his head to get through the low casement. He spoke to the neighbour a
few moments and then sat down beside his sister-in-law.
He began to tell her that something would have to be done with Pauvla,
and added that they would have to manage to get her over to the
undertaker’s at the end of the headland, but that they had no means of
conveyance. Tasha thought of this horse because she had been thinking
about it before he interrupted and she spoke of it timidly, but it was
only an excuse to say something.
“You can’t catch it,” he said, shaking his head.
Here the neighbour broke in: “It’s easy enough to catch it; this last
week three children have stroked it—it’s pretty low, I guess; but I
doubt if it would be able to walk that far.”
He looked over the rim of the teacup to see how this remark would be
taken—he felt excited all of a sudden at the thought that something was
going to be attempted that had not been attempted in many years, and a
feeling of misfortune took hold of him that he had certainly not felt at
Pauvla Agrippa’s death. Everything about the place, and his life that
had seemed to him quite normal and natural, now seemed strange.
The disrupting of one idea—that the horse could not be caught—put him
into a mood that made all other accustomed things alien.
However, after this it seemed quite natural that they should make the
effort and Tasha went into the room where Pauvla Agrippa lay.
The boy had fallen asleep in the corner and Pauvla’s baby was crawling
over him, making for Pauvla, cooing softly and saying “mamma” with
difficulty, because the little under-lip kept reaching to the upper lip
to prevent the saliva from interrupting the call.
Tasha put her foot in the baby’s way and stood looking down at Pauvla
Agrippa, where her small hands lay beneath her fine breast with its
purple veins, and now Tasha did not feel quite the same resentment that
she had felt earlier. It is true this body had done something
irrevocable to Pauvla Agrippa, but she also realized that she, Tasha,
must now do something to this body; it was the same with everything,
nothing was left as it was, something was always altering something
else. Perhaps it was an unrecognized law.
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband had gone out to see what could be done with the
mare, and now the neighbour came in, saying that it would not come in
over the sand, but that he—the husband—thought that it would walk toward
the headland, as it was wont.
“If you could only carry her out to it,” he said.
Tasha called in two of her brothers and woke up the one on the floor.
“Everything will be arranged for her comfort,” she said, “when we get
her up there.” They lifted Pauvla Agrippa up and her baby began to
laugh, asking to be lifted up also, and holding its little hands high
that it might be lifted, but no one was paying any attention to him,
because now they were moving his mother.
Pauvla Agrippa looked fine as they carried her, only her small hands
parted and deserted the clef where they had lain, dropping down upon the
shoulders of her brothers. Several children stood hand in hand watching,
and one or two villagers appeared who had heard from the neighbours what
was going on.
The mare had been induced to stand and someone had slipped a halter over
its neck for the first time in many years; there was a frightened look
in the one eye and the film that covered the other seemed to darken, but
it made no objection when they raised Pauvla Agrippa and placed her on
its back, tying her on with a fish net.
Then someone laughed, and the neighbour slapped his leg saying, “Look
what the old horse has come to—caught and burdened at last.” And he
watched the mare with small cruel eyes.
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband took the strap of the halter and began plodding
through the sand, the two boys on either side of the horse holding to
all that was left of Pauvla Agrippa. Tasha came behind, her hands
folded, praying now to this horse, still trying to find peace, but she
noticed with a little apprehension that the horse’s flanks had begun to
quiver, and that this quiver was extending to its ribs and from its ribs
to its forelegs.
Then she saw it turn a little, lifting its head. She called out to
Pauvla Agrippa’s husband who, startled with the movement and the cry,
dropped the rope.
The mare had turned toward the sea; for an instant it stood there,
quivering, a great thin, bony thing with crooked legs; its blind eyes
half covered with the black coarse lashes. Pauvla Agrippa with her head
thrown a bit back rested easily, it seemed, the plaits of her yellow
hair lying about her neck, but away from her face, because she was not
supported quite right; still she looked like some strange new sea animal
beneath the net that held her from falling.
