PT 2638 S359A5E 1911 1 I 1 CSOUTHFf < OO ; 1 ^-^'^ ^^^H 3 ^^^^ ^^^^H 2 — =z ^^^^B 8 ^"^^^^K 2 — - ^^^^m 1 — B ^^^^m ( \ ' i fMfS \ ^ A NATOL : A SEQUENCE OF /-% DIALOGUES BY ARTHUR ^ ^SCHNITZLER; PARAPHRASED FOR THE ENGLISH STAGE BY GRANVILLE BARKER m NEW YORK: MITCHELL KENNERLEY MCMXI Copyright l^ii by Mitchell Kennerley Prtti of J. J. Little & Ives Co., New York TT seems that in a faithful translation the peculiar charm of these dialogues will disappear. To recreate it exactly in Eng- lish one must be another Schnitzler: which, is absurd. This is the only excuse I can offer for my paraphrase. H. G. B. 8702{)S >• Anatol PAGE 1 Ask no Questions and You'll Hear no Stories i 2 A Christmas Present 19 3 An Episode 33 4 Keepsakes 51 5 A Farewell Supper 63 6 Dying Pangs 83 7 The Wedding Morning 99 ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL HEAR NO STORIES xc V ^^ „\^^ ASK NO QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL HEAR NO STORIES ANATOii, an idle young bachelor, lives in a charmi/ng ■flat in Vienna. That he has taste, besides means to indulge it^ may be seen by his rooms, the furni- ture he buys, the pictures he hangs on the walls. And if such things indicate character, one would judge, first by the material comfort of the place and then by the impatience for new ideas which his sense of what is beautiful to live with seems to show, that though a hedonist, he is sceptical of even that easy faith. Towards dusk one after- noon he comes home bringing with him his friend MAX. They reach the sitting-room^ talking . . . MAX. Well, Anatol, I envy you. ANATOL. My dear Max! MAX. Perfectly astonishing. I've always said it was all tricks. But he went off to sleep under my very eyes . . . and then he danced when you told him he was a ballet dancer and cried when you said his sweetheart was dead . . . and he sentenced that crimi- nal very soundly when you'd made him a judge. ANATOL,. Didn't he? MAX. It's wizardry ! ANATOL. We can all be wizards to some extent. 3 ANATOL MAX. Perfectly uncanny. ANATOL. Not more so than much else in life . . . not more uncanny than lots we've been finding out the last hundred years. If you'd suddenly proved to one of our ancestors that the world went round, he'd have turned giddy. MAX. But this seems super- natural. ANATOL. So must anything strange. What would a man think if he'd never seen a sunrise before, or watched the spring arrive . . . the trees and the flowers . . . and then felt himself falling in love. MAX. Mesmerism . . . ANATOL. Hypnotism. MAX. Yes . . . I'll take cart no one ever does It to me. ANATOL. Where's the harm? I tell you to go to sleep. You settle down comfortably ... off you go . . . MAX. Then you tell me I'm a chimney-sweep, and up the chimney I go and get all over soot. ANATOL. But, you kuow, it has great scientific possibilities. We're hardly on the threshold of them yet . . . worse luck. MAX. Why worse luck? ANATOL. I could make what I liked of the world for that fellow an hour ago. Can I shift it a jot from what It damnably is for myself? MAX. Can't you? ANATOL. Haven't I tried? I've stared and stared at this ring of mine, saying Sleep . . . and then wake with this little wretch that's driving you mad, gone clean from your mind. 4 ASK NO QUESTIONS MAX. Still the same little wretch? ANATOL,. Of course. I'm damned wretched, MAX. And still suspecting her.? ANATOL. Not a bit of it. I know perfectly well that she's untrue to me. She puts her arms round m}'' neck and kisses me, and we're happy. But all the time ... as sure as she's standing there ... I know that she's . . . MAX. Oh, nonsense! ANATOL. Is it! MAX. Then how do you know.? ANATOL. When I feel a thing as I feel this ... it must be true. MAX. That's unarguable, anyhow. ANATOL. Besides, girls of this sort always are un- faithful. It comes naturally to them . . . it's a sort of instinct. Just as I have two or three books that I read at a time, they must keep two or three men hanging around. MAX. But doesn't she love you? ANATOL. What difference does that make? MAX. Who's the other man? ANATOL. How do I kuow ? Somc one has seen her in the shop. Some one has made eyes at her in the train going home. MAX. Rubbish! ANATOL. Why? All she wants is to have a good time without thinking about it. I ask her if she loves me. She says Yes . . . and it's perfectly true. Then . . . Am I the only man she loves ? She says 5 ANATOL Yes again . . . and that's true, too, for the time being. For the time being she's forgotten the other fellow. Besides . . . what else can a woman say.'' She can't tell you. . . . No, my darling, the very moment your back is turned . . . ! Still ... I wish I knew for certain. MAX. My dear Anatol, if she really loves you . . . ANATOL. Oh, innocent ! I ask you what has that to do with it? MAX. A great deal, I should hope. ANATOL. Then why am I not true to her.'' I really love her, don't I.'' MAX. You're a man. ANATOL. Thank you ... it only needed that ! Of course ... we are men and women are different. Some ! If their mammas lock them up or if they're little fishes. Otherwise, my dear Max, women and men are very much alike . . . especially women. And if I swear to one of them that she's the only woman I love, is that lying to her... just because the night before I've been saying the same thing to another.'' MAX. Well . . . speak for yourself. ANATOL. Cold-blooded, correct gentleman ! I'm afraid dear Hilda's rather less like you than she is like me. Perhaps she isn't . . . but perhaps she is. I'd give a lot to know. I might go on my knees and swear I'd forgiven her already . . . but she'd lie to me