In the Next Room (or the vibrator play)

First Scene

Two weeks or so later.

Dr. Givings and Leo,

in the operating theater.

And then she left, very abruptly, for Italy.

It was a terrible shock.

I had been studying in Florence for the year. They are exacting masters over there—the line must be just so—the proportion just so—there is no freedom—you sharpen your pencil with a knife, as Leonardo sharpened his pencil. It was heaven. Not to have freedom. No freedom in art, but in life, life! The peaches there tasted like peaches, the rain like rain. I met the woman in question in Florence. A very beautiful woman. (I know. No one ever said: I fell in love with a woman in Italy—a very ugly woman.) But she was beautiful. Perhaps not classically, but never mind . . . We met at the Uffizi. She was looking at the sculptures with no embarrassment, no embarrassment at all. I painted her face all summer. When she kissed she kissed with her whole body, not like American women who kiss only with their lips.

You are perhaps shocked, Doctor, that I kissed her before marriage. I am a devotee of nature and I wished to avoid the fate of my boyhood friend. On his wedding night he was repulsed by his wife’s body. He said, when she disrobed for the first time, he saw something monstrous. What, what? I asked. She had body hair, he said, down there! Like a beast! You see, he had seen the female form only in marble statues—no body hair! You are a scientist, that must amuse you.

What men do not observe because their intellect prevents them from seeing would fill many books.

What happened to your friend?

He is now a very famous art critic.

His marriage went unconsummated for three years and was then anulled. I did not wish such a fate for myself, and so, while lips were willing and free and soft, I kissed them. Oh yes, I kissed them.

She did not come from a good family and her English was not very good but I did not care. Her soul lept out of her eyes. When I painted her I felt I could paint souls. Her soul hovered, just here, and I could see it. (He gestures to a place about two inches from the eyes.) So when I painted I painted two inches away from the eyes, not the eyes themselves—it was a revelation!—I digress.

Mrs. Givings enters the other room and arranges tea things.

She journeyed with me to England to meet my parents, to announce the engagement. And then, the following morning, she fled. Back to Italy! No word, no letter! No answer to my inquiries! Nothing! And my whole body revolted against me. Headaches, eyesight, weakness, nausea . . .

And this weakness has persisted, for, what—?

In your extremities?

Yes. But the weakness in my eyes is perhaps the worst, because of my inability to paint.

So you haven’t painted for nine months?

You can’t paint in the dark.

It is very rare, a case of hysteria in a man, but of course we do see it.

Is it treatable?

I believe it is. I’d like you to undress to your underthings and lie down on the table. Annie, my assistant, will be in shortly.

Elizabeth enters the living room with the baby.

I did not know there would be a lady in attendance.

She is the soul of tact and reserve.

Leo undresses.

Meanwhile, in the living room:

(To Elizabeth) Was she a good eater?

Thank you, Elizabeth.

I think that babies are angels when they drink only milk, that first year. They could fly right back to where they came from, to the milk in the clouds. When they get teeth it is the beginning of the end, they become animals and there’s no going back.

But this one’s still an angel, no teeth.

Elizabeth touches the baby’s cheek.

The baby smiles.

Mrs. Givings is jealous.

That will be all now, Elizabeth.

I’ll just get my things.

Elizabeth exits to the nursery.

Leo is now undressed and Dr. Givings enters the operating theater.

Annie drapes a sheet over Leo.

Mrs. Givings alone with the baby, in the living room.

You were smiling for Elizabeth.

(Singing quietly to the baby)

You raise the blinds in the morning

And I like to close them at night

Together we sleep near the birdhouse

And forget the electrical light.

In the operating theater:

This, Leo, is what I call the Chattanooga vibrator. My own invention.

It slips into the anal cavity.

Just face that direction, and curl up a bit, hugging your knees into your chest.

Annie will just operate the foot pedal which controls the speed. It functions—much like a sewing machine.

Dr. Givings plugs the vibrator in.

We are going to stimulate the prostate gland. Are you ready?

He puts the vibrator down Leo’s underthings.

Annie assists.

Leo looks troubled.

Leo looks shocked.

Leo has an anal paroxysm.

Mrs. Givings goes to the door—a man’s voice?

Excellent! I think we can stop now for the day.

How are you feeling?

Would you like a cup of tea?

I would love a cup of tea.

Dr. Givings enters the living room.

Hello, darling. How is work?

