Part 9
ELEANOR. You have a double line of life, and it is marked with a star.
ROSAMUND. What does that mean?
ELEANOR. It means that the man you love is threatened with a great disaster.
ROSAMUND. Oh! How dreadful! Is there no means by which it can be averted?
ELEANOR. There is one way.
ROSAMUND. What is it? Tell me quickly.
ELEANOR (_solemnly_). By an act of willing self-sacrifice on your part. That is to say, by your death--self-inflicted, of course. If you give up your life you will save your lover’s.
ROSAMUND. Oh!
ELEANOR. And you will go down to posterity as a devoted woman--a heroine.
ROSAMUND. Oh!
ELEANOR. But unless you perform this act of self-sacrifice at once, it will be too late. The danger is imminent.
ROSAMUND. What kind of danger is it?
ELEANOR. On that point the stars are reticent.
ROSAMUND. But tell me more about the--about him.
ELEANOR. About whom?
ROSAMUND. The man with ruby hair. Is he married?
ELEANOR. Yes, and hence the trouble. He is married to a high-born, noble, unselfish, generous, gifted, and beautiful woman--a paragon. But I am sorry to say, he has for a brief moment proved faithless to her in thought--it is only a temporary whim, of course; but even a passing infidelity--even though it be only an infidelity in thought--is at once visited by a just retribution. It is because of the infidelity that he is now meditating, that the vengeance of the stars pursues him, and that danger threatens.
ROSAMUND. It’s not true! His wife is horrible. She has driven him away by her cold, callous conduct. She’s a scold. She bullies him. She nags at him from morning till night. Besides which she’s very, very ugly, and dresses like a scarecrow.
ELEANOR. How dare you talk like that to me! On your knees, wretched minx!
ROSAMUND. I don’t believe you’re a fortune-teller at all. I don’t believe you know anything about it.
ELEANOR. You are right. I am no fortune-teller. I am the Queen. My name is Eleanor.
ROSAMUND. Oh dear! You’ve no business to come here. This is my house.
ELEANOR. Your house, indeed! However, I have not come here to waste my time. I have come, as I said before, on business. Here is a dagger, and here in this vial is an effective but entirely painless poison. I give you two minutes to choose which way you will take.
[_She places the vial and the dagger on a small table._
ROSAMUND (_crying_). Oh! Go! You frighten me.
ELEANOR. Now, do you hear what I say? Two minutes.
ROSAMUND (_kneeling and sobbing_). I can’t. Oh, please spare me! I will do anything; I will go away--anywhere--to a nunnery; but please spare me.
ELEANOR (_with tragic grimness_). One minute and a half.
ROSAMUND. Oh, I’m so young! I’m sure I never meant any harm. Spare my life. Have mercy!
ELEANOR. One minute.
ROSAMUND. Oh, you are cruel! I’m so young. Think what it is to be young.
ELEANOR. The time has elapsed. Now, which is it to be?
ROSAMUND (_rising and drying her eyes_). After all, why should I? (_She takes the dagger and the vial and throws them on to the floor._) I won’t take either. So there! You can do your worst. (_She calls_) Here, Margery! Rosalie! Topaz! Anselm! Richard! Thomas! Quick! Help! Murder! (_Margery and a bevy of servants rush into the room with torches and staves._) This fortune-teller has insulted me! Turn her out of the house at once!
ELEANOR. How dare you! I’m the----
ROSAMUND. Quick! Quick! Turn her out. She’s tried to poison me! If you don’t turn her out at once I’ll tell the King----
[_The servants turn out_ QUEEN ELEANOR, _who struggles violently._
ROSAMUND. Mind, Margery, if there should be any other visitors, I’m not at home.
CURTAIN.
XX
ARIADNE IN NAXOS
SCENE.--_A room in Ariadne’s house at Naxos. Discovered_: ARIADNE _and_ ŒNONE, _her attendant._
ARIADNE. When Theseus comes, show him in here directly. I am expecting Dionysus in half an hour. If he comes sooner, which he probably will do, don’t announce him, but show him into the dining-room, and then come in here and make up the fire so that I may know he’s there. You quite understand?
