The Vortex: A Play in Three Acts, by Noel Coward

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THE VORTEX

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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

ACT I

The scene is the drawing-room of Mrs. Lancaster’s flat in London. The colors and decoration are on the verge of being original. The furniture is simple but distinctly expensive.

Persons shown are Helen Saville and Pauncefort Quentin. Helen Saville and Pauncefort Quentin are shown in by Preston. Helen is a smartly dressed woman of about thirty. “Pawnie” is an elderly maiden gentleman.

No, thanks, we’ve already had some—give me a cigarette, Pawnie; they’re in that box on the table.

How can you, Helen! It’s too marvelous for words. Parelli designed it specially for me.

Personally, it would make me self-conscious to sit in a bath surrounded by frisky gods and goddesses all with such better figures than mine.

Too unrestrained. Such a bad example for the servants. [He takes up frame from desk.] Who’s this boy?

My dear, I’m far too occupied in wondering what’s going to happen to me to worry about other people.

However offensive that remark was intended to be, Helen, I shall take it in the most complimentary spirit.

I expect Florence will just go on and on, then suddenly become quite beautifully old, and go on and on still more.

It’s too late now for her to become beautifully old, I’m afraid. She’ll have to be young indefinitely.

Oh, no, my dear; you’re quite wrong there. I’m sure Nicky doesn’t care a damn.

I’m quite sure Nicky will be perfectly happy as long as he goes on attracting people; he loves being attractive.

Nonsense—he’s had everything he wanted ever since the day he was born, and he’ll go on wasting his opportunities until he dies.

He may have had everything he wanted, but he’s had none of the things he really needs.

You’re quite right, Pawnie, you wouldn’t be so beautifully preserved if you’d wasted any of your valuable time or sincerity.

You must realize one thing, everyone is sacrificed to Florence—it’s as it should be—of course, she’s a couple of hundred years too late—she ought to have been a flaunting, intriguing King’s mistress, with black page boys and jade baths and things too divine——

I’m singing to-night for Laura Tennant—she’s giving a dreadful reception at her dreadful house for some dreadful Ambassador——

No one will listen to me, of course—they’ll all be far too busy avoiding the Cup and searching for the Champagne.

I can’t think, but my accompanist will know—I’ve got a frightful headache.

My dear, I daren’t—I’ve just had my hair done—I suppose you haven’t got a “Cachet Faivre,” either of you?

No, but Florence has, I expect—Preston will know where they are—ring the bell, Pawnie.

My poor Clara—I do hope your singing to-night will justify the fuss you’re making this afternoon.

Of course—I never sing unless he’s there—he gives me such marvelous moral support.

I do wish Florence would hurry up. I want to borrow her green fan. I’ve got a new Patou frock that positively demands it.

Surely there isn’t such a desperate hurry? You won’t be singing until about half-past eleven.

Perhaps you’d like us both to go right out of the room and sit in the hall?

My dear. I’m so frightfully sorry—we’ve been held up for ages in the traffic. Davis is a congenital[18] idiot. Always manages to get to a turning just as the policeman puts out his hand. No initiative whatever. What’s happened to Clara? Has she been run over?

Pawnie, you know Tom, don’t you?—Tom Veryan, Mr. Quentin, I’m sure you’ll adore each other.

All right—but you won’t get too carried away with it, will you, dear? I should hate the feathers to come out. Does anyone want any tea?

I should like to go quite quietly into a convent and never see anybody again ever——

We’ve just been to a most frightful Charity matinée. Nothing but inaudible speeches from dreary old actors, and leading ladies nudging one another all over the stage. [Preston enters.] Cocktails, Preston, and ask Barker to wrap up my green fan for Miss Hibbert to take away with her.

I shan’t be able to get down to the house until Saturday evening, Florence—I’m seeing Gregory off to Newcastle.

