HEFFTERDINGT.
Of what?
MAGDA.
I can't--I can't be quite one of you. I am an intruder. [Aside, fearfully.] If a spectre from without were to appear, this whole idyl would go up in flames. [Heffterdingt suppresses a start of astonishment.] And I'm confined, hemmed in. I begin to be a coward.
HEFFTERDINGT.
I don't think one should be terrified at feeling filial love.
MAGDA.
Filial love? I should like to take that snow-white head in my lap and say, "You old child!" And nevertheless I must bend my will, I must bend my will. I am not accustomed to that. I must conquer; I must sing down opposition. I sing or I live,--for both are one and the same,--so that men must will as I do. I force them, I compel them to love and mourn and exult and lament as I do. And woe to him who resists! I sing them down,--I sing and sing until they become slaves and playthings in my hands. I know I'm confused, but you understand what I mean.
HEFFTERDINGT.
To work the impress of one's own personality,--that's what you mean, isn't it?