Over the Wire: A Drama

[THE scene of the action, framed in a drop painted to imitate red draperies, shows the corner of a woman’s bedroom — a sombre room, in bluish tones. To the left, a bed in disorder; to the right, a door opening into a white bathroom ablaze with light; in the centre, leaning forward from a panel, the photographic enlargement of some great picture, or possibly a family portrait — in a word, a disheartening room. In front of the prompter’s box stand an easy-chair and a table with telephone, books, and a lamp throwing out merciless light.

The curtain rises on what seems to be a room where a murder has been committed. On the floor by the bed lies a woman in a long negligee, stretched out as if assassinated. Dead silence. The woman sits up, and becomes motionless again. Finally she makes up her mind, gets to her feet, takes a cloak from the bed, and moves toward the door, after stopping a moment by the telephone. Just as she reaches the door, the telephone bell rings. She drops the cloak and hastens to answer the call, kicking the cloak out of her way as she goes. She takes down the receiver.

From now on she talks — standing, sitting, facing the audience, turning away from it, kneeling behind the easy-chair, leaning over its back, pacing up and down the room with the cord trailing after her — until the very end, when she falls face-down across the bed. Then her head drops dead over the edge, and the receiver falls like a stone.

Each pose the woman takes serves some particular phase of the monologue-dialogue (the dog phase, the lie phase, and so forth). Her nervousness is not revealed by haste, but by this succession of poses, each seeming to embody the very climax of distress.

The woman’s negligee, the ceiling, door, easy-chair, furniture covers, lamp shade — all are white. By some device a shadow must be projected from the prompter’s box high above the woman, in order to emphasize the light streaming from the lamp.

As the style of this play excludes everything resembling cleverness, the author advises any actress attempting to play it without his guidance to put into the rôle none of the sarcasm of a wounded woman — no bitterness. The character is merely a commonplace victim, in love from head to heels; she attempts only a single ruse, when she gives the man a chance to admit he has lied to her, in order that she shall not be left with this tawdry memory of him. The actress should give the impression of bleeding — of losing her blood like a wounded animal — of bringing the act to a close in a room full of blood.]

HELLO! hello! hello! . . . No, no, this is a party line; will you please hang up? . . . Hello! . . . This is my call. ... Oh! . . . Hello. . . . Hang up yourself. . . . Hello, operator, hello! . . . Kindly let us talk. . . . No, this is not Dr. Schmidt’s. . . . 18 J, not 18 W. . . . Hello! . . . This is absurd. . . . Someone was trying to get me, I don’t know who.(She hangs up, with her hand still on the receiver. The bell rings.) Hello! . . . Hello, what can I do about it? . . . You are very rude. . . . What, my fault? . . . Certainly not . . . certainly not. . . . Hello! . . . Hello, operator! . . . Someone is trying to get me and I can’t hear them. Another person is trying to cut in. Please ask that lady to hang up. (She hangs up.The bell rings.) Hello! Is that you? . . . Is that you? . . . Yes. ... I can hardly hear you. You sound far away, very far. . . . Hello! . . . This is too much! . . . Somebody is trying to cut in. . . . Ask for my number again. Hello! Ask-for-mynum-ber-a-gain! ... I said, ask for my number again! . . . Will you please get off the line? I told you that I am not Dr. Schmidt. . . . Hello! (She hangs up the receiver. The bell rings.)

