finishing off a piece of knitting. Apparently she has just rung the bell,
on the arrival from the dining-room of her husband and his two guests, for
presently the door opens and the footman presents himself for orders. Mr.
Gladstone takes down from the bookshelf a backgammon board, which he opens
upon a small table somewhat distant from the fireplace_.
GLADSTONE. Well, Armitstead, draughts, or backgammon?
ARMITSTEAD. It was backgammon you promised me.
GLADSTONE. A rubber?
ARMITSTEAD. I shall be delighted.
(_They seat themselves, and begin to set the board. Mr. Morley stands
detached looking on, grave, not quite at ease_.)
MRS. G. (_to the footman_). James, bring up the wine and some
biscuits.
JAMES. Whisky, madam?
MRS. G. No, no; biscuits. Soft biscuits for the other gentlemen, and some
hard ones for the master.
JAMES. Yes, madam.
(_He goes, and in a few minutes returns, sets wine and biscuits on the
side-table, and retires_?)
MORLEY (_to_ GLADSTONE). Now?
GLADSTONE. If you will be so good, my dear Morley, I shall be much
obliged.
(_Slowly and thoughtfully Mr. Morley goes over to fireplace, where he
stands looking at Mrs. Gladstone, who is now beginning to "cast-off" a
completed piece of knitting. The rattle of the dice is heard_.)
GLADSTONE. You play.
(_Thereafter, as the game proceeds, the dice are heard constantly_.)
MORLEY. Well, dear lady?
MRS. G. Well, Mr. Morley? So Mr. Gladstone is at his game, and has sent
you to talk to me.
MORLEY. Precisely. You have guessed right.
MRS. G. He always thinks of me.
MORLEY. Yes.
MRS. G. Won't you sit down, Mr. Morley?
MORLEY. By you? With pleasure.
MRS. G. And how is the world using you?
MORLEY. Like Balaam's ass. The angel of the Lord stands before me with a
drawn sword, and my knees quail under me.
MRS. G. I thought you didn't believe in angels, Mr. Morley.
MORLEY. In the scriptural sense, no. In the political, they are rare; but
one meets them--sometimes.
MRS. G. And then they frighten you?
MORLEY. They make a coward of me. I want to temporise--put off the
inevitable. But it's no good. Angels have to be faced. That's the demand
they make on us.
MRS. G. You have something on your mind.
MORLEY. Yes. But we'll not talk about it--yet.
MRS. G. I have something on mine.
MORLEY. Anything serious?
MRS. G. It concerns you, Mr. Morley. Would you very much mind accepting a
gift not originally intended for you?
MORLEY. I have accepted office on those terms before now.
MRS. G. Ah! Mr. Gladstone has always so trusted you.
MORLEY. Yes.
MRS. G. More than he has most people.
MORLEY. I have been finding that out. It has become a habit, I'm afraid. I
can't cure him.
MRS. G. What I had on my mind, Mr. Morley, was this: I have knitted this
comforter for you; at least, it's for you if you would like it.
MORLEY. Angel!
MRS. G. Does that mean that you don't want it?
MORLEY. Oh, no! It will be very good discipline for me; made by you, I
shall have to wear it.
MRS. G. But you know, it's a very remarkable thing that I _can_ offer
it you. Ever since we married I have been knitting comforters for Mr.
Gladstone, which he has always either been losing or giving away. This is
the first time I have been able to get ahead of him. He still has two.
Isn't that a triumph?
MORLEY. It is, indeed.
MRS. G. He's more careful now, and doesn't lose them. He begins to feel, I
suppose, that he's getting old--and needs them.
MORLEY. You surprise me! Why, he is not yet ninety!
MRS. G. Do you know, he still sleeps like a child! Sometimes I lie awake
to watch him. It's wonderful.
MORLEY. It's habit, madam; that, and force of will.
MRS. G. And really it is only then I can feel that he quite belongs to me.
All the rest of the time it's a struggle.
MORLEY. In which you have won.
MRS. G. Have I?
MORLEY. Every time.
