BLOOMSBURY: It’s marriage Daisy what has ruined me for love.
DAISY: It’s a hard notion me Bloomie boy but tragically true nonetheless.
BLOOMSBURY: I don’t want pity, Daisy, there’s little enough rapport between adults wi’out clouding the issue wi’ (pause) false (pause) or misleading (pause) sentiment.
DAISY: I couldn’t agree more yer gorgeousness, damme if I haven’t told Jack a thousand times, that rapport is the only thing . . .
(Music: “The Star-Spangled Banner” played at double time)
WHITTLE (urgent): When he interrogated himself about the matter, about how it felt to operate a radio, or radio station, of his own, Bloomsbury told himself the truth, that it felt fine. Nevertheless he felt somewhat futile. For there had been no response from her, she who figured, as both subject and object, in the announcements of this period . . .
BLOOMSBURY (broadcasting): Matriculate. Matriculate. Matriculate. Ma-tric-u-late.
(Sound: Door opening and closing)
BLOOMSBURY: Differentiation. Differ-en-ti-ation.
WOMAN: Good morning.
BLOOMSBURY: Good morning.
WOMAN (waking): Uumph. It’s a bit bumpy, under the piano.
BLOOMSBURY: Yes. I would imagine. It’s a bit bumpy in here, too. Under the console.
WOMAN: Yes. I would imagine.
BLOOMSBURY: I move the chair away and sleep under the console.
WOMAN: Yes. Is there coffee?
BLOOMSBURY: Yes. On the hot plate.
WOMAN: May I have some?
BLOOMSBURY: Certainly.
(Sound: Coffee being poured)
WOMAN: It’s good. (Pause) Is it instant?
BLOOMSBURY (bothered): Is what what?
WOMAN: The coffee. Is it instant?
BLOOMSBURY: I never looked. I just sort of dump the coffee in the—
WOMAN: I liked that word.
BLOOMSBURY: Which word.
WOMAN: Ma-tric-u-late. It’s nice to (pause) wake up to.
BLOOMSBURY: Is it?
WOMAN: Yes. It’s like having a voice in your ear. A warm voice breathing in your ear. A voice breathing in your ear, warmly. Warmly and intelligently.
BLOOMSBURY: Warmly and intelligently?
WOMAN: Yes. It’s simpatico.
BLOOMSBURY (trying the word out for possible use): Simpatico. Simpatico.
WOMAN (trying to get his attention): Tell me about your early life.
BLOOMSBURY (grave): I was, in a sense, hopeful.
WOMAN: In what sense?
BLOOMSBURY: In the sense that I married.
WOMAN: Was it love?
BLOOMSBURY: Temporary love.
WOMAN: It did not endure?
BLOOMSBURY: Less than a decade.
WOMAN: But while it endured—
BLOOMSBURY: It filled me with a somber (pause) and paradoxical (pause) joy.
WOMAN: Coo! Doesn’t sound joyful to me.
BLOOMSBURY: It was not a barrel of fun. (Pause) Perhaps a bucket of fun?
(Music: Mournful; Albinoni Adagio in D Minor or equivalent)
BLOOMSBURY (broadcasting): The details of our housekeeping, yours and mine. The scuff under the bed, the fug in the corners. You planted prickly pear in the parlor floor. Saved cleaning, you said. Oh, you were a one! You veiled yourself from me; there were parts I could have and parts I couldn’t have, and the rules would change in the middle of the game. I could never be sure which parts were allowed and which, not. Some days I couldn’t have anything at all. (Pause) The bed. (Pause) Your mother’s bed. (Pause) Brought to our union with your mother in it, she lay like a sword between us. Well, I said, what about the child?
MARTHA: Up the child, ’twasn’t what I wanted anyway.
(Sound: Abrupt wail of child)
BLOOMSBURY: What, then, did you want?
MARTHA: Pish, nothing you could supply.
BLOOMSBURY: Maybe.
MARTHA: Not bloody likely.
MOTHER (echoing daughter): Not bloody likely!
BLOOMSBURY: A man came, in a hat. In the hat was a little feather.
MARTHA: Jack, this is my husband.
BLOOMSBURY: They went into the bedroom and closed the door. I stood outside the door.
(Sound: A long moan followed by knocking on door)
BLOOMSBURY: What are you doing in there?
