The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book, by Djuna Barnes This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: A Book Author: Djuna Barnes Release Date: December 11, 2019 [EBook #60904] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK *** Produced by Richard Tonsing, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) A BOOK A BOOK BY DJUNA BARNES BONI AND LIVERIGHT Publishers New York Copyright, 1923, by Boni and Liveright, Inc. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA To MOTHER CONTENTS PAGE A Night Among the Horses 1 Three from the Earth 15 The Valet 31 To the Dogs 44 Beyond the End 59 Pastoral 74 Oscar 76 Antique 103 Katrina Silverstaff 104 Hush Before Love 116 The Robin’s House 117 Paradise 131 No-Man’s-Mare 132 Six Songs of Khalidine 145 The Dove 147 Mother 164 Song in Autumn 172 The Nigger 173 Lullaby 179 Indian Summer 180 I’d Have You Think of Me 194 The Rabbit 195 The Flowering Corpse 209 A Boy Asks a Question of a Lady 210 First Communion 219 Finis 220 ILLUSTRATIONS Study Frontispiece Facing page Portrait 30 Portrait 58 Drawing 102 Portrait Study 144 Portrait 172 A BOOK T A NIGHT AMONG THE HORSES oward dusk, in the Summer of the year, a man dressed in a frock coat and top hat, and carrying a cane, crept through the underbrush bordering the corral of the Buckler farm. As he moved, small twigs snapped, fell and were silent. His knees were green from wounded shrubbery and grass, and his outspread hands tore unheeded plants. His wrists hurt him and he rested from time to time, always caring for his hat and knotted yellow cane, blowing through his moustache. Dew had been falling, covering the twilight leaves like myriad faces damp with the perspiration of the struggle for existence, and half a mile away, standing out against the darkness of the night, a grove of white birches shimmered like teeth in a skull. He heard the creaking of a gate, and the splashing of late rain into the depths of a dark cistern. His heart ached with the nearness of the earth, the faint murmur of it moving upon itself, like a sleeper who turns to throw an arm about a beloved. A frog began moaning among the skunk cabbages, and John thrust his hand deep into his bosom. Something somnolent seemed to be here, and he wondered. It was like a deep, heavy, yet soft prison where, without sin, one may suffer intolerable punishment. Presently he went on, feeling his way. He reached a high plank fence and sensing it with his fingers, he lay down, resting his head against the ground. He was tired, he wanted to sleep, but he searched for his hat and cane and straightened out his coat beneath him before he turned his eyes to the stars. And now he could not sleep, and wondered why he had thought of it; something quick was moving the earth, it seemed to live, to shake with sudden immensity. He heard a dog barking, and the dim light from a farm window kept winking as the trees swung against its square of light. The odor of daisies came to him, and the assuring, powerful smell of the stables; he opened his mouth and drew in his moustache. A faint tumult had begun. A tremor ran under the length of his body and trembled off into the earth like a shudder of joy—died down and repeated itself. And presently he began to tremble, answering, throwing out his hands, curling them up weakly, as if the earth were withholding something precious, necessary. His hat fell off, striking a log with a dull hollow sound, and he pressed his red moustache against the grass, weeping. Again he heard it, felt it; a hundred hoofs beat upon the earth and he knew the horses had gone wild in the corral on the other side of the fence, for animals greet the Summer, striking the earth, as friends strike the back of friends. He knew, he understood; a hail to Summer, to life, to death. He drew himself against the bars, pressing his eyes under them, peering, waiting. He heard them coming up across the heavy turf, rounding the curve in the Willow Road. He opened his eyes and closed them again. The soft menacing sound deepened, as heat deepens, strikes through the skin into the very flesh. Head on, with long legs rising, falling, rising again, striking the ground insanely, like needles taking terrible, impossible and purposeless stitches. He saw their bellies, fawn-coloured, pitching from side to side, flashing by, straining the fence, and