MRS. G. (_wistfully_). Do I, Mr. Morley?
MORLEY. It is you, more than anything, who have kept him young.
MRS. G. Oh, no! I'm the ageing influence.
MORLEY. I don't believe it.
MRS. G. Yes; I stand for caution, prudence. He's like a great boy.... You
don't think so; you see the other side of his character. But here have I
been, sixty years, trying to make him take advice!
MORLEY. And sometimes succeeding. Gods, and their makers! What a strange
world!
MRS. G. Spending one's life feeding a god on beef-tea, that's been my
work. (_The dear lady sighs_.)
MORLEY. And making comforters for him.
MRS. G. It's terrible when he won't take it!
MORLEY. The beef-tea?
MRS. G. No, the advice. For I'm generally right, you know.
MORLEY. I can well believe it. Strange to think how the welfare and
destiny of the nation have sometimes lain here--in this gentle hand.
MRS. G. We do jump in the dark so, don't we? Who can say what is really
best for anyone?
MORLEY. And prescribing for a god is more difficult.
MRS. G. Much more.
MORLEY. So when he comes to ask a mere mortal for advice--well, now you
must judge how difficult it has been for _me._
MRS. G. Have you been giving him advice?
MORLEY. In a way; yes.
MRS. G. And has he taken it?
MORLEY. A few days ago he told me of a resolution he had come to. I could
not disapprove. But now I wonder how it is going to strike _you_?
MRS. G. Has anything special happened? He has not told me.
MORLEY (_gravely_). To-morrow, or the day after, he will be going
down to Windsor.
MRS. G. Oh, I'm sorry! That always depresses him. He and the Queen don't
get on very well together.
MORLEY. They will get on well enough this time, I imagine.
MRS. G. (_a little bit alarmect_). Does that mean--any change of
policy?
MORLEY. Of policy--I hope not. Of person--yes.
MRS. G. Is anyone leaving the Cabinet?
MORLEY. We may all be leaving it, very soon. He asked me to tell you; he
had promised Armitstead a game. Look how he is enjoying it!
MRS. G. (_shrewdly_). Ah! then I expect he is winning.
MORLEY. Oh? I should not have called him a bad loser.
MRS. G. No; but he likes winning better--the excitement of it.
MORLEY. That is only human. Yes, he has been a great winner--sometimes.
MRS. G. When has he ever lost--except just for the time? He always knows
that.
MORLEY. Ah, yes! To quote your own sprightly phrase, we--he and the party
with him--are always "popping up again."
MRS. G. When did I say that?
MORLEY. Seven years ago, when we began to win bye-elections on the Irish
question. The bye-elections are not going so well for us just now.
MRS. G. But the General Election will.
MORLEY. Perhaps one will--in another seven years or so.
MRS. G. But isn't there to be one this year?
MORLEY (_gravely_). The Cabinet has decided against it.
MRS. G. But Mr. Morley! Now the Lords have thrown out the Irish Bill there
must be an election.
MORLEY. That was Mr. Gladstone's view.
MRS. G. Wasn't it yours, too?
MORLEY. Yes; but we couldn't--we couldn't carry the others.
MRS. G. Then you mean Mr. Gladstone is going to form a new Cabinet?
MORLEY. No. A new Cabinet is going to be formed, but he will not be in it.
That is his resolution. I was to tell you.
(_At this news of the downfall of her hopes the gentle face becomes
piteously woeful; full of wonder also_.)
MRS. G. He asked you--to tell me that!
MORLEY. Yes.
MRS. G. Oh! Then he really means it! Had he been in any doubt he would
have consulted me.
(_Tears have now come to sustain the dear lady in her sense of
desolation. Mr. Morley, with quiet philosophy, does his best to give
comfort_.)
MORLEY. It was the only thing to do. Ireland kept him in politics; if that
goes, he goes with it.
MRS. G. But Ireland--doesn't go.
MORLEY. As the cause for a General Election it goes, I'm afraid.
MRS. G. But that isn't honest, Mr. Morley!
