LA RONDE
"La Ronde" from Plays and Stories,
by Arthur
Schnitzler.
Copyright 1982 by the Continuum
Publishing Company
Reprinted with permission.
CHARACTERS
THE WHORE
THE SOLDIER
THE PARLOR MAID
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN
THE YOUNG WIFE
THE HUSBAND
THE LITTLE MISS
THE POET
THE ACTRESS
THE COUNT
THE TIME: The
1890s. THE PLACE: Vienna.
1 The Whore and the Soldier
Late in the evening. On the Augarten Bridge. Soldier
on his way home, whistling.
WHORE: Want to come with me, Angel Face?
(Soldier turns
round, then walks on.)
Wouldn't you like to
come with me? SOLDIER: You mean me? Angel Face?!
WHORE: Who do you think? Come on. Come with
me. I live near here.
SOLDIER: No time. Have to get back to the barracks.
WHORE: You'll get back to the barracks all
right. But it's nicer with me.
SOLDIER (near her now): Yeah. Could be.
WHORE: Uh, ub! A cop might come.
SOLDIER: Nonsense! What's a cop? I got my sword
on.
WHORE: Come on with me!
SOLDIER: Leave me alone. I got no money anyhow.
WHORE: I don't need any money.
SOLDIER (Stops.
They are under a street lamp.): You don't need any money? Who are you for
God's sake?
WHORE: Civilians have to pay, sure. A guy like
you can get it from me for nothing.
SOLDIER: So you're the one Huher told me about…
WHORE: I don't know any Huber.
SOLDIER: Yes, you're the one. That's right. The
cafe in the Schiff Gasse. Then he went home with you.
WHORE: The cafe' in the Schiff Gasse! I've
taken plenty of guys home from there. Eh! (Her eyes tell how many.)
SOLDIER: Let's go then, let's go.
WHORE: What? You're in a hurry now?
SOLDIER: Well, what are we waiting for? I gotta be
back in the barracks at ten.
WHORE: How long you been in the army?
SOLDIER: What business is that of yours? Live far
from here?
WHORE: Ten minutes' walk.
SOLDIER: Too far. How about a little kiss?
WHORE (kisses him): I like that part
the best. When I like a guy.
SOLDIER: I don't. No. I can't go with you. Too
far.
WHORE: Tell you what. Come tomorrow. In the
afternoon.
Soldier: Okay. Give me the address.
WHORE: Only-I bet you won't come.
SOLDIER: I told you I would, didn't I?
WHORE: Tell you what-if it's too far
tonight-how about over there? (She points toward the Danube.)
SOLDIER: What's over there?
WHORE: Lovely and quiet there, too. No one
around this late.
SOLDIER: Aw, that's no good.
WHORE: It's always good-with me. Come on, stay
with me. Who knows if we'll still be around tomorrow?
SOLDIER: Okay, then. But let's make it snappy.
WHORE: Easy. It's so dark there. One slip, and
you're in the Danube.
SOLDIER: Might be the best thing.
WHORE: Pst! Hey, wait a second. We're lust
coming to a bench.
SOLDIER: You know your way around.
WHORE: Wish I had a guy like you for a boyfriend.
SOLDIER: I'd make you jealous too much.
WHORE: I'd know how to take care of that.
SOLDIER: Think so?
WHORE: Not so loud. Could be a cop around at
that-he might be lost. Who'd think we were right in the middle of Vienna?
SOLDIER: Over here. Come on over here!
WHORE: What's got into you? If we slip, we're
in the river!
SOLDIER (has
grabbed hold of her): Ah! now
WHORE: Hold on tight now. SOLDIER: Don't
worry…
* * * * *
WHORE: It'd have been a lot better on the
bench.
SOLDIER: On the bench, off the bench . . . Well,
you getting up?
WHORE: Where are you rushing off-
SOLDIER: Got to get back to the barracks. I'm late
anyhow.
WHORE: Tell me, soldier-what's your name?
SOLDIER: What's my name got to do with you?
WHORE: Mine's-Leocadia.
SOLDIER: Ha! That's a new one!
WHORE: Soldier
SOLDIER: Well, what do you want?
WHORE: How about a dime for the janitor?
SOLDIER: Ha! . . . What do you think I am? 'Bye
now! Leocadia
WHORE: You crook! You son of a bitch!
(He is gone.)
2 The Soldier and the Parlor Maid
The Prater. Sunday evening. A path leading from the
Wursteiprater- or amusement park~out into dark avenues of trees. The din of
the amusement park is audible. So is the sound of the Fünfkreuzertanz- banal
polka- played by a brass band. The Soldier. The Parlor Maid.
PARLOR MAID: Yes,
but now you must tell me. Why were you in such a hurry to leave?
(Soldier laughs
stupidly; he is embarrassed.)
I thought it was
marvelous. I love dancing. (Soldier takes her by the waist. Parlor Maid lets
him.)
But we're not
dancing now. Why are you holding me so tight?
SOLDIER: What's your name? Kathi?
PARLOR MAID: You've
got a Kathi on your mind.
SOLDIER: I know. I've got it: Marie.
PARLOR MAID: Look,
it's dark here. I get so scared.
SOLDIER: Nothing to be afraid of with me around.
Just leave it to uncle.
PARI.OR MAID: But where are we going to,
though? There's no one around at all. Let's go back, come on! How dark it
is!
SOLDIER (pulling
at his Virginia cigar till the tip glows): See it get lighter? Ha! – my
little treasure!
PARLOR MAID: Ooh!
What are you doing? If I'd known this.
SOLDIER: Nice and
soft! Damned if you're not the nicest and softest one in the whole bunch,
Fräulein!
PARLOR MAID: What
whole bunch?
SOLDIER: In there-in the Swoboda.
PARLOR MAID: You
tried all of them?
SOLDIER: Oh, you notice. Dancing. You notice a lot
of things. Ha!
PARLOR MAID: You
danced with that blonde more than with me. The one with the crooked face.
SOLDIER: An old friend of a buddy of mine.
PARLOR MAID: You
mean of that corporal with the turned-up mustache?
SOLDIER: Nah. The civilian. You know-the one at
the table with me before. With the hoarse voice?
PARLOR MAID: Oh, yes. I know. He's pretty
fresh.
SOLDIER: Did he try something with you?
I'll show the bastard. What did he try?
PARLOR MAID: Oh,
nothing. I just saw how he was with the other girls.
SOLDIER: Now, Fräulein, tell me.
PARLOR MAID: Ooh!
You'll burn me with that cigar.
SOLDIER: Oh, so sorry! Fräulein-or can I call you
. . . Marie?
PARLOR MAID: We haven't known each other very
long.
SOLDIER: Hell, there's lots of people can't stand
each other and still use first names.
PARLOR MAID: Let's
make it next time, when. . . . You see, Herr Franz…
SOLDIER: You remembered my name!
PARLOR MAID: You see, Herr Franz...
SOlDIER: Make it just-Franz, Fräulein.
PARLOR MAID: Well then don't be so fresh. Sh!
What if somebody comes!
SOLDIER: What if they do? You can't see two feet
in front of you.
PARLOR MAID: But, heavens, where are we going?
SOLDIER: Look!
There's two just like us.
PARLOR MAID: Where?
I can't see a thing.
SOLDIER: There. Right up there.
PARLOR MAID: What do you say like us for?
SOLDIER: Oh, I only mean-they kinda like each
other.
PARLOR MAID: Hey, watch out! What was that? I
nearly fell.
SOLDIER: it's these railings they put round the
grass.
PARLOR MAID: Don't push so hard. I'll fall
right over.
SOLDIER: Sh! Not so
loud!
PARLOR MAID: Look
now I'm really going to scream! What are you doing . . . hey
SOLDIER: There's no one for miles around.
PARLOR MAID: Let's
go back with the rest of them.
SOLDIER: But we
don't need them, Marie, what we need is ub, huh
PARLOR MAID: Herr Franz, please! For Heaven's
sake!! Now listen, if I'd had . . . any idea . . . oh! . . . oh!! . . . yes
* * * *
SOLDIER (blissfully): Jesus Christ
Almighty! . . . Ah-h!
PARLOR MAID: . . . I
can't see your face at all.
SOLDIER: My face? . . . Hell!
* * * * *
SOLDIER: Now look, Fräulein, you can't stay in the
grass all night.
PARLOR MAID: Oh,
come on, Franz, help me up!
SOLDIER: Okay. (He grabs her.) Oops!
PARLOR MAID: Oh dear, Franz!
SOLDIER: Yes, yes? What's the matter with Franz?
PARLOR MAID: You're a bad man, Franz.
SOLDIER: Oh, so that's it? Hey, wait for me!
PARLOR MAID: What do
you let me go for?
SOLDIER: Can't I get this cigar lit for God's
sake?
PARLOR MAID: It's so
dark.
SOLDIER: Well,
tomorrow it'll be light again.
PARLOR MAID: At
least tell me-do you like me?
SOLDIER: I thought
you might have noticed! (He laughs.)
PARLOR MAID: Where
are we going?
SOLDIER: Why, back!
PARLOR MAID: Oh,
please, Franz, not so quick!
SOLDIER: What's the matter? I don't like
running around in the dark.
PARLOR MAID: Tell
me, Franz, do you . . . like me?
SOLDIER: I just told
you I liked you.
PARLOR MAID: Come on
then, give me little kiss.
SOLDIER (condescending):
Here . . . listen! You can hear that music again.
PARLOR MAID: You probably want to go dancing
again.
SOLDIER: Sure. What else?
PARLOR MAID: Well, Franz, look, I must be
getting back. They'll gripe anyhow, the lady of the house is such a . . . she'd
like it best if we never went out at all.
SOLDIER: Sure. You
go home then.
PARLOR MAID: Herr Franz! I thought . . . you
might take me.
SOLDIER: Home? Eh! (The open vowel indicating
disgust.)
PARLOR MAID: Oh,
please, it's so dreary-going home alone!
SOLDIER: Where do
you live?
PARLOR MAID: It's
not far-Porzellan Gasse.
SOLDIER: Oh! Then we
go the same way. . . . But it's too early for me! I want some fun. I got a late
pass tonight. Don't have to be back in the barracks till twelve. I'm going
dancing.
PARLOR MAID: I see
how it is. It's that blonde. The one with the crooked face.
SOLDIER: Ha! . . .
Her face ain't so bad.
PARLOR MAID:
Heavens, you men are wicked! I bet you do this to every girl.
SOLDIER: That'd be
too much!
PARLOR MAID: Franz,
do me a favor. Not tonight-stay just with me tonight, look
SOLDIER: Okay, okay.
But I can dance for a while first, I suppose?
PARLOR MAID: Tonight
I'm not dancing with anyone else.
SOLDIER: Here it is.
PARLOR MAID: What?
SOLDIER: The
Swoboda! How quickly we got back, huh? And they're still playing that thing.
(Singing at the band.) Tatatatum,
tatatatum! . . . All right, if you want to wait, I'll take you home. If you
don't, I'll be saying good night.
PARLOR MAID: I think
I'll wait.
SOLDIER: Why don't
you get yourself a glass of beer? (Turning to a blonde, dancing by with her
boy, putting on a "refined" accent.) May I have the pleasure?
3 The Parlor Maid and the Young Gentleman
A hot summer afternoon. His parents are off in
the country. The cook is having her half-day. In the kitchen the Parlor Maid is
writing the Soldier a letter; he is her lover. There is a ring from the Young
Gentleman's room. She gets up and goes into the Young Gentleman's room. The
Young Gentleman is lying on the sofa with cigarette and French novel.
PARLOR MAID: You rang, Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
Yes . . . Marie . . . yes, I did ring as
a matter of fact. .
. . Now what was it? . . . Oh, I know, let
the blinds down,
Marie, will you? . . . It's cooler with the blinds
down . . . don't you
think?
(Parlor Maid goes to
the window and lets the Venetian blinds down.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (goes
on reading): What are you doing, Marie? That's right. Oh, but now I
can't see to read.
PARLOR MAID: The way
you always study so, Herr Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (passing
over this loftily): That'Il be all, thanks.
(The Parlor Maid
goes out.
The Young Gentleman
tries to go on reading; soon lets
the book fall; rings
again.
The Parlor Maid is
in the doorway.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Look, Marie. . . now, um, what I was going to say . . . well . . . yes, is
there any cognac in the house?
PARLOR MAID: Yes,
Herr Alfred. But it's locked up.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh.
Well, who has the key?
PARLOR MAID: Lini has the key.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Who's Lini?
PARLOR MAID: The
cook, Herr Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh.
Then go and tell Lini.
PARLOR MAID: Well .
. . Lini's having her half day.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh.
PARLOR MAID: Shall 1
run over to the cafe for you, Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
no. . . hot enough as it is.1 don't need cognac anyway. Listen, Marie, just
bring me a glass of water. Wait, Marie-let it run, hm? Till it's quite cold?
(The Parlor Maid
goes.
The Young Gentleman
is watching her go when the Parlor Maid turns round at the door. The Young
Gentleman stares in to space. The Parlor Maid turns the faucet on and lets the
water run. Meanwhile she goes to her little room, washes her hands, and
arranges her curls in the mirror. Then she brings the Young Gentleman the glass
of water. She walks to the sofa.
The Young Gentleman
raises himself part way. The Parlor Maid puts the glass in his hand. Their
fingers touch.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh.
Thanks . . . Well, what is it? Now be careful. Put the glass back on the tray.
