_come out together on to the terrace._ MISS AMY _supports a well-shaped
head on one of the most graceful necks that ever issued from
Minneapolis. The eyes are dark, limpid, ingenuous; the mouth expresses
sensibility. She is twenty-two and the heiress of those ill-gotten
Toomis millions_. SIDNEY DOLPHIN _has a romantic aristocratic
appearance. The tailoring of_ 1830 _would suit him. Balzac would have
described his face as_ plein de poésie. _In effect he does happen to be
a poet. His two volumes of verse, "Zeotrope and 'Trembling Ears," have
been recognised by intelligent critics as remarkable. How far they are
poetry nobody, least of all Dolphin himself, is certain. They may be
merely the ingenious products of a very cultured and elaborate brain.
Mere curiosities; who knows? His age is twenty-seven. They sit down at
one of the little iron tables_, ALBERTO _they do not see; the shadow of
the trees conceals him. For his part, he is too much absorbed in
savouring his own despair to pay any attention to the newcomers. There
is a long, uncomfortable silence_. DOLPHIN _assumes the Thinker's
mask--the bent brow, the frown, the finger to the forehead_, AMY
_regards this romantic gargoyle with some astonishment. Pleased with her
interest in him_, DOLPHIN _racks his brains to think of some way of
exploiting this curiosity to his own advantage; but he is too shy to
play any of the gambits which his ingenuity suggests_. AMY _makes a
social effort and speaks, in chanting Middle Western tones._ AMY. It's
been a wonderful day, hasn't it?
DOLPHIN (_starting, as though roused from profoundest thought_). Yes,
yes, it has.
AMY. You don't often get it as fine as this in England, I guess.
DOLPHIN. Not often.
AMY. Nor do we over at home.
DOLPHIN. So I should suppose. (_Silence. A spasm of anguish crosses_
DOLPHIN'S _face; then he reassumes the old Thinker's mask._ AMY _looks
at him for a little longer, then, unable to suppress her growing
curiosity, she says with a sudden burst of childish confidence:_)
AMY. It must be wonderful to be able to think as hard as you do, Mr.
Dolphin. Or are you sad about something?
DOLPHIN (_looks up, smiles, and blushes; a spell has been broken_). The
finger at the temple, Miss Toomis, is not the barrel of a revolver.
AMY. That means you're not specially sad about anything. Just thinking.
DOLPHIN. Just thinking.
AMY. What about?
DOLPHIN. Oh, just life, you know--life and letters.
AMY. Letters? Do you mean love letters.
DOLPHIN. No, no. Letters in the sense of literature; letters as opposed
to life.
AMY. (_disappointed_). Oh, literature. They used to teach us literature
at school. But I could never understand Emerson. What do you think
about literature for?
DOLPHIN. It interests me, you know. I read it; I even try to write it.
AMY (_very much excited_). What, are you a writer, a poet, Mr. Dolphin?
DOLPHIN. Alas, it is only too true; I am.
AMY. But what do you write?
DOLPHIN. Verse and prose, Miss Toomis. Just verse and prose.
AMY (_with enthusiasm_). Isn't that interesting. I've never met a poet
before, you know.
DOLPHIN. Fortunate being. Why, before I left England I attended a
luncheon of the Poetry Union at which no less than a hundred and
eighty-nine poets were present. The sight of them made me decide to go
to Italy.
AMY. Will you show me your books?
DOLPHIN. Certainly not, Miss Toomis. That would ruin our friendship. I
am insufferable in my writings. In them I give vent to all the horrible
thoughts and impulses which I am too timid to express or put into
practice in real life. Take me as you find me here, a decent specimen of
a man, shy but able to talk intelligently when the layers of ice are
broken, aimless, ineffective, but on the whole quite a good sort.
AMY. But I know that man already, Mr. Dolphin. I want to know the poet.
Tell me what the poet is like.
DOLPHIN. He is older, Miss Toomis, than the rocks on which he sits. He
is villainous. He is ... but there, I really must stop. It was you who
set me going, though. Did you do it on purpose.
AMY. Do what on purpose?
DOLPHIN. Make me talk about myself. If you want to get people to like
you, you must always lead the conversation on to the subject of their
characters. Nothing pleases them so much. They'll talk with enthusiasm
for hours and go away saying that you're the most charming, cleverest
person they've ever met. But of course you knew that already. You re
Machiavellian.
AMY. Machiavellian? You're the first person that's ever said that. I
always thought I was very simple and straight-forward. People say about
me that.... Ah, now I'_m_ talking about myself. That was unscrupulous of
you. But you shouldn't have told me about the trick if you wanted it to
succeed.
DOLPHIN. Yes. It was silly of me. If I hadn't, you'd have gone on
talking about yourself and thought me the nicest man in the world.
AMY. I want to hear about your poetry. Are you writing any now?
DOLPHIN. I have composed the first line of a magnificent epic. But I
can't get any further.
AMY. How does it go?
DOLPHIN. Like this (_he clears his throat_). "Casbeen has been, and
Moghreb is no more." Ah, the transience of all sublunary things! But
inspiration has stopped short there.
