_THE UNKNOWN_
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
PLAYS (Uniform with this Volume):
_THE EXPLORER_
_MRS. DOT_
_A MAN OF HONOUR_
_PENELOPE_
_JACK STRAW_
_LADY FREDERICK_
_THE TENTH MAN_
_SMITH_
_LANDED GENTRY_
NOVELS:
_THE EXPLORER_
_THE MAGICIAN_
_THE MERRY-GO-ROUND_
_THE MOON AND SIXPENCE_
_MRS. CRADDOCK_
_OF HUMAN BONDAGE_
_THE UNKNOWN_
_A PLAY_
_In Three Acts_
_BY W. S. MAUGHAM_
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
_MCMXX_
_Copyright: London William Heinemann 1920_
To
VIOLA TREE.
This play was produced on Monday, August 9, 1920, at the Aldwych Theatre
with the following cast:
COLONEL WHARTON MR. CHARLES V. FRANCE
MAJOR WHARTON (JOHN) MR. BASIL RATHBONE
MRS. WHARTON LADY TREE
MRS. LITTLEWOOD MISS HAIDEE WRIGHT
REV. NORMAN POOLE MR. H. R. HIGNETT
MRS. POOLE MISS LENA HALLIDAY
SYLVIA BULLOUGH MISS ELLEN O’MALLEY
DR. MACFARLANE MR. CLARENCE BLAKISTON
KATE MISS GWENDOLEN FFLOYD
_THE UNKNOWN_
_CHARACTERS_
COLONEL WHARTON
MAJOR WHARTON (JOHN)
MRS. WHARTON
MRS. LITTLEWOOD
REV. NORMAN POOLE
MRS. POOLE
SYLVIA BULLOUGH
DR. MACFARLANE
KATE
COOK
The action of the play takes place at the Manor House, Stour, in the
County of Kent.
_The author ventures to suggest to the readers of this play that he
makes no pretensions to throw a new light on any of the questions which
are discussed in it, nor has he attempted to offer a solution of
problems which, judging from the diversity of opinion which they have
occasioned, may be regarded as insoluble. He has tried to put into
dramatic form some of the thoughts and emotions which have recently
agitated many, and for this purpose he has chosen the most ordinary
characters in the circle with which, owing to his own circumstances, he
is best acquainted. But because it is a good many years since he was on
terms of intimate familiarity with a parish priest, and he was not
certain how much the views of the clergy had changed, the author has put
into the mouth of the Rev. Norman Poole phrases from Dr. Gore’s “The
Religion of the Church,” and from a sermon by Dr. Stewart Holden. Since
it is impossible in a play to indicate by quotation marks what is
borrowed, the author takes this opportunity to acknowledge his
indebtedness for the Rev. Norman Poole’s most characteristic speeches._
_THE UNKNOWN_
ACT I
_The drawing-room at the Manor House_, COLONEL WHARTON’S
_residence. It is a simple room, somewhat heavily furnished in an
old-fashioned style; there is nothing in it which is in the least
artistic; but the furniture is comfortable, and neither new nor
shabby. On the papered walls are the Academy pictures of forty
years ago. There are a great many framed photographs of men in
uniform, and here and there a bunch of simple flowers in a vase.
The only things in the room which are at all exotic are silver
ornaments from Indian bazaars and flimsy Indian fabrics, used as
cloths on the occasional tables and as drapery on the piano._
_At the back are French windows leading into the garden; and this,
with its lawn and trees, is seen through them. It is summer, and
the windows are open. Morning._
MRS. WHARTON _is sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting a
khaki comforter. She is a slight, tall woman of five-and-fifty; she
has deliberate features, with kind eyes and a gentle look; her dark
hair is getting very gray; it is simply done; and her dress, too,
is simple; it is not at all new and was never fashionable._
KATE, _a middle-aged maid-servant, in a print dress, a cap and
apron, comes in_.
KATE.
If you please, ma’am, the butcher’s called.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh! I arranged with Cook that we should have cold roast beef again for
luncheon to-day, Kate. Tell the butcher to bring two and a half pounds
of the best end of the neck for to-night, and tell him to pick me out a
really nice piece, Kate. It’s so long since the Major has had any good
English meat.
KATE.
Very good, ma’am.
MRS. WHARTON.
And he might send in a couple of kidneys. The Colonel and Major Wharton
enjoyed the kidneys that they had for breakfast yesterday so much.
KATE.
Very good, ma’am. If you please, ma’am, the gardener hasn’t sent in a
very big basket of pease. Cook says it won’t look much for three.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, well, it doesn’t matter as long as there are enough for the
gentlemen. I’ll just pretend to take some.
KATE.
Very good, ma’am.
_As she is going_, COLONEL WHARTON _enters from the garden with a
basket of cherries. He is a thin old man, much older than his wife,
with white hair; but though very frail he still carries himself
erectly. His face is bronzed by long exposure to tropical suns, but
even so it is the face of a sick man. He wears a light tweed suit
which hangs about him loosely, as though he had shrunk since it was
made for him. He has a round tweed hat of the same material._
COLONEL WHARTON.
Has the paper come yet, Kate?
KATE.
Yes, sir. I’ll bring it.
[_Exit_ KATE
COLONEL WHARTON.
I’ve brought you in some cherries, Evelyn. They’re the only ripe ones I
could find.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, that is nice. I hope you’re not tired.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Great Scott, I’m not such a crock that it can tire me to pick a few
cherries. If I’d been able to find a ladder I’d have got you double the
number.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, my dear, you’d better let the gardener get them. I don’t approve of
your skipping up and down ladders.
COLONEL WHARTON.
The gardener’s just as old as I am and not nearly so active. Hasn’t John
come in yet? He said he was only going to the post.
MRS. WHARTON.
Perhaps he went in to see Sylvia on the way back.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I shouldn’t have thought she wanted to be bothered with him in the
morning.
MRS. WHARTON.
George!
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes, dear.
MRS. WHARTON.