A new patient. An interesting case. Very rare.

How did you know?

I heard a man’s voice.

I did not know the door was quite so porous.

But why would a man come to see you?

Hysteria is very rare in a man, but then again, he is an artist.

Perhaps you should take the baby for a walk, so that you don’t chance running into him.

I believe the baby is still hungry—I’ll just go and find Elizabeth.

She exits with the baby. Dr. Givings pours tea.

Meanwhile Leo has gotten dressed with Annie’s assistance.

(Looking at the vibrator) How odd.

Dr. Givings enters and hands Leo tea.

I’ll see you tomorrow. I believe daily sessions will be best at this early stage.

Feel free to use the grounds.

Excellent. Thank you, Doctor.

Leo hesitates, befuddled.

Of course. See you tomorrow then.

Yes, yes, of course.

Leo enters the living room at the exact moment that Mrs. Givings enters without the baby.

You are the doctor’s wife?

I am. He seldom has men here. What a rare treat to make your acquaintance!

She looks at him, puzzled, remembering her own experience with the vibrator and wondering how on earth it is used on men.

Leonard Irving.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Irving.

He kisses her hand.

So old fashioned.

I’m afraid everyone goes around these days saying: I am a modern man, I am a modern woman, it’s the modern age, after all. But I detest modernity.

Do you! How contrary. Are you a very contrary person?

Some might say so.

The cut of your coat is very old fashioned.

It’s my father’s old coat. I can’t be bothered with the cut of a coat. I throw on whatever my father leaves for rags.

Leo looks at the lamp and squints.

Is the lamp too much for your eyes?

The light has troubled me greatly for the past nine months, but I feel better presently.

She shuts the lamp off.

When Edison’s light came out, they were all saying, my God!—light like the sunset of an Italian autumn . . . no smoke, no odor, a light without flame, without danger!* But to me, Mrs. Givings, a light without flame isn’t divine—a light without flame—is like—

I hardly know you. I would offend your feminine sensibilities.

Oh, no need to be shy around me, I just blurt anything out.

Well, then light without flame is like having relations with a prostitute. No flame of love or desire, only the outer trappings of— the act. And without love—without the mental quickening—the eyes—the blood—without the heart—or intellect—bodies are meat. Meat and bone and levers and technicalities.

Well perhaps you were right. Perhaps you ought not to have said.

Not that I’ve ever known any prostitutes—intimately—

(Overlapping with intimacy) I wasn’t implying—

It’s only a metaphor—

It is awkward.

They sit there, in the gathering darkness.

I love this time of afternoon, when the world is becoming dark, and you can see outside your window—lights in the neighboring windows coming on. One yellow—one almost white—little squares of light, other people’s lives—sheltered against the night, so hopeful. Ridiculous, isn’t it, to have so much hope, to think a little square of light could blot out the darkness—and yet—another comes on—and see—

He brings her to the window and shows her.

Yes—one—then two—

Look—there—another window lit—golden—the rest of the house dark—an incomplete painting. I love incomplete paintings—why do painters always insist upon finishing paintings? It’s unaccountable—life is not like that!

And the ones Michelangelo never finished—do you know them?—ghosts of lines hovering in the background. Have you ever seen Virgin and Child with the Angels?

I have never been to Italy.

Oh you must go, and upon arrival, you must go directly to see that painting—the incomplete lines of God—they cannot be filled in because they would be too beautiful, they would shock the senses, and so they are almost there—women or angels—exchanging confidences—coming into being. A woman who is two-thirds done is nearer to God! A young woman on the verge of knowing herself is the most attractive thing on this earth to a man for this very reason.

Do you think so?

They sit for a moment in the dark.

The doorbell rings.

Mrs. Givings jumps

and answers the door.

It is Mrs. Daldry.

Hello. Am I early? I think that I am early.

I have just made the acquaintance of Mr. Irving.

Pleased to meet you.

But you are in the dark.

Mrs. Givings switches on the lamp.

Leo is riveted by Mrs. Daldry’s fragile beauty in the light.

I must go. A thousand paintings. That is to say—a thousand apologies, as it were, for my rudeness at leaving so suddenly, I now have a thousand paintings to make. A bolt from the blue! I must order a new canvas. Several. Immediately. Good-bye.

He runs out the door.

What an interesting young man.

Mrs. Givings makes sure they are alone.

