LAURA. Julia, if you say that again I shall scream.
JULIA. Won't you take your things off?
LAURA. Presently. When I feel more at home. (_Returning to the
charge_) But most of our Mother's things are here.
JULIA. Your share and mine.
LAURA. How did you get mine here?
JULIA. You brought them. At least, they _came_, a little before you
did. Then I knew you were on your way.
LAURA (_impressed)._ Lor'! So that's how things happen?
(_She goes and begins to take a look round, and Julia takes up her
crochet again. As she does so her eye is arrested by a little
old-fashioned hour-glass standing upon the table from which the tea-tray
has been taken, the sands of which are still running_.)
JULIA (_softly, almost to herself_). Oh, but how strange! That was
Martha's. Is Martha coming too? (_She picks up the glass, looks at it,
and sets it down again_)
LAURA (_who is examining the china on a side-table)._ Why, I declare,
Julia! Here is your Dresden that was broken--without a crack in it!
JULIA. No, Laura, it was yours that was broken.
LAURA. It was _not_ mine; it was yours...Don't you remember _I_
broke it?
JULIA. When you broke it you said it was mine. Until you broke it, you
said it was yours.
LAURA. Very well, then: as you wish. It isn't broken now, and it's mine.
JULIA. That's satisfactory. I get my own back again. It's the better one.
(ENTER _Hannah with a telegram on a salver._)
HANNAH (_in a low voice of mystery_). A telegram, Ma'am.
(_Julia opens it. The contents evidently startle her, but she retains
her presence of mind_)
JULIA. No answer.
(EXIT _Hannah_)
JULIA. Laura, Martha is coming!
LAURA. Here? Well, I wonder how she has managed that!
(_Her sister hands her the telegram, which she reads.)_
'Accident. Quite safe. Arriving by the 6.30.' Why, it's after that now!
JULIA (_sentimentally)._ Oh, Laura, only think! So now we shall be
all together again.
LAURA. Yes, I suppose we shall.
JULIA. It will be quite like old days.
LAURA (_warningly, as she sits down again and prepares for
narrative_). Not _quite_, Julia. (_She leans forward, and speaks
with measured emphasis_) Martha's temper has got very queer! She never
had a very good temper, as you know: and it's grown on her.
(_A pause. Julia remains silent_)
I could tell you some things; but--(_Seeing herself unencouraged)_
oh, you'll find out soon enough! (_Then, to stand right with
herself_) Julia, _am_ I difficult to get on with?
JULIA. Oh well, we all have our little ways, Laura.
LAURA. But Martha: she's so rude! I can't introduce her to people! If
anyone comes, she just runs away.
JULIA (_changing the subject_). D'you remember, Laura, that charming
young girl we met at Mrs. Somervale's, the summer Uncle Fletcher stayed
with us?
LAURA (_snubbingly_). I can't say I do.
JULIA. I met her the other day: married, and with three children--and just
as pretty and young-looking as ever.
(_All this is said with the most ravishing air, but Laura is not to be
diverted_.)
LAURA. Ah! I daresay. When Martha behaves like that, I hold my tongue and
say nothing. But what people must think, I don't know. Julia, when you
first came here, did you find old friends and acquaintances? Did anybody
recognise you?
JULIA. A few called on me: nobody I didn't wish to see.
LAURA. Is that odious man who used to be our next-door neighbour--the one
who played on the 'cello--here still?
JULIA. Mr. Harper? I see him occasionally. I don't find him odious.
LAURA. _Don't you_?
JULIA. It was his wife who was the--She isn't here: and I don't think he
wants her.
LAURA. Where is she?
JULIA. I didn't ask, Laura.
(_Mrs. James gives a jerk of exasperation, but at that moment the bell
rings and a low knock is heard_.)
JULIA (_ecstatically)._ Here she is!
LAURA. Julia, I wonder how it is Martha survived us. She's much the
oldest.
JULIA (_pleasantly palpitating_). Does it matter? Does it matter?
