THE WIDOWING OF
MRS. HOLROYD
A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS
BY
D. H. LAWRENCE
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W. C.
1914
COPYRIGHT 1914 BY
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD 1
INTRODUCTION
D. H. Lawrence is one of the most significant of the new generation
of writers just beginning to appear in England. One of their chief
marks is that they seem to step forward full-grown, without a history
to account for their maturity. Another characteristic is that they
frequently spring from social layers which in the past had to remain
largely voiceless. And finally, they have all in their blood what
their elders had to acquire painfully: that is, an evolutionary
conception of life.
Three years ago the author of "The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd" was
wholly unknown, having not yet published a single work. To-day he has
to his credit three novels--"The White Peacock," "The Trespasser"
and "Sons and Lovers"--a collection of verse entitled "Love Poems,"
and the play contained in this volume. All of these works, but in
particular the play and the latest novel, prove their author a man
gifted with a strikingly original vision, a keen sense of beauty, an
equally keen sense of verbal values, and a sincerity, which makes him
see and tell the truth where even the most audacious used to falter in
the past. Flaubert himself was hardly less free from the old curse of
sentimentalizing compromise--and yet this young writer knows how to
tell the utmost truth with a daintiness that puts offence out of the
question.
He was born twenty-seven years ago in a coal-miner's cottage at
the little colliery town of Eastwood, on the border line between
Nottingham and Derbyshire. The home was poor, yet not without certain
aspirations and refinements. It was the mother who held it together,
who saved it from a still more abject poverty, and who filled it with
a spirit that made it possible for the boy--her youngest son--to keep
alive the gifts still slumbering undiscovered within him. In "Sons and
Lovers" we get the picture of just such a home and such a mother, and
it seems safe to conclude that the novel in question is in many ways
autobiographical.
At the age of twelve the boy won a County Council Scholarship--and
came near having to give it up because he found that the fifteen
pounds a year conferred by it would barely pay the fees at the
Nottingham High School and the railway fares to that city. But his
mother's determination and self-sacrifice carried him safely past the
seemingly impossible. At sixteen he left school to earn his living
as a clerk. Illness saved him from that uncongenial fate. Instead he
became a teacher, having charge of a class of colliers' boys in one of
those rough, old-fashioned British schools where all the classes used
to fight against one another within a single large room. Before the
classes convened in the morning, at eight o'clock, he himself received
instruction from the head-master; at night he continued his studies
in the little kitchen at home, where all the rest of the family were
wont to fore gather. At nineteen he found himself, to his own and
everybody else's astonishment, the first on the list of the King's
Scholarship examination, and from that on he was, to use his own
words, "considered clever." But the lack of twenty pounds needed in a
lump sum to pay the entrance fee at the training college for teachers
made it impossible for him to make use of the gained advantage.
Two years later, however, he succeeded in matriculating at the
Nottingham Day Training College. But by that time the creative impulse
had already begun to stir within him, aided by an early love affair,
and so he wrote poems and worked at his first novel when he should
have been studying. At twenty-three he left the college and went to
London to teach school, to study French and German, and to write. At
twenty-five he had his first novel--"The White Peacock"--accepted and
printed. But the death of his mother only a month before that event
made his victory seem useless and joyless. After the publication of
his second novel, in 1912, he became able to give up teaching in
order to devote himself entirely to his art. Out of that leisure--and
perhaps also out of the sorrow caused by the loss of her who until
then had been the mainspring of his life--came "Sons and Lovers" and
"The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd."
What has struck me most deeply in these two works--apart from
their splendid craftsmanship--is their psychological penetration,
so closely paralleling the most recent conclusions of the world's
leading thinkers. In the hands of this writer, barely emerged out of
obscurity, sex becomes almost a new thing. Not only the relationship
between man and woman, but also that of mother and child is laid bare
in a new light which startles--or even shocks--but which nevertheless
compels acceptance. One might think that Mr. Lawrence had carefully
studied and employed the very latest theories of such men as Freud,
for instance, and yet it is a pretty safe bet that most of his
studies have been carried on in his own soul, within his own memories.
Thus it is proved once more that what the student gropingly reasons
out for abstract formulation is flashed upon the poetic dreamer in
terms of living reality.
Another thing that has impressed me is the aspect in which Mr.
Lawrence presents the home life of those hitherto submerged classes
which are now at last reaching out for a full share in the general
social and cultural inheritance. He writes of that life, not only with
a knowledge obtained at first hand, but with a sympathy that scorns
any apologetic phrase-mongering. Having read him, one feels inclined
to conclude, in spite of all conflicting testimony, that the slum
is not a location, but a state of mind, and that everywhere, on all
levels, the individual soul may create around itself an atmosphere
expressive of its ideals. A book like "Sons and Lovers" ought to go
far to prove that most of the qualities held peculiar to the best
portion of the "ruling classes" are nothing but the typical marks of
normal humanity.
