Short Plays

epub:type="z3998:persona">Strega Pausing with her hands raised over the keyboard, ready to pounce on the chords. Will you ever say that again? Reginald Never. I beg your pardon. Strega Satisfied. Hm! She drops her hands in her lap. Reginald Wiping his brow. Oh, that was fearfully classical. Strega You want your back stiffened a little, my young friend. Besides, I really cannot earn two hundred and fifty guineas by playing soothing syrup to you. Now prepare for the worst. I’m going to make a man of you. Reginald How? Strega With Chopin’s Polonaise in A Flat. Now. Imagine yourself going into battle. He runs away as before. Goose! Reginald Returning as before. The crowd is worse than ever. Have you no pity? Strega Come here. Don’t imagine yourself going into battle. Imagine that you have just been in a battle; and that you have saved your country by deeds of splendid bravery; and that you are going to dance with beautiful women who are proud of you. Can you imagine that? Reginald Rathe‑e‑e‑errr. That’s how I always do imagine myself. Strega Right. Now listen. She plays the first section of the Polonaise. Reginald flinches at first, but gradually braces himself; stiffens; struts; throws up his head and slaps his chest. That’s better. What a hero! After a difficult passage. Takes a bit of doing, that, dearest child. Coming to the chords which announce the middle section. Now for it. Reginald Unable to contain himself. Oh, this is too glorious. I must have a turn or I shall forget myself. Strega Can you play this? Nothing but this. She plays the octave passage in the bass. Reginald Just riddle tiddle, riddle tiddle, riddle tiddle, riddle tiddle? Nothing but that? Strega Very softly at first. Like the ticking of a watch. Then louder and louder, as you feel my soul swelling. Reginald I understand. Just give me those chords again to buck me up to it. She plays the chords again. He plays the octave passages; and they play the middle section as a duet. At the repeat he cries: Again! again! Strega It’s meant to be played again. Now. They repeat it. At the end of the section she pushes him off the bench on to the floor, and goes on with the Polonaise alone. Reginald Wonderful woman: I have a confession to make, a confidence to impart. Your playing draws it from me. Listen, Strega she plays a horrible discord I mean Miss Thundridge. Strega That’s better; but I prefer Wonderful Woman. Reginald You are a wonderful woman, you know. Adored one⁠—would you mind my taking a little valerian? I’m so excited. He takes some. A⁠—a⁠—ah! Now I feel that I can speak. Listen to me, goddess. I am not happy. I hate my present existence. I loathe parliament. I am not fit for public affairs. I am condemned to live at home with five coarse and brutal sisters who care for nothing but Alpine climbing, and looping the loop on aeroplanes, and going on deputations, and fighting the police. Do you know what they call me? Strega Playing softly. What do they call you, dear? Reginald They call me a Clinger. Well, I confess it. I am a Clinger. I am not fit to be thrown unprotected upon the world. I want to be shielded. I want a strong arm to lean on, a dauntless heart to be gathered to and cherished, a breadwinner on whose income I can live without the sordid horrors of having to make money for myself. I am a poor little thing, I know, Strega; but I could make a home for you. I have great taste in carpets and pictures. I can cook like anything. I can play quite nicely after dinner. Though you mightn’t think it, I can be quite stern and strongminded with servants. I get on splendidly with children; they never talk over my head as grownup people do. I have a real genius for home life. And I shouldn’t at all mind being tyrannized over a little: in fact, I like it. It saves me the trouble of having to think what to do. Oh, Strega, don’t you want a dear little domesticated husband who would have no concern but to please you, no thought outside our home, who would be unspotted and unsoiled by the rude cold world, who would never meddle in politics or annoy you by interfering with your profession? Is there any hope for me? Strega Coming away from the piano. My child: I am a hard, strong, independent, muscular woman. How can you, with your delicate soft nature, see anything to love in me? I should hurt you, shock you, perhaps⁠—yes: let me confess it⁠—I have a violent temper, and might even, in a transport of rage, beat you. Reginald Oh do, do. Don’t laugh at this ridiculous confession; but ever since I was a child I have had only one secret longing, and that was to be mercilessly beaten by a splendid, strong, beautiful woman. Strega Solemnly. Reginald⁠—I think your mother spoke of you as Reginald?⁠— Reginald Rejjy. Strega I too have a confession to make. I too need some music to speak through. Will you be so good? Reginald Angel. He rushes to the piano and plays sympathetically whilst she speaks. Strega I, too, have had my dream. It has consoled me through the weary hours when I practised scales for eight hours a day. It has pursued me through the applause of admiring thousands in Europe and America. It is a dream of a timid little heart fluttering against mine, of a gentle voice to welcome me home, of a silky moustache to kiss my weary fingers when I return from a Titanic struggle with Tchaikovsky’s Concerto in G major, of somebody utterly dependent on me, utterly devoted to me, utterly my own, living only to be cherished and worshipped by me. Reginald But you would be angry sometimes: terrible, splendid, ruthless, violent. You would throw down the thing you loved and trample