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The Twilight Of The God
by
Oberville. What do you mean?
Isabel. That’s a question you never used to ask me.
Oberville. Be merciful. Remember how little practise I’ve had lately.
Isabel. In what?
Oberville. Never mind! (He rises and walks away; then comes back and stands in front of her.) What a fool I was to give you up!
Isabel. Oh, don’t say that! I’ve lived on it!
Oberville. On my letting you go?
Isabel. On your letting everything go–but the right.
Oberville. Oh, hang the right! What is truth? We had the right to be happy!
Isabel (with rising emotion). I used to think so sometimes.
Oberville. Did you? Triple fool that I was!
Isabel. But you showed me–
Oberville. Why, good God, we belonged to each other–and I let you go! It’s fabulous. I’ve fought for things since that weren’t worth a crooked sixpence; fought as well as other men. And you–you–I lost you because I couldn’t face a scene! Hang it, suppose there’d been a dozen scenes–I might have survived them. Men have been known to. They’re not necessarily fatal.
Isabel. A scene?
Oberville. It’s a form of fear that women don’t understand. How you must have despised me!
Isabel. You were–afraid–of a scene?
Oberville. I was a damned coward, Isabel. That’s about the size of it.
Isabel. Ah–I had thought it so much larger!
Oberville. What did you say?
Isabel. I said that you have forgotten to drink your tea. It must be quite cold.
Oberville. Ah–
Isabel. Let me give you another cup.
Oberville (collecting himself). No–no. This is perfect.
Isabel. You haven’t tasted it.
Oberville (falling into her mood) . You always made it to perfection. Only you never gave me enough sugar.
Isabel. I know better now. (She puts another lump in his cup.)
Oberville (drinks his tea, and then says, with an air of reproach). Isn’t all this chaff rather a waste of time between two old friends who haven’t met for so many years?
Isabel (lightly). Oh, it’s only a hors d’oeuvre–the tuning of the instruments. I’m out of practise too.
Oberville. Let us come to the grand air, then. (Sits down near her.) Tell me about yourself. What are you doing?
Isabel. At this moment? You’ll never guess. I’m trying to remember you.
Oberville. To remember me?
Isabel. Until you came into the room just now my recollection of you was so vivid; you were a living whole in my thoughts. Now I am engaged in gathering up the fragments–in laboriously reconstructing you….
Oberville. I have changed so much, then?
Isabel. No, I don’t believe that you’ve changed. It’s only that I see you differently. Don’t you know how hard it is to convince elderly people that the type of the evening paper is no smaller than when they were young?
Oberville. I’ve shrunk then?
Isabel. You couldn’t have grown bigger. Oh, I’m serious now; you needn’t prepare a smile. For years you were the tallest object on my horizon. I used to climb to the thought of you, as people who live in a flat country mount the church steeple for a view. It’s wonderful how much I used to see from there! And the air was so strong and pure!
Oberville. And now?
Isabel. Now I can fancy how delightful it must be to sit next to you at dinner.
Oberville. You’re unmerciful. Have I said anything to offend you?
Isabel. Of course not. How absurd!
Oberville. I lost my head a little–I forgot how long it is since we have met. When I saw you I forgot everything except what you had once been to me. (She is silent.) I thought you too generous to resent that. Perhaps I have overtaxed your generosity. (A pause.) Shall I confess it? When I first saw you I thought for a moment that you had remembered–as I had. You see I can only excuse myself by saying something inexcusable.
Isabel (deliberately). Not inexcusable.
Oberville. Not–?
Isabel. I had remembered.
Oberville. Isabel!
Isabel. But now–
Oberville. Ah, give me a moment before you unsay it!
Isabel. I don’t mean to unsay it. There’s no use in repealing an obsolete law. That’s the pity of it! You say you lost me ten years ago. (A pause.) I never lost you till now.