Then without warning, no-man’s-mare jumped forward and plunged neck-deep
into the water.
A great wave came up, covered it, receded and it could be seen swimming,
its head out of the water, while Pauvla Agrippa’s loosened yellow hair
floated behind. No one moved. Another wave rose high, descended, and
again the horse was seen swimming with head up, and this time Pauvla
Agrippa’s hands were parted and lay along the water as though she were
swimming.
The most superstitious among them began crossing themselves, and one
woman dropped on her knees, rocking from side to side; and still no one
moved.
And this time the wave rose, broke and passed on, leaving the surface
smooth.
That night Tasha picked up Pauvla Agrippa’s sleepy boy and standing in
the doorway prayed to the sea, and this time she found comfort.
[Illustration]
SIX SONGS OF KHALIDINE
_To the Memory of Mary Pyne_
The flame of your red hair does crawl and creep
Upon your body that denies the gloom
And feeds upon your flesh as ’t would consume
The cold precision of your austere sleep—
And all night long I beat it back, and weep.
It is not gentleness but mad despair
That sets us kissing mouths, O Khalidine,
Your mouth and mine, and one sweet mouth unseen
We call our soul. Yet thick within our hair
The dusty ashes that our days prepare.
The dark comes up, my little love, and dyes
Your fallen lids with stain of ebony,
And draws a thread of fear ’tween you and me
Pulling thin blindness down across our eyes—
And far within the vale a lost bird cries.
Does not the wind moan round your painted towers
Like rats within an empty granary?
The clapper lost, and long blown out to sea
Your windy doves. And here the black bat cowers
Against your clock that never strikes the hours.
And now I say, has not the mountain’s base
Here trembled long ago unto the cry
“I love you, ah, I love you!” Now we die
And lay, all silent, to the earth our face.
Shall that cast out the echo of this place?
Has not one in the dark funereal
Heard foot-fall fearful, born of no man’s tread,
And felt the wings of death, though no wing spread
And on his cheek a tear, though no tear fell—
And a voice saying without breath “Farewell!”
THE DOVE
PERSONS: │
AMELIA │_Sisters_
BURGSON │
VERA BURGSON│ 〃
THE DOVE— │_A young girl living with the_ BURGSONS
TIME—_Early morning_
PLACE—_The_ BURGSON _Apartment, a long, low rambling affair at the top
of a house in the heart of the city_.
_The decoration is garish, dealing heavily in reds and pinks. There is
an evident attempt to make the place look luxuriously sensual. The
furniture is all of the reclining type._
_The walls are covered with a striped paper in red and white. Only two
pictures are evident, one of the Madonna and child, and one of an early
English tandem race._
_There are firearms everywhere. Many groups of swords, ancient and
modern, are secured to the walls. A pistol or two lie in chairs, etc._
_There is only one door, which leads out into the back hall directly
back centre._
AMELIA BURGSON _is a woman rather over the normal in height, with large
braids of very yellow hair, done about a long face. She seems vitally
hysterical_.
VERA BURGSON _is small, thin and dark_.
THE DOVE _is a slight girl barely out of her teens; she is as delicate
as china with almost dangerously transparent skin. Her nose is
high-bridged and thin, her hands and feet are also very long and
delicate. She has red hair, very elegantly coiffured. When she moves_
[_seldom_] _the slightest line runs between her legs, giving her the
expectant waiting air of a deer._
_At the rising of the curtain_ THE DOVE, _gowned in white, is seated on
the divan polishing the blade of an immense sword. Half reclining to her
right lies_ VERA _in a thin yellow morning gown. A French novel has half
fallen from her hand. Her eyes are closed._
THE DOVE—Yes, I’m hurrying.
VERA—That’s best, she will be back soon.
THE DOVE—She is never gone long.
VERA—No, never very long—one would grow old waiting for the day on which
she would stay an hour—a whole hour.
THE DOVE—Yes, that’s true.
VERA—[_Wearily._] She says we live dangerously; [_laughs_] why, we can’t
even keep the flies out.
