SCENE I
A cobble-stoned alley, without pavement, behind a suburban
theatre. The tall, blind, dingy-yellowish wall of the building
is plastered with the tattered remnants of old entertainment
bills, and the words: "To Let," and with several torn, and one
still virgin placard, containing this announcement: "Stop-the-
War Meeting, October 1st. Addresses by STEPHEN MORE, Esq., and
others." The alley is plentifully strewn with refuse and scraps
of paper. Three stone steps, inset, lead to the stage door. It
is a dark night, and a street lamp close to the wall throws all
the light there is. A faint, confused murmur, as of distant
hooting is heard. Suddenly a boy comes running, then two rough
girls hurry past in the direction of the sound; and the alley is
again deserted. The stage door opens, and a doorkeeper, poking
his head out, looks up and down. He withdraws, but in a second
reappears, preceding three black-coated gentlemen.
DOORKEEPER. It's all clear. You can get away down here, gentlemen.
Keep to the left, then sharp to the right, round the corner.
THE THREE. [Dusting themselves, and settling their ties] Thanks,
very much! Thanks!
FIRST BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Where's More? Isn't he coming?
They are joined by a fourth black-coated GENTLEMAN.
FOURTH BLACK-COATED GENTLEMAN. Just behind. [TO the DOORKEEPER]
Thanks.
They hurry away. The DOORKEEPER retires. Another boy runs
past. Then the door opens again. STEEL and MORE come out.
MORE stands hesitating on the steps; then turns as if to go
back.
STEEL. Come along, sir, come!
MORE. It sticks in my gizzard, Steel.
STEEL. [Running his arm through MORE'S, and almost dragging him down
the steps] You owe it to the theatre people. [MORE still hesitates]
We might be penned in there another hour; you told Mrs. More
half-past ten; it'll only make her anxious. And she hasn't seen
you for six weeks.
MORE. All right; don't dislocate my arm.
They move down the steps, and away to the left, as a boy comes
running down the alley. Sighting MORE, he stops dead, spins
round, and crying shrilly: "'Ere 'e is! That's 'im! 'Ere 'e
is!" he bolts back in the direction whence he came.
STEEL. Quick, Sir, quick!
MORE. That is the end of the limit, as the foreign ambassador
remarked.
STEEL. [Pulling him back towards the door] Well! come inside again,
anyway!
A number of men and boys, and a few young girls, are trooping
quickly from the left. A motley crew, out for excitement;
loafers, artisans, navvies; girls, rough or dubious. All in
the mood of hunters, and having tasted blood. They gather round
the steps displaying the momentary irresolution and curiosity
that follows on a new development of any chase. MORE, on the
bottom step, turns and eyes them.
A GIRL. [At the edge] Which is 'im! The old 'un or the young?
[MORE turns, and mounts the remaining steps.]
TALL YOUTH. [With lank black hair under a bowler hat] You blasted
traitor!
MORE faces round at the volley of jeering that follows; the
chorus of booing swells, then gradually dies, as if they
realized that they were spoiling their own sport.
A ROUGH GIRL. Don't frighten the poor feller!
[A girl beside her utters a shrill laugh.]
STEEL. [Tugging at MORE's arm] Come along, sir.
MORE. [Shaking his arm free--to the crowd] Well, what do you want?
A VOICE. Speech.
MORE. Indeed! That's new.
ROUGH VOICE. [At the back of the crowd] Look at his white liver.
You can see it in his face.
A BIG NAVY. [In front] Shut it! Give 'im a chanst!
TALL YOUTH. Silence for the blasted traitor?
A youth plays the concertina; there is laughter, then an abrupt
silence.
MORE. You shall have it in a nutshell!
A SHOPBOY. [Flinging a walnut-shell which strikes MORE on the
shoulder] Here y'are!
MORE. Go home, and think! If foreigners invaded us, wouldn't you be
fighting tooth and nail like those tribesmen, out there?
TALL YOUTH. Treacherous dogs! Why don't they come out in the open?
MORE. They fight the best way they can.
[A burst of hooting is led by a soldier in khaki on the
outskirt.]
MORE. My friend there in khaki led that hooting. I've never said a
word against our soldiers. It's the Government I condemn for putting
them to this, and the Press for hounding on the Government, and all
of you for being led by the nose to do what none of you would do,
left to yourselves.
The TALL YOUTH leads a somewhat unspontaneous burst of
execration.
MORE. I say not one of you would go for a weaker man.
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
ROUGH VOICE. Tork sense!
GIRL'S VOICE. He's gittin' at you!
TALL YOUTH'S VOICE. Shiny skunk!
A NAVVY. [Suddenly shouldering forward] Look 'ere, Mister! Don't
you come gaflin' to those who've got mates out there, or it'll be the
worse for you-you go 'ome!
COCKNEY VOICE. And git your wife to put cottonwool in yer ears.
[A spurt of laughter.]
A FRIENDLY VOICE. [From the outskirts] Shame! there! Bravo, More!
Keep it up!
[A scuffle drowns this cry.]
MORE. [With vehemence] Stop that! Stop that! You---!
TALL YOUTH. Traitor!
AN ARTISAN. Who black-legged?
MIDDLE-AGED MAN. Ought to be shot-backin' his country's enemies!
MORE. Those tribesmen are defending their homes.
TWO VOICES. Hear! hear!
