Margaret. Yes, indeed you did. Oh, Clement, Clement ...! (She embraces him.)
Clement. What are you laughing at?
Margaret. Oh, a thought struck me ...
Clement. Well ...?
Margaret. "So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck ..."
Clement (annoyed). I don't know why you always have to spoil a fellow's illusions!
Margaret. Tell me honestly, Clement—wouldn't you be proud if your girl—if your wife—were a great, famous authoress?
Clement. I've told you already what I think. You may call me narrow if you like, but I assure you that if you began writing poems again, or, even more, having them printed, in which you gushed about me or told the world all about our happiness, there'd be an end of the marriage—I should be up and off.
Margaret. And you say that—you, a man who has had a dozen notorious affairs!
Clement. Notorious or not, my dear, I never told anybody about them; I never rushed into print when a girl hung, drunk with bliss, about my neck, so that anybody could buy it for a gulden and a half. That's the thing, you see. I know that there are people who get their living that way—but I don't consider it the thing to do. I tell you it seems worse to me than for a girl to show herself off in tights as a Greek statue at the Ronacher. At least she keeps her mouth shut—but the things that one of your poets blabs out, well, they're past a joke!