EDWIN BJÖRKMAN.
THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD
PERSONS
MRS. HOLROYD
HOLROYD
BLACKMORE
JACK HOLROYD
MINNIE HOLROYD
GRANDMOTHER
RIGLEY
CLARA
LAURA
MANAGER
TWO MINERS
THE WIDOWING OF MRS. HOLROYD
THE FIRST ACT
SCENE I
_The kitchen of a miner's small cottage. On the left is the fireplace,
with a deep, full red fire. At the back is a white-curtained window,
and beside it the outer door of the room. On the right, two white
wooden stairs intrude into the kitchen below the closed stair foot
door. On the left, another door._
_The room is furnished with a chintz-backed sofa under the window, a
glass-knobbed painted dresser on the right, and in the centre, toward
the fire, a table with a red and blue check tablecloth. On one side
of the hearth is a wooden rocking-chair, on the other an armchair of
round staves. An unlighted copper-shaded lamp hangs from the raftered
ceiling. It is dark twilight, with the room full of warm fireglow. A
woman enters from the outer door. As she leaves the door open behind
her, the colliery rail can be seen not far from the threshold, and,
away back, the headstocks of a pit._
_The woman is tall and voluptuously built. She carries a basket heaped
full of washing, which she has just taken from the clotheslines
outside. Setting down the basket heavily, she feels among the
clothes. She lifts out a white heap of sheets and other linen,
setting it on the table; then she takes a woollen shirt in her hand._
MRS. HOLROYD (_aloud, to herself_)
You know they're not dry even now, though it's been as fine as it has.
(_She spreads the shirt on the back of her rocking-chair, which she
turns to the fire_)
VOICE (_calling from outside_)
Well, have you got them dry?
[_Mrs. Holroyd starts up, turns and flings her hand in the direction
of the open door, where appears a man in blue overalls, swarfed and
greased. He carries a dinner-basket._
MRS. HOLROYD
You--you--I don't know what to call you! The idea of shouting at me
like that--like the Evil One out of the darkness!
BLACKMORE
I ought to have remembered your tender nerves. Shall I come in?
MRS. HOLROYD
No--not for your impudence. But you're late, aren't you?
BLACKMORE
It's only just gone six. We electricians, you know, we're the
gentlemen on a mine: ours is gentlemen's work. But I'll bet Charles
Holroyd was home before four.
MRS. HOLROYD (_bitterly_)
Ay, and gone again before five.
BLACKMORE
But mine's a lad's job, and I do nothing!--Where's he gone?
MRS. HOLROYD (_contemptuously_)
Dunno! He'd got a game on somewhere--toffed himself up to the nines,
and skedaddled off as brisk as a turkey-cock. (_She smirks in front
of the mirror hanging on the chimney-piece, in imitation of a man
brushing his hair and moustache and admiring himself_)
BLACKMORE
Though turkey-cocks aren't brisk as a rule. Children playing?
MRS. HOLROYD (_recovering herself, coldly_)
Yes. And they ought to be in. (_She continues placing the flannel
garments before the fire, on the fender and on chair-backs, till the
stove is hedged in with a steaming fence; then she takes a sheet in a
bundle from the table, and going up to Blackmore, who stands watching
her, says_) Here, take hold, and help me fold it.
BLACKMORE
I shall swarf it up.
MRS. HOLROYD (_snatching back the sheet_)
Oh, you're as tiresome as everybody else.
BLACKMORE (_putting down his basket and moving to door on
right_)
Well, I can soon wash my hands.
MRS. HOLROYD (_ceasing to flap and fold pillowcases_)
That roller-towel's ever so dirty. I'll get you another. (_She goes to
a drawer in the dresser, and then back toward the scullery, where is a
sound of water_)
BLACKMORE
Why, bless my life, I'm a lot dirtier than the towel. I don't want
another.
MRS. HOLROYD (_going into the scullery_)
Here you are.
BLACKMORE (_softly, now she is near him_)
Why did you trouble now? Pride, you know, pride, nothing else.
MRS. HOLROYD (_also playful_)
It's nothing but decency.
BLACKMORE (_softly_)
Pride, pride, pride!
[_A child of eight suddenly appears in the doorway._
JACK
Oo, how dark!
MRS. HOLROYD (_hurrying agitated into the kitchen_)
Why, where have you been--what have you been doing now?
JACK (SURPRISED)
Why--I've only been out to play.
