WINIFRED'S studio at Lilley Close. ANABEL and WINIFRED working
at a model in clay.
WINIFRED. But isn't it lovely to be in Paris, and to have exhibitions,
and to be famous?
ANABEL. Paris WAS a good place. But I was never famous.
WINIFRED. But your little animals and birds were famous. Jack said so.
You know he brought us that bronze thrush that is singing, that is in
his room. He has only let me see it twice. It's the loveliest thing I've
ever seen. Oh, if I can do anything like that!--I've worshipped it, I
have. It is your best thing?
ANABEL. One of the best.
WINIFRED. It must be. When I see it, with its beak lifted, singing,
something comes loose in my heart, and I feel as if I should cry, and
fly up to heaven. Do you know what I mean? Oh, I'm sure you do, or you
could never have made that thrush. Father is so glad you've come to show
me how to work. He says now I shall have a life-work, and I shall be
happy. It's true, too.
ANABEL. Yes, till the life-work collapses.
WINIFRED. Oh, it can't collapse. I can't believe it could collapse. Do
tell me about something else you made, which you loved--something you
sculpted. Oh, it makes my heart burn to hear you!--Do you think I might
call you Anabel? I should love to. You do call me Winifred already.
ANABEL. Yes, do.
WINIFRED. Won't you tell me about something else you made--something
lovely?
ANABEL. Well, I did a small kitten--asleep--with its paws crossed. You
know, Winifred, that wonderful look that kittens have, as if they were
blown along like a bit of fluff--as if they weighed nothing at all, just
wafted about--and yet so ALIVE--do you know---?
WINIFRED. Darlings--darlings--I love them!
ANABEL. Well my kitten really came off--it had that quality. It looked
as if it had just wafted there.
WINIFRED. Oh, yes!--oh, I know! And was it in clay?
ANABEL. I cut it in soft grey stone as well. I love my kitten. An
Armenian bought her.
WINIFRED. And where is she now?
ANABEL. I don't know--in Armenia, I suppose, if there is such a place.
It would have to be kept under glass, because the stone wouldn't
polish--and I didn't want it polished. But I dislike things under
glass--don't you?
WINIFRED. Yes, I do. We had a golden clock, but Gerald wouldn't have the
glass cover, and Daddy wouldn't have it without. So now the clock is in
father's room. Gerald often went to Paris. Oliver used to have a studio
there. I don't care much for painting, do you?
ANABEL. No. I want something I can touch, if it's something outside me.
WINIFRED. Yes, isn't it wonderful, when things are substantial. Gerald
and Oliver came back yesterday from Yorkshire. You know we have a
colliery there.
ANABEL. Yes, I believe I've heard.
WINIFRED. I want to introduce you to Gerald, to see if you like him.
He's good at the bottom, but he's very overbearing and definite.
ANABEL. Is he?
WINIFRED. Terribly clever in business. He'll get awfully rich.
ANABEL. Isn't he rich enough already?
WINIFRED. Oh, yes, because Daddy is rich enough, really. I think if
Gerald was a bit different, he'd be really nice. Now he's so MANAGING.
It's sickening. Do you dislike managing people, Anabel?
ANABEL. I dislike them extremely, Winifred.
WINIFRED. They're such a bore.
ANABEL. What does Gerald manage?
WINIFRED. Everything. You know he's revolutionised the collieries and
the whole Company. He's made a whole new thing of it, so MODERN. Father
says he almost wishes he'd let it die out--let the pits be closed. But
I suppose things MUST be modernised, don't you think? Though it's very
unpeaceful, you know, really.
ANABEL. Decidedly unpeaceful, I should say.
WINIFRED. The colliers work awfully hard. The pits are quite wonderful
now. Father says it's against nature--all this electricity and so on.
Gerald adores electricity. Isn't it curious?
ANABEL. Very. How are you getting on?
WINIFRED. I don't know. It's so hard to make things BALANCE as if they
were alive. Where IS the balance in a thing that's alive?
