FROM FOUR TO SIX
By Annie Eliot
A COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT
Esther Van Dyke. Harold Whitney. A Maid.
Esther discovered seated in a New York drawing-room. She has been reading and tearing old letters.
E. I am sure one might ask anyone to an afternoon tea, even if anyone were one’s old lover; and I am sure one might come to anyone’s afternoon tea, even if anyone were one’s quondam sweetheart. From both Harold’s stand-point and mine, it seems to me perfectly safe. Certainly the vainest man could not believe that a woman wished to rake up the leaves of a dead past because she sent him an At-home from four to six card, for a day when she is to be at home for two hundred people besides. If it were an evening party, now—in summer with the lawn, or in winter with a conservatory—or if there is not a conservatory there are always stairs; and it’s daily more and more the fashion to build them curved. Another generation may find discreet recesses at every landing. When people are really thoughtful there will be a temporary addition where people can go up and down. Oh, if it was an evening party I could not blame Harold for staying away. Or if it was private theatricals—the stage is itself one grand opportunity! Or a picnic—what innumerable openings for raking up the dry leaves of a dead past on a picnic! But an afternoon tea! Nothing stronger or dryer than tea-leaves to be had. Harold need not be in the least afraid. Besides, it would have been really unfriendly not to send him a card. Everybody knows he is at home again, and from a four years’ trip. Even after all that has passed I would not wish to be unfriendly. Four years, and they say that he is engaged to Mattie Montgomery—and just before he went away he was engaged to me. (A little sadly.) Perhaps he was foolish. Perhaps—I was. Undoubtedly we both were. I suppose I ought to feel flattered that he waited four years—but somehow I don’t—altogether; “flattered” does not seem to be the word. Well, it makes little difference now, and it will make less when I tell him to-morrow that I am engaged to Dr. Tennant. I thought I might as well look over his letters. I have burned all but the last. (Takes up letter from the table.) Here it is. (Takes up a second letter.) And here is Dr. Tennant’s first. Two models of epistolary communication—but of different orders. (Reads.)
“My Dear Miss Van Dyke: I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you this afternoon at five o’clock. It rests with you whether or not this pleasure is to be intensified a hundredfold, or attended with lasting pain. I remain always,
“Yours most cordially,
“Edward Tennant.”
What could be better suited to the circumstances than that? Not too impassioned, but sufficiently interested. I am always affected by well-turned phrases—I think this is charming. And here is Harold’s. (Reads other letter.)
“You have made it plain enough. There is no necessity for more words. Heaven forgive you—and good-by.”
(Thoughtfully.) He was in a pretty passion when he wrote that—and I have not seen him since. I hope he will come to-morrow. He used to think Mattie Montgomery was a doll of a thing. Perhaps he will tell her that I am a—no, he won’t. Whatever I am, I’m not a doll of a thing, and he knows it. (Looks at the two letters side by side.) How amusing one’s old flirtations look in the light of a new and serious reality—for I have made up my mind what to say to Dr. Tennant. It will be rather good fun to tell Harold of it confidentially to-morrow. I will drop it in his tea with a lump of sugar. (Glances at clock.) After four o’clock. Well, I must go and make myself fascinating and give orders that Dr. Tennant and I are not to be disturbed. We may as well begin to get used to tête-à-têtes. (Exit after putting the letters under a book, out of sight.)
Enter Harold Whitney. He seems disturbed.