MORLEY. I agree.
MRS. G. And it won't do any good--not in the end.
MORLEY. To that also, I agree. Ireland remains; and the problem will get
worse.
MRS. G. But, indeed, you are wrong, Mr. Morley! It was not Ireland that
kept my husband in politics; it was Mr. Chamberlain.
MORLEY. That is a view which, I confess, had not occurred to me.
Chamberlain?
MRS. G. No one could have kept Mr. Chamberlain from leading the Liberal
party, except Mr. Gladstone. And now he never will!
MORLEY. That, certainly, is a triumph, of a kind. You think that
influenced him? Chamberlain was a friend of mine once--is still, in a way.
(_He pauses, then adds ruefully_) Politics are a cruel game!
(_He sighs and sits depressed. But mention of her husband's great
antagonist has made the old lady brisk again_.)
MRS. G. Do you know, Mr. Morley, that if Mr. Gladstone had not made me
pray for that man every night of my life, I should positively have hated
him.
MORLEY (_with a touch of mischief_). You do that?--still?
Tell me--(I am curious)--do you pray for him as plain "Joe Chamberlain,"
or do you put in the "Mister"?
MRS. G. I never mention his name at all; I leave that to Providence--to be
understood.
MORLEY. Well, it _has_ been understood, and answered--abundantly;
Chamberlain's star is in the ascendant again. It's strange; he and Mr.
Gladstone never really got on together.
MRS. G. I don't think he ever really tried--much.
MORLEY. Didn't he? Oh, you don't mean Mr. Gladstone?
MRS. G. And then, you see, the Queen never liked him. That has counted for
a good deal.
MORLEY. It has--curiously.
MRS. G. Now why should it, Mr. Morley? She ought not to have such
power--any more than I.
MORLEY. How can it be kept from either of you? During the last decade this
country has been living on two rival catchwords, which in the field of
politics have meant much--the "Widow at Windsor," and the "Grand Old Man."
And these two makers of history are mentally and temperamentally
incompatible. That has been the tragedy. This is _her_ day, dear
lady; but it won't always be so.
MRS. G. Mr. Morley, who is going to be--who will take Mr. Gladstone's
place?
MORLEY. Difficult to say: the Queen may make her own choice. Spencer,
perhaps; though I rather doubt it; probably Harcourt.
MRS. G. Shall you serve under him?
MORLEY. I haven't decided.
MRS. G. You won't.
MORLEY. Possibly not. We are at the end of a dispensation. Whether I
belong to the new one, I don't yet know.
MRS. G. The Queen will be pleased, at any rate.
MORLEY. Delighted.
MRS. G. Will she offer him a peerage, do you think?
MORLEY. Oh, of course.
MRS. G. Yes. And she knows he won't accept it. So that gives her the
advantage of seeming--magnanimous!
MORLEY. Dear lady, you say rather terrible things--sometimes! You pray for
the Queen, too, I suppose; or don't you?
MRS. G. Oh yes; but that's different. I don't feel with her that it's
personal. She was always against him. It was her bringing up; she couldn't
help being.
MORLEY. So was Chamberlain; so was Harcourt; so was everybody. He is the
loneliest man, in a great position, that I have ever known.
MRS. G. Till he met you, Mr. Morley.
MORLEY. I was only speaking of politics. Sixty years ago he met
_you_.
MRS. G. Nearly sixty-three.
MORLEY. Three to the good; all the better!
MRS. G. (_having finished off the comforter_). There! that is
finished now!
MORLEY. A thousand thanks; so it is to be mine, is it?
MRS. G. I wanted to say, Mr. Morley, how good I think you have always been
to me.
MORLEY. I, dear lady? I?
MRS. G. I must so often have been in the way without knowing it. You see,
you and I think differently. We belong to different schools.
MORLEY. If you go on, I shall have to say "angel," again. That is all I
_can_ say.
MRS. G. (_tremulously_). Oh, Mr. Morley, you will tell me! Is this
the end? Has he--has he, after all, been a failure?
MORLEY. My dear lady, he has been an epoch.