ANABEL. The poise? Yes, Winifred--to me, all the secret of life is in
that--just the--the inexpressible poise of a living thing, that makes
it so different from a dead thing. To me it's the soul, you know--all
living things have it--flowers, trees as well. It makes life always
marvellous.
WINIFRED. Ah, yes!--ah, yes! If only I could put it in my model.
ANABEL. I think you will. You are a sculptor, Winifred.--Isn't there
someone there?
WINIFRED (running to the door). Oh, Oliver!
OLIVER. Hello, Winnie! Can I come in? This is your sanctum: you can keep
us out if you like.
WINIFRED. Oh, no. Do you know Miss Wrath, Oliver? She's a famous
sculptress.
OLIVER. Is she? We have met.--Is Winifred going to make a sculptress, do
you think?
ANABEL. I do.
OLIVER. Good! I like your studio, Winnie. Awfully nice up here over the
out-buildings. Are you happy in it?
WINIFRED. Yes, I'm perfectly happy--only I shall NEVER be able to make
real models, Oliver--it's so difficult.
OLIVER. Fine room for a party--Give us a studio party one day, Win, and
we'll dance.
WINIFRED (flying to him). Yes, Oliver, do let us dance. What shall we
dance to?
OLIVER. Dance?--Dance _Vigni-vignons_--we all know that. Ready?
WINIFRED. Yes.
(They begin to sing, dancing meanwhile, in a free little ballet-manner,
a wine-dance, dancing separate and then together.)
De terre en vigne,
La voila la jolie vigne,
Vigni-vignons--vignons le vin,
La voila la jolie vigne au vin,
La voila la jolie vigne.
OLIVER. Join in--join in, all.
(ANABEL joins in; the three dance and move in rhythm.)
WINIFRED. I love it--I love it! Do _Ma capote a trois boutons_--you know
it, don't you, Anabel? Ready--now---
(They begin to dance to a quick little march-rhythm, all singing and
dancing till they are out of breath.)
OLIVER. Oh!--tired!--let us sit down.
WINIFRED. Oliver!--oh, Oliver!--I LOVE you and Anabel.
OLIVER. Oh, Winifred, I brought you a present--you'll love me more now.
WINIFRED. Yes, I shall. Do give it me.
OLIVER. I left it in the morning-room. I put it on the mantel-piece for
you.
WINIFRED. Shall I go for it?
OLIVER. There it is, if you want it.
WINIFRED. Yes--do you mind? I won't be long. (Exit.)
OLIVER. She's a nice child.
ANABEL. A VERY nice child.
OLIVER. Why did you come back, Anabel?
ANABEL. Why does the moon rise, Oliver?
OLIVER. For some mischief or other, so they say.
ANABEL. You think I came back for mischief's sake?
OLIVER. Did you?
ANABEL. No.
OLIVER. Ah!
ANABEL. Tell me, Oliver, how is everything now?--how is it with
you?--how is it between us all?
OLIVER. How is it between us all?--How ISN'T it, is more the mark.
ANABEL. Why?
OLIVER. You made a fool of us.
ANABEL. Of whom?
OLIVER. Well--of Gerald particularly--and of me.
ANABEL. How did I make a fool of you, Oliver?
OLIVER. That you know best, Anabel.
ANABEL. No, I don't know. Was it ever right between Gerald and me, all
the three years we knew each other--we were together?
OLIVER. Was it all wrong?
ANABEL. No, not all. But it was terrible. It was terrible, Oliver. You
don't realise. You don't realise how awful passion can be, when it never
resolves, when it never becomes anything else. It is hate, really.
OLIVER. What did you want the passion to resolve into?
ANABEL. I was blinded--maddened. Gerald stung me and stung me till I
was mad. I left him for reason's sake, for sanity's sake. We should have
killed one another.
OLIVER. You, stung him, too, you know--and pretty badly, at the last:
you dehumanised him.
ANABEL. When? When I left him, you mean?
OLIVER. Yes, when you went away with that Norwegian--playing your game a
little too far.
ANABEL. Yes, I knew you'd blame me. I knew you'd be against me. But
don't you see, Oliver, you helped to make it impossible for us.