AMY. What exactly does it mean?
DOLPHIN. Ah, there you re asking too much, Miss Toomis. Waiter, some
coffee for two.
WAITER (_who is standing in the door of the lounge_). Si, Signore. Will
the lady and gentleman take it here, or in the gardens, perhaps?
DOLPHIN. A good suggestion. Why shouldn't the lady and gentleman take it
in the garden?
AMY. Why not?
DOLPHIN. By the fountain, then, Waiter. We can talk about ourselves
there to the tune of falling waters.
AMY. And you shall recite your poetry, Mr. Dolphin. I just love poetry.
Do you know Mrs. Wilcox's _Poems of Passion_? (_They go out to the left.
A nightingale utters two or three phrases of song and from far down the
bells of the city jangle the three-quarters and die slowly away into the
silence out of which they rose and came together._)
(LUCREZIA GRATTAROL _has come out of the hotel just in time to overhear
Miss Toomis's last remark, just in time to see her walk slowly away with
a hand on_ SIDNEY DOLPHIN's _arm_. LUCREZIA _has a fine thoroughbred
appearance, an aquiline nose, a finely curved sensual mouth, a superb
white brow, a quivering nostril. She is the last of a family whose name
is as illustrious in Venetian annals as that of Foscarini, Tiepolo, or
Tron. She stamps a preposterously high-heeled foot and tosses her
head._)
LUCREZIA. Passion! Passion, indeed. An American! (_She starts to run
after the retreating couple, when_ ALBERTO, _who has been sitting with
his head between his hands, looks up and catches sight of the
newcomer_.)
ALBERTO. Lucrezia!
LUCREZIA (_starts, for in the shade beneath the trees she had not seen
him_). Oh! You gave me such a fright, Alberto. I'm in a hurry now. Later
on, if you....
ALBERTO (_in a desperate voice that breaks into a sob_). Lucrezia! You
must come and talk to me. You must.
LUCREZIA. But I tell you I can't now, Alberto. Later on.
ALBERTO (_the tears streaming down his cheeks_). Now, now, now! You must
come now. I am lost if you don't.
LUCREZIA (_looking indecisively first at_ ALBERTO _and then along the
path down which_ AMY _and_ SIDNEY DOLPHIN _have disappeared_). But
supposing I am lost if I do come?
ALBERTO. But you couldn't be as much lost as I am. Ah, you don't know
what it is to suffer. Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt weiss wass ich leide.
Oh, Lucrezia.... (_He sobs unrestrainedly_.)
LUCREZIA (_goes over to where_ ALBERTO _is sitting. She pats his
shoulder and his bowed head of black curly hair_). There, there, my
little Bertino. Tell me what it is. You mustn't cry. There, there.
ALBERTO (_drying his eyes and rubbing his head, like a cat, avid of
caresses, against her hand_). How can I thank you enough, Lucrezia? You
are like a mother to me.
LUCREZIA. I know. That's just what's so dangerous.
ALBERTO (_lets his head fall upon her bosom_). I come to you for
comfort, like a tired child, Lucrezia.
LUCREZIA. Poor darling! (_She strokes his hair, twines its thick black
tendrils round her fingers_, ALBERTO _is abjectly pathetic_.)
ALBERTO (_with closed eyes and a seraphic smile_). Ah, the suavity, the
beauty of this maternal instinct!
LUCREZIA (_with a sudden access of energy and passion_). The
disgustingness of it, you mean. (_She pushes him from her. His head
wobbles once, as though it were inanimate, before he straightens into
life_.) The maternal instinct. Ugh. It's been the undoing of too many
women. You men come with your sentimental babyishness and exploit it for
your own lusts. Be a man, Bertino. Be a woman, I mean, if you can.
ALBERTO (_looking up at her with eyes full of doglike, dumb reproach_).
Lucrezia! You, too? Is there nobody who cares for me? This is the
unkindest cut of all. I may as well die. (_He relapses into tears_.)
LUCREZIA (_who has started to go, turns back, irresolute_). Now, don't
cry, Bertino. Can't you behave like a reasonable being? (_She makes as
though to go again_.)
ALBERTO (_through his sobs_). You too, Lucrezia! Oh, I can't bear it, I
can't bear it.
LUCREZIA (_turning back desperately_). But what do you want me to do?
Why should you expect _me_ to hold your hand?
ALBERTO. I thought better of you, Lucrezia. Let me go. There is nothing
left for me now but death. (_He rises to his feet, takes a step or two,
and then collapses into another chair, unable to move_.)
LUCREZIA (_torn between anger and remorse_). Now do behave yourself
sensibly, Bertino. There, there ... you mustn't cry. I'm sorry if I've
hurt you. (_Looking towards the left along the path taken by_ AMY _and_
DOLPHIN.) Oh, damnation! (_She stamps her foot_.) Here, Bertino, do pull
yourself together. (_She raises him up_.) There, now you must stop
crying. (_But as soon as she lets go of him his head falls back on to
the iron table with an unpleasant, meaty bump. That bump is too much
for_ LUCREZIA. _She bends over him, strokes his head, even kisses the
lustrous curls_.) Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I have been a beast. But,
tell me first, what's the matter, Bertino? What is it, my poor darling?