just the same. Haven't I been begged with tears a dozen times . . . for God's sake to tell them if I'm true. They won't say an angry word if I'm not . . . only tell them. Then I've lied . . . calmly 6 ASK NO QUESTIONS and cheerfully. And quite right too. Why should I make poor women wretched.'' They've believed in me and been happy. MAX. Very well, then . . . ANATOL. But I don't believe in her and I'm not happy. Oh ... if some one could invent a way to make these dear damnable little creatures speak the truth ! MAX. What about your hypnotism.'' ANATOL. My ....'' MAX. Put her to sleep and draw it like a tooth. ANATOii. I could. MAX. What an opportunity. ANATOL. Isn't it.'' MAX. Does she love you ... or who else is it.'' Where's she just been . . . where's she going.'' What's his name . . . ? ANATOL. Oh, if I knew that! MAX. But you've only to ask her . . . ANATOL. And she must answer. MAX. You lucky fellow ! ANATOL. Yes ... I am. It'll be my own fault if I worry any more, won't it.f^ She's under my thumb now, isn't she.'' MAX. I say . . . I'm curious to know. ANATOL. Why . . . d'you think she's not straight.'' MAX. Oh . . . may nobody think it but you ? ANATOL. No, nobody may. When you've just found your wife in another man's arms and an old friend meets you and says Poor fellow, I'm afraid Madame isn't all that she should be . . . d'you clasp 7 ANATOL his hand gratefully and tell him he's quite right? No . . . you knock him down. MAX. Yes . . . the principal task of friendship is to foster one's friend's illusions. ANATOL. hears something. ANATOL. Tsch! MAX. What.? ANATOL. How well I kuow the sound of her! MAX. I don't . . . ANATOL. In the hall. Here she is. Well . . . Hilda.? He opens the door to find her coming in. A personable young woman. HILDA. Dearest ! Oh . . . somebody with you. ANATOL. Only Max. HILDA. How are you? All in the dark! ANATOL. I like the gloaming. HILDA. Romantic darling. ANATOL. Dearest. HILDA. But don't let's have any more of it. You don't mind, do you? She turns up the lights and then takes off her hat and things, and rnakes herself quite at home. ANATOL [under his breath^. Isn't she . . .? {praise fails him). MAX [with a shade of irony^. She is ! HILDA. Had a nice long talk? ANATOL. Half-an-hour. HILDA. What about? ANATOL. All sorts of things. 8 ASK NO QUESTIONS MAX. Hypnotism. HILDA. You're all going mad about that. ANATOL. Yes . . . HILDA. Anatol, why don't you hypnotise me some time.'' ANATOL is staggered at the sudden opportunity. ANATOL. D'you mean it? HILDA. Rather! Awfully jolly if you'd do it, darling. ANATOL. Much obliged. HILDA. Not any strange person messing about of course. ANATOL. Very well . . . I'll hypnotise you. HILDA. When? ANATOL. Now. HILDA. Will you ? Oh, how nice ! What do I do ? ANATOL. Sit in that chair and go to sleep. HILDA. That all? He settles her on a chair, and, taking another, settles himself opposite, max is discreet in the background. ANATOL. You must look at me . . . straight at me. And then I stroke your forehead . . . and then over your eyes . . . like this. HILDA. What else? ANATOL. Let yourself go. She sits limply with her eyes shut. HILDA. When you stroke me like that ... it makes me feel funny all over. ANATOL. Don't talk ... go to sleep. You are rather sleepy. 9 ANATOL HILDA. No, I'm not. ANATOL,. Just a little. HILDA [in tune with /jfm]. Yes . . . just a little. ANATOL. Oh . . . it's so hard to keep awake. Don't try. Why . . . you can't lift up your hand. HILDA [^tonelessly^^. No ... I can't. ANATOL makes wider passes, and his voice is won- derfully soothing. ANATOL. You are so sleepy ... so sleepy ... so very sleepy. Well, then . . . sleep, dear child, sleep . . . sleep. You can't open your eyes now. It seems as if she made the most helpless effort. ANATOL. You can't . . . because you're asleep. Keep sleeping . . . MAX [really excited^ . Is she . . . ? ANATOL. S-sh! [Then as hefore.'\ Sleeping... sleeping . . . fast asleep. He stands silently for a minute looking down at HILDA as she sleeps. Then he turns to max and says in his ordinary tones . . . ANATOL. All right now. MAX. Is she really asleep .»* ANATOL. Look at her. Let her be for a minute. For a minute they both watch her. Then anatol speaks again. ANATOL. Hilda, answer me when I ask you. What's your name.'' Her mouth opens and the word is slowly formed. HILDA. Hilda. ANATOL. Hilda . . . we're walking along a road . . . out in the country. 10 ASK NO QUESTIONS HILDA. Yes . . . isn't it pretty ? That's a tall tree. There's a bird singing . . . ANATOL. Hilda . . . you're going to tell me the truth. Do you understand? HILDA [^slowly again^. I am going to tell you the truth. ANATOL. Answer me all I ask you quite truthfully . . . but when you wake up you will have forgotten. Do you understand? HILDA. Yes. ANATOL. Then sleep . . . soundly. Then he turns to max and they look at each other triumphantly, hut hesitant. ANATOL. How shall we- begin? i&AK [after a moment'\. How old is she? ANATOL. She's nineteen. Hilda . . .how old are you? HILDA. Twenty-five. MAX. Oh! [and he dissolves into silent guffaws']. ANATOL. Tsch ! That's odd. But . . . [he brightens] but there you are. MAX. She never thought she'd be such a success. ANATOL. Well . . . one more martyr to science. Let's try again. Hilda, do you love me? Hilda dear ... da you love me? HILDA. Yes. ANATOL. There . . . that's the truth. MAX. And now for the all-important question . . . is she true to you? ANATOL strikes the correct attitude for this. ANATOL. Yes. Hilda, are you . . . ? [but he frowns.] No . . . that won't do. 11 ANATOL MAX. Why not? ANATOL. I