The Implacable Aphrodite

NANCY BOYD

A Distressing Dialogue, Wherein it is Shown that Even the Highest Seriousness is by no means proof Against Her

SCENE: A studied studio, in whichnine o'clock tea and things are being served by Miss Black, a graceful sculptress, to Mr. White, a man of parts, but badly assembled. Miss Black is tatooed with batik; Mr. White is as impeccably attired for the evening as a professional violinist.

He: My dear Miss Black, you are, if you will permit me to say so, the most interesting unmarried woman of my acquaintance.

She (languidly flicking an ash from a cigarette-holder the approximate length of a fencing-foil): Oh, yes?

He: Yes. You are the only unmarried woman I know with whom I find it possible to talk freely on any subject. {He clears his throat.)

She {gazing at him with clear, straight-forward eyes): You interest me. {She waits for him to continue.)

He {continuing): You have such an intrepid mind, I feel, so unblenched a vision. The petty concerns that make up the lives of other people, they are not your life. You see beyond their little disputes, their little aspirations, their little loves, into a world, a cosmos, where men and women can understand each other, can help each other, where the barriers of sex are like a mist in the air, dissipated with the dawn.

She {cosmically): It is true that for me there are no barriers.

He {almost with excitement): I know that! I know that! And that is how I know that you mean what you say—for the very simple reason that you are not afraid to say what you mean—and that at this moment, for example, as you sit there, so beautiful, so more than beautiful, and so all unconscious of your beauty, talking to me like a soul detached, a soul freed of the earth,—you are not all the time considering just how long it will take you to get me to propose to you! {She starts and blushes a little, but he goes on without noticing.) Oh, if you only knew what a relief you are, what a rest!—a woman who is not married, who has never been married, and who does not insist that I marry her. Please, do not think me boastful. It is not that I am so very attractive. I dare say it is the experience of every eligible man. And doubtless when they have had a good look at me, they decide against me. But unmarried women always give me the uncomfortable feeling that they are looking me over; and I object to being looked over, with matrimony in mind.

She {sympathetically): I know. But I am sorry for them. They have nothing else with which to occupy their minds. That I am different from these women is through no virtue of my own, but only because I am blessed -with a talent which releases my spirit into other channels. Whether the talent be great or small {she deprecates gracefully toward the clutter of statuary about the studio), is of no consequence. It is sufficient to ease my need.

He {following the direction of her gesture, and considering the reclining figure of a nymph on a table beside him): What a charming study! Such subtle lines, such exquisite proportions. Who is she?

She: I call her Daphne. She was running, you see,—and has fallen.

He: Oh. But I mean to say, who is your model? You are fortunate to have found a creature at once so delicate and so roundly contoured.

She: Oh.

{There is an appreciable pause.)

She {frankly): Why, you see, I have no model. They are so difficult to get, and they are mostly so bad. I—am my own model. You notice the two long mirrors?—I place the stand between them, and work from my reflections.

{There is an appreciable pause.)

He {pulling down his coat-sleeves over his cuffs, and adjusting his tie): What an interesting idea.

She {laughing gaily): Yes—and so economical!

SHE rises and lights the alcohol lamp under a small brass tea-kettle. Her heavy, loose robe clings to her supple limbs. The flame sputters. With an impatient exclamation she drops to her knees and considers the lamp from beneath, with critical attention. The sleeves fall back from her lifted arms; her fine brows scowl a little; her vermilion lips are pouted in concentration.

He {with ponderous lightness): Miss Black, I dare say that to many of my sex you are a dangerously attractive woman.

She {rising sinuously, and dusting her hands, which seem to caress each other): Well, —yes. In fact {smiling faintly), you are the only man in my acquaintance, unmarried or married, who does not importune me with undesirable attentions.

He {with aesthetic ferocity): Of course. I know how it is. They don't see you as I do. They do not desire to leave you free, as I do. They don't know what you are. It is your beauty which attracts them, your extraordinary grace, your voice, so thrillingly quiet, your ravishing gestures. They don't see you as I do. {He is silent, breathing hard.)

She {in a burst of confidence): It is true.

I don't know what it is about me, but I am besieged by suitors. I have not a moment to myself. All day long, all day long, the bell rings; I open the door; they drop on their knees; I tell them not to be absurd; they insist upon giving me their hearts; I insist that I have no room for anything more in my apartment; they arise, dust their trousers, curse my beauty, gulp, yank open the door,—and the bell rings. You alone, of them all, see me as I am. You know that I am not beautiful, you are undisturbed by my proximity, it is possible for me to talk with you, as—as one star talks to another. {She leans back wearily and closes her eyes, exposing a long and treacherous throat, full of memories.)

He (a little uncertainly): Well—I—it is true that I—er—admire you for your true worth, that I really appreciate you, and that your external attributes have nothing to do with that appreciation. But it would be impossible for any man, who could be called a man, to be blind to your incredible charm, your inscrutable, unconscious fascination. For I know it is unconscious,—you are lovely as a flower is lovely, without effort. I am aware of all this, although, as you say, I am unmoved by it.

{She turns her head slowly, and opens upon him a pair of wondering, topaz eyes. He swallows audibly, but meets the look without flinching.)

He {stoutly): What does move me, and to what extent you cannot possibly imagine {he shifts compulsively in his chair), is your unparalleled genius, the poise and vigour of your work. I want you to go on—to grow—to grow—and to be free!

She {tensely): I must be free. I must.

He: I know. And if there is anything I can do to make you freer—

She: I know. I know. {Selecting a cigarette from the lacquer tray at her elbow, she thoughtfully twists it into her cigarette-holder.)

