SCHÖN.

SCHWARZ. As they're generally made. An ancient, tottering little man drops in on me here to know if I can paint his wife. Why, of course, were she as wrinkled as Mother Earth! Next day at ten prompt the doors fly open, and the fat-belly drives this little beauty in before him. I can feel even now how my knees shook. Then comes a sap-green lackey, stiff as a ramrod, with a package under his arm. Where is the dressing-room? Imagine my plight. I open the door there (pointing left). Just luck that everything was in order. The sweet thing vanishes into it, and the old fellow posts himself outside as a bastion. Two minutes later out she steps in this Pierrot. (Shaking his head.) I never saw anything like it. (He goes left and stares in at the bedroom.)

SCHWARZ.

SCHÖN. (Who has followed him with his eyes.) And the fat-belly stands guard?

SCHÖN.

SCHWARZ. (Turning round.) The whole body in harmony with that impossible costume as if it had come into the world in it! Her way of burying her elbows in her pockets, of lifting her little feet from the rug,—the blood often shoots to my head....

SCHWARZ.

SCHÖN. One can see that in the picture.

SCHÖN.

SCHWARZ. (Shaking his head.) People like us, you know—

SCHWARZ.

SCHÖN. Here the model is mistress of the conversation.

SCHÖN.

SCHWARZ. She has never yet opened her mouth.

SCHWARZ.

SCHÖN. Is it possible?

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