Miss Coeurne. Gerardo

Miss Coeurne (sixteen years old, short skirts, loose-hanging light hair. Has a bouquet of red roses in her hand, speaks with an English accent, looks at Gerardo with a full and frank expression). Please, do not send me away.

Gerardo. What else am I to do with you? Heaven knows I did not ask you to come here. It would be wrong of you to take it amiss but, you see, I have to sing tomorrow night. I must tell you frankly. I thought I should have this half hour to myself. Only just now I've given special and strictest orders not to admit anybody, no matter who it might be.

Miss Coeurne (stepping forward). Do not send me away. I heard you as TannhÄuser last night and came here merely to offer you these roses.

Gerardo. Yes?—Well?—And—?

Miss Coeurne. And myself!—I hope I am saying it right.

Gerardo (grasps the back of a chair; after a short struggle with himself he shakes his head). Who are you?

Miss Coeurne. Miss Coeurne.

Gerardo. I see.

Miss Coeurne. I am still quite a simple girl.

Gerardo. I know. But come here, Miss Coeurne. (Sits down in an armchair and draws her up in front of him.) Let me have a serious talk with you, such as you have never heard before in your young life but seem to need very much at the present time. Do you think because I am an artist—now don't misunderstand me, please. You are—how old are you?

Miss Coeurne. Twenty-two.

Gerardo. You are sixteen, at most seventeen. You make yourself several years older in order to appear more attractive to me. Well now? You are still quite simple, to be sure. But, as I was going to say, my being an artist certainly does not impose upon me the duty to help you to get over being simple! Don't take it amiss. Well? Why are you looking away now?

Miss Coeurne. I told you I was still very simple because that's the way they like to have young girls here in Germany.

Gerardo. I am not a German, my child, but at the same time ...

Miss Coeurne. Well?—I am not so simple, after all.

Gerardo. I am no children's nurse either! That's not the right word, I feel it, for—you are no longer a child, unfortunately?

Miss Coeurne. No!—Unfortunately!—Not now.

Gerardo. But you see, my dear young woman—you have your games of tennis, you have your skating club, you may go bicycling or take mountain trips with your lady friends. You may enjoy yourself swimming or riding on horseback or dancing whichever you like. I am sure you have everything a young girl could wish for. Then why do you come to me?

Miss Coeurne. Because I hate all of that and because it's such a bore!

Gerardo. You are right; I won't dispute what you say. Indeed, you embarrass me. I myself, I must frankly confess, see something else in life. But, my child, I am a man and I am thirty-six years old. The time will come when you may likewise lay claim to a deeper and fuller life. Get two years older and, I am sure, the right one will turn up for you. Then it will not be necessary for you to come unasked to me, that is to say to one whom you do not know any more intimately than—all Europe knows him—and to conceal yourself behind the window curtains in order to get a taste of the higher life. (Pause. Miss Coeurne breathes heavily.) Well?—Let me thank you cordially and sincerely for your roses! (Presses her hand.) Will you be satisfied with that for today?

Miss Coeurne. As old as I am, I never yet gave a thought to a man until I saw you on the stage yesterday as TannhÄuser.—And I will promise you ...

Gerardo. Oh please, child, don't promise me anything. How can a promise you might make at the present time be of any value to me? The disadvantage of it would be entirely yours. You see, my child, the most loving father could not speak more lovingly to you than I. Thank a kind providence for not having been delivered into some other artist's hands by your indiscretion. (Presses her hand.) Let it be a lesson to you for the rest of your life and be satisfied with that.

Miss Coeurne (covering her face with her handkerchief, in an undertone, without tears). Am I so ugly?

Gerardo. Ugly?—How does that make you ugly?—You are young and indiscreet! (Rises nervously, walks over to the left, returns, puts his arm around her and takes her hand.) Listen to me, my child! If I have to sing, if I am an artist by profession, how does that make you ugly? What an unreasonable inference: I am ugly, I am ugly. And yet it is the same wherever I go. Think of it! When I've only a few minutes left to catch the train, and tomorrow night it's Tristan ...! Do not misunderstand me, but surely, my being a singer does not make it incumbent upon me to affirm the charm of your youthfulness and beauty. Does that make you ugly, my child? Make your appeal to other people who are not as hard-pressed as I am. Do you really think it would ever occur to me to, say such a thing to you?

