ACT II
ACT III
INTRODUCTION
To the irreverent—and which of us will claim entire exemption from that
comfortable classification?—there is something very amusing in the
attitude of the orthodox criticism toward Bernard Shaw. He so obviously
disregards all the canons and unities and other things which every
well-bred dramatist is bound to respect that his work is really
unworthy of serious criticism (orthodox). Indeed he knows no more about
the _dramatic art_ than, according to his own story in “The Man of
Destiny,” Napoleon at Tavazzano knew of the _Art of War_. But both men
were successes each in his way—the latter won victories and the former
gained audiences, in the very teeth of the accepted theories of war and
the theatre. Shaw does not know that it is unpardonable sin to have his
characters make long speeches at one another, apparently thinking that
this embargo applies only to long speeches which consist mainly of
bombast and rhetoric. There never was an author who showed less
predilection for a specific medium by which to accomplish his results.
He recognized, early in his days, many things awry in the world and he
assumed the task of mundane reformation with a confident spirit. It
seems such a small job at twenty to set the times aright. He began as
an Essayist, but who reads essays now-a-days?—he then turned novelist
with no better success, for no one would read such preposterous stuff
as he chose to emit. He only succeeded in proving that absolutely
rational men and women—although he has created few of the latter—can be
most extremely disagreeable to our conventional way of thinking.
As a last resort, he turned to the stage, not that he cared for the
dramatic art, for no man seems to care less about “Art for Art’s sake,”
being in this a perfect foil to his brilliant compatriot and
contemporary, Wilde. He cast his theories in dramatic forms merely
because no other course except silence or physical revolt was open to
him. For a long time it seemed as if this resource too was doomed to
fail him. But finally he has attained a hearing and now attempts at
suppression merely serve to advertise their victim.
It will repay those who seek analogies in literature to compare Shaw
with Cervantes. After a life of heroic endeavor, disappointment,
slavery, and poverty, the author of “Don Quixote” gave the world a
serious work which caused to be laughed off the world’s stage forever
the final vestiges of decadent chivalry.
The institution had long been outgrown, but its vernacular continued to
be the speech and to express the thought “of the world and among the
vulgar,” as the quaint, old novelist puts it, just as to-day the novel
intended for the consumption of the unenlightened must deal with peers
and millionaires and be dressed in stilted language. Marvellously he
succeeded, but in a way he least intended. We have not yet, after so
many years, determined whether it is a work to laugh or cry over. “It
is our joyfullest modern book,” says Carlyle, while Landor thinks that
“readers who see nothing more than a burlesque in ‘Don Quixote’ have
but shallow appreciation of the work.”
Shaw in like manner comes upon the scene when many of our social usages
are outworn. He sees the fact, announces it, and we burst into guffaws.
The continuous laughter which greets Shaw’s plays arises from a real
contrast in the point of view of the dramatist and his audiences. When
Pinero or Jones describes a whimsical situation we never doubt for a
moment that the author’s point of view is our own and that the abnormal
predicament of his characters appeals to him in the same light as to
his audience. With Shaw this sense of community of feeling is wholly
lacking. He describes things as he sees them, and the house is in a
roar. Who is right? If we were really using our own senses and not
gazing through the glasses of convention and romance and make-believe,
should we see things as Shaw does?
Must it not cause Shaw to doubt his own or the public’s sanity to hear
audiences laughing boisterously over tragic situations? And yet, if
they did not come to laugh, they would not come at all. Mockery is the
price he must pay for a hearing. Or has he calculated to a nicety the
power of reaction? Does he seek to drive us to aspiration by the
portrayal of sordidness, to disinterestedness by the picture of
selfishness, to illusion by disillusionment? It is impossible to
believe that he is unconscious of the humor of his dramatic situations,
yet he stoically gives no sign. He even dares the charge, terrible in
proportion to its truth, which the most serious of us shrinks from—the
lack of a sense of humor. Men would rather have their integrity
impugned.
In “Arms and the Man” the subject which occupies the dramatist’s
attention is that survival of barbarity—militarism—which raises its
horrid head from time to time to cast a doubt on the reality of our
civilization. No more hoary superstition survives than that the donning
of a uniform changes the nature of the wearer. This notion pervades
society to such an extent that when we find some soldiers placed upon
the stage acting rationally, our conventionalized senses are shocked.
The only men who have no illusions about war are those who have
recently been there, and, of course, Mr. Shaw, who has no illusions
about anything.
It is hard to speak too highly of “Candida.” No equally subtle and
incisive study of domestic relations exists in the English drama. One
has to turn to George Meredith’s “The Egoist” to find such character
dissection. The central note of the play is, that with the true woman,
weakness which appeals to the maternal instinct is more powerful than
strength which offers protection. _Candida_ is quite unpoetic, as,
indeed, with rare exceptions, women are prone to be. They have small
delight in poetry, but are the stuff of which poems and dreams are
made. The husband glorying in his strength but convicted of his
weakness, the poet pitiful in his physical impotence but strong in his
perception of truth, the hopelessly de-moralized manufacturer, the
conventional and hence emotional typist make up a group which the drama
of any language may be challenged to rival.
In “The Man of Destiny” the object of the dramatist is not so much the
destruction as the explanation of the Napoleonic tradition, which has
so powerfully influenced generation after generation for a century.