. . . (He lies back and stretches out.) What's the time?
PARLOR MAID: Five o'clock, Herr Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I see. Five. Thank you.
(The Parlor Maid
goes; at the door, she turns; the Young Gentleman is looking; she notices and
smiles.
The Young Gentleman
lies where he is for a while, then suddenly gets up. He walks to the door; then
returns and lies down on the sofa. He tries to read again. In a couple of
minutes, he again rings.
The Parlor Maid
enters with a smile which she makes no attempt to hide.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Look, Marie, what I was
going to ask you didn't Dr. Schueller call this morning?
PARLOR MAID: No. No one called this morning.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Well. That's strange. So Dr. Schueller didn't call? You know him-Dr. Schueller?
PARLOR MAID: Oh,
yes. The tall gentleman with the big black heard.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Yes. Then maybe he did call?
PARLOR MAID: No. No
one called, Herr Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (taking the plunge): Come
here, Marie.
PARLOR ~IAID (coming
a little closer): Yes, Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Closer . . . yes . . . um. . . I only thought
PARLOR MAID: Yes,
Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Thought . . . I thought . . . about that blouse. What kind is it? . . . Oh,
come on, closer. I won't bite you.
(Parlor Maid comes.)
PARLOR MAID: What's
this about my blouse? You don't like it, Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (takes
hold of the blouse and, in so doing, pulls the Parlor Maid down on him): Blue,
is it? Yes, what a lovely blue! (Simply.) You're very nicely dressed,
Marie.
PARLOR MAID: But,
Herr Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Well, what? (He's opened the blouse. Matter-of-fact.) You've got lovely
white skin, Marie.
PARLOR MAID: I think
you're flattering me, Herr Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (kissing
her bosom): This can't hurt you, can it?
PARLOR MAID: Oh no!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: How
you're sighing! Why do you sigh like that?
PARLOR MAID: Oh, Herr
Alfred
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: And
what nice slippers you have on
PARLOR MAID: . . .
but . . . Herr Alfred . . . if the doorbell rings
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Who'd ring at this hour?
PARLOR MAID: But,
Herr Alfred . . . you see, it's so light!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Oho, you needn't be embarrassed with me! You needn't be embarrassed with
anybody . . . pretty as you are! I swear you are, Marie! You know, your
hair has such a pleasant smell.
PARLOR MAID: Herr
Alfred
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Don't make such a fuss, Marie. I've seen you quite different. When I came in
late the other night, and went for a glass of water, the door to your room was
open yes
PARLOR MAID (hides
her face): Heavens, I'd no idea you could be so naughty, Herr Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
saw a great, great deal . . . this . . . and this . . . and this . . . and …
PARLOR MAID: Herr
Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Come on. . . here. . . that's right, yes…
PARLOR MAID: But if
anyone rings …
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Now
stop it, for Heaven's sake. We won't go to the door.
* * * * *
The doorbell rings.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Christ Almighty! . . . What a racket the man makes! Maybe he rang before, and
we just didn't notice anything.
PARLOR MAID: Oh, I
kept my ears open the whole time.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Well, now, go and see-through the peephole.
PARLOR MAID: Herr
Alfred. . . You are . . . No! . . . a naughty man!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Now
please, go take a look. (The Parlor Maid goes. The Young Gentleman quickly
pulls up the Venetian blinds.)
PARLOR MAID (comes
back): Whoever it was, he's gone away again. There's no one there. Maybe it
was Dr. Schueller.
YOUNG
GENTLEMAN (disagreeably affected): That'll be all, thanks.
(The Parlor Maid
comes closer.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (retreating):
Look, Marie, I'm going. To the cafe.
PARLOR MAID (tenderly):
So soon . . . Herr Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (severely):
I'm going to the cafe-. If Dr. Schueller should come here
PARLOR MAID: He
won't be here today.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (more
severely): If Dr. Schueller should come
here, I…I'm in the
cafe. (He goes into the next room.)
(The Parlor Maid
takes a cigar from the smoking table, slips it
in her pocket, and
goes out.)
4 The Young Gentleman and the Young Wife
Evening. A drawing room in a house in the Schwind
Gasse, furnished with cheap elegance.
The Young Gentleman has just come in and, still in
hat and overcoat, lights the candles. Then he opens the door into the next
room and glances in. The glow of the candles in the drawing room falls on the
parquet floor and makes its way to the four-poster against the rear wall; a
reddish glow from the fireplace in a corner of the bedroom is thrown on the bed
curtains.
The Young Gentleman
also inspects the bedroom. He takes an atomizer from the dressing table and sprays
the pillows with a fine stream of violet perfume. Then he goes with the spray
through both rooms, squeezing the little bulb the whole time, so that soon the
whole place smells of violets. He takes off hat and overcoat, sits down in a
blue velvet armchair, lights a cigarette, and smokes. After a short while he
gets up to make sure that the green shutters are drawn. Suddenly he goes back
to the bedroom, opens the drawer of the bedside table, feels around till he
finds a tortoise shell hairpin. He looks round for a place to hide it and
finally puts it in his overcoat pocket. Then he opens a cupboard in the drawing
room, takes out a silver tray, a cognac bottle, and two liqueur glasses, and
puts it all on the table. He goes back to his overcoat and fishes out a small
white parcel, which he opens and puts next to the cognac bottle. He returns to
the cupboard and takes out two dessert plates, knives, and forks. From the
small parcel he extracts a marron glace and eats it. Then he pours himself a
glass of cognac and quickly drinks it down. He looks at his watch. He paces the
room. In front of the large mirror on the wall he stops for a while, smoothing
his hair and little moustache with a pocket comb. He goes to the door to the
hall and listens-not a sound. He draws the blue curtains screening the door to
the bedroom. The doorbell rings. The Young Gentleman gives a start. He drops
into an armchair and only rises when the door opens and the Young Wife enters.
The Young Wife
thickly veiled, shuts the door behind her and stands for a moment with her left
hand on her heart, as though she had to master intense emotion.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (goes
to her, takes her left hand, and imprints a kiss on the white, black-trimmed
glove; softly): I thank you.
YOUNG WIFE:
Alfred-Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
Come in, dear lady . . . come in, Frau Emma.
YOUNG WIFE: Let me
alone for a moment, please-oh, please, Alfred!
(She stays close by
the door.
The Young Gentleman
stands before her, holding her hand.)
YOUNG WIFE: But
where am I, actually?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: In my flat.
YOUNG WIFE: This
building is a horror, Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Why? It's very dignified.
YOUNG WIFE: I met
two men on the stairs.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: People you know?
YOUNG WIFE: I don't
know. Maybe.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Forgive me- you must know who you
know!
YOUNG WIFE: But I didn't see a thing.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Even if they'd been your best
friends, they couldn't have recognized you. Even I . . . if I didn't know it
was you . . . this veil
YOUNG WIFE: There are two.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Won't you come a bit closer in? And anyway do take off your hat.
YOUNG WIFE: What are
you thinking of, Alfred? I told you-five minutes. No, not a second more! I
swear
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Then the veil!
YOUNG WIFE: There are two.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
well, both veils then-at least I'm allowed to see you!
YOUNG WIFE: Do you really love me, Alfred?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (deeply hurt): Emma, can you
ask .
YOUNG WIFE: It's so hot in here.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: But
you still have your fur cape on-you're going to catch cold!
YOUNG WIFE (at
last steps into the room, throwing herself into an armchair): I'm dead
tired.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Permit me.
(He takes her veil
off, takes out the hatpin, puts hat, pin, and veils down side by side on the
sofa.
The Young Wife lets
it happen.
The Young Gentleman
stands before her, shaking his
head.)
YOUNG WIFE: What's
the matter with you?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Never were you so beautiful!
YOUNG WIFE: How's that?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Alone. . . alone with you. . . Emma (He sinks on one knee beside the
armchair, takes both her hands and covers them with kisses.)
YOUNG WIFE: And now
. . . let me go. I have done what you asked.
(The Young Gentleman
drops his head on to her lap.)
YOUNG WIFE: You
promised me that you'd be good.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Yes.
YOUNG WIFE: This
room's stifling.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN gets
up. You still have your cape on.
YOUNG WIFE: Put it
with my hat.
(The Young Gentleman
takes off her cape and puts it on the sofa along with the hat and the other
things.)
YOUNG WIFE: And now-adieu-
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Emma!
YOUNG WIFE: The five
minutes are up.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: No,
no! You haven't been here one minute yet!
YOUNG WIFE: Alfred,
please, tell me exactly what time it is.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Quarter past six, on the nose.
YOUNG WIFE: I should
have been at my sister's long ago.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: You
can see your sister any time.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh God,
Alfred, why did you get me to do this?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Because I . . . worship you, Emma.
YOUNG WIFE: How many
women have you said that to?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Since I saw you, to none.
YOUNG WIFE: What a
frivolous woman I am! If anyone had told me-a week ago . . . or even yesterday
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: It
was the day before yesterday you promised
YOUNG WIFE: Because
you kept tormenting me. But I didn't want to, God is my witness-I didn't want
to. Yesterday I'd made up my mind. . . . Do you know I even wrote you a long
letter last night?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
didn't get it.
YOUNG WIFE: I tore
it up. I should have sent it after all!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
It's better like this.
YOUNG WIFE: No, it's
scandalous . . . of me. I can't understand myself. Good-bye, Alfred, let me go.
(The Young Gentleman
takes her in his arms and covers
her face with hot
kisses.)
YOUNG WIFE: So this
is . . . how you keep your promise?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: One
more kiss! Just one.
YOUNG WIFE: The
last!
(He kisses her, she
reciprocates, and their lips stay together a long time.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: May
I tell you something, Emma? It is only now that I know what happiness is.
(The Young Wife
sinks back in an armchair.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (sits
on the arm of the chair, putting his arm gently round her neck.) . . . Or
rather, only now do I know what happiness might be.
(The Young Wife
gives a profound sigh.
The Young Gentleman
kisses her again.)
YOUNG WIFE: Alfred, Alfred, what are you making me
into? YOUNG GENTLEMAN: It's not really so uncomfortable here, is it?
And we are so safe.
It's a thousand times better than meeting in the open air.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh,
don't remind me.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Even those meetings 1 shall think of with delight! Every minute I've had the
privilege of spending at your side will linger forever as a Sweet memory.
YOUNG WIFE: You remember the Industrial Ball?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Do
I remember? . . . But didn't I sit next to you during supper-right up close?
The champagne your husband-(The Young Wife gives him a look of protest.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I was only going to mention
the champagne! Tell me, Emma, wouldn't you like a glass of cognac?
YOUNG WIFE: Maybe
just a drop. But first let me have a glass of water.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Yes
. . . now, where is . . . Oh yes. (He draws the curtains back from the door
and goes into the bedroom.
The Young Wife looks
after him.
The Young Gentleman
returns with a filled decanter and two glasses.)
YOUNG WIFE: Where
were you?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: In
the-next room.
(He pours a glass of
water for her.)
YOUNG WIFE: Now I'm
going to ask you something, Alfred, and you must swear to tell the truth.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
swear
YOUNG WIFE: Was
there ever another woman in these rooms?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
But, Emma, this house has been around for twenty years!
YOUNG WIFE: You know
what I mean, Alfred. . . with you
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
With me, here? Emma! It's not nice for you to think about such things.
YOUNG WIFE: Then you
have . . . how shall I . . . ? But no, I'd better not ask you. It's better if I
don't ask. It's my own fault. Everything takes its revenge.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: But
what is it? What's the matter with you? What takes revenge?
YOUNG WIFE: No, no,
no, I mustn't return to consciousness- I'd sink into the ground for very shame.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (still
with the decanter in his hand, sadly shakes his head): Emma, if only you
had any idea how you hurt me!
(The Young Wife
pours herself a glass of cognac.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
I'll tell you something, Emma. If you're ashamed to be here-that's to say, if
I'm nothing to you-if you don't feel that you mean all the bliss in the world
to me-then leave. Leave.
YOUNG WIFE: That is
just what I'll do.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (seizing
her hand): But if you realize that I can't live without you, that to kiss
your hand means more to me than all the caresses of all the women in the whole
world. Emma, I'm not like the other young men who know how .
this
sort of thing is done . . . call me naive if you wish ... I...
YOUNG WIFE: But what
if you were like the other young men?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Then you wouldn't be here now: you aren't like the other young women.
YOUNG WIFE: How do you know?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (has
drawn her on to the sofa and sits down close beside her): I've thought a
lot about you. I know you're unhappy.
(The Young Wife
looks pleased.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Life is so empty, so trivial.
And so short. Isn't life frightfully short, Emma? There is only one happiness:
to find someone who loves you.
(The Young Wife has
taken a candied pear from the table and puts it into her mouth.)
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Give me half!
(She offers it to
him with her lips.
Young Wife takes the
Young Gentleman's hands, which threaten to go astray.) What are you doing,
Alfred? Is this your promise?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (swallows
the candied fruit, then says more boldly): Life is so short!
YOUNG WIFE (feebly):
But that's no reason
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (mechanically):
Oh, but it is.
YOUNG WIFE (more
feebly): Now look, Alfred, you promised to be good. . . . And it's so
light.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Come, come, my only one, my only. (He lifts her off the sofa.)
YOUNG WIFE: What are
you doing?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
It's not light in there.
YOUNG WIFE: Is there
another room?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (taking
her with him): A lovely one. . . and quite dark.