[They are hustled into silence.]
TALL YOUTH. Wind-bag!
MORE. [With sudden passion] Defending their homes! Not mobbing
unarmed men!
[STEEL again pulls at his arm.]
ROUGH. Shut it, or we'll do you in!
MORE. [Recovering his coolness] Ah! Do me in by all means! You'd
deal such a blow at cowardly mobs as wouldn't be forgotten in your
time.
STEEL. For God's sake, sir!
MORE. [Shaking off his touch] Well!
There is an ugly rush, checked by the fall of the foremost
figures, thrown too suddenly against the bottom step. The crowd
recoils.
There is a momentary lull, and MORE stares steadily down at
them.
COCKNEY VOICE. Don't 'e speak well! What eloquence!
Two or three nutshells and a piece of orange-peel strike MORE
across the face. He takes no notice.
ROUGH VOICE. That's it! Give 'im some encouragement.
The jeering laughter is changed to anger by the contemptuous
smile on MORE'S face.
A TALL YOUTH. Traitor!
A VOICE. Don't stand there like a stuck pig.
A ROUGH. Let's 'ave 'im dahn off that!
Under cover of the applause that greets this, he strikes MORE
across the legs with a belt. STEEL starts forward. MORE,
flinging out his arm, turns him back, and resumes his tranquil
staring at the crowd, in whom the sense of being foiled by this
silence is fast turning to rage.
THE CROWD. Speak up, or get down! Get off! Get away, there--or
we'll make you! Go on!
[MORE remains immovable.]
A YOUTH. [In a lull of disconcertion] I'll make 'im speak! See!
He darts forward and spits, defiling MORES hand. MORE jerks it
up as if it had been stung, then stands as still as ever. A
spurt of laughter dies into a shiver of repugnance at the
action. The shame is fanned again to fury by the sight of MORES
scornful face.
TALL YOUTH. [Out of murmuring] Shift! or you'll get it!
A VOICE. Enough of your ugly mug!
A ROUGH. Give 'im one!
Two flung stones strike MORE. He staggers and nearly falls,
then rights himself.
A GIRL'S VOICE. Shame!
FRIENDLY VOICE. Bravo, More! Stick to it!
A ROUGH. Give 'im another!
A VOICE. No!
A GIRL'S VOICE. Let 'im alone! Come on, Billy, this ain't no fun!
Still looking up at MORE, the whole crowd falls into an uneasy
silence, broken only by the shuffling of feet. Then the BIG
NAVVY in the front rank turns and elbows his way out to the edge
of the crowd.
THE NAVVY. Let 'im be!
With half-sullen and half-shamefaced acquiescence the crowd
breaks up and drifts back whence it came, till the alley is
nearly empty.
MORE. [As if coming to, out of a trance-wiping his hand and dusting
his coat] Well, Steel!
And followed by STEEL, he descends the steps and moves away.
Two policemen pass glancing up at the broken glass. One of them
stops and makes a note.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
SCENE II
The window-end of KATHERINE'S bedroom, panelled in cream-coloured
wood. The light from four candles is falling on KATHERINE, who is
sitting before the silver mirror of an old oak dressing-table,
brushing her hair. A door, on the left, stands ajar. An oak chair
against the wall close to a recessed window is all the other
furniture. Through this window the blue night is seen, where a mist
is rolled out flat amongst trees, so that only dark clumps of boughs
show here and there, beneath a moonlit sky. As the curtain rises,
KATHERINE, with brush arrested, is listening. She begins again
brushing her hair, then stops, and taking a packet of letters from a
drawer of her dressing-table, reads. Through the just open door
behind her comes the voice of OLIVE.
OLIVE. Mummy! I'm awake!
But KATHERINE goes on reading; and OLIVE steals into the room in
her nightgown.
OLIVE. [At KATHERINE'S elbow--examining her watch on its stand] It's
fourteen minutes to eleven.
KATHERINE. Olive, Olive!
OLIVE. I just wanted to see the time. I never can go to sleep if I
try--it's quite helpless, you know. Is there a victory yet?
[KATHERINE, shakes her head] Oh! I prayed extra special for one in
the evening papers. [Straying round her mother] Hasn't Daddy come?
KATHERINE. Not yet.
OLIVE. Are you waiting for him? [Burying her face in her mother's
hair] Your hair is nice, Mummy. It's particular to-night.
KATHERINE lets fall her brush, and looks at her almost in alarm.
OLIVE. How long has Daddy been away?
KATHERINE. Six weeks.
OLIVE. It seems about a hundred years, doesn't it? Has he been
making speeches all the time?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. To-night, too?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. The night that man was here whose head's too bald for
anything--oh! Mummy, you know--the one who cleans his teeth so
termendously--I heard Daddy making a speech to the wind. It broke a
wine-glass. His speeches must be good ones, mustn't they!
KATHERINE. Very.
OLIVE. It felt funny; you couldn't see any wind, you know.
KATHERINE. Talking to the wind is an expression, Olive.
OLIVE. Does Daddy often?
KATHERINE. Yes, nowadays.
OLIVE. What does it mean?
KATHERINE. Speaking to people who won't listen.
OLIVE. What do they do, then?
KATHERINE. Just a few people go to hear him, and then a great crowd
comes and breaks in; or they wait for him outside, and throw things,
and hoot.