However the man may be regarded, he was a miracle. Shaw shows that he
achieved his extraordinary career by suspending, for himself, the
pressure of the moral and conventional atmosphere, while leaving it
operative for others. Those who study this play—extravaganza, that it
is—will attain a clearer comprehension of Napoleon than they can get
from all the biographies.
“You Never Can Tell” offers an amusing study of the play of social
conventions. The “twins” illustrate the disconcerting effects of that
perfect frankness which would make life intolerable. _Gloria_
demonstrates the powerlessness of reason to overcome natural instincts.
The idea that parental duties and functions can be fulfilled by the
light of such knowledge as man and woman attain by intuition is
brilliantly lampooned. _Crampton_, the father, typifies the common
superstition that among the privileges of parenthood are inflexibility,
tyranny, and respect, the last entirely regardless of whether it has
been deserved.
The waiter, _William_, is the best illustration of the man “who knows
his place” that the stage has seen. He is the most pathetic figure of
the play. One touch of verisimilitude is lacking; none of the guests
gives him a tip, yet he maintains his urbanity. As Mr. Shaw has not yet
visited America he may be unaware of the improbability of this
situation.
To those who regard literary men merely as purveyors of amusement for
people who have not wit enough to entertain themselves, Ibsen and Shaw,
Maeterlinck and Gorky must remain enigmas. It is so much pleasanter to
ignore than to face unpleasant realities—to take Riverside Drive and
not Mulberry Street as the exponent of our life and the expression of
our civilization. These men are the sappers and miners of the advancing
army of justice. The audience which demands the truth and despises the
contemptible conventions that dominate alike our stage and our life is
daily growing. Shaw and men like him—if indeed he is not absolutely
unique—will not for the future lack a hearing.
M.
ARMS AND THE MAN
ACT I
Night. A lady’s bedchamber in Bulgaria, in a small town near the
Dragoman Pass. It is late in November in the year 1885, and through an
open window with a little balcony on the left can be seen a peak of the
Balkans, wonderfully white and beautiful in the starlit snow. The
interior of the room is not like anything to be seen in the east of
Europe. It is half rich Bulgarian, half cheap Viennese. The counterpane
and hangings of the bed, the window curtains, the little carpet, and
all the ornamental textile fabrics in the room are oriental and
gorgeous: the paper on the walls is occidental and paltry. Above the
head of the bed, which stands against a little wall cutting off the
right hand corner of the room diagonally, is a painted wooden shrine,
blue and gold, with an ivory image of Christ, and a light hanging
before it in a pierced metal ball suspended by three chains. On the
left, further forward, is an ottoman. The washstand, against the wall
on the left, consists of an enamelled iron basin with a pail beneath it
in a painted metal frame, and a single towel on the rail at the side. A
chair near it is Austrian bent wood, with cane seat. The dressing
table, between the bed and the window, is an ordinary pine table,
covered with a cloth of many colors, but with an expensive toilet
mirror on it. The door is on the right; and there is a chest of drawers
between the door and the bed. This chest of drawers is also covered by
a variegated native cloth, and on it there is a pile of paper backed
novels, a box of chocolate creams, and a miniature easel, on which is a
large photograph of an extremely handsome officer, whose lofty bearing
and magnetic glance can be felt even from the portrait. The room is
lighted by a candle on the chest of drawers, and another on the
dressing table, with a box of matches beside it.
The window is hinged doorwise and stands wide open, folding back to the
left. Outside a pair of wooden shutters, opening outwards, also stand
open. On the balcony, a young lady, intensely conscious of the romantic
beauty of the night, and of the fact that her own youth and beauty is a
part of it, is on the balcony, gazing at the snowy Balkans. She is
covered by a long mantle of furs, worth, on a moderate estimate, about
three times the furniture of her room.
Her reverie is interrupted by her mother, Catherine Petkoff, a woman
over forty, imperiously energetic, with magnificent black hair and
eyes, who might be a very splendid specimen of the wife of a mountain
farmer, but is determined to be a Viennese lady, and to that end wears
a fashionable tea gown on all occasions.
CATHERINE.
(_entering hastily, full of good news_). Raina—(_she pronounces it
Rah-eena, with the stress on the ee_) Raina—(_she goes to the bed,
expecting to find Raina there._) Why, where—(_Raina looks into the
room._) Heavens! child, are you out in the night air instead of in your
bed? You’ll catch your death. Louka told me you were asleep.
RAINA.
(_coming in_). I sent her away. I wanted to be alone. The stars are so
beautiful! What is the matter?
CATHERINE.
Such news. There has been a battle!
RAINA.
(_her eyes dilating_). Ah! (_She throws the cloak on the ottoman, and
comes eagerly to Catherine in her nightgown, a pretty garment, but
evidently the only one she has on._)
CATHERINE.
A great battle at Slivnitza! A victory! And it was won by Sergius.
RAINA.
(_with a cry of delight_). Ah! (_Rapturously._) Oh, mother! (_Then,
with sudden anxiety_) Is father safe?
CATHERINE.
Of course: he sent me the news. Sergius is the hero of the hour, the
idol of the regiment.
RAINA.
Tell me, tell me. How was it! (_Ecstatically_) Oh, mother, mother,
mother! (_Raina pulls her mother down on the ottoman; and they kiss one
another frantically._)
CATHERINE.
