fa
Or
his
only
Se—
day,
will
hams.
so to
ex¬
bwski
ter of
nin¬
er of
tlook
way.
d and
box 22/4
16.4. Literatur
A REVIEW OF TWO WORLDS
331
CLEM.—Ves. But there’s another period which lies nearer.
inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appre¬
MARG.—I know. But why mention it?
ciate you, as you yourself always say.
CLEM.—Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly
MARG.—Certainly not. That’s why I brought suit for
have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in
divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with
Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.
a man who had no other interest in life than eating and
drinking and cotton.
MARG.—I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those
friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.
CLEM.—I dare say. But that was three years ago. These
poems were written later.
CLEM.—Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it’s incompre¬
hensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.
MARG.—Quite so. But consider the position in which I
found myself—
MARG.—You speak of them as if they were a gang of
criminals.
CLEM.—What do you mean? You didn't ave to endure
CLEM.—Dearest, I’d stake my honor on it, some of them
any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband
looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you
acted very decently toward you. You were not under the
manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your re¬
necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the pub¬
fined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—
lishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem—surely,
could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat
they don't pay more than that—still, you were not bound to
at the same table with them.
write a book of this sort.
MARG. (laughing)—Didn't you do the same?
MARG.—I did not refer to position in a material sense. It
CLEM.—Next to them—not with them. And for your sake
was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how—when
—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice,
you came to know merthings were considerably improved. I
however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaint¬
had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning!
ance. There were some interesting individuals among them.
I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at every¬
You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself
thing; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where
superior to folks who happen to be shabbily dressed. That’s
I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody—
nothing against them. But there was something in their con¬
CLEM.—Why didn't you stay in Vienna?
duct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.
MARG.—Because I couldn't get along with my family. No
MARG.—It wasn't quite so bad.
one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them
CLEM.—Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some
realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a hus¬
interesting individuals among them. But that a lady should
band, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had
feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot
had a child, probably everything would have ended differently
and do not pretend to understand.
—and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments,
MARG.—You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense l'm one of
you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not
them—or was at one time.
for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your
CLEM.—Now, please! For my sake!
acquaintance else?
MARG.—They were artists.
CLEM.—Vou didn't go there with that object in view.
CLEM.—Thank goodness, we’ve returned to the old theme.
MARG.—I wanted to be free—inwardly I mean. I wanted
MARG.—Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose
to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own
sight of that fact.
efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going
CLEM.—Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know
to? I had made some headway on the road to fame.
what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.
CLEM.—H'm!
MARG.—Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in
MARG.—But you were dearer to me than fame.
my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.
CLEM. (good-naturedly)—And surer.
CLEM.—But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry!
MARG.—I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it’s because
(Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.) That’s
I loved you from the very start. For in my dreams, I always
what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying
conjure up a man of your likeness. I anways seemed to
here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame because yon
realize that it could only be a man like you who would make
wrote it.
me happy. Race—is no empty dream. Nothing whatever can
MARG.—That’s why vou fail to understand—Now, don't
weigh in the balance with that. You see, that’s why I can't
take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect,
resist the belief—.
and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you?
CLEM.—What?
You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write
MARG.—Oh, sometimes I think I must have noble blood
about.
in my veins, too.
CLEM.—I hope not.
CLEM.—How so?
MARG.—The poems are only visions.
MARG.—It’s not improbable?
CLEM.—That’s just it. That’s what makes me inquire:
CLEM.—I'm afraid I don't understand.
Hov can a lady indulge in visions of that character? (Reads.)
MARG.—But I told you that any number of the aristocracy
Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips' (shaling
were entertained at our house—
his head). How can a lady write such stuff—how can a lady
CLEM.—Well, and.if they were?
have such stuff printed? That’s what I simply cannot make
MARG.—Who knows—.
out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the
CLEM.—Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can
person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned.
you hint at such a thing!
and the particular abandonment hinted at.
MARG.—I can never say what I think, in your presence!
MARG.—But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed.
