Produced by David Widger
GALSWORTHY PLAYS--SERIES 3
THE PIGEON
A Fantasy in Three Acts
By John Galsworthy
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
CHRISTOPHER WELLWYN, an artist
ANN, his daughter
GUINEVERE MEGAN, a flower-seller
RORY MEGAN, her husband
FERRAND, an alien
TIMSON, once a cabman
EDWARD BERTLEY, a Canon
ALFRED CALWAY, a Professor
SIR THOMAS HOXTON, a Justice of the Peace
Also a police constable, three humble-men, and some curious persons
The action passes in Wellwyn's Studio, and the street outside.
ACT I. Christmas Eve.
ACT II. New Year's Day.
ACT III. The First of April.
ACT I
It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flush
with the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow.
There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,
above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfully
burning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.
There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.
chairs, and a long old-fashioned settle under the window. A
door in one wall leads to the house, a door in the opposite wall
to the model's dressing-room, and the street door is in the
centre of the wall between. On a low table a Russian samovar is
hissing, and beside it on a tray stands a teapot, with glasses,
lemon, sugar, and a decanter of rum. Through a huge uncurtained
window close to the street door the snowy lamplit street can be
seen, and beyond it the river and a night of stars.
The sound of a latchkey turned in the lock of the street door,
and ANN WELLWYN enters, a girl of seventeen, with hair tied in a
ribbon and covered by a scarf. Leaving the door open, she turns
up the electric light and goes to the fire. She throws of her
scarf and long red cloak. She is dressed in a high evening
frock of some soft white material. Her movements are quick and
substantial. Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and
sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped
forehead. Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.
In the doorway appear the figures of two men. The first is
rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft
eyes, and a crumply face. Under his squash hat his hair is
rather plentiful and rather grey. He wears an old brown ulster
and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette. He
is ANN'S father, WELLWYN, the artist. His companion is a
well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with
a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby
clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy. He is
the Vicar of the parish--CANON BERTLEY.
BERTLEY. My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of
difficulty. When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir
Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we've
seen to-night, I confess, I----
WELLWYN. Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.
BERTLEY. Not to-night, thanks! Christmas tomorrow! Great
temptation, though, this room! Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!
ANN. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] Good-night,
Canon Bertley.
[He goes out, and WELLWYN, shutting the door after him,
approaches the fire.]
ANN. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and
making tea.] Daddy!
WELLWYN. My dear?
ANN. You say you liked Professor Calway's lecture. Is it going to
do you any good, that's the question?
WELLWYN. I--I hope so, Ann.
ANN. I took you on purpose. Your charity's getting simply awful.
Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.
WELLWYN. Um! Um! I quite understand your feeling.
ANN. They both had your card, so I couldn't refuse--didn't know what
you'd said to them. Why don't you make it a rule never to give your
card to anyone except really decent people, and--picture dealers, of
course.
WELLWYN. My dear, I have--often.
ANN. Then why don't you keep it? It's a frightful habit. You are
naughty, Daddy. One of these days you'll get yourself into most
fearful complications.
WELLWYN. My dear, when they--when they look at you?
ANN. You know the house wants all sorts of things. Why do you speak
to them at all?
WELLWYN. I don't--they speak to me.
[He takes of his ulster and hangs it over the back of an
arm-chair.]
ANN. They see you coming. Anybody can see you coming, Daddy.
That's why you ought to be so careful. I shall make you wear a hard
hat. Those squashy hats of yours are hopelessly inefficient.
WELLWYN. [Gazing at his hat.] Calway wears one.
ANN. As if anyone would beg of Professor Calway.
WELLWYN. Well-perhaps not. You know, Ann, I admire that fellow.
Wonderful power of-of-theory! How a man can be so absolutely tidy in
his mind! It's most exciting.
ANN. Has any one begged of you to-day?
WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] No--no.
ANN. [After a long, severe look.] Will you have rum in your tea?
WELLWYN. [Crestfallen.] Yes, my dear--a good deal.
ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who
was it?
WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.]
Interesting old creature, Ann--real type. Old cabman.
ANN. Where?
WELLWYN. Just on the Embankment.
ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always
rotters.
WELLWYN. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't.
ANN. Did you give him your card?
WELLWYN. I--I--don't
ANN. Did you, Daddy?
WELLWYN. I'm rather afraid I may have!
ANN. May have! It's simply immoral.
WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I
didn't give him any money--hadn't got any.
ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You
know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent.
Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters?
WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it
if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the
use of being alive if one isn't?
ANN. Daddy, you're hopeless.
WELLWYN. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly
complicated. According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can
spare, to make the undeserving deserving. He's a Professor; he ought
to know. But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to
support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the
undeserving. Well, that's just the opposite. And he's a J.P.
Tremendous experience. And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of
both. Well, what the devil----? My trouble is, whichever I'm with,
he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of
them.
ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're
the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a
tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them
again.
WELLWYN. Am I likely to?
ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair.
D'you know what I live in terror of?
[WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]
ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the
street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his
trousers--they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one
enormous hole?
WELLWYN. No!
ANN. Spiritually.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm!
ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his
lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on
your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you
really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist!
WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment.
It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. If I'm to give up
feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it
doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do.
I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.
ANN. I think you ought to.
WELLWYN. I suppose they see I like them--then they tell me things.
After that, of course you can't help doing what you can.
ANN. Well, if you will love them up!
WELLWYN. My dear, I don't want to. It isn't them especially--why, I
feel it even with old Calway sometimes. It's only Providence that he
doesn't want anything of me--except to make me like himself--confound
him!
ANN. [Moving towards the door into the house--impressively.] What
you don't see is that other people aren't a bit like you.
WELLWYN. Well, thank God!
ANN. It's so old-fashioned too! I'm going to bed--I just leave you
to your conscience.
WELLWYN. Oh!
ANN. [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night--[with a certain
weakening] you old--Daddy!
[She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.]
[WELLWYN stands perfectly still. He first gazes up at the
skylight, then down at the floor. Slowly he begins to shake his
head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]
WELLWYN. Bad lot.... Low type--no backbone, no stability!
[There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door. As the sound
slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though
he knew, but would not admit its significance. Then he sits
down, covering his ears. The knocking does not cease. WELLWYN
drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle
towards the door. The knocking becomes louder.]
WELLWYN. Ah dear! Tt! Tt! Tt!
[After a look in the direction of ANN's disappearance, he opens
the street door a very little way. By the light of the lamp
there can be seen a young girl in dark clothes, huddled in a
shawl to which the snow is clinging. She has on her arm a
basket covered with a bit of sacking.]
WELLWYN. I can't, you know; it's impossible.
[The girl says nothing, but looks at him with dark eyes.]
WELLWYN. [Wincing.] Let's see--I don't know you--do I?
[The girl, speaking in a soft, hoarse voice, with a faint accent
of reproach: "Mrs. Megan--you give me this---" She holds out a
dirty visiting card.]
WELLWYN. [Recoiling from the card.] Oh! Did I? Ah! When?
MRS. MEGAN. You 'ad some vi'lets off of me larst spring. You give
me 'arf a crown.
[A smile tries to visit her face.]
WELLWYN. [Looking stealthily round.] Ah! Well, come in--just for a
minute--it's very cold--and tell us what it is.
[She comes in stolidly, a Sphinx-like figure, with her pretty
tragic little face.]
WELLWYN. I don't remember you. [Looking closer.] Yes, I do. Only--
you weren't the same-were you?
MRS. MEGAN. [Dully.] I seen trouble since.
WELLWYN. Trouble! Have some tea?
[He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes
quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum
into it.]
WELLWYN. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out! Drink it off!
[MRS. MEGAN drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost
immediately seems to get a size larger. WELLWYN watches her
with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his
face.]
WELLWYN. Cure for all evils, um?
MRS. MEGAN. It warms you. [She smiles.]
WELLWYN. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well! You know,
I oughtn't.
MRS. MEGAN. [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and
withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I wouldn't 'a come, but you told
me if I wanted an 'and----
WELLWYN. [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.] Let me
see--corner of Flight Street, wasn't it?
MRS. MEGAN. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an' I told you about
me vi'lets--it was a luvly spring-day.
WELLWYN. Beautiful! Beautiful! Birds singing, and the trees, &c.!
We had quite a talk. You had a baby with you.
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I got married since then.
WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how's the baby?
MRS. MEGAN. [Turning to stone.] I lost her.
WELLWYN. Oh! poor--- Um!
MRS. MEGAN. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin' a picture
of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case
you'd forgotten.
WELLWYN. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly?
MRS. MEGAN. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep 'em
covered up, but the cold gets to 'em. Thruppence--that's all I've
took.
WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!