(_with surging enthusiasm_). You can’t guess how splendid it is. A
cavalry charge—think of that! He defied our Russian commanders—acted
without orders—led a charge on his own responsibility—headed it
himself—was the first man to sweep through their guns. Can’t you see
it, Raina; our gallant splendid Bulgarians with their swords and eyes
flashing, thundering down like an avalanche and scattering the wretched
Servian dandies like chaff. And you—you kept Sergius waiting a year
before you would be betrothed to him. Oh, if you have a drop of
Bulgarian blood in your veins, you will worship him when he comes back.
RAINA.
What will he care for my poor little worship after the acclamations of
a whole army of heroes? But no matter: I am so happy—so proud! (_She
rises and walks about excitedly._) It proves that all our ideas were
real after all.
CATHERINE.
(_indignantly_). Our ideas real! What do you mean?
RAINA.
Our ideas of what Sergius would do—our patriotism—our heroic ideals.
Oh, what faithless little creatures girls are!—I sometimes used to
doubt whether they were anything but dreams. When I buckled on
Sergius’s sword he looked so noble: it was treason to think of
disillusion or humiliation or failure. And yet—and yet—(_Quickly._)
Promise me you’ll never tell him.
CATHERINE.
Don’t ask me for promises until I know what I am promising.
RAINA.
Well, it came into my head just as he was holding me in his arms and
looking into my eyes, that perhaps we only had our heroic ideas because
we are so fond of reading Byron and Pushkin, and because we were so
delighted with the opera that season at Bucharest. Real life is so
seldom like that—indeed never, as far as I knew it then.
(_Remorsefully._) Only think, mother, I doubted him: I wondered whether
all his heroic qualities and his soldiership might not prove mere
imagination when he went into a real battle. I had an uneasy fear that
he might cut a poor figure there beside all those clever Russian
officers.
CATHERINE.
A poor figure! Shame on you! The Servians have Austrian officers who
are just as clever as our Russians; but we have beaten them in every
battle for all that.
RAINA.
(_laughing and sitting down again_). Yes, I was only a prosaic little
coward. Oh, to think that it was all true—that Sergius is just as
splendid and noble as he looks—that the world is really a glorious
world for women who can see its glory and men who can act its romance!
What happiness! what unspeakable fulfilment! Ah! (_She throws herself
on her knees beside her mother and flings her arms passionately round
her. They are interrupted by the entry of Louka, a handsome, proud girl
in a pretty Bulgarian peasant’s dress with double apron, so defiant
that her servility to Raina is almost insolent. She is afraid of
Catherine, but even with her goes as far as she dares. She is just now
excited like the others; but she has no sympathy for Raina’s raptures
and looks contemptuously at the ecstasies of the two before she
addresses them._)
LOUKA.
If you please, madam, all the windows are to be closed and the shutters
made fast. They say there may be shooting in the streets. (_Raina and
Catherine rise together, alarmed._) The Servians are being chased right
back through the pass; and they say they may run into the town. Our
cavalry will be after them; and our people will be ready for them you
may be sure, now that they are running away. (_She goes out on the
balcony and pulls the outside shutters to; then steps back into the
room._)
RAINA.
I wish our people were not so cruel. What glory is there in killing
wretched fugitives?
CATHERINE.
(_business-like, her housekeeping instincts aroused_). I must see that
everything is made safe downstairs.
RAINA.
(_to Louka_). Leave the shutters so that I can just close them if I
hear any noise.
CATHERINE.
(_authoritatively, turning on her way to the door_). Oh, no, dear, you
must keep them fastened. You would be sure to drop off to sleep and
leave them open. Make them fast, Louka.
LOUKA.
Yes, madam. (_She fastens them._)
RAINA.
Don’t be anxious about me. The moment I hear a shot, I shall blow out
the candles and roll myself up in bed with my ears well covered.
CATHERINE.
Quite the wisest thing you can do, my love. Good-night.
RAINA.
Good-night. (_They kiss one another, and Raina’s emotion comes back for
a moment._) Wish me joy of the happiest night of my life—if only there
are no fugitives.
CATHERINE.
Go to bed, dear; and don’t think of them. (_She goes out._)
LOUKA.
(_secretly, to Raina_). If you would like the shutters open, just give
them a push like this. (_She pushes them: they open: she pulls them to
again._) One of them ought to be bolted at the bottom; but the bolt’s
gone.
RAINA.
(_with dignity, reproving her_). Thanks, Louka; but we must do what we
are told. (_Louka makes a grimace._) Good-night.
LOUKA.
(_carelessly_). Good-night. (_She goes out, swaggering._)
(_Raina, left alone, goes to the chest of drawers, and adores the
portrait there with feelings that are beyond all expression. She does
not kiss it or press it to her breast, or shew it any mark of bodily
affection; but she takes it in her hands and elevates it like a
priestess._)
RAINA.
(_looking up at the picture with worship._) Oh, I shall never be
unworthy of you any more, my hero—never, never, never.
(_She replaces it reverently, and selects a novel from the little pile
of books. She turns over the leaves dreamily; finds her page; turns the
book inside out at it; and then, with a happy sigh, gets into bed and
prepares to read herself to sleep. But before abandoning herself to
fiction, she raises her eyes once more, thinking of the blessed reality
and murmurs_)
My hero! my hero!