Mrs. Daldry, I have been wanting to speak to you ever since our adventure with the hat pin. You told me that you saw light when my husband treats you, and then you got drowsy and wanted to sleep. Well, I had such different sensations I wonder if it can be the same instrument at all. I was not the least bit drowsy afterwards. In fact, I was overcome by the desire to walk, or run, or climb a tree! How could one device cause such opposite reactions. Perhaps it is because I am well and you are ill.

I do not know. I have been so worried that your husband might find out and get upset with us and suspend the treatment.

I do not care. I am determined to use the device again and unlock the mystery as to why it makes you drowsy and makes me very excitable. Why, I feel like a scientist!

Dr. Givings enters.

Ah, Mrs. Daldry, Mrs. Givings. We are ready for you in the next room.

Dr. Givings shoots a look at Mrs. Givings for speaking with his patient. He guides Mrs. Daldry to the operating theater.

Right this way.

Looking well, looking well. Your appetite has improved, no?

I daresay it has.

They go into the operating theater.

Mrs. Givings watches them go.

The doorbell rings.

Mrs. Givings answers it.

I’m sorry, I forgot my scarf.

I left in such a state.

I am very glad you have returned, Mr. Irving. I am all by myself as Mrs. Daldry has gone in to get electrical therapy and I, the wife, am left to my own devices. As it were.

I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Givings.

Have some more tea.

I don’t want to impose.

You’ll have to wait for them to finish before you can retrieve your scarf. Sit.

No thank you. Sugar is for women and small fat boys.

In the operating theater:

Dr. Givings plugs in the vibrator while Mrs. Daldry gets undressed.

The sound of the vibrator. Leo and Mrs. Givings talk over it.

It’s fine weather we’re having for November.

Yes. Though dark.

Yes, it is dark.

Mrs. Daldry moans from the other room.

Leo speaks more loudly.

Dark so early. Dark and the trees so tall and naked. I think November is the tallest month because when the trees have lost their leaves they look so much taller. Tall in a—lonely way.

Mrs. Daldry moans.

Yes—November is a tall month—October is a round month—April is a—skinny month—

Oh do stop talking of the seasons!

We talk, we talk, and we surround ourselves with plants, with teapots, with little statuettes to give ourselves a feeling of home, of permanency, as if with enough heavy objects, perhaps the world won’t shatter into a million pieces, perhaps the house will not fly away, but I experienced something the other day, Mr. Irving, something to shatter a statuette, to shatter an elephant. Here is my riddle: what is a thing that can put a man to death and also bring him back to life again. Will you answer?

No. Electricity.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Daldry has a loud paroxysm in the next room.

Very good, Mrs. Daldry.

Leo and Mrs. Givings look at each other.

Elizabeth enters with her coat.

She ate again and now she’s sleeping. I never had a girl. When she eats, she eats so quietly, so politely, not like my boys, who were ravenous.

Why thank you Elizabeth.

You are the baby’s nurse?

(To Leo) Oh, excuse me, I did not see you—I would not have spoken of—Yes, I am the baby’s nurse.

I should like to paint you nursing the baby.

That would not be—

A Madonna for our times. A Madonna after the Civil War—

Oh dear, have I displeased you?

You’ll have to excuse us, Elizabeth, the men in my household are very unorthodox, artists and scientists don’t care at all about convention, do they?

Since your husband has been treating me, I feel full of the most wild creative energies. I could paint all night, and everyone seems full of beauty. You, Elizabeth, are beautiful and you ought to be in a painting.

I’ve never had a man in the room when I’ve nursed a baby. My husband of course has seen me nurse my own but that is different.

I would pay you handsomely. And during your regular work hours, just triple the salary, and pretend I am not there while you work.

Triple the salary?

Yes. I cannot imagine she pays you very much for your services.

Mr. Irving, really—

I will pay you ten dollars an hour for your services.

Elizabeth and Mrs. Givings look at each other, shocked. (Ten dollars was the equivalent of one hundred and seventy-five dollars or so.)

I will sit for you. But do not tell my husband and please disguise my features. And so that nothing would seem improper, I would like Mrs. Givings to sit in the room with us.

You must have a beautiful dress to wear, or a robe. Have you a dressing gown we could borrow?

It must be something that will allow the breast out, so that she may give suck.

Mrs. Givings is shocked.

Mrs. Daldry and Dr. Givings enter.

Hello, Leo. I do not like that my patients should be scheduled so that they meet up—I’m so sorry—

I left my scarf.