Ah, at last! ... At last it’s you. . . . Yes . . . I’m all right. Hello! . . . Yes. ... It was maddening to hear you trying to talk against all those other people . . . yes . . . yes. . . . No. . . . How lucky! ... I only came in ten minutes ago. . . . You did n’t call me up before? . . . Ah! . . . No, no. ... I was dining out. ... At Marthe’s. ... It must be about quarter past eleven. . . . Are n’t you at home? . . . Well, then, look at your electric clock. . . . That’s what I thought. . . . Yes, yes, dearest. . . . Last night? Last night I went right to bed, and when I found I could n’t sleep I took a powder ... No . . . only one . . . about nine o’clock. . . . I did have a little headache, but I soon shook that off. Then Marthe came in. She had lunch with me. I did some errands, then I came home. I’ve put all the letters in the yellow bag. I have . . . What? . . . Oh, very strong! ... I give you my word . . . I have lots and lots of courage. . . . After that? After that I got dressed, Marthe called for me, and that’s that! . . . I’ve just come back from her house. She was perfect — simply perfect. . . . Very, very sweet. . . . She looks that way, but she is n’t! You were right; you always are. . . . My pink dress, with the fur. . . . My black hat . . . I still have my hat on. . . . No, no, I’m not smoking. I’ve only smoked three cigarettes. . . . Yes, honor bright! . . . Yes, it is. . . . You’re very dear. . . . And have you just come in? . . . You stayed home? . . . Which trial? . . . Oh, of course! . . . You mustn’t get too tired . . . Hello, hello! Don’t cut me off. Hello! . . . Hello, dearest . . . Hello! ... If they cut off, call me back right away . . . of course. . . . Hello! No, here I am. . . . The bag? . . . Your letters and mine. You can send for them whenever you like. ... It’s a little hard. . . . I understand. . . . Oh, my darling, don’t make any excuses; it’s perfectly natural; I was the stupid one. You are a dear . . . you’re a perfect dear. ... I did n’t, cither; I did n’t think I was strong enough. . . . No, I’m nothing so wonderful. I go around like a woman walking in her sleep. I dress, I go out, I come in again like a piece of machinery. Perhaps to-morrow I won’t be so brave. . . . . You? . . . of course not! . . . Why, dearest, I don’t blame you the least bit in the world. ... I . . . I . . . Don’t say that! . . . What? . . . Perfectly natural. ... On the contrary. . . . It was ... it was always understood we’d be frank with each other, and it would have been wicked if you’d let me go without telling me anything till the last minute. That would have been too much to bear. As it was, I had time to get used to it, to understand. . . . Acting? . . . Hello! You say that I’m acting? Me? . . . You know perfectly well I’m not that sort of person. . . . Not at all, not at all! . . . Certainly not! . . . Perfectly calm. . . . You’d hear it if I did. ... I say you’d hear it if I did. I don’t sound like a person trying to hide something. . . . No, I made up my mind to be brave, and I’m going to be . . . no, please! . . . That wasn’t the same. . . . That’s possible; but it doesn’t matter how much you think you’re prepared for the bad news, it knocks you out just the same. . . . Don’t exaggerate. . . . Yes, but all the same I had time to get used to it. You tried to make it painless for me. . . . Our love never had a chance. I either had to resist it and refuse five years of happiness or take the risk. I never thought it would come out right. I’m paying dear now, but what I had was worth it. . . . Hello! ... I say, was worth it and I don’t regret. ... I don’t regret . . . I don’t regret anything, anything, anything! . . . You . . . you’re mistaken! . . . You’re . . . you’re mistaken. I’ve got . . . Hello! . . . I’ve got what I deserve. I wanted to throw everything to the winds and have the happiness of madness . . . darling . . . listen . . . Hello! . . . darling . . . please! . . . Hello! . . . let me speak. Don’t blame yourself. It’s all my fault. Yes, it is. . . . Do you remember that Sunday at Versailles and the telegram? . . . Ah! . . . Well, then . . . It was I who wanted to come, it was I who would n’t listen to you, it was I who said I did n’t care what happened. . . . No ... no . . . no. . . . Now you’re being unfair. . . . I ... I was the first to telephone. . . . No, Tuesday . . . Tuesday, I’m sure of it. Tuesday the twentyseventh. Your telegram came Monday evening, the twenty-sixth. Don’t you suppose I know those dates by heart? . . . Your mother? Why? . . . It’s hardly worth while. ... I don’t know yet. . . . Yes . . . perhaps. . . . Oh no, certainly not right away. And you? . . . To-morrow? . . . I did n’t know it was so soon. . . . Well, then, wait . . . it’s perfectly simple . . . to-morrow morning the concierge will have the bag. Just let Joseph come and get it. . . . Oh, as for me, it’s just possible I may stay here, or else I may spend a few days in the country with Marthe. . . . He’s here. He’s acting like a lost soul. All yesterday he was walking back and forth between the vestibule and the bedroom. He kept looking at me. He kept pricking up his ears and listening. He was looking for you everywhere. He seemed to think I ought to get up and help him find you .... I think it would be better if you took him .... If that poor animal has to suffer . . . Me? Oh, well! . . . He’s not a woman’s dog. I would n’t know what to do with him. I could n’t exercise him. Much better if he goes with you. . . . He’ll soon forget me. . . . We’ll see . . . very well, we’ll see. . . . That’s not difficult. Just say he belongs to a friend. He’s fond of Joseph. Send Joseph for him. ... I’ll put his red collar on; there’s no name plate on that. . . . We’ll see . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes, dearest. . . . Certainly . . . why, of course, dear. . . . What gloves? . . . The fur-lined gloves, the ones you drove in? ... I don’t know. I have n’t seen them. Perhaps. I’ll look . . . wait a minute. Don’t ring off.