(_A distant shot breaks the quiet of the night outside. She starts,
listening; and two more shots, much nearer, follow, startling her so
that she scrambles out of bed, and hastily blows out the candle on the
chest of drawers. Then, putting her fingers in her ears, she runs to
the dressing-table and blows out the light there, and hurries back to
bed. The room is now in darkness: nothing is visible but the glimmer of
the light in the pierced ball before the image, and the starlight seen
through the slits at the top of the shutters. The firing breaks out
again: there is a startling fusillade quite close at hand. Whilst it is
still echoing, the shutters disappear, pulled open from without, and
for an instant the rectangle of snowy starlight flashes out with the
figure of a man in black upon it. The shutters close immediately and
the room is dark again. But the silence is now broken by the sound of
panting. Then there is a scrape; and the flame of a match is seen in
the middle of the room._)
RAINA.
(_crouching on the bed_). Who’s there? (_The match is out instantly._)
Who’s there? Who is that?
A MAN’S VOICE.
(_in the darkness, subduedly, but threateningly_). Sh—sh! Don’t call
out or you’ll be shot. Be good; and no harm will happen to you. (_She
is heard leaving her bed, and making for the door._) Take care, there’s
no use in trying to run away. Remember, if you raise your voice my
pistol will go off. (_Commandingly._) Strike a light and let me see
you. Do you hear? (_Another moment of silence and darkness. Then she is
heard retreating to the dressing-table. She lights a candle, and the
mystery is at an end. A man of about 35, in a deplorable plight,
bespattered with mud and blood and snow, his belt and the strap of his
revolver case keeping together the torn ruins of the blue coat of a
Servian artillery officer. As far as the candlelight and his unwashed,
unkempt condition make it possible to judge, he is a man of middling
stature and undistinguished appearance, with strong neck and shoulders,
a roundish, obstinate looking head covered with short crisp bronze
curls, clear quick blue eyes and good brows and mouth, a hopelessly
prosaic nose like that of a strong-minded baby, trim soldierlike
carriage and energetic manner, and with all his wits about him in spite
of his desperate predicament—even with a sense of humor of it, without,
however, the least intention of trifling with it or throwing away a
chance. He reckons up what he can guess about Raina—her age, her social
position, her character, the extent to which she is frightened—at a
glance, and continues, more politely but still most determinedly_)
Excuse my disturbing you; but you recognise my uniform—Servian. If I’m
caught I shall be killed. (_Determinedly._) Do you understand that?
RAINA.
Yes.
MAN.
Well, I don’t intend to get killed if I can help it. (_Still more
determinedly._) Do you understand that? (_He locks the door with a
snap._)
RAINA.
(_disdainfully_). I suppose not. (_She draws herself up superbly, and
looks him straight in the face, saying with emphasis_) Some soldiers, I
know, are afraid of death.
MAN.
(_with grim goodhumor_). All of them, dear lady, all of them, believe
me. It is our duty to live as long as we can, and kill as many of the
enemy as we can. Now if you raise an alarm—
RAINA.
(_cutting him short_). You will shoot me. How do you know that I am
afraid to die?
MAN.
(_cunningly_). Ah; but suppose I don’t shoot you, what will happen
then? Why, a lot of your cavalry—the greatest blackguards in your
army—will burst into this pretty room of yours and slaughter me here
like a pig; for I’ll fight like a demon: they shan’t get me into the
street to amuse themselves with: I know what they are. Are you prepared
to receive that sort of company in your present undress? (_Raina,
suddenly conscious of her nightgown, instinctively shrinks and gathers
it more closely about her. He watches her, and adds, pitilessly_) It’s
rather scanty, eh? (_She turns to the ottoman. He raises his pistol
instantly, and cries_) Stop! (_She stops._) Where are you going?
RAINA.
(_with dignified patience_). Only to get my cloak.
MAN.
(_darting to the ottoman and snatching the cloak_). A good idea. No:
I’ll keep the cloak: and you will take care that nobody comes in and
sees you without it. This is a better weapon than the pistol. (_He
throws the pistol down on the ottoman._)
RAINA.
(_revolted_). It is not the weapon of a gentleman!
MAN.
It’s good enough for a man with only you to stand between him and
death. (_As they look at one another for a moment, Raina hardly able to
believe that even a Servian officer can be so cynically and selfishly
unchivalrous, they are startled by a sharp fusillade in the street. The
chill of imminent death hushes the man’s voice as he adds_) Do you
hear? If you are going to bring those scoundrels in on me you shall
receive them as you are. (_Raina meets his eye with unflinching scorn.
Suddenly he starts, listening. There is a step outside. Someone tries
the door, and then knocks hurriedly and urgently at it. Raina looks at
the man, breathless. He throws up his head with the gesture of a man
who sees that it is all over with him, and, dropping the manner which
he has been assuming to intimidate her, flings the cloak to her,
exclaiming, sincerely and kindly_) No use: I’m done for. Quick! wrap
yourself up: they’re coming!
RAINA.
(_catching the cloak eagerly_). Oh, thank you. (_She wraps herself up
with great relief. He draws his sabre and turns to the door, waiting._)
LOUKA.
(_outside, knocking_). My lady, my lady! Get up, quick, and open the
door.
RAINA.
(_anxiously_). What will you do?