It seems so extraordinary to hear you say: “Hasn’t John come in yet? He
said he was only going to the post.” It makes me rather want to cry.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It’s been a long time, Evelyn. It’s been a bad time for both of us, my
dear. But worse for you.
MRS. WHARTON.
I tried not to be troublesome, George.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Dear child, aren’t I there to share your troubles with you?
MRS. WHARTON.
It seems so natural that he should come in any minute, it seems as
though he’d never been away--and yet somehow I can’t quite believe it.
It seems incredible that he should really be back.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_Patting her hand._] My dear Evelyn!
[KATE _brings in the paper and gives it to the_ COLONEL. _She goes
out._
COLONEL WHARTON.
Thank you. [_While he puts on his spectacles._] It’s a blessing to be
able to read the births, deaths, and marriages like a gentleman instead
of turning before anything else to the casualties.
MRS. WHARTON.
I hope before long that we shall be composing a little announcement for
that column.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Have they settled a day yet, those young people?
MRS. WHARTON.
I don’t know. John hasn’t said anything, and I didn’t see Sylvia
yesterday except for a moment after church.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn dear, the gardener tells me he hasn’t got much in the way of
pease ready for to-night, so I’ve told him to send in a few carrots for
me; I think they’re probably better for my digestion.
MRS. WHARTON.
Nonsense, George. You know how much you like pease, and I’m not very
fond of them. I was hoping there’d only be enough for two so that I
shouldn’t have to eat any.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn, where do you expect to go when you die if you tell such stories?
MRS. WHARTON.
Now, George, don’t be obstinate. You might give in to me sometimes.
They’re the first pease out of the garden and I should like you to eat
them.
COLONEL WHARTON.
No, my dear, I’d like to see you eat them. I’m an invalid, and I must
have my own way.
MRS. WHARTON.
You tyrant! You haven’t seen Dr. Macfarlane this morning? I’m so
anxious.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You old fusser! No sooner have you stopped worrying over your boy than
you start worrying over me.
MRS. WHARTON.
Even though you won’t let me call my soul my own, I don’t want to lose
you just yet.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Don’t be alarmed. I shall live to plague you for another twenty years.
[KATE _comes in_.
KATE.
If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Poole has called.
MRS. WHARTON.
Why haven’t you shown her in?
KATE.
She wouldn’t come in, ma’am. She said she was passing and she just
stopped to enquire how you were.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Tell her to come in, Kate. What’s she making all this fuss about.
KATE.
Very well, sir.
[_Exit._
MRS. WHARTON.
I expect she wants to hear all about John.
COLONEL WHARTON.
If she’ll wait a minute she’ll have the chance of seeing the young
fellow himself.
[KATE _comes in, followed by_ MRS. POOLE. _The visitor is a thin,
rather dour person of middle age, brisk in her movements, competent
and firm. She is a woman who knows her own mind and has no
hesitation in speaking it. She is not unsympathetic. She wears a
serviceable black coat and skirt and a black straw hat._
KATE.
Mrs. Poole.
[_Exit._
COLONEL WHARTON.
What do you mean by trying to get away without showing yourself? Is this
how you do your district visiting?
MRS. POOLE.
[_Shaking hands with_ MRS. WHARTON _and with the_ COLONEL.] I wanted to
come in, but I thought you mightn’t wish to see me to-day, so I put it
like that to make it easier for you to send me about my business.
MRS. WHARTON.
We always wish to see you, my dear.
MRS. POOLE.
If I had a son that I hadn’t seen for four years and he’d been
dangerously wounded, I think I’d want to keep him to myself for the
first few days after he got home.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Then you’re not as unselfish a woman as Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
Or perhaps not nearly so vain.
MRS. POOLE.
Did you go down to the station to meet him on Saturday?
MRS. WHARTON.
The Colonel went. He wouldn’t let me go because he said I’d make a fool
of myself on the platform.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I took Sylvia. I thought that was enough. I knew I could trust her to
control herself.
MRS. POOLE.
And when are they going to be married.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, I hope very soon. It’s been a long and anxious time for her.
MRS. POOLE.
Can you bear to give him up when he’s only just come back to you?
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, but it’s not giving him up when he’s marrying Sylvia. She’s been
like a daughter to us. D’you know, they’ve been engaged for seven
years.
MRS. POOLE.
I hope they’ll be very happy. Sylvia certainly deserves to be.
COLONEL WHARTON.
She’s done cheerfully the most difficult thing anyone can do. All
through the war when she was pining to be off and do her bit she stayed
at home with a bed-ridden mother.
MRS. WHARTON.
Poor Mrs. Bullough.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes, but poor Sylvia too. It’s easy enough to do your duty when duty is
dangerous and exciting, but when you can do nothing--no one knows better
than I what it is to sit still and look on when others are doing the
things that are worth while. This war came ten years too late for me.
MRS. POOLE.
That’s what the Vicar has been saying ever since the war began. But
after all your son has taken your place, and I think you can be proud of
him.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_With intense satisfaction._] The rascal with his Military Cross and
his D.S.O.
MRS. POOLE.
I’m so glad that his first day here was a Sunday.
MRS. WHARTON.
You don’t know what I felt when we knelt down side by side in church. I
was very grateful.
MRS. POOLE.
I know. I could see it in your face and the Colonel’s.
COLONEL WHARTON.
God has vouchsafed us a great mercy.
MRS. POOLE.
The Vicar was dreadfully disappointed that he didn’t stay for Holy
Communion. You know that he looks upon that as the essential part of the
service.
MRS. WHARTON.
I think we were a little disappointed, too. We were so surprised when
John walked out.
MRS. POOLE.
Did he say why he had?
MRS. WHARTON.
No. I talked it over with the Colonel. We didn’t quite know what to do.
I don’t know whether to mention it or not.
MRS. POOLE.
I do hope he’ll stay next Sunday.
MRS. WHARTON.
He was always a very regular communicant.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don’t see why you shouldn’t say something to him about it, Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
I will if you like.
[_There is the sound of a laugh in the garden._
Why, here he is. And Sylvia.
