There were usually one or two introspective moments after he had gone, slowly running her fingers through her hair, drifting back to the dressing-table mirror. In a way she had chosen this apartment for its mirrors, stratigically placed to keep her in touch with her body. Sometimes she would spend as much as an hour examining the tracks of her lovers' fingers, retracing a slight discoloration from a satisfying night; and although she would soon become concerned about her age, the initial theme of these middle years still revolved around youth and beauty . . .

These were her halcyon days— solitary mornings in the Tiergarten, blue evenings along the Landwehr Canal. Apart from Kierpert she had only a few casual friends: poets and musicians from the Romanische Cafe, one or two women from the neighborhood. The composer Jules Massenet met her briefly here in order to discuss a collaborative ballet, as did a choreographer named Chassieux. There was, however, no sign of Rudolph Spangler, regardless of later accusations.

She said she had come to Berlin to rehearse for a midwinter debut in Vienna. A parlor had been converted to a studio, a pianist had been engaged in the late afternoon. In a photograph, presumably taken by Kierpert, she appears in a gossamer veil. Her fingers are laced high above her head. Her arms and legs are dark in contrast to silver bangles.

In all she would spend four weeks dancing in Vienna, competing for attention with Maud Allen and Isadora Duncan. Newspapers described her as slender and tall, with the flexible grace of an animal. Heated debates arose concerning the question of nudity on stage. Her leisure time was mainly spent with Kierpert, and like others who would find themselves in tow with her, his public role was almost subservient. He was often seen waiting in the wings or fetching champagne while she talked with adoring fans. She knew how to please, and to inflame. One went along or one didn't.

Inevitably there were quarrels, mostly over the dozens of young men who appeared after every performance. The pattern would be a dull exchange in a cluttered suite of the Bristol Hotel, clothing flung over furniture, plates of congealing hors d'oeuvres on a trolley.

"Perhaps you should tell me about him," Kierpert would begin. "Tell you about whom, darling?" Without turning from a window or laying down her hairbrush. "That little Pole." "Which Pole is that?"

"The one you were talking to all evening . . . talking to, while ignoring me."

"But, darling, he wasn't anyone of importance. Really he wasn't."

"But you made him feel important, Margaretha. That's the trouble. You make them all feel important." Then pouring a drink or lighting a cigarette and sagging to a chair: "I will not tolerate this anymore, Margaretha. I simply will not tolerate this."