MAN.
(_grimly_). Never mind. Keep out of the way. It will not last long.
RAINA.
(_impulsively_). I’ll help you. Hide yourself, oh, hide yourself,
quick, behind the curtain. (_She seizes him by a torn strip of his
sleeve, and pulls him towards the window._)
MAN.
(_yielding to her_). There is just half a chance, if you keep your
head. Remember: nine soldiers out of ten are born fools. (_He hides
behind the curtain, looking out for a moment to say, finally_) If they
find me, I promise you a fight—a devil of a fight! (_He disappears.
Raina takes off the cloak and throws it across the foot of the bed.
Then with a sleepy, disturbed air, she opens the door. Louka enters
excitedly._)
LOUKA.
A man has been seen climbing up the water-pipe to your balcony—a
Servian. The soldiers want to search for him; and they are so wild and
drunk and furious. My lady says you are to dress at once.
RAINA.
(_as if annoyed at being disturbed_). They shall not search here. Why
have they been let in?
CATHERINE.
(_coming in hastily_). Raina, darling, are you safe? Have you seen
anyone or heard anything?
RAINA.
I heard the shooting. Surely the soldiers will not dare come in here?
CATHERINE.
I have found a Russian officer, thank Heaven: he knows Sergius.
(_Speaking through the door to someone outside._) Sir, will you come in
now! My daughter is ready.
(_A young Russian officer, in Bulgarian uniform, enters, sword in
hand._)
THE OFFICER.
(_with soft, feline politeness and stiff military carriage_). Good
evening, gracious lady; I am sorry to intrude, but there is a fugitive
hiding on the balcony. Will you and the gracious lady your mother
please to withdraw whilst we search?
RAINA.
(_petulantly_). Nonsense, sir, you can see that there is no one on the
balcony. (_She throws the shutters wide open and stands with her back
to the curtain where the man is hidden, pointing to the moonlit
balcony. A couple of shots are fired right under the window, and a
bullet shatters the glass opposite Raina, who winks and gasps, but
stands her ground, whilst Catherine screams, and the officer rushes to
the balcony._)
THE OFFICER.
(_on the balcony, shouting savagely down to the street_). Cease firing
there, you fools: do you hear? Cease firing, damn you. (_He glares down
for a moment; then turns to Raina, trying to resume his polite
manner._) Could anyone have got in without your knowledge? Were you
asleep?
RAINA.
No, I have not been to bed.
THE OFFICER.
(_impatiently, coming back into the room_). Your neighbours have their
heads so full of runaway Servians that they see them everywhere.
(_Politely._) Gracious lady, a thousand pardons. Good-night. (_Military
bow, which Raina returns coldly. Another to Catherine, who follows him
out. Raina closes the shutters. She turns and sees Louka, who has been
watching the scene curiously._)
RAINA.
Don’t leave my mother, Louka, whilst the soldiers are here. (_Louka
glances at Raina, at the ottoman, at the curtain; then purses her lips
secretively, laughs to herself, and goes out. Raina follows her to the
door, shuts it behind her with a slam, and locks it violently. The man
immediately steps out from behind the curtain, sheathing his sabre, and
dismissing the danger from his mind in a businesslike way._)
MAN.
A narrow shave; but a miss is as good as a mile. Dear young lady, your
servant until death. I wish for your sake I had joined the Bulgarian
army instead of the Servian. I am not a native Servian.
RAINA.
(_haughtily_). No, you are one of the Austrians who set the Servians on
to rob us of our national liberty, and who officer their army for them.
We hate them!
MAN.
Austrian! not I. Don’t hate me, dear young lady. I am only a Swiss,
fighting merely as a professional soldier. I joined Servia because it
was nearest to me. Be generous: you’ve beaten us hollow.
RAINA.
Have I not been generous?
MAN.
Noble!—heroic! But I’m not saved yet. This particular rush will soon
pass through; but the pursuit will go on all night by fits and starts.
I must take my chance to get off during a quiet interval. You don’t
mind my waiting just a minute or two, do you?
RAINA.
Oh, no: I am sorry you will have to go into danger again. (_Motioning
towards ottoman._) Won’t you sit—(_She breaks off with an irrepressible
cry of alarm as she catches sight of the pistol. The man, all nerves,
shies like a frightened horse._)
MAN.
(_irritably_). Don’t frighten me like that. What is it?
RAINA.
Your pistol! It was staring that officer in the face all the time. What
an escape!
MAN.
(_vexed at being unnecessarily terrified_). Oh, is that all?
RAINA.
(_staring at him rather superciliously, conceiving a poorer and poorer
opinion of him, and feeling proportionately more and more at her ease
with him_). I am sorry I frightened you. (_She takes up the pistol and
hands it to him._) Pray take it to protect yourself against me.
MAN.
(_grinning wearily at the sarcasm as he takes the pistol_). No use,
dear young lady: there’s nothing in it. It’s not loaded. (_He makes a
grimace at it, and drops it disparagingly into his revolver case._)
RAINA.
Load it by all means.
MAN.
I’ve no ammunition. What use are cartridges in battle? I always carry
chocolate instead; and I finished the last cake of that yesterday.
RAINA.
(_outraged in her most cherished ideals of manhood_). Chocolate! Do you
stuff your pockets with sweets—like a schoolboy—even in the field?
