Documentos de Académico
Documentos de Profesional
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Language: English
CONTENTS:
First Series:
The Silver Box
Joy
Strife
Second Series:
The Eldest Son
The Little Dream
Justice
Third Series:
The Fugitive
The Pigeon
The Mob
Fourth Series:
A Bit O' Love
The Foundations
The Skin Game
Fifth Series:
A Family Man
Loyalties
Windows
FIRST SERIES:
TIME: The present. The action of the first two Acts takes place on
Easter Tuesday; the action of the third on Easter Wednesday week.
ACT I.
SCENE I. Rockingham Gate. John Barthwick's dining-room.
SCENE II. The same.
SCENE III. The same.
ACT II.
SCENE I. The Jones's lodgings, Merthyr Street.
SCENE II. John Barthwick's dining-room.
ACT I
SCENE I
[He lurches through the door and down a corridor, and presently
returns, followed by JONES, who is advanced in liquor. JONES,
about thirty years of age, has hollow cheeks, black circles
round his eyes, and rusty clothes: He looks as though he might
be unemployed, and enters in a hang-dog manner.]
JACK. Sh! sh! sh! Don't you make a noise, whatever you do. Shu'
the door, an' have a drink. [Very solemnly.] You helped me to open
the door--I 've got nothin, for you. This is my house. My father's
name's Barthwick; he's Member of Parliament--Liberal Member of
Parliament: I've told you that before. Have a drink! [He pours out
whisky and drinks it up.] I'm not drunk [Subsiding on a sofa.]
Tha's all right. Wha's your name? My name's Barthwick, so's my
father's; I'm a Liberal too--wha're you?
Wha' I was goin' tell you was--I 've had a row with her. [He waves
the reticule.] Have a drink, Jonessh 'd never have got in without
you--tha 's why I 'm giving you a drink. Don' care who knows I've
scored her off. Th' cat! [He throws his feet up on the sofa.]
Don' you make a noise, whatever you do. You pour out a drink--you
make yourself good long, long drink--you take cigarette--you take
anything you like. Sh'd never have got in without you. [Closing
his eyes.] You're a Tory--you're a Tory Socialist. I'm Liberal
myself--have a drink--I 'm an excel'nt chap.
[His head drops back. He, smiling, falls asleep, and JONES
stands looking at him; then, snatching up JACK's glass, he
drinks it off. He picks the reticule from off JACK'S
shirt-front, holds it to the light, and smells at it.]
JONES. Been on the tiles and brought 'ome some of yer cat's fur.
[He stuffs it into JACK's breast pocket.]
JONES. Fat lot o' things they've got 'ere! [He sees the crimson
purse lying on the floor.] More cat's fur. Puss, puss! [He
fingers it, drops it on the tray, and looks at JACK.] Calf! Fat
calf! [He sees his own presentment in a mirror. Lifting his hands,
with fingers spread, he stares at it; then looks again at JACK,
clenching his fist as if to batter in his sleeping, smiling face.
Suddenly he tilts the rest o f the whisky into the glass and drinks
it. With cunning glee he takes the silver box and purse and pockets
them.] I 'll score you off too, that 's wot I 'll do!
[He gives a little snarling laugh and lurches to the door. His
shoulder rubs against the switch; the light goes out. There is
a sound as of a closing outer door.]
SCENE II
In the BARTHWICK'S dining-room. JACK is still asleep; the
morning light is coming through the curtains. The time is
half-past eight. WHEELER, brisk person enters with a dust-pan,
and MRS. JONES more slowly with a scuttle.
WHEELER. Why don't you get him locked up? You'll never have any
peace until you get him locked up. If I were you I'd go to the
police court tomorrow. That's what I would do.
WHEELER. Well, if you won't take any steps you 'll never get rid of
him.
MRS. JONES. Of course it's very wearing to me; I don't get my sleep
at nights. And it 's not as if I were getting help from him,
because I have to do for the children and all of us. And he throws
such dreadful things up at me, talks of my having men to follow me
about. Such a thing never happens; no man ever speaks to me. And
of course, it's just the other way. It's what he does that's wrong
and makes me so unhappy. And then he 's always threatenin' to cut
my throat if I leave him. It's all the drink, and things preying on
his mind; he 's not a bad man really. Sometimes he'll speak quite
kind to me, but I've stood so much from him, I don't feel it in me
to speak kind back, but just keep myself to myself. And he's all
right with the children too, except when he's not himself.
MRS. JONES. [At last, in her soft voice.] He does n't look quite
himself.
[She goes.]
MARLOW. Not the first time, and won't be the last. Looked a bit
dicky, eh, Mrs. Jones?
MRS. JONES. He did n't look quite himself. Of course I did n't
take notice.
MRS. JONES. As a rule, Mr. Marlow, he goes out early every morning
looking for work, and sometimes he comes in fit to drop--and of
course I can't say he does n't try to get it, because he does.
Trade's very bad. [She stands quite still, her fan and brush before
her, at the beginning and the end of long vistas of experience,
traversing them with her impersonal eye.] But he's not a good
husband to me--last night he hit me, and he was so dreadfully
abusive.
MARLOW. Bank 'oliday, eh! He 's too fond of the "Goat and Bells,"
that's what's the matter with him. I see him at the corner late
every night. He hangs about.
MRS. JONES. He gets to feeling very low walking about all day after
work, and being refused so often, and then when he gets a drop in
him it goes to his head. But he shouldn't treat his wife as he
treats me. Sometimes I 've had to go and walk about at night, when
he wouldn't let me stay in the room; but he's sorry for it
afterwards. And he hangs about after me, he waits for me in the
street; and I don't think he ought to, because I 've always been a
good wife to him. And I tell him Mrs. Barthwick wouldn't like him
coming about the place. But that only makes him angry, and he says
dreadful things about the gentry. Of course it was through me that
he first lost his place, through his not treating me right; and
that's made him bitter against the gentry. He had a very good place
as groom in the country; but it made such a stir, because of course
he did n't treat me right.
MRS. JONES. Yes; his employer said he couldn't keep him, because
there was a great deal of talk; and he said it was such a bad
example. But it's very important for me to keep my work here; I
have the three children, and I don't want him to come about after me
in the streets, and make a disturbance as he sometimes does.
[He searches for the silver box; he looks at MRS. JONES, who is
sweeping on her hands and knees; he checks himself and stands
reflecting. From the tray he picks two half-smoked cigarettes,
and reads the name on them.]
WHEELER. No.
MARLOW. Well, it's gone. I put it on the tray last night. And
he's been smoking. [Showing her the ends of cigarettes.] It's not
in these pockets. He can't have taken it upstairs this morning!
Have a good look in his room when he comes down. Who's been in
here?
[MRS. JONES goes out with pan and brush. MARLOW and WHEELER
look each other in the face.]
MARLOW. You wait a bit, and see if it don't turn up. Suspicion's
no business of ours. I set my mind against it.
SCENE III
BARTHWICK. [From behind his paper.] The Labour man has got in at
the by-election for Barnside, my dear.
BARTHWICK. Want what we've got! [He stares into space.] My dear,
what are you talking about? [With a contortion.] I 'm no alarmist.
BARTHWICK. What!
MRS. BARTHWICK. Toast? I quite agree with what this man says:
Education is simply ruining the lower classes. It unsettles them,
and that's the worst thing for us all. I see an enormous difference
in the manner of servants.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Come, John, you know Jack did n't mean anything; he
only thought he was overdrawing. I still think his bank ought to
have cashed that cheque. They must know your position.
JACK. [Sulkily.] Well, I can't help having your name, father! [He
reads the letter, and mutters.] Brutes!
BARTHWICK. If you hadn't had me to come to, where would you have
been? It's the merest accident--suppose you had been the son of a
poor man or a clerk. Obtaining money with a cheque you knew your
bank could not meet. It might have ruined you for life. I can't
see what's to become of you if these are your principles. I never
did anything of the sort myself.
JACK. I expect you always had lots of money. If you've got plenty
of money, of course----
BARTHWICK. It's not material. The question is, do you feel the
gravity of what you did?
JACK. I don't know about the gravity. Of course, I 'm very sorry
if you think it was wrong. Have n't I said so! I should never have
done it at all if I had n't been so jolly hard up.
BARTHWICK. How much of that forty pounds have you got left, Jack?
BARTHWICK. What?
MRS. BARTHWICK. I'm so sorry. Come with me; dear; I'll give you
something that will take it away at once.
MARLOW. No sir.
BARTHWICK. In the hall? How do you know she's not a thief--not got
designs on the house?
UNKNOWN. Oh! but I must see him--I 've come on purpose--[She bursts
out nervously.] I don't want to make any fuss, but the fact is,
last--last night your son took away--he took away my [She stops.]
UNKNOWN. I don't care about the reticule; it's not that I want--I
'm sure I don't want to make any fuss--[her face is quivering]--but
--but--all my money was in it!
UNKNOWN. Oh! well, you see, he was n't quite I mean he was
BARTHWICK. [Pressing the bell.] May I ask how you knew this house?
Did he give you his name and address?
[He glances at this unknown lady, who stands with eyes cast
down, twisting her hands And suddenly Jack appears. He stops
on seeing who is here, and the unknown lady hysterically
giggles. There is a silence.]
UNKNOWN. But you took it; you know you did. You said you'd score
me off.
BARTHWICK. Yes, why did you take the beastly----[He turns abruptly
to the window.]
UNKNOWN. [With her mesmeric smile.] You were n't quite were you?
JACK. I'll go and have a look, but I really don't think I 've got
it.
JACK. [Clasping his head.] But I can't give you what I have n't
got. Don't I tell you I have n't a beastly cent.
BARTHWICK. So this is the way that forty pounds has gone! One
thing after another! Once more I should like to know where you 'd
have been if it had n't been for me! You don't seem to have any
principles. You--you're one of those who are a nuisance to society;
you--you're dangerous! What your mother would say I don't know.
Your conduct, as far as I can see, is absolutely unjustifiable.
It's--it's criminal. Why, a poor man who behaved as you've done
--d' you think he'd have any mercy shown him? What you want is a good
lesson. You and your sort are--[he speaks with feeling]--a nuisance
to the community. Don't ask me to help you next time. You're not
fit to be helped.
MARLOW. I put the box out with the whisky last night, sir, but this
morning I can't find it anywhere.
JACK. Did you look in my room?
MARLOW. Yes, sir; I've looked all over the house. I found two
Nestor ends in the tray this morning, so you must have been smokin'
last night, sir. [Hesitating.] I 'm really afraid some one's
purloined the box.
BARTHWICK. Was the house all right this morning? None of the
windows open?
JACK. Tst!
[To JACK.] Go and ask your mother if she's had it; ask her to look
and see if she's missed anything else.
BARTHWICK. This Mrs. Jones--how long has she been working here?
MARLOW. I don't know much about her, sir; seems a very quiet,
respectable woman.
MARLOW. No, sir, she's not, sir. I should say, sir, that Mrs.
Jones seems a very honest----
[MARLOW goes out, his face concerned; and BARTHWICK stays, his
face judicial and a little pleased, as befits a man conducting
an inquiry. MRS. BARTHWICK and hey son come in.]
MRS. JONES. [Soft, and even, unemphatic.] Good morning, sir! Good
morning, ma'am!
MRS. JONES. No, sir; of course he's not in work just now.
MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's not earning anything just now, sir.
MRS. JONES. Three children; but of course they don't eat very much
sir. [A little silence.]
MRS. JONES, Yes, sir, they all three go to school every day.
BARTHWICK. [Severely.] And what about their food when you're out
at work?
MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have to give them their dinner to take
with them. Of course I 'm not always able to give them anything;
sometimes I have to send them without; but my husband is very good
about the children when he's in work. But when he's not in work of
course he's a very difficult man.
MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir. Of course I can't say he does n't drink,
because he does.
MRS. JONES. No, sir, he's very good about my money, except when
he's not himself, and then, of course, he treats me very badly.
MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] Eight? You said the eldest child was
nine.
MRS. JONES. Yes, ma'am; of course that was why he lost his place.
He did n't treat me rightly, and of course his employer said he
couldn't keep him because of the example.
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir; and of course after he lost his place he
married me.
BARTHWICK. My dear----
BARTHWICK. [Hurriedly.] And where are you living now, Mrs. Jones?
MRS. JONES. We've not got a home, sir. Of course we've been
obliged to put away most of our things.
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, to put them away. We're living in Merthyr
Street--that is close by here, sir--at No. 34. We just have the one
room.
MRS. JONES. We pay six shillings a week, sir, for a furnished room.
BARTHWICK. I see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day,
is that it?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half
a day, and that's eighteen pence.
BARTHWICK. And when your husband earns anything he spends it in
drink, I suppose?
MRS. JONES. Oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course,
when I don't get my sleep at night.
BARTHWICK. Ah! And you help do all the rooms? And sometimes, I
suppose, you go out for cook?
MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I don't say that, sir. I think there's a
great deal of good in him; though he does treat me very bad
sometimes. And of course I don't like to leave him, but I think I
ought to, because really I hardly know how to stay with him. He
often raises his hand to me. Not long ago he gave me a blow here
[touches her breast] and I can feel it now. So I think I ought to
leave him, don't you, sir?
BARTHWICK. Ah! I can't help you there. It's a very serious thing
to leave your husband. Very serious thing.
MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir; I know nobody can help me. I know I must
decide for myself, and of course I know that he has a very hard
life. And he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to
see them going without food.
MRS. JONES. [Looking from one face to the other.] I am very sorry,
sir.
MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I have n't seen it--of course if I 'd seen it
I should have noticed it.
BARTHWICK. H'm!
ACT II
SCENE I
MRS. JONES. [Drying her eyes, and in her usual voice.] Half-past
two.
JONES. What you back so soon for?
JONES. [On his back, and in a drowsy voice.] Got anything for
dinner?
JONES. [Turning towards her on his elbow.] Let 'em come and find
my surprise packet. I've had enough o' this tryin' for work. Why
should I go round and round after a job like a bloomin' squirrel in
a cage. "Give us a job, sir"--"Take a man on"--"Got a wife and
three children." Sick of it I am! I 'd sooner lie here and rot.
"Jones, you come and join the demonstration; come and 'old a flag,
and listen to the ruddy orators, and go 'ome as empty as you came."
There's some that seems to like that--the sheep! When I go seekin'
for a job now, and see the brutes lookin' me up an' down, it's like
a thousand serpents in me. I 'm not arskin' for any treat. A man
wants to sweat hisself silly and not allowed that's a rum start,
ain't it? A man wants to sweat his soul out to keep the breath in
him and ain't allowed--that's justice that's freedom and all the
rest of it! [He turns his face towards the wall.] You're so milky
mild; you don't know what goes on inside o' me. I'm done with the
silly game. If they want me, let 'em come for me!
I've tried and done with it, I tell you. I've never been afraid of
what 's before me. You mark my words--if you think they've broke my
spirit, you're mistook. I 'll lie and rot sooner than arsk 'em
again. What makes you stand like that--you long-sufferin',
Gawd-forsaken image--that's why I can't keep my hands off you. So
now you know. Work! You can work, but you have n't the spirit of a
louse!
MRS. JONES. [Quietly.] You talk more wild sometimes when you're
yourself, James, than when you 're not. If you don't get work, how
are we to go on? They won't let us stay here; they're looking to
their money to-day, I know.
JONES. I see this BARTHWICK o' yours every day goin' down to
Pawlyment snug and comfortable to talk his silly soul out; an' I see
that young calf, his son, swellin' it about, and goin' on the
razzle-dazzle. Wot 'ave they done that makes 'em any better than
wot I am? They never did a day's work in their lives. I see 'em
day after day.
MRS. JONES. And I wish you wouldn't come after me like that, and
hang about the house. You don't seem able to keep away at all, and
whatever you do it for I can't think, because of course they notice
it.
JONES. I suppose I may go where I like. Where may I go? The other
day I went to a place in the Edgware Road. "Gov'nor," I says to the
boss, "take me on," I says. "I 'aven't done a stroke o' work not
these two months; it takes the heart out of a man," I says; "I 'm
one to work; I 'm not afraid of anything you can give me!" "My good
man," 'e says, "I 've had thirty of you here this morning. I took
the first two," he says, "and that's all I want." "Thank you, then
rot the world!" I says. "Blasphemin'," he says, "is not the way to
get a job. Out you go, my lad!" [He laughs sardonically.] Don't
you raise your voice because you're starvin'; don't yer even think
of it; take it lyin' down! Take it like a sensible man, carn't you?
And a little way down the street a lady says to me: [Pinching his
voice] "D' you want to earn a few pence, my man?" and gives me her
dog to 'old outside a shop-fat as a butler 'e was--tons o' meat had
gone to the makin' of him. It did 'er good, it did, made 'er feel
'erself that charitable, but I see 'er lookin' at the copper
standin' alongside o' me, for fear I should make off with 'er
bloomin' fat dog. [He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a boot
on. Then looking up.] What's in that head o' yours? [Almost
pathetically.] Carn't you speak for once?
MRS. SEDDON. I thought I 'eard you come in, Mrs. Jones. I 've
spoke to my 'usband, but he says he really can't afford to wait
another day.
[MRS. SEDDON takes the sovereign and fumbles for the change.]
JONES. [With his eyes fixed on his boots.] Bit of a surprise for
yer, ain't it?
MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She
does indeed appear surprised.] I 'll bring you the change.
MRS. SEDDON. Thank you, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged. [She
slides away.]
JONES. I 've had a bit of luck. [Pulling out the crimson purse and
some loose coins.] Picked up a purse--seven pound and more.
JONES. Name? No, there ain't no name. This don't belong to such
as 'ave visitin' cards. This belongs to a perfec' lidy. Tike an'
smell it. [He pitches her the purse, which she puts gently to her
nose.] Now, you tell me what I ought to have done. You tell me
that. You can always tell me what I ought to ha' done, can't yer?
MRS. JONES. [Laying down the purse.] I can't say what you ought to
have done, James. Of course the money was n't yours; you've taken
somebody else's money.
Money in my pocket! And I 'm not goin' to waste it. With this 'ere
money I'm goin' to Canada. I'll let you have a pound.
[A silence.]
You've often talked of leavin' me. You 've often told me I treat
you badly--well I 'ope you 'll be glad when I 'm gone.
JONES. It'll change my luck. I 've 'ad nothing but bad luck since
I first took up with you. [More softly.] And you've 'ad no
bloomin' picnic.
JONES. [Fingering the purse, half angrily.] Well, then, you stow
it, old girl. The kids 'll get along better with you than when I 'm
here. If I 'd ha' known as much as I do now, I 'd never ha' had one
o' them. What's the use o' bringin' 'em into a state o' things like
this? It's a crime, that's what it is; but you find it out too late;
that's what's the matter with this 'ere world.
MRS. JONES. Of course it would have been better for them, poor
little things; but they're your own children, and I wonder at you
talkin' like that. I should miss them dreadfully if I was to lose
them.
JONES. [Sullenly.] An' you ain't the only one. If I make money
out there--[Looking up, he sees her shaking out his coat--in a
changed voice.] Leave that coat alone!
MRS. JONES. [Cowering back against the bed.] Oh, Jem! oh, Jem!
JONES. [Dropping the box onto the table.] You mind what you're
sayin'! When I go out I 'll take and chuck it in the water along
with that there purse. I 'ad it when I was in liquor, and for what
you do when you 're in liquor you're not responsible-and that's
Gawd's truth as you ought to know. I don't want the thing--I won't
have it. I took it out o' spite. I 'm no thief, I tell you; and
don't you call me one, or it'll be the worse for you.
MRS. JONES. It's been missed; they think it's me. Oh! whatever
made you do it, Jem?
JONES. I tell you I was in liquor. I don't want it; what's the
good of it to me? If I were to pawn it they'd only nab me. I 'm no
thief. I 'm no worse than wot that young Barthwick is; he brought
'ome that purse that I picked up--a lady's purse--'ad it off 'er in
a row, kept sayin' 'e 'd scored 'er off. Well, I scored 'im off.
Tight as an owl 'e was! And d' you think anything'll happen to him?
MRS. JONES. [As though speaking to herself.] Oh, Jem! it's the
bread out of our mouths!
JONES. Is it then? I'll make it hot for 'em yet. What about that
purse? What about young BARTHWICK?
[MRS. JONES comes forward to the table and tries to take the box;
JONES prevents her.] What do you want with that? You drop it, I
say!
MRS. JONES. I 'll take it back and tell them all about it. [She
attempts to wrest the box from him.]
[He drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. She slips
back past the bed. He follows; a chair is overturned. The
door is opened; Snow comes in, a detective in plain clothes and
bowler hat, with clipped moustaches. JONES drops his arms,
MRS. JONES stands by the window gasping; SNOW, advancing
swiftly to the table, puts his hand on the silver box.]
SNOW. Doin' a bit o' skylarkin'? Fancy this is what I 'm after.
J. B., the very same. [He gets back to the door, scrutinising the
crest and cypher on the box. To MRS. JONES.] I'm a police officer.
Are you Mrs. Jones?
MRS. JONES. [In her quiet voice, still out of breath, her hand
upon her breast.] Of course I did not take it, sir. I never have
taken anything that did n't belong to me; and of course I know
nothing about it.
SNOW. You were at the house this morning; you did the room in which
the box was left; you were alone in the room. I find the box 'ere.
You say you did n't take it?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I say I did not take it, because I
did not.
Well then, Missis. I 'll just trouble you to come along with me
quietly.
MRS. JONES. [Twisting her hands.] Of course I would n't say I had
n't taken it if I had--and I did n't take it, indeed I did n't. Of
course I know appearances are against me, and I can't tell you what
really happened: But my children are at school, and they'll be
coming home--and I don't know what they'll do without me.
SNOW. Your 'usband'll see to them, don't you worry. [He takes the
woman gently by the arm.]
JONES. You drop it--she's all right! [Sullenly.] I took the thing
myself.
SNOW. [Eyeing him] There, there, it does you credit. Come along,
Missis.
JONES. [Passionately.] Drop it, I say, you blooming teck. She's
my wife; she 's a respectable woman. Take her if you dare!
SNOW. Now, now. What's the good of this? Keep a civil tongue, and
it'll be the better for all of us.
[He puts his whistle in his mouth and draws the woman to the
door.]
JONES. [With a rush.] Drop her, and put up your 'ands, or I 'll
soon make yer. You leave her alone, will yer! Don't I tell yer, I
took the thing myself.
SNOW. [Blowing his whistle.] Drop your hands, or I 'll take you
too. Ah, would you?
SCENE II
MRS. BARTHWICK. It's not the season for them. I called on the
Holyroods.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Lady Holyrood has got very stout. I 've noticed it
coming for a long time.
MRS. BARTHWICK. My dear John, what are you talking about? How
could there be any alternative? Think of the effect on the other
servants!
MRS. BARTHWICK. Lady Holyrood told me: "I had her up," she said; "I
said to her, 'You'll leave my house at once; I think your conduct
disgraceful. I can't tell, I don't know, and I don't wish to know,
what you were doing. I send you away on principle; you need not
come to me for a character.' And the girl said: 'If you don't give
me my notice, my lady, I want a month's wages. I'm perfectly
respectable. I've done nothing.'"'--Done nothing!
BARTHWICK. H'm!
MRS. BARTHWICK. Servants have too much license. They hang together
so terribly you never can tell what they're really thinking; it's as
if they were all in a conspiracy to keep you in the dark. Even with
Marlow, you feel that he never lets you know what's really in his
mind. I hate that secretiveness; it destroys all confidence. I
feel sometimes I should like to shake him.
JACK. Marlow's a most decent chap. It's simply beastly every one
knowing your affairs.
MRS. BARTHWICK. It goes all through the lower classes. You can not
tell when they are speaking the truth. To-day when I was shopping
after leaving the Holyroods, one of these unemployed came up and
spoke to me. I suppose I only had twenty yards or so to walk to the
carnage, but he seemed to spring up in the street.
BARTHWICK. Ah! You must be very careful whom you speak to in these
days.
MRS. BARTHWICK. I did n't answer him, of course. But I could see
at once that he wasn't telling the truth.
JACK. [Raising his wine-glass to his nose.] Is this the '63, Dad?
MRS. BARTHWICK. I hate people that can't speak the truth. [Father
and son exchange a look behind their port.] It 's just as easy to
speak the truth as not. I've always found it easy enough. It makes
it impossible to tell what is genuine; one feels as if one were
continually being taken in.
MRS. BARTHWICK. But even then it's so often their own fault. Look
at that Mrs. Jones this morning.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Perhaps you'll say the man's employer was wrong in
dismissing him?
BARTHWICK. Of course not. It's not there that I feel doubt. What
I ask myself is----
MRS. BARTHWICK. [Passing it.] My dear boy, are n't you drinking
too much?
[JACK fills his glass.]
SNOW. Good evening, sir; good evening, ma'am. I 've called round to
report what I 've done, rather late, I 'm afraid--another case took
me away. [He takes the silver box out o f his pocket, causing a
sensation in the BARTHWICK family.] This is the identical article,
I believe.
SNOW. Havin' your crest and cypher, as you described to me, sir, I
'd no hesitation in the matter.
[JACK rises and gives the glass to SNOW; then, lolling in his
chair, regards him indolently.]
SNOW. [Drinking off wine and putting down the glass.] After seeing
you I went round to this woman's lodgings, sir. It's a low
neighborhood, and I thought it as well to place a constable below
--and not without 'e was wanted, as things turned out.
BARTHWICK. Indeed!
SNOW. Yes, Sir, I 'ad some trouble. I asked her to account for the
presence of the article. She could give me no answer, except to
deny the theft; so I took her into custody; then her husband came
for me, so I was obliged to take him, too, for assault. He was very
violent on the way to the station--very violent--threatened you and
your son, and altogether he was a handful, I can till you.
SNOW. The odd thing is, sir, that he persists in sayin' he took the
box himself.
BARTHWICK. Took the box himself! [He smiles.] What does he think
to gain by that?
--took him into the house and gave him whisky; and under the
influence of an empty stomach the man says he took the box.
MRS. BARTHWICK. I should think not, indeed! [To Snow.] The man is
an audacious ruffian!
SNOW. We shall have to charge him with the assault, sir. It would
be as well for your son to come down to the Court. There'll be a
remand, no doubt. The queer thing is there was quite a sum of money
found on him, and a crimson silk purse.
JACK. No!
SNOW. If I were you, sir, I should let things take their course.
It's not likely there'll be much difficulty. These things are very
quick settled.
[He takes the silver box and leaves them with a little bow.]
JACK. Dad!
JACK. [Angrily.] Well, why did you send me there? One must do as
other fellows do. It's such nonsense, I mean, to call it being
drunk. Of course I 'm awfully sorry. I 've had such a beastly
headache all day.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Oh, Jack! do you mean to say you were so tipsy you
can't even remember----
JACK. Look here, don't excite Dad--I can simply say I was too
beastly tired, and don't remember anything except that I came in and
[in a dying voice] went to bed the same as usual.
BARTHWICK. Went to bed? Who knows where you went--I 've lost all
confidence. For all I know you slept on the floor.
JACK. [Indignantly.] I did n't, I slept on the----
BARTHWICK. [Sitting on the sofa.] Who cares where you slept; what
does it matter if he mentions the--the--a perfect disgrace?
MRS. BARTHWICK. Your purse! You know perfectly well you have n't
got one.
JACK. Well, it was somebody else's--it was all a joke--I did n't
want the beastly thing.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Do you mean that you had another person's purse,
and that this man took it too?
JACK. It was pure sport. I don't know how I got the thing. Of
course I 'd had a bit of a row--I did n't know what I was doing--I
was--I Was--well, you know--I suppose I must have pulled the bag out
of her hand.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Out of her hand? Whose hand? What bag--whose bag?
JACK. [Jumping up.] You would have it. I did n't want to tell
you. It's not my fault.
BARTHWICK. Yes, yes, but look here--it was n't the charwoman at
all; her drunken loafer of a husband took the things--he says that
fellow there [he waves his hand at JACK, who with his shoulder
raised, seems trying to ward off a blow] let him into the house last
night. Can you imagine such a thing.
[Roper laughs. ]
MRS. BARTHWICK. [With her hand across hey eyes.] Oh! it's not
that----
MRS. BARTHWICK. Here? She had the impudence? Why was n't I told?
[She looks round from face to face--no one answers hey, there
is a pause.]
BARTHWICK. On the sofa? D' you mean to say you did n't go to bed?
JACK.[Sullenly.] No.
JACK. And Mrs. Jones saw me. I wish you would n't bait me so.
MRS. BARTHWICK. We want you to speak the truth and say you never
let this low man into the house.
BARTHWICK. Of course if you think that you really gave this man
whisky in that disgraceful way, and let him see what you'd been
doing, and were in such a disgusting condition that you don't
remember a word of it----
MRS. BARTHWICK. Your leaving the latch-key in the door was quite
bad enough, there's no need to mention anything else. [Touching his
forehead softly.] My dear, how hot your head is!
ROPER. [Very quickly.] You forget all about it. You were asleep.
ROPER. Yes.
ROPER. Yes.
BARTHWICK. He gets off too easily. But for my money that woman
would have prosecuted him.
BARTHWICK. What! D' you mean he'll have to appear on the remand.
ROPER. Yes.
MRS. BARTHWICK. Mr. Roper, don't you think the magistrate ought to
be told what sort of people these Jones's are; I mean about their
immorality before they were married. I don't know if John told you.
ROPER. If the gods are kind. [He holds his hand out.]
MRS. BARTHWICK. Rubbish! You have n't any! Your principles are
nothing in the world but sheer fright!
[They listen.]
BARTHWICK. I'll shut the window; you'll hear nothing. [He shuts
the window. There is silence.]
MRS. BARTHWICK. [Sharply.] That's no good! It's on my nerves.
Nothing upsets me like a child's crying.
MARLOW. [Opening the window, and looking out quietly.] It's Mrs.
Jones's little boy, ma'am; he came here after his mother.
ACT III
Eight days have passed, and the scene is a London Police Court
at one o'clock. A canopied seat of Justice is surmounted by
the lion and unicorn. Before the fire a worn-looking
MAGISTRATE is warming his coat-tails, and staring at two little
girls in faded blue and orange rags, who are placed before the
dock. Close to the witness-box is a RELIEVING OFFICER in an
overcoat, and a short brown beard. Beside the little girls
stands a bald POLICE CONSTABLE. On the front bench are sitting
BARTHWICK and ROPER, and behind them JACK. In the railed
enclosure are seedy-looking men and women. Some prosperous
constables sit or stand about.
MAGISTRATE. [In his paternal and ferocious voice, hissing his s's.]
Now let us dispose of these young ladies.
Relieving Officer!
USHER. The evidence you give to the Court shall be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! Kiss the
book!
And you, are their father? Now, why don't you keep your little
girls at home. How is it you leave them to wander about the streets
like this?
LIVENS. I've got no home, your Worship. I'm living from 'and to
mouth. I 've got no work; and nothin' to keep them on.
LIVENS. [Ashamedly.] My wife, she broke my 'ome up, and pawned the
things.
LEVINS. Your Worship, I'd no chance to stop 'er, she did it when I
was out lookin' for work.
LIVENS. I don't know your Worship. She went off with a man, and
after that I----
MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes. Who knows anything of her? [To the bald
CONSTABLE.] Is she known here?
MAGISTRATE. Yes--yes; we'll stop at that. Now [To the Father] you
say that she has broken up your home, and left these little girls.
What provision can you make for them? You look a strong man.
LIVENS. So I am, your Worship. I'm willin' enough to work, but for
the life of me I can't get anything to do.
MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, I know; but I've no evidence that this man is
not the proper guardian for his children.
LIVENS. Your Worship, I can only say that if I could get work I
should be only too willing to provide for them. But what can I do,
your Worship? Here I am obliged to live from 'and to mouth in these
'ere common lodging-houses. I 'm a strong man--I'm willing to work
--I'm half as alive again as some of 'em--but you see, your Worship,
my 'airs' turned a bit, owing to the fever--[Touches his hair]--and
that's against me; and I don't seem to get a chance anyhow.
MAGISTRATE. Well, I'll remand them for a week. Bring them again
to-day week; if I see no reason against it then, I 'll make an
order.
CLERK. Remands!
[ROPER nods.]
[MRS. JONES, dressed in hey thin, black, wispy dress, and black
straw hat, stands motionless with hands crossed on the front
rail of the dock. JONES leans against the back rail of the
dock, and keeps half turning, glancing defiantly about him. He
is haggard and unshaven.]
JONES. [Sullenly.] Yes, but I've got a lot to say about it.
MAGISTRATE. [To the CLERK.] Yes--yes. But how comes it that these
two people are charged with the same offence? Are they husband and
wife?
CLERK. Yes, Sir. You remember you ordered a remand for further
evidence as to the story of the male prisoner.
USHER. The evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. Kiss the
book.
[The book is kissed. The silver box is handed up, and placed
on the rail.]
CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] Your name is Thomas Marlow? Are
you, butler to John BARTHWICK, M.P., of 6, Rockingham Gate?
CLERK. And did you miss the same at 8.45 on the following morning,
on going to remove the tray?
[MARLOW nods.]
Did you at the time of your missing the box find her in the room
alone?
CLERK. [To JONES.] James Jones, have you anything to ask this
witness?
MAGISTRATE. Are you sure you put the box in the place you say at
the time you say?
USHER. The evidence you give to the court shall be the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. [The book
is kissed.]
CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] Your name is Robert Allow? You
are a detective in the X. B. division of the Metropolitan police
force? According to instructions received did you on Easter Tuesday
last proceed to the prisoner's lodgings at 34, Merthyr Street, St.
Soames's? And did you on entering see the box produced, lying on
the table?
CLERK. And did you thereupon take possession of it, and charge the
female prisoner with theft of the box from 6, Rockingham Gate? And
did she deny the same?
CLERK. [To MRS. JONES.] Have you anything to ask the officer?
MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, I 've nothing to ask him.
CLERK. [Reading from his papers.] And while you were taking the
female prisoner did the male prisoner interpose, and endeavour to
hinder you in the execution of your duty, and did he strike you a
blow?
CLERK. And did he say, "You, let her go, I took the box myself"?
SNOW. He did.
CLERK. And did you blow your whistle and obtain the assistance of
another constable, and take him into custody?
SNOW. I did.
CLERK. Was he violent on the way to the station, and did he use bad
language, and did he several times repeat that he had taken the box
himself?
[Snow nods.]
Did you thereupon ask him in what manner he had stolen the box? And
did you understand him to say he had entered the house at the
invitation of young Mr. BARTHWICK
MAGISTRATE. Very well then. Now let us hear what the female
prisoner has to say first.
MRS. JONES. Well, your Worship, of course I can only say what I 've
said all along, that I did n't take the box.
MRS. JONES. No, your Worship, only to call me names. And of course
in the morning when I got up and went to work he was asleep. And I
don't know anything more about it until I came home again. Except
that Mr. BARTHWICK--that 's my employer, your Worship--told me the
box was missing.
MRS. JONES. But of course when I was shaking out my husband's coat
the cigarette-box fell out and all the cigarettes were scattered on
the bed.
MAGISTRATE. You say all the cigarettes were scattered on the bed?
[To SNOW.] Did you see the cigarettes scattered on the bed?
MAGISTRATE. [To MRS. JONES.] Well, what more have you to say?
MRS. JONES. Of course when I saw the box, your Worship, I was
dreadfully upset, and I could n't think why he had done such a
thing; when the officer came we were having words about it, because
it is ruin to me, your Worship, in my profession, and I have three
little children dependent on me.
MRS. JONES. I asked him whatever came over him to do such a thing
--and he said it was the drink. He said he had had too much to drink,
and something came over him. And of course, your Worship, he had
had very little to eat all day, and the drink does go to the head
when you have not had enough to eat. Your Worship may not know, but
it is the truth. And I would like to say that all through his
married life, I have never known him to do such a thing before,
though we have passed through great hardships and [speaking with
soft emphasis] I am quite sure he would not have done it if he had
been himself at the time.
MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes. But don't you know that that is no excuse?
MAGISTRATE. Now, supposing what you say and what your husband says
is true, what I have to consider is--how did he obtain access to
this house, and were you in any way a party to his obtaining access?
You are the charwoman employed at the house?
MRS. JONES. Yes, your Worship, and of course if I had let him into
the house it would have been very wrong of me; and I have never done
such a thing in any of the houses where I have been employed.
MAGISTRATE. Well--so you say. Now let us hear what story the male
prisoner makes of it.
JONES. [Who leans with his arms on the dock behind, speaks in a
slow, sullen voice.] Wot I say is wot my wife says. I 've never
been 'ad up in a police court before, an' I can prove I took it when
in liquor. I told her, and she can tell you the same, that I was
goin' to throw the thing into the water sooner then 'ave it on my
mind.
JONES. Yes, at the corner. It was Bank 'oliday, an' I'd 'ad a drop
to drink. I see this young Mr. BARTHWICK tryin' to find the keyhole
on the wrong side of the door.
MAGISTRATE. Well?
JONES. [Slowly and with many pauses.] Well---I 'elped 'im to find
it--drunk as a lord 'e was. He goes on, an' comes back again, and
says, I 've got nothin' for you, 'e says, but come in an' 'ave a
drink. So I went in just as you might 'ave done yourself. We 'ad a
drink o' whisky just as you might have 'ad, 'nd young Mr. BARTHWICK
says to me, "Take a drink 'nd a smoke. Take anything you like, 'e
says." And then he went to sleep on the sofa. I 'ad some more
whisky--an' I 'ad a smoke--and I 'ad some more whisky--an' I carn't
tell yer what 'appened after that.
MAGISTRATE. Do you mean to say that you were so drunk that you can
remember nothing?
BARTHWICK. TSSh!
MAGISTRATE. [Hissing with protruded neck.] You did not steal it--
you took it. Did it belong to you--what is that but stealing?
MAGISTRATE. You took it--you took it away from their house and you
took it to your house----
MAGISTRATE. Very well, let us hear what this young man Mr.--Mr.
BARTHWICK has to say to your story.
SWEARING CLERK. The evidence you give to the court shall be the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.
Kiss the book.
ROPER. Now, did you come in late on the night of Easter Monday?
JACK. Yes.
ROPER. And did you by mistake leave your latch key in the door?
JACK. Yes.
ROPER. And is that all you can remember about your coming in?
MAGISTRATE. Now, you have heard the male prisoner's story, what do
you say to that?
MAGISTRATE. Do you remember this man being outside when you came
in?
MAGISTRATE. You don't know? But you must know. It is n't a usual
thing for you to have the door opened for you, is it?
JACK. [With a shamefaced smile.] No.
JACK. [Desperately.] The fact of the matter is, sir, I'm afraid
I'd had too much champagne that night.
JONES. Don't you remember you said you was a Liberal, same as your
father, and you asked me wot I was?
JONES. [Violently.] I've done no more than wot he 'as. I'm a poor
man; I've got no money an' no friends--he 's a toff--he can do wot I
can't.
MAGISTRATE: Now, now? All this won't help you--you must be quiet.
You say you took this box? Now, what made you take it? Were you
pressed for money?
JONES. No.
SNOW. Yes, your worship. There was six pounds twelve shillin's
found on him, and this purse.
MAGISTRATE. But if you had all that money, what made you take this
box?
JONES. [Pointing at JACK.] You ask 'im wot made 'im take the----
[JACK leaves the witness-box, and hanging his head, resumes his
seat.]
JONES. You ask 'im wot made 'im take the lady's----
I 've nothing to do with what he may or may not have taken. Why did
you resist the police in the execution of their duty?
MAGISTRATE. But I say it was. What made you strike the officer a
blow?
JONES. Any man would a struck 'im a blow. I'd strike 'im again, I
would.
MAGISTRATE. You are not making your case any better by violence.
How do you suppose we could get on if everybody behaved like you?
MRS. JONES. Your Worship, it's the children that's preying on his
mind, because of course I 've lost my work. And I've had to find
another room owing to the scandal.
MAGISTRATE. Yes, yes, I know--but if he had n't acted like this
nobody would have suffered.
JONES. [Glaring round at JACK.] I 've done no worse than wot 'e
'as. Wot I want to know is wot 's goin' to be done to 'im.
JONES. I don't want it smothered up, I want it all dealt with fair
--I want my rights----
MAGISTRATE. [Rapping his desk.] Now you have said all you have to
say, and you will be quiet.
[She leaves the dock, and looking back at JONES, twists her
fingers and is still.]
[MRS. JONES stands back. The MAGISTRATE leans his head on his
hand; then raising it he speaks to JONES.]
JACK. [Leaning from his seat.] Dad! that's what you said to me!
BARTHWICK. TSSt!
[He bends, and parleys with his CLERK. The BALD CONSTABLE and
another help JONES from the dock.]
MAGISTRATE. We will now adjourn for lunch! [He rises from his
seat.]
JOY
IN THREE ACTS
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
TIME: The present. The action passes throughout midsummer day on the
lawn of Colonel Hope's house, near the Thames above Oxford.
ACT I
The time is morning, and the scene a level lawn, beyond which
the river is running amongst fields. A huge old beech tree
overshadows everything, in the darkness of whose hollow many
things are hidden. A rustic seat encircles it. A low wall
clothed in creepers, with two openings, divides this lawn from
the flowery approaches to the house. Close to the wall there is
a swing. The sky is clear and sunny. COLONEL HOPE is seated in
a garden-chair, reading a newspaper through pince-nez. He is
fifty-five and bald, with drooping grey moustaches and a
weather-darkened face. He wears a flannel suit and a hat from
Panama; a tennis racquet leans against his chair. MRS. HOPE
comes quickly through the opening of the wall, with roses in her
hands. She is going grey; she wears tan gauntlets, and no hat.
Her manner is decided, her voice emphatic, as though aware that
there is no nonsense in its owner's composition. Screened from
sight, MISS BEECH is seated behind the hollow tree; and JOY is
perched on a lower branch hidden by foliage.
MRS. HOPE. I told Molly in my letter that she'd have to walk up,
Tom.
MRS. HOPE. Expense for nothing! Bob can bring up her things in the
barrow. I've told Joy I won't have her going down to meet the train.
She's so excited about her mother's coming there's no doing anything
with her.
MRS. HOPE. Well, she's going home to-morrow; she must just keep
herself fresh for the dancing tonight. I'm not going to get people
in to dance, and have Joy worn out before they begin.
COLONEL. [Dropping his paper.] I don't like Molly's walking up.
MRS. HOPE. A great strong woman like Molly Gwyn! It isn't half a
mile.
MRS. HOPE. Rubbish! If you want to throw away money, you must just
find some better investment than those wretched 3 per cents. of
yours. The greenflies are in my roses already! Did you ever see
anything so disgusting? [They bend over the roses they have grown,
and lose all sense of everything.] Where's the syringe? I saw you
mooning about with it last night, Tom.
[He retires behind his paper. MRS. HOPE enters the hollow of
the tree.]
[In his turn the COLONEL enters the hollow of the tree.]
MISS BEECH. [From behind the tree.] Don't hurt the poor creatures.
MRS. HOPE. Tom, take the worms off that seat at once!
MRS. HOPE. It's not my business to look after Dick's worms. Don't
put them on the ground. I won't have them anywhere where they can
crawl about. [She flicks some greenflies off her roses.]
COLONEL. [Looking into the pot as though the worms could tell him
where to put them.] Dash!
MRS. HOPE. Well, it's beyond me how you can make pets of worms-
wriggling, crawling, horrible things!
ROSE. Please, 'm, I can't get on with the back without Miss Joy.
MRS. HOPE. Well, then you must just find her. I don't know where
she is.
[She stops, seeing Miss BEECH signing to her with both hands.]
[She bends to look, but Miss BEECH places the finger in her
mouth.]
MRS. HOPE. Well, you can try. [Opening her letter as ROSE retires.]
Here's Molly about her train.
MRS. HOPE. Molly says she'll be down by the eleven thirty. [In an
injured voice.] She'll be here in half an hour! [Reading with
disapproval from the letter.] "MAURICE LEVER is coming down by the
same train to see Mr. Henty about the Tocopala Gold Mine. Could you
give him a bed for the night?"
MRS. HOPE. Just like a man! What room I should like to know!
COLONEL. Pink.
MRS. HOPE. You know perfectly well it's full of earwigs, Tom. I
killed ten there yesterday morning.
MRS. HOPE. I don't know that I approve of this Mr. Lever's dancing
attendance. Molly's only thirty-six.
COLONEL. [In a high voice.] You can't refuse him a bed; I never
heard of such a thing.
MRS. HOPE. [Reading from the letter.] "This gold mine seems to be a
splendid chance. [She glances at the COLONEL.] I've put all my
spare cash into it. They're issuing some Preference shares now; if
Uncle Tom wants an investment"--[She pauses, then in a changed,
decided voice ]--Well, I suppose I shall have to screw him in
somehow.
MRS. HOPE. [Folding the letter away out of her consciousness.] Oh!
your views! This may be a specially good chance.
MRS. HOPE. As to Molly, I think it's high time her husband came home
to look after her, instead of sticking out there in that hot place.
In fact
MISS BEECH. I hate your horrid mines, with all the poor creatures
underground.
COLONEL. Why don't you read your paper, then you'd see what a lot of
wild-cat things there are about.
MRS. HOPE. [Abstractedly.] I can't put Ernest and Letty in the blue
room, there's only the single bed. Suppose I put Mr. Lever there,
and say nothing about the earwigs. I daresay he'll never notice.
MRS. HOPE. Rubbish, Tom, I won't have you turned out, that's flat.
He can have Joy's room, and she can sleep with the earwigs.
JOY. [From her hiding-place upon a lower branch of the hollow tree.]
I won't.
MRS. HOPE. You wretched girl! I told you never to climb that tree
again. Did you know, Peachey? [Miss BEECH smiles.] She's always up
there, spoiling all her frocks. Come down now, Joy; there's a good
child!
MRS. HOPE. Litter her up with a great girl like you, as if we'd only
one spare room! Tom, see that she comes down--I can't stay here, I
must manage something. [She goes away towards the house.]
COLONEL. [Moving to the tree, and looking up.] You heard what your
aunt said?
JOY. Oh, Uncle Tom, your head is so beautiful from here! [Leaning
over, she fans it with a leafy twig.]
[She disappears.]
[He disappears.]
JOY. Quick, Uncle Tom! Oh! do go, before he finds I 'm up here.
[The COLONEL picks up his racquet, shakes his fist, and goes
away.]
[Climbing down.]
[Joy drops on the rustic seat and rubs her shin. Told you so!]
Let's see!
[She backs away and sits down in the swing. She is just
seventeen, light and slim, brown-haired, fresh-coloured, and
grey-eyed; her white frock reaches to her ankles, she wears a
sunbonnet.] Peachey, how long were you Mother's governess.
MISS BEECH. [Regarding her intently.] Yes! you've got all your
troubles before you.
JOY. Mother was married at eighteen, wasn't she, Peachey? Was she--
was she much in love with Father then?
MISS BEECH. [With a sniff.] About as much as usual. [She takes the
paint pot, and walking round begins to release the worms.]
JOY. [In a hard voice.] They haven't ever since I've known them.
MISS BEECH. [Looks at her, and turns away again.] Don't talk about
such things.
JOY. I suppose you don't know Mr. Lever? [Bitterly.] He's such a
cool beast. He never loses his temper.
MISS BEECH. [Sidling behind the swing and plucking off Joy's
sunbonnet. With devilry.] Ah-h-h! You've done your hair up; so
that's why you wouldn't come down!
JOY. [Springing up, anal pouting.] I didn't want any one to see
before Mother. You are a pig, Peachey!
JOY. You tell any one before Mother comes, and see what I do!
JOY. Give me my hat! [Backing hastily towards the tree, and putting
her finger to her lips.] Look out! Dick!
[She sits down on the swing, concealing the paint pot with her
feet and skirts.]
JOY. [On the rustic seat, and in a violent whisper.] I hope the
worms will crawl up your legs!
JOY. [Leaning her head against the tree.] If you do, I won't dance
with you to-night.
[DICK stands paralysed. Miss BEECH gets off the swing, picks up
the paint pot, and stands concealing it behind her.]
JOY. Look what she's got behind her, sly old thing!
[DICK seizes Miss BEECH by the waist. She drops the paint pot.
They revolve.] [Convulsed.]
[Miss BEECH is dropped upon the rustic seat. DICK seizes joy's
hands and drags her up.]
MISS BEECH. [Panting.] Dance, dance with the poor young man! [She
moves her hands.] La la-la-la la-la la la!
DICK. By Jove, Joy! You've done your hair up. I say, how jolly!
You do look----
JOY. [Throwing her hands up to her hair.] I did n't mean you to
see!
DICK. [In a hurt voice.] Oh! didn't you? I'm awfully sorry!
DICK. [Quickly.] Hang the worms! Joy, promise me the second and
fourth and sixth and eighth and tenth and supper, to-night. Promise!
Do!
JOY. [Looking over her shoulder.] Sly old thing! If you'll pay
Peachey out, I'll promise you supper!
JOY. [Whispering.] Pay her out, pay her out! She's let out all
your worms!
[He is going to say "hated him too!" But the voices of ERNEST
BLUNT and the COLONEL are heard approaching, in dispute.]
JOY. Oh! Dick, hide me, I don't want my hair seen till Mother
comes.
[She springs into the hollow tree. The COLONEL and ERNEST
appear in the opening of the wall.]
COLONEL. [In a high, hot voice.] I don't care where you were, I
hate a fellow who can't keep cool.
MISS BEECH. [From behind the hollow tree.] Fie! Fie!
ERNEST. We're two to one, Letty says the ball was out.
ERNEST. Well, look here, Colonel, I'll show you the very place it
pitched.
COLONEL. Gammon! You've lost your temper, you don't know what
you're talking about.
ERNEST. [coolly.] I suppose you'll admit the rule that one umpires
one's own court.
COLONEL. You say that because he's your husband. [He sits on the
rustic seat.] If your mother'd been there she'd have backed me up!
ERNEST. [Returning to his point.] Why I know the ball was out,
Colonel, was because it pitched in a line with that arbutus tree.
ERNEST. The ball was a good foot out; at the height it was coming
when it passed me.
[The COLONEL glares confusedly, and goes away towards the blue
room.]
ERNEST. [In the swing, and with a smile.] Your old Dad'll never be
a sportsman!
[ROSE has come from the house, and stands waiting for a chance
to speak.]
ERNEST. [Breaking in.] Your old Dad's only got one fault: he can't
take an impersonal view of things.
ROSE. [To LETTY,] Please, Miss, the Missis says will you and Mr.
Ernest please to move your things into Miss Peachey's room.
[She goes towards the house. ERNEST, rising from the swing,
turns to Miss BEECH, who follows.]
[She hustles ERNEST out through the wall, but his voice is heard
faintly from the distance: "I think it's jolly thin."]
ROSE. [To DICK.] The Missis says you're to take all your worms and
things, Sir, and put them where they won't be seen.
ROSE. The Missis says she'll be very angry if you don't put your
worms away; and would you come and help kill earwigs in the blue----?
ROSE. [Looking straight before her.] Please, Miss Joy, the Missis
says will you go to her about your frock.
[There is a little pause, then from the hollow tree joy's voice
is heard.]
JOY. No-o!
ROSE. If you did n't come, I was to tell you she was going to put
you in the blue.
Oh, Miss joy, you've done your hair up! [Joy retires into the tree.]
Please, Miss, what shall I tell the Missis?
[ROSE goes away, and JOY comes out. She sits on the rustic seat
and waits. DICK, coming softly from the house, approaches her.]
I shan't see you again you know after to-morrow till I come up for
the 'Varsity match.
[Coming closer.]
DICK. But I can't help it! It's too much for me, Joy, I must tell
you----
MRS. GWYN. How sweet you look with your hair up, Joy! Who 's this?
[Glancing with a smile at DICK.]
JOY. Oh, nothing! [Hugging her.] Mother! You do look such a duck.
Why did you come by the towing-path, was n't it cooking?
MRS. GWYN. [Avoiding her eyes.] Mr. Lever wanted to go into Mr.
Henty's.
MRS. GWYN. [Whose voice has hardened just a little.] If Aunt Nell's
got a room for him--of course--why not?
[Why couldn't he choose some day when we'd gone? I wanted you
all to myself.]
JOY. [Suddenly looking up.] Oh! Mother, you must have been a
chook!
MRS. GWYN. Well, I was about twice as old as you, I know that.
JOY. Had you any--any other offers before you were married, Mother?
JOY. [Glancing at MRS. GWYN, and then down.] N-o, of course not!
JOY. Fussing about somewhere; don't let's hurry! Oh! you duckie--
duckie! Aren't there any letters from Dad?
MRS. GWYN. (Forcing a smile.) Oh, well, if you must, you must!
COLONEL. [Genially.] Why, Molly! [He kisses her.] What made you
come by the towing-path?
COLONEL. Hallo! What's the matter with you? Phew! you've got your
hair up! Go and tell your aunt your mother's on the lawn. Cut
along!
Cracked about you, Molly! Simply cracked! We shall miss her when
you take her off to-morrow. [He places a chair for her.] Sit down,
sit down, you must be tired in this heat. I 've sent Bob for your
things with the wheelbarrow; what have you got?--only a bag, I
suppose.
MRS. GWYN. [Sitting, with a smile.] That's all, Uncle Tom, except--
my trunk and hat-box.
MRS. GWYN. They're all together. I hope it's not too much, Uncle
Tom.
I should like to have a look at him. But, I say, you know, Molly--
mines, mines! There are a lot of these chaps about, whose business
is to cook their own dinners. Your aunt thinks----
MRS. GWYN. Oh! Uncle Tom, don't tell me what Aunt Nell thinks!
MRS. GWYN. [Very still.] We'd better keep him out of the question,
had n't we?
COLONEL. [Nervously.] Ah! yes, I know; but look here, Molly, your
aunt thinks you're in a very delicate position-in fact, she thinks
you see too much of young Lever.
MRS. GWYN. [Stretching herself like an angry cat.] Does she? And
what do you think?
[MRS. GWYN sits unmoved, smiling the same smile, and the COLONEL
gives her a nervous look.]
If--if you were any other woman I should n't care--and if--if you
were a plain woman, damme, you might do what you liked! I know you
and Geoff don't get on; but here's this child of yours, devoted to
you, and--and don't you see, old girl? Eh?
MRS. GWYN. [Calmly.] And how much are you going to put in?
COLONEL. Not a farthing! Why, I've got nothing but my pension and
three thousand India stock!
MRS. GWYN. Only ninety pounds a year, besides your pension! D' you
mean to say that's all you've got, Uncle Tom? I never knew that
before. What a shame!
COLONEL. [In hasty confidence.] I find it best to let your aunt run
on. If she says anything----
[He goes hastily. MRS. GWYN sits drawing circles on the ground
with her charming parasol. Suddenly she springs to her feet,
and stands waiting like an animal at bay. The COLONEL and MRS.
HOPE approach her talking.]
MRS. HOPE. I don't know what's the matter with that child? Well,
Molly, so here you are. You're before your time--that train's always
late.
[They bob, seem to take fright, and kiss each other gingerly.]
MRS. HOPE. What have you done with Mr. Lever? I shall have to put
him in Peachey's room. Tom's got no champagne.
COLONEL. They've a very decent brand down at the George, Molly, I'll
send Bob over----
MRS. HOPE. Rubbish, Tom! He'll just have to put up with what he can
get!
MRS. GWYN. Of course! He's not a snob! For goodness sake, Aunt
Nell, don't put yourself out! I'm sorry I suggested his coming.
MRS. GWYN. [Shaking him gently by the coat.] No, please, Uncle
Tom!
MRS. HOPE. [Suddenly.] Now, I've told your uncle, Molly, that he's
not to go in for this gold mine without making certain it's a good
thing. Mind, I think you've been very rash. I'm going to give you a
good talking to; and that's not all--you ought n't to go about like
this with a young man; he's not at all bad looking. I remember him
perfectly well at the Fleming's dance.
MRS. HOPE. No, Tom, I'm going to talk to Molly; she's old enough to
know better.
MRS. HOPE. Yes, and you'll get yourself into a mess; I don't approve
of it, and when I see a thing I don't approve of----
MRS. HOPE. What rate of interest are these Preference shares to pay?
MRS. HOPE. What did I tell you, Tom? And are they safe?
MRS. HOPE. There, you see, you call him Maurice! Now supposing your
uncle went in for some of them----
COLONEL. [Taking off his hat-in a high, hot voice] I'm not going in
for anything of the sort.
MRS. HOPE. Don't swing your hat by the brim! Go and look if you can
see him coming!
[In a lower voice.] Your uncle's getting very bald. I 've only
shoulder of lamb for lunch, and a salad. It's lucky it's too hot to
eat.
MISS BEECH. I see her. [She kisses MRS. GWYN, and looks at her
intently.]
MRS. HOPE. Oh! before I forget, Peachey--Letty and Ernest can move
their things back again. I'm going to put Mr. Lever in your room.
[Catching sight o f the paint pot on the ground.] There's that
disgusting paint pot! Take it up at once, Tom, and put it in the
tree.
[The COLONEL picks up the pot and bears it to the hollow tree
followed by MRS. HOPE; he enters.]
MRS. GWYN. Peachey, may I introduce Mr. Lever to you? Miss Beech,
my old governess.
LEVER. How do you do? [His voice is pleasant, his manner easy.]
[The COLONEL and MRS. HOPE emerge convulsively. They are very
hot. LEVER and MRS. GWYN are very cool.]
MRS. HOPE. [Shaking hands with him.] So you 've got here! Are n't
you very hot?--Tom!
[Joy, turning to her mother, gives her the roses. With a forced
smile, LEVER advances, holding out his hand.]
LEVER. How are you, Joy? Have n't seen you for an age!
[She raises her hand, and just touches his. MRS. GWYN'S eyes
are fixed on her daughter. Miss BEECH is watching them
intently. MRS. HOPE is buttoning the COLONEL'S coat.]
ACT II
COLONEL. [With some excitement.] I'm very glad you showed me these
papers, very glad! I say that it's a most astonishing thing if the
ore suddenly stops there. [A gleam of humour visits LEVER'S face.]
I'm not an expert, but you ought to prove that ground to the East
more thoroughly.
COLONEL. If it were mine, I'd no more sit down under the belief that
the ore stopped there than I 'd---There's a harmony in these things.
COLONEL. You've struck a fault, that's what's happened. The ore may
be as much as thirty or forty yards out; but it 's there, depend on
it.
LEVER. All I can tell you is: This is as far as we've got, and we
want more money before we can get any farther.
LEVER. [As though about to take the papers.] Perhaps we'd better
close the sitting, sir; sorry to have bored you.
COLONEL. Now, now! Don't be so touchy! If I'm to put money in, I'm
bound to look at it all round.
LEVER. [With lifted brows.] Please don't imagine that I want you to
put money in.
COLONEL. Confound it, sir! D 'you suppose I take you for a Company
promoter?
COLONEL. I know, I know; but I 've been into it for myself; I've
formed my opinion personally. Now, what 's the reason you don't want
me to invest?
LEVER. Well, if it doesn't turn out as you expect, you'll say it's
my doing. I know what investors are.
COLONEL. Certainly! I've been thinking it over ever since you told
me Henty had fought shy. I 've a poor opinion of Henty. He's one of
those fellows that says one thing and does another. An opportunist!
LEVER. [Slowly.] I'm afraid we're all that, more or less. [He sits
beneath the hollow tree.]
COLONEL. [As though making a discovery.] You know, I've found that
when a woman's living alone and unprotected, the very least thing
will set a lot of hags and jackanapes talking. [Hotly.] The more
unprotected and helpless a woman is, the more they revel in it. If
there's anything I hate in this world, it's those wretched creatures
who babble about their neighbours' affairs.
MISS BEECH. [Who has been gazing after JOY.] Talkin' business, poor
creatures?
LEVER. Oh, no! If you'll excuse me, I'll wash my hands before tea.
MISS BEECH. [Unmoved.] For every ounce you take out of a gold mine
you put two in.
ROSE. If you please, sir, the Missis told me to lay the tea.
ERNEST. Well, Colonel [with a smile], I only don't want you to chuck
your money away on a stiff 'un. If you want anything good you should
go to Mexico.
ERNEST. [Moving with his chair, and stopping with a smile.] If you
ask me, I should say it wasn't playing the game to put Molly into a
thing like that.
ERNEST. Any Juggins can see that she's a bit gone on our friend.
ERNEST. He's not at all the sort of Johnny that appeals to me.
COLONEL. Really?
MRS. HOPE. Don't stand there, Tom; clear those papers, and let Rose
lay the table. Now, Ernest, go and get another chair.
[The COLONEL looks wildly round and sits beneath the hollow
tree, with his head held in his hands. ROSE lays the cloth.]
ERNEST. [Carrying his chair about with him.] Ask any Johnny in the
City, he 'll tell you Mexico's a very tricky country--the people are
awful rotters
[ERNEST looks at the chair, puts it down, opens his mouth, and
goes away. ROSE follows him.]
What's he been talking about? You oughtn't to get so excited, Tom;
is your head bad, old man? Here, take these papers! [She hands the
papers to the COLONEL.] Peachey, go in and tell them tea 'll be
ready in a minute, there 's a good soul? Oh! and on my dressing
table you'll find a bottle of Eau de Cologne.
MRS. BEECH. Don't let him get in a temper again. That 's three
times to-day!
MRS. HOPE. Now Tom! What have you been up to, to get into a state
like this?
COLONEL. [Avoiding her eyes.] I shall lose my temper with him one
of these days. He's got that confounded habit of thinking nobody can
be right but himself.
MRS. HOPE. You can see it all over him. If I saw any signs of Joy's
breaking out, I'd send them both away. I simply won't have it.
MRS. HOPE. [Pursuing her own thoughts.] But she isn't--not yet.
I've been watching her very carefully. She's more in love with her
Mother than any one, follows her about like a dog! She's been quite
rude to Mr. Lever.
If I thought there was anything between Molly and Mr. Lever, d 'you
suppose I'd have him in the house?
He's a very nice fellow; and I want you to pump him well, Tom, and
see what there is in this mine.
MRS. HOPE. There you are on your high horse! I do wish you had a
little common-sense, Tom!
MRS. HOPE. Well, what were you looking at these papers for? It does
drive me so wild the way you throw away all the chances you have of
making a little money. I've got you this opportunity, and you do
nothing but rave up and down, and talk nonsense!
COLONEL. [In a high voice] Much you know about it! I 've taken a
thousand shares in this mine
MRS. HOPE. The idea! As if you could trust your judgment in a thing
like that! You 'll just go at once and say there was a mistake; then
we 'll talk it over calmly.
MRS. HOPE. Well, if I'd thought you'd have forgotten what you said
this morning and turned about like this, d'you suppose I'd have
spoken to you at all? Now, do you?
[He walks away followed by MRS. HOPE, who endeavors to make him
see her point of view. ERNEST and LETTY are now returning from
the house armed with a third chair.]
ERNEST. [Preoccupied with his reflections.] Your old Dad 's as mad
as a hatter with me.
LETTY. Why?
ERNEST. Well, I merely said what I thought, that Molly ought to look
out what's she's doing, and he dropped on me like a cartload of
bricks.
ERNEST. But look here, d'you mean to tell me that she and Lever
are n't----
LETTY. Don't! Suppose they are! If joy were to hear it'd be simply
awful. I like Molly. I 'm not going to believe anything against
her. I don't see the use of it. If it is, it is, and if it is n't,
it is n't.
ERNEST. Well, all I know is that when I told her the mine was
probably a frost she went for me like steam.
LETTY. Well, so should I. She was only sticking up for her friends.
ERNEST. Ask the old Peachey-bird. She knows a thing or two. Look
here, I don't mind a man's being a bit of a sportsman, but I think
Molly's bringin' him down here is too thick. Your old Dad's got one
of his notions that because this Josser's his guest, he must keep him
in a glass case, and take shares in his mine, and all the rest of it.
[She stops and buts her finger to her lips, for JOY is coming
towards them, as the tea-bell sounds. She is followed by DICK
and MISS BEECH with the Eau de Cologne. The COLONEL and MRS.
HOPE are also coming back, discussing still each other's point
of view.]
MRS. HOPE. Now Joy, come and sit down; your mother's been told tea's
ready; if she lets it get cold it's her lookout.
[Seizing her, she turns her back on LEVER. They sit in various
seats, and MRS. HOPE pours out the tea.]
MRS. HOPE. Hand the sandwiches to Mr. Lever, Peachey. It's our own
jam, Mr. Lever.
MRS. GWYN. [With forced gaiety.] It's the first time I've ever seen
you eat jam.
JOY. [Who has been staring at her enemy, suddenly.] I'm all burnt
up! Are n't you simply boiled, Mother?
ERNEST. [From the swing.] I say, you know, the glass is going down.
MISS BEECH. [Removing her gaze from JOY to LEVER.] You don't think
we shall have it before to-night, do you?
MISS BEECH. I said, you don't think we shall have the thunder before
to-night, do you?
MISS BEECH. [Eating.] People don't often see what they don't want
to, do they?
MRS. GWYN. [Quickly breaking ivy.] What are you talking about? The
weather's perfect.
MRS. HOPE. You'd better make a good tea, Peachey; nobody'll get
anything till eight, and then only cold shoulder. You must just put
up with no hot dinner, Mr. Lever.
COLONEL. [Once more busy with his papers.] I see the name of your
engineer is Rodriguez--Italian, eh?
LEVER. Portuguese.
MRS. HOPE. Now I want to ask you, Mr. Lever, is this gold mine safe?
If it isn't--I simply won't allow Tom to take these shares; he can't
afford it.
MRS. HOPE. Now, Mr. Lever, don't be offended! I'm very anxious for
Tom to take the shares if you say the thing's so good.
MRS. HOPE. I would n't say a word, only Tom's so easily taken in.
MRS. GWYN. [Fiercely.] Aunt Nell, how can't you? [Joy gives a
little savage laugh.]
LETTY. [Hastily.] Ernie, will you play Dick and me? Come on, Dick!
MRS. HOPE. You ought to know your Uncle by this time, Molly. He's
just like a child. He'd be a pauper to-morrow if I did n't see to
things.
COLONEL. Understand once for all that I shall take two thousand
shares in this mine. I 'm--I 'm humiliated. [He turns and goes
towards the house.]
MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice as she passes.] You need n't insult my
friends!
Take care, Molly, take care! The child! Can't you see?
[Apostrophising LEVER.] Take care, Molly, take care!
[MISS BEECH looking from face to face, nods her head repeatedly;
then gathering her skirts she walks towards the house. MRS.
GWYN sits motionless, staying before her.]
Extraordinary old lady! [He pitches away his cigarette.] What's the
matter with her, Molly?
LEVER. Yes.
LEVER. [In a dubious and ironic voice.] My dear girl, I 've too
much to bother me to mind trifles like that.
MRS. GWYN. Ah! [With a bitter smile.] The Spring's soon over.
LEVER. You did n't tell me what you were thinking about just now
when you sat there like stone.
LEVER. Have I been so bad to you that you need feel like that,
Molly?
MRS. GWYN. [With a little warm squeeze of his arm.] Oh! my dear,
it's only that I'm so---
[She stops.]
MRS. GWYN. [Her eyes fixed on the ground.] Joy comes home
to-morrow. I thought if I brought you here--I should know----
MRS. GWYN. [Losing her control.] Can't you SEE? It haunts me? How
are we to go on? I must know--I must know!
MRS. GWYN. When any one says anything horrid to you, I can't help
it.
[MRS. GWYN drops her hand. She throws her head back, and her
throat is seen to work as though she were gulping down a bitter
draught. She moves away.]
MRS. GWYN. [With a quavering smile.] Yes-let 's talk sensibly, and
walk properly in this sensible, proper place.
JOY. [Leaning back and tearing the flower.] Oh! do hurry up, Rose!
ROSE. [Collects the tea things.] Mr. Dick's coming down the path!
Aren't I going to get you to do your frock, Miss Joy?
JOY. No.
DICK. Come on the river, Joy, just for half an hour, as far as the
kingfishers--do! [Joy shakes her head.] Why not? It 'll be so
jolly and cool. I'm most awfully sorry if I worried you this
morning. I didn't mean to. I won't again, I promise. [Joy slides a
look at him, and from that look he gains a little courage.] Do come!
It'll be the last time. I feel it awfully, Joy.
JOY. [In a hard voice.] If you don't like me, why do you follow me
about?
DICK. Have some Eau de Cologne. I 'll make you a bandage. [He
takes the Eau de Cologne, and makes a bandage with his handkerchief.]
It's quite clean.
JOY. [With her chin up, and her eyes fast closed.] Quite.
DICK. I'm not going to stay and worry you. You ought to rest.
Only, Joy! Look here! If you want me to do anything for you, any
time----
Dick--[softly]--Dick!
[DICK stops.]
I didn't mean that; will you get me some water-irises for this
evening?
DICK. Won't I? [He goes to the hollow tree and from its darkness
takes a bucket and a boat-hook.] I know where there are some
rippers!
Are you sure you 're all right. Joy? You 'll just rest here in the
shade, won't you, till I come back?--it 'll do you no end of good. I
shan't be twenty minutes.
[MRS. GWYN and LEVER are seen approaching; they pass the tree,
in conversation.]
LEVER. We mean to sell the mine; we must do some more work on it,
and for that we must have money.
MRS. GWYN. If you only want a little, I should have thought you
could have got it in a minute in the City.
LEVER. That 's all very well; but it 's not so simple.
MRS. GWYN. [Shyly.] But, Maurice, have you told him about the
selling?
LEVER. [Stubbornly.] I can't help his being the sort of man he is.
I did n't want him to take these shares; I told him so in so many
words. Put yourself in my place, Molly: how can I go to him and say,
"This thing may turn out rotten," when he knows I got you to put your
money into it?
[But JOY, the lost shadow, has come back. She moves forward
resolutely. They are divided from her by the hollow tree; she
is unseen. She stops.]
MRS. GWYN. I think he ought to be told about the selling; it 's not
fair.
LEVER. What on earth made him rush at the thing like that? I don't
understand that kind of man.
MRS. GWYN. [Impulsively.] I must tell him, Maurice; I can't let him
take the shares without----
LEVER. [Slowly and very quietly.] I did n't think you'd give me
away, Molly.
[MRS. GWYN, giving her lover a long look, touches his sleeve.
JOY, slipping behind the hollow tree, has gone.]
You can't act in a case like this as if you 'd only a principle to
consider. It 's the--the special circumstances.
MRS. GWYN. [With a faint smile.] But you'll be glad to get the
money won't you?
LEVER. We may not sell after all, dear, we may find it turn out
trumps.
MRS. GWYN. [With a shiver.] I don't want to hear any more. I know
women don't understand. [Impulsively.] It's only that I can't bear
any one should think that you----
LEVER. [Distressed.] For goodness sake don't look like that, Molly!
Of course, I'll speak to your Uncle. I'll stop him somehow, even if
I have to make a fool of myself. I 'll do anything you want----
MRS. GWYN. [With sudden tenderness.] It's not your fault, dear. I
ought to have known how it would be. Well, let's go in!
[She sets her lips, and walks towards the house with LEVER
following. But no sooner has she disappeared than JOY comes
running after; she stops, as though throwing down a challenge.
Her cheeks and ears are burning.]
