University of Virginia Library

PORCELAIN AND PINK

A room in the down-stairs of a summer cottage. High
around the wall runs an art frieze of a fisherman with
a pile of nets at his feet and a ship on a crimson ocean,
a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and a ship
on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets
at his feet and so on. In one place on the frieze there
is an overlapping—here we have half a fisherman
with half a pile of nets at his foot, crowded damply
against half a ship on half a crimson ocean. The
frieze is not in the plot, but frankly it fascinates me.
I could continue indefinitely, but I am distracted by
one of the two objects in the room—a blue porcelain
bath-tub. It has character, this bath-tub. It is not
one of the new racing bodies, but is small with a high
tonneau and looks as if it were going to jump; discouraged,
however, by the shortness of its legs, it has
submitted to its environment and to its coat of sky-blue
paint. But it grumpily refuses to allow any patron
completely to stretch his legs—which brings us neatly
to the second object in the room:

It is a girl—clearly an appendage to the bath-tub, only her
head and throat—beautiful girls have throats instead
of necks—and a suggestion of shoulder appearing
above the side. For the first ten minutes of the play
the audience is engrossed in wondering if she really
is playing the game fairly and hasn't any clothes on
or whether it is being cheated and she is dressed.

The girl's name is Julie Marvis. From the proud way
she sits up in the bath-tub we deduce that she is not
very tall and that she carries herself well. When

she smiles, her upper lip rolls a little and reminds you
of an Easter Bunny. She is within whispering distance
of twenty years old.

One thing more—above and to the right of the bath-tub is a
window. It is narrow and has a wide sill; it lets in
much sunshine, but effectually prevents any one who
looks in from seeing the bath-tub. You begin to suspect
the plot?

We open, conventionally enough, with a song, but, as the
startled gasp of the audience quite drowns out the
first half, we will give only the last of it:

Julie:
(In an airy sophrano-enthusiastico)
(During the wild applause that follows Julie modestly
moves her arms and makes waves on the
surface of the water—at least we suppose she
does. Then the door on the left opens and Lois
Marvis enters, dressed but carrying garments
and towels. Lois is a year older than Julie
and is nearly her double in face and voice, but in
her clothes and expression are the marks of the
conservative. Yes, you've guessed it. Mistaken
identity is the old, rusty pivot upon which the
plot turns.)

Lois:

(Starting)
Oh, 'scuse me. I didn't know you
were here.

Julie:

Oh, hello. I'm giving a little concert—

Lois:

(Interrupting)
Why didn't you lock the door?

Julie:

Didn't I?

Lois:

Of course you didn't. Do you think I just
walked through it?

Julie:

I thought you picked the lock, dearest.

Lois:

You're so careless.

Julie:

No. I'm happy as a garbage-man's dog and
I'm giving a little concert.

Lois:

(Severely)
Grow up!

Julie:

(Waving a pink arm around the room)
The walls
reflect the sound, you see. That's why there's something
very beautiful about singing in a bath-tub. It gives an
effect of surpassing loveliness. Can I render you a
selection?

Lois:

I wish you'd hurry out of the tub.

Julie:

(Shaking her head thoughtfully)
Can't be hurried.
This is my kingdom at present, Godliness.

Lois:

Why the mellow name?

Julie:

Because you're next to Cleanliness. Don't
throw anything please!

Lois:

How long will you be?

Julie:

(After some consideration)
Not less than fifteen
nor more than twenty-five minutes.

Lois:

As a favor to me will you make it ten?

Julie:

(Reminiscing)
Oh, Godliness, do you remember
a day in the chill of last January when one Julie, famous
for her Easter-rabbit smile, was going out and there
was scarcely any hot water and young Julie had just
filled the tub for her own little self when the wicked
sister came and did bathe herself therein, forcing the
young Julie to perform her ablutions with cold cream—
which is expensive and a darn lot of trouble?

Lois:

(Impatiently)
Then you won't hurry?

Julie:

Why should I?

Lois:

I've got a date.

Julie:

Here at the house?

Lois:

None of your business.

(Julie shrugs the visible tips of her shoulders and
stirs the water into ripples.)

Julie:

So be it.

