ENIGMA
A DOMESTIC CONVERSATION
To THEODORE DREISER
"Enigma" was first presented at the Liberal Club, New York City, in 1915.
A man and woman are sitting at a table, talking in bitter tones.
SHE. So that is what you think.
HE. Yes. For us to live together any longer would be an obscene joke.
Let's end it while we still have some sanity and decency left.
SHE. Is that the best you can do in the way of sanity and decency—to talk like that?
HE. You'd like to cover it up with pretty words, wouldn't you? Well, we've had enough of that. I feel as though my face were covered with spider webs. I want to brush them off and get clean again.
SHE. It's not my fault you've got weak nerves. Why don't you try to behave like a gentleman, instead of a hysterical minor poet?
HE. A gentleman, Helen, would have strangled you years ago. It takes a man with crazy notions of freedom and generosity to be the fool that I've been.
SHE. I suppose you blame me for your ideas!
HE. I'm past blaming anybody, even myself. Helen, don't you realize that this has got to stop? We are cutting each other to pieces with knives.
SHE. You want me to go. . . .
HE. Or I'll go—it makes no difference. Only we've got to separate, definitely and for ever.
SHE. You really think there is no possibility—of our finding some way?… We might be able—to find some way.
HE. We found some way, Helen—twice before. And this is what it comes to. . . . There are limits to my capacity for self-delusion. This is the end.
SHE. Yes. Only—
HE. Only what?
SHE. It—it seems . . . such a pity. . . .
HE. Pity! The pity is this—that we should sit here and haggle about our hatred. That's all there's left between us.
SHE. (standing up) I won't haggle, Paul. If you think we should part, we shall this very night. But I don't want to part this way, Paul. I know I've hurt you. I want to be forgiven before I go.
HE. (standing up to face her) Can't we finish without another sentimental lie? I'm in no mood to act out a pretty scene with you.
SHE. That was unjust, Paul. You know I don't mean that. What I want is to make you understand, so you won't hate me.
HE. More explanations. I thought we had both got tired of them. I used to think it possible to heal a wound by words. But we ought to know better. They're like acid in it.
SHE. Please don't, Paul—This is the last time we shall ever hurt each other. Won't you listen to me?
HE. Go on.
He sits down wearily.
SHE. I know you hate me. You have a right to. Not just because I was faithless—but because I was cruel. I don't want to excuse myself—but I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't realize I was hurting you.
HE. We've gone over that a thousand times.
SHE. Yes. I've said that before. And you've answered me that that excuse might hold for the first time, but not for the second and the third. You've convicted me of deliberate cruelty on that. And I've never had anything to say. I couldn't say anything, because the truth was; too preposterous. It wasn't any use telling it before. But now I want you to know the real reason.
HE. A new reason, eh?
SHE. Something I've never confessed to you. Yes. It is true that I was cruel to you—deliberately. I did want to hurt you. And do you know why? I wanted to shatter that Olympian serenity of yours. You were too strong, too self-confident. You had the air of a being that nothing could hurt. You were like a god.
HE. That was a long time ago. Was I ever Olympian? I had forgotten it.
You succeeded very well—you shattered it in me.
SHE. You are still Olympian. And I still hate you for it. I wish I could make you suffer now. But I have lost my power to do that.
HE. Aren't you contented with what you have done? It seems to me that I have suffered enough recently to satisfy even your ambitions.
SHE. No—or you couldn't talk like that. You sit there—making phrases. Oh, I have hurt you a little; but you will recover. You always recovered quickly. You are not human. If you were human, you would remember that we once were happy, and be a little sorry that all that is over. But you can't be sorry. You have made up your mind, and can think of nothing but that.
HE. That's an interesting—and novel—explanation.
SHE. I wonder if I can't make you understand. Paul—do you remember when we fell in love?
HE. Something of that sort must have happened to us.
SHE. No—it happened to me. It didn't happen to you. You made up your mind and walked in, with the air of a god on a holiday. It was I who fell—headlong, dizzy, blind. I didn't want to love you. It was a force too strong for me. It swept me into your arms. I prayed against it. I had to give myself to you, even though I knew you hardly cared. I had to—for my heart was no longer in my own breast. It was in your hands, to do what you liked with. You could have thrown it in the dust.
HE. This is all very romantic and exciting, but tell me—did I throw it in the dust?
SHE. It pleased you not to. You put it in your pocket. But don't you realize what it is to feel that another person has absolute power over you? No, for you have never felt that way. You have never been utterly dependent on another person for happiness. I was utterly dependent on you. It humiliated me, angered me. I rebelled against it, but it was no use. You see, my dear, I was in love with you. And you were free, and your heart was your own, and nobody could hurt you.
HE. Very fine—only it wasn't true, as you soon found out.
SHE. When I found it out, I could hardly believe it. It wasn't possible. Why, you had said a thousand times that you would not be jealous if I were in love with some one else, too. It was you who put the idea in my head. It seemed a part of your super-humanness.
HE. I did talk that way. But I wasn't a superman. I was only a damned fool.
SHE. And Paul, when I first realized that it might be hurting you—that you were human after all—I stopped. You know I stopped.
HE. Yes—that time.
