The scene is a large, whitewashed, disordered room, whose outer
door opens on to a corridor and stairway. Doors on either side
lead to other rooms. On the walls are unframed reproductions of
fine pictures, secured with tintacks. An old wine-coloured
armchair of low and comfortable appearance, near the centre of
the room, is surrounded by a litter of manuscripts, books, ink,
pens and newspapers, as though some one had already been up to
his neck in labour, though by a grandfather's clock it is only
eleven. On a smallish table close by, are sheets of paper,
cigarette ends, and two claret bottles. There are many books on
shelves, and on the floor, an overflowing pile, whereon rests a
soft hat, and a black knobby stick. MALISE sits in his
armchair, garbed in trousers, dressing-gown, and slippers,
unshaved and uncollared, writing. He pauses, smiles, lights a
cigarette, and tries the rhythm of the last sentence, holding up
a sheet of quarto MS.
MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those
excellent frock-coated gentlemen--not a sign, not a grimace. Only
the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant
Tyranny."
While he speaks, a substantial woman, a little over middle-age,
in old dark clothes and a black straw hat, enters from the
corridor. She goes to a cupboard, brings out from it an apron
and a Bissell broom. Her movements are slow and imperturbable,
as if she had much time before her. Her face is broad and dark,
with Chinese eyebrows.
MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller!
MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
She comes and stands before him. MALISE writes.
MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.
MALISE looks up; seeing that she has roused his attention, she
stops. But as soon as he is about to write again, goes on.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out
to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on
the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought
to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man.
MALISE. Well?
MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im
lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at
pictures--it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv'
a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket,
and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I
says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e
says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers."
"Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says
tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this
time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one
eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts.
MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.
MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor
with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh!
you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is
grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here
I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives
there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want
to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the
ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful
resource!
MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman?
MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily
papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock
hats you can't abide.
MALISE. Isn't he a dun?
MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir.
He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put
a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a
jug o' water.
[MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]
MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS.
MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the
armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly
rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she
rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up
leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being
opened CLARE is revealed.
CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in?
MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'.
CLARE. Oh.
MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name?
CLARE. Would you say--a lady.
MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment
I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with
her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks
through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some
cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting
CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm
particular about not disturbin' things.
CLARE. I'm sure you are.
MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.
Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to
the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and
holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside
down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up
the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and
drops it into the fold of her skirt.
MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened--not like these 'ere
bawgwars.
CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later.
MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other
to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh
every mornin'--the Westminister.
She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to
CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes
a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No
longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.
MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes
things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut
'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round
the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves
restlessly across the room.
MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's
waitin'.
CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture
"Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with
a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still
hanging to his cheek.
MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to
her] Do the other room.
[Enigmatically she goes.]
MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything?
CLARE. I want advice-badly.
MALISE. What! Spreading your wings?
CLARE. Yes.
MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When?
CLARE. The morning after you gave it me...
MALISE. Well?
CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad
frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good.
He was awfully sweet, only--he couldn't.
MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong
to us. Yes.
CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children--and my old nurse.
I could never live at home now. They'd think I was----. Impossible
--utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner--And then--
he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin
all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran
to the station, and came up to an hotel.
MALISE. Bravo!
CLARE. I don't know--no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to
earn my living--no money; only a few things I can sell. All
yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone
ever get a chance?
MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your
husband would pension you off.
CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.
MALISE. Good!
CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do
so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even
do art work. I came to ask you about the stage.
MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't
think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training.
There's Chorus--I don't recommend it. How about your brother?
CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get
married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend
I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's--got a husband.
MALISE. I remember the gentleman.
CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I
must lie doggo somehow.
MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help
all ladies without money.
CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back.
MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at
all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but--
emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his
drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners,
return to--duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so
grow old and--die!
[The bell rings.]
MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of
tracing you?
[She shakes her head.]
[The bell rings again.]
MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?
CLARE. Yes. Why?
MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.
CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I--oh! no!
MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive.
CLARE. Spying!
MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them
ring--or--what? It may not be anything, of course.
CLARE. I'm not going to hide.
[The bell rings a third time.]
MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see
who it is; and then go, for the present.
MRS. MILER comes out with her hat on, passes enigmatically to
the door, and opens it. A man's voice says: "Mr. Malise? Would
you give him these cards?"
MRS. MILER. [Re-entering] The cards.
MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He
looks at CLARE.]
CLARE. [Her face scornful and unmoved] Let them come.
MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!
TWISDEN enters-a clean-shaved, shrewd-looking man, with a
fighting underlip, followed by SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND.
