[It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the sofa with
a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the right, has picked
up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading it impatiently.]
DELIA. What rubbish he writes!
BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?
DELIA. Claude--Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young.
BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.
DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats started
life as an apothecary.
BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.
DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you
aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne.
DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any good
till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening?
BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?
DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?
DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.
BELINDA (happily). Have I?
DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two.
BELINDA. However did you know that?
DELIA. Oh, I know.
BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I settled
down.
DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?
(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then sits
up.)
BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great secret to be
revealed to you?
DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.
BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that. This is
a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal volatile.
DELIA (excitedly). Go on!
BELINDA. Well--(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights down a
little?
DELIA. Go _on_, mummy.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is--(impressively)--is not quite the
Robinson he appears to be.
DELIA. Yes?
BELINDA. In fact, child, he is--Hadn't you better come and hold your
mother's hand?
DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Go _on_.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a--sort of relation of yours;
in fact--(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)--he is
your--father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being
received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.
DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't it? I
am laughing because I am so happy.
BELINDA. Aren't you surprised?
DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just
before Mr. Baxter.
BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.
DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I thought
I'd better start breaking the ice--because I suppose he'll be kissing me
directly.
BELINDA. Say you like him.
DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you know?
(She goes back to her seat.)
BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my
mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr. Devenish!
(Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about together.
DELIA. Claude is quite enough.
BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I
have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I'll give
you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She jumps up and goes
over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That's what
mothers always say on the stage. I think it's so sweet.
DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm not
romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really.
BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this
morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was telling
_him_. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn't know
he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the garden;
only don't let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose to me
first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she gets up.) Here you all are!
I do hope you haven't been throwing away your cigars, because smoking is
allowed all over the house.
TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you.
BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?--and so warm for April. Delia, you
must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight--it's the only light he
hasn't seen it by.
DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight, Miss
Delia.
BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that--er--perhaps--
DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
(TREMAYNE _looks at_ BELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no
chance of a nightingale?
BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish.
(DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably
on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well, Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Er--I--
BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's
longing to.
BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand.
BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?
BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had succeeded
in the quest.
DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?
BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have
discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.
DEVENISH. Who--where--
BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out with
her father.
DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!
BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!
DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I
actually sat on that table--no, that seat--no, not that one, it was the
sofa--that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and never guessed!
Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!
BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you were.
DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he had
a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then I went
away innocently and left you two talking about it.
BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?
DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.
(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)
BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have
adventured for my sake!
BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim to
have won?
(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises his
arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at this
moment.
BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair. It's
all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't overdo it.
Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter--Mr. Devenish, I have something to
tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I think
you both ought to know that--I--I made a mistake. Delia is not my niece;
she is my daughter.
DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
BAXTER. Your daughter!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. But--but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that age.
BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
BAXTER. But--but she's grown up.
BELINDA. Quite.
BAXTER. Then in that case you must be--(He hesitates, evidently working
it out.)
BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when I'm
fifty you would be--
BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
BAXTER. And when I'm sixty--
BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?
DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll never
_get_ to sixty.
BAXTER. And then there's Miss--er--Delia. In the event of our marrying,
Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I have
an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She glances at
DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)
BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never yet
considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I am going
too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived in this
matter.
BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.
DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.
BELINDA (turning to him suddenly). _And_ Mr. Devenish too.
BAXTER. Er--
DEVENISH. Er--
(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)
BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody else,
that's all.
BAXTER. Who?
BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother,
and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time we
_were_ married.
DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! He _is_ your
husband all the time!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?
BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.
BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I
gather--I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible as a
possible wife?
BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this is very confusing--this is very disturbing to a man
of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a--a possible
benedict. I have--ah--taken steps. Only this morning, in writing to
my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any moment a most
startling announcement.
DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean that
you were getting a new bowler-hat.
BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take
this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me.
You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me
very happy.
BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!
BELINDA. Very happy.
BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in, silence,
and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken a great
resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping his heart.)
I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing DEVENISH'S arm) Come,
we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be that she will send us upon
another quest in which I shall again be victorious. (Tempestuously)
Come, I say! (He marches the resisting DEVENISH to the swing doors.)
DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!
BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns round.)
You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother--
BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the moment I
am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your permission to
pay my addresses--
BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I ought
to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of your
housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.
BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her tell her
father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?
BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.
DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing
airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper--
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a mother...
I need say no more.
BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter. You are
not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this simultaneous
wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had his turn this
morning alone. You should have yours... alone... too.
DEVENISH. Oh, I say!
BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a
suitor. I see that. (To DEVENISH) _You_ stay here; _I_ will go alone
into the garden, and--
BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of... of
_our_ age, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library--
BAXTER (astonished). Library?
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You have a library?
BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library.
DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.
BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this evening,
Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then--a library! I
have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a library. Dear me,
I wonder how it is that I never saw it?
BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to see _me_.
BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had a
library....
BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr. Devenish?
BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of certain
books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help--
BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal. (To
DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential whisper.)
I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica." (She smiles
at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes towards the
garden door and looks outside.)
DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in. (He goes back and
waits for them.)
TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter.
TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that?
DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end door
on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the right.
TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at
DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.]
(DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)
DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.
DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you mean
my aunt?
DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once
had the cheek to propose to her.
DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
DEVENISH. To _her_.
DELIA. But not to me?
DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson--I mean,
Tremayne.
DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to
call you Delia.
DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered
DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till
next April--
DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same
afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.
DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.
DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of
course, one has to think about posterity.
DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to
think about if you were a statesman.
DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.
DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every
day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me
all about it.
DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!
DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here--I _will_
be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and
come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
DELIA. How nice of you!
DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell,
Parnassus!
DELIA. What does that mean?
DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is
the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.--no, look here, that
was quite accidental.
DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to
know you.
DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that
I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was
three days ago.
DELIA. You _are_ different. Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming
back.
DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.
DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word
before?
DELIA. What _do_ you mean?
DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you, but
I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back,
he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then
left the House.
[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to
leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.
BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was
really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Not of me?
BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a
disappointment lately.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was--younger than I was.
TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I
was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or--poetically?
TREMAYNE. I meant--
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the--now, I must get this the
right way round--as old as the--
TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does--except Mr. Devenish. As old as
the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I think
that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that
sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about your
aunt-in-law--not so often.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now,
comparing her to Diana.
TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for _him. _Now what about Baxter?
BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I
was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the
drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia
Britannica."
TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the
neighbourhood?
BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those two for
the last three weeks.
(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
TREMAYNE. Belinda.
BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
TREMAYNE. My name is John.
BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they
can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own
names are. You were saying, John?
TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so quickly.
I hope you're making more of a stay?
TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but
say "Belinda."
TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously,
Belinda?
BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. Tremayne,
my first husband--Jack--Isn't it funny, _his_ name was Jack--he used to
complain about it too sometimes.
TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!
BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr. Tremayne.
TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?
BELINDA. Dead to me.
TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?
BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.
TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was.
BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.
BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb
cutlets interrupted this morning.
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you--do you understand?
BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like--like E. A.?
TREMAYNE. Like who?
BELINDA. Well, like anybody.
TREMAYNE. He won't--I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to risk
it, Belinda?
BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet.
TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down again.)
You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes round the sofa
and kisses her quickly.) There!
BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.
TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting down
on the sofa) Belinda--
BELINDA. Yes, Henry--I mean, Jack?
TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the surprise
he is about to give her.)
BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE. Who?
BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.
TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, you _know_!
BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your husband,
and you've been playing with me and leading me on?
BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was your
wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on.
TREMAYNE. That's different.
BELINDA. That's _just_ what the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he
slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and shot
bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years.
TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a fool now.
BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now--I'm not going
to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down.
TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?
BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling. (After a
pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily, and--and--there was
the garden all full of daffodils--and--and there was Mr. Baxter--the one
we left in the library--knowing all about moles. He's probably got the
M volume down now. Well, we were talking about them one day, and I
happened to say that the late Mr. Tremayne--that was you, darling--had
rather a peculiar one on his arm. And then he happened to see it this
morning and told me about it.
TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than that.
I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another time.
(Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE
pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn't have left
Chelsea, darling.
TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.
BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a pause.)
I--I've got another little surprise for you if--if you're ready for it.
(Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall
certainly stand up while I'm telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a
daughter--our little Delia.
TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one's
father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you--oh, never mind
about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not tell
me?
BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort of
thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America.
TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever go
away again.
BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a staid
old married woman.
TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did before. And
I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you, over all the other
men in love with you.
BELINDA. You darling!
[DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]
TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.
DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father.
TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia.
DELIA. You've been away a long time.
TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it.
BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old father.
(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on the
cheek.)
DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law.
TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.
BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again.
BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't mind
about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely. (Referring to
his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable information on
(looking round at them) lunacy in the--er--county of _Devonshire_.
THE RED FEATHERS
AN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT
[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a MOTHER
and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please--between, let
us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England and the day when
Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let us call it May. Oh
yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve o'clock, and the DAUGHTER is
singing at the spinet, while her MOTHER is at her needlework. Through
the lattice windows the murmur of a stream can be heard, on whose
banks--but we shall come to that directly. Let us listen now to what the
DAUGHTER is singing:]
Life passes by.
I do not know its pleasure or its pain--
The Spring was here, the Spring is here again,
The Spring will die.
Life passes by.
The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide,
The crowd streams in--and I am left outside....
They know; not I.
[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]
MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy
song, dear.
DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here
all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the
next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on.
Mother, is that all there is in the world?
MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
MOTHER. We have the house--and very little else.
DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were _really_ poor--
MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.
DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we
wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys,
and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next
morning, and--
MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm
peculiar.
DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the
world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.
DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose.
Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and
sings again.)
_Lads and lasses, what will you sell,
What will you sell?_
Four stout walls and a roof atop,
Warm fires gleaming brightly,
Well-stored cellar and garnered crop,
Money-bags packed tightly;
An ordered task in an ordered day,
And a sure bed nightly;
Years which peacefully pass away,
Until Death comes lightly.
_Lads and lasses, what will you buy?
What will you buy?_
Here is a cap to cover your head,
A cap with one red feather;
Here is a cloak to make your bed
Warm or winter weather;
Here is a satchel to store your ware,
Strongly lined with leather;
And here is a staff to take you there
When you go forth together.
_Lads and lasses, what will you gain,
What will you gain?_
Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees
New Spring houses taking;
Daffodils in an April breeze
Golden curtsies making;
Shadows of clouds across the weald
From hill to valley breaking,
The first faint stir which the woodlands yield
When the world is waking.
_Lads and lasses, this is your gain,
This is your gain._
(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear
at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and
happy smile until the song is finished.)
TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in
astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle
Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The
Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness,
of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again.
MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion.
TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand
upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you
Rex--What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? _Via_, says Rex, meaning
the road; _communis_ is common; _omnibus_ to all, meaning thereby--but
perchance I weary you?
DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?
TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is
he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of
Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of
Tartary--
MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and
what you want.
TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by
my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will
have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only
to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears
and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled
to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears
and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I
getting any nearer the door?
MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see
that we must have your tale.
TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about
everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the
other has the honour to belong to that sex which--have I said it?--you
and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.
MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.
TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live
to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My
grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what
the old man is thinking. Little will they know--But I will attend you
further within. [He bows and disappears.]
DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last.
MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?
[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the
FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the
FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with
a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]
TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the
honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His
Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.
MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.
TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy title
bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle with an
unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray
you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke--the title was
granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed
with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit
of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal.
DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!
SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.
MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.
TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays
"cuckoo" with an air.)
SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.
TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns
me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely
encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now,
where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.)
I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to
DAUGHTER.)
SINGER. Marvellous!
MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?
TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?
MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in
need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent
to match the singing and playing of your friends?
FIDDLER. He talks.
MOTHER. I had noticed it.
TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good
enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like
myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition;
this--I--(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your
gracious permission to begin again?
MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.
TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame--
MOTHER. If you could, sir.
TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I--er--go round
with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.
TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you
observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy.
DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?
TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself
I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be
limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.
MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad
to hear your friends.
(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)
TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will
accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I
may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
Oh, when the wind is in the North,
I take my staff and sally forth;
And when it whistles from the East
I do not mind it in the least;
The warm wind murmurs through the trees
Its messages from Southern seas;
But after all perhaps the best
Is that which whispers from the West.
Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
The staff which helps to carry me,
I cut it from the Hazel-tree;
But once I had a cudgel torn
Most circumspectly from the Thorn;
I know a fellow, far from rash,
Who swears entirely by the Ash;
And all good travellers invoke
A blessing on the mighty Oak.
Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
Some years ago I gave my heart
To Prue until we had to part;
Then, seeing Susan's pretty face,
I left it with her for a space;
And Susan had my heart until
I wanted it for Mistress Jill;
I think, although I am not clear,
That Chloe's had it this last year.
Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will,
So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the
applause.)
DAUGHTER. I'm not sure that I like that last verse.
TALKER. Oh, you mustn't believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow
by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.
SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us,
Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman
only.
TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to
it.
MOTHER. Your song was well sung, sir; I thank you for it. (To the
FIDDLER) Will you not play us something now?
FIDDLER. If you wish it.
TALKER. You would wish me to accompany her, of course.
MOTHER (with a smile). It is kind of you, sir, but I think perhaps my
daughter--
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Yes, of course, I will if I can. (She goes to the
spinet.)
FIDDLER (playing a few notes). Do you know this?
DAUGHTER. Yes, I think so. (She plays. At the end of it the TALKER finds
himself bowing to the applause.)
TALKER. And now, Madame, you have had a sample of all our poor talents,
save and except that paltry talent of mine which in other company
concludes such a performance. I pray you tell me what you think of the
entertainment.
MOTHER. I have enjoyed it immensely, good Master Johannes. And if you
did wish to exercise that talent of yours, of which so far we have only
heard--
TALKER. Nay, nay, Madame, I beg you.
MOTHER. Then, Sir, I offer you my grateful thanks for your
entertainment.
DAUGHTER. And I too.
TALKER. Ladies, you are too kind--er--(he hesitates)--er--
MOTHER. Yes?
TALKER, The fact is, Madame, that now we approach or, so to speak,
draw nigh or adjacent--in other words, Madame, we are perilously
approximate--
FIDDLER. Tell her straight out.
MOTHER. Tell her what?
FIDDLER. What we've come for.
SINGER. Master Johannes, Madam, is so accustomed when he goes round with
the hat to disguise under it flow of words the fact that money is as
necessary to an artist as applause, that he has lost the habit of saying
anything in less than ten sentences.
TALKER (mournfully). And yet I am a taciturn man.
MOWER. Well, will somebody tell me, for I confess I have been wondering
what is behind it all.
FIDDLER. Tell her, Johannes.
TALKER. If you will allow me, Madame. But tell me first, did you notice
anything lacking in our performance?
MOTHER (surprised). No; I don't think so.
TALKER (to DAUGHTER). Perhaps you, Mademoiselle?
DAUGHTER (shyly). It seemed to lack a woman's voice, sir.
TALKER (admiringly). What intelligence! What profundity! (To MOTHER)
Madam, I felicitate you again on your daughter. Unerringly she has laid
her finger on the weak joint in our armour. We have no woman's voice.
MOTHER. Well, Sir, I don't see how I can help you.
TALKER. Madame, you have a nightingale. It has lived in a cage all its
life. It looks through the bars sometimes, and sees the great world
outside, and sighs and turns back to its business of singing. Madame, it
would sing better outside in the open air, with the other birds.
MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my daughter?
TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs beyond
the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that bank, I and
my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and washing it down with
draughts from that good stream. We were tired, for we had come from over
the hills that morning, and it was good to lie on our backs there and
watch the little clouds taking shape after shape in the blue, and so
to dream our dreams. In a little while the road would take us westward,
here through a wood banked with primroses, there across a common or
between high spring hedges with the little stream babbling ever at the
side of us. And in the evening we would come to an inn, where there
would be good company, and we would sing and play to them, and they
would reward us. (With a shrug) It is a pleasant life.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on!
MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir.
TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the
nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale." His
Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the sun, and
says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps his cap
back again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I, "in this matter of
nightingales? Is it possible," says I; "the sun being where it is, and
nightingales being what they are--to wit, nightingales?" "It's not a
nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily, "it's a girl." "Then," says I,
jumping up, "it is a girl we want. She must put the red feather in
her cap, and come her ways with us." (With a bow) Madame, your humble
servant.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I must! He
is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see something of the
world before I grow old!
FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she ought
to come.
SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her,
Madame, as if she were our own sister.
MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as a
drink, Master Johannes?
TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider--ah,
there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I am by
nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of cider I could
talk you--
MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take them,
child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have deserved
it for their entertainment.
DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please.
[She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last and
murmuring "Cider" to himself.]
MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if you
please, sir.
TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for the
expectation.
MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are you,
all of you?
TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness Princess
Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a humble
Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red Feathers. For
myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a close disposition.
MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the world,
and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to you, for
however little a time, I must know something more about you.
TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I have
never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years of age; it
is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you something
about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years ago, when I was
born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too ready to begin. It is
a subject I find vastly pleasant. But, (looking at her comically) shall
I begin?
MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir?
TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one who has
but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express himself, talking
is a great comfort.
MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I
think you must be a man of _our_ world?
TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's
heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can
give you that comfort.
MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?
(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he
takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is
immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming
face.)
TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop
any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was
a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving
himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose
it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy
he abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant
melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke.
MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just
gone). You mean he really is--
TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to
speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his
lips) Cuck-oo!
MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we have
no neighbours. I have wondered what to do--it seemed that I could do so
little. If only I could be sure--(Suddenly) Master Johannes, do you like
the look of this house with its little stream opposite, and the green
bank running down, on which one may lie on one's back and look up at the
sky?
TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our bread
and cheese outside it?
MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find room
for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I must know
something of you. I think that is the best way, is it not? (With a very
friendly smile) The cider is good, you know.
TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more.
[The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a cap
with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the MOTHER, and
to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]
TOGETHER. The cuckoo comes in April,
Sings his song in May,
Changes his tune in the middle of June,
And then he flies away.
HE. The cuckoo comes when April's here--
He is not very good, I fear.
He goes and takes another nest--
Perhaps he does it for the best.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...
SHE. When April's over he begins
Repenting of his former sins;
From tree to tree he takes his way,
But this is all he finds to say:
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...
HE. By June he gets a trifle flat,
Which is not to be wondered at,
And critical observers note
A huskiness about the throat.
(Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!...
SHE. Alas! he does not stay for long,
But other birds take up the song
Of summer gently following
The wild and happy days of Spring.
Cuckoo!
(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la, la!"
to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion they all
bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.)
MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh!
TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen!
EVERYBODY. What?
TALKER. Didn't I hear somebody say "cider"?
***
(It is eight days later when we see them again. The DAUGHTER is at the
spinet, playing an accompaniment to the song which she and the SINGER
are sharing for the moment.)
SHE. He does not know I love him,
He does not care;
The sky is blue above him,
The road is there
For those who dare--
Alas! why should he care?
HE. She does not know I love her,
She does not know;
The sky is blue above her,
The soft winds blow
Where violets grow--
Alas! how should she know?
TOGETHER. Yet those who sing
About the Spring
All say it should bring
Two lovers together!
Oh where, oh where
Will you find a pair
So matched as you and I, love?
Come rain or shine,
Come wet or fine,
If you are mine
What matter the weather?
Oh take my hand
And kiss me and
Confess that you are my love.
HE. She does not know I love her--
Ah yes, she knows;
The sky is blue above her,
The buds disclose
The first wild rose--
Ah yes, she knows, she knows!
SHE. He cares not that I love him--
Ah yes, he cares;
The sky is blue above him,
A thrush declares
The world is theirs--
Ah yes, how much he cares!
TOGETHER. For those who sing, etc.
DAUGHTER (looking up at him). It is a pretty song.