JOY. Mother!
JOY. Yes----no.
JOY. [Breathlessly.] Oh, Mother, let me go back home with you now
at once----
MRS. GWYN. [Her face hardening.] Why? What on earth----
JOY. Oh! Mother, I did n't--[She tries to take her Mother's hand,
but fails.] Oh! don't.
[She stops.]
MRS. GWYN. What about the mine? What do you mean? [Fiercely.]
Have you been spying on me?
JOY. [Through her teeth.] I hate him. I didn't mean to listen, but
I hate him.
[There is a silence.]
MRS. GWYN. I can't reason with you. As to what you heard, it 's--
ridiculous.
Mother--won't you? Let's tell Uncle Tom and go away from him?
MRS. GWYN. If you were not, a child, Joy, you wouldn't say such
things.
[She sees joy throw up her arms as though warding off a blow,
and turning finds that LEVER is standing in the opening of the
wall.]
LEVER. [Looking from face to face.] What's the matter? [There is
no answer.] What is it, Joy?
LEVER. [Impassively.] Ah! and what did I say that was so very
dreadful?
LEVER. [Stepping up to JOY, and standing with his hands behind him--
in a low voice.] Now hit me in the face--hit me--hit me as hard as
you can. Go on, Joy, it'll do you good.
[Joy raises her clenched hand, but drops it, and hides her
face.]
Come, joy; you'll make yourself ill, and that won't help, will it?
JOY. [In a stifled, sullen voice.] Will you leave my mother alone?
JOY. [Wincing; then with sudden passion.] I defy you--I defy you!
[She rushes from their sight.]
ACT III
DICK comes from the house in evening dress. He does not see
Miss BEECH.
MISS BEECH. Did you ever know any one that could?
DICK. [Earnestly.] It's such awfully hard lines on Joy. I can't get
her out of my head, lying there with that beastly headache while
everybody's jigging round.
MISS BEECH. Oh! you don't mind about yourself--noble young man!
DICK. Did n't you hear what Mrs. Gwyn said at dinner about the sun?
[With inspiration.] I say, Peachey, could n't you--could n't you
just go up and give her a message from me, and find out if there 's
anything she wants, and say how brutal it is that she 's seedy; it
would be most awfully decent of you. And tell her the dancing's no
good without her. Do, Peachey, now do! Ah! and look here!
[He dives into the hollow of the tree, and brings from out of it
a pail of water in which are placed two bottles of champagne,
and some yellow irises--he takes the irises.]
You might give her these. I got them specially for her, and I have
n't had a chance.
DICK. Fizz. The Colonel brought it from the George. It 's for
supper; he put it in here because of--[Smiling faintly]--Mrs. Hope,
I think. Peachey, do take her those irises.
Why not?
DICK. All right! I suppose I shall just have to get along somehow.
MISS BEECH. [With devilry.] That's what we've all got to do.
MISS BEECH. Did y' ever know anybody that swore they were?
DICK. All right; chaff away, it's good fun, isn't it? It makes me
sick to dance when Joy's lying there. Her last night, too!
MISS BEECH. [Sidling to him.] You're a good young man, and you 've
got a good heart.
DICK. Peachey--I say, Peachey d' you think there 's--I mean d' you
think there'll ever be any chance for me?
MISS BEECH. Of course you do. Nobody else would at your age, but
you do.
DICK. I would n't ask her to promise, it would n't be fair when
she 's so young, but I do want her to know that I shall never change.
DICK. Oh! Peachey! D' you think there's a chance of that--do you?
[The COLONEL and MRS. GWYN are coming down the lawn.]
COLONEL. The girls are all sitting out, Dick! I've been obliged to
dance myself. Phew!
[Looking after him.] Hallo! What's the matter with him? Cooling
your heels, Peachey? By George! it's hot. Fancy the poor devils in
London on a night like this, what? [He sees the moon.] It's a full
moon. You're lucky to be down here, Molly.
A shame that poor child has knocked up like this. Don't think it was
the sun myself--more likely neuralgic--she 's subject to neuralgia,
Molly.
COLONEL. Got too excited about your coming. I told Nell not to keep
worrying her about her frock, and this is the result. But your Aunt
--you know--she can't let a thing alone!
COLONEL. [Patting her hand.] There, there, old girl, don't think
about it. She'll be all right tomorrow.
MISS BEECH. If I were her mother I'd soon have her up.
COLONEL. Have her up with that headache! What are you talking
about, Peachey?
MISS BEECH. [Looking at MRS. GWYN.] When a tooth hurts, you should
have it out. It 's only puttin' off the evil day.
MISS BEECH. Well, it was hollow, and you broke your principles!
MISS BEECH [With devilry.] Well, I know that! [She turns to MRS.
GWYN.] He should have had it out! Shouldn't he, Molly?
COLONEL. [Alarmed.] Hallo, Molly! Are n't you feeling the thing,
old girl?
COLONEL. That's the dancing. [He taps his forehead.] I know what
it is when you're not used to it.
COLONEL. My dear girl, whatever put such a thought into your head?
We all know if there were anything you could do, you'd do it at once,
would n't she, Peachey?
MRS. GWYN. [In a low voice.] There's always one that a woman will
do anything for.
COLONEL. Exactly what I say. With your Aunt it's me, and by George!
Molly, sometimes I wish it was n't.
COLONEL. You old cynic! D' you mean to say Joy wouldn't do anything
on earth for her Mother, or Molly for Joy? You don't know human
nature. What a wonderful night! Have n't seen such a moon for
years, she's like a great, great lamp!
[MRS. GWYN hiding from Miss BEECH's eyes, rises and slips her
arm through his; they stand together looking at the moon.]
MRS. GWYN. I don't know what's the matter with me this evening.
COLONEL. There, there! Give me a kiss, old girl! [He kisses her on
the brow.] Why, your forehead's as hot as fire. I know--I know-you
're fretting about Joy. Never mind--come! [He draws her hand
beneath his arm.] Let's go and have a look at the moon on the river.
We all get upset at times; eh! [Lifting his hand as if he had been
stung.] Why, you 're not crying, Molly! I say! Don't do that, old
girl, it makes me wretched. Look here, Peachey. [Holding out the
hand on which the tear has dropped.] This is dreadful!
MRS. GWYN. [With a violent effort.] It's all right, Uncle Tom!
[MISS BEECH wipes her own eyes stealthily. From the house is
heard the voice of MRS. HOPE, calling "Tom."]
COLONEL. There, there, my dear, you just stay here, and cool
yourself--I 'll come back--shan't be a minute. [He turns to go.]
[Turning back.] And Molly, old girl, don't you mind anything I said.
I don't remember what it was--it must have been something, I suppose.
MRS. GWYN. [In a fierce low voice.] Why do you torture me?
MRS. GWYN, But you do. D' you think I haven't seen this coming--all
these weeks. I knew she must find out some time! But even a day
counts----
MISS BEECH. I don't understand why you brought him down here.
MRS. GWYN. [After staring at her, bitterly.] When day after day and
night after night you've thought of nothing but how to keep them
both, you might a little want to prove that it was possible, mightn't
you? But you don't understand--how should you? You've never been a
mother! [And fiercely.] You've never had a lov----
[MISS BEECH raises her face-it is all puckered.]
MRS. GWYN. I'm so dragged in two! [She sinks into a chair.] I knew
it must come.
MISS BEECH. [Mournfully.] It's either him or her then, my dear; one
or the other you 'll have to give up.
MISS BEECH. Life's only just beginning for that child, Molly.
[She laughs.]
MISS BEECH. Who am I to tell what's wicked and what is n't? God
knows you're both like daughters to me!
MRS. GWYN. [Turning away from her.] Life is n't fair. Peachey, go
in and leave me alone.
[Miss BEECH gets off her seat, and stroking MRS. GWYN's arm in
passing goes silently away. In the opening of the wall she
meets LEVER who is looking for his partner. They make way for
each other.]
LEVER. [Going up to MRS. GWYN--gravely.] The next is our dance,
Molly.
I seem to bring you nothing but worry, Maurice. Are you tired of me?
[MRS. GWYN struggles to look at him, then covers her face with
her hands.]
[MRS. GWYN has turned away her face, covering it with her
hands.]
[Starting up.] Listen! One can't sit it out and dance it too.
Which is it to be, Maurice, dancing--or sitting out? It must be one
or the other, must n't it?
MRS. GWYN. Ah, my dear! [Standing away from him as though to show
herself.] How long shall I keep you? This is all that 's left of
me. It 's time I joined the wallflowers. [Smiling faintly.] It's
time I played the mother, is n't it? [In a whisper.] It'll be all
sitting out then.
[He puts his hands on her arms, and in a gust of passion kisses
her lips and throat.]
MRS. GWYN. I can't give you up--I can't. Love me, oh! love me!
[For a few seconds the hollow tree stands alone; then from the house
ROSE comes and enters it. She takes out a bottle of champagne, wipes
it, and carries it away; but seeing MRS. GWYN's scarf lying across
the chair, she fingers it, and stops, listening to the waltz.
Suddenly draping it round her shoulders, she seizes the bottle of
champagne, and waltzes with abandon to the music, as though avenging
a long starvation of her instincts. Thus dancing, she is surprised
by DICK, who has come to smoke a cigarette and think, at the spot
where he was told to "have a go." ROSE, startled, stops and hugs the
bottle.]
[ROSE, taking off the scarf, replaces it on the chair; then with
the half-warmed bottle, she retreats. DICK, in the swing, sits
thinking of his fate. Suddenly from behind the hollow tree he
sees Joy darting forward in her day dress with her hair about
her neck, and her skirt all torn. As he springs towards her,
she turns at bay.]
DICK. Joy!
DICK. [In consternation.] But ought you to have got up--I thought
you were ill in bed; oughtn't you to be lying down?
DICK. But where have you been?-your dress is all torn. Look! [He
touches the torn skirt.]
DICK, [showing her the irises.] Look at these. They were the best I
could get.
DICK. [With sudden resolution.] What do you want the Colonel for?
DICK. Alone?
JOY. Yes.
DICK. Then you must tell him, of course, even if you did overhear.
You can't stand by and see the Colonel swindled. Whom was he talking
to?
DICK. [Releasing her.] I'm thinking of your Mother, Joy. She would
never----
DICK. But joy, just think! There must be some mistake. It 's so
queer--it 's quite impossible!
DICK. Won't let her--won't let her? But [Stopping dead, and in a
very different voice.] Oh!
JOY. [Passionately.] Why d' you look at me like that? Why can't
you speak?
JOY. I hate him, I want to make her hate him, and I will.
DICK. But, Joy, dear, don't you see--if your Mother knows a thing
like that, and does n't speak of it, it means that she--it means that
you can't make her hate him--it means----If it were anybody else--
but, well, you can't give your own Mother away!
JOY. How dare you! How dare you! [Turning to the hollow tree.] It
is n't true--Oh! it is n't true!
[MRS. GWYN is seen coming back. JOY springs into the tree.
DICK quickly steals away. MRS. GWYN goes up to the chair and
takes the scarf that she has come for, and is going again when
JOY steals out to her.]
Mother!
[MRS. GWYN stands looking at her with her teeth set on her lower
lip.]
MRS. GWYN. I brought you into the world, and you say that to me?
Have I been a bad mother to you?
[Joy drops her hands, and lifts her face. MRS. GWYN looks back
at her, her lips are quivering; she goes on speaking with
stammering rapidity.]
D' you think--because I suffered when you were born and because I 've
suffered since with every ache you ever had, that that gives you the
right to dictate to me now? [In a dead voice.] I've been unhappy
enough and I shall be unhappy enough in the time to come. [Meeting
the hard wonder in Joy's face.] Oh! you untouched things, you're as
hard and cold as iron!
MRS. GWYN. Except--let me live, Joy. That's the only thing you won't
do for me, I quite understand.
JOY. Oh! Mother, you don't understand--I want you so; and I seem to
be nothing to you now.
MRS. GWYN. [With the same quivering smile.] My darling, I know you
would, until you fell in love yourself.
MRS. GWYN. There has never been a woman, joy, that did not fall in
love.
JOY. [In a despairing whisper.] But it 's wrong of you it's wicked!
MRS. GWYN. If it's wicked, I shall pay for it, not you!
JOY. I can't bear it that you--if you 'll only--I'll never leave
you. You think I don't know what I 'm saying, but I do, because even
now I--I half love somebody. Oh, Mother! [Pressing her breast.]
I feel--I feel so awful--as if everybody knew.
MRS. GWYN. You think I'm a monster to hurt you. Ah! yes! You'll
understand better some day.
[Joy' looks up suddenly, sees her face, and sinks down on her
knees.]
[Joy turns her face away. MRS. GWYN bends suddenly and touches
her daughter's hair; JOY shrinks from that touch.]
[And swiftly without looking back she goes away. Joy, left alone
under the hollow tree, crouches lower, and her shoulders shake.
Here DICK finds her, when he hears no longer any sound o f
voices. He falls on his knees beside her.]
DICK. Oh! Joy; dear, don't cry. It's so dreadful to see you! I 'd
do anything not to see you cry! Say something.
Joy, darling! It's so awful, you 'll make yourself ill, and it is
n't worth it, really. I 'd do anything to save you pain--won't you
stop just for a minute?
Nothing in the world 's worth your crying, Joy. Give me just a
little look!
DICK. You do look so sweet! Oh, Joy, I'll comfort you, I'll take it
all on myself. I know all about it.
DICK. Don't think about it! No, no, no! I know exactly what it's
like. [He strokes her arm.]
DICK. Look here, joy! It's no good, we must talk it over calmly.
JOY. [Brushing her sleeve across her eyes.] Oh, Dick, you are so
sweet--and--and--funny!
DICK. [Sliding his arm about her.] I love you, Joy, that 's why,
and I 'll love you till you don't feel it any more. I will. I'll
love you all day and every day; you shan't miss anything, I swear it.
It 's such a beautiful night--it 's on purpose. Look' [JOY looks; he
looks at her.] But it 's not so beautiful as you.
DICK. [Sidling closer.] Are n't your knees tired, darling? I--I
can't get near you properly.
DICK. To-morrow shan't hurt you, Joy; nothing shall ever hurt you
again.
[She looks at him, and her face changes; suddenly she buries it
against his shoulder.]
[They stand so just a moment in the moon light; then turning to the
river move slowly out of sight. Again the hollow tree is left alone.
The music of the waltz has stopped. The voices of MISS BEECH and the
COLONEL are heard approaching from the house. They appear in the
opening of the wall. The COLONEL carries a pair of field glasses
with which to look at the Moon.]
MISS BEECH. Are you sure they're kissing? Well, that's some
comfort.
MISS BEECH, [Impressively.] It's a comfort she's got that good young
man. She's found out that her mother and this Mr. Lever are--you
know.
COLONEL. [Bowing his head.] I never would have believed she'd have
forgotten herself.
MISS BEECH. [Very solemnly.] Ah, my dear! We're all the same;
we're all as hollow as that tree! When it's ourselves it's always a
special case!
[A silence.]
MISS BEECH. [Sadly.] They must go their own ways, poor things! She
can't put herself in the child's place, and the child can't put
herself in Molly's. A woman and a girl--there's the tree of life
between them!
COLONEL. [Staring into the tree to see indeed if that were the tree
alluded to.] It's a grief to me, Peachey, it's a grief! [He sinks
into a chair, stroking his long moustaches. Then to avenge his
hurt.] Shan't tell Nell--dashed if I do anything to make the trouble
worse!
MISS BEECH. Men and women are! [Touching his forehead tenderly.]
There, there--take care of your poor, dear head! Tsst! The blessed
innocents!
[She pulls the COLONEL'S sleeve. They slip away towards the
house, as JOY and DICK come back. They are still linked
together, and stop by the hollow tree.]
DICK. [Putting his arms around her, with conviction.] It's never
been like this before. It's you and me!
FREDERIC H. WILDER, |
WILLIAM SCANTLEBURY,| Directors Of the same
OLIVER WANKLIN, |
DAVID ROBERTS, |
JAMES GREEN, |
JOHN BULGIN, | the workmen's committee
HENRY THOMAS, |
GEORGE ROUS, |
HENRY ROUS, |
LEWIS, |
JAGO, |
EVANS, | workman at the Trenartha Tin Plate Works
A BLACKSMITH, |
DAVIES, |
A RED-HAIRED YOUTH. |
BROWN |
ACT II,
SCENE I. The kitchen of the Roberts's cottage near the works.
SCENE II. A space outside the works.
ACT I
WILDER. Oh, that rag! Give it to Wanklin. Suit his Radical views.
They call us monsters, I suppose. The editor of that rubbish ought
to be shot.
EDGAR. [Reading.] "If the Board of worthy gentlemen who control the
Trenartha Tin Plate Works from their arm-chairs in London would
condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing
amongst their work-people during this strike----"
WILDER. H'm!
[UNDERWOOD and ENID enter with a screen, which they place before
the fire. ENID is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is
twenty-eight years old.]
ENID. Put it closer, Frank. Will that do, Mr. Wilder? It's the
highest we've got.
ENID. Is there anything else you want, Father? [ANTHONY shakes his
head.] Edgar--anything?
UNDERWOOD. A quill!
WILDER. Past twelve! Are n't you going to read the minutes, Tench?
ANTHONY. [With a heavy sigh.] If it's your pleasure, sign the same.
WANKLIN. What's the Union's game, Tench? They have n't made up
their split with the men. What does Harness want this interview for?
WILDER. Well, I hope we're going to settle this business in time for
me to catch the 6.30. I've got to take my wife to Spain to-morrow.
[Chattily.] My old father had a strike at his works in '69; just
such a February as this. They wanted to shoot him.
WILDER. It's my experience that you've always got to, consider the
Union, confound them! If the Union were going to withdraw their
support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them
to strike at all?
WILDER. Well, I've never understood it! It's beyond me. They talk
of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they
are--but that's not enough to make the Union withdraw their support.
What's behind it?
TENCH. You were absent from the Board that day, sir.
SCANTLEBURY. The men must have seen they had no chance when the
Union gave them up. It's madness.
WILDER. Just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like
Roberts for leader. [A pause.]
UNDERWOOD. Yes.
WILDER. Well, they haven't! Here we are, going from bad to worse
losing our customers--shares going down!
WILDER. Who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like
this--nobody suggested that. [Looking angrily at TENCH.]
ANTHONY. No compromise!
EDGAR. [To UNDERWOOD.] What sort of state are they really in,
Frank?
WILDER. Well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on
like this without support!
WANKLIN. [With an ironical smile.] I'm afraid we must n't base our
policy on luxuries like sentiment.
EDGAR. I know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough.
ANTHONY. Give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it.
[ANTHONY nods.]
WILDER. Yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next
dividend.
WILDER. Tcha!
ANTHONY. I've always fought them; I've never been beaten yet.
WANKLIN. We're with you in theory, Chairman. But we're not all made
of cast-iron.
WILDER. [Rising and going to the fire.] And go to the devil as fast
as we can!
WILDER. [Fretfully.] That may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit
me, or any one else I should think.
EDGAR. I don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this
means starvation to the men's wives and families.
WILDER. Nobody's more sorry for the men than I am, but if they
[lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing
to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves
and the shareholders.
WILDER. [Returning to his seat.] Well, all I can say is, if that's
the Chairman's view, I don't know what we've come down here for.
ANTHONY. To tell the men that we've got nothing for them----
[Grimly.] They won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain
English.
WILDER. We paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three
years later. If that's not enough! What does he want, for goodness'
sake?
WILDER. The man's a rank agitator! Look here, I hate the Unions.
But now we've got Harness here let's get him to settle the whole
thing.
WILDER. [Looking at ANTHONY.] And not the only one! [FROST enters
from the hall.]
FROST. [To ANTHONY.] Mr. Harness from the Union, waiting, sir. The
men are here too, sir.
HARNESS. [With a sharp look round, and a bow.] Thanks! [He sits---
his accent is slightly nasal.] Well, gentlemen, we're going to do
business at last, I hope.
WILDER. Depends on what you call business, Harness. Why don't you
make the men come in?
HARNESS. [Sardonically.] The men are far more in the right than you
are. The question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them
again.
ANTHONY. Support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have
done with it.
HARNESS. That won't do, Mr. Anthony. You can't get free labour, and
you know it.
HARNESS. I'm quite frank with you. We were forced to withhold our
support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of
current rates. I expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day:
if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them
again at once. Now, I want to see something fixed upon before I go
back to-night. Can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war
business? What good's it doing you? Why don't you recognise once
for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's
good for them just as you want what's good for you [Bitterly.] Your
motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners.
ANTHONY. If the men will come in, we'll do something for them.
HARNESS. [Ironically.] Is that your opinion too, sir--and yours--
and yours? [The Directors do not answer.] Well, all I can say is:
It's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone I thought we'd grown
out of--seems I was mistaken.
ANTHONY. It's the tone the men use. Remains to be seen which can
hold out longest--they without us, or we without them.
ANTHONY. What?
SCANTLEBURY. Can't you persuade the men that their interests are the
same as ours?
WILDER. Come, Harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all
the Socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. There 's no real
difference between their interests and ours.
HARNESS. There's just one very simple question I'd like to put to
you. Will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay
them?
[WILDER is silent.]
WANKLIN. [Chiming in.] I humbly thought that not to pay more than
was necessary was the A B C of commerce.
EDGAR. [Looking up suddenly.] We're sorry for the state of the men.
HARNESS. [Icily.] The men have no use for your pity, sir. What
they want is justice.
HARNESS. For that word "just" read "humble," Mr. Anthony. Why
should they be humble? Barring the accident of money, are n't they
as good men as you?
ANTHONY. Cant!
ROBERTS. Glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take
to your people.
ROBERTS. It's what the Board has to say we've come to hear. It's
for the Board to speak first.
WANKLIN: [Suavely.] Come, Roberts, you did n't give us this long
cold journey for the pleasure of saying that.
TENCH. The Chairman means, Roberts, that it was the men who asked
for the conference, the Board wish to hear what they have to say.
ROBERTS. You want reason Mr. Harness? Take a look round this
afternoon before the meeting. [He looks at the men; no sound escapes
them.] You'll see some very pretty scenery.
ROBERTS. [To the men.] We shan't put Mr. Harness off. Have some
champagne with your lunch, Mr. Harness; you'll want it, sir.
THOMAS. What I'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say----
ROBERTS. Aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body
that you've left them, Mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word
were an offence] Scantlebury! [To the men.] Well, will you speak,
or shall I speak for you?
ROBERTS. Ye will not dare to thank Him when I have done, Mr. Wilder,
for all your piety. May be your God up in London has no time to
listen to the working man. I'm told He is a wealthy God; but if he
listens to what I tell Him, He will know more than ever He learned in
Kensington.
HARNESS. Come, Roberts, you have your own God. Respect the God of
other men.
ROBERTS. That's right, sir. We have another God down here; I doubt
He is rather different to Mr. Wilder's. Ask Henry Thomas; he will
tell you whether his God and Mr. Wilder's are the same.
WANKLIN. For goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, Roberts.
The men can't afford to travel up to London; and they don't trust you
to believe what they say in black and white. They know what the post
is [he darts a look at UNDERWOOD and TENCH], and what Directors'
meetings are: "Refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on
the men's condition. Can we squeeze them a little more?"
UNDERWOOD. [In a low voice.] Don't hit below the belt, Roberts!
ROBERTS. Is it below the belt, Mr. Underwood? The men know. When I
came up to London, I told you the position straight. An' what came
of it? I was told I did n't know what I was talkin' about. I can't
afford to travel up to London to be told that again.
[The men assent reluctantly. ANTHONY takes from TENCH the paper
and peruses it.]
Not one single sentence. All those demands are fair. We have not.
asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. What I said up in
London, I say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper
that a just man should not ask, and a just man give.
[A pause.]
ANTHONY. There is not one single demand on this paper that we will
grant.
[In the stir that follows on these words, ROBERTS watches the
Directors and ANTHONY the men. WILDER gets up abruptly and goes
over to the fire.]
ANTHONY. I do.
ROBERTS. [Noting it, with dry intensity.] Ye best know whether the
condition of the Company is any better than the condition of the men.
[Scanning the Directors' faces.] Ye best know whether ye can afford
your tyranny--but this I tell ye: If ye think the men will give way
the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever
made. [He fixes his eyes on SCANTLEBURY.] Ye think because the
Union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming
on our knees to you one fine morning. Ye think because the men have
got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question
of a week or two----
ROBERTS. Aye! It's not much profit to us! I will say this for you,
Mr. Anthony--ye know your own mind! [Staying at ANTHONY.] I can
reckon on ye!
ROBERTS. And I know mine. I tell ye this: The men will send their
wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they
will starve sooner than give way. I advise ye, Mr. Anthony, to
prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your Company. We
are not so ignorant as you might suppose. We know the way the cat is
jumping. Your position is not all that it might be--not exactly!
ROBERTS. [Stepping forward.] Mr. Anthony, you are not a young man
now; from the time I remember anything ye have been an enemy to every
man that has come into your works. I don't say that ye're a mean
man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in
their own fate. Ye've fought them down four times. I've heard ye
say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight
ye'll ever fight!
ANTHONY, [With a grim smile at WILDER.] Go on, Roberts; say what you
like!
[He moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied;
then ROUS, throwing up his head, passes ROBERTS and goes out.
The others follow.]
[He bows slightly, rests his eyes on ANTHONY, who returns his
stare unmoved, and, followed by UNDERWOOD, goes out. There is a
moment of uneasy silence. UNDERWOOD reappears in the doorway.]
[ANTHONY nods.]
TENCH. [With papers in his hand.] Thank you, ma'am, thank you! [He
goes slowly, looking back.]
ANTHONY. No!
ANTHONY. I don't.
ENID. It's such a horrid position for us. If you were the wife of
the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. You can't realise,
Dad!
ANTHONY. Indeed?
ENID. We see all the distress. You remember my maid Annie, who
married Roberts? [ANTHONY nods.] It's so wretched, her heart's
weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper
food. I know it for a fact, Father.
ANTHONY. Well?
ENID. So unnecessary.
ANTHONY. What do you know about necessity? Read your novels, play
your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the
bottom of a struggle like this.
ANTHONY. What d' you imagine stands between you and your class and
these men that you're so sorry for?
ANTHONY. In a few years you and your children would be down in the
condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things
as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves.
ENID. You don't know the state the men are in.
ANTHONY. It's you who don't know the simple facts of the position.
What sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between
you and the continual demands of labour? This sort of mercy--
[He puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] First would go
your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would
be going all the time!
ENID. [Coldly.] And I don't know what that has to do with this
question.
ENID. It's only you and Roberts, Father, and you know it!
ENID. [In a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] Father, you know
you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what Dr. Fisher
said!
ENID. But you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter
of principle with you.
ENID. Don't Dad! [Her face works.] You--you might think of us!
ANTHONY. I am.
TENCH. Beg pardon, Madam, I think I'd rather see these papers were
disposed of before I get my lunch.
ANTHONY. Well?
TENCH. I'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; I--I
depend upon the Company entirely. If anything were to happen to it,
it'd be disastrous for me. [ANTHONY nods.] And, of course, my
wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now.
And the rates are really terrible down our way.
ANTHONY. [With grim amusement.] Not more terrible than they are up
mine.
TENCH. No, Sir? [Very nervously.] I know the Company means a great
deal to you, sir.
TENCH. I know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your
habit to look things in the face; but I don't think the Directors--
like it, sir, now they--they see it.
TENCH. [With the ghost of a smile.] No, sir; of course I've got my
children, and my wife's delicate; in my position I have to think of
these things.
[ANTHONY nods.]
It was n't that I was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me----
[hesitates]
TENCH. I know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life
you do feel things dreadfully----
[FROST enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table,
and looks at ANTHONY; TENCH coveys his nervousness by arranging
papers.]
TENCH. [In a low voice, almost supplicating.] If you could see your
way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed.
[He looks up at ANTHONY, who has not moved.] It does make me so very
anxious. I haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact.
ANTHONY. I am.
FROST. This strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. Excuse me,
sir, is it--is it worth it, sir?
[He turns and goes out into the hall. TENCH makes two attempts
to speak; but meeting his Chairman's gaze he drops his eyes,
and, turning dismally, he too goes out. ANTHONY is left alone.
He grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it
down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his
chair.]
ACT II
SCENE I
MRS. YEO. So he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o'
money I seen this week. There an't much 'eat to this fire. Come and
warm yerself Mrs. Rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are.
MRS. Rous. [Placidly.] The Company hadn't been started three years.
Father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg.
I kep' sayin' to 'im, "Father, you've got a pisoned leg." "Well," 'e
said, "Mother, pison or no pison, I can't afford to go a-layin' up."
An' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. It
was Providence! There was n't none o' these Compensation Acts then.
MRS. YEO. Ye had n't no strike that winter! [With grim humour.]
This winter's 'ard enough for me. Mrs. Roberts, you don't want no
'arder winter, do you? Wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would
it, Mrs. Bulgin?
MRS. BULGIN. We've had bread and tea last four days.
MRS. BULGIN. [Dispiritedly.] They said they'd give it me, but when
I went last Friday, they were full up. I got to go again next week.
MRS. YEO. Ah! There's too many after that. I send Yeo out on the
ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. Stops 'im
from broodin' about the 'ouse.
MRS. YEO. You're lucky they're all so small. It 's the goin' to
school that makes 'em 'ungry. Don't Bulgin give you anythin'?
MRS. YEO. [Sardonically.] What! 'Ave n't 'e got no shares in the
Company?
MRS. ROUS. [With the faintest smile.] Roberts 'll want 'is tea when
he comes in. I'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than
anywhere.
MRS. YEO. [Rising and giving her an arm.] Come on, Mother, take my
arm; we're all going' the same way.
MADGE. [Moving for the first time.] There, Annie, you see that! I
told George Rous, "Don't think to have my company till you've made an
end of all this trouble. You ought to be ashamed," I said, "with
your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the
fire. So long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us
starve." "I 'll take my oath, Madge," he said, "I 've not had smoke
nor drink these three weeks!" "Well, then, why do you go on with
it?" "I can't go back on Roberts!" . . . That's it! Roberts,
always Roberts! They'd all drop it but for him. When he talks it's
the devil that comes into them.
Ah! You don't want him beaten! He's your man. With everybody like
their own shadows! [She makes a gesture towards MRS. ROBERTS.] If
ROUS wants me he must give up Roberts. If he gave him up--they all
would. They're only waiting for a lead. Father's against him--
they're all against him in their hearts.
MADGE. Won't I? The cowards--when their own mothers and their own
children don't know where to turn.
[MADGE gives ENID the chair she has been sitting on.]
ENID. Of course! It was Roberts's doing, wasn't it? How can he let
all this suffering go on amongst you?
MADGE. [Throwing her shawl over her head.] Please to let us keep
ourselves to ourselves. We don't want you coming here and spying on
us.
MRS. ROBERTS. Please to forgive Madge Thomas, M'm; she's a bit upset
to-day.
[A pause.]
MRS. ROBERTS. [Softly, with her eyes on ENID, and moving the fingers
of one hand continually on her breast.] They do say that your
father, M'm----
ENID. My father's getting an old man, and you know what old men are.
MRS. ROBERTS. I'm sorry for any one that gets old, M'm; it 's
dreadful to get old, and Mr. Anthony was such a fine old man, I
always used to think.
ENID. [Putting the kettle on.] That means he'll lash them into a
fury again. Can't you stop his going, Annie?
[A silence.]
ENID. But you ought to have everything you want, and you have
nothing!
ENID. Madge Thomas ought n't to come here; she only excites you. As
if I did n't know what suffering there is amongst the men! I do feel
for them dreadfully, but you know they have gone too far.
ENID. [Earnestly.] But, Annie, that's why the Union won't help
them. My husband's very sympathetic with the men, but he says they
are not underpaid.
ENID. They never think how the Company could go on if we paid the
wages they want.
ENID. [Takes aback.] You all seem to think the shareholders are
rich men, but they're not--most of them are really no better off than
working men.
ENID. You don't have to pay rates and taxes, and a hundred other
things that they do. If the men did n't spend such a lot in drink
and betting they'd be quite well off!
MRS. ROBERTS. They say, workin' so hard, they must have some
pleasure.
MRS. ROBERTS. [With painful effort.] A lot 'o the men never go near
the Public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes
if there's illness.
He says, M'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up
from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all
'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the
grave. He says that without a man is very near, and pinches and
stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither
surplus nor security. That's why he wouldn't have no children [she
sinks back], not though I wanted them.
MRS. ROBERTS. No you don't, M'm. You've got your children, and
you'll never need to trouble for them.
MRS. ROBERTS. [On the defensive.] All Roberts's savin's have gone.
He 's always looked forward to this strike. He says he's no right to
a farthing when the others are suffering. 'T is n't so with all o'
them! Some don't seem to care no more than that--so long as they get
their own.
ENID. I don't see how they can be expected to when they 're
suffering like this. [In a changed voice.] But Roberts ought to
think of you! It's all terrible----! The kettle's boiling. Shall I
make the tea? [She takes the teapot and, seeing tea there, pours
water into it.] Won't you have a cup?
MRS. ROBERTS. No, thank you, M'm. [She is listening, as though for
footsteps.] I'd--sooner you did n't see Roberts, M'm, he gets so
wild.
[ROBERTS bows.]
ENID. Why are you so bitter against my father? He has never done
anything to you.
ROBERTS. Has he not?
ENID. He can't help his views, any more than you can help yours.
ENID. [Coldly.] You don't mean what you say, and you know it!
ENID. Nonsense!
ROBERTS. The house of a madman then is not the fit place for a lady.
ROBERTS. Does Mr. Anthony think it brave to fight against women and
children? Mr. Anthony is a rich man, I believe; does he think it
brave to fight against those who have n't a penny? Does he think it
brave to set children crying with hunger, an' women shivering with
cold?
ROBERTS. Neither can Mr. Anthony, for all that he may say.
[MRS. ROBERTS who has her hand pressed to her heart, takes it
away, and tries to calm her breathing.]
UNDERWOOD. Enid!
ENID. I make one more appeal to you, Mr. Roberts, for the sake of
your wife.
MRS. ROBERTS. Won't you stop and eat, David? You've 'ad nothing all
day!
ROBERTS. [Putting his hand to his throat.] Can't swallow till those
old sharks are out o' the town: [He walks up and down.] I shall have
a bother with the men--there's no heart in them, the cowards. Blind
as bats, they are--can't see a day before their noses.
ROBERTS. Ah! So they say! They can remember the women when their
own bellies speak! The women never stop them from the drink; but
from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women
stop them fast enough.
MRS. ROBERTS. How can you expect it, David? They're not made of
iron.
MRS. ROBERTS. [With a flash of malice.] No, the women may die for
all you care. That's their work.
ROBERTS. [Averting his eyes.] Who talks of dying? No one will die
till we have beaten these----
[He meets her eyes again, and again turns his away. Excitedly.]
This is what I've been waiting for all these months. To get the old
robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin's worth o'
change. I 've seen their faces, I tell you, in the valley of the
shadow of defeat.
[She lifts the coat. But ROBERTS puts it back, and wraps it
round her. He tries to meet her eyes, but cannot. MRS.
ROBERTS stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him
about, are half malicious, half yearning. He looks at his watch
again, and turns to go. In the doorway he meets JAN THOMAS, a
boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny
whistle.]
[He goes. JAN stops within a yard of MRS. ROBERTS, and stares
at her without a word.]
[He sits at the table, and fidgets with his whistle; he blows
three vague notes; then imitates a cuckoo.]
THOMAS. A very coot tay to you, Ma'am. It is petter that you are.
MRS. ROBERTS. [Half rising.] He'll never give in, Mr. Thomas.
THOMAS. You must not be fretting, that is very pat for you. Look
you, there iss hartly any mans for supporting him now, but the
engineers and George Rous. [Solemnly.] This strike is no longer
Going with Chapel, look you! I have listened carefully, an' I have
talked with her.
[JAN blows.]
Sst! I don't care what th' others say, I say that Chapel means us to
be stopping the trouple, that is what I make of her; and it is my
opinion that this is the fery best thing for all of us. If it was
n't my opinion, I ton't say but it is my opinion, look you.
[MADGE stands with her back to MRS. ROBERTS, staring at him with
her head up and her hands behind her.]
ROUS. [Who has a fierce distracted look.] Madge! I'm going to the
meeting.
MADGE. I hear! Go, and kill your own mother, if you must.
[ROUS seizes her by both her arms. She stands rigid, with her head
bent back. He releases her, and he too stands motionless.]
ROUS. Madge!
MADGE. [Smiling.] I've heard that lovers do what their girls ask
them--
ROUS. [Through his teeth.] Don't play the wanton with me!
MADGE. [With soft mockery.] But you can't break your word for me!
MRS. ROBERTS. [With a feeble movement.] I'll just sit quiet, Madge.
Give Jan--his--tea.
[JAN Stops.]
MADGE. [On her knees at the fire, listening.] Waiting an' waiting.
I've no patience with it; waiting an' waiting--that's what a woman
has to do! Can you hear them at it--I can!
[JAN begins again to play his whistle; MADGE gets up; half
tenderly she ruffles his hair; then, sitting, leans her elbows
on the table, and her chin on her hands. Behind her, on MRS.
ROBERTS'S face the smile has changed to horrified surprise. She
makes a sudden movement, sitting forward, pressing her hands
against her breast. Then slowly she sinks' back; slowly her
face loses the look of pain, the smile returns. She fixes her
eyes again on JAN, and moves her lips and finger to the tune.]
SCENE II
It is past four. In a grey, failing light, an open muddy space
is crowded with workmen. Beyond, divided from it by a
barbed-wire fence, is the raised towing-path of a canal, on which
is moored a barge. In the distance are marshes and snow-covered
hills. The "Works" high wall runs from the canal across the open
space, and ivy the angle of this wall is a rude platform of
barrels and boards. On it, HARNESS is standing. ROBERTS, a
little apart from the crowd, leans his back against the wall. On
the raised towing-path two bargemen lounge and smoke
indifferently.
HARNESS. [Holding out his hand.] Well, I've spoken to you straight.
If I speak till to-morrow I can't say more.
HARNESS. [Holding up his hand.] They can't get them. But that
won't help you. Now men, be reasonable. Your demands would have
brought on us the burden of a dozen strikes at a time when we were
not prepared for them. The Unions live by justice, not to one, but
all. Any fair man will tell you--you were ill-advised! I don't say
you go too far for that which you're entitled to, but you're going
too far for the moment; you've dug a pit for yourselves. Are you to
stay there, or are you to climb out? Come!
HARNESS. Cut your demands to the right pattern, and we 'll see you
through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down
here again. I 'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to
know by this time. If you're the sound men I take you for--no matter
who advises you against it--[he fixes his eyes on ROBERTS] you 'll
make up your minds to come in, and trust to us to get your terms.
Which is it to be? Hands together, and victory--or--the starvation
you've got now?
GREEN. [Quietly.] Ah! if I 'd a been listened to, you'd 'ave 'eard
sense these two months past.
LEWIS. [Pointing.] Look at those two blanks over the fence there!
HARNESS. I did not say they were paid enough; I said they were paid
as much as the furnace men in similar works elsewhere.
HARNESS. [With cold irony.] You may look at home for lies, my man.
Harper's shifts are longer, the pay works out the same.
EVANS. Ah! will, it's always will! Ye'd have our mates desert us.
[Hubbub.]
HARNESS. [Lifting his voice.] Those who know their right hands from
their lefts know that the Unions are neither thieves nor traitors.
I 've said my say. Figure it out, my lads; when you want me you know
where I shall be.
[He jumps down, the crowd gives way, he passes through them, and
goes away. A BARGEMAN looks after him jerking his pipe with a
derisive gesture. The men close up in groups, and many looks
are cast at ROBERTS, who stands alone against the wall.]
BLACKSMITH. [A youth with yellow hair and huge arms.] What about
the women?
EVANS. They can stand what we can stand, I suppose, can't they?
THOMAS. We are all in the tepth together, and it iss Nature that has
put us there.
THOMAS. It iss not Lonton; nor it iss not the Union--it iss Nature.
It iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to Nature. For
this Nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is.
There iss more years to my hett than to the hett of any one here.
It is fery pat, look you, this Going against Nature. It is pat to
make other potties suffer, when there is nothing to pe cot py it.
THOMAS. I ton't trust the Union; they haf treated us like tirt.
"Do what we tell you," said they. I haf peen captain of the
furnace-men twenty years, and I say to the Union--[excitedly]--"Can you
tell me then, as well as I can tell you, what iss the right wages for
the work that these men do?" For fife and twenty years I haf paid my
moneys to the Union and--[with great excitement]--for nothings! What
iss that but roguery, for all that this Mr. Harness says!
THOMAS. Look you, if a man toes not trust me, am I going to trust
him?
THOMAS. Let them alone for rogues, and act for ourselves.
[Murmurs.]
[Laughter.]
JAGO. No Union!
[Murmurs.]
EVANS. Blacklegs!
[BULGIN and the BLACKSMITH shake their fists at EVANS.]
BULGIN. Them furnace chaps! For twopence I 'd smash the faces o'
the lot of them.
THOMAS. [Wiping his brow.] I'm comin' now to what I was going to
say----
[A laugh.]
THOMAS. [Fixing his eyes on "The Shaver."] Ah! ye 're Going the
roat to tamnation. An' so I say to all of you. If ye co against
Chapel I will not pe with you, nor will any other Got-fearing man.
[He steps down from the platform. JAGO makes his way towards
it. There are cries of "Don't let 'im go up!"]
JAGO. Don't let him go up? That's free speech, that is. [He goes
up.] I ain't got much to say to you. Look at the matter plain; ye
've come the road this far, and now you want to chuck the journey.
We've all been in one boat; and now you want to pull in two. We
engineers have stood by you; ye 're ready now, are ye, to give us the
go-by? If we'd aknown that before, we'd not a-started out with you
so early one bright morning! That's all I 've got to say. Old man
Thomas a'n't got his Bible lesson right. If you give up to London,
or to Harness, now, it's givin' us the chuck--to save your skins--you
won't get over that, my boys; it's a dirty thing to do.
[He gets down; during his little speech, which is ironically
spoken, there is a restless discomfort in the crowd. ROUS,
stepping forward, jumps on the platform. He has an air of
fierce distraction. Sullen murmurs of disapproval from the
crowd.]
ROUS. [With a furious look.] Sim 'Arness knows what he's talking
about. Give us power to come to terms with London; I'm no orator,
but I say--have done wi' this black misery!
[He gives his muter a twist, jerks his head back, and jumps off
the platform. The crowd applauds and surges forward. Amid
cries of "That's enough!" "Up Union!" "Up Harness!" ROBERTS
quietly ascends the platform. There is a moment of silence.]
[ROBERTS faces the crowd, probing them with his eyes till they
gradually become silent. He begins speaking. One of the
bargemen rises and stands.]
ROBERTS. You don't want to hear me, then? You'll listen to Rous and
to that old man, but not to me. You'll listen to Sim Harness of the
Union that's treated you so fair; maybe you'll listen to those men
from London? Ah! You groan! What for? You love their feet on your
necks, don't you? [Then as BULGIN elbows his way towards the
platform, with calm bathos.] You'd like to break my jaw, John
Bulgin. Let me speak, then do your smashing, if it gives you
pleasure. [BULGIN Stands motionless and sullen.] Am I a liar, a
coward, a traitor? If only I were, ye'd listen to me, I'm sure.
[The murmurings cease, and there is now dead silence.] Is there a
man of you here that has less to gain by striking? Is there a man of
you that had more to lose? Is there a man of you that has given up
eight hundred pounds since this trouble here began? Come now, is
there? How much has Thomas given up--ten pounds or five, or what?
You listened to him, and what had he to say? "None can pretend," he
said, "that I'm not a believer in principle--[with biting irony]--but
when Nature says: 'No further, 't es going agenst Nature.'" I tell
you if a man cannot say to Nature: "Budge me from this if ye can!"--
[with a sort of exaltation]his principles are but his belly. "Oh,
but," Thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful,
and take off his hat to Nature!" I tell you Nature's neither pure
nor honest, just nor merciful. You chaps that live over the hill,
an' go home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight
your way every inch of it? Do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the
tender mercies of this merciful Nature? Try it and you'll soon know
with what ye've got to deal. 'T es only by that--[he strikes a blow
with his clenched fist]--in Nature's face that a man can be a man.
"Give in," says Thomas, "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish
fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you down
a crust."
JAGO. Never!
HENRY ROUS. [As GEORGE ROUS moves forward.] Go for him, George--
don't stand his lip!
ROBERTS. [Flinging out his finger.] Stop there, George Rous, it's
no time this to settle personal matters. [ROUS stops.] But there
was one other spoke to you--Mr. Simon Harness. We have not much to
thank Mr. Harness and the Union for. They said to us "Desert your
mates, or we'll desert you." An' they did desert us.
ROBERTS. Mr. Simon Harness is a clever man, but he has come too
late. [With intense conviction.] For all that Mr. Simon Harness
says, for all that Thomas, Rous, for all that any man present here
can say--We've won the fight!
[With withering scorn.] You've felt the pinch o't in your bellies.
You've forgotten what that fight 'as been; many times I have told
you; I will tell you now this once again. The fight o' the country's
body and blood against a blood-sucker. The fight of those that spend
themselves with every blow they strike and every breath they draw,
against a thing that fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law
of merciful Nature. That thing is Capital! A thing that buys the
sweat o' men's brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own
price. Don't I know that? Wasn't the work o' my brains bought for
seven hundred pounds, and has n't one hundred thousand pounds been
gained them by that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger.
It is a thing that will take as much and give you as little as it
can. That's Capital! A thing that will say--"I'm very sorry for
you, poor fellows--you have a cruel time of it, I know," but will not
give one sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time.
That's Capital! Tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them
that will consent to another penny on the Income Tax to help the
poor? That's Capital! A white-faced, stony-hearted monster! Ye
have got it on its knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to
save your miserable bodies pain? When I went this morning to those
old men from London, I looked into their very 'earts. One of them
was sitting there--Mr. Scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us:
sittin' there for all the world like the shareholders in this
Company, that sit not moving tongue nor finger, takin' dividends a
great dumb ox that can only be roused when its food is threatened.
I looked into his eyes and I saw he was afraid--afraid for himself
and his dividends; afraid for his fees, afraid of the very
shareholders he stands for; and all but one of them's afraid--like
children that get into a wood at night, and start at every rustle of
the leaves. I ask you, men--[he pauses, holding out his hand till
there is utter silence]--give me a free hand to tell them: "Go you
back to London. The men have nothing for you!" [A murmuring.] Give
me that, an' I swear to you, within a week you shall have from London
all you want.
EVANS, JAGO, and OTHERS. A free hand! Give him a free hand! Bravo
--bravo!
ROBERTS. 'T is not for this little moment of time we're fighting
[the murmuring dies], not for ourselves, our own little bodies, and
their wants, 't is for all those that come after throughout all time.
[With intense sadness.] Oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll
up another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an'
let the bitter sea in over them. They're welcome to the worst that
can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, are n't
they--are n't they? If we can shake [passionately] that white-faced
monster with the bloody lips, that has sucked the life out of
ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began. [Dropping
the note of passion but with the utmost weight and intensity.] If we
have not the hearts of men to stand against it breast to breast, and
eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go
on sucking life; and we shall stay forever what we are [in almost a
whisper], less than the very dogs.
[The crowd shrinks back from her, and breaks up in groups, with
a confused, uneasy movement. MADGE goes quickly away below the
towing-path. There is a hush as they look after her.]
EVANS. All the more reason for sticking by 'im. [A cheer.] Are you
goin' to desert him now 'e 's down? Are you going to chuck him over,
now 'e 's lost 'is wife?
ROUS. It's not us that's blind, it's Roberts. How long will ye put
up with 'im!
ROUS. An' who's fault's that but his own. 'Ave done with 'im, I
say, before he's killed your own wives and mothers.
[The crowd takes up these cries, excepting only EVANS, JAGO, and
GREEN, who is seen to argue mildly with the BLACKSMITH.]
ROUS. [Above the hubbub.] We'll make terms with the Union, lads.
[Cheers.]
EVANS. [Fiercely.] Ye blacklegs!
[EVANS throws up his fists, parries the blow, and returns it.
They fight. The bargemen are seen holding up the lantern and
enjoying the sight. Old THOMAS steps forward and holds out his
hands.]
ACT III
ENID. Yes.
[He takes up the little box again and turns it over and over.]
But she would stand up for Roberts. When you see all this
wretchedness going on and feel you can do nothing, you have to shut
your eyes to the whole thing.
ENID. When I went I was all on their side, but as soon as I got
there I began to feel quite different at once. People talk about
sympathy with the working classes, they don't know what it means to
try and put it into practice. It seems hopeless.
ENID. It's dreadful going on with the men in this state. I do hope
the Dad will make concessions.
Oh, Ted, he's so old now! You must n't let them!
ENID. He's been Chairman for more than thirty years! He made the
whole thing! And think of the bad times they've had; it's always
been he who pulled them through. Oh, Ted, you must!
EDGAR. What is it you want? You said just now you hoped he'd make
concessions. Now you want me to back him in not making them. This
is n't a game, Enid!
ENID. [Hotly.] It is n't a game to me that the Dad's in danger of
losing all he cares about in life. If he won't give way, and he's
beaten, it'll simply break him down!
EDGAR. Did n't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this
state?
ENID. But can't you see, Ted, Father'll never get over it! You must
stop them somehow. The others are afraid of him. If you back him
up----
ENID. We can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. But we know
the Dad might have a stroke any day. D' you mean to say that he
isn't more to you than----
EDGAR. H'm!
ENID. If it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own
Father! You don't seem to realise.
EDGAR. I wonder.
ENID. [Imploring.] Oh, Ted? It's the only interest he's got left;
it'll be like a death-blow to him!
ENID. Promise!
ENID. Yes.
[ENID puts her work on the little table, and faces him.]
ENID. Don't!
ANTHONY. You think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble
of the century.
ENID. Father!
ENID. Oh! Father, don't give them a chance. You're not well; need
you go to the meeting at all?
ENID. When the men come, Frost, please show them in here; the
hall 's cold.
FROST. Yes, M'm. [Pause.] Excuse me, Mr. Anthony's 'ad nothing to
eat all day.
[With feeling.] Bein' with Mr. Anthony, as you know, M'm, ever since
I was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age.
I've taken the liberty to speak to Mr. Wanklin [dropping his voice]--
seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen--but 'e said to me:
"That's all very well, Frost, but this strike's a very serious
thing," 'e said. "Serious for all parties, no doubt," I said, "but
yumour 'im, sir," I said, "yumour 'im. It's like this, if a man
comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets
over it." "Yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that."
[FROST looks at his nails.] That's where it is, M'm. I said to Mr.
Anthony this morning: "Is it worth it, sir?" "Damn it," he said to
me, "Frost! Mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" Beg
pardon, M'm, for using such a word.
FROST. Yes, M'm; that's to say, not to speak to. But to look at 'im
you can tell what he's like.
There's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e
wasn't born a gentleman. What I say is--no man that's a gentleman
looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above
'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below.
[He opens the doors gently and goes in. There is a momentary
sound of earnest, gather angry talk.]
SCANTLEBURY. Yes, what does your father say? Tea? Not for me, not
for me!
WANKLIN. What I understand the Chairman to say is this----
ENID. [Moving from the door.] Won't they have any tea, Frost?
[The PARLOUR MAID and FROST go out. ENID pursing her lips, sits
at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. The
PARLOURMAID ushers in MADGE THOMAS and goes out; MADGE stands by
the door.]
ENID. Come in. What is it. What have you come for, please?
ENID. But--what--why?
[There is a silence.]
ENID. [Horrified.] But it's only a little more than an hour since I
saw her.
ENID. [Rising.] Oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart----
What makes you look at me like that? I tried to help her.
MADGE. I never harmed any one that had n't harmed me first.
ENID. [Coldly.] What harm have I done you? Why do you speak to me
like that?
MADGE. [With the bitterest intensity.] You come out of your comfort
to spy on us! A week of hunger, that's what you want!
MADGE. I saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold.
ENID. [With a movement of grief.] Oh! why wouldn't she let me help
her? It's such senseless pride!
ENID. [Passionately.] I won't talk to you! How can you tell what I
feel? It's not my fault that I was born better off than you.
ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go
away!
MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you
and your father!
MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead!
That 'll make him better.
ENID. Go away!
[She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her
eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID
snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They
stand a yard apart, crossing glances.]
MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt
that! Lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after,
is n't it. She won't trouble you long!
ENID. Go away!
EDGAR. Said, Father was too old and feeble to know what he was
doing! The Dad's worth six of him!
WANKLIN. We're all here, Chairman; what do you say? Shall we get on
with the business, or shall we go back to the other room?
ANTHONY. No.
WILDER. If I don't get her out of this cold, I won't answer for the
consequences.
EDGAR. [To his Father.] Have you heard this, sir? Mrs. Roberts is
dead!
Enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything.
It's enough!
SCANTLEBURY. You don't suggest that we could have helped the poor
thing?
WILDER. [Flustered.] The woman was in bad health. Nobody can say
there's any responsibility on us. At least--not on me.
EDGAR. Call me what you like, sir. It's sickened me. We had no
right to carry things to such a length.
EDGAR. [Facing him angrily.] No, sir. I tell you exactly what I
think. If we pretend the men are not suffering, it's humbug; and if
they're suffering, we know enough of human nature to know the women
are suffering more, and as to the children--well--it's damnable!
[All except ANTHONY are now upon their feet, ANTHONY sits
grasping the arms of his chair and staring at his son.]
SCANTLEBURY. I don't--I don't like the way you're putting it, young
sir.
SCANTLEBURY. For God's sake, sir, don't use that word at a--at a
Board meeting; it's--it's monstrous.
WANKLIN. I don't think you'll find their imaginations are any better
than ours. Because a woman happens to have a weak heart----
EDGAR. A struggle like this finds out the weak spots in everybody.
Any child knows that. If it hadn't been for this cut-throat policy,
she need n't have died like this; and there would n't be all this
misery that any one who is n't a fool can see is going on.
[Throughout the foregoing ANTHONY has eyed his son; he now moves
as though to rise, but stops as EDGAR speaks again.]
WANKLIN. I do.
WILDER. Very well, then; I ask the Chairman to put it to the Board.
[EDGAR bows his head. ANTHONY, gripping his chair, goes on.]
I have had do to with "men" for fifty years; I've always stood up to
them; I have never been beaten yet. I have fought the men of this
Company four times, and four times I have beaten them. It has been
said that I am not the man I was. [He looks at Wilder.] However
that may be, I am man enough to stand to my guns.
The men have been treated justly, they have had fair wages, we have
always been ready to listen to complaints. It has been said that
times have changed; if they have, I have not changed with them.
Neither will I. It has been said that masters and men are equal!
Cant! There can only be one master in a house! Where two men meet
the better man will rule. It has been said that Capital and Labour
have the same interests. Cant! Their interests are as wide asunder
as the poles. It has been said that the Board is only part of a
machine. Cant! We are the machine; its brains and sinews; it is for
us to lead and to determine what is to be done, and to do it without
fear or favour. Fear of the men! Fear of the shareholders! Fear of
our own shadows! Before I am like that, I hope to die.
[He pauses, and meeting his son's eyes, goes on.]
There is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. This
half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation,
has brought all this upon us. Sentiment and softness, and what this
young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. You can't eat
cake and have it! This middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or
whatever it may be, is rotten. Masters are masters, men are men!
Yield one demand, and they will make it six. They are [he smiles
grimly] like Oliver Twist, asking for more. If I were in their
place I should be the same. But I am not in their place. Mark my
words: one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way
there--you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your
feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you,
floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to.
I have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of
my pride--I am thinking of the future of this country, threatened
with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government,
threatened with what I cannot see. If by any conduct of mine I help
to bring this on us, I shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the
face.
FROST. [To his master.] The men are here, sir. [ANTHONY makes a
gesture of dismissal.] Shall I bring them in, sir?
ANTHONY. Wait!
ANTHONY. [In a grim voice.] These are the words of my own son.
They are the words of a generation that I don't understand; the words
of a soft breed.
[A long look is exchanged between them, and ANTHONY puts out his
hand with a gesture as if to sweep the personalities away; then
places it against his brow, swaying as though from giddiness.
There is a movement towards him. He moves them back.]
ANTHONY. Before I put this amendment to the Board, I have one more
word to say. [He looks from face to face.] If it is carried, it
means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do. It means
that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all Capital. It means
that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves. It means that
we shall be open to constant attack to which we as constantly shall
have to yield. Be under no misapprehension--run this time, and you
will never make a stand again! You will have to fly like curs before
the whips of your own men. If that is the lot you wish for, you will
vote for this amendment.
[He looks again, from face to face, finally resting his gaze on
EDGAR; all sit with their eyes on the ground. ANTHONY makes a
gesture, and TENCH hands him the book. He reads.]
"Moved by Mr. Wilder, and seconded by Mr. Wanklin: 'That the men's
demands be placed at once in the hands of Mr. Simon Harness for
settlement on the lines indicated by him this morning.'" [With
sudden vigour.] Those in favour: Signify the same in the usual way!
Contrary?
Fifty years! You have disgraced me, gentlemen. Bring in the men!
ROUS. Sim Harness has our answer. He'll tell you what it is. We're
waiting for him. He'll speak for us.
[TENCH, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they
speak together in low tones.]
WILDER. We've been waiting for you, Harness. Hope we shall come to
some----
[He goes.]
HARNESS. Roberts!
ROBERTS. Keep your sorrow, young man. Let your father speak!
HARNESS. [With the sheet of paper in his hand, speaking from behind
the little table.] Roberts!
HARNESS. Roberts!
ROBERTS. [Reading the paper, and turning on the men. They shrink
back from him, all but ROUS, who stands his ground. With deadly
stillness.] Ye have gone back on me? I stood by ye to the death; ye
waited for that to throw me over!
[The men answer, all speaking together.]
HARNESS. [Taking the Director's copy of the terms, and handing his
own to TENCH.] That's enough, men. You had better go.
WILDER. [In a low, nervous voice.] There's nothing to stay for now,
I suppose. [He follows to the door.] I shall have a try for that
train! Coming, Scantlebury?
SCANTLEBURY. [Following with WANKLIN.] Yes, yes; wait for me. [He
stops as ROBERTS speaks.]
ROBERTS. [To ANTHONY.] But ye have not signed them terms! They
can't make terms without their Chairman! Ye would never sign them
terms! [ANTHONY looks at him without speaking.] Don't tell me ye
have! for the love o' God! [With passionate appeal.] I reckoned on
ye!
HARNESS. [Holding out the Director's copy of the teems.] The Board
has signed!
[He goes out into the hall, in cumbrous haste; and WANKLIN, who
has been staring at ROBERTS and ANTHONY With twitchings of his
face, follows. EDGAR remains seated on the sofa, looking at the
ground; TENCH, returning to the bureau, writes in his minute--
book. HARNESS stands by the little table, gravely watching
ROBERTS.]
ENID. [Quietly to her father.] Come away, dear! Come to your room
TENCH. It's all been so violent! What did he mean by: "Done us both
down?" If he has lost his wife, poor fellow, he oughtn't to have
spoken to the Chairman like that!
HARNESS. A woman dead; and the two best men both broken!
HARNESS. [In a slow grim voice.] That's where the fun comes in!
THE END
Contents:
The Eldest Son
The Little Dream
Justice
BY JOHN GALSWORTHY
ACT I
SCENE I
SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for?
FREDA. Yes.
SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him
here after dinner, will you?
SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if
he's got it.
FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne.
My lady thought white would suit her better.
CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's
come?
HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the
drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a
voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her
head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes.
MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the
guns again.
FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr.
Harold, or Captain Keith?
BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's the
matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away
from her] Aren't you glad to see me?
BILL. Mister----?
She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands
frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the
drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE
come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER,
and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By
herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking
woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at
once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the
dining-room.
CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and
look at him shyly without speech.
BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two!
Well mother?
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a
long time!
She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the
dining-room.
SCENE II
DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm
not the young person.
DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand,
because you know you do.
DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's
tired of her?
DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with
each other?
DOT. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN.] Are you in love with
John? [JOAN turns hurriedly to the fire.] Would you be going to
marry him if you were not?
JOAN. Dot!
DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes
her head] Then we're all agreed!
LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not?
DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do say
is--Why the devil----
CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake of
the----
DOT. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God bless
it!
There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming
from the dining-room.
DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-room
door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is directly after breakfast;
from "Eccles enters breathless" to the end.
MABEL. Whatever made you choose "Caste," DOT? You know it's awfully
difficult.
DOT. Because it's the only play that's not too advanced. [The girls
all go into the billiard-room.]
KEITH. Rats! Look here--Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this out
with a parson.
HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull
baker!
LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army.
KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it--line
of country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What!
KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. You
don't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly]
LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely this
sort of thing of young Dunning's.
KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit that
I don't like a fellow's leavin' a girl in the lurch; but I don't see
the use in drawin' hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em.
Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together,
willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the
deuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water,
you can't make him drink.
LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you.
KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and
all the politeness in the world, you may go to-blazes.
LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny--of all the rude boors----[He turns
towards the billiard-room.]
KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a parson puts one's back
up! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to
play the game; and I hope Sir William'll make him.
The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs
followed by the keeper STUDDENHAM, a man between fifty and
sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breeches,
and gaiters; he has a steady self respecting weathered face,
with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once
been red.
JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir?
STUDDENHAM. No, Sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys and
the home covert while you're down.
He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the
billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room,
applying a gold toothpick to his front teeth.
SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What reason does he give?
SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have a
keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this.
[Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room]
That affair of young Dunning's, my dear.
LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studdenham. The poor girl!
LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her his
superior.
STUDDENHAM. Some o' these young people, my lady, they don't put two
and two together no more than an old cock pheasant.
STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in?
SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first.
What did we get last year?
SIR WILLIAM. Sundry? Didn't include a fox did it? [Gravely] I was
seriously upset this morning at Warnham's spinney----
SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean.
SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand young
fellows, how should you?
LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons not
counting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, now
do----
SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about?
SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. If
you leave here you'll get no character.
SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country.
SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm not
forcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all.
SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over.
BILL, who has sauntered moody from the diningroom, stands by the
stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his
hand to his forelock.
DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fumbles, and turns
again] My old mother's dependent on me----
BITS. I do.
MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer,
considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal!
Then seeing that his mother has came in from the billiard-room,
he sits down at the writing-table.
LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too,
Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible?
MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard-room, whence comes
out the sound of talk and laughter.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair]
Anything wrong, darling?
LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally I
must say I think she's rather nice and Irish.
LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talking to you, Bill.
BILL. He has.
BILL. He is.
BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that before. I can't help
spending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonies,
or something of the kind.
LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot of
the place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all like
that. They've been here so long; they're all--root.
LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so--Only a little fuss about money!
BILL. Ye-es.
LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you?
BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliberately to the
writing things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters,
please.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me,
won't you?
SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill?
[Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear.
FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and
LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room.
SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He moves
over to the fireplace and divides hip coat-tails] Now, about you,
Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you
know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay them
this time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life.
[A pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's very
queer--[A pause]--All the Winterleighs are like that about money....
BILL. Thanks!
BILL. Go ahead!
BILL. Ah!
BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel
Lanfarne?
SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on
good terms.
BILL. I refuse.
SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a
sudden rush of choler] You young.... [He checks himself and stands
glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that
you've got some entanglement or other.
Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the
billiard-room.
FREDA. No?
BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda?
FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of
her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer.
BILL. Freda!
FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me.
BILL. At what?
FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't
be afraid I'll say anything when--it comes. That's what I had to
tell you.
BILL. What!
BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks
away from her towards the fire] Good God!
She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away
by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to
speak to her, and sees that she has gone. He
walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantelpiece.
ACT II
LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way,
I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles.]
LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up.
Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had
better put that cloak away.
FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the
corridor.
LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in. Oh! and Jackson
the car for the meet please at half-past ten.
LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing?
LADY CHESHIRE: And--do you think he's quite lost his affection for
you?
LADY CHESHIRE. No, no--of course. But you will think it all well
over, won't you?
ROSE. I've a--got nothing to think over, except what I know of.
LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both t0 marry in that spirit! You know
it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to
help you.
ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do
what's right by me.
ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meeting the servants.
LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they
reach the door, DOT comes in.]
DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy
rehearsal, Mother?
Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT,
with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according
to a diagram.
DOT. Freda?
DOT. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down.
[FREDA does not answer.]
DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse]
What is it, Freda?
FREDA. Nothing.
DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I
can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind?
DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see--what did I want?
JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene. I'm sure I
ought to make more of it.
DOT. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one
ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try!
JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for
the baby? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest
something, Freda?
FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't
count much.
DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find
them, mouse-cat.
DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the footstool out of it]
Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to
the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the
piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage!
Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a
minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a
bandbox.
DOT. [With her bandbox-gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you
have begun. [To BILL, who is staring into the workroom] Shut the
door. Now. [BILL shuts the door.]
JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should----
DOT. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin!
Bill!
LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk, with
this play, if we rollick.
MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups?
BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they
want 'em.
Mann. [Moving nearer to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You
know, you remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not
nearly so polite. I don't understand you English-lords of the soil.
The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change
of voice] What was the matter with you last night? [Softly] Won't
you tell me?
BILL. Thanks.
MABEL, But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull.
MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves
back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey.
BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful?
MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And
then straight from that hedge into the opposite one.
BILL. No.
MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her
eyes and smile] You can't help coming after me! [Then with a sudden
change to a sort of sierra gravity] Can you? You'll feel that when
I've gone.
They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and
FREDA, who has opened the door of the workroom stares at them.
She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through,
leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and
see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand.
FREDA. No?
BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let
you suffer. I swear I won't.
BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse
me--say something! Don't look like that!
She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her
face.
BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as
she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him]
There, there!
FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his
mother.
BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged
to be married to her.
FREDA sits on the piano stool, still turning her face away.
LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say
that you--are engaged?
BILL. Yes.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her?
FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE rises suddenly,
forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean? [BILL,
looking from side to aide, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in
love with her now. It's no good telling me you are.
BILL. I am.
LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were.
BILL. Mother!
BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and
I'll take good care not to be in the way.
BILL. I have.
BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're engaged, we shall
be married quietly, and--and--go to Canada.
BILL. There--is--nothing.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love
for her has been just what it might have been for a lady?
BILL. [Bitterly] Why not?
BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against
Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please.
LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till they've been through it. Marriage
is hard enough when people are of the same class. [With a sudden
movement towards him] Oh! my dear-before it's too late!
LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your
own free will?
In her distress she walks up and doom the room, then goes to the
workroom door, and opens it.
LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again,
whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there]
I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry.
But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her
breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things.
That's natural. But it's not only you is it? Does any one guess?
FREDA. No.
LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head] There's
nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a
man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me!
FREDA. I can't.
FREDA. I--won't.
FREDA. He's--always--behaved--like--a--gentleman.
LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the
room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA.
LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If
you've lost him it's been your own fault.
FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months.
LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to carry you both over
everything?.... You know it isn't.
LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely
selfish.
FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes--it's the truth. [Then to Bill
who has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to
tell.
The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRISTINE and DOT run
in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that
something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his
mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom.
LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window.
JOAN. [Following her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter?
FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching
in hypnotic silence.
He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the
chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the
workroom.
But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter,
and goes out into the corridor. The sound of a motor car is
heard.
DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this.
JOAN. Chris?
DOT. John!
DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and
humbug! That awful old man!
JOAN. Dot!
DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven
help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd sooner be a private in a German
regiment than a woman.
DOT. You-mouse-hearted-linnet!
DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these
terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for
John? No good, my dear; lath and plaster.
MABEL comes in, the three girls are silent, with their eyes
fixed on their books.
While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the
workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and
looks stolidly at the four girls.
BILL. Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lanfarne, I'm engaged to
my mother's maid.
There is silence.
STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss DOT. [He protrudes the
right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl--a, proper greedy
one--takes after his father.
STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet.
STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss DOT? The other's got
a white chest; she's a lady.
STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He
turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle
out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON.]
ACT III
BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of
me, Harold.
HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any
better by marrying her?
BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things.
BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think
it!
BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the
thing.
BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d---d skunk, if I leave
her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd
soon see!
BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a
soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I
can't think. I never meant----
HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your
head, old man!
BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the
country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's
that knocking the balls about?
HAROLD. Yes.
LATTER. Well?
HAROLD. Good!
LATTER. How?
HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all
come to me.
LATTER. Oh!
HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral!
Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop.
HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you
know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard.
LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's
an idiot, or worse.
HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been
through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because
Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up.
HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this
happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he--? Why didn't
she--? What's to be done--that's the point!
HAROLD. Ha!
HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll
be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything!
Now don't you?
HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man?
HAROLD. Phew!
KEITH. Dot?
DOT. Yes.
HAROLD. Well?
KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us.
They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a
tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence
the FOOTMAN puts the tray down.
HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH
nods] What point?
In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look
after him.
KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it
strikes me.
KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons
on Sunday forbids son to----
CHRISTINE, Ronny!
KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's
got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take
up that position.
CHRISTINE. Rubbish!
KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help
the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a----
[He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.]
HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you
girls, I should think.
DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if
he stays here--jolly for the country!
DOT. Me cynical!
HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor
old Dad!
KEITH. Thanks!
HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's
in!
KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting
his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib!
CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart,
mother?
DOT. Chris!
CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if
you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't
affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do
back me up, all of you! It's the only way!
SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very
well!
LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too
terrible.
SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a
thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands
and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be.
Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me.
SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire
and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth
century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh
at everything--they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and
I don't .... Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I
don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm
not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With
sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad
enough for this to happen; plenty of these d---d Socialists and
Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the
bowels to sees a--tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and
me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the
children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's
past--his traditions--he can't get rid of them. They're--they're
himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on.
SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it.
SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I
must think this out.
SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of
the house--brought up with money earned from me--nothing but kindness
from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and
decency--she lured him on, I haven't a doubt!
SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the
deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go
out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to
any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of
business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that
other matter--it's soon forgotten--constantly happening--Why, my own
grandfather----!
LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her--I said
all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill.
SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then--fold your hands? [Then
as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've
done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The
title--I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes?
SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no
consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d---d!
LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't
get it out.
SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only
chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.]
SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've
never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn
you--I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself.
With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the
corridor.
But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit
down.
FREDA. Twenty-two.
SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now
brace yourself up, and listen to me!
SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a
scamp.
FREDA. No.
SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect
me to--It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is?
LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes
into the billiard-room to wait.
BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man,
sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter
in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head
yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns
round to go out] Let the d---d thing off!
BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch.
BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could
have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you
wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work,
that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences.
BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this--I don't see any
other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for
you----
After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler
withdraws.
BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it
straight.
STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say--my daughter?
STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this
sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years,
Sir William; but this is man to man--this is!
SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you,
Studdenham.
STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her
father] When did you start this?
STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the
pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William?
SIR WILLIAM. I--If my son marries her he'll have to make his own
way.
FREDA. I want--[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns
from him] No!
STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks
around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since
the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away!
LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the
billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing
there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her
father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying
smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders.
CHARACTERS
SEELCHEN, a mountain girl
LAMOND, a climber
FELSMAN, a glide
THE EDELWEISS |
THE ALPENROSE | flowers
THE GENTIAN |
THE MOUNTAIN DANDELION |
COWBELLS
MOUNTAIN AIR
FAR VIEW OF ITALY
DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM
THINGS IN BOOKS
MOTH CHILDREN
THREE DANCING YOUTHS
THREE DANCING GIRLS
THE FORMS OF WORKERS
THE FORMS OF WHAT IS MADE BY WORK
DEATH BY SLUMBER
DEATH BY DROWNING
FLOWER CHILDREN
GOATHERD
GOAT BOYS
GOAT GOD
THE FORMS OF SLEEP
SCENE I
LAMOND. Please.
SEELCHEN. All the beds are full--it is a pity. I will call Mother.
LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance.
SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only
Mans Felsman.
SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's
foot?
LAMOND. Oh God!
SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sunrise. [She picks up
a little book that has dropped from LAMOND'S pocket] I have read
several books.
LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry
here, and dream dreams, among your mountains?
While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters
a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden.
SEELCHEN. Hans!
LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I
sleep here?
SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you.
LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be
there.
LAMOND. Misery.
SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed--will you not come back?
LAMOND. No.
SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will
remember?
She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and,
suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away.
LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits
for him to pass.
SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I
thought.
He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner
room.
SCENE II
EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you?
Ah! ha!
From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS
and MOUNTAIN AIR:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF
ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS:
And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS
ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a
sighing:
THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows.
My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The
lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running
of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood
hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity.
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me
under the stars!
THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the
streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the
chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and
passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of
lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves.
and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in
the sunshine.
THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of
pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths
of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little
soul, you starve and die,
SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of
the Town. It pulls my heart.
THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours.
I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart!
SEELCHEN. He is honey!
"Bitter! Bitter!"
THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal
air.
The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake
you!
THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets.
and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the
thistle-down.
THE WINE HORN. A hundred times I will desert you, a hundred times
come back, and kiss you.
THE COW HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme.
THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers.
SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both--I
will love!
THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shalt love, little soul! Thou shalt
lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with
Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the
mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings.
small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem
as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the
other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in
turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a
tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half
courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change.
Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou
pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at
last, my little soul!
SCENE III
The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her
hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane
tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of
an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon.
Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the
face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and
singing:
SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are
windy.
"Lips of my song,
To the white maiden's heart
Go ye, and whisper, passionate.
These words that burn
'O listening one!
Love that flieth past is gone
Nor ever may return!'"
SEELCHEN runs towards him--but the light above him fades; he has
become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children
--but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn stands
LAMOND in a dark cloak.
SEELCHEN. It is you!
LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his
arms to her]
LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor.
But see!
A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs.
a flame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the
youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other.
but the other girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious
medley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the
first two couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from
each other as before.
The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He
strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound
the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the
couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown
dark.
SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look
--all! What are they making?
LAMOND. Luxury.
SEELCHEN. Can it not walk? [He shakes his head] Is that all they
make here with their sadness?
But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the
houses; the door of the Inn grows dark.
LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes
her head] What then do you want?
SEELCHEN. Life.
SEELCHEN. I love!
LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the
same? It cannot be.
SEELCHEN. Listen!
LAMOND. [Jealously] The music' of dull sleep! Has life, then, with
me been sorrow?
LAMOND. Come!
SEELCHEN. See!
There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen
the Shepherd of THE COW HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain
cloak.
SEELCHEN. He!
LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the
marvels of my town--the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life.
If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are
sweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning!
The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come
forth the shadowy forms. DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING.
who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN.
stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away.
"To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar
Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads
Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar,
And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds.
To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned
With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam;
To the silent sky, and the wistful sound
Of the rosy dawns---my daughter, come!"
While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEELCHEN has turned.
with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of
death have vanished.
SEELCHEN. I come.
LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a
gnat when the sun goes down? Without you I am nothing.
SCENE IV
The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn.
SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but
blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a
low rock sits a brown faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the
four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey white.
and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing.
as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and
each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts
them to her lips and eyes.
But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away he has
vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The
veils of mist are rising.
SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the
rock, sees FELSMAN standing there, with his arms folded] Thou!
FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow
--thou art white-faced.
SEELCHEN. [Still mocking] Then what hast thou here that shall keep
me?
SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see
the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they
always fierce?
SEELCHEN. Thou?
There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-Good Pan; and with a
long wail of the pipe THE GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon
fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the
false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of
the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the
rock stands the Shepherd of THE COW HORN in his dock.
FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shalt not leave me!
FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt
go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see.
SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward.
In Silence THE COW HORN and THE WINE HORN, cover their faces.
The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark.
SCENE V
Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE
GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either aide of
that path of light, like shadows. THE COW HORN and THE WINE
HORN stand with cloaked heads.
SEELCHEN falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The
glow slowly fades till the scene is black.
SCENE VI
Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn
filtering through the window of the mountain hut. LAMOND and FELSMAN
are seen standing beside SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the
window seat.
SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with
ecstasy] Great One. I come! [Waking, she looks around, and
struggles to her feet] My little dream!
Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky.
There is a sound of goat-bells passing.
JUSTICE
ACT I
SWEEDLE. Honeywill.
COKESON. A lady?
COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes
the pass-book.]
SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book.
She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look.
COKESON. [A little taken aback] Exactly! And here you are wanting
to see a junior clerk!
COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this
won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in!
SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some children outside here.
RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON]
COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk
short as it is.
RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He
tried to cut my throat last night. I came out with the children
before he was awake. I went round to you.
FALDER. I've got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office.
For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with
tragic intensity] Ruth!
RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one
bag. I can't go near home again.
FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [As if to himself] When
I get out there I mean to forget it all.
RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take
you against your will.
FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll
have you.
COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you
finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left?
COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do,
Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't
mention about the party having called, but----
COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out;
then shakes his head, and is just settling down to write, when
WALTER How comes in through the outer Office. He is a rather
refined-looking man of thirty-five, with a pleasant, almost
apologetic voice.
WALTER. I know; but the intention was obviously to exclude that bit
of common ground.
COKESON. We needn't worry about that. We're the right side of the
law.
COKESON. [Looking down his nose at the papers in his hand as though
deprecating their size] I'll just take Boulter's lease in to young
Falder to draft the instructions. [He goes out into FALDER'S room.]
WALTER. So it is.
JAMES. Give me the cheque-book. [He takes the check-book and cons
the counterfoils] What's this ninety?
JAMES. You.
WALTER. [Taking the cheque-book] July 7th? That's the day I went
down to look over the Trenton Estate--last Friday week; I came back
on the Tuesday, you remember. But look here, father, it was nine I
drew a cheque for. Five guineas to Smithers and my expenses. It
just covered all but half a crown.
JAMES. [Gravely] Let's look at that ninety cheque. [He sorts the
cheque out from the bundle in the pocket of the pass-book] Seems all
right. There's no nine here. This is bad. Who cashed that
nine-pound cheque?
JAMES. [As COKESON re-enters from FALDER'S room] We must ask him.
Just come here and carry your mind back a bit, Cokeson. D'you
remember cashing a cheque for Mr. Walter last Friday week--the day
he went to Trenton?
COKESON. No! Nine pounds. My lunch was just coming in; and of
course I like it hot; I gave the cheque to Davis to run round to the
bank. He brought it back, all gold--you remember, Mr. Walter, you
wanted some silver to pay your cab. [With a certain contemptuous
compassion] Here, let me see. You've got the wrong cheque.
COKESON. There's never been anything of that sort in the office the
twenty-nine years I've been here.
COKESON. His poor young wife. I liked the young man. Dear, oh
dear! In this office!
JAMES. [Grimly] Bring him round here. And ring up Scotland Yard.
WALTER. Really?
He goes out through the outer office. JAMES paces the room. He
stops and looks at COKESON, who is disconsolately rubbing the
knees of his trousers.
JAMES. Your story, would sound d----d thin to any one who didn't
know you.
COKESON. Ye-es! [He laughs. Then with a sudden gravity] I'm sorry
for that young man. I feel it as if it was my own son, Mr. James.
COKESON. I'd sooner have lost a month's salary than had this happen.
[He broods.]
WALTER, entering with the cashier, passes RUTH as she leaves the
outer office.
COKESON. Sit down, won't you? I'm not a sensitive man, but a thing
like this about the place--it's not nice. I like people to be open
and jolly together.
JAMES and WALTER have come back from the partners' room.
JAMES. Well?
COKESON. You don't want to upset the young man in there, do you?
He's a nervous young feller.
JAMES. This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of
Falder's name, to say nothing of yours.
COKESON. [With Some dignity] That'll look after itself, sir. He's
been upset once this morning; I don't want him startled again.
JAMES. It's a matter of form; but I can't stand upon niceness over a
thing like this--too serious. Just talk to Mr. Cowley.
The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer.
COKESON. You haven't such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare
me, I suppose?
At the look on the cashier's face his jaw drops, and he turns to
see FALDER standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on
COWLEY, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake.
FALDER turns and goes back into his own room. As he shuts the
door JAMES gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the
cashier nods.
JAMES. Wait a few minutes, would you? I want to speak to you about
this lease.
COWLEY. If I'm wanted, I can swear that's the young man who cashed
the cheque. It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my
lunch. These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip
of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning!
The cashier goes out through the outer office. COKESON sits down
in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the
morass of his feelings.
JAMES. Have him in. Give me the cheque and the counterfoil.
JAMES. [Turning to him suddenly with the cheque held out] You know
this cheque, Falder?
JAMES. When Davis gave you the cheque was it exactly like this?
JAMES. You know that Mr. Walter drew that cheque for nine pounds?
FALDER. I--I
WALTER, who has come close to his father, says something to him
in a low voice.
JAMES. Davis was not here again after that Saturday, was he?
JAMES. Very well, then, how do you account for the fact that this
nought was added to the nine in the counterfoil on or after Tuesday?
FALDER. No, sir--no, Mr. How. I did it, sir; I did it.
FALDER. I wanted the money so badly, sir. I didn't know what I was
doing.
COKESON. However such a thing could have come into your head!
FALDER. Sir, I swear I didn't know what I'd done till afterwards,
and then I hadn't the pluck. Oh! Sir, look over it! I'll pay the
money back--I will, I promise.
FALDER, with a swift imploring look, goes back into his room.
There is silence.
JAMES. [Shaking his head] I've grave doubts of that. Too neat a
piece of swindling altogether.
COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm speaking of the flesh and the devil, Mr.
James. There was a woman come to see him this morning.
JAMES. I can't forgive him for the sneaky way he went to work--
counting on our suspecting young Davis if the matter came to light.
It was the merest accident the cheque-book stayed in your pocket.
JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out
of the question to keep him in this office--honesty's the 'sine qua
non'.
JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people
who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society.
JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way
to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If
that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what
is.
WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know
you feel----
FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one--I did it for her. Let me be
till to-morrow.
ACT II
FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ
the prisoner?
COKESON. Ye-es.
COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there--all but seventeen days.
FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time?
FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about
his general character during those two years.
FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson.
COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua
non'.
FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not?
FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on
which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his
demeanour that morning?
COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite
compos when he did it.
COKESON. I did.
COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my
meaning--it was funny.
FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before?
COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same.
FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here.
Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the
forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that
morning?
THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the
act.
FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office?
COKESON. Ye-es.
COKESON. I did.
COKESON. Egg-zactly.
FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course
of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you
specially remember?
COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said
to you.
COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go.
CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the
prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by
that word?
CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them
"funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what?
COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not
be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or
fierce, or what?
COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you
want me to give you another.
CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was
it a hot day?
CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it?
FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled
state before?
RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the
witness-box. She is sworn.
RUTH. Twenty-six.
FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little
louder.
THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well!
RUTH. Traveller.
RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly
broke my heart.
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. Why?
RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to
my friend. It was eight o'clock.
THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence
of liquor then?
RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half
choking.
RUTH. Dreadfully.
RUTH. Never.
RUTH. Yes.
RUTH. On Saturday.
RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to
start.
RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to
have started.
FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at
all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his
manner then?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and
unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his
actions?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly
calm?
RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me.
RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me.
CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning
of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I
suppose?
RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the
same for him; I would indeed.
THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy
one? Faults on both sides?
RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I
should, sir, not to a man like that.
RUTH. [Hesitating] I--I do. It's the only thing in my life now.
RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her
seat among the witnesses.
FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly
sworn.
FALDER. Twenty-three.
FALDER. Yes.
FALDER. Yes.
FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband?
FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the
7th, and tell the jury what happened.
FROME. Yes?
FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed
the cheque, how long do you say it must have been?
FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all
the way.
FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing?
CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were
so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the
cashier?
CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great
excitement when you did that?
THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do
was to confess to your employers, and restore the money?
CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England
--didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion
would fall on him?
CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done?
THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have
been prosecuted.
FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the
cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the
discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have
left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis,
from the beginning.
THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion
would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did
you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis
had sailed?
FALDER. I--I--thought--he----
CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before?
CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen
for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't
remember altering this cheque. [He sits down]
FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage.
FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back?
FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep.
FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you
were doing?
FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or
notes?"
FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my
lord.
The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock.
The jury stir, and consult each other's faces; then they turn towards
the counsel for the Crown, who rises, and, fixing his eyes on a spot
that seems to give him satisfaction, slides them every now and then
towards the jury.
The jury retire by a door behind the JUDGE. The JUDGE bends
over his notes. FALDER, leaning from the dock, speaks excitedly
to his solicitor, pointing dawn at RUTH. The solicitor in turn
speaks to FROME.
THE JUDGE. You see, I have to take your word for all that.
FROME. If your lordship would be so kind. I can assure your
lordship that I am not exaggerating.
THE JUDGE. It goes very much against the grain with me that the name
of a witness should ever be suppressed. [With a glance at FALDER,
who is gripping and clasping his hands before him, and then at RUTH,
who is sitting perfectly rigid with her eyes fixed on FALDER] I'll
consider your application. It must depend. I have to remember that
she may have come here to commit perjury on the prisoner's behalf.
THE JUDGE. Yes, yes--I don't suggest anything of the sort, Mr.
Frome. Leave it at that for the moment.
As he finishes speaking, the jury return, and file back into the
box.
FOREMAN. We are.
FOREMAN. Guilty.
THE CLERK. Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of felony. Have
you anything to say for yourself, why the Court should not give you
judgment according to law? [FALDER shakes his head]
THE JUDGE. William Falder, you have been given fair trial and found
guilty, in my opinion rightly found guilty, of forgery. [He pauses;
then, consulting his notes, goes on] The defence was set up that you
were not responsible for your actions at the moment of committing
this crime. There is no, doubt, I think, that this was a device to
bring out at first hand the nature of the temptation to which you
succumbed. For throughout the trial your counsel was in reality
making an appeal for mercy. The setting up of this defence of course
enabled him to put in some evidence that might weigh in that
direction. Whether he was well advised to so is another matter. He
claimed that you should be treated rather as a patient than as a
criminal. And this plea of his, which in the end amounted to a
passionate appeal, he based in effect on an indictment of the march
of Justice, which he practically accused of confirming and completing
the process of criminality. Now, in considering how far I should
allow weight to his appeal; I have a number of factors to take into
account. I have to consider on the one hand the grave nature of your
offence, the deliberate way in which you subsequently altered the
counterfoil, the danger you caused to an innocent man--and that, to
my mind, is a very grave point--and finally I have to consider the
necessity of deterring others from following your example. On the
other hand, I have to bear in mind that you are young, that you have
hitherto borne a good character, that you were, if I am to believe
your evidence and that of your witnesses, in a state of some
emotional excitement when you committed this crime. I have every
wish, consistently with my duty--not only to you, but to the
community--to treat you with leniency. And this brings me to what
are the determining factors in my mind in my consideration of your
case. You are a clerk in a lawyer's office--that is a very serious
element in this case; there can be no possible excuse made for you on
the ground that you were not fully conversant with the nature of the
crime you were committing, and the penalties that attach to it. It
is said, however, that you were carried away by your emotions. The
story has been told here to-day of your relations with this--er--Mrs.
Honeywill; on that story both the defence and the plea for mercy were
in effect based. Now what is that story? It is that you, a young
man, and she, a young woman, unhappily married, had formed an
attachment, which you both say--with what truth I am unable to gauge
--had not yet resulted in immoral relations, but which you both admit
was about to result in such relationship. Your counsel has made an
attempt to palliate this, on the ground that the woman is in what he
describes, I think, as "a hopeless position." As to that I can
express no opinion. She is a married woman, and the fact is patent
that you committed this crime with the view of furthering an immoral
design. Now, however I might wish, I am not able to justify to my
conscience a plea for mercy which has a basis inimical to morality.
It is vitiated 'ab initio', and would, if successful, free you for
the completion of this immoral project. Your counsel has made an
attempt to trace your offence back to what he seems to suggest is a
defect in the marriage law; he has made an attempt also to show that
to punish you with further imprisonment would be unjust. I do not
follow him in these flights. The Law is what it is--a majestic
edifice, sheltering all of us, each stone of which rests on another.
I am concerned only with its administration. The crime you have
committed is a very serious one. I cannot feel it in accordance with
my duty to Society to exercise the powers I have in your favour. You
will go to penal servitude for three years.
The reporters bow their acquiescence. THE JUDGE. [To RUTH, who
is staring in the direction in which FALDER has disappeared] Do
you understand, your name will not be mentioned?
COKESON. [Pulling her sleeve] The judge is speaking to you.
THE JUDGE. I shall sit rather late to-day. Call the next case.
ACT III
SCENE I
WOODER. In his mattress, sir. Haven't come across such a thing for
two years now.
WOODER. He'd sawed his window-bar about that much. [He holds up his
thumb and finger a quarter of an inch apart]
THE GOVERNOR. I'll see him this afternoon. What's his name?
Moaney! An old hand, I think?
WOODER. Yes, sir-fourth spell of penal. You'd think an old lag like
him would have had more sense by now. [With pitying contempt]
Occupied his mind, he said. Breaking in and breaking out--that's all
they think about.
THE GOVERNOR. Ah, yes! "The philosopher." I want to see him about
his eyes.
WOODER. Curious thing, sir: they seem to know when there's one of
these tries at escape going on. It makes them restive--there's a
regular wave going through them just now.
THE GOVERNOR. Do for the Museum, eh! [He goes to the cupboard and
opens it, displaying to view a number of quaint ropes, hooks, and
metal tools with labels tied on them] That'll do, thanks, Mr.
Wooder.
THE GOVERNOR. Account for the state of the men last day or two,
Miller? Seems going through the whole place.
THE GOVERNOR. By the way, will you dine with us on Christmas Day?
THE GOVERNOR. And not much afterwards, I'm afraid. Ground too hard
for golf?
WOODER. Visitor who's been seeing Q 3007 asks to speak to you, sir.
I told him it wasn't usual.
THE GOVERNOR. [Resignedly] No, no. Let's see him. Don't go,
Miller.
COKESON. I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been talking to the young
man.
THE GOVERNOR. Those are local prisoners. The convicts serve their
three months here in separate confinement, sir.
THE CHAPLAIN. [Ringing the bell] You are not accustomed to prisons,
it would seem, sir.
COKESON. No. But it's a pitiful sight. He's quite a young fellow.
I said to him: "Before a month's up" I said, "you'll be out and about
with the others; it'll be a nice change for you." "A month!" he said
--like that! "Come!" I said, "we mustn't exaggerate. What's a
month? Why, it's nothing!" "A day," he said, "shut up in your cell
thinking and brooding as I do, it's longer than a year outside. I
can't help it," he said; "I try--but I'm built that way, Mr.
COKESON." And, he held his hand up to his face. I could see the
tears trickling through his fingers. It wasn't nice.
THE CHAPLAIN. He's a young man with large, rather peculiar eyes,
isn't he? Not Church of England, I think?
COKESON. No.
THE GOVERNOR. [To WOODER, who has come in] Ask the doctor to be
good enough to come here for a minute. [WOODER salutes, and goes
out] Let's see, he's not married?
THE CHAPLAIN. If it wasn't for drink and women, sir, this prison
might be closed.
COKESON. Like this. The woman had a nahsty, spiteful feller for a
husband, and she'd left him. Fact is, she was going away with our
young friend. It's not nice--but I've looked over it. Well, when he
was put in here she said she'd earn her living apart, and wait for
him to come out. That was a great consolation to him. But after a
month she came to me--I don't know her personally--and she said:
"I can't earn the children's living, let alone my own--I've got no
friends. I'm obliged to keep out of everybody's way, else my
husband'd get to know where I was. I'm very much reduced," she said.
And she has lost flesh. "I'll have to go in the workhouse!" It's a
painful story. I said to her: "No," I said, "not that! I've got a
wife an' family, but sooner than you should do that I'll spare you a
little myself." "Really," she said--she's a nice creature--"I don't
like to take it from you. I think I'd better go back to my husband."
Well, I know he's a nahsty, spiteful feller--drinks--but I didn't
like to persuade her not to.
COKESON. Ye-es, but I'm sorry now; it's upset the poor young fellow
dreadfully. And what I wanted to say was: He's got his three years
to serve. I want things to be pleasant for him.
THE CHAPLAIN. It's a very rare thing for them to give way like that.
COKESON. Ye-es. And I say this: I wouldn't shut one of them up all
by himself, month after month, not if he'd bit me all over.
COKESON. But that's not the way to make him feel it.
COKESON. It's the same with dogs. If you treat 'em with kindness
they'll do anything for you; but to shut 'em up alone, it only makes
'em savage.
THE CHAPLAIN. Surely you should allow those who have had a little
more experience than yourself to know what is best for prisoners.
COKESON. [Doggedly] I know this young feller, I've watched him for
years. He's eurotic--got no stamina. His father died of
consumption. I'm thinking of his future. If he's to be kept there
shut up by himself, without a cat to keep him company, it'll do him
harm. I said to him: "Where do you feel it?" "I can't tell you, Mr.
COKESON," he said, "but sometimes I could beat my head against the
wall." It's not nice.
THE DOCTOR. He doesn't like it, but it's not doing him any harm.
THE DOCTOR. Of course he'd say so, but we can always tell. He's
lost no weight since he's been here.
THE DOCTOR. His mind's all right so far. He's nervous, rather
melancholy. I don't see signs of anything more. I'm watching him
carefully.
THE CHAPLAIN. [More suavely] It's just at this period that we are
able to make some impression on them, sir. I am speaking from my
special standpoint.
COKESON. [Following his own thoughts] Of course, what you don't see
doesn't trouble you; but having seen him, I don't want to have him on
my mind.
THE CHAPLAIN. [Shrugging his shoulders] The plain man indeed, poor
fellow. Come and have some lunch, Clements?
The GOVERNOR, with a sigh, sits down at his table and takes up a
pen.
SCENE II
INSTRUCTOR. [Speaking from the door into the cell] I'll have
another bit for you when that's finished.
Sounds are heard of a cell door being closed and locked, and of
approaching footsteps.
The GOVERNOR nods and passes on to the end cell. The INSTRUCTOR
goes away.
He takes the saw from his pocket as WOODER throws open the door
of the cell. The convict MOANEY is seen lying on his bed,
athwart the cell, with his cap on. He springs up and stands in
the middle of the cell. He is a raw-boned fellow, about
fifty-six years old, with outstanding bat's ears and fierce,
staring, steel-coloured eyes.
WOODER. Cap off! [MOANEY removes his cap] Out here! [MOANEY Comes
to the door]
THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out into the corridor, and holding up
the saw--with the manner of an officer speaking to a private]
Anything to say about this, my man? [MOANEY is silent] Come!
THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing into the cell] Not enough to do, eh?
THE GOVERNOR. [Tapping the saw] You might find a better way than
this.
THE GOVERNOR. Now, look here, Moaney, if I pass it over will you
give me your word not to try it on again? Think! [He goes into the
cell, walks to the end of it, mounts the stool, and tries the
window-bars]
MOANEY. [Who has been reflecting] I've got another six weeks to do
in here, alone. I can't do it and think o' nothing. I must have
something to interest me. You've made me a sporting offer, sir, but
I can't pass my word about it. I shouldn't like to deceive a
gentleman. [Pointing into the cell] Another four hours' steady work
would have done it.
THE GOVERNOR. Yes, and what then? Caught, brought back, punishment.
Five weeks' hard work to make this, and cells at the end of it, while
they put anew bar to your window. Is it worth it, Moaney?
THE GOVERNOR. [Putting his hand to his brow] Oh, well! Two days'
cells-bread and water.
The GOVERNOR looks after him and shakes his head as WOODER
closes and locks the cell door.
CLIFTON. I don't complain of them. I don't see the sun here. [He
makes a stealthy movement, protruding his neck a little] There's
just one thing, Mr. Governor, as you're speaking to me. I wish you'd
ask the cove next door here to keep a bit quieter.
THE GOVERNOR. What's the matter? I don't want any tales, Clipton.
THE GOVERNOR. Which is the man who banged on his door this morning?
O'CLEARY. The joke, your honour? I've not seen one for a long time.
O'CLEARY. An' it's that I'm becoming this two months past.
THE GOVERNOR. You've got a youngster next door; you'll upset him.
O'CLEARY. It cam' over me, your honour. I can't always be the same
steady man.
THE GOVERNOR. You know as well as I do that if you were out in the
shops you wouldn't be allowed to talk.
O'CLEARY. No, sirr, I wud not have the little wit to repeat meself.
THE GOVERNOR. [Looking at the record card] Can't help liking the
poor blackguard.
THE GOVERNOR. [Pointing down the corridor] Ask the doctor to come
here, Mr. Wooder.
THE GOVERNOR. [Beckoning him out] Now tell me: can't you settle
down, Falder?
THE GOVERNOR. You know what I mean? It's no good running your head
against a stone wall, is it?
FALDER. Very little. Between two o'clock and getting up's the worst
time.
FALDER. [His lips twitch with a sort of smile] I don't know, sir. I
was always nervous. [Suddenly voluble] Everything seems to get such
a size then. I feel I'll never get out as long as I live.
THE GOVERNOR. They all had to go through it once for the first time,
just as you're doing now.
THE GOVERNOR. [Rather taken aback] H'm! Well! That rests with
you. Now come. Set your mind to it, like a good fellow. You're
still quite young. A man can make himself what he likes.
FALDER. I don't take the words in. [Hanging his head] I know it's
no good; but I can't help thinking of what's going on outside. In my
cell I can't see out at all. It's thick glass, sir.
FALDER. Yes.
FALDER. [Looking back at his cell] How can I help it, sir?
FALDER. [Quick and low] I'm quite right in my head, sir. [He goes
back into his cell.]
THE GOVERNOR. [To the DOCTOR] Just go in and see him, Clements.
The DOCTOR goes into the cell. The GOVERNOR pushes the door to,
nearly closing it, and walks towards the window.
The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell, and the GOVERNOR
beckons to him.
THE DOCTOR. Well, I don't think the separates doing him any good;
but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better
in the shops, there's no doubt.
THE DOCTOR. [Shaking his head] I can report on him if you like; but
if I do I ought to report on others.
For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him, turns on his heel, and
walks away. There is a sound as of beating on metal.
SCENE III
FALDER's cell, a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven
deep, and nine feet high, with a rounded ceiling. The floor is
of shiny blackened bricks. The barred window of opaque glass,
with a ventilator, is high up in the middle of the end wall. In
the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door. In a
corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets, two
sheets, and a coverlet]. Above them is a quarter-circular
wooden shelf, on which is a Bible and several little devotional
books, piled in a symmetrical pyramid; there are also a black
hair brush, tooth-brush, and a bit of soap. In another corner
is the wooden frame of a bed, standing on end. There is a dark
ventilator under the window, and another over the door.
FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes] is
hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table, on which
the novel "Lorna Doone" lies open. Low down in the corner by
the door is a thick glass screen, about a foot square, covering
the gas-jet let into the wall. There is also a wooden stool, and
a pair of shoes beneath it. Three bright round tins are set
under the window.
ACT IV
SWEEDLE. [Suddenly seeing her, and dropping the lid of the washstand
with a bang] Hello! It's you!
RUTH. Yes.
SWEEDLE. There's only me here! They don't waste their time hurrying
down in the morning. Why, it must be two years since we had the
pleasure of seeing you. [Nervously] What have you been doing with
yourself?
RUTH. He did.
SWEEDLE. He ought to have given him a chanst. And, I say, the judge
ought to ha' let him go after that. They've forgot what human
nature's like. Whereas we know. [RUTH gives him a honeyed smile]
But COKESON has come in through the outer office; brisk with
east wind, and decidedly greyer.
COKESON. [Drawing off his coat and gloves] Why! it's you! [Then
motioning SWEEDLE out, and closing the door] Quite a stranger! Must
be two years. D'you want to see me? I can give you a minute. Sit
down! Family well?
RUTH. Yes. I'm not living where I was.
COKESON. [With genuine concern] Dear me! I'm sorry to hear that.
[On his guard again] Didn't they find him a place when his time was
up?
COKESON. I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you. I don't like
to be snubby.
RUTH. I'd have gone home to my people in the country long ago, but
they've never got over me marrying Honeywill. I never was waywise,
Mr. Cokeson, but I'm proud. I was only a girl, you see, when I
married him. I thought the world of him, of course . . . he used
to come travelling to our farm.
RUTH. [With a shrug] Tried the same as when I left him before...,
making skirts... cheap things. It was the best I could get, but I
never made more than ten shillings a week, buying my own cotton and
working all day; I hardly ever got to bed till past twelve. I kept
at it for nine months. [Fiercely] Well, I'm not fit for that; I
wasn't made for it. I'd rather die.
RUTH. [Dully] He's treated me all right. But I've done with that.
[Suddenly her lips begin to quiver, and she hides them with the back
of her hand] I never thought I'd see him again, you see. It was just
a chance I met him by Hyde Park. We went in there and sat down, and
he told me all about himself. Oh! Mr. Cokeson, give him another
chance.
COKESON. I'll speak to the partners, but I don't think they'll take
him, under the circumstances. I don't really.
RUTH. He came with me; he's down there in the street. [She points to
the window.]
COKESON. [On his dignity] He shouldn't have done that until he's
sent for. [Then softening at the look on her face] We've got a
vacancy, as it happens, but I can't promise anything.
RUTH. It would be the saving of him.
COKESON. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm not sanguine. Now tell
him that I don't want him till I see how things are. Leave your
address? [Repeating her] 83 Mullingar Street? [He notes it on
blotting-paper] Good-morning.
She moves towards the door, turns as if to speak, but does not,
and goes away.
COKESON. [Wiping his head and forehead with a large white cotton
handkerchief] What a business! [Then looking amongst his papers, he
sounds his bell. SWEEDLE answers it]
COKESON. Was that young Richards coming here to-day after the
clerk's place?
SWEEDLE. Yes.
COKESON. Well, keep him in the air; I don't want to see him yet.
COKESON. That's right. When a man's down never hit 'im. 'Tisn't
necessary. Give him a hand up. That's a metaphor I recommend to you
in life. It's sound policy.
SWEEDLE. Do you think the governors will take him on again, sir?
COKESON. Can't say anything about that. [At the sound of some one
having entered the outer office] Who's there?
COKESON. [Vexed] Dear me! That's very naughty of her. Tell him to
call again. I don't want----
COKESON. No--not yet! Sit down! [FALDER sits in the chair at the
aide of COKESON's table, on which he places his cap] Now you are
here I'd like you to give me a little account of yourself. [Looking
at him over his spectacles] How's your health?
FALDER. I just want a chance, Mr. Cokeson. I've paid for that job a
thousand times and more. I have, sir. No one knows. They say I
weighed more when I came out than when I went in. They couldn't
weigh me here [he touches his head] or here [he touches--his heart,
and gives a sort of laugh]. Till last night I'd have thought there
was nothing in here at all.
FALSER. Yes; very good people, knew all about it--very kind to me.
I thought I was going to get on first rate. But one day, all of a
sudden, the other clerks got wind of it.... I couldn't stick it, Mr.
COKESON, I couldn't, sir.
FALDER. I had one small job after that, but it didn't last.
FALDER. It's no good deceiving you, Mr. Cokeson. The fact is, I
seem to be struggling against a thing that's all round me. I can't
explain it: it's as if I was in a net; as fast as I cut it here, it
grows up there. I didn't act as I ought to have, about references;
but what are you to do? You must have them. And that made me
afraid, and I left. In fact, I'm--I'm afraid all the time now.
He bows his head and leans dejectedly silent over the table.
COKESON. Ye...es. She told me her husband wasn't quite pleased with
you.
COKESON. I understand. Will you take the fifteen pound from me?
[Flustered, as FALDER regards him with a queer smile] Quite without
prejudice; I meant it kindly.
FALDER. I've slept in the Park three nights this week. The dawns
aren't all poetry there. But meeting her--I feel a different man
this morning. I've often thought the being fond of hers the best
thing about me; it's sacred, somehow--and yet it did for me. That's
queer, isn't it?
FALDER. That's what I've found, Mr. Cokeson. Awfully sorry for me.
[With quiet bitterness] But it doesn't do to associate with
criminals!
COKESON. Come, come, it's no use calling yourself names. That never
did a man any good. Put a face on it.
FALDER. It's easy enough to put a face on it, sir, when you're
independent. Try it when you're down like me. They talk about
giving you your deserts. Well, I think I've had just a bit over.
COKESON. [Eyeing him askance over his spectacles] I hope they haven't
made a Socialist of you.
COKESON. You must give them credit for the best intentions. Really
you must. Nobody wishes you harm, I'm sure.
FALDER. I believe that, Mr. Cokeson. Nobody wishes you harm, but
they down you all the same. This feeling--[He stares round him, as
though at something closing in] It's crushing me. [With sudden
impersonality] I know it is.
JAMES. [With a grave, keen look] Quite well. How are you, Falder?
WALTER. [Holding out his hand almost timidly] Very glad to see you
again, Falder.
FALDER. [Who has recovered his self-control, takes the hand] Thank
you, sir.
COKESON. [Confidentially] I'm bound to tell you all about it. He's
quite penitent. But there's a prejudice against him. And you're not
seeing him to advantage this morning; he's under-nourished. It's
very trying to go without your dinner.
COKESON. I wanted to ask you. He's had his lesson. Now we know all
about him, and we want a clerk. There is a young fellow applying,
but I'm keeping him in the air.
COKESON. He's had one or two places, but he hasn't kept them. He's
sensitive--quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's down on him.
JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow--never did from the first.
"Weak character"'s written all over him.
COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something
[spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy.
JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one
uncommonly like her outside as we came in.
COKESON. That! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met
her.
COKESON. No.
JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too
shady altogether!
COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you--I see
that.
JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come
here.
COKESON. Will you--have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can
get him to see reason.
JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another
chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first
place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion
that you've been unjustly treated--get rid of it. You can't play
fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot-free. If Society
didn't take care of itself, nobody would--the sooner you realise that
the better.
JAMES. Well?
FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that
if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under
somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a
quarter of us would ever have got there.
JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that,
Falder.
FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked
me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what
I was.
JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the
future.
FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what
prison is. It's here it gets you.
During this and what follows COKESON becomes more and more
uneasy.
JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that
it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything.
Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come
back--not otherwise.
I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got.
JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the
benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this
connection. It was the cause of all your disaster.
FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him
--she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from
the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] . . . If anybody
would help her! It's only money wants now, I'm sure.
FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause
since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him.
FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her?
I can beckon to her from here.
COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James.
She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young
man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to
swindle the Law.
FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a
sort of awed silence.
RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one
side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKESON
turns to his table, bending over his papers as though the burden
of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed
groove.
JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door]
We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be
faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder
again.
JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him.
I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start.
[Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage,
ma'am.
FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to
get you a divorce.
JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up.
FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce.
There's been nothing between us, has there?
FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help
us--we promise.
JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you? You see
what I mean?
FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He starts at RUTH, who
is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as
the truth dawns on him] What is it? You've not been--
WALTER. Father!
RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands.
There is silence.
WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years
and a half ago: I arrested him in, this room.
WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say
we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself.
But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining employment
with a forged reference. What with the two things together--we must
have him.
COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite
understand, don't you? Good-morning!
SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are
sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull
thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER's voice.
He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the
clerks' room.
COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They try to
force the sherry between her lips.]
They lay the burden doom in the outer office, out of sight, and
all but RUTH cluster round it, speaking in hushed voices.
WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip
like that. And what was it--just a few months!
The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into
COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body.
RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead!
COKESON. No one'll touch him now! Never again! He's safe with
gentle Jesus!
RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at
COKESON, who, bending humbly before her, holds out his hand as
one would to a lost dog.
GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SERIES 3
Contents:
The Fugitive
The Pigeon
The Mob
THE FUGITIVE
Between Act III, Scene I, and Act III, Scene II, three months.
Between Act III, Scene II, and Act IV, six months.
ACT I
PAYNTER. She and the Governor don't hit it! One of these days
she'll flit--you'll see. I like her--she's a lady; but these
thoroughbred 'uns--it's their skin and their mouths. They'll go till
they drop if they like the job, and if they don't, it's nothing but
jib--jib--jib. How was it down there before she married him?
BURNEY. Oh! very steady old man. The mother dead long before I took
the place.
GEORGE. [Handing PAYNTER his coat and hat] Look here, Paynter!
When I send up from the Club for my dress things, always put in a
black waistcoat as well.
GEORGE. In future--see?
PAYNTER. Yes, sir. [Signing towards the window] Shall I leave the
sunset, sir?
GEORGE. What time did my mother say they'd be here for Bridge?
PAYNTER. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond were coming at half-past nine;
and Captain Huntingdon, too--Mr. and Mrs. Fullarton might be a bit
late, sir.
GEORGE. Did your mistress say anything before she went out?
GEORGE. Well?
GEORGE. I don't want to know what you don't think, I want the fact.
BURNEY. Yes, sir. The mistress said: "I hope it'll be a pleasant
evening, Burney!"
GEORGE. Oh!--Thanks.
GEORGE. Ah!
GEORGE. Damn!
PAYNTER withdraws.
LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary
people---[Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't
very far, George.
SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that
sort of fellow.
LADY DEDMOND. [Softly] You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to
speak to you for a long time. It is such a pity you and Clare--What
is it?
LADY DEDMOND. But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a
point--put ideas into her head.
GEORGE. You can't dislike him more than I do. But there's nothing
one can object to.
[A bell sounds.]
GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his
haste. LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!" PAYNTER
enters.
LADY DEDMOND. Don't say anything about your master and mistress
being out. I'll explain.
LADY DEDMOND. Yes, I know. But you needn't say so. Do you
understand?
LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're
not to wait Bridge for them.
HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are
you, sir? What's the matter with their man?
LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is
waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't----
HUNTINGDON. Rather!
SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very
steady-goin' fellow, old George.
SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and
rice puddin'.
SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?
SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't
got, is there?
HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.
SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too
matter of fact for her. H'm?
[A short silence.]
LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices.
Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The
door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.
HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for
them.
LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very
sorry. They'll be here directly.
MALISE. Indeed!
GEORGE. [Giving his hand to MALISE] How are you? Clare! Mr.
MALISE!
PAYNTER. [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door] Yes,
sir.
PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE
making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.
Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh. All look at her first with
surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. GEORGE is
about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.
LADY DEDMOND. [Meeting MALISE in the doorway] Now you will be able
to have your music.
MALISE. Delicious!
CLARE. [In her level, clipped voice] Perfectly beastly of me! I'm
so sorry. I simply can't help running amok to-night.
MALISE. Never apologize for being fey. It's much too rare.
CLARE. I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three
hours. One does get desperate sometimes.
CLARE. My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and
I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm
supposed to set a good example. Then, I've no money, and I can't do
anything for a living, except serve in a shop. I shouldn't be free,
either; so what's the good? Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I
wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or
ill-treated. It's only----
CLARE. [Turning to the window] Did you see the sunset? That white
cloud trying to fly up?
CLARE. [Going to the piano] I'm awfully grateful to you. You don't
make me feel just an attractive female. I wanted somebody like that.
[Letting her hands rest on the notes] All the same, I'm glad not to
be ugly.
MRS. FULLARTON. [Kissing CLARE, and taking in both MALISE and her
husband's look at CLARE] We've only come for a minute.
[They greet.]
MRS. FULLARTON. How are things, Clare? [CLARE just moves her
shoulders] Have you done what I suggested? Your room?
CLARE. No.
MRS. FULLARTON. My dear! You'll have the whole world against you.
MRS. FULLARTON. Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I
can't invent things.
CLARE. You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find
my feet?
CLARE. [With a faint smile] It's all right, Dolly. I'm not coming.
CLARE. Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms
with? What he still wants is just what I hate giving.
CLARE. No, Dolly; even you don't understand. All day and every day
--just as far apart as we can be--and still--Jolly, isn't it? If
you've got a soul at all.
CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on
with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that--comes
to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.
She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given.
MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You
must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?
MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise,
then?
CLARE. Good-night.
HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands,
moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.
CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong
person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that
your blood runs cold when she kisses you--then you'll know.
CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers]
If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah,
Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one
cared where or what it was--beautiful like that! Apply that to every
--every--everything.
HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get
into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.
CLARE. When every day and every night!--Oh! I know it's my fault
for having married him, but that doesn't help.
CLARE. I know.
HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would
be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it
awfully.
CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home
long ago.
HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's
not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New
Woman and that kind of thing--haven't been brought up to it.
HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless
you! Good-night.
CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door,
holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of
emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table,
leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite
calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.
CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home,
and the maids can go to bed.
CLARE. Good-night.
[He withdraws.]
GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that
wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with
yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow
MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!
CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but
I couldn't help it, really!
CLARE. Alas!
GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on--there's only one
word for it--Disgusting!
CLARE. I know.
GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in
heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?
[There is silence.]
GEORGE. Pish!
CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've
served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better
together--if I went away?
GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason,
and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some
primitive sense of honour.
GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your
head?
GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up
people you know nothing of. I distrust him--and his looks--and his
infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not--good
form.
GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in
him?
CLARE. A mind.
GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind--as you call it--it's not
necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
CLARE. We don't.
CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.
GEORGE. Clare!
GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us
both.
CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're
a spectacle!
GEORGE. So am I.
GEORGE. We used----
CLARE. I wonder!
CLARE. [Making a barrier of her hand] You know that's only cupboard
love.
GEORGE. The facts are that we're married--for better or worse, and
certain things are expected of us. It's suicide for you, and folly
for me, in my position, to ignore that. You have all you can
reasonably want; and I don't--don't wish for any change. If you
could bring anything against me--if I drank, or knocked about town,
or expected too much of you. I'm not unreasonable in any way, that I
can see.
GEORGE. Look here, Clare; you don't mean you're expecting me to put
up with the position of a man who's neither married nor unmarried?
That's simple purgatory. You ought to know.
GEORGE. Don't go like that! Do you suppose we're the only couple
who've found things aren't what they thought, and have to put up with
each other and make the best of it.
CLARE. Very!
GEORGE. By Jove! You can be the most maddening thing in all the
world! [Taking up a pack of cards, he lets them fall with a long
slithering flutter] After behaving as you have this evening, you
might try to make some amends, I should think.
She opens the door, passes through, and closes it behind her.
GEORGE steps quickly towards it, stops, and turns back into the
room. He goes to the window and stands looking out; shuts it
with a bang, and again contemplates the door. Moving forward,
he rests his hand on the deserted card table, clutching its
edge, and muttering. Then he crosses to the door into the hall
and switches off the light. He opens the door to go out, then
stands again irresolute in the darkness and heaves a heavy sigh.
Suddenly he mutters: "No!" Crosses resolutely back to the
curtained door, and opens it. In the gleam of light CLARE is
standing, unhooking a necklet.
CURTAIN.
ACT II
MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she
stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out
to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on
the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought
to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
MALISE. Well?
MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor
with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh!
you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is
grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here
I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives
there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want
to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the
ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful
resource!
MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily
papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock
hats you can't abide.
MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir.
He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put
a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a
jug o' water.
He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS.
MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the
armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly
rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she
rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up
leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being
opened CLARE is revealed.
CLARE. Oh.
MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment
I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with
her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks
through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some
cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting
CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm
particular about not disturbin' things.
She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to
CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes
a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No
longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.
MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes
things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut
'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round
the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves
restlessly across the room.
MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's
waitin'.
MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to
her] Do the other room.
CLARE. Yes.
MALISE. Well?
MALISE. Bravo!
CLARE. I don't know--no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to
earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell. All
yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone
ever get a chance?
MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your
husband would pension you off.
MALISE. Good!
MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't
think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training.
There's Chorus--I don't recommend it. How about your brother?
MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at
all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but--
emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his
drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners,
return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so
grow old and--die!
CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I--oh! no!
CLARE. Spying!
MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see
who it is; and then go, for the present.
MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to
the door, and opens it. A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise? Would
you give him these cards?"
MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He
looks at CLARE.]
TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the
pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head]
I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be
so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?
At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and
shuts the door. A silence.
CLARE. No?
TWISDEN. [Approaching her] Come, now; isn't there anything you feel
you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight?
TWISDEN. What's open to you if you don't go back? Come, what's your
position? Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody.
Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears
you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken
flight, is madness. You must know that no one pays attention to
anything but facts. If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His
eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all
events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection,
but [He pauses] as you have not--you've none.
CLARE. Thank you. Do you think you quite grasp the alternative?
TWISDEN. [Taken aback] But, my dear young lady, there are two sides
to every contract. After all, your husband's fulfilled his.
CLARE. Which?
TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, go back! You can now. It will be too late
soon. There are lots of wolves about. [Again he looks at the door]
CLARE. But not where you think. You say I need advice. I came here
for it.
CLARE. I don't wish to see him. By what right have you come here?
[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and
says] Please come in, Mr. Malise.
[MALISE enters.]
CLARE. Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.
[MALISE bows]
SIR CHARLES. My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp
your line of thought at all!
CLARE. No?
CLARE. Ah!
LADY DEDMOND. But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you
were, like a reasonable being. You can't possibly be left to
yourself without money or position of any kind. Heaven knows what
you'd be driven to!
SIR CHARLES. You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir.
LADY DEDMOND. Charles! Clare, you must know this is all a fit of
spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare.
CLARE. No.
CLARE. I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know
with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a
quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and
you instantly suspect him. That is disgusting.
CLARE. I have.
[CLARE Stops]
LADY DEDMOND. [With real feeling] For the sake of the simple right,
Clare!
CLARE. [Losing control] Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my
life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered.
Look at me! I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood. And you want to
prison me for ever--body and soul.
LADY DEDMOND. [To MALISE] If you have any decency left, sir, you
will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone.
[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below.
SIR CHARLES. I--I want to speak. [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel
like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman----
SIR CHARLES. Let me alone! I can only say that--damme, I don't know
that I can say anything!
CLARE. No.
CLARE. Well!
GEORGE. You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here,
and speak before this fellow? Most men would think the worst,
finding you like this.
GEORGE. Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an
effort----
GEORGE. For God's sake be just! I've come here to say certain
things. If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it!
Will you appoint somewhere else?
CLARE. No.
CLARE. I know all those "certain things." "You must come back. It
is your duty. You have no money. Your friends won't help you. You
can't earn your living. You are making a scandal." You might even
say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected."
GEORGE. You rather miss the point, I'm afraid. I didn't come here
to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. I came
here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend
here is playing. It wouldn't take a baby in. If you think that a
gentleman like that [His stare travels round the dishevelled room
till it rests on MALISE] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you
make a fairly bad mistake.
CLARE. Put the fire out with a penny hose. [Slowly] I am not
coming back to you, George. The farce is over.
CLARE. There--is--nothing.
[MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his
lips move.]
MALISE. You are right. Your words and mine will never kiss each
other.
GEORGE. [With fury] D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that
rhapsodical swine?
GEORGE. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool! Understand this;
if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and
you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.
And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God! Your pocket shall
suffer. That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.
Turning, he goes out, and slams the door. CLARE and MALISE
remain face to face. Her lips have begun to quiver.
CLARE. Horrible!
She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the
armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands. MALISE
picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly. Then putting it
down, he moves so that he can see her face. She is sitting
quite still, staring straight before her.
MALISE. Let him. Let him go for his divorce. Get rid of him. Have
done with him--somehow.
She gets up and stands with face averted. Then swiftly turning
to him.
CLARE. If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back! I can't bear
it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind!
MALISE. My God!
He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.
She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is
shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands
twitching.
CLARE. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I'm sorry.
MALISE. I understand.
[CLARE nods]
MALISE. I beg--I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free
somehow.
MALISE. It is not.
MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank God! But
where? To your people again?
CLARE. No.
MALISE. Nothing--desperate?
MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out
there--you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must!
MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and--you!
Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the
stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who
work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let
you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy,
bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the
"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help
seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but
struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious!
Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The
hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up!
Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the
cart, and God pity you!
CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune.
Wish me luck!
He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it,
suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.
He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her
other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed
head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They
die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with
his clenched fist.
CURTAIN.
ACT III
HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf
without any return on your money----
MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see
my way to smoking another.
HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven!
MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in
discharge?
MALISE. Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the
result.
HAYWOOD. Well, thank you, sir. I'm sure I didn't want to trouble
you.
He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old
portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and
HAYWOOD reappears.
HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If--if it's any convenience
to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----
MALISE. D--n you! Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last
three months? Ask your detectives for any information you want.
HUNTINGDON. We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where
she is.
MALISE. Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband. Well! you've got
her. Clap her back into prison.
HUNTINGDON. We have not got her. She left at once, and we don't
know where she's gone.
MALISE. Bravo!
HUNTINGDON. We thought----
MALISE. Who?
MALISE. Go on.
MALISE. Very likely--the first birds do. But if she drops half-way
it's better than if she'd never flown. Your sister, sir, is trying
the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. For women as
for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon,
and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.
HUNTINGDON. Admitted--but----
MALISE. We each have our own views as to what they are. But they
all come to--death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases.
Anything more?
He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the
inner room. The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose,
turns to go. In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of
CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her
and goes. CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white
face alive with emotion or excitement. She looks round her,
smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes
back to the table. There she stands, fingering the papers on
the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting.
MALISE. [Returning] You!
He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair
round.
MALISE. Come! Sit down, sit down! [CLARE, heaving a long sigh,
sinks down into the chair] Tea's nearly ready.
CLARE. Do you think me an awful coward for coming? [She has taken a
little plain cigarette case from her dress] Would you mind if I
smoked?
MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if
afraid to be too close. And again, unseen, she looks at him.
MALISE. Your brother. You only just missed him. [CLARE starts up]
They had an idea you'd come. He's sailing to-morrow--he wants you to
see your father.
She sinks again into the chair, and again he withdraws. And
once more she gives him that soft eager look, and once more
averts it as he turns to her.
CLARE. My nerves have gone funny lately. It's being always on one's
guard, and stuffy air, and feeling people look and talk about you,
and dislike your being there.
CLARE. [Shaking her head] I curl up all the time. The only thing I
know for certain is, that I shall never go back to him. The more
I've hated what I've been doing, the more sure I've been. I might
come to anything--but not that.
CLARE. Lots of the girls are really nice. But somehow they don't
want me, can't help thinking I've got airs or something; and in here
[She touches her breast] I don't want them!
MALISE. I know.
MALISE. I? What have I----? [He checks himself ] Have men been
brutes?
CLARE. [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?
I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell. Which is
the best kind?
MALISE. I had a catalogue of them somewhere.
MALISE. What?
MALISE. [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling]
You mean it? You do? You care----?
He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for
a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them
apart.
MALISE. It's the housekeeper. Give me that ticket; I'll send for
your things.
Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly
into the inner room. MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more
Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen.
MALISE. That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler. Kindly go with this
ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her
luggage in a cab. Have you money?
SCENE II
CLARE. Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound
seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. One
hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred
and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. It's
only just over an hour a day. Can't you get me more?
MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.
CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.
CLARE. I'm quite packed. Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can't we
have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head. Going up
to him] You did sleep last night.
CLARE. Bad head? [MALISE nods] By this time the day after to-morrow
the case will be heard and done with. You're not worrying for me?
Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.
MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and
down.
MALISE. It is not.
MALISE. I lied.
CLARE. Why?
CLARE. Will they make you bankrupt, then? [MALISE nods] But that
doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it? [MALISE
laughs] What is your income, Kenneth? [He is silent] A hundred and
fifty from "The Watchfire," I know. What else?
MALISE. Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.
He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left
goes in. CLARE re-enters with a small leather box. She puts it
down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS.
MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.
The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE
holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full.
MRS. MILER. You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion
towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep?
MRS. MILER. In the bathroom chest o' drawers, where 'e keeps 'is
odds and ends. I was lookin' for 'is garters.
MRS. MILER resigns it, CLARE takes the cork out, smells, then
tastes it from her finger. MRS. MILER, twisting her apron in
her hands, speaks.
CLARE. Don't!
MRS. MILER. I don't want to, but what with the worry o' this 'ere
divorce suit, an' you bein' a lady an' 'im havin' to be so careful of
yer, and tryin' to save, not smokin' all day like 'e used, an' not
gettin' 'is two bottles of claret regular; an' losin' his sleep, an'
takin' that stuff for it; and now this 'ere last business. I've seen
'im sometimes holdin' 'is 'ead as if it was comin' off. [Seeing
CLARE wince, she goes on with a sort of compassion in her Chinese
face] I can see yer fond of him; an' I've nothin' against yer you
don't trouble me a bit; but I've been with 'im eight years--we're
used to each other, and I can't bear to see 'im not 'imself, really I
can't.
She gives a sadden sniff. Then her emotion passes, leaving her
as Chinese as ever.
MRS. MILER. If 'e a'n't told yer, I don't know that I've any call
to.
CLARE. Please.
MRS. MILER. [Her hands twisting very fast] Well, it's to do with
this 'ere "Watchfire." One of the men that sees to the writin' of
it 'e's an old friend of Mr. Malise, 'e come 'ere this mornin' when
you was out. I was doin' my work in there [She points to the room
on the right] an' the door open, so I 'earl 'em. Now you've 'ung
them curtains, you can't 'elp it.
CLARE. Yes?
MRS. MILER. It's about your divorce case. This 'ere "Watchfire,"
ye see, belongs to some fellers that won't 'ave their men gettin'
into the papers. So this 'ere friend of Mr. Malise--very nice 'e
spoke about it: "If it comes into Court," 'e says, "you'll 'ave to
go," 'e says. "These beggars, these dogs, these dogs," 'e says,
"they'll 'oof you out," 'e says. An' I could tell by the sound of
his voice, 'e meant it--proper upset 'e was. So that's that!
CLARE. Don't!
MRS. MILER. [With another sudden sniff] Gawd knows I don't want to
upset ye. You're situated very hard; an' women's got no business to
'urt one another--that's what I thinks.
CLARE. Will you go out and do something for me? [MRS. MILER nods]
[CLARE takes up the sheaf of papers and from the leather box a
note and an emerald pendant]
Take this with the note to that address--it's quite close. He'll
give you thirty pounds for it. Please pay these bills and bring me
back the receipts, and what's over.
MRS. MILER. [Taking the pendant and note] It's a pretty thing.
MRS. MILER. It's a pity to part with it; ain't you got another?
[She wraps pendant and note into her handkerchief and goes out to
the door.]
MRS. MILER. [From the door] There's a lady and gentleman out here.
Mrs. Fuller--wants you, not Mr. Malise.
CLARE. Mrs. Fullarton? [MRS. MILER nods] Ask them to come in.
MRS. MILER opens the door wide, says "Come in," and goes. MRS.
FULLARTON is accompanied not by FULLARTON, but by the lawyer,
TWISDON. They come in.
MRS. FULLARTON. Clare! My dear! How are you after all this time?
CLARE. I see. Will you please thank Mr. Dedmond, and say that I
refuse?
TWISDEN. You realize what the result of this suit must be: You will
be left dependent on an undischarged bankrupt. To put it another
way, you'll be a stone round the neck of a drowning man.
MRS. FULLARTON. Clare, Clare! [To TWISDEN] She doesn't mean it;
please be patient.
CLARE. I do mean it. You ruin him because of me. You get him down,
and kick him to intimidate me.
TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I told you once that I wished you well.
Though you have called me a coward, I still do that. For God's sake,
think--before it's too late.
CLARE. [Putting out her hand blindly] I'm sorry I called you a
coward. It's the whole thing, I meant.
MRS. FULLARTON. My dear sweet thing, don't be cross with met [CLARE
turns from her. It is all the time as if she were trying to get away
from words and people to something going on within herself] How can
I help wanting to see you saved from all this ghastliness?
MRS. FULLARTON. Do you know, Clare, I think it's awful about you!
You're too fine, and not fine enough, to put up with things; you're
too sensitive to take help, and you're not strong enough to do
without it. It's simply tragic. At any rate, you might go home to
your people.
CLARE. "If I could be the falling bee, and kiss thee all the day!"
No, Dolly!
MRS. FULLARTON turns from her ashamed and baffled, but her quick
eyes take in the room, trying to seize on some new point of
attack.
CLARE. Aren't I?
MRS. FULLARTON. You used to say you'd never love; did not want it--
would never want it.
MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! my dear! Don't look like that, or you'll make
me cry.
CLARE. One doesn't always know the future, does one? [Desperately]
I love him! I love him!
MRS. FULLARTON. [Suddenly] If you love him, what will it be like for
you, knowing you've ruined him?
CLARE. Go!
MRS. FULLARTON. I'm going. But, men are hard to keep, even when
you've not been the ruin of them. You know whether the love this man
gives you is really love. If not--God help you! [She turns at the
door, and says mournfully] Good-bye, my child! If you can----
CLARE. Then you are to lose that, too? [MALISE stares at her] I
know about it--never mind how.
CLARE. [Very low] There are other things to be got, aren't there?
MALISE. Now, now! This isn't the time to brood! Rouse up and
fight.
CLARE. Yes.
MALISE. We're not going to let them down us, are we? [She rubs her
cheek against his hand, that still rests on her shoulder] Life on
sufferance, breath at the pleasure of the enemy! And some day in the
fullness of his mercy to be made a present of the right to eat and
drink and breathe again. [His gesture sums up the rage within him]
Fine! [He puts his hat on and rises] That's the last groan they get
from me.
He goes into the bedroom. CLARE gets up and stands by the fire,
looking round in a dazed way. She puts her hand up and
mechanically gathers together the violets in the little vase.
Suddenly she twists them to a buttonhole, and sinks down into
the armchair, which he must pass. There she sits, the violets
in her hand. MALISE comes out and crosses towards the outer
door. She puts the violets up to him. He stares at them,
shrugs his shoulders, and passes on. For just a moment CLARE
sits motionless.
He turns and kisses her. But his lips, after that kiss, have
the furtive bitterness one sees on the lips of those who have
done what does not suit their mood. He goes out. She is left
motionless by the armchair, her throat working. Then,
feverishly, she goes to the little table, seizes a sheet of
paper, and writes. Looking up suddenly she sees that MRS. MILER
has let herself in with her latchkey.
MRS. MILER. I've settled the baker, the milk, the washin' an' the
groceries--this 'ere's what's left.
CLARE. [Pointing to the money on the table] Take your wages; and
give him this when he comes in. I'm going away.
MRS. MILER. [Her face all broken up] I never meant to say anything
to yer.
CLARE. It's not you. I can see for myself. Don't make it harder;
help me. Get a cab.
CLARE. Tell him to come for my trunk. It is packed. [She goes into
the bedroom]
MRS. MILER. The lady wants a cab. Wait and carry 'er trunk down.
They go into the bedroom to get the trunk. CLARE picks up from
the floor the bunch of violets, her fingers play with it as if
they did not quite know what it was; and she stands by the
armchair very still, while MRS. MILER and the PORTER pass her
with trunk and bag. And even after the PORTER has shouldered
the trunk outside, and marched away, and MRS. MILER has come
back into the room, CLARE still stands there.
MRS. MILER. [Pointing to the typewriter] D'you want this 'ere, too?
CLARE. Yes.
She walks out and away, not looking back. MRS. MILER chokes her
sobbing into the black stuff of her thick old jacket.
CURTAIN
ACT IV
From the inner room a young man and his partner have come in.
She is dark, almost Spanish-looking; he fair, languid, pale,
clean-shaved, slackly smiling, with half-closed eyes-one of
those who are bred and dissipated to the point of having lost
all save the capacity for hiding their emotions. He speaks in
a----
ARNAUD. Madame is waiting for some one? [She shakes her head] Then
Madame will be veree well here--veree well. I take Madame's cloak?
He takes the cloak gently and lays it on the back of the chair
fronting the room, that she may put it round her when she
wishes. She sits down.
ARNAUD. Milord!
CLARE sits tracing a pattern with her finger on the cloth, her
eyes lowered. Once she raises them, and follows ARNAUD's dark
rapid figure.
ARNAUD. [Returning] Madame feels the 'eat? [He scans her with
increased curiosity] You wish something, Madame?
The bare-necked ladies with large hats again pass down the
corridor outside, and again their voices are wafted in: "Tottie!
Not she! Oh! my goodness, she has got a pride on her!"
"Bobbie'll never stick it!" "Look here, dear----" Galvanized
by those sounds, CLARE has caught her cloak and half-risen; they
die away and she subsides.
YOUNG MAN. How d'you do? Didn't recognize you at first. So sorry
--awfully rude of me.
CLARE. Where?
YOUNG MAN. [With a smile] The Derby. What? Don't you generally go
down? [He touches the other chair] May I?
ARNAUD. The plovers' eggs veree good to-night, Sare. Veree good,
Madame. A peach or two, after. Veree good peaches. The Roederer,
Sare--not bad at all. Madame likes it frappe, but not too cold--yes?
CLARE. Do they?
YOUNG MAN. You've never been here? [CLARE shakes her head] By Jove!
I thought I didn't know your face. [CLARE looks full at him. Again
something moves in the YOUNG MAN, and he stammers] I mean--not----
CLARE. No.
[CLARE nods]
He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright. Chivalry and the
camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.
YOUNG MAN. Of course I can see that you're not--I mean, that you're
a--a lady. [CLARE smiles] And I say, you know--if you have to--
because you're in a hole--I should feel a cad. Let me lend you----?
CLARE. [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'!
She drinks. The French words, which he does not too well
understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he
remains quite silent, frowning. As CLARE held up her glass, two
gentlemen have entered. The first is blond, of good height and
a comely insolence. His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up
moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of
two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is
broad, and coloured with air and wine. His companion is a tall,
thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow
cheeks. They stand looking round, then pass into the further
room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE.
YOUNG MAN. [Seeing her wince] Look here! I'm afraid you must feel
me rather a brute, you know.
YOUNG MAN. Are you absolute stoney? [CLARE nods] But [Looking at
her frock and cloak] you're so awfully well----
YOUNG MAN. [More and more disturbed] I say, you know--I wish you'd
let me lend you something. I had quite a good day down there.
CLARE. [Smiling] That's not your fault, is it? You see, I've been
beaten all along the line. And I really don't care what happens to
me. [She has that peculiar fey look on her face now] I really
don't; except that I don't take charity. It's lucky for me it's you,
and not some----
YOUNG MAN. But I say, what about your people? You must have people
of some sort.
CLARE. Have you got sisters? [Breaking into her soft laughter] My
brother's in India. I sha'n't meet him, anyway.
YOUNG MAN. No, but--I say-are you really quite cut off from
everybody? [CLARE nods] Something rather awful must have happened?
She smiles. The two gentlemen have returned. The blond one is
again staring fixedly at CLARE. This time she looks back at
him, flaming; and, with a little laugh, he passes with his
friend into the corridor.
YOUNG MAN. Don't know--not been much about town yet. I'm just back
from India myself. You said your brother was there; what's his
regiment?
CLARE. [Shaking her head] You're not going to find out my name. I
haven't got one--nothing.
She leans her bare elbows on the table, and her face on her
hands.
CLARE. First of June! This day last year I broke covert--I've been
running ever since.
YOUNG MAN. [With a sort of awe] Anyway it must have been like
riding at a pretty stiff fence, for you to come here to-night.
The YOUNG MAN puts out his hand and touches her arm. It is
meant for sympathy, but she takes it for attraction.
CLARE. [Shaking her head] Not yet please! I'm enjoying this. May
I have a cigarette?
CLARE. [Letting the smoke slowly forth] Yes, I'm enjoying it. Had
a pretty poor time lately; not enough to eat, sometimes.
YOUNG MAN. Not really! How damnable! I say--do have something more
substantial.
CLARE. [Raising her glass] Eat and drink, for tomorrow we--Listen!
CLARE. [With a laugh] A man once said to me: "As you haven't money,
you should never have been pretty!" But, you see, it is some good.
If I hadn't been, I couldn't have risked coming here, could I? Don't
you think it was rather sporting of me to buy these [She touches the
gardenias] with the last shilling over from my cab fare?
CLARE. It's no use doing things by halves, is it? I'm--in for it--
wish me luck! [She drinks, and puts her glass down with a smile] In
for it--deep! [She flings up her hands above her smiling face] Down,
down, till they're just above water, and then--down, down, down, and
--all over! Are you sorry now you came and spoke to me?
CLARE. Thank God for beauty! I hope I shall die pretty! Do you
think I shall do well?
CLARE. That's splendid. Those poor women in the streets would give
their eyes, wouldn't they?--that have to go up and down, up and down!
Do you think I--shall----
YOUNG MAN. I think you're getting much too excited. You look all--
Won't you eat your peach? [She shakes her head] Do! Have something
else, then--some grapes, or something?
YOUNG MAN. Well, then, what d'you think? It's awfully hot in here,
isn't it? Wouldn't it be jollier drivin'? Shall we--shall we make a
move?
CLARE. Yes.
The YOUNG MAN turns to look for the waiter, but ARNAUD is not in
the room. He gets up.
[At that queer sound they come from behind the screen--all four,
and look. The dark night bird says: "Hallo; fainted!" ARNAUD
holds out the bottle.]
LANGUID LORD. [Taking it, and smelling] Good God! [The woman bends
over CLARE, and lifts her hands; ARNAUD rushes to his service-table,
and speaks into his tube]
YOUNG MAN. My God! She was a lady. That's all I know about her.
[The blond and dark gentlemen have slipped from the room; and out
of the supper-party's distant laughter comes suddenly a long,
shrill: "Gone away!" And the sound of the horn playing the seven
last notes of the old song: "This day a stag must die!" From the
last note of all the sound flies up to an octave higher, sweet
and thin, like a spirit passing, till it is drowned once more in
laughter. The YOUNG MAN has covered his eyes with his hands;
ARNAUD is crossing himself fervently; the LANGUID LORD stands
gazing, with one of the dropped gardenias twisted in his
fingers; and the woman, bending over CLARE, kisses her forehead.]
CURTAIN.
THE PIGEON
[He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him,
approaches the fire.]
ANN. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and
making tea.] Daddy!
WELLWYN. My dear?
ANN. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what
you'd said to them. Why don't you make it a rule never to give your
card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of
course.
ANN. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful habit. You are
naughty, Daddy. One of these days you'll get yourself into most
fearful complications.
ANN. You know the house wants all sorts of things. Why do you speak
to them at all?
ANN. They see you coming. Anybody can see you coming, Daddy.
That's why you ought to be so careful. I shall make you wear a hard
hat. Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.
ANN. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum in your tea?
ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who
was it?
WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.]
Interesting old creature, Ann--real type. Old cabman.
ANN. Where?
ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always
rotters.
WELLWYN. I--I--don't
WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I
didn't give him any money--hadn't got any.
ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You
know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent.
Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?
WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it
if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the
use of being alive if one isn't?
ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're
the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a
tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them
again.
WELLWYN. No!
ANN. Spiritually.
ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his
lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on
your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you
really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!
ANN. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed--I just leave you
to your conscience.
WELLWYN. Oh!
[The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]
MRS. MEGAN. You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. You give
me 'arf a crown.
[He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes
quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum
into it.]
WELLWYN. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! Drink it off!
WELLWYN. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well! You know,
I oughtn't.
MRS. MEGAN. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an' I told you about
me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day.
MRS. MEGAN. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep 'em
covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. Thruppence--that's all I've
took.
WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!
WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out--with a cold like
that? [He taps his chest.]
MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is
mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.
WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the
fire!
WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and
take them off. That's right.
[She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which
has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,
begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the
door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of
stealthy casualness. He returns whistling, but not out loud.
The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her
bare toes to the flames. She shuffles them back under her
skirt.]
MRS. MEGAN. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e comes from.
MRS. MEGAN. No. He's not a bad one. Only he gets playin'
cards then 'e'll fly the kite.
WELLWYN. I see. And when he's not flying it, what does he do?
MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me. Other jobs tires 'im.
MRS. MEGAN. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.
WELLWYN. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because
--well, for one thing I haven't got it. There are other reasons, but
that's the--real one. But, now, there's a little room where my
models dress. I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see.
WELLWYN. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the
steam rising from her.] Why, you're wet all over. Here, wait a
little!
[He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy
listening, steps through. The Girl, like a cat, steals back to
the warmth of the fire. WELLWYN returns with a candle, a
canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]
WELLWYN. Now then! [He precedes her towards the door of the model's
room.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show
her the room.] Will it do? There's a couch. You'll find some
washing things. Make yourself quite at home. See!
WELLWYN. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have
some of this. It'll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.]
WELLWYN. [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think
so? Ah!
FERRAND. You have not enough the Pharisee in your character. You do
not judge, and you are judged.
[He passes through the door into the house. FERRAND stands at
the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it,
smoking with abandonment. WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed
in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his
trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]
WELLWYN. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can
you make these do for the moment?
[FERRAND goes behind the screen. WELLWYN closes the door into
the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains. He
suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]
TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir;
we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson--I give you me name. You invited
of me, if ye remember.
[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a
little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]
[He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes
from it a needle and cotton.]
[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]
WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!
[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
old man.]
[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]
WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer
door.] You won't want this, will you?
[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and
taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of
trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary
stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.
Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and
slips behind the screen. MRS. MEGAN, attracted by the cessation
of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's
room towards the fire. She has almost reached it before she
takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. She halts and
puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight,
garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool
slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck.
Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of
stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on the little
stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON. FERRAND, coming quietly
up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if
enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back
a yard or two.]
[He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself.
Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.]
MRS. MEGAN. [With a touch of devilry.] You don't know what I do.
FERRAND. It is true.
FERRAND. I am an interpreter.
MRS. MEGAN. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come
here?
[Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
her expression changes to a sort of glee.]
FERRAND. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is it not? You see,
you cannot say, No. All of us, we have our fates. Give me your
hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is
that against which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes!
[He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own.
MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]
FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the
strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."
He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights--
the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it
is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you
what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that
old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly
forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah!
ANN. Look!
Curtain.
ACT II
ANN. [In hat and coat, entering from the house.] Daddy!
