POET: There, my darling. [Kisses her.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: [Wearing a hat and coat.] Oh! How lovely it is here! Only one can't see a thing!
POET: Your eyes'll have to get used to the semi-darkness. Those sweet eyes-- [Kisses her eyes.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: These sweet eyes won't have time to do that, though.
POET: Why not?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Because I'm only going to stay a minute.
POET: But you'll take your hat off, won't you?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Just for a minute?
POET: [Takes the pin from her hat and puts aside hat.] And the cloak--
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What's the point? I have to go right away again.
POET: But you must rest a little! We've been walking for three hours.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: We've been driving.
POET: Yes, on the way home--but we tramped around Weidling for three whole hours. So do sit down, my dear . . . wherever you want; here at the desk; no, that's not comfortable. Sit on the sofa. --There-- [Pushes her down.] And if you're very tired you can lie down. There-- [He stretches her out.] And now put your little head on the pillow.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: [Laughing.] But I'm not in the least tired!
POET: You think you're not. There--and if you get sleepy, just go ahead and sleep. I'll stay very quiet. I can play you a lullaby, too . . . of my own . . . [Goes to piano.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Your own?
POET: Yes.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: I thought you were a doctor, Robert.
POET: Why? I told you I was a writer.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: But all the writers are doctors.
POET: No; not all. I'm not, for instance. But what made you think of that now?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well, because you said that the piece you're playing was your own.
POET: Well--maybe it isn't mine. What difference does it make? Who cares who wrote it? It's enough that it's beautiful--isn't it?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Certainly. Just so it's beautiful--that's the chief thing.
POET: Do you know what I meant?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Meant what?
POET: What I just said.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: [Sleepily.] Of course I did.
POET: [Stands up, goes to her, strokes her hair.] You didn't understand a word.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, go on, I'm not as stupid as all that.
POET: Certainly you're that stupid. But that's just why I like you. Ah, it's so delightful when you women are stupid--the way you are, I mean.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Hey, stop being insulting!
POET: Angel child! It feels good to lie on a soft Persian rug, doesn't it?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, yes. Go on, play some more piano, won't you?
POET: No, I'd rather stay here with you. [Strokes her.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: How about letting a little more light in?
POET: Oh, no . . . This twilight is soothing. We've been practically bathed in sunlight the whole day. Now, having emerged from our bath we're throwing the mantle of twilight over ourselves . . . [Laughs.] . . . Ah, no--that should be said another way . . . Don't you think so?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Don't know.
POET: [Drawing away from her slightly.] Divine stupidity! [Takes out a notebook and scribbles a few words in it.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What are you doing? [Turning towards him.] What are you writing?
POET: Sun, bath, twilight, cloak . . . there . . . [Puts back the notebook. Then, aloud.] Nothing . . . Now tell me, my sweet, wouldn't you like something to eat or drink?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: I'm not at all thirsty, but I am hungry.
POET: Hmmm . . . I'd rather you were thirsty. I have some Cognac in the house, but Id have to go out to get food.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Can't someone get it for you?
POET: That's difficult, my servant isn't here just now--but wait--I'll go myself. What would you like?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: But it's really hardly worthwhile, I have to go home, anyway.
POET: Child, there's no thought of that. But I'll tell you something; when we leave here we'll go somewhere for supper.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, no. I haven't time for that. Where would we go anyway. Some friend might see us.
POET: Have you so many friends?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well, one is enough to get us into trouble.
POET: What kind of trouble?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well, suppose my mother heard about it . . .
POET: But we can go somewhere where no one'll see us, there are restaurants with private rooms.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: [Chanting.] Yes, supper in a private room!
POET: Have you ever been in a private room?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: To tell the truth--yes.
POET: Who was the lucky fellow?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, not the way you think . . . I was with a girl friend and her fiancé. They took me along.
POET: I see. I'm supposed to believe that!
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: You don't have to believe it!
POET: [Close to her.] Did you blush just now? One can't see a thing, it's so dark. I can't even distinguish your features. [Touches her cheek with his hand.] But I can identify you this way just as well.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well, see that you don't mistake me for somebody else.
POET: It's strange, I can't remember anymore what you look like.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Thank you kindly!
POET: [Serious.] No, really, it's uncanny, I simply can't visualize you. In a certain sense I've forgotten you already.-- If I were to forget the sound of your voice too . . . what would you be then?--Near and far at the same time . . . uncanny.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What are you raving about?
POET: Nothing, angel, nothing. Where are your lips? . . . [Kisses her.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Hadn't you better turn on the lights?
POET: No. [Growing very affectionate.] Tell me, do you love me?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, a lot . . . a lot!
POET: Have you ever loved anyone as much as me?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: I've already told you, no.
POET: But . . . [Sighs.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: He was my fiancé.
POET: I wish you wouldn't think about him now.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Say . . . what are you doing . . . see here . . .
POET: Let's imagine now that we're in some place in Inda.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: They wouldn't be as wicked as you, there.
POET: How idiotic! Divine--ah, if you only realized what you mean to me . . .
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well?
POET: Stop pushing me away all the time; I'm not doing anything to you--yet.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: My corset hurts me.
POET: [Simply.] Take it off.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Yes. But you mustn't be naughty because I do.
