SCENE. Studio of Vivian. Simplicity run riot is the keynote: white
against white; white walls and little furniture. The furniture is
painted gray, Vivian's gray--really white.
TIME. The ultra-present.
(The curtain rises. For a minute or two the stage is empty. Then enter
Vivian, through the door at the back of the stage, the only door in the
scene. He wears the dress of the ancient Greeks and is evidently just
coming from the bath, as shown by his damp hair. In one hand he carries
a few narcissi, while with the other he tries to arrange the folds of
drapery, which seem to hinder his movements. He arranges one or two
flowers in a jar, before the "Nike de Samothrace," whispering: "Yes,
narcissi, truly like Grecian things." He drops the rest of the flowers
upon the floor, removes the robe and starts to comb his hair before a
small mirror. This mirror is set in the back of a large framed
photograph of the "Venus de Milo" that hangs near the door. Vivian turns
the Venus photograph to the wall and we see the small piece of
looking-glass. He finally rouges his lips as a finishing touch to his
toilet. Putting on a coat but retaining the sandals, he moves towards
the door; on the way he picks up a hat, which he puts on carefully. As
he nears the door a knock is heard and the door is opened. Vivian takes
on the look of being in the higher heights of thought. Two girls are
discovered in the door-way. One, Yvonne, says: "Bon jour." The second,
Alice: "Hello." Both enter. Vivian passes them in the door-way without
speaking and softly closes the door.)
VIVIAN (outside). I'm going out. (And more softly.) Wait, wait.
(The girls remove their hats. Yvonne sinks on the floor, in front of the
couch.)
YVONNE. Oh, I'm so tired. I painted for two hours yesterday.
ALICE (sitting on the couch). How you work--and you would have painted
again to-day, if I hadn't stopped for you, no doubt.
YVONNE. Well, I was thinking about it.
ALICE. Ridiculous! Do you think that Beauty can be contemplated
constantly? One either becomes blind or mad--you painted for two hours
yesterday--ridiculous!
YVONNE. I've seen nothing of yours of late. Don't you work; don't you
paint, I mean?
ALICE. I'm waiting, waiting. For days, months really, I have felt as
though--how shall I put it--as though the scales were about to fall from
my eyes; at moments like these, as you know, when I really see the
thing, I paint. Between times, I wait, I wait.
YVONNE. Couldn't you work and wait, too?
ALICE. No, I must save all my energy for these supreme moments, when I
see Beauty in its essence.
YVONNE. Then you really work less than I thought.
ALICE (in an awed voice). Yvonne, how can you! I work constantly. The
air is my canvas, my nerves are the brushes. I work? God, how I do work!
To contemplate, to wait, to dream, is not this work?