SINGER. The words, I thought, were good. I liked the words.
DAUGHTER. Who thinks of the words of a song if the tune be pretty?
SINGER. But if the heart of the singer be in the words?
DAUGHTER (suddenly, as, she gets up). Tell me about Chloe.
SINGER (surprised). Chloe?
DAUGHTER. Or whatever her name was.
SINGER (hurt). I am not sure that I understand this conversation.
DAUGHTER. I mean the first one.
SINGER. I am not sure that I like this conversation.
DAUGHTER. She was the first, wasn't she--the one who made you renounce
the world and take to the road?
SINGER (stiffly). Her name was not Chloe.
DAUGHTER (coaxingly). What was it?
SINGER (annoyed). Why rake up the dead ashes of the past? I was but a
boy. It was five months ago. Besides, her name was Penelope.
DAUGHTER. You still remember it, though it was so long ago?
SINGER. I could have pretended to have forgotten, if it would have
pleased you better.
DAUGHTER (coldly). I? Oh, I am not interested.
SINGER. Well, _I_ didn't start the subject. Perhaps, as neither of us is
interested, I had better withdraw. Since we are to start this afternoon,
I have much to see about. (Bowing) With your permission.
DAUGHTER (stopping him). Don't go. I am sorry. I have been unkind.
SINGER (smiling). Shall we practise that other song? Our voices agree,
if our--our hearts do not.
DAUGHTER (distressed). Oh, don't say that. We must be friends.
SINGER. Only friends?
DAUGHTER (gently). Tell me about her.
SINGER. There is not much to tell, dear. I thought she loved me. Perhaps
that was why I thought I loved her. When I told her, she pretended to
be surprised. I don't think she was surprised. She was very pretty. (He
pauses.)
DAUGHTER. And hard?
SINGER. It is not for me to say anything against her. It is through her
that I came here.
DAUGHTER. When you came here the other day, had you forgotten her?
SINGER (singing). "Oh, let the wench, the wench be whom she will, so
long as I can walk on Morland Hill." Didn't I say so on that first day?
DAUGHTER. Of course, I know very little of the world, but I do wonder
sometimes if people who sing about the joys of wandering are really
enjoying it all the time.
SINGER (looking round at the window). Is Johannes about?
DAUGHTER (surprised). No.
SINGER. Then I will be frank with you. Just lately _I_ have been
wondering too.
DAUGHTER. Oh!
SINGER (rapidly). I have a house; you would like my house. I have a
park; you would like the park. Horses to ride and jewels to wear. I go
to London sometimes and see the King; you would like London.
DAUGHTER (tragically). I have never been to London.
SINGER (letting himself go suddenly). Sweetheart, all that I have--(In
an ordinary whisper) Be careful, Fiddler just went past the window.
(Keeping his arm round her, he breaks into the last line or two of his
song. She joins in, as if they were rehearsing.)
[Enter the FIDDLER.]
SINGER (to DAUGHTER). Yes, I think we have it pretty well now. 'Tis a
good song. (Turning round suddenly and seeing the FIDDLER). Ah, Fiddler,
are you there? What do you think of it?
FIDDLER. Isn't it time to start?
SINGER. To start? Ah yes, we start this afternoon. Well, we have had a
pleasant holiday and must get to work again.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). And I am coming with you.
FIDDLER. It is settled?
DAUGHTER. Oh yes, I think so.
FIDDLER. It is the best life. (TO DAUGHTER) Play something.
[As the DAUGHTER goes to the spinet, the SINGER goes out.]
(They play. When it is over, the DAUGHTER turns round and looks at the
FIDDLER, and sighs.)
DAUGHTER. That is all you want? Just you and your fiddle and the open
road?
FIDDLER. It is the best life.
[The TALKER appears at the window.]
TALKER. Aha! what did I hear? Did I hear our loquacious Fiddler
perorating upon Life? "Life," quoth she, with much argument and
circumstantial matter; "Life," she continued, making her points singly
and one by one, thus keeping the business in its true perspective; "Life
is--" (Lamely) Well, what is life?
FIDDLER. When do we start, Johannes?
[The DAUGHTER goes out.]
