REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS \ EEPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLATS BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS SELECTED, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES^ BY BARRETT H. CLARK N ON-REFER T awvAD • ais BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1921 Copyright, 1921, By Little, Brown, and Compant. All rights reserved Published October, 1921 Pbinted in the United States op Amkbica OCl 22 IS21 0)CLA627352 PREFACE The present is a companion volume to "Representative One-Act Plays by American Authors", edited by Margaret Gardner Mayorga and published in 1919. The book was originally undertaken by Mr. Clayton Hamilton who, finding himself unable to continue the work, turned it over to the present editor. It is the duty of the present editor to record — as editors have before him recorded — that Barrie and Shaw must be excluded from collections of this sort, for reasons which others have euphemistically described as *' limitations of copyright." One-act plays of Barrie and Shaw would have been made an integral part of this collection had the authors and their publishers seen fit to cooperate on a basis similar to that accepted by other authors and publishers; they did not, and the reader is therefore asked to fill in the breach as best he can. To those who have under||[«d the purpose of this book and helped both the editor, ancmro publisher to make it as truly representative as possible, gratitude is hereby specifically acknowledged. Henry Arthur Jones, Granville Barker, Harold Brighouse, Lady Gregory, Alfred Sutro, Arnold Bennett, Laurence Housman, Sir Arthur Pinero, Elizabeth Baker, St. John Ervine, and Lord Dunsany have kindly corrected lists of their plays and furnished valuable data. Mr. E. M. Anderson, Mr. Harold Brighouse, and Mr. Harold Veasey have spared no pains in revising lists and fur- nishing data on the late Elizabeth Robins, Stanley Houghton, and Oliphant Down, respectively. Mr. Clayton Hamilton's assistance and advice on many matters and Mr. T. R. Edwards' cooperation in securing the rights of many English plays are thankfully acknowledged. CONTENTS PAGE Preface v The One-act Plat in England and Ireland . . . ix The Widow op Wasdale Head. Sir Arthur Pinero . . 3 The Goal. Henry Arthur Jones ...... 43 Salome. Oscar Wilde 69 The JNIan in the Stalls. Alfred Sutro .... 107 'Op-o'-Me- Thumb. Frederick Fenn and Richard Pryce . . 131 The Impertinence of the Creature. Cosmo Gordon- Lennox 161 ^The Stepmother. Arnold Bennett 175 V -T Rococo. Granville Barker 197 James and John. Gilbert Cannan 229 -''The Snow Man. Laurence Hous man 247 < Fancy Free. Stanley Houghton 265 Lonesome- LIKE. Harold Brighouse 283 Miss Tassey. Elizabeth Baker 305 \^ Makeshifts. Gertrude Robins 323 The Maker of Dreams. Oliphant Downs .... 345 — The Land OF Heart's Desire. William Butler Yeats . . 367 Riders to the Sea. J. M. Synge . ... . . 391 Spreading the News. Lady Gregory 409 The Magnanimous Lover. St. John G. Ervine . . . 431 y The Golden Doom. Lord Dunsany 455 Bibliographical Notes 473 One-act Plays by English and Irish Dramatists . . 476 THE ONE-ACT PLAY IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND DESPITE the many inducements and encouragements now offered to the writer of one-act plays, I dare risk the statement that in the British Isles (and even in America) the one-act play occupies an anomalous position, and that it has yet to be accepted as an altogether legitimate and respectable form of drama. I am well aware that for a gen- eration the Abbey Theater in Dublin and for many years the Gaiety Theater in Manchester have each not only pro- duced one-act plays of merit, they have practically created "schools" of dramatists whose finest work is to be found in the one-act form. Still, despite facts to which I am by no means blind, I should like to record my impression that the one-act play, throughout the English-speaking world, has yet to win and hold its place in the public esteem. The refutations to my statement are numerous and weighty; this volume itself seems to belie my words: Synge and Yeats, Barker and Ervine, Lady Gregory and Elizabeth Robins are undoubtedly the products of theaters that have made it a business to encourage the writing of one-act plays. Suppose I put it differently. In France, for instance, one may pass as an artist and a gentleman as well as the author of a score of one-acters; in Germany there are — or were — half a dozen reputable drama- tists whose chief claim to celebrity rested upon one or two volumes of one-act plays; in Spain and France there are theaters where none but short plays are ever pro- duced. In England and America I can think of no dramatist whose fame rests entirely, or even principally, upon one-act THE ONE-ACT PLAY plays. Eugene O'Neill can scarcely be said to have "arrived" until his first long play, "Beyond the Horizon", reached Broadway; this in spite of his previous honorable record as the author of a dozen short plays of unusual merit. And you may cite Barrie, whose one-act plays at their best are fully up to the standard of the long plays; but ask yourself whether Barrie's fame rests upon "Rosalind" and "Pantaloon" or upon "The Little Minister" and "The Ad- mirable Crichton".? I shan't say that the public is right: I express merely my opinion as to what it thinks — or did think until recently. The attitude of the public is rapidly changing; to-day the one-act play has come almost to be accepted as an inde- pendent art-form — by the general play going public, that is. I am not here speaking of the Earnest Thinkers who build Little Theaters; they are inclined to take the one-acter too seriously, largely because it is an altogether easier form to cope with than the long play, offering wider opportunity to dabbling amateurs. The Earnest Thinkers, however, to give them due credit, have undoubtedly opened the way for a keener appreciation and more intelligent appraisal of the form than was possible under the old system, where the "curtain raiser" was usually no more than a by-product written for the purpose of killing time. Barrie and Synge and most of the dramatists who are represented in the present volume deserve the highest praise for bringing about the rehabilitation of the one-act form, for it is to them that a growing respect for the neglected one-acter is due. These men — and women — have taken the single act and made of it an independent art-work; they have not used it merely as a repository for discarded scenes from long plays, or considered it as an entertainment for the pit; they have deigned to study the form, and have been rewarded by finding it a delightful and effective medium for the expression of dramatic ideas quite as dignified if not as full and plastic as the three-act or the four-act form. Nowadays every aspiring dramatist is given an oppor- THE ONE-ACT PLAY xi tunity of entering the theater the easiest way: that is, by writing a one-act play. That this has not always been so is evident in the words of the veteran dramatist, Henry Arthur Jones who, a few years ago, published in book form three one-act plays with a preface of Shavian pro- portions. No one speaks with greater authority than Mr. Jones, whose plays are known to playgoers throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. In the Preface to "The Theater of Ideas" he says: "It is a discouraging sign that neither on the English nor American stage is there any demand for one-act plays. These should be widely supported, as a valuable school for young playwrights and young actors. *The Goal' was written in 1897, and I had to wait seventeen years before I could get anything approaching a suitable representation." "The Goal", you will remark in passing, was produced in New York, by an American company. These lines were written in 1915, when they had just ceased to convey the whole truth. When "The Goal" was written, however, they were lamentably true. That little play was an outcast, in spite of the fact that Mr. Jones was known as the author of "The Silver King" and "The Liars." Now "The Goal" is a very ably constructed and effective play, but I cannot help thinking that Mr. Jones would not claim for it the same measure of artistic merit as, say, for "The Liars" or "Dolly Reforming Herself." Is it not likely that when he wrote "The Goal", without, as was doubtless the case, any definite market in view for it, he regarded it as a by-product, a dramatic incident which he could not at the time work into another "Mrs. Dane's Defence".'^ Do I presume when I say that "The Goal" and "Grace Mary" and "Her Tongue", the three plays included in "The Theater of Ideas", are the unconsidered trifles of a serious dramatist, the products of his "lost moments"? Perhaps Mr. Jones regards these plays as children that have never had a chance, children for whom there was no school? That he does not look upon them as fin- xii THE ONE-ACT PLAY ished masterpieces is evident from his remarks on "Her Tongue", which "pleasantly occupied me during a leisure week in Spain a few years ago." If Henry Arthur Jones were beginning his career to-day, he would not, I venture to believe, have thrown off a one-acter "during a leisure week in Spain"; he would, I am sure, have burned the midnight oil in London for six weeks and spent his vacation in Spain studying Velasquez. He would also find a dozen theaters ready to produce "The Goal", and not have to say of another product of his leisure hours, "however unlike it may be to Shakespearean tragedy" it would "probably be equally successful in keeping people out of the theater." In other words, Mr. Jones has never taken the one-act form seriously. Why should he.^* He was not writing plays for antiquity, but for living actors and managers who pay for effective dramas. Mr. Jones' early contemporaries wrote one-act plays, but of what sort.? Curtain raisers for the most part; and a curtain raiser is frankly a sop to the pit. That Mr. Jones refused to write curtain raisers is readily understood; that he refused to turn seriously to the writing of one-act plays not designed to amuse the pit is likewise conceivable. Mr. Jones' contribution to the modern drama is sufficient as it is; we do not ask him to write one- act masterpieces; he was ready to do so at one time, when there was no one to use them; to-day he must be content merely to observe radically different conditions, and recog- nize the fact that times have changed. If there were no manager to welcome the author of "Michael and his Lost Angel" as a writer of one-act plays, there was fortunately an Abbey Theater ready and eager to demand of Synge his "Riders to the Sea." To the fact that there was such a theater in Ireland we owe the masterpieces of Yeats and Lady Gregory and the other Irish dramatists; and it is by no means certain that had it not been for Miss Horniman's Gaiety Theater, Stanley Houghton and Harold Brighouse might have remained at their desks in business offices. THE ONE-ACT PLAY xiii If, then, there is finally a place for the production of one- act plays; if, as is evident, the one-act form is gradually being accepted as a "respectable" dramatic medium, I am convinced that the change is due largely to the fact that the one-act form is being accorded the respect due it by the dramatists themselves. And this in turn is due largely to the fact that a place has been made for the form. The wide gulf between literature and the drama has begun to be bridged: Yeats and Synge and Barrie have seen to that. Bakbett H. Clark June, 1921. REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS BY BRITISH AND IRISH AUTHORS THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD SIR ARTHUR PINERO Arthur Wing Pinero — now Sir Arthur Pinero — was born at London in 1855. Trained at first for the law, he remained in his father's law office until he was nineteen, when he be- came an actor with Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, playing minor roles for a year in Edinburgh. His next venture was in Liver- pool. In 1876 he came to London and played at the Globe Theater. He then entered Irving's company and remained at the Lyceum for five years. During this time the young actor had been writing plays, the first of which, "£200 a Year", was produced at the Globe in 1877. " Daisy's Escape " and "Bygones" were produced a short time after at the Lyceum. The success of "Daisy's Escape" and the convic- tion that he was not destined to become a great actor induced him, according to one of his biographers, to abandon acting and devote himself entirely to the writing of plays. "The Squire" (1881) is the first of Pinero's plays that showed promise. The following year William Archer wrote of Pinero as "a thoughtful and conscientious writer with artistic aims, if not yet with full command of his artistic means." The "artistic means" rapidly developed, for in the farces "Dandy Dick", "The Schoolmistress", and "The Magistrate" the dramatist revealed extraordinary skill and a natural bent for comedy. "Sweet Lavender" and "The Profligate", plays of a more serious character, followed in the late eighties. ' ' The Second Mrs . Tanqueray ' ' was acclaimed in 1893 as the finest English play of the time. It is indubitably one of the most effective plays of that generation 4 THE WIDOW OP WASDALE HEAD Pinero is master of the dramatic medium he has chosen to develop. That medium has been often criticized as formal, old-fashioned, conventional; the criticism is in some respects not unwarranted, though the spirit in which it is made is rather an indication of a desire to applaud other dramatists who have departed from Pinero's methods than properly to judge his achievements. Pinero is not a propagandist or a special pleader; he has no aim other than to write effective plays about the men and women of his time as he sees them. Pinero's one-act plays are not an integral part of his work, but they are interesting by-products. Written for particular occasions, they reveal the skilled hand of an ac- complished dramatist. PLAYS Plays marked with * are in one act only. *£200aYear (1877) *Two Can Play at That Game (1877) The Comet (1878) ♦Daisy's Escape (1879) ♦Hester's Mystery (1880) ♦Bygones (1880) The Money-Spinner (1880) Imprudence (1881) The Squire (1881) Girls and Boys (1882) The Rector (1883) Lords and Commons (1883) The Rocket (1883) Low Water (1884) The Ironmaster (1884) (Adaptation) In Chancery (1884) The Magistrate (1885) Mayfair (1885) (Adaptation) The Schoolmistress (1886) The Hobby-Horse (1886) Dandy Dick (1887) Sweet Lavender (1888) The Weaker Sex (1889) The Profligate (1889) The Cabinet Minister (1890) Lady Bountiful (1891) The Times (1891) The Amazons (1893) The Second Mrs. Tanque- ray (1893) The Notorious Mrs. Ebb- smith (1895) The Benefit of the Doubt (1895) THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 5 The Princess and the But- The " Mind-the-Paint " Girl terfly (1897) (1902) Trelawney of the "Wells" *The Widow of Wasdale (1898) Head (1912) The Gay Lord Quex (1899) *Playgoers (1913) Iris (1901) The Big Drum (1915) Letty (1903) *Mr. Livermore's Dream A Wife Without a Smile (1917) (1904) The Freaks (1918) His House in Order (1906) *Monica's Blue Boy (1918) The Thunderbolt (1908) (Wordless play to music Mid-Channel (1909) by Sir Frederic Cowen) Preserving Mr. Panmure Quick Work (1919) (1911) "The Magistrate", "The Schoolmistress", "The Hobby- Horse", "Sweet Lavender", "The Weaker Sex", "The Profligate", "The Cabinet Minister", "Lady Bountiful", "The Times", "The Amazons", "The Second Mrs. Tanque- ray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", "The Gay Lord Quex", "Iris", "Letty", "A Wife Without a Smile", "His House in Order", "The Thunderbolt", "Mid-Channel", "Preserving Mr. Panmure", "The 'Mind-the-Paint' Girl", and "The Big Drum" are published separately by Walter H. Baker, Boston; "The Benefit of the Doubt" and "Tre- lawney of the 'Wells'", by the Dramatic Publishing Com- pany, Chicago; "The Money-Spinner", "The Squire", "The Rocket", "In Chancery", "Hester's Mystery", "The Princess and the Butterfly", and "Playgoers", by Samuel French, New York. — "The Social Plays of Arthur Wing Pinero", of which three volumes have already appeared, under the editorship of Clayton Hamilton, includes "The Second Mrs. Tanqueray", "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith", "Letty", "Iris", "His House in Order", and "The Gay Lord Quex." These volumes are published by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. References: Hamilton Fyfe, "Arthur Wing Pinero", 6 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD Greening and Company, London; William Archer, "Real Conversations", William Heinemann, London; Oscar Heer- mann, "Living Dramatists", Brentano's, New York; George Moore, "Impressions and Opinions", Brentano's; Cecil F. Armstrong, "From Shakespeare to Shaw", Mills and Boon, London; Clayton Hamilton, "Studies in Stagecraft", "The Theory of the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New York, and "Introduction and Notes to The Social Plays of Arthur Wing Pinero", E. P. Dutton and Company, New York; Brander Matthews, "Inquiries and Opinions", Charles Scribner's Sons, and "A Study of the Drama", Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston; Arthur Pinero, "Robert Louis Stevenson, The Dramatist", Dramatic Museum, Columbia University, New York, and "Browning as a Dramatist", London (privately printed). Magazines: Munsey's, vol. x, p. 247, New York; Book- buyer, vol. xvii, p. 301, New York; Forum, vol. xxvi, p. 119, vol. xlvii, p. 494, New York; Theater, vol. xxxiv, p. 3, New York; Nation, vol. Ixxxiii, p. 211, New York; North American Review, vol. clxxxviii, p. 38, New York; Critic, vol. xxxvii, p. 117, New York; Collier's Weekly, vol. xlviii, p. 34, New York; Living Age, vol. cclxxviii, p. 265, Boston; Blackwood's, vol. clxvii, 837, London. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD A FANTASY By ARTHUR PINERO "The Widow of Wasdale Head" was first produced at London in 1912. Characters Sib John Hunslet Mk. Edward Fane Tubal (A servant at the inn) Reuben (Sir John's man) The Visitor Mrs. Jesmond Scene: A room in an inn at Wasdale Head in Cumberland, Time: In the reign of George the Third. CoPTmiaHT, 1912, by Arthtib Pinebo. All rights reserved Reprinted from the private copy, "not for circulation", by special arrangement with Sir Arthur Pinero, who controls all the rights to the play. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD A gloomy, ancient room, partly panelled in oak, of the time of Henry the Eighth. Its ceiling, heavy with massive beams, is blackened by age; and altogether the apartment, which bears the appearance of having once belonged to a private mansion, is fallen considerably into decay. In the wall on the right there is a cavernous fireplace; facing the spectator is a deep bay- window, heavily shuttered and barred; on the left of the window, against the further wall, a steep staircase mounts to a landing from which a door opens into a narrow passage; and under the landing, in the left-hand wall and on the level of the floor, there is another door, also admitting to a passage. In the middle of the room there is a round table vyith a chair on its right and left. A decanter of red wine and some glasses, a jar of tobacco and a tray of clay pipes, and a candlestick of two branches are on the table. Against the wall on the left, a chair on each side of it, is an escritoire, and on the top of the escritoire is a standish; and against the staircase, concealing the space beneath, there is an oaken dresser bright with crockery ware, pewter dishes and plates, and other utensils. In the bay of the window are a small table and stool. A riding-cloak is thrown over the stool, and lying upon the table are a hat, a riding- whip, a pair of gauntlets, and two pistols in their holster-cases. A capacious arm-chair stands before the fireplace, and within the fireplace, at the further side, there is a chimney-seat. A clock and a chest filled with logs occupy spaces against the right-hand wall; and on the wall against which runs the flight of stairs a number of hunting trophies are arranged, including a hunting-horn hanging by a cord from a nail. 10 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD The room is lighted by the candle on the round table and by candles in sconces attached to the wall on the left} A fire is burning. Seated at the round table, the one smoking and drinking, the other deep in thought, are Sir John Hunslet and Edward Fane. Tubal is engaged at the dresser. The wind is moaning. SIR JOHN {A gallant-looking gentleman of eight-and-twenty, accoutred in a handsome riding-dress and a periwig — on the left of the table) Ned, my dear fellow, you don't drink! EDWARD {A grave young man of twenty-five, richly but soberly attired and wearing his own dark hair — rousing himself and filling his glass) A thousand pardons, Jack! (Drinking) Welcome! [Tubal, bearing a pair of snuffers upon a dish, advances to the round table and trims the candles. The moaning of the wind rises to a howl. SIR JOHN (to Tubal). A wild night, my friend. TUBAL (A venerable, wizen figure, half groom, half waiter). Aye, an' 'tis like t' be warser afwore mworn. Theer'll be sleMs lowsed an' fleein' this neet, depend on't. Heav'n send th' chimley-stacks do hod oot ! SIR JOHN. Amen! (Tubal replaces the snuffers upon the dresser. There is a sharp, shrill sound from without, resem- bling the cry of a bird) What is that? EDWARD. The sign of the house. 'Twill creak in that fashion, in the wind, for hours. SIR JOHN. 'Gad, an agreeable prospect! (Tubal, carrying a tray upon which are some remnants of a meal, goes out at the door under the landing. Sir John, glancing over his shoidder, assures himself that he and Edward are alone) At last! (Rekindling his pipe at the fiame of one of the candles) I thought that ancient servitor would never leave us. (Ed- ward rises and, walking away, stands gazing into the fire) And now, my dear Ned — my very dear Ned — in amicitid 1 Throughout, "right" and "left" are the spectators' right and left, not the actor's. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 11 autem nihil fictum, as we learned to say at school — let me inform you without further delay of the cause of this in- trusion. EDWARD. 'Tis no intrusion; and, to be candid, I have guessed the object of your visit already. SIR JOHN. Indeed? That being the case EDWARD. Confound you. Jack, you don't suppose I attribute your sudden and unlooked-for appearance to mere inclina- tion for a gossip over a bottle! A man — Jack Hunslet least of all — does not quit town at this time of the year, journeying three hundred miles into the bargain, without an urgent reason. {Facing Sir John) Confess you are upon a mission. SIR JOHN (smiling). Since you press me EDWARD. You are sent by my mother. SIR JOHN. The poor fond lady is vastly concerned at your absence, EDWARD. In the name of patience, why? Her letters plague me to death, Jack. SIR JOHN. My good Ned, do, I entreat, reflect. With your usual perspicacity you have just observed that it must be a strong inducement that draws a town man into the country at this season. And yet EDWARD. Such an inducement was mine. I came into Cumberland in fulfilment of a pledge to Sir Roger Boult- wood — a pledge of long standing SIR JOHN. To be his guest at Hawkshead Priory. Your stay at Hawkshead ended two months ago. EDWARD. In the meanwhile I had become bitten by the romantic beauty of the district. By the Lord, Jack, 'tis a lovely locality, in spite of flood and tempest ! SIR JOHN. Ah, I am forgetting you are a poet, and a mon- strous pretty one to boot! EDWARD. Pshaw! Pray don't roast me for my follies. SIR JOHN (laying his pipe aside). My dear fellow, if our follies ceased with the scribbling of verses, we should be warranted in esteeming ourselves wise. (Rising) And so 12 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 'tis solely the beauty of the district that detains you, hey, Ned? EDWARD. Chance directed me to this particular spot; and my nag falling lame almost at the door here SIR JOHN (approaching Edward). You determined to cul- tivate the muse, and to seek inspiration, by this sombre lake; (producing his snuff-box) putting up at a bare inn, (significantly) and despatching your servant back to Kens- ington within a fortnight. EDWARD (embarrassed). Why, as forth at, I — I found I had little need for Gregory. He did but kick his heels about the place discontentedly. SIR JOHN (taking snuff). The sublimity of the scene proving less attractive to him than to his master. (Closing his snuff-box) Well? EDWARD. W-Well? SIR JOHN. And when I have made my compliments at Hawkshead and, with your aid, explored this enchanting neighbourhood, do we travel home in company? (There is a momenfs hesitation on Edward's part, and then he moves to the middle of the room without speaking. Sir John looks after him inquiringly) Ned! EDWARD (hanging his head). Forgive me, Jack. I declare again 'tis the most beautiful district in the kingdom; nevertheless, I am deceiving you. Jack, woefully. [The door under the landing opens and Mrs. Jesmond enters followed by Tubal, the latter carrying a bowl of steaming punch, and instantly the wind increases in force and the sign- board resumes its squeaking. The loud slamming of distant doors is also heard. Mrs. Jesmond is an elegant, girlish young lady, charmingly but simply dressed. She curtsies to Sir John and to Edward and then takes the bowl from Tubal and places it upon the round table. MRS. JESMOND (to Tubal). Secure the doors of the buttery. Tubal; 'tis they that are banging. (Tubal shuffles out and Mrs. Jesmond addresses Sir John, who is regarding her with respectful amazement. The wind lulls) I am sorry I was not THE WIDOW OP WASDALE HEAD 13 by to receive you, sir. Late as it was, I was at my farm at Burnthwaite where I am in trouble with some sick beasts. I hear you have rid from Ulverston to-day, which is a weary road. SIR JOHN (stammering). Why, yes, I — I EDWARD (presenting Sir John). This gentleman is my friend Sir John Hunslet MRS. JESMOND (curtscying again). Nay, if I had not been apprised of his arrival, there would be no necessity to name him. (Advancing to Sir John) I saw Sir John once, when I was a child, driving his curricle in Hyde Park, and am never likely to forget the fine show he made. SIR JOHN (bowing low) . Madam, I — I — I am vastly honoured by your recollection of the circumstance. MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane is heartily glad to see you here. Sir John; of that I am assured. Wasdale Head is but a stern and solitary spot at all times, and March our drea- riest month. ^ SIR JOHN. 'Faith, ma'am, Mr. Fane is no more rejoiced to see me than I him. We were condiscipuli at Winchester College and I hold him in great affection. (Bowing again profoundly) And suffer me to add that it increases my happiness in no inconsiderable degree MRS. JESMOND (turning to Edward merrily). La! I fear Sir John doth not even yet apprehend who and what I am. Pray enlighten him. EDWARD (on the left). Mrs. Jesmond, Jack, is mistress of this inn and tenant also of lands adjacent to it. (Another how from Sir John, whose wonderment increases) 'Twill make you better acquainted with her when I tell you that she was Miss Woodroffe — Miss Elizabeth Woodroffe of Appleby. SIR JOHN. One of the Woodroffes of Appleby ! (Seizing Mrs. Jesmond' s hand) My dear madam! MRS. JESMOND (withdrawing her hand). Nay, sir; my family and I are at enmity. (Mournfully) Widow of Mr. Henry 1 Wasdale: — pronounced WassdaXe, the o as in was. 14 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD Jesmond of Egremont; I prefer that description. SIR JOHN. A widow, ma'am ! MRS. JESMOND (dropping another curtsey). Two years a widow, and a humble taverner and farmer; and at your service. (To Edward) I have brought you a bowl of punch, Mr. Fane, thinking it will be grateful to your friend after his long journey. (To Sir John) 'Tis of my mixing, and I beg your indulgence for the widow's offering. SIR JOHN. 'Gad, madam, I swear you shall join us! (To Edward, who goes to the dresser) A third glass, Ned! MRS. JESMOND (hastening to the staircase). Oh, mercy, Sir John ! SIR JOHN {following her and regaining possession of her hand) . I insist! (Leading her to the round table) On my knees I MRS. JESMOND (laugMug). Ha, ha, ha! [The wind howls again and the sign-board creaks. Edward carries three glasses to the table, and Mrs. Jesmond fills two of the glasses to the brim and hands them to the gentlemen who stand one on each side of her. As she ladles a little of the punch into the third glass, the wind abates. SIR JOHN (at the right of the table). Come, ma'am; bumpers! Ah, but that's not fair! Bumpers! (The men drink, and Mrs. Jesmond touches her lips with her glass) 'Pon my soul, 'tis delicious! 'Tis nectar! Ille facit dites animos deus, Ned; you remember! (To Mrs. Jesmond) Permit me to com- pliment you on your skill, ma'am. MRS. JESMOND (replenishing the men's glasses, modestly). The credit is none of mine. Sir John. (In a sad voice) 'Twas my dear Harry that taught me. SIR JOHN (coughing sympathetically). Ahem! Ahem! (Ab- ruptly) A toast! I call a toast, Ned! (Raising his glass and looking at Mrs. Jesmond with admiration) I give you MRS. JESMOND (quickly, raising her glass). The King! SIR JOHN. Why, certainly, ma'am; and I am obleeged to you for the reminder. His Most Gracious Majesty Eang George! THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 15 EDWARD (drinking). The King! SIR JOHN {drinking). God bless him! (Looking at Mrs. Jes- mond again) Another! MRS. JESMOND. Nay, spare me! SIR JOHN. Ned ! (Raising his glass) To the Lady of Was- dale! EDWARD. The Lady of Wasdale! [The wind gives a sudden roar as the men drink the toast, and then subsides. MRS. JESMOND (curtscying once more). The widow thanks you, gentlemen, for your amiability; and with a full heart. (With a change of manner) And now, if you will excuse me, I will go to your bedchambers and see that your beds are properly prepared. SIR JOHN (seizing the candlestick from the round table) . Allow me to light you, ma'am. MRS. JESMOND (running up the stairs). 'Tis not necessary; a lantern hangs in the corridor. [She makes a final curtsey on the landing and withdraws, leaving Sir John half-way up the stairs where he remains for a while as if rooted. Edward walks over to the fireplace and again gazes down into the burning logs. SIR JOHN (after a silence). As I live, an adorable creature! (He descends the stairs softly, replaces the candlestick, and stands contemplating Edward) Ned! EDWARD. Jack? SIR JOHN. Ton my conscience, you are right; Wasdale is the most beautiful district in the kingdom! EDWARD (turning to him) . Ah, Jack, 'tis no matter for jesting. SIR JOHN. Jesting! I swear I am all seriousness. EDWARD (ardently). Nay, then, if you are in earnest, is she not charming? SIR JOHN. Charming? A divinity! (Walking about animatedly) 'Gad, you may well describe this as a romantic locality! A Woodroffe of Appleby the mistress of a house of public entertainment! Prodigious! (Sitting in the chair on the left of the round table) How the devil ! 16 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD EDWARD {coming to the right of the table) . 'Tis a simple story. Young Mr. Henry Jesmond of Egremont, having squan- dered the greater part of his patrimony, established him- self here, with what remained of his fortune, as farmer and innkeeper. A short time previously, he had met Miss Elizabeth Woodroffe at the Hunt Assembly at Kendal, and they had become desperately taken with each other. Her parents, discovering the undesirable attachment, inter- cepted communication between the lovers and confined their child within doors. Vain precautions! Elizabeth forced an escape, ran off with the object of her girlish infatuation, and married him. SIR JOHN. 'Faith, since she hath been two years a widow, he must have carried her to church in a go-cart! EDWARD. She was indeed but fifteen. She is little over seventeen now. SIR JOHN. The deuce! 'Twas a brief wedded life. EDWARD. A month. SIR JOHN. Good Lud ! EDWARD. Riding homeward on a dark night with some boon companions from the hunt at Muncaster, Mr. Jesmond was thrown and mortally hurt. He breathed long enough, so the tale is told, to take his pistol from its holster and to shoot his poor mare, who had broke a leg; and then he laid his head upon her warm ribs and stirred no more. SIR JOHN (shocked). My dear Ned! (Fastidiously) Leaving this delicately-bred young lady, estranged from her fam- ily, to brew punch, and to till the soil, for her subsistence ! EDWARD (sitting at the right of the table). Why, Jack, there's the wonder of it! Mrs. Jesmond's aptitude is amazing. Among the farmers hereabouts — statesmen, they term them in Cumberland — there's not one can match her in knowledge of crops and cattle. (TJie wind murmurs gently, almost musically) I have seen the oldest and wisest of them approach her, hat in hand, to ask her counsel in a difficulty; and her reply is always the same. SIR JOHN. The same? THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 17 EDWARD. "Come back to me," she will say, "as soon as you please after Friday, and you shall have my advice/' SIR JOHN. Friday? EDWARD (checking himself and then nodding uneasily) . Er — 'tis on a Friday night, when her household is abed and the inn is silent, that she sits here alone and reads her farming- manuals, and makes up her books of account, and puts on her consider ing-cap, as she phrases it. (Looking round) We are in her parlour, Jack. SIR JOHN (listening). How the wind sings! It hath a voice in it, positively! (To Edward) Her parlour? EDWARD (nodding again). Aye; the principal guest-chambers are shut throughout the winter, and so she hath placed her room at my disposal. Every Fiiday night, at the stroke of ten, I leave her here, preparing for her vigil. (Suddenly) What is to-day? SIR JOHN. Friday. [The wind utters a loud wail and the sign-hoard creaks. EDWARD (rising and glancing at the clock). And look; 'tis close on ten now. [He resumes his former position at the fireplace and the wind its tuneful murmuring. SIR JOHN (after another silence). Well, I own I am mightily relieved, Ned. (Rising) 'Tis precisely as I suspected — that you had become entangled in a petticoat; (going to the punch-bowl and helping himself to punch) but a Woodroffe of Appleby is naught to be ashamed of, though 'twill be the tittle-tattle of the clubs and tea-tables that your mistress hath kept a mug-house. (Drinking) Have you declared yourself yet? EDWARD (still staring into the fire). No. SIR JOHN (smacking his lips). 'Pon my honour, she is vastly genteel; she hath the bel air completely! I wager many of our town misses and madams — (He breaks off, regarding Edward with surprise. The wind ceases) Why, man, what ails you? If Mrs. Jesmond had declined your suit, you could hardly be more glum. 18 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD EDWARD (confronting Sir John). Jack! SIR JOHN (startled at Edward's aspect). Ned? EDWARD. Oh, Jack, I must confide in you! I am in torture I SIR JOHN. Torture? EDWARD. Terrible, grinding torment ! SIR JOHN (joining Edward). Odds life, what's this! Have you discovered that the widow wears a false curl or two? EDWARD. For mercy's sake, don't take me lightly! (In a whisper) Jack, there is a mystery in this house. SIR JOHN. Confusion! EDWARD. A hideous mystery. (Passing Sir John and pacing the room on the left) And 'tis torturing me -driving me to distraction; and yet I lack the courage to attempt to un- ravel it. SIR JOHN (coming to the round table). Explain, Ned! EDWARD. Oh, Jack, 'tis true that I leave Mrs. Jesmond here, and alone, every Friday night; (halting) but — Heaven forgive me for doubting her ! — (laughing mirthlessly) ha, ha, ha, ha! — I fear she doesn't remain alone. Jack. SIR JOHN. The devil ! EDWARD (gripping the back of the chair at the left of the round table). Hell fury, no; unless she hath the habit of talking to herself, her vigil is no solitary one! SIR JOHN. Talking to herself! EDWARD (sitting and putting his elbows on the table and digging his fingers into his hair) . Ha, ha, ha, ha ! (Groaning) Oh, Jack, Jack! [Again there is a pause. Sir John slowly produces his snuff- box. SIR JOHN. Humph! (Tapping the box) 'Gad, you disappoint me, Ned; you do really! Who would have thought it of her? (Taking snuff) Pish! The jades; they are all of a pattern! (To Edward) When ? [The wind revives. EDWARD (raising his head). 'Twas the Friday night in the second week of my lodging here, and I had retired to my bedchamber carrying with me the delightful vision of her graceful, slender form as she sate, in this chair, bending over THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 19 her books and papers. Some time after reaching my apartment, I recollected that I had left a letter from my mother lying upon the escritoire yonder; and I ordered my servant to fetch it. Presently the man reappeared, saying that, hearing Mrs. Jesmond's voice apparently in conver- sation, he had deemed it prudent not to risk incurring her displeasure by disturbing her. SIR JOHN. In conversation.'' EDWARD. I dismissed Gregory and stood for a while at my window, viewing the thick clouds scudding across the Pikes. Suddenly the idea possessed me to return, myself, to this room and recover my letter. Ha! The letter con- tained nothing of a private nature. I perceive now that 'twas merely a feeling of jealous surprise that impelled me. SIR JOHN (his foot upon the rail of the chair on the right of the round table). You returned .f' EDWARD. Yes. My ear was at the door, and I was waver- ing whether I should rap, when I was arrested by a sound behind me; and there was my servant, sheltered in an angle of the corridor, watching me curiously. I made an idle remark and again retired to my room; and the next morn- ing I packed the fellow off to London, lest, his suspicions being aroused, he should play the spy on his own account. SIR JOHN. What had you heard while listening at the door? EDWARD. The low muttering of a voice, or of voices. I could distinguish nothing clearly, save that there was talk- ing. (Glancing at the door on the landing) The door is stout and, as you see, distant. SIR JOHN. And since then? EDWARD. Every Friday night 'tis the same. I steal to the door, hear the same whisperings, and slink back irreso- lutely to my bedchamber. Stay! Twice or thrice I have heard a soft, wailful note, as if from an instrument, pro- ceeding from this room. SIR JOHN (bringing himself erect). A signal! EDWARD. 'Sdeath, the thought hath crossed my mind ! (He rises and, ascending the stairs, removes the hunting-horn from 20 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD its nail) 'Tis such an instrument as this that would pro- duce the sound. SIR JOHN {following Edward and standing by the dresser). A hunting-horn. , EDWARD. 'Twas the property of the late Mr. Jesmond, I suspect. (Doubtfully) But 'tis dull for want of use. SIR JOHN. Nay, 'tis you that are dull. Look if its mouth is bright. \ EDWARD (examining the mouth of the horn). Why, yes; the \ metal here shines like a guinea! SIR JOHN. Ha ! I lay five to four that is not the only mouth pressed by those lips of hers! (Edward replaces the horn and descends the stairs) My poor dear Ned, 'tis as plain as noonday; the widow's weekly vigil is but a ruse for entertaining her amoret at her ease. The trull! Fronti nulla fides! But you shall expose her, and to-night. (Look- ing at the door on the landing and then pointing to the fire) Quick; some ashes from the hearth! I'll fill the lock with 'em and stop her turning the key. EDWARD (who is again at the fireplace gazing into the logs). There is no lock on either door. They are bolted from with- out. SIR JOHN. Strange! The widow is somewhat incautious. However, 'twill make your task the easier. (Edward faces Sir John with a gesture of protest) Come, man, away with your scruples! We will leave the pretty witch to her pre- tence of poring over her damnable books; and then you shall return and walk boldly in, and interrupt her at her devotions. EDWARD. By what right. Jack.'' SIR JOHN. Pshaw ! Do you imagine she isn't aware that you are honestly enamoured of her, though no word hath yet been spoke? There is title sufficient for you. (Sharply) Is your sword hanging in your bedchamber? EDWARD. Yes. SIB JOHN. Put it up at your side. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 21 EDWARD. Why, would you have me a murderer as well as an eavesdropper? SIR JOHN. 'Faith, I'd have you ready to defend yourself. A young lady of ton would scarcely dally with one of the clods of this beautiful district. {Going to the table in the bay of the window and examining the pistols) 'Tis to a gentleman of the road, probably — a cut-throat highwayman — that she extends her hospitality. (Taking up his hat, whip, and gauntlets, and carefully laying his cloak over the pistols) These pistols are well primed. I'll warn Reuben not to remove them. EDWARD (bursting out). Oh, Jack, Jack, 'tis impossible! ' SIR JOHN. Impossible? EDWARD (ivalking across the room). 'Tis impossible that she should be frail. I'll not believe it. She hath the look and the bearing of an angel. Her eyes. Jack! Did you observe her eyes? SIR JOHN (standing with his back to the fire). Hang 'em, they are brilliant! EDWARD. Nay, they're not brilliant. They resemble the blue of a summer morning ere the mist is dispelled. (Pac- ing up and down) Her voice too! Her voice! SIR JOHN. 'Tis most musical, I admit. EDWARD. Her voice hath the quality of the harp in it, when its strings are half muffled. (Fiercely) Mark me. Jack, if I find her no better than she should be, I'll never trust woman agam SIR JOHN (taking snuff). Ned EDWARD. Never! Never! SIR JOHN. Ned, I protest you recall Mr. Garrick to me, as the blackamoor in Shakespeare's play. EDWARD. Ah ! SIR JOHN. When the great little man quits the stage, you shall fill his place, my dear Ned; I vow you shall. [The wind sivells for a moment as Mrs. Jesmond enters at the door under the landing, followed by Tubal, with a lantern, and by Reuben who is carrying two lighted candles in candle- 22 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD sticks. Tubal goes to the window and, raising the lantern above his head, passes his hand over the bars of the shutters. MRS. JESMOND (to Edward, sweetly but gravely). 'Tis past ten o'clock. {Glancing at Sir John) You have told Sir John? SIR JOHN (advancing a few steps). Why, yes, ma'am; and, to say the truth, I shall not be sorry to find myself in a soft bed, and between a pair of sweet-smelling sheets, at an earlier hour than is customable with me. REUBEN (a bluff, burly fellow — standing by the table). Nor I either, sir. For of all the clattering, gusty places I've ever laid in, this Wasdale is the gustiest and the clatteringest — (to Mrs. Jesmond) saving your presence, ma'am. SIR JOHN. Silence, Reuben! (To Mrs. Jesmond, with a wave of the hand towards Reuben) A good, faithful animal, Mrs. Jesmond, but plaguily rough-tongued. REUBEN. Well, sir, my tongue can't be rougher than the Cumberland weather; that's one comfort. (Going to Edward and presenting him with a candlestick as Mrs. Jesmond crosses to Sir John) You'd best shield it with your hand, Mr. Fane MRS. JESMOND (to Sir John). Good-night, Sir John. (Curt- seying) 'Tis mighty civil of you to profess your willing- ness to be sent to bed like a bad child. (Giving him her hand) You must dream you are in London, sir, and card- playing en petit comitS with some choice cronies. SIR JOHN (bending over her hand). Nay, madam, my dreams shall be of a far more interesting sort, I promise you. [She curtsies to him again and returns to Edward who is watching her narrowly. Tubal is now at the fireplace, mending the fire, and Reuben at the table in the bay window. MRS. JESMOND (giving her hand to Edward, a note of tenderness in her voice). Good-night, Mr. Fane. EDWARD (with downcast eyes). Good-night. [He moves away and Mrs. Jesmond goes to the escritoire and opens it with a key which dangles with others from her waist. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 23 Seeing that Reuben is taking up the riding-cloak and the pistols. Sir John hastens to him on tiptoe. SIR JOHN (under his breath, to Reuben). No! REUBEN (astonished). Sir! SIR JOHN (his finger to his lips) . Ssst ! (He motions to Reuben to replace the pistols and riding-cloak. Reuben does so) And now, my dear Ned — (taking his candle from Reuben and yawning demonstratively) ah-h-h-h! — I declare I am as sleepy as the veriest owl. (He signs to Edivard to pre- cede him, but Edward yields him the pas) My dear fellow! (He ascends the stairs, Edward following him, as Mrs. Jes- mond carries some books to the round table and deposits them there. Sir John makes her a grand bow from the landing, Edward a lesser one) My dear madam! [Mrs. Jesmond curtsies to them deeply and returns to the escritoire. Sir John and Edward retire. Tubal shuffles across the room on his way to the door under the landing. REUBEN (in a low voice, clapping Tubal on the back). Good- night, old buck! (Tubal has a fit of coughing) Why, a man of your kidney should be in London. You'd turn all the girls' heads in London within a week. (To Mrs. Jesmond, as he goes up the stairs) Good-night, ma'am, MRS. JESMOND (bringing more books and some papers to the table). Good-night, friend. [Reuben withdraws, closing the door. TUBAL (at the door under the landing, to Mrs. Jesmond). Be theer owt else I can do fer 'ee? MRS. JESMOND. No, I thank you, Tubal. Are the maids in their beds? TUBAL. Aye, an' deid asleeap, I reckon, t'hussies! Good- neet, mistress. MRS. JESMOND. Good-night. [Tubal disappears, closing the door, and the urind again be- comes violent and the sign-board squeals as if in pain. Mrs. Jesmond remains quite still for a while; then, deliberately and 24 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD methodically, and with an altered look on her face, she clears the table of the punch-bowl, the decanter and glasses, and the pipes and tobacco — carrying them to the dresser — and fetches the standish from the escritoire. Having neatly set out her books and papers and the standish upon the table, she goes to the lower door, opens it a few inches and, after peeping along the passage, shuts the door silently. She repeats this proceed- ing at the door on the landing and finally, apparently satisfied, comes half-way down the stairs and unhooks the hunting-horn from the wall and blows a long, faint blast upon it; whereupon the wind gives a thundering bellow, the flames of the candles flicker, and for a moment there is almost total darkness. Then a bluish light pervades the room and the Ghost of a young man in hunting-dress and a bob-wig is seen, standing in an easy attitude with its back to the fire. There is another loud gust, followed by the crash of falling slates. MRS. JESMOND (regarding the Ghost with a tender expression and speaking in soft, caressing tones). That's the slates of the old lean-to in the stable-yard. GHOST (in a calm, matter-of-fact manner). Well, you mun ha' 'em put on again, Betty. Gi' th' job to Hobbs at Ulver- ston. I'm sick o' Finch of Gosforth; leastways I was, be- fore I met wi' my accident. [Mrs. Jesmond replaces the hunting-horn and descends the stairs. Gradually the wind drops. MBS. JESMOND. 'Tis a terrible night for you to be abroad, Hal. I had almost hoped you wouldn't obey my summons. GHOST (pulling off its filmy gloves). Eh, there you go, lass! How oft have I told thee th' weather makes no difference to me! (Gloomily) All weather's one t' a ghost. MRS. JESMOND (with a sigh). Yes, I forget. (Looking down at her books and papers) Shall we get to work? GHOST. Aye, sit thee doon. (She seats herself at the left of the table and chooses a pen from the standish) An' hark ye ! If these winds continue t' blow, thou'dst best bring th' ewe flock off th' fells into th' lowlands. D'ye hear? MRS. JESMOND, I hear, my dear. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 25 GHOST {taking out a spectral snuff-box and making a -pretence of snuffing). Is there aught amiss this week here or at th' farms? MRS. JESMOND. Four of the shorthorn bullocks at Burn- thwaite are lame from kibe. What am I to do for 'era? GHOST. Kibe! Why, I gave thee a remedy for kibe a year since. MRS. JESMOND (pouting). I know you did, Hal; but I failed to note it. GHOST (dusting its neckcloth with the phantom of a pocket- handkerchief). I'm sorely af eared you've no head, Betty; thou'rt but a heedless, gay-hearted wench. What ha' you an' th' lads been doing for 't? MRS. JESMOND. Rubbing tallow-fat betwixt the claws of the poor brutes. GHOST . Tallow-fat ! MRS. JESMOND. Y-y-y-ycs. GHOST. Zoiinds, I marvel you ha'n't rubbed in some o' th' sweet pomade thou hast sent thee from Lunnon for thy ringlets ! MRS. JESMOND (sheepishly). He, he, he, he! GHOST. Ods-bobs, you may well grin ! 'Twould vastly tickle me, were / alive. Come, dip thy pen in th' ink ! (Dictating) "Kibe." MRS. JESMOND {writing in a book). "Kibe " GHOST. "Anoint wi' blue vitriol an' hog's lard " MRS. JESMOND. "Blue vitriol " GHOST. Williams at St. Bridget's will sell thee blue vitriol. (She goes on writing) Mix th' stuff half-an'-half, an' within a fortnight th' beasts will be sound-footed. MRS. JESMOND (sanding her writing). Thank you, dear Harry. GHOST. What's thy next item, Bet? MRS. JESMOND (rummaging among her papers). The next ? (Breaking off and gazing at the apparition wistfully) Hal GHOST. Hey.'' MRS. JESMOND (in a voice full of yearning). Sit in thy chair to-night, yonder, while I am questioning thee, wilt thou? 26 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD GHOST (with an air of patronage) . Certainly I will, child, if it will afford thee any gratification. (Seating itself in the arm-chair). 'Tis all th' same t' a ghost whether he be sit- ting or standing or lying. MRS. JESMOND. Yes, but it seems more domestic to see thee ensconced in what was thy accustomed seat. GHOST (throwing one leg over the other and sticking its thumbs in the armholes of its waistcoat). Which posture d'ye most fancy, Bet — this ? MRS. JESMOND (nodding). I remember thee in it con- stantly. GHOST (extending its legs and resting his fists on its hips). Or this? MRS. JESMOND. That was your position when you were en- gaged in argument. I had rather the other. (The Ghost re- sumes its previous attitude) Oh ! Oh, that I might fill thy pipe, and light it for thee at the candle, and slip the scarlet end of it into thy poor mouth, as I used to do ! GHOST. Nay, lass, that's talking sheer nonsense. (She presses her eyes with the back of her hand) Come, 'tis no good whimpering; whimpering won't mend matters. Get on wi' thy work. MRS. JESMOND (leaning back in her chair and beating her clenched hands on the table). Oh! Oh, how cold you are! How cold you are! GHOST (annoyed). Cold! 'Pon my soul, that's monstrously inconsiderate an' unkind! MRS. JESMOND. Ah, have I hurt thee? GHOST. Hurt me! MRS. JESMOND. I ask your pardon, Hal. GHOST. Nay, 'tis all very fine! (Rising) Thou know'st 'tis not in my power to console thee. MRS. JESMOND (suotching at her pen) Ah, you're not vanish- ing! You'll not vanish so soon! Harry! (The Ghost wags its head sulkily) Harry! Harry! GHOST. I'll not if thou'lt be reasonable an' polite, an' I can sarve thee. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 27 MRS. JESMOND. I Will be reasonable; I will be. Oh, 'tis as hard on you as on me that, being a shade, you cannot take me to your breast; and 'twas cruel of me to complain! I swear I won't offend again, Hal. GHOST (loftily, repeating its performance with the snuff-box). Proceed, then. MRS. JESMOND. Thank you, my dear, (Drying her eyes hurriedly and referring to a paper) Andrew Todd of Mickle Gill hath begged me to test an example of oats that he hath brought me. The germination of his oat-seed last season greatly discontented him. GHOST (curling its lip) . Zooks, but Andrew was ever a fool ! MRS. JESMOND (humUy). Nay, I am worse; for I am even more ignorant than Andrew how to make the test. GHOST. I'll tell 'ee. Tear two strips from thine old flannel- petticoat an' lay th' seed between 'em an' float 'em in a crock full o' water. (She again writes in her book) Stand th' vessel in thy sunniest window, an' in less than three days thou'lt be able to show Todd how many of his oats are speared. (With a hollow, vain laugh) Ha, ha, Maister Todd! MRS. JESMOND (throwing down her pen suddenly and leaning her head upon her hands). Oh, Hal, Hal! GHOST. Why, what's wrong wi' thee now? MRS. JESMOND. Alas, and alas, I am but an impostor! GHOST. Impostor? MRS. JESMOND (starting up and walking about). A cheat! I despise myself for fobbing off these dalesmen with the belief that 'tis I that helps them in their difficulties. GHOST. Why, 'tis you that do it, Betty, in sober truth. MRS. JESMOND (^reprovingly). Harry! GHOST. I say 'tis so. An' were I alive, I should be con- sumedly proud of you. Bet; I should, b' George, though I do upbraid thee on occasions when thou dost desarve it. MRS. JESMOND. Thou wert never logical, Harry! Were you alive, 'twould be known that the cleverness is all thine. (Leaning upon the dresser) Oh, 'twould relieve my con- 28 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD science of a heavy burden, could I but reveal that you visit me in this manner! GHOST. An' scare th' folks for miles round ! Th' inn an' th' farms 'ud be shunned, an' thou'd be reduced to beggary. MRS. JESMOND (dejectedly). Oh! Oh! GHOST. Nay, you need ha' no qualms on that score, lass. 'Tis lucky, I confess, that I had a bent for farming as well as for dicing an' cock-fighting; but husband an' wife are one, an' so, I take it, are a widow an' her husband's ghost, till she falls in love wi' another chap. {Drawing itself up) There's logic for thee! {The wind is heard again, and a whistle from the sign-hoard. The Ghost's expression changes) 'Egad, but that reminds me, Bet ! MRS. JESMOND. Of what, Hal? GHOST {scowling). Speaking o' falling in love, th' young gentleman that quartered himself here two months ago is still under thy roof. {Her body slowly stiffens) Thou didst mention his name an' quality to me once MRS. JESMOND {turning to the Ghost, but avoiding its eyes). Mr. Edward Fane? He resides with his mother, who is wealthy, at Kensington in London. GHOST {with a sneer). That's him; a handsome, black young man, in 's own hair. MRS. JESMOND {advancing frigidly). Why, indeed, Mr. Fane wears neither wig nor powder; but, for the rest, I have scarce observed bis looks. GHOST. 'Faith, he hath obsarved thine! I've seen him through th' shutters, as I've rid past thy window on my grey mare, an' he hath been sitting opposite thee at table an' gazing at thee most fixedly. MRS. JESMOND {shrugging her shoulders). 'Tis when Mr. Fane and I have been playing a game of backgammon together that you must have remarked us. GHOST. Eh, so you play backgammon wi' him, do 'ee, Betty.'* MRS. JESMOND. To while away his evenings. {Fingering the back of the chair on the left of the round table) Wasdale hath few attractions for a man of fashion; and this one is so THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 29 excellent a customer that 'tis worth taking some pains to divert him. GHOST. Nay, I wager he finds no lack of divarsion at Was- dale, or he'd not linger as he does. {Lowering at her) He's sweet on thee, lass, to a certainty. MRS, JESMOND (indignantly). Hal! GHOST. Aye, an' I warn thee, thou'lt be losing thy heart to him, if thou'rt not careful. MRS. JESMOND. Harry! GHOST (bitterly). An' then I shall hear th' blast o' th' horn no more o' Friday nights, in spite of all thy oaths an' tears an' protestations; an' thou'lt cast me aside, an' out o' thy thoughts, like thy worn padesoy ! MRS. JESMOND. Oh! Oh! As if I could ever be inconstant to thee, my first and last love! Shame on you, poor grisly thing that thou art, for thinking it of me! GHOST. Dang it, there you go again ! Grisly ! MRS. JESMOND (moving about the room, in a heat). Oh! Oh! I'll play no more backgammon with Mr. Fane from this time forth, I do assure you, nor with any other living man ! Oh ! GHOST. 'Twas not backgammon you were playing when I last espied you both, Betty. Mr. Fane had a paper in 's hand an' appeared to be reciting to thee. MRS. JESMOND (halting). Ah, yes; he hath a taste for writing poetry, and was reading one of his compositions. (Re- turning to the table, eagerly) That is the reason Mr. Fane lingers at Wasdale, Harry; the grandeur of the district elevates his mind, he declares. Immediately he reined up at this door, two months back, and I went out to greet him, he looked at me and said, "Why, madam, this is the very spot I have been searching for in my dreams!" GHOST (giving another hollow laugh). Ha, ha, ha, ha! MRS. JESMOND (reproachfully). Oh, Hal, thou wert never bookish; you never knew aught of poets and their ways! GHOST. Not I. An' what's his poetry like, lass.? I warrant 'tis all "love" an' "dove ", an' that sort o' muck. 30 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD MRS. JESMOND. Nay, 'tis somewhat better than muck; though of no great merit perhaps. GHOST. The piece he was reading when I watched thee ? MRS. JESMOND. 'Twas Called — how was it styled? — "To Aminta " GHOST. Aminta? MRS. JESMOND. "Aminta" is a fanciful conceit; she is no real person. 'Tis modish in a poet to inscribe his rhymes to Julia, or Chloe, or — or Aminta. Pshaw ! Thou shalt judge how harmless the verses are. {Disdainfully) "To Aminta, a Lady Dwelling in the Country." GHOST (suspiciously). A lady dwelling i' th' country? MRS. JESMOND (reciting, at first with a show of indifference, then with genuine fervour). Belov'd Aminta, shall thy lone retreat Hold thee for ever in his close embrace. Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet Capture the sole reflection of thy face? Nay, let the lordly hill, the softer glen, In Nature's sempiternal gifts secure, Sufl'er thy charms t' illume the haunts of Men, Purge the vile Town and make the City pure! [She stands absorbed, looking into space. After a short silence, the sign-board creaks again gently. GHOST. Ha, ha, ha, ha! (She starts) Why, thou hast learned every syllable of it! MRS. JESMOND (guiltily) . Oh, 'tis but simple stuff, and readily committed to memory. GHOST. A lady dwelling i' th' country! 'Tis thee, o' course! MRS. JESMOND. La, there are hundreds of ladies that dwell in solitude in the country, Hal! GHOST. "Whilst the vast waters stretching at thy feet — "! 'Tis our lake o' Wastwater! MRS. JESMOND (resuming her seat at the table and handling her papers in aflutter). Nay, I am weary of talking about this Mr. Fane THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 31 GHOST. An' he'd bear thee off t' Lunnon, would he, t' th' haunts o' men, th' ! MRS, JESMOND {picking up a paper hastily). I've a question to ask thee concerning the crooked field below Buck- barrow GHOST. Ha, ha, ha, ha! MRS. JESMOND. Harry — ■ — ! {There is a sharp knocking at the upper door, followed by the click of the latch) Ah ! {Again the wind thunders, and again the candle-flames flicker and the room is momentarily in semi-darkness. Then the room brightens and Edward is seen upon the landing. The Ghost has disappeared) Who's there? [Edward shuts the door at which he has entered and, staring about him wildly, rapidly descends the stairs. The wind moderates. EDWARD. 'Tis I. {Running his eyes round the room) For- give me, madam. MRS. JESMOND {composcdhj, as though engrossed in work). Indeed, sir, you might have waited till I bade you come in. EDWARD {bewildered). M-m-may I have a word with you? MRS. JESMOND. If you wiU remember that I am at my books and papers, and that even an innkeeper is not always at the beck-and-call of a guest. EDWARD {bowing). Nay, ma'am, I have apologized for my fault. {Looking keenly in the direction of the lower door and the space under the staircase) The fact is that, hearing voices, I had less compunction in breaking in upon you than I should otherwise have had. MRS. JESMOND {with assuvied surprise). Voices? EDWARD. The sounds of talking and laughing. MRS. JESMOND. Why, Mr. Fane, 'tis not improbable that I chatter to myself while I am calculating my figures. EDWARD. And laugh! MRS. JESMOND. And laugh. {Rising and moving to the fire- place) The farmer — man or woman — that attempts to 32 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD cultivate this grudging valley may well laugh, sir, though the laugh be on the wrong side o' the mouth. ^ EDWARD. Oh, but this is evasion! Mrs. Jesmond ! MRS. JESMOND. Evasion! EDWARD. Is there anybody concealed here? MRS. JESMOND. Concealed? EDWARD (peering into the space beneath the staircase and then returning and confronting her). Nay, then, he must have left the room as I entered it, and by this door! MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane! EDWARD (going to her). I swear I heard more than one voice, and that a man's! By Heaven, you are deceiving me! MRS. JESMOND. Deceiving you, sir! (Haughtily) Why, what am I to you, or you to me, that I should deceive you, or enlighten you, on any affair that doth not concern your abode at this inn? So that your bed is clean, and your food wholesome, and my charges are just and fairly reck- oned, and you acquit them promptly, what obligations, pray, are we under to each other? (Stamping her foot) Withdraw from my room, Mr. Fane, and suffer me to re- sume my work ! Stand aside, sir ! (He allows her to pass him but, as she does so, he catches her by the arms) Unhand me! EDWARD (passionately) . Mrs. Jesmond ! MRS. JESMOND (releasing herself and facing him). Oh, 'tis cowardly of you; and when my servants are abed, and I am unprotected ! (He retreats a step or two) Oh ! You that have writ such tender poems, and delivered them with so much sensibility! EDWARD (with dignity). Nay, madam, you misinterpret my. action. Believe me you have nothing to fear from my violence. (Drawing himself erect) And yet you are right; I am a coward, and an arrant one. MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane! 1 Her farm at Burnthwaite seems to have been decidedly unprosperous, for to-day not a trace of cultivation exists between Wasdale Head and the Buttermere valley. THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 33 EDWARD. A coward. What else am I when I have hesitated so long to free myself from the malign spell your beauty hath cast upon me ! MRS. JESMOND (faintly). Malign ! EDWARD. When, suspecting you to be false and unworthy — as I have for many weeks past, and as I have to-night proved you to be — I have foolishly persuaded myself, against my innermost convictions, of your probity and virtue ! MRS. JESMOND. Falsc and unworthy! You are mad, sir! False to whom? EDWARD. To me. MRS. JESMOND. To — to you! EDWARD. Why, madam, you know that I have loved you — (she puts her hand to her heart with a quick motion) do love you! MRS. JESMOND (tremblingly). Indeed, and indeed, Mr. Fane ! EDWARD (sternly). Hush! To deny it is a lie! (She makes a movement, as if to escape, and again he detains her) Stay ! You shall hear me! (She sinks into the chair at the right of the round table) I have loved you from the first moment I saw you, when, on that evil day on which accident brought me to this inn, and I checked my bridle at the porch, you stood with your hand resting on my horse's shoulder and your eyes drooped before mine. I have loved you from that moment, I repeat; (accusingly) while you, with the quick instinct that wakes intelligence in a woman's brain, if not response within her bosom, have divined my feelings and cruelly allowed me to foster them ! MRS. JESMOND (weakly). I have oft been struck with the idea that you are exceeding well-disposed towards me EDWARD. Well-disposed! Ah, do not prevaricate! MRS. JESMOND. But you have never spoke a word of love to me, I do protest. EDWARD. Not expressly; for 'twas on the night previous to the day on which I had intended to throw myself at your 34 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD feet that, returning from my bedchamber to fetch a letter, I was startled by mysterious murmurs issuing from this room. MRS. JESMOND (raising her head). Ah! EDWARD. Since then (pointing to the door on the landing) I have listened there every Friday night MRS. JESMOND. Listened! EDWARD (abashed). I confess it — listened with my hand upon the latch, lacking the courage to enter and perhaps confirm the dreadful doubts that assailed me. MRS. JESMOND (scomfully) . You do yourself scant justice, Mr. Fane. You are full of courage to-night, sir, at any rate! EDWARD. Because I have to-night heard what I have not hitherto clearly detected — the sound of a man's voice; and have convinced myself that, aided by a specious but ill- contrived stratagem, you are receiving a visitor clandes- tinely. (She rises, standing before him with her head averted. The 2vind swells again) Mrs. Jesmond, I set out for London to-morrow, carrying with me recollections that will remain with me till death — recollections of the hours we have spent together in this apartment; hours of bliss, before I mistrusted thee, and afterwards when your charms have lulled me into the belief that the possessor of so fair an exterior must be the most innocent, as you are assuredly the most captivating, of your sex; hours of anguish, when doubt hath gained supremacy and I have endured the torments of the damned. Farewell! Did I desire retalia- tion, 'twould be in the thought that at some future time you will reproach yourself for having shaken beyond repair the faith of one who would have crowned you with his honour and esteem, adored you with his body, defended you with his sword, and given you a heart to lean upon that hath been touched by no other woman. ^ (Boimng low) Madam ! MRS. JESMOND (with tt dccp curtsey). Farewell, sir. (He goes 1 Compare Mr. George Napier's declaration to Lady Sarah in the "Life and Letters of Lady Sarah Lennox." THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 35 towards the staircase. Suddenly, ivith a gasp, she runs to the foot of the stairs and intercepts him) Ah, no ! Mr. Fane ! EDWARD (drawing bade). Mrs. Jesmond! MRS. JESMOND. Mr. Fane, I cannot bear that we should part thus. Edward! 'Tis true; I am false and unworthy, as you have accused me of being. But 'tis my — my secret visitor that I am false to, and not to thee. (Coming closer to him) Edward ! EDWARD (repelling her with a gesture). Ah ! MRS. JESMOND. Nay, don't put me from thee, for this once. (Simply) Edward, I have known of thy love for me; I have known it from the beginning. And, oh — Heaven pardon me, my dear — (laying her head against him) — I have loved that thou shouldst love me! EDWARD (after a struggle). Betty ! [He folds her in his arms. The wind roars and the sign-board screeches. MRS. JESMOND (feebly) . And now — enough. (Looking up at him) Only I beg thee to glance up at my window as you ride away tomorrow. Thou wilt do that for me, Edward.? EDWARD (in sudden fury). Oh ! [He catches up the riding-cloak from the table in the bay of the window, flings it aside, and seizes one of the pistols. MRS. JESMOND. Pistols! EDWARD (examining the lock of the pistol). They are Sir John Hunslet's. (Grimly) He left them lying here, lest I should encounter the wretch that hath obtained such a per- nicious influence over thee. MRS. JESMOND (laughing wildly). Ha, ha, ha, ha! EDWARD (grasping the pistol tightly). The villain — he that visits thee — where is he hid.'^ MRS. JESMOND. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thy bullet cannot harm him. 'Twould but whistle through him and strike the wall. EDWARD (gripping her wrist). Collect thyself; thou art out of thy senses! MRS. JESMOND (desperately). Am I! Thou shall seel (Point- 36 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD ing to the hunting-horn) Unhook that horn from its nail and bring it to me. EDWARD. The signal! MRS. JESMOND. What, hast thou heard that also ! (Hurriedly he takes down the hunting-horn and hands it to her. Again she blows upon it, and again the wind gives a mighty bellow, the candles flicker, and the bluish light suffuses the rooms) Look ! [Following the direction of her eyes, he turns and finds the Ghost at his elbow. EDWARD (under his breath). Merciful Powers! (The pistol drops from his relaxed fingers and rattles on the stones of the floor. Slowly, with measured tread and with its head bent, the Ghost walks to the fireplace and stands there, gazing into the fire. The force of the wind decreases) A ghost! A ghost! A ghost! MRS. JESMOND (placing the horn upon the round table and ad- dressing Edward in a hushed, steady voice). 'Tis my hus- band's spirit, Mr. Fane. My grief called it to me in the young days of my bereavement, and it hath visited me since every week, and guided me in the conduct of my land and property; (with a slight shiver) and 'tis my resolve to remain as constant to this shadow as though 'twere blood and bone. (Moving a little towards Edward) You have been pleased to take a kindly interest in me, sir; and you will be glad, I am sure, when you quit Wasdale, to reflect that the poor widow that hath done her best for your comfort and entertainment is not entirely alone. (Curtseying again) Good-night. (Speechless, Edward backs away from her and goes out at the door under the landing. She sees that the door is closed and then advances timorously. The Ghost does not stir) Er — I hope thou'rt not angry, Hal. 'Twas Mr. Fane that interrupted us. He returned to this room for some purpose, and our talk and laughter reached him as he was opening the door. 'Twas indiscreet in us to speak so loud. (Coming to the round table) But, la, 'tis no matter; he is a person to be trusted! (Lightly, toying with her books and papers) Beside — ha, ha ! — it hath afforded me the oppor- THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 37 tunity of hinting to my gentleman that, should he ever re- visit Wasdale Head, 'twould be useless for him to pursue thy Betty with his attentions, were he so minded. (Seating herself at the table again) He doth depart to-morrow, I thank the Lord! (Sorting her litter) What was it I was about to ask thee? (Picking up a paper) Ah, yes; the crooked field by Buckbarrow — ! (The Ghost slowly turns and faces her and she stares at it agape. Its form and features have become less distinct) Why — how — how dim you are, Harry ! GHOST (harshly, but in fainter tones than before). Dim! 