Chapter V: Part 5

ARIADNE. I shall watch you from the hill. I shan’t come down to the quay because of the crowd--you might wave from the ship. You will be able to see me. I shall stand next to the clump of cypress-trees and watch the ship till she’s out of sight. There’s a new moon to-night, just as there was the first night you arrived at Crete. Do you remember how papa bored you by talking about astrology? And you were so angelically kind to him and patient. You bore it so well. It was like you. I don’t think you know how devoted papa is to you, and how much he will miss you.

THESEUS. Ariadne--please----

ARIADNE. You won’t forget to write and say whether the Minotaur arrives safely, will you? Because papa will simply be longing to know, and he’d be miserable if anything went wrong.

THESEUS (_getting up and knocking down the screen in his agitation_). Ariadne, I simply can’t bear this any longer. I must speak. You must and shall hear me. The whole thing’s a mistake--a nightmare. I swear I didn’t mean a thing yesterday. It was too stupid of me to--to say--I mean I didn’t mean--I mean I lost my temper--just like any one. Of course I didn’t mean, really.

_Enter_ ŒNONE. _She brings in a large bundle of firewood,
which she throws on to the hearth_

ARIADNE (_getting up_). I’m afraid you oughtn’t to stay another minute now, or else you will miss the ship--Œnone will go with you and help you to pack. Good-bye, Theseus. It’s been too perfect, hasn’t it? I have loved it all so. You won’t forget the honey, will you? Two pounds. Now you’ll really have to run--and I have got the doctor coming in one second. Good-bye, Theseus, and my best love to your father and to dear Hippolyta if you see her. Œnone, please go with the Duke.

[ARIADNE _shakes hands with_ THESEUS.

THESEUS. But, really----

ARIADNE. I’m afraid I must fly. I hope you’ll have a perfect crossing.

THESEUS (_hopelessly_). Good-bye, Ariadne----

[_He goes out very sadly with_ ŒNONE _L. As soon as they are
gone,_ ARIADNE _gently opens a door R. and calls:_ DIONYSUS!

_Enter_ DIONYSUS

DIONYSUS. Has he gone?

ARIADNE. Yes, at last, I think. Haven’t I managed it too beautifully? He was longing not to go away at all.

DIONYSUS. When does he sail?

ARIADNE. At sunset. Sit down. We’ve got millions of things to say, haven’t we? Do you mind the fire? There’s the screen there on the floor--if you do--

DIONYSUS. No, I love it.

CURTAIN.

XXI

VELASQUEZ AND THE “VENUS”

SCENE.--VELASQUEZ’S _studio._ DONA SOL, _a beautiful dark-haired
lady, elaborately dressed in stiff farthingale, is sitting for
her portrait._ VELASQUEZ _is standing in front of an easel,
vehemently throwing paint on to the canvas with a large, long
brush. In the corner of the studio is an open virginal._

VELASQUEZ. Are you getting tired?

DONA SOL. No, I never get tired of sitting; I’m so used to standing up at Court.

VELASQUEZ. Would you mind turning your head a shade to the left? Yes, that’s right.

DONA SOL. You will be careful about the nose, won’t you?

VELASQUEZ. Ah! you’ve a very wonderful nose from the painter’s point of view.

DONA SOL. They always exaggerate my nose--and I do so hate exaggeration, don’t you?

VELASQUEZ (_absently_). Yes.

DONA SOL. Shall I be able to see the picture to-day?

VELASQUEZ. I think so. It’s practically finished now. I have only got to finish that piece of lace on your left wrist.

DONA SOL. Shan’t you want another sitting?

VELASQUEZ. No--I----

DONA SOL. But Donna Anna had a dozen sittings.

VELASQUEZ. But she’s fair--I find fair people more difficult to paint.

DONA SOL. I can’t see what there was to paint in her at all. She’s all bones.

VELASQUEZ. That’s just it. I can’t get that lace right. Do you mind if I play a tune on the virginal?

DONA SOL. No; please do.

[VELASQUEZ _goes to the virginal and plays a wild, rhythmic dance._

DONA SOL. Is that Moorish?

VELASQUEZ. No. English. Quaint, isn’t it? It’s what they call a Morris-dance. Isn’t it charming?

DONA SOL. Yes. I love English music. It’s so uncivilised and fresh.

VELASQUEZ. Yes, they are a wonderfully musical people. (_He breaks off in the middle of tune._) I’ve got it. (_He runs to the canvas and flings a piece of white paint on to it._) Ah, that’s it. It’s finished.

DONA SOL. What, the whole picture?

VELASQUEZ (_with a sigh of relief_). Yes, the whole picture.

DONA SOL. May I look?

VELASQUEZ. Certainly.

[DONA SOL _gets down from the platform and walks to the easel._

DONA SOL. It’s wonderful, Velasquez; quite wonderful. I like it enormously. You haven’t quite finished the hands yet, have you?