YOUNG WIFE: I'd
rather stay here.
(The Young Gentleman
has already got her through the curtains and in the bedroom; he begins to
unhook her dress at the waist.)
YOUNG WIFE: You're
so . . . Oh God, what are you doing to me? . . . Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Emma, I worship you!
YOUNG WIFE: Wait,
please, at least wait . . . (weakly) Go, I'll call you
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Let
me . . . let you help me . . . let me . . . help . . . you
YOUNG WIFE: But
you're tearing everything!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Don't you wear a corset?
YOUNG WIFE: I never
wear a corset. Neither does Duse, incidentally. You can unbutton my boots.
(The Young Gentleman
unbuttons her boots, kisses her feet.)
YOUNG WIFE (slipping
into the bed): Oooh, I'm cold.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
It'll get warm.
YOUNG WIFE (laughing
softly): You think so?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (not
liking this, to himself): She shouldn't have said that! (He undresses in
the dark.)
YOUNG WIFE (tenderly):
Come, come, come.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (in
a better mood at once): At once
YOUNG WIFE: It
smells of violets here.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
It's you. . . yes (close by her) . . . you.
YOUNG WIFE: Alfred .
. . Alfred!!!!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Emma
* * * * *
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
must be too much in love with you that's why . . . I'm nearly out of my senses.
YOUNG WIFE: …
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: All
these past days I've been going crazy. I felt it coming.
YOUNG WIFE: Don't
worry your head about it.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Of
course not, you can almost take it for granted when a man .
YOUNG WIFE: Don't .
. . don't . . . You're nervous. Just relax .
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: You
know Stendhal?
YOUNG WIFE:
Stendhal?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: His
book De l'amour.
YOUNG WIFE: No. Why
do you ask?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
There's a story in it that's most significant.
YOUNG WIFE: What
sort of story?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: A bunch
of officers have gotten together...
YOUNG WIFE: Oh.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: And they talk about their
love affairs. And everyone says that with the woman he loved most . . . most passionately,
you know . . . she made him . . . with her he well, the fact is, it happened to
every one of them what happened to me with you.
YOUNG WIFE: I see.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
This is very typical.
YOUNG WIFE: Yes.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: But that's not all. One of
them claims it has never happened to him in all his life. But-Stendhal adds-this man was a
notorious show-off.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: All
the same, it kind of throws you, that's the stupid thing about it, even if it
doesn't really matter.
YOUNG WIFE: Naturally. Anyway . . . you promised to
be good.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Please don't laugh! That won't
improve things.
YOUNG WIFE: I'm not
laughing. This Stendhal story's very interesting. I'd always thought it
happened only with older men or with very . . . well, you know, men who've been
too fast.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
What an idea! That has nothing to do with it. By the way, I forgot the most
charming story in the Stendhal. A lieutenant of hussars even says that he spent
three nights-or was it six? I can't remember-with a woman he'd been wanting for
weeks- desire and all that-and all those nights they didn't do a thing but cry
with happiness-both of them.
YOUNG WIFE: Both of
them?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Both of them. Does that surprise you? I find it so understandable. Specially
when you're in love.
YOUNG WIFE: But
there must be a lot who don't cry.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (nervously):
Surely . . . after all, it was an exceptional case.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh . . .
I thought Stendhal says all hussars cry on these occasions.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: There,
you're just making fun.
YOUNG WIFE: Not in
the least. Don't be so childish, Alfred.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
can't help it, it makes me nervous . . . and I have the feeling you're thinking
of it the whole time. I'm embarrassed.
YOUNG WIFE: I am not
thinking about it.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: You
are. If I could only be sure you love me!
YOUNG WIFE: Do you
want better proof than . . .
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: You
see! You're always making fun of me.
YOUNG WIFE: Not at
all! Come, give me your sweet little head.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
this is good.
YOUNG WIFE: Do you
love me?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
I'm so happy!
YOUNG WIFE: But no
need to cry, too!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (moves
away, highly irritated): Again, again! Didn't I beg you?
YOUNG WIFE: I said
you shouldn't cry, that was all
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: You
said "No need to cry."
YOUNG WIFE: You're
nervous, my dear.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: I
know that.
YOUNG WIFE: You
shouldn't be. It's rather nice that . . . that we-that we-we're . . . comrades,
as you might say ..
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Now
you're starting over.
YOUNG WIFE: Don't
you remember? It was one of our very first talks: we wanted to be . . .
"just comrades." . . . Oh, it was lovely that time . . . at my
sister's, in January, at the great ball
during the
quadrille. . . . For Heaven's sake, I should have left long ago! My sister will
be waiting-what shall I tell her? Adieu, Alfred. .
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Emma! You're going to leave me like this?
YOUNG WIFE: Yes.
Like this!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Just another five minutes .
YOUNG WIFE: All
right, five minutes. But you must promise me to keep quite still . . . Yes? . .
. I'm going to give you a goodbye kiss . . . Ssh. . . keep still, as I told you, or I'll get right up. My sweet . .
. sweet .
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Emma .... I worsh-
** * * *
YOUNG WIFE: Darling
Alfred .
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
it's heaven with you!
YOUNG WIFE: But now
I really must go.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Oh,
let your sister wait.
YOUNG WIFE: I must
go home. It's too late for my sister. What time is it now?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
How'd I find that out?
YOUNG WIFE: By
looking at your watch!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: But
it's in my waistcoat.
YOUNG WIFE: Well,
get it.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (gets
up with a mighty heave): Eight.
YOUNG WIFE (rising
hastily): For Heaven's sake! Quick, Alfred, my stockings-whatever shall I
say? They'll be waiting for me at home . . . eight o'clock!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
When do I see you next?
YOUNG WIFE: Never.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Emma! Don't you still love me?
YOUNG WIFE: That's
why. Give me my boots.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Never again? . . . Here are the boots.
YOUNG WIFE: There's
a buttonhook in my pocket book. Please hurry
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Here's the buttonhook.
YOUNG WIFE: Alfred,
this can cost us both our necks!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (not
liking this at all): Why?!
YOUNG WIFE: Well,
what can I tell him when he asks me where I've been?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: At
your sister's.
YOUNG WIFE: Yes, if
only I were a good liar.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
You'll lust have to be.
YOUNG WIFE: All this
for a man like you . . . Come here. Let me give you another kiss. (She
embraces him.) And now leave me alone, go in the other room, I can't dress
with you around.
(The Young Gentleman
goes to the drawing room and gets dressed. He eats a little of the pastry,
drinks a glass of cognac.)
YOUNG WIFE (after
a while, calling out): Alfred!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Yes, my treasure?
YOUNG WIFE: Maybe
it's good we didn't just cry.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (smiles,
not without pride): How can you treat it so lightly.
YOUNG WIFE: What
will it be like if we meet at a party one day-by chance?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: One
day? By chance? Surely you'll be at the Lobheimers' tomorrow?
YOUNG WIFE: Yes.
Will you?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: Of
course. May I ask for the cotillion?
YOUNG WIFE: Oh, I
won't go. How can you think . . . ? Why . . . (She enters the drawing room,
fully dressed, and takes a chocolate pastry.) . . . I'd sink into the
ground!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Well, tomorrow at the Lobheimers'. That's lovely.
YOUNG WIFE: No, no,
I'll send word I can't come. . . . Definitely.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN:
Then the day after tomorrow-here.
YOUNG WIFE: What an
idea!
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: At
six.
YOUNG WIFE: There
are cabs at the corner, aren't there?
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: As
many as you like. Then it's day after tomorrow, six o'clock, here. Say yes, my
dearest treasure.
YOUNG WIFE: . . .
We'll talk it over tomorrow-during the cotillion.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (embracing
her): Angel!
YOUNG WIFE: Don't
spoil my hairdo again.
YOUNG GENTLEMAN: So
it's tomorrow at the Lobheimers' and the day after-in my arms.
YOUNG WIFE: Good-bye
YOUNG GENTLEMAN (suddenly
worried again): And what are you going to tell him tonight?
YOUNG WIFE: Don't
ask . . . don't ask . . . it's too dreadful. Why do I love you so? Good-bye. If
I meet people on the stairs again, I shall have a stroke.
(The Young Gentleman
kisses her hand yet again.
The Young Wife goes.
Young Gentleman left
alone. He sits down on the sofa.
Then he smiles away
to himself.) Well, now I'm having
an affair with a
respectable woman!
5 The Young Wife and
the Husband
A comfortable bedroom. It is ten thirty at night. The
Young Wife is lying in bed, reading. The Husband comes into the room in his
bathrobe.
YOUNG WIFE (without
looking up): You've stopped working?
HUSHANI): Yes. I'm too tired. And besides .
YOUNG WIFE: Yes?
HUSBAND: I suddenly
felt so lonely at my desk. I began longing for you.
YOUNG WIFE (looks up): Really?
HUSBAND (sits by
her on her bed): Don't read any more tonight. You'll ruin your eyes.
YOUNG WIFE (closes the book): What's the
matter?
HUSBAND: Nothing, my
child. I'm in love with you. But you know that.
YOUNG WIFE: One
might almost forget it sometimes.
HUSBAND: One even has to forget it sometimes.
YOUNG WIFE: Why?
HUSBAND: Marriage would be imperfect otherwise. It
would-how shall I put it? it would lose its sanctity.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh…
HUSBAND: Believe me-it's true. . . . If in the
course of the five years we've been married we hadn't sometimes forgotten we're
in love with one another, we probably wouldn't be in love any more.
YOUNG WIFE: That's
over my head.
HUSBAND: The fact is simply this: we've had
something like ten or twelve different love affairs with one another . . .
isn't that how it seems to you?
YOUNG WIFE: I
haven't kept count.
HUSBAND: If we'd
pushed our first affair to the limit, if I'd blindly surrendered myself to my
passion for you from the beginning, we'd have gone the way of millions of
others. We'd be through by now.
YOUNG WIFE: I see
what you mean.
HUSBAND: Believe me-Emma-in the first days of our
marriage I was afraid it would turn out that way.
YOUNG WIFE: So was
I.
HUSBAND: You see? Wasn't I right? That's why it's
best-from time to time-to live together just as friends.
YOUNG WIFE: Oh, I see.
HUSBAND: That way we can always keep having new
honeymoons, because I never risk letting the weeks of the honeymoon
YOUNG WIFE: . . . run into months.
HUSBAND: Exactly.
YOUNG WIFE: And now
it seems . . . another of those periods of friendship has come to an end?
HUSBAND (tenderly pressing her to him): It
could be so!
YOUNG WIFE: But
suppose it was different-with me?
HUSBAND: It isn't
different with you. You're the cleverest creature alive-and the most
bewitching. I'm very happy to have found you.
YOUNG WIFE: How nice
that you do know how to court a woman-from time to time.
HUSBAND (has got
into bed): For a man who's seen the world a bit-come, put your head on my
shoulder-seen the world a bit, marriage means something far more mysterious
than to girls from good families like you. You come to us pure and-at least to
a certain degree-ignorant, and so you have in reality a much clearer view of
the true nature of love than we have.
YOUNG WIFE (laughing):
Oh!
HUSBAND: Certainly.
Because we're insecure-confused by the many varied experiences we have before
marriage-unavoidably. You women hear a lot, and know too much, I'm afraid you
read too much too, but you can never have an accurate conception of what we
men have to go through. What's commonly called love is made utterly repellent
to us- because, after all, what are the poor creatures we have to resort to?
YOUNG WIFE: Yes,
what are the poor creatures you have to resort to?
HUSBAND (kisses
her on the forehead): Be glad, my child, that you never had a glimpse of
these circles. Most of them are rather pitiable beings, incidentally. Let us
not cast the first stone!
YOUNG WIFE: You pity
them? That doesn't seem quite right.
HUSBAND (with
fine mildness): They deserve it. You girls from good families, who can
quietly wait beneath the parental roof till a decent man proposes to you-you
don't know the misery that drives those poor creatures into the arms of sin.
YOUNG WIFE: They all sell themselves, then?
HUSBAND: I wouldn't quite say that.
And I'm not thinking merely of material misery. There is also-one might
say-a moral misery: an insufficient grasp of what is . . . proper, and
especially of what is noble.
YOUNG WIFE: But why should we pity them? Don't they have rather a nice
time of it?
HUSBAND: You have peculiar
opinions, my child. Don't forget that these creatures are destined by nature to
sink forever lower and lower and lower. There is no stopping it.
YOUNG WIFE (snuggles
up to him): Sinking sounds rather nice!
HUSBAND (pained): How can you say such a thing, Emma? I should
have thought there could be nothing more repellent to a decent woman than the
thought of
YOUNG WIFE: Yes, that's true, Karl, of course. I said it without
thinking. Tell me more. it's so nice when you talk like this. Tell me more.
HUSBAND: What about?
YOUNG WI FE:
About-those creatures!
HUSBAND: But what an
idea!
YOUNG WIFE: Look, I
asked you before, didn't I, right at the be-ginning I kept asking you to tell
me about your youth.
HUSBAND: Why does that interest
you?
YOUNG WIFE: Aren't
you my husband? And isn't it positively unfair that I know absolutely nothing
about your past?
HUSBAND: I hope you don't think
I'd . . . in such bad taste No, Emma! It would be profanation!
YOUNG WIFE: And yet you've . . . held any number of other young ladies
in your arms, the way you're holding me now.
HUSBAND: "Young ladies!" You're a lady
YOUNG WIFE: There's
one question you must answer. Or else or else . . . no honeymoon.