OLIVE. Poor Daddy! Is it people on our side who throw things?
KATHERINE. Yes, but only rough people.
OLIVE. Why does he go on doing it? I shouldn't.
KATHERINE. He thinks it is his duty.
OLIVE. To your neighbour, or only to God?
KATHERINE. To both.
OLIVE. Oh! Are those his letters?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. [Reading from the letter] "My dear Heart." Does he always
call you his dear heart, Mummy? It's rather jolly, isn't it?
"I shall be home about half-past ten to-morrow night. For a few
hours the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-or-y will cease to burn--" What are
the fires of p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y?
KATHERINE. [Putting away the letters] Come, Olive!
OLIVE. But what are they?
KATHERINE. Daddy means that he's been very unhappy.
OLIVE. Have you, too?
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. [Cheerfully] So have I. May I open the window?
KATHERINE. No; you'll let the mist in.
OLIVE. Isn't it a funny mist-all flat!
KATHERINE. Now, come along, frog!
OLIVE. [Making time] Mummy, when is Uncle Hubert coming back?
KATHERINE. We don't know, dear.
OLIVE. I suppose Auntie Helen'll stay with us till he does.
KATHERINE. Yes.
OLIVE. That's something, isn't it?
KATHERINE. [Picking her up] Now then!
OLIVE. [Deliciously limp] Had I better put in the duty to your
neighbour if there isn't a victory soon? [As they pass through the
door] You're tickling under my knee! [Little gurgles of pleasure
follow. Then silence. Then a drowsy voice] I must keep awake for
Daddy.
KATHERINE comes back. She is about to leave the door a little
open, when she hears a knock on the other door. It is opened a
few inches, and NURSE'S voice says: "Can I come in, Ma'am?" The
NURSE comes in.
KATHERINE. [Shutting OLIVE's door, and going up to her] What is it,
Nurse?
NURSE. [Speaking in a low voice] I've been meaning to--I'll never do
it in the daytime. I'm giving you notice.
KATHERINE. Nurse! You too!
She looks towards OLIVE'S room with dismay. The NURSE smudges a
slow tear away from her cheek.
NURSE. I want to go right away at once.
KATHERINE. Leave Olive! That is the sins of the fathers with a
vengeance.
NURSE. I've had another letter from my son. No, Miss Katherine,
while the master goes on upholdin' these murderin' outlandish
creatures, I can't live in this house, not now he's coming back.
KATHERINE. But, Nurse----!
NURSE. It's not like them [With an ineffable gesture] downstairs,
because I'm frightened of the mob, or of the window's bein' broke
again, or mind what the boys in the street say. I should think not--
no! It's my heart. I'm sore night and day thinkin' of my son, and
him lying out there at night without a rag of dry clothing, and water
that the bullocks won't drink, and maggots in the meat; and every day
one of his friends laid out stark and cold, and one day--'imself
perhaps. If anything were to 'appen to him. I'd never forgive
meself--here. Ah! Miss Katherine, I wonder how you bear it--bad
news comin' every day--And Sir John's face so sad--And all the time
the master speaking against us, as it might be Jonah 'imself.
KATHERINE. But, Nurse, how can you leave us, you?
NURSE. [Smudging at her cheeks] There's that tells me it's
encouragin' something to happen, if I stay here; and Mr. More coming
back to-night. You can't serve God and Mammon, the Bible says.
KATHERINE. Don't you know what it's costing him?
NURSE. Ah! Cost him his seat, and his reputation; and more than
that it'll cost him, to go against the country.
KATHERINE. He's following his conscience.
NURSE. And others must follow theirs, too. No, Miss Katherine, for
you to let him--you, with your three brothers out there, and your
father fair wasting away with grief. Sufferin' too as you've been
these three months past. What'll you feel if anything happens to my
three young gentlemen out there, to my dear Mr. Hubert that I nursed
myself, when your precious mother couldn't? What would she have said
--with you in the camp of his enemies?
KATHERINE. Nurse, Nurse!
NURSE. In my paper they say he's encouraging these heathens and
makin' the foreigners talk about us; and every day longer the war
lasts, there's our blood on this house.
KATHERINE. [Turning away] Nurse, I can't--I won't listen.
NURSE. [Looking at her intently] Ah! You'll move him to leave off!
I see your heart, my dear. But if you don't, then go I must!
She nods her head gravely, goes to the door of OLIVE'S room,
opens it gently, stands looking for a-moment, then with the
words "My Lamb!" she goes in noiselessly and closes the door.
KATHERINE turns back to her glass, puts back her hair, and
smooths her lips and eyes. The door from the corridor is
opened, and HELEN's voice says: "Kit! You're not in bed?"
KATHERINE. No.
HELEN too is in a wrapper, with a piece of lace thrown over her
head. Her face is scared and miserable, and she runs into
KATHERINE's arms.
KATHERINE. My dear, what is it?
HELEN. I've seen--a vision!
KATHERINE. Hssh! You'll wake Olive!
