alike—there’s no contrast. If you knew anything about music you’d know
you have to have different movements to make up a symphony, different
moods. The calm of a sunset at sea—the stress of a great wind—dash of
the waves against the rocks, then peace again—a shepherd’s pipe in the
gloaming— Well, when do I get a chance to compose a pastoral in this
joint? It’s nothing but rows and nasty cold meals and hurly-burly and
chocolate-cake! I don’t get sleep enough—my digestion is ruined—my socks
have holes in them, bad holes— [_He kicks off his slippers and displays
two toes bare._]
GLADYS.
But, Hughie, you have me, think of that!
HUGH.
Yes, I know I have you, and I’m not likely to forget it! As a first aid
to a budding composer, you’re a regular scream! My soul is starving, I
tell you, starving, and it’s killing me, killing me! [_He slumps gloomily
onto the piano-stool._]
GLADYS.
[_Rising majestically._]
And what about me? I’d like to know where I get off? What about my soul?
A swell chance I’ve got to study my parts with you banging that piano
from morning till night! What do you take me for, anyhow? A nice little
Dickie-bird that’s got nothing to think about but your supper and your
socks? I’ve got my Art to think about—haven’t I? Why, five minutes ago,
when you knew I just had to learn that part, you sat there and banged on
the piano on purpose and then you came and dumped yourself down there!
Who was uncomfortable then, I’d like to know? And all you talked about
was food! You’re always thinking about food, always complaining there
isn’t any. Talking about your stomach when I’m learning my lines, my
great lines! You’re so unromantic—Hugh— You are, really!
[_HUGH looks startled. She has worked herself up to quite a
temper and now paces the room like an enraged panther._]
HUGH.
[_After watching her._]
I see, I see it all. I’ve made a terrible mistake. We are both IT, don’t
you see, and it won’t work. It will never work!
GLADYS.
What do you mean, Hugh?
HUGH.
[_Folds up his music, putting the scattered sheets in a neat
pile, arranges his hair and tie, then clasps his hands over his
stomach._]
Gladys, we must separate.
GLADYS.
Good Lord!
HUGH.
I don’t want to spoil your career. I’m going home to Annabelle.
GLADYS.
[_Making a panther spring._]
Never! You’re mine!
HUGH.
[_Disengaging her hands._]
I see that I’ve done you a great wrong. I always intended to do the
right thing by your Art, and I am going to do it now. [_A puzzled,
frightened look comes into his face as he speaks._]
GLADYS.
[_Clinging to him._]
Hughie, you’re crazy. I don’t want you to go home to Annabelle. I never
supposed you’d go off half-cock like this. I don’t want you to go. I
just want you to—to stop talking about food while I’m studying my parts.
It’s a beautiful play, Hugh. I die in the last act and I say such lovely
things! You’ve no idea what lovely things, and then you interrupt me
talking about supper when there’s plenty of chocolate-cake right there!
If you’d just be a little more romantic, Hugh. Don’t you see what I mean?
[_HUGH looks still more frightened and puzzled. He clutches his
forehead._]
HUGH.
[_Gathering himself together._]
Now, Gladys, listen. Let us have a clear understanding. You know I’d do
anything in the world for you, but if I stopped playing the piano while
you learned your parts, and while you slept, which is all morning long,
why, there’d never be any time to play at all. Do be reasonable. Don’t
you see what I mean? [_At his own last words the frightened look comes
into his face again._]
GLADYS.
[_Who has stalked up stage and folded her arms while he has
been speaking._]
Yes, I do see, and what I see is that you have no imagination. You had
better go home to Annabelle. We are not mates. Good-bye.
[_HUGH makes a wild clutch at his head with both hands and
flees, presumably to ANNABELLE. GLADYS stands with her mouth
open as the curtain falls._]
CURTAIN.
FOOTNOTES
[1] After Wm. McGinn.
[2] The play, “Diritti dell Anima,” translated by Edith and Allan
Updegraff under the title “Sacred Ground,” is published by Mitchell
Kennerley, New York, in the Modern Drama series. Application to Edwin
Bjorkman through the publishers should be made for permission to give a
dramatic presentation.
[3] From _The Century_, March, 1914.