Tell me.
ALBERTO. Nobody loves me.
LUCREZIA. But we're all devoted to you, Bertino mio.
ALBERTO. She isn't. To-day she shut the door in my face.
LUCREZIA. She? You mean the French-woman, the one you told me about?
Louise, wasn't she?
ALBERTO. Yes, the one with the golden hair.
LUCREZIA. And the white legs. I remember: you saw her bathing.
ALBERTO (_lays his hand on his heart_). Ah, don't remind me of it. (_His
face twitches convulsively_.)
LUCREZIA. And now she's gone and shut the door in your face.
ALBERTO. In my face, Lucrezia.
LUCREZIA. Poor darling!
ALBERTO. For me there is nothing now but the outer darkness.
LUCREZIA. Is the door shut forever, then?
ALBERTO. Definitively, for ever.
LUCREZIA. But have you tried knocking? Perhaps, after all, it might be
opened again, if only a crack.
ALBERTO. What, bruise my hands against the granite of her heart?
LUCREZIA. Don't be too poetical, Bertino mio. Why not try again, in any
case?
ALBERTO. You give me courage.
LUCREZIA. There's no harm in trying, you know.
ALBERTO. Courage to live, to conquer. (_He beats his breast_.) I am a
man again, thanks to you, Lucrezia, my inspirer, my Muse, my Egeria. How
can I be sufficiently grateful. (_He kisses her_.) I am the child of
your spirit. (_He kisses her again_.)
LUCREZIA. Enough, enough. I am not ambitious to be a mother, yet awhile.
Quickly now, Bertino, I know you will succeed.
ALBERTO (_cramming his hat down on his head and knocking with his
walking-stick on the ground_). Succeed or die, Lucrezia. (_He goes out
with a loud martial stamp_.)
LUCREZIA (_to the waiter who is passing across the stage with a
coffee-pot and cups on a tray_). Have you seen the Signorina Toomis,
Giuseppe?
WAITER. The Signorina is down in the garden. So is the Signore Dolphin.
By the fountain, Signorina. This is the Signore's coffee.
LUCREZIA. Have you a mother, Giuseppe?
WAITER. Unfortunately, Signorina.
LUCREZIA. Unfortunately? Does she treat you badly, then?
WAITER. Like a dog, Signorina.
LUCREZIA. Ah, I should like to see your mother. I should like to ask her
to give me some hints on how to bring up children.
WAITER. But surely, Signorina, you are not expecting, you--ah....
LUCREZIA. Only figuratively, Giuseppe. My children are spiritual
children.
WAITER. Precisely, precisely. My mother, alas! is not a spiritual
relation. Nor is my fiançée.
LUCREZIA. I didn't know you were engaged.
WAITER. To an angel of perdition. Believe me, Signorina, I go to my
destruction in that woman--go with open eyes. There is no escape. She is
what is called in the Holy Bible (_crosses himself_) a Fisher of Men.
LUCREZIA. You have remarkable connections, Giuseppe.
WAITER. I am honoured by your words, Signorina. But the coffee becomes
cold. (_He hurries out to the left_.)
LUCREZIA. In the garden! By the fountain! And there's the nightingale
beginning to sing in earnest! Good heavens! what may not already have
happened? (_She runs out after the waiter_.)
(_Two persons emerge from the hotel_, the VICOMTE DE BARBAZANGE _and the_
BARONESS KOCH DE WORMS. PAUL DE BARBAZANGE _is a young man--twenty-six
perhaps of exquisite grace. Five foot ten, well built, dark hair, sleek
as marble, the most refined aristocratic features, and a monocle_,
SIMONE DE WORMS _is forty, a ripe Semitic beauty. Five years more and
the bursting point of overripeness will have been reached. But now,
thanks to massage, powerful corsets, skin foods, and powder, she is
still a beauty--a beauty of the type Italians admire, cushioned,
steatopygous._ PAUL, _who has a faultless taste in bric-à-brac and
women, and is by instinct and upbringing an ardent anti-Semite, finds
her infinitely repulsive. The Baronne enters with a loud shrill giggle.
She gives_ PAUL _a slap with her green feather fan_.)
SIMONE. Oh, you naughty boy! Quelle histoire. Mon Dieu! How dare you
tell me such a story!
PAUL. For you, Baronne, I would risk anything even your displeasure.
SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind.... And you look so
innocent, too! Do you know any more like it?
PAUL (_suddenly grave_). Not of that description. But I will tell you a
story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story.
SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut
to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I'll tell you later.
But now, what about your story?
PAUL. Oh, it's nothing, nothing.
SIMONE. But you promised to tell it me.
PAUL. It's only a commonplace anecdote. A young man, poor but noble,
with a name and a position to keep up. A few youthful follies, a
mountain of debts, and no way out except the revolver. This is all dull
and obvious enough. But now follows the interesting part of the story.