MRS. G. Aren't epochs failures, sometimes?
MORLEY. Even so, they count; we have to reckon with them. No, he is no
failure; though it may seem like it just now. Don't pay too much attention
to what the papers will say. He doesn't, though he reads them. Look at him
now!--does that look like failure?
(_He points to the exuberantly energetic figure intensely absorbed in
its game_.)
MRS. G. He is putting it on to-night a little, for _me_, Mr. Morley.
He knows I am watching him. Tell me how he seemed when he first spoke to
you. Was he feeling it--much?
MORLEY. Oh, deeply, of course! He believes that on a direct appeal we
could win the election.
MRS. G. And you?
MORLEY. I don't. But all the same I hold it the right thing to do. Great
causes must face and number their defeats. That is how they come to
victory.
MRS. G. And now that will be in other hands, not his. Suppose he should
not live to see it. Oh, Mr. Morley, Mr. Morley, how am I going to bear it!
MORLEY. Dear lady, I don't usually praise the great altitudes. May I speak
in his praise, just for once, to-night? As a rather faithless man myself--
not believing or expecting too much of human nature--I see him now,
looking back, more than anything else as a man of faith.
MRS. G. Ah, yes. To him religion has always meant everything.
MORLEY. Faith in himself, I meant.
MRS. G. Of course; he had to have that, too.
MORLEY. And I believe in him still, more now than ever. They can remove
him; they cannot remove Ireland. He may have made mistakes and misjudged
characters; he may not have solved the immediate problem either wisely or
well. But this he has done, to our honour and to his own: he has given us
the cause of liberty as a sacred trust. If we break faith with that, we
ourselves shall be broken--and we shall deserve it.
MRS. G. You think that--possible?
MORLEY. I would rather not think anything just now. The game is over; I
must be going. Good night, dear friend; and if you sleep only as well as
you deserve, I could wish you no better repose. Good-bye.
(_He moves toward the table from which the players are now rising_.)
GLADSTONE. That is a game, my dear Armitstead, which came to this country
nearly eight hundred years ago from the Crusades. Previously it had been
in vogue among the nomadic tribes of the Arabian desert for more than a
thousand years. Its very name, "backgammon," so English in sound, is but a
corruption from the two Arabic words _bacca_, and _gamma_ (my
pronunciation of which stands subject to correction), meaning--if I
remember rightly--"the board game." There, away East, lies its origin; its
first recorded appearance in Europe was at the Sicilian Court of the
Emperor Frederick II; and when the excommunication of Rome fell on him in
the year 1283, the game was placed under an interdict, which, during the
next four hundred years, was secretly but sedulously disregarded within
those impregnably fortified places of learning and piety, to which so much
of our Western civilisation is due, the abbeys and other scholastic
foundations of the Benedictine order. The book-form, in which the board
still conceals itself, stands as a memorial of its secretive preservation
upon the shelves of the monastic libraries. I keep my own, with a certain
touch of ritualistic observance, between this seventeenth century edition
of the works of Roger Bacon and this more modern one, in Latin, of the
writings of Thomas Aquinas; both of whom may not improbably have been
practitioners of the game.
ARMITSTEAD. Very interesting, very interesting.
(_During this recitation Mr. Gladstone has neatly packed away the
draughts and the dice, shutting them into their case finally and restoring
it to its place upon the bookshelf_.)
GLADSTONE. My dear, I have won the rubber.
MRS. G. Have you, my dear? I'm very glad, if Mr. Armitstead does not mind.
ARMITSTEAD. To be beaten by Mr. Gladstone, ma'am, is a liberal education
in itself.
MORLEY (_to his host_). I must say good-night, now, sir.
GLADSTONE. What, my dear Morley, must you be going?
MORLEY. For one of my habits it is almost late--eleven.
ARMITSTEAD. In that case I must be going, too. Can I drop you anywhere,
Morley?
MORLEY. Any point, not out of your way, in the direction of my own door, I
shall be obliged.
ARMITSTEAD. With pleasure. I will come at once. And so--good-night, Mrs.