MRS. MILER goes. There are no greetings.
TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the
pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head]
I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be
so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?
At a nod from CLARE, MALISE passes into the inner room, and
shuts the door. A silence.
SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] What!
LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Twisden, will you----?
TWISDEN. [Uneasy] Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you--you
hardly gave us an alternative, did you? [He pauses for an answer,
and, not getting one, goes on] Your disappearance has given your
husband great anxiety. Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us
for this--attempt to get into communication.
CLARE. Why did you spy, HERE?
SIR CHARLES. No, no! Nobody's spied on you. What!
TWISDEN. I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been
justified. [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily]
Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are
misleading. Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well. [CLARE
raises her eyes. Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had
said: "I have no friends," he hurries on] What we want to say to you
is this: Don't let this split go on! Don't commit yourself to what
you'll bitterly regret. Just tell us what's the matter. I'm sure it
can be put straight.
CLARE. I have nothing against my husband--it was quite unreasonable
to leave him.
TWISDEN. Come, that's good.
CLARE. Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason.
TWISDEN. I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond.
CLARE. No?
TWISDEN. [Disconcerted] Are you--you oughtn't to take a step without
advice, in your position.
CLARE. Nor with it?
TWISDEN. [Approaching her] Come, now; isn't there anything you feel
you'd like to say--that might help to put matters straight?
CLARE. I don't think so, thank you.
LADY DEDMOND. You must see, Clare, that----
TWISDEN. In your position, Mrs. Dedmond--a beautiful young woman
without money. I'm quite blunt. This is a hard world. Should be
awfully sorry if anything goes wrong.
CLARE. And if I go back?
TWISDEN. Of two evils, if it be so--choose the least!
CLARE. I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two. We can't reasonably
expect to die for fifty years.
LADY DESMOND. That's morbid, Clare.
TWISDEN. What's open to you if you don't go back? Come, what's your
position? Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody.
Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears
you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken
flight, is madness. You must know that no one pays attention to
anything but facts. If now--excuse me--you--you had a lover, [His
eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all
events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection,
but [He pauses] as you have not--you've none.
CLARE. Except what I make myself.
SIR CHARLES. Good God!
TWISDEN. Yes! Mrs. Dedmond! There's the bedrock difficulty. As
you haven't money, you should never have been pretty. You're up
against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it. We lawyers see
too much of that. I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world.
CLARE. Thank you. Do you think you quite grasp the alternative?
TWISDEN. [Taken aback] But, my dear young lady, there are two sides
to every contract. After all, your husband's fulfilled his.
CLARE. So have I up till now. I shan't ask anything from him--
nothing--do you understand?
LADY DEDMOND. But, my dear, you must live.
TWISDEN. Have you ever done any sort of work?
CLARE. Not yet.
TWISDEN. Any conception of the competition nowadays?
CLARE. I can try.
[TWISDEN, looking at her, shrugs his shoulders]
CLARE. [Her composure a little broken by that look] It's real to
me--this--you see!
SIR CHARLES. But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of
George?
CLARE. He can do what he likes--it's nothing to me.
TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of
what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've
been. Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one
leads into the wilderness.
CLARE. Which?
TWISDEN. [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone] Of
course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will
help you.
SIR CHARLES. By Gad! Yes!
CLARE. I only want to breathe.
TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, go back! You can now. It will be too late
soon. There are lots of wolves about. [Again he looks at the door]
CLARE. But not where you think. You say I need advice. I came here
for it.
TWISDEN. [With a curiously expressive shrug] In that case I don't
know that I can usefully stay.
[He goes to the outer door.]
CLARE. Please don't have me followed when I leave here. Please!
LADY DEDMOND. George is outside, Clare.
CLARE. I don't wish to see him. By what right have you come here?
[She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and
says] Please come in, Mr. Malise.
[MALISE enters.]
TWISDEN. I am sorry. [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head] I
am sorry. Good morning. [He goes]
LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see----
CLARE. Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.
[MALISE bows]
SIR CHARLES. My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp
your line of thought at all!
CLARE. No?
LADY DEDMOND. George is most willing to take up things just as they
were before you left.
CLARE. Ah!
LADY DEDMOND. Quite frankly--what is it you want?
CLARE. To be left alone. Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have
me spied on.
LADY DEDMOND. But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you
were, like a reasonable being. You can't possibly be left to
yourself without money or position of any kind. Heaven knows what
you'd be driven to!
MALISE. [Softly] Delicious!
SIR CHARLES. You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir.
LADY DEDMOND. Charles! Clare, you must know this is all a fit of
spleen; your duty and your interest--marriage is sacred, Clare.
