box 22/4
16.4. Literatur
THE INTERNATIONAL
334
GIL.—Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a man
GIL.—I am dumbfounded. Shall I remind you of the
of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference
situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth?
between the artist and the dilletant. To you, Margaret, our
MARG.—They were inscribed to an Ideal—(Gilbert poits
liason means nothing more than the memory of a few aban¬
to himself) —whose representative on earth you happened
doned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways
to be.
of the English gardens. But T have made it over into a work
GIL.—Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do
of art.
you know what the French would say in a case like that?
MARG.—So have I!
*Cest de la littérature!“
GIL.—Eh? What do you mean?
MARG.—(Mimicking him.) Ce n’est pas de la littérature!
MARG.—I have done what you nave done. I, too, have
Now, that’s the truth, the honest truth! Or do you really
written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too,
fancy that by the 'slim boy'’ I meant you? Or that the curls
have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—
Trhymned belonged to you? At that time you were fat and
for all time.
your hair was never curly. (Runs her fingers through his
GIL.—If I were you, I wouldn't talk of for all time' be¬
hair. Gilbert seises the opportunity to capture her hand and
fore the appearance of the second edition.
liss it.) What an idea!
MARG.—Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are
GIL.—At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that
two different things.
is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take
GIL.—Maybe.
every sort of license for the sake of the verse. Didn't I once
MARG.—You are a free man. You don't have to steal your
apostrophise you in a sonnet as “my canny lass'? In point of
hours devoted to artistic labor. And your future doesn't de¬
fact, you were neither—no, I don't want to be unfair—you
pend on the throw.
were canny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited
GIL.—And you?
you perfectly. Well, I suppose I oughtn’t really wonder at
MARG.—That’s what I’ve done. Only a half hour ago
you. Vou were at all times a snob. And, by Jovel you've at¬
Clement left me because I confessed to him that I had writ.
tained vour end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy
a novel.
with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain,
GIL.—Left you—for good?
your matchless horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player,
MARG.—I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. He went
heart-trifier—Marlitt could not have invented him more re¬
away in a fit of anger. What he'll decide to do I can't pre¬
volting than he actually was. Yes, what more can you wish?
dict.
Whether he will satisfy you—you are acqu, inted with some¬
GIL.—So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't
tlung nobler—is, of course, another question, I can only say
bear to see his mistress put her intelligence to some use.
that, in my view, you are degenerate in love.
Capital! And he represents the blood of the country! H'm!
MARG.—That must have struck you on the train.
And you, vou’re not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms
GIL.—Not at all. It struck me this very moment.
of an idiot of this sort, whom you once—
MARG.—Make a note of it then; it’s an apt phrase.
MARG.—Don't you speak of him like that. You don't
GIL.—I’ve another quite as apt. Formerly you were a
know him.
woman; now you're a “sweet thing.“ Ves, that’s it. What
GIL—Ahl
attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and
MARG.—You don't know why he objects to my writing.
filthy passion—
Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living
MARG.—Stop! You have a motive—
in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought
GIL.—My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a
that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my
soul.
soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong
MARG.—Except now and then.
to him only, and that is why he dashed out—no, not dashed
GIL.—Please don't try to disparage our former relations.
out—for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out.
It’s no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever
GIL.—Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went
had.
away. We will not undertake to discuss the tempo of his
MARG.—Heavens, when I think that I endured this twad¬
going forth. And he went away because he could not bear
dle for one whole year 1—
to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse.
GIL.—Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try
MARG.—Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of
to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never
course, that can never be. I could be the best, the faithfulest.
so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon
the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed.
it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.
GIL.—At all events, you admit he is not the right man.
MARG.—Indeed!
MARG.—I never said that!
GIL.—I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment
GIL.—But you ought to realize that he’s fettering you, un¬
when you were beginning to drift away from me, when home¬
doing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your
sickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de bécurie—
inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you
at that very moment I was inwardly done with you.
were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me.
MARG.—Impossible.
Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who
GIL.—Vou failed to notice the least sign in your character¬
belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those
istic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need
days? Do vou never call to mind the small room with its
you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your
balcony—. Beneath us plunged the Isar—. (He seises her
uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, un¬
hand and presses her near.)
consciously von knew—
MARG.—Ah!
MARG.—Please don't get so hot.
GIL.—All’s not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar,
GIL.—(Unruffled.) That our day was over. Dur relations
need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell
had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.
him, when he returns, that you still have some important mat¬
MARG.—I do!
