For Winter, For Summer

It's Easier for a Needle to Pass Through a Camel's Eye Than for a Married Man to Get a Moment to Himself

NANCY BOYD

PERSONS: Richard Morton, about to go off all by himself on a little outing.

Louise Morton, his wife.

(SCENE: The sunny, screened-in porch of an imposing edifice on Long Island Sound, which is known as a "cottage", because it is built over a cove instead of over a curbing. On his back in the big canvas hammock hies Mr. Morton, avidly devouring the racy bits in a bright new gun-catalogue. Spread out on his chest, ready to be called into service at a second's notice, are a road-map of New England and a Bangor & Aroostook time-table. He is wearing tennis shoes, very good-looking striped flannel trousers, and a disreputable, faded sweater dating back to sophomore days, which no power on earth, nor in the subways under the earth, has so far been able to sneak to a rag-man. Mrs. Morton, appetizingly frocked in lettuce-green organdie, sits in a wicker chair cretonned in lavender parrots, magenta moons and black persimmons, discontentedly turning the pages of a fashion-magazine; she is justly annoyed that skirts are getting long again. It is Wednesday. Last week-end's most mucilaginous guest has been pried away. Next weekend's most perspiring and uncomfortable has as yet thought up no handsome excuse for leaving the city so early. They are alone. From time to time Mr. Morton utters an exclamation of astonishment and delight; from time to time Mrs. Morton yawns, and the chair creaks with her restlessness.)

HE: Whew,—that's a beauty!

SHE: Oh—hum.

(Pause.)

HE: Lemme see—does that make connections or—hm—"k"—what the devil does "k" mean?

(The chair creaks.)

SHE: (fretfully, laying down her magazine) Dick, why can't I go, too?

HE: Wait a minuter—2:38 from—no, that won't do—(he lays down the time-table)— what'd you say, dear?

SHE: (looking him boldly in the eye) Why can't I go, too?

HE: Go where?

SHE: With you—to Maine:

HE : What do you mean, motor up with me to Bangor? It's awfully dusty, dear. And you'd hate coming back alone.

SHE: (staring obliquely at the leg of the wicker table) I don't mean to come back. I mean to go where you go, into the woods and everything.

HE: (sitting up straight and staring at her) What? Oh, Lou, you're crazy!

SHE: (pouting) I don't see why.

HE: Oh, but Great Scott, Lou, show a little sense! It's absolutely impossible!

SHE: (staunchly, but her under-lip beginning to tremble a little) I don't see why.

HE: Well—(he picks up the road-map and looks at it helplessly, then turns to her again) Excuse me for being so abrupt about it, dear, but you took me a little by surprise. Whatever put such an idea into your head?

SHE: (unhappily) Oh, I don't know.

HE: It really isn't fit for a woman, you know, honey,—rough tramping, and half the time not enough water to wash in. 'Twould kill you.

SHE: (stubbornly, turning a ring on her finger) Agatha Walker went once with her husband.

HE: Yes, and came back with a sprained ankle. And a big, strapping girl at that.

SHE: (in a low voice) 'Twasn't sprained. 'Twas strained.

HE: Oh, well,—hell. (He flops down again among the cushions and picks up the road-map. She looks at him coldly, then rises and goes into the house. In a few moments she returns, holding a letter in her hand.)

SHE: (in the sweet, plaintive voice of everyday conversation among nice people) Dick, dear, would you mind putting this in the car for me, so that Victor will be sure to see it when he goes in for the mail?

HE: (heartily relieved that she has forgotten all about it) You bet. Give her here.— But why didn't you stick it in the bag child?

SHE: (with pretty simplicity) He's already taken the letters from the bag, and he might not look again.

HE: (affably) All right! Hand her over. Service is my middle name.

SHE: (watching him as she gives him the letter) You won't forget it, will you, Dick?

I want it to go at once.

