Part 4
_When the curtain rises the two men are seated on opposite sides of the room, facing away from each other. HORACE TANNER is occupied in opening, throwing away or laying aside a pile of mail which is on the writing-table before him. JOHN ROBERTS is writing a letter, which he folds, seals and addresses. Finding himself without a stamp, he leaves the room, back. Neither man is conscious of the other’s presence. TANNER starts to answer a note, refers to a letter he has put aside, then lets his pen drop and stares in front of him listlessly. He is a man between thirty-five and forty with a clean-cut fine face. The jaw is square, the eyes and brow those of a dreamer._
[_The BELL-BOY enters._]
BELL-BOY.
This Mr. Tanner, sir?
TANNER.
Yes. What is it?
BELL-BOY.
Letter for you, sir. [_Holds out a tray with a long sealed envelope._]
TANNER.
I got my mail at the desk when I arrived. Where was this?
BELL-BOY.
It is a registered letter, sir. The clerk always keeps ’em in the safe.
TANNER.
I see. Thank you.
[_The BELL-BOY goes out. TANNER opens the envelope slowly, after looking curiously at the handwriting. Inside is another envelope of which the seal has been broken. Around this is a half-sheet of note-paper. At the handwriting on the second envelope TANNER gives a start. He glances at the note, then throws it aside and becomes absorbed in the contents of the inner envelope. The letter he reads is not long, perhaps four or five pages. He turns it over and over, trying to find more. He has laid the envelope, the one on which the writing has startled him, beside him on the desk. As he reads, leaning forward, the envelope is pushed by his elbow onto the floor and lies there unnoticed. TANNER is so absorbed he does not notice or look up as ROBERTS re-enters from back. ROBERTS is a man of address and strength. His mouth has set lines around it. He is, perhaps, forty-five to fifty. He is dressed in mourning and looks careworn. As he enters, a lighted cigar is in his hand, but it is soon put down and forgotten. He thinks he recognizes TANNER, then sees he is mistaken. He is about to return to his desk when his eye falls on the envelope on the floor. He picks it up courteously, saying, “I beg your pardon.” TANNER does not hear him. As ROBERTS places the envelope on the table he sees the handwriting. He is plainly amazed and glances sharply at TANNER, who is still re-reading the letter._]
ROBERTS.
That is my wife’s handwriting. She is dead. The name on the envelope, James Douglas, is that of a friend of hers and of mine. You have a letter there in the same handwriting. Where did you get it?
[_TANNER holds the letter tightly in his left hand and makes no answer._]
ROBERTS.
Where did you get it?
TANNER.
I decline to answer.
ROBERTS.
The letter does not belong to you.
[_For answer TANNER folds it, puts it in his pocket, rises and bows._]
TANNER.
I will bid you good-night.
ROBERTS.
Not until you have explained how you come to have my wife’s letter in your possession, and why you were so absorbed in it as not to hear me when I spoke.
TANNER.
Why should I answer when you have no right to ask me the question?
ROBERTS.
No right! Was she not my wife?
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
How do you know that?
TANNER.
Again I decline to answer.
ROBERTS.
Did you know my wife?
TANNER.
You mean Mrs. Roberts? Yes.
ROBERTS.
You know the person to whom the letter is directed?
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
Yet you will not explain?
TANNER.
I see no obligation to do so.
ROBERTS.
Was the letter sent you?
TANNER.
Presumably, or given. One does not steal letters.
ROBERTS.
Can you not understand how it is that I should feel I had the right to ask an explanation?
TANNER.
Well, to be frank, I cannot. In my code, which no doubt is peculiar, no one has rights over another, even when that other is living—when he is dead still less. That the woman who bore your name wrote a letter to a friend, of which you were ignorant, is a sufficient reason for me to desire to protect its contents now from your curiosity. [_TANNER gathers up his papers._]
ROBERTS.
Admitting that I have not the right, have you? If you have, how came you by it?
TANNER.