ŒNONE. Yes, perfectly.
ARIADNE. There is Theseus walking up the drive. Go and let him in quickly.
[ŒNONE _goes out._
[ARIADNE _arranges herself by a spinning-wheel, near a fire where myrtle-twigs are burning, in an attitude of simple, brave, and unaffected dejection. She rubs her eyes with a silken scarf to make them appear red._
_Enter_ THESEUS
ARIADNE (_smiling bravely_). It’s wonderful of you to be so punctual.
THESEUS. Yes, I----
ARIADNE. Sit down here. Or do you mind the fire?
THESEUS. No, I assure you.
ARIADNE. Are you quite sure you don’t mind the fire?
THESEUS. I like it, really.
ARIADNE. Perhaps you would like a screen?
THESEUS. No, I promise you.
[ARIADNE _rings a small silver hand-bell._
No, please don’t ring.
_Enter_ ŒNONE
ARIADNE. You may just as well have the screen. It’s there. Œnone, will you please bring a screen for the Duke? The fire’s so hot.
[ŒNONE _goes out._
ARIADNE. Would you like a little wine?
THESEUS. No, thank you, really; I never drink wine in the morning.
ARIADNE. There’s some in the next room, if you would like to have some.
_Enter_ ŒNONE, _bringing a screen, which she puts in front of_ THESEUS
THESEUS. Oh, thank you so much!
[ŒNONE _goes out._
ARIADNE. Is that right for you?
THESEUS. That’s perfect! (_With nervous decision_) I’ve come to tell you that I’m so sorry I was rude yesterday, and that of course I didn’t mean----
ARIADNE. When you get to Athens I want you to do something for me. Do you think you will have time? Do you think you could possibly remember it? It would be too heroic of you if you would.
THESEUS. Of course I would; but----
ARIADNE. It’s the most tiresome commission ... I want you to send me two pounds of Hymettus honey.
THESEUS. But I really wasn’t thinking of----
ARIADNE. Will you have it sent by the next messenger, care of the King, to Crete, and then I shan’t have to pay the duty?
THESEUS. But really, Ariadne----
ARIADNE. And you won’t forget to give your father a hundred messages from me, will you? I hope they’ve packed the Minotaur’s head properly. It would be a terrible tragedy if the horns were broken.
THESEUS. I haven’t had anything packed yet. I really----
ARIADNE. Œnone will help to pack for you. She’s a wonderful packer. (_She rings the bell._) She packs like an angel.
THESEUS. But my slave can do it; besides, I really want----
_Enter_ ŒNONE
ARIADNE. Oh, Œnone, I want you to go round to the Duke’s house later--when the doctor comes--and help to pack the Duke’s things; and at the same time you might see that the slaves pack the Minotaur’s head properly.
ŒNONE. Yes.
[_She goes out._
THESEUS. Ariadne, I must really tell you.
ARIADNE. Let me think: you will get to Athens the day after to-morrow. You won’t forget to let me hear what kind of a crossing you have. And you must take warm enough things with you. It’s always quite bitter on board that ship. But of course you’re a good sailor, aren’t you?
THESEUS. I don’t mind a long voyage, but sometimes just crossing the isthmus upsets me.
ARIADNE. I have got some wonderful stuff Æsculapius gave me. It’s quite harmless. You take one dose two hours before starting and one dose when you get on board; then you lie down; but you must eat nothing. It’s wonderful. It’s called _Asphodol_. I like the name so much, don’t you? You had better have the Minotaur registered straight through to the Piræus. Then you won’t have any bother at the other ports with the Customs. If you do have any tiresome bother, you can use my father’s name; I will give you the passport he had made out for us. I have scratched my name out, but that will not matter. I have always found them very civil in Greece. They let me bring in bushels of silk from Tyre. You must give my love to Hippolyta, if you see her. She’s not been well lately.