Miss Coeurne. To say it? No. But to think it.

Gerardo. Now, Miss Coeurne, let us be reasonable! Do not inquire into my thoughts about you. Really, at this moment they do not concern us in the least. I assure you, and please take my word for it as an artist, for I could not be more honest to you: I am unfortunately so constituted that I simply cannot bear to see any creature whatsoever suffer, not even the meanest. (Looking at her critically, but with dignity.) And for you, my child, I am sincerely sorry; I may say that much, after you have so far fought down your maidenly pride as to wait for me here. But please, Miss Coeurne, do take into account the life I have to lead. Just think of the mere question of time! At least two hundred, may be as many as three hundred charmingly attractive young girls of your age saw me on the stage yesterday in the part of TannhÄuser. Suppose now every one of these young girls expected as much of me as you do. What in the world would become of my singing? What would become of my voice? Just how could I keep up my profession? (She sinks into a chair, covers her face and weeps; he sits down on the armrest beside her, bends over her, sympathetically.) It's really sinful of you, my child, to shed tears over being so young. Your whole life is still before you. Be patient. The thought of your youth should make you happy. How glad the rest of us would be—even if one lives the life of an artist like myself—to start over again from the very beginning. Please be not ungrateful for hearing me yesterday. Spare me this disconcerting sequel. Am I to blame for your falling in love with me? You are only one of many. My manager insists on my assuming this august manner on the stage. You see there's more to it than mere singing. I simply have to play the part of TannhÄuser that way. Now be good, my child. I have only a few moments left. Let me use them in preparing for tomorrow.

Miss Coeurne (rises, dries her tears), I cannot imagine another girl acting like me.

Gerardo (manoeuvering her to the door). Quite right, my child ...

Miss Coeurne (gently resisting him, sobbing). At least not—if ...

Gerardo. If my valet were not guarding the door downstairs.

Miss Coeurne (as above). —if—

Gerardo. If she is as pretty and charmingly young as you.

Miss Coeurne (as above). —if—

Gerardo. If she has heard me just once as TannhÄuser.

Miss Coeurne (sobbing again violently). If she is as respectable as I!

Gerardo (pointing to the grand piano). Now, before you leave, take a look at those flowers. Let it be a warning to you, if you should ever feel tempted again to fall in love with a singer. Do you see, how fresh they are, all of them! I just let them fade and go to waste or give them to the porter. Then look at these letters. (Takes a handful from the tray.) I know none of the ladies who have written them; don't you worry. I leave them to their fate. What else can I do? But, you may believe me, every one of your charming young friends is among them.

Miss Coeurne (pleadingly). Well, I won't hide myself a second time.—I won't do it again ...

Gerardo. Really, my child, I haven't any more time. It's too bad, but I am about to leave town. I told you, did I not, that I am sorry for you? I really am, but my train is scheduled to leave in twenty-five minutes. So what more do you want?

Miss Coeurne. A kiss.

Gerardo (standing up stiff and straight). From me?

Miss Coeurne. Yes.

Gerardo (putting his arm around her, dignified, but sympathetic). You are desecrating art, my child. Do you really think it's for this that they are willing to pay my weight in gold? Get older first and learn to respect more highly the chaste goddess to whom I devote my life and labor.—You don't know whom I mean?

Miss Coeurne. No.

Gerardo. That's what I thought. Now, in order not to be inhuman, I will present you with my picture. Will you give me your word that after that you will leave me?

Miss Coeurne. Yes.

Gerardo. Very well, then. (Walks back of the table to sign one of his photographs.) Why don't you try to interest yourself in the operas themselves rather than in the men on the stage? You may find it to be a higher enjoyment, after all.

Miss Coeurne (in an undertone). I am too young.

Gerardo. Sacrifice yourself to music! (Comes forward and hands her the photograph.) You are too young, but—may be you'll succeed in spite of that. Do not see in me the famous singer, but the unworthy tool in the hands of a master. Look around among the married women you know; all of them Wagnerians! Study his librettos, learn to feel each leitmotiv. That will keep you from committing indiscretions.

Miss Coeurne. I thank you.

Gerardo (escorts her out into the hall, rings for the valet in passing through the door. Returns and picks up again the piano arrangement of "Tristan and Isolde;" walks to the right). Come in!