[SYLVIA BULLOUGH _and_ JOHN WHARTON _come in. She is no longer
quite young. She has a pleasant, friendly look rather than beauty,
and she suggests the homely virtues of a girl very well brought up
in a nice English family; she gives the impression of a practical,
competent, and sensible woman. She will make a good wife and an
excellent mother. She is very simply dressed in light summery
things, and she wears a straw hat. She is carrying a string bag, in
which are a number of household purchases._ JOHN WHARTON _is in
mufti. He is a man of thirty._
SYLVIA.
Good morning everybody!
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, how nice of you to come in.
JOHN.
She didn’t want to, but I made her.
[SYLVIA _kisses_ MRS. WHARTON _and shakes hands with_ MRS. POOLE,
_then she kisses the_ COLONEL.
SYLVIA.
[_Gaily._] That’s a deliberate lie, John.
MRS. WHARTON.
This is my son, Mrs. Poole.
JOHN.
[_Shaking hands with her._] I daresay you suspected it.
MRS. POOLE.
I had a good look at you in church, you know.
JOHN.
Is that how vicars’ wives behave themselves?
MRS. POOLE.
They allow themselves a little licence when young people come home on
leave.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Did you meet in the village?
JOHN.
Not exactly. I saw Sylvia darting into Mrs. Gann’s shop, evidently to
avoid me....
SYLVIA.
[_Interrupting._] I don’t know how you imagined I could see you out of
the back of my head.
JOHN.
So I ran like a hare, and caught her in the very act of buying two
pounds of vermicelli.
SYLVIA.
To say nothing of a tin of sardines and a packet of mustard.
JOHN.
Now take off your hat, Sylvia. You mustn’t hide the best feature you’ve
got.
SYLVIA.
[_Taking it off._] I hope you don’t think I shall go on doing exactly
what you tell me a minute after the war’s over.
JOHN.
I haven’t noticed any startling alacrity to do what I tell you as it
is.
SYLVIA.
You ungrateful fellow! When have I hesitated to carry out your slightest
wish?
MRS. WHARTON.
He’s only been back forty-eight hours, poor dear.
JOHN.
Didn’t I go down to you on my bended knees in the middle of the road and
ask you to come for a walk with me?
SYLVIA.
Oh, well, I wanted to see your father. I was anxious to hear what the
specialist had said.
JOHN.
[_Surprised._] Have you been seeing a specialist, father? Aren’t you
well?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Perfectly. It was only to satisfy your poor mother.
JOHN.
But why didn’t you tell me? Is anything the matter with him, mother?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, your father wouldn’t let me tell you anything about it when you
came. He didn’t want you to be worried. And I thought myself it might
just as well keep till to-day.
COLONEL WHARTON.
The fact is I haven’t been quite up to the mark lately, and Dr.
Macfarlane thought I’d better see a specialist. So I went into
Canterbury on Saturday and saw Dr. Keller.
MRS. POOLE.
Yes, I heard you’d been to see him. They say he’s very clever.
JOHN.
What did he say?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, you know what these doctor fellows are. He wouldn’t say much to
me. He said he’d write to Macfarlane.
JOHN.
Well?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I suppose Macfarlane got the letter this morning. He’ll probably be
round presently.
MRS. POOLE.
I saw him going along the Bleane Road in his dog-cart about an hour ago.
You might ask him who it was he was going to see.
JOHN.
Are you feeling ill, father?
COLONEL WHARTON.
No. I shouldn’t have dreamed of going to a specialist, only your mother
was worrying.
SYLVIA.
Don’t put all the blame on her. I was, too.
JOHN.
[_Going over to him and putting his arm in his._] Poor old father, you
mustn’t be ill.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, I’m not going to die just yet, you know.
JOHN.
I should jolly well think not. Wait till you’re a hundred and two, and
then we’ll begin talking about it.
[_The Vicar of Stour, the_ REV. NORMAN POOLE, _appears at the
window. He is a tall, thin man, bald, dressed in a short black
coat, with a black straw hat. He is energetic, breezy, and
cheerful. He likes to show that, although a clergyman, he is a man;
and he affects a rather professional joviality._ MR. _and_ MRS.
POOLE _have that physical resemblance which you sometimes see in
married people. You wonder if they married because they were so
much alike, or if it is marriage which has created the similarity._
VICAR.
Hulloa, hulloa, hulloa! May I come in?
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Smiling._] Of course. How do you do?
COLONEL WHARTON.
My dear Vicar!
VICAR.
[_Entering._] I suppose I ought to have gone round to the front door,
and rung the bell like a gentleman. My dear Dorothy, when will you teach
me how to behave?
MRS. POOLE.
I’ve long given up the attempt.
VICAR.
I thought I’d look in and say how-do-you-do to the wounded hero.
MRS. WHARTON.
My son. The Vicar.
VICAR.
Welcome! I passed you in the village just now. I had half a mind to come
up and wring your hand, but I thought you’d say, who the deuce is this
clerical gent?
JOHN.
How do you do?
VICAR.
An authentic hero. And he speaks just like you and me. The world’s a
strange place, my masters. Well, what d’you think of Blighty?
JOHN.
I’m very glad to be home again. I thought I never should get back.
VICAR.
You’ve not been home since the beginning of the war, have you?
JOHN.
No, you see I was in India when it broke out. What with Gallipoli and
one thing and another, I was done out of my leave every time.
VICAR.
Well, it’s a long lane that has no turning. But I understand that you’ve
picked up some bits and pieces here and there. The Military Cross and
the D.S.O., isn’t it?
MRS. POOLE.
You must be a very proud man.
VICAR.
How did you win them?
JOHN.
Oh, I don’t know. Playing about generally.
MRS. WHARTON.
I don’t think you’ll get very much more than that out of John.
VICAR.
[_To_ JOHN.] You lucky beggar! You’ve had your chance and you were able
to take it. That’s where I should have been, where my heart was, with
the brave lads at the front. And my confounded chest has kept me chained
to this little tin-pot parish.