SHE. Can't you understand? I stopped because I thought you were a person like myself, suffering like myself. It wasn't easy to stop. It tore me to pieces. But I suffered rather than let you suffer. But when I saw you recover your serenity in a day while the love that I had struck down in my heart for your sake cried out in a death agony for months, I felt again that you were superior, inhuman—and I hated you for it.
HE. Did I deceive you so well as that?
SHE. And when the next time came, I wanted to see if it was real, this godlike serenity of yours. I wanted to tear off the mask. I wanted to see you suffer as I had suffered. And that is why I was cruel to you the second time.
HE. And the third time—what about that?
She bursts into tears, and sinks to the floor, with her head on the chair, sheltered by her arms. Then she looks up.
SHE. Oh, I can't talk about that—I can't. It's too near.
HE. I beg your pardon. I don't wish to show an unseemly curiosity about your private affairs.
SHE. If you were human, you would know that there is a difference between one's last love and all that have gone before. I can talk about the others—but this one still hurts.
HE. I see. Should we chance to meet next year, you will tell me about it then. The joys of new love will have healed the pains of the old.
SHE. There will be no more joy or pain of love for me. You do not believe that. But that part of me which loves is dead. Do you think I have come through all this unhurt? No. I cannot hope any more, I cannot believe. There is nothing left for me. All I have left is regret for the happiness that you and I have spoiled between us. . . . Oh, Paul, why did you ever teach me your Olympian philosophy? Why did you make me think that we were gods and could do whatever we chose? If we had realized that we were only weak human beings, we might have saved our happiness!
HE. (shaken) We tried to reckon with facts—I cannot blame myself for that. The facts of human nature: people do have love affairs within love affairs. I was not faithful to you. . . .
SHE. (rising to her feet) But you had the decency to be dishonest about it. You did not tell me the truth, in spite of all your theories. I might never have found out. You knew better than to shake my belief in our love. But I trusted your philosophy, and flaunted my lovers before you. I never realized—
HE. Be careful, my dear. You are contradicting yourself!
SHE. I know I am. I don't care. I no longer know what the truth is. I only know that I am filled with remorse for what has happened. Why did it happen? Why did we let it happen? Why didn't you stop me? . . . I want it back!
HE. But, Helen!
SHE. Yes—our old happiness…. Don't you remember, Paul, how beautiful everything was—? (She covers her face with her hands, and then looks up again.) Give it back to me, Paul!
HE. (torn with conflicting wishes) Do you really believe, Helen…?
SHE. I know we can be happy again. It was all ours, and we must have it once more, just as it was. (She holds out her hands.) Paul! Paul!
HE. (desperately) Let me think!
SHE. (scornfully) Oh, your thinking! I know! Think, then—think of all the times I've been cruel to you. Think of my wantonness—my wickedness—not of my poor, tormented attempts at happiness. My lovers, yes! Think hard, and save yourself from any more discomfort. . . . But no—you're in no danger. . . .
HE. What do you mean?
SHE. (laughing hysterically) You haven't believed what I've been saying all this while, have you?
HE. Almost.
SHE. Then don't. I've been lying.
HE. Again?
SHE. Again, yes.
HE. I suspected it.
SHE. (mockingly) Wise man!
HE. You don't love me, then?
SHE. Why should I? Do you want me to?
HE. I make no demands upon you. You know that.
SHE. You can get along without me?
HE. (coldly) Why not?
SHE. Good. Then I'll tell you the truth!
HE. That would be interesting!
SHE. I was afraid you did want me! And—I was sorry for you, Paul—I thought if you did, I would try to make things up to you, by starting over again—if you wanted to.
HE. So that was it. . . .
SHE. Yes, that was it. And so—
HE. (harshly) You needn't say any more. Will you go, or shall I?
SHE. (lightly) I'm going, Paul. But I think—since we may not meet this time next year—that I'd better tell you the secret of that third time. When you asked me a while ago, I cried, and said I couldn't talk about it. But I can now.
HE. You mean—
SHE. Yes. My last cruelty. I had a special reason for being cruel to you. Shan't I tell you?
HE. Just as you please.
SHE. My reason was this: I had learned what it is to love—and I knew that I had never loved you—never. I wanted to hurt you so much that you would leave me. I wanted to hurt you in such a way as to keep you from ever coming near me again. I was afraid that if you did forgive me and take me in your arms, you would feel me shudder, and see the terror and loathing in my eyes. I wanted—for even then I cared for you a little—to spare you that.
HE. (speaking with difficulty) Are you going?
SHE. (lifting from the table a desk calendar, and tearing a leaf from it, which she holds in front of him. Her voice is tender with an inexplicable regret.) Did you notice the date? It is the eighth of June. Do you remember what day that is? We used to celebrate it once a year. It is the day—(the leaf flutters to the table in front of him)—the day of our first kiss. . . .
He sits looking at her. For a moment it seems clear to him that they still love each other, and that a single word from him, a mere gesture, the holding out of his arms to her, will reunite them. And then he doubts. . . . She is watching him; she turns at last toward the door, hesitates, and then walks slowly out. When she has gone he takes up the torn leaf from the calendar, and holds it in his hands, looking at it with the air of a man confronted by an unsolvable enigma.