Gladstone. Mr. Prime Minister, good-night.
GLADSTONE. Good-night, Armitstead.
MORLEY (_aside to Mr. Gladstone_). I have done what you asked of me,
sir.
GLADSTONE. I thank you. Good-night.
(_The two guests have gone; and husband and wife are left alone. He
approaches, and stands near_.)
So Morley has told you, my dear?
MRS. G. That you are going down to Windsor to-morrow? Yes, William. You
will want your best frock-suit, I suppose?
GLADSTONE. My best and my blackest would be seemly under the
circumstances, my love. This treble-dated crow will keep the obsequies as
strict as Court etiquette requires, or as his wardrobe may allow. I have a
best suit, I suppose?
MRS. G. Yes, William. I keep it put away for you.
GLADSTONE (_after a meditative pause begins to recite_).
"Come, thou who art the wine and wit
Of all I've writ:
The grace, the glory, and the best
Piece of the rest,
Thou art, of what I did intend,
The all and end;
And what was made, was made to meet
Thee, thee, my sheet!"
Herrick, to his shroud, my dear! A poet who has the rare gift of being
both light and spiritual in the same breath. Read Herrick at his gravest,
when you need cheering; you will always find him helpful.
MRS. G. Then--will you read him to me to-night, William?
GLADSTONE. Why, certainly, my love, if you wish.
(_He stoops and kisses her_.)
MRS. G. (_speaking very gently_). I was waiting for that.
GLADSTONE. And I was waiting--for what you have to say.
MRS. G. I can say nothing.
GLADSTONE. Why, nothing?
MRS. G. Because I can't be sure of you, my dear. You've done this before.
GLADSTONE. This time it has been done for me. My own say in the matter has
been merely to acquiesce.
MRS. G. Ah! so you say! And others--others may say it for you; but--
GLADSTONE. Anno Domini says it, my dear.
MRS. G. Anno Domini has been saying it for the last twenty years. Much
heed you paid to Anno Domini.
GLADSTONE. You never lent it the weight of your counsels, my own love--
till now.
MRS. G. I know, William, when talking is useless.
GLADSTONE. Ah! I wonder--if I do.
MRS. G. No; that's why I complain. Twenty years ago you said you were
going to retire from politics and take up theology again--that you were
old, and had come to an end. Why, you were only just beginning! And it
will always be the same; any day something may happen--more Bulgarian
atrocities, or a proposal for Welsh disestablishment. Then you'll break
out again!
GLADSTONE. But I am in favour of Welsh disestablishment, my dear--when it
comes.
MRS. G. Are you? Oh, yes; I forgot. You are in favour of so many things
you didn't used to be. Well, then, it will be something else. You will
always find an excuse; I shall never feel safe about you.
GLADSTONE (_in moved tone_). And if you could feel safe about me--
what then?
MRS. G. Oh, my dear, my dear, if I could! Always I've seen you neglecting
yourself--always putting aside your real interests--the things that you
most inwardly cared about, the things which you always meant to do when
you "had time." And here I have had to sit and wait for the time that
never came. Isn't that true?
GLADSTONE. There is an element of truth in it, my dear.
MRS. G. Well, twenty years have gone like that, and you've "had no time."
Oh, if you could only go back to the things you meant to do, twenty years
ago--and take them up, just where you left off--why, I should see you
looking--almost young again. For you've been looking tired lately, my
dear.
GLADSTONE. Tired? Yes: I hoped not to have shown it. But three weeks ago I
had to own to myself that I was beginning to feel tired. I went to
Crichton Browne (I didn't tell you, my love); he said there was nothing
the matter with me--except old age.
MRS. G. You should have come to me, my dear; I could have told you the
only thing to do.
GLADSTONE. Is it too late to tell me now?
MRS. G. Yes; because now you've done it, without my advice, William. Think
of that! For the first time!
GLADSTONE (_gravely surprised_). So you have been wishing it, have
you?