THESEUS. Really?
ARIADNE. No, poor darling! I’ve been rather worried and anxious about her. She’s been having that horrible neuritis again. I had a letter yesterday from Athens, saying that she had lost her buoyancy and had had to give up riding altogether! Isn’t it too terrible? She was such an inspired rider, wasn’t she? with those hands and that unerring judgment. I can’t imagine anything more ironical and more tragic; and they say she’s so brave about it. She would be, of course. Don’t you think people like that always surprise one by being a little better than their best in an emergency?
THESEUS. Yes.
ARIADNE. Don’t you think Hippolyta is the most straight and true character we have ever known?
THESEUS (_uncomfortable_). Yes, yes----
ARIADNE. And almost more beautiful than anybody?
THESEUS. Yes, she is beautiful.
ARIADNE. I love her straightness of line, and her strong capable hands, and that _magic_ cast in her left eye, which gives a kind of strangeness to her face, doesn’t it?
THESEUS. She is very good-looking.
ARIADNE. But don’t you think much more than that? Don’t you put her almost higher than anybody for charm?
THESEUS. I’d never thought about her like that.
ARIADNE. And then isn’t she quite unlike any one else? Doesn’t one feel absolutely certain with her, like one does with a perfect chariot-driver?
THESEUS. Yes, she has a very fine character.
ARIADNE. Almost more than fine, isn’t it? Something rare.
THESEUS. But, Ariadne, I really must----
ARIADNE. You needn’t go yet. You’ve lots of time to pack. Œnone will help with the packing. You don’t sail till sunset, do you? Because of the tide. I hope you’ve got the right pilot. The old man with one eye. He’s too charming. He’s my greatest friend.
THESEUS. Ariadne----
ARIADNE. I shall watch you from the hill. I shan’t come down to the quay because of the crowd--you might wave from the ship. You will be able to see me. I shall stand next to the clump of cypress-trees and watch the ship till she’s out of sight. There’s a new moon to-night, just as there was the first night you arrived at Crete. Do you remember how papa bored you by talking about astrology? And you were so angelically kind to him and patient. You bore it so well. It was like you. I don’t think you know how devoted papa is to you, and how much he will miss you.
THESEUS. Ariadne--please----
ARIADNE. You won’t forget to write and say whether the Minotaur arrives safely, will you? Because papa will simply be longing to know, and he’d be miserable if anything went wrong.
THESEUS (_getting up and knocking down the screen in his agitation_). Ariadne, I simply can’t bear this any longer. I must speak. You must and shall hear me. The whole thing’s a mistake--a nightmare. I swear I didn’t mean a thing yesterday. It was too stupid of me to--to say--I mean I didn’t mean--I mean I lost my temper--just like any one. Of course I didn’t mean, really.
_Enter_ ŒNONE. _She brings in a large bundle of firewood, which she throws on to the hearth_
ARIADNE (_getting up_). I’m afraid you oughtn’t to stay another minute now, or else you will miss the ship--Œnone will go with you and help you to pack. Good-bye, Theseus. It’s been too perfect, hasn’t it? I have loved it all so. You won’t forget the honey, will you? Two pounds. Now you’ll really have to run--and I have got the doctor coming in one second. Good-bye, Theseus, and my best love to your father and to dear Hippolyta if you see her. Œnone, please go with the Duke.
[ARIADNE _shakes hands with_ THESEUS.
THESEUS. But, really----
ARIADNE. I’m afraid I must fly. I hope you’ll have a perfect crossing.
THESEUS (_hopelessly_). Good-bye, Ariadne----
[_He goes out very sadly with_ ŒNONE _L. As soon as they are gone,_ ARIADNE _gently opens a door R. and calls:_ DIONYSUS!
_Enter_ DIONYSUS
DIONYSUS. Has he gone?
ARIADNE. Yes, at last, I think. Haven’t I managed it too beautifully? He was longing not to go away at all.
