Mortal Coils

to me. LUCREZIA. I know. That's just what's so dangerous. ALBERTO (_lets his head fall upon her bosom_). I come to you for comfort, like a tired child, Lucrezia. LUCREZIA. Poor darling! (_She strokes his hair, twines its thick black tendrils round her fingers_, ALBERTO _is abjectly pathetic_.) ALBERTO (_with closed eyes and a seraphic smile_). Ah, the suavity, the beauty of this maternal instinct! LUCREZIA (_with a sudden access of energy and passion_). The disgustingness of it, you mean. (_She pushes him from her. His head wobbles once, as though it were inanimate, before he straightens into life_.) The maternal instinct. Ugh. It's been the undoing of too many women. You men come with your sentimental babyishness and exploit it for your own lusts. Be a man, Bertino. Be a woman, I mean, if you can. ALBERTO (_looking up at her with eyes full of doglike, dumb reproach_). Lucrezia! You, too? Is there nobody who cares for me? This is the unkindest cut of all. I may as well die. (_He relapses into tears_.) LUCREZIA (_who has started to go, turns back, irresolute_). Now, don't cry, Bertino. Can't you behave like a reasonable being? (_She makes as though to go again_.) ALBERTO (_through his sobs_). You too, Lucrezia! Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear it. LUCREZIA (_turning back desperately_). But what do you want me to do? Why should you expect _me_ to hold your hand? ALBERTO. I thought better of you, Lucrezia. Let me go. There is nothing left for me now but death. (_He rises to his feet, takes a step or two, and then collapses into another chair, unable to move_.) LUCREZIA (_torn between anger and remorse_). Now do behave yourself sensibly, Bertino. There, there ... you mustn't cry. I'm sorry if I've hurt you. (_Looking towards the left along the path taken by_ AMY _and_ DOLPHIN.) Oh, damnation! (_She stamps her foot_.) Here, Bertino, do pull yourself together. (_She raises him up_.) There, now you must stop crying. (_But as soon as she lets go of him his head falls back on to the iron table with an unpleasant, meaty bump. That bump is too much for_ LUCREZIA. _She bends over him, strokes his head, even kisses the lustrous curls_.) Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I have been a beast. But, tell me first, what's the matter, Bertino? What is it, my poor darling? Tell me. ALBERTO. Nobody loves me. LUCREZIA. But we're all devoted to you, Bertino mio. ALBERTO. She isn't. To-day she shut the door in my face. LUCREZIA. She? You mean the French-woman, the one you told me about? Louise, wasn't she? ALBERTO. Yes, the one with the golden hair. LUCREZIA. And the white legs. I remember: you saw her bathing. ALBERTO (_lays his hand on his heart_). Ah, don't remind me of it. (_His face twitches convulsively_.) LUCREZIA. And now she's gone and shut the door in your face. ALBERTO. In my face, Lucrezia. LUCREZIA. Poor darling! ALBERTO. For me there is nothing now but the outer darkness. LUCREZIA. Is the door shut forever, then? ALBERTO. Definitively, for ever. LUCREZIA. But have you tried knocking? Perhaps, after all, it might be opened again, if only a crack. ALBERTO. What, bruise my hands against the granite of her heart? LUCREZIA. Don't be too poetical, Bertino mio. Why not try again, in any case? ALBERTO. You give me courage. LUCREZIA. There's no harm in trying, you know. ALBERTO. Courage to live, to conquer. (_He beats his breast_.) I am a man again, thanks to you, Lucrezia, my inspirer, my Muse, my Egeria. How can I be sufficiently grateful. (_He kisses her_.) I am the child of your spirit. (_He kisses her again_.) LUCREZIA. Enough, enough. I am not ambitious to be a mother, yet awhile. Quickly now, Bertino, I know you will succeed. ALBERTO (_cramming his hat down on his head and knocking with his walking-stick on the ground_). Succeed or die, Lucrezia. (_He goes out with a loud martial stamp_.) LUCREZIA (_to the waiter who is passing across the stage with a coffee-pot and cups on a tray_). Have you seen the Signorina Toomis, Giuseppe? WAITER. The Signorina is down in the garden. So is the Signore Dolphin. By the fountain, Signorina. This is the Signore's coffee. LUCREZIA. Have you a mother, Giuseppe? WAITER. Unfortunately, Signorina. LUCREZIA. Unfortunately? Does she treat you badly, then? WAITER. Like a dog, Signorina. LUCREZIA. Ah, I should like to see your mother. I should like to ask her to give me some hints on how to bring up children. WAITER. But surely, Signorina, you are not expecting, you--ah.... LUCREZIA. Only figuratively, Giuseppe. My children are spiritual children. WAITER. Precisely, precisely. My mother, alas! is not a spiritual relation. Nor is my fiançée. LUCREZIA. I didn't know you were engaged. WAITER. To an angel of perdition. Believe me, Signorina, I go to my destruction in that woman--go with open eyes. There is no escape. She is what is called in the Holy Bible (_crosses himself_) a Fisher of Men. LUCREZIA. You have remarkable connections, Giuseppe. WAITER. I am honoured by your words, Signorina. But the coffee becomes cold. (_He hurries out to the left_.) LUCREZIA. In the garden! By the fountain! And there's the nightingale beginning to sing in earnest! Good heavens! what may not already have happened? (_She runs out after the waiter_.) (_Two persons emerge from the hotel_, the VICOMTE DE BARBAZANGE _and the_ BARONESS KOCH DE WORMS. PAUL DE BARBAZANGE _is a young man--twenty-six perhaps of exquisite grace. Five foot ten, well built, dark hair, sleek as marble, the most refined aristocratic features, and a monocle_, SIMONE DE WORMS _is forty, a ripe Semitic beauty. Five years