He is about to take that way out, when he meets the woman of his dreams,
the goddess, the angel, the ideal. He loves, and he must die without a
word. (_He turns his face away from the Baronne, as though his emotion
were too much for him, which indeed it is_.)
SIMONE. Vicomte--Paul--this young man is you?
PAUL (_solemnly_). He is.
SIMONE. And the woman?
PAUL. Oh, I can't, I mayn't tell you.
SIMONE. The woman! Tell me, Paul.
PAUL (_turning towards her and falling on his knees_). The woman,
Simone, is you. Ah, but I had no right to say it.
SIMONE (_quivering with emotion_). My Paul. (_She clasps his head to her
bosom. A grimace of disgust contorts Paul's classical features. He
endures Simone's caresses with a stoical patience_.) But what is this
about a revolver? That is only a joke, Paul, isn't it? Say it isn't
true.
PAUL. Alas, Simone, too true. (_He taps his coat pocket_.) There it
lies. To-morrow I have a hundred and seventy thousand francs to pay, or
be dishonoured. I cannot pay the sum. A Barbazange does not survive
dishonour. My ancestors were Crusaders, preux chevaliers to a man. Their
code is mine. Dishonour for me is worse than death.
SIMONE. Mon Dieu, Paul, how noble you are! (_She lays her hands on his
shoulder, leans back, and surveys him at arm's length, a look of pride
and anxious happiness on her face_.)
PAUL (_dropping his eyes modestly_). Not at all. I was born noble, and
noblesse oblige, as we say in our family. Farewell, Simone, I love
you--and I must die. My last thought will be of you. (_He kisses her
hand, rises to his feet, and makes as though to go_.)
SIMONE (_clutching him by the arm_). No, Paul, no. You must not, shall
not, do anything rash. A hundred and seventy thousand francs, did you
say? It is paltry. Is there no one who could lend or give you the money?
PAUL. Not a soul. Farewell, Simone.
SIMONE. Stay, Paul. I hardly dare to ask it of you--you with such lofty
ideas of honour--but would you ... from me?
PAUL. Take money from a woman? Ah, Simone, tempt me no more. I might do
an ignoble act.
SIMONE. But from me, Paul, from me. I am not in your eyes a woman like
any other woman, am I?
PAUL. It is true that my ancestors, the Crusaders, the preux chevaliers,
might in all honour receive gifts from the ladies of their
choice--chargers, swords, armour, or tenderer mementoes, such as gloves
or garters. But money--no; who ever heard of their taking money?
SIMONE. But what would be the use of my giving you swords and horses?
You could never use them. Consider, my knight, my noble Sir Paul, in
these days the contests of chivalry have assumed a different form; the
weapons and the armour have changed. Your sword must be of gold and
paper; your breastplate of hard cash; your charger of gilt-edged
securities. I offer you the shining panoply of the modern crusader. Will
you accept it?
PAUL. You are eloquent, Simone. You could win over the devil himself
with that angelic voice of yours. But it cannot be. Money is always
money. The code is clear. I cannot accept your offer. Here is the way
out. (_He takes an automatic pistol out of his pocket_.) Thank you,
Simone, and good-bye. How wonderful is the love of a pure woman.
SIMONE. Paul, Paul, give that to me! (_She snatches the pistol from his
hand_.) If anything were to happen to you, Paul, I should kill myself
with this. You must live, you must consent to accept the money. You
mustn't let your honour make a martyr of you.
PAUL (_brushing a tear from his eyes_). No, I can't.... Give me that
pistol, I beg you.
SIMONE. For my sake, Paul.
PAUL. Oh, you make it impossible for me to act as the voices of dead
ancestors tell me I should.... For your sake, then, Simone, I consent
to live. For your sake I dare to accept the gift you offer.
SIMONE (_kissing his hand in an outburst of gratitude_). Thank you,
thank you, Paul. How happy I am!
PAUL. I, too, light of my life.
SIMONE. My month's allowance arrived to-day. I have the cheque here.
(_She takes it out of her corsage_.) Two hundred thousand francs. It's
signed already. You can get it cashed as soon as the hanks open
to-morrow.
PAUL (_moved by an outburst of genuine emotion kisses indiscriminately
the cheque, the Baronne, his own hands_). My angel, you have saved me.
How can I thank you? How can I love you enough? Ah, mon petit bouton de
rose.
SIMONE. Oh, naughty, naughty! Not now, my Paul; you must wait till some
other time.
PAUL. I burn with impatience.
SIMONE. Quelle fougue! Listen, then. In an hour's time, Paul chéri, in
my boudoir; I shall be alone.
PAUL. An hour? It is an eternity.
SIMONE (_playfully_). An hour. I won't relent. Till then, my Paul. (_She
blows a kiss and runs out: the scenery trembles at her passage._)
(PAUL _looks at the cheque, then pulls out a large silk handkerchief and
wipes his neck inside his collar_.) (DOLPHIN _drifts in from the left.
He is smoking a cigarette, but he does not seem to be enjoying it_.)
PAUL. Alone?
DOLPHIN. Alas!
