|Interior of an artisan cottage. Door centre, leading direct to street,
door right to house. Fireplace with kitchen range left. Table centre,
with print cloth. Two plain chairs under it, one left, one centre,
facing audience. Rocking-chair by fireplace. Two chairs against wall
right, above door. Dresser right, below door. Small hanging bookcase
on wall, left centre. Window right centre. On walls plainly framed
photographs of Socialist leaders--Blatchford, Hyndman, Hardie. The time
is 7.0 p.m. on a June evening.
Mrs. Garside is a working-class woman of 50, greyhaired, slight, with
red toil-worn hands and a face expressive of resignation marred by
occasional petulance, dressed in a rough serge skirt, dark print blouse,
elastic-sided boots, and a white apron. She sits in the rocking-chair,
watching the cheap alarm-clock fretfully. Outside a boy is heard calling
"Last Edishun." She rises hastily, feels on the mantelpiece for her
purse, opens the door centre and buys a paper from the boy who appears
through the doorway. She closes door, sits centre and spreads the paper
on the table, rises again and gets spectacle-case from mantelpiece. She
sits with spectacles on and rapidly goes through the paper seeking some
particular item.
The door centre opens and Margaret Shawcross enters. She is young, dark,
with a face beautiful in expression rather than feature. It is the face
of an idealist, one who would go through fire and water for the faith
that is in her.
She is a school teacher, speaking with an educated voice in a slightly
apparent northern accent, dressed neatly and serviceably.
Mrs. Garside turns eagerly as she enters and is disappointed on seeing
Margaret.
*****
Mrs. Gar. Oh, it's you. I thought it might be----
Mar. (_closing door, sympathetically_). Yes. But it's too early to
expect Peter back yet.
Mrs. G. (_with some truculence_). He'll not be long. He's always said
he'd let his mother be the first to hear the news.
Mar. (_gently_). You don't mind my being here to hear it with you?
Mrs. G. (_rising and putting spectacles back on mantelpiece, speaking
ungraciously_). No, you've got a right to hear it too, Margaret.
(_Margaret picks up paper._) I can't find anything in that.
Mar. Peter said the results come out too late for the evening papers.
Mrs. G. He never told me. (_Margaret folds paper on table._) I'm glad
though. There's no one else _'_ull know a-front of me. He'll bring the
good news home himself. He's coming now as fast as train and car _'_ull
bring him. (_Sitting in rocking-chair._)
Mar. Yes. He knows we're waiting here, we two who care for Peter more
than anything on earth.
Mrs. G. (_giving her a jealous glance_). I wish he'd come.
Mar. Try to be calm, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (_irritably_). Calm? How can I be calm? I'm on edge till I know.
(_Rocking her chair quickly._)
Mar. (_trying to soothe her_). It isn't as if he can't try again if he's
not through this time.
Mrs. G. (_confidently, keeping her chair still_). He'll have no need to
try again. I've a son and his name this night is Peter Garside, b.a. I
know he's through.
Mar. (_sitting in chair lift of table_). Then if you're sure----
Mrs. G. Yes. I know I'm a fidget. I want to hear it from his own lips.
He's worked so hard he can't fail. (_Accusingly._) You don't believe me,
Margaret. You're not sure of him.
Mar. (_with elbows on table and head on hands_). I'm fearful of the odds
against him--the chances that the others have and he hasn't. _Peter's_
to work for his living. _They're_ free to study all day long. (_Rising,
enthusiastically._) Oh, if he does it, what a triumph for our class.
Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer, keeping
himself and you, and studying at night for his degree.
Mrs. G. (_dogmatically_). The odds don't count. I know Peter. Peter's
good enough for any odds. You doubt him, Margaret.
Mar. No. I've seen him work. I've worked with him till he distanced
me and left me far behind. He knows enough to pass, to pass above them
all----
Mrs. G. Yes, yes!
Mar. But examinations are a fearful hazard.
Mrs. G. Not to Peter. He's fighting for his class, he's showing them
he's the better man. He can work with his hands and they can't, and he
can work with his brain as well as the best of them.
Mar. He'll do it. It may not be this time, but he'll do it in the end.
Mrs. G. (_obstinately_). This time, Margaret.
Mar. I do hope so.
Mrs. G. (_looking at the clock_). Do you think there's been a breakdown
on the cars?
Mar. No, no.
Mrs. G. (_rising anxiously_). He said seven, and it's after that.
Mar. (_trying to soothe her_). Not much.
Mrs. G. (_pacing about_). Why doesn't he come? (_Stopping short._) Where
do people go to find out if there's been an accident? It's the police
station, isn't it?