HELEN. [Staring before her] I'd just fallen asleep, and I saw a
plain that seemed to run into the sky--like--that fog. And on it
there were--dark things. One grew into a body without a head, and a
gun by its side. And one was a man sitting huddled up, nursing a
wounded leg. He had the face of Hubert's servant, Wreford. And then
I saw--Hubert. His face was all dark and thin; and he had--a wound,
an awful wound here [She touches her breast]. The blood was running
from it, and he kept trying to stop it--oh! Kit--by kissing it [She
pauses, stifled by emotion]. Then I heard Wreford laugh, and say
vultures didn't touch live bodies. And there came a voice, from
somewhere, calling out: "Oh! God! I'm dying!" And Wreford began to
swear at it, and I heard Hubert say: "Don't, Wreford; let the poor
fellow be!" But the voice went on and on, moaning and crying out:
"I'll lie here all night dying--and then I'll die!" And Wreford
dragged himself along the ground; his face all devilish, like a man
who's going to kill.
KATHERINE. My dear! HOW ghastly!
HELEN. Still that voice went on, and I saw Wreford take up the dead
man's gun. Then Hubert got upon his feet, and went tottering along,
so feebly, so dreadfully--but before he could reach and stop him,
Wreford fired at the man who was crying. And Hubert called out: "You
brute!" and fell right down. And when Wreford saw him lying there,
he began to moan and sob, but Hubert never stirred. Then it all got
black again--and I could see a dark woman--thing creeping, first to
the man without a head; then to Wreford; then to Hubert, and it
touched him, and sprang away. And it cried out: "A-ai-ah!" [Pointing
out at the mist] Look! Out there! The dark things!
KATHERINE. [Putting her arms round her] Yes, dear, yes! You must
have been looking at the mist.
HELEN. [Strangely calm] He's dead!
KATHERINE. It was only a dream.
HELEN. You didn't hear that cry. [She listens] That's Stephen.
Forgive me, Kit; I oughtn't to have upset you, but I couldn't help
coming.
She goes out, KATHERINE, into whom her emotion seems to have
passed, turns feverishly to the window, throws it open and leans
out. MORE comes in.
MORE. Kit!
Catching sight of her figure in the window, he goes quickly to
her.
KATHERINE. Ah! [She has mastered her emotion.]
MORE. Let me look at you!
He draws her from the window to the candle-light, and looks long
at her.
MORE. What have you done to your hair?
KATHERINE. Nothing.
MORE. It's wonderful to-night.
[He takes it greedily and buries his face in it.]
KATHERINE. [Drawing her hair away] Well?
MORE. At last!
KATHERINE. [Pointing to OLIVE's room] Hssh!
MORE. How is she?
KATHERINE. All right.
MORE. And you?
[KATHERINE shrugs her shoulders.]
MORE. Six weeks!
KATHERINE. Why have you come?
MORE. Why!
KATHERINE. You begin again the day after tomorrow. Was it worth
while?
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. It makes it harder for me, that's all.
MORE. [Staring at her] What's come to you?
KATHERINE. Six weeks is a long time to sit and read about your
meetings.
MORE. Put that away to-night. [He touches her] This is what
travellers feel when they come out of the desert to-water.
KATHERINE. [Suddenly noticing the cut on his forehead] Your
forehead! It's cut.
MORE. It's nothing.
KATHERINE. Oh! Let me bathe it!
MORE. No, dear! It's all right.
KATHERINE. [Turning away] Helen has just been telling me a dream
she's had of Hubert's death.
MORE. Poor child!
KATHERINE. Dream bad dreams, and wait, and hide oneself--there's
been nothing else to do. Nothing, Stephen--nothing!
MORE. Hide? Because of me?
[KATHERINE nods.]
MORE. [With a movement of distress] I see. I thought from your
letters you were coming to feel----. Kit! You look so lovely!
[Suddenly he sees that she is crying, and goes quickly to her.]
MORE. My dear, don't cry! God knows I don't want to make things
worse for you. I'll go away.
She draws away from him a little, and after looking long at her,
he sits down at the dressing-table and begins turning over the
brushes and articles of toilet, trying to find words.
MORE. Never look forward. After the time I've had--I thought--
tonight--it would be summer--I thought it would be you--and
everything!
While he is speaking KATHERINE has stolen closer. She suddenly
drops on her knees by his side and wraps his hand in her hair.
He turns and clasps her.
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. Ah! yes! But-to-morrow it begins again. Oh! Stephen!
How long--how long am I to be torn in two? [Drawing back in his
arms] I can't--can't bear it.
MORE. My darling!
KATHERINE. Give it up! For my sake! Give it up! [Pressing closer
to him] It shall be me--and everything----
MORE. God!
KATHERINE. It shall be--if--if----
MORE. [Aghast] You're not making terms? Bargaining? For God's
sake, Kit!
KATHERINE. For God's sake, Stephen!
MORE. You!--of all people--you!
KATHERINE. Stephen!
[For a moment MORE yields utterly, then shrinks back.]
MORE. A bargain! It's selling my soul!
He struggles out of her arms, gets up, and stands without
speaking, staring at her, and wiping the sweat from his
forehead. KATHERINE remains some seconds on her knees, gazing
up at him, not realizing. Then her head droops; she too gets up
and stands apart, with her wrapper drawn close round her. It is
as if a cold and deadly shame had come to them both. Quite
suddenly MORE turns, and, without looking back, feebly makes his
way out of the room. When he is gone KATHERINE drops on her
knees and remains there motionless, huddled in her hair.
THE CURTAIN FALLS
ACT IV
It is between lights, the following day, in the dining-room of
MORE's house. The windows are closed, but curtains are not
drawn. STEEL is seated at the bureau, writing a letter from
MORE's dictation.