TALKER. Are you so eager to be gone?
FIDDLER. We have been here eight days.
TALKER. Eight days! And Troy was besieged for eleven years! Eight days!
Why, I could talk for eight days without taking breath, and I am by
nature a glum, silent man. Nay, nay, say not to me "Eight days." Eight
days will not make a man grow old or a woman lose her beauty. (The
MOTHER comes into the room.) Or a woman lose her beauty--Madame, I kiss
your hands. Were I of less girth I would flit through the window and
fall upon my knees at your feet. (The FIDDLER with a shrug goes out.)
As it is, I shall enter by the door in the usual way. I have your
permission?
MOTHER (smiling). You asked my permission a week ago. You do not need to
ask it now.
TALKER (still at the window). It has been a happy week. The week has
liked me well.
MOTHER. You take the road again this afternoon. Your plan still holds?
TALKER (with a sigh). They say so, lady.
MOTHER. Who say so? Is not Master Johannes the master of his company?
Who say so?
TALKER. The birds. I held converse with a cuckoo-bird this morning.
"Cuckoo," he said--in this manner (he imitates it on his pipe)--meaning,
as I gathered, "O fool!" I bowed low to him, and "Pardon, bird," said
I,--"but I would have you tell me why I am a fool." He answered thus in
parables--"Cuckoo."
MOTHER. And what did _that_ mean?
TALKER (sighing). It meant, "There's no fool like an old fool."
(She looks away. He waits a little, then sighs again and leaves the
window, entering a moment later by the door.)
MOTHER (looking up). Well, Sir?
TALKER. Madame, I am a man of good family, although--although I
quarrelled with my good family. I left them many years ago and took to
the road. I have seen something of the world since then, but I think I
must always have had at the back of my mind some dim picture of what a
home was--some ancient memory, perhaps. That memory has been very strong
within me these last days.
MOTHER. You have liked my home, Master Johannes?
TALKER. I have liked it well. (He takes out his pipe and plays a
melancholy "Cuckoo.") Well, well--we start this afternoon.
MOTHER. You want my daughter?
TALKER (sadly). Not your daughter, Madame.
MOTHER. What is it you want? Are you so backward in asking? It is not
like the Master Johannes who came to my house eight days ago.
TALKER (taking his courage in his hands). Madame, though I have wandered
about the world, I have saved some pennies in my time. A few trifling
coins--enough for middle-age. Since I have had the great honour of
knowing you--(He breaks of as the voice of the SINGER to full song
is heard approaching.) Oh, God bless that poor young fool! Madame, I
entreat you--
MOTHER (rising and moving hastily away). Another time, dear
Johannes--(she smiles very fondly at him as she goes out)--another time
you must tell me--all.
(The TALKER stares after her, hardly believing. Then, with an air
of solemn happiness, he takes out his pipe and dances carefully but
cheerfully round the room, piping to himself. The SINGER comes in
singing merrily, He joins the TALKER at the end of the room, turns round
with hint and trips up and down the room with him, one singing and the
other piping.)
TALKER. Friend, we are gay.
SINGER. Very, very gay, Master Johannes. (They turn round and go up and
down the room as before.)
TALKER. Something is stirring our middle-aged blood. I feel years
younger.
SINGER. I have only just been born.
TALKER (with a wave of the hand): Shall we take another turn?
SINGER. At your pleasure. (They go up and down as before.)
TALKER (looking at the other anxiously out of the corners of his eyes).
What do you think has happened to us?
SINGER (with a similar look). I--I wonder.
TALKER (nervously). I suppose the fact that we are going off this
afternoon--the joy of returning to our old gay life is--is affecting us?
SINGER. I--I suppose so. (Without enthusiasm) Yes, that must be it.
TALKER. This cauliflower existence, this settled life which even the
least enterprising cabbage would find monotonous, we have had more than
enough of it, my friend.
SINGER. Yes. (He sighs deeply.) I sigh to think how we have wasted these
eight days.
TALKER. Ah! (He sighs still more deeply.) However, Heaven be praised, we
are for the road this afternoon.
SINGER (gloomily). Heaven be praised! It is a grand life.