MRS. MEGAN. They're dead.
WELLWYN. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?
MRS. MEGAN. He plays cards.
WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out--with a cold like
that? [He taps his chest.]
MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is
mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.
WELLWYN. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who
buys flowers at this time of night?
[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]
WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the
fire!
[She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street door.]
WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and
take them off. That's right.
[She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which
has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,
begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the
door into the house, opens it, and listens with a sort of
stealthy casualness. He returns whistling, but not out loud.
The girl has finished taking off her stockings, and turned her
bare toes to the flames. She shuffles them back under her
skirt.]
WELLWYN. How old are you, my child?
MRS. MEGAN. Nineteen, come Candlemas.
WELLWYN. And what's your name?
MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere.
WELLWYN. What? Welsh?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes--from Battersea.
WELLWYN. And your husband?
MRS. MEGAN. No. Irish, 'e is. Notting Dale, 'e comes from.
WELLWYN. Roman Catholic?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. My 'usband's an atheist as well.
WELLWYN. I see. [Abstractedly.] How jolly! And how old is he--this
young man of yours?
MRS. MEGAN. 'E'll be twenty soon.
WELLWYN. Babes in the wood! Does he treat you badly?
MRS. MEGAN. No.
WELLWYN. Nor drink?
MRS. MEGAN. No. He's not a bad one. Only he gets playin'
cards then 'e'll fly the kite.
WELLWYN. I see. And when he's not flying it, what does he do?
MRS. MEGAN. [Touching her basket.] Same as me. Other jobs tires 'im.
WELLWYN. That's very nice! [He checks himself.] Well, what am I to
do with you?
MRS. MEGAN. Of course, I could get me night's lodging if I like to
do--the same as some of them.
WELLWYN. No! no! Never, my child! Never!
MRS. MEGAN. It's easy that way.
WELLWYN. Heavens! But your husband! Um?
MRS. MEGAN. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.
WELLWYN. Tt! What a pickle!
MRS. MEGAN. I'll 'ave to walk about the streets.
WELLWYN. [To himself.] Now how can I?
[MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already
discovered that he is peculiar.]
WELLWYN. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because
--well, for one thing I haven't got it. There are other reasons, but
that's the--real one. But, now, there's a little room where my
models dress. I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see.
[The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. She
takes up her wet stockings.]
MRS. MEGAN. Shall I put them on again?
WELLWYN. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the
steam rising from her.] Why, you're wet all over. Here, wait a
little!
[He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy
listening, steps through. The Girl, like a cat, steals back to
the warmth of the fire. WELLWYN returns with a candle, a
canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]
WELLWYN. Now then! [He precedes her towards the door of the model's
room.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show
her the room.] Will it do? There's a couch. You'll find some
washing things. Make yourself quite at home. See!
[The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and
her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN hands her the candle,
blankets, and bath gown.]
WELLWYN. Have a good sleep, child! Forget that you're alive!
[He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it again! [He goes to the
table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it
in.] Chow-chow! [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite
door.] Well--damn it, what could I have done? Not a farthing on me!
[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to
confirm himself in his hospitality.] Night like this!
[A sputter of snow is blown in his face. A voice says:
"Monsieur, pardon!" WELLWYN recoils spasmodically. A figure
moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. He is seen to be young
and to have ragged clothes. He speaks again: "You do not
remember me, Monsieur? My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in
the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain.... When you came to
the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron.... Tenez,
here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN
an old and dirty wing card. As inch by inch he has advanced
into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall
gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of
beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large,
grey, rather prominent eyes. There is a certain grace in his
figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]
WELLWYN. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes. By the
fountain. I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and
drank the water.
FERRAND. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast. I was in poverty--
veree bad off. You gave me ten francs. I thought I had a little the
right [WELLWYN makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said
that if I came to England----
WELLWYN. Um! And so you've come?
FERRAND. It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. And you--have----
[He stops embarrassed.]
FERRAND. [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.] One is not yet Rothschild.
WELLWYN. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to memory.] We talked
philosophy.
FERRAND. I have not yet changed my opinion. We other vagabonds, we
are exploited by the bourgeois. This is always my idea, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. Yes--not quite the general view, perhaps! Well----
[Heartily.] Come in! Very glad to see you again.
FERRAND. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur--your
goodness--I am a little weak. [He opens his coat, and shows a belt
drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for
each meal, during two days now. That gives you courage.
