Helen (looking away). Oh, what was I a week ago! And what—what am I now!
Gerardo (in a matter-of-fact way). Helen, ask yourself this question: what choice is left to a man in such a case? You are generally known as the most beautiful woman in this city. Now shall I, an artist, allow myself to acquire the reputation of an unsociable lout who shuts himself up in his four walls and denies himself to all visitors? The second possibility would be to receive you while at the same time pretending not to understand you. That would give me the wholly undeserved reputation of a simpleton. Third possibility—but this is extremely dangerous—I explain to you calmly and politely the very thing I am saying to you now. But that is very dangerous! For apart from your immediately giving me an insulting reply, calling me a vain conceited fool, it would, if it became known, make me appear in a most curious light. And what would at best be the result of my refusing the honor offered me? That you would make of me a contemptible helpless puppet, a target for your feminine wit, a booby whom you could tease and taunt as much as you liked, whom you could torment and put on the rack until you had driven him mad. (He has risen from the sofa.) Say yourself, Helen; what choice was left to me? (She stares at him, then turns her eyes about helplessly, shudders and struggles for an answer.) In such a case I face just this alternative:—to make an enemy who despises me or—to make an enemy who at least respects me. And (stroking her hair) Helen!—one does not care to be despised by a woman of such universally recognized beauty. Now does your pride still permit you to ask me to take you with me?
Helen (weeping profusely). Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God ...
Gerardo. Your social position gave you the opportunity to make advances to me. You availed yourself of it.—I am the last person to think ill of you for that. But no more should you think ill of me for wishing to maintain my rights. No man could be franker with a woman than I have been with you. I told you that there could be no thought of any sentimentalities between you and me. I told you that my profession prevented me from binding myself. I told you that my engagement in this city would end today ...
Helen (rising). Oh how my head rings! It's just words, words, words I hear! But I (putting her hands to her heart and throat) am choking here and choking here! Oscar—matters are worse than you realize! A woman such as I am more or less in the world—I have given life to two children. What would you say, Oscar ... what would you say if tomorrow I should go and make another man as happy as you have been with me? What would you say then, Oscar?—Speak!—Speak!
Gerardo. What I should say? Just nothing. (Looking at his watch.) Helen ...
Helen. Oscar!—(On her knees.) I am imploring you for my life! For my life! It's the last time I shall ask you for it! Demand anything of me! But not that! Don't ask my life! You don't know what you are doing! You are mad! You are beside yourself! It's the last time! You detest me because I love you! Let not these minutes pass!—Save me! Save me!
Gerardo (pulls her up in spite of her). Now listen to a kind word!—Listen to a—kind—word ...
Helen (in an undertone). So it must be!
Gerardo. Helen—how old are your children?