MRS. POOLE.
My husband suffers from his lungs.
JOHN.
I’m sorry to hear that.
VICAR.
Yes, the Great White Peril. They say its ravages are terrible. That’s
why I came here, you know; I was in charge of the parish of St. Jude’s,
Stoke Newington when I crocked up. I tried to get them to let me go
when the war broke out, but they wouldn’t hear of it.
MRS. WHARTON.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
VICAR.
I know, I know. It’s this confounded energy of mine. I’m a crock, and
I’ve just had to make the best of it. I’m on the shelf. The future is in
the hands of you brave lads who’ve been through the fire. I suppose you
went to sleep during my sermon yesterday.
JOHN.
Not at all. I listened to it very attentively.
VICAR.
I shouldn’t blame you if you had. That’s about all I’ve been able to do
during the war, to preach. And, upon my word, I sometimes wonder what
good I’ve done.
MRS. WHARTON.
You’ve been a great help to us all.
VICAR.
For my part I don’t deplore the war. Our Lord said: “Think not that I
come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword.” The
Christian Church has lived by her sword. Every advance which this world
of ours has known in liberty, in justice, in enlightenment, has been won
for it by the sword of Jesus Christ.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I wish all parsons were as broad-minded. I know what war is. I was in
Egypt and in South Africa. I’ve been through half a dozen wars in India.
I have no use for slop and sentimentality. My own belief is that war is
necessary to a nation. It brings out all a man’s best qualities.
VICAR.
There I heartily agree with you. It is the great school of character.
Amid the clash of arms the great Christian virtues shine forth with an
immortal lustre. Courage, self-sacrifice, charity, self-reliance. No one
knew before the war what a pinnacle of heroism was within the power of
our brave lads at the front.
MRS. POOLE.
What do you think about it, Major Wharton?
JOHN.
[_Smiling._] I? I think it’s a lovely day. I have three weeks leave, and
the war is a long way off.
VICAR.
[_With a chuckle._] A very good answer. I’ve been saying the obvious, I
know that just as well as you do, but, you know, sometimes the obvious
has to be said, and when it has, I think a man should have the courage
to say it. Now, my dear, let’s be off.
MRS. POOLE.
I don’t know what Mrs. Wharton will think of us for inflicting ourselves
on her like this.
VICAR.
We’re all friends here, I hope and trust. If we weren’t welcome, Mrs.
Wharton only had to say so. To my mind the afternoon call is a
convention more honoured in the breach than the observance.
MRS. WHARTON.
It’s been very good of you to come.
[_There is a general shaking of hands._
VICAR.
[_To_ JOHN.] Well, good-bye, young fellow. I’ve tried to show you that
I’m by way of being rather broad-minded as parsons go. It wouldn’t shock
me in the least to hear you say “damn” or “blast.” I’m often inclined to
use a bit of strong language myself. I asked you just now if you’d gone
to sleep during my sermon. I wouldn’t have turned a hair if you had.
JOHN.
It’s very kind of you to say so. I may avail myself of your suggestion
on some future occasion.
VICAR.
On a future occasion, perhaps--shall we say next Sunday?--I hope you
won’t leave the House of God without partaking in the greatest of all
the Sacraments of our Church. Don’t forget that the Almighty has in His
mercy brought you in safety through great and terrible peril. That’s all
I wanted to say to you. Good-bye, God bless you.
JOHN.
Good-bye.
VICAR.
[_Shaking hands with_ MRS. WHARTON] Good-bye. These parsons, what a
nuisance they make of themselves, don’t they?
MRS. WHARTON.
I wanted to ask you if you’d seen poor Mrs. Littlewood since her return.
VICAR.
No, she didn’t come to church yesterday. And of course, Sunday’s my busy
day--I’m the only man in the parish who works seven days a week--so I
haven’t had a chance to see her yet, poor soul.
SYLVIA.
She came down by the 6.35 on Saturday. She was in the same train as
John, but I wasn’t bothering much about anyone else just then, and I
didn’t speak to her.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I wish we could do something for her.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Explaining to_ JOHN.] She was telegraphed for last week to go to Ned
at Boulogne. He died on Tuesday.
JOHN.
[_With astonishment._] Ned! But he was only a kid.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, he’d grown up since you were home. He was nearly nineteen.
MRS. POOLE.
Both her sons are gone now. She’s quite alone.
MRS. WHARTON.
We must all be very kind to her. It will be terrible for her in that big
house all by herself. I wish you’d spoken to her on Saturday, George.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I felt rather shy about it. After all, we’ve had rather an anxious time
over that young scamp there. If anything had happened to him--well, I
should have had Evelyn, but she, poor soul, has nobody.
SYLVIA.
I ought to have gone to see her yesterday.
MRS. WHARTON.
She must be absolutely prostrated with grief.
VICAR.
I wonder if she’d like to come and stay at the Vicarage. I can’t bear to
think of her all alone.
MRS. POOLE.
That’s a splendid idea, Norman, and just like you. I’ll ask her at once.
I’ll be glad to do what I can for her.
SYLVIA.
Of course one ought to try and find something to occupy her mind.
VICAR.
Happily she has always been a deeply religious woman. When all’s said
and done, in grief like that there’s only one unfailing refuge.
[KATE _enters, followed by_ MRS. LITTLEWOOD. _She is a little
elderly woman. She is not dressed in mourning, but in the clothes
she may be expected to have been wearing before her bereavement._
KATE.
Mrs. Littlewood.
[_Exit_ KATE.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Rising and going to meet her._] My dear friend, how very glad I am to
see you.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
How do you do? [_She smiles brightly at the assembled company._] Oh,
John, have you come back? [_To_ MRS. WHARTON.] I came to ask if you and
the Colonel would come and play bridge this afternoon.
MRS. WHARTON.
Bridge!
[_They all look at her with surprise, but no one says anything._]
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
I was going to ask Dr. Macfarlane to make a fourth, but perhaps John
will come.
MRS. WHARTON..
