MAGDA.
Ah! [Silence.] Did I hurt you so much, then?
HEFFTERDINGT.
Let that be, shall we not? It is so long ago.
MAGDA.
[Letting her mantle fall.] And your work,--does not that bring happiness enough?
HEFFTERDINGT.
Thank God, it does. But if one takes it really in earnest, one cannot live only for one's self; at least, I cannot. One cannot exult in the fulness of one's personality, as you would call it. And then many hearts are opened to me-- One sees too many wounds there, that one cannot heal, to be quite happy.
MAGDA.
You're a remarkable man-- I don't know--if I could only get rid of the idea that you're insincere.