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THE MAKROPOULOS SECRET

Ah.

My only son. [He covers his face and sobs] He was eighteen—only eighteen. Janek, my boy. [Raising his arms above his head] God! God! I used to be too hard—too cold—I never was kind to him—I never praised him. And the boy adored me!

Didn’t you know that?

Oh. God! If he were only alive. How stupid to fall in love so senselessly! He saw me come here—he waited two hours at the door—then he went home and

[Starting once more to comb her hair]

Poor boy.

And only eighteen. My Janek—my child—dead—past recognition—and he wrote: “Papa, I understand. But, Papa, be happy.” [He gets up and, for the first time, notices Emilia] What are you doing?

[With hairpins in her mouth]

Combing my hair.