[_With embarrassment._] It’s very kind of you, but the Colonel hasn’t
been very well lately. I don’t think he feels like going out, and I
shouldn’t like to leave him.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
Oh, I’m sorry.
MRS. WHARTON..
Won’t you sit down?
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
Thank you very much. I won’t stay. I’ll go round to the Wilkinsons and
see if they’ll play.
VICAR.
I hope you weren’t very tired by your journey.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
I wasn’t tired at all.
MRS. POOLE.
We thought you were, because we didn’t see you in church.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
No, I didn’t come. I thought it would bore me.
[_There is a moment’s silence._
MRS. WHARTON.
Did you--did you come straight through from France?
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
No. I stayed a couple of nights in London.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_With pity in her voice._] All alone?
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
No. I picked up a very nice woman in the hotel, and we went out
together. We went to the Gaiety one night and the next we went to the
Empire. Do you know that I’d never seen George Robey before?
MRS. POOLE.
Who is George Robey?
VICAR.
I believe he’s a comedian.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[_Very pleasantly._] How long are you here for, John?
JOHN.
I have three weeks’ leave.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
We must all make much of you. I’ll give a tennis party for you, shall I?
SYLVIA.
Oh, Mrs. Littlewood, I’m sure you don’t want to give parties just now.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
I’d love to. It’s so seldom one gets an excuse for one in a place like
this.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Taking her hand._] My dear, I want you to know how deeply we all
sympathise with you in your great loss.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[_Patting_ MRS. WHARTON’S _hand, and then releasing her own_.] That’s
very kind of you. [_To_ SYLVIA _and_ JOHN.] Would Wednesday suit you
young people? I’ll have both courts marked out.
SYLVIA.
[_Desperately._] I couldn’t come, Mrs. Littlewood, I couldn’t come.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
Why on earth not?
SYLVIA.
[_Controlling herself to civility._] I’m engaged that day.
COLONEL WHARTON.
John has so short a time at home. I think he and Sylvia have a feeling
that they don’t want to go to parties.
VICAR.
[_Deliberately._] I hope you got over to France in time to find your son
alive.
[MRS. LITTLEWOOD _gives him a rapid glance, stops a moment as
though to collect herself, then answers almost indifferently_.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
No, he was dead, poor child. [_To_ MRS. WHARTON.] Good-bye, my dear, I’m
sorry you can’t come and play bridge this afternoon. I suppose I shall
have to send you a wedding-present, John.
JOHN.
I suppose you will.
MRS. LITTLEWOOD.
[_With a smile at the rest of the company._] Good-bye.
[_She goes out. They are left in amazement._
MRS. POOLE.
Is she absolutely heartless?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I always thought she was devoted to her sons.
SYLVIA.
And Ned was her favourite.
MRS. POOLE.
She wasn’t wearing mourning.
SYLVIA.
Isn’t she going to, do you suppose?
MRS. WHARTON.
I can’t understand it. She adored those boys.
MRS. POOLE.
I didn’t ask her to come and stay at the Vicarage, Norman.
VICAR.
I don’t think we’d better till the situation’s a little clearer. She
gives one the impression of not caring two straws for Ned’s death. She
must be as hard as nails.
MRS. WHARTON.
No, she isn’t that. I’ve known her for thirty-five years. D’you think
she’s mad?
COLONEL WHARTON.
We’d better say a word to Macfarlane when he comes, Evelyn.
VICAR.
I was never so taken aback in my life as when she said she didn’t come
to church because she thought she’d be bored.
MRS. POOLE.
Norman, I must go. I’ve got a lot of things to do at home.
VICAR.
Come along then. We’ll just walk out through the garden.
[_There are farewells, rather distracted by the queer incident that
has just occurred, and the_ VICAR _and_ MRS. POOLE _go out. The_
COLONEL _accompanies them to the door_.
SYLVIA.
You’re very silent, John.
JOHN.
I was thinking about Mrs. Littlewood. She doesn’t give me the impression
of being either callous or mad.
SYLVIA.
What does she mean, then?
JOHN.
[_Reflectively._] I don’t know. [_With a shrug of the shoulders,
throwing off his mood._] And at the moment I don’t very much care. Come
and sit down and be a comfort to a wounded hero.
SYLVIA.
Idiot!
MRS. WHARTON.
Will you stay to luncheon, Sylvia dear?
SYLVIA.
No, I think I ought to get back to mother.
JOHN.
Before you go let’s tell them what we’ve been talking about.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I don’t think it’s very hard to guess.
JOHN.
I want Sylvia to marry me as soon as ever it’s possible.
MRS. WHARTON.
Of course.
JOHN.
If we look nippy we can get a special licence and be married on
Thursday. We don’t want to go far for our honeymoon, because I have such
a short time. And my suggestion is London.
SYLVIA.
What do you think, Mrs. Wharton?
MRS. WHARTON.
Well, my dear, I think that whatever you and John decide will be quite
right.
SYLVIA.
He’s only just come back to you. I can’t bear to take him away
immediately. Wouldn’t you prefer us to wait a little longer?
MRS. WHARTON.
My dear, we’ve always decided that you should be married the moment he
came back. We’ve been quite prepared to lose him. And perhaps after a
few days, if the Colonel’s well enough, you wouldn’t mind if we came up
to London, too. We’d try not to be in your way.
SYLVIA.
[_Going down on her knees beside_ MRS. WHARTON _and kissing her_.] Oh,
my dear, you’re so kind to me. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for
all your kindness.
MRS. WHARTON.
It’s been a weary, anxious time for all of us. I know how unhappy you’ve
been sometimes. I want you to have him now. He’s a good boy, and I think
he’ll make you happy.
SYLVIA.
[_Getting up and giving_ JOHN _her hand_.] I’m sure he will. I’ll try to
make you a good wife, John.
JOHN.
I expect you’ll be quite good enough for the likes of me. Then it’s to
be Thursday next.
SYLVIA.
[_With a smile._] It is.
[_He draws her to him and kisses her. She very nearly breaks down._
SYLVIA.