Mar. Oh, there's no need----
[_Peter Garside bursts in through centre door and closes it behind him
as he speaks. He is 23, cleanshaven, fair, sturdily built, with a large,
loose mouth, strong jaw, and square face, dressed in a cheap tweed suit,
wearing a red tie._
Peter (_breathlessly_). I've done it.
Mrs. G. (_going to him; he puts his arm round her and pats her back,
while she hides her face against his chest_). My boy, my boy!
Peter. I've done it, mother. (_Looking proudly at Margaret._) I'm an
honours man of Midlandton University.
Mar. First class, Peter?
Peter. Yes. First Class. (_Gently disengaging himself from Mrs.
Garside._)
Mrs. G. (_standing by his left, looking up at him_). I knew, I knew it,
Peter. I had the faith in you.
Peter (_hanging his cap behind the door right, then coming back to
centre. Margaret is standing on the hearthrug_). Ah, little mother, what
a help that faith has been to me. I couldn't disappoint a faith like
yours. I had to win. Mother, Margaret, I've done it. Done it. Oh,
I think I'm not quite sane to-night. This room seems small all of a
sudden. I want to leap, to dance, and I know I'd break my neck against
the ceiling if I did. Peter Garside, b.a. (_Approaching Margaret._)
Margaret, tell me I deserve it. _You_ know what it means to me. The
height of my ambition. The crown, the goal, my target reached at last.
Margaret, isn't it a great thing that I've done?
Mar. (_taking both his hands_). A great thing, Peter.
Peter. Oh, but I was lucky in my papers.
Mar. No, you just deserve it all.
Peter (_dropping her hands_). Up to the end I didn't know. I thought I'd
failed. And here I'm through first class. I've beaten men I never hoped
to equal. I've called myself a swollen-headed fool for dreaming to
compete with them, and now----
Mrs. G. Now you've justified my faith. I never doubted you--like
Margaret did.
Peter (_looking from her to Margaret_). Margaret did?
Mar. I didn't dare to hope for this, Peter--at a first attempt.
Mrs. G. (_contemptuously_). She didn't dare. But I did. I dared, Peter,
I knew.
Peter (_putting his arm over her shoulder_). Oh, mother, mother! But
Margaret was right, if I hadn't had such luck in the papers I----
Mrs. G. (_slipping from him and going to where her cape and bonnet hang
on the door right_). It wasn't luck. Even Margaret said you deserved it
all.
Peter. Even Margaret! (_Seeing her putting cape on._) You're not going
out, mother?
Mrs. G. (_with determination_). Yes, I am. There's others besides
Margaret doubted you. I'm going to tell them all. I'm going to be the
first to spread the news. And won't it spread! Like murder.
[_Margaret sits l.c._
Peter. Oh, yes. It'll spread fast enough. They may know already.
Mrs. G. (_turning with her hand on the centre door latch_). How could
they?
Peter. News travels fast.
Mrs. G. But you haven't told anyone else. Have you, Peter?
(_Reproachfully._) You said you'd let me be the first to know.
Peter. I met O'Callagan on his way to the Club. He asked me. I couldn't
refuse to answer.
Mrs. G. (_energetically_). He'd no right to meet you. A dreamy wastrel
like O'Callagan to know before your mother!
Peter. He'll only tell the men at the Club, mother.
Mrs. G. (_opening door_). And I'll tell the women. They're going to
know the kind of son I've borne. I'm a proud woman this night, and
all Belinda Street is going to know I've cause to be. (_Sniffing._)
O'Callagan indeed!
[_Exit Mrs. Garside._
Peter. And now, Margaret? (_He stands centre behind table._)
Mar. (_looking up and holding out her hand across table; she takes his,
bending_). Oh, my dear, my dear.
Peter. Are you pleased with me?
Mar. Pleased!
Peter (_rising_). Yes. We've done it.
Mar. You, not we. My hero.
Peter. We, Margaret, we. I'm no hero. I owe it all to you.
Mar. (_rising_). You owe it to yourself.
Peter. You inspired me. You helped me on. You kept me at it when my
courage failed. When I wanted to slack you came and worked with me. It
was your idea from the first.
Mar. My idea but your deed.
Peter (_sitting centre, behind table_). I've had dreams of this.
Dreams of success. I never thought it would come. It was there on the
horizon--a far-off nebulous dream.
Mar. (_standing right_). It's a reality to-day.
Peter. Yes. It's a reality to day. I've done the task you set me. I've
proved my class as good as theirs. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?
