 Porcelain and Pink by F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Julie read by Holly Bliss. Lois read by J. C. Guan. The young man read by M. B. Narration by Laurie Ann Walden. Introduction. And do you write for any other magazines, inquired the young lady? Oh yes, I assured her. I've had some stories and plays in the smart set, for instance. The young lady shivered. The smart set, she exclaimed. How can you? Why, they publish stuff about girls in blue bathtubs and silly things like that. And I had the magnificent joy of telling her that she was referring to Porcelain and Pink, which had appeared there several months before. End of the introduction. Porcelain and Pink. A room in the downstairs of a summer cottage. High around the wall runs an art freeze of a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet and a ship on a crimson ocean, a fisherman with a pile of nets at his feet, and so on. In one place on the freeze, there is an overlapping. Here we have half a fisherman with half a pile of nets at his foot, crowded damply against half a ship on half a crimson ocean. The freeze is not in the plot, but frankly, it fascinates me. I could continue indefinitely, but I am distracted by one of the two objects in the room, a blue porcelain bathtub. It has character of this bathtub. It is not one of the new racing bodies, but is small with a high tonneau and looks as if it were going to jump. Discouraged, however, by the shortness of its legs, it has submitted to its environment and to its coat of sky blue paint. But it grumpily refuses to allow any patron completely to stretch his legs, which brings us neatly to the second object in the room. It is a girl, clearly an appendage to the bathtub. Only her head and throat. Beautiful girls have throats instead of necks and a suggestion of shoulder appearing above the side. For the first 10 minutes of the play, the audience is engrossed in wondering if she really is playing the game fairly and hasn't any clothes on, or whether it is being cheated and she is dressed. The girl's name is Julie Marvis. From the proud way she sits up in the bathtub, we deduce that she is not very tall and that she carries herself well. When she smiles, her upper lip rolls a little and reminds you of an Easter bunny. She is within whispering distance of 20 years old. One thing more, above and to the right of the bathtub is a window. It is narrow and has a wide sill. It lets in much sunshine, but effectually prevents anyone who looks in from seeing the bathtub. You begin to suspect the plot? We open conventionally enough with a song. But as the startled gasp of the audience quite drowns out the first half, we will give only the last of it. When Caesar did the Chicago, he was a graceful child. Though sacred chickens just raised the chickens, the vestal virgins went wild. Whenever the nerve I got nervy, he gave them an awful rest. They shook in their shoes with the consular blues, the imperial Roman jazz. During the wild applause it follows, Julie modestly moves her arms and makes waves on the surface of the water. At least we suppose she does. Then the door on the left opens and Lois Marvis enters, dressed but carrying garments and towels. Lois is a year older than Julie and is nearly her double in face and voice, but in her clothes and expression are the marks of the conservative. Yes, you've guessed it. Mistaken identity is the old rusty pivot upon which the plot turns. Oh, excuse me. I didn't know you were here. Oh, hello, I'm getting a little concert. Why didn't you lock the door? Didn't I? Of course you didn't. Do you think I just walked through it? I thought you picked the lock, dearest. You're so careless. No, I'm happy as a garbage man's dog and I'm giving a little concert. Grow up. The walls reflect the sound you see. Waving a pink arm around the room. That's why there's something very beautiful about singing in a bathtub. It gives an effective surpassing loveliness. Can I render you a selection? I wish you'd hurry out of the tub. Can't be hurried. Shaking her head thoughtfully. This is my kingdom at present, godliness. Why the mellow name? Because you're next to cleanliness. Don't throw anything, please. How long will you be? Not less than 15 or more than 25 minutes. As a favor to me. Will you make it 10? Oh, godliness. Do you remember a day in the chill of last January when one Julie, famous for her Easter rabbit smile, was going out and there was scarcely any hot water and young Julie had just filled the tub for her own little self when the wicked sister came and did bathe herself therein, forcing the young Julie to perform her ablutions with cold cream, which is expensive and a darn lot of troubles? Then you won't hurry? Why should I? I've got a date. Here at the house. None of your business. Julie shrugs the visible tips of her shoulders and stirs the water into ripples. So be it. Oh, for heaven's sake. Yes, I have a date here at the house, in a way. In a way? He isn't coming in. He's calling for me and we're walking. No, the plot clears. It's that literary Mr. Calkins. I