I’ve wanted you for so long, John, so dreadfully long.
JOHN.
For goodness’ sake don’t cry.
SYLVIA.
[_Breaking away from him, with a chuckle._] You brute, John! I hate
you.
MRS. WHARTON.
Did you like the Vicar, John?
JOHN.
He seemed all right.
COLONEL WHARTON.
He’s a first-rate fellow. He had a very good living in London at one
time, and he resigned and took one in the East End instead.
JOHN.
Really?
COLONEL WHARTON.
He said he wasn’t ordained to drink China tea with elderly women of
means. [_With a chuckle._] He says very good things sometimes.
MRS. WHARTON.
They were perfectly wonderful in the East End. They wanted to live in
exactly the same way as their parishioners, so they did without a
servant, and did all their housework, even their washing, themselves.
JOHN.
It sounds hateful, but of course it really was heroic.
MRS. WHARTON.
D’you remember what he said to you about Holy Communion? Your father and
I were a little disappointed that you didn’t stay for it yesterday.
JOHN.
I’m sorry for that, mother dear.
MRS. WHARTON.
It would have been such a great pleasure to both of us if we could all
three have received it together.
JOHN.
Dear mother.... If you’re really going home to luncheon, Sylvia, I’ll
walk back with you.
MRS. WHARTON.
The Vicar has a Communion service on Wednesday morning. Would you come
then? It’ll be the last opportunity before your marriage.
JOHN.
Oh, my dear, you’re not going to ask me to get up in the middle of the
night? After all, one of the pleasures of coming home is to lie in bed
in the morning. I don’t know how I ever tear myself out of those
lavender-scented sheets.
MRS. WHARTON.
Dear John, won’t you come to please us?
JOHN.
[_Still trying to pass it off lightly._] Oh, my dear mother, d’you think
it’s really necessary?
MRS. WHARTON.
I should like it so much, my dear. You know, it means a great deal to
us.
JOHN.
[_More gravely._] Don’t you think one should go to a ceremony like that
in a certain frame of mind?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_Good-humouredly._] Come, my boy, you’re not going to refuse the first
request your mother has made you since you came back?
JOHN.
I’m awfully sorry, mother. I beg you not to insist.
MRS. WHARTON.
I don’t quite know what you mean. It’s not like you to be obstinate....
Won’t you come, John?
JOHN.
No, mother.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Why not?
JOHN.
I’ve been away a long time. There are some things one can’t help, you
know. I’ve been through very terrible experiences.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Aghast._] Do you mean to say you’ve lost your--faith?
JOHN.
I’m awfully sorry to give you pain, dear.
SYLVIA.
[_Her eyes fixed on him._] You’ve not answered your mother’s question,
John.
JOHN.
If you want a direct answer, I’m afraid it must be--yes.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Overcome._] Oh, John!
SYLVIA.
But you came to church yesterday.
JOHN.
That was just a formal ceremony. I assisted passively, as a Jew might
assist at the wedding of one of his Christian friends.
SYLVIA.
You stood when we stood, and knelt down, and seemed to pray.
JOHN.
I would do that if I were in a Roman Catholic church. That seemed to me
only good manners. [_With a smile._] Do you think it was very deceitful?
SYLVIA.
I don’t quite see why you should strain at a gnat.
JOHN.
I don’t. It’s the camel I can’t swallow. I knew it would distress you if
I refused to come to church. I didn’t want to seem a prig. But the other
seems to me different. When I’m asked to take an active part in a
ceremony that means nothing to me it’s quite another matter. I’d rather
not tell a deliberate lie. And surely from your point of view it would
be blasphemous.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Occupied with her own thoughts._] How dreadful!
JOHN.
[_Going up to her and putting his arm round her._] Don’t be unhappy,
mother. I can’t help feeling as I do. After all, these are matters that
only concern oneself.
SYLVIA.
[_Reflecting._] Are they?
JOHN.
Surely. [_To his mother._] I would rather not have told you. I knew how
much you’d take it to heart. But I was obliged to. And perhaps it’s
better as it is. I hated the thought of deceiving you and father. Now
let’s put it out of our minds.
COLONEL WHARTON.
John, have you forgotten, that in three weeks you’ll be going back to
the Front? Sooner or later you’ll find yourself once more in the
fighting line. Have you asked yourself what it will be like to face
death without the help of Almighty God?
JOHN.
It’s always difficult to face death.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You wouldn’t be the first who found it easy to stand alone when all was
going well and found it a very different thing in danger or illness.
JOHN.
[_With a smile._] When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be.
SYLVIA.
Archie, Mrs. Littlewood’s elder boy, was badly wounded on the Somme. His
battalion had to retreat and somehow or other he wasn’t picked up. He
lay in the corner of a wood for three days and kept himself alive on a
beet that he pulled out of the field. Heaven knows, I don’t want
anything like that to happen to you, but are you sure your courage
wouldn’t fail you then? Are you sure you wouldn’t call on God
instinctively to help you?
JOHN.
And if I did, what of it? That wouldn’t be me, that mangled, bleeding,
starved, delirious thing. It’s me now that speaks, now that I’m well and
conscious and strong. It’s the real me now. I disclaim and disown
anything I may feel or say when I’m tortured with pain and sickness. It
would give my real self just as little as a prisoner on the rack gives
the truth.
SYLVIA.
[_Looking at him fixedly._] You’re afraid of something like that
happening, aren’t you?
JOHN.
Yes, I shouldn’t like my body to play me a dirty trick when I hadn’t the
presence of mind to look after it.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Have you ever been in real danger since you--since you began to think
like this?
JOHN.
Yes. Once I was in a trench the Germans had enfiladed. They’d got the
line exactly. The shells fell one after another, first at the end of the
trench, and then they came slowly down. One could calculate almost
mathematically when the shell must come that would blow one to
smithereens.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_With a little gasp of terror._] Oh, John, don’t!
JOHN.