ANN. [Holding out a note.] This note from Canon Bentley. He's going
to bring her husband here this afternoon. [She looks at MRS. MEGAN.]
ANN. And I met Sir Thomas Hoxton at church this morning, and spoke
to him about Timson.
WELLWYN. Um!
[They look at TIMSON. Then ANN goes back to the door, and
WELLWYN follows her.]
ANN. [Turning.] I'm going round now, Daddy, to ask Professor Calway
what we're to do with that Ferrand.
WELLWYN. [Back at his easel.] You can shut your mouth now.
[He takes her by the arm, and they stand before the canvas.
After a stolid moment, she giggles.]
MRS. MEGAN. [Who has lost her hoarseness.] It's not like my picture
that I had on the pier.
WELLWYN. Well, you can't! I don't like hats, and I don't like
feathers.
WELLWYN. [To MRS. MEGAN, affecting not to notice.] How much do I owe
you?
WELLWYN. Well! Here it is. [He gives her a coin.] Go and get your
feet on!
MRS. MEGAN. You've give me 'arf a crown.
[MRS. MEGAN, smiling at the coin, goes towards the model's room.
She looks back at WELLWYN, as if to draw his eyes to her, but he
is gazing at the picture; then, catching old TIMSON'S sour
glance, she grimaces at him, kicking up her feet with a little
squeal. But when WELLWYN turns to the sound, she is demurely
passing through the doorway.]
TIMSON. [In his voice of dubious sobriety.] I've finished these yer
brushes, sir. It's not a man's work. I've been thinkin' if you'd
keep an 'orse, I could give yer satisfaction.
TIMSON. [Looking him up and down.] I knows of one that would just
suit yer. Reel 'orse, you'd like 'im.
TIMSON. Don't you believe it, sir; it's his fault I says to the
young lady yesterday: Miss Ann, your father's a gen'leman [with a
sudden accent of hoarse sincerity], and so you are--I don't mind
sayin' it--but, I said, he's too easy-goin'.
WELLWYN. Indeed!
TIMSON. Well, see that girl now! [He shakes his head.] I never did
believe in goin' behind a person's back--I'm an Englishman--but
[lowering his voice] she's a bad hat, sir. Why, look at the street
she comes from!
TIMSON. Lived there meself larst three years. See the difference a
few days' corn's made in her. She's that saucy you can't touch 'er
head.
TIMSON. Artful too. Full o' vice, I call'er. Where's 'er 'usband?
TIMSON. [Curving himself round the bottle.] It's not for me to say
nothing--but I can tell a gen'leman as quick as ever I can tell an
'orse.
TIMSON. Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. When
you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you
might as well be dead.
[He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts
it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]
TIMSON. Oh! Oh! She did! Well, it might do me a bit o' good. [He
makes for the outer door, but stops.] That foreigner! 'E sticks in
my gizzard. It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to
pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country. Reg-lar jay, that's what I
calls 'im. I could tell yer something----
[He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself
is standing there. Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a
roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. Owing to a
slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly
visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his
battle against the cold. FERRAND, having closed the door,
stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.
He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a
frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk,
the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a
tan waistcoat.]
WELLWYN. True!
[He goes to his daughter, and they pass out. FERRAND remains
at the picture. MRS. MEGAN dressed in some of ANN's discarded
garments, has come out of the model's room. She steals up
behind FERRAND like a cat, reaches an arm up, and curls it
round his mouth. He turns, and tries to seize her; she
disingenuously slips away. He follows. The chase circles the
tea table. He catches her, lifts her up, swings round with
her, so that her feet fly out; kisses her bent-back face, and
sets her down. She stands there smiling. The face at the
window darkens.]
FERRAND. La Valse!
[He takes her with both hands by the waist, she puts her hands
against his shoulders to push him of--and suddenly they are
whirling. As they whirl, they bob together once or twice, and
kiss. Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she
wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying
desperately to appear demure. WELLWYN and ANN have entered.
The face has vanished.]
FERRAND. It is a masterpiece.
ANN. [Paying no attention to him.] Mrs. Megan, will you too come
back in half an hour?
[He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him
out.]
ANN. Oh! Daddy, they are rotters. Couldn't you see they were
having the most high jinks?
ANN. Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married
people live together in his parish.
ANN. [With heat.] Then they're all the more bound. [WELLWYN gives
a sudden and alarmed whistle.]
WELLWYN. Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too. Suppose he
comes in while the Professor's here. They're cat and dog.
WELLWYN. Hi!
WELLWYN. Oh!
BERTLEY. Same to you! Ah! Ann! I've got into touch with her
young husband--he's coming round.
ANN. Daddy, I do wish you'd have thick glass put in. It's so
disgusting to be spied at! [WELLWYN going quickly to the door, has
opened it.] What do you want? [TIMSON enters with dignity. He is
fuddled.]
ANN. Yes, you can sweep out that little room. [She points to the
model's room.] There's a broom in there.
[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens
it. There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved
man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking
off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead,
which completely dominates all that comes below it.]
WELLWYN. Rum?
BERTLEY. [Blandly.] Yes, when you came in, we were discussing what
should be done with a man who drinks rum--[CALWAY pauses in the act
of drinking]--that doesn't belong to him.
ANN. No, really; we needn't open the door. You can see him through
the glass. He's more than half----
ANN. Oh! Do! Come on, Professor CALWAY! We must know what to do
with him. [CALWAY rises.] You can stand on a chair. It's all
science.
[ANN puts her back against the door. CALWAY mounts the chair
dubiously, and raises his head cautiously, bending it more and
more downwards.]
ANN. Well?
[There come three loud knocks on the door. WELLWYN and ANN
exchange a glance of consternation.]
ANN. [Blurting it out.] That old cabman I told you of's been
drinking father's rum.
ANN. In there.
WELLWYN. Er--yes.
WELLWYN. I don't want the old fellow to feel he's being made a show
of. Disgusting to be spied at, Ann.
HOXTON. Not a bit of it! He wants one for his knob! Brace 'em up!
It's the only thing.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes. [Going towards the two reformers.] Shall
we go into the house, Professor, and settle the question quietly
while the Vicar sees a young man?
MEGAN. Yus.
BERTLEY. [Kindly.] Now, my boy, how is it that you and your wife
are living apart like this?
MEGAN. I dunno.
BERTLEY. Well, if you don't, none of us are very likely to, are we?
[He drinks.]
BERTLEY. Oh! but--I see, you mean you're in the same line of
business?
MEGAN. Yus.
MEGAN. Yus. Sometimes she'll take 'arf a crown off of a toff. [He
looks at WELLWYN.]
BERTLEY. [Dubiously.] Yes! Yes! Now, my boy, I've heard you bet
on horses.
BERTLEY. You know that's not at all what I mean. Come, promise me
to give it up.
BERTLEY. Now, there's a good fellow. Make a big effort and throw
the habit off!
WELLWYN. [Turning from the picture.] The question is, Megan: Will
you take your wife home? She's a good little soul.
[He points to the door, and stands regarding MEGAN with his
friendly smile.]
MEGAN. Yus.
[WELLWYN opens the door. MRS. MEGAN and FERRAND are revealed.
They are about to enter, but catching sight of MEGAN,
hesitate.]
BENTLEY. Yes, yes, you'll like to get home at once--I know. [He
holds up his hand mechanically.]
WELLWYN. Timson!
TIMSON. You're a gen'leman--I'm aweer o' that but I must speak the
truth--[he waves his hand] an' shame the devil!
[TIMSON growls.]
WELLWYN. Come, Megan, you can see the old fellow's in Paradise.
MEGAN. Naow!
[He jerks his chin at FERRAND, turns slowly on his heel, and
goes out into the street.]
TIMSON. [Waking up and looking round him.] Well, p'raps I'd better
go.
WELLWYN. Ann!
[BERTLEY, steadily regarding MRS. MEGAN, who has put her arm up
in front of her face, beckons to FERRAND, and the young man
comes gravely forward.]
MRS. MEGAN. [Dropping her arm.] Megan's no better than what I am.
BERTLEY. Come, come! Here's your home broken up! [MRS. MEGAN
Smiles. Shaking his head gravely.] Surely-surely-you mustn't
smile. [MRS. MEGAN becomes tragic.] That's better. Now, what is
to be done?
FERRAND. [With a little bow.] Any reason that you wish, Monsieur.
I will do my possible.
MRS. MEGAN. I could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes
round at WELLWYN] I 'ad the money to furnish it.
BERTLEY. But suppose I can induce your husband to forgive you, and
take you back?
MRS. MEGAN. [Sliding her eyes towards WELLWYN.] If I 'ad the money
to buy some fresh stock.
BERTLEY. Yes; yes; never mind the money. What I want to find in
you both, is repentance.
MRS. MEGAN. I don't want'im hurt'cos o' me. Megan'll get his mates
to belt him--bein' foreign like he is.
BERTLEY. Yes, never mind that. It's you I'm thinking of.
[WELLWYN pushes ANN back into the house and closes the door
behind her. The voices are still faintly heard arguing on the
threshold.]
CALWAY. I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas. And let me
say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime----
CALWAY. [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost,"
have never even seen him.
WELLWYN. It's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.
[They move from the doorway. HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and
go towards the fire.]
[He moves to the fire and stands before it. PROFESSOR CALWAY
following stands a little behind him. ANN returning begins to
brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.]
WELLWYN. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after
the receding TIMSON.] Poor old Timson!
[From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by
CANON BERTLEY.]
BERTLEY. Oh! Ah! Ah! Ann, take Gui--take our little friend into
the study a minute: I am going to put her into service. We shall
make a new woman of her, yet.
ANN. [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.]
Come on!
[She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.]
CALWAY. Yes.
HOXTON. That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. Hope they'll give
him a sharp dose! These rag-tags!
[He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.]
HOXTON. My theory----!
CALWAY. My theory----!
BERTLEY. My theory----!
Curtain.
ACT III
BERTLEY. Lift?
WELLWYN. Oh!
WELLWYN. I thought I saw her last night. You can't tell me her
address, I suppose?
BERTLEY. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has quite passed out
of my ken. He betted on horses, you remember. I'm sometimes
tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but
to pray for death.
[ANN has entered from the house. Her hair hangs from under a
knitted cap. She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk
scarf.]
BERTLEY. Ah! Ann. I was telling your father of that poor little
Mrs. Megan.
ANN. When he came out he got more drunk than ever. Rather a score
for Professor Calway, wasn't it?
ANN. Yes, they fell over him. The Professor got him into an
Institution.
BERTLEY. Indeed!
WELLWYN. Ye-yes!
ANN. Why?
WELLWYN. Well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you
call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits.
WELLWYN. Said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him.
ANN. Rather a score for Sir Thomas! I suppose he'd told the
Professor? What did he say?
WELLWYN. And Sir Thomas agreed. Historic occasion. And you, Vicar
H'm!
[BERTLEY winces.]
BERTLEY. And yet! Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one
could put one's finger on it. [Preparing to go.] You'll let us
know, then, when you're settled. What was the address? [WELLWYN
takes out and hands him a card.] Ah! yes. Good-bye, Ann.
Good-bye, Wellyn. [The wind blows his hat along the street.] What
a wind! [He goes, pursuing.]
ANN. [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those
other two where we're going?
ANN. [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.] Oh, dear! When I'm
trying to get you away from all this atmosphere. I don't so much
mind the Vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart----
ANN. [Preparing to go.] I'm going round now. But you must stay
here till the van comes back. And don't forget you tipped the men
after the first load.
WELLWYN. Oh! Yes, yes. [Uneasily.] Good sorts they look, those
fellows!
ANN. What?
[She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out
beneath her firm young chin. WELLWYN returning to the fire,
stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]
[In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN. They
stand, unseen, looking at him. FERRAND is more ragged, if
possible, than on Christmas Eve. His chin and cheeks are
clothed in a reddish golden beard. MRS. MEGAN's dress is not
so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.
They whisper. She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.
WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in
amazement.]
WELLWYN. [Nodding--then taking the young man's hand.] How goes it?
FERRAND. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur. I
have done of my best. It still flies from me.
FERRAND. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you
remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the
other day.
[WELLWYN nods.]
[There is silence.]
FERRAND. That little girl you had here, Monsieur [WELLWYN nods.]
in her too there is something of wild-savage. She must have joy of
life. I have seen her since I came back. She has embraced the life
of joy. It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.]
She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. I can see,
if she cannot. [As WELLWYN makes a movement of distress.] Oh! I
am not to blame for that, Monsieur. It had well begun before I knew
her.
WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too.
FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
making round business on an office stool! It is not to my
advantage. I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you
have? It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.]
Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
[The CONSTABLE and LOAFER have laid the body down on the dais;
with WELLWYN and FERRAND they stand bending over her.]
CONSTABLE. 'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water
'arf a minute when I got hold of her. [He bends lower.] Can't
understand her collapsin' like this.
[He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through
the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
FERRAND. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her philosophy,
Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. If she is dead! [In a
voice of awed rapture.] What fortune!
[Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
against it. MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]
[They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool.
From the moment of her restored animation FERRAND has resumed
his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms
folded, watching.]
WELLWYN. That's good. That's good. Now, how was it? Um?
MRS. MEGAN. I dunno. [She shivers.] I was standin' here just now
when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do
it--like.
MRS. MEGAN. I didn't seem no good to meself nor any one. But when
I got in the water, I didn't want to any more. It was cold in
there.
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. And listenin' to him upset me. [She signs with
her head at FERRAND.] I feel better now I've been in the water.
[She smiles and shivers.]
MRS. MEGAN. Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out.
CONSTABLE. That's fine. Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir,
the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better.
WELLWYN. But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the
greatest care of her.
WELLWYN. Good God! You don't mean to say the poor little thing has
got to be----
CONSTABLE. [Consulting with him.] Well, sir, we can't get over the
facts, can we? There it is! You know what sooicide amounts to--
it's an awkward job.
WELLWYN. You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her
better! [Dropping his voice still more.] Everybody feels it! The
Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing--the
Vicar, Constable! [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.] Ah! now, look
here, I know something of her. Nothing can be done with her. We
all admit it. Don't you see? Well, then hang it--you needn't go
and make fools of us all by----
CONSTABLE. I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it
very 'ard for me--but, come now! I put it to you as a gentleman,
would you go back on yer duty if you was me?
[WELLWYN raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and
through his hair.]
[Throughout all this MRS. MEGAN has sat stolidly before the
fire, but as FERRAND suddenly steps forward she looks up at
him.]
CONSTABLE. [Comfortable.] Don't you take on, sir. It's her first
try; they won't be hard on 'er. Like as not only bind 'er over in
her own recogs. not to do it again. Come, my dear.
[As she speaks the door is opened by ANN; behind whom is dimly
seen the form of old TIMSON, still heading the curious
persons.]
WELLWYN. Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death.
[ANN, feeling MRS. MEGAN's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps
her into it without a word.]
[She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with
the CONSTABLE through the doorway.]
FERRAND. That makes the third of us, Monsieur. We are not in luck.
To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die.
[He looks at ANN, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her
father. WELLWYN has taken from his pocket a visiting card.]
WELLWYN. [To FERRAND.] Here quick; take this, run after her! When
they've done with her tell her to come to us.
FERRAND. [Taking the card, and reading the address.] "No. 7, Haven
House, Flight Street!" Rely on me, Monsieur--I will bring her
myself to call on you. 'Au revoir, mon bon Monsieur'!
[He bends over WELLWYN's hand; then, with a bow to ANN goes
out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window,
passing in the wind. WELLWYN turns back to the fire. The
figure of TIMSON advances into the doorway, no longer holding
in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.]
TIMSON. On me larst legs, sir. 'Ere! You can see 'em for yerself!
Shawn't trouble yer long....
TIMSON. [Taking the card.] Yer new address! You are a gen'leman.
[He lurches slowly away.]
[ANN shuts the street door and sets her back against it. The
rumble of the approaching van is heard outside. It ceases.]
ANN. [Staring round the naked room.] What was the good of this?
[Without a word ANN opens the door, and walks straight out.
With a heavy sigh, WELLWYN sinks down on the little stool
before the fire. The three humble-men come in.]
[He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and
he exhibits certain signs of vexation. Suddenly he recovers,
looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things. A
faint smile comes on his face.]
Curtain.
THE END
THE MOB
A MOB
ACT I
THE DEAN. The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race,
on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted.
THE DEAN. They have proved themselves faithless. We have the right
to chastise.
MORE. If I hit a little man in the eye, and he hits me back, have I
the right to chastise him?
SIR JOHN. Yes. And that poor fellow Groome and his wife?
MORE. They went into a wild country, against the feeling of the
tribes, on their own business. What has the nation to do with the
mishaps of gamblers?
SIR JOHN. We can't stand by and see our own flesh and blood
ill-treated!
THE DEAN. Does our rule bring blessing--or does it not, Stephen?
SIR JOHN. I've served my country fifty years, and I say she is not
in the wrong.
MORE. I hope to serve her fifty, Sir John, and I say she is.
MENDIP. There are moments when such things can't be said, More.
[MORE nods.]
KATHERINE. Stephen!
MORE. [Rising] You can tell people that to-morrow, Mendip. Give it
a leader in 'The Parthenon'.
[MORE nods.]
SIR JOHN. So you're going to put yourself at the head of the cranks,
ruin your career, and make me ashamed that you're my son-in-law?
THE DEAN. The position has become impossible. The state of things
out there must be put an end to once for all! Come, Katherine, back
us up!
HELEN. Hubert!
[She gets up and goes to him, and they talk together near the
door.]
SIR JOHN. What in God's name is your idea? We've forborne long
enough, in all conscience.
MORE. Sir John, we great Powers have got to change our ways in
dealing with weaker nations. The very dogs can give us lessons--
watch a big dog with a little one.
MENDIP. No, no, these things are not so simple as all that.
MENDIP. Right or wrong, as lost as ever was cause in all this world.
There was never a time when the word "patriotism" stirred mob
sentiment as it does now. 'Ware "Mob," Stephen---'ware "Mob"!
[He and THE DEAN go out. KATHERINE puts her arm in HELEN'S, and
takes her out of the room. HUBERT remains standing by the door]
SIR JOHN. I knew your views were extreme in many ways, Stephen, but
I never thought the husband of my daughter would be a Peace-at-any-
price man!
SIR JOHN. Well! I can only hope to God you'll come to your senses
before you commit the folly of this speech. I must get back to the
War Office. Good-night, Hubert.
HUBERT. At once.
HUBERT. No, no! Bottle yourself up for to-night. The next few
hours 'll see it begin. [MORE turns from him] If you don't care
whether you mess up your own career--don't tear Katherine in two!
HUBERT. Well! You're riding for a fall, and a godless mucker it'll
be. This'll be no picnic. We shall get some nasty knocks out there.
Wait and see the feeling here when we've had a force or two cut up in
those mountains. It's awful country. Those fellows have got modern
arms, and are jolly good fighters. Do drop it, Stephen!
KATHERINE. Stephen! Are you really going to speak? [He nods] I ask
you not.
KATHERINE. But it's our own country. We can't stand apart from it.
You won't stop anything--only make people hate you. I can't bear
that.
MORE. I tell you, Kit, some one must raise a voice. Two or three
reverses--certain to come--and the whole country will go wild. And
one more little nation will cease to live.
KATHERINE. If you believe in your country, you must believe that the
more land and power she has, the better for the world.
KATHERINE. Yes.
MORE. I respect it; I even understand it; but--I can't hold it.
KATHERINE. No, no! If you once begin a thing, you always go on; and
what earthly good?
MORE. History won't say: "And this they did without a single protest
from their public men!"
MORE. Poets?
MORE. Kit! This isn't fair. Do you want me to feel myself a cur?
MORE. A cur!
MORE. Olive!
OLIVE. [Pulling him down to her, and whispering] I must get back
again in secret. H'sh!
She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of
the bay window. A young man enters, with a note in his hand.
STEEL. I'm glad it's begun, sir. It would have been an awful pity
to have made that speech.
MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them
down on the bureau.
STEEL. Chief gem: [Imitating] "We must show Impudence at last that
Dignity is not asleep!"
MORE. No.
KATHERINE. O my darling! How you startled me! What are you doing
down here, you wicked little sinner!
OLIVE. Gone.
KATHERINE. When?
OLIVE. Oh! only just, and Mr. Steel went after him like a rabbit.
[The music stops] They haven't been paid, you know.
KATHERINE. Now, go up at once. I can't think how you got down here.
She gives OLIVE a coin, who runs with it to the bay window,
opens the aide casement, and calls to the musicians.
OLIVE. Catch, please! And would you play just one more?
She returns from the window, and seeing her mother lost in
thought, rubs herself against her.
OLIVE. Oh!
She kicks off her lisle blue shoes, and begins dancing. While
she is capering HUBERT comes in from the hall. He stands
watching his little niece for a minute, and KATHERINE looks at
him.
HUBERT and KATHERINE listen with all their might, and OLIVE
stares at their faces. HUBERT goes to the window. The sound
comes nearer. The shouted words are faintly heard: "Pyper----
war----our force crosses frontier--sharp fightin'----pyper."
The street cry is heard again in two distant voices coming from
different directions: "War--pyper--sharp fightin' on the
frontier--pyper."
NURSE. And him keepin' company. And you not married a year. Ah!
Mr. Hubert, now do 'ee take care; you and him's both so rash.
NURSE looks long into his face, then lifts her finger, and
beckons OLIVE.
[As she passes with NURSE out into the hall, her voice is heard
saying, "Do tell me all about the war."]
HUBERT. Yes, it's bad for you, with Stephen taking it like this.
But he'll come round now it's once begun.
The door from the hall is opened, and SIR JOHN'S voice is heard
outside: "All right, I'll find her."
KATHERINE. Father!
SIR JOHN. Stephen get my note? I sent it over the moment I got to
the War Office.
KATHERINE. I expect so. [Seeing the torn note on the table] Yes.
SIR JOHN. They're shouting the news now. Thank God, I stopped that
crazy speech of his in time.
SIR JOHN. Keep a good heart, my boy. The country's first. [They
exchange a hand-squeeze.]
KATHERINE backs away from the window. STEEL has appeared there
from the terrace, breathless from running.
STEEL. Yes.
KATHERINE. Against?
STEEL. Yes.
SIR, JOHN stands rigid, then turns and marches straight out into
the hall. At a sign from KATHERINE, HUBERT follows him.
Then there was a whisper all over the House that fighting had begun.
And the whole thing broke out--regular riot--as if they could have
killed him. Some one tried to drag him down by the coat-tails, but
he shook him off, and went on. Then he stopped dead and walked out,
and the noise dropped like a stone. The whole thing didn't last five
minutes. It was fine, Mrs. More; like--like lava; he was the only
cool person there. I wouldn't have missed it for anything--it was
grand!
MORE does not answer, still living in the scene he has gone
through, and KATHERINE goes a little nearer to him.
KATHERINE. I'm with the country, heart and soul, Stephen. I warn
you.
KATHERINE opens one after the other, and lets them fall on the
table.
MORE. Well?
KATHERINE. What you might expect. Three of your best friends. It's
begun.
MORE. 'Ware Mob! [He gives a laugh] I must write to the Chief.
MORE. [Dictating]
"July 15th.
ACT. II
HUBERT. Yes. Worse than we thought. They got our men all crumpled
up in the Pass--guns helpless. Ghastly beginning.
HELEN puts her face up to his. He kisses her. Then she turns
quickly into the bay window. The door from the hall has been
opened, and the footman, HENRY, comes in, preceding WREFORD and
his sweetheart.
HENRY. Just wait here, will you, while I let Mrs. More know.
[Catching sight of HUBERT] Beg pardon, sir!
WREFORD. I'll owe 'em for this. [In a lacy voice to her] Don't 'ee
now! Don't 'ee!
She stands struggling with her own lips, then goes out on to the
terrace, HUBERT following. WREFORD and his girl remain where
they were, strange and awkward, she muffling her sobs.
WREFORD. Don't 'ee go on like that, Nance; I'll 'ave to take you
'ome. That's silly, now we've a-come. I might be dead and buried by
the fuss you're makin'. You've a-drove the lady away. See!
KATHERINE. Yes, yes! Still, it's for the country, isn't it?
THE GIRL. That's what Wreford keeps tellin' me. He've got to go--so
it's no use upsettin' 'im. And of course I keep tellin' him I shall
be all right.
NURSE. [Whose eyes never leave her son's face] And so you will.
THE GIRL. Wreford thought it'd comfort him to know you were
interested in me. 'E's so 'ot-headed I'm sure somethin'll come to
'im.
KATHERINE. We've all got some one going. Are you coming to the
docks? We must send them off in good spirits, you know.
KATHERINE. Olive!
NURSE. You wouldn't like for him to be hanging back, one of them
anti-patriot, stop-the-war ones.
OLIVE. [Who has taken from the bureau a packet, places it in his
hand] It's very nourishing!
KATHERINE. Well?
KATHERINE. No.
OLIVE. Oh! in history we always are. And we always win. That's why
I like history. Which are you for, Mummy--us or them?
KATHERINE. Us.
OLIVE. Then I shall have to be. It's a pity we're not on the same
side as Daddy. [KATHERINE shudders] Will they hurt him for not
taking our side?
KATHERINE. If we can.
HUBERT comes in. The presence of the child give him self-control.
HUBERT. Well, old girl, it's good-bye. [To OLIVE] What shall I
bring you back, chick?
KATHERINE. The Dad and I'll be with you all in spirit. Good-bye,
old boy!
They do not dare to kiss, and HUBERT goes out very stiff and
straight, in the doorway passing STEEL, of whom he takes no
notice. STEEL hesitates, and would go away.
OLIVE. Mayn't I read in the window, Mummy? Then I shall see if any
soldiers pass.
KATHERINE. No. You can go out on the terrace a little, and then you
must go up.
STEEL. Awful news this morning of that Pass! And have you seen
these? [Reading from the newspaper] "We will have no truck with the
jargon of the degenerate who vilifies his country at such a moment.
The Member for Toulmin has earned for himself the contempt of all
virile patriots." [He takes up a second journal] "There is a
certain type of public man who, even at his own expense, cannot
resist the itch to advertise himself. We would, at moments of
national crisis, muzzle such persons, as we muzzle dogs that we
suspect of incipient rabies . . . ." They're in full cry after
him!
KATHERINE. I mind much more all the creatures who are always
flinging mud at the country making him their hero suddenly! You know
what's in his mind?
[He looks at her, but for answer she only compresses her lips.]
BANNING. I tell you what hit me--what's hit the whole constituency--
and that's his knowing we were over the frontier, fighting already,
when he made it.
BANNING. Till war's begun, Mrs. More, you're entitled to say what
you like, no doubt--but after! That's going against your country.
Ah! his speech was strong, you know--his speech was strong.
[A silence.]
BANNING. We'd be best perhaps not to mention about his knowing that
fighting had begun.
[As he speaks, MORE enters through the French windows. They all
rise.]
BANNING. Well, Mr. More? You've made a woeful mistake, sir; I tell
you to your face.
MORE, Allow for the flesh and blood in me, too, please. When I spoke
the other night it was not without a certain feeling here. [He
touches his heart.]
MORE. Do me the justice to remember that even then I was against our
policy. It cost me three weeks' hard struggle to make up my mind to
that speech. One comes slowly to these things, Banning.
SHELDER. You see, our ideals are naturally low--how different from
yours!
[MORE smiles.]
KATHERINE, who has drawn near her husband, moves back again, as
if relieved at this gleam of geniality. WACE rubs his hands.
SHELDER. What was it the prophet was without in his own country?
BANNING. Ah! but we're not funning, Mr. More. I've never known
feeling run so high. The sentiment of both meetings was dead against
you. We've had showers of letters to headquarters. Some from very
good men--very warm friends of yours.
SHELDER. Come now! It's not too late. Let's go back and tell them
you won't do it again.
BANNING. Well, Well! I know. But we don't ask you to take your
words back--we only want discretion in the future.
MORE. But I do. I can't betray the dignity and courage of public
men. If popular opinion is to control the utterances of her
politicians, then good-bye indeed to this country!
BANNING. Come now! I won't say that your views weren't sound enough
before the fighting began. I've never liked our policy out there.
But our blood's being spilled; and that makes all the difference.
I don't suppose they'd want me exactly, but I'd be ready to go
myself. We'd all of us be ready. And we can't have the man that
represents us talking wild, until we've licked these fellows. That's
it in a nutshell.
BANNING. No, no, no! Don't do that! [His accent broader and
broader] You've 'ad your say, and there it is. Coom now! You've
been our Member nine years, in rain and shine.
MORE. There are always excellent reasons for having your way with
the weak.
SHELDER. My dear More, how can you get up any enthusiasm for those
cattle-lifting ruffians?
SHELDER. Well, all we'll ask is that you shouldn't go about the
country, saying so.
MORE. Is it?
BANNING. Ah! no, but we don't want to part with you, Mr. More.
It's a bitter thing, this, after three elections. Look at the 'uman
side of it! To speak ill of your country when there's been a
disaster like this terrible business in the Pass. There's your own
wife. I see her brother's regiment's to start this very afternoon.
Come now--how must she feel?
MORE. I've held my seat with you in all weathers for nine years.
You've all been bricks to me. My heart's in my work, Banning; I'm
not eager to undergo political eclipse at forty.
MORE. Ah, Banning! now we come to it. In your hearts you're none of
you for that--neither by force nor fraud. And yet you all know that
we've gone in there to stay, as we've gone into other lands--as all
we big Powers go into other lands, when they're little and weak. The
Prime Minister's words the other night were these: "If we are forced
to spend this blood and money now, we must never again be forced."
What does that mean but swallowing this country?
SHELDER. Well, and quite frankly, it'd be no bad thing.
MORE. We shall not agree there, Shelder; and we might argue it all
day. But the point is, not whether you or I are right--the point is:
What is a man who holds a faith with all his heart to do? Please
tell me.
[There is a silence.]
MORE. Well! What's the difference out there? I'm not so inhuman as
not to want to see this disaster in the Pass wiped out. But once
that's done, in spite of my affection for you; my ambitions, and
they're not few; [Very low] in spite of my own wife's feeling, I
must be free to raise my voice against this war.
WACE. No--surely.
BANNING. Well! well! We must take you as you are; but it's a rare
pity; there'll be a lot of trouble----
His eyes light on Honk who is leaning forward with hand raised
to his ear, listening. Very faint, from far in the distance,
there is heard a skirling sound. All become conscious of it,
all listen.
HOME. [Suddenly] Bagpipes!
The figure of OLIVE flies past the window, out on the terrace.
KATHERINE turns, as if to follow her.
SHELDER. Highlanders!
[Slowly the music dies away in the distance to a drum-tap and the
tramp of a company. MORE stops at the table, covering his eyes
with his hands.]
[The DEPUTATION troop back across the terrace, and come in at the
French windows. Their faces and manners have quite changed.
KATHERINE follows them as far as the window.]
BANNING. Can you hear that go by, man--when your country's just been
struck?
Then, sharp and clear above all other sounds, the words: "Give
the beggars hell, boys!" "Wipe your feet on their dirty
country!" "Don't leave 'em a gory acre!" And a burst of hoarse
cheering.
KATHERINE. Oh!
[MORE bows.]
HOME. Good riddance! [Venomously--his eyes darting between MORE and
KATHERINE] Go and stump the country! Find out what they think of
you! You'll pardon me!
One by one, without a word, only BANNING looking back, they pass
out into the hall. MORE sits down at the table before the pile
of newspapers. KATHERINE, in the window, never moves. OLIVE
comes along the terrace to her mother.
OLIVE. They were nice ones! Such a lot of dirty people following,
and some quite clean, Mummy. [Conscious from her mother's face that
something is very wrong, she looks at her father, and then steals up
to his side] Uncle Hubert's gone, Daddy; and Auntie Helen's crying.
And--look at Mummy!
She rubs her cheek against his. Feeling that he does not rub
his cheek against hers, OLIVE stands away, and looks from him to
her mother in wonder.
ACT III
SCENE I
DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen.
Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.
STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates]
We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More
half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen
you for six weeks.
They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e
is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.
STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again,
anyway!
A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement;
loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in
the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round
the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the
bottom step, turns and eyes them.
A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young?
TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
traitor!
MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want?
A VOICE. Speech.
ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver.
You can see it in his face.
TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open?
MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a
word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting
them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
left to yourselves.
COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.
[A spurt of laughter.]
THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or
we'll make you! Go on!
A VOICE. No!
A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!
MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
his coat] Well, Steel!
SCENE II
But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
her nightgown.
OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's
hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night.
KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.
KATHERINE. Yes.
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a
wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!
KATHERINE. Very.
OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.
KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
and hoot.
KATHERINE. To both.
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always
call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it?
"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few
hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?
KATHERINE. Yes.
KATHERINE. Yes.
She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a
slow tear away from her cheek.
NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine,
while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.
NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
that it'll cost him, to go against the country.
NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for
you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been
these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my
three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said
--with you in the camp of his enemies?
NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off!
I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must!
She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.
KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is
opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?"
KATHERINE. No.
HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You
brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there,
he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got
black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things!
KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must
have been looking at the mist.
HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen.
Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
coming.
She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have
passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans
out. MORE comes in.
MORE. Kit!
He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long
at her.
MORE. At last!
MORE. Why!
KATHERINE. You begin again the day after tomorrow. Was it worth
while?
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your
meetings.
MORE. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This is what
travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water.
[KATHERINE nods.]
MORE. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't want to make things
worse for you. I'll go away.
She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her,
he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the
brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words.
MORE. Never look forward. After the time I've had--I thought--
tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and
everything!
MORE. Kit!
MORE. My darling!
MORE. God!
KATHERINE. Stephen!
ACT IV
STEEL. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall have trouble.
But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the
hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and
an audience will collect in any case."
[MORE nods.]
STEEL. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants
have all given notice--except Henry.
STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is.
STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it.
STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
MORE. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the papers. As STEEL
still draws back, he says more sharply] Give them to me, Steel!
[STEEL hands them over] Now, that ends it, d'you see?
They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset,
turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with
a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is
closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr.
Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE
turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
MORE. What?
MORE. Yes!
MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting
human nature.
MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct--they don't. All they know
is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call
country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it
blind.
MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still
your advice, is it?
MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you
speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my
dear fellow, don't stay here!
MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And--I want comfort.
NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart?
NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come
first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father
fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter
thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by
the boys in the street.
KATHERINE. Nurse!
KATHERINE. At last!
The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN,
after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
stares dumbly at the floor.
KATHERINE. Killed?
They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his
head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
KATHERINE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them.
Stephen back?
[She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and
in a few seconds MORE comes in.]
MORE. Hubert!
MORE. Chose!
MORE. Yes!
SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride
has got into you, Stephen?
MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private
fighting out there? Not for a minute.
MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and
child?
MORE. So do I.
SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation--
the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? I've
known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me!
To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I
were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the
sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred
to without contempt----
SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand.
MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your
battles are fool's play to it.
The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder.
SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your
unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [MORE shakes his
head] That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's
gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was
her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think
what that means to her! Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever
you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the
thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and--
traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What
earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone.
MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's
in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am
I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds
who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as
their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope--
did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come
through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are
following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred--
not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
SIR JOHN. [After a long stare] I give you credit for believing what
you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too
old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's
love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks
and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of
your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much
the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection--
alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter
ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity
you. Good-night!
He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left
standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is
growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his
consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then
rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the
lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a
black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without
looking up.
KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house
being set on fire.
MORE. I see.
KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. [MORE winces]
I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
MORE. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] Good! You
prefer that to an hotel? [KATHERINE nods. Gently] Will you let me
say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's----
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far!
KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so
unheroic as myself!
KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't
love! Let me go!
MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I
won't drag you down.
MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting
for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah!
Kit! Do see!
MORE. [Icily] That I shall not do--you know very well. You are
free to go, and to take her.
KATHERINE. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she turns to him, and
draws his eyes on her. Without a sound, she puts her whole strength
into that look] Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me!
The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be
heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds
of joy.
KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again
looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents
of her emotions.
She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts
forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the
doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round
white cap.
OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of
people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house
on fire? [MORE nods] May I stay a little, too? [MORE shakes his
head] Why?
OLIVE. Oo-o!
MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full
realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window,
craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the
sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its
horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the
window.
In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows
fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the
terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of
revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some
wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such
ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the
first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music
of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
stand gaping up at him.
MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that
governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you
can do what you like to this body of mine.
MORE. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a word to say.
MORE. You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. When
you walk the street--God goes in.
MORE. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you.
You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak.
Put up with the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the
thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This
to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain--you have none. Spirit--not the
ghost of it! If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If
you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing
fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of
our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither!
CHIEF STUDENT. [Checking a dangerous rush] Hold on! Hold on! [To
MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear
it!
A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the
crowd and shakes her fist at him.
GIRL. You're friends with them that killed my lad! [MORE smiles
down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy
Scout beside her] Smile, you--cur!
The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift
his arms and head, but they fall like lead. Desperately they
test him for life.
Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. Some one
turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts
away. The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese
lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor devil! He kept his end up
anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little
abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast. Then he,
too, turns, and rushes out.
And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee
noises in the street continue to rise.
AFTERMATH
ERECTED
To the Memory
of
STEPHEN MORE
"Faithful to his ideal"
High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint
smile. On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have
perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and
singing of birds.
The End
Contents:
MICHAEL STRANGWAY
BEATRICE STRANGWAY
MRS. BRADMERE
JIM BERE
JACK CREMER
MRS. BURLACOMBE
BURLACOMBE
TRUSTAFORD
JARLAND
CLYST
FREMAN
GODLEIGH
SOL POTTER
MORSE, AND OTHERS
IVY BURLACOMBE
CONNIE TRUSTAFORD
GLADYS FREMAN
MERCY JARLAND
TIBBY JARLAND
BOBBIE JARLAND
ACT I
IVY. [From the seat] I picked these for yu, Mr. Strangway.
STRANGWAY. [Turning with a start] Ah! Ivy. Thank you. [He puts
his flute down on a chair against the far wall] Where are the
others?
STRANGWAY. Now, yesterday I was telling you what our Lord's coming
meant to the world. I want you to understand that before He came
there wasn't really love, as we know it. I don't mean to say that
there weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for the sake of
loving. D'you think you understand what I mean?
STRANGWAY. That's what the first Christians called the people who
lived in the villages and were not yet Christians, Gladys.
MERCY. We live in a village, but we're Christians.
STRANGWAY. Ivy?
STRANGWAY. Yes?--Connie?
GLADYS. He don't drink, an' he don't beat his horses, an' he don't
hit back.
IVY. I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, 'cause I asked her
once, before she went away.
STRANGWAY. Ah!
STRANGWAY. Ah! But St. Francis was a Christian, and Orpheus was a
Pagan.
IVY. Oh!
IVY. The flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear music; they du.
GLADYS. 'Tis awful common down by the streams. We've got one medder
where 'tis so thick almost as the goldie cups.
STRANGWAY. What!
MERCY. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. Bobbie caught
it.
STRANGWAY. God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass. And
you put it in that! Never cage any wild thing! Never!
STRANGWAY. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage
and opens it] Off you go, poor thing!
[The bird flies out and away. The girls watch with round eyes
the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.]
[MERCY kicks her viciously and sobs. STRANGWAY comes from the
door, looks at MERCY sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The
girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and
disapproval.]
[He goes up to MERCY, and holds out his hand. She does not take
it, and runs out knuckling her eyes. STRANGWAY turns on his
heel and goes into the house.]
IVY. The bird sang--I 'eard it! Right up in the sky. It wouldn't
have sanged if it weren't glad.
CONNIE. She's--never!
CONNIE. Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin' to France for the
winter because her mother was ill.
GLADYS. 'Tisn't, winter now--Ascension Day. I saw her cumin' out o'
Dr. Desert's house. I know 'twas her because she had on a blue dress
an' a proud luke. Mother says the doctor come over here tu often
before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore Christmas. They was old
sweethearts before she married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] 'Twas yure
mother told mother that.
CONNIE. Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an' the old Rector knew about
the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave Mr. Strangway 'ere for curate any
longer; because mother says it takes more'n a year for a gude wife to
leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. But 'tisn't no business of
ours, father says.
[There enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round
grey eye and very red cheeks.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his ink, or we'll never
'eve no sermon to-night. He'm in his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a
bit o' yuse 'im thinkin' without 'is ink. [She hands her daughter an
inkpot and blotting-pad. Ivy Takes them and goes out] What ever's
this? [She picks up the little bird-cage.]
GLADYS. 'Tis Mercy Jarland's. Mr. Strangway let her skylark go.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! Did 'e now? Serve 'er right, bringin' an
'eathen bird to confirmation class.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Yes, yu just be off, an' think on what yu've been
told in class, an' be'ave like Christians, that's gude maids. An'
don't yu come no more in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in
my barn, naighther, till after yu'm confirmed--'tisn't right. I've
told Ivy I won't 'ave it.
[She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens,
and begins tidying the room. There comes a wandering figure to
the open window. It is that of a man of about thirty-five, of
feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a
stick. His dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has
gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man. Now it is
slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem
always to be asking something to which there is no answer.]
JIM. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I want to tell 'un
about my cat.
[His face loses its smile.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Why! what's she been duin' then? Mr. Strangway's
busy. Won't I du?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Dearie me! Aw! she'm not lost. Cats be like
maids; they must get out a bit.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Aw! but that's not all. When I tuk it up there
come out a whole flutter o' little bits o' paper wi' little rhymes on
'em, same as I see yu writin'. Aw! my gudeness! I says to meself,
Mr. Strangway widn' want no one seein' them.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. But I'll goo over an' get the buke for yu.
'T won't take me 'alf a minit.
[She goes out on to the green. JIM BERE has come in.]
STRANGWAY. Lost?
JIM. Day before yesterday. She'm not come back. They've shot 'er,
I think; or she'm caught in one o' they rabbit-traps.
STRANGWAY. Oh! no; my dear fellow, she'll come back. I'll speak to
Sir Herbert's keepers.
STRANGWAY. Well, dear Jim, I'll do my very best. And any time
you're lonely, come up, and I'll play the flute to you.
JIM. She'm always tellin' me I'm lukin' better. I'm not better,
zurr.
JIM. I don't think it is. 'Tis laziness, an' 'avin' 'er own way.
She'm very fond of 'er own way.
[JIM BERE shakes his head. MRS. BRADMERE. Oh! yes, you are.
Getting on splendidly. And now, I just want to speak to Mr.
Strangway.]
[JIM BERE touches his forelock, and slowly, leaning on his
stick, goes out.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Waiting for the door to close] You know how that
came on him? Caught the girl he was engaged to, one night, with
another man, the rage broke something here. [She touches her
forehead] Four years ago.
MRS. BRADMERE. By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer--is she any better?
MRS. BRADMERE. [With gruff sympathy] Um! Yes. They know how to
die! [Wide another sharp look at him] D'you expect your wife soon?
[He goes into the house. The two women graze after him. Then,
at once, as it were, draw into themselves, as if preparing for
an encounter, and yet seem to expand as if losing the need for
restraint.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Abruptly] He misses his wife very much, I'm afraid.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Ah! Don't he? Poor dear man; he keeps a terrible
tight 'and over 'imself, but 'tis suthin' cruel the way he walks
about at night. He'm just like a cow when its calf's weaned. 'T'as
gone to me 'eart truly to see 'im these months past. T'other day
when I went up to du his rume, I yeard a noise like this [she
sniffs]; an' ther' 'e was at the wardrobe, snuffin' at 'er things. I
did never think a man cud care for a woman so much as that.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tis funny rest an' 'e comin' 'ere for quiet after
that tearin' great London parish! 'E'm terrible absent-minded tu
--don't take no interest in 'is fude. Yesterday, goin' on for one
o'clock, 'e says to me, "I expect 'tis nearly breakfast-time, Mrs.
Burlacombe!" 'E'd 'ad it twice already!
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Zurely! I give 'im a nummit afore 'e gets up; an'
'e 'as 'is brekjus reg'lar at nine. Must feed un up. He'm on 'is
feet all day, gain' to zee folk that widden want to zee an angel,
they're that busy; an' when 'e comes in 'e'll play 'is flute there.
Hem wastin' away for want of 'is wife. That's what 'tis. An' 'im so
sweet-spoken, tu, 'tes a pleasure to year 'im--Never says a word!
MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, that's the kind of man who gets treated badly.
I'm afraid she's not worthy of him, Mrs. Burlacombe.
MRS. BRADMERE Too pleasant. What's this story about her being seen
in Durford?
MRS. BRADMERE. [Drily] Of course not! But you see the Rector
wishes to know.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. There's puzzivantin' folk as'll set an' gossip the
feathers off an angel. But I du never listen.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. Well, they du say as how Dr. Desart over to Durford
and Mrs. Strangway was sweethearts afore she wer' married.
MRS. BRADMERE. I knew that. Who was it saw her coming out of Dr.
Desart's house yesterday?
MRS. BRADMERE [To herself] I never lied her. That Riviera excuse,
Mrs. Burlacombe--Very convenient things, sick mothers. Mr.
Strangway doesn't know?
MRS. BURLACOMBE. The Lord forbid! 'Twid send un crazy, I think.
For all he'm so moony an' gentlelike, I think he'm a terrible
passionate man inside. He've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but
'tes only 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'.
MRS. BRADMERE. I shall go and see Mrs. Freman. There's been too
much of this gossip all the winter.
MRS. BRADMERE. Ah! I'm afraid Mr. Strangway's not too discreet when
his feelings are touched.
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'E've a-got an 'eart so big as the full mune. But
'tes no yuse espectin' tu much o' this world. 'Tes a funny place,
after that.
MRS. BRADMERE. Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I shall give some of these
good people a rare rap over the knuckles for their want of charity.
For all they look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, they're
an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at Mrs. BURLACOMBE]
It's lucky we've some hold over the village. I'm not going to have
scandal. I shall speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will
take steps.
MRS. BRADMERE. Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you want here? Always
sucking something, aren't you?
MERCY. What! Haven't you found it, Tibby? Get along with 'ee,
then!
[She accelerates the stolid Tissy's departure with a smack,
searches under the seat, finds and picks up the deserted
sixpence. Then very quickly she goes to the door: But it is
opened before she reaches it, and, finding herself caught, she
slips behind the chintz window-curtain. A woman has entered,
who is clearly the original of the large photograph. She is not
strictly pretty, but there is charm in her pale, resolute face,
with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and greenish eyes, whose
lids, square above them, have short, dark lashes. She is
dressed in blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under a cap and
motor-veil. She comes in swiftly, and closes the door behind
her; becomes irresolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves towards
the door into the house. MERCY slips from behind her curtain to
make off, but at that moment the door into the house is opened,
and she has at once to slip back again into covert. It is Ivy
who has appeared.]
BEATRICE. Well, Ivy--you've grown! You didn't expect me, did you?
BEATRICE. [Going a little closer, and never taking her eyes off the
child] Yes. Now, Ivy; will you do something for me?
STRANGWAY. Thank God! [He stops at the look on her face] I don't
understand, though. I thought you were still out there.
BEATRICE. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her foot on it]
No.
STRANGWAY: You're staying? Oh! Beatrice; come! We'll get away from
here at once--as far, as far--anywhere you like. Oh! my darling
--only come! If you knew----
STRANGWAY. Not! Then, why--? Beatrice! You said, when you were
right away--I've waited----
BEATRICE. When you let me go out there with mother I thought--I did
think I would be able; and I had begun--and then--spring came!
STRANGWAY. My God!
BEATRICE. To know what you're going to do. Are you going to divorce
me? We're in your power. Don't divorce me--Doctor and patient--you
must know--it ruins him. He'll lose everything. He'd be
disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his work.
BEATRICE. [Recovering her pride] What are you going to do, then?
Keep us apart by the threat of a divorce? Starve us and prison us?
Cage me up here with you? I'm not brute enough to ruin him.
STRANGWAY. Heaven!
STRANGWAY. Were you lying to me, then? Kissing me, and--hating me?
BEATRICE. One doesn't hate men like you; but it wasn't love.
BEATRICE. Yes. That was the worst thing I've ever done.
STRANGWAY. Did he try to get you away from me? [BEATRICE gives him
a swift look] Tell me the truth!
STRANGWAY. Never loved me? Never loved me? That night at Tregaron?
[At the look on her face] You might have told me before you went
away! Why keep me all these----
STRANGWAY. Then it was I--my kisses that----! [He laughs] How did
you stand them? [His eyes dart at her face] Imagination helped you,
perhaps!
[He stays quite still and silent, and that which is writhing in
him makes his face so strange that BEATRICE stands aghast. At
last she goes stumbling on in speech]
STRANGWAY. You'd come back to me sooner than ruin him? Would you?
[She passes him with her head down, and goes out quickly.
STRANGWAY stands unconsciously tearing at the little bird-cage.
And while he tears at it he utters a moaning sound. The
terrified MERCY, peering from behind the curtain, and watching
her chance, slips to the still open door; but in her haste and
fright she knocks against it, and STRANGWAY sees her. Before he
can stop her she has fled out on to the green and away.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. [Doubtfully] I'll send 'im in, then. [She goes.
When she is gone, Strangway passes his handkerchief across his
forehead, and his lips move fast. He is standing motionless when
CREMER, a big man in labourer's clothes, with a thick, broad face,
and tragic, faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little in from the
closed door, quite dumb.]
STRANGWAY. She didn't. Your wife was a brave woman. A dear woman.
CREMER. I never thought to luse 'er. She never told me 'ow bad she
was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 'Tis a dreadful thing to luse a wife,
zurr.
STRANGWAY. [Tightening his lips, that tremble] Yes. But don't give
way! Bear up, Jack!
CREMER. Seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' the sun shinin' so
warm. I picked up an 'orse-shu yesterday. I can't never 'ave 'er
back, zurr.
STRANGWAY. Some day you'll join her. Think! Some lose their wives
for ever.
CREMER. She wer' a gude wife to me--no man didn't 'ave no better
wife.
CREMER. [To whom the strangeness of these words has given some
relief] No, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'Tes no gude, I expect. Only,
I'll miss 'er. Thank 'ee, zurr; kindly.
[He lifts his hand to his head, turns, and uncertainly goes out
to the kitchen. And STRANGWAY stays where he is, not knowing
what to do. They blindly he takes up his flute, and hatless,
hurries out into the air.]
ACT II
SCENE I
About seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. The bar,
with the appurtenances thereof, stretches across one end, and
opposite is the porch door on to the green. The wall between is
nearly all window, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement
whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. A narrow bench runs
under this broad window. And this is all the furniture, save
three spittoons:
GODLEIGH. Well, TIBBY JARLAND, what've yu come for, then? Glass o'
beer?
[TIBBY takes the shilling from her mouth and smiles stolidly.]
GODLEIGH. [Twinkling] I shid zay glass o' 'arf an' 'arf's about
yure form. [TIBBY smiles more broadly] Yu'm a praaper masterpiece.
Well! 'Ave sister Mercy borrowed yure tongue? [TIBBY shakes her
head] Aw, she 'aven't. Well, maid?
GODLEIGH. 'E du, du 'ee? Yu tell yure father 'e can't 'ave more'n
one, not this avenin'. And 'ere 'tis. Hand up yure shillin'.
MRS. BRADMERE. Gracious, child! What are you doing here? And what
have you got in your mouth? Who is it? Tibby Jarland? [TIBBY
curtsies again] Take that thing out. And tell your father from me
that if I ever see you at the inn again I shall tread on his toes
hard. Godleigh, you know the law about children?
GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye, and not at all abashed] Surely, m'm.
But she will come. Go away, my dear.
[TIBBY, never taking her eyes off MRS. BRADMERE, or the pipe
from her mouth, has backed stolidly to the door, and vanished.]
MRS. BRADMERE. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well! You've
given me your views. Now for mine. There's a piece of scandal going
about that's got to be stopped, Godleigh. You turn the tap of it off
here, or we'll turn your tap off. You know me. See?
GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin' how to du it, m'm.
'Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the
women's tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I'm
told.
MRS. BRADMERE. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say,
because I mean it.
[MRS. BRADMERE gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly
grave, nods her head with approval.]
TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new,
on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little
whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh]
'Er's lukin' awful wise!
TRUSTAFORD. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o' whisky,
an' potash.
GODLEIGH. Nuse? There's never no nuse in this 'ouse. Aw, no! Not
wi' my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.
TRUSTAFORD. Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To
BURLACOMBE] 'Tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin'
motorin' this mornin'. Passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a
veil, goggles an' all. Haw, haw!
BURLACOMBE. Aye!
TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor
old curate much of a chance, after six months.
GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr.
Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it--there's not a cat don't know
it already!
GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me!
FREMAN. Avenin'!
FREMAN. Drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. There's blood in the
sky to-night.
BURLACOMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the
mune.
FREMAN. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, I reckon. 'Earl t'
nuse about curate an' 'is wife?
GODLEIGH. No, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. We'm Christians 'ere in
this village.
FREMAN. 'Tain't no very Christian nuse, neither. He's sent 'er off
to th' doctor. "Go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye."
If 'er'd a-been mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tam Jarland's
maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed! That's brave
Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er.
BURLACOMBE. No, no; that's, not sense--a man to say that. I'll not
'ear that against a man that bides in my 'ouse.
FREMAN. 'Tes sure, I tell 'ee. The maid was hid-up, scared-like,
behind the curtain. At it they went, and parson 'e says: "Go," 'e
says, "I won't kape 'ee from 'im," 'e says, "an' I won't divorce 'ee,
as yu don't wish it!" They was 'is words, same as Jarland's maid
told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. If that's parson's talk,
'tes funny work goin' to church.
TRUSTAFORD. [Brooding] 'Tes wonderful quare, zurely.
FREMAN. Tam Jarland's fair mad wi' curate for makin' free wi' his
maid's skylark. Parson or no parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi'
other people's praperty. He cam' pokin' 'is nose into my affairs. I
told un I knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e ever would!
[They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the
entrance of CLYST, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright,
quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in
his hand.]
[He chuckles.]
GODLEIGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on
yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. Yu go up to Rectory where
'twill be more relished-like.
CLYST. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr.
Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful
readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr.
Godleigh.
[All nod, and speak to him kindly. And JIM BERE smiles at them,
and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no
answer. And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they
talk as if he were not there.]
GODLEIGH. [Drawing him some cider] Yu're all wild cat's talk, Tim;
yu've a-got no tale at all.
CLYST. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade!
CLYST. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, an' drawed the
bastes after un wi' his music, same as curate was tellin' the maids.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Yu did never zee a man wi' a bird on 'is 'ead.
CLYST. Didn' I?
GODLEIGH. [Bending over the cider] Yu've a-- 'ad tu much already,
Tim.
CLYST. [Pointing to JARLAND] 'Tis Tam Jarland there 'as the cargo
aboard.
JARLAND. Avenin', all! [To GODLEIGH] Pinto' beer. [To JIM BERE]
Avenin', Jim.
CLYST. Ah! Yu wait a bit. When I come back down t'lane again,
Orphus 'e was vanished away; there was naught in the field but the
ponies, an' a praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee
somethin' white in the beak o' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," an'
'e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank an' picks un up,
and here't be.
[He begins reading with mock heroism, in his soft, high, burring
voice. Thus, in his rustic accent, go the lines]
JARLAND. [In a dull, threatening voice] 'E 'ad my maid's bird, this
arternune. 'Ead or no, and parson or no, I'll gie 'im one for that.
TRUSTAFORD. I'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo bird 'e 'ad on 'is
'ead. Haw, haw!
GODLEIGH. Would ye 'ave it the old Rector then? Wi' 'is gouty shoe?
Rackon the maids wid rather 'twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe?
JARLAND. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I'll be even wi' un.
FREMAN. [Excitedly] Tell 'ee one thing--'tes not a proper man o'
God to 'ave about, wi' 'is luse goin's on. Out vrom 'ere he oughter
go.
TRUSTAFORD. [Scratching his head] If an' in case 'e can't kape 'er,
'tes a funny way o' duin' things not to divorce 'er, after that. If
a parson's not to du the Christian thing, whu is, then?
BURLACOMBE. 'Tes all very airy talkin'; what shude 'e du, then?
CLYST. 'E can't take 'er ef 'er don' want t' come--I've 'eard
lawyer, that lodged wi' us, say that.
FREMAN. All right then, 'e ought to 'ave the law of 'er and 'er
doctor; an' zee 'er goin's on don't prosper; 'e'd get damages, tu.
But this way 'tes a nice example he'm settin' folks. Parson indade!
My missis an' the maids they won't goo near the church to-night, an'
I wager no one else won't, neither.
[He saws the air with his empty. The others have all turned to
him, drawn by the fascination that a man in liquor has for his
fellow-men. The bell for church has begun to rang, the sun is
down, and it is getting dusk.]
He wants one on his crop, an' one in 'is belly; 'e wants a man to
take an' gie un a gude hidin zame as he oughter give 'is fly-be-night
of a wife.
Zame as a man wid ha' gi'en the doctor, for takin' what isn't his'n.
JARLAND. [Shaking him off] Zee, 'e darsen't touch me; I might 'it
un in the vase an' 'e darsen't; 'e's afraid--like 'e was o' the
doctor.
JARLAND. [Shaking his fist almost in his face] Luke at un, Luke at
un! A man wi' a slut for a wife----
FREMAN. 'Twas a brave throw, zurely. Whu wid a' thought it?
CLYST. Tam's crawlin' out. [Leaning through window] Hello, Tam--
'ow's t' base, old man?
CLYST. Can yu zee curate? Reckon 'e'm gone into church. Aw, yes;
gettin' a bit dimsy-service time. [A moment's hush.]
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
FREMAN. That's right, Sot Potter. I purpose Mr. Sot Potter into the
chair. Whu seconds that?
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes not a bit o' yuse; us can't 'ave no meetin' without
a chairman.
[He goes out. One of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door and
fills the apace left on the bench by BURLACOMBE'S departure.]
JARLAND. Darn all this puzzivantin'! [To SOL POTTER] Got an' zet
in that chair.
[He gets up from the chair, and wiping the sweat from his brow,
goes back to his seat.]
TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes no yuse yure risin', not the least bit in the
world, till there's some one to set yu down again. Haw, haw!
FREMAN. What I zay is the chairman ought never to 'ave vacated the
chair till I'd risen on my point of order. I purpose that he goo and
zet down again.
[SOL POTTER, still wiping his brow, goes back to the chair.]
JARLAND. Now then, there 'e is in the chair. What's yore point of
order?
FREMAN. [Darting his eyes here and there, and flinging his hand up
to his gipsy-like head] 'Twas--'twas--Darned ef y' 'aven't putt it
clean out o' my 'ead.
JARLAND. We can't wait for yore points of order. Come out o' that
chair. Sol Potter.
SOL POTTER. 'Twas only to putt down that I was elected chairman to
elect a meetin' to elect a chairman to preside over a meetin' to pass
a resolution dalin' wi' the curate. That's aisy set down, that is.
FREMAN. [Mollified] We'll 'ave that zet down, then, while we're
electin' the chairman o' the next meetin'.
[A silence. ]
TRUSTAFORD. Well then, seein' this is the praaper old meetin' for
carryin' the resolution about the curate, I purpose Mr. Sol Potter
take the chair.
SOL POTTER. [Scratching his, head] 'Tes a very nice point, for
zure.
MORSE. Yes, 'e is--'e's chairman till this second old meetin' gets
on the go.
MORSE. [Slowly] Tell 'ee what 'tis, us shan't du no gude like this.
[Silence of consternation.]
TIBBY. [In her stolid voice] Please, sister Mercy says, curate 'ave
got to "Lastly." [JARLAND picks her up, and there is silence.] An'
please to come quick.
MORSE. [Slowest, save for SOL POTTER] 'Tes rare lucky us was all
agreed to hiss the curate afore us began the botherin' old meetin',
or us widn' 'ardly 'ave 'ad time to settle what to du.
SOL POTTER. [Scratching his head] Aye, 'tes rare lucky; but I dunno
if 'tes altogether reg'lar.
CURTAIN.
SCENE III
The village green before the churchyard and the yew-trees at the
gate. Into the pitch dark under the yews, light comes out
through the half-open church door. Figures are lurking, or
moving stealthily--people waiting and listening to the sound of
a voice speaking in the church words that are inaudible.
Excited whispering and faint giggles come from the deepest
yew-tree shade, made ghostly by the white faces and the frocks of
young girls continually flitting up and back in the blackness. A
girl's figure comes flying out from the porch, down the path of
light, and joins the stealthy group.
VOICE OF GLADYS. Ivy's there, an' Old Mrs. Potter, an' tu o' the
maids from th'Hall; that's all as ever.
VOICE of GLADYS. No. She ain't ther'. 'Twill just be th'ymn now,
an' the Blessin'. Tibby gone for 'em?
[She jumps up and dawn in the darkness. And a voice from far in
the shadow says: "Hsssh! Quiet, yu maids!" The voice has
ceased speaking in the church. There is a moment's dead
silence. The voice speaks again; then from the wheezy little
organ come the first faint chords of a hymn.]
[The sound of the old hymn sung by just six voices comes out to
them rather sweet and clear.]
GLADYS. [Softly] 'Tis pretty, tu. Why! They're only singin' one
verse!
[Ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is lost in the
shadow.]
STRANGWAY. What I did to Tam Jarland is not the real cause of what
you're doing, is it? I understand. But don't be troubled. It's all
over. I'm going--you'll get some one better. Forgive me, Jarland.
I can't see your face--it's very dark.
CURTAIN.
ACT III
SCENE I
MRS. BURLACOMBE. 'Tes the mischief 'e'm a parson. 'Tes 'im bein' a
lamb o' God--or 'twidden be so quare for 'im to be forgivin'.
[He turns and after a slow look back at STRANGWAY goes out.]
IVY. Oh! Mr. Strangway, Mrs. Bradmere's cumin' from the Rectory. I
ran an' told 'em. Oh! 'twas awful.
VOICE of GLADYS. "Naughty maid, she won't come out," Ah! du 'ee!
VOICE OF CREMER. Tim Clyst an' Bobbie's cumin'; us'll only be six
anyway. Us can't dance "figure of eight" without yu.
GLADYS. [Running in] Quick, Ivy! Here's the old grey mare cumin'
down the green. Quick.
[Noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill she moves across
to ring the bell. But as she does so, MRS. BURLACOMBE, followed
by BURLACOMBE, comes in from the house.]
MRS. BURLACOMBE. I doubt bed's the best place for 'un, an' gude 'ot
drink. Burlacombe zays he'm like a man standin' on the edge of a
cliff; and the lasts tipsy o' wind might throw un over.
BURLACOMBE. Yeas; an' I don't like the luke of un--not a little bit,
I don't.
MRS. BRADMERE. My goodness! Yes! The men are all up at the inn.
Go and tell them what I said--it's not to get about. Go at once,
Burlacombe.
STRANGWAY. You were very good to come; but I would rather not.
STRANGWAY. [Taking the church key from the window.] Take this,
please.
MRS. BRADMERE. No, no, no! Jarland deserved all he got. You had
great provocation.
STRANGWAY. It's not Jarland. [Holding out the key] Please take it
to the Rector. I beg his forgiveness. [Touching his breast]
There's too much I can't speak of--can't make plain. Take it to him,
please.
MRS. BRADMERE. But think what you've done, Mr. Strangway! If you
can't take your wife back, surely you must divorce her. You can
never help her to go on like this in secret sin.
MRS. BRADMERE. They told me----Yes, and I can see you're is a bad
way. Come, pull yourself together! You can't defend what you're
doing.
Live it down, man! You can't desert your post--and let these
villagers do what they like with us? Do you realize that you're
letting a woman, who has treated you abominably;--yes, abominably
--go scot-free, to live comfortably with another man? What an
example!
STRANGWAY. [Smiling] One of these days the flowers will grow out of
me; and I shall sleep.
MRS. BRADMERE. And you mean to let all this go on----Your wife----
MRS. BRADMERE. Men like you have been buried at cross-roads before
now! Take care! God punishes!
[Seeing that the look on his face does not change, she opens the
door, and hurries away into the moonlight.]
[At his slow gait, with his feeble smile, he comes in, and
standing by the window-seat beside the long dark coat that still
lies there, he looks down at STRANGWAY with his lost eyes.]
[STRANGWAY neither moves nor speaks; and JIM BERE goes on with
his unimaginably slow speech]
They'm laughin' at yu, zurr. An' so I come to tell 'ee how to du.
'Twas full mune--when I caught 'em, him an' my girl. I caught 'em.
[With a strange and awful flash of fire] I did; an' I tuk un [He
taken up STRANGWAY'S coat and grips it with his trembling hands, as a
man grips another's neck] like that--I tuk un. As the coat falls,
like a body out of which the breath has been squeezed, STRANGWAY,
rising, catches it.
[He lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his foot on it.
Then, staggering back, he leans against the window.]
JIM. Yu see, I loved 'er--I did. [The lost look comes back to his
eyes] Then somethin'--I dunno--and--and----[He lifts his hand and
passes it up and down his side] Twas like this for ever.
[They gaze at each other in silence.]
JIM. [At last] I come to tell yu. They'm all laughin' at yu. But
yu'm strong--yu go over to Durford to that doctor man, an' take un
like I did. [He tries again to make the sign of squeezing a man's
neck] They can't laugh at yu no more, then. Tha's what I come to
tell yu. Tha's the way for a Christian man to du. Gude naight,
zurr. I come to tell yee.
VOICE OF TRUSTAFORD. Ah! 'Tes a brave mune for th' poor old curate!
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
MERCY. That'll du, Tibby; we're finished. Ate yore apple. [The
stolid TIBBY eats her apple.]
CLYST. Aw! Ah! Yu'll give me kiss for that. [He chases, but cannot
catch that slippery white figure] Can't she glimmer!
CLYST. Us 'as got on vine; us'll get prize for our dancin'.
[A moment's hush.]
CLYST. Twasn't I.
CLYST. 'Twas the praaper old wind in the trees. Did make a brave
noise, zurely.
CLYST. Ya-as; 'tes a pity. He's the best man I ever seen since I
was comin' from my mother. He's a gude man. He'em got a zad face,
sure enough, though.
IVY. Gude folk always 'ave zad faces.
CLYST. I knu a gude man--'e sold pigs--very gude man: 'e 'ad a
budiful bright vase like the mane. [Touching his stomach] I was sad,
meself, once. 'Twas a funny scrabblin'--like feelin'.
CLYST. Aw! Yu see tu praaper old tom cats; they'm not to peaceful,
after that, nor kind naighther.
CLYST. [Following his own thoughts] Ya-as. 'Tes a funny place, tu,
nowadays, judgin' from the papers.
IVY. There's beasts, and flowers, and waters, and 'e told us.
CLYST. Naw! There's no dumb things in 'Eaven. Jim Bere 'e says
there is! 'E thinks 'is old cat's there.
IVY. Yes. [Dreamily] There's stars, an' owls, an' a man playin' on
the flute. Where 'tes gude, there must be music.
CLYST. Old brass band, shuldn' wonder, like th' Salvation Army.
[She marches slowly, playing her imaginary pipe, and one by one
they all fall in behind her, padding round the barn in their
stockinged feet. Passing the big doors, IVY throws them open.]
An' 'tes all like that in 'Eaven.
IVY. [Taking the tambourine] See, Tibby; like this. She hums and
beats gently, then restores the tambourine to the sleepy TIBBY, who,
waking, has placed a piece of apple in her mouth.
IVY. [Illustrating] No; yu just jump, an' clap yore 'ands. Lovely,
lovely!
[TIBBY begins her drowsy beating, IVY hums the tune; they dance,
and their shadows dance again upon the walls. When she has
beaten but a few moments on the tambourine, TIBBY is overcome
once more by sleep and falls back again into her nest of hay,
with her little shoed feet just visible over the edge of the
bench. Ivy catches up the tambourine, and to her beating and
humming the dancers dance on.]
[The sound of his boots on the bare floor has awakened TIBBY
JARLAND. Struggling out of her hay nest she stands staring at
his whitened figure, and bursts suddenly into a wail.]
STRANGWAY. [Taking her up] No, no, my bird, you didn't! It was
me.
TIBBY. [Burying her face against him] I'm frighted. It was a big
one. [She gives tongue again] O-o-oh!
STRANGWAY. See! It's the moonlight made me all white. See! You're
a brave girl now?
STRANGWAY. [Giving her the tambourine, and carrying her back into
the' track of moonlight] Now we're both ghosties! Isn't it funny?
STRANGWAY. A face.
TIBBY. Oh! [Putting the shilling in her mouth] Mune's still there!
STRANGWAY. Come along, Tibby! [He carries her to the big doors, and
sets her down] See! All asleep! The birds, and the fields, and the
moon!
[From the barn roof a little white dove's feather comes floating
down in the wind. TIBBY follows it with her hand, catches it,
and holds it up to him.]
STRANGWAY. [Taking the feather] Thank you, Tibby! I want that bit
o' love. [Very faint, comes the sound of music] Listen!
TIBBY. It's Miss Willis, playin' on the pianny!
[TIBBY starts off, turns back and lifts her face. He bends to
kiss her, and flinging her arms round his neck, she gives him a
good hug. Then, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, she runs.]
CREMER. Jack Cremer. [The big man's figure appears out of the
shadow of the barn] That yu, zurr?
[With his heavy tread CREMER passes on. And STRANGWAY leans
against the lintel of the door, looking at the moon, that, quite
full and golden, hangs not far above the straight horizon, where
the trees stand small, in a row.]
[He moves away, following JACK CREMER. The full moon shines;
the owl hoots; and some one is shaking TIBBY'S tambourine.]
THE FOUNDATIONS
SCENES
ACT I
JAMES. Miss Anne, stand clear o' that bin. You'll put your foot
through one o' those 'ock bottles.
L. ANNE. Who gave you those names? Not your godfathers and
godmothers?
L. ANNE. Do you like my name? Anne Dromondy? It's old, you know.
But it's funny, isn't it?
JAMES. Thirty-four.
L. ANNE. Are they all for the dinner, or for the people who come in
to the Anti-Sweating Meeting afterwards?
L. ANNE. All for the dinner? They'll drink too much, won't they?
JAMES. Yes.
JAMES. You might 'arf say so. There's a lot under a woppin' big
house like this; you can't hardly get to the bottom of it.
JAMES. I've seen a lot bigger messes than this'd make, out in the
war.
L. ANNE. Oh! but that's years ago! Was it like this in the
trenches, James?
JAMES. [Grimly] Ah! 'Cept that you couldn't lay your 'and on a
bottle o' port when you wanted one.
L. ANNE. He never says that he always says he'd have done anything
for you!
JAMES. [Wisely] Ah! A lot o' people thought when the war was over
there'd be no more o' that. [He sniggers] Used to amuse me to read
in the papers about the wonderful unity that was comin'. I could ha'
told 'em different.
JAMES. Yes.
JAMES. 'Tisn't so much the bein' virtuous, as the lookin' it, that's
awful.
L. Ate. Oh! And look! [She paints to a rounded metal object lying
in the bin, close to where the taper was] It's a bomb!
She is about to pick it up when JAMES takes her by the waist and puts
her aside.
JAMES. [Sternly] You stand back, there! I don't like the look o'
that!