Thank you so much—you are sweet, Florence. A fan gives me such a feeling of security when I’m singing modern stuff. [Preston goes out.] I must rush now——

No, darling—I should only hiccup all the evening. Good-bye, you’ve been such a comfort—good-bye, Helen—Pawnie, you will be nicer to me over the[23] week-end, won’t you? I shall be so depressed, what with Gregory going away and everything—Good-bye, Tom—I shall dine in bed and give way at every pore——

I’ve taken a sudden hatred to this hat. [She takes it off.] That’s better—are you going to the “New Elaine” to-night, either of you?

It’s going to be amazing—what a cast, my dear! Marvelous Selwyn Steele, Nora Dean, and that perfect woman, Lily Burfield——

You’ll look awfully tired at dinner-time, Pawnie, if you don’t calm down a little.

Tom, darling, don’t be so taciturn—he’s always taciturn after a matinée.

To-morrow. Isn’t it too divine? He’s been away for a whole year, but I saw him for a moment on my way through Paris last month.

Only because she keeps on saying how wonderful he is—that always appeals to Nicky.

Twenty-four. Isn’t it absurd to think I have such a grown-up son—old General Fenwick said last Thursday that—— [The telephone rings; she goes to it.] Hallo—hallo! Yes, my dear. How are you?... Yes, so am I, simply worn out.... No. When? How perfectly marvelous!... No, dear, it’s a prescription; but I can let you have a little in a jar.... Quite easy. All you do is just rub it on at night.... Don’t be so silly.... Not in the least; if you send the car round that will be all right.... Very well.... Good-bye, darling. [She hangs up receiver.] I give Clara Hibbert ten for stupidity. Don’t you, Helen?

I say, Florence—I think I’d better be getting along if I’ve got to be dressed and back here by half-past seven——

Can it drop me, Florence dear? I always feel so much richer in your car than anyone else’s.

How perfectly sweet of you!... Now, now, really.... Well, naturally, if you persist in saying such charming things ... [laughing gayly] ... What nonsense!...

It’s that awful General Fenwick.... Good-bye, Pawnie dear. You’re coming down to the house on Friday?

Please forgive me. People rushing in and out, this house grows more like a railway station every day.... Now, General, that was a deliberate compliment. [She laughs.] Ridiculous man.... Very well.... Good-bye. [She hangs up receiver.] My God! ten for dreariness!

No, but he tries to be, and that’s what’s so frightful. [Arranging her hair before glass.] I look like Death.... Isn’t Tom a darling?

I don’t know what you mean, dear. I’m not in the least maudlin, and never have been about anybody. I sometimes wish I could be—I’m too hard.

He adores me—worships me—he’s never seen anyone like me before in his life. I’m something strange ... exotic——

I’m devoted to David—I’d do anything for him, anything in the world—but he’s grown old and I’ve kept young; it does muddle things up so. I can’t help having a temperament, can I?

David’s always loved me and never understood me—you see, I’m such an extraordinary mixture. I have so many sides to my character. I adore being at home and running the house and looking after David and Nicky——

Well, Nicky’s been away for such ages. Also, one must be in London for the season. You can’t expect me to bury myself in the country indefinitely. I shall be there practically all through the spring and summer.

Am I? [The telephone rings.] Hallo!... Yes—speaking. [To Helen in a whisper.] It’s Inez Zulieta. I never went to her recital.... Inez darling, I never recognized your voice.... Didn’t you get my note?... It was absolutely true, I was in agony.... Inez, don’t be angry. If you only knew how I longed for the sound of your wonderful, wonderful voice.... Darling.... Inez, don’t be[36] so cruel.... To-morrow, then. [She hangs up receiver.] I do wish Inez wasn’t so persistent.

My dear, I took him to that Russian thing the other day and he sat entranced from beginning to end.

Oh, I wonder why we’re such friends—we’re so opposite—you don’t understand me a bit. I used to think you did, but you’ve been different lately—unsympathetic.

I don’t think he is—really. I quite realize that he was very violently infatuated, but that is wearing off a bit now. I’m beginning to see him as he is....