{On the table, behind the lamp, she picks up a pair of fur-lined gloves, which she kisses passionately. She goes on talking with the gloves pressed to her cheek.)

Hello . . . hello. . . . No . . . I’ve looked on the table, the armchair, in the vestibule, everywhere. They’re not here. . . . Listen . . .I’ll look again, but I’m sure ... If I find them to-morrow morning, I ’ll have them put with the bag. . . . What did you say, dearest? . . . The letters . . . yes . . . you’ll bum them, of course. ... I wonder if you’d do something foolish for me. . . . No, no; I was going to say, if you burn them I wish you’d keep the ashes in that little tortoise-shell box I gave you for cigarettes and . . . hello! . . . No . . . Oh, I am so stupid! Yes, I was strong then! There, forgive me! (She weeps.) . . . There, that’s over, and I’m blowing my nose. But still I would love to have those ashes . . . What a dear you are! . . . Ah!

(The actress will then say, in the foreign language with which she is most familiar, the following passage in quotation marks.)

‘As for those papers of your sister’s, I burned them all in the kitchen stove. I was going to take out the drawing you spoke about, but you told me to burn everything, and I did. . . . Oh, good! . . . Good . . . yes.’

Of course you’re in your dressing gown, aren’t you? . . . You’re going to bed? . . . You ought n’t to work so late. You must go to bed if you’re getting up early to-morrow morning. Hello! . . . Hello! . . . How is that? . . . But I’m speaking very loud as it is. . . . Now do you hear me? . . . I said, do you hear me? . . . That’s strange. I hear you as plainly as if you were here in the room. . . . Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Now I can’t hear you! . . . Yes, but far away, very far away. . . . Do you hear me? First it’s one and then the other. . . . Oh no, don’t ring off! . . . Hello! . . . Operator, I’m still talking. . . . Ah! Now I hear you! I hear you plainly. It was horrible — like being dead — hearing and not being able to be heard. . . . No, very well. It’s strange they’ve let us talk so long. Usually they cut off, after three minutes, and then give you back the wrong number. . . . Yes, yes indeed. ... I hear better than before, but there’s a humming in your telephone. It almost seems as if it were n’t yours. . . . You know, I can see you. . . . (He makes her guess.) Which dressing gown? The red one! . . . Ah! . . . . You ’re leaning on your left elbow . . . your sleeves are rolled up. ... In your left hand? The receiver, of course. . . . And in your right hand? Why, your fountain pen! You’re drawing faces and stars and hearts on the blotter. Now you’re laughing! I’ve got eyes in place of ears. . . . (Hiding her face with a mechanical gesture) Oh no, darling! Whatever you do, don’t look at me! . . . Afraid? . . . No, I shan’t be afraid. . . . No, that’s worse. . . . Well, I’ve got out of the habit of sleeping alone. . . . Yes . . . yes. . . . Yes, yes ... I promise you. ... I ... I ... I promise. . . . . .You are a dear. . . . I don’t know. I try not to look at myself. I don’t dare turn on the light by my mirror. Yesterday I found myself face to face with an old woman. . . . No, no! A thin old woman with white hair and a lot of wrinkles.... It’s nice of you to say so, but, darling, a pretty face is the worst of all; that’s for the artists. ... I liked it better when you used to say, ’Just look at that ugly little mug!' . . . Yes, indeed! . . . . Oh, I was only joking! . . . Don’t be stupid. . . . How glad I am that you’re clumsy, and that you love me! If you did n’t love me, and you were clever, what a terrible weapon the telephone would be! A weapon that does its work without leaving a trace, without making a sound! . . . I, unkind? . . . Hello! . . . Hello, hello! . . . Darling . . . where are you? . . . Hello! Hello! Operator, you’ve cut me off! Hello! (The telephone rings.) Hello, is that you? . . . No, no, operator! You cut me off! . . . I don’t know the number! ... I mean . . . yes, I do . . . wait a minute. . . . . .Auteuil 047. . . . Hello! . . . . The line is busy? . . . Hello! Operator, they’re trying to get me again. . . . Very well. (She hangs up the receiver; the bell rings.) Hello, hello — 047. No, not 6 — 7! Oh, dear! Hello! . . . Operator, you gave me the wrong number. I want 047. (She waits.) Hello! Auteuil 047? Yes! Oh, is that you, Joseph? . . . Yes, it’s I. . . . I was talking with him a minute ago. . . . He’s not there? . . . Yes . . . yes. . . . Not coming home to-night? ... Of course; it was stupid of me. He called me up from a restaurant. They cut us off, and I asked for his own number. . . . I’m sorry,Joseph. . . .Thanks . . . thanks . . . . Good night, Joseph.