MRS. HOLROYD (_still sharply_)
And where's Minnie?
[_A little girl of six appears by the door._
MINNIE
I'm here, mam, and what do you think--?
MRS. HOLROYD (_softening, as she recovers equanimity_)
Well, and what should I think?
JACK
Oh, yes, mam--you know my father--?
MRS. HOLROYD (_ironically_)
I should hope so.
MINNIE
We saw him dancing, mam, with a paper bonnet.
MRS. HOLROYD
What--?
JACK
There's some women at "New Inn," what's come from Nottingham--
MINNIE
An' he's dancin' with the pink one.
JACK
Shut up our Minnie. An' they've got paper bonnets on--
MINNIE
All colors, mam!
JACK (_getting angry_)
Shut up our Minnie! An' my dad's dancing with her.
MINNIE
With the pink-bonnet one, mam.
JACK
Up in the club-room over the bar.
MINNIE
An' she's a lot littler than him, mam.
JACK (_piteously_)
Shut up our Minnie--An' you can see 'em go past the window, 'cause
there isn't no curtains up, an' my father's got the pink bonnet one--
MINNIE
An' there's a piano, mam--
JACK
An' lots of folks outside watchin', lookin' at my dad! He can dance,
can't he, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD (_she has been lighting the lamp, and holds the
lamp-glass_)
And who else is there?
MINNIE
Some more men--an' _all_ the women with paper bonnets on.
JACK
There's about ten, I should think, an' they say they came in a brake
from Nottingham.
[_Mrs. Holroyd, trying to replace the lamp-glass over the flame, lets
it drop on the floor with a smash._
JACK
There, now--now we 'll have to have a candle.
BLACKMORE (_appearing in the scullery doorway with the
towel_) What's that--the lamp-glass?
JACK
I never knowed Mr. Blackmore was here.
BLACKMORE (_to Mrs. Holroyd_)
Have you got another?
MRS. HOLROYD
No. (_There is silence for a moment_) We can manage with a candle for
to-night.
BLACKMORE (_stepping forward and blowing out the smoky
flame_) I'll see if I can't get you one from the pit. I shan't be a
minute.
MRS. HOLROYD
Don't--don't bother--I don't want you to.
[_He, however, unscrews the burner and goes._
MINNIE
Did Mr. Blackmore come for tea, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
No; he's had no tea.
JACK
I bet he's hungry. Can I have some bread?
MRS. HOLROYD (_she stands a lighted candle on the table_)
Yes, and you can get your boots off to go to bed.
JACK
It's not seven o'clock yet.
MRS. HOLROYD
It doesn't matter.
MINNIE
What do they wear paper bonnets for, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Because they're brazen hussies.
JACK
I saw them having a glass of beer.
MRS. HOLROYD
A nice crew!
JACK
They say they are old pals of Mrs. Meakins. You could hear her
screaming o' laughin', an' my dad says: "He-ah, missis--here--a
dog's-nose for the Dachess--hopin' it'll smell samthing"--What's a
dog's-nose?
MRS. HOLROYD (_giving him a piece of bread and butter_)
Don't ask me, child. How should I know?
MINNIE
Would she eat it, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Eat what?
MINNIE
Her in the pink bonnet--eat the dog's nose?
MRS. HOLROYD
No, of course not. How should I know what a dog's-nose is?
JACK
I bet he'll never go to work to-morrow, mother--will he?
MRS. HOLROYD
Goodness knows. I'm sick of it--disgracing me. There'll be the whole
place cackling _this_ now. They've no sooner finished about him
getting taken up for fighting than they begin on this. But I'll put
a stop to it some road or other. It's not going on, if I know it: it
isn't.
[_She stops, hearing footsteps, and Blackmore enters._
BLACKMORE
Here we are then--got one all right.
MINNIE
Did they give it you, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
No, I took it.
[_He screws on the burner and proceeds to light the lamp. He is a
tall, slender, mobile man of twenty-seven, brown-haired, dressed in
blue overalls. Jack Holroyd is a big, dark, ruddy, lusty lad. Minnie
is also big, but fair._
MINNIE
What do you wear blue trousers for, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
They're to keep my other trousers from getting greasy.
MINNIE
Why don't you wear pit-breeches, like dad's?
JACK
'Cause he's a 'lectrician. Could you make me a little injun what would
make electric light?
BLACKMORE
I will, some day.
JACK
When?
MINNIE
Why don't you come an' live here?
BLACKMORE (_looking swiftly at Mrs. Holroyd_)
Nay, you've got your own dad to live here.
MINNIE (_plaintively_)
Well, you could come as well. Dad shouts when we've gone to bed, an'
thumps the table. He wouldn't if you was here.
