Time—Early morning

Place—The Burgson Apartment, a long, low rambling affair at the top of a house in the heart of the city.

The decoration is garish, dealing heavily in reds and pinks. There is an evident attempt to make the place look luxuriously sensual. The furniture is all of the reclining type.

The walls are covered with a striped paper in red and white. Only two pictures are evident, one of the Madonna and child, and one of an early English tandem race.

There are firearms everywhere. Many groups of swords, ancient and modern, are secured to the walls. A pistol or two lie in chairs, etc.

There is only one door, which leads out into the back hall directly back centre.

Amelia Burgson is a woman rather over the normal in height, with large braids of very yellow hair, done about a long face. She seems vitally hysterical.

Vera Burgson is small, thin and dark.

The Dove is a slight girl barely out of her teens; she is as delicate as china with almost dangerously transparent skin. Her nose is high-bridged and thin, her hands and feet are also very long and delicate. She has red hair, very elegantly coiffured. When she moves [seldom] the slightest line runs between her legs, giving her the expectant waiting air of a deer.

At the rising of the curtain The Dove, gowned in white, is seated on the divan polishing the blade of an immense sword. Half reclining to her right lies Vera in a thin yellow morning gown. A French novel has half fallen from her hand. Her eyes are closed.

The Dove—Yes, I’m hurrying.

Vera—That’s best, she will be back soon.

The Dove—She is never gone long.

Vera—No, never very long—one would grow old waiting for the day on which she would stay an hour—a whole hour.

The Dove—Yes, that’s true.

Vera—[Wearily.] She says we live dangerously; [laughs] why, we can’t even keep the flies out.

The Dove—Yes, there are a great many flies.

Vera—[After a pause.] Shall I ever have a lover, do you suppose?

The Dove—[Turning the sword over.] No, I suppose not.

Vera—Yet Amelia and I have made it our business to know—everything.

The Dove—Yes?

Vera—Yes. We say this little thing in French and that little thing in Spanish, and we collect knives and pistols, but we only shoot our buttons off with the guns and cut our darning cotton with the knives, and we’ll never, never be perverse though our entire education has been about knees and garters and pinches on hindquarters—elegantly bestowed—, and we keep a few animals—very badly—hoping to see something first-hand—and our beds are as full of yellow pages and French jokes as a bird’s nest is full of feathers— God! [she stands up abruptly] little one, why do I wear lace at my elbows?

The Dove—You have pretty arms.

Vera—Nonsense! Lace swinging back and forth like that, tickling my arms, well, that’s not beauty——

The Dove—I know.

Vera—[Returning to her couch.] I sometimes wonder what you do know, you are such a strange happening, anyway. Well then, tell me what you think of me and what you think of my sister, you have been here long enough. Why do you stay? Do you love us?

The Dove—I love something that you have.

Vera—What?

The Dove—Your religious natures.

Vera—Good heavens!

The Dove—You misunderstand me. I call that imagination that is the growth of ignorance, religion.

Vera—And why do you like that?

The Dove—Because it goes farther than knowledge.

Vera—You know, sometimes I wish——

The Dove—Yes?

Vera—That you had lived all we pretend we have.

The Dove—Why?

Vera—I don’t know, but somehow someone like you should know—everything.

The Dove—Do I seem so young?

Vera—I know, that’s what’s so odd. [Impatiently.] For heaven’s sake, will you stop polishing that infernal weapon!

The Dove—[Quietly.] She said to me:

“Take all the blood stains off first, then polish it.”

Vera—There you are; she is quite mad, there’s no doubt. Blood stains! Why, she would be afraid to cut her chops with it—and as for the rest of her manifestations—nonsense!

The Dove—She carries a pistol with her, just to go around the corner for a pound of butter.

Vera—It’s wicked! She keeps an enormous blunderbuss in the corner of her room, but when I make up her bed, all I find is some Parisienne bathing girl’s picture stuck full of pin holes——

The Dove—I know, she sits beside me for hours making those pin holes in the borders of everything in sight.