HE: Nothing simpler. (He takes the letter) But why all the rush? What is it? (He looks at it; his face turns a dark red; he sits up abruptly; his rubber soles come spanking to the floor of the porch) Lou, how long has this been going on?

SHE: (innocently) What been going on? HE: HOW long have you been writing to Hamlin Jefferies?

SHE: Why—(she goes to her chair and seats herself languidly) I've always been writing to him, more or less. That is, we've never quite lost sight of each other since— well, since—

HE: (grimly) Exactly,—since the day you tossed up a Chinese dime to see which of us you'd marry! Well, I want it to stop right here!

SHE: (raising two delicately-arched and carefully-weeded eyebrows) Well, really, Dick!

HE: (losing his temper) Yes, really, Dick! What are you writing him about, that's what I want to know!

SHE: Why—(she pricks up her magazine and idly turns the pages) I'm just inviting him out for a few days.

HE: Oh, you are, are you?—Damn few, if I have anything to do with it!

SHE: (slowly and absently, looking sidewise at a picture of an elegant long thin girl, holding on a leash, an elegant long thin dog) But you won't have anything to do with it, dearest, —er—you won't be here.

HE: What! You're waiting till after I'm —well, I'll be—(he picks up the time-table and stares at it with unfocused gaze)

SHE: (watching him from the tail of her eye) It's not that, Dick. It's just that I believe in—in distributing my pleasures, you see. You ought to be glad there's somebody around I like, to keep me from being lonely whiles

you're gone. (She sighs.) Men are terribly selfish.—Hm—I wonder if I could wear a veil like that—Besides, you and Jeff never got on together very well. As I remember it, I was about the only taste you had in common.

HE: (gruffly) Is he still in love with you?

SHE: (modestly) Oh, I don't know. Probably not. He thinks he is. He's always asking me when I'm going to divorce you.

HE: (with a howl of fury) Oh, he is, is he? Well, of all the—

SHE: (mildly, looking up) Why, Dick, what a fuss you're making! Really, dear, it's far too hot to let oneself get so excited. Besides (sweetly), I always tell him there's not a chance in the world of my divorcing you,— for years yet.

(He is speechless, purple with unavailing hate. He draws a little deck of rice-papers from his pocket, spills a great deal of tobacco upon and in the vicinity of one of them, and rolls himself a strange and uneven cigarette, to which with but scant success he applies a dry tongue, feverishly.)

SHE: Dick, if you're not going to take my letter out, give it to me, and I'll do it myself.

(He gives no sign of having heard her; he runs a finger up the seam of his cigarette, and thrusts it into his mouth.)

SHE: Dick, give it back to me.

HE: (with coolness, striking a match) Only on condition that you'll promise not to post it.

SHE: (laughing) How silly! What do you suppose I want it for except to post it ?

HE: (manfully) Makes no difference. Promise you'll not post it, or L won't give it back.

SHE: (rising, and turning towards the house) Well, I'll just have to write another one, then.

HE: (springing from the hammock and seizing her melodramatically by the wrist) You will never write to that man again!

SHE: (with a spasmodic giggle) Oh, Dick, if you only knew how much like a monkey you look, with your face all screwed up that way!

HE: (dropping her wrist and going back to the hammock) Do as you please, Lou. I have no right to tell you what to do and what not to do. (He relights his cigarette.) But if you think, you're going to pack me off into the woods out of the way, you're mistaken. No, madam. You don't get me out of this house this summer.

SHE: Oh, but dearest, don't be absurd! I wouldn't have you give up your trip for anything! (Her distress is charming.) It's just that I'd be so lonely without you, that's all. You mustn't think of staying home on my account.

HE: (thrusting out his chin) I'm not. I'm staying home on account of Mr. Hamlin Jefferies, LL.D., Ph.D. It isn't right (speaking now with the whining playfulness of selfpity) it isn't right for me to be running off to the timber just when a great man like that's coming to visit us. No. I gotta be here. I want to be on the step to meet him. I want to watch him smoking my cigars, winding my Victrola, making love to my wife. I want to kiss him. I want to lug his baggage around.