H. This is certainly confoundedly odd. I expected to find fifty other people here at least, and Esther in her best gown receiving them. I can’t have mistaken the hour. It is some time after four. There is certainly a mistake somewhere, however, and under the circumstances it is likely to be a particularly awkward one. I would walk a good mile and a half to avoid a tête-à-tête with Esther Van Dyke. Because I have been fool enough after four years to remember the color of her eyes, I don’t care to have her know it and see it. I would leave now, like the historic Arab, if I hadn’t been such an ass as to give my card to the servant, and Esther has seen it by this time. I would rather face the music than give her the pleasure of laughing at me for running away. But what does it mean? I must—the blood curdles in my veins at the thought—I must have mistaken the day! The Fate which I have felt dogging my footsteps from the cradle has at last laid hold upon me! I have dreamed of getting to a place the day before I was asked. I have loitered irresolutely on door-mats. I have gone slowly by and watched until I saw another carriage go in, but I have never done it before. And to have come to Esther Van Dyke’s after four years, and such a parting, a day too soon! My bitterest foe would find it in his heart to pity me now. What can I do? (Walks around the room and fingers things restlessly.) I might go off with the spoons to divert suspicion. I would rather be arrested as a professional burglar, entering the house under false pretences, than witness Esther’s smile when she comes to a realizing sense of what I have done. Professional burglars probably retain their self-respect. There is no reason why they shouldn’t. The date of their visit is not fixed by invitation. But, confound it! there won’t be any spoons until to-morrow. Perhaps she won’t know I have come a day too soon—but she always did know things—that was the kind of person she was. (Takes up a book from the table.) I might read to compose my mind. “Familiar Quotations,”—I wish I could find an elegant and appropriate one for the occasion. I can think of several, entirely familiar to the most unlearned, but too forcible for a lady’s drawing-room. “Too late I stayed” would hardly do. I wonder what the fellow would have sung if “Too soon he’d come.” (Throws down book.) I thought I could accept an invitation to an afternoon tea, because I need only say a word to her, see if she had changed, and leave. That seemed safe enough. Besides, Miss Montgomery chaffed me about coming, and wouldn’t have hesitated to make the most of it if I had stayed away. (Looks about.) The room has not changed much. I wonder—here she is. Now, for all I have learned in four years, I would like to conceal myself in the scrap-basket, but it is out of the question.
Enter Esther.
E. How do you do, Mr. Whitney? I am very glad to see you. (They shake hands.)
H. It is very good of you to say so, Esth—Miss Van Dyke. (Aside.) I never felt so fresh in my life.
E. It was nice of you to think of coming this afternoon instead of waiting until the crush to-morrow, when I should have an opportunity for no more than a word with you.
H. (aside). She does not look satirical. Why didn’t I bring some flowers or something? (They sit. Aloud, with somewhat exaggerated ease of manner.) When one’s hostess receives all the world, one’s own reception cannot be a personal one. After four years I wished for something more positive. Perhaps I have been too bold, but an afternoon tea is so very impersonal, you know.
E. (a little embarrassed by his manner, aside). Can it be that he does not wish our relations to be impersonal? Of course not! (Aloud.) Yes, I know. Very impersonal indeed. I was thinking the same thing before you came.
H. (aside). Yes, and I was thinking the same thing before I came. We haven’t either of us gotten on much. (Aloud.) I was always an exacting sort of fellow, you know, so you will not be surprised at my coming to get a reception on my own account.
E. (aside). I should think I did know. (Aloud.) No, I am not surprised. (A moment’s pause—with a slight effort.) So you are an exacting sort of fellow still? I am looking for the changes of four years, you see.
H. (significantly). You may not find many, after all (Somewhat gloomily.) The rose-color wears off one’s glasses somewhat in four years, to be sure, but I don’t think the perspective changes much.
E. Don’t you? It strikes me that time reverses the glasses—that we find ourselves suddenly looking through the other end, and things that once were so large are a long way off, and have become extremely small.
H. (aside). Which means, I suppose, that I have taken a back seat, and must keep at opera-glass distance. (Aloud.) Things have no importance of their own, then? I suppose it is a good deal a matter of which way you look at it.
E. Yes, education does everything for us—which is something of a platitude. But I am sorry about the rose-color. I’d much rather you should look at me through tinted glasses. I said the other day to a confidential friend that my complexion is no longer what it was.
H. (refusing to be diverted). No, I do not think one’s views of persons change—or perhaps I should say one’s attitude toward persons—as do those of abstractions. One does not expect to find truth—trust—honor—love, growing so large.
E. (soberly). In other words, truth is a hot-house, and one’s ideas are tropical. Well, it is perhaps as well to come out into the open air, even if things do seem a little—stunted—at first.
H. Undoubtedly. Yet the comfort of the human frame demands something in the way of a temperate zone between. A sudden plunge into the arctic regions is apt to convey a chill—quite a serious one sometimes.
