Plays
untouched--from life--that waits, (_she turns toward the inner room_)
Breath of Life. (_she goes in there_)
HARRY: Oh, I wish Claire wouldn't be strange like that, (_helplessly_)
What is it? What's the matter?
DICK: It's merely the excess of a particularly rich temperament.
HARRY: But it's growing on her. I sometimes wonder if all this
(_indicating the place around him_) is a good thing. It would be all
right if she'd just do what she did in the beginning--make the flowers
as good as possible of their kind. That's an awfully nice thing for a
woman to do--raise flowers. But there's something about this--changing
things into other things--putting things together and making queer new
things--this--
DICK: Creating?
HARRY: Give it any name you want it to have--it's unsettling for a
woman. They say Claire's a shark at it, but what's the good of it, if it
gets her? What is the good of it, anyway? Suppose we can produce new
things. Lord--look at the one ones we've got. (_looks outside; turns
back_) Heavens, what a noise the wind does make around this place, (_but
now it is not all the wind, but_ TOM EDGEWORTHY, _who is trying to let
himself in at the locked door, their backs are to him_) I want my _egg_.
You can't eat an egg without salt. I must say I don't get Claire lately.
I'd like to have Charlie Emmons see her--he's fixed up a lot of people
shot to pieces in the war. Claire needs something to tone her nerves
_up_. You think it would irritate her?
DICK: She'd probably get no little entertainment out of it.
HARRY: Yes, dog-gone her, she would. (TOM _now takes more heroic
measures to make himself heard at the door_) Funny--how the wind can
fool you. Now by not looking around I could imagine--why, I could
imagine anything. Funny, isn't it, about imagination? And Claire says I
haven't got any!
DICK: It would make an amusing drawing--what the wind makes you think is
there. (_first makes forms with his hands, then levelling the soil
prepared by_ ANTHONY, _traces lines with his finger_) Yes, really--quite
jolly.
(TOM, _after a moment of peering in at them, smiles, goes away._)
HARRY: You're another one of the queer ducks, aren't you? Come now--give
me the dirt. Have you queer ones really got anything--or do you just put
it over on us that you have?
DICK: (_smiles, draws on_) Not saying anything, eh? Well, I guess you're
wise there. If you keep mum--how are we going to prove there's nothing
there?
DICK: I don't keep mum. I draw.
HARRY: Lines that don't make anything--how can they tell you anything?
Well, all I ask is, don't make Claire queer. Claire's a first water good
sport--really, so don't encourage her to be queer.
DICK: Trouble is, if you're queer enough to be amusing, it might--open
the door to queerness.
HARRY: Now don't say things like that to Claire.
DICK: I don't have to.
HARRY: Then _you_ think she's queer, do you? Queer as you are, you think
she's queer. I would like to have Dr Emmons come out. (_after a moment
of silently watching_ DICK, _who is having a good time with his
drawing_) You know, frankly, I doubt if you're a good influence for
Claire. (DICK _lifts his head ever so slightly_) Oh, I don't worry a bit
about--things a husband might worry about. I suppose an intellectual
woman--and for all Claire's hate of her ancestors, she's got the bug
herself. Why, she has times of boring into things until she doesn't know
you're there. What do you think I caught her doing the other day?
Reading Latin. Well--a woman that reads Latin needn't worry a husband
much.
DICK: They said a good deal in Latin.
HARRY: But I was saying, I suppose a woman who lives a good deal in her
mind never does have much--well, what you might call passion, (_uses the
word as if it shouldn't be used. Brows knitted, is looking ahead, does
not see_ DICK_'s face. Turning to him with a laugh_) I suppose you know
pretty much all there is to know about women?
DICK: Perhaps one or two details have escaped me.
HARRY: Well, for that matter, you might know all there is to know about
women and not know much about Claire. But now about (_does not want to
say passion again_)--oh, feeling--Claire has a certain--well, a
certain--
DICK: Irony?
HARRY: Which is really more--more--
DICK: More fetching, perhaps.
HARRY: Yes! Than the thing itself. But of course--you wouldn't have much
of a thing that you have irony about.
DICK: Oh--wouldn't you! I mean--a man might.
HARRY: I'd like to talk to Edgeworth about Claire. But it's not easy to
talk to Tom about Claire--or to Claire about Tom.
DICK: (_alert_) They're very old friends, aren't they?
HARRY: Why--yes, they are. Though they've not been together much of late
years, Edgeworthy always going to the ends of the earth to--meditate
about something. I must say I don't get it. If you have a place--that's
the place for you to be. And he did have a place--best kind of family
connections, and it was a very good business his father left him.
Publishing business--in good shape, too, when old Edgeworthy died. I
wouldn't call Tom a great success in life--but Claire does listen to
what he says.
DICK: Yes, I've noticed that.
HARRY: So, I'd like to get him to tell her to quit this queer business
of making things grow that never grew before.
DICK: But are you sure that's what he would tell her? Isn't he in the
same business himself?
HARRY: Why, he doesn't raise anything.
(TOM _is again at the door_.)
DICK: Anyway, I think he might have some idea that we can't very well
reach each other.
HARRY: Damn nonsense. What have we got intelligence for?
DICK: To let each other alone, I suppose. Only we haven't enough to do
it.
(TOM _is now knocking on the door with a revolver_. HARRY _half turns,
decides to be too intelligent to turn_.)
HARRY: Don't tell me I'm getting nerves. But the way some of you people
talk is enough to make even an aviator jumpy. Can't reach each other!
Then we're fools. If I'm here and you're there, why can't we reach each
other?
DICK: Because I am I and you are you.