he rose up on his feet and silently, swiftly, fled on beside them. Something delirious, hysterical, came over him and he fell. Blood trickled into his eyes down from his forehead. It had a fine feeling for a moment, like a mane, like that roan mare’s mane that had passed him —red and long and splendid. He lifted his hand, and closed his eyes once more, but the soft pounding did not cease, though now, in his sitting position, it only jogged him imperceptibly, as a child on a knee. It seemed to him that he was smothering, and he felt along the side of his face as he had done in youth when they had put a cap on him that was too large. Twining green things, moist with earth-blood, crept over his fingers, the hot, impatient leaves pressed in, and the green of the matted grass was deathly thick. He had heard about the freeness of nature, thought it was so, and it was not so. A trailing ground pine had torn up small blades in its journey across the hill, and a vine, wrist-thick, twisted about a pale oak, hideously, gloriously, killing it, dragging it into dust. A wax Patrick Pipe leaned against his neck, staring with black eyes, and John opened his mouth, running his tongue across his lips, snapping it off, sighing. Move as he would, the grass was always under him, and the crackling of last Autumn’s leaves and last Summer’s twigs—minute dead of the infinite greatness—troubled him. Something portentous seemed connected with the patient noises about him. An acorn dropped, striking a thin fine powder out of a frail oak pod. He took it up, tossing it. He had never liked to see things fall. He sat up, with the dim thunder of the horses far off, but quickening his heart. He went over the scene he had with Freda Buckler, back there in the house, the long quivering spears of pot-grass standing by the window as she walked up and down, pulling at them, talking to him. Small, with cunning fiery eyes and a pink and pointed chin. A daughter of a mother who had known too many admirers in her youth; a woman with an ample lap on which she held a Persian kitten or a trifle of fruit. Bounty, avarice, desire, intelligence—both of them had always what they wanted. He blew down his moustache again thinking of Freda in her floating yellow veil that he had called 1 2 3 4 5 6 ridiculous. She had not been angry, he was nothing but a stable boy then. It was the way with those small intriguing women whose nostrils were made delicate through the pain of many generations that they might quiver whenever they caught a whiff of the stables. “As near as they can get to the earth,” he had said, and was Freda angry? She stroked his arm always softly, looking away, an inner bitterness drawing down her mouth. She said, walking up and down quickly, looking ridiculously small: “I am always gentle, John”—frowning, trailing her veil, thrusting out her chin. He answered: “I liked it better where I was.” “Horses,” she said showing sharp teeth, “are nothing for a man with your bile—pot-boy—curry comber, smelling of saddle soap—lovely!” She shrivelled up her nose, touching his arm: “Yes, but better things. I will show you—you shall be a gentleman—fine clothes, you will like them, they feel nice.” And laughing she turned on one high heel, sitting down. “I like horses, they make people better; you are amusing, intelligent, you will see——” “A lackey!” he returned passionately, throwing up his arm. “What is there in this for you, what are you trying to do to me? The family—askance—perhaps—I don’t know.” He sat down pondering. He was getting used to it, or thought he was, all but his wordy remonstrances. He knew better when thinking of his horses, realizing that when he should have married this small, unpleasant and clever woman, he would know them no more. It was a game between them, which was the shrewder, which would win out? He? A boy of ill breeding, grown from the gutter, fancied by this woman because he had called her ridiculous, or for some other reason that he would never know. This kind of person never tells the truth, and this, more than most things, troubled him. Was he a thing to be played with, debased into something better than he was—than he knew? Partly because he was proud of himself in the costume of a groom, partly because he was timid, he desired to get away, to go back to the stables. He walked up to the mirrors as if about to challenge