14. AH, WHAT IS LIFE?
TYPE:
Middle-aged, plump, precious. The kind of man who goes to teas and avoids unpleasant situations, but does nothing else. Small white hands and shiny lips.
SUBJECT:
Ardent adolescent, seventeen or so. Quick to find Beauty in a poem or an automobile, an eclair or a man.
APPARATUS:
1 Long low living room
4 Bookcases
20 Ashtrays, all different
1 Tea set
REMARKS:
Before attempting this experiment, read Freud on the connection between artistic appreciation and the reproductive instinct. This is an indirect method and calls for careful handling.
AH, WHAT IS LIFE?
“But don’t you think,” says Cynthia, “that as a rule we lose sight of that quality? It’s no use trying to cultivate a soul.”
“No,” you answer lazily, wisely, “I should be distinctly annoyed with anyone who plucked my sleeve when I was busy, no matter how many hyacinths he might wish to call to my attention. No, the true sense of beauty thrives only where it is not watched. Unfortunately it becomes self-conscious far too easily. And then, of course, one becomes articulate ... after he has lost his reason for speech.... Ah,” with a wistful little smile, “I’m mawkish today. You mustn’t start me off, my dear. Look at the tender color on the sky and stop thinking. I’ll read to you. Something decadent. Here.
White clouds are in the sky.
Blue shadows of the hills
Between us two must lie.
The road is rough and far.
Deep fords between us are.
I pray you not to die.”
She says nothing; she does not even sigh. She looks at you and waits.
“Ah, youth, youth! The beautiful simplicity, the terrible complexity of inexperience. Straight, clean.... I have lost the gift. I cannot read that poetry. Give me the sophisticated; the keen irony of Eliot; the ponderous exaltation of the negroes....”
“Of course,” she says, in a rather chastened tone. “But I still like music in my poetry. Don’t you still like the Hymn to Proserpine—or don’t you remember? ‘From too much love of living——’”
Take it up and finish it smoothly, with an indulgent smile but giving it full value and a dying fall.
“I’ll wager,” you say, smiling, “that you know every word of Rupert Brooke.”
She blushes. “That isn’t fair! You know all about me!”
“It isn’t hard,” you say. “I was so much like you at your age, you see. There, I’ll stop teasing. Let’s talk about something else. Look at my greatest treasure, down there in the corner of the bookshelf. No, not that. That’s a Blake. It’s a nice little thing, but you’ll get yourself dusty. There it is. First edition. Did you ever see one before?”
She is not sure which of the two volumes you are speaking of; the Beardsley Salome or the new Contes Drolatique. She is exquisitely careful and reverent with both of them; opening one on her lap and looking at it for a minute. She doesn’t stay interested very long, however. She wants to listen.
“Just toys, of course,” you say. “I’m ridiculously dependent on material things like that. The more delicate the edifice the more firm the foundation, I’ve decided. No——” as she starts to speak, with an ardent gasp—“I know you don’t agree with me. The tree of Job and a savorless crust in the desert for you; with a voluptuous purple sunset in piquant contrast....”
“That’s cruel of you!” she cries.
“Yes, it is. You mustn’t be so sensitive. I like to tease you; then I’m always sorry. I don’t know why I do it. Yes I do. It’s really that I envy—bitterly—your ideal asceticism. So you mustn’t pay any attention to me. I’m pink and old and plump and I don’t know what I’m talking about. Go on home and call up your—Boy Friend, isn’t that what you call him? Go on out and dance, little pagan. Dance and stop worrying. I’ll worry for you. I’ll burn incense and think of you, and pray for myself.”
She ignores this nobly. “Incense? Where do you burn it? In front of that gold thing there?”
“Thing? My dear!” Speak gravely. “Tread softly: he hates you enough already. He is old and you are young: he is only half divine, and you....”
“I do believe,” she giggles, “that you’re really afraid of him!”
“Of course I am. But I shall overthrow him soon, out of my own strength. I’m going to be a Papist.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, it has the true aestheticism of aristocracy.”
She sighs. “You say things so wonderfully. You’re absolutely continental.”
“Dear child! You shall have some tea for that. My very special flower tea. Sit there so I can see you while I fix it. No, don’t read that book. It isn’t for little girls.”
She promptly begins to read it. Bring out the table and connect the little electric range for hot water. The long shadowy room grows darker and outside the automobiles begin to turn on their lights.
“There now,” you say. “Take this, if you like the cup.”
“Oh, isn’t it lovely! I think it’s so nice that your cups are all different. Mother simply insists on having everything in sets, even our books.”
Groan in agony, and you smile at each other, feeling cozy and superior. She eats one piece of cinnamon toast and glances wistfully at another, but decides against it.
“We’ll leave the things for Maria in the morning,” you explain. “Then it’s perfect. Now where is that poem you were going to show me?”
“Oh, I can’t,” she cries. “It’s dreadful!”
“Don’t be silly, please,” you beg.
“All right. I think you’d better read it yourself. Don’t you hate to have people read your things?” Miserably, she pretends to look at a book while you read.
“But this is lovely!” you cry. “Here, I’ll read it aloud.
At night I close my window
And through the glass I see
Dancing in the moonlight
A silver tree.
I dream about it all night long,
But in the early dawn
With dream and sleep and part of youth
The tree is gone.
Lovely! It has a freshness, a sincerity....”
“Oh, honestly? You’re just saying it!”
You answer severely, “I’m not speaking now as a friend, my dear. I’m speaking as a critic.”
“Then could you tell me how to improve it?” she begs. “It needs—something.” You both think deeply.
“M-m-m,” say in a judicial tone. “Let’s see. One thing I’d do, perhaps—but no. Perhaps I’d transpose the words in the penultimate line and then it would read ‘sleep and dream’ instead of ‘dream and sleep.’ Otherwise the thing is perfect.”
She nods vigorously. “Yes, you’re very right. I see it now. Thank you so much. It’s wonderful of you to bother.”
“Bother? It’s no bother. You don’t realize—you can’t realize what your youth does for me. Almost, my dear, almost I forget my figure and my horrible hair and—well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does anything matter in the clearness of your voice and the gladness of your face?”
She sits very still as you pass your hand gently over her hair. Her shining eyes are fixed on something invisible that hovers in the room just over your head. Mystery, or the answer to all mystery? A new confidence, a new belief, are coming into her life. It is like being kissed in a dream; wondering a little, but detached; peaceful in an even exaltation.
The room grows darker and the swish of the motors make a faint pulsing music from the boulevard. There comes an evening coolness. She is thinking; her cheeks are flushed. The bright colors of the books on the shelf are smothered in darkness, but you can see that her cheeks are flushed. She has forgotten where she is, who she is, everything. Very softly, taking elaborate care to avoid the tea-table, go over to the door and lock it.