POET: No. [SWEET YOUNG GIRL stands up, takes off corset in darkness. POET remains on the sofa.] By the way, haven't you any desire at all to know my name?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Yes, what is it?
POET: I'd rather not tell you my name. I'll tell you what I call myself, instead.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What's the difference?
POET: Well, what I call myself professionally--as a writer.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, you don't write under your real name? [POET comes close to her.] Now don't! . . . go away!
POET: What fragrance emanates from your body. How sweet . . . [Kisses her breast.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: You're tearing my chemise.
POET: Away . . . away with all these inessentials.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: But, Robert . . . !
POET: And now let's go to our Indian palace.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: First tell me that you really love me.
POET: But I adore you-- [Kisses her passionately.] -- I worship you, my treasure, my springtime . . . my . . .
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Robert . . . Robert . . . !
* * *
POET: That was transcendental bliss . . . I'm called . . .
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Robert, my Robert!
POET: I'm called Biebitz.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Why are you called Biebitz?
POET: Biebitz isn't my name--I'm just called Biebitz . . . Well, don't you know the name?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: No.
POET: You haven't heard the name Biebitz? Ah--divine! Really? You're only pretending you don't know it, aren't you?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Honest to God, I've never heard of it!
POET: Don't you ever go to the theatre?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, yes--I went just the other night--with my girl friend and her uncle--we went to the opera to hear Cavalleria.
POET: Hmmm, so you never go to the Royal Theatre?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Nobody ever sends me tickets for that.
POET: I'll send you a ticket.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, lovely! But don't forget! And send one for something funny.
POET: Oh . . . funny . . . you don't want to see something sad?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Not very much.
POET: Even if it's a play I wrote?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: A play you wrote? You write for the theatre?
POET: Excuse me, but I want to light up. I haven't seen you since you've been my sweetheart. Angel! [Lights a candle.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, lord, I feel so ashamed. At least give me a cover.
POET: Later! [Approaches her with the candle, surveys her at length.]
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: [Covering her face with her hands.] Now don't, Robert!
POET: You are beautiful, you are beauty itself, you are Nature, you are holy simplicity.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Ouch, you're dripping that candle on me! Look out, can't you?
POET: [Putting aside the candle.] You are what I've been searching for a long time. You love me, and me alone--you'd love me if I were only a dry-goods clerk. That's a wonderful feeling. I confess that I've been harboring a certain doubt up to this moment. Tell me honestly, didn't you suspect that I was Biebitz?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, heavens, what are you driving at, anyway? I don't know any Biebitz.
POET: Such is fame! No, forget what I told you, forget the name I told you too. I'm Robert to you and always will be. I was only joking. [Lightly.] I'm not a playwright at all, I'm a salesman, and I play the piano for choral societies at night.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Now I can't make you out at all . . . and my goodness, the way you stare at me. What's the matter, anyway, what's wrong?
POET: It's so extraordinary--something that's hardly ever happened to me before, my sweet--the tears are coming to my eyes. You move me deeply. We'll stay together, won't we? We'll love each other very much.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Say, is that true about the choral societies?
POET: Yes, but don't ask anymore. If you love me, stop asking questions. Tell me, can you manage to make yourself free for a few weeks?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What do you mean, free?
POET: Well, away from home.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What an idea! How could I do that? What would mother say? And then, if I weren't there everything would go wrong at home.
POET: I'd imagined it all so beautifully, we two together, going off somewhere in the great solitude, into the forest, into Nature, to live for a few weeks. Nature . . . into Nature. And then, one day, Adieu--to part from each other, without knowing where we will go.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Now you're talking of saying goodbye already! And I thought you liked me so much.
POET: That's just why-- [Bends over her and kisses her brow.] You adorable creature!
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Come, hold me tight, I'm so cold.
POET: I suppose it's time for you to get dressed. Wait, I'll light a few more candles.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Don't look.
POET: No. [At the window.] Tell me, my child, are you happy?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: How do you mean?
POET: I mean, do you lead a happy life?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: It could be better.
POET: You misunderstand me. You've told me enough about your domestic circumstances. I know that you're no princess. I mean, putting material things aside--just feeling yourself alive. As a matter of fact, do you feel yourself actually living?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Say, haven't you any comb?
POET: [Goes to dressing-table, gives her comb, gazes at her.] God in heaven, how enchanting you look!
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Now . . . don't!
POET: Please, stay a while longer, stay here, I'll get something for supper and . . .
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: But it's much too late now.
POET: It isn't nine yet.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: No, please, I've got to run along.
POET: When will we see each other again?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Well, when do you want to see me?
POET: Tomorrow.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: What day is tomorrow?
POET: Saturday.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Oh, I can't then. I have to take my little sister to her godfather.
POET: Alright then, Sunday . . . hmmm . . . on Sunday . . . let me explain something to you--I'm not Biebitz, but Biebitz is a friend of mine. I'll introduce him to you sometime. Well, on Sunday Biebitz's play is being given. I'll send you a ticket and then I'll pick you up at the theatre afterwards. You'll tell me how you liked the play, won't you?
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: Honest, this Biebitz business--I'm all mixed up now.
POET: I won't really know you until I've found out how you reacted towards this play.
SWEET YOUNG GIRL: There . . . I'm ready now.
POET: Let's go, my love! [They leave.]