VELASQUEZ. Yes, I think the hands will do like that. You don’t quite get the light where you’re standing. If you come here you’ll see better.

DONA SOL (_moving_). I think it’s wonderful. Only I should like the hands to be a little more distinct. The dress is beautiful, and so is the necklace. But you’ve made my blue ribbon look green.

VELASQUEZ. That’s the sun on it.

DONA SOL. But it isn’t green. It’s blue. Look at it. No amount of sun will make this blue into green.

VELASQUEZ. You see, the sun was full on it yesterday.

DONA SOL. I think it’s all perfect, except the nose. My nose is tip-tilted, and you’ve given me a nose like a potato. You _must_ alter that. I know my nose is difficult.

VELASQUEZ (_slightly darkening a shadow on the face_). Is that better?

DONA SOL. Yes, that’s better. But it’s still a little too heavy. You see, my nose is my best feature. I don’t mind what you do to my hair and my mouth. I don’t want to criticise. I never do criticise my own portraits. In fact, I think it’s quite absurd for the sitter to criticise a picture. But I do think I’m a rather good judge of noses. Couldn’t you make it just a shade more delicate?

VELASQUEZ (_giving the nose a touch with the brush_). Is that better?

DONA SOL. Yes, that’s better. I think that really is better. (_A pause._) Don’t you think you could make the eyebrows a little darker? You’ve made them so faint. And then I think the hair ought to be a little brighter, and the expression a shade less severe. I don’t think you’ve quite got my smile. I look cross. Of course I suppose I look like that sometimes--when everything goes wrong. Every one does look cross sometimes--but that’s not what I usually look like.

VELASQUEZ (_making a few imperceptible alterations_). Is that better?

DONA SOL. Yes, that’s much better. I think it’s perfect. May I look at some of the other pictures?

[_She walks round the studio till she finds several canvases turned
face backwards against a heavy piece of furniture._

VELASQUEZ. Let me help you. (_He turns several pictures round._)

DONA SOL. Ah, that’s the King. It’s quite excellent. And that’s the dear old Admiral. It’s exactly like him. Oh, and that’s Dona Elvira--_how_ like, but _how_ cruel! How could you do that? Didn’t she mind dreadfully? And what a dear little girl! That’s not finished, I suppose? Oh, and I do love that seapiece. It’s a storm, I suppose?

VELASQUEZ. I’m afraid it’s meant to be a man riding in a field. It’s just a study.

DONA SOL. Of course it is. How stupid of me. I couldn’t see properly. It’s wonderful--quite wonderful. And what’s that large picture on an easel over there with a curtain over it?

VELASQUEZ. Oh, that’s nothing. It’s only a sketch--it’s not finished.

DONA SOL. Do let me see it.

VELASQUEZ. I’m afraid I can’t, really.

DONA SOL. But I insist on seeing it. I’ve been such a good sitter. Now I’m going to pull the curtain off.

VELASQUEZ. It’s not my picture at all. It’s not by me. It’s by one of my pupils. It’s by Mazo.

DONA SOL. Then of course I can see it. (_She pulls away the curtain, revealing a picture of Venus looking into a glass._) Oh, but that’s my head! How dared you do such a thing? No wonder you didn’t want me to see it. Oh, how could you do such a thing?

VELASQUEZ. But I assure you you’re mistaken. In the first place, I never painted the picture. I never touched it. It’s Mazo’s work. And he did it out of his head. At least, he did it from a model. It’s meant to be Eros and Psyche or Venus, I’ve forgotten which.

DONA SOL. How could you put my head on such a hideous body? I call it mean, odious, and cowardly, and quite unpardonable. I shall burn my picture.

VELASQUEZ. But, my dear lady, do listen to me for one moment. The picture’s not my work. I flatter myself really that I can draw a little better than that. That’s mere apprentice work. Just compare it with my pictures. I never use those hot reds and those dull, lifeless greys. Just compare it with the other pictures.

DONA SOL (_crying_). How can I compare it with the others? You’ve never dared paint any one else like that.

VELASQUEZ. And then the face in the glass is no more your face than it is mine. It’s not the least like you. It’s a model’s face. Mazo may have got a hint, a suggestion, quite unconsciously from seeing my picture, but nothing more. He’s never set eyes on you.

DONA SOL. I don’t believe it’s by Mazo. I believe it’s by you--or else you wouldn’t have been so anxious for me not to see it.

VELASQUEZ. Well, I promise you that Mazo painted that picture from a model--a flower-girl. I saw him do it. But to satisfy you, he shall get another model and paint in a different face.

DONA SOL. That’s the least you can do.

VELASQUEZ. It shall be done to-day. Mazo’s coming here this morning.

DONA SOL. Will you promise me that the face will be _quite_, _quite_ different?

