Part 2

DOROTHY. Why not? No girl would think of him but you.

DOROTHEA. A solid quiet man----

DOROTHY. A solid bore!

DOROTHEA. Now, Dorothy, be reasonable. Sit down Like a well-mannered girl, or--if you must-- Crouch like a tigress there and fret and frown, But don't break in. I think it's only just That I--for, after all, I really am The civilized and reputable Miss Wylde-- Should have the answering of this telegram. Say what you will, you're nothing but a child Who lies among the daffodils of Spring, Lost in a book of marvels. At a glance I know you--how you're dreaming of some king From over the blue mountains of romance Who'll set you on a charger black as night, And, spurring on by dragon-haunted caves, Come to his castle just when the sunset-light In Fairyland floats on the girdling waves. But kings aren't like that now. They puff cigars, Wear bowlers and check-suits, and fill the gaps Left between opening Parliament and bazaars By betting on the racecourse. Or perhaps You want some hero from a Conrad tale Who'd stand, white-ducked, against the torrid blue And shoot down tribes with bullets fast as hail: But think, my dear--he simply wouldn't do. Picture it. We should take him out to dine-- The ladies would withdraw--he'd start to speak About old Lingard, while they passed the wine, And go on with the story for a week. No! We must have it clear. I much regret This violent tug-of-war between our aims But--I'm determined.

DOROTHY. Have you finished yet? Right. Then you can, but I won't, marry James.

DOROTHEA. Why not?

DOROTHY. Why not? Answer my questions. One: Does he beat time to music with his hand?

DOROTHEA. Well----

DOROTHY. Two: and talk of 'featuring,' 'Japs,' 'the Hun'?

DOROTHEA. Oh, sometimes----

DOROTHY. Three: and does he understand That wicked frocks don't mean a wicked life? Four----

DOROTHEA. But, of course, there's no one perfect!

DOROTHY. Four: Wouldn't he read the golf news to his wife? Five: Can he tell--the next day--what you wore? Six: If he knows an author, will he wait To get a copy free or buy the book? Seven: Is he fond of curate stories? Eight: If, when you're dressed, you wonder how you look And ask him, as you're driving to the dance, Doesn't he, after everything you've done, Say 'Oh, all right'--without a single glance? Nine: If you flirt a little, for the fun Of being a woman, would he think you light? Ten: Does he say, when dining in Soho, 'I don't think we shall need champagne to-night-- But if you really want it, let me know?' Eleven----

DOROTHEA. Oh please! I don't--in fact, I can't-- Dispute the list. I'll openly admit That James is not the man I used to want....

DOROTHY. Splendid! Now, where's his wire? We'll answer it With one majestic 'No.'

DOROTHEA (_stopping her_). Not yet. Be kind! Think what I lose in losing James, and then You'll change your mind--your portion of our mind. I want a man to kiss----

DOROTHY. But why not ten?

DOROTHEA. My dear! I want the life of modern man. I want to quote the works of Douglas Cole, Think all men base except the artisan, And smile at God, religion, and the soul. I want to find new genius everywhere. I want to sit in drawing-rooms and say 'Rossetti, Watts? Of course, they can't compare With Roger, or the smallest Fry, to-day.' So, won't you be an angel? Share the flat In honourable retirement! Don't you see You should?

DOROTHY. Subconscious! Well, I may be that-- But no great eras come apart from me. What though to-day I have less power than you? The wheel will turn; and shall I not be there To run with roses down Fifth Avenue And make a Roman revel in Mayfair? No! I maintain my right to have a say In this, our marriage; therefore comprehend Once and for all that I shall not give way!

DOROTHEA. I've done my best to treat you as a friend. You're just a little selfish pig! In fact, I don't know why you ever left your screen!

DOROTHY. I didn't come to argue but to act, And now I will!

DOROTHEA. Whatever do you mean?

DOROTHY. I came to kill you.

DOROTHEA. What?

DOROTHY. You see this knife? The ghost of Caesar Borgia gave me this, And with it some advice on taking life. He only wished, he said, the chance were his!

DOROTHEA. But don't you know? One's not allowed to kill.

DOROTHY. Pooh! A mere whimsy of the Conscious Mind. Prepare!

DOROTHEA. But listen!

DOROTHY. No!

DOROTHEA. You can't!

DOROTHY. I will! Pray to the gods whom Freud has left behind!