(She hangs up the receiver; she is on the verge of nausea. The telephone rings.)

Hello! Ah, there you are, dearest! They cut us off. . . . No, no! I was waiting. The bell rang, I took down the receiver, but no one was there. . . . I suppose so. . . . Yes, certainly . . . you ’re sleepy. ... It was nice of you to telephone . . . sweet of you. (She weeps.). . . No, I’m still here. . . . What?. . . . .Forgive me, please! It is absurd! . . . Nothing, nothing! There’s nothing the matter ... I tell you there’s nothing the matter. . . . Nothing at all. You ’re mistaken. . . . Just the same as a little while ago. . . . You see, one talks on and on; one does n’t realize the time is bound to come when one will have to stop, and hang up the receiver, and fall back again into the emptiness — the dark. . . . . . .Well . . . (She toeeps.) . . . Listen, love: I’ve never lied to you. . . . Yes, I know, I know; I believe you; of course. . . . No, I don’t mean that. ... You see, I just lied to you. . . . Just now . . . over the telephone, a little while ago, I lied! . . . I know perfectly well that there’s no such thing as luck for me any more, but lying never brings luck, and besides, I don’t like to lie to you. I can’t do it, I won’t do it, even for your good. . . . Oh, nothing serious, dear; don’t be alarmed. Only I did tell a lie when I told you what dress I had on and that I had dinner with Marthe. . . . I haven’t had any dinner; I’m not wearing the pink dress. I have a cloak on over my negligee simply because this waiting for the telephone, looking at the telephone, getting up, sitting down, w alking up and down the room, was driving me crazy, stark crazy! So I put on the coat and was just going to take a taxi and drive past your windows and wait. . . . Well, I don’t know what I was going to wait for. . . . You’re right . . . yes. . . . Yes, I am listening. ... I’ll behave myself. ... I’ll do everything you say. . . . Here ... I have n’t eaten a thing ... I could n’t. . . . .I’ve been very sick. . . . Yesterday evening I took a powder to put me to sleep; I thought if I took more than one I ’d sleep better, and that if I took all of them I’d sleep without dreaming, without waking up — I’d never wake up, I’d be dead. (She weeps.) . . . . I took twelve of them ... in hot water . . . all at once. And I had a dream. I dreamed what was the truth. I woke up with a start, so glad because it was only a dream, and when I realized it was true, that you were n’t there, so close that we seemed almost one person, then I felt I could n’t —I just could n’t go on living. . . . .Very light — light and cold. I could n’t feel my heart beating any more, and death was so slow in coming! Then I got terribly frightened, and at last I telephoned Marthe. I was n’t brave enough to die alone. . . . Dearest . . . dearest. ... It was four o’clock in the morning. She came at once with that doctor who lives in her apartment house. I had a high fever. It seems it’s hard to poison one’s self; one always takes too much or too little. The doctor made out a prescription and Marthe stayed with me till tonight. I begged her to leave because you said you’d telephone once more and I was afraid something would prevent my talking to you. . . . Yes, very well. . . . No more. ... I’m telling the truth . . . only a little fever. . . . .Don’t worry about me. . . . How stupid I am! I promised not to worry you, to let you go quickly, to say good-bye to you as if we were to meet again to-morrow.... I’m stupid — yes, stupid. . . . .But it’s hard to hang up the receiver and have everything go black again. . . . (She weeps.) . . . . . . .Hello! . . . I thought they had cut us off. ... You are good, dearest! . . . My poor, dear boy that I’ve hurt so badly! . . . Yes, go on! Go on! Say something, no matter what! ... I was suffering terribly, and now as soon as you speak to me I feel well again and soothed and sleepy. You know, sometimes just before we went to sleep, when my head lay in its special little place with my ear against your chest, you’d speak to me and your voice would sound just as it does this evening in the receiver. . . . Coward? . . . No, I’m the coward. I had promised . . . I . . . How ridiculous! You . . . you who have never given me anything but happiness. . . . But, dearest, I tell you that is n’t true. I knew, I knew, and so I was expecting what happened. Most women go on living with the man they love as if it could last forever, and when the break comes it takes them unawares. I knew. . . . I never told you about it, but it was at the dressmaker’s in a magazine — I saw her picture. It was there, lying open on the table before me. . . . It was only human, or at any rate it was what any woman would do. . . . Because I did n’t want to ruin our last weeks