DRUM-TRUCK CAME
47
DRUM-MAN. I think I see what you mean now, see but not
feel. You mean you could not know that I would love you too, so
it
took what you call courage. How could you know? You couldn't know.
MARTHA. I didn't. But I knew that you would take me. The
woman in me knew it, that woman that caused me to dress as I
dressed, blue gingham frock and a crisp white apron. That part of me
became all of me, outside woman, ready to act, to seize if I had to.
DRUM-MAN. You won't, of course. I like to love. In the
morning sun.
MARTHA. But I started to. You didn't even ask me why I came,
jumped on the truck, followed you. And so I had to tell you myself.
DRUM-MAN. I didn't have to ask, I didn't care. This is my
world, a world of life, the boom, the fun of it, the joy of blandness
inside and out. The world of outside living man. Anyone can ride on
the truck.
MARTHA. Why did
you
come, you weren't invited. Or did you
know that anyone can ride on the truck?
THE TRAMP. I didn't know or care. The outside people in the
people of your village came out from inside them at the excitement
of the drum. And so I gathered like cloud that wiii soon be rain, that
is
my way. And then you came and your eyes were meadows, fresh
and
green, I followed to wait until they should become tired and wait–
ing
for rain. I loved you and I came.
MARTHA. But I don't love you.
THE TRAMP. The drum-man didn't love you, yet you came.
You had to come.
MARTHA. I never did before.
THE TRAMP. I often have. That's my life. The people of your
village cried out for love, silently saying. And I was awakened and
looked for love. And saw you come and found my love, as you brushed
past me.
MARTHA. But I don't love you, you refuse to consider.
THE TRAMP. I never consider. When I am aroused I love and
live my love.
DRUM-MAN. I never consider, I never act. There
is
nothing
to arouse in me, nothing in reserve, my living
is
too constant. I'm
more concerned with living my life, beating my drum, shining with
my lips like polished apples, smiling with my teeth, my blue-white
eyes. When love comes to me I take it. It always comes.
MARTHA. Then ... there is no future? That should be the
dying, the bird in my throat flying away, the drum in my bosom
should be muffied by that. Somehow, though, I don't seem to care.
I'm more concerned with the roundness of my breasts, the honey