(_The door opens and in comes Martha. She has neither the distinction of
look nor the force of character which belongs to her two sisters. Age has
given a depression to the plain kindliness of her face, and there is a
harassed look about her eyes. She peeps into the room a little anxiously,
then enters, carrying a large flat box covered in purple paper which, in
her further progress across the room she lays upon the table. She talks in
short jerks and has a quick, hurried way of doing things, as if she liked
to get through and have done with them. It is the same when she submits
herself to the embrace of her relations_)
LAURA. Oh, so you've come at last. Quite time, too!
MARTHA. Yes, here I am.
JULIA. My dear Martha, welcome to your old home! (_Embracing her_)
How are you?
MARTHA. I'm cold. Well, Laura.
(_Between these two the embrace is less cordial, but it takes place_)
LAURA. How did you come?
MARTHA. I don't know.
JULIA (_seeing harassment in her sister's eye_). Arrived safely, at
any rate.
MARTHA. I think I was in a railway accident, but I can't be sure. I only
heard the crash and people shouting. I didn't wait to see. I just put my
fingers in my ears, and ran away.
LAURA. Why do you think it was a railway accident?
MARTHA. Because I was in a railway carriage. I was coming to your funeral.
If you'd told me you were ill I'd have come before. I was bringing you a
wreath. And then, as I tell you, there was a crash and a shout; and that's
all I know about it.
LAURA. Lor', Martha! I suppose they'll have an inquest on you.
MARTHA (_stung)._ I think they'd better mind their own business, and
you mind yours!
JULIA. Laura! Here we don't talk about such things. They don't concern us.
Would you like tea, Martha, or will you wait for supper?
MARTHA (_who has shaken her head at the offer of tea, and nodded a
preference for supper_). You know how I've always dreaded death.
JULIA. Oh, don't, my dear Martha! It's past.
MARTHA. Yes; but it's upset me. The relief, that's what I can't get over:
the relief!
JULIA. Presently you will be more used to it.
(_She helps her off with her cloak_.)
MARTHA. There were people sitting to right and to left of me and opposite;
and suddenly a sort of crash of darkness seemed to come all over me, and I
saw nothing more. I didn't feel anything: only a sort of a jar here.
(_She indicates the back of her neck. Julia finds these anatomical
details painful, and holds her hands deprecatingly; but Laura has no such
qualms. She is now undoing the parcel which, she considers, is hers_.)
LAURA. I daresay it was only somebody's box from the luggage-rack. I've
known that happen. I don't suppose for a minute that it was a railway
accident.
(_She unfurls the tissue paper of the box and takes out the wreath_)
JULIA. Why talk about it?
LAURA. Anyway, nothing has happened to these. 'With fondest love from
Martha.' H'm. Pretty!
JULIA. Martha, would you like to go upstairs with your things? And you,
Laura?
MARTHA. I will presently, when I've got warm.
LAURA. Not yet. Martha, why was I put into that odious shaped coffin? More
like a canoe than anything. I said it was to be straight,
MARTHA. I'd nothing to do with it, Laura. I wasn't there. You know I
wasn't.
LAURA. If you'd come when I asked you, you could have seen to it.
MARTHA. You didn't tell me you were dying.
LAURA. Do people tell each other when they are dying? They don't
_know_. I told you I wasn't well.
MARTHA. You always told me that, just when I'd settled down somewhere
else.... Of course I'd have come if I'd known! (_testily)._
JULIA. Oh, surely we needn't go into these matters now! Isn't it better to
accept things?
LAURA. I like to have my wishes attended to. What was going to be done
about the furniture? (_This to Martha_.) You know, I suppose, that I
left it to the two of you--you and Edwin?
MARTHA. We were going to give it to Bella, to set up house with.
LAURA. _That's_ not what I intended. I meant you to keep on the house
and live there. Why couldn't you?
MARTHA (_with growing annoyance_). Well, _that's_ settled now!
LAURA. It wasn't for Arabella. Arabella was never a favourite of mine. Why
should Arabella have my furniture?
MARTHA. Well, you'd better send word, and have it stored up for you till
doomsday! Edwin doesn't want it; he's got enough of his own.
LAURA (_in a sleek, injured voice_). Julia, I'm going upstairs to
take my things off.
JULIA. Very well, Laura. (_And Laura makes her injured exit_.)