Ah, go right ahead and get it, we are finished.

(To Leo) Hello.

The doorbell rings. It is Mr. Daldry.

Hello, Mr. Daldry.

I will just fetch my scarf.

In the other room Leo looks at the vibrating machine. He wonders how it might be used on a woman.

You are looking well, Mrs. Daldry. You looked well this morning but you have even more color in your cheeks now.

Isn’t the improvement amazing?

Indeed! I think she might be ready to stop treatments.

I think that would be premature. I am not cured yet.

But much improved.

You are a magician, Doctor.

Leo enters the living room.

I’d forgotten my scarf.

Pleased to meet you.

I am glad you found your scarf. It’s snowing.

Indeed. I brought your mackintosh, my dear.

Thank you, Doctor.

I will follow you out, we can all walk together.

Mrs. Daldry, Mr. Daldry, Elizabeth and Leo leave.

Dr. Givings shuts the door.

Mrs. Givings looks disquieted.

I think we ought to let Elizabeth go.

Letitia is blooming and rosy and positively fat.

I think Elizabeth is becoming attached to the baby.

You want her to give love to the baby but not too much love.

I shall never understand women.

I am still leaking bits of gray milk. It is as though my body is crying.

Oh, darling. You’ll be back to normal in no time. And it’s good for you to give up nursing, we can have another child more quickly.

Another child! I can harldly—!

She won’t even look at me!

She won’t smile at me!

I am not a good mother. I do nothing! I pour the tea!

I wish you to use your machine on me.

Darling, it’s for women who are ill. It would probably have no effect on you at all, as you’re perfectly healthy.

I am not healthy. I feel restless, and excitable, and I cry at the smallest thing. You help countless other women but me, your wife, you pat on the head.

What is the matter?

She knows where to get comfort and love, and it is not from me.

You are her mother!

Milk is comfort, milk is love.

How will she learn to love me?

You do seem to be suffering, perhaps from the excess fluid of milk. I can perhaps try the treatment on you although it makes me nervous. But don’t go round telling your friends. It must not get out in the scientific community that I am treating my own wife.

I haven’t any other patients for an hour.

Now that you’ve given way I feel quite frightened.

There’s nothing to be frightened of, darling, come along, I’ll show you.

He leads her to the operating theater.

First you undress to your underthings. I shall turn around.

Do all the women undress to their underthings?

It’s medicine, my love.

She starts to undress and realizes there are too many buttons in the back.

I can’t do this bit without your help.

He helps her with the buttons and then turns around again, a gentleman.

Is that all right?

She finishes undressing herself.

He plugs in the vibrator.

Don’t be alarmed.

Just lie down and relax.

Are you quite comfortable?

He holds the vibrator to her private parts, his face impassive.

Electricity is not to be feared—it is harnessed from nature. I remember, when I was a child, I was stroking the cat’s back one day and was startled to see sparks rising up out of her fur. My father said, this is nothing but electricity, the same thing you see on the trees in a storm. My mother seemed alarmed. Stop stroking the cat. You might start a fire. I kept on stroking the cat. I thought: is nature a cat? If so, who strokes its back? God?*

(With some difficulty speaking) And what did you determine?

Is that too much pressure?

Kiss me, darling, kiss me.

No, kiss me now.

Kiss me and hold the instrument there, just there, at the same time.

Darling, no—that would be—

I don’t care, do it, do it, I have been longing to kiss someone. Like this.

She kisses him passionately and puts the vibrator back on her private parts.

This is what I feared. In a sick woman the device restores balance, but in a healthy woman it makes you excitable and perhaps even causes some perverse kind of onanism.

What is onanism?

I am relieved that you do not know. I’m afraid the experiment was not a success dear.

And I say it was a success! Kiss me, kiss me now!

He kisses her politely.

This is inadequate! You are inadequate! Oh, God!

She has not yet had a paroxysm. He takes the vibrator away from her.

I made a terrible mistake bringing you into the operating theater. Men of science should never mix their family lives and their medical lives. It was my mistake, my darling, and we will both forget about it.

He unplugs the vibrator.

Now I want you to go upstairs and take a nap.

She dresses and Dr. Givings helps her with the innumerable buttons.

I shall take a walk. Will you help me on with this—for God’s sake why does it have so many buttons?

There are quite a lot of buttons.

I could walk walk walk all night in the snow.