together. ... No, perfectly natural. . . . Don’t make me out better than I am. . . . .Hello! I hear music. . . . . Well, you ought to pound on the wall and stop your neighbors from playing the phonograph at such an hour. They’ve formed bad habits because you were never home. . . . . It would n’t do any good. Besides, Marthe’s doctor comes to-morrow. . . . No, darling. He’s a good doctor, and there’s no reason for hurting his feelings by calling in another . . . don’t worry. . . . Certainly . . . certainly. . . . She’ll tell you how I am getting along. . . . . . . . I understand. . . . Yes, I understand. . . . Besides, this time I’m going to be brave, very brave. . . . What? . . . Oh, yes, a hundred times better! If you had n’t called me, I d be dead now. . . . No . . . wait a minute . . .wait! Let us see if we can find some way. . . . (She walks up and down, moaning aloud in her agony.) Forgive me; I know this is an intolerable scene, and you are very patient, but you understand how I’m suffering, don’t you? This wire is the only thing that holds you to me now. . . . Night before last? I was able to sleep. I took the telephone to bed w ith me. ... No, no, in the bed. . . . Yes, I know. I’m foolish, but I had the telephone with me in bed because, in spite of everything, the telephone does join people together. It goes into your house, and besides, you had promised to call me. You can’t guess what a lot of strange dreams I had. I dreamed that somehow you were striking me over the telephone, and I was falling; I dreamed that I was a neck that was being strangled, or I dreamed that I was at the bottom of a sea that was like your Auteuil apartment, and I was joined to you like a diver by an air pipe, and kept begging you not to cut the pipe. They sound stupid when you tell them, but when I was dreaming them they were real, and it was terrible. . . . . . .Because you’re talking to me. For five years now I’ve been living through you; it’s as if you were the only air I had to breathe! For five years I’ve spent my time waiting for you — thinking you were dead when you were late, dying myself at the mere thought you were dead, coming to life again when you came into the room, dying of fear when you went away. Now that you ’re talking, it’s as if the air still came through. You see, my dream was n’t so stupid, after all. When you hang up the receiver, it’s as if you cut the pipe. . . . . . . . Certainly, love; I did sleep. I slept because that was the first time. It’s what the doctor said — a sort of intoxication. One sleeps the first night. You see, the suffering itself makes you forget; it’s something new, and you stand it. It’s the second night you can’t stand — that was last night — and the third night — that’s to-night; it’s almost here now — and to-morrow and the next day and then days and days — Oh, God, what is one to do with them? . . . . . I haven’t any fever, not a bit of it; I can see just as clearly . . . There’s nothing to do about it; that’s why it would have been better for me to be brave and lie to you .... and . . . Well, suppose I do get to sleep; then the dreams come, and waking, and eating, and getting up and bathing and going out — yes, and where am I to go? .... My poor darling, I’ve never had anything to do but just you . . . . . . Marthe has her own life to lead . . . . . . That’s like asking a fish to live without water. . . . . . But I keep telling you I don’t need anybody. . . . Something to interest me? Let me tell you something; it may not be poetic, but it’s true. Since that Sunday night I ’ve been interested just once: that was at the dentist’s, when he touched a nerve. . . . . . . Alone. . . . All alone. . . . . . He has n’t left the dressing room for two days. ... I tried to call him and pet him. He won’t let anybody touch him. Once healmost bit me. . . . Yes, me! Me! He shows his teeth and growls. He’s like a different dog. He frightens me. . . .To Marthe? I tell you you can’t come near him. Marthe had the hardest time in the world getting out. He would n’t let her open the door. . . . Really he’s not safe. I give you my word he frightens me. He won’t eat. He lies in one place. And when he looks at me it makes my blood run cold . . . . . How should I know? Perhaps he thinks I’ve done something to you. . . . Poor creature . . . I have no reason for holding it against him. I know myself what it is. He loves you. He never sees you any more, and he thinks it’s my fault. . . . Try to send Joseph. ... I think he’d follow Joseph. . . . Who, me? . . . A little more, a little less. . . . He did n’t care for me a bit! . . . He may have seemed to, but I tell you I would n’t dare touch him now. ... If you won’t take him I ’ll have to send him away. There’s no need to let the dog get sick and