more and the bursting point of overripeness will have been reached. But now, thanks to massage, powerful corsets, skin foods, and powder, she is still a beauty--a beauty of the type Italians admire, cushioned, steatopygous._ PAUL, _who has a faultless taste in bric-à-brac and women, and is by instinct and upbringing an ardent anti-Semite, finds her infinitely repulsive. The Baronne enters with a loud shrill giggle. She gives_ PAUL _a slap with her green feather fan_.) SIMONE. Oh, you naughty boy! Quelle histoire. Mon Dieu! How dare you tell me such a story! PAUL. For you, Baronne, I would risk anything even your displeasure. SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind.... And you look so innocent, too! Do you know any more like it? PAUL (_suddenly grave_). Not of that description. But I will tell you a story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story. SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I'll tell you later. But now, what about your story? PAUL. Oh, it's nothing, nothing. SIMONE. But you promised to tell it me. PAUL. It's only a commonplace anecdote. A young man, poor but noble, with a name and a position to keep up. A few youthful follies, a mountain of debts, and no way out except the revolver. This is all dull and obvious enough. But now follows the interesting part of the story. He is about to take that way out, when he meets the woman of his dreams, the goddess, the angel, the ideal. He loves, and he must die without a word. (_He turns his face away from the Baronne, as though his emotion were too much for him, which indeed it is_.) SIMONE. Vicomte--Paul--this young man is you? PAUL (_solemnly_). He is. SIMONE. And the woman? PAUL. Oh, I can't, I mayn't tell you. SIMONE. The woman! Tell me, Paul. PAUL (_turning towards her and falling on his knees_). The woman, Simone, is you. Ah, but I had no right to say it. SIMONE (_quivering with emotion_). My Paul. (_She clasps his head to her bosom. A grimace of disgust contorts Paul's classical features. He endures Simone's caresses with a stoical patience_.) But what is this about a revolver? That is only a joke, Paul, isn't it? Say it isn't true. PAUL. Alas, Simone, too true. (_He taps his coat pocket_.) There it lies. To-morrow I have a hundred and seventy thousand francs to pay, or be dishonoured. I cannot pay the sum. A Barbazange does not survive dishonour. My ancestors were Crusaders, preux chevaliers to a man. Their code is mine. Dishonour for me is worse than death. SIMONE. Mon Dieu, Paul, how noble you are! (_She lays her hands on his shoulder, leans back, and surveys him at arm's length, a look of pride and anxious happiness on her face_.) PAUL (_dropping his eyes modestly_). Not at all. I was born noble, and noblesse oblige, as we say in our family. Farewell, Simone, I love you--and I must die. My last thought will be of you. (_He kisses her hand, rises to his feet, and makes as though to go_.) SIMONE (_clutching him by the arm_). No, Paul, no. You must not, shall not, do anything rash. A hundred and seventy thousand francs, did you say? It is paltry. Is there no one who could lend or give you the money? PAUL. Not a soul. Farewell, Simone. SIMONE. Stay, Paul. I hardly dare to ask it of you--you with such lofty ideas of honour--but would you ... from me? PAUL. Take money from a woman? Ah, Simone, tempt me no more. I might do an ignoble act. SIMONE. But from me, Paul, from me. I am not in your eyes a woman like any other woman, am I? PAUL. It is true that my ancestors, the Crusaders, the preux chevaliers, might in all honour receive gifts from the ladies of their choice--chargers, swords, armour, or tenderer mementoes, such as gloves or garters. But money--no; who ever heard of their taking money? SIMONE. But what would be the use of my giving you swords and horses? You could never use them. Consider, my knight, my noble Sir Paul, in these days the contests of chivalry have assumed a different form; the weapons and the armour have changed. Your sword must be of gold and paper; your breastplate of hard cash; your charger of gilt-edged securities. I offer you the shining panoply of the modern crusader. Will you accept it? PAUL. You are eloquent, Simone. You could win over the devil himself with that angelic voice of yours. But it cannot be. Money is always money. The code is clear. I cannot accept your offer. Here is the way out. (_He takes an automatic pistol out of his pocket_.) Thank you, Simone, and good-bye. How wonderful is the love of a pure woman. SIMONE. Paul, Paul, give that to me! (_She snatches the pistol from his hand_.) If anything were to happen to you, Paul, I should kill myself with this. You must live, you must consent to accept the money. You mustn't let your honour make a martyr of you. PAUL (_brushing a tear from his eyes_). No, I can't.... Give me that pistol, I beg you. SIMONE. For my sake, Paul. PAUL. Oh, you make it impossible for me to act as the voices of dead ancestors tell me I should.... For your sake, then, Simone, I consent to live. For your sake I dare to accept the gift you offer. SIMONE (_kissing his hand in an outburst of gratitude_). Thank you, thank you, Paul. How happy I am! PAUL. I, too, light of my life. SIMONE. My month's allowance arrived to-day. I have the cheque here. (_She takes it out of her corsage_.) Two hundred thousand francs. It's signed already. You can get it cashed as soon as the hanks open to-morrow. PAUL (_moved by an outburst of genuine emotion kisses indiscriminately the cheque, the Baronne, his own hands_). My angel, you have saved me. How can I thank you? How can I love you enough?