ADIEU AND—AU R'VOIR

A Tragi-Dance-Comedy

Nib

SCENE. A palace of a flat in New York, on Fifth Avenue, not far from the Plaza.

(The interior is what old-fashioned sentimentalists called a "living-room." To-day, with families always on the tango, it is without a name. The hangings are in parrot-colored chintz, Audubon design with a dash of DeWolfe. Tapestry chairs; an obese sofa, gorged with pillows; a wood fire. On the hearth-rug, Omar, a blue Persian, purrs . . . and purrs. For the rest, such

a pêle-mêle: silver-framed duchesses, Chinese ivories,

Buddhas, a confusion of journals, Narcissus Poeticus,

Turkish cigarettes, Maillard's, Tout Paris, bound in yellow, a novel or two, playing cards, and a copy of La Vie Parisienne.

The room is empty save for Omar, the cat! A bell rings. Voices; laughter; an interrogation; a pause!

Then two people enter; ardent; animated. The lady is Mrs. Carter Beech, rarely chez-elle at this unripe hour of the evening . . . eleven o'clock. The man is

Peter Ames, one of Gotham's most irresponsible but fashionable bachelors.)

MRS. BEECH.—I shouldn't let you come in, of course . . .

But, as it's the last time. . .

AMES.—Is this the last "last time?" We always hold the obsequies in this room, don't we? Dust to dust . . . (He carefully draws the portieres, an act which quite shuts them in with the chintz parakeets, the cat, and the fire.) Usual return of the criminals to the scene of the crime. How the psychologists would adore us! I can hear Munsterberg lecturing on us to the students at Harvard.

MRS. BEECH.— (Who doesn't listen.) And as we are about to end it all and say good-by . . . (throwing off her wrap) and as you promised to be sensible . . .

AMES.—Sensible! I shall be intolerable! Saint Anthony and I . . . (he looks at her with smiling raillery).

MRS. BEECH.— (Removing an orchid or two and lighting a cigarette.) Saint Anthony ... he was the gentleman who preached to the birds . . . wasn't he? After your shocking

conduct lately . . . (beginning to reorchestrate the pillows).

I am afraid, mon cher ami, that I have just one word more to say to you . . . (She sinks languidly into a nest of eiderdown

and lace.) And that word is . . . adieu.

AMES.—And "God bless you." I like your tone! One would think you were seeing your grandfather off to China, instead of banishing . . . forever ... in the very flower of his youth and beauty ... a poor devil who has been your life-long slave. . . Let's see. It's at least three months, isn't it, since we first detected the fever?

MRS. BEECH.—Four. (Sentimentally.) I remember it so well. It was my husband's birthday; we were at Aiken, and I was about to drive at the eighth hole when . . .

AMES.—(Continuing) A poor devil who slaves for you by day and dreams of you by night. (Carried away.) Who hasn't made a dentist engagement, or bought a cravat, without consulting you. . . And now, now . . . there's nothing left for me to do but to forget, and . . . to go! (He drops down beside her, comfortably, opens a narrow gold case, and lights a cigarette.)

MRS. BEECH.—Yes, you must go. Things have become . . . impossible.

AMES.—Is this final? Can't I come back? Ever?

MRS. BEECH.—Absolutely final.

AMES.—(A pause.) I suppose you are right. We simply can't go on . . .

MRS. BEECH.—To-night I came here with you for a sensible quarter-of-an-hour . . .

AMES.—Ah, my dear friend, quarts d'heure are never sensible. They may be bad, or mad . . . sometimes both; heavenly . . . horrible . . . often. Sensible, never. To be sensible one must have hours and hours before one. Even then . . . Mayn't I come back to-morrow?

MRS. BEECH.—(IGNORING him) I wanted to spend a calm quarter-of-an-hour considering.

. . It has dawned on me that it wasn't fair to Carter . . . that it wasn't right. (Virtuous hesitation.) To-morrow we must be reasonable. We must face . . . facts.