CLARE. Marriage! My marriage has become the--the reconciliation--of
two animals--one of them unwilling. That's all the sanctity there is
about it.
SIR CHARLES. What!
[She looks at MALISE]
LADY DEDMOND. You ought to be horribly ashamed. CLARE. Of the
fact-I am.
LADY DEDMOND. [Darting a glance at MALISE] If we are to talk this
out, it must be in private.
MALISE. [To CLARE] Do you wish me to go?
CLARE. No.
LADY DEDMOND. [At MALISE] I should have thought ordinary decent
feeling--Good heavens, girl! Can't you see that you're being played
with?
CLARE. If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie.
LADY DEDMOND. If you will do these things--come to a man's rooms----
CLARE. I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know
with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a
quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and
you instantly suspect him. That is disgusting.
LADY DEDMOND. [Frigidly] Is this the natural place for me to find
my son's wife?
CLARE. His woman.
LADY DEDMOND. Will you listen to Reginald?
CLARE. I have.
LADY DEDMOND. Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare?
CLARE. None, if it's religion to live as we do.
LADY DEDMOND. It's terrible--this state of mind! It's really
terrible!
CLARE breaks into the soft laugh of the other evening. As if
galvanized by the sound, SIR CHARLES comes to life out of the
transfixed bewilderment with which he has been listening.
SIR CHARLES. For God's sake don't laugh like that!
[CLARE Stops]
LADY DEDMOND. [With real feeling] For the sake of the simple right,
Clare!
CLARE. Right? Whatever else is right--our life is not. [She puts
her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried.
I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each
other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back. I swear before God that I
don't want to hurt anybody.
LADY DEDMOND. But you are hurting everybody. Do--do be reasonable!
CLARE. [Losing control] Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my
life to come--not to be buried alive--not to be slowly smothered.
Look at me! I'm not wax--I'm flesh and blood. And you want to
prison me for ever--body and soul.
[They stare at her]
SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] By Jove! I don't know, I don't know!
What!
LADY DEDMOND. [To MALISE] If you have any decency left, sir, you
will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone.
[Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below.
SIR CHARLES. I--I want to speak. [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel
like this, I can only say--as a--as a gentleman----
LADY DEDMOND. Charles!
SIR CHARLES. Let me alone! I can only say that--damme, I don't know
that I can say anything!
He looks at her very grieved, then turns and marches out,
followed by LADY DEDMOND, whose voice is heard without, answered
by his: "What!" In the doorway, as they pass, GEORGE is
standing; he comes in.
GEORGE. [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control]
Will you come outside and speak to me?
CLARE. No.
GEORGE glances at MALISE, who is leaning against the wall with
folded arms.
GEORGE. [In a low voice] Clare!
CLARE. Well!
GEORGE. You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here,
and speak before this fellow? Most men would think the worst,
finding you like this.
CLARE. You need not have come--or thought at all.
GEORGE. Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an
effort----
CLARE. To save me?
GEORGE. For God's sake be just! I've come here to say certain
things. If you force me to say them before him--on your head be it!
Will you appoint somewhere else?
CLARE. No.
GEORGE. Why not?
CLARE. I know all those "certain things." "You must come back. It
is your duty. You have no money. Your friends won't help you. You
can't earn your living. You are making a scandal." You might even
say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected."
GEORGE. Well, it's true and you've no answer.
CLARE. Oh! [Suddenly] Our life's a lie. It's stupid; it's
disgusting. I'm tired of it! Please leave me alone!
GEORGE. You rather miss the point, I'm afraid. I didn't come here
to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. I came
here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend
here is playing. It wouldn't take a baby in. If you think that a
gentleman like that [His stare travels round the dishevelled room
till it rests on MALISE] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you
make a fairly bad mistake.
CLARE. Take care.
But MALISE, after one convulsive movement of his hands, has
again become rigid.
GEORGE. I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I
have ordinary common sense. I don't attempt to be superior to plain
facts----
CLARE. [Under her breath] Facts!
GEORGE. Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone. It
doesn't suit you. Look here! If you like to go abroad with one of
your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the
Club.
CLARE. Put the fire out with a penny hose. [Slowly] I am not
coming back to you, George. The farce is over.
GEORGE. [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone,
suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this
fellow.
MALISE. [Dangerously, but without moving] I beg your pardon!
CLARE. There--is--nothing.
GEORGE. [Looking from one to the other] At all events, I won't--I
won't see a woman who once--[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement
with her hands] I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a
finger.
CLARE. That is noble.
GEORGE. [With intensity] I don't know that you deserve anything of
me. But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for
your sake, to warn you of what you're doing. [He turns suddenly on
MALISE] And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I
think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands.
