Complete Poems and Plays (76 page)

L
UCASTA
.
I
think you play awfully well, Colby —

Not that
my
opinion counts for anything:

You know that. But I’d like to learn about music.

I wish you would teach me how to appreciate it.

C
OLBY
.
I don’t think that you’ll need much teaching;

Not at this stage, anyway. All you need at first

Is to hear more music. And to find out what you like.

When you know what you like, and begin to know it well,

Then you will want to learn about its structure

And the various forms, and the different ways of playing it.

L
UCASTA
.
But suppose I only like the wrong things?

C
OLBY
.
No, I’m sure you’ll prefer the right things, when you hear them.

I’ve given you a test. Several of the pieces

That I’ve just played you were very second-rate,

And you didn’t like them. You liked the right ones.

L
UCASTA
.
Colby, I didn’t know you were so artful!

So the things I liked were the right ones to like?

Still, I’m awfully ignorant. Can you believe

That I’ve never been to a concert in my life?

I only go to shows when somebody invites me,

And no one has ever asked me to a concert.

I’ve been to the Opera, of course, several times,

But I’m afraid I never really listened to the music:

I just enjoyed going — to see the other people,

And to be seen there! And because you feel out of it

If you never go to the Opera, in the season.

Though I’ve always felt out of it. And can you realise

That nobody has ever played to me before?

C
OLBY
.
And this is the first time I’ve played to anyone …

L
UCASTA.
Don’t be such a fraud. You know you told me

The piano was only delivered this week

And you had it tuned yesterday. Still, I’m flattered

To be your first visitor in this flat

And to be the first to hear you play
this
piano.

C
OLBY
.
That’s not what I meant. I mean that I’ve not played

To anyone, since I came to the conclusion

That I should never become a musician.

L
UCASTA
.
Did you find it a strain, then, playing to me?

C
OLBY
.
As a matter of fact, I think I played better.

I can’t bring myself to play to other people,

And when I’m alone I can’t forget

That it’s only myself to whom I’m playing.

But with you, it was neither solitude nor … people.

L
UCASTA
.
I’m glad I’m not people. Will you play to me again

And teach me about music?

C
OLBY
.
                                      Yes, of course I will.

But I’m sure that when you learn about music —

And that won’t take you long — and hear good performers,

You’ll very quickly realise how bad my playing is.

L
UCASTA
.
Really, Colby, you do make difficulties!

But what about taking me to a concert?

C
OLBY
.
Only the other day, I invited you …

L
UCASTA
.
To go to see that American Musical!

C
OLBY
.
Well, I’d heard you say you wanted to see it.

L
UCASTA
.
But not with you!

C
OLBY
.
                                   You made that very clear.

But why not with me?

L
UCASTA
.
                        Because you don’t like them —

American Musicals. Do you think it’s any compliment

To invite a woman to something she would like

When she knows
you
wouldn’t like it? That’s not a compliment:

That’s just being … patronising. But if you invite me

To something you like — that
is
a compliment.

It shows you want to educate me.

C
OLBY
.
                                               But I didn’t know

That you wanted to be educated.

L
UCASTA
.
                                          Neither did I.

But I wanted you to want to educate me;

And now I’m beginning to believe that I want it.

C
OLBY.
Well, I’m going to invite you to the next concert …

L
UCASTA
.
The next that you want to go to
yourself.

C
OLBY
.
And perhaps you’ll let me tell you beforehand

About the programme — or the things I want to hear.

I’ll play you the themes, so you’ll recognise them.

Better still, I’ll play you the gramophone records.

L
UCASTA
.
I’d rather you played me bits yourself, and explained them.

We’ll begin my education at once.

C
OLBY
.
I suspect that it’s you who are educating
me.

L
UCASTA
.
Colby, you really are full of surprises!

I’ve never met a man so ignorant as you

Yet knowing so much that one wouldn’t suspect.

Perhaps that’s why I like you.

C
OLBY
.
                                          That’s not quite the reason.

L
UCASTA
.
Oh, so you believe that I like you?

I didn’t know that you were so conceited.

C
OLBY
.
No, it’s not conceit — the reason that I’m thinking of.

It’s something quite simple.

L
UCASTA
.
                                   Then I wish you’d tell me.

Because
I
don’t know.

C
OLBY
.
                              The first time we met

You were trying very hard to give a false impression.

And then you came to see that you hadn’t succeeded.

L
UCASTA
.
Oh, so I was trying to give a false impression?

What sort of impression was I trying to give?

C
OLBY
.
That doesn’t really matter. But, for some reason,

You thought I’d get a false impression anyway.

You preferred it to be one of your own creation

Rather than wait to see what happened.

I hope you don’t mind: I know it sounds impertinent.

L
UCASTA
.
Well, there’s one thing you haven’t learnt yet,

And that is, to know when you’re paying a compliment.

That
was a compliment. And a very clever one.

C
OLBY
.
I admit that at first I was very bewildered

By you … and B.

L
UCASTA
.
                Oh, by me … and B.

C
OLBY
.
                                                         Only afterwards,

When I had seen you a number of times,

I decided that was only your kind of self-defence.

L
UCASTA
.
What made you think it was self-defence?

C
OLBY.
Because you couldn’t wait to see what happened.

You’re afraid of what would happen if you left things to themselves.

You jump — because you’re afraid of being pushed.

I think that you’re brave — and I think that you’re frightened.

Perhaps you’ve been very badly hurt, at some time.

Or at least, there may have been something in your life

To rob you of any sense of security.

L
UCASTA
.
And I’m sure you have
that
— the sense of security.

C
OLBY
.
No, I haven’t either.

L
UCASTA
.
                                There, I don’t believe you.

What did I think till now? Oh, it’s strange, isn’t it,

That as one gets to know a person better

One rinds them in some ways very like oneself,

In unexpected ways. And then you begin

To discover differences inside the likeness.

You may
feel
insecure, in some ways —

But your insecurity is nothing like mine.

C
OLBY
.
In what way is it different?

L
UCASTA
.
                                          It’s hard to explain.

Perhaps it’s something that your music stands for.

There’s one thing I know. When you first told me

What a disaster it was in your life

When you found that you’d never be a good musician —

Of course,
I
don’t know whether you were right.

For all I can tell, you may have been mistaken,

And perhaps you could be a very great musician:

But that’s not the point. You’d convinced yourself;

And you felt that your life had all collapsed

And that you must learn to do something different.

And so you applied for Eggerson’s position,

And made up your mind to go into business

And be someone like Claude … or B. I was sorry,

Very sorry for you. I admired your courage

In facing facts — or the facts as you saw them.

And yet, all the time, I found I
envied
you

And I didn’t know why! And now I think I know.

It’s awful for a man to have to give up,

A career that he’s set his heart on, I’m sure:

But it’s only the outer world that you’ve lost:

You’ve still got your inner world — a world that’s more real.

That’s why you’re different from the rest of us:

You have your secret garden; to which you can retire

And lock the gate behind you.