PAUL. Brooding on the universe as usual? I envy you your philosophic
detachment. Personally, I find that the world is very much too much with
us, and the devil too; (_he looks at the cheque in his hand_) and above
all the flesh. My god, the flesh.... (_He wipes his neck again_.)
DOLPHIN. My philosophic detachment? But it's only a mask to hide the
ineffectual longings I have to achieve contact with the world.
PAUL. But surely nothing is easier. One just makes a movement and
impinges on one's fellow-beings.
DOLPHIN. Not with a temperament like mine. Imagine a shyness more
powerful than curiosity or desire, a paralysis of all the faculties. You
are a man of the world. You were born with a forehead of brass to
affront every social emergency. Ah, if you knew what a torture it is to
find yourself in the presence of someone a woman, perhaps--someone in
whom you take an interest that is not merely philosophic; to find
oneself in the presence of such a person and to be incapable, yes,
physically incapable, of saying a word to express your interest in her
or your desire to possess her intimacy. Ah, I notice I have slipped into
the feminine. Inevitably, for of course the person is always a she.
PAUL. Of course, of course. That goes without saying. But what's the
trouble? Women are so simple to deal with.
DOLPHIN. I know. Perfectly simply if one's in the right state of mind. I
have found that out myself, for moments come alas, how rarely!--when I
am filled with a spirit of confidence, possessed by some angel or devil
of power. Ah, then I feel myself to be superb. I carry all before me. In
those brief moments the whole secret of the world is revealed to me. I
perceive that the supreme quality in the human soul is effrontery.
Genius in the man of action is simply the apotheosis of charlatanism.
Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Mr. Gladstone, Lloyd George--what are
they? Just ordinary human beings projected through the magic lantern of
a prodigious effrontery and so magnified to a thousand times larger than
life. Look at me. I am far more intelligent than any of these fabulous
figures; my sensibility is more refined than theirs, I am morally
superior to any of them. And yet, by my lack of charlatanism, I am made
less than nothing. My qualities are projected through the wrong end of a
telescope and the world perceives me far smaller than I really am. But
the world--who cares about the world? The only people who matter are the
women.
PAUL. Very true, my dear Dolphin. The women.... (_He looks at the cheque
and mops himself once more with his mauve silk handkerchief_.)
DOLPHIN. To-night was one of my moments of triumph. I felt myself
suddenly free of all my inhibitions.
PAUL. I hope you profited by the auspicious occasion.
DOLPHIN. I did. I was making headway. I had--but I don't know why I
should bore you with my confidences. Curious that one should be dumb
before intimates and open one's mind to an all but stranger. I must
apologise.
PAUL. But I am all attention and sympathy, my dear Dolphin. And I take
it a little hardly that you should regard me as a stranger. (_He lays a
hand on Dolphin's shoulder._)
DOLPHIN. Thank you, Barbazange, thank you. Well, if you consent to be
the receptacle of my woes, I shall go on pouring them out.... Miss
Toomis.... But tell me frankly what you think of her.
PAUL. Well....
DOLPHIN. A little too ingenuous, a little silly even, eh?
PAUL. Now you say so, she certainly isn't very intellectually
stimulating.
DOLPHIN. Precisely. But ... oh, those china-blue eyes, that
ingenuousness, that pathetic and enchanting silliness! She touches lost
chords in one's heart. I love the Chromatic Fantasia of Bach, I am
transported by Beethoven's hundred-and-eleventh Sonata; but the fact
doesn't prevent my being moved to tears by the last luscious waltz
played by the hotel orchestra. In the best constructed brains there are
always spongy surfaces that are sensitive to picture postcards and
Little Nelly and the End of a Perfect Day. Miss Toomis has found out my
Achilles's heel. She is boring, ridiculous, absurd to a degree, but oh!
how moving, how adorable.
PAUL. You're done for, my poor Dolphin, sunk--spurlos.
DOLPHIN. And I was getting on so well, was revelling in my new-found
confidence, and, knowing its transience, was exploiting it for all I
was worth. I had covered an enormous amount of ground and then, hey
presto! at a blow all my labour was undone. Actuated by what malice I
don't know, la Lucrezia swoops down like a vulture, and without a
by-your-leave or excuse of any kind carries off Miss Toomis from under
my very eyes. What a woman! She terrifies me. I am always running away
from her.
PAUL. Which means, I suppose, that she is always pursuing you.
DOLPHIN. She has ruined my evening and, it may me, all my chances of
success. My precious hour of self-confidence will be wasted (though I
hope you'll not take offence at the word)--wasted on you.
PAUL. It will return.
DOLPHIN. But when--but when? Till it does I shall be impotent and in
agony.
PAUL. I know the agony of waiting. I myself was engaged to a Rumanian
princess in 1916. But owing to the sad collapse in the Rumanian rate of
exchange I have had to postpone our union indefinitely. It is painful,
but, believe me, it can be borne. (_He looks at the cheque and then at
his watch_.) There are other things which are much worse. Believe me,
Dolphin, it can be borne.