E. (aside). I wonder if that is meant for a veiled allusion. (Aloud.) But nature generally provides a way of softening matters, and makes such changes not chilling, but bracing.
H. (carelessly). Yes—Nature has been much maligned in her time, but, after all she is kinder than humanity in certain of even its most attractive forms. She is impartial and she contrives to let one down easily. I am sometimes astonished that Nature should be personified as a woman.
E. (looking away from him). I see you have become a cynic.
H. (with intention). I have, perhaps, lived up to my opportunities. They have not been unfavorable to cynicism. (Laughing.) Do you know, Esther, this is very much the way we used to talk? We were continually dealing in the most artistic abstractions. How easily one drops into old fashions!
E. (aside). How can he speak so lightly of “the way we used to talk,” or is it only I that remember? (Aloud, coldly.) Possibly, but old fashions are very readily seen not to belong to the present day. And yet—I may be mistaken—but it seems to me that we used to talk in a way that bordered on—on the concrete.
H. (a little nonplussed). Yes—that is true—but we were not so successful there. (Aside.) Decidedly we did. On the very concrete, indeed! And that was where she always had the better of me. She is quite capable of doing it again—but she does not wish to.
E. (calmly). But where were we in our abstractions? Ah, with Nature. I always get beyond my depth when Nature is introduced into the conversation. Human nature I do not mind at all, you know, but Nature by itself frightens me. I think it is the capital N. I feel that I ought to go out-of-doors and appreciate her.
H. I remember you were always afraid of getting beyond your depth. I was less prudent, however, which was sometimes unfortunate. (Aside.) I shall be floundering again if I go on with this remembering. (Aloud.) So you are still cautious? I have not had the four years to myself. Have they not changed you at all, Esth—Miss Van Dyke?
E. (pensively). Yes.
H. (with attention). You are not quite the same, then? I should not have known it.
E. (with emphasis). Wouldn’t you, really?
H. Unfortunately for me—no.
E. No, I am not the same.
H. (in a low tone). Will you tell me how you have changed?
E. (after a pause). I have grown stout! Yes, I have. I have gained twenty pounds in the four years you have been away.
H. (laughing). The inference pains me deeply. But twenty pounds can be judiciously distributed without actual injury to the possessor. Is there anything else?
E. (sentimentally). Ah, yes, when I am introduced to a new man I no longer expect to find him a mine of entertainment. I used to. Now I am surprised if I have not to be clever for both of us.
H. Is that so new? (Thoughtfully.) I sometimes think I was stupid for both of us—or—could it have been only that you were too wise? (Aside.) Oh, this fatal tendency to reminiscence—and I know better!
E. (with a slight effort). You are carrying me too far back. I am marking my progress since I saw you. (Aside.) Certainly this is too much like burrowing in the leaves of a dead past. No wonder he did not wait until to-morrow.
H. Forgive me, and go on with the disillusionments.
E. Sadder yet, I no longer care when a younger and a fairer girl “cuts me out,” to put it boldly. I think I shall, you know, but I don’t. I sigh—but I forget them—both!
H. This shows a callousness really alarming. You might at least reserve the guiltier party for future punishment. Perfidy merits at least remembrance. It is sometimes a man’s last hold.
E. (carelessly). A man should risk little on so commonplace a resource—if one wishes to be remembered, one should be unusual. Besides, you would imply that the man is the guiltier party?
H. Only as far as his lights are taken into consideration, of course. Man is a poor creature at his best—in comparison.
E. And sometimes a comparatively innocent one. To find another woman more attractive is blamable, but to be a more attractive woman ought to be unpardonable.
H. “To err is human—fiendish to outshine.” I understand. (With marked politeness.) Permit me to suggest that it is rarely——
E. (laughing). But I have said I have lost my capacity for feeling thrusts of this kind. (In a lower tone.) At least, I believed that I had.
H. (dryly). I was always a little unfortunate in my attempts to make amends—always too late, perhaps.
E. (meeting his eyes). Yes, making amends was never your forte.
H. Any more than cherishing illusions is yours. But, pray, go on with your revelations. I must improve the unexpected pleasure of finding you alone.