(DOROTHY _lunges with the knife at_ DOROTHEA, _who escapes by darting to the left of the table. She raises her right hand high._)

DOROTHEA. Stop! I pronounce on you this dreadful spell! Abracadabra: complex: transference: Theriomorphia--now it's working well-- Father-imago: schizophrenia----

DOROTHY. Hence! Spare me!

DOROTHEA. Appendage-function: surrogate: Enantiodromia--doesn't that one hurt?-- Libido: endopsychic----

DOROTHY. Wait, oh wait!

DOROTHEA. Persona: hypermnesia: extrovert! Yield, in the holy names of Jung and Freud!

DOROTHY. I yield! I beg for nothing but fair play.

DOROTHEA. How?

DOROTHY. By a simple plan that would avoid All further wrangling.

DOROTHEA. Well, what is it?

DOROTHY. Say That you write half the telegram, and I The other half! That would be just.

DOROTHEA. Absurd! The first to write could give the whole reply.

DOROTHY. A woman, and you don't want the last word?... Toss!

DOROTHEA (_producing a coin_). If you lose, you're not to call me names.

DOROTHY. Heads!

DOROTHEA. You _have_ lost. Who is the better now?... 'Would you accept me for your husband.--James'-- So runs the question, and the answer----

DOROTHY (_anxiously_). How?

DOROTHEA. Read it!

DOROTHY (_in dismay_). 'Of course I would!'

DOROTHEA. It's not so much That I want James, as that you've made me cross. In fact, if your behaviour had been such----

DOROTHY (_who, after a little puzzling is now in the act of writing_). I'm glad to hear that you'll survive the loss.

DOROTHEA (_in slow horror_). You've spoilt it! Let me see!... 'Of course I would.... 'Of course I would be damned first....' Little cat!

DOROTHY. Don't be a silly child. As if you could Abandon me for such a fool as that! O Zurich! O Vienna! Can you be So psychoanalytically dense As not to grasp that by considering me You gain a double health of spirit and sense?

DOROTHEA. I'll never find the man of my desire!

DOROTHY. Then break your heart over a silver birch.

DOROTHEA. But this! No girl could send off such a wire.

DOROTHY. Shock him--or else he'll get you to the church!

DOROTHEA. You're right. How often, and with how much pain, We burst a lock to find--an empty room! But that's all over. Let's be friends again And so stay always!

DOROTHY. Till the crack of doom.... And here's _my_ gage! Accept the knife I took From Borgia (how he'll rail at me, poor ghost!) And with it--cut the master's newest book.

DOROTHEA. Where are you going?

DOROTHY. Going? To the post.

DOROTHEA. Don't hurry. Stop awhile, and take from _me_ A pledge of golden friendship unalloyed-- A cup of tea! With milk and sugar?

DOROTHY (_with profound contempt_). Tea! 'Oh, for a draught....' But here's to Jung!

DOROTHEA (_raising her cup_). And Freud!

1921.

SQUARE PEGS

_Characters_

HILDA A MODERN GIRL

GIOCONDA A SIXTEENTH-CENTURY VENETIAN

TO H. F. RUBINSTEIN

SQUARE PEGS

SCENE. _A Garden. Entrance right and left. Left, a table and two chairs._ (_The general effect should suggest a little lawn which leads outward in several directions._)

(_The arrival of a taxicab is heard, off. Enter, left_, HILDA _in summer hat and dress and with a light cloak on her arm. She carries a folding-map and a small book._)

HILDA (_speaking off, left_). What's that? 'The taximeter points,' you say, 'To fifteen shillings'? Well, didn't I pay A pound? What? No, I _haven't_ 'made a slip.' Surely five shillings was a handsome tip.

(_Sound of a motor-horn growing fainter._)