We are friends, Florence, though we’re so “opposite.” Do you really know the truth—inside you? Or is all this shrill vanity real?

You’re ten years older than I am, but when I’m your age I shall be twenty years older than you.

Helen! [There is suddenly heard a violent knocking at the front door.] What on earth is that?

It isn’t a fearful book, it’s brilliant—anyhow, he absolutely refused to believe that I had a grown-up son.

I’ve missed you appallingly—we had such a short time together in Paris. Did you enjoy all my letters?

I adored them—so did John Bagot. I used to read most of them aloud to him. He’s mad on you—saw your pictures in the Tatler, or something, and fell in love with it.

Tom Veryan—he’s a dear; you’ll like him frightfully—you know—the very nicest type of Englishman.

Don’t be tiresome, Nicky; he’s only twenty-four, and they all think so well of him——

[Holding photograph away from him and scrutinizing it through half-closed eyes]

Now that one really is enchanting—they’ve got your hair beautifully. Oh, yes, my dear, it’s perfect——

It is good. She’s sweet—Madame Henderson, she simply won’t hear of my paying for these—she says it’s quite sufficient to be allowed to exhibit them in the window.

Your first night home, too—how perfectly fiendish. What a fool I am to have muddled it up.

We’re going to the first night of “The New Elaine.” It’s going to be marvelous.

It’s silly of you always to jeer at Selwyn Steele. He’ s a brilliant actor, if only he could get away from his wife....

I know—you have a nice quiet dinner here and join us at the Embassy afterwards.

Yes, they play the most heavenly tune there now—Tom always makes them do it over and over again—I’ll put it on——

Every way—I never trusted her, luckily—Thank God I’ve got instincts about people—listen, isn’t this marvelous—She said the most filthy things to Gloria Craig about me—I always knew she was insanely jealous, but there are limits. I loathe being at people’s beck and call.... Come and dance.

Only because she kept on saying how wonderful you were.... She doesn’t know a thing about music really.

It’s merely bluff—all that appreciation. Darling, how oddly you’re dancing.

Anyhow, now she’s gone off to Monte Carlo with Violet Fenchurch—silly fool——

But, Nicky—I never sort of visualized you being engaged, or married, or anything.

Darling—I hardly know what to say—you’ve sprung it on me so suddenly. Who is she?

It’s her mother’s house, but her mother’s away just now, so I asked her to change quickly and come on here.

You’d better both dine here together and come on to the Embassy. How old is she?

Then I met her again at Marion Fawcett’s—a frightful sort of reception affair—she was staying with her.

It’s a milestone, isn’t it—you being engaged? A definite milestone? [She catches sight of herself.] Look at my nose. [She powders it.] I do hope she’ll like me—I must go and dress now; Tom is fetching me half-past seven. Bring her to my room when she comes.

And we’ll all have a divine time together, Tom and me and you and what’s her name——

Take off that perfectly divine cloak and have a cigarette. I’ve got to rush and dress now, because I’m terribly late, but you’re dining here with Nicky and joining Tom Veryan and me at the Embassy afterwards.

You must call me Florence; I can’t bear Mrs. Lancaster. I must fly; Tom will be here at any moment—that’s him on the desk.

Hallo!... Yes, speaking!... Elsa darling, how are you?... What?... To-night?... How perfectly heavenly! Of course, I’d adore it.... Listen. Nicky’s just back from Paris. Can he come, too, with Bunty Mainwaring?... Yes, he’s here.... See you to-night, dear....

Hallo, Elsa.... I’d no idea you were in London. I’m terribly thrilled. My dear, you haven’t.... All those lovely tunes you played to me in Paris?... How amazing! I am glad.... Have you done anything with that Tango?... You must play it to-night; I want Bunty to hear it.... It is[65] perfect, isn’t it?... Good-bye, dear. [He hangs up the receiver.] Bunty.