Is it snowing out?

You didn’t notice the first snow? My God. When I first met you and was nothing more than a girl I wrote my name in the snow outside your window—I would have done anything for you to notice me—you were older, and seemed so wise, so calm—and so marvelously indifferent to me. I don’t know if you ever saw—it melted—no matter, if you saw my name in the snow all you’d see was a natural substance—

I’m afraid you’ve done up the buttons wrong.

He starts doing the buttons over again.

It was an unnecessary gesture, childish, a name in the snow, but a gift must be unnecessary—for it to be good—but you want it to be useful, you wouldn’t say—well, it’s useless—but you made it for me alone. And so it will never melt. It will exist for all time. Uuugh—how ridiculous I sound. My hat please.

She is dressed.

I made a very bad mistake today and I am sorry.

He tries to touch her.

She leaves the operating theater.

She leaves the house without her coat, hat or mittens.

Take your wrap! It’s cold!

Did you really write your name in the snow?

Dr. Givings, alone.

He washes up, resigned.

He splashes his face with water.

He looks at the water, and becomes entranced. Fascinated, inspired.

Annie appears.

Can you take this down? I have suddenly thought up a new invention.

She takes notes.

A vibrator made of water! The healing power of water, married to a great electrical force—could be—my goodness, revolutionary. The patient would experience a calming effect from the water, even as she has a release from the pressure, revitalizing the circulation. It could be used on patients who are prone to excitability—like my wife—that is to say—we will need twenty feet of copper piping right away, can you order it from the hardware store as soon as possible?

Dr. Givings tries to work out with his hands in the air how his invention would work.

Mrs. Givings reenters the living room with Leo.

They are laughing and their faces are flushed.

How glad I am that I found you!

You might have caught a terrible fever making snow angels without your coat—you looked like a fallen angel.

Did I? Oh, I am cold, but the cold feels marvelous, I feel awake, my skin is tingling.

I must paint you like this.

Leo—Mr. Irving—I must ask you—I know it is not proper—but I do not care today, I do not care at all—when you receive the treatment from my husband, where does he put it? The instrument?

I do not think your husband would like me to say, he would only speak of it in Latin or in Greek.

Well, I only know English. Can you show me on my person?

Er—no. I may be an artist but I am also a gentleman.

There is no such thing. Which is it, Mr. Irving? Do you dare to be an artist, or a gentleman?

She moves toward him.

He moves away.

Look at the snow, out the window. Do you not think, Mrs. Givings, that snow is always kind? Because it has to fall slowly, to meet the ground slowly, or the eyelash slowly—And things that meet each other slowly are kind.

You are changing the subject.

Meet me slowly, like snow.

She puts her hand on his cheek, slowly.

I cannot bear it.

Dr. Givings enters the living room, yelling for Annie:

Wait—Annie—we’ll also need ten copper valves—

He sees his wife’s hand on Leo’s cheek.

Had a good walk I trust?

Mrs. Givings takes her hand from Leo’s cheek.

I discovered your wife in the snow with no coat and insisted upon walking her home to warm her up before she caught a fever.

Then you did me a very great service, Mr. Irving.

Good-bye, Dr. Givings, Mrs. Givings.

Dr. Givings turns to his wife.

Was your hand on his cheek?

And do you mind very much?

A pause, he considers.

It is odd—for some husbands such things end in a screaming match or even in death, one hand on a cheek. It has come to mean an absolute thing: the end of a book, those dreadful Mrs. Bovary books—but how can it be absolute when there are so many shades and degrees of love? Lady novelists like for it to be a tragedy—because it means that the affair mattered, mattered terribly—but it doesn’t, it needn’t.

The writer of Madame Bovary was not a woman.

He was French, which is much the same thing.

You dare to make a joke about the French—at this moment? Most men would be—pale with rage!

Pale with rage, exactly, in a sentimental novel. My point is: this is not the end of the book. You made a mistake, that is all. The treatment I gave you made you excitable. It is my fault. A hand on the cheek, these are muscles, skin, facts. It needn’t mean that one is preferred absolutely, or that one isn’t loved. So why then jealousy? My darling, I don’t mind.

Oh. I had hoped that you would mind.

She storms out of the room. Dr. Givings is left alone.

He follows after her.

Don’t talk to me tonight, don’t talk to me tomorrow! I will take breakfast in my own room!

A door slamming.

A song on the piano.