Lois:

Oh, for Heaven's sake, yes! I have a date here
at the house—in a way.

Julie:

In a way?

Lois:

He isn't coming in. He's calling for me and
we're walking.

Julie:

(Raising her eyebrows)
Oh, the plot clears.
It's that literary Mr. Calkins. I thought you promised
mother you wouldn't invite him in.

Lois:

(Desperately)
She's so idiotic. She detests him
because he's just got a divorce. Of course she's had
more experience than I have, but—

Julie:

(Wisely)
Don't let her kid you! Experience
is the biggest gold brick in the world. All older people
have it for sale.

Lois:

I like him. We talk literature.

Julie:

Oh, so that's why I've noticed all these weighty
books around the house lately.

Lois:

He lends them to me.

Julie:

Well, you've got to play his game. When in
Rome do as the Romans would like to do. But I'm
through with books. I'm all educated.

Lois:

You're very inconsistent—last summer you
read every day.

Julie:

If I were consistent I'd still be living on warm
milk out of a bottle.

Lois:

Yes, and probably my bottle. But I like Mr.
Calkins.

Julie:

I never met him.

Lois:

Well, will you hurry up?

Julie:

Yes. (After a pause)
I wait till the water
gets tepid and then I let in more hot.

Lois:

(Sarcastically)
How interesting!

Julie:

'Member when we used to play "soapo"?

Lois:

Yes—and ten years old. I'm really quite surprised
that you don't play it still.

Julie:

I do. I'm going to in a minute.

Lois:

Silly game.

Julie:

(Warmly)
No, it isn't. It's good for the
nerves. I'll bet you've forgotten how to play it.

Lois:

(Defiantly)
No, I haven't. You—you get the
tub all full of soapsuds and then you get up on the edge
and slide down.

Julie:

(Shaking her head scornfully)
Huh! That's
only part of it. You've got to slide down without touching
your hands or feet—

Lois:

(Impatiently)
Oh, Lord! What do I care? I
wish we'd either stop coming here in the summer or
else get a house with two bath-tubs.

Julie:

You can buy yourself a little tin one, or use
the hose—

Lois:

Oh, shut up!

Julie:

(Irrelevantly)
Leave the towel.

Lois:

What?

Julie:

Leave the towel when you go.

Lois:

This towel?

Julie:

(Sweetly)
Yes, I forgot my towel.

Lois:

(Looking around for the first time)
Why, you
idiot! You haven't even a kimono.

Julie:

(Also looking around)
Why, so I haven't.

Lois:

(Suspicion growing on her)
How did you get
here?

Julie:

(Laughing)
I guess I—I guess I whisked here.

You know—a white form whisking down the stairs
and—

Lois:

(Scandalized)
Why, you little wretch. Haven't
you any pride or self-respect?

Julie:

Lots of both. I think that proves it. I looked
very well. I really am rather cute in my natural state.

Lois:

Well, you—

Julie:

(Thinking aloud)
I wish people didn't wear any
clothes. I guess I ought to have been a pagan or a native
or something.

Lois:

You're a—

Julie:

I dreamt last night that one Sunday in church
a small boy brought in a magnet that attracted cloth.
He attracted the clothes right off of everybody; put
them in an awful state; people were crying and shrieking
and carrying on as if they'd just discovered their
skins for the first time. Only I didn't care. So I just
laughed. I had to pass the collection plate because nobody
else would.

Lois:

(Who has turned a deaf ear to this speech)
Do
you mean to tell me that if I hadn't come you'd have
run back to your room—un—unclothed?

Julie:

Au naturel is so much nicer.

Lois:

Suppose there had been some one in the living-room.

Julie:

There never has been yet.

Lois:

Yet! Good grief! How long—

Julie:

Besides, I usually have a towel.

Lois:

(Completely overcome)
Golly! You ought to
be spanked. I hope you get caught. I hope there's a
dozen ministers in the living-room when you come out—
and their wives and their daughters.

Julie:

There wouldn't be room for them in the living-room,
answered Clean Kate of the Laundry District.

Lois:

All right. You've made your own—bath-tub;
you can lie in it.

(Lois starts determinedly for the door.)

