LENA enters with a pail in her hand.
THE POET. Lena, show yourself to Miss Agnes—She knew you ten years ago, when you were a young, happy and, let us say, pretty girl—Behold how she looks now. Five children, drudgery, baby-cries, hunger, ill-treatment. See how beauty has perished and joy vanished in the fulfilment of duties which should have brought that inner satisfaction which makes each line in the face harmonious and fills the eye with a quiet glow.
MASTER OF Q. [Covering the poet's mouth with his hand] Shut up! Shut up!
THE POET. That is what they all say. And if you keep silent, then they cry: speak! Oh, restless humanity!
THE DAUGHTER. [Goes to Lena] Tell me your troubles.
LENA. No, I dare not, for then they will be made worse.
THE DAUGHTER. Who could be so cruel?
LENA. I dare not tell, for if I do, I shall be spanked.
THE POET. That is just what will happen. But I will speak, even though the blackamoor knock out all my teeth—I will tell that justice is not always done—Agnes, daughter of the gods, do you hear music and dancing on the hill over there?—Well, it is Lena's sister who has come home from the city where she went astray—you understand? Now they are killing the fatted calf; but Lena, who stayed at home, has to carry slop pails and feed the pigs.
THE DAUGHTER. There is rejoicing at home because the stray has left the paths of evil, and not merely because she has come back. Bear that in mind.