing, but I shan't miss one single dance tonight, just to spite some people. I shall dance to the last step.

This afternoon, when you only spoke about me—he wanted to kill you—and now when he saw us here—saw you whisper in my ear—saw you take my hand—

Don't you think a man's a fool to try to shoot his friend on account of a woman?

Oh! Karl's not a fool—he thinks the world of me. And you must have said things—but there is no doubt—that he and Elsa—like—perhaps love each other.

This afternoon, when I told him I'd make you fall in love with me, he wanted to shoot—that's love—don't talk to me about respect— and thinking the world of you—they may fire cannons out of respect, but pistols—no—that's love every time.

Of course, I know—this only interests you because it was you who planned the marriage, and after all you take a pride in the success of your scheme. Am I right?

Karl shall tell us himself which was the real thing —the attempted murder of this afternoon, or this little—flirtation with Elsa.

Very simple. But you must take my advice unconditionally—ask for no reasons—do exactly what I tell you.

I think I remember having seen you once at the Opera in a very beautiful cloak—fur—was it not?—and cloth—

With a long train? You must put that cloak on—close it as high as you can—and wrap yourself in it as if you were feeling cold. Only show the tips of your shoes—then come back here—

It's all very, very mysterious, but when you look at me that way, I—I—can't refuse ... your eyes seem to have all the world's wisdom behind them.

But I will tell you. I'm astonished at the change that has come over you since this afternoon. I admit it upsets me, but don't imagine it is on Olga's account—if you don't mind, we'll leave her out of the discussion.

DEVIL, holds out his hand in an approving tone, takes KARL'S hand and shakes it

Very thoughtless of me—but since you have found me out—By the way, what you said about your marriage—is it settled?

Very good. Now I can tell you in confidence about—look here, you are quite sure you won't change your mind?

No fear. What is it you want to tell me—tell me everything. I'd like to learn some of the tricks of the trade. I may need them—

She's a wonder! believe me, Karl, she's a wonder. It's just possible she's good—a dash of goodness won't hurt a pretty woman—but I hope not. I should then have to attribute my conquest to hypnotism—and that doesn't flatter my vanity. What do you think? We had agreed—just now when she ran away—ah—

Well, yes, it was—I hardly know how to tell you—It was a mad impulse. I proposed, just for fun, without the least idea she would take it up; it means risking her reputation and social position—everything—not to mention the risk of catching cold—

Well, this evening—before all her guests—there are a hundred and thirty I believe—

—before the élite of Vienna I may say—she will walk through the ball-room on my arm—in (suggestive pause)—an opera cloak.

She will be here in a moment—and then—before all Vienna—amid the bacchanalian ecstasy—of music, perfume, dancing—I will escort her through the ball-room like a classic goddess—like a modern Mona Vanna—in an opera cloak—

Yes, I love her. I have listened to all your lies—I have seen you as I've seen a hundred like you—steal a good woman's reputation and call it success, social success—and boast about it as you drag her in the mud. You have trapped me, it's true—but you will suffer for it. It is my turn now—and I'll put you out of this house, you blackguard—get out before I kick you out.

Everybody is gay, the girls dance as if it were their first ball—the young men as if it were their last.

Yes. I am doing things today that I never did before. I've never been engaged before.

A splendid girl. Much too good for me—but marrying is something new to me—I want to try it. It is a sensation I have never had.

That's only the last drop of single bitterness—the dregs of bachelorhood—I'll soon get rid of that and then—

Perhaps your dress is thin. The way lovely woman flirts with pneumonia—she wears her lung upon her sleeve.

The way he seemed to look through me. It was almost as if he imagined—what did you say? What did you insinuate?

OLGA, her hands dropping, her head falling backwards with closed eyes, shivering

Come now, don't pretend to be shocked. You admitted you felt it the moment you came in. The thought seemed to please you.

Then why didn't you take off your cloak? When you saw—you didn't even open it. Why don't you open it now? The idea seems to please you still.

HERMAN, coming through the door Oh! There you are. My dear! His Excellency is looking for you. He is about to leave.

OLGA, looking at KARL and DEVIL, and speaking with ironical courtliness, taking HERMAN'S arm.

If I hadn't given you that pistol you might have slapped my face. Believe me, there's nothing like turning the other cheek—if you turn it quickly enough—your enemy will miss both cheeks.

Will you accompany Miss Elsa to her carriage? It is slippery outside, she might fall.

He wanted to settle my account. I will settle his. I will never see him again. Oh! To have thought me capable—of.... How could he? I despise him!

Don't be sorry. I have much to thank you for. You have rendered me a service. I shall feel better when I have sent this letter off.

—able to keep up the wretched farce of mere friendship. I read your inmost thought tonight and—Karl—the knowledge that you love me has made me unspeakably happy. Dearest—

—why should we struggle any longer against the resistless tide that is drawing us together? My strength is gone.

—without you I am lost in the black waters—save me, Karl. With your strong arms about me—with your lips to mine—I care not where we drift. I am yours, all yours. You are the master of my soul. Do not leave me, Karl; I love you, I cannot live without you. God bless you!

If women wrote time tables, they would tell all the hours that the trains didn't start and all the places you mustn't stop at to get to your destination.