WELLWYN. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have
some of this. It'll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.]
FERRAND. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I think that I will
never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur--though I have no vices,
except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success. But I
will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing
every day. I must find with what to fly a little.
WELLWYN. [Delicately.] Yes; yes--I remember, you found it difficult
to stay long in any particular--yes.
FERRAND. [Proudly.] In one little corner? No--Monsieur--never!
That is not in my character. I must see life.
WELLWYN. Quite, quite! Have some cake?
[He cuts cake.]
FERRAND. In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have
it. But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content.
[Refusing the cake.] 'Grand merci', but for the moment I have no
stomach--I have lost my stomach now for two days. If I could smoke,
Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.]
WELLWYN. Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one.
FERRAND. [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not found you,
Monsieur--I would have been a little hole in the river to-night--
I was so discouraged. [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of
smoke. Very bitterly.] Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with
his finger, and stares before him.] And to think that in a few
minutes HE will be born! Monsieur! [He gazes intently at WELLWYN.]
The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.
WELLWYN. [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think
so? Ah!
FERRAND. Monsieur, if HE himself were on earth now, there would be a
little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call
Him sloppee sentimentalist! And what is veree funny, these gentlemen
they would all be most strong Christians. [He regards WELLWYN
deeply.] But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from
the first that you are no Christian. You have so kind a face.
WELLWYN. Oh! Indeed!
FERRAND. You have not enough the Pharisee in your character. You do
not judge, and you are judged.
[He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]
WELLWYN. Are you in pain?
FERRAND. I 'ave a little the rheumatism.
WELLWYN. Wet through, of course! [Glancing towards the house.] Wait
a bit! I wonder if you'd like these trousers; they've--er--they're
not quite----
[He passes through the door into the house. FERRAND stands at
the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it,
smoking with abandonment. WELLWYN returns stealthily, dressed
in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his
trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]
WELLWYN. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can
you make these do for the moment?
FERRAND. 'Je vous remercie', Monsieur. [Pointing to the screen.]
May I retire?
WELLWYN. Yes, yes.
[FERRAND goes behind the screen. WELLWYN closes the door into
the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains. He
suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]
WELLWYN. Good Lord!
[There is the sound of tapping on glass. Against the
window-pane is pressed the face of a man. WELLWYN motions to him
to go away. He does not go, but continues tapping. WELLWYN
opens the door. There enters a square old man, with a red,
pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler
hat. He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.]
WELLWYN. Who's that? Who are you?
TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir;
we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson--I give you me name. You invited
of me, if ye remember.
WELLWYN. It's a little late, really.
TIMSON. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer. I
was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein'
Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with
increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a
bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my
age.
WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into
his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.
TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't
arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life.
It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.
WELLWYN. Well, really, I----
TIMSON. To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward.
WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well--come in a moment, and let's--
think it out. Have some tea!
[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a
little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]
TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's--soberiety!
[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably
surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?
FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of
which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would
soon have with what to make face against the world.
WELLWYN. Too short! Ah!
[He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes
from it a needle and cotton.]
[While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one
dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
lapsed into coma.]
FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur!
[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]
WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!
[They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]
FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux
sont tous des buveurs'.
WELLWYN. [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old
friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.]
Will you smoke?
TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old
'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold.
[He relapses into coma.]
FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.
WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do
you think?
FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very
well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth
sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. At the
most, drink, and fly a little in his past.
WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!
FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents
among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses,
and from sitting still.
WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!
FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is
well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug,
if you will, he will soon steam.
[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
old man.]
TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put--the rug on th' old
'orse.
[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]
WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him?
FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a
'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call--
'is bitt.
WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in
this state.
FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I
charge myself with him.
WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't
contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed?
FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you
want?
FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.
WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying.
FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in
me.
WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. You'd better
take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect,
about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]
FERRAND. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well-good-night! By the way, I shall
be down rather early. Have to think of my household a bit, you know.
FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Monsieur'. I comprehend. One must well be
regular in this life.
WELLWYN. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the
model's room.] I'd forgotten----
FERRAND. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?
WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer
door.] You won't want this, will you?
FERRAND. 'Merci, Monsieur'.
[WELLWYN switches off the light.]
FERRAND. 'Bon soir, Monsieur'!
WELLWYN. The devil! Er--good-night!
[He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
away.]
FERRAND. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old TIMSON]
'Espece de type anglais!'
