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A NATOL : A SEQUENCE OF
/-% DIALOGUES BY ARTHUR
^ ^SCHNITZLER; PARAPHRASED
FOR THE ENGLISH STAGE BY
GRANVILLE BARKER
m
NEW YORK: MITCHELL KENNERLEY
MCMXI
Copyright l^ii by
Mitchell Kennerley
Prtti of J. J. Little & Ives Co., New York
TT seems that in a faithful translation the
peculiar charm of these dialogues will
disappear. To recreate it exactly in Eng-
lish one must be another Schnitzler: which,
is absurd. This is the only excuse I can
offer for my paraphrase.
H. G. B.
8702{)S
>•
Anatol
PAGE
1 Ask no Questions and You'll Hear no Stories i
2 A Christmas Present 19
3 An Episode 33
4 Keepsakes 51
5 A Farewell Supper 63
6 Dying Pangs 83
7 The Wedding Morning 99
ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL
HEAR NO STORIES
xc
V ^^
„\^^
ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL
HEAR NO STORIES
ANATOii, an idle young bachelor, lives in a charmi/ng
■flat in Vienna. That he has taste, besides means
to indulge it^ may be seen by his rooms, the furni-
ture he buys, the pictures he hangs on the walls.
And if such things indicate character, one would
judge, first by the material comfort of the place
and then by the impatience for new ideas which
his sense of what is beautiful to live with seems
to show, that though a hedonist, he is sceptical of
even that easy faith. Towards dusk one after-
noon he comes home bringing with him his friend
MAX. They reach the sitting-room^ talking . . .
MAX. Well, Anatol, I envy you.
ANATOL. My dear Max!
MAX. Perfectly astonishing. I've always said it
was all tricks. But he went off to sleep under my
very eyes . . . and then he danced when you told him
he was a ballet dancer and cried when you said his
sweetheart was dead . . . and he sentenced that crimi-
nal very soundly when you'd made him a judge.
ANATOL,. Didn't he?
MAX. It's wizardry !
ANATOL. We can all be wizards to some extent.
3
ANATOL
MAX. Perfectly uncanny.
ANATOL. Not more so than much else in life . . . not
more uncanny than lots we've been finding out the
last hundred years. If you'd suddenly proved to one
of our ancestors that the world went round, he'd
have turned giddy.
MAX. But this seems super- natural.
ANATOL. So must anything strange. What would
a man think if he'd never seen a sunrise before, or
watched the spring arrive . . . the trees and the
flowers . . . and then felt himself falling in love.
MAX. Mesmerism . . .
ANATOL. Hypnotism.
MAX. Yes . . . I'll take cart no one ever does It to
me.
ANATOL. Where's the harm? I tell you to go to
sleep. You settle down comfortably ... off you go . . .
MAX. Then you tell me I'm a chimney-sweep, and
up the chimney I go and get all over soot.
ANATOL. But, you kuow, it has great scientific
possibilities. We're hardly on the threshold of them
yet . . . worse luck.
MAX. Why worse luck?
ANATOL. I could make what I liked of the world
for that fellow an hour ago. Can I shift it a jot from
what It damnably is for myself?
MAX. Can't you?
ANATOL. Haven't I tried? I've stared and stared
at this ring of mine, saying Sleep . . . and then wake
with this little wretch that's driving you mad, gone
clean from your mind.
4
ASK NO QUESTIONS
MAX. Still the same little wretch?
ANATOL,. Of course. I'm damned wretched,
MAX. And still suspecting her.?
ANATOL. Not a bit of it. I know perfectly well
that she's untrue to me. She puts her arms round
m}'' neck and kisses me, and we're happy. But all
the time ... as sure as she's standing there ... I
know that she's . . .
MAX. Oh, nonsense!
ANATOL. Is it!
MAX. Then how do you know.?
ANATOL. When I feel a thing as I feel this ... it
must be true.
MAX. That's unarguable, anyhow.
ANATOL. Besides, girls of this sort always are un-
faithful. It comes naturally to them . . . it's a sort of
instinct. Just as I have two or three books that I
read at a time, they must keep two or three men
hanging around.
MAX. But doesn't she love you?
ANATOL. What difference does that make?
MAX. Who's the other man?
ANATOL. How do I kuow ? Somc one has seen her
in the shop. Some one has made eyes at her in the
train going home.
MAX. Rubbish!
ANATOL. Why? All she wants is to have a good
time without thinking about it. I ask her if she
loves me. She says Yes . . . and it's perfectly true.
Then . . . Am I the only man she loves ? She says
5
ANATOL
Yes again . . . and that's true, too, for the time being.
For the time being she's forgotten the other fellow.
Besides . . . what else can a woman say.'' She can't
tell you. . . . No, my darling, the very moment your
back is turned . . . ! Still ... I wish I knew for
certain.
MAX. My dear Anatol, if she really loves you . . .
ANATOL. Oh, innocent ! I ask you what has that
to do with it?
MAX. A great deal, I should hope.
ANATOL. Then why am I not true to her.'' I really
love her, don't I.''
MAX. You're a man.
ANATOL. Thank you ... it only needed that ! Of
course ... we are men and women are different. Some !
If their mammas lock them up or if they're little
fishes. Otherwise, my dear Max, women and men are
very much alike . . . especially women. And if I swear
to one of them that she's the only woman I love, is
that lying to her... just because the night before
I've been saying the same thing to another.''
MAX. Well . . . speak for yourself.
ANATOL. Cold-blooded, correct gentleman ! I'm
afraid dear Hilda's rather less like you than she is
like me. Perhaps she isn't . . . but perhaps she is.
I'd give a lot to know. I might go on my knees
and swear I'd forgiven her already . . . but she'd
lie to me just the same. Haven't I been begged
with tears a dozen times . . . for God's sake to tell
them if I'm true. They won't say an angry word if
I'm not . . . only tell them. Then I've lied . . . calmly
6
ASK NO QUESTIONS
and cheerfully. And quite right too. Why should
I make poor women wretched.'' They've believed in
me and been happy.
MAX. Very well, then . . .
ANATOL. But I don't believe in her and I'm not
happy. Oh ... if some one could invent a way to
make these dear damnable little creatures speak the
truth !
MAX. What about your hypnotism.''
ANATOL. My ....''
MAX. Put her to sleep and draw it like a tooth.
ANATOii. I could.
MAX. What an opportunity.
ANATOL. Isn't it.''
MAX. Does she love you ... or who else is it.''
Where's she just been . . . where's she going.'' What's
his name . . . ?
ANATOL. Oh, if I knew that!
MAX. But you've only to ask her . . .
ANATOL. And she must answer.
MAX. You lucky fellow !
ANATOL. Yes ... I am. It'll be my own fault if
I worry any more, won't it.f^ She's under my thumb
now, isn't she.''
MAX. I say . . . I'm curious to know.
ANATOL. Why . . . d'you think she's not straight.''
MAX. Oh . . . may nobody think it but you ?
ANATOL. No, nobody may. When you've just
found your wife in another man's arms and an old
friend meets you and says Poor fellow, I'm afraid
Madame isn't all that she should be . . . d'you clasp
7
ANATOL
his hand gratefully and tell him he's quite right?
No . . . you knock him down.
MAX. Yes . . . the principal task of friendship is to
foster one's friend's illusions.
ANATOL. hears something.
ANATOL. Tsch!
MAX. What.?
ANATOL. How well I kuow the sound of her!
MAX. I don't . . .
ANATOL. In the hall. Here she is. Well . . .
Hilda.?
He opens the door to find her coming in. A
personable young woman.
HILDA. Dearest ! Oh . . . somebody with you.
ANATOL. Only Max.
HILDA. How are you? All in the dark!
ANATOL. I like the gloaming.
HILDA. Romantic darling.
ANATOL. Dearest.
HILDA. But don't let's have any more of it. You
don't mind, do you?
She turns up the lights and then takes off her
hat and things, and rnakes herself quite at
home.
ANATOL [under his breath^. Isn't she . . .? {praise
fails him).
MAX [with a shade of irony^. She is !
HILDA. Had a nice long talk?
ANATOL. Half-an-hour.
HILDA. What about?
ANATOL. All sorts of things.
8
ASK NO QUESTIONS
MAX. Hypnotism.
HILDA. You're all going mad about that.
ANATOL. Yes . . .
HILDA. Anatol, why don't you hypnotise me
some time.''
ANATOL is staggered at the sudden opportunity.
ANATOL. D'you mean it?
HILDA. Rather! Awfully jolly if you'd do it,
darling.
ANATOL. Much obliged.
HILDA. Not any strange person messing about of
course.
ANATOL. Very well . . . I'll hypnotise you.
HILDA. When?
ANATOL. Now.
HILDA. Will you ? Oh, how nice ! What do I do ?
ANATOL. Sit in that chair and go to sleep.
HILDA. That all?
He settles her on a chair, and, taking another,
settles himself opposite, max is discreet in
the background.
ANATOL. You must look at me . . . straight at me.
And then I stroke your forehead . . . and then over
your eyes . . . like this.
HILDA. What else?
ANATOL. Let yourself go.
She sits limply with her eyes shut.
HILDA. When you stroke me like that ... it makes
me feel funny all over.
ANATOL. Don't talk ... go to sleep. You are
rather sleepy.
9
ANATOL
HILDA. No, I'm not.
ANATOL,. Just a little.
HILDA [in tune with /jfm]. Yes . . . just a little.
ANATOL. Oh . . . it's so hard to keep awake. Don't
try. Why . . . you can't lift up your hand.
HILDA [^tonelessly^^. No ... I can't.
ANATOL makes wider passes, and his voice is won-
derfully soothing.
ANATOL. You are so sleepy ... so sleepy ... so very
sleepy. Well, then . . . sleep, dear child, sleep . . .
sleep. You can't open your eyes now.
It seems as if she made the most helpless effort.
ANATOL. You can't . . . because you're asleep. Keep
sleeping . . .
MAX [really excited^ . Is she . . . ?
ANATOL. S-sh! [Then as hefore.'\ Sleeping...
sleeping . . . fast asleep.
He stands silently for a minute looking down at
HILDA as she sleeps. Then he turns to max
and says in his ordinary tones . . .
ANATOL. All right now.
MAX. Is she really asleep .»*
ANATOL. Look at her. Let her be for a minute.
For a minute they both watch her. Then anatol
speaks again.
ANATOL. Hilda, answer me when I ask you. What's
your name.''
Her mouth opens and the word is slowly formed.
HILDA. Hilda.
ANATOL. Hilda . . . we're walking along a road . . .
out in the country.
10
ASK NO QUESTIONS
HILDA. Yes . . . isn't it pretty ? That's a tall tree.
There's a bird singing . . .
ANATOL. Hilda . . . you're going to tell me the truth.
Do you understand?
HILDA [^slowly again^. I am going to tell you the
truth.
ANATOL. Answer me all I ask you quite truthfully
. . . but when you wake up you will have forgotten.
Do you understand?
HILDA. Yes.
ANATOL. Then sleep . . . soundly.
Then he turns to max and they look at each other
triumphantly, hut hesitant.
ANATOL. How shall we- begin?
i&AK [after a moment'\. How old is she?
ANATOL. She's nineteen. Hilda . . .how old are you?
HILDA. Twenty-five.
MAX. Oh! [and he dissolves into silent guffaws'].
ANATOL. Tsch ! That's odd. But . . . [he brightens]
but there you are.
MAX. She never thought she'd be such a success.
ANATOL. Well . . . one more martyr to science.
Let's try again. Hilda, do you love me? Hilda
dear ... da you love me?
HILDA. Yes.
ANATOL. There . . . that's the truth.
MAX. And now for the all-important question . . .
is she true to you?
ANATOL strikes the correct attitude for this.
ANATOL. Yes. Hilda, are you . . . ? [but he
frowns.] No . . . that won't do.
11
ANATOL
MAX. Why not?
ANATOL. I can't put it that way.
MAX. It's a simple question.
ANATOL,. Not at all. Are you true to me ! It may
mean anything.
MAX. How?
ANATOL. She might look back over her whole life.
You don't suppose she never fell in love till she met
me, do you?
MAX. Well ... I should like to hear about it.
ANATOL. Would you, indeed ! Prying into school-
girl secrets ! How was the poor child to know that
one day she'd meet me?
MAX. Of course she didn't.
ANATOL. Very well, then.
MAX. So why shouldn't she tell us?
ANATOL. I don't like putting it that way, and I
shan't.
MAX. What about . . . Hilda, since you've known
me have you been true to me?
ANATOL. Ah, that's different. [^He faces the sleeper
again.'l Hilda... since you've known me have
you been . . . [but again he frowns and stops^. And
it's rather worse.
MAX. Worse?
ANATOL. Think how all love affairs begin. We
met quite casually. How could we tell we should
one day be all in all to each other?
MAX. Of course you couldn't.
ANATOL. Very well, then. Suppose when she first
12
ASK NO QUESTIONS
knew me she had some idle fancy still to shake free
of . . . am I to blame her for that?
MAX. You make better excuses than ever she
could.
ANATOL. Is it fair to take such an advantage of
the girl?
MAX [with a twisty smile^. You're a good fellow,
Anatol. Try this. Hilda . . . since you've loved me,
have you been true to me ?
ANATOL. Yes . . . that's better.
MAX. Right.
Once more anatol, fixes his love with a gesture.
But he suddenly drops it.
anatol. No, it won't do . . . it won't do.
max. Well, really!
anatol. Think a minute. She's sitting in a
train, A man opposite . . . good-looking fellow . . .
slides his foot against hers. She looks up.
max. Well?
anatol. Think of the extraordinary
subtlety of mind that has been engendered in her
by this hypnotic trance. In her present un-
conscious state the remembrance of looking up
not displeased might well be recalled as an act of
infidelity.
MAX. Oh, come!
anatol. That's perfectly sound. And the more so
because she already knows my views on such a point
. . . which are a little exaggerated. I've often warned
her not to go looking at men.
MAX. What has she said to that?
13
ANATOL
ANATOL. Oh . . . asked me to imagine her doing
such a tiling !
MAX. Which you were imagining quite well ten
minutes ago.
ANATOL.. Suppose she was kissed under the mistle-
toe last Christmas . . .
MAX. No . . . really !
ANATOL. She may have been.
MAX. All this means is, that you won't ask her the
question.
ANATOL. Not at all. I will ask her the question.
But . . .
MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Ask a woman if she's
true to 3'OU and she doesn't think of men tread-
ing on her foot or kissing her under the mistletoe.
Besides, if the answer's not clear, we can make her
go into details.
ANATOL. I see. You've made up your mind I shall
ask her, have you.^"
MAX. Dash it, no ! It's you want to find things
out . . . not I.
ANATOL. Yes. There's another thing to think of.
MAX. What now?
ANATOL. What about her sub-responsible self.''
MAX. What the devil's that?
ANATOL. Under the stimulus of certain extraor-
dinary circumstances, I quite believe that one is
not a fully independent agent.
MAX. Would you put that into English?
ANATOL. Well . . . imagine some room . , . softly
14
ASK NO QUESTIONS
curtained . . . dimly lit . . . glowing with warmth and
colour.
MAX. Right . . . I've imagined it.
ANATOL. There she sits . . . she and some other
man.
MAX. But what's she doing there at all?
ANATOL. That's not the point for the moment.
She i s there, we'll suppose. Supper ... a glass of
wine . . . cigarettes . . . silence. And then a whis-
pered word or two . . . ! Oh, my dear Max, colder
women than she haven't stood prim against such
temptation.
MAX. I should say that if you're in love with
some one, you've no business to find yourself in a
room like that with somebody else.
