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Published online by Cambridge University Press: 12 January 2023
Goodness! Papa is home. No one is allowed to make a lot of noise, because he is anxious. But he is here nonetheless. Now all three sisters are chatting away around him. Only their lovely Mama walks around, for she has to tend to the flowers. Papa speaks, and Mama only occasionally smiles at them from the window.
Papa always has such beautiful, strange things to say about life. But ultimately, he always asks them: if you had been in this or that situation, what would you have done? And then everyone says what she would have done. It is like math class; everyone listens attentively and thinks feverishly.
One time, though, Papa asks: “What do you think brings the greatest happiness? Or, even better: what would be your greatest wish in life?”
All of their faces become serious. Even Mama comes over and listens.
Bertha, the second sister, says: “I would like a friend who mourns me after my death.”
Mara, the youngest, blushes intensely while she speaks: “I would like a loving heart that beats truly for me.”
“And you, Elsa? Well?”
Elsa stands there, upright, and tousles a flower in her hands—her face suddenly very pale and her eyes glowing.
“Well, Elsa?”
“Me, Papa? I want nothing but fame.”
The sisters burst out in resounding laughter. The mood, which had filled the room with harmony, dissipates.
Papa is suddenly upset. His angry eyes loom threateningly over the two all-too-happy girls.
“You two are foolish,” he says.
Deep down, he senses the tragic inevitability of this woman-child.
Then he turns to the oldest, his otherwise authoritative voice becoming almost timid and a touch softer than normal. He almost whispers: “Then you will always be unhappy, my child.”
“Yes, I know that,” Elsa says scornfully and smiles as though someone had promised her the sweetest thing of all.
She looks out into the far, far distance, where there are no parents or siblings.
She gazes into this land of loftiest promise. Everything is silent. Bertha twists a handkerchief around her thumb, again and again.
Papa’s eyes are moist: how this child had seen straight through him! Seen into all of his hidden secrets. A great, noble ambition was in his blood, too!
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