IBSEN REVISITED
A PIECE OF FOOLISHNESS
TO LOUIS UNTERMEYER
"Ibsen Revisited" was first produced at the Liberal Club, in 1914, with the following cast:
The Maid ………. Jo Gotsch
The Stranger…… Floyd Dell
A middle-class interior. The parlour-maid is dusting the furniture.
THE MAID. Oh, how dull it is here! Nobody to talk to, nobody to flirt with. . . . Flirt! The men that come to this house don't even know the meaning of the word. I never worked in such a place. Life is just one long funeral. I wish something would happen. (A knock at the door.) Ah! if it were only in the old days, one might hope that that was a reporter. But nothing like that now!
She opens the door. A stranger enters.
THE STRANGER. Is—ah—Miss Gabler in?
THE MAID. You mean—Mrs. Lovberg?
THE STRANGER. Yes—but . . . I'm not mistaken, am I? Mrs. Lovberg is— or was—Hedda Gabler. Isn't that true?
THE MAID. Oh, yes, it's Hedda. But she prefers to be called by her husband's name. Did you wish to see her? She is busy just now.
THE STRANGER. Busy?
THE MAID. Yes—she is conducting her class in Modern Adolescence.
THE STRANGER. How like Hedda! Always experimenting with something or other! What is she teaching them?
THE MAID. She's teaching them what she calls "sex-unconsciousness."
THE STRANGER. Dear me! What is sex-unconsciousness?
THE MAID. I'm sure I don't know, sir.
THE STRANGER. Dear, delightful Hedda! Ever in pursuit of the new sensation!
THE MAID. You are an old friend of hers, I suppose?
THE STRANGER. Well, no, not exactly. The fact is—
THE MAID. You're not a reporter, are you? Hedda doesn't talk to reporters—any more.
THE STRANGER. No. I'm not a reporter.
THE MAID. What are you, then?
THE STRANGER. I am the representative of the International Ibsen
Society. You know who Ibsen was, of course?
THE MAID. Yes—he was that nasty man who wrote plays about everybody's private affairs.
THE STRANGER. There is that point of view, of course. I'm sorry to intrude—
THE MAID. I should think you would be! Now that she and Lovberg are happily married—
THE STRANGER. That's precisely it. You see, we've just discovered that instead of committing suicide, as Ibsen made them do in the play, they eloped and were eventually married. You can't imagine how delighted we all are to discover that Hedda is still alive. As soon as we found that out, I was sent here immediately—
THE MAID. What did you think you would see?
THE STRANGER. See? I shall see a woman whose soul burns with an unquenchable flame of divine adventurousness. I shall see the most ardent, impatient, eager, restless, impetuous, and insatiably romantic woman in the world.
THE MAID. (pointing to the door) You mean—her?
THE STRANGER. Yes—why, there is the very sofa upon which she and Lovberg used to sit, in the old days, discussing his past. There he would sit and tell her of his escapades, his affairs, everything. Tell me, does she insist on Lovberg's being polygamous, whether he wants to or not?
THE MAID. Evidently you don't know the new Hedda. Or the new Lovberg either. The only thing they talk about is what they call "the monogamist ideal."
THE STRANGER. There is some mistake. I will find out when I see her. Surely she is still interested in adventure—the free life—vine- leaves—beauty—! I will remind her of her own past—
THE MAID. No you won't. She won't let you. She will tell you that too much attention is paid to such foolishness nowadays.
THE STRANGER. She! who was interested in nothing else! But then—what is she interested in, now?
THE MAID. In "co-operation."
THE STRANGER, Has she then turned into a mere sociologist? Oh, you are deceiving me!
THE MAID. If you don't believe me—I'll just open the door an inch, and you can hear her talking.
THE STRANGER. Oh, it cannot be true!
The maid quietly opens the door a little way. He listens.
A VOICE. (heard through the aperture) We must all learn to function socially. . . .
The maid shuts the door again.
THE MAID. Do you believe it now?
THE STRANGER. (sadly) It is too true!
THE MAID. Didn't I tell you?
THE STRANGER. So Hedda has become—a reformer!
THE MAID. Yes.
THE STRANGER. And Lovberg—what does he do?
THE MAID. He is rewriting his book—you know, the one Hedda burned up— for use as a text-book in the public schools. And Hedda is helping him.
THE STRANGER. No more adventure—no more beauty—the flame . . . gone out! My God!
He staggers toward the wall, where a pistol is hanging, and puts his hand on it.
THE MAID. Look out! That's Hedda's pistol. You never can tell when an old piece of junk like that is loaded.
THE STRANGER. Yes—I know. (He takes it down and aims it at his heart.) The old Hedda is gone. I cannot bear the new. It would be too—(The maid screams)—too dull.
He fires, and falls.
THE MAID. (going over and looking down at him) But—people don't do such things!
KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS
A COMEDY
To MAX EASTMAN
"King Arthur's Socks" was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, in 1916, with the following cast:
Guenevere Robinson…Edna James
Vivien Smith………Jane Burr
Mary……………..Augusta Gary
Lancelot Jones…….Max Eastman
The living room of a summer cottage in Camelot, Maine. A pretty woman of between twenty-five and thirty-five is sitting in a big chair in the lamplight darning socks. She is Mrs. Arthur B. Robinson—or, to give her her own name, Guenevere. She is dressed in a light summer frock, and with her feet elevated on a settle there is revealed a glimpse of slender silk-clad ankles. It is a pleasant summer evening, and, one might wonder why so attractive a woman should be sitting at home darning her husband's socks, there being so many other interesting things to do in this world. The girl standing in the doorway, smiling amusedly, seems to wonder at it too. The girl's name is Vivien Smith.
VIVIEN. Hello, Gwen!
GUENEVERE. Hello, Vivien! Come in.
VIVIEN. I'm just passing by.
GUENEVERE. Come in and console me for a minute or two, anyway. I'm a widow at present.
VIVIEN. (enters and lounges against the mantelpiece) Arthur gone to
New York again?
GUENEVERE. Yes, for over Sunday. And I'm lonely.
VIVIEN. You don't seem to mind. Think of a woman being that happy darning her husband's socks!
GUENEVERE. Stay here and talk to me—unless you've something else on.
It's been ages since I've seen you.
VIVIEN. I'm afraid I have got something else on, Gwen—I'll give you one guess.
GUENEVERE. You can't pretend to be art-ing at this hour of the night.
VIVIEN. I could pretend, but I won't. No, Gwen dear, it's not the pursuit of art, it's the pursuit of a man.
GUENEVERE. Don't try to talk like a woman in a Shaw play. I don't like this rigmarole about "pursuit." Say you're in love, like a civilized human being. And take a cigarette, and tell me about it.
VIVIEN. (lighting a cigarette) I don't know whether I'm so civilized, at that. You know me, Gwen. When I paint, do I paint like a lady?—or like a savage! (She does, in fact, appear to be a very headstrong and reckless young woman.)
GUENEVERE. (mildly) Oh, be a savage all you want to, Gwen. But don't tell me you're going in for this modern free-love stuff, because I won't believe it. You're not that kind of fool, Vivien. (She darns placidly away.)
VIVIEN. No, I'm not. I'm not a fool at all, Gwen dear. I know exactly what I want—and it doesn't include being disowned by my family and having my picture in the morning papers. Free-love? Not at all. I want to be married.
GUENEVERE. Well, for heaven's sake, who is it?
VIVIEN. Is it possible that it's not being gossiped about? You really haven't heard?
GUENEVERE. Not a syllable.
VIVIEN. Then I shan't tell you.
GUENEVERE. But—why?
VIVIEN. Because you'll think I've a nerve to want him.
GUENEVERE. Nonsense. I don't know any male person in these parts who is good enough for you, Vivien.
VIVIEN. Thanks, darling. That's just what I think in my calmer moments. But mostly I'm so crazy about him that I'm almost humble. Can you imagine it?
GUENEVERE. Well, what's the matter, then? Doesn't he reciprocate? You don't look like the victim of a hopeless passion.
VIVIEN. Oh, he's in love with me all right. But he doesn't want to be.
He says being in love interferes with his work.
GUENEVERE. What nonsense!
VIVIEN. Oh, I don't know about that! I think being in love with me would interfere with a man's work. I should hope so!
GUENEVERE. (primly) I don't interfere with Arthur's work.
VIVIEN. Arthur's a professor of philosophy. Besides, Arthur had written a book and settled down before he fell in love with you. I'm dealing with a man who has his work still to do. He thinks if he had about three years of peace and quiet and hard work, he'd put something big across. He put it up to me as a fellow-artist. I know just how he feels. I suppose I am very distracting!
GUENEVERE. Well, why don't you give him his three years?
VIVIEN. Gwen! What do you think I am? An altruist? A benefactor of humanity? Well, I'm not, I'm a woman. Three years? I've given him three hours, and threatened to marry a man back at home if he doesn't make up his mind before then.
GUENEVERE. Heavens, Vivien, you are a savage! Well, did it work?
VIVIEN. I don't know. The three hours aren't up yet. I'm going around to get my answer now. I must say the prospect isn't encouraging. He started to pack up to go to Boston. He says he won't be bullied.
GUENEVERE. But Vivien!
VIVIEN. Oh, don't condole with me yet, Gwen dear. It's twelve hours before that morning train, and I'm not through with him yet.
GUENEVERE. (curiously) What are you going to do?
VIVIEN. Nothing crude, Gwen dear. Oh, there's lots of things I can do. Cry, for instance. He's never seen a woman cry. Maybe you think I can't cry?
GUENEVERE. It's hard to imagine you crying.
VIVIEN. I never wanted anything badly enough to cry for it before. But
I could cry my heart out for him. I've absolutely no pride left. Well—
I'm going to have him, that's all. (She throws her cigarette into
the grate, and starts to go.)
GUENEVERE. And what about his work? Suppose it's true—
VIVIEN. Suppose it is. Then his work will have to get along the best way it can. (She turns at the door.) Do I look like a loser?—or a winner!
GUENEVERE. I'll bet on you, Vivien.
VIVIEN. Thanks, darling. And bye-bye.