(_And the devoted wife, setting her face, and steadying her voice,
struggles on to give him what comfort she may, in the denial of her most
cherished hopes_.)
MRS. G. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting for it to come. But it was the
one thing I couldn't say, till you--till you thought of it yourself!
GLADSTONE. Did I do so? Or did others think of it for me? I'm not sure;
I'm not sure. My judgment of the situation differed from theirs. I
couldn't carry them with me. In my own Cabinet I was a defeated man. Only
Morley stood by me then.
(_Deep in the contemplation of his last political defeat, he is not
looking at her face; and that is as well. Her voice summons him almost
cheerfully from his reverie._)
MRS. G. William dear, can you come shopping with me to-morrow? Oh, no,
to-morrow you are going to Windsor. The day after, then.
GLADSTONE. What is that for, my dear?
MRS. G. We have to get something for Dorothy's birthday, before we go
home. You mustn't forget things like that, you know. Dorothy is important.
GLADSTONE. Not merely important, my love; she is a portent--of much that
we shall never know. Dorothy will live to see the coming of the new age.
MRS. G. The new age? Well, so long as you let it alone, my dear, it may be
as new as it likes; I shan't mind.
GLADSTONE. We will leave Dorothy to manage it her own way.
MRS. G. Then you will shop with me--not to-morrow--Thursday?
GLADSTONE. Piccadilly, or Oxford Street?
MRS. G. I thought Gamage's.
GLADSTONE. Holborn? That sounds adventurous. Yes, my love, I will shop
with you on Thursday--if all goes well at Windsor to-morrow--with all the
contentment in the world. (_They kiss_.) Now go to bed; and presently
I will come and read Herrick to you.
(_She gets up and goes toward the door, when her attention is suddenly
arrested by the carpet._)
MRS. G. William! Do you see how this carpet is wearing out? We shall have
to get a new one.
GLADSTONE. It won't be necessary now. Those at Hawarden, if I remember
rightly, are sufficiently new to last out our time.
MRS. G. I wish I could think so, my dear. They would if you didn't give
them such hard wear, walking about on them. The way you wear things out
has been my domestic tragedy all along!
GLADSTONE (_standing with folded hands before her_). My love, I have
just remembered; I have a confession to make.
MRS. G. What, another? Oh, William!
GLADSTONE. I cannot find either of my comforters. I'm afraid I have lost
them. I had both this morning, and now both are gone.
MRS. G. Why, you are worse than ever, my dear! Both in one day! You have
not done that for twenty years.
GLADSTONE. I am sorry. I won't do it again.
MRS. G. Ah! so you say! Poor Mr. Morley will have to wait now. I had
promised him this. There!
(_Making him sit down, she puts the comforter round his neck, and gives
him a parting kiss_.)
And now I'm going.
GLADSTONE. Go, my love! I will come presently.
(_But he has not quite got rid of her. Her hands are now reaching down
to the back of the sofa behind him_.)
What are you looking for?
MRS. G. My knitting-needles. You are sitting on them. Now mind, you are
not to sit up!
GLADSTONE. I won't sit up long.
(_Quietly and serenely she goes to the door, looks back for a moment,
then glides through it, leaving behind a much-deceived husband, who will
not hear the sound of her solitary weeping, or see any signs of it on her
face when presently he comes to read Herrick at her bedside_.)
(_For a while he sits silent, peacefully encompassed in the thoughts
with which she has provided him; then very slowly he speaks.)_
GLADSTONE. Well, if it pleases her--I suppose it must be right!
CURTAIN
Possession
Dramatis Personae
JULIA ROBINSON _Sisters_
LAURA JAMES _Sisters_
MARTHA ROBINSON _Sisters_
SUSAN ROBINSON _Their Mother_
THOMAS ROBINSON _Their Father_
WILLIAM JAMES _Husband to Laura James_
HANNAH _The family servant_
Part Two
The Everlasting Habitations
"All hope abandon ye who enter here."
"_Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; that,
when ye jail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations_"
Possession
A Peep-Show in Paradise
SCENE.--_The Everlasting Habitations_