STEEL. [Reading over the letter] "No doubt we shall have trouble.
But, if the town authorities at the last minute forbid the use of the
hall, we'll hold the meeting in the open. Let bills be got out, and
an audience will collect in any case."
MORE. They will.
STEEL. "Yours truly"; I've signed for you.
[MORE nods.]
STEEL. [Blotting and enveloping the letter] You know the servants
have all given notice--except Henry.
MORE. Poor Henry!
STEEL. It's partly nerves, of course--the windows have been broken
twice--but it's partly----
MORE. Patriotism. Quite! they'll do the next smashing themselves.
That reminds me--to-morrow you begin holiday, Steel.
STEEL. Oh, no!
MORE. My dear fellow--yes. Last night ended your sulphur cure.
Truly sorry ever to have let you in for it.
STEEL. Some one must do the work. You're half dead as it is.
MORE. There's lots of kick in me.
STEEL. Give it up, sir. The odds are too great. It isn't worth it.
MORE. To fight to a finish; knowing you must be beaten--is anything
better worth it?
STEEL. Well, then, I'm not going.
MORE. This is my private hell, Steel; you don't roast in it any
longer. Believe me, it's a great comfort to hurt no one but
yourself.
STEEL. I can't leave you, sir.
MORE. My dear boy, you're a brick--but we've got off by a miracle so
far, and I can't have the responsibility of you any longer. Hand me
over that correspondence about to-morrow's meeting.
STEEL takes some papers from his pocket, but does not hand them.
MORE. Come! [He stretches out his hand for the papers. As STEEL
still draws back, he says more sharply] Give them to me, Steel!
[STEEL hands them over] Now, that ends it, d'you see?
They stand looking at each other; then STEEL, very much upset,
turns and goes out of the room. MORE, who has watched him with
a sorry smile, puts the papers into a dispatch-case. As he is
closing the bureau, the footman HENRY enters, announcing: "Mr.
Mendip, sir." MENDIP comes in, and the FOOTMAN withdraws. MORE
turns to his visitor, but does not hold out his hand.
MENDIP. [Taking MORE'S hand] Give me credit for a little philosophy,
my friend. Mrs. More told me you'd be back to-day. Have you heard?
MORE. What?
MENDIP. There's been a victory.
MORE. Thank God!
MENDIP. Ah! So you actually are flesh and blood.
MORE. Yes!
MENDIP. Take off the martyr's shirt, Stephen. You're only flouting
human nature.
MORE. So--even you defend the mob!
MENDIP. My dear fellow, you're up against the strongest common
instinct in the world. What do you expect? That the man in the
street should be a Quixote? That his love of country should express
itself in philosophic altruism? What on earth do you expect? Men
are very simple creatures; and Mob is just conglomerate essence of
simple men.
MORE. Conglomerate excrescence. Mud of street and market-place
gathered in a torrent--This blind howling "patriotism"--what each man
feels in here? [He touches his breast] No!
MENDIP. You think men go beyond instinct--they don't. All they know
is that something's hurting that image of themselves that they call
country. They just feel something big and religious, and go it
blind.
MORE. This used to be the country of free speech. It used to be the
country where a man was expected to hold to his faith.
MENDIP. There are limits to human nature, Stephen.
MORE. Let no man stand to his guns in face of popular attack. Still
your advice, is it?
MENDIP. My advice is: Get out of town at once. The torrent you
speak of will be let loose the moment this news is out. Come, my
dear fellow, don't stay here!
MORE. Thanks! I'll see that Katherine and Olive go.
MENDIP. Go with them! If your cause is lost, that's no reason why
you should be.
MORE. There's the comfort of not running away. And--I want comfort.
MENDIP. This is bad, Stephen; bad, foolish--foolish. Well! I'm
going to the House. This way?
MORE. Down the steps, and through the gate. Good-bye?
KATHERINE has come in followed by NURSE, hatted and cloaked,
with a small bag in her hand. KATHERINE takes from the bureau a
cheque which she hands to the NURSE. MORE comes in from the
terrace.
MORE. You're wise to go, Nurse.
NURSE. You've treated my poor dear badly, sir. Where's your heart?
MORE. In full use.
NURSE. On those heathens. Don't your own hearth and home come
first? Your wife, that was born in time of war, with her own father
fighting, and her grandfather killed for his country. A bitter
thing, to have the windows of her house broken, and be pointed at by
the boys in the street.
[MORE stands silent under this attack, looking at his wife.]
KATHERINE. Nurse!
NURSE. It's unnatural, sir--what you're doing! To think more of
those savages than of your own wife! Look at her! Did you ever see
her look like that? Take care, sir, before it's too late!
MORE. Enough, please!
NURSE stands for a moment doubtful; looks long at KATHERINE;
then goes.
MORE. [Quietly] There has been a victory.
[He goes out. KATHERINE is breathing fast, listening to the
distant hum and stir rising in the street. She runs to the
window as the footman, HENRY, entering, says: "Sir John Julian,
Ma'am!" SIR JOHN comes in, a newspaper in his hand.]
KATHERINE. At last! A victory!
SIR JOHN. Thank God! [He hands her the paper.]
KATHERINE. Oh, Dad!
[She tears the paper open, and feverishly reads.]