Do you remember how we planned all this—coming home together—and breaking it to mother—and everything?

That nasty little bit of Channel is such an enormous gulf, really. Did you put that dress on on purpose.

It’s funny how mother’s generation always longed to be old when they were young, and we strain every nerve to keep young.

Nicky and I have been traveling all day.... Boats and trains get on his nerves....

Surely it’s not silly to want to talk to my aged father after a year’s debauch in Paris? I fail to see why you should have the monopoly of reunions.

The scene is the hall of Mrs. Lancaster’s house, about forty miles from London.

When the curtain rises it is just after dinner on the Sunday of the week-end party—the gramophone is going and there is a continual buzz of conversation. Clara Hibbert, an emaciated soprano, is dancing with Tom Veryan, Helen with Pawnie, and Nicky with Bunty. Florence is seated on the club fender, talking intellectually with Bruce Fairlight, an earnest dramatist, the squalor of whose plays is much appreciated by those who live in comparative luxury.

There must be a feeling of hectic amusement and noise, and the air black with cigarette smoke and superlatives. During the first part of the scene everyone must appear to be talking at once, but the actual lines spoken while dancing must be timed to reach the audience as the speakers pass near the footlights. This scene will probably be exceedingly difficult to produce, but is absolutely indispensable.

But your last act was so strong, when she came in half mad with fright and described everything minutely.

I gave her three for manners, but seven for charm, because I had to be a little nice!

Not with Debussy and Ravel, with the older masters, yes; but he’s probably tired of them.

My dear, it was the most “chic” thing you’ve ever seen, but unfortunately the wrong color.

No, don’t put it on, Nicky; play it yourself; you always make the gramophone go too quickly.

I do wish Florence wouldn’t be irritable with him in front of everybody. I felt acutely uncomfortable at dinner.

It makes Nicky furious as a rule, but to-night he was too occupied with that stupid little fool Bunty Mainwaring to take any notice.

Fascinating! [She goes over and sits next to him. Gently slipping her hand into his coat pocket.] Darling, I do want a match. [She brings out a little box.] What a divine little box!

I’m sick of playing. Let’s have the gramophone again. [To Helen.] Here’s a light, dearie.

Let’s stop the music for a moment and think of something really marvelous to do.

But please don’t let me stop you going. I’m sure you’re dying to be with the others.

I don’t know what’s the matter with you; you’ve never behaved like this before.

Nothing of the sort—I know! If you weren’t so dense you’d see, too—the jealousy I have to put up with. I get so tired of it all, so desperately tired.

That reminds me, I’ve got seats for “Rolling Stones” on Tuesday. Don’t forget.

Well—you see, as a matter of fact—it’s rather awkward. I put her off the other day——

They’re playing Mah-Jong, and there’s only one set. I shall break in presently.

Pawnie and Helen and Clara are trying to teach Bruce Fairlight; he’s an awful fool at it.

That’s no argument, mother; it’s silly only to remember your age when some one says something you don’t like.

You must be having a delightful evening! You leave the drawing-room, having rowed with Bunty, and come here and row with Florence.

If you’d seen me in Paris—studying, studying—all night long until the gray dawn put the guttering candle to shame—and my nerveless hands dropped from the keys——

I’m one of the few people who know what you’re really like, and you won’t give me the credit for it.

Because you’re a sentimentalist, and you see things that aren’t there at all.

Darling Helen—you’ve got such a lovely mind—like a Christmas card—with frosted robins and sheep wandering about in the snow—bleating.

I thought you had common sense; I credited you with more intelligence than that.

Nicky, don’t resist me, don’t fight me; I’m your friend; I wouldn’t have said a word if I weren’t. You’ve got to stop it; you haven’t gone very far yet; there’s still time. For God’s sake listen to reason.

You needn’t be frightened, Helen; I only take just the tiniest little bit, once in a blue moon!

Helen and I have just had a grand heart-to-heart talk; we’ve undone our back hair, loosened our stays and wallowed in it.