[MALISE, without stirring from the wall, looks at CLARE, and his
lips move.]
CLARE. [Shakes her head at him--then to GEORGE] Will you go,
please?
GEORGE. I will go when you do.
MALISE. A man of the world should know better than that.
GEORGE. Are you coming?
MALISE. That is inconceivable.
GEORGE. I'm not speaking to you, sir.
MALISE. You are right. Your words and mine will never kiss each
other.
GEORGE. Will you come? [CLARE shakes her head]
GEORGE. [With fury] D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that
rhapsodical swine?
MALISE. [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you.
GEORGE. [As suddenly calm] That remains to be seen.
MALISE. [With most deadly quietness] Yes, I will kill you.
He goes stealthily along the wall, takes up from where it lies
on the pile of books the great black knobby stick, and
stealthily approaches GEORGE, his face quite fiendish.
CLARE. [With a swift movement, grasping the stick] Please.
MALISE resigns the stick, and the two men, perfectly still,
glare at each other. CLARE, letting the stick fall, puts her
foot on it. Then slowly she takes off her hat and lays it on
the table.
CLARE. Now will you go! [There is silence]
GEORGE. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool! Understand this;
if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and
you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours.
And mind this, you sir--I won't spare you--by God! Your pocket shall
suffer. That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.
Turning, he goes out, and slams the door. CLARE and MALISE
remain face to face. Her lips have begun to quiver.
CLARE. Horrible!
She turns away, shuddering, and sits down on the edge of the
armchair, covering her eyes with the backs of her hands. MALISE
picks up the stick, and fingers it lovingly. Then putting it
down, he moves so that he can see her face. She is sitting
quite still, staring straight before her.
MALISE. Nothing could be better.
CLARE. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!
MALISE. Thank the stars for your good fortune.
CLARE. He means to have revenge on you! And it's all my fault.
MALISE. Let him. Let him go for his divorce. Get rid of him. Have
done with him--somehow.
She gets up and stands with face averted. Then swiftly turning
to him.
CLARE. If I must bring you harm--let me pay you back! I can't bear
it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind!
MALISE. My God!
[She puts up her face to be kissed, shutting her eyes.]
MALISE. You poor----
He clasps and kisses her, then, drawing back, looks in her face.
She has not moved, her eyes are still closed; but she is
shivering; her lips are tightly pressed together; her hands
twitching.
MALISE. [Very quietly] No, no! This is not the house of a
"gentleman."
CLARE. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I'm sorry.
MALISE. I understand.
CLARE. I don't feel. And without--I can't, can't.
MALISE. [Bitterly] Quite right. You've had enough of that.
There is a long silence. Without looking at him she takes up
her hat, and puts it on.
MALISE. Not going?
[CLARE nods]
MALISE. You don't trust me?
CLARE. I do! But I can't take when I'm not giving.
MALISE. I beg--I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free
somehow.
CLARE. Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in
for all this. I know what you want--or will want. Of course--why
not?
MALISE. I give you my solemn word----
CLARE. No! if I can't be that to you--it's not real. And I can't.
It isn't to be manufactured, is it?
MALISE. It is not.
CLARE. To make use of you in such a way! No.
[She moves towards the door]
MALISE. Where are you going?
CLARE does not answer. She is breathing rapidly. There is a
change in her, a sort of excitement beneath her calmness.
MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank God! But
where? To your people again?
CLARE. No.
MALISE. Nothing--desperate?
CLARE. Oh! no.
MALISE. Then what--tell me--come!
CLARE. I don't know. Women manage somehow.
MALISE. But you--poor dainty thing!
CLARE. It's all right! Don't be unhappy! Please!
MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out
there--you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must!
CLARE. [Holding out her hand] Good-bye!
MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and--you!
Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the
stillness] Into that! alone--helpless--without money. The men who
work with you; the men you make friends of--d'you think they'll let
you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you--pudgy,
bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the
"chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help
seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but
struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious!
Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The
hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up!
Covert to covert--till they've run you down, and you're back in the
cart, and God pity you!
CLARE. Well, I'll die running!
MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me!
CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune.
Wish me luck!
MALISE. I can't let you go.
CLARE. You must.
He looks into her face; then, realizing that she means it,
suddenly bends down to her fingers, and puts his lips to them.
MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck!
He releases her hand. Just touching his bent head with her
other hand, CLARE turns and goes. MALISE remains with bowed
head, listening to the sound of her receding footsteps. They
die away. He raises himself, and strikes out into the air with
his clenched fist.
CURTAIN.