GUENEVERE. (stopping her) But Vivien—! I've been racking my brain to think who—? Do tell me!
VIVIEN. (in the doorway, defiantly) Well, if you must know—it's
Lancelot Jones.
GUENEVERE. (springing up, amazed, incredulous and horrified) Oh, no, Vivien! Not Lancelot!
VIVIEN. Absolutely yes.
GUENEVERE. But—but he's married already!
VIVIEN. Oh, is that what's bothering you?
GUENEVERE. I should rather think it would bother you, Vivien!
VIVIEN. But it so happens that it doesn't. I'm not breaking up a marriage. There isn't any marriage there to break up. I know all about it. Lancelot told me. That marriage was ended long ago. It's simply that he has never got a divorce.
GUENEVERE. But—but if that's true, why hasn't he got a divorce?
VIVIEN. On purpose, Gwen—as a protection! Against love-sick females like me. Against getting married again. I told you he wanted to work.
GUENEVERE. But Vivien! If he hasn't got a divorce—
VIVIEN. He'll have to get one, that's all. It won't take long. And in the meantime we can be engaged.
GUENEVERE. A funny sort of engagement, Vivien—to a married man!
VIVIEN. I think you're very unkind, Gwen. It isn't funny at all. It's a nuisance. We'll have to wait at least a month! I think you might sympathize with me. I believe you're in love with him yourself.
GUENEVERE. (coldly) Vivien!
VIVIEN. (contritely) I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. But I do think he's so terribly nice—I don't see how any woman can help being in love with him. Well—I'm off to his studio, to learn my fate. Wish me luck, if you can!
She goes.
GUENEVERE. (looks after her, then drifts over to the mantel, leans against it staring out into space, and then murmurs)—Lancelot!
_She goes slowly back to her chair, sits still a moment, and then quietly resumes the darning of socks.
Enter, from the side door, Mary, the pretty servant girl, who fusses about at the back of the room_.
GUENEVERE. (absently) Going, Mary?
MARY. No, ma'am. I don't feel like going out tonight.
Something in her tone makes Guenevere turn.
GUENEVERE. (kindly) Why, Mary, what is the matter?
MARY. (struggling with her sobs) I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't help it—I wasn't going to say anything. But when you spoke to me—
GUENEVERE. (quietly) What is it, Mary?
MARY. I'm a wicked girl. (She sobs again.)
GUENEVERE. (after a moment's reflection.) Yes? Tell me about it.
MARY. Shall I tell you?
GUENEVERE. Yes. I think you'd better tell me.
MARY. I wanted to tell you. (She comes to Guenevere, and sinks beside her chair.) I wanted to tell you before Mr. Robinson came back. I couldn't tell you if he was here.
GUENEVERE. (smiling) My husband? Are you afraid of him, Mary?
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. (to herself) Poor Arthur! He does frighten people. He looks so—just.
MARY. That's what it is, ma'am. He always makes me think of my father.
GUENEVERE. Is your father a just man, too, Mary?
MARY. Yes, ma'am. He's that just I'd never dare breathe a word to him about what I've done. He'd put me out of the house.
GUENEVERE. (hesitating) Is it so bad, Mary, what you have done?
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. Do you—do you want to tell me who it is?
MARY. It's Mr. Jones, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. (reflectively) Jones? (Then, astoundedly)—Jones! (Incredulously)—You don't mean—! (Quietly)—Do you mean Mr. Lancelot Jones?
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. This is terrible! When did it happen?
MARY. It—it sort of happened last night, ma'am. It was this way—
GUENEVERE. No details, please!
MARY. No, ma'am. I just wanted to tell you how it was. You see, ma'am,
I went to his studio—
GUENEVERE. (unable to bear it) Please, Mary, please!
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. I don't mean that I blame you. One can't help—falling in love….
MARY. No, you just can't help it, can you?
GUENEVERE. But Lancelot—Mr. Jones—should have behaved better than that….
MARY. Should he, ma'am?
GUENEVERE. He certainly should. I wouldn't have believed it of him. So that is why—Mary! Do you know—? But I'm not sure that I ought to tell you. Still, I don't see why I should protect him. Do you know that he is going away?
MARY. No, ma'am. Is he?
GUENEVERE. Yes. In the mo'rning. You must go to see him tonight. No, you can't do that….Oh, this is terrible!
MARY. I'm glad he's going away, Mrs. Robinson.
GUENEVERE. Are you?
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. Why?
MARY. Because I'd be so ashamed every time I saw him.
GUENEVERE. (looking at her with interest) Really? I didn't know people felt that way. Perhaps it's the right way to feel. But I didn't suppose anybody did. So you want him to go?
MARY. Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. And you don't feel you've any claim on him?
MARY. No, ma'am. Why should I?
GUENEVERE. Well! I really don't know. But one is supposed to. Mary, you are a modern woman!
MARY. Am I?
GUENEVERE. One would think, after what happened—
MARY. That's just it, ma'am. If it had been anything else—But after what happened, I just want never to see him again. You see, ma'am, it was this way—
GUENEVERE. (gently) Is it necessary to tell me that, Mary? I know what happened.