ANATOL. But I know how things will happen.
MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Here's your riddle
with its answer ready. It's to be solved with a word.
One question to find out if she's yours alone. One
more to find out who shares her with you . . . and
how big is the share. You won't ask them. You
suffer agonies. What wouldn't you give to know
. . . just to be sure. Well, here's the book open . . .
and you won't even turn the page. Why.? Because
you might find written there that a woman you're in
love with is no better than you swear all women are.
You don't want the truth . . . you want to keep your
illusions. Wake her up . . . and to-morrow be content
with the glorious thought that you could have found
out . . . only you wouldn't.
ANATOL. I . . . I . . .
15
ANATOL
MAX. You've been talking nonsense. It hasn't
taken me in if it has you.
ANATOL. I w i 1 1 ask her.
MAX. Will you?
ANATOL. Yes . . . but not in front of you.
MAX. Wh}^ not.?
ANATOL. If I'm to know the worst, I'll hear it
privately. Being hurt is only half as bad as being
pitied for it. I don't want your kind face to be
telling me just how hard the knock is. You'll know
just the same, because if she's ... if she has been . . .
then we've seen the last of her. But you won't be
there at the awful moment. D'you mind?
MAX. Shall I wait in your bedroom?
ANATOL. Yes. It won't take a moment.
So MAX retires, and anatol faces the sleeping
girl, who is half smiling in her sleep. He
braces himself for the effort, then speaks
sternly, judicially.
ANATOL. Hilda ... do you . . . ?
He fails, then makes a further effort.
ANATOL. Hilda . . . are you . . . ?
He fails again and turns distractedly away.
Then for the third time . . .
ANATOL. Hilda , . . have you . . . ?
He begins to sweat with the emotion of it.
ANATOL. Oh, Lord ! Hilda . . . Hilda . . .
And then, with one qualm as to whether max can
overhear, he throws conscience to the winds,
and himself on his knees beside the pretty
girl.
16
ASK NO QUESTIONS
ANATOL. Oh . . . wake up, my darling, and give me
a kiss.
With a couple of waves he can release her, and
up she sits quite brightly.
HILDA. Have I been like that long? Where's
Max.?
ANATOL. Max!
Out of the bedroom comes max, mischievously
watchful.
MAX. Here.
anatol. Yes ... a sound sleep. You've been
saying things.
HILDA. Anything I shouldn't?
»LAX. He's been asking you questions.
HILDA. What sort?
ANATOL. All sorts.
HILDA. And I answered them?
ANATOL \_with a look at max]. Every one.
HILDA. Oh, tell me . . . !
ANATOL. Aha ! . . . we'll try again to-morrow.
HILDA. No, we won't. You asking me what you
like , . . and now I can't remember any of it. I may
have said the most awful things.
ANATOL. You said you loved me.
HILDA. Did I?
MAX. Who'd have thought it !
HILDA. I can say that better when I'm awake.
ANATOL. Sweetheart !
MAX. Good afternoon!
ANATOL. Going?
17
ANATOL
MAX. I must.
ANATOL. You can find your way out?
HILDA. Ta-ta.
MAX beckons to anatol, who follows him to the
door.
max. Perhaps you've made a scientific discovery
besides. That women tell lies just as well when
they're asleep. But so long as you're happy . . .
what's the odds.''
He departs, leaving the couple locked in a fond
embrace.
18
II
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
It is Christmas Eve, about "five o'clock. In a bye-
street, that links up two others busy with shops, a
builder's scaffold has formed a little arcade. Be-
neath this, and just beside a big arc lamp that
sheds its whiteness down, anatol, hurrying along
with umbrella up, meets gabrielle.
ANATOX, [stopping']. Oh! How do you do?
gabrielle. Why, it's you!
ANATOL. What are you doing? All those parcels
. . . and no umbrella !
GABRIELLE. I'm trying to find a cab.
ANATOL. But it's raining.
GABRIELLE. That's the reason. I've been buying
presents.
ANATOL. Let me carry some of them . . . please.
GABRIELLE. It doesn't matter.
ANATOL. I insist. [He captures one.] But hadn't
you better wait here in shelter? We shall find a
cab just as quickly.
GABRIELLE. You really mustn't trouble.
ANATOL. Let me be a little attentive for once in a
way.
GABRIELLE. I'll Wait here a minute to see if one
21
ANATOL
'I
passes. Or I'll be grateful for the umbrella. [He
tries for another parcel.^ No, I can manage that,
thanks. It's not at all heavy* \^But she surrenders
it.l Oh, very well then!
ANATOL. Won't you believe that I like being
polite .'' -s^
GABRiELLE. As onc Only notices it when it's rain-
ing, and I haven't an umbrella . . .
ANATOL. And it's Christmas Eve, and dark too . . . !
Warm weather for Christmas, isn't it?
GABRiELLE. Very. [They take their stand looking
out for a cab to pass.^ Marvellous to see you at all.
ANATOL. I've not been to call once this year . . .
is that what you mean ?
GABRiEi^iiE [with much indifference^. Oh, haven't
you.?
ANATOL. The fact is I've not been anywhere
much. How is your husband . . . and how are the
dear children?
GABRIELLE. Why ask that? You don't in the
least want to know.
ANATOL. You read me like a book.
GABRIELLE. It's such Very large print.
ANATOL. I wish you knew more of it . . . by heart.
GABRIELLE [with tt toss of her head}. Don't say
things like that.
ANATOL. They just spring from me.
GABRIELLE. Give me my parcels. I'll walk on.
ANATOL. Oh, don't be angry . . . I'll be as prim and
proper as you please.
GABRIELLE. There's a cab. No, it's full. Oh, dear,
A CHRISTMAS FRESENT
shall I have to wait long? \^He is standing mum.^
Do say something.
ANATOL. I'm longing to . . . but the censorship is
so strict.
GABRiELLE. You Can tell me your news, can't you.f*
It's ages since we met. What are you doing now?
ANATOL. As usual . . . nothing.
GABRIELLE. Nothing?
ANATOL. Rather less than^ nothing.
GABRIELLE. Isn't that a pity?
ANATOL. Why say that . . . when you don't in the
least care? v,
GABRIELLE. You shouldu't take that for granted.
ANATOL. If I'm wasting my life, whose fault is it?
Whose, would you mind telling me ?
GABRIELLE. I'd better go on. Give me my
parcels.
ANATOL [^mischievously^. I didn't imply it was any
one's fault in particular. I just wanted your valua-
ble opinion.
GABRIELLE [^with a touch of feeling^. You idler!
ANATOL. Don't despise idlers. They're the last
word in civilisation. But I'm not idling to-night.
I'm as busy as you are.
GABRIELLE. What with?
ANATOL. I'm out to buy Christmas presents, too.
GABRIELLE. Areyou?
ANATOL. If I could find anything worth buying.
I've been looking at the shops for weeks. They
haven't a notion amongst 'em.
GABRIELLE. That's what the good customer has to
23
ANATOL
supply. But, bless me ! an idle person like you
ought to be thinking out his presents all the
summer.
ANATOL. How could I.'' How Can I tell in the
summer whom I may be making up to at Christmas?
And the shops will be shut in an hour or two, and
I'm still empty-handed !
GABRIELLE. Could I help?
ANATOL. Oh, you arc a darling! What's my best
shop ?
GABRIELLE. Well, you must know that. We'll take
the cab there when we find it.
ANATOL. Thank you for passing the Darling . . .
it's my favourite word.
GABRIELLE. I ignored it.
ANATOL. Very well . . . I'm prim and proper again.
GABRIELLE. Where shall we go when the cab comes?
What sort of a present? Who's it for?
ANATOL. Now . . . how shall I tell you?
GABRIELLE. It's for a woman, of course.
ANATOL. Didn't I say you could read me like a
book ?
GABRIELLE. What sort of a woman?
ANATOL. There, again ! How do you women sort
yourselves out?
GABRIELLE. Is it a womau I know?
ANATOL. Not at all.
GABRIELLE. Not ... a womau I should call on ?
ANATOL. Never.
GABRIELLE. No ... I thought as much.
ANATOL. Don't sneer.
24)
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
GABRiELLE. You have extraordinary tastes.
What's she like. . . pretty-pretty?
ANATOL,. Pretty.
GABRiELLE. A man is a marvellous creature. Good
breeding, good manners, are nothing to you !
ANATOL. Oh, a great deal . . . when they'll conde-
scend to us. But if they won't . . .
GABRiELLE. Don't be silly again. No, you prefer
a cheap and easy conquest !
ANATOL. I go where I'm appreciated.
GABRIELLE. Can she read you like a book?
ANATOL. God forbid. But she admires the
binding, and takes the rest on trust. While
you despise the contents ... as if you really knew
them!
GABRIELLE. I really don't know what you mean. I
can tell you of an excellent shop; I passed it just
now. Cases of scent in the window. One with three
sorts , . . Patchouli, Jockey Club, Cherry Blossom.
I'm sure that's the very thing.
ANATOL. You're unkind.
GABRIELLE. Well, there was another shop next door
. . . with brooches and suchlike. One with ^ix Parisian
diamonds in it . . , s i x. Oh, so sparkling ! Or a
bracelet with charms hung round ; or a long bead
necklace . . . quite savage ! That's the sort of thing
these ladies like, isn't it?
ANATOL. I'm afraid you know nothing about
them.
GABRIELLE. Or I Can tell you of a hat shop with a
style of its own. Their bows are too large, and they
25
ANATOL
put in a feather too many. These persons like to be
conspicuous, don't they ?
ANATOL. Not at all.
GABRiELLE. It's hard to be helpful. Make a sug-
gestion yourself.
ANATOL. You're waiting to laugh at it.
GABRiELLE. I promise I won't. Let me know what
she likes. Is she demure in sealskins ?
ANATOL. I said you'd laugh.
GABRIELLE. I'm not laughiug. Tell me about her.
ANATOL. I don't think I can.
GABRIELLE. Of couTse you Can. How long have
you known her.?
ANATOL. Oh . . .
GABRIELLE. Well.''
ANATOL. Ever so long.
GABRIELLE. Don't be so difficult. Tell me all
about it.
ANATOL. There's nothing to tell.
GABRIELLE. What nousense ! Where did you meet
her and what's she like? What's her name and her
age.^* Is she tall or short and dark or fair.''
ANATOL. It'll only bore you.
GABRIELLE. No it wou't. I've always wanted to
know about that sort of person . . . what they're
really like.
ANATOL. You'll never know.
GABRIELLE. Why not.''
ANATOL. As long as you fully believe that women
you can't call on don't really exist at all.
26
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
GABRiELLE. But I Want to learn better. And if
no one dares tell me the truth . . .
ANATOL [with a sudden break of tone'\. Haven't
you very virtuous ladies a feeling that this other
sort of woman . . . somehow gets the better of you
after all?
GABRIELLE. That's a delicate insult.
ANATOL. You wouldn't change places, of course,
but . . . how dare she be so improperly happy.''
GABRIELLE. Is it the oiily way then?
ANATOL. That's feminine fellow-feeling, I'm told
. . . and therefore all that's charming and charitable.
GABRIELLE. You'vc Icamt to be very sarcastic since
we last met.
ANATOL [seriously, almost passionatelyl. Shall I
tell you how? Once I used to believe that a good
woman so-called was an honest woman. I've taken a
few knock-down blows with my teeth shut . . .
GABRIELLE. Plcasc don't be heroic... that's
far worse !
ANATOL. Straight blows. I can take a No when
it's honestly meant and said without flinching. But
when the eyes say Perhaps and the smile says Wait
a little, and what the No means is Yes Yes Yes . . .
if only I dared ! Then ... ,
GABRIELLE \_biting her lips^. I think I ^9ri^t_wait
for this cab to come by . . .
ANATOL. Then you've your choice between feeling
a fool and becoming a cynic.
GABRIELLE. . . . Unlcss you mean to go on telling
me about . . . about your new friend.
27
ANATOL
ANATOi. [back to his bantering humour^. You
simply must know, mi^^t you?
GABRiELLE. Certainly I must. How did you first
meet?
ANATOL. How does one meet people ? In the
streets, at the seaside, in an omnibus, sharing an
umbrella !
GABRiELLE. Never mind how one meets people.
How did you meet her . . . the Her we're finding a
Christmas present for? I'm sure she's like nobody else.
ANATOL. She's just as like every other girl of her
sort as you are like every other woman of yours.
GABRIELLE [for the first time really annoyed^.
Am I indeed !
ANATOL. Oh, don't be offended. Or as I'm like
every other man of mine. Are there a dozen different
patterns of any of us altogether?
GABRIELLE. What's yours?
ANATOL. I, madam, am a Toy Philosopher.
GABRIELLE. And mine?
ANATOL. You are a Married Lady.
GABRIELLE. And what's she?
ANATOL. She? She is just a Dear Little Girl.
GABRIELLE. Then let's hear al] about your Dear
Little Girl.
ANATOL. It's not that she's so pretty, or so smart
. . . and certainly not that she's so clever.
GABRIELLE. Nevcr mind what she's not.
ANATOL. She's as sweet as a wild flower, and as
elusive as a fairy tale . . . and she knows what love
means.
28
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
GABRiELLE. No doubt. ThcsG Dear Little Girls
have every chance to learn.
ANATOL. Quite so, but you'll never learn what she's
really like. For when you were a dear little girl . . .
of another sort . . . you knew nothing at all. And
now you're a married lady you think you're so
worldly wise.
GABRIELLE. Not at all. I'm quite open-mouthed
for your fairy tale. What sort of a ^castle does the
princess live in.^*
ANATOL. Can you imagine a fairy princess in any-
thing but the smartest of drawing-rooms.?
GABRIELLE [« little ^arfZT/]. Thank you, I can.
ANATOL. Because this one lives in a little room . . .
with a cheap and nasty wall-paper. With a few
Christmas numbers hanging about and a white
shaded lamp on her table. You can see the sun set
from the window over the roofs and through the
chimneys. And in the spring you can almost smell
the flowers in a garden across the way.
GABRIELLE. It must be a sign of great happiness
• . . looking forward to the spring.
ANATOL. Yes, even I feel happy now and then . . .
sitting with her at that window.
GABRIELLE givcs a little shiver; it's the cold,
no doubt. Then . . .
GABRIELLE. It is getting late. Shall we walk on.?
You must buy her something. Something to hang
on the nasty wall-paper and hide it a little.
ANATOL. She thinks it so pretty.
29
ANATOL
GABRiELLE. Why don't you refurnish the room to
your taste?
ANATOL. Why should I?
GABRIELLE. With a Persian carpet, and .'. .
ANATOL. No, no, no . . . She knows what she
likes.
There falls a little silence. But no cab passes.
GABRIELLE. Is sh^jvaiting for you now.'*
ANATOL. Sure to be.
GABRIELLE. What will she say when you come.''
ANATOL. Oh . . . the right thing.
GABRIELLE. She knows your step on the stairs,
doesn't she?
ANATOL. I expect so.
GABRIELLE. And goes to the door ?
ANATOL. Yes.
GABRIELLE. And puts hcr arms round your neck,
and says . . . What does she say?
ANATOL. The right thing.
GABRIELLE. What's that?
ANATOL. It's just . . . the right thing to say.
GABRIELLE. What was it yesterday?
ANATOL. It sounds nothing repeated. I suppose
it's the way that she says it.
GABRIELLE. I'll imagine that. Tell me the words.
ANATOL. It is good to have you back again.
GABRIELLE. It is good . . . what ?
ANATOL. To have you back again.
GABRIELLE. That's very beautiful.
ANATOL. You see . . . she means it.
30
A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
GABRiELLE. And she lives there alone? You can
always be with her?
ANATOL. She's quite alone. She has no father or
mother.
GABRIELLE. And jou . . . are all the world to
her?
ANATOL \^the cynic in him shrugs his shoulders^.
I hope so. For the moment.
There is another silence.
GABRIELLE. I'm afraid I'm getting cold standing
still . . . and all the cabs seem to be full.
ANATOL. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have kept you.
Let me see you home.
GABRIELLE. Yes . . . they'll all be fidgeting. But
what about your present?
ANATOL. Never mind, I shall find something.
GABRIELLE. Will you ? But I Wanted to help you
buy it.
ANATOL. No, no, you mustn't trouble.
GABRIELLE. I wish I could be there when you give
it her. I wish I could see that little room and that
. . . lucky little girl. There's a cab empty. Call it,
please.
ANATOL waves to the cab.
ANATOL. Taxi !
GABRIELLE. Thank you. \^As the cab turns and she
moves towards it . . . ] May I send her something?
ANATOL. You?
GABRIELLE. Take her these flowers. Will you give
her a message as well?
"" ANATOL. It's really most awfully good of you.
31
ANATOL
GABRiELLE. But you w i 1 1 take them to her, and
promise to give her the message?
ANATOL. Certainly.
GABRiELLE. Promise.
ANATOL [by this he has opened the cab doorl. I
promise. Why shouldn't I?
GABRIELLE. This is it . . .
ANATOL. Yes?
GABRIELLE. Thesc flowers, dear little girl, are
from . . . some one who might have been as happy
as you ... if she hadn't been quite such a coward !
[^She gets in without his help.^ Tell him where to
drive.
He does so, and then goes his way too.
32
Ill
AN EPISODE
AN EPISODE
MAx's rooms are comfortable, if commonplace. The
wiiting table he is sitting at is clumsy, but ifs
within reach of a cheerful fire. By the lamp on
it he is reading a letter.
MAX. We're back again for three months . . .
you'll have seen it in the papers. Old friends first . . .
I'm coming along . . . Your affectionate Bibi. Nice
little Bianca ! I shall certainly stay in.
There's a knock at the door.
MAX. Already ! No, this can't be . . . Come in.
In walks anatol, carrying an enormous parcel.
He looks most gloomy.
anatol. How are you.''
MAX. What on earth have you got there?
anatoi.. This is my past.
MAX. Your what ?
ANATOL deposits the parcel on the table.
ANATOL. I have brought you my dead and buried
past. I want you to take care of it for me.
MAX. Why?
ANATOL [^with great solemnity^. May I sit down?
MAX [as solemn as he'\. You may.
ANATOL takes off his hat and coat and settles
himself i/n the most comfortable chair.
ANATOL
ANATOL. May I smoke?
MAX. Try one of these.
ANATOL lights a cigar and unbends a trifle.
ANATOL. I rather like these.
MAX [^pointing to the parcel^. Well.''
ANATOL. I really cannot live with my past any
longer. I'm going for a holiday.
MAX. Ah!
ANATOL. I wish to begin a new life . . . even if I
don't go on with it. And this is naturally very
much in the way.
MAX. In love again?
ANATOL. Out of love this time. So you might
look after this rubbish for me.
MAX. Better bum it if it's rubbish.
ANATOL. I can't do that.
MAX. Why not?
ANATOL. This is how I'm true to them ... to all the
women I've ever loved ... I never forget a single one.
I have only to turn over these letters, and dead flowers,
and locks of hair . . . You'll have to let me come
here and turn them over occasionally . . . and back
they come to me . . . I'm in love with them all
again.
MAX. This is to be a sort of Usual place at
half-past three and don't be late ... is it?
ANATOL. I've often wished there really were some
Abracadabra which would call them back out of the
utter nothingness.
MAX. But a variegated sort of nothingness.
ANATOL. If I knew of a word . . .
36
AN EPISODE
MAX. Let's think of one. What about — My
Only Love.
ANATOL. Yes . . . My Only Love ! And then
they'd all come. One from a little suburban villa
. . . one from her crowded drawing-room . . . one
from her dressing-room at the theatre . . .
MAX. Several from their dressing-rooms at the
theatre.
ANATOL. Several. One from a shop . . .
MAX. One from the arms of your successor!
ANATOL. One from the grave. One from here . . .
one from there. Here they all are!
MAX. Would you mind not speaking the word.''
I somehow don't think they'd be pleasant company.
I dare say they're not in love with you still . . .
but I'm pretty sure they're still jealous of each
other.
ANATOL. Wise man! Let the phantoms rest.
MAX. And where am I to put this mausoleum ?
ANATOL. I'd better undo it.
He tundoes it. The parcel is made up of a dozen
or so other little parcels, neatly tied up and
ticketed, max gazes with delight.
MAX. Hullo!
ANATOL. Yes . . . I'm a methodical man.
MAX. Is it done alphabetically.''
ANATOL. No, there's a label for each . . . like the
motto in a cracker. A verse or a phrase will recall
the whole affair to me. No names ! Susan and Jane
suggest nothing.
MAX. May I look?
37
ANATOL
ANATOL. I wonder if I can still fix them all. I
can't have looked at some of them for years.
ANATOL leans back in his chair, smoking, max
settles himself enjoyahly to the Past. He
takes up the first packet and reads the motto.
MAX. ' I loved her. When she left me I thought
I should have killed her;
My kisses on your neck remain, and nothing
else, Matilda.'
But that's a name . . . what a name ! Matilda !
ANATOL, It wasn't her real name, but I'd written
' killed her,' and there aren't many rhymes to that.
I always did kiss her on the neck, though.
MAX. Who was she?
ANATOL. It doesn't matter. I held her in my arms
once. That's all there is to her.
MAX [fl5 he puts the packet aside^. Stand down,
Matilda. She does up small, anyhow.
ANATOL. One lock of hair.
MAX. No letters?
ANATOL. Letters from Matilda ! That would
have inked her fingers. Don't you sometimes wish
women weren't taught to write? Exit Matilda.
MAX reads another label.
MAX. ' Women are alike in one thing . . . they turn
impudent if j^ou catch them out in a lie.'
ANATOL. They do.
MAX. Who was it? She's very heavy.
ANATOL. Lies eight pages long. Oh . . . put it
away.
MAX. Was she so very impudent?
38
AN EPISODE
ANATOL. When I found her out. Throw her
away.
MAX. Impudent little liar!
ANATOL. No . . . you mustn't insult her. I have
held her in my arms. She is sacred.
MAX. How stupid of me! Who's next? [A third
packet.']
* When sad, my child, and sick of earth,
My thoughts to your Young Man fly far,
And then I laugh for all I'm worth ;
Oh, dear, how funny some things are ! '
ANATOL. So they were!
MAX. What's inside.?
ANATOL. A photograph. She and the Young
Man.
MAX. Did you know him, too?
ANATOL. That's what was so funny. He really
was quite an exceptional fool.
MAX. Hush ! She has held him in her arms ... he
is sacred.
ANATOL. You shut Up.
MAX. Stand down, my child, with your exception-
ally foolish and mirth-provoking young man. \_With
a fourth package.] What's this?
ANATOL. What?
MAX. * A box on the ears.'
ANATOL. Oh . . . ! Oh, yes . . . yes . . . yes !
MAX. Was that how it ended?
ANATOL. No, how it began.
MAX. Ah! [A fifth lobel.] * How hard it is to
39
ANATOL
grow a flower, but it's so easy to pick it.' What
docs that mean?
ANATOL. Some other fellow grew the flower ... I
came along and picked it.
MAX. Oh ! \_A sixth label.^ ' She always carried
her curling tongs.'*
ANATOL. Do you know she always did. Then
it didn't matter what happened. I tell you . . . she
was damn pretty. There's a bit of her veil left, isn't
there ?
MAX. It feels like that. [A seventh Jahel.^ ' How
did I lose you? ' How did you lose her?
ANATOL. That's the point ... I never knew. One
fine day she just wasn't. Don't you know how you
leave your umbrella somewhere . . . don't think of it
till days later ... no idea where you put it down.
MAX. Fare thee well, my lost umbrella! \^An
eighth label.^ What's this one? ' Sweet and dear
you were to me . . .'
ANATOL [catching him up^. 'Girl with roughened
finger tips. Past all . . .'
MAX. Oh . . . that was Hilda.
ANATOL. You remember Hilda.
MAX. What became of her?
ANATOL. She married a milkman.
MAX. Did she now?
ANATOL. That's what happens. I love a girl . . .
I'm all the world to her . . . and then she marries a
milkman. A dear child. I hope it's been good for
trade.
MAX [as he puts hilda aside^. Milko ! [Then the
40
AN EPISODE
ninth package.^ And what's 'Episode'? Nothing
inside but a httle dust.
ANATOL leans across and takes the little envelope
from him.
ANATOL. Dust! It was once a rosebud.
MAX. What does ' Episode ' mean ?
ANATOL. That's what it was ... an episode ... a
couple of hours' romance. Pathetic, isn't it.'' Noth-
ing left of its sweetness but dust !
MAX. Most pathetic. But one might call them all
a little episodic.
ANATOL. Not with such dreadful truth. Of
course, they all were . . . and I knew they were at
the time. I had a fine idea of myself in those days.
I used to catch myself thinking . . . Poor child,
poor child !
MAX. Poor ....''
ANATOL. When I was very young indeed I saw
myself as one of the world's great heroes of romance.
These women, I thought ... I pluck them, crush the
sweetness from them . . . it's the law of nature . . .
then I throw them aside as I pass on. I know now
that I'm more of a fool than a hero . . . and I'm get-
ting most unpleasantly used to knowing it.
MAX. What was ' Episode ' ?
ANATOL. I caught her . . . then I threw her aside
. . . crushed her under my heel.
MAX. Did you really.''
ANATOL. But I tell you . . . they were the few
most wonderful moments I ever passed. Not that
you'd ever understand.
41
ANATOL
MAX. Why not?
ANATOL. Because it sounds nothing at all . . .
unless you can feel it as I felt it.
MAX. I'll try.
ANATOL. I sat at the piano in that room of mine
one evening. We'd been in love with each other
just two hours. D'you remember a lamp I had and
the curious glowing light it gave. Think of that
lamp . . . it's most important.
MAX. I've thought of it.
ANATOL. I sat at the piano. She sat at my
feet ... I remember I couldn't reach the pedals.
Her head in my lap . . . her hair loose . . . and the
glowing light making such shadows in it ! I let one
hand wander on the keys . . . the other was pressed
against her lips.
MAX. What else.?
ANATOL. Isn't that like you ? Nothing else!
We'd loved each other for only an hour or two.
It was our first solitude ... it was to be our last. She
said it would be. But I knew that she loved me
madly . . . the very air was shimmering with it.
Would you have noticed that."^ Do you wonder I felt
a demi-god and only thought . . . Oh, you poor, poor
child! What was it to me.'' An episode. I should
hardly cease to feel her kisses on my hand before
she'd begin to slip into the shadows of memory.
But she'd never forget . . . never be able to forget.
Some women can . . . but not she. She lay there at
my feet pouring out her soul in love. I knew that
I was the whole world to her . . . and always would
4i»
AN EPISODE
be . . . one is so certain of these things sometimes.
While to me . . . she and her love were just an
episode.
MAX. Who was the lady?
ANATOL. You knew her ... we met her at supper
once.
MAX. Did we? Sounds too romantic a person for
any supper I ever went to.
AKATOL,. Not a bit. You'll laugh when I tell
you. She belonged to a . . .
MAX. Theatre?
ANATOL,. No ... a circus.
MAX. Not Bianca?
ANATOL. Yes . . . Bianca. I never told you I met
her again after that night.
MAX. D'you mean to say that Bibi was in love
with you?
ANATOL. She was. I met her in the street ... it
seems they went off to Russia the next morning.
MAX. And a good job for your romance they did.
ANATOL. Of course! Because it's somebody you
knew the whole thing becomes commonplace. Oh,
Max . . . why don't you learn how to be in love?
MAX. Teach me.
ANATOL. Learn to tune yourself up to the supreme
moments.
MAX. With a little pig,no-playing and a glowing
light upon her shimmering hair?
ANATOL. Well . . . that's how I get wonders out of
life. You saw no more in that girl than you could
in that lamp of mine. A bit of glass, wasn't it . . .
43
ANATOL
with a light behind? What a way to walk through
the world . . . eyes open and imagination shut ! Do
you wonder you find nothing in it? You swallow
life whole, Max ... I taste it.
MAX. You've only to fall in love to make the
universe all you want it to be !
ANATOL. That's how it's done
MAX. How many glowing lamps would it take to
work Bianca up to that pitch?
ANATOL. I know what she felt when I kissed her.
MAX. I know better.
ANATOL. Do you?
MAX. Because I've never kissed her . . . and never
needed to imagine her anything but the pretty, harm-
less, worthless little baggage she is.
ANATOL. Oh !
MAX. Whatever else you want to find in her yod
must put there first.
ANATOL. It wasn't so then ... it wasn't. Oh ... I
know all about the girl. She'd kissed men before,
and she has kissed them since.
MAX. With just the same kisses that she kissed you.
ANATOL. No. I wish I hadn't told you.
MAX. Never mind. You felt all you felt and all
she ought to have felt as well.
ANATOL. Have you ever seen much of her?
MAX. Quite a lot.
ANATOL. Have you?
MAX. Don't distress yourself. She's a witty little
devil, and we always liked a chat.
ANATOL. A friendly chat?
44
AN EPISODE
MAX. Not a bit more.
ANATOL. Then I swear to you, Max . . . that girl
loved me to distraction.
MAX. Quite so. Let's get on with the others [^he
takes a tenth packet^ . ' Could I but tell the meaning
of your smile, you green-eyed ' . . .
ANATOL. I say . . . d'you know that circus is back
again ?
MAX. Yes . . . she's still with it.
ANATOL. Sure?
MAX. Quite. I shall see her this evening . . . she's
coming to call.
ANATOL. Well ! Why on earth didn't you tell me
that before?
MAX. What's it to do with you? Your past is
dead . . . look at it.
ANATOL. But . . .
MAX. Besides . . . yesterday's romance warmed up.
Don't risk that.
ANATOL. I wonder if I could feel the same for her
again.
MAX. There are other dangers. You take great
care of this Episode of yours. Don't let it catch
cold.
ANATOL. But I mustn't miss a chance of seeing her.
MAX. She's wiser than you ! Has she ever sent
you even a postcard? But perhaps she forgot all
about you.
ANATOL. Max. . . why not believe me when I tell
you ... ?
MAX. Well?
45
ANATOL
ANATOL. That the hour we spent together was one
of those things that never fade.
There's a knock at the door of the flat.
MAX. Here she is !
ANATOL. What!
MAX. You go into my bedroom and then slip out.
ANATOL. Certainly not.
MAX. You'd much better.
ANATOL. I shall not.
MAX. Stand there then, where she won't see you at
once.
ANATOL. But why . . . ?
Still, he stands in the shadow, and max goes to
the door to welcome bianca. She is as he
described her.
BL\NCA. Max! How are you.'' I'm back.
MAX. How are you, Bibi.'' Nice of you to come.
BIANCA. First visit.
MAX. Honoured.
BIANCA. How's everybody.'' Suppers at Sacher's
again now.'*
MAX. But you must turn up. Sometimes you
didn't.
BIANCA. I did.
MAX. Not when you'd something better to do.
BIANCA. But you weren't jealous. I wish they'd
all take lessons from you. Why can't a m<xn be fond
of one without making himself a nuisance? Oh . . .
who's that.'* Making one jump!
She has discovered anatol, who comes forward,
silent, expectant. She stares at him,
46
AN EPISODE
MAX. An old friend, Bibi.
BIANCA. Oh . . .
MAX. Quite a surprise.
ANATOL comes nearer, bianca is desperately
puzzled. She doesn't recall him in the least.
She is most polite.
BIANCA. Of course . . . we've met . . .
ANATOL. Bianca.
BIANCA. Yes ... to be sure.
ANATOL, seizes her hand quite passionately.
ANATOL. Bianca.
BIANCA, But . . . I'm so stupid . . . where was it?
MAX. Tr}'^ hard to remem.ber.
BIANCA. Of course ... in Petersburg.
ANATOL. No ... it wasn't in Petersburg.
With that he drops her hand, takes his hat and
coat and goes.
BIANCA. Oh . . .
The ftat door slams.
MAX. He's gone.
BIANCA. But . . . I'm so sorry . . . what's wrong ....''
MAX. Don't you really remember him?
BIANCA. Yes . . . quite well. But I can't place him
for the life of me.
MAX. Anatol, Bibi . . . Anatol.
BIANCA Iher brow wrinkling in puzzlemenf]. Ana-
tol.. . Anatol?
MAX. Anatol ... at the piano . . . and a lamp
casting shadows on your shimmering hair. Here . . .
not in Petersburg . . . three years ago.
A light breaks on bianca.
47
ANATOL
BiANCA. Well ... of course . . . Anatol ! How
stupid of me. Oh, do call him back. Anatol!
She makes for the door.
MAX. No . . . he's gone.
She looks from the wmdom.
BIANCA. There he goes.
MAX [behind herl^. Yes . . . there he goes.
BIANCA [calling]. Anatol!
MAX. No use ... he can't hear.
BIANCA. You will apologise to him, won't you?
I've hurt his feelings. Such a nice fellow.
MAX. You're quite sure you remember him?
BIANCA. Why, yes ! But, you know, there is some
one in Petersburg as like him as two peas.
MAX. I'll tell him so.
BIANCA. Besides . . . when you haven't given a man
a thought for three years . . . and there he suddenly
is plumped in front of you ! One can't remember
everybody.
MAX [grimly smiling]. Let's shut the window...
it's gone chilly.
BIANCA. I shall run against him somehow.
MAX. No doubt [he picks up and holds out to her
the little envelope marked ' Episode ']. D'you know
what this is?
BIANCA. What?
MAX. The rosebud you were wearing that evening
...the evening, Bibi . . .
BIANCA. Has he kept it?
MAX. As you see.
BIANCA. D'you mean he was in love with me?
48
AN EPISODE
MAX. Passionately . . . unfathomably . . . and for
ever and a day. But so he was with all these others.
BiANCA surveys the table full.
BiANCA. All that lot !
MAX. We've been sorting you out.
BIANCA. Sorting us . . . ?
MAX. Sorting you.
BIANCA. Oh, indeed! Where do I go.'*
MAX. Here. /
He gravely drops * Episode ' m the fire.
BIANCA. Well!
MAX. All the revenge I can give him you see.
But don't be cross ... I want to hear your news.
BIANCA. I don't think I feel like it now,
MAX. Bibi . . . don't quarrel with m e. Let's hear
about the fellow in Petersburg, who's as hke him as
two peas.
BIANCA. Don't be absurd.
MAX. Or anything else you like. I'll tell you how
to begin.
He settles her m a big armchair, and settles him-
self in another beside her.
MAX. Once upon a time there was a big, big
city . . .
BIANCA . . . And into the city came a big, big
circus . . .
MAX. . . . And in the circus there was a tiny, tiny
girl . . .
BIANCA. . . . Who jumped through a big, big
hoop.
49
ANATOL
MAX. Now we*re getting on. And in a box every
evening . . .
BiANCA. Yes ... in a box every evening there sat
a very good-looking man . . .
MAX. Quite so . . . and then ?
They settle to their friendly chat.
60
IV
KEEPSAKES
KEEPSAKES
Emily's sitting-room is quite prettily furnished, and
looks over some gardens, where the trees are just
now breaking irito leaf. It is late in the after-
noon. Alone in the room and at the writing-
desk sits ANATOL. He is feverishly searching
the drawers, emily comes in and finds him.
EMILY. What are you doing at my desk . . .
rummaging about ? Anatol !
He hardly looks up even.
ANATOL. I have a perfect right to. And it's as
^^e\l I did.
EMILY. What have you found . . . except your own
letters ?
ANATOL. My letters! What do you call these.''
Two tiny objects which he had placed safely on
the top of the desk. He shows them to her in
his outstretched palm.
EMILY. What?
ANATOL. These two stones. This one's a ruby . . .
and this other dark one. I've never seen them before.
I didn't give them you.
EMILY turns away, and for a moment doesnH
answer. When she does it is very quietly.
EMILY. No ... I had quite forgotten them.
52
ANATOL
ANATOL [still brutally, sneeringly angry'\. Had
you ! They were hidden away safe enough in the bot-
tom of that drawer. Come on . . . you'd better con-
fess. Don't lie. Oh, all you women do! Won't you.?
Don't pretend to be indignant. Yes, of course . . . sulk
when you're found out. I want to know what else there
is. Where have you hidden your other treasures?
He returns to his ransacking.
EMILY. I haven't any others.
ANATOL. Haven't you.^"
EMILY \^quite passive^. You needn't look. I
swear I haven't.
ANATOL. Well then . . . what about these?
EMILY. I suppose I was wrong. I shouldn't have . . .
He leaves the desk and faces her.
ANATOL. You suppose ! Now Emily . . . to-morrow
we were to be married. I thought we'd got rid of
the past . . . utterly. Didn't I bring you everything
I had that could remind me of mine . . . letters, keep-
sakes, everything . . . and didn't we burn them? And
your rings and bracelets and earrings ! Haven't we
got rid of them too ... all of them? Given them
away . . . thrown them into the river . . . out of the
window . . . anywhere? And you s w o r e to me that
you had done with it all . . . wiped everything out !
You said that now you knew you'd never really been
in love with any one before. And I believed you ! I
suppose we always do believe women when the lies
are pleasant ones . . . from their first lie to their last
. . . because we want to.
EMILY. Shall I swear it again?
54
KEEPSAKES
ANATOL. What's the good? I've done with you . . .
done with you. Oh, you were very clever about it !
To see you standing there in front of the fire watch-
ing those letters and things burn . . . poking them
down so that nothing should escape . . . wouldn't one
have thought you were only thankful to be rid of
every speck of your past? You sobbed in my arms
that day by the river when we threw that bracelet
into the water! Tears of repentance? All a sham!
Now I'll tell you ... I didn't trust you in spite
of them. I came here to find out for myself . . . and
I have found out. '[She is sitting silent, her head
awayJ] Say something. Defend yourself.
EMILY. No . . . you've made up your mind to have
done with me.
ANATOL. But I want to know about these two
things. Why keep just these two?
EMILY. You don't love me any more. -
ANATOL. Emily ... I want to know the truth.
EMILY. What's the good if you don't love me any
more ?
ANATOL. Tell me the truth. Perhaps . . .
EMILY. Well?
ANATOL. Perhaps you can make things seem a bit
better. I don't want to think badly of you, Emily.
She turns a little towards him.
EMILY. D'you forgive me ?
ANATOL. Tell me the truth.
EMILY. If I do . . . will you forgive me?
He doesn't answer for a moment. Then his
voice half hardens again.
55
ANATOL
ANATOL. This ruby ! What about it . . . why
have 3'ou kept it ?
EMILY. Will you be patient?
ANATOL. Yes . . . yes. Go on.
After a moment she does; speaking quite tone-
lessly, her head bent.
EMILY. It came out of a locket. It fell out.
ANATOL. Who gave you the locket.''
EMILY. Oh . . . that wasn't it. It was because of
. . . the day I was wearing it.
ANATOL. But who gavc it you.''
EMILY. What does it matter? My mother, I
think. Oh, Anatol ... if I were the bad lot you
think me, I could easily say I kept the stone because
my mother gave it me. You'd believe that. I kept
it because I didn't want ever to forget that day I
nearly lost it.
ANATOL. Go on.
EMILY. I am so glad to be telling you. But
listen now. You'd laugh at my being jealous of the
first woman you were ever in love with, wouldn't
you?
ANATOL. What's that to do with it?
EMILY. But I dare say you're still in love with the
memory of her. It's the sort of old unhappiness
one never wants quite to lose, isn't it? The day I
dropped that ruby means a lot to me, because it was
the day I had my first glimpse of . . . everything
that you and I can mean to each other now, if we
will. Oh ... if I'd never had to learn how to love . . .
d'you think I could love j^ou as I do ? Anatol ... if
56
KEEPSAKES
we'd met then... before we knew what love meant
. . . should we have given each other a thought?
Don't shake your head. You once said that to me
yourself.
ANATOL. I did.
EMILY. You told me not to be so sorry that things
were ... as they were . . . because if we hadn't both
learnt by experience, we could never love each other
as we do.
ANATOL l^bitterly^. Yes . . . that's all the consola-
tion one has in loving a woman who . . . [^he swallows
the insult^ oh, never mind!
EMILY [^with digniti/^. I'm telling 3'ou the truth
about this. I kept it to remind me of the day
that . . .
ANATOL. Say the words !
EMILY. You like to humiliate me. It was the very
first time that ... I was just a silly girl. What
was I . . . sixteen?
ANATOL. He was twenty . . . and tall and dark . . .
I'm sure.
EMILY [^quite simpli/^. D'you know I don't remem-
ber, dear. I remember the wood we were in, and the
wind shaking the trees. It was in the spring. Yes
. . . and the sun shone through the branches and made
the primroses look so bright.
ANATOL paces the room with a sudden access of
fury.
ANATOL. And you were stolen from me before I
ever knew you ! Don't you hate him . . . the very
thought of him?
57
ANATOL
EMILY. Perhaps he gave me to you, Anatol. [That
brings him to a stand.^ No . . . whatever happens I
don't hate the thought of him ... I won't pretend
I ever did. Don't you know I love you as I have
never loved any one.'' And no one has ever loved
you as I love you. But in spite of that . . . and
even though when you kissed me first you made me
forget every one else ... all I'd ever gone through
. . . wiped it out utterly . . . you can't make me forget,
and you can't make me regret the moments that made
me a woman.
ANATOL. You love m e , do you?
EMILY. I hardly remember what he looked like . . .
or anything he said.
ANATOL. Only that he kissed you . . . held you
close to him . . . turned your ignorance into knowl-
edge and your innocence into guilt. And you're
grateful for that . . . grateful ! Good God . . . can't
you see what this means to me . . . stirring up again
all this horrible past when I'd almost forgotten that
there ever was or could be any other man in the world
for you but me.
She looks at him and then speaks with a certain
cold sadness.
EMILY. Yes . . . you don't understand. I think you
were right. We'd better part.
ANATOL [not quite prepared for this^. What else
d'you expect of me?
EMILY [emotional for the first time^. I envy a
woman who can lie. It's a costly business telling the
truth. But there's one thing I'd like to know.
58
KEEPSAKES
Why you have always begged me to be quite
straight with you. How many times have you said
that there was nothing you couldn't forgive me
except a lie. So I confessed everything to you . . .
and never cared how bad I made myself out. I told
you that the only good thing about me was my love
for you. Any other woman would have made ex-
cuses ... I didn't. I let you know that I was vain
and wanton . . . that I'd wasted and sold myself . . .
that I wasn't worth your loving. I told you that
before I'd let you come near me. I hid away from
you, didn't I.^* It was just because I loved you so.
You found me and you cried for me. But I still said
No. I didn't want to drag you down . . . although
your love meant more to me than anything else had
ever meant in the world. I've never loved any one
but you. In spite of everything you took me. I
was so glad and so afraid ! But why have you given
me back bit by bit all the beauty and self-respect
that the others had robbed me of . . . why have you
made me innocent again by being great enough to
be able to forgive ... if now . . . ?
ANATOL. \^ecJioing^ her as she pauses^. Now.?
EMILY. If now you're done with me only because I
am just like all the others.''
ANATOL. No, no, dear . . . you're not, you're not.
EMILY. What do you want me to do then.? Shall
I throw it away?
She fingers the little ruby disdainfully.
ANATOL [^passionately self -reproachful^. What Is
there great about me? I'm worse than human.
59
ANATOL
Yes . . . throw it away. You dropped it, did you,
among the primroses . . . and it glittered in the
sun . . .
They sit there silently; the poor little trinket on
the table between them. Then he rouses.
ANATOL. It's dark . . . let's go out.
EMILY. It'll be so cold.
ANATOL. No . . . you Can feel the Spring's in the
air.
EMILY. Very well, darling.
She moves, and as he moves too his eye lights on
the other stone he had found.
ANATOL. But what about this one.''
EMILY. That?
ANATOL. Yes, the black stone . . . what about
that.?
She takes it up with care.
EMILY. Don't you know what it is.?
ANATOL. It looks like a . . .
EMILY. It's a black diamond !
Her eyes glitter as she holds it,
ANATOL. What.?
EMILY. They're very scarce.
ANATOL [Jiardly articulate^ . Why . . . have you
kept it?
EMILY. It's worth a hundred pounds !
ANATOL. Ah!
He snatches the stone from her and throws it^
mto the fire. She shrieks out savagely . . .
60
KEEPSAKES
EMILY. What are you doing?
Then throws herself on her knees and snatching
up the tongs does her best to rescue it. He
watches her grimly for a little; the firelight
makes ugly shadows on her face. Then he
says quietly . . .
ANATOL. That was your price, was it ?
And he leaves her.
61
V
A FAREWELL SUPPER
A FAREWELL SUPPER
In a private room at Sacher^s restaurant one evening,
about supper-time, we find anatol and max.
MAX is comfortable upon a sofa with a cigarette.
ANATOL stands by the door discussing the menu
with the waiter.
MAX. Haven't you done.?
ANATOL,. Just. Don't forget now.
This to the waiter, who disappears, anatol
begins to pace the room, nervously.
MAX. Suppose she don't turn up after all.
ANATOL. It's only ten. She couldn't be here yet.
MAX. The ballet must be over long ago.
ANATOL. Give her time to take her paint off and
dress. Shall I go over and wait for her.'*
MAX. Don't spoil the girl.
ANATOL [mirthlessly laughing^. Spoil her...
spoil her !
MAX. I know . . . j^ou behave like a brute to her.
Well . . . that's one way of spoiling a woman.
ANATOL. No doubt. [Then, suddenly stopping
before his friend.^ But, my dear Max . . . when I
tell you . . . oh, Lord !
MAX. Well.?
65
ANATOL
ANATOL. . . . What a critical evening this is !
MAX. Critical ! Have j^ou asked her to marry you ?
ANATOL. Worse than that.
MAX \_sitting up very straight^. You've married
her.? WeU!
ANATOL. ^Vhat a Philistine you are. When will
you learn that there are spiritual crises besides
which such commonplace matters as . . .
MAX ]^S2ibsiding againl. We know! If you've only
got one of those on I wouldn't worry her with it.
ANATOL [grimly^. Wouldn't you? What makes
this evening critical, my friend, is that it's to be
the last.
MAX \_sitting up agam'\. What.?
ANATOL. Yes . . . our farewell supper.
MAX. What am I doing at it?
AKATOL. You are to be the undertaker ... to our
dead love.
MAX. Thank you ! I shall have a pleasant evening.
ANATOL. All the week I've been putting it off.
MAX. You should be hungry enough for it by this
time.
ANATOL. Oh, we've had supper every night. But
I've never known how to begin . . . the right words to
use. I tell you . . . it's nervous work.
MAX. If you expect me to prompt you . . .
ANATOL. I expect you to stand by me. Smooth
things down . . . keep her quiet . . . explain.
» MAX. Then suppose you explain first.
ANATOL considers for half a second. Then . . .
ANATOL. She bores me.
66
A FAREWELL SUPPER
MAX. I see ! And there's another she . . , who
doesn't?
ANATOL. Yes.
MAX l^with fullest comprehensioTi]. Ah!
ANATOL [^quite rapturously/^. And what another!
MAX. Please describe her.
ANATOL. She makes me feel as Fve never felt
before. She ... I can't describe her.
MAX. No . . . one never can till it's all over.
ANATOL. She's a little girl that . . . well, she's an
andante of a girl.
MAX. Not out of the ballet again.?
ANATOL. No, no I She's like a waltz . . . simple,
alluring, dreamy. Yes, that's what she's like. Don't
you know . . . ? No, of course you don't ! And how
can I explain? When I'm with her I find I grow
simple too. If I take her a bunch of violets . . . the
tears come into her eyes.
MAX. Try her with some diamonds.
ANATOL. I knew you wouldn't understand in the
least. I should no more think of bringing her to
a place like this . . . ! Those little eighteenpenny
places smt her. You know . . . Soup or Fish : Entree :
Sweets o r Cheese. We've been to one every night
this week.
MAX. You said you'd had supper with Mimi.
ANATOL. So I have. Two suppers every night this
week ! One with the girl I want to win, and the
other with the girl I want to lose. And I haven't
done either yet.
MAX. Suppose you take Mimi to the Soup o r Fish,
67
ANATOL
and bring the little Andante girl here. That might
do it.
ANATOL. That shows you don't understand. Such
a child ! If you'd seen her face when I ordered a one
and tenpenny bottle of wine.
MAX. Tears in her eyes?
ANATOL. She wouldn't let me.
^^--MSxT'What have you been drinking.'*
ANATOL. Shilling claret before ten. After ten,
champagne. Such is life.
MAX. Your life !
ANATOL. But I've had enough of it. To a man
with my nice sense of honour . . . my nice sense of
honour, Max.
MAX. I heard.
ANATOL. If I go on like this much longer I shall
lose my self-respect.
MAX. So shall I if I have much more to do with
yoiL.
/^NATOL. How can I play-act at love if I don't
"feel it.?
MAX. No doubt it's better acting when you do.
ANATOL. I remember telling Mimi in so many
words . . . when we first met . . . when we swore that
nothing should part us . . . My dear, I said, which-
ever first discovers that tlic thing is wearing thin
must tell the other one straight out.
MAX. Besides swearing that nothing should part
you. Good !
ANATOL. If I've said that once I've said it fifty
times. We are perfectly free, and when the
68
A FAREWELL SUPPER
time comes we'll go each our own way without
any fuss. Only remember, I said, what I can't stand
is deceit.
MAX. Then I'm sure supper ought to go off very
well.
ANATOL. Yes . . . but when it comes to the point . . .
somehow I can't tell her. She'll cry. I know she'll
cry, and I can't bear that. Suppose she cries and I
fall in love with her again . . . then it won't be fair to
the other one.
MAX. And the one thing you can't stand is deceit.
ANATOL. It'll be easier with you here. There's an
honest, unromantic air about you that would dry any
tears.
MAX. Happy to oblige. And how shall I
start.? Tell her she's better off without you. How
can 1?
ANATOL. Something of that sort. Tell her she
won't be losing so much.
MAX. Yes . . .
ANATOL. There are hundreds of better-looking
men . . . men better off.
MAX. Handsomer, richer . . . and cleverer.
ANATOL [^half liumorously'\, I shouldn't exaggerate.
At this point the waiter shows in the mimi in
question. A lovely ladys
WAITER. This way, Madame.
She doesn't seem to be in the best of tempers.
MIMI. Oh ... so here you are !
ANATOL [cheerfully']. Here we are. [^He takes off
her wrap with much tenderness. 1^ Let me.
69
ANATOL
MiMi. You're a nice one, aren't you? I looked up
and down . . .
ANATOL. A good thing you hadn't far to come.
MIMI. If you say you'll be there for me you ought.
Hullo, Max. Come on . . . let's feed.
There's a knock at the door.
MIMI. Come in! What's he knocking for?
It is the WAITER again, expectant of his orders,
which ANATOL gives him . . .
ANATOL. Bring supper.
MIMI sits at the table and, cat-like, fusses her
appearance.
MIMI. You weren't in front.
ANATOL [^with careful candour^. No... I had
to...
MIMI. You didn't miss much. It was precious dull.
MAX. What was on before the ballet?
MIMI. I don't know. I go straight to the dressing-
room and then I go on the stage. I don't bother
about anything else. Anatol . . . I've a bit of news
for you.
ANATOL [/lis brow wrinkling a littlell. Have you,
my dear? Important?
MIMI. Myes : . . may surprise you a bit . . . praps.
The supper arrives . . . oysters first.
ANATOL. Well . . . I've some for you, too.
MIMI. Wait a second. It's no concern of his.
This with a cock of the head towards the well-
mannered, unconscious waiter.
ANATOL. You needn't wait . . . we'll ring.
The waiter departs. Supper has begun.
70
A FAREWELL SUPPER
ANATOL. Well?
MiMi {between her oysters]. I think praps it will
surprise you, Anatol . . . though I don't see why it
should. Praps it won't . . . and it oughtn't to.
MAX. They've raised your salary !
ANATOL [watching her]. Tsch.
MIMI [ignoring this levity]. No . . . why should it?
I say . . . are these Ostend or Whitstable?
ANATOL. Ostend . . . Ostend.
MIMI. I d o like oysters. They're the only things
you can go on eating and eating . . .
-^ MAX [who is doing his full share] . And eating and
eating and eating.
MIMI. That's what I always say.
ANATOL. Well . . . what's this news ?
MIMI. D'you remember something you once said?
ANATOL. Which of the hundreds?
MIMI. Mimi . . . oh, I remember your saying it . . .
The one thing I can't bear is deceit !
ANATOL, not to mention max, is really taken aback.
ANATOL. What!
MIMI. Always tell me the whole truth before it's
too late.
ANATOL. Yes, I meant ...
MIMI [roguish for a moment]. I say . . . suppose it
was!
ANATOL. What d'you mean?
MIMI. Oh, it's all right ... it isn't. Though it
might be to-morrow.
ANATOL [hot and cold]. Will you please explain
what you mean?
71
ANATOL
MAX [unheeded^. What's this?
MiMi [meeting a fierce eye'\. You eat your oysters,
Anatol, or I won't.
ANATOi.. Damn the oysters !
MIMI. You go on with them.
ANATOL. You go on with what you were saying.
I don't like these jokes.
MIMI. Now didn't we agree that when it came to
the point we weren't to make any fuss but . . . !
Well ... it has come.
ANATOL, [hereft of hreatK\. D'you mean . . . ?
MIMI. Yes, I do. This is the last time we have
supper together.
ANATOL. Oh ! Why . . . would you mind telling
me.''
MIMI. All is over between us.
ANATOL. Is it!
MAX [unable to he silent longer]. Admirable!
MIMI [a little haughty^. Nothing admirable about
it. It's true.
ANATOL [with trembling calm]. My dear Mimi . . .
please let me understand. Some one has asked you
to marry him?
MIMI. Oh ... I wouldn't throw you over for that.
ANATOL. Throw me over!
MIMI [with her last oyster]. It's no use, Anatol.
I'm in love .■-. . head over ears.
M^x goes into such a fit of laughter that choking
follows, and he has to be patted on the back.
ANATOL does the friendly office, somewhat
distractedly.
72
A FAREWELL SUPPER
MiMi \_very haughty indeed^. There's nothing to
laugh at, Max.
MAX. Oh ... oh . . . oh !
ANATOL. Never mind him. Now . . . will you please
tell me . . . ?
MIMI. lam telling you. I'm in love with some-
body else and I'm telHng you straight out Hke you
told me.
ANATOL. Yes, but damn it . . . who.'*
MIMI. Now, my dear . . . don't lose your temper.
ANATOL. I want to know.
MIMI. Ring the bell. Max, I'm so hungry.
MAX recovering, does so.
ANATOL. Hungry ... at such a moment ! Hungry !
MAX \^passing hack to his chair, says in anatol's
ear'] . Ah . . . but it'll be the first supper she's had
to-night.
The waiter arrives, anatol rends hi/m savagely.
ANATOL. And what do you want.''
WAITER [perfectly polite]. You rang, sir.f*
MAX. Bring the next thing.
While the plates are cleared anatol fumes, hut
MIMI maizes casual conversation.
MIMI. Berthe Hoflich is going to Russia . . . it's
settled.
MAX. Letting her go without any fuss.?
MIMI. Oh . . . not more than a bit.
ANATOL. Where's the wine.'' Are you asleep to-
night ?
WAITER. Beg pardon, sir . . . the wine \he points
it out under anatol's nose],
73
ANATOL
ANATOL. No, no . . . the champagne.
The waiter goes out for that and for the next
course. As the door shuts on him . . .
ANATOL. Now then . . . will you please explain,?
MiMi. Never take a man at his word ! How many
times have you told me . . . when we feel it's coming
to an end, say so and end it calmly and quietly.?
ANATOL [ivith less and less 'pretence of self-
controlli . For the last time . . .
MIMI. He calls this quietly !
ANATOL. My dear girl . . . doesn't it occur to you
that I have some right to know who . . . ?
MIMI hasn^t let her appetite be disturbed; and at
this moment she is relishing the mine, her
eyes closed.
MIMI. Ah !
ANATOL. Oh, drink it up . . . drink it up !
MIMI. Where's the hurry.?
ANATOL [^reallij rather rudely^. You generally get
it down quick enough.
MIMI [still sipping'\. Ah . . . but it's good-bye to
claret, too, Anatol. It may be for years, it may be
for ever.
ANATOL \^puzzled^. Oh . . . why?
MIMI [with fine resignation^. No more claret for
, jne ... no more 03'sters ... no more champagne ! [A i
this moment the waiter begins to hand the next course.]
And no more filets aux trufFes ! All done with now.
MAX. Oh . . . what a sentimental tummy ! Havci
some ? '
MIMI [with gusto]. I will.
74
A FAREWELL SUPPER
MAX. You've no appetite, Anatol.
The waiter having served them disappears once
more, and once more anatol plunges into
trouble.
ANATOL. Well, now . . . who's the lucky fellow ?
MiMi [^serene and enjoying her filet aux truffes^ . If
I told you you wouldn't be any the wiser.
ANATOL. But what sort of a chap.'' How did you
come across him.? What does he look like.''
MIMI l^seraphic^. He's a perfect picture of a man.
ANATOL. Oh, that's enough, of course.
MIMI. It's got to be. [^She re-starts her chant of
self-sacrifice.^ No more oysters . . . !
ANATOL. Yes . . . you said that.
MIMI. No more champagne!
ANATOL. Damn it . . . is that his only excuse for
existence . . . not being able to stand you oysters and
champagne .''
MAX. He couldn't live by that.
MIMI. What's the odds as long as I love him ! I'm
going to try throwing myself away for once . . . I've
never felt like this about any one before.
MAX [mith a twinkle^. Anatol could have given
you an eighteenpenny supper, you know.
ANATOL. Is he a clerk.'' Is he a chimney-sweep?
Is he a candlestick-maker.''
MIMI. Don't you insult him.
MAX. Tell us.
MIMI. He's an Artist.
ANATOL. Music-hall artist ?
MIMI [with dignity'\. He's a fellow-artist of mine.
75
i-L.
ANATOL
ANATOL. Oh ... an old friend? You've been
seeing a lot of him? Now then . . . how long have
you been deceiving me?
MiMi. Should I be telling you if I had? I'm
taking you at your word and speaking out before it's
too late.
ANATOL. How long have you been In love with him?
You've been thinking things . . . haven't you?
MIMI. Well ... I couldn't help that.
ANATOL \_his temper rising fast^. Oh!
MAX. Anatol!
ANATOii. Do I know the fellow?
MIMI. I don't suppose you've ever noticed him.
He's in the chorus. He'll come to the front.
ANATOL. When did this affair start?
MIMI. To-night.
ANATOL. That's not true.
MIMI. It is. To-night I knew it was my fate.
ANATOL. Your fate ! Max . . . her fate !
MIMI. Yes ...my fate. Why not ?
ANATOL. Now ... I want the whole story. I've a
right to it. You still belong to me, remember.
How long has this been going on . . . how did it
begin ? When had he the impudence . . . ?
MAX. Yes ... I think you ought to tell us that.
MIMI [impatient for the first time^. Oh . . . this is
all the thanks I get for doing the straight thing.
Suppose I'd gone like Florrie with von Glehn. He
hasn't found out yet about her and Hubert.
ANATOL. He will.
MIMI. Well, he may. And then again he mayn't.
76
A FAREWELL SUPPER (
But you wouldn't have. I know a thing or two more
than you do.
For proper emphasis she pours out another glass y^S^ ^
of wme.
ANATOi.. Haven't you had enough?
MiMi. What. . . when it's the last I shall get.''
MAX [with a nod^. For a week or so.
MIMI [with a srJnA]. Don't you think it. I'm
going to stick to Carl. I love him for himself alone.
H e won't badger and bully me, the dear !
ANATOL,. You and he have been carrying on under
my nose for . . . how long ^ To-night indeed !
MIMI. Don't believe it if you don't want to.
MAX. Mimi . . . tell the truth. You two won't part
friends unless you do.
ANATOL, {recovering some complacency^. And then
I've a bit of news for you.
MIMI. Well ... it began like this . . .
Once more the waiter, with the champagne this
time. MIMI stops very discreetly.
ANATOL. Oh, never mind him.
So she gets ahead, hut in whispers, till the intruder
shall have departed, which he does very soon.
MIMI. A fortnight ago he gave me a rose. Oh, so
shy he was ! I laughed ... I couldn't help it.
ANATOii. Why didn't you tell me?
MIMI. Start telling you those sort of things ! I
should never have done.
ANATOL. Well?
MIMI. And he hung round at rehearsals. It made
me cross at first . . . and then it didn't.
77
ANATOL
ANATOL [viciortshj^. No, I'm sure it didn't.
MiMi. Then we began to have little chats. And
then I began to take such a fancy to him.
ANATOL. What did you chat about?
MIMI tries the champagne now.
MIMI. Oh . . . things. He got expelled from
school. Then he went into business, and that wasn't
any good. Then he thought perhaps he could act.
ANATOL. And never a word to me !
MIMI. And then we found out we used to live close
to each other as children. Just fancy !
ANATOL. Most touching!
MIMI [simplp]^. Wasn't it.''
ANATOL. Well?
The champagne (one fears it is) has an instant
effect. She becomes a little vague and
distant.
MIMI. That's all. It's my fate. You can't struggle
against your fate, can you ? Can't . . . struggle . . .
against . . .
She stops suddenly, anatol waits for a minute,
then . . .
ANATOL. But I've not been told what happened to-
night.
MIMI. What happened . • . ,
Her eyes close.
MAX [with fine effect^. Hush . . . she sleeps. ,
ANATOL. Well, wake her up. Take that wine away
from her. I want to know what happened to-night.
Mimi . . . Mimi !
She wakes up, refreshed apparently.
78
A FAREWELL SUPPER
MiMi. To-night? He told me he loved me.