THE DOVE—Yes, there are a great many flies.
VERA—[_After a pause._] Shall I ever have a lover, do you suppose?
THE DOVE—[_Turning the sword over._] No, I suppose not.
VERA—Yet Amelia and I have made it our business to know—everything.
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—Yes. We say this little thing in French and that little thing in
Spanish, and we collect knives and pistols, but we only shoot our
buttons off with the guns and cut our darning cotton with the knives,
and we’ll never, never be perverse though our entire education has been
about knees and garters and pinches on hindquarters—elegantly bestowed—,
and we keep a few animals—very badly—hoping to see something
first-hand—and our beds are as full of yellow pages and French jokes as
a bird’s nest is full of feathers— God! [_she stands up abruptly_]
little one, why do I wear lace at my elbows?
THE DOVE—You have pretty arms.
VERA—Nonsense! Lace swinging back and forth like that, tickling my arms,
well, that’s not beauty——
THE DOVE—I know.
VERA—[_Returning to her couch._] I sometimes wonder what you do know,
you are such a strange happening, anyway. Well then, tell me what you
think of me and what you think of my sister, you have been here long
enough. Why do you stay? Do you love us?
THE DOVE—I love something that you have.
VERA—What?
THE DOVE—Your religious natures.
VERA—Good heavens!
THE DOVE—You misunderstand me. I call that imagination that is the
growth of ignorance, religion.
VERA—And why do you like that?
THE DOVE—Because it goes farther than knowledge.
VERA—You know, sometimes I wish——
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—That you had lived all we pretend we have.
THE DOVE—Why?
VERA—I don’t know, but somehow someone like you should know—everything.
THE DOVE—Do I seem so young?
VERA—I know, that’s what’s so odd. [_Impatiently._] For heaven’s sake,
will you stop polishing that infernal weapon!
THE DOVE—[_Quietly._] She said to me:
“Take all the blood stains off first, then polish it.”
VERA—There you are; she is quite mad, there’s no doubt. Blood stains!
Why, she would be afraid to cut her chops with it—and as for the rest of
her manifestations—nonsense!
THE DOVE—She carries a pistol with her, just to go around the corner for
a pound of butter.
VERA—It’s wicked! She keeps an enormous blunderbuss in the corner of her
room, but when I make up her bed, all I find is some Parisienne bathing
girl’s picture stuck full of pin holes——
THE DOVE—I know, she sits beside me for hours making those pin holes in
the borders of everything in sight.
VERA—[_With a strange anger._] Why do you stay?
THE DOVE—Why should I go?
VERA—I should think this house and two such advanced virgins as Amelia
and myself would drive you to despair——
THE DOVE—No, no, I’m not driven to despair——
VERA—What do you find here?
THE DOVE—I love Amelia.
VERA—Another reason for going away.
THE DOVE—Is it?
VERA—Yes, it is.
THE DOVE—Strange, I don’t feel that way about it.
VERA—Sometimes I think——
THE DOVE—Yes?
VERA—That you are the mad one, and that we are just eccentric.
THE DOVE—Yet my story is quite simple.
VERA—I’m not so certain.
THE DOVE—Yet you have heard it.
VERA—There’s more than one hears.
THE DOVE—I was born on a farm——
VERA—So you say.
THE DOVE—I became very fond of moles—it’s so daring of them to be in the
darkness underground. And then I like the open fields, too—they say
there’s nothing like nature for the simple spirit.
VERA—Yes, and I’ve long had my suspicions of nature.
THE DOVE—Be that as it may, my brothers were fond of me—in a way, and my
father in—a way—then I came to New York——
VERA—And took up the painting of china——
THE DOVE—Exactly. I was at that for three years, then one day I met you
walking through the park, do you remember? You had a parasol, you tipped
it back of your head, you looked at me a long time. Then I met Amelia,
by the same high fence in the same park, and I bowed to her in an almost
military fashion, my heels close together——
VERA—And you never did anything wild, insane——
THE DOVE—It depends on what you call wild, insane——
VERA—[_With great excitement._] Have you ever taken opium or hasheesh?