'Egad, I should think so! Thou know'st that I owe this ghostly existence o' mine only to thy love for me. MRS. JESMOND. W-W-WcU? GHOST. Well ! Ha, ha ! I marvel, after witnessing what hath passed 'twixt you and Mr. Fane, that thou canst discern me at all, Betty. MRS. JESMOND (aghast). Witnessing ! GHOST. Aye. Did 'ee imagine I was out of eye-an'-ear-shot? MRS. JESMOND. Y-y-y-yes. GHOST. Not I. I've been wi' thee th' whole while. Ho, ho, ho, ho! (There is a pause, and then Mrs. Jesmond, pressing her temples, falls back in her chair with a groan) Nay, less, 'tis I that should be making a fuss; an', b' George, I would too, but that thou hast diminished me to that degree that I'm scarce capable of it! MRS. JESMOND (raising herself). Oh! Oh! (Dropping her out- stretched arms upon the table and laying her head upon them) Oh-h-h-h! [The wind gives a sigh and the sign-board creaks sympa- thetically. GHOST (wagging its head shakily). Ah, Bet, Bet, I own I've never suspected you would sell me i' this fashion. (With a low cry, she rises and throws herself at the Ghost's feet) That thou shouldst prove such a smooth-tongued, double- faced hypocrite! Dang it, that beats me, that had such a vast knowledge o' women! 38 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD MRS. JESMOND. Oh, hush, hush! Were I a hypocrite, and merely feigning love for thee, there would be nothing of thee visible, Harry; not a vestige. (Piteously) Ah, I've told thee already to-night, logic was never thy strong point ! GHOST (meditatively). Zounds, I suppose 'tis possible for a woman to love a live man an' yet ha' a softish feeling for a dead one ! MRS. JESMOND {grovelUng and weeping). Oh! Oh! GHOST. But 'tis plain, Betty, that thy love for Fane is uppermost MRS. JESMOND. Oh! Oh! GHOST. An' so, to presarve a morsel o' dignity, 'twould be prudent o' me to bid thee good-bye before I fade from thee completely. MRS. JESMOND. No, no, Hal! Listen! (Sitting up and clasp- ing her hands supplicatingly) Oh, listen! (The wind sighs again and the sign-hoard creaks) Hal — Hal, when the grave closed over thee, I did indeed believe that I was done with love for ever, and that my heart was but a dry and withered plant; but, oh, there are seasons when it will persist in put- ting forth green shoots, and when I find strange hopes and joys quickening within me that are unbefitting a woman that is devoted to the memory of her dead husband ! Alas, Harry, 'twas at such a time that Mr. Fane came upon me ! Though 'twas in January that he alighted at my door, the sun was shining in the valley, and our robins were chirping, and there was a tremble of Spring in the air; and 'twas then, when he had crossed my threshold and I filled him a cup of wine, and faced him while he drank — 'twas then that I felt those green shoots in my breast burst and spread their leaves. (Wildly) But, oh, my dear, he is going, as you are informed — he is going! — and 'tis not likely that he will come my way again, nor that another young man of his rank and character will ever resort to this lonely inn. And so you must pardon me this one stumble; and by all that I hold most sacred, Hal ! THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 39 GHOST (mournfully). Nay, nay, thou shalt make no more promises. Thou hast perjured thyself enough as it is. MRS. JESMOND. Perjured myself ! Ah, yes ! (Laying her head in abasement upon the chair at the right of the round table) Oh, Hal, Hal, Hal! GHOST. Ah, I perceive now — an' so dost thou. Bet — 'tis a sad mistake for a widow in th' first flood of her grief to call her husband back from his tomb. What we do in heat we repent in cold. An' if 'tis so wi' widows in general, 'tis especially so wi' thee, that are still but a girl. (She sobs) Zooks, 'tis my fault for having answered thy cry ! I should ha' had more brains; an' would ha' had, but that I lost some in my accident. (She sobs again) So, come, dry thine eyes. I tell 'ee I don't blame thee, nor bear thee malice; no, nor him. (Attempting, with small success, to repeat his pretence of snuffing) 'Tis th' way o' th' world. Ods-bobs, who is missed in't ! (Philosophically, flourishing his phan- tom pocket-handkerchief) Why, I recollect losing my dog Pincher when I was a bachelor, that died o' jaundice. How I raved about 'un, an' stamped up an' down th' stable where he lay stiff! But a week or two later I was buying a couple o' pups at Gosforth fair, an' was in love wi' them, an' forgot Pincher; an' th' following week I met thee, and fell in love wi' thee, an' forgot th' pups. (Producing its gloves and speaking in the tone of a person preparing to de- part) Well, lass ! MRS. JESMOND. Ah! (Turning swiftly, with a hoarse scream) Ah-h-h-h! GHOST (drawing on a glove). Perhaps 'tis all for th' best, though 't has been a sore blow to my pride. (Hopefulhj) 'Egad, as I shall ride out no more, maybe 'twill settle th' question o' my future, one way or tother! MRS. JESMOND (frantically). Harry! Harry ! GHOST. Th' grey mare too! She did but blunder once in her life; 'tis rough on her, poor slut, to have had her rest broke for a single slip. [The wind roars again furiously, and the room, darkens as 40 THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD the Ghost glides towards the window. Struggling to her feet, Mrs. Jesmond staggers after the Ghost and tries to clutch it. MRS. JESMOND. Harry! No, no! Hal! Ah, I can't hold thee! I can't hold thee! Oh! GHOST (softly). Coom, mare, coom! Coom, coom, coom! MRS. JESMOND. Wait! Wait — ! (The Ghost vanishes) Ah- h-h-h ! Come back ! Harry ! My husband ! (She rushes, still crying out, to the stairs and gropes for the hunting-horn; then, remembering that it is upon the round table, she flies to the table and seizes it) Ah! Harry! Harry! I love thee! I swear I love thee ! (She blows the horn and instantly the shutters disappear and the Ghost is seen upon the grey mare, the wild country beyond. Again the wind bellows) Oh! Wait! Ah-h-h-h! (Holding the reins in its left hand, the Ghost waves its right hand in adieu; and then, with a hollow whoop, it claps its spurs to the mare's sides, and horse and rider plunge into the murk. The shutters reappear and the room is bright once more) Oh, no! Thou'rt not gone! Thou'rt not gone! Harry! (She puts the horn to her mouth again and blows a loud blast. Then she runs about the room, searching and calling) Harry! Harry! I want thee! Where are you.? (Looking into the space under the staircase) Are you there, Hal.'' (In the bay of the window) Hal, I've something to ask thee! 'Tis im- portant! (At the fireplace) Harry! Oh, Harry — I (Sud- denly, ihrovying the horn from her) Ah-h-h-h! He's gone! He's gone! \The door on the landing opens and Edward and Sir John Hunslet appear. EDWARD. Mrs. Jesmond ! MRS. JESMOND. He's gone! (To Edward) You have driven him away ! I hate you ! I — ! Harry — ! [She topples to the ground. Edward and Sir John descend the stairs rapidly and Edward, kneeling beside Mrs. Jesmond, lifts her into his arms. The wind lessens. EDWARD. Mrs. Jesmond! Betty! Betty! (To Sir John, in alarm) Oh, Jack ! THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD 41 [Sir John takes the candlestick from the round table and bends over Mrs. Jesmond. siK JOHN (quietly). 'Tis only a swoon. (Carrying the candle- stick, he moves to the lower door^ I'll go and rouse one of her women. [The sign-board creaks. THE END THE GOAL HENRY ARTHUR JONES The work of Henry Arthur Jones is doubly significant. In the first place, it marks the return of the best English dra- matic traditions to the modern stage, for in spite of the inno- vations preached by Mr. Jones so assiduously for over thirty years, he remains in his best work a dramatist of the classical school. "The Liars", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", and "Dolly Reforming Herself", are genuine comedies, indige- nously English, of the line of Sheridan and Goldsmith. Henry Arthur Jones was born at Grandborough, Bucks, in 1851. His early education was received in his native district. He entered business at Bradford and was for some years a commercial traveler. Before reaching the age of thirty, however, he wrote his first play, " Only 'Round the Corner", which was produced at Exeter in 1878. During the succeeding four years he wrote a number of relatively un- important plays. In 1882 he achieved his first and, in some respects, his most brilliant success, with a melodrama, "The Silver King", written in collaboration with Henry Herman. This celebrated play has seen the footlights in many countries and is still occasionally revived. "Saints and Sinners" (1884) is Mr. Jones' first significant play; it was a landmark in modern English drama, a work in which subject- matter and treatment were primarily English, and not — as was usual at the time — of French origin. Aside from his seventy plays, Henry Arthur Jones has contributed a considerable mass of theory and propagandist literature on the modern drama, setting high standards in 44 THE GOAL dramatic art both for the dramatist and the public. To him is due a great part of that impetus which has resulted in what he himself calls the Renascence of the English drama. Mr. Jones has written few one-act plays, but excepting "The Goal" and "The Knife", his short plays are not of the first importance. "The Goal", however, is an outstanding example of his skill in extracting from a situation the last ounce of its dramatic possibilities. The play is an incident, simple and unified; the art with which it is unfolded is direct and all-sufficient. PLAYS Plays marked with * are in one act only. *Only 'Round the Corner (1878) *Hearts of Oak (1879) *Harmony (1879) *Elopement (1879) *A Clerical Error (1879) *An Old Master (1881) His Wife (1881) Home Again (1881) *A Bed of Roses (1881) The Silver King (1882) (In collaboration with Henry Herman) Chatterton (1884) Saints and Sinners (1884) Hoodman Blind (1885) The Lord Harry (1886) The Noble Vagabond (1886) Hard Hit (1887) Heart of Hearts (1887) Wealth (1889) The Middleman (1889) Judah (1890) *SweetWill (1890) *The Deacon (1890) The Dancing Girl (1891) The Crusaders (1891) The Bauble Shop (1893) The Tempter (1893) The Masqueraders (1894) The Case of Rebellious Su- san (1894) The Triumph of the Philis- tines (1895) Michael and his Lost Angel (1896) The Rogue's Comedy (1896) The Physician (1897) The Liars (1897) *GraceMary (1898) The Manoeuvres of Jane (1898) Carnac Sahib (1899) The Lackey's Carnival (1900) Mrs. Dane's Defence (1900) THE GOAL 45 The Princess's Nose (1902) We Can't Be As Bad As All Chance The Idol (1902) That (1910) Whitewashing Julia (1903) *The Knife (1910) Joseph Entangled (1904) The Ogre (1911) The Chevaleer (1904) Lydia Gilmore (1912) The Heroic Stubbs (1906) The Divine Gift (1912) The Hypocrites (1906) Mary Goes First (1913) *The Goal (1907) The Lie (1914) The Evangelist (1907) Cock o' The Walk (1915) Dolly Reforming Herself *Her Tongue (1915) (1908) The Pacifists (1917) *Fall In, Rookies! (1910) "Harmony", "Elopement", "Hearts of Oak", "A Clerical Error", "An Old Master", "A Bed of Roses", "The Deacon", "Sweet Will", "Joseph Entangled", "The Silver King", "The Dancing Girl", "The Hypocrites", "Mrs. Dane's Defence", "The Case of Rebellious Susan", "The Liars", "The Masqueraders", "Dolly Reforming Herself", "The Tempter", "The Manoeuvres of Jane", "Judah", "The Physician", "Whitewashing Julia", "The Rogue's Comedy", "The Triumph of the Philistines", and "Mary Goes First" are published separately by Samuel French, New York; "The Crusaders", "Michael and his Lost Angel", and "Carnac Sahib" separately by Macmillan Company, New York; "The Divine Gift" and "The Lie" separately by George H. Doran Company, New York; and "The Goal", "Her Tongue", and "Grace Mary", in "The Theater of Ideas", by the same. References: George Moore, "Impressions and Opinions", Brentano's, New York; Clayton Hamilton, "The Theory of the Theater", Henry Holt and Company, New York; Brander Matthews, "A Study of the Drama", Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston; Henry Arthur Jones, "The Re- nascence of the English Drama", Macmillan, New York; "The Foundations of a National Drama", Doran; Introduc- tion to Brunetiere's "The Law of the Drama", Dramatic Museum of Columbia University; and prefaces to "The 46 THE GOAL Theater of Ideas", "The Divine Gift", and "The Case of Rebellious Susan." Magazines: North American Review, vol. clxxxvi, p. 205, New York; The Reader, vol. ix, p. 105, New York; Blackwood' Sy vol. xciv, p. 283, London. THE GOAL A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES "The Goal" was first produced at London in 1897. Characters Sir Stephen Famariss, the great Engineer Daniel Famariss, his son. Engineer Sir Lydden Crane, M.D. Adams, Sir Stephens Butler Peggie Lovel Nurse Clandon Scene: Sir Stephen's bedroom in Belgravia. Time: 1897. CoPTHiQHT, 1915, B7 Georqe H. Dohan Compant. Reprinted by permission of author and publisher, from "The Theatre of Ideas", published by George H. Doran Company. Note. The acting rights of thi? play are fully protected in all countries. Legal proceedings will be taken against anyone who attempts to infringe them. Application for terms for professional dramatic performances in America and Canada should be ad- dressed to The American Play Company, ^olian Building, 33 West 42nd St., New York. For amateur performances to Samuel French, Publisher, 28 West 38th Street, New York. THE GOAL Scene. The dressing room of Sir Stephen Famariss, Bel- grave Square. A very richly furnished apartment, with every evidence of wealth and luxury. Up stage right an archway, set diagonally, shows a bedroom beyond with foot of brass bedstead placed sideways to audience. The bedroom is dimly lighted. A large bow-window, rather deeply recessed, runs along the left at back, and looks across a courtyard to another house, whose windows are brilliantly lighted. Figures dancing are seen mov- ing across the windows in accordance with indications given through the play. Between archway and vnndow a large hand- some bureau. A door left down stage. Down stage right, fire- place with fire burning. A mirror over fireplace. A large com- fortable sofa down stage right. A table left of sofa near centre of stage, vnih bottle of champagne and glasses on it. Another table up stage left above door. Upon it medicine bottles, spirit lamp, and other paraphernalia of a sick room. A large pier looking-glass up stage above sofa. Other furniture as required, all indicating great wealth and comfort. Time, aboid ten on an April evening. Discover on sofa, asleep. Sir Stephen Famariss. A rug is thrown over him, and his head is buried in a pillow, so that nothing is seen of him but a figure under the rug. Nurse Clandon, in nurse's costume, about thirty, is seated in chair at table, reading. The door, left, is very softly opened, and Sir Lydden Crane enters, a little, dry, shrewd, wizened old man about seventy, with manners of a London physician. Nurse \ rises and puts down her book. ^RANE. Well? How has he been all the afternoon? NURSE. Just as usual. He won't keep quiet. About an \ hour ago he fell asleep. [Pointing to Sir Stephen. CRANE. Mr. Daniel Famariss has not arrived? 50 THE GOAL NURSE. No. He sent another telegram for him this even- ing. And he keeps on asking for the evening papers. CRANE. Well? NURSE. I've kept them from him. They all have long ac- counts of his illness. ( Taking an evening paper from under the table cover, giving it to Crane) Look! CRANE {taking paper, reading). "Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dying " Hum! [A very gentle knock is heard at door left. Nurse goes to it, opens it. Adams comes in a step. ADAMS. I beg pardon. Mrs. Lovel has sent in to ask how Sir Stephen is; and to say that she's very sorry the ball- room is so near his bedroom; and if the noise of the ball will upset Sir Stephen, she'll be very pleased to put it off, and send her guests away? NURSE. What do you think, Sir Lydden? CRANE. All excitement is very dangerous for Sir Stephen. The next attack may be fatal. Will you give my compli- ments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to postpone the ball? [Sir Stephen stirs, throws off the quilt. He is in a rich dress- ing-gown. A iciry, handsome, very intellectual-looking man about seventy-five; well-seasoned, vigorous frame; pale, sharp, strong features, showing signs of great recent pain. SIR STEPHEN. Will you give my compliments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to do nothing of the kind. What rubbish. Crane! Because I happen to be dying, to stop the innocent pleasure of a couple of hmidred young people! Thank Mrs. Lovel very much, Adams, for sending in, and say that I'm not at all sure that I shall die to-night; but that if I do, her dancing won't in the least interfere with my dying, and I hope she won't allow my dying to interfere with her dancing. I very much wish the ball to take place. (Very imperiously) It's not to be put off! You understand? j^ ADAMS. Yes, Sir Stephen. [Going. SIR STEPHEN. And, Adams, give my compliments to Mrs. THE GOAL 51 Lovel, and say that if she doesn't mind, I should Hke to see Miss Lovel in her ball dress for a moment before the ball. Say that I'm quite presentable, and I won't frighten ^ Miss Lovel. \Exit Adams. ^ SIR STEPHEN. Well, Crane, am I going off this time? CRANE. This last attack coming so quickly after the other is very alarming and — very dangerous. SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, but am I going to pull through again, or must I put up the shutters? CRANE. Well — well SIR STEPHEN {seeing jpajper on table where Crane has put it). Is that to-night's paper? {No reply) Give it to me. CRANE {deprecatingly) . Famariss SIR STEPHEN. Givc it to me. [Crane gives it to him reluctantly. SIR STEPHEN {reading from paper). "Alarming illness of Sir Stephen Famariss. Angina Pectoris. Fatal symp- toms. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dy- ing " There's nothing like making sure of your facts. CRANE. Too sure! SIR STEPHEN {drily). So I think. What do you say? How long am I going to live? CRANE. Well SIR STEPHEN. Come out with it, old friend. I'm not afraid to hear. CRANE. With the greatest care, I see no reason why you shouldn't live some weeks — or months. SIR STEPHEN. Shall I live long enough to carry out my Mil- ford Haven scheme? Tell me the truth. CRANE. No. You certainly won't. SIR STEPHEN {shows intense disappointment). You're sure? CRANE. I'm sure. SIR STEPHEN. But I shall live long enough to start it, to put it into other hands, into my son's hands — if the rebellious fool will only learn wisdom and make it up with me before I die. I shall live long enough for that? CRANE. No. I fear not. 52 THE GOAL SIR STEPHEN (going to bureau). But I've got a third of it on paper. {Taking out plans) I've kept it here. I've worked at it when I couldn't sleep. If I can last out an- other six months, I can do it. Come, Crane, don't be stingy. Give me another six months! Eh? CRANE. Famariss, you won't last six months even with the greatest care. You may not last six weeks SIR STEPHEN. Nor six days? CRANE. Nor six days. SIR STEPHEN. Nor six hours? CRANE. Oh ! SIR STEPHEN. Nor six hours. Thank you. I'm prepared. CRANE. Your son hasn't come yet? SIR STEPHEN. No. I'vc telegraphed him twice — and my terms. CRANE. Is it worth while — of course, you know best — is it worth while to stick out for terms when ? SIR STEPHEN. When one is in face of death. Yes — on a matter of principle. If Dan comes here, he comes on my terms. I'll keep my word; I won't set eyes on him — he shan't pass that door until he owns he was wrong. CRANE. But SIR STEPHEN (getting excited). But he was wrong. He was wrong, and no power on earth shall make me CRANE (soothing him). Hush! If he does come, you must avoid all excitement in meeting him. Your only chance of prolonging your life is to keep absolutely quiet. You must lay up all day SIR STEPHEN. Lay up all day! Don't talk nonsense! CRANE. If you don't SIR STEPHEN. If I dou't CRANE. You may die at any moment. SIR STEPHEN. But if I do, I'm dead already. No, Crane, I'll live to my last moment, whenever it comes. When I do take to my bed, I'll take to it once for all, in the church- yard, beside my Peggie! (Very softly, very tenderly, half to himself) My Peggie! My Peggie! If I do go off, I THE GOAL 53 shall see her again, I suppose — if it isn't all moonshine! Open the window, Nurse! It's getting hot here! {The Nurse opens window) Open that champagne, Crane, and pour yourself out a glass, and pour me out a glass. My Peggie! My Peggie! I wonder if it is all moonshine! [The musicians in the ballroom opposite begin to tune up their fiddles. Nurse comes down. SIR STEPHEN. That's right! Tune up! Tune up! And Peggie Lovel promised me the first dance ! Tune up ! NURSE. You must keep quiet SIR STEPHEN (pettishly) . Runaway! Runaway! [Crane makes Nurse a sign, and she goes off into bedroom. Crane has opened the champagne and poured out two glasses. He brings one to Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN. It's the eighty-four Saint Marceaux. I've left you half what's left of this. Crane, and I've left my mule of a boy the other half. He's my heir. I won't see him; no, not if I CRANE. Hush ! Hush ! SIR STEPHEN. I won't See him unless he submits. But I've left him every penny, except what goes to charities and churches. It's very puzzling to know what to do with one's money, Crane. I've left a heap to charities, and I've squared all the churches. I hope it won't do much harm. (A little chuckle) There's one thing I regret in dying. Crane : I shan't be able to hear my funeral sermons. But you will CRANE. Don't make too sure. I may go off first; but if I am doomed, I hope the oratory will be of as good a vintage as this. SIR STEPHEN. It ouglit to be, considering what I've left them all. Give them a hint, Crane, not to whitewash my sep- ulchre with any lying cant. Don't let them make a plaster-of -Paris saint of me! I won't have it! I won't have it! I've been a man, and never less than a man. I've never refused to do the work that came in my way, and, thank God, I've never refused to taste a pleasure. 54 THE GOAL And I've had a rare good time in this rare good world. I wish I'd got to live it all over again! CRANE. You do? SIR STEPHEN. Yes; every moment of it, good and evil, pleasure and pain, love and work, success and failure, youth and age, I'd fill the cup again, and I'd drain it to the dregs if I could. You wouldn't? CRANE. No. Once is enough for me. SIR STEPHEN. You scc. Crane, before starting in life, I took the one great step to secure success and happiness. CRANE. What's that? SIR STEPHEN. I made an excellent choice of my father and mother. Not rich. Not aristocratic. But a good, sound, healthy stock on both sides. What's the cause of all the weak, sniyelling pessimism we hear? WTiat's the cause of nine-tenths of the misery around us — ruined lives; shat- tered health; physical, moral, intellectual beggary? What's the cause of doctors' bills? CRANE. Well, what is? SIR STEPHEN. Men and women exercise no care in choosing their fathers and mothers. You doctors know it! You doctors know it! Once choose your father and mother wisely, and you can play all sorts of tricks with your con- stitution. You can drink your half bottle of champagne at seventy-five and enjoy it ! Another glass ! CRANE. No, I must be going! (Rising) And (tapping bot- tle) you mustn't take any more. SIR STEPHEN. Don't talk nonsense! Sit down! Sit down! Another glass! Hobnob, man; hobnob! Life's but a span! \Miy, this may be the last time, eh? CRANE. Any time may be the last time. Any moment may be the last moment. SIR STEPHEN. WeU, then, let's enjoy the last moment! I tell you. Crane, I'm ready. All my affairs are in perfect order. I should have liked to finish that Milford Haven scheme; but if it isn't to be — (deep sigh) — Hobnob, man; hobnob ! THE GOAL 55 CRANE. What a lovely wine ! SIR STEPHEN. Isn't it? I remember Goethe says that the man who drinks wine is damned, but the man who drinks bad wine is doubly damned. Pray God you and I may be only damned once, Crane. CRANE. Oh, that's past praying for — in my ease ! SIR STEPHEN. Eighty-four! I was boring a hole through the Rockies that summer — ah, Crane, what glorious sum- mers I've had! — seventy-five glorious golden summers — and now — Hobnob, man; hobnob! You've had a good innings, too. Crane. CRANE. Hum! Pretty fair. I eat well, drink well, sleep well, get my early morning jog in the Park and enjoy it, get my two months on the moors, and enjoy them. I feel as fit to-day as I did thirty years ago. There's only one pleasure that fails me — (v)ith a grimace at Sir Stephen) — Gone! Gone! Gone! SIR STEPHEN. Don't fret about that! We thought it a pleasure, old crony, while it lasted. Now it's gone, let's call it a plague and a sin, and thank God for giving us a little peace in our old age. Ah, dear, dear, what a havoc women have made of the best half of my life; but — (brightening) — I've left some good work behind me, in spite of the hussies! And, thank Heaven, my throat has held out to the last. [Drinking. CRANE (drinking). And mine! SIR STEPHEN. Crane, what was that joke that came up at poor Farley's funeral.'' CRANE. Joke.? SIR STEPHEN. Don't you remember while we were waiting for them to bring dear old Farley downstairs, Maidment began telling that story about the geese and the Scotch-boy CRANE. Yes, yes; to be sure! [Beginning to laugh. SIR STEPHEN. And just as we were enjoying the joke, we suddenly remembered where we were, and you pulled us up, and spoilt the joke! CRANE. Yes, yes, I remember. 56 THE GOAL SIR STEPHEN. Crane, if Maidment tells that story at ray funeral, don't pull him. up CRANE. Eh? SIR STEPHEN. It's a good joke, man ! Don't waste it ! Have your laugh out, and say from me that, other conditions being favourable, I'm enjoying it as heartily as any of you! You will, eh.? You will? CRANE. Yes, I will! I will! [They both laugh a little. Adams opens door lejt, and comes in a step. ADAMS. Miss Lovel has come. Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN. Show her in, Adams. [Exit Adams. CRANE. I must be going. [Renter Adams, showing in Peggie Lovel, a debutante of eighteen, in her first ball dress; radiant, excited, beautifully dressed, a vision of girlish loveliness. She is frivolous and self-conscious, and full of little airs and graces, constantly glancing at herself in the two mirrors. ADAMS (announcing). Miss Lovel. [Exit Adams. SIR STEPHEN. Come in, Peggie. I mustn't call you Peggie any more. Come in. Miss Lovel. PEGGIE. Mamma said you would like to see me for a minute before the ball! SIR STEPHEN. If you don't mind, PEGGIE. How d'ye do. Sir Lydden? [Shaking hands. CRANE. How d'ye do. Miss Lovel? Good night, Sir Stephen. [Holding out hand. SIR STEPHEN. Don't go, old chum. [Taking his hand, retaining it, keeping Crane. CRANE. I must. {Taking out watch) I have a consultation at eleven. SIR STEPHEN (pitcously). Don't go, old chum. CRANE. It's really pressing. It's Lord Albert Swale. He won't last till the morning. SIR STEPHEN. Don't go. I may be meeting him soon, and I'll make your apologies. {Very piteously) Don't go, old chum! THE GOAL 57 CRANE. I must. (Nurse enters from bedroom) Nurse, I want, a word with you downstairs. (Nurse crosses to left, and exit. To Sir Stephen) I'll look in, the first thing in the morning. SIR STEPHEN. Do. You'll find me — at home. CRANE. Good night. Good night, Miss Lovel. PEGGIE. Good night, Sir Lydden. CRANE (in a low tone to Peggie). You mustn't stay long, and you mustn't let Sir Stephen excite himself. (To Sir Stephen) I'd rather see you in bed SIR STEPHEN (very impatiently). Tut! Tut! Tut! I won't be buried before I'm dead. (Rather curtly) Good night. (Crane waits. Imperiously) Good night ! (Crane is going) And, Crane, remember — no whitewash on my sepulchre! [Exit Crane, left. Peggie meantime has taken off her cloak. All through she is eager and excited, glances at herself in the glasses very often. PEGGIE. I'm so sorry you're ill, Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN. I'm uot ill, my dear. The old machine seems just as strong and tough as ever, only — it's gone "crack" in a weak place. Well, I've knocked it about all over the world for seventy-five years, and if it hadn't gone crack in one place, I suppose it would in another. Never mind me. Let's talk about you. Go and stand there, and let me look at you. PEGGIE (displaying her dress). Do you like me.^* Do you hke my dress .^^ SIR STEPHEN. It's a triumph! PEGGIE (chattering on). You can't imagine what trouble mamma and I have taken over it. Long sleeves are com- ing in for evening wear. So I had long sleeves at first. I was all sleeves. So I had them taken out and short sleeves put in. The dressmaker made a horrible muddle of them. So we tried long sleeves again. I looked a perfect fright! SIR STEPHEN. I won't believc it. PEGGIE. Yes, I did, I assure you. So at the last moment 58 THE GOAL I had the long sleeves taken out and the short sleeves dodged up with lace. Which do you Uke best? Long sleeves or short sleeves? SIR STEPHEN. Long sleeves for ugly arms — short sleeves for beautiful arms! PEGGIE (frowning at him and shaking her head). Ah! What do you think of the bodice? SIR STEPHEN. Enchanting! PEGGIE. It is rather neat, isn't it? SIR STEPHEN. Neat? I should call it gorgeous! PEGGIE. Oh, you must see the one I've got for the Lard- ner's dance next Monday. Would you like to see it? SIR STEPHEN. Very much — on Monday. PEGGIE. I'll run in for a moment before I go. SIR STEPHEN. Do. PEGGIE. That's a square-cut bodice. This is a round-cut bodice. Which do you like best? Round-cut bodices, or square-cut bodices? SIR STEPHEN. To-uight I Hkc round-cut bodices. On Mon- day I think I shall prefer square-cut bodices. PEGGIE. I think I prefer a square-cut bodice. I had a square-cut bodice to this at first. I looked a perfect monster, so I had it taken out and this round-cut bodice put in. I'm not sure that it's quite right now, and I've tried it on fifty times — I'm worrying you to death. SIR STEPHEN. No! Uo! PEGGIE. Yes, I am, and I can't stay five minutes. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have the ball put off? We will put it off even now, if you wish. SIR STEPHEN. Not for the world! not for the world! PEGGIE. That's so good of you! But I really think you'll be better to-morrow. I'm sure you will. You aren't really very ill, are you? Do you like this embroidery? [Pointing to trimming on her skirt. SIR STEPHEN. It's beautiful! Isn't it Indian work? PEGGIE. Yes; handmade. It took a man twelve or fifteen years to make this one strip. THE GOAL 59 SIR STEPHEN. A quarter of a lifetime to decorate you for a few hours. It was time well spent. Ah, Peggie, that's the sum and meaning of all our toil and money-grubbing! PEGGIE. What is.'' SIR STEPHEN. To make our women-folk beautiful. It all comes to that in the end. Let Nature and Art knock their heads together till doomsday, they'll never teach one another any finer trick than to show a beautiful maiden to a handsome young fellow, or a handsome young fellow to a beautiful maiden. [Peggie has got behind him and is admiring herself in the glass. PEGGIE. Really! Really! Yes, I suppose you're right. You're sure I'm not worrying you SIR STEPHEN. No, no. Don't go. I'm quite at leisure now to the end of my life. PEGGIE. Oh, you mustn't talk like that! So I may tell mamma that you like my dress .f* What do you think of the skirt? SIR STEPHEN. Isu't there too much trimming on it.'* PEGGIE. Oh, no! Oh, no! SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, there's too much trimming. PEGGIE. Oh, no ! Oh, no ! The dressmaker said there wasn't enough. SIR STEPHEN. Stupid hussics, dressmakers! They're like other folks! They're always the last to know anything about their own business. Tell your dressmaker that simplicity is the keynote of a great style in dressmaking, and engineering — subtle simplicity. The next time she is going to make you a dress, tell her to take a walk through our National Gallery PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen, you surely wouldn't dress me like those old guys in the National Gallery! What would my partners say? SIR STEPHEN. Your partners! Ah, you pretty tyrant, you'll turn a great many heads, and set a great many hearts beating to-night! 60 THE GOAL PEGGIE. Shall I? Shall I? SIR STEPHEN. Why, you'vc set my old worn-out heart flut- tering, and, goodness knows, it ought to have done beating for pretty girls at seventy-five — it ought to know better at seventy-five! But it doesn't, and — {rising with great determination) — I've a great mind PEGGIE (a little alarmed). Sir Stephen, what are you going to do? SIR STEPHEN. Don't you remember your promise? PEGGIE. My promise? SIR STEPHEN. Your birthday party six years ago! You danced with me, and you promised that I should be your first partner at your first ball after you came out! PEGGIE. Of course — I'd forgotten! SIR STEPHEN. But I hadn't! Will you keep your promise, Peggie? Will you keep your promise? PEGGIE. Wouldn't it be dangerous, and — you don't really wish it? SIR STEPHEN (sinking down). You're right, my dear. I'm foolish with old age. Forgive me! PEGGIE. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you'll be able to see us dancing across the garden. You can stand at that window and look on. SIR STEPHEN. Look on ! That's all I'm fit for now — to look on at Ufe! [Turning away his head. PEGGIE. Sir Stephen, what's the matter? SIR STEPHEN. I'vc always been in the thick of the fight, Peggie. And I feel to-night as strong as ever I did, and they tell me I must lay up and look on — (rising with great energy and determination) — I won't! I won't! PEGGIE. Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN. I Can't bear it, Peggie. I've enjoyed my life, and I don't want to leave it. I want to live, and live, and Uve — and I will! Ah, what a selfish old coward I am! I'm like a man who has sat down to a good table d'hote, and eaten and drunk his fill, and now the host tells me my THE GOAL 61 place is wanted for another guest, I cry out and want to have my dinner over again ! Don't take any notice of me, dear. Tell me about your partners. Who's going to dance with you to-night? PEGGIE. Oh, I suppose Mr. Lascelles, Freddie Lister, Lord Doverbury, Johnny Butler, Sir Egerton Wendover, Dick French — amongst others. SIR STEPHEN. Peggie PEGGIE. Yes SIR STEPHEN. You won't misunderstand me, dear. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. {Takes her hand very tenderly) You won't misunderstand me. (Very seri- ously) Take care how you choose your partner for life. You'll have a wide choice, and all your future happiness, and the happiness of many generations to come, will de- pend on the one moment when you say "Yes" to one of the scores of young fellows who'll ask you to be his wife. Take care, dear! Take care! Look him thoroughly up and down! Be sure that he has a good full open eye that can look you straight in the face; and be sure that the whites of his eyes are clear. Take care he hasn't got a queer-shaped head, or a low forehead. A good round head, and a good full high forehead, do you hear.'' Notice the grip of his hand when he shakes hands with you! Take care it's strong and firm, and not cold and dry. No young man should have a cold, dry hand. Don't say "Yes" till you've seen him out of trousers, in riding dress, or court dress. Look at the shape of his legs — a good, well-shaped leg, eh, Peggie? And take care it is his leg! See that he's well-knit and a little lean, not flabby; doesn't squint; doesn't stammer; hasn't got any nervous tricks or twitchings. Don't marry a bald man! They say we shall all be bald in ten generations. Wait ten generations, Peggie, and then don't marry a bald man! Can you re- member all this, dear? Watch his walk! See that he has a good springy step, and feet made of elastic — can do his four or five miles an hour without turning a hair. 62 THE GOAL Don't have him if he has a cough in the winter or the spring. Young men ought never to have a cough. And be sure he can laugh well and heartily — not a snigger, or a wheeze, or a cackle, but a good, deep, hearty laugh right down from the bottom of his chest. And if he has a little money, or even a good bit, so much the better! There now! You choose a man like that, Peggie, and I won't promise you that you'll be happy, but if you're not, it won't be your fault, and it won't be his, and it won't be mine! PEGGIE. Very well. Sir Stephen, I'll try and remember. SIR STEPHEN. Do, my dear, do! It's a good legacy, my dear. I've left you another. You won't be disappointed when my will's read PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen! SIR STEPHEN. No, you wou't; but remember my advice to-night. That's the best wedding present for any girl. PEGGIE. Very well. Sir Stephen! I must be going. Good-bye. [Giving her hand. SIR STEPHEN. Ycs, I suppose you mustn't stay. (Taking her hand, keeping it as he had kept Crane^s, as if he couldn't bear to let her go) Good-bye. [Looking longingly at her with a mute entreaty to stay. Peggie draws her hand away, puts on cloak, and goes to door, left. He watches her all the while. PEGGIE {at door, runs back to him). Sir Stephen, I'll keep my promise. You shall be my first partner. (Offering her card) Write your name down for my first dance. SIR STEPHEN. But I shan't be there. PEGGIE. I'll sit out, and keep it for you. SIR STEPHEN. No, nO PEGGIE. Yes, yes! I insist. Put your name down! [He writes on her card. Enter Nurse, left. PEGGIE. Good-bye, Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN. Good-bye, Peggie! (Softly) Peggie! Her name was Peggie! My wife's name was Peggie! THE GOAL 63 [She bends and kisses his forehead; then goes to door, turns and looks at him. PEGGIE. Au 'voir. [Blows him a kiss and exit. Sir Stephen looks longingly after her, walks a little up and down the room. NURSE (anxiously). Sir Stephen, don't you think you might He down now? SIR STEPHEN. Run away ! Run away ! NURSE. Won't you rest a little on the sofa? SIR STEPHEN. Run away! Run away! NURSE. Can I get you anything? SIR STEPHEN. Run away ! Run away! (Pacing up and down) Mr. Daniel Famariss hasn't come yet? NURSE. No. You know they said that he was away survey- ing in an out-of-the-way country, where no message could reach him. SIR STEPHEN. If he should come too late, tell him — tell him — I've gone surveying in an out-of-the-way country — where no message can reach me! (Changing tone) Dear me, Nurse, I'm afraid this dying is going to be a very tiresome business for both of us! NURSE. Oh, Sir Stephen, I'm sure I don't mind! SIR STEPHEN. You don't mind? That's very good of you. You're in no hurry? Well, neither am I. NURSE, Sir Stephen, don't you think SIR STEPHEN. What? NURSE. Last night you said you'd send for a clergyman. SIR STEPHEN. Did I? That was at two o'clock in the morn- ing. How horribly demoralized a man gets at two o'clock in the morning! NURSE. But, Sir Stephen SIR STEPHEN. Well? NURSE. Don't you think you ought to begin to think of better things? SIR STEPHEN. Well. I'm seventy-five. Perhaps it is nearly time. What better things? NURSE. Death and — judgment. 64 THE GOAL SIR STEPHEN. Don't talk nonsense. I don't call death and judgment better things. NURSE. But, Sir Stephen— you will be judged. SIR STEPHEN. Judged? Yes. But I shan't be judged by the prayers I've said, and the psalms I've sung. I shan't be judged by the lies I've told, and the deceits I've prac- tised, and the passions I've given way to. I shan't be judged by the evil and rottenness in me. No; I shall be judged by the railways I've made, and the canals I've scooped, and the bridges I've built — and let me tell you, my dear creature, my accounts are in good order, and ready for inspection at any moment, and I believe there's a good balance on my side. (Guests have been assembling in the ballroom. Dance music bursts out. Dancing begins) Ah! What tune is that? [Goes up to window, begins dancing a few steps, swaying with the music. NURSE (frightened). Sir Stephen! Sir Stephen! SIR STEPHEN. Run away! Run away! NURSE. Sir Stephen, you wouldn't be found dancing at the end? SIR STEPHEN. Why not? I've done my work ! Why shouldn't I play for a little while? (A bell is heard) Hark! The front door beU ■ NURSE. Yes. [Goes to door, left. SIR STEPHEN. Go dowustairs and see if that's my son. If it is, tell him [Gentle knock at door, left. Adams enters a step. The dancing and music are continued in the ballroom. ADAMS. I beg pardon. Sir Stephen. Mr. Daniel Famariss has arrived SIR STEPHEN. Ah! [Getting excited. ADAMS. And would like to see you. SIR STEPHEN. Tell him he knows the conditions. NURSE. But, Sir Stephen THE GOAL 65 SIR STEPHEN. Ruu away, my good soul! Run away. {To Adams) He knows the conditions. If he accepts them, I shall be pleased to see him. DAN {voice outside door). Father! SIR STEPHEN. Shut that door! [Adams nearly closes door, which is kept open a few inches from the other side. DAN {outside). Father! You won't shut the door in my face? SIR STEPHEN. Keep on that side of it, then. Adams, you can go. Leave the door ajar. [Exit Adams, left. Sir Stephen, with an imperious gesture, points Nurse to archicay right. Exit Nurse, into bedroom, with an appealing gesture to Sir Stephen. SIR STEPHEN {goes to door, left; it is still open a few inches) . Are you there, Dan? DAN {outside). Yes, father. SIR STEPHEN. I vowed I'd never set eyes on you again, till you owned you were wrong about those girders. You were wrong? {No reply) You were wrong? {No reply) Do you hear? Confound you, you know you were wrong! {No reply) Do you hear, Dan? Why won't you say you were wrong? You won't! {Slams door, goes right, has an outburst of anger, recovers, listens, goes back to door, opens it a little) Are you there, Dan? DAN {outside). Yes, father. SIR STEPHEN. You Were wrong, Dan. {No reply) I haven't got long to live, Dan. It's angina pectoris, and the next attack will kill me. It may come at any moment. {Very piteously) Dan, you were wrong? Why won't you say so? Even if you tell a lie about it? DAN {outside). I was wrong. SIR STEPHEN. Ah! {FUngs open the door, Dan runs in. Sir Stephen meets him, embraces him affectionately, ivith a half sob) Why didn't you say it before? You knew how much I loved you. Why did you keep apart from me all these years? 66 THE GOAL DAN. I'm sorry, sir. But perhaps it was for the best. I've done very well. SIR STEPHEN. Of course you have. You're my son. But how much better you'd have done if you had stuck to me! How much better we both should have done! I'm sorry, too, Dan. I was wrong, too — not about the girders. You loere wrong about them, Dan. But I was wrong to be angry and to swear I wouldn't see you. Ah, what could I have done with you at my side! I could have carried out my Milford Haven scheme. Perhaps it isn't too late! {Going to bureau, getting more and more excited) I've got all the plans here [Taking out a heap of plans. DAN. Not now, father; not now! SIR STEPHEN. Yes, now, my boy! To-morrow may be too late! {Going to table) Come here, my lad! Oh, Dan, what years we've wasted! Come here! I want you to carry this out. You'll have immense opposition. Beat it down! You'll have to buy Shad well and his lot. They're a dirty gang. But you'll have to do it. I hate bribery, Dan; but when you've got to do it, do it thoroughly! Then there's Mincham. Buy him over, if you can, at a small figure — say a thousand pounds — he's a mean little cur; but offer him that, and if he won't take it, snap your fingers at him, and swamp him ! Remember the trick, the scoundrel's trick, he served me over the granite for the viaduct. Remember it, Dan, and don't spare him! Swamp him! Swamp him!* [With great energy of hate. DAN. Father SIR STEPHEN. Bring your chair up. I must go on now — while it's all before me! I want you to carry this Milford Haven scheme out! I want it to be said that what old Stephen Famariss couldn't do, young Dan Famariss could! The father was a great man, the son shall be a greater, eh? * 1 Kings, chap, ii., verses 8, 9. THE GOAL 67 Look here, you must start on this side. I've had all the soundings made DAN. To-morrow, father; to-morrow! SIR STEPHEN. No, now! There's no such thing as to- morrow! We'll go through it now — in case There's a great world-tussle coming, Dan — I shan't live to see it — but it's coming, and the engineer that ties England and America will do a good turn to both countries. England to America in four days! I want that crown to rest on your head! Look! You must begin here! Look! Just there! You must throw a bridge over [Stops suddenly, puts his hand to his heart; his face indicates intense agony. Nurse enters from bedroom. DAN. Father SIR STEPHEN {persisting, with a wild aimless gesture). Throw a bridge from here — to the other side, and then DAN. Father, what is it.? SIR STEPHEN. The end, Dan. (His face shows that he is suffering great pain. A great burst of dance music. They offer to support him. He waves them off) No, thank you. I'll die standing. England to America in four days. (Long pause. He stands bolt upright unth great determina- tion) You were wrong about those girders, Dan — My Peggie — I wonder if it's all moonshine — Peggie — My Peggie [Dies, tumbles over table. Music and dancing in ballroom louder than ever. CURTAIN. SALOME OSCAR WILDE Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854. His early education was received in his native country; after three years at Trinity College, Dublin, he completed his academic course at Oxford. While still at Oxford his reputation as a wit and an "esthete" had begun to spread, and when in 1881 he published his first book, a volume of poems, he was already famous. His first play, "Vera, or the Nihilists", appeared two years afterward. "The Duchess of Padua", a verse tragedy, followed in 1891. In 1884 Wilde married, and devoted his time entirely to writing, editorial work, and lec- turing. The important plays — " Lady Windermere's Fan ", "A Woman of No Importance", "An Ideal Husband", and "The Importance of Being Earnest" — were performed in London during the height of the author's brilliant career, between 1892 and 1895. That career was cut short in 1895 when Wilde was sentenced to two years' imprisonment at hard labor following a trial that roused the entire civilized world. On leaving prison Wilde adopted the name of Sebastian Melmoth and went to France; there and at Naples he dragged out the few remaining years of his life. He died in Paris in 1900. In his "De Profundis" Wilde said: "I took the drama, the most objective form known to art, and made of it as personal a mode of expression as the lyric or the sonnet; at the same time I widened its range and enriched its characterization." This refers particularly to the modern plays. "Salome", originally written in French for production by Sarah Bern- hardt, is rather a decorative panel than the expression of a dramatic idea; it is, however, a distinctly personal expression of a mood; but about all, it is an eflfective drama. 70 SALOME PLAYS Plays marked with * are in one act only. Vera, or the Nihilists (1883) An Ideal Husband (1895) The Duchess of Padua (1891) The Importance of Being Lady Windermere's Fan Earnest (1895) (1892) *Salome (1896) A Woman of No Importance (1893) All of Wilde's finished plays are published in a single volume, "The Plays of Oscar Wilde", by H. S. Nichols, New York. References: Leonard Cresswell Ingleby, "Oscar Wilde", T. Werner Laurie, London; Arthur Ransome, "Oscar Wilde", Mitchell Kennerly, New York; Robert Sherrard, "The Real Oscar Wilde", Greening and Company, London; Lord Alfred Douglas, "Oscar Wilde and Myself", John Lane, New York; Anna, Comtesse de Bremont, "Oscar Wilde and his Mother", Everett and Company, London; W. W. Kenil worth, "A Study of Oscar Wilde", Fenno, London; Archibald Hender- son, "European Dramatists", Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. Magazines: Current Literature, vol. xxxxix, 156, vol. xli, 518, vol. xliv, 287, New York; Arena, vol. xxxviii, p. 134, New York; Dial, vol. xlviii, p. 261, New York; Bookman, vol. xxxiv, p. 389, New York; Nation, vol. xcviii, pp. 566 and 598, and vol. xcix, p. 374, New York. SALOME BY OSCAR WILDE 'Salome" was first produced at Paris, in 1896. Characters Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Judcea loKANAAN, the Prophet The Young Syrian, Captain of the Guard TiGELLiNUS, a Young Roman A Cappadocian A Nubian First Soldier Second Soldier The Page of Herodias Jews, Nazarenes, etc. A Slave Naajman, the Executioner Herodias, Wife of the Tetrarch Salome, Daughter of Herodias The Slaves of Salome SALOME Scene. A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the banqueting-halL Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. The moon is shining very brightly. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How beautiful is the Princess Salome to-night ! THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems ! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is Hke a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange look. She is like a Uttle princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white doves for feet. One might fancy she was dancing. THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. She is Hke a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly. [Noise in the banqueting-hall. FIRST SOLDIER. What an uproar! Who are those wild beasts howling.? SECOND SOLDIER. The Jews. They are always like that. They are disputing about their religion. FIRST SOLDIER. Why do they dispute about their religion? SECOND SOLDIER. I Cannot tell. They are always doing it. The Pharisees, for instance, say that there are angels, and the Sadducees declare that angels do not exist. FIRST SOLDIER. I think it is ridiculous to dispute about such things. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How bcautiful IS the Princess Salome to-night! 74 SALOME THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. You are always looking at her. You look at her too much. It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion. Something terrible may happen. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is Very beautiful to-night. FIRST SOLDIER. The Tetrarch has a sombre aspect. SECOND SOLDIER. Ycs; he has a sombre aspect. FIRST SOLDIER. He is looking at something. SECOND SOLDIER. He is looking at some one. FIRST SOLDIER. At whom is he looking? SECOND SOLDIER. I canuot tell. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How pale the Princess is ! Never have I seen her so pale. She is like the shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver. THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. You must not look at her. You look too much at her. FIRST SOLDIER. Herodias has filled the cup of the Tetrarch. THE CAPPADOciAN. Is that the Queen Herodias, she who wears a black mitre sewed with pearls^ and whose hair is powdered with blue dust? FIRST SOLDIER. Ycs; that is Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife. SECOND SOLDIER. The Tctrarch is very fond of wine. He has wine of three sorts. One which is brought from the Island of Samothrace, and is purple like the cloak of Caesar. THE CAPPADOCIAN. I have never seen Csesar. SECOND SOLDIER. Another that comes from a town called Cyprus, and is as yellow as gold. THE CAPPADOCIAN. I loVC gold. SECOND SOLDIER. And the third is a wine of Sicily. That wine is as red as blood, THE NUBIAN. The gods of my country are very fond of blood. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them young men and maidens; fifty young men and a hundred maidens. But I am afraid that we never give them quite enough, for they are very harsh to us. THE CAPPADOCIAN. In my country there are no gods left. The Romans have driven them out. There are some who say that they have hidden themselves in the mountains, SALOME 75 but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been on the mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them, and at last I called them by their names, and they did not come. I think they are dead. FIRST SOLDIER. The Jcws worship a God that one cannot see. THE CAPPADOCIAN. I caunot Understand that. FIRST SOLDIER. In fact, they only believe in things that one cannot see. THE CAPPADOCIAN. That seems to me altogether ridiculous. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. After me shall come another mightfer than I. I am not worthy so much as to unloose the latchet of his shoes. When he cometh the solitary places shall be glad. They shall blossom like the rose. The eyes of the blind shall see the day, and the ears of the deaf shall be opened. The sucking child shall put his hand upon the dragon's lair, he shall lead the lions by their manes. SECOND SOLDIER. Make him be silent. He is always say- ing ridiculous things. FIRST SOLDIER. No, no. He is a holy man. He is very gentle, too. Every day when I give him to eat he thanks me. THE CAPPADOCIAN. Who is lie? FIRST SOLDIER. A prophet. THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is his name? FIRST SOLDIER. lokanaan. THE CAPPADOCIAN. Whence comes he? FIRST SOLDIER. From the desert, where he fed on locusts and wild honey. He was clothed in camel's hair, and round his loins he had a leathern belt. He was very ter- rible to look upon. A great multitude used to follow him. He even had disciples. THE CAPPADOCIAN. What is he talking of? FIRST SOLDIER. We cau never tell. Sometimes he says things that affright one, but it is impossible to understand what he says. 76 SALOME THE CAPPADOCIAN. May one see him? FIRST SOLDIER, No. The Tetrarch has forbidden it. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. The Princess has hidden her face be- hind her fan! Her little white hands are fluttering like doves that fly to their dove-cots. They are like white butterflies. They are just like white butterflies. THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. What is that to you? Why do you look at her? You must not look at her. Something ter- rible may happen. THE CAPPADOCIAN (pointing to the cistern). What a strange prison SECOND SOLDIER. It is an old cistern. THE CAPPADOCIAN. An old cistem! That must be a poison- ous place in which to dwell! SECOND SOLDIER. Oh, no! For instance, the Tetrarch's brother, his elder brother, the first husband of Herodias, the Queen, was imprisoned there for twelve years. It did not kill him. At the end of the twelve years he had to be strangled. THE CAPPADOCIAN. Strangled? Who dared to do that? SECOND SOLDIER (pointing to the executioner, a huge negro). That man yonder, Naaman. THE CAPPADOCIAN. He was not afraid? SECOND SOLDIER. Oh, uo! The Tetrarch sent him the ring. THE CAPPADOCIAN. What ring? SECOND SOLDIER. The death ring. So he was not afraid. THE CAPPADOCIAN. Yet it is a terrible thing to strangle a king. FIRST SOLDIER. Why? Kings have but one neck, like other folk. THE CAPPADOCIAN. I think it terrible. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. The Priuccss is getting up! She is leaving the table! She looks very troubled. Ah, she is coming this way. Yes, she is coming towards us. How pale she is! Never have I seen her so pale. THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. Do uot look at her. I pray you not to look at her. SALOME 77 THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She is like a dove that has strayed. She is like a narcissus trembling in the wind. She is like a silver flower. [Enter Salome. SALOME. I will not stay. I cannot stay. Why does the Tetrarch look at me all the while with his mole's eyes under his shaking eyelids? It is strange that the husband of my mother looks at me like that. I know not what it means. Of a truth, I know it too well. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. You havc left the feast. Princess? SALOME. How sweet is the air here! I can breathe here! Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians who drink and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement, and Greeks from Smyrna with painted eyes and painted cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in columns, and Egyptians silent and subtle, with long nails of jade and russet cloaks, and Romans brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon. Ah! how I loathe the Romans ! They are rough and com- mon, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Will you be seated. Princess? THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Why do you spcak to her? Oh! something terrible will happen. Why do you look at her? SALOME. How good to scc the moon! She is like a little piece of money, a little silver flower. She is cold and chaste. I am sure she is a virgin. She has the beauty of a virgin. Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled her- self. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the other goddesses. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold ! the Lord hath come. The Son of Man is at hand. The centaurs have hidden them- selves in the rivers, and the nymphs have left the rivers, and are lying beneath the leaves in the forests. SALOME. Who was that who cried out? SECOND SOLDIER. The prophet, Princess. SALOME. Ah, the prophet! He of whom the Tetrarch is afraid? 78 SALOME SECOND SOLDIER. We know nothing of that. Princess. It was the prophet lokanaan who cried out. THE YOUNG SOLDIER. Is it your pleasure that I bid them bring your Utter, Princess? The night is fair in the garden. SALOME. He says terrible things about my mother, does he not? SECOND SOLDIER. We nevcF understand what he says. Princess. SALOME. Yes; he says terrible things about her. [Enter a slave. THE SLAVE. Priuccss, the Tetrarch prays you to return to the feast. SALOME. I will not return. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Pardon me. Princess, but if you return not some misfortune may happen. SALOME. Is he an old man, this prophet? THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Priuccss, it Were better to return. Suffer me to lead you in. SALOME. This prophet, is he an old man? FIRST SOLDIER. No, Princess, he is quite young. SECOND SOLDIER. One cannot be sure. There are those who say that he is Elias. SALOME. Who is Elias? SECOND SOLDIER. A prophet of this country in bygone days. Princess. THE SLAVE. What auswcr may I give the Tetrarch from the Princess? THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Rejoice uot, O land of Palestine, because the rod of him who smote thee is broken. For from the seed of the serpent shall come a basilisk, and that which is born of it shall devour the birds. SALOME. What a strange voice! I would speak with him. FIRST SOLDIER, I fear it may not be, Princess. The Tet- rarch does not suffer any one to speak with him. He has even forbidden the high priest to speak with him. SALOME. I desire to speak with him. SALOME 79 FIRST SOLDIER. It is impossible. Princess. SALOME. I will speak with him. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Would it not be better to return to the banquet? SALOME. Bring forth this prophet. [Exit the slave. FIRST SOLDIER. We dare not, Princess. SALOME {approaching the cistern and looking down into it). How black it is down there! It must be terrible to be in so black a hole ! It is like a tomb. (To the soldiers) Did you not hear me? Bring out the prophet. I would look on him, SECOND SOLDIER. Priuccss, I beg you, do not require this of us. SALOME. You are making me wait upon your pleasure. FIRST SOLDIER. Princcss, our lives belong to you, but we cannot do what you have asked of us. And indeed, it is not of us that you should ask this thing. SALOME {looking at the young Syrian). Ah! THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh, what is goiug to happen? I am sure that something terrible will happen. SALOME {going up to the young Syrian). Thou wilt do this thing for me, wilt thou not, Narraboth? Thou wilt do this thing for me. I have ever been kind towards thee. Thou wilt do it for me. I would but look at him, this strange prophet. Men have talked so much of him. Often I have heard the Tetrarch talk of him. I think he is afraid of him, the Tetrarch. Art thou, even thou, also afraid of him, Narraboth? THE YOUNG SYRIAN. I fear him not. Princess; there is no man I fear. But the Tetrarch has formally forbidden that any man should raise the cover of this well. SALOME. Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narraboth, and to-morrow when I pass in my litter beneath the gateway of the idol-sellers, I will let fall for thee a little flower, a little green flower. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Priucess, I caunot, I cannot. 80 SALOME SALOME (smiling). Thou wilt do this thing for me, Narra- both. Thou knowest that thou wilt do this thing for me. And on the morrow when I shall pass in my litter by the bridge of the idol-buyers, I will look at thee through the muslin veils; I will look at thee, Narraboth; it may be I will smile at thee. Look at me, Narraboth; look at me. Ah! thou knowest that thou wilt do what I ask of thee. Thou knowest it. I know that thou wilt do this thing. THE YOUNG SYRIAN {signing to the third soldier). Let the prophet come forth. The Princess Salome desires to see him. SALOME. Ah ! THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. Oh! How strange the moon looks! Like the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover herself with a shroud. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. She has a strange aspect! She is like a little Princess, whose eyes are eyes of amber. Through the clouds of muslin she is smiling like a little Princess. [The prophet comes out of the cistern. Salome looks at him and steps slowly back. lOKANAAN. Where is he whose cup of abominations is now full? Where is he, who in a robe of silver shall one day die in the face of all the people.? Bid him come forth, that he may hear the voice of him who hath cried in the waste places and in the houses of kings. SALOME. Of whom is he speaking? THE YOUNG SYRIAN. No ouc Can tell. Princess. lOKANAAN. Where is she who saw the images of men painted on the walls, even the images of the Chaldseans painted with colors, and gave herself up unto the lust of her eyes, and sent ambassadors into the land of the Chaldseans? SALOME. It is of my mother that he is speaking. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Oh, uo, Priucess. SALOME. Yes; it is of my mother that he is speaking. lOKANAAN. Where is she who gave herself unto the Captains of Assyria, who have baldricks on their loins, and crowns SALOME 81 of many colors on their heads? Where is she who hath given herself to the young men of the Egyptians, who are clothed in fine linen and hyacinth, whose shields are of gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies are mighty? Go, bid her rise up from the bed of her abominations, from the bed of her incestuousness, that she may hear the words of him who prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may repent of her iniquities. Though she will not repent, but will stick fast in her abominations, go bid her come, for the fan of the Lord is in His hand. SALOME. Ah, but he is terrible, he is terrible! THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Do not stay here, Princess, I beseech you. SALOME. It is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are like black holes burned by torches in the tapestry of Tyre. They are like the black cavern where the dragons live, the black caverns of Egypt, in which the dragons make their lairs. They are like black lakes troubled by fantastic moons. Do you think he will speak again? THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Do not stay here, Princess. I pray you do not stay here. SALOME. How wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue. He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste, as the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. His flesh must be very cold, cold as ivory. I would look closer at him. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. No, no, Princess! SALOME. I must look at him closer. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss! Priuccss! lOKANAAN. Who is this woman who is looking at me? I will not have her look at me. Wherefore doth she look at me with her golden eyes, under her gilded eyelids? I know not who she is. I do not desire to know who she is. Bid her begone. It is not to hear her that I would speak. SALOME. I am Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea. 82 SALOME lOKANAAN. Back! daughter of Babylon! Come not near the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother hath filled the earth with the wine of her iniquities, and the cry of her sinning hath come up even to the ears of God. SALOME. Speak again, lokanaan. Thy voice is as music to mine ear. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss! Princess! Princess! SALOME. Speak again ! Speak again, lokanaan, and tell me what I must do. lOKANAAN. Daughter of Sodom, come not near me! But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert, and seek out the Son of Man. SALOME. Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art, lokanaan? lOKANAAN. Get thee behind me! I hear in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel of death. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princess, I beseech thee to go within. lOKANAAN. Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here with thy sword? Whom seekest thou in the palace? The day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come. SALOME. lokanaan! lOKANAAN. Who speaketh? SALOME. I am amorous of thy body, lokanaan! Thy body is white, like the lilies of the field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judsea, and come down into the val- leys. The roses in the gardens of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the garden of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea. There is nothing in this world so white as thy body. Suffer me to touch thy body. lOKANAAN. Back! daughter of Babylon! By woman came evil into the world. Speak not to me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God. SALOME 83 SALOME. Thy body is hideous. It is like the body of a leper. It is like a plastered wall, where vipers have crawled; like a plastered wall where the scorpions have made their nest. It Is like a whited sepulchre, full of loathsome things. It is horrible; thy body is horrible. It is of thy hair I am enamoured, lokanaan. Thy hair is like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black grapes that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like the great cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the lions and to the robbers who would hide them by day. The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not so black as thy hair. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is nothing in the world that is so black as thy hair. Suffer me to touch thy hair. lOKANAAN. Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not. Profane not the temple of the Lord God. SALOME. Thy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and dust. It is like a crown of thorns placed on thy head. It is like a knot of serpents coiled round thy neck. I love not thy hair. It is thy mouth that I desire, lokanaan. Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut in twain with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate flowers that blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine-press. It is redder than the feet of the doves who inhabit the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings! It is like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It 84 SALOME is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is tinted with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. lOKANAAN. Never! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of Sodom! never! SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Princcss, Princess, thou who art like a garden of myrrh, thou who art the dove of all doves, look not at this man, look not at him ! Do not speak such words to him. I cannot endure it. Princess, do not speak these things. SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. THE YOUNG SYRIAN. Ah! [He kills himself, and falls between Salome and lokanaan. THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. The young Syrian has slain him- self! The young captain has slain himself! He has slain himself who was my friend! I gave him a little box of perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now he has killed himself! Ah, did he not say that some misfortune would happen? I, too, said it, and it has come to pass. Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but I knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah ! why did I not hide him from the moon? If I had hidden him in a cavern she would not have seen him. FIRST SOLDIER. Princcss, the young captain has just slain himself. SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. lOKANAAN. Art thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias? Did I not tell thee that I heard in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death? SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. IOBLA.NAAN. Daughter of adultery, there is but one wh© can save thee. It is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and He talketh with His SALOME 85 disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee, and to all who call on Him He cometh, bow thyself at His feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins. SALOME. Suffer me to kiss thy mouth. lOKANAAN. Cursed be thou! Daughter of an incestuous mother, be thou accursed! SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. lOKANAAN. I will uot look at thee. Thou art accursed, Salome; thou art accursed. [He goes down into the cistern. SALOME. I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth. FIRST SOLDIER. We must bear away the body to another place. The Tetrarch does not care to see dead bodies, save the bodies of those whom he himself has slain. THE PAGE OF HERODiAS. He was my brother, and nearer to me than a brother. I gave him a little box of perfumes, and a ring of agate that he wore always on his hand. In the evening we were wont to walk by the river, and among the almond-trees, and he used to tell me of the things of his country. He spake ever very low. The sound of his voice was like the sound of the flute, of one who playeth upon the flute. Also he had much joy to gaze at himself in the river. I used to reproach him for that. SECOND SOLDIER. You are right; we must hide the body. The Tetrarch must not see it. FIRST SOLDIER. The Tctrarch will not come to this place. He never comes on the terrace. He is too much afraid of the prophet. [Enter Herod, Herodias, and all the Court. HEROD. Where is Salome? Where is the Princess? Why did she not return to the banquet as I commanded her.? Ah! there she is! HERODIAS. You must uot look at her! You are always looking at her! 86 SALOME HEROD. The moon has a strange look to-night. Has she not a strange look? She is like a mad woman, and a mad woman who is seeking everywhere for lovers. She is naked, too. She is quite naked. The clouds are seeking to clothe her nakedness, but she will not let them. She shows herself naked in the sky. She reels through the clouds like a drunken woman. I am sure she is looking for lovers. Does she not reel like a drunken woman? She is like a mad woman, is she not? HERODiAs. No; the moon is like the moon, that is all. Let us go within. We have nothing to do here. HEROD. I will stay here! Manasseh, lay carpets there. Light torches. Bring forth the ivory tables, and the tables of jasper. The air here is sweet. I will drink more wine with my guests. We must show all honor to the ambassadors of Caesar. HERODIAS. It is not bccausc of them that you remain. HEROD. Yes; the air is very sweet. Come, Herodias, our guests await us. Ah! I have slipped! I have slipped in blood! It is an ill omen. It is a very ill omen. Wherefore is there blood here? And this body, what does this body here? Think you I am like the King of Egypt, who gives no feast to his guests but that he shows them a corpse? Whose is it? I will not look on it. FIRST SOLDIER. It is our Captain, sire. It is the young Syrian whom you made captain of the guard but three days gone. HEROD. I issued no order that he should be slain. SECOND SOLDIER. He slcw himself, sire. HEROD. For what reason? I had made him captain of my guard! SECOND SOLDIER. We do uot kuow, sire. But with his own hand he slew himself. HEROD. That seems strange to me. I had thought it was but the Roman philosophers who slew themselves. Is it not true, Tigellinus, that the philosophers at Rome slay themselves? SALOME 87 TiGELLiNUS. There be some who slay themselves, sire. They are the Stoics. The Stoics are people of no cultivation. They are ridiculous people. I myself regard them as being perfectly ridiculous. HEROD. I also. It is ridiculous to kill one's self. TIGELLINUS. Everybody at Rome laughs at them. The Emperor has written a satire against them. It is recited everywhere. HEROD. Ah! he has written a satire against them? Caesar is wonderful. He can do everything. It is strange that the young Syrian has slain himself. I am sorry he has slain himself. I am very sorry. For he was fair to look upon. He was even very fair. He had very languorous eyes. I remember that I saw that he looked languorously at Salome. Truly, I thought he looked too much at her. HERODiAS. There are others who look too much at her. HEROD. His father was a king. I drove him from his king- dom. And of his mother, who was a queen, you made a slave, Herodias. So he was here as my guest, as it were, and for that reason I made him my captain. I am sorry he is dead. Ho! why have you left the body here? It must be taken to some other place. I will not look at it, — away with it! {They take away the body) It is cold here. There is a wind blowing. Is there not a wind blowing? HERODIAS. No; there is no wind. HEROD. I tell you there is a wind that blows. And I hear in the air something that is like the beating of wings, like the beating of vast wings. Do you not hear it? HERODIAS. I hear nothing. HEROD. I hear it no longer. But I heard it. It was the blowing of the wind. It has passed away. But no, I hear it again. Do you not hear it? It is just like a beating of wings. HERODIAS. I tell you there is nothing. You are ill. Let us go within. 88 SALOME HEROD. I am not ill. It is your daughter who is sick to death. Never have I seen her so pale. HERODiAS. I have told you not to look at her. HEROD. Pour me forth wine. {Wine is brought) Salome, come drink a little wine with me. I have here a wine that is exquisite. Caesar himself sent it me. Dip into it thy little red lips, that I may drain the cup. SALOME. I am not thirsty, Tetrarch. HEROD. You hear how she answers me, this daughter of yours? HERODIAS. She does right. Why are you always gazing at her? HEROD. Bring me ripe fruits. (Fruits are brought) Salome, come and eat fruits with me. I love to see in a fruit the mark of thy little teeth. Bite but a little of this fruit, that I may eat what is left. SALOME. I am not hungry, Tetrarch. HEROD {to Herodias). You see how you have brought up this daughter of yours. HERODIAS. My daughter and I come of a royal race. As for thee, thy father was a camel driver! He was a thief and a robber to boot ! HEROD. Thou liest! HERODIAS. Thou knowcst well that it is true. HEROD. Salome, come and sit next to me. I will give thee the throne of thy mother. SALOME. I am not tired, Tetrarch. HERODIAS. You See in what regard she holds you. HEROD. Bring me What is it that I desire? I forget. Ah! ah! I remember. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold, the time is come! That which I foretold has come to pass. The day that I spake of is at hand. HERODIAS. Bid him be silent. I will not listen to his voice. This man is forever hurling insults against me. HEROD. He has said nothing against you. Besides, he is a very great prophet. SALOME 89 HERODiAS. I do not believe in prophets. Can a man tell what will come to pass? No man knows it. Also, he is forever insulting me. But I think you are afraid of him. I know well that you are afraid of him. HEROD. I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of no man. HERODIAS. I tell you you are afraid of him. If you are not afraid of him, why do you not deliver him to the Jews, who for these six months past have been clamoring for him? A JEW. Truly, my lord, it were better to deliver him into our hands. HEROD. Enough on this subject. I have already given you my answer. I will not deliver him into your hands. He is a holy man. He is a man who has seen God. A JEW. That cannot be. There is no man who hath seen God since the prophet Elias. He is the last man who saw God face to face. In these days God doth not show Him- self. God hideth Himself. Therefore great evils have come upon the land. ANOTHER JEW. Verily, no man knoweth if Elias the prophet did indeed see God. Peradventure it was but the shadow of God that he saw. A THIRD JEW. God is at no time hidden. He showeth Him- self at all times and in all places. God is in what is evil even as He is in what is good. A FOURTH JEW. Thou shouldst not say that. It is a very dangerous doctrine. It is a doctrine that cometh from Alexandria, where men teach the philosophy of the Greeks. And the Greeks are Gentiles. They are not even circum- sized. A FIFTH JEW. No man can tell how God worketh. His ways are very dark. It may be that the things which we call evil are good, and that the things which we call good are evil. There is no knowledge of anything. We can but bow our heads to His will, for God is very strong. He breaketh in pieces the strong together with the weak, for He regardeth not any man. 90 SALOME FIRST JEW. Thou speakest truly. Verily, God is terrible. He breaketh in pieces the strong and the weak as men break corn in a mortar. But as for this man, he hath never seen God. No man hath seen God since the prophet Elias. HERODiAS. Make them be silent. They weary me. HEROD. But I have heard it said that lokanaan is in very truth your prophet Elias. THE JEW. That cannot be. It is more than three hundred years since the days of the prophet Elias. HEROD. There be some who say that this man is Elias the prophet. A NAZARENE. I am sure that he is Elias the prophet. THE JEW. Nay, but he is not Elias the prophet. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Behold the day is at hand, the day of the Lord, and I hear upon the mountains the feet of Him who shall be the Saviour of the world. HEROD. What does that mean? The Saviour of the world? TiGELLiNUS. It is a title that Csesar adopts. HEROD, But Csesar is not coming into Judaea. Only yes- terday I received letters from Rome. They contained nothing concerning this matter. And you, Tigellinus, who were at Rome during the winter, you heard nothing con- cerning this matter, did you? TIGELLINUS. Sire, I heard nothing concerning the matter. I was but explaining the title. It is one of Caesar's titles. HEROD. But Caesar cannot come. He is too gouty. They say that his feet are like the feet of an elephant. Also there are reasons of state. He who leaves Rome loses Rome. He will not come. Howbeit, Csesar is lord, he will come if such be his pleasure. Nevertheless, I think he will not come. FIRST NAZARENE. It was uot Concerning Csesar that the prophet spake these words, sire. HEROD. How? — it was not concerning Csesar? FIRST NAZARENE. No, my lord. HEROD. Concerning whom then did he speak? FIRST NAZARENE. Concerning Messias, who hath come. SALOME 91 A JEW. Messias hath not come. FIRST NAZARENE. He hath come, and everywhere He work- eth miracles! HERODiAS. Ho! ho! miracles! I do not believe in miracles. I have seen too many. {To the Page) My fan. FIRST NAZARENE. This Man worketh true miracles. Thus, at a marriage which took place in a little town of Galilee, a town of some importance. He changed water into wine. Certain persons who were present related it to me. Also He healed two lepers that were seated before the Gate of Capernaum simply by touching them. SECOND NAZARENE. Nay; it was two blind men that He healed at Capernaum. FIRST NAZARENE. Nay; they were lepers. But He hath healed blind people also, and He was seen on a mountain talking with angels. A SADDUCEE. Angels do not exist. A PHARISEE. Angels exist, but I do not believe that this Man has talked with them. FIRST NAZARENE. He was secu by a great multitude of people talking with angels. HERODIAS. How thcsc men weary me ! They are ridiculous ! They are altogether ridiculous ! {To the Page) Well! my fan? {The Page gives her the fan) You have a dreamer's look. You must not dream. It is only sick people who dream. [She strikes the Page with her fan. SECOND NAZARENE. There is also the miracle of the daughter of Jairus. FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, that is true. No man can gainsay it. HERODIAS. Those men are mad. They have looked too long on the moon. Command them to be silent. HEROD. What is this miracle of the daughter of Jairus? FIRST NAZARENE. The daughter of Jairus was dead. This Man raised her from the dead. HEROD. How ! He raises people from the dead? FIRST NAZARENE. Yea, sirc; He raiseth the dead. 92 SALOME HEROD. I do not wish Him to do that. I forbid Him to do that. I suffer no man to raise the dead. This Man must be found and told that I forbid Him to raise the dead. Where is this Man at present? SECOND NAZARENE. He is in every place, my lord, but it is hard to find Him. FIRST NAZARENE. It is Said that He is now in Samaria. A JEW. It is easy to see that this is not Messias, if He is in Samaria. It is not to the Samaritans that Messias shall come. The Samaritans are accursed. They bring no of- ferings to the Temple. SECOND NAZARENE. He left Samaria a few days since. I think that at the present moment He is in the neigh- bourhood of Jerusalem. FIRST NAZARENE. No; He is not there. I have just come from Jerusalem. For two months they have had no tidings of Him. HEROD. No matter! But let them find Him, and tell Him, thus saith Herod the King, ' I will not suffer Thee to raise the dead.' To change water into wine, to heal the lepers and the blind. He may do these things if He will. I say nothing against these things. In truth I hold it a kindly deed to heal a leper. But no man shall raise the dead. It would be terrible if the dead came back. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Ah ! The wauton one ! The harlot ! Ah ! the daughter of Babylon with her golden eyes and her gilded eyelids! Thus saith the Lord God, Let there come up against her a multitude of men. Let the people take stones and stone her. HERODiAS. Command him to be silent! THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Let the Captains of the hosts pierce her with their swords, let them crush her beneath their shields. HERODIAS. Nay, but it is infamous. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. It is thus that I wiU wipe out all wickedness from the earth, and that all women shall learn not to imitate her abominations. J SALOME 93 HERODiAS. You hear what he says against me? You suffer him to revile her who is your wife? HEROD. He did not speak your name. HERODIAS. What does that matter? You know well that it is I whom he seeks to revile. And I am your wife, am I not? HEROD. Of a truth, dear and noble Herodias, you are my wife, and before that you were the wife of my brother. HERODIAS. It was thou didst snatch me from his arms. HEROD. Of a truth I was stronger than he was. But let us not talk of that matter. I do not desire to talk of it. It is the cause of the terrible words that the prophet has spoken. Peradventure on account of it a misfortune will come. Let us not speak of this matter. Noble Herodias, we are not mindful of our guests. Fill thou my cup, my well-beloved. Ho! fill with wine the great goblets of silver, and the great goblets of glass. I will drink to Csesar. There are Romans here, we must drink to Csesar. ALL. Csesar! Csesar! HEROD. Do you not see your daughter, how pale she is? HERODIAS. What is it to you if she be pale or not? HEROD. Never have I seen her so pale. HERODIAS. You must not look at her. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. In that day the sun shall become black like sackcloth of hair, and the moon shall become like blood, and the stars of the heaven shall fall upon the earth like unripe figs that fall from the fig-tree, and the kings of the earth shall be afraid. HERODIAS. Ah! ah! I should like to see that day of which he speaks, when the moon shall become like blood, and when the stars shall fall upon the earth like unripe figs. This prophet talks like a drunken man, but I cannot suffer the sound of his voice. I hate his voice. Command him to be silent. HEROD. I will not. I cannot understand what it is that he saith, but it may be an omen. 94 SALOME HERODiAS. I do not believc in omens. He speaks like a drunken man. HEROD. It may be he is drunk with the wine of God. HERODIAS. What wine is that, the wine of God? From what vineyards is it gathered? In what winepress may one find it? HEROD (Jrom this point he looks all the while at Salome). Tigel- linus, when you were at Rome of late, did the Emperor speak with you on the subject of ? TiGELLiNUS. On what subject, my lord? HEROD. On what subject? Ah! I asked you a question, did I not? I have forgotten what I would have asked you, HERODIAS. You are looking again at my daughter. You must not look at her. I have already said so. HEROD. You say nothing else. HERODIAS. I say it again. HEROD. And that restoration of the Temple about which they have talked so much, will anything be done? They say that the veil of the Sanctuary has disappeared, do they not? HERODIAS. It was thyself didst steal it. Thou speakest at random and without wit. I will not stay here. Let us go within. HEROD. Dance for me, Salome. HERODIAS. I will not havc her dance. SALOME. I have no desire to dance, Tetrarch. HEROD. Salome, daughter of Herodias, dance for me. HERODIAS. Peace. Let her alone. HEROD. I command thee to dance, Salome. SALOME. I will not dance, Tetrarch. HERODIAS (laughing). You see how she obeys you. HEROD. What is it to me whether she dance or not? It is nought to me. To-night I am happy. I am exceeding happy. Never have I been so happy. FIRST SOLDIER. The Tctrarch has a sombre look. Has he not a sombre look? SECOND SOLDIER. Ycs, he has a sombre look. SALOME 95 HEROD. Wherefore should I not be happy? Csesar, who is lord of the world, Caesar, who is lord of all things, loves me well. He has just sent me most precious gifts. Also, he has promised me to summon to Rome the King of Cappadocia, who is mine enemy. It may be that at Rome he will crucify him, for he is able to do all things that he has a mind to do. Verily, Caesar is lord. Therefore I do well to be happy. I am very happy; never have I been so happy. There is nothing in the world that can mar my happiness. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. He shall be seated on his throne. He shall be clothed in scarlet and purple. In his hand he shall bear a golden cup full of his blasphemies. And the angel of the Lord shall smite him. He shall be eaten of worms. HERODiAs. You hear what he says about you. He says that you shall be eaten of worms. HEROD. It is not of me that he speaks. He speaks never against me. It is of the King of Cappadocia that he speaks; the King of Cappadocia, who is mine enemy. It is he who shall be eaten of worms. It is not I. Never has he spoken word against me, this prophet, save that I sinned in taking to wife the wife of my brother. It may be he is right. For, of truth, you are sterile. HERODIAS. I am sterile, I.'' You say that, you that are ever looking at my daughter, you that would have her dance for your pleasure.'* You speak as a fool. I have borne a child. You have gotten no child, no, not on one of your slaves. It is you who are sterile, not I. HEROD. Peace, woman! I say that you are sterile. You have borne me no child, and the prophet says that our marriage is not a true marriage. He says that it is a marriage of incest, a marriage that will bring evils. I fear he is right; I am sure that he is right. But it is not the hour to speak of these things. I would be happy at this moment. Of a truth, I am happy. There is nothing I lack. 96 SALOME HERODiAS. I am glad you are of so fair a humour to-night. It is not your custom. But it is late. Let us go within. Do not forget that we hunt at sunrise. All honours must be shown to Caesar's ambassadors, must they not? SECOND SOLDIER. The Tctrarch has a sombre look. FIRST SOLDIER. Yes, he has a sombre look. HEROD. Salome, Salome, dance for me. I pray thee dance for me. I am sad to-night. Yes, I am passing sad to- night. When I came hither I slipped in blood, which is an ill omen; also I heard in the air a beating of wings, a beating of giant wings. I cannot tell what that may mean. I am sad to-night. Therefore dance for me. Dance for me, Salome, I beseech thee. If thou dancest for me thou mayest ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it thee. Yes, dance for me, Salome, and whatsoever thou shalt ask of me I will give it thee, even unto the half of my kingdom. SALOME (rising). Will you indeed give me whatsoever I shall ask of you, Tetrarch? HERODIAS. Do not daucc, my daughter. HEROD. Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, even unto the half of my kingdom. SALOME. You swear it, Tetrarch? HEROD, I swear it, Salome. HERODIAS. Do not daucc, my daughter. SALOME. By what will you swear this thing, Tetrarch? HEROD. By my life, by my crown, by my gods. Whatso- ever thou shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half of my kingdom, if thou wilt but dance for me. O Salome, Salome, dance for me! SALOME. You have sworn an oath, Tetrarch. HEROD. I have sworn an oath. HERODIAS. My daughter, do not dance. HEROD. Even to the half of my kingdom. Thou wilt be pressing fair as a queen, Salome, if it please thee to ask for the half of my kingdom. Will she not be fair as a queen? Ah! it is cold here! There is an icy wind, and I hear — wherefore do I hear in the air this beating of wings? Ah ! SALOME 97 one might fancy a huge black bird that hovers over the terrace. Why can I not see it, this bird? The beat of its wings is terrible. The breath of the wind of its wings is terrible. It is a chill wind. Nay, but it is not cold, it is hot. I am choking. Pour water on my hands. Give me snow to eat. Loosen my mantle. Quick ! quick ! loosen my mantle. Nay, but leave it. It is my garland that hurts me, my garland of roses. The flowers are like fire. They have burned my forehead. {He tears the wreath from his head, and throws it on the table) Ah! I can breathe now. How red those petals are! They are like stains of blood on the cloth. That does not matter. It is not wise to find symbols in everything that one sees. It makes life too full of terrors. It were better to say that stains of blood are as lovely as rose-petals. It were better far to say that But we will not speak of this. Now I am happy. I am passing happy. Have I not the right to be happy.? Your daughter is going to dance for me. Wilt thou not dance for me, Salome? Thou hast promised to dance for me. HERODiAS. I will not havc her dance. SALOME. I will dance for you, Tetrarch. HEROD. You hear what your daughter says. She is going to dance for me. Thou doest well to dance for me, Salome. And when thou hast danced for me, forget not to ask of me whatsoever thou hast a mind to ask. Whatsoever thou shalt desire I will give it thee, even to the half of my king- dom. I have sworn it, have I not? SALOME. Thou hast sworn it, Tetrarch. HEROD. And I have never failed of my word. I am not of those who break their oaths. I know not how to lie. I am the slave of my word, and my word is the word of a king. The King of Cappadocia had ever a lying tongue, but he is no true king. He is a coward. Also he owes me money that he will not repay. He has even insulted my ambassadors. He has spoken words that were wounding. But Csesar will crucify him when he comes to Rome. I 98 SALOME know that Csesar will crucify him. And if he crucify him not, yet will he die, being eaten of worms. The prophet has prophesied it. Well! Wherefore dost thou tarry, Salome? SALOME. I am waiting until my slaves bring perfumes to me and the seven veils, and take from off my feet my san- dals. [Slaves bring perfumes and the seven veils, and take off the sandals of Salome. HEROD. All, thou art to dance with naked feet! 'Tis well! 'Tiswell! Thy little feet will be like white doves. They will be little white flowers that dance upon the trees. No, no, she is going to dance on blood! There is blood spilt on the ground. She must not dance on blood. It were an evil omen. HERODiAS. What is it to thee if she dance on blood? Thou hast waded deep enough in it. HEROD. What is it to me? Ah! look at the moon! She has become red. She has become red as blood. Ah! the prophet prophesied truly. He prophesied that the moon would become as blood. Did he not prophesy it? All of ye heard him prophesying it. And now the moon has be- come as blood. Do ye not see it? HERODIAS. Oh, yes, I see it well, and the stars are falling like unripe figs, are they not? And the sun is becoming black like sackcloth of hair, and the kings of the earth are afraid. That, at least, one can see. The prophet is jus- tijBed of his words in that at least, for truly the kings of the earth are afraid. Let us go within. You are sick. They will say at Rome that you are mad. Let us go within, I tell you. THE VOICE OF lOKANAAN. Who is this who cometh from Edom, who is this who cometh from Bozra, whose raiment is dyed with purple, who shineth in the beauty of his gar- ments, who walketh mighty in his greatness? Wherefore is thy raiment stained with scarlet? HERODIAS. Let us go within. The voice of that man mad- SALOME 99 dens me. I will not have my daughter dance while he is continually crying out. I will not have her dance while you look at her in this fashion. In a word, I will not have her dance. HEROD. Do not rise, my wife, my queen; it will avail thee nothing. I will not go within till she hath danced. Dance, Salome, dance for me. HERODiAS. Do not dancc, my daughter. SALOME, I am ready, Tetrarch. [Salome dances the dance of the seven veils. HEROD. Ah! wonderful! wonderful! You see that she has danced for me, your daughter. Come near, Salome, come near, that I may give thee thy fee. Ah ! I pay a royal price to those who dance for my pleasure. I will pay thee royally. I will give thee whatsoever thy soul desireth. What wouldst thou have? Speak. SALOME {kneeling). I would that they presently bring me in a silver charger HEROD {laughing). In a silver charger? Surely yes, in a silver charger. She is charming, is she not? What is it that thou wouldst have in a silver charger, O sweet and fair Salome, thou that art fairer than all the daughters of Judaea? What wouldst thou have them bring thee in a silver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, thou shalt receive it. My treasures belong to thee. What is that thou wouldst have, Salome? SALOME {rising). The head of lokanaan. HERODIAS. Ah! that is well said, my daughter. HEROD. No, no! HERODIAS. That is well said, my daughter. HEROD. No, no, Salome. It is not that thou desirest. Do not listen to thy mother's voice. She is ever giving evil counsel. Do not heed her. SALOME. It is not my mother's voice that I heed. It is for mine own pleasure that I ask the head of lokanaan in a silver charger. You have sworn an oath, Herod. For- get not that you have sworn an oath. 100 SALOME HEROD. I know it. I have sworn an oath by my gods. I know it well. But I pray thee, Salome, ask of me some- thing else. Ask of me the half of my kingdom, and I will give it thee. But ask not of me what thy lips have asked. SALOME. I ask of you the head of lokanaan. HEROD. No, no; I will not give it thee. SALOME. You have sworn an oath, Herod. HERODiAS. Yes, you have sworn an oath. Everybody heard you. You swore it before everybody. HEROD. Peace, woman! It is not to you I speak. HERODIAS. My daughter has done well to ask the head of lokanaan. He has covered me with insults. He has said unspeakable things against me. One can see that she loves her mother well. Do not yield, my daughter. He has sworn an oath; he has sworn an oath. HEROD. Peace! Speak not to me! Salome, I pray thee be not stubborn. I have ever been kind toward thee. I have ever loved thee. It may be that I have loved thee too much. Therefore ask not this thing of me. This is a terrible thing, an awful thing to ask of me. Surely, I think thou art jesting. The head of a man that is cut from his body is ill to look upon, is it not.? It is not meet that the eyes of a virgin should look upon such a thing. What pleasure couldst thou have in it? There is no pleasure that thou couldst have in it. No, no; it is not that thou desirest. Hearken to me. I have an emerald, a great emerald and round, that the minion of Caesar has sent unto me. When thou lookest through this emerald thou canst see that which passeth afar off, Csesar him- self carries such an emerald when he goes to the circus. But my emerald is the larger. I know well that it is the larger. It is the largest emerald in the whole world. Thou wilt take that, wilt thou not.? Ask it of me and I will give it thee. SALOME. I demand the head of lokanaan. HEROD. Thou art not listening. Thou art not listening. Suffer me to speak, Salome. SALOME 101 SALOME. The head of lokanaan! HEROD. No, no, thou wouldst not have that. Thou sayest that but to trouble me, because that I have looked at thee and ceased not this night. It is true, I have looked at thee and ceased not this night. Thy beauty has troubled me. Thy beauty has grievously troubled me, and I have looked at thee overmuch. Nay, but I will look at thee no more. One should not look at anything. Neither at things, nor at people should one look. Only in mirrors is it well to look, for mirrors do but show us masks. Oh! oh! bring wine! I thirst! Salome, Salome, let us be as friends. Bethink thee Ah! what would I say.? What was't? Ah! I remember it! Salome, — nay, but come nearer to me; I fear thou wilt not hear my words, — Salome, thou knowest my white peacocks, my beautiful white pea- cocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the tall cypress-trees. Their beaks are gilded with gold, and the grains that they eat are smeared with gold, and their feet are stained with purple. When they cry out the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when they spread their tails. Two by two, they walk between the cypress trees and the black myrtles, and each has a slave to tend it. Sometimes they fly across the trees, and anon they couch in the grass, and round the pools of the water. There are not in all the world birds so wonderful. I know that Caesar himself has no birds so fair as my birds. I will give thee fifty of my peacocks. They will follow thee whithersoever thou goest, and in the midst of them thou wilt be like unto the moon in the midst of a great white cloud. I will give them to thee, all. I have but a hundred, and in the whole world there is no king who has peacocks like unto my peacocks. But I will give them all to thee. Only thou must loose me from my oath, and must not ask of me that which thy lips have asked of me. [He empties the cup of wine. SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan. 102 SALOME HERODiAS. Well said, my daughter! As for you, you are ridiculous with your peacocks. HEROD. Peace! you are always crying out. You cry out like a beast of prey. You must not cry in such fashion. Your voice wearies me. Peace, I tell you ! Salome, think on what thou art doing. It may be that this man comes from God. He is a holy man. The finger of God has touched him. God has put terrible words into his mouth. In the palace, as in the desert, God is ever with him! It may be that He is, at least. One cannot tell, but it is pos- sible that God is with him and for him. If he die also, peradventure some evil may befall me. Verily, he has said that evil will befall some one on the day whereon he dies. On whom should it fall if it fall not on me? Re- member, I slipped in blood when I came hither. Also did I not hear the beating of wings in the air, a beating of vast wings? These are ill omens. And there were other things. I am sure there were other things, though I saw them not. Thou wouldst not that some evil should befall me, Salome? Listen to me again. SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan! HEROD. Ah! thou art not listening to me. Be calm. As for me, am I not calm? I am altogether calm. Listen. I have jewels hidden in this place — jewels that thy mother even has never seen; jewels that are marvelous to look at. I have a collar of pearls, set in four rows. They are like unto moons chained with rays of silver. They are even as half a hundred moons caught in a golden net. On the ivory breast of a queen they have rested. Thou shalt be as fair as a queen when thou wearest them. I have ame- thysts of two kinds; one that is black like wine, and one that is red like wine that one has colored with water. I have topazes yellow as are the eyes of tigers, and topazes that are pink as the eyes of a wood-pigeon, and green topazes that are as the eyes of cats. I have opals that burn always, with a flame that is cold as ice, opals that make sad men's minds, and are afraid of the shadows. I SALOME 103 have onyxes like the eyeballs of a dead woman. I have moonstones that change when the moon changes, and are wan when they see the sun. I have sapphires big like eggs, and as blue as blue flowers. The sea wanders within them, and the moon comes never to trouble the blue of their waves. I have chrysolites and beryls, and chryso- prases and rubies; I have sardonyx and hyacinth stones, and stones of chalcedony, and I will give them all unto thee, all, and other things will I add to them. The King of the Indies has but even now sent me four fans fashioned from the feathers of parrots, and the King of Numidia a garment of ostrich feathers. I have a crystal, into which it is not lawful for a woman to look, nor may young men behold it until they have been beaten with rods. In a coflfer of nacre I have three wondrous turquoises. He who wears them on his forehead can imagine things which are not, and he who carries them in his hand can turn the fruitful woman into a woman that is barren. These are great treasures. They are treasures above all price. But this is not all. In an ebony coffer I have two cups of amber that are like apples of pure gold. If an enemy pour poison into these cups they become like apples of silver. In a coffer incrusted with amber I have sandals incrusted with glass. I have mantles that have been brought from the land of the Seres, and bracelets decked about with car- buncles and with jade that come from the city of Eu- phrates. What desirest thou more than this, Salome? Tell me the thing that thou desirest, and I will give it thee. All that thou askest I will give thee, save one thing only. I will give thee all that is mine, save only the life of one man. I will give thee the mantle of the high priest. I will give thee the veil of the sanctuary. THE JEWS. Oh ! oh ! ' SALOME. Give me the head of lokanaan ! HEROD {sinking back in his seat). Let her be given what she asks! Of a truth she is her mother's child! (The first soldier approaches. Herodias draws from the hand of the 104 SALOME Tetrarch the ring of death, and gives it to the soldier, who straightway bears it to the executioner. The executioner looks scared) Who has taken my ring? There was a ring on my right hand. Who has drunk my wine? There was wine in my cup. It was full of wine. Some one has drunk it! Oh! surely some evil will befall some one. (The exe- cutioner goes down into the cistern) Ah ! wherefore did I give my oath.f* Hereafter let no king swear an oath. If he keep it not, it is terrible, and if he keep it, it is terrible also. HERODiAS. My daughter has done well. HEROD. I am sure that some misfortune will happen. SALOME (she leans over the cistern and listens). There is no sound. I hear nothing. Why does he not cry out, this man? Ah! if any man sought to kill me, I would cry out, I would struggle, I would not suffer. Strike, strike, Naa- man, strike, I tell you! No, I hear nothing. There is a silence, a terrible silence. Ah! something has fallen upon the ground. I heard something fall. It was the sword of the executioner. He is afraid, this slave. He has dropped his sword. He dares not kill him. He is a cow- ard, this slave! Let soldiers be sent. (She sees the page of Herodias and addresses him) Come hither. Thou wert the friend of him who is dead, wert thou not? Well, I tell thee, there are not dead men enough. Go to the sol- diers and bid them go down and bring me the thing I ask, the thing the Tetrarch has promised me, the thing that is mine. (The page recoils. She turns to the soldiers) Hither, ye soldiers. Get ye down into this cistern and bring me the head of this man. Tetrarch, Tetrarch, command your soldiers that they bring me the head of lokanaan. (A huge black arm, the arm of the executioner, comes forth from the cistern, bearing on a silver shield the head of lokanaan. Salome seizes it. Herod hides his face with his cloak. Hero- dias smiles and fans herself. The Nazarenes fall on their knees and begin to praij) Ah ! thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. Well! I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, SALOME 105 I will kiss thy mouth, lokanaan. I said it; did I not say it? I said it. Ah! I will kiss it now. But wherefore dost thou not look at me, lokanaan.'' Thine eyes that were so terrible, so full of rage and scorn, are shut now. Wherefore are they shut? Open thine eyes! Lift up thine eyelids, lokanaan! Wherefore dost thou not look at me? Art thou afraid of me, lokanaan, that thou wilt not look at me? And thy tongue, that was like a red snake darting poison, it moves no more, it speaks no words, lokanaan, that scarlet viper that spat its venom upon me. It is strange, is it not? How is it that the red viper stirs no longer? Thou wouldst have none of me, lokanaan. Thou rejectedest me. Thou didst speak evil words against me. Thou didst bear thyself toward me as to a harlot, as to a woman that is a wanton, to me, Salome, daugl^ter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea! Well, I still live, but thou art dead, and thy head belongs to me. I can do with it what I will. I can throw it to the dogs and to the birds of the air. That which the dogs leave, the birds of the air shall devour. Ah, lokanaan, lokanaan, thou wert the man that I loved alone among men! All other men were hateful to me. But thou wert beautiful! Thy body was a column of ivory set upon feet of silver. It was a garden full of doves and lilies of silver. It was a tower of silver decked with shields of ivory. There was nothing in the world so white as thy body. There was nothing in the world so black as thy hair. In the whole world there was nothing so red as thy mouth. Thy voice was a censer that scattered strange perfumes, and when I looked on thee I heard a strange music. Ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me, lokanaan? With the cloak of thine hands, and with the cloak of thy blasphemies thou didst hide thy face. Thou didst put upon thine eyes the cov- ering of him who would see God. Well, thou hast seen thy God, lokanaan, but me, me, thou didst never see. If thou hadst seen me thou hadst loved me. I saw thee, and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee! I love thee yet, 106 SALOME lokanaan. I love only thee. I am athirst f or thy beauty ; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can appease my desire. What shall I do now, lokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion. I was a princess, and thou didst scorn me. I was a virgin, and thou didst take my virginity from me. I was chaste, and thou didst fill my veins with fire. Ah! ah! wherefore didst thou not look at me? If thou hadst looked at me thou hadst loved me. Well I know that thou wouldst have loved me, and the mystery of Love is greater than the mystery of Death. HEROD. She is monstrous, thy daughter; I tell thee she is monstrous. In truth, what she has done is a great crime. I am sure that it is a crime against some unknown God. HERODiAS. I am well pleased with my daughter. She has done well. And I would stay here now. HEROD (rising). Ah! There speaks my brother's wife! Come! I will not stay in this place. Come, I tell thee. Surely some terrible thing will befall. Manasseh, Issa- char, Ozias, put out the torches. I will not look at things, I will not suffer things to look at me. Put out the torches ! Hide the moon! Hide the stars! Let us hide ourselves in our palace, Herodias. I begin to be afraid. [The slaves put out the torches. The stars disappear. A great cloud crosses the moon and conceals it completely. The stage becomes quite dark. The Tetrarch begins to climb the staircase. THE VOICE OF SALOME. Ah! I have kissed thy mouth, lo- kanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. There was a bitter taste on thy lips. Was it the taste of blood.? Nay; but perchance it was the taste of love. They say that love hath a bitter taste. But what matter.'* what matter.? I have kissed thy mouth, lokanaan, I have kissed thy mouth. [A ray of moonlight falls on Salome and illumines her. HEROD (turning round and seeing Salome). Kill that woman! [The soldiers rush forward and crush beneath their shields Salome, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judaea. CURTAIN. THE MAN IN THE STALLS ALFRED SUTRO Alfred Sutro was born in London, 1863. He was edu- cated in his native city and in Brussels. Since 1896, when he made his first theatrical venture, he has produced a large number of successful plays, including serious dramas and light sentimental comedies. His first play — "The Chili Widow", written in collaboration with the actor Arthur Bourchier — is an adaptation from the French. "The Walls of Jericho", "Mollentrave on Women", "The Fas- cinating Mr. Vanderveldt", and "John Glayde's Honour" are among the most successful of the earlier plays. Of late, Mr. Sutro has turned to satirical comedy, the best examples of which are "The Perplexed Husband" and "The Clever Ones." Some of Mr. Sutro's most characteristic work is found in his numerous one-act plays, many of which were written as curtain raisers. These plays are well-knit technically and are particularly well adapted to the purpose for which they were intended. Mr. Sutro is essentially a man of the theater, in no sense an innovator; he is content to write about everyday people in a traditional form. PLAYS Plays marked with * are in one act only. The Cave of Illusion (1900) *The Gutter of Time (1902) *Ella's Apology (1902) *A Maker of Men (1902) *A Game of Chess (1902) *Mr. Steinmann's Corner *The Correct Thing (1902) (1902) ♦Carrots (1902) *The Salt of Life (1902) 108 THE MAN IN THE STALLS ♦The Open Door (1903) Arethusa (1903) A Lonely Life (1903) The Walls of Jericho (1904) *A Marriage Has Been Ar- ranged (1904) Mollentrave on Women (1905) The Perfect Lover (1905) (In England, The Price of Money, 1906) The Fascinating Mr. Van- derveldt (1906) JohnGlayde's Honour (1907) The Barrier (1907) The Builder of Bridges (1908) *The Man on the Kerb(1908) Making a Gentleman (1909) *The Man in the Stalls (1911) The Perplexed Husband (1911) The Fire-Screen (1912) *The Bracelet (1912) The Clever Ones (1914) The Two Virtues (1914) Freedom (1915) *The Great Redding Street Burglary (1916) *The Marriage . . . Will Not Take Place (1917) *TheTrap (1918) The Choice (1919) "The Cave of Illusion" is published by Grant Richards, London; "The Fascinating Mr. Vanderveldt", "The Bar- rier", "John Glayde's Honour", "Mollentrave on Women", "The Perfect Lover" (as "The Price of Money"), "The Walls of Jericho", "Carrots", "The Correct Thing", "Ella's Apology", "A Game of Chess", "The Marriage . . . Will Not Take Place", "The Gutter of Time", "A Maker of Men", "A Marriage Has Been Arranged", "The Open Door", "Mr. Steinmann's Corner", "The Salt of Life", "The Builder of Bridges", "The Fire-Screen", "The Per- plexed Husband", "The Two Virtues", "The Bracelet", "The Man on the Kerb", are published by Samuel French, New York; "The Man in the Stalls", "A Marriage Has Been Arranged", "The Man on the Kerb", "The Open Door" and "The Bracelet" are published in one volume as "Five Little Plays" by Brentano's, New York; "Freedom" by the same. THE MAN IN THE STALLS A PLAY IN ONE ACT BY ALFRED SUTRO "The Man in the Stalls" was first produced at London in 1911. Characters Hector Allen Elizabeth Allen (Betty) Walter Cozens COPTBIGHT, 1911, BT SAUDEL FhENCH, LTD. Reprinted from "Five Little Playa", published by Brentano, by permission of Samuel French. This play has been copyrighted in America by the author's agents, Messrs. Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton Street, Strand, to whom all applications, both in England and America, should be addressed. THE MAN IN THE STALLS The sitting-room of a little fiat in Shaftesbury Avenue. At hack is a door leading to the dining-room — it is open, and the dinner-table is in full view of the audience. To the extreme right is another door, leading to the hall. The place is pleasantly and prettily, though quite inexpen- sively, furnished. To the left, at angles with the distempered wall, is a baby-grand piano; the fireplace, in which afire is burn- ing merrily, is on the same side, full centre. To the right of the door leading to the dining-room is a small side-table, on which there is a tray with decanter and glasses; in front of this, a card table, open, with two packs of cards on it, and chairs on each side. Another table, a round one, is in the centre of the room — to right and to left of it are comfortable armchairs. Against the right wall is a long sofa; above it hang a few good water-colours and engravings; on the piano and the table there are fiowers. A general appearance of refinement and comfort pervades the room; no luxury, but evidence everywhere of good taste, and the count- less feminine touches that make a room homelike and pleasant. When the curtain rises. Hector Allen, a youngish man of forty, with an attractive intellectual face, is seen standing by the dining-table in the inner room, draining his liqueur -glass, with Walter Cozens to the right of him, lighting a cigarette. Walter is a few years younger than his friend, moderately good-looking, with fine, curly brown hair and a splendid silky moustache. His morning-clothes are conspicuously well-cut — he is evidently something of a dandy; Hector wears a rather shabby dress-suit, his boots are aiokward, and his tie ready-made. Betty, a hand- some woman of thirty, wearing a very pretty tea-gown, is talking to the maid at the back of the dining room. Hector puts down his glass and comes into the sitting room, followed by Walter. Hector is puffing at a short, stumpy little black cigar. 112 THE MAN IN THE STALLS HECTOR (talking as he comes through, continuing the conversa- f{Q^ — Jig loalks to the fireplace, and stands with his back to it). I tell you, if I'd known what it meant, I'd never have taken the job! Sounded so fine, to be reader of plays for the Duke's Theatre — adviser to the great Mr. Honeyswill! And then — when the old man said I was to go to all the first nights — why, I just chortled! "It's the first nights that show you the grip of the thing — that teach you most" — he said. Teach you! As though there were any- thing to learn! Oh my stars! I tell you, it's a dog's life! WALTER (sitting to left of the round table). I'd change places with you, sonny. HECTOR. You would, eh? That's what they all say! Four new plays this week, my lad — one yesterday, one to-day — another to-morrow, and the night after! All day long I'm reading plays — and I spend my nights seeing 'em! D'you know, I read about two thousand a year? Divide two thou- sand by three hundred and sixty-five. A dog's life — that's what it is! WALTER. Better than being a stockbroker's clerk — you be- lieve me! HECTOR. Is it? I wish you could have a turn at it, my bonny boy! Your hair'd go grey, like mine! And look here — what are the plays to-day? They're either so chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep — or they reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage! WALTER. Well, you've the change, at any rate. HECTOR (snorting). Change? By Jove, give me a Punch and Judy show on the sands — or performing dogs! Plays — I'm sick of 'em ! And look here — the one I'm oflf to to- night. It's adapted from the French — well, we know what that means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife, husband, lover. That's what a French play means. And you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate! BETTY (coming in, and closing the door leading to the dining room). You ought to be going, Hector. THE MAN IN THE STALLS 113 [She stands listening for a moment, then goes through the other door into the hall. HECTOR (disregarding her, too intent on his theme). And I tell you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing. Husband strikes attitudes — sometimes he strikes the lover. The lover never stands up to him — why shouldn't he? He would — in real life. {Betty comes back with his overcoat and muffler — she proceeds affectionately to wrap this round his neck, and helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time) He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say — well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the play writing chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you ? There you'd have the truth, something big. But no — they're afraid — think the public won't like it. The husband's got to down the lover — like a big tom-cat with a mouse — or the author'd have to sell one of his motor-cars! That's just the fact of it! BETTY {looking at the clock on the mantelpiece). Twenty-five past. Hector. HECTOR {cheerily). All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye, Walter — keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye, sweetheart. {He kisses her) Don't wait up. Now for the drama. Oh, the dog's life! [He goes. Betty waits till the hall door has hanged, then she sits on the elbow of Walter's chair, and rests her head on his shoulder. BETTY {softly). Poor Hector! WALTER {uncomfortably) . . . Yes . . . BETTY. Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks like that? {She kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck, draws his face to her, and kisses him again, on the cheek) Doesn't it? [She nestles contentedly closer to him. WALTER {trying to edge away). Well, it does. Yes. ■B'ETTY {dreamily). I — like it. WALTER. Betty ! 114 THE MAN IN THE STALLS BETTY. Yes, I like it. I don't know why. I suppose I'm frightfully wicked. Or the danger perhaps — I don't know. WALTER {making a futile effort to get uy) . Betty BETTY {tightening her arms around him). Stop there, and don't move. How smooth your chin is — his scrapes. Why don't husbands shave better.? Or is it that the for- bidden chin is always smoother? Poor old Hector! If he could see us ! He hasn't a suspicion. I think it's lovely — really, I do. He leaves us here together, night after night, and imagines you're teaching me bridge. WALTER {restlessly). So I am. Where are the cards? BETTY {caressing him). Silly, have you forgotten that this is Tuesday — Maggie's night out ? She's gone — I told her she needn't wait to clear away. We've arranged master's supper. Master! Fow're my master, aren't you? WALTER. ... I don't know what I am . . . BETTY. Oh yes you do — you're my boy. Whom 1 love. There. {She kisses him again, full on the lips) That was a nice one, wasn't it? Poor old Hector, sitting in his stall — thinks he's so wonderful, knows such a lot! Yes, Maggie's out — with her young man, I suppose. The world's full of women, with their young men — and hus- bands sitting in the stalls . . . And I suppose that's how it always has been, and always will be. WALTER {shifting uneasily). Don't, Betty — I don't like it. I mean, he has such confidence in us. BETTY. Of course he has. And quite rightly. Aren't you his oldest friend? WALTER {with something of a groan). I've known him since I was seven. BETTY. The first man he introduced me to — his best man at the wedding — do you remember coming to see us during the honeymoon? I liked you then. WALTER {really shocked). Betty! BETTY. I did. You had a way of squeezing my hand. . . . And then when we came back here. You know it didn't take me long to discover THE MAN IN THE STALLS 115 WALTER (protesting). I scarcely saw you the first two or three years! BETTY. No — you were afraid. Oh I thought you so silly! (He suddenly contrives to release himself — gets up, and moves to the card-table) Why, what's the matter? WALTER (at the table, with his back to her). I hate hearing you talk like this. BETTY. Silly boy! (She rises, and goes to him; he has taken a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands, there with his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand) Women only talk "like this," as you call it, to their lovers. They talk "like that" to their husbands — and that's why the husbands never know. That's why the husbands are always sitting in the stalls, looking on. (She puts her arms round him again) Looking and not seeing. [She approaches her lips to his — he almost fretfully unclasps her arms. WALTER. Betty — I want to say a — serious word . . . BETTY (looking fondly at him). Well, isn't what /'m saying serious.'' WALTER. I'm thirty-eight. BETTY. Yes. I'm only thirty. But I'm not complaining. WALTER. Has it ever occurred to you [He stops. BETTY. What.f* [Walter looks at her — tries to speak, but cannot — then he breaks away, goes across the room to the fireplace and stands for a moment looking into the fire. She has remained where she was, her eyes following him wonderingly. Suddenly he stamps his foot violently. WALTER. Damn it! DAMN it! BETTY (moving towards him in alarm). What's the matter? WALTER (vyith a swift turn towards her). I'm going to get married. BETTY (stonily, stopping by the round table). You . . . WALTER (savagely). Going to get married, yes. Married, married! 116 THE MAN IN THE STALLS [She stands there and doesn't stir — doesn't speak or try to speak; merely stands there, and looks at him, giving no sign. Her silence irritates him; he becomes more and more violent, as though to give himself courage. WALTER. You're wonderful, you women — you really are. Always contrive to make us seem brutes, or cowards! I've wanted to tell you this a dozen times — I've not had the pluck. Well, to-day I must. Must, do you hear that.? . . . Oh, for Heaven's sake, say something. BETTY {still staring helplessly at him). You . . . WALTER (feverishly). Yes, I, I! Now it's out, at least — it's spoken! I mean to get married, like other men — fooled, too, I dare say, like the others — at least I deserve it! But I'm tired, I tell you — tired BETTY. Of me? WALTER. Tired of the life I lead — the beastly, empty rooms — the meals at the Club. And I'm thirty -eight — it's now or never. BETTY (sloivly). And how about — me? WALTER. You? BETTY (passionately). Yes. Me. Me! WALTER. You didn't think this would last for ever? BETTY (nodding her head). 1 did — yes — I did. Why shouldn't it? WALTER (working himself into a fury again). Why? You ask that? Why? Oh yes, it's all right for you — you've your home and your husband — I'm there as an — annex. To be telephoned to, when I'm wanted, at your beck and call, throw over everything, come when you whistle. And it's not only that — I tell you it makes me feel — horrid. After all, he's my — friend. BETTY. He has been that always. You didn't feel — horrid — before. . . . Who is she? WALTER. (Shortly, as he turns back to the fire.) That doesn't matter. BETTY. Yes, it does. Who? THE MAN IN THE STALLS 117 WALTER {fretfully). Oh why should we BETTY. I want to know — I'm entitled to know. WALTER {still toith his bacJc to her). Mary Gillingham. BETTY. Mary Gillingham! WALTER {firmly, swinging round to her). Yes. BETTY. That child, that chit of a girl! WALTER. She's twenty -three. BETTY. Whom I introduced you to — my own friend? WALTER {grumbling). What has that to do with it? And besides . . . {He suddenly changes his tone, noticing how calm she has become — he takes a step towards her, and stands by her side, at the back of the table; his voice becomes gentle and affectionate) But I say, really, you're taking it aw- fully well — pluckily. I knew you would — I knew I was an ass to be so — afraid. . . . And look here, we'll al- ways be pals — the very best of pals. I'll . . . never forget — never. You may be quite sure ... of that. I want to get married — I do — have a home of my own, and so forth — but you'll still be — just the one woman I really have loved — the one woman in my life — to whom I owe — everything. BETTY {with a mirthless laugh). Do you tell all that — to Mary Gillingham? WALTER {pettishly, as he moves away). Do I — don't be so absurd. BETTY. You tell her she is the only girl you have loved. WALTER {moving back to the fire, with his back to her). I tell her — I tell her — what does it matter what I tell her? And one girl or another — she or some one else BETTY. But you haven't answered my question — what's to become of me? WALTER {angrily, facing her). Become of you! Don't talk such nonsense. Because it is — really it is. You'll be as you were. And Hector's a splendid chap — and after all we've been frightfully wrong — treating him infernally badly — despicably. Oh yes, we have — and you know it. 118 THE MAN IN THE STALLS Lord, there' ve been nights when I have — but never mind that — that's all over! In future we can look him in the face without feeling guilty — we can BETTY (quietly). You can. WALTER. What do you mean? BETTY. You can, because of this girl. Oh, I know, of course! You'll come here three or four times — then you'll drop off — you'll feel I'm not quite the woman you want your wife to know. WALTER (with genuine feeling, as he impulsively steps towards her). Betty, Betty, what sort of cad do you take me for? What sort of cad, or bounder? Haven't I told you I'd never forget — never? And you think you'll pass out of my life — that I want you to? Why, good Heaven, I'll be your best friend as long as I live. Friend — yes — what I always should have been — meant to be! And Hector. Why, Betty, I tell you, merely talking to-night, as I've done, has made me feel — different — sort of lifted — a load. Because I've always had it — somewhere deep down in me — when I've thought of — him. BETTY (calmly). Liar. WALTER (falling back). Betty! BETTY. Liar — yes. Why these stupid, silly lies? "Always, deep down in me!" Where was it, this beautiful feeling, when you got me to go to your rooms? WALTER (harshly). We needn't BETTY. I liked you I've said that — t liked you from the first. But I was straight enough. Liked you, of course — but I had no idea, not the slightest. . . . Thought it fun to play the fool, flirt just a bit. But it was you, you, you who WALTER (breaking in sulkily and stamping his foot). Never mind about who it was. BETTY (passionately). Never mind! You dare! WALTER (doggedly). Yes — I dare. And look here — since you force me to it — that's all rot — yes, it is — just rot. Just as you like it now, hearing Hector ask me to stop with THE MAN IN THE STALLS 119 you, and kissing me the moment his back is turned — so you met me halfway, and more than halfway. BETTY. You cur! WALTER. That's what a woman always says, when a man speaks the truth. Because it is the truth — and you know it. "The way I squeezed your hand!" D'you think I meant to squeeze it — in a way ! Why, as there's a Heaven above me, you were as sacred to me — as my own sister ! BETTY {quietly, as she sits, to right of the table). What I'm wondering is — you see, you're the only lover I've had — what I wonder is, when a man breaks off, tells a woman he's tired of her, wants to get married — does he always abuse the woman WALTER (sulkily). I haven't BETTY. Degrade, and throw mud on, the love she has had for him? WALTER (with a bitter shrug). Love BETTY (passionately, as she springs to her feet). Love, love, yes, you — cruel man! Love, what else? I adore you, don't you know that? Live for you! would give up everything in the world — everything, everything ! And Walter, Wal- ter ! If it's only that — that you want a home — well, let's go off together. He'll divorce us — we can get married. Don't go away, and leave me here, alone with him! I couldn't stand it — Walter, I couldn't, I couldn't! [She goes eagerly to him, flings her arms round his neck, and a dry sob bursts from her. WALTER (very gently). Betty, Betty, you've been so brave . . . Betty, dear, the horrid things I've said were only to make you angry, to make you feel what a brute I was, how well you're rid of me. Oh, I'm not proud of myself! But look here, we must be sensible — we must, really. . . . You know, if you were divorced — if I were the co-respond- ent in a divorce case — I'd lose my berth, get the sack BETTY (clinging to him). We could go to Australia — any- where WALTER. I've no money. 120 THE MAN IN THE STALLS BETTY {with a sudden movement, raising her head and leaving him). And Mary Gillingham has lots? WALTER. It's not for her money that I BETTY (with a start). You love her? WALTER (dropping his head, and speaking under his breath). Yes. BETTY (wringing her hands). You do, you do? WALTER. Yes, that's the truth — I do. Oh, Betty, I'm so frightfully sorry BETTY (toith a groan). Then you don't love me any more . . . WALTER. It's not that. But you see BETTY (moaning). You don't, you don't! [She stands there, crushed, overwhelmed, dry-eyed, broken moans escaping from her; suddenly she hears a key turning in the lock of the hall-door outside, and rushes to the card- table. BETTY. Hector! Quick, quick — the cards! \W alter flies to the table, and sits by her side. He seizes one pack and proceeds to shuffle it, she is dealing with the other. All this takes only a second. Hector comes in — they both spring up. BETTY. Hector! You're not ill? HECTOR (kissing her) . Play postponed, my child — bit of luck ! When I got to the theatre I found that the actor-manager's car had collided with a cab outside the stage-door — he was thrown through the window — there's a magnificent exit for you! and has been cut about a bit. Nothing serious. But the play's postponed for a week. Bit of luck! WALTER (sitting). Not for him. HECTOR. Oh he has had luck enough — tons of it! I'll get into a jacket — then we'll have some bridge. See what progress you've made, Betty! [He hurries out, and closes the door. BETTY (producing a little mirror from her bag, looking into it, touching her hair). We were only just in time. WALTER (eagerly, as he bends across the table). You're splen- did — you are — splendid ! THE MAN IN THE STALLS 121 BETTY. Yes. All very nice and comfortable for you — isn't it? [She puts the mirror back into the bag. WALTER (coaxingly). Betty. BETTY. To-morrow you'll go to her — or to-night perhaps WALTER. To-night — ridiculous! At this hour! BETTY. She's a deceitful little cat. I saw her last week — she never told me WALTER. I don't think she knew. I only proposed to-day. BETTY (flinging herself back in her chair, and opening wide eyes) . You — proposed — to-day ! WALTER (very embarrassed). Yes — I mean BETTY. You — proposed — to-day ! And waited till she had accepted you — to tell me WALTER (eagerly). Don't be so silly — come, come, he'll be back in a minute. . . . And, believe me, I'm not worth making a fuss about! BETTY (looking contemptuously at him) . That's true. WALTER. Yes, it is, worse luck! I deserve all you've said to me. And you'll be . . . much better . . . with- out me. BETTY. Better,? WALTER. Yes, better, better — any way you choose to put it! I'm a — but never mind that! — Look here — you'd like me to stop? BETTY. He wants to play bridge. WALTER. Don't you think that I BETTY (hearing Hector coming). Sh. [Hector comes in — she is idly tossing the cards about. Hector has put on a smoking -jacket — he comes in, very jolly, fussing around, rubbing his hands, so glad to be home. He sits, to the right of Betty. HECTOR. Now for a game! [He seizes a pack, and spreads out the cards. BETTY (leaning back). Not sure that I want to play. HECTOR. Don't be disagreeable, Betty! Why? BETTY (listlessly, as she rises and moves across the room). No fun, being three. 122 THE MAN IN THE STALLS HECTOR. Good practice for you. Come on. BETTY {leaning against the other table, and turning and facing them). Besides, he has something to tell you. HECTOR. Walter? BETTY. Yes. HECTOR {looking inquiringly at Walter). To tell me? What is it? BETTY. That he's engaged. HECTOR {shouting, as he leans across the table). Never! Wal- ter! Engaged? You? WALTER {nervously). Yes. HECTOR {noisily and affectionately). You old scoundrel! You rascal and villain! Engaged — and you don't come and tell me first ! Well I — am — damned ! WALTER {trying to take it gaily). I knew you'd chaff me about it. HECTOR. Chaff you! Silly old coon! why I'm glad! Of course we shall miss you — but marriage — it's the only thing, my boy — the only thing! Who is she? Do I know her? WALTER {mumbling, as he fingers the cards). A friend of Betty's — I fancy you've met her HECTOR. Who? BETTY. Mary GiUingham. We're the first to know — he only proposed to-day. HECTOR. GiUingham, GiUingham. . . . Oh yes, I've seen her, just seen her, but I don't remember. ... I say, not the daughter of the sealing-wax man? WALTER. Yes. HECTOR. Then there's lots of tin! Fine! Oh you artful old dodger! Is she pretty? WALTER. So-so. BETTY {still leaning against the table, and looking at them both). She's excessively pretty. She has yellow hair and blue eyes. HECTOR {chuckling). And she has caught old Wallie. The cynical old Wallie who sniffed at women ! Though perhaps it's the money THE MAN IN THE STALLS 123 BETTY. No. He's in love with her. HECTOR. That's good. I'm glad. And I congratulate you — heartily, my boy. {He seizes TV alter' s hand, and wrings it) We must drink to it! (He gets u'p, goes to the side- table, and pours some whiskey into a tumbler) Charge your glass, Walter! {Walter rises and goes to the side-table) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the bride and bride- groom ! {He fills the glass from the syphon and passes it to Walter, then proceeds to fill his own) Betty, you must join us. BETTY (quietly). No. HECTOR. You can't toast him in water, of course. Has she cleared away yet? I'll get you some Hock. [He puts his glass down and moves to the door at hack. BETTY. Don't be so silly. I won't drink at all. HECTOR (amazed). Not to old Walter? BETTY (steadily). No. HECTOR. Why? BETTY (almost jeeringly) . Because — old Walter — has been my lover. HECTOR (stopping, and staring at her). What? BETTY (calmly, looking full at him). My lover . . . these last two years. HECTOR (staring stupidly at her). He has been BETTY (impatiently, as she taps the floor with her foot). Yes, yes. How often must I tell you? My lover — don't you know what that means? Why do you stare at me with those fat goggle-eyes of yours? He has been my lover — and now he has fallen in love with this girl and means to marry her. That's all. HECTOR (turning towards Walter, who hasn't stirred from the side-table). What? You? [Walter remains motionless and silent. HECTOR (in muffled tones, scarcely able to speak). You! It's true what this woman says? BETTY (contemptuously). This woman! Don't be so melo- dramatic! Have you forgotten my name? 124 THE MAN IN THE STALLS HECTOR {turning fiercely to her, roaring madly). Silence, Jezebel! (She shrinks hack, in alarm, towards the fire) Your name! Wait a bit, I'll tell you! {He takes a step to- wards her — she crouches in terror against the wall) You shall hear what your name is! Just now I'm dealing with him. {He swings round to Walter) You there, you skunk and thief! You, you lying hound! I was your best friend. So you've taken my wife, have you? And now mean to go oflf and marry this girl. That's it.'* Oh, it's so simple! Here — come here — sit down. Sit down, I tell you. Here, in this chair. Shall I have to drag you to it? I want to keep my hands off you. Here. {Walter has moved slowly towards him. Hector has banged down a chair behind the centre table, Walter sits in it — Hector speaks over his shoulder to Betty) And you — fetch pen and ink and paper BETTY {in abject panic). Hector HECTOR {turning fiercely and scowling at her). If you speak to me I'll brain you too. Just you go in there and fetch the things. D'you hear? Go. {She moves into the other room. Hector swings round to Walter) As for you, you're a scoundrel. A rogue, a thief, a liar, a traitor. Of the very worst kind, the blackest. Not an ordinary case of a husband and wife — I trusted you — you were my best friend. You spawn, you thing of the gutter, you foul- hearted, damnable slug! [Betty comes back, dragging her feet, carrying paper and en- velopes and a stylograph — she puts them on the table. HECTOR. Not that stylograph — that's mine — his dirty hands shan't touch it — ^I could never use it again. Fetch your pen — yours — you belong to him, don't you? Go in and fetch it. D'you hear? [Betty goes into the inner room again. HECTOR. My wife. And you the man I've done more for than for any one else in the world. The man I cared for, you low dog. Used my house — came here because it was dull at the Club — and took my wife? I don't know why THE MAN IN THE STALLS 125 I don't kill you. I've the right. But I won't. You shall pay for it, my fine fellow — you are going to pay — now. [Betty brings a pen and an inkstand; she places them on the table; Hector seizes them and pushes them in front of Walter. Betty slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the sofa. HECTOR (to Walter). Now you write. You hear? You write what I dictate. Word for word. What's the old brute's name.'* WALTER. Whose? HECTOR. Whose! Her father, the sealing-wax man, old Gillingham? WALTER (staring). Gillingham? HECTOR. Gillingham. Yes. What is it? WALTER. You want me to write to him? HECTOR (nodding). To him. Who else? A confession? I've had that. His name? WALTER (dropping the pen and half rising). I won't HECTOR (springing upon him in a mad fury, and forcing him back into the chair). You won't, you dog! You dare say that — to me ! By Heaven, you will ! You'll lick the dust off this floor, if I tell you! You'll go on your hands and knees, and crawl! Sit down, you! Sit down and take up your filthy pen. So. (Thoroughly cowed, Walter has taken up the pen again) And now — his name. Don't make me ask you again, I tell you, don't. What is it? WALTER. Richard. HECTOR. Very well, Richard. So write that down. To Richard Gillingham. I have to-day proposed to your daughter, and she has accepted me. Got that? She has accepted me. But I can't marry her — can't marry her — because I have seduced the wife of my friend Hector Allen — WALTER (appealingly , dropping his pen). Hector! HECTOR (frantically gripping Walter by the throat, till he takes up his pen again) . The wife of my friend Hector Allen — 126 THE MAN IN THE STALLS write It — and plainly, you hound, plainly — so — and be- cause I am taking the woman away with me to-night. BETTY {with a loud cry). Hector! HECTOR {over his shoulder, watching Walter write). Silence, over there, you! Hold your tongue! Go into your room and put on your things — we've done with you here ! Take what you want — I don't care — you don't show your face here again. And you — {he taps his clenched hand against Walter's arm) write. What are you stopping for? How far have you got.'^ {He peers over Walter s shoulder) Because — I — am — taking — the — woman — away — with — me — to-night. BETTY {beside herself, wringing her hands). Hector, Hec- tor HECTOR {savagely, as he makes a half -turn towards her). You still there.'^ Wait a bit. I'll come to you, when I've fin- ished with him. If you haven't gone and put on your things, you shall go off without them. Into the street. You'll find other women there like you. {He turns back to Walter) Here, you, have you written? {He looks over Walter's shoulder) Go on — I'm getting impatient. Go on, I tell you. I — am — taking — the [Walter is slowly writing down the words. Hector standing over him; Betty suddenly bursts into a peal of wild, uproarious laughter, and lets herself fall into a chair to the left of the card-table. HECTOR {madly). You! [He leaves Walter, and almost springs at her. BETTY {brimming with merriment). Oh, you old donkey! How we have pulled your leg! HECTOR {staring at her, stopping dead short). You BETTY {through her laughter, choking). Hector, Hector! Con- ventional situations! The usual stodge! The lover and husband! You goose, you wonderful old goose! [Walter, with a mighty effort, has pulled himself together, and roars with laughter too. He jumps up. Hector is standing there blinking, paralysed. THE MAN IN THE STALLS 127 WALTER {merrily, to Betty). Oh really, you shouldn't. You've given it away too soon! BETTY. Too soon! He'd have strangled us. Did you ever see such a tiger? WALTER {chuckling hugely). He didn't give the lover much chance to stand up to him, did he? BETTY. And ivasnt he original! Dog, hound, villain, traitor ! WALTER. To say nothing of Jezebel! Though, between ourselves, I think he meant Messalina! BETTY. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me fill my bag! WALTER. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do indeed. {He goes to Hector, and stands to left of him) Hector, old chap, here's the letter! BETTY {going to the other side of Hector, and dropping a low curtsey). And please, Mr. Husband, was it to be a big bag, or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot? [Hector has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded, too bewildered for his mind to act or thoughts to come to him; he suddenly bursts into a roar of Titanic, overwhelming laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He sways from side to side, unable to control himself — his laughter is so colossal that the infection catches the others; theirs be- comes genuine too. BETTY {with diflcidty, trying to control herself). The letter! Old Gillingham! "His name, scoundrel, his name!" WALTER {gurgling). With his hand at my throat! Sit there, villain, and write! BETTY. "I'll deal with you presently! Wait till I've fin- ished with him!" WALTER. "Into the street!"? At least, they do usually say "into the night!" HECTOR {rubbing his eyes and panting for breath). Oh, you pair of blackguards! Too bad — no, really too bad! It was! I fell in, I did! Oh, Lord, oh. Lord, what a night- 128 THE MAN IN THE STALLS mare! But it wasn't right, really it wasn't — no really! My Lord, how I floundered — head and shoulders — swal- lowed it all! Comes of reading that muck every day — ■ never stopped to think! I didn't! Walter, old chap! {He holds out his hand) Betty! My poor Betty! (He draws her towards him) The things I said to you! BETTY (carelessly eluding the caress). At least admit that you're rather hard on the play writing people! HECTOR (getting up and shaking himself). Oh, they be blowed ! Well, you have had a game with me ! (He shakes himself again). Brrrrr! Oh, my Lord! What I went through ! BETTY. It was a lark! you should have seen yourself! Your eyes starting out of your head! You looked like a mur- derer ! HECTOR. By Jove, and I felt it ! For two pins I'd have BETTY. And Mary Gillingham! That's the funniest part! That you could have thought he was engaged — to her! [Involuntarily the smile dies away on Walter's face; he turns and stares at her; she goes on calmly. BETTY. When she happens to be the one girl in this world he can't stand! WALTER (with a movement that he can't control). Betty! BETTY (turning smilingly to him). No harm in my telling Hector — he scarcely knows her! (She swings round to Hector again) Why, Walter simply loathes the poor girl! That's what made it so funny ! (At the mere thought of it she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through her laughter) And I tell you — if you ever hear he's en- gaged to her — why, you can believe the rest of the story too! HECTOR (laughing heartily as he pats Walter on the shoulder). Poor old Walter! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased at the thought of his getting married ! I was ! (He turns to him) But it's better, old chap, for us — we'd have missed you — terribly! (With another pat on Walter's shoulder, he goes to the fire, and drops in the letter) Mustn't leave that THE MAN IN THE STALLS 129 lying about! {He turns) Well, by Jove, if any one had told me. . . . And drinking to him, and all ! BETTY. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I will drink to him, Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor! B.^CTon {beaming) . So we will! Good. I'll get it. [He bustles into the dining room. BETTY {moving swiftly to Walter). Well, now's your time. One thing or the other. WALTER {savagely). You fiend! BETTY. I'll go and see her to-morrow — see her constantly — WALTER. Why are you doing this.'^ BETTY. You've ruined my life and his. At least, you shan't be happy. WALTER, And you imagine I'll come back to you — that we'll go on, you and I.^* BETTY {scornfully). No — don't be afraid! You've shown yourself to me to-day. That's all done with — finished. His friend now — with the load off you — but never her husband. Never ! [Hector comes bustling back, with the bottle of Hock, and a wine-glass that he gives to Betty — she holds it, and he fills it from the bottle. HECTOR. Here you are, my girl — and now, where's my whiskey.'' {He trots round to the side table, finds his glass, and Walter's — hands one to Walter) Here, Wallie — yours must be the one that's begun — I didn't have time to touch mine ! Here. {Walter takes it) And forgive me, old man, for thinking, even one minute — {He lorings him by the hand) Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you! Oh, Lord, I just want this drink! BETTY {in cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass). To Walter, the Bachelor! [She drains her glass; Walter has his moment's hesitation; he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing his face. HECTOR {gaily). To Walter, the Bachelor! {He drinks his glass to the dregs and puts it down) And now — for a game. 130 THE MAN IN THE STALLS WALTER. I think I HECTOR (coaxingly). Sit down, laddie — just one rubber. It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. (They all sit: Hector at back, Betty to the left of him, Walter to the right — he spreads out the cards — they draw for partners) As we are — you and Betty — I've got the dummy. (He shuffles the cards — Betty cuts — he begins to deal) That's how I like it — one on each side of me. Also I like having dummy. Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good! A nightmare, I tell you — terrible ! And really you must forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played up, both of you! My little Betty — a Duse, that's what she is — a real Duse! {He gathers up his cards) And the gods are kind to me — I've got a hand, I tell you! I call No TRUMPS! [He beams at them, — they are placidly sorting their cards. He puts his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as the curtain falls. CURTAIN 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE Frederick Fenn was born at Bishop Stortford In 1868. He is best known as an adapter of plays and the author of a number of successful one-act and full-length plays. His first successful play, "Judged by Appearances", was pro- duced in 1902, by the popular actor, James Welch. " 'Op- o'-Me-Thumb", written in collaboration with Richard Pryce, is the best-known work of either dramatist. It owes its popularity primarily to the fact that it has often been acted in this country by Maude Adams. Richard Pryce was born at Boulogne, France. Like Frederick Fenn, with whom he collaborated in several plays, he has adapted plays and is the author of a few original dramas. He has also written half a dozen novels. PLAYS (Frederick Fenn) Plays marked with * are in one act only. *Judged by Appearances Amasis (1906) (1902) *His Child (1906) *The Honorable Ghost (1902) (In collaboration with A Married Woman (1902) Richard Pryce) Saturday to Monday (1903) *The Nelson Touch (1908) (In collaboration with A Welsh Sunset (1908) Richard Pryce) Liz the Mother (1909) A Scarlet Flower (1903) (In collaboration with The Age of Innocence (1904) Richard Pryce) *'Op-o'-Me-Thumb (1904) The Gay Lady Doctor (1912) (In collaboration with (In collaboration with Richard Pryce) Desmond Donovan) *The Convict on the Hearth (1906) 132 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB PLAYS (Richard Pryce) A Privy Council (1905) (In collaboration with (In collaboration with Arthur Morrison) W. P. Drury) Little Mrs. Cummin (1910) The Dumb Cake (1907) The Visit (1910) " 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb", "Little Mrs. Cummin", "Privy Council", "Dumb Cake", "The Convict on the Hearth", "The Nelson Touch", and "The Visit" are published by Samuel Fi'ench, New York. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB A PLAY IN ONE ACT BY FREDERICK FENN and RICHARD PRYCE " 'Op-o'-Me-Thumb " was first produced at London in 1904. Characters Madame Jeanne Marie Napoleon de Gallifet Didier Clem (Mrs.) Galloway Rose Jordan Celeste Amanda Afflick Horace Greensmith COPTEIQHT, 1904, BY SaMUEL FrENCH. Reprinted by permission of Samuel French. Caution. Professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States Government, and nobody is allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 38th St., New York City. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB Scene. Working room at Madame Didier's Laundry in Soho. In front of the large shop window that gives on to the street there hangs a lace curtain. Upon the glass of the upper half of a door "Madame Didier, Blanchisserie Frangaise" may be read backwards. It is Saturday evening before an August bank-holiday. Madame with goffering iron is finishing a cap at stage back left. Rose Jordan stands on a chair putting paper packets of collars and cuffs into pigeon holes. Clem {Mrs.) Galloway is mending socks, etc., at small table right. Celeste is sitting on a centre table marking off collars, etc., in account book, or slipping pink tissue paper into a stack of shirts, and singing as she swings her feet. CELESTE. Eve in her garden she was a lady, She never grew old n' fady. She might 'a' bin there to-day-dy. But she was inquisitive. Fd never 'a bin s' crazy, You wait till I'm 'alf a daisy. See me with a chance to be lazy. I'd keep you all alive! MADAME. You have make out zose bills, Celeste? CELESTE (nodding). Oh wait till I'm 'alf a daisy. Snakes! I'd send 'em all back to blazy. You give me the chance to be lazy, I'd CLEM. Couldn't be much lazier than what you are now, I should think — daisy or no daisy. CELESTE. Couldn't I? I'd have a bit of a try! (Resumes) 136 ' OP-O'-ME-THUMB Oh when I'm a real lady, In a barouche I shall parady — \S1ie breaks off sud- denly) Where's Amanda? CLEM (sarcastically). Want a little 'elp with y' singin'? CELESTE. Where is Amanda? ROSE. Gone to Strahan's. CELESTE. What for? ROSE. They never sent them things they wrote about. CELESTE (stopping in her work). Do they expect us to do 'em this time o' day! MADAME (coming down). No. No. Like always you ex- cite yourself for nothing. Go on. Go on. What is Mon- day? 'Oliday, is it not? Very well. They close. I close. I 'ave the things 'ere for Tuesday, hein? You mind your business. Always wanting to know. CELESTE (appeased). Well, you never do know with shops. It wouldn't be the first time. It was Strahan wanted the collars dressed in two hours last week, wasn't it, for some customer or other. I wouldn't 'a' done 'em, I know. Oh ho, (She hums to herself for a moment or two) Well, well. When I'm married and 'ave a 'usband to keep me — MADAME. Keep you! Bah, you know nothing, you. A man wants a wife who will work. Mon Dieu, if one is to be lazy it will not be the wife. Look at me. CLEM (MRS.) GALLOWAY (who has gone up to table at back to fetch more things and who now comes down). You're right, Madam. 'Usbands is all very well in their way, as I should be the first to deny, me of course bein' different and independent so to speak, but when it comes to which is to do the work CELESTE. Listen to Clem. CLEM. Not so much of y'r Clem. Mrs. Galloway, if you please. You seem to forget who I am. I've got me ring, I 'ave, and me lines if I do come 'ere to oblige — Mr. Gal- loway 'avin' poor 'ealth — besides private means, bein' a pensioneer. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 137 CELESTE. Pensioneer! Four pence a day, isn't it, dear? — and gone before twelve, they tell me, at the Pig or Whistle. A fine pensioneer ! You wait until I bring mine along. CLEM. Yes, I daresay there'll be some waitin' to do. What's your 'usband goin' to be if I may make so bold to inquire.'' CELESTE. 'Aven't quite made up me mind. But I'm just about tired of this. I'm not sure as I shan't go and be a actress for a change, and stand in the limelight and 'ave bokays thrown at me — 'ere chuck us some of those things. Rose — (begins to work frantically) — and — and 'ave lords waitin' at the stage door to take the 'orses out of me carriage CLEM {laughs). You'll be wantin' to be a child of myst'ry next, like Amanda. CELESTE (pausing, seriously). ' Do you think she is? CLEM. Is what? CELESTE. A child of myst'ry — what she says I mean. You know — all that about 'er father and about them jewels as somebody gives 'er. Do you know she washed that there shirt again last week. She says it'll be fetched one of these days and then there'll be a surprise for us. ROSE. Surprise! Garn! A little image like 'er? Ain't room for much up 'er sleeve. Little 'aporth o' mis'ry! CELESTE {thoughtfully). Well, I don't know. Things do 'appen, y' know. I wonder 'oo 'er father reely is. {Mys- tified) She's so close about 'im, ain't she? And then there is that shirt — there's no goin' against that. CLEM {shortly). Lots of customers forgets things. CELESTE. Yes, but the care she takes of it. It's bin 'ere best part of a year, and I don't know 'ow many times she 'asn't dressed it. There may be something in it, y' know. ROSE {pidling a long paper parcel out of one of the large pigeon holes — reading). "Mr. 'Orris Greensmith, to be called for." {Opening the paper a little and looking inside) Blest if I don't believe she's done it up again. It 'ad pink 138 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB paper in last week and now it's blue. 'Ve we got any blue paper, madam? No. I thought not. CLEM (interested). She must 'a' bought it. CELESTE. There. ROSE. Well! If II never be fetched. If 'e's 'er mash why doesn't 'e come 'ere and fetch it? CELESTE. She says it's a sort of a token, see? while 'e's away. Something to 'old by, she says. And then, 'e does send 'er things. CLEM (weightily). 'As anybody seen 'em? CELESTE. N-no, but there was a brooch, I b'lieve, and a necktie. CLEM (coming to the table centre to fetch scissors left and pausing in her ivork to gossip). Well, why doesn't she wear 'em? That's it, y' see. Why doesn't she wear 'em? CELESTE (as if struck by this for the first time) . Yes. Why doesn't she? CLEM (sits at table right and talks confidentially). That's where the test comes in. Why doesn't she wear 'em — 'stead of that bit of crape, say? Not that I've anything to say against that. She 'as plenty of deaths in 'er family — that I will say for 'er. ROSE (contemptuously). Lots of people 'as relations die. Any one can. CLEM (generously). No, give everybody their due, I say, and she does 'ave her aflSictions. I've been bereaved meself and I know what it is. ROSE. Crape's cheap enough. And she don't ask us to none of 'er funerals. CLEM (forgetting Amanda and showing an inclination to lose herself in pleasant retrospect). Fun'rals — the fun'rak I've been to in my time! There was me sister's 'usband (she goes back to her place right as she speaks) — all my family's married well, that I am thankful to say — and when she lost 'im she done the thing 'andsome I tell y'. (To Celeste) Gimme them vests — no — there by the socks. Under y' nose, stupid! There was as many as three 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 139 mournin' coaches an' a 'earse with plumes — and the 'atbands ! — well ! — and afterwards we — CELESTE. That'll do, Clem. We know all about that — and y' cousins too as died at 'Ighb'ry. It's Amanda I'm talking about, not you. I wonder whether she could show us one of them presents. Good mind to ask 'er. Why don't she come in.? ROSE. Gone a errand, I tell y'. CELESTE. Well, she might be back be now, I should think. Talk about 'ares and tortoise shells! I'd 'a' done it on me 'ead. She's a fair crawler, Amanda is. ROSE {laconically). Legs is short. CELESTE. So's time, and I don't want to be 'ere all night. MADAME {coming down). She is little, but she is good. She work. She does not talk, talk, talk. She is not singing when she should be working. Where should I be, me, with another like you? And this Saturday and I forced to go out at five! Five, mon Dieu, and it wants but ten minutes. [She goes up left right. CELESTE {absently). I wonder whether she's got anybody to take 'er out a Monday. Think she 'as.'' ROSE. It'd be a funny sort o' feller as 'd want to. {She looks over her shoulder towards the glass door) 'Ere she is. 'Ere's Mandy. [The door right is pushed open and Amanda Afflick comes in backwards pulling after her a washing basket nearly as large as herself. She is an odd, forlorn looking little figure with big eyes and a pathetic expression. She has yet an air of being quite capable of taking care of herself. ROSE. Well, Craipe. MADAME. Ah, you have come back. You have brought the money. {Amanda hands her a paper and some loose change) That is right. Now I may go and you will help these good-for-nothings to finish. [She takes the cap on its stand and puts it on end of table 140 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB back, then goes into inner room left whence she returns a mo- ment or two later with her cloak. CELESTE {to Amanda). Didn't 'appen to meet ch' father, did y'? CLEM. We thought perhaps as you was gone s' long that you'd ran away with that mash o' yours — 'im as goes with- out 'is shirt. 'Orris Whatsaname. AMANDA. Oh. Didy'? {She sidles past Clem who is leaning over a basket and giving her an intentional ''shove" sends her sprawling across it) Now then, Mrs., can't y' make room for a lady? CLEM {getting up, and angry). They don't teach y' manners in the work'us, do they, Clumsy? AMANDA. You'll find out when you get there, dear. ROSE {linking arms with Celeste left, coming towards Amanda in front of table center) We've got a new bow to-day. [She points to a band of black crape round Amanda's arm. CELESTE. So she 'as! Where did y' git that, S'rimp? [Amanda arranges the bow on her arm, pulling out the ends. AMANDA. I've been doin' a little shoppin' this afternoon, and I bought this Rembrandt in case you was took off sudden, S'leste. S'leste! {She gives a little chuckle) It is a name, ain't it? Where did y' git it? Off the front of a shop, eh? Pretty Celeste 'Ad a very weak chest. If 'er chest 'd been stronger Me tale 'd been longer. [She hoists herself on the table. Clem and Rose laugh shrilly. Celeste flushes. CELESTE. Weak chest y'self. What's wrong with my chest? AMANDA {sitting on table). Bit narrer, dear, isn't it? But p'raps it's the cut o' y' bodice. Some of those bodice- 'ands can spoil things a treat, can't they? CELESTE. What do y' know about it. You shut y' face. You! you ain't got no figger, you never dresses, you ain't 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 141 got enough 'air to go in a locket, and every feller I know says as you're a bloomin' little monkey without a stick. So, now, there! MADAME {bustling into outdoor things and interposing to pre- vent the quarrel developing). Now, now, now! One would think that in life there was nothing to do. You quarrel, you talk, you sing. Do I sing.? Mon Dieu, no. Celeste she sing till she make my 'ead ache, and then it is you. (To Amanda, who gets off table) And you all talk, talk, talk like I don't know what. For shame. Now I go, and you, Celeste, will go to Madame Jones with 'er things — they are listed, eh.*^ — and Mrs. Galloway will take M. Gigot 'is waistcoat, and Rose, you will not forget Miss Smeet's dress. She must 'ave it to-night. Now quick all of you. Amanda will wait for me. I shall not be long. Now attention! No more singing, do you 'ear? You can sing if you want, in the street, and then you will be run in for drink to punish you. [She goes out left. Rose jumps off her chair. ROSE. Is she gone? Lord, I wish it was Monday! I shan't git up all to-morrow so's to rest meself. Do 'ope it'll be fine. CLEM. I expect it will. Makes such a difference, bank 'oliday, don't it? P'tickler when it's 'Am'stead. ROSE. Course it's 'Am'stead. What d' you think. CLEM {crossing to Rose and Celeste right) . We should 'a' gone there too, only for Mr. Galloway 'avin' a aunt at Green- wich — though of course bein' married I'm different, so to speak. We shall go be tram, I expect, and then there 's th' 'ill in the Park, an' the 'eath close by an' all. But I don't know as I shouldn't like to be goin' with y'. ROSE {half ignoring her). Wish you was, dear. {Turning to Celeste) S'leste, you an' Albert will be ready, won't you? You must be 'ere first thing, cause of me and my friend pickin' y' up. [Clem goes up left, presently returns to her work right. CELESTE. We'll be ready. Rather. What ho! {Seeing 142 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB Amanda, who has been looking from one to another and who stands a little bit wistfully outside the group) Well, Mandy, got someone to take y' out Monday, eh? AMANDA (starts and pulls herself together) . I — I don't know as I can go out at all a Monday. Y' see prop'ly speakin' I'm in mournin'. CELESTE. You're always in mournin' 'oliday time — you was at Easter, too. I believe meself AMANDA (quickly). Well, so I was. I lost me aunt on the mother's side just before Good Friday. This (she touches crape bow) is for me cousin's niece as passed away quietly last week in — in Kensington. We — we 'ad been estranged for some time, but now she is gone I bear 'er no malice, and she shall never 'ave it to say as I didn't pay 'er proper respect. And besides I don't know as I care to go out in my circumstances. CELESTE. Your circumstances! What are they? AMANDA. Oh, well — till — till 'e comes for me, y' know. ROSE. Till 'e comes for 'is shirt, eh? — the tall 'andsome stranger as none of us 'as never seen — n' never wont. (She jumps on a chair again and takes out parcel) Garn. You've made it all up about 'im, I believe. "Mr. 'Orris Greensmith, to be called for " ! "Miss Amanda Afflick, to be called for " ! That's more like it. 'Ere, Clem! Ketch. [She pitches parcel to Mrs. Galloway. AMANDA (starting forward) . Give it 'ere. CLEM (holding it high). Y' been washin' it again, Crapie, 'aven't y'? AMANDA. Give it 'ere. 'Tain't yours. CLEM. Ketch, S'leste. [She throws it to Celeste. CELESTE. Better not wash it any more. It's gettin' so thin it '11 blow away one of these days. AMANDA (fiercely). Give it me. CELESTE. Not so fast. AMANDA. Give it to me! CELESTE. Tell us the truth then. You been coddin' us 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 143 I about it all this time, 'aven't you? 'Orris or whatever *e's called 'as left it 'ere didn't take no notice of y' at all, now did 'e? AMANDA (at back of centre table as Celeste dances round with shirt). Didn't 'e? P'raps 'e's never wrote to me neither, letters and letters on scented paper with crests and coats o' arms — and sealing wax too. You're jealous all the lot o' y'! Give it 'ere. You'll mess it. Oh {half crying) you'll mess it and 'e might come for it to-day. Give it 'ere. CLEM. Let 'er 'ave it, S'leste. CELESTE (holds it high). If I do will y' show me that brooch? AMANDA. What brooch? CELESTE. You kuow. The one you told us about. The minnycher set in diamonds. AMANDA (affecting unconcern). Oh, 'aven't I shown it to y'? CELESTE. No n' none of 'is presents. If I give it y', will y'? AMANDA (hesitates). I — I don't know where I put it. CELESTE. Well then the bracelet with the turquoise. AMANDA. I — I lent that to me cousin for 'er niece's funeral. She 'asn't sent it back yet. CELESTE. Well then one of the other things then — some presents as 'e's give y', will y'? AMANDA. Give me my shirt. CELESTE. Will y' then? AMANDA. All right. CELESTE. There y ' are. Kipper ! Ketch ! [Amanda catches the shirt and with her back to the others gently fondles it for a moment as a mother might fondle a child. Then pulling a chair forward and climbing it she puts the parcel safely away on a shelf. CELESTE. Seein's believin' y' know, and when we've seen — no 'anky-panky mindje ! — some jewel or something. AMANDA. All right. CLEM (indidgently) . Let 'er alone, S'leste. That'll do. AMANDA (standing on chair to put away the shirt, turns fiercely) . 'Ere what's it got to do with you. You keep your oar out of my wheel. I can take care of meself , Mrs. Clemen- 144 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB tina William Galloway. You think just because I'm not twelve feet 'igh and six foot round like some people as I can't 'old me own with a pack of chatterin' girls like S'leste 'ere and Rose Allelujah Jordan. One more river to cross! What ho! I spurn the lot of you. You're no more to me than a herd of buzzin' flies. {Quieting down) I go 'ome from 'ere and I set on the sofa and read 'is letters, and all what 'appens in this 'ouse o' bondage is no more to me than a dream of the night! CLEM. Does 'e know what your temper is? ROSE. Little spitfire! AMANDA. There, dear, I don't mean it. Only y' see when y'r'ead's full of more important things and there's wonder- ful changes loomin' before y' it's apt to make y' a bit 'asty. There, Clem, (goes to her) I didn't mean to be cross. One of these days you shall know all. CELESTE {impressed in spite of herself). When did y' 'ear from 'im last? AMANDA. Wednesday week — no, Tuesday it would be. ROSE. Did 'e send y' anything then? AMANDA. 'E's goin' to. CELESTE. Something nice! [Amanda nods. CELESTE. Is it a ring? AMANDA. No. CLEM. 'E's too sharp for that, eh, Mandy? AMANDA. Better than that. {Gets on the table again) It's — it's a hairloom — one of those things you wear in it at the op'ra. CELESTE. I know — a tarara. AMANDA. Yes. {The girls stop working and loll on the table listening open-mouthed) It sticks in y'r 'ead with spikes and it's got diamonds and em'rals and stars all round — it sticks up like a crown and it glitters — fit to blind y'. CELESTE. 'E must 'ave a lot o' money. ROSE. Seems to chuck it about, don't 'e? CELESTE. But you ain't seen 'im again? 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 145 AMANDA. No. But 'c's comin'. CELESTE. 'Ere? AMANDA. Yes. There's a understandin', y' see. There's clouds on the horizon — that why there's all this mystery. But when 'e fetches 'is shirt — it's a sort of a sign, see — I shall know that bright days are in store. CLEM {joining the table group after affecting indifference). But what I want to know is — me of course 'avin' a 'ome of me own and bein' in a responsible p'sition so to speak — what I want to know — is 'e going to marry y'? AMANDA. When 'e's asked me father. ROSE. Asked y' father.? AMANDA. Everybody respectable does that. A young fella comes along and 'e says, isn't she beautiful, 'e says, I'd die for 'er, I wish she'd walk on me, through my 'eart first. But 'e don't say nothing to 'er, not till 'e's been to 'er father — if 'e's any class, y' know. ROSE. But you're not beautiful. I'm a lot better lookin' than what you are and I shouldn't like any chap to go to my father. AMANDA {sweetly). Of course if y' father 'appens to be doin' a bit in 'Olloway it makes a difference. ROSE. 'Olloway! Jail bird y'self! I don't believe a word of it. I don't believe CELESTE. Easy, Rose. {Pulling her away) Let's 'ear. {To Amanda) 'As 'e seen y' father? AMANDA. Not yet — because — because of law suits, and then there's a missin' will, y' see. CELESTE. Missin' wilLf* AMANDA {setting herself again on table centre). Well, there should be rights, but I think we'd got over that. Y' see it's like this: My father wanted me to grow up without any rank or pearls or carriages so as I shall be loved just for myself alone CLEM. She's coddin'. She's only a workus girl and never 'ad no father. AMANDA. I'm not. It's true. I've thought about it and 146 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB dreamt about it till I know it's true. Besides you'll see. I'm goin' to 'im in oh such a little while. CELESTE. And what about 'Orris? AMANDA. I shall ask 'im if 'e loves me passionately, and if 'e says yes, I shall lay one white jew'ld 'and in 'is, and look into 'is pleadin' eyes and say, 'Orris, because you loved me truly when I was pore and in disguise, you shall 'ave your reward. CELESTE {to the others). It sounds all right, don't it.? CLEM (rises). 'Ere, come along, girls. What's the good o' 'angin' about listenin' to all this rubbish when we got these things to take 'fore we can go. 'Ere, bustle up, S'leste. The old woman '11 be back again mongdewing like Lord- save-us-all if she finds they ain't gone. {Celeste and Rose go into inner room to put on their hats and coats) You show us that present, Corpsie, or find some one to take y' out a Monday, and then p'raps we'll see about believin' y'. Come, Rose. [She goes into inner room left. AMANDA {absently and waving her hand) . I have always loved you, 'Orris. Now your patience is rewarded. Rise and take me to my carriage. ROSE {putting on her hat and helping Celeste with her coat as she and Clem reappear with their things). Carriage! You find somebody with a moke and a barrer to take y' to 'Amstead. AMANDA (loftily). I'm not goin' on Monday. Bank 'olidy! It's just for ordinary people as 'ave no prospex and nothing better to think of. ROSE. Oh, indeed. (She picks up basket back centre) Well, I 'ope. Miss Amander AfBick, as you'll enjoy yours all alone by y 'r own self with nobody asked y' to go with 'em ! CLEM. Don't git run away with by a earl or anything like that while we're out. CELESTE. So long, Corpsie. Y' got to show us one of them presents, y' know. 'Ere, wait for me. Rose. [They troop out left with their packages. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 147 AMANDA (when the door has closed behind them sits still for a moment or two. When she lifts her face it is seen to be work- ing. To herself). Monday! I should like to be goin' to 'Amstead — or anywheres. They might 'a' asked me to go with 'em. Somebody might. Nobody never won't. Never, never, never. 'Oo wants me? 'Oo could? I couldn't. Oh, well. [She sniffs drily and getting up and moving to rack climbs the chair again and takes down the rescued shirt. Very carefully and lovingly she refolds it in its covering, holds it to her for a moment and puts it back on the shelf. She is turning once more to the room when the door is flung open and Horace Greensmith enters right. He is a young workman of suf- ficiently ordinary appearance, the type of navvy who may always be seen in London breaking up main thoroughfares with sledge-hammer and wedge. HORACE. 'Ere, two-foot-nothing. Where's Mother Didier? AMANDA (getting off chair quickly). Oh, Mr. Greensmith! I thought you was dead. Oh! (Sits) Oh! HORACE. Mr. Greensmith! You know my name. And who might you be to think I was dead? AMANDA. Oh — you must excuse me — but I did indeed. [She puts her hand over her heart. HORACE. Did y'. Well, I'm jolly well not. AMANDA (faintly). Oh, it's like one from the grave. I shall be all right in a minute. HORACE. Well, be quick about it. Now are y' better! Very well, then, touchin' a shirt I left 'ere. Has the old woman sold it or lost it? Is she goin' to fork it out or does she want me to summons her for it? Go an' arsk *er. Look slippy. AMANDA. It's all right, Mr. Greensmith. It's been took pertikler care of. [Fetches it, and undoing the paper in which it is wrapped, displays the shirt to him proudly. HORACE. Jeroosalem! Did y' wash it yesterday? AMANDA. Yes, Mr. Greensmith. 148 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB HORACE. Not SO much o' y' Mr. Greensmith. 'Oo told y' to wash it yesterday! Did the old woman twig I was comin'? AMANDA. No, Mr. — 'Orris. I've washed it every week, ever since you left it so as to 'ave it ready for you. HORACE. S'help me, Jimmy, you must be 'ard up for some- thing to do! Y' don't think I'm going to pay for all that, doy'? AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. Greensmith. If you was to stuff the money down me throat wild horses wouldn't make me swallow it. HORACE. H'm ! Well, I ain't going to. What's the damage, anyhow.? AMANDA. We don't want you to pay anything, reelly. HORACE. Oh, we don't, don't we! That suits me Al. You may stick over the door then. Washers by appointment to 'Orris Greensmith, Esquire. Do you do all y'r work like that? Is this a charitable institution or what is it? AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, we aren't charitable, oh, not at all. You see we — that is / thought we should never see you no more. You'd been away so long — there seemed nothing else to think HORACE. Well, I'm jiggered. Deaders on the free list, eh? 'Oly Moses! AMANDA. You don't think it was a liberty, do you? HORACE {looks at her a moment and then hursts out laughing). Strike me silly if I ever came across anything quite as dotty before. I was dead, was I, and this was a blasted souvenir. 'Oo the blazes wanted a blasted souvenir of me? Not you ! AMANDA. I know it was a liberty, Mr. Greensmith. HORACE. 'Ere, 'andle me carefully. I shall faint. AMANDA. I'm very sorry if you're angry. HORACE. Was you 'ere when I come before? AMANDA {eagerly). Oh, yes, Mr. Orris. It was at a quarter to five one Wednesday — don't you recklekt? It was in October, the 15th and there was a crool fog all the 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 149 morning. You was coughin' and saying things about the weather. HORACE. Was I? AMANDA. Don't you remember? HORACE. I remember the fog — but then I remember a lot o' fogs. AMANDA. I've thought of it every day since. HORACE. 'Ere, what are you anyway? AMANDA. I'm a orphin. I don't say so but I am — only to you I mean, I — what'U you think of me, Mr. Greensmith ? — I — I was born in the Union. HORACE. I got no call to think one way or the other. AMANDA. I wouldn't 'a' told no one else. But I couldn't tell you — well, what I tell the others. HORACE. The others? Are there any more 'ere like you? AMANDA. Oh, no, I don't think there's any others anywhere like me. HORACE. No, I dessay not. AMANDA. Of course, I'm not very tall. We don't grow much in the work'ouse — but some o' them large girls is very fickle, don't you think so, Mr. Greensmith? HORACE. No girls is any good. AMANDA. Oh, Mr. Orris, you ain't married, are y'? HORACE. Not much. AMANDA (relieved). Oh — I thought jes fer a moment — you mustn't mind me. Oh, I am glad. HORACE. Married. Yah. Knows too much about it. AMANDA. I'm glad ye're not married, any way. Y' see, Mr. Greensmith, if you won't think it a liberty what I am tell- ing you, I always thought of you as a sort of fairy prince, y' see; and they aren't never married, are they? HORACE (stretches out one leg and looks at it dubiously). 'Ere, my 'ead '11 go if I stop much longer. A fairy — you've been ill, 'aven't you? AMANDA. Oh, no, Mr. 'Orris, I'm never ill. I'm very strong, and work ! Well, you should see me on a busy day ! It's only 150 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB HORACE. Only what? AMANDA. Well, when you ain't got much of y'r own you do dream about beautiful things, don't you? That's how I came to think of you. HORACE. Thank you — very kind of you, don't mention it. (Pause) Well, chuck us the shirt. AMANDA (brings it to him slowly). I suppose you'll send us some other things. HORACE. Don't know; can't say. (Amanda furtively v/ipes one eye) Hello. What's the matter with y'? AMANDA. Oh, nothing. HORACE. What's that crape for? AMANDA. I say it's for relations. HORACE. Oh, well, pull up your socks and grin, y' can't 'ave y' relations always, y' know. AMANDA. I never 'ad no relations. HORACE. Well, what d' y' wear the bow for then? Y' don't know what y're talking about. Y' wears it for your re- lations and you never 'ad none. Rottin' sort of goin' into mourning that. Where's y' father? (Amanda shakes her head) Oh, well — where's y' mother, anyway? AMANDA. She's dead — she died when I was quite little — oh, well, littler than I am now. But it ain't for 'er. HORACE. 'Oo is it for? AMANDA. You won't tell the other girls, will y'? HORACE. No. What should I want t' go jawin' about you for? AMANDA. You See, I tell them that I got a father who's rich — ever so rich — and who's coming to take me away, see, like in a story. I'm in disguise now, but one day 'e'U come and say "Apparel 'er in ermine," and then I shall go away and be a lady. I used to think he would really come, but now I guess 'e's dead, though I tell them 'e's comin'. I don't wear it for 'im though. I keep on changin' 'oo it's for. Y' see I felt I must wear it. (Looks up shyly) But I can take it oflf now, Mr. 'Orris. [A pause. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 151 HORACE. Well of all. Give us the shirt. AMANDA. Are y' goin' at once? HORACE. Well, since you are so pressin' I got about 'alf a minute t' waste. Now then. AMANDA. Nothin', I jes wanted to see you. Y' can smoke if y' like. HORACE. Make meself at 'ome, eh, and what for! [Sits on table. AMANDA {coming near to him left standing beside him). Y' said y' wasn't married. Are y' in love, Mr. Greensmith? HORACE. Oh, chuck it. What's that to do with you? AMANDA. I want to know pertickler. HORACE. Well, I ain't jes' now. AMANDA. I expect lots o' girls is in love with you. HORACE. Oh, yes. I can't 'ardly get down the street for 'em. AMANDA. You Wouldn't say I was pretty, would y', Mr. Greensmith? HORACE. I 'aven't thought about it. AMANDA. You Wouldn't think about it, would y'? HORACE {indulgently). W-ell AMANDA. Eh? but looks ain't everything, are they? Some o' them pretty girls they aren't content when one feller likes 'em, they wants a lot o' chaps to say as they're beautiful. HORACE. Don't I know it? 'Orris Greensmith ain't goin' to be one of them. AMANDA. You ain't very 'asty, are you? HORACE. Middhn'. What's up? AMANDA. I don't hardly like to tell y'. HORACE. 'Ere, what y' been doin' of? [Stojps in act of lighting pipe and stares at her toith match in his hand. AMANDA {wriggling in front of him). I want to tell y', Mr. Greensmith, but I'm afraid you won't like it. HORACE. Not knowing, can't say. Stand still, can't y'? AMANDA. Y' might turn round, will y', and look out the winder? I don't like bein' looked at — then I'll tell y'. 152 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB HORACE {stares at her hard a minute). Well, there ain't much to look at, is there? Now then. [Turns round and lights up pipe. AMANDA. Y' see — y' see — it's like this, Mr. 'Orris. You comin' in and seein' me last year and never comin' 'ere again all the girls what's 'ere says as 'ow you were in love with me. HORACE (turning round promptly). What! Me! Wodder they take me for? In love ! Lord save us. AMANDA. Y' know girls will talk, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Yuss, they talks right enough if you give them 'alf a chance. Well, is that what y' wanted to tell me, 'cause if so y' could 'a' kep' it to y'self. AMANDA. That ain't all. HORACE. 'Ope y' jolly well told 'em I wasn. AMANDA. No. I didn't tell 'em that. HORACE. D'y' mean to tell me a pack o' girls thinks as I — [Roars with laughter. Amanda stands shamefaced and nervous. AMANDA. I 'oped y' wouldn't laugh, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Wouldn't laugh. Ho, no ! but it is a bit thick, isn't it! So I'm in love with you, am 1? Would y' like t' get on the table and then y'r lovin' 'usband could give y' a kiss. [Amanda begins to get on table. HORACE (amazed). Did y' think I was really goin' to kiss y'? AMANDA. I should like y' to kiss me, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE (sinks into chair). Phew. 'Ere, I'm gettin' 'ot. Give us a chance. You go too quick fer me. AMANDA (squatting on the table and smoothing her dress and pulling it over her boots) . I didn't know as gentlemen didn't like bein' kissed. HORACE. 'Ere, let's look at y'. [Pause. AMANDA (looking at him diffidently). You are 'andsome, aren't you, Mr. 'Orris, but I s'pose you know that. HORACE. I've 'eard something about it. AMANDA. That ain't all what I told y' jes' now. 'OP-0-ME-THUMB 153 HORACE. What! AMANDA. All the other girls they've got fellers to give 'em things. HORACE. You don't say so. Well, you ain't goin' to catch me AMANDA. Oh, no, but I didn't like their sayin' as nobody ever giv' me anything, so I bin tellin' them as you gave me lots an' 'caps o' things — dimonds and joolery and watches — 'andsome, y' know. I didn't know as you'd come back. I'd waited so long — and at last I went into mournin' — 'but I kep' on sayin' about the presents and letters, and now I 'aven't even anything to be in mournin' for, and they'll say as they always knew as I was kiddin', and {sniffs) they didn't — they reelly thought it was true what I told them. I know it was a liberty, Mr. 'Orris, but I 'oped you wouldn't mind. HORACE {whistles. Slowly) . They thinks as I've been stuffing you up with presents. AMANDA. Yes, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Well, you've just about made a nice mess of things, ain't y'.? AMANDA. Couldn't you HORACE. Couldn't I do it really. Not much. AMANDA. I didn't mean that, but as you ain't dead couldn't you go on sayin' nothin' and let me go on pretendin' ? HORACE. No. AMANDA. It wouldn't cost y' nothin'. Why won't y'? HORACE. Yes. Why won't I? AMANDA {walking away very much downcast). I thought you might like to oblige a lady. HORACE. What next! {Amanda goes up to window and dries her eyes with her apron) What 'r y' snuffling about, y' little beggar? AMANDA. Nothin', Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. They must be a precious lot o' mugs them girls if they swaller a tale like that. I never heard o' such a thing. [He leans against table with his back to audience. 154 'OP-0-ME-THUMB AMANDA. They didn't believe it for a long while, but now they believes it, an' about me father, too. HORACE. Father! Didn't y' say he was a gonner AMANDA (faintly and tearfully). I don't know, though I guess. But {rather proudly) they think I've got a father as rich as ever 'e could be, and 'andsome, more 'andsome even than you. HORACE. Pretty sort o' father to leave you in this 'ole then. AMANDA. They think 'e's comin' to fetch me. HORACE. Best 'urry up I should say. AMANDA (gives a little gesture). Oh, don't you see! I got nothing, Mr. 'Orris — nothing. [She subsides and burying her face in the hollow of her arm cries silently. Pause. HORACE. 'Ere, funny, you needn't drown the place out. Tell 'em what you blasted well like. I don't care. (Kicks a clothes basket) I don't care. AMANDA. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Yes, oh, Mr. 'Orris, but you don't catch me com- ing 'ere no more. AMANDA. You won't comc 'ere again! HORACE. No fear. Is it likely.? What d'ye take me for.? AMANDA. Then I don't know as I'll tell 'em anything then. HORACE. Suit yourself. AMANDA. I'd rather — oh, I don't care what they think. HORACE. Look 'ere, nipper. (He comes to her) I'm goin' to talk like a father to you. You're puttin' y'r money on the wrong 'orse — not as I'm a wrong'un mindje, but if you was to talk to some chaps like this AMANDA (quickly). Oh, but I wouldn't. HORACE. That's all right then. Now you give me my shirt and I'll be off and (generously) you tell those girls just what you damn well please. AMANDA (looking at the parcel lingeringly) . You're goin' to take it. HORACE. Time I did, isn't it? AMANDA. I shan't 'ave nothin' to remember y' by. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 155 HORACE. Would y' like a lock o' me 'air? 'Ere — 'ere's a present for y'. {He takes a pin out of his tie) Gold pin, 42 carat, diamond mounted, pearl centre, em'rald border encrusted with rubies. (Polishes it on his sleeve) New cut 2-9. There, my dear. AMANDA (delighted). Oh, Mr. 'Orris! HORACE. Now we're quits. AMANDA (excitedly). I did want something to show to S'leste, and it is lovely, lovely, but — but HORACE. What now? AMANDA. It means as you're goin' for ever. Couldn't — couldn't you keep it and not HORACE. Not what? AMANDA. Not go. It — it 's like you dyiu' all ovcr again. HORACE. Well of all the treats AMANDA (ivith a neiv thought). Where are y' goin' now? HORACE. 'Ome, I s'pose. AMANDA. We — we do send things HORACE. What are y' drivin' at? AMANDA. Say I was to bring y' this. Or if you'd wait a little bit I might carry it out for you. It's nice strollin' in the summer evenin's, Mr. 'Orris, and it'd be no trouble. HORACE (stooping, with his hands on his knees, and thus bringing his face on to a level with hers). Come with me, d'y' mean? AMANDA. Yes. HORACE. Yes. We could go for strolls every evenin', eh? AMANDA (with a long breath). Oh — ye-es. HORACE (mimicking her). Ye-es! What d' y' think my friends 'd say? Why, as we was walkin' out. AMANDA. / wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. But what price me? AMANDA. I shouldn't expect y' to marry me. HORACE. Much obliged. Thank y'. AMANDA. I didn't even dream as y'd marry me really. HORACE. Well then, if you was to come messin' about with me what'd your girls 'ere say? You don't want to lose y' character, I s'pose. 156 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB AMANDA. I wouldn't mind, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. So 'elp me, Bob. You don't seem to mind any- thing. {He walks half-way to the door and pauses) 'Ere. Are all o' you girls goin' out a Monday? AMANDA. The others are. Rose and S'leste and Clem. — that's Mrs. Galloway. HORACE. But what about you? AMANDA. I — I'm supposed to be in mournin'. HORACE. 'As nobody asked y'? (Amanda hangs her head) 'As nobody asked y'? AMANDA. I — (she bites her lips) — I can't pretend any more. (Breaking down) No. Nobody's never asked me. (She sohs) I s'pose now nobody never will. I see 'em all start times and times with their fellas. Oh, it don't matter. Only I didn't mean as you should know. [Sits. HORACE. Where are they goin'? AMANDA (sobbing gently). 'Amstead. Oh, it don't matter, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Yes it do. (He moves about restlessly for a minute, then stares at her intently) Look 'ere. Shall I take y'? AMANDA. D' y' mean it? HORACE. Did I say it? Very well then. AMANDA. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. I'll get a trap and we'll go to 'Amstead. AJMANDA (in ecstasy). Oh, Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. All right. That's settled. I'll call for you 'ere at nine sharp Monday mornin'. AMANDA. Y' won't change y' mind. HORACE. No. If I say I'll do a thing I'll do it. AMANDA. And I may tell S'leste and the others. HORACE. Tell the 'ole world if y' like. Tell all Soho. AMANDA (dancing and clapping her hands and singing). Oh, it'll be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful! I'll wear me blue dress that buttons up the back, and I've got a 'at as I 'ardly worn yet. Won't the other girls stare! Not one of 'em's got a fella like you. Rose's Jim — why 'e's not 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 157 much bigger than me. And S'leste's Albit — 'e's only a dustman. And as for Mr. Galloway — if 'e's sober be nine o'clock in the mornin' Clem'U 'ave something to be thank- ful for. Oh, Mr. 'Orris. Sat'dy, Sundy, Mondy. A 'ole day to look forward in. There won't be a 'appier lady anywhere Monday than what I shall be. You'll be 'ere be nine. (Coming back to him) That's when the others go. HORACE. D' they start from 'ere? AMANDA. Yes. HORACE (shifting his feet). Nine o'clock, that's all right, but I think it'd be better to meet by the Dispens'ry, see — in Paul street. AMANDA (her face falling a little). Paul street — right down there? HORACE. What's the matter with Paul street? Everyone knows the Dispens'ry. It's a good place to meet, ain't it? AMANDA. I should 'a' liked you to come 'ere. HORACE. What's the difference? AMANDA (reluctantly). I should 'a' liked 'em all to see me goin' off with y'. They won't more than 'alf believe else. HORACE. Paul street's much more convenient. AMANDA. There won't be the crowd there is 'ere. HORACE. No. That's it. We don't want no crowds, do we? It'll be much better to go quietly from Paul street, won't it? You be there at nine and I'll come along and pick y' up. Then we shan't 'ave no waitin' about. (Amanda looks at him slowly) You could be at the corner, couldn't you, where that little court is, and come out when I whistled. AMANDA (still looking at him). Yes. I needn't show me- self till you come. HORACE. That's right. (A little pause) And er — I was thinkin' there's such 'undreds of people goes to 'Amstead. We don't want to go there, do we? What'd y' say to the forest? AMANDA. Eppin'? 158 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB HORACE. Yes. I know a nice quiet little bit of it where we could go. AMANDA (meekly). I don't mind, Mr. 'Orris. [She loalks away from him. HORACE. All right then. Monday, nine o'clock. Paul street. Blest if I wasn't goin' without me shirt after all. Ta-ta. [Is about to go. AMANDA {calling him hack just as he is at the door). Mr. 'Orris. HORACE. Yes. AMANDA. I — I can't go after all. HORACE {coming hack). Can't go! AMANDA. No. HORACE. What d' y' mean, can't go? AMANDA. What I say. I — {recovering herself with an effort) — I been pretendin'. Just to see what you'd do. HORACE. Pretendin' ! AMANDA. Yes. {Nervous and excited, but gaining confidence as she proceeds) You see I shouldn't be allowed to go out with strangers. My people wouldn't let me. I've been brought up different. I'm afraid you'll be very angry, but none of that about me bein' a orphin or born in the Union is true. I'm the child of poor but respectable parents, and I've bin very strictly brought up, and so, though I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Greensmith, I mustn't accept your kind invitation. HORACE. Strike me pink! AMANDA. You don't mind me 'avin' a bit of a lark with y', do y'.'* It was so dull 'ere while the others was out. I couldn't 'elp it. Ha, ha, ha. If you was to seen y'r own face! You got a soft 'eart, that I will say. Ha, ha, ha. HORACE. Made a fool of me, 'ave y'. All right my girl. Wait till I bring y' more washin' to do. AMANDA. There, don't be angry. HORACE. Angry. 'Oo's angry? It's enough to make any- one angry. Why AMANDA. Garn. You know very well as it's a relief. 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB 159 HORACE. Relief? AMANDA (half hysterical). Not to 'ave to take me out — a little 'op-o'-me-thumb like me. Ain't it now.'^ And 'ave everybody laughin' at y', and askin' y' what it was, and where y'd picked it up, and why they 'adn't drowned it when it was born. Ho, ho. It'd be a poor world, eh, if we didn't get a bit o' fun out of it some'ow, and some of us was meant to supply all the fun for the others, it's my opinion. Lord, when you thought I was cryin' I thought I should 'a' died. Laugh! Whenever I think of it I shall most split meself. Y' don't mind, old man, do y'? HORACE. I've a good mind to wring y' neck for y'. AMANDA. No, don't do that. May I keep the pin? HORACE. Keep what y' like. AMANDA. I will then. Now say y' ain't angry before y' go. HORACE. I'll be blowed if I do. AMANDA. Jes' to show there's no ill feelin'. HORACE. Git out. AMANDA. Say it. [She stands looking up at him tremulously. HORACE. 'Ere. (Stares at her hard, then takes her hands and pulls her round to the light) Why! What'r-ye playin' at? Tell the truth and shame the devil. Twig? I was a fool to say as I'd take y'. We wasn't made for each other — what d'ye call yerself, 'op-o'-me-thumb? but you're a game little 'un, and 'Orris Greensmith's goin' to sling 'is bloomin' 'ook. See! Now gi' us that kiss I asked y' for. [Kisses her quickly and in a shame-faced manner, but very kindly, then whips up hat and shirt and goes out quietly. She stands for a moment or two swaying. When she looks up he is gone. AMANDA. 'E kissed me! (Wonderingly) 'E kissed me. 0-oh. (She looks round and begins mechanically to put the room tidy. Presently she bethinks her of the pin. She takes it out of the bosom of her dress where she has stuck it) 'E was ashamed of me, too. I s'pose I ought to spurn it. I ought really to 'a' thrown it at 'is false feet and said : "Take 160 'OP-O'-ME-THUMB back the jew'ls with which you 'ave loaded me, they are poisonin' me," but (shaking her head and rubbing the stones on her sleeve to make them shine) I can't. Oh, Mr. 'Orris, you've broken my 'eart and stuck a pin in it. But you did kiss me. You can't take back y' kiss. I shan't wait to hear their talk. Me pretendin's over and done with. (She pulls off her crape bow and holds it to her lips) There's nobody — nobody now for me to pretend . Oh, Mr. 'Orris — • Mr. 'Orris. [She crouches in a shabby little heap in the middle oj the empty room as the CURTAIN FALLS THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE COSMO GORDON-LENNOX Cosmo Gordon-Lennox was born in 1869. For some years, between 1894 and 1906, he enjoyed wide experience as an actor under the name Cosmo Stuart. His most important roles were in Wilde's "An Ideal Husband", Anthony Hope's "The Adventure of Lady Ursula", and Henry Arthur Jones' "The Princess' Nose." He retired from the stage in 1906, devoting a large part of his time to the writing of plays, many of which were written in collaboration. The plays of Mr. Gordon-Lennox are preeminently stage plays, written by an actor for actors. They are soundly con- structed, conventionally effective, — little more. "The Im- pertinence of the Creature" is one of those "circumstance pieces" that are intended solely to amuse. The circumstance for which it was prepared was a Royal performance; it was first performed at Marlborough House in presence of "T.M. the King and Queen, T.M. the King and Queen of Denmark, T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales," in 1907. PLAYS Plays marked with * are in one act only. Becky Sharp (1901) The Marriage of Kitty (In collaboration with (1903) R. S. Hichens) The Freedom of Suzanne The Little French Milliner (1904) (1902) 162 THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE The Indecision of Mr. Kings- bury (1905) Miquette (1907) The Thief (1907) (From the French) *The Impertinence of the Creature (1907) Her Sister (1907) (In collaboration with Clyde Fitch) Angela (1907) Helena's Path (1910) (In collaboration with Anthony Hope) Primrose (1912) (From the French) The New Secretary (1913) Frisco Sal (1913) (In collaboration with Dion Clayton Calthorp) *The Van Dyck (1914) (From the French) "The Marriage of Kitty" and "The Impertinence of the Creature" are published by Samuel French, New York. THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE A DUOLOGUE By COSMO GORDON-LENNOX "The Impertinence of the Creature" was first produced at London in 1907. Characters Lady Millicent, A widow An Unknown Gentleman CoPTHiaHT, 1909, By Cosmo Gqedon-Lhnnox. Reprinted by permission of Samuel French. THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE Scene. A boudoir leading from a London ballroom. Enter Lady Millicent. Her manner is flurried and annoyed; she looks off as she hurries on. LADY MILLICENT. The impertinence of the creature! Thank heavens at last I've got rid of him ! (She sits, fanning her- self. Enter a gentleman, timidly and shyly; he advances awkwardly toward the Lady; she sees him) Oh ! {She turns her head away from him, he advances nearer to her. She crosses and sits on the opposite side of the stage. A pause; he follows her shyly; she rises and goes to exit; he crosses and gets before her) Really, this is outrageous — and absurd. How dare you persecute me in this way.f^ GENTLEMAN. I didn't mean LADY MILLICENT. You didn't mean. Have you or have you not been following me about the room ever since I came to this horrid ball? GENTLEMAN. Well, I LADY MILLICENT, Don't deny it. GENTLEMAN. I dou't 1 LADY MILLICENT. And I dou't kuow you, I'm sure I don't know you. Do I.-* GENTLEMAN. No — I LADY MILLICENT {violently). Then how dare you? How dare you? How dare you? {She breaks her fan) If you don't answer me, I shall lose my temper in a minute. GENTLEMAN. Well — cr — cr LADY MILLICENT. For heaven's sake, don't stammer. It's extremely fortunate for you that I don't see a man I know here, whom I can ask to protect me from your insolence. But I don't know a soul in the room. I never saw such 166 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE an extraordinary lot of people; wherever they come from, I can't think. What an entertainment! GENTLEMAN. It is dull. LADY MiLLicENT. It's extremely bad manners to criticise the hospitality that's offered to you. If you find it dull, why don't you go home to bed? GENTLEMAN. I Can't! LADY MILLICENT. I suppose you mean that for an exagger- ated compliment. How dare you annoy me in this way? GENTLEMAN. I don't Want to annoy you. I LADY MILLICENT. In hcavcn's name, then, what do you want? GENTLEMAN. I — I Wanted to ask you — er LADY MILLICENT. If it's a Subscription to a charity, I don't usually take my purse with me to a ball. GENTLEMAN. I don't Want a subscription. I want — er — to take you down to supper. LADY MILLICENT. Ricu quc ^a! Really! I suppose you'll say next I look as if I was starving, and could only be saved from inanition by lukewarm soup and bad champagne. GENTLEMAN (with a smile). The champagne's all right. LADY MILLICENT. If you mean you've been indulging in too much of it, I shan't take that as an excuse. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. GENTLEMAN. Do you mean to say I'm drunk? LADY MILLICENT. It Wasn't I Said so. You said so GENTLEMAN. I — UeVCr! LADY MILLICENT. Pleasc — please don't contradict me. I've been lenient with you up till now, but I will not be insulted. GENTLEMAN. I didn't mean to insult you. My name is LADY MILLICENT. I don't Want to know your name. It doesn't interest me in the least. Now listen to me. It's true I don't know a soul at this ball, I don't even know my hostess. My sister Eleanor sent me an invitation. She knows these people, and I can't think why she hasn't ar- rived instead of leaving me to battle with these horrid IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 167 creatures and their dreadful guests. Eleanor's so dread- fully selfish. GENTLEMAN. I'm SO sorry that LADY MiLLicENT. Please don't insult my relations. My sister's selfishness has nothing to do with you. But what I was going to say was this, although I don't know my hostess, I could easily have complained to her of your conduct, but I'm too kindhearted. Be reasonable; if you wanted to make my acquaintance — why didn't you get someone to introduce you to me properly? GENTLEMAN. I hardly know anyone here. LADY MILLICENT. Well, I dou't blame you for that. I never saw such a gathering in my life. GENTLEMAN. Ha! ha!! LADY MILLICENT. Don't laugh in that idiotic way. The fact of your knowing no one — (suddenly) Young man, were you invited to this ball? Have you got an invitation? GENTLEMAN. No, I LADY MILLICENT. Of course I dou't mean have you got one in your pocket. But did you have one sent to you? GENTLEMAN. No ! LADY MILLICENT. Good heavciis, of all the brazen creatures ! You must leave the house at once. GENTLEMAN. I can't! LADY MILLICENT. But supposing you're turned out. It will be too dreadful. Think of the scandal! GENTLEMAN. You needn't worry! I LADY MILLICENT. Don't flatter yourself I care what happens to you. I don't in the least. But if there's a scandal, my name will be mixed up in it. People will say you came here to see me. GENTLEMAN. I did Want to see you awfully — but when I tell you LADY MILLICENT. I knew it. It's really too absurd. I've never set eyes on you before to-night. GENTLEMAN. I've Seen you, though, often since I've been in London. Whenever I've had the chance. 168 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE LADY MiLLiCENT (a little mollified). Don't be so absurd. You know that your desire to see me is no excuse. It's not as if I were a beautiful woman. GENTLEMAN. You're — ripping. LADY MILLICENT {half pleased). Really! GENTLEMAN. Your dress is — ripping, and that thing in your hair — you look — er — ripping. LADY MILLICENT. You don't Seem to have much command of the English language. This is rather a nice gown. [Smiling. GENTLEMAN. You look SO uice whcu you smile. So good- tempered and — and LADY MILLICENT (chafing). Ripping? GENTLEMAN. Ycs, ripping. LADY MILLICENT. I thought SO. GENTLEMAN. You're awfully clever, too, I expect. LADY MILLICENT. I expect you're awfully silly. GENTLEMAN. Perhaps I am. But I like clever people. I think they're awfully — awfully LADY MILLICENT. Ripping. GENTLEMAN. No — joUy. (He laughs, she laughs at him) There, you're not angry any more now. Let me tell you what I was going to say when I asked you to come down to supper with me. The fact is, I LADY MILLICENT. Oil, really, you are the most persistently annoying person ! I can't leave the house myself, because I've promised my sister to go down to supper with some- one. GENTLEMAN. You Can't go down with anyone but me, be- cause I am LADY MILLICENT. Please, please, I've told you I don't want to get you into trouble because you seem to be a gentle- man, and I'm sorry for you; you seem to be rather nice — I mean a silly sort of person, and I daresay you've no friends to advise you and take you in hand. GENTLEMAN. I wish you'd take me in hand. LADY MILLICENT. Well, if you'll Only go away now, you shall IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE 169 find someone to introduce you to me another day, and I'll forget your conduct to-night. Please go. I ask you to. I must stay to supper. It's really unfair of you. Please go quietly — you're making me talk like a policeman. GENTLEMAN. I wou't go unlcss you tell me who you want to go down to supper with. LADY MiLLicENT. I decline [Rising. GENTLEMAN (very entreatingly) . Oh, please, do. I like hear- ing you talk. You were beginning to be so nice just now. Please tell me. Don't be unkind. LADY MILLICENT. Well, I GENTLEMAN. Please. LADY MILLICENT. I'm surc I don't know why I consent. Well, will you go away after I've told you? GENTLEMAN. I wiU, as soou as possible. LADY MILLICENT. Well, then, as you're not invited, perhaps you don't know that our hostess is receiving the guests of her brother, who is really giving this dreadful ball. Poor man! GENTLEMAN. Ha, ha! LADY MILLICENT. What? GENTLEMAN. I COUghed. LADY MILLICENT. Her brother is Herbert Barwell, the great explorer — who only returned to London the other day. I've been dying to meet him. GENTLEMAN {pleased). Have you? LADY MILLICENT. Dying to meet him. GENTLEMAN. Why? LADY MILLICENT. He's such a splendid fellow. I've read all the story of what he's done. He's a hero. GENTLEMAN (deprecatingly) . Oh, a hero! LADY MILLICENT. Yes, a hcro, and I adore brave men. Think of the privations he endured. GENTLEMAN. Oh, they weren't so bad. LADY MILLICENT. Not SO bad! Without water — in that awful climate, with his men dying round him like flies. 170 IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE He carried his servant on his back for three days and three nights, and saved his Hfe. He's an honor to his country. GENTLEMAN. Oh, you make too much of it. LADY MiLLicENT {rising). Do I? I'm sorry to hear you say you think so. I'm sorry for any man who can think so. But it's of no importance what you think. I am to be in- troduced to Mr. Barwell, and he is to take me down to supper. Now I have kept my promise — keep yours — go. {He sits) I've had enough of this. I shall go to our hostess — she looks a vulgar, fat old woman, but she won't refuse me. I shall ask her to tell her brother to turn you out of the house. GENTLEMAN. You can't do that. LADY MILLICENT. Can't I? GENTLEMAN. No! LADY MILLICENT. Why not? GENTLEMAN. Bccausc I've to take you down to supper. I'm him. LADY MILLICENT. You'rc talking neither grammar nor sense. GENTLEMAN. I am the man who is giving this dreadful ball; you're quite right, it is rather dreadful — my sister — you're right again, she is rather vulgar and very fat — told me to find you and introduce myself, and take you down to supper. LADY MILLICENT. What? GENTLEMAN. I am Herbert Barwell. LADY MILLICENT. Why ou earth didn't you say so before? GENTLEMAN. Well LADY MILLICENT. Oh, Can you ever forgive me for the dread- ful things I've been saying? GENTLEMAN. You Said some nice things about me. May I say some nice things to you — some very nice things indeed? LADY MILLICENT. Don't you think it's time you took me down to have some GENTLEMAN. Of the bad champagne? LADY MILLICENT. I expcct it's ripping. [She takes his arm> and they go off laughing. CURTAIN. THE STEPMOTHER ARNOLD BENNETT Arnold Bennett was born in the Shelton district, in 1867, not far from the "Five Towns" which he later cele- brated in his novels. Although he received his early edu- cation at Newcastle-under-Lyme, near to his birthplace, he matriculated at London University about 1885 and studied law in his father's office. In 1889 he left the "Five Towns" to establish himself definitely at London. It is probable that he received his first encouragement to write as a result of his work as London correspondent of a newspaper in his home district. He also won a prize for a contribution to a London paper, and in the early nineties he had seriously entered the field of literature as a contributor to the "Yellow Book." From 1895 on, Bennett turned "free-lance journal- ist, contributing all manner of articles to all manner of maga- zines. He attained very soon a position of some security and responsibility, as sub-editor and subsequently as editor of the woman's journal. Woman. ..." He also "acted, during this period, as a fluent and omniscient reviewer, a dramatic critic, a playwright and a publisher's reader." The years of apprenticeship were almost over. "Already he had decided to be a successful author, and, as he viewed it, the keeping of a journal was a most valuable part of the apprenticeship to that career." A passage from this journal (1899) reveals not only the extent of work accomplished, but throws light on the young author's perseverance and his pride in work achieved. "This year I have written 335,340 172 THE STEPMOTHER words, grand total 224 articles and stories, and four install- ments of a serial called ' The Gates of Wrath ' have actually- been published; also my book of plays, 'Polite Farces.' My work included six or eight short stories not yet published, also the greater part of a 55,000 word serial . . . and the whole draft, 80,000 words, of my Staffordshire novel, 'Anna Tellwright.' " Arnold Bennett's most characteristic work is found in his novels, not in his plays. "The Stepmother", one of the earliest plays, is a slight trifle, better adapted to the stage, however, than some of his later efforts. In a Note prefacing the volume "Polite Farces ", he says: "The three farces comprising the present book have been written for drawing-room performance. Dumas 'pere, the father of modern drama, once said that all he needed was 'four trestles, four boards, two actors, and a passion.' For myself I have dispensed with the trestles, the boards, and the passion, since none of these things is suitable for a dmwing-room." PLAYS *The Stepmother (1899) Milestones (1912) *A Good Woman (1899) (In collaboration with *A Question of Sex (1899) Edward Knoblauch) Cupid and Commonsense The Title (1918) (1908) Judith (1919) What the Public Wants Sacred and Profane Love (1909) (1920) The Honeymoon (1911) Body and Soul (1920) The Great Adventure (1911) All of Bennett's plays, with the exception of the "Polite Farces" ("The Stepmother", "A Good Woman", and "A Question of Sex"), are published separately by George H. Doran Company, New York. "Polite Farces", as a single volume, by the same publisher. THE STEPMOTHER 173 References: F. J. Harvey Darton, "Arnold Bennett", Henry Holt and Company, New York; F. T. Cooper, "Some English Story Tellers", Holt; H. T. and W. Follett, "Some Modern Novelists", Holt; R. A. Scott-James, "Personality in Literature", Martin Seeker, London. Magazines: Bookman, vol. 34, p, 325, New York; Living Age, Series 8, vol. 4, p. 771, Boston. THE STEPMOTHER FARCE IN ONE ACT By ARNOLD BENNETT "The Stepmother" has not been produced professionally. Characters Cora Prout, a Popular Novelist and a Widow, 30 , Adrian Prout, her Stepson, 20 Thomas Gardner, a Doctor, 35 Christine Feversham, Mrs, Front's Secretary, 20 Reprinted from "Polite Farces," by permission of the publisher, George H. Doran Company, THE STEPMOTHER Scene. Mrs. ProuVs study: luxuriously furnished; large table in centre, upon which are a new novel, press-cuttings, and the usual apparatus of literary compositions. Christine is seated at the large table, ready for work, and awaiting the ad- vent of Mrs. Prout. To pass the time she picks up the novel, the leaves of which are not cut, and glances at a page here and there. Enter Mrs. Prout, hurried and preoccupied; the famous novelist is attired in a plain morning gown, which in the per- fection of its cut displays the beauty of her figure. She nods absently to Christine, and sits down in an armchair away from the table. CHRISTINE. Good morning, Mrs. Prout. I'm afraid you are still sleeping badly. MRS. PROUT. Do I look it, girl? CHRISTINE. You don't specially look it, Mrs. Prout. But I observe. You are my third novelist, and they have all taught me to observe, j Before I took up novelists I was with a Member of Parliament, and he never observed any- thing except five-line whips. MRS. PROUT. Really! Five-line whips! Oblige me by put- ting that down in Notebook No. 2. There will be an M.P. in that wretched thirty-thousand-word thing I've promised for the Christmas number of the New York Sur- priser and it might be useful. I might even make an epigram out of it. CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Writes.) MRS. PROUT. And what are your observations about me? CHRISTINE (while writing). Well, this is twice in three weeks that you've been here five minutes late in the morning. MRS. PROUT. Is that all? You don't think my stuff's falling off? 178 THE STEPMOTHER CHRISTINE. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout! I A;now it's not falling off. I was just going to tell you. The butler's been in, and wished me to inform you that he begged to give notice. (Looking up) It seems that last night you ordered him to cut the .leaves of our new novel. (Patting book maternally) He said he just looked into it, and he thinks it's disgraceful to ask a respectable butler to cut the leaves of such a book. So he begs to give warning. Oh, no, Mrs. Prout, your stuff isn't falling off. MRS. PROUT (grimly). What did you say to him, girl? CHRISTINE. First I looked at him, and then I said, "Brown, you will probably be able to get a place on the reviewing staff of The Methodist Recorder." MRS. PROUT. Christine, one day, I really believe, you will come to employ a secretary of your own. CHRISTINE. I hope so, Mrs. Prout. But I intend to keep off the morbid introspection line. You do that so awfully well. I think I shall go in for smart dialogue, with mar- quises and country houses, and a touch of old-fashioned human nature at the bottom. It appears to me that's what's coming along very shortly. . . . Shall we begin, Mrs. Prout? MRS. PROUT (disinclined). Yes, I suppose so. (Clearing her throat) By the way, anything special in the press-cuttings? CHRISTINE. Nothing very special. (Fingering the pile of press- cuttings) The Morning Call says, "genius in every line." MRS. PROUT (blase). Hum! CHRISTINE. The Daily Reporter: "Cora Prout may be tal- 1 ented — we should hesitate to deny it — but she is one of several of our leading novelists who should send themselves to a Board School in order to learn grammar." MRS. PROUT. Grammar again ! They must keep a grammar in the office! Personally I think its frightfully bad form to talk about grammar to a lady. But they never had any taste at the Reporter. Don't read me any more. Let us commence work, CHRISTINE. Which will you do, Mrs. Prout? (Consulting THE STEPMOTHER 179 a diary of engagements) There's the short story for the Illustrated Monthly, six thousand, promised for next Sat- urday. There's the article on "Women's Diversions" for the British Review — they wrote for that yesterday. There's the serial that begins in the Sunday Daily Sentinel in Sep- tember — you've only done half the first instalment of that. And of course there's Heart Ache. MRS. PROUT. I think I'll go on with Heart Ache. I feel it coming. I'll do the short story for the Illustrated to- morrow. Where had I got to? CHRISTINE {choosing the correct notebook, reads). "The in- animate form of the patient lay like marble on the marble slab of the operating- table. 'The sponge. Nurse,' said the doctor, 'where is it?' " That's where you'd got to. MRS. PROUT. Yes. I remember. New line. " Isabel gazed at him imperturbably." New line. Quote-marks. " 'I fear. Doctor,' she remarked, 'that in a moment of forget- fulness you have sewn it up in our poor patient.' " New line. Quote-marks. " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I have.' " Rather good, that, Christine, eh? [Christine writes in shorthand. CHRISTINE. Oh, Mrs. Prout, I think it's beautiful. So staccato and crisp. By the way, I forgot to tell you that there's a leader in the Daily Snail on that frightful anony- mous attack in the Forum against your medical accuracy. (Looking at Mrs. Prout, who is silent, but shows signs of agi- tation) You remember — "Medicine in Fiction." The Snail backs up the Forum for all it's worth. . . . Mrs. Prout, you are ill. I was sure you were. What can I get for you? MRS. PROUT (weakly wiping her eyes). Nonsense, Christine. I am a little unstrung, that is all. I want nothing. CHRISTINE. Your imagination is too much for you. MRS. PROUT (meekly). Perhaps so. CHRISTINE (firmly). But it isn't all due to an abnormal imagination. You've never been quite cheerful since you turned Mr. Adrian out. ) 180 THE STEPMOTHER MRS. PROUT. You forget yourself, Christine. CHRISTINE. I forget nothing, Mrs. Prout, myself least of all. Mr. Adrian is your dead husband's son, and you turned him out of your house, and now you're sorry. MRS. PROUT. Christine, you know perfectly well that I — er — requested him to go because he would insist on making love to you, which interfered with our work. Besides, it was not quite nice for a man to make love to the secretary of his stepmother. I wonder you are indelicate enough to refer to the matter. You should never have permitted his advances. CHRISTINE. I didn't permit them. I wasn't asked to. I tolerated them. I hadn't been secretary to a lady- novelist with a stepson before, and I wasn't quite sure what was included in the duties. I always like to give satisfaction. MRS. PROUT. You do givc satisfaction. Let that end the discussion. CHRISTINE (pouting; turning to her notebook; reads) . " ' Damn !' said the doctor, 'so I have.'" {Pause) " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I have.'" [Pazise. MRS. PROUT. Christine, did you find out who was the author of that article on "Medicine in Fiction".? CHRISTINE. Is that what's bothering you, Mrs. Prout? Of course it was a nasty attack, but it is very unlike you to trouble about critics. MRS. PROUT. It has hurt me more than I can say. That was why I asked you to make a few discreet inquiries. CHRISTINE. I did ask at my club. MRS. PROUT. And what did they think there? CHRISTINE. They laughed at me, and said every one knew you had written it yourself just to keep the silly season alive, July being a sickly month for reputations. MRS. PROUT. What did you say to that? CHRISTINE. I should prefer not to repeat it. THE STEPMOTHER 181 MRS. PROUT. Christine, I insist. Your modesty is becom- ing a disease. CHRISTINE. I said they were fools MRS. PROUT. A little abrupt, perhaps, but effective. CHRISTINE. Not to SCO that the grammar was different from ours. MRS. PROUT. Oh! that was what you said, was it? CHRISTINE. It was, and it settled them. MRS. PROUT (assuming a confidential air). Christine, I be- lieve I know who wrote that article. CHRISTINE. Who.f* MRS. PROUT. Dr. Gardner. [Bursts into tears. CHRISTINE {soothing her). But he lives on the floor below, in the very flat underneath this. MRS. PROUT (choking back her sohs). Yes. It is too dreadful. CHRISTINE. But he comes here nearly every evening. MRS. PROUT (sharply). Who told you that.? CHRISTINE. Now, Mrs. Prout, let me implore you to be calm. The butler told me. I didn't ask him, and as I cannot be expected to foretell what my employer's butler will say before he opens his mouth, I am not to blame. (Compresses her lips) Shall we continue? MRS. PROUT. Christine, do you think it was Dr. Gardner? I would give worlds to know. CHRISTINE (coldly analytic). Do you mean that you would give worlds to know that it was Dr. Gardner, or that it wasn't Dr. Gardner? Or would give worlds merely to know the author's name — no matter who he might be? MRS. PROUT (sighing). You are dreadfully unsympathetic this morning. CHRISTINE, I am placid, nothing else. Please recollect that when you engaged me you asked if you might rely on me to be placid, as your previous secretary, when you dictated the pathetic chapters, had wept so freely into her notebook that she couldn't transcribe her stuff, besides permanently 182 THE STEPMOTHER injuring her eyesight. Since you ask my opinion as to Dr. Gardner being the author of this attack on you, I say that he isn't. Apart from the facts that he lives on the floor below, and that he is, so the butler says, a constant visitor in the evenings, there is the additional fact — a fact which I have several times observed for myself without the assistance of the butler — that he likes you. MRS. PROUT. You have noticed that. It is true. But the question is: Does he like me sufficiently not to attack my work in the public press? That is the point. The writer of that cruel article begins by saying that he has no per- sonal animus, and that he is actuated solely by an en- thusiasm for the cause of medicine and the medical pro- fession. CHRISTINE. You mean to infer, Mrs. Prout, that the author of the article might, as a man, like you, while as a doctor he despised you? MRS. PROUT (whimpering again). That is my suspicion. CHRISTINE. But Dr. Gardner does more than like you. He adores you. MRS. PROUT. He adores my talent, my genius, my fame, my wealth; but does he adore me? I am not an ordinary woman, and it is no use pretending that I am. I must think of these things. CHRISTINE. Neither is Dr. Gardner an ordinary doctor. His researches into toxicology MRS. PROUT. His researches are nothing to me. I wish he wasn't a doctor at all. CHRISTINE. Even doctors have their place in the world, Mrs. Prout. MRS. PROUT. They should not meddle with fiction, poking their noses CHRISTINE. But if fiction meddles with them? . . . You know fiction is really very meddlesome. It pokes its nose with great industry. MRS. PROUT (pulling herself together). Christine, you have never understood me. Let us continue. THE STEPMOTHER 183 CHRISTINE (ivith an offended air, turning once more to her note- book). " 'Damn!' said the doctor, 'so I have.' " MRS. PROUT {coughing). New Hne. "A smile flashed across the lips of Isabel as she took up a glittering knife " {Gives a great sob) Oh, Christine! I'm sure Dr. Gardner wrote it. CHRISTINE. Very well, madam. He wrote it. We have at last settled something. {Mrs. Prout buries her face in her hands. Christine looks up, and after an instant's pause springs toward her) You poor dear! You are perfectly hysterical this morning. You must go and lie down for a little. A horizontal posture is what you need. MRS. PROUT. Perhaps you are right. I will leave you for an hour. {Totters to her feet) Take down this note for Dr. Gardner. He may call this morning. In fact, I rather think he will. "The answer to the question is 'No' " — capital N. CHRISTINE. Shall I sign it? MRS. PROUT. Yes; sign it "C. P." And if he comes, give it him yourself, and say that I can see no one. And, Christine, would you mind {crying gently again) seeing the b-b-butler, and try to reason him into a sensible attitude towards my n-n-novels. In my present state of health I couldn't stand any change. And he is so admirable at table. CHRISTINE. Shall I offer some compromise in our next novel? I might inquire what is the irreducible minimum of his demands. MRS. PROUT {faintly). Anything, anything, if he will stay. CHRISTINE {following Mrs. Prout to the door, and touching her shoulder caressingly). Try to sleep. [Exit Mrs. Prout. Christine whistles in a low tone as she returns meditatively to her seat. CHRISTINE {looking at notebook). "Isabel took up a glit- tering knife," did she? "The answer to the question is 'No,'" with a capital N. "C. P." sounds like Carter Paterson. Now, as I have nothing to do, I think I will 184 THE STEPMOTHER devote the morning to an article on "Hysteria in Lady- Novelists." Um! Ah! "The answer to the question is *No' " — capital N. What question? Can it be that the lily-white hand of the author of Heart Ache has . . . (knock) Come in. [Enter Dr. Gardner. GARDNER. Oh, good momiug. Miss Feversham. CHRISTINE. Good moming. Dr. Gardner. You seem sur- prised to see me here. Yet I am to be found in this chair daily at this hour. GARDNER. Not at all, not at all. I assure you I fully ex- pected to find both you and the chair. I also expected to find Mrs. Prout. CHRISTINE. Are you capable of interrupting our literary labours? We do not receive callers so early. Dr. Gardner. Which reminds me that I have several times remarked that this study ought not to have a door opening into the corridor. GARDNER. As for that, may I venture to offer the excuse that I had an appointment with Mrs. Prout? CHRISTINE. At what hour? She never makes appoint- ments before noon. GARDNER. I belicve she did say twelve o'clock. CHRISTINE {looking at her watch). And it is now twenty-five minutes to ten. Punctuality is a virtue. You may be said to have raised it to the dignity of a fine art. GARDNER. I wiU Wait. {Sits down) I trust that I do not interrupt? CHRISTINE. Yes, Doctor, I regret to say that you do. I was about to commence the composition of an article. GARDNER. UpOU what? CHRISTINE. Upon "Hysteria in Lady Novelists." It is my specialty. GARDNER. Surcly lady novelists are not hysterical? CHRISTINE. The increase of hysteria among that class of persons is one of the saddest features of the age. GARDNER. Dear me! {Enthusiastically) But I can tell you THE STEPMOTHER 185 the name of one lady novelist who isn't hysterical — and that, perhaps, the greatest name of all — Mrs. Prout. CHRISTINE. Of course not, of course not. Doctor. Neverthe- less, Mrs. Prout is somewhat indisposed this morning. GARDNER. Cora — ill! What is it? Nothing serious.'' CHRISTINE. Rest assured. The merest slight indisposition. Just suflBcient to delay us an hour or two with our work. Nothing more. Nerves, you know. The imagination of a great artist. Dr. Gardner, is often too active, too stress- ful, for the frail physical organism. GARDNER. Ah! You regard Mrs. Prout as a great artist? CHRISTINE. Doctor — cvcu to ask such a question . . .! Do not you? GARDNER. I? To me she is unique. I say. Miss Fever- sham, were you ever in love? CHRISTINE. In love? I have had preferences. GARDNER. Among men? CHRISTINE, No; among boys. Recollect I am only twenty, though singularly precocious in shrewdness and calm judgment. GARDNER. Twenty? You amaze me. Miss Feversham. I have often been struck by your common sense and knowl- edge of the world. They would do credit to a woman of fifty. CHRISTINE. I am glad to notice that you do not stoop to offer me vulgar compliments about my face. GARDNER. I am incapable of such conduct. I esteem your mental qualities too highly. And so you have had your preferences among boys? CHRISTINE. Yes, I like to catch them from eighteen to twenty. They are so sweet and fresh then, like new milk. The employe of the Express Dairy Company who leaves me my half-pint at my lodgings each morning is a perfectly lovely dear. I adore him. GARDNER. He is ouc of your preferences, then? CHRISTINE. A preference among milkmen, of whom, as I change my lodgings frequently, I have known many. 186 THE STEPMOTHER Then there is the postman — not a day more than eighteen, I am sure, though that is contrary to the regulations of. St. Martin's-le-Grand. Dr. Gardner, you should see my postman. When he brings them I can receive even re- jected articles with equanimity. GARDNER. I should be charmed to see him. But tell me, Miss Feversham, have you had no serious preferences? CHRISTINE. You secm interested in this question of prefer- ences. GARDNER. I am. CHRISTINE. Doctor, I will open my heart to you. It is conceivable you may be of use to me. You are on friendly terms with Adrian, and doubtless you know the history of his exit from this house. (Gardner nods, with a smile) Doctor, he and I aie passionately attached to each other. Our ages are precisely alike. It is a beautiful idyll, or rather it would be, if dear Mrs. Prout did not try to trans- form it into a tragedy. She has not only turned the darling boy out, but she has absolutely forbidden him the house. GARDNER. Doubtlcss shc had her reasons. CHRISTINE. Oh, I'm sure she had. Only, you see, her reasons aren't ours. Of course we could marry at once if we chose. I could easily keep Adrian. I do not, how- ever, wish to inconvenience dear Mrs. Prout. It is a mistake to quarrel with the rich relations of one's future husband. But I was thinking that perhaps you. Doctor, might persuade dear Mrs. Prout that my marriage to Adrian need not necessarily interfere with the performance of my duties as her secretary. GARDNER. Anything that I can do, Miss Feversham, you may rely on me doing. CHRISTINE. You are a dear. GARDNER. But why should you imagine that I have any influence with Mrs. Prout.'' CHRISTINE. I do not imagine; I know. It is my unerring insight over again, my faultless observation. Doctor, you THE STEPMOTHER 187 did not begin to question me about love because you were interested in my love affairs, but because you were in- terested in your own, and couldn't keep off the subject. I read you like a book. You love Mrs. Prout, my dear Doctor. Therefore you have influence over her. No woman is uninfluenced by the man who loves her. GARDNER {laughing between self-satisfaction and self -conscious- ness). You have noticed that I admire Mrs. Prout? It appears that nothing escapes you. CHRISTINE. That is a trifle. The butler has noticed it. GARDNER. The butlcr! CHRISTINE. The butler. GARDNER {wltli abandon). Let him. Let the whole world notice. Miss Feversham, be it known that I love Mrs. Prout with passionate adoration. Before the day is out I shall either be her affianced bridegroom — or I shall be a dead man. CHRISTINE {leaning forward; in a low, tense voice). You pro- posed to her last night.'* GARDNER. I did. CHRISTINE. And you were to come for the answer this morning? GARDNER. Ycs. Can you not guess that I am eager — ex- cited? Can you not pardon me for thinking it is noon at twenty-five minutes to ten? Ah, Miss Feversham, if Adrian adores you with one-tenth of the fire with which I adore Mrs. Prout CHRISTINE. Stop, Doctor, I do not wish to be a burnt sac- rifice. Now let me ask you a question. You have seen that attack on Mrs. Prout, entitled "Medicine in Fiction", in this month's Forum. Do you know the author of it? GARDNER. I don't. Has it disturbed Mrs. Prout? CHRISTINE. It has. Did she not mention it to you? GARDNER. Not a word. If I did know the author of it, if I ever do know the author of it, I will tear him {fiercely) limb from limb. 188 THE STEPMOTHER CHRISTINE. I trust you will chloroform him first. It will be horrid of you if you don't. GARDNER. I absolutely decline to chloroform him first. CHRISTINE. You mUSt. GARDNER. I WOn't. CHRISTINE. Never mind. Perhaps you will be dead. Re- member that you have promised to kill yourself to-day on a certain contingency. Should you really do it? Should you really put an end to your life if Mrs. Prout gave you a refusal? GARDNER. I swcar it. Existence would be valueless to me. CHRISTINE. By the way, Mrs. Prout told me that if you called I was to say that she could see no one. GARDNER. See no one! But she promised . . . CHRISTINE. However, she left a note. GARDNER {starting up). Give it me instantly. Why didn't you give it me before? CHRISTINE. I had no opportunity. Besides, I haven't transcribed it yet. It was dictated. GARDNER. Dictated? Are you sure? CHRISTINE (seriously). Oh, yes, she dictates everything. GARDNER. Well, Well, read it to me, read it to me. Quick, I say. CHRISTINE (turning over leaves rapidly). Here it is. Are you listening? GARDNER. Great Heaven ! CHRISTINE (reads from her shorthand note). "The answer to your question is " GARDNER. Go OU. CHRISTINE (drawing her breath first) . " Yes. — C. P." There ! I've saved your life for you. GARDNER. You have indeed, my dear girl. But I must see her. I must see my beloved Cora. CHRISTINE (taking his hand). Accept my advice. Doctor — the advice of a simple, artless girl. Do not attempt to see her to-day. There are seasons of emotion when a woman THE STEPMOTHER 189 (stops) . . . Go downstairs and write to her, and then give the letter to me. [Pats him on the back. GARDNEE. I will, by Jove. Miss Feversham, you're a good sort. And as you've told me something, I'll tell you some- thing. Adrian is going to storm the castle to-day. CHRISTINE. Adrian! [A knock. Enter Adrian. ADRIAN. Since you command it, I enter. GARDNER. Let me pass, bold youth. [Exit Dr. Gardner hurriedly. ADRIAN {overcome by Gardner's haste). Why this avalanche? Has something happened suddenly? CHRISTINE. Several things have happened suddenly, Ad- rian, and several more will probably happen when your mamma discovers that you are defying her orders in this audacious manner. Why are you here? {Kisses him) You perfect duck! ADRIAN {gravely). I am not here. Miss Feversham CHRISTINE. " Miss Fcvcrsham " — and my kiss still warm on his lips! ADRIAN. I repeat, Miss Feversham, that I am not here. This {pointing to himself) is not I. It is merely a rather smart member of the staff of the Daily Snail, come to in- terview Cora Prout, the celebrated novehst. CHRISTINE. And I have kissed a Snail reporter. Ugh! ADRIAN. Impetuosity has ruined many women. CHRISTINE. It is a morning of calamities. {Assuming the secretarial pose) Your card, please. ADRIAN {handing card). With pleasure. CHRISTINE {taking card by the extreme corner, perusing it with disdain, and then dropping it on the floor). We never see interviewers in the morning. ADRIAN. Then I will call this afternoon. CHRISTINE. You must Write for an appointment. ADRIAN. Oh! I'll take my chances, thanks. CHRISTINE. We never give them: it is our rule. We have 190 THE STEPMOTHER to be very particular. The fact is, we hate being inter- viewed, and we only submit to the process out of a respect- ful regard for the great and enlightened public. Any sort of notoriety, any suggestion of self-advertisement, is dis- tasteful to us. What do you wish to interview us about? If it's the new novel, we are absolutely mum. Accept that from me. ADRIAN. It isn't the new novel. The Snail wishes to know whether Mrs. Prout feels inclined to make any statement in reply to that article, "Medicine in Fiction", in the Forum. CHRISTINE. Oh, Adrian, do you know anything about that article? ADRIAN. Rather! I know all about it. CHRISTINE. You treasure! You invaluable darling! I will marry you to-morrow morning by special license ADRIAN. Recollect, it is a Snail reporter whom you are ad- dressing. Suppose I were to print that ! CHRISTINE. Just SO. You are prudence itself, while I, for the moment, happen to be a little — a little abnormal. I saved a man's life this morning, and it is apt to upset one's nerves. It is a dreadful thing to do — to save a man's life. And the consequences will be simply frightful for me. [Buries her face in her hands. ADRIAN. Christine (taking her hands), what are you raving about? You are not yourself. CHRISTINE. I wish I wasn't. (Looking up with forced calm) Adrian, there is a possibility of your being able to save me from the results of my horrible act, if only you will tell me the name of the author of that article in the Forum. ADRIAN (tenderly). Christine, you little know what you ask. But for you I will do anything. . . . Kiss me, my white lily. [She kisses him. CHRISTINE (whispers). Tell me. [He folds her in his arms. Enter Mrs. Prout, excitedly. MRS. PROUT (as she enters). Christine, that appalling butler THE STEPMOTHER 191 has actually left the house . . . {Observing group) Heavens ! CHRISTINE (quietly disengaging herself). You seem a little better, Mrs. Prout. A person to interview you from the Daily Snail. [Pointing to Adrian. MRS. PROUT. Adrian! ADRIAN. Yes, mamma. MRS. PROUT {opening her lips to speak and then closing them). Sit down. ADRIAN. Certainly, Mamma. [Sits. MRS. PROUT. How dare you come here? ADRIAN. I don't know how, Mamma. [Picks up his card from the floor and hands it to her; then re- sumes his seat. MRS. PROUT {glancing at card). Pah! CHRISTINE. That's just what I told the person, Mrs. Prout. [Mrs. Prout burns her up with a glance. MRS. PROUT. You have, then, abandoned your medical studies, for which I had paid all the fees? ADRIAN. Yes, Mamma. You see, I was obliged to earn something at once. So I took to journalism. I am get- ting on quite nicely. The editor of the Snail says that I may review your next book. MRS. PROUT. Unnatural stepson, to review in cold blood the novel of your own stepmother! But this morning I am getting used to misfortunes. ADRIAN. It cuts me to the heart to hear you refer to any action of mine as a misfortune for you. Perhaps you would prefer that I should at once relieve you of my presence? MRS. PROUT. Decidedly, yes — that is, if Christine thinks she can do without the fifth act of that caress which I inter- rupted. CHRISTINE. The curtain was already falling, madam. MRS. PROUT. Very well. {To Adrian) Good-day. ADRIAN. As a stepson I retire. As the "special" of the Daily Snail I must insist on remaining. A "special" of the Daily Snail is incapable of being snubbed. He knows 192 THE STEPMOTHER what he wants, and he gets it, or he ceases to be a " special " of the Daily Snail. MRS. PROUT. I esteem the press, and though I should prefer an existence of absolute privacy, I never refuse its de- mands. I sacrifice myself to my public, freely acknowl- edging that a great artist has no exclusive right to the details of his own daily life. A great artist belongs to the world. What is it you want, Mr. Snail? ADRIAN. I want to know whether you care to say anything in reply to that article on "Medicine in Fiction" in the Forum. MRS. PROUT {sinking back in despair). That article again! {Sitting up) Tell me — do you know the author? ADRIAN. I do. MRS. PROUT. His name! ADRIAN. He is a friend of mine. MRS. PROUT. His name! ADRIAN. I am informed that in writing it he was actuated by the highest motives. His desire was not only to make a little money, but to revenge himself against a person who had deeply injured him. He didn't know much about medicine, being only a student, and probably the larger part of his arguments could not be sustained, but he knew enough to make a show, and he made it. MRS. PROUT. His name! I insist. ADRIAN. Adrian Spout or Prout — I have a poor memory. . . . MRS. PROUT. Is it possible? CHRISTINE. Monster! ADRIAN. Need I defend myself. Mamma? Consider what you had done to me. You had devastated my young heart, which was just unfolding to its first passion. You had blighted the springtime of the exquisite creature {looking at Christine, who is moved by the feeling in his tones) — the exquisite creature who was dearer to me than all the world. In place of the luxury of my late father's house you offered me — the street. . . . CHRISTINE. Yes . . . and Gower Street. THE STEPMOTHER 193 ADRIAN. You, who should have gently fostered and en- couraged the frail buds of my energy and intelligence — you cast me forth . . . CHRISTINE. Cast them forth. ADRIAN. Cast them forth, untimely plucked, to wither, and perhaps die, in the deserts of a great city. And for what? For what? CHRISTINE. Merely lest she should be deprived of my poor services. Ah! Mrs. Prout, can you wonder that Mr. Adrian should actively resent such conduct — you with your marvellous knowledge of human nature? MRS. PROUT. Adrian, did you really write it? ADRIAN. Why, of course. You seem rather pleased than otherwise. Mamma. MRS. PROUT {after cogitating). Ah! You didn't write it, really. You are just boasting. It is a plot, a plot! ADRIAN. I can prove that I wrote it, since you impugn my veracity. MRS. PROUT. How can you prove it? ADRIAN. By producing the cheque which I received from the Forum this very morning. MRS. PROUT. Produce it, and I will forgive all. ADRIAN {with a sign to Christine that he entirely fails to com- prehend the situation). I fly. It is in my humble attic, round the corner. Back in two minutes. [Exit Adrian. MRS. PROUT. Christine, did he really write it? CHRISTINE. Can you doubt his word? Was it for lying that you ejected the poor youth from this residence? MRS, PROUT. Ah ! If he did ! {Smiles) Of course Dr. Gard- ner has not called? CHRISTINE. Yes, he was in about twenty minutes ago. MRS. PROUT {agonised). Did you give him my note? CHRISTINE. No. MRS. PROUT. Thank Heaven! CHRISTINE. I had not copied it out, so I read it to him. MRS. PROUT. You read it to him? 194 THE STEPMOTHER CHRISTINE. Yes; that seemed the obvious thing to do. MRS. PROUT {in black despair). All is over. [Sinks back. Enter Dr. Gardner hastily. GARDNER (excited). I was looking out of the window of my flat when I saw Adrian tear along the street. I said to myself, "A man, even a reporter, only runs like that when a doctor is required, and urgently required. Some one is ill, perhaps my darling Cora." So I flew upstairs. MRS. PROUT (with a shriek). Dr. Gardner! GARDNER. You are indeed ill, my beloved. (Approaching her) What is the matter.'* MRS. PROUT (waving him off). It is nothing, Doctor. Could you get me some salts.'* I have mislaid mine [Sighs. GARDNER. Salts! In an instant. [Exit Dr. Gardner. MRS. PROUT. Christine, you said you read my note to Dr. Gardner. CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. MRS. PROUT. His behaviour is singular in the extreme. He seems positively overjoyed, while the freedom of his en- dearing epithets What were the precise terms I used? Read me the note. CHRISTINE. Yes, Mrs. Prout. (Reads demurely) "The answer to your question is 'Yes,' " — with a capital N. MRS. PROUT. "Yes" with a capital N? CHRISTINE (calmly). I mean with a capital Y. [Christine and Mrs. Prout look steadily at each other. Then they both smile. Enter Dr. Gardner. GARDNER (handing the salts). You are sure you are not ill.'' MRS. PROUT (smiling at him radiantly). I am convinced of 'i^. Christine, will you kindly reach me down the diction- ary from that shelf.'* [While Christine's back is turned Dr. Gardner gives, and Mrs. Prout returns, a passionate kiss. CHRISTINE (handing dictionary) . Here it is, Mrs. Prout. MRS. PROUT (after considting it). I thought I could not be mistaken. Christine, you have rendered me a service THE STEPMOTHER 195 {regarding her affectionately) — a service for which I shall not forget to express my gratitude; but I am obliged to dismiss you instantly from my service. CHRISTINE. Dismiss me, madam? GARDNER. Cora, can you be so cruel? MRS. PROUT. Alas, yes! She has sinned the secretarial sin which is beyond forgiveness. She has misspelt. GARDNER. Impossible ! MRS. PROUT. It is too truc. GARDNER. Tell me the sad details. MRS. PROUT. She has been guilty of spelling "No" with a "Y." GARDNER. Dear me! And a word of one syllable, too! Miss Feversham, I should not have thought it of you. [Enter Adrian. ADRIAN {as he hands a cheque for Mrs. ProuVs inspection). Here again. Doctor? GARDNER. Ycs, and to stay. MRS. PROUT. Adrian, the Doctor and I are engaged to be married. And talking of mai-riage, you observe that girl there in the corner. Take her and marry her at the earliest convenient moment. She is no longer my secretary. ADRIAN. What! You consent? MRS. PROUT. I consent. ADRIAN. And you pardon my article? MRS. PROUT. No, my dear Adrian, I ignore it. Here, take your ill-gotten gains. {Returning cheque) They will bring you no good. And since they will bring you no good, I have decided to allow you the sum of five hundred pounds a year. You must have something. ADRIAN. Stepmother! CHRISTINE {advancing to take Mrs, ProuCs hand). Step- mother-in-law ! GARDNER. Cora, you are an angel. MRS. PROUT. Merely an artist, my dear Tom, merely an artist. I have the dramatic sense — that is all. 196 THE STEPMOTHER ADRIAN. Your sense is more than dramatic, it is common; it is even horse. What about the Snail " special ", mummy? MRS. PROUT. My attitude is one of strict silence. ADRIAN. But I must go away with something. MRS. PROUT. Strict silence. The attack is beneath my notice. ADRIAN. But what can I say? CHRISTINE. Say that Mrs. Front's late secretary. Miss Feversham, having retired from her post, has already entered upon a career of original literary composition. That will be a nice newsy item, won't it? ADRIAN (taking out notebook). Rather! What is she at work on? CHRISTINE. Oh, well, I scarcely GARDNER. I know — "Hysteria in Lady Novelists." MRS. PROUT. What? GARDNER (to Christine). Didn't you tell me so? CHRISTINE. Of course I didn't, Doctor. What a shocking memory you have! It is worse than my spelling. GARDNER. Then what did you say? CHRISTINE. I said, "Generosity in Lady Novelists." CURTAIN ROCOCO GRANVILLE BARKER H. Granville Barker was born at London in 1877. He appears to have begun his stage career at an early age, when he became an actor in a provincial company. His first London appearance was in 1892. He subsequently acted with Lewis Waller, Ben Greet, and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, and participated in the productions of the Elizabethan Stage Society. Becoming identified later with the Stage Society, he produced and acted in a number of Bernard Shaw's early plays. In 1904 he undertook, together with J. E. Vedrenne, the management of the Court Theater, where he successfully experimented in a repertory scheme, producing many new plays by Shaw, St. John Hankin, Barrie and Galsworthy. He continued his managerial ac- tivities at the Duke of York's Theater, the Savoy — where his Shakespearian revivals were produced — the St. James, and the Kingsway. During the past few years Mr. Barker has adapted plays, written about the theater, and lectured, both in England and the United States. Granville Barker's plays are, in the best sense of the word, experiments in form. They are a good deal more than tech- nical feats, to be sure, but one feels that they are primarily quests after a newer and more flexible medium than that which the workers in the traditional form habitually use. "The Madras House ", for example, judged by the standards of Pinero, is hardly a play at all ; its artistic unity lies rather in the theme than in the actual plot. In "Waste", the theme again — more concrete than in "The Madras House" — dominates the form. "The Voysey Inheritance ", a study of upper middle-class English life, comes nearer to the tradi- 198 ROCOCO tional dramatic form. It is Mr. Barker's most successful play. "Rococo " is the best of the short plays; it reveals the dramatist, as in the more ambitious works, as an artist in quest of the proper means of expression, the most effective medium for the dramatic presentation of human character and ideas. PLAYS The Weather Hen (1899) Waste (1909) (In collaboration with The Madras House (1910) Herbert Thomas) *Rococo (1912) The Marrying of Ann Leete The Harlequinade (1913) (1901) (In collaboration with Prunella (1904) Dion Clayton Calthrop) (In collaboration with Vote by Ballot (1914) Laurence Housman) Farewell to the Theatre The Voysey Inheritance (1916) (1905) "The Marrying of Ann Leete ", "Prunella ", "The Voysey Inheritance", "Waste", "The Madras House", and "The Harlequinade" are published separately by Little, Brown and Company, Boston; "The Marrying of Ann Leete", "The Voysey Inheritance", and "Waste", also in a single volume, by Little, Brown and Company; "Rococo", "Vote by Ballot", and "Farewell to the Theater" in a single volume only, as "Three Short Plays", by Little, Brown and Company. References: Granville Barker, Prefaces to his own edi- tions of "A Midsummer Night's Dream ", "Twelfth Night ", and "A Winter's Tale", Sidgwick and Jackson, London; and to "Three Plays of Maeterlinck", Gowans and Gray, London; William Archer and Granville Barker, "Schemes and Estimates for a National Theater ", Duffield and Com- pany, New York. ROCOCO 199 Magazines: Bookman, July, 1914, London; The Forum, vol. xliv, p. 159, New York; Bookman, vol. xxxv, p. 195, New York; Fortnightly Review, vol. xcv, p. 60, and vol. c, p. 100, London; Nation, vol. xci, p. 19, and vol. xciv, p. 445, New York; Harper's Weekly, vol. Ivi, p. 6, New York; North American Review, vol. cxcv, p. 5720, New York; The Drama, No. 2, Chicago. ROCOCO A FARCE By GRANVILLE BARKER 'Rococo" was first produced at London in 1911. Characters The Vicar Reginald, his nephew Mrs. Reginald Mrs. Underwood, the Vicar*s wife Miss Underwood, the Vicar's sister Mortimer Uglow, Reginald's father COPTBIGHT, 1917, BT GrANVILLE BaBKBB. Reprinted from "Three Short Plays ", published by Little, Brown and Company, by permission of the Paget Dramatic Agency. "Rococo" is fully protected by copy- right and must not be performed either by amateurs or professionals without written permission. For such permission, and for the "acting version," with full stage directions, apply to the Paget Dramatic Agency, 500 Fifth Ave., New York City. ROCOCO Do you know how ugly the drawing-room of an English vicar- age can he? Yes, I am aware of all that there should he ahout it; the old-world grace and charm of J ane-Austenism. One shoidd sit upon Chippendale and glimpse the grey Norman church-tower through the casement. But what of the pious foun- dations of a more industrial age, churches huilt in mid-nineteenth century and rather scamped in the huilding, dedicated to the Glory of God and the soul's health of some sweating and sweated urhan district? The Bishop would have a vicarage added, grumhled the church-donor. Well, then, consider his comfort a little, hut to the glory of the Vicar nothing need he done. And nothing was. The architect (this an added labour of hut little love to him) would give an ecclesiastical touch to the front porch, a pointed top to the front door, add some stained glass to the staircase window. But a mean house, a stuffy house, and the Vicar must indeed have fresh air in his soul if mean and stuffy doctrine was not to he generated there. The drawing-room would he the hest room, and not a had room in its way, if it weren't that its proportions were vile, as though it felt it wanted to he larger than it was, and if the window and the fireplace and the door didn't seem to he quarrelling as to which should he the most conspicuous. The fireplace wins. This particular one in this particular drawing-room is of yellow wood, stained and grained. It reaches not quite to the ceiling. It has a West Front air, if looking-glass may stand for windows; it is fretted, moreover, here and there, with little trefoil holes. It bears a full assault of the Vicar's wife's ideas of how to make the place "look nice." There is the clock, of course, which won't keep time; there are the vases which won't hold water; framed photographs, as many as can be crowded on the shelves; in every other crevice knickknacks. Then, if you 204 ROCOCO stand, as the Vicar often stands, at this point of vantage you are conscious of the wall-paper of amber and blue with a frieze above it measuring off yard by yard a sort of desert scene, a mountain, a lake, three palm trees, two camels; and again; and again; until by the corner a camel and a palm tree are cut out. On the walls there are pictures, of course. Two of them convey to you in a vague and water-coloury sort of way that an English countryside is pretty. There is ^'Christ among the Doctors^', with a presentation brass plate on its frame; there is "Simply to Thy Cross I Cling." And there is an illuminated testimonial to the Vicar, a mark of affection and esteem from the flock he ministered to as senior curate. The furniture is either very heavy, stuffed, sprung, and tapestry-covered, or very light. There are quite a number of small tables (occasional-tables they are called), which should have four legs but have only three. There are several chairs, too, on which it would be unwise to sit down. In the centre of the room, beneath the hanging, pink-shaded, electric chandelier, is a mahogany monument, a large round table of the "pedestal" variety, and on it tower to a climax the vicarage symbols of gentility and culture. In the centre of this table, beneath a glass shade, an elaborate reproduction of some sixteenth-century Pieta {a little High Church, it is thought; but Art, for some reason, runs that tvay) . It stands on a Chinese silk mat, sent home by some exiled uncle. It is symmetrically surrounded by gift books, a photograph album, a tray of painted Indian figures (very jolly! another gift from the exiled uncle), and a whale's tooth. The whole affair is draped with a red em- broidered cloth. The window of the room, with so many sorts of curtains and blinds to it that one would think the Vicar hatched conspiracies here by night, admits but a blurring light, which the carpet (Brussels) reflects, toned to an ugly yellow. You really woidd not expect such a thing to be happening in such a place, but this carpet is at the moment the base of an ap- parently mortal struggle. The Vicar is undermost, his baldish ROCOCO 205 head, when he tries to raise it, falls back and bumps. Kneeling on him, throttling his collar, is a hefty young man conscientiously out of temper, with scarlet face glowing against carrotty hair. His name is Reginald and he is (one regrets to add) the Vicar^s nephew, though it be only by marriage. The Vicar^s wife, fragile and fifty, is making pathetic attempts to pull him off. "Have you had enough?'' asks Reginald and grips the Vicar hard. "Oh, Reginald . . . be good," is all the Vicar's wife's appeal. Not two yards off a minor battle rages. Mrs. Reginald, com- ing up to reinforce, was intercepted by Miss Underwood, the Vicar's sister, on the same errand. The elder lady now has the younger pinned by the elbows and she emphasises this very handsome control of the situation by teeth-rattling shakes. "Cat . . . cat . . . cat!" gasps Mrs. Reginald, who is plump and flaxen and easily disarranged. Miss Underwood only shakes her again. "Til teach you manners, miss." "Oh, Reginald . . . do drop him," moans poor Mrs. Un- derwood. For this is really very bad for the Vicar. "Stick a pin into him, Mary," advises her sister-in-law. Whereat Mrs. Reginald yelps in her iron grasp, " Don t you dare . . . it's poisonous," and then, "Oh . . . if you weren't an old woman I'd have boxed your ears." Three violent shakes. "Would you? Would you? Would you'?" "I haven't got a pin, Carinthia," says Mrs. Underwood. She has conscientiously searched. "Pull his hair, then," commands Carinthia. At intervals, like a signal gun, Reginald repeats his query: "Have you had enough?" And the Vicar, though it is evident that he has, still, with some unsurrendering school-days' echo answering in his mind, will only gasp, " Most undignified . . . clergyman of the Church of England . . . your host, sir . . . ashamed of you . . . let me up at once." 206 ROCOCO Mrs. Underwood has failed at the hair; she flaps her hands in despair. ''It's too short, Carinthia," she moans. Mrs. Reginald begins to sob pitifully. It is very painful to be tightly held by the elbows from behind. So Miss Underwood, with the neatest of tunsts and pushes, lodges her in a chair, and thus released herself, folds her arms and surveys the situation. "Box my ears, would you?'' is her postscript. MRS. REGINALD. Well . , . you boxcd father's. MISS UNDERWOOD. Where is your wretched fdther-in-law.'' [Her hawklike eye surveys the room for this unknown in vain. REGINALD {the proper interval having apparently elapsed). Have you had enough? [Dignified he cannot look, thus outstretched. The Vicar, therefore, assumes a mixed expression of saintliness and ob- stinacy, his next best resource. His poor wife moans again. . . . MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, plcasc, Reginald . . . the floor's so hard for him! REGINALD (a little anxious to have done toith it himself). Have you had enough? THE VICAR (quite supine). Do you consider this conduct be- coming a gentleman? MRS. UNDERWOOD, And . . . Simon! ... if the servants have heard . . . they must have heard. What will they think? [No, even this heart-breaking appeal falls flat. REGINALD. Say you've had enough and I'll let you up. THE VICAR {reduced to casuistry). It's not at all the sort of thing I ought to say. MRS. VNDERWOOD (so helpless) . Oh . . . I think you might say it, Simon, just for once. MISS UNDERWOOD {grim with the pride of her own victory). Say nothing of the sort, Simon ! [The Vicar has a burst of exasperation; for, after all, he is on the floor and being knelt on. THE VICAR. Confound it all, then, Carinthia, why don't you do something? ROCOCO 207 [ [Carinthia casts a tdctical eye over Reginald. The Vicar ' adds in parenthesis ... a human touch! . . . THE VICAR. Don't kneel there, you young fool, you'll break my watch! MISS UNDERWOOD. Wait till I get my breath. [But this prospect raises in Mrs. Underwood a perfect dithy- ramb of despair. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, please, Carinthia . . . No . . . don't start again. Such a scandal ! I wonder everything's not broken. (So coaxingly to Reginald) Shall I say it for him? MRS. REGINALD (fat little bantam, as she smooths her feathers in the armchair). You make him say it, Reggie. [But now the servants are on poor Mrs. Underwood* s brain. Almost down to her knees she goes. MRS. UNDERWOOD. They'll be coming up to see what the noise is. Oh . . . Simon! [It does strike the Vicar that this would occasion considerable scandal in the parish. There are so few good excuses for being found lying on the carpet, your nephew kneeling threateningly on the top of you. So he makes up his mind to it and enun- ciates with musical charm; it might be a benediction. . . . j THE VICAR. I have had enough. REGINALD {in somc relief). That's all right. [He rises from the prostrate church militant; he even helps it rise. This pleasant family party then look at each other, and, truth to tell, they are all a little ashamed. MRS. UNDERWOOD (walking round the re-erected pillar of right- eousness). Oh, how dusty you are! M'iss UNDERWOOD. Ycs! (The normal Self Uprising) Room's not been swept this morning. [The Vicar, dusted, feels that a reign of moral law can now be resumed. He draws himself up to fully five foot six. THE VICAR. Now, sir, you will please apologise. REGINALD (looking very muscular). I shall not. [The Vicar drops the subject. Mrs. Reginald mutters and crows from the armchair. 208 ROCOCO MRS. REGINALD. Ha . . . who began it.'' Black and blue lam! Miss Underwood can apologise . . . your precious sister can apologise. MISS UNDERWOOD {crushing if inconsequent). You're running to fat, Gladys. Where's my embroidery? MRS. UNDERWOOD. I put it safe, Carinthia. {She discloses it and then begins to pat and smooth the dishevelled room) Among relations too! One expects to quarrel sometimes ... it can't be helped. But not fighting! Oh, I never did ... I feel so ashamed! MISS UNDERWOOD {Britannia-like). Nonsense, Mary. MRS. REGINALD. Nobody touchcd you. Aunt Mary. THE VICAR {after his eyes have wandered vaguely round). Where's your father, Reginald? REGINALD {quite uninterested. He is straightening his own tie and collar). I don't know. [In the little silence that follows there comes a voice from under the mahogany monument. It is a voice at once digni- fied and -pained, and the property of Reginald's father, whose name is Mortimer Uglow. And it says . . . THE VOICE. I am here. MRS. UNDERWOOD {who may be forgiven nerves). Oh, how uncanny REGINALD {stUl at Ms tie). Well, you can come out, father, it's quite safe. THE VOICE {most unexpectedly). I shall not. {And then more unexpectedly still) You can all leave the room. THE VICAR {who is generally resentful). Leave the room! whose room is it, mine or yours? Come out, Mortimer, and don't be a fool. [But there is only silence. Why will not Mr. Uglow come out? Must he be ratted for? Then Mrs. Underwood sees why. She points to an object on the floor. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Simou! THE VICAR. What is it? [Again, and this time as if to indicate some mystery, Mrs. Underwood points. The Vicar picks up the object. ROCOCO 209 some disjection of the fight he thinks, and waves it mildly. THE VICAR. Well, where does it go? I wonder everything in the room's not been upset! MRS. UNDERWOOD. No, Simon, it's not a mat, it's his . . . [She concludes with an undeniable gesture, even a smile. The Vicar, sniffing a little, hands over the trophy. REGINALD (tts he vicws it). Oh, of course. MRS. REGINALD. Reggie, am I tidy at the back? [He tidies her at the hack — a meticulous matter of hooks and eyes and oh, his fingers are so big. Mrs. Underwood has taken a little hand-painted mirror from the mantelpiece, and this and the thing in question she places just without the screen of the falling tablecloth much as a devotee might place an offering at a shrine. But in Miss Underwood dwells no respect for persons. MISS UNDERWOOD. Now, sir, for Heaven's sake put on your wig and come out. {There emerges a hand that trembles with wrath; it retrieves the offerings; there follow bumping s into the tablecloth as of a head and elbows. THE VICAR. I must go and brush myself. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Simou, d'you think you could tell the maids that something fell over . . . they are such tat- tlers. It wouldn't be untrue. [It woiddnH. THE VICAR. I should scom to do so, Mary. If they ask me, I must make the best explanation I can. [The Vicar swims out. Mr. Mortimer Uglow, his wig as- sumed and hardly awry at all, emerges from beneath the table. He is a vindictive-looking little man. MRS. UNDERWOOD, You're not hurt, Mortimer, are you? [Mr. Uglow's only wound is in the dignity. That he cures by taking the situation oratorically in hand. MR. UGLOW. If we are to continue this family discussion and if Miss Underwood, whom it does not in the least concern, has not the decency to leave the room and if you, Mary, cannot request your sister-in-law to leave 210 ROCOCO it, I must at least demand that she does not speak to me again. [Whoever else might be impressed, Miss Underwood is not. She does not even glance up from her embroidery. MISS UNDERWOOD. A good thing for you I hadn't my thimble on when I did it. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Cariutliia, I don't think you should have boxed Mortimer's ears . . . you know him so slightly. MISS UNDERWOOD. He Called me a Futile Female. I con- sidered it a suitable reply. [The echo of that epigram brings compensation to Mr. Uglow. He puffs his chest. MR. UGLOW. Your wife rallied to me, Reginald. I am much obliged to her . . . which is more than can be said of you. REGINALD. Well, you can't hit a woman. MR. UGLOW (bitingly). And she knows it. MISS UNDERWOOD. Pf ! [The sound conveys that she would tackle a regiment of men with her umbrella: and she would. REGINALD {apopUctic, but he has worked down to the waist). There's a hook gone. MRS. REGINALD. I thought so! Lacc torn? REGINALD. It doesn't show much. But I tackled Uncle Simon the minute he touched Gladys . . . that got my blood up all right. Don't you worry. We won. [This callously sporting summary is too much for Mrs. Un- derwood: she dissolves. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, that such a thing should ever have happened in our house! . . . in my drawing-room ! ! . . . real blows! ! ! . . . MRS. REGINALD. Dou't cry, Auut Mary ... it wasn't your fault. [The Vicar returns, his hair and his countenance smoother. He adds his patting consolations to his poor wife's comfort. MRS. UNDERWOOD. And I was kicked on the shin. MRS. REGINALD. Say you'rc sorry, Reggie. THE VICAR. My dear Mary . . . don't cry. ROCOCO 211 MRS. UNDERWOOD (clasping her beloved's arm). Simon did it . . . Reggie was throttling him black ... he couldn't help it. THE VICAR. I suggest that we show a more or less Christian spirit in letting bygones be bygones and endeavour to re- sume the discussion at the point where it ceased to be an amicable one. {His wife, her clasp 07i his coat, through her drying tears has found more trouble) Yes, there is a slight rent . . . never mind. [The family party now settles itself into what may have been more or less the situations from which they were roused to physical combat. Mr. Uglow secures a central place. MR. TJGLOw. My sister-in-law Jane had no right to bequeath the Vase ... it was not hers to bequeath. [That is the gage of battle. A legacy! What English family has not at some time shattered its mutual regard upon this iron rock. One notices now that all these good folk are in deepest mourning, on which the dust of combat stands up the more distinctly, as indeed it shoidd. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, think if you'd been able to come to the funeral and this had all happened then . . . it might have done! MISS UNDERWOOD. But it didn't, Mary . . . control your- self. MR. UGLOW. My brother George wrote to me on his death- bed . . . {and then fiercely to the Vicar, as if this con- cerned his calling) ... on his death-bed, sir. I have the letter here. . . . THE VICAR. Yes, we've heard it. REGINALD. And you sent them a copy. [Mr. Uglow's hand always seems to tremble; this time it is with excitement as he has pulled the letter from his pocket-book. MR. UGLOW. Quiet, Reginald! Hear it again and pay at- tention. {They settle to a strained boredom) "The Rococo Vase presented to me by the Emperor of Germany" . . . Now there he's wrong. {The sound of his own reading has uplifted him: he condescends to them) They're German 212 ROCOCO Emperors, not Emperors of Germany. But George was an inaccurate fellow. Reggie has the same trick . . . it's in the family. I haven't it. [He is returning to the letter. But the Vicar interposes, lamblike, ominous though. THE VICAR. I have not suggested on Mary's behalf ... I wish you would remember, Mortimer, that the position I take up in this matter, I take up purely on my wife's behalf. What have I to gain? REGINALD (clodhopping) . Well, you're her husband, aren't you? She'll leave things to you. And she's older than you are. THE VICAR. Reginald, you are most indelicate. (And then, really thinking it is true . . . ) I have forborne to de- mand an apology from you. . . . REGINALD. Becausc you wouldn't get it. MRS. UNDERWOOD (genuinely and generously accommodating). Oh, I don't want the vase ... I don't want anything! THE VICAR (he is gradually mounting the pulpit). Don't think of the vase, Mary. Think of the principle involved. MRS. UNDERWOOD. And you may die first, Simon. You're not strong, though you look it . . . all the colds you get . . . and nothing's ever the matter with me. MR. UGLOW (ignored . . . ignored!). Mary, how much longer am I to wait to read this letter? THE VICAR (ominously, ironically lamblike now). Quite so. Your brother is waiting patiently . . . and politely. Come, come; a Christian and a businesslike spirit! [Mr. Uglow's very breath has been taken to resume the reading of the letter, when on him . . . worse, on that tender top- knot of his . . . he finds Miss Underwood's hawklike eye. Its look passes through him, piercing Infinity as she says . . . MISS UNDERWOOD, Why not a skull-cap ... a sanitary skull cap? MR. UGLOW (with a minatory though fearful gasp). What's that? THE VICAR. Nothing, Mortimer. ROCOCO 213 REGINALD. Somc people look for trouble! MISS UNDERWOOD {addressing the Infinite still). And those that it fits can wear it. THE VICAR (a little fearful himself. He is terrified of his sister, that's the truth. And well he may he). Let's have the letter, Mortimer. MISS UNDERWOOD. Or at least a little gum ... a little glue ... a little stickphast for decency's sake. [She stoings it to a beautiful rhythm. No, on the whole, Mr. Uglow will not join issue. MR. UGLOW. I trust that my dignity requires no vindication. Never mind ... I say nothing. (And with a forgiving air he returns at last to the letter) "The Rococo Vase pre- sented to me by the Emperor of Germany" ... or German Emperor. THE VICAR. Agreed. Don't cry, Mary. Well, here's a clean one. [Benevolently he hands her a handkerchief. MR. UGLOW. "On the occasion of my accompanying the mission." MISS UNDERWOOD. Missiou! [The word has touched a spot. THE VICAR. Not a real mission, Carinthia. MR. UGLOW. A perfectly real mission. A mission from the Chamber of Commerce at . , . Don't go on as if the world were made up of low church parsons and . . . and . . . their sisters! [As a convinced secularist behold him a perfect fighting cock. REGINALD (bored, but oh, so bored!) . Do get ahead, father. MR. UGLOW {with a flourish). "Mission et cetera." Here we are. "My dear wife must have the enjoyment" . . . {Again he condescends to them) Why he called her his dear wife I don't know. They hated each other like poison. But that was George all over . . . soft . . . never would face the truth. It's a family trait. You show signs of it, Mary. THE VICAR {soft and low). He was on his death-bed. 214 ROCOCO REGINALD. Get Oil . . . father. MR. UGLOW. "My wife" . . . She wasn't his dear wife. What's the good of pretending it? . . . "must have the enjoyment of it while she Hves. At her death I desire it to be an heirloom for the family." (And he makes the last sentence tell, every word) There you are! THE VICAR {lamblike, ominous, ironic, persistent). You sit looking at Mary. His sister and yours. Is she a member of the family or not? MR. UGLOW (cocksure). Boys before girls . . . men be- before women. Don't argue that . . . it's the law. Titles and heirlooms ... all the same thing. MRS. UNDERWOOD (worm-womanlike, turning ever so little). Mortimer, it isn't as if we weren't giving you all the family things . . . the miniature and the bust of John Bright and grandmother's china and the big Shake- speare . . . MR. UGLOW. Giving them, Mary, giving them? THE VICAR. Surrendering them willingly, Mortimer. They have ornamented our house for years. MRS. REGINALD. It isn't as if you hadn't done pretty well out of Aunt Jane while she was alive! THE VICAR. Oh, delicacy, Gladys! And some regard for the truth! MRS. REGINALD (no nonscnsc about her). No, if we're talking business let's talk business. Her fifty pounds a year "more than paid you for keeping her, didn't it? Did it or didn't it? REGINALD (gloomily). She never ate anything tliat I could see. THE VICAR. She had a delicate appetite. It needed teas- ing ... I mean coaxing. Oh, dear, this is most un- pleasant ! REGINALD. Fifty pouud a year is nearly a pound a week, you know. THE VICAR. What about her clothes . . . what about her little holidays . . . what about the doctor . . . what ROCOCO 215 about her temper to the last? {He summons the classics to clear the sordid air) Oh: De mortuis nil nisi bonum! MRS. UNDERWOOD. She was a great trouble with her meals, Reginald. MR. UGLOW (letting rip). She was a horrible woman. I dis- liked her more than any woman I've ever met. She brought George to bankruptcy. When he was trying to arrange with his creditors and she came into the room, her face would sour them ... I tell you, sour them. MRS. REGINALD (she sums it up). Well, Uncle Simon's a clergyman and can put up with unpleasant people. It suited them well enough to have her. You had the room. Aunt Mary, you can't deny that. And anyway she's dead now . . . poor Aunt Jane! (She throws this con- ventional verbal bone to Cerberus) And what with the things she has left you . . . ! What's to be done with her clothes.'' [Gladys and Mrs. Underwood suddenly face each other like tivo ladylike ghouls. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Well, you remember the mauve silk . . * THE VICAR. Mary, pray allow me. (Somehow his delicacy is shocked) The Poor. MRS. REGINALD (in violent protest). Not the mauve silk! Nor her black lace shawl! MISS UNDERWOOD (sJiooting it out). They will make soup. [It makes Air. Uglow jump, physically and mentally too. MR. UGLOW. What! MISS UNDERWOOD. The proceeds of their sale will make much needed soup . . . and blankets. (Again her gaze trans- fixes that wig and she addresses Eternity) No brain under it! . . . No wonder it's loose! No brain. [Mr. Uglow just manages to ignore it. REGINALD. Where is the beastly vase? I don't know that I want to inherit it. MR. UGLOW. Yes, may I ask for the second or third time to-day? . . . MISS UNDERWOOD. The third. 216 ROCOCO MB. UGLOW (he screws a baleful glance at her). May I ask for the second or third time . . . REGINALD. It is the third time, father. MR. UGLOW (his own son, too!). Reginald, you have no tact. May I ask why the vase is not to be seen.? MISS UNDERWOOD (sharply). It's put away. MRS. REGINALD (as sharp as she. Never any nonsense about Gladys). Why? MR. UGLOW. Gladys . . . ignore that, please, Mary.? MRS. UNDERWOOD. Yes, Mortimer. MR. UGLOW. It has been chipped. THE VICAR. It has not been chipped. MR. UGLOW. If it has been chipped . . . THE VICAR. I say it has not been chipped. MR. UGLOW. If it had been chipped, sir ... I should have held you responsible! Produce it. [He is indeed very much of a man. A little more and he'll slap his chest. But the Vicar, lamblike, etc. . . . we can now add dangerous. . . . THE VICAR. Oh, no, we must not be ordered to produce it. MR. UGLOW (trumpet-toned). Produce it, Simon. THE VICAR. Neither must we be shouted at. MISS UNDERWOOD. . . . or bawled at. Bald at! Ha, ha! [And she taps her grey-haired parting with a thimbled finger to emphasise the pun. Mr. Uglow rises, too intent on his next impressive stroke even to notice it, or seem to. MR. UGLOW. Simon, if you do not instantly produce the vase I shall refuse to treat this any longer in a friendly way. I shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors. [This, in any family — is it not the final threat? Mrs. Un- derwood is genuinely shocked. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Simon! THE VICAR. As a matter of principle, Mary. . . . REGINALD (impartially). What rot! MRS. UNDERWOOD. It was put away, I think, so that the sight of it might not rouse discussion , . . wasn't it, Simon? ROCOCO 217 REGINALD. Well, we'vc had the discussion. Now get it out. THE viCAE (lamblike . . . etc.; add obstinate now) . It is my principle not to submit to dictation. If I were asked politely to produce it. . . . REGINALD. Ask him politely, father. MR. UGLOW (why shouldnt he have principles, too?). I don't think I can. To ask politely might be an admission of some right of his to detain the property. This matter will go further. I shall commit myself in nothing without legal advice. MRS. REGINALD. You get it out, Aunt Mary. MRS. UNDERWOOD (almost thankful to be helpless in the m.atter). I can't. I don't know where it is. MR. UGLOW (all the instinct for Law in him blazing). You don't . . . ! This is important. He has no right to keep it from you, Mary. I venture to think . . . THE VICAR. Husband and wife are one, Mortimer. MR. UGLOW. Not in Law. Don't you cram your religion down my throat. Not in Law any longer. We've im- proved all that. The married woman's property act! I venture to think. . . . [Miss Underwood has disappeared. Her comment is to slam the door, MRS. UNDERWOOD. I thiuk perhaps Carinthia has gone for it, Mortimer. MR. UGLOW (the case given him, he asks for costs, as it were). Then I object. ... I object most strongly to this woman knowing the whereabouts of a vase which you, Mary. . . . THE VICAR (a little of the mere layman peeping now). Mortimer, do not refer to my sister as "this woman." MR. UGLOW. Then treat my sister with the respect that is due to her, Simon. [They are face to face. THE VICAR. I hope I do, Mortimer. MR. UGLOW. And will you request Miss Underwood not to return to this room with or without the vase? 218 ROCOCO THE VICAR. Why should I? MR. UGLOW. What has she to do with a family matter of mine? I make no comment, Mary, upon the way you allow yourself to be ousted from authority in your own house. It is not my place to comment upon it and I make none. I make no reference to the insults . . . the un- womanly insults that have been hurled at me by this Futile Female. . . . REGINALD (a remembered schoolmaster joJce. He feels not un- like one as he watches his two elders squared to each other). Apt alliteration's artful aid . . . what? MR. UGLOW. Don't interrupt. MRS. REGINALD. You're getting excited again, father. MR. UGLOW. I am not. MRS. REGINALD. Father! [There is one sure way to touch Mr. Uglow. She takes it. She points to his wig. MR. UGLOW. What? Well . . . where's a glass . . . where's a glass? [He goes to the mantelpiece mirror. His sister follows him. MRS. UNDERWOOD. We talked it over this morning, Mor- timer, and we agreed that I am of a yielding disposition and I said I should feel much safer if I did not even know where it was while you were in the house. MR. UGLOW (with every appropriate bitterness). And I your loving brother! THE VICAR (not to be outdone by Reginald in quotations) . A Uttle more than kin and less than kind. MR. UGLOW {his wig is straight). How dare you, Simon? A Uttle more than ten minutes ago I was struck . . . here in your house. How dare you quote poetry at me? [The Vicar feels he must pronounce on this. THE VICAR. I regret that Carinthia has a masterful nature. She is apt to take the law into her own hands. And I fear there is something about you, Mortimer, that invites violence. I can usually tell when she is going to be unruly; there's a peculiar twitching of her hands. If you had not ROCOCO 219 been aggravating us all with your so-called arguments, I should have noticed it in time and . . . taken steps. MRS. UNDERWOOD. We're really very sorry, Mortimer. We can always . . . take steps. But . . . dear me ! . . . I was never so surprised in my life. You all seemed to go mad at once. It makes me hot now to think of it. [The truth about Carinthia is that she is sometimes thought to be a little off her head. It's a form of genius. THE VICAR. I shall have a headache to-morrow . . . my sermon day. [Mr. Uglow now begins to glow with a sense of coming victory. And he's not bad-natured, give him what he ivants. MR. UGLOW. Oh, no, you won't. More frightened than hurt! These things will happen . . . the normal gross- feeding man sees red, you know, sees red. Reggie as a small boy . . . quite uncontrollable! REGINALD, Well, I like that ! You howled out for help. THE VICAR {lamblike and only lamblike). I am willing to ob- literate the memory. MRS. REGINALD. I'm surc I'm black and blue . . . and more torn than I can see. MR. UGLOW. But what can you do when a woman forgets herself.'' I simply stepped aside ... I happen to value my dignity. [The door opens. Miss Underwood with the vase. She de- posits it on the mahogany table. It is two feet in height. It is lavishly blotched with gold and white and red. It has curves and crinkles. Its handles are bossy. My God, it is a Vase! MISS UNDERWOOD. There it is. RiR. UGLOW {with a victor s dignity). Thank you. Miss Un- derwood. {He puts up gold-rimmed glasses) Ah . . . pure Rococo! REGINALD. The Vi-Cocoa vase! MR. UGLOW. That's not funny, Reginald. REGINALD. Well ... I think it is. [The trophy before him, Mr. Uglow mellows. 220 ROCOCO MR. UGLOW. Mary, you've often heard George tell us. The Emperor welcoming 'em . . . fine old fellow . . . speech in German . . . none of them understood it. Then at the end . . . Gentlemen, I raise my glass. Hock . . . hock . . . hock! REGINALD (ivho knows a German accent when he hears it). A little more spit in it. MR, UGLOW. Reginald, you're very vulgar. REGINALD. Is that Potsdam.? [The monstrosity has coloured views on it, one back, one front. MR. UGLOW. Yes . . . home of Friedrich der Grosse! A great nation. We can learn a lot from 'em ! [This was before the war. What he says of them now is un- printable. REGINALD. Yes. I supposc its' a jolly handsome piece of goods. Cost a lot. MR. UGLOW. Royal factory . . . built to imitate Sevres! [Apparently he would contemplate it for hours. But the Vicar . . . Lamblike, etc.; add insinuating now. THE VICAR. Well, Mortimer, here is the vase. Now where are we? MRS. REGINALD (really protesting for the first time). Oh . . . are we going to begin all over again! Why don't you sell it and share up? MRS. UNDERWOOD. Gladys, I don't think that would be quite nice. MRS. REGINALD. I cau't SCC why UOt. MR. UGLOW. Sell an heirloom ... it can't be done. REGINALD. Oh, ycs, it can. You and I together . . . cut off the entail . . . that's what it's called. It'd fetch twenty pounds at Christie's. MR. UGLOW (the sight of it has exalted him beyond reason). More . . . more! First class rococo. I shouldn't dream of it. [Miss Underwood has resumed her embroidery. She pulls a determined needle as she says. . . . ROCOCO 221 MISS UNDERWOOD. I think Mary would have a share in the proceeds, wouldn't she? MR. UGLOW. I think not. THE VICAR. Why not, Mortimer? MR. UGLOW {with -fine detachment). Well, it's a point of law. I'm not quite sure . . . but let's consider it in Equity. {Not that he knows what on earth he means!) If I died . . . and Reginald died childless and Mary survived us . . . and it came to her? Then there would be our cousins the Bamfords as next inheritors. Could she by arrangement with them sell and . . . ? MRS. UNDERWOOD. I shouldn't like to sell it. It would seem like a slight on George . . . because he went bankrupt perhaps. And Jane always had it in her bedroom. MISS. UNDERWOOD {thimhling the determined needle through). Most unsuitable for a bedroom. MRS. UNDERWOOD {anxious to 'please). Didn't you suggest, Simon, that I might undertake not to leave it out of the family? THE VICAR {covering a weaJc spot). In private conversation with you, Mary . . . MR. UGLOW {most high and mighty, oh most!). I don't accept the suggestion. I don't accept it at all. THE VICAR {and now taking the legal line in his turn) . Let me point out to you, Mortimer, that there is nothing to pre- vent Mary's selling the vase for her own exclusive benefit. MR. UGLOW {his guard down) . Simon ! THE VICAR {satisfied to have touched him). Once again, I merely insist upon a point of principle. MR. UGLOW {but now flourishing his verbal sword) . And I insist ... let everybody understand it ... I insist that all thought of selling an heirloom is given up ! Regi- nald . . . Gladys, you are letting me be exceedingly upset. REGINALD. Well . . . shall I walk off with it? They couldn't stop me. 222 ROCOCO [He lifts it up; and this simplest of solutions strikes them all stupent; except Miss Underwood, ivho glances under her bushy eyebrows. MISS UNDERWOOD. You'll drop it if you're not careful. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Reggie, you couldn't carry that to the station . . . everyone would stare at you. THE VICAR. I hope you would not be guilty of such an un- principled act. MRS. REGINALD. I wou't have it at home, Reg, so I tell you. One of the servants 'd be sure to ... ! (She sighs des- perately) Why not sell the thing? MR. UGLOW. Gladys, be silent. REGINALD (as he puts the vase down, a little nearer the edge of the table). It is a weight. [So they have argued high and argued loio and also argued round about it; they have argued in a full circle. And now there is a deadly calm. Mr. Uglow breaks it; his voice trembles a little as does his hand with its signet ring rattling on the table. MR. UGLOW. Then we are just where we started half an hour ago . . . are we, Simon? THE VICAR (lamblike in excelsis). Precisely, Mortimer. MR. UGLOW. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. (He gazes at them with cool ferocity) Now let us all keep our tempers. THE VICAR. I hope I shall have no occasion to lose mine. MR. UGLOW. Nor I mine. [He seems not to move a muscle, but in some mysterious way his wig shifts: a sure sign. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, you're going to get ex- cited. MR. UGLOW. I think not, Mary. I trust not. REGINALD (proffering real temptation). Father . . . come away and write a letter about it. MR. UGLOW (as his wrath swells). If I write a letter ... if my solicitors have to write a letter . . . there are people here who will regret this day. ROCOCO 223 MRS. UNDERWOOD {trembling at the coming storm). Simon, I'd much sooner he took it . . . I'd much rather he took everything Jane left me. MR. UGLOW. Jane did not leave it to you, Mary. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Mortimer, she did try to leave it to me. MR. UGLOW (running up the scale of indignation) . She may have tried . . . but she did not succeed . . . because she could not . . . because she had no right to do so. (And reaching the summit) I am not in the least excited. [Suddenly Miss Underwood takes a shreivd hand in the game. MISS UNDERWOOD. Have you been to your lawyer? MB. UGLOW (swivelling round). What's that? MISS UGLOW. Have you asked your lawyer? [He has not. MR. UGLOW. Gladys, I will not answer her. I refuse to answer the . . . the . . . the female. [But he has funked the "futile." MRS. REGINALD (soothlng him). All right, father. MISS UNDERWOOD. He hasn't because he knows what his lawyer would say. Rot's what his lawyer would say ! MR. UGLOW (calling on the gods to protect this woman from him). Heaven knows I wish to discuss this calmly ! REGINALD. Aunt Mary, might I smoke? MISS UNDERWOOD. Not in the drawing-room. MRS. UNDERWOOD. No . . . uot in the drawing-room, please, Reginald. MR. UGLOW. You're not to go away, Reginald. REGINALD. Oh, wcU . . . hurry up. [Mr. Uglow looks at the Vicar. The Vicar is actually smiling. Can this mean defeat for the house of Uglow? Never. MR. UGLOW. Do I understand that on your wife's behalf you entirely refuse to own the validity of my brother George's letter . . . where is it? . . . I read you the passage written on his death-bed. THE VICAR (measured and confident. Victory gleams for him now). Why did he not mention the vase in his will? 224 ^ ROCOCO MR. UGLOW. There were a great many things he did not mention in his will. THE VICAR. Was his widow aware of the letter? MR. UGLOW. You know she was. THE VICAR. Why did she not carry out what you think to have been her husband's intention? MR. UGLOW. Because she was a beast of a woman. [Mr. Uglow is getting the worst of it, his temper is slipping. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Mortimer, what language about the newly dead! THE VICAR. An heirloom in the family? MR. UGLOW. Quite so. THE VICAR. On what grounds do you maintain that George's intentions are not carried out when it is left to my wife? [And indeed, "Mr. Uglow is against the ropes ", so to speak. MISS UNDERWOOD, The man hasn't a wig to stand on. . . . I mean a leg. MR. UGLOW (pale with fury, hoarse with it, even pathetic in it) . Don't you speak to me ... I request you not to speak to me. [Reginald and Gladys quite seriously think this is bad for him. REGINALD. Look here, father, Aunt Mary will undertake not to let it go out of the family. Leave it at that. MRS. REGINALD. We don't Want the thing, father . . . the drawing-room's full already. MR. UGLOW (the pathos in him growing; he might flood the best Brussels with tears at any moment). It's not the vase. It's no longer the vase. It's the principle. MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, dou't, Mortimer . . . don't be like Simon. That's why I mustn't give in. It'll make it much more difficult if you start thinking of it like that. MISS UNDERWOOD {jpulUng and pushing that embroidery needle more grimly than ever). It's a principle in our family not to be bullied. MRS. REGINALD {in almost a vulgar tone, really). If she'd go and mind her own family's business! ROCOCO 225 [The vicar knows that he has his Ugloivs on the run. Suavely he presses the advantage. THE VICAR. I am sorry to repeat myself, Mortimer, but the vase was left to Jane absolutely. It has been specifically left to Mary. She is under no obligation to keep it in the family. MR. UGLOW {control breaking). You'll get it, will you . . . you and your precious female sister? THE VICAR {quieter and quieter; that superior quietude). Oh, this is so unpleasant. MR. IJGLOW {control broken). Never! Never! ! . . . not if I beggar myself in law-suits. MISS UNDERWOOD {a suddcu and vicious jab). Who wants the hideous thing? MR. UGLOW {broken, all of him. In sheer hysterics. Tears starting from his eyes) . Hideous! You hear her? They'd sell it for what'd it would fetch. My brother George's rococo vase! An objet d'art et vertu ... an heirloom ... a family record of public service! Have you no feelings, Mary? MRS. UNDERWOOD {dissolvcd). Oh, I'm very unhappy. [Again are Mr. Uglow and the Vicar breast to breast. THE VICAR. Don't make your sister cry, sir. MR. UGLOW. Make your sister bold her tongue, sir. She has no right in this discussion at all. Am I to be provoked and badgered by a Futile Female? [The Vicar and Mr. Uglow are intent on each other, the others are intent on them. No one notices that Miss Underwood's embroidery is very decidedly laid down and that her fingers begin to twitch. THE VICAR. How dare you suppose, Mortimer, that Mary and I would not respect the wishes of the dead? MR. UGLOW. It's nothing to do with you, either. [Miss Underwood has risen from her chair. This Gladys does notice. MRS. REGINALD, I Say . . , Unclc SimoD. THE VICAR. What is it? 226 ROCOCO REGINALD. Look here. Uncle Simon, let Aunt Mary write a letter undertaking. . . . There's no need for all this row. . . MRS. UNDERWOOD. I will! I'll Undertake anything! THE VICAR (the Church on its militant dignity now). Keep calm, Mary. I am being much provoked, too. Keep calm. MR. UGLOW (stamping it out). He won't let her ... he and his sister ... he won't give way in anything. Why should I be reasonable? REGINALD. If she will undertake it, will you . . . ? MRS. REGINALD. Oh, Auut Mary, stop her! [In the precisest manner possible, judging her distance with care, aiming well and true. Miss Underwood has for the second time to-day, soundly boxed Mr. Uglow^s ear. He yells. MR. UGLOW. I say . . . I'm hurt. REGINALD. Look here now . . . not again! THE VICAR (he gets flustered. No ivonder). Carinthia! I should have taken steps! It is almost excusable. MR. UGLOW. I'm seriously hurt. MRS. REGINALD. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. MISS UNDERWOOD. Did you feel the thimble? MRS. UNDERWOOD. Oh, Carinthia, this is dreadful ! MR. UGLOW. I wish to preserve my dignity. [He backs out of her reach that he may the better do so. MISS UNDERWOOD. Your wig's crooked. MRS, REGINALD (rousing: though her well-pinched arms have lively recollections of half an hour ago). Don't you insult my father. MISS UNDERWOOD. Shall I put it straight? It'll be off again. [She advances, her eyes gleaming. To do . , . Heaven knows what! MR. UGLOW (still backing). Go away. REGINALD (who really doesn't fancy tackling the lady either). Why don't you keep her in hand? MR. UGLOW (backed as far as he can, and in terror). Simon, ROCOCO 227 you're a cad and your sister's a mad cad. Take her away. [But this the Vicar will not endure. He has been called a cad, and that no English gentleman ivill stand, and a clergyman is a gentleman, sir. In ringing tones and with his finest gesture you hear him. "Get out of my house!" Mr. Uglow doubtless coidd reply more fittingly were it not that Miss Un- derwood still approaches. He is feebly forcible merely. "Don't you order me about," he quavers. What is he hut a fascinated rabbit before the terrible woman? The gentlemanly Vicar advances — "Get out before I put you out," he vocifer- ates — Englishman to the backbone. But that is Reginald's waited for excuse. "Oh, no, you don't," he says and bears down on the Vicar. Mrs. Underwood yelps in soft but agon- ized apprehension: "Oh, Simon, be carefid." Mr. Uglow has his hands up, not indeed in token of surrender, — though surrender to the virago poised at him he would, — but to shield his precious wig. "Mind my head, do," he yells; he ivill have it that it is his head. "Come away from my father," calls out Mrs. Regi- nald, stoutly clasping Miss Underwood from behind round that iron-corseted waist. Miss Underwood swivels round. "Don't you touch me. Miss," she snaps. But Gladys has weight and the two are toppling groundward while Reginald, one hand on the Vicar, one grabbing at Miss Underwood to protect his wife {"Stop it, do!" he shoids), is outbalanced. And the Vicar making still determinedly for Mr. Uglow, and Mr. Uglow, his wig securer, preparing to defy the Vicar, the melee is joined once more. Only Mrs. Underwood is so far safe. The fighters breathe hard and sway. They sway against the great mahogany table. The Rococo Vase totters; it falls; it is smashed to pieces. By a supreme effort the immediate authors of its destruction — linked together — contrive not to sit down among them. Mrs. Underwood is heard to breathe, "Oh . . . Thank goodness." JAMES AND JOHN GILBERT CANNAN Gilbert Cannan was born in 1884. He received his early education in Manchester. He later attended King's College, Cambridge, and was called to the Bar in 1908. He evidently practised very little or not at all, for the next year he became dramatic critic on The Star. Cannan's most significant work so far is found not in his plays, but in his novels. The plays are to be judged as ex- periments rather than the complete expression of the author's dra.natic intention. In a letter to the editor, written not long ago, he declares: "I must correct your impression that I was once interested in the drama. I think I have never really been interested in anything else, all my researches, however remote they may appear, having been made to that end. I have lately resumed dramatic criticism for the Lon- don Nation and before very long shall discard novels for plays." Cannan's small plays display a variety of technique and material indicating uncertainty on his part as to the direction his future dramatic activities will take. However, he ap- pears to consider his career as novelist at an end, as he recently declared that his essays in novel form were merely a preparation for his career as a dramatist. PLAYS *James and John (1910) Three (1913) Miles Dixon (1910) *Everybody's Husband *Mary's Wedding (1912) (1917) The Perfect Widow (1912) The Arbour of Refuge(1913) *A Short Way with Authors (1913) 230 JAMES AND JOHN "James and John", "Miles Dixon", "Mary's Wedding", and "A Short Way with Authors" are pubhshed in a volume- "Four Plays", by Sidgwick and Jackson, London; "Every, body's Husband ", by B. W. Huebsch, New York. The plays originally included in "Four Plays" have recently appeared singly, pubhshed by LeRoy Phillips, Boston. References: Gilbert Cannan, "The Joy of the Theater", E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. Magazines: Current Opinion, vol. 69, p. 80, New York; The Dial, vol. 68, p. 173, New York; Theater Arts, January, 1920, New York. JAMES AND JOHN A PLAY IN ONE ACT By gilbert CANNAN "James and John" was first produced at London in 1910 Characters John Betts James Betts Mes. Betts Mr. Betts Scene: Their parlour. [Entebed in the Libkabt of Conghess on Jult 25, 1913. Copyright, 1920, by Le Roy Phillips. All rights reserved Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips JAMES AND JOHN It is half past nine of an evening and the scene is the parlour of a little house in a gaunt row of houses in a street in a London suburb. By the fireplace at the back James and John Belts are playing backgammon, the board on a little table between them. They are both grey. James has a beard. John is clean-shaven. John wears glasses. Both wear morning-coats and both have carpet slippers. James smxikes, John does not. John has a glass of whisky on the mantelpiece within reach: James is tee- total. They are absorbed in their game and pay no attention to their mother, a stout old lady who is sitting in her chair reading a novel, sleeping, and knitting. Her chair is by another Utile table on which the solitary lamp of the room is placed so as to cast its light on her book. She is directly in front of the fire so that her back is towards the audience. John is sitting with his back towards her. The room is ugly and Mid-Victorian. Its door is to the right. Its windows to the left. In the window is a stand of miserable-looking ferns and an india-rubber plant. JAMES (looking up, abruptly). Very nice. I think I shall gammon you, John. JOHN. H'm. [He rattles the dice furiously, seeing the game go against him. JOHN (trium'phantly) . I take you there and there . . . JAMES. We shall see. [Silence. MRS. BETTS. Did you say it was raining when you came in, John? JOHN (turning irritably) . I have said so four times. [Silence. They devote themselves to their game again. MRS. BETTS (plaintively, as though she knew full well that her remarks would fall on deaf ears. She lays down her book). 234 JAMES AND JOHN This isn't a very interesting book. ... I don't think books are so interesting as they used to be . . . they all seem to be trying to be like real life. ... I must say I like to know who marries who . . . and I don't like stories about married life. ... I suppose the authors must be thinking of their own. . . . Depressing. . . . You haven't said how you like my new cap, Jamie. . . . You did say it was raining, John? (No answer — only a frenzied rattle of the dice) I don't think anything has hap- pened. . . . The next-door people have had trouble with the servant again. ... A thief this one. ... I wonder if it is raining, ... I wouldn't like it to be wet for him. . . . [James and John look at each other and James looks over at his mother. She is fumbling for her handkerchief, JOHN. Gammon. . . . [He rises and looks down at his brother in triumph. Each takes a little note-book from his pocket and makes a note of the game. JAMES. I still lead by two hundred and twenty-three games. . . . [Mrs. Belts is wiping her eyes and snuffling. John goes to her and pats her shoulder kindly. JOHN. Would you like a game, mamma .f* . . . MRS. BETTS. No — no-o-o ... I Couldn't — not to- night. . . . JAMES. I thought we had agreed not to talk of it nor to think of it. . . . MRS, BETTS. It — it is all very well for you boys to talk . . . b-b-but ... I can't help but remember ... all these years . . . JOHN. Shall Jamie read to you, mamma? MRS. BETTS. It — it was so — so dreadful . . . JAMES. Yes, yes, mamma. . . . But we agreed that we would . . . MRS. BETTS. It all comes back to me so. . . . The whole thing. ... I suppose they never talk of it at the bank now, Jamie . . . ? JAMES AND JOHN 235 JAMES (exploding). I wish to God he had never lived to come back again . . . JOHN. Tssh! — Tssh! . . . JAMES. I say that he has ruined mamma's hfe, and your Ufe and mine. ... I say again that I wish to God he had never Hved to come back. . . . JOHN. Think of mamma, . . . MRS. BETTS. Your own father . . . [She weeps. JAMES. It is against my wish that he is allowed to come here at all. . . . JOHN. Do let us try to forget the whole affair until . . . until he comes. . . . Don't you think it would be better if you went to bed, mamma? [James has fallen to pacing up and down the room. MRS. BETTS. No; I must stay . . . to . . . to see him . . . JOHN. You must be brave, then . . . MRS. BETTS (making an effort and gulping down her sobs). Ye-yes. . . . (She takes John's hand and pats it, while she anxiously tries to watch James in his pacing) But, John . . . I'm afraid — afraid of Jamie. . . . [She says this almost in a whisper but James hears her. He stops by the fireplace and stands with his back to the fire and glares at his mother. JAMES. I am, I hope, a just man . . . JOHN. We have argued enough. . . . We must wait. , . . We can't have mamma breaking down before he comes. . . . JAMES. John, you're a soft fool. . . . This man has done us all an injury. . . . He has brought misery upon this house. . . . He has no other place to which to turn: for a while he may rest under our roof. ... Is that un- derstood? JOHN. Quite. . . . Can't you leave it alone? JAMES. I wish to make myself clearly understood. . . . JOHN. I think we both understand you . . . and you need not speak so loud. JAMES. There must be no sentiment and he must be made 236 JAMES AND JOHN to understand the terms on which I have consented to receive him, . . . MRS. BETTS. We — wc must be kind, Jamie — we must be kind. . . . He was always a kind man . . . JAMES. Kind! . . . To treat you in the way he did — and you can call him kind. Oh! the foolishness of women. . . . MRS. BETTS. He was never a bad man. ... Is it raining, John? [John goes to the window and peeps out. JOHN. Yes, mamma, it is raining. MRS. BETTS. Oh! ... It isu't too late for one of you to meet him at the station . . . is it.^* JAMES. You know that that is impossible. ... It is enough that he is permitted to come here at all. ... It is my house. . . . The ordering of this affair is in my hands. . . . Let it be . . . MRS. BETTS. He has been punished enough for his sin, . . . JAMES. We have been punished. I have been punished. . . . Year after year I have been passed over and men younger than myself have been promoted. . , . For years I was made to feel that my continued presence in the bank was an act of charity. . . . For years I have felt rather than heard the miserable story whispered to every raw lad who came to the place . . . and suffered . . . because my father betrayed his trust. . . . And you say he was not a bad man . . . JOHN. Jamie — Jamie — [Mrs. Beits heats feebly with her hands against him. JAMES. Jamie! — Jamie! — Well enough for you, John — you were out of it. . . . [John folds his arms as though he realised the hopelessness of endeavouring to stem the stream of his brother's indignation, and to indicate that he also has suffered but is too much a man to talk about it. This goads James only to further indigna- tion. John mutters unintelligibly. JAMES. What do you say? What do you say? JAMES AND JOHN 237 JOHN. I say that what's done is done and let the past bury its dead. JAMES. It is not dead. . . . MRS. BETTS. Don't quarrel — don't quarrel. I cannot bear it. . . . JAMES. Mother, we must understand each other — you, John, and I — we must see this thing as it is. . . . Set aside the fact that this man is our father and your husband. . . . We must see what he did coldly, dispassionately, and judge accordingly. JOHN. I read in a book that no man has the right to judge another man . . . JAMES. Facts are facts. . . . JOHN. We don't know what drove him to do what he did. . . . JAMES. We know — what we know. We know the injury that he has done to ourselves. We know that because our father — because our father . . . (Mrs. Belts now has her face in her handkerchief; James is for a moment stopped but stiffens himself) because our father robbed the clients of the branch of which he was manager in order to keep the women whom he had bought . . . JOHN. You . . . [James raises his hand. JAMES. I will end where I have begun. ... It is true that he was revered as an upright gentleman, that he gave large sums in charity, that he did much good for the poor of this district, that he did this, that, and the other thing which kept him conspicuous as a righteous man. . . . We know that he was an excellent man of business and that the directors gave him the opportunity to escape. . . . There is that to his credit that he had the courage to face the consequences of his actions. . . . But even in that he had no thought for us, to whom rather than to himself his thoughts should have turned. . . . We know only too well the shame and disgrace of the arrest, the infamous revelations, the position irretrievably lost. . . . We 238 JAMES AND JOHN know — you and I, John — we know the ruin that it has been to us. . . . We have seen other men of our own age fulfill their lives . . . JOHN. Will you cease? JAMES. We know that we have been chained here, you and I, to rot and rot . . . men wasted . . . without pride of home or pride of work. . . . We have sat here year in, year out, waiting, waiting . . . for nothing . . . knowing that nothing could ever come to us. . . . MRS. BETTS. 0-O-oh. . . . JAMES. We have suffered enough, I say, and if now that he has served his punishment and is free we take him under our roof again, to live here in this town, with us whom he has so — has so — so wrecked, in this town where he is still infamous . . . then that which is only now whispered of of us will be common talk. . . . We shall be lower than we have ever been and lose all that we have. . . . That is all. [He takes a pipe from his pocket, fills it vnth tobacco, lights it, and stalks out of the room. Mrs. Belts sobs quietly for a little. MRS. BETTS. John, dear — John ... JOHN (without moving). Yes, mother? MRS. BETTS. He was never a bad man. : JOHN. No . . . mother. MRS. BETTS. It must havc been bitter for Jamie . . . JOHN. Yes, mother, it has not been . . . easy. MRS. BETTS. He was always a kind man . . . always. ... I don't understand — I never shall understand what made him do . . . do . . . what he did. . . . He ... he used to be so fond of children. . . . You don't think hardly of him, John? . . . JOHN. Not — not for a long time now, mother. MRS. BETTS. I never shall understand what made him to . . . because — because he — he never really turned from me ... I should have known if — if he had done that. . . . Do you understand, John? JAMES AND JOHN 239 JOHN. I am trying, mother MRS. BETTS. He was sometimes impatient with me . . . and . . . and I was a fooHsh woman. . . . Such a clever man he was. . . . But he never turned from me . , . JOHN. No MRS. BETTS. I remember now . . . often . . . when he told me. . . . How kind he was . . . and gentle. . . . He had been ill and worried for a long time, and then one day he came home and sat without a word all through the evening. ... It was raining then. . . . About ten o'clock . . . {John is sitting with his head in his hands on the sofa between the fire and the window) about ten o'clock ... he came and kissed me, and told me to go to bed. Then he went out. ... I do not know where he went, but he came back wet through, covered with mud, and his coat was all torn. ... I was awake when he came back, but he spoke no word to me. . . . He came to bed and lay trembling and cold. ... I took his hand. . . . He shook and he was very cold. . . . He — he turned to me like a child and sobbed, sobbed. . . . Then, dear, he told me what he had done. . . . He told me that . . . that he had tried — tried to do away with himself . . . and — and could not. . . . He never asked me to forgive him. . . . He told me how the directors had asked him to go away to avoid prosecution. . . . He said that he must bear his punishment. . . . He is not a bad man, John. . . . Men and women are such strange creatures . . . there is never any knowing what they will do . . . JOHN. You want him to come back, mother? MRS. BETTS. Why, ycs. . . . Where else should he go? . . . JOHN. You know, mother . . . Jamie wanted to be mar- ried . . . MRS. BETTS. Oh ! ycs — yes — yes. . . . Poor boy. . . . JOHN. We're men. It has been a long time. We're old men . . . now . . . [John mends the fire and takes his whisky and soda. 240 JAMES AND JOHN MRS. BETTS. John, dear . . . {John turns from poking the fire) I would like him to have his old chair that he used to sit in . . . and his old slippers . . . and there's an old pipe that he had — in my room . . . you know . . . JOHN. Very well. . . . [John goes out. Mrs. Beits sniffs and dries her eyes. She takes up her book, reads it for a little, then lays it down, takes her knitting, plies her needles for a little, then lays that down. She iixes her spectacles and looks anxiously at the clock on the mantelpiece. It has an aggressively loud tick. Then she looks towards the window and, rising slowly to her feet, shuffles across, and looks out. James returns and finds her there. JAMES (sternly). I think you should sit quietly and calm yourself. MRS. BETTS (meekly). Yes, Jamie. [She shuffles back to her chair. JAMES. Would you like me to read to you? MRS. BETTS. Please, Jamie. [James goes to the little dwarf bookcase in the recess by the fireplace and takes down a book. He moves the table with the backgammon hoard, and draws up his chair to the right side of the fireplace, and then sits so as to have the light of the lamp on his book. JAMES (reading — ^' Pickwick, ^^ Chap, xxxii). "There is a re- pose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the street; " MRS. BETTS. Like our street. JAMES. "It is a by-street and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant Street would not come within the denomina- tion of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract himself from the world — to re- move himself from within reach of temptation — to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out of the window — he should by all means go to Lant Street. JAMES AND JOHN 241 "Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire in his first-floor front, early on the evening for which he had in- vited Mr. Pickwick: and Mr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the visitors appeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into a little corner outside the best parlour door, the bonnet and shawl of the landlady's servant had been removed from the bannisters: there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window. " Are you listening.? MRS. BETTS. Yes, dear. JAMES. "Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits at a wine vaults in High Street and had returned home pre- ceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the wrong house. The punch was ready made in a saucepan in the bedroom: " [The door is thrown open and John comes staggering in with a great chair which he places on the left side of the fireplace. He takes a pair of red leather slippers from his pockets and places them in front of the fire to warm. From another pocket he produces a pipe and an old tin of tobacco and lays them on the mantelpiece. James stops in his reading and scowls. The old lady starts up in her seat and watches John's movements intently. John takes not the slightest notice of James but goes out of the room again. James opens his mouth to speak but decides to go on reading as though nothing had happened. JAMES. "Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the counte- nance of Mr. Bob Sawyer as he sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression too in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals: and a tone of melancholy in his voice as he said, after a long silence: " 'Well, it is unlucky that she should have taken it into her head to turn sour, just on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.' " 242 JAMES AND JOHN [John returns with a glass, a decanter of whisky, and a jug of water. These he places on the table by his mother s side. She looks up at him gratefully. John, a little ostentatiously, takes a book and sits on the sofa. James shuts " Pickuxick" and remains gazing into the fire. They sit in silence for some time. MRS. BETTS. Is the clock right, John? JOHN (looking at his watch) . A little fast. ... I told Jane she might go to bed. I thought it better. MRS. BETTS. Yes [John is conscious that James is scrutinising him narrowly, and becomes a little uneasy. He sits so that the chair he has brought is between himself and his brother. He can see his mother from this position. They sit again in silence for some time. MRS. BETTS. There was a funeral in the street to-day. Quite a grand affair. . . . (Silence) There have been quite a number of deaths in the district lately. . . . (Silence) They go on having babies, though ... I wonder why , . . (Silence) I suppose everything happens for the best. . . . (Her prattle becomes intolerable to James, who springs to his feet and walks furiously up and down the room. He subsides finally, having scared her into silence, and they sit mum while the aggressive clock tick-ticks, and faint noises from the street come into the room — the sound of wheels on cobblestones, of whistling boys, of a street-brawl. Then comes the boom of a great distant clock striking ten) That's the Town Hall. When you hear it so clearly as that it means rain. . . . [Silence again. The bell of the house is heard to tinkle. John leaps to his feet and goes from the room. Mrs. Belts starts up trembling and fearful. James sits bolt upright and stern in his chair. They both turn and watch the door. John returns alone. JOHN. Only the post. JAMES. Anything for me? JOHN. No; for me. . . . [He reads his letter and throws it in the fire. James and Mrs. JAMES AND JOHN 243 Belts subside into their former attitudes. John returns to the sofa and takes up his book again. MRS. BETTS. Who was it from, John? JOHN. It was nothing of any consequence. [They relapse into silence. JAMES. It is past your bed-time, mother. (Mrs. Betts takes no notice) It is past ten o'clock mother. . . . MRS. BETTS. I know. . . . {They are silent again. James falls to plucking his beard, and Mrs. Betts to watching him) How Hke you are to your father, James ! . . . I suppose that is why you could never get on together. . . . {James winces, but ignores the remark. JOHN. I think, mother, if we agreed not to talk it would be easier for all of us. . . . MRS, BETTS. Very well, John . . . only — I — couldn't bear the silence. . . . [James opens ^^ Pickwick" again and pretends to be absorbed. JOHN. If you would read, Jamie . . . JAMES. She does not listen . . . {Mrs. Betts has caught the sound of something outside the house. She turns and looks, half in fear, half in eagerness, towards the window. She lifts her hand and seems to point in that direction. The house bell is heard again. John looks up, sees her agitation, and comes to soothe her. He moves towards the door, and has reached it when James shakes himself and holds up a hand) Stop! {John turns) I will go. JOHN. I beg your pardon. I will go. [He opens the door and goes out. James assumes a com- manding attitude by the fireplace. Mrs. Betts turns and ■ watches the door. She hears murmurs of voices, and, rising to her feet, begins to shuffle towards the door. JAMES {without looking at her; in a firm, quiet voice). Mother — sit down. {He never takes his eyes from the door. Mrs. Betts stands turning piteously between his command and her instinctive inclination. Then slowly she returns and sub- sides into her chair, but never lakes her eyes from the door. Mrs. Betts begins to whimper) Tssh ! Tssh ! 244 JAMES AND JOHN [The door slowly opens and John comes in, grave, solemn. He holds the door open and presently Mr. Beits comes in. He is a big man, but a broken and a wretched; and yet there is a fine dignity in him. He stands by the door for some moments, his eyes fixed on his wife. He comes towards her slowly as though he were afraid, were not sure; that breaks in him, and he stumbles towards her and kisses her. BETTS. Wife . . . [She breaks into a little moaning cry, fondles, and kisses his hand. John comes and stands behind them. Mr. Beits turns from his wife to James and holds out his hand. James bows stiffly, and for a moment there is silence. The old an- tagonism leaps in both. JAMES {with stiff' dignity). You are welcome, sir. . . . [Mr. Belts stretches to his fidl height and bows with a dignity no less stiff than that of his son. James stands cold, while the other three are grouped together. Mrs. Belts tugs at her husband's hand. MRS. BETTS. Your chair, dear . . . John brought it down for you. . . . [Mr. Belts moves and sits in the chair by the fireplace. James waits for a little and then, without a word, sits in his chair. John brings up a chair and sits between his mother and father, nearer to his mother. They sit so in awkward silence, during which Mr. Belts turns his eyes from one to another of his fam- ily. James alone does not look at his father, but studiously away from him. John turns and mixes a glass of whisky and water for his father. This the old man takes gladly. He is reminded that he is cold by this attention, and shivers. He holds out a hand towards the blazing fire, then finds James looking at it vindictively and withdraws it hastily. JOHN. Your slippers are there. . . . {Mr. Belts takes off his boots and gives them to John, who takes them out of the room) Will you . . . smoke? MB. BETTS. Thank you. {He takes his old pipe and tobacco and lights, looking at James the while. He blows out a cloud of smoke gratefully. He thrusts out a leg towards the fire) JAMES AND JOHN 245 The value of tobacco is best appreciated when it is the last you possess and there is no chance of getting more. . . . Bismarck said that . . . MRS. BETTS (who has been weeping quietly) . I think — I think I must go to — to bed. {She rises to her feet and shuffles slowly over to her husband. She bends over him and kisses him and loith her weak old hands pats his cheek) I — I hope you are not wet, dear. ... It must be raining ter- ribly. . . . [She shuffles over to James, kisses him, and John sees her to the door, then comes back and sits in her chair. Mr. Belts has watched his wife with burning eyes as she moved. MR. BETTS. How long.'' How long? JAMES {idly). It is six months since she was out of doors. . . . It is almost six years since she has been well enough to stay away from . . . from home. . . . [Mr. Belts draws the back of his hand over his eyes. JOHN. Be just, James, be just. JAMES {in the same hard monotone). It is twelve years since we came to this house in this melancholy street. ... In this room she has sat, day in, day out, year in, year out. . . . Day by day we have set out, I for the bank, John there for his office. . . . Year by year we have known that there was nothing to be done . . . that we must sacrifice everything to her. . . . We have known that. .... We have known that we could bring her nothing, that she could bring us nothing. . . . There she sat . . . [Mr. Belts sits loith boived head, offering no protest. JOHN. Be just, James, be just. . . . She has been waiting for this day . . . JAMES {ignoring him). We have known that such an ex- istence was futile . . . sterile. . . . We have all been . . . prisoners. JOHN. Shame on you . . . JAMES. I have told you in my letter the terms on which I bid you welcome to my house. . . . What have you to say? 246 JAMES AND JOHN [Mr. Belts looks at John, then to James. Their eyes meet and for a moment they are man to man, enmity between them, the man judging and the man being judged. A little nervous laugh escapes from Mr. Betts. He puts up his hand to the place where his wife kissed him and caressed his face, and his eyes follow her slow path to the door. He shrugs, seems to shrink. He flings up his hands. MB. BETTS. Nothing. . . . There is nothing to say. . . . We are all so ... so old . . . [There is a silence. The clock ticks more wickedly than ever. James and John sit with bowed heads. JOHN {to his father). Shall I show you your room? MR. BETTS. Thank you, John. [James rises, goes to the door, and opens it. As John and Mr. Betts reach the door, James holds out his hand to his father. JAMES. Good night — father. MR. BETTS. Good night, James. [John and Mr. Betts go out. James puts out the light and follows. CURTAIN i THE SNOW MAN LAURENCE HOUSMAN Laurence Housman is not a professional dramatist. Al- though he has written many plays he is not to be classed with the playwright whose business it is to supply the stage regularly with effective pieces. Born in 1867, he has turned his hand to poetry, fiction, translation, and the drama, while he is well known as an illustrator and a lecturer on social subjects. His best known plays — "Prunella", written in collaboration with Granville Barker, and "The Chinese Lantern" — belong to the realm of fancy; they are not only effective plays, they are genuine literature. Of late years Mr. Housman has written a number of one-act plays, in verse and prose, on mythical and pseudo-historical subjects, and some based upon modern subjects. Laurence Housman is gifted with a fine sense of the the- ater; as an "outsider" he still clings to the notion that a good play need not necessarily be written in poor English. PLAYS Bethlehem (1902) *As Good as Gold (1916) Prunella (1906) *The Snow Man (1916) (In collaboration with *Bird in Hand (1916) Granville Barker) *Nazareth (1916) The Chinese Lantern (1908) *The Return of Alcestis Lysistrata (1910) (1916) *A Likely Story (1910) *Apollo in Hades (1920) *The Lord of the Harvest *TheDeathof Alcestis (1920) (1910) *The Doom of Admetus Pains and Penalties (1911) (1920) Alice in Ganderland (1911) *The Christmas Tree (1920) 248 THE SNOW MAN "Bethlehem" is published by Macmillan Company, New York; "Prunella" by Little, Brown and Company, Boston; "The Chinese Lantern", "As Good as Gold", "A Likely Story", "The Snow Man", "The Lord of the Harvest", "Bird in Hand", "Nazareth", "The Return of Alcestis", separately, by Samuel French, New York; "Apollo in Hades ", "The Death of Alcestis", and "The Doom of Admetus" in one volume entitled "The Wheel", by Samuel French; "Pains and Penalties" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London; "Lysistrata" by The Woman's Press, London; and "The Christmas Tree" in The Drama magazine, Chicago, Decem- ber, 1920. Reference: Literary Supplement, New York Evening Post, May 8, 1920. THE SNOW MAN A PLAY IN ONE ACT By LAURENCE HOUSMAN "The Snow Man" has not been professionally produced. Characters Joan, A 'peasant woman Mary Ann 1 „ i -u - , V Her children Matthew Mark J Jaspar, Her husband The Snow Man CoPTHiGHT, 1916, BY Laurence Housman. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the author. Caution. Amateurs and Professionals are hereby warned that " The Snow Man ", being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and any one presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent, will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to pro- duce "The Snow Man" must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City. THE SNOW MAN Scene. A poor peasant dwelling, barely furnished with ar- ticles of the roughest description, a trestle-table, two benches, — a large one serving as a window-seat, and a smaller one standing by the hearth, — a wooden chair, a spinning ivheel, a large bread pan, a shell containing household crockery, and on the inner wall of the ingle a few pots and pans hanging on the wall. The room is wide and loiv; to the left is a deep hooded fireplace with con- taining walls on either side of it, — to one side a bread oven, to the other a cubby -bed with doors; opposite to the fireplace is a door leading to the woodshed. The house door is at the back, rather to the right; to its left a long loiv ivindow extends almost to a line with the fireplace. In the right hand corner stands a large chest. The roof is of heavy beams gray with smoke, and between them shows an inner surface of thatch. The walls are of blue plaster marked by mildew, with patches here and there where the plaster has peeled off. It is winter and daylight is drawing on. Outside the world is white with snow. A peasant-woman moves to and fro with quick dogged pace. The pace of a hard worker tired bid always pushed for time. She takes black bread out of the oven, and puts the remainder into the bread-pan. Then she takes down the garments from before the fire, presses them with a heavy iron, and pids them away in the chest. While crossing the room to and fro she economizes her time, never going empty-handed. She puts milk to warm on the fire, and gets down two small mugs from a shelf. She also gets from the cubby-bed two night garments, and hangs them to warm over the bench by the hearth. JVhile she is thus engaged, children's voices are heard oidside, laughing and shouting. The woman, absorbed in her work, pays no attention. Two small romping figures occasionally pass the window. Presently they begin to sing. 252 THE SNOW MAN CHILDREN. Here we have a snow man, a snow man, a snow man! Oh, where does he come from, and what shall be his name? He says his name is no man, no man, no man! And nowhere and nowhere the land from which he came. (Now again) Oh, why did you come here, oh, snow man, oh, snow man? And will you now a friend be, or will you be a foe? "Oh, whether I a friend am, or whether I'm a foeman, It's here I mean to stay now, until I have to go!" {Now again) But what should you go for, oh, snow man, oh, snow man? And why would you leave us, when home lies at hand? "Oh, when the sun calls me, then I can wait for no man, But back I must go again, to my own land ! " And now we've made him, he'll have to stay, Ha! Ha! Ha! He can't get away. [The door hursts open, the two children run in: Matthew Mark and Mary Ann. MARY. Oh, mother, come and look at our snow man. MATTHEW. Mother, do look at him. MARY. When we began A-building him, we didn't ever know How big he'd get to be — he seemed to grow All by himself! MATTHEW. Mother, do look! JOAN. There, there! It's "look," "look," "look," all day! (She speaks in a good-humored scolding tone which the chil- dren seem not in the least afraid of. She goes and looks out) Well, I declare, You've done a silly thing — made 'im to stand Right in the door ! — with no room either 'and For folks to get by. THE SNOW MAN 253 MATTHEW. Yah ! MARY. Yah! Ah, ha! That's why. MATTHEW. We didn't want to let no folk get by To steal our muvver! {He rubs against her) JOAN. Here, and what d'yer mean Getting yourself all wet like this? You've been And clammed yourself, — you too. Now off you go! Take all those things off! One can't ever know What children will be up to next. Come here! (Catches hold of Matthew) Now you undress yourself. {To Mary) You get in there Into the warm. Stand still, stand still, I say, And put this round yer. Oh, so that's the way You do when I ain't looking? All day long You're up to mischief. Always something wrong Soon as my back is turned. That heap o' snow How long's that to stay there, I'd like to know? Here, take your milk, and there's a bit o' bread For both on yer. Don't want it? Ah, it's bed You'd best be off to! There, put your mug down! Now come and get into your nighty-gown. Ah, you sweet thing! Well, kiss your mother then! But you mind what I say — no more snow men To-morrow ! [Crosses the room. MARY. Mother — Mother — will there be Anyone here to-morrow? Shan't we see Someone? JOAN. See someone? MARY. I mean, won't there no Man come with a spade and clear away the snow? Last year one come. JOAN. That was your father, — he Haven't been near since, and where he be 254 THE SNOW MAN God alone knows. Here! Don't fill your 'ead With silly fancies ! You get on to bed. [She goes out into the woodshed. MATTHEW. Say ! Say ! She's gone ! come along, Mary Ann And hav© another look at our snow man. (They run across to the window) Snow man! Snow man! MARY. It's no good, he don't hear, he's gone to sleep. (Re-enter Joan) JOAN. Ah, what are you up to there? Back you go, quick. Or else you'll get the rod! (They skip back to the fireplace) Now you kneel down and say your prayers. "Pray God" [The two children kneel at bench with their backs to the fire. CHILDREN. "Pray God" JOAN (as she moves about folding up clothes, etc.). "Pray God make Baba good" CHILDREN. Pray God make Baba good. JOAN. "Give Baba bread." CHILDREN. Give Baba bread. JOAN. " Give all the hungry food" CHILDREN. Give all the hungry food. JOAN. "Peace to the dead." [Crosses herself. CHILDREN. Peace to the dead. [Joan stands lost in reverie and speaks unconsciously by rote. JOAN. "God bless" — [She turns and looks out. CHILDREN. God blcss — [They wait to be prompted. MATTHEW. Say, muvver, shall we pray for the snow man too? Shall us? Shall us? JOAN (still musing). Nay, nay! You leave the snow man out! He knows his way — he knows his way. j brother j CHILDREN. Bless mother, \ Y kind friends all about, [ sister J Bring Dada home, and leave the snow man out. Amen. [Joan stands lost in her own -thoughts. The children creep behind her toward the window. THE SNOW MAN 255 MARY. Good-night, snow man! MATTH E w. Good-ni ght ! [They approach Joan. MARY. Good-night, mother! JOAN. Good-night, darhng! MATTHEW. Night, mother. JOAN. Night-night, my dear, — night-night! [Mary Ann goes and opens cubby-bed and begins to climb in. Matthew stops outside. MATTHEW. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Guard the bed that I lie on; Four corners to my bed. Four angels at my head. One to watch, and one to pray, And two to JOAN. There, you get in! you've prayed enough to-night. [She goes to close doors. MARY. Don't shut it up yet, mother, leave a light. JOAN. Just you be quiet. Be thankful you lie warm, There's some as won't to-night. I can hear storm A-coming on. [She leaves door of cubby-bed half open. MATTHEW. Sing, mother, will ye sing? JOAN {putting away the bread and the milk-mugs and folding up the strewn garments; starts to sing in a dull toneless voice with little tune). There comes a man to a maid, and said. All in a year and a day "So thou be mine now let us be wed Out of the world and away." Said the maid to the man, " If I thee wed Out of the world and away, Bide 'e at home, and find me bread Just for a year and a day." 256 THE SNOW MAN They hadn't been wed, the maid and the man, For a year, for a year and a day. Before a want in his heart began, To be out to the world and away. "Oh, wife, there's come a call to my blood, To be out in the world and away, By road and river, by field and flood. Just for a year and a day." Out and away to the world he went. By road and river and sea. Oh, man of the road, is your heart content? Will 'e never come back to me? {She goes and looks at the children and sees that they are asleep) Oh, man of the road, is your heart content? Will 'e never come back to me? {While she sings, the firelight dies down and the light of the candle loses its warmth. Outside is a sound of rising wind, and the soft lash of snow against the pane. She goes and looks out of windoiv) Ah, there be storm, black blast with icy breath! The night's gone colder now, aye cold like death. Cold! {She shivers — three knocks are struck on the door) Who be there? Who is it? Whence do 'e come? {Another knock, very faint) Have you no word? What, are ye deaf and dumb? Or — dead? {Knock. The light burns blue. She opens the door. Pause. Slowly the snow man enters and moves across the room to- ward the bed) No, stop ! Not there, not there ! [She interposes and lays hold of him. A cold rigour seizes her. THE SNOW MAN 257 SNOW MAN. Why do you touch me? JOAN. Why do you come here.'* Who are you? Answer! {He again moves forward) No, you don't go there! You shan't, you shan't come nigh of 'em. SNOW MAN. Take care! My touch is — cold! JOAN. You think I'm feard o' that? You think them eyes as I be looking at Have any fear for me, or shape of dread? Worse that what Hfe 'ave? {With a sort of exultation) Why, if I were dead! [Pause. The snow man lifts his hand and points toward the bed. Joan sees his meaning. SNOW MAN. If you were dead? JOAN. No, no, I say you He ! My Httle 'uns? God wouldn't let 'em die. 'A wouldn't have the heart, 'a wouldn't have the heart. SNOW MAN. Yet there's a heart, Now quick to beat. Which, this same night. Must lose its heat. To give strength to a lame man's feet. JOAN. A lame man? SNOW MAN. Gray-headed, bent. He scarce can go. His strength is spent In drifts of snow, And all the icy blasts that blow. JOAN. I don't know who you mean. SNOW MAN. Give me your hand. And you shall see. Here, close at hand, snow-bound goes he. Give me your hand. And come with me. JOAN. With you? Why do you think I'd come with you? I've got my children, I've a husband, too, One as I love. 258 THE SNOW MAN SNOW MAN. And he — does he love you? JOAN. That's no concern o' yo urn! Aye, a' did once, Aye! and a' will again, Some day, perhaps. When he first married me, 'A did, — 'a did ! We've sat here in this room A-kissing by the hour! That were before The children come. Children do make a house No comfort to a man. He had his right To go. He didn't want 'em, but I did! I did! Aye! and I've 'ad 'em now a whole seven years, Worked for 'em, I lived for 'em, starved for 'em. And I'd die So it could better 'em. SNOW MAN. And what — for him? JOAN. I've broke my 'eart for 'im; it's past its work. And now it ain't no use — no use — to 'im. SNOW MAN. Its use has come. Oh, woman, give Your heart to me, I'll make it live. And what you lend he shall receive. JOAN. You can't. You can't do that You can't raise up the sun when once it's set; You can't put new roots in us, when we're old. Dried up, and withered. SNOW MAN. Within kind earth Dry seed goes sown And springs again to birth. JOAN. I've 'ad enough of earth. I've sowed, I've reaped, I've gathered, and I've strawed. But me and 'im We won't meet any more. He 'aven't come. Nigh me — not for a year. And when he did come back — he went again Next day. SNOW MAN. Went? Where? JOAN. Nowhere. He roves about. Seeing the world, 'e calls it. Roving blood. That's been 'is curse; and mind, 'is roving blood, it haven't always roved. He liked his THE SNOW MAN 259 ease, he liked the victuals I give him well enough, he liked his fireside, and he liked his bed when I was by 'ini. Ah! And then one day he'd 'ad enough of comfort, and was oflF, — looking for what? 'Ardship? He might have 'ad that 'ere if he'd but stayed. Aye, that 'e could — for it's been 'ard enough — with they two there. Ah, you may look at 'em, they 'aven't known trouble — yet they was with me all the time. Why, there' ve been days when I've not 'ad enough to eat myself. And what 'ave fed me? Just to 'ear 'em laugh and think they 'aven't known. What do you look at me like that for? What do you know? What did you come for? Say! SNOW MAN. To bring you comfort. JOAN. Comfort? I've got no place for comfort in me now. It isn't that I want — it's rest. SNOW MAN. 'Tis rest I bring. JOAN. Where's 'e? SNOW MAN. Here — near at hand. Come, come and do not be afraid. [He takes her hand. JOAN. Oh, dearie me. This feels like death. Like death! [As they touch hands a mist draws over the stage, the walls of the house seem to fade away, the sound of the storm grows loud around them. They stand in a white world full of obscure movement and pale drifting forms. SNOW MAN. What do you see? JOAN. A waste of snow. SNOW MAN. Anyone there? JOAN. No one I know. No — only you. What? You say you saw him on the road, coming? How do you know that it was 'im? Yes — yes — 'e was like that. But younger, 'andsomer than that, — not lame No, he was never lame — a young, young man, And strong ! Oh, lost his way? You say 'e'd lost his way? Well, maybe that might tire 'im just a bit, But oh, e'd find it! Oh, trust him for that! 260 THE SNOW MAN He's been all round the world — and lost bis way Tbrough coming 'ome. Yes, yes, he's coming 'ome. Ah! Now I see 'im. Yes, I'm 'ere, I'm 'ere! Waiting for yer, — waiting — expecting yer. Ah, never mind. Though yer don't love me, still It's back to me you come! Yer can't 'elp that That's 'ow God made yer. That's why He made me. No ! I can't reach yer. No, he's got my hand, Holding it, holding it, — and won't leave go! I'd 'elp yer, if I could. I'd die for yer! But he won't let me go. I'm cold, I'm cold ! Can't see! — I've lost my way, And I shan't — never — any more come home! [The snow man looses her hand, and she falls. The mist clears from a dark stage, the walls close in again, the chamber remains in darkness. A figure stumbles past the window, the door is thrown open, the Snow man stands aside. Enter Jaspar. JASPAR. Home! Home, at last! Who's there? Anyone there? What? Nobody? No fire? Oh, bitter cold it feels (Fumbles for match-box) Here, fool, give me a light! Light, can't yer? Ah, what's that, what's that, what's that? Who are yer? What for are you lying there? Get up! Get up! What makes 'e be so cold? So clammed? /o. -7 7- 7^\ {Strikes a light) What the — ! My wife ! It be my wife ! Wife! Don't 'e hear me? It be I, come back, Jaspar come back — Jaspar come home again Jaspar — why don't 'e answer? There, now there! Have that to warm yer. Oh, ye'U soon come round. Ye' ve starved yourself, ye — ! Ah — she's dead, she's dead ! (He lifts her onto the chair by the hearth and now holds the THE SNOW MAN 261 candle to her face, then draws away with a growing fear of what other deaths may he there. He advances to the crib, and looks in on the sleeping children. He assures himself that they are alive. It startles him to fresh hope: he turns back to his wife) No, she ain't dead, she can't be, they're alive! She wouldn't leave 'em. No, she can't be dead. Wife, do 'e hear? The children be alive. You wouldn't go and leave 'em, no, not you 'T wouldn't be like yer. There, my — there, come, come! Take warmth o' me, — out of my 'eart and soul ! I'll make ye warm. (He takes her to his heart) AVhy, I was coming 'once. I'd 'a been yere before, but I lost my way, Got buried in the snow. Then I 'card you A-callin' me! I thought I saw your face, Then it all went, and then, my feet grew strong, Life come to me, and warmth, and here I be ! Can't 'e speak to me.'^ Be ye gone so far As 'e can't 'ear me? Not the word I'd say To tell 'e how I loved 'e? Ah, now I be in 'ell, I be in 'ell! And 'a won't never know. (Her hand falls out across chair, pointing toward the crib) What's that to say? Oh, the dear hand. Yes, I'll look after 'em. They shan't know want — and I won't go away The way I'd wish to go. I'll bear my life And all the burden of it. There, there, my lass. Rest ye in peace, I'll do my best by 'em! I'll do my best. [He bends and kisses her on the lips. The Snow man makes a pass toward her with his hand. She moves, and opens her eyes, all dazed and dreaming. JOAN. Who's that, who's that got hold o' me? Let go! I must go to 'im. 262 THE SNOW MAN JASPAR. No, no, bide 'e still. Here's Jaspar! JOAN. Jaspar! JASPAR. Oh, you be alive! [He sinks down broken, with his hsad on her breast. She takes his head in her hands stroking it softly. The Snow man moves slowly to the door, fades through it, and disappears. JOAN. So you've come back, I knew you'd come — some day. What's this? [She touches the coat. JASPAR. My coat. I found you lyin' there cold, so I put it around yer. But you made no sign — until I thought as yer was dead. JOAN. Dead.f* Would I leave 'em? Leave my little 'uns? JASPAR. Ah, there you do get home. It's a true charge. It's what I done. JOAN. You 'ad the roving blood. You couldn't *elp it. JASPAR. It ain't brought me no joy. JOAN. Jaspar, I think you've come here in a dream Put your arms round me and 'old me. Don't let go. Help me to dream, I'd like for it to last Just one more hour — put your 'ead on my heart. And don't you speak — don't speak — I want to dream, You be come back again! I want to dream. [They lie still in each other's arms. Dawn light begins to creep in. A sound of sliding snow is heard on the roof, a sharp twittering of birds; down across the window masses of snowfall in soft thunder. There follotvs a sound of dropping water: the thaw has begun. The outer world grows radiant with light. The doors of the cubby-bed fly open, the two chil- dren peep out. A soft but heavy crash of falling snow is heard. It strikes the door. MARY. Mother, what's that? Get up, get up, it's light! (Jumps out of bed, followed by Matthew) Oh, come and look! The snow's all falling — right down off the roof. Look how it's letting go ! MATTHEW. Oh, the snow man. Look at the snow man! Oh! [Opens door. THE SNOW MAN 263 MARY. Mother, the snow man's tumbled in the night. [Joan opens her eyes. JOAN. Hush, hush, don't wake 'im. Come 'e and look 'ere. [The children approach softly, curious and surprised, MARY. Who is it, mother? JOAN. The snow man, my dear. He's come to stay. CURTAIN FANCY FREE STANLEY HOUGHTON William Stanley Houghton was born at Ashton-upon- Mersey in 1881. At the age of sixteen he entered his father's law office in Manchester, where he worked until 1912. That year he witnessed the successful production of his "Hindle Wakes", a play which was later performed in London and throughout the United States. From 1912 until the end of his short life, he devoted all his time to the writing of plays. Early in 1913 he went to Paris, fell ill, recovered, and returned to London in June of the same year. He soon left England once again, on his way to Venice. From Italy, after an attack of influenza and appendicitis, he was brought to Manchester, where he died in December. At the time of his death, Stanley Houghton was perhaps the best known dramatist of the so-called "Manchester School." "Hindle Wakes" is without doubt his best play, but in his short dramas and comedies he attempted — and in the best of them successfully — to portray with exactitude and sympathy the characters of his native Lancashire. The one-act plays were, fortunately, not intended merely as curtain raisers: they were written as independent works, and not in order to amuse the pit before the stalls are filled. The Manchester dramatists were encouraged to develop the one-act form, not to regard it as a convenient repository for material otherwise not suitable for use. 266 FANCY FREE PLAYS *The Dear Departed (1908) *The Fifth Commandment Independent Means (1909) (1913) *The Master of the House Trust the People (1913) (1910) *The Old Testament and the The Younger Generation New (1914) (1910) Partners (1914) *Fancy Free (1911) Marriages in the Making Hindle Wakes (1912) (1914) *Pearls (1912) The Hillarys (1915) *Phipps (1912) (In collaboration with The Perfect Cure (1913) Harold Brighouse) Ginger (1913) "The Dear Departed", "The Master of the House", "Fancy Free", "Phipps", and "The Fifth Commandment" are published as "Five One-Act Plays", by Samuel French, New York; "Independent Means", "The Younger Genera- tion", and "Hindle Wakes", separately, by the same; all the plays, except "Trust the People", "Ginger", "Pearls", and "The Hillarys ", are included in "The Works of Stanley Houghton", 3 volumes, Constable and Company, London. References: Harold Brighouse, Introduction to "The Works of Stanley Houghton", Constable and Company, London; Gerald Cumberland, "Set Down in Malice", Bren- tano's. New York. Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 641, New York; Manchester Playgoer, vol. xi. No. 1; Manchester Quarterly, vol. xxxiii, p. 213; The Living Age, vol. cclxxx, p. 413, Boston; McClure's, vol. xl, p. 69, New York. FANCY FREE By STANLEY HOUGHTON "Fancy Free" was first produced at London in 1912. Characters Fancy Alfred Ethelbert Delia The Scene represents the writing-room of the Hotel Cos- mopolitan, Babylon -on-Sea. COPYBIGHT, 1913, BT SaMUEL FbENCH, LIMITED All rights reserved Reprinted from "Five One-Act Plays", by pormiasion of Samuel French, Pub- lisher, New York. "All inquiries respecting the performance of any play contained in this volume must be addressed to Samuel French, 28 West 3Sth Street, New York City, U. S. A. FANCY FREE The writing-room of the Hotel Cosmopolitan is a tall, hand- some apartment, exquisitely furnished. The great fireplace faces the spectator, ivith a lounge chair on each side. Near him, on his left, is a double writing-table containing two desks opposite one another. Chairs face each desk. Still further left is a settee against the wall. On his right a settee placed at right angles to the wall, a small low table, and a low padded armchair. There is another writing-table on the right of the fireplace, and a book-case on the left. The two entrances, each with double doors, are set diagonally across the two visible corners of the room, one right and one left. The fire is burning, and the electric lights are on. It is a little after ten o'clock. Fancy, in an evening gown, is sitting on the right hand of the double desk, trying to compose a letter. She is petite, dark and pretty. Alfred comes in from the left in evening dress. He is tall, fair, clean-shaven and handsome. FANCY (looking up). Well? ALFRED. I find that the last post goes at midnight. It is now exactly a quarter-past ten. FANCY. Then I have still an hour and three-quarters in which to finish the letter. [Alfred kneels on the chair on the other side of the double desk and watches Fancy. ALFRED. I am disappointed in you, Fancy. I knew that I should be disappointed in you some day, but I did not expect it to come so soon. FANCY. My dear Alfred, pray do not forget that this is no ordinary letter. ALFRED. It ought not to be so difficult to tell one's husband that one has run away from him. 270 FANCY FREE FANCY. But I have had so little experience. I daresay I shall improve with practice. ALFRED. How far have you got.'* FANCY. I'll read it to you. "Darling Ethelbert " ALFRED. Stop! Ought you to call him darling now.^* FANCY. Why not.'* ALFRED. A sensitive mind might detect something inappro- priate in the adjective. FANCY. I always call him darling when I write to him. I feel sure he would feel hurt if I omitted to do so on this occasion. Besides, I am still very fond of him. ALFRED. Perhaps you are right. We cannot too scrupu- lously avoid wounding him. FANCY {reading). "Darling Ethelbert, "You will be interested to hear that since you went to Scotland on Thursday last I have decided to run away with Alfred. You cannot have forgotten the promises we made each other on our wedding-day. I am not re- ferring to those we made publicly during the marriage ceremony, but to our private understanding that each should be entirely free and untrammelled provided that the other's health and comfort was not interfered with. You will understand, therefore, that in leaving you and going away with Alfred I am doing nothing that is con- trary to our agreement. You would have been entitled to complain only if I had insisted on bringing Alfred home with me." That's logic, isn't it? ALFRED. Yes, Feminine logic. FANCY. That is all Ethelbert has any right to expect from me. ALFRED. How do you proceed.'' FANCY. I don't. That is the difficulty. ALFRED. At any rate. Fancy, you have made it clear to Ethelbert that you have left him. That is all that is essential. You have only to wind up now. FANCY. How? "Yours faithfully"? FANCY FREE 271 ALFRED. Why not "Yours formerly"? FANCY. But I am afraid that is too abrupt. Ethelbert is so sensitive. I should like to wind up with something kind. ALFRED. Let me see. "You will be glad to hear that we are having an awfully jolly time here." FANCY. I doubt whether Ethelbert would be glad to hear it. ALFRED. Then something chatty or discursive. "The Cos- mopolitan is an exceedingly nice hotel. It contains no fewer than 250 bedrooms, each elaborately furnished with all modern conveniences." FANCY. Ethelbert will hardly care for such details. Besides, I do not consider that the Cosmopolitan is such a nice hotel. ALFRED. It is an exceedingly expensive one. Let us en- deavour to extract as much enjoyment out of it as possible. FANCY. I am sure that I should have preferred the Grand Rendevous. ALFRED. The Grand Rendevous is, if possible, still more ex- pensive. FANCY. WTiat does that matter? ALFRED. To you, little or nothing. It is I who have to pay the bill. FANCY. Alfred, you have the soul of a stockbroker. ALFRED. Do not flatter me. I have sometimes hoped I had. FANCY. If I had realized how useless you would be in an emergency, I doubt whether I should have run away with you. ALFRED. My dear Fancy, I did not run away with you in order to conduct your correspondence. You should have advertised for a private secretary. I had hoped to be something more to you than that. FANCY {rising). I shall go to my room. It is quite impos- sible for me to finish this letter here. ALFRED. Why? FANCY. This room is far too crowded. ALFRED. This is not a quarrel, I trust. Fancy. 272 FANCY FREE FANCY. Certainly not. I hope I have too much tact to quarrel with you on the first day of our elopement. [Fancy goes to the door with her letter. ALFRED. When may I expect to see you again? FANCY. The last post goes at midnight. [Fancy goes out left. Hardly has she gone than Ethelbert comes in right. He is a good-looking, dark man, in evening dress. ALFRED (thunderstruck). Ethelbert! ETHELBERT. Alfred ! ALFRED. My dear fellow. ETHELBERT. How are you, old chap? ALFRED. What brings you here? I understood you were travelling on business. ETHELBERT. So I am. Extremely private business. ALFRED. How singular that we should meet! ETHELBERT. Are you here on business too? ALFRED. Er — yes. Extremely private business also. ETHELBERT. Comc. Let US sit down and talk. ' [He sits in the armchair right of the fire. ALFRED. With pleasure. But do not let us talk here. ETHELBERT. Why UOt? ALFRED. This is an exceedingly dull room. ETHELBERT. It is a Very charming room. ALFRED. But I assure you, I have been here quite half an hour, and nothing whatever has happened. ETHELBERT. Then we can talk the more comfortably. [Alfred sits down reluctantly. ALFRED. Where were you going when you came in here? ETHELBERT. I was looking for the American Bar. ALFRED. Excellent ! We will go and look for it together. [He rises. ETHELBERT. Presently. There is no hurry. [Alfred sits down. ALFRED {yawning). Do you know, Ethelbert, I feel I ought to be getting to bed. ETHELBERT. Bed? Why, it is only half -past ten. FANCY FREE 273 ALFRED. I promised my mother, before she died, that whenever practicable I would be in bed by half-past ten. ETHELBERT. But I Want to talk to you about Fancy. ALFRED. About Fancy! Do you think you ought to talk to me about Fancy? The relations of a husband and wife should be sacred, surely. ETHELBERT. I Want to ask your advice, Alfred. I have begun to suspect that Fancy is growing tired of me. ALFRED {looking at his watch). I must positively be in bed before half-past ten o'clock ETHELBERT. Why does a woman grow tired of a man? ALFRED. Because the last post goes at midnight. ETHELBERT. No. Bccause she prefers somebody else. ALFRED {interested). Do you suspect that Fancy is in love with somebody else? ETHELBERT. I do. ALFRED. Who is he? ETHELBERT. I havo no idea. I wish I had. ALFRED. Don't you think you will be much happier if you remain in ignorance? ETHELBERT. Oh, I am not thinking of myself. I am think- ing of him. ALFRED. Indeed. ETHELBERT. Ycs. I should like to warn him. ALFRED. To warn him? ETHELBERT. I'm afraid she'll be running away with the poor fellow. ALFRED {uneasily). Why do you call him a poor fellow? ETHELBERT. Faucy is so terribly extravagant. She spends money like water, especially when it is not her own. ALFRED {unthinkingly). Have you found that out, too? ETHELBERT. Of course I've found it out, and so would you if you had been married to her as long as I have. Can- didly, I'm afraid Fancy will ruin the poor fellow. ALFRED. What has that to do with you? ETHELBERT. I hope I am a humane person, Alfred. I would not willingly see my worst enemy reduced to the work- 274 FANCY FREE house, and this poor fellow may be one of my friends. I should be intensely sorry if one of my friends ruined him- self for the sake of my wife. I can assure you that she is not worth it. In my experience, very few women are. ALFRED. Ethelbert, forgive me if I point out that you are not looking at this affair in the proper way. ETHELBERT. Indeed? In what way do you consider that I ought to look at it? ALFRED. Do you mean to say that you are not indignant at the idea of another man eloping with your wife? ETHELBERT. Not in the least. ALFRED {warmly). Then you ought to be, that's all. ETHELBERT. When I married Fancy we arranged to leave each other absolutely free. I am a gentleman, Alfred; you would not have rae break my word. ALFRED. But it is quite inconceivable! You are without any sense of moral responsibility. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. ETHELBERT. I Very often am. Aren't you? ALFRED. Certainly not. I regulate my life, I am thankful to say, by a strict rule of conduct, which I observe as closely as possible. If I have lapses, so much the worse. They are regrettable, but not unnatural. At any rate, I have the immense consolation of knowing that my prin- ciples are not lax, but that I have merely failed to adhere to them for once in a way. ETHELBERT. Bclieve me, Alfred, it is a mistake to have too many principles. ALFRED. Why? ETHELBERT. Because if you have too many it is quite im- possible to stick to them all. I content myself with one only. ALFRED. What is that? ETHELBERT. Ncvcr bc a hypocrite. It is an excellent maxim. It permits you to do whatever you please, provided you don't pretend you are not doing it. I advise you to adopt it and to drop all your other principles. FANCY FREE 275 ALFRED. Do you insinuate that I am a hypocrite? ETHELBERT. Not at all. ALFRED. Then you are wrong. I am. ETHELBERT. Really? You grow more interesting every day. ALFRED. Please do not flatter me. I am conscious that I do not deserve it. Ethelbert, your deplorable views about morality have awakened my conscience. I must conceal the truth from you no longer. Besides, I think it is extremely probable that you would have found it out in any case very shortly. ETHELBERT. What do you mean? ALFRED. I knew, all the time, that Fancy was in love with another man. ETHELBERT. How? ALFRED. Because I am that other man. ETHELBERT. You don't say so ! Permit me to offer you my sincere condolences. ALFRED. Thank you. [They shake hands gravely. ETHELBERT. How fortunatc that I should be able to warn you before it is too late! ALFRED. Ethelbert, you must know all. It is too late. I have already run away with your wife. ETHELBERT. Already! When did it happen? ALFRED. This morning. ETHELBERT. This momiug? Then ALFRED. Yes. You are right. Fancy is actually in this hotel at the present moment. ETHELBERT. Upon my soul, Alfred, this is most unfriendly of you. ALFRED. Go on. I am conscious that I merit all your re- proaches. ETHELBERT. I call it grossly indelicate to bring Fancy to the very hotel in which I am staying. ALFRED. But, hang it all, we did not know that you were staying here. You don't suppose we chose it for that reason, do you? We thought you were in Scotland. 