Vera—[With a strange anger.] Why do you stay?

The Dove—Why should I go?

Vera—I should think this house and two such advanced virgins as Amelia and myself would drive you to despair——

The Dove—No, no, I’m not driven to despair——

Vera—What do you find here?

The Dove—I love Amelia.

Vera—Another reason for going away.

The Dove—Is it?

Vera—Yes, it is.

The Dove—Strange, I don’t feel that way about it.

Vera—Sometimes I think——

The Dove—Yes?

Vera—That you are the mad one, and that we are just eccentric.

The Dove—Yet my story is quite simple.

Vera—I’m not so certain.

The Dove—Yet you have heard it.

Vera—There’s more than one hears.

The Dove—I was born on a farm——

Vera—So you say.

The Dove—I became very fond of moles—it’s so daring of them to be in the darkness underground. And then I like the open fields, too—they say there’s nothing like nature for the simple spirit.

Vera—Yes, and I’ve long had my suspicions of nature.

The Dove—Be that as it may, my brothers were fond of me—in a way, and my father in—a way—then I came to New York——

Vera—And took up the painting of china——

The Dove—Exactly. I was at that for three years, then one day I met you walking through the park, do you remember? You had a parasol, you tipped it back of your head, you looked at me a long time. Then I met Amelia, by the same high fence in the same park, and I bowed to her in an almost military fashion, my heels close together——

Vera—And you never did anything wild, insane——

The Dove—It depends on what you call wild, insane——

Vera—[With great excitement.] Have you ever taken opium or hasheesh?

The Dove—[As if answering.] There are many kinds of dreams—in one you laugh, in another you weep——

Vera—[Wringing her hands.] Yes, yes, once I dreamed. A dream in the day, with my eyes wide open. I dreamt I was a Dresden doll and that I had been blown down by the wind and that I broke all to pieces—that is, my arms and my head broke all to pieces—but that I was surprised to find that my china skirt had become flexible, as if it were made of chiffon and lace.

The Dove—You see, there are many dreams——

Vera—Have you ever felt that your bones were utterly sophisticated but that your flesh was keeping them from expressing themselves?

The Dove—Or vice versa?

Vera—Yes, or vice versa.

The Dove—There are many kinds of dreams——

Vera—You know, I’m afraid of you!

The Dove—Me?

Vera—Yes, you seem so gentle—do we not call you the Dove? And you are so little—so little it’s almost immoral, you make me feel as if——

The Dove—As if?

Vera—Well, as if your terrible quality were not one of action, but just the opposite, as if you wanted to prevent nothing.

The Dove—There are enough people preventing things, aren’t there?

Vera—Yes—that’s why you frighten me.

The Dove—Because I let everything go on, as far as it can go?

Vera—Yes, because you disturb nothing.

The Dove—I see.

Vera—You never meddle——

The Dove—No, I never meddle.

Vera—You don’t even observe as other people do, you don’t watch. Why, if I were to come to you, wringing my hands saying, “Amelia has shot herself,” I don’t believe you would stand up.

The Dove—No, I don’t suppose I would, but I would do something for all that.

Vera—What?

The Dove—I should want to be very sure you wrung your hands as much as possible, and that Amelia had gotten all there was to get out of the bullet before she died.

Vera—It’s all very well, but why don’t you do something?

The Dove—A person who is capable of anything needs no practice.

Vera—You are probably maligning yourself, you are a gentle creature, a very girl——

The Dove—If you were sensitive you would not say that.

Vera—Well, perhaps. [She laughs a hard laugh.] What can you expect of a lumber dealer’s daughter?

The Dove—Why are you so restless, Vera?

Vera—Because I’m a woman. I leave my life entirely to my imagination and my imagination is terrific. I can’t even turn to religion for the prie-dieu inclines me to one thing only—so there you are!

The Dove—You imagine—many things?

Vera—You know well enough—sitting here day after day, giving my mind everything to do, the body nothing——

The Dove—What do you want, Vera?