The creature's gone. These taxi-men!... But wait: Suppose that isn't really Merlin's Gate, Nor this the garden where a girl who loathes Our Twentieth Century (all except its clothes) May turn the Book of Time to any page And move within some more romantic age? The map will show. Yes, there's the gate, and there's That wall, that table, these two empty chairs.... Everything's right. How wonderful, how splendid, To know that here the roar of time has ended! Now, let me see ... (_Consulting her map._) If I should take that road What century should I have for my abode? 'To Ancient Rome.' Lovely! (_She starts to go out, right. Then stops._) It might be serious, Though, if I chanced on Nero or Tiberius. The Romans were rough diamonds.... This way here-- So the map says--would lead me to the year Ten-sixty-six. I won't be such a fool As go back where I stuck so long at school. William the First was always dull. I know He'd make me listen to him--standing so, With Bayeux hands, knee crookèd, and neck bowed-- While he read all the Domesday Book aloud. I shan't go there.... Now, that's a pretty view! (_Referring to the map._) 'The Eighteenth Century: Boswell Avenue.' I might try that. But no--that won't do either. I'd have to wear a wig or tell them why there, Love coffee-houses more than trees and birds, And talk in such tremendously long words. I know, I know! If I can find the way I'll wander back into the sumptuous day When, in his gardens near the warm lagoon, Titian gave feasts under the stars and moon. That would be heavenly! Those were noble times. There was a grandeur even about the crimes Of people like the Borgias ... and their dresses, And the sweet way they wore their hair in tresses, And--oh, and everything! What was Titian's date? I mustn't err into a time too late; But how to make quite sure? Suppose I took My bearings by this little precious book-- Addington Symonds?... Oh, that I knew more! Was it in fifteen-sixty or before?

(_Settling herself in one of the chairs she becomes absorbed in her book. Enter, right_, GIOCONDA _carrying two or three modern novels_.)

GIOCONDA (_speaking off right_). I thank you, gondolier. You drowned my nurse With true dramatic finish. Take this purse. So--I am in that Garden where time speeds Backward or forward as our fancy needs. How sick I am of cloaks and ambuscades, Of poison, daggers, moonlight serenades, Of those dull dances that are all _I_ trace-- Pavane, lavolte, forlana, cinquepace-- And the long pageant of our life at Venice! Now, in the Twentieth Century there is tennis, With cream and strawberries round a chestnut-tree, And day-long idling in the June-blue sea, And soda-fountains, too, and motor-cars, And Henley Weeks and Russian Ballet 'stars.' Oh, what a wealth of joy that century has! To think that I myself may learn to jazz! Truly, I judge it has no slightest flaw-- The glorious age of Bennett, Wells, and Shaw.

(_She sets her books on the table and curtsies to them._)

Gramercy, gentlemen,--inasmuch as you, Here in your works, have taught me what to do, How to play hockey, smoke, and bob my hair In nineteen-twenty, when at last I'm there. Which path would bring me there, I wonder? How Choose of so many? If I'm near it now I ought to hear the roaring of their trains, Their motor-horns, their humming monoplanes....

(_She listens intently for a moment._)

The very bees are silent.... (_Seeing_ HILDA.) Who is that? Surely, unless the books have lied, her hat Came from renowned 'Roulette's,' in Portman Square! A Twentieth-Century girl! _She_ will know where The Spaniards gather and the Black Friars dwell.

(_Kissing her hand, right._)

Farewell, Rialto! Bridge of Sighs, farewell!

(_She goes up to_ HILDA _and curtsies ceremoniously_.)

Dear Signorina.... Signorina.... Deep In Bennett's fragrant works,----or can she sleep? Could _The Five Towns_ have bored her? Let me try Once more. Most noble Signorina----

HILDA (_starting up_). Why, Who are you, lady? By your dress and ways I think you must have come from Titian's days.

GIOCONDA. Indeed, I do. Old Titian! How he talks! He did my portrait last July in chalks. But grant me the great liberty, I pray, Of asking what your name is----

HILDA. Hilda Gray.

GIOCONDA. How sweet and to the point!

HILDA. And yours?

GIOCONDA. Gioconda Francesca Violante Giulia della Bionda.

HILDA. A poem in itself! The velvet verse Of Tasso is not softer to rehearse. What can have led you to forgo an age When life was an illuminated page From some superb romance?

GIOCONDA. And what, I wonder, Can have torn you and your fair time asunder?

HILDA. I'll tell you, for I'm sure you'll sympathize. I have a lover----

GIOCONDA. That is no surprise.

HILDA. And by the post this morning came a letter----

GIOCONDA. From him?

HILDA. From him.

GIOCONDA. What could have happened better?

HILDA. Ah! naturally you think that Harry writes Of longing, suicide, and sleepless nights. Did he, I'd read his letters ten times over-- But you don't know the Twentieth-Century lover. Oh, for a man who'd write through tears, all swimmily, And woo me with grand metaphor and simile! I couldn't bear the slang that Harry used In asking for my hand.