AMES.—Yes, to-morrow was made for reason, and for facts. "To-morrow, at sunrise," as the hangman says, I'll consider anything you say, no matter how reasonable it may be. But to-night . . . to-night, I can't think of anything but of you, of ourselves, alone . . . in this firelight, in this divine little bird-cage, this enchanted garden of Allah . . . and with Allah awayl (He leans toward her . . . impetuous, persuasive; . . . with a woman's flair for scenting precipices, Mrs.

Beech hastily abandons the sofa. Ames follows her . . . takes her hands . . . gazes into her eyes . . . pauses . . . puts his arm around her . . .1 In the preoccupation of the moment it is not strange that they fail to hear the faint click of a key. They hear nothing, indeed, until the portièe is pushed back and Carter Beech is in the room. Mrs. Beech and Ames separate, with a start.)

BEECH.— (A myopic, kindly, simpleton, too ripe to count seriously, yet far from being so old as to be totally ignored, poets into the dim, religious light of the petit salon.) Hello. Charming surprise! What is it? . . A new sort of tango?

AMES.— (Stupefied) Not exactly . . . that is. . .

BEECH.—I stopped at Castle House for a minute, on my way uptown. Everybody's at it. Funny thing, fashion is. (Pauses a moment.) But I say . . . (sudden gleam) if you're not tangoing, what the devil. . .

MRS. BEECH.— (Whose composure has returned) Oh, but we are . . . we are! . . . Only this is something very new, and quite different ... Mr. Ames is . . . teaching me.

BEECH.—The deuce he is. How does it go? Show me.

MRS. BEECH.—(Very gay) Enchanted! You'll love it! So new! And yet so dignified. (Her eyes send an S.O.S. to Ames.) In fact, our dance is to the tango as. . .

AMES.— (An excellent Jack Binns) As . . . a nun to a divorcee.

MRS. BEECH.—So. (She sketches a slight movement across the room ... undulates . . . reverses.) It must be done very . . . very daintily, you know, or it becomes slummy, and horrid! (A dazzling smile for Beech.)

BEECH.—Good. Go on . . . you two.

(Mrs. Beech and Ames look at each other for a fraction of an instant. In her eyes are inspiration, diablerie; in his, understanding, response. Without further ado she draws him into a tentative spiral and they drift off in the dance.)

MRS. BEECH.— (Over her shoulder, humming) It's one of those symbolic things, Carter, dear. It all means something, you know. For instance, the overture. . . They meet! (Ardent advance.)

AMES.—They fall in love! (Amorous and languorous.)

MRS. BEECH.—They prepare to fly! (Frenzied tapping of the heels.)

AMES.— (Very sadly). But suddenly. . . .

MRS. BEECH.— (Reluctant and pensive, the dance becoming all the time more stately.) They decide to give each other up . . . and never to see each other again.

AMES.—(With a sudden and unexpected fervor that startles Mrs. Beech into glancing nervously at her husband.) But not before one . . . positively last . . . embrace! (He holds her in his arms.)

MRS. BEECH.—And that, Carter, is exactly where you found us when you came in. After which . . . (cadence of lassitude) they decide to lead a conventional life. (Tucking in a rebellious strand or two of hair.) There! That's the end. Do you like it, Carter?

BEECH.—Enormously! (Beech offers Ames a cigarette. Ames lights it and holds out his hand to his hostess.)

AMES.—Good night—and good-by. (Mrs. Beech takes his hand and holds it for a silent and somewhat tragical moment.)

BEECH.—Oh! By the way, what do you call it? AMES.—Call what?

BEECH.—That extraordinary, symbolic, tango sort of thing.

AMES.— (Looking at Mrs. Beech.) We call it "The Dance of Adieu."

MRS. BEECH.—Hastily) O no, Mr. Ames, that isn't the "Adieu." That is only the "Au revoir."