DOLPHIN. I suppose it can. For, when all is said, there are damned few
of us who really take things much to heart. Julie de Lespinasses are
happily not common. I am even subnormal. At twenty I believed myself
passionate: one does at that age. But now, when I come to consider
myself candidly, I find that I am really one of those who never deeply
felt nor strongly willed. Everything is profoundly indifferent to me. I
sometimes try to depress myself with the thought that the world is a
cess-pool, that men are pathetic degenerates from the ape whose
laboriously manufactured ideals are pure nonsense and find no rhyme in
reality, that the whole of life is a bad joke which takes a long time
coming to an end. But it really doesn't upset me. I don't care a curse.
It's deplorable; one ought to care. The best people do care. Still, I
must say I should like to get possession of Miss Toomis. Confound that
Grattarol woman. What on earth did she want to rush me like that for, do
you suppose?
PAUL. I expect we shall find out now. (PAUL _jerks his head towards the
left._ LUCREZIA _and_ AMY _are seen entering from the garden_, LUCREZIA
_holds her companion's arm and marches with a firm step towards the two
men_. AMY _suffers herself to be drugged along_.)
LUCREZIA. Vicomte, Miss Toomis wants you to tell her all about
Correggio.
AMY (_rather scared_). Oh, really--I....
LUCREZIA. And (_sternly_)--and Michelangelo. She is so much interested
in art.
AMY. But please--don't trouble....
PAUL (_bowing gracefully_). I shall be delighted. And in return I hope
Miss Toomis will tell me all about Longfellow.
AMY (_brightening_). Oh yes, don't you just love Evangeline?
PAUL. I do; and with your help, Miss Toomis, I hope I shall learn to
love her better.
LUCREZIA (_to_ DOLPHIN, _who has been looking from_ AMY _to the_ VICOMTE
_and back again at_ AMY _with eyes that betray a certain disquietude_).
You really must come and look at the moon rising over the hills, Mr.
Dolphin. One sees it best from the lower terrace. Shall we go?
DOLPHIN (_starts and shrinks_). But it's rather cold, isn't it? I
mean--I think I ought to go and write a letter.
LUCREZIA. Oh, you can do that to-morrow.
DOLPHIN. But really.
LUCREZIA. You've no idea how lovely the moon looks.
DOLPHIN. But I must....
LUCREZIA (_lays her hand on his sleeve and tows hint after her, crying
as she goes_). The moon, the moon.... (PAUL _and_ AMY _regard their exit
in silence_.)
PAUL. He doesn't look as though he much wanted to go and see the moon.
AMY. Perhaps he guesses what's in store for him.
PAUL (_surprised_). What, you don't mean to say you realised all the
time?
AMY. Realised what?
PAUL. About la belle Lucrezia.
AMY. I don't know what you mean. All I know is that she means to give
Mr. Dolphin a good talking to. He's so mercenary. It made me quite
indignant when she told me about him. Such a schemer, too. You know in
America we have very definite ideas about honour.
PAUL. Here too, Miss Toomis.
AMY. Not Mr. Dolphin. Oh dear, it made me so sad; more sad than angry. I
can never be grateful enough to Signorina Grattarol.
PAUL. But I'm still at a loss to know exactly what you're talking about.
AMY. And I am quite bewildered myself. Would you have believed it of
him? I thought him such a nice man.
PAUL. What has he done?
AMY. It's all for my money, Miss Grattarol told me. She knows. He was
just asking me to marry him, and I believe I would have said Yes. But
she came in just in the nick of time. It seems he only wanted to marry
me because I'm so rich. He doesn't care for me at all. Miss Grattarol
knows what he's like. It's awful, isn't it? Oh dear, I wouldn't have
thought it of him.
PAUL. But you must forgive him, Miss Toomis. Money is a great
temptation. Perhaps if you gave him another chance....
AMY. Impossible.
PAUL. Poor Dolphin! He's such a nice young fellow.
AMY. I thought so too. But he's false.
PAUL. Don't be too hard on him. Money probably means too much to him.
It's the fault of his upbringing. No one who has not lived among the
traditions of our ancient aristocracy can be expected to have that
contempt, almost that hatred of wealth, which is the sign of true
nobility. If he had been brought up, as I was, in an old machicolated
castle on the Loire, surrounded by ancestral ghosts, imbued with the
spirit of the Crusaders and preux chevaliers who had inhabited the
place in the past, if he had learnt to know what noblesse oblige really
means, believe me, Miss Toomis, he could never have done such a thing.
AMY. I should just think he couldn't, Monsieur de Barbazange.
PAUL. You have no idea, Miss Toomis, how difficult it is for a man of
truly noble feelings to get over the fact of your great wealth. When I
heard that you were the possessor of a hundred million dollars....
AMY. Oh, I'm afraid it's more than that. It's two hundred million.
PAUL. ... of two hundred million dollars, then ... it only makes it
worse; I was very melancholy, Miss Toomis. For those two hundred million
dollars were a barrier, which a descendant of Crusaders and preux
chevaliers could not overleap. Honour, Miss Toomis, honour forbade. Ah,
if only that accursed money had not stood in the way.... When I first
saw you oh, how I was moved by that vision of beauty and innocence--I
wanted nothing better than to stand gazing on you for ever. But then I
heard about those millions. Dolphin was lucky to have felt no
restraints. But enough, enough. (_He checks a rising tide of emotion_.)