JAMES. No. Clear off and get him, and don't you come back.
[Gazing at the object] Near go! Thought I'd seen enough o'them
to last my time. That little gas blighter! He looked a rum 'un,
too--one o' these 'ere Bolshies.
[In the presence of this grim object the habits of the past are
too much for him. He sits on the ground, leaning against one of
the bottle baskets, keeping his eyes on the bomb, his large,
lean, gorgeous body spread, one elbow on his plush knee. Taking
out an empty pipe, he places it mechanically, bowl down, between
his dips. There enter, behind him, as from a communication
trench, POULDER, in swallow-tails, with LITTLE ANNE behind him.]
JAMES. Hallo!
JAMES. Bomb!
POULDER. Miss Anne, off you go, and don't you----
JAMES. You'd have made a first-class Boche, Poulder. Take the bomb
yourself; you're in charge of this section.
PRESS. [In front of POULDER'S round eyes and mouth] Ah, major domo,
I was just taking the names of the Anti-Sweating dinner. [He catches
sight of the bomb in JAMES'S hand] By George! What A.1. irony! [He
brings out a note-book and writes] "Highest class dining to relieve
distress of lowest class-bombed by same!" Tipping! [He rubs his
hands].
[ALL recoil. HENRY puts the cooler down and backs away.]
L. ANNE. [Dancing forward] Oh! Let me see! I missed all the war,
you know!
L. ANNE. The plumber's man about the gas---a little blighter we'd
never seen before.
POULDER. [Barring the way] I've got to lay it all before Lord
William.
PRESS. One to you! But I defy you to keep this from the Press,
major domo: This is the most significant thing that has happened in
our time. Guy Fawkes is nothing to it. The foundations of Society
reeling! By George, it's a second Bethlehem!
[He writes.]
POULDER. [To JAMES] Take up your wine and follow me. 'Enry, bring
the cooler. Miss Anne, precede us. [To THE PRESS] You defy me?
Very well; I'm goin' to lock you up here.
POULDER. [Barring the way] Not so! James, put him up in that empty
'ock bin. We can't have dinner disturbed in any way.
JAMES. That's the one! Git up in that 'ock bin, and mind your feet
among the claret.
JAMES. Then it'll wipe out one by the Press on the Public--an' leave
just a million over! Hup!
MISS S. They told me she was down here. And what is all this about
a bomb?
MISS S. [Catching sight of the legs of THE PRESS] Dear me! What
are those?
PRESS. [Cheerfully] Miss Stokes, would you kindly tell Lord William
I'm here from the Press, and would like to speak to him?
POULDER. I'm bound to keep the Press out of temptation, miss, till
I've laid it all before Lord William. 'Enry, take up the cooler.
James, watch 'im till we get clear, then bring on the rest of the
wine and lock up. Now, Miss.
POULDER. [Looking at his watch] 'Enry, leave the cooler, and take
up the wine; tell Thomas to lay it out; get the champagne into ice,
and 'ave Charles 'andy in the 'all in case some literary bounder
comes punctual.
[THE, PRESS slides off the bin's edge, is received by JAMES, and
not landed gently.]
PRESS. No-o.
POULDER. Ah! [Clears his throat] I've often wanted to ask: What do
they pay you--if it's not indelicate?
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Too much, anyway, to let it drop.
LORD W. [Cheerfully] I say, Poulder, what have you and James been
doing to the Press? Liberty of the Press--it isn't what it was, but
there is a limit. Where is he?
[He turns to Jams between whom and himself there is still the
freemasonry of the trenches.]
LORD W. [With a charming smile] I know. The Press has to put its--
er--to go to the bottom of everything. Where's this bomb, Poulder?
Ah!
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book] Could I have a word with you on
the crisis, before dinner, Lord William?
LORD W. It's time you and James were up, Poulder. [Indicating the
cooler] Look after this; tell Lady William I'll be there in a
minute.
[As THE PRESS turns to look after them, LORD WILLIAM catches
sight of his back.]
PRESS. [Dusting himself] Thanks; it's only behind. [He opens his
note-book] Now, Lord William, if you'd kindly outline your views on
the national situation; after such a narrow escape from death, I feel
they might have a moral effect. My paper, as you know, is concerned
with--the deeper aspect of things. By the way, what do you value
your house and collection at?
PRESS. [Seriously] May I say that you designed the dinner to soften
the tension, at this crisis? You saw that case, I suppose, this
morning, of the woman dying of starvation in Bethnal Green?
LORD W. You see, I've been an Anti-Sweating man for years, and I
thought if only we could come together now . . . .
PRESS. [Nodding] I see--I see! Get Society interested in the
Sweated, through the dinner. I have the menu here. [He produces it.]
LORD W. Good God, man--more than that! I want to show the people
that we stand side by side with them, as we did in the trenches. The
whole thing's too jolly awful. I lie awake over it.
PRESS. [Scribbling] One moment, please. I'll just get that down--
"Too jolly awful--lies awake over it. Was wearing a white waistcoat
with pearl buttons." [At a sign of resentment from his victim.]
I want the human touch, Lord William--it's everything in my paper.
What do you say about this attempt to bomb you?
LORD W. [Overhearing] No, no; don't put that down. What I mean is,
I should like to get hold of those fellows that are singing the
Marseillaise about the streets--fellows that have been in the war--
real sports they are, you know--thorough good chaps at bottom--and
say to them: "Have a feeling heart, boys; put yourself in my
position." I don't believe a bit they'd want to bomb me then.
[He writes.]
[He walks.]
PRESS. [Writing] "Lord William thought dogma had got the knock."
I should like you just to develop your definition of Christianity.
"Loving--kindness" strikes rather a new note.
PRESS. Oh! you can trust me--I shan't say anything that you'll
regret. Now, do you consider that a religious revival would help to
quiet the country?
LORD W. He thinks: "But for the grace of God, there swill I. Why
should that blighter have everything and I nothing?" and all that.
LORD W. Well, you feel a bit blue, of course. But my point is that
you quite see it.
PRESS. From the other world. Do you believe in a future life, Lord
William? The public took a lot of interest in the question, if you
remember, at the time of the war. It might revive at any moment, if
there's to be a revolution.
LORD W. Well, I should say one oughtn't to be kind for any motive--
that's self-interest; but just because one feels it, don't you know.
LORD W. No, really. You have such a d---d hard time. It must be
perfectly beastly to interview fellows like me.
PRESS. Oh! Not at all, Lord William. Not at all. I assure you
compared with a literary man, it's--it's almost heavenly.
LORD W. I don't see how you can avoid it. You turn your hands to
everything.
LORD W. But look here! Would you say that a strong press movement
would help to quiet the country?
PRESS. Well, as you ask me, Lord William, I'll tell you. No
newspapers for a month would do the trick.
LORD W. [Jotting] By Jove! That's brilliant.
PRESS. Yes, but I should starve. [He suddenly looks up, and his
eyes, like gimlets, bore their way into LORD WILLIAM'S pleasant,
troubled face] Lord William, you could do me a real kindness.
Authorise me to go and interview the fellow who left the bomb here;
I've got his address. I promise you to do it most discreetly. Fact
is--well--I'm in low water. Since the war we simply can't get
sensation enough for the new taste. Now, if I could have an article
headed: "Bombed and Bomber"--sort of double interview, you know, it'd
very likely set me on my legs again. [Very earnestly] Look!
[He holds out his frayed wristbands.]
PRESS. Thanks awfully; I shall never forget it. Oh! might I have
my note-book?
PRESS. Oh, thank you! But you see, I shall have to write you up a
bit, Lord William. The old aristocracy--you know what the public
still expects; if you were to lend me money, you might feel----
PRESS. Pity! By the way, has it occurred to you that there may be
another bomb on the premises?
[He looks at his watch, and begins hurriedly searching the bins,
bending down and going on his knees. THE PRESS reverses the
notebook again and sketches him.]
PRESS. [To himself] Ah! That'll do. "Lord William examines the
foundations of his house."
[A voice calls "Bill!" THE PRESS snaps the note-book to, and
looks up. There, where the "communication trench" runs in,
stands a tall and elegant woman in the extreme of evening
dress.]
LADY W. Yes; that's why I came dawn: Who was that person?
LORD W. Press.
LORD W. Out there one used to know what one's men felt.
LORD W. Well! Why should you and I be going to eat ourselves silly
to improve the condition of the sweated, when----
LADY W. Yes, Poulder tried to stop me, but I wasn't going to have
you blown up without me.
They stand about a yard apart, and banding their faces towards each
other, kiss on the lips.
CURTAIN
ACT II
L. AIDA. When I grow up I'm goin' to 'ave a revolver an' shoot the
people that steals my jools.
L. AIDA. An' I'm goin' to ride on as 'orse be'ind a man; an' I'm
goin' to ryce trynes in my motor car.
L. AIDA. [Shaking her head] I can ply the pianner. I can ply a
tune.
MRS. L. The mune? Us used to zay 'twas made o' crame cheese.
L. AIDA. I can see it.
L. AIDA. I daon't.
MRS. L. Well; go yu, then, and get a breath o' fresh air in yore
chakes. I'll sune 'a feneshed.
The door is opened, and LEMMY comes in; a little man with a
stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar
eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of
doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows
on those who have to do with gas and water. He shuts the door.
LEMMY. Well, old lydy o' leisure! Wot would y' 'ave for supper, if
yer could choose--salmon wivaht the tin, an' tipsy cyke?
MRS. L. [Shaking her head and smiling blandly] That's showy. Toad
in the 'ole I'd 'ave--and a glass o' port wine.
LEMMY. Providential. [He opens a tool-bag] Wot dyer think I've got
yer?
MRS. L. Ah! She was a praaper gude queen. I see 'er once, when 'er
was bein' burried.
LEMMY. Ryalties--I got nothin' to sy agynst 'em in this country.
But the STYTE 'as got to 'ave its pipes seen to. The 'ole show's
goin' up pop. Yer'll wyke up one o' these dyes, old lydy, and find
yerself on the roof, wiv nuffin' between yer an' the grahnd.
LEMMY. [Carving at the cork with a knife] This 'ere cork is like
Sasiety--rotten; it's old--old an' moulderin'. [He holds up a bit of
cork on the point of the knife] Crumblin' under the wax, it is. In
goes the screw an' out comes the cork. [With unction]--an' the blood
flows. [Tipping the bottle, he lets a drop fall into the middle of
his hand, and licks it up. Gazing with queer and doubting
commiseration at has mother] Well, old dear, wot shall we 'ave it
aht of--the gold loving-cup, or--what? 'Ave yer supper fust, though,
or it'll go to yer 'ead! [He goes to the cupboard and taken out a
disk in which a little bread is sopped in a little' milk] Cold pap!
'Ow can yer? 'Yn't yer got a kipper in the 'ouse?
MRS. L. [Admiring the bottle] Port wine! 'Tis a brave treat! I'll
'ave it out of the "Present from Margitt," Bob. I tuk 'ee therr by
excursion when yu was six months. Yu 'ad a shrimp an' it choked yu
praaperly. Yu was always a squeamy little feller. I can't never
think 'ow yu managed in the war-time, makin' they shells.
LEMMY, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet
out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother,
who is eating her bread and milk.
LEMMY. Ah! Nothin' worried me, 'cept the want o' soap.
[She puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a
black smudge.]
LEMMY. [Scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] All right! Y'see, I
come stryte 'ere, to get rid o' this.
[He drinks.]
MRS. L. [Eating her bread and milk] Tes a pity yu'm not got a wife
to see't yu wash yureself.
LEMMY. [Goggling] Wife! Not me--I daon't want ter myke no food for
pahder. Wot oh!--they said, time o' the war--ye're fightin' for yer
children's 'eritage. Well; wot's the 'eritage like, now we've got
it? Empty as a shell before yer put the 'igh explosive in. Wot's it
like? [Warming to his theme] Like a prophecy in the pypers--not a
bit more substantial.
MRS. L. [Slightly hypnotised] How 'e du talk! The gas goes to yore
'ead, I think!
LEMMY. I did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an 'ouse where the wine
was mountains 'igh. A regiment couldn't 'a drunk it. Marble pillars
in the 'all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an' four
conscientious khaki footmen. When the guns was roarin' the talk was
all for no more o' them glorious weeds-style an' luxury was orf. See
wot it is naow. You've got a bare crust in the cupboard 'ere, I
works from 'and to mouth in a glutted market--an' there they stand
abaht agyne in their britches in the 'oases o' the gryte. I was
reg'lar overcome by it. I left a thing in that cellar--I left a
thing . . . . It'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [Drinks
from his mug.]
MRS. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk]
What thing?
LEMMY. Wot thing? Old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens
'er--I never see anything so peaceful. 'Ow dyer manage it?
MRS. L. [Lofting her mug] Yu ought never to ha' spent yore money on
this, Bob!
MRS. L. Last time I 'ad a glass o' port wine was the day yore
brother Jim went to Ameriky. [Smacking her lips] For a teetotal
drink, it du warm 'ee!
LEMMY goes to the window and unhooks his fiddle; he stands with
it halfway to his shoulder. Suddenly he opens the window and
leans out. A confused murmur of voices is heard; and a snatch
of the Marseillaise, sung by a girl. Then the shuffling tramp
of feet, and figures are passing in the street.
LEMMY. [Leaning out] I sy--you 'yn't tykin' the body, are yer?
VOICE. Nao.
VOICE. Cheerio!
LEMMY. So long!
VOICE. So long!
L. AIDA. Why, 'er's wot died o' starvytion up the street. They're
goin' to tyke it to 'Yde Pawk, and 'oller.
MRS. L. Well, never yu mind wot they'm goin' to du: Yu wait an' take
my trousers like a gude gell.
[She puts her mug aside and takes up her unfinished pair of
trousers. But the wine has entered her fingers, and strength to
push the needle through is lacking.]
LEMMY. [Tuning his fiddle] Wot'll yer 'ave, little Aida? "Dead March
in Saul" or "When the fields was white wiv dysies"?
L. AIDA. [With a hop and a brilliant smile] Aoh yus! "When the
fields"----
LEMMY. Leave 'em alone, old dear! No one'll be goin' aht wivaht
trahsers to-night 'cos yer leaves that one undone. Little Aida, fold
'em up!
LEMMY. 'Tyn't 'er 'ead, old lydy--it's lower. She wants feedin'--
feed 'er an' she'll rise. [He strikes into the "Machichi"] Look at
'er naow. I tell yer there's a fortune in 'er.
MRS. L. I'd saner there was a gude 'eart in 'er than any fortune.
LEMMY. Well, you myke the most of it up there; it's the nearest
you'll ever git to 'eaven.
MRS. L. Don' yu discourage 'er, Bob; she'm a gude little thing, an't
yu, dear?
L. AIDA. Movies.
L. AIDA. Movies.
LEMMY. Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy--she's got vicious tystes, she'll
finish in the theayter yep Tyke my tip, little Aida; you put every
penny into yer foundytions, yer'll get on the boards quicker that wy.
L. AIDA. I daon't.
[LITTLE AIDA puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to
understand.]
LEMMY. Blimy.
PRESS. They told me at your place you wens very likely here.
LEMMY. Yus I left Downin' Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the
feddle-strings pompously.]
PRESS. [Taking out his note-book and writing] "Fiddles while Rome
is burning!" Mr. Lemmy, it's my business at this very critical time
to find out what the nation's thinking. Now, as a representative
working man--
LEMMY. Centre o' the cyclone--cyse o' starvytion; you 'ad 'er in the
pyper this mornin'.
PRESS. Both.
LEMMY. 'Cos if yer get Muvver's, yer won't 'ave time for mine. I
tell yer stryte [Confidentially] she's get a glawss a' port wine in
'er. Naow, mind yer, I'm not anxious to be intervooed. On the other
'and, anyfink I might 'eve to sy of valyer----There is a clawss o'
politician that 'as nuffn to sy--Aoh! an' daon't 'e sy it just! I
dunno wot pyper yer represent.
LEMMY. They all 'as that; dylies, weeklies, evenin's, Sundyes; but
it's of no consequence--my voos are open and aboveboard. Naow, wot
shall we begin abaht?
PRESS. Yourself, if you please. And I'd like you to know at once
that my paper wants the human note, the real heart-beat of things.
PRESS. Right-o!
LEMMY. Naow, the gryte--they can come dahn, but they cawn't go up!
See! Put two an' two together, an' that's 'ow it touches me. [He
utters a throaty laugh] 'Ave yer got that?
PRESS. [Writing] "A grim humour peeped out here and there through
the earnestness of his talk."
LEMMY. We 'ad an explosion in my factory time o' the war, that would
just ha' done for you comics. [He meditates] Lord! They was after
it too,--they an' the Sundyes; but the Censor did 'em. Strike me, I
could tell yer things!
LEMMY. [Musing] It's a funny world, 'yn't it? 'Ow we did blow each
other up! [Getting up to admire] I sy, I shall be syfe there. That
won't betry me anonymiety. Why! I looks like the Prime Minister!
LEMMY. It's syfer, 'yn't it? [He winks] No one never looks back on
prophecies. I remembers an editor spring o' 1916 stykin' his
reputytion the war'd be over in the follerin' October. Increased 'is
circulytion abaht 'arf a million by it. 1917 an' war still on--'ad
'is readers gone back on 'im? Nao! They was increasin' like
rabbits. Prophesy wot people want to believe, an' ye're syfe. Naow,
I'll styke my reputation on somethin', you tyke it dahn word for
word. This country's goin' to the dawgs--Naow, 'ere's the
sensytion--unless we gets a new religion.
PRESS. Your sentiments are familiar to me. I've got a friend on the
Press who's very keen on Christ and kindness; and wants to strangle
the last king with the--hamstrings of the last priest.
LEMMY. The yaller Press 'as got no blood--'as it? You shed their
ile an' vinegar--that's wot you've got to do. Stryte--do yer believe
in the noble mission o' the Press?
[For Mrs. LEMMY who has been sipping placidly at her port, is
nodding. The evening has drawn in. LEMMY strikes a match on
his trousers and lights a candle.]
MRS. L. Were yu talkin' about Fred? [The port has warmed her veins,
the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] My son Fred was
always a gude boy--never did nothin' before 'e married. I can see
Fred [She bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight
before her] acomin' in wi' a pheasant 'e'd found--terrible 'e was at
findin' pheasants. When father died, an' yu was cumin', Bob, Fred 'e
said to me: "Don't yu never cry, Mother, I'll look after 'ee." An'
so 'e did, till 'e married that day six months an' take to the drink
in sower. 'E wasn't never 'the same boy again--not Fred. An' now
'e's in That. I can see poor Fred----
[She slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the
back of her finger.]
LEMMY. [Sotto voce] Come orf it! Prison! 'S wot she calls it.
MRS. L. Same year as father died. With the four o' them--that's my
son Fred, an' my son Jim, an' my son Tom, an' Alice. Bob there, 'e
was born in London--an' a praaper time I 'ad of et.
MRS. L. I've a-got the money for when my time come; never touch et,
no matter 'ow things are. Better a little goin' short here below,
an' enter the kingdom of 'eaven independent:
MRS. L. No, sir. Mary Lemmy. I've seen a-many die, I 'ave; an' not
one grievin'. I often says to meself: [With a little laugh] "Me
dear, when yu go, yu go 'appy. Don' yu never fret about that," I
says. An' so I will; I'll go 'appy.
[She stays quite still a moment, and behind her LEMMY draws one
finger across his face.]
[Smiling] "Yore old fengers'll 'ave a rest. Think o' that!" I says.
"'Twill be a brave change." I can see myself lyin' there an' duin'
nothin'.
MRS. L. My son Jim 'ad a family o' seven in six years. "I don' know
'ow 'tes, Mother," 'e used to say to me; "they just sim to come!"
That was Jim--never knu from day to day what was cumin'. "Therr's
another of 'em dead," 'e used to say, "'tes funny, tu" "Well," I
used to say to 'im; "no wonder, poor little things, livin' in they
model dwellin's. Therr's no air for 'em," I used to say. "Well," 'e
used to say, "what can I du, Mother? Can't afford to live in Park
Lane:" An' 'e take an' went to Ameriky. [Her voice for the first
time is truly doleful] An' never came back. Fine feller. So that's
my four sons--One's dead, an' one's in--That, an' one's in Ameriky,
an' Bob 'ere, poor boy, 'e always was a talker.
[LEMMY, who has re-seated himself in the window and taken up his
fiddle, twangs the strings.]
PRESS. And now a few words about your work, Mrs. Lemmy?
MRS. L. In a gude day I gets thru four pairs, but they'm gettin'
plaguey 'ard for my old fengers.
LEMMY. Wot price the uvvers, old lydy? Is there a lot of yer sewin'
yer fingers orf at tuppence 'ypenny the pair?
PRESS. Have things changed much since the war, Mrs. Lemmy?
MRS. L. [With spirit] 'Tidn for me to zay whether they du. An'
'tes on'y when I'm a bit low-sperrity-like as I wants to go therr.
What I am a-lukin' forward to, though, 'tes a day in the country.
I've not a-had one since before the war. A kind lady brought me in
that bit of 'eather; 'tes wonderful sweet stuff when the 'oney's in
et. When I was a little gell I used to zet in the 'eather gatherin'
the whorts, an' me little mouth all black wi' eatin' them. 'Twas in
the 'eather I used to zet, Sundays, courtin'. All flesh is grass--
an' 'tesn't no bad thing--grass.
LEMMY. [Suddenly] Wot is 'er voo of life? Shall I tell yer mine?
Life's a disease--a blinkin' oak-apple! Daon't myke no mistyke. An'
'umen life's a yumourous disease; that's all the difference. Why--
wot else can it be? See the bloomin' promise an' the blighted
performance--different as a 'eadline to the noos inside. But yer
couldn't myke Muvver see vat--not if yer talked to 'er for a wok.
Muvver still believes in fings. She's a country gell; at a 'undred
and fifty she'll be a country gell, won't yer, old lydy?
LEMMY. [In a loud apologetic whisper] She 'yn't often like this. I
told yer she'd got a glawss o' port in 'er.
MRS. L. 'Tidn't like that in London; one day's jest like another.
Not but what therr's a 'eap o' kind'eartedness 'ere.
MRS. L. [Singing] "Boys an' Gells come out to play. The mune is
shinin' bright as day." [She laughs] I used to sing like a lark
when I was a gell.
PRESS. [Struck] In Hyde Park? The very thing. I'll take you down.
My taxi's waiting.
PRESS. A taxi-ride!
LEMMY. Muvver shuns notority. [Sotto voce to THE PRESS] But you
watch me! I'll rouse 'er.
[He takes up his fiddle and sits on the window seat. Above the
little houses on the opposite side of the street, the moon has
risen in the dark blue sky, so that the cloud shaped like a
beast seems leaping over it. LEMMY plays the first notes of the
Marseillaise. A black cat on the window-sill outside looks in,
hunching its back. LITTLE AIDA barks at her. MRS. LEMMY
struggles to her feet, sweeping the empty dish and spoon to the
floor in the effort.]
The dish ran awy wiv the spoon! That's right, old lydy! [He stops
playing.]
MRS. L. [Smiling, and moving her hands] I like a bit o' music. It
du that move 'ee.
LEMMY. Come on, old dear! We'll be in time for the revolution yet.
LEMMY. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't been aht these two years. [To his
mother, who has put up her hands to her head] Nao, never mind yer
'at. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't got none! [Aloud] No West-End lydy
wears anyfink at all in the evenin'!
[He indicates the trousers THE PRESS takes MRS. LEMMY'S other
arm.]
And, smiling between her son and THE PRESS, she passes out; LITTLE
AIDA, with a fling of her heels and a wave of the trousers, follows.
CURTAIN
ACT III
POULDER. [Entering from the hall] His Grace the Duke of Exeter, my
lady.
HIS G. H'm! That's unlucky. I've got it here. [He looks down his
cuff] Found something I said in 1914--just have done.
[He has taken from his breast-pocket one of those street toy-men
that jump head over heels on your hand; he puts it through its
paces.]
LADY W. [Much interested] Oh! no, but how sweet! She'll simply
love it.
[His GRACE moves on, and passes through the doors. The sound of
applause is heard.]
POULDER. I'll bring it up, and have a watch put on it here, my lady.
LADY W. Yes, of course, but you must let him; he's found something
he said in 1914.
LORD W. I knew it. That's what they'll say. Standing stock still,
while hell's on the jump around us.
LADY W. Never mind that; it'll please him; and he's got a lovely
little sweated toy that turns head over heels at one penny.
LADY W. [Sotto voce] And there he is! [She advances to meet a thin,
straggling man in eyeglasses, who is smiling absently] How good of
you!
MISS M. I must tell you what one of them said to me. I'd told him
not to use such bad language to his wife. "Don't you worry, Ma!" he
said, "I expert you can do a bit of that yourself!"
LORD W. THEY!
LORD W. Never mind, old girl; follow on. They'll come in with me.
[MISS MUNDAY and LADY WILLIAM pass through the double doors.]
LORD W. [Shaking hands] How d'you do! Delighted to see you all.
It's awfully good of you to have come.
LAME M. Mr. and Mrs. Tomson. We 'ad some trouble to find it. You
see, I've never been in these parts. We 'ad to come in the oven; and
the bus-bloke put us dahn wrong. Are you the proprietor?
MRS. ANN. [Rolling her eye] I'm very pleased to 'ave come. I've
often said to 'em: "Any time you want me," I've said, "I'd be pleased
to come."
LORD W. Oh! God! Poulder, bring these ladies and gentleman in, and
put them where everybody can--where they can see everybody, don't you
know.
POULDER. Now please. [He opens the doors. The Voice of LORD
WILLIAM speaking is heard] Pass in.
[THE THREE WORKERS pass in, POULDER and JAMES follow them. The
doors are not closed, and through this aperture comes the voice
of LORD WILLIAM, punctuated and supported by decorous applause.]
[LITTLE ANNE runs in, and listens at the window to the confused
and distant murmurs of a crowd.]
[Jane enters, and closes the door behind him. JAMES. Look
here! 'Ave I got to report you to Miss Stokes?]
L. ANNE. No-o-o!
JAMES. No; but you've eaten a good bit, on the stairs. What price
that Peach Melba?
L. ANNE. So-I'll just get under here. [She gets under the table]
Do I show?
POULDER. My orders are to fetch the bomb up here for Lady William to
inspect. Take care no more writers stray in.
[POULDER, with his back to the table, busies himself with the
set of his collar.]
[The face of LITTLE ANNE is poked out close to his legs, and
tilts upwards in wonder towards the bow of his waistcoat.]
Miss S. Poulder!
POULDER. Ah! That "Purity an' Future o' the Race Campaign." I'll
tell you what I thinks the danger o' that, Miss. So much purity that
there won't be a future race. [Expanding] Purity of 'eart's an
excellent thing, no doubt, but there's a want of nature about it.
Same with this Anti-Sweating. Unless you're anxious to come down,
you must not put the lower classes up.
POULDER. Ah! You want it both ways, Miss. I should imagine you're
a Liberal.
POULDER. Well, I judged from your takin' cocoa. Funny thing that,
about cocoa-how it still runs through the Liberal Party! It's
virtuous, I suppose. Wine, beer, tea, coffee-all of 'em vices. But
cocoa you might drink a gallon a day and annoy no one but yourself!
There's a lot o' deep things in life, Miss!
Miss S. Quite so. But I must find Anne.
[She recedes. ]
[The four footmen appear in the hall, HENRY carrying the wine
cooler.]
Right incline--Mark time! Left turn! 'Alt! 'Enry, set the bomb!
Stand easy!
[HENRY places the wine cooler on the table and covers it with a
blue embroidered Chinese mat, which has occupied the centre of
the tablecloth.]
POULDER. Ah! You will 'ave your game! Thomas, take the door there!
James, the 'all! Admit titles an' bishops. No literary or Labour
people. Charles and 'Enry, 'op it and 'ang about!
[Moved by some deep feeling] And this house an 'orspital in the war!
I ask you--what was the good of all our sacrifices for the country?
No town 'ouse for four seasons--rustygettin' in the shires, not a
soul but two boys under me. Lord William at the front, Lady William
at the back. And all for this! [He points sadly at the cooler] It
comes of meddlin' on the Continent. I had my prognostications at the
time. [To JAMES] You remember my sayin' to you just before you
joined up: "Mark my words--we shall see eight per cent. for our money
before this is over!"
JAMES. [Sepulchrally] I see the eight per cent., but not the money.
POULDER. You--what?
POULDER. Oh! Really! Well, that's something. I'm glad to see you
stand behind him, at all events.
JAMES. Well, look at it! It's been creepin' down ever since I knew
you. Talk of your sacrifices in the war--they put you on your
honour, and you got stout on it. Rations--not 'arf.
JAMES. [Obstinately] And he'll never be. He's got too soft a
heart.
JAMES. [Contemptuously] Silly ass! You should take 'em lying down!
POULDER. Look here, James! I can't go on in this revolutionary
spirit; either you or I resign.
[THOMAS grins.]
L. ANNE. [Who, with open mouth, has crept out to see the fun] Oh!
Do remove James, Thomas!
[THOMAS takes one step towards JAMES, who lays a hand on the
Chinese mat covering the bomb.]
JAMES. [To POULDER] Well, I'll merely empty the pail over you!
That's a bishop.
L. ANNE. Why?
JAMES. By the way he's drawin'. It's the fine fightin' spirit in
'em. They were the backbone o' the war. I see there's a bit o' the
old stuff left in you, Tommy.
He doesn't, James!
JAMES. Look here, Miss Anne--your lights ought to be out before ten.
Close in, Tommy!
[The footmen stop and turn. There between the pillars, stands
LITTLE AIDA with the trousers, her face brilliant With
surprise.]
L. AIDA. Aida.
L. AIDA. Nao.
L. AIDA. Yus.
L. Arms. Whose?
L. ANNE. [Touching the trousers] They are hard. James's are much
softer; aren't they, James? [JAMES deigns no reply] What shall we
do? Would you like to see my bedroom?
JAMES. No.
L. ANNE. Why isn't it fittin'? [To LITTLE AIDA] Do you like me?
L. AIDA. Yus-s.
L. AIDA. Nao.
L. AIDA. You give the fing to me; I'll blow up our 'ouse--it's an
ugly little 'ouse.
L. ANNE [Struck] Let's all blow up our own; then we can start fair.
Daddy would like that.
L. ANNE I was; when I first went in one, but I was quite young then.
James, could you get her a Peche Melba? There was one.
JAMES. No.
L. ANNE. Why?
L. AIDA. 'Cos they 'yn't got nuffin'.
L. ANNE. Where?
L. AIDA. Yus.
L. ANNE. Why?
[He puts a hand behind LITTLE AIDA'S back and propels her
towards the hall. THE PRESS enters with old MRS. LEMMY.]
PRESS. Oh! Here she is, major domo. I'm going to take this old
lady to the meeting; they want her on the platform. Look after our
friend, Mr. Lemmy here; Lord William wants to see him presently.
PRESS. That's all right, Mr. Lemmy. [He grins] They'll make you
wonderfully comfortable, won't you, major domo?
[He passes on through the room, to the door, ushering old MRS.
LEMMY and LITTLE AIDA.]
[POULDER blocks LEMMY'S way, with CHARLES and HENRY behind him.]
[He moves away, following THE PRESS through the door. JAMES
between table and window. THOMAS has gone to the door. HENRY
and CHARLES remain at the entrances to the hall. LEMMY looks
dubiously around, his cockney assurrance gradually returns.]
LEMMY. I think I knows the gas 'ere. This is where I came to-dy,
'yn't it? Excuse my hesitytion--these little 'ouses IS so much the
syme.
[He turns towards the hall, but CHARLES and HENRY bar the way in
silence.]
[He goes to the table. JAMES watches him. ANNE barks from
underneath.]
[Skidding again] Why! There's a dawg under there. [Noting the grin
on THOMAS'S face] Glad it amooses yer. Yer want it, daon't yer, wiv
a fyce like that? Is this a ply wivaht words? 'Ave I got into the
movies by mistyke? Turn aht, an' let's 'ave six penn'orth o'
darkness.
L. ANNE. [After applying her eye-in a loud whisper] There's the old
lady. Daddy's looking at her trousers. Listen!
LEMMY. [In a hoarse whisper] That's it, old lydy: give it 'em!
L. ANNE. Listen!
VOICE OF LORD W. We are indebted to our friends the Press for giving
us the pleasure--er--pleasure of hearing from her own lips--the
pleasure----
LEMMY. [To ANNE] Now yer've done it. See wot comes o' bein'
impytient. We was just gettin' to the marrer.
L. ANNE. Why?
[He makes a cabalistic sign with his head. Jeers crosses to the
door. LEMMY looks dubiously at POULDER.]
LEMMY. Oh, ah! Look 'ere, it was a corked bottle. Now, tyke care,
tyke care, 'aughty! Daon't curl yer lip! I shall myke a clean
breast o' my betryal when the time comes!
[The hoarse strains of the Marseillaise are again heard from the
distance.]
L. ANNE. Well, I'm coming down again--and next time I shan't have
any clothes on, you know.
LEMMY. Lemmy.
PRESS. [Who has slipped his note-book out] "Bombed and Bomber face
to face----"
LEMMY. [Uneasy] I didn't come 'ere agyne on me own, yer know. The
Press betryed me.
LEMMY. The syme. I tell yer stryte, it was for 'er I took that old
bottle o' port. It was orful old.
LORD W. Ah! Port? Probably the '83. Hope you both enjoyed it.
LEMMY. Oh! I'll allow yer. But I dunno wot she'll sy.
LORD W. I can see she's a fine independent old lady! But suppose
you were to pay her ten bob a week, and keep my name out of it?
LEMMY. Well, that's one wy o' YOU doin' somefink, 'yn't it?
PRESS. This is the big thing, Lord William; it'll get the public
bang in the throat.
LEMMY. But abaht Muvver, I'll tell yer 'ow we can arrynge. You send
'er the ten bob a week wivaht syin' anyfink, an' she'll fink it comes
from Gawd or the Gover'ment yer cawn't tell one from t'other in
Befnal Green.
LEMMY. Well, we've all got a weakness towards bein' kind, somewhere
abaht us. But the moment wealf comes in, we 'yn't wot I call
single-'earted. If yer went into the foundytions of your wealf--would
yer feel like 'avin' any? It all comes from uvver people's 'ard,
unpleasant lybour--it's all built on Muvver as yer might sy. An' if
yer daon't get rid o' some of it in bein' kind--yer daon't feel syfe
nor comfy.
LEMMY. Well, I'll tell yer. Throw yer cellars open, an' while the
populyce is gettin' drunk, sell all yer 'ave an' go an' live in
Ireland; they've got the millennium chronic over there.
LORD W. But, d---it, man, there we should be, all together! Would
that help?
Yer thought the Englishman could be taught to shed blood wiv syfety.
Not 'im! Once yer git 'im into an 'abit, yer cawn't git 'im out of
it agyne. 'E'll go on sheddin' blood mechanical--Conservative by
nyture. An' 'e won't myke nuffin' o' yours. Not even the Press wiv
'is 'oneyed words'll sty 'is 'and.
LORD W. And what do you suggest we could have done, to avoid
trouble?
LEMMY. [Warming to his theme] I'll tell yer. If all you wealfy
nobs wiv kepitel 'ad come it kind from the start after the war yer'd
never 'a been 'earin' the Marseillaisy naow. Lord! 'Ow you did talk
abaht Unity and a noo spirit in the Country. Noo spirit! Why, soon
as ever there was no dynger from outside, yer stawted to myke it
inside, wiv an iron'and. Naow, you've been in the war an' it's given
yer a feelin' 'eart; but most of the nobs wiv kepitel was too old or
too important to fight. They weren't born agyne. So naow that bad
times is come, we're 'owlin' for their blood.
LORD W. I quite agree; I quite agree. I've often said much the same
thing.
[LADY WILLIAM, going to the table, lifts one end of the Chinese
mat, and looks at LEMMY. Then she turns to LORD WILLIAM.]
LADY W. Bill!
LEMMY. [To his mother--in a hoarse whisper] She calls 'im Bill.
'Ow! 'Yn't she IT?
[She moves towards LEMMY, who again wipes his brow, and wrings
out his hand.]
MRS. LEMMY. Don't 'ee du that, Bob. Yu must forgive'im, Ma'am; it's
'is admiration. 'E was always one for the ladies, and he'm not used
to seein' so much of 'em.
My gudeness! 'E've a-lost 'is tongue. I never knu that 'appen to 'e
before.
LADY W. What!
LEMMY. [Producing a paper from his pocket] 'Ave one o' my gum
drops?
LORD W. [Unable to refuse, takes a large, flat gum drop from the
paper, and looks at it in embarrassment.] Ah! thanks! Thanks
awfully!
[LEMMY turns to LITTLE AIDA, and puts a gum drop in her mouth.
A burst of murmurs from the crowd.]
JAMES. [Towering above the wine cooler] If they get saucy, me Lord,
I can always give 'em their own back.
[He puts the gum drop absently in his mouth, and turns up to the
open window.]
LORD W. Poulder, go and tell the chef to send out anything there is
in the house--nicely, as if it came from nowhere in particular.
LORD W. I say, dash it, Nell, my teeth are stuck! [He works his
finger in his mouth.]
LORD W. [Taking out the gum drop and looking at it] What the deuce
did I put it in for?
LORD W. Stand by to prompt, old girl. Now for it. This ghastly gum
drop!
[LORD WILLIAM takes it from his agitated hand, and flips it
through the window.]
VOICE. Wet's this? Throwin' things? Mind aht, or we'll smash yer
winders!
LORD W. [To the Crowd] My friends, you've come to the wrong shop.
There's nobody in London more sympathetic with you. [The crowd
laughs hoarsely.] [Whispering] Look out, old girl; they can see your
shoulders. [LORD WILLIAM moves back a step.] If I were a speaker, I
could make you feel----
LORD W. [Catching hold of his bit] Look here, I must have fought
alongside some of you fellows in the war. Weren't we jolly well like
brothers?
LORD W. I was born with this beastly great house, and money, and
goodness knows what other entanglements--a wife and family----
LORD W. I feel we're all in the same boat, and I want to pull my
weight. If you can show me the way, I'll take it fast enough.
LEMMY. [Who has been moving towards them slowly] Lemme sy a word to
'em.
I'm one of yer. Gas an' water I am. Got more grievances an' out of
employment than any of yer. I want to see their blood flow, syme as
you.
LEMMY. Wot I sy is: Dahn wiv the country, dahn wiv everyfing. Begin
agyne from the foundytions. [Nodding his head back at the room] But
we've got to keep one or two o' these 'ere under glawss, to show our
future generytions. An' this one is 'armless. His pipes is sahnd,
'is 'eart is good; 'is 'ead is not strong. Is 'ouse will myke a
charmin' palace o' varieties where our children can come an' see 'ow
they did it in the good old dyes. Yer never see rich waxworks as 'is
butler and 'is four conscientious khaki footmen. Why--wot dyer think
'e 'as 'em for--fear they might be out o'-works like you an' me.
Nao! Keep this one; 'e's a Flower. 'Arf a mo'! I'll show yer my
Muvver. Come 'ere, old lydy; and bring yer trahsers. [MRS. LEMMY
comes forward to the window] Tell abaht yer speech to the meetin'.
L. ANNE. Dromondy.
LADY W. Anne!
LEMMY. I sy, there's veal an' 'am, an' pork wine at the back for
them as wants it; I 'eard the word passed. An' look 'ere, if yer
want a flag for the revolution, tyke muvver's trahsers an' tie 'em to
the corfin. Yer cawn't 'ave no more inspirin' banner. Ketch! [He
throws the trousers out] Give Bill a double-barrel fast, to show
there's no ill-feelin'. Ip, 'ip!
PRESS. [Writing] "And far up in the clear summer air the larks were
singing."
LORD W. [Passing his heard over his hair, and blinking his eyes]
James! Ready?
JAMES. Me Lord!
L. ANNE. Daddy!
LADY W. [Taking his arm] Bill! It's all right, old man--all right!
LEMMY. Blow yer up? [Passing his hand over his hair in travesty]
"Is it a dream? Then wykin' would be pyne."
LEMMY. Orl right! I'm goin' to tyke it awy; it'd a-been a bit
ork'ard for me. I'll want it to-mower.
LEMMY. Wot is it? [His eyes are fearfully fixed on LADY WILLIAM] I
fought everybody knew 'em.
LEMMY. [TO LORD WILLIAM, With his eyes still held On LADY WILLIAM--
mysteriously] Wiv lydies present? 'Adn't I better tell the Press?
[LEMMY goes down to THE PRESS, who is reading over his last
note. Everyone watches and listens with the utmost discretion,
while he whispers into the ear of THE PRESS; who shakes his head
violently.]
[LADY WILLIAM lifts the bomb from the cooler into the sight of
all. LORD WILLIAM, seeing it for the first time in full light,
bends double in silent laughter, and whispers to his wife. LADY
WILLIAM drops the bomb and gives way too. Hearing the sound,
LEMMY turns, and his goggling eyes pan them all in review. LORD
and LADY WILLIAM in fits of laughter, LITTLE ANNE stamping her
feet, for MISS STOKES, red, but composed, has her hands placed
firmly over her pupil's eyes and ears; LITTLE AIDA smiling
brilliantly, MRS. LEMMY blandly in sympathy, neither knowing
why; the FOUR FOOTMAN in a row, smothering little explosions.
POULDER, extremely grave and red, THE PRESS perfectly haggard,
gnawing at his nails.]
LEMMY. [Turning to THE PRESS] Blimy! It amooses 'em, all but the
genteel ones. Cheer oh! Press! Yer can always myke somefin' out o'
nufun'? It's not the fust thing as 'as existed in yer imaginytion
only.
MRS. LEMMY. Gude naight, sir; gude naight, ma'am; thank yu for my
cup o' tea, an' all yore kindness.
[She shakes hands with LORD and LADY WILLIAM, drops the curtsey
of her youth before Mr. POULDER, and goes out followed by LITTLE
AIDA, who is looking back at LITTLE ANNE.]
LEMMY. [Turning suddenly] Aoh! An' jist one frog! Next time yer
build an 'ouse, daon't forget--it's the foundytions as bears the
wyte.
L. ANNE. [Breaking away from Miss STOKES and rushing forward] Oh!
Mum! what was it?
CURTAIN
THE SKIN GAME
(A TRAGI-COMEDY)
CHARACTERS
AN AUCTIONEER
A SOLICITOR
TWO STRANGERS
ACT II.
SCENE I. A month later. An Auction Room.
SCENE II. The same evening. CHLOE'S Boudoir.
ACT III
ACT I
JILL. You know, Dodo, it's all pretty good rot in these days.
JILL. Dodo, you're narrow. Buck up, old darling, it won't do.
Chloe has seen life, I'm pretty sure; THAT'S attractive, anyway.
No, mother's not in the room; don't turn your uneasy eyes.
JILL. Yes, darling. You know what a nice boy is, don't you?
JILL. Well, I'll tell you. In the first place, he's not amorous.
HILLCRIST. To whom?
HILLCRIST. Where?
JILL. [With a twirl of his hair] Fish not! Fourthly, he's got
ideas.
JILL. [Pulling gently] Careful! He thinks old people run the show
too much. He says they oughtn't to, because they're so damtouchy.
Are you damtouchy, darling?
JILL. Otherwise, with the way they stand on each other's rights,
they'll spoil the garden for the young.
HILLCRIST. Of course.
JILL. That's only because we are, as mother would say, and they're
not--yet. But why not let them be?
JILL. Why?
JILL. But if you gave them the ell, they wouldn't want the inch.
Why should it all be such a skin game?
JILL. Darling, don't prose. They're not half as bad as you think.
HILLCRIST. Well--er--I suppose you might say--a man who keeps his
form and doesn't let life scupper him out of his standards.
HILLCRIST. Nobody knows till they're under pretty heavy fire, Jill.
JILL. That's what I was saying. Now, no one could call you
perfect, Dodo. Besides, you've got gout.
JILL. You do keep your prejudices out of your phiz. But mother
literally looks down her nose. And she never forgives an "h."
They'd get the "hell" from her if they took the "hinch."
JILL. Don't slime out of it, Dodo. I say, mother ought to call on
the Hornblowers. [No answer.] Well?
HILLCRIST. My dear, I always let people have the last word. It
makes them--feel funny. Ugh! My foot![Enter FELLOWS, Left.]
Fellows, send into the village and get another bottle of this stuff.
FELLOWS. Not yet, sir. The Jackmans would like to see you, sir.
[HILLCRIST turns his swivel chair round. The JACKMANS come in.
He, a big fellow about fifty, in a labourer's dress, with eyes
which have more in then than his tongue can express; she, a
little woman with a worn face, a bright, quick glance, and a
tongue to match.]
HILLCRIST. Good morning, Mrs. Jackman! Morning, Jackman! Haven't
seen you for a long time. What can I do?
MRS. J. Yes, sir; but we've all got to go. Mrs. 'Arvey, and the
Drews, an' us, and there isn't another cottage to be had anywhere in
Deepwater.
HILLCRIST. I should think so, indeed! H'm! [He rises and limps
across to the fireplace on his stick. To himself] The cloven hoof.
By George! this is a breach of faith. I'll write to him, Jackman.
Confound it! I'd certainly never have sold if I'd known he was
going to do this.
MRS. J. No, sir, I'm sure, sir. They do say it's to do with the
potteries. He wants the cottages for his workmen.
JACKMAN. [Heavily] They talk about his havin' bought the Centry to
gut up more chimneys there, and that's why he wants the cottages.
[FELLOWS retires.]
Oh! Amy! Mr. and Mrs. Jackman turned out of their cottage, and
Mrs. Harvey, and the Drews. When I sold to Hornblower, I stipulated
that they shouldn't be.
MRS. J. Our week's up on Saturday, ma'am, and I'm sure I don't know
where we shall turn, because of course Jackman must be near his
work, and I shall lose me washin' if we have to go far.
MRS. J. [For them both] I'm sure we're very sorry, sir. Good
morning, sir. Good morning, ma'am; and thank you kindly. [They go
out.]
HILLCRIST. Turning people out that have been there thirty years. I
won't have it. It's a breach of faith.
MRS. H. Do you suppose this Hornblower will care two straws about
that Jack?
HILLCRIST. He must, when it's put to him, if he's got any decent
feeling.
MRS. H. He hasn't.
Mrs. H. A man like that thinks of nothing but the short cut to his
own way. [Looking out of the window towards the rise] If he buys
the Centry and puts up chimneys, we simply couldn't stop here.
MRS. H. It would have been more useful if he'd not dipped the
estate, and sold the Centry. This Hornblower hates us; he thinks we
turn up our noses at him.
MRS. H. There are the two rooms Beaver used to have, over the
stables.
DAWKERS. Yeh.
HILLCRIST. Smart?
DAWKER. [Grinning] Worth what you like to give, then; but he's a
rich man.
MRS. H. Intolerable!
DAWKER. [To HILLCRIST] Give me your figure, sir. I'll try the old
lady before he gets at her.
HORNBLOWER. Good morning! good morning! How are ye, Dawker? Fine
morning! Lovely weather!
[His voice has a curious blend in its tone of brass and oil,
and an accent not quite Scotch nor quite North country.]
HILLCRIST. [Who has risen] Not since I sold you Longmeadow and
those cottages, I believe.
HILLCRIST. [Subsiding again into his chair] Forgive me! Won't you
sit down?
HILLCRIST. Amy!
HILLCRIST. You promised me, you know, not to change the tenancies.
HILLCRIST. All the same, this sort of thing isn't done, you know.
HILLCRIST. That's beside the point. You promised me, and I sold on
that understanding.
HORNBLOWER. [With a great smile] Ca' canny; I'm fra' the North.
HILLCRIST. I'm told you wish to buy the Centry and put more of your
chimneys up there, regardless of the fact [He Points through the
window] that it would utterly ruin the house we've had for
generations, and all our pleasure here.
HORNBLOWER. How the man talks! Why! Ye'd think he owned the sky,
because his fathers built him a house with a pretty view, where he's
nothing to do but live. It's sheer want of something to do that
gives ye your fine sentiments, Hillcrist.
HORNBLOWER. Ay, he's with the old lady she wants to sell, an'
she'll get her price, whatever it is.
HORNBLOWER. I'm goin' to have the cottages. I need them, and more
besides, now I'm to put up me new works.
HORNBLOWER. I never had any say in mine till I had the brass, and
nobody ever will. It's all hypocrisy. You county folk are fair
awful hypocrites. Ye talk about good form and all that sort o'
thing. It's just the comfortable doctrine of the man in the saddle;
sentimental varnish. Ye're every bit as hard as I am, underneath.
MRS. H. [Who had been standing very still all this time] You
flatter us.
HILLCRIST. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Jackman, but I just wanted you to
realise that I've done my best with this gentleman.
HILLCRIST. [To HORNBLOWER.] How would you like being turned out of
a place you were fond of?
[The JACKMANS look at each other; their faces show deep anger--
and the question they ask each other is which will speak.]
MRS. H. [To MRS. JACKMAN] We'll send down for your things, and you
can come to us for the time being.
HILLCRIST. [Ignoring it] I thought you said you didn't keep your
word when it suited you to break it?
HORNBLOWER. Now, don't get on the high horse. You and me could be
very good friends; but I can be a very nasty enemy. The chimneys
will not look nice from that windie, ye know.
HILLCRIST. Not if you'd bought the Centry ten times over. Your
ways are not mine, and I'll have nothing to do with you.
I come out on the high road here to your north, and I shall come out
on it there to your west. When I've got me new works up on the
Centry, I shall be makin' a trolley track between the works up to
the road at both ends, so any goods will be running right round ye.
How'll ye like that for a country place?
JILL. [Sotto voce] Look, Dodo, I've brought the lot! Isn't it a
treat, dear Papa? And here's the stuff. Hallo!
HORNBLOWER. Not!
CHARLES. I heard him gallop up. He came straight for the old lady,
and got her away. What he said I don't know; but she came back
looking wiser than an owl; said she'd think it over, thought she had
other views.
HORNBLOWER. Well?
JILL. There isn't another side to turning out the Jackmans after
you'd promised.
JILL. I won't say anything about the other thing because I think
it's beneath, dignity to notice it. But to turn poor people out of
their cottages is a shame.
HORNBLOWER. [With real venom] Oh! Ye hate it? Ye can get out of
my house, then.
JILL. [Impatiently] Well, what's the good of it? Life's too short
for rows, and too jolly!
ROLF. Bravo!
HILLCRIST. [Who has come down, Right] Jill, I wish you would
kindly not talk.
HORNBLOWER. Ah! So ye put your dog on to it. [He throws out his
finger at DAWKERS] Very smart, that--I give ye credit.
[CHLOE turns round startled, and her vanity bag slips down her
dress to the floor.]
JILL. Mother!
DAWKER. [Grinning] Safe for the moment. The old lady'll put it up
to auction. Couldn't get her to budge from that. Says she don't
want to be unneighbourly to either. But, if you ask me, it's money
she smells!
MRS. H. Well?
[She looks coldly at JILL, and goes out through the French
window.]
JILL. It's something Dawker's told her; I saw them. I don't like
Dawker, father, he's so common.
JILL. No, no, darling! I only want to warn you solemnly that
mother'll tell you you're fighting fair, no matter what she and
Dawker do.
HILLCRIST. Look here, Jill--is there anything between you and young
what's-his-name--Rolf?
JILL. I don't mean any tosh about love's young dream; but I do like
being friends. I want to enjoy things, Dodo, and you can't do that
when everybody's on the hate. You're going to wallow in it, and so
shall I--oh! I know I shall!--we shall all wallow, and think of
nothing but "one for his nob."
HILLCRIST. Yes. But you don't love the place as I do, Jill. You
youngsters don't love anything, I sometimes think.
HILLCRIST. You've got it all before you. But you may live your
life and never find anything so good and so beautiful as this old
home. I'm not going to have it spoiled without a fight.
JILL. Oh--oh-oh!
[A voice behind her says, "JILL!" She turns and starts back,
leaning against the right lintel of the window. ROLF appears
outside the window from Left.]
[ROLF passes through the window, and retrieves the vanity bag
from the floor where CHLOE dropped it, then again takes his
stand against the Left lintel of the French window.]
JILL. Unto the third and fourth generations. What sin has my
father committed?
ROLF. None, in a way; only, I've often told you I don't see why you
should treat us as outsiders. We don't like it.
JILL. It's not because they're new, it's because--if your father
behaved like a gentleman, he'd be treated like one.
ROLF. Would he? I don't believe it. My father's a very able man;
he thinks he's entitled to have influence here. Well, everybody
tries to keep him down. Oh! yes, they do. That makes him mad and
more determined than ever to get his way. You ought to be just,
Jill.
JILL. I am just.
ROLE. I'm not going to argue. Only things don't stand still.
Homes aren't any more proof against change than anything else.
JILL. All right! You come and try and take ours.
[They move from the lintels and grasp each other's hands in the
centre of the French window.]
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE I
DAWKER. Be out of their way here, ma'am. See old Hornblower with
Chearlie?
DAWKER. Good luck, ma'am. I'll go and see to that little matter of
Mrs. Chloe. Never fear, we'll do them is somehow.
[He winks, lays his finger on the side of his nose, and goes
out at the door.]
[MRS. HILLCRIST mounts the two steps, sits down Right of the
door, and puts up a pair of long-handled glasses. Through the
door behind her come CHLOE and ROLF. She makes a sign for him
to go, and shuts the door.]
MRS. H. Well?
MRS. H. I'm not aware that I've acted at all--as yet. You are
nothing to me, except as one of your family.
MRS. H. Stop them then. I see your husband down there with his
father.
MRS. H. [Looking at her steadily] I don't quite know why you spoke
to me.
[She moves to the Left, mounts the steps and sits down.]
[ROLF, looking in through the door, and seeing where she is,
joins her. MRS. HILLCRIST resettles herself a little further
in on the Right.]
CHLOE. Where?
ROLE. [Looking at her] Don't you feel well? Shall I get you some
water? [He gets up at her nod.]
[As he reaches the door, HILLCRIST and JILL come in. HILLCRIST
passes him abstractedly with a nod, and sits down beside his
wife.]
ROLF. [Emphatically] No. I'm looking after Chloe; she's not well.
[HILLCRIST nods.]
JILL. Don't you feel beastly all down the backs of your legs.
Dodo?
HILLCRIST. Yes.
MRS. H. No.
[He feels in his breast pocket, and pulls up the edge of his
handkerchief.]
JILL. Oh! Look! There's Miss Mullins, at the back; just come in.
Isn't she a spidery old chip?
HILLCRIST. Can't blame her for getting what she can--it's human
nature. Phew! I used to feel like this before a 'viva voce'.
Who's that next to Dawker?
[She takes the particulars of the sale and studies it, but
CHLOE has buried the lower part of her face in her hand and the
smelling salts bottle.]
CHLOE. [Her dark eyes wandering and uneasy] Rolf's getting me some
water.
JILL. Why do you stay? You didn't want to come, did you?
[She hands back the particulars and slides over to her seat,
passing ROLF in the gangway, with her chin well up.]
[MRS. HILLCRIST, who has watched CHLOE and JILL and DAWKER, and
his friend, makes an enquiring movement with her hand, but gets
a disappointing answer.]
HILLCRIST. Jill!
MRS. H. 'Sh!
[He sits down and gives two little tape on the table.]
[In the start which she gives, her face is fully revealed to
the audience.]
[He jerks his head towards the HILLCRISTS. CHLOE gives a swift
look down to the stage Right of the audience.]
Two thousand? [With his smile] That won't hurt you, Mr. Spicer.
Why, it's worth that to overlook the Duke. For two thousand?
And five. Thank you, sir. Two thousand five hundred bid.
And five. Three thousand bid for this desirable property. Why,
you'd think it wasn't desirable. Come along, gen'lemen. A little
spirit.
[A alight pause.]
as the poet says. May I say five thousand six hundred, sir?
[DAWKER] Five thousand six hundred bid. [HORNBLOWER] And seven.
[DAWKER] And eight. For five thousand eight hundred pounds. We're
gettin' on, but we haven't got the value yet.
[A slight pause, while he wipes his brow at the success of his own
efforts.]
[The SOLICITOR touches his arm and says something, to which the
AUCTIONEER responds with a nod.]
MRS. H. Blow your nose, Jack.
MRS. H. Giving!
AUCTIONEER. For six thousand eight hundred. For six thousand eight
hundred-once--[He taps] twice--[He tape] For the last time. This
dominating site. [HORNBLOWER] And nine. Thank you. For six
thousand nine hundred.
AUCTIONEER. [Surprised and throwing out his arms towards the voice]
And five hundred. For nine thousand five hundred. May I have
yours, sir? [He looks at HORNBLOWER. No response.]
HILLCRIST. [Passing his hand over his brow] That's stopped him,
anyway.
HORNBLOWER. The Duke? [He laughs] No, the Gentry's not gone to a
gentleman, nor to a fool. It's gone to me.
HILLCRIST. What!
HOUNBLOWER. I'm sorry for ye; ye're not fit to manage these things.
Well, it's a monstrous price, and I've had to pay it because of your
obstinacy. I shan't forget that when I come to build.
HILLCRIST. Amy!
HORNBLOWER. That's just where I am, outside your pale all round ye.
Ye're not long for Deepwater, ma'am. Make your dispositions to go;
ye'll be out in six months, I prophesy. And good riddance to the
neighbourhood. [They are all down on the level now.]
MRS. H. I will.
[He laughs.]
ROLF. Father!
MRS. H. [Who has exchanged a nod with DAWKER and the STRANGER] Mr.
Hornblower, you build at your peril. I warn you.
HILLCRIST. Well, there's nothing for it now but to smile and pay
up. Poor old home! It shall be his wash-pot. Over the Centry will
he cast his shoe. By Gad, Jill, I could cry!
HILLCRIST. Dawker!
DAWKER. No mystery.
Good God!
MRS. H. Exactly!
DAWKER. My friend here [He points to the STRANGER] was one of the
agents.
HILLCRIST. I say no, Amy. I won't have it. It's a dirty weapon.
Who touches pitch shall be defiled.
MRS. H. Then you agree that Mr. Hornblower at least should be told.
What he does with the knowledge is not our affair.
[DAWKER has drawn the STRANGER a step or two away, and they
talk together.]
MRS. H. [In a low voice] And the ruin of our home? You're
betraying your fathers, Jack.
MRS. H. You must use this knowledge. You owe it to me--to us all.
You'll see that when you've thought it over.
HILLCRIST. It's the utmost I'll consent to, Amy; and don't let's
have any humbug about its being, morally necessary. We do it to
save our skins.
MRS. H. Quite.
HILLCRIST. Jill!
[MRS. HILLCRIST, with a long sigh, draws herself up, fine and
proud.]
DAWKER. [Nodding] We're going to wire for his partner. I'll bring
him too. Can't make too sure.
CURTAIN
SCENE II
Yes, Anna?
CHLOE. You know you were. [Fiercely] Are you paid to smile at me?
ANNA. [Immovable] No, ma'am, Would you like some eau de Cologne on
your forehead?
[CHLOE, with a sort of moan, turns over and buries her face in
the cushion.]
[She springs up and goes to the door, but hesitates, and comes
back to the head of the sofa, as ROLF comes in. During this
scene the door is again opened stealthily, an inch or too.]
CHLOE. No, dear boy. [Suddenly looking at him] You don't want
this quarrel with the Hillcrists to go on, do you, Rolf?
CHLOE. Well, I think I might be able to stop it. Will you slip
round to Dawker's--it's not five minutes--and ask him to come and
see me.
CHLOE. No; only I can't tell him--he and father are so mad about it
all.
CHLOE. [Going to the window and opening it] This way, Rolf. If
you don't come back I shall know he's coming. Put your watch by
mine. [Looking at his watch] It's a minute fast, see!
[She almost pushes him out through the window, closes it after
him, draws the curtains again, stands a minute, thinking hard;
goes to the bell and rings it; then, crossing to the writing
table, Right Back, she takes out a chemist's prescription.]
CHLOE. I don't want that champagne. Take this to the chemist and
get him to make up some of these cachets quick, and bring them back
yourself.
CHLOE. They're too old; I've taken two--the strength's out of them.
Quick, please; I can't stand this head.
CHLOE. Father, don't say anything to Charlie; it'll only worry him
for nothing.
Ye're sure?
CHLOE. [Timidly] Couldn't you stop this quarrel; father? You said
it was on my account. But I don't want to know them. And they do
love their old home. I like the girl. You don't really need to
build just there, do you? Couldn't you stop it? Do!
HORNBLOWER. Stop it? Now I've bought? Na, no! The snobs defied
me, and I'm going to show them. I hate the lot of them, and I hate
that little Dawker worst of all.
[In the intensity of his feeling he has lost sight of her face,
alive with a sort of agony of doubt, whether to plead with him
further, or what to do. Then, with a swift glance at her
wristwatch, she falls back on the sofa and closes her eyes.]
CHLOE. No; I'll try to sleep. Please tell them I don't want to be
disturbed.
"Yours truly----"
[DAWKER has come in through the window and stands regarding her
with a half smile.]
[In the presence of this man of her own class, there comes a
distinct change in CHLOE'S voice and manner; a sort of frank
commonness, adapted to the man she is dealing with, but she
keeps her voice low.]
DAWKER. [With a broad grin] No. I've got a memory for faces.
CHLOE. No. Don't go! [With a faint smile] You are playing a game
with me. Aren't you ashamed? What harm have I done you? Do you
call this cricket?
CHLOE. [Clasping her hands] You're a cruel fellow if you can spoil
a woman's life who never did you an ounce of harm.
DAWKER. So they don't know about you. That's all right. Now, look
here, I serve my employer. But I'm flesh and blood, too, and I
always give as good as I get. I hate this family of yours. There's
no name too bad for 'em to call me this last month, and no looks too
black to give me. I tell you frankly, I hate.
[DAWKER shakes his head; his grin has disappeared and his face
is like wood.]
CHLOE. [Panting] Ah! do! You might! You've been fond of some
woman, I suppose. Think of her!
CHLOE. Be quiet! Oh! Be quiet! [Taking from her bosom the notes
and the pearls] Look! There's my savings--there's all I've got!
The pearls'll fetch nearly a thousand. [Holding it out to him]
Take it, and drop me out--won't you? Won't you?
DAWKER. [Passing his tongue over his lips with a hard little laugh]
You mistake your man, missis. I'm a plain dog, if you like, but I'm
faithful, and I hold fast. Don't try those games on me.
CHLOE. What d'you call it--to dog a woman down like this, just
because you happen to have a quarrel with a man?
DAWKER. Who made the quarrel? Not me, missis. You ought to know
that in a row it's the weak and helpless--we won't say the innocent
--that get it in the neck. That can't be helped.
DAWKER. [With his grin] Ah! You look quite pretty like that. By
George! you're a handsome woman when you're roused.
There! Keep your pecker up; don't cry. Good-night! [He goes
through the window.]
CHLOE. Ye-es.
CHARLES. [Sitting on the arm of the sofa and caressing her] Feel
better, dear?
CHARLES. I say-what gives you these heads? You've been very on and
off all this last month.
CHARLES. All right! [Bending over and drawing her to him] My poor
girl, I'm so sorry you're seedy. Give us a kiss.
CHLOE. [With a laugh] It's a wonder if I'm not. Charlie, are you
happy with me?
CHLOE. [Watching him stealthily] It's not good for me, now I'm
like this. It's upsetting me, Charlie.
CHARLES. Yes; and we won't forget. We'll make 'em pay for it.
CHLOE. It's wretched in a little place like this. I say, must you
go on spoiling their home?
CHARLES. The woman cuts you and insults you. That's enough for me.
CHARLES. Well, if the row gets on your nerves, I can take you to
the sea. But you ought to enjoy a fight with people like that.
CHARLES. [Standing up] Now, look here, Chloe, what's behind this?
CHARLES. [Embracing her] There, old girl! I know women are funny
at these times. You want a good night, that's all.
CHLOE. You haven't finished dinner, have you? Go back, and I'll go
to bed quite soon. Charlie, don't stop loving me.
[He turn, and goes, blowing a kiss from the doorway. When he
is gone, CHLOE gets up and stands in precisely the attitude in
which she stood at the beginning of the Act, thinking, and
thinking. And the door is opened, and the face of the MAID
peers round at her.]
CURTAIN
ACT III
SCENE I
[She goes in. ROLF joins her, coming from the garden.]
[JILL. nodes.]
ROLF. What my father said was true; your mother's rudeness to her
that day she came here, has made both him and Charlie ever so much
more bitter.
Is it a whistling matter?
JILL. No.
JILL. Yes.
ROLF. [Hurt] That's the last thing I want to be.--I only want to
be friendly.
JILL. There isn't any. We're all out, for our own. And why not?
ROLF. Don't!
[With a pained gesture he goes out towards Left, through the
French window.]
[JILL, who has broken off the song, stands with her hands
clenched and her lips quivering.]
[She passes him and goes out Left. And immediately. DAWKER
and the two STRANGERS come in.]
DAWKER. Now this may come into Court, you know. If there's a screw
loose anywhere, better mention it. [To SECOND STRANGE] You knew
her personally?
SECOND S. What do you think? I don't, take girls on trust for that
sort of job. She came to us highly recommended, too; and did her
work very well. It was a double stunt--to make sure--wasn't it,
George?
DAWKER. Not Likely. The threat'll do it; but the stakes are heavy
--and the man's a slugger; we must be able to push it home. If you
can both swear to her, it'll do the trick.
SECOND S. And about--I mean, we're losing time, you know, coming
down here.
DAWKER. No, no; nobody wants to hurt her. We just want a cinch on
this fellow till he squeals.
[She holds the door open, and they pass her into the room,
Right.]
MRS. H. But we shall still have the power to disclose that secret
at any time.
DAWKER. Yeh! But things might happen here you could never bring
home to him. You can't trust a man like that. He isn't goin' to
forgive me, I know.
DAWKER. No, ma'am, you couldn't; and I'm sure I don't want to do
that girl a hurt. I just mention it because, of course, you can't
guarantee that it doesn't get out.
[There's his car. It always seems to make more noise than any
other.]
DAWKER. He'll kick and flounder--but you leave him to ask what you
want, ma'am; don't mention this [He puts the deed back into his
pocket]. The Centry's no mortal good to him if he's not going to
put up works; I should say he'd be glad to save what he can.
HORNBLOWER. Does he? Very well! Your second note says that my
daughter-in-law has lied to me. Well, I've brought her, and what
ye've got to say--if it's not just a trick to see me again--ye'll
say to her face. [He takes a step towards the window.]
MRS. H. Mr. Hornblower, you had better, decide that after hearing
what it is--we shall be quite ready to repeat it in her presence;
but we want to do as little harm as possible.
MRS. H. [Calmly] Are you familiar with the law of divorce, Mr.
Hornblower?
MRS. H. When cases are arranged, Mr. Hornblower, the man who is to
be divorced often visits an hotel with a strange woman. I am
extremely sorry to say that your daughter-in-law, before her
marriage, was in the habit of being employed as such a woman.
HORNBLOWER. Now then, let's have this impudent story torn to rags.
CHLOE. Go on!
HORNBLOWER. Were a woman that went with men, to get them their
divorce.
MRS. H. Is it true?
CHLOE. No.
CHLOE. I don't know you, I say. [To MRS. HILLCRIST] How can you
be so vile?
CHLOE. Lies!
HORNBLOWER. My God!
HORNBLOWER. And that's all ye can say for the wreck ye've wrought.
My family, my works, my future! How dared ye!
CHLOE. Your grandchild. For the sake of it, do what these people
want; and don't tell anyone--DON'T TELL CHARLIE!
CHLOE. [Suddenly fierce] You must keep it, you shall! I won't
have him told. Don't make me desperate! I can be--I didn't live
that life for nothing.
HORNBLOWER. I'm all at sea here. Go out to the car and wait for
me.
MRS. H. Nothing.
MRS. H. If you harm us we shall harm you. Any use whatever of the
Centry.
MRS. H. Very well then! Go your own way and we'll go ours. There
is no witness to this conversation.
HORNBLOWER. Ye'll pardon me--I can't make it solemn enough for you.
HORNBLOWER [To MRS. HILLCRIST] Take that Book in your hand, and
swear first. I swear by Almighty God never to breathe a word of
what I know concerning Chloe Hornblower to any living soul.
MRS. H. No, Mr. Hornblower; you will please sign first. We are not
in the habit of breaking our word.
To that oath, Mr. Hornblower, we shall add the words, "So long as
the Hornblower family do us no harm."
[He gives them a deadly look, and goes out, left, followed by
DAWKER.]
[Holding up the Deed] Look! He's just gone! I told you it was
only necessary to use the threat. He caved in and signed this; we
are sworn to say nothing. We've beaten him.
JILL. [Awed] We saw Chloe in the car. How did she take it,
mother?
MRS. H. Denied, then broke down when she saw our witnesses. I'm
glad you were not here, Jack.
MRS. H. Jill, you will not; you don't know what she's done.
MRS. H. You don't understand human nature. We're enemies for life
with those people. You're a little donkey if you think anything
else.
JILL. I'm going, all the same.
JILL. Suppose I'd taken a knock like that, Dodo, I'd be glad of
friendliness from someone.
JILL. You don't know what you can do till you try, mother.
HILLCRIST. Let her go, Amy. Im sorry for that young woman.
MRS. H. You'd be sorry for a man who picked your pocket, I believe.
MRS. H. [Bitterly] Much gratitude I get for saving you both our
home!
JILL. Yes, Dodo, yes! Mother, hold him while I [Suddenly she
stops, and all the fun goes out of her] No! I can't--I can't help
thinking of her.
SCENE II
When it rises again, the room is empty and dark, same for
moonlight coming in through the French window, which is open.
[He appears]
CHLOE. Go away.
CHLOE. Go away, and don't say anything. Oh! The roses! [She has
put her nose into some roses in a bowl on a big stand close to the
window] Don't they smell lovely?
CHLOE. What state? I'm all right. Wait for me down in the drive,
if you want to.
[ROLF starts to go, stops, looks at her, and does go. CHLOE,
with a little moaning sound, flutters again, magpie-like, up
and down, then stands by the window listening. Voices are
heard, Left. She darts out of the window and away to the
Right, as HILLCRIST and JILL come in. They have turned up the
electric light, and come down in frond of the fireplace, where
HILLCRIST sits in an armchair, and JILL on the arm of it. They
are in undress evening attire.]
JILL. There isn't much, Dodo. I was in an awful funk for fear I
should meet any of the others, and of course I did meet Rolf, but I
told him some lie, and he took me to her room-boudoir, they call it
--isn't boudoir a "dug-out" word?
JILL. She was sitting like this. [She buries her chin in her
hands, wide her elbows on her knees] And she said in a sort of
fierce way: "What do you want?" And I said: "I'm awfully sorry, but
I thought you might like it."
HILLCRIST. Well?
JILL. She looked at me hard, and said: "I suppose you know all
about it." And I Said: "Only vaguely," because of course I don't.
And she said: "Well, it was decent of you to come." Dodo, she looks
like a lost soul. What has she done?
HILLCRIST. She committed her real crime when she married young
Hornblower without telling him. She came out of a certain world to
do it.
JILL. One thing I'm sure of: she's awfully fond of Chearlie.