MARY. But you don't, ma'am. That's just it. I've been trying to tell you what happened, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. Good heavens, was it so horrible! Well, go on, then. (She nerves herself to hear the worst.) What did happen?
MARY. Nothing, ma'am….
GUENEVERE. Nothing?
MARY. That's just it….
GUENEVERE. But I—I don't understand.
MARY. You said a while ago, Mrs. Robinson, that you couldn't help falling in love. It's true. I tried every way to stop, but I couldn't. So last night I—I went to his studio—
GUENEVERE. Yes?
MARY. I told you I was a wicked girl, Mrs. Robinson. You know I've a key to let myself in to clean up for him. So last night I just went in. He—he was asleep—
GUENEVERE. Yes?
MARY. I—shall I tell you, ma'am?
GUENEVERE. Yes. You must tell me, now.
MARY. And I—(She sits kneeling, looking straight ahead, and continues speaking, in a dead voice) I couldn't help it. I put my arms around him.
GUENEVERE. Yes?
MARY. And he put his arms around me, Mrs. Robinson, and kissed me. And
I didn't care about anything else, then. I was glad. And then—
GUENEVERE. Yes?
MARY. And then he woke up—and he was angry at me. He swore at me. And then he laughed, and kissed me again, and put me out of the room.
GUENEVERE. Yes, yes. And that—that was all?
MARY. I came home. I thought I would have died. I knew I had been wicked. Oh, Mrs. Robinson—(She breaks down and sobs.)
GUENEVERE. (patting her head) Poor child, it's all right. You aren't so wicked as you think. Oh, I'm so glad!
MARY. But it's jest the same, Mrs. Robinson. I wanted to be wicked.
GUENEVERE. Never mind, Mary. We all want to be wicked at times. But something always happens. It's all right. You're a good girl, Mary. There, stop crying!… Of course, of course! I might have known. Lancelot couldn't—and yet, I wonder…. Mary, stand up and let me look at you!
MARY. (obeying) Yes, ma'am.
GUENEVERE. (in a strange tone) You're a very good-looking girl, Mary…. So he laughed, and gave you a kiss, and led you to the door!… Well! Go to bed and think no more about it. It's all right.
MARY. Do you really think so, Mrs. Robinson? Isn't it the same thing if you want to be wicked—
GUENEVERE. You're talking like a professor of philosophy now, Mary. And you're a woman, and you ought to know better. No, it isn't the same thing, at all. Run along, child.
MARY. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. Good night, ma'am.
She goes.
GUENEVERE. Good-night, Mary. (She returns to her darning. She smiles to herself, then becomes serious, stops work, and looks at the clock. Then she says)—Vivien! Vivien's tears! Poor Lancelot! Oh, well! (She shrugs her shoulders, and goes on working. Then suddenly she puts down her work, rises, and walks restlessly about the room…. There is a knock at the door. She turns and stares at the door. The knock is repeated. She is silent, motionless for a moment. Then she says, almost in a whisper)—Come!
A young man enters.
GUENEVERE. Lancelot!
LANCELOT. Guenevere! (They go up to each other, and he takes both her hands. They stand that way for a moment. Then he says lightly) —Darning King Arthur's socks, I see!
GUENEVERE. (releasing herself, and going back to her chair) Yes.
Sit down.
LANCELOT. Where's his royal highness?
GUENEVERE. New York. Why don't you ever come to see us?
LANCELOT. (not answering) Charming domestic picture!
GUENEVERE. Don't be silly!
LANCELOT. I am going away.
GUENEVERE. Are you? I'm sorry. Don't you like our little village?
LANCELOT. Thought I'd stop in to say good-bye.
GUENEVERE. That's very sweet of you.
LANCELOT. (rising) I've got to go back and finish packing.
GUENEVERE. Not really?
LANCELOT. Going in the morning.
GUENEVERE. Why the haste? The summer's just begun. I hear you've been doing some awfully good things. I was going over to see them.
LANCELOT. Thanks. Sorry to disappoint you. But I've taken it into my head to leave.
GUENEVERE. You're not going tonight, anyway. Sit down and talk to me.
LANCELOT. All right. (He sits, constrainedly.) What shall I talk about?
GUENEVERE. (smiling) Your work.
LANCELOT. (impatiently) You're not interested in my work.
GUENEVERE. Your love-affairs, then.
LANCELOT. Don't want to.
GUENEVERE. Then read to me. There's some books on the table.
LANCELOT. (opening a serious-looking magazine) Here's an article on "The Concept of Happiness"—by Professor Arthur B. Robinson. Shall I read that?
GUENEVERE. I gather that you are not as fond of my husband as I am,
Lancelot. But try to be nice to me, anyway. Read some poetry.
LANCELOT. (takes a book from the table, and reads)—
"It needs no maxims drawn from Socrates
To tell me this is madness in my blood—"
He pauses. She looks up inquiringly. Presently he goes on reading—
"Nor does what wisdom I have learned from these
Serve to abate my most unreasoned mood.
What would I of you? What gift could you bring,
That to await you in the common street
Sets all my secret ecstasy a-wing
Into wild regions of sublime retreat?
And if you come, you will speak common words—"
He stops, and flings the book across the room. She looks up.