thought you promised mother you wouldn't invite him in. She's so idiotic. She detests him because he's just got a divorce. Of course he's had more experience than I have, but... Don't let her kid you. Experience is the biggest gold brick in the world. All older people have it for sale. I like him. We talk literature. Oh, so that's why I've noticed all these weighty books around the house lately. He lends them to me. Well, you've got to play his game. When in Rome, do as the Romans would like to do. But I'm through with books. I'm all educated. You're very inconsistent. Last summer, you read every day. If I were consistent, I'd still be living on warm milk out of a bottle. Yes, and probably my bottle. But I like Mr. Calkins. I never met him. Well, will you hurry up? Yes. I wait until the water gets tepid and then I let in a little more hot. How interesting. Remember when we used to play soap-o? Yes, and 10 years old. I'm really quite surprised that you don't play it still. I do. I'm going to in a minute. Silly game. No, it isn't. It's good for the nerves. I'll bet you've forgotten how to play it. No, I haven't. You, you get the tub all full of soup suds and then you get up on the edge and slide down. Huh. Shaking her head scornfully. That's only part of it. You've got to slide down without touching your hand or feet. Oh, Lord, what do I care? I wish we'd either stop coming here in the summer or else get a house with two bathtubs. You can buy yourself a little tin one or use the hose. Oh, shut up. Leave the towel. What? Leave the towel when you go. This towel? Yes, I forgot my towel. Why, you idiot. Looking around for the first time. You haven't even a kimono. Oh, why? So I haven't. How did you get here? I guess, I guess I whisked here. You know, a white form whisking down the stairs and... Why, you little wretch. Haven't you any pride or self-respect? Lots of both. I think that proves it. I looked very well. I really am rather cute in my natural state. Well, you? I wish people didn't wear any clothes. I guess I ought to have been a pagan or a native or something. You're a... I dreamt last night that one Sunday in church, a small boy brought in a magnet that attracted cloth. He attracted the clothes right off of everybody, put them in an awful state. People were crying and shrieking and carrying on as if they'd just discovered their skins for the first time. Only I didn't care, so I just laughed. I had to pass the collection plate because nobody else would. Do you mean to tell me that if I hadn't come, you'd have run back to your room un... Unclothed? Our natural is so much nicer. Suppose there had been someone in the living room? There never has been yet. Yet? Good grief. How long? Besides, I usually have a towel. You ought to be spanked. I hope you get caught. I hope there's a dozen ministers in the living room when you come out and their wives and their daughters. There wouldn't be a room for them in the living room answered clean Kate of the Laundry District. All right. You've made your own bathtub. You can lie in it. Lois starts determinately for the door. Hey, hey, I don't care about the kimono, but I want the towel. I can't dry myself on a piece of soap and a wet wash rag. I won't humor such a creature. You'll have to dry yourself the best way you can. You can roll on the floor like the animals do that don't wear any clothes. All right, get out. Huh. Julie turns on the cold water and with her finger directs a parabolic stream at Lois. Lois retires quickly, slamming the door after her. Julie laughs and turns off the water. When the arrow-collar man meets the jerkest girl on the smokeless Santa Fe, her Pepeko smile, her Lucille style, de-dum-da-de-dum, one day, mm-hmm. She changes to a whistle and leans forward to turn on the taps, but is startled by three loud banging noises in the pipes. Silence for a moment. Then she puts her mouth down near the spigot as if it were a telephone. Hello? No answer. Are you a plumber? Are you the water department? One loud hollow bang. What do you want? I believe you're a ghost. Are you? Well then, stop banging. She reaches out and turns on the warm tap. No water flows. Again, she puts her mouth down close to the spigot. If you're the plumber, that's a mean trick. Turn it on for a fellow. Two loud hollow bangs. Don't argue. I want water. Water, water. A young man's head appears in the window, a head decorated with a slim mustache and sympathetic eyes. These last stare, and though they can see nothing but many fishermen with nets and much crimson ocean, they decide him to speak. Someone fainted. Jumping cats. Water's no good for Fitz. Fitz, who said anything about Fitz? You said something about a cat jumping. I did not. Well, we can talk it over later. Are you ready to go out? Or do you still feel that if you go with me just now, everybody will gossip? Would they? It'd be more than gossip. It'd be a regular scandal. Here, you're going in a little strong. Your family might be somewhat disgruntled, but to the pure, all things are suggestive. No one else would even give it