_Peter's rooms in the Temple. Door extreme right centre, with the
passage beyond visible with telephone on its wall when the door is open.
Door left. Fireplace centre, with low fire shining dully in the darkened
room. Bookcase right. Below it, table with inkstand. Blue books, etc.,
and revolving chair. Arm-chairs, left and right of fireplace. Sofa
left, between fireplace and door. Heavy carpet. The whole appointments
indicate comfort and taste, as understood in Tottenham Court Road: there
is nothing individual about them._
_As the curtain rises the room is in darkness, except for the glow from
the fire, and the telephone bell right is ringing. After a moment's
pause the outside door opens; then Peter in a lounge suit, overcoat,
and bowler hat opens the door right and turns on the electric light. He
speaks as he looks off right. His self-confidence has increased. He is,
in fact, coarsened and even brazen at times._
*****
Peter. Come in here. (_Freddie and Gladys follow him in. Peter stands
by door._) Make yourselves at home for two minutes. That's my telephone
ringing like mad.
[_Exit Peter hurriedly, closing the door. Bell ceases ringing. Gladys is
in winter costume with furs. Freddie, in heavy overcoat with hat in hand
and a cane which he swings as he stands centre, surveying the room in
astonishment._
Fred. By Jove! By Jove!
Glad. (_standing off_). What's the matter?
Fred. Does himself all right.
Glad. What did you expect?
Fred. I didn't expect this.
Glad. Was that why you didn't want to come in?
Fred. I didn't want to come because I've to meet Charlie Beversham at
the hotel in half an hour.
Glad. Well, you can meet him.
Fred. Not if we stay here long.
Glad. You needn't stay here.
Fred. Oh? And what about you?
Glad. I'll stay.
Fred. Hang it, you can't do that.
Glad. No. You'd rather I wasted another evening sitting with the frumps
in the hotel drawing-room while you discuss odds with your sporting
friend in the bar till it's too late to go anywhere. I'm having no more
nights in a refrigerator, thank you.
Fred. It's not the thing to leave you here. You'll only be in Garside's
way. He'll be going to the House.
Glad. Then he'll leave me at the hotel as he goes.
Fred. You know the mater only let you loose in London because I promised
to look after you. (_Good-naturedly perplexed._) You're a ghastly
responsibility. Why on earth do you want to stay with Garside?
Glad. Garside's amusing and the hotel isn't.
Fred. I simply must sec Beversham. It means money to me.
Glad. Don't let me stand in your way.
Fred, (_giving way_). Well, I do like to be generous. It's the only
thing that keeps my blood at normal temperature----
Peter (_off right, at telephone_). I shall shout. You may be the whip,
but you'll not whip me. Important division? I know that as well as you
do. No, I shan't be there. Promised? Of course I promised. I started to
come. How did I know I was going to be indisposed in the Strand?
Fred, (_whistling_). Whew! I wouldn't mind betting you're the
indisposition, Gladys.
Peter (_off_). Yes. I'm far too ill to turn out. What? No, I'm not too
ill to shout. Good night. (_Opens door and enters without his hat and
overcoat._) Oh, do sit down, Miss Mottram. So sorry I'd to leave you.
(_Pulls left armchair before fire and pokes it._) I'll make the fire up.
It's a cold night. (_Gladys sits._)
Fred. Comfortable enough in here, Garside. You've snug quarters.
Peter (_failing to conceal his pride in his room_). It's a beginning.
(_Rising from fire._) One moment. (_Goes off left quickly, and is heard
as he exits, saying:_) Mother, you let that fire go low.
Mrs. G. (_off left_). I thought you'd gone out.
Fred. Oh, if he's got a mother on the premises that alters the case. I
don't mind your staying now.
[_Peter re-enters with Mrs. Garside in a neat black dress, spectacles
on, and a "Daily Telegraph" in her hand. Mrs. Garside, though sharing
Peter's prosperity, has now an habitually worried look and is vaguely
pathetic. She enters embarrassed._
Peter (_off-handedly, treating his mother without ceremony_). Mr.
Mottram, Miss Mottram--my mother.
[_Freddie bows. Gladys advances and takes hands._
Glad. How do you do, Mrs. Garside?
Mrs. G. Nicely, thank you, miss.
Peter (_peremptorily_). Why didn't you hear the telephone, mother? Were
you asleep?
Mrs. G. (_meekly_). Did it ring? I was reading the report of your speech
at Battersea last night.
Peter (_interested_). Oh! Where is it? I haven't had time to look at a
paper to-day.
