Characters
DOROTHEA WYLDEDOROTHY WILD
TO OLGA KATZIN
THE VOLCANIC ISLAND
SCENE.The sitting-room of a flat in Knightsbridge. Back: centre, a fireplace with fire burning; right, a cupboard containing tea things; left, a tall lacquered screen. Front: a table on which are illustrated papers and a parcel of books tied with string; a chair to each side of the table.
The outside door is heard closing.
DOROTHEA (without). Kate!
(She enters, right, in a fashionable Spring walking costume.)
So I've caught her! Gone at half-past three—Gone to 'the pictures' with her young man Bill.I hope she'll not be foolish.... Now for tea.
(She puts a kettle on the fire and brings a plate of cakes to the table.)
Ah! So the Mudie books have come—but stillNothing from James. He really istooshy—And Mother always whispers when we meet,'Well, dear, no startling news?' I wish he'd try!What have they sent me from New Oxford Street?'Poems,' by Marshlight.... Quite a charming face....Fourportraits!... And how good it is to findA note that tells the very hour and placeWhen each mouse-lyric shook that mountain mind!...And here? Oh Mudie! Sendingthistome!'A Bed of Roses. George....' I'll try again....'Peeled Onions'! Now, whatever mighttheybe?Of course! New tales by Ethel Colburn Mayne.How hypodermic! What she does without!What whittling of mere obvious fact! IndeedI sometimes tremble when her books come outFor fear there won't be any words to read....The last two? These—hobnobbing all this time,Not rent to rags, not mutually destroyed?For here's that famous work, 'Soul from the Slime,'By Jung, and here 'Slime from the Soul,' by Freud.They may berisquébut how up to date—And James need never know I've read them.... Stop!Surely? It is! A telegram! Oh, Kate,You little fool, to dump the books on top!Reply paid, too.... (Reading) 'Wylde, 15 Claridge Hill.Would you accept me for your husband? James....'At last!... What answer? If I say I will,TheMorning Postwill paragraph our namesWith me as 'Dorothea, second child'—Et cetera—andThe Tatler, I expect,Will have a picture, 'Cupid's Bag. Miss Wylde,Sir James Adolphus Porter's bride-elect,A well-known figure both where Fashion reignsAnd where our young intelligenzia meet....'But shall I? If he read more, had more brains,More fire, and just a little less conceit!
A VOICE (behind the screen). Marry him at your peril!
DOROTHEA (not hearing).He's a manOf wealth and rank—an O.B.E.—and yetTo marry without love.... Some people can.
THE VOICE.I gave you honest warning. Don't forget!
DOROTHEA (as before). Most girls would jump at such an offer. WhyShould I resent so much his pompous air,His embonpoint?
THE VOICE.It isn't you, but I!
DOROTHEA (as before). Or possibly, as Freud and Jung declare,Far under what we know ourselves to beAnother self lies hidden. Am I, then——
THE VOICE. Like a volcanic island in the sea——
DOROTHEA (half hypnotized). Of which no more is visible to menThan the mere summit—fair with azure lightAnd flowers and birds and grain to sow and reap——
THE VOICE. While the huge base goes shelving out of sightTo coral-caves and monsters of the deep.
DOROTHEA. How queer to think that while one part of meIs almost fond of James, another partIs—doubtful——
THE VOICE.Doubtful? Just you wait and see!
DOROTHEA. Oh, for some ceremony, some magic art,To call up the subconscious mind!
THE VOICE.Then holdJung with your right hand, with your left hand Freud,And clap them thrice.
DOROTHEA (following these directions). Of course, I'm far too old....I ought to be more rationally employed....But still——
(DOROTHY WILDdarts out from behind the screen. She is a barbaric figure clad in furs and wearing a tiara of feathers.)
DOROTHY.O-hai! And so at last I'm free!
DOROTHEA (recoiling). Good gracious!
DOROTHY.Don't you know me?
DOROTHEA.What's your name?
DOROTHY. Dorothy Wild. You end yours with an 'e'And spell it with a 'y'—as though for shameOf owning sisterhood with trees and birdsAnd dragonflies; as though you'd never runBeside the foam, shouting ecstatic wordsIn the wind's ear, nor let the immortal sunHave your whole body till Something, not of time,Like an elixir flowed through every vein.You? You lack pith. You'd never love through crime;But whenIlove, I dare—and brook no chain!
DOROTHEA. You're rather frightening. Still, do take a seat!
DOROTHY (sitting on the table). Chocolates! One for me?
DOROTHEA (politely).Oh, not at all——
DOROTHY. Wild roses, love and chocolate—aren't they sweet?
DOROTHEA. Yes—well ... I do hope nobody will call.We've not been introduced, but is it trueThat you're my own Subconscious?
