TEMPERAMENT
A Musical Tragedy in Two Scenes
Played for the first time on October 25, 1915, by Mr. Benjamin Carpenter, Mrs. Charles Atkinson, and Mrs. Arthur Aldis.
TEMPERAMENT.
A Musical Tragedy in Two Scenes.
Characters:
- Hugh Irwin, a Musician.
- Annabelle Irwin, his wife.
- Gladys Huntington, an Actress.
Time: The present.
Scene I: Library of the Irwins’ house in the country, simply and tastefully furnished. Black and white and rose idea—one blue jar, etc. A piano closed and covered with an embroidery—flowers about. An air of comfort and dainty luxury. The time is ten o’clock of a winter’s evening. A wood fire crackles behind bright brasses.
When the curtain rises Annabelle is seated by the fire under a rose-shaded lamp, sewing. Now she is plump and charming. Later on she will be too stout. She holds up a child’s frock of light-blue material and examines it critically, then pounces on an unfinished spot and sets to work. Hugh Irwin on the other side of the room has been reading “The Nation.” He puts it down once or twice and regards Annabelle over his eye-glasses as if desiring to speak, in fact he gets as far as opening his mouth, but, seeing her preoccupation, gives it up and attacks “The Nation” with renewed determination. Finally he slaps it down.
Hugh.
Why in thunder don’t you say something?
Annabelle.
[With five pins between her lips.]
Haven’t anything to say. Why don’t you?
Hugh.
Can’t you make up something?
Annabelle.
[Pinning intently.]
In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling! Now I thought I had the front part of that yoke—[Her voice trails off in a soliloquy about the intricacies of little girls’ frocks. Finally with a “ha” of satisfaction she lays it in her lap and comes to.] What was that you said, dear? Make up something! What a funny idea! You’re just like baby Gertrude! What do you want me to say? I can’t think of anything. [She looks longingly at the frock and sneaks in another pin.]
Hugh.
You might tell me my faults.
Annabelle.
Your faults? Why, my dear! [Pins more happily and frankly.] You haven’t any! At least if you have I don’t see them. [Her voice indicates she is talking with the top of her mind.]
Hugh.
Good Lord! [He takes up “The Nation” again, then drops it.] You mean I have so many you can’t be bothered trying to enumerate them?
Annabelle.
No, no, not at all. Let me see. Sometimes, oh very rarely, but just sometimes, I’ve thought if you could be a little tidier—not drop everything about, anywhere; and then sometimes, since you’re asking me, if I could know within an hour or so when you are coming to meals it would be a little more convenient, in the housekeeping, you know. I mean, of course, nicer for you; I don’t mind. That’s all I can think of—and of course I wouldn’t have said anything unless you’d asked. Oh, Hugh, I’m afraid I’ve been unkind. Have I? Oh do say I haven’t! It doesn’t matter much about the meals, truly it doesn’t; just on your account, that’s all.
Hugh.
Always on my account! Always fussing about me! Good Lord! haven’t you got any opinions of your own? Don’t you ever think of anything more interesting than what to get for my dinner? Great Scott!
Annabelle.
But, Hugh, it makes me so happy to think about what you’d like for your dinner! I know I have lots of faults, yes, of course I must have, but I do try to be a good housekeeper, and I think I am. What other faults have I got?
Hugh.
Hm! Faults! I guess perhaps it’s your virtues, then! There are too many of them. They stick out all over you like pins on the pink pin-cushion in the guest-room. In the first place, I’d like to know why you don’t grow old. You’re too darn good-looking. You’re just as soft and pink and white and dimpled as when I married you ten years ago. It’s outrageous!
[Annabelle picks up the frock and purrs softly up at him with an adoring smile.]
Annabelle.
Go on.
Hugh.
In the second place, you make me too damn comfortable. My clothes are always brushed and laid out just right. If I don’t want to dress, they vanish. Dinner is always ready any time, hot and delicious and too much of it! Other people’s cooks leave, but ours are marvels and stick. There’s never a sound in the house when I’m composing or practising. I never know when the piano-tuner comes, but the piano is always perfect. You never ask for more allowance, and the children never howl. But what—what about me? It’s awful! I’m getting fat! And my music! It’s getting fat, too. It waddles and clucks and cackles like a stuffed goose. And my soul, it’s growing fat—too fat to soar. Oh, it’s killing me—it’s killing me!
Annabelle.
[Taking all the pins out of her mouth.]
Hugh! are you serious? I think your music is perfectly beautiful. You know I do.
Hugh.