Mar. I wanted you to win, Peter.
Peter. I've won because you wanted it, because after I won I knew that
you---- (_Rising._) Has it been wearisome to wait, Margaret? I had the
work, lectures, study. You had the tedious clays of teaching idiotic
middle-class facts to idiotic middle-class children, and evenings when
you ought to have had me and didn't because I couldn't lose a single
precious moment's chance of study.
Mar. That's clean forgotten. To-night is worth it all.
Peter. To-night, and the future, Margaret.
Mar. (_solemnly_). Yes, the future, Peter.
Peter. This night was always in my dreams. The night when I should come
to you and say, Margaret Shawcross, this have I done for you, because
you wanted it. Was it well done, Margaret?
Mar. Nobly done.
Peter. And the labourer is worthy of his hire? I ask for my reward.
Mar. (_shaking her head_). I can give you no reward that's big enough.
Peter. You can give the greatest prize on earth. We ought to have been
married long ago. I've kept you waiting.
Mar. That had to be. They won't have married women teachers at the
Midlandton High School. I couldn't burden you until this fight was
fought.
Peter. And now, Margaret?
Mar. Now I'm ready--if----
Peter. More if's?
Mar. A very little one. If you've money to keep us three. No going short
for mother.
Peter. You trust me, don't you?
Mar. (_giving hand_). Yes, Peter, I trust you.
Peter (_bursting with thoughts_). There's my journalism. This degree
_'_ull give me a lift at that. I shall get lecture engagements too.
Mar. (_alarmed_). Peter, you didn't do it for that!
Peter. I did it for you. But I mean to enjoy the fruits of all this
work. Public speaking's always been a joy to me. You don't know the
glorious sensation of holding a crowd in the hollow of your hand,
mastering it, doing what you like with it.
Mar. (_sadly_). I hoped you'd given up speaking.
Peter. I haven't spoken lately because I'd other things to do. I haven't
given it up.
Mar. You did too much before.
Peter. You don't know the fascination of the thing.
Mar. (_bracing herself for a tussle_). I know the fascination's fatal. I
saw it growing on you--this desire to speak, to be the master of a mob.
I hoped I'd cured you of it.
Peter. Cured me?
Mar. I thought I'd given you a higher aim.
Peter. And _that_ was why you urged this study on me?
Mar. Yes.
Peter. Margaret! Why? (_Backing from, her, and sitting centre during her
speech._)
Mar. I've seen men ruined by this itch to speak. You know them. Men we
had great hopes of in the movement. Men we thought would be real leaders
of the people. And they spoke, and spoke, and soon said all they had to
say, became mere windbags trading on a reputation till people tired and
turned to some new orator. Don't be one of these, Peter. You've solider
grit than they. The itch to speak is like the itch to drink, except that
it's cheaper to talk yourself tipsy.
Peter. You ask a great thing of me, Margaret.
Mar. (_sitting right_) What shall I see of you if you're out speaking
every night? You pitied me just now because you had to close your door
against me while you studied. I could bear that for the time. But this
other thing, married and widowed at once, with you out at your work all
day and away night after night----
Peter. But I shan't always be working in the daytime.
Mar. (_alarmed_). Not work! Peter--they haven't dismissed you?
Peter. Oh, no. I'm safe if anyone is safe. No one is, of course, but I'm
as safe as man can be. I'm a first-elass workman.
Mar. I know that, dear.
Peter. So do they. They'll not sack me. I might sack them some day.
Mar. But--how shall we live?
Peter (_impatiently_). Oh, not yet. I'm speaking of the future. Don't
you see? I'm not content to be a workman all my life. I ought to make
a living easily by writing and--and speaking if you'll let me. Then I
could be with you all day long.
Mar. (_looking straight in front of her_). Have I set fire to this
train?
Peter. You don't suppose a B.A. means to stick to manual labour all his
life, do you?
Mar. Oh, dear! This wasn't my idea at all. I wanted you to win your
degree for the honour of the thing, to show them what a working engineer
could do. Cease to be a workman and you confess another, worse motive.
It's as though you only passed to make a profit for yourself.
Peter. I can't help being ambitious. I wasn't till you set me on.
Mar. If you listened to me then, listen to me now.
Peter (_pushing his chair hack and rising_). I might have a career.
(_Crossing to fireplace._)
Mar (_still sitting_). And I might have a husband. I don't want to marry
a career, Peter.
Peter (_looking into fire, his back to Margaret_). I've already got a
local reputation as a speaker.
Mar. Then make one as a writer. I know you can.
Peter. The other's easier.