can't put it that way. MAX. It's a simple question. ANATOL,. Not at all. Are you true to me ! It may mean anything. MAX. How? ANATOL. She might look back over her whole life. You don't suppose she never fell in love till she met me, do you? MAX. Well ... I should like to hear about it. ANATOL. Would you, indeed ! Prying into school- girl secrets ! How was the poor child to know that one day she'd meet me? MAX. Of course she didn't. ANATOL. Very well, then. MAX. So why shouldn't she tell us? ANATOL. I don't like putting it that way, and I shan't. MAX. What about . . . Hilda, since you've known me have you been true to me? ANATOL. Ah, that's different. [^He faces the sleeper again.'l Hilda... since you've known me have you been . . . [but again he frowns and stops^. And it's rather worse. MAX. Worse? ANATOL. Think how all love affairs begin. We met quite casually. How could we tell we should one day be all in all to each other? MAX. Of course you couldn't. ANATOL. Very well, then. Suppose when she first 12 ASK NO QUESTIONS knew me she had some idle fancy still to shake free of . . . am I to blame her for that? MAX. You make better excuses than ever she could. ANATOL. Is it fair to take such an advantage of the girl? MAX [with a twisty smile^. You're a good fellow, Anatol. Try this. Hilda . . . since you've loved me, have you been true to me ? ANATOL. Yes . . . that's better. MAX. Right. Once more anatol, fixes his love with a gesture. But he suddenly drops it. anatol. No, it won't do . . . it won't do. max. Well, really! anatol. Think a minute. She's sitting in a train, A man opposite . . . good-looking fellow . . . slides his foot against hers. She looks up. max. Well? anatol. Think of the extraordinary subtlety of mind that has been engendered in her by this hypnotic trance. In her present un- conscious state the remembrance of looking up not displeased might well be recalled as an act of infidelity. MAX. Oh, come! anatol. That's perfectly sound. And the more so because she already knows my views on such a point . . . which are a little exaggerated. I've often warned her not to go looking at men. MAX. What has she said to that? 13 ANATOL ANATOL. Oh . . . asked me to imagine her doing such a tiling ! MAX. Which you were imagining quite well ten minutes ago. ANATOL.. Suppose she was kissed under the mistle- toe last Christmas . . . MAX. No . . . really ! ANATOL. She may have been. MAX. All this means is, that you won't ask her the question. ANATOL. Not at all. I will ask her the question. But . . . MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Ask a woman if she's true to 3'OU and she doesn't think of men tread- ing on her foot or kissing her under the mistletoe. Besides, if the answer's not clear, we can make her go into details. ANATOL. I see. You've made up your mind I shall ask her, have you.^" MAX. Dash it, no ! It's you want to find things out . . . not I. ANATOL. Yes. There's another thing to think of. MAX. What now? ANATOL. What about her sub-responsible self.'' MAX. What the devil's that? ANATOL. Under the stimulus of certain extraor- dinary circumstances, I quite believe that one is not a fully independent agent. MAX. Would you put that into English? ANATOL. Well . . . imagine some room . , . softly 14 ASK NO QUESTIONS curtained . . . dimly lit . . . glowing with warmth and colour. MAX. Right . . . I've imagined it. ANATOL. There she sits . . . she and some other man. MAX. But what's she doing there at all? ANATOL. That's not the point for the moment. She i s there, we'll suppose. Supper ... a glass of wine . . . cigarettes . . . silence. And then a whis- pered word or two . . . ! Oh, my dear Max, colder women than she haven't stood prim against such temptation. MAX. I should say that if you're in love with some one, you've no business to find yourself in a room like that with somebody else. ANATOL. But I know how things will happen. MAX. Anatol, it won't do. Here's your riddle with its answer ready. It's to be solved with a word. One question to find out if she's yours alone. One more to find out who shares her with you . . . and how big is the share. You won't ask them. You suffer agonies. What wouldn't you give to know . . . just to be sure. Well, here's the book open . . . and you won't even turn the page. Why.? Because you might find written there that a woman you're in love with is no better than you swear all women are. You don't want the truth . . . you want to keep your illusions. Wake her up . . . and to-morrow be content with the glorious thought that you could have found out . . . only you wouldn't. ANATOL. I . . . I . . . 15 ANATOL MAX. You've been talking nonsense. It hasn't taken me in if it has you. ANATOL. I w i 1 1 ask her. MAX. Will you? ANATOL. Yes . . . but not in front of you. MAX. Wh}^ not.? ANATOL. If I'm to know the worst, I'll hear it privately. Being hurt is only half as bad as being pitied for it. I don't want your kind face to be telling me just how hard the knock is. You'll know just the same, because if she's ... if she has been . . . then we've seen the last of her. But you won't be there at the awful moment. D'you mind? MAX. Shall I wait in your bedroom? ANATOL. Yes. It won't take a moment. So MAX retires, and anatol faces the sleeping girl, who is half smiling in her sleep. He braces himself for the effort, then speaks sternly, judicially. ANATOL. Hilda ... do you . . . ? He fails, then makes a further effort. ANATOL. Hilda . . . are you . . . ? He fails again and turns distractedly away. Then for the third time . . . ANATOL. Hilda , . . have you . . . ? He begins to sweat with