I will deliver the letter. Women sometimes do not write what they want, but they always want what they write.

Good! You're the kind of guest I like—when all the rest have deserted the ship you stay and keep the hostess company.

Thank you very much, but I have an important call very early in the morning. Madame,—

CURTAIN

ACT III

SCENE.—Like Act I. The afternoon of the next day, about three o'clock. When the curtain rises, the DEVIL is seated in a big chair. Bell rings off stage R. HEINRICH enters R.

She wants to see my master. I told her he was not up yet, but she said she would wait.

No, merely a good friend. Nothing else. I just happened in. By the way, how do you do?

I didn't know there was anybody in this room or I would not have come in. But as it is only you I don't mind.

No, thank you. Don't disturb him. I can look around while I'm waiting. I have never been here before.

The man—a lady might come every day and escape notice—but coming for the first time she would be sure to attract his attention.

Only two people in the world may open the door of a bachelor's apartment to a young lady—the man servant, or a clergyman with a marriage certificate —you can take your choice.

Let me tell you I was once left alone with a gentleman who tried to kiss me, and I slapped his face.

Indeed? I was once left alone with a lady who tried to slap me and I kissed her face.

You intend to come here every day, and to do that you must have your portrait painted.

Perhaps you know there is another lady coming every day to have her portrait painted?

Yes, I know. That's why I want mine painted—we'll see which will be the better likeness.

It is you who answer like a prisoner. Do you know that Karl is in love with Olga?

Yesterday was your winning day. Yesterday it was written that you, Elsa, would succeed in whatever thing you made up your mind to do, with the whole strength of your will.

To-day is not your winning day—yesterday you chose—to-day you will have no choice.

You will have to learn—let me see—I think I know some one who has learned the lesson and can teach it to you—

I know your name. I've heard it often. You belong to a very rich family. I know what that means, I used to be well off, too. I wasn't always obliged to work for a living.

I know everything that goes on in this house. I told you I was his model—I sew on buttons and count the laundry.

you know, when one has sewn on buttons—and counted the laundry—then to be—just a plain model—that hurts.

A model always comes to pose. It's tiring work, too, I can tell you—and if the artist wants to make love —it isn't her fault—and—

Now I've offended you—I ought to have known better—my people are all refined—I wasn't born a model.

Oh, I know what it is—I used to suffer dreadfully from nervousness when I was in the chorus.

You can talk to me about everything, I'm not a bad sort, really I'm not. I've known all along about Herr Karl and—and you—he's such a kind man. I was crying when I went away yesterday, and he felt sorry for me and he came to see me on his way to the ball—in his evening clothes—but I didn't receive him. If it's over, it may as well be over.

I loved him, but what's the use? It's like the railway —the station is there and the train comes and then the train goes away, and the station cannot run after it; if the station is small, the train only stops a minute, and—

Yes, I loved him, but it's all over now. I was foolish to come here again when I'd made up my mind I wouldn't, but now I'm sensible again; I'll go away and try to forget him, I hope he will be—hap-hap—happy!

I'm glad I came, I feel better already for having seen you. I'm going to be sensible now. I'm going away—and I'm never coming back!

Three o'clock! Then I must hurry. I have an appointment at half past—he's an illustrator—such a talented boy; he's just had a picture accepted by the Fleigende Blatter.

Oh, yes; but tonight he goes to the artists' dinner, and I have to find his dress studs, and iron a tie for him, and trim his cuffs.

She inquired whether Mrs. Zanden could see my master. I told her I had strict orders not to call him before three.

I am very sorry, Madame, but you will have to wait a few minutes longer. I will tell him that you are here.

I'm afraid, Madame, you will have to wait a moment; but I will tell the doctor——

Tell Dr. Miller to come at once. Say a lady wishes to speak to him, but don't give him my name.

I did not want him to have that letter. I wanted to speak to him first. I wanted to ask him to give me my letter back unopened I am too late.

I haven't the courage to speak to him, and yet I feel that I must. I would like to go away, but something holds me; something I cannot—I cannot—oh, what will become of me?

But if I am here you cannot speak to him about the letter. I shall only be in the way.

Very well, then, I shall speak to him quite frankly. I shall ask him for the last time—

No, no; it is I who should ask forgiveness I was to blame. I lost control of myself. After what happened, I wanted to know—I wanted to make sure—but, you understand now, my letter has told you everything.

Karl, I understand. You want to spare me—you're being discreet; but you don't know me; I mean every word of that letter, I'm glad I wrote it——

Ah, pardon me, Madame, a thousand pardons, I quite forgot. The only excuse I can offer is that there are some letters which ought never to be delivered.

If I could have foreseen what terrible distress the non-delivery of this letter——

What does it matter anyway, whatever it is? I would rather hear it from your lips.

No! The letter is burned; it is nothing but ashes—it is dead—no human power can bring it back to life.

A moment ago I would have given all I possessed to save it from the fire—and now—

I mean you will never know what was in that letter—it is as if it had never been written—it has ceased to exist, and we are past the day of miracles.

No, no! Only the devil himself would re-create that letter from its burnt ashes. Good-bye, Karl. I'm going now—I shan't see you again.

I made a mistake—I gave you my tailor's bill instead of your letter—here is your letter!

CURTAIN.

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