VELASQUEZ. On my word of honour as a Spaniard and as a painter.

DONA SOL (_drying her eyes_). Very well, I will forgive you--on one condition.

VELASQUEZ. What is it?

DONA SOL. That you will change the nose in _my_ picture and make it less like a potato.

VELASQUEZ. Of course I will.

DONA SOL. Very well then. Good-bye. I shall come back to-morrow morning and see--but, oh! what a shame!

[VELASQUEZ _makes a low bow and leads her out. He comes back and,
opening a door into a room adjoining the studio, he calls:_ MAZO!

_Enter_ MAZO

VELASQUEZ. The “Venus” is by you. Do you hear me? You painted it. And you must change the face.

MAZO. I don’t understand--change it in what way?

VELASQUEZ. You must change it altogether. Paint in any face you like. And you must say you painted the whole picture. Do it at once, and put your signature somewhere in the picture too.

MAZO. But, master, it’s one of your greatest triumphs.

VELASQUEZ. I know that as well as you do--nevertheless, that picture must go to the King and be known to all the world as a Mazo, and not as a Velasquez.

CURTAIN.

XXII

XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES

SCENE.--_A room in_ SOCRATES’ _house._ XANTIPPE _is seated
at table, on which an unappetising meal, consisting of figs,
parsley, and some hashed goat’s meat, is spread._

_Enter_ SOCRATES

XANTIPPE. You’re twenty minutes late.

SOCRATES. I’m sorry, I was kept----

XANTIPPE. Wasting your time as usual, I suppose, and bothering people with questions who have got something better to do than to listen to you. You can’t think what a mistake you make by going on like that. You can’t think how much people dislike it. If people enjoyed it, or admired it, I could understand the waste of time--but they don’t. It only makes them angry. Everybody’s saying so.

SOCRATES. Who’s everybody?

XANTIPPE. There you are with your questions again. Please don’t try to catch me out with those kind of tricks. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a sophist. I know I’m not clever--I’m only a woman. But I do know the difference between right and wrong and black and white, and I don’t think it’s very kind of you, or very generous either, to be always throwing up my ignorance at me, and perpetually making me the butt of your sarcasm.

SOCRATES. But I never said a word.

XANTIPPE. Oh, please, don’t try and wriggle out of it. We all know you’re very good at that. I do hate that shuffling so. It’s so cowardly. I do like a man one can trust--and depend on--who when he says Yes means Yes, and when he says No means No.

SOCRATES. I’m sorry I spoke.

XANTIPPE. I suppose that’s what’s called irony. I’ve no doubt it’s very clever, but I’m afraid it’s wasted on me. I should keep those remarks for the market-place and the gymnasia and the workshops. I’ve no doubt they’d be highly appreciated there by that clique of young men who do nothing but admire each other. I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I was brought up to think a man should treat his wife with decent civility, and try, even if he did think her stupid, not to be always showing it.

SOCRATES. Have I by a word or hint ever suggested that you were stupid?

XANTIPPE. Oh, of course not--never. However, we won’t discuss that. We will change the subject, if you don’t mind.

SOCRATES. But really----

XANTIPPE (_ignoring the interruption_). Please give me your plate. I will help you to the goat.

SOCRATES. None for me, thank you, to-day.

XANTIPPE. Why not? I suppose it’s not good enough. I’m afraid I can’t provide the food you get at your grand friends’ houses, but I do think it’s rather cruel of you to sneer at my poor humble efforts.

SOCRATES. I promise you, Xantippe, nothing was farther from my thoughts. I’m not hungry. I’ve really got no appetite for meat to-day. I’ll have some figs, if you don’t mind.

XANTIPPE. I suppose that’s a new fad, not to eat meat. I assure you people talk quite enough about you as it is without your making yourself more peculiar. Only yesterday Chrysilla was talking about your clothes. She asked if you made them dirty on purpose. She said the spots on the back couldn’t have got there by accident. Every one notices it--every one says the same thing. Of course they think it’s my fault. No doubt it’s very amusing for people who don’t mind attracting attention and who like being notorious; but it _is_ rather hard on me. And when I hear people saying: “Poor Socrates! it is such a shame that his wife looks after him so badly and doesn’t even mend his sandals”--I admit I do feel rather hurt. However, that would never enter into your head. A philosopher hasn’t time to think of other people. I suppose unselfishness doesn’t form part of a sophist’s training, does it?

[SOCRATES _says nothing, but eats first one fig and
then another._

XANTIPPE. I think you might at least answer when you’re spoken to. I am far from expecting you to treat me with consideration or respect; but I do expect ordinary civility.

[SOCRATES _goes on eating figs in silence._

XANTIPPE. Oh, I see, you’re going to sulk. First you browbeat, then you’re satirical. Then you sneer at the food, and then you sulk.

SOCRATES. I never said a word against the food.