DIONYSUS. When does he sail?
ARIADNE. At sunset. Sit down. We’ve got millions of things to say, haven’t we? Do you mind the fire? There’s the screen there on the floor--if you do--
DIONYSUS. No, I love it.
CURTAIN.
XXI
VELASQUEZ AND THE “VENUS”
SCENE.--VELASQUEZ’S _studio._ DONA SOL, _a beautiful dark-haired lady, elaborately dressed in stiff farthingale, is sitting for her portrait._ VELASQUEZ _is standing in front of an easel, vehemently throwing paint on to the canvas with a large, long brush. In the corner of the studio is an open virginal._
VELASQUEZ. Are you getting tired?
DONA SOL. No, I never get tired of sitting; I’m so used to standing up at Court.
VELASQUEZ. Would you mind turning your head a shade to the left? Yes, that’s right.
DONA SOL. You will be careful about the nose, won’t you?
VELASQUEZ. Ah! you’ve a very wonderful nose from the painter’s point of view.
DONA SOL. They always exaggerate my nose--and I do so hate exaggeration, don’t you?
VELASQUEZ (_absently_). Yes.
DONA SOL. Shall I be able to see the picture to-day?
VELASQUEZ. I think so. It’s practically finished now. I have only got to finish that piece of lace on your left wrist.
DONA SOL. Shan’t you want another sitting?
VELASQUEZ. No--I----
DONA SOL. But Donna Anna had a dozen sittings.
VELASQUEZ. But she’s fair--I find fair people more difficult to paint.
DONA SOL. I can’t see what there was to paint in her at all. She’s all bones.
VELASQUEZ. That’s just it. I can’t get that lace right. Do you mind if I play a tune on the virginal?
DONA SOL. No; please do.
[VELASQUEZ _goes to the virginal and plays a wild, rhythmic dance._
DONA SOL. Is that Moorish?
VELASQUEZ. No. English. Quaint, isn’t it? It’s what they call a Morris-dance. Isn’t it charming?
DONA SOL. Yes. I love English music. It’s so uncivilised and fresh.
VELASQUEZ. Yes, they are a wonderfully musical people. (_He breaks off in the middle of tune._) I’ve got it. (_He runs to the canvas and flings a piece of white paint on to it._) Ah, that’s it. It’s finished.
DONA SOL. What, the whole picture?
VELASQUEZ (_with a sigh of relief_). Yes, the whole picture.
DONA SOL. May I look?
VELASQUEZ. Certainly.
[DONA SOL _gets down from the platform and walks to the easel._
DONA SOL. It’s wonderful, Velasquez; quite wonderful. I like it enormously. You haven’t quite finished the hands yet, have you?
VELASQUEZ. Yes, I think the hands will do like that. You don’t quite get the light where you’re standing. If you come here you’ll see better.
DONA SOL (_moving_). I think it’s wonderful. Only I should like the hands to be a little more distinct. The dress is beautiful, and so is the necklace. But you’ve made my blue ribbon look green.
VELASQUEZ. That’s the sun on it.
DONA SOL. But it isn’t green. It’s blue. Look at it. No amount of sun will make this blue into green.
VELASQUEZ. You see, the sun was full on it yesterday.
DONA SOL. I think it’s all perfect, except the nose. My nose is tip-tilted, and you’ve given me a nose like a potato. You _must_ alter that. I know my nose is difficult.
VELASQUEZ (_slightly darkening a shadow on the face_). Is that better?
DONA SOL. Yes, that’s better. But it’s still a little too heavy. You see, my nose is my best feature. I don’t mind what you do to my hair and my mouth. I don’t want to criticise. I never do criticise my own portraits. In fact, I think it’s quite absurd for the sitter to criticise a picture. But I do think I’m a rather good judge of noses. Couldn’t you make it just a shade more delicate?
VELASQUEZ (_giving the nose a touch with the brush_). Is that better?