Mrs. G. (_handing him the paper and pointing_). There, dear.
Peter (_looking and speaking with satisfaction_). Two columns. Good.
That's pretty near verbatim.
Fred. Two columns in the "Telegraph"? You're getting on, Garside.
Mrs. G. (_handing the paper from Peter to Fred._). And look at the
headings!
Fred. (_looking--awkwardly_). Er--yes--not very complimentary.
Glad, (_curiously_). What are they?
Fred. (_returning paper to Peter_). Tact never was my sister's strong
point, Garside.
Peter (_holding up the paper_). Oh, I don't mind this in the least.
It means my blows are getting home. (_Reading the headings._) "The
Demagogue again." "More Firebrand Oratory from the egregious Garside."
(_Putting paper on table._) Spreading themselves, aren't they?
Fred. Well, it's all right, so long as you don't mind.
Peter. Oh, they'll need a big vocabulary to express their feelings
before I'm done with them. I haven't started yet.
Fred. Hope it'll keep fine for you. Afraid I must toddle, Garside. I've
an appointment.
Peter (_his face falling in deep disappointment_). Appointment! Oh,
I did hope you'd both stay a bit. In fact, I--I put off an engagement
while I was at the telephone.
Fred, (_looking at Gladys_). Well--er--I might come back for my sister.
Peter (_enthusiastically_). Splendid! Have something before you go?
Fred (_surprised_). Eh?
Peter (_taking his arm_). Just to keep the cold out. Next room.
Fred, (_turning with him_). I'd an idea you were a teetotaller.
Peter. I was a lot of things in Midlandton. In London I'm a man of the
world.
[_Exeunt Freddie and Peter, l._
Glad, (_sitting on sofa_). You must find London a great change after
Midlandton, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (_sitting in left arm-chair, facing her--confidentially_). I
haven't had an easy hour since Peter brought me. You wouldn't believe
the prices they charge me in the shops if I want a chop or a bit of
steak for Peter's tea. Dinner he calls it now, though how it can be
dinner at seven of an evening I don't know. Thieves, that's what they
are. Not shopkeepers. You mustn't mind me running on, I haven't a soul
I know to talk to here. It's a pleasure to see you, I'm sure. And the
streets! I'm feared for my life if I go out. I know I'll be knocked down
and brought home dead. Eh, London's an awful place, but it's Peter's
home now, and his home's mine.
Glad. But you'll get used to it.
Mus. G. I doubt I'll never get used to this. I'm too old to change, and
Peter moves so fast. What's fit for him one day isn't good enough the
next. The waste's enough to frighten you.
Glad. You must be very proud of your son, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (_with conviction, dropping her querulous tone_). He's something
to be proud of. I'm the mother of a great man. You can't open a
newspaper without you see his name.
Glad. I know that.
Mrs. G. You've seen it?
Glad. Often.
Mus. G. (_rising and coming to table_). But not all. I've got them all
here. I cut them out, reports of his speeches, and paste them in this
book. (_Crosses to sofa with press-cutting book and sits by Gladys._)
Glad. His speeches in Parliament?
Mrs. G. (_with fine scorn_). Peter doesn't waste his words on
Parliament. He goes direct to the people--addressing meetings up and
down the country. (_Glowing with pride._) They fight to get him. Pity is
he can't split himself in bits and be in six places at once. Two guineas
a speech he gets--and expenses,--more sometimes. That's what they think
of him, Miss Mottram. That's my son. (_Pointing to a heading in the
hook._) Silver-tongued Garside. That's what they call him.
Glad. Yes, I see. (_She turns a page._)
Mrs. G. (_looking, bending round Gladys_). Oh, no, not that. I oughtn't
to have pasted that in. It's an attack on him in one of our own papers.
They call him something he didn't like.
Glad, (_reading_). Platitudinous Peter.
Mrs. G. It's all their spite.
Glad. I suppose all politicians make enemies.
Mrs. G. Oh, he's not afraid of his real enemies. The capitalists can
call him what they like. They do, too, and the more the better, Peter
says. But that's different. Mean things, attacking their own side.
Glad, (_absently_). Yes. (_Putting book down._) And this is where he
prepares his speeches. (_Crossing to table._)
Mrs. G. (_rising with book and crossing, replacing it on table_). Yes.
Those are his books.
[_Gladys looks at titles._
Glad. Why, this row's all dictionaries.
Mrs. G. Peter says people like long words. He writes his article at that
desk. Peter's printed in the paper every week.
Glad. He's kept busy.
Mrs. G. And he keeps me busy looking after him.