That’s your only shortcoming—otherwise you would be quite
CLEM.—I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That’s
perfect. (She gmiles up to him.) You’ve won my heart com¬
lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions
pletely. That very first evening, when you walked into the#
originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been
cafe with Wangenheim, I had an immediate presentiment:
Or
his
only
Se—
day,
will
hams.
so to
ex¬
bwski
ter of
nin¬
er of
tlook
way.
d and
box 22/4
16.4. Literatur
A REVIEW OF TWO WORLDS
331
CLEM.—Ves. But there’s another period which lies nearer.
inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appre¬
MARG.—I know. But why mention it?
ciate you, as you yourself always say.
CLEM.—Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly
MARG.—Certainly not. That’s why I brought suit for
have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in
divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with
Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.
a man who had no other interest in life than eating and
drinking and cotton.
MARG.—I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those
friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.
CLEM.—I dare say. But that was three years ago. These
poems were written later.
CLEM.—Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it’s incompre¬
hensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.
MARG.—Quite so. But consider the position in which I
found myself—
MARG.—You speak of them as if they were a gang of
criminals.
CLEM.—What do you mean? You didn't ave to endure
CLEM.—Dearest, I’d stake my honor on it, some of them
any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband
looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you
acted very decently toward you. You were not under the
manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your re¬
necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the pub¬
fined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—
lishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem—surely,
could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat
they don't pay more than that—still, you were not bound to
at the same table with them.
write a book of this sort.
MARG. (laughing)—Didn't you do the same?
MARG.—I did not refer to position in a material sense. It
CLEM.—Next to them—not with them. And for your sake
was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how—when
—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice,
you came to know merthings were considerably improved. I
however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaint¬
had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning!
ance. There were some interesting individuals among them.
I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at every¬
You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself
thing; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where
superior to folks who happen to be shabbily dressed. That’s
I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody—
nothing against them. But there was something in their con¬
CLEM.—Why didn't you stay in Vienna?
duct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.
MARG.—Because I couldn't get along with my family. No
MARG.—It wasn't quite so bad.
one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them
CLEM.—Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some
realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a hus¬
interesting individuals among them. But that a lady should
band, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had
feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot
had a child, probably everything would have ended differently
and do not pretend to understand.
—and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments,
MARG.—You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense l'm one of
you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not
them—or was at one time.
for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your
CLEM.—Now, please! For my sake!
acquaintance else?
MARG.—They were artists.
CLEM.—Vou didn't go there with that object in view.
CLEM.—Thank goodness, we’ve returned to the old theme.
MARG.—I wanted to be free—inwardly I mean. I wanted
MARG.—Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose
to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own
sight of that fact.
efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going
CLEM.—Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know
to? I had made some headway on the road to fame.
what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.
CLEM.—H'm!
MARG.—Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in
MARG.—But you were dearer to me than fame.
my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.
CLEM. (good-naturedly)—And surer.
CLEM.—But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry!
MARG.—I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it’s because
(Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.) That’s
I loved you from the very start. For in my dreams, I always
what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying
conjure up a man of your likeness. I anways seemed to
here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame because yon
realize that it could only be a man like you who would make
wrote it.
me happy. Race—is no empty dream. Nothing whatever can
MARG.—That’s why vou fail to understand—Now, don't
weigh in the balance with that. You see, that’s why I can't
take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect,
resist the belief—.
and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you?
CLEM.—What?
You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write
MARG.—Oh, sometimes I think I must have noble blood
about.
in my veins, too.
CLEM.—I hope not.
CLEM.—How so?
MARG.—The poems are only visions.
MARG.—It’s not improbable?
CLEM.—That’s just it. That’s what makes me inquire:
CLEM.—I'm afraid I don't understand.
Hov can a lady indulge in visions of that character? (Reads.)
MARG.—But I told you that any number of the aristocracy
Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips' (shaling
were entertained at our house—
his head). How can a lady write such stuff—how can a lady
CLEM.—Well, and.if they were?
have such stuff printed? That’s what I simply cannot make
MARG.—Who knows—.
out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the
CLEM.—Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can
person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned.
you hint at such a thing!
and the particular abandonment hinted at.
MARG.—I can never say what I think, in your presence!
MARG.—But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed.
That’s your only shortcoming—otherwise you would be quite
CLEM.—I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That’s
perfect. (She gmiles up to him.) You’ve won my heart com¬
lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions
pletely. That very first evening, when you walked into the#
originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been
cafe with Wangenheim, I had an immediate presentiment: