In that case, I shall have an additional weight to carry, when it often
seems to me the one I have is too heavy to be borne.
TANNER.
Go on—speak.
[_There is a pause while each man seems to gather himself
together. TANNER seats himself, right desk._]
ROBERTS.
It is very extraordinary for me to find myself bidden to speak at my
own solicitation, of matters which a half-hour since I should have said
would be forever hidden, yet when one has upon one’s mind, day and night,
waking and sleeping, one all-pervading thought, silence becomes an
unbearable torment. Under such circumstances, even the dumb must speak.
TANNER.
I understand—go on.
ROBERTS.
In spite of our grim words just now, demanding and denying, something in
you makes me willing to speak. May I ask you one question?
TANNER.
Yes, with the provision I need not answer it.
ROBERTS.
You would not allow me to use the words “my wife.” Did your knowledge
come from her?
TANNER.
During the time I knew her, you mean?
[_ROBERTS bows his head in assent._]
TANNER.
No, it did not.
ROBERTS.
[_Springing from his chair, threateningly._]
What was there between you? Tell me!
TANNER.
To use your own term, you have no right to ask me that.
ROBERTS.
O God, don’t hurl that at me over and over again. [_He goes to back of
stage._]
TANNER.
You were going to tell me a story?
ROBERTS.
Yes, I was, and I will. Forgive me—I’ll not lose my self-control again.
[_There is a short pause during which ROBERTS makes an effort for
calmness, and TANNER watches him quietly._] We were married eighteen
years ago. She was nineteen, I thirty. We had known each other only a few
months. She cared for me then—I know she did—I know it. For a few years
there was happiness. There were the boys. She seemed absorbed in them.
They were sturdy chaps. Then they went to school. That was five years
ago. It was ghastly—not having them. For a long time we had not been much
together. I never asked myself if she was happy. She seemed so. I suppose
I wasn’t particularly, but I hadn’t time to think about it. I was away a
good deal. We never seemed to have much to say to each other. She told me
once that never in our whole married life had I asked her what she was
thinking about. It only came back to me, afterwards—what she meant, I
mean. I suppose she was lonely. [_TANNER bows his head in acquiescence.
ROBERTS looks at him and sees he understands._] Well, after the boys
went away there came a kind of crisis. Nothing definite. We never said
anything to each other about our own situation. Gradually we had become
entirely separated. I thought I had better get away. A friend was going
to Italy, so I proposed to join him. She urged my going, saying I needed
a holiday and that she was perfectly well. I was anxious at first, but
her letters came regularly and sounded cheerful. I stayed abroad almost a
year, first in Italy and Greece, then to India, then back to Italy. I was
in London, wondering whether to come home or go back to the continent,
when I heard, not from her, but from an acquaintance I ran into, that she
was ill. A great longing came over me to see her—to take care of her. Why
had she not told me? What was the matter? I cabled, and sailed at once. A
month after I got home she died.
TANNER.
[_After waiting a moment._]
I think I can understand. It’s a pretty tragic story, and, I imagine, not
an uncommon one. I fancy among people of our class, silence causes more
trouble than speech. May I ask you a question? Did you have any intimate
conversation with her before she died—about the past, I mean?
ROBERTS.
Yes, a little. I think she knew how I loved her. When I got home she
said she had been ill, but was better. Shortly after she had a trifling
operation from which she didn’t rally. She seemed to want to have me with
her—but—I couldn’t hold her—it was too late—too late!
TANNER.
A strange nature!
ROBERTS.
When I began to speak it was with the intention and hope of making you do
the same. As I think over the past, the difficulties she must have met
are clear to me. I have been very dull and blind. Speaking about these
things has been a relief. Everything seems plainer to me now. Mr. Tanner,
I want to say this to you, if you knew her, if your friendship made her
happier, why, I am glad.
TANNER.
I did know her, the winter you were abroad. We were a great deal
together. It was a rare friendship, a peculiarly vivid and stimulating
one for me. She had a rich nature full of surprises, and perhaps I may
have drawn from her more than had been demanded before. I am a taxing
friend, Mr. Roberts.
[_ROBERTS rises._]
ROBERTS.
I have given you my confidence, Mr. Tanner.
TANNER.
And I will be equally frank. If you still wish it, I will read the letter
to you, but I will warn you first that you will find it extraordinarily
painful.
ROBERTS.
That doesn’t matter now. Read it, please.
TANNER.
[_Taking out the letter from his pocket._]
I have never received anything in my life that has touched me more
profoundly. I am awed by it. I feel as if I should touch the very paper
with reverence.
ROBERTS.
May I have it? [_ROBERTS stands with his back to TANNER and with his arms
folded._]
TANNER.
[_Unfolds the letter slowly._]
The letter reached me only tonight by registered mail. I have been away.
There was a note from James Douglas. [_Reads._]
DEAR MR. TANNER:
I am discharging a sacred obligation in sending you the
enclosed. I need not tell you that the confidence given me is
equally sacred.
Yours truly,
JAMES DOUGLAS.
[Illustration: TANNER: YOU FORGET THAT I AM A NOVELIST]
ROBERTS.
I understand—go on.
TANNER.
[_Reading._]
Oh Jim, dear old Jim—I am so wildly happy tonight I must talk to someone,
and you’re such a good friend! If you were only here! Such a wonderful
thing has happened to me, Jim—such a strange, exalting, beautiful thing.
I did not know love was like this—I did not know anyone could be so
happy—[_TANNER glances at ROBERTS, uncertain whether he can go on, then
continues_] for I’m in love, Jim dear, in love, like a girl of eighteen.
There, I’ve said it and I dare say it again—I’m in love. I love him! I
love him! I love him! and if I must suffer all the rest of my life, still
I shall have known what love meant, for I never have, Jim—never.
I turn to you, my old friend, because I have no one else, no one to whom
I can speak, and that which is in my heart will not be held in. Oh, I
know it’s mad, wild folly. It will mean dreadful pain somewhere ahead—but
tonight, tonight is mine! and I can fling out my arms to the stars and
sing and shout with the joy and the glory and the beauty. We have been
together all day, talking, talking, talking, there was so much to say,
and now I can hear his grave voice, his sudden laugh—I can feel the
pressure of his hand as he said good-night. He is coming again tomorrow
and we are going to take our lunch and go for a long tramp, and for a day
the world, the whole wide world will be ours.
Oh Jim, I think I’ve been waiting for him all my life. I didn’t even know
I was waiting—I didn’t know I lived in fog and mist and darkness until
this great golden light burst in. Of course there’s pain to come—but
I’ll bear it, Jim. I can, because I’ve had these two days, and I won’t
cry out. I can be very still. I know there can be nothing ahead, nothing,
but I shall always be stronger, bigger, wiser and more tender because I
have known this. Oh Jim, I have been so lonely! The long days, the long
nights alone, always alone. They have been hard to bear. I shall go on
with my life, and, Jim—no one but you shall know what has come to be.
Shall I send this letter? I don’t even know where you are—I don’t think
I’ve been really writing to you. I’ve been writing to him. I wrote “Jim,”
and I meant “Horace.” I see that now—but he must never know, he must not.
It would make things too difficult, and that is all that you shall know
about him—just his name, but if I should die there would be no harm in
his knowing then, would there? I think he would be glad. I’ll put the
address in this little envelope and seal it and if I should die send him
this letter. It is more his than yours.
[_ROBERTS has listened without a sound, scarcely a change of
expression—motionless. There is a pause._]
ROBERTS.
I am glad—she had—those—two days. They weren’t much, were they? And I
never knew, I never knew—anything! Yet I loved her. She was the only
woman that ever came into my life. She knew that—at the end—knew how
deeply I loved her, I mean. She seemed glad to know it. She asked me once
if I had been happy, if she had made me happy—asked it with her eyes
fixed on mine. When I said yes she dropped back on the pillow. I remember
it so well, and I didn’t know, I didn’t know! [_He sits down._] Oh how
blind, how blind! You must have loved her dearly. If I had only known!
[_TANNER is silent._] You did love her? [_TANNER makes no reply._] Man!
you did love her?
TANNER.
We were great friends—
ROBERTS.
Yes, yes, of course, but—after that letter was written—what happened?
TANNER.
We saw each other often. I told you she was a wonderful friend.
ROBERTS.
But—but you loved her, [_rises_] didn’t you? She had a little happiness?
Tell me! Tell me! I must know.
TANNER.
What is love? We had some golden days together, then I had to go away—I
heard of her death when I was on the other side of the world. As I told
you, this letter reached me only tonight. I found it here.
ROBERTS.
You never knew that she loved you?
TANNER.
Sometimes I guessed—but it seemed so incredible—I couldn’t believe— We
never spoke—
ROBERTS.
Give me the letter.
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
You shall. It is not yours— You did not love her.
TANNER.
It is mine. It’s a wonderful letter— It is precious to me.
ROBERTS.
Why?
TANNER.
You forget that I am a novelist.
[_The two men stand facing each other._]
CURTAIN.
TEMPERAMENT
A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES
_Played for the first time on October 25, 1915, by Mr. BENJAMIN
CARPENTER, Mrs. CHARLES ATKINSON, and Mrs. ARTHUR ALDIS._
TEMPERAMENT.
A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES.
CHARACTERS:
HUGH IRWIN, _a Musician_.
ANNABELLE IRWIN, _his wife_.
GLADYS HUNTINGTON, _an Actress_.
TIME: _The present._
SCENE I: _Library of the Irwins’ house in the country,
simply and tastefully furnished. Black and white and rose
idea—one blue jar, etc. A piano closed and covered with an
embroidery—flowers about. An air of comfort and dainty luxury.
The time is ten o’clock of a winter’s evening. A wood fire
crackles behind bright brasses._
_When the curtain rises ANNABELLE is seated by the fire under
a rose-shaded lamp, sewing. Now she is plump and charming.
Later on she will be too stout. She holds up a child’s frock of
light-blue material and examines it critically, then pounces on
an unfinished spot and sets to work. HUGH IRWIN on the other
side of the room has been reading “The Nation.” He puts it down
once or twice and regards ANNABELLE over his eye-glasses as if
desiring to speak, in fact he gets as far as opening his mouth,
but, seeing her preoccupation, gives it up and attacks “The
Nation” with renewed determination. Finally he slaps it down._
HUGH.
Why in thunder don’t you say something?
ANNABELLE.
[_With five pins between her lips._]
Haven’t anything to say. Why don’t you?
HUGH.
Can’t you make up something?
ANNABELLE.
[_Pinning intently._]
In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling! Now I thought I had the
front part of that yoke—[_Her voice trails off in a soliloquy about the
intricacies of little girls’ frocks. Finally with a “ha” of satisfaction
she lays it in her lap and comes to._] What was that you said, dear? Make
up something! What a funny idea! You’re just like baby Gertrude! What do
you want me to say? I can’t think of anything. [_She looks longingly at
the frock and sneaks in another pin._]
HUGH.
You might tell me my faults.
ANNABELLE.
Your faults? Why, my dear! [_Pins more happily and frankly._] You haven’t
any! At least if you have I don’t see them. [_Her voice indicates she is
talking with the top of her mind._]
HUGH.
Good Lord! [_He takes up “The Nation” again, then drops it._] You mean I
have so many you can’t be bothered trying to enumerate them?
ANNABELLE.
No, no, not at all. Let me see. Sometimes, oh very rarely, but just
sometimes, I’ve thought if you could be a little tidier—not drop
everything about, anywhere; and then sometimes, since you’re asking me,
if I could know within an hour or so when you are coming to meals it
would be a little more convenient, in the housekeeping, you know. I mean,
of course, nicer for you; I don’t mind. That’s all I can think of—and of
course I wouldn’t have said anything unless you’d asked. Oh, Hugh, I’m
afraid I’ve been unkind. Have I? Oh do say I haven’t! It doesn’t matter
much about the meals, truly it doesn’t; just on your account, that’s all.
HUGH.
Always on my account! Always fussing about me! Good Lord! haven’t you
got any opinions of your own? Don’t you ever think of anything more
interesting than what to get for my dinner? Great Scott!
ANNABELLE.
But, Hugh, it makes me so happy to think about what you’d like for your
dinner! I know I have lots of faults, yes, of course I must have, but I
do try to be a good housekeeper, and I think I am. What other faults have
I got?
HUGH.
Hm! Faults! I guess perhaps it’s your virtues, then! There are too many
of them. They stick out all over you like pins on the pink pin-cushion in
the guest-room. In the first place, I’d like to know why you don’t grow
old. You’re too darn good-looking. You’re just as soft and pink and white
and dimpled as when I married you ten years ago. It’s outrageous!
[_ANNABELLE picks up the frock and purrs softly up at him with
an adoring smile._]
ANNABELLE.
Go on.
HUGH.
In the second place, you make me too damn comfortable. My clothes are
always brushed and laid out just right. If I don’t want to dress, they
vanish. Dinner is always ready any time, hot and delicious and too much
of it! Other people’s cooks leave, but ours are marvels and stick.
There’s never a sound in the house when I’m composing or practising. I
never know when the piano-tuner comes, but the piano is always perfect.
You never ask for more allowance, and the children never howl. But
what—what about me? It’s awful! I’m getting fat! And my music! It’s
getting fat, too. It waddles and clucks and cackles like a stuffed goose.
And my soul, it’s growing fat—too fat to soar. Oh, it’s killing me—it’s
killing me!
ANNABELLE.
[_Taking all the pins out of her mouth._]
Hugh! are you serious? I think your music is perfectly beautiful. You
know I do.
HUGH.
Perfectly serious. I’m stifled, I tell you. I’m gasping for air. You
smother me with comfort and ease and adoration. I’m dying of it, and,
what’s worse, the heart, the core, the essence of me, the music I might
have written! It’s dead too! Oh, it’s awful, awful! [_He paces the room
like a caged tiger._]
ANNABELLE.
[_Watching him for a while._]
I see, I see it all, and I’ve been trying so hard for ten years to make
you comfortable! Why didn’t you tell me before you didn’t want to be
comfortable? And what do you want me to do now? I’ll try to be different.
I won’t take so much pains keeping the meals hot and the children quiet.
I’ll do all I can.
HUGH.
Oh no, no, that isn’t what I mean. You’re adorable, of course, perfectly
adorable, but—if you could, Annabelle—I suppose it’s absurd to ask—but if
you could be a little more romantic, Annabelle—just a little, you know!
Do you think you could? Just now when I asked you to go out into the
great still whiteness out there, to feel the sting and the glory and the
beauty of the moonlight, to bathe in it, go mad in it, you said, “What!
in that slush in my slippers? Certainly not!” Now, that’s what I mean,
Annabelle. [_He wanders to the window and looks out at the moonlighted
lawn._] Oh, to think, to think! I might have written another Moonlight
Sonata!
ANNABELLE.
[_Folds up her sewing neatly and puts it in the work-basket,
picks the stray threads off of her dress, brushes her skirts
and folds her hands upon her stomach._]
Hugh, we must separate!
HUGH.
Good Lord!
ANNABELLE.
We must. I see I’ve made a great mistake. I wish you had spoken of it
sooner, but that can’t be helped now. I never meant to make you waddle
and cluck. I never meant to make your soul grow fat, I never did. I see
now I’m a kind of a barn-yard duck myself. I suppose you’re growing like
me and that is a very great pity. Hugh, I’m going home to mother.
HUGH.
But, Annabelle, you’re crazy.
ANNABELLE.
Oh no, I’m not. I always intended to do the right thing by your Art, and
I’ll do it now.
HUGH.
But I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I don’t, indeed.
ANNABELLE.
Very likely not, just this minute. You’ll feel the wrench a good
deal, I dare say, but you’ll be glad later because you’ll be terribly
uncomfortable and then you’ll make perfectly beautiful music.
HUGH.
You don’t mean you’re going for good?
ANNABELLE.
Well, I don’t want to spoil your career, do I? That’s what you said just
now, that your soul was dying because the dinner was hot—didn’t you?
HUGH.
No!
ANNABELLE.
Oh—well, perhaps I misunderstood, but I’m sure it was something like
that. Oh yes, I remember, you said your soul was getting fat. I’m awfully
sorry.
HUGH.
Annabelle, look here! I never supposed you’d go off half-cock like this.
I didn’t indeed. I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I just
want you to—to come out in the moonlight and be romantic. [_He laughs
foolishly and tries to take her hand._] To feel the beauty and the
romance and the joy. Can’t you see what I mean?
ANNABELLE.
Now, Hugh, let us have a clear understanding. You know I’d do anything
in the world for you, but oh please listen—if I walked right out there
in the wet in these slippers my feet would feel so horrid I couldn’t be
romantic, I just couldn’t. Do be reasonable. Can’t you see what I mean?
HUGH.
[_Stalking to the window and back again._]
Yes, I do see, and what I see is that you have no imagination. You had
better go home to your mother. We are not mates. Good-bye. [_He goes out
fiercely._]
[_ANNABELLE opens her mouth as the curtain falls._]
SCENE II: _(A year later.) A studio apartment in Greenwich
Village in New York. It has attractive things in it, screens,
embroideries, couch, but is most woefully untidy._
_Before, and as the curtain rises, HUGH is playing the piano
furiously. Arpeggios and runs dash from base to treble and
back again. Chords crash like thunder. Triplets and ringlets
and streamlets tinkle about on top, then rush downwards to
embrace the chords—a very tempestuoso glorioso of sound. He
stops once or twice to jot down a note on a score. He gets up,
rubs his stomach, and goes to some unwashed dishes on a table,
the remains of afternoon tea, pokes among them unsuccessfully
and then returns dolefully to the piano, first lighting a
cigarette. GLADYS appears suddenly through the curtained
doorway, back, and poses against the portières. She is tall and
dark and angular and sinister, with a certain BEAUTÉ DE DIABLE.
She is very smart and very decolleté, and she smokes a long,
thin Italian cigar. HUGH looks up and sees her, and weaves into
his theme passionate welcome. She smiles crookedly at him._
HUGH.
My Beloved! [_He reaches out one hand, which she takes, leaning towards
him._]
GLADYS.
You call that—music?
HUGH.
Yes, I call that music. Don’t you?
GLADYS.
Would you mind telling me how much longer you expect to keep it up?
HUGH.
Until I get this idea down on paper. Sorry you don’t like it. It’s my
piano! [_Bangs louder, then catches sight of her cigar._] Throw that
disgusting thing away!
GLADYS.
All right.
[_She does so, then takes his cigarette from his mouth and puts
it in her own._]
Ow wow! What a noise! [_Prinks before glass._] My ears!
HUGH.
[_Playing softly and beguilingly, and half chanting the
question._]
When do I get something to eat?
GLADYS.
[_Strolling around and stretching, dropping wrap on the floor._]
I dunno. I’ve had my supper.
[_Fearful discords on piano._]
HUGH.
[_To the accompaniment of chords of jealous gloom._]
You have? With whom?
GLADYS.
Jim took me to the Ritz after the show. What did you wait for? Guess
you can scare up something somewhere if you try. Isn’t there some
chocolate-cake over there?
[_She points to the tea-tray. HUGH goes on playing—motif—temper
and hunger._]
HUGH.
Chocolate-cake! Ye gods!
[_Jealous-temper motif. GLADYS unwinds herself luxuriously onto
the couch._]
GLADYS.
Say, Hughie!
HUGH.
Yes?
[_Basso profundo._]
GLADYS.
Did Old Grump take the Sonata?
HUGH.
No.
[_Anger motif._]
GLADYS.
Thought not. It’s rot that sonata! Little Hughie’ll have to try again.
[_Piano motif of temper and hunger plus wailing
disappointment._]
HUGH.
Woman! I’d like you to get me some supper, and get it P. D. Q.
[_Masterful chord accompaniment on piano._]
GLADYS.
[_Getting herself to sitting posture with astonishment._]
Me! Why?
HUGH.
Why? Because I’m hungry, that’s why—
GLADYS.
[_Cooingly._]
How funny! Hughie! Has the Oriental gone to bed?
HUGH.
Probably—at two o’clock in the morning!
[_Piano begins to wail._]
GLADYS.
No! Is it? And I’ve got to learn that part for eleven-o’clock rehearsal
tomorrow morning. Golly! Where’d I put it, anyhow? [_Searches about,
making the general untidiness worse. Finds MS. and curls herself up like
a cat to study. Hunger motif rises again on piano._] Shut up, will you?
HUGH.
[_Playing more softly and looking up at her once or twice,
opening his mouth as if to speak, then playing again, finally
ending with a bang._]
Why in thunder don’t you get me my supper?
[_Seeing she isn’t listening, he gets up and crosses to her. She glances
up vaguely, but hardly hears, as she is absorbed in learning her lines._]
Please pay attention to me! Your little Hughie! Please!
GLADYS.
Oh Hugh, this is a lovely part! I’ll be great in it—listen—[_Recites,
then stumbles, then goes on mumbling the lines. HUGH takes the MS. out of
her hands and casts it aside—then proceeds to make love to her._]
HUGH.
Oh come on now, be a good fellow. There’s a duck! Get me something to
eat. You know how I love you. Please! [_He lays himself down by the low
couch and puts his head in her lap, closes his eyes with a rapt smile,
murmuring “Beloved.” GLADYS twirls his hair in her fingers gracefully.
He catches and kisses her fingers. Then, seeing his eyes are closed,
she craftily reaches for her lines, while she continues petting him
absent-mindedly with the free hand._]
GLADYS.
Old Silly!
HUGH.
[_With his eyes closed._]
Gladys, I’m very happy, very, very happy, but oh I’m so hungry! Don’t let
my love die of starvation. Don’t! Won’t you please get me some supper?
GLADYS.
In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling. [_Goes on murmuring lines
and gesticulating. Finally she pats him so vaguely that she is patting
his nose._]
HUGH.
[_Opening his eyes._]
Good God—what are you doing?
GLADYS.
Learning my part. I have to, don’t I?
HUGH.
Learning your part! Ye gods! She’s learning her part while I starve! Oh
I’m so hungry! Hungry for love—hungry for my supper!
[_He dashes to the piano and plays starvation motif. Then there
steals in the motif of passionate pain, begging, pleading,
imploring. A wild medley follows, crescendo furioso. After a
few ineffectual efforts to make him stop GLADYS puts down her
MS. and listens judicially. Finally the music stops in some
Dubussy chords. One seems to expect it to glide into another
movement, but it doesn’t._]
GLADYS.
[_Regarding him with her head cocked and the cigarette bobbing
from her lips._]
Hughie! That hunger motif is perfectly great—it’s one of the best things
you do!
[_From now on the relative action takes place in the same part
of the stage as in preceding scene._]
HUGH.
[_Leaving the piano._]
That’s right! Make fun of my Art! Do you know what’s the reason I can’t
play better, the reason Old Grump won’t publish my stuff? Do you? Do
you? [_GLADYS makes a queer little face at him._] Well, I’ll tell you
the reason. It’s you. Do you hear? It’s you! You make me so damned
uncomfortable I never get a chance to write decent music. It’s all like
that! I’m always hungry, I’m always cold, I never can find my clothes.
When I want to be loved, when I need love, you go and study your part
behind my back! I tell you it’s killing me, just killing me!
GLADYS.
Are you serious?
HUGH.