Mar. It's not like you to choose the easy path.
Peter. I've worked so hard. I did think that now I might have some
reward.
Mar. You've won your degree.
Peter (_acquiescent_). Oh, yes.
Mar. And--I'm ready, Peter. (_Slight pause._)
Peter (_turning_). Yes. You've conquered me. I'll fight ambition down.
It shall be as you wish, Margaret.
Mar. (_rising and going to him_). Peter, oh, my dear, dear Peter! You
make me feel I don't do right. Oh, but I know. I know. Speaking's so
deadly dangerous.
Peter. I promise not to speak. I'll write. I'll stick to engineering,
and we'll have our evenings.
Mar. You make me very happy, Peter.
Peter. When are you going to make me happy, Margaret?
Mar. As soon as my lord pleases.
Peter. Your lord will be pleased in a month.
[_Mrs. Garside enters, centre._
Well, little mother, have you disseminated the intelligence?
[_Margaret sits on rocking-chair._
Mrs. G. (_uncomprehendingly_). No. I've been telling folks about you.
(_She takes off bonnet and cape and hangs them on door right._) Some of
_'_em's green with jealousy this night. They know I'm the mother of a
great man now.
Peter. So you were first, after all?
Mrs. G. I meant being first. Who'd the better right to be? Me or a wild
Irishman? (_Crossing to dresser and emptying on a plate the contents of
a parcel she had brought in._)
Peter (_smiling_). And you've been killing the fatted calf for me?
Mrs. G. (_literally_). Oh, did you want pressed veal? I've got ham.
Peter. I don't want veal. Food's not a bad idea, though.
Mrs. G. (_looking at Margaret_). No. Margaret might have thought of that
and put the kettle on if she'd had her wits about her.
Mar. (_rising_). I'm sorry, Mrs. Garside. We've been talking.
Mrs. G. You'd some excuse. Peter's given us something to talk about.
Mar. Let me help now.
Peter. We'll all help. I'll lay the table.
Mrs. G. You don't stir a finger, my lad. Sit you down.
[_Peter sits with amused resignation in rocking-chair._
Peter. Oh! Why?
Mrs. G. B.A.s don't lay tables. Now, Margaret. (_Mrs. Garside takes
white cloth from drawer in table and she and Margaret spread it. There
is a knock at the door. Peter gets up. Mrs. Garside pushes him back into
his chair_). I've told you to sit still. (_She crosses to door centre
and opens it._)
O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). May we come in, Mrs. Garside?
Mrs. G. (_genially_). Yes. Come in, the lot of you.
[_The three who enter are working men in their evening clothes. Denis
O'Callagan is 35, clean shaven, an enthusiastic impractical Irishman,
small and dark. Karl Marx Jones is 30, wears a formally trimmed beard,
is precise in utterance, doctrinaire in outlook, and practical in
procedure. Ned Applegarth is a man of 50, his age carrying sober
authority, very earnest in manner, grizzled moustache, grey hair, black
cut-away coat and turn-down collar, a responsible leader deferred to
willingly by O'Callagan, ungraciously by Jones. Ned, entering last,
closes the door. Each, as he speaks, shakes Peter's hand._
O'Cal. (_visible in doorway_). Aye. Let us come in, for it's a great
night surely, and we fair bursting with the glory of the thing that's
done this day.
Jones. Comrade Garside, I offer my congratulations.
Ned. Well done, youngster. (_Turning to Mrs. Garside._) Mrs. Garside,
you've a son to be proud of.
Mrs. G. Do you think I don't know it?
Peter (_his demeanour unfeignedly modest_). Comrades, Mr. Applegarth,
it's nothing. I tried my best, but if I hadn't been so lucky in my
papers----
Jones (_interrupting_). You've passed. The others were lucky, lucky in
being men of leisure, sons of wealthy parents with nothing to do but
study. Don't talk about your luck--(_bitterly_)--the luck of a wage
slave. It's like winning a foot race with your ankles chained together.
O'Cal. It's the mighty brain of him that made him win.
Peter. Comrades, don't give me praise. It wasn't I. Something not myself
got hold of me and urged me on. Injustice! Tyranny! The consciousness of
class. The knowledge that in the eyes of my well-to-do competitors I was
an inferior animal. My hands are rough with toil, the toil they batten
on, and so they mocked at me for daring to compete with them--a man with
a trade. They know now what a working man can do with his brain. They
laughed on the wrong side of their fat faces, when the list came out
to-night.
O'Cal. Bravo!
Jones (_sceptically_). Are they all such cads? I thought there were
Socialists among them.