KATHERINE. At last!
The distant hum in the street is rising steadily. But SIR JOHN,
after the one exultant moment when he handed her the paper,
stares dumbly at the floor.
KATHERINE. [Suddenly conscious of his gravity] Father!
SIR JOHN. There is other news.
KATHERINE. One of the boys? Hubert?
[SIR JOHN bows his head.]
KATHERINE. Killed?
[SIR JOHN again bows his head.]
KATHERINE. The dream! [She covers her face] Poor Helen!
They stand for a few seconds silent, then SIR JOHN raises his
head, and putting up a hand, touches her wet cheek.
SIR JOHN. [Huskily] Whom the gods love----
KATHERINE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. And hulks like me go on living!
KATHERINE. Dear Dad!
SIR JOHN. But we shall drive the ruffians now! We shall break them.
Stephen back?
KATHERINE. Last night.
SIR JOHN. Has he finished his blasphemous speech-making at last?
[KATHERINE shakes her head] Not?
[Then, seeing that KATHERINE is quivering with emotion, he
strokes her hand.]
SIR JOHN. My dear! Death is in many houses!
KATHERINE. I must go to Helen. Tell Stephen, Father. I can't.
SIR JOHN. If you wish, child.
[She goes out, leaving SIR JOHN to his grave, puzzled grief, and
in a few seconds MORE comes in.]
MORE. Yes, Sir John. You wanted me?
SIR JOHN. Hubert is killed.
MORE. Hubert!
SIR JOHN. By these--whom you uphold. Katherine asked me to let you
know. She's gone to Helen. I understand you only came back last
night from your----No word I can use would give what I feel about
that. I don't know how things stand now between you and Katherine;
but I tell you this, Stephen: you've tried her these last two months
beyond what any woman ought to bear!
[MORE makes a gesture of pain.]
SIR JOHN. When you chose your course----
MORE. Chose!
SIR JOHN. You placed yourself in opposition to every feeling in her.
You knew this might come. It may come again with another of my sons.
MORE. I would willingly change places with any one of them.
SIR JOHN. Yes--I can believe in your unhappiness. I cannot conceive
of greater misery than to be arrayed against your country. If I
could have Hubert back, I would not have him at such a price--no, nor
all my sons. 'Pro patri mori'--My boy, at all events, is happy!
MORE. Yes!
SIR JOHN. Yet you can go on doing what you are! What devil of pride
has got into you, Stephen?
MORE. Do you imagine I think myself better than the humblest private
fighting out there? Not for a minute.
SIR JOHN. I don't understand you. I always thought you devoted to
Katherine.
MORE. Sir John, you believe that country comes before wife and
child?
SIR JOHN. I do.
MORE. So do I.
SIR JOHN. [Bewildered] Whatever my country does or leaves undone, I
no more presume to judge her than I presume to judge my God. [With
all the exaltation of the suffering he has undergone for her] My
country!
MORE. I would give all I have--for that creed.
SIR JOHN. [Puzzled] Stephen, I've never looked on you as a crank;
I always believed you sane and honest. But this is--visionary mania.
MORE. Vision of what might be.
SIR JOHN. Why can't you be content with what the grandest nation--
the grandest men on earth--have found good enough for them? I've
known them, I've seen what they could suffer, for our country.
MORE. Sir John, imagine what the last two months have been to me!
To see people turn away in the street--old friends pass me as if I
were a wall! To dread the post! To go to bed every night with the
sound of hooting in my ears! To know that my name is never referred
to without contempt----
SIR JOHN. You have your new friends. Plenty of them, I understand.
MORE. Does that make up for being spat at as I was last night? Your
battles are fool's play to it.
The stir and rustle of the crowd in the street grows louder.
SIR JOHN turns his head towards it.
SIR JOHN. You've heard there's been a victory. Do you carry your
unnatural feeling so far as to be sorry for that? [MORE shakes his
head] That's something! For God's sake, Stephen, stop before it's
gone past mending. Don't ruin your life with Katherine. Hubert was
her favourite brother; you are backing those who killed him. Think
what that means to her! Drop this--mad Quixotism--idealism--whatever
you call it. Take Katherine away. Leave the country till the
thing's over--this country of yours that you're opposing, and--and--
traducing. Take her away! Come! What good are you doing? What
earthly good? Come, my boy! Before you're utterly undone.
MORE. Sir John! Our men are dying out there for, the faith that's
in them! I believe my faith the higher, the better for mankind--Am
I to slink away? Since I began this campaign I've found hundreds
who've thanked me for taking this stand. They look on me now as
their leader. Am I to desert them? When you led your forlorn hope--
did you ask yourself what good you were doing, or, whether you'd come
through alive? It's my forlorn hope not to betray those who are
following me; and not to help let die a fire--a fire that's sacred--
not only now in this country, but in all countries, for all time.
SIR JOHN. [After a long stare] I give you credit for believing what
you say. But let me tell you whatever that fire you talk of--I'm too
old-fashioned to grasp--one fire you are letting die--your wife's
love. By God! This crew of your new friends, this crew of cranks
and jays, if they can make up to you for the loss of her love--of
your career, of all those who used to like and respect you--so much
the better for you. But if you find yourself bankrupt of affection--
alone as the last man on earth; if this business ends in your utter
ruin and destruction--as it must--I shall not pity--I cannot pity
you. Good-night!