Glad, (_sitting in the revolving chair and facing Mrs. Garside, standing
centre_). Have you no help?
Mrs. G. Me? Nay. I couldn't abide the thought of a strange woman doing
_'_owt for Peter. I've cared for him all his life, and I'll go on caring
for him until he's put another woman in my place. Peter's wife won't be
of my class. It'll be my duty then to keep myself out of her sight, and
a hard job I'll find it, too, but I was never one to shirk.
Glad. Didn't I hear something about a girl in Midland-ton, who----
Mrs. G. (_with conviction_). Don't you believe it, miss. She wasn't fit
to clean his boots.
Glad. And of course he's all London to choose from now.
Mrs. G. London! He'll never wed a Londoner.
Glad. No?
Mrs. G. He's in love with a Midlandton young lady. Calls her his
inspiration and I don't know what. But I tell you this, miss, I don't
care who, she is, she'll be doing well for herself when she marries my
Peter.
Glad. You think she will marry him, then?
Mrs. G. I'd like to see the woman who'd refuse him when he asks her.
[_Re-enter, left, Fred, and Peter. Fred, addressing Peter._
Fred. Yes. I'll come back. I say, Garside, before I go, congratters, and
all that sort of thing, you know.
Peter (_the pair have emerged very friendly_). Congratulations?
Fred. (_sweeping his hat round_). On all this.
Peter (_still puzzled_). This?
Fred. This jolly little place, and so on.
Peter. Oh, that's nothing. Part of the game, my boy.
Fred. It's a profitable game when you can run to this after six months
of it.
Peter. It doesn't afford it. Did you ever hear of the hire system? A man
who means to be a big success simply must have a decent address and be
on the telephone. People won't believe in you if you're content to hide
yourself up a mean street.
Fred. But you _are_ a big success, Mr. Garside.
Peter. Oh, I've not arrived yet. I'm ambitious.
Fred. I like your pluck. Give me a quiet life and a thousand a year paid
quarterly by the Bank of England. Security's my mark.
Peter. I'm betting on a certainty when I put money on myself.
Fred. I'm such a thrifty soul. I never risk more than 10 per cent of my
income on certainties. That reminds me. Beversham. I must fly. See you
later. (_Reaches door right._) About half an hour, Gladys.
[_Peter goes out with him, is heard closing outer door, and returns
immediately, closing door. Mrs. Gar-side yawns ostentatiously._
Glad. (_more with an air of saying something than meaning anything_).
Strange that we should meet in the Strand by accident, Mr. Garside.
Peter (_who has paid for the moment more attention to Mrs. Garside than
to Gladys, speaking jerkily_). You call it accident? I call it Fate.
(_Mrs. Garside executes another palpably diplomatic yawn._) You're
tired, mother.
Mrs. G. Yes.
Peter. I'm sure Miss Mottram will excuse you.
Mrs. G. Then I think I'll go to my bed. I'm an early bird. Good night,
Miss Mottram.
Glad, (_after a moment's twinge of conscience, accepting Mrs. Garside's
hand_). Good night, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (_to Peter, who opens right door_). I'll put your supper out.
You'll only have your cocoa to make.
[_Peter tries not to look angry at the intrusion of domestic details.
Exit Mrs. Garside. Peter closes the door and stands by it. Gladys is
still in the revolving chair with her back to the table._
Peter. Yes. Fate didn't mean us two to miss each other.
Glad, (_lightly_). Do you believe in Fate?
Peter. I believe in mine. I know I was born under a lucky star. I've a
genius for overcoming obstacles, no matter what they are, Miss Mottram.
I've the knack of getting what I want.
Glad. Don't you find continuous success monotonous?
Peter (_smiling_). They're such precious small successes. I'm on the
foothills yet, and I've set myself a lot of peaks to climb, but already
I'm in sight of the highest of them all. (_Looking at her hard._) Even
from where I stand now I can glimpse the Mount Everest of my ambition.
Glad. Happy man, to know what you want. Most of us poor creatures
haven't the faintest idea what we want to do with our lives.
Peter. I think better of you than that. You're not a bored society
butterfly.
Glad. Must one be in society to be bored? I am bored in Midlandton.
Peter (_with the quickly acquired London attitude to the provinces_).
Oh, Midlandton!
Glad. We don't live in Midlandton. No one does. Midlandton! It sends a
shiver up your baek like the tear of a sheet.
Peter. I couldn't go back now.
Glad. And I've given up hope of ever getting to London.