[_Smiling._] Well, something went wrong, or else I certainly shouldn’t
be here now.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Do you mean to say you weren’t frightened?
JOHN.
Frightened isn’t the word for it. Talk of getting the wind up: it was a
perfect hurricane. I felt as though I were shrinking up so that my
clothes suddenly hung about me like sacks. And against my will a prayer
came to my lips. From long habit, I suppose, they tried to form
themselves into an appeal to God to turn the shell away. I had to fight
with myself. I had to keep saying to myself: “Don’t be a fool. Don’t be
a damned fool.”
MRS. WHARTON.
And you resisted? It was the voice of God speaking to you. The prayer
was said in your heart, and He in His mercy heard it. Doesn’t that prove
to you that you’re wrong? At that moment you believed, even though you
struggled not to. Your whole soul cried out its belief in God.
JOHN.
No, not my soul: my fear of death.
COLONEL WHARTON.
I’ve been in battle, too. In South Africa and in the Soudan we were in
some pretty tight places now and then. When I went into action I
commended my soul to God, and now that I’m an old man I can say that I
never knew fear.
JOHN.
I don’t think I’m particularly brave. Before an attack I’ve often had to
light a cigarette to hide the trembling of my lips.
COLONEL WHARTON.
The Christian doesn’t fear death. His whole life is but a preparation
for that awful moment. To him it is the shining gateway to life
everlasting.
JOHN.
I should be sorry to think that life was nothing but a preparation for
death. To my mind death is very unimportant. I think a man does best to
put it out of his thoughts. He should live as though life were endless.
Life is the thing that matters.
SYLVIA.
Doesn’t that suggest a very base materialism?
JOHN.
No, because you can’t make the most of life unless you’re willing to
risk it, and it’s the risk that makes the difference. It’s the most
precious thing a man has, but it’s valueless unless he’s prepared to
stake it.
SYLVIA.
What do you think it can be worth while to risk life for?
JOHN.
Almost anything. Honour or love. A song, a thought. [_After a moment’s
reflection, with a smile._] A five-barred gate.
SYLVIA.
Isn’t that rather illogical?
JOHN.
Perhaps. I don’t put it very well. I think what I mean is that life in
itself has no value. It’s what you put in it that gives it worth.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Why do you think you’ve come safely through the perils and dangers of
the war? John, do you know that every day your mother and Sylvia and I
prayed that God might see fit to spare you?
JOHN.
[_With sudden energy._] Were you the only ones? Why didn’t He see fit to
spare the others?
SYLVIA.
Who are we to question the inscrutable designs of the Omnipotent?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_Answering his son._] I don’t know what you mean by that. In war
somebody’s got to be killed. When a commander gives battle he knows
pretty accurately what his losses are going to be before he starts.
[JOHN _gives a slight shrug of the shoulders. He recovers his
equanimity._
JOHN.
If you don’t mind my saying so, I think we’d much better not start
arguing. Arguments never bring one much forrader, do they?
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Gently._] But we want to understand, John. You were always such a
pious boy.
JOHN.
[_Smiling._] Oh, mother, that’s rather a terrible thing to say to
anybody.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_With an answering smile._] Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. On the
contrary, you were rather troublesome. Sometimes you were very
headstrong and obstinate.
JOHN.
That’s better.
MRS. WHARTON.
We tried to bring you up to fear God. It used to make me happy sometimes
to see how simple and touching your faith was. You used to pray to God
for all sorts of absurd things, to make a lot of runs in a cricket match
or to pass an exam, that you hadn’t worked for.
JOHN.
Yes, I remember.
MRS. WHARTON.
If you’ve lost your faith, we know it can’t be as so many lose it, on
purpose, because they’ve given themselves over to sensuality, and dare
not believe in a God whom every action of their lives insults. If you’ll
only tell us everything, perhaps we can help you.
JOHN.
My dear, you’d much better let the matter rest. I should only have to
say things that would hurt you all.
MRS. WHARTON.
We’re willing to take the risk of that. We know you wouldn’t hurt us
intentionally. Perhaps they’re only difficulties that we might be able
to explain. And if we’re not clever enough perhaps the Vicar can.
[JOHN _shakes his head without speaking._
SYLVIA.
Don’t you want to believe in God, John?
JOHN.
No.
[_There is a moment’s pause._ KATE _comes in to announce_ DR.
MACFARLANE. _This is a rather eccentric old man, with long white
hair, small, with rosy cheeks. He is an old-fashioned country
doctor, and wears rather shabby black clothes and carries a rusty
silk hat in his hand. There is in him something of the gentleman
farmer and something of the apothecary of a former day._
KATE.
Dr. Macfarlane.
[_Exit._
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh! I’d forgotten for the moment. [_With a smile of welcome._] We’ve
been expecting you.
DR. MACFARLANE.
[_Shaking hands with the two ladies._] I’ve been busy this morning.
[_To_ JOHN.] And how are you, John?
JOHN.
Sitting up and taking nourishment, thank you.
DR. MACFARLANE.
You look none the worse for all your adventures. A little older,
perhaps.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, of course, you’ve not seen John before.
DR. MACFARLANE.
No. My wife saw him yesterday in church, but unfortunately I couldn’t
go. I had to see a patient.
JOHN.
The same patient?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I beg your pardon.
JOHN.
You’ve had to see a patient at about eleven every Sunday morning for the
last twenty-five years. I was wondering if it was the same one.
DR. MACFARLANE.
If it is, I certainly deserve praise for keeping the undertakers at bay
so long. [_Going up to the_ COLONEL] And how are you feeling to-day,
Colonel?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, I’m feeling pretty well, thank you. Have you had a letter from that
fellow in Canterbury?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Yes.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, what does he say?
DR. MACFARLANE.
You military gentlemen, you want to go so fast.
MRS. WHARTON.
Have you brought the letter with you?
DR. MACFARLANE.
It’s very technical. Saving your presence, I don’t think any of you
would make head or tail of it. Now, Mrs. Wharton, my dear, shall you and
I go for a little stroll in your beautiful garden, and we’ll have a talk
about this old tyrant.
