RITA (_laughs_): You are delightful! Delightful! Still the same bashful boy--who does not dare--(_she laughs and sits down again_.) Delightful.

FRIEDRICH (_after a silence, hesitatingly_): Well, are you going to allow me to call you Erna again, as of yore?

RITA: As of yore. (_She sighs, then gaily_) If you care to.

FRIEDRICH (_happy_): Yes? May I?

RITA (_heartily_): O, yes, Fritz. That's better, isn't it? It sounds more natural, eh?

FRIEDRICH (_presses her hand and sighs_): Yes, really. You take a heavy load from me. Everything that I want to say to you can be done so much better in the familiar tone.

RITA: Oh! Have you still so much to say to me?

FRIEDRICH: Well--but now tell me first: how was it possible for you to undertake such a step. What prompted you to leave so suddenly? Erna, Erna, how could you do that?

RITA (_proudly_): How I could? Can you ask me that? Do you really not know it?

FRIEDRICH (_softly_): Oh, yes; I do know it, but--it takes so much to do that.

RITA: Not more than was in me.

FRIEDRICH: One thing I must confess to you, although it was really bad of me. But I knew no way out of it. I felt relieved after you had gone.

RITA: Well, then, that was _your_ heroism.

FRIEDRICH: Do not misunderstand me. I knew my father had----

RITA: Yes, yes--but do not talk about it any more.

FRIEDRICH: You are right. It was boyish of me. It did not last long, and then I mourned for you--not less than your parents. Oh, Erna! If you would see your parents now. They have aged terribly. Your father has lost his humor altogether, and is giving full vent to his old pa.s.sion for red wine. Your mother is always ailing, hardly ever leaves the house, and both, even though they never lose a word about it, cannot reconcile themselves to the thought that their only child left them.

RITA (_after a pause, awakens from her meditation, harshly_): Perhaps you were sent by my father?

FRIEDRICH: No--why?

RITA: Then I would show you the door.

FRIEDRICH: Erna!

RITA: A man, who ventured to pay his debts with me----

FRIEDRICH: How so; what do you mean?

RITA: Oh--let's drop that. Times were bad. But to-day the house of Hattenbach enjoys its good old standing, as you say, and has overcome the crisis. Then your father must have had some consideration--without me. Well, then.----And Rudolstadt still stands--on the old spot. That's the main thing. But now let us talk about something else, I beg of you.

FRIEDRICH: No, no, Erna. What you allude to, that----do you really believe my father had----

RITA: Your father had grown used to buy and attain everything in life through money. Why not buy me also? And he had already received the promise--not from me, but from my father. But I am free! I ran away and am my own mistress! (_With haughtiness._) A young girl, all alone! Down with the gang!

(_Friedrich is silent and holds his head._)

RITA (_steps up to him and touches his shoulder, in a friendly manner_): Don't be sad. At that time your father was the stronger, and----Life is not otherwise. After all, one must a.s.sert oneself.

FRIEDRICH: But he robbed you of your happiness.

RITA (_jovially_): Who knows? It is just as well.

FRIEDRICH (_surprised_): Is that possible? Do you call that happiness, this being alone?

RITA: Yes. That is MY happiness--my freedom, and I love it with jealousy, for I fought for it myself.

FRIEDRICH (_bitterly_): A great happiness! Outside of family ties, outside the ranks of respectable society.

RITA (_laughs aloud, but without bitterness_): Respectable society! Yes.

I fled from that--thank Heaven. (_harshly_) But if you do not come in the name of my father, what do you want here? Why do you come? For what purpose? What do you want of me?

FRIEDRICH: Erna, you ask that in a strange manner.

RITA: Well, yes. I have a suspicion that you--begrudge me my liberty.

How did you find me, anyway?

FRIEDRICH: Yes, that was hard enough.

RITA: Rita Revera is not so unknown.

FRIEDRICH: Rita Revera! Oh, no! How often I have read that name these last years--in the newspapers in Berlin, on various placards, in large letters. But how could I ever have thought that you were meant by it?

RITA (_laughs_): Why did you not go to the "Winter Garden" when you were in Berlin?

FRIEDRICH: I never frequent such places.

RITA: Pardon me! Oh, I always forget the old customs.

FRIEDRICH: Oh, please, please, dear Erna; not in this tone of voice!

RITA: Which tone?

FRIEDRICH: Erna! Do not make matters so difficult for me. See, after I had finally discovered, through an agency in Berlin, and after hunting a long time, that you were the famous Revera, I was terribly shocked at first, terribly sad, and, for a moment, I thought of giving up everything. My worst fears were over. I had the a.s.surance that you lived in good, and as I now see, in comfortable circ.u.mstances. But, on the other hand, I had to be prepared that you might have grown estranged to the world in which I live--that we could hardly understand each other.

RITA: Hm! Shall I tell you what was your ideal--how you would have liked to find me again? As a poor seamstress, in an attic room, who, during the four years, had lived in hunger and need--but respectably, that is the main point. Then you would have stretched forth your kind arms, and the poor, pale little dove would have gratefully embraced you. Will you deny that you have imagined it thus and even wished for it?

FRIEDRICH (_looks at her calmly_): Well, is there anything wrong about it?

RITA: But how did it happen that, regardless of this, of this disappointment, you, nevertheless, continued to search for me?

FRIEDRICH: Thank goodness, at the right moment I recollected your clear, silvery, childlike laughter. Right in the midst of my petty scruples it resounded in my ears, as at the time when you ridiculed my gravity. Do you still remember that time, Erna?

(_Rita is silent._)