the emotion of it. ANATOL. Oh, Lord ! Hilda . . . Hilda . . . And then, with one qualm as to whether max can overhear, he throws conscience to the winds, and himself on his knees beside the pretty girl. 16 ASK NO QUESTIONS ANATOL. Oh . . . wake up, my darling, and give me a kiss. With a couple of waves he can release her, and up she sits quite brightly. HILDA. Have I been like that long? Where's Max.? ANATOL. Max! Out of the bedroom comes max, mischievously watchful. MAX. Here. anatol. Yes ... a sound sleep. You've been saying things. HILDA. Anything I shouldn't? »LAX. He's been asking you questions. HILDA. What sort? ANATOL. All sorts. HILDA. And I answered them? ANATOL \_with a look at max]. Every one. HILDA. Oh, tell me . . . ! ANATOL. Aha ! . . . we'll try again to-morrow. HILDA. No, we won't. You asking me what you like , . . and now I can't remember any of it. I may have said the most awful things. ANATOL. You said you loved me. HILDA. Did I? MAX. Who'd have thought it ! HILDA. I can say that better when I'm awake. ANATOL. Sweetheart ! MAX. Good afternoon! ANATOL. Going? 17 ANATOL MAX. I must. ANATOL. You can find your way out? HILDA. Ta-ta. MAX beckons to anatol, who follows him to the door. max. Perhaps you've made a scientific discovery besides. That women tell lies just as well when they're asleep. But so long as you're happy . . . what's the odds.'' He departs, leaving the couple locked in a fond embrace. 18 II A CHRISTMAS PRESENT A CHRISTMAS PRESENT It is Christmas Eve, about "five o'clock. In a bye- street, that links up two others busy with shops, a builder's scaffold has formed a little arcade. Be- neath this, and just beside a big arc lamp that sheds its whiteness down, anatol, hurrying along with umbrella up, meets gabrielle. ANATOX, [stopping']. Oh! How do you do? gabrielle. Why, it's you! ANATOL. What are you doing? All those parcels . . . and no umbrella ! GABRIELLE. I'm trying to find a cab. ANATOL. But it's raining. GABRIELLE. That's the reason. I've been buying presents. ANATOL. Let me carry some of them . . . please. GABRIELLE. It doesn't matter. ANATOL. I insist. [He captures one.] But hadn't you better wait here in shelter? We shall find a cab just as quickly. GABRIELLE. You really mustn't trouble. ANATOL. Let me be a little attentive for once in a way. GABRIELLE. I'll Wait here a minute to see if one 21 ANATOL 'I passes. Or I'll be grateful for the umbrella. [He tries for another parcel.^ No, I can manage that, thanks. It's not at all heavy* \^But she surrenders it.l Oh, very well then! ANATOL. Won't you believe that I like being polite .'' -s^ GABRiELLE. As onc Only notices it when it's rain- ing, and I haven't an umbrella . . . ANATOL. And it's Christmas Eve, and dark too . . . ! Warm weather for Christmas, isn't it? GABRiELLE. Very. [They take their stand looking out for a cab to pass.^ Marvellous to see you at all. ANATOL. I've not been to call once this year . . . is that what you mean ? GABRiEi^iiE [with much indifference^. Oh, haven't you.? ANATOL. The fact is I've not been anywhere much. How is your husband . . . and how are the dear children? GABRIELLE. Why ask that? You don't in the least want to know. ANATOL. You read me like a book. GABRIELLE. It's such Very large print. ANATOL. I wish you knew more of it . . . by heart. GABRIELLE [with tt toss of her head}. Don't say things like that. ANATOL. They just spring from me. GABRIELLE. Give me my parcels. I'll walk on. ANATOL. Oh, don't be angry . . . I'll be as prim and proper as you please. GABRIELLE. There's a cab. No, it's full. Oh, dear, A CHRISTMAS FRESENT shall I have to wait long? \^He is standing mum.^ Do say something. ANATOL. I'm longing to . . . but the censorship is so strict. GABRiELLE. You Can tell me your news, can't you.f* It's ages since we met. What are you doing now? ANATOL. As usual . . . nothing. GABRIELLE. Nothing? ANATOL. Rather less than^ nothing. GABRIELLE. Isn't that a pity? ANATOL. Why say that . . . when you don't in the least care? v, GABRIELLE. You shouldu't take that for granted. ANATOL. If I'm wasting my life, whose fault is it? Whose, would you mind telling me ? GABRIELLE. I'd better go on. Give me my parcels. ANATOL [^mischievously^. I didn't imply it was any one's fault in particular. I just wanted your valua- ble opinion. GABRIELLE [^with a touch of feeling^. You idler! ANATOL. Don't despise idlers. They're the last word in civilisation. But I'm not idling to-night. I'm as busy as you are. GABRIELLE. What with? ANATOL. I'm out to buy Christmas presents, too. GABRIELLE. Areyou? ANATOL. If I could find anything worth buying. I've been looking at the shops for weeks. They haven't a notion amongst 'em. GABRIELLE. That's what the good customer has to 23 ANATOL supply. But, bless me ! an idle person like you ought to be thinking out his presents all the summer. ANATOL. How could I.'' How Can I tell in the summer whom I may be making up to at Christmas? And the shops will be shut in an hour or two, and I'm still empty-handed ! GABRIELLE. Could I help? ANATOL. Oh, you arc a darling! What's my best shop ? GABRIELLE. Well, you must know that. We'll take the cab there when we find it. ANATOL. Thank you for passing the Darling . . . it's my favourite word. GABRIELLE. I ignored it. ANATOL. Very well . . . I'm prim and proper again. GABRIELLE. Where shall we go when the cab comes? What sort of a present? Who's it for? ANATOL. Now . . . how shall I tell you? GABRIELLE. It's for a woman, of course. ANATOL. Didn't I say you could read me like a book ? GABRIELLE. What sort of a woman? ANATOL. There, again ! How do you women sort yourselves out? GABRIELLE. Is it a womau I know? ANATOL. Not at all. GABRIELLE. Not ... a womau I should call on ? ANATOL. Never. GABRIELLE. No ... I thought as much. ANATOL. Don't sneer. 