E. (a little embarrassed). Whom, then, did you expect to find here? (Aside.) He cannot have known that Dr. Tennant is coming. (Aloud.) Who would interfere, did you think, with the personal welcome you so desired?
H. (aside). I was getting on so well. (Lightly.) Oh, party calls, you know, and——
E. (dryly). You will find that customs have not changed so much in four years. It is still unusual to pay party calls in advance.
H. (aside). That was a brilliant way to recoup my falling fortunes! (Boldly.) Is this an indirect way of blaming me for coming this afternoon? (Rising.) I suppose it was unwise. (Aside.) I should rather think it was. (Aloud.) I will go now—Esther.
E. (quickly). You know, Harold, I did not mean anything so rude. Do not go—unless you must.
H. (aside). I must—theoretically. But I sha’nt—not after that “Harold.” If I hadn’t prided myself for years on its being inalienable property, I should say I was losing my head. (Aloud.) Will you tell me more of your four years?
E. (seriously). Yes. I have grown wise. I have grown hard—a little.
H. (softly). You were hard before—a little.
E. Are they not the same—wisdom and hardness? I have learned to believe that they are.
H. (impulsively). Not always.
E. And I, too, have acquired the sense of proportion. I have seen that—that—Love is not all the world. I have learned that the comfortable is more to be desired than gold—yea, than fine gold.
H. Yes; Gold and Love must both be tried in the furnace, which is seldom a comfortable operation.
E. And you—do you not agree with me? Is it not better to look on?
H. So long as it is not at another’s happiness that one has desired for one’s self—yes.
E. (aside). How if it be another’s unhappiness, I wonder. Poor Dr. Tennant. (Sighs.)
H. (aside). I shall make an ass of myself in a moment. She is not changed an atom. (Aloud.) But what leaves of wisdom have you steeped for me? I expected a cup of tea, and you have given me a decoction that should heal all disappointments.
E. (half sadly). If I had known I possessed such a secret I should have brewed some for myself before this. But (rising) if you expected a cup of tea you shall have it.
H. (eagerly). By Jove! Esther! I beg pardon—but Miss Van Dyke, I beg of you—— (Stops helplessly.)
E. I was just about to send for it for myself. (She rings. Aside.) I see it all. He has come a day too soon. And he would have had me believe that he cared to see me alone. And I was actually growing sentimental. He shall pay for it. (Enter a maid.) Tea, Mary Ann.
H. (who has been fidgeting about the room—aside). If only I had gone half an hour ago—in the flush of triumph, as it were! It was unnecessary, in order to avoid making a sentimental spectacle of myself, to fall back upon the larder!
E. (going back to table and taking up a letter). Do you know what I was doing when you came this afternoon?
H. Learning a new Kensington stitch? Studying a receipt-book? Putting a man out of his misery by letter? These are, I believe, some departments of “woman’s work.”
E. No, I was reading an old letter—one by which a man put himself out of misery. Your last letter, in fact.
H. My last letter?
E. Yes.
Mary Ann brings in the tea, and as Esther moves things on the table, she hands him Dr. Tennant’s letter by mistake. Harold glances at it and looks up surprised, but Esther does not see him.
H. Am I to read this?
E. Certainly.
Mary Ann leaves the room. Esther busies herself with the tea-things.
H. (having read the letter—stiffly). Very elegant penmanship.
E. (surprised but indifferently). I had not thought of that. (A pause.)
H. (glancing at the letter again). I fancy the writer did.
E. (coldly). Possibly. (Aside.) Oh, why did I show it to him? I would not have believed he would be so hard. (Aloud.) Rather a forcible style, I think.
H. Stiff, rather than forcible, I would suggest.
E. (with suppressed feeling). Your criticisms are less pointed than usual. If you had said unnatural it might express your meaning still better.
H. (a little irritated). He is a fortunate man who is able to express himself with such justness and freedom from exaggeration.
E. It seemed to me exaggerated at the time.
H. (with mock admiration). Oh, how can you say so! It is positively Grandisonian—almost Chesterfieldian. (Aside.) And utterly detestable.
E. (almost with tears). I was wrong to fancy you would be interested in such a trifle. Please give it back.
H. (politely, handing it to her). Not at all. Certainly, the writer deserves the lasting happiness he refers to. (Aside.) And I wish it were nothing to me—if he gets it or not.