Peter. Middle-class, kid-glove Socialists, Fabians.
Ned (_dryly_). You're a fine talker, lad.
O'Cal. (_to Ned_). And a brave doer, Mr. Applegarth.
Ned. Well, well, a good start's half the battle, and I'm not denying
that a ready tongue's a useful gift.
Mar. It's a dangerous one, Mr. Applegarth.
Jones. Aye, when it's by itself. Not when it's backed up by a knowledge
of the principles of Karl Marx and used to expose fearlessly the gross
fallacies of the capitalist professors of economics.
Ned (_impatiently_). Let's get to business. (_Jones is resentful._) Mrs.
Garside's making supper, and we don't want to keep her waiting.
Mrs. G. That's all one. Food _'_ull be nobbut a fraud. We're too excited
to eat this night. Sit you down.
Ned. Thank you, Mrs. Garside.
[_Mrs. Garside puts Ned in chair, centre. Peter and Margaret bring the
chairs right down stage, putting one right, near table, the other left,
Jones sits right. O'Callagan at table left, Peter on chair he brings
left of O'Callagan, and Mrs. Garside presently takes rocking-chair.
Margaret stands l.c. well away from the rest, as if trying to efface
herself, after going off left and returning without her hat in a
moment._
(_Sitting._) Peter, I've said it before, and I say it again. You've made
a good start, lad.
Peter. Thank you, Mr. Applegarth.
Ned. A good start. And now, what comes next?
Peter (_going left, and meeting Margaret as she reenters_). Next? This
next, Mr. Applegarth. (_Taking her hand._)
Ned (_nodding_). So. I mind I'd heard. Well, marriage is a proper state.
(_Jones shows signs of irritation._) And you're a lucky chap to have
Miss Shawcross for a bride. I don't say anything against marriage.
Jones (_hotly_). Well, I do. Now and always. In a free state
marriage----
O'Cal. (_leaning across towards Jones, Peter and Margaret still standing
behind near left door_). And have we got our free state yet? Let you
wait to be talking of freedom and free-loving men and women till we've
had our glorious revolution, and in the dawning of that day----
Jones (_leaping up, interrupting_). There must be pioneers. Some of _us_
must set the example. (_Appealing to Peter and Margaret._) Even at
the price of martyrdom, of ostracism by coarse-minded oafs who cannot
understand, I call on you, Miss Shawcross, to dispense with the worn-out
form of marriage. Be free lovers----
Ned. Comrade Jones, you're a married man yourself
(_Jones sits dozen abruptly, silenced_), and we're here on business. And
after you're married, Peter?
Jones (_murmuring disgustedly_). Married!
Peter (_lightly_). Oh, live happily ever afterwards. My horizon doesn't
go beyond that.
Ned. Doesn't it? Well, listen to me. There'll be a by-election here
shortly.
Peter. Why? (_Peter leaves Margaret and comes forward to chair right of
table._)
Ned. Ramsden's resigning South-west Midlandton.
Jones. About time the old hypocrite did, too.
Peter. This is news to me.
Ned. I know that. It was news to us last night. The question is, do we
run a candidate this time?
Peter. We ought to. It's a labour seat by rights.
Jones. If only the thick-headed fools would sec their own interests.
Peter (_turning_). Margaret, you'll have to give me back my word.
(_Slight pause._)
Jones. What word's that?
Peter. I've promised to give up public speaking. (_They look at Margaret
in disgusted protest. She speaks quickly._)
Mar. Oh, you shall speak if there's an election.
Ned. That's right. All hands to the pump.
Mar. I'll speak myself.
O'Cal. It's a risky thing for you. Miss Shaweross.
Mar. The cause comes first.
O'Cal. Before bread and butter? You'll lose your job if they hear of it.
Mar. I must hope they won't hear.
Ned. You're going too fast. There's two things in the way. One's money.
The other's a man.
Peter. Surely the Central people have a good man ready to fight.
Ned. No. We've got to find the man, before they help us with money.
They're a bit down on our chances unless we find a strong local man. A
local man should pull it off where an outsider might fail. Problem is to
find him.
O'Cal. Faith, and we've found him.
Peter. Yourself, Mr. Applegarth?
Ned. I'm the wrong side of fifty, and I'm no speaker. Guess again.
Peter. It's got to be a local man?
Jones. That's essential.
Peter. I can't think of anyone who's big enough for that job.
Jones. Nor we couldn't neither. We gave it up last night and called
another meeting at the Club to-night. And there we sat, the whole
executive, no better than a parcel of tongue-tied fools, when O'Callagan
bursts in and tells us----
Ned. Yes, Peter Garside, b.a., there's you.