I am sorry that you think me beautiful. But I suppose it cannot be helped. {She sighs.) You must forgive me, but I am always a little sorry when a man becomes even conscious of me as a woman. Nothing may come of it, of course,—in this instance, I am sure, nothing will— {She flashes at him a little candid smile.) But there is always the danger, for we are, among other things, human beings, and—oh, I am troubled that you said that! {She twists her long hands; her jade rings click together.)

He {sitting forward on his chair and taking her restless fingers firmly in his trembling hands): Have no fear of me. Believe me, if it came to that, I should go You should never guess. Rather than hurt you, I should go. I should get up and go, suddenly, without even saying good-bye, and you would never guess.

She {smiling a little lonely smile): I know. I know you would. You are like that.

He {intensely): I would do anything rather than hurt you in the slightest degree,—so high do I rate your talent.

She: I know. {She leans back her head and closes her eyes.) It is good to feel that I have your friendship. I have so little—friendship.

He {thickly, staring at her pained and perfect mouth): You will have my friendship always, as long as you want it. And even when you tire of me, and don't want it any more, you will still have it. Remember that. Woman though you are, you stir me more deeply by your genius than ever a man has done. {He bows his head on her hands.)

She {looking thoughtfully down at the top of his head): You are so kind, so kind to be distressed for my sake. Please don't be distressed. Come, let's have our tea. I am really all right, you know. It's just that, at times, I am a little sad.

He {lifting his head and looking into her sad eyes): Yes, you are sad. And I am sad, too. How curious that we should both be sad! If only I could do something to comfort you. Please don't look like that.

She {with a gay smile that is obviously a little forced): Very well! There now!—I am quite happy again, you see! Come, let's have our tea.

(Continued on page 84)

(Continued from page 29)

E sits back in his chair, and looks curiously at the arms of it, feeling that he has been away a long time. She busies herself with the tea-things.

She (after a moment, peering into the black and silver Chinese tea-pot): Do you know, it's extraordinary, the way I feel about tea: I have to have it. It's the one thing I couldn't possibly get along without. Money, clothes, books, mirrors, friends—all these I could dispense with. But tea,—I have to have it. Fortunately, its connotation, as being the accomplice of spinsterhood, is not so offensive to me as it is to most women. If it will help me to remain a spinster, then it is my staunchest ally! (She laughs gaily.)

He (wincing, but recovering himself): I'm just that way about my pipe. (Suddenly remembering his pipe, he gropes for it pitifully, as for the hand of a comrade in the dark. But it occurs to him that she probably objects to pipesmoke. He withdraws his hand from his pocket, sighing.)

She (without looking up): Why don't you smoke your pipe?

He (incredulously): Wouldn't it annoy you?

She: Heavens, no!

E draws his pipe from his pocket and fills it, gratefully, meanwhile watching her. She is cruelly slicing a lemon, by means of a small dagger with which a Castilian nun has slain three matadors; it strikes him that she looks gentle and domestic. A great peace steals over him.

He (contentedly): What a pleasant room this is. Afternoon sun, and everything.

She (delicately poising in her hand, a sugar-tongs made from the hind claws of a baby gila-monster, and glancing lovingly about the room): Yes. It breaks my heart that I have to leave it. Two lumps, or three?

He: Have to leave it? Er—no, thanks, I don't like tea—well, three lumps—have to leave it? (He grasps his cup and saucer and holds them before him, as if they were something unfamiliar and bizarre.)

She: Yes. You see (conversationally), I'm sailing for Europe on the fifteenth, and—

He (hoarsely): Fifteenth of what? (His cup and saucer rattle together now like a pair of dice.)

She (pleasantly): Fifteenth of this month. It will be of infinite value to me in my work, I am sure,—and I think only of that. Yet I hate to leave these rooms. I've been here—

He: Don't—don't—don't talk—be quiet—Oh, God—let me think! (With awful care he deposits his cup and saucer on the table at his elbow. She watches him intently.)

He (suddenly sliding from his chair to the floor and kneeling before her): But what about me? What about me?

She (coldly): I don't understand you.

He: You say you're going because it will help your work,—but think of me! What will happen to me?

She: I'm sure I don't know. It hadn't occurred to me to consider.

He (shouting): No! Of course not! Oh, you're cold, you are—and cruel, my God! Your work! (He laughs scornfully.) All you think about is those damn little putty figures! And here am I, flesh and blood,—and what do you care?

She (icily): Less and less.

He (groaning): And you can say that—and me loving you the way I do! You don't mean it! Oh, if you'd only marry me, I'd make you care. I'd make you so happy!

She (with revulsion): Oh, really,— I must ask you—

He: I don't care how much you work—work your head off! A man's wife ought to have some little thing to take up her time. But as for—oh, Lord — (He buries his face in the folds of her gown.) What am I going to do?

(She has no suggestion to offer.)

He (abruptly rising and glaring down at her): Do you know what I think ? —I think you're enjoying this! I think it's the breath of life to you!

She (earnestly): No, really. I assure you—I am frightfully distressed— I had no idea you felt like this—I—

He (wildly): You're a lying woman!

She (rising, white with the fury of the righteous unjustly accused): Will you be so good as to go?

He (laughing boisterously, in a subdued and hopeless voice): Very well. Of course, I'll go if you want me to. But my heart I leave here.

She (languidly): Pray don't. I have room for nothing more in the apartment.

(With a growl he opens the door and leaps forth, slamming it behind him. She goes to the table and pours herself a cup of cold tea.)

She (after a moment of silence, running her jaded fingers through her hair) : Oh, dear, I wish I were not so restless!

Curtain