16.4. Literatur
THE INTERNATIONAL
334
GIL.—Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a man
GIL.—I am dumbfounded. Shall I remind you of the
of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference
situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth?
between the artist and the dilletant. To you, Margaret, our
MARG.—They were inscribed to an Ideal—(Gilbert poits
liason means nothing more than the memory of a few aban¬
to himself) —whose representative on earth you happened
doned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways
to be.
of the English gardens. But T have made it over into a work
GIL.—Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do
of art.
you know what the French would say in a case like that?
MARG.—So have I!
*Cest de la littérature!“
GIL.—Eh? What do you mean?
MARG.—(Mimicking him.) Ce n’est pas de la littérature!
MARG.—I have done what you nave done. I, too, have
Now, that’s the truth, the honest truth! Or do you really
written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too,
fancy that by the 'slim boy'’ I meant you? Or that the curls
have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—
Trhymned belonged to you? At that time you were fat and
for all time.
your hair was never curly. (Runs her fingers through his
GIL.—If I were you, I wouldn't talk of for all time' be¬
hair. Gilbert seises the opportunity to capture her hand and
fore the appearance of the second edition.
liss it.) What an idea!
MARG.—Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are
GIL.—At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that
two different things.
is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take
GIL.—Maybe.
every sort of license for the sake of the verse. Didn't I once
MARG.—You are a free man. You don't have to steal your
apostrophise you in a sonnet as “my canny lass'? In point of
hours devoted to artistic labor. And your future doesn't de¬
fact, you were neither—no, I don't want to be unfair—you
pend on the throw.
were canny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited
GIL.—And you?
you perfectly. Well, I suppose I oughtn’t really wonder at
MARG.—That’s what I’ve done. Only a half hour ago
you. Vou were at all times a snob. And, by Jovel you've at¬
Clement left me because I confessed to him that I had writ.
tained vour end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy
a novel.
with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain,
GIL.—Left you—for good?
your matchless horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player,
MARG.—I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. He went
heart-trifier—Marlitt could not have invented him more re¬
away in a fit of anger. What he'll decide to do I can't pre¬
volting than he actually was. Yes, what more can you wish?
dict.
Whether he will satisfy you—you are acqu, inted with some¬
GIL.—So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't
tlung nobler—is, of course, another question, I can only say
bear to see his mistress put her intelligence to some use.
that, in my view, you are degenerate in love.
Capital! And he represents the blood of the country! H'm!
MARG.—That must have struck you on the train.
And you, vou’re not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms
GIL.—Not at all. It struck me this very moment.
of an idiot of this sort, whom you once—
MARG.—Make a note of it then; it’s an apt phrase.
MARG.—Don't you speak of him like that. You don't
GIL.—I’ve another quite as apt. Formerly you were a
know him.
woman; now you're a “sweet thing.“ Ves, that’s it. What
GIL—Ahl
attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and
MARG.—You don't know why he objects to my writing.
filthy passion—
Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living
MARG.—Stop! You have a motive—
in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought
GIL.—My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a
that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my
soul.
soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong
MARG.—Except now and then.
to him only, and that is why he dashed out—no, not dashed
GIL.—Please don't try to disparage our former relations.
out—for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out.
It’s no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever
GIL.—Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went
had.
away. We will not undertake to discuss the tempo of his
MARG.—Heavens, when I think that I endured this twad¬
going forth. And he went away because he could not bear
dle for one whole year 1—
to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse.
GIL.—Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try
MARG.—Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of
to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never
course, that can never be. I could be the best, the faithfulest.
so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon
the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed.
it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.
GIL.—At all events, you admit he is not the right man.
MARG.—Indeed!
MARG.—I never said that!
GIL.—I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment
GIL.—But you ought to realize that he’s fettering you, un¬
when you were beginning to drift away from me, when home¬
doing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your
sickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de bécurie—
inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you
at that very moment I was inwardly done with you.
were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me.
MARG.—Impossible.
Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who
GIL.—Vou failed to notice the least sign in your character¬
belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those
istic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need
days? Do vou never call to mind the small room with its
you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your
balcony—. Beneath us plunged the Isar—. (He seises her
uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, un¬
hand and presses her near.)
consciously von knew—
MARG.—Ah!
MARG.—Please don't get so hot.
GIL.—All’s not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar,
GIL.—(Unruffled.) That our day was over. Dur relations
need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell
had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.
him, when he returns, that you still have some important mat¬
MARG.—I do!