GUENEVERE. Don't you like it?
LANCELOT. (gloomily) Hell! That's too true.
GUENEVERE. Try something else.
LANCELOT. No—I can't read. (Guenevere bends to her darning.)
Shall I go?
GUENEVERE. No.
LANCELOT. Do you enjoy seeing me suffer?
GUENEVERE. Does talking to me make you suffer?
LANCELOT. Yes.
GUENEVERE. I'm sorry.
LANCELOT. Then let me go.
GUENEVERE. No. Sit there and talk to me, like a rational human being.
LANCELOT. I'm not a rational human being. I'm a fool. A crazy fool.
GUENEVERE. (smiling at him) I like crazy fools.
LANCELOT. (desperately, rising as he speaks) I am going to be married.
GUENEVERE. (in a mocking simulation of surprise) What, again?
LANCELOT. Yes—again—and as soon as possible—to Vivien.
GUENEVERE. I congratulate you.
LANCELOT. I love her.
GUENEVERE. Naturally.
LANCELOT. She loves me.
GUENEVERE. I trust so.
LANCELOT. Then why should I be at this moment aching to kiss you?
Tell me that?
GUENEVERE. (looking at him calmly) It does seem strange.
LANCELOT. It is absolutely insane! It's preposterous! It's contradictory!
GUENEVERE. Are you quite sure it's all true?
LANCELOT. Yes! I'm sure that I never would commit the rashness of matrimony again without being in love. Very much in love. And I'm equally sure that I would not stand here and tell you what a fool I am about you, if that weren't true. Do you think I want to be this way? It's too ridiculous—I didn't want to tell you. I wanted to go. You made me stay. Well, now you know what a blithering lunatic I am.
GUENEVERE. (quietly) It is lunacy, isn't it?
LANCELOT. Is it?
GUENEVERE. Sheer lunacy. In love with one woman, and wanting to kiss another. Disgraceful, in fact.
LANCELOT. I know what you think! You think I'm paying you an extremely caddish compliment—or else—
GUENEVERE. (earnestly, as she rises) No, I don't think that at all, Lancelot. I believe you when you say that about me. And I don't imagine for one moment that you're not really in love with Vivien. I know you are. I could pretend to myself that you weren't—just as you've tried to pretend to yourself sometimes, that I'm not really in love with Arthur. But you know I am—don't you?
LANCELOT. Yes. …
GUENEVERE. Well, Lancelot, there are—two lunatics here. (He stares at her.) It's almost funny. I don't know why I'm telling you. But—
LANCELOT. You—!
GUENEVERE. Yes. I want to kiss you, too.
LANCELOT. But this won't do. As long as there was only one of us—
GUENEVERE. There's been two all along, Lancelot. I've more self-control than you—that's all. But I broke down tonight. I knew I oughtn't to tell you—now. But I knew I would.
LANCELOT. You, too!
They have unconsciously circled about to the opposite side of the room.
GUENEVERE. Oh, well, Lance, I fancy we aren't the only ones. It's a common human failing, no doubt. Lots of people must feel this way.
LANCELOT. What do they do about it?
GUENEVERE. Well, it all depends on what kind of people they are. Some of them go ahead and kiss. Others think of the consequences.
LANCELOT. Well, let's think of the consequences, then. What are they? I forget.
GUENEVERE. I don't. I'm keeping them very clearly in mind. In the first place—
LANCELOT. Yes?
GUENEVERE. What was it? Yes—in the first place, we would be sorry. And in the second place—
LANCELOT. In the second place—
GUENEVERE. In the second place—I forget what's in the second place.
But in the third place we mustn't. Isn't that enough?
LANCELOT. Yes. I know we mustn't. But—I feel that we are going to.
GUENEVERE. Please don't say that.
LANCELOT. But isn't it true? Don't you feel that, too?
GUENEVERE. Yes.
LANCELOT. Then we're lost.
GUENEVERE. No. We must think!
LANCELOT. I can't think.
GUENEVERE. Try.
LANCELOT. It's no use. I can't even remember "in the first place," now.
GUENEVERE. Then—before we do remember—!
He takes her in his arms. They kiss each other—a long, long kiss.
LANCELOT. Sweetheart!
GUENEVERE. (holding him at arm's length) That was in the second place, Lancelot. If we kiss each other, we'll begin saying things like that—and perhaps believing them.
LANCELOT. What did I say?
GUENEVERE. Something very foolish.
LANCELOT. What, darling?
GUENEVERE. There, you did it again. Stop, or I shall be doing it, too.
I want to, you know.
LANCELOT. Want what?
GUENEVERE. To call you darling, and believe I'm in love with you.
LANCELOT. Aren't you?
GUENEVERE. I mustn't be.
LANCELOT. But aren't you?
GUENEVERE. Oh, I—(She closes her eyes, and he draws her to him. Suddenly she frees herself.) No! Lancelot—no! I'm not in love with you. And you're not in love with me. We're just two wicked people who want to kiss each other.
LANCELOT. Wicked? I don't feel wicked. Do you?
GUENEVERE. No. I just feel natural. But it's the same thing. (He approaches her with outstretched arms. She retreats behind the chair.) No, no. Remember that I'm married.