HUSBAND: You've a way of talking . . . remember, my child, you're a
mother-our little girl is sleeping in there.
YOUNG WIFE (pressing herself to him): But
I want a boy too.
HUSBAND: Emma!
YOUNG WIFE: Oh,
don't be so . . . Of course, I'm your wife, but I'd like to be-your mistress,
sort of.
HUSBAND: You would?
YOUNG WIFE: First my question!
HUSBAND (accommodating):
What is it?
YOUNG WIFE: Was there a-a married woman-among them?
HUSBAND: What? How do you mean?
YOUNG WIFE: You know.
HUSBAND (somewhat disturbed): What
makes you ask?
YOUNG WIFE: I'd like to know if there . . . I mean . . . there are women
like that, I know . . . But have you
HUSBAND (gravely):
Do you know any such woman?
YOUNG WIFE: Well, I
can't tell.
HUSBAND: Is there
such a woman among your friends?
YOUNG WIFE: Well,
how could I say yes-or no- and be sure?
HUSBAND: Has one of your women friends . . . People talk a lot when
they. . . women among themselves. . . has one of them confessed . . . ?
YOUNG WIFE (uncertainly):
No.
HUSBAND: Do you suspect
that one of your friends
YOUNG WIFE: Suspect
. . . well . . . suspect
HUSBAND: It seems
you do!
YOUNG WIFE:
Definitely not, Karl. Most certainly not. Now I think it over, I wouldn't
believe it of one of them.
HUSBAND: Not one?
YOUNG WIFE: Of
friends-not one.
HUSBAND: Promise me
something, Emma.
YOUNG WIFE: Well?
HUSBAND: Promise
you'll never go around with a woman if you have the slightest suspicion that .
. . her life is not beyond reproach.
YOUNG WIFE: You need
a promise for that?
HUSBAND: I know, of
course, that you would never seek contact with such women. But by chance you
might . . It frequently happens that
women who don't enjoy the best reputation seek the company of respectable
women, partly for contrast and partly out of a certain-how shall I put it?-out
of a certain nostalgia for virtue.
YOUNG WIFE: I see.
HUSBAND: Yes, I believe it's
very true, what I just said. Nostalgia for virtue! For there's one thing you
can be sure of: in reality all these women are very unhappy.
YOUNG WIFE: Why?
HUSBAND: How can you
ask, Emma? Only imagine what sort of existence they have to lead. Full of
meanness, lies, treachery-and full of danger!
YOUNG WIFE: Oh yes.
I'm sure you're right.
HUSBAND: Indeed,
they pay for that bit of happiness . . . that bit of...
YOUNG WIFE: . . .
pleasure.
HUSBAND: Pleasure?
What makes you call it pleasure?
YOUNG WIFE: Well,
it's something, or they wouldn't do it.
HUSBAND: It's nothing. Mere intoxication.
YOUNG WIFE (thoughtfully):
Mere intoxication.
HUSBAND: Not even intoxication. But one thing is
certain-it's bought at a price!
YOUNG WIFE: Then. .
you do know what you're talking about?
HUSBAND: Yes, Emma. It's my saddest memory.
YOUNG WIFE: Who was
it? Tell me. Do I know her?
HUSBAND: Emma! What are you thinking of?
YOUNG WIFE: Was it long ago? Very long before you
married me?
HUSBAND: Don't ask. Please, don't ask.
YOUNG WIFE: But Karl!
HUSBAND: She is
dead.
YOUNG WIFE: Honestly?
HUSBAND: Yes . . .
It may sound ridiculous, but I have the feeling that all these women die young.
YOUNG WIFE: Did you
love her very much?
HUSBAND: Can a man love a liar?
YOUNG WIFE: Then, why … ?
HUSBAND: Intoxication.
YOUNG WIFE: Then you did. . .
HUSBAND: Please,
don't talk about it. All that is long past. I've only loved one woman: you. A
man can only love where he finds purity and truth.
YOUNG WIFE: Karl!
HUSBAND: Oh how
safe, how good a man feels in these arms! Why didn't I know you as a child? I'm
sure I'd never have looked at another woman.
YOUNG WIFE: Karl!
HUSBAND: You're beautiful . . . beautiful . .
. Oh! (He puts the light out.)
* * *
YOUNG WIFE: You know
what I can't help thinking of tonight?
HUSBAND: What, my treasure?
YOUNG WIFE: Of...
of. . . of Venice.
HUSBAND: The first night
YOUNG WIFE: Yes . . . Like that
HUSBAND: What is it? Tell me.
YOUNG WIFE: Tonight . . . that's how you love me
tonight.
HUSBAND: Yes, that's how I love you.
YOUNG WIFE: Ah . . .
if you could always
HUSBAND (in her arms): Yes?
YOUNG WIFE: Oh Karl dear!
HUSBAND: What
was it you wanted to say? If I could always . . . ?
YOUNG WIFE: Well, yes.
HUSBAND: Well,
what would happen if I could always . . . ?
YOUNG WIFE: Then I'd always know you love me.
HUSBAND: Yes.
But you know it anyhow. A man can't always be the loving husband: "a man
must go out into this hostile life, take
with him high goals, and learn the meaning of strife!" *
Always remember this, my child. In marriage
there's a time for
everything-that's the beauty of it. There
aren't many who still
remember their Venice after five years.
YOUNG WIFE: No, of course not!
HUSBAND: And now . . . good night, my child.
YOUNG WIFE: Good night!
* Translator’s Note: These lines are quoted
form Schiller’s “Das Lied von der Glocke.” Their use underscores the husband’s
mediocrity.
6 The Husband and
the Little Miss
A private room in
the Riedhof Restaurant; comfortable, unobtrusive elegance; the gas stove is
lit. On the table the remains of a meal: meringues with much whipped cream,
fruit, cheese. White Hungarian wine is in the glasses.
The Husband smokes a
Havana cigar, leans back on the corner of the sofa..
The Little Miss sits on a chair beside him, scoops the whipped cream out
of a meringue and sucks it up with satisfaction.
HUSBAND: It's
good?
LITTLE
MISS: (without letting herself be interrupted): Mm!
HUSBAND: Like
another?
LITTLE MISS: No, I've eaten too much already.
HUSBAND: You've no
wine left. (He fills up her glass.)
LITTLE MISS: No . .
. I'll only leave it, sir.
HUSBAND: You're
still calling me "sir."
LITTLE MISS: Well,
it's hard to get out of the habit, sir.
HUSBAND: "Sir"!
LITTLE MISS: What?
HUSBAND: You said "sir" again. Come
and sit by me.
LITTLE MISS: One
moment-I'm not through.
(The Husband gets
up, stands behind her chair and puts his arms round her, turning her head
toward him.)
LITTLE MISS: What is
it now?
HUSBAND: I'd like to
have a kiss.
LITTLE MISS: (gives
him a kiss): You're pretty fresh, you are.
HUSBAND: You only
just noticed it?
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I
noticed before . . . in the street. You must have quite an opinion of me.
HUSBAND: How's that?
LITTLE MISS: Going
straight to a private room with you.
HUSBAND: You didn't
go "straight" to the private room.
LITTLE MISS: But
you've such a nice way of asking.
HUSBAND: You think
so?
LITTLE MISS: And
after all, what's wrong about it?
HUSBAND: Predsely.
LITTLE MISS: Whether
you go for a walk or-
HUSBAND: It's much
too cold for a walk, isn't it?
LITTLE MISS: Of
course it was much too cold.
HUSBAND: But in here
it's nice and warm, don't you think? (He has sat down again and puts his arm
around the Little Miss, pulling her over to his side.)
LITTLE MISS: (weakly): Hey!
HUSBAND: Now tell
me. . . You'd noticed me before, hadn't you?
LITTLE MISS: Sure.
In the Singer Strasse.
HUSBAND: I don't
mean today. The day before yesterday and the day before that. I was following
you.
LITTLE MISS: There's
plenty follow me!
HUSBAND: I can
imagine. But did you notice me?
LITTLE MISS: Well .
. . um . . . you know what happened to me the other day? My cousin's husband
followed me in the dark, and didn't recognize me.
HUSBAND: Did he speak to you?
LITTLE MISS: The idea! You think everybody's as fresh
as you?
HUSBAND: It happens.
LITTLE MISS: Sure it happens.
HUSBAND: Well,
what do you do then?
LITTLE MISS: Me? Nothing. I just don't answer.
HUSBAND: Hm
. . . you answered me.
LITTLE MISS: Well, are you mad at me?
HUSBAND (kisses her violently): Your
lips taste of whipped cream.
LITTLE MISS: Oh, they're sweet by nature.
HUSBAND: Many
men have told you that, have they?
LITTLE MISS: Many men! The ideas you get!
HUSBAND: Be
honest with me. How many have kissed these lips?
LITTLE MISS: Why ask? If I tell you, you won't
believe me.
HUSBAND: Why not?
LITTLE MISS: Guess.
HUSBAND: Let's
say-um-but you mustn't be angry!
LITTLE MISS: Why should I be?
HUSBAND: Well, at a guess . . . twenty.
LITTLE MISS: (breaking away from him): Why not
a hundred while
you’re at it?
HUSBAND: It was only a guess.
LITTLE MISS: It was a bad guess.
HUSBAND: Let's say-ten.
LITTLE MISS: (offended): Oh sure! A
girl who lets you talk to her
in the street and goes straight to a private
dining room!
HUSBAND: Don't be a child. Whether people run
around in the
streets or sit together in a room . . . Here
we're in a restaurant,
the waiter can come in any time- there's
nothing to it.
LITTLE MISS: That's just what I thought.
HUSBAND: Have you ever been in a private
dining room before?
LITTLE MISS: Well, if I must tell you the
truth: yes.
HUSBAND: Well, I like that: you're honest.
LITTLE MISS: It wasn't like you think. I was
with my girl friend
and her fiance, during the last Carnival.
HUSBAND: Well, it wouldn't be a tragedy if
you'd been-with your
boyfriend .
LITTLE MISS: Sure it wouldn't be a tragedy.
But I haven't got a
boyfriend.
HUSBAND: Go on!
LITTLE MISS: Cross my heart, I haven't.
HUSBAND: You don't mean to tell me I …
LITTLE MISS: What? .
. . There hasn't been anyone- for more than six months.
HUSBAND: I see . . . And before
that? Who was it?
LITTLE MISS: What
are you so inquisitive for?
HUSBAND: Because . . . I'm in
love with you.
LITTLE MISS: Really?
HUSBAND: Of course.
Hadn't you noticed? Come on, tell me. (He pulls her close to him.)
LITTLE MISS: Tell
you what?
HUSBAND: Don't keep me begging.
I'd like to know who he was.
LITTLE MISS (laughing):
Oh, a man, of course.
HUSBAND: Come on,
come on, who was he?
LITTLE MISS: He was
a little bit like you.
HUSBAND: Indeed.
LITTLE MISS: If you
hadn't been so much like him …
HUSBAND: Well, what then?
LITTLE MISS: Now don't ask. You know what …
HUSBAND: So that's
why you let me speak to you!
LITTLE MISS: Well,
yes.
HUSBAND: Now I don't
know whether to be glad or annoyed.
LITTLE MISS: If I
was you, I'd be glad.
HUSBAND: Oh well,
okay.
LITTLE MISS: The way you talk reminds me of him too . . . and the way
you look at a girl …
HUSBAND: What was
he?
LITTLE MISS: Really,
your eyes
HUSBAND: What was
his name?
LITTLE MISS: Don't
look at me like that, no, please!
(The Husband takes
her in his arms. A long, hot kiss. The Little Miss shakes herself free and
tries to get up.)
HUSBAND: What's the matter?
LITTLE MISS: Time to
go home.
HUSBAND: Later.
LITTLE MISS: No, I must go home. Really. What do you think mother
will say?
HUSBAND: You're living with
your mother?
LITTLE MISS: Sure I
am. What did you think?
HUSBAND: I see . . .
with your mother. Just the two of you?
LITTLE MISS: Just
the two . . . ?! There's five of us. Two boys and three girls.
HUSBAND: Don't sit
so far away. Are you the eldest?
LITTLE MISS: No. I'm
the second. First there's Kathi, she goes out to work. In a flower shop. Then
there's me.
HUSBAND: What do you
do?
LITTE MISS: I'm at
home.
HUSBAND: All the
time?
LITTLE MISS: Well,
one of us has got to be at home.
HUSBAND: Naturally.
Well-and what do you tell your mother when you-come home late?
LITTLE MISS: It
doesn't often happen.
HUSBAND: Tonight for
example. Your mother does ask you?
LITTLE MISS: Oh,
sure she does. It doesn't matter how careful I am when I get home, she wakes up
every time.
HUSBAND: What will
you tell her tonight?
LITTLE MISS: Oh
well, I guess I'll have been to the theater.
HUSBAND: Will she believe you?
LITTLE MISS: Why
shouldn't she? I often go to the theater. Only last Sunday I was to the opera
with my girl friend and her fiane- and my older brother.
HUSBAND: Where
do you get the tickets from?
LITTLE MISS: My brother's a barber.
HUSBAND: Of course,
barbers . . . I suppose he's a theatrical barber.
LITTLE MISS: Why are
you pumping me like this?
HUSBAND: I'm
interested. And what's your other brother?
LITTLE MISS: He's
still at school. He wants to be a teacher. Imagine!