vicious. . . . He won’t bite anybody if he’s with you. He’ll love the people you love. . . . Yes, darling; I know; but after all, he’s only a dog. No matter how clever he is, that’s something he can’t take in! ... I never cared what I did when he was around. God knows what he’s seen! . . . No, no; what I mean is, perhaps he does n’t recognize me, perhaps I’ve frightened him. . . . You never can tell. . . . No, on the contrary. . . . Think of Aunt Jeanne that night I gave her the news her son had been killed. You know she’s a pale little thing . . . well, she suddenly became a red-faced giantess. A giantess with a red face; her head reached up to the ceiling, and her hands seemed to be everywhere at once, and her shadow filled the room. It was terrifying — terrifying! .... No, no, forgive me! It’s just that I was thinking of her dog. Her dog crept under the bureau and howled like a wild beast. . . . Why, I don’t know, darling! How could you expect me to know! One simply is n’t one’s self. I’ve had to do terrible things. Think of it: I tore up my bundle of photographs and the envelope they were in all at one time, without thinking what I was doing. That would be hard even for a strong man to do. . . . The ones for the passport. . . . What? . . . No, not if I don’t need a passport any more. ... It was no loss. They made me look hideous. . . . No, no, not ever again. I had the good luck to meet you while I was traveling. Now if I were to travel I might have the bad luck to meet you. . . . Don’t say any more about it . . . please . . . Hello! Hello! Please get off the line. . . . Certainly not; we are not trying to be interesting. All you have to do is hang up the receiver. ... If you find us absurd, why waste your time instead of hanging up? . . . Oh! . . . Dearest! Dearest, don’t get angry! . . . There! . . . No, no! I’m on the line now. I touched the receiver. She has rung off. She rang off quickly after she said that disgusting thing. . . . Hello! . . . You are annoyed. . . . . Yes, you’re annoyed because you heard that. I know by your voice. . . . You are annoyed . . . I . . . But, dearest, that woman is a terrible creature, and besides, she does n’t know you. She thinks you’re like all other men. . . . Why, no, dearest! It’s not at all like that. . . . What regrets? . . . Hello! . . . Stop it, stop it! Don’t think anything more about it. It’s all over. . . . How foolish you are! . . . Who? No matter who. Day before yesterday I met the person whose name begins with S. . . . Yes, the one on Avenue Henri Martin. . . . She asked me if you had a brother and it was his engagement that had been announced . . . . . . What difference would that make to me? . . . It’s the truth. . . . She looked sympathetic ... I did n’t waste much time with her. I said some friends were waiting for me at home. . . . There’s no mystery about it. People dislike being dropped, and little by little I’ve dropped everybody . . . I did n’t want to lose a minute of us two together. . . . Absolutely no difference to me. People can say what they like. . . . One must be fair. People could n’t understand our situation. . . . People . . . people either like you or hate you. Break with them and it’s all over. They don’t take time to look. You can never make them understand . . . you . . . you can never make them understand certain things. The best thing is to do as I did and ignore them . . . . . completely. (She gives a cry of dumb agony.) Oh! . . . . Nothing. I’m chattering on and on; I begin to think we’re talking together just as we used to, and then all of a sudden I remember the truth. . . . (Tears) Why try to fool one’s self? . . . Yes . . . yes. . . . No! In those days one was face to face; one could do foolish things, forget one’s promises, try the impossible, and then make everything right with a kiss and a hug. . . . One look could change everything. But with this thing, what’s finished is finished. . . . Don’t worry, nobody tries suicide twice. . . . Perhaps, to help me go to sleep. ... I buy a revolver? Can you see me trying a revolver? . . . Where would I get strength to concoct a lie, my poor dear? . . . Not at all. ... I ought to have had strength for it. There are times when lying is useful. If you were to lie to me to make the separation hurt less ... I did n’t say you had lied to me. I said: if you were lying and I knew you were. For instance, if you were n’t at home and you told me . . . No, no, darling! Listen . . . Of course I believe you ... I did n’t mean to say I did n’t believe you. . . . Why get angry? . . . Yes, your voice sounded cross. I only said that if you were deceiving me out of the goodness of your heart, and I knew what you were doing, I should only love you all the more. . . . Hello! Hello! . . . Hello! . . .