JACK
He dursn't--
MRS. HOLROYD
Be quiet now, be quiet. Here, Mr. Blackmore. (_She again gives him the
sheet to fold_)
BLACKMORE
Your hands _are_ cold.
MRS. HOLROYD
Are they?--I didn't know.
[_Blackmore puts his hand on hers._
MRS. HOLROYD (_confusedly, looking aside_)
You must want your tea.
BLACKMORE
I'm in no hurry.
MRS. HOLROYD
Selvidge to selvidge. You'll be quite a domestic man, if you go on.
BLACKMORE
Ay.
[_They fold the two sheets._
BLACKMORE
They are white, your sheets!
MRS. HOLROYD
But look at the smuts on them--look! This vile hole! I'd never have
come to live here, in all the thick of the pit-grime, and lonely, if
it hadn't been for him, so that he shouldn't call in a public-house on
his road home from work. And now he slinks past on the other side of
the railway, and goes down to the New Inn instead of coming in for his
dinner. I might as well have stopped in Bestwood.
BLACKMORE
Though I rather like this little place, standing by itself.
MRS. HOLROYD
Jack, can you go and take the stockings in for me? They're on the
line just below the pigsty. The prop's near the apple-tree--mind it.
Minnie, you take the peg-basket.
MINNIE
Will there be any rats, mam?
MRS. HOLROYD
Rats--no. They'll be frightened when they hear you, if there are.
[_The children go out._
BLACKMORE
Poor little beggars!
MRS. HOLROYD
Do you know, this place is fairly alive with rats. They run up
that dirty vine in front of the house--I'm always at him to cut it
down--and you can hear them at night overhead like a regiment of
soldiers tramping. Really, you know, I _hate_ them.
BLACKMORE
Well--a rat is a nasty thing!
MRS. HOLROYD
But I s'll get used to them. I'd give anything to be out of this place.
BLACKMORE
It _is_ rotten, when you're tied to a life you don't like. But I
should miss it if you weren't here. When I'm coming down the line to
the pit in the morning--it's nearly dark at seven now--I watch the
firelight in here--Sometimes I put my hand on the wall outside where
the chimney runs up to feel it warm--There isn't much in Bestwood, is
there?
MRS. HOLROYD
There's less than nothing if you can't be like the rest of them--as
common as they're 'made.
BLACKMORE
It's a fact--particularly for a woman--But this place is cosy--God
love me, I'm sick of lodgings.
MRS. HOLROYD
You'll have to get married--I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls
about.
BLACKMORE
Are there? I never see 'em. (_He laughs_)
MRS. HOLROYD
Oh, come, you can't say that.
BLACKMORE
I've not seen a single girl--an unmarried girl--that I should want for
more than a fortnight--not one.
MRS. HOLROYD
Perhaps you're very particular.
[_She puts her two palms on the table and leans back. He draws near to
her, dropping his head._
BLACKMORE
Look here!
[_He has put his hand on the table near hers._
MRS. HOLROYD
Yes, I know you've got nice hands--but you needn't be vain of them.
BLACKMORE
No--it's not that--But don't they seem--(_he glances swiftly at her;
she turns her head aside; he laughs nervously_)--they sort of go well
with one another. (_He laughs again_)
MRS. HOLROYD
They _do_, rather--
[_They stand still, near one another, with bent heads, for a moment.
Suddenly she starts up and draws her hand away._
BLACKMORE
Why--what is it?
[_She does not answer. The children come in--Jack with an armful of
stockings, Minnie with the basket of pegs._
JACK
I believe it's freezing, mother.
MINNIE
Mr. Blackmore, could you shoot a rat an' hit it?
BLACKMORE (_laughing_)
Shoot the lot of 'em, like a wink.
MRS. HOLROYD
But you've had no tea. What an awful shame to keep you here!
BLACKMORE
Nay, I don't care. It never bothers me.
MRS. HOLROYD
Then you're different from most men.
BLACKMORE
All men aren't alike, you know.
MRS. HOLROYD
But do go and get some tea.
MINNIE (_plaintively_)
Can't you stop, Mr. Blackmore?
BLACKMORE
Why, Minnie?
MINNIE
So's we're not frightened. Yes, do. Will you?
BLACKMORE
Frightened of what?
MINNIE
'Cause there's noises, an' rats,--an' perhaps dad'll come home and
shout.
BLACKMORE
But he'd shout more if I was here.
JACK
He doesn't when my uncle John's here. So you stop, an' perhaps he
won't.
BLACKMORE
Don't you like him to shout when you're in bed?
[_They do not answer, but look seriously at him._
CURTAIN