24) A CHRISTMAS PRESENT GABRiELLE. You have extraordinary tastes. What's she like. . . pretty-pretty? ANATOL,. Pretty. GABRiELLE. A man is a marvellous creature. Good breeding, good manners, are nothing to you ! ANATOL. Oh, a great deal . . . when they'll conde- scend to us. But if they won't . . . GABRiELLE. Don't be silly again. No, you prefer a cheap and easy conquest ! ANATOL. I go where I'm appreciated. GABRIELLE. Can she read you like a book? ANATOL. God forbid. But she admires the binding, and takes the rest on trust. While you despise the contents ... as if you really knew them! GABRIELLE. I really don't know what you mean. I can tell you of an excellent shop; I passed it just now. Cases of scent in the window. One with three sorts , . . Patchouli, Jockey Club, Cherry Blossom. I'm sure that's the very thing. ANATOL. You're unkind. GABRIELLE. Well, there was another shop next door . . . with brooches and suchlike. One with ^ix Parisian diamonds in it . . , s i x. Oh, so sparkling ! Or a bracelet with charms hung round ; or a long bead necklace . . . quite savage ! That's the sort of thing these ladies like, isn't it? ANATOL. I'm afraid you know nothing about them. GABRIELLE. Or I Can tell you of a hat shop with a style of its own. Their bows are too large, and they 25 ANATOL put in a feather too many. These persons like to be conspicuous, don't they ? ANATOL. Not at all. GABRiELLE. It's hard to be helpful. Make a sug- gestion yourself. ANATOL. You're waiting to laugh at it. GABRiELLE. I promise I won't. Let me know what she likes. Is she demure in sealskins ? ANATOL. I said you'd laugh. GABRIELLE. I'm not laughiug. Tell me about her. ANATOL. I don't think I can. GABRIELLE. Of couTse you Can. How long have you known her.? ANATOL. Oh . . . GABRIELLE. Well.'' ANATOL. Ever so long. GABRIELLE. Don't be so difficult. Tell me all about it. ANATOL. There's nothing to tell. GABRIELLE. What nousense ! Where did you meet her and what's she like? What's her name and her age.^* Is she tall or short and dark or fair.'' ANATOL. It'll only bore you. GABRIELLE. No it wou't. I've always wanted to know about that sort of person . . . what they're really like. ANATOL. You'll never know. GABRIELLE. Why not.'' ANATOL. As long as you fully believe that women you can't call on don't really exist at all. 26 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT GABRiELLE. But I Want to learn better. And if no one dares tell me the truth . . . ANATOL [with a sudden break of tone'\. Haven't you very virtuous ladies a feeling that this other sort of woman . . . somehow gets the better of you after all? GABRIELLE. That's a delicate insult. ANATOL. You wouldn't change places, of course, but . . . how dare she be so improperly happy.'' GABRIELLE. Is it the oiily way then? ANATOL. That's feminine fellow-feeling, I'm told . . . and therefore all that's charming and charitable. GABRIELLE. You'vc Icamt to be very sarcastic since we last met. ANATOL [seriously, almost passionatelyl. Shall I tell you how? Once I used to believe that a good woman so-called was an honest woman. I've taken a few knock-down blows with my teeth shut . . . GABRIELLE. Plcasc don't be heroic... that's far worse ! ANATOL. Straight blows. I can take a No when it's honestly meant and said without flinching. But when the eyes say Perhaps and the smile says Wait a little, and what the No means is Yes Yes Yes . . . if only I dared ! Then ... , GABRIELLE \_biting her lips^. I think I ^9ri^t_wait for this cab to come by . . . ANATOL. Then you've your choice between feeling a fool and becoming a cynic. GABRIELLE. . . . Unlcss you mean to go on telling me about . . . about your new friend. 27 ANATOL ANATOi. [back to his bantering humour^. You simply must know, mi^^t you? GABRiELLE. Certainly I must. How did you first meet? ANATOL. How does one meet people ? In the streets, at the seaside, in an omnibus, sharing an umbrella ! GABRiELLE. Never mind how one meets people. How did you meet her . . . the Her we're finding a Christmas present for? I'm sure she's like nobody else. ANATOL. She's just as like every other girl of her sort as you are like every other woman of yours. GABRIELLE [for the first time really annoyed^. Am I indeed ! ANATOL. Oh, don't be offended. Or as I'm like every other man of mine. Are there a dozen different patterns of any of us altogether? GABRIELLE. What's yours? ANATOL. I, madam, am a Toy Philosopher. GABRIELLE. And mine? ANATOL. You are a Married Lady. GABRIELLE. And what's she? ANATOL. She? She is just a Dear Little Girl. GABRIELLE. Then let's hear al] about your Dear Little Girl. ANATOL. It's not that she's so pretty, or so smart . . . and certainly not that she's so clever. GABRIELLE. Nevcr mind what she's not. ANATOL. She's as sweet as a wild flower, and as elusive as a fairy tale . . . and she knows what love means. 28 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT GABRiELLE. No doubt. ThcsG Dear Little Girls have every chance to learn. ANATOL. Quite so, but you'll never learn what she's really like. For when you were a dear little girl . . . of another sort . . . you knew nothing at all. And now you're a married lady you think you're so worldly wise. GABRIELLE. Not at all. I'm quite open-mouthed for your fairy tale. What sort of a ^castle does the princess live in.