ANATOL. What did you say?
MIMI. I said I was awfully glad. And I mustn't
play the silly fool with him, must I? So it's good-
bye to you.
ANATOL. It's him you're considering, not me.
MIMI [^with friendly candour^ . I don't think I ever
really liked you, Anatol.
ANATOL. Thank you. I'm happy to say that
leaves me cold.
MIMI. Don't be nasty.
ANATOL. Would you be surprised to hear that I
hope to get on very well without you for the
future ?
MIMI. Really?*
ANATOL throws Ms belated bomb.
ANATOL. I am in love, too.
And it is received by mimi with the indifference
of scepticism.
mimi. Think of that !
ANATOL. And have been for some time. Ask
Max. I was telling him when you came in.
She smiles at this in the most irritating way.
mimi. Yes . . . I'm sure you were.
ANATOL [^piling it up^. She's younger and rather
prettier than you.
mimi. I'm sure she Is.
ANATOL. And I'd throw six hundred and seventy
of your sort into the sea for her. \^But mimi, not in
the least impressed or distressed, laughs loud.^ You
needn't laugh. Ask Max.
79
ANATOL
MiMi. If I were you I should have invented all
that a little earlier.
ANATOL [^aghast^. But it's true. I haven't cared
that much about you since . . . ! You've been boring
me till I could only stay in the room with you by
sitting and thinking of her. I've had to shut my
eyes tight and think it was her I was kissing.
MIMI [as comfortable as ever^. Ditto to that, my
dear.
ANATOL takes a nasty turn.
ANATOL. Well . . . that's not all. Say ditto to
this if you can.
She notices the change in his tone, puts down her
wine-glass, and looks squarely at him.
MIMI. To what?
ANATOL. I could havc told you all you've been
telling me months ago. And weeks ago I could
have told you a good deal more.
MIMI. D'you mean . . . ?
ANATOL. Yes, I do. I have behaved very badly to
you . . . dear Mimi.
MIMI gets up outraged.
MIMI. Oh . . . you cad !
ANATOL \_grateful for the abuse^. And only just
in time, too ... it seems ! You wanted to get there
first, did you.f* Well . . . thank God, I have no
illusions !
But MIMI has gone to collect her things: her hat,
her cloak. And she puts them on, too, not
waiting a moment.
MIMI. Oh ... it only shows !
80
A FAREWELL SUPPER
ANATOL. Doesn't it! Shows what?
MiMi. What a brute a man can be!
ANATOL. A brute . . . am I?
MIMI. Yes, a brute ... a tactless brute. \_For a
moment she gives him undivided attention.^ After
all . . . I never told jou that.
Abysses open!
ANATOL. What !
MAX, Oh, never mind!
ANATOL. Never told me what.'' That you and
he...
MIMI {with most righteous indignation^. And I
never would have told it you. Only a man could be
so . . . unpleasant !
Heaven knows what might happen, anatol so
twitches with rage and amazement. But
the timely calm waiter saves the situation
with yet another course.
WAITER. I beg pardon.
ANATOL. Oh, go to ... ! \^He swallows the word,
and recovers a little.^
MIMI. Ices! •
And, pleased as a child, she goes back to her
chair to begin on hers, anatol, in his
turn, is deeply shocked.
anatol. Can you eat ices at a moment like this.''
MAX [starting on his too^. Yes, of course she can.
It's good-bye to them for ever.
MIMI [between the spoonfuls^. No more ices . . .
no more claret ... no more champagne ... no more
oysters ! [Then, as she gets up to go.^ And thank
81
ANATOL
goodness ... no more Anatol, [But on her way to
the door she notices on the sideboard the cigars. She
helps herself to a handful. Then turns with the
sweetest of smiles.'\ Not for me. They're for him!
She departs.
MAX. I said it'd go off all right.
ANATOL is speechless.
8S
VI
DYING PANGS
DYING PANGS
One spring afternoon it is growing dusk in anatol's
room, tJiough through the open window the
broad expanse of sky still shines clear and blue.
ANATOL and MAX come in from a walk.
MAX. I didn't mean to come up with you,i
ANATOL. But don't go.
MAX. I shall be in the way.
ANATOL. I'm not sure she'll come. Three times
out of four she won't.
MAX. I couldn't stand that.
ANATOL. She has excellent excuses. I dare say
they're sometimes true.
MAX. Three times out of four.
ANATOL. Hardly that! Max, never, never be the
lover of a married woman. There's nothing deadlier.
MAX. Except being her husband.
ANATOL. I've been in this mess . . . how long.''
Two years? More. It was two years last Easter
that . . .
MAX. What's gone wrong.?
ANATOL, who has taken off neither coat nor hat,
who still carries his stick in his hand, flings
himself into a chair by the window.
85
ANATOL
ANATOL. I'm weary of it. I wish . . . oh, I don't
know what I wish.
MAX. Go abroad for a bit.
ANATOL, What's the good?
MAX. Wouldn't that bring it to an end quicker?
ANATOL. It might.
MAX. I've seen you through this sort of thing
before. And the last time, how long did it take
you to make up your mind to have done with that
silly girl who had never been worth worrying about
at all?
ANATOL. D'you think things are dead between us
now?
MAX. That wouldn't matter . . . death doesn't
hurt. But dying pangs do.
ANATOL. Job's comforter! You're quite right
though.
MAX. Talk it over if you like . . . that helps some-
times. Not to bother over the whys and wherefores,
but just to diagnose the case.
ANATOL. You'd like a cheerful ten minutes, would
you?
MAX. Well ... if you knew what a face you've
been carrying round and round the park with you
this afternoon.
ANATOL. She said she'd be there.
MAX. You weren't sorry she wasn't. You couldn't
have looked as glad to see her as you did a couple
of years ago.
ANATOL [^jumping up^. It's true. But why . . .
why? Have I got to go through it again . . .
86
DYING PANGS
this cooling . . . cooling . . . growing cold? It's a
perfect nightmare.
MAX. Run away then ... go abroad. Or else
make up your mind to tell her the truth.
ANATOL. What Is the truth?
MAX. That you're tired of her.
ANATOL. Tell a woman that sort of truth only
because you're weary of telling lies ! A pleasant
job.
MAX. No doubt you'd both of you do anything
rather than face the brutal facts. But why?
ANATOL. Because we still don't thoroughly believe
in the brutal facts . . . that's why. Even in this dull,
dying autumn of our passion, there come to us
days of spring . . . brighter than any we've ever
known. You never so much want to be happy
with a woman as when you know that you're ceasing
to care for her. And when the happy moments
come, we don't look too closely at them either. We
only feel so ashamed ... we mutely apologise for
having doubted ourselves and ea h other. Love's
like a candle flame ... it flickers highest when it's
going out.
MAX. And the end's In sight often much sooner
than we think. You can date the death of some
love aff*airs from the very first kiss. But a man
may be on his deathbed and swear he's never better.
ANATOL. Not I, worse luck. In love aff'airs, my
friend, I have always been a valetudinarian. Very
likely I knew that I wasn't so ill as I thought . . .
I felt so much the worse for that. I've sometimes
87
ANATOL
fancied I have a sort of evil eye . . . turned in-
wards ... to wither my own happiness.
MAX. A most rare and distinguished deformity.
ANATOL. You're welcome to it for me. Lord . . .
how I've envied lucky, careless devils, who can be
supremely happy in the passing moment. I've never
valued a thing when I had it.
MAX. Often they don't know they're happy.
ANATOL. But they needn't feel guilty afterwards.
MAX. Guilty.-^
ANATOL. She and I knew well enough, didn't we,
that though we might swear to love each other till
death and after, yet the end of it all was never so
very far off? Then why didn't we make the most
of our time? For we never did. We're guilty of
lost opportunity.
MAX. Oh, my dear Anatol . . . these dragged-out
affairs are very bad for you. You're too quick-witted
for them.
ANATOL. Am I?
MAX. Haunted by the past and afraid of the
future . . . why, your one chance of happiness is to
keep the present, at least, clear and clean and forget-
ful. Be a little stupid about it if you must.
ANATOL. Yes . . . yes.
MAX. But you jumble past, present, and future to-
gether till I don't think you know which you're
living in. All you think of to-day is your yesterday's
remorse for the sins that you mean to commit
to-morrow.
ANATOL. And that's not half the nonsense it sounds,
88
DYING PANGS
MAX. Thank you. But we must all talk our share
of platitudes too ... so here goes for mine. Anatol,
pull yourself together ... be a man.
ANATOL. Max . . . you can't keep a straight face
as you say it. Besides, I don't think I want to pull
myself together. What a lot one loses by being a
Man ! There are a dozen ways of being an interest-
ing invalid, and a fellow can choose his own. But
there's only one way of being in rude health . . . and
that's such a dull one. No, thanks.
MAX. Vanity !
ANATOL,. Now for a platitude about vanity.
MAX. No. My only concern is that you won't go
abroad.
ANATOL. I may. But it must be at a moment's
notice. I hate planning things. I particularly hate
packing, and looking up trains, and ordering a cab,
and . . .
MAX. I'll do all that for you.
Suddenly, as if in response to some instinct,
ANATOL turns to the window and looks out.
MAX. What is it.f*
ANATOL. Nothing.
MAX. I beg your pardon. I forgot. I'm off.
ANATOL. Max ... at this moment I feel more in
love with her than ever.
MAX. You probably are more in love with her
than ever ... at this moment.
ANATOL. Then don't order the cab.
MAX. But the boat-train don't leave for an hour
and a half. I could send your luggage on after.
89
ANATOL
ANATOL. Thank you so much.
MAX. Now I must make a good exit . . . with an
epigram.
ANATOL. Please.
MAX. Woman is a riddle . . .
ANATOL. Oh, really!
MAX. Wait, that's only half of it. Woman is
a riddle . . . says a man. What a riddle would Man
be for women ... if they'd only brains enough to
want to guess it.
ANATOL. Bravo.
MAX bows to his applause and departs, anatol
is more restless than ever. He paces the
room. He goes to the window, where he can
now hear some violinist practising in the
room above. He lights a cigarette and sits
down to wait as patiently as may be. But
he hears a sound in the hall. He jumps up
and goes to the door as it opens to admit
ELBA. She comes in a little furtively. She
is dressed as a smart rich woman should be,
but she is rather heavily veiled.
ANATOL. At last !
ELSA. Yes . . . I'm late.
He quite tenderly puts up the veil to kiss her.
After that she takes it off, her hat too.
ELSA. I couldn't come before.
ANATOL. You might have let me know. Waiting
does get on one's nerves. But you can stop a bit.
ELSA. Not long, darling. You see, my husband . . .
He breaks away from her almost rudely.
90
DYING PANGS
ELSA. My dear . . . can I help that?
ANATOL. No, you Can't. There it is . . . we may as
well face it. Come to me.
He is by the window and tries to draw her to
him, but she hangs back.
ELSA. No, no . . . some one might see me.
ANATOL. It's too dark . . . and the curtain hides us.
She slips into his arms.
ANATOL. I wish you hadn't to go so soon. I've
not seen you for two days. Then you only stayed
ten minutes.
ELSA. Do you love me so.''
ANATOL. Do I not.'' What aren't you to me? If
I could have you here always . . .
ELSA. I'm glad.
ANATOL. Sit by me. \_He draws her close beside
him.^ Where's your hand? \^He holds it and kisses
if.] That's the old man upstairs playing. Plays
well, doesn't he?
Thet/ sit together there in the twilight, listening.
ELSA. Dear one !
ANATOL. Think if we were in Italy now ... in
Venice !
ELSA. I've not been to Venice since I was there for
my honeymoon.
ANATOL shrivels.
ANATOL. Need you have said that?
ELSA [with a gush of remorse^ . Darling . . . but
I've never loved any one but you. No . . . not . . .
not my husband.
ANATOL [m some agony J. Please do try and forget
91
ANATOL
that you're married . . . just for thirty seconds.
Can't you obliterate everything for a moment but
ourselves ?
She apparently does, and there is silence. Then a
clock strikes and elsa looks round quickly.
ELS A. What's that?
ANATOL. Elsa . . . never mind. Forget everything
but me.
ELSA \_turning back to him all the more tenderly'\.
Haven't I forgotten everything but you . . . for you ?
ANATOL. Oh . . . my dear . . . my dear !
He kisses her hand and there is silence again.
Then the lady says, very tentatively, almost
tremulously . . .
ELSA. Anatol . . .
ANATOL. Yes, darling.
She makes a half serious little face at him as a
sign that she really must be off. He won't
understand.
ANATOL. What is it.''
ELSA. I simply must go.
ANATOL. Must.'*
ELSA. Must.
He gets up . . . goes right away from her.
ANATOL. Very well.
ELSA. Oh . . . you are difficult.
ANATOL. Difficult ! I sometimes think you want
to drive me mad.
ELSA. And this is the thanks I get!
ANATOL. Thanks ! What do you expect thanks
92
DYING PANGS
for? Don't I give you as much love as I get? Is
it worth less to you than yours is to me? Why
thanks ?
ELSA. Don't you owe me just a little gratitude
for the sacrifice I've made for you?
ANATOL. I don't want sacrifices. If it was a
sacrifice . . . then you didn't love me.
ELSA. Not love you! I'm an unfaithful wife for
your sake . . . and you say I don't love you.
ANATOL. I didn't say so, Elsa.
ELSA. Oh . . . when I've done . . . what I've done.
ANATOL. What you've done! I'll tell you all that
you've done. Seven years back you were a pretty
gawky girl, weren't you? Your people got you
married . . . because that's the thing to do with
pretty gawky girls. Then you went a honeymoon in
Venice . . . you liked that well enough.
ELSA [^indignantly']. I didn't.
ANATOL. Oh, yes, you did ! You were in love . . .
more or less.
ELSA. I wasn't.
ANATOL. He was, then. I'm sure he petted you
nicely . . . anyhow, you were his little wife. Then
back to Vienna . . . and after a bit to boredom. Be-
cause you'd grown a pretty woman by now . . . and,
really, he's a precious fool. So you learned to flirt
. . . harmlessly enough, no doubt ! You tell me I'm
the only man you've ever really loved. I can't
prove it . . . but let's say that's so. It flatters me to
believe it.
ELSA. You call me a flirt.
93
ANATOL
ANATOii. I do. Did you never indulge in that
sensual hypocrisy?
ELSA. Oh . . . you're unjust!
ANATOL. Am I.'' Then real temptation came. You
played with it . . . you were longing for a romance.
For you grew prettier than ever . . . and your hus-
band more of a fool. He was getting fat too . . .
and ugly. So at last your conscience yielded. You
coolly looked round for a lover, and chanced to hit
upon me.
ELSA. Chanced to hit upon . . .
ANATOL. Yes ... if it hadn't been me it would have
been the next man. You thought you were unhappily
married ... or at least not happily married enough.
You wanted to be . . . one calls it loved. Of
course, it was just a flirtation between us at first. . .
we skated quite skilfully over thin ice. Till one fine
day . . . what was it . . . ? one of your friends looking
happier than usual . . . the sight of some merry little
baggage in a box at the theatre. Well, and why
shouldn't I? . . . said you. And you took the plunge.
Leaving out fine phrases . . . that's the story of this
little adventure.
She does not look at him, but m her voice is
shame and reproach.
ELSA. Oh . . . Anatol, Anatol !
ANATOL. Well.''
ELSA. You don't mean it.
ANATOL. I do.
ELSA. That's what you think of me.
ANATOL. I'm afraid so.
94
DYING PANGS
ELSA. Then I'd better go.
ANATOL. I'm not keeping you.
