the bottle. You see, with my work on the wire, it was impossible
Jenny. I brought up all seven of mine on the bottle. An artist can do nothing else nowadays, with all the demands on her time. The first thing you know, they take everything.
Lelia. What did Mr. Jacob say?
Jenny. He didn't like my knitting here—a little jacket for my Alex.
Lelia. Last night he told me this hat wasn't presentable—a hat that cost me fifteen francs in Paris the year of the Exposition. This is no place for artists, for decent people.
Tobacco. This isn't a circus. After a man has worked at Rentz's in Vienna, at Wulf's in Berlin, or the Corradine in Rome—those are dignified establishments. There an artist is an artist.
Lelia. It used to be so, Mr. Tobacco, but now they are all the same. All you need is a machine; then you turn on the current, and you have an artist. The result is the real artists are obliged to work for nothing, I think my husband is a genius as a contortionist.
Tobacco. You could not go further than that.
Lelia. And on the wire, without vanity, I go myself as far as anybody—I go farther. I stand on my head with a pirouette and a double flimflam; I am the only woman in Europe who dares to do it.
Tobacco. Nothing finer could be asked.
Jenny. The second part!…
Lelia. Are you coming in to see the show?
Jenny. Yes, my husband wants to look the Russian over. He's got to pick up a few new tricks.
Lelia. No! Is it possible, Mr. Tobacco? You are joking.
Tobacco. Mr. Jacob thinks that Russian is funny. Ha, ha!