Give poor Dolphin another chance, Miss Toomis. At bottom he is a good
fellow, and he may learn in time to esteem you for your own sake and to
forget the dazzling millions.
AMY. Never. I can only marry a man who is entirely disinterested.
PAUL. But, can't you see, no disinterested man could ever bring himself
to ask you? How could he prove his disinterestedness? No one would
believe the purity of his intentions.
AMY (_much moved_). It is for me to judge. I know a disinterested man
when I see him. Even in America we can understand honour.
PAUL (_with a sob in his voice_). Good-bye Miss Toomis.
AMY. But no, I don't want it to be good-bye.
PAUL. It must be. Never shall it be said of a Barbazange that he hunted
a woman for her money.
AMY. But what does it matter what the world says, if I say the opposite?
PAUL. You say the opposite? Thank you, thank you. But no, good-bye.
AMY. Stop. Oh! you're forcing me to do a most unwomanly thing. You're
making me ask you to marry me. You're the only disinterested man I've
ever met or, to judge from what I've seen of the world, I'm ever likely
to meet. Haven't you kept away from me in spite of your feelings?
Haven't you even tried to make me listen to another man--a man not
worthy to black your boots? Oh, it's so wonderful, so noble! It's like
something in a picture play. Paul, I offer myself to you. Will you take
me in spite of my millions?
PAUL (_falling on his knees and kissing the hem of_ AMY'S _skirt_). My
angel, you're right; what does it matter what the world says as long as
you believe in me? Amy, amie, bien-aimée.... Ah, it's too good too, too
good to be true! (_He rises to his feet and embraces her with an
unfeigned enthusiasm_.)
AMY. Paul, Paul.... And so this is love. Isn't it wonderful?
PAUL (_looking round anxiously_). You mustn't tell anyone about our
engagement, my Amy. They might say unpleasant things in the hotel, you
know.
AMY. Of course I won't talk about it. We'll keep our happiness to
ourselves, won't we?
PAUL. Entirely to ourselves; and to-morrow we'll go to Paris and arrange
about being married.
AMY. Yes, yes; we'll take the eight o'clock train.
PAUL. Not the eight o clock, my darling. I have to go to the bank
to-morrow to do a little business. We must wait till the twelve thirty.
AMY. Very well, then. The twelve-thirty. Oh, how happy I am!
PAUL. So am I, my sweetheart. More than I can tell you. (_The sound of a
window being opened is heard. They look up and see the_ BARONESS
_dressed in a peignoir of the tenderest blue, emerging on to the right
hand of the three balconies_.)
AMY. Oh, my soul! I think I'd better go in. Good-night, my Paul. (_She
runs in_.)
SIMONE. Has that horrid little American girl gone? (_She peers down,
then, reassured, she blows a kiss to_ PAUL.) My Romeo!
PAUL. I come, Juliet.
SIMONE. There's a kiss for you.
PAUL (_throwing kisses with both hands_). And there's one for you. And
another, and another. Two hundred million kisses, my angel.
SIMONE (_giggling_). What a lot!
PAUL. It is; you re quite right. Two hundred million.... I come, my
Juliet. (_He darts into the hotel, pausing when just inside the door and
out of sight of the_ BARONESS, _to mop himself once again with his
enormous handkerchief. The operation over, he advances with a resolute
step, The_ BARONESS _stands for a moment on the balcony. Then, seeing_
DOLPHIN _and_ LUCREZIA _coming in from the left, she retires, closing
the window and drawing the curtains behind her_. DOLPHIN _comes striding
in_; LUCREZIA _follows a little behind, looking anxiously up at him_.)
LUCREZIA. Please, please....
DOLPHIN. NO, I won t listen to anything more. (_He walks with an
agitated step up and down the stage_. LUCREZIA _stands with one hand
resting on the back of a chair and the other pressed on her heart.)_ Do
you mean to say you deliberately went and told her that I was only after
her money? Oh, it's too bad, too bad. It's infamous. And I hadn't the
faintest notion that she had any money. Besides, I don't want money; I
have quite enough of my own. It's infamous, infamous!
LUCREZIA. I know it was a horrible thing to do. But I couldn't help it.
How could I stand by and see you being carried off by that silly little
creature?
DOLPHIN. But I cared for her.
LUCREZIA. But not as I cared for you. I've got red blood in my veins;
she's got nothing but milk and water. You couldn't have been happy with
her. I can give you love of a kind she could never dream of. What does
she know of passion?
DOLPHIN. Nothing, I am thankful to say. I don't want passion; can't you
understand that? I don't possess it myself and don't like it in others.
I am a man of sentimental affections, with a touch of quiet sensuality.
I don't want passion, I tell you. It's too violent; it frightens me. I
couldn't possibly live with you. You'd utterly shatter my peace of mind
in a day. Oh, how I wish you'd go away.