You ought to stay down here, you know—during the week, and get some fresh air.

If you do that I’ll go up to London every other day. I see so little of you when you’re at the flat.

No—I don’t suppose she will. I think I’ll be getting along to bed now. Good night, my boy!

Oh, that can be altered quite easily. We’ll change the shape of the house—we’ll take all that wall away and turn that into a studio—you love studios, don’t you?—then we’ll transform the drawing-room into an enormous aviary.

Yes, I’m putting up a sort of defense, Bunty. I have a feeling that you’re going to be unpleasant,[127] and I want to establish myself comfortably before you start.

I wish I could make you understand her like I do. I mean she’s awfully irritating, I know—but deep down she’s marvelous in spite of everything.

Yes, everything! Don’t be a beast, Bunty; just try to see her point a little, even if you do dislike her. She is terribly silly about being “young,” I know, but she’s been used to so much admiration and flattery and everything always, she feels she sort of can’t give it up—you do see that, don’t you? And she hasn’t really anything in the least comforting[131] to fall back upon. She’s not clever—real kind of brain cleverness—and father’s no good, and I’m no good, and all the time she’s wanting life to be as it was instead of as it is. There’s no harm in her anywhere—she’s just young inside. Can’t you imagine the utter foulness of growing old? ’Specially if you’ve been lovely and attractive like she was. The beautiful Flo Lancaster! She used to be known as that. I can remember her when I was quite small, coming up to say good night to me, looking too perfectly radiant for words—and she used to come to the school, too, sometimes, and everyone used to go mad over her, and I used to get frightfully proud and excited——

Certainly, I’m sorry we were too modern to have an engagement ring; you’d have been able to give it back to me so beautifully.

My dear, I’m shattered—and I’m going straight to bed—probably for several weeks.

Bruce Fairlight. I’ve been teaching him Mah-Jong. These master brains—agony, dear——

Do you know that in London I can never do more than nibble a piece of thin toast, and whenever I’m away I eat enormously!

I don’t know what’s the matter with Nicky. He’s been in a vile temper all the evening—his first week-end home, too.

It’s better to finish things off at once—cleanly—if you’re not quite sure, don’t you think?

Well, I’m sorry, Bunty. If you feel like that about it there’s nothing more to be said.

I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all—only you all seemed to be blaming him for being irritable——

Good night, Clara. Breakfast at nine. Have you got books and everything you want?

You didn’t notice it until I came, any more than I noticed Nicky’s atmosphere until you came.

That I didn’t see how you could help yourself; neither I do. It’s frightfully difficult, but it’s not altogether your fault, any more than it would have been mine if I’d married Nicky. One gets carried away by glamour, and personality, and magnetism—they’re beastly treacherous things.

You’re worth ten of him any day. What’s the use of a chap like that? He doesn’t do anything except play the piano—he can’t play any games, he’s always trying to be funny——

Shut up, Tom; you’re being rather cheap. I haven’t reverted to type so quickly that I can’t see some of the things I’m missing.

Mother—not now—not now—it’s all wrong. Control yourself! Bunty—Bunty—do go to bed—please.

Tom. [He goes towards her, absolutely silent.] You kissed her—you kissed her—I saw you!——

Apologize! You’re beneath contempt. Never speak to me again, never touch me again—I hate you!

Look here, Florence—I’m desperately sorry. You see, I’m afraid I love her.

You dare to stand there and say that to me? It’s incredible—after all I’ve done for you—after all we’ve been to each other. Love! You don’t know what it means. You’ve lied to me—all these months. It’s contemptible—humiliating. Get out of my sight!

ACT III

The scene is Florence’s bedroom the same night. About two hours have elapsed. When the curtain rises Florence is lying face downwards on the bed; she is dressed in a very beautiful but slightly exotic négligé.