(Sound: Exaggerated moan followed by knocking on door)
BLOOMSBURY: What are you doing in there?
MARTHA (calling through door): Go away and mind your own silly business!
JACK (through door): Go away and don’t be bothering people with things on their minds.
MARTHA (through door): Insensitive brute!
JACK (through door): Filthy cad!
MARTHA (through door): Some people!
JACK (through door): The cheek of the thing!
BLOOMSBURY: I watched at the door until nightfall, but could hear no more words, only grunts and moans, and sighs. I then went to the attic to obtain our copy of Ideal Marriage, by T. H. Van de Velde, M.D., to see if this situation were treated of therein. But it was not. At length the door opened—
(Sound: Door opening and closing)
BLOOMSBURY:—and your mother emerged, looking, as they say, “put out.”
MOTHER: Common sneak!
BLOOMSBURY: But what of those in the bed? Laughing and tickling.
MOTHER (pronouncing judgment): You are a bad man, I knew it, I always knew it, I told her, I told everyone. (Fades, muttering)
BLOOMSBURY: I then became, if you can believe it, somewhat melancholy. Could not we two skins, you and me, climb and cling for all the days that were left? Which were not after all so very many days? Without the interpolation of such as Jack? And, no doubt, others yet to come?
(Music: Albinoni Adagio)
(Sound: Ice cubes in glass)
WOMAN: What’s that?
BLOOMSBURY: Whiskey.
WOMAN: Can I have a bit?
BLOOMSBURY: There’s only one glass.
WOMAN: Then a bit of yours.
BLOOMSBURY: Help yourself.
(Sound: Drinking)
WOMAN (tentative): Do I impress you?
BLOOMSBURY: In what way?
WOMAN: As a possible partner? Sexually, I mean?
BLOOMSBURY: I haven’t considered it.
WOMAN: They say I’m sexy.
BLOOMSBURY (helpful): I don’t doubt it. I mean, it’s plausible.
WOMAN: I am yours. If you want me.
BLOOMSBURY: Yes, there’s the difficulty, making up my mind.
WOMAN: You have only to make the slightest gesture. A cough. A cry.
BLOOMSBURY: Probably I would not enjoy it, now.
WOMAN: Shall I take off my clothes?
(Sound: BLOOMSBURY getting out of chair)
BLOOMSBURY: Martha, old skin, why can’t you let the old days die? That were, then, days of anger, passion, and dignity, but are, now, days that are dead?
(Sound: MARTHA sobbing)
MARTHA: You looked interested at first.
BLOOMSBURY: It was kind of you to try it. Thoughtful. You were most appealing. Tempting, even. I was fooled for whole moments. You look well in trousers.
MARTHA: Thank you. You said I have a lovely rump. You said that, at least.
BLOOMSBURY: And so it is. Lovely. Heart-shaped.
MARTHA: You can’t forget? About Dudley?
BLOOMSBURY: Dudley who?
MARTHA: Dudley who was my possible lover?
BLOOMSBURY: Before or after Jack?
MARTHA: Dudley who in fact broke up our ménage?
BLOOMSBURY (helpful): No, Dudley is unforgettable.
MARTHA: Tell me about the joy again.
BLOOMSBURY: There was some joy. I can’t deny it.
MARTHA: Was it really like you said? Somber and paradoxical?
BLOOMSBURY (gallant): It was all of that. Then.
MARTHA: Then!
(Music: “The Star-Spangled Banner” u
p softly)
MARTHA: Then there is no hope for us? Again?
BLOOMSBURY: None. That I know of. Again.
MARTHA: You’ve found somebody you like better?
BLOOMSBURY: That has nothing to do with it.
MARTHA (suddenly vicious): Balls. I know you and your letchy ways.
BLOOMSBURY: Goodbye, Martha.
(Music: “The Star-Spangled Banner” up)
BLOOMSBURY (broadcasting): Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. (Fades) Goodbye. Goodbye.
(Sound: The car)
WHITTLE (exasperated): But what is the feeling?
HUBER: Yes, what is the feeling?
BLOOMSBURY: Indeterminate. Hard and soft. At the same time. Ineffable.
WHITTLE (sneering): Ineffable!
BLOOMSBURY: The question is not what is the feeling but what is the meaning?
HUBER: Christ, I’ll tell you about my affair.
WHITTLE: What about it?
HUBER: It was a Red Cross girl. Named Buck Rogers.