OLIVER. Did I? I didn't intend to.
ANABEL. Ha, ha, Oliver! Your good intentions! They are too good to
bear investigation, my friend. Ah, but for your good and friendly
intentions---
OLIVER. You mean my friendship with Gerald went against you?
ANABEL. Yes. And your friendship with me went against Gerald.
OLIVER. So I am the devil in the piece.
ANABEL. You see, Oliver, Gerald loved you far too well ever to love me
altogether. He loved us both. But the Gerald that loved you so dearly,
old, old friends as you were, and TRUSTED you, he turned a terrible face
of contempt on me. You don't know, Oliver, the cold edge of Gerald's
contempt for me--because he was so secure and strong in his old
friendship with you. You don't know his sneering attitude to me in the
deepest things with you. He had a passion for me. But he loved you.
OLIVER. Well, he doesn't any more. We went apart after you had gone. The
friendship has become almost casual.
ANABEL. You see how bitterly you speak.
OLIVER. Yet you didn't hate me, Anabel.
ANABEL. No, Oliver--I was AWFULLY fond of you. I trusted you--and I
trust you still. You see I knew how fond Gerald was of you. And I had
to respect this feeling. So I HAD to be aware of you: and I HAD to be
conscious of you: in a way, I had to love you. You understand how I
mean? Not with the same fearful love with which I loved Gerald. You
seemed to me warm and protecting--like a brother, you know--but a
brother one LOVES.
OLIVER. And then you hated me?
ANABEL. Yes, I had to hate you.
OLIVER. And you hated Gerald?
ANABEL. Almost to madness--almost to madness.
OLIVER. Then you went away with that Norwegian. What of him?
ANABEL. What of him? Well, he's dead.
OLIVER. Ah! That's why you came back?
ANABEL. No, no. I came back because my only hope in life was in coming
back. Baard was beautiful--and awful. You know how glisteningly blond he
was. Oliver, have you ever watched the polar bears? He was cold as iron
when it is so cold that it burns you. Coldness wasn't negative with him.
It was positive--and awful beyond expression--like the aurora borealis.
OLIVER. I wonder you ever got back.
ANABEL. Yes, so do I. I feel as if I'd fallen down a fissure in the ice.
Yet I have come back, haven't I?
OLIVER. God knows! At least, Anabel, we've gone through too much ever to
start the old game again. There'll be no more sticky love between us.
ANABEL. No, I think there won't, either.
OLIVER. And what of Gerald?
ANABEL. I don't know. What do you think of him?
OLIVER. I can't think any more. I can only blindly go from day to day,
now.
ANABEL. So can I. Do you think I was wrong to come back? Do you think I
wrong Gerald?
OLIVER. No. I'm glad you came. But I feel I can't KNOW anything. We must
just go on.
ANABEL. Sometimes I feel I ought never to have come to Gerald
again--never--never--never.
OLIVER. Just left the gap?--Perhaps, if everything has to come asunder.
But I think, if ever there is to be life--hope,--then you had to come
back. I always knew it. There is something eternal between you and him;
and if there is to be any happiness, it depends on that. But perhaps
there is to BE no happiness--for our part of the world.
ANABEL (after a pause). Yet I feel hope--don't you?
OLIVER. Yes, sometimes.
ANABEL. It seemed to me, especially that winter in Norway,--I can hardly
express it,--as if any moment life might give way under one, like thin
ice, and one would be more than dead. And then I knew my only hope was
here--the only hope.
OLIVER. Yes, I believe it. And I believe---
(Enter MRS. BARLOW.)
MRS. BARLOW. Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Oliver.
OLIVER. Shall I come across?
MRS. BARLOW. No, not now. I believe father is coming here with Gerald.
OLIVER. Is he going to walk so far?
MRS. BARLOW. He will do it.--I suppose you know Oliver?
ANABEL. Yes, we have met before.
MRS. BARLOW (to OLIVER). You didn't mention it. Where have you met Miss
Wrath? She's been about the world, I believe.