And she does go . . . quite as far as the door.
But there she lingers.
ELSA. You want me to.
ANATOL. My dear ! Two minutes ago it was you
that were in such a hurry.
ELSA looks up in some relief.
ELSA. Darling . . . you know I can't help that.
My hush . . .
He suddenly flashes round on her,
ANATOL. Elsa.
ELSA. Yes.
ANATOL. You do lovc me? Say so.
ELSA l^tears in her eyes^. Do I? Good heavens! . . .
what better proofs can I give.?
ANATOL. Shall I tell you.?
ELSA. I love you with all my heart.
ANATOL. Then don't go. Don't go back home.
Come away somewhere with me. Let me have you
all to myself.
ELSA. Anatol!
ANATOL. Isn't that obviously the thing to do?
How can you go back to him . . . loving me with all
your heart? How could I ever have let you? We've
been taking it all as a matter of course. But don't
you see that it can't go on . . . it's impossible. Elsa,
dear, come away with me . . . you must. We'll go
wherever you like. To Sicily ? Very well . . . further
then. I'll go as far as you like, Elsa !
ELSA [blankly'\. My dear Anatol!
95
ANATOL
ANATOL. No one to take you from me ever again.
Far away, dear ... we two . . . belonging to each
other.
ELSA. Go right away?
ANATOL. Yes . . . anywhere.
ELSA. But . . . my dear Anatol . . .
ANATOL. Well?
ELSA [with a sort of puzzled blandness'\ . Where's
the need?
ANATOL. Where's the . . . !
ELSA. Why go away . . . when we can see each
other here almost as often as we want?
ANATOL talces a long look at her and then smiles
queerly.
ANATOL. Yes . . . almost. True . . . there is no
need.
ELSA. You didn't mean it, did you?
ANATOL. Did I?
He turns away from her. She follows him prettily.
ELSA. Are you still angry?
The clock chimes again. He turns hack with
the utmost politeness.
ANATOL. I'm sure you must go.
ELSA [a little flustered^. Oh dear !. . . I didn't know
it was SO late. Till to-morrow. I can come at six.
He helps her with her things.
ANATOL. Please do.
ELSA. Not going to kiss me?
ANATOL. Of course!
He kisses her.
96
DYING PANGS
ELSA \^encouragmgly'\. Things'!! loolc brigliter to-
morrow.
ANATOL. Good-bye.
He takes her to the door, where she stops and
looks up, all sweetness and charm.
ELSA. Kiss me again.
He looks at her hard for a minute, then very
deliberately does so, and she slips away.
He turns hack and savagely exclaims . . .
ANATOL. Slie asl^ed for that Iciss. And it malces
her another cheap woman at last . . . [Then to
himself in the glass~\ And you're a fool ... a fool!
97
VII
THE WEDDING MORNING
THE WEDDING MORNING
Note . . . In Vienna, of course, a man's clothes for a
•wedding are what we should call evening dress.
It also appears that on such occasions, to every
bridesmaid there is a groomsman, whose business
it is to provide her with a bouquet.
It is a brilliant winter morning; the lately risen sun
shines straight into anatol's room, anatoi.
stands on the hither side of his bedroom door,
which is a little open. He is listening. After a
moment he closes the door very softly and comes
back into the room. He looJcs nervous and rather
puzzled. He sits down on not the most comfort-
able chair with a fretful sigh. Then he gets up
to ring the bell. Then he sits down again. His
costume is the strangest mixture of early morn-
ing and overnight that ever was: a dressing
jacket and dress trousers, slippers, and a scarf
round the neck; but he looks bathed and shaved,
and his hair is brushed, franz, his man, an-
swers the bell, and, not seeing him, is going into
the bedroom, anatol jumps up and stops him,
more by gestures than with his voice, which he
hardly raises above a whisper.
101
ANATOL
ANATOL. Here, where are you going? I didn't
see you.
FRANZ. Did you ring, sir.?
ANATOL. Yes . . . bring some breakfast.
FRANZ. Very good, sir.
And he is going for it.
ANATOL. Quietly, you idiot. Don't make such a
noise, [franz is quiet, and apparently comprehend-
ing. When he is well out of the room, anatol makes
for the bedroom door again, and again listens.^ Still
asleep !
FRANZ comes back with the light breakfast, which
he puts on a table by the fire, saying, very
comprehendingly indeed . . .
FRANZ. Two cups, sir.''
ANATOL [with a look at him'\. Yes. [Then he can
hear a bell ring, and he jumps. '\ There's some one at
the door. At this time in the morning! [franz
goes out again as quietly, anatol looks around, out
of the window, at the bedroom door, then doubtfully
at the teacups, and says . . .] I don't feel in the least
like getting married.
In bursts max, m the best of spirits; franz
behind, looking as if he ought to have
stopped him.
MAX. My dear fellow!
ANATOL. Tsch ! . . . don't talk so loud. Get an-
other cup, Franz.
MAX [at the table^. Two cups here already.
ANATOL. Get another cup, Franz, and then get
out.
108
THE WEDDING MORNING
FEANZ obeys with discretion, anatol is very
fretful.
ANATOL. What are you doing here at eight o'clock
in the morning?
MAX, Nearly ten!
ANATOL. Well . . . what are you doing here at ten
o'clock in the morning.?
MAX. It's my wretched memory.
ANATOL. Don't talk so loud!
MAX. I say . . . you're very jumpy. What's the
matter ?
ANATOL. Yes ... I am very jumpy.
MAX. But not To-day.
ANATOL. Oh . . . what is it you want ?
MAX. You know your cousin Alma's to be my
bridesmaid at the wedding. About her bouquet. . . .
ANATOL [with rather sulky indifference^. What
about it?
MAX. I forgot to order it and I forgot to ask her
what colour she's wearing. What do you think . . .
white or red or blue or green?
ANATOL. Certainly not green !
MAX. Are you sure?
ANATOL. You know she never wears green.
MAX. How do I know?
ANATOL. Don't shout ! It's nothing to be excited
about.
MAX [a little exasperated]. Do you know what
colour she will be wearing at your wedding this
morning?
ANATOL. Yes . . . red or blue.
103
ANATOL
MAX. Which?
ANATOL. What does it matter?
MAX. Damn it . . . for the bouquet.
ANATOL. You order two . . . you can wear the
other in your hair.
MAX. That's a silly joke.
^^ ANATOL \^his head on his hand^. I'll be making a
^ sillier in an hour or two.
/ MAX. You're a cheerful bridegroom ... I must
say!
ANATOL. Well . . . I've been very much upset.
MAX. Anatol . . . you're hiding something.
ANATOL [with great candour^. Not at all.
From the bedroom rings a female voice, loud
and clear.
THE VOICE. Anatol !
In the silence that follows max looks at anatol
in something more than surprise.
anatol [casualli/^. Excuse me a minute.
He goes and gingerly opens the bedroom door.
A pretty pair of arms appears and rests upon
his shoulders. In answer to the embrace, for a
moment his head disappears. He shuts the
door then and returns to his scandalised
friend.
MAX. Well really, Anatol!
anatol. Let me explain.
MAX. If this is how you begin your married life . . . !
ANATOL. Don't be an ass.
MAX. I'm not a moral man myself . . . but hang
it all!
104
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL. Will you let me explain?
MAX [looking at his zcatch^. Hurry up then...
your wedding's at half-past twelve.
ANATOL. So it is !
He sits silent for a moment; then slowly
begins . . .
ANATOL. Last night I was at my father-in-law's
. . . my future father-in-law's.
MAX. I know that. I was there.
ANATOL. So you Were ... I forgot. You were all
there. You were all very lively. There was lots of
champagne. A lot of you drank my health . . . and
Sophia's health.
MAX. I drank your health . . . and her health . . .
and wished you both happiness.
ANATOL. So you did. Happiness! Thank you
very much.
MAX. You thanked me last night.
ANATOL. They kept it up till past twelve.
MAX. I know. I kept it up.
ANATOL. They kept it up till really ... I thought
I was happy.
MAX. Well , . . that's enough about that.
ANATOL. That fellow Sophia was in love with as a
girl . . . !
MAX. Young Ralmen.''
ANATOL. Silly 3^oung ass . . . writes verses ! Sort
of fellow who seems to be everybody's first love and
nobody's last.
MAX. Hadn't you better come to the point?
ANATOL. I didn't mind his being there ... it rather
105
ANATOL
amused me. We broke up about half-past twelve,
didn't we? I gave Sophia a kiss . . . and she gave
me a kiss. No . . . she gave me an icicle. My teeth
just chattered with it as I went downstairs.
MAX. Well.?
ANATOL. There were three or four of them still on
the doorstep . . . and they wished me happiness all
over again. And Uncle Edward was quite drunk
and would insist on kissing me. And Professor
Lippmann sang a comic song ... in the street. Then
Sophia's first love turned up his coat collar and went
off ... on the tiles. And then somebody ... I for-
get who that was . . . said of course I'd spend the
night under Sophia's window. Damn nonsense ... it
was snowing! And after a bit they'd all tailed off
. . . and there I was alone.
MAX [fo express some sympathy^. T-t-t!
ANATOL. Alone, in the cold and the snow! Great
big flakes . . . perfectly beastly.
MAX. So what did you do.''
ANATOL. So . . . I thought I'd go to the ball at
the Opera.
MAX. Oho!
ANATOL. And why not?
MAX. Now I'm afraid I understand.
ANATOL. Not at all! There I stood in the cold
and the snow . . . !
MAX. Teeth still chattering.
ANATOL. It was beastly cold. And it sud-
denly came over me . . . made me perfectly wretched
. . . that I wasn't going to be a free man any more.
106
THE WEDDING MORNING
Never more a jolly bachelor! Never to go home
again without some one asking where you've been.
I'd had my last night out. I'd been in love for the
last time.
MAX. Get on.
ANATOL. They were in full swing at the Opera.
I watched for a bit. Oh . . . that swish of a silk
petticoat! And don't a girl's eyes shine through a
mask-f* It makes her neck look so white. Then I
just plunged into it all. I wanted to breathe in the
sound and the scent of it . . . to bathe in them.
MAX \_consulting his watch again^. Time's getting
on. What happened then.''
ANATOL,. Was I drunk with champagne at papa-
in-law's ?
MAX. Not a bit.
ANATOL. I got drunk with that dancing . . . mad
drunk. It was m y Opera ball . . . given on purpose
to say good-bye to poor bachelor me ! I say . . .
you remember Katinka?
MAX. Green-eyed Katinka!
ANATOL. Tsch!
MAX points to where the voice came from.
MAX. Is that Katinka.?
ANATOL. No, it just isn't Katinka. Green-eyes
was there, though ! And a pretty, dark girl called
. . . no, never you mind about her. Do you remember
the tiger-lily girl that Theodore . . .? Lisa ! I didn't
see Theodore . . . but we didn't look far for him. I
could tell them all through their masks. I knew
their voices ... I knew their ankles. One girl I
107
ANATOL
wasn't sure about. And whether I was running after
her or she after me . . . ? But something in the way
she swung her shoulders . . . ! And we met and we
dodged, and at last she caught me by the arm . . .
and then I knew her right enough.
MAX. An old friend.''
ANATOL. Can't you guess.? When did I get en-
gaged.'' It's not more than two or three months
ago. That meant the usual lie . . . Going away for
a bit . . . back soon.
MAX points again.
MAX. Lona?
ANATOL. Tsch!
MAX. What . . . not even Lona ?
ANATOL. Lona right enough . . . don't fetch her in
yet. We went and sat under a palm. Back again
. . . she said. Yes ... I said. When ? . . . she said.
Not till last night. Why haven't you written . . .
where on earth have you been.'' Off the map ... I
said . . . but I'm back again, and I love you still.
And don't I love you still? . . . she said. And the
waiter brought the champagne. We were very happy.
MAX. Well . . . I'm blessed.
ANATOL. Then we got into a cab . . . just as we
used to. She put her head on my shoulder. Never
to part she said . . . and went to sleep. We didn't get
back till seven. She's still asleep . . . was, when you
came.
The story over, lie sits contemplating the world
generally with puzzled distress. max
jumps up.
108
THE WEDDING MORNING
MAX. Anatol . . . come to your senses.
ANATOi.. Never to part ! And I've got to be mar-
ried at half-past twelve!
MAX. Yes ... to somebody else.
ANATOL. Isn't that just like life.'' It's always
somebody else one gets married to.
MAX. You ought to change . . . you've not much
time.
ANATOL. I suppose I'd better. [He studies the bed-
room door doubtfully, and then turns to his friend.^
ANATOL. You know . . . looked at in a certain
light this is pathetic.
MAX. It's perfectly disgraceful.
ANATOL. Yes ... it is disgraceful. But it's very
pathetic, too.
MAX. Never mind that . . . you hurry up.
At this moment the door opens and lona first
puts her head round it and then comes in.
A handsome shrew. She is still in her fancy
hall dress; the domino thrown over it mak-
ing an excellent morning wrap.
lona. Oh . . . it's only Max.
MAX. Only Max.
LONA. Why didn't you tell me? . . . I'd have come
in before. How's Max . . . and what do you think
of this ruflfian?
MAX [feelingly^. I think that's just what he is.
LONA. I've been crying my eyes out for him for
months. And all the time he's been . . . where have
you been?
ANATOL [with picturesque vagueness']. Over there.
109
ANATOL
LONA. Didn't he write to you either? But now
I've got him safe, he doesn't get away again. Never
to part, darling ! Give me a kiss.
ANATOL. No . . . really.
LONA. Max doesn't mind {^taking his chin between
finger and thumb, she secures her hiss^. What a
face ! Look pleasant. Let's all have breakfast and
be happy.
1 She settles herself most domestically at the little
\ table and begins to pour out tea. anatol
looks on miserably.
ANATOL. Certainly.
MAX. Lona, I'm afraid I can't stop . . . thanks very
much. [Then glancing at the wretched anatol.]
And I really don't see . . .
LONA. What don't you see.?
MAX. Anatol ought ...
LONA. What ought Anatol?
MAX. Anatol, it's high time that you . . . that
you . . .
LONA. High time for what?
MAX. He ought to dress.
LONA surveys him in his queer costume without
any disapproval.
LONA. What's the hurry? We'll stop at home to-
day.
V ANATOL. My dear ... I am afraid I can't.
LONA. You can if you try.
ANATOL. I'm asked out.
LONA. You send a message and say you can't go.
MAX. He must go.
110
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL [^with desperate inspiration^. I am asked
to a wedding.
LONA. Oh . . . that don't matter.
ANATOL. But it does matter. I'm . . . what you
might call the best man.
LOXA. Is your bridesmaid in love with you-f*
MAX [^who has followed these efforts encourag-
agingly^. We won't go into that.
LONA. Because I am ... so he'd much better stop
at home with me.
ANATOL. My dear child, I must go.
MAX. He really must.
ANATOL. For a couple of hours.
LONA. Sit down, both of you. How many lumps.
Max.?
MAX thinks it tactful to obey.
MAX. Three.
LONA [to ANATOL, with o fond smile'\. How many
lumps, darling.''
ANATOL. I ought to be gone now.
LONA {with loving severity']. How meiny lumps.?
ANATOL sits down helplessly.
ANATOL. You know I always take two.
LONA. Cream or lemon?
ANATOL. You know I take lemon.
LONA. Lemon and two lumps of sugar. Those
are his principles.
MAX. I say ... I must be off.
ANATOL. No . . . no . . . no.
LONA. Drink your tea first. Max.
The two drink their tea, unhappily. Then . . .
Ill
ANATOL
ANATOL,. Mj dear child ... I simply must go and
change.