[_Margaret shrinks back still further._
Mrs. G. (_going round to him_). Peter! My son a Member of Parliament!
Peter (_repulsing her_). No, no, I'm not worthy.
Ned. We're the best judges of that.
Peter (_firmly_). I'm too young. I'd be the youngest man in the Labour
Party.
Jones. Someone's got to be that. They need young blood. There's too much
antideluvian trades unionism about the old gang.
O'Cal. It's a queer thing you do be saying, and you without a grey hair
to your head. It's a queer thing to hear a young man making moan beeause
he's young.
Mrs. G. (_appealingly_). Peter!
Peter. But I'm---- (_Hesitating and looking from one to the other._)
Ned. What?
Peter. I don't know. I never thought of this.
Jones. Think of it now. We've to act sharp if we're to do any good at
all.
Peter (_still wondering_). And you've come officially to offer it to me?
Jones (_roughly_). Of course we have. Do you think we're playing with
the thing?
Peter. It's--it's awfully sudden. When do you want my answer?
Ned. Now. (_Seeing Peter's distress, more kindly._) To-night, anyhow.
The whole thing _'_ull be over in six weeks. We've little enough time in
all conscience to create an organization.
Peter. And if I say--no?
O'Cal. Then one of the murdering blood-suckers that live upon our labour
_'_ull get the seat, and it won't matter either way which side wins, for
it's all one to the working man.
Jones. It's you or nobody.
Ned (_appealing_). Lad, you'll not say no. I don't say you'll never
get another chance, beeause B.A.s are sort of scarce in the Amalgamated
Society of Engineers. But I do say this. We want you. You've got a call
to a high place and a high duty. Are you going to fail us in our need?
O'Cal. We want you for another nail in the coffin of capitalism, another
link in the golden chain that's dragging us up from slavery the way
we'll be free men the day that chain's complete.
Peter (_smiling_). And I'd be a nine-carat link, Denis. I'm made of
baser stuff than the great leaders who compose that chain. I'm not
worthy to aspire to a seat by their side in Parliament.
Jones. There's such a vice as over-modesty.
Ned. Nay, I like you better for being modest. You'd like us to go out
and eome back in an hour or so.
Mrs. G. Say yes to them, Peter. Tell them you'll be a Member of
Parliament.
Peter. Members of Parliament need electing first, mother.
O'Cal. And are you doubting that you'll be elected? You've only to say
you'll stand, and you can practise putting M.P. after your name this
night, for you'll have need to write it certainly.
Peter (_going to Margaret_). Margaret, what shall I say?
Jones. You must decide this for yourself.
Mar. (_coming forward a little reluctantly_). Yes, Peter. You must
decide. No one can help you there.
Peter. Won't you tell me what you think?
Mar. (_firmly_). Not now. No other mind than yours can make this choice.
Peter (_adrift_). But, Margaret, you've always given me advice.
Mrs. G. (_jealously_). She wants to hold you back. She's never had the
faith in you that others have. She'd like to tell you now you're not
good enough for Parliament only there's too many here to give her the
lie.
Peter. Mother, mother!
Mrs. G. Oh, yes, I dare say, put Margaret first, Margaret who doesn't
believe in you, in front of all the rest of us who know Parliament's not
good enough for you. It's the House of Lords you should be in.
Peter. I hope not so bad as that, mother.
O'Cal. We'll be taking a stroll round the houses, and come in again
presently.
Peter (_turning to them_). No. Don't go. I'll give you my answer now.
I've decided.
Ned. Well. What is it?
Peter. I'll stand.
Ned. (_shaking his hand_). Good lad!
O'Cal. It's destroyed I am with joy, and me after thinking he wasn't
going to stand at all. You'll be elected surely, and we the nearer by
another step to that great glittering dawn that's coming to bring peace
and happiness to----
Jones. Don't gabble, Denis. We've to work to organize for victory. I'm
going to the Club to beat up recruits.
Ned. We're all coming, Karl. We're not going into this with our hands in
our pockets.
Peter (_making for his cap_). Yes.
Ned (_stopping him_). Not you, Peter. You've earned a rest to-night. You
begin to-morrow.
Peter. Rest! I shan't rest till after the election.
Jones. You've to keep your strength for the street corners. We'll do
the donkey work. Clerking's all some of us are fit for. (_Glancing at
O'Callagan._) You can draft your election address if you want something
to do.