(Continued on page 98)

(Continued from page 48)

SHE: (with another sudden giggle) Oh, Dick, you're so funny! Give me the letter, dear,—won't you?

HE: (rising) No. I'll take it out to the car for you.

SHE: (suspiciously) Dick, you won't —(she drops her eyes under his look) that is, you'll be sure to—

HE: (with coldness) What do you take me for, anyhow, a doctor of philosophy, or something? Not me. When I say car, I mean car, car when I'm there, and car when I'm not there. Have no fear, Mrs. Morton. (He picks up the map, the catalogue and the timetable, and thrusts them bitterly into the pocket of the hammock.) Well, that's that.

SHE : (going to him and laying her hands on his chest) Dick, I won't have it. I would never forgive myself. Your heart is set on it. It's no use your denying it. And you're not going to give it up.

HE : I don't deny it. But my heart's set on you, too. And I'm not going to give you up, either. At least (turning his head away to hide his emotion) "not for years yet".

SHE: (putting her arms about his neck) Oh, dearest, I didn't mean that, you know I didn't! I was only joking!

HE: (not turning, but patting her head rapidly with fierce tenderness) Pretty grim joke.

SHE: (rising to her toes and laying her cheek against his) Give me the old letter, sweetheart. I'll tear it up.

HE: (shaking his head, which is still averted) Oh, no. I should say not. I want you to have what you want. I don't want to stand in your way.

SHE: (kissing his cheek with many little kisses) Look at me, darling,— don't turn your face away like that! Listen, dear, I'm not going to let you give it up. That's all there is to it!

HE: (soberly) There's nothing else to do, dear. I'd be crazy with jealousy off there in the wilderness, thinking of you down here with the house full of your old beaux,—I couldn't stand it! I can't leave you. There's no two ways about it.

SHE: (helpfully) Then,—why can't I go, too?

HE: (turning to her and seizing her in his arms) Lou, you don't mean it!

SHE: (looking up at him brightly) Why, yes, I do.

HE: You darling! Do you suppose you could stand it, way up there out of the world, with nobody around but me?

SHE: Why, Dick, I'd adore it! I don't want anybody around but you I It's only when you're not around that I—

HE: (gently) Yes, dear. Let's forget all about that. (He draws her over to the hammock.) Come, sit down. (They seat themselves side by side, he puts his arm about her, she lays her head on his shoulder.)

SHE: (bubbling with happiness) Oh, darling, I'm so excited! I'll go right into town to-morrow and get a lot of all kinds of rough clothes!

HE: (in whom already slight misgivings are beginning to take root) Can't take very much, girl, must remember that,—too heavy to carry. It's an awfully primitive life you're going into.

SHE: Oh, I don't care! I shall just adore it! I'll do whatever you say.

HE: (dubiously) I hope I'm not making a mistake, taking you along. If you don't like it, Lou, you won't hold it against me, will you?

SHE : Of course not! But I'm sure to like it! I love being out of doors!

HE: (resigning himself) Well, you'll get all the out-of-doors you want this trip. It's out-of-doors even in-doors, up there.

SHE: (reaching into the hammockpocket for the catalogue, the map and the time-table) Don't be gloomy! Come, sweetheart, show li'l' Lou all the pretty guns! (They turn the pages together in silence for a moment, she nestling her head close to his.)

SHE: Oh, dearest, I was so afraid you wouldn't let me go!

HE: (puzzled) Wouldn't let you go? What do you mean? (Then suddenly he remembers something, and expels his breath in a soundless whistle.) By George, that's right, too. You did want to go, didn't you?

SHE: (rubbing her cheek agamst his) I was crazy to!

HE: (thoughtfully) Hm.

SHE: (turning a page in the guncatalogue) Oh, what's that cute little baby one for? Shooting birds?

HE: (grimly, touching her hair with his lips) No, dear. That cute little baby one's for the tired business man to commit suicide with.

CURTAIN