MAN.
Yes. Isn’t it contemptible?
(_Raina stares at him, unable to utter her feelings. Then she sails
away scornfully to the chest of drawers, and returns with the box of
confectionery in her hand._)
RAINA.
Allow me. I am sorry I have eaten them all except these. (_She offers
him the box._)
MAN.
(_ravenously_). You’re an angel! (_He gobbles the comfits._) Creams!
Delicious! (_He looks anxiously to see whether there are any more.
There are none. He accepts the inevitable with pathetic goodhumor, and
says, with grateful emotion_) Bless you, dear lady. You can always tell
an old soldier by the inside of his holsters and cartridge boxes. The
young ones carry pistols and cartridges; the old ones, grub. Thank you.
(_He hands back the box. She snatches it contemptuously from him and
throws it away. This impatient action is so sudden that he shies
again._) Ugh! Don’t do things so suddenly, gracious lady. Don’t revenge
yourself because I frightened you just now.
RAINA.
(_superbly_). Frighten me! Do you know, sir, that though I am only a
woman, I think I am at heart as brave as you.
MAN.
I should think so. You haven’t been under fire for three days as I
have. I can stand two days without shewing it much; but no man can
stand three days: I’m as nervous as a mouse. (_He sits down on the
ottoman, and takes his head in his hands._) Would you like to see me
cry?
RAINA.
(_quickly_). No.
MAN.
If you would, all you have to do is to scold me just as if I were a
little boy and you my nurse. If I were in camp now they’d play all
sorts of tricks on me.
RAINA.
(_a little moved_). I’m sorry. I won’t scold you. (_Touched by the
sympathy in her tone, he raises his head and looks gratefully at her:
she immediately draws back and says stiffly_) You must excuse me: our
soldiers are not like that. (_She moves away from the ottoman._)
MAN.
Oh, yes, they are. There are only two sorts of soldiers: old ones and
young ones. I’ve served fourteen years: half of your fellows never
smelt powder before. Why, how is it that you’ve just beaten us? Sheer
ignorance of the art of war, nothing else. (_Indignantly._) I never saw
anything so unprofessional.
RAINA.
(_ironically_). Oh, was it unprofessional to beat you?
MAN.
Well, come, is it professional to throw a regiment of cavalry on a
battery of machine guns, with the dead certainty that if the guns go
off not a horse or man will ever get within fifty yards of the fire? I
couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.
RAINA.
(_eagerly turning to him, as all her enthusiasm and her dream of glory
rush back on her_). Did you see the great cavalry charge? Oh, tell me
about it. Describe it to me.
MAN.
You never saw a cavalry charge, did you?
RAINA.
How could I?
MAN.
Ah, perhaps not—of course. Well, it’s a funny sight. It’s like slinging
a handful of peas against a window pane: first one comes; then two or
three close behind him; and then all the rest in a lump.
RAINA.
(_her eyes dilating as she raises her clasped hands ecstatically_).
Yes, first One!—the bravest of the brave!
MAN.
(_prosaically_). Hm! you should see the poor devil pulling at his
horse.
RAINA.
Why should he pull at his horse?
MAN.
(_impatient of so stupid a question_). It’s running away with him, of
course: do you suppose the fellow wants to get there before the others
and be killed? Then they all come. You can tell the young ones by their
wildness and their slashing. The old ones come bunched up under the
number one guard: they know that they are mere projectiles, and that
it’s no use trying to fight. The wounds are mostly broken knees, from
the horses cannoning together.
RAINA.
Ugh! But I don’t believe the first man is a coward. I believe he is a
hero!
MAN.
(_goodhumoredly_). That’s what you’d have said if you’d seen the first
man in the charge to-day.
RAINA.
(_breathless_). Ah, I knew it! Tell me—tell me about him.
MAN.
He did it like an operatic tenor—a regular handsome fellow, with
flashing eyes and lovely moustache, shouting a war-cry and charging
like Don Quixote at the windmills. We nearly burst with laughter at
him; but when the sergeant ran up as white as a sheet, and told us
they’d sent us the wrong cartridges, and that we couldn’t fire a shot
for the next ten minutes, we laughed at the other side of our mouths. I
never felt so sick in my life, though I’ve been in one or two very
tight places. And I hadn’t even a revolver cartridge—nothing but
chocolate. We’d no bayonets—nothing. Of course, they just cut us to
bits. And there was Don Quixote flourishing like a drum major, thinking
he’d done the cleverest thing ever known, whereas he ought to be
courtmartialled for it. Of all the fools ever let loose on a field of
battle, that man must be the very maddest. He and his regiment simply
committed suicide—only the pistol missed fire, that’s all.
RAINA.
(_deeply wounded, but steadfastly loyal to her ideals_). Indeed! Would
you know him again if you saw him?
MAN.
Shall I ever forget him. (_She again goes to the chest of drawers. He
watches her with a vague hope that she may have something else for him
to eat. She takes the portrait from its stand and brings it to him._)
RAINA.
That is a photograph of the gentleman—the patriot and hero—to whom I am
betrothed.
MAN.
(_looking at it_). I’m really very sorry. (_Looking at her._) Was it
fair to lead me on? (_He looks at the portrait again._) Yes: that’s
him: not a doubt of it. (_He stifles a laugh._)
RAINA.