them, peering in. He knew he would look absurd, and then knew, with shame, that he looked splendidly better than most of the gentlemen that Freda Buckler knew. He hated himself. A man who had grown out of the city’s streets, a fine common thing! She saw him looking into the mirrors, one after the other, and drew her mouth down. She got up, walking beside him in the end, between him and them, taking his arm. “You shall enter the army—you shall rise to General, or Lieutenant at least—and there are horses there, and the sound of stirrups—with that physique you will be happy—authority you know,” she said, shaking her chin, smiling. “Very well, but a common soldier——” “As you like—afterward.” “Afterward?” “Very well, a common soldier.” He sensed something strange in her voice, a sort of irony, and it took the patience out of him: “I have always been common, I could commit crimes, easily, gladly—I’d like to!” She looked away. “That’s natural,” she said faintly; “it’s an instinct all strong men have——” She knew what was troubling him, thwarted instincts, common beautiful instincts that he was being robbed of. He wanted to do something final to prove his lower order; caught himself making faces, idiot faces, and she laughed. “If only your ears stuck out, chin receded,” she said, “you might look degenerate, common, but as it is ——” And he would creep away in hat, coat and with his cane, to peer at his horses, never daring to go in near them. Sometimes, when he wanted to weep, he would smear one glove with harness grease, but the other one he held behind his back, pretending one was enough to prove his revolt. She would torment him with vases, books, pictures, making a fool of him gently, persistently, making him doubt by cruel means, the means of objects he was not used to, eternally taking him out of his sphere. “We have the best collection of miniatures,” she would say with one knee on a low ottoman, bringing them out in her small palm. “Here, look.” He would put his hands behind him. “She was a great woman—Lucrezia Borgia—do you know history——” She put it back because he did not answer, letting his mind, a curious one, torment itself. “You love things very much, don’t you?” she would question, because she knew that he had a passion for one thing only. She kept placing new ladders beneath his feet, only to saw them off at the next rung, making him nothing more than a nervous, irritable experiment. He was uneasy, like one given food to smell and not to taste, and for a while he had not wanted to taste, and then curiosity began, and he wanted to, and he also wanted to escape, and he could do neither. Well, after he had married her, what then? Satisfy her whim and where would he be? He would be nothing, neither what he had been nor what other people were. This seemed to him, at times, her wish— a sort of place between lying down and standing up, a cramped position, a slow death. A curious woman. This same evening he had looked at her attentively for the first time. Her hair was rather pretty, 6 7 8 9 10 though too mousy, yet just in the nape of the neck, where it met the lawn of the collar it was very attractive. She walked well for a little woman, too. Sometimes she would pretend to be lively, would run a little, catch herself at it, as if she had not intended to do it, and calm down once more, or creeping up to him, stroking his arm, talking to him, she would walk beside him softly, slowly, that he might not step out, that he would have to crawl across the carpet. Once he had thought of trying her with honesty, with the truth of the situation. Perhaps she would give him an honest answer, and he had tried. “Now, Miss Freda—just a word—what are you trying to do? What is it you want? What is there in me that can interest you? I want you to tell me—I want to know—I have got to ask someone, and I haven’t anyone to ask but you.” And for a moment she almost relented, only to discover that she could not if she had wished. She did not know always what she meant herself. “I’ll tell you,” she said, hoping that this, somehow, might lead her into the truth, for herself, if not for him, but it did not, “you are a little nervous, you will get used to it—you will even grow to like it. Be patient. You will learn soon enough that there is nothing in the world so agreeable as climbing, changing.” “Well,” he said, trying to read her, “and