276 FANCY FREE ETHELBERT. Ah, truc. I did go to Scotland. I spoke without reflecting. I beg your pardon, Alfred. ALFRED {'politely). Not at all. {A pause. ETHELBERT. Well, and how do you get on with Fancy? ALFRED. I hardly think I am justified in venturing upon an opinion upon such a slight acquaintance. ETHELBERT. I woudcF if I may presume to offer you some advice? ALFRED. By all means. ETHELBERT. If you are going to succeed in managing Fancy, you will have to put your foot down at once. ALFRED. Put my foot down? ETHELBERT. How much havc you spent to-day? ALFRED. About sevcn hundred and fifty pounds. ETHELBERT. I thought SO. ALFRED. Fancy bought a motor-car this afternoon. ETHELBERT. She will buy another to-morrow. ALFRED. But I can't afford it. How did you succeed in curbing her extravagance? ETHELBERT. I threatened to advertise in the papers that I should not be responsible for any debts contracted by my wife. ALFRED. Since she is not my wife I can hardly do that, can I? ETHELBERT. You might advertise that you will not be responsible for any debts contracted by my wife. ALFRED. Don't you think that would be a little pointed? ETHELBERT. Perhaps it would. ALFRED. No, Ethelbert, there is only one way out of the difficulty. I will resign Fancy to you. ETHELBERT. Not ou any account. ALFRED (rising). Yes. I cannot allow you to outbid me in generosity. I will go and find her and bring her to you. ETHELBERT {rising). For Heaven's sake, don't tell my wife I am staying here. ALFRED. Why not? FANCY FREE 277 ETHELBERT. Because I am not alone. ALFRED. Not alone? ETHELBERT. Her name is Delia. ALFRED (indignantly). Ethelbert! ETHELBERT. Well, Alfred? ALFRED. You shock me, gravely. ETHELBERT. You are very thin-skinned. Have you al- ready forgotten what errand brought you to this hotel? ALFRED (with dignity). There is no reason why you should make my lapse an excuse for your own. Have you thought of your wife? ETHELBERT. She need never know, unless you tell her. ALFRED. I thought you said that Fancy and you agreed to leave each other entirely free. ETHELBERT. We gavc cach other our word of honour. ALFRED. Then why do you wish to hide the truth from her? ETHELBERT. Faucy is not a gentleman. She is a woman. She does not understand the meaning of honour. ALFRED. You are trifling. I regret to say, Ethelbert, that I shall consider it my duty to inform your wife immediately of the whole deplorable business. ETHELBERT. So be it. Far be it from me to try and induce you to act contrary to the dictates of your conscience. [Fancy comes in left, with a letter. FANCY. Ethelbert! ET H ELB ERT . Fancy ! FANCY. How fortunate! I can give you this letter now. That will save a penny stamp. ETHELBERT. Thank you. I will destroy the letter. [He tears it and throws it in the fire. FANCY. Oh, why did you do that? It took me such a long time to write. ETHELBERT. I am already aware of its contents. FANCY. You have told him, Alfred? ALFRED. Yes. 278 FANCY FREE FANCY. Then, Ethelbert, may I ask what you are doing here? I consider it grossly indelicate of you to follow us about like this. You wouldn't like it yourself. ALFRED. Ethelbert has not followed us. He has come here for a reason of his own. FANCY. A reason of his own? ALFRED. Yes. How Can I tell you? {A pause) Her name is Delia. FANCY. Oh! Oh! Ethelbert, how dare you? ETHELBERT. My dear Fancy, you remember what we ar- ranged. FANCY. I don't care what we arranged. You have had the bad taste to prefer another woman to me. I shall never forgive you. ETHELBERT. But, Faucy, listen. FANCY. I shall not listen. I don't want to hear a single word about her. Where did you meet her? ETHELBERT. She was staying at my hotel in Edinburgh. FANCY. That was no reason why you should have spoken to her. ETHELBERT. I didn't. She spoke to me. We were sitting at adjoining tables in the Winter Garden. FANCY. She dropped a glove? A handkerchief? ETHELBERT. How did you know that? FANCY. Never mind. ETHELBERT. Of course I picked it up. FANCY. And what did she say to you? ETHELBERT. She Said, "Do you know, you've got the most delightfully wicked eyes." That was how it began. [Delia comes in right. She is a tall, gorgeously-dressed and beautiful woman, with a mass of red-gold hair. DELIA (in a fury). Really, Bertie, this is too bad. I've been looking for you all over the hotel. ALFRED. This, I presume, is the lady in question. ETHELBERT. My dear Delia, I am exceedingly sorry that I have been detained, but this lady is an old acquaintance of mine. She is, in fact, my wife. FANCY FREE 279 DELIA. Indeed. {To Fancy) So you are his wife.? FANCY. As it happens. DELIA. I am very glad to meet you, if only to have the opportunity of complaining about the way you have trained your husband. FANCY. I did not train him. DELIA. That is just what I complain about. Under the circumstances I can forgive his leaving me alone in the Lounge of a strange hotel, but his table manners are frankly uncivilized. Do you know that he reads the morning paper during breakfast? FANCY. He never does so at home. DELIA. You must not expect to make me believe that. FANCY. But it is perfectly true. During breakfast I al- ways read the morning paper myself. DELIA. Ah, no doubt in self-defence. FANCY. Not at all. DELIA. I suppose one can become inured to anything, in time, even to Bertie's light breakfast conversation. FANCY. That shows how superficial your acquaintance with Ethelbert is. I like his breakfast conversation because he goes on talking without stopping. Consequently, it is not necessary for me to pay any attention to him, and I can read the morning paper in peace. ETHELBERT. This is most unkind of you both. My light breakfast conversation has always been much admired, especially by ladies. (To Delia) I am sure you will alter your opinion if you will only do me the favour, Delia, of listening a little more carefully to-morrow morning. FANCY. Certainly not. ETHELBERT. I beg your pardon.^* FANCY. She will have no opportunity of Ustening to you more carefully. ETHELBERT. Why not? FANCY. Because you will breakfast with me to-morrow morning. 280 FANCY FREE ETHELBERT. Oh, vcry Well, then perhaps you will do me the favour of listening more carefully. FANCY. I fancy that during breakfast to-morrow you will be fully occupied in listening to me, for once in a way. I do not think that I shall have sufficient time to say all I wish to say to you to-night. You have provided me with a very fruitful topic. ETHELBERT. But, my dear Fancy, I fear we can hardly pur- sue it to-night. We both appear to have previous en- gagements. DELIA {to Ethelbert). You have no previous engagement. ETHELBERT. Delia! DELIA. It is cancelled. ETHELBERT. You are cruel, Delia. DELIA. It is your own fault. How can you expect any self-respecting woman to put up with the treatment I have received from you? FANCY. May I ask what further complaint you have to make about my husband? DELIA. He has no sense of decency. I consider it grossly indelicate of him to bring me to this hotel whilst you are stopping here. I have never been treated in such a manner before. FANCY. I think you take a very proper view of the affair. Ethelbert ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself. DELIA. Good-bye, Bertie. {She holds out her hand) I shall never listen to your light breakfast conversation again. FANCY. And good-bye, Alfred. {She holds out her hand) My only regret is that I shall never know what your light breakfast conversation is like. ALFRED. Don't say that. Fancy. Why shouldn't we all four have breakfast together in the morning? DELIA. No. I am sorry, but I must draw the line some- where. FANCY. You are right. You have the most perfect taste. I am begining to admire you immensely. Good-bye. DELIA. Good-bye, FANCY FREE 281 FANCY. Good night, Alfred. ALFRED. Good night, Fancy. FANCY. Come, Ethelbert. [She takes his arm. ETHELBERT (to Delia and Alfred). Good night. [Fancy and Ethelbert go out left. A pause. DELIA (raising her eyebrows). Well? ALFRED. Well? DELIA. And what do we do now? ALFRED. Would you like some supper? DELIA. No, thanks. {She sits in an armchair by the fire) You may order me some champagne if you like. ALFRED. Willingly. [Alfred rings an electric bell, and then sits facing Delia in the other armchair. They look straight at each other for a time. DELIA (at length, leaning forward). Do you know, you've got the most delightfully wicked eyes. CURTAIN (This play should be acted with the most perfect seriousness and polish. It should not be played in a spirit of burlesque. It should be beautifully acted, beautifully costumed and beauti- fully staged.) LONESOME-LIKE HAROLD BRIGHOUSE The author of "Lonesome-Like" was born in Lancashire in 1882, and was educated at the Manchester Grammar School. Harold Brighouse has been closely identified with the "Man- chester School" of drama, because some of his best known plays are concerned with the people of his native Lancashire and were first produced by Miss Horniman's Repertory Company at the Gaiety Theater in Manchester. That his work is too closely identified with this movement is re- gretted by Mr. B. Iden Payne in his preface to "Hobson's Choice", as it "tends to give the impression that all his plays have a local character. Actually the sixteen plays, long and short, which have already [1916] been performed cover a wide range in setting and subject, and out of this number only five have a Lancashire background, and only six have been played by Miss Horniman's company." Mr. Brighouse's first characteristic dramatic venture was "The Doorway", "little more than a dialogue between two outcasts, a man and a woman, strangers to each other, who meet by chance in the shelter of a factory door and find mutual comfort in telling over their misfortunes and their past adventures as they huddle together in the biting cold of the small hours of a winter's morning." The author is interested primarily in human character; in all his plays one remembers longest the people, not the situa- tions. His best work is found in his comedies, "Hobson's Choice" and" Lonesome-Like" being without doubt his most characteristic pieces. Brighouse's technical art is exercised to the end that human beings may be exhibited within an interesting framework, not that the framework may be an end in itself. Says Brighouse in his Preface to "Three Lancashire Plays": "It 284 LONESOME-LIKE is those plays which exhibit in high degree the use of action in the form of dialogue that are the more comfortable read- ing; and, always postulating that a play is a play ... a thing practicable, actable and effective on the stage — the more physical action is subordinated to character, to the ex- ploration of human nature, the better it is for reading pur- poses and the better for all purposes." PLAYS *The Doorway (1909) The Northerners (1914) *The Price of Coal (1909) Hobson's Choice (1915) Deahng in Futures (1909) *Converts (1915) Graft (1911) TheRoadtoRaebury(1915) The Polygon (1911) *Followirs (1915) *Lonesome-Like (1911) The Hiilarys (1915) *The Oak Settle (1911) (In collaboration with *SpringinBloomsbury(1911) Stanley Houghton) *The Scaring-Off of Teddy Zack (1916) Dawson (1911) The Clock Goes Round *Little Red Shoes (1912) (1916) The Odd Man Out (1912) Maid of France (1917) The Game (1913) Other Times (1920) Garside's Career (1914) "The Doorway", "Dealing in Futures", "Graft", "The Oak Settle", "The Scaring-Off of Teddy Dawson", and "The Odd Man Out" are published separately by Samuel French, New York; "The Game", "The Northerners", and "Zack", in "Three Lancashire Plays", by the same; "The Price of Coal", "Lonesome-Like", "Converts", and "Maid of France", by Gowans and Gray, London; "Garside's Career", by A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago; and "Hobson's Choice", by Doubleday, Page and Company, Garden City, Long Island. References: Introduction to "Hobson's Choice", Double- day, Page and Company, Garden City, Long Island. Magazines: Manchester Quarterly, vol. 33, p. 213. LONESOME-LIKE A PLAY IN ONE ACT By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE "Lonesome-Like" was first produced at Glasgow in 1911. Characters Sarah Ormerod Emma Brierly Sam Horrocks The Rev. Frank Alleyne The Scene is laid in a Lancashire village. Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Le Roy Phillips. LONESOME-LIKE The Scene represents the interior of a cottage in a Lan- cashire Village. Through the window at the back the grey row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. Door left. A s regards furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there are several square patches where the distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indi- cating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an un- covered deal table and tico chairs by it near the fireplace right. Attached to the left wall is a dresser and a plate rack above it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high enough to prevent a passer-by from looking in should he wish to do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and Sarah Ormerod, an old woman, enters carrying clumsily in her arms a couple of pink flannelette night-dresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well worn, and her wedding- ring is her only ornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows a pair of grey worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl covers her shoulders. Sarah crosses and puts the night-dresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at the outside door and she looks up. SARAH, Who's theer? EMMA {without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierly. 288 LONESOME-LIKE SARAH, Eh, coom in, Emma, lass. [Enter Emma Brierly. She is a young weaver, and, having just left her ivork, she loears a dark skirt, a blouse of some in- determinate blue-grey shade made of cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoidders in place of a jacket and hat. A coloured cotton apron covers her skirt below the ivaist, and the short skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. She wears clogs, and the clothes — except the shawl — are covered with ends of cotton and cotton-ioool fluff. Even her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist. SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me. EMMA {by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like. SARAH {crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er 'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it. EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee? SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma. EMMA (faking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when A coom in.'' Packin' yon box.? SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer 's a two three things as A canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff. EMMA {crosses below Sarah to box, and kneels). Let me help yo. SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee. EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry safe that road. SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands tha sees, as mak's it diffi- cult for me. [Sits on chair left centre. LONESOME-LIKE 289 EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. [Lifts all out. Burying her arms in the box and rearranging its contents. SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows. EMMA {looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped. It's Saturday afternoon. SARAH. So 'tis. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do. EMMA. So that's all reeght. Tha's no need to worry about me. Tha's got trouble enough of thy own. [Resuming at the box. SARAH. Aye, th'art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likes to think o' going to workus when we're ould. EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' to see thee. SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'U do summat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do. EMMA (kneeling up). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Or- merod. That's what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands going paralytic. [She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking. SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort. EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's some as can be careful o' theer brass an' some as can't. It's not a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says. [Resumes packing. SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took 290 LONESOME-LIKE an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral an' is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper. EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod. SABAH. Aye. EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, an' A goes to all as A can. (Rises) A dotes on buryin's. Are these the next.? [Crosses centre before table for night-dresses. Takes the night- dresses, and resumes packing. SARAH. Aye. (Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's next speech. Pause) A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an A've took pride in 'aving my bits o' sticks as good as another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydain' at Blackpool reglar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier too in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght. EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 'tis. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an', when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (pause), an' small blame to us either. It's our own we're spendin'. SARAH. Aye. It's a 'ard life, the factory 'and's. A can mind me many an' many's the time when th' warnin' bell went on th' factory lodge at ha'f past five of a winter's mornin' as A've craved for another ha'f hour in my bed, but Tom 'e got me oop an' we was never after six passin' LONESOME-LIKE 291 through factory gates all th' years we were wed. There's not many as can say they were never late. "Work or Clem," that were what Tom allays tould me th' ould bell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma, "Work or Clem" is God's truth. (Emma's head in box) An' now th' time's coom when A can't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it all reeght. {Emma's head appears) Eh, it were good o' thee to coom in, lass. A bit o' coom- pany do mak' a world o' difference. A'm twice as cheer- ful as A were. EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. {Rises from the box) Is theer owt else.? SARAH. A were thinking A'd like lo tak' my black silk as A've worn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think its reeght thing for workus. EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut what chairs an table 'uU pay for, and A doan't like thowt o' leaving owt as A'm greatly fond of. EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'U put un in. Theer's lots o' room on top. A'U see un's noan crushed. SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. {Emma crosses back to door, gets clothes) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd ask un if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet's with it, an' all. [Emma goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it on the table and packs it. EMMA. A'll put un in. SARAH. A'm being a lot o' trouble to thee, lass. EMMA. That's nowt, neighbours mun be neighbourly. [Gets bonnet from table and packs it. SARAH {pause. Looking round). Place doan't look much, an' that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theer ain't much left to part wi' now. EMMA. Never mind, it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takjken thee oop. 292 LONESOME-LIKE SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A am hopin' so. A never could abide th' thowt o' th' workus — me as 'as bin an 'ard workin' woman. A couldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk round me, an' when th' Matron said " Do that" A'd 'ave to do it, an' when she said "Go theer" A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she tould me — me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleased masel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus, EMMA (rising). Now tha's sure that's all.? SARAH (pause. Considers). Eh, if A havna forgot my neeghtcaps. (Rises, moves centre and stops) A suppose they'll let me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get my rest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps. EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght. SARAH (as she goes). A'U go an' get un. (Exit right. Re- turning presently with the white nightcaps) That's all now. [Giving them to Emma, who meets her center. EMMA (putting them in). Yo never 'ad no childer, did yo, Mrs. Ormerod? SARAH. No, Emma, no — may be that's as broad as 's long. (Sits above fire) Yo never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo when they're growed or they get wed themselves an' forget all as yo've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they're allays a worrit to yo when they're young. EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Are yo, now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' them graceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, A knaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompa,ny with.? EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. 'Indie, 'Indie? What, not son to Robert 'Indie, 'im as used to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreign parts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave? EMMA. Aye, that's 'im. SARAH. Well, A dunno ought about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fine man. A minds 'im well. But A'U tell thee this. i LONESOME-LIKE 293 Emma, an' A'll tell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself is young Joe 'Indie. EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as t'were only t'other day as tha was running about in short frocks, an' now tha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass. A've gotten an ould tea-pot in yonder {indicating her bedroom) as my moother give me when A was wed. A weren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. A were going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till A died, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus. EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet. SARAH. Never mind that. {Slowly rises) A'm going to give it thee, lass, for a weddin'-gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt. EMMA. Oh no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it. SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me? EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not. SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'd best tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms. EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod? SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn't that bad. A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need to. EMMA. Well, A'll do box up. [Crosses to table right and gets cord. SARAH. Aye. EMMA. All reeght. {Exit Sarah. A man's face appears outside at the window. He surveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at the door) Who's theer? SAM {without). It's me, Sam Horrocks. {Emma crosses left and opens door) May A coom in? EMMA. What dost want? 294 LONESOME-LIKE SAM {on the doorstep). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierly. A followed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theer till A'm tired o' waitin'. EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' thee at door. [Emma lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in the middle oj the room, resumes work on her knees at the box. Sam Horrocks is a hulking young man of a rather vacant ex- pression. He is dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and his clothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takes a ball of oily black cotton- waste from his right pocket when in conversational difficulties and wipes his hands upo7i it. He has a red muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock of fair hair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhaps one-tenth of it. SAM (after watching Emma's back for a moment). Wheer's Mrs. Ormerod? EMMA (without looking up). What's that to do wi' thee? SAM (apologetically). A were only askin'. Tha needn't be short wi' a chap. EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er if tha wants to knaw. SAM. Oh ! EMMA (looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause). Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks? SAM, Naw. EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' other side o' door. SAM (takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket after trying his right and finding the ball of waste in it). Yes, Emma. [Emma resumes work ivith her back towards him and waits for him to speak. But he is not ready yet. EMMA. Well, what dost want? SAM. Nought. . . . Eh, but thou art a gradely wench. EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee? SAM. Nought. EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't pass compliments behind folks' backs. LONESOME-LIKE 295 SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm. EMMA. Well.'* SAM. It's a fine day, isn't it? For th' time o' th' year? EMMA. Aye. SAM. A very fine day. EMMA. Aye. SAM (desperate). It's a damned fine day. EMMA. Aye. SAM {after a moment). Dost know my 'ouse, Emma? EMMA. Aye. SAM. Wert ever in it? EMMA. Not sin' tha moother died. SAM. Naw. A suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were a fine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed- ridden. EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not say- ing much neither. SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when she were alive? EMMA. Aye. SAM. A've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt on bed from Co-op. Red un it is wi' blue stripes down 'er. EMMA. Aye. SAM. Well, Emma? EMMA (over her shoulder). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thy quilt to do wi' me? SAM. Oh nought. . . . Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither. EMMA {rising and facing him. Sam is behind corner table and backs a little before her). What's tha gettin' at, Sam Hor- rocks? Tha's got a tongue in thy faice, hasn't tha? SAM. A suppose so. A doan't use it much though. EMMA. No. Tha's not much better than a tongue-tied idiot, Sam Horrocks, allays mooning about in th' engine- house in day-time an' sulkin' at 'ome neeght-time. SAM. Aye, A'm lonely sin' ma moother died. She did 'ave a way wi' 'er, ma moother. Th' 'ould plaice 'as not bin 296 LONESOME-LIKE t' same to me sin' she went. Day-time, tha knaws, A'm all reeght. Tha sees, them engines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understands their ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand the ways o' folks like as A does th' ways o' them engines. EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T'other lads goes rattin' or dog- feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturday afternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely to understand folks. Tha's not sociable. SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when A tries to be sociable an' stand my corner down at th' pub wi' th' rest o' th' lads. It's no use ma tryin' to soop ale, A can't carry th' drink like t'others. A knaws A've ways o' ma own. EMMA. Tha has that. SAM. A'm terrible lonesome, Emma. That theer 'ouse o' mine, it do want a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght for days, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe. EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, choosehow. SAM. Naw.f* A'd . . . A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma. EMMA (approachijig threateningly). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan't tell me proper what tha means A'll give tha such a slap in th' mouth. SAM {hacking before her). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Just like ma moother. EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thy silly yead. «AM {suddenly and clumsily kneels above chair left of table). Wilt tha 'ave me, Emma? A mak' good money in th' engine-house. EMMA. Get oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' so close wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' never speakin' a word to nobody tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi' Joe Hindle. LONESOME-LIKE 297 SAM {scrambling up). Is that a fact, Emma? EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Bann's 'ull be oop come Sun- day fortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the great bhnd idiot that tha art not to 'a' seen it long enough sin'. SAM. A weren't aware. By gum, A 'ad so 'oped as tha'd 'ave me, Emma. EMMA (a little more softly). A'm sorry if A've 'urt thee, Sam. SAM. Aye. It were ma fault. Eh, well, A think mebbe A'd best be goin'. EMMA (lifts box to left). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. Ormerod in a minute. SAM {with pride). A knaw all about that, anyhow. EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do much for 'er. SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo'U not want me 'ere. A'll be movin' on. {Getting his cap out) No offence, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e were after thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough. EMMA. No. Theer's no offence, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art a fool, an' mebbe tha's no to blame for that. Good-bye. SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An' . . . An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'd dearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and. [Mrs. Ormerod heard off right. EMMA, A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'd best be gettin'. SAM. All reeght. Good-bye, Emma. EMMA. Good-bye, Sam. [Exit Sam left center. Mrs. Ormerod comes from the inside door. She has a small blue tea-pot in her hand. SARAH. Was anybody 'ere, Emma? A thowt A yeard someun talkin', only my yearin' isn't what it used to be, an' A warn't sure. EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod. 298 LONESOME-LIKE SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im as isn't reeght in 'is yead? EMMA. Aye. 'E's bin askin' me to wed 'im. SARAH (incensed). In my 'ouse.'^ Theer's imperence for thee, an' tha promised to another lad, an' all. A'd 'ave set about 'im wi' a stick, Emma. EMMA. 'E didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to 'ave to tell 'im. SARAH. 'E'U get ower it. Soom lass'U tak' 'im. EMMA. A suppose so. SARAH (coming down, putting the tea-pot in Emma's hands). Well, theer's tea-pot. EMMA (meets Sarah right center, examining tea-pot). It's beautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' care on't, lass, won't thee? EMMA. A will an' all. SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it would be in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold all ower at thowt of it. [A knock at the door. EMMA. That'll be Parson. SARAH (crosses left. Smoothing her hair). Goa an' look through window first, an' see who 'tis. EMMA (puts tea-pot on table. Looking through window). It's not th' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps. SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't do to seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ould Parson. (Emma leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock is repeated. Raising her voice) Coom in so who tha art. Door's on latch. [Enter the Rev. Frank Alleyne. He is a young curate, a Londoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and taste, totally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is unfortunately no exception. ALLEYNE. Good aftemoon, Mrs. Ormerod. LONESOME-LIKE 299 SARAH. Good day to thee. ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to a missionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in his stead. SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee down. [Emma comes below table left. Dusts a chair left of table, which doesn't need it, with her apron. Alleyne raises a depre- catory hand. SaraK s familiarity , as it seems to him, offends him. He looks sourly at Emma and markedly ignores her. ALLEYNE. Thank you; no, I won't sit, I cannot stay long. SARAH. Just as tha likes. It's all same to me. [Emma stays by right of table. ALLEYNE. How is it with you, Mrs. Ormerod? SARAH. It might be worse. A've lost th' use o' my 'ands, and they're takkin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that's summat to be thankful for. ALLEYNE. Oh yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The — er — message I am to deliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hope for. His efforts on your behalf have — er — unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to a livelihood. In fact — er — I un- derstand that the arrangements made for your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carried out. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a com- fortable home awaiting you, Mrs. — er — Ormerod. SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'ow you'll favour a thing till you've tried it. ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of providence. The consolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray with you? SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' A doubt the Lord ud tak' it kind o' selfish o' me if A coom cryin' to 'im now A'm 'urt. ALLEYNE. He wiU Understand. Can I do nothing for you? SARAH. A dunno as tha can, thankin' thee all same. 300 LONESOME-LIKE ALLEYNE. I am privileged with Mr. Blundell's permission to bring a little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. {Feeling in his coat-tails and bringing out a Testament) Allow me to present you with this Testament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. (He hands her the Tes- tament. Sarah does not raise her hands, and it drops on her lap. Alleyne takes it again and puts it on the table) Ah, yes, of course . . . your poor hands ... I understand. SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyes aren't what they were, but A'U mak' most of it. ALLEYNE. You wiU never read that in vain. And now, dear sister, I must go. I will pray for strength for you. All will be well. Good day. SARAH. Good day to thee. [Exit Alleyne. EMMA. Tha doesn't look so pleased wi' tha gift, Mrs. Or- merod. SARAH. It's not square thing of th' ould Parson, Emma. 'E should a coom an' tould me 'isself. Looks hke 'e were feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grand Lunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more than we understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin a Church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop to Church, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in my time. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tupenny Testament. That's all th' good yo get out o' they folks. EMMA. We'm chapel to our 'ouse, an' 'e didn't forget to let me see 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony dif- ferent wi' chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo, but yo musn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. {Clock outside strikes three) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. My dinner 'uU be nice an' cold. SARAH, Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's bin clemmin' all this time? LONESOME-LIKE 301 EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory. SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat. EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha's no reeght to go wi'out thy baggin'. EMMA (putting her shawl on). All reeght. A'm off. [Picking up tea-pot. SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arder to bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows. EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o' coompany. A'U ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' tea by an' bye. \A knock at the door. SARAH. Who's theer.'^ SAM (vnthout). It's only me, Mrs. Ormerod. EMMA. A do declare it's that Sam Horrocks again. SARAH. Sam Horrocks! What can th' lad be after now? (Calling) Hast tha wiped thy boots on scraper? SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Coom in then. (Emma in left corner. Enter Sam) Tak' thy cap off. SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. What dost want? SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'. A'll coom again. [Bolting nervously for the door. SARAH. Let that door be. Dost say tha's got business 'ere? SAM. Aye, wi' thee. A'd like a word wi' thee private. [Emma moves to open door. SARAH. All reeght. Emma's just goin' to 'er dinner. EMMA (speaking through door). A'll ask my moother to step in later on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' tea-pot. SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (Exit Emma with tea-pot) Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee? 302 LONESOME-LIKE SAM {dropping the cotton waste he is fumbling with and picking it up). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year. SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad? SAM. Naw, not exactly. SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Art tongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell me what 'tis tha wants? SAM (desperately). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'. SARAH. A'll tell thee what A'd do to thee if A 'ad the use o' my 'ands, my lad. A'd coom aside thee and A'd box thy ears. If tha's got business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A'll be showin' thee the shape o' my door. SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A've not been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died. SARAH. A've 'eered folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'er tongue. SAM (admiringly). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lie theer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon cor- ner, an' call me all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn't tell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (Still reminiscent) Wonnerful sperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. She were only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum she could sling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would. SARAH (on her mettle). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' all if tha doan't get sharp to tellin' me what tha wants after in my 'ouse, tha great mazed idiot. SAM. Eh, but she were a rare un. SARAH. The lad's daft aboot his moother. SAM (detachedly, looking at window. Pause). Wunnerful breeght the sky is, to-day. SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to thee if — if A'd the use o' my 'ands. SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say. SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' I doan't mean no disrespect LONESOME-LIKE 303 to 'er neither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman. SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she were wunnerful. SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call thee if A were thy moother an' A'd to live aside o' thee neeght an' day. SAM {eagerly). Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would. SARAH. Would what.? SAM. Would coom an' live along wi' me. SARAH. Tha great fool, what dost mean? Art askin' me to wed thee? SAM, A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry A spoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha might coom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'er cuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er and' A've nought to do in th' evenings now. It's ter- rible lonesome in th' neeght-time. An' when notion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual. SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha's sayin', or is tha foolin' me? SAM. O' course A mean it. Tha sees A'm not a marryin' sort. Th' lasses won't look at me. A'm silly Sam to them, A knaws it. A've a slate loose, A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chance wi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were too late. A allays were slow. A left askin' too long an' A've missed 'er. A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young wench. They maks me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi' thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain't much cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no fine fixin's nor big chairs an' things as tha used to 'ave. Eh, but A would 'ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a fool an' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd 304 LONESOME-LIKE fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adopt thee. SARAH. To adopt me? SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to let me. A didn't mean no offence. [Turning to the door. SARAH. 'Ere lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' me for thy moother, what wouldst ha' done? SAM. Why kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam to thy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o' mentioning it. SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's colour? SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er. SARAH. A'm not a light weight, tha knows. SAM. A'd carry thee easy — " Strong in th' arm and weak in th' yead." It's an ould sayin', but it's a good un, an' it fits. SARAH. Wilt tha try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, lad? SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's not coddin' a feller, art tha? SARAH. No, A'm not coddin'. Kiss me, Sam, my son. [He kisses her and lifts her in his arms. SAM. By gum, but that were good. A'll coom back fur thy box. SARAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour. SAM, Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, it were. [Exit through door, carrying her. CUETAIN AT CLINK OF LATCH MISS TASSEY ELIZABETH BAKER Elizabeth Baker is one of the younger English dramatists who deals in the everyday aspects of modern life. Her "Naturalism" — to use an overworked term — is of the un- emphatic order; it has nothing in common with the Natural- ism that is concerned with the "unpleasant" in and for itself. Miss Baker, who began life as a cashier and was for some time a professional stenographer and private secretary, has made use of her sympathetic and acute power of observa- tion, and put into her plays that part of life which she best understands. Her first play, "Beastly Pride ", was produced at the Croyden Repertory Theater in 1907, The reception of the work encouraged Miss Baker to attempt a full-length play. " Chains ", her best- known work, was first produced by the Play Actors, and later at the Duke of York's Theater during Charles Frohman's Repertory season. It was un- necessarily adapted, and produced in New York City in 1913, where it promptly failed. William Archer said of "Chains ", "There is absolutely no 'story' in it, no complication of in- cidents, not even any emotional tension worth speaking of. ... A city clerk, oppressed by the deadly monotony and narrowness of his life, thinks of going to Australia — and doesn't go: that is the sum and substance of the action. Also, by way of underplot, a shopgirl, oppressed by the deadly monotony and narrowness of her life, thinks of escaping it by marrying a middle-aged widower — and doesn't do it." A minute but sympathetic observation of everyday Hfe is the basis of Elizabeth Baker's success as a dramatist. In "Miss Tassey ", as in "Chains", the audience is offered the spectacle of human aspiration and human disillusion. 306 MISS TASSEY PLAYS *Beastly Pride (1907) The Price of Thomas Scott Chains (1909) (1913) *Miss Tassey (1910) Over a Garden Wall (1915) *Cupid in Clapham (1910) Miss Robinson (1920) *Edith (1912) "Chains" is published by John W. Luce and Company, Boston; "Miss Tassey ", "The Price of Thomas Scott ", and "Miss Robinson" by Sidgwick and Jackson, London. References: William Archer, " Play making ", Small, May- nard and Company, Boston. Magazines: The Bookman, vol. xxxvi, p. 640, and vol. xxxii, p. 136, New York. MISS TASSEY A PLAY IN ONE ACT By ELIZABETH BAKER 'Miss Tassey" was first produced at London in 1910. Characters Of Messrs. Trimmer Miss Tassey "^ Miss Limerton Miss Rose Clifton Miss Postlewaite Sarah Dormitory maid Scene: Bedroom No. 65. Between nine and ten o'clock. COPTMOHT, 1913, BT SiDGWICK AND JaCKSON', LtD. Reprinted by permission of the author, and the pubUsher (Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd.) MISS TASSEY A dormitory at Messrs. Trimmers'. Three beds only, of the ordinary hospital cot pattern: two side by side behind the door, the third with its foot towards them, the head being almost hid- den in a recess. Floor covered with brown oilcloth. Three washhand- stands in a row on left. One dressing-table under window right. Another at corner left. A card of rules hangs on wall. Window is curtainless, icith Venetian blinds half- drawn. Photographs are hanging over the two beds facing — photographs of young men. A gas-bracket with a frosted globe in wall left. Someone is in ike bed in the corner, apparently asleep. The Maid enters rather noisily and looks round. A voice speaks from the bed very faintly, but only just makes a sound. MAID (familiarly). Did you speak, miss? {Listens, but there is no reply. She goes to door. There is a faint sound again) What is it, miss? Do you want anything? {No answer. Impatiently she crosses over to the bed) Did you speak? MISS TASSEY {faintly). Open the window, please. [Maid opens the window noisily, then goes out, banging the door carelessly. Miss Tassey sinks further into the bed- clothes. There is a lo7ig sigh, and the stage is silent for a minute or so. Suddenly the door is flung open, and Rose Clifton and Miss Postlewaite come in. Rose is a pretty girl with a quantity of fair, fluffy hair, and a habit of giggling. Miss Postlewaite is obviously older, showy, and rough- mannered. They are both in black shop dresses, and Rose carries a paper parcel. They are wearing heavily trimmed hats, and Miss Postleivaite unpins hers as she comes in. ROSE. Wasn't that man funny? {Catching sight of the oc- cupied bed and dropping her voice) Oh, bother, Possie, she's in, after all. 310 MISS TASSEY MISS POSTLEWAiTE. So she is; another of her headaches. Got a headache, Tassey? {No answer) She's off, my dear. It's my behef she often has a headache purposely. ROSE. What do you mean? MISS POSTLEWAITE. She takes drugs, my dear. Her head- ache powders, indeed! (Goes over to Miss Tassey and lis- tens) She's fair gone, hke a nail. ROSE. You don't really think she takes them when she hasn't got a headache, do you? That's wicked. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Who says so? Let her sleep, poor old thing ! I should take opium if I were her. ROSE. It is a nuisance for her to be in now. She said she was going out. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Oh, put your dress on and let's see it. She won't hear you. She won't hear anything till to- morrow morning. ROSE. You're sure she won't wake up? MISS POSTLEWAITE. What if she did? Who's she to say anything? ROSB. She's preachy. MISS POSTLEWAITE. She doesu't preach to you. I never heard her. ROSE. She looks it. She'd look it now if she saw me dressed up. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Dou't think about her. Think of Percy over there. He's looking at you. You ought to be ashamed dressing up in front of a young man. ROSE {giggling). Possie, how can you! Wasn't that young man in the shop too awful? Did you see him making eyes? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Didn't I see youl You've got to take care, my girl, with those eyes of yours. I shall tell Percy about you. ROSE {tossing her head as she opens her parcel and displays a pair of scarlet slippers). I don't care. I say, Possie, do you think they'll find out to-morrow night? MISS POSTLEWAITE. No, why should they? Haven't I done it heaps of times? I'll ruffle your bed, but mind you get MISS TASSEY 311 back in good time. Try and come in as if you'd been for a walk in the gardens. ROSE. I was so awfully frightened last time for fear I'd be caught. MISS POSTLEWAiTE. Walk in offhand and say good-morning to Miss Mason if you meet her. {Laughing noisily) Talk about the weather. Oh, you don't know half how to manage it! ROSE. It was the first time I'd slept out. I should get such a wigging if they found out at home. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Well, if you'rc found out, serve you right. It's easy enough. It's worth a risk, anyway, ain't it? ROSE. Rather. Think, Possie, this time to-morrow night. (Stops suddenly, as there is a sigh from the corner bed) Did you hear? She'd tell. MISS POSTLEWAITE. What an infant you are! (Goes over to bed) It's nothing, I tell you. She's far away on blue mountains now. Besides, she wouldn't tell if she did know. ROSE. I believe she would. She thinks I'm too young to go out with Percy like this. She told me so. MISS POSTLEWAITE. What does she know about it? She never went out with a fellow in her life, I'll swear. ROSE (giggling). Fancy Miss Tassey (lowering her voice) at a dance! Can't you see her? Oh my! [She goes to a drawer and is about to pick out a dress, when the door opens and the Maid comes in. MISS POSTLEWAITE. I didn't hear you knock, Sarah. SARAH. Well, miss, I did. Miss Clifton, you've been sleep- ing out without a permit. ROSE (taken completely back, stammering). I — er — what do you mean? SARAH. You slept out on Tuesday night without a permit. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Who's been telling tales like that to you? SARAH. Never mind how I know. You did, Miss Clifton, didn't you? ROSE. Sarah, don't be cross, and let me off this time. 312 MISS TASSEY SARAH. It's against the rules, miss, and that you know; and you'd better not start that sort of thing. I must re- port you. ROSE. Miss Tassey told you. SARAH. Never mind about that. You can't take me in in this house. I shall report to Mr. Frederick to-morrow morning. [Goes. MISS POSTLEWAiTE {laughing softly). Never take her in in this house! Oh, my word! ROSE. You didn't say anything for me, Possie. MISS POSTLEWAITE. What could I say, you chicken? You gave it away with your baby face. ROSE. What could I say, when she asked me out straight? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Lots. You're only a young bird yet. ROSE, But I couldn't have told a — a — could I, Possie? MISS POSTLEWAITE. My dear, you'll never get much fun in life if you go on like that. ROSE. But — a lie, Possie. Why, you wouldn't tell — one (looks towards corner bed, whispering) — you wouldn't your- self, would you? Something would happen to me if I did. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Then you're not going out with Percy to-morrow night? ROSE. Oh, I must. Why shouldn't I? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Are you going to ask Mr. Frederick for a permit when you go to him to-morrow? ROSE. Oh, Possie, I'd forgotten that; and the dance doesn't begin till nearly ten, and I have to be back by eleven. What shall I do? MISS POSTLEWAITE. You Can't do anything except stay here. ROSE. I won't stay here; I will go. It's all the fault of that (lowering her voice) Miss Tassey. She's a preachy old cat. Why doesn't she go into some other room? We don't want her here. MISS POSTLEWAITE (looJciug towards bed). She's never split on me. MISS TASSEY 313 ROSE. No, she wouldn't on you. It's me she's afraid of. She says I'm young. It isn't her business if I am. I can take care of myself. I wish we hadn't got an old thing like her in our room. MISS POSTLEWAiTE {laughing). I don't suppose she finds it beer and skittles with us. She'd go pretty quick if she got a chance. ROSE. How old is she? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Oh, I don't know — something over forty. She's getting too old for counter-work. ROSE. So I think. She hobbles about the shop, and she wears mittens. They call her "Mittens" in her shop. MISS POSTLEWAITE. I know. She'll get the sack soon. Poor old thing! ROSE. Do you think she will? I wish she'd go. MISS POSTLEWAITE. They sacked three last week younger than her. (Affecting jocularity) I shall have to look out, or I shall go next. ROSE (thoughtlessly). How old are you? MISS POSTLEWAITE (sharply). Never you mind. So you're not going with Percy? ROSE (ajter a moment's sullen pause). Yes, I shall. (De- fiantly) I won't care for anybody. It's too bad, because of an old woman like that, to stop my fun. I will go. They couldn't have found out from the bed, could they? Why didn't old Tassey have a headache to-morrow night? That would have been useful then. (Giggles) It's just like her to have it at the wrong time. (Takes out her dress from the drawer and shakes it out. It is a scarlet and white pierette's frock, very short and fluffy) Isn't it sweet? [Turning her head to look at the corner bed, and then standing so as to hide the frock from it. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Aiid short. Mind you wear plenty of petticoats. ROSE. Possie ! MISS POSTLEWAITE. You'll waut them in the lancers. 314 MISS TASSEY ROSE. Possie! {taking out scarlet gloves and white hat with scarlet pompoms) Look! Everything to match. I do love them. MISS POSTLEWAiTE (picking up shoes). And the shoes — ^where are the stockings.? ROSE {shaking out a pair of scarlet and white stripe stockings with scarlet bows at top). Here! MISS POSTLEWAITE. My word ! are you going to kick as high as that? ROSE. How awful you are! Of course not; but it's the thing to wear with it. MISS POSTLEWAITE. It's regal. What did you want me to do with it? ROSE. It's rather big here. {Touching her waist) Just take it in for me a httle, will you? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Better put it on, then, and let me see. ROSE. All right. {Turns back to her bed and glances at cor- ner) Suppose she should wake! MISS POSTLEWAITE {easily). She won't, silly. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll hang my mask from the bracket and swing it over a chair in front of her. Then, if she wakes, we'll tell her we were afraid for the light on her eyes. [Laughs. ROSE. Yes, do. A horrid old thing she is, to go and give me away [Miss Postlewaite hangs a dark cloak over the gas-bracket and over a chair, so that it screens the corner bed. Meantime Rose has slipped off her black dress, and is seen in petticoat and bodice. She has been at back of stage near her bed. Miss Postlewaite comes over to her with the dress, which she slips on and walks over to the mirror on left. ROSE. Can't see. {Crosses to right, then suddenly stops. Gives a little scream) Possie! MISS POSTLEWAITE. What's up? ROSE {pointing to black-draped corner). That! It's — it's horrid — so — she is so quiet. I MISS POSTLEWAITE. Rubbish. {Looking curiously) It's MISS TASSEY 315 something like a bed in a hospital, when there's going to be an operation, isn't it? ROSE. You're sure — she's asleep? MISS posTLEWAiTE (impatiently). Of course. Come, let me do you up. [Stands behind her while she fastens her dress. Rose gives little involuntary glances at the corner. ROSE. She sleeps awfully quiet, doesn't she? MISS POSTLEWAITE (laughing gently). What do you want her to do? Snore? ROSE (refusing to smile) . It's the — powders, isn't it? (Wail- ing) I do wish she wasn't in our room! MISS POSTLEWAITE. What a baby you are ! Come over here and put on the hat. (They cross the room, and Rose appears to forget. She puts the hat on at a saucy angle) Wait till Percy sees you in that ! Only don't let him crush it. ROSE (embarrassed). Possie, how you talk! MISS POSTLEWAITE. Well, he might want to. Turn up your petticoat. ROSE (intently regarding herself in looking-glass). It does suit me, doesn't it? Where are the stockings? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Here. [Rose sits sideways to stage front, but back to the draped cor- ner, while Miss Postlewaite kneels and puts on the stockings. ROSE. Do you think old Tassey ever went to a fancy-dress dance? MISS POSTLEWAITE. Shouldn't wonder. ROSE. It doesn't seem as if she could. Do you think she ever had a MISS POSTLEWAITE. Percy? Perhaps — most likely. ROSE. She doesn't look like it. MISS POSTLEWAITE. Neither will you when you're forty-five. ROSE. Forty -five — oh, what an age ! MISS POSTLEWAITE. Just you make hay while the sun shines. ROSE (coquettishly) . I don't want to be married yet. MISS POSTLEWAITE. My advicc is, take him while you can get him. 316 MISS TASSEY ROSE. Percy isn't the only one. MISS P09TLEWAITE. There are plenty of 'em, but they don't always ask you. Plenty of flirts in the world, and don't you forget it. You be M .:. Percy, Rosey, when yov can. ROSE {confused). Oh, T '-'tt (There is a minute of silence while Mi; ■ v^; -« r,?^' *'-^ ■ . ,', POfeTLEW/ ITE. That seems to worry you. biiaii we gi? il /U'tc the sitting-room? I wonder why old Tassey never married? POSTLEWAITE. As I'vc been saying to you, not to do — probably missed her chance. [shivering). Isn't this dress low? osTLEWAiTE. Not too low for Pcrcy. R(J Possie! You're too awful for anything. The win- \ i open. L^ ^EWAiTE (rising). I'll shut it. A -. .jj I 'ly). No, dop't — ^^ don't make a noise. You might Ma . x'OSTLEWAITE. NonSCUSe. [Climbs up and shuts the window with a bang. Rose stands staring at the draped corner and as Miss Postlewaite steps down there is a distinct pause. ROSE (in a whisper). You shouldn't. MISS POSTLEWAITE (also in a whisper). Don't be a little fool. (Aloud) What on earth is wrong with you? ROSE. Look and see — if she's awake. MISS POSTLEWAITE (stepping forward, but pausing). I'm not going to do anything of the kind. Sarah has upset you, Rosey, and no mistake. Come over here. (She drags Rose over to left, and examines the fastening. Pulling the dress) Can you bear it as tight as that? ROSE (panting). Oh — no! MISS POSTLEWAITE. Nothing as tight as Percy will squeeze you. How's that? ROSE. That's better. MISS POSTLEWAITE (meditating). I must take it in three- MISS TASSEY 317 quarters of an inch there, and graduate it down. That will be all right. ROSE (hesitating). What kind of powders does old Tassey - ii te? MISS POSTLEWAT'T'T^ "^^ gain! (Still at the dress fasten^ -"-"-^nd her while she fash • Tyders.? Oh, I forget. Some^'^'^luntarv qlances at the ,^^n^ ],ke that. ROSE. They must be very strong. « ' - MISS POSTLEWAiTE. If you once take those tlijrenny, or a suit of clothes with you, and I myself bringing seventy pounds and two feather beds. And now you are stiff er than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too much talk the whole of you have. A rope, is it? I tell you the whole of this town is full of liars and schemers that would hang you up for half a glass of whiskey. 422 SPREADING THE NEWS (Turning to go) People they are you wouldn't believe as much as daylight from without you'd get up to have a look at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Where are you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nice, quiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as kind and as harmless as an innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing no harm at all if he'll shed the blood of some of you after this day's work ! That much would be no harm at all. (Calls out) Bartley! Bartley Fallon! Where are you? (Going out) Did anyone see Bartley Fallon? [All turn to look after her. JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, God help her! [Enter Bartley Fallon from right, carrying hayfork. BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever any misfortune coming to this world, it is on myself it is sure to come! (All turn round and face him) To be going about with this fork, and to find no one to take it, and no place to leave it down, and I wanting to be gone out of this. — Is that you, Shawn Early? (Holds out fork) It's well I met you. You have no call to be leaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can I go till I'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it until such time as Jack Smith SHAWN EARLY (backing). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, I'm very thankful to you! BARTLEY (turning to apple stall). Look at it now, Mrs. Tar- pey, it was here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. It will lie there safe enough, and no one will take notice of it until such time as Jack Smith MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put trouble on me and to destroy me you want? putting it there for the police to be rooting it out maybe. [Thrusts him back. BARTLEY. That is a very unneighbourly thing for you to do, Mrs. Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork SPREADING THE NEWS 423 before this, running up and down with it hke the swinging of a clock, and afeared to lay it down in any place I wish I never touched it or meddled with it at all ! JAMES RYAN. It is a pity, indeed, you ever did. BARTLEY. Will you yoursclf take it, James Ryan? You were always a neighbourly man. JAMES RYAN (backing). There is many a thing I would do for you, Bartley Fallon, but I won't do that! SHAWN EARLY. I tell you there is no man will give you any help or any encouragement for this day's work. If it was something agrarian now BARTLEY. If uo one at all will take it, maybe it's best to give it up to the police. TIM CASEY. There'd be a welcome for it with them, surely! [Laughter. MRS. TULLY. And it is to the police Kitty Keary herself will be brought. MRS. TARPEY (rocJciug to and fro). I wonder now who will take the expense of the wake for poor Jack Smith? BARTLEY. The wakc for Jack Smith! TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? Would you begrudge him that much? BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you? SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this. BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die? JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, Bartley Fallon? You don't know he was followed and that he was laid dead with the stab of a hayfork? BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork ! SHAWN EARLY. You don't kuow, I suppose, that the body was found in the Five Acre Meadow? BARTLEY. The Fivc Acre Meadow! TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are after the man that did it? BARTLEY. The man that did it ! MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made away with for the sake of Kitty Keary, his wife? 424 SPREADING THE NEWS BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! [Sits down beivildered. MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon? HARTLEY (crossiug himself). I to bring that fork here, and to find that news before me ! It is much if I can ever stir from this place at all, or reach as far as the road ! TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo Muldoon along with him ! It's best for us to quit this. SHAWN EARLY. That is SO. It is best not to be mixed in this business at all. JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informer against any man. [All hurry away except Mrs. Tarpey, who remains behind her stall. Enter magistrate and policeman. MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I did not expect to be confronted with a murder at the first fair I came to. POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed. MAGISTRATE. It was Well I had not gone home. I caught a few words here and there that roused my suspicions. POLICEMAN. So they would, too. MAGISTRATE. You heard the same story from everyone you asked .f^ POLICEMAN. The same story — or if it was not altogether the same, anyway it was no less than the first story. MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone with a hayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done with a hayfork! POLICEMAN {in a whisper). That's the very man they say did the act; Bartley Fallon himself! MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape diflficult — he is trying to brazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands tried the same game, but he could not escape my system! Stand aside — Don't go far — have the handcuffs ready. {He walks up to Bartley, folds his arms, and stands before him) Here, my man, do you know anything of John Smith? SPREADING THE NEWS 425 BARTLEY. Of John Smith! Who is he, now? POLICEMAN. Jack Smith, sir — Red Jack Smith! MAGISTRATE {comiug a step nearer and tapping him on the shoulder). Where is Jack Smith? BARTLEY {with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly). Where is he, indeed? MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell? BARTLEY. It is whcre he was this morning, standing in this spot, singing his share of songs — no, but lighting his pipe — scraping a match on the sole of his shoe MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he? BARTLEY. I would like to say that it is a great mystery, and it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love. MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you laiow. BARTLEY. All that I know — Well, there are the three estates; there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is MAGISTRATE. Nonseusc! This is trifling! Get to the point. BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is the teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It is what they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and the soul is tired, and the body is taking a rest — The shadow ! (Starts up) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at the corner of the forge, and I lost him again — Was it his ghost I saw, do you think? MAGISTRATE (to poUceman). Conscience-struck! He will con- fess all now! BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is Ukely it was on account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defend himself the time he met with his death ! MAGISTRATE (to poHceman). I must note down his words. {Takes out notebook. To Bartley) I warn you that your words are being noted. BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terror would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he 426 SPREADING THE NEWS will cast it up against me at the day of judgment — I wouldn't wonder at all at that. MAGISTRATE (writing). At the day of judgment BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me — is it coming after me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes off in the night time? — I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as I am an unfortunate man! MAGISTRATE (stemly). Tell me this truly. What was the motive of this crime? BARTLEY. The motive, is it? MAGISTRATE. Yes; the motive; the cause. BARTLEY. I'd sooucr uot say that. MAGISTRATE. You had better tell me truly. Was it money? BARTLEY. Not at all ! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in his pockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them? MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land? BARTLEY (indignantly) . Not at all ! He never was a grabber or grabbed from anyone! MAGISTRATE. You wiU find it better for you if you tell me at once. BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldu't for the whole world wish to say what it was — it is a thing I would not like to be talking about. MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be dis- covered in the end. BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly every- body knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; where would be the use? (Puts his hand to his mouth, and Magistrate stoops) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such a thing was never done in the parish before — it was done for the sake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife. MAGiSTHATE (to policeman) . Put on the handcuffs. We have been saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the right way. [Policeman puts on handcuffs. SPREADING THE NEWS 427 BARTLEY, Handcuffs now! Glory be. I always said, if there was ever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself it would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all in that. [Enter Mrs. Fallon, followed hy the rest. She is looking back at them as she speaks. MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this town are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot! Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an end of Jack Smith ! My decent comrade ! There is no better man and no kinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's little annoyance he ever gave to any- one! {Turns and sees him) What in the earthly world do I see before me.'* Hartley Fallon in charge of the police ! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, what did you do at all at all? BARTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It is what I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am? MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of murder. MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! They are all liars in this place! Give me back my man! MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you have no cause of complaint against your neighbours. He has been arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession. MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us ! And what did he want killing Jack Smith? MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on account of a love affair with the murdered man's wife. MRS. FALLON (sitting down). With Jack Smith's wife! With Kitty Keary ! Ochone, the traitor ! THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed. MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon. BARTLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you 428 SPREADING THE NEWS MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'll say ! (Stops her ears) O, isn't he the treach- erous villain.'' Ohone go deo! HARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say! MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in his heart! BARTLEY. Is it youF wits you havc lost or is it I myself that have lost my wits.? MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you slaving, slaving — and you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and dis- contented, and the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you threatened to die! BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you! MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish! A thing that was never heard of before! BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking .f^ MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's not four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand! [Voice of Jack Smith heard singing The Sea shall be dry. The earth under mourning and ban! Then loud shall he cry For the wife of the red-haired man! BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice — I never knew a ghost to sing before — . It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (Goes back. Enter Jack Smith) Let one of you give him the fork and I will be clear of him now and for eternity! MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us. Red Jack Smith ! The man that was going to be waked ! SPREADING THE NEWS 429 JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come? SHAWN EARLY. Is it alivc you are, or is it dead you are.'' TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it? MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead? MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, your wife, from bringing my man away with her to America ! JACK SMITH. It Is what I think, the wits are gone astray on the whole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon to America? MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants, Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what the two of them had settled together. JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who is it says it? (To Tim Casey) Was it you said it? (To Shawn Early) Was it you? ALL TOGETHER (backing and shaking their heads). It wasn't I said it ! JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it ! ALL TOGETHER (pointing to Bartley). It was him that said it! JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head ! [Bartley backs in terror. Neighbours hold Jack Smith back. JACK SMITH (trying to free himself). Let me at him! Isn't he the pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing the ocean with ! It's back from the docks of New York he'd be turned (trying to rush at him again), with a lie in his mouth and treachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, and he passing her ofiF as his own! Let me at him, can't you. [Makes another rush, but is held back. MAGISTRATE (pointing to Jack Smith). Policeman, put the handcuffs on this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, a conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in the Andaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religious enthusiast POLICEMAN. So he might be, too. 430 SPREADING THE NEWS MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of the murder. We must confront them with the body of the real Jack Smith. JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my dead body! MAGISTRATE. I'll Call moFC help from the barracks. [Blows Policeman's whistle. HARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith are put together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will be taken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will be done that time surely! MAGISTRATE. Come on! [They turn to the right. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER ST. JOHN G. ERVINE St. John G. Ervine was born at Belfast, Ireland, in 1883. After completing his scholastic education, he entered the insurance business, which he soon left for literary work. Early in his career he became dramatic critic on the Daily Citizen. During a long residence in London Mr. Ervine wrote plays, novels, stories, and did miscellaneous newspaper work. During the past year he has been dramatic critic on The London Observer. During the war, he managed the Abbey Theater for a short period, and served in the army. Mr. Ervine's earlier plays were produced at the Abbey Theater, where he was one of the "younger group" of "Realistic" dramatists, who depicted the everyday existence of the middle classes in the cities and small towns. "The Magnanimous Lover" is an early play, but it reveals the dramatist's power, — which was later to develop to maturity in "Jane Clegg" and "John Ferguson." Ervine excels in the depiction of human character under extraor- dinary emotional pressure: the situation in "The Mag- nanimous Lover" reveals character at white heat. PLAYS Mixed Marriage (1911) *The Critics (1913) Jane Clegg (1912) John Ferguson (1916) *The Magnanimous Lover The Wonderful Visit (1921) (1913) (In collaboration with *The Orangeman (1913) H. G. Wells) 432 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER "Mixed Marriage", "The Magnanimous Lover", "The Orangeman", and "The Critics" are published in a volume as "Four Irish Plays", Macmillan Company, New York; "Jane Clegg" separately by Henry Holt and Company, New York; and "John Ferguson" separately by Macmillan Company. References, Periodicals: Everybody's, vol. xxviii, p. 678, New York; New York Sun, August 11, 1918; New York Even- ing Post, February 7, 1920, and May 22, 1920; New York Times, March 21, 1920; New Republic, March 10, 1920, New York. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER By ST. JOHN G. ERVINE "The Magnanimous Lover" was first performed at Dub- lin in 1912. Characters William Gather, A Shoemaker Jane Gather, Ris Wife Maggie Gather, His Daughter Samuel Hinde, A Grocer Henry Hinde, His Son Copyright, 1912, by St. John G. Ervinb. "The Magnanimous Lover" is reprinted, with the permission of the publisher, The Macmillan Company, New York, from "Four Irish Plays." This play is fully protected, and permission for performance must be secured from the pubhsher. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER The scene is laid in the kitchen and living room of William Cathers cottage in the North-Irish village of Donaghreagh. The room is large, and well lighted by the two windows, through which the Irish Sea can he seen. The windows are tightly shut, and probably have never once been open since they were inserted in their frames; but this does not affect the ventilation of the room to any great extent, for the cottage door, which is in tim sections, is always open either to its full extent or, as now, half open. Immediately facing the street door, on the other side of the house, is a door leading to the best bedroom. The wall in which this bedroom door is placed terminates in another door which leads to the scullery and the garden at the back of the house. The space in this wall between the two doors is occupied by a large dresser, piled with crockery of many hues and shapes. A large, round pot is suspended over the open fire which burns in the wall stretching between the front and the rear of the house, furthest from the street door. Over the mantel-shelf, on which are articles of cheap china, a clock and a tea-caddy, hangs a large oleograph showing King William the Third in the act of crossing the Boyne. On either side of this picture are two oblong mottoes prijited in floral letters on a black back- ground, the legends reading: "Thou God Seest Me", and, "What is Home Without A 31 other." Between the tioo windows is a large, unstained deal table above which hangs another oleograph, revealing the Secret of England'' s Greatness, and a further motto, " There's No Place like Home." There are other mottoes scattered over the walls; some shield- shaped, some oblong, some circular, of smaller size than those already mentioned; all bearing texts from the Bible: — "What Shall It Profit a Man if He Gain the Whole World, and Lose 436 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER His Own Soul." "Jesus Wept." "Blessed are the Humble and Meek." "God Is Here." It is the afternoon of a late summer day. Samuel Hinde puts his head over the lower half-door, which is barred. There is no one in the kitchen. SAMUEL HINDE. Are you in, Mrs. Gather? MRS. GATHER (speaking from the scidlery). Aye, indeed I am. {She comes into the kitchen) Och, is that yourself, Sam! Sure, come on in. SAMUEL HINDE {unbarring the door, and entering). I've some- thing very important to say to you, Mrs. Gather. Very important. MRS. GATHER. Have you, Sam? SAMUEL HINDE. Aye. Where's William? MRS. GATHER, Aw, he's down the garden. Will I call him? SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, I wish you would. MRS. GATHER {calling at the scullery door). Hi, William, come on in a minute. WILLIAM GATHER {answering from the garden). What do you want? MRS. GATHER. Come ou in a minute. I want you. WILLIAM GATHER. All right, I'm coming. SAMUEL HINDE. Where's Maggie the day? MRS. GATHER. Aw, she's ovcr to Killisle; but sure she'll be back soon. Were you wanting her? SAMUEL HINDE. Not just yet a wee while. It'll do later. [Enter William Cather, a lean, kindly man with a leathern apron bound round his loins. WILLIAM GATHER. What do you want? {Seeing Samuel Hinde) How are you, Sam? SAMUEL HINDE. Suic, I'm rightly. I want to talk to you a minute. It's about Maggie. MRS. GATHER. About Maggie? SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, Heury's come back. By the two o'clock train. MRS. GATHER. Gomc back! {Her voice hardens) Has he come back to make Maggie a respectable woman? THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 437 SAMUEL HiNDE. Aye, he has. MRS. GATHER. Oh, thank God! WILLIAM GATHER. Sit down, wiU you, Sam? SAMUEL HINDE. I will in a minute, but I'd better call Henry in first. He's just waiting round the corner. WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, bring him in, will you. [Samuel Hinde goes to the door, and beckons to his soUy Henry Hinde, who enters. SAMUEL HINDE. Here's Henry, Mrs. Gather. MRS. GATHER. How are you, Henry? HENRY HINDE. I'm bravely, thank you. How is yourself? MRS. GATHER. I'm brave and well, thank you. Sit down, will you. WILLIAM GATHER. I'm glad to sec you again, Henry. HENRY HINDE. Thank you, Mr. Gather. WILLIAM GATHER. Your father was saying something about you and Maggie, Henry ! . . . . SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, I was saying! .... WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, it would be better if Henry was to speak for himself, Sam. SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, maybe it would. HENRY HINDE. Mr. Gather, I did you a great wrong ten years ago. WILLIAM GATHER. You did, Henry. HENRY HINDE. And sorry I am for it. WILLIAM GATHER. You could havc bccu sorry sooner with advantage. HENRY HINDE. I was headstrong and wayward, Mr. Gather. I was in the devil's grip; but a change has come over me. The old life has dropped away from me, and I've been washed in the Blood of the Lamb. MRS. GATHER. Are you saved, Henry? HENRY HINDE. Ycs, thank God, I've been saved, Mrs. Gather. I was a wilful, hell-deserving sinner when I lived here. I wanted my own way in everything, and I didn't care about nobody else. The devil was in me. When I went to Liverpool, after the child was born, I led 438 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER a wayward life; but God was watching over me, and He saved me at last. I've got on, too, beyond my deserts. The Almighty's been very gracious to me. I've got a great deal to be thankful for, WILLIAM GATHER. I'm glad to hear it, Henry. Maggie! . . . . HENRY HiNDE. It's about Maggie I've come back. Yester- day morning as I was contemplating God's goodness to me, I was wondering what I could do to show my gratitude to Him. I owe Him a great debt, and I want to pay Him back something. And I heard a voice within me, saying, Henry Hinde, you once did a woman a wrong. You left her with a bastard child ! . . . . MRS. GATHER. Aw, don't say the word, Henry ! HENRY HINDE. Isn't it truc, Mrs. Gather? Didn't I leave Maggie with a child that I was the father of.'' I was headstrong in my sin, and I wouldn't marry her. My sin was deep, Mrs. Gather, and you can't make little of it. And when I heard the voice of God telling me to go back to the woman I had ruined and make her respectable, I just took the next boat from Liverpool, and I got to Bel- fast this morning, and I came here without a word of warning to anyone. SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, you could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw him standing in the door. Sure, I thought it was a ghost. HENRY HINDE. I felt it to be my duty to come back. Mind, it's not because I couldn't get anyone else. It's because it's the will of God. Not my will, O Lord, but Thine be done. I could marry a minister's daughter if I wanted to. SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, a minister's daughter, mind you. Over in Liverpool. An Englishwoman. HENRY HINDE. But I put all dcsircs away from me, and came back to do the will of God. MRS. GATHER (weeping softly). I thank God for this day. WILLIAM GATHER (sullenly). Wc'vc waited ten years for the voice of God to speak. Ten years is a long time, Henry. HENRY HINDE. What is ten years to eternity? THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 439 SAMUEL HiNDE. Aye, indeed, what is it? HENRY HINDE. If I had not come back at the bidding of God, He might have damned my soul for ever. How was I to know that He wasn't testing me as with fire? SAMUEL HINDE. Aw, that's truc — that's true! Lord bless me, it would be a terrible thing to go to hell. HENRY HINDE. Is the child all right? WILLIAM GATHER. Aye. He's running about the street somewhere. SAMUEL HINDE. I was thinking myself the other day, he was a wee bit wild. Running about the street too much maybe. It's not good for a child to be running about the street much. MRS. GATHER. Indeed, Sam Hinde, he's not running wild about the street. There's no child in Donaghreagh that's better looked after nor he is, for all he is — for all his mother's not married. HENRY HINDE. I feel it's my duty to bring that child up in the fear of God. He came from the devil, and he must be given to God. Does Maggie go to church regular? MRS. GATHER. Not sincc her trouble, Henry. HENRY HINDE. She has a soul to be saved, Mrs. Gather, and by the help of God I mean to save it. Aw, I'm glad I listened to His voice. I feel I shall be the instrument for much good in His hands. WILLIAM GATHER. Do you mean to marry her? HENRY HINDE. I do. It's the will of God that I should. SAMUEL HINDE. You know, he could marry a minister's daughter if he liked. Over in Liverpool there. And mind you, they're queer and particular in England. WILLIAM GATHER. I darcsay you're right, Sam, but that's not the question. The question is, what will Maggie say? You see Henry talks about his duty to God; but he doesn't say anything about his duty to Maggie. And after all, it was her that was wronged, not God. Not that I would make little of our duty to God. There's no man knows more about that duty nor I do. But we're men, 440 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER Sam, you and Henry and me. Maggie's a woman, and women don't think so much of their duty to God as men do. It would be a bit awkward for some of us, if they did. You don't love Maggie, Henry? SAMUEL HiNDE. Och, man alive, didn't I tell you about the minister's daughter over in LiverpooLf* It's her he loves. WILLIAM GATHER. Do you love her, Henry? HENRY HINDE. As a fallen sister ! . . . . WILLIAM GATHER. Do you love her as a man should love the woman he wants to marry? HENRY HINDE. I'll do my duty by her. It's a debt I owe to God. I'll be a good husband to her, and I'll try to bring her to the paths of peace. Will she be long before she comes back? MRS. GATHER. I dou't kuow. She said she wouldn't be long. Maybe, she'll be back soon. WILLIAM GATHER. I woudcr If shc'U have you, Henry. Women think more of loving a man nor they do of loving God. But you never know. I wish she was here. HENRY HINDE. I hopc shc won't be long, for I must get back to Belfast to catch the boat for Liverpool the night. I can't leave the shop more nor a day. SAMUEL HINDE. Hc's doiug quccr and well in the shop. Aren't you, Henry? HENRY HINDE. Aye, the Lord has prospered me. I have two assistants and a vanman. The minister thinks a terrible lot of me. He took a fancy to me the minute he saw me in the chapel. MRS. GATHER. Chapel! You've not turned a Catholic, are you? HENRY HINDE. No, Mrs. Gather, I'm a Protestant, thank God. They call churches chapels in England unless they're Episcopalian places of worship. They call us Dissenters and Nonconformists, and they think far more of Catholics than they do of us. MRS. GATHER. Heth, it must be the queer funny place. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 441 HENRY HiNDE. But Catholics have souls to be saved, the same as Protestants. We should never make little of them that has not been born so enlightened as ourselves. MRS. GATHER. Aw, indeed, many's the time I've said that. Sure, there's good and bad alike in all religions. HENRY HINDE. There's no bad in my religion, Mrs. Gather. There's no room for bad where God is. MRS. GATHER. Aw, Well, maybe you're right. HENRY HINDE. I am. MRS. GATHER. But sure, it's not worth fighting about. Maybe, we're all wrong. You never know. WILLIAM GATHER. I wish Maggie was here till we tell her. MRS. GATHER. I hope she'll have you all right, Henry. SAMUEL HINDE. Have him! Of course, she'll have him! She's not daft, is she? HENRY HINDE. She's not in a position to choose, Mrs. Gather. A woman that's had a bastard! .... MRS. GATHER. Aw, don't Say it, Henry! WILLIAM GATHER. You Were its father anyway. If there's no choosing for her, there's no choosing for you. HENRY HINDE. There's no choosing for either of us. It's the will of God. SAMUEL HINDE. But all the same she gets the best of it. Look at him — look at the way he's dressed. Like any gentleman ! And him got a shop, and two assistants, and a vanman, and could marry a minister's daughter if he liked. I don't think there's much doubt about who's being favoured by the Almighty. WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, Sam, maybe. [He goes to the door and looks out anxiously. MRS. GATHER. Will you be married soon, Henry? HENRY HINDE. As soou as possiblc. I'll tell Mr. Macmillan the night before I go, and I'll come over again in a month's time, and marry her. WILLIAM GATHER. Here's Maggie now. HENRY HINDE. I'm glad to hear it. [Maggie Gather enters, wearing a plaid shawl over her head. 442 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER She enters hurriedly, throwing the shawl aside as she does so. She does not see Henry Hinde at first. MAGGIE GATHER {to Samuel Hinde). Is that you, Mr. Hinde? (She sees Henry.) Henry ! ( There is a short, painful pause, but she recovers herself) I hope you're well. HENRY HINDE. I'm Well enough, thank you. MRS. GATHER. What kept you, Maggie.'' You're queer and long getting back. MAGGIE GATHER. I was kept longer nor I thought. I hurried home as quick as I could. {To Henry) I suppose you're over for your holidays. WILLIAM GATHER. Maggie, dear, Henry's come back. MAGGIE GATHER. So I scc, father. WILLIAM GATHER. He's comc back to make you an offer. MAGGIE GATHER. A what.'' WILLIAM GATHER. He wauts to marry you. [She looks from one to the other like one who does not quite un- derstand what is being said. Then she turns away, laughing. MRS. GATHER. What are you laughing for anyway.? Sure, it's in earnest he is. MAGGIE GATHER. Henry, is it true you've come back to marry me? HENRY HINDE. Aye, it is. And now you know, I'll just go and tell the minister to arrange for the wedding. I've got to catch the boat back to Liverpool the night, and I haven't much time to lose. MAGGIE GATHER. It's ten ycars since you went away, Henry. HENRY HINDE. It is. MAGGIE GATHER. And now you've come back to marry me. HENRY HINDE. Aye. I'll be back in a month's time for the wedding. MAGGIE GATHER (pointing, with sudden fury, to her mother). Henry Hinde, do you see that old woman? HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do. MAGGIE GATHER. Do you remember nothing about her? Do you not mind her and me meeting you one night in the Cregagh Loaning before the child was born? THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 443 HENRY HiNDE, Aye, I think I do. MAGGIE GATHER. Do you mind her begging you to marry me? HENRY HINDE, Aye. MAGGIE GATHER (the fury Still in her voice). Do you mind her going down on her knees to you, and begging you for the love of God to marry me? Do you mind me pleading with you, too.'' HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do, but what does that matter? MAGGIE GATHER. Do you mind what you said to us, Henry? HENRY HINDE. No, I forget. MAGGIE GATHER. You said I was a bad woman, and you weren't going to marry a whore! MRS. GATHER (whimpering). Maggie, for God's sake don't bring it all up again. HENRY HINDE. Aye, I do mind that. MAGGIE GATHER. If I was oue then, Henry, I'm one now. I'm just as you left me. HENRY HINDE. I'm uot asking what you are. I know what you are, and I know what I am too. I know what we all are before God — hell-deserving sinners. I've not come back for what you are. I've come back to marry you be- cause it's the will of God. MAGGIE GATHER. Well, it's uot my will, then. SAMUEL HINDE. Not your will. Woman, you mustn't set yourself up against God. MAGGIE GATHER. I'm not Setting myself up against God. I'm setting myself up against Henry. MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, hold your tongue, and talk sense. Sure, it's all for the best. WILLIAM GATHER. Leave her alone. i^^GGiE GATHER. Me and my mother did to you, Henry, what no woman should ever do to any man — we went down on our knees to you. Do you hear that? I pleaded with you to save me from shame, and you wouldn't. You ran away, and left me to face it myself. It wasn't easy to face either. My God, when I think of it! I couldn't 444 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER go to the Sabbath-school nor the meeting. Everybody knew I was going to have a child, and I wasn't married. I used to pretend there was nothing the matter with me. . . . Once the minister preached an awful sermon about the woman taken in sin. Aw, I felt that every eye in the place was on me. There was no pity, no mercy. HENRY HiNDE. Think of the mercy of God, Maggie. MAGGIE GATHER. I Couldn't See it. I could only see the disgrace and the shame. MRS. GATHER. Aw, but dou't think of it, Maggie. Sure, it's all over, now. Henry'll marry you, and you'll be all right again. MAGGIE GATHER. I wou't, I tell you, I won't. I'm not going to marry him. SAMUEL HINDE. Maggie Gather, you must be out of your mind. Do you know he's got a shop, and two assistants, and a vanman.-^ MAGGIE GATHER. I don't care if he's got fifty shops, and fifty thousand vanmen, I won't marry him. WILLIAM GATHER (soothingly) . Maggie! SAMUEL HINDE. Aye, and he could marry a minister's daughter if he liked. HENRY HINDE. Aw, hold your wheesht, father. Maggie, there's no one knows better nor I do what I've done. You've good reason to be angry and bitter, but I've not come back to make excuses. I'm a guilty sinner the same as you are, but I've been saved. Thank God for that! I've had a call from the Father, and I must answer the call at my soul's peril. MAGGIE GATHER. You'vc not comc back because you love me, then? HENRY HINDE. The lusts of the flesh I .... MAGGIE GATHER. Aw, stop, stop, man, stop. "I Want none of your religion. MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear! .... WILLIAM GATHER. Lcavc her alone. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 445 SAMUEL HiNDE. I must Say I don't think your manners is very genteel, Maggie Gather. MAGGIE GATHER. Listen, Henry Hinde. All the time you were away in Liverpool where nobody knew you, I was here where everybody knew me. Do you know what that means? People staring at me, and turning up their noses at me? There was nothing but contempt for me at first. I was a bad woman, and I wasn't asked nowhere. Fellows in the street treated me like dirt beneath their feet. They spoke to me as if I was a bad woman. And all the time you were in Liverpool, and were thought a lot of. It wasn't fair. And it wasn't me only. I mind once I was coming down an entry, and I saw a lot of children tor- menting the child. He was standing in the middle of them, and they were making him say things after them. I heard them saying, "What are you, Willie?" And then they made him say, "I'm a wee bastard!" Aw, if I could have laid hands on you then, Henry, I would have throttled you. MRS. GATHER. But sure it's all over now. MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, they don't treat me with contempt now. I've lived that down. They just pity me now. Sometimes when I go past their doors, an old woman'll hear me passing, and ask who it is, and they always say, "It's only poor Maggie Gather." I could thole their contempt better nor their pity, but I didn't run away from either of them. I faced it all, and I've brought up the child as good as any of them. And now when I've bore the hardest of it, you come back to marry me. Maybe, you'll be ordering me about, and bossing the child. I'm to do what you tell me. I've to love, honour and obey you. What for, Henry, that's what I'd like to know? HENRY HINDE. I've come back at the command of God. WILLIAM GATHER. Maggie, dear, maybe you don't under- stand it all. You'd better think it over a bit. MAGGIE GATHER. I Understand perfectly, father. 446 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, but Wait a bit, Maggie. There's more in it nor you think. The lad's getting big, you know, and the time'll soon be here when you'll lose your hold on him. You know, Maggie, every woman loses her grip on her man or her child some time or other, and it just depends on wee things whether they ever get it back again. The child needs a man to look after him. MAGGIE GATHER. Aren't you good enough for him? WILLIAM GATHER. I'm too old. Old men are worse nor old women for controlling young people. You are never controlled so well as you are by someone near your own age. He'll be leaving school in a year or two, and neither you nor me'll be any younger then. You want a man to look after him. MRS. GATHER. Aye, dear, indeed you do. MAGGIE GATHER. I can look after him myself. WILLIAM GATHER. No, you Can't. Not when he finds things out. It's the between age, Maggie, when men is neither boys nor men — the only time when men never cling to women. It's the time they go quickest to the devil. HENRY HiNDE. I was thinking myself of giving the lad a good schooling over in Liverpool. I had a feeling as I was coming over in the boat that maybe if I was to have the child trained for a minister, he could wipe out some of the debt I owe to God. MRS. GATHER. Do you hear that, Maggie! Henry's going to make a minister of Willie. Sure, the child'll be a credit to you yet. MAGGIE GATHER. He's a Credit to me now. WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, Maggie, he is. SAMUEL HINDE. I'm sure it's queer and considerate of Henry considering what he might do. MAGGIE GATHER. If I was to marry you, Henry, would you treat the child the same as you would one that was not a — not a . . . . HENRY HINDE. I'll treat him just the same as if he was a child of God instead of a child of sin. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 447 MAGGIE GATHER (bittemess returning to her voice). It wasn't his fault. HENRY HiNDE. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, and you'll take damned good care my child doesn't escape. You'll hurt him, and say it's the will of God! . . . SAMUEL HINDE. Maggie Gather, your language is most un- becoming ! HENRY HINDE. She is posscssed of a devil, father. Leave her to me. I'll save her soul by the help of God. MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, say you'll have him. WILLIAM GATHER. It'll be all right for the child, Maggie. MAGGIE GATHER. I'll think about it. HENRY HINDE. I must know now. It's not me you're answering, it's God Himself. You can't put God off. WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, if we were to leave Maggie to talk it over with you alone, Henry, you could both come to a decision. Jane and me'll just show your father a shed I'm putting up in the garden for the leather. Come on, Sam. SAMUEL HINDE (jovially). Aye, indeed, William, that's the queer good notion of yours. I was just going to make it myself. Aw, you know, when a man and a woman get together, sure, they like to be alone. It's a queer thing when you come to think it over; but there it is. Och, aye! human beings is a funny lot, William, they are that. Well, well, let's go and have a look at your shed. [Exit Samuel by the scullery. MRS. GATHER. Maggie, dear, you'll take him, won't you? Don't be proud with him. Men can't stand pride, Mag- gie. Just take him, dear, and he'll make you a respectable woman again. WILLIAM GATHER. Comc ou, woman, come on. All right, Maggie, all right. [They go out together. JLENRY HINDE. Maggie, I haven't much time. 443 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER MAGGIE GATHER. Did you cver love me, Henry? HENRY HiNDE. I suppose I liked you, Maggie. MAGGIE GATHER. But you don't love me now? HENRY HINDE. It's ten years since I saw you last. MAGGIE GATHER. Do you love this minister's daughter, your father was talking about? HENRY HINDE. That's neither here nor there, Maggie. When God tells us to put our desires aside, we've got to bow our heads and say, Thy Will, O Lord, not ours, be done. MAGGIE GATHER. Is she a good womau? HENRY HINDE. Aye, she is. MAGGIE GATHER. She nevcF had a child. HENRY HINDE. No, she's a good woman. MAGGIE GATHER. Shc's worthy of you, maybe. HENRY HINDE. Aye, she is. She's worthy of any good man. MAGGIE GATHER. And I suppose I'm not worthy of you. HENRY HINDE. You have fallen short of the glory of God. MAGGIE GATHER. We both fell at the same time, Henry. HENRY HINDE. I'm saved and you're not. I'm in a state of grace, and you're in a state of sin. MAGGIE GATHER. Then I'm not as good as you are? HENRY HINDE. No, you're not. MAGGIE GATHER. If I was saved, too, would I be as good as you are? HENRY HINDE. That's for God to say, Maggie, not me. MAGGIE GATHER. Do you think I'd be as good as you? Leave God out of it for a minute. If I committed a sin, you committed one, too. HENRY HINDE. I'm not denying it. MAGGIE GATHER. Aye, but you think I'm a bigger sinner nor you were; and if I was saved, too, you'd still think I was worse nor you, wouldn't you? HENRY HINDE. I WOuld. MAGGIE GATHER, Why WOuld yOU? HENRY HINDE. Because you're a woman. Because it was through women that sin first came into the world to damn the souls of men. Because it's women that keeps sin in THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 449 the world with their shameful, lustful bodies. God Him- self came down from Heaven to save men from their sins, and suffered the pangs of hell that they might be saved, and sin be swept out of the world. But man turns from the high God to the low woman to his own damnation, and God may weep in His Heaven for the souls of men for ever, and no man will heed Him. Aw, the sin and the shame that women have brought into the world! Every soul that writhes in hell was sent there by a woman. MAGGIE GATHER. You Want to marry me, Henry? HENRY HiNDE, Because its a debt I owe to God. If I could save your soul I'd be paying Him back. MAGGIE GATHER. And if I don't marry you? HENRY HINDE. I shall havc tried all the same. I can do no more. MAGGIE GATHER. Henry, you're worse nor I thought you. You're not thinking of me, nor the wrong you did. It's yourself you're thinking of. You're afraid of God, and you want to use me to buy Him off. You can well call yourself a God-fearing man, Henry. I'm nothing to you. The child you're the father of is nothing to you. You're just frightened out of your wits for fear you should go to hell for all you're saved. I won't marry you. I'm as good as you are for all I'm not saved. I'm better nor you are, for I'm not afraid of God. (She goes to the door lead- ing to the scullery) Come on in, will you. [Samuel, Jane and William enter in the order named. MRS. GATHER. Havc you took him, yet? MAGGIE GATHER. No. Father, I've decided not to marry Henry. WILLIAM GATHER. You're surc, Maggie? MAGGIE GATHER. I am, father. WILLIAM GATHER. Maybe, you know best, Maggie. MRS. GATHER. William Gather, will you stand there and let your daughter make a fool of herself? SAMUEL HINDE. I must say I think you're right, Mrs. Gather. 450 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER WILLIAM GATHER. We don't Want to know what you think, Sam. Jane, you needn't say any more. MRS. GATHER. I will say more. I've been patient all these years, and said nothing, but I'll be patient no more. We're a shamed family. Yes, we are. A bastard in the house! There never was no shame in my family, no, nor yours either, William Gather, before Maggie. WILLIAM GATHER. Well, Well, it Can't be helped. MRS. GATHER. And when she has a chance of putting herself right, and making a respectable woman of herself, she hangs back, and won't take it. And you stand by, and let her do it. MAGGIE GATHER. I am a respectable woman. MRS. GATHER. You're not, you know you're not. You're a bad woman, you know you are. Maybe, if the truth was known, you led this good man into the trouble! WILLIAM GATHER. Hold your tongue, woman! My God, if you speak like that, I'll strike you down. MRS. GATHER. I'm your wife, William Gather, and I've been a good wife to you, too. I've submitted to you in every- thing since we were married. I've stood by, and bore cuts from people that was lower-born nor me because of Mag- gie. I've stood them without saying anything because you told me to. But I hoped and prayed to God that some day Henry 'd come back, and make her a respectable woman again. I was that glad when he came in with Sam, and said he'd marry her! — and now, — aw, William, William, make her marry him. Henry, you'll take her still, won't you? HENRY HiNDE. Aye, I'll take her still. SAMUEL HINDE. I'm sure it's very magnanimous of you, Henry, after the way you've been treated. WILLIAM GATHER. It's for Maggie to say, not for me. MRS. GATHER. Ask her again, Henry. HENRY HINDE. Maggie Gather, I solemnly ask you before God your Maker, to marry me. JMAGGIE GATHER. JNo. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 451 HENRY HiNDE. I'll givc you another chance, Maggie. Will you marry me? MAGGIE GATHER. No. SAMUEL HINDE. Well, I suppose there's nothing for it, but to go home. It's a pity you wasted your money coming over, Henry. MRS. GATHER. No, don't go yet, Henry. Give her time to think it over. When she sees the child she'll change her mind. I'll go and get him. WILLIAM GATHER. Stay whcrc you are. HENRY HINDE. Maggie, for the last time, will you marry me? MAGGIE GATHER. Am I as good as you? HENRY HINDE. You know what I said before. Will you marry me? MAGGIE GATHER. No, no, UO. HENRY HINDE. Very well, then, Maggie, I'll just say good-bye. SAMUEL HINDE. That's your last chance, my lady. You'll get no more. Heth, you're a fine one to be putting on airs. Anyone would think you were a decent woman by the way you talk. WILLIAM GATHER. Samucl Hinde, if you don't want to be hurried before your Maker before your time, you'll get out of this house without another word. SAMUEL HINDE. Aw, indeed. I like the conceit of you. That man could buy and sell you and your daughter twice over, and not notice it. He's a gentleman, and could marry the daughter of a minister, but he's good enough to come and offer to marry the daughter of a cobbler that's disgraced herself; and he's treated like dirt. A man that has a shop and two assistants! .... WILLIAM GATHER. Aye, wc heard all that before, Sam. You needn't wait any longer. SAMUEL HINDE. Come ou, Henry. Sure, you're only de- meaning yourself here. HENRY HINDE. I Came here to do the will of God. I've done my best. {He shuts his eyes and prays) Lord, Thou 452 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER knowest the weakness of Thy servant. If I have failed to move this sinful woman's heart through lustful desires after another, forgive me, O Lord, for Thy Name's Sake. Amen. I'll say good-bye, to you, William. If we should never meet on this side of eternity, I would bid you con- sider this. What Shall It Profit a Man if He Gain the Whole World and Lose His Own Soul? Good-bye to you all. [Samuel and Henry Hinde go out together. MAGGIE GATHER. Was I wrong, father? WILLIAM GATHER. God Only knows, Maggie. MRS. GATHER. It's a sin, it's a sin. To throw away the chance of being respectable. MAGGIE GATHER. There isn't much difference between you and me, mother. You've had a child, and so have I. MRS. GATHER. I'm a married woman. MAGGIE GATHER. You've Only been to the minister, and I haven't. There's not much difference between us. Maybe, I'm a better woman nor you. I had a son, and you only had a girl. MRS. GATHER (in dreadfid fury as though she would strike her daughter). How dare you? How dare you make a mock of me? WILLIAM GATHER. Jane, woman, you forget yourself. You're an old woman. You shouldn't be so bitter, Maggie. MRS. GATHER. Why Wouldn't you marry him? Wasn't he good enough? MAGGIE GATHER. He was too good. If you heard what he said to me. He said I was a sinful, lustful woman, and could never be as good as he is. It wasn't me he was thinking of; it was himself. I'm not needing to marry, but if I do, I'll marry to save my own soul, and not Henry Hinde's. WILLIAM GATHER. Aw, Well, dear, it doesn't matter about Henry. Maybe, you were right not to have him. [He pats her affectionately on the shoulder. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 453 MAGGIE GATHER. I hope I was, father. WILLIAM GATHER. I hope SO, dear. You never know. [He goes out through the scullery door to the garden. Maggie takes up her shawl, and goes into the bedroom, leaving Mrs. Gather weeping by the fire. THE GOLDEN DOOM LORD DUNSANY The chief biographical source-book on Lord Dunsany is Edward Hale Bierstadt's "Dunsany the Dramatist." As Mr. Bierstadt's book, in its latest revised form, has the official sanction of the dramatist, it will be sufficient to select a few passages for quotation. Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett is the "eighteenth Baron of his line, and his name and ancestry are said to be the third oldest in Irish history. In 1899 he succeeded to the title, and to the family estates in Meath. . . . Born in 1878, Lord Dunsany was educated at Eaton and Sandhurst, and then entered the army. He saw active service . . . during the South African war . . ." Dunsany was first heard of in connection with the Irish literary movement in 1902 or 1903, while his first book was published in 1905. But "his first play did not appear until 1909, when 'The Glit- tering Gate' was put on at the Abbey Theater, Dublin. 'King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior' followed in February of 1911 at the Abbey, and the next June 'The Gods of the Mountain ' went on at the Haymarket Theater, London." While certain Dunsany plays were produced in America before 1916, it was not until Stuart Walker (Season 1916- 1917) offered a series of Dunsany productions that the dra- matist became popular. For three seasons Dunsany plays were to be seen on the stages of dozens of little theaters throughout the country. "Something must be wrong," says Dunsany in an article on "Romance and the Modern Stage ", "with an age whose 456 THE GOLDEN DOOM drama deserts romance." This statement includes one half of Dunsany's theory of art. The other half he phrases as follows: "Romance is so inseparable from life that all we need to obtain romantic drama is for the dramatist to find any age and any country where life is not too thickly veiled and cloaked with puzzles and conventions, in fact to find a people that is not in the agonies of self-consciousness. For myself, I think that it is simpler to imagine such a people, as it saves the trouble of reading to find a romantic age, or the trouble of making a journey to lands where there is no press." Of "The Golden Doom" Mr. Bierstadt says: "It is the poet rather than the dramatist who speaks in ' The Golden Doom.' It may be observed though that it is no personal problem with which we are confronted, it rarely is with Dunsany. ... It is Boyhood in the mass, nay, even in the abstract with which we are called upon to sympathize; it is the idea of Majesty which we are asked to pity. It is man in the conglomerate whole with which we are dealing, not an individual man." PLAYS *The Glittering Gate (1909) *Fame and the Poet (1918) King Argimenes and the *The Prince of Stamboul Unknown Warrior (1911) (1918) . The Gods of the Mountain The Laughter of the Gods (1911) (1919) *The Golden Doom (1912) *The Murderers (1919) *The Lost Silk Hat (1913) *A Good Bargain (1920) The Tents of the Arabs *The Compromise of the (1914) King of the Golden Isles *A Night at an Inn (1916) (1920) *The Queen's Enemies (1916) "The Gods of the Mountain", "The Golden Doom", "King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior", "The Glit- THE GOLDEN DOOM 457 tering Gate", and "The Lost Silk Hat" are published as "Five Plays", by Little, Brown and Company, Boston; "The Tents of the Arabs", "The Laughter of the Gods", "The Queen's Enemies", and "A Night at an Inn" as "Plays of Gods and Men ", by John W. Luce and Company, Boston. References: Edward Hale Bierstadt, "Dunsany the Dramatist" (new and revised edition, 1919), Little, Brown and Company, Boston; Clayton Hamilton, "Seen on the Stage," Henry Holt and Company, New York; Dunsany's "Nowadays", Four Seas Company, Boston. Magazines: The Forum, May, 1914, New York; February, 1915; Current Opinion, June, 1916, New York; The Bellman, Minneapolis, 1917. THE GOLDEN DOOM By lord DUNSANY "The Golden Doom" was first produced at London in 1912. Characters The King Chamberlain Chief Prophet Girl Boy Spies First Prophet Second Prophet First Sentry Second Sentry Stranger Attendants Scene : Outside the King's great door in Zericon. Time: Some while before the fall of Babylon. CoPTBiaHT, 1914, BY Little, Beown, and Company. All dramatic rights reserved by the author. Reprinted, by permission of author and publisher, from "Five Plays", published by Little, Brown and Company, Boston. No performance of "The Golden Doom", either professional or_ amateur, may be given without the written permission of the owner of the acting rights, who may be addressed in care of the publishers. Little. Brown and Company. THE GOLDEN DOOM Two Sentries 'pace to and fro, then halt, one on each side of the great door. FIRST SENTRY. The day is deadly sultry. SECOND SENTRY. I would that I Were swimming down the Gyshon, on the cool side, under the fruit trees. FIRST SENTRY. It is like to thunder or the fall of a dynasty. SECOND SENTRY. It will grow cool by night-fall. Where is the King? FIRST SENTRY. He rows in his golden barge with ambassa- dors or whispers with captains concerning future wars. The stars spare him ! SECOND SENTRY. Why do you say "the stars spare him"? FIRST SENTRY. Bccausc if a doom from the stars fall sud- denly on a king it swallows up his people and all things round about him, and his palace falls and the walls of his city and citadel, and the apes come in from the woods and the large beasts from the desert, so that you would not say that a king had been there at all. SECOND SENTRY. But why should a doom from the stars fall on the King? FIRST SENTRY. Because he seldom placates them. SECOND SENTRY. Ah ! I have heard that said of him. FIRST SENTRY. Who are the stars that a man should scorn them? Should they that rule the thunder, the plague and the earthquake withhold these things save for much prayer? Always ambassadors are with the King, and his commanders, come in from distant lands, prefects of cities and makers of the laws, but never the priests of the stars. SECOND SENTRY. Hark! Was that thunder? FIRST SENTRY. Believe me, the stars are angry. [Enter a Stranger. He wanders toward the King^s door, gazing about him. 462 THE GOLDEN DOOM SENTRIES (lifting their spears at him). Go back! Go back! STRANGER. Why? FIRST SENTRY. It is death to touch the King's door. STRANGER. I am a stranger from Thessaly. FIRST SENTRY. It is death even for a stranger. STRANGER. Your door is strangely sacred. FIRST SENTRY. It is death to touch it. [ The Stranger wanders off. Enter two children hand in hand. BOY {to the Sentry) . I want to see the King to pray for a hoop. [The Sentry smiles. BOY {pushes the door; to girl). I cannot open it. {To the Sentry) Will it do as well if I pray to the King's door? SENTRY. Yes, quite as well. {Turns to talk to the other Sentry) Is there anyone in sight? SECOND SENTRY {shading his eyes). Nothing but a dog, and he far out on the plain. FIRST SENTRY. Then we can talk awhile and eat bash. BOY. King's door, I want a little hoop. [The Sentries take a little hash between finger and thumb from pouches and put that wholly forgotten drug to their lips. GIRL (pointing). My father is a taller soldier than that. BOY. My father can write. He taught me. GIRL. Ho! Writing frightens nobody. My father is a soldier. BOY. I have a lump of gold. I found it in the stream that runs down to Gyshon. GIRL. I have a poem. I found it in my own head. BOY. Is it a long poem? GIRL. No. But it would have been only there were no more rhymes for sky. BOY. What is your poem? GIRL. I saw a purple bird Go up against the sky And it went up and up And round about did fly. THE GOLDEN DOOM 463 BOY. I saw it die. GIRL. That doesn't scan. BOY. Oh, that doesn't matter. GIRL. Do you Uke my poem? BOY. Birds aren't purple. GIRL. My bird was. BOY. Oh ! GIRL. Oh, you don't like my poem! BOY. Yes, I do. GIRL. No, you don't; you think it horrid. BOY. No. I don't. GIRL. Yes, you do. Why didn't you say you liked it? It is the only poem I ever made. BOY. I do like it. I do like it. GIRL. You don't, you don't! BOY. Don't be angry. I'll write it on the door for you. GIRL. You'll write it? BOY. Yes, I can write it. My father taught me. I'll write it with my lump of gold. It makes a yellow mark on the iron door. GIRL. Oh, do write it! I would like to see it written like real poetry. [The Boy begins to write. The Girl watches. FIRST SENTRY. You sec. We'll be fighting again soon. SECOND SENTRY. Only a little war. We never have more than a little war with the hill-folk. FIRST SENTRY. When a man goes to fight, the curtains of the gods wax thicker than ever before between his eyes and the future; he may go to a great or to a little war. SECOND SENTRY. There can only be a little war with the hill-folk. FIRST SENTRY. Yet Sometimes the gods laugh. SECOND SENTRY. At whom? FIRST SENTRY. At kings. SECOND SENTRY. Why havc you grown uneasy about this war in the hills? 464 THE GOLDEN DOOM FIRST SENTRY. Because the King is powerful beyond any of his fathers, and has more fighting men, more horses, and wealth than could have ransomed his father and his grand- father and dowered their queens and daughters; and every year his miners bring him more from the opal-mines and from the turquoise-quarries. He has grown very mighty. SECOND SENTRY. Then he will the more easily crush the hill-folk in a little war. FIRST SENTRY. When kings grow very mighty the stars grow very jealous. BOY. I've written your poem. GIRL. Oh, have you really? BOY. Yes, I'll read it to you. {He reads) I saw a purple bird Go up against the sky And it went up and up And round about did fly. I saw it die. GIRL. It doesn't scan. BOY. That doesn't matter. [Enter furtively a Spy, who crosses stage and goes out. The Sentries cease to talk. GIRL. That man frightens me. BOY. He is only one of the King's spies. GIRL. But I don't like the King's spies. They frighten me. BOY. Come on, then, we'll run away. SENTRY {noticing the children again). Go away, go away! The King is coming, he will eat you. [The Boy throws a stone at the Sentry and runs out. Enter another Spy, who crosses the stage. Enter third Spy, who notices the door. He examines it and utters an owl-like whistle. No. 2 comes hack. They do not speak. Both whistle. No. S comes. All examine the door. Enter the King and his Chamberlain. The King wears a purple robe. The Sentries smartly transfer their spears to their left hands and return their right arms to their right sides. They then THE GOLDEN DOOM 465 lower their spears until their points are within an inch of the ground, at the same time raising their right hands above their heads. They stand for some moments thus. Then they lower their right arms to their right sides, at the same time raising their spears. In the next motion they take their spears into their right hands and lower the butts to the floor, where they were before, the spears slanting forward a little. Both Sentries must move together precisely. FIRST SPY {runs forward to the King and kneels, abasing his forehead to the floor). Something has written on the iron door. CHAMBERLAIN. On the iron door! KING. Some fool has done it. Who has been here since yesterday? FIRST SENTRY (sMfts Ms hand a little higher on his spear, brings the spear to his side and closes his heels all in one motion; he then takes one pace backward with his right foot; then he kneels on his right knee; when he has done this he speaks, but not before). Nobody, Majesty, but a stranger from Thessaly. KING. Did he touch the iron door? FIRST SENTRY. No, Majesty; he tried to, but we drove him away. KING. How near did he come? FIRST SENTRY. Nearly to our spears, Majesty. KING. What was his motive in seeking to touch the iron door? FIRST SENTRY. I do uot kuow, Majcsty. KING. Which way did he go? FIRST SENTRY {pointing left). That way. Majesty, an hour ago. [The King whispers urith one of his Spies, who stoops and examines the ground and steals away. The Sentry rises. KING {to his two remaining Spies). What does this writing say? A SPY. We cannot read. Majesty. KING. A good spy should know everything. 466 THE GOLDEN DOOM SECOND SPY. We watch, Majesty, and we search out. Ma- jesty. We read shadows, and we read footprints, and whispers in secret places. But we do not read writing. KING (to the Chamberlain). See what it is. CHAMBERLAIN {goes wp and reads). It is treason, Majesty. KING. Read it. CHAMBERLAIN. ^ i , • i 1 saw a purple bird Go up against the sky, And it went up and up And round about did fly. I saw it die. FIRST SENTRY (aside). The stars have spoken. KING (to the Sentry). Has anyone been here but the stranger from Thessaly? SENTRY (kneeling as before). Nobody, Majesty. KING. You saw nothing? FIRST SENTRY. Nothing but a dog far out upon the plain and the children of the guard at play. KING (to the Second Sentry). And you? SECOND SENTRY (kneeling). Nothing, Majesty. CHAMBERLAIN. That is strange. KING. It is some secret warning. CHAMBERLAIN. It is trcasou. KING. It is from the stars. CHAMBERLAIN. No, no. Majesty. Not from the stars, not from the stars. Some man has done it. Yet the thing should be interpreted. Shall I send for the prophets of the stars? [The King beckons to his Spies. They run up to him. KING. Find me some prophet of the stars. (Exeunt Spies) I fear that we may go no more, my chamberlain, along the winding ways of unequalled Zericon, nor play dahoori with the golden balls. I have thought more of my people than of the stars and more of Zericon than of windy Heaven. CHAMBERLAIN. Belicve me, Majesty, some idle man has THE GOLDEN DOOM 467 written it and passed by. Your spies shall find him, and then his name will be soon forgotten. KING. Yes, yes. Perhaps you are right, though the sen- tries saw no one. No doubt some beggar did it. CHAMBERLAIN. Yes, Majesty, some beggar has surely done it. But look, here come two prophets of the stars. They shall tell us that this is idle. [Enter two Prophets and a Boy attending them. All bow deeply to the King. The two Spies steal in again and stand at back. KING. Some beggar has written a rhyme on the iron gate, and as the ways of rhyme are known to you I desired you, rather as poets than as prophets, to say whether there was any meaning in it. CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis but an idle rhyme. FIRST PROPHET {bows again and goes up to door. He glances at the writing). Come hither, servant of those that serve the stars. [Attendant approaches. FIRST PROPHET. Bring hither our golden cloaks, for this may be a matter for rejoicing; and bring our green cloaks also, for this may tell of young new beautiful things with which the stars will one day gladden the King; and bring our black cloaks also, for it may be a doom, (Exit the Boy; the Prophet goes up to the door and reads solemnly) The stars have spoken. [Reenter Attendant with cloaks. KING. I tell you that some beggar has written this. FIRST PROPHET. It is Written in pure gold. [He dons the black cloak over body and head. KING. What do the stars mean? What warning is it? FIRST PROPHET. I cauuot say. KING {to Second Prophet). Come you then and tell us what the warning is. SECOND PROPHET (gocs vp to tJw door and reads). The stars have spoken. [He cloaks himself in black. 468 THE GOLDEN DOOM KING. What is it? What does it mean? SECOND PROPHET. We do not know, but it is from the stars. CHAMBERLAIN. It is a harmless thing; there is no harm in it, Majesty. Why should not birds die? KING. Why have the prophets covered themselves in black? CHAMBERLAIN. They are a secret people and look for inner meanings. There is no harm in it. KING. They have covered themselves in black. CHAMBERLAIN. They have not spoken of any evil thing. They have not spoken of it. KING. If the people see the prophets covered in black they will say that the stars are against me and believe that my luck has turned. CHAMBERLAIN. The people must not know. KING. Some prophet must interpret to us the doom. Let the chief prophet of the stars be sent for. CHAMBERLAIN (going toward left exit). Summon the chief prophet of the stars that look on Zericon. VOICES OFF. The chief prophet of the stars. The chief prophet of the stars. CHAMBERLAIN. I havc summoucd the chief prophet, Majesty. KING. If he interpret this aright I will put a necklace of turquoises round his neck with opals from the mines. CHAMBERLAIN. He will uot fail. He is a very cunning in- terpreter. KING. What if he covers himself with a huge black cloak and does not speak and goes muttering away, slowly with bended head, till our fear spreads to the sentries and they cry aloud? CHAMBERLAIN. This is no doom from the stars, but some idle scribe hath written it in his insolence upon the iron door, wasting his hoard of gold. KING. Not for myself I have a fear of doom, not for my- self; but I inherited a rocky land, windy and ill-nurtured, and nursed it to prosperity by years of peace and spread its boundaries by years of war. I have brought up har- THE GOLDEN DOOM 469 vests out of barren acres and given good laws unto naughty- towns, and my people are happy, and lo, the stars are angry ! CHAMBERLAIN. It is uot the stars, it is not the stars. Majesty, for the prophets of the stars have not interpreted it. Indeed, it was only some reveller wasting his gold. [Meanwhile enter Chief Prophet of the stars that look on Zericon. KING. Chief Prophet of the Stars that look on Zericon, I would have you interpret the rhyme upon yonder door. CHIEF PROPHET {goes wp to the door and reads). It is from the stars. KING. Interpret it and you shall have great turquoises round your neck, with opals from the mines in the frozen mountains. CHIEF PROPHET (cloaJcs himself like the others in a great black cloak). Who should wear purple in the land but a King, or who go up against the sky but he who has troubled the stars by neglecting their ancient worship? Such a one has gone up and up increasing power and wealth, such a one has soared above the crowns of those that went be- fore him, such a one the stars have doomed, the undying ones, the illustrious. [A pause. KING. Who wrote it? CHIEF PROPHET. It is pure gold. Some god has written it. CHAMBERLAIN. SomC god? CHIEF PROPHET. Some god whose home is among the un- dying stars. FIRST SENTRY (aside to the Second Sentry). Last night I saw a star go flaming earthward. KING. Is this a warning or is it a doom? CHIEF PROPHET. The stars have spoken. KING. It is, then, a doom? CHIEF PROPHET. They speak not in jest. KING. I have been a great King — Let it be said of me "The stars overthrew him, and they sent a god for his 470 THE GOLDEN DOOM doom." For I have not met my equal among kings that man should overthrow me; and I have not oppressed my people that men should rise up against me. CHIEF PROPHET. It is better to give worship to the stars than to do good to man. It is better to be humble before the gods than proud in the face of your enemy though he do evil. KING. Let the stars hearken yet and I will sacrifice a child to them — I will sacrifice a girl child to the twinkling stars and a male child to the stars that blink not, the stars of the steadfast eyes. {To his Spies) Let a boy and girl be brought for sacrifice. {Exit a Spy to the right looking at footprints) Will you accept this sacrifice to the god that the stars have sent? They say that the gods love children. CHIEF PROPHET. I may refuse no sacrifice to the stars nor to the gods whom they send. {To the other Prophets) Make ready the sacrificial knives. [The Prophets draw knives and sharpen them. KING. Is it fitting that the sacrifice take place by the iron door where the god from the stars has trod, or must it be in the temple? CHIEF PROPHET. Let it be offered by the iron door. {To the other Prophets) Fetch hither the altar stone. [The owl-like whistle is heard off right. The Third Spy runs crouching toward it. Exit. KING. Will this sacrifice avail to avert the doom? CHIEF PROPHET. Who knows? KING. I fear that even yet the doom will fall. CHIEF PROPHET. It wcrc wisc to sacrificc some greater thing. KING. What more can a man offer? CHIEF PROPHET. His pride. KING. What pride? CHIEF PROPHET. Your pride that went up against the sky and troubled the stars. KING. How shall I sacrifice my pride to the stars? CHIEF PROPHET. It is upon your pride that the doom will THE GOLDEN DOOM 471 fall, and will take away your crown and will take away your kingdom. KING. I will sacrifice my crown and reign uncrowned amongst you, so only I save my kingdom. CHIEF PROPHET. If you Sacrifice your crown which is your pride, and if the stars accept it, perhaps the god that they sent may avert the doom and you may still reign in your kingdom though humbled and uncrowned. KING. Shall I burn my crown with spices and with incense or cast it into the sea? CHIEF PROPHET. Let it be laid here by the iron door where the god came who wrote the golden doom. When he comes again by night to shrivel up the city or to pour an enemy in through the iron door, he will see your cast-off pride and perhaps accept it and take it away to the neg- lected stars. KING (to the Chamberlain). Go after my spies and say that I make no sacrifice. {Exit the Chamberlain to the right; the King takes off his crown) Good-bye, my brittle glory; kings have sought you; the stars have envied you. {The stage grows darker. CHIEF PROPHET. Eveu uow the sun has set who denies the stars, and the day is departed wherein no gods walk abroad. It is near the hour when spirits roam the earth and all things that go unseen, and the faces of the abiding stars will be soon revealed to the fields. Lay your crown there and let us come away. KING {lays his crown before the iron door; then to the Sentries) . Go ! And let no man come near the door all night. THE SENTRIES (kneeling). Yes, Majesty. [They remain kneeling until after the King has gone. King and the Chief Prophet loalk away. CHIEF PROPHET. It was your pride. Let it be forgotten. May the stars accept it. 'Exeunt left. The Sentries rise. FIRST SENTRY. The stars have envied him ! SECOND SENTRY. It is an ancient crown. He wore it well. 472 THE GOLDEN DOOM FIRST SENTRY. Mav the stars accept it. SECOND SENTRY. If they do not accept it what doom will overtake him? FIRST SENTRY. It will Suddenly be as though there were never any city of Zericon nor two sentries like you and me standing before the door. SECOND SENTRY. Why! How do you know? FIRST SENTRY. That is evcr the way of the gods. SECOND SENTRY. But it is unjust. FIRST SENTRY. How should the gods know that? SECOND SENTRY. Will it happen to-night? FIRST SENTRY. Come! we must march away. [Exeunt right. The stage grows increasingly darker. Re- enter the Chamberlain from the right. He walks across the Stage and goes out to the left. Reenter Spies from the right. They cross the stage, which is now nearly dark. BOY (enters from the right, dressed in white, his hands out a little, crying). King's door, King's door, I want my little hoop. (He goes up to the King's door. When he sees the King's crown there, he utters a satisfied) 0-oh! [He takes it up, puts it on the ground, and, beating it before him with the sceptre, goes out by the way that he entered. The great door opens; there is light within; a furtive Spy slips out and sees that the crown is gone. Another Spy slips out. Their crouching heads come close together. FIRST SPY (hoarse whisper). The gods have come! [2'hey run back through the door and the door is closed. It opens again and the King and the Chamberlain come through. KING. The stars are satisfied. CURTAIN BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES The literature on modem English and Irish drama, collected and uncol- lected, has of late years so increased in bulk, that an even fairly comprehen- sive bibliography would fill a large volume. Such a bibliography, even if it existed, would not be required by the readers of this book. The following notes are intended merely as a guide to the reader who wishes to know where to turn for detailed information on modern English and Irish drama. Practically all the dramatists whose works are included in this volume are treated or at least touched upon in some of the books mentioned, so that it has not been thought worth while repeating the titles of such general works as Thomas H. Dickinson's "Contemporary Drama of England ", Ernest A. Boyd's "Contemporary Drama of Ireland ", and kindred studies. GENERAL WORKS, DEVOTED IN PART TO MOD- ERN ENGLISH AND IRISH DRAMA Archer, William. "Playmaking." Small, Maynard and Company, Boston. Baker, George P. "Dramatic Technique." Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Cannan, Gilbert. "The Joy of the Theater." E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. Carter, Huntley. "The New Spirit in Drama and Art." Mitchell Kennerley, New York. Chandler, F. W. "Aspects of Modern Drama." Macmillan Company, New York. Cheney, Sheldon. "The New Movement in the TheateJ." Mitchell Ken- nerley, New York. Dukes, Ashley. "Modern Dramatists." Sergei, Chicago. Goldmann, Emma. "The Social Significance of the Modem Drama." Richard G. Badger, Boston. Hale, Jr., Edward Everett. "Dramatists of Today." Henry Holt and Com- pany, New York. Hamilton, Clayton. "The Theory of the Theater." Henry Holt and Com- pany, New York. Henderson, Archibald. "The Changing Drama." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. "European Dramatists." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. Lewisohn, Ludwig. "The Modern Drama." B. W. Huebsch, New York. Matthews, Brander. "A Study of the Drama." Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Moderwell, H. K. "The Theater of Today." John Lane Company, New York. Palmer, John. "The Future of the Theater." George Bell and Sons, London. Phelps, '^'illiam Lyon. "The Twentieth Century Theater." Macmillan Company, New York. 474 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES BOOKS DEVOTED EITHER EXCLUSIVELY OR PRINCIPALLY TO MODERN ENGLISH DRAMA Archer, William. "English Dramatists of Today." Sampson, Low, Marston and Company, London. Armstrong, Cecil F. "From Shakespeare to Shaw." Mills and Boon, London. Barker, Granville, and Archer, William. "Schemes and Estimates for a National Theater." DuflSeld and Company, New York. Borsa, Mario. "The English Stage of Today." John Lane Company, London. Clark, Barrett H. "The British and American Drama of Today." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. Dickinson, Thomas H. "The Contemporary Drama of England." Little, Brown & Company, Boston. Filon, Augustin. "The English Stage." Dodd, Mead and Company, New York. Howe, P. P. "Dramatic Portraits." Mitchell Kennerley, New York. "The Repertory Theater." Mitchell Kennerley, New York. Jones, Henry Arthur. "The Renascence of the English Drama." Macmillan Company, London. "The Foundations of a National Drama." George H. Doran Company, New York. McCarthy, Desmond. "The Court Theater." A. H. Bullen, Stratford-on- Avon. BOOKS DEVOTED EITHER EXCLUSIVELY OR PRINCIPALLY TO MODERN IRISH DRAMA Boyd, E. A. "The Contemporary Drama of Ireland." Little, Brown and Company, Boston. "Ireland's Literary Renaissance." John Xane Company, New York. Gregory, Lady Augusta. "Our Irish Theater." G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. ^ • Morris, Lloyd R. "The Celtic Dawn." Macmillan Company, New York. Weygandt. "Irish Plays and Playwrights." Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston. Yeats, W. B. "The Cutting of an Agate." Macmillan Company, New York. VOLUMES OF COLLECTED ESSAYS ON MODERN ENGLISH AND IRISH DRAMA, FOR THE MOST PART CONTEMPORARY RE- VIEWS OF PERFORMANCES Archer, William. "About the Theater." T. Fisher Un win, London. "Study and Stage." Grant Richards, London. "The Theatrical World." 5 vols. Walter Scott, London. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 475 Eaton, Walter Prichard. "Plays and Players." Stewart and Kidd, Cin- cinnati. George, W. L. "Dramatic Actualities." Sidgwick and Jackson, London. Grein, J. T. "Dramatic Criticism." John Long, London (1899). "Premieres of the Year." Macqueen, London (1900). "Dramatic Criticism." Greening and Company, London (1901). "Dramatic Criticism." Eve!ei.:i;h Nash, London (1904). Hamilton, Clayton. "Problems of the Playwright." Henry Holt and Com- pany, New York. "Seen on the Stage." Henry Holt and Company, New York. "Studies in Stagecraft." Henry Holt and Company, New York. Huneker, James. "Iconoclasts." Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. "The Pathos of Distance." Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. Montague, C. E. "Dramatic Values." Macmillan Company, New York. Moore, George. "Impressions and Opinions." Brentano's, New York. Scott, Clement. "Drama of Yesterday and Today." Macmillan Company, New York. S[pence], E. F. "Our Stage and Its Critics." Methuen and Company, London. Shaw, Bernard. "Dramatic Opinions and Essays." Brentano's, New York. Symons, Arthur. "Plays, Acting, and Music." E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. Titterton, W. R. "From Theater to Music Hall." Swift, London. Walbrook, H. M. "Nights at the Play." Ham-Smith, London. Walkley, A. B. "Playhouse Impressions." T. Fisher Unwin, London. "Drama and Life." Brentano's, New York. "Dramatic Criticism." John Murray, London. "Frames of Mind." Elkin Matthews, London. MISCELLANEOUS, INCLUDING BIBLIOGRAPHIES, ANTHOLOGIES, LISTS OF PLAYS, ETC. Clark, Barrett H. "How to Produce Amateur Plays." Little, Browa and Company, Boston. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) "European Theories of the Drama." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. (Bibliographies.) Dickinson, Thomas H. "Chief Contemporary Dramatists." Houghton MifHin Company, Boston. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) Moses, Montrose J. "Representative British Dramas: Victorian and Modern." Little, Brown and Company, Boston. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) Parker, John. "Who's Who in the Theater." Sir Isaac Pitman and Sons, London. (Biographies and lists of plays.) Shay, Frank. "The Plays and Books of the Little Theater." Frank Shay, New York. (BibliogTaphies and lists of plays.) Shay, Frank, and Loving. Pierre. "Fifty Contemporary One-act Plays." Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. (Lists of plays and bibliographies.) Tatlock, John S. P., and Martin, Robert G. "Representative English Plays." The Century Company, New York. (Lists of plays and bibliog- raphies.) "The Stage Year Book." (Annually) Carson and Comerford, London. 476 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ONE-ACT PLAYS BY ENGLISH AND IRISH DRAMATISTS A selection of some of the more interesting plays, not including those reprinted in the present volume. Baring, Maurice. " Catherine Parr." Farce. "The Greek Vase." Farce. "The Rehearsal." Farce. (Above plays in "Diminutive Dramas." Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.) Barker, Granville. "Vote by Ballot." Comedy. (In "Three Short Plays." Little, Brown and Company, Boston.) Barrie, J. M. "Pantaloon." Fantasy. "The Twelve-Pound Look." Comedy. "Rosalind." Comedy. (Above plays in "Half Hours." Charles Scribiler's Sons, New York.) Bennett, Arnold. "A Good Woman." Farce. "A Question of Sex." Farce. (Above plays in "Polite Farces." George H. Doran Com- pany, New York.) Brighouse, Harold. "The Price of Coal." Serious. Le Roy Phillips, Boston. Caldei'on, George. "The Little Stone House." Serious. Sidgwick and Jackson, London. Cannan, Gilbert. "A Short Way with Authors." Farce. Le Roy Phillips, Boston. "Everybody's Husband." Fantasy. B. W. Huebsch, New York. Chapin, Harold. "Augustus in Search of a Father." Comedy. Gowans and Gray, London. Conrad, Joseph. "One Day More." Drama. Smart Set, New York, Feb- ruary, 1914. Down, Oliphant. "The Quod Wrangle." Farce. Samuel French, New York. Dowson, Ernest. "The Pierrot of the Minute." Fantasy. Samuel French, New York. Drinkwater, John. "The Storm." Serious. "X = O: A Drama of the Trojan War." Serious. (Above plays in "Pawns." Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.) Dunsany, Lord. "The Lost Silk Hat." Comedy. "The Guttering Gate." Fantasy. (Above plays in "Five Plays." Little, Brown and Com- pany, Boston. "A Night at an Inn." Drama. (In "Plays of Gods and Men." John W. Luce and Com- pany, Boston.) Ervine, St. John. "The Orangeman." Serious. "The Critics." Farce. i (Above plays in "Four Irish Plays." Macmillan Company, New York.) BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 477 Galsworthy, John. "The Little Man." Serious. "Hallmarked." Comedy. (Above plays in "The Little Man and other Satires." Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.) Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson. "Mates." Serious. "On the Road." Serious. (Above plays in "Daily Bread." Macmillan Company, New York.) Gregory, Lady Augusta. "Hyacinth Halvey." Farce. "The Jackdaw." Farce. "The Rising of the Moon." Fantasy. (Above plays in "Seven Short Plays." G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.) Hankin, St. John. "The Constant Lover." Comedy. Theater Arts Magazine, New York, vol. 3, no. 2. Houghton, Stanley. "Phipps." Comedy. "The Fifth Commandment." Comedy. (Above plays in "Five One- Act Plays." Samuel French, New York.) Housman, Laurence. "As Good as Gold." Fantasy. Samuel French, New York. "Bird in Hand." Comedy. Samuel French, New York. "A Likely Story." Fantasy. Samuel French, New York. Jones, Henry Arthur. "Her Tongue." Serious. (In "The Theater of Ideas." George H. Doran Company, New York.) Masefield, John. "Mrs. Harrison." Serious. (In "The Tragedy of Nan." Macmillan Company, New York.) Morrison, Arthur. "That Brute Simmons." Comedy. Samuel French, New York. O'Brien, Seumas. "Duty." Comedy. "Magnanimity." Comedy. (Above plays in "Duty and Other Irish Comedies." Little, Brown and Company, Boston.) "Blind." Comedy. Egmont Arens, New York. Palmer, John. "Over the Hills." Comedy. Sidgwick and Jackson, London. Phillpotts, Eden. "The Point of View." Comedy. "The Hiatus." Comedy. "The Carrier Pigeon." Serious. (Above plays in "Curtain-Raisers," Brentano's, New York. Pinero, Sir Arthur. "Playgoers." Comedy. Samuel French, New York. Robins, Elizabeth. "Realities." Serious. (In "Makeshifts and Realities." T. Werner Laurie, London.) " 'Ilda's Honourable." Comedy. (In "Loving as We Do." T. Werner Laurie, London.) Shaw, Bernard. "Press Cuttings." Farce. Brentano's, New York. "How He Lied to Her Husband." Comedy. Brentano's, New York. Sowerby, Githa. "Before Breakfast." Comedy. Sidgwick and Jackson, London. Sutro, Alfred. "The Bracelet." Serious. Samuel French, New York. "The Open Door." Serious. Samuel French, New York. Y'eats, W, B. "A Pot of Broth." Farce. "Kathleen ni Houlihan." Serious. (Above plays in "Kathleen ni Houlihan." Macmillan Company, New York.) 3i|77-l Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date; Jan. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111