Julie:

(In alarm)
Hey! Hey! I don't care about
the k'mono, but I want the towel. I can't dry myself
on a piece of soap and a wet wash-rag.

Lois:

(Obstinately)
I won't humor such a creature.
You'll have to dry yourself the best way you can. You
can roll on the floor like the animals do that don't wear
any clothes.

Julie:

(Complacent again)
All right. Get out!

Lois:

(Haughtily)
Huh!

(Julie turns on the cold water and with her finger
directs a parabolic stream at Lois. Lois retires
quickly, slamming the door after her. Julie
laughs and turns off the water)

Julie:
(Singing)
(She changes to a whistle and leans forward to
turn on the taps, but is startled by three loud
banging noises in the pipes. Silence for a moment—then
she puts her mouth down near the
spigot as if it were a telephone)

Julie:

Hello! (No answer)
Are you a plumber?
(No answer)
Are you the water department? (One
loud, hollow bang)
What do you want? (No answer)

I believe you're a ghost. Are you? (No answer)

Well, then, stop banging. (She reaches out and turns
on the warm tap. No water flows. Again she puts her

mouth down close to the spigot)
If you're the plumber
that's a mean trick. Turn it on for a fellow. (Two
loud, hollow bangs)
Don't argue! I want water—
water! Water!

(A young man's head appears in the window—a
head decorated with a slim mustache and sympathetic
eyes. These last stare, and though they
can see nothing but many fishermen with nets
and much crimson ocean, they decide him to
speak)

The Young Man:

Some one fainted?

Julie:

(Starting up, all ears immediately)
Jumping
cats!

The Young Man:

(Helpfully)

Water's no good for
fits.

Julie:

Fits! Who said anything about fits!

The Young Man:

You said something about a cat
jumping.

Julie:

(Decidedly)
I did not!

The Young Man:

Well, we can talk it over later.
Are you ready to go out? Or do you still feel that if
you go with me just now everybody will gossip?

Julie:

(Smiling)
Gossip! Would they? It'd be
more than gossip—it'd be a regular scandal.

The Young Man:

Here, you're going it a little strong.
Your family might be somewhat disgruntled—but to
the pure all things are suggestive. No one else would
even give it a thought, except a few old women. Come
on.

Julie:

You don't know what you ask.

The Young Man:

Do you imagine we'd have a
crowd following us?

Julie:

A crowd? There'd be a special, all-steel,
buffet train leaving New York hourly.

The Young Man:

Say, are you house-cleaning?

Julie:

Why?

The Young Man:

I see all the pictures are off the
walls.

Julie:

Why, we never have pictures in this room.

The Young Man:

Odd. I never heard of a room
without pictures or tapestry or panelling or something.

Julie:

There's not even any furniture in here.

The Young Man:

What a strange house!

Julie:

It depends on the angle you see it from.

The Young Man:

(Sentimentally)
It's so nice talking
to you like this—when you're merely a voice. I'm
rather glad I can't see you.

Julie:

(Gratefully)
So am I.

The Young Man:

What color are you wearing?

Julie:

(After a critical survey of her shoulders)
Why, I
guess it's a sort of pinkish white.

The Young Man:

Is it becoming to you?

Julie: Very.

It's—it's old. I've had it for a long
while.

The Young Man:

I thought you hated old
clothes.

Julie:

I do—but this was a birthday present and I
sort of have to wear it.

The Young Man:

Pinkish white. Well, I'll bet it's
divine. Is it in style?

Julie:

Quite. It's very simple, standard model.

The Young Man:

What a voice you have! How it
echoes! Sometimes I shut my eyes and seem to see
you in a far desert island calling for me. And I plunge
toward you through the surf, hearing you call as you
stand there, water stretching on both sides of you—

(The soap slips from the side of the tub and splashes
in. The young man blinks)

The Young Man:

What was that? Did I dream it?

Julie:

Yes. You're—you're very poetic, aren't you?

The Young Man:

(Dreamily)
No. I do prose. I
do verse only when I am stirred.

Julie:

(Murmuring)
Stirred by a spoon—

The Young Man:

I have always loved poetry. I
can remember to this day the first poem I ever learned
by heart. It was "Evangeline."

Julie:

That's a fib.

The Young Man:

Did I say "Evangeline"? I
meant "The Skeleton in Armor."

