FUTURISM. The Futurist has x-ray eyes, and ears of steel— He can see everything without looking at it, and stand any amount of noise — the evening breeze no longer reaches me, but the gentle vibrations of the mitrailleuses are still audible. (loudly) DARLING! (gives her a thumping whack on the thigh—LOVE. jumps) A-a-a-a-a- a-h! You are just my type, for I have never seen anything like you before! (very rapidly) Will-you-love-me-will-you-love-me-will-you-love-me-love-me-love-me-love-me-me-ME—??? I must have you— You see I have never had you before.
LOVE. (laughing) But I don’t want this sort of love — it’s too quick. I only want love that lasts for ever and ever.
FUTURISM. Do you know—I am a type like that — I could love for ever. In me there is everything — take out what you can. (takes her in his arms and kisses her frantically, crying in between each half-dozen kisses) Do-you-like-it? Do-you-like-it? Do- you-like-it?
LOVE. (passively) Yes, dear.
FUTURISM. (flinging her away from him) You are fearfully sensual!
LOVE. Yes, dear.
FUTURISM. You-deny-it!?
LOVE. I didn’t deny it.
FUTURISM. Ah — I thought you would, and so I have no answer ready — dear, beautiful and divine little woman — you are the unique pleasure the warm gulf of intoxication from which one emerges — replenished — vital — like a formidable addition of Hannibal and the Alps — I need the brilliant chastity of your eyes to counteract the occasional sombreness of my nerves — I must have your soul.
LOVE. But if I haven’t got it — what is it?
FUTURISM. Your soul is the ultimate profundity of your body — give it to me — and I will give you your little smile — I have seen you smile in my dreams. I have loved you so long, and I shall love you forever — I wish you would respond a little — I demand of the women I love to surround me with an atmosphere of intense sensuality.
LOVE. You go too quick.
FUTURISM. Too quick—! I’ve never spent so long on a woman in my life! Too quick! When my love is eternal and my train leaves in fifteen minutes— Hurry up! And love me! (distractedly) There is no time to waste — life has got to be lived— There’s no time to stop to enjoy it!
LOVE. (relieved) How did you find out that I’m really a woman?
FUTURISM. How did I find out? Don’t you realize I’ve dominated all the women of two generations who were worth- while — except a few, who got off the train at the next station — I can tell women when I see them — beastly nuisances. You’re the most feminine thing I’ve ever found — that’s why I love you so — I don’t believe I’m anything special to you, whereas if you were a Futurist you would be down on your knees before me. As you are, any ordinary man would do just as well.
LOVE. Adopting your theories — I’ve begun to think they would. But as the value of sex is entirely fictitious, I find it makes it more precious to avoid promiscuity.
FUTURISM. You take too long saying things. If you left out all the adverbs and adjectives and used the verb in the infinitive, I might have a chance to get what I want— before my train leaves. Why can’t you love-me-love-me-love-me? I only want to make the little women happy— They always love me. All my mistresses are in lunatic asylums, — that’s love if you like! Can’t I make you happy?
LOVE. What! In this atmosphere — you litter our couch with corpses.
(Pause)
(FUTURISM sits fixing her with theatrically amative eyes—LOVE. smiles and wails like a cat on the tiles — her criticism.)
FUTURISM. We men always carry woman in the back of our minds — when it isn’t one woman, it’s a hundred! But you are not one woman— You are the woman. (strokes her face with infinite tenderness, gazing) Little one—
(LOVE throws her arms round his neck with a gesture of surrender.)
FUTURISM. Sweetheart—darling—loveling — STOP. You see, directly I begin to get sentimental you begin to like me — pou-ah!
LOVE. This game of love is too bewildering for me — any possible move I make is bound to be in the wrong direction — it’s not fair play.
FUTURISM. This is not a game for fair play — it’s a game of advantages.
LOVE. In which the woman starts with a handicap of “vantage out”!
FUTURISM. Women are so illogical.
LOVE. So are you.
FUTURISM. FUTURISM is diametrically opposed to logic.
LOVE. But can’t you see that you are being inconsecutive?
FUTURISM. (rapturously) Ah — that’s it — in-con-sec-u-tive, check-mate!
(FUTURISM picks up LOVE and a handful of newspapers and stuffs them altogether into his pocket — which he slaps with a bang. Inmates and men gradually filter back.)
MEN. What have you done with her?
FUTURISM. (absent-mindedly) Oh, everything — and nothing.
PROCURESS. We are just going to have some amateur theatricals — if you care to stop?
FUTURISM. I — dynamic — plastic — velocity — stop—!
PROCURESS. The play is “Man and Woman”.
FUTURISM. Try putting glue on the seats.
(The audience sit circle-wise on the outskirts of the hall to watch the performance.)
DON JUAN. (confidentially laying his arm across FUTURISM's shoulder) My dear old chap, you have introduced a new tactic since my time. I must confess, I am surprised — you interest me! How is it worked?
FUTURISM. New? I only wish it was. I am sacrificing my life to make things new — and only succeeding in making them louder. As for this, it’s only the eternal axiom in waging the sex war — that “Man and Woman” are enemies. But that woman has one greater enemy than man—woman!
DON JUAN. Ah, now it’s recognisable — insult the sex, to catch the demonstrated exception?
FUTURISM. Precisely. This dodge covers the whole field — hitherto you stopped short at maternity — we annihilate woman completely!
DON JUAN. (interested) My dear FUTURISM you know this is new—
FUTURISM. Yes — if it were more than a bluff— But Nature is so uncompromising.
DON JUAN. (calls) Mammy!
(NATURE comes on, looking enquiring.)
DON JUAN. Oh, Mammy, you must help us. FUTURISM has invented a new game — we want to make our own children, evolve them from our own indomitable intellects.
NATURE. Then do it— You can’t expect me to help you with your intellects, they’ve raced far beyond my control.
FUTURISM. Never mind the intellects — they’re our business. Your affair is the children— you’re the only person who understands them.
DON JUAN. (coaxing) You always do what we want, dear, are we not your favourite offspring? In fact, you would be the perfect mother, if only you had restricted your family to us—we don’t want a little sister — she’s remained a child too long!
NATURE. I have been looking into the feminist propaganda — and I am already seriously considering allowing her to grow up!