GIOCONDA. So you refused!

HILDA. Yes, and came here to seek a braver time.

GIOCONDA. How odd! _I_ had a letter, all in rhyme, Brought by a lackey to my father's gate Just when dawn broke. As if I couldn't wait! He dashed up, panting; and his horse's mouth Was flecked with blood and foam....

HILDA (_clasping her hands_). The passionate South!

GIOCONDA. The fellow gave the letter, gasped, went red, And straightway horse and lackey fell down dead. I scanned the note, observed the flowery phrases In which the writer smothered me with praises; Compared them with the style of Bernard Shaw, And told him straightway that he might withdraw.

HILDA. If I could see that letter!

GIOCONDA. So you shall, Sweet friend--or, rather, right you are, old pal. I'll read it. (_She produces a letter tied with rose-coloured ribbon._)

HILDA. Do!... I see his passion's flood Demands red ink.

GIOCONDA. Oh dear no--that's his blood. Now, listen. Did you ever hear a style Quite so absurd? I call it simply vile. (_Reading._) 'Adored Gioconda--glittering star Unsullied by the dusty world, Rich rose with leaves but half uncurled, New Venus in thy dove-drawn car-- Have pity: drive thy wrath afar. Let Cupid's war-flag be upfurled, Lest by thy gentle hand be hurled The mortal bolt that leaves no scar.

'So prays upon his aching knee Thy humble vassal, once the fear Of Christendom, but now--woe's me!-- One whose wild prayers Love will not hear, Who treads the earth and has no home-- Giulio Pandolfo, Duke of Rome.'

HILDA. Gioconda, what a lover!

GIOCONDA. So _I_ think-- His brain a dictionary, his blood mere ink.

HILDA. _I_ mean how rare a lover! Would that mine Had brains to pen a letter half so fine!

GIOCONDA. How does he write?

HILDA. Write! Would you deign to call _This_ 'writing'--this illiterate blotted scrawl? (_Reading._) 'Dear Hilda, if you buy _The Star_ To-night, you mustn't for the world Suppose he got my hair uncurled-- That blighter who kyboshed the car. He had the worst of it by far Because the hood on mine was furled. Good Lord! what steep abuse he hurled! Yours, Harry--with a nasty scar.

'P.S.--The cut's above the knee, And won't be right just yet, I fear, Oh, and what price you marrying me? Anything doing? Let me hear. Ring up to-morrow, if you're home. Where shall we do our bunk? To Rome?'

Now, wasn't that enough to make me mad? It is a shame! It really is too bad! 'Dear Hilda'--plain 'dear!' And what girl could marry A man who, when proposing, ends 'yours, Harry?'

GIOCONDA. I love his downright manner. In my mind I see him, a tall figure; and behind, His old two-seater. Yes, I see him plainly-- Close-cropped----

HILDA. Half bald.

GIOCONDA. Slow-moving----

HILDA. And ungainly.

GIOCONDA. A brow like H. G. Wells' my fancy draws, An eye like Bennett's and a beard like Shaw's. I know your Harry--just the English type, A silent strong man married to his pipe, With so few words, except about machines, That he can never tell you what he means: But were _I_ his, and we two went a-walking, What should that matter? _I_ could do the talking.

HILDA. Surely you see, Gioconda, I require A lover who can make love with some fire.

GIOCONDA. And I a lover so much overcome By deep emotion that it leaves him dumb.

HILDA. No poetry? Then, so far as I can tell, The Twentieth Century ought to suit you well.... I've an idea!

GIOCONDA. What is it?

HILDA. This: that you Show me how best you'd like a man to woo.

GIOCONDA. I will, I will!

HILDA. Imagine, then, that I Am she for whom you say you'd gladly die. This is my room at Baystead: that's the street: You must come in from there.... (_Leading her left._) and then we meet.

GIOCONDA. By Holy Church, a pretty sport to play! God shield you, Signorina Hilda Gray! (_Exit left._)

HILDA. Now--what's the time? It must be half-past four. It is. I'll give him just one minute more.

(_Looking at herself in a pocket-mirror, and making a toilet._)

Goodness! I do look horrid.... Will he bring An emerald or a pearl engagement-ring? He comes! I'll take pearls as a last resort.

(_Enter, left_, GIOCONDA _carrying a pipe and a walking-stick_.)