He marches to the door, opens it, and goes out. MORE is left
standing perfectly still. The stir and murmur of the street is
growing all the time, and slowly forces itself on his
consciousness. He goes to the bay window and looks out; then
rings the bell. It is not answered, and, after turning up the
lights, he rings again. KATHERINE comes in. She is wearing a
black hat, and black outdoor coat. She speaks coldly without
looking up.
KATHERINE. You rang!
MORE. For them to shut this room up.
KATHERINE. The servants have gone out. They're afraid of the house
being set on fire.
MORE. I see.
KATHERINE. They have not your ideals to sustain them. [MORE winces]
I am going with Helen and Olive to Father's.
MORE. [Trying to take in the exact sense of her words] Good! You
prefer that to an hotel? [KATHERINE nods. Gently] Will you let me
say, Kit, how terribly I feel for you--Hubert's----
KATHERINE. Don't. I ought to have made what I meant plainer. I am
not coming back.
MORE. Not? Not while the house----
KATHERINE. Not--at all.
MORE. Kit!
KATHERINE. I warned you from the first. You've gone too far!
MORE. [Terribly moved] Do you understand what this means? After
ten years--and all--our love!
KATHERINE. Was it love? How could you ever have loved one so
unheroic as myself!
MORE. This is madness, Kit--Kit!
KATHERINE. Last night I was ready. You couldn't. If you couldn't
then, you never can. You are very exalted, Stephen. I don't like
living--I won't live, with one whose equal I am not. This has been
coming ever since you made that speech. I told you that night what
the end would be.
MORE. [Trying to put his arms round her] Don't be so terribly
cruel!
KATHERINE. No! Let's have the truth! People so wide apart don't
love! Let me go!
MORE. In God's name, how can I help the difference in our faiths?
KATHERINE. Last night you used the word--bargain. Quite right. I
meant to buy you. I meant to kill your faith. You showed me what I
was doing. I don't like to be shown up as a driver of bargains,
Stephen.
MORE. God knows--I never meant----
KATHERINE. If I'm not yours in spirit--I don't choose to be your--
mistress.
MORE, as if lashed by a whip, has thrown up his hands in an
attitude of defence.
KATHERINE. Yes, that's cruel! It shows the heights you live on. I
won't drag you down.
MORE. For God's sake, put your pride away, and see! I'm fighting
for the faith that's in me. What else can a man do? What else? Ah!
Kit! Do see!
KATHERINE. I'm strangled here! Doing nothing--sitting silent--when
my brothers are fighting, and being killed. I shall try to go out
nursing. Helen will come with me. I have my faith, too; my poor
common love of country. I can't stay here with you. I spent last
night on the floor--thinking--and I know!
MORE. And Olive?
KATHERINE. I shall leave her at Father's, with Nurse; unless you
forbid me to take her. You can.
MORE. [Icily] That I shall not do--you know very well. You are
free to go, and to take her.
KATHERINE. [Very low] Thank you! [Suddenly she turns to him, and
draws his eyes on her. Without a sound, she puts her whole strength
into that look] Stephen! Give it up! Come down to me!
The festive sounds from the street grow louder. There can be
heard the blowing of whistles, and bladders, and all the sounds
of joy.
MORE. And drown in--that?
KATHERINE turns swiftly to the door. There she stands and again
looks at him. Her face is mysterious, from the conflicting currents
of her emotions.
MORE. So--you're going?
KATHERINE. [In a whisper] Yes.
She bends her head, opens the door, and goes. MORE starts
forward as if to follow her, but OLIVE has appeared in the
doorway. She has on a straight little white coat and a round
white cap.
OLIVE. Aren't you coming with us, Daddy?
[MORE shakes his head.]
OLIVE. Why not?
MORE. Never mind, my dicky bird.
OLIVE. The motor'll have to go very slow. There are such a lot of
people in the street. Are you staying to stop them setting the house
on fire? [MORE nods] May I stay a little, too? [MORE shakes his
head] Why?
MORE. [Putting his hand on her head] Go along, my pretty!
OLIVE. Oh! love me up, Daddy!
[MORE takes and loves her up]
OLIVE. Oo-o!
MORE. Trot, my soul!
[She goes, looks back at him, turns suddenly, and vanishes.]
MORE follows her to the door, but stops there. Then, as full
realization begins to dawn on him, he runs to the bay window,
craning his head to catch sight of the front door. There is the
sound of a vehicle starting, and the continual hooting of its
horn as it makes its way among the crowd. He turns from the
window.
MORE. Alone as the last man on earth!
[Suddenly a voice rises clear out of the hurly-burly in the
street.]
VOICE. There 'e is! That's 'im! More! Traitor! More!
A shower of nutshells, orange-peel, and harmless missiles begins
to rattle against the glass of the window. Many voices take up
the groaning: "More! Traitor! Black-leg! More!" And through
the window can be seen waving flags and lighted Chinese
lanterns, swinging high on long bamboos. The din of execration
swells. MORE stands unheeding, still gazing after the cab.