So you've been with Edwin, and his family?
MARTHA. Yes. I'm never well there; but I wanted the change.
JULIA. You mean, you had been staying with Laura?
MARTHA. I always go and stay with her, as long as I can--three months, I'm
supposed to. But this year--well, I couldn't manage with it.
JULIA. Is she so much more difficult than she used to be?
MARTHA. Of course, I don't know what she's like here.
JULIA. Oh, she has been very much herself--_poor_ Laura!
MARTHA. I know! Julia, I know! And I try to make allowances. All her life
she's had her own way with somebody. Poor William! Of course I know he had
his faults. But he used to come and say to me: 'Martha, I _can't_
please her.' Well, poor man, he's at peace now, let's hope! Oh, Julia,
I've just thought: whatever will poor William do? He's here, I suppose,
somewhere?
JULIA. Oh yes, He's here, Martha.
MARTHA. She'll rout him out, depend on it.
JULIA. She has routed him out.
MARTHA (_awe-struck)._ Has she?
JULIA (_shaking her head wisely_). William won't live with her; he
knows better.
MARTHA. Who will live with her, then? She's bound to get hold of somebody.
JULIA. Apparently she means to live here.
MARTHA. Then it's going to be me! I know it's going to be me! When we
lived here before, it used to be poor Mamma.
JULIA. The dear Mother is quite capable of looking after herself, you'll
find. You needn't belong to Laura if you don't like, Martha. I never let
her take possession of _me_.
MARTHA. She seems never to want to. I don't know how you manage it.
JULIA. Oh, we've had our little tussles. But here you will find it much
easier. You can vanish.
MARTHA. What do you mean?
JULIA. I mean--vanish. It takes the place of wings. One does it almost
without knowing.
MARTHA. How do you do it?
JULIA. You just wish yourself elsewhere; and you come back when you like.
MARTHA. Have _you_ ever done it?
JULIA (_with a world of meaning_). Not yet.
MARTHA. She won't like it. One doesn't belong to one's self, when she's
about--nor does anything. I've had to hide my own things from her
sometimes.
JULIA. I shouldn't wonder.
MARTHA. Do you remember the silver tea-pot?
JULIA. I've been reminded of it.
MARTHA. It was mine, wasn't it?
JULIA. Oh, of course.
MARTHA. Laura never would admit it was mine. She wanted it; so I'd no
right to it.
JULIA. I had a little idea that was it.
MARTHA. For years she was determined to have it: and I was determined she
shouldn't have it. And she didn't have it!
JULIA. Who did have it?
MARTHA. Henrietta _was_ to. I sent it her as a wedding-present, and
told her Laura was never to know. And, as she was in Australia, that
seemed safe. Well, the ship it went out in was wrecked--all because of
that tea-pot, I believe! So now it's at the bottom of the sea!
JULIA. Destiny!
MARTHA. She searched my boxes to try and find it: stole my keys! I missed
them, but I didn't dare say anything. I used to wrap it in my night-gown
and hide it in the bed during the day, and sleep with it under my pillow
at night. And I was so thankful when Henrietta got married; so as to be
rid of it!
JULIA. Hush!
(RE-ENTER _Mrs. James, her bonnet still on, with the strings dangling,
and her cloak on her arm_.)
LAURA. Julia I've been looking at your room in there.
JULIA (_coldly)._ Have you, Laura?
LAURA. It used to be our Mother's room.
JULIA. I don't need to be reminded of that: it is why I chose it.
(_Rising gracefully from her chair, she goes to attend to the fire_.)
LAURA. Don't you think it would be much better for you to give it up, and
let our Mother come back and live with us?
JULIA. She has never expressed the wish.
LAURA. Of course not, with you in it.
JULIA. She was not in it when I came.
LAURA. How could you expect it, in a house all by herself?
JULIA. I gave her the chance: I began by occupying my own room.
LAURA (_self-caressingly). I_ wasn't here then. That didn't occur to
you, I suppose? You seem to forget you weren't the only one.
JULIA. Kind of you to remind me.
LAURA. Saucy.
JULIA. Martha, will you excuse me?