HUSBAND: And you've
a younger sister too?
LITTLE MISS: Yes,
she's only a squirt, but at that you've got to keep an eye on her. You've no
idea what these girls learn at school. Do you know, the other day I caught her
having a date!
HUSBAND: What?
LITTLE MISS: I did.
With a boy from the school opposite. She was out walking with him in the
Strozzi Gasse at half-past seven. The brat!
HUSBAND: What did you do?
LITTLE MISS: Well,
she got a spanking.
HUSBAND: You are as
strict as all that?
LITTLE MISS: There's
no one else to do it. My older sister's in the shop, Mother does nothing but
grumble and so everything falls on me.
HUSBAND: God, you're
sweet! (He kisses her and grows more tender.) And you remind me of
someone, too.
LITTLE MISS: Do I?
Who is she?
HUSBAND: No one in
particular . . . you remind me of the time when . . . well, my youth! Come,
drink up, child.
LITTLE MISS: How old
are you? . . . Um . . . I don't even know your name.
HUSBAND: Karl.
LITTLE MISS: Honest?
Your name's Karl?
HUSBAND: His was Karl too?
LITTLE MISS: Really,
it's a miracle . . . it's too . . . No, those eyes! . . . That look! (She
shakes her head.)
HUSBAND: You
still haven't told me who he was.
LITTLE MISS: A bad
man, that's what he was, or he wouldn't have dropped me.
HUSBAND: Did you
like him a lot?
LITTLE MISS: Sure I
liked him a lot.
HUSBAND: I know what
he was: a lieutenant.
LITTLE MISS: No, he
wasn't in the army. They wouldn't take him. His father's got a house in the . .
. but what do you want to know for?
HUSBAND (kisses
her): Your eyes are gray, really. At first I thought they were black.
LITTLE MISS: Well,
aren't they nice enough for you?
(The Husband kisses
her eyes.)
LITTLE MISS: Oh, no-
that's something I can't stand- please, please . . . Oh God . . . No, let me
get up . . . just for a minute, oh please!
HUSBAND (increasingly
tender): Oh, no! No!
LITTLE MISS: But, Karl, please!
HUSBAND: How old are
you? Eighteen, is it?
LITTLE MISS:
Nineteen now.
HUSBAND: Nineteen .
. . and I
LITTLE MISS: You're thirty
HUSBAND: And . . . a
little more . . . Don't let's talk of it.
LITTLE MISS: At
that, he was thirty-two when I met him!
HUSBAND: How long
ago?
LITTLE MISS: I can't
remember. . . . You know what, there was something in the wine!
HUSBAND: How so?
LITTLE MISS: I'm
quite. . . you know . . . everything's turning around.
HUSBAND: Hold on to
me. Like this . . . (He pulls her to him and becomes more and more tender;
she scarcely defends herself.) I'll tell you something, treasure, now we
might really go.
LITTLE MISS:
Yes-home.
HUSBAND: Not home exactly.
LITTLE MISS: What do
you mean? . . . Oh no, no! . . .1 wouldn't What an idea!
HUSBAND: Now, listen
to me, my child, next time we meet, you know, we'll arrange it so. . . . (He
has slipped to the floor, his head in her lap.) That's good; oh, that's
good!
ILITTLE MISS: What
are you doing? (She kisses his hair.)See, there must have been something in the
wine. . so sleepy . . . Hey, what
happens if I can't get up? But . . . but look, Karl! . . . If somebody comes in
. . . Please . . . the waiter!
HUSBAND: No
waiter'll . . . come in here . . . not in . . . your lifetime.
* * * * *
The Little Miss
leans back in a corner of the sofa, her eyes shut.
The Husband walks up
and down the small room, after lighting a
cigar.
A longish silence.
HUSBAND (looks at
the girl for a long time, then says to himself):
Who knows what sort of person she really
is-God in heaven! So quickly . . . Wasn't very careful of me . . . Hm .
LITTLE Miss (without
opening her eyes): There must have been something in that wine.
HUSBAND: How's that?
LITTLE Miss:
Otherwise ...
HUSBAND: Why blame everything on the wine?
LITTLE MISS: Where are you? Why are you so far away? Come here to me.
(The Husband goes to
her, sits down.)
LITTLE MISS: Now,
tell me if you really like me.
HUSBAND: But you know. . . . (Interrupting
himself quickly.) Of course I do.
LITTLE MISS: You see . . . there is . . . Come on, tell me the truth,
what was in that wine?
HUSBAND: You think I go around poisoning people?
LITTLE MISS: Look, I just don't understand. I'm not like that.
We've only known
each other for . . . Listen, I'm not like that,
cross my heart-if
you believe that of me
HUSBAND: There, there, don't
fret so! I don't think anything bad of you. I just think you like me.
LITTLE MISS: Yes…
HUSBAND: After all, if two
young people are alone together, and have supper, and drink wine- there doesn't
have to be anything in the wine.
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I was just gabbing.
HUSBAND: But why?
LITTLE MISS: (somewhat defiantly): Because I was ashamed!
HUSBAND: That's
ridiculous. There's no reason for it. Especially since I remind you of your
first lover.
LITTLE MISS: Yes.
HUSBAND: Your first.
LITTLE MISS: Oh sure
HUSBAND: Now it would interest
me to know who the others were.
LITTLE MISS: There weren't any.
HUSBAND: That isn't true. It can't be true.
LITTLE MISS: Please don't nag me!
HUSBAND: A cigarette?
LITTLE MISS: No.
Thank you.
HUSBAND: Do you know
what time it is?
LITTLE MISS: What?
HUSBAND: Half-past eleven.
LITTLF MISS: Really.
HUSBAND: Well . . . what about your mother? Used to it, is she?
LITTLE MISS: You want to send me home already?
HUSBAND: But you
wanted-yourself …
LITTLE MISS: Look,
you're different now. What have I done to you?
HUSBAND: My dear child, what's wrong? What are you
thinking of?
LITTLE MISS: It was
. . . the look in your eyes, honest, cross my heart, otherwise you could have
waited a long . . . A lot of men have asked me to go to a private room
with them!
HUSBAND: Well, would you like to . . . to come here
again soon? Or some other place . . . ?
LITTLE Miss: I don't
know.
HUSBAND: Now what's
that mean: you don't know?
LITTLE MISS: Why do
you have to ask?
HUSBAND: All
right-when? But first I must explain that I don't live in Vienna. I. . . just
come here now and then. For a couple of days.
LITTLE MISS: Go
on-you aren't Viennese?
HUSBAND: Well, yes, I'm Viennese, but I live .
. . out of town.
LITTLE MISS: Where?
HUSBAND: Goodness,
that doesn't matter, does it?
LITTLE MISS: Don't worry,
I won't go there.
HUSBAND: Heavens, you can go there as much as you
want. I live in Graz.
LITTLE MISS: Really?
HUSBAND: Yes. What's so astonishing about that?
LITTLE MISS: You're
married, aren't you?
HUSBAND (greatly
surprised): Whatever makes you think so?
LITTLE MISS: It
looks that way to me.
HUSBAND: And if I
were, it wouldn't bother you any?
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I'd
like it better if you were single. But you're married, I know.
HUSBAND: Now tell
me, what makes you think so?
LITTLE MISS: Oh, if
a man says he doesn't live in town and hasn't always got time …
HUSBAND: That isn't so unlikely, is it?
LITTLE MISS: I don't
believe it.
HUSBAND: And it wouldn't give you a guilty
conscience to seduce a married man? Make him unfaithful?
LITTLE MISS: Never
mind about that-I bet your wife is no different.
HUSBAND (very indignant):That's enough! Such observations
LITTLE MISS: I
thought you didn't have a wife.
HUSBAND: Whether I have a wife or not, such
observations are beyond the pale! (He has risen.)
LITTLE MISS: But,
Karl, what is it, Karl? Are you mad at me? Look, I didn't know you were
married. I was just gabbing. Come on, let's be friends.
HUSBAND (goes to
her after a couple of seconds): You really are strange creatures . . . you
. . . women. (At her side, he begins to caress her again.)
LITTLE Miss: No . .
. don't . . and it's so late …
HUSBAND: Now listen
to me. We must have a serious talk. I want to see you again-many times.
LITTLE MISS: Honest?
HUSBAND: But if so,
it's essential. . . . I must be able to rely on you. I can't be watching you
all the time.
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I
can look after myself.
HUSBAND: You're . .
. well, not inexperienced exactly, but you're young, and-men in general are an
unscrupulous bunch.
LITTLE MISS: And
how!
HUSBAND: I don't
mean just in morals.. . . Well, you know what I mean.
LITTLE MISS: Now,
really, what sort of girl do you take me for?
HUSBAND: So, if you
want to love me- only me-we'll be able to fix things up somehow, even if I do
live in Graz. This place isn't the right thing-someone could come in at any
moment!
(The Little Miss
snuggles up to him.)
HUSBAND: Next time
let's make it somewhere else, okay?
LITTLE MISS: Okay.
HUSBAND: Where we
can't be disturbed.
LITTLE MISS: Right.
HUSBAND (embraces
her with fervor): The rest we can talk over on the way home. (He gets
up, opens the door.) Waiter … the check!
7 The Little Miss and the Poet
A small room, comfortably furnished, in good
taste. Drapes leave it in semidarkness. Red net curtains. A big desk littered
with papers and books. Against the wall, an upright piano.
The Little Miss and the Poet enter together.
The Poet locks the door.
POET: Here we are, sweetheart. (He kisses her.)
LITTLE MISS: (in hat and cloak): Oh, what a nice room! Only you
can't see anything!
POET: Your eyes will have to get used to semidarkness. These sweet eyes!
(He kisses her eyelids.)
LITTLE MISS: These
sweet eyes won't have time to get used to it.
POET: How's that?
LITTLE MISS: Because
I can't stay for more than one minute.
POET: Do take your hat off.
LITTLE MISS: For one
minute?
POET (pulls out her hatpin, takes the hat, puts it
on one side):
And your cloak.
LITTLE MISS: What
are you up to? I've got to go!
POET: First you must
rest. We've been walking three hours.
LITTLE MISS: We were in the carriage.
POET: Coming home, yes. But in Weidling-am-Bach we were three solid
hours on foot. Now do sit down, child. . . wherever you like . . . at the desk.
. . . No, that isn't comfortable. Sit down on the sofa. Here. (He puts her
down on the sofa.) If you're very tired, you can stretch out. Like this. (He
makes her lie down.) With your little head on the cushion.
LITTLE MISS (laughing):
But I'm not a bit tired!
POET: You think you aren't. Right, and now if you feel sleepy,
you can go to sleep. I'll keep perfectly quiet. Or I can play you a lullaby . .
. one of my own. (He goes to the piano.)
LITTLE MISS: Your own?
POET: Yes.
LITTLE MISS: But, Robert, I thought you were a doctor.
POET: How's that? I told you I was a writer.
LITTLE MISS: Well, writers are doctors, aren't they?
POET: Of philosophy?
Not all writers. Not me, for instance. Why did you bring that up?
LITTLE MISS: Because
you said the piece you were going to play was your own.
POET: Oh well . . . maybe it isn't. It doesn't matter. Does it? It never
matters who's done a thing-just so long as it's beautiful-you agree?
LITTLE MISS: Oh sure . . . as long as it's beautiful!
POET: Do you know what I meant by that?
LITTLE MISS: By what?
POET: What I said just now.
LITTLE MISS (drowsily): Oh, sure.
POET (gets up,
goes to her, and strokes her hair): You didn't understand a word.
LITTLE MISS: Now
look, I'm not stupid.
POET: Of course you are. That's why I
love you. It's a fine thing for women to be stupid. In your way, that
is.
LITTLE MISS: Hey,
don't be rude!
POET: Little angel! Isn't it nice just to lie there on a soft Persian
rug?
LITTLE MISS: Oh yes. Won't you go on playing the piano?
POET: I'd rather
stay with you. (He strokes her.)
LITTLE MISS: Look,
can't we have the light on?
POET: Oh no . . . twilight is so comforting. Today we were bathing in
sunshine all day long. Now we've come out of the bath, so to speak, and we're
wrapping the twilight round us like a bathrobe. (He laughs.) No, it'll
have to be put a little differently won't it?
LITTLE MISS: I don't know.
POET (edging away from her): It's divine, this stupidity! (He
takes out a notebook and writes a few words in it.)
LITTLE MISS: What are you doing? (Turns around to look at him.) What
are you writing down?
POET (in an undertone): Sun-bath-twilight-robe . . . That's it. (He
puts the notebook in his pocket, laughs.) Nothing. And now tell me,
treasure, wouldn't you like something to eat or drink?
LITTLE MISS: I guess
I'm not thirsty. But I am hungry.
POET: Hm . . . now, I'd rather you were thirsty. The cognac's right
here, but if it's food I'll have to go out and get it.
LITTLE MISS: Can't
they bring it up for you?
POET: That's the
difficulty. My maid isn't around anymore. Never mind. I'll go. What would you
like?
LITTLE MISS: It
isn't worth it, I've got to go home anyway. POET: Oho, no you don't! I'll tell
you what: when we leave, we'll go and have supper somewhere.
LITTLE MISS: I
haven't got time. And-where could we go? We'd be seen.
POET: You know so
many people?
LITTLE MISS: It's
enough if one of them sees us, the damage would be done.
POET: What damage?