a thought except a few old women. Come on. You don't know what you ask. Do you imagine we'd have a crowd following us? A crowd? There'd be a special all steel buffet train leaving New York hourly. Say, are you house cleaning? Why? I see all the pictures are off the walls. Why, we never have pictures in this room. Aw, I'd never heard of a room without pictures or tapestry or paddling or something. There's not even any furniture in here. What a strange house. It depends on the angle you see it from. It's so nice talking to you like this when you're merely a voice. I'm rather glad I can't see you. So am I. What color are you wearing? Why? After a critical survey of her shoulders. I guess it's a sort of pinkish white. Is it becoming to you? Very. It's old. I've had it for a long while. I thought you hated old clothes. I do, but this was a birthday present and I sort of have to wear it. Pinkish white? Well, I'll bet it's divine. Is it in style? Quite. It's a very simple standard model. What a voice you have. How it echoes. Sometimes I shut my eyes and seem to see you in a far desert island calling for me. And I plunge toward you through the surf, hearing you call as you stand there, water stretching on both sides of you. The soap slips from the side of the tub and splashes in. The young man blinks. What was that? Did I dream it? Yes. You're... You're very poetic, aren't you? No, I do prose. I do verse only when I am stirred. Sturred by a spoon? I have always loved poetry. I can remember to this day the first poem I ever learned by heart. It was Evangeline. That's a fib. Did I say Evangeline? I meant the skeleton in armor. I'm a lowbrow, but I can remember my first poem. It had one verse. Parker and Davis sitting on a fence, trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Are you growing fond of literature? If it's not too ancient or complicated or depressing. Same way with people. I usually like them not too ancient or complicated or depressing. Of course I've read enormously. You told me last night that you were very fond of Walter Scott. Let's see. Yes, I've read Ivanhoe and The Last of the Mohicans. That's by Cooper. Ivanhoe is? You're crazy. I guess I know. I read it. The Last of the Mohicans is by Cooper. What do I care? I like O'Henry. I don't see how he ever wrote those stories. Most of them he wrote in prison. The ballot of Reading Jail he made up in prison. Literature, literature. How much it has meant to me. Well, as Gaby Desley said to Mr. Bergson, with my looks in your brains there's nothing we couldn't do. You certainly are hard to keep up with. One day you're awfully pleasant and the next you're in a mood. If I didn't understand your temperament so well. Oh, you're one of these amateur character-readers, are you? Size people up in five minutes and then look wise whenever they're mentioned. I hate that sort of thing. I don't boast of sizing you up. You're most mysterious, I'll admit. There's only two mysterious people in history. Who are they? The man with the iron mask and the fellow who says, Ugg, a glug, a glug, a glug when the line is busy. You are mysterious. I love you. You're beautiful, intelligent and virtuous and that's the rarest known combination. You're a historian. Tell me if there are any bathtubs in history. I think they've been frightfully neglected. Bathtubs? Let's see. Ugg, well, Agamemnon was stabbed in his bathtub and Charlotte Corday stabbed Marat in his bathtub. Way back there. Nothing new besides the sun is there. Why, only yesterday I picked up a musical comedy score that must have been at least twenty years old and there on the cover it said, the shimmies of Normandy, but shimmy was spelled the old way with a C. I loathe those modern dances. Oh, Lois, I wish I could see you. Come to the window. There is a loud bang in the water pipe and suddenly the flow starts from the open taps. Julie turns them off quickly. What on earth was that? I heard something too. Sounded like running water. Didn't it? Strange like it. As a matter of fact, I was filling the goldfish bowl. What was that banging noise? One of the fish snapping his golden jaws. Lois, I love you. I am not a mundane man, but I am a forger. Oh, how fascinating. A forger ahead. Lois, I want you. What you really want is for the world to come to attention and stand there till you give rest. Lois, I... Lois, I... He stops as Lois opens the door, comes in and bangs it behind her. She looks peevishly at Julie and then suddenly catches sight of the young man in the window. Mr. Colkins. Why, I thought you said you were wearing pinkish white. After one despairing stare, Lois shrieks, throws up her hands in surrender and sinks to the floor. Good Lord, she's fainted. I'll be right in. Julie's eyes light on the towel which is slipped from Lois's inert hand. In that case, I'll be right out. She puts her hands on the side of the tub to lift herself out and a murmur, half gasp, half sigh, ripples from the audience. A belasco midnight comes quickly down and blots out the stage. Curtain, End of Porcelain in Pink by F. Scott Fitzgerald.