Peter. Do you want to very much? (_Draws towards right arm-chair, and
sits leaning forward towards her._)
Glad, (_with deep conviction_). I feel sometimes I'd do anything on
earth to live here. (_Smiling._) You see, I'd like to be a society
butterfly. You can't understand that, I suppose.
Peter. Why not?
Glad. I thought you despised luxury.
Peter. Oh dear no. I like good clothes and soft living.
Glad. But you denounce them.
Peter. What I denounce is luxury for the few and penury for the many. We
want to level up, not level down.
Glad. I've heard something like that before.
Peter. Probably. It's not my business to be original. If I tried to be
lofty I'd be talking above the heads of my audiences.
Glad, (_puzzled_). I wonder how much is sincere!
Peter. Sincere? I'm a professional advocate. I take a tiny grain of
truth, dress it up in a pompous parade of rhetoric and deliver it in the
manner of an oracle and the accent of a cheapjack. It's a question of
making my points tell. Sincerity doesn't matter.
Glad, (_rising_). If I turned myself into a human gramophone, I
shouldn't boast about it, Mr. Garside. It's not _very_ creditable to
live by fooling the public.
Peter (_rising_). Creditable? If I fooled them from Fleet Street they'd
make me a peer. The public likes to be fooled. They know I'm fooling
them. They pay me to go on fooling them. Some men live by selling
adulterated beer. I live by selling adulterated truth.
Glad. And neither makes an honest livelihood.
Peter. No, neither your father the brewer, nor I the demagogue. But I'm
being frank with you, Miss Mottram. Between us two there's not to be
pretence.
Glad. Why am _I_ honoured with your confidences?
Peter. Because you have a right to know. I do these things to make
money. I want money because--because of the hope that was born in me
when your eyes first met mine across the crowd in Midlandton.
Glad, (_after a slight pause_). Mr. Garside, I--I think I ought to go.
My brother only left me because he thought your mother would be here.
Peter (_going towards door right_). Shall I bring her?
Glad. She's gone to bed.
Peter. I fancy I can find her if you tell me to.
Glad. I'm sure I ought.
Peter. I'm sure you always do what you ought, so----
(_Putting his hand to the door-handle._)
Glad. (_quickly_). Yes, I do--in Midlandton.
Peter (_turning quickly from door_). And this is London. You're on
holiday.
Glad, (_checking him_). But not from my conscience, Mr. Garside.
Peter. Oh, conscience is so much a matter of climate. A Midlandton
conscience finds London air very relaxing.
Glad, (_sitting slowly right as before_). I don't think you ought to
disturb your mother, Mr. Garside.
Peter (_resuming his own chair, with conscious hypocrisy_). No. Old
people need such a lot of sleep. So that's settled. Let me see. I was
talking about myself, wasn't I?
Glad. Yes. You seem to find the subject interesting.
Peter. I'll talk about the weather if you prefer it.
Glad. No. You can stick to your text.
Peter. Thanks. But I wasn't talking about myself alone.
Glad, (_reflectively_). I don't remember the exception. It was all
yourself and the money you're going to make.
Peter. The money. Yes. I'm making money, Miss Mottram, and I'm going to
make more. Do you know why?
Glad. Money's always useful, I suppose.
Peter. Yes, even a little of it. But I shan't be satisfied with little.
And I'm a fairly frugal man.
Glad. You'll grow into a miser on the margin between your moderate wants
and your colossal income.
Peter. I might grow into a married man on that margin. It's to be a good
margin, because I believe no man should ask his wife to accept a lower
standard of living than she's been accustomed to.
Glad. I didn't know Miss Shawcross lived so well.
Peter (_rising, sternly_). It isn't a question of Miss Shaweross.
Glad. I thought it was.
Peter. So did I when I was a boy in Midlandton about a hundred years
ago. I'm wiser now. Women of her class can't adapt themselves to changed
circumstances. They're a drag on a man's career. You've seen Miss
Shawcross?
Glad. Yes.
Peter. Well, you know the type. Good, plodding, conscientious,
provincial girl, with about as much ambition as a potato. Marry her to a
bank clerk and she'll be in her proper place. Picture her the wife of a
Cabinet Minister, and--well, no, you can't. It's unthinkable.
Glad. The wife of a what?
Peter (_imperviously_). A Cabinet Minister.
Glad. But you're not a Cabinet Minister.
Peter (_quite seriously_). No, I'm young yet. What a man of my stamp
wants is a wife who can help him to push his way, not one I'd be ashamed
to show in society.
Glad. I see. You're marrying into one of the big political families.
