Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various
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be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed.
Gil. At all events, you admit he is not the right man.
Marg. I never said that!
Gil. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony—Beneath us plunged the Isar—[He seizes her hand and presses her near.]
Marg. Ah!
Gil. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that you still have some important matters to arrange at Munich, and spend the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy again as then. Do you remember [very near her] "Abandoned on thy breast and—"
Marg. [retreating brusquely from him]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't love you any more.
Gil. Oh, h'm—indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [Pause.] Adieu, Margaret.
Marg. Adieu.
Gil. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, as I have done?
Marg. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week.
Gil. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it?
Marg. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no danger of being recognized.
Gil. I see. How did you manage to do it?
Marg. Very simple. For one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a painter.
Gil. Very clever.
Marg. Her first husband is not a cotton manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor—
Gil. Ha! Ha!
Marg. What strikes you so funny?
Gil. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that.
Marg. Whoever said so?
Gil. Why, you yourself, just now.
Marg. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a baritone.
Gil. Bass would have been more sublime, mezzo-soprano more piquant.
Marg. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculptor.
Gil. That's me—veiled.
Marg. Very much veiled, I rather fear. The sculptor, as it happens, is young, handsome and a genius. In spite of that she leaves him.
Gil. For—
Marg. Guess?
Gil. A jockey, I fancy.
Marg. Wretch!
Gil. A count, a prince of the empire?
Marg. Wrong. An archduke.
Gil. I must say you have spared no costs.
Marg. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the court for her sake, married her and emigrated with her to the Canary Islands.
Gil. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And then—
Marg. With the disembarkation—
Gil. In Canaryland.
Marg. The story ends.
Gil. Good. I'm very much interested, especially in the veiling.
Marg. You yourself wouldn't recognize me were it not for—
Gil. What?
Marg. The third chapter from the end, where our correspondence is published entire.
Gil. What?
Marg. Yes, all the letters you sent me and those I sent you are included in the novel.
Gil. I see, but may I ask where you got those you sent me? I thought I had them.
Marg. I know. But, you see, I had the habit of always making a rough draft.
Gil. A rough draft?
Marg. Yes.
Gil. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eyelids are heavy—" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again.
Marg. Are you piqued about it?
Gil. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters!
Marg. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory.
Gil. And along with them will remain the fatal story.
Marg. Why?
Gil. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book.
Marg. In where?
Gil. In my novel.
Marg. What?
Gil. Our letters—yours and mine.
Marg. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made a rough draft?
Gil. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have understood them at all.
Marg. Merciful heavens! If this is so—[turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that we two—Merciful heavens! [Feverishly turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the morning after the first night also—
Gil. Surely. That was brilliant.
Marg. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European sensation. And Clement—My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not come back. I am ruined! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog.
Gil. [pocketing his book]. Insipid comparison!
Marg. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the correspondence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have loved! Oh, you're no gentleman.
Gil. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same?
Marg. I'm a woman.
Gil. Do you take refuge in that now?
Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs—everything—we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus.
Gil. What is it?
Marg. I accept your proposal.
Gil. What proposal?
Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.]
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar—well, I'm ready.
Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it—what's