ANABEL. About the world?--no, Mrs. Barlow. If one happens to know Paris
and London---
MRS. BARLOW. Paris and London! Well, I don't say you are all together
an adventuress. My husband seems very pleased with you--for Winifred's
sake, I suppose--and he's wrapped up in Winifred.
ANABEL. Winifred is an artist.
MRS. BARLOW. All my children have the artist in them. They get it from
my family. My father went mad in Rome. My family is born with a black
fate--they all inherit it.
OLIVER. I believe one is master of one's fate sometimes, Mrs. Barlow.
There are moments of pure choice.
MRS. BARLOW. Between two ways to the same end, no doubt. There's no
changing the end.
OLIVER. I think there is.
MRS. BARLOW. Yes, you have a _parvenu's_ presumptuousness somewhere
about you.
OLIVER. Well, better than a blue-blooded fatalism.
MRS. BARLOW. The fate is in the blood: you can't change the blood.
(Enter WINIFRED.)
WINIFRED. Oh, thank you, Oliver, for the wolf and the goat, thank you so
much!--The wolf has sprung on the goat, Miss Wrath, and has her by the
throat.
ANABEL. The wolf?
OLIVER. It's a little marble group--Italian--in hard marble.
WINIFRED. The wolf--I love the wolf--he pounces so beautifully. His
backbone is so terribly fierce. I don't feel a bit sorry for the goat,
somehow.
OLIVER. I didn't. She is too much like the wrong sort of clergyman.
WINIFRED. Yes--such a stiff, long face. I wish he'd kill her.
MRS. BARLOW. There's a wish!
WINIFRED. Father and Gerald are coming. That's them, I suppose.
(Enter MR. BARLOW and GERALD.)
MR. BARLOW. Ah, good morning--good morning--quite a little gathering!
Ah---
OLIVER. The steps tire you, Mr. Barlow.
MR. BARLOW. A little--a little--thank you.--Well, Miss Wrath, are you
quite comfortable here?
ANABEL. Very comfortable, thanks.
GERALD. It was clever of you, father, to turn this place into a studio.
MR. BARLOW. Yes, Gerald. You make the worldly schemes, and I the homely.
Yes, it's a delightful place. I shall come here often if the two young
ladies will allow me.--By the way, Miss Wrath, I don't know if you
have been introduced to my son Gerald. I beg your pardon. Miss Wrath,
Gerald--my son, Miss Wrath. (They bow.) Well, we are quite a gathering,
quite a pleasant little gathering. We never expected anything so
delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred, darling?
WINIFRED. No, daddy, it's much nicer than expectations.
MR. BARLOW. So it is, dear--to have such exceptional companionship
and such a pleasant retreat. We are very happy to have Miss Wrath with
us--very happy.
GERALD. A studio's awfully nice, you know; it is such a retreat. A
newspaper has no effect in it--falls quite flat, no matter what the
headlines are.
MR. BARLOW. Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanctum the world cannot
invade--unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid.
GERALD. By the way, Oliver--to go back to profanities--the colliers
really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks.
MR. BARLOW. No, no, Gerald--no, no! Don't be such an alarmist. Let us
leave these subjects before the ladies. No, no: the clerks will have
their increase quite peacefully.
GERALD. Yes, dear father--but they can't have it peacefully now. We've
been threatened already by the colliers--we've already received an
ultimatum.
MR. BARLOW. Nonsense, my boy--nonsense! Don't let us split words. You
won't go against the clerks in such a small matter. Always avoid trouble
over small matters. Don't make bad feeling--don't make bad blood.
MRS. BARLOW. The blood is already rotten in the neighbourhood. What
it needs is letting out. We need a few veins opening, or we shall have
mortification setting in. The blood is black.
MR. BARLOW. We won't accept your figure of speech literally, dear. No,
Gerald, don't go to war over trifles.
GERALD. It's just over trifles that one must make war, father. One can
yield gracefully over big matters. But to be bullied over trifles is a
sign of criminal weakness.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, not so, not so, my boy. When you are as old as I am, you
will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles.
GERALD. The older _I_ get, father, the more such trifles stick in my
throat.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, it is an increasingly irritable disposition in you, my
child. Nothing costs so bitterly, in the end, as a stubborn pride.