THE DOVE—[_As if answering._] There are many kinds of dreams—in one you
laugh, in another you weep——
VERA—[_Wringing her hands._] Yes, yes, once I dreamed. A dream in the
day, with my eyes wide open. I dreamt I was a Dresden doll and that I
had been blown down by the wind and that I broke all to pieces—that is,
my arms and my head broke all to pieces—but that I was surprised to find
that my china skirt had become flexible, as if it were made of chiffon
and lace.
THE DOVE—You see, there are many dreams——
VERA—Have you ever felt that your bones were utterly sophisticated but
that your flesh was keeping them from expressing themselves?
THE DOVE—Or vice versa?
VERA—Yes, or vice versa.
THE DOVE—There are many kinds of dreams——
VERA—You know, I’m afraid of you!
THE DOVE—Me?
VERA—Yes, you seem so gentle—do we not call you the Dove? And you are so
little—so little it’s almost immoral, you make me feel as if——
THE DOVE—As if?
VERA—Well, as if your terrible quality were not one of action, but just
the opposite, as if you wanted to prevent nothing.
THE DOVE—There are enough people preventing things, aren’t there?
VERA—Yes—that’s why you frighten me.
THE DOVE—Because I let everything go on, as far as it can go?
VERA—Yes, because you disturb nothing.
THE DOVE—I see.
VERA—You never meddle——
THE DOVE—No, I never meddle.
VERA—You don’t even observe as other people do, you don’t watch. Why, if
I were to come to you, wringing my hands saying, “Amelia has shot
herself,” I don’t believe you would stand up.
THE DOVE—No, I don’t suppose I would, but I would do something for all
that.
VERA—What?
THE DOVE—I should want to be very sure you wrung your hands as much as
possible, and that Amelia had gotten all there was to get out of the
bullet before she died.
VERA—It’s all very well, but why don’t you do something?
THE DOVE—A person who is capable of anything needs no practice.
VERA—You are probably maligning yourself, you are a gentle creature, a
very girl——
THE DOVE—If you were sensitive you would not say that.
VERA—Well, perhaps. [_She laughs a hard laugh._] What can you expect of
a lumber dealer’s daughter?
THE DOVE—Why are you so restless, Vera?
VERA—Because I’m a woman. I leave my life entirely to my imagination and
my imagination is terrific. I can’t even turn to religion for the
_prie-dieu_ inclines me to one thing only—so there you are!
THE DOVE—You imagine—many things?
VERA—You know well enough—sitting here day after day, giving my mind
everything to do, the body nothing——
THE DOVE—What do you want, Vera?
VERA—Some people would say a lover, but I don’t say a lover; some people
would say a home, but I don’t say a home. You see I have imagined myself
beyond the need of the usual home and beyond the reach of the usual
lover——
THE DOVE—Then?
VERA—Perhaps what I really want is a reason for using one of these
pistols! [_She laughs and lies back._ THE DOVE, _having risen, goes up
behind_ VERA _and places her hand on her throat_.]
THE DOVE—Now you may use one of those pistols.
VERA—[_Startled, but making no attempt to remove the_ DOVE’S _hand_.]
For such a _little_ thing?
THE DOVE—[_Dropping her hand, once more taking up her old position,
sword on knee._] Ah!
VERA—Why do you say that? [_She is evidently agitated._]
THE DOVE—I suppose I shall _always_ wait.
VERA—What is the matter?
THE DOVE—Always, always!
VERA—What _is_ the matter?
THE DOVE—I suppose I’m waiting for the person who will know that
anything is a reason for using a pistol, unless one is waiting for the
obvious, and the obvious has never been sufficient reason.
VERA—It’s all hopeless, I am hopeless and Amelia is hopeless, and as for
you—— [_She makes a gesture._]
THE DOVE—I’ve never held anything against hopelessness.
VERA—Now what do you mean?
