my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he
throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection
to the name which goes with it.
RICHARD [_in despair_]. You don't understand, Robert.
CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough
for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola
to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to
take _my_ name.
RICHARD [_miserably to VIOLA_]. Do you want to be Mrs.
Wurzel-Flummery?
VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling.
RICHARD [_beaten_]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll
never understand.
CRAWSHAW [_stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out_].
Come, come, Richard. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] I understand
perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while
ago--it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in
practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice
our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a
son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament
together upholding the honor of the--ah--name. And perhaps now that we
are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your
views could be--ah--more adequately put forward from _my_ side of the
House.
RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.
CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you
must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message would
be better. [_He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going
out._] Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer.
[_Exit._]
RICHARD [_holding out his hands to VIOLA_]. Come here, Mrs.
Wurzel-Flummery.
VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling.
[_She comes to him._]
RICHARD [_shaking his head sadly at her_]. I don't know what I've
done, Viola. [_Suddenly._] But you're worth it. [_He kisses her, and
then says in a low voice._] And God help me if I ever stop thinking
so!
_Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully
with his back towards them, humming to himself._
RICHARD. Hullo!
CLIFTON [_to himself_]. Now where did I put those papers? [_He hums to
himself again._] Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers
behind.
VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. [_As she goes out, she says to
CLIFTON._] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice
letters.
CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw.
VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds.
CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.
VIOLA [_smiling happily_]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [_She goes out._]
CLIFTON [_looking in surprise from her to him_]. You don't mean--
RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton.
CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! [_Thoughtfully to himself._] I
wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers.
RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton!
CLIFTON. Why poor?
RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to
Crawshaw about money before you came.
CLIFTON [_thoughtfully_]. Oh! was it very--[_Brightening up._] But I
expect Uncle Antony heard. [_After a pause._] Well, I must be getting
on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in
connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate
case, in which my clerk and I--[_He has murmured himself across to the
fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his
eye. He picks up one of the fragments._] Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell
my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite
fond of that canal. [_He turns to go, but first says to MERITON._] So
you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton?
RICHARD. Yes.
CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too?
RICHARD. Yes.
CLIFTON [_to himself as he goes out_]. They are both taking it. [_He
stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile._] Good old Uncle
Antony--_he_ knew--_he_ knew! [_MERITON stands watching him as he
goes._]
[THE CURTAIN.]
MAID OF FRANCE[35]
By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE
[Footnote 35: Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights
reserved. Reprinted by permission of and by special
arrangement with Harold Brighouse. Also printed in the United
States by Leroy Phillips, Boston. _Maid of France_ is fully
protected by copyright. It must not be performed by either
amateurs or professionals, without written permission. For
such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38 Street,
New York City.]
Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development of a
Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her experiment with
repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, because her purpose was
to produce good plays irrespective of geographical limitations. But
the fact is that the project was a source of real inspiration to a
group of young Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan
Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is no plainer
illustration of the relations between the audience and the play, or
between the theatre and the play, or between the actor and the play
than the dramatic activity that followed the establishment of the
Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting up of Miss Horniman's
experiment in Manchester.
Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of
France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July
16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the
Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he
has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He
has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_,
_The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here
and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety
Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is
in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A
number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction
to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours
play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading....
The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks
through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through
a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This
playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to
the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the
present one.
[Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_,
London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at
the end.]
Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a
suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar
School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his
literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up
exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and
criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence
Staff of the Air Ministry.
MAID OF FRANCE
CHARACTERS
JEANNE D'ARC.
BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._
PAUL, _a French Poilu._
FRED, _an English Tommy._
GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._
_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on
Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German
shells, except the church in the center which stands immune,
protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a
pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up
within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself
to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue
is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve
and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure,
suggests faint moonlight._
_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps,
gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous
man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE,
a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and
figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent,
extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce
light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt
to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic
reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred
contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a
cajoling smile._
BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur?
PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it
is nearly midnight?
BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my
smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is
irresistible?
PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm.
BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a
flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw
all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard?
PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here.
BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the
boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade
because to-night is Christmas Eve.
PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me
something?
BLANCHE. What can I tell?
PAUL. I am only a peasant and I do not know many things. But you live
in the town and you must know. They say, mademoiselle, they have told
me, that there are miracles on Christmas Eve.
BLANCHE. Did you believe them?
PAUL. I did not know. I only hoped.
BLANCHE. What did you hope?
PAUL [_very earnestly_]. I have been told that stone can speak on
Christmas Eve. And I want, oh, mademoiselle, I want to hear the
blessed voice of our glorious Maid.
BLANCHE. Monsieur has sentiment.
PAUL [_pleadingly_]. You think that she will speak to me?