Then, with a sharp crack, a flung stone crashes through one of
the panes. It is followed by a hoarse shout of laughter, and a
hearty groan. A second stone crashes through the glass. MORE
turns for a moment, with a contemptuous look, towards the
street, and the flare of the Chinese lanterns lights up his
face. Then, as if forgetting all about the din outside, he
moves back into the room, looks round him, and lets his head
droop. The din rises louder and louder; a third stone crashes
through. MORE raises his head again, and, clasping his hands,
looks straight before him. The footman, HENRY, entering,
hastens to the French windows.
MORE. Ah! Henry, I thought you'd gone.
FOOTMAN. I came back, sir.
MORE. Good fellow!
FOOTMAN. They're trying to force the terrace gate, sir. They've no
business coming on to private property--no matter what!
In the surging entrance of the mob the footman, HENRY, who shows
fight, is overwhelmed, hustled out into the crowd on the
terrace, and no more seen. The MOB is a mixed crowd of
revellers of both sexes, medical students, clerks, shop men and
girls, and a Boy Scout or two. Many have exchanged hats--Some
wear masks, or false noses, some carry feathers or tin whistles.
Some, with bamboos and Chinese lanterns, swing them up outside
on the terrace. The medley of noises is very great. Such
ringleaders as exist in the confusion are a GROUP OF STUDENTS,
the chief of whom, conspicuous because unadorned, is an
athletic, hatless young man with a projecting underjaw, and
heavy coal-black moustache, who seems with the swing of his huge
arms and shoulders to sway the currents of motion. When the
first surge of noise and movement subsides, he calls out: "To
him, boys! Chair the hero!" THE STUDENTS rush at the impassive
MORE, swing him roughly on to their shoulders and bear him round
the room. When they have twice circled the table to the music
of their confused singing, groans and whistling, THE CHIEF OF
THE STUDENTS calls out: "Put him down!" Obediently they set him
down on the table which has been forced into the bay window, and
stand gaping up at him.
CHIEF STUDENT. Speech! Speech!
[The noise ebbs, and MORE looks round him.]
CHIEF STUDENT. Now then, you, sir.
MORE. [In a quiet voice] Very well. You are here by the law that
governs the action of all mobs--the law of Force. By that law, you
can do what you like to this body of mine.
A VOICE. And we will, too.
MORE. I don't doubt it. But before that, I've a word to say.
A VOICE. You've always that.
[ANOTHER VOICE raises a donkey's braying.]
MORE. You--Mob--are the most contemptible thing under the sun. When
you walk the street--God goes in.
CHIEF STUDENT. Be careful, you--sir.
VOICES. Down him! Down with the beggar!
MORE. [Above the murmurs] My fine friends, I'm not afraid of you.
You've forced your way into my house, and you've asked me to speak.
Put up with the truth for once! [His words rush out] You are the
thing that pelts the weak; kicks women; howls down free speech. This
to-day, and that to-morrow. Brain--you have none. Spirit--not the
ghost of it! If you're not meanness, there's no such thing. If
you're not cowardice, there is no cowardice [Above the growing
fierceness of the hubbub] Patriotism--there are two kinds--that of
our soldiers, and this of mine. You have neither!
CHIEF STUDENT. [Checking a dangerous rush] Hold on! Hold on! [To
MORE] Swear to utter no more blasphemy against your country: Swear
it!
CROWD. Ah! Ay! Ah!
MORE. My country is not yours. Mine is that great country which
shall never take toll from the weakness of others. [Above the
groaning] Ah! you can break my head and my windows; but don't think
that you can break my faith. You could never break or shake it, if
you were a million to one.
A girl with dark eyes and hair all wild, leaps out from the
crowd and shakes her fist at him.
GIRL. You're friends with them that killed my lad! [MORE smiles
down at her, and she swiftly plucks the knife from the belt of a Boy
Scout beside her] Smile, you--cur!
A violent rush and heave from behind flings MORE forward on to
the steel. He reels, staggers back, and falls down amongst the
crowd. A scream, a sway, a rush, a hubbub of cries. The CHIEF
STUDENT shouts above the riot: "Steady!" Another: "My God!
He's got it!"
CHIEF STUDENT. Give him air!
The crowd falls back, and two STUDENTS, bending over MORE, lift
his arms and head, but they fall like lead. Desperately they
test him for life.
CHIEF STUDENT. By the Lord, it's over!
Then begins a scared swaying out towards the window. Some one
turns out the lights, and in the darkness the crowd fast melts
away. The body of MORE lies in the gleam from a single Chinese
lantern. Muttering the words: "Poor devil! He kept his end up
anyway!" the CHIEF STUDENT picks from the floor a little
abandoned Union Jack and lays it on MORE's breast. Then he,
too, turns, and rushes out.
And the body of MORE lies in the streak of light; and flee
noises in the street continue to rise.
THE CURTAIN FALLS, BUT RISES AGAIN ALMOST AT ONCE.
AFTERMATH
A late Spring dawn is just breaking. Against trees in leaf and
blossom, with the houses of a London Square beyond, suffused by
the spreading glow, is seen a dark life-size statue on a granite
pedestal. In front is the broad, dust-dim pavement. The light
grows till the central words around the pedestal can be clearly
read:
ERECTED
To the Memory
of
STEPHEN MORE
"Faithful to his ideal"
High above, the face of MORE looks straight before him with a faint
smile. On one shoulder and on his bare head two sparrows have
perched, and from the gardens, behind, comes the twittering and
singing of birds.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
The End
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mob (Third Series Plays), by John Galsworthy