DONA SOL. Yes, that’s better. I think that really is better. (_A pause._) Don’t you think you could make the eyebrows a little darker? You’ve made them so faint. And then I think the hair ought to be a little brighter, and the expression a shade less severe. I don’t think you’ve quite got my smile. I look cross. Of course I suppose I look like that sometimes--when everything goes wrong. Every one does look cross sometimes--but that’s not what I usually look like.
VELASQUEZ (_making a few imperceptible alterations_). Is that better?
DONA SOL. Yes, that’s much better. I think it’s perfect. May I look at some of the other pictures?
[_She walks round the studio till she finds several canvases turned face backwards against a heavy piece of furniture._
VELASQUEZ. Let me help you. (_He turns several pictures round._)
DONA SOL. Ah, that’s the King. It’s quite excellent. And that’s the dear old Admiral. It’s exactly like him. Oh, and that’s Dona Elvira--_how_ like, but _how_ cruel! How could you do that? Didn’t she mind dreadfully? And what a dear little girl! That’s not finished, I suppose? Oh, and I do love that seapiece. It’s a storm, I suppose?
VELASQUEZ. I’m afraid it’s meant to be a man riding in a field. It’s just a study.
DONA SOL. Of course it is. How stupid of me. I couldn’t see properly. It’s wonderful--quite wonderful. And what’s that large picture on an easel over there with a curtain over it?
VELASQUEZ. Oh, that’s nothing. It’s only a sketch--it’s not finished.
DONA SOL. Do let me see it.
VELASQUEZ. I’m afraid I can’t, really.
DONA SOL. But I insist on seeing it. I’ve been such a good sitter. Now I’m going to pull the curtain off.
VELASQUEZ. It’s not my picture at all. It’s not by me. It’s by one of my pupils. It’s by Mazo.
DONA SOL. Then of course I can see it. (_She pulls away the curtain, revealing a picture of Venus looking into a glass._) Oh, but that’s my head! How dared you do such a thing? No wonder you didn’t want me to see it. Oh, how could you do such a thing?
VELASQUEZ. But I assure you you’re mistaken. In the first place, I never painted the picture. I never touched it. It’s Mazo’s work. And he did it out of his head. At least, he did it from a model. It’s meant to be Eros and Psyche or Venus, I’ve forgotten which.
DONA SOL. How could you put my head on such a hideous body? I call it mean, odious, and cowardly, and quite unpardonable. I shall burn my picture.
VELASQUEZ. But, my dear lady, do listen to me for one moment. The picture’s not my work. I flatter myself really that I can draw a little better than that. That’s mere apprentice work. Just compare it with my pictures. I never use those hot reds and those dull, lifeless greys. Just compare it with the other pictures.
DONA SOL (_crying_). How can I compare it with the others? You’ve never dared paint any one else like that.
VELASQUEZ. And then the face in the glass is no more your face than it is mine. It’s not the least like you. It’s a model’s face. Mazo may have got a hint, a suggestion, quite unconsciously from seeing my picture, but nothing more. He’s never set eyes on you.
DONA SOL. I don’t believe it’s by Mazo. I believe it’s by you--or else you wouldn’t have been so anxious for me not to see it.
VELASQUEZ. Well, I promise you that Mazo painted that picture from a model--a flower-girl. I saw him do it. But to satisfy you, he shall get another model and paint in a different face.
DONA SOL. That’s the least you can do.
VELASQUEZ. It shall be done to-day. Mazo’s coming here this morning.
DONA SOL. Will you promise me that the face will be _quite_, _quite_ different?
VELASQUEZ. On my word of honour as a Spaniard and as a painter.
DONA SOL (_drying her eyes_). Very well, I will forgive you--on one condition.
VELASQUEZ. What is it?
DONA SOL. That you will change the nose in _my_ picture and make it less like a potato.
VELASQUEZ. Of course I will.
DONA SOL. Very well then. Good-bye. I shall come back to-morrow morning and see--but, oh! what a shame!
[VELASQUEZ _makes a low bow and leads her out. He comes back and, opening a door into a room adjoining the studio, he calls:_ MAZO!