WHITTLE: Of what did it consist?
HUBER: It consisted of going to the top of the Chrysler Building and looking out over the city.
WHITTLE (disparaging): Not much meat there. How did it end?
HUBER: Badly.
WHITTLE: Did she jump?
HUBER: I jumped.
WHITTLE: You were always a jumper.
HUBER: Yes. I had taken precautions.
WHITTLE: Did your chute open?
HUBER: With a sound like timber falling. But she never knew.
WHITTLE (sadly): The end of the affair.
HUBER (bright): But what a wonderful view of the city.
WHITTLE (to BLOOMSBURY): So, now, give us the feeling.
HUBER: If there is emotion, it is only just that you share it with your friends.
WHITTLE: Who are no doubt all you have left in the world.
HUBER (thinking aloud): Possibly there are relatives, of one kind or another.
WHITTLE: Hardly likely. Now that there is no more money I would hazard that there are no more relatives either.
(Sound: Highway noises)
HUBER: Emotion! When was the last time we had any?
WHITTLE: The war, I expect. All those chaps going West.
HUBER (to BLOOMSBURY): I’ll Give you a hundred dollars for the feeling.
BLOOMSBURY: No.
WHITTLE: We are fine enough to be a crowd at the airport so your wife will not weep . . .
HUBER: . . . but not fine enough to be taken into your confidence. Into your bosom.
BLOOMSBURY: Not a matter of fine enough.
WHITTLE: God, what manner of man is this?
HUBER: Not to be believed.
WHITTLE: I’ll give you two hundred dollars. For the feeling.
BLOOMSBURY: Once, in a movie house, Tuesday Weld suddenly turned on the screen, looked me full in the face, and said, “You are a good man. You are good, good, good.” I rose and walked from the theater, gratification singing in my heart.
WHITTLE: Is the feeling like that?
BLOOMSBURY: No. That’s the point. It’s not like that. It’s a not-feeling.
HUBER (slightly awed): Ineffable?
BLOOMSBURY: Ineffable.
WHITTLE (reverent): I’ve never had a feeling that was . . . ineffable.
HUBER: There was a white rat, once, that I was rather fond of. And Mother, of course. (Hastily) But I don’t meant to compare . . . those feelings . . . with . . .
WHITTLE: And the flag, of course. Hard to say what one feels about the flag. (Pause) Recently.
(Sound: Traffic)
BLOOMSBURY: It’s a complex of feelings. Of not-feelings. A nexus of . . . not-feelings—that would be a way of putting it. (Pause) Tuesday Weld. Reminded me a bit of the Bicycle Gul.
HUBER: The Bicycle Gul?
DAISY (echo): Ooo yer elegance, there’s not a young gul i’ th’ Western Hemisphere as could withstand the grandeur (pause) of such a swell person (pause) as you.
BLOOMSBURY: A girl I knew once. Slightly. For a space. (Pause) A short space.
WHITTLE: Did you get on well together?
BLOOMSBURY: Like a house afire. (Pause) Like a burning house. (Pause) For a space. (Pause) A short space. (Pause) Temporary love. (Pause) Golden days in the sunshine of our happy youth. (Pause) Brief love. (Pause) Golden days, in the sunshine of our happy youth.
(Music: “Golden Days” song from The Student Prince)
(Music: Segue to theme)
THE CONSERVATORY
Notes:
The two women, MAGGIE and HILDA, are about thirty-five.
The bells are funereal; the theme on the contrary should be upbeat, for example, the Respighi on Side 2 of the Deutsche Grammophon 2530 247, or equivalent.
An extremely serious and rather formal way of speaking is suggested. The colloquialisms should play against this.
(Music: Theme)
(Sound: Bells)
MAGGIE: C’mon Hilda don’t fret.
HILDA: Well Maggie it’s a blow.
MAGGIE: Don’t let it bother you, don’t let it get you down.
HILDA: Once I thought they were going to admit me to the Conservatory but now I know they will never admit me to the Conservatory.
MAGGIE: Yes they are very particular about who they admit to the Conservatory. They will never admit you to the Conservatory.
HILDA: They will never admit me to the Conservatory, I know that now.
MAGGIE: You are not Conservatory material I’m afraid. That’s the plain truth of it.
HILDA: You’re not important, they told me, just remember that, you’re not important, what’s so important about you?