You forget that I answer only such of your questions as I choose to answer. I think we had better say good-night. [_He moves towards the door, right._]
ROBERTS.
Wait! You have convinced me that the question of rights is not one to raise now. May there not be other questions involved, of kindness, of consideration, of humanity? If I ask you, to give me easement of pain, ask it as one human being in distress cries out to another, what will you say then?
TANNER.
Merely that in this particular instance the justice of withholding is more important than the doubtful “kindness,” as you call it, of giving.
[_ROBERTS turns away and bows his head, then sits down at the writing-table and tries to write. His distress is so genuine that for the first time TANNER shows an interest in him._]
TANNER.
This talk is becoming painful to us both. It had better be ended. You ask information which I cannot give. Let the matter end there.
ROBERTS.
Will you tell me your name?
TANNER.
I have no reason for not doing so. Horace Tanner.
ROBERTS.
[_Glancing at him as if the name were familiar._]
You are Horace Tanner, and you have in your possession a letter from my wife addressed to James Douglas? Mr. Tanner, you and I have met under extraordinary circumstances, and spoken together as men speak once or twice in a lifetime. It is not possible for us to part now—that is, it is not possible for me, with no further speech. I acknowledge that I exceeded my rights in demanding an explanation. I want to win your acquiescence by another method. Evidently you know something of what lay between my wife and myself. Until tonight I thought no one knew. [_A pause._] I will tell you the story if you wish. Shall I?
[_TANNER walks backwards and forwards behind ROBERTS, who is seated. It is evidently a difficult decision. ROBERTS is not looking at him. ROBERTS’ eyes are downcast, as he is embarrassed with his own offer._]
ROBERTS.
[_Over his shoulder._]
If you say no, there is nothing left but to bid each other good-night. In that case, I shall have an additional weight to carry, when it often seems to me the one I have is too heavy to be borne.
TANNER.
Go on—speak.
[_There is a pause while each man seems to gather himself together. TANNER seats himself, right desk._]
ROBERTS.
It is very extraordinary for me to find myself bidden to speak at my own solicitation, of matters which a half-hour since I should have said would be forever hidden, yet when one has upon one’s mind, day and night, waking and sleeping, one all-pervading thought, silence becomes an unbearable torment. Under such circumstances, even the dumb must speak.
TANNER.
I understand—go on.
ROBERTS.
In spite of our grim words just now, demanding and denying, something in you makes me willing to speak. May I ask you one question?
TANNER.
Yes, with the provision I need not answer it.
ROBERTS.
You would not allow me to use the words “my wife.” Did your knowledge come from her?
TANNER.
During the time I knew her, you mean?
[_ROBERTS bows his head in assent._]
TANNER.
No, it did not.
ROBERTS.
[_Springing from his chair, threateningly._]
What was there between you? Tell me!
TANNER.
To use your own term, you have no right to ask me that.
ROBERTS.
O God, don’t hurl that at me over and over again. [_He goes to back of stage._]
TANNER.
You were going to tell me a story?
ROBERTS.
Yes, I was, and I will. Forgive me—I’ll not lose my self-control again. [_There is a short pause during which ROBERTS makes an effort for calmness, and TANNER watches him quietly._] We were married eighteen years ago. She was nineteen, I thirty. We had known each other only a few months. She cared for me then—I know she did—I know it. For a few years there was happiness. There were the boys. She seemed absorbed in them. They were sturdy chaps. Then they went to school. That was five years ago. It was ghastly—not having them. For a long time we had not been much together. I never asked myself if she was happy. She seemed so. I suppose I wasn’t particularly, but I hadn’t time to think about it. I was away a good deal. We never seemed to have much to say to each other. She told me once that never in our whole married life had I asked her what she was thinking about. It only came back to me, afterwards—what she meant, I mean. I suppose she was lonely. [_TANNER bows his head in acquiescence. ROBERTS looks at him and sees he understands._] Well, after the boys went away there came a kind of crisis. Nothing definite. We never said anything to each other about our own situation. Gradually we had become entirely separated. I thought I had better get away. A friend was going to Italy, so I proposed to join him. She urged my going, saying I needed a holiday and that she was perfectly well. I was anxious at first, but her letters came regularly and sounded cheerful. I stayed abroad almost a year, first in Italy and Greece, then to India, then back to Italy. I was in London, wondering whether to come home or go back to the continent, when I heard, not from her, but from an acquaintance I ran into, that she was ill. A great longing came over me to see her—to take care of her. Why had she not told me? What was the matter? I cabled, and sailed at once. A month after I got home she died.