Julie:

I'm a low-brow. But I can remember my first
poem. It had one verse:

The Young Man:

(Eagerly)
Are you growing fond of
literature?

Julie:

If it's not too ancient or complicated or depressing.
Same way with people. I usually like 'em
if they're not too ancient or complicated or depressing.

The Young Man:

Of course I've read enormously.
You told me last night that you were very fond of Walter
Scott.

Julie:

(Considering)
Scott? Let's see. Yes, I've
read "Ivanhoe" and "The Last of the Mohicans."

The Young Man:

That's by Cooper.

Julie:

(Angrily)
"Ivanhoe" is? You're crazy! I
guess I know. I read it.

The Young Man:

"The Last of the Mohicans" is
by Cooper.

Julie:

What do I care! I like O. Henry. I don't
see how he ever wrote those stories. Most of them he
wrote in prison. "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" he
made up in prison.

The Young Man:

(Biting his lip)
Literature—literature!
How much it has meant to me!

Julie:

Well, as Gaby Deslys said to Mr. Bergson,
with my looks and your brains there's nothing we couldn't
do.

The Young Man:

(Laughing)
You certainly are hard
to keep up with. One day you're awfully pleasant and
the next you're in a mood. If I didn't understand your
temperament so well—

Julie:

(Impatiently)
Oh, you're one of these amateur
character-readers, are you? Size people up in five minutes
and then look wise whenever they're mentioned. I
hate that sort of thing.

The Young Man:

I don't boast of sizing you up.
You're most mysterious, I'll admit.

Julie:

There's only two mysterious people in history.

The Young Man:

Who are they?

Julie:

The Man with the Iron Mask and the fella
who says "ug uh-glug uh-glug uh-glug" when the line
is busy.

The Young Man:

You are mysterious. I love you.
You're beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that's
the rarest known combination.

Julie:

You're a historian. Tell me if there are any
bath-tubs in history. I think they've been frightfully
neglected.

The Young Man:

Bath-tubs! Let's see. Well, Agamemnon
was stabbed in his bath-tub. And Charlotte
Corday stabbed Marat in his bath-tub.

Julie:

(Sighing)
Way back there! Nothing new besides
the sun, is there? Why only yesterday I picked
up a musical-comedy score that must have been at least
twenty years old; and there on the cover it said "The
Shimmies of Normandy," but shimmie was spelt the
old way, with a "C."

The Young Man:

I loathe these modern dances.
Oh, Lois, I wish I could see you. Come to the window.

(There is a loud bang in the water-pipe and suddenly
the flow starts from the open taps. Julie
turns them off quickly)

The Young Man:

(Puzzled)
What on earth was
that?

Julie:

(Ingeniously)
I heard something, too.

The Young Man:

Sounded like running water.

Julie:

Didn't it? Strange like it. As a matter of
fact I was filling the gold-fish bowl.

The Young Man:

(Still puzzled)
What was that banging
noise?

Julie:

One of the fish snapping his golden jaws.

The Young Man:

(With sudden resolution)
Lois, I
love you. I am not a mundane man but I am a forger—

Julie:

(Interested at once)
Oh, how fascinating.

The Young Man:

—a forger ahead. Lois, I want
you.

Julie:

(Skeptically)
Huh! What you really want is
for the world to come to attention and stand there till
you give "Rest!"

The Young Man:

Lois I—Lois I—

(He stops as Lois opens the door, comes in, and
bangs it behind her. She looks peevishly at
Julie and then suddenly catches sight of the
young man in the window)

Lois:

(In horror)
Mr. Calkins!

The Young Man:

(Surprised)
Why I thought you
said you were wearing pinkish white!

(After one despairing stare Lois shrieks, throws up
her hands in surrender, and sinks to the floor.)

The Young Man:

(In great alarm)
Good Lord!
She's fainted! I'll be right in.

(Julie's eyes light on the towel which has slipped
from Lois's inert hand.)

Julie:

In that case I'll be right out.

(She puts her hands on the side of the tub to lift herself
out and a murmur, half gasp, half sigh,
ripples from the audience.

A Belasco midnight comes quickly down and blots
out the stage.)

Curtain.