HILLCRIST. Women like that are pretty tough, Jill; don't judge her
too much by your own feelings.
HILLCRIST. We had to fight for our home. I should have felt like a
traitor if I hadn't.
HILLCRIST. He is rather.
JILL. You!
[She makes CHLOE sit down in the armchair, out of which they
have risen, then locks the door, and closing the windows, draws
the curtains hastily over them.]
HILLCRIST. Who?
CHLOE. [Appealing] Oh! that's not enough. Can't you tell him
something to put him back to thinking it's all right? I've done him
such a wrong. I didn't realise till after--I thought meeting him
was just a piece of wonderful good luck, after what I'd been
through. I'm not such a bad lot--not really.
CHLOE. I never gave a man away or did anything I was ashamed of--at
least--I mean, I had to make my living in all sorts of ways, and
then I met Charlie.
HILLCRIST. It is!
CHLOE. And after I married him, you see, I fell in love. If I had
before, perhaps I wouldn't have dared only, I don't know--you never
know, do you? When there's a straw going, you catch at it.
CHLOE. [Dully] I've been on hot bricks all this month, ever since
that day here. I knew it was in the wind. What gets in the wind
never gets out. [She rises and throws out her arms] Never! It
just blows here and there [Desolately] and then--blows home. [Her
voice changes to resentment] But I've paid for being a fool--
'tisn't fun, that sort of life, I can tell you. I'm not ashamed and
repentant, and all that. If it wasn't for him! I'm afraid he'll
never forgive me; it's such a disgrace for him--and then, to have
his child! Being fond of him, I feel it much worse than anything I
ever felt, and that's saying a good bit. It is.
CHLOE. That's it; but it's started, and he's bound to keep on
because he knows there's something. A man isn't going to be
satisfied when there's something he suspects about his wife, Charlie
wouldn't never. He's clever, and he's jealous; and he's coming
here.
JILL. Dodo, what can we say to put him clean off the scent?
CHLOE. [Catching at this straw] You will! You see, I don't know
what I'll do. I've got soft, being looked after--he does love me.
And if he throws me off, I'll go under--that's all.
CHLOE. Thank you. And don't say I've been here, will you? He's
very suspicious. You see, he knows that his father has re-sold that
land to you; that's what he can't make out--that, and my coming here
this morning; he knows something's being kept from him; and he
noticed that man with Dawker yesterday. And my maid's been spying
on me. It's in the air. He puts two and two together. But I've
told him there's nothing he need worry about; nothing that's true.
HILLCRIST. Yes, Yes. I daresay I'd have done the same. I should
be the last to judge.
There, there! Cheer up! [He puts his hand on her arm.]
[She spring to the door, unlocks and opens it, while HILLCRIST
goes to the bureau and sits down.]
FELLOWS. [Coming in a step or two and closing the door behind him]
Certainly, Miss. Mr. Charles 'Ornblower is in the hall. Wants to
see you, sir, or Mrs. Hillcrist.
[As FELLOWS goes out, JILL runs to the window, but has no time
to do more than adjust the curtains and spring over to stand by
her father, before CHARLES comes in. Though in evening
clothes, he is white and disheveled for so spruce a young
mean.]
JILL. No.
CHARLES. Don't try to put me off. I know too much. [To JILL]
You.
CHARLES. Go on!
HILLCRIST. You insist? Well, they say there was some question
about the accounts, and your wife left them under a cloud. As I
told you, we don't believe it.
JILL. [Catching his arm] Dodo! [Sotto voce] We are, you know.
CHARLES. [Turning back to them] Why do you tell me that lie? When
I've just had the truth out of that little scoundrel! My wife's
been here; she put you up to it.
She--she put you up to it. Liar that she is--a living lie. For
three years a living lie!
And hasn't now the pluck to tell me. I've done with her. I won't
own a child by such a woman.
HILLCRIST. For God's sake, man, think of what you're saying. She's
in great distress.
MRS. H. Ask him to come in. Oh! and Fellows, you can tell the
Jackmans that they can go back to their cottage.
[MRS. HILLCRIST searches at the bureau, finds and takes out the
deed. DAWKERS comes in; he has the appearance of a man whose
temper has been badly ruffled.]
MRS. H. That has nothing to do with us. Your son came and wrenched
the knowledge out of Mr. DAWKER by abuse and threats; that is all.
You will kindly behave yourself here, or I shall ask that you be
shown out.
HORNBLOWER. [To MRS. HILLCRIST] I'll ruin your place yet! [To
DAWKER] Ye give me that deed, or I'll throttle ye.
HORNBLOWER. No. Take her to the car. Stand back, young woman! I
want no help from any of ye. Rolf--Chearlie--take her up.
HORNBLOWER. Ye hypocrite!
[He passes them with a certain dignity, and goes out at the
window, following to his car.]
[DAWKER, fingering the deed, and with a noise that sounds like
"The cur!" goes out, Left.]
HILLCRIST. No.
HILLCRIST. Hypocrite!
JILL. [Rushing to him] It's not you, Dodo; it's not you, beloved
Dodo.
CURTAIN
Contents:
SCENE I
[The curtained door away out in the dim part of the room behind
him is opened so softly that he does not wake. LARRY DARRANT
enters and stands half lost in the curtain over the door. A
thin figure, with a worn, high cheek-boned face, deep-sunk blue
eyes and wavy hair all ruffled--a face which still has a certain
beauty. He moves inwards along the wall, stands still again and
utters a gasping sigh. KEITH stirs in his chair.]
KEITH. [Half-waked] Come in! I was asleep. [He does not turn his
head, staring sleepily at the fire.]
KEITH. [Rising, with his back to the fire, and staring at his
brother] What is it, man? [Then with a brutality born of nerves
suddenly ruffled] Have you committed a murder that you stand there
like a fish?
[With a lurch LARRY leaves the shelter of the wall and sinks into
a chair in the circle of light.]
[KEITH steps quickly forward and stares down into his brother's
eyes, where is a horrified wonder, as if they would never again
get on terms with his face.]
[He goes quickly over to the door and draws the curtain aside, to
see that it is shut, then comes back to LARRY, who is huddling
over the fire.]
LARRY. [In a shrill outburst] It's true, I tell you; I've killed a
man.
LARRY. Whom should I tell, Keith? I came to ask what I'm to do--
give myself up, or what?
KEITH. When--when--what----?
KEITH. Good God! How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from
the beginning. Here, drink this coffee; it'll clear your head.
LARRY. A Polish girl. She--her father died over here when she was
sixteen, and left her all alone. There was a mongrel living in the
same house who married her--or pretended to. She's very pretty,
Keith. He left her with a baby coming. She lost it, and nearly
starved. Then another fellow took her on, and she lived with him two
years, till that brute turned up again and made her go back to him.
He used to beat her black and blue. He'd left her again when--I met
her. She was taking anybody then. [He stops, passes his hand over
his lips, looks up at KEITH, and goes on defiantly] I never met a
sweeter woman, or a truer, that I swear. Woman! She's only twenty
now! When I went to her last night, that devil had found her out
again. He came for me--a bullying, great, hulking brute. Look!
[He touches a dark mark on his forehead] I took his ugly throat, and
when I let go--[He stops and his hands drop.]
KEITH. Yes?
KEITH. Well?
LARRY. No.
KEITH. Good God! Why, I saw it in the paper this morning. They
were talking of it in the Courts! [He snatches the evening paper
from his armchair, and runs it over anal reads] Here it is again.
"Body of a man was found this morning under an archway in Glove Lane.
From marks about the throat grave suspicion of foul play are
entertained. The body had apparently been robbed." My God!
[Suddenly he turns] You saw this in the paper and dreamed it.
D'you understand, Larry?--you dreamed it.
LARRY. [Simply] Yes. You must know what I ought to do. I didn't,
mean to kill him, Keith. I love the girl--I love her. What shall I
do?
KEITH. Love!
KEITH. Steady, Larry! Let's think it out. You weren't seen, you
say?
LARRY. To my rooms.
LARRY. Yes.
LARRY. No.
LARRY. Never.
LARRY. No one.
KEITH. No one?
KEITH. Did anyone see you go in last night, when you first went to
her?
LARRY. No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys.
LARRY takes two keys from his pocket and hands them to his
brother.
KEITH. [Moving his hand to put down old emotion] What else have you
that connects you with her?
LARRY. Nothing.
Photographs? Letters?
LARRY. No.
KEITH. Sure?
LARRY. Nothing.
LARRY. I am.
KEITH. You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think.
He turns to the fire and leans his elbows on the mantelpiece and
his head on his hands. LARRY Sits down again obediently.
LARRY. Yes.
LARRY. He hit me. [He holds up his hands] I didn't know I was so
strong.
LARRY. [Flashing out] By God, you are a stony devil! Why not?
LARRY. [With a crazy laugh] Oh, you lawyer! Were you never in a
woman's arms?
LARRY. Don't!
KEITH. Did it?
Very disfigured?
LARRY. Yes.
LARRY. No.
LARRY. [In an outburst] I'm not made of iron, like you. Why not?
If you had done it----!
[LARRY nods.]
KEITH. Now listen, Larry. When you leave here, go straight home,
and stay there till I give you leave to go out again. Promise.
LARRY. I promise.
LARRY. [Humbly] You're very good, Keith; you've always been very
good to me--I don't know why.
LARRY. [Bringing out a little box] I'd better have done with it.
LARRY. [Replacing the box] Not quite! You've never killed a man,
you see. [He gives that crazy laugh.] D'you remember that hammer
when we were boys and you riled me, up in the long room? I had luck
then. I had luck in Naples once. I nearly killed a driver for
beating his poor brute of a horse. But now--! My God! [He covers
his face.]
LARRY. [Moving towards the door] Don't keep me longer than you can
help, Keith.
CURTAIN
SCENE II
[On this WANDA is sitting, her knees drawn up under her, staring
at the embers. She has on only her nightgown and a wrapper over
it; her bare feet are thrust into slippers. Her hands are
crossed and pressed over her breast. She starts and looks up,
listening. Her eyes are candid and startled, her face alabaster
pale, and its pale brown hair, short and square-cut, curls
towards her bare neck. The startled dark eyes and the faint
rose of her lips are like colour-staining on a white mask.]
She has recoiled again to the window; and when he finds the
switch and turns the light up, she is seen standing there
holding her dark wrapper up to her throat, so that her face has
an uncanny look of being detached from the body.
WANDA does not move, staring like a spirit startled out of the
flesh.
WANDA. Just where you are standing. I see him now, always falling.
WANDA. Wanda.
[A moment's silence.]
WANDA, [Wistfully] You would not deceive me. You are really his
brother?
KEITH. I swear it.
WANDA. [Clasping her hands] If I can save him! Won't you sit down?
KEITH. Does anyone about here know you are his wife?
WANDA. No. I came here to live a bad life. Nobody know me. I am
quite alone.
KEITH: Well, they have; and they'll look for anyone connected with
him, of course.
WANDA. He never let people think I was married to him. I don't know
if I was--really. We went to an office and signed our names; but he
was a wicked man. He treated many, I think, like me.
KEITH. Friends--acquaintances?
WANDA. Oh, yes! I love him. Nobody come here but him for a long
time now.
If the worst comes, and this man is traced to you, can you trust
yourself not to give Larry away?
WANDA. [Rising and pointing to the fire] Look! I have burned all
the things he have given me--even his picture. Now I have nothing
from him.
KEITH. [Who has risen too] Good! One more question. Do the police
know you--because--of your life?
WANDA. Yes.
Suddenly she bends and kisses his hand. KEITH draws his hand
away, and she recoils a little humbly, looking up at him again.
Suddenly she stands rigid, listening.
She darts past him and turns out the light. There is a knock on
the door. They are now close together between door and window.
KEITH. [Under his breath] You said no one comes but Larry.
WANDA. Yes, and you have his keys. Oh! if it is Larry! I must open!
KEITH shrinks back against the wall. WANDA goes to the door.
A policeman!
KEITH. [Moving from the wall] Curse! I must have left that door.
[Suddenly-turning up the light] You told me they didn't know you.
KEITH. [Half to himself] After your life, who can believe---? Look
here! You drifted together and you'll drift apart, you know. Better
for him to get away and make a clean cut of it.
WANDA. [Uttering a little moaning sound] Oh, sir! May I not love,
because I have been bad? I was only sixteen when that man spoiled
me. If you knew----
KEITH. I'm thinking of Larry. With you, his danger is much greater.
There's a good chance as things are going. You may wreck it. And
for what? Just a few months more of--well--you know.
WANDA. [Standing at the head of the couch and touching her eyes with
her hands] Oh, sir! Look! It is true. He is my life. Don't take
him away from me.
KEITH. [Moved and restless] You must know what Larry is. He'll
never stick to you.
KEITH. Now, now! At any moment they may find out your connection
with that man. So long as Larry goes on with you, he's tied to this
murder, don't you see?
WANDA. [Coming close to him] But he love me. Oh, sir! he love me!
KEITH. Ah! First Larry, then you! Come now. It's better for you
both. A few months, and you'll forget you ever met.
WANDA. [Looking wildly up] I will go if Larry say I must. But not
to live. No! [Simply] I could not, sir.
I could not live without Larry. What is left for a girl like me--
when she once love? It is finish.
WANDA. No; you do not care what I do. Why should you? I tell you I
will go if Larry say I must.
KEITH. That's not enough. You know that. You must take it out of
his hands. He will never give up his present for the sake of his
future. If you're as fond of him as you say, you'll help to save
him.
WANDA. [Below her breath] Yes! Oh, yes! But do not keep him long
from me--I beg! [She sinks to the floor and clasps his knees.]
Listen!
[She runs to the door, opens it, and goes out to bring him in.
KEITH stands waiting, facing the open doorway.]
LARRY. Keith!
LARRY. I've been waiting in for you all day. I couldn't stand it
any longer.
KEITH. Exactly!
LARRY. Must.
KEITH. A boat leaves for the Argentine the day after to-morrow; you
must go by it.
KEITH. You can't go together. I'll send her by the next boat.
LARRY. Swear?
LARRY. What?
KEITH. He's in no danger. They always get the wrong man first.
It'll do him no harm to be locked up a bit--hyena like that. Better
in prison, anyway, than sleeping out under archways in this weather.
LARRY. What! [In an awed voice] Why, I saw him--after I left you
last night.
LARRY. I talked to him, and he said, "Thank you for this little
chat. It's worth more than money when you're down." Little grey man
like a shaggy animal. And a newspaper boy came up and said: "That's
right, guv'nors! 'Ere's where they found the body--very spot. They
'yn't got 'im yet."
[He laughs; and the terrified girl presses herself against him.]
An innocent man!
LARRY. [In a whisper] In the sun! "A cup of wine and thou."
[Suddenly] How can I, Keith? I must see how it goes with that poor
devil.
KEITH. Bosh! Dismiss it from your mind; there's not nearly enough
evidence.
LARRY. Not?
LARRY. [Picking the notes up from the couch] Take them back, Keith.
KEITH. What! I tell you no jury would convict; and if they did, no
judge would hang. A ghoul who can rob a dead body, ought to be in
prison. He did worse than you.
LARRY. I've still got some kind of honour. If I clear out before I
know, I shall have none--nor peace. Take them, Keith, or I'll put
them in the fire.
KEITH. [Taking back the notes; bitterly] I suppose I may ask you
not to be entirely oblivious of our name. Or is that unworthy of
your honour?
LARRY. [Hanging his head] I'm awfully sorry, Keith; awfully sorry,
old man.
KEITH. [sternly] You owe it to me--to our name--to our dead mother
--to do nothing anyway till we see what happens.
KEITH. [Taking up his hat] Can I trust you? [He stares hard at his
brother.]
KEITH. Swear?
LARRY. I swear.
KEITH goes. LARRY Sits down on the couch sand stares at the
fire. The girl steals up and slips her arms about him.
WANDA. Oh, Larry! But so are you. What did we want--to kill that
man? Never! Oh! kiss me!
WANDA. I will make up the fire. Love me, Larry! I want to forget.
LARRY. Sleep?
WANDA. [Raising herself] Promise to stay with me--to stay here for
good, Larry. I will cook for you; I will make you so comfortable.
They will find him innocent. And then--Oh, Larry! in the sun-right
away--far from this horrible country. How lovely! [Trying to get
him to look at her] Larry!
WANDA. No, no! No, no! You don't want me to die, Larry, do you? I
shall if you leave me. Let us be happy! Love me!
LARRY. [With a laugh] Ah! Let's be happy and shut out the sight of
him. Who cares? Millions suffer for no mortal reason. Let's be
strong, like Keith. No! I won't leave you, Wanda. Let's forget
everything except ourselves. [Suddenly] There he goes-up and down!
WANDA. [Moaning] No, no! See! I will pray to the Virgin. She will
pity us!
She falls on her knees and clasps her hands, praying. Her lips
move. LARRY stands motionless, with arms crossed, and on his
face are yearning and mockery, love and despair.
[Suddenly the girl stretches out her arms and lifts her face
with a look of ecstasy.]
What?
LARRY. [Bending down over her] Poor child! When we die, Wanda,
let's go together. We should keep each other warm out in the dark.
WANDA. [Raising her hands to his face] Yes! oh, yes! If you die I
could not--I could not go on living!
CURTAIN
SCENE III.
WANDA. He went to the trial. I could not keep him from it. The
trial--Oh! what has happened, sir?
WANDA. Yes.
KEITH. [Shaking his head] Are you ready to go away at any time?
KEITH. Listen! Help me. Don't let Larry out of your sight. I must
see how things go. They'll never hang this wretch. [He grips her
arms] Now, we must stop Larry from giving himself up. He's fool
enough. D'you understand?
WANDA. Yes. But why has he not come in? Oh! If he have, already!
KEITH. Listen!
It's he!
KEITH. The thing can't stand. I'll stop it somehow. But you must
give me time, Larry.
KEITH. This man can and shall get off. I want your solemn promise
that you won't give yourself up, nor even go out till I've seen you
again.
KEITH. [Looking from one to the other] By the memory of our mother,
swear that.
LARRY. Supper, child--I've had nothing all day. Put these lilies in
water.
[She takes the lilies and obediently puts them into a vase.
LARRY pours wine into a deep-coloured glass and drinks it off.]
We've had a good time, Wanda. Best time I ever had, these last two
months; and nothing but the bill to pay.
LARRY. [Holding her away to look at her.] Take off those things and
put on a bridal garment.
LARRY. If you had seen him, as I have, all day, being tortured.
Wanda,--we shall be out of it. [The wine mounting to his head] We
shall be free in the dark; free of their cursed inhumanities. I hate
this world--I loathe it! I hate its God-forsaken savagery; its pride
and smugness! Keith's world--all righteous will-power and success.
We're no good here, you and I--we were cast out at birth--soft,
will-less--better dead. No fear, Keith! I'm staying indoors. [He
pours wine into two glasses] Drink it up!
LARRY. [Touching her face and hair] Hanged by the neck until he's
dead--for what I did.
[WANDA takes a long look at his face, slips her arms from him,
and goes out through the curtains below the fireplace.]
[LARRY feels in his pocket, brings out the little box, opens it,
fingers the white tabloids.]
LARRY. Two each--after food. [He laughs and puts back the box] Oh!
my girl!
"No more, no more, the moon is dead, And all the people in it."
[He sits on the couch with a piece of paper on his knees, adding
a few words with a stylo pen to what is already written.]
They'll find us in the morning. Come and have supper, my dear love.
[The girl creeps forward. He rises, puts his arm round her, and
with her arm twined round him, smiling into each other's faces,
they go to the table and sit down.]
What! [He bends again, shakes him and calls] Larry! Larry!
My God!
"I, Lawrence Darrant, about to die by my own hand confess that I----"
[He springs up, takes up the paper again, and again reads.]
[He thrusts the paper into the fire, stamps it down with his
foot, watches it writhe and blacken. Then suddenly clutching
his head, he turns to the bodies on the couch. Panting and like
a man demented, he recoils past the head of the couch, and
rushing to the window, draws the curtains and throws the window
up for air. Out in the darkness rises the witch-like skeleton
tree, where a dark shape seems hanging. KEITH starts back.]
[He shuts the window and draws the dark curtains across it
again.]
Fool! Nothing!
[Deliberately he turns out the light, opens the door, and goes.]
[The still bodies lie there before the fire which is licking at
the last blackened wafer.]
CURTAIN
CHARACTERS
SCENE I
ENGLISHWOMAN. Bother!
[The WAITER comes flying back with a compote for the DUTCH
YOUTH, who pays.]
[The DUTCH YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The GERMAN lights a
cigarette. The LITTLE MAN sits motionless, nursing his hat.
The WAITER comes flying back with the eggs and places them
before the AMERICAN.]
[He pays and eats. The WAITER stands a moment at the edge of
the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The LITTLE
MAN eyes him and speaks gently.]
AMERICAN. I smile.
[The ENGLISHWOMAN looks round her paper for a second. The DUTCH
YOUTH stops eating and laughs. The LITTLE MAN gazes from face
to face and nurses his hat.]
GERMAN. Gott!
[The ENGLISH make faint motions with their chins and avert their
eyes.]
GERMAN. 'Cigarren'!
WAITER. 'Schon'!
[He disappears.]
AMERICAN. That is so; there are no flies on us. [To the LITTLE MAN,
who has been gazing eagerly from face to face] Say! I'd like to
have you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man.
LITTLE MAN. [Eager but wistful] I'm afraid not. Of course one
wants to--There was St Francis d'Assisi and St Julien L'Hospitalier,
and----
GERMAN. Cigarren!
GERMAN. Ah! ha! you will bresently find there is nothing in him
but self.
ENGLISHMAN. [Holding out his half of the paper to his wife] Swap!
AMERICAN. The English are very humanitarian; they have a very high
sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the Americans. [To the
DUTCH YOUTH] I judge even in your little country they have that.
This is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. [To the LITTLE
MAN] What is your nationality, sir?
AMERICAN. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. [The POLICEMAN
passes again] Now, I don't believe we've much use any more for those
gentlemen in buttons. We've grown kind of mild--we don't think of
self as we used to do.
LITTLE MAN. I wonder. One wants to, but somehow--[He shakes his
head.]
AMERICAN. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've had experience,
maybe. I'm an optimist--I think we're bound to make the devil hum in
the near future. I opine we shall occasion a good deal of trouble to
that old party. There's about to be a holocaust of selfish
interests. The colonel there with old-man Nietch he won't know
himself. There's going to be a very sacred opportunity.
GERMAN. [Startled] 'Der Teufel'! [He gets up, and seizes the bag
beside him.]
GERMAN. Our drain has come in, de oder platform; only one minute we
haf.
[He continues to run. The LITTLE MAN spins round, rushes back,
picks up baby and bundle on which it was seated.]
CURTAIN
SCENE II
AMERICAN. [Turning to the DUTCH YOUTH] Guess I'd like that window
raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us.
[The DUTCH YOUTH laughs, and goes through the motions of raising
the window. The ENGLISH regard the operation with uneasy
irritation. The GERMAN opens his bag, which reposes on the
corner seat next him, and takes out a book.]
[The GERMAN holds up the book so that the title may be read.]
[The GERMAN sulkily moves his bag. The LITTLE MAN comes in and
seats himself gingerly.]
GERMAN. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha! [He cackles
drily.]
[The BABY wails, and the LITTLE MAN jigs it with a sort of
gentle desperation, looking apologetically from face to face.
His wistful glance renews the fore of merriment wherever it
alights. The AMERICAN alone preserves a gravity which seems
incapable of being broken.]
AMERICAN. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that
baby. There's nothing can act madder than a mother.
LITTLE MAN. We got there just as the train was going to start; and I
jumped, thinking I could help her up. But it moved too quickly,
and--and left her.
[The Baby wails; the LITTLE MAN heaves it; the gale of laughter
blows.]
LITTLE MAM. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is.
LITTLE MAN. I--I can only see the top of its head.
LITTLE MAN. [Faintly] I--I can see its face a little now.
LITTLE MAN. They seem all over its----[At the slight recoil of
everyone] I feel sure it's--it's quite a good baby underneath.
AMERICAN. That will be rather difficult to come at. I'm just a bit
sensitive. I've very little use for affections of the epidermis.
GERMAN. Pfui! [He has edged away as far as he can get, and is
lighting a big cigar]
[The DUTCH YOUTH rises suddenly, and bolts out into the
corridor. He is followed by the GERMAN, puffing clouds of
smoke. The ENGLISH and AMERICAN sit a moment longer without
speaking. The ENGLISHWOMAN'S face is turned with a curious
expression--half pity, half fear--towards the LITTLE MAN. Then
the ENGLISHMAN gets up.]
[He puts his arm through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her
through the doorway. She goes, still looking back.]
[As he goes out the LITTLE MAN looks very wistfully after him.
Screwing up his mouth and nose, he holds the BABY away from him
and wavers; then rising, he puts it on the seat opposite and
goes through the motions of letting down the window. Having
done so he looks at the BABY, who has begun to wail. Suddenly
he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying.
Since, however, the BABY does not stop wailing, he hovers over
it in indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle
it, with his face turned toward the open window. Finding that
it still wails, he begins to sing to it in a cracked little
voice. It is charmed at once. While he is singing, the
AMERICAN appears in the corridor. Letting down the passage
window, he stands there in the doorway with the draught blowing
his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. The LITTLE
MAN stops singing and shifts the shawl higher to protect the
BABY'S head from the draught.]
[The LITTLE MAN looks at him, wondering. You are typical, sir,
of the sentiments of modern Christianity. You illustrate the
deepest feelings in the heart of every man.]
[The LITTLE MAN rises with the BABY and a movement of approach.]
CURTAIN
SCENE III
An arrival platform. The LITTLE MAN, with the BABY and the
bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travellers pass and
luggage is being carried by. A STATION OFFICIAL, accompanied by
a POLICEMAN, appears from a doorway, behind him.
Ill--the baby----
OFFICIAL. [Shaking his head] 'Verstehe nicht'. Dis is nod your baby?
No?
OFFICIAL. [Tapping the telegram] Gut! You are 'rested. [He signs
to the POLICEMAN, who takes the LITTLE MAN's arm.]
LITTLE MAN. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not a thief--
I'm--I'm----
[The LITTLE MAN tries to tear his hair. The disturbed BABY
wails.]
LITTLE MAN. [Dandling it as best he can] There, there--poor, poor!
OFFICIAL. She comet by next drain. Das telegram say: 'Halt einen
Herren mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepack'. 'Rest gentleman
mit black baby and black--pag.
[They take the LITTLE MAN toward the door from which they have
come. A voice stops them.]
[The OFFICIAL stops; the LITTLE MAN also stops and sits down on
a bench against the wall. The POLICEMAN stands stolidly beside
him. The AMERICAN approaches a step or two, beckoning; the
OFFICIAL goes up to him.]
AMERICAN. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there! What's the
gentleman in buttons for?
AMERICAN. Now, don't rattle me! [Pointing to the LITTLE MAN] Man
[Pointing to his heart] 'Herz' [Pointing to the coin] 'von' Gold.
This is a flower of the field--he don't want no gentleman in buttons
to pluck him up.
OFFICIAL. 'Verstehe absolut nichts'. [He taps the telegram] 'Ich muss
mein' duty do.
AMERICAN. Oh! Very well, arrest him; do your duty. This baby has
typhus.
[A PORTER goes to get it. From either side the broken half-moon
of persons stand gazing at the LITTLE MAN, who sits unhappily
dandling the BABY in the centre.]
"'Rest gentleman mit black baby." [Shaking his head] Wir must de
gentleman hold. [To the GERMAN] 'Bitte, mein Herr, sagen Sie ihm,
den Buben zu niedersetzen'. [He makes the gesture of deposit.]
GERMAN. [To the LITTLE MAN] He say: Put down the baby.
[The LITTLE MAN shakes his head, and continues to dandle the
BABY.]
'Sag' Ihm': Instantly put down baby, and komm' mit us.
LITTLE MAN. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be--be--be d---d to
you!
[The ENGLISH clap their hands; the DUTCH YOUTH laughs. The
OFFICIAL is muttering, greatly incensed.]
GERMAN. He say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest.
Very smart he say.
[The LITTLE MAN rises, holding out the BABY, and advances a step
or two. The half-moon at once gives, increasing its size; the
AMERICAN climbs on to a higher trunk. The LITTLE MAN retires
and again sits down.]
OFFICIAL. [Stamping his foot] Die Mutter sall 'rested be for taking
out baby mit typhus. Ha! [To the LITTLE MAN] Put ze baby down!
Do you 'ear?
OFFICIAL. [To the frightened WOMAN] 'Warum haben Sie einen Buben mit
Typhus mit ausgebracht'?
AMERICAN. [Eagerly, from his perch] What was that? I don't want to
miss any.
GERMAN. He say: Why did you a baby with typhus with you bring out?
[He takes out the field-glasses slung around him and adjusts
them on the BABY.]
AMERICAN. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here.
[The OFFICIAL mounts, and looks through the glasses.]
AMERICAN. [To the LITTLE MAN] Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't
locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me.
[The LITTLE MAN fumbles Out the BABY'S little white foot.]
[The POLICEMAN lets her go, and she rushes to her BABY.]
[The BABY, exchanging the warmth of the LITTLE MAN for the
momentary chill of its MOTHER, wails.]
[The MOTHER, still hugging her BABY, who has stopped crying,
gazes at the LITTLE MAN, who sits dazedly looking up. Suddenly
she drops on her knees, and with her free hand lifts his booted
foot and kisses it.]
AMERICAN. [Waving his hat] Ra! Ra! [He descends swiftly, goes up
to the LITTLE MAN, whose arm the POLICEMAN has dropped, and takes his
hand] Brother; I am proud to know you. This is one of the greatest
moments I have ever experienced. [Displaying the LITTLE MAN to the
assembled company] I think I sense the situation when I say that we
all esteem it an honour to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of
this station here Along with our little friend. I guess we shall all
go home and treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing in
our museum of recollections. And perhaps this good woman will also
go home and wash the face of our little brother here. I am inspired
with a new faith in mankind. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to present
to you a sure-enough saint--only wants a halo, to be transfigured.
[To the LITTLE MAN] Stand right up.
[The LITTLE MAN stands up bewildered. They come about him. The
OFFICIAL bows to him, the POLICEMAN salutes him. The DUTCH
YOUTH shakes his head and laughs. The GERMAN draws himself up
very straight, and bows quickly twice. The ENGLISHMAN and his
WIFE approach at least two steps, then, thinking better of it,
turn to each other and recede. The MOTHER kisses his hand. The
PORTER returning with the Sanitatsmachine, turns it on from
behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of sunlight,
falls around the LITTLE MAN's head, transfiguring it as he
stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes.]
AMERICAN. [Rushing forward and dropping on his knees] Hold on just
a minute! Guess I'll take a snapshot of the miracle. [He adjusts
his pocket camera] This ought to look bully!
CURTAIN
CONTENTS:
HALL-MARKED
DEFEAT
THE SUN
PUNCH AND GO
HALL-MARKED
A SATIRIC TRIFLE
CHARACTERS
HERSELF.
LADY ELLA.
THE SQUIRE.
THE MAID.
MAUD.
THE RECTOR.
THE DOCTOR.
THE CABMAN.
HANNIBAL and EDWARD
HALL-MARKED
The room is pleasant, and along the back, where the verandah
runs, it seems all window, both French and casement. There is a
door right and a door left. The day is bright; the time
morning.
LADY ELLA. Don't bring Hannibal in till I know where she's put
Edward!
[HANNIBAL snuffles.]
LADY ELLA. Maud, do take him out! Tie him up. Here! [She takes
out a lace handkerchief ] No--something stronger! Poor darling
Edward! [To HANNIBAL] You are a bad dog!
[HANNIBAL snuffles.]
MAUD. Edward began it, Ella. [To HANNIBAL] Bad dog! Bad dog!
[HANNIBAL snuffles.]
[HANNIBAL snuffles.]
[Their husbands, THE SQUIRE and THE RECTOR, come hastening along
the verandah.]
MAUD. [To THE RECTOR] Smell him, Bertie! [To THE SQUIRE] You
might have that pond drained, Squire!
[She takes HANNIBAL out, and ties him to the verandah. THE
SQUIRE and RECTOR Come in. LADY ELLA is knocking on the door
left.]
LADY ELLA. Hannibal would have killed him, if she hadn't rushed in!
LADY ELLA. I can't think how she got Edward out of Hannibal's awful
mouth!
LADY ELLA. I must get the Vet. to Edward. [To THE SQUIRE] Tommy,
do exert yourself!
[MAUD re-enters.]
HER VOICE. [Through the door] The bleeding's stopped. Shall I send
him in to you?
[They listen.]
THE SQUIRE. All right, Ella; all right! He doesn't mean what you
mean!
THE SQUIRE. [Taking EDWARD by the collar, and holding his own nose]
Jove! Clever if he can smell anything but himself. Phew! She ought
to have the Victoria Cross for goin' in that pond.
MAUD. Quite.
SHE. Poor dears! They thought they were so safe in that nice pond!
MAUD. The fly's outside. Bertie, run and tell Jarvis to drive in
for the Vet.
SHE. Take this strop--he can't break that. And would these be any
good to you?
[SHE hands the braces to MAUD and goes out on to the verandah
and hastily away. MAUD, transferring the braces to the RECTOR,
goes out, draws HANNIBAL from the casement window, and secures
him with the strap. THE RECTOR sits suddenly with the braces in
his hands. There is a moment's peace.]
MAUD. Yes.
THE RECTOR. Really very good of her to lend her husband's--I was--
er--quite----
DOCTOR. How do, Lady Ella? How do, Squire?--how do, Rector? [To
MAUD] How de do? This the beastie? I see. Quite! Who'll hold him
for me?
HERSELF. D'you know, I think I'd better. It's so dreadful when it's
your own, isn't it? Shall we go in here, doctor? Come along, pretty
boy!
[She takes EDWARD, and they pass into the room, left.]
DOCTOR. Right as rain! She held him like an angel--he just licked
her, and never made a sound.
DOCTOR. Better leave 'em a minute. She's moppin' 'im off. [He
wrinkles his nose] Wonderful clever hands!
JARVIS. [To THE RECTOR] Beg pardon, sir. Is the little dog all
right?
MAUD. Yes.
JARVIS. [Touching his hat] Seein' you've missed your train, m'm,
shall I wait, and take you 'ome again?
MAUD. No.
JARVIS. Cert'nly, m'm. [He touches his hat with a circular gesture,
and is about to withdraw.]
JARVIS. Very nice gentleman, very nice lady. 'Elped me with my old
mare when she 'ad the 'ighsteria last week--couldn't 'a' been kinder
if they'd 'a' been angels from 'eaven. Wonderful fond o' dumb
animals, the two of 'em. I don't pay no attention to gossip, meself.
JARVIS. Yes, sir. I've--I've got a 'abit that way at my time o'
life.
[A silence.]
LADY ELLA. [Impulsively] Oh, bother! I'm sure she's all right.
And if she isn't, I don't care. She's been much too splendid.
THE SQUIRE. Must think of the village. Didn't quite like the
doctor's way of puttin' us off.
THE SQUIRE. H'm! Dash it! Yes! Can't forget the way she ran into
that stinkin' pond.
THE RECTOR. And I've got his braces! [He puts his hand to his
waist.]
MAUD. [Warningly] Bertie!
LADY ELLA. We can see she's a good sort. What does it matter?
THE RECTOR. Quite so--quite so! I shall hope it will turn out to
be----Er--thank you--Ha!
LADY ELLA. Our dog has been fighting with the Rector's, and Mrs
Challenger rescued him; she's bathing his ear. We're waiting to
thank her. You needn't----
THE SQUIRE. Phew! What a gorgon! I say, Rector, did you really
know a Challenger in the 'nineties?
MAUD. I shouldn't.
LADY ELLA. Yes. It's horrible not having the courage to take people
as they are.
THE SQUIRE. As they are? H'm! How can you till you know?
MAUD. Ella!
THE RECTOR. [His hand stealing to his waist] Well! It's a great
weight off my----!
[She stops short, and her face suddenly shoots forward at HER
hands that are holding HANNIBAL'S neck.]
[MAUD, whose eyes have never left those hands, tweaks LADY
ELLA's dress.]
[MAUD, catching his eye, taps the third finger of her left
hand.]
--er--he--does--er--er----
MAUD. [Turning to her husband, repeats the gesture with the low and
simple word] Look!
THE RECTOR. [With round eyes, severely] Hannibal! [He lifts him
bodily and carries him away.]
LADY ELLA. [At last] You mustn't think, I----You mustn't think, we
----Oh! I must just see they--don't let Edward get at Hannibal.
CURTAIN
DEFEAT
A TINY DRAMA
CHARACTERS
THE OFFICER.
THE GIRL.
DEFEAT
An empty room. The curtains drawn and gas turned low. The
furniture and walls give a colour-impression as of greens and
beetroot. There is a prevalence of plush. A fireplace on the
Left, a sofa, a small table; the curtained window is at the
back. On the table, in a common pot, stands a little plant of
maidenhair fern, fresh and green.
Enter from the door on the Right, a GIRL and a YOUNG OFFICER in
khaki. The GIRL wears a discreet dark dress, hat, and veil, and
stained yellow gloves. The YOUNG OFFICER is tall, with a fresh
open face, and kindly eager blue eyes; he is a little lame. The
GIRL, who is evidently at home, moves towards the gas jet to
turn it up, then changes her mind, and going to the curtains,
draws them apart and throws up the window. Bright moonlight
comes flooding in. Outside are seen the trees of a little
Square. She stands gazing out, suddenly turns inward with a
shiver.
YOUNG OFF. I say; what's the matter? You were crying when I spoke
to you.
GIRL. [Taking of hat and veil; her hair is yellowish and crinkly]
Cheer up! You are not lonelee, like me.
GIRL. The horrible war--all the misery is because of the war. When
will it end?
YOUNG OFF. Really! I never met a Russian girl. [The GIRL gives him
another quick look] I say, is it as bad as they make out?
GIRL. [Slipping her hand through his arm] Not when I haf anyone as
ni-ice as you; I never haf had, though. [She smiles, and her smile,
like her speech, is slow and confining] You stopped because I was
sad, others stop because I am gay. I am not fond of men at all.
When you know--you are not fond of them.
YOUNG OFF. Well, you hardly know them at their best, do you? You
should see them in the trenches. By George! They're simply
splendid--officers and men, every blessed soul. There's never been
anything like it--just one long bit of jolly fine self-sacrifice;
it's perfectly amazing.
GIRL. [Turning her blue-grey eyes on him] I expect you are not the
last at that. You see in them what you haf in yourself, I think.
YOUNG OFF. Oh, not a bit; you're quite out! I assure you when we
made the attack where I got wounded there wasn't a single man in my
regiment who wasn't an absolute hero. The way they went in--never
thinking of themselves--it was simply ripping.
GIRL. Ah! You are not a mean man. How I hate mean men!
[The YOUNG OFFICER doesn't like this, and frowns. The GIRL
looks a little scared.]
YOUNG OFF. [Abruptly] About being lonely? Haven't you any Russian
friends?
GIRL. [With another quick look tat him] I go there always when I
haf the money.
YOUNG OFF. What! Are you as badly on the rocks as that?
GIRL. But you would be very glad if you had killed some.
YOUNG OFF. Oh, glad? I don't think so. We're all in the same boat,
so far as that's concerned. We're not glad to kill each other--not
most of us. We do our job--that's all.
YOUNG OFF. Yes, I have been--in the trenches. But one's ashamed
with all the others.
GIRL. Ah! Yees! Yees! You are all comrades there. What is it
like for me here, do you think, where everybody hates and despises
me, and would catch me and put me in prison, perhaps. [Her breast
heaves.]
GIRL. [In a smothered voice] You are the first who has been kind to
me for so long! I will tell you the truth--I am not Rooshian at all
--I am German.
GIRL. [Peering at him] Another man said that to me. But he was
thinkin' of his fun. You are a veree ni-ice boy; I am so glad I met
you. You see the good in people, don't you? That is the first thing
in the world--because--there is really not much good in people, you
know.
GIRL. Cyneec? How long do you think I would live if I was not a
cyneec? I should drown myself to-morrow. Perhaps there are good
people, but, you see, I don't know them.
GIRL. No, I should think not, with your face. Well, suppose I am
still a good girl, as I was once, you know; and you took me to your
mother and your sisters and you said: "Here is a little German girl
that has no work, and no money, and no friends." They will say: "Oh!
how sad! A German girl!" And they will go and wash their hands.
GIRL. No. They would not take a German, even if she was good.
Besides, I don't want to be good any more--I am not a humbug; I have
learned to be bad. Aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy?
She puts her face close to his. Her eyes trouble him; he draws back.
YOUNG OFF. Don't. I'd rather not, if you don't mind. [She looks at
him fixedly, with a curious inquiring stare] It's stupid. I don't
know--but you see, out there, and in hospital, life's different.
It's--it's--it isn't mean, you know. Don't come too close.
YOUNG OFF. Oh, go on! Talk away; I'm not obliged to believe you,
and I don't.
[She, too, is on her feet now, leaning against the wall; her
dark dress and white face just touched by the slanting
moonlight. Her voice comes again, slow and soft and bitter.]
GIRL. Well, look here, ni-ice boy, what sort of world is it, where
millions are being tortured, for no fault of theirs, at all? A
beautiful world, isn't it? 'Umbog! Silly rot, as you boys call it.
You say it is all "Comrades" and braveness out there at the front,
and people don't think of themselves. Well, I don't think of myself
veree much. What does it matter? I am lost now, anyway. But I
think of my people at 'ome; how they suffer and grieve. I think of
all the poor people there, and here, how lose those they love, and
all the poor prisoners. Am I not to think of them? And if I do, how
am I to believe it a beautiful world, ni-ice boy?
GIRL. Look here! We haf one life each, and soon it is over. Well,
I think that is lucky.
GIRL. [Softly] Ah! You think the war is fought for the future; you
are giving your lives for a better world, aren't you?
YOUNG OFF. We must fight till we win.
GIRL. Till you win. My people think that too. All the peoples
think that if they win the world will be better. But it will not,
you know; it will be much worse, anyway.
[He turns away from her, and catches up his cap. Her voice
follows him.]
[He has taken some notes from his tunic pocket; he puts then on
the table and goes up to her.]
YOUNG OFF. [With a shrug] If you must know--because you upset me.
[He bends, puts his lips to her forehead. But as he takes them
away she throws her head back, presses her mouth to his, and
clings to him.]
GIRL. [Laughing] You are a funny boy; but you are veree good. Talk
to me a little, then. No one talks to me. Tell me, haf you seen
many German prisoners?
GIRL. Did you ever see the Rhine? It will be wonderful to-night.
The moonlight will be the same there, and in Rooshia too, and France,
everywhere; and the trees will look the same as here, and people will
meet under them and make love just as here. Oh! isn't it stupid, the
war? As if it were not good to be alive!
YOUNG OFF. You can't tell how good it is to be alive till you're
facing death. You don't live till then. And when a whole lot of you
feel like that--and are ready to give their lives for each other,
it's worth all the rest of life put together.
YOUNG OFF. Attacking across open ground: four machine bullets got me
at one go off.
GIRL. Weren't you veree frightened when they ordered you to attack?
YOUNG OFF. It was great. We did laugh that morning. They got me
much too soon, though--a swindle.
YOUNG OFF. Yes. And what do you think was the first thing I was
conscious of next morning? My old Colonel bending over me and giving
me a squeeze of lemon. If you knew my Colonel you'd still believe in
things. There is something, you know, behind all this evil. After
all, you can only die once, and, if it's for your country--all the
better!
YOUNG OFF. Yes; you think so, but it isn't, you know, or you
wouldn't have 'been crying when I met you.
YOUNG OFF. All the same; just now you were pitying your folk at
home, and prisoners and that.
GIRL. Yees; because they suffer. Those who suffer are like me--I
pity myself, that's all; I am different from your English women. I
see what I am doing; I do not let my mind become a turnip just
because I am no longer moral.
YOUNG OFF. Nor your heart either, for all you say.
GIRL. Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But all that about love
is 'umbog. We love ourselves, noting more.
GIRL. Take them--I will not haf your English money--take them.
Suddenly she tears them across, twice, thrice, lets the bits.
flutter to the floor, and turns her back on him. He stands
looking at her leaning against the plush-covered table, her head
down, a dark figure in a dark room, with the moonlight
sharpening her outline. Hardly a moment he stays, then makes
for the door. When he is gone, she still stands there, her chin
on her breast, with the sound in her ears of cheering, of
hurrying feet, and voices crying: "'Eavy Defeat!" stands, in the
centre of a pattern made by the fragments of the torn-up notes,
staring out unto the moonlight, seeing not this hated room and
the hated Square outside, but a German orchard, and herself, a
little girl, plucking apples, a big dog beside her; and a
hundred other pictures, such as the drowning see. Then she
sinks down on the floor, lays her forehead on the dusty carpet,
and presses her body to it. Mechanically, she sweeps together
the scattered fragments of notes, assembling them with the dust
into a little pile, as of fallen leaves, and dabbling in it with
her fingers, while the tears run down her cheeks.
THE SUN
A SCENE
CHARACTERS
THE GIRL.
THE MAN.
THE SOLDIER.
THE SUN
THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all.
THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o'
me.
THE GIRL. I ought to 'a waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'.
THE MAN. [Passionately] And what about me? Aren't I been in the
fightin'--earned all I could get?
THE MAN. [Gripping her shoulder] Daisy, don't you never go back on
me, or I should kill you, and 'im too.
[THE GIRL looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his.]
THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us!
THE MAN [Dully] What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide.
THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him home.
THE MAN. Not I. I've not got the wind up. I've seen as much of
hell as he has, any day. What like is he?
THE GIRL. [Dully] I dunno, just. I've not seen him these three
years. I dunno no more, since I've known you.
THE MAN. Daisy! If I'd known you out there, I never could 'a stuck
it. They'd 'a got me for a deserter. That's how I love you!
THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your hand to 'im! Promise!
THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not
always, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that.
THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynch pins out, I tell you.
THE MAN. [Grimly] Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want
we take, now; there's no one else to give it us, and there's no
fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom of things.
THE MAN. [Tenderly] No, Daisy, no! The river's handy. One more or
less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me neither. [He takes out a knife.]
THE GIRL. [Seizing his hand] Oh, no! Give it to me, Jim!
THE MAN. [Smiling] No fear! [He puts it away] Shan't 'ave no need
for it like as not. All right, little Daisy; you can't be expected
to see things like what we do. What's life, anyway? I've seen a
thousand lives taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on the
wires like flies on a flypaper. I've been as good as dead meself a
hundred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. He's safe,
if 'e don't get my blood up. If he does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor
anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober.
THE GIRL. [Softly] Jim, you won't go fightin' in the sun, with the
birds all callin'?
THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daisy, I
love you. I love your hair. I love your eyes. I love you.
THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you
in all the world.
THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daisy. I'm here!
SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things
that'd take me years to tell. Have you missed me, Daisy?
[THE MAN, with a swift movement steps along the hedge to THE
GIRL'S side.]
SOLDIER. [Leaping over the stile] 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun
don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is he, Daisy?
THE MAN. [Who has half drawn his knife] Don't laugh at me, I tell
you.
SOLDIER. Not at you, not at you. [He looks from one to the other]
I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get it, mate?
SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh in
me you can't put out, black as you look! Good-bye, little Daisy!
SOLDIER. Look 'ere, mate; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a girl
cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much of
sorrer. You and me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack.
Shake!
THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er!
SOLDIER. [Slowly] Mate, you done your bit, an' I done mine. It's
took us two ways, seemin'ly.
THE MAN. [With clenched fists] I don't want 'is charity. I only
want what I can take.
SOLDIER. You see, mate! Put your 'ands down. There's nothin' for
it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, mate!
He sings, and goes along the path, and the song fades away.
THE GIRL. [Looking down the path with her hands clasped] The sun has
touched 'im, Jim!
CURTAIN
PUNCH AND GO
A LITTLE COMEDY
PUNCH AND GO
The Scene is the stage of the theatre set for the dress
rehearsal of the little play: "Orpheus with his Lute." The
curtain is up and the audience, though present, is not supposed
to be. The set scene represents the end section of a room, with
wide French windows, Back Centre, fully opened on to an apple
orchard in bloom. The Back Wall with these French windows, is
set only about ten feet from the footlights, and the rest of the
stage is orchard. What is visible of the room would indicate
the study of a writing man of culture. ( Note.--If found
advantageous for scenic purposes, this section of room can be
changed to a broad verandah or porch with pillars supporting its
roof.) In the wall, Stage Left, is a curtained opening, across
which the curtain is half drawn. Stage Right of the French
windows is a large armchair turned rather towards the window,
with a book rest attached, on which is a volume of the
Encyclopedia Britannica, while on a stool alongside are writing
materials such as a man requires when he writes with a pad on
his knees. On a little table close by is a reading-lamp with a
dark green shade. A crude light from the floats makes the stage
stare; the only person on it is MR FORESON, the stage manager,
who is standing in the centre looking upwards as if waiting for
someone to speak. He is a short, broad man, rather blank, and
fatal. From the back of the auditorium, or from an empty box,
whichever is most convenient, the producer, MR BLEWITT VANE, a
man of about thirty four, with his hair brushed back, speaks.
VANE. Mr Foreson?
FORESON. Sir?
[A pause.]
VANE. For goodness sake, stand by! We'll do that lighting again.
Check your floats.
Mr Foreson!
Mr Foreson!
VANE. Look!
VANE. Once for all, what I want is the orchard in full moonlight,
and the room dark except for the reading lamp. Cut off your front
battens.
[ELECTRICS withdraws Left. FORESON walks off the Stage into the
Right wings.]
Mr Foreson!
VANE. See this marked right. Now, come on with it! I want to get
some beauty into this!
FORESON. Sir?
VANE. Look--at--that--shade!
ELECTRICS. Hallo!
VANE. My God!
Mr Foreson.
FORESON. Sir?
ELECTRICS. Yes.
VANE. Now pass to the change. Take your floats off altogether.
VANE. Cut off that lamp. [The lamp goes out] Put a little amber in
your back batten. Mark that! Now pass to the end. Mr Foreson!
FORESON. Sir?
VANE. Give us your first lighting-lamp on. And then the two
changes. Quick as you can. Put some pep into it. Mr Foreson!
FORESON. Sir?
VANE. Stand for me where Miss Hellgrove comes in. FORESON crosses
to the window. No, no!--by the curtain.
[FORESON takes his stand by the curtain; and suddenly the three
lighting effects are rendered quickly and with miraculous
exactness.]
FORESON. Herb! Call the boss, and tell beginners to stand by.
Sharp, now!
VANE. Mr Foreson.
VANE. [To FRUST] Now, sir, we're all ready for rehearsal of
"Orpheus with his Lute."
FRUST. [In a cosmopolitan voice] "Orphoos with his loot!" That his
loot, Mr Vane? Why didn't he pinch something more precious? Has
this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any "pep" in it?
FRUST. I'd thought of "Pop goes the Weasel" with little Miggs. We
kind of want a cock-tail before "Louisa loses," Mr Vane.
FRUST. This your lighting? It's a bit on the spiritool side. I've
left my glass. Guess I'll sit in the front row. Ha'f a minute. Who
plays this Orphoos?
VANE. Guy Toone plays the Professor; Vanessa Hellgrove his wife;
Maude Hopkins the faun.
FRUST. Pretty?
VANE. Quite.
FRUST. Arty?
FRUST. We-ell, if it's got punch and go, that'll be enough for me.
Let's get to it!
[He extinguishes his cigar and descends the steps and sits in
the centre of the front row of the stalls.]
VANE. Mr Foreson?
[The voice of his WIFE begins again, gets as far as "made them
sing" and stops dead, just as the PROFESSOR's pen is beginning
to scratch. And suddenly, drawing the curtain further aside]
PROF. Aha!
PROF. What?
PROF. That's what I'm, trying to say here. The Orpheus legend
symbolizes to this day the call of Beauty! [He takes up his pen,
while she continues to stare out at the moonlight. Yawning] Dash
it! I get so sleepy; I wish you'd tell them to make the after-dinner
coffee twice as strong.
WIFE. I will.
PROF. Quite. I might develop that: "We owe it our revolt against
the academic; or our disgust at 'big business,' and all the grossness
of commercial success. We owe----". [His voice peters out.]
WIFE. It--love.
WIFE. [To herself and the moonlight] Orpheus with his lute!
PROF. [With a little dry laugh] Not bad! Not bad! The Christian
virtues and the dew. [His hand takes up his pen, his face droops
over his paper, while his wife looks at him with a very strange face]
"How far we can trace the modern resurgence against the Christian
virtues to the symbolic figures of Orpheus, Pan, Apollo, and Bacchus
might be difficult to estimate, but----"
[During those words his WIFE has passed through the window into
the moonlight, and her voice rises, singing as she goes:
"Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees . . ."]
FRUST. Aha!
[The FAUN darts his head towards where, from Right, comes slowly
the figure of a Greek youth, holding a lute or lyre which his
fingers strike, lifting out little wandering strains as of wind
whinnying in funnels and odd corners. The FAUN darts down
behind the stone, and the youth stands by the boulder playing
his lute. Slowly while he plays the whitened trunk of an
apple-tree is seen, to dissolve into the body of a girl with
bare arms and feet, her dark hair unbound, and the face of the
PROFESSOR'S WIFE. Hypnotized, she slowly sways towards him,
their eyes fixed on each other, till she is quite close. Her
arms go out to him, cling round his neck and, their lips meet.
But as they meet there comes a gasp and the PROFESSOR with
rumpled hair is seen starting from his chair, his hands thrown
up; and at his horrified "Oh!" the Stage is darkened with a
black-out.]
FRUST. Gee!
PROF. Phew! Beastly dream! Boof! H'm! [He moves to the window
and calls.] Blanche! Blanche! [To himself] Made trees-made trees!
[Calling] Blanche!
WIFE. Yes.
PROF. Why?
PROF. Good heavens, Blanche, what's the matter with you to-night?
WIFE. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look! Orpheus with his
lute, and nobody can see him. Beauty, beauty, beauty--we let it go.
[With sudden passion] Beauty, love, the spring. They should be in
us, and they're all outside.
PROF. Well, I'll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we
might have a jaunt. How about a theatre? There's a thing--they say
--called "Chinese Chops," that's been running years.
PROF. Very queer the power suggestion has over the mind. Very
queer! There's nothing really in animism, you know, except the
curious shapes rocks, trees and things take in certain lights--effect
they have on our imagination. [He looks up] What's the matter now?
[Her eyes waver to him again, and the FAUN vanishes. She turns
again to look at the boulder; there is nothing there; a little
shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees. She catches one
of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain.]
FORESON. Sir?
[He and FRUST leave their seats and ascend on to the Stage, on
which are collecting the four Players.]
[The footlights go up, and the blue goes out; the light is crude
as at the beginning.]
FRUST. I'd like to meet Miss Hellgrove. [She comes forward eagerly
and timidly. He grasps her hand] Miss Hellgrove, I want to say I
thought that fine--fine. [Her evident emotion and pleasure warm him
so that he increases his grasp and commendation] Fine. It quite got
my soft spots. Emotional. Fine!
VANE. Fleetway.
FRUST. [A little balder in the eye] There wasn't much to it, but
what there was was fine. Mr Toone.
MISS HOPK. Oh! Thank you, Mr Frost. How nice of you to say so. I
do so enjoy playing him.
FRUST. [His eye growing bald] Mr Foreson, I thought the way you
fixed that tree was very cunning; I certainly did. Got a match?
[He takes a match from FORESON, and lighting a very long cigar,
walks up Stage through the French windows followed by FORESON,
and examines the apple-tree.]
[The two Actors depart, but Miss HELLGROVE runs from where she
has been lingering, by the curtain, to VANE, Stage Right.]
VANE. [Pleased and happy] Yes, yes. All right--you were splendid.
He liked it. He quite----
MISS H. [Clasping her hand] How wonderful Oh, Mr Vane, thank you!
[She clasps his hands; but suddenly, seeing that FRUST is coming
back, fits across into the curtain and vanishes.]
[The Stage, in the crude light, as empty now save for FRUST,
who, in the French windows, Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and
VANE, Stage Right, who is looking up into the wings, Stage
Left.]
VANE. [Calling up] That lighting's just right now, Miller. Got it
marked carefully?
VANE. Good. [To FRUST who as coming down] Well, sir? So glad----
VANE. Yes.
FRUST. Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine. But I'm blamed
if I know what it's all about.
FRUST. Get him on the 'phone, and put it into rehearsal right now.
FRUST. Guess we can't take liberties with our public, Mr Vane. They
want pep.
VANE. Mr Frust, I--I beg. I've taken a lot of trouble with this
little play. It's good. It's that girl's chance--and I----
FRUST. We-ell! I certainly thought she was fine. Now, you 'phone
up Miggs, and get right along with it. I've only one rule, sir!
Give the Public what it wants; and what the Public wants is punch and
go. They've got no use for Beauty, Allegory, all that high-brow
racket. I know 'em as I know my hand.
VANE. Mr Frost, the Public would take this, I'm sure they would; I'm
convinced of it. You underrate them.
FRUST. Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this my theatre? I tell
you, I can't afford luxuries.
VANE. But it--it moved you, sir; I saw it. I was watching.
FRUST. [With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge I'm not the average
man. Before "Louisa Loses" the Public'll want a stimulant. "Pop
goes the Weasel" will suit us fine. So--get right along with it.
I'll go get some lunch.
[As he vanishes into the wings, Left, MISS HELLGROVE covers her
face with her hands. A little sob escaping her attracts VANE'S
attention. He takes a step towards her, but she flies.]
VANE. [Dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up]
Damnation!
FORESON. Sir?
VANE. Mr Foreson!
VANE. This is scrapped. [With savagery] Tell 'em to set the first
act of "Louisa Loses," and put some pep into it.
[He goes out through the French windows with the wind still in
his hair.]
ELECTRICS. Hallo!
[He stands in the centre of the Stage with eyes uplifted as the
curtain descends.]
THE END
FIFTH SERIES
CONTENTS:
A Family Man
Loyalties
Windows
A FAMILY MAN
By John Galsworthy
CHARACTERS
ACT I.
SCENE I. BUILDER'S Study. After breakfast.
SCENE II. A Studio.
ACT III.
SCENE I. THE MAYOR'S Study. 10am the following day.
SCENE II. BUILDER'S Study. The same. Noon.
SCENE III. BUILDER'S Study. The same. Evening.
ACT I
SCENE I
MRS BUILDER. [Arranging the flowers] Aren't you going to the office
this morning?
BUILDER. Well, no, I was going to take a couple of days off. If you
feel at the top of your form, take a rest--then you go on feeling at the
top. [He looks at her, as if calculating] What do you say to looking up
Athene?
MRS BUILDER. [Palpably astonished] Athene? But you said you'd done
with her?
BUILDER. [Smiling] Six weeks ago; but, dash it, one can't have done with
one's own daughter. That's the weakness of an Englishman; he can't keep
up his resentments. In a town like this it doesn't do to have her living
by herself. One of these days it'll get out we've had a row. That
wouldn't do me any good.
MRS BUILDER. Yes. [Very still] But do you think it's dignified, John?
BUILDER. A few weeks' discomfort soon cures that. She can't live on her
pittance. She'll have found that out by now. Get your things on and
come with me at twelve o'clock.
BUILDER. Not if I'm nice to her. A child could play with me to-day.
Shall I tell you a secret, Julia?
BUILDER. The Mayor's coming round at eleven, and I know perfectly well
what he's coming for.
BUILDER. I'm to be nominated for Mayor next month. Harris tipped me the
wink at the last Council meeting. Not so bad at forty-seven--h'm? I can
make a thundering good Mayor. I can do things for this town that nobody
else can.
BUILDER. Is she--er--is she all right? We don't want any trouble with
Topping.
MRS BUILDER. There will be none with--Topping.
[She opens the door Left.]
BUILDER fills his second pipe. He is just taking up the paper again
when the door from the hall is opened, and the manservant TOPPING,
dried, dark, sub-humorous, in a black cut-away, announces:
BUILDER. [Rising] Hallo, Mayor! What brings you so early? Glad to see
you. Morning, Harris!
The MAYOR takes a cigar HARRIS a cigarette from his own case.
MAYOR. [With his first puff] After you left the Council the other day,
Builder, we came to a decision.
MAYOR. We shall see. We want to nominate you for Mayor. You willin' to
stand?
MAYOR. The only alternative is Chantrey; but he's a light weight, and
rather too much County. What's your objection?
HARRIS. Mr Chantrey's a public school and University man, Sir; he's not
what I call ambitious.
MAYOR. But you've got all the qualifications--big business, family man,
live in the town, church-goer, experience on the Council and the Bench.
Better say "yes," Builder.
MAYOR. Dangerous times, these. Authority questioned all over the place.
We want a man that feels his responsibilities, and we think we've got him
in you.
BUILDER. Very good of you, Mayor. I don't know, I'm sure. I must think
of the good of the town.
BUILDER. First-rate.
MAYOR. [Rises] That's right. Well, if you'd like to talk it over with
Chantrey to-morrow. With all this extremism, we want a man of principle
and common sense.
HARRIS. We want a man that'll grasp the nettle, sir--and that's you.
BUILDER. Well, Mayor, I'll think it over, and let you have an answer.
You know my faults, and you know my qualities, such as they are. I'm
just a plain Englishman.
MAYOR. We don't want anything better than that. I always say the great
point about an Englishman is that he's got bottom; you may knock him off
his pins, but you find him on 'em again before you can say "Jack
Robinson." He may have his moments of aberration, but he's a sticker.
Morning, Builder, morning! Hope you'll say "yes."
When the door is dosed BUILDER stands a moment quite still with a
gratified smile on his face; then turns and scrutinises himself in
the glass over the hearth. While he is doing so the door from the
dining-room is opened quietly and CAMILLE comes in. BUILDER,
suddenly seeing her reflected in the mirror, turns.
CAMILLE. And the Englishman have his life in the family--the Frenchman
have his life outside.
BUILDER. Oh! So that's your view of us! [His eyes rest on her,
attracted but resentful].
BUILDER. [Half conscious of being led on] Are you from Paris?
BUILDER. [Dubiously] Well, it's all the same to us. [He takes a letter
up from the table] You might take this to Mrs Builder too. [Again their
fingers touch, and there is a suspicion of encounter between their eyes.]
He compresses his lips, and is settling back into his chair, when
the door from the hall is opened and his daughter MAUD comes in; a
pretty girl, rather pale, with fine eyes. Though her face has a
determined cast her manner at this moment is by no means decisive.
She has a letter in her hand, and advances rather as if she were
stalking her father, who, after a "Hallo, Maud!" has begun to read
his paper.
BUILDER. [Not lowering the paper] Well? I know that tone. What do you
want--money?
MAUD, advancing, takes it, then seems to find what she has come for
more on her chest than ever.
MAUD sits down Left of table and prepares to take down the letter.
BUILDER. Look here! Are you trying to get a rise out of me?--because
you won't succeed this morning.
MAUD. "I know I'm the best man for the place, and so do you--"
BUILDER. Come now, that won't do--you're never in the house from six to
seven.
She takes up the letter she brought in and seems on the point of
broaching it.
BUILDER. You can't irritate me more than by having secrets. See what
that led to in your sister's case. And, by the way, I'm going to put an
end to that this morning. You'll be glad to have her back, won't you?
BUILDER. Your mother and I are going round to Athene at twelve o'clock.
I shall make it up with her. She must come back here.
MAUD. [Aghast, but hiding it] Oh! It's--it's no good, father. She
won't.
BUILDER. We shall see that. I've quite got over my tantrum, and I
expect she has.
MAUD. [Earnestly] Father! I do really assure you she won't; it's only
wasting your time, and making you eat humble pie.
BUILDER. Well, I can eat a good deal this morning. It's all nonsense!
A family's a family.
MAUD. [More and more disturbed, but hiding it] Father, if I were you,
I wouldn't-really! It's not-dignified.
BUILDER. You can leave me to judge of that. It's not dignified for the
Mayor of this town to have an unmarried daughter as young as Athene
living by herself away from home. This idea that she's on a visit won't
wash any longer. Now finish that letter--"worthy, but you may rest
assured that I shall do my best to sustain the--er--dignity of the
office." [MAUD types desperately.] Got that? "And--er--preserve the
tradition so worthily--" No-- "so staunchly"--er--er--
MAUD. Upheld.
MAUD. Well, she did! And so do-- [Checking herself] And so you see
it'll only make you ridiculous to go.
BUILDER. The fact is, you girls have been spoiled, and you enjoy
twisting my tail; but you can't make me roar this morning. I'm too
pleased with things. You'll see, it'll be all right with Athene.
BUILDER. [Grimly humorous] Well! Get it off your chest. What's that
letter about?
MAUD. [Failing again and crumpling the letter behind her back]
Oh! nothing.
MAUD. Sometimes.
BUILDER. Well?
MAUD. Nobody much. There isn't anybody here to associate with. It's
all hopelessly behind the times.
BUILDER. Oh! you think so! That's the inflammatory fiction you pick up.
I tell you what, young woman--the sooner you and your sister get rid of
your silly notions about not living at home, and making your own way, the
sooner you'll both get married and make it. Men don't like the new
spirit in women--they may say they do, but they don't.
BUILDER. Well, I'm very ordinary. If you keep your eyes open, you'll
soon see that.
BUILDER. That's not the way to put it. [Tapping out his pipe] Women in
your class have never had to face realities.
BUILDER. [Good-humouredly] Well, I'll bet you what you like, Athene's
dose of reality will have cured her.
BUILDER. You'd better not. Athene will come home, and only too glad to
do it. Ring for Topping and order the car at twelve.
As he opens the door to pass out, MAUD starts forward, but checks
herself.
She goes to the bell and rings. Then goes back to the table, and
writes an address on a bit of paper.
MAUD. [With the paper] Yes. Look here, Topping! Can you manage--
on your bicycle--now at once? I want to send a message to Miss Athene
--awfully important. It's just this: "Look out! Father is coming."
[Holding out the paper] Here's her address. You must get there and away
again by twelve. Father and mother want the car then to go there. Order
it before you go. It won't take you twenty minutes on your bicycle.
It's down by the river near the ferry. But you mustn't be seen by them
either going or coming.
TOPPING. If I should fall into their hands, Miss, shall I eat the
despatch?
MAUD. M--m--No.
TOPPING. Very good, Miss Maud. [Conning the address] "Briary Studio,
River Road. Look out! Father is coming!" I'll go out the back way.
Any answer?
MAUD. No.
SCENE II
From the kitchen door, Left, comes the very young person, ANNIE, in
blotting-paper blue linen, with a white Dutch cap. She is pretty, her
cheeks rosy, and her forehead puckered. She opens the street door.
Standing outside is TOPPING. He steps in a pace or two.
TOPPING. Mrs Herringhame? Oh! young lady with dark hair and large
expressive eyes?
TOPPING. Let's see. [He examines the drawing] Mrs Herringhame, you
said?
TOPPING. Take a message. I can't wait. From Miss Maud Builder. "Look
out! Father is coming." Now, whichever of 'em comes in first--that's
the message, and don't you forget it.
TOPPING. Keep your head. I must hop it. From Miss Maud Builder.
"Look out! Father is coming."
He nods, turns and goes, pulling the door to behind him. ANNIE
stands "baff" for a moment.
ANNIE. Ah!
She goes across to the bedroom on the Right, and soon returns with a
suit of pyjamas, a toothbrush, a pair of slippers and a case of
razors, which she puts on the table, and disappears into the
kitchen. She reappears with a bread pan, which she deposits in the
centre of the room; then crosses again to the bedroom, and once more
reappears with a clothes brush, two hair brushes, and a Norfolk
jacket. As she stuffs all these into the bread pan and bears it
back into the kitchen, there is the sound of a car driving up and
stopping. ANNIE reappears at the kitchen door just as the knocker
sounds.
ANNIE. Vexin' and provokin'! [Knocker again. She opens the door] Oh!
BUILDER. My good girl, not "Oh! Sir, no, sir." Simply: No, Sir. See?
BUILDER. They why do you say so? [About to mutter "She's an idiot!" he
looks at her blushing face and panting figure, pats her on the shoulder
and says] Never mind; don't be nervous.
MRS BUILDER. [With a side look at her husband and a faint smile] Yes;
you can go.
She turns and hurries out into the kitchen, Left. BUILDER gazes
after her, and MRS BUILDER gazes at BUILDER with her faint smile.
BUILDER. [Placing a chair for his wife, and sitting down himself] Well,
we must wait, I suppose. Confound that Nixon legacy! If Athene hadn't
had that potty little legacy left her, she couldn't have done this.
Well, I daresay it's all spent by now. I made a mistake to lose my
temper with her.
BUILDER. That's very nice and placid; sort of thing you women who live
sheltered lives can say. I often wonder if you women realise the strain
on a business man.
MRS BUILDER. [In her softly ironical voice] It seems a shame to add the
strain of family life.
BUILDER. You've always been so passive. When I want a thing, I've got
to have it.
MRS BUILDER. [To his disappearing form] Do you think you ought, John?
What now?
She follows into the bedroom. The maid ANNIE puts her head out of
the kitchen door; she comes out a step as if to fly; then, at
BUILDER'S voice, shrinks back into the kitchen.
MRS BUILDER. John! Don't! [Getting between him and the kitchen door]
It's not dignified.
BUILDER. I don't care a damn.
MRS BUILDER. John, you mustn't. Athene has the tiny beginning of a
moustache, you know.
BUILDER. What! I shall stay and clear this up if I have to wait a week.
Men who let their daughters--! This age is the limit. [He makes a
vicious movement with the strop, as though laying it across someone's
back.]
MRS BUILDER. She would never stand that. Even wives object, nowadays.
BUILDER. [Grimly] The war's upset everything. Women are utterly out
of hand. Why the deuce doesn't she come?
BUILDER. Don't stand there opposing everything I say! I'll go and have
another look--[He is going towards the bedroom when the sound of a
latchkey in the outer door arrests him. He puts the strop and brush
behind his back, and adds in a low voice] Here she is!
MRS BUILDER has approached him, and they have both turned towards
the opening door. GUY HERRINGHAME comes in. They are a little out
of his line of sight, and he has shut the door before he sees them.
When he does, his mouth falls open, and his hand on to the knob of
the door. He is a comely young man in Harris tweeds. Moreover, he
is smoking. He would speak if he could, but his surprise is too
excessive. BUILDER. Well, sir?
GUY. [Recovering a little] I was about to say the same to you, sir.
BUILDER. [Very red from repression] These rooms are not yours, are
they?
GUY. My sister's.
BUILDER. Your--you--!
BUILDER. Will you kindly tell me why your sister signs her drawings by
the name of my daughter, Athene Builder--and has a photograph of my wife
hanging there?
The YOUNG MAN looks at MRS BUILDER and winces, but recovers himself.
GUY. My sister's.
BUILDER. No. Then perhaps you'll tell me what these mean? [He takes
out the strop and shaving stick].
GUY. Now--directly.
GUY. [Folding his arms] I'm not going to say another word.
BUILDER. I am.
BUILDER. Don't put your oar in! I've had wonderful patience so far.
