What? How so? I'm afraid I don't understand. Well, and if they were? Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can you hint at such a thing! I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be altogether one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that junto—the Russian girl, for instance, who because of her close-cropped hair gave the appearance of a student—except that she did not wear a cap—No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the fellow with the Polish name—Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. He read something at the café while I was there, without putting himself out the least bit. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the café. And then that yokel, that insufferable—Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us was present? I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down. I thought I noticed that, too. Comical—is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmillian—I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common—and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest. And, then, both must have been Jews? Oh, simply because they always jested in such a way. And their enunciation. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret having made the acquaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the weave of our life experience. But I can't help thinking that I must have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time. What are you laughing at? Please! Must you always shatter my illusions? I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise you that if you begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you paint your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our love—it's all up with our wedding, and off I go. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh-colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better? What sort of an expression is that? Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past. What? What is it? Why? What have you written now? A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have dragged me down—down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it had to come out at last. Künigel is immensely taken with it. Who's Künigel? Then it's been read already. You're mistaken, my dear. I think—but, tell me, what's it about? My compliments! Margaret, do you love me? Well, let me have the book. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire. I make that request. I have a right to make it. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible? What! Printed? Margaret, you did all that without a word to me—? My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke. Adieu, Margaret. As you see. I can't say just now. Adieu. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right? Ah, indeed. Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled? H'm. That's good to know. Naturally. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman! Indeed. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady. Oh! But—Margaret. But, Margaret. It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Künigel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you? Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read. Yes. Yours, my love. I wheedled an advance copy from Künigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. Margaret, what have you done? Now, do you believe that I love you!

Clem Monologue from Literature

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