_Enter_ MAZO
VELASQUEZ. The “Venus” is by you. Do you hear me? You painted it. And you must change the face.
MAZO. I don’t understand--change it in what way?
VELASQUEZ. You must change it altogether. Paint in any face you like. And you must say you painted the whole picture. Do it at once, and put your signature somewhere in the picture too.
MAZO. But, master, it’s one of your greatest triumphs.
VELASQUEZ. I know that as well as you do--nevertheless, that picture must go to the King and be known to all the world as a Mazo, and not as a Velasquez.
CURTAIN.
XXII
XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES
SCENE.--_A room in_ SOCRATES’ _house._ XANTIPPE _is seated at table, on which an unappetising meal, consisting of figs, parsley, and some hashed goat’s meat, is spread._
_Enter_ SOCRATES
XANTIPPE. You’re twenty minutes late.
SOCRATES. I’m sorry, I was kept----
XANTIPPE. Wasting your time as usual, I suppose, and bothering people with questions who have got something better to do than to listen to you. You can’t think what a mistake you make by going on like that. You can’t think how much people dislike it. If people enjoyed it, or admired it, I could understand the waste of time--but they don’t. It only makes them angry. Everybody’s saying so.
SOCRATES. Who’s everybody?
XANTIPPE. There you are with your questions again. Please don’t try to catch me out with those kind of tricks. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a sophist. I know I’m not clever--I’m only a woman. But I do know the difference between right and wrong and black and white, and I don’t think it’s very kind of you, or very generous either, to be always throwing up my ignorance at me, and perpetually making me the butt of your sarcasm.
SOCRATES. But I never said a word.
XANTIPPE. Oh, please, don’t try and wriggle out of it. We all know you’re very good at that. I do hate that shuffling so. It’s so cowardly. I do like a man one can trust--and depend on--who when he says Yes means Yes, and when he says No means No.
SOCRATES. I’m sorry I spoke.
XANTIPPE. I suppose that’s what’s called irony. I’ve no doubt it’s very clever, but I’m afraid it’s wasted on me. I should keep those remarks for the market-place and the gymnasia and the workshops. I’ve no doubt they’d be highly appreciated there by that clique of young men who do nothing but admire each other. I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I was brought up to think a man should treat his wife with decent civility, and try, even if he did think her stupid, not to be always showing it.
SOCRATES. Have I by a word or hint ever suggested that you were stupid?
XANTIPPE. Oh, of course not--never. However, we won’t discuss that. We will change the subject, if you don’t mind.
SOCRATES. But really----
XANTIPPE (_ignoring the interruption_). Please give me your plate. I will help you to the goat.
SOCRATES. None for me, thank you, to-day.
XANTIPPE. Why not? I suppose it’s not good enough. I’m afraid I can’t provide the food you get at your grand friends’ houses, but I do think it’s rather cruel of you to sneer at my poor humble efforts.
SOCRATES. I promise you, Xantippe, nothing was farther from my thoughts. I’m not hungry. I’ve really got no appetite for meat to-day. I’ll have some figs, if you don’t mind.
XANTIPPE. I suppose that’s a new fad, not to eat meat. I assure you people talk quite enough about you as it is without your making yourself more peculiar. Only yesterday Chrysilla was talking about your clothes. She asked if you made them dirty on purpose. She said the spots on the back couldn’t have got there by accident. Every one notices it--every one says the same thing. Of course they think it’s my fault. No doubt it’s very amusing for people who don’t mind attracting attention and who like being notorious; but it _is_ rather hard on me. And when I hear people saying: “Poor Socrates! it is such a shame that his wife looks after him so badly and doesn’t even mend his sandals”--I admit I do feel rather hurt. However, that would never enter into your head. A philosopher hasn’t time to think of other people. I suppose unselfishness doesn’t form part of a sophist’s training, does it?
[SOCRATES _says nothing, but eats first one fig and then another._