(She hangs up the receiver, saying quickly, in a low tone) Oh, God, make him call me! God, make him call me again! God, make him call me again. God, make him . . .

(The bell rings. She takes down the receiver.)

They cut us off. I was just saying that if you lied to me out of kindness and I understood what you were doing, I’d only love you the more for it. . . . Of course. . . . You’re crazy. . . . My darling! . . . My dearest dear! . . . (She twines the telephone cord about her neck.) ... I know it’s got to be done, but it’s terrible ... I’ll never have the courage. ... Yes, I get to feeling as if we were close together, and suddenly there are cellars and houses and sewers — there’s a whole city between us! . . . You remember how Yvonne used to ask how the voice could get through the twists in the wire? The wire is around my neck now. Your voice is around my neck. . . . Perhaps the operator will cut us off. . . . Oh, my darling, how could you imagine I’d think anything so mean? I know you’ll hate doing it even more than I will. . . . No . . . no, no! .... At Marseilles? . . . Listen, dearest. You’ll be in Marseilles to-morrow night; well, I wish . . . I wish ... at least I’d like if you would n’t go to the hotel where we used to stop. You’re not angry? . . . Because the things I can’t picture to myself won’t seem to be happening, or at any rate they’ll seem to be happening in some sort of far-away place where they can’t hurt-so much. . . . You understand? .... Thanks . . . Thanks, you are good! I love you. (She rises and moves toward the bed with the telephone in her hand.) There now! I was just going to say, ‘I’ll see you soon.’... I don’t think so . . . one can never tell. . . . Oh! . . . That’s better! . . . Much better! . . . (She throws herself on the bed and presses the telephone to her breast.) My darling! . . . . . My own dearest! . . . . . . I’m not afraid. Hurry! Go ahead! Ring off! Ring off! I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

(The receiver falls to the floor.)