XANTIPPE. You never said a word against the food. You only kept me waiting nearly half an hour for dinner--not that that was anything new--I’m sure I ought to be used to that by now--and you only refused to look at the dish which I had taken pains to cook with my own hands for you.

SOCRATES. All I said was I wasn’t hungry--that I had no appetite for meat.

XANTIPPE. You’ve eaten all the figs. You’ve got quite an appetite for that.

SOCRATES. That’s different.

XANTIPPE. Oh, that’s different, is it? One can be hungry enough to eat all the fruit there is in the house, which I was especially keeping for this evening, but not hungry enough to touch a piece of meat. I suppose that’s algebra.

SOCRATES. You know I very rarely eat meat.

XANTIPPE. Really? I hadn’t noticed it. I always hear of your eating meat in other people’s houses; but my poor cooking is not good enough for you. I’m sorry, but I can’t afford those spicy, messy dishes. If I had a husband who had a _real_ profession, and worked, and did something useful to earn his living and support his house and home, it would be different; only I think the least you could do is not to sneer at one when one is only trying to do one’s best.

SOCRATES. I very rarely eat meat anywhere now.

XANTIPPE. That’s why you’re looking so ill. All the doctors say it’s a mistake. Some people can do without meat. They don’t need it--but a man who works with his brain like you do _ought_ to eat nourishing food. You ought to force yourself to eat meat, even if you don’t feel inclined to.

SOCRATES. I thought you said just now that I did nothing.

XANTIPPE. There you are, cross-examining me like a lawyer, and tripping me up. I’ve no doubt it’s very amusing for a professional philosopher to catch out a poor ignorant woman like me. It’s a pity your audience isn’t here. They _would_ enjoy it. However, I’m afraid I’m not impressed. You can twist my words into anything you like. You can prove I meant black when I said white, but you know perfectly well what I mean. You know as well as I do that your eccentricity has made you thoroughly unpopular. And what I say is, it’s just these little things that matter. Now do put all that nonsense away and have some goat.

SOCRATES. No, thank you. I really can’t.

XANTIPPE. It’s excellent goat, and there’s some garlic in the sauce. I hate garlic, and it’s there on purpose for you----

SOCRATES. Oh!

XANTIPPE. Give me your plate.

SOCRATES. I’d really rather not.

XANTIPPE. It would do you all the good in the world.

SOCRATES. But I’ve had quite enough. I’ve finished.

XANTIPPE. I suppose you had dinner before you came here, or you’re going to have dinner somewhere else presently.

SOCRATES. I haven’t touched food since I left the house.

XANTIPPE. Then it’s quite ridiculous your not eating. Let me give you some goat at once.

SOCRATES. I couldn’t, really. Besides, I must go in a minute.

XANTIPPE. There! I knew it! You’re going out to dinner.

SOCRATES. You are mistaken, Xantippe.

XANTIPPE. You’d far better tell me the truth at once. I’m quite certain to find it out sooner or later. You can’t think how foolish it is to tell lies and then be found out afterwards. You can’t think how much a woman despises a man for that--you couldn’t do anything more foolish.

SOCRATES. I promise you by all the gods that I’m not going to dine elsewhere.

XANTIPPE. I suppose you don’t expect me to fall into that trap! Swearing by all the gods, when every one in Athens knows you are a professed atheist--when you do nothing but mock the gods from morning till night--and, what’s far worse, make other people mock them too; when I scarcely like to have a slave in the house because of your impiety--and your blasphemy.

SOCRATES. I really think you are rather unfair, Xantippe. You will be sorry for this some day.

XANTIPPE. Then may I ask where you are going?

SOCRATES. I’ve got an important engagement.

XANTIPPE. And with whom?

SOCRATES. I would rather not say, for your sake.

XANTIPPE. That’s very clever and ingenious to put it on me. But I’m tired of being bullied. Even a worm will turn, and I demand to be treated just for once like a human being, and with the minimum of courtesy and frankness. I don’t ask for your confidence, I know that would be useless. But I do ask to be treated with a grain of straightforwardness and honesty. I insist upon it. I have borne your sneers, your sarcasm, and your sulkiness, your irritability, your withering silence, quite long enough. I will not put up with it any longer.

SOCRATES. Very well. Since you will have it, I have been impeached by Lycon, Meletus, and Anytus on some ridiculous charge, the result of which, however, may be extremely serious--in fact, it may be a matter of life or death--and I am obliged to appear before them at once.

XANTIPPE. Oh dear, oh dear! I always said so. I knew it would come to this! This is what comes of not eating meat like a decent citizen!

[XANTIPPE _bursts into tears._

CURTAIN.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text and colloquial or archaic usage have been retained.

By the Same Author page: replaced “Surely the case” with “Surely
the ease”.

Page 157: replaced “by dear Seneca” with “my dear Seneca”.

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.