Vera—Some people would say a lover, but I don’t say a lover; some people would say a home, but I don’t say a home. You see I have imagined myself beyond the need of the usual home and beyond the reach of the usual lover——

The Dove—Then?

Vera—Perhaps what I really want is a reason for using one of these pistols! [She laughs and lies back. The Dove, having risen, goes up behind Vera and places her hand on her throat.]

The Dove—Now you may use one of those pistols.

Vera—[Startled, but making no attempt to remove the Dove’s hand.] For such a little thing?

The Dove—[Dropping her hand, once more taking up her old position, sword on knee.] Ah!

Vera—Why do you say that? [She is evidently agitated.]

The Dove—I suppose I shall always wait.

Vera—What is the matter?

The Dove—Always, always!

Vera—What is the matter?

The Dove—I suppose I’m waiting for the person who will know that anything is a reason for using a pistol, unless one is waiting for the obvious, and the obvious has never been sufficient reason.

Vera—It’s all hopeless, I am hopeless and Amelia is hopeless, and as for you—— [She makes a gesture.]

The Dove—I’ve never held anything against hopelessness.

Vera—Now what do you mean?

The Dove—It doesn’t matter.

Vera—[After a long pause.] I wish you danced.

The Dove—Perhaps I do.

Vera—It might make me happier.

The Dove—[Irrelevantly.] Why don’t people get angry at each other, quite suddenly and without reason?

Vera—Why should they?

The Dove—Isn’t there something fine and cold and detached about a causeless anger?

Vera—I suppose so, it depends——

The Dove—No, it does not depend, that’s exactly it; to have a reason is to cheapen rage. I wish every man were beyond the reach of his own biography.

Vera—You are either quite an idiot, or a saint.

The Dove—I thought we had discussed that.

Vera—[Dashed but not showing it.] Yes, a saint.

The Dove—[Continuing.] I’m impatient of necessary continuity, I’m too sensitive, perhaps. I want the beautiful thing to be, how can logic have anything to do with it, or probable sequence?

Vera—You make my hair stand on end!

The Dove—Of course, that’s logical!

Vera—Then how is it you like Amelia? And how do you stand me?

The Dove—Because you are two splendid dams erected about two little puddles.

Vera—You’re horrid!

The Dove—Only horrid!

Vera—Yes, I’m really afraid of you.

The Dove—Afraid?

Vera—For instance, when you’re out of this room all these weapons might be a lot of butter knives or pop guns, but let you come in——

The Dove—Well?

Vera—It becomes an arsenal.

The Dove—Yet you call me the Dove.

Vera—Amelia called you the Dove, I’d never have thought of it. It’s just like Amelia to call the only dangerous thing she ever knew the “Dove.”

The Dove—Yes, there’s something in that.

Vera—Shall I sing for you?

The Dove—If you like.

Vera—Or shall I show you the album that no one ever sees? [She laughs.] If we had any friends we would have to throw that book in the fire.

The Dove—And you would have to clear the entry——

Vera—True. It’s because of that picture of the Venetian courtesans that I send Amelia out for the butter, I don’t dare let the grocer call.

The Dove—You have cut yourselves off—just because you’re lonely.

Vera—Yes, just because we are lonely.

The Dove—It’s quite wonderful.

Vera—It’s a wonder the neighbours don’t complain of Amelia’s playing that way on the violin.

The Dove—I had not noticed.

Vera—No, I presume not, but everyone else in the house has. No nice woman slurs as many notes as Amelia does! [At this moment Amelia enters the outer room. She is wearing a cloak with three shoulder-capes, a large plumed hat, and skirt with many flounces.]

Amelia—[From the entry.] You should come and see Carpaccio’s Deux Courtisanes VÉnitiennes now, the sun is shining right in on the head of the one in the foreground. [She begins to hum an Italian street song.] Well, I have brought a little something and a bottle of wine. The wine is for you, my Dove—and for you, Vera, I’ve a long green feather. [Pause in which The Dove continues to polish the blade of the sword. Vera has picked up her book.]