(_Polite to the last, she vanishes gracefully away from the vicinity of
the coal-box. The place where she has been stooping knows her no
more_.)
LAURA (_rushing round the intervening table to investigate_). Julia!
(_Martha is quite as much surprised as Mrs. James, but less
indignant_.)
MARTHA. Well! Did you ever?
LAURA (_facing about after vain search_). Does she think that is the
proper way to behave to _me?_ Julia!
MARTHA. It's no good, Laura. You know Julia, as well as I do. If she makes
up her mind to a thing--
LAURA. Yes. She's been waiting here to exercise her patience on me, and
now she's happy! Well, she'll have to learn that this house doesn't belong
to _her_ any longer. She has got to accommodate herself to living
with others.... I wonder how she'd like me to go and sit in that pet chair
of hers?
JULIA (_softly reappearing in the chair which the 'dear Mother' usually
occupies_). You can go and sit in it if you wish, Laura.
LAURA (_ignoring her return_). Martha, do you remember that odious
man who used to live next door, who played the 'cello on Sundays?
MARTHA. Oh yes, I remember. They used to hang out washing in the garden,
didn't they?
LAURA (_very scandalously_). Julia is friends with him! They call on
each other. His wife doesn't live with him any longer.
(_Julia rises and goes slowly and majestically out of the room_.)
LAURA (_after relishing what she conceives to be her rout of the
enemy_). Martha, what do you think of Julia?
MARTHA. Oh, she's--What do you want me to think?
LAURA. High and mighty as ever, isn't she? She's been here by herself so
long she thinks the whole place is hers.
MARTHA. I daresay we shall settle down well enough presently. Which room
are you sleeping in?
LAURA. Of course, I have my old one. Where do you want to go?
MARTHA. The green room will suit me.
LAURA. And Julia means to keep our Mother's room: I can see that. No
wonder she won't come and stay,
MARTHA. Have you seen her?
LAURA. She just 'looked in,' as Julia calls it. I could see she'd hoped to
find me alone. Julia always thought _she_ was the favourite. I knew
better.
MARTHA. How was she?
LAURA. Just her old self; but as if she missed something. It wasn't a
_happy_ face, until I spoke to her: then it all brightened up.... Oh,
thank you for the wreath, Martha. Where did you get it?
MARTHA. Emily made it.
LAURA. That fool! Then she made her own too, I suppose?
MARTHA. Yes. That went the day before, so you got it in time.
LAURA. I thought it didn't look up to much. (_She is now contemplating
Emily's second effort with a critical eye_.) Now a little maiden-hair
fern would have made a world of difference.
MARTHA. I don't hold with flowers myself. I think it's wasteful. But, of
course, one has to do it.
LAURA (_with pained regret_). I'm sorry, Martha; I return it--with
many thanks.
MARTHA. What's the good of that? I can't give it back to Emily, now!
LAURA (_with quiet grief_). I don't wish to be a cause of waste.
MARTHA. Well, take it to pieces, then; and put them in water--or wear it
round your head!
LAURA. Ten beautiful wreaths my friends sent me. They are all lying on my
grave now! A pity that love is so wasteful! Well, I suppose I must go now
and change into my cap. (_Goes to the door, where she encounters
Julia_.) Why, Julia, you nearly knocked me down!
JULIA (_ironically)._ I beg your pardon, Laura; it comes of using the
same door. Hannah has lighted a fire in your room.
LAURA. That's sensible at any rate.
(EXIT _Mrs. James_)
JULIA. Well? And how do you find Laura?
MARTHA. Julia, I don't know whether I can stand her.
JULIA. She hasn't got quite--used to herself yet.
MARTHA (_explosively)._ Put that away somewhere! (_She gives an
angry shove to the wreath_)
JULIA. Put it away! Why?
MARTHA (_furiously)._ Emily made it: and it didn't cost anything; and
it hasn't got any maiden-hair fern in it; and it's too big to wear with
her cap. So it's good for nothing! Put it on the fire! She doesn't want to
see it again.
JULIA (_comprehending the situation, restores the wreath to its
box_). Why did you bring it here, Martha?