Ned. You'll want every ounce of strength. Ramsden's done us a good turn
by resigning in the summer time. They can have every hall in the town
and welcome. But open-air speaking night after night--well, look to your
lungs. We'll watch the rest.
Peter. I'm in your hands.
Ned. That's right. Take it easy now. You'll have to sprint at the
finish. Now, comrades. (_Opening door, centre._)
O'Cal. Good night, all.
Jones. Good night.
[_Peter holds door open and sees them go, he, Margaret, and Mrs. Garside
chorussing "Good night," then he closes the door, and leans against it
as if dazed, passing his hand across his forehead._
Peter. My God! It's like a dream. I can't get used to it.
Mrs. G. You'll get used to it fast enough. It's always an easy thing
to take your natural state in life. You were born to be great.
(_Viciously._) However much some folk _'_ud like to keep you down.
Peter. Yes. I suppose I shall settle to it. (_Coming to chair right and
sitting, Mrs. Garside is to his left, Margaret his right._) In a few
days it _'_ull seem matter of fact enough to be Labour candidate for the
division. But it hasn't got me that way yet. Margaret, when you set
me on to study for my B.A., you little thought it was going to lead to
this.
Mar. (_slowly_). No. I didn't think it would lead to this.
Mrs. G. (_sharply_). And you're not well pleased it has. Some people
can't stand the sight of other folk's success.
Peter (_protesting_). Mother, mother, without Margaret this would never
have happened to me. I owe it all to her.
Mrs. G. (_sceptically_). Because she told you to study? It's a proper
easy job to tell someone else to do a thing. A fine lot easier than
doing it yourself.
Peter. Come, mother, I can't have you quarrelling with Margaret.
Mrs. G. (_sulkily_). What does she want to go and discourage you for?
Peter. She didn't discourage me.
Mrs. G. She wouldn't say a word for it.
Peter. She will now. Won't you, Margaret?
Mar. What do you want me to say?
Peter (_surprised_). Say what you want.
Mar. Then I say this: Go on and prosper.
Peter (_relieved_). Ah! You couldn't wish me anything but well. You see,
mother?
Mrs. G. (_grimly_). Yes, but you don't.
Peter. Don't what?
Mrs. G. You don't sec what she means.
Peter (_confidently smiling at Margaret_). Oh, Margaret means what she
says.
Mrs. G. And more. She doesn't want you to go into Parliament.
Peter (_puzzled, looking at Margaret_). Doesn't what------? (_Slightly
pausing._) Speak, Margaret.
Mar. No. I don't want you to go into Parliament.
Mrs. G. (_triumphantly_). What did I tell you?
Peter. But Margaret, why not? Don't you see what a chance it is?
Take it, and I go up, up, Fortune, Fame, anything--the prospects are
tremendous. Miss it, and I sink baek to obscurity. You can't want me to
miss a chance like that.
Mar. I wanted to be married to you.
Mrs. G. That's it, Peter. That's your Margaret all over. All she cares
about is herself.
Peter (_ignoring her--to Margaret_). Nothing's going to interfere with
that. Nothing on earth. You needn't fear. We're to be married in a
month. Exactly as we fixed just now. A month? It'll come in the thick of
the fight.
Mar. We can't be married while the election's on.
Peter (_thinking aloud, enthusiastically_). Oh, but we must. We must.
I hadn't thought of that. Weddings are always popular. See what an
advertisement it will be.
Mar. (_quietly_). We won't use our love to advertise your candidature,
Peter.
Mrs. G. To hear you talk, it might be something you're ashamed of.
Peter. It's throwing away a golden opportunity.
Mar. I'm sorry, Peter. But I can't do that.
Mrs. G. Won't, you mean. You want to see him defeated.
Mar. (_with quiet force_). I shall work till I drop to help him on to
victory.
Mrs. G. You'll help best by doing what he asks.
Peter. I really think you might, Margaret. It's not a new plan. I'm only
asking you to carry out the arrangement you made this very evening. You
didn't object then, I can't see what your scruple is now.
Mar. If you can't see for yourself that it's vulgar and hideous and
horrible to drag our love into the glare of an election, I'm afraid I
can't help you to see it.
Peter. I don't see it. Love's not a hole-and-corner business. Why
shouldn't everybody know?
Mar. All who matter know already.
Peter. Only our own circle.
Mar. It doesn't concern the rest.
Peter (_arguing hotly_). Except as an advertisement. We shan't have too
much money to spend on printers' bills. We ean't buy hoardings like the
capitalist parties. And here's a glorious advertisement simply going
begging. We can have it at the cost of your forgetting some imaginary
scruple of delicacy. Elections aren't delicate affairs.