^* ANATOL. Can you imagine a fairy princess in any- thing but the smartest of drawing-rooms.? GABRIELLE [« little ^arfZT/]. Thank you, I can. ANATOL. Because this one lives in a little room . . . with a cheap and nasty wall-paper. With a few Christmas numbers hanging about and a white shaded lamp on her table. You can see the sun set from the window over the roofs and through the chimneys. And in the spring you can almost smell the flowers in a garden across the way. GABRIELLE. It must be a sign of great happiness • . . looking forward to the spring. ANATOL. Yes, even I feel happy now and then . . . sitting with her at that window. GABRIELLE givcs a little shiver; it's the cold, no doubt. Then . . . GABRIELLE. It is getting late. Shall we walk on.? You must buy her something. Something to hang on the nasty wall-paper and hide it a little. ANATOL. She thinks it so pretty. 29 ANATOL GABRiELLE. Why don't you refurnish the room to your taste? ANATOL. Why should I? GABRIELLE. With a Persian carpet, and .'. . ANATOL. No, no, no . . . She knows what she likes. There falls a little silence. But no cab passes. GABRIELLE. Is sh^jvaiting for you now.'* ANATOL. Sure to be. GABRIELLE. What will she say when you come.'' ANATOL. Oh . . . the right thing. GABRIELLE. She knows your step on the stairs, doesn't she? ANATOL. I expect so. GABRIELLE. And goes to the door ? ANATOL. Yes. GABRIELLE. And puts hcr arms round your neck, and says . . . What does she say? ANATOL. The right thing. GABRIELLE. What's that? ANATOL. It's just . . . the right thing to say. GABRIELLE. What was it yesterday? ANATOL. It sounds nothing repeated. I suppose it's the way that she says it. GABRIELLE. I'll imagine that. Tell me the words. ANATOL. It is good to have you back again. GABRIELLE. It is good . . . what ? ANATOL. To have you back again. GABRIELLE. That's very beautiful. ANATOL. You see . . . she means it. 30 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT GABRiELLE. And she lives there alone? You can always be with her? ANATOL. She's quite alone. She has no father or mother. GABRIELLE. And jou . . . are all the world to her? ANATOL \^the cynic in him shrugs his shoulders^. I hope so. For the moment. There is another silence. GABRIELLE. I'm afraid I'm getting cold standing still . . . and all the cabs seem to be full. ANATOL. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have kept you. Let me see you home. GABRIELLE. Yes . . . they'll all be fidgeting. But what about your present? ANATOL. Never mind, I shall find something. GABRIELLE. Will you ? But I Wanted to help you buy it. ANATOL. No, no, you mustn't trouble. GABRIELLE. I wish I could be there when you give it her. I wish I could see that little room and that . . . lucky little girl. There's a cab empty. Call it, please. ANATOL waves to the cab. ANATOL. Taxi ! GABRIELLE. Thank you. \^As the cab turns and she moves towards it . . . ] May I send her something? ANATOL. You? GABRIELLE. Take her these flowers. Will you give her a message as well? "" ANATOL. It's really most awfully good of you. 31 ANATOL GABRiELLE. But you w i 1 1 take them to her, and promise to give her the message? ANATOL. Certainly. GABRiELLE. Promise. ANATOL [by this he has opened the cab doorl. I promise. Why shouldn't I? GABRIELLE. This is it . . . ANATOL. Yes? GABRIELLE. Thesc flowers, dear little girl, are from . . . some one who might have been as happy as you ... if she hadn't been quite such a coward ! [^She gets in without his help.^ Tell him where to drive. He does so, and then goes his way too. 32 Ill AN EPISODE AN EPISODE MAx's rooms are comfortable, if commonplace. The wiiting table he is sitting at is clumsy, but ifs within reach of a cheerful fire. By the lamp on it he is reading a letter. MAX. We're back again for three months . . . you'll have seen it in the papers. Old friends first . . . I'm coming along . . . Your affectionate Bibi. Nice little Bianca ! I shall certainly stay in. There's a knock at the door. MAX. Already ! No, this can't be . . . Come in. In walks anatol, carrying an enormous parcel. He looks most gloomy. anatol. How are you.'' MAX. What on earth have you got there? anatoi.. This is my past. MAX. Your what ? ANATOL deposits the parcel on the table. ANATOL. I have brought you my dead and buried past. I want you to take care of it for me. MAX. Why? ANATOL [^with great solemnity^. May I sit down? MAX [as solemn as he'\. You may. ANATOL takes off his hat and coat and settles himself i/n the most comfortable chair. ANATOL ANATOL. May I smoke? MAX. Try one of these. ANATOL lights a cigar and unbends a trifle. ANATOL. I rather like these. MAX [^pointing to the parcel^. Well.'' ANATOL. I really cannot live with my past any longer. I'm going for a holiday. MAX. Ah! ANATOL. I wish to begin a new life . . . even if I don't go on with it. And this is naturally very much in the way. MAX. In love again? ANATOL. Out of love this time. So you might look after this rubbish for me. MAX. Better bum it if it's rubbish. ANATOL. I can't do that. MAX. Why not? ANATOL. This is how I'm true to them ... to all the women I've ever loved ... I never forget a single one. I have only to turn over these letters, and dead flowers, and locks of hair . . . You'll have to let me come here and turn them over occasionally . . . and back they come to me . . . I'm in love with them all again. MAX. This is to be a sort of Usual place at half-past three and don't be late ... is it? ANATOL. I've often wished there really were some Abracadabra which would call them back out of the utter nothingness. MAX. But a variegated sort of nothingness. ANATOL. If I knew of a word . . . 