then?” “That’s all, you will regret the stables in the end—that’s all.” Her nostrils quivered. A light came into her eyes, a desire to defy, to be defied. Then on this last night he had done something terrible, he had made a blunder. There had been a party. The guests, a lot of them, were mostly drunk, or touched with drink. And he, too, had too much. He remembered having thrown his arms about a tall woman, gowned in black with loose shoulder straps, dragging her through a dance. He had even sung a bit of a song, madly, wildly, horribly. And suddenly he had been brought up sharp by the fact that no one thought his behaviour strange, that no one thought him presumptuous. Freda’s mother had not even moved or dropped the kitten from her lap where it sat, its loud resolute purr shaking the satin of her gown. And he felt that Freda had got him where she wanted him, between two rungs. Going directly up to her, he said: “You are ridiculous!” and twirled his moustache, spitting into the garden. And he knew nothing about what happened until he found himself in the shrubbery, crawling toward the corral, through the dusk and the dampness of the leaves, carrying his cane, making sure of his hat, looking up at the stars. Now he knew why he had come. He was with his horses again. His eyes, pressed against the bars, stared in. The black stallion in the lead had been his special pet, a rough animal, but kindly, knowing. And here they were once more, tearing up the grass, galloping about in the night like a ball-room full of real people, people who wanted to do things, who did what they wanted to do. He began to crawl through the bars, slowly, deftly, and when half way through he paused, thinking. Presently he went on again, and drawing himself into the corral, his hat and cane thrown in before him, he lay there mouth to the grass. They were still running, but less madly; one of them had gone up the Willow Road leading into a farther pasture, in a flare of dust, through which it looked immense and faint. On the top of the hill three or four of the horses were standing, testing the weather. He would mount one, he would ride away, he would escape. And his horses, the things he knew, would be his escape. Bareback, he thought, would be like the days when he had taken what he could from the rush of the streets, joy, exhilaration, life, and he was not afraid. He wanted to stand up, to cry aloud. And he saw ten or twelve of them rounding the curb, and he did stand up. They did not seem to know him, did not seem to know what to make of him, and he stared at them wondering. He did not think of his white shirt front, his sudden arising, the darkness, their excitement. Surely they would know, in a moment more. Wheeling, flaring their wet nostrils, throwing up their manes, striking the earth in a quandary, they came on, whinnied faintly, and he knew what it was to be afraid. He had never been afraid and he went down on his knees. With a new horror in his heart he damned them. He turned his eyes up, but he could not open them. He thought rapidly, calling on Freda in his heart, speaking tenderly, promising. A flare of heat passed his throat and descended into his bosom. “I want to live. I can do it—damn it—I can do it! I can forge ahead, make my mark.” He forgot where he was for a moment and found new pleasure in this spoken admission, this new rebellion. He moved with the faint shaking of the earth, like a child on a woman’s lap. The upraised hoofs of the first horse missed him, but the second did not. And presently the horses drew apart, nibbling here and there, switching their tails, avoiding a patch of tall grass. 11 12 13 14 THREE FROM THE EARTH Persons: James Carson brothers Henry John Kate Morley— An adventuress, a lady of leisure Time—Late afternoon. Place—Kate Morley’s boudoir. A long narrow room, with a great many lacquer screens in various shades of blue, a tastefully decorated room though rather extreme. At the rise of the curtain the three Carson brothers are discovered sitting together on a couch to the left. They look like peasants of the most obvious type. They are tall, rather heavy—and range in age from nineteen to twenty-five. They have sandy, sun-bleached hair that insists upon sticking straight up—oily, sweaty skins—large hanging lips and small eyes on which a faint whitish down moves for lashes. They are clumsy and ill