Marg. Since when have you learned the trick?
Gil. What do you mean?
Marg. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events.
Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel.
Marg. But the opinion of an authority was—
Gil. Pray, who's an authority?
Marg. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the "Algemeine"—
Gil. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once.
Marg. You—
Gil. In effigy— But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"—these were your very words—"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker.
Marg. Please do not shout. My housekeeper—
Gil. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.
Marg. What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.
Gil. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism.
Marg. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me.
Gil. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful women.
Marg. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? What about your own estimate—
Gil. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together.
Marg. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them?
Gil. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are addressed to me.
Marg. Never!
Gil. What! Do you mean to deny that they are addressed to me? This is monstrous!
Marg. No. They are not addressed to you.
Gil. I am dumbfounded. I shall remind you of the situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth?
Marg. They were inscribed to an Ideal—[Gilbert points to himself]—whose representative on earth you happened to be.
Gil. Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do you know what the French would say in a case like that? "C'est de la littérature!"
Marg. [mimicking him]. Ce n'est pas de la littérature! Now, that's the truth, the honest truth! Or do you really fancy that by the "slim boy" I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned belonged to you? At that time you were fat and your hair was never curly. [Runs her fingers through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity to capture her hand and kiss it.] What an idea!
Gil. At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take every sort of license for the sake of the rhythm. Didn't I once apostrophise you in a sonnet as "my canny lass"? In point of fact, you were neither—no, I don't want to be unfair—you were canny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. Well, I suppose I really oughtn't to wonder at you. You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! you've attained your end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart-trifler—Marlitt could not have invented him more revolting than he actually is. Yes, what more can you wish? Whether he will satisfy you—who are acquainted with something nobler—is, of course, another question. I can only say that, in my view, you are degenerate in love.
Marg. That must have struck you on the train.
Gil. Not at all. It struck me this very moment.
Marg. Make a note of it then; it's an apt phrase.
Gil. I've another quite as apt. Formerly you were a woman; now you're a "sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and filthy passion—
Marg. Stop! You have a motive—
Gil. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul.
Marg. Except now and then.
Gil. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever had.
Marg. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole year I—
Gil. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.
Marg. Indeed!
Gil. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were beginning to drift away from me, when homesickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de l'écurie—at that moment I was done with you.
Marg. Impossible.
Gil. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, unconsciously you knew—
Marg. Please don't get so hot.
Gil. [unruffled]. That our day was over. Our relations had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.
Marg. I do!
Gil. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference between the artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison means nothing more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But I have made it over into a work of art.
Marg. So have I!
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—for all time.
Gil. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of "for all time" before the appearance of the second edition.
Marg. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different things.
Gil.