LITTLE MISS: What do
you think? If Mother heard anything …
POET: We could go to
a place where nobody could see us. There are restaurants with private rooms
after all
LITTLE MISS (sings):
"Just to share a private room with you . .”
POET: Have you ever
been to a private dining room?
LITTLE MISS: As a
matter of fact I have.
POET: Who was the
lucky man?
LITTLE MISS: Oh, it-
wasn't what you think . . . I was with my
girl friend and her
fiance. They took me.
POET: Really? Am I
supposed to believe that?
LITTLE MISS: Suit
yourself.
POET (close to
her): Did you blush? It's gotten dark in here. I can't make out your
features. (He touches her cheek with his hand.) Even so-I recognize you.
LITTLE MISS: Well,
take care you don't mix me up with another girl.
POET: Peculiar! I can't remember what you look
like.
LITTLE Miss: Thank you very much.
POET (seriously):
Do you know, it's rather spooky-I can't visualize your face-in a certain
sense I've already forgotten you. Now, if I couldn't recognize your voice
either . . . what would you be? So near and yet so far-rather spooky, what?
LITTLE Miss: What
are you talking about?
POET: Nothing,
angel, nothing. Where are your lips? (He kisses her.)
LITTLE MISS: Won't
you put the light on?
POET: No . . . (He
grows very tender.) Tell me if you love me!
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I
do. I do!
POET: Have you ever
loved anyone else as much?
LITTLE MISS: I told
you I haven't.
POET: But . . . (He
sighs.)
LITTLE MISS: Well-he
was my fiance.
POET: I'd rather you
didn't think of him.
LITTLE MISS: Oh . .
. what are you doing. . . now look …
POET: Let's imagine
we're in a castle in India.
LITTLE MISS: I'm
sure people there couldn't be as badly behaved as you.
POET: How idiotic!
Divine! If only you had an inkling of what you mean to me …
LITTLE MISS: Well,
what?
POET: Don't push me
away all the time. I'm not doing anything-yet.
LITTLE MISS: Listen,
my corset hurts.
POET (simply): Take
it off.
LITTLE MISS: Okay,
but you mustn't be naughty.
POET: Okay.
(Little Miss rises
and takes off her corset in the dark.)
POET (sitting on
the sofa in the meanwhile): Tell me, doesn't it interest you at all to know
my last name?
LITTLE MISS: Oh,
yes-what is it?
POET: I'd better not
tell you my name. I'll tell you what I call myself.
LITTLE MISS: What's
the difference?
POET: Well, what I
call myself-as a writer.
LITTLE MISS: You
don't write under your real name? (Poet close to her.)
LITTLE MISS: Ah . .
. please! . . . Don't!
POET: 0 the sweet
odor that rises from you! (He kisses her bosom.)
LITTLE MISS: You're
tearing my chemise.
POET: Off with it
all! Away with these . . . superfluities!
LITTLE MISS: Robert!
POET: Let's enter
our Indian castle!
LITTLE MISS: First
tell me if you really love me.
POET: I worship you!
(He kisses her hotly.) My treasure, I worship you, my springtime . . .
my …
LITTLE MISS: Robert
. . . Robert
* * * * *
POET: That was bliss
supernatural . . I call myself …
LITTLE Miss: Robert,
oh Robert!
POET: I call myself
Biebitz.
LITTLE Miss: Why do
you call yourself Biebitz?
POET: Biebitz isn't
my name, it's what I call myself. You know the name?
LITTLE MISS: No.
POET: You don't know
the name Biebitz? How divine! Really? But you're just pretending?
LITTLE MISS: Cross
my heart, I've never heard it.
POET: You never go
to the theater?
LITTLE MISS: Oh,
yes. Just the other day I got taken-by my girl friend's uncle-and my girl
friend- and we went to the opera-Gavalleria rusticana!
POET: Hmm, but you
don't go to the Burg Theater?
LITTLE MISS: Nobody
ever gives me tickets for that.
POET: I'll send you
a ticket one day soon.
LITTLE MISS: Oh
please! But don't forget. Make it something funny.
POET: Yes . . .
funny . . . well. . . you wouldn't like something sad?
LITTLE MISS: Not
really.
POET: Even if it's
by me?
LITTLE MISS: A
play-by you? You write for the theater?!
POET: Excuse me, I
just want to light a candle. I haven't seen you since you became mine. Angel! (He
lights a candle.)
LITTLE MISS: Hey,
don't! I feel ashamed. Give me a blanket anyway!
POET: Later! (He
walks up to her with the light and contemplates her for a long while.)
LITTLE MISS: (covers
her face with her hands): Robert!
POET: You're
beautiful. You are Beauty! You are Nature herself perhaps! You are Sacred
Simplicity!
LITTLE MISS: Ouch!
You're dripping wax on me! Why can't you be more careful?
POET (puts the
candlestick down): You're what I've been looking for all this time. You
love me-just me-you'd love me the same if I were a shop assistant. It does me
good. I'll confess that up till now I couldn't get rid of a certain suspicion.
Tell me, hadn't you the least idea I was Biebitz?
LITTLE MISS: Look, I don't know what you want with me. I don't know any
Biebitz.
POET: Such is fame! Never mind, forget what I told you, forget even the
name I told you. I'm Robert for you, and I want to remain Robert. I was joking!
(gaily) I'm not a writer at all, I'm a shop assistant. In the evenings I
play the piano for folksingers!
LITTLE MISS: Now you have me all mixed up . . . and the way you look at
a girl! What's the matter, what's eating you?
POET: It's
strange-it's hardly ever happened to me, my treasure-I feel like crying. You've
got under my skin. Let's stay together, hm? We're going to love one another
very much.
LITTLE MISS: Listen,
is that true about the folksinging?
POET: Yes, but don't
ask any more. lf you love me, don't ask. Tell me, could you make yourself quite
free for a couple of weeks?
LITTLE MISS: What do
you mean, quite free?
POET: Well, away from home.
LITTLE MISS: What!
How could I? What would Mother say? Anyway, everything would go wrong at home
without me.
POET: I'd been thinking how lovely it would be to live with you for a
few weeks quite alone, somewhere, in distant solitude, in the depths of Nature's
forests. Nature . . . in nature. . . . And then, one day, farewell-to go who
knows whither?
LITTLE MISS: Now you're talking about saying good-bye. And I thought you
liked me a lot.
POET: That's just
it! (He bends down and kisses her on the forehead.) Sweet creature!
LITTLE Miss: Hold me
tight, I'm cold.
POET: It's time to get dressed. Wait, I'll light some more candles.
LITTLE MISS (gets
up): Don't look!
POET: No. (at the
window) Tell me, child, are you happy?
LITTLE MISS: How do you mean?
POET: In general I mean: are you happy?
LITTLE MISS: Things could be better.
POET: You don't
understand me. You've told me quite enough of the state of affairs at home, I
know you aren't exactly a princess. I mean, setting all that aside, when
you're just feeling alive? Do you by the way feel you are really alive?
LITTLE MISS: You got
a comb?
POET (goes to the dressing table, gives her the comb, contemplates
the Little Miss): God, you're enchanting to look at!
LITTLE MISS: No . .
. don't!
POET: Come, stay
here with me a little longer, stay and let me get something for our supper, and
…
LITTLE MISS: But
it's much too late.
POET: It's not nine
yet.
LITTLE MISS: Well,
then, I've really got to hurry.
POET: When shall we
meet next?
LITTLE MISS: When
would you like to see me?
POET: Tomorrow?
ILITTLE MISS: What's tomorrow?
POET: Saturday.
LITTLE MISS: Oh, I
can't make it. I've got to go see our guardian. With my little sister.
POET: Sunday, then
. . hm . . . Sunday . on Sunday . . . I must explain something
to you. I'm not Biebitz, Biebitz is a friend of mine. One day I'll introduce
you to him. His play is on this Sunday. I'll send you a ticket, and then I'll
come pick you up from the theater. You'll tell me how you like the play, won't
you?
LITTLE MISS: This
Biebitz thing . . well, I may be stupid
but
POET: When I know
how you felt about the play, I'll really know you.
LITTLE MISS: Okay m ready.
POET: Let's go, then, my treasure.
(They leave.)
A
room in a country inn. It is an evening in spring; meadows and hills are lit by
the moon; the windows are open. All is still.
The Poet and the
Actress enter; as they come in, the flame of the candle which the Poet is
carrying goes out.
POET: Oh!
ACTRESS: What's the matter?
POET: The candle. But we don't need it. Look, it's quite light!
Marvelous!
(The Actress
suddenly sinks on her knees at the window,
folding her hands.)
POET: What's the
matter with you?
(Actress remains
silent.)
POET (goes to her): What are you doing?
ACTRESS (indignant): Can't you see I'm praying?
POET: You believe in
God?
ACTRESS: What do you
think I am-an anarchist?
POET: Oh.
ACTRESS: Come here,
kneel down beside me. You could do with some praying once in a while.
(The Poet kneels
down beside her and puts his arms round
her.)
ACTRESS: You
profligate! (She gets up.) And do you know to whom I was praying?
POET: To God, I
presume.
ACTRESS (with
great scorn): Oh yes? It was to you I prayed.
POET: Then why look
out of the window?
ACTRESS: Tell me
where you've dragged me off to, seducer.
POET: It was your
own idea, my child. You wanted to go to the country. You wanted to come here.
ACTRESS: Well, wasn't I right?
POET: Yes, it's
enchanting. To think it's only two hours from Vienna-and perfect solitude!
What a landscape!
ACTRESS: Isn't it? You could
write poetry here, if you happened to have any talent.
POET: Have you been
here before?
ACTRESS: Have I been here
before? I lived here for years.
POET: With whom?
ACTRESS: Oh, with
Fritz, of course.
POET: I see.
ACTRESS: I worshiped that man.
POET: You've said that already.
ACTRESS: Oh, I beg
your pardon-I can leave if I bore you.
POET: You bore me? . . . You have no idea what you mean to me.
You're a world in
yourself. . . . You're the Divine Spark, you're Genius. . . . You are . . . The
truth is, you're Sacred Simplicity. . . . Yes, you . . . But you shouldn’t talk
about Fritz-now.
ACTRESS: He was an
aberration, yes . . . Oh well…
POET: It's good you
see that.
ACTRESS: Come over
and kiss me.
(The Poet kisses
her.)
ACTRESS: And now
we're going to say good night. Good-bye, my treasure.
POET: What do you
mean?
ACTRESS: I'm going
to bed.
POET: Yes-that's all
right, but this "good night" business . where am I going to sleep?
ACTRESS: I'm sure
there are other rooms in this inn.
POET: For me the
other rooms have singularly little attraction. By the way, I'd better light up,
hadn't I?
ACTRESS: Yes.
POET (lights the
candle on the bedside table): What a pretty room.They're religious here,
nothing but saints' pictures. .
Wouldn't it be
interesting to spend some time among these peopIe~another world! How little we
know of our fellow men!
AcrRESS: Stop
talking bosh, and give me my pocketbook, will you, it's on the table.
POET: Here, my one
and only love!
(The Actress takes
from the pocket book a small framed
picture and puts it
on the bedside table.)
POET: What's that?
ACTRESS: Our Lady.
POET: I beg your
pardon?
ACTRESS: The Blessed
Virgin.
POET: I see. You
never travel without it?
ACTRESS: Never. It's my mascot. Now go, Robert.
POET: What sort of a
joke is this? Don't you want me to help you?
ACTRESS: I want you
to go.
POET: Will you ever
take me back?
ACTRESS: Perhaps.
POET: When?
ACTRESS: Oh, in about ten
minutes.
POET (kisses
her): Darling! See you in ten minutes.
ACTRESS: Where will you be?
POET: I shall walk
up and down in front of the window. I love to walk at night in the open air. I
get my best ideas that way. Especially when you're nearby. Wafted by your
longings, as it were, floating on your art
ACTRESS: You talk like an
idiot.
POET (sorrowfully): Some women might have said-like a poet.
ACTRESS: Now go. And don't
start anything with the waitress. (The poet departs.
Actress undresses.
She listens to the Poet going down the wooden stairs and then to his steps
beneath the open window. As soon as she is undressed, she goes to the window,
looks down, sees him standing there; she calls to him in a whisper.)
ACTRESS: Come!
(The Poet comes up
in a hurry; rushes to her. In the meantime she has gone to bed and put out the
light. He locks the door.)
ACTRESS: Well, now you may sit
down by me and tell me a story.
POET (sits by her on the bed): Shouldn't I close the window?
Aren't you cold?
ACTRESS: Oh, no.
POET: What would you like me to tell you?
ACTRESS: Tell me-who are you
being unfaithful to- at this moment?
POET: Unfortunately, I'm not being unfaithful-yet.
ACTRESS: Don't worry, I'm
being unfaithful too.
POET: I can imagine.
ACTRESS: And who do you think
it is?
POET: My dear child, I wouldn't have a notion.
ACTRESS: Guess, then.
POET: Wait a moment . . . Well, your producer.
ACTRESS: My dear, I'm not a
chorus girl.
POET: Oh, it was
just an idea.
ACTRESS: Guess again.
POET: Your leading man-Benno.
ACTRESS: Pooh, that man
doesn't like women, didn't you know?
He's having an
affair with the mailman.
POET: Who would have
thought it?
ACTRESS: So come and
kiss me.
(The Poet embraces
her.)
ACTRESS: What are you doing?
POET: Don't torture
me like this!