MAGGIE: C’mon Hilda don’t fret.
HILDA: Well Maggie it’s a blow.
(Sound: Match struck, three times)
HILDA (elegiac): When I was a little girl I made mud pies, dangled strings down crayfish holes, hoping the idiot crayfish would catch hold and allow themselves to be hauled into the light of day. Snarled and cried, ate ice cream and sang “How High the Moon.” Popped the wings off crickets and floated stray Scrabble pieces in ditchwater. All perfect and ordinary and perfect.
MAGGIE: Featherings of ease and bliss.
HILDA: I was preparing myself. Getting ready for the great day.
MAGGIE: Icy day with salt on all the sidewalks.
HILDA: Sketching attitudes and forming pretty speeches.
MAGGIE: Pitching pennies at a line scratched in the dust.
HILDA: Doing and redoing my lustrous abundant hair.
MAGGIE (as if police radio dispatcher): Man down. Center and One Eight.
HILDA: Tied flares to my extremities and wound candy canes into my lustrous abundant hair. Getting ready for the great day.
MAGGIE: For I do not deny that I am a little out of temper.
HILDA: Glitches in the system as yet unapprehended.
MAGGIE: Oh that clown band. Oh its sweet strains.
HILDA: Most excellent and dear friend. Who the silly season’s named for.
MAGGIE: My demands were not met. One, two, three, four.
HILDA: I admire your dash and address. But regret your fear and prudence.
MAGGIE: Always worth making the effort, always.
HILDA: Yes that’s something we do. Our damnedest. They can’t take that away from us.
MAGGIE: The Secretary of State cares. And the Secretary of Commerce.
HILDA: Yes they’re clued in. We are not unprotected. Soldiers and policemen.
MAGGIE (as before): Man down. Corner of Mercer and One Six.
HILDA: Paying lots of attention. A clear vision of what can and can’t be done.
MAGGIE: Progress extending far into the future. Dams and aqueducts. The amazing strength of the powerful.
HILDA: Organizing our deepest wishes as a mother foresightedly visits a store that will be closed tomorrow.
MAGGIE: Friendship’s the best thing.
HILDA: One of the best things.<
br />
(Sound: Landslide, five seconds)
MAGGIE: I performed in a hall. Alone under the burning lights.
HILDA: The hall jampacked with admiring faces. Except for a few.
MAGGIE: Julia was there. Rotten Julia.
HILDA: But I mean you really like her don’t you?
MAGGIE: Well I mean who doesn’t like violet eyes?
HILDA: Got to make the effort, scratch where it itches, plans, schemes, directives, guidelines.
MAGGIE: Well I mean who doesn’t like frisky knees?
HILDA: Yes she’s lost her glow. Gone utterly.
MAGGIE: The strains of the city working upon an essentially non-urban sensibility.
HILDA: But I love the city and will not hear it traduced.
MAGGIE: Well, me too. But after all. But still.
HILDA: Think Julia’s getting it on with Bally.
MAGGIE: Yeah I heard about that he’s got a big mouth.
HILDA: But handsome hipbones, got to give him that.
MAGGIE: I remember, I can feel them still, pressing into me as they once did on hot afternoons and cool nights and feverish first-thing-in-the-mornings.
HILDA: Yes, Bally is a regal memory for everyone.
(Sound: Guillotine blade falling)
MAGGIE: My best ghost. The one I think about, in bitter times and good.
HILDA: Trying to get my colors together. Trying to play one off against another. Trying for cancellation.
MAGGIE: I respect your various phases. Your sweet, even discourse. Nonculminating kind of ultimately affectless activity.
HILDA: Which you mime so well in auditoria large and small.
(Sound: Guillotine blade falling)
MAGGIE (compassionate): C’mon Hilda don’t fret.
HILDA: Well Maggie it’s a blow.
MAGGIE: When are you going to change yourself, change yourself into a loaf or a fish?
HILDA: Christian imagery is taught at the Conservatory, also Islamic imagery and the imagery of Public Safety.
MAGGIE: Red, yellow, and green circles.
HILDA: When they told me I got between the poles of my rickshaw and trotted heavily away.
MAGGIE: The great black ironwork doors of the Conservatory barred to you forever.
HILDA: Trotted heavily away in the direction of my house. My small, poor house.
The Teachings of Don B. Page 22