Peter. No. I'm showing you how you can be done with Midlandton and get
to London. You said you'd do anything for that.
Glad. I meant anything in reason. Shall we change the subject?
Peter. No.
Gladys (_rising, curtly_). Then I must go back to the hotel.
Peter. Your brother's coming for you. Meantime I ask you to remember the
difference between the Peter Garside of six months ago and the Garside
of to-day. I've bridged the gulf that lay between us. A man of genius
can do things like that. I meant what I said, Miss Mottram. I didn't say
it till you encouraged me.
Glad. I have not encouraged you.
Peter. You're here, you know. You let your brother go without you. You
let my mother leave us alone. Isn't that encouragement?
Glad. (_as cruelly as she can_). I stayed because I find you amusing.
Peter. Yes. I dare say I am amusing. People in deadly earnest usually
are.
Glad, (_gently_). We'll forget what you said, Mr. Garside.
Peter. No, we won't. I can't ask you to marry me yet because I am not
rich. I'm merely prospering. But I ask you to wait. Give me a year--no,
six months. I can offer you a home in London then. It won't be worthy
of you, but we shan't stagnate. May I come to you in six months' time to
get your answer to the question I haven't yet the right to ask?
Glad. I don't know.
Peter. No. Rut I know six months of Midlandton are longer than six years
here. You badly want to live in London now. You'll want it worse then.
Don't think of me as I was. That's buried. Think of me as I am and as
I'm going to be. (_Electric bell rings right._) That's probably your
brother.
Glad (_half sorry, but on the whole relieved_). Yes. Don't keep him
waiting.
Peter (_moving right, and stopping_). Before I open the door won't you
tell me what I want to know? It's all for you--all my ambitions. I only
want position for you to grace it, money for you to spend. Give me six
happy months of hope.
Glad, (_with a low laugh_). Will hoping make you happy?
Peter. Yes, if you tell me I may hope.
Glad (_sincerely_). Then by all means hope.
[_Bell rings again._
Peter. That's all I want. (_He looks at her humbly. She extends her hand
impulsively. Peter kisses it reverently._)
Glad. You're very absurd. Now let my brother in.
[_Peter crosses and opens door right, leaving it half open, as he goes
through and opens outside door._
Peter (_heard off right, in surprised voice_). Hullo!
Ned. (_off right, less loudly_). Good evening.
[_Peter appears outside door right, pulling it to him._
Peter (_off_). Leave your coats here. Excuse me. I'll--I'll just close
this door and keep the cold out till you're ready.
[_He enters rapidly, opening the door as little as possible, and closing
it quickly, putting his back to it. The manouvre is not, however,
executed fast enough to prevent Jones peering over his shoulder as he
enters._
Peter (_standing against the door_). It's not your brother.
Glad, (_dryly_). I gathered that. I'd better go without him.
Peter (_agitated_). You can't. That's the only way out. They'd see you.
Glad, (_surprised_). I don't mind.
Peter. They mustn't.
Glad. Why not? Who are they?
Peter. Constituents.
Glad, (_alarmed_). From Midlandton?
Peter. Yes. Let them get a glimpse of you, and God only knows what tale
will be over Midlandton.
Glad, (_agreeing_). Yes. They mus'n't see me. On no account. (_She
crosses to left, Peter nods approvingly._) Peter. My mother's there.
I'll get rid of them quickly. Glad. Remember, I'm trusting you.
[_Exit Gladys, left. Peter opens door right, and speaks off._
Peter. Ready, comrades? Come in. (_Ned and Jones enter, dressed much as
in Act I. Peter is genial._) How are you? Both well?
Jones (_as they shake hands_). Yes, thanks. (_With slight emphasis._)
Are you well?
Peter. Quite well, thanks. Never better in my life. (_Ned and Jones
exchange glances._) Sit down, comrades. It's good to see Midlandton
faces again.
[_Ned in arm-chair right, Jones left, Peter in revolving chair. Peter's
attitude at first is the mixture of obsequiousness and patronage of an
M.P. to influential supporters._
Ned. I suppose you don't see many people from the old town here?
Peter. You're the first I've seen since I came up.
Ned. Ah!
Peter. And what brings you to town? Pleasure, I suppose.
Jones. Well----
Peter. Yes, I know. London's a playground to you fellows. It's more like
a battlefield to your hard-worked member.
Jones (_firmly_). It's not exactly pleasure we're here for, Comrade
Garside.
Peter. Oh?
Ned. More like business. We're a sort of a delegation.
Peter. Delegates, eh? What's on? I don't remember any congress at the
moment?
Jones. We're on a special mission.