BLANCHE [_dropping all banter_]. Monsieur, she speaks in stone to all
of us. She stands erect, serene, like the unconquerable spirit of
France and cries defiance at the Boche. They sent their shells like
hail and ground our homes to powder and made a desolation of our
streets, but they could not touch the statue of the Maid nor the
church she guards.
PAUL. And she speaks! She speaks!
BLANCHE. She is the soul of France, monsieur, defying tyranny,
invincible and unafraid. She is a message to each one of us. As the
shells fell all around and could not harm her, so must we stand
unshaken for the France we love. She speaks of freedom and
deliverance.
PAUL. And she will speak to me?
BLANCHE [_pityingly as she sees how literally he has taken her_].
Perhaps.
PAUL. What must I do, mademoiselle, to hear her voice?
BLANCHE [_seeing in this too good an opportunity for selling a
flower_]. Will you not buy a flower for the Maid? They come from far
away, from the South where there is always sun, and so they are not
cheap. But, for a franc, you may have one lily of Lorraine to put upon
the statue of the Maid.
PAUL. A lily of Lorraine!
BLANCHE [_showing a flower, then taking it back tantalizingly_]. See,
monsieur! How could she refuse to speak to you if you gave her that?
PAUL. It is the way to make her speak! [_Puts out hand for the flower
and then draws back._ ] But a franc! And I have nothing but one sou.
BLANCHE. One sou! When flowers are so dear, and have to come so far!
Mon dieu, monsieur, but you have had a thirsty day if a sou is all
that you have left from the wineshops.
PAUL. I did not spend it there, mademoiselle. I gave it to the church,
this church where is the statue of our Maid.
BLANCHE [_only half scoffing_]. Monsieur is devout.
PAUL. Not always, mademoiselle. But I was born at Domremy where she
was born and I have always adored our sainted Maid who died for
France. Perhaps because of that, perhaps without the flower, Jeanne
will speak to me at midnight when they say the statues come to life.
BLANCHE [_touched_]. Monsieur, I do not know. Perhaps she will. But
see, here is a lily of Lorraine which I give you for the Maid. Put it
upon her statue and perhaps it will awaken her to speech.
PAUL. Mademoiselle! [_Taking the flower._] How can I thank you?
BLANCHE. I also am a maid of France, monsieur. You are a soldier and
you fight for France. But I must sell my flowers now. Perhaps, when I
have sold them, I will come again to see if Jeanne has spoken.
PAUL. You think she will?
BLANCHE. Monsieur, have faith. All things are possible on Christmas
Eve. [_She moves L. PAUL goes to the statue and puts the lily on its
breast._]
BLANCHE. Holy Virgin, the lies I've told! What simplicity! But Jeanne
might. She might. [_Exit BLANCHE L. PAUL stands, watching. An English
lieutenant, GERALD SOAMES, enters R., carrying a small wreath of
evergreens. He is awkward and self-conscious and stops short when he
sees PAUL, annoyed in the English way at being found out in an act of
sentiment. By consequence, the little ceremony he had proposed falls
short of the impressiveness he designed for it._]
GERALD. O Lord, there's a fellow there. Er--[_PAUL salutes._]
Oh--er--c'est ici la statue de Jeanne d'Arc, n'est-ce pas?
PAUL. Mais oui, monsieur.
GERALD. And that's about as far as my French will go. I say, you're
not on duty, are you? Vous n'etes pas de garde?
PAUL. Non, monsieur.
GERALD. No, of course you're not. Damned silly question to ask. All
the same, I wish he'd take a hint. I say. Lord, I've forgotten the
French for "have a drink." Besides, he couldn't. It's too late. I'll
just do what I came for and go. [_Puts back into pocket the coin he
had taken out._] After all, the fellow's as good a right to be here as
I have. I'll have one more shot. N'avez-vous pas des affaires?
PAUL. Mais non, monsieur. Pas ce soir. Je suis en conge.
GERALD. Heaven knows what that means, except that he's a fixture. Oh
well, I don't care if he does see me. He'll not know what to make of
it, anyhow. [_Up to statue._] Jeanne d'Arc, I'm putting this wreath on
your statue. It's an English wreath and it came from England. It's
English holly and English ivy and it's supposed to mean that England's
sorry for the awful things she did to you and I hope you've forgiven
us all. [_He has cap off. Now puts cap on._] I think that's all.
[_Places wreath at statue's feet. Stands erect, salutes, turns._] Hang
that French fellow. I suppose he'll think I'm mad. [_GERALD goes down
steps and off R. PAUL salutes, then goes up steps to look at the
wreath. FRED COLLEDGE, an English private, enters L. Without noticing
PAUL, he sits on the steps and lights a cigarette. In the light of his
match he sees PAUL, gives a little amused laugh and lies back making
himself comfortable, turning up coat-collar, etc. PAUL sees him, and
is shocked. Comes down steps._]
PAUL. Monsieur!