TANNER.
[_After waiting a moment._]
I think I can understand. It’s a pretty tragic story, and, I imagine, not an uncommon one. I fancy among people of our class, silence causes more trouble than speech. May I ask you a question? Did you have any intimate conversation with her before she died—about the past, I mean?
ROBERTS.
Yes, a little. I think she knew how I loved her. When I got home she said she had been ill, but was better. Shortly after she had a trifling operation from which she didn’t rally. She seemed to want to have me with her—but—I couldn’t hold her—it was too late—too late!
TANNER.
A strange nature!
ROBERTS.
When I began to speak it was with the intention and hope of making you do the same. As I think over the past, the difficulties she must have met are clear to me. I have been very dull and blind. Speaking about these things has been a relief. Everything seems plainer to me now. Mr. Tanner, I want to say this to you, if you knew her, if your friendship made her happier, why, I am glad.
TANNER.
I did know her, the winter you were abroad. We were a great deal together. It was a rare friendship, a peculiarly vivid and stimulating one for me. She had a rich nature full of surprises, and perhaps I may have drawn from her more than had been demanded before. I am a taxing friend, Mr. Roberts.
[_ROBERTS rises._]
ROBERTS.
I have given you my confidence, Mr. Tanner.
TANNER.
And I will be equally frank. If you still wish it, I will read the letter to you, but I will warn you first that you will find it extraordinarily painful.
ROBERTS.
That doesn’t matter now. Read it, please.
TANNER.
[_Taking out the letter from his pocket._]
I have never received anything in my life that has touched me more profoundly. I am awed by it. I feel as if I should touch the very paper with reverence.
ROBERTS.
May I have it? [_ROBERTS stands with his back to TANNER and with his arms folded._]
TANNER.
[_Unfolds the letter slowly._]
The letter reached me only tonight by registered mail. I have been away. There was a note from James Douglas. [_Reads._]
DEAR MR. TANNER:
I am discharging a sacred obligation in sending you the enclosed. I need not tell you that the confidence given me is equally sacred.
Yours truly,
JAMES DOUGLAS.
[Illustration: TANNER: YOU FORGET THAT I AM A NOVELIST]
ROBERTS.
I understand—go on.
TANNER.
[_Reading._]
Oh Jim, dear old Jim—I am so wildly happy tonight I must talk to someone, and you’re such a good friend! If you were only here! Such a wonderful thing has happened to me, Jim—such a strange, exalting, beautiful thing. I did not know love was like this—I did not know anyone could be so happy—[_TANNER glances at ROBERTS, uncertain whether he can go on, then continues_] for I’m in love, Jim dear, in love, like a girl of eighteen. There, I’ve said it and I dare say it again—I’m in love. I love him! I love him! I love him! and if I must suffer all the rest of my life, still I shall have known what love meant, for I never have, Jim—never.
I turn to you, my old friend, because I have no one else, no one to whom I can speak, and that which is in my heart will not be held in. Oh, I know it’s mad, wild folly. It will mean dreadful pain somewhere ahead—but tonight, tonight is mine! and I can fling out my arms to the stars and sing and shout with the joy and the glory and the beauty. We have been together all day, talking, talking, talking, there was so much to say, and now I can hear his grave voice, his sudden laugh—I can feel the pressure of his hand as he said good-night. He is coming again tomorrow and we are going to take our lunch and go for a long tramp, and for a day the world, the whole wide world will be ours.