E. What do you mean? Is this what I gave you? Oh, dear! (Much embarrassed.) It was the wrong one! Never mind. Here is your tea.
H. (takes the cup, after a short pause). I feel as if I had forced myself into your confidence.
E. You need not. It was my own stupidity, of course.
H. (tastes his tea). Might I see the other one?
E. Yes. (Gives it to him.)
H. (reads it while Esther watches him). Yes; well, I might have said more. But that was enough.
E. Yes, that was, as the children say, a great plenty. Oh, I neglected your tea! One lump, or two?
H. (thoughtfully). One. I wonder if it has?
E. What has?
H. Heaven.
E. Heaven has what?
H. Forgiven you.
E. I think so, by this time. It doesn’t bear malice. Cream?
H. Yes—prussic acid—anything. Thank you. You do not ask whether I have or not.
E. No. I understood you shifted the responsibility once for all. (Sipping her tea.)
H. Perhaps I did. It is generally once for all with me.
E. Is it? It is better to have all—for once. It is broader. It is more liberal. It is my motto.
H. Yes. So it was then. I have heard there is safety in numbers. (Aside.) If I believed that, I should begin to repeat the multiplication-table. I shall never be in greater need of it.
E. Not always.
H. (with an effort). Possibly Sir Charles Grand—I mean Mr. Edward Tennant—may have a narrowing influence. (Aside.) It is no use. I can’t be discreet. Confound Mr. Edward Tennant!
E. (innocently). Perhaps. (Drinks tea.) And so you are engaged to Mattie Montgomery?
H. (formally). You do me too much honor.
E. Really! (More coolly.) That is a pity. I hoped we might proffer mutual congratulations. An exchange of compliments is such a promoter of good feeling.
H. (more stiffly). I see I have been remiss. But I did not understand.
E. No, it is not yet time—but I have betrayed his confidence inadvertently. To-morrow you must congratulate me. To-morrow I shall tell you that I am engaged. Let me give you another cup.
H. (rising). No, one is enough. Once ought always to be enough! But it seems I am fated to have it twice! I know I am incoherent—but never mind! It’s the tea!
E. (playing with her teaspoon a little nervously). And you have forgiven me?
H. I do not know that I have. But (coldly) whether I have or not is of course only a personal matter.
E. (feebly). Of course.
H. And so you are to tell me to-morrow that you are engaged? Might I ask you if, in taking this step, you were actuated by a wish to obtain my forgiveness?
E. (laughing). I expected you to ask mine—for being engaged to Mattie Montgomery.
H. (sits). Suppose this afternoon you tell me about the—to be colloquial—the happy man. And I will have some more tea.
E. (looking into the sugar-bowl). Well, to tell the truth this afternoon—he doesn’t happen—to be—colloquially—the happy man.
H. (aside; walking about). So that note was written to-day. I did not see the date. It is not yet five o’clock, and it is not yet too late. I shall gain nothing by getting rattled and making a fool of myself. (Aloud, coming back and holding out his cup, into which Esther drops sugar as they speak.) Have I then taken his place?
E. (gravely). No. He is (lump) conservative (lump) in his (lump) tastes (lump). He takes (lump) no sugar (lump) at all (lump) in his.
H. (who has been watching Esther’s face, and not her fingers, sets down his cup hastily). Seven lumps is a little radical. Then you have forgotten all in four years? (Pacing the floor.) Forgotten what I, Esther, have been fool enough to remember as if it had happened yesterday! Who is it talks about woman’s constancy?
E. (aside). Not I. But I am very much afraid I shall begin to. Has the tea gone to my head too?
H. (with much feeling). The bitterest lesson the four years have taught me, Esther, is that one’s earliest lessons are never unlearned. They have been kinder to you.
E. (in a low tone). Have they? Perhaps. They have taught us both, however, that it is not necessary to unlearn them; one can go on as if one had never studied—old lessons.
H. Or old letters? (Coming nearer and taking up the letter.) But you did care for me enough to keep this letter—to read it over to-day—to give one thought to old happiness in the presence of new?