Mar. No. But our love is.
Mrs. G. If your love's so finicky it can't stand daylight, it's not
worth much. A love like that _'_ull not last long.
Peter. You're right there, mother.
Mrs. G. (_eagerly_). She wants to hold you back, she'd like to see you
tied to engineering all your life. For why? She's wild because you're
going up in the world. She knows she's not fit to go up with you, so
she's trying to keep you where you are. That's why she refuses to help.
Mar. I don't refuse to help. I'm going to help.
Peter. Yes, anything except the only way that's helpful. I don't want
other help.
Mar. You can't go without it. You can't stop me working for the cause.
Mrs. G. Yes, and you'd work harder for any other candidate than Peter. I
know you.
Mar. Not harder, but certainly with a better will.
Peter (_soberly_). Margaret, you're standing in my way. Oh, I owe a
lot to you. I don't forget it. But... But a man has to rely on his own
judgment. If I took your advice, I'd wreck my career. You've always
underrated me. You thought I wouldn't get my degree. I did get my
degree. And I'll prove you wrong again. I'll be M.P. before six weeks
are out.
Mar. I say again: Go on and prosper.
Mrs. G. And she means you can prosper without her, and a good riddance
too, I say.
Peter. Do you mean that, Margaret?
Mar. I think we'll wait a little, Peter. You've other things to think of
now.
Peter. You said that when I started studying.
Mar. I say it again now when you're starting electioneering.
Peter (_losing temper_). And after that there'll be something else
and something after that, and so on, till Doomsday _'_ull see us still
unmarried. I begin to think you never mean to marry me.
Mrs. G. It's about time you did begin to think it, too.
Mar. (_suffering_). Oh, Peter, why won't you understand?
Peter. Because you're not reasonable. (_Slight pause._) Tell me this. Do
you think I'm not fit for Parliament?
Mar. (_painfully_). Yes, dear. I do.
Peter (_roughly_). Don't call me dear. If that's the way you talk,
you're not dear to me.
Mrs. G. I've seen it for long enough--her thinking meanly of you and the
rest of us knowing different, and you for ever hearkening to her as if
she was Almighty God.
Mar. (_facing Mrs. Garside_). I won't stand this.
Mrs. G. You've got to. You're shown up now.
Peter. This means you've no faith in me, Margaret. And if you've no
faith, you've no love----
Mar. (_despairingly_). Peter, you mustn't say such things.
Mrs. G. You can't get away from the truth, my girl.
Peter. I say them beeause they're true. It's for you to prove me wrong.
Mar. How? Tell me how?
Peter. Marry me in the month as we arranged, and I'll go down on my
knees and ask your pardon.
Mar. I can't marry you in a month.
Peter. Then it's true. You don't love me. You don't believe in me.
Mar. I--I think I'll go home.
[_Exit Margaret right, returning quickly with her hat, which she puts
on. Peter watches her go and meets her as she returns._
Peter (_appealingly_). Margaret!
Mar. No, Peter. I can't do it.
Peter (_acquiescing_). Then--good-bye.
Mar. I shall see you often at the Committee Rooms. Don't tell me I
mustn't work for you.
Peter. If it was only for myself I wouldn't have your help at any
price. But, as you told us, you'll not be work-for me but for the cause.
(_Grandiloquently._) In the name of the cause I accept your help.
Mar. (_simply_). Thank you, Peter. I shall work hard. Good night, Mrs.
Garside.
[_Mrs. Garside makes no sign. Peter moves towards Margaret, checks
himself, and she goes out._
Mrs. G. That's a good job done.
Peter. Don't talk about it, mother, please.
Mrs. G. You can look higher than a school marm now you're going into
Parliament.
Peter (_distressed_). Please, please!
Mrs. G. (_cheerfully_). Oh, well, we'll have supper and chance it.
Peter. Have yours. I only want this end of the table. (_Collecting
paper, ink, and pen and sitting at right end of table._) I must do
something to forget.
Mrs. G. What are you doing?
Peter. Drafting my address. Hand me down that dictionary, will you?
(_Indicating hanging shelf._)
Mrs. G. (_getting large dictionary from shelf and putting on table near
him._) You don't want a dictionary. It's all there in that brain of
yours.
Peter. A dictionary's useful. People like to read long words. It looks
erudite, and costs nothing.
Mrs. G. They'll never understand dictionary words, Peter. (_Poking
fire._)
Peter. That doesn't matter. They'll be impressed. (_Dipping pen and
bending._) Don't disturb me while I write.
CURTAIN.