[He puts his boot through a drawing] Art! This is what comes of it! Are
you an artist?
GUY. No; a flying man. The truth is--
BUILDER. I don't want to hear you speak the truth. I'll wait for my
daughter.
GUY. I quite understand that, sir. But, as a man of the world, I hope
you'll take a pull before she comes, if you mean to stay.
GUY. [Soothingly] Don't try, sir. [He jerks up his chin, listening] I
think that's her. [Goes to the door] Yes. Now, please! [He opens the
door] Your father and mother, Athene.
ATHENE. Oh! How are you, mother dear? This is rather a surprise.
Father always keeps his word, so I certainly didn't expect him. [She
looks steadfastly at BUILDER, but does not approach].
BUILDER. In law?
ATHENE. No.
ATHENE. Mother dear, will you go into the other room with Guy? [She
points to the door Right].
BUILDER. Why?
ATHENE. Because I would rather she didn't hear the reason.
Guy follows MRS BUILDER, and after hesitation at the door they go
out into the bedroom.
ATHENE. Well, father, if you want to know the real reason, it's--you.
ATHENE. Guy wants to marry me. In fact, we--But I had such a stunner of
marriage from watching you at home, that I--
BUILDER. Me?
ATHENE. Yes. You and mother, and other things; all sorts of things--
BUILDER. [Taking out a handkerchief and wiping his brow] I really think
you're mad.
BUILDER. Don't "dear" me! What have you noticed? D'you mean I'm not a
good husband and father?
ATHENE. Look at mother. I suppose you can't, now; you're too used to
her.
ATHENE. That; and the production of such as me. And it isn't good
enough, father. You shouldn't have set us such a perfect example.
BUILDER. You're talking the most arrant nonsense I ever heard. [He
lifts his hands] I've a good mind to shake it out of you.
Confess that being a good husband and father has tried you terribly. It
has us, you know.
BUILDER. [Taking refuge in sarcasm] When you've quite done being funny,
perhaps you'll tell me why you've behaved like a common street flapper.
ATHENE. [Simply] I couldn't bear to think of Guy as a family man.
That's all--absolutely. It's not his fault; he's been awfully anxious to
be one.
BUILDER. What do you want with wills of your own till you're married?
ATHENE. I don't ever mean to learn to know when Guy's in the right.
Mother's forty-one, and twenty-three years of that she's been your wife.
It's a long time, father. Don't you ever look at her face?
BUILDER. With such views about marriage, what business had you to go
near a man? Come, now!
ATHENE. You don't know Maud any more than you knew me. She's got a will
of her own too, I can tell you.
BUILDER. Now, look here, Athene. It's always been my way to face
accomplished facts. What's done can't be undone; but it can be remedied.
You must marry this young----at once, before it gets out. He's behaved
like a ruffian: but, by your own confession, you've behaved worse.
You've been bitten by this modern disease, this--this, utter lack of
common decency. There's an eternal order in certain things, and marriage
is one of them; in fact, it's the chief. Come, now. Give me a promise,
and I'll try my utmost to forget the whole thing.
ATHENE. When we quarrelled, father, you said you didn't care what became
of me.
ATHENE. [With a little shudder] No! We were on the edge of it. But now
I've seen you again--Poor mother!
BUILDER. I'm damned if I'll sit down under this injustice. Your mother
is--is pretty irritating, I can tell you. She--she--Everything
suppressed. And--and no--blood in her!
BUILDER. [Aware that he has confirmed some thought in her that he had no
intention of confirming] What's that?
ATHENE. Don't you ever look at your own face, father? When you shave,
for instance.
ATHENE. You can't help it, but you'd be ever so much happier if you were
a Mohammedan, and two or three, instead of one, had--had learned to know
when you were in the right.
ATHENE. I don't ever want to feel sorry for Guy in that way.
BUILDER. [Really sick at heart at this unwonted mockery which meets him
at every turn] Be quiet, you----!
BUILDER. [Wrenching open the door, Right] Julia! Come! We can't stay
here.
As for you, sir, if you start by allowing a woman to impose her crazy
ideas about marriage on you, all I can say is--I despise you. [He
crosses to the outer door, followed by his wife. To ATHENE] I've done
with you!
He goes out.
MRS BUILDER, who has so far seemed to accompany him, shuts the door
quickly and remains in the studio. She stands there with that faint
smile on her face, looking at the two young people.
ATHENE. Awfully sorry, mother; but don't you see what a stunner father's
given me?
MRS BUILDER. [Shaking her head] I'm going in a moment. [To ATHENE] You
owe it to me, Athene.
MRS BUILDER looks at the YOUNG MAN, who turns away out of hearing.
The beating and rattling have recommenced, and the voice: "Are you
coming?"
[Passionately] And that's family life! Father was all right before he
married, I expect. And now it's like this. How you survive--!
MRS BUILDER smiles, shakes her head, and turns to the door.
ATHENE. Tragedy!
MRS BUILDER shakes her head and opens the door. BUILDER stands
there, a furious figure.
BUILDER. Will you come, and leave that baggage and her cad?
MRS BUILDER steps quickly out and the door is closed. Guy makes an angry
movement towards it.
ATHENE. Guy!
GUY. [Turning to her] That puts the top hat on. So persuasive! [He
takes out of his pocket a wedding ring, and a marriage licence] Well!
What's to be done with these pretty things, now?
GUY. [Slowly] Not quite. You can't imagine I should ever be like that,
Athene?
GUY. Thanks.
They turn to see ANNIE in hat and coat, with a suit-case in her
hand, coming from the door Left.
ANNIE. Oh! thank you, Miss. [She moves across in front of them].
ANNIE. Oh! no, Miss; from you. You see, I've got a young man that wants
to marry me. And if I don't let him, I might get into trouble meself.
ATHENE. What sort of father and mother have you got, Annie?
ATHENE. D'you mean you've never noticed how they treat each other?
ATHENE. Exactly.
ATHENE. And suppose you marry him, and he treats you like a piece of
furniture?
ATHENE. You don't see. What I mean is that when once he's sure of you,
he may change completely.
ANNIE. You see, we can't be married; sir, till he gets his rise. So
it'll be a continual temptation to me.
ATHENE. Well, all right, Annie. I hope you'll never regret it.
GUY. I say, Annie, don't go away thinking evil of us; we didn't realise
you knew we weren't married.
ANNIE. Oh! no, sir. Only, seein' Mr and Mrs Builder so upset, brought
it 'ome like. And father can be 'andy with a strap.
ATHENE. Well, good-bye, Annie. What are you going to say to your
people?
ANNIE. Oh! I shan't say I've been livin' in a family that wasn't a
family, Miss. It wouldn't do no good.
ANNIE. Oh! I'm puttin' you out, Miss. [She takes the money].
ANNIE. Oh! thank you, Miss. I'm very sorry. Of course if you was to
change your mind--[She stops, embarrassed].
GUY. [Abruptly] Good-bye, Annie. Here's five bob for the movies.
ANNIE. Oh! good-bye, sir, and thank you. I was goin' there now with my
young man. He's just round the corner.
She goes.
GUY. So her father has a firm hand too. But it takes her back to the
nest. How's that, Athene?
GUY. [Gloomily] I suppose one never knows what one's got under the lid.
If he hadn't come here to-day--[He spins the wedding ring] He certainly
gives one pause. Used he to whack you?
ATHENE. Yes.
GUY. Brute!
ATHENE. With the best intentions. You see, he's a Town Councillor, and
a magistrate. I suppose they have to be "firm." Maud and I sneaked in
once to listen to him. There was a woman who came for protection from
her husband. If he'd known we were there, he'd have had a fit.
GUY. [With a grunt] Hang it! We're not all like that.
GUY. [Fitting the wedding ring on her finger] Well! Let's see how it
looks, anyway.
GUY. [Opening the door] It is. Come in, Annie. What's wrong now?
ANNIE. Oh, sir, 'e said there was nothing like Epsom salts.
ATHENE. Well, Annie, get your things off, and lay lunch.
She makes a little curtsey and passes through into the kitchen.
GUY. Strength of mind! Have a little, Athene won't you? [He holds out
the marriage licence before her].
ATHENE. [Looking up into his face] Guy, promise me--solemnly that you'll
never let me stand in your way, or stand in mine!
ANNIE. Oh!
GUY. It's all right, Annie. There's only one more day's infection
before you. We're to be married to-morrow morning.
ANNIE. [Right] Oh! no, sir. Of course you can't be a family without,
can you?
ANNIE is moving across with the bread pan. She halts at the bedroom
door.
ANNIE. Oh! please, ma'am, I was to give you a message--very important--
from Miss Maud Builder "Lookout! Father is coming!"
ACT II
BUILDER'S study. At the table, MAUD has just put a sheet of paper
into a typewriter. She sits facing the audience, with her hands
stretched over the keys.
Her face assumes a furtive, listening look. Then she gets up,
whisks to the mirror over the fireplace, scrutinises the expression
in it, and going back to the table, sits down again with hands
outstretched above the keys, and an accentuation of the expression.
The door up Left is opened, and TOPPING appears. He looks at MAUD,
who just turns her eyes.
TOPPING. Miss Athene was out. I gave the message to a young party. She
looked a bit green, Miss. I hope nothing'll go wrong with the works.
Shall I keep lunch back?
MAUD. If something's gone wrong, they won't have any appetite, Topping.
TOPPING. If you think I might risk it, Miss, I'd like to slip round to
my dentist. [He lays a finger on his cheek].
MAUD. [Smiling] Oh! What race is being run this afternoon, then,
Topping?
TOPPING. [Twinkling, and shifting his finger to the side of his nose]
Well, I don't suppose you've 'eard of it, Miss; but as a matter of fact
it's the Cesarwitch.
TOPPING. I've seen worse roll up. [With a touch of enthusiasm] Dark
horse, Miss Maud, at twenty to one.
MAUD. Put me ten bob on, Topping. I want all the money I can get, just
now.
MAUD. Well, just stand there, and give me your opinion of this.
TOPPING moves down Left. She crouches over the typewriter, lets her
hands play on the keys; stops; assumes that listening, furtive look;
listens again, and lets her head go slowly round, preceded by her
eyes; breaks it off, and says:
MAUD. [With triumph] There! Then you think I've got it?
TOPPING. Well, of course, I couldn't say just what sort of a crime you'd
committed, but I should think pretty 'ot stuff.
MAUD. Yes; I've got them here. [She pats her chest].
MAUD. Oh! yes, it's seen me put them. Look here, I'll show you that
too.
All right?
TOPPING. [Nodding] Fine, Miss. You have got a film face. What are
they, if I may ask?
In real life, which should I naturally do--put them in here [She touches
her chest] or in my bag?
TOPPING. [Touching his waistcoat--earnestly] Well! To put 'em in here,
Miss, I should say is more--more pishchological.
MAUD. But that's just the point. Shouldn't I naturally think: Safer in
my bag; then I can pretend somebody put them there. You see, nobody
could put them on me.
MAUD. No; that's the beastly part of it--the author doesn't, either.
It's all left to me.
TOPPING. I didn't know you 'ad a taste this way, Miss Maud.
MAUD. Well, then, only put the ten bob on if you're sure he's going to
win. You can post the money on after me. I'll send you an address,
Topping, because I shan't be here.
TOPPING. Oh! Hang it all, Miss, think of what you'll leave behind.
Miss Athene's leavin' home has made it pretty steep, but this'll touch
bottom--this will.
MAUD. Yes; I expect you'll find it rather difficult for a bit when I'm
gone. Miss Baldini, you know. I've been studying with her. She's got
me this chance with the movie people. I'm going on trial as the guilty
typist in "The Heartache of Miranda."
TOPPING. [With a grin] It's on the knees of the gods, Miss, as they say
in the headlines.
He goes. MAUD stretches herself and listens.
CAMILLE enters from the hall. She has a little collecting book in
her hand.
CAMILLE. A sistare from the Sacred 'Eart, Monsieur--her little book for
the orphan children.
BUILDER. H'm! Well! [Feeling in his breast pocket] Give her that.
CAMILLE. I am sure she will be veree grateful for the poor little
beggars. Madame says she will not be coming to lunch, Monsieur.
BUILDER. I don't want any, either. Tell Topping I'll have some coffee.
CAMILLE. Topping has gone to the dentist, Monsieur; 'e 'as the
toothache.
As she turns he looks swiftly at her, sweeping her up and down. She
turns her head and catches his glance, which is swiftly dropped.
Will Monsieur not 'ave anything to eat?
CAMILLE. And Madame nothing too--Tt! Tt! With her hand on the door she
looks back, again catches his eyes in an engagement instantly broken off,
and goes out.
BUILDER. There's some coffee coming; do your head good. Look here,
Julia. I'm sorry I beat on that door. I apologize. I was in a towering
passion. I wish I didn't get into these rages. But--dash it all--! I
couldn't walk away and leave you there.
BUILDER. You keep everything to yourself, so; I never have any notion
what you're thinking. What did you say to her?
BUILDER. Well, that's something. She's crazy. D'you suppose she was
telling the truth about that young blackguard wanting to marry her?
BUILDER. When you think of how she's been brought up. You would have
thought that religion alone--
BUILDER. Well?
BUILDER. H'm! [He takes a short turn up the room] What's to be done
about Athene?
BUILDER. You know I didn't mean that. I might just as well have said
I'd done with you! Apply your wits, Julia! At any moment this thing may
come out. In a little town like this you can keep nothing dark. How can
I take this nomination for Mayor?
BUILDER. What? His daughters have never done anything disgraceful, and
his wife's a pattern.
BUILDER. No; I suppose it's in your blood. The French-- [He stops
short].
BUILDER. Topping's got toothache, poor chap! [Pouring out the coffee]
Can't you suggest any way of making Athene see reason? Think of the
example! Maud will be kicking over next. I shan't be able to hold my
head up here.
BUILDER. Be explicit.
BUILDER. Is it a question of money? You can always have more. You know
that. [MRS BUILDER smiles] Oh! don't smile like that; it makes me feel
quite sick!
CAMILLE. The brandy, sir. Monsieur Ralph Builder has just come.
She passes him and goes out, leaving the two brothers eyeing one
another.
BUILDER. No. It's--it's that she's gone and--and not got married.
RALPH. To whom?
RALPH. Athene's a most interesting girl. All these young people are so
queer and delightful.
BUILDER. By George, Ralph, you may thank your stars you haven't got a
delightful daughter. Yours are good, decent girls.
RALPH. Athene's tremendously good and decent, John. I'd bet any money
she's doing this on the highest principles.
RALPH. Don't say what you'll regret, old man! Athene always took things
seriously--bless her!
BUILDER. Julia thinks you might help. You never seem to have any
domestic troubles.
BUILDER. Well, I'm fond of my girls too; I suppose I'm not amiable
enough. H'm?
RALPH. Well, old man, you do get blood to the head. But what's Athene's
point, exactly?
BUILDER. Family life isn't idyllic, so she thinks she and the young man
oughtn't to have one.
BUILDER. You don't let your women folk do just as they like?
RALPH. Always.
RALPH. Do you?
RALPH. Exactly. And she does it. I don't and she doesn't.
BUILDER. [With a short laugh] Good Lord! I suppose you'd have me eat
humble pie and tell Athene she can go on living in sin and offending
society, and have my blessing to round it off.
RALPH. The 'suaviter in modo' pays, John. The times are not what they
were.
BUILDER. Look here! I want to get to the bottom of this. Do you tell
me I'm any stricter than nine out of ten men?
RALPH. Well, you profess the principles of liberty, but you practise the
principles of government.
She comes forward, holds out a cup for BUILDER to pour into, takes
it and goes out. BUILDER'S glass remains suspended. He drinks the
brandy off as she shuts the door.
BUILDER. I sometimes think I try myself too high. Well, about that
Welsh contract?
As they go towards the door into the hall, MAUD comes in from the
dining-room, in hat and coat.
RALPH. [Catching sight of her] Hallo! All well in your cosmogony, Maud?
BUILDER. Now, don't go saying you're going in for Art, too, because I
won't have it.
MAUD. No one. I've been meaning to, ever so long. I'm twenty-one, you
know.
BUILDER. A film face! Good God! Now, look here! I will not have a
daughter of mine mixed up with the stage. I've spent goodness knows what
on your education--both of you.
BUILDER. Don't twist my tail, Maud. I had the most painful scene with
Athene this morning. Now come! Give up this silly notion! It's really
too childish!
MAUD. [Looking at him curiously] I've heard you say ever so many times
that no man was any good who couldn't make his own way, father. Well,
women are the same as men, now. It's the law of the country. I only
want to make my own way.
MAUD. [With lively interest] Oh! So you did catch them out?
MAUD. Of course.
BUILDER Seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her vigorously. When he
drops her shoulders, she gets up, gives him a vicious look, and suddenly
stamps her foot on his toe with all her might.
MAUD. [Who has put the table between them] I won't stand being shaken.
BUILDER. [Staring at her across the table] You've got my temper up and
you'll take the consequences. I'll make you toe the line.
MAUD. I certainly never wanted to be. I've always disliked you, father,
ever since I was so high. I've seen through you. Do you remember when
you used to come into the nursery because Jenny was pretty? You think we
didn't notice that, but we did. And in the schoolroom--Miss Tipton. And
d'you remember knocking our heads together? No, you don't; but we do.
And--
MAUD. No; you've got to hear things. You don't really love anybody but
yourself, father. What's good for you has to be good for everybody.
I've often heard you talk about independence, but it's a limited company
and you've got all the shares.
BUILDER. Rot; only people who can support themselves have a right to
independence.
MAUD. Well, when I'm there I won't come to you to rescue me.
BUILDER. Now, mind--if you leave my house, I've done with you.
BUILDER. Yes, and there it'll stay--that's the first sensible word
you've uttered. Now, come! Take your hat off, and let's be friends!
BUILDER. What's the matter with that door? CAMILLE. It was bolted,
Monsieur.
She collects the cups, and halts close to him. [Softly] Monsieur
is not 'appy.
CAMILLE. But so strong a man--I wish I was a strong man, not a weak
woman.
CAMILLE. Will Monsieur have another glass of brandy before I take it?
She pours it out, and he drinks it, hands her the glass and sits
down suddenly in an armchair. CAMILLE puts the glass on a tray, and
looks for a box of matches from the mantelshelf.
CAMILLE. A light, Monsieur?
BUILDER. Please.
CAMILLE. [She trips over his feet and sinks on to his knee] Oh!
Monsieur!
Oh! Monsieur--
She suddenly kisses him, and he returns the kiss. While they are
engaged in this entrancing occupation, MRS BUILDER opens the door
from the hall, watches unseen for a few seconds, and quietly goes
out again.
BUILDER. [Pushing her back from him, whether at the sound of the door or
of a still small voice] What am I doing?
CAMILLE. Kissing.
They rise.
BUILDER. [Much beset] Look here, you know! This won't do! It won't
do! I--I've got my reputation to think of!
BUILDER. Look here--I can't stand this; you've got to go. Out with you!
I've always kept a firm hand on myself, and I'm not going to--
CAMILLE. Oh! Don't suppose any such a disagreeable thing! If you were
not so strict, you would feel much 'appier.
CAMILLE. I lofe pleasure, and I don't get any. And you 'ave such a
duty, you don't get any sport. Well, I am 'ere!
BUILDER. [On the edge of succumbing] It's all against my--I won't do
it! It's--it's wrong!
He goes over to the door and opens it. His wife is outside in a hat
and coat. She comes in.
CAMILLE, taking up the tray, goes out Left, swinging her hips a very
little.
BUILDER. Where?
MRS BUILDER. I must tell you that I happened to look in a minute ago.
BUILDER. [Aghast] Put no obstacle? What do you mean? Julia, how can
you say a thing like that? Why, I've only just--
MRS BUILDER. [Bows her head] Thank you! I quite understand. But you
must forgive my feeling it impossible to remain a wet blanket any longer.
MRS BUILDER. My dear John, the fact that you had to do your utmost is
quite enough. I feel continually humiliated in your house, and I want to
leave it--quite quietly, without fuss of any kind.
BUILDER. But--my God! Julia, this is awful--it's absurd! How can you?
I'm your husband. Really--your saying you don't mind what I do--it's not
right; it's immoral!
MRS BUILDER. I'm afraid you don't see what goes on in those who live
with you. So, I'll just go. Don't bother!
BUILDER. Now, look here, Julia, you can't mean this seriously. You
can't! Think of my position! You've never set yourself up against me
before.
BUILDER. [After staring at her] I've given you no real reason. I'll
send the girl away. You ought to thank me for resisting a temptation
that most men would have yielded to. After twenty-three years of married
life, to kick up like this--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
BUILDER. Oh! for heaven's sake don't be sarcastic! You're my wife, and
there's an end of it; you've no legal excuse. Don't be absurd!
BUILDER. Oh! This damned Woman's business! I knew how it would be when
we gave you the vote. You and I are married, and our daughters are our
daughters. Come, Julia. Where's your commonsense? After twenty-three
years! You know I can't do without you!
MRS BUILDER. You could--quite easily. You can tell people what you
like.
MRS BUILDER. We just want to be away from you, that's all. I assure you
it's best. When you've shown some consideration for our feelings and
some real sign that we exist apart from you--we could be friends again--
perhaps--I don't know.
BUILDER. Friends! Good heavens! With one's own wife and daughters!
[With great earnestness] Now, look here, Julia, you haven't lived with
me all this time without knowing that I'm a man of strong passions; I've
been a faithful husband to you--yes, I have. And that means resisting
all sorts of temptations you know nothing of. If you withdraw from my
society I won't answer for the consequences. In fact, I can't have you
withdrawing. I'm not going to see myself going to the devil and losing
the good opinion of everybody round me. A bargain's a bargain. And
until I've broken my side of it, and I tell you I haven't--you've no
business to break yours. That's flat. So now, put all that out of your
head.
BUILDER. [Intently] D'you realise that I've supported you in luxury and
comfort?
BUILDER. And how do you propose to live? I shan't give you a penny.
Come, Julia, don't be such an idiot! Fancy letting a kiss which no man
could have helped, upset you like this!
Julia, I tell you-- [The outer door is heard being closed] Damnation!
I will not have it! They're all mad! Here--where's my hat?
CURTAIN.
ACT III
SCENE I
Hallo? . . . Poaching charge? Well, bring him too; only, I say, keep
him back till the other's over. By the way, Mr Chantrey's going
shooting. He'll want to get off by eleven. What? . . Righto !
MAYOR. Mr Chantrey?
MAYOR. I've had some awkward things to deal with in my time, 'Arris, but
this is just about the [Sniffs] limit.
HARRIS. I've warned Martin, sir, to use the utmost discretion. Here's
Mr Chantrey.
HARRIS. Assaulting one of his own daughters with a stick; and resisting
the police.
MAYOR. Whose?
HARRIS. I don't know, sir. The worst of it is he's been at the police
station since four o'clock yesterday. The Superintendent's away, and
Martin never will take responsibility.
CHANTREY. Oh, well, we'll make short work of that. I want to get off by
eleven, Harris. I shall be late for the first drive anyway. John
Builder! I say, Mayor--but for the grace of God, there go we!
MAYOR. Harris, go out and bring them in yourself; don't let the
servants--
HARRIS goes out Left. The MAYOR takes the upper chair behind the
bureau, sitting rather higher because of the book than CHANTREY, who
takes the lower. Now that they are in the seats of justice, a sort
of reticence falls on them, as if they were afraid of giving away
their attitudes of mind to some unseen presence.
MAYOR. Charges!
MOON. No, sir. The party struck turns to me and says, "Come in. I give
this man in charge for assault." I moves accordingly with the words:
"I saw you. Come along with me." The defendant turns to me sharp and
says: "You stupid lout--I'm a magistrate." "Come off it," I says to the
best of my recollection. "You struck this woman in my presence," I says,
"and you come along!" We were then at close quarters. The defendant
gave me a push with the words: "Get out, you idiot!" "Not at all," I
replies, and took 'old of his arm. A struggle ensues, in the course of
which I receives the black eye which I herewith produce. [He touches his
eye with awful solemnity.]
The MAYOR clears his throat; CHANTREY'S eyes goggle; HARRIS bends
over and writes rapidly.
During the struggle, Your Worship, a young man has appeared on the scene,
and at the instigation of the young woman, the same who was assaulted,
assists me in securing the prisoner, whose language and resistance was
violent in the extreme. We placed him in a cab which we found outside,
and I conveyed him to the station.
BUILDER makes not the faintest sign, and the MAYOR drops his glance.
MAYOR. Sergeant?
MOON steps back two paces, and the SERGEANT steps two paces forward.
SERGEANT. He 'as not opened his lips to my knowledge, Your Worship, from
that hour to this.
The MAYOR and CHANTREY now consult each other inaudibly, and the
Mayor nods.
MAYOR. Miss Maud Builder, will you tell us what you know of this--er--
occurrence?
MAUD. [After a look at her father, who never turns his eyes from the
MAYOR's face] I--I wish to withdraw the charge of striking me, please.
I--I never meant to make it. I was in a temper--I saw red.
MAYOR. Oh, the stick? But--er--the stick was in 'is 'and, wasn't it?
MAUD. Yes; but I mean, my father saw red, and the constable saw red, and
the stick flew up between them and hit him in the eye.
MAYOR. [With corrective severity] But did 'e 'it 'im with the stick?
MAUD. I think there was a struggle for the cane, and it flew up.
The SERGEANT hands up the cane. The MAYOR and CHANTREY examine it.
MAYOR. Which end--do you suggest--inflicted this injury?
MOON. [Stepping the mechanical two paces] I don't deny there was a
struggle, Your Worship, but it's my impression I was 'it.
CHANTREY. Of course you were bit; we can see that. But with the cane or
with the fist?
MOON. [With that sudden uncertainty which comes over the most honest in
such circumstances] Not--not so to speak in black and white, Your
Worship; but that was my idea at the time.
MOON. I'll swear he called me an idiot and a lout; the words made a deep
impression on me.
MAYOR. Eh? That'll do, constable; stand back. Now, who else saw the
struggle? Mrs Builder. You're not obliged to say anything unless you
like. That's your privilege as his wife.
While he is speaking the door has been opened, and HARRIS has gone
swiftly to it, spoken to someone and returned. He leans forward to
the MAYOR.
HARRIS says something in a low and concerned voice. The MAYOR'S face
lengthens. He leans to his right and consults CHANTREY, who gives a
faint and deprecating shrug. A moment's silence.
MAYOR. This is an open Court. The Press have the right to attend if
they wish.
MAYOR. Your sister having withdrawn her charge, we needn't go into that.
Very good!
MAYOR. Address?
GUY. [With an effort] At the moment, sir, I haven't one. I've just
left my diggings, and haven't yet got any others.
GUY. I--er
MAYOR. Did you appear on the scene, as the constable says, during the
struggle?
GUY. The constable's arm struck the cane violently and it flew up and
landed him in the eye.
GUY. Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. One or two damns and blasts.
BUILDER. [In a voice different from any we have heard from him] Say!
What business had he to touch me, a magistrate? I gave my daughter two
taps with a cane in a private house, for interfering with me for taking
my wife home--
MAYOR. [Clearing his throat] I understand, then, that you do not wish to
offer any explanation?
MAYOR. When you spoke of the defendant seeing red, what exactly did you
mean?
MAUD. I mean that my father was so angry that he didn't know what he was
doing.
MAYOR. You mean that he might have been, as one might say, beside
himself?
The MAYOR nods and makes a gesture, so that MAUD and RALPH sit down;
then, leaning over, he confers in a low voice with CHANTREY. The
rest all sit or stand exactly as if each was the only person in the
room, except the JOURNALIST, who is writing busily and rather
obviously making a sketch of BUILDER.
ATHENE. Yes.
MAYOR. Very good. [He clears his throat] As the defendant, wrongly, we
think, refuses to offer his explanation of this matter, the Bench has to
decide on the evidence as given. There seems to be some discrepancy as
to the blow which the constable undoubtedly received. In view of this,
we incline to take the testimony of Mr--
MAYOR. Eh? We think, considering all the circumstances, and the fact
that he has spent a night in a cell, that justice will be met by--er--
discharging him with a caution.
Walks out of the room. The JOURNALIST, grabbing his pad, starts up
and follows. The BUILDERS rise and huddle, and, with HERRINGHAME,
are ushered out by HARRIS.
MAYOR. Charges.
SCENE II
TOPPING. Here!
TOPPING. [Extending a penny] What's that you're sayin'? You take care!
BOY'S VOICE. 'Allo! What's the matter wiv you? Why, it's Johnny
Builder's house! [Gives a cat-call] 'Ere, buy anuvver! 'E'll want to
read about 'isself. [Appealing] Buy anuvver, guv'nor!
TOPPING. [To himself as he reads] Crimes! Phew! That accounts for them
bein' away all night.
While he is reading, CAMILLE enters from the hall. Here! Have you
seen this, Camel--in the Stop Press?
CAMILLE. No.
TOPPING. [Finishing aloud] "Tried to prevent her father from forcing her
mother to return home with him, and he struck her for so doing. She did
not press the charge. The arrested gentleman, who said he acted under
great provocation, was discharged with a caution." Well, I'm blowed!
He has gone and done it!
TOPPING. [Gazing at her] Have you had any hand in this? I've seen you
making your lovely black eyes at him. You foreigners--you're a loose
lot!
TOPPING. Ah! He's right up against it now. Comes of not knowin' when
to stop bein' firm. If you meet a wall with your 'ead, it's any odds on
the wall, Camel. Though, if you listened to some, you wouldn't think it.
What'll he do now, I wonder? Any news of the mistress?
TOPPING. Why?
TOPPING. Deuce she did! They generally leave 'em. Take back yer gifts!
She throws the baubles at 'is 'ead. [Again staring at her] You're a
deep one, you know!
Wonder if that's him! [He goes towards the hall. CAMILLE watchfully
shifts towards the diningroom door. MAUD enters.]
TOPPING, after a look at them both, goes out into the hall.
Very clever of you to have got them ready.
CAMILLE. I am clevare.
CAMILLE. Yes, I am going. How can I stay when there is no lady in the
'ouse?
Exits up Left.
MAUD regards her stolidly as she goes out into the dining-room, then
takes up the paper and reads.
MAUD. Horrible!
TOPPING. I've got 'em on the cab, Miss. I didn't put your ten bob on
yesterday, because the animal finished last. You cant depend on horses.
MAUD. [Tapping the newspaper] It's all true. He came after my mother
to Miss Athene's, and I--I couldn't stand it. I did what it says here;
and now I'm sorry. Mother's dreadfully upset. You know father as well
as anyone, Topping; what do you think he'll do now?
TOPPING. [Sucking in his cheeks] Well, you see, Miss, it's like this:
Up to now Mr Builder's always had the respect of everybody--
outside his own house, of course. Well, now he hasn't got it.
Pishchologically that's bound to touch him.
MAUD. Of course; but which way? Will he throw up the sponge, or try and
stick it out here?
TOPPING. He won't throw up the sponge, Miss; more likely to squeeze it
down the back of their necks.
TOPPING. Don't you fret, Miss; he'll come through. His jaw's above his
brow, as you might say.
MAUD. What?
MAUD. A Scotsman?
MAUD. Miss Athene was married this morning, Topping. We've just come
from the Registrar's.
MAUD. Oh!
MAUD. Well, it's all right. She's coming on here with my uncle.
TOPPING goes out into the hall; ATHENE and RALPH enter Right.
ATHENE. We left Guy with mother at the studio. She still thinks she
ought to come. She keeps on saying she must, now father's in a hole.
MAUD. I've got her things on the cab; she ought to be perfectly free to
choose.
RALPH. Undermine the other fellow. You can't go to those movie people
now, Maud. They'd star you as the celebrated Maud Builder who gave her
father into custody. Come to us instead, and have perfect freedom, till
all this blows over.
RALPH. There are two sides to every coin, my dear. John's the head-and
I'm the tail. He has the sterling qualities. Now, you girls have got to
smooth him down, and make up to him. You've tried him pretty high.
MAUD. When you went out with Guy, it wasn't three minutes before he
came. Mother had just told us about--well, about something beastly.
Father wanted us to go, and we agreed to go out for five minutes while he
talked to mother. We went, and when we came back he told me to get a cab
to take mother home. Poor mother stood there looking like a ghost, and
he began hunting and hauling her towards the door. I saw red, and
instead of a cab I fetched that policeman. Of course father did black
his eye. Guy was splendid.
MAUD. I couldn't help it, seeing father standing there all dumb.
ATHENE. It was awful! Uncle, why didn't you come back with Guy?
MAUD. Oh, yes! why didn't you, Uncle?
ATHENE. When Maud had gone for the cab, I warned him not to use force.
I told him it was against the law, but he only said: "The law be damned!"
They have not seen the door opened from the hall, and BUILDER
standing there. He is still unshaven, a little sunken in the face,
with a glum, glowering expression. He has a document in his hand.
He advances a step or two and they see him.
BUILDER. Go!
MAUD. [Proudly] All right! We thought you might like to know that
Athene's married, and that I've given up the movies. Now we'll go.
BUILDER. Here's what I've said to that fellow: "MR MAYOR,--You had the
effrontery to-day to discharge me with a caution--forsooth!--your fellow
--magistrate. I've consulted my solicitor as to whether an action will
lie for false imprisonment. I'm informed that it won't. I take this
opportunity of saying that justice in this town is a travesty. I have no
wish to be associated further with you or your fellows; but you are
vastly mistaken if you imagine that I shall resign my position on the
Bench or the Town Council.--Yours,
"JOHN BUILDER."
RALPH. John!
BUILDER. I've done with those two ladies. As to my wife--if she doesn't
come back--! When I suffer, I make others suffer.
RALPH. Julia's very upset, my dear fellow; we all are. The girls came
here to try and--
BUILDER. [Rising] They may go to hell! If that lousy Mayor thinks I'm
done with--he's mistaken! [He rings the bell] I don't want any soft
sawder. I'm a fighter.
RALPH. [In a low voice] The enemy stands within the gate, old chap.
RALPH. Let's boss our own natures before we boss those of other people.
Have a sleep on it, John, before you do anything.
BUILDER. Sleep? I hadn't a wink last night. If you'd passed the night
I had--
TOPPING enters.
BUILDER. Take this note to the Mayor with my compliments, and don't
bring back an answer. TOPPING. Very good, sir. There's a gentleman
from the "Comet" in the hall, sir. Would you see him for a minute, he
says.
A voice says, "Mr Builder!" BUILDER turns to see the figure of the
JOURNALIST in the hall doorway. TOPPING goes out.
JOURNALIST. [Advancing with his card] Mr Builder, it's very good of you
to see me. I had the pleasure this morning--I mean--I tried to reach you
when you left the Mayor's. I thought you would probably have your own
side of this unfortunate matter. We shall be glad to give it every
prominence.
JOURNALIST. Not at all, sir. We felt that you would almost certainly
have good reasons of your own which would put the matter in quite a
different light.
BUILDER. Good reasons? I should think so! I tell you--a very little
more of this liberty--licence I call it--and there isn't a man who'll be
able to call himself head of a family.
BUILDER. If the law thinks it can back up revolt, it's damned well
mistaken. I struck my daughter--I was in a passion, as you would have
been.
JOURNALIST. Can one ask what she was doing, sir? We couldn't get that
point quite clear.
BUILDER. Doing? I just had my arm round my wife, trying to induce her
to come home with me after a little family tiff, and this girl came at
me. I lost my temper, and tapped her with my cane. And--that policeman
brought by my own daughter--a policeman! If the law is going to enter
private houses and abrogate domestic authority, where the hell shall we
be?
BUILDER. Excellent? It's damnable. Here am I--a man who's always tried
to do his duty in private life and public--brought up before the Bench--
my God! because I was doing that duty; with a little too much zeal,
perhaps--I'm not an angel!
RALPH. There are a good many who stand on their rights left, John.
BUILDER. [Absorbed] What! How can men stand on their rights left?
JOURNALIST. [At the door] Very well, sir; you shall have a proof, I
promise. Good afternoon, and thank you.
BUILDER. Here!
RALPH. Take a pull, old man! Have a hot bath and go to bed.
BUILDER. They've chosen to drive me to extremes, now let them take the
consequences. I don't care a kick what anybody thinks.
RALPH. When you've had a sleep. For the sake of the family name, John,
don't be hasty.
BUILDER. Shut the stable door? No, my boy, the horse has gone.
With a lingering look at his brother, who has sat down sullenly at
the writing table, he goes out into the hall.
BUILDER. Here!
BUILDER. Come along! [She is just within reach and he seizes her arm]
All my married life I've put a curb on myself for the sake of
respectability. I've been a man of principle, my girl, as you saw
yesterday. Well, they don't want that! [He draws her close] You can sit
on my knee now.
CAMILLE. [With a supple movement slipping away from him] They? What is
all that? I don't want any trouble. No, no; I am not taking any.
She moves back towards the door. BUILDER utters a sardonic laugh.
Oh! you are a dangerous man! No, no! Not for me! Good-bye, sare!
She turns swiftly and goes out. BUILDER again utters his glum
laugh. And then, as he sits alone staring before him, perfect
silence reigns in the room. Over the window-sill behind him a BOY'S
face is seen to rise; it hangs there a moment with a grin spreading
on it.
BUILDER. You little devil! If I catch you, I'll wring your blasted
little neck!
BUILDER stands leaning out, face injected with blood, shaking his
fist.
SCENE III
Evening the same day.
BUILDER. Did I say that? Muck! Muck! [He drops the proof, sits a
moment moving his head and rubbing one hand uneasily on the surface of
the table, then reaches out for the telephone receiver] Town, 245.
[Pause] The "Comet"? John Builder. Give me the Editor. [Pause] That
you, Mr Editor? John Builder speaking. That interview. I've got the
proof. It won't do. Scrap the whole thing, please. I don't want to say
anything. [Pause] Yes. I know I said it all; I can't help that.
[Pause] No; I've changed my mind. Scrap it, please. [Pause] No,
I will not say anything. [Pause] You can say what you dam' well please.
[Pause] I mean it; if you put a word into my mouth, I'll sue you for
defamation of character. It's undignified muck. I'm tearing it up.
Good-night. [He replaces the receiver, and touches a bell; then, taking
up the galley slip, he tears it viciously across into many pieces, and
rams them into the envelope.]
TOPPING enters.
Here, give this to the messenger-sharp, and tell him to run with it.
TOPPING. [Whose hand can feel the condition of the contents, with a
certain surprise] Yes, sir.
The Mayor is here, sir. I don't know whether you would wish
BUILDER, rising, takes a turn up and down the room.
TOPPING goes out, and BUILDER stands over by the fender, with his
head a little down.
BUILDER. Well?
MAYOR. Well, you--you made it difficult for me. 'Ang it all! Put
yourself into my place!
BUILDER. [Grimly] I'd rather put you into mine, as it was last night.
MAYOR. Yes, yes! I know; but the Bench has got a name to keep up--must
stand well in the people's eyes. As it is, I sailed very near the wind.
Suppose we had an ordinary person up before us for striking a woman?
MAYOR. Well, but she's not a child, you know. And you did resist the
police, if no worse. Come! You'd have been the first to maintain
British justice. Shake 'ands!
MAYOR. [Taken aback] Why--yes; nobody can be more sorry than I--
BUILDER. Save your powder, Mayor. I've slept on it since I wrote you
that note. Take my resignations.
BUILDER. [With a touch of grim humour] I never yet met a man who
couldn't face another man's position.
BUILDER, after a long look, holds out his hand. The two men exchange a
grip.
The Boy's head is again seen rising above the level of the
window-sill, and another and another follows, till the three,
as if decapitated, heads are seen in a row.
BUILDER rises, turns and stares at them. The THREE HEADS disappear,
and a Boy's voice cries shrilly: "Johnny Builder!" BUILDER moves
towards the window; voices are now crying in various pitches and
keys: "Johnny Builder!" "Beatey Builder!" "Beat 'is wife-er!"
"Beatey Builder!"
BUILDER stirs, shuts the window, draws the curtains, goes to the
armchair before the fireplace and sits down in it.
TOPPING. Excuse me, sir, you must 'ave digested yesterday morning's
breakfast by now--must live to eat, sir.
TOPPING. [Putting the tray down on the table and taking up BUILDER'S
pipe] I fair copped those young devils.
BUILDER. You're a good fellow.
TOPPING. [Filling the pipe] You'll excuse me, sir; the Missis--has come
back, sir--
While TOPPING lights the fire BUILDER puts the pipe in his mouth and
applies a match to it. TOPPING, having lighted the fire, turns to
go, gets as far as half way, then comes back level with the table
and regards the silent brooding figure in the chair.
BUILDER. [Suddenly] Give me that paper on the table. No; the other
one--the Will.
TOPPING. [With much hesitation] Excuse me, sir. It's pluck that get's
'em 'ome, sir--begging your pardon.
TOPPING has gone. BUILDER sits drawing at his pipe between the
firelight and the light from the standard lamp. He takes the pipe
out of his mouth and a quiver passes over his face. With a half
angry gesture he rubs the back of his hand across his eyes.
While he is doing this the door from the hall is opened quietly, and
MRS BUILDER enters without his hearing her. She has a work bag in
her hand. She moves slowly to the table, and stands looking at him.
Then going up to the curtains she mechanically adjusts them, and
still keeping her eyes on BUILDER, comes down to the table and pours
out his usual glass of whisky toddy. BUILDER, who has become
conscious of her presence, turns in his chair as she hands it to
him. He sits a moment motionless, then takes it from her, and
squeezes her hand. MRS BUILDER goes silently to her usual chair
below the fire, and taking out some knitting begins to knit.
BUILDER makes an effort to speak, does not succeed, and sits drawing
at his pipe.
By John Galsworthy
ACT I.
SCENE I. CHARLES WINSOR's dressing-room at Meldon Court, near
Newmarket, of a night in early October.
SCENE II. DE LEVIS'S Bedroom at Meldon Court, a few minutes later.
ACT II.
SCENE I. The Card Room of a London Club between four and five in
the afternoon, three weeks later.
SCENE II. The Sitting-room of the DANCYS' Flat, the following
morning.
ACT III.
SCENE I. OLD MR JACOB TWISDEN'S Room at TWISDEN & GRAVITER'S in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, at four in the afternoon, three
months later.
SCENE II. The same, next morning at half-past ten.
SCENE III. The Sitting-room of the DANCYS' Flat, an hour later.
ACT I
SCENE I
WINSOR. In bed?
V. OF LADY A. No.
LADY A. No fear.
WINSOR. That young man has too much luck--the young bounder won two
races to-day; and he's as rich as Croesus.
LADY A. Really? And you say I haven't intuition! [With a finger on her
lips] Morison's in there.
WINSOR. [Motioning towards the door, which she shuts] Ronny Dancy took
a tenner off him, anyway, before dinner.
WINSOR. Not a bit. I like Jews. That's not against him--rather the
contrary these days. But he pushes himself. The General tells me he's
deathly keen to get into the Jockey Club. [Taking off his tie] It's
amusing to see him trying to get round old St Erth.
LADY A. If Lord St Erth and General Canynge backed him he'd get in if he
did sell carpets!
WINSOR. He's got some pretty good horses. [Taking off his waistcoat]
Ronny Dancy's on his bones again, I'm afraid. He had a bad day. When a
chap takes to doing parlour stunts for a bet--it's a sure sign. What
made him chuck the Army?
LADY A. Isn't it just like him to get married now? He really is the
most reckless person.
WINSOR. Yes. He's a queer chap. I've always liked him, but I've never
quite made him out. What do you think of his wife?
WINSOR. Is he?
LADY A. De Levis; and Margaret Orme at the end. Charlie, do you realise
that the bathroom out there has to wash those four?
WINSOR. I know.
LADY A. Your grandfather was crazy when he built this wing; six rooms in
a row with balconies like an hotel, and only one bath--if we hadn't put
ours in.
LADY ADELA goes to the door, blowing a kiss. CHARLES goes up to his
dressing-table and begins to brush his hair, sprinkling on essence.
There is a knock on the corridor door.
Come in.
DE LEVIS. I put it under my pillow and went to have a bath; when I came
back it was gone.
WINSOR. Phew! [Again the faint tone of outrage, that a man should have
so much money about him].
DE LEVIS. Yes. But I tried her pretty high the other day; and she's in
the Cambridgeshire. I was only out of my room a quarter of an hour, and
I locked my door.
DE LEVIS. [Not seeing the fine shade] Yes, and had the key here. [He
taps his pocket] Look here! [He holds out a pocket-book] It's been
stuffed with my shaving papers.
WINSOR. [Between feeling that such things don't happen, and a sense that
he will have to clear it up] This is damned awkward, De Levis.
DE LEVIS. No.
DE LEVIS. One hundred, three fifties, and the rest tens and fives.
DE Levis. Then I think the police ought to see my room. It's a lot of
money.
WINSOR. Good Lord! We're not in Town; there'll be nobody nearer than
Newmarket at this time of night--four miles.
The door from the bedroom is suddenly opened and LADY ADELA appears.
She has on a lace cap over her finished hair, and the wrapper.
LADY A. [Closing the door] What is it? Are you ill, Mr De Levis?
DE LEVIS. From under my pillow, Lady Adela--my door was locked--I was in
the bath-room.
LADY A. Of course! [With sudden realisation] Oh! But Oh! it's quite
too unpleasant!
WINSOR. Yes! What am I to do? Fetch the servants out of their rooms?
Search the grounds? It'll make the devil of a scandal.
WINSOR. Next to you? The Dancys on this side, and Miss Orme on the
other. What's that to do with it?
WINSOR. Let's get them. But Dancy was down stairs when I came up. Get
Morison, Adela! No. Look here! When was this exactly? Let's have as
many alibis as we can.
WINSOR. [Looking at his watch] Half an hour. Then she's all right.
Send her for Margaret and the Dancys--there's nobody else in this wing.
No; send her to bed. We don't want gossip. D'you mind going yourself,
Adela?
WINSOR. Right. Could you get him too? D'you really want the police,
De Levis?
DE LEVIS. [Stung by the faint contempt in his tone of voice] Yes, I do.
WINSOR. Then, look here, dear! Slip into my study and telephone to the
police at Newmarket. There'll be somebody there; they're sure to have
drunks. I'll have Treisure up, and speak to him. [He rings the bell].
LADY ADELA goes out into her room and closes the door.
WINSOR. Look here, De Levis! This isn't an hotel. It's the sort of
thing that doesn't happen in a decent house. Are you sure you're not
mistaken, and didn't have them stolen on the course?
DE LEVIS. Open.
WINSOR. [Drawing back the curtains of his own window] You've got a
balcony like this. Any sign of a ladder or anything?
DE LEVIS. No.
WINSOR. It must have been done from the window, unless someone had a
skeleton key. Who knew you'd got that money? Where did Kentman pay you?
WINSOR. Suspicious?
WINSOR. You must have been marked down and followed here.
WINSOR. Might have got it somehow. [A knock from the corridor] Come in.
WINSOR. Look here, De Levis, eighty or ninety notes must have been
pretty bulky. You didn't have them on you at dinner?
DE LEVIS. No.
DE LEVIS. Yes.
WINSOR. Run your mind over things, Treisure--has any stranger been
about?
WINSOR. This seems to have happened between 11.15 and 11.30. Is that
right? [DE LEVIS nods] Any noise-anything outside-anything suspicious
anywhere?
WINSOR. Having a bath; with his room locked and the key in his pocket.
DE LEVIS. [Stammering] I? All I know is--the money was there, and it's
gone.
WINSOR. Hallo!
DE Levis. [Flicked again] Unless you think it's too plebeian of me,
General Canynge--a thousand pounds.
CANYNGE. [Drily] Just so! Then we must wait for the police, WINSOR.
Lady Adela has got through to them. What height are these rooms from the
ground, Treisure?
TREISURE. One in the stables, Sir, very heavy. No others within three
hundred yards.
CANYNGE. Just slip down, and see whether that's been moved.
TREISURE. Very good, General. [He goes out.]
WINSOR. We do.
WINSOR. [Curtly] Treisure has been here since he was a boy. I should as
soon suspect myself.
DE LEVIS. [Looking from one to the other--with sudden anger] You seem
to think--! What was I to do? Take it lying down and let whoever it is
get clear off? I suppose it's natural to want my money back?
The door is opened. LADY ADELA and MARGARET ORME come in. The
latter is a vivid young lady of about twenty-five in a vivid
wrapper; she is smoking a cigarette.
LADY A. I've told the Dancys--she was in bed. And I got through to
Newmarket, Charles, and Inspector Dede is coming like the wind on a motor
cycle.
MARGARET. Did he say "like the wind," Adela? He must have imagination.
Isn't this gorgeous? Poor little Ferdy!
LADY A. [With a finger held up] Leste! Un peu leste! Oh! Here are the
Dancys. Come in, you two!
MABEL and RONALD DANCY enter. She is a pretty young woman with
bobbed hair, fortunately, for she has just got out of bed, and is in
her nightgown and a wrapper. DANCY is in his smoking jacket. He
has a pale, determined face with high cheekbones, small, deep-set
dark eyes, reddish crisp hair, and looks like a horseman.
WINSOR. Awfully sorry to disturb you, Mrs Dancy; but I suppose you and
Ronny haven't heard anything. De Levis's room is just beyond Ronny's
dressing-room, you know.
MABEL. I've been asleep nearly half an hour, and Ronny's only just come
up.
CANYNGE. Did you happen to look out of your window, Mrs Dancy?
CANYNGE. When?
MABEL. Just about eleven, I should think. It was raining hard then.
MABEL. No.
WINSOR. Between the quarter and half past. He'd locked his door and had
the key with him.
MARGARET. How quaint! Just like an hotel. Does he put his boots out?
DANCY. About ten minutes ago. I'd only just got into my dressing-room
before Lady Adela came. I've been writing letters in the hall since
Colford and I finished billiards.
DANCY. No.
TREISURE enters.
Well?
TREISURE. The ladder has not been moved, General. There isn't a sign.
WINSOR. All right. Get Robert up, but don't say anything to him. By
the way, we're expecting the police.
TREISURE. I trust they will not find a mare's nest, sir, if I may say
so.
He goes.
WINSOR. De Levis has got wrong with Treisure. [Suddenly] But, I say,
what would any of us have done if we'd been in his shoes?
WINSOR. He sold that weed you gave him, Dancy, to Kentman, the bookie,
and these were the proceeds.
DANCY. Oh!
WINSOR. He must have been followed here. [At the window] After rain
like that, there ought to be footmarks.
CANYNGE. You and I had better see the Inspector in De Levis's room,
WINSOR. [To the others] If you'll all be handy, in case he wants to put
questions for himself.
DANCY. I hope he won't want me; I'm dog-tired. Come on, Mabel. [He
puts his arm in his wife's].
TREISURE enters.
TREISURE re-opens the door, and says "Come in, please." The
INSPECTOR enters, blue, formal, moustachioed, with a peaked cap in
his hand.
WINSOR. Good evening, Inspector. Sorry to have brought you out at this
time of night.
WINSOR. Yes. Shall we go straight to the room it was taken from? One
of my guests, Mr De Levis. It's the third room on the left.
CANYNGE. We've not been in there yet, Inspector; in fact, we've done
nothing, except to find out that the stable ladder has not been moved.
We haven't even searched the grounds.
They go out.
SCENE II
[The same set is used for this Scene, with the different arrangement
of furniture, as specified.]
The bedroom of DE LEVIS is the same in shape as WINSOR'S
dressing-room, except that there is only one door--to the
corridor. The furniture, however, is differently arranged; a
small four-poster bedstead stands against the wall, Right Back,
jutting into the room. A chair, on which DE LEVIS's clothes are
thrown, stands at its foot. There is a dressing-table against the
wall to the left of the open windows, where the curtains are
drawn back and a stone balcony is seen. Against the wall to the
right of the window is a chest of drawers, and a washstand is
against the wall, Left. On a small table to the right of the bed
an electric reading lamp is turned up, and there is a light over
the dressing-table. The INSPECTOR is standing plumb centre
looking at the bed, and DE LEVIS by the back of the chair at the
foot of the bed. WINSOR and CANYNGE are close to the door, Right
Forward.
INSPECTOR. [Finishing a note] Now, sir, if this is the room as you left
it for your bath, just show us exactly what you did after takin' the
pocket-book from the suit case. Where was that, by the way?
INSPECTOR. [Writing]. We now have the room as it was when the theft was
committed. Reconstruct accordin' to 'uman nature, gentlemen--assumin'
the thief to be in the room, what would he try first?--the clothes, the
dressin'-table, the suit case, the chest of drawers, and last the bed.
CANYNGE. [Sotto voce to WINSOR] The order would have been just the
other way.
The INSPECTOR goes on hands and knees and examines the carpet
between the window and the bed.
INSPECTOR. [Standing up] Did you open the window, sir, or was it open
when you first came in?
DE LEVIS. Yes.
INSPECTOR. [Sharply] Are you sure there was nobody in the room already?
INSPECTOR. [Jotting] Did not look under bed. Did you look under it
after the theft?
INSPECTOR. Ah! Now, what did you do after you came back from your bath?
Just give us that precisely.
DE LEVIS. Locked the door and left the key in. Put back my sponge, and
took off my dressing-gown and put it there. [He points to the footrails
of the bed] Then I drew the curtains, again.
DE LEVIS. No. I got into bed, felt for my watch to see the time. My
hand struck the pocket-book, and somehow it felt thinner. I took it out,
looked into it, and found the notes gone, and these shaving papers
instead.
DE LEVIS. No.
INSPECTOR. Exactly. [With a certain finality] Now, sir, what time did
you come up?
DE LEVIS. No.
DE LEVIS. No.
WINSOR. I'd just looked at the time, and told my wife to send her maid
off.
INSPECTOR. Then we've got it fixed between 11.15 and 11.30. [Jots] Now,
sir, before we go further I'd like to see your butler and the footman
that valets this gentleman.
WINSOR. [With distaste] Very well, Inspector; only--my butler has been
with us from a boy.
CANYNGE. Of course.
INSPECTOR. At what time did you take his clothes and boots?
INSPECTOR. [With a pounce] Did you happen to look under his bed?
INSPECTOR. Then why did you say you did? There's been a theft here, and
anything you say may be used against you.
ROBERT. On the ground floor, at the other end of the right wing, sir.
WINSOR. It's the extreme end of the house from this, Inspector. He's
with the other two footmen.
INSPECTOR. [Holding up his hand for silence] Were you out of the room
again after you went in?
ROBERT. [To WINSOR] Beggin' your pardon, Sir, we were playin' Bridge.
INSPECTOR. Very good. You can go. I'll see them later on.
ROBERT. Yes, Sir. They'll say the same as me. He goes out, leaving a
smile on the face of all except the INSPECTOR and DE LEVIS.
INSPECTOR. Well?
ROBERT. A pair of his boots this evenin' was reduced to one, sir.
INSPECTOR. In my experience, you can never have too much of that. [To
WINSOR] I understand there's a lady in the room on this side [pointing
Left] and a gentleman on this [pointing Right] Were they in their rooms?
WINSOR. Yes.
INSPECTOR. Well, I'd just like the keys of their doors for a minute. My
man will get them.
WINSOR. [To CANYNGE] Damn De Levis and his money! It's deuced
invidious, all this, General.
The INSPECTOR tries the keys in the door, watched with tension by
the others. The keys fail.
CANYNGE. You could get the numbers of the notes from Kentman the
bookmaker, Inspector; he'll probably have the big ones, anyway.
And I don't say to try the keys is necessary to it; but strictly, I ought
to exhaust the possibilities.
WINSOR. What do you say, De Levis? D'you want everybody in the house
knocked up so that their keys can be tried?
CANYNGE. Good-night!
CANYNGE. The deuce you do! Are you following the Inspector's theory?
DE LEVIS. Accusation.
CANYNGE. What!
CANYNGE. [After a vexed turn up and down the room] It's mad, sir, to
jump to conclusions like this.
CANYNGE. Nobody could have taken this money who did not know you had it.
CANYNGE. Without any proof. This is very ugly, De Levis. I must tell
WINSOR.
DE LEVIS. [Angrily] Tell the whole blooming lot. You think I've no
feelers, but I've felt the atmosphere here, I can tell you, General. If
I were in Dancy's shoes and he in mine, your tone to me would be very
different.
CANYNGE. [Suavely frigid] I'm not aware of using any tone, as you call
it. But this is a private house, Mr De Levis, and something is due to
our host and to the esprit de corps that exists among gentlemen.
CANYNGE. That's enough! [He goes to the door, but stops before opening
it] Now, look here! I have some knowledge of the world. Once an
accusation like this passes beyond these walls no one can foresee the
consequences. Captain Dancy is a gallant fellow, with a fine record as a
soldier; and only just married. If he's as innocent as--Christ--mud will
stick to him, unless the real thief is found. In the old days of swords,
either you or he would not have gone out of this room alive. It you
persist in this absurd accusation, you will both of you go out of this
room dead in the eyes of Society: you for bringing it, he for being the
object of it.
DE LEVIS. Society! Do you think I don't know that I'm only tolerated
for my money? Society can't add injury to insult and have my money as
well, that's all. If the notes are restored I'll keep my mouth shut; if
they're not, I shan't. I'm certain I'm right. I ask nothing better than
to be confronted with Dancy; but, if you prefer it, deal with him in your
own way--for the sake of your esprit de corps.
WINSOR. Well, De Levis, I'm afraid that's all we can do for the present.
So very sorry this should have happened in my house.
WINSOR. What?
CANYNGE. Of jumping from his balcony to this, taking the notes, and
jumping back. I've done my best to dissuade him from indulging the
fancy--without success. Dancy must be told.
DE LEVIS. You can deal with Dancy in your own way. All I want is the
money back.
WINSOR. Damn it! This is monstrous, De Levis. I've known Ronald Dancy
since he was a boy.
CANYNGE. You talk about adding injury to insult, De Levis. What do you
call such treatment of a man who gave you the mare out of which you made
this thousand pounds?
CANYNGE. Go and get Dancy, WINSOR; but don't say anything to him.
CANYNGE. Perhaps you will kindly control yourself, and leave this to me.
CANYNGE. For WINSOR's sake, Dancy, we don't want any scandal or fuss
about this affair. We've tried to make the police understand that. To
my mind the whole thing turns on our finding who knew that De Levis had
this money. It's about that we want to consult you.
WINSOR. Kentman paid De Levis round the corner in the further paddock,
he says.
DE LEVIS turns round from the window, so that he and DANCY are
staring at each other.
CANYNGE. Did you hear anything that throws light, Dancy? As it was your
filly originally, we thought perhaps you might.
DANCY. I? No.
DANCY. No.
CANYNGE. Then you can't suggest any one who could have known? Nothing
else was taken, you see.
CANYNGE. [Putting his hand on DANCY's arm] Nothing else, thank you,
Dancy.
WINSOR. You see, De Levis? He didn't even know you'd got the money.
INSPECTOR. I'm just going, gentlemen. The grounds, I'm sorry to say,
have yielded nothing. It's a bit of a puzzle.
WINSOR. [After a look at DE LEVIS, whose face expresses too much] H'm!
You'll take it up from the other end, then, Inspector?
INSPECTOR. Well, we'll see what we can do with the bookmakers about the
numbers, sir. Before I go, gentlemen--you've had time to think it over--
there's no one you suspect in the house, I suppose?
WINSOR. Right you are, Inspector. Good night, and many thanks.
WINSOR. Gosh! I thought that chap [With a nod towards the balcony]
was going to--! Look here, General, we must stop his tongue. Imagine it
going the rounds. They may never find the real thief, you know. It's
the very devil for Dancy.
WINSOR. I--I don't follow-- [His voice is hesitative and lower, showing
that he does].
CANYNGE. It was coming down hard; a minute out in it would have been
enough--[He motions with his chin towards the balcony].
CANYNGE. [Unmoved] Must not. You're a member of three Clubs, you want
to be member of a fourth. No one who makes such an insinuation against a
fellow-guest in a country house, except on absolute proof, can do so
without complete ostracism. Have we your word to say nothing?
A pause.
DE LEVIS. I'm not a fool, General. I know perfectly well that you can
get me outed.
CANYNGE. [Icily] Well?
DE LEVIS. [Sullenly] I'll say nothing about it, unless I get more
proof.
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE I
ST ERTH. [Who has lost] Not a patch on the old whist--this game. Don't
know why I play it--never did.
ST ERTH. We ought to have stuck to the old game. Wish I'd gone to
Newmarket, Canynge, in spite of the weather.
CANYNGE. What!
A FOOTMAN enters.
FOOTMAN goes.
BORRING. Rosemary! And De Levis sold her! But he got a good p-price, I
suppose.
BORRING. I say, is that the yarn that's going round about his having had
a lot of m-money stolen in a country house? By Jove! He'll be pretty
s-sick.
He sits down in CANYNGE'S chair, and the GENERAL takes his place by
the fire.
BORRING. Phew! Won't Dancy be mad! He gave that filly away to save her
keep. He was rather pleased to find somebody who'd take her. Bentman
must have won a p-pot. She was at thirty-threes a fortnight ago.
ST ERTH. All the money goes to fellows who don't know a horse from a
haystack.
CANYNGE. [Profoundly] And care less. Yes! We want men racing to whom
a horse means something.
CANYNGE. [With feeling] The horse is a noble animal, sir, as you'd know
if you'd owed your life to them as often as I have.
BORRING. They always try to take mine, General. I shall never belong to
the noble f-fellowship of the horse.
COLFORD. General!
COLFORD. I want your advice. Young De Levis in there [He points to the
billiard-room from which he has just come] has started a blasphemous
story--
CANYNGE. St Erth, I told you there was good reason when I asked you to
back young De Levis. WINSOR and I knew of this insinuation; I wanted to
keep his tongue quiet. It's just wild assertion; to have it bandied
about was unfair to Dancy. The duel used to keep people's tongues in
order.
ST ERTH. Did Kentman ever give the police the numbers of those notes,
WINSOR?
WINSOR. He only had the numbers of two--the hundred, and one of the
fifties.
ST ERTH. And they haven't traced 'em?
DE LEVIS. Well, General Canynge! It's a little too strong all this--
a little too strong. [Under emotion his voice is slightly more exotic].
CANYNGE. What!
DE LEVIS. Well, I shall tell people that you and Lord St Erth backed me
up for one Club, and asked me to resign from another.
CANYNGE. It's a matter of indifference to me, sir, what you tell people.
CANYNGE. You appear to have your breed on the brain, sir. Nobody else
does, so far as I know.
DE LEVIS. Suppose I had robbed Dancy, would you chase him out for
complaining of it?
WINSOR. You make this accusation that Dancy stole your money in my house
on no proof--no proof; and you expect Dancy's friends to treat you as if
you were a gentleman! That's too strong, if you like!
DE LEVIS. Proof! Did they find any footmarks in the grounds below that
torn creeper? Not a sign! You saw how he can jump; he won ten pounds
from me that same evening betting on what he knew was a certainty.
That's your Dancy--a common sharper!
CANYNGE. [Nodding towards the billiard-room] Are those fellows still in
there, Colford?
COLFORD. Yes.
CANYNGE. Then bring Dancy up, will you? But don't say anything to him.
COLFORD. [To DE LEVIS] You may think yourself damned lucky if he doesn't
break your neck.
He goes out. The three who are left with DE LEVIS avert their eyes
from him.
ST ERTH. [To himself] This Club has always had a decent, quiet name.
WINSOR. Are you going to retract, and apologise in front of Dancy and
the members who heard you?
DE LEVIS. No fear!
ST ERTH. You must be a very rich man, sir. A jury is likely to take the
view that money can hardly compensate for an accusation of that sort.
WINSOR. Unless you stop this at once, you may find yourself in prison.
If you can stop it, that is.
CANYNGE. Our duty is to the Club now, WINSOR. We must have this cleared
up.
ST ERTH. Captain Dancy, a serious accusation has been made against you
by this gentleman in the presence of several members of the Club.
DE LEVIS. [Tense too] You gave me that filly to save yourself her keep,
and you've been mad about it ever since; you knew from Goole that I had
sold her to Kentman and been paid in cash, yet I heard you myself deny
that you knew it. You had the next room to me, and you can jump like a
cat, as we saw that evening; I found some creepers crushed by a weight on
my balcony on that side. When I went to the bath your door was open, and
when I came back it was shut.
DANCY. [With intense deliberation] I'll settle this matter with any
weapons, when and where he likes.
DE LEVIS. Why did you tell General Canynge you didn't know Kentman had
paid me in cash?
DE LEVIS. If you were downstairs all the time, as you say, why was your
door first open and then shut?
DE LEVIS. I should like to hear what your wife says about it.
DE LEVIS. You're very smart-dead men tell no tales. No! Bring your
action, and we shall see.
DANCY takes a step towards him, but CANYNGE and WINSOR interpose.
ST ERTH. That'll do, Mr De Levis; we won't keep you. [He looks round]
Kindly consider your membership suspended till this matter has been
threshed out.
DE LEVIS. [Tremulous with anger] Don't trouble yourselves about my
membership. I resign it. [To DANCY] You called me a damned Jew. My
race was old when you were all savages. I am proud to be a Jew. Au
revoir, in the Courts.
DANCY. Colford, you saw me in the hall writing letters after our game.
DANCY. It's impossible for me to prove that I was there all the time.
CANYNGE. It's for De Levis to prove what he asserts. You heard what he
said about Goole?
ST ERTH. This concerns the honour of the Club. Are you going to take
action?
CANYNGE. That's not the question, Dancy. This accusation was overheard
by various members, and we represent the Club. If you don't take action,
judgment will naturally go by default.
COLFORD. You may have my head if he did it, Lord St Erth. He and I have
been in too many holes together. By Gad! My toe itches for that
fellow's butt end.
BORRING. I'm sorry; but has he t-taken it in quite the right way? I
should have thought--hearing it s-suddenly--
COLFORD. Bosh!
COLFORD. Wouldn't you have wanted a shot at the brute? A law court?
Pah!
WINSOR. Quite so, unless they find the real thief. People always
believe the worst.
ST ERTH. No. [Rising] It leaves a bad taste. I'm sorry for young Mrs
Dancy--poor woman!
ST ERTH. [Abruptly] No, sir. Good night to you. Canynge, can I give
you a lift?
He goes out.
WINSOR. Colford! [A slight pause] The General felt his coat sleeve
that night, and it was wet.
COLFORD. He didn't. But if he did, I'd stick to him, and see him
through it, if I could.
WINSOR walks over to the fire, stares into it, turns round and
stares at COLFORD, who is standing motionless.
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
[NOTE.--This should be a small set capable of being set quickly
within that of the previous scene.]
MABEL. It's wicked! Yesterday afternoon at the Club, did you say?
Ronny hasn't said a word to me. Why?
MABEL. Ronny?
MABEL. That beast, De Levis! I was in our room next door all the time.
MARGARET. Well, you can say so in Court any way. Not that it matters.
Wives are liars by law.
MABEL. [With her hands to her forehead] I can't realise--I simply can't.
If there's a case would it be all right afterwards?
MARGARET. Mabel, you're pure wool, right through; everybody's sorry for
you.
MABEL takes a cigarette this time, but does not light it.
It isn't altogether simple. General Canynge was there last night. You
don't mind my being beastly frank, do you?
MARGARET. Well, he's all for esprit de corps and that. But he was
awfully silent.
MARGARET. Ye-es; but loyalties cut up against each other sometimes, you
know.
MABEL. I must see Ronny. D'you mind if I go and try to get him on the
telephone?
Poor kid!
Enter the second murderer! D'you know that child knew nothing?
LADY A. Never.
LADY A. Oh! Why did I ever ask that wretch De Levis? I used to think
him pathetic. Meg did you know----Ronald Dancy's coat was wet? The
General happened to feel it.
LADY A. Yes; and after the scene in the Club yesterday he went to see
those bookmakers, and Goole--what a name!--is sure he told Dancy about
the sale.
LADY A. Couldn't--what?
MARGARET. Oh! I know lots of splendid Jews, and I rather liked little
Ferdy; but when it comes to the point--! They all stick together; why
shouldn't we? It's in the blood. Open your jugular, and see if you
haven't got it.
MARGARET. I don't know, Adela. There are people who simply can't live
without danger. I'm rather like that myself. They're all right when
they're getting the D.S.O. or shooting man-eaters; but if there's no
excitement going, they'll make it--out of sheer craving. I've seen Ronny
Dancy do the maddest things for no mortal reason except the risk. He's
had a past, you know.
LADY A. No.
MARGARET. That's the mistake. The General isn't mentioning the coat, is
he?
MABEL returns.
LADY ADELA rises and greets her with an air which suggests
bereavement.
MABEL. [Looking straight at her] Nobody who does need come here, or
trouble to speak to us again.
LADY A. That's what I was afraid of; you're going to be defiant. Now
don't! Just be perfectly natural.
MABEL. So easy, isn't it? I could kill anybody who believes such a
thing.
MARGARET. Yes. We're just going. Oh! Ronny, this is quite too--
[But his face dries her up; and sidling past, she goes].
LADY A. Charles sent his-love--[Her voice dwindles on the word, and she,
too, goes].
MABEL. That wretch! How dare he? Darling! [She suddenly clasps and
kisses him. He does not return the kiss, but remains rigid in her arms,
so that she draws away and looks at him] It's hurt you awfully, I know.
DANCY. I don't care a damn what people think monkeys and cats. I never
could stand their rotten menagerie. Besides, what does it matter how I
act; if I bring an action and get damages--if I pound him to a jelly--
it's all no good! I can't prove it. There'll be plenty of people
unconvinced.
DANCY. [With a queer little smile] Will staying here help them to do
that?
MABEL. But you must--I was there all the time, with the door open.
DANCY. I see. [A pause] All right! You shall have a run for your
money. I'll go and see old Twisden.
MABEL. Let me come! [DANCY shakes his head] Why not? I can't be happy
a moment unless I'm fighting this.
MABEL. [Pressing his hand to her breast and looking into his face]
Do you know what Margaret called you?
RONNY. No.
DANCY. Ha! I'm not a tame cat, any more than she.
The bell rings. MABEL goes out to the door and her voice is heard
saying coldly.
Yes?
MABEL. [Staring at him] How can you do it? What do you want? What's
your motive? You can't possibly believe that my husband is a thief!
DE LEVIS. Unfortunately.
MABEL. How dare you? How dare you? Don't you know that I was in our
bedroom all the time with the door open? Do you accuse me too?
MABEL. But you do. I must have seen, I must have heard.
MABEL. [After staring again with a sort of horror, turns to get control
of herself. Then turning back to him] Mr De Levis, I appeal to you as a
gentleman to behave to us as you would we should behave to you. Withdraw
this wicked charge, and write an apology that Ronald can show.
DANCY. Let me read it: "I apologise to Captain Dancy for the reckless
and monstrous charge I made against him, and I retract every word of it."
DE LEVIS. I tell you this is useless. I will sign nothing. The charge
is true; you wouldn't be playing this game if it weren't. I'm going.
You'll hardly try violence in the presence of your wife; and if you try
it anywhere else--look out for yourself.
DE LEVIS takes a step, with fists clenched and eyes blazing. DANCY,
too, stands ready to spring--the moment is cut short by MABEL going
quickly to her husband.
DANCY suddenly tears the paper in two, and flings it into the fire.
DANCY. [Turning and looking at her] Well! Do you agree with him?
MABEL. Ronny!