Perfectly serious. I’m stifled, I tell you. I’m gasping for air. You smother me with comfort and ease and adoration. I’m dying of it, and, what’s worse, the heart, the core, the essence of me, the music I might have written! It’s dead too! Oh, it’s awful, awful! [He paces the room like a caged tiger.]
Annabelle.
[Watching him for a while.]
I see, I see it all, and I’ve been trying so hard for ten years to make you comfortable! Why didn’t you tell me before you didn’t want to be comfortable? And what do you want me to do now? I’ll try to be different. I won’t take so much pains keeping the meals hot and the children quiet. I’ll do all I can.
Hugh.
Oh no, no, that isn’t what I mean. You’re adorable, of course, perfectly adorable, but—if you could, Annabelle—I suppose it’s absurd to ask—but if you could be a little more romantic, Annabelle—just a little, you know! Do you think you could? Just now when I asked you to go out into the great still whiteness out there, to feel the sting and the glory and the beauty of the moonlight, to bathe in it, go mad in it, you said, “What! in that slush in my slippers? Certainly not!” Now, that’s what I mean, Annabelle. [He wanders to the window and looks out at the moonlighted lawn.] Oh, to think, to think! I might have written another Moonlight Sonata!
Annabelle.
[Folds up her sewing neatly and puts it in the work-basket, picks the stray threads off of her dress, brushes her skirts and folds her hands upon her stomach.]
Hugh, we must separate!
Hugh.
Good Lord!
Annabelle.
We must. I see I’ve made a great mistake. I wish you had spoken of it sooner, but that can’t be helped now. I never meant to make you waddle and cluck. I never meant to make your soul grow fat, I never did. I see now I’m a kind of a barn-yard duck myself. I suppose you’re growing like me and that is a very great pity. Hugh, I’m going home to mother.
Hugh.
But, Annabelle, you’re crazy.
Annabelle.
Oh no, I’m not. I always intended to do the right thing by your Art, and I’ll do it now.
Hugh.
But I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I don’t, indeed.
Annabelle.
Very likely not, just this minute. You’ll feel the wrench a good deal, I dare say, but you’ll be glad later because you’ll be terribly uncomfortable and then you’ll make perfectly beautiful music.
Hugh.
You don’t mean you’re going for good?
Annabelle.
Well, I don’t want to spoil your career, do I? That’s what you said just now, that your soul was dying because the dinner was hot—didn’t you?
Hugh.
No!
Annabelle.
Oh—well, perhaps I misunderstood, but I’m sure it was something like that. Oh yes, I remember, you said your soul was getting fat. I’m awfully sorry.
Hugh.
Annabelle, look here! I never supposed you’d go off half-cock like this. I didn’t indeed. I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I just want you to—to come out in the moonlight and be romantic. [He laughs foolishly and tries to take her hand.] To feel the beauty and the romance and the joy. Can’t you see what I mean?
Annabelle.
Now, Hugh, let us have a clear understanding. You know I’d do anything in the world for you, but oh please listen—if I walked right out there in the wet in these slippers my feet would feel so horrid I couldn’t be romantic, I just couldn’t. Do be reasonable. Can’t you see what I mean?
Hugh.
[Stalking to the window and back again.]
Yes, I do see, and what I see is that you have no imagination. You had better go home to your mother. We are not mates. Good-bye. [He goes out fiercely.]
[Annabelle opens her mouth as the curtain falls.]
Scene II: (A year later.) A studio apartment in Greenwich Village in New York. It has attractive things in it, screens, embroideries, couch, but is most woefully untidy.
Before, and as the curtain rises, Hugh is playing the piano furiously. Arpeggios and runs dash from base to treble and back again. Chords crash like thunder. Triplets and ringlets and streamlets tinkle about on top, then rush downwards to embrace the chords—a very tempestuoso glorioso of sound. He stops once or twice to jot down a note on a score. He gets up, rubs his stomach, and goes to some unwashed dishes on a table, the remains of afternoon tea, pokes among them unsuccessfully and then returns dolefully to the piano, first lighting a cigarette. Gladys appears suddenly through the curtained doorway, back, and poses against the portières. She is tall and dark and angular and sinister, with a certain beauté de diable. She is very smart and very decolleté, and she smokes a long, thin Italian cigar. Hugh looks up and sees her, and weaves into his theme passionate welcome. She smiles crookedly at him.
Hugh.
My Beloved! [He reaches out one hand, which she takes, leaning towards him.]
Gladys.
You call that—music?
Hugh.
Yes, I call that music. Don’t you?
Gladys.