DOROTHY.There, you seeThe insolence of the Conscious! Part of you!Really! And why not you a part of me?How much of Time haveyouknown? Twenty years;But I, whom not ten thousand can make old,Have worshipped trees, loved naiads, boxed the earsOf mountain satyrs, touched the Fleece of Gold,And ridden great centaurs. When I catch the strainOf Homer's verse I hear his very lyreTrembling: for me Hector is newly slain,And it was yesterday Troy fell in fire.They who at last have found me little guessWhither I lead. They fancy that one blowHas brought down Heaven in fragments. Nonetheless,I shall build what they think I overthrow!And you? You're just a weir that tames my power.I am the rushing car and you the brakeThat checks me: I the root and you the flower;I the true girl——
DOROTHEA.Please try another cake.No doubt you're right, but Freud says——
DOROTHY.Not a wordAgainst my good Columbus!
DOROTHEA.Hardly! Still,I always thought from what I read and heardThat you were quite a monster.
DOROTHY.As you will,I have my faults.
DOROTHEA.You do seem—shall I sayA trifle—crude?
DOROTHY.I'm what you'd like to be.
DOROTHEA. Oh, really! I'm not prim—I'm rather gay—But that's no frock for going out to tea.Ishouldblush!
DOROTHY.Little hypocrite! Why, look—What's that—oh you that have no eyes for men?
DOROTHEA. The 'Life of Gosse'—a very proper book.
DOROTHY. And underneath? La Vie Parisienne!
(Turning to the bookshelves.)
Then, here's Boccaccio, Havelock Ellis, too,James Joyce rebound to look like Samuel Smiles,Montaigne, Pierre Louys——
DOROTHEA.Any one but youWould know I read them only for their styles.I've stood enough. Please go!
DOROTHY.But where to go?We two make up one girl.
DOROTHEA.Behind the screen.
DOROTHY. Not yet!
DOROTHEA. But I've important things——
DOROTHY.I know—That's why I came. This telegram, you mean——
DOROTHEA. Mind your own business!
DOROTHY.But itismine, quiteAs much as yours. You'll take him? You insist?Iwon't!
DOROTHEA. How terrible! In this modern lightPoor James looks almost like a bigamist....
DOROTHY. Marry that hippopotamus if you dare!
DOROTHEA. Chairmen of Boards must be a little fat.
DOROTHY. James never rises but he 'takes' the chair.
DOROTHEA. He owns five cars, four houses, and a flat.
DOROTHY. Those and the seven deadly virtues, too.
DOROTHEA. He's forty-nine and never loved before.
DOROTHY. Why not? No girl would think of him but you.
DOROTHEA. A solid quiet man——
DOROTHY.A solid bore!
DOROTHEA. Now, Dorothy, be reasonable. Sit downLike a well-mannered girl, or—if you must—Crouch like a tigress there and fret and frown,But don't break in. I think it's only justThat I—for, after all, I really amThe civilized and reputable Miss Wylde—Should have the answering of this telegram.Say what you will, you're nothing but a childWho lies among the daffodils of Spring,Lost in a book of marvels. At a glanceI know you—how you're dreaming of some kingFrom over the blue mountains of romanceWho'll set you on a charger black as night,And, spurring on by dragon-haunted caves,Come to his castle just when the sunset-lightIn Fairyland floats on the girdling waves.But kings aren't like that now. They puff cigars,Wear bowlers and check-suits, and fill the gapsLeft between opening Parliament and bazaarsBy betting on the racecourse. Or perhapsYou want some hero from a Conrad taleWho'd stand, white-ducked, against the torrid blueAnd shoot down tribes with bullets fast as hail:But think, my dear—he simply wouldn't do.Picture it. We should take him out to dine—The ladies would withdraw—he'd start to speakAbout old Lingard, while they passed the wine,And go on with the story for a week.No! We must have it clear. I much regretThis violent tug-of-war between our aimsBut—I'm determined.
DOROTHY.Have you finished yet?Right. Then you can, but I won't, marry James.
DOROTHEA. Why not?
DOROTHY. Why not? Answer my questions. One:Does he beat time to music with his hand?
DOROTHEA. Well——
DOROTHY. Two: and talk of 'featuring,' 'Japs,' 'the Hun'?
DOROTHEA. Oh, sometimes——
DOROTHY.Three: and does he understandThat wicked frocks don't mean a wicked life?Four——
DOROTHEA. But, of course, there's no one perfect!
DOROTHY.Four:Wouldn't he read the golf news to his wife?Five: Can he tell—the next day—what you wore?Six: If he knows an author, will he waitTo get a copy free or buy the book?Seven: Is he fond of curate stories? Eight:If, when you're dressed, you wonder how you lookAnd ask him, as you're driving to the dance,Doesn't he, after everything you've done,Say 'Oh, all right'—without a single glance?Nine: If you flirt a little, for the funOf being a woman, would he think you light?Ten: Does he say, when dining in Soho,'I don't think we shall need champagne to-night—But if you really want it, let me know?'Eleven——
DOROTHEA. Oh please! I don't—in fact, I can't—Dispute the list. I'll openly admitThat James is not the man I used to want....