clothed. Russet shoes are on all six feet. They each wear a purple aster and each has on a tie of the super-stunning variety—they have evidently done their best to be as one might say “well dressed.” When they speak—aside from their grunts—their voices are rough, nasal and occasionally crack. They are stoop-shouldered and their hands are excessively ugly. Yet in spite of all this, their eyes are intelligent, their smiles gentle, melancholy, compassionate. And though they have a look of formidable grossness and stupidity, there is, on second observation, a something beneath all this in no way in keeping with this first impression. John, the youngest, and the smallest, looks around the room carefully. John—A nice room, eh? [He tries to whisper, but it comes forth buzzing and harsh.] James—A woman’s room. Henry—How? James—A narrow room, John. John—Well? James—Cats and narrow walls. Henry—[Grunting.] Ugh. John—Hush—I hear her coming! [The curtains part and Kate Morley enters. She is a woman of about forty. Handsome. Dark. She is beautifully dressed—in a rather seductive fashion. She has a very interesting head; she has an air of one used to adulation and the pleasure of exerting her will. She has a trick of narrowing her eyes. As she comes forward there is a general commotion among the brothers, but none manages to stand up.] Kate—Good day, gentlemen. All Three—Good day. Kate—Nice of you to call on me. [She seats herself, crossing her legs.] You are the three Carsons, John, James and Henry, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you for years, yet I think I should have known you. All Three—Ah ha. Kate—Yes, I presume I should have known you. I have a good memory. Well, as I said, it’s nice of you to come to see me. Social? Henry—You might call it that. Kate—It’s quite nice to get an unexpected visitor or so. I’m the kind of woman who knows just who is going to call on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday—— All Three—Ah ha. Kate—How’s the country? John—Just the same. Kate—It always is.—Don’t you go mad—watching it? Henry—Now and again. Kate—And how’s your father? [Not pausing for an answer—almost to herself.] I remember—he was always mad. He used to wear a green cloth suit, and he carried white rats all over his shoulders. [Remembering the three.] Ah, yes, your father—he was a barber, wasn’t he? Henry—No, a chemist. Kate—[Laughing uneasily.] I have a bad memory after all. Well, anyway, in those days he had begun to be queer—everyone noticed it—even that funny man who had those three flaxen-haired daughters with the thin ankles who lives at the end of the street—— And your mother—a prostitute, I believe. Henry—[Calmly.] At times. 15 16 17 18 Kate—A dancing girl without a clean word in her vocabulary, or a whole shirt to her name—— James—But a woman with fancies. Kate—[Sarcastically.] And what ability? Henry—Oh, none, just a burning desire. Kate—What’s the use of going into that? How did you get here—what for? All Three—On bicycles. Kate—[Bursting into laughter.] How exactly ridiculous and appropriate—and what else? John—To see how the sun falls in a place like this. Kate—[Angrily, rising.] Well, you see, from left to right, and right to left—— Henry—True. John—[Quietly.] And we wanted to see how you walked, and sat down, and crossed your legs—— Henry—And to get father’s letters. Kate—Well, you see how I walk, sit down, cross my legs. What letters? James—Letters to you. Kate—[Uneasily.] So you know about that—well, and what would you fellows do with them—read them to see how clever they are? James—No, we have the clever ones. Kate—Mine? John and Henry—[Nodding.] Exactly. Kate—Oh! John—You suffer? Kate—From time to time—there’s always a reaction. Henry—That’s vulgar, isn’t it? Kate—Not unusually. John—The letters? Kate—[To herself.] Well, there is malice in me—what of it? We’ve all been a while with the dogs, we don’t all learn to bark. John—Ah ha. Kate—See here, what will you do with your father’s letters? Henry—Destroy them, perhaps. Kate—And if I give them to you—will your father be as generous with mine? Henry—Father is undoubtedly a gentleman—even at this moment. Kate—Well, we shall see about that—first tell me how you live. John—We go down on the earth and find things, tear them up, shaking the dirt off. [Making motions to illustrate.] Then there are the cows to be milked, the