Helen is standing by the window, fully dressed; she is holding the curtain aside, and a bar of moonlight comes in to mingle with the amber of the dressing-table lights. Florence is obviously extremely hysterical.

If you don’t face things in this world, they only hit you much harder in the end.

If it hadn’t been Bunty it would have been some one else—don’t you see how inevitable it was?

Don’t go to London by the early train, Helen; stay and come up with me in the car.

Well, then, make up your mind definitely never to see him again whatever happens.

He’s well rid of her. She’d never have appreciated him properly—she hasn’t the intelligence.

Are you standing up for her? Do you think it was right of her to get Tom away from me?

To do her justice, she didn’t deliberately set herself out to get him away from you at all. She discovered that in spite of the somewhat decadent years Tom was still her type, and likely to remain so. So[161] with common sense she decided to shelve Nicky forthwith and go for him.

Yes, she’d have been quite a nice girl really if she’d been left alone and not allowed to go to Paris and get into the wrong set.

You are extraordinary, Helen. Do you realize that you’re making excuses for the girl who’s betrayed your best friend?

Don’t be so utterly absurd. I’m not making excuses, and, anyhow, she hasn’t betrayed you. She hardly knows you, in the first place, and she’s just followed her instincts regardless of anyone else’s feelings—as you’ve done thousands of times.

I’m not, I’m trying to make you see! You’re battering your head against silly cast-iron delusions, and I want to dislodge them.

My eyes are sore. [She powders her face and sprays a little scent on her hair.] It’s so lovely this—and so refreshing.

What a wonderfully clear night. You can see the hills right across the valley—the moon’s quite strong.

It’s been raining. I wish you’d throw away that cigarette—it spoils the freshness.

A little while ago you were really suffering for once, and in a way I was glad because it showed you were capable of a genuine emotion. Now you’re glossing it over—swarming it down with your returning vanity; soon you won’t be unhappy any more—just vindictive.

I don’t know what you mean—by coming here and ordering Helen out of my room.

No, I’m not; I think I’m probably more unhappy than I’ve ever been in my life.

Yes, dear—I know—I know—but you mustn’t be miserable about her; she isn’t worth it. [She goes to kiss him.]

I don’t want you to think I don’t sympathize with you, darling—my heart aches for you—I know so well what you’re going through.

It’s agony—absolute agony—but, you see—it will wear off—it always does in time. [Nicky doesn’t answer.] Nicky, please go now!

I want to sympathize with you, too—and try to understand everything—as well as I can——

Really, Nicky—you’re ridiculous—asking me to tell you stories at this hour!

Mother—sit down quietly. I’m not going out of this room until I’ve got everything straight in my mind.

Mother—don’t go on like that; it’s useless. We’ve arrived at a crisis; wherever we go—whatever we do we can’t escape from it. I know we’re neither of us very strong-minded or capable, and we haven’t much hope of coming through successfully—but let’s try. It’s no good pretending any more—our lives are built up of pretenses all the time. For years—ever since I began to think at all, I’ve been bolstering up my illusions about you. People have made remarks, not realizing that I was your son, and I’ve pretended that they were inspired by cattiness and jealousy. I’ve noticed things—trivial incriminating little incidents, and I’ve brushed them aside and not thought any more about them because you were my mother—clever and beautiful and successful—and naturally people would slander you because you[174] were so beautiful—and now I know—they were right!

We’re on awfully dangerous ground. I’m straining every nerve to keep myself under control. If[175] you lie to me and try to evade me any more—I won’t be answerable for what might happen.

It was something you couldn’t help, wasn’t it—something that’s always been the same in you since you were quite, quite young?——

I wish you’d understand I’m not blaming you—I’m trying to help you—to help us both——

I’m different from other women—completely different—and you expect me to be the same. Why can’t you realize that with a temperament like mine it’s impossible to live an ordinary humdrum life. You’re not a boy any longer—you’re a man—and——

Home! That’s almost funny—there’s no peace anywhere—nothing but the ceaseless din of trying to be amused——

I don’t suppose you’ve looked at father during the last few years—or you wouldn’t say that.