(_quickly_). Why do you laugh?
MAN.
(_shamefacedly, but still greatly tickled_). I didn’t laugh, I assure
you. At least I didn’t mean to. But when I think of him charging the
windmills and thinking he was doing the finest thing—(_chokes with
suppressed laughter_).
RAINA.
(_sternly_). Give me back the portrait, sir.
MAN.
(_with sincere remorse_). Of course. Certainly. I’m really very sorry.
(_She deliberately kisses it, and looks him straight in the face,
before returning to the chest of drawers to replace it. He follows her,
apologizing._) Perhaps I’m quite wrong, you know: no doubt I am. Most
likely he had got wind of the cartridge business somehow, and knew it
was a safe job.
RAINA.
That is to say, he was a pretender and a coward! You did not dare say
that before.
MAN.
(_with a comic gesture of despair_). It’s no use, dear lady: I can’t
make you see it from the professional point of view. (_As he turns away
to get back to the ottoman, the firing begins again in the distance._)
RAINA.
(_sternly, as she sees him listening to the shots_). So much the better
for you.
MAN.
(_turning_). How?
RAINA.
You are my enemy; and you are at my mercy. What would I do if I were a
professional soldier?
MAN.
Ah, true, dear young lady: you’re always right. I know how good you
have been to me: to my last hour I shall remember those three chocolate
creams. It was unsoldierly; but it was angelic.
RAINA.
(_coldly_). Thank you. And now I will do a soldierly thing. You cannot
stay here after what you have just said about my future husband; but I
will go out on the balcony and see whether it is safe for you to climb
down into the street. (_She turns to the window._)
MAN.
(_changing countenance_). Down that waterpipe! Stop! Wait! I can’t! I
daren’t! The very thought of it makes me giddy. I came up it fast
enough with death behind me. But to face it now in cold blood!—(_He
sinks on the ottoman._) It’s no use: I give up: I’m beaten. Give the
alarm. (_He drops his head in his hands in the deepest dejection._)
RAINA.
(_disarmed by pity_). Come, don’t be disheartened. (_She stoops over
him almost maternally: he shakes his head._) Oh, you are a very poor
soldier—a chocolate cream soldier. Come, cheer up: it takes less
courage to climb down than to face capture—remember that.
MAN.
(_dreamily, lulled by her voice_). No, capture only means death; and
death is sleep—oh, sleep, sleep, sleep, undisturbed sleep! Climbing
down the pipe means doing something—exerting myself—thinking! Death ten
times over first.
RAINA.
(_softly and wonderingly, catching the rhythm of his weariness_). Are
you so sleepy as that?
MAN.
I’ve not had two hours’ undisturbed sleep since the war began. I’m on
the staff: you don’t know what that means. I haven’t closed my eyes for
thirty-six hours.
RAINA.
(_desperately_). But what am I to do with you.
MAN.
(_staggering up_). Of course I must do something. (_He shakes himself;
pulls himself together; and speaks with rallied vigour and courage._)
You see, sleep or no sleep, hunger or no hunger, tired or not tired,
you can always do a thing when you know it must be done. Well, that
pipe must be got down—(_He hits himself on the chest, and adds_)—Do you
hear that, you chocolate cream soldier? (_He turns to the window._)
RAINA.
(_anxiously_). But if you fall?
MAN.
I shall sleep as if the stones were a feather bed. Good-bye. (_He makes
boldly for the window, and his hand is on the shutter when there is a
terrible burst of firing in the street beneath._)
RAINA.
(_rushing to him_). Stop! (_She catches him by the shoulder, and turns
him quite round._) They’ll kill you.
MAN.
(_coolly, but attentively_). Never mind: this sort of thing is all in
my day’s work. I’m bound to take my chance. (_Decisively._) Now do what
I tell you. Put out the candles, so that they shan’t see the light when
I open the shutters. And keep away from the window, whatever you do. If
they see me, they’re sure to have a shot at me.
RAINA.
(_clinging to him_). They’re sure to see you: it’s bright moonlight.
I’ll save you—oh, how can you be so indifferent? You want me to save
you, don’t you?
MAN.
I really don’t want to be troublesome. (_She shakes him in her
impatience._) I am not indifferent, dear young lady, I assure you. But
how is it to be done?
RAINA.
Come away from the window—please. (_She coaxes him back to the middle
of the room. He submits humbly. She releases him, and addresses him
patronizingly._) Now listen. You must trust to our hospitality. You do
not yet know in whose house you are. I am a Petkoff.
MAN.
What’s that?
RAINA.
(_rather indignantly_). I mean that I belong to the family of the
Petkoffs, the richest and best known in our country.
MAN.
Oh, yes, of course. I beg your pardon. The Petkoffs, to be sure. How
stupid of me!
RAINA.
You know you never heard of them until this minute. How can you stoop
to pretend?
MAN.
Forgive me: I’m too tired to think; and the change of subject was too
much for me. Don’t scold me.
RAINA.
I forgot. It might make you cry. (_He nods, quite seriously. She pouts
and then resumes her patronizing tone._) I must tell you that my father
holds the highest command of any Bulgarian in our army. He is
(_proudly_) a Major.
MAN.
(_pretending to be deeply impressed_). A Major! Bless me! Think of
that!
RAINA.
