The Hungarian Quarterly 7. (1941)
1941 / 1. szám - Eugene Heltai: The Farthing
IO* 147 THE FARTHING Poet : For five years 1 did everything I could... Irene : You did nothing. You were mean and wanted me for nothing. Poet : I could not guess that you wanted money. Irene : Money ! What did I care for your money ! It was your love I was after. You wanted me to be yours but you would not be mine. You wanted everything and would give nothing — you were careful of your reputation, your dignity, your wife's feelings — you feared a scandal and feared to trust me. You treated me as a strumpet even before you knew whether or not I was one. You never deserved me. Poet : And those others — the dozen I knew of and all 1 did not know of — did they deserve you ? Irene : Each of them gave me something... Poet : Money, jewels, cars, furs, flowers, chocolates . . . Irene: No — love. Words of comfort when I was sad. Tenderness, foolish rhapsodies. One implored, another threatened, a third bullied, a fourth employed cunning devices, a fifth entertained me ... Each and all came out of himself, betrayed that he wanted me desperately, uncontrolb ably. You alone were cautious, superior and cold as marble. I shivered when I was near you. Poet : And all the time I was suffering tortures. Irene: You did not let me see it. Never for a moment did you lose your head; you only wanted to make me lose mine, so that you could study me, watch me, dissect me. You noted my words, my jests, the play of my eyelashes for use in your novels and plays. It was ink, not your heart's blood that you spilt for me. Ass ! Poet : Come here. Irene : What for ? Poet : So that I can strangle you. Irene (laughing): Too late. You ought to have done it before. Poet : If you would come here and kiss me once — for the last time. Irene : You would not feel my kiss, any more than I should feel it if you strangled me. Poet:Why not?