MABEL. [Her face averted] That he was robbing us. [Turning to him
suddenly] Ronny--you--didn't? I'd rather know.
DANCY. That's all right, Mabs! That's all right! [His face, above her
head, is contorted for a moment, then hardens into a mask] Well, what
shall we do? Let's go to that lawyer--let's go--
MABEL passes him, and goes into the bedroom, Left. DANCY, left
alone, stands quite still, staring before him. With a sudden shrug
of his shoulders he moves quickly to his hat and takes it up just as
MABEL returns, ready to go out. He opens the door; and crossing
him, she stops in the doorway, looking up with a clear and trustful
gaze as
ACT III
SCENE I
GRAVITER. By appointment?
The CLERK goes. GRAVITER sits right of table. The CLERK returns,
ushering in an oldish MAN, who looks what he is, the proprietor of a
large modern grocery store. He wears a dark overcoat and carries a
pot hat. His gingery-grey moustache and mutton-chop whiskers give
him the expression of a cat.
GRAVITER nods.
GILMAN. The Smart Set, eh? This Captain Dancy got the D.S.O., didn't
he?
GRAVITER nods.
Sad to have a thing like that said about you. I thought he gave his
evidence well; and his wife too. Looks as if this De Levis had got some
private spite. Searchy la femme, I said to Mrs Gilman only this morning,
before I--
GILMAN. Thank you. [Following] You see, I've never been mixed up with
the law--
GILMAN. And I don't want to begin. When you do, you don't know where
you'll stop, do you? You see, I've only come from a sense of duty; and
--other reasons.
GILMAN. Grocery--I daresay you know me; or your wife does. They say old
Mr Jacob Twisden refused a knighthood. If it's not a rude question, why
was that?
YOUNG CLERK. [Opening the door, Left Forward] Mr WINSOR, sir, and Miss
Orme.
GRAVITER. How d'you do, Miss Orme? How do you do, WINSOR?
GRAVITER. Oho!
GRAVITER. We considered it. Sir Frederic decided that he could use him
better in cross-examination.
WINSOR. Well! I don't know that. Can I go and see him before he gives
evidence to-morrow?
WINSOR. They had Kentman, and Goole, the Inspector, the other bobby, my
footman, Dancy's banker, and his tailor.
WINSOR. Very little. Oh! by the way, the numbers of those two notes
were given, and I see they're published in the evening papers. I suppose
the police wanted that. I tell you what I find, Graviter--a general
feeling that there's something behind it all that doesn't come out.
MARGARET. When I was in the bog, I thought they were looking for me.
[Taking out her cigarette case] I suppose I mustn't smoke, Mr Graviter?
GRAVITER. Do!
MARGARET. There are more of the chosen in Court every day. Mr Graviter,
have you noticed the two on the jury?
MARGARET. Oh! but quite distinctly. Don't you think they ought to have
been challenged?
GRAVITER. De Levis might have challenged the other ten, Miss Orme.
As she speaks, the door Left Forward is opened and old MR JACOB
TWISDEN comes in. He is tallish and narrow, sixty-eight years old,
grey, with narrow little whiskers curling round his narrow ears, and
a narrow bow-ribbon curling round his collar. He wears a long,
narrow-tailed coat, and strapped trousers on his narrow legs. His
nose and face are narrow, shrewd, and kindly. He has a way of
narrowing his shrewd and kindly eyes. His nose is seen to twitch
and snig.
TWISDEN. Ah! How are you, Charles? How do you do, my dear?
MARGARET. Mr Jacob, how charming! [With a slight grimace she puts out
her cigarette].
He goes.
TWISDEN. Charles?
WINSOR. The General knows something which on the face of it looks rather
queer. Now that he's going to be called, oughtn't Dancy to be told of
it, so that he may be ready with his explanation, in case it comes out?
TWISDEN. [Pouring some tea into the saucer] Without knowing, I can't
tell you.
WINSOR and MARGARET exchange looks, and TWISDEN drinks from the
saucer. MARGARET. Tell him, Charles.
TWISDEN puts the saucer down and replaces the cup in it. They both
look intently at him.
TWISDEN. I take it that General Canynge won't say anything he's not
compelled to say.
MARGARET. No, of course; but, Mr Jacob, they might ask; they know it
rained. And he is such a George Washington.
WINSOR. Half a second, Margaret. Wait for me. She nods and goes out.
Mr Twisden, what do you really think?
WINSOR. If they get that out of him, and recall me, am I to say he told
me of it at the time?
TWISDEN. You didn't feel the coat yourself? And Dancy wasn't present?
Then what Canynge told you is not evidence--he'll stop your being asked.
TWISDEN, behind his table, motionless, taps his teeth with the
eyeglasses in his narrow, well-kept hand. After a long shake of his
head and a shrug of his rather high shoulders he snips, goes to the
window and opens it. Then crossing to the door, Left Back, he
throws it open and says
Be seated.
TWISDEN closes the window behind him, and takes his seat.
GILMAN. Well, I've come to you from a sense of duty, sir, and also a
feelin' of embarrassment. [He takes from his breast pocket an evening
paper] You see, I've been followin' this Dancy case--it's a good deal
talked of in Putney--and I read this at half-past two this afternoon. To
be precise, at 2.25. [He rises and hands the paper to TWISDEN, and with
a thick gloved forefinger indicates a passage] When I read these numbers,
I 'appened to remember givin' change for a fifty-pound note--don't often
'ave one in, you know--so I went to the cash-box out of curiosity, to see
that I 'adn't got it. Well, I 'ad; and here it is. [He draws out from
his breast pocket and lays before TWISDEN a fifty-pound banknote] It was
brought in to change by a customer of mine three days ago, and he got
value for it. Now, that's a stolen note, it seems, and you'd like to
know what I did. Mind you, that customer of mine I've known 'im--well--
eight or nine years; an Italian he is--wine salesman, and so far's I
know, a respectable man-foreign-lookin', but nothin' more. Now, this was
at 'alf-past two, and I was at my head branch at Putney, where I live.
I want you to mark the time, so as you'll see I 'aven't wasted a minute.
I took a cab and I drove straight to my customer's private residence in
Putney, where he lives with his daughter--Ricardos his name is, Paolio
Ricardos. They tell me there that he's at his business shop in the City.
So off I go in the cab again, and there I find him. Well, sir, I showed
this paper to him and I produced the note. "Here," I said, "you brought
this to me and you got value for it." Well, that man was taken aback.
If I'm a judge, Mr Twisden, he was taken aback, not to speak in a guilty
way, but he was, as you might say, flummoxed. "Now," I said to him,
"where did you get it--that's the point?" He took his time to answer,
and then he said: "Well, Mr Gilman," he said, "you know me; I am an
honourable man. I can't tell you offhand, but I am above the board."
He's foreign, you know, in his expressions. "Yes," I said, "that's all
very well," I said, "but here I've got a stolen note and you've got the
value for it. Now I tell you," I said, "what I'm going to do; I'm going
straight with this note to Mr Jacob Twisden, who's got this Dancy-De
Levis case in 'and. He's a well-known Society lawyer," I said, "of great
experience." "Oh!" he said, "that is what you do?"--funny the way he
speaks! "Then I come with you!"--And I've got him in the cab below.
I want to tell you everything before he comes up. On the way I tried to
get something out of him, but I couldn't--I could not. "This is very
awkward," I said at last. "It is, Mr Gilman," was his reply; and he
began to talk about his Sicilian claret--a very good wine, mind you; but
under the circumstances it seemed to me uncalled for. Have I made it
clear to you?
GILMAN. As I told you, sir, I've been followin' this case. It's what
you might call piquant. And I should be very glad if it came about that
this helped Captain Dancy. I take an interest, because, to tell you the
truth, [Confidentially] I don't like--well, not to put too fine a point
upon it 'Ebrews. They work harder; they're more sober; they're honest;
and they're everywhere. I've nothing against them, but the fact is--they
get on so.
GILMAN. Well, I prefer my own countrymen, and that's the truth of it.
TWISDEN. [Pointing to the newspaper and the note] Mr Gilman has brought
this, of which he is holder for value. His customer, who changed it
three days ago, is coming up.
TWISDEN. [Nodding] Mr Gilman, your conduct has been most prompt. You
may safely leave the matter in our hands, now. Kindly let us retain
this note; and ask for my cashier as you go out and give him [He writes]
this. He will reimburse you. We will take any necessary steps
ourselves.
GILMAN. [In slight surprise, with modest pride] Well, sir, I'm in your
'ands. I must be guided by you, with your experience. I'm glad you
think I acted rightly.
TWISDEN. If there is, Mr Gilman, we will let you know. We have your
address. You may make your mind easy; but don't speak of this. It might
interfere with Justice.
He goes.
But RICARDOS does not sit; he stands looking uneasily across the
table at GRAVITER.
RICARDOS. Well, Mr Tweesden and sare, this matter is very serious for
me, and very delicate--it concairns my honour. I am in a great
difficulty.
TWISDEN. Let me be frank with you. [Telling his points off on his
fingers] We have your admission that you changed this stopped note for
value. It will be our duty to inform the Bank of England that it has
been traced to you. You will have to account to them for your possession
of it. I suggest to you that it will be far better to account frankly to
us.
RICARDOS. [Taking out a handkerchief and quite openly wiping his hands
and forehead] I received this note, sare, with others, from a gentleman,
sare, in settlement of a debt of honour, and I know nothing of where he
got them.
TWISDEN. H'm! that is very vague. If that is all you can tell us, I'm
afraid--
TWISDEN. [Suddenly] I am afraid we must press you for the name of the
gentleman.
RICARDOS. Sare, if I give it to you, and it does 'im 'arm, what will my
daughter say? This is a bad matter for me. He behaved well to her; and
she is attached to him still; sometimes she is crying yet because she
lost him. And now we betray him, perhaps, who knows? This is very
unpleasant for me. [Taking up the paper] Here it gives the number of
another note--a 'undred-pound note. I 'ave that too. [He takes a note
from his breast pocket].
RICARDOS. Sare, if I tell you, will you give me your good word that my
daughter shall not hear of it?
A long pause.
TWISDEN. I must keep this note. [He touches the hundred-pound note]
You will not speak of this to anyone. I may recognise that you were a
holder for value received--others might take a different view. Good-day,
sir. Graviter, see Mr Ricardos out, and take his address.
RICARDOS. [Pressing his hands over the breast of his frock coat--with a
sigh] Gentlemen, I beg you--remember what I said. [With a roll of his
eyes] My daughter--I am not happee. Good-day.
TWISDEN. [To himself] Young Dancy! [He pins the two notes together and
places them in an envelope, then stands motionless except for his eyes
and hands, which restlessly express the disturbance within him.]
GRAVITER. I don't know, sir. The war loosened "form" all over the
place. I saw plenty of that myself. And some men have no moral sense.
From the first I've had doubts.
TWISDEN. Yes.
GRAVITER [Touching the envelope] Chance brought this here, sir. That
man won't talk--he's too scared.
TWISDEN. Gilman.
GRAVITER. Too respectable. If De Levis got those notes back, and the
rest of the money, anonymously?
TWISDEN. But the case, Graviter; the case.
GRAVITER. [Telephoning] Bring Mrs Dancy up. [He turns to the window].
MABEL DANDY is shown in, looking very pale. TWISDEN advances from
the fire, and takes her hand.
MABEL. Major Colford's taken Ronny off in his car for the night. I
thought it would do him good. I said I'd come round in case there was
anything you wanted to say before to-morrow.
MABEL. I don't know, but he'll be home before ten o'clock to-morrow. Is
there anything?
TWISDEN. Well, I'd like to see him before the Court sits. Send him on
here as soon as he comes.
MABEL. [With her hand to her forehead] Oh! Mr Twisden, when will it be
over? My head's getting awful sitting in that Court.
TWISDEN. My dear Mrs Dancy, there's no need at all for you to come down
to-morrow; take a rest and nurse your head.
TWISDEN. My dear young lady, that's our business. [He takes her hand].
MABEL's face suddenly quivers. She draws her hand away, and covers
her lips with it.
MABEL. I'm so tired of--! Thank you so much for all you're doing.
Good night! Good night, Mr Graviter!
MABEL goes.
TWISDEN. No, no! I--I can't go on with the case. It's breaking faith.
Get Sir Frederic's chambers.
TWISDEN. Just look out the trains down and up early to-morrow.
TWISDEN. Send to this address in Putney, verify the fact that Ricardos
has a daughter, and give me a trunk call to Brighton. Better go
yourself, Graviter. If you see her, don't say anything, of course--
invent some excuse. [GRAVITER nods] I'll be up in time to see Dancy.
TWISDEN. Yes. But professional honour comes first. What time is that
train? [He bends over the ABC].
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
YOUNG CLERK. Yes, sir. Mr Twisden will see you in one minute. He had
to go out of town last night. [He prepares to open the waiting-room
door].
DANCY. But you get no excitement from year's end to year's end. It'd
drive me mad.
YOUNG CLERK. [Shyly] A case like this is pretty exciting. I'd give a
lot to see us win it.
YOUNG CLERK. I don't know, sir. It's--it's like football--you want your
side to win. [He opens the waiting-room door. Expanding] You see some
rum starts, too, in a lawyer's office in a quiet way.
DANCY enters the waiting-room, and the YOUNG CLERK, shutting the
door, meets TWISDEN as he comes in, Left Forward, and takes from him
overcoat, top hat, and a small bag.
DANCY. Not?
TWISDEN. These two notes. [He uncovers the notes] After the Court rose
yesterday we had a man called Ricardos here. [A pause] Is there any need
for me to say more?
TWISDEN. Our duty was plain; we could not go on with the case. I have
consulted Sir Frederic. He felt--he felt that he must throw up his
brief, and he will do that the moment the Court sits. Now I want to talk
to you about what you're going to do.
TWISDEN. I don't pretend to understand, but I imagine you may have done
this in a moment of reckless bravado, feeling, perhaps, that as you gave
the mare to De Levis, the money was by rights as much yours as his.
TWISDEN. We can't tell what the result of this collapse will be. The
police have the theft in hand. They may issue a warrant. The money
could be refunded, and the costs paid--somehow that can all be managed.
But it may not help. In any case, what end is served by your staying in
the country? You can't save your honour--that's gone. You can't save
your wife's peace of mind. If she sticks to you--do you think she will?
TWISDEN. Will you go, then, at once, and leave me to break it to your
wife?
TWISDEN. You must decide quickly, to catch a boat train. Many a man has
made good. You're a fine soldier.
DANCY. It's all damned kind of you. [With difficulty] But I must think
of my wife. Give me a few minutes.
He goes to the door, Right, and opens it. DANCY passes him and goes
out. TWISDEN rings a bell and stands waiting.
CLERK. [Who has a startled look] Yes, sir. Mr Graviter has come in,
air, with General Canynge. Are you disengaged?
TWISDEN. Yes.
The CLERK goes out, and almost immediately GRAVITER and CANYNGE
enter. Good-morning, General. [To GRAVITER]
Well?
GRAVITER. Sir Frederic got up at once and said that since the
publication of the numbers of those notes, information had reached him
which forced him to withdraw from the case. Great sensation, of course.
I left Bromley in charge. There'll be a formal verdict for the
defendant, with costs. Have you told Dancy?
GRAVITER. You can see queerer things in the papers, any day.
CANYNGE. That poor young wife of his! WINSOR gave me a message for you,
Twisden. If money's wanted quickly to save proceedings, draw on him.
Is there anything I can do?
CANYNGE. I don't know that an asylum isn't the place for him. He must
be off his head at moments. That jump-crazy! He'd have got a verdict on
that alone--if they'd seen those balconies. I was looking at them when I
was down there last Sunday. Daring thing, Twisden. Very few men, on a
dark night--He risked his life twice. That's a shrewd fellow--young De
Levis. He spotted Dancy's nature.
CLERK. The taxi's here, sir. Will you see Major Colford and Miss Orme?
COLFORD. Guilty or not, you ought to have stuck to him--it's not playing
the game, Mr Twisden.
TWISDEN. You must allow me to judge where my duty lay, in a very hard
case.
COLFORD. I thought a man was safe with his solicitor.
TWISDEN. When you have been as long in your profession as I have been in
mine, Major Colford, you will know that duty to your calling outweighs
duty to friend or client.
COLFORD. I'm going in to shake hands with him. [He starts to cross the
room].
COLFORD. Poor little Mabel Dancy! It's perfect hell for her.
They have not seen that DANCY has opened the door behind them.
DANCY. It is!
DANCY. No good, Colford. [Gazing round at them] Oh! clear out--I can't
stand commiseration; and let me have some air.
TWISDEN. Well?
CANYNGE. Dancy, for the honour of the Army, avoid further scandal if
you can. I've written a letter to a friend of mine in the Spanish War
Office. It will get you a job in their war. [CANYNGE closes the
envelope].
DANCY. Very good of you. I don't know if I can make use of it.
CANYNGE stretches out the letter, which TWISDEN hands to DANCY, who
takes it. GRAVITER re-opens the door.
DANCY does not answer, but looks at him with nothing alive in his
face but his eyes.
CANYNGE. [Suddenly] You heard what he said, Dancy. You have no time to
lose.
CURTAIN.
SCENE III
DANCY. No.
DANCY. Spun.
DANCY. Me!
MABEL. Oh! Why didn't I face it? But I couldn't--I had to believe.
MABEL. [Putting her hand on his head] Yes; oh, yes! I think I've known a
long time, really. Only--why? What made you?
MABEL. To a woman?
MABEL too gets up. She presses her hands to her forehead, then
walks blindly round to behind the sofa and stands looking straight
in front of her.
DANCY. Sir Frederic chucked up the case. I've seen Twisden; they want
me to run for it to Morocco.
MABEL. Oh, Ronny! Please! Please! Think what you'll want. I'll pack.
Quick! No! Don't wait to take things. Have you got money?
MABEL. [After a moment's struggle] Oh! No! No, no! I'll follow--I'll
come out to you there.
DANCY seizes her hand and puts it to his lips. The bell rings.
She passes him and steals out to the outer door of the flat, where
she stands listening. The bell rings again. She looks through the
slit of the letter-box. While she is gone DANCY stands quite still,
till she comes back.
A long kiss, till the bell again startles them apart, and there is a
loud knock.
DANCY. They'll break the door in. It's no good--we must open. Hold
them in check a little. I want a minute or two.
He opens the bedroom door, Left, and stands waiting for her to go.
Summoning up her courage, she goes to open the outer door. A sudden
change comes over DANCY'S face; from being stony it grows almost
maniacal.
DANCY. [Under his breath] No! No! By God! No! He goes out into the
bedroom, closing the door behind him.
MABEL has now opened the outer door, and disclosed INSPECTOR DEDE
and the YOUNG CONSTABLE who were summoned to Meldon Court on the
night of the theft, and have been witnesses in the case. Their
voices are heard.
MABEL. Yes?
INSPECTOR. I should think you must be sure, madam. This is not a big
place.
MABEL. Inspector!
INSPECTOR. I'm sure I've every sympathy for you, madam; but I must carry
out my instructions.
INSPECTOR. I am.
[Speaking low] Just half an hour! Couldn't you? It's two lives--two
whole lives! We've only been married four months. Come back in half an
hour. It's such a little thing--nobody will know. Nobody. Won't you?
INSPECTOR. No, no--don't you try to undermine me--I'm sorry for you;
but don't you try it! [He tries the handle, then knocks at the door].
[Moving towards the door, Left; to the CONSTABLE] Who's that out there?
CONSTABLE. A lady and gentleman, sir.
"DEAR COLFORD,--This is the only decent thing I can do. It's too damned
unfair to her. It's only another jump. A pistol keeps faith. Look
after her, Colford--my love to her, and you."
MARGARET gives a sort of choking sob, then, seeing the smelling bottle,
she snatches it up, and turns to revive MABEL.
COLFORD. Hara-kiri.
COLFORD. [He points with the letter to MABEL] For her sake, and his own.
COLFORD. [Grimly] You shall have it read at the inquest. Till then--
it's addressed to me, and I stick to it.
MARGARET [wildly] Keeps faith! We've all done that. It's not enough.
WINDOWS
By John Galsworthy
ACT I
MARY. If there isn't an ideal left, Johnny, it's no good pretending one.
JOHNNY. If you'd just missed being killed for three blooming years for
no spiritual result whatever, you'd want something to bite on, Mary.
JOHNNY. What price the little and weak, now? Freedom and
self-determination, and all that?
MARY. Forty to one--no takers.
MARY is moved so lar as to turn and look over his shoulder a minute.
JOHNNY. Who?
MR MARCH. And this fellow hasn't the nous to see that if ever there were
a moment when it would pay us to take risks, and be generous--My hat!
He ought to be--knighted! [Resumes his paper.]
JOHNNY. [Muttering] You see, even Dad can't suggest chivalry without
talking of payment for it. That shows how we've sunk.
MARY. [Airily] Then it's built on sand. [She sits beside him on the
fender.]
MARY. [Roused] I'll tell you what, Johnny, it's mucking about with
chivalry that makes your poetry rotten. [JOHNNY seizes her arm and
twists it] Shut up--that hurts. [JOHNNY twists it more] You brute!
[JOHNNY lets her arm go.]
JOHNNY. Ha! So you don't mind taking advantage of the fact that you can
cheek me with impunity, because you're weaker. You've given the whole
show away, Mary. Abolish chivalry and I'll make you sit up.
MRS MARCH. What are you two quarrelling about? Will you bring home
cigarettes, Johnny--not Bogdogunov's Mamelukes--something more
Anglo-American.
MARY. Pig! [She has risen and stands rubbing her arm and recovering her
placidity, which is considerable.]
MR MARCH. Yes. [To his paper] Making the country stink in the eyes of
the world!
MRS MARCH. I'm doing my best to get a parlourmaid, to-day, Mary, but
these breakfast things won't clear themselves.
MRS MARCH. Good! [She gets up. At the door] Knitting silk.
JOHNNY. Mother hasn't an ounce of idealism. You might make her see
stars, but never in the singular.
MR MARCH. [To his paper] If God doesn't open the earth soon--
MARY. [Giving him a match] D'you mind writing in here this morning,
Dad? Your study hasn't been done. There's nobody but Cook.
JOHNNY. Yes; but why do we keep contracts when we can break them with
advantage and impunity?
MR MARCH. Well, you might say it was convenient for people living in
communities.
BLY. Beg pardon, Mr March; d'you mind me cleanin' the winders here?
MR BLY stares at him, and puts his pail down by the window.
MARY has entered with her father's writing materials which she puts
on a stool beside him.
MARY. Here you are, Dad! I've filled up the ink pot. Do be careful!
Come on, Johnny!
MR MARCH. [Relighting his pipe and preparing his materials] What do you
think of things, Mr Bly?
BLY. Not to say all through--I've read some of your articles in the
Sunday papers, though. Make you think!
BLY. No. People don't think. You 'ave to 'ave some cause for thought.
BLY. It's nearer 'ome with me. I've often thought I'd like a talk with
you, sir. But I'm keepin' you. [He prepares to swab the pane.]
BLY. Ah! I've been on the beach in my day. [He sponges at the window]
It's given me a way o' lookin' at things that I don't find in other
people. Look at the 'Ome Office. They got no philosophy.
MR MARCH. [Pricking his ears] What? Have you had dealings with them?
BLY. Over the reprieve that was got up for my daughter. But I'm keepin'
you.
He swabs at the window, but always at the same pane, so that he does
not advance at all.
MR MARCH. Reprieve?
BLY. Ah! She was famous at eighteen. The Sunday Mercury was full of
her, when she was in prison.
BLY. She's out now; been out a fortnight. I always say that fame's
ephemereal. But she'll never settle to that weavin'. Her head got
turned a bit.
BLY. [Pausing--dipping his sponge in the pail and then standing with it
in his hand] Why! Don't you remember the Bly case? They sentenced 'er
to be 'anged by the neck until she was dead, for smotherin' her baby.
She was only eighteen at the time of speakin'.
MR MARCH. [Rumpling his hair] No, no! Dash it all! Beauty's the only
thing left worth living for.
BLY. Well, I like to see green grass and a blue sky; but it's a mistake
in a 'uman bein'. Look at any young chap that's good-lookin'--'e's
doomed to the screen, or hair-dressin'. Same with the girls. My girl
went into an 'airdresser's at seventeen and in six months she was in
trouble. When I saw 'er with a rope round her neck, as you might say,
I said to meself: "Bly," I said, "you're responsible for this. If she
'adn't been good-lookin'--it'd never 'eve 'appened."
During this speech MARY has come in with a tray, to clear the
breakfast, and stands unnoticed at the dining-table, arrested by
the curious words of MR BLY.
MR MARCH. Your wife might not have thought that you were wholly the
cause, Mr Bly.
BLY. One for colour--likes a bit o' music--likes a dance, and a flower.
MARY. [Interrupting softly] Dad, I was going to clear, but I'll come
back later.
MR MARCH. Come here and listen to this! Here's a story to get your
blood up! How old was the baby, Mr Bly?
BLY. Two days--'ardly worth mentionin'. They say she 'ad the
'ighstrikes after--an' when she comes to she says: "I've saved my baby's
life." An' that's true enough when you come to think what that sort o'
baby goes through as a rule; dragged up by somebody else's hand, or took
away by the Law. What can a workin' girl do with a baby born under the
rose, as they call it? Wonderful the difference money makes when it
comes to bein' outside the Law.
MR MARCH. Right you are, Mr Bly. God's on the side of the big
battalions.
BLY. Ah! Religion! [His eyes roll philosophically] Did you ever read
'Aigel?
BLY. Yes; with an aitch. There's a balance abart 'im that I like.
There's no doubt the Christian religion went too far. Turn the other
cheek! What oh! An' this Anti-Christ, Neesha, what came in with the
war--he went too far in the other direction. Neither of 'em practical
men. You've got to strike a balance, and foller it.
MR MARCH. Balance! Not much balance about us. We just run about and
jump Jim Crow.
MR MARCH. Down.
BLY. Well, is it up or down to get so 'ard that you can't take care of
others?
MR MARCH. Down.
MR MARCH. Excuse me, Mr Bly, I think Nature got hold of that before you.
BLY. In the kitchen. Your Cook told me you couldn't get hold of an
'ouse parlour-maid. So I thought it was just a chance--you bein'
broadminded.
MR MARCH. Oh! I see. What would your mother say, Mary?
BLY. Well! She can do hair. [Observing the smile exchanged between MR
MARCH and MARY] And she's quite handy with a plate.
BLY. You see, in this weavin' shop--all the girls 'ave 'ad to be in
trouble, otherwise they wouldn't take 'em. [Apologetically towards MARY]
It's a kind of a disorderly 'ouse without the disorders. Excusin' the
young lady's presence.
BLY. Well I remember when she was a little bit of a thing--no higher
than my knee--[He holds out his hand.]
MR MARCH. [Suddenly moved] My God! yes. They've all been that. [To
MARY] Where's your mother?
MR MARCH. Well, let's see her, Mr Bly; let's see her, if you don't mind.
BLY. Oh, I don't mind, sir, and she won't neither; she's used to bein'
inspected by now. Why! she 'ad her bumps gone over just before she came
out!
MR MARCH. [Touched on the raw again] H'm! Too bad! Mary, go and fetch
her.
MARY, with a doubting smile, goes out. [Rising] You might give me
the details of that trial, Mr Bly. I'll see if I can't write
something that'll make people sit up. That's the way to send Youth
to hell! How can a child who's had a rope round her neck--!
BLY. [Who has been fumbling in his pocket, produces some yellow
paper-cuttings clipped together] Here's her references--the whole
literature of the case. And here's a letter from the chaplain in one of
the prisons sayin' she took a lot of interest in him; a nice young man,
I believe. [He suddenly brushes a tear out of his eye with the back of
his hand] I never thought I could 'a felt like I did over her bein' in
prison. Seemed a crool senseless thing--that pretty girl o' mine. All
over a baby that hadn't got used to bein' alive. Tain't as if she'd
been follerin' her instincts; why, she missed that baby something crool.
MR MARCH. Of course, human life--even an infant's----
BLY. I know you've got to 'ave a close time for it. But when you come
to think how they take 'uman life in Injia and Ireland, and all those
other places, it seems 'ard to come down like a cartload o' bricks on a
bit of a girl that's been carried away by a moment's abiration.
BLY. Ah! And 'oo can tell 'oo's the father? She never give us his
name. I think the better of 'er for that.
MARY has returned with FAITH BLY, who stands demure and pretty on
the far side of the table, her face an embodiment of the pathetic
watchful prison faculty of adapting itself to whatever may be best
for its owner at the moment. At this moment it is obviously best
for her to look at the ground, and yet to take in the faces of MR
MARCH and MARY without their taking her face in. A moment, for all,
of considerable embarrassment.
The remark attracts FAITH; she raises her eyes to his softly with a
little smile, and drops them again.
MR MARCH. Well, Faith can remove mountains; but--er--I don't know if she
can clear tables.
BLY. I've been tellin' Mr March and the young lady what you're capable
of. Show 'em what you can do with a plate.
FAITH takes the tray from the sideboard and begins to clear the
table, mainly by the light of nature. After a glance, MR MARCH
looks out of the window and drums his fingers on the uncleaned pane.
MR BLY goes on with his cleaning. MARY, after watching from the
hearth, goes up and touches her father's arm.
MARY. [Between him and MR BLY who is bending over his bucket, softly]
You're not watching, Dad.
BLY. Well, Governments! They're all the same--Butter when they're out
of power, and blood when they're in. And Lord! 'ow they do abuse other
Governments for doin' the things they do themselves. Excuse me, I'll
want her dosseer back, sir, when you've done with it.
MR MARCH. Yes, yes. [He turns, rubbing his hands at the cleared table]
Well, that seems all right! And you can do hair?
FAITH. Oh! Yes, I can do hair. [Again that little soft look, and smile
so carefully adjusted.]
FAITH. Tell them you're engaged when you're not? Oh! yes.
MR MARCH. Exactly.
FAITH. I'm very quick. I--I'd like to come. [She looks down] I don't
care for what I'm doing now. It makes you feel your position.
FAITH. Oh! yes--kind; but-- [She looks up] it's against my instincts.
BLY. [Rolling his eyes at his daughter] Ah! but you mustn't 'ave
instincts here, you know. You've got a chance, and you must come to
stay, and do yourself credit.
BLY. [Taking up his pail] I quite understand, sir; I've been a married
man myself. It's very queer the way women look at things. I'll take her
away now, and come back presently and do these other winders. You can
talk it over by yourselves. But if you do see your way, sir, I shan't
forget it in an 'urry. To 'ave the responsibility of her--really, it's
dreadful.
FAITH's face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up
in another little soft look at MR MARCH, as she and MR BLY go out.
MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] Pathetic little figure!
Such infernal inhumanity!
He runs his arm through MARY's, and they sit on the fender, at bay.
MRS MARCH enters, Left.
MRS MARCH. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught one
for 'you; Mr Bly's daughter--
MRS MARCH. Are you out of your senses? Don't you know that she's the
girl who--
MRS MARCH. [Crossing to the bell, and ringing] You'll just send for Mr
Bly and get rid of her again.
COOK beams.
MRS MARCH. That girl, Faith Bly, wants to come here as parlour-maid.
Absurd!
MARCH. You know her story, Cook? I want to give the poor girl a chance.
Mrs March thinks it's taking chances. What do you say?
COCK. Of course, it is a risk, sir; but there! you've got to take 'em
to get maids nowadays. If it isn't in the past, it's in the future. I
daresay I could learn 'er.
MRS MARCH. It's not her work, Cook, it's her instincts. A girl who
smothered a baby that she oughtn't to have had--
MRS MARCH. Of course she's repented. But did you ever know repentance
change anybody, Cook?
COOK. [Smiling] Well, generally it's a way of gettin' ready for the
next.
MRS MARCH. Exactly.
COOK. We had a girl like her, I remember, in your dear mother's time,
Mr Geoffrey.
MR MARCH. Well, I can't bear behaving like everybody else. Don't you
think we might give her a chance, Cook?
MR MARCH. Ha!
COOK. The things he tells me, ma'am, is too wonderful for words. He's
'ad to do with prisoners and generals, every sort of 'orror.
MR MARCH. Cook's quite right. The war destroyed all our ideals and
probably created the baby.
MRS MARCH. It didn't smother it; or condemn the girl.
MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] The more I think of
that--! [He turns away.]
MRS MARCH. [Indicating her husband] You see, Cook, that's the mood in
which I have to engage a parlour-maid. What am I to do with your master?
MRS MARCH. I'm tired of being the only sober person in this house.
MRS MARCH. I didn't mean anything of that sort. But they do break out
so.
MRS MARCH. Johnny! He's the worst of all. His poetry is nothing but
one long explosion.
MR MARCH. [Coming from the window] I say We ought to have faith and
jump.
COOK. [Blankly] Of course, in the Bible they 'ad faith, and just look
what it did to them!
COOK. [Scandalised] Oh! no, sir, not human nature; I never let that get
the upper hand.
COOK. I do, sir, every fortnight when he does the kitchen windows.
COOK. Ah! When he's got a drop o' stout in 'im--Oh! dear! [She smiles
placidly.]
MRS MARCH. [Looking at his face] Now, my dear boy, don't be hasty and
foolish!
JOHNNY. She's in the hall, poor little devil, waiting for her sentence.
MRS MARCH. There are plenty of other chances, Johnny. Why on earth
should we--?
JOHNNY. Mother, it's just an instance. When something comes along that
takes a bit of doing--Give it to the other chap!
MRS MARCH. [Drily] Let me see, which of us will have to put up with her
shortcomings--Johnny or I?
MRS MARCH. Girls pick up all sorts of things in prison. We can hardly
expect her to be honest. You don't mind that, I suppose?
JOHNNY. Vicarious!
MRS MARCH. Well, where do you come in? You'll make poems about the
injustice of the Law. Your father will use her in a novel. She'll wear
Mary's blouses, and everybody will be happy--except Cook and me.
MR MARCH. Hang it all, Joan, you might be the Great Public itself!
MRS MARCH. I am--get all the kicks and none of the ha'pence.
JOHNNY. [Gloomily] The more I see of things the more disgusting they
seem. I don't see what we're living for. All right. Chuck the girl
out, and let's go rooting along with our noses in the dirt.
JOHNNY. Well, Dad, there was one thing anyway we learned out there--
When a chap was in a hole--to pull him out, even at a risk.
MRS MARCH. There are people who--the moment you pull them out--jump in
again.
MRS MARCH. Well, you're all against me. Have it your own way, and when
you regret it--remember me!
MR MARCH. We will--we will! That's settled, then. Bring her in and
tell her. We'll go on to the terrace.
FAITH enters and stands beside COOK, close to the door. MARY goes
out.
FAITH. Yes.
FAITH. No.
MRS MARCH. Cook is going to do her best for you. Are you going to do
yours for us?
FAITH. Yes.
MRS MARCH. Well, then, Cook will show you where things are kept, and how
to lay the table and that. Your wages will be thirty until we see where
we are. Every other Sunday, and Thursday afternoon. What about dresses?
FAITH. [Looking at her dress] I've only got this--I had it before, of
course, it hasn't been worn.
MRS MARCH. Very neat. But I meant for the house. You've no money, I
suppose?
MRS MARCH. We shall have to find you some dresses, then. Cook will take
you to-morrow to Needham's. You needn't wear a cap unless you like.
Well, I hope you'll get on. I'll leave you with Cook now.
After one look at the girl, who is standing motionless, she goes
out.
She is standing back to the dresser, and turns to it, opening the
right-hand drawer.
COOK. Now, 'ere's the wine. The master likes 'is glass. And 'ere's the
spirits in the tantaliser 'tisn't ever kept locked, in case Master Johnny
should bring a friend in. Have you noticed Master Johnny? [FAITH nods]
Ah! He's a dear boy; and wonderful high-principled since he's been in
the war. He'll come to me sometimes and say: "Cook, we're all going to
the devil!" They think 'ighly of 'im as a poet. He spoke up for you
beautiful.
COOK. [Regarding her moody, pretty face] Why! We all have feelin's!
FAITH. I wasn't.
COOK. It'll be a nice change for you, here. They don't go to Church;
they're agnosticals. [Patting her shoulder] How old are you?
FAITH. Twenty.
COOK. Think of that--and such a life! Now, dearie, I'm your friend.
Let the present bury the past--as the sayin' is. Forget all about
yourself, and you'll be a different girl in no time.
COOK. Well! You are sharp! [Opening another dresser drawer] Here's
the vinegar! And here's the sweets, and [rather anxiously] you mustn't
eat them.
COOK. Ah! You must tell me all about it. Did you have adventures?
COOK. Dear, dear! They must be quite fresh to you, then! How long was
it?
COOK. And never a day out? What did you do all the time? Did they
learn you anything?
COOK. Tell me about your poor little baby. I'm sure you meant it for
the best.
COOK. Oh! dear--what things do come into your head! Why! No one can
take a baby from its mother.
COOK. Tt! Tt! Well! Here's the pickled onions. Miss Mary loves 'em!
Now then, let me see you lay the cloth.
She takes a tablecloth out, hands it to FAITH, and while the girl
begins to unfold the cloth she crosses to the service shutter.
And here's where we pass the dishes through into the pantry.
The door is opened, and MRS MARCH'S voice says: "Cook--a minute!"
[Preparing to go] Salt cellars one at each corner--four, and the peppers.
[From the door] Now the decanters. Oh! you'll soon get on. [MRS MARCH
"Cook!"] Yes, ma'am.
She goes. FAITH, left alone, stands motionless, biting her pretty
lip, her eyes mutinous. Hearing footsteps, she looks up. MR BLY,
with his pail and cloths, appears outside.
BLY. [Preparing to work, while FAITH prepares to set the salt cellars]
So you've got it! You never know your luck. Up to-day and down
to-morrow. I'll 'ave a glass over this to-night. What d'you get?
FAITH. Thirty.
BLY. It's not the market price, still, you're not the market article.
Now, put a good heart into it and get to know your job; you'll find Cook
full o' philosophy if you treat her right--she can make a dumplin' with
anybody. But look 'ere; you confine yourself to the ladies!
BLY. I know parents are out of date; still, I've put up with a lot on
your account, so gimme a bit of me own back.
FAITH. I don't know whether I shall like this. I've been shut up so
long. I want to see some life.
BLY. Well, that's natural. But I want you to do well. I suppose you'll
be comin' 'ome to fetch your things to-night?
FAITH. Yes.
She'll pick 'em out from what's over. Never 'ad much nose for a
flower meself. I often thought you'd like a flower when you was
in prison.
BLY. Ah! I suppose I've drunk more glasses over your bein' in there
than over anything that ever 'appened to me. Why! I couldn't relish the
war for it! And I suppose you 'ad none to relish. Well, it's over. So,
put an 'eart into it.
FAITH sets down the salt cellar in her hand, puts her tongue out a
very little, and goes out into the hall. MR BLY is gathering up his
pail and cloths when MR MARCH enters at the window.
BLY. [Raising himself] I'd like to shake your 'and, sir. [They shake
hands] It's a great weight off my mind.
BLY. Ah! We want the good old times-when you could depend on the
seasons. The further you look back the more dependable the times get;
'ave you noticed that, sir?
BLY. Her looks are against her. I never found a man that didn't.
MR MARCH. [A little disconcerted] Well, we'll try and give her a good
show here.
JOHNNY. [Privately] If you haven't begun your morning, Dad, you might
just tell me what you think of these verses.
He takes back the sheet of paper, clutches his brow, and crosses to
the door. As he passes FAITH, she looks up at him with eyes full of
expression. JOHNNY catches the look, jibs ever so little, and goes
out.
FAITH puts the decanters on the table, and goes quickly out.
CURTAIN.
ACT II
MR MARCH. I have.
MR MARCH. I've always found your mother extremely good at seeming not to
notice things, Mary.
MR MARCH. No, no! Johnny got it, and I got him getting it.
MR MARCH. What does one do with a glad eye that belongs to some one
else?
MARY. [Laughing] No. But, seriously, Dad, Johnny's not like you and
me. Why not speak to Mr Bly?
MARY. Well, I warn you. Johnny's very queer just now; he's in the "lose
the world to save your soul" mood. It really is too bad of that girl.
After all, we did what most people wouldn't.
MR MARCH. Come! Get your hat on, Mary, or we shan't make the Tube
before the next shower.
MR MARCH. Ah!
BLY. [Filling his sponge] Question is: How far are you to give rein to
your disposition? When I was in Durban, Natal, I knew a man who had the
biggest disposition I ever come across. 'E struck 'is wife, 'e smoked
opium, 'e was a liar, 'e gave all the rein 'e could, and yet withal one
of the pleasantest men I ever met.
BLY. Follow your instincts. You see--if I'm not keepin' you--now that
we ain't got no faith, as we were sayin' the other day, no Ten
Commandments in black an' white--we've just got to be 'uman bein's--
raisin' Cain, and havin' feelin' hearts. What's the use of all these
lofty ideas that you can't live up to? Liberty, Fraternity, Equality,
Democracy--see what comes o' fightin' for 'em! 'Ere we are-wipin' out
the lot. We thought they was fixed stars; they was only comets--hot air.
No; trust 'uman nature, I say, and follow your instincts.
He extends his wiped hand, which MR MARCH shakes with the feeling
that he is always shaking Mr. BLY's hand.
BLY. Ah! But which of 'em was thinkin' "'Ere's a little bit o' warm
life on its own. 'Ere's a little dancin' creature. What's she feelin',
wot's 'er complaint?"--impersonal-like. I like to see a man do a bit of
speculatin', with his mind off of 'imself, for once.
BLY. That's right, sir. When I see a mangy cat or a dog that's lost, or
a fellow-creature down on his luck, I always try to put meself in his
place. It's a weakness I've got.
He checks himself, but MR BLY has wiped his hand and extended it.
MR MARCH. Mr Bly is like all the greater men I know--he can't listen.
MR MARCH. Very!
BLY. Winders! There they are! Clean, dirty! All sorts--All round yer!
Winders!
FAITH. Eight times a day four times for them and four times for us.
I hate food!
FAITH. Well!
BLY. [Regarding her] Look 'ere, my girl! Don't you forget that there
ain't many winders in London out o' which they look as philosophical as
these here. Beggars can't be choosers.
BLY. Ah! But you shouldn't brood over it. I knew a man in Valpiraso
that 'ad spent 'arf 'is life in prison-a jolly feller; I forget what
'e'd done, somethin' bloody. I want to see you like him. Aren't you
happy here?
BLY. Well, that gives a very good idea of him. They say 'es a poet;
does 'e leave 'em about?
FAITH. All about the condition of the world; and the moon.
Um--'ts what I thought. She 'asn't moved much with the times. She
thinks she 'as, but she 'asn't. Well, they seem a pleasant family.
Leave you to yourself. 'Ow's Cook?
BLY. More body than mind? Still, you get out, don't you?
FAITH. [With a slow smile] Yes. [She gives a sudden little twirl, and
puts her hands up to her hair before the mirror] My afternoon to-day.
It's fine in the streets, after-being in there.
BLY. Well! Don't follow your instincts too much, that's all! I must
get on to the drawin' room now. There's a shower comin'.
[Philosophically] It's 'ardly worth while to do these winders. You
clean 'em, and they're dirty again in no time. It's like life. And
people talk o' progress. What a sooperstition! Of course there ain't
progress; it's a world-without-end affair. You've got to make up your
mind to it, and not be discouraged. All this depression comes from
'avin' 'igh 'opes. 'Ave low 'opes, and you'll be all right.
He takes up his pail and cloths and moves out through the windows.
FAITH puts another chocolate into her mouth, and taking up a flower,
twirls round with it held to her nose, and looks at herself in the
glass over the hearth. She is still looking at herself when she
sees in the mirror a reflection of JOHNNY, who has come in. Her
face grows just a little scared, as if she had caught the eye of a
warder peering through the peep-hole of her cell door, then brazens,
and slowly sweetens as she turns round to him.
JOHNNY. Sorry! [He has a pipe in his hand and wears a Norfolk jacket]
Fond of flowers?
JOHNNY. Stick to it. Put it in your hair; it'll look jolly. How do you
like it here?
JOHNNY. Ha! I wonder if you've got the feeling I have. We've both had
hell, you know; I had three years of it, out there, and you've had three
years of it here. The feeling that you can't catch up; can't live fast
enough to get even.
FAITH nods.
FAITH. I don't know. I know I'd like to bite. She draws her lips back.
JOHNNY. Ah! Tell me all about your beastly time; it'll do you good.
You and I are different from anybody else in this house. We've lived
they've just vegetated. Come on; tell me!
FAITH. [With a faint smile] My baby wasn't beastly; but I--I got upset.
FAITH. My friend in the manicure came and told me about hers when I was
lying in the hospital. She couldn't have it with her, so it got
neglected and died.
FAITH. And she told me about another girl--the Law took her baby from
her. And after she was gone, I--got all worked up-- [She hesitates, then
goes swiftly on] And I looked at mine; it was asleep just here, quite
close. I just put out my arm like that, over its face--quite soft--
I didn't hurt it. I didn't really. [She suddenly swallows, and her lips
quiver] I didn't feel anything under my arm. And--and a beast of a nurse
came on me, and said "You've smothered your baby, you wretched girl!"
I didn't want to kill it--I only wanted to save it from living. And when
I looked at it, I went off screaming.
FAITH. Alive.
FAITH. I don't know. You can't tell anything in there. [With sudden
vehemence] I wish I had my baby back, though. It was mine; and I--I
don't like thinking about it.
JOHNNY. Did he come the heavy father? That's what I can't stand. When
they jaw a chap and hang him afterwards. Or was he one of the joking
ones?
FAITH. I've sat in my cell and cried all night--night after night,
I have. [With a little laugh] I cried all the softness out of me.
JOHNNY. You never believed they were going to hang you, did you?
JOHNNY. [With a reflective grunt] You had a much worse time than I. You
were lonely--
JOHNNY. In caves. The water drops like tears, and each drop has some
sort of salt, and leaves it behind till there's just a long salt
petrified drip hanging from the roof.
FAITH. Ah! [Staring at him] I used to stand behind my door. I'd stand
there sometimes I don't know how long. I'd listen and listen--the noises
are all hollow in a prison. You'd think you'd get used to being shut up,
but I never did.
JOHNNY. [Catching her arm] We'll make you feel alive again.
FAITH stares at him; sex comes back to her eyes. She looks down.
FAITH. [Clasping her hands] Oh! yes, I did. And I love getting out
now. I've got a fr-- [She checks herself] The streets are beautiful,
aren't they? Do you know Orleens Street?
FAITH. At the corner out of the Regent. That's where we had our shop.
I liked the hair-dressing. We had fun. Perhaps I've seen you before.
Did you ever come in there?
JOHNNY. No.
FAITH. I'd go back there; only they wouldn't take me--I'm too
conspicuous now.
FAITH. [With a sigh] But I did like it. I felt free. We had an hour
off in the middle of the day; you could go where you liked; and then,
after hours--I love the streets at night--all lighted. Olga--that's one
of the other girls--and I used to walk about for hours. That's life!
Fancy! I never saw a street for more than two years. Didn't you miss
them in the war?
JOHNNY. I missed grass and trees more--the trees! All burnt, and
splintered. Gah!
FAITH. Yes, I like trees too; anything beautiful, you know. I think the
parks are lovely--but they might let you pick the flowers. But the
lights are best, really--they make you feel happy. And music--I love an
organ. There was one used to come and play outside the prison--before I
was tried. It sounded so far away and lovely. If I could 'ave met the
man that played that organ, I'd have kissed him. D'you think he did it
on purpose?
FAITH. He'd rather have had pennies, though. It's all earning; working
and earning. I wish I were like the flowers. [She twirls the dower in
her hand] Flowers don't work, and they don't get put in prison.
JOHNNY. [Putting his arm round her] Never mind! Cheer up! You're only
a kid. You'll have a good time yet.
FAITH leans against him, as it were indifferently, clearly expecting
him to kiss her, but he doesn't.
FAITH. When I was a little girl I had a cake covered with sugar. I ate
the sugar all off and then I didn't want the cake--not much.
JOHNNY. [Suddenly, removing his arm] Gosh! If I could write a poem that
would show everybody what was in the heart of everybody else--!
FAITH. What?
JOHNNY. Because you're weak--little and weak. [Breaking out again] Damn
it! We went into the war to save the little and weak; at least we said
so; and look at us now! The bottom's out of all that. [Bitterly] There
isn't a faith or an illusion left. Look here! I want to help you.
FAITH. It didn't know it was alive. [Suddenly] D'you think I'm pretty?
JOHNNY. As pie.
JOHNNY. Why?
FAITH. [Turning to the window, through which can be seen the darkening
of a shower] It's raining. Father says windows never stay clean.
They stand dose together, unaware that COOK has thrown up the
service shutter, to see why the clearing takes so long. Her
astounded head and shoulders pass into view just as FAITH suddenly
puts up her face. JOHNNY'S lips hesitate, then move towards her
forehead. But her face shifts, and they find themselves upon her
lips. Once there, the emphasis cannot help but be considerable.
COOK'S mouth falls open.
COOK. Oh!
MR MARCH. Women's shoes! We could have made the Tube but for your
shoes.
MARY. It was your cold feet, not mine, dear. [Looking at FAITH and
nudging him] Now!
She goes towards the door, turns to look at FAITH still clearing the
table, and goes out.
MR MARCH. [Sotto voce] "In the spring a young man's fancy." I--I wanted
to say something to you in a friendly way.
FAITH. Yes.
FAITH. No.
MR MARCH. After what you've been through, any man with a sense of
chivalry--
FAITH. "COSY."
FAITH. Badly?
MR MARCH. [Suddenly alive to the fact that she is playing with him] I
started by being sorry for you.
FAITH. [Suddenly] Suppose you'd been stuffed away in a hole for years!
MR MARCH. [Side-tracked again] Just what your father said. The more I
see of Mr Bly, the more wise I think him.
FAITH. [Taking up the flower which is lying on the table] May I have
this flower?
MR MARCH. Of Course. You can always take what flowers you like--that
is--if--er--
MR MARCH. You mightn't think it, but I'm talking to you seriously.
MR MARCH. [Out of his depth] Well! I got wet; I must go and change.
FAITH follows him with her eyes as he goes out, and resumes the
clearing of the table. She has paused and is again smelling at the
flower when she hears the door, and quickly resumes her work. It is
MRS MARCH, who comes in and goes to the writing table, Left Back,
without looking at FAITH. She sits there writing a cheque, while
FAITH goes on clearing.
MRS MARCH. [Suddenly, in an unruffled voice] I have made your cheque out
for four pounds. It's rather more than the fortnight, and a month's
notice. There'll be a cab for you in an hour's time. Can you be ready
by then?
FAITH. Why?
FAITH. I--I--
MRS MARCH. Don't be ridiculous. Cook saw you kissing him with p--p--
MRS MARCH. You will have four pounds, and you can get another place.
FAITH. How?
MRS MARCH. You know perfectly well people can only save themselves.
FAITH. I don't care for your son; I've got a young--[She checks herself]
I--I'll leave your son alone, if he leaves me.
[Desolately] Well? [She moves towards the door. Suddenly holding out
the flower] Mr March gave me that flower; would you like it back?
MRS MARCH. Don't be absurd! If you want more money till you get a
place, let me know.
MRS MARCH goes to the window and drums her fingers on the pane.
COOK enters.
MRS MARCH. Cook, if Mr Bly's still here, I want to see him. Oh! And
it's three now. Have a cab at four o'clock.
COOK. [Almost tearful] Oh, ma'am--anybody but Master Johnny, and I'd
'ave been a deaf an' dummy. Poor girl! She's not responsive, I daresay.
Suppose I was to speak to Master Johnny?
COOK. He's done his windows; he's just waiting for his money.
COOK. I remember the master kissin' me, when he was a boy. But then he
never meant anything; so different from Master Johnny. Master Johnny
takes things to 'eart.
COOK. There's not an ounce of vice in 'im. It's all his goodness, dear
little feller.
COOK. It's eatin' hearty all of a sudden that's made her poptious. But
there, ma'am, try her again. Master Johnny'll be so cut up!
MRS MARCH. No playing with fire, Cook. We were foolish to let her come.
COOK. Oh! dear, he will be angry with me. If you hadn't been in the
kitchen and heard me, ma'am, I'd ha' let it pass.
COOK. Ah! But I'd do a lot of wrong things for Master Johnny. There's
always some one you'll go wrong for!
MRS MARCH. Well, get Mr Bly; and take that tray, there's a good soul.
COOK goes out with the tray; and while waiting, MRS MARCH finishes
clearing the table. She has not quite finished when MR BLY enters.
BLY. [With deprecation] Ah! we all has them. The winders ought to be
done once a week now the Spring's on 'em.
MRS MARCH. No, no! Giddiness with my son. It's impossible; she really
must learn.
BLY. Oh! but 'oo's to learn 'er? Couldn't you learn your son instead?
BLY. [Dubiously] I see. How am I goin' to get over this? Shall I tell
you what I think, ma'am?
BLY. That's it. Character's born, not made. You can clean yer winders
and clean 'em, but that don't change the colour of the glass. My father
would have given her a good hidin', but I shan't. Why not? Because my
glass ain't as thick as his. I see through it; I see my girl's
temptations, I see what she is--likes a bit o' life, likes a flower, an'
a dance. She's a natural morganatic.
BLY. I was speakin' philosophic! Well, I'll go 'ome now, and prepare
meself for the worst.
JOHNNY waves BLY out of the room and doses the door.
JOHNNY. Mother!
MRS MARCH. Now, Johnny, be sensible. She's a very pretty girl, and this
is my house.
JOHNNY. Of course you think the worst. Trust anyone who wasn't in the
war for that!
MRS MARCH. I don't think either the better or the worse. Kisses are
kisses!
JOHNNY. Mother, you're like the papers--you put in all the vice and
leave out all the virtue, and call that human nature. The kiss was an
accident that I bitterly regret.
JOHNNY. Dash it! You know what I mean. I regret it with my--my
conscience. It shan't occur again.
JOHNNY. Where?
MRS MARCH. Into the soup. And the purer they are, the hotter the soup.
JOHNNY. And you married father!
JOHNNY. Well, that girl is not to be chucked out; won't have her on my
chest.
MRS MARCH looks at him from across the dining-table, for he has
marched up to it, till they are staring at each other across the now
cleared rosewood.
JOHNNY. Oh, I'll stop her right enough. If I stuck it out in Hell, I
can stick it out in Highgate.
MRS MARCH. Johnny, listen. I've watched this girl; and I don't watch
what I want to see--like your father--I watch what is. She's not a hard
case--yet; but she will be.
JOHNNY. And why? Because all you matter-of-fact people make up your
minds to it. What earthly chance has she had?
MRS MARCH. She's a baggage. There are such things, you know, Johnny.
JOHNNY. She's a little creature who went down in the scrum and has been
kicked about ever since.
MRS MARCH. I'll give her money, if you'll keep her at arm's length.
JOHNNY. I call that revolting. What she wants is the human touch.
JOHNNY. Tolstoi was the most truthful writer that ever lived.
MRS MARCH. Tolstoi was a Russian--always proving that what isn't, is.
JOHNNY. Russians are charitable, anyway, and see into other people's
souls.
MRS MARCH. And no business to meddle with practical affairs. You and he
always ride in front of the hounds. Do you remember when the war broke
out, how angry you were with me because I said we were fighting from a
sense of self-preservation? Well, weren't we?
JOHNNY. There are thousands who feel like me--that the bottom's out of
everything. It sickens me that anything in the least generous should get
sat on by all you people who haven't risked your lives.
MRS MARCH. [With a smile] I risked mine when you were born, Johnny.
You were always very difficult.
JOHNNY. That girl's been telling me--I can see the whole thing.
MRS MARCH. The fact that she suffered doesn't alter her nature; or the
danger to you and us.
JOHNNY. You think she's a designing minx. I tell you she's got no more
design in her than a rabbit. She's just at the mercy of anything.
MRS MARCH. That's the trap. She'll play on your feelings, and you'll be
caught.
MRS MARCH. We know ourselves, you see. The girl's father realises
perfectly what she is.
JOHNNY. Mr Bly is a dodderer. And she's got no mother. I'll bet you've
never realised the life girls who get outed lead. I've seen them--I saw
them in France. It gives one the horrors.
MRS MARCH. I can imagine it. But no girl gets "outed," as you call it,
unless she's predisposed that way.
MRS MARCH. Excuse me, Johnny. I worked three years among factory girls,
and I know how they manage to resist things when they've got stuff in
them.
MRS MARCH. I've offered to help with money till she gets a place.
JOHNNY. And you know she won't take it. She's got that much stuff in
her. This place is her only chance. I appeal to you, Mother--please
tell her not to go.
JOHNNY. Where?
JOHNNY. [From the door, grimly] If I am, I'll have the right to be!
MRS MARCH. It's all your father. What can one expect when your father
carries on like a lunatic over his paper every morning?
MRS MARCH. If he would only learn that the value of a sentiment is the
amount of sacrifice you are prepared to make for it!
MARY. Yes: I read that in "The Times" yesterday. Father's much safer
than Johnny. Johnny isn't safe at all; he might make a sacrifice any
day. What were they doing?
MRS MARCH. Cook caught them kissing.
MR MARCH. I met Johnny using the most poetic language. What's happened?
MRS MARCH. He and that girl. Johnny's talking nonsense about wanting to
save her. I've told her to pack up.
MRS MARCH. Do you approve of Johnny getting entangled with this girl?
MR MARCH. Certainly.
MRS MARCH. Well, perhaps you'll get us out of the mess you've got us
into.
MRS MARCH. Heavens! Are you going to have them X-rayed? They haven't
got chest trouble, Geof.
MR MARCH. They may have heart trouble. It's no good being hasty, Joan.
MRS MARCH. Oh! For a man that can't see an inch into human nature, give
me a--psychological novelist!
MR MARCH. Yes.
She goes out. A silence, during which the MARCHES look at each
other by those turns which characterise exasperated domesticity.
MRS MARCH. If she doesn't go, Johnny must. Are you going to turn him
out?
MRS MARCH. Reason with young people whose lips were glued together half
an hour ago! Why ever did you force me to take this girl?
MRS MARCH. Mr Bly? "Follow your instincts "and then complains of his
daughter for following them.
MR MARCH. Nonsense!
MRS MARCH. Oh, Geof! Whenever you're faced with reality, you say
"Nonsense!" You know Johnny's got chivalry on the brain.
MARY. He's at the top of the servants' staircase; outside her room.
He's sitting in an armchair, with its back to her door.
MARY. He's got his pipe, a pound of chocolate, three volumes of "Monte
Cristo," and his old concertina. He says it's better than the trenches.
MARY. Nobody can get up, and she can't get down. He says he'll stay
there till all's blue, and it's no use either of you coming unless mother
caves in.
COOK enters through the door which MARY has left open.
COOK. Oh! But Master Johnny does get so hungry. It'll drive him wild,
ma'am. Just a Snack now and then!
COOK. Ah! I remember how he used to fall down when he was little--he
would go about with his head in the air. But he always picked himself up
like a little man.
MARY. Listen!
CURTAIN.
ACT III
MR MARCH. [Looking at his watch] He's been there six hours; even he
can't live on faith.
MRS MARCH. If Johnny wants to make a martyr of himself, I can't help it.
MARY. How many days are you going to let him sit up there, Mother?
MR MARCH. [Glancing at MRS MARCH] I never in my life knew anything so
ridiculous.
He pours brandy into a liqueur glass from the decanter which stands
between them. MRS MARCH puts the brandy to her lips and makes a
little face, then swallows it down manfully. MARY gets up with the
walnuts and goes. Silence. Gloom.
MR MARCH. Haven't you begun to see that your policy's hopeless, Joan?
Come! Tell the girl she can stay. If we make Johnny feel victorious--we
can deal with him. It's just personal pride--the curse of this world.
Both you and Johnny are as stubborn as mules.
MRS MARCH. Human nature is stubborn, Geof. That's what you easy--going
people never see.
MRS MARCH nervously refills the little brandy glass, and again
empties it, with a grimacing shudder.
MARY re-enters.
MARY. He's been digging himself in. He's put a screen across the head
of the stairs, and got Cook's blankets. He's going to sleep there.
MARY. No; he passed them in to her. He says he's on hunger strike. But
he's eaten all the chocolate and smoked himself sick. He's having the
time of his life, mother.
MARY. Cook's been up again. He wouldn't let her pass. She'll have to
sleep in the spare room.
MR MARCH. I say!
MRS MARCH. D'you know what they are? "The Scarlet Pimpernel,"
"The Wide Wide World," and the Bible.
MARY. Johnny likes romance.
MR MARCH. [In a low voice] Are you going to leave him up there with the
girl and that inflammatory literature, all night? Where's your common
sense, Joan?
MRS MARCH starts up, presses her hand over her brow, and sits down
again. She is stumped.
[With consideration for her defeat] Have another tot! [He pours it out]
Let Mary go up with a flag of truce, and ask them both to come down for a
thorough discussion of the whole thing, on condition that they can go up
again if we don't come to terms.
MRS MARCH. Very well! I'm quite willing to meet him. I hate
quarrelling with Johnny.
MARY. Mother, this isn't a coal strike; don't discuss it for three hours
and then at the end ask Johnny and the girl to do precisely what you're
asking them to do now.
MARY. Well, for goodness sake think of a plan which will make you both
look victorious. That's always done in the end. Why not let her stay,
and make Johnny promise only to see her in the presence of a third party?
MRS MARCH. Because she'd see him every day while he was looking for the
third party. She'd help him look for it.
MRS MARCH. It seems to me you none of you have any idea what I am.
As the door opens, MRS MARCH nervously fortifies herself with the
third little glass of brandy. She remains seated. MARY is on her
right.
MR MARCH leads into the room and stands next his daughter, then
FAITH in hat and coat to the left of the table, and JOHNNY, pale but
determined, last. Assembled thus, in a half fan, of which MRS MARCH
is the apex, so to speak, they are all extremely embarrassed, and no
wonder.
Suddenly MARY gives a little gurgle.
JOHNNY. You'd think it funnier if you'd just come out of prison and were
going to be chucked out of your job, on to the world again.
She moves towards the door. JOHNNY takes her by the shoulders.
MR MARCH. That's not the way to go to work, Johnny. You mustn't ask
people to eat their words raw--like that.
JOHNNY. Well, I've had no dinner, but I'm not going to eat my words, I
tell you plainly.
MR MARCH. Great Scott! You two haven't the faintest idea of how to
conduct a parley. We have--to--er--explore every path to--find a way to
peace.
MRS MARCH. [To FAITH] Have you thought of anything to do, if you leave
here?
FAITH. Yes.
JOHNNY. What?
FAITH. No, I won't. I'll go to a place I know of, where they don't want
references.
JOHNNY. Exactly!
MRS MARCH. [To FAITH] I want to ask you a question. Since you came
out, is this the first young man who's kissed you?
FAITH has hardly had time to start and manifest what may or may not
be indignation when MR MARCH dashes his hands through his hair.
JOHNNY. No! [And, as his back is against the door, she can't] I'll see
that you're not insulted any more.
MR MARCH. Johnny, I know you have the best intentions, but really the
proper people to help the young are the old--like--
--your mother. I'm sure that she and I will be ready to stand by Faith.
JOHNNY. [Suddenly] I'll modify mine. [To FAITH] Come here--close! [In
a low voice to FAITH] Will you give me your word to stay here, if I make
them keep you?
FAITH. Why?
JOHNNY. Promise!
During this colloquy the MARCHES have been so profoundly uneasy that
MRS MARCH has poured out another glass of brandy.
MR MARCH. Johnny, the terms of the Armistice didn't include this sort of
thing. It was to be all open and above-board.
MR MARCH. Good Lord! [Going up to his wife--in a low voice] Let her
stay till Johnny's in his right mind.
COOK. Yes, sir. But, you see, he's--Well, there! He's cheerful.
But MR BLY has entered behind him. He has a fixed expression, and
speaks with a too perfect accuracy.
BLY. [Ignoring him] I don't want any fuss with your two cooks.
[Catching sight of MRS MARCH] I've prepared myself for this.
BLY. I 'ad a bit o' trouble, but I kep' on till I see 'Aigel walkin' at
me in the loo-lookin' glass. Then I knew I'd got me balance.
BLY. [Gazing at his daughter] I don't want that one. I'll take the
other.
MR MARCH. [Going up to him] Very well, Mr Bly! See her home, carefully.
Good-night!
He extends his other hand; MR MARCH grasps it and turns him round
towards the door.
MR MARCH. Now, take her away! Cook, go and open the front door for Mr
Bly and his daughter.
BLY. Prepare yourself. Then you'll see what you never saw before.
MRS MARCH drinks off her fourth glass of brandy. A peculiar whistle
is heard through the open door, and FAITH starts forward.
JOHNNY. You none of you care a pin's head what becomes of her. Can't
you see she's on the edge? The whistle is heard again, but fainter.
JOHNNY. [Taking her by the arm] All right! I'll come with you.
JOHNNY. [Seeing red] No, she's not; and you'll just clear out.
MR MARCH. Johnny!
JOHNNY. Quit.
YOUNG M. I'll quit with her, and not before. She's my girl.
FAITH. Yes.
MRS MARCH sits down again, and reaching out her left hand, mechanically
draws to her the glass of brandy which her husband had poured out for
himself and left undrunk.
JOHNNY. Then why did you--[He is going to say: "Kiss me," but checks
himself]--let me think you hadn't any friends? Who is this fellow?
YOUNG M. [To JOHNNY] We know the sort of chap you are--takin' advantage
of workin' girls.
JOHNNY. That's a foul lie. Come into the garden and I'll prove it on
your carcase.
JOHNNY. This poor girl is going to have a fair deal, and you're not
going to give it her. I can see that with half an eye.
YOUNG M. You'll see it with no eyes when I've done with you.
FAITH. [Suddenly] I'm not a "poor girl" and I won't be called one.
I don't want any soft words. Why can't you let me be? [Pointing to
JOHNNY] He talks wild. [JOHNNY clutches the edge of the writing-table]
Thinks he can "rescue" me. I don't want to be rescued. I--[All the
feeling of years rises to the surface now that the barrier has broken]
--I want to be let alone. I've paid for everything I've done--a pound
for every shilling's worth.
And all because of one minute when I was half crazy. [Flashing round at
MARY] Wait till you've had a baby you oughtn't to have had, and not a
penny in your pocket! It's money--money--all money!
FAITH. I'll have what I like now, not what you think's good for me.
FAITH. You were very kind to me. But you don't see; nobody sees.
YOUNG M. There! That's enough! You're gettin' excited. You come away
with me.
FAITH. [Firing up] Don't call him names! I won't have it. I'll go
with whom I choose! [Her eyes suddenly fix themselves on the YOUNG MAN'S
face] And I'm going with him!
COOK enters.
Everybody starts. MRS MARCH drinks off her fifth little glass of
brandy, then sits again.
MR MARCH. From the police?
YOUNG M. Well, I can't wait any longer. I suppose we can go out the
back way?
JOHNNY. You may go. [He takes her arm to pull her to the window] He
can't.
P. C. MAN. Your service, ma'am. Afraid I'm intruding here. Fact is,
I've been waiting for a chance to speak to this young woman quietly.
It's rather public here, sir; but if you wish, of course, I'll mention
it. [He waits for some word from some one; no one speaks, so he goes on
almost apologetically] Well, now, you're in a good place here, and you
ought to keep it. You don't want fresh trouble, I'm sure.
P. C. MAN. I don't want to frighten you; but we've had word passed that
you're associating with the young man there. I observed him to-night
again, waiting outside here and whistling.
P. C. MAN. [Eyeing him] I should keep quiet if I was you. As you know,
sir [To MR MARCH] there's a law nowadays against soo-tenors.
MR MARCH. Soo--?
YOUNG M. I don't know you. What are you after? Do you dare--?
P. C. MAN. We cut the darin', 'tisn't necessary. We know all about you.
At the new tone in his voice FAITH turns and visibly quails, like a
dog that has been shown a whip.
YOUNG M. Ah! How would you like to be insulted in front of your girl?
If you're a gentleman you'll tell him to leave the house. If he's got a
warrant, let him produce it; if he hasn't, let him get out.
YOUNG M. Now, look here, if I get any more of this from you--I--I'll
consult a lawyer.
MR MARCH. Johnny!
YOUNG M. Yes; and wants to be where I am. But my girl knows better;
don't you?
MR MARCH. Joan!
But MRS MARCH does not vary her smiling immobility; FAITH draws a
little nearer to the YOUNG MAN. MARY turns to the fire.
P. C. MAN. [With half a smile] I keep on forgettin' that women are men
nowadays. Well!
YOUNG M. When you've quite done joking, we'll go for our walk.
MR MARCH. [To BARNABAS] I think you'd better tell her anything you know.
P. C. MAN. [Eyeing FAITH and the YOUNG MAN] I'd rather not be more
precise, sir, at this stage.
YOUNG M. I should think not! Police spite! [To FAITH] You know what
the Law is, once they get a down on you.
P. C. MAN. [To MR MARCH] It's our business to keep an eye on all this
sort of thing, sir, with girls who've just come out.
P. C. MAN. [With sudden resolution] Now, look here! This man George
Blunter was had up three years ago--for livin' on the earnings of a woman
called Johnson. He was dismissed with a caution. We got him again last
year over a woman called Lee--that time he did--
YOUNG M. Stop it! That's enough of your lip. I won't put up with this
--not for any woman in the world. Not I!
YOUNG M. I'm off! Bong Swore la Companee! He tarns on his heel and
walks out unhindered.
P. C. MAN. [Deeply] A bad hat, that; if ever there was one. We'll be
having him again before long.
As the door closes, FAITH sinks into a chair, and burying her face
in her hands, sobs silently. MRS MARCH sits motionless with a faint
smile. JOHNNY stands at the window biting his nails. MARY crosses
to FAITH.
FAITH. [Suddenly flinging up her head] If you'd been two years without
a word, you'd believe anyone that said he liked you.
FAITH. To my father.
MARY. You'd better stay. Mother, she can stay, can't she?
FAITH. No!
All turn and look at him. He comes down. Will you come to me?
JOHNNY. Well?
FAITH. [Softly] Don't be silly! I've got no call on you. You don't
care for me, and I don't for you. No! You go and put your head in ice.
[She turns to the door] Good-bye, Mr March! I'm sorry I've been so much
trouble.
MR MARCH. Not at all, not at all!
FAITH. Oh! Yes, I have. There's nothing to be done with a girl like
me. She goes out.
COOK. [Who has entered with a tray] Yes, my dearie, I'm sure you are.
JOHNNY. A blue night--the moon over the Park. And she stops and looks
at it.--What has she wanted--the beautiful--something better than she's
got--something that she'll never get!
MRS MARCH. [Passing her hand over her forehead] It's hot in here!
MR MARCH. Mary!
MRS MARCH. [Delightfully] The room's full of GAS. Open the windows!
Open! And let's walk--out--into the air!
She turns and walks delicately out through the opened windows;
JOHNNY and MARY follow her. The moonlight and the air flood in.
COOK. [Coming to the table and taking up the empty decanter] My Holy Ma!
CURTAIN.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Project Gutenberg Plays of John
Galsworthy, Complete, by John Galsworthy
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