Amelia—[Advancing into the room, shrugging.] It’s damp! [Seeing The Dove still at work.] What a sweet, gentle creature, what a little Dove it is! Ah, God, it’s a sin, truly it’s a sin that I, a woman with temperament, permit a young girl to stay in the same room with me!

The Dove—[In a peaceful voice.] I’ve loaded all the pistols——

Vera—[With suppressed anger.] Shined all the swords, ground all the poniard points! Attack a man now if you dare, he’ll think you’re playing with him!

Amelia—[In an awful voice.] Vera! [She begins pacing.] Disaster! disaster!—wherever I go, disaster! A woman selling fish tried to do me out of a quarter and when I remonstrated with her, she said with a wink: “I, too, have been bitten by the fox!”

The Dove—If you’ll sit down I’ll make some tea.

Amelia—No, no, we’ll have a little lunch soon, only I never can get the corks out of bottles.

The Dove—I can.

Vera—Rubbish! [She gets up and goes out.]

Amelia—Well, has anything happened since I went out?

The Dove—No.

Amelia—No, no, it never does. [She begins to walk about hurriedly.] Aren’t there a great many flies in here?

The Dove—Yes, the screens should be put up.

Amelia—No, no, no, I don’t want anything to be shut out. Flies have a right to more than life, they have a right to be curious.

The Dove—A bat flew into the room last night.

Amelia—[Shuddering.] Some day I shall look like a bat, having beaten my wings about every corner of the world, and never having hung over anything but myself——

The Dove—And this morning, early, before you got up, the little seamstress’ monkey walked in through the window——

Amelia—[Stopping short.] Are we to become infested?

The Dove—Yesterday the mail-man offered me some dancing mice, he’s raising them.

Amelia—[Throwing up her hands.] There! You see! [Pause.] Why should I wear red heels? Why does my heart beat?

The Dove—Red heels are handsome.

Amelia—Yes, yes, that’s what I say [she begins to dance]. Little one, were you ever held in the arms of the one you love?

The Dove—Who knows?

Amelia—If we had not been left an income we might have been in danger—well, let us laugh [she takes a few more dance steps]. Eating makes one fat, nothing more, and exercising reduces one, nothing more. Drink wine—put flesh on the instep, the instep that used to tell such a sweet story—and then the knees—fit for nothing but prayers! The hands—too fat to wander! [she waves her arm]. Then one exercises, but it’s never the same; what one has, is always better than what one regains. Is it not so, my little one? But never mind, don’t answer. I’m in an excellent humour—I could talk for hours, all about myself—to myself, for myself. God! I’d like to tear out all the wires in the house! Destroy all the tunnels in the city, leave nothing underground or hidden or useful, oh, God, God! [She has danced until she comes directly in front of The Dove. She drops on her knees and lays her arms on either side of The Dove.] I hate the chimneys on the houses, I hate the doorways, I hate you, I hate Vera, but most of all I hate my red heels!

The Dove—[Almost inaudibly.] Now, now!

Amelia—[In high excitement.] Give me the sword! It has been sharpened long enough, give it to me, give it to me! [She makes a blind effort to find the sword; finding The Dove’s hand instead, she clutches it convulsively. Slowly The Dove bares Amelia’s left shoulder and breast, and leaning down, sets her teeth in. Amelia gives a slight, short stifled cry. At the same moment Vera appears in the doorway with the uncorked bottle. The Dove stands up swiftly, holding a pistol. She turns in the doorway hastily vacated by Vera.]

The Dove—So! [She bows, a deep military bow, and turning goes into the entry.]

The Voice of The Dove—For the house of Burgson! [A moment later a shot is heard.]

Amelia—[Running after her.] Oh, my God!

Vera—What has she done?

Amelia—[Reappearing in the doorway with the picture of the Venetian courtesans, through which there is a bullet hole—slowly, but with emphasis.] This is obscene!