MRS. BARLOW. Except a stubborn humility--and that will cost you
more. Avoid humility, beware of stubborn humility: it degrades. Hark,
Gerald--fight! When the occasion comes, fight! If it's one against five
thousand, fight! Don't give them your heart on a dish! Never! If they
want to eat your heart out, make them fight for it, and then give it
them poisoned at last, poisoned with your own blood.--What do you say,
young woman?
ANABEL. Is it for me to speak, Mrs. Barlow?
MRS. BARLOW. Weren't you asked?
ANABEL. Certainly I would NEVER give the world my heart on a dish. But
can't there ever be peace--real peace?
MRS. BARLOW. No--not while there is devilish enmity.
MR. BARLOW. You are wrong, dear, you are wrong. The peace can come, the
peace that passeth all understanding.
MRS. BARLOW. That there is already between me and Almighty God. I am
at peace with the God that made me, and made me proud. With men who
humiliate me I am at war. Between me and the shameful humble there
is war to the end, though they are millions and I am one. I hate the
people. Between my race and them and my children--for ever war, for ever
and ever.
MR. BARLOW. Ah, Henrietta--you have said all this before.
MRS. BARLOW. And say it again. Fight, Gerald. You have my blood in you,
thank God. Fight for it, Gerald. Spend it as if it were costly, Gerald,
drop by drop. Let no dogs lap it.--Look at your father. He set his heart
on a plate at the door, for the poorest mongrel to eat up. See him now,
wasted and crossed out like a mistake--and swear, Gerald, swear to be
true to my blood in you. Never lie down before the mob, Gerald. Fight it
and stab it, and die fighting. It's a lost hope--but fight!
GERALD. Don't say these things here, mother.
MRS. BARLOW. Yes, I will--I will. I'll say them before you, and the
child Winifred--she knows. And before Oliver and the young woman--they
know, too.
MR. BARLOW. You see, dear, you can never understand that, although I
am weak and wasted, although I may be crossed out from the world like a
mistake, I still have peace in my soul, dear, the peach that passeth all
understanding.
MRS. BARLOW. And what right have you to it? All very well for you to
take peace with you into the other world. What do you leave for your
sons to inherit?
MR. BARLOW. The peace of God, Henrietta, if there is no peace among men.
MRS. BARLOW. Then why did you have children? Why weren't you celibate?
They have to live among men. If they have no place among men, why have
you put them there? If the peace of God is no more than the peace of
death, why are your sons born of you? How can you have peace with God,
if you leave no peace for your sons--no peace, no pride, no place on
earth?
GERALD. Nay, mother, nay. You shall never blame father on my behalf.
MRS. BARLOW. Don't trouble--he is blameless--I, a hulking, half-demented
woman, I am GLAD when you blame me. But don't blame me when I tell you
to fight. Don't do that, or you will regret it when you must die. Ah,
your father was stiff and proud enough before men of better rank than
himself. He was overbearing enough with his equals and his betters. But
he humbled himself before the poor, he made me ashamed. He must hear
it--he must hear it! Better he should hear it than die coddling himself
with peace. His humility, and my pride, they have made a nice ruin of
each other. Yet he is the man I wanted to marry--he is the man I
would marry again. But never, never again would I give way before his
goodness. Gerald, if you must be true to your father, be true to me as
well. Don't set me down at nothing because I haven't a humble case.
GERALD. No, mother--no, dear mother. You see, dear mother, I have rather
a job between the two halves of myself. When you come to have the wild
horses in your own soul, mother, it makes it difficult.
MRS. BARLOW. Never mind, you'll have help.
GERALD. Thank you for the assurance, darling.--Father, you don't mind
what mother says, I hope. I believe there's some truth in it--don't you?
MR. BARLOW. I have nothing to say.
WINIFRED. _I_ think there's some truth in it, daddy. You were always
worrying about those horrid colliers, and they didn't care a bit about
you. And they OUGHT to gave cared a million pounds.
MR. BARLOW. You don't understand, my child.
(Curtain.)