MARTHA (_miserably)._ I don't know. I just clung on to it. I suppose
it was on my mind to look after it, and see it wasn't damaged. So I found
I'd brought it with me.... I believe, now I think of it, I've brought some
sandwiches, too. (_She routs in a small hand-bag.)_ Yes, I have.
Well, I can have them for supper.... Emily made those too.
JULIA. Then I think you'd better let Hannah have them--for the sake of
peace.
MARTHA (_woefully)._ I thought I _was_ going to have peace here.
JULIA. It will be all right, Martha--presently.
MARTHA. Well, I don't want to be uncharitable; but I do wish--I must say
it--I do wish Laura had been cremated.
(_This is the nearest she can do for wishing her sister in the place to
which she thinks she belongs. But the uncremated Mrs. James now re-enters
in widow's cap_.)
LAURA. Julia, have you ever seen Papa, since you came here?
JULIA (_frigidly)._ No, I have not.
LAURA. Has our Mother seen him?
JULIA. I haven't--(_About to say the forbidden thing, she checks
herself_.) Mamma has _not_ seen him: nor does she know his
whereabouts.
LAURA. Does nobody know?
JULIA. Nobody that I know of.
LAURA. Well, but he must be somewhere. Is there no way of finding him?
JULIA. Perhaps you can devise one. I suppose, if we chose, we could go to
him; but I'm not sure--as he doesn't come to us.
LAURA. Lor', Julia! Suppose he should be----
JULIA (_deprecatingly_). Oh, Laura!
LAURA. But, Julia, it's very awkward, not to know where one's own father
is. Don't people ever ask?
JULIA. Never, I'm thankful to say.
LAURA. Why not?
JULIA. Perhaps _they_ know better.
LAURA (_after a pause_). I'm afraid he didn't lead a good life.
MARTHA. Oh, why can't you let the thing be? If you don't remember him, I
do. I was fond of him. He was always very kind to us as children; and if
he did run away with the governess it was a good riddance--so far as she
was concerned. We hated her.
LAURA. I wonder whether they are together still. You haven't inquired
after _her_, I suppose?
JULIA (_luxuriating in her weariness_). I--have--_not_, Laura!
LAURA. Don't you think it's our solemn duty to inquire? I shall ask our
Mother.
JULIA. I hope you will do nothing of the sort.
LAURA. But we ought to know: otherwise we don't know how to think of him,
whether with mercy and pardon for his sins, or with reprobation.
MARTHA (_angrily_). Why need you think? Why can't you leave him
alone?
LAURA. An immortal soul, Martha. It's no good leaving him alone: that
won't alter facts.
JULIA. I don't think this is quite a nice subject for discussion.
LAURA. Nice? Was it ever intended to be nice? Eternal punishment wasn't
provided as a consolation prize for anybody, so far as I know.
MARTHA. I think it's very horrible--for us to be sitting here--by the
fire, and--(_But theology is not Martha's strong point_). Oh! why
can't you leave it?
LAURA. Because it's got to be faced; and I mean to face it. Now, Martha,
don't try to get out of it. We have got to find our Father.
JULIA. I think, before doing anything, we ought to consult Mamma.
LAURA. Very well; call her and consult her! You were against it just now.
JULIA. I am against it still. It's all so unnecessary.
MARTHA. Lor', there _is_ Mamma!
(_Old Mrs. Robinson is once more in her place. Martha makes a move
toward her_.)
JULIA. Don't, Martha. She doesn't like to be---
MRS. R. I've heard what you've been talking about. No, I haven't seen him.
I've tried to get him to come to me, but he didn't seem to want. Martha,
my dear, how are you?
MARTHA. Oh, I'm--much as usual. And you, Mother?
MRS. R. Well, what about your Father? Who wants him?
LAURA. I want him, Mother.
MRS. R. What for?
LAURA. First we want to know what sort of a life he is leading. Then we
want to ask him about his will.
JULIA. Oh, Laura!
MARTHA. _I_ don't. I don't care if he made a dozen.
LAURA. So I thought if we all _called_ him. _You_ heard when I
called, didn't you? Oh no, that was William.
MRS. R. Who's William?
LAURA. Didn't you know I was married?
MRS. R. No. Did he die?