THE DOVE—It doesn’t matter.
VERA—[_After a long pause._] I wish you danced.
THE DOVE—Perhaps I do.
VERA—It might make me happier.
THE DOVE—[_Irrelevantly._] Why don’t people get angry at each other,
quite suddenly and without reason?
VERA—Why should they?
THE DOVE—Isn’t there something fine and cold and detached about a
causeless anger?
VERA—I suppose so, it depends——
THE DOVE—No, it does not depend, that’s exactly it; to have a reason is
to cheapen rage. I wish every man were beyond the reach of his own
biography.
VERA—You are either quite an idiot, or a saint.
THE DOVE—I thought we had discussed that.
VERA—[_Dashed but not showing it._] Yes, a saint.
THE DOVE—[_Continuing._] I’m impatient of necessary continuity, I’m too
sensitive, perhaps. I want the beautiful thing to be, how can logic have
anything to do with it, or probable sequence?
VERA—You make my hair stand on end!
THE DOVE—Of course, that’s logical!
VERA—Then how is it you like Amelia? And how do you stand me?
THE DOVE—Because you are two splendid dams erected about two little
puddles.
VERA—You’re horrid!
THE DOVE—Only horrid!
VERA—Yes, I’m really afraid of you.
THE DOVE—Afraid?
VERA—For instance, when you’re out of this room all these weapons might
be a lot of butter knives or pop guns, but let you come in——
THE DOVE—Well?
VERA—It becomes an arsenal.
THE DOVE—Yet you call me the Dove.
VERA—Amelia called you the Dove, I’d never have thought of it. It’s just
like Amelia to call the only dangerous thing she ever knew the “Dove.”
THE DOVE—Yes, there’s something in that.
VERA—Shall I sing for you?
THE DOVE—If you like.
VERA—Or shall I show you the album that no one ever sees? [_She
laughs._] If we had any friends we would have to throw that book in the
fire.
THE DOVE—And you would have to clear the entry——
VERA—True. It’s because of that picture of the Venetian courtesans that
I send Amelia out for the butter, I don’t dare let the grocer call.
THE DOVE—You have cut yourselves off—just because you’re lonely.
VERA—Yes, just because we are lonely.
THE DOVE—It’s quite wonderful.
VERA—It’s a wonder the neighbours don’t complain of Amelia’s playing
that way on the violin.
THE DOVE—I had not noticed.
VERA—No, I presume not, but everyone else in the house has. No nice
woman slurs as many notes as Amelia does! [_At this moment_ AMELIA
_enters the outer room. She is wearing a cloak with three
shoulder-capes, a large plumed hat, and skirt with many flounces._]
AMELIA—[_From the entry._] You should come and see Carpaccio’s Deux
Courtisanes Vénitiennes now, the sun is shining right in on the head of
the one in the foreground. [_She begins to hum an Italian street song._]
Well, I have brought a little something and a bottle of wine. The wine
is for you, my Dove—and for you, Vera, I’ve a long green feather.
[_Pause in which_ THE DOVE _continues to polish the blade of the sword_.
VERA _has picked up her book_.]
AMELIA—[_Advancing into the room, shrugging._] It’s damp! [_Seeing_ THE
DOVE _still at work_.] What a sweet, gentle creature, what a little Dove
it is! Ah, God, it’s a sin, truly it’s a sin that I, a woman with
temperament, permit a young girl to stay in the same room with me!
THE DOVE—[_In a peaceful voice._] I’ve loaded all the pistols——
VERA—[_With suppressed anger._] Shined all the swords, ground all the
poniard points! Attack a man now if you dare, he’ll think you’re playing
with him!
AMELIA—[_In an awful voice._] Vera! [_She begins pacing._] Disaster!
disaster!—wherever I go, disaster! A woman selling fish tried to do me
out of a quarter and when I remonstrated with her, she said with a wink:
“I, too, have been bitten by the fox!”
THE DOVE—If you’ll sit down I’ll make some tea.