HARRY: No wonder your drawing's queer. A man who can't reach another
man--(TOM _here reaches them by pointing the revolver in the air and
firing it_. DICK _digs his hand into the dirt_. HARRY _jumps to one
side, fearfully looks around_. TOM, _with a pleased smile to see he at
last has their attention, moves the handle to indicate he would be glad
to come in_.)
HARRY: Why--it's Tom! What the--? (_going to the door_) He's locked out.
And Claire's got the key. (_goes to the inner door, tries it_) And she's
locked in! (_trying to see her in there_) Claire! Claire! (_returning to
the outer door_) Claire's got the key--and I can't get to Claire.
(_makes a futile attempt at getting the door open without a key, goes
back to inner door--peers, pounds_) Claire! Are you there? Didn't you
hear the revolver? Has she gone down the cellar? (_tries the trap-door_)
Bolted! Well, I love the way she keeps people locked out!
DICK: And in.
HARRY: (_getting angry, shouting at the trap-door_) Didn't you hear the
revolver? (_going to_ TOM) Awfully sorry, old man, but--(_in
astonishment to_ DICK) He can't hear me. (TOM, _knocking with the
revolver to get their attention, makes a gesture of inquiry with it_)
No--no--no! Is he asking if he shall shoot himself? (_shaking his head
violently_) Oh, no--no! Um--_um_!
DICK: Hardly seems a man would shoot himself because he can't get to his
breakfast.
HARRY: I'm coming to believe people would do anything! (TOM _is making
another inquiry with the revolver_) No! not here. Don't shoot yourself.
(_trying hard to get the word through_) _Shoot_ yourself. I mean--don't,
(_petulantly to_ DICK) It's ridiculous that you can't make a man
understand you when he looks right at you like that. (_turning back to_
TOM) Read my lips. Lips. I'm saying--Oh damn. Where is Claire? All
right--I'll explain it with motions. We wanted the salt ... (_going over
it to himself_) and Claire wouldn't let us go out for it on account of
the temperature. Salt. Temperature. (_takes his egg-cup to the door,
violent motion of shaking in salt_) But--no (_shakes his head_) No salt.
(_he then takes the thermometer, a flower pot, holds them up to_ TOM) On
account of the temperature. Tem-per-a--(TOM _is not getting it_)
Oh--well, what can you do when a man don't _get_ a thing? (TOM _seems to
be preparing the revolver for action_. HARRY _pounds on the inner door_)
Claire! Do you want Tom to shoot himself?
(_As he looks in there, the trap-door lifts, and CLAIRE comes half-way
up._)
CLAIRE: Why, what is Tom doing out there, with a revolver?
HARRY: He is about to shoot himself because you've locked him out from
his breakfast.
CLAIRE: He must know more interesting ways of destroying himself.
(_bowing to_ TOM) Good morning. (_from his side of the glass_ TOM _bows
and smiles back_) Isn't it strange--our being in here--and he being out
there?
HARRY: Claire, have you no ideas of hospitality? Let him in!
CLAIRE: In? Perhaps that isn't hospitality.
HARRY: Well, whatever hospitality is, what is out there is snow--and
wind--and our guest--who was asked to come here for his breakfast. To
think a man has to _such_ things.
CLAIRE: I'm going to let him in. Though I like his looks out there.
(_she takes the key from her pocket_)
HARRY: Thank heaven the door's coming open. Somebody can go for salt,
and we can have our eggs.
CLAIRE: And open the door again--to let the salt in? No. If you insist
on salt, tell Tom now to go back and get it. It's a stormy morning and
there'll be just one opening of the door.
HARRY: How can we tell him what we can't make him hear? And why does he
think we're holding this conversation instead of letting him in?
CLAIRE: It would be interesting to know. I wonder if he'll tell us?
HARRY: Claire! Is this any time to wonder anything?
CLAIRE: Give up the idea of salt for your egg and I'll let him in.
(_holds up the key to _TOM_ to indicate that for her part she is quite
ready to let him in_)
HARRY: I want my egg!
CLAIRE: Then ask him to bring the salt. It's quite simple.
(HARRY _goes through another pantomime with the egg-cup and the missing
shaker._ CLAIRE, _still standing half-way down cellar, sneezes._ HARRY,
_growing all the while less amiable, explains with thermometer and
flower-pot that there can only be one opening of the door._ TOM _looks
interested, but unenlightened. But suddenly he smiles, nods, vanishes._)
HARRY: Well, thank heaven (_exhausted_) that's over.
CLAIRE: (_sitting on the top step_) It was all so queer. He locked out
on his side of the door. You locked in on yours. Looking right at each
other and--
HARRY: (_in mockery_) And me trying to tell him to kindly fetch the
salt!
CLAIRE: Yes.
HARRY: (_to_ DICK) Well, I didn't do so bad a job, did I? Quite an idea,
explaining our situation with the thermometer and the flower-pot. That
was really an apology for keeping him out there. Heaven knows--some
explanation was in order, (_he is watching, and sees_ TOM _coming_) Now
there he is, Claire. And probably pretty well fed up with the weather.
(CLAIRE _goes to the door, stops before it. She and_ TOM _look at each
other through the glass. Then she lets him in._)
TOM: And now I am in. For a time it seemed I was not to be in. But after
I got the idea that you were keeping me out there to see if I could get
the idea--it would be too humiliating for a wall of glass to keep one
from understanding. (_taking it from his pocket_) So there's the other
thermometer. Where do you want it? (CLAIRE _takes it_)
CLAIRE: And where's the pepper?
TOM: (_putting it on the table_) And here's the pepper.
HARRY: Pepper?
TOM: When Claire sneezed I knew--