Oh Jim, I think I’ve been waiting for him all my life. I didn’t even know I was waiting—I didn’t know I lived in fog and mist and darkness until this great golden light burst in. Of course there’s pain to come—but I’ll bear it, Jim. I can, because I’ve had these two days, and I won’t cry out. I can be very still. I know there can be nothing ahead, nothing, but I shall always be stronger, bigger, wiser and more tender because I have known this. Oh Jim, I have been so lonely! The long days, the long nights alone, always alone. They have been hard to bear. I shall go on with my life, and, Jim—no one but you shall know what has come to be.
Shall I send this letter? I don’t even know where you are—I don’t think I’ve been really writing to you. I’ve been writing to him. I wrote “Jim,” and I meant “Horace.” I see that now—but he must never know, he must not. It would make things too difficult, and that is all that you shall know about him—just his name, but if I should die there would be no harm in his knowing then, would there? I think he would be glad. I’ll put the address in this little envelope and seal it and if I should die send him this letter. It is more his than yours.
[_ROBERTS has listened without a sound, scarcely a change of expression—motionless. There is a pause._]
ROBERTS.
I am glad—she had—those—two days. They weren’t much, were they? And I never knew, I never knew—anything! Yet I loved her. She was the only woman that ever came into my life. She knew that—at the end—knew how deeply I loved her, I mean. She seemed glad to know it. She asked me once if I had been happy, if she had made me happy—asked it with her eyes fixed on mine. When I said yes she dropped back on the pillow. I remember it so well, and I didn’t know, I didn’t know! [_He sits down._] Oh how blind, how blind! You must have loved her dearly. If I had only known! [_TANNER is silent._] You did love her? [_TANNER makes no reply._] Man! you did love her?
TANNER.
We were great friends—
ROBERTS.
Yes, yes, of course, but—after that letter was written—what happened?
TANNER.
We saw each other often. I told you she was a wonderful friend.
ROBERTS.
But—but you loved her, [_rises_] didn’t you? She had a little happiness? Tell me! Tell me! I must know.
TANNER.
What is love? We had some golden days together, then I had to go away—I heard of her death when I was on the other side of the world. As I told you, this letter reached me only tonight. I found it here.
ROBERTS.
You never knew that she loved you?
TANNER.
Sometimes I guessed—but it seemed so incredible—I couldn’t believe— We never spoke—
ROBERTS.
Give me the letter.
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
You shall. It is not yours— You did not love her.
TANNER.
It is mine. It’s a wonderful letter— It is precious to me.
ROBERTS.
Why?
TANNER.
You forget that I am a novelist.
[_The two men stand facing each other._]
CURTAIN.
TEMPERAMENT
A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES
_Played for the first time on October 25, 1915, by Mr. BENJAMIN CARPENTER, Mrs. CHARLES ATKINSON, and Mrs. ARTHUR ALDIS._
TEMPERAMENT.
A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES.
CHARACTERS:
HUGH IRWIN, _a Musician_. ANNABELLE IRWIN, _his wife_. GLADYS HUNTINGTON, _an Actress_.
TIME: _The present._
SCENE I: _Library of the Irwins’ house in the country, simply and tastefully furnished. Black and white and rose idea—one blue jar, etc. A piano closed and covered with an embroidery—flowers about. An air of comfort and dainty luxury. The time is ten o’clock of a winter’s evening. A wood fire crackles behind bright brasses._
_When the curtain rises ANNABELLE is seated by the fire under a rose-shaded lamp, sewing. Now she is plump and charming. Later on she will be too stout. She holds up a child’s frock of light-blue material and examines it critically, then pounces on an unfinished spot and sets to work. HUGH IRWIN on the other side of the room has been reading “The Nation.” He puts it down once or twice and regards ANNABELLE over his eye-glasses as if desiring to speak, in fact he gets as far as opening his mouth, but, seeing her preoccupation, gives it up and attacks “The Nation” with renewed determination. Finally he slaps it down._
HUGH.
