Олдос Хаксли - Mortal Coils

LUCREZIA ( looking indecisively first at ALBERTO and then along the path down which AMY and SIDNEY DOLPHIN have disappeared ). But supposing I am lost if I do come?

ALBERTO. But you couldn't be as much lost as I am. Ah, you don't know what it is to suffer. Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt weiss wass ich leide. Oh, Lucrezia…. ( He sobs unrestrainedly .)

LUCREZIA ( goes over to where ALBERTO is sitting. She pats his shoulder and his bowed head of black curly hair ). There, there, my little Bertino. Tell me what it is. You mustn't cry. There, there.

ALBERTO ( drying his eyes and rubbing his head, like a cat, avid of caresses, against her hand ). How can I thank you enough, Lucrezia? You are like a mother to me.

LUCREZIA. I know. That's just what's so dangerous.

ALBERTO ( lets his head fall upon her bosom ). I come to you for comfort, like a tired child, Lucrezia.

LUCREZIA. Poor darling! ( She strokes his hair, twines its thick black tendrils round her fingers , ALBERTO is abjectly pathetic .)

ALBERTO ( with closed eyes and a seraphic smile ). Ah, the suavity, the beauty of this maternal instinct!

LUCREZIA ( with a sudden access of energy and passion ). The disgustingness of it, you mean. ( She pushes him from her. His head wobbles once, as though it were inanimate, before he straightens into life .) The maternal instinct. Ugh. It's been the undoing of too many women. You men come with your sentimental babyishness and exploit it for your own lusts. Be a man, Bertino. Be a woman, I mean, if you can.

ALBERTO ( looking up at her with eyes full of doglike, dumb reproach ). Lucrezia! You, too? Is there nobody who cares for me? This is the unkindest cut of all. I may as well die. ( He relapses into tears .)

LUCREZIA ( who has started to go, turns back, irresolute ). Now, don't cry, Bertino. Can't you behave like a reasonable being? ( She makes as though to go again .)

ALBERTO ( through his sobs ). You too, Lucrezia! Oh, I can't bear it, I can't bear it.

LUCREZIA ( turning back desperately ). But what do you want me to do? Why should you expect me to hold your hand?

ALBERTO. I thought better of you, Lucrezia. Let me go. There is nothing left for me now but death. ( He rises to his feet, takes a step or two, and then collapses into another chair, unable to move .)

LUCREZIA ( torn between anger and remorse ). Now do behave yourself sensibly, Bertino. There, there … you mustn't cry. I'm sorry if I've hurt you. ( Looking towards the left along the path taken by AMY and DOLPHIN.) Oh, damnation! ( She stamps her foot .) Here, Bertino, do pull yourself together. ( She raises him up .) There, now you must stop crying. ( But as soon as she lets go of him his head falls back on to the iron table with an unpleasant, meaty bump. That bump is too much for LUCREZIA. She bends over him, strokes his head, even kisses the lustrous curls .) Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I have been a beast. But, tell me first, what's the matter, Bertino? What is it, my poor darling? Tell me.

ALBERTO. Nobody loves me.

LUCREZIA. But we're all devoted to you, Bertino mio.

ALBERTO. She isn't. To–day she shut the door in my face.

LUCREZIA. She? You mean the French–woman, the one you told me about? Louise, wasn't she?

ALBERTO. Yes, the one with the golden hair.

LUCREZIA. And the white legs. I remember: you saw her bathing.

ALBERTO ( lays his hand on his heart ). Ah, don't remind me of it. ( His face twitches convulsively .)

LUCREZIA. And now she's gone and shut the door in your face.

ALBERTO. In my face, Lucrezia.

LUCREZIA. Poor darling!

ALBERTO. For me there is nothing now but the outer darkness.

LUCREZIA. Is the door shut forever, then?

ALBERTO. Definitively, for ever.

LUCREZIA. But have you tried knocking? Perhaps, after all, it might be opened again, if only a crack.

ALBERTO. What, bruise my hands against the granite of her heart?

LUCREZIA. Don't be too poetical, Bertino mio. Why not try again, in any case?

ALBERTO. You give me courage.

LUCREZIA. There's no harm in trying, you know.

ALBERTO. Courage to live, to conquer. ( He beats his breast .) I am a man again, thanks to you, Lucrezia, my inspirer, my Muse, my Egeria. How can I be sufficiently grateful. ( He kisses her .) I am the child of your spirit. ( He kisses her again .)

LUCREZIA. Enough, enough. I am not ambitious to be a mother, yet awhile. Quickly now, Bertino, I know you will succeed.

ALBERTO ( cramming his hat down on his head and knocking with his walking–stick on the ground ). Succeed or die, Lucrezia. ( He goes out with a loud martial stamp .)

LUCREZIA ( to the waiter who is passing across the stage with a coffee–pot and cups on a tray ). Have you seen the Signorina Toomis, Giuseppe?

WAITER. The Signorina is down in the garden. So is the Signore Dolphin. By the fountain, Signorina. This is the Signore's coffee.

LUCREZIA. Have you a mother, Giuseppe?

WAITER. Unfortunately, Signorina.

LUCREZIA. Unfortunately? Does she treat you badly, then?

WAITER. Like a dog, Signorina.

LUCREZIA. Ah, I should like to see your mother. I should like to ask her to give me some hints on how to bring up children.

WAITER. But surely, Signorina, you are not expecting, you—ah….

LUCREZIA. Only figuratively, Giuseppe. My children are spiritual children.

WAITER. Precisely, precisely. My mother, alas! is not a spiritual relation. Nor is my fiançée.

LUCREZIA. I didn't know you were engaged.

WAITER. To an angel of perdition. Believe me, Signorina, I go to my destruction in that woman—go with open eyes. There is no escape. She is what is called in the Holy Bible ( crosses himself ) a Fisher of Men.

LUCREZIA. You have remarkable connections, Giuseppe.

WAITER. I am honoured by your words, Signorina. But the coffee becomes cold. ( He hurries out to the left .)

LUCREZIA. In the garden! By the fountain! And there's the nightingale beginning to sing in earnest! Good heavens! what may not already have happened? ( She runs out after the waiter .)

( Two persons emerge from the hotel , the VICOMTE DE BARBAZANGE and the BARONESS KOCH DE WORMS. PAUL DE BARBAZANGE is a young man—twenty–six perhaps of exquisite grace. Five foot ten, well built, dark hair, sleek as marble, the most refined aristocratic features, and a monocle , SIMONE DE WORMS is forty, a ripe Semitic beauty. Five years more and the bursting point of overripeness will have been reached. But now, thanks to massage, powerful corsets, skin foods, and powder, she is still a beauty—a beauty of the type Italians admire, cushioned, steatopygous. PAUL, who has a faultless taste in bric–à–brac and women, and is by instinct and upbringing an ardent anti–Semite, finds her infinitely repulsive. The Baronne enters with a loud shrill giggle. She gives PAUL a slap with her green feather fan .)

SIMONE. Oh, you naughty boy! Quelle histoire. Mon Dieu! How dare you tell me such a story!

PAUL. For you, Baronne, I would risk anything even your displeasure.

SIMONE. Charming boy. But stories of that kind…. And you look so innocent, too! Do you know any more like it?

PAUL ( suddenly grave ). Not of that description. But I will tell you a story of another kind, a true story, a tragic story.

SIMONE. Did I ever tell you how I saw a woman run over by a train? Cut to pieces, literally, to pieces. So disagreeable. I'll tell you later. But now, what about your story?