LONA. Good goodness ! . . . what time is this silly
wedding ?
MAX. Half-past twelve.
LONA. Are you asked, too?
MAX. Yes.
LONA. Who's the man?
ANATOL. No one you know.
LONA. But who? Not a secret, is it?
ANATOL. The whole thing's a deadly secret.
LONA. With a best man and bridesmaids? Non-
sense. "^
ANATOL [^expUcitl. You sce . . . his people . . .
LONA. You're both dear boy» . . . but you are
telling lies.
MAX [with dignity']. I beg your pardon.
LONA. God knows what it's all about, but it
doesn't matter. You go where you like, Max . . .
Anatol stops with me.
ANATOL is getting desperate.
ANATOL. I tell you I can't. The man's my best
friend. I must get him married.
LONA [prettily to max]. Shall I let him go?
MAX. Dear Lona ... I think you'd better.
The tension is a trifle relieved, but . . .
LONA. Where's it to be?
ANATOL [very uneasily'\. What do you want to
know that for?
LONA. I'd like to go and look on.
ANATOL. You mustn't do that.
112
Hv<^
THE WEDDING MORNING
LONA. I must have a look at jour bridesmaid,
Anatol. Best men marry bridesmaids, don't they?
I can't have you getting married ... so make up
your mind to that. -•
\'AtAX. What would vou do if be did?
LONA [with perfect simplicity^. Forbid the banns.
ANATOL. Would you now?
LONA. Or I might make a scene at the church.
MAX. That's commonplace ... I shouldn't do that.
LONA. No . . . one ought to invent something
new.
MAX. Such as ... ?
LONA. Turning up at the wedding . . . dressed like
a bride too ! That'd be striking.
MAX [drily^. Very! I must go.
His decisive getting up encourages anatol.
ANATOL. Look here, Lona ... I simply must
change. I shall be late !
In comes franz "with a bouquet swathed in its
tissue paper.
FRANZ. The flowers, sir.
LONA. What flowers?
Wherever anatol may wish his man, he does not ( ,
send him away, so franz, though not with-
out a sly look at lona, repeats politely . . .
FEANZ. The flowers, sir.
ANATOL talx'es them silently, and franz departs.
LONA. Still got Franz, have you? You said you
were going to get rid of him.
MAX. And I almost think you'd better, Anatol.
LONA. Let's see.
113
.;;
ANATOL
MAX. It's the bouquet for his bridesmaid.
LONA detaches one wrap of the paper. Orange
y blossoms!
LONA. It's a bride's bouquet !
ANATOL l^with great readiness^. Well, I say ... if
they haven't sent the wrong one ! Franz . . . Franz !
He carries it off.
MAX. And the wretched bridegroom has got his!
ANATOL serenely returns.
ANATOL. I've sent Franz back with it.
MAX. And I really must go.
He kisses lona's hand and is off. anatol
catches him half through the door.
ANATOL. What the devil shall I do.f*
MAX. Confess.
ANATOL. How can I.''
MAX. I'll come back soon.
ANATOL. Do . . . for goodness' sake.
MAX, But what colour will your cousin be in.''
ANATOL. Blue ... or red.
MAX. Damn!
ANATOL most rjmwillvngly shuts the door on him,
for no sooner has he than lona is round
his neck.
lona. Thank goodness he's gone . . . darling.
ANATOL. Darling!
LONA. Be nicer than that !
ANATOL. I said Darling.
LONA. Must you go to this silly wedding?
ANATOL. I'm afraid I must.
LONA. Shall I drive with you to the church?
114
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL. Better not. I'll see you in the evening.
You've to go to the theatre.
LONA. I'll send and say I'm ill.
ANATOL. I wouldn't. I'll come and fetch you.
Now I must dress. Lord . . . look at the time !
Franz! Franz! [franz is there.^ Have you put out
my things.''
FRANZ. Your wedding things, sir.''
ANATOL. [^very steadily^. Yes . . . the things in
which I always go to weddings.
FEANZ. I will see to it, sir.
ANATOL. After the theatre then . . . that's settled.
LONA. And I thought we'd have such a jolly day.
ANATOL. Don't be childish. Jolly days have to
give way to more important matters.
LONA is round his neck again.
LONA. I love you dreadfully. I don't know what's
more important than that.
ANATOL [as he removes her^. Then you'll have to
learn.
FKANZ passes through from the bedroom saying . . .
FRANZ. Everything's ready, sir.
ANATOL. Thank you. You've a lot to learn yet.
Into the bedroom he goes, and his talk — or rather
his shouting — from there is muffled by the
changing of vest and shirt, and punctuated
by the tying of ties and slipping in of studs
and the brushing of hair, lona, left
alone, twists discontentedly about the roojn.
LONA. Are you really going to change.?
115
ANATOL
ANATOL. I couldn't go to a wedding like this,
could I?
LONA. Must you go ?
ANATOL. Don't let's begin it all over again.
LONA. I shall see you this evening?
ANATOL. After the theatre.
LONA. Don't be late.
ANATOL Iblandlt/^. Late! Why should I be late?
LONA. You kept me waiting an hour once.
ANATOL. Did I? I dare say I did.
LONA is still on the prowl.
LONA. Anatol . . . you've got a new picture.
ANATOL. Yes ... do you like it?
LONA. What do I know about pictures?
ANATOL. It's quite a good one.
LONA. Did you bring it back with you?
ANATOL l^puzzled^. Bring it back!
LONA. From Avhere you went away to.
ANATOL. Of course . . . from where I went away
to ! No ... it was a present.
Silence for a moment. A shade of half-angry
<i^ cunning falls on lona's face.
LONA. Anatol.
ANATOL. What is it?
LONA. Where did you go?
ANATOL. I told you.
LONA. You didn't.
ANATOL. I did . . . last night.
LONA. I've forgotten.
ANATOL. I went to Bohemia.
LONA. Why Bohemia?
116
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL. Why not?
LONA. Were you shooting?
ANATOL. Yes . . . rabbits.
LONA. For three months?
ANATOL. Every day.
It sounds as if he were rearing slightly under
this spur of cross-examination.
LONA. Why didn't you come and say good-bye to
me before you went?
ANATOL. I just thought I wouldu't.
LONA. Tried to give me the shp, didn't you?
ANATOL [ironically bland^. No . . . no . . . no . . .
no . . . no . . .
LONA. You did try once.
ANATOL. I tried.
LONA [sharply^. What's that?
ANATOL. I said I t r i e d. I tried hard . . . but
it didn't come off.
LONA. I should think not . . . and it's not likely to.
ANATOL. Ha ha !
LONA. What did you say?
ANATOL. I said Ha ha.
LONA. It isn't funny. Glad enough to come back
to me that time . . . weren't you ?
ANATOL. That time.
LONA. So you are this time. Just a little bit in
love with me . . . aren't you ?
ANATOL. Worse luck.
LONA. What?
ANATOL. Worse luck.
117
^
ANATOL
LONA. Yes . . . shout it from the next room. You
dare say that to my face?
ANATOL sticks vouud the door a head undergo-
ing a hairbrush.
ANATOL. Worse luck !
LONA makes for it, but it disappears and the
door closes. She calls through the crack.
LONA. What do you mean by that, Anatol?
It is getting to be rather angry chaff, this.
ANATOL. Things can't go on hke this for ever.
LONA. What?
ANATOL. They can't go on for ever.
LONA. Can't they? Ha ha!
ANATOL. What?
LONA, with some violence, tugs the door open.
LONA. I said Ha ha.
ANATOL. Shut the door . . . shut the door.
He slams it to.
LONA. No, my darhng . . . you don't get rid of me
in a hurry.
ANATOL. Think not?
LONA. I'm sure not.
ANATOL. Quite sure?
LONA. Quite . . . quite . . . quite sure.
ANATOL. You can't hang round my neck for ever.
LONA. We'll see about that.
ANATOL. Don't you be silly.
LONA. Do you see me giving you up?
ANATOL. When you can't help it.
LONA. When will that be?
118
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL. When I get married.
The lady, whose eyes are 'flashing now, begins
to drum the door with her fingers.
LONA. And when will that be . . . my precious ?
ANATOL [^unkindly mimicking^. Soon . . . my pre-
cious.
liONA. How soon.P
The drumming grows louder.
ANATOL. Don't bang on the door. This time
next year I may be quite an old married man.
LONA. Fool!
ANATOL. Suppose I get married in a month or
two.'*
LONA. Some one simply waiting to marry you?
ANATOL. There is . . . at this very moment.
LONA. In a month or two.?
ANATOL. Or even less.
LONA laughs with great derision.
ANATOL. You needn't laugh. I'll be married in a
week.
LONA still laughs.
ANATOL. You needn't laugh, Lona !
LONA tumbles herself on the sofa, she is laughing
so much. And then anatol walks in, sprucely
dressed: coated, hatted, and gloved for his
wedding; very self-possessed, moreover, now.
ANATOL. I said you need not laugh.
LONA. When are you going to be married.''
ANATOL. At half-past twelve.
She stops very short in her laughter.
LONA. What.?
119
ANATOL
ANATOi,. At half-past twelve, my dear.
LONA. Anatol, don't be silly.
ANATOL,. I am perfectly serious. I am going to
be married at half-past twelve to-day.
By this she is taking it in and her hreath is
leaving her.
LONA. Are you . . . ?
ANATOL. Franz !
FRANZ is at the door,
FRANZ, Sir?
ANATOL. Bring those flowers.
LONA. Anatol . . . !
FRANZ brings in the orange blossoms which were
not sent back, lona understands now. She
makes a grab at them, franz is too quick
for her and secures them to anatol, and then
departs again, suppressing a grin.
lona. It's true.
anatol [coolly^. Quite.
But LONA is not to be conquered with coolness
now. It seems that she is endowed with the
very rare faculty of losing her temper. She
suddenly makes for anatol and the bouquet
with such complete abandonment of the con-
ventions of civilisation that, with no manly
dignity at all, he bolts from her.
anatol. What are you up to .''
lona. You beast . . . you beast.
IVs the bouquet seems most to excite her and it's
that she''s after, anatol, other methods of de-
fending it failing, jumps on a chair at last
120
THE WEDDING MORNING
and holds it above his head, at which moment
MAX arrives back dressed for the wedding
too and with his bouquet: pink roses.
ANATOL. Here . . . Max . . . help !
The ever-obliging max incautiously comes near.
Pink roses are better than nothing to lona, and
with one snatch she has them from him and
with half-a-dozen pulls she has them in pieces
and under her stamping feet, max is in agony.
MAX. Lona . . . don't do it ! It's my bouquet !
\^He surveys the wreckage. '\ Well . . . now what shall
I do?
The lady having sated her natural lust for the
destruction of something — anything; bursts
into violent tears, and abandons herself to the
sofa. ANATOL. addresses the situation, still
standing on the chair.
ANATOL. Oh . . . she has been riling me ! Now
start crying, of course. I told you not to laugh!
Said I daren't run away from her . . . said I daren't
get married. So now I shall . . . just to spite her.
In pursuance of which he gets off the chair. But
LONA has another fit of fury , . .
LONA. Sneak ! Liar !
So on he gets again. Again she turrhles down
exhausted. Poor Max meanwhile collects
the remnants of the roses.
MAX. I say . . . look at my flowers.
LONA. I thought it was his. I don't care. You're
as bad as he is!
121
ANATOL
ANATOL. Do be reasonable.
LONA [flinging' her wrongs to 'heaven'\. Reasonable!
When you treat me like this ! But you wait ! I'll
show you ! You'll see !
She jumps up and makes for the door. By good
luck MAX is in the way.
ANATOL. Where are you going. ?
LONA. You'll soon see. You let me go!
MAX [his hack to the door and holding tight to the
handle^. Lona . . . what are you up to.?
LONA. You let me go! You let me go!
ANATOL. Be reasonable.
liONA. You won't . . . won't you !
She then proceeds to wreck the room. The tea-
pot goes into the fire and the teacups out of
the window. The table goes over and so do
the chairs. A cigar box smashes the new
picture and cushions fly around, max and
ANATOL do nothing. What can they do?
Her work accomplished, the lady has vio-
lent hysterics. When the tumult has a little
subsided says anatol . . .
ANATOL. Oh ... I say ! Why get married when
you can have all the comforts of home without it.f*
And they gaze at the patient awhile.
ANATOL. She's getting quieter.
max. But we must go. And look at my flowers!
FRANZ comes in to announce . . .
FRANZ. The carriage is at the door, sir.
And goes out again.
122
THE WEDDING MORNING
ANATOL. The carriage! What am I to do?
He sits beside the sobbing lona and takes her
hand, max sits on the other side, and takes
her other hand.
MAX. Lona ! \_he adds over the top of her head to
anatol]. Go along . . . I'll put it right somehow.
ANATOi,. I really must. Poor girl ... I can't . . .
He is obviously melting towards the sobbing lona.
MAX. You go along.
ANATOL. Are you sure you can manage her.?
MAX. Yes . . . I'll follow you. Watch me when I
get there. I'll wink if it's all right.
ANATOL. I don't like it . . . poor child. She
might . . .
MAX envisages new complications.
MAX. Will you go ?
ANATOL. I'd better!
He gets to the door. His heart melts again
towards the poor thing who has indeed in the
last few minutes sacrificed much to her love
for him. He comes back and kisses the top
of her head. Then he goes to his wedding.
MAX, left alone with her, perseveringly
strokes the hand he holds. She sobs on.
MAX. Ahum !
liONA looks up.
LONA. Where's he gone.''
MAX [securing the other hand^. Now . . . Lona!
Only just in time, for she jumps up.
LONA. Where's he gone?
MAX. You'd never catch him.
123
ANATOL
LONA. Yes, I win.
MAX. Lona . . . you don't want to make a scandal.
LONA. Yes, I do. Where is the wedding .f*
MAX. Never mind.
She tries to pull away.
LONA. I'm going there !
MAX. No, you're not. What good would it do?
LONA. To be treated like this !
MAX. Doesn't it always happen.?
LONA. Be quiet with your beastly philosophy.
MAX. If you weren't in such a temper you'd see
that you'd only get laughed at for your pains.
LONA l^viciouslij^. On the wrong side of their
mouths !
MAX. Think now . . . there are lots of good fish in
the sea.
LONA. That shows how much you know about me.
MAX. Suppose he were dead or gone abroad ? Sup-
pose you'd really lost him . . . and no help for it.
LONA. What d'you mean by that?
MAX. It's not so much you that he's treating
badly . . . Suppose he leaves her some day . . . !
Wait and see.
She has calmed a little to the influence of his
smooth voice. And now her face lights up
with the wildest triumphant happiness.
LONA. Oh ... if I thought he would !
MAX lets her go.
MAX. That's nice of you.
LONA. Let me just get a bit of my own back!
MAX. Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.
124
THE WEDDING MORNING
LONA. No, it doesn't . . . does it?
MAX. That is heroic of you. And while you're
waiting, can't you avenge your whole sex on every
man you meet.''
LONA. I will.
She is restored to sanity and self-respect, max
looks at his watch rather anxiously.
max. Now I've just time to take you home in a
cab. [^He adds half to himself.^ If I don't . . .
catastrophe for sure ! [^He offers her his arm. ^ Say
good-bye to this happy home.
LONA. Not good-bye.
MAX. Till you come back a goddess of vengeance
. . . though you're really a rather silly woman. Not
but what that answers the purpose as a rule.
LONA. For the present. . . .
Most dramatically, with flashing eyes and curl-
ing lip she goes off with him, leaving the
wrecked room.
125
^
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
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This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
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1911
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