TALKER (carelessly). Of course, if you came to me and said, "Johannes,"
you said, "I left my home in a fit of melancholy five months agone; the
melancholy is cured, I will return home again"--why, I would say, "God
bless you, Master Duke; go your way." Well, I can understand such a
thing happening to a man of your age, not born to the wandering as I am.
SINGER. Bless you, Johannes, you are a true gentleman.
TALKER (airily). Say no more, say no more.
SINGER. But I cannot accept this sacrifice. I pledged myself to serve
you for a year, and I'll keep my pledge.
TALKER (considerably upset by this). Wait a moment, Master Duke; I have
myself thought of retiring these many months past. Indeed, it was only
for your sake--
SINGER. No, no, I cannot allow it. It is only for my sake that you are
saying this. We will take the road this afternoon. (Heroically) Indeed,
I would infinitely prefer it. I am enamoured of the wandering life.
TALKER. It is a great life. It means everything to me.
(They stand side by side looking gloomily in front of them. Gradually
they begin to glance towards each other; they catch each other's
eyes--and understand each other thoroughly.)
TALKER (clapping the SINGER heartily on the back). I knew it, I knew it!
You and the wandering life!
SINGER (delightedly). You, too, Johannes! You've had enough of it!
(They suddenly turn round and go up and down the room together, piping
and singing. A genteel cough is heard outside the window, and the MOTHER
is seen for a moment. The TALKER turns round with his pipe to his lips.
They go up the room together again, and at the top the TALKER, with a
wave of the hand, leaves his companion and goes out. He is seen passing
the window.)
[The DAUGHTER comes in.]
SINGER. Sweetheart!
DAUGHTER (going to him). Is it all right?
SINGER. Everything is all right, beloved.
DAUGHTER. You have told him?
SINGER (nodding). It couldn't have fallen out better. He, too, was tired
of wandering and wanted to settle down.
DAUGHTER. I told mother. She seemed glad. You know, I think she seems
younger about something.
[Enter FIDDLER.]
FIDDLER. Are we starting this afternoon?
DAUGHTER. Oh, Fiddler dear, do you mind very much? (She holds out her
hand, and the SINGER takes it.) We aren't coming at all. We--we--
SINGER. We are getting married.
FIDDLER (nodding to herself). I thought so.
DAUGHTER. But you will come and stay with us sometimes. Oh, say you
will!
SINGER (smiling at FIDDLER with great friendliness). Of course she will.
(The TALKER and the MOTHER are seen coming least the windows.)
FIDDLER. There's Johannes. I expect we shall be starting this afternoon.
[The TALKER and the MOTHER come in arm-in-arm. He bows to her and takes
the floor.]
TALKER. Ladies and gentlemen, companions-in-arms, knights and ladies of
the road, comrades all,--I have the honour to make an announcement to
you. The wandering company of the Red Feathers is determined from this
date, likewise disbanded, or, as others would say, dissolved. "What
means this, Master Johannes?" I hear you say. "Who has done this thing?"
Ladies and gentles all, I answer you that young Cupid has done this
thing. With unerring aim he has loosed his arrows. With the same happy
arrow (taking the MOTHER'S hand) he has pierced the hearts of this
gracious lady and myself, while yonder gallant gentleman I name no
names, but the perspicacious will perceive whom I mean--is about to link
his life with the charming maiden who stands so modestly by his side.
There is one other noble lady present to whom I have not yet referred--
FIDDLER (holding out her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go.
Good-bye, and thank you.
MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.
TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet
referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the
fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish of
(swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should take up
her abode with us.
FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--
DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she
promised.
MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be much
more suitable that she should live with _us_.
SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see you
whenever she liked.
MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and come and
see _you_ sometimes.
TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to this?
For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year, she shall
live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her habitation with
us; whereas for the other six months--(They have been so busy discussing
the future of the FIDDLER that they have not noticed that she is no
longer there. Suddenly the sound of the fiddle is heard.) What's that?
[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in it.
She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content again.
She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them a little
bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She goes out
of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she goes past the
windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she is gone they still
listen until the music dies in the distance.]