Would you mind telling me how much longer you expect to keep it up?
Hugh.
Until I get this idea down on paper. Sorry you don’t like it. It’s my piano! [Bangs louder, then catches sight of her cigar.] Throw that disgusting thing away!
Gladys.
All right.
[She does so, then takes his cigarette from his mouth and puts it in her own.]
Ow wow! What a noise! [Prinks before glass.] My ears!
Hugh.
[Playing softly and beguilingly, and half chanting the question.]
When do I get something to eat?
Gladys.
[Strolling around and stretching, dropping wrap on the floor.]
I dunno. I’ve had my supper.
[Fearful discords on piano.]
Hugh.
[To the accompaniment of chords of jealous gloom.]
You have? With whom?
Gladys.
Jim took me to the Ritz after the show. What did you wait for? Guess you can scare up something somewhere if you try. Isn’t there some chocolate-cake over there?
[She points to the tea-tray. Hugh goes on playing—motif—temper and hunger.]
Hugh.
Chocolate-cake! Ye gods!
[Jealous-temper motif. Gladys unwinds herself luxuriously onto the couch.]
Gladys.
Say, Hughie!
Hugh.
Yes?
[Basso profundo.]
Gladys.
Did Old Grump take the Sonata?
Hugh.
No.
[Anger motif.]
Gladys.
Thought not. It’s rot that sonata! Little Hughie’ll have to try again.
[Piano motif of temper and hunger plus wailing disappointment.]
Hugh.
Woman! I’d like you to get me some supper, and get it P. D. Q.
[Masterful chord accompaniment on piano.]
Gladys.
[Getting herself to sitting posture with astonishment.]
Me! Why?
Hugh.
Why? Because I’m hungry, that’s why—
Gladys.
[Cooingly.]
How funny! Hughie! Has the Oriental gone to bed?
Hugh.
Probably—at two o’clock in the morning!
[Piano begins to wail.]
Gladys.
No! Is it? And I’ve got to learn that part for eleven-o’clock rehearsal tomorrow morning. Golly! Where’d I put it, anyhow? [Searches about, making the general untidiness worse. Finds MS. and curls herself up like a cat to study. Hunger motif rises again on piano.] Shut up, will you?
Hugh.
[Playing more softly and looking up at her once or twice, opening his mouth as if to speak, then playing again, finally ending with a bang.]
Why in thunder don’t you get me my supper?
[Seeing she isn’t listening, he gets up and crosses to her. She glances up vaguely, but hardly hears, as she is absorbed in learning her lines.] Please pay attention to me! Your little Hughie! Please!
Gladys.
Oh Hugh, this is a lovely part! I’ll be great in it—listen—[Recites, then stumbles, then goes on mumbling the lines. Hugh takes the MS. out of her hands and casts it aside—then proceeds to make love to her.]
Hugh.
Oh come on now, be a good fellow. There’s a duck! Get me something to eat. You know how I love you. Please! [He lays himself down by the low couch and puts his head in her lap, closes his eyes with a rapt smile, murmuring “Beloved.” Gladys twirls his hair in her fingers gracefully. He catches and kisses her fingers. Then, seeing his eyes are closed, she craftily reaches for her lines, while she continues petting him absent-mindedly with the free hand.]
Gladys.
Old Silly!
Hugh.
[With his eyes closed.]
Gladys, I’m very happy, very, very happy, but oh I’m so hungry! Don’t let my love die of starvation. Don’t! Won’t you please get me some supper?
Gladys.
In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling. [Goes on murmuring lines and gesticulating. Finally she pats him so vaguely that she is patting his nose.]
Hugh.
[Opening his eyes.]
Good God—what are you doing?
Gladys.
Learning my part. I have to, don’t I?
Hugh.
Learning your part! Ye gods! She’s learning her part while I starve! Oh I’m so hungry! Hungry for love—hungry for my supper!
[He dashes to the piano and plays starvation motif. Then there steals in the motif of passionate pain, begging, pleading, imploring. A wild medley follows, crescendo furioso. After a few ineffectual efforts to make him stop Gladys puts down her MS. and listens judicially. Finally the music stops in some Dubussy chords. One seems to expect it to glide into another movement, but it doesn’t.]
Gladys.
[Regarding him with her head cocked and the cigarette bobbing from her lips.]
Hughie! That hunger motif is perfectly great—it’s one of the best things you do!
[From now on the relative action takes place in the same part of the stage as in preceding scene.]
Hugh.
[Leaving the piano.]