horses—a few—to be fed, shod and curried—do you wish me to continue? Kate—Yes, yes, go on. Henry—[Taking the tale up.] We get up at dawn, and our father turns over in bed and whispers: “If you meet anyone, say nothing; if you are asked a question, look stupid——” Kate—I believe you. James—And he says: “Go about your work as if you had neither sight, speech nor hearing——” Kate—Yes—— John—And he adds: “If you should meet a woman in the road——” Kate—[Excited.] Then what? Henry—That’s enough. Then of a Sunday we watch the people going to church, when we hear the “Amen,” we lift a little and sit back—and then again—— Kate—Religion? Henry—Enough for our simple needs. Kate—Poor sheep! James—Wise sheep! Kate—What! Well perhaps. No one is any longer sure of anything. Then what? John—When we come home he says: “What have you seen and heard today?” He never asks, “What have you said?” Kate—He trusts you? John—Undoubtedly. Sometimes we say, “We saw a hawk flying,” or, “A badger passed,” and sometimes we bring him the best treat of all—— Kate—Well? John—Something dead. Kate—Dead? Henry—Anything that has destroyed the crops—a mole—a field-mouse. Kate—And never anything that’s harmless? 19 20 21 John—Never. Kate—Well, see here, I’ll give you those letters. Suddenly my heart says to me, “Kate, give the oxen the rope, they won’t run away.”—Isn’t it so? Very well, I put my hand on a certain package and all is over—I’m about to be married, you know. [She has risen and gone over to a little box standing on the desk. Out from this she takes a package of letters tied with a red ribbon. She turns and walks straight up to John.] I’ll give them to you. You are the youngest, the gentlest, and you have the nicest hands. [She sits down, breathing with difficulty.] John—[Putting them into his blouse.] Thank you, Kate Morley. Kate—Now, tell me about everything. How is that mother of yours? I remember her—she was on the stage—she danced as they say, and she sang. She had a pet monkey—fed it honey out of a jar kept full by her admirers: grooms, stage hands, what not—— Henry—Yes, and she used to draw pictures of it in the style of Dürer—almost morbid—and later it caught a disease and died—— Kate—I don’t doubt it—and she, she had an under-lip like a balloon—and your father kissed that mouth, was even tempted—— James—My father often saw beyond the flesh. Kate—Kissed such a creature! Henry—At such times she was beautiful. Kate—[With a touch of humility.] Yes, I’m sorry—I remember. Once I passed her, and instead of saying something, something horrible—she might—she looked down. John—She was beautiful, looking down. Kate—[Angry.] And I, I suppose I wasn’t beautiful to look at—— Henry—No, I suppose not, that is, not for her. Kate—[Viciously.] Well, let me tell you, you haven’t inherited her beauty. Look at your hands—thick, hard, ugly—and the life lines in them like the life lines in the hands of every laborer digging sewers—— John—There’s something in that, but they are just beginning. Kate—[Turning on them.] Look at you! You’re ugly, and clumsy, and uncouth. You grunt and roar, you wear abominable clothes—and you have no manners—and all because of your father, your mighty righteous and original father. You don’t have to be like this. You needn’t have little pigs’ eyes with bleached lashes, and thick hanging lips—and noses—but I suppose you’ve got adenoids, and you may suffer from the fact that your mother had a rupture, and in all probability you have the beginning of ulcers of the stomach, for God knows your father couldn’t keep a meal down like a gentleman! Henry—He was delicate. Kate—And why was he delicate? He called himself “The little Father,” as one might say, “The great Emperor.” Well, to have a father to whom you can go and say, “All is not as it should be”—that would have been everything. But what could you say to him, and what had he to say to you? Oh, we all have our pathetic moments of being at our best, but he wasn’t satisfied with that, he wanted to be at it all the time. And the result, the life of a mole. “Listen and say nothing.” Then he becomes the gentleman farmer because he discovers he cannot be the Beloved Fool. Suddenly he is the father of three creatures for all the world like Russian peasants—without an idea, a subtlety—it’s wicked, that’s all, wicked—and as for that, how do you know but that all three of you had a different