He’s perfectly happy because he’s sensible—he lives his own life and doesn’t try to interfere with mine.

I’m not angry a bit. I realize that I’m living in a world where things like this happen—and they’ve got to be faced and given the right value. If only I’d had the courage to realize everything before—it wouldn’t be so bad now. It’s the sudden shock that’s thrown the whole thing out of focus for me—but I mean to get it right. Please help me!

It’s your life, and you’ve lived it as you’ve wanted to live it—that’s fair——

You’ve wanted love always—passionate love, because you were made like that. It’s not your fault—it’s the fault of circumstances and civilization; civilization makes rottenness so much easier. We’re utterly rotten—both of us——

How can we help ourselves? We swirl about in a vortex of beastliness. This is a chance—don’t you see—to realize the truth—our only chance.

No, no. Of course it isn’t. To-morrow morning you’ll see things quite differently.

You haven’t understood. Oh, my God, you haven’t understood! You’re building up silly defenses in your mind. I’m overwrought. To-morrow morning I shall see things quite differently. That’s true—that’s the tragedy of it, and you won’t see. To-morrow morning I shall see things quite differently. All this will seem unreal—a nightmare—the machinery of our lives will go on again and gloss over the truth as it always does—and our chance will be gone forever.

You are—you are. Let me speak. You don’t understand my temperament in the least—nobody does—I——

You’re deceiving yourself—your temperament’s no different from thousands of other women, but you’ve been weak and selfish and given way all along the line——

What’s the use? You’re still pretending—you’re building up barriers between us instead of helping me to break them down.

No, I can’t. If you’re preaching morality, you’ve no right to. That’s my affair—I’ve never done any harm to anyone.

You’re neurotic and ridiculous. Just because Bunty broke off your engagement you come and say wicked, cruel things to me——

I’ve seen you make a vulgar, disgusting scene in your own house, and on top of that humiliate yourself before a boy half your age. The misery of losing Bunty faded away when that happened—everything is comparative, after all.

You ran after him up the stairs because your vanity wouldn’t let you lose him. It isn’t that you love him—that would be easier—you never love anyone,[186] you only love them loving you—all your so-called passion and temperament is false—your whole existence had degenerated into an endless empty craving for admiration and flattery—and then you say you’ve done no harm to anybody. Father used to be a clever man, with a strong will and a capacity for enjoying everything—I can remember him like that—and now he’s nothing—a complete nonentity because his spirit’s crushed. How could it be otherwise? You’ve let him down consistently for years—and God knows I’m nothing for him to look forward to—but I might have been if it hadn’t been for you——

Don’t talk like that. Don’t—don’t. It can’t be such a crime being loved—it can’t be such a crime being happy——

You’re not happy—you’re never happy—you’re fighting—fighting all the time to keep your youth and your looks—because you can’t bear the thought of living without them—as though they mattered in the end.

I’m still young inside—I’m still beautiful. Why shouldn’t I live my life as I choose?

You’re not young or beautiful; I’m seeing for the first time how old you are. It’s horrible—your silly fair hair—and your face all plastered and painted——

I don’t ever want to see you again—you’re insane—you’ve said wicked, wicked things to me—you’ve talked to me as though I were a woman off the streets. I can’t bear any more—I can’t bear any more!

Nicky, promise me, oh, promise you’ll never do it again—never in your life—it’s frightful—horrible——

Matter—but it’s the finish of everything—you’re young, you’re just starting on your life—you must stop—you must swear never to touch it again—swear to me on your oath, Nicky—I’ll help you—I’ll help you——

I’m trying to control myself, but you won’t let me—you’re an awfully rotten woman, really.

Now then! Now then! You’re not to have any more lovers; you’re not going to be beautiful and successful ever again—you’re going to be my mother for once—it’s about time I had one to help me, before I go over the edge altogether——

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