I should need a year to take leave of everything in my thoughts. I don’t want to cry again. I am so happy that I can look back without bitterness. How many lovely evenings I have spent with Melchior!--under the river willows, at the forester’s hut, on the highroad out there where the five lindens stand, up on castle hill among the peaceful ruins of Runenburg---- When the hour has come, I shall think with all my might of whipped cream. Whipped cream doesn’t sustain you, but it’s filling and leaves a pleasant taste.... And I had thought mankind was infinitely worse. I haven’t found a soul that wouldn’t have wanted to do his best; and many a one I have pitied on my account. I pass to the altar like the youth in ancient Etruria whose dying rattle buys his brothers’ prosperity through the coming year.--One by one I go through all the mysterious shudders of deliverance. I gulp with sorrow at my fate.--Life has given me the cold shoulder. From up there I see grave, friendly looks beckon me: the headless queen, the headless queen--sympathy with soft arms awaiting me.... Your tenders are for children; I carry my free pass within myself. Sinks the shell, off sails the butterfly: the dream besets us no more.--You should play no mad games with the fraud! The mist dissolves: life is a matter of taste. [_His shoulder is suddenly grabbed from behind by_ ILSE.] ILSE--[_In torn clothes, a gay kerchief round her head._] What have you lost? MORITZ--[_Starting to his feet._] Ilse! ILSE--What are you looking for here? MORITZ--What d’you frighten me so for? ILSE--What is it? What have you lost? MORITZ--But why did you startle me so awfully? ILSE--I’ve just come from the city.--I’m going home. MORITZ--I don’t know, what I’ve lost. ILSE--Then it’s no good your looking. [MORITZ _swears_.] It’s four days since I was home. MORITZ--Sneaking like a cat! ILSE--That’s ’cause I’ve got my dancing-slippers on.--Mother =will= make eyes!--Come along to the house with me! MORITZ--Where have you been bumming around again? ILSE--In =Priapia=! MORITZ--Priapia? ILSE--At Nohl’s, at Fehrendorf’s, at Padinsky’s,--with Lenz, Rank, Spühler,--with everybody you can think of!--Kling, kling,--=she= will jump! MORITZ--Are they painting you? ILSE--Fehrendorf’s painting me as St. Stylites, standing on a Corinthian capital. Fehrendorf, I must tell you, is a mess.[3] Last time I stepped on one of his tubes. Squashed it. He wipes his brush on my hair. I give him one on the ear. He throws his palette at my head. I knock the easel over. He gets after me with the maulstick over couch and tables and chairs, all round the studio. Behind the stove lay a sketch! Be good, or I’ll tear it!--He swore amnesty, and then for a finishing touch he kissed me--kissed me, oh, something terrible! MORITZ--Where do you spend the night when you stay in town?