GIOCONDA. Well, and how _are_ you? In the pink, old sport?

HILDA. I'm glad to see you, Harry. Do sit down.

GIOCONDA. 'Some' heat to-day, what? Even here. In town Perfectly awful. Got a match?

(_She tries in vain to light the pipe from a match struck by_ HILDA.)

I say, Old thing--you really look top-hole to-day.

HILDA. Well, naturally: I knew that you were coming.

(GIOCONDA _pulls at her pipe in silence, pokes the floor with her stick, and shifts it from hand to hand_.)

You're very quiet.

GIOCONDA (_with a start_). Oh! what's that you're thumbing?

(_Goes over to_ HILDA _and looks over her shoulder_.)

HILDA. Addington Symonds.

GIOCONDA. Any good?

HILDA. Why--gorgeous! You ought to read it--all about the Borgias.

GIOCONDA. What are they? Oh, I see! I had enough Up at the 'Varsity of that sort of stuff. I say--oh, blast the thing, this pipe's a dud! (_She puts the pipe on the table._)

HILDA. You smoke too much. They say it slows the blood, And _that_ you simply can't afford. (_Pause._)

GIOCONDA. I say----

HILDA. Well, what?

GIOCONDA. You really look top-hole to-day.

HILDA. How nice! But flattery always was your wont. (_Pause._)

GIOCONDA. I say----

HILDA. That's just it, Harry dear--you don't.

GIOCONDA. I came to ask you something.... (_Producing a ring._) Ever seen A ring like this? Not a bad sort of green.

HILDA (_taking it_). Emeralds! I worship emeralds. They enthrone All the luxuriant summer in a stone. Do let me just see how it looks! The third Finger, I think, is generally preferred? How splendid! Won't she be delighted?

GIOCONDA. Who?

HILDA. Your dear Aunt Kate.

GIOCONDA. I bought the thing for you.

HILDA. Harry!

GIOCONDA. _You_ know--a what-d'you-call-it ring?

HILDA. Engagement?

GIOCONDA. That's the goods. And in the Spring The parson gets our guinea. What about it?

HILDA. See, how it fits! I couldn't do without it.

GIOCONDA. Right-o! Then, that's that: good. But if you carry A diary, jot down, 'Next Spring, marry Harry'-- You might forget. You keep a diary?

HILDA (_bringing a small diary from her bag_). Look-- I did blush--buying an engagement-book!

GIOCONDA. Well, how's the enemy? Good Lord! what a shock! D'you know, old bean, it's more than five o'clock?

HILDA. You'll have some tea?

GIOCONDA. Can't. Sorry. Told two men I'd play a foursome with them at 5.10. You'd better make the fourth.

HILDA. I really can't. There are some new delphiniums I _must_ plant.

GIOCONDA (_going out, left_). See you to-morrow, then.

HILDA. You'll drive me frantic If you're not just the teeniest bit romantic!

GIOCONDA. It isn't done. You're absolutely wrong In asking me to do that stunt. So long!

(_She tosses the pipe and stick off, left._)

There! Did I play it well? You'd be my wife?

HILDA (_sighing_). My dear, you played old Harry to the life-- His gaucherie....

GIOCONDA. His noble self-command....

HILDA. The way he shifts his cane from hand to hand....

GIOCONDA. A nervous trick that shows how much he feels....

HILDA. All I know is--I'd have a man who kneels And pours out passion in a style as rippling As the best Swinburne--or at least as Kipling.

GIOCONDA. Then I'll now be _your_ lady. To your part-- Woo me as you'd be wooed!

HILDA. With all my heart!

(_Catching up her cloak, she flings it over her shoulder._)

Last Miracle of the World, sainted, adored, Divine Gioconda--hear me, I beg!

GIOCONDA. My lord!

HILDA. Dost know of passion? Is that heart so pure As not to guess what torments I endure Who for so long have sighed for thee in vain? And wilt thou have no pity on my pain? Wilt thou still spurn me as a thing abhorred Whose only crime is to love thee?

GIOCONDA. My lord----

HILDA. Stay! I will brook no answer. For thy sake Did I not paint the town in crimson-lake? Have I not wrenched thee through thy nunnery-bars? And bear I not some ninety-seven scars Taken as I fought my way to thy fair feet? Think how thy relatives rushed into the street To save thee--how I put them to the sword And left them strewn about in heaps!

GIOCONDA. My lord----