E. (recovering herself with an effort). I thought enough of myself to keep it. It is a mistaken theory that a woman keeps old love-letters for the sake of the sender. She keeps them because they are flattering—because they—they sound nice. I have lots more.
H. (offended). And you were only weeding them out to-day? Very well. That is enough. No further words are necessary.
E. Yes—so you said before (glancing at letter), or something very like it (Looking into the teapot.) There is no more tea for us, and the lamp has gone out. (Looking about.) And no matches—unless you have one in your pocket.
H. (who has been thinking, moodily feels in all his pockets). I am very sorry—but I cannot supply you with even the necessaries of life.
E. Never mind, I can light it from the fire.
H. (pushes the letters toward her). Make a lamplighter of one of these, and I will light it for you.
Esther hesitates an instant, takes up one letter, and then the other.
H. Oh, use mine. It has failed to rekindle a passion, but it may do for a teakettle. It may as well be reduced to ashes along with the rest of the poor little love-story.
Esther turns her head a little away and slowly twists both letters into lamp-lighters.
H. (aside). I shall let all my hopes burn in the flame with my letter. If she uses that, I give her up. I shall know she is not mine to give up. I have come to the pass where folly is my only reason. She is twisting Dr. Tennant’s! But now she is twisting mine. (She rises to go to the fire and he rises to do it for her.)
E. I prefer to do it myself.
She returns with one burning, with which she lights the lamp, and lays the other down on the table. He takes it up eagerly.
H. So, Esther, you did not burn it, after all? (Rising and coming toward her.) You did not care that the last of it should go out in ashes?
E. (speaking lightly). It was not that so much, but I was afraid it was better suited for an—extinguisher. I think that was more what you meant it for.
Harold goes back to his seat gloomily and tastes his tea. Esther plays with the teaspoon—a pause.
E. How do you like your tea?
H. It is a little—cloying.
E. (rising and moving about the room). A bad fault.
H. (dryly). But fortunately an uncommon one.
E. (with feeling). I have made a great many mistakes in my life—suffered a great deal of unhappiness—because I have been afraid of being cloying. (Aside.) Am I mad, that I should tell him the foolish truth!
H. (rising). I should say it was a fault to which you were not constitutionally inclined. (Aside.) That sounds much firmer than I feel.
E. No, but on that very account people should have borne with me more than they have! (Still with feeling.) Things might have been different.
H. (going toward her). Esther! (A bell.)
E. (hurriedly). Never mind! There is the door-bell! Things are going to be different! (With a faint smile.) I told you he did not like any sweet at all in his.
H. (impetuously). And have I not had my full allowance of bitter? It is time you began dispensing sweets—so let him stay away.
E. (laughing nervously). But—but it wasn’t my idea to get rid of him.
H. The plan is ready for your acceptance. You were going to tell me you were engaged to-morrow—tell him so to-day, instead!
E. (glancing at clock). I cannot. His engagement was made with me a week ago.
H. And mine five years ago. (She hesitates.) Besides, he is late—half an hour late. What is it about a lover who is late? He has divided his time into more than “the thousandth part of a minute.”
E. (laughing). And are you not later—by four years?
H. (firmly). I am twenty-four hours ahead of time.
A knock. Enter maid with a card.
E. Show him into the reception-room. I will come in a moment. (Exit maid.) It is he, Harold. I must go.
H. (taking her hands). Esther, think one moment. Forget the four years. I have come a day too soon. I have swallowed two cups of tea and eight lumps of sugar and made a general ass of myself—but—I love you.
E. But—but this is so shameless! I thought I should have to say—something like that—to him.
H. (coolly). And I am in time to save you from so unfortunate a mistake. You had much better tell it to me.
E. But I must give him an answer.
H. Give me one first! Adopt my plan, it is so simple. Send word—or tell him, if you like—that you are engaged. But come back!
E. Indeed, he shall have his answer first. His right demands precedence at least. But (opening the door) I will come back.
H. To five years ago?
E. Perhaps. (Returns just as she is leaving the room.) But, Harold, Harold, I thought an afternoon tea was so safe, or I should never have asked you.
H. And so did I—or I should never have come.
Curtain.