LAURA. Well, now, couldn't we call him?
MRS. R. I daresay. He won't like it.
LAURA. He must. He belongs to us.
MRS. R. Yes, I suppose--as I wouldn't divorce him, though he wanted me to.
I said marriages were made in Heaven.
A VOICE. Luckily, they don't last there.
(_Greatly startled, they look around, and perceive presently in the
mirror over the mantelpiece the apparition of a figure which they seem
dimly to recognise. A tall, florid gentleman of the Dundreary type, with
long side-whiskers, and dressed in the fashion of sixty years ago, has
taken up his position to one side of the ormolu clock; standing, eye-glass
in eye, with folded arms resting on the mantel-slab and a stylish hat in
one hand, be gazes upon the assembled family with quizzical
benevolence_.)
MRS. R. (_placidly_). What, is that you, Thomas?
THOMAS (_with the fashionable lisp of the fifties, always substituting
'th' for 's'_). How do you do, Susan?
(_There follows a pause, broken courageously by Mrs. James_.)
LAURA. Are _you_ my Father?
THOMAS. I don't know. Who are _you_? Who are all of you?
LAURA. Perhaps I had better explain. This is our dear Mother: her you
recognise. You are her husband; we are your daughters. This is Martha,
this is Julia, and I'm Laura.
THOMAS. Is this true, Susan? Are these our progeny?
MRS. R. Yes--that is--yes, Thomas.
THOMAS. I should not have known it. They all look so much older.
LAURA. Than when you left us? Naturally!
THOMAS. Than _me_> I meant. But you all seem flourishing.
LAURA. Because we lived longer. Papa, when did you die?
JULIA. Oh! Laura!
THOMAS. I don't know, child.
LAURA. Don't know? How don't you know?
THOMAS. Because in prisons, and other lunatic asylums, one isn't allowed
to know anything.
MRS. R. A lunatic asylum! Oh, Thomas, what brought you there?
THOMAS. A damned life, Susan--with you, and others.
JULIA. Oh, Laura, why did you do this?
MARTHA. If this goes on, I shall leave the room.
LAURA. Where are those _others_ now?
THOMAS. Three of them I see before me. You, Laura, used to scream
horribly. When you were teething, I was sleepless. Your Mother insisted on
having you in the room with us. No wonder I went elsewhere.
MARTHA. I'm going!
THOMAS. Don't, Martha! You were the quietest of the lot. When you were two
years old I even began to like you. You were the exception.
LAURA. Haven't you any affection for your old home?
THOMAS. None. It was a prison. You were the gaolers and the turnkeys. To
keep my feet in the domestic way you made me wool-work slippers, and I had
to wear them. You gave me neckties, which I wouldn't wear. You gave me
affection of a demanding kind, which I didn't want. You gave me a moral
atmosphere which I detested. And at last I could bear it no more, and I
escaped.
LAURA (_deaf to instruction_). Papa, we wish you and our dear Mother
to come back and live with us.
THOMAS. Live with my grandmother! How could I live with any of you?
LAURA. Where _are_ you living?
THOMAS. Ask no questions, and you will be told no lies.
LAURA. Where is _she_?
THOMAS. Which she?
LAURA. The governess.
THOMAS. Which governess?
LAURA. The one you went away with.
THOMAS. D'you want her back again? You can have her. She'll teach you a
thing or two. She did _me_.
LAURA. Then--you have repented, Papa?
THOMAS. God! why did I come here?
MRS. R. Yes; why did you come? It was weak of you.
THOMAS. Because I never could resist women.
LAURA. Were you really mad when you died, Papa?
THOMAS. Yes, and am still: stark, staring, raving, mad, like all the rest
of you.
LAURA. I am not aware that _I_ am mad.
THOMAS. Then you are a bad case. Not to know it, is the worst sign of all.
It's in the family: you can't help being. Everything you say and do proves
it.... You were mad to come here. You are mad to remain here. You were mad
to want to see me. I was mad to let you see me. I was mad at the mere
sight of you; and I'm mad to be off again! Goodbye, Susan. If you send for
me again, I shan't come!
(_He puts on his hat with a flourish_!)
LAURA. Where are you going, Father?