That’s right! Make fun of my Art! Do you know what’s the reason I can’t play better, the reason Old Grump won’t publish my stuff? Do you? Do you? [Gladys makes a queer little face at him.] Well, I’ll tell you the reason. It’s you. Do you hear? It’s you! You make me so damned uncomfortable I never get a chance to write decent music. It’s all like that! I’m always hungry, I’m always cold, I never can find my clothes. When I want to be loved, when I need love, you go and study your part behind my back! I tell you it’s killing me, just killing me!
Gladys.
Are you serious?
Hugh.
Perfectly serious. My music is rotten—do you hear?—rotten! It’s all alike—there’s no contrast. If you knew anything about music you’d know you have to have different movements to make up a symphony, different moods. The calm of a sunset at sea—the stress of a great wind—dash of the waves against the rocks, then peace again—a shepherd’s pipe in the gloaming— Well, when do I get a chance to compose a pastoral in this joint? It’s nothing but rows and nasty cold meals and hurly-burly and chocolate-cake! I don’t get sleep enough—my digestion is ruined—my socks have holes in them, bad holes— [He kicks off his slippers and displays two toes bare.]
Gladys.
But, Hughie, you have me, think of that!
Hugh.
Yes, I know I have you, and I’m not likely to forget it! As a first aid to a budding composer, you’re a regular scream! My soul is starving, I tell you, starving, and it’s killing me, killing me! [He slumps gloomily onto the piano-stool.]
Gladys.
[Rising majestically.]
And what about me? I’d like to know where I get off? What about my soul? A swell chance I’ve got to study my parts with you banging that piano from morning till night! What do you take me for, anyhow? A nice little Dickie-bird that’s got nothing to think about but your supper and your socks? I’ve got my Art to think about—haven’t I? Why, five minutes ago, when you knew I just had to learn that part, you sat there and banged on the piano on purpose and then you came and dumped yourself down there! Who was uncomfortable then, I’d like to know? And all you talked about was food! You’re always thinking about food, always complaining there isn’t any. Talking about your stomach when I’m learning my lines, my great lines! You’re so unromantic—Hugh— You are, really!
[Hugh looks startled. She has worked herself up to quite a temper and now paces the room like an enraged panther.]
Hugh.
[After watching her.]
I see, I see it all. I’ve made a terrible mistake. We are both IT, don’t you see, and it won’t work. It will never work!
Gladys.
What do you mean, Hugh?
Hugh.
[Folds up his music, putting the scattered sheets in a neat pile, arranges his hair and tie, then clasps his hands over his stomach.]
Gladys, we must separate.
Gladys.
Good Lord!
Hugh.
I don’t want to spoil your career. I’m going home to Annabelle.
Gladys.
[Making a panther spring.]
Never! You’re mine!
Hugh.
[Disengaging her hands.]
I see that I’ve done you a great wrong. I always intended to do the right thing by your Art, and I am going to do it now. [A puzzled, frightened look comes into his face as he speaks.]
Gladys.
[Clinging to him.]
Hughie, you’re crazy. I don’t want you to go home to Annabelle. I never supposed you’d go off half-cock like this. I don’t want you to go. I just want you to—to stop talking about food while I’m studying my parts. It’s a beautiful play, Hugh. I die in the last act and I say such lovely things! You’ve no idea what lovely things, and then you interrupt me talking about supper when there’s plenty of chocolate-cake right there! If you’d just be a little more romantic, Hugh. Don’t you see what I mean?
[Hugh looks still more frightened and puzzled. He clutches his forehead.]
Hugh.
[Gathering himself together.]
Now, Gladys, listen. Let us have a clear understanding. You know I’d do anything in the world for you, but if I stopped playing the piano while you learned your parts, and while you slept, which is all morning long, why, there’d never be any time to play at all. Do be reasonable. Don’t you see what I mean? [At his own last words the frightened look comes into his face again.]
Gladys.
[Who has stalked up stage and folded her arms while he has been speaking.]
Yes, I do see, and what I see is that you have no imagination. You had better go home to Annabelle. We are not mates. Good-bye.
[Hugh makes a wild clutch at his head with both hands and flees, presumably to Annabelle. Gladys stands with her mouth open as the curtain falls.]
CURTAIN.
FOOTNOTES
[1] After Wm. McGinn.
[2] The play, “Diritti dell Anima,” translated by Edith and Allan Updegraff under the title “Sacred Ground,” is published by Mitchell Kennerley, New York, in the Modern Drama series. Application to Edwin Bjorkman through the publishers should be made for permission to give a dramatic presentation.
[3] From The Century, March, 1914.