36 AN EPISODE MAX. Let's think of one. What about — My Only Love. ANATOL. Yes . . . My Only Love ! And then they'd all come. One from a little suburban villa . . . one from her crowded drawing-room . . . one from her dressing-room at the theatre . . . MAX. Several from their dressing-rooms at the theatre. ANATOL. Several. One from a shop . . . MAX. One from the arms of your successor! ANATOL. One from the grave. One from here . . . one from there. Here they all are! MAX. Would you mind not speaking the word.'' I somehow don't think they'd be pleasant company. I dare say they're not in love with you still . . . but I'm pretty sure they're still jealous of each other. ANATOL. Wise man! Let the phantoms rest. MAX. And where am I to put this mausoleum ? ANATOL. I'd better undo it. He tundoes it. The parcel is made up of a dozen or so other little parcels, neatly tied up and ticketed, max gazes with delight. MAX. Hullo! ANATOL. Yes . . . I'm a methodical man. MAX. Is it done alphabetically.'' ANATOL. No, there's a label for each . . . like the motto in a cracker. A verse or a phrase will recall the whole affair to me. No names ! Susan and Jane suggest nothing. MAX. May I look? 37 ANATOL ANATOL. I wonder if I can still fix them all. I can't have looked at some of them for years. ANATOL leans back in his chair, smoking, max settles himself enjoyahly to the Past. He takes up the first packet and reads the motto. MAX. ' I loved her. When she left me I thought I should have killed her; My kisses on your neck remain, and nothing else, Matilda.' But that's a name . . . what a name ! Matilda ! ANATOL, It wasn't her real name, but I'd written ' killed her,' and there aren't many rhymes to that. I always did kiss her on the neck, though. MAX. Who was she? ANATOL. It doesn't matter. I held her in my arms once. That's all there is to her. MAX [fl5 he puts the packet aside^. Stand down, Matilda. She does up small, anyhow. ANATOL. One lock of hair. MAX. No letters? ANATOL. Letters from Matilda ! That would have inked her fingers. Don't you sometimes wish women weren't taught to write? Exit Matilda. MAX reads another label. MAX. ' Women are alike in one thing . . . they turn impudent if j^ou catch them out in a lie.' ANATOL. They do. MAX. Who was it? She's very heavy. ANATOL. Lies eight pages long. Oh . . . put it away. MAX. Was she so very impudent? 38 AN EPISODE ANATOL. When I found her out. Throw her away. MAX. Impudent little liar! ANATOL. No . . . you mustn't insult her. I have held her in my arms. She is sacred. MAX. How stupid of me! Who's next? [A third packet.'] * When sad, my child, and sick of earth, My thoughts to your Young Man fly far, And then I laugh for all I'm worth ; Oh, dear, how funny some things are ! ' ANATOL. So they were! MAX. What's inside.? ANATOL. A photograph. She and the Young Man. MAX. Did you know him, too? ANATOL. That's what was so funny. He really was quite an exceptional fool. MAX. Hush ! She has held him in her arms ... he is sacred. ANATOL. You shut Up. MAX. Stand down, my child, with your exception- ally foolish and mirth-provoking young man. \_With a fourth package.] What's this? ANATOL. What? MAX. * A box on the ears.' ANATOL. Oh . . . ! Oh, yes . . . yes . . . yes ! MAX. Was that how it ended? ANATOL. No, how it began. MAX. Ah! [A fifth lobel.] * How hard it is to 39 ANATOL grow a flower, but it's so easy to pick it.' What docs that mean? ANATOL. Some other fellow grew the flower ... I came along and picked it. MAX. Oh ! \_A sixth label.^ ' She always carried her curling tongs.'* ANATOL. Do you know she always did. Then it didn't matter what happened. I tell you . . . she was damn pretty. There's a bit of her veil left, isn't there ? MAX. It feels like that. [A seventh Jahel.^ ' How did I lose you? ' How did you lose her? ANATOL. That's the point ... I never knew. One fine day she just wasn't. Don't you know how you leave your umbrella somewhere . . . don't think of it till days later ... no idea where you put it down. MAX. Fare thee well, my lost umbrella! \^An eighth label.^ What's this one? ' Sweet and dear you were to me . . .' ANATOL [catching him up^. 'Girl with roughened finger tips. Past all . . .' MAX. Oh . . . that was Hilda. ANATOL. You remember Hilda. MAX. What became of her? ANATOL. She married a milkman. MAX. Did she now? ANATOL. That's what happens. I love a girl . . . I'm all the world to her . . . and then she marries a milkman. A dear child. I hope it's been good for trade. MAX [as he puts hilda aside^. Milko ! [Then the 40 AN EPISODE ninth package.^ And what's 'Episode'? Nothing inside but a httle dust. ANATOL leans across and takes the little envelope from him. ANATOL. Dust! It was once a rosebud. MAX. What does ' Episode ' mean ? ANATOL. That's what it was ... an episode ... a couple of hours' romance. Pathetic, isn't it.'' Noth- ing left of its sweetness but dust ! MAX. Most pathetic. But one might call them all a little episodic. ANATOL. Not with such dreadful truth. Of course, they all were . . . and I knew they were at the time. I had a fine idea of myself in those days. I used to catch myself thinking . . . Poor child, poor child ! MAX. Poor ....'' ANATOL. When I was very young indeed I saw myself as one of the world's great heroes of romance. These women, I thought ... I pluck them, crush the sweetness from them . . . it's the law of nature . . . then I throw them aside as I pass on. I know now that I'm more of a fool than a hero . . . and I'm get- ting most unpleasantly used to knowing it. MAX. What was ' Episode ' ? ANATOL. I caught her . . . then I threw her aside . . . crushed her under my heel. MAX. Did you really.'' ANATOL. But I tell you . . . they were the few most wonderful moments I ever passed. Not that you'd ever understand. 