AMELIA—No, no, we’ll have a little lunch soon, only I never can get the
corks out of bottles.
THE DOVE—I can.
VERA—Rubbish! [_She gets up and goes out._]
AMELIA—Well, has anything happened since I went out?
THE DOVE—No.
AMELIA—No, no, it never does. [_She begins to walk about hurriedly._]
Aren’t there a great many flies in here?
THE DOVE—Yes, the screens should be put up.
AMELIA—No, no, no, I don’t want anything to be shut out. Flies have a
right to more than life, they have a right to be curious.
THE DOVE—A bat flew into the room last night.
AMELIA—[_Shuddering._] Some day I shall look like a bat, having beaten
my wings about every corner of the world, and never having hung over
anything but myself——
THE DOVE—And this morning, early, before you got up, the little
seamstress’ monkey walked in through the window——
AMELIA—[_Stopping short._] Are we to become infested?
THE DOVE—Yesterday the mail-man offered me some dancing mice, he’s
raising them.
AMELIA—[_Throwing up her hands._] There! You see! [_Pause._] Why should
I wear red heels? Why does my heart beat?
THE DOVE—Red heels are handsome.
AMELIA—Yes, yes, that’s what I say [_she begins to dance_]. Little one,
were you ever held in the arms of the one you love?
THE DOVE—Who knows?
AMELIA—If we had not been left an income we might have been in
danger—well, let us laugh [_she takes a few more dance steps_]. Eating
makes one fat, nothing more, and exercising reduces one, nothing more.
Drink wine—put flesh on the instep, the instep that used to tell such a
sweet story—and then the knees—fit for nothing but prayers! The
hands—too fat to wander! [_she waves her arm_]. Then one exercises, but
it’s never the same; what one has, is always better than what one
regains. Is it not so, my little one? But never mind, don’t answer. I’m
in an excellent humour—I could talk for hours, all about myself—to
myself, for myself. God! I’d like to tear out all the wires in the
house! Destroy all the tunnels in the city, leave nothing underground or
hidden or useful, oh, God, God! [_She has danced until she comes
directly in front of_ THE DOVE. _She drops on her knees and lays her
arms on either side of_ THE DOVE.] I hate the chimneys on the houses, I
hate the doorways, I hate you, I hate Vera, but most of all I hate my
red heels!
THE DOVE—[_Almost inaudibly._] Now, now!
AMELIA—[_In high excitement._] Give me the sword! It has been sharpened
long enough, give it to me, give it to me! [_She makes a blind effort to
find the sword; finding_ THE DOVE’S _hand instead, she clutches it
convulsively. Slowly_ THE DOVE _bares Amelia’s left shoulder and breast,
and leaning down, sets her teeth in. Amelia gives a slight, short
stifled cry. At the same moment_ VERA _appears in the doorway with the
uncorked bottle_. THE DOVE _stands up swiftly, holding a pistol. She
turns in the doorway hastily vacated by_ VERA.]
THE DOVE—So! [_She bows, a deep military bow, and turning goes into the
entry._]
THE VOICE OF THE DOVE—For the house of Burgson! [_A moment later a shot
is heard._]
AMELIA—[_Running after her._] Oh, my God!
VERA—What has she done?
AMELIA—[_Reappearing in the doorway with the picture of the Venetian
courtesans, through which there is a bullet hole—slowly, but with
emphasis._] _This_ is obscene!
CURTAIN
MOTHER
A feeble light flickered in the pawn shop at Twenty-nine. Usually, in
the back of this shop, reading by this light—a rickety lamp with a
common green cover—sat Lydia Passova, the mistress.
Her long heavy head was divided by straight bound hair. Her high firm
bust was made still higher and still firmer by German corsets. She was
excessively tall, due to extraordinarily long legs. Her eyes were small,
and not well focused. The left was slightly distended from the long use
of a magnifying glass.
She was middle-aged, and very slow in movement, though well balanced.
She wore coral in her ears, a coral necklace, and many coral finger
rings.