COLONEL WHARTON.
What’s the object of that? Evelyn will only tell me everything you’ve
said the moment you’re gone. She’s never been able to keep anything from
me in her life.
DR. MACFARLANE.
You must have patience with me. I’m an old man, and I like to do things
in my own way.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Well, _I’m_ no chicken, and I’m not going to stand any of your nonsense.
Tell us straight out what the doctor says and be damned to you. I beg
your pardon, my dear, but I have to talk to the old fool in the only way
he understands.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Very rough, isn’t he?
JOHN.
The gentlest pirate who ever cut a throat.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You know, you’re a transparent old fraud, Doctor. The moment you came in
I saw you had some bad news for me. You were expecting to find Evelyn
alone.
DR. MACFARLANE.
This is the hour at which all self-respecting retired colonels are
reading the _Times_ in their study.
MRS. WHARTON.
What does Dr. Keller say?
COLONEL WHARTON.
I suppose he wants an operation. It’s a nuisance but, with God’s help, I
can go through with it.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Well, I suppose you’d have to know sooner or later. Let these young
people clear out and we’ll talk it all over quietly.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Nonsense. John is my son and Sylvia is almost my daughter. What concerns
me concerns them, I fancy. Why, you couldn’t make more fuss if I’d only
got a month to live.
DR. MACFARLANE.
[_Hesitating._] Do you want me to tell you the whole thing now--just
like this?
COLONEL WHARTON.
Yes. You don’t think I’m afraid to hear the worst. Whatever it is, I
hope I have the pluck to bear it like a Christian and a gentleman.
[_There is a pause._
DR. MACFARLANE.
You’re quite right. I have bad news for you. Dr. Keller confirms my
diagnosis. I was pretty sure of it, but I didn’t want to believe it. I
thought I might be mistaken.... I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed. You
must be extremely careful.
MRS. WHARTON.
George!
COLONEL WHARTON.
Come, come, my dear, don’t get in a state. And does he recommend an
operation?
DR. MACFARLANE.
No.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_Startled._] Do you mean to say that.... But I don’t feel so bad as all
that. Now and then I have attacks of pain, but then ... you don’t mean
to say you think I’m going to die? For God’s sake tell me the truth.
DR. MACFARLANE.
My dear old friend!
COLONEL WHARTON.
You mean I’ve got a fatal disease. Can--can nothing be done?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I don’t know about that. There’s always something that can be done.
COLONEL WHARTON.
But a cure, I mean. Can’t I be cured?
DR. MACFARLANE.
If you want the truth really, then I’m afraid I can hold out no hope of
that.
COLONEL WHARTON.
How long d’you give me? [_Trying to laugh._] I suppose you’re not going
to grudge me a year or two?
DR. MACFARLANE.
[_Pretending to take it lightly._] Oh, you can be quite sure we’ll keep
you alive as long as we can.
JOHN.
You’ve got a wonderful physique, father. My own impression is that
you’ll make fools of the doctors and live for another twenty years.
DR. MACFARLANE.
Medicine isn’t an exact science like surgery. It’s a doctor’s duty to
tell a patient the truth when he asks for it, but if I were a patient I
would always take it with a grain of salt.
[_The_ COLONEL _looks at him suspiciously_.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You’re keeping something from me. If it was only that, why did you want
to see Evelyn alone?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Well, some people are very nervous about themselves. I wasn’t quite sure
if you’d better know or not. I thought I’d talk it over with her.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Am I in immediate danger of death? For God’s sake, tell me. It would be
cruel to leave me in ignorance.
MRS. WHARTON.
Please answer quite frankly, doctor.
DR. MACFARLANE.
[_After a pause._] I think if you have any arrangements to make, it
would be wise if you made them soon.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Then it’s not a question of a year or two even? Is it months or weeks?
DR. MACFARLANE.
I don’t know. No one can tell.
COLONEL WHARTON.
You’re treating me like a child. [_With sudden rage._] Confound you,
sir, I order you to tell me.
DR. MACFARLANE.
It may be at any time.
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_With a sudden cry of terror._] Evelyn! Evelyn!
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, my dear! My dear husband!
[_She takes him in her arms as though to protect him._
DR. MACFARLANE.
Why did you force me to tell you?
COLONEL WHARTON.
[_In a terrified whisper._] Oh, Evelyn! Evelyn!
MRS. WHARTON.
[_To the others._] Please go.
JOHN.
[_To_ SYLVIA.] Come. They want to be alone. Dr. Macfarlane, will you
come into the garden for a few minutes?
DR. MACFARLANE.
Of course I will. Of course.
[_They go out._ COLONEL _and_ MRS. WHARTON _are left alone. For a
moment they are silent._
MRS. WHARTON.
Perhaps it isn’t true, my dear.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It’s true. I know it’s true now.
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, it’s so hard. I wish it were I instead. I’d be so glad to take your
place, darling.
COLONEL WHARTON.
We’ve been so happy together, Evelyn.
MRS. WHARTON.
We have very much to be grateful for.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Oh, Evelyn, what shall I do?
MRS. WHARTON.
Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for you. I’m so dreadfully sorry.... I think
you’re very brave. If I’d been told like that I--I should have broken
down.
COLONEL WHARTON.
It was so unexpected.
MRS. WHARTON.
[_Trying to comfort him._] I’m thankful that your faith has always been
so bright and clear. What a comfort that is now, darling, what an
immense consolation! [_She draws him more closely to her._]
You’re throwing aside these poor rags of mortality to put on a heavenly
raiment. It is what we’ve always kept in our minds, isn’t it? that this
brief life is only a place of passage to the mansions of our dear
Father. [_She feels the dismay in his heart and she strives to give him
courage._] You’ve never hesitated at the call of an earthly leader.
You’re a good soldier; it’s a Heavenly Leader that’s calling you now.
Christ is holding out His loving arms to you.
COLONEL WHARTON.
Evelyn--I don’t want to die.
THE END OF THE FIRST ACT.