mother? Why, great God, I might be the mother of one of you! John—[Significantly.] So I believe, madam. Kate—[Unheeding.] Do you think a man like your father had any right to bring such children as you into the world—three columns of flesh without one of the five senses! [She suddenly buries her head in her hands.] John—[Gently.] You loved our father. Henry—And you also had your pot of honey—— Kate—Thank God I had no ideals—I had a religion. John—Just what? Kate—You wouldn’t understand. Henry—Shoes to the needy? Kate—No, I’m not that kind, vicious boy. John—Are you quite certain? Kate—I’ll admit all my candles are not burning for God. Well, then, blow them out, still I’ll have a light burning somewhere, for all your great breaths, you oxen! Henry—You were never a tower builded of ivory—— Kate—You’re too stupid to be bitter—your voices are too undeveloped—you’d say “love” and “hate” the same way. James—True, we have been shut away from intonations. Kate—You wouldn’t even wish to die. John—We shall learn. Kate—Why bother? John—[Abruptly rising.] You have posed for the madonna? 22 23 24 25 Kate—Every woman has. John—You have done it better than most. Kate—What do you mean? John—I looked at it when I came in. [He picks up the photograph.] Kate—Let it be—I was playing in the “Crown of Thorns,” an amateur theatrical. John—Yes, I presumed it was amateur—— James—You were a devoted mother? Kate—I have no virtues. Henry—And vices? Kate—Weak in one, weak in the other. John—However, the baby had nice hands—— Kate—[Looking at him.] That is true. James—But then babies only use their hands to lift the breast, and occasionally to stroke the cheek—— Kate—Or throw them up in despair—not a heavy career. John—And then? Kate—[In an entirely new tone.] Won’t you have tea?— But no, pay no attention to me, that’s another of my nasty malicious tricks. Curse life! Henry—Your life is drawing to a close. James—And from time to time you place your finger on a line of Nietzsche or Schopenhauer, wondering: “How did he say it all in two lines?” Eh? Kate—As you say, [She looks at them slowly, one by one.] You are strange things. [Coming back.] But at least I’ve given up something—look at your mother, what did she give up for your father—a drunken husband—— James—A drunken lover—that’s different. Kate—I can’t help thinking of that great gross stomach of hers. James—Gross indeed, it won’t trouble him any more. Kate—What’s that? John—He cut his throat with a knife—— Kate—Oh, my God! [Pause.] How did he look? John—You can’t satisfy your æsthetic sense that way—he looked—well, ugly, played out; yes, played out. Everything had been too much for him—you—us—you could see that in the way he—— Kate—[In a whisper.] Well, that’s strange—everything seems—I knew him, you know. [She begins to laugh.] And the dogs barked? James—So I believe. Kate—[Dazed.] And you, what are you three going to do? Henry—We are coming out of the country—we are going abroad—we can listen there. Kate—Abroad—listen—what are you saying? Henry—There are great men abroad. James—Anatole France, De Gourmont—— Kate—De Gourmont is dead. John—There will be others. Kate—[Still dully.] And how did you come to know such names—oh, your father, of course—— John—We needed them. Kate—Strange, I’ve been prepared for every hour but this—— James—Yet I dare say you’ve never cried out. Kate—You are mistaken. I’ve cried: “To the evil of mind all is evil——” Henry—Ah ha, and what happened? Kate—Sometimes I found myself on my knees—— James—And sometimes? Kate—That’s enough, haven’t we about cleared all the shavings out of the carpenter shop? Henry—You at least will never kill yourself. Kate—Not likely, I’ll probably die in bed with my slippers on—you see, I have a pretty foot. Henry—We understand—you are about to be married. Kate—To a supreme court judge—so I’m cleaning house. John—[Standing with the photograph.] But it won’t be quite cleared out until this goes. [He takes it out of the frame and turning it over reads.] “Little John, God bless him.” [He turns it back.] God bless him. Well, just for that I’d like to keep it. Kate—That’s my affair. John—So I see. [He puts the photo in his blouse with the letters.] Kate—Well, perhaps—well, you’re not so stupid after all—— Come, for the madonna give me back the letters—I’ll burn them I swear, and you can put the madonna at the foot of the bed. 26 27 28 29