DOROTHY. Splendid! Now, where's his wire? We'll answer itWith one majestic 'No.'
DOROTHEA (stopping her).Not yet. Be kind!Think what I lose in losing James, and thenYou'll change your mind—your portion of our mind.I want a man to kiss——
DOROTHY.But why not ten?
DOROTHEA. My dear! I want the life of modern man.I want to quote the works of Douglas Cole,Think all men base except the artisan,And smile at God, religion, and the soul.I want to find new genius everywhere.I want to sit in drawing-rooms and say'Rossetti, Watts? Of course, they can't compareWith Roger, or the smallest Fry, to-day.'So, won't you be an angel? Share the flatIn honourable retirement! Don't you seeYou should?
DOROTHY.Subconscious! Well, I may be that—But no great eras come apart from me.What though to-day I have less power than you?The wheel will turn; and shall I not be thereTo run with roses down Fifth AvenueAnd make a Roman revel in Mayfair?No! I maintain my right to have a sayIn this, our marriage; therefore comprehendOnce and for all that I shall not give way!
DOROTHEA. I've done my best to treat you as a friend.You're just a little selfish pig! In fact,I don't know why you ever left your screen!
DOROTHY. I didn't come to argue but to act,And now I will!
DOROTHEA.Whatever do you mean?
DOROTHY. I came to kill you.
DOROTHEA.What?
DOROTHY.You see this knife?The ghost of Caesar Borgia gave me this,And with it some advice on taking life.He only wished, he said, the chance were his!
DOROTHEA. But don't you know? One's not allowed to kill.
DOROTHY. Pooh! A mere whimsy of the Conscious Mind.Prepare!
DOROTHEA. But listen!
DOROTHY.No!
DOROTHEA.You can't!
DOROTHY.I will!Pray to the gods whom Freud has left behind!
(DOROTHYlunges with the knife atDOROTHEA,who escapes by darting to the left of the table. She raises her right hand high.)
DOROTHEA. Stop! I pronounce on you this dreadful spell!Abracadabra: complex: transference:Theriomorphia—now it's working well—Father-imago: schizophrenia——
DOROTHY.Hence!Spare me!
DOROTHEA. Appendage-function: surrogate:Enantiodromia—doesn't that one hurt?—Libido: endopsychic——
DOROTHY.Wait, oh wait!
DOROTHEA. Persona: hypermnesia: extrovert!Yield, in the holy names of Jung and Freud!
DOROTHY. I yield! I beg for nothing but fair play.
DOROTHEA. How?
DOROTHY. By a simple plan that would avoidAll further wrangling.
DOROTHEA.Well, what is it?
DOROTHY.SayThat you write half the telegram, and IThe other half! That would be just.
DOROTHEA.Absurd!The first to write could give the whole reply.
DOROTHY. A woman, and you don't want the last word?...Toss!
DOROTHEA (producing a coin). If you lose, you're not to call me names.
DOROTHY. Heads!
DOROTHEA. Youhavelost. Who is the better now?...'Would you accept me for your husband.—James'—So runs the question, and the answer——
DOROTHY (anxiously).How?
DOROTHEA. Read it!
DOROTHY (in dismay). 'Of course I would!'
DOROTHEA.It's not so muchThat I want James, as that you've made me cross.In fact, if your behaviour had been such——
DOROTHY (who, after a little puzzling is now in the act of writing).I'm glad to hear that you'll survive the loss.
DOROTHEA (in slow horror). You've spoilt it! Let me see!... 'Of course I would....'Of course I would be damned first....' Little cat!
DOROTHY. Don't be a silly child. As if you couldAbandon me for such a fool as that!O Zurich! O Vienna! Can you beSo psychoanalytically denseAs not to grasp that by considering meYou gain a double health of spirit and sense?
DOROTHEA. I'll never find the man of my desire!
DOROTHY. Then break your heart over a silver birch.
DOROTHEA. But this! No girl could send off such a wire.
DOROTHY. Shock him—or else he'll get you to the church!
DOROTHEA. You're right. How often, and with how much pain,We burst a lock to find—an empty room!But that's all over. Let's be friends againAnd so stay always!
DOROTHY.Till the crack of doom....And here'smygage! Accept the knife I tookFrom Borgia (how he'll rail at me, poor ghost!)And with it—cut the master's newest book.
DOROTHEA. Where are you going?
DOROTHY.Going? To the post.
DOROTHEA. Don't hurry. Stop awhile, and take frommeA pledge of golden friendship unalloyed—A cup of tea! With milk and sugar?
DOROTHY (with profound contempt).Tea!'Oh, for a draught....' But here's to Jung!
DOROTHEA (raising her cup).And Freud!
1921.