You shewed great ignorance in thinking that it was necessary to climb
up to the balcony, because ours is the only private house that has two
rows of windows. There is a flight of stairs inside to get up and down
by.
MAN.
Stairs! How grand! You live in great luxury indeed, dear young lady.
RAINA.
Do you know what a library is?
MAN.
A library? A roomful of books.
RAINA.
Yes, we have one, the only one in Bulgaria.
MAN.
Actually a real library! I should like to see that.
RAINA.
(_affectedly_). I tell you these things to shew you that you are not in
the house of ignorant country folk who would kill you the moment they
saw your Servian uniform, but among civilized people. We go to
Bucharest every year for the opera season; and I have spent a whole
month in Vienna.
MAN.
I saw that, dear young lady. I saw at once that you knew the world.
RAINA.
Have you ever seen the opera of Ernani?
MAN.
Is that the one with the devil in it in red velvet, and a soldier’s
chorus?
RAINA.
(_contemptuously_). No!
MAN.
(_stifling a heavy sigh of weariness_). Then I don’t know it.
RAINA.
I thought you might have remembered the great scene where Ernani,
flying from his foes just as you are tonight, takes refuge in the
castle of his bitterest enemy, an old Castilian noble. The noble
refuses to give him up. His guest is sacred to him.
MAN.
(_quickly waking up a little_). Have your people got that notion?
RAINA.
(_with dignity_). My mother and I can understand that notion, as you
call it. And if instead of threatening me with your pistol as you did,
you had simply thrown yourself as a fugitive on our hospitality, you
would have been as safe as in your father’s house.
MAN.
Quite sure?
RAINA.
(_turning her back on him in disgust._) Oh, it is useless to try and
make you understand.
MAN.
Don’t be angry: you see how awkward it would be for me if there was any
mistake. My father is a very hospitable man: he keeps six hotels; but I
couldn’t trust him as far as that. What about YOUR father?
RAINA.
He is away at Slivnitza fighting for his country. I answer for your
safety. There is my hand in pledge of it. Will that reassure you? (_She
offers him her hand._)
MAN.
(_looking dubiously at his own hand_). Better not touch my hand, dear
young lady. I must have a wash first.
RAINA.
(_touched_). That is very nice of you. I see that you are a gentleman.
MAN.
(_puzzled_). Eh?
RAINA.
You must not think I am surprised. Bulgarians of really good
standing—people in OUR position—wash their hands nearly every day. But
I appreciate your delicacy. You may take my hand. (_She offers it
again._)
MAN.
(_kissing it with his hands behind his back_). Thanks, gracious young
lady: I feel safe at last. And now would you mind breaking the news to
your mother? I had better not stay here secretly longer than is
necessary.
RAINA.
If you will be so good as to keep perfectly still whilst I am away.
MAN.
Certainly. (_He sits down on the ottoman._)
(_Raina goes to the bed and wraps herself in the fur cloak. His eyes
close. She goes to the door, but on turning for a last look at him,
sees that he is dropping of to sleep._)
RAINA.
(_at the door_). You are not going asleep, are you? (_He murmurs
inarticulately: she runs to him and shakes him._) Do you hear? Wake up:
you are falling asleep.
MAN.
Eh? Falling aslee—? Oh, no, not the least in the world: I was only
thinking. It’s all right: I’m wide awake.
RAINA.
(_severely_). Will you please stand up while I am away. (_He rises
reluctantly._) All the time, mind.
MAN.
(_standing unsteadily_). Certainly—certainly: you may depend on me.
(_Raina looks doubtfully at him. He smiles foolishly. She goes
reluctantly, turning again at the door, and almost catching him in the
act of yawning. She goes out._)
MAN.
(_drowsily_). Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, slee—(_The words trail off
into a murmur. He wakes again with a shock on the point of falling._)
Where am I? That’s what I want to know: where am I? Must keep awake.
Nothing keeps me awake except danger—remember that—(_intently_) danger,
danger, danger, dan— Where’s danger? Must find it. (_He starts of
vaguely around the room in search of it._) What am I looking for?
Sleep—danger—don’t know. (_He stumbles against the bed._) Ah, yes: now
I know. All right now. I’m to go to bed, but not to sleep—be sure not
to sleep—because of danger. Not to lie down, either, only sit down.
(_He sits on the bed. A blissful expression comes into his face._) Ah!
(_With a happy sigh he sinks back at full length; lifts his boots into
the bed with a final effort; and falls fast asleep instantly._)
(_Catherine comes in, followed by Raina._)
RAINA.
(_looking at the ottoman_). He’s gone! I left him here.
CATHERINE.
Here! Then he must have climbed down from the—
RAINA.
(_seeing him_). Oh! (_She points._)
CATHERINE.
(_scandalized_). Well! (_She strides to the left side of the bed, Raina
following and standing opposite her on the right._) He’s fast asleep.
The brute!
RAINA.
(_anxiously_). Sh!
CATHERINE.
(_shaking him_). Sir! (_Shaking him again, harder._) Sir!! (_Vehemently
shaking very bard._) Sir!!!
RAINA.
(_catching her arm_). Don’t, mamma: the poor dear is worn out. Let him
sleep.
CATHERINE.
(_letting him go and turning amazed to Raina_). The poor dear! Raina!!!
(_She looks sternly at her daughter. The man sleeps profoundly._)