box 22/4
16.4. Literatur
A REVIEW OF TWO WORLDS
333
CLEM.—I grant you, there was some excuse in your having
MARG.—It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the
written it; but it doesn't follow that it’s got to br read. Let
morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight.
me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire.
GIL.—At all events, you might have said good¬bye to me
MARG.—Clem!
before leaving, ch? (Sitr.)
CLEM.—I make that request. I have a right to make it.
MARG.—I expect the Baron back any minute.
MARG.—Impossible! It simply—
GIL.—What difference does that make? Of course, yon
CLEM.—Why? If I wishit; if I tell you our whole future
didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshipped
depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible?
me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Munich. And there’s
MARG.—But, Clement, the novel has already been printed.
no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you?
CLEM.—What! Printed?
MARG—Anybody but you.
MARG.—Ves. In a few days it will be on sale on all the
GIL.—Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me?
book-stalls.
I assure you, I come ouly as an old acquaintance. Everything
CLEM.—Margaret, you did all that without a word to
else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for
me—
yourself. (Indicates the book.)
MARG.—I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it,
MARG.—What’s that?
you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud.
GIL.—My latest novel.
CLEM.—My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke.
MARG.—Have you taken to writing novels?
MARG.—Clement!
GIL.—Certainly.
CLEM.—Adieu, Margaret.
MARG.—Since when have you learned the trick?
MARG.—Clement, what does this mean! Nou are leav¬
GIL.—What do you mean!
ing?
MARG.—Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches
CLEM.—As you see.
were your specialty, observation of daily events.
MARG.—When are you coming back again?
GIL.—(Ercitedly.) My specialty? My specialty is life
CLEM.—I can't say just now. Adien.
itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be
MARG.—Clement! (Tries to hold him back.)
circumscribed, I don't see who's to prevent my writing a
novel.
CLEM.—Please. (Goes ouf.)
MARG.—(Alone.) Clement! What does this mean? He’s
MARG.—But the opinion of an authority was—
left me for good. What shall I do? Clement! Is everything
GIL.—Pray, who’s an authority?
between us at an end? No. It can't be. Clement! I’lI go
MARG.—I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neu¬
after him. (She looks for her hat. The doorbell rings.) Ah,
mann in the Algemeine'-
he’s coming back. He only wanted to give me a scare. Oh,
GIL.—(Angrily.) Neumann’s a blamed idiot! I boxed his
ears for him once.
my Clement! (Goes to the doro. Gilbert enters.)
MARG.—Vou—
GIL.—(Tothe maid.) I told you so. Madame’s at home.
How do you do, Margaret?
GIL.—In fancy— But you were quite as much wrought
MARG.—(Astonished.) Vou?
up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly
GIL.—It’s I—I. Amandus Gilbert.
agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot.“ How can such a
MARG.—I'm so surprised.
numbskull dare'—these were your very words—“to set bounds
GIL.—So I see. There’s no cause for it. I merely thought
to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your nert work
I’d stop over. I'm on my way to Italy, I came to offer you
still, so to speak, in the womb?“ You said that! And today
my latest book for auld lang syne. (Hands her the book.
you quote that literary hawker!
As she does not take it, he places it on ihe table.)
MARG.—Please do not shout. My house—keeper—.
MARG.—It’s very good of you. Thanks!
GIL.—I don't propose to bother myself about the widows
GIL.—You have a certain proprietorship in that beok. So
of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.
you are living here?
MARG.—What did I say? I can't acconnt for your touhei¬
MARG.—Ves, but—
ness.
GIL.—Opposite the stadium, I sec. As far as furnished
GIL.—Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used
rooms go, it’s passable enough. But tiese family portraits on
to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some
the walls would drive me crazy.
insignificent booby on some trumpery sheet happened to utter
MARG.—My housekeeper’s the widow of a general.
an unfavorable word of criticism.
GIL.—Oh, you needn't apologize.
MARG.—I don't remember one word of unfavorable criti¬
MARG.—Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to
cism against me.
me.
GIL.—H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are al¬
GIL.—It’s wonderful to hark back to it now.
ways chivalrous toward beautiful women?
MARG.—To what?
MARG.—Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised
GIL.—Why shouldn't I say it? Tothe small room in Steins¬
out of chivalry? What about your own estimate—
dorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you
GIL.—Mine? I'm not going to retract as much as one
remember, Margaret?
little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed
MARG.—Suppose we drop the familiar.
your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together.
GIL.—As vou please—as you please. (Pause, ihen suddenly.)
MARG.—And you actually consider yourself worthy of
You acted shamefully, Margaret.
them?
MARG—What do you mean?
GIL.—Would you have written them if it weren't for me?
GIL.—Would you much rather that I beat around the bush?
They are addressed to me.
I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so un¬
MARG.—Never!
called for, too. Straightforwardness would have done just as
GIL.—What! Do vou mean to deny that they are addressed
nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich
to me? This is monstrous!
under cover of a foggy night.
MARG.—No. They are not addressed to you.