The scene is the morning-room of the Smith-Hybrows' South London residence.
It is the day following the final performance of the Smith-Hybrows'
strenuous season of J.M. SYNGE drama, undertaken with the laudable
intention of familiarising the suburb with the _real_ Irish temperament and
the works of the dramatist in question.
Mrs. Smith-Hybrow is seated at the breakfast-table, her head buried behind
the coffee urn. She is opening her letters and "keening" softly as she
rocks in her chair.
_Mrs. Smith-Hybrow_ (_scanning a letter_). Will I be helping them with the
sale of work? It's little enough the like of me will be doing for them the
way I was treated at the last Bazaar, when Mrs. McGupperty and Mrs.
Glyn-Jones were after destroying me with the cutting of the sandwiches. And
was I not there for three days, from the rising of the blessed sun to the
shining of the blessed stars, cutting and cutting, and never a soul to bear
witness to the destroying labour of it, and the two legs of me like to give
way with the great weariness (_keens_)? I'll have no call this year to be
giving in to their prayers and beseechings, and I won't care the way the
Curate will be after trying to come round me, with his eyes looking at me
the way the moon kisses the drops of dew on the hedgerows when the road is
white.
[_Opens another letter, keening the while in a slightly higher key.
Enter_ Gertrude Smith-Hybrow. _She crosses to the window and stares
out._
_Gertrude._ There are black clouds in the sky, and the wind is breaking in
the west and making a great stir with the trees, and they are hitting one
on the other. And there is rain falling, falling from the clouds, and the
roads be wet.
_Mrs. S.-H._ It is your mackintosh you will be wanting when you are after
going to the Stores.
_Gertrude_ (_coming to the table and speaking with dull resentment_). And
why should I be going to the Stores the way I have enough to do with a
meeting of the League for Brighter Homes and a luncheon of the Cubist
Encouragement Society? Isn't it a queer hard thing that Dora cannot be
going to the Stores, and her with time enough on her hands surely?
[_Sits in her place and begins keening. While she has been speaking
Dora has entered hurriedly, buttoning her jumper._
_Dora_ (_vigorously_). And is it you, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow, that will be
talking about me having time on my hands? May the saints forgive you for
the hard words, and me having to cycle this blessed day to Mrs.
Montgomery's lecture on the Dadaist Dramatists, and the méringues and the
American creams to be made for to-night's Tchekoff Conversazione. Is it not
enough for a girl to be destroyed with the play-acting, and the wind like
to be in my face the whole way and the rain falling, falling?
[_Sits in her place and keens._
_Mrs. S.-H._ (_after an interval of keening_). Is it your father that will
be missing his train this morning, Dora Smith-Hybrow?
_Dora_ (_rousing herself and selecting an egg_). It is my father that will
be missing his train entirely, and it is his son that would this minute be
sleeping the blessed daylight away had I not let fall upon him a sponge
that I had picked out of the cold, cold water.
_Gertrude._ It is a flapper you are, Dora Smith-Hybrow.
_Dora._ It is a flapper you will never be again, Gertrude Smith-Hybrow,
though you be after doing your queer best to look like one.
_Mrs. S.-H._ Whisht! Is it the time for loose talk, with the wind rising,
rising, and the rain falling, falling, and the price of butter up another
threepence this blessed morning?
[_They all three recommence keening. Enter_ Mr. Smith-Hybrow _followed
by_ Cyril.
_Mr. S.-H._ (_staunching a gash in his chin_). Is it not a hard thing for a
man to be late for his breakfast and the rain falling, falling, and the
wind rising, rising. It's destroyed I am with the loss of blood and no food
in my stomach would keep the life in a flea.
[_Sits in his place and opens his letters savagely._ Cyril, _a
cadaverous youth, stares gloomily into the depths of the marmalade._
_Cyril_ (_dreamily_). There's gold and gold and gold--caverns of gold. And
there's a woman with hair of gold and eyes would pick the locks of a man's
soul, and long shining hands like pale seaweed. Is it not a terrible thing
that a man would have to go to the City when there is a woman with gold
hair waiting for him in the marmalade pot--waiting to draw him down into
the cold, cold water?
_Dora._ Is it another spongeful you are wanting, Cyril Smith-Hybrow, and
myself destroyed entirely waiting for the marmalade?
[Cyril _blushes, passes the marmalade, sits down languidly and selects
an egg._ Mrs. S.-H. _pours out the coffee and resumes her keening._
_Mr. S.-H._ (_glaring at her_). Is it not a nice thing for the wife of a
respectable City stockbroker to sit at the breakfast-table making a noise
like that of a cow that is waiting to be milked?
_Mrs. S.-H._ (_hurt_). It is keening I am.
_Gertrude_ (_passing him "The Morning Post"_). Is it not enough that the
price of butter is up another threepence this blessed day, and the wind
rising, rising, and the rain falling, falling?
_Mr. S.-H._ It is destroyed we shall all be entirely.
_Cyril_ (_gazing into the depths of his egg_). There was a strange queer
dream I was after having the night that has gone. It was on the rocks I
was....
_Mr. S.-H._ (_glaring at the market reports_). It is on the rocks we shall
all be.
_Cyril._ ... on the rocks I was by the sea-shore ...
_Dora_ (_slightly hysterically_). With the wind rising, rising?
_Cyril_ (_nodding_). ... and the rain falling, falling. And a woman of the
chorus drove up in a taxi, and the man that had the driving of it was
eating an orange. The woman came and sat by the side of me, and the
peroxide in her hair made it gleam like the pale gold coins that were in
the banks before the Great War (_more dreamily_). Never a word said she
when I hung a chain of cold, cold sausages about her neck, but her eyes
were shining, shining, and into my hands she put a tin of corned beef. And
it is destroyed I was with the love of her, and would have kissed her lips
but I saw the park-keeper coming, coming out of the sea for tickets, and I
fled from the strange queer terror of it, and found myself by a lamp-post
in Hackney Wick with the wind rising, rising, and the rain falling,
falling.
[_He stops. The others stare at him and at one another in piteous
inquiry. The women begin keening._ Mr. S.-H. _seizes the remaining egg
and cracks it viciously._
_Mr. S.-H._ (_falling back in his chair_). Damnation!
[_The air is filled with a pungent matter-of-fact odour._ Dora,
_holding her handkerchief to her nose, rushes valiantly at the offender
and hurls it out of the window on to a flower-bed. The_ SYNGE _spell is
broken._
* * * * *
Mr. Punch begs to thank the seven hundred and forty-three correspondents
who have so thoughtfully drawn his attention to the too familiar fact that
"there's many a slip 'twixt the Cup and the LIPTON."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE BLUE RIBBON OF THE SEA.