LITMIR.BIZ

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tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous.

      Marg. [nervously]. Dearest, you forget that the poet does not always tell the truth.

      Clem. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better?

      Marg. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "distillation."

      Clem. What sort of an expression is that?

      Marg. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed—plainly invented.

      Clem. Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past.

      Marg. Who knows?

      Clem. What?

      Marg. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you all.

      Clem. What is it?

      Marg. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing.

      Clem. Why?

      Marg. I'm still going on with my writing, or, rather, I've finished writing another book. Yes, the impulse is stronger than most people realize. I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it hadn't been for my writing.

      Clem. What have you written now?

      Marg. A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have dragged me down—down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it had to come out at last. Künigel is immensely taken with it.

      Clem. Who's Künigel?

      Marg. My publisher.

      Clem. Then it's been read already.

      Marg. Yes, and lots more will read it. Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe me.

      Clem. You're mistaken, my dear. I think—but, tell me, what's it about?

      Marg. I can't tell you right off. The novel contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that can be said of the greatest part.

      Clem. My compliments!

      Marg. That's why I'm going to promise you never to pick up a pen any more. I don't need to.

      Clem. Margaret, do you love me?

      Marg. What a question! You and you only. Though I have seen a great deal, though I have gadded about a great deal, I have experienced comparatively little. I have waited all my life for your coming.

      Clem. Well, let me have the book.

      Marg. Why—why? What do you mean?

      Clem. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire.

      Marg. Clem!

      Clem. I make that request. I have a right to make it.

      Marg. Impossible! It simply—

      Clem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible?

      Marg. But, Clement, the novel has already been printed.

      Clem. What! Printed?

      Marg. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls.

      Clem. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me—?

      Marg. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud.

      Clem. My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke.

      Marg. Clement!

      Clem. Adieu, Margaret.

      Marg. Clement, what does this mean? You are leaving?

      Clem. As you see.

      Marg. When are you coming back again?

      Clem. I can't say just now. Adieu.

      Marg. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.]

      Clem. Please. [Goes out.]

      Marg. [alone]. Clement! What does this mean? He's left me for good. What shall I do? Clement! Is everything between us at an end? No. It can't be. Clement! I'll go after him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell rings.] Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted to frighten me. Oh, my Clement! [Goes to the door. Gilbert enters.]

      Gil. [to the maid]. I told you so. Madame's at home. How do you do, Margaret?

      Marg. [astonished]. You?

      Gil. It's I—I. Amandus Gilbert.

      Marg. I'm so surprised.

      Gil. So I see. There's no cause for it. I merely thought I'd stop over. I'm on my way to Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she does not take it, he places it on the table.]

      Marg. It's very good of you. Thanks!

      Gil. You have a certain proprietorship in that book. So you are living here?

      Marg. Yes, but—

      Gil. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me crazy.

      Marg. My housekeeper's the widow of a general.

      Gil. Oh, you needn't apologize.

      Marg. Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to me.

      Gil. It's wonderful to hark back to it now.

      Marg. To what?

      Gil. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret?

      Marg. Suppose we drop the familiar.

      Gil. As you please—as you please. [Pause, then suddenly.] You acted shamefully, Margaret.

      Marg. What do you mean?

      Gil. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. Straightforwardness would have done just as nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night.

      Marg. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight.

      Gil. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, eh? [Sits.]

      Marg. I expect the Baron back any minute.

      Gil. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Munich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you?

      Marg. Anybody but you.

      Gil. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for yourself. [Indicates the book.]

      Marg. What's that?

      Gil. My latest novel.

      Marg. Have you taken to writing novels?

      Gil. Certainly.

      Marg. Since when have you learned the trick?

      Gil. What do you mean?

      Marg. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events.

      Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel.

      Marg. But the opinion of an authority was—

      Gil.

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