ACTRESS: Listen,
Robert, I'll make a suggestion. Get in bed with me.
POET: I accept.
ACTRESS: Hurry up! Hurry up!
POET: Well . . . if
I'd had my way, I'd have been . . . Listen!
ACTRESS: What?
POET: The crickets
are chirping outside.
ACTRESS: You must be
mad, my dear, there are no crickets in these parts.
POET: But you can
hear them!
ACTRESS: Oh, come
on!
POET: Here I am. (He
goes to her.)
ACTRESS: And now lie
still . . . Uh! . . . Don't move!
POET: What's the
idea?
IACTRESS: I suppose
you'd like to have an affair with me?
POET: I thought you might realize that sooner or
later.
ACTRESS: A lot of men would. .
POET: But at this
particular moment the odds are rather strongly in my favor.
ACTRESS: Come, my
cricket. From now on I'm going to call you Cricket.
POET: Fine.
ACTRESS: Now-who am
I deceiving?
POET: Huh? Me,
maybe.
ACTRESS: My child, you should have your head
examined.
POET: Or maybe
someone . . . you’ve never seen . . . someone you don't know . . . He's meant
for you, but you can never find him …
ACTRESS: Cricket,
don't talk such fantastic rot!
POET: . . . Isn't it strange . . . even you .
. . and one would have thought-But no, it would just be . . . spoiling all
that's best about you if one . . . Come, come, come
ACTRESS: That's
better than acting in damn silly plays. You agree?
POET: Well, I think
it's good that you occasionally act in reasonable ones.
ACTRESS: Meaning yours, you conceited pup.
POET: Of course.
ACTRESS (seriously):
It really is a wonderful play.
POET: You see!
ACTRESS: You're a genius!
POET: By the way, why did you cancel your
performance two nights ago? There was nothing wrong with you.
ACTRESS: I wanted to
annoy you.
POET: Why? What had
I done to you?
ACTRESS: You were
conceited.
POET: In what way?
ACTRESS: Everybody
in the theater says so.
POET: Really.
ACTRESS: But I told
them: that man has a right to be conceited.
POET: And what did
they say to that?
ACTRESS: What should
those people say? I never speak to them.
POET: I see.
ACTRESS: They'd like
to poison me. (Pause.) But they won't succeed.
POET: Don't think of them. Just be happy we're here,
and tell me you love me.
ACTRESS: You need
further proof?
POET: Oh, that kind
of thing can't be proved.
ACTRESS: Well,
that's great! What more do you want?
POET: How many
others did you try to prove it to this way? And did you love them all?
ACTRESS: Oh, no.1
loved only one.
POET (embracing her): My
ACTRESS: Fritz.
POET: My name is Robert. What am I to you, if It's
Fritz you're thinking of?
ACTRESS: A whim.
POET: Nice to know!
ACTRESS: Tell me,
aren't you proud?
POET: Why should I be proud?
ACTRESS: I think you have some reason.
POET: Oh, because of
that!
ACTRESS: Yes, because of that, my pale cricket. How
about the chirping? Are they still chirping?
POET: All the time.
Can't you hear?
ACTRESS: I can hear.
But that's frogs, my child.
POET: You're wrong: frogs croak.
ACTRESS: Certainly, they croak.
POET: But not here,
my dear child. This is chirping.
ACTRESS: You're the most pigheaded creature I've
ever come across. Kiss me, frog.
POET: Please don't call me that. It makes me
nervous.
ACTRESS: What do you want me to call you?
POET: I've got a name: Robert.
IACTRESS: Oh, that's
too dull.
POET: I must ask you to call me simply by my name.
ACTRESS: All right, Robert, kiss me . . . Ah! (She
kisses him.)
Are you content now,
frog? Ha, ha, ha!
POET: May I light
myself a cigarette?
ACTRESS: Give me one.
(The Poet takes the
cigarette case from the bedside table, takes out two, lights both and hands one
to her.)
ACTRESS: By the way,
you never said a word about how I did last night.
POET: Doing what?
ACTRESS: Well . .
POET: Oh, I see. I
wasn't at the theater.
ACTRESS: I guess you like to joke.
POET: Not at all. When you canceled your performance
the day before yesterday, I assumed that yesterday you couldn't be in full
possession of your powers. So I preferred to abstain.
ACTRESS: You missed
something.
POET: Indeed?
ACTRESS: I was sensational. People turned pale.
POET: You could see them?
ACTRESS: Benno said
to me, "You were a goddess, darling."
POET: Hm . . . and so sick one day earlier.
ACTRESS: Yes. And do
you know why? Out of longing for you.
POET: You just told
me you canceled the performance to annoy me.
ACTRESS: What do you know of my love for you? That
sort of thing leaves you cold. I was in a fever for nights on end. With a
temperature of a hundred and five.
POET: A high temperature just for a whim!
ACTRESS: A whim, you
call it? I die for love of you, and you call it a whim?
POET: What about Fritz?
ACTRESs: What about
him? What about him? Don't talk to me about that . . . that cheap crook!
9 The Actress and
the Count
The Actress's bedroom, luxuriously furnished.
It is noon; the blinds are still down; on the bedside table, a burning candle;
the Actress is lying in her four-poster. Numerous newspapers are strewn about
on the covers.
The Count enters, in the uniform of a captain
of Dragoons. He stops at the door.
ACTRESS: It's you, Count!
COUNT: Your good
mother gave me permission, or of course I wouldn't
ACTRESS: Please come
right in.
COUNT: I kiss your
hand. A thousand pardons-coming straight in from the street-you know, I can't
see a thing. Yes . . . here we are. (near the bed) I kiss your hand.
ACTRESS: Sit down,
my dear Count.
COUNT: Your mother
said you weren't very well, Fräulein. Nothing too serious, I hope?
ACTRESS: Nothing
serious? I was dying!
COUNT: Oh dear me!
Not really?
ACTRESS: In any case
it's very kind of you to . . . trouble to call.
COUNT: Dying! And
only last night you played like a goddess!
ACTRESS: It was a
great triumph, I believe.
COUNT: Colossal!
People were absolutely knocked out. As for myself, well
ACTRESS: Thanks for
the lovely flowers.
COUNT: Not at all, Fräulein.
ACTRESS (turning
her eyes toward a Large basket of flowers, which stands on a small table by the
window): There they are!
COUNT: Last night
you were positively strewn with flowers and garlands!
ACTRESS: I left them all in my dressing room. Your
basket was the only thing I brought home.
COUNT (kisses her
hand): You're very kind.
(The Actress
suddenly takes his hand and kisses it.)
COUNT: Fräulein!
ACTRESS: Don't be
afraid, Count. It commits you to nothing!
COUNT: You're a
strange creature . . . a puzzle, one might almost say.
(Pause.)
ACTRESS: Fräulein Birken is . . . easier to solve?
COUNT: Oh, little Birken is no puzzle. Though
. . . I know her only superficially.
ACTRESS: Indeed?
COUNT: Oh, believe me. But you are a problem.
And I've always longed for one. As a matter of fact, last night I realized what
a great pleasure I'd been missing. You see, it was the first time I've seen you
act.
ACTRESS: Is that
true?
COUNT: Oh, yes. You see, Fräulein, it's a big problem
with the theater. I'm used to dining late. By the time I get there, the best
part of the play is over, isn't it?
ACTRESS: You'll have
to dine earlier from now on.
COUNT: I'd thought
of that. Or of not dining at all. There's not much pleasure in it, is
there-dining?
ACTRESS: What do you still find pleasure in, young
fogey?
COUNT: I sometimes ask myself. But I'm no fogey. There
must be another reason.
ACTRESS: You think so?
COUNT: Yes. For instance, LuIu always says I'm a
philosopher. What he means is: I think too much.
ACTRESS: Lulu?
COUNT: Friend of mine.
ACTRESS: He's right . . . it is a misfortune, all
that thinking.
COUNT: I've time
on my hands, that's why I think. You see, Fräulein, when they transferred me
to Vienna, I thought it would be
better. It'd be
amusing, stimulating, the city. But it's really much the same here as up there.
ACTRESS: And where is "up there"?
COUNT: Well, down
there, Fräulein, in Hungary. The small towns I used to be stationed in.
ACTRESS: What were you doing in Hungary?
COUNT: I'm telling you, dear lady-the army.
ACTRESS: But why did you stay so long in Hungary?
COUNT: It happened,
that's all.
ACTRESS: Enough to
drive anyone mad, I should think!
COUNT: Oh, I don't know.
In a way you have more to do there than here. You know, Fräulein, training
recruits, exercising horses . . . and the surroundings aren't as bad as people
say. It's really rather lovely, the big plain there. Such a sunset! It's a pity
I'm not a painter. I often thought I'd paint one, if I were a painter. We had a
man in our regiment, young Splany, and he could do it. Why I tell you this
boring stuff I don't know, Fräulein.
ACTRESS: Please, Count! I'm
highly amused.
COUNT: You know, Fräulein,
it's so easy to talk to you. Lulu told me it would be. It's a thing one doesn't
often meet.
ACTRESS: In Hungary!
COUNT: Or in Vienna! People are the same everywhere. Where there are
more, it gets overcrowded but that's the only difference. Tell me, Fräulein,
do you like people, really?
ACTRESS: Like them? I hate
them! I don't want to see them. I never do see them. I'm always alone. This
house is deserted!
COUNT: Just as I
imagined: you're a misanthropist. It's bound to happen with artists. Moving in
that more exalted sphere
Well, it's all right
for you, at least you know why you're alive.
ACTRESS: Who told you that? I
haven't the remotest idea why I'm alive!
COUNT: Not really,
Fräulein . . . famous . . . celebrated
ACTRESS: Is that-happiness?
COUNT: Happiness?
Happiness doesn't exist. None of the things people chatter about really exist.
. . . Love, for instance. It's the same with love.
ACTRESS: You may be right
there.
COUNT: Enjoyment . . .
intoxication . . . there's nothing wrong with them, they're real. I enjoy
something, all right, and I know I enjoy it. Or I'm intoxicated, all right.
That's real too. And when it's over, it's over, that's all.
ACTRESS (grandly): It's over!
COUNT: But as soon as you
don't-I don't quite know how to say it-as soon as you stop living for the
present moment, as soon as you think of later on or earlier on . . . Well, the
whole thing collapses. "Later on" is sad, and "earlier on"
is uncertain, in short, you just get mixed up. Don't you think so?
ACTRESS (nods,
her eyes very wide open): You pluck out the heart of the mystery, my dear
Count.
COUNT: And you see, Fräulein, once you're clear about that, it doesn't
matter if you live in Vienna or on the Hungarian plains or in the tiny town of
Steinamanger. For example . . . where can I put my cap? . . . Oh, thanks. What
were we talking about?
ACTRESS: The tiny town of Steinamanger.
COUNT: Oh, yes. Well, as I was saying, there isn't much difference.
Whether I spend the evening at the Casino or the Club is all one.
ACTRESS: How does
this tie in with love?
COUNT: If a man
believes in it, there'll always be a girl around who loves him.
ACTRESS: Fräulein Birken, for
example.
COUNT: Honestly,
dear lady, I can't understand why you're always mentioning little Birken.
ACTRESS: She's your mistress
after all.
COUNT: Who says
that?
ACTRESS: Everyone
knows.
COUNT: Except me.
Remarkable.
ACTRESS: But you fought a duel
on her behalf!
COUNT: Possibly I
was shot dead and didn't notice.
ACTRESS: Count, you are a man
of honor. Sit a little closer.
COUNT: If I may.
ACTRESS: Here. (She draws him closer, and runs
her fingers through his hair.) I knew you would come today.
COUNT: Really? Why?
ACTRESS: I knew it
last night. In the theater.
COUNT: Oh, could you
see me from the stage?
ACTRESS: My dear
man, didn't you realize I was playing for you alone?
COUNT: How could
that be?
ACTRESS: After I saw
you in the front row, I was walking on air.
COUNT: Because of
me? I'd no idea you'd noticed me.
ACTRESS: Oh, you can
drive a woman to despair with that dignity of yours!
COUNT: Fräulein!
ACTRESS:
"Fräulein?" At least take your saber off!
COUNT: Permit me. (He
unbuckles the belt, leans the saber against the bed.)
ACTRESS: And now kiss me
finally.
(The Count kisses
her. She does not let him go.)
ACTRESS: I wish I
had never set eyes on you.
COUNT: No, no, it's
better as it is.
ACTRESS: Count, you're a poseur.
COUNT: I am? Why?
ACTRESS: Many a
man'd be happy to be in your shoes right now.
COUNT: I am very
happy.
ACTRESS: Oh-I
thought happiness didn't exist! Why do you look at me like that? I believe
you're afraid of me, Count.
COUNT: I told you,
Fräulein, you're a problem.
ACTRESS: Oh, don't
bother me with philosophy . . . Come here. And ask me for something. You can
have whatever you like. You're too handsome.
COUNT: Well, then I
beg leave (kisses her hand) to return tonight.
ACTRESS: Tonight? .
. . But I'm playing tonight.
COUNT: After the
theater.
ACTRESS: You ask for
nothing else?
COUNT: I'll ask for
everything else. After the theater.
ACTRESS (offended):
Then you can ask, you wretched poseur.
COUNT: You see,
Fräulein . . . you see, my dear . . . We've been frank with each other till
now. I'd find it all very much nicer in the evening, after the theater. . . .