LANCELOT. I don't care.
GUENEVERE. Then remember that you're engaged!
LANCELOT. Engaged?
GUENEVERE. Yes: to Vivien.
LANCELOT. (stopping short) So I am.
GUENEVERE. And you're in love with her.
LANCELOT. That's true.
GUENEVERE. You see now that you can't kiss me, don't you?
LANCELOT (dazedly) Yes.
GUENEVERE. Then thank heavens! for I was about to let you. And that's in the fifth place, Lancelot: if we kiss each other once, we're sure to do it again and again—and again. Now go over there and sit down, and we'll talk sanely and sensibly.
LANCELOT. (obeying) Heavens, what a moment! I'm not over it yet.
GUENEVERE. Neither am I. We're a pair of sillies, aren't we? I never thought I should ever behave in such a fashion.
LANCELOT. It was my fault. I shouldn't have started it.
GUENEVERE. I am as much to blame as you.
LANCELOT. I'm sorry.
GUENEVERE. Are you?
LANCELOT. I ought to be. But I'm not, exactly.
GUENEVERE. I'm not either, I'm ashamed to say.
LANCELOT. The truth is, I want to kiss you again.
GUENEVERE. And I… But do you call this talking sensibly?
LANCELOT. I suppose it isn't. Well, go ahead with your sixth place, then. Only, for heaven's sake try and say something that will really do some good!
GUENEVERE. Very well, Lancelot. Do you really want to elope with me?
LANCELOT. Very much.
GUENEVERE. That's not the right answer. You know perfectly well you want to do nothing of the sort. What! Scandalize everybody, and ruin my reputation, and break Vivien's heart?
LANCELOT. No—I don't suppose I really want to do any of those things.
GUENEVERE. Then do you want us to conduct a secret and vulgar intrigue?
LANCELOT. (hurt) Guenevere!
GUENEVERE. You realize, of course, that this madness of ours might last no longer than a month?
LANCELOT. (soberly) Perhaps.
GUENEVERE. Well, do you still want to kiss me?—Think what you are saying, Lancelot, for I may let you. And that kiss may be the beginning of the catastrophe. (She moves toward him.) Do you want a kiss that brings with it grief and fear and danger and heartbreak?
LANCELOT. No—
GUENEVERE. Then what do you want?
LANCELOT. I want—a kiss.
GUENEVERE. Never. If you had believed, for one your chance.
LANCELOT. Kiss me!
GUENEVERE. Never. If you had believed, for one moment, that it was worth the price of grief and heartbreak, I should have believed it too, and kissed you, and not cared what happened. I should have risked the love of my husband and the happiness of your sweetheart without a qualm. And who knows? It might have been worth it. An hour from now I shall be sure it wasn't; I shall be sure it was all blind, wicked folly. But now I am a little sorry. I wanted to gamble with fate. I wanted us to stake our two lives recklessly upon a kiss—and see what happened. And you couldn't. It wasn't a moment of beauty and terror to you. You didn't want to challenge fate. You just wanted to kiss me…. Go!
LANCELOT. (turning on her bitterly) You women! Because you are afraid, you accuse us of being cowards.
GUENEVERE. What do you mean?
LANCELOT. (brutally) You! You want a love-affair. Your common sense tells you it's folly. Your reason won't allow it. So you want your common sense to be overwhelmed, your reason lost. You want to be swept off your, feet. You want to be made to do something you don't approve of. You want to be wicked, and you want it to be some one else's fault. Tell me—isn't it true?
GUENEVERE. Yes, it is true—except for one thing, Lancelot. It's true that I wanted you to sweep me off my feet, to make me forget everything; it was wrong, it was foolish of me to want it, but I did. Only if you had done it, you wouldn't have been "to blame." I should have loved you for ever because you could do it. And now, because you couldn't I despise you. Now you know. … Go.
LANCELOT. No, Guenevere, you don't despise me. You're angry with me and angry with yourself because you couldn't quite forget King Arthur. You are blaming me and I am blaming you, isn't it amusing?
GUENEVERE. You are right, Lancelot. It's my fault. Oh, I envy women who can dare to make fools of themselves who forget everything and don't care what they do! I suppose that's love—and I'm not up to it.
LANCELOT. You are different….
GUENEVERE. Different? Yes, I'm a coward. I'm not primitive enough.
Despise me. You've a right to. And—please go.
LANCELOT. I'm afraid I'm not very primitive either, Gwen. I—
GUENEVERE. I'm afraid you're not, Lance. That's the trouble with us. We're civilized. Hopelessly civilized. We had a spark of the old barbaric flame—but it went out. We put it out—quenched it with conversation. No, Lancelot, we've talked our hour away. It's time for you to pack up. Good-bye. (He kisses her hand lingeringly.) You may kiss my lips if you like. There's not the slightest danger. We were unnecessarily alarmed about ourselves. We couldn't misbehave! … Going?
LANCELOT. Damn you! Good-bye!
He goes.
GUENEVERE. Well, that did it. If he had stayed a moment longer—!
She flings up her arms in a wild gesture—then recovers herself, and goes to her chair, where she sits down and quietly resumes the darning of her husband's socks.