Alexander Theroux - Darconville’s Cat

The girls, earlier, had bathed, creamed their faces, twirled up their hair, and together gone to the front desk to sign out the puzzle — it had a hermeneutic theme, one of the many donated to the college by the Southern Baptist Outreach Association, and was entitled: The Rivalry of the Brothers Absalom and Ammon . They had worked on it all evening. And now they sat, cross-legged, first trying this, then trying that from the mess of little pieces left on the floor and nibbling from the bag of sweetchews they brought along for reinforcement. They’d done the edges, of course, the easiest part, and were just starting on the sky, always the hardest.

It was late, with Harriet and Loretta fingering a few last nookshotten pieces, when, alerted by a noise, Loretta quickly put her finger to her lips as a sign for silence. Closing their eyes, they listened: those were voices. Loretta, unable to control it, squelched juice from the candy in her mouth, when Harriet, midway across the room on tiptoe, turned and gritted her teeth to chastise her — and then continued in high exaggerated steps to the door of the front parlor where she peered through the keyhole.

There stood a couple facing each other, talking.

DARCONVILLE

Your hand is of a temperature, my love,

As to persuade me now against my hope

That you, indeed, must hate me always—

( pause )

If I hadn’t but been promised otherwise

With what life and limb I still believe.

I love you. I can tell you that again.

ISABEL

You put it well, but then you always do.

DARCONVILLE

I shouldn’t then, and always shouldn’t?

Stammer no such words? Pouch up my mouth?

And stand away from love as best I can,

Mum like Mumphezard, hanged for saying nothing?

I have questions that outnumber themselves.

ISABEL

You can be as cold as winter light—

DARCONVILLE

A light, then, very like your hand.

ISABEL

—or mild and warm, exactly as you choose.

DARCONVILLE ( ironic bow )

As my crippled heart wills, you mean.

That logical distinction serves more true

In choice or will (or is and seem!)

For, tell me, when is not, with both, one first

That mistakenly seems joint with the other?

( pause )

I fixed upon your hand just now with guile

And you addressed with passion, nothing less,

For can one better greet what turns a smile

From hot to cold than that which turns it so?

Who in sorrow speaks of choice? O cruel!

For you, to make your absence now a studied one?

For me, to take it so to win myself

What proverbs like to call a fonder heart?

I pray I’m less a blackguard than a fool,

Yet here I spy an artifice in art:

For on Love’s sweetest arrow’s tipped a dart.

But when with passion, please, had choice to do

Which, improvising, turns and turns and turns about

To disavow methodically that pleasure for this pain?

No matter now: my mind begins to shout.

So here, Necessity, allow what more weeks will.

I’ll be resigned to play it well until

I’m told to shift about a mood again.

I see, if I’m to keep my love for you,

( moves closer )

I may, I must, I can, I will, I do.

ISABEL

You are more and more to me a stranger.

DARCONVILLE

“What a strange man is Chichikov,” thought Tententikov.

“What a strange man is Tententikov,” thought Chichikov.

ISABEL ( almost inaudibly )

And sometimes you’re — you’re frightening.

DARCONVILLE

Yes? Is it so? Or does it simply seem?

Does passion invigorate expression, then, to grimace?

Why then surely here it greets itself—

Think, however, not so with surprise,

For passion passion meets with a rolling in the eyes.

It cues its own posture over nothing in fact,

And though a comrade it wants, a double in spleen,

It self-begets selves unnaturally

And worships what cannot be put in a creed,

Yet wants when it isn’t what it wants to be.

The nature of passion’s the nature of strife, as well,

Where in thinking a thought it makes it a deed;

Who can actually speak of its brutish routine?

When it is what it wants then it’s also in hell.

Between passion and another way of life

There is no question of choice at all—

Only between passion sought and madness seen;

Its heights are high, from heights we fall.

True enough, indeed, but more truth worth.

Passion and madness are one regardless, quite:

The putting off of both, this desperate relation,

Is as much an accident as their birth.

But madness holds fast with no end in sight,

While passion’s a mock, a spoof of duration.

The triumph of passion is found in its defeat;

And victory’s won by honest love’s retreat.

( pause )

The defeat of passion, just between us, is inevitable.

ISABEL ( archly )

It seems we know what’s between us, then.

DARCONVILLE

Or between you and anyone else.

ISABEL ( her scar whitening )

Yes? Yes? Tell me more .

( pause )

You can make so much of what’s never been done,

Raising up issues like raising the dead!

You can make a person feel ever so small!

You always never stop writing a book in your head!

I promise I’ve nothing to tell you at all.

You can make a trifling relation with anyone—

DARCONVILLE

Or someone.

ISABEL

Or someone , yes, if you insist on that.

DARCONVILLE

Although it could be anyone, yes?

This to clarify: for since no one is anyone,

Until of course he’s someone, see,

Why then someone is equal to one and won

( shrugs )

And everyone else can anyone be.

ISABEL

What are you saying?

DARCONVILLE

I hear a footfall in my head, moving in circles.

ISABEL

I hear whispers that girls exchange in rooms,

Of jealousy, scorn, reproaches, and hate,

Injuries, words of deceit, matters of doom.

DARCONVILLE ( to himself )

And early believe what never comes too late?

ISABEL

I don’t believe everything I hear.

DARCONVILLE

But judge, is it possible otherwise? I’d know

Of that wily mouse that breeds in a cat’s ear.

I smell reformationists

( pause )

And betrayal.

( pause )

You weep at the word? It’s that accurate?

ISABEL

There may be someone here. Outside.

DARCONVILLE ( darkly )

The devil.

ISABEL

You frighten me, you frighten me.

DARCONVILLE

The creature causes what affects you still.

I say I love; you stall.

Why are you troubled? Have you felt ill?

ISABEL

No.

DARCONVILLE

Not ill, is it, because not at all?

( pause )

There is something I must ask you now:

Has anything happened, intentionally or not,

Whereby you should suspect I do not love you?

ISABEL ( lowers eyes )

No.

DARCONVILLE

Brief.

ISABEL

Too brief is what you mean, isn’t it, and

You’ll insist on that, won’t you, forever and ever?

Just absolutely forever and ever, won’t you!

A stupid victory is what you want.

DARCONVILLE

I want you

And would only ask the same of you for me.

ISABEL ( pleading )

I want you to know I want what you want

When you may want to think I want what I don’t.