It'll be so much more comfortable. . . . At present, you see, I've the feeling
the door's going to open at any moment.
ACTRESS: This door
doesn't open from the outside.
COUNT: Fräulein,
wouldn't it be frivolous to spoil something at
the start? When it
might just possibly turn out to be beautiful?
ACTRESS: "Just
possibly"!
COUNT: And to tell
the truth, I find love in the morning pretty frightful.
ACTRESS: You're the craziest
man I've ever come across.
COUNT: I'm not
talking about ordinary females. After all, in general, it doesn't matter. But
women like you, Fräulein-no, you can call me a fool as often as you like, but
women like you.
Well, one shouldn't have them before breakfast, that's all.
And so. . . well…
ACTRESS: God, you're
sweet!
COUNT: Now you see
I'm right, don't you? What I have in mind
ACTRESS: Tell me
what you have in mind.
COUNT: What I mean
is . . . I'll wait for you after the theater, in my carriage, then we can drive
off somewhere, well, and have supper and ...
ACTRESS: I am not
Fräulein Birken!
COUNT: I didn't say
you were, my dear. Only, one must be in the mood! I get in the mood at supper.
It's lovely to drive home after supper, and then …
ACTRESS: And then?
COUNT: Let events
take their natural course.
ACTRESS: Come closer. Closer!
COUNT (sits down
on the bed): I must say, the perfume that comes from these
piIlows-mignonette, is it?
ACTRESS: It's hot in here,
don't you think?
(The Count bends
down and kisses her throat.)
ACTRESS: Oh my dear Count,
this isn't on your program.
COUNT: Who says so?
I have no program.
(The Actress draws
him to her.)
COUNT: It is hot.
ACTRESS: You find it so? And
dark, like evening. . . (pulling him to her) It is evening,
Count. It's night. . . . Shut your eyes if it's too light for you. Come! Come! (The
Count no longer defends himself)
** * * *
ACTRESS: What's
that about being in the mood, you poseur?
COUNT: You're a little devil.
ACTRESS: Count!
COUNT: All
right, a little angel.
ACTRESS: And you
should have been an actor. Really! You understand women. Do you know what I am
going to do now?
COUNT: Well?
ACTRESS: I'm going
to tell you I never want to see you again.
COUNT: Why?
ACTRESS: You're too dangerous for me. You turn a
woman’s head.
And now you stand
there as if nothing has happened.
COUNT: But.
ACTRESS: I beg you
to remember, my dear Count, that I've just been your mistress.
COUNT: Can I ever
forget it?
ACTRESS: So how
about tonight?
COUNT: What do you
mean exactly?
ACTRESS: You
intended to meet me after the theater?
COUNT: Oh, yes, all
right: let's say the day after tomorrow.
ACTRESS: The day
after tomorrow? We were talking of tonight.
COUNT: There
wouldn't be much sense in that.
ACTRESS: Fogey!
COUNT: You
misunderstand me. I mean- how should I say-from the spiritual viewpoint.
ACTRESS: It's not
your spirit that interests me.
COUNT: Believe me,
it's all part of it. I don't agree that these things can be kept separate.
ACTRESS: Don't talk
philosophy at me. When I want that, I read books.
COUNT: But we
never learn from books.
ACTRESS: That's true. And that's why you'll be
there tonight. We'll come to an agreement about the spiritual viewpoint, you
old rascal!
COUNT: Then-with
your permission-I'll wait with my carriage.
ACTRESS: You'll wait here. In my apartment.
COUNT: . . . After
the theater.
ACTRESS: Of
course.
(The Count buckles
on his saber.)
ACTRESS: What
are you doing?
COUNT: I think it's
time for me to go, Fräulein. I've been staying rather long as it is, for a
formal visit.
ACTRESS: Well,
it won't be a formal visit tonight!
COUNT: You
think not?
ACTRESS: Just
leave it to me. And now give me one more kiss, little philosopher. Here, you
seducer . . . you . . . sweet thing, you spiritualist, you polecat, you . . . (After
several emphatic kisses she emphatically pushes him away. My dear Count, it
was a great honor.
COUNT: I kiss
your hand, Fräulein. (At the door) Au revoir!
ACTRESS: Adieu, tiny
town of Steinamanger!
10 The Count and the
Whore
Morning, toward six o'clock. A mean little
room, with one window; the dirty yellow blinds are down; frayed green curtains.
A chest of drawers, with a few photographs on it and a cheap lady's hat in
conspicuously bad taste. Several cheap Japanese fans behind the mirror. On the
table, covered with a reddish cloth, stands a kerosene lamp, still feebly and
odorously alight, with a yellow paper lam shade: next to the lamp, a jug with
a little leftover beer, and a half-empty glass. On the floor by the bed, untidy
feminine clothing, apparently thrown off in a hurry.
The Whore is asleep
in the bed, breathing evenly. On the sofa lies the Count, fully dressed and in
a light overcoat; his hat is on the floor by the head of the sofa.
COUNT (moves, rubs his eyes, rises with a start, and, in a sitting position,
looks round): However did I get . . . Oh . .
So I did go home with that female. . . . (He jumps up, sees her bed.) Why,
here she is. To think what all can still happen to a man of my age! I don't
remember a thing-did they carry me up? No . . .I remember seeing. . When I got into the room, yes, I was still
awake then, or I woke up, or . . . or perhaps it's only that the room reminds
me of something? . . Upon my soul, yes,
I saw it last night, that's all. . . . (He looks at his watch.) Last
night indeed! A few hours ago. I knew something had to happen. Yesterday when I
started drinking I felt that
And what happened? Nothing . .
Or did I . . . ? Upon my soul . . the
last time I couldn't remember was ten years ago. The thing is, I was drunk. If
I only knew when it started … I remember exactly going into that whores' cafe
with Lulu …and . . . No, no . . . First we left the Sacher. . . and then, on
the way, it started. . . Now I've got
it. I was driving in my carriage with LuIu . . . Silly to rack my brains. It's
all one. I'll be on my way. (He rises. The lamp rocks.) Oh! (He looks
at the sleeping girl.) She sleeps soundly, that one. I can't remember a
thing, but I'll put the money on her bedside table-and goodbye. (He stands
and looks at her a long while.) If one didn't know what she is . . . (He
again contemplates her.) I've known quite a lot of girls who didn't look so
virtuous, even in their sleep. Upon my soul . . . now Lulu would say I'm
philosophizing, but it's true, sleep does make us all equal, it seems to me,
like his big brother-Death. . . . Hmm, I'd like to know if.
No, No, after all,
that's something I'd remember. No, no, I dropped down on the sofa right away .
. . and nothing happened. . . . It's incredible how women can all look alike.
Let's go. (He
goes to the door.) . . . Oh, there's that. (He takes out his wallet and
is about to get a bilL)
WHORE (wakes up):
Um . . . Who's here so early? (recognizing him) Hiya, son!
COUNT: Good morning.
Slept well?
WHORE (stretches):
Come here. Little kiss.
COUNT (bends down, thinks better of it, pulls up short): I was
just going …
WHORE: Going?
COUNT: It's time
really.
WHORE: You
want to go like this?
COUNT (almost
embarrassed): Well .
WHORE: So long,
then. Come back and see us.
COUNT: Yes.
Good-bye. Don't you want to shake hands?
(The Whore pulls her
hand from under the blanket and offers it.)
COUNT (takes her hand, mechanically kisses it, catches himself, and
laughs): As if she were a princess! Anyway, if one only…
WHORE: Why do you
look at me like that?
COUNT: If one only
sees the head, as now . . . when they wake up . . . they all look innocent . .
. upon my soul, one really could imagine all sorts of things if the place
didn't reek so of kerosene. .
WHORE: Yes, that lamp's a
pest.
COUNT: How old are you, actually?
WHORE: Well,
what do you think?
COUNT: Twenty-four.
WHORE: Oh,
sure!
COUNT: Older?
WHORE: Nearly twenty.
COUNT: And how long
have you been
WHORE: In the
business? A year.
COUNT: You
did start early.
WHORE: Better too
early than too late.
COUNT (sits
down on her bed): Tell me, are you happy?
WHORE: What?
COUNT: Well,
I mean-how's it going? Well?
IWHORE: Oh, I'm
doing all right.
COUNT: I see . . Tell me, did it ever occur to you to do
something different?
WHORE: What could I
do?
COUNT: Well . . .
you're a pretty girl, after all, you could have a lover, for instance.
WHORE: Think I
don't?
COUNT: I know-but I
mean, one, you know: one lover-who keeps you, so you don't have to go with just
any man.
WHORE: I don't go
with lust any man. I can afford to be choosy, thank goodness.
(The Count looks
round the room.)
WHORE (notices
this): Next month we're moving into town. The Spiegel Gasse.
COUNT: We? Who?
WHORE: Oh,
the madam and a couple of the other girls.
COUNT: There
are others here?
WHORE: In
the next room . . . can't you hear? That's Milli, she was at the café too.
COUNT: Somebody's
snoring.
WHORE: That's
Milli all right! She'll snore all day till ten in the evening, then she'll get
up and go to the cafe.
COUNT: But
that's an appalling sort of life!
WHORE: You
said it. And the madam gets fed up with her. I'm always on the streets at
twelve noon.
COUNT: What
do you do on the streets at twelve noon?
WHORE: What do you
think? I'm on my beat.
COUNT: Oh, yes, I
see . . . Of course . . . (He gets up, again takes out his wallet, and puts
a bill on her bedside table.) Goodbye.
WHORE: Going
already? . . . So long. . . Come again soon. (She turns over on her side.)
COUNT (stops
again): Listen, tell me something. It doesn't mean a thing to you by now?
WHORE: What?
COUNT: I mean, you
don't have fun with it any more?
WHORE (yawns): I'm
sleepy.
COUNT: It's all the
same to you if a man is young or old, or if he
WHORE: What are you
asking all this for?
COUNT: Well . . . (Suddenly
struck by a thought.) Upon my soul, now I know who you remind me of, it's
WHORE: So I look like
somebody, do I?
COUNT: Incredible,
quite incredible-now, I beg you, please don't say a word for at least a minute.
. . . (He stares at her.) exactly the same face, exactly the same face. (He
suddenly kisses her on the eyes.)
WHORE: Hey!
COUNT: Upon my soul,
it's a pity you aren't . . . something else you could make your fortune.
WHORE: You're like
Franz.
COUNT: Who's Franz?
WHORE: Oh, the
waiter at our café.
COUNT: How am I just
like Franz?
WHORE: He always
says I could make my fortune. And I should marry him.
COUNT: Why don't
you?
WHORE: Thank you
very much . . . I don't want no marriage, not for anything. Maybe later.
COUNT: The eyes . .
. exactly the same eyes . . . Lulu'd certainly say I'm a fool-but I'm going to
kiss your eyes once more like this. And now good-bye. God bless you. I'm going.
WHORE: So long.
COUNT (turning at
the door): Listen . . . tell me . . . aren't you a little bit surprised?
WHORE: Why?
COUNT: That I
want nothing from you.
WHORE: There's
a lot of men don't feel like it in the morning.
COUNT: Well,
yes . . . (to himself) It's too silly that I'd like her to be surprised.
. . . Good-bye, then . . . (at the door) Really, it annoys me. I know
such girls are interested in nothing but the money. . . . Now why do I say
"such girls"? . . . At least it's nice that she doesn't pretend, it's
a relief, or should be. .
Listen, I'll come
again soon, you know.
WHORE (with closed eyes): Good.
COUNT: When
are you usually in?
WHORE: I'm
always in. Just ask for Leocadia.
COUNT: Leocadia
. . . Right. Well, good-bye. (at the door) I have not got the wine out
of my head yet. Isn't it the limit . . . I spend the night with one of these .
. . and all I do is to kiss her eyes because she reminds me of someone. . . . (He
turns to her.) Tell me, Leocadia, does it often happen that a man goes away
like this?
WHORE: Like
what?
COUNT: Like me.
WHORE: In the
morning?
COUNT: No . . .1
mean, has it occasionally happened that a man was with you-and didn't want
anything?
WHORE: No, that's
never happened.
COUNT: Well, what do
you think is the matter? Do you think I don't like you?
WHORE: Why shouldn't
you like me? Last night you liked me all right.
COUNT: I like you
now too.
WHORE: Last night
you liked me better.
COUNT: What makes
you think so?
WHORE: Don't talk
silly.
COUNT: Last night .
. . Tell me, didn't I drop down on the sofa right away?
WHORE: Sure you did-with me.
COUNT: With you?
WHORE: Sure-you
don't remember?
COUNT: I . . .
we. well .
WHORE: But you went
right off to sleep after.
COUNT: I went right off .
. I see . . So that's how it was!
WHORE: Yes, son. You must've been good and
drunk if you can't
remember.
COUNT: I see . . .
All the same, there is a faint resemblance . Good-bye . . (He listens.) What's going on?
WHORE: The
chambermaid's started work. Look, give her something as you go out. The front
door's open, so you save on the janitor.
COUNT: Right. (in
the entrance hall) So . . . it would have been beautiful if I'd only kissed
her eyes. It would almost have been an adventure. . . . Well, I suppose it
wasn't to be!
(The Chambermaid
stands by the door and opens it for
him.) Oh . . . here . . .
Good night!
CHAMBERMAID: Good morning!
COUNT: Oh, of course. . .
Good morning. . . Good morning! (Curtain.)
Translated by Eric Bentley