style="font-size:15px;"> Come to your chamber to fetch me a salve,An ointment for my wounded hand—
What would—
What had you done, intended, meant to do?
Dianora [looks at him, as though distraught, does not understand his latest question. Her right hand presses her forehead—with the left she shakes the ladder before his face, lets it fall at his feet, one end remains tied, shrieks].
What had I done? What had I done, you ask?
Why, waited thus—I would have waited—
[She sways her open arms before him like one intoxicated, throws herself around, with the upper part of her body over the balustrade, stretches her arms towards the ground—her hair falls over them.]
Braccio [with a hurried gesture tears off a piece of his sleeve and winds it around his right hand. With the sureness of a wild animal on the hunt, he grasps the ladder that is lying there, like a thin, dark rope, with both hands, makes a loop, throws it over his wife's head and pulls her body towards him.]
[During this time the curtain falls.]
LITERATURE
A Comedy
By Arthur Schnitzler
Translated by Pierre Loving.
Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.
| PERSONS |
| Margaret. Clement. Gilbert. |
Literature is reprinted from "Comedies of Words" by Arthur Schnitzler, by
permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.
LITERATURE
A Comedy
By Arthur Schnitzler
[Scene: Moderately well, but quite inexpensively furnished apartments occupied by Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a small escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two windows in the back, entrances left and right.
As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He is smoking a cigarette and perusing a newspaper. Margaret is standing at the window. She walks back and forth, finally goes up directly behind Clement, and playfully musses his hair. Evidently she has something troublesome on her mind.]
Clem. [reading, seizes her hand and kisses it]. Horner's certain about his pick and doubly certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barometer twenty-one to one; Busserl seven to one; Attila sixteen to one.
Marg. Sixteen to one!
Clem. Lord Byron one and one-half to one—that's us, my dear.
Marg. I know.
Clem. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap.
Marg. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean "runaway."
Clem. Not quite—but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava?
Marg. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord Byron yourself?
Clem. How absurd to ask! You forget, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You may stake all you've got on that.
Marg. I'm well aware of that. You are so handsome when you mount a horse—honest and truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never forget that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaintance—
Clem. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time—never! You know, of course, it is decided; we leave town the same day.
Marg. Same evening, you mean.
Clem. If you will—but why?
Marg. Because it's been arranged we're to be married in the morning, hasn't it?
Clem. Quite so.
Marg. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon?
Clem. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? On the estate.
Marg. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we going to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit?
Clem. AS for that, it all depends on the Handicap. If we win—
Marg. Surest thing!
Clem. And besides, in April the Riviera's not at all good ton.
Marg. Is that your reason?
Clem. Of course it is, my love. In your former way of life, there were so few opportunities for your getting a clear idea of fashion—Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must admit, really had its origin in the comic journals.
Marg. Clem, please!
Clem. Well, well. We'll see. [Continues reading.] Badegast fifteen to one—
Marg. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a show for him!
Clem. Where did you get that information?
Marg. Szigrati himself gave me a tip.
Clem. Where—and when?
Marg. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, while you were talking with Milner.
Clem. Now, look here; Szigrati isn't fit company for you.
Marg. Jealous?
Clem. Not at all. Moreover, let it be understood that from now on I shall introduce you everywhere as my fiancée. [Margaret kisses him.]
Clem. Now, what did Szigrati say?
Marg. That he's not going to enter Badegast in the Handicap at all.
Clem.