LUCREZIA. But Sidney, Sidney, can't you understand what it is to be
madly in love with somebody? You can't be so cruel.
DOLPHIN. You didn't think much of my well-being when you interfered
between Miss Toomis and me, did you? You've probably ruined my whole
life, that's all. I really don't see why you should expect me to have
any pity for you.
LUCREZIA. Very well, then, I shall kill myself. (_She bursts into
tears_.)
DOLPHIN. Oh, but I assure you, one doesn't kill oneself for things like
that. (_He approaches her and pats her on the shoulder_.) Come, come,
don't worry about it.
LUCREZIA (_throws her arms round his neck_). Oh, Sidney, Sidney....
DOLPHIN (_freeing himself with surprising energy and promptitude from
her embrace_). No, no, none of that, I beg. Another moment and we shall
be losing our heads. Personally I think I shall go to bed now. I should
advise you to do the same, Miss Grattarol. You're overwrought. We might
all be better for a small dose of bromide. (_He goes in_.)
LUCREZIA (_looking up and stretching forth her hands_). Sidney....
(DOLPHIN _does not look round, and disappears through the glass door
into the hotel_, LUCREZIA _covers her face with her hands and sits for a
little sobbing silently. The nightingale sings on. Midnight sounds with
an infinite melancholy from all the twenty campaniles of the city in the
valley. From far away comes the spasmodic throbbing of a guitar and the
singing of an Italian voice, high-pitched, passionate, throaty. The
seconds pass_, LUCREZIA _rises to her feet and walks slowly into the
hotel. On the threshold she encounters the_ VICOMTE _coming out_.)
PAUL. You, Signorina Lucrezia? I've escaped for a breath of fresh, cool
air. Mightn't we take a turn together? (LUCREZIA _shakes her head_.) Ah,
well, then, good-night. You'll be glad to hear that Miss Toomis knows
all about Correggio now.
(_He inhales a deep breath of air. Then looking at his dinner-jacket he
begins brushing at it with his hand. A lamentable figure creeps in from
the left. It is_ ALBERTO. _If he had a tail, it would be trailing on the
ground between his legs_.)
PAUL. Hullo, Alberto. What is it? Been losing at cards?
ALBERTO. Worse than that.
PAUL. Creditors foreclosing?
ALBERTO. Much worse.
PAUL. Father ruined by imprudent speculations?
ALBERTO. No, no, no. It's nothing to do with money.
PAUL. Oh, well, then. It can't be anything very serious. It's women, I
suppose.
ALBERTO. My mistress refuses to see me. I have been beating on her door
for hours in vain.
PAUL. I wish we all had your luck, Bertino. Mine opens her door only too
promptly. The difficulty is to get out again. Does yours use such an
awful lot of this evil-smelling powder? I'm simply covered with it. Ugh!
(_He brushes his coat again_.)
ALBERTO. Can't you be serious, Paul?
PAUL. Of course I can ... about a serious matter. But you can't expect
me to pull a long face about your mistress, can you, now? Do look at
things in their right proportions.
ALBERTO. It's no use talking to you. You're heartless, soulless.
PAUL. What you mean, my dear Alberto, is that I'm relatively speaking
bodiless. Physical passion never goes to my head. I'm always _compos
mentis_. You aren't, that's all.
ALBERTO. Oh, you disgust me. I think I shall hang myself to-night.
PAUL. Do. It will give us something to talk about at lunch to-morrow.
ALBERTO. Monster! (_He goes into the hotel_, PAUL _strolls out towards
the garden, whistling an air from Mozart as he goes. The window on the
left opens and_ LUCREZIA _steps on to her balcony. Uncoiled, her red
hair falls almost to her waist. Her nightdress is always half slipping
off one shoulder or the other, like those loose-bodied Restoration gowns
that reveal the tight-blown charms of Kneller's Beauties. Her feet are
bare. She is a marvellously romantic figure, as she stands there,
leaning on the balustrade, and with eyes more sombre than night, gazing
into the darkness. The nightingales, the bells, the guitar, and
passionate voice strike up. Great stars palpitate in the sky. The moon
has swum imperceptibly to the height of heaven. In the garden below
flowers are yielding their souls into the air, censers invisible. It is
too much, too much.... Large tears roll down_ LUCREZIA's _cheeks and
fall with a splash to the ground. Suddenly, but with the noiselessness
of a cat,_ ALBERTO _appears, childish-looking in pink pajamas, on the
middle of the three balconies. He sees_ LUCREZIA, _but she is much too
deeply absorbed in thought to have noticed his coming_, ALBERTO _plants
his elbows on the rail of the balcony, covers his face, and begins to
sob, at first inaudibly, then in a gradual quickening crescendo. At the
seventh sob_ LUCREZIA _starts and becomes aware of his presence_.)
LUCREZIA. Alberto. I didn't know.... Have you been there long? (ALBERTO
_makes no articulate reply, but his sobs keep on growing louder_.)
Alberto, are you unhappy? Answer me.
ALBERTO (_with difficulty, after a pause_). Yes.
LUCREZIA. Didn't she let you in?