Peter (_obviously forcing an appearance of interest_). Now, that's very
interesting. May I ask the object of this mission?
Jones (_grimly_). You're the object.
Peter. I?
Ned. Yes. We've a crow to pluck with you, my lad.
Peter (_not yet greatly concerned_). Oh? Something you want to discuss?
Jones. Something we're going to discuss.
Peter (_rising_). Well, suppose I meet you to-morrow morning. Come here
at--yes--at eleven, and I'll give you an hour with pleasure.
Ned (_shaking his head_). You'll give us an hour, or as long as we want,
now.
Peter. Really, I'm afraid I can't. (_Involuntarily glancing left._) I'm
busy to-night. I'll see you to-morrow.
Jones. We shan't be here to-morrow. We've to go back by the midnight
train. We've our livings to earn.
Peter. Well, look here, eome back in an hour or so, and I'll see you
then.
Jones (_commandingly_). You'll see us now. Your time's ours, we pay for
it.
Peter. You haven't bought me, you know. You pay me to represent your
interests at Westminster.
Jones. Then why aren't you there representing them to-night?
Peter (_irritably_). I've told you I'm busy.
Jones. Busy with what?
Peter. Mind your own business.
Ned (_quietly_). It is our business. We've a right to know why you're
neglecting your duty.
Peter (_hotly_). I don't neglect my duty.
Ned. What's on at the House to-night?
Peter (_embarrassed_). Well----
Ned (_inexorably_). What's on?
Peter. The Right to Work Bill, I believe. (_Sitting again._)
Ned. Yes. The Right to Work Bill. The cornerstone of the Labour policy.
Any Labour member who's absent from to-night's division deserves
drumming out of the party as a traitor to its cause.
Peter. Oh, I'll be there for the division if you don't keep me here too
long.
Ned. The division's over. You're out of your place on the most important
night of the session. You've missed your ehanee to speak. You've missed
the division. You've not paired. Your vote's lost.
Peter. It's not. The division can't take plaee so early.
Jones. We've been to the House. We thought we'd find you there. Why
weren't you there?
Peter. I've told you I was busy.
Ned. You told the Whip on the telephone you were ill--too ill to turn
out. We were there when he rang you up. We eome here, and we find you
well.
Peter. I _am_ indisposed.
Jones. Indisposed!
Peter. I meant to go. I started out to go only I became ill on the way.
Jones. You told us when you shook hands you'd never been better.
Peter. Oh, I dare say. The usual figure of speech. I _am_ recovering.
Jones. No. You spoke the truth then. You're lying now.
Peter. Lying! This is too much. (_Rising._)
Jones (_rising_). You'll like it less before we've finished. We're not
in London losing a day's wages for our health. We've been called up to
decide what's to be done with you.
Peter (_angrily_). You'll decide what's to be done with me. You!
Jones (_firmly_). We have decided.
Ned (_still sitting_). They've been showing us your record at the Whip's
office. You ignore them. You go to the House when you think you will.
You refuse to submit to discipline.
Peter. I serve the cause in my own way. (_He is consciously on his
defence now._) It's a better way than listening to dry-as-dust debates
and tramping endless miles through the division lobbies. I'm getting
at the people. I'm carrying the fiery sword of revolutionary Socialism
through the length and breadth of the land. I'm the harbinger of the new
age. Wherever I go I leave behind me an awakened people, stirred from
their lethargy and indolent acceptance of things as they are, fired with
new hopes of the coming dispensation, eager to throw off the yoke and
strike their blow for freedom, justice, and the social revolution.
That's my work, comrades, not wasting my energy, my gift of oratory on
the canting hypocrites at Westminster, but keeping them fresh for
the honest man outside. I'm going to quarter England, town by town,
until----
Ned (_rising, and putting his hand on Peter's arm, shaking his head_).
It won't do, Garsidc.
Jones. You needn't wag that silver tongue at us. You're found out.
Peter. Found out! You can't find out a man you're incapable of
understanding. You can't drive genius with a bearing rein. I'm a man of
genius, and you're angry because I can't be a cog in the parliamentary
machine.
Ned (_quietly_). Whatever you are, you're paid to be a cog.
Peter. If I'm to do my great work for the cause I must live somehow. The
labourer is worthy of his hire.
Jones. You're hired twice over. You get lecture fees when you ought to
be in the House. You make local secretaries compete for your lectures to
force your price up. You've got swelled head till you think you can do
as you like.
Peter. I won't be dictated to by you.
Ned. And yet we're your masters, you know.
Peter. It's my nature to be a free lance. Routine would kill me. I've to
work for the cause in my own way.
Ned. We don't want free lances. We want workers. If you want to speak to
the people aren't your week-ends and vacations good enough?
Peter. A hundred days to every week are not enough.
Ned. We sent you to Parliament to obey the Party Whips and be governed
by older and wiser heads than yours.
Peter. Nelson won battles by disobeying orders. If you didn't want
independence you shouldn't have chosen me.
Jones. We see that now. You'd ceased to be representative of the
Midlandton working classes before we chose you for our candidate. You
_were_ a B.A. You're still less able to represent us now when you make
as much in a month as your average constituent does in a year. We'll
have a better man next time.
Peter. Yes. You find an ignorant, dense average specimen of the British
workman without a soul above thirty shillings a week, and he'll just
about represent the ideas and ambitions of the Midlandton mob.
Jones. Yes, he'll represent us better than you.
Peter. Then God help representative government! You'd better be careful.
My personal popularity's your finest platform asset.
Ned. Well, it's an asset we can do without. Put it that you're too
brilliant for us.
Peter. Oh, it's the old story. Genius and the Philistine. For two pins
I'd resign my seat.
Ned (_gravely_). We accept your resignation.
Peter. What!
Jones. We come here to demand it.
Peter (_abject_). Comrades, you don't mean this! You wouldn't do a man
out of his job.
Jones (_curtly_). Oh, we're finding you a new job.
Peter. What's that?
Jones. The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds.
Peter (_slight pause_). I won't resign. You've tried and judged me in my
absence. You haven't given me a chance to say a word in my own defence.
Ned. You can talk till you're blue in the face without shifting facts.
Peter (_growing increasingly hysterical_). The facts are that I'm a
Member of the House of Commons for the term of this Parliament, and you
can't force me to resign until I do it of my own free will. I'm still
M.P. for Midlandton, if I've to sleep on the Embankment. I'll go to
the House in rags. I'll be an M.P. still, M.P. for the outcast, the
despised, the rejected, the human derelicts, victims of jealousy and
injustice and all man's inhumanity to man.
Jones (_contemptuously_). You're the victim of nothing but your own
swelled head.
Peter. I'm the victim of my own great nature. A nature that's cast in
too large a mould to submit to pettifogging little rules. My life
was the people's. I demanded nothing in return but a free hand and no
interference. I've to do this mighty task in my own way.
Jones. Yes. The way you found most profitable.
Peter. I'm spending every penny I earn.
Jones. Yes. I'll believe you for once. This place proves that. We sent
you here to be our representative, not to be a bloody * gentleman. I
know what your indisposition was that kept you from the House tonight.
I saw its skirts when you opened the door. That's what we're paying for.
For you to--faugh, you sicken me.
* This word must be omitted in representation. It was
censored by the Lord Chamberlain about two months before it
was passed in Mr. Shaw's "Pygmalion.'
Peter. You lie.
Jones. I don't. I saw her.
Peter (_deliberately_). There's no woman here except my mother.
Ned (_solemnly_). Is that the truth, Peter? I also thought I saw a skirt
that I'm sure your mother couldn't wear.
Peter. It's the truth. Upon my word of honour it's the truth.
Jones (_roughly_). I don't believe it.
Ned (_protesting_). We have his word, Karl.
Jones. The word of a convicted liar. He lied about his absence from the
House. He's lying now.
Peter (_with determination_). You'll take my word for it.
[_Door bell rings r._
Jones. Yes, if you'll let me see who's in that room.
Peter. My mother's there.
Jones. And no one else?
Peter. Nobody.
Jones. Then show us. Prove it.
Ned. He's said enough, Karl. He's passed his word.
Jones. I don't believe his word's worth that. (_Snapping fingers._) He's
lying for a woman. (_Bitterly._) It's the code of a gentleman to lie for
a woman.
[_Door bell rings again._
Peter. I can't help your disbelief.
Jones. No, but you can open that door. (_Indicating left._)
Peter (_his back to the door_). You'll take my word. (_Again the door
bell rings, and Mrs. Garside enters left. Peter turns round on her,
surprising her by his vehemence. Angrily._) What is it?
[_The door remains open._
Mrs. G. Someone's at the door. Didn't you hear the bell ring?
Peter. Let it ring. Don't you see I've visitors?
Ned (_coming forward like a friend_). Good evening, Mrs. Garside.
Mrs. G. (_unheeding, troubled with Peter_). But it'll be Mr. Mottram
eome baek for his sister.
Jones. What?