[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and
taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of
trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary
stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.
Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and
slips behind the screen. MRS. MEGAN, attracted by the cessation
of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's
room towards the fire. She has almost reached it before she
takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. She halts and
puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight,
garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool
slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck.
Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of
stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on the little
stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON. FERRAND, coming quietly
up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if
enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back
a yard or two.]
FERRAND. [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'.
MRS. MEGAN. [Springing to her feet.] Oh!
FERRAND. All right, all right! We are brave gents!
TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] 'Old up, there!
FERRAND. Trust in me, Ma'moiselle!
[MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.]
FERRAND. [Gently.] We must be good comrades. This asylum--it is
better than a doss-'ouse.
[He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself.
Somewhat reassured, MRS. MEGAN again sits down.]
MRS. MEGAN. You frightened me.
TIMSON. [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] Purple foreigners!
FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a philosopher.
MRS. MEGAN. Oh! I thought 'e was boozed.
[They both look at TIMSON]
FERRAND. It is the same-veree 'armless.
MRS. MEGAN. What's that he's got on 'im?
FERRAND. It is a coronation robe. Have no fear, Ma'moiselle. Veree
docile potentate.
MRS. MEGAN. I wouldn't be afraid of him. [Challenging FERRAND.] I'm
afraid o' you.
FERRAND. It is because you do not know me, Ma'moiselle. You are
wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.
MRS. MEGAN. I don't like the way you-speaks to me.
FERRAND. Ah! You are a Princess in disguise?
MRS. MEGAN. No fear!
FERRAND. No? What is it then you do to make face against the
necessities of life? A living?
MRS. MEGAN. Sells flowers.
FERRAND. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career.
MRS. MEGAN. [With a touch of devilry.] You don't know what I do.
FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, whatever you do is charming.
[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and slowly smiles.]
MRS. MEGAN. You're a foreigner.
FERRAND. It is true.
MRS. MEGAN. What do you do for a livin'?
FERRAND. I am an interpreter.
MRS. MEGAN. You ain't very busy, are you?
FERRAND. [With dignity.] At present I am resting.
MRS. MEGAN. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come
here?
FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question.
MRS. MEGAN. The gentleman let me. 'E's funny.
FERRAND. 'C'est un ange' [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he
interprets.] An angel!
MRS. MEGAN. Me luck's out-that's why I come.
FERRAND. [Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There is the little
God who dominates us all. Look at this old! [He points to TIMSON.]
He is finished. In his day that old would be doing good business.
He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come
the motor cars. All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a
'cocher'! Luck!
TIMSON. [With a vague gesture--drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars
out.
FERRAND. A real Englishman.... And look at me! My father
was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels. If I had been content
to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich. But I was born to
roll--"rolling stone" to voyage is stronger than myself. Luck!...
And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her
face.] You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of
life. 'Et vous voila'! Luck!
[Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
her expression changes to a sort of glee.]
FERRAND. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is it not? You see,
you cannot say, No. All of us, we have our fates. Give me your
hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is
that against which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes!
[He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own.
MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]
TIMSON. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave yourselves! Yer
crimson canary birds!
[MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]
FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a Puritan.
[TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which
falls with a crash.]
MRS. MEGAN. Let go my hand, please!
FERRAND. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.]
There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in
my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her
face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?
MRS. MEGAN. I dunno--lots, I thinks of.
FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the
strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along."
He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights--
the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it
is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you
what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that
old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly
forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah!
[He draws her forward off the stool. There is a little
struggle, then she resigns her lips. The little stool,
overturned, falls with a clatter. They spring up, and move
apart. The door opens and ANN enters from the house in a blue
dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above
her head. Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove,
she recoils. Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice
sharpened by fright: "Daddy--Daddy!"]
TIMSON. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] All right!
I'm comin'!
FERRAND. Have no fear, Madame!
[In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking
twelve. ANN remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened
on the strangers. There is the sound of someone falling
downstairs, and WELLWYN appears, also holding a candle above his
head.]
ANN. Look!
WELLWYN. Yes, yes, my dear! It--it happened.
ANN. [With a sort of groan.] Oh! Daddy!
[In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]
FERRAND. [Softly, in his ironic voice.] HE is come, Monsieur! 'Appy
Christmas! Bon Noel!
[There is a sudden chime of bells. The Stage is blotted dark.]
Curtain.