41 ANATOL MAX. Why not? ANATOL. Because it sounds nothing at all . . . unless you can feel it as I felt it. MAX. I'll try. ANATOL. I sat at the piano in that room of mine one evening. We'd been in love with each other just two hours. D'you remember a lamp I had and the curious glowing light it gave. Think of that lamp . . . it's most important. MAX. I've thought of it. ANATOL. I sat at the piano. She sat at my feet ... I remember I couldn't reach the pedals. Her head in my lap . . . her hair loose . . . and the glowing light making such shadows in it ! I let one hand wander on the keys . . . the other was pressed against her lips. MAX. What else.? ANATOL. Isn't that like you ? Nothing else! We'd loved each other for only an hour or two. It was our first solitude ... it was to be our last. She said it would be. But I knew that she loved me madly . . . the very air was shimmering with it. Would you have noticed that."^ Do you wonder I felt a demi-god and only thought . . . Oh, you poor, poor child! What was it to me.'' An episode. I should hardly cease to feel her kisses on my hand before she'd begin to slip into the shadows of memory. But she'd never forget . . . never be able to forget. Some women can . . . but not she. She lay there at my feet pouring out her soul in love. I knew that I was the whole world to her . . . and always would 4i» AN EPISODE be . . . one is so certain of these things sometimes. While to me . . . she and her love were just an episode. MAX. Who was the lady? ANATOL. You knew her ... we met her at supper once. MAX. Did we? Sounds too romantic a person for any supper I ever went to. AKATOL,. Not a bit. You'll laugh when I tell you. She belonged to a . . . MAX. Theatre? ANATOL,. No ... a circus. MAX. Not Bianca? ANATOL. Yes . . . Bianca. I never told you I met her again after that night. MAX. D'you mean to say that Bibi was in love with you? ANATOL. She was. I met her in the street ... it seems they went off to Russia the next morning. MAX. And a good job for your romance they did. ANATOL. Of course! Because it's somebody you knew the whole thing becomes commonplace. Oh, Max . . . why don't you learn how to be in love? MAX. Teach me. ANATOL. Learn to tune yourself up to the supreme moments. MAX. With a little pig,no-playing and a glowing light upon her shimmering hair? ANATOL. Well . . . that's how I get wonders out of life. You saw no more in that girl than you could in that lamp of mine. A bit of glass, wasn't it . . . 43 ANATOL with a light behind? What a way to walk through the world . . . eyes open and imagination shut ! Do you wonder you find nothing in it? You swallow life whole, Max ... I taste it. MAX. You've only to fall in love to make the universe all you want it to be ! ANATOL. That's how it's done MAX. How many glowing lamps would it take to work Bianca up to that pitch? ANATOL. I know what she felt when I kissed her. MAX. I know better. ANATOL. Do you? MAX. Because I've never kissed her . . . and never needed to imagine her anything but the pretty, harm- less, worthless little baggage she is. ANATOL. Oh ! MAX. Whatever else you want to find in her yod must put there first. ANATOL. It wasn't so then ... it wasn't. Oh ... I know all about the girl. She'd kissed men before, and she has kissed them since. MAX. With just the same kisses that she kissed you. ANATOL. No. I wish I hadn't told you. MAX. Never mind. You felt all you felt and all she ought to have felt as well. ANATOL. Have you ever seen much of her? MAX. Quite a lot. ANATOL. Have you? MAX. Don't distress yourself. She's a witty little devil, and we always liked a chat. ANATOL. A friendly chat? 44 AN EPISODE MAX. Not a bit more. ANATOL. Then I swear to you, Max . . . that girl loved me to distraction. MAX. Quite so. Let's get on with the others [^he takes a tenth packet^ . ' Could I but tell the meaning of your smile, you green-eyed ' . . . ANATOL. I say . . . d'you know that circus is back again ? MAX. Yes . . . she's still with it. ANATOL. Sure? MAX. Quite. I shall see her this evening . . . she's coming to call. ANATOL. Well ! Why on earth didn't you tell me that before? MAX. What's it to do with you? Your past is dead . . . look at it. ANATOL. But . . . MAX. Besides . . . yesterday's romance warmed up. Don't risk that. ANATOL. I wonder if I could feel the same for her again. MAX. There are other dangers. You take great care of this Episode of yours. Don't let it catch cold. ANATOL. But I mustn't miss a chance of seeing her. MAX. She's wiser than you ! Has she ever sent you even a postcard? But perhaps she forgot all about you. ANATOL. Max. . . why not believe me when I tell you ... ? MAX. Well? 45 ANATOL ANATOL. That the hour we spent together was one of those things that never fade. There's a knock at the door of the flat. MAX. Here she is ! ANATOL. What! MAX. You go into my bedroom and then slip out. ANATOL. Certainly not. MAX. You'd much better. ANATOL. I shall not. MAX. Stand there then, where she won't see you at once. ANATOL. But why . . . ? Still, he stands in the shadow, and max goes to the door to welcome bianca. She is as he described her. BL\NCA. Max! How are you.'' I'm back. MAX. How are you, Bibi.'' Nice of you to come. BIANCA. First visit. MAX. Honoured. BIANCA. How's everybody.'' Suppers at Sacher's again now.'* MAX. But you must turn up. Sometimes you didn't. BIANCA. I did. MAX. Not when you'd something better to do. BIANCA. But you weren't jealous. I wish they'd all take lessons from you. Why can't a m