Why in thunder don’t you say something?
ANNABELLE.
[_With five pins between her lips._]
Haven’t anything to say. Why don’t you?
HUGH.
Can’t you make up something?
ANNABELLE.
[_Pinning intently._]
In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling! Now I thought I had the front part of that yoke—[_Her voice trails off in a soliloquy about the intricacies of little girls’ frocks. Finally with a “ha” of satisfaction she lays it in her lap and comes to._] What was that you said, dear? Make up something! What a funny idea! You’re just like baby Gertrude! What do you want me to say? I can’t think of anything. [_She looks longingly at the frock and sneaks in another pin._]
HUGH.
You might tell me my faults.
ANNABELLE.
Your faults? Why, my dear! [_Pins more happily and frankly._] You haven’t any! At least if you have I don’t see them. [_Her voice indicates she is talking with the top of her mind._]
HUGH.
Good Lord! [_He takes up “The Nation” again, then drops it._] You mean I have so many you can’t be bothered trying to enumerate them?
ANNABELLE.
No, no, not at all. Let me see. Sometimes, oh very rarely, but just sometimes, I’ve thought if you could be a little tidier—not drop everything about, anywhere; and then sometimes, since you’re asking me, if I could know within an hour or so when you are coming to meals it would be a little more convenient, in the housekeeping, you know. I mean, of course, nicer for you; I don’t mind. That’s all I can think of—and of course I wouldn’t have said anything unless you’d asked. Oh, Hugh, I’m afraid I’ve been unkind. Have I? Oh do say I haven’t! It doesn’t matter much about the meals, truly it doesn’t; just on your account, that’s all.
HUGH.
Always on my account! Always fussing about me! Good Lord! haven’t you got any opinions of your own? Don’t you ever think of anything more interesting than what to get for my dinner? Great Scott!
ANNABELLE.
But, Hugh, it makes me so happy to think about what you’d like for your dinner! I know I have lots of faults, yes, of course I must have, but I do try to be a good housekeeper, and I think I am. What other faults have I got?
HUGH.
Hm! Faults! I guess perhaps it’s your virtues, then! There are too many of them. They stick out all over you like pins on the pink pin-cushion in the guest-room. In the first place, I’d like to know why you don’t grow old. You’re too darn good-looking. You’re just as soft and pink and white and dimpled as when I married you ten years ago. It’s outrageous!
[_ANNABELLE picks up the frock and purrs softly up at him with an adoring smile._]
ANNABELLE.
Go on.
HUGH.
In the second place, you make me too damn comfortable. My clothes are always brushed and laid out just right. If I don’t want to dress, they vanish. Dinner is always ready any time, hot and delicious and too much of it! Other people’s cooks leave, but ours are marvels and stick. There’s never a sound in the house when I’m composing or practising. I never know when the piano-tuner comes, but the piano is always perfect. You never ask for more allowance, and the children never howl. But what—what about me? It’s awful! I’m getting fat! And my music! It’s getting fat, too. It waddles and clucks and cackles like a stuffed goose. And my soul, it’s growing fat—too fat to soar. Oh, it’s killing me—it’s killing me!
ANNABELLE.
[_Taking all the pins out of her mouth._]
Hugh! are you serious? I think your music is perfectly beautiful. You know I do.
HUGH.
Perfectly serious. I’m stifled, I tell you. I’m gasping for air. You smother me with comfort and ease and adoration. I’m dying of it, and, what’s worse, the heart, the core, the essence of me, the music I might have written! It’s dead too! Oh, it’s awful, awful! [_He paces the room like a caged tiger._]
ANNABELLE.
[_Watching him for a while._]
I see, I see it all, and I’ve been trying so hard for ten years to make you comfortable! Why didn’t you tell me before you didn’t want to be comfortable? And what do you want me to do now? I’ll try to be different. I won’t take so much pains keeping the meals hot and the children quiet. I’ll do all I can.
HUGH.