[_He crosses to look through the left door. Gladys enters, meeting
Jones' eye._
Glad. May I go through to my brother, Mr. Garside?
Jones (_falling back_). Miss Mottram!
[_Peter looks from one to the other like a caged animal._
Ned (_with genuine feeling_). Lad, lad, do you lie for the sake of
lying?
Jones (_triumphantly, his voice ringing_). I think there'll be no
dilliculty about that resignation now.
Peter (_after a slight pause, tensely_). On one condition.
Jones (_scornfully_). You're in a grand position for making conditions.
Peter. Keep your mouths shut about Miss Mottram's presence here, and I
place my resignation in the Speaker's hands to-morrow. (_Slight pause._)
Ned. I accept.
Jones (_disagreeing violently_). Well, I----
Ned. _You_ accept.
Jones. But------
Ned. You have our promise, Garside, and you can take my word.
[_Jones is silent and sullen._
Glad, (_vaguely_). What!
Peter (_hysterically_). You heard. I'm resigning my seat in the House
of Commons. Humpty-dumpty had a great fall. (_Jones laughs aloud,
Gladys smiles slightly, Peter almost screams._) Don't laugh. (_Suddenly
self-pitying._) I don't know what I'm saying. (_With a flicker of the
old pride._) But I was an M.P. once. You can't take that from me.
(_Blundering blindly to door, left._) Oh, go, go, all of you. I want to
be alone.
[_The door bell has been steadily ringing. Peter goes off left, and
bangs the door behind him._
Glad. Will you let my brother in, Mrs. Garside?
[_Mrs. Garside goes right, and opens door, goes through and lets Fred.
in._
Fred, (_to Gladys_). Thought you'd gone to sleep. (_Seeing Jones._)
Hello! Our friend of the election.
Glad, (_impatiently_). Never mind these men. Come away.
Fred. Well, don't snap a fellow's head off. (_Ned and Jones quietly go
out right._) Sorry I've been so long, only-----
Glad. It doesn't matter. (_Raising her voice, looking left_). Mr.
Garside's been an entertainment in himself.
Fred, (_crossing_). Where is he? In there?
Glad, (_crossing to right door_). Oh, will you come?
Fred. Must do the decent by our Member, you know.
Glad. He's not our Member, he's resigned.
Fred. Good Lord! Why?
Glad. Oh, can't you see we're not wanted here?
Fred. (_crossing towards her_). All right. Don't get vicious. Nothing to
lose your temper over, is it?
Glad. I've lost more than my temper. I've lost a chance.... Oh, never
mind. What's the next train for Midlandton?
Fred. Train? What you want's some supper. We've two more days of town.
Glad. Yes. We'll eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. You're
standing me champagne to-night, Freddie.
[_She goes out right. Fred, looks after her, puzzled, crosses, and
shakes Mrs. Garside's limp hand._
Fred. Good night, Mrs. Garside.
[_He follows Gladys. Mrs. Garside goes right, the outer door closes, she
turns light off in the hall and re-enters, closing the door behind her.
Peter reenters left, composed._
Peter. Have they all gone?
Mrs. G. Yes. (_Pathetically puzzled._) What does it all mean, Peter?
Peter. Mean? Ruin. My career's blasted. (_Sits at table, turning chair
towards her._)
Mrs. G. But why, Peter? I can't understand it. I----
Peter. Why? Because I was too successful. Jealousy. That's it. They
do nothing themselves, but they won't give young blood a chance.
Mediocrity's their motto. They've no use for brains. So I'm kicked out.
Mrs. G. Don't take on about it, deary. They'll find they can't do
without you.
Peter. You'd always faith, hadn't you, mother? (_Turning to table and
putting his head on his hands._) But I've fallen like Lucifer, never to
rise again.
Mrs. G. (_struck with a new delightful thought, hesitating to utter
it_). Peter, it means--it means----
Peter (_not turning_). What?
Mrs. G. (_standing centre_). Oh, I'm so glad.
Peter (_leaping up angrily, and turning on her_). Glad!
Mrs. G. I've been so unhappy here. I shall be glad to be in Midlandton
again.
Peter (_disgustedly_). Midlandton! (_Shuddering._) Those grimy streets
reeking of poverty.
Mrs. G. (_reproachfully_). Peter! Midlandton is home.
[_She gives way a little. Peter stands centre._
Peter. Yes. After all, why not? The wounded lion crawls to its lair to
die. (_Pause, looking straight out._) I wonder. Am I a lion or only an
ass braying in a lion's skin?
CURTAIN.