FRED. Hullo, cockey. How are you getting on?
PAUL. Monsieur! This place. These steps. One does not rest upon these
steps.
FRED. Ho yes, one does. I'm doing it, so I ought to know.
PAUL. But here, monsieur. Outside the church.
FRED. That's all right. The better the place the better the seat. It
ain't a feather-bed in the old house at home, but I've sort of lost
the feather-bed 'abit lately.
PAUL. One should not sit on these steps, monsieur.
FRED. You must like that tune, old son, the way you stick to it. And,
if you ask me, one should not do a pile of things that one's been
doing over here. Take me, now. By rights, I ought to be eating roast
beef and plum-pudding to-morrow in Every Street. Third turn on the
left below the Mile End Pavilion, but I suppose I'm the same way as
you. Going back on the train at 2 A.M. to eat my Christmas dinner in
the blooming trenches. That's you, ain't it? And it's me, too. So
let's sit down together and do an entente for an hour. Don't talk and
I'll race you to where the dreams come from. [_He pulls PAUL down
genially beside him._]
PAUL [_sitting_]. I ought not to sit here.
FRED. Ain't these steps soft enough for you?
PAUL. Monsieur, you do not understand. I come from Domremy.
FRED. Do you? I'm Mile End myself. What about it?
PAUL. But Domremy.
FRED. Can't say I'm much the wiser.
PAUL. But here, monsieur. This statue. It is our glorious maid. C'est
Jeanne d'Arc.
FRED. Ark, eh? Is that old Noah? [_Gets up to look at statue._]
PAUL [_rising_]. Jeanne d'Arc, monsieur. She--
FRED. Oh, it's a lady, is it? Dressed like that for riding, I reckon.
So that's old Noah's wife, is it? Well, the old cock had a bit of
taste.
PAUL. It is Jeanne d'Arc. You call her--what do you call her?--Joan
of--
FRED. Not guilty. I ain't so forward with the ladies. I don't call
them in their Christian names till I've been introduced.
PAUL. You English call her Joan of Arc. The great Jeanne d'Arc. She--
FRED. Wait a bit. Now don't excite me for a moment. I'm thinking. I've
heard that name before.
PAUL. But yes, monsieur. In history.
FRED. That's done it. I take you, cockey. I knew it was a way back.
Well, she's nothing in my life. [_Returns to steps and sits._]
PAUL. She is of my life. I come from Domremy.
FRED. So you said.
PAUL. It was her birthplace.
FRED [_clapping him on the shoulder_]. Cockey, I'm with you now. I
know the feeling. Why, we'd a man born in our street that played
center-forward for the Arsenal. Makes you proud of the place where you
were born. Na pooed now, poor devil. Got his head blown off last
month. He was a sergeant in our lot. 'Ave a woodbine?
PAUL. Not here, monsieur.
FRED. Please yourself. Smoke your own. Them black things are no use to
me. It's a rum country yours, old son. Light beer and black tobacco.
But you fight on it all right. Oh yes, you fight all right. 'Ere, 'ave
a piece of chocolate to keep the cold out. My missus sent me that.
PAUL [_accepting_]. Merci. I hope madame is well.
FRED. Eh? Who's madame? Oh, you mean old Sally. She's all right. In
bed. That's where she is. And I'm here. But I could do with a bit of a
snooze myself. Come on, let's do a doss together.
PAUL. A doss?
FRED. Yus. Wait a bit. I speak French when I'm 'appy. Je vais dormir.
Vous likewise dormir.
PAUL. I did not come to sleep, monsieur. I came to watch.
FRED. Watch? What do you want to watch for here? No Germans here.
PAUL. C'est la nuit de Noel, monsieur. They say the statues come to
life on Christmas Eve, and I am watching here to see if Jeanne will
breathe and move and speak to a piou-piou from Domremy.
FRED. You know, old son, you could have scared me once with a tale
like that. But not to-day. I've been seeing life lately. If old Nelson
got down off his perch, and I met him walking in Trafalgar Square,
I'd just salute and think no more about it. You can't raise my hair
now.
PAUL. Then you believe that she will speak?
FRED. You go to sleep, cockey, and there's no knowing what you'll
hear. Come on, old sport. Je dormir and vous dormir, and we'll be a
blooming dormitory. [_PAUL hesitates, looks at statue, then lies by
FRED._] That's right. Lie close. Two can keep warmer than one. Oh
well, good-night all. Merry Christmas, and to hell with the Kaiser.
[_They sleep. The statue is darkened, and the lay figure of the statue
is replaced by the living JEANNE. Bells chime midnight. As they begin,
JEANNE awakes. With the first chime, light shines dimly on the statue.
By the last chime, the statue is in brilliant light and JEANNE stirs
on the pedestal and bends to the wreath. She lifts it, wondering._]
JEANNE. The wreath is here. I did not dream it, then. I saw him come
and lay the wreath at my feet. I saw his uniform, and the uniform was
not of France. I saw his face, and it was not a Frenchman's face. I
heard his voice, and the voice was an English voice. I do not
understand. Why should the English bring a wreath to me? I do not want
their wreath. I want no favors from an Englishman. I am Jeanne d'Arc.
I am your enemy, you English, whom I made to bite the dust at Orleans
and vanquished at Patay. It was I who bore the standard into the
cathedral at Rheims when we crowned my Dauphin the anointed King of
France, and English Bedford trembled at my name. Burgundians took me
at Compiegne. Your English money bought me from them, and your English
hatred gave me up to mocking priests to try for sorcery. You called me
"Heretic," "Relapsed," "Apostate," and "Idolater," and burnt me for a
witch in Rouen market-place. And now do you lay a wreath at Jeanne's
feet? And do you think she thanks you? I scorn your wreath. This
wreath an English soldier set at Jeanne's feet. I tear it, and I
trample on it. [_FRED and PAUL have awakened during this speech. Both
are bewildered at first, like men who dream. But as JEANNE is about to
tear the wreath FRED interposes._]
FRED. I dunno if I'm awake or asleep, but that there wreath, lady--I
say, don't tear it. I don't know nothing about it bar what you've just
said, but if any of our blokes put it there, you can take it from me
it was kindly meant.
JEANNE. You? Who are you? You're--You're English.
FRED [_apologetically_]. Yus. I'm English. I don't see that I can help
it, though. I just happen to be English same as a dawg. I'm sorry if
it upsets you, but I'm English all right. And--No. Blimey, I won't
apologize for it. I'm English. I'm English, and proud of it. So there!
JEANNE. Why are the English here in France? Why do I see so many of
them?
PAUL. Maid--Jeanne--
JEANNE. You! You are not English. You are a soldier of France.
PAUL. I am of France.
JEANNE. Then shame to you, soldier of France! Shame on a Frenchman who
can forget his pride of race and make a comrade of an Englishman!
PAUL. Maid, you do not understand.
JEANNE. No. I do not understand. I do not understand treachery. I do
not understand baseness, dishonor, and the perfidy of one who has
forgotten he is French. The English are the foes of France, and you
consort with them. You--
FRED. 'Ere, 'ere, 'alf a mo'. Steady on, lady. You've got to learn
something. All that stuff you've just been talking about the Battle of
Waterloo. It's a wash-out now. We've cut it out. This 'ere bloke
you're grousing at 'e's a friend of mine, and I'll pipe up for a
friend when 'e's being reprimanded undeserving.
JEANNE. It is for that I blame a son of France, that he makes friends
with you.
FRED. Well, it's your mistake. That's the worst of coming out of
history. You're out of date. If I took my great-grandmother on a
motor-bus to a picture-show, she'd have the same sort of fit that
you've got, only it's worse with you. You're further back. And I'll
tell you something. That old French froggy business is dead and gorn.
We've given it up. Time's passed when an Englishman thought he could
lick two Frenchmen with one hand tied behind his back. It's a back
number, lady. Carpentier put the lid on that. You ask Billy Wells. Us
blokes and the French, we're feeding out of one another's hands
to-day.
JEANNE. I have seen the English and the French together in the
streets. They do not fight.
FRED. Lord bless you, no. Provost-marshal wouldn't let 'em, if they
wanted a friendly scrap.
JEANNE. They fraternize. I have seen them walking arm-in-arm.
FRED. That's natural enough.
JEANNE. Natural, for French and English!
FRED. Yes, lady, natural. If you'd seen the Frenchies fighting, same
as I have, you'd want to walk arm-in-arm with them yourself, and be
proud to do it, too.
PAUL. The English, are our brothers, Maid.
FRED. Gorlummy, we're more than that. I've known brothers do the dirty
on each other. Us and the French, we're--why, we're _pals_. So that's
all right, lady. Just let me put that wreath back where you got it
from. I'm sure you'll 'urt someone's feelings if you trample on it.
[_He tries to take wreath, she prevents him._]
JEANNE. When you have shown me why I should accept an English wreath,
perhaps I will. So far I've yet to learn why a soldier of France is
friendly with an Englishman.
FRED. I can't show you more than this, can I? [_Links arms with
PAUL._]
JEANNE. That is not reason.
PAUL [_unlinking his arm_]. Perhaps I can show you reason. I who was
born at Domremy.
JEANNE. You come from there! My home?
PAUL